The Fabulously Fascinating Subject of Harassment Therapy…Oh, and a Comment to Read

Hi folks - had a brace of great gym works yesterday - one in the morning and one early evening - and very nearly (but not quite - couldn't quite lock my arms out) achieved a personal best chest press. So I'm in fine fettle today to tackle the final writing chores as regards volume 2 (and I have already begun proofreading / correcting earlier sections) despite having become somewhat despondent of late having come to realise that I had become far too ambitious in my approach, both as regards to the structure of the story arc and in my scene / character development - not being a real writer - but having invested so much in this project I have little option other than to stick with it, despite the fact that it is gradually turning into War and Peace. Under the circumstances then I am even more grateful than usual for all the supportive and inspiring emails I have received - and particularly for those providing ideas and inspirational content that I can share with you on this site (it takes some of the load off my shoulders at this most hectic of stages). None more so than the anonymous author of the account I published previously on this site dealing with dietary discipline and sexual aversion therapy and with whom I'm happy to say I'm still corresponding and who's story I shall be continuing (where we left off) next post (with the help of an illustration provided by the authoress - and perhaps one or two sourced by yours truly).

Currently we are discussing the fabulously fascinating subject of so called 'harassment therapy' - an apparently inexhaustible vein of startling 'truth stranger than fiction' material. Indeed, much of the latter draws remarkable parallels with some of the events depicted in the INSTITUTIONALISED (click to preview volume 1, if you haven't already)series, despite the fact that the latter is a work of total fiction that came straight from the more murky stretches of my fevered imagination on hot sticky summer afternoons. Some of the accounts - the result of my anonymous benefactor's researching skills, it must be said - you quite literally couldn't make up. Suffice it to say that, translocated to the virtual world of the fictional novel, some of the forms of discipline thought up by these professionals can only be described as exquisite - there is just no other word for it. In the real world, it seems, there exist (or have existed) regimens and impositions that I would have thought twice about including in my writing (had I sufficient imagination and inventiveness in the first place) for fear of accusations of implausibility...And I guess that if one was to classify the overriding interest catered for within the INSTITUTIONALISED story arc - taking into account all of the different fetishes brought into play within the pages - it would, in one word, be discipline. If a discipline fetish, per se, exists, then I would say that would be the driving force behind the work.

The only thing that seems lacking is any overt admission of the use of the cane or strap - but even there there are certain implications written 'between the lines' if one peers carefully enough. For example there is an account of a girl being made to scrub a shower cubical with a toothbrush (not a particularly unusual imposition in itself - almost traditional, in its way) and one of the pair of supervising nurses then leaving to fetch something that she says will 'encourage the girl to work a little harder' (or words to that effect)... I have to say that my imagination, for one, went into overdrive when I read that.

And then, just when I thought I'd seen everything, I came across an account of a young female voluntary patient who, having given the required seventy-two hours notice that she wished to leave, as was her right, was being 'pushed' and harassed with the sole purpose of getting her to 'crack' under the strain. She was required, carefully and under strict supervision, to make up her bed - only to have it immediately torn apart again by one of the nurses. Then the procedure would be repeated, over and over - and if she was to complain or lose her temper, then that could easily be interpreted as aggression and perhaps taken as a sign of underlying mental disturbance. The hope seemed to be that if such an 'episode' could be triggered then the staff might be able to get her reclassified as a compulsorily admitted patient - then, of course she could be kept there under their authority whether she liked it or not (for her own good of course). Wow! it could have come straight from my book - I wonder if it worked?

Well, there will be doubtless more emerging from that particular direction - and we will visit it in fine detail on another occasion. For now, though I just want to point out that a new comment has been left on the post; Another Note from Judith's Aunt and a Comment from Yours Truly (click to read the original post and comment). And if the institutionalised military-style drilling and disciplining of late-teenage girls is of interest to you (penal rather than 'therapeutic) the check out this account of life at the Hay Institution for Girls (click to read) (includes behavioral guidelines from the official report). By the way; the pic at the top right of this post is a recreation of a typical girl's cell at Hay - far too spacious, I would say.

Dietary Discipline, Harassment Therapy & Sexual Reorientation – A Reader’s Account Revisited (Part 1)

Hi folks, I have quite literally just arrived back in London after my short Easter sojourn to Windsor (the neighbors were in across the road – we can always tell, they like to stick their flag up when they're visiting - but do they ever bother to pop over for a chat? Bit of a weird bunch, if you ask me – like to keep them selves to them selves; but need 1600 rooms and 6 miles of corridors to do it in. As for the 'other half' and myself; well, we're happy enough with a double en suite when we're away from home. What an ostentatious lot – I was pleased to spot that one or two of old Lizzie's windows had been boarded up – and that flag looked a little threadbare to boot! (Looks like the recession's biting all of us!). As I say, I'm back in London – but I'm not yet back home. I'm staying at a friend's for the night, so the holiday ends (and work resumes) tomorrow morning, with a short sharp visit to the gym for an aerobic / fat-burning session, then a days writing / editing / proof reading of volume 2 before rounding off with a second visit to the gym in the evening for a bit of weight training. Not that I have been completely comatose while I have been away – I took with me a printed transcript of some fascinating correspondence I relieved by email just before I went away (and that I alluded to in my last posting) and an enlightening read it made indeed. It pretty much comes under the banner of 'Truth Stranger than Fiction' and takes, in the majority, the form of a series of questions and responses passed back and forth between yours truly and an anonymous female correspondent as regards an account I published a few posts ago (click here). I have reproduced the gist here, albeit in a somewhat truncated form. It is quite a lengthy correspondence and so I think it best if I split it up into a number of installments – if nothing else, it will give me time then to come up with a couple of suitable illustrations for each section. So...here we go... (by the way – please keep in mind that, as ever, we are discussing here girls in their late teens) .

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Dietary Discipline, Sexual Aversion & Harassment Therapy – An Account: Part One

"Nobody ever explained precisely why I was sent to the hospital, but over the years I have put together a theory that I'm pretty sure must be close to the truth. I was a wallflower at school and was flattered when a much more popular girl, Caroline, spoke to me a few times. One time I was in the cloakroom when she came in and she kissed me. I don't remember feeling anything. I don't remember it being thrilling, and nor do I remember thinking that it was particularly strange or awful. I had seen other girls kissing in a friendly manner, but this was on the lips and was, admittedly, just a little friendlier than I was familiar with. That might have been the end of it, except that a mistress walked in at that moment and kicked up an awful stink. I remember being hauled into the headmistress's office at least a couple of times. Confused, I never said much besides stammering and probably saying that I didn't do anything. I do remember not wanting to get Caroline in trouble - I enjoyed that fact that she would sometimes talk to me - it increased my status immeasurably - at least I thought so. My parents had several meetings with the headmistress. They were mortified and they let me know through awful silence just how much I had embarrassed them and how ashamed they were of me. I almost wished that they would say 'How could you have turned out this way?' But the silence spoke louder than any words and let me know how they felt. I didn't blame them. Talking, with the possibility that 'the subject' might come up, was the last thing I wanted to do also.

Of course, since then I have thought of a million clever things I could have said - like the truth - to ameliorate the situation, but at the time I had neither the words nor the understanding of how my silence might be interpreted. Judging by the reaction of the adults involved, the whole episode was clearly so shameful that I chose to remain silent and say nothing (and avoid further embarrassment) in the expectation that everything would blow over.

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I didn't go into the aversion program straight away. First I went to a psychiatric unit in a general hospital for evaluation. I don't know whose idea it was - the school's or my parents' - or perhaps some combination - but it was my parents (my father did the talking) who told me that we would be visiting a hospital to consult with a doctor who was an 'expert' in these matters. I knew why - it had to have something to do with the kissing incident - everything did - so I didn't ask any questions for fear of further embarrassment and humiliation. I meekly accepted. Not something to look forward to, but something I could survive - a step towards putting the whole episode behind me.

I remember the car trip with my parents lasting hours, and I remember thinking that this wouldbe yet one more reason for them to be upset with me - spending so much time taking me to the hospital. My father was taking time off work - and he never did that. But mostly I think my mind was blank - if I could block everything out it wouldn't hurt so much. I had been in hospital before - to have my tonsils out - so I knew a little about what to expect. It wouldn't be so bad. Besides, it's not like I was going to have to stay there - I didn't have an overnight bag with me.
When we arrived there was nothing particularly disquieting about the place except for the all pervasive hospital smell, disinfectant and whatever else. Sure it was big and confusing, but not unlike other hospitals I had seen. I remember following the signs (and my parents) to the psychiatric department and meeting with a doctor who explained that I would be staying for a few days while I was evaluated. I'm sure my stomach sank - but I doubt that I said anything - I probably just swallowed hard and hoped that the floor would swallow me up.

I'm not sure how long I stayed there, but it was probably less than a week. It wasn't too bad although the food wasn't great - maybe even worse than school. At school there was this one mistress who would walk round making sure that we ate everything and would give us a whack on the head with her hand (and a large ring) if we showed any unwillingness to do so - but here they didn't mind when I left things on my plate. I had my own room, and books to read, and the nurses were quite friendly, though they would ask questions for what seemed like hours at a time. But I didn't mind - it's not like I had anything else to do - and even when the questions might have been embarrassing I didn't mind too much because they were very nice about it and treated the whole thing in a very casual manner, as if we were talking about somebody else altogether. They made copious notes and I remember even writing some essays for them, though I have no recollection of what they might have been about.

After maybe a week, I was taken back in to see the doctor, and he told me, in a very grave voice, that he had finished evaluating me (which surprised me because I had not seen him since my arrival, but I suppose he read all the paperwork) and that he had found, and approved me for, a program that could help me - and I was a very lucky girl. To say that I was disappointed would be inaccurate - I don't think my mind was working on such a cerebral level - I just experienced a primordial sinking feeling - disconcerted and confused. I hadn't expected such an outcome. It had never crossed my mind that I might not go back home after a few days. I'm sure I would have thought about running if it had been in my nature or if there hadn't been two nurses standing between me and the door. As I was led out by the nurses I remember wondering if they would tell my parents. (A silly thought really, but it was probably emblematic of my naiveté.) As I remember it I was led down a couple of unfamiliar corridors and into an unfamiliar room where I was instructed to climb up and lie down on a trolley. Naturally I was mystified, and, perhaps sensing my bewilderment, one of the nurses explained that I was going to be taken to another hospital and that she needed to fasten the straps to make sure I didn't fall off and injure myself in the ambulance. I remember not liking the idea of being strapped in, and I'm sure that I felt like saying "no, that's ok, just call my parents please", but I doubt that I said anything. I was probably thinking that sick people ride in ambulances, and I wasn't sick. All very confusing - and more than a little scary.

It was another long journey, but without any windows in the back, and being strapped down in the stretcher my memory is probably a little unreliable. I remember arriving after dark - but I could see the building, presumably from lights. It was big, old and scary looking and I was getting increasingly scared and frantic. I was passed over to a couple of nurses who, after speaking to the ambulance men briefly, wheeled me through what seemed like unending corridors, locked doors, elevators, and then through what appeared to be a couple of different wards, all with locked steel doors, until we reached our destination - another locked ward. By this time I was quite certain that a dreadful mistake had been made. This was not like any hospital I had ever seen. More like a madhouse. Not that I was prescient - just that the situation was crazy. It wasn't until a little later that I realised it really was a madhouse. A madhouse stuck away in the countryside where nobody could see it. Where the public did not have to worry about it or feel guilty about the poor souls locked up in it.

I remember thinking 'I do NOT belong here' when a nurse undid the straps on the stretcher and another nurse, this one wearing a big rubber apron, grabbed me by the ear and dragged me off to the bathroom for my cold induction bath. I was deathly scared. When I saw the line of oversized baths I tried to pull back - "why are they so big" I remember thinking - but a twist and yank on my ear soon had me moving again. When the nurse let me dip my hand in the bath and I felt how deathly cold it was I became hysterical, crying and screaming. I remember 'losing it' and struggling as if I was fighting for my life and apparently I even managed to bite an arm during the struggle. (Which got me labelled as a 'biter' and proved to be one of the bigger mistakes of my life.) However they quickly recovered from my surprise attack and I was soon overpowered by the nurse and two others who had come to her aid. They didn't seem fazed by my struggling or the splashing water that ensued and I was soon trussed up in a canvas harness and lying in a hammock inside one of the big baths. Only my head was visible, the rest of me hidden beneath the canvas bath cover. Despite the biting cold, or perhaps because of it, I was still screaming bloody murder when one of them pulled a thick cloth between my teeth and hauled it tight as she tied it at the back of my neck. A canvas bath cap with the chinstrap pulled tight clamped my jaws almost shut, despite the thick cloth between them and reduced my screams to ineffectual squeaks and groans.

Although the initial shock of the cold water wore off after a couple of minutes it remained far too cold for comfort throughout the hours I spent in the bath. Somehow fresh water was constantly running into the bath at one end and the excess was draining out at the other end. As for my temper, that subsided. I just didn't have the energy to keep it going. Besides, I was too cold and it was too difficult to breathe comfortably through my nose when I struggled or cried. One of the nurses kept an eye on me, but didn't offer any comfort or encouragement - just a blank face. I think I was the only patient in the bathroom when I was put in the bath, but while I lay there several girls came in for baths - some quietly, others struggling.

Institutional Haircut

At some point I was upset to find that a nurse had removed my 'cap' and was clipping my hair down to a stubble. I remember not being able to struggle much - but I could throw my head around enough to make her job difficult and I was determined to do so. However, after a brief respite she returned with another nurse and between them they held my head still and clipped it down to a stubble. I was to later find out that this was standard procedure for the 'deviants' on the ward - serving as a reminder to everyone that they should give us a wide berth. I have to wonder at the advisability of it though. Perhaps I am guilty of thinking in stereotypes, but I can't help thinking that some of the butch girls might have enjoyed their short haircut. If anything shouldn't they have been trying to feminize us? Maybe they just didn't quite understand what they were doing.

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When they let me out I was too subdued to put up a fight any longer and needed help to even stand up - so I meekly allowed them to dry me off and dress me in a plain white nightgown before putting me to bed in a single room. I didn't even complain when they put me in restraints - another standard procedure for we 'deviants' who, it was assumed, would masturbate if given the chance.

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So that is how I ended up in the mental hospital - on a ward for teenage girls. That apparently was the way wards were assigned - at least for teenagers - by sex and age rather than condition. Of course that probably makes sense. I don't think anybody would think it a good idea to put us teenagers with [older] adults if it could be avoided. But beyond sex and age, there appeared to be no distinction. There were some drooling mentally retarded girls, some girls in a world of their own, some who didn't seem to be in any world, a number of physically handicapped girls, and a number of superficially normal girls, some of whom I later learned were often anything but normal. Some had anger issues, some liked hurting small animals, others had tried to commit suicide and some were classified as sexual deviants, like me. In short - I had been inducted..." (to be continued)

Dietary Discipline & Other Aspects – A reader’s Account and Another in the ‘Truth Stranger than Fiction Vein’

Hi readers!...Only me!
Its been a while again, but while I am now fully recovered from my drinking binge I am putting most of my energies into getting the long delayed INSTITUTIONALISED volume 2 finally finished - the rest of the time is currently being dedicated to improving my fitness levels in the gym in preparation for the London to Brighton cycle ride later this year. I have to admit to lacking a little enthusiasm now and then (particularly at the moment) but then along comes something and I am all fired-up again. For a time that inspiration centered around the 'monster experiment' (the stuff I came across regarding the deliberate induction of stammering in test subjects by a speech therapist). But more recently I was sent this intriguing account (see below) and the sparks began to fly once more. While obviously I cannot vouch for its accuracy, nor its authenticity, I hesitantly (but enthusiastically, it must be said) categorise it in the 'truth-stranger-than-fiction vein. What really caught my imagination was the mealtime discipline - all that 'spoon tapping' used as a conditioning aid, the carefully prescribed number of times a food item has to be chewed, the use of the metronome to prescribe the tempo...what a wonderful level of control, what exquisite discipline. And it is so beautifully written that I just had to share it with you (anon of course) - I hope the writer doesn't mind, but I just couldn't wait for you all to read it. I have done a little editing here and there and added a couple of suitable pics (I think it deserves it) but that is about it.

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"Dear Mr. Toyntanen,
I was surprised to find the snippet, about girls in an experimental mental hospital, from your upcoming book. It reminded me all too vividly of the time I spent in a semi-private hospital when I was a teenager being cured of my supposed homosexual tendencies. I say supposed because I don't believe I ever was a lesbian, but the more I denied it, the more convinced the 'professionals' were that I was lying. Apparently a classic symptom of my sickness!

There is nothing good I can say about my time in that place. If I behaved I was allowed to 'recreate' - though I was always kept separate from the others because I was considered a sexual deviant and therefore dangerous to my 'fellow' patients. So if I was lucky I spent my days in the day-room, comprehensively strapped to a heavy chair that even Dr. Rush would have been proud of [Dr. Benjamin Rush 1745 – 1813, Known as the Father of American Psychiatry, see on left for his famous chair – Garth].

I was not happy and was glad to let everyone know it - so more often than not I sat there gagged with a couple of pillowcases over my head - which did nothing to improve my demeanour.

It seems to me that they spent a lot more time 'controlling' us than they ever did 'treating' us. Supposedly justified by the idea that you can't have a bunch of teenagers running around doing whatever they want - so their first order of business was to make us behave and obey their every order like a bunch of automatons. They tried to tell us that out treatment would not begin until we became pliant, but like most other things they told us, it wasn't really true. I know because they began my treatment, or at least testing, before they finally calmed me down.

They inserted some kind of device into my vagina - which was a very painful and embarrassing procedure (did I mention that continual embarrassment was one of the things I remember so well - and I think a tool that the staff used to its fullest - they were always making belittling comments) and then they would make me watch a slide show of dirty pictures and supposedly measure my sexual response. Later I did some research and found that the device, I think they were using, was extremely unreliable.

Anyway, after the first couple of sessions my therapist would berate me for not cooperating and trying to evade their 'scientific' testing. I had no idea what she was talking about. Then she'd shout at the nurses that did the testing. She must have yelled at the ward nurses too because I always 'got it' from them too. This carried on for a while, but eventually it seems that they were getting the results they wanted - which then just made her yell at me for what she called my 'perversions'. Honestly I'm sceptical that either I or the apparatus began to give different results - I'm more inclined to think that the nurses responsible for administering the tests would somehow fake them so that the therapist wouldn't yell at them anymore. I don't think the machine produced any kind of chart - the nurses just read my 'response' from a dial and note it on a clipboard - so it would have been easy enough to fake. Anyway, I don't remember feeling aroused by any of the dirty pictures, whether they had two women or a man and a woman in them. maybe I was just too mortified and embarrassed. Or maybe women just aren't stimulated by pictures the way men are.

When I went there I didn't know anything about sex - nothing about what went on between a man and a woman and even less about two women. It just never occurred to me. And nobody explained it to me when I went to the hospital either. They just assumed that I knew everything because I was meant to be a lesbian. I had to piece together what was going on from the pictures they showed me and things the therapist said.

But I digress. What really prompted me to write was your description of the girls being fed. When I was admitted they asked me a lot of harmless questions, like what I liked to eat, what I didn't like to eat. I remember the nurse asking the questions was very friendly and seemed to understand that I really hated some foods. She even volunteered that she absolutely detested some foods too - so I felt very comfortable telling her all my likes and dislikes. And my list of dislikes was very long indeed. Perhaps I should have been suspicious when she categorized my degree of hatred of each food type, but without saying so she encouraged me to believe that answering the questions would result in me getting the foods I like. After all, what else was I to think?

But my illusions were shattered when I was categorized as a 'fussy eater' and was put on a special regimen at meal times. We fussy eaters were not trusted to eat our food - they thought that we would hide the food, or somehow get rid of it without eating it. And their fears were probably right, at least in my case, because my diet was suddenly limited to all the foods I hated the most - and the nurses bringing in the food and putting it down in front of us were careful to mock me - presumably because I was the latest patient to join their merry band of 'fussy eaters'. Of course I dare say the idea behind it was to help us overcome our 'fussiness' and was no doubt meant to be a gradual introduction of 'disliked' foods accompanied by kindness, understanding and encouragement - but the way it was implemented in practice was purely vindictive and punishing. Besides the spiteful words the food was presented in the most unappetizing manner possible. Desert and main course foods, cold and mixed together - lumps of wobbly fat coated in the rice pudding and semolina that I hated so much. Yechhh!

Of course they warned me that I would be 'force fed' if I didn't eat everything on my bowl-like plate. But it didn't matter. No matter what they threatened I wouldn't have been able to eat it. I remember trying, but my stomach rebelled and I'd heave every time I put some of it in my mouth. I just knew that I would vomit everything up if I tried to swallow it.

Well, they had ways to 'encourage' me. They called them aversives - but they were just torture. And after they had broken my spirit in that regard they didn't just let me go back to eating food with everybody else - in absolute silence - even a glance at a neighbour would earn you a whack about the head. No I ended up on what they euphemistically called a 'special' food regimen. Like the girls in your book I would be hand-fed by a nurse - not in bed, but in the equivalent of an adult high chair where I could be fastened during the feeding, just like in the day-room. And there was no evading the spoon - the forehead strap saw to that.

No doubt some kind of bib is a good idea whenever somebody is being spoon fed and especially when the person being fed is not particularly appreciative of the service being rendered - but I'm sure a less humiliating procure could have been developed. First we were dressed in a tight canvas 'smock' that covered us from neck to ankles, [tightened] from behind with tapes - not tapes to close the opening, for there was no opening except at the neck - just tapes to make it snug all the way down - but especially at the neck where the high collar was always cinched up just a little too tightly for comfort. Then after we were properly strapped into the feeding chair a large rubber bib was fastened over us, covering us from neck to floor once more; no doubt a practical thing, but humiliating when the nurses would say something [along the lines of] 'a babies bib for you then'. But they weren't satisfied at that because then a large white bib was also fastened about our necks. And heaven help us if we dropped or dribbled anything on this pristine white bib during out feeding. And at the end of the meal when the sister would come round to inspect our charts and our bibs you can be sure we were grateful if the nurse had not deliberately stained our bib as we ate - or started us out with an already stained bib - most probably pointed out to us with some glee as it was fastened about our necks.

Besides the stomach-churning 'food' that we were required to eat, we were required to eat it in a particular manner - no doubt to impress upon us that we were now part of a well regimented group - or some such rubbish. Maybe [it was] just to let us know that they now controlled every aspect of our life. The nurse would tap us on the left side of the mouth with the spoon to signal us to open our mouths. She would then insert the spoon and we were required to close our mouth in a 'polite' manner and wipe the spoon clean as the nurse withdrew it. Again heaven help us if there was any vestige of the 'food' on the spoon as it was withdrawn. We had to hold the food until the nurse inspected the spoon and tapped us on the chin with it to indicate that we should begin chewing - something hardly necessary since the food was always ground up into a foul-smelling paste. But despite that we were required to chew each mouthful a certain number of times - the exact number dictated by the therapist - and usually a high enough number to greatly annoy the nurse and us. A low number might be 50 times, and a high number might be 200 times. And we had to chew in a particular rhythm. Not too fast and not too slow. Beginners had a metronome placed behind them until they got it right. And each chew had to be exactly the same as the previous and the next. If the chew was not uniform then the chew didn't count and the nurse would mark you down on the clipboard for insufficient chews for that mouthful. And each mouthful insufficiently chewed or over-chewed would result in a demerit and subsequent loss of privileges - if you were lucky enough to have any. Once you had chewed the mouthful the requisite number of times, adding on an extra chew or two if you thought that some chews might have been disallowed, and hoping that the nurse had excluded them from her count also, you were required to hold the well masticated mess in your mouth until further instructed. Another tap on the chin meant 'display' and you had to open your mouth and 'display' the 'food' to demonstrate that you had not swallowed any of it - something hard to avoid given the mushy consistency and the seemingly unending chews we were required to perform. With or without the tap on the chin to 'display', a tap on the right side of the mouth meant swallow."

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Pheeew! Well, if you were intrigued by the above account - then I have to say that one of the finest fictional pieces I have read in this vein was called 'Committed' and did much to influence the direction of some of the story arc in my INSTITUTIONALISED series (Click on the title, in blue, to read). For myself, it opened up more questions and avenues to explore than anything else - as I wrote in reply. For example, questions that immediately popped into my mind when I first read it included:

Whether or not spoken orders were given to accompany the spoon-tapping signals, or whether perhaps they were initially but were no longer required after some time? (The use of the metronome I found interesting; in my mind's eye I could see a line of girls all chewing in unison to its tick-tock rhythm - perhaps glassy eyed?). In a similar vein; was hypnosis in any form applied?

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Then there is that intriguing term she uses, 'aversives' - one's imagination runs riot with possibilities as to what that might allude to - what was the effect each time they were applied, what did they consist of? Was any form of corporal punishment in use to maintain order and enforce compliance?

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Judging from what she says about the canvas smocks worn for meal times, I doubt it was permitted to retain their own clothes or much in the way of personal belongings - or were night-dresses taken from home allowed, for instance? If not, what sort of thing was issued by the hospital and was any attempt made to enforce a uniform appearance? I'm just wondering whether nightdresses were worn at all times, for example, or whether other clothing was available for other times of the day, in which case (and assuming all hospital issue) was there a disciplinary aspect to it - for example was it necessary to look a certain way, to appear smart, perhaps, even though the circumstances seem to make such concerns obsolete? (After all it's a nice way of asserting control).

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Related to the above - as an issue of compliance (and also a security issue – see below) - is the question of toiletry arrangements: In the average small hospital ward (and I imagine this to be quite a compact ward we are talking about here) there are usually only one or two (if that) toilet cubicles. A weird subject I know but one with many disciplinary connotations, particularly under the circumstances you describe, as once in a cubicle the patient could be out of sight for example and might choose to regurgitate an unpleasant meal. And bearing in mind the regimentation of the dietary procedures that are described one can't help wondering whether such toilet visits were regimented in a similar way (I make mention – in both INSTITUTIONALISED volume 1 and 2 - of bedpan use, both for convenience but also for ' medical ' reasons - to allow for easy monitoring of waste output, shall we say (humiliating for the patient, I know, but perhaps necessary in a research setting or where compliance needs to be monitored / enforced).

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Then we come to what security measures were in place: under the circumstances the writer outlines - and given your average rebellious teenager (and particularly taking into account the time scale that seems to be implied) - the temptation must have been to simply walk out. I imagine, therefore, all this would have taken place in a secure, locked ward. In which case I, for one, would be fascinated to learn of the security precautions taken. The possibility of the nurses having manipulated the results of the tests performed adds a particularly interesting dimension to this. Along with denial being virtually taken as a symptom of proof, particularly when backed up by test results guaranteed to prove the point - and assuming that the length of stay is dependent on a cure (of a condition not present in the first place) - it would be quite difficult to acquire release once admitted. One can't help but wonder as to whether one or two inmates (for want of a better term) might simply have been admitted as a matter of convenience (or even amusement, perhaps) for some individual.

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Finally: In terms of the original concern over the subject's alleged lesbianism - was aversion therapy, in any form, in use? On the other hand, considering the manipulated results and dubious diagnosis - was there any evidence of 'negative' therapy being given, perhaps as part of an experimental probe into the origins of the development of such 'deviant' sexuality? Here I am drawing a parallel with the so-called 'monster study' that I've talked about in the blog before and in which - in the 1930s - speech deficits were deliberately induced using a mixture of suggestion and constant reinforcement by therapists and teachers.

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So many questions: we await the answers with excited anticipation...but perhaps you...yes, you, out there ... have your own ideas about the conditions that you might imagine would be in place - or would be in place if you were running the unit? Then share them with us! In the meantime, I'm going back to writing - its nearly there, now!

A Nice Yahoo Group to Try and Some More of Hardcastle's Work Added to His Album

Having lost most of the weekend bogged down with attempting to book a Christmas holiday (it was going to be five nights in Rome now looks like being more like three nights in Windsor, albeit white opposite the castle) today has been completely dedicated to filling in the gaps in volume 2. I'm currently working on a series of flashbacks that illustrate something of Lavinia's life with the woman that she calls her aunt prior to her semi-voluntarily incarceration in the experimental research unit. It had been quite hard work because I have quite a lot of time to make up on, what with my recent computer problems etc, but it has not been without compensation in the form of some interesting discoveries made on the Internet while researching one or two details - the most fruitful, strangely enough, coming to light while researching some aspects of dress design and fabric handling (don't ask). Anyway, as a result of all this I come across a really quite excellent YahooGroup:

The Academy for Difficult Girls (just click to access and join) or click on link in the resource list in the sidebar. The best part is actually the files section of which I can particularly recommend the stories in Adventures at the Academy (I) and (I I) but is worth perusing all of the folders for stories: subjects covered include enforced diaper use, enforced age regression, orgasm denial (lots) supervised potty training for young adults and even what I would describe as de-education (i.e. young women learning to forget how to read and write for example). And, of course there are lots and lots humiliation ideas and possibilities - there was a lot to explore, and I've probably spent far too long this evening doing exactly that, I don't think I have ever spent so long on one group.

On another tack, I've just this minute added a whole bunch of Hardcastle illustrations, that I came across this afternoon on one of the Yahoo groups I was perusing, to the Hardcastle scans and downloads section of Spanking ArtWork Albums (see sidebar) - the most interesting of which to my mind is the story from Janus about the 22 year-old woman forced back to school and to take the role of a 17-year-old (see top left, click to enlarge - the rest is in the spanking artwork album for Hardcastle). While I was at it I just couldn't resist posting up another example of the great man's work; the deportment training he illustrates here always gets me going and one can easily imagine some suitable adaptation of it taking place as part of the regime imposed on one of the three small groups that constitute the institution's residential experimental psychology section - the Schoolroom Group regime would seem to be the most accommodating for this sort of training, I would think. One that I've added has had a particularly interesting caption added to it. (Click here) very much up my tree.

As for the photo I posted in my last entry; I had intended to begin to relate the real life story of a girl that my wife of the time and I had staying with us in the mid to late 1980s and the pic was to have been an attempt to illustrate something approximating to an early incarnation of what my came to call the girl's house uniform (sometimes, home uniform). I'm a bit too hard pressed to do it justice at the moment (although I have alluded to the relationship once or twice previously) and so when I get around to it I'll remove the pic and reuse it as and when (it's a 1960s Sainsbury's uniform by the way). As for the immediate future; I'll be tackling the stutter / stammer induction theme soon - I can think of little that would undermine a young woman's self esteem more thoroughly...so, so demoralising. Of course, having never been tried in an adult (and never likely to be in peer reviewed, ethics committee-monitored mainstream research) it is experimentally irresistible and a project perfectly suited to the more discreet (not to mention secure) environs of the institutions research unit. I have some nice ideas (one of which I am surreptitiously testing with my partner) but more are always welcome - how would you go about it?

Back to the Reformatory and Some Suitable Story Links (more text to be added later)

I think its time to get back on track, as it were…

Today’s subject is the reformatory and all the scope for imaginative discipline that conjures up once a young lady has been successfully detained behind its walls…particularly if the establishment should be remote, discreet, suitably secure and privately owned and run. The subject is best viewed in that way in my humble opinion – The detainee need not commit any crime, her sentence need not breach guidelines nor come with the possibility of repeal or even be of any set length. Nor need there be any particular end in mind to justify the means…for some, the fact that she has been denied her freedom, is being held under the strictest discipline and under the constant threat of punishment simply on a whim is an end in itself.

The pics are two scans fro my collect and taken from an early 90s Blushes (Although it could be Whispers or The New Supplement).

I’m going to be adding more to this post tomorrow, hopefully…Watch this space

I have found a site full of BDSM and discipline stories. You will have to dig through them when you get there to find something matching your particular 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

Main Library

A review of victorian discipline

Discipline stories menu

Mouth soaping

Experimental prison wing urethral stimulation

Classroom enema and dormitory anal abuse
Incidentally the following passage, taken from the above story, is probably the best I have ever read of its type in the way that it subtly captures the effects that the disciplinary regime she is being kept been under is having on the girl herself - one of my interests in such literature, it must be said. Its all in that part where she folds her arms into the small of her back. She is about to be abused anally - a humiliation that is unlikely to leave any young woman without her fair share of mental scaring - and yet no command needs be uttered and no rope or other restraint brought forth...her hands are restrained by the sheer weight of the subjugation and the domination of her will.

...Then the whisper of cotton as her night smock was rucked up beyond her waist. Without being told Angela drew up her her knees at either side until she adopted the frog position. Her hands automatically gravitated to the small of her back, where she folded them in submission. Hips lifted as a pillow was positioned beneath her belly. Her warm mouth accepted the bit she was to bite on. The lid popping on a jar of lubricant. The creak of springs at an increased load...

Matron's Cane - a snippit from INSTITUTIONALISED volume 1

I thought I'd post a snippet from volume 1 of INSTITUTIONALISED today. I realise that most folk visiting here will have read it and be looking for tasters from volume 2 but despite the fact that this extract has been posted on certain newsgroups in the past, not every visitor will have come across it. For those that haven't read the book it should help put the snippets of vol 2 and the various other posts I have made in context.

Besides, the entire purpose of this blog is to gather feedback from readers and hopefully ideas / fantasies for inclusion in any future publications. After all, I am not a professional writer, or anything like it, but I am trying to develop an entire new genre in multi-fetish literature here and I need to know if I'm succeeding or failing, and to what degree. Finally: I'm not sure where the last pic originated - it looks like a manipulation. Clearly the situation is much different from that in the 'unit' wherein our hapless heroine is incarcerated but that wickedly whippy switch and the girl's helplessness conjures that INSTITUTIONALISED spirit quite nicely - don't you think?
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Matrons Cane

"30C, answer the doctor, sweetheart" Matron was using her softest, most coaxing, tones.

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.

Behind her the conversation had continued, she had taken the placing of the cane there, across the desk, her careful positioning, to be the prelude to the caning but the conversation had just continued. And so she had waited, bent from the waist, chin resting on the padded desktop, hands placed behind the back of her neck, legs straddling the attached seat and each adjacent to its corresponding desk support, those knickers, the examination pants, stretched to their limit to contain those overripe buttocks, her imagination involuntarily filling with the image of her most intimate secrets freshly shaved and obscenely displayed through that transparent plastic gusset panel.

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.

Then that stroke had whipped in, and now, standing sobbing, hands brought up to her face in shame, she knew, the girl knew, suddenly she had only two more chances to avoid the threatened one-month extension.

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