Monday, 29 March 2010

A Little Snipett Teaser

Howdy folks! Just sitting 'vegging out' in the Turnpike Lane Wetherspoon's (Pub). Been doing a little writing (and imbibing) to help get over what was probably my worst driving lesson to date! Anyway, I just thought you would appreciate a little teaser of what I have been working on at late. Don't be shy - let me know what you think and any ideas you have. The pics are just something I thought suitable. I know it's short but the next fragment I post will be longer... Now read on...

Watching the girl shuffling along - shoulders hunched, one hand employed hitching up her pyjama bottoms, the other hanging listlessly by her side and occasional tugging an overlong trouser leg out from under a foot – the thought occurred that the best way to proceed now might be to place the girl in total seclusion for a couple of days. Mind made up - and having arrived at the interview room – she gave the girl a hard slap on the bottom with her open palm, producing a yelp and propelling her patient towards the open doorway door.
“Come along now, back into the consulting-room you go, - that’s it, like a good little girl.”
Smiling pleasantly the doctor waited, one hand on her hip, the other holding back the heavy quilt-lined iron door, as the teenage girl shambled into the room ahead of her. The sense of triumph in her breast was almost palpable yet, sadly, she knew her elation could not be shared - indeed it was something she would have to take great care to conceal from her patient. Perhaps if she had never seen footage of the girl in a previous existence - as a self assured, self-confident young woman just coming up to her final exams, an Oxbridge place already predicted by most and a prestigious classical dance scholarship in the pipeline should she prefer - her pulse might not have been racing so, the flush less obvious around her cheeks and her breathing more measured. As it was, the stark contrast between the girl she had seen up on that screen - laughing and cavorting carelessly in her Donna Karan summer dress, her waist-length raven hair splaying out around her as she twirled - and the childishly-dependent cowed figure with boyishly-short side-parted hair shuffling unsteadily along in striped mental patient pyjamas and weeping gently, had a piquancy the effect of which she found difficult to disguise.
At one level it worried her - as a mental health professional it bothered her that she did not feel at least a modicum of compassion, let alone that she should view the scene through contemptuous eyes. She sometimes wondered if she were not, in some ways, as much a caged animal as were her charges - and equally as manipulated. But then there was that other side to her; the side that had led her to study psychology, to take up psychiatry, in a quest to rationalise her own undeniable predilections, to understand that part of her that she denied still and that was out-and-out dominant lesbian. The irony was that her denial itself was the key to understanding her personality, if only she could see it. That which roused her passion was the subjugation of her own sex and - being in denial - the guilt she laid squarely on the shoulders of the subject of that passion - especially if particularly fair of face and pleasing to the eye. The more attractive she found a young woman, the more she would seek to apportion blame and the more that attractive personality had to be curbed. This invariably resulted in still greater arousal and a burning guilt, which of course she would happily transfer to the object of her desire and which could only be assuaged by further spitefulness in retaliation. Luckily there were others who could see it, who had seen it, who had realised that here was something that might be utilised - a talent, one might say. Without the invisible guiding hand of these unknown individuals she might well have been destined herself to one day stumble around on a locked ward somewhere. Yet here she had been given free rein and thus stripped of the fear of consequence - even if not the guilt of a staunch, repressive Roman Catholic upbringing - and contrary to expectations the result had been stability and a flowering of her intellect.
Behind the reflective disguise of her black-rimmed glasses the doctor's eyes, though lacking none of their usual shrewdness, smoldered with dewy-eyed passion. The urge to upend the girl over her lap, to tug down those pyjama bottoms, to run her palms over the girl's drum-tight polythene knickers, was all but irresistible. But then again; what need was there to resist? After all, she had complete and utter carte blanc over this girl. She could draw a fingertip along the deep, sharply-defined declivity between those resilient globes, where the softly rounded elastic back seam dipped alarmingly if as if seeking to rend the girl's buttock cheeks, one from the other. She could trace around the circular outline of the cotton reel-sized rubber bung that distended and stretched the girl's sphincter - locked in place by an internal mushroom-shaped flange, its central cylindrical opening equally perfectly proportioned to facilitate the rapid insertion of all manner of suppositories or to accept the colonic irrigation nozzle. She could cup the swollen lips, clearly visible through the air-brush thin transparent polythene, feel around the coiled protrusion of the catheter and the little protruding thimble-like nubbin of the stiffened rubber clitoral hood that was there to prevent masturbation - except that it didn't, not fully.
What the latter prophylactic did do, though, was prevent culmination - it was a devilish little device, its platinum wire framework sutured into place with threaded fine wires of the same material, its internal surface lined with thousands upon thousands of fine threadlike latex strands that continually teased and tickled with the slightest movement but could do little else. She could keep the girl bent across her knee, spanking her with one hand and twiddling and rocking that little torture of Tantalus with the other, feeling the core heat of the girl's body, that young buoyant bottom, tight yet plump, desperately pressing back against her palm, the girl's hips pivoting in a psychologically damaging combination of frustration and pain. She could bring the girl close, so so close; she would keep her there, teetering on the precipice, her mind tied in a writhing, conflicted turmoil of yearning and abhorrence, confused and suggestible in equal measure and soaking up the ideas she would whisper like a sponge. She would bring the girl right to the edge, have her begging, without ever having to fear inadvertently providing the relief she craved. Then, when the girl was sobbing as much in frustration is in pain, she would push her, weeping to the floor, make her crawl to her room and have her kneel there with her hands on her head, or perhaps she might stand over her watching her frantically masturbate, soaking up her humiliation and berating her failure to satisfy herself. Alternatively she could bend the girl the across her desk, peel back the perspiration-tacky plastic of her knickers, tug them down around her knees and take the edge off her passion with half a dozen cuts or so of a nice pliant bamboo rod or, better still, a thin plaited leather riding crop. Yes, a riding crop, why not? She could almost feel it in her hands, hear it slashing through the air again and again and again, hear the girl's plaintive screams bouncing harmlessly off soundproofed walls. And she could repeat the procedure day after day, week after week, month after month; she could fixate the girl on her own bottom and on being dominated and spanked by her psychiatrist.
Indicating the girl’s usual place - the hard, straight-backed wooden chair set in front of the doctor’s desk – she gestured for the girl to take a seat. The girl sat and the woman was pleased to see her place her hands on her head without being instructed – the girl was coming along quite nicely now, she thought.


Madmonkey said...

Why is she given a boyishly styled haircut in the institution? I would think they would just give her a haphazard shearing or a crew cut.

Toyntanen said...

Without wanting to give too much away - she is! There is a nice little hair cutting vignette earlier on in the story arc, but by this point our heroine has spent a hell of a lot of time away from the ‘schoolroom’ unit she has been kept in - wherein she had been under an ultra-strict boarding school / reform school regime – and her hair has been allowed to grow back a little. Not to worry though, the institution is not becoming lackadaisical over discipline - far from it. It transpires that this is no oversight. But I can say no more; other than it doesn’t stay this way!

By the way; I like the idea of haphazard shearing rather than head shaving - that way it grows back unevenly – if it is allowed to!

Orage said...

If she isn't allowed any mirror to look at herself, she can't be humiliated to see her badly cut hair. A shaved head would be altogether different as she would be able to touch it.
If I may: it's "carte blanche".

Toyntanen said...

I didn't want to give too much away, but here goes:

1) She can feel the length of her hair.

2) There is a mirror involved in this section (though not mentioned at this point)

(3) The length of her hair might just possibly aid her as a guide to the passage of time - it's that old adage of the lifeline snatched away at the last possible moment, again. 'Nufff said! as they used to say in those old Marvel comics...Excelsior! Stan Lee