As for the illustrations; the first is a scan from an old spanking magazine I once had in my collection entitled (I think) 'Chastisement'. It's nothing like the scene portrayed of course - the girl's uniform would never have been acceptable to our Lady Madison, far too lackadaisical, scruffy even - but it captures the atmosphere of domination and oppression well enough for all that. The second is a scan from a Victor Bruno novel.
As before, and as used throughout this site / blog; to read the previously posted extract from vol 1 just click on the title (below).
Erstwhile media mogul and ex fashion bunny she flowed across the floor with a dancer's lithe grace and a businesswoman's smart confidence, her floor length satin-draped gown a wind-swept late summer wheat field shimmer of golden waves echoed by her old-gold streaked brown shoulder length bob that glowed with random highlights and reflected in her honeyed solar-speckled hazel eyes. There was a golden-ish something around everything to do with Daisy Bartlett, or rather Lady Madison Daisy Bartlett as she was now entitled. From the golden glow of her bare shoulders and slender arms, a nod towards some long lost strand of antique exotic ancestry, to her carefully gold lacquered finger and toe nails embellished with the very latest holographic sparkle effects. Beneath the clinging folds of fabric a swelling fluid oscillation of heavy-bedded shadowing spoke of many hours of dedicated gym work as much as of the expense entailed by the finest breast and buttock enhancement that surgery had to offer.
The accessories and trappings were all there, the epitome of the wealthy, if somewhat ostentatious, businesswoman dressed for a fashionista Paris soirée - only the dark brown riding crop occupying her right hand, the latter white leather gloved lest she should suffer discomfort, spoke of different plans for her evening. Now with the full scene unfolding, her swaying walk took on a more threatening aspect, with each step a deliberate flexion of her right wrist brought the switch’s leather tongued tip to tap rhythmically against the ludicrously high heel of her hand-tooled golden strap-work open toe shoe.
Before her the blue-uniformed teenager knelt with haunches squatted back on her heels and head bowed, all the time following that swinging tip with a mesmeric fatalistic fascination through saucer eyes as blue as her uniform dress. Small shell pink manicured fingers fidgeted awkwardly between hands rested on an aproned lap of satin-sheened powder-blue and pastel-pink stripes. The long-sleeved frock had long since began to display the irregular darkenings, indicative of nervous tension, spreading along and through the fabric at the sides of the breasts, expansions of sweat following the lines and folds of the soft powder-blue fabric as juxtaposing wetted navy-blue contours around both armpits.
That there should have been such a corruption of her carefully contrived colour scheme had Lady Madison bristling with indignation. Notwithstanding that the girl's sweat was a perfectly natural response under the circumstances, a physical representation of terror and dread, a terror and dread that Lady Madison herself had carefully and lovingly crafted and instilled in her, nevertheless the slowly spreading staining was earning Lady Madison's ire, it was ruining the entire aesthetic.
Quite with what strange perversity of aesthetic led her to lay such import upon the colour of what, after all, was merely a servant's working dress exactly reflecting the girl's eyes we will never know, suffice it to say that much time and effort had gone into sourcing a fabric that was suitable, practical and that exactly matched those huge, pretty, powder-blue eyes. She had eschewed the traditional black-and-white look and definitely ruled out any influence in the direction of the ' French maid' as being " most unsuitable", feeling compelled to comment in her most haughty of tones: " ... that the little strumpet should ever appear so overtly attractive is quite, quite unthinkable".
No commercially available design could be found quite meeting her criteria and quite able to provide that critical balance between functionality, pleasing aesthetic and, importantly, humility. In the fullness of time Lady Madison herself had been forced to put pen to paper, a task for which she had had no little enthusiasm; indeed a fever set in that had her working practically day and night with an inspired fervour that she had never before achieved, nor since, if she be honest.
Drawing after drawing, each feverishly more outlandish than the previous, poured out of her imagination; through cycle after cycle of evolution, excitement nourished imagination and imagination in its turn stimulated imagination. The result was a froth of domestic femininity, a confection more likely the province of the more fetishistically-extreme transvestite than a real live teenage girl such as was presently facing her ire. That particular blue more than just reiterated those eyes but juxtaposed with the pastel-pink trimmings, details and accessories, emphasized prettily her girlish blond looks; endowing her with an innocence beyond which she had long ago traveled, totally robbing her eighteen years of any pretense of adulthood while implying total servitude.
A soft and elaborate lace-work trimmed the cuffs and collar, both of which were of blue and pink stripe so as to match the apron. The collar was an over-sized circular affair lying flat across the shoulders and reaching down at the front to halfway between the dress' second and third buttons and to a similar extent at the rear with its laced edging almost brushing the small neat puffballs of the shoulders at the sides.
The girl's breasts rose and fell with an ever-increasing tempo, emphasized in their shadowy bedded curvature by the close tailoring of the bodice, its glassy-looking plastic buttons nestling neatly in the distinct cleavage thereby formed. Her mistress loomed ever closer, taking her time, always taking her time, letting the humiliation of the situation soak in; punishment was an opportunity. Chastisement was an opportunity to bring the girl deeper under her control, bind her; the mind was to be punished as much as the body, only then could the girl’s training be deepened, become truly irrevocable, a permanent and inescapable aspect of her psyche. The cane cracked down on the brown leather stool…
Momentarily the girl started before her response spelt out her resignation in her contrite bending at the waist - the French-plaited golden-tressed head dressed in frilled blue and pink striped cap springing down almost upon the floor, then lifting, so that her lips might meet the proffered riding switch to yield the required gentle kiss, the twin tails of her cap's long striped ribbons lying heaped beneath on the immaculate polished parquet flooring.
From the very first stroke the tears came. She had no resolve, such had left her long ago hand-in-hand with her self-confidence, her pride, her vanity and the majority of her self-respect - the latter she now cursed for it had been through some residual remnant that her present situation had arisen; it was a malady that she knew her mistress had well in hand and would very soon have cured in its entirety.
What possible point was there in resolve, in strength and determination? The six strokes she was to receive were always the minimum tariff, always had been, there was no maximum only the advent of tears, and even then only fully heart-broken weeping, would satisfy her mistress. And she had been fully broken or very nearly so; there wasn't much left now - her mistress was an expert who had brought her to heel long before her introduction to corporal punishment and humiliating uniforms, before she had herself realised what was happening to her. It had been a gradual eroding and overpowering of her will. And then there had been that institution, that hospital...
Her knickers had stayed up but merely to aid in the aesthetic, the red swellings enhanced and endowed with a novel beauty beneath the skin tight white satin, any protection was negligible and in any case was offset by a rule that left no freedom to failure: the end came when the tears came, always the tears, always at least six strokes.
The bloomers were the only part of her uniform that was not either pink, blue or both and even these were fastened at the waist and just above each of her knees by blue ribbons threaded through the fabric, those at the knees having to be tied with a neat but obvious bow on the outside of each knee, the ribbon tales dangling to below each knee and well displayed by virtue of her skirt's three-quarter thigh length.
She particularly hated the bloomers; the legs were very full and loose and rustled together noisily as she walked drawing attention to that which she would much rather her skirt kept hidden. Around and between her buttocks, on the other hand, they fitted so as to sheave them as if a second skin, as if sprayed on, every nook, cranny and dimple displayed and she was obliged to ensure that they were kept pulled up tight enough to do so. Lady Madison thought nothing about flipping up her skirt to check and following up with a long hard caning if necessary, as had happened a more than one occasion; now she always not only tied them tightly pulled up as hard as possible but in addition took the precaution of running her index finger along between her buttocks and between her lips at the front, taking care not to linger lest she be punished for self abuse. The fabric was of the thinnest and finest satin she had ever seen or felt, the snow-white colouring displayed the slightest of staining, both inside and out, and her pubic hair could quite clearly be discerned. The latter manifested as a thick bulging triangle now that she was no longer allowed to cut nor trim it. This was in complete contrast to how they had kept her in hospital; there she had been kept shaved of course but, in its own way, this was every bit as humiliating if not more so.
Lady Madison or, even more humiliatingly, sometimes her housekeeper, would on occasion have her drop her knickers to around her knees, at which point she would be obliged to stand with her legs parted wide enough so as to keep the knickers stretched in position for inspection. Always the gusset would be scrutinized with utmost care; she could, and would, be caned for any staining, the slightest discolouration, they might perceive. And there was always something, she could be sure of that. This, she had long ago realised, was the raison d'etre for the choice of fabric, the colour, the cut, everything; those knickers were specifically designed to humiliate a woman by confronting her with her own femininity.
This was a concept that she had become only all too familiar with during her time in the hospital; an experience from which she had emerged totally ashamed of her own body, of even being a woman. Such checks and inspections were common to all aspects of her uniform, the seams of her pink stockings had to be dead straight, her blue satin pumps had to be kept pristine, the pink ribbon bow that fastened each tied just so.
Yes she had been proud once, this girl, once blessed with a model’s figure, potential and, even, ambition. A single word summed her up now, it was embroidered in navy blue thread across the front of her cap and the breast pocket of her dress: MAID. Whatever she had been, whatever she could have been, it had been superseded, wiped out by that most fantastically unnecessary act of embroidery, that one defining word: MAID.
The second stroke slashed in; a redoubling both of effort and of recipient’s tears - the woman's anger was obvious now, had the girl the fortitude to face the ornate floor-to-ceiling mirror before her she could barely have failed to recognise the smile of satisfaction curling across her tormentor's lips. First those unsightly darkened swathes of sweat and now the tear stains disfiguring her collar and cuffs - it was unforgivable! Was it not bad enough that the girl had had the temerity to have disobeyed her, or a least to have hesitated long enough as to have qualified as disobedience. True she had dropped to her knees eventually, visibly steeling herself for the ordeal to come, her face a contorted portrait of consternation and of unendurable distaste.
That in itself, that distorted countenance, would have been bad enough. That she should have faced her mistress possessed of an aspect of anything other than that of utmost pleasure, that she should have presented an attitude anything other than that of one to whom servitude gave the utmost pleasure and to whom the intimate pleasure of her mistress represented the very pinnacle of that service, was unforgivable. After all it was not as if she had demanded of the girl some sudden stepwise transition in situation and status, she had put the girl through a carefully orchestrated graduation spread over several months.
Ritual was all important; in gently graduated stages the girl had learnt to kneel and bring her lips to her mistress’ feet and then the hem of her skirt in greeting. Later she had she been required to kiss the gusset of her mistresses knickers, taken straight from the draw, before holding them out for her mistress to step into, doing so from bended knees. Still later the ritual had been expanded to form part of her laundry duties; each and every piece of her mistress's underwear, whether knickers, thong or panty girdle, required the gentlest of kisses placed upon the gusset before progressing to the bowl for washing.
At first it had been sufficient to place her lips to each garments exterior but once judged that she be sufficiently familiar with the flavours and odours she had been progressed to having to kiss the more intimate soiling within.
Throughout these duties she had been placed under the supervision of Lady Madison's housekeeper with whom Lady Madison had been delighted, both with the latter's informed reference to the ritual as the ' pre-wash' and her subsequent functional expansion of it beyond the boundary of mere terminology. There had been some required intervention from Lady Madison's riding crop but as her housekeeper had pointed out: a good minute or two of mouth soaking, pre-wash, did wonders for the more stubborn stains. More recently the girl had progressed to the point of regularly kissing her mistresses knickered crotch. The girl was well used to the sights, tastes and scents, should such a finely-diaphanous barrier of fabric have made such a difference by its removal?
She had begged in the end, the girl, begged to be allowed to do as had been required of her, pleaded that she might worship her mistress's body. All too late of course, all to no avail - the punishment was to be as much for her display of distaste and reluctance as it was for hesitation and refusal; it was all equally indicative of an attitude requiring of adjustment, an adjustment she was presently undergoing.
Swish-Crrrack! Ssswish-Crrack! The third and fourth strokes slashed in, the riding switch practically bending double as it cut through the air, its flexibility equalled only by its expense. This was very much a whipping, the girl' s screams were evidence enough, dammed-wails that would not have sounded out of place in some medieval dungeon rather than echoing from the oak-paneled walls of an English country house in the late 20th century. Lady Madison, the title purchased along with the estate, riding switch in leather gloved hand, stood in an ecstasy of appreciative irony surveying the weeping supplicant before her, savouring the scene whilst aiming her next stroke, anticipating the result.
How ironic that the humbling title of maid should be surmounted by the heraldic device of the girl's own family wherever it appeared on her uniform. That her family's crest, for centuries a badge of control, title and possession, should have been turned about so, should have come to represent the control wielded over her, her possession, nay, ownership, by the estate rather than of the estate, was a humbling crushing irony. How humbling it must have been to have had to embroider it with the skills of her own hands and fingers, fingers only moments removed from setting signature, for what it was worth, to the final papers. Not that such a signature was required or even valid; her sectioning under the mental health act had achieved all that the documentation purported to set out to.
There was the power of attorney to be transferred, the sale of her property to be authorised, the sale of her family's title, her title. That the proceeds, indirectly through the power of attorney, were to come under the control of the purchaser was a most fragrant twist.
Then there was the documentation in which the now effectively disinherited and penniless wretch had had to admit to her incapacity, her mental illness and her inability to govern a her own affairs. There was the letter from her psychiatrist releasing her from the hospital with the proviso that she remain under Lady Madison's care and that she could be returned to the clinic at any time should her condition deteriorate. This latter was a most transparent threat, a 'deteriorating condition' could clearly encompass any form of disobedience. Anything other than the most docile acceptance of her servile position was to result in her re-incarceration in that place with its unrelenting white walls, therapy sessions and, most of all, the discipline and isolation.
And so, with the grace of Lady Madison's intervention, she lived still within her ancestral pile yet owned nothing, not even the uniform that Lady Madison insisted on. Yet, ironically, in a manner of speaking she herself was now owned, possessed. She was part of the estate now, a fact of which she was eternally reminded at each awakening, her first sight ever being that of the hideous uniform patiently awaiting her, hung upon the wall opposite the foot of her bed. The very act of enrobing was now in itself an act of surrender, to be reconfirmed at each break of day.
Ssswish-Crrack! Swisssh-Crrack!: Strokes five and six, the cries were hoarse in her throat now, even her tears were relaxing their flow; she was all cried out, finished. How many? How many more strokes?...
The woman’s arm was draped comfortingly around the sobbing girl's shoulders, encouraging and insisting that she rest her head against the amply soft pillowing of her golden satin-sheaved breasts. "There, there, honey" she soothed. "It's not that I don't love you, I love you very much indeed, it is just that you insist on being so wilful. Its as if you feel you have to be disobedient from time to time, just on occasion, its as if there is some part of you that just won’t give in. It’s not as if you have anything to hold out for; you have nothing, you have no future outside of my home or some institution somewhere. The truth is; you just aren’t capable of functioning independently, you’d be lost if you were ever returned to society, you silly, silly, girl. Surely they taught you that at the hospital. Sometimes it's just little things, certainly, but it’s always there, there's always this little bit of stubbornness in you. Perhaps its pride, I don't know, but we are going to have to work on it together, see if we can't lose those last few vestiges."
She was shepherding the girl slowly across the silk Persian rug that longitudinally dominated the centre of the room, the two women moving together as one towards the thick red velvet drapes that hung down over the French-doors that in turn led out onto the formally arranged garden beyond. Lady Madison kicked aside the puddle of velvet from the foot of the doors, first one side and then the other, simultaneously drawing open the drapes. The afternoon sun poured in, flooding the room with light, forming blinding dusty shafts of almost religious illumination wherever it cut into the more darkened recesses.
"It's not as if you are a prisoner here, I've said that before, many times, there are no locked doors here, see?"
The doors were flung back with a deft movement, the still gently sobbing girl urged towards the green and flowered patchwork opening up before her. Spread out there lay freedom, potentially at least, albeit notwithstanding the humiliation entailed; the spectacle that a public airing of her uniform would likely provide was not exactly an appealing notion. The garden opened out before her and beyond it, beyond the safe reassuring symmetry of its network of gravel paths and formal flower beds, lay the main road, just half a mile hence. The girl recoiled with such dread-inspired haste as to almost send her mistress sprawling across the room. Her eyes wide with terror she turned away from her agoraphobic torment to run, to hide. She collapsed in the darkest corner she could find, shivering and cringing in a sobbing thumb-sucking foetal heap behind a huge potted palm.
The smile on Lady Madison's lips spoke now of some pity, some compassion, and yet, at the same time, this was a very knowing smile, there was, perhaps, just the vaguest hint of satisfaction to be discerned there.
What with the tour coming up, the meetings and then the cruise, some relaxation at last, she was going to be out of the country for pretty much the next six months or so. The girl was coming along fabulously but perhaps some more time spent back in that clinic would still be of benefit, besides who else could provide the special care that the girl now required. After all, she could hardly be expected to take an extreme agoraphobic half way around the globe with her.
Lady Madison Daisy Bartlett sighed; there was always some complication to be negotiated, such was the burden that came with success, such was the nature of her world.
.....
Extract Taken from: Institutionalised Volume 1: Beyond the Stanford Experiment
All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to anyone living or
dead is entirely coincidental. The author does not condone paedophilia and no form of paedophilia is implied or intended to be portrayed in any way in this work.
Copyright (c) 2008 Garth. P. Toyntanen
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