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
...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.
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