Corrupt the Midwife

Content Codes (Part 3): ChallengeFic CR Humil Solo

Part 3: Not Tickety-boo

The memory of Jenny’s scent and taste seemed to linger, but the erotic reverie simply wasn’t real. She firmly blamed the bicycle’s saddle and decided to return the machine forthwith. Somehow, pushing it along didn’t work; the front wheel would twist, or stick betwixt cobbles. She frowned, and lifted. Three steps and it felt heavier than it ought.

“You rotter,” she muttered, feeling it deserved six of the best.

Chummy climbed on, sat down firmly, and pedaled. Barely 50 yards along the road and she couldn’t stop herself moaning again. People turned to look. She did her best to appear as if she was just afraid of falling off; but found it the most horrendous embarrassment. She sped up, leaving them behind more quickly, and found the pleasure increased. It wasn’t just the vibrations; it was as if the seat softened and massaged her in all the right spots. Dream Jenny hadn’t finished her, but surely the bicycle would? Then surely she would be able to think clearly. She shuddered, legs jerking from the pedals, but didn’t fall. So close and yet her climax wouldn’t come. Her vagina was at the centre of a heat that consumed her but grind as she might she couldn’t raise that heat to a boiling point.  

Panting, red faced, groaning in a way that drew amused looks, tuttings, and dirty remarks, Chummy halted. There was no passage where she expected. She dismissed the thought that she had become ‘Non compos mentis’, and resolved to cycle round to where she thought she’d entered the road. That didn’t work either. Moaning, shaking and increasingly frustrated Chummy proved utterly unable to locate either pawnshop or street. She put this down to confusion from her head-pounding arousal, and still being very much a newcomer to Poplar’s streets. She gave up and climbed from the bicycle. Only an effort of concentration prevented her plunging her fingers under her skirt right there. She awkwardly checked her clothing for any visible ‘sweat’. Though damp, her skirt wasn’t visibly stained; ok to walk back. Thoroughly fed up, she dropped the bicycle with a clatter.

“I don’t care to be played for a fool,” she declared.

“Gorblimey, Nurse! You dumpin’ that?”

The speaker was a girl of about 18; a pretty young thing, gazing with covetous eyes. If she were to ride it, to feel what Chummy had... It might ruin the girl. Chummy resolved the bicycle would be her responsibility until she could find the pawnshop, or when the shop girl came to collect it if she couldn’t. She could borrow a chain from Fred, to bind it – as she mentally phrased it - while she wasn’t in the saddle. Chummy retrieved the bicycle from the cobbles.

“No, I do want it, thank you. One is rather new to this bicycle lark, just needed a little rest period, what.”

“Eh? You what?”

“Quite. Well, I’d best not dawdle. Good afternoon!”

Chummy adjusted her skirt and remounted. The heat inside her rose again as soon as the damp saddle was between her thighs.

“Lord, please, grant me strength,” she prayed loudly, before beginning the too-pleasurable ride back towards Nonnatus House. Again, the sensations sparked lightening-like from her belly to her breasts. She should have peaked three or four times, or more, and some of the moans she couldn’t bite down sounded as if she had. Yet the release she craved still didn’t come to her. If only Jenny had finished her off; beautiful Jenny... but that had just been an intense day dream.

Back at Nonnatus House things quickly grew hectic. Almost as if a malign influence had fallen over the parish, the nursing staff became rushed off their feet. Births came a week early, or two, and presented more unforeseen complications than usual. Chummy felt she had no choice but to use the bicycle. After her long shifts she found herself exhausted by arousal that had curiously only damped when faced with a birthing mother. When she had a few private minutes she would stroke and finger, and conjure filthy fantasies. Still the release wouldn’t come. She almost wept with frustration at the unfairness of it.

Queries about the street drew blank looks. Trixie suggested it may have been renamed and the sign missed. The Nonnatus House maps were inexplicably misplaced, even the wall mounted map, and she was too busy to search. On Tuesday work slackened, so she rode over to the temporary parish archive beside The Goat pub. On the map there Chummy traced her journey perfectly, and found no space for the road. It looked like she’d walked in through a wall, and ridden out through a shop. Chummy shivered. She had convinced herself that despite her intense fantasy, she was only dealing with a maliciously but humanly designed machine. The map showed Dis to be an impossible street. Chummy came close to using some of the words that caused Ma to insist a gardener lose his position without references

Turning to the papers of local antiquarians she searched for similar experiences. Chummy wasn’t deterred by the dead writers’ occasional sesquipedalianism. No sufferer from hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia, she. An older record confirmed there had been a Diss Street nearby, but further reading suggested it had been pulled down in 1669 by the landowner for rebuilding. A name in a document on infamous Poplar residents caught her eye. She discovered that Dubheasa of Shannon, an unrepentant whore ‘once of good family’, had died a suicide during the 17th century. Chummy left the archive troubled. The bicycle was real; that was certain. Three fast arrivals to difficult births had saved lives since Saturday.

Just as she took hold of it, arms hugged her from behind.

“Thought that was you,” slurred a familiar voice, “Join me for a drink in The Goat’s snug? Say yes, I’ll be ever so happy.”

“Trixie?” Chummy turned to the blonde midwife.

“Come with me.”

She found herself drawn through a side door of the old pub.
 
To be continued…

A/N: Part 3 written for AFF forum weekly prompts 140/141 –
hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia, happy, horrendous

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