I've had a life-long fear of injections since I was a child; I used to cry and cry whenever I was due to get one. I particularly dreaded getting needles in the bottom, because it was so painful and embarrassing. The worst part was that back in elementary school, we had to get shots at least twice a year, and we were always vaccinated in the bottom.

That was one of the main drawbacks to being a tranzie. Our hormonal systems were considered so bizarre that we required constant medical supervision throughout grade school. The majority of us were perfectly healthy in most respects, but medical researchers were still trying to identify the process by which biological males could spontaneously transform into anatomical females. Subsequently, we were poked and prodded and studied like guinea pigs in a research facility (and treated with considerably less respect, in my humble opinion).

Then there was the batspit crazy urban myth that TISM was somehow infectious. That bald-faced pack of lies had started in Ridgewick back in the late nineties, coinciding with a well-known "moral panic" of the period. Parents were up in arms all over the Courtland Valley, believing that a 'gender plague' was poised to decimate the male population, spreading through classrooms and playgrounds like the common cold. There was literally no evidence that TISM was contagious – the condition is genetic, caused by chemical pollutants in the local environment – but when did the truth ever get in the way of a good conspiracy theory?

The rumor was highly publicized in the press, and our local school board over-reacted, ruling that every tranzie in the district had to undergo two medical inspections per year, complete with inoculations and booster shots. None of us really understood what it was all about, but we all thought it was terribly unfair that the other children didn't have to have them too.

I was about eight the first time we were herded into the clinic for the "new program." Most of us were already crying when the nurse told us to strip down to our panties and line up for our preliminary examination. We even had to take off our socks and singlets, because the doctor would be inspecting every part of our bodies. Needless to say, the physical was horrendously invasive, but it was little more than a warm up for the main event.

After the Doctor had finished examining us, we were ushered in groups of three towards the vaccination room, where two nurses were waiting with loaded hypodermics. Standing outside, you could hear the three girls ahead of you wailing in pain as the needles were slipped into their plump, round bottoms. Long before we reached the door, all of us were sobbing tears of fright, knowing our turn was soon approaching. I was crying just as hard, realizing precisely how much it was going to hurt.

Some of us told the nurse we'd already had our shots, but she said that our parents hadn't provided the required paperwork. If the school didn't have the correct documentation, we had to take them all over again (a lot of us were injected by mistake every year, following the official policy mandated by the Ministry of Education at that time).

I practically fainted on the spot when the nurse called us in for our booster jabs. All three of us entered the room weeping in shame, crying all the louder when we saw the long, gleaming needles lined up on the medical tray. As we each had to receive three injections, they wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. The senior nurse made us turn around facing the examination table, then ordered us to take our panties down to our knees.

One of my friends immediately begged to take hers in the arm, but the nurse simply shook her head in firm reply: "No, it has to be in the bottom." Obviously, the subject was not open for negotiation; being children, we had no say in the matter. We were instructed bend over the examination table with our bare bottoms raised for our shots.

Whimpering in utter humiliation, we lowered our panties down our legs, revealing our plump young bottom-cheeks to the staff. I burst into fresh tears as I assumed the position, thrusting my naked bottom out for the first shot. I can still feel the goose bumps flaring over my arms and neck and tummy. Cool air whispered around my inner thighs, triggering uncontrolled tremors through the entire length of my body. Hearing the senior nurse step towards me, I closed my eyes in childish terror.

Nooooooooooooo-

A second later, the needle plunged into my left cheek, just above the curve of the buttock. Screaming in agony, I clenched both sides at once, squirming my hips forward against the table. The needle seemed impossibly long and sharp, piercing white-hot inches into the smooth, tender flesh.

"Hold still," the nurse said, picking the next syringe, "this won't take long." Her voice was vaguely sympathetic, doing very little to reassure me. I instinctively knew the next shot would hurt twice as bad.

"Just relax your bottom," she said, then sank a wide-bore hypodermic into the other cheek. A huge bolt of pain exploded across my right buttock, streaking halfway down my leg in the process. I shrieked again, much louder than before, tears dripping from my chin in a continuous stream.

"All right, last one," the nurse remarked, raising the third needle, "this'll only hurt a minute."

A final intramuscular jab, far worse than the last, penetrating deep into the soft flesh. Jostling my bottom back and forth, I dug my nails into the table cover, yowling at the top of my lungs.

AAAAAOOOOOOOOWWWWW!!!

It must have been a large syringe, because the nurse took an incredibly long time to depress the plunger. When she finally withdrew the needle, my bottom was throbbing in blue fire agony.

"There… that wasn't so bad, was it?" she asked while I adjust my panties back into place. Sniffling in childish misery, I nodded my agreement without further comment. At that point I would have said anything to escape that medical torture chamber. My two friends were also wiping their eyes, faces lowered in girlish shame while the junior nurse raised their undies.

"Good, then. You can go put your clothes back on, now — just go out through that door, and you can pick up a lollipop from the tray on your way back to class."

We left through the back exit while the next three were waved in, tear-streaked and trembling with anxiety. The lollipops did very little to salve our wounded bottoms. In some cases, the bruises lasted for days; I had to sleep on my belly for over a week.