With her unhappy experiences at the Diplomatic School behind her, Thrift sets out to join the Service itself but something seems to go terribly wrong and she finds herself in an institute for fallen women in the north of England. Here she is subjected to the strictest discipline by her chaperones and the other girls enjoy her services virtually every night. Escape is the only option but failure will be at a heavy price. Nevertheless she tries and it is only after a series of unexpected and painful episodes that she finally discovers the truth.
London, January 2005
Thrift Moncrieff shut her eyes in an agony of embarrassment as the panel of her drawers was lifted, exposing her quim. Her remaining lower clothes had already been lifted, her outer and inner skirts, her three petticoats of cotton, flannel and taffeta, leaving her lower body sticking out from a huge flower of lacy material as she lay on the bench for inspection. She wore no corset, nor her heavy rubber restraint belt, and her stocking-clad legs were clamped firmly into stirrups, leaving her helpless to shield herself from the gaze of the Dr Molloy, her companion Miss Challis, or the heavy-set Matron. An absorbent pad had been pushed between her bottom cheeks. After a moment peering at Thrift’s spread sex, Dr Molloy stood back, not troubling to close the panel.
‘Virgo intacta,’ the Doctor stated. ‘It is a great shame, what must be done, but the good of the British Empire must weigh more heavily than even the most weighty of moral considerations. Miss Challis, should you wish to retire at this juncture, no doubt the presence of Mrs Bode will suffice for purposes of propriety?’
Thrift threw her companion a worried look.
‘I would prefer to remain, thank you, Dr Molloy,’ Miss Challis answered.
‘Most commendable, of course,’ Dr Molloy went on, ‘but given the circumstances, I intend to employ a technique which, while unorthodox, some might even say improper, is, in Miss Moncrieff’s er… circumstances, the wise course.’
‘I understand what must be done,’ Miss Challis replied, ‘and pray be assured that I have every confidence in yourself as a professional gentleman, and may be relied upon for discretion.’
As she finished, Miss Challis leant close to the stocky matron, Mrs Bode, and whispered something Thrift was unable to make out. Mrs Bode nodded and gave Dr Molloy a meaningful look, to which he responded with a nod and a quiet smile. Thrift looked from one to the other, her sense of exposure stronger than ever as all three focussed their gaze on her spread quim.
Dr Molloy turned to one side, where a tray had been set out with a wide and terrifying selection of implements; assorted scalpels, the blades curved or straight or hooked, large and small, pincers, and several bizarre and horrid implement shaped strangely like the heads of long beaked birds. She began to feel the first twinges of panic as the Doctor cast his eyes over the selection of horrors, and her legs began to jerk in the stirrup locks.
There was also a plain white cardboard box, and he opened it. Thrift craned her neck to see what ghastly object he would produce, but the box proved to contain only gloves, in white rubber, which he pulled on methodically before turning back to her. His hand came down, between her legs, and her skin began to crawl and her muscles to twitch as his rubber clad fingers touched, right on her quim. A sob escaped her throat as he began to explore her, with a loitering intimacy she found impossible to accept, his fingers teasing open the fleshy lips of her quim, touching her bump to send a shock of blended shame and pleasure through her, then lower, to trace the chubby curves of her bottom where her cheeks stuck out over the edge of the chair, and between, loitering briefly on her bottom hole before moving back to her quim and the taut ring of skin which held her virgin hole closed to intrusion.
She was sobbing and gasping as the inspection stopped, her whole body trembling with shame, and yet she could feel the trickle of wet her quim had released, damp and sticky as it ran down between the cheeks of her bottom and onto the tight hole between. Miss Challis was smiling quietly, Mrs Bode absolutely impassive, but both women still had their eyes firmly fixed between Thrift’s spread thighs. So did Dr Molloy, his gaze fevered as he pulled apart his white laboratory coat to reveal a stout, red penis. Thrift screamed.
‘Pray calm yourself, young Lady,’ Dr Molloy advised as he took his cock in hand. ‘This is for the best.’
‘No… you can’t! Not like that!’ Thrift babbled. ‘Not… Miss Challis! He can not! He can not!’
‘Do not be so wilful,’ Miss Challis replied calmly, although her eyes betrayed very different emotions, ‘but rather allow Dr Molloy the best exercise of his professional judgement.’
Dr Molloy was tugging fervently on his cock, his eyes half-lidded as he brought himself to erection. Thrift’s eyes fixed in consternation and disgust on the fat red cock head revealed within his meaty foreskin at every jerk. Once again she opened her mouth to protest at the impossibility of what was to be done to her. No words came, only a bubbling noise as her panic overcame her, her legs kicking frantically in the stirrups, her arms jerking against the leather straps that held her tight in the examination chair, her torso wriggling in frantic and futile resistance.
Miss Challis stepped forward, smiling gently, and began to stroke Thrift’s hair, but her gaze was still directed lower, to the fleshy pink slit and the short, fat erection now rearing over it. Dr Molloy grunted what seemed to be a prayer and came forward. Thrift felt his knuckles, hard on the lips of her defenceless quim, then his cock, hot and turgid, touching to the wet folds of her slit, rubbing, pushing…
She closed her eyes tight, whimpering as her hymen bowed in to the fat, rounded cock head. The pressure grew, her whole lower body seeming to push in as he struggled to force her passage, grunting with effort. Her mouth came open in a wordless scream as the dull pain turned suddenly sharp, and he was in her, her hymen punctured, her virginity gone, taken…
Dr Molloy sighed as he fed the full, fat length of his penis into her stinging quim. Thrift was sobbing, the tears welling in her eyes as the first ever fucking of her life got underway, with the Doctor moving in her in short firm pushes, and her virgin blood now mingling with the juice running down from her quim and over her bottom hole to the absorbent pad beneath. Her quim stung furiously, yet she was biting her lip not only against the overwhelming shame of her condition, but in an effort to fight down the pleasure rising inexorably within her. It didn’t work, the tone of her sobs changing slowly from misery to bliss as the Doctor’s thick cock pumped into her, and she knew with certainty that what was said about her was true – she was an incorrigible wanton.
The two women were absolutely silent, their eyes glittering with pleasure, watching the thick cock slide in and out of the blood-stained hole, listening to the liquid squelching noises, the moans and gasps from Thrift as her body took over. She was still writhing in her straps, still filled with shame and anguish for her exposure and her lost virginity, but quite unable to stop herself as the pain faded and her pleasure rose with the speed and force of Dr Molloy’s thrusts, until she was groaning and pushing out her belly, eager for more, and for attention to the little sensitive bump above her cock-filled hole…
Dr Molloy grunted, snatched his cock from Thrift’s hole and with a few last jerks brought himself off over her pubic mound, spattering thick white cream over the nest of pubic hair and the opened drawers. Thrift gave a last, forlorn gasp as she was spermed on, and once more bit her lip to stop herself speaking the unutterable words that had come to them, a demand to be brought to her own climax.
‘There we are,’ Dr Molloy said happily, ‘quite done, and I dare say no worse than a trip to the dentists?’
He was smiling benignly at her, but she could find no words to express her emotions. As he turned to a sink to wash his penis clean of her blood and juice, Mrs Bode stepped forward, expressionless as she took a swab to mop up the mess on Thrift’s pubic mound and between the cheeks of her bottom. A second, soaked in alcohol, was applied to Thrift’s ruptured hymen, to set her hissing through gritted teeth against the sudden, sharp pain. Mrs Bode gave only a low tut of disapproval and stepped aside as Dr Molloy turned to once more examine Thrift’s spread sex. He peered close, gave his beard a brief and thoughtful tug, and nodded complacently.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that will do very nicely indeed.’
‘Very nicely,’ Mrs Bode echoed, also peering close.
Dr Molloy went on.
‘I say with a pride that is, I think, not unjustified, that if a girl has been… ha, ha… “ruined”, by Dr Thaddeus Boyle Molloy, there is no question of the deception being detected, however thorough the inspection.’
‘Yes… bec… because you have ruined me!’ Thrift gasped, at last finding her voice.
‘Technically, yes,’ Dr Molloy admitted, ‘but better surely by a professional gentleman of discretion and expertise like myself, rather than some bumptious lover? In due time, you will thank me.’
He turned to Miss Challis as Thrift sank back into her bonds in defeat.
‘She had, of course, been made aware that in view of her ordained service it was entirely necessary that she be deflowered?’
‘She had,’ Miss Challis assured him, ‘although your methods may have come as something of a surprise, as they did to myself.’
‘No doubt,’ Dr Molloy answered, ‘but in the substitution of my glans penis, if you will excuse the expression, Miss Challis, for a scalpel, I seek only to ensure her future safety, as well as, perhaps, a touch of artistic verisimilitude, which I consider of value for its own sake.’
‘I understand absolutely, Dr Molloy,’ Miss Challis replied. ‘Pray do not be concerned at her reaction, she has always been more inclined to think of herself than of others.’