Thrift Moncrieff Adventures Book 4
The fourth volume chronicling the misfortunes of the lovely Thrift Moncrieff in a world where British Victorian values still rein supreme. This time she is dispatched to China now she is part of the diplomatic corps. But if she thinks she is breaking free from all those who tormented her and yet gave her blissful pleasure, she is very wrong.
China holds just as many who are hell bent on fighting through the layers of her underclothes to spank her lovely bottom and to demand utterly humiliating service from her. But no depth is too deep for Thrift to be unable to take pleasure in it and they all take advantage of that fact; time and time again!
London, September 2005
Thrift’s chin rested in her hands, her face set in an expression of deep resignation. Aside from an abbreviated gown of coarse white cotton that did nothing whatsoever to hide her modesty, she was nude. She lay face down along a well padded couch of black leather, the central section of which had been raised to lift her bottom so that her cheeks bulged out at the rear of her ridiculously inadequate gown. A clock on the wall showed that she had been in the same position for ten minutes.
Still there was no sign of Dr Molloy, but with every minute her fear at the prospect of her injections had grown worse. Nurse Bode, the matron, had sat in a position that provided her with the best possible view of Thrift’s bare bottom, perhaps by accident, perhaps not. In either case, the woman’s presence added considerably to Thrift’s embarrassment. She was sure that the lips of her quim showed from behind, and worst of all, that her exposure was slowly but surely making her wet.
She had begun to fidget, and was even considering attempting to strike up a conversation with the burly and taciturn matron when at last the door swung open. Dr Molloy appeared, frowning through his spectacles at a sheaf of notes.
‘This really is most vexing,’ he said, seeming to address Thrift’s bottom. ‘Colonial and Foreign ask that I provide an appropriate course of inoculation, but decline to inform me to which part of the Empire, or the world at large, you are being sent. Can you, perhaps, provide this information, Miss Moncrieff?’
‘I fear I have no more information than you yourself, Dr Molloy,’ Thrift answered.
Dr Molloy frowned, shook his head and cast an appraising glance to Thrift’s lifted rear cheeks before speaking again.
‘In that case, it would seem I have no choice but to give you the full spectrum of treatment. A nuisance, but at least we have an ample surface area to work with.’
He chuckled and gave Thrift’s bottom a pat, just hard enough to send a shiver through her flesh. The blood went straight to her face, the fierce blush she had been holding back for so long rising suddenly and uncontrollably. Now humming a hymn to himself, Dr Molloy walked to where a long bench stood below a line of glass cabinets containing numerous boxes, each neatly marked.
‘If you would be good enough to prepare Miss Moncrieff, Mrs Bode,’ Dr Molloy stated.
Thrift couldn’t help looking back as the nurse hauled herself to her feet. She was huge, even her shapeless white coat failing to conceal the massive contours of her body; tree-trunk legs, elephantine hips, a bulging belly, vast and motherly breasts, arms as thick as Thrift’s calves, and a large, round head with tiny eyes, a snout for a nose and topped with brown curls now constrained within a hygiene cap. Her expression was neutral as she pulled on rubber gloves and carefully tipped some rubbing alcohol onto a swab, but Thrift was convinced she could detect an evil glitter in the piggy little eyes.
A large pinch of Thrift’s bottom was taken between the Nurse’s rubber clad fingers and wiped down with what she considered unnecessary thoroughness. It also seemed suspicious that the nurse had chosen to pinch across the buttock, ensuring a good view of Thrift’s anus, while the longest of the thick, muscular fingers was just an inch from the tiny hole.
‘We’ll need both nates, Mrs Bode,’ Dr Molloy remarked.
‘Yes, Dr Molloy,’ Nurse Bode replied and changed her grip.
Thrift’s expression altered from resignation to consternation as one big thumb pushed well down into her bottom crease, stretching her anal star wide to the nurse’s view. Again her skin was swabbed, as thoroughly as before, but at last Nurse Bode let go. Thrift’s bottom closed, to leave both her bottom cheeks feeling distinctly cold as the alcohol evaporated, and her quim distinctly hot in contrast. She looked back as Dr Molloy began to mutter to himself.
‘McCulloch’s Serum, Yellow Fever, five ampoules. Edgarson’s Antivenom, Black Widow Bite, three ampoules. Serum twelve, Diptheria, six ampoules. Jenner’s Serum, Small Pox, hmm… eight ampoules, better safe than sorry. Broad Spectrum Antiviral, twelve…’
On the bench in front of him he had placed a large tray, neatly covered with a white cloth, as if he intended to serve tea. In place of tea things there were syringes, not the two or three she had been expecting, but an enormous number, big ones, little ones, fat ones, thin ones, ones with clear liquid and ones with coloured liquid, and each tipped with a long, sharp needle. Her mouth dropped slowly open as she attempted to count them, and her bottom cheeks began to twitch.
‘You may feel a little dizzy afterwards,’ he remarked as he picked up the first syringe, ‘and indeed it would be wise to rest for a couple of weeks, but do not be concerned. Each serum is entirely safe, alone or in any combination.’
As he finished he turned to Thrift, smiling. She could only watch in gaping alarm as he lifted the syringe, took a moment to ensure no air was trapped within, and plunged the needle into the crest of her nearest buttock. Thrift gave a squeal and a gasp at the sudden sharp pain, and was left sucking in air through pursed lips as Dr Molloy pressed the plunger home, injecting the full dose of serum into the flesh of her bottom.
Nurse Bode applied a swab and a squirt of plastic skin, closing the tiny prick hole with swift efficiency, so that in just seconds Thrift had been prepared for the next injection. Not that she was ready, still more than a little shocked at the abrupt puncture of her behind. Dr Molloy took no notice, going through the same brisk set of motions before driving the second needle deep into her other bottom cheek. Again she squealed and gasped, this time reaching back to protect her hurt cheek. Dr Molloy shook a finger at her, chiding gently.
‘Now, now Miss Moncrieff, let us have no ill behaviour. You wouldn’t want Mrs Bode to have to put you in straps, would you?’
‘No, Dr Molloy,’ Thrift responded hastily.
Her lower lip had pushed out into a sulky pout as she looked forward once more. When the swab was applied to her bottom she shut her eyes, hoping it would be easier if she couldn’t see, only for them to spring open again with the shock of the third injection. Again the swab was applied, again Dr Molloy drove a needle home into her already tender flesh, and again, and again.
The sixth injection followed the fifth and the seventh followed the sixth, and Thrift had begun to shake her head and wriggle her toes in distress. Her skin had had begun to prickle with sweat, and her stomach to squirm, but her pain was no longer her main worry. She had begun to grow aroused, quite involuntarily, her quim so wet, her nipples so stiff and her need so high that she was fighting the urge to rub herself. Hideously ashamed of her condition, she clasped her hands in prayer, desperate to distract herself from the effect that so much painful attention to her bottom were having on her.
The eighth injection followed the seventh and the ninth followed the eighth, leaving her sweating freely, her body barely under her own control. Her muscles were twitching and squeezing, including her anal ring. As the tenth needle pierced the very fattest part of her left cheek the tiny hole opened to emit a loud, rasping fart. As Mrs Bode gave a single tut of admonition, Thrift’s face was beetroot red, her previous embarrassment nothing to what she now felt.
The eleventh injection followed the tenth and the twelfth followed the eleventh. Thrift was in tears, blubbering out her helpless frustration with her bottom a fat, throbbing ball behind her and her quim on fire with need. Her bottom hole was itching too, slippery with sweat and in urgent need of a finger pushed deep inside. The thirteenth needle was jabbed deep into her bottom flesh and she had completely lost control, squirming on the couch and beating her fists on the leather padding as she babbled for mercy.
‘Mrs Bode,’ Dr Molloy said softly. ‘The straps, if you would be so kind.’
Thrift tried to speak, to tell them she didn’t need to be strapped down, but no words came, only a bubble of mucus in her throat. Nurse Bode’s great, fat hand took her ankle, a leather band was wrapped tightly around it and buckled off. Her other ankle followed, a thicker, heavier band was fastened around her waist, a second around her thighs and she was completely helpless, her bottom locked in position for the remaining injections.