Schooled for Service

  Title Page

  SCHOOLED FOR SERVICE

  By

  Lady Alice McCloud

  Publisher Information

  Digital edition converted and

  Distributed in 2012 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © Lady Alice McCloud

  The right of Lady Alice McCloudto be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Prologue

  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.’Schooled For Service

  Chapter One

  London, February 2005

  As she brushed out her abundant auburn curls in the bedroom of the Dover Street House which had been home for so long, Thrift sat surrounded by her packed belongings. Her mind focussed not on the life she was about to leave, nor on that in front of her. Rather, she was ruefully considering her burst hymen. She had taken the pattern of her life for granted: an education to make her a fitting credit to the British Empire, a season, or just possibly two, of gay balls and promenades and outings of every description, being selected by a young man of suitable station and address, courtship, and marriage. Only then, after a wonderful day of celebration, should she have been taken to her bridal bed, and there shyly allowed her new husband to do with loving passion what Dr Molloy had done with such a bizarre mixture of the clinical and the base.

  Now, thanks to her own wantonness and a series of misfortunes at the Diplomatic School there would be no season, no handsome suitors and no wedding bells. Instead there was the prospect of another year of hard work and discipline as she sought to take her place in the Imperial Diplomatic Service to which her father and others had recommended her. As a wanton, and now a ruined wanton at that, she knew it was the best possible choice, and yet she was filled with chagrin and self-pity as she waited to be collected.

  Downstairs a bell chimed and Thrift stood with a sigh. Miss Challis appeared at the door, followed by the footmen and her father’s valet, each of whom gave her a respectful bow before they began to pick up her trunks and valises. She stood, took Miss Challis’ offered arm and allowed herself to be escorted downstairs to the hall. Her parents were both there, her father stiff and formal in his frock coat and high-collar but unable to entirely conceal his pride, her mother in beige satin, looking worn and trying to hide her disappointment. Thrift curtsied to each as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  As she met her mother’s eyes she found herself looking down at the carpet in shame, and if there was a moment of warmth as she was given her farewell kiss, it was all too brief. As she shook her father’s hand she was fighting down the urge to hug him, a gesture quite inappropriate to her years, and yet for a moment she was sure the display of emotion would have been returned, before he spoke.

  ‘The car is here. We must not delay.’

  Thrift bobbed a final curtsey and allowed herself to be escorted to the door by Miss Challis. Outside the day was clear and cool, the sky cloudless but the street still damp from the dawn rain. A sleek, black Austin Baron was drawn up outside the house, the driver within. A bulky woman in black bombazine stood motionless beside the door as the footmen loaded Thrift’s belongings. She turned to say farewell to Miss Challis, but her companion had already moved back into the house.

  Feeling intensely vulnerable, she gave a last backward glance as the door closed, then a carefully judged nod to the woman in black, who was evidently a chaperone, of uncertain status but unlikely to be genteel. Her nod was returned with a severe frown, and she allowed herself to be ushered into the car. The woman followed, folding down one of the small seats opposite Thrift, thus confirming her status as below the professional class.

  Thrift remained silent, wishing fervently she had somebody to talk to, and fighting down an urge to rush back into the house even as the car moved off, smooth and silent. Not a word was spoken as they drove up Dover Street and north, past the park and across the border between the Quality Enclave and the Professional. Despite herself Thrift began to look out of the window, marvelling as always at the strange appearance of the people. There were engineers in stovepipe hats and cutaway waistcoats, merchants from every corner of the Empire in oddly cut suits of pastel or vivid colour, citymen in their bowlers and pinstripes, doctors and lawyers in formal black.

  The women were little less peculiar, in conventional dress, yet consistently unfashionable, with smooth backed bustles that had not been in fashion for quite two years, or gored sleeves, even with regular side pleating. Beyond Hampstead and the edge of the Professional Enclave the sights became more peculiar still, the dresses ever brighter, but shapeless, with no hint of the elegant S curve given by even the cheapest corset. Some of the men even went without jackets, but wore thick shirts of cloth in unrestrained colours, with vividly contrasting braces. Some, for instance those loading barrels onto a heavy dray where the buildings of an inn made a narrow place in the road, even had their sleeves rolled up, revealing brawny forearms to Thrift’s shocked and astonished gaze.

  Several times she had seen the north of the city looking down from airships, and she was familiar with maps, so expected to turn onto the Great North Road as the car came down from Highgate Hill. Instead they crossed it, to move east into a small professional enclave. The boundary was marked by great black gates operated by a hydraulic system which, rather than being hidden discreetly underground as was sensible, normal and proper, was set out as if on display. No sooner had they been waved through than the car turned left and left again, into an avenue of red brick villas standing behind a double line of pollarded lime trees.

  The woman in black got out without a word and quickly returned, leading a small, dark haired, sullen faced girl in a dress of forest green silk by the arm. Thrift greeted the newcomer with the measured nod appropriate for a member of the professional classes, which the girl evidently was, and m
oved a little closer to the window, feeling somewhat embarrassed. The chaperone made no comment and the moment the girl’s luggage had been loaded they moved on in silence, back to the Great North Road.

  For hours they drove, the sleek black car eating mile after silent mile, through the outer suburbs of London and into the countryside, past fields of ploughed earth or grass silvered with frost, the woods and brakes of country estates, villages of brick and flint houses with the occasional manor visible among the trees. Thrift kept her gaze firmly on the passing view, not at all sure what she could, or should, say. Only when she realised that the frost in the fields was becoming notably thicker and turned a puzzled glance out of the opposite window did she catch the other girl’s eye.

  ‘We are passing out of the London weather zone...’ the girl began, but got no further.

  ‘Silence!’ the chaperone snapped, reaching out to grip the girl’s arm.

  The girl squealed in shock as she was hauled forward, and again as the chaperone threw her down with one powerful motion, into spanking position, across the knee with skirts bulging high. Immediately she realised she was to be punished the girl surrendered, collapsing into a whimpering heap as her bustle was inverted and skirts turned smartly up. Thrift could only stare in horror as the girl’s double petticoat followed the skirts, exposing a thigh length pink satin corset embroidered with roses and held fast with gudgeons. The clips were undone, one by one, the girl giving a bitter sob with each, then a low wail of misery as her corset panel was turned up.

  A pair of pink, split seam drawers was revealed, and opened without ceremony, baring the unfortunate’s little pink bottom and the pouted lips of a furry quim. Still Thrift stared, unable to tear her eyes away from the thoroughly indecent sight as the spanking began, the chaperone applying firm, even swats to the girl’s bouncing bottom; a dozen, two dozen, three dozen, to leave the girl snivelling wretchedly with her rear cheeks flushed rich pink and a tight, dun coloured bottom hole showing between as well as the embarrassingly wet quim.