Thursday, 21 May 2015

The St. Aloysius Mercy Lodge Charity Mental Hospital Long-Term Secure Care & Moral Re-Education Unit For Wayward Girls Deemed Mentally Incompetent

Hi Folks!  Blindingly sunny here, so I SHOULD be in a good mood.  Well, sort of I am, in a way.  But I am about to take the middle daughter on a shopping spree in the Stratford (East London) Westfield Centre mall for her birthday – and that’s gonna cost a bomb (oops!  Shouldn’t put that in case it gets picked up by the security service’s filter) OK! It’s gonna cost a kidney then! (Oh lord! Now it sounds like I’m trying to sell a kidney).   

But the REAL thing troubling me (vexing me – as they say around these parts) is that I’ve ended up spending practically ALL DAY knocking out THIS thing, when I SHOULD have been updating the website, having started out pulling together some material to update The Original Institute Website (which I’ve begun struggling with some technical issues with theses last few days).  

 Trouble is, I came across a couple of nursey pictures and I have no bloody control!  I also should have been writing AND doing something for Roger Benson and a zillion other things which have fallen by the wayside…Oh well!  I’m off out shopping.  And perhaps some good will come out of it if it stimulates a few imaginations and so on… Eh?
THE ST. ALOYSIUS MERCY LODGE CHARITY MENTAL HOSPITAL LONG-TERM SECURE CARE & MORAL RE-EDUCATION UNIT FOR WAYWARD GIRLS DEEMED MENTALLY INCOMPETENT.  It all comes down to who judges what.  Who decides what constitutes mentally incompetent?  Who is it called upon to decide what it is that defines ‘wayward’ behaviour?  That was both the weakness and the strength (depending on which side of the barred windows you happen to be on) of some of those old Church-run establishments way back.  But given the assumption this is some real residential experimental psychology investigation our heroine has stumbled into, what then fascinates me is the power of labels, not only in governing how others treat her – including those she is mixing with as well as those in authority – but also in affecting how she begins to feel about herself and the affect that has in turn on her ability to stand up for herself and battle against the repression and disciplinary zeal of the system she has become tangled up in.   

Monday, 18 May 2015

Eighteenth Birthday Disciplinary Measures

“No one said you had to skulk around in your underwear like a sulky child.  That’s YOUR choice…

“Bu, but it’s my eighteenth birth…”

“That’s right! And there are people here to see you!”

“But other girls my age don’t have to w…”

“You’re NOT ‘other girls’. ‘Other girls’ aren’t under MY supervision.  I’ve been hired to take you in hand – and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. God knows, it was hard enough to get you out of those ridiculous fripperies and frillys and into something sensible – but we got you there in the end!  You remember that…  We got you there in the end!  Madame Whippy - my bamboo ‘persuader’ - and I.  Now, if you want everyone to see you in that corselette you despise so much that’s up to you…. But I don’t think we’ll NEED Madame Whippy this time – do you? You’ll pull on that gym tunic because you hate that corselette so much – and you’ll slip on those bloomers, as ridiculous as they look, because you’ll find that the gym tunic just barely covers your bottom; and you’re not getting any OTHER knickers from now on.  That’s how the psychology works!”

“Bu, bu,but I can’t wear…”

“Nonsense! You’ll wear exactly what I tell you to. The new things I’ve bought are perfectly adequate. You’ve got the time it takes me to set this out on the table – and then, if you don’t come when I call, I’m bringing everyone in here to see you, just as you are. You SHOULD be able to make it, there’s just the school gym tunic and bloomers - no fiddly blouse and tie or cardigan or anything – and it’s there, hanging on the larder door ready.  All you need do is pull the tunic over your head and draw the bloomers up your legs and you’re done!” 

Just something I knocked up... when I REALLY should have been doing something else

Many thanks to the person who was kind enough to send me via email a PDF scan of the entire Female Disciplinary Manual (see last posting).  I'm not sure whether to thank him by name here or not, but I have thanked him by email anyway.  Scans of the pages in question will appear here in due course and will also be added to the collection on The Original Institute site very soon (as soon as I finish putting together the Wringer collection) and I have forwarded them to the correspondent who originally requested them.  Ain't I a great guy?

Thursday, 14 May 2015

The Female Disiciplinary Manual (Wildfire Club) - An Appeal

Hello again!
It HAS been bright and sunny here in North London - and my disposition likewise... ish!  But now it's raining - and my mood is as low as the cloud...  But I soldier on.
Now, I'm sure many of you will have read - and perhaps owned - a copy of The Female Disiciplinary Manual published by Regina Snow of the renown Wildfire Club.  And I dare say quite a few of you will have perused the handful of pages I scanned and presented here (back in the archive) or in the relevant section (Beyond The Barred Window) of THE ORIGINAL INSTITUTE website focusing on non-corporal punishment (tedious written impositions and the like). 
The thing is this: I have been contacted by email by someone who, having spotted in one of the scans a reference to pages 35-38, wondered if I might scan them (or write something about the content at a push, I suppose).  The trouble is, I no longer have that particular publication in my possession, having passed it on to one of my collaborators quite some time ago.  So I wondered if there might be some kind soul out there, a kindred spirit, who might be willing to scan the pages in question and email them to me?  Thus this appeal.  
Ta!  See you again soon!  Hopefully with an update on the new book.

Wednesday, 6 May 2015

When The Cane and The Strap Prove Insufficient

Hi again, folks!

Yeah, I know!  I didn't get around to illustrating my last posting - but I've just not come across anything that has excited me sufficiently on the subject (although for some reason a couple of ideas have just popped into my head - go figure!); I suppose I should at least post an illustration of a pair of callipers of the type that would be used for body composition measurement, though I doubt many would find that exciting.  Plus I've been trying to get part one of the new book finished - God knows I need the cash; I'm still getting a bit from my publications on LULU and from my last book which I put up on Amazon myself, but my sales elsewhere via my publisher have all but dwindled to nothing, averaging a little over £1 per day through the month of February.

I've also not got around to writing a piece to introduce to you a new roll-playing game I have been told of which promises to be right up the street of folks like us and those inhabiting our particular universe.  I should get that done and the details posted here this Friday at the latest, so look out for it!

Right!  I know a lot of you folk out there liked the original this came from (Above, centre) one of a pair -  and I have never seen any others that look as if related.  Quite a few people have emailed me to ask about this and its sibling's origins, which to be honest I don’t know, although, looking at the style, I wonder whether they might not have originated from one of those 'Nurse Helana' photo sets I have so fallen in love with over the past couple of years or so.  So here is a treat for you.  

The original is one of those pics that leave you wondering what might be going, which I think is often a good thing as it leaves interpretation open to the imagination.  So here is one of my interpretations, shifted to some degree to suit my own personal taste for female / female control and domination.  The sign board behind the bed is something I created to go with one of those images created by Angela Fox for the long-delayed and oft-shelved comic book or illustrated INSTITUTIONALISED 3 version project.  Incidently, the latter is not actualy dead, just on the back burner; every so often I do a bit of work on it, and I think I have enough to one day get something together, perhaps later this year.

Those that have read my stuff will know that mind control is not really my ‘thing‘ in absolute terms, though there is often - if not always - some aspect of it present to a lesser or greater extent.  However, the above represents my attempt to circumvent one of the oft-overlooked limitations of the mind control tale, the fact that it is always emphasised in the main-stream literature on the subject that a person cannot be hypnotised against his or her own will.   

This is my solution - one of many, I might add.  In a similar vein; my heroines never just simple submit to the strap and the cane - THAT would never happen (or would be very unlikely given the modern headstrong late teen girl or young woman in her early twenties) - there is always some other consequence looming over her pressuring her to do so.

By the way:  Would you believe the thing with the glass of water and hypnosis was prompted by a children's TV show, many dawns ago?  Now I've told you before about the pivotal role a certain episode of the children’s 1970s TV show, 'Black Beauty', played back in my formative years in moulding my interests (or 'informing' my work, to be a bit poesy... beeerrrgh!  Sorry - just been si... beeuugh!... oh it's happened again!).  But let's see who can guess the series I'm referring to this time?

Monday, 27 April 2015

Body Composition Measurement and its Role in Monitoring the Efficacy of Dietary Control for Disciplinary Purposes and the Tailoring of the Female Figure Enforced by Corporal Punishment

Hi all you authoritarian and disciplnarian types out there.

It's over two weeks since my last posting here. It's also a couple of days past my new knee's first birthday – all together now: 'Happy birthday, Mr Toyntanen's right knee' – but that's another story!

But isn't that weird? Consider: In the future - as more and more of us have more and more parts replaced, rebuilt or whatever – more and more often the tentative, hesitant query as to a person's years will likely be met with the counter-query: Which bit?

Sorry! I digress. What I had planned for my net posting was another piece on admission procedures. But then, a few days back, I received an email notification of a comment (actually two left in quick succession) which had been left on a blog entry I'd made way back in 2011 (Friday, 15 April 2011, to be exact).

I must say it's gratifying to see there are those who are willing to trawl through the archive. Especially as last time I looked the search facility didn't seem to be working properly. But, boy, that was a long way back! Although I have to say, it's just scratching the surface; after all, this blog's archive stretches way back to August 2008, to just after INSTITUTIONALISED VOLUME 1: BEYOND THE STANFORD EXPERIMENT, went 'live' on the self publishing site, LULU!

The subject at the time had been enforced weight gain (though I've since become more interested in enforced weight reduction and strictly-supervised dietary restriction – a subject touched upon in the new book, though not in the tightly-regulated, planned clinical / institutional way you might imagine.) The title was - 'WEIGHT GAIN AND THE RECALCITRANT TEENAGER: ENCOURAGED RATHER THAN FORCED –DISCUSS' – and posited the idea that through psychological manipulation it is possible to encourage overeating and that this approach was potentially more rewarding to the true authoritarian, with the application of a little imagination, then the methods often expounded by other authors and published elsewhere (involving force feeding and the like) or even the “clear the plate or get across my lap for a few stripes from my belt” type of approach. Perhaps some of you may remember - but if not; may I suggest a quick read through before going any further (click here or on the blog article tittle, above to visit). 

The anonymous commentator was talking about weighing and measuring and awarding penalties and so on, and in reply I found myself extoling the virtues of acquiring body composition data– fat percentage etc - rather than just relying on weighing scales and the tape measure. I pasted up a couple of quick replies – the found myself penning the missive presented below. Far too large for use as a comment, I thought I'd run it up the flagpole here and see who salutes.


To ascertain the subject's body composition on one of those domestic 'bio-impedance'-measuring bathroom weighing scale type devices merely requires that she be weighed barefoot and standing with her the soles of her feet in contact with two conductive areas or pads – typically footprint-shaped metallic areas.

Obviously there is a requirement for a standard set of stipulations governing the subject's state of undress and so on for the sake of precision and reproducibility of results as regards the recording of her weight, but not the bio-impedance measurement, per se, which will be unchanged. Having said that, it is important to understand that any discrepancy in weight (and height measurement) will be mirrored by a discrepancy in the deduced fat percentage, lean mass and so on based on the impedance measurement. But as most will only be interested in the CHANGE in weight and body composition recorded over time rather than in absolute values, all that is really required is that she should be identically clothed for each weighing. The point is this: Nudity - whether partial or total - is not strictly speaking a requirement, though of course that is open to the discretion of the disciplinarian.

Callipers for assaying or estimating body composition based on the measurement of skin fold thickness are inexpensive, easily available, whether for home or institutional use, but of course need a modicum of skill in use. The latter comes with a little practice – as I said before – but the details can be gleaned from the internet or (at the risk of being branded a Luddite) just about any good dietetics or human nutrition textbook.

The point is, whereas the bio-impedance method – for domestic use – requires only a few moments standing on what amount to glorified bathroom scales, the estimation of body composition by skin fold thickness measurement is far more personally invasive and intrusive, involved and long winded and a little bit tedious to be honest – aspects one might think advantageous, given the context within which our discussion is taking place. Skin fold thickness measurement using callipers - if it is to be a reliable and repeatable indicator of body fat percentage - involves repeated measurements taken at several different sites on the body.

For a quick easy rough and ready estimate the traditional site is sub-scapular, which involves taking a reading of the thickness of what amounts to a pinch of that fleshy bit we all have just below the shoulder blades – thus the term, 'sub-scapular'; below the bloody shoulder blades, you see. Now at the very least, if dressed that is going to entail her holding up her top. But without too much difficulty a compelling case can be made for removing her upper half entirely – and it goes without saying the presence of bra straps etc can seriously hamper obtaining a reliable measurement, especially as the pounds pile on and she becomes a little more fleshier (bountiful?) 'up top'.

Usually – as commonly the case in scientific measurement and data gathering – the average of three independent readings would be taken (and how long the disciplinarian might care to fuss over this processes is completely up to their discretion, and the time they might have on their hands - after all, no responsible 'care-giver' would want to risk errors creeping in where their charge's health is concerned).

This averaging of three readings would ordinarily be the case for each sampling site used where a multi-site assessment regimen is used – and the latter is by far the most reliable and repeatable method. Other sites commonly used in body fat assessment by skin fold thickness measurement include the lower belly and 'supra-iliac crest' (just above the 'horns' forming the outermost part of the upper pelvic region – those bits that protrude in bony-hipped women).

Just three sites and three readings taken per site and already our heroine's weight gain monitoring programme is turning into something of a ritual, with nine painstaking measurements required. And the same approach is equally efficacious for monitoring weight loss of course, or the efficacy of an enforced program of exercise: After all, unless you're one of those whose aim it is to create a flesh monster – not MY kind of thing at ALL – there will be times when switching her over to a reducing diet will be desired.

In addition one must take into account the fact that there are several other sites on the body which are more or less commonly used for body fat percentage assessment by this method. Two such sites are the triceps (rear of the upper arm) and biceps. The latter two sites are of course easily assessable without any special preparation if something short sleaved is worn. But one would hope that within a home schooling environment – for example - setup to cater for the older girl or young woman beyond the legally decreed minimum school leaving age and who has been taken out from mainstream education as a consequence, the private tutor or governess hired to oversee the continuing education process would possess the sense to insist on the wearing of a school uniform, at least for schooling, to encourage the correct pedagogic mindset.

Under such circumstances one might not be surprised to find certain old fashioned values still being held as to what constitutes a ‘traditional’ school uniform, with the resulting styling easily harking back quite a few decades. Thus it wouldn’t be surprising to find her in a long-sleaved starched blouse during the colder months and a long-sleeved variation on the traditional school summer dress as the weather warms. I know this seems a digression from the point of monitoring weight gain (or loss) but there IS a point; and it is this:

If her governess or tutor knows her stuff It will doubtless have been drummed into the girl the importance of maintaining her uniform in an absolutely pristine condition - clean, mark and crease-free - enforced, of course, by frequent uniform inspections and backed up by suitable penalties and repercussions for transgressions, necessitated by the choice of fabrics which crease at the drop of a hat. Razor-sharp knife pleats must remain just that and stiff starched ironed blouses must remain stiff and as blemish-free as if they just left the ironing board.

Under such circumstances as these, On NO ACCOUNT should she be allowed to crumple the sleaves of her blouse or dress by rolling them up to give access to her upper arm. Nor will she want to, if she has been properly trained. And by properly trained, it is meant to the point at which, other than when focused on written impositions and the like, the majority of her waking moments revolve around checking and rechecking her appearance, from time to time nervously glancing up from the school desk at the floor mirror deliberately angled towards her for exactly that purpose, always the same questions running through her mind as she catches sight of herself:

Am I slouching? Is my blouse getting crumpled? Is my back straight enough to prevent it? Am I siting on my skirt, creasing the pleats? Did I remember to lift the hem as I sat down so only my knickers are touching the seat? Are my knees and ankles pressed together sufficiently closely?

From this you can take that even for the least personally intrusive measurement sites a substantial level of undress will be required. In the case of the long-sleaved dress, even measurements involving the upper arm will necessitate her stripping right down to her underwear. If she is wearing a gymslip and blouse ensemble then in order to take off her blouse the top half of the gymslip – the shoulder straps - will have to be undone and although the bodice can be folded down fore and aft there is potential for creasing the fabric and thus it might not be surprising to find the girl herself to prefer to step out of the skirt and to take the whole thing off. Of course the blouse would be expected to be neatly folded, in the way it had been when it first arrived in its cellophane wrapper and the gymslip placed on a hanger as neatly as if arrived freshly-pressed from the cleaners. All this adds to the ritual, the tedium serving as a reminder that she is no longer free to do as she pleases, she is not like other girls her own age, that she is under supervision and controlled to an extent that most of her peers wouldn’t think possible.

Just HOW intrusive these body composition investigations need be is up to whoever is making the decisions. There are other sites on the body where skin fold thickness may be measured. Ok, these might not be sites legitimately taken into account in mainstream medicine or dietetics – but the girl herself doesn’t need to know that. Thus measurements might be taken of the fold of flesh where the bottom meets with the top of the thighs or the upper parts of the inside of the thighs.

In terms of underwear, even the legitimate oft-used measurement sites of the lower tummy and at the sides at the top of the pelvis (iliac crest) will involve a bothersome level of disrobing if our chubby young lady is wearing a girdle (as ideally she should be, if being ‘plumped up’) and / or the sort of high-waisted short-legged bloomer-style knickers that somehow in my mind seem to fit the scenario. Taking measurements at the additional sites suggested – the upper inner thigh and that roll of tissue beneath the overhang of the bottom – will involve her having to peel down her knickers, at least in order to reach that latter site.

You’ll note I say ‘peel down’ rather than ‘take off’ or ‘remove’, as I believe there is something to be said for having her keep her knickers at ‘half mast’ rather than have her step out of them completly. A lot of fuss can be made about this, obliging her peel her knickers down to give access to her rear end – which she'll do while trying to keep the gusset in place as much as possible to spare her blushes – and then having her pull them back up again, of course insisting the backseam is pulled up snugly and her whole bottom covered as if by a drum skin, only to have to roll the legs (assuming a short-legged bloomer style) with their flesh-pinching elasticated openings up tight into the groin so the callipers can take a measurement of a pinch of skin taken as high up in the inner thigh as possible.

In an institutional environment how relevent all this ritualistic disciplined removal rearranging and replacing of items of clothing is to the actual procedure depends very much on the nature of the establishment we are talking about.

Given some kind of reformatory, workhouse or psudo-scholastic charity or church-run home for 'ruaways and waifs' the broad outline might be very much as outlined above, though the details will obviously differ somewhat dependent on attire.

Given the background of a secure care home or privately-run mental hospital, our unfortunate detainee might well be permantly in pyjamas, nightdress or other night attire in any case, but one can easily imagine her having to change into one of those brief-hemmed open-backed hospital examination gowns and being marched down the corriddor – or pushed along in a wheelchair – from the locked secure ward to the clinician's room or doctor's office; perhaps on a daily basis.

Actualy, given the ease with which such garments and various bits of medical equipment may be aquired nowadays, a hospital exam gown of the type and design outlined above could just as equally provide the answer in the domestic environment as in the clinical.... Just an idea.

I'm out and about today, working from a couple of coffee bars while moving around, so I hope you'll forgive me for not including illustrations (and also for the spelling / typo errors I KNOW will have slipped through, since the spell checker is not working on this machine; and as those regular visitors among you will know, I am very, VERY dyslexic).

It is my intention to return to this post and updated it with a few relevant pics (particularly as many among you may well be mystified by all this talk of callipers for measuring skinfold thickness) perhaps later today or, failing that, on Wednesday when next I am at home for any length of time... So keep 'em peeled!

Tuesday, 14 April 2015

More on Admission Procedures - Some Random Thoughts on the Subject

 I originally started work on the missive below as a short additional reply to a comment posted by 'Vlad' and it... well... it sort of expanded somewhat! 

I have to admit that what I have written tends towards a sort of 'stream of consciousness' type of thing in style, but bear with me. 

In addition; I wrote the vast majority on my 'smart' phone and in a piecemeal manner so my apologies if it is a little disjointed and contains typos, missing words and so on - I have had little free time on my hands recently and can't really justify the time it would take to thoroughly read through and proofread as I would with one of my books or novels or get someone else to do it, what with me being badly dyslexic and all!

 By the way, I make no apologies for including yet another view of that wonderful leather-skirted mistress from The English Governess. com (left - found on Tumblr).  She looks SO much how I envisage the dominant psychologist or psychotherapist from my INSTITUTIONALISED series looking, once divested of her white coat.


I think the thing to remember about admission procedures is that, within the context we are speaking about here, they serve a dual purpose. The first and most obvious purpose is all about such legitimate tasks as gathering information, registering name and address perhaps gathering baseline data if a medical facility, weighing, taking measurements, blood pressure, perhaps taking a shower and so on. The second and less obvious aspect – though not necessarily purposeful – is all about drawing a sort of psychological line in the sand, a sharp demarcation between the subject's previous and new life and circumstances. Where the desire is to impose some measure of control, discipline and restriction over the individual then this latter aspect may well be quite purposeful, if not carefully calculated and intentional. Perhaps there might be some sort of short sharp shock.

On the other hand perhaps there might be a carefully engineered series of steps, a series of psychological barriers crossed one at a time. I can imagine each one of these steps as being in itself minor, perhaps each not counting all that much in of itself but each stripping away a little more of what keeps her connected her to the outside world. Each procedure would take from the girl a little more of makes the her the girl she is; self-confidence, self-respect, even aspects of her personality, being systematically stripped away from like the layers of an onion skin as her processing progresses, letting more and more of the repressive atmosphere of the institution seep in, culminating with her entering some sort of inner sanctum of the institution, some final entry point, dressed in whatever regulation manner the institution demands, already deeply steeped in institutional culture, the outside world seeming to her as far away and as out of reach as deep space.

So, whether becoming resident in the reformatory, coming under the protective wing of the Church-run 'Charity Home for Wayward Young Girls and Women in Peril of Moral Corruption' or having been tricked and manipulated into placing herself (or being placed) under psychiatric care, the irony is that in many ways it is that aspect which ordinarily might be considered secondary and minor which not only comes to assume major importance but is actually the raison d'etre for many of the procedures our nubile young candidate finds herself being put through.

And this is particularly the case in the third of these three exemplar scenarios, wherein, hopelessly out of her depth, our pretty bright young thing finds herself being inexorably led deeper and deeper into the workings of the mental hospital.

After all, having her valuables, all jewellery, her watch etc, placed in a safe, her suitcase stored away somewhere, even having to leave her phone outside at the reception desk along with her bank cards – all this wouldn't be questioned; its only the sort of everyday procedure she will have encountered at airports and so on, all very easily legitimised. OK, perhaps the offhanded way she has been greeted and spoken to will have come as something of a surprise – but that will have knocked her off balance. And they'll make sure she'll be kept off balance, moved along briskly with no time allowed for her to pause to question, to gather her thoughts and reconsider what is happening to her, the way in which the way she is being treated and spoken to is gradually changing as her processing continues, the staff's attitude to her gradually hardening. It's no surprise to be offered the chance to take a shower, not that surprising to find a laundry basket to deposit her clothes in, not entirely surprising to find waiting for her when she gets out one of those open-back hospital examination gowns and a pair of disposable paper knickers - but it is somewhat more disconcerting to find the laundry basket has been removed.

But she's hurried along further down the corridor, away from the way she came in and through a locked iron security screen and off to her first psychiatric appraisal with the doctor she's been told is running the project, her objections met only with an irritated tut from one of the two uniformed women escorting her... And even now it all seems understandable – surely her clothes will be waiting for her when she's brought back?
There will follow all the usual medical tests one would imagine, and all legitimately understandable, if a little more intrusive than she will have expected. But then there comes the first of a series of steps not so easy to legitimise. Why for example does she need a thorough intimate internal exam. Why does she need to be intimately shaved beforehand, put through a long drawn out virginal douche procedure and have to accept a series of three suppositories in her bottom?

In that latter scenario - especially if, as in the INSTITUTIONALISED series, she has been led to believe she is surrendering herself to some sort of residential psychology experiment without fully understanding its nature – I would imagine the procedural steps continuing on for days.

In terms of the longevity of admittance procedures; I think a lot depends on what point you consider her having been admitted. Given the latter scenario I think some might put forth the argument that it would be the stage whereat our heroine is issued with her regulation hospital pyjamas. Beyond that point I would imagine that as she progresses further through the system there would also be a shift in the staff set in charge of her.

Gone will be the two women she's initially been shepherded around by, the two nurses who seemed to know all about the clinical study she's enrolled herself in, replaced by nurses and orderlies who seem to know nothing of any of this. They treat her like a real mental patient – and unsurprisingly so, since she's now clothed in an outfit that not only makes her look no different from any other psychiatric case they have to deal with but which actually explicitly states her diagnosis for all to see. Perhaps it's unsurprising therefore that these hard-pressed staff members' only response to her constant insistence of there having been some sort of mistake is to dish out a sharp slap to the face. The only person she now gets to see who knows that she is supposed to be a clinical trial candidate is the stern female psychiatrist she'd initially seen, who had dealt with the paper work and administered her initial psychological appraisal.

On the other hand it could be argued that admission is the point at which she is first taken to the secure psychiatric ward where a bed is waiting for her. If that is the case, then the likelihood is that several days if not a week or more will have passed by since she first walked into the lobby of the main hospital. She'll have been fobbed off with promises and excuses and delays, finding herself continuously shuttling between the doctor's interview room and office for psychometric testing and so on and the secluded quiet little room she's been allocated to sleep in, all the time keeping herself going anticipating meeting the other volunteers, girls like herself who she fondly imagines she's bound to get on with; undoubtedly a lively, gregarious vivacious chatty fun-loving bunch.

By the time she is taken to the ward itself she'll have lost all track of time and largely been browbeaten into submission already. Perhaps she's even received her first caning by this point. Then again, perhaps she's yet to taste corporal punishment; perhaps her first introduction to the ward and the small group she desperately wants to believe are her fellow clinical study candidates is to coincide with her first experience of the kiss of the plaited leather riding switch, rattan cane, leather strap or folded belt across her delectably plump, weighty, full rounded bottom.

If the latter is to be the case, I prefer these days to imagine a highly ritualised affair rather than a straightforward scene of her being flung across a desk, table, couch or bed, held down and thrashed to the point of begging for mercy.

There may have been a time back in my book-buying past when I would have found such a scene presented in a similar manner satisfying enough – exciting even (to a point) – but where does one go from there? Two or three such thrashings down the line and one becomes desensitised – and the only path most authors can offer the reader from that point on in terms of punitive measures is to continually up the ante with ever more ferocious beatings, ever escalating numbers of strokes or lashes or whatever awarded utilising increasingly heavy-handed and sadistically vicious implements wielded under ever more stringent and inhuman circumstances.

Thus it is, in the hands of Victor Bruno (an author I respect and have enjoyed very much over the years) et al we find ourselves ending up being treated to accounts of rhino skin whip beatings and one hundred stroke canings and so on, to the point of smelling salts being called upon in order to revive the hapless victim so that, having been beaten insensible, she can be brought around to continue to suffer. But any fool, given the right circumstances and resources, can chain or strap their victim down or otherwise restrain her (or him – each to their own) and beat them into insensibility; it takes no brain nor skill; there is no finesse, and ultimately little lasting excitement; when it's done, it's done. It is quite another matter to arrange for a girl - perhaps an early school-leaver (though of marriageable age) if considering a home-schooling / governess-type scenario, or in her late teens or even early twenties given the type of institutional storyline being considered here – bend and touch her toes for the cane on command and to stay in position with no physical restraint of any kind.

You'll note I make a point of stipulating no PHYSICAL restraint in the paragraph above. I make no mention of the restraining effects of the psychological pressure to conform which will have been brought to bear, something which will have been building throughout the long drawn-out series of admission procedures the girl or young woman (I commonly use the terms freely and interchangeably) will have been put through up to this point and which has been partially the aim throughout.

So the sort of inaugural or induction caning I envisage – in addition to being witnessed by the assembled group she is about to join – would be embedded within a rigidly stipulated ritual. This would be chock full of pointless, tedious rules and demands designed to heighten the newcomer's sense of humiliation and sharpen and highlight that feeling of utter powerlessness which can develop when punishment is handed out for no good reason other than to inculcate the need for utter unquestioning obedience.

And that latter aim is most important off all. Despite my possibly misleading use of the term 'punishment' above, I see it as vital that throughout the proceedings the point is repeatedly made – and reiterated at every opportunity – that this is NOT a punishment in the classical definition of the word, in that the indignity and physical suffering she is experiencing is not a consequence of anything she has said or done. Indeed she has done nothing to deserve it - just as she keeps insisting - nor is there anything she could have done to have avoided it. It is just a procedural thing, part of the ritual of being inducted into the group and designed to undermine her status or standing within that group before she even gets started.

To the onlookers - forced to watch, each cringing inside, wincing at each whooping whistling crack of the cane or hiss and smack of the riding crop across the newcomers bottom - it is something each and every one of them will instantly recognise; each will have been through it. Not only that, but if those placed in a position of authority over this corralled group of nubile girl-flesh are worth their salt they'll have instigated a regimen of 'divide and conquer'. A major aspect of any such policy will undoubtedly incorporate some method of fermenting distrust between the individual members of the group; a secondary aim might well include measures designed to induce neurosis and thus further encourage distrust between peers.

One way to meet this secondary aim might well be the random allocation of 'punishment' similar to that being witnessed. Thus it is likely that more than one of the small group of teenagers making up the audience will be nursing a burning, bee-stung behind herself, while completely at a loss to explain what it was she was supposed to have done to have earned it, knowing only that it had to have been SOMETHING she'd done.. Otherwise, why else would she have been punished?

If you try, perhaps you can imagine the questions running through such an onlooker's mind as she struggles with the urge to massage her scorched bottom cheeks through the seat of her pyjamas and the rubbery plastic knickers she has on beneath, the fire reignited by the sight she is being forced to witness ...
What could she have done to have avoided it? What can she do in the future to avoid such a thrashing? How can she best please the carers, nurses and others in authority over her?

If convinced she'd done nothing, had been blameless, then perhaps a different type of question might be popping up in her mind as she looks on. Had having her bottom practically skinned by a riding crop wielded by one of the nurses been a consequence of one of the other girls 'telling tales' about her in order to gain favour, to earn herself some sort of 'privilege'?  If so, who?  Which girl?

If you could see in to her head perhaps then you could read her thought patterns – then what? What might be running through her poor little confused and professionally deluded mind?

What about that girl the doctor gave chocolate to the other day, the blond girl designated 'patient 16A'? Six squares she got! True, she'd looked surprised right enough. But she'd been happy enough to nuzzle them out the doctor's hand like a pony fed half a dozen sugar cubes – and there'd been no lack of enthusiasm; she'd been grinning ear to ear with unbridled childish gratitude, like a toddler rewarded by a parent for good behaviour... Yeah... but it says 'delusional psychosis' on her bib and the signboard up on the wall behind her bed...

I KNOW I'm normal, but that girl is one of the REAL mental patients – I'm sure of it. Otherwise why would she rock like that, back and forth all day, grinning like an idiot? They said there'd be SOME real patients, a couple or so. And if she's delusional, all those smiles and nuzzling chocolate pieces out that woman's hand could mean anything... Yeah, but why would SHE be given chocolate in the FIRST place? You didn't get treats like that for nothing. Surely she must have done something to please someone, somewhere? Telling tales? But who would be stupid enough to believe anything she said if she were delusional? So... Was she a stooge? Was she some sort of plant, someone employed to act out the role of a mental patient – or perhaps a real mental case, but one trusted to be the ears and eyes of the institution?

And what about that other girl, a while further back still; the brunette? The poor thing was supposed to have dementia – that's what it said on her bib, and on the top pocket of her pyjama jacket; she even had her hands locked in stiffened mittens to prevent self harming; the nurses had to do everything for her, absolutely everything. And yet... A while back they took her mittens off and for quite a long time she had her toilet privileges restored – they'd take her to the loo and back a couple of times a day instead of having her use a bed pan like everyone else or – worse – use her knickers... Why was that? Surely it was SOME sort of reward, for SOMETHING – but what? Was SHE a stooge? Surely not – surely SHE was the real thing. She has these ugly great metal braces on her teeth (what for, who knows?) that push out her lips like a pouting trout and make her drool all the time – and with her mittens on and her arms fastened across her chest under her plastic bib there's nothing she can do about it and it all trickles down her front... No she couldn't be a stooge, she had to be the real thing. But then again – why did she suddenly seem to be everybody's favourite at the moment? Could she trust anyone? Did anyone trust her?”

Yes – in the régime I envisage it wouldn't only be 'punishments' and 'corrections' that would be handed out randomly. Indeed, our 'new girl' might not be inducted in to the group by way of some sort of ritualised punishment at all. Instead she might be required to watch one of the 'old guard', one of the pre-existing members of the group, being put through her paces in a similar manner to that outlined above, as an example of what comes of defiance.

Any such a demonstration will be of particular value in terms of its psychological impact if, as some component of the admission procedures thus far, our newcomer has been shown something of one or two members of the group she is being introduced to in their previous incarnations prior to their own admission: Imagine for instance she has been shown a couple of dossiers - complete with photographs - by way of encouragement, a couple of examples of recent recruits she'll be meeting and staying with. Of course the fact that the term, 'recent', as applied to the fun-loving leather-jacketed gum-chewing 'trendy' and the smiling vivacious-looking designer blonde she has been shown refers to some twelve months or more back will have been somewhat glossed over.

Perhaps in addition to witnessing – but not participating in – this ritualistic caning, the newcomer being spared the actual pain of the rod itself, she might be given some sort of 'treat', great show being made of her being rewarded with some kind of privilege or favour, anything from a smiling pat on the head (or bottom) to a sizable hunky bar of chocolate:

Now you run along and pop into bed... And don't forget to let me know if you see anything untoward.”

The leather-skirted psychiatrist's enigmatic parting words might well leave our newcomer puzzled. But although quietly and conspirationally spoken - reinforced with a reassuring nod and knowing smile – in the quiet of the ward five other pairs of ears will have pricked up, and the inference will not be lost on any one of them. Even in the absence of the strictly enforced 'no talking' rule our newcomer's isolation will have been doubly ensured from the outset. And in her own mind – looking around at the assembled pyjama-clad group - she'll have that remark she's overheard beforehand running through her head, the woman psychiatrist to some unnamed individual on the other end of a phone line:

... I have my eyes and ears everywhere...”

And what if, instead of just passively witnessing this ritual, our newcomer is instead made to actively participate, acting as the glamorous psychotherapist's proxy and wielding the cane herself, under instruction? Or if it is our newcomer who is to taste the cane or the riding crop – what if it is one of the assembled group of onlookers who is handed the length of thin pliant bamboo or plaited leather switch?

But with all that said and done; I have to say, I still find it difficult to conceive of any situation able to provide greater psychological impact than for a nubile, perhaps naturally shy, young thing to be systematically reduced to tears in front of a small cohort of girls of similar age to herself she imagines are soon to become her comrades, as a means of welcoming her into the fold! And I do think a good hard caning to be best under such circumstances, rather than an over-the-knee strapping, paddling, hand spanking or similar. The point is; after such an experience and being made such an exhibition of, it will be well nigh impossible for her to cut any sort of figure in front of her new peers.

In actuality, the caning doesn't have to be all that severe in terms of out-and-out force to produce the desired psychological effect in this situation. There is no need to really slash in the strokes, as one might for the purposes of behavioural correction and modification or to break through some stubborn streak the girl might have. Rather it is more a symbolic procedure than anything else, one designed to start her off in her new life with the correct mindset, so that in her own eyes - and those of the girls and young women comprising the group into which she is being inducted - the image is formed and brought in to sharp focus of a girl already surrendered to authority. As such she is less likely to be able to inspire others to insurrection and since those she is about to join are so browbeaten already – as she will discover – she is unlikely to find the peer support and strength to rebel herself; indeed, mixing with those already broken to the system will tend to further undermine her own sense of self worth, individuality and defiant independent spirit still further.

All that is really required of this procedure then is to foster in the girl's mind and those of the onlookers the requisite image; and for that, all that is necessary is that she submits to the ritualised caning, that it stings enough to bring home to her the shame of it, and that it is witnessed by the group of her peers. Carried out correctly, with all ritualistic elements observed as outlined, and even though not agonising – in the classical sense that a caning is so often depicted as agonizing in main-stream spanking literature (all those smelling salts and so on) – nevertheless it will be indelibly imprinted in her psyche forever.

The type of ritualistic caning I like to imagine is best embodied by the type of 'knickers down, knickers up' form of ritual mentioned in a sort of oblique way on a couple of occasions back in the day in Janus magazine (I think they once marketed a film based around this idea). Sketchy and oblique the reference may have been, but it stuck in my mind over the years, was nurtured and expanded upon in my imagination to emerge in the form I imagine today.

Given the situation I have outlined above the girl will of course be bare-footed and in hospital-issue pyjamas, a thick transparent polythene tabard, something approximating a very large baby feeding bib, over the top of her upper half, the two halves buckled together at the sides at her waist.

The idea of the plastic tabard is something of a new innovation in terms of this happy little scene I like to conjure up in my imagination and does not feature in any of my presently published books. There are versions marketed by medical suppliers which are easily obtainable and intended for dentia sufferers and others of restricted mental acuity to protect nightwear from food spillages, drooling and so on. Modified versions can double as part of a restraint system where it is necessary to confine the wearer to a chair, wheelchair or bed. The form I imagine would allow the girl's regulation hospital green and white striped pyjama jacket to be seen beneath it, complete with hospital crest embroidered on its top pocket – albeit the thick rubbery polythene introducing a greyish cast – but would have the hospital name, the words 'secure psychiatric wing' or perhaps 'psychiatric patient' or something similar and some sort of suitable 'diagnosis' such as DEMENTIA or DELUSIONAL PSYCHOSIS printed across the front in bold black lettering, thus ensuring the wearer tends to be viewed and treated accordingly.

All-in-one 'tamper proof' pyjamas are also commercially available – intended for the same kind of patient - and are easily procurable, even for home use if wanted, and can be obtained in a form with sewn-in anchor points to allow for various forms of restriction where self-harming is an issue or tampering with dressings, cannulas, incontinence precautions and catheters and so on is a danger. I have toyed with the idea of a recalcitrant young charge dressed in such a manner with her arms crossed over her bust, a brass ring or eye at her left wrist clipped to a ring sewn into a tab at the right shoulder and similarly her right wrist secured to her left shoulder and then the polythene tabard secured over the top, its front and back halves buckled together tightly around her waist just below her elbows and thus further securing her arms. I have toyed, too, with the idea of 'special' pyjamas for home use having a more conventional appearance but with similar anchor points sewn in, and again designed to be worn with a tabard or restrictive quilted bed jacket over the top.
More recently I have been tinkering with the idea of a restrictive corset with laced channels or open-sided sleeves capable of securing a girl's arms down by her sides over which would be worn special pyjamas or even especially manufactured outdoor wear designed and tailored without sleeves or arm holes – in terms of hospital issue pyjamas with one of those tabards worn over the top I imagine it would produce a pleasingly clean line, as if she had been born without arms. Very sweet, very helpless and – importantly given the current context of this discussion – very dependent.

For now though it's probably best we put those thoughts and possibilities on hold and keep things simple (though your comments, criticisms and further ideas are always welcome).

So our newcomer will have on a pair of hospital issue pyjamas such have been described and outlined in the INSTITUTIONALISED series. Doubtless she'll have on underneath a pair of 'tamper proof' polythene bloomer-style knickers, as designed for dementia sufferers, with a locking waistband secured at the rear by a small padlock, which will have to be released first by the smartly uniformed nurse accompanying her.

You have to imagine our new girl has just been led in. She finds herself standing at the front of a narrow hospital ward, three hospital beds lined up to either side – giving six in all – separated by a gangway just large enough for a hospital trolley to pass – perhaps the width of a bed – and each bed separated from the next by a green plastic curtain which can be drawn around if and as required. The quiet is extraordinary, just the shuffling of five pairs of bare feet – five well-developed big breasted teenaged girls, all identically dressed in hospital pyjamas and polythene tabards, two marked up with the words 'delusional psychosis' and three with the single word 'dementia'.

There is a desk at the front of the room at which a stern-faced woman in a tightly belted navy blue uniform dress sits, a starched white nurse's cap on her tightly pinned raven hair. There is a full length mirror screwed to the wall behind the desk, reflecting the rear view of the seated woman, the entire length of the room, the assembled group of bowed-headed pyjama-clad girls and the newcomer with her nurse escort, a girl not all that much older than herself dressed in a fitted blue and white check dress, a white cap perched on her blonde hair and a tight elasticated crepe belt around her trim waist. And above the mirror, the reason for the deadly quiet – or part of the reason at any rate – a large sign in bold black letter spells out what will soon become apparent to her is the cardinal stipulation: “NO TALKING AT ANY TIME”. It is actually the second highest ranking of several cardinal rules, as she will discover – the first and highest principle is simply 'obedience'.

She is made to turn, face the assembled group of girls, her cheeks burning bright as embers, disquieted by the cowed, downtrodden atmosphere hanging over them all, the way they stand with hands crossed in front, heads lowered, eyes averted and how each pointedly avoids eye contact. She's seen the metronome on front of the nurse's station desk – and now, behind her back, she hears it started up... TOCK, TOCK, TOCK, TOCK...

Then comes the order: The psychiatrist has entered and its her voice, syrupy, plummy, educated and self-satisfied. She is the only one not wearing some sort of uniform. Even the girls, even the new girl herself, can be thought of as wearing some sort of uniform; theirs mark them out as mental patients; it practically says as much on the rubbery plastic tabards over their pyjamas. Right at this minute she doesn't even have her customary white coat on. Instead she is dressed in a tight knee length black leather skirt, tailored and close-fitted white satin blouse and high heels, her face made up as if going out for the evening, her glossy black hair up in a tight no-nonsense bun. Big busted and broad hipped she nevertheless has a remarkably trim waist and looks a good ten years younger than her actual age which is nearer forty five. It is she who is going to administer the punishment – and it is not the cane the girl has spied resting against the nurse's chair she is going to be putting to use; she has just strolled in carrying a thin plaited riding crop, is running it through her fingers, toying with it, flexing it experimentally:

Right, six strokes – jump up, rise before you're told to, forget to count the stroke out loud or refuse to bend and it starts again from the beginning. Refuse point blank to accept your introductory caning and... Well you KNOW what to expect! Ok... let's have those pyjama bottoms down... knickers down... touch your toes... knees locked out... legs wider apart than that, girl!”

Swisssh - crrracck !!!

You can, I'm sure, imagine the thin red line developing across the pure lily-white skin of her well-formed naked behind.... and the wail of dismay as the heat of the stroke sinks in... Somehow she hasn't sprung up – this time!

Stay in position, listen to the metronome, count thirty-six beats... and... now straighten up. Pull up your knickers, pull up your pyjama bottoms and turn to face the mirror, hands on head. Thank me for the stroke...”

Somehow she manages a strangled-sounding “thank you, doctor”.

The woman holds out the switch to the girl's lips.

Kiss the switch...”

Red faced the girl kisses the supple leather.

Now look at yourself in the mirror, and as you count sixty-four beats of the metronome I want you to think about how you look, what your friends would think of you if they could see you – a mental patient in a psychiatric hospital... count the beats... count out loud...”

sixty two, sixty three, sixty-four...” The girl's voice is shaky, breaking, already becoming interrupted by sobbing laboured breaths as she struggles to deal with the spreading pain radiating out across her backside... and the fear of the impending next stroke builds within her as the metronome beats pile up. Her face begins to burn brighter still as she catches sight of the smile spreading across the face of the young nurse standing alongside her in her neat blue and white uniform dress.

Keeping your hands on your head, turn, face the other patients, count thirty six beats of the metronome, then lower your hands, drop your pyjama trousers, pull down your knickers and touch your toes like before...”

SSSSwwwwwissh – cccraaack!!!

No you don’t – don't you DARE get up! Listen to the metronome – thirty-six beats; THEN you can straighten up!!”

And so it goes on, each position regulated by the unvarying, unrelenting rhythm of the metronome.
On the other hand, perhaps the newcomer might have to watch as one of the more established inmates, chosen at random, is caned, perhaps put through a similar regimented routine while she watches. Either way, you can bet she'll be quiet and contrite as she is led over to her bed.

I sometimes think such a ritualised procedure as this works even better where some kind of school uniform is involved – the fussier the better. Perhaps carried out by a newly appointed governess-cum-tutor figure by way of introduction to a newly-introduced home-schooling régime, and in front of her guardian or stepmother or whoever has had the inspired imagination to have employed such a woman.

Monday, 30 March 2015

Home Schooling: Uniform Inspection

This just sprung to mind when working through a contribution by Chris (who developed the character Miss Frobisher and having come across this pic on my hard drive while searching for the gymslip pics I pasted up last time.
While her old school chums were entering their final year in preparation for university or leaving to get jobs, get married, perhaps go travelling, she’d found herself trapped in the most stifling home schooling régime imaginable, dressed from head to toe and from the skin outwards in the fussiest of school uniforms and under the tutelage of a woman who seemed intent on taking control of every tiny little aspect of her life. Just like the tiny little speck of a stain Miss Frobisher had just detected on her heavily starched white school blouse – THAT would be two strokes of the cane, just for starters – and Miss Frobisher had already indicated that one of the seams of her fully-fashioned lisle stockings wasn’t sufficiently straight; that would be another two strokes for sure.
She turned eighteen some time back and under the terms of the will she could have inherited then. But she’s a level-headed girl, fully aware of her shortcomings - intellectual and otherwise - ,her lack of maturity and inability at present to shoulder the responsibility of dealing with such a large inheritance. When it was explained to her she could accept the alternative and more traditional legal interpretation of the term ‘age of majority’ as in ‘upon reaching the age of majority’ as meaning upon reaching age twenty-one she seemed happy enough to sign the relevant papers. She’d seemed happy enough as well to accept the idea of staying under home education rather than leaving to try to finish her schooling and go on to university like her old school chums. Mind you, she’d find that very difficult. With university places at a premium these days the entry requirements are becoming higher and higher – and she has nothing like the minimum qualifications.