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The girl, now known only as 30C, knew what was expected of her, she had been taught in the schoolroom, questions were to be answered promptly, one did not hesitate, one did not think about the answer, one answered yes or no, simply that, no less and certainly, no more. “Yyy yes, mm,m Matron” came the soft reply at last…
For a split-second a whistling hiss had filled the silence, SSHSWTHRRACK! Then a banshee shriek, AAAAGHH! She was on her feet, hands desperately kneading buttocks initially angrily wasp-stung then numb with shock but now developing a detailing to the pain much as a photographic negative might slowly emerge in the darkroom, a clarification to the agony, a screaming agony quite literally.
She had waited in position bent over the desk, outwardly a study in determination, inwardly a growing dread nibbled then gnawed away at that determination. The cane, crook handled, lay casually across the back of the desk filling her field of view, dominating her, the curved handle of yellowed rattan touching her nose as if to hold her there.
Perhaps she had imagined the retention of her knickers to be an ameliorating factor, that they might blunt the sharpness of the sting, then again perhaps she had the intelligence to realise that Matron would never allow such an amelioration if it were significant, yet might allow some slight amelioration if it were to be offset by an element of humiliation of great enough magnitude. As she fervently wished for a return to the conditions of her previous canings, bare bottomed and without the benefit of witnesses, we can conclude the latter to be the greater truth...and be appreciative of Matron's enlightened understanding of a young woman's sensibilities and vulnerabilities.
A hand, Matron's hand, the girl had recognised the cuff and sleeve of the woman’s uniform, had retrieved the cane. The girl had tensed, expecting the first stroke's imminence. Nothing happened, behind her the conversation had restarted, no mention of the upcoming event, not even a casual comment aimed to humiliate and degrade.
It was as if she wasn't there, they were apparently discussing another patient, another girl; there was mention of legal papers, something to do with drawing up a 'statement of change of status', of having the girl become a voluntary psychiatric patient, of the need to arrange power of attorney.
Then there had been a moment of silence, unexpectedly mid-conversation. Behind her, unseen by her but fully witnessed with approval by the good doctor, Matron had flexed the cane between her hands forming a full circle, a measure of its extreme suppleness, a suppleness that comes from the careful preparation of selected rattan kept steeped in brine solution. This cane had little in common with that which had been used previously, this was a very special cane kept for a very special and specific purpose.
The previous canings had been bearable, at least initially, and had gradually got harder, but this… The first stroke, had shocked her, had been harder and unimaginably more painful than even the hardest strokes of her previous canings.
"What do you think you are doing, girl? Get back down at once!"
The sobbing wretch remained standing, rounded, defeated, shoulders heaving up and down with each staccato-sobbing breath. Distraught tears oozed freshly-squeezed between fine, graceful fingers, emotion ravaged trembling hands cupped defensively in an attempt to hide the shame etched across her pretty, pain-contorted features. Behind her Matron stood coolly with her customary businesslike hands on hips posture, her cane, hanging as casual as a handbag from the fingers of her left hand, forming an acute angle with her skirt.
Matron was clearly unmoved by the girl's histrionics, neither sympathetic nor angry. She merely observed the scene with a casual detachment and a cool air of authority that well disguised the seething melee below.
"Well, that's another chance gone, you have got just two chances left now and you won't even have that many if you don't get back down across that desk right now, this instant!" She had spoken softly, gently, but with a voice gradually hardening until the emphasis on 'This instant' practically qualified as a bellow.
Still no response was forthcoming, save for a particularly deep and shoulder-shuddering sobbing intake of breath and a rubbery shifting of weight, the girl's knees momentarily threatening to give way to a knock-kneed collapse, still straddling, as she was, the seat.
"I'm going to count to five then you had better be back over that desk or you are down to your last chance, I mean it!" Now Matron had moved up close behind the shaking girl, her voice taking on an intimidating barking. "One, two, three, four..."
With a last defeated shuddering ‘sob’ the girl flopped her torso down atop the desk, her chin coming to rest close to the rear, simultaneously and involuntarily running her hands defensively back over her buttocks. Matron's voice instantly adopted its soft and coaxing 'reward' tone:
"That's better, sweetheart, now let's get those hands back where they belong, back behind your neck." Stiffly, reluctantly, the girl obeyed.
"That's a good girl", Matron's 'rewarding' voice again; she took great care in emphasising to her staff the importance of consistency in conditioning a girl and took equal care herself to ensure that she never failed to positively reinforce a desired behaviour with a praising word or an approving smile.
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Copyright (c) 2008 Garth. P. ToynTanen
Taken from:
Institutionalised Volume 1: Beyond the Stanford Experiment
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