A (very) Quick Update

Sorry you have not heard from me for a week now. There have been personal / relationship problems here, not unrelated from my having been on a near week-long bender that I am experiencing some difficulty in drying-out from. This time of the year is always difficult in terms of staying out of the pubs, what with all the marketing ploys exhorting one to party, party, party! At least there has been plenty of exchanges going on by way of comments appended to earlier post - my gratitude goes out to all those who have contributed to keeping this blog alive over the last week. I have a carol concert to attend at St Martins In The Fields, London tonight, for which I have to arrive sober and I managed to get through yesterday unscathed by the ravages of drink. I am still rather shaky and suffering anxiety attacks / nightmares but I hope to resume scanning my collection tomorrow - and will hopefully post something from it - and maybe, if I can fight back the depression sufficiently, I can resume a little work on the latest book. Bye for now ...Watch this space!

More on Admission Procedures and Institutionalised Punishment

Once again I find myself a little strapped for time. I have to rush out to get on with one or two shores related to preparations for Christmas but I shall be taking my net book computer with me so hopefully I will be doing a little writing later on somewhere, perhaps in a pub with any luck! There has been some interesting correspondence going on via the comments sections attached to my last few posts over the last couple of days, including the contribution of some very interesting and useful links, all of which I shall report on next time. An anonymous contributor has apparently been greatly taken with the subject of admission procedures, as portrayed in the reader's letter that I scanned in from an old copy of Janus I found my collection. As I said before, this was a subject broached any times over the years in the Janus reader’s letters pages, played a pivotal role in developing and forming my interests as they are today and in retrospective view provided a rich vein which I have unashamedly mined quite extensively in developing some of the ideas I have incorporated (and continue to develop) in my INSTITUTIONALISED story arc. Anyway, over the weekend, while rummaging through my old suitcase-cum-treasure chest in a spare moment, I came across a fascinating firsthand account of life in a 1930s institution that I remember reading way back in the 1980s and that my mind has often flashback to in developing my storylines. I have truncated it somewhat, as it is rather long and also moves away from my particular areas of interest, to include those sections that were personally most influential at the time and that endured in the back of my mind to be refined, redeveloped and incorporated into the little (and not so little) tableaux I would conjure in fantasy. See you soon - meanwhile why not have a trawl through the comments sections and join in; all ideas and contributions are most gratefully welcomed.

And the birched Schoolgirl? Nothing to do with the letter's contents whatsoever, it's just that the birch seems to me an appropriate form of institutional corporal punishment for that era. I can't envisage it in the home environment, even in the hands of a stern governess, but within the confines of a suitably secure punitive institution...that's another matter entirely. It is not a form of correction I would imagine would be found wielded by the medical staff, the nurses and matron, populating the secure experimental psychology unit that we visit in INSTITUTIONALISED volumes 1 and 2, but behind the walls of a charitable church-run shelter for girls deemed in moral danger... Well, who knows?

Another Janus Reader's Letters Scan

I hadn't really planned to post an update today, but having harbored a suspicion that the opportunity might arise I took the precaution of emailing myself one of my more recent scans from my desk computer before leaving home yesterday. Right now I am in a coffee bar in Muswell Hill, North London and quite close to Alexandra Palace which I will be visiting tomorrow at some point in order to look around the antiques fair being held there (I collect American Depression Glass, you see - quite apt you might think, considering that I suffer from depression). I have a couple of hours free which I intend to dedicate - once I have completed this - to working on the new volume. I am presently working on a piece provisionally entitled 'The Spiral Stair' which revolves around (revolves around - spiral staircase - get it? Ha, Ha,Ha!) a woman 's visit to a the not-so-humble abode of a certain clergyman in order to get some idea of the workings of his charity offering shelter to young women thought in danger of falling into moral peril. Later i have to go off and earn a crust doing a little paid work - oh well!

Meanwhile, I thought many of you might appreciate this scan taken from the reader's letters pages of a 1980s Janus magazine. It is another example of how that mag so often helped formulate and develop my interests and the direction of my writing. Bear in mind as you read through it, though, that I was never very happy with the idea of the involvement of parents (at least genuine biological parents - by proxy seems fine) or other blood relatives then or now. In my mind's eye I would change the circumstances to involve step-relatives of various flavors - or later and better still, as my ideas developed and I became more widely read - a court appointed legal guardian or strict governess in the employ of a grasping stepmother.

Web Problems and Admission Procedures

I am just Sooo knackered this evening. I have been slaving away decorating my aged mother's bathroom - sanding the ceiling - and a huge chunk of yesterday was whittled away dealing with an Internet access problem that had had me up half the previous night. Basically what had happened was that, although I could access the 'net and use Google to perform searches, I could not read my email nor could I access my own blog. Obviously I though that the broadband connection was OK as I could use Google (and other search engines) - it was only procedures requiring the entry of user name and password that were affected. And as the fault had occurred virtually immediately following a computer crash, my first assumption was that it was due to some sort of file corruption. Then I suspected a virus and then - having used another computer to link via my router and encountered the same problem - I started to suspect the router firewall. Having failed to find any problem with the settings of said device, I decided to reset it to its factory preset conditions and then reconfigure to suit my ISP's (Internet Service Provider's) connection conditions...Disaster!!!! Now I had no broadband at all!!! Having been up half the night pulling my hair out (human hair wig, anyone? Also makes good pillow stuffing! ) on liaising with my ISP it turned out I had entered part of my user ID incorrectly but all else was OK (it is what comes of being dyslexic --- loud scream!!! Now I had Internet, but still the initial problem persisted. I had observed during my diagnosis that my download speed was some 60% up on what I would ordinarily expect and to cut a long story short; this speed hike turned out to be a mistake on behalf of my ISP and upon my suggestion that they try returning the speed to the usual data rate, normal service was resumed. They could not explain why the download speed had been increased (not that I would normally complain) but more importantly; they had no idea as to how it could have caused the observed fault (bumping up the speed again, just out of interest, caused the problem to return) so go figure!!!

Now to turn to the business of the day. Having been 'IT-crippled' for a while I had been getting on with a bit of scanning (I have also been doing a little writing as well, so don't despair - I even got a few hundred words fitted in today, while relaxing with a coffee). And working through a good o'l copy of Janus, I came across a letter on a favorite subject gracing that periodical's letter pages through the 1980s, admission procedures - one of many that I can still recall to some degree and that influenced the direction of my writing. And what better illustration to go with any discussion bordering on the institutional scenario than this little classic from the golden age of the Blushes magazine stable (another newly-rediscovered treasure-trove item from my collection) - see right... Probably one of the most influential images of all time, in terms of my developing my viewpoint and the atmosphere I try to portray in my writing. See Y'all Monday! (By which time I hope to have, at last, made some significant progress in writing the new volume - its all been 'dribs and drabs' of late)...Though I might just get the chance to post something on Saturday - so don't write me off just yet!

A Rainy Enfield Day - The Day After

I am very much 'out-and-about' today. Right now as I write this section sitting under an awning outside the Enfield Town Costa Coffee house (1:45 PM) the batteries on my 'NetBook' are getting low - a pain in itself - and now I have just been shat on by a big fat London pigeon. And now it looks as if his mates are all set to join in also - there are five in a row on a ledge about nine or ten feet above my head, with heads to the wall and with their bums over-hanging my table and quivering threateningly. The proprietors have hung up a rather unconvincing plastic model of a hawk to keep them at bay, but these things ain't that stupid. Besides, these are London pigeons; they probably have no idea what a hawk is and they have learned to ignore big flying things - they're buzzed by jets and helicopters all day long. .. The Ba*$@@ds!!!

Well that was yesterday - making this the first entry I have created split over two days. I had a little 'real' work to do - gratis, this, even though my pockets are fast draining - and then intended to finish off this at home. But the gods of flagellation and discipline were not on my side: the home computer initially crashed horribly on boot-up and from that point on - although I could access and search Google ok - I could not get my Google email to load properly, nor could I sign into Blogger to update my blog. Actually, it seemed to come down to not being able to use anything that involved a user-name and password. This morning the fault still persisted and was still present when I finally gave up and came here, to my friendly local coffee bar, about one hour ago. The weird thing is that the problem does not seem to be with the computer itself; I have a wireless router and connecting via that using the machine I am presently boring you from produced the selfsame symptoms!!! Yet all is ok working through the coffee bar's router. I checked my router's firewall but can't see any settings amiss - nor can I understand why anything should have changed anyway. Any ideas, people?

Not withstanding the above hassle, and not wanting the day to be a complete washout, I spent a few hours scanning stuff for future use. And hit minor pay-dirt: I had intended to upload a piece I came across - and scanned - over the weekend, on admission procedures (a letter published in an old copy of Janus) but then I came across this and my mind got to working. Someone emailed me recently asking if I had illustrations for my books. Well I haven't - I can't draw for toffee and I sure can't afford to employ an illustrator. But if I was to choose an illustration to suit a certain scene in INSTITUTIONALISED volume 2 - think late teenage girl, in a cassock and under secure ecclesiastical care - it would be this. Actually, if truth be told, it was the fading memory of this artwork - and the story that went with it - that inspired that particular scenario (I have previously published a section of it here somewhere - check out the blog archive). Anyway, I then came across another, unconnected, piece but one related to the background to that part of the story arc to which I just alluded and 'hey presto! I was writing - so let's see where that leads us.

Enemas, Beers, Writing, Scans and History

I have noticed quite a few new faces appearing here and to those folk who have just discovered me I would like say welcome and also point out that there is over a year's worth of postings in my archive which can be easily viewed using the archive pull-down menu device over in the sidebar on the right - it's probably the best way of getting a flavour of what this little site is all about.

Yesterday I did a little scribbling in a pub in Tottenham known as 'The Elbow Room' while waiting for an old chum to turn up. Then it was off to 'The Rochester Castle' a Wetherspoons pub in Stokenewington (all these exotic locations are in North London of course) to actually meet my mate. He had been somewhat delayed which turned out to be advantageous and you will doubtless be pleased to know that not only did I manage to re-write from memory the section of the new volume that I lost - and that I spoke about last time - but I also had time enough to extend and expand upon it.

Today I have done a little experimental writing, developing a new theme entirely (see below). I have also at long last dug out an old suitcase I have been meaning to get from the attic for some time now.; filled to the brim with old spanking mags and books it is and I have just started getting around to scanning some of that old stuff for your delectation and delight. A couple of said scans are here. They are reduced in size and resolution to suit web page publication and to make uploading quicker, but if anyone wants the full size versions I will email them with pleasure. In the fullness of time I will upload all the full size versions to my various PicasaWeb albums in any case.

Aunty's Enema Discipline

(A rough first draft taken from the upcoming new volume soon to join the INSTITUTIONALISED stable - probably)

The cold nozzle of the rubber tubing inching up inside her bottom, the teenage girl felt the muscles around her gently-rounded belly tightening.
This was a procedure that had once been preceded by a few swishing strokes of the cane thrumming through the air, the harsh crackling snap of a searing flame-tongued tawse or the ruthless crack of a supple leather belt - the latter would generally be doubled over and would brand the girls naked buttocks with its outline, the broad swollen stripes being punctuated longitudinally by a raised blister-like pattern where its holes fell.
Now she unconsciously raised her swelling peach-like bottom , as if offering it up willingly to the ingress of the wide-bore rubbery enema nozzle that was once more raping her backside; as it had the evening before… and the morning before that… and as it would continue to do, twice per day, for the foreseeable future.
She had been fiercely proud, this one; learning to curb and bridle herself had come slowly and painfully to her, but it had come nonetheless. An acceptable level of obedience had been achieved - now it would have to be perfected, honed and refined. This constant and repeated submission to the soapy urging of the enema was very much part of that refinement.
The girl had been quick tempered and prone to brusque outbursts; but the tight leash of discipline she now had the girl under was doing wonders in beating down and subduing that former volatility. She had taken her time with the girl; the luxuries and indulgences she had been used to had not been removed all at once but rather gradually and insidiously replaced by the privations she knew the girl detested. At each step it seemed as if deep down inside some part of the girl’s personality and character was being peeled away and discarded along with her increasingly limited freedom.
With a rising sense of satisfaction the uniformed woman had watched the girl struggling to squeeze her somewhat overly mature curves into the tight bottom-hugging white plastic enema knickers she always insisted the girl wear for these treatments. She had smiled to herself knowingly as the girl flinched, oh so prettily. Partly that faint grimace came about through the final snap of the elasticated waistband, once the girl had succeeded in kneading and moulding the excess flesh of her ample bottom into the intimately detailed glossy PVC covering. Partly the girl’s discomfort came from the leg elastic biting into the yielding flesh around those milky thighs of hers, but more importantly as far as Julia Soames was concerned, a major part came from the sense of humiliation that the garment seemed actually designed to engender.
The sanatorium-style examination table would have seemed hopelessly incongruous in a domestic setting had it not been for the Spartan furnishing and institutional-looking décor of this roped-off segment of Aunt Julia's home. This was a self-contained home-within-a-home; the plush carpeting of the rest of the house came to an end at the foot of the stair on the floor below, becoming hospital-style white cushioned linoleum once past a sturdy door habitually kept securely locked whereupon it climbed a short flight before spreading out across a skylight-lit landing and flowing into four small but sufficiently functional rooms, each nestling behind its own equally securely-locked door. The accommodation comprised a toilet, little more than a cubicle sufficient to house the pedestal and a bidet, a shower room that also contained what appeared to be a massage table but one that strangely had been furnished with a system of broad Velcro-fastening padded-nylon straps, and the girl's bedroom. This latter was a strangely frothy and flouncy concoction of girlish femininity seemingly completely at odds with the institutional flavour of the rest of this part of the house, other than for the bed which was a standard hospital bed - but one which hid under its soft pink flounce counterpane the padded leather cuffs and strong webbing straps of a humane restrained system as might have been found in any asylum. Then, of course, there was the room in which the attractively curvaceous girl now waited bottom-up on the white leather-topped examination couch.
The glossed plastic of the seemingly sprayed-on knickers trapped light in little puddles that served to emphasise the shadowed cleft whereat the back-seam dipped sharply down and inward, practically disappearing from view, and where the cleverly contrived construction while moulding the buttocks into an eye-pleasing heart shape simultaneously drew the swelling cheeks widely and quite lewdly apart. The eye was quite naturally drawn over the perfect mirror-sheen surface of white plastic coated globes, bringing the suggestion to mind of two over-inflated balloons sat side by side, and down on, along the tightly-lined plastic valley to where the slippery fabric again pressed outwards, puckering and pulling into a glossed and detailed outline of intimate lips already moistening in the unrelenting humidity of their covering. Somehow this thin yet tough PVC sheaving managed to reveal even more intimate detail than if the girl had actually been naked - something she was only too keenly aware of and that brought colour to her cheeks even before a procedure that humiliatingly took control from her of one of her most basic bodily functions.
At the centre of the back-seam of these purpose designed knickers the plastic thickened and turned inwards for a couple of centimetres, thus forming a semi-rigid sleeve that connected with the outside world by way of an elastic-circled sphincter of plastic fabric mirroring the puckered pink flesh beneath into which the sleeve was designed to worm its way. This feature was customarily aided in its purpose by having been liberally coated with a medical lubricant beforehand and once in place it was simplicity itself to introduce the big black ribbed rubber enema nozzle into the girl's backside, from between who’s swelling plastic coated buttocks the length of red rubber tubing now protruded so obscenely. Copyright Gath P Toyntanen 2009

A Writing Update, Asylum Nurse Slippering, a New Blog and a Right Old Cock-up

I wonder how many of you have ever produced a piece of work and then realised some days later that somehow you had closed down the document and forgotten to save it. Well, that is presumably exactly what has happened to me recently. I wrote a nice piece of dialogue for the new volume on Friday, I can remember practically every part word for word, well almost, (which is a lucky thing, considering - as it looks as if I shall have to rewrite it from scratch). Yesterday, while out and about with my portable machine, I settled down in a friendly coffee bar intending to continue where I had left off; only finding myself unable to find any trace whatsoever of what I'd previously written. I checked deleted files, files that I had e-mailed to myself as backup, files on both the memory sticks that I carry with me and even the main story file itself, in case I had already inserted the text - all to no avail. For while it almost seemed as if I was going out of my head - a possibility if it was not for the fact that I can remember so distinctly what I wrote. As is the last few days of the Grand Wetherspoon's beer Festival I promise myself a couple of days of partaking of a few ales and meeting up with one or two old chums but now it looks as if I shall have to park myself up in one of their fine establishments with my computer and rewrite the piece while it is still fresh in my memory and while I still have the enthusiasm to write the continuation piece that I had planned to work on yesterday.

The whole thing revolves around one of our young heroines arriving with her escort at a therapist’s office in the West End of London, having been persuaded, some time previously, of the necessity of seeking professional support and having had to date attended many such appointments. More specifically, the part that I had planned to work on yesterday - and that I hope to get my teeth into today - simply deals with the doctor's receptionist taking the girl’s outerwear from her at a coat stand in the waiting room and with the girls reluctance to be helped off with her outdoor things, despite the fiery summer's day outside and the waiting room being somewhat over-warm as a consequence. It doesn't sound much but it requires quite a lot of detailed descriptive work - and work that I relish to tell the truth, dealing as it does with the rationale behind an obviously sweltering and pink faced late teen girl and a heavy gabardine garment worn on one of the hottest days, driest, days of the year. But before I can allow myself that little imaginary excursion I have to deal with the more mundane workaday dialogue that leads up to that point - the stuff that I wrote on Friday and shall have to write again. So I'm off to the Southgate Wetherspoon's (because it's a lovely sunny, blue-sky sort of a day here in London and that pub catches the sun in the afternoons) to have a few pints and get a little writing done - that way it is not work!

The above artwork, someone sent me anonymously recently. It has nothing to do with the piece I have just been outlining to you but I love it because it nicely illustrates a situation I've had in mind whereby (albeit in a watered-down form) one of our heroines, now nicely ensconced in a secure institution, is visited by the woman responsible for having manipulated the situation and having the girl placed there in first place. One can imagine the bitter chagrin felt by the girl in having that woman witness her punishment first-hand.

Finally, thanks to a comment posted on my last article, I've become aware of a nice little blog for you to check out. A very personal affair, this one - but one also chockablock with nice vintage spanking and ‘spankable bottoms’ pictures. Called Doonstartwo (I'm not sure if there is a Doonstar one) you can click here or the blog title to visit it or see the blog list in the right-hand sidebar.