...Dr Swanley's inventive and creative mind comes up withan improved design 'posture correction' device...Yet another raw AI image...Took a long while to get but then all I've had to do is add some text and crop it a bit
You lucky people: Two postings in one day!!!
I tride to make a sort of school badge. It was supposed to be embroidered on her blouse but I couldn't make it work: It just wouldn't show up, so I put a small version on her tie. It would show up on a gymslip or summer dress bodice though...Trust me! I'm working on it
The reason her hair looks so hacked about is that the disciplinarian hired to care for her never like the girl's waist-length hair in the first place, was jealous of it and now uses it as a form of discipline in addition to the strap and the cane, hacking a bit more off each time the girl steps out of line in the slightest possible way
My usual mix of AI and photo manip. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did creating it!
...Well it costs good money to keep three young women in clothes and food even with the funds raised from their ransoms...
I think she's tried to beg to stay at that wndow just a litte longer but it's clear that in addition to having had her face slapped she's also been the recipient of a fair dose of the cane...I've done a bit of work on the straitjacket too in the hope that Angela might feed it back into her AI thingy to try and get a better and more realistic version...BTW The nurse has a new head
I'm not sure about the face slapping and that she's had a dose of the cane. In hindsight I think her treatment perhaps ought to be restricted to simply being totaly ignored...Any thoughts?
What can I say? Flushed with the excitement of the moment - and a little too much ale - I neglected to put in the link from the illustration at the top right of my last posting to the artist's site. Suffice it to say that I have now remedied the problem and a click on the aforementioned pic will whizz you straight to his site. As a little compensation, here is an intriguing little number from that great doyen of spanking art, Paula Meadows (Lynne Paula Russel - a link to her site can be found over in the right hand sidebar, listed under 'Useful Resources'). The question is whether or not the young lady's outfit qualifies as a form of specialized punishment dress and thus part and parcel of her discipline. Is it intended to facilitate / augment corporal punishment or humiliate or is it just part of some rather edgy in-vogue fashion and worn by choice. If the latter, then the question becomes; should it be allowed or should the caning be closely followed by her being handed her new school uniform? By the way; for any who might be interested, despite the time of year it is sunny and bright here in London and I'm sitting out working in the garden - I wonder how long this will last? I am going to award myself one more day out in the pub next week, the proviso being that in that day I get the final outstanding part of the new book finished - the section wherein one luckless young thing receives a visit in the institution in which she has become incarcerated from her guardian and that formidable hellion woman's tame lawyer: there are some papers to be signed and the ever-present threat of the cane is there overshadowing events... Yum!
...for the immediate, there would be some respite - but for how long? How long would it be before that tormentress in nurse’s uniform, that inquisitor in rustling navy blue polyester, with that customary whiff of carbolic and disinfectant she always carried about her, would return, rattan or plastic switch in hand – or indeed, leather strap or tawse or perhaps even the fine-fronded martinet, this to be taken to the tender soles of her feet? By way of the lack of that certainty she would be forced to punish herself, psychologically – it was a deliciously subtle little mental torment and one expertly purpose-crafted to help her on her way down Matron’s chosen path for her. The one certainty was that at some point the woman would return and then she would be upended over her lap, skin-tight hospital-issue rubber knickers peeled back and the sweat-glistened drum-taut globes of her plump backside would be spanked with a latex-gloved hand or strapped with the heavy-leather tawse. Or perhaps, instead, she would be bent across the plastic mattress of her hospital bed, obliged to keep her 
arms folded tightly across the small of her back and her heels from the ground, with the promise ringing in her ears of a punishment repeated in its entirety should her posture falter in any way or should she tense her buttocks as her caning progressed from the upper slopes of her nether-cheeks, down the rear of her thighs to the sensitive flesh at the backs of her knees and then back again. And she would be in tears of course, well before the end, whether she be spanked across the woman’s knees or strapped or caned across her bed or the little school desk and chair combination she was obliged to work at - Matron always broke a girl to tears, it was just her way, it was good for discipline.
As you will know as much as possible I have always tried to keep this a non commercial affair, the stated aim being to create a forum to discuss and exchange ideas around my writing. But I get little financially from the publication of my stuff and I have to fund my drinking...ahem!...work...yes, that's it - work somehow. Rest assured; I'd only ever feature a commercial site that was relevant to this site's subject matter / readership and I'll only ever host links to two at most (I really hate sites / blogs that amount to little more than banner lists ). I am equally choosy when it comes to blogs to list and while thinking about all the 'Judith's Aunt' stuff that has been discussed (see A Well deserved Regime?, a few posts back) and her mention of putting her niece back in proper regulation school knickers I came across a nice little blog discussing exactly that - regulation school knickers. Called School Gym Knickers (what else?) it features some lovey big hi-res images of the same - and an equally nice young lady to fill them I might add (just click on blog name or look for it in the sidebar blog list to check it out). Incidentally, one wonders whether Judith's Aunt has taken to heart my suggestion to change her niece over to rubber-lined school bloomers, I'm sure they are available commercially...but if not then perhaps the addition of a removable latex knicker liner would suffice.
Talking of regulation Knickers: having visited the commercial site of the same name I was persuaded by the quality of their pics (but as much by their very authentic looking uniforms as anything else, to tell the truth - in particular by the type and variety of gymslips featured in addition to the usual school skirts and by the fact that nurses are featured in a dominant role - as it should be - and also appear in authentic looking uniform dresses...none of those awful 'scrubs' here). I've pinched one of their pics - I chose this one because of the gymslip featured...although you'll have to look closely to appreciate it, the pic is really only a thumbnail. Anyway, check them out...click on either picture or see their banner in the sidebar to the right or the much bigger one at the very foot of the page (way down, past the clock and the visitor-counter log thingy. The other pic is a nice example of school skirt and starched white blouse from the same site I thought you folk might like. I'm going to try to procure some site content from them to feature from time to time. 
I think its time to get back on track, as it were…
taste but its an eclectic mix including enemas, mouth soaping, strict governesses and nurses and all sorts…you name it and its probably there somewhere…and all for free, too
The last time I did any really new writing was Tuesday afternoon (I think) while sitting outside a coffee bar (Costas Coffee) in Muswell Hill (North London). I got somewhat distracted by an artist (variously known as the Chewing-gum Man or The bubble-gum Man) who kneels on the pavement and paints tiny pictures on discarded gum and then photographs them (Whatever: it takes all sorts I guess!).
(For previous Volume 1 extract, click title, to view more at Lulu, click cover)
... For others the world is a very different place, there are a very different set of trials and tribulations to be faced this day.
Take Annie for example, a runaway once lost amongst the city's sprawl; what if we were to be offered a glimpse into her life this particular day, a snapshot as it were? The same day, a far, far different location, environment and routine...
Annie is 21 today. No 'happy birthday, birthday girl' here. For Annie, today shall start like any other and as any other day, Annie is awoken by the harsh shrill ringing of the morning bell. Opening her eyes, the view that greets her she knows only too well. The clinical whiteness of the dormitory walls, the twin rows of hospital style beds. She has spent the last five years of her life waking to this scene.
She climbs quickly from her bed, as do the five other girls. All around is silence save for the soft rustling of latex bed covers and the crinkling of plastic knickers; talking could never be allowable in the dormitory. As do the other girls, Annie meekly kneels on the snow white carpeted floor alongside her bed , hands crossed in front of her, palms facing outwards, head bowed. As are the others, she is waiting for Matron to bring her bed pan. Above her, hanging from a hook on the wall beside her bed, awaits, patiently, her gymslip with its short, knife pleated skirt.
Matron will appear in due course. Her approach heralded in this surreal suffocating silence by the soft rhythmic sighing of her uniform dress against the nylon of her stockings and the occasional softly-cushioned footfall of high healed shoes on carpet. Her dress and demeanour are a study in the art, development and presentation of authority; she is the absolute image of control and domination.
Matron wears her full - skirted blue uniform dress at calf length. From her elasticated nurse's belt with its ornate silver butterfly-wing clasp she hangs her keys to the left and her tawse to the right, the symbols of her rank and authority. She by far prefers to use a tawse to discipline girls - so much more personal than the cane somehow – but a cane hangs above the nurse’s station nonetheless.
This, then, is her world. She is queen here, empress, absolute ruler and dictator. The dormitory is her dominion, the girls, 'her girls', subservient serfs and the subjects of her realm. Her rules, her regulations, her stipulations, no matter how petty, are the unquestionable, unassailable law of this land. Unyielding, unbreakable. Unlike her charges, they who, in their turn, kneel, as is only fitting in such a majestic presence, in abject supplication; they are here to be moulded, one and all, broken to her will. The morning ritual is just beginning and ritual is all important here, in her world.
Not that there does not exist a higher authority, albeit outside of the immediate environs. Ultimately there is her employer of course but there are other determining forces; she never goes long without reflecting on her good fortune and her gratitude to their mutual benefactor.
From its inception the unit has been gifted with facilities and funding beyond their wildest dreams and set within premises of insurmountable and incomparable perfection of function. Presently the financial aspect still depended on that source; to date the provision of the new workhouse facilities only went so far towards their first stage goal of making the unit self funding, profitability lying some way off in the future.
Many might label as insane the substantial sums that have been poured into the unit, the old fashioned moirés upon which it is structured, the concept of 'protection from moral danger'. However, few are privy and those that are support whole heartedly the goals.
Their benefactor is a woman of not insubstantial means, influence and philanthropic drive who, having stepped back from the reins of her businesses, has seized the opportunity to indulge further her unusually active interest in aiding 'runaways' and the homeless. If some might be cynical enough to point the finger at her intention of profitability, labelling it as exploitation, so be it; as she sees it there are many other aspects and benefits to her work. These were young impressionable girls plucked from the jaws of the greatest moral and physical dangers the city had to offer. Some of these girls were barely out of school and generally were lacking even the most basic of qualifications let alone employment prospects; what chance of an education did they have, what chance now? “What these girls need most is a good, stable, secure home, a good education, caring but firm guidance”. She is simply a successful business woman in a position to offer exactly that, albeit so far to just a handful of young women but, with the completion of the new wing, she will soon be extending her hand to others. Soon a few more lucky young women will be coming under Lady Marchment's caring regime, to restart their lives in a 'fine, stable and secure home'. A secure home indeed. Lady Marchment sets great store by security, ‘protection’ as she sees it; few prisons could be more secure. Once a girl has entered Lady Marchment's program she finds that changing her mind is not an option; she has entered a private little world. A world of uniforms, bedpans, petty rules, strict routines and bells. Bells, bells, bells, always bells!…
This, then, is Matron’s world; a world within a world, ritualised and controlled. Today though there is disruption; there are girls here other than ‘birthday girl’ Annie and one of them is having difficulties adjusting.
Humiliation, shame, embarrassment, mortification. These terms and more could easily be applied to Jane's reaction to the situation in which she has found herself this morning, yet no mere words could truly do justice to describe the depths of her despair. She can feel the soggy wetness of the thick knicker-liner, is only too aware of that other soft squigyness confined within her plastic bloomers. She has caught sight of herself in the mirror, kneeling there, and her horror is written across her pretty face. She can see the areas of yellowing and those of the more shaming blackness within the semi -transparent garment. She is acutely aware of the smell and, what is more, she can hear Matron approaching. She can feel tears falling on her upturned palms.
If we could listen in we would hear words of comfort and kindness from Matron, her voice would be soft, no hint of anger nor irritation. We would hear her curt instruction to the nurse to ‘clean the girl up’ and the nurse’s prompt response; “yes, Matron”. We might, just might if we were to listen closely enough, make out the occasional soft grunt from girls desperate for control, forced now to wait for their bed pans while the girl is dealt with. There then comes a sequence of events, inevitable under these circumstances.
First there comes the voice of the nurse; “she is ready, Matron.”
Then Matron; “thank you, nurse”. Then Matron again “bend over, girl”.
There is a pause, perhaps a sob, before: CRRACK! “One, t,thank you Matron”; CRRACCK! “T,tt two, tthank yyyou, mmmMatron”; CRRRAACK!! “Th, th, thr, three, th,th,tt thank yy,y you,,’sob’, mmmMatron”.
A bell rings; six girls take their places squatting over bed pans barely adequate at best. There comes the gasp of the freshly punished girl. She has been lucky, had she failed to count, failed to recite her formula of gratitude there could have been many more than three strokes of Matron’s tawse; Matron is apt to re-start her punishments. There are other sounds filling the air now of which the more sensitive might rather not be privy and which the girls, without exception, would rather not anyone hear. Suffice it to say that the bell, although continuing its tintinnabulation throughout is never quite loud enough, particularly under the never distant supervision of Matron and her nurse, strolling up and down between the twin lines of squatting girls as if invigilators in some twisted exam.
Well, what of the rest of the day in Matron’s world? For most they will have slipped outside Matron’s immediate sphere; there are lessons to be attended. The next two hours Matron spends at her desk; there are reports to be filled in. There are also plans to be drawn up; there are soon to be many changes made, particularly within the framework of the research activities, a bold extension of scope, in fact groundbreaking.
Post lunch and Jane, the girl for whom the morning has proved so vexatious, is scheduled to attend her therapy session with Ms Soames. She has thus been returned to Matron’s jurisdiction with the reminder of the latter’s authority still throbbing across her rather full buttocks.
She has been left to stand at the foot of her bed to wait for Matron, her compatriots having returned to the class room. She stands with hands on head facing the mirrored wall at the room’s far end. There is little scope for anything else.
There are three doors, the two set in to the side walls, one on either side at the room’s end toward which she is presently facing, she knows lead to the class room and the examination room, the latter being kept locked. The third door, the one set into the centre of the end wall behind her, the only door in or out of the suite in fact, lies safely beyond the floor to ceiling iron security grille that bisects the entire room at that point and that sets the limit of their living space. The symmetry of its thick bars is disturbed only by its inset gate with its bulky lock beyond which the door itself would, of course, be locked. She knows that through that door and only a short distance along the passageway beyond is to be encountered an identical, if somewhat narrower, grille of equally imposing bars and equipped with an equally robust lock. Besides, in front of her, no more than two bed-widths distant, the nurses station is occupied, as it always is, the woman, a red head, her colouration set off prettily by her light blue uniform, sits with her back to the mirror working on her reports but occasionally glancing up.
As promised, if delayed, Yet Another extract from INSTITUTIONALISED volume 2: please understand, this is very much a first rough draft so if you find typo's / grammatical errors, please forgive me and, better still, point them out to me either by email or by way of posting a comment - the same goes for feedback, its all welcome, that's the point of the blog. 
Meredith lay lost in her thoughts, quite literally petrified and frozen in place, the bondage of her nightmares seemingly mirrored by the immobility of this new reality. This was how it always was, the dreams, the nightmares, then the awakening.
Always it felt as if a new reality had been built around her, a false reality, an illusion, a reality in which her helplessness was almost indiscernible from and as complete as in her nightmare world. Always, as if for the first time, she would glance down along her prone body and the shocking understanding of the nature of her hopelessness, the origin of her immobility, would bear down on her like some dead concrete slab. Arms set in plaster casts, modern soft resin-based casts, could do nothing but disobey her, lying straight and at 30° to her sides. Legs, similarly encumbered, rested angled toward the bed's lower corners. Even her fingers were held, each individually wrapped in its own cast, splayed out, fan-like and useless.
Memories spilled and unfurled like discarded spooled celluloid; edited dadaist highlights of confusion inter-cut with fantastical images of sojourns in some grotesquely abusive world, seemingly plucked from the mind of Poe and realised in the inflamed-red and bruised-blue pallet of chastised flesh.
Meredith Hewson; known as 'mushroom' to friends and acquaintances both, a tiny squeaky little thing – bouncy and bright as a gambolling lamb and with a smile like summer breeze nature had destined her for more. Yet, a Shropshire lass with a less than agreeable home-life to look back on, it was a somewhat hackneyed tail she had to tell.
Of course it would be simplest to lay the blame at the faux glamour portrayed in all those television shows, drawing her in, spiralling with moth-like lethality. The trends and bright fashions of Camden Market, the bars and bistros of Covent Garden; aspirationally bright beacons of such irresistible brilliance, far too dazzling for one of her innocence to see the darkness behind, far to beguiling.
To many she had been the welcoming smile behind the horseshoe bar, pulling pints with child-like wide-eyed glee; those tiny hands as pale and as perfect as porcelain - like that of the hand pumps her fingers failed to quite curl around, with their country scene decoration, all hunting pinks and running foxes.
She had brightened the day of many a jaded pen-pusher – her short stature obliging her to stretch for the ale-pumps, the effort causing those pert breasts to be thrust forward, the flesh bouncing, the cleavage distinct to the most bleary of drunken eye. Her pretty unworldly features would be moon-mist lit by the shafts of diffused sunlight filtering through the curling fern-like motifs of the Victorian acid-etched glass – the traditional public house windows and glass partitions had been retained here, along with the worn, once-red, leather seating.
She had been flirtatious, ever-smiling – then she was gone; a lover's tiff an ill-advised dalliance with her manager at that, forcing her flight.
Suddenly the London streets had not seemed so welcoming – not without money in her pocket, not without a place to call home; the accommodation had come with the job, you see…
Her mind ran back to the very first time, her first awakening to this world; it was a birth, or rather a rebirth, at least that was how it seemed now...
“The crash, sweetheart, surely you remember the crash?” The nurse's, concern had been palpable, her brow furrowing. Yet as insistent as the woman had been it had felt as if she were seeking to convince while, in some way, being unsure of her own sincerity.
Try she might she could recall nothing at the time; her immobility had almost seemed comforting in its familiarity yet otherwise there was nothing, just nothing. She could remember nothing still, at least of her history as they outlined it, nothing, that is, beyond the abuse, the beatings, something about a social worker, a friend, a young woman sworn to extract her from that hell.
Yes, the social worker; she had seemed so approachable, a woman who might care, who might believe her, who had seemed to care. The woman with the car, the woman who had promised to take her away, promised to save her from him. There was something else... what was it? A drink, a drink proffered from a flask, warm cocoa... that can't have been it! What possible significance could that have?
“You remember the crash, surely?”
In truth, she could not. There were fragments haunting her though, fragments of recollection or what seemed to be recollection; a jumble of shards, just as easily the constructs of imagination as bearing any relation to reality and feeling more like memories of what she has been told than of the actual events.
Feeling as if deceiving herself she nevertheless nodded in the affirmative; to do otherwise, to question it, would have been to risk being left starkly alone, ignored. This she had experienced many times before, being left ignored, isolated and alone in the silence of her curtain-enshrouded bed. Her inability to recall appeared to really irk the staff and as for her nightmares, her delusions as they referred to them, the merest mention was enough for the nurse or doctor or whoever was attending her to simply up and leave and many were the times she had found herself missing her next meal or diaper change after that.
And yet it was those dreams, those nightmares, that were the clearest representation of reality to her, her reality; certainly they seem more real to her than her present surroundings and the fuzzy pseudo-memories filling her head. There was a certain vivid and unmistakable clarity to their recollection, the clarity of truth and conviction.
Deranged? Deluded? Well, such were the murmurings, the whispered accusations that, on occasion, came to her from beyond the protection of her curtains, times when they were certain she was asleep and beyond caring; “…such a shame, quite deluded, poor girl”.
Yet it was all so real, so detailed, so, so clear to her: first there would come the probing wiggle of an investigative forefinger, then the thickly- gelling lubricant, ice cold, the digit urging in an out, in an out, twisting and turning, embedded to the knuckle. Then would come the sensational of building warmth, blood-flow stimulated by the mild irritant mixed in with the gel. Finally that podgy finger would be withdrawn and the first taunting rubber-touch of the nozzle would announce her imminent violation.
Every few weeks there would come the added discomfort of the first use of an increased diameter; in time she would become acclimatised, her sphincter gradually stretching to accommodate it, then would come another increment, then another and another, each adding to the soapy humiliation of the laxative the piquancy of torment that came from the knowledge that any improvement in her comfiture came only at the cost to be surely levied her in the future by way of the legacy of her stretched and weakened muscles and that it was all for the benefit of him, for his perverted pleasure.
Every detail was present there - if only in the world of dreams, if only the manifestation of her delusion, then from whence came the design, the knowledge and experiences that could make manifest the physicality of the illusion with such convincing Technicolor realism. What could a girl of her sheltered background know of such things? How could, even in conjecture, she conjure the sensation of a gently rounded belly, swollen with foully-cramping fluid, of youthfully elastic skin stretched paper-thin, of softly urging latex-covered, podgy, farmer's-wife fingers massaging, compressing, squeezing as if to exude the decoration for some filthily perverted demon cake or, perhaps, was it in some exaggerated parody of milking the beasts she once had the duty to? Then the was the voiding into the metal pail, the metallized ringing imparted to the initial fluidic-splattering fall of her wastes, the stink in the compacted surrounds of the room, the tiny skylight could not be opened to improve the ventilation, the cramping stomach muscles and twisting-agonized bowels. Finally it was she herself she saw carrying the bucket through the house so that all and any might see, she herself who would have to scrub it back to the pristine sheen of its manufacture in the yard outside in full view of the household.
He had absolutely despised the way she had been dressed, the way they were always dressed, her type, the young tearaways, the runaways that hung around the stations and the bus shelters on the cold winter nights. And it had been the coldest night of the coldest snap that most could remember, she had seemed the most desolate amongst gathering huddle, the most destitute, desperate bedraggled and forlorn. Then there were her looks, the pretty elfin face, the slight build, the short stature, the childish yet maturely curved frame, small breasted yet with hips and buttocks promisingly swelling and rounded with chubby resilient youthfulness. The denim, though, he just hated; women in trousers just left him cold, let alone jeans. He couldn't abide by anything that suggested other than sheer soft femininity, the slightest hint of boyishness in dress was an anathema to him; it is all to the more curiously contradictory and contrary therefore that the wretch so often bent and sobbing before him no longer possessed the cascades of wavy light brown locks she once had to hide her tears behind but rather a short tousled pixie cut. The latter styled around her ears and tightly tapered into the nape of her neck; the intent most clearly being to enhance that childish elfin look, the side parting, seemingly inadvertently, introducing an element of boyishness beyond anything that might be brought by even the most masculine of jeans or dungarees - such irony
The jeans and the rest of her outfit of that time had been most easily dealt with; his housekeeper, possessed of a rather traditional, if old-fashioned, outlook herself in such proceedings and not being exactly enamoured with modern attire of the like, was quite comfortable with the idea that they might simply fail to resurface from the launderette having become ‘lost’ as unfortunately things sometimes were. Mrs Veronica Merryweather-Cortez, a remarkable woman of an equally remarkable name. Herefordshire born and bred with broad hips and a buxom maturity of frame clearly at odds with her claimed thirty eight years of life and possessed of the ruddy apple cheeked complexion of a country woman, her coarse russet hair kept, on the main, beneath a plain, ‘sensible’, headscarf, she looked to more likely belong on some remote outlying farm as within the confines of the parsonage.
An ancient carved black oak chest dominated the vestry's end wall, squatting all but forgotten, despite its substantial bulk, in the dusky shadows beneath the tiny Norman-arched stained-glass window. Strictly speaking an oak coffer, it featured quite beautiful carved and arcaded front panels, each having an intricate inlay detail of flowers picked out in a variety of different woods, rarely appreciated, being near permanently under a thin layer of dust and tinted by the patina of age. The iron banding running around the sides and over the curving hinged lid was pitted and, blackened with age, was as dark as the wood itself; to the front a typical hand-forged mediaeval tongue clasp was secured by a very modern and substantial padlock.
It was from the latter, rarely visited, cache that Mrs Merryweather-Cortez was able to conjure up her singly peculiar solution to the problem of clothing the girl; if only as a temporary stopgap, for with every will in the world even she, with her archaic views, could hardly have considered such dress appropriate for, nor acceptable to, a modern girl of Meredith's age and background. It had been extracted and selected from a pile of ecclesiastical vestments dating back to perhaps the 1950s or early 1960s, if not earlier, to more prestigious times for the little parish church, to when congregations swelled to the rafters with uplifted voices and on occasion spilled out into the churchyard beyond, to when it had accommodated its own choir.
The princess-line dress she selected, despite Meredith's obviously small stature, had not appeared to the girl at the time to be the smallest there; she had felt certain she had seen at least two or three of a smaller size glanced at and then rejected while the woman was rummaging. She had stood there shivering in the thin cotton nightdress they had given her, grateful to receive anything that would provide some warmth and, more importantly, cover, even some ugly church dress as long as it was to be only a temporary arrangement. And ugly it surely was: featuring full length sleeves with overlong cuffs at the wrists, each fastening with three buttons, it was ‘easy fit’ in the extreme; indeed, it fairly drowned her small figure in its heavy black fabric.
An embroidered gold metallic Latin Cross decorated the region roughly corresponding to her left breast and was one of the few features allowed to alleviate the jet-black severity of the thing, the others being an arc of short stiff white frills around the top of the mandarin collar, matching sprays of frills around the cuffs that extended down to the upper parts of her hands when she was standing with arms to her sides and a large white button oddly sited to the rear of the collar. The latter’s function, enigmatic at the time, was to become clear in time and perhaps would have been so more immediately had she noted the matching buttonhole at the dress’s hem at the rear where it was picked out in white thread as if some proudly decorative feature of design.
Thickly-draping folds, the wetly-puddled shadows lying between even darker and serving to underline the gloss of the fabric where the light shimmered off its surface like moonlight of a black sea’s swell, hung and spread out from a point approximating her waist to the hem swinging barely clear of the floor. Once clear of her bust’s perky overhang the front hung straight and true with barely a hint of any contact with the form beneath, giving scant regard for style or flattery; seemingly dozens of small, tediously and unnecessarily fiddly, black-satin covered buttons, in reality sixteen in all, fastened it from her throat to her ankles.
The fabric, while as smooth as heavy black satin should be, concealed an inner lining of another material entirely, this having a texture approaching that of a rather coarse velvet, and therein hung the seed of another problem; not only was the whole loose-fitting ensemble ugly, heavy and hot to wear but the constant prickly-heat sensation of the inner lining quickly came to make its wearing intolerable. To her chagrin the material seemed particularly coarse in the region over her nipples and the latter's hardening in response only served to further augment their constant teasing.
She had winged and whined and bitterly complained; it had felt as if the constant grazing irritation, the prickling and the brushing back and forth, would serve to drive her quite insane, or so it had felt at the time, although she was later to encounter challengers to her sanity that would all but drive such concerns from her recall. Finally, her patience pushed to the limit, it was Mrs Merryweather-Cortez who was to yet again to save the day; it was simple, one of her own old cast-offs, a full-length slip in white nylon and as smooth as the girl's own skin.
Panelled and darted, with a seemingly hopelessly narrow waist and a pronounced tapering, beyond the curvature that allowed for the swell of the wearer's hips, so as to terminate at knee-length with a tightly-circular hem, the impression was of a garment of the early 1960s and designed to be worn below the pencil skirted fashions of the time. It clung to her hips and thighs like a second skin, the tight hem coming to rest tightly girdling her legs just above her knees.
The effect, whether intentional or not she had no idea, was to restrict her once tomboyish stride to a somewhat sedate and femininely-gentile shuffling gait that could not but reinforce the image of docility they were clearly striving to achieve for her.
Then there had been the question of underwear. The best that they had had to offer in terms of ‘underpinnings’ as Mrs Merryweather-Cortez was apt to quaintly describe the more intimate of garments was a pair of that woman’s own rather elderly cast-offs; a pair of white rayon directoire knickers, the waist far to large for her petite frame and, having been washed and re-washed into submission long ago, their waist-band had been left completely devoid of any residual elasticity in any case…
To be continued
Copyright (c) 2008 Garth. P. ToynTanen
If there was one thing, other than the letters pages, that drove me to buy issue after issue of Janus throughout the 1980s it was their wonderfully evocative drawings and illustrations by Hardcastle and by Paula Meadows. 
The small group of Hardcastle illustrations I 
found particularly evocative, triggering countless fantasies and inspiring many ideas that I have incorporated, or intend to incorporate, within my outpourings. As usual, click to enlarge.
Welcome, one and all, to the official
blog and discussion site
This is the place to learn more about the author and what makes him tick,to learn more about the influences and inspirations behind the INSTITUTIONALISED trilogy (more likely tetralogy, if all pans out)
This is most definitely NOT the place to discuss anything of a paedophilic nature;the author does not condone paedophilia in any form and where the term 'girl' is used it is as a derogatory term intended to apply to any young woman stripped adult privileges in one way or another.If you are an aficionado of literature dealing with young ladies undergoing strict discipline, of the imposition and enforcement of petty rules and restrictions, of strict and humiliating uniforms and the enforcementof the same through the judicial application of the cane, the tawse, the riding crop etc as well as less orthodox, psychological methods...then this is the place for you!
This is particularly so if you tend to favour the imposition of discipline within the institutional environment, although there is much to be said also for the more domestic environment if suitably enclosed, secure, and isolated from prying eyes and interfering moderates: Given the right situation and a well chosen and imaginative governess, much can be achieved in curbing a young lady's spirit.
From the outset the idea behind the project was always to go beyond the traditional world of corporal punishment portrayed in the works of authors such as Victor Bruno, Richard Manton et al ( has much as I admire their work) and to attempt to incorporate more of a psychological aspect, both in terms of examining the mindsets of the protagonists, of the disciplined and of the discipliner both, and in terms of the approach to discipline and correction. Corner-standing, impositions such as the writing of lines or rote learning and strictly decreed postural requirements, such as having to sit for long periods with back straight and hands flat on the school desk; all these have their part to play. So feel free to discuss your own view of what discipline means and how it should be introduced to a young lady or young ladie, also how it might relate to the storyline of volume 1 (if it indeed does) or how it might fit into future volumes (or indeed the sort of thing you would like to see included).
It was also decided at the outset that the storyline should incorporate other fetishes interests that, while being strictly speaking outside my own sphere, nevertheless seemed appropriate in many ways as being amenable the imposition of restraint and of control. Various forms of bondage were an obvious inclusion of course, but then there are such subjects such as enforced diaper use, leading inexorably to the inclusion of plastic and latex rubber knickers, bloomers, pants etc. And then there are the uniforms, of course; the latter open to all sorts of discussion, from the physical aspects, the type of fabrics, nylon, serge, the underwear, girdles, corselletes, corsets, stockings, you name it, to the psychological effect on the wearer, whether submissive or assertive depending on the role.
And as all these aspects of control unavoidably involve changes to the psyche the inclusion of certain forms of mind control to the story-arc seemed most appropriate (indeed the entire project was originally stimulated by a series of mind control story ideas published on one of the newsgroups, of which more later). Thus aspects of sensory deprivation, hypnosis, NLP and even the deliberate induction or intensification of certain phobias can be introduced in order to wield control over a young lady; the latter approach while being particularly suitable in the institutional environment is not impossible to initialy introduce within a more domestic scenario.
So you see, there is much that can be discussed here, practically without limit, much that can be incorporated into the continuing story arc; your imagination is the only limitation, within the bounds of what can be logically incorporated in a sensible manner of course.
Posts
All Comments
.png)
