Another Day, Another Barred Window

Hi there again from a blindingly bright sunny London where the sky, once again, remains free of the blemish of contrails or vapor trails or whatever folk call them these days. As you may or may not know, all thanks to a volcano in far-off Iceland there are still no flights in or out of the UK – we've pulled up the draw bridge. You find me once again comfortably seated in my local Wethespoon pub. Well, to be honest, its not the closest geographically speaking; it just the closest branch to my home from which i am yet to be barred. See what I did there? A whole different usage of the word 'barred'. The latter brings me full circle to the unfair, undeserved and exploitative symbolism I would usually attach to the word; I'm thinking narrow high windows cringing behind sinister black steel bars here of course. Saying that gives me the excuse I need to present a lovely little piece of 3D-rendered art sent to me recently and apparently inspired by my first two books – thanks, 'Snoozz'.

When first I set eyes on this little composition my first thoughts were that in the world I have attempted to evoke that window would have been covered over or at least whitewashed, surely – there is far too much scope for our young lady to distract herself there. So is allowing her an attractive panorama to gaze at compatible with the imposition of a regime of strict discipline? Well it's worth reconsidering that viewpoint, especially considering the direction I have recently – and coincidentally – been exploring in the section of the new book I have been working on.

Perhaps we can permit our heroine this one small distraction, particularly when that distraction is both ephemeral and - through it being her only avenue of escape – has the potential to assume an importance to her greater even than food or drink, however bleak or mundane the vista. Perhaps a few months, perhaps a year or more, who knows? Maybe it becomes necessary to transfer her to a new room – a windowless, bleak, despairing space. Then again; maybe a new security edict necessitates the fitting of a tough, plastic opaque security shutter. Maybe it's left more overt than that, perhaps it is an issue of discipline, a privilege than may be withdrawn or reinstated as thought necessary...Of course there is a cost attached to reinstatement. Perhaps that cost is extracted physically, in the form of a tough leather belt, folded double and laid vigorously across her plump bare behind. Then again, perhaps the cost is of a psychological nature - the latter entailing her being coerced into cooperating with some therapy or procedure she knows full well is intended to ensure she is drawn ever deeper into the web that has been set for her. Well; what do you think?

Our Institution Girl: Should We Put Her Back in Nappies?

It's the great Wetherspoons real ale festival - and my favorite pub-chain has 50 different brews up for grabs and spread across its various branches, Consequently, having finished my driving lesson for the day - and requiring a quiet spot in which to set up my traveling office and knock out a little bit of suitably inspired prose - I have come to rest in the 'Alfred Herring', Palmers Green. Only it is anything but quiet - in addition to the usual betting-shop escapees a, drunks (I do include myself - I'm not that hypercritical) and assorted crazies (the same proviso applies) the place seems packed to the rafters with the populace of the various offices that nestle above (and sometimes, alongside) the rather dowdy local shops : brain-dead 'nail technicians' and 'stylists' giggle over nothing in particular and jostle for territory with a 'deception' of estate-agents (real-estate agents, for those State-side) here and an 'apology' of financial advisers, there (I've no idea what you lot across 'The Pond' call them - but I imagine you have 'em there). As for 'yours truly' I shall momentarily be embarking on extending and embellishing a chapter that I have provisionally named 'Sparrows in the Window and Bats in the Attic' and in which I am currently working through a scene in which our hapless heroine in her baggy institutional stripy pyjamas is put to the test - or rather her mental health is...Well just what should she choose to do- should she accept the gift of a soft pink-furred teddy bear, a terry-toweling nappy, flounced hospital-issue plastic pants (knickers) in exchange for the life of her little birdie companion...or refuse and effectively place herself in an even greater perfection of seclusion...It's a diabolical little quandary - and the biting sting of the implacable psychiatrist's leather belt across her bare behind, as always, is there to spur her co-operation, which ever path she might choose. Considering, then, the pivotal role played by a simple soft toy (and I can give no more away at this stage) and a pair of plastic pants, it is all the more coincidental that only this morning I blundered upon the the little bit of art presented above; I came across it on an old backup CD while searching for something completely unconnected and have no idea of its origin. It's a lovely little image though, whatever its origin - near perfectly evocative of our little mind-controlled trollop.

Friday Addendum: A couple of Blogs and a Forum to Check Out

As an addendum to the last posting: I have added two new blogs to the sidebar blog list Erosblog - which has all sorts of stuff for you to explore – and Lesbiantoons –lesbian-orientated cartoons that you might like to explore. I've also added to the ‘Useful Resources List’ (again, see the right hands sidebar) a link to a forum discussing spanking and other relative issues and called VoyForums. As always you can click on any of the site names, above, to visit or, of course, look under the relevant category in the sidebar. The intriguing little picture to the top left I found in my e-mail pile this morning; it having been sent anonymously I have no idea of its origin but it does conjure, in my mind at least, something of the imagery I seek to evoke in INSTITUTIONALISED volumes 1 and 2. It is entitled ‘Detained’. I so love that term - Detained -it evokes blameless incarceration of every kind and well outside the limitations of the conventional judicial system. Also it is surprising what a quick rummage around Flickr can produce. With one eye to the upcoming new volume - and one chapter in particular - one cannot help but wonder what confections and possibilities might lurk in a disused old storeroom at the rear of this delightfully traditional premises. One can well imagine our young lady’s chagrin and disdainful expression as she is led past the traditional yet modern mannequins and displays and is ushered in by the elderly proprietor to a veritable wonderland of pastime idiosyncratic institutional styling, anachronistic bespoke design and flouncy - yet oddly strict and restrictive - juvenile outfits of uncertain purpose.

Where Have I Been?

I expect more curious amongst you have been wondering where I have got to. Well, unbeknownst to myself, the other half had booked a guesthouse for a few nights in Broadstairs, on the Kent coast, following on from the Easter break. A nice enough little surprise - which is more than could be said for the guesthouse. It turned out that an old church in the next street and backing on to the premises had been undergoing demolition work over the last few weeks. It was a bit of a shame that no one had thought to close the windows or to thoroughly vacuum up the layer of silver-grey dust which lent practically every object - from the frames surrounding the rather faded and twee chocolate-box-lid-art prints that lined the walls at all sorts of haphazard angles, to the tired bed frame, the top of the wardrobe and the insides of the cupboards - something of the quality of the lunar surface as seen in those old NASA photographs. The solution - to old Toyntamen's distorted mind - can bee seen, above right. LOL! The bed squeaked - no... screamed - in protest at the slightest movement, pretty much ruling out any form of bed-related conjugal adventure and the first morning saw yours truly - never known for my tolerance of noise - awaking grumpily, not to the screech of seagulls and the cooing of collared doves but rather to the insistent rattle of pneumatic drills and the rumble of a JCB (a sort of tractor / digger thing ubiquitous to building sites, road works and the like here in the UK). It turned out that the plan was for us to escort the other half's best friend's kids around the place; which actually turned out to be one of the better parts of the break as it provided the excuse to visit all sorts of historic sites such as Canterbury Cathedral and also Howletts zoo - sorry; Wild Animal Park ('zoo' is no longer 'PC' here) - which turned out to be great; all as good as it gets when you're lumbered with someone else's kids. I even managed to get a little writing done here and there; notably when having shipped off said kids and Mrs Garth (Note for all single ladies out there - or those not so single but not too choosy either: I am not actually married) to the local shopping mall's cinema for the afternoon. I actually missed out on a film that I would have quite liked to have seen just to get some words down, but I had a whole bunch of ideas in my head and the fear I always have is that by the time I get to put pen to paper, as it were, the moment will have passed and the inspiration gone off track. So keen have I been to continue with the present story arc I'm working on that, despite my desperate need to get back into the gym after a break of more than a week, upon arrival back in London yesterday afternoon I was straight into the John Baird pub in Muswell Hill, North London (named after John Logie Baird, the television pioneer) with pint in hand and computer out on my lap, typing away insanely. Actually, it was a rarity to be able to work out of doors but here in London it has finally reached a temperature conducive to pub garden orientated working. Indeed in a moment I will be off to the Ponders End Wetherspoon's to meet with an old friend but also hopefully to get a little more work done. The sun is blazing and the gym can wait until tomorrow morning (but definitely then).

Toiling in Uniform

I met up with an old school chum yesterday, in a pub in Camden Town (The Spread Eagle, Parkway, for the Camden Town initiated among you). This, as I'm sure you can imagine by now, involved bucket loads of real ale (Young’s Special, in my case) and, despite my best intentions, very little in the way of work. What did crop up, however, when mulling over times gone by, was a recollection of another old school friend many years ago standing in that very same pub and his obvious glee when telling all within earshot of how he had set up his quite attractive young wife of the time in a job as a toilet attendant working in the public toilets close to their home. To be honest I know nothing about the background to their relationship and no more was said on the matter, but to be said that she was always a quite, meek mouse of a girl and on this particular occasion, all the more attractive thanks to the pleasing little blush of embarrassment that washed over her cheeks. Anyway, this fond little memory got to me to thinking about a comment that was posted recently by an anonymous contributor and alluding to the series of correspondence that pops up on this site from time to time regarding the relationship of someone called Judith with her aunt. I realise, from one or two comments I have received, that this series of correspondence is not everybody's cup of tea and of course it has little to do with the story arc contained within my current two volumes and the upcoming new volume - though I'm always grateful for any potential source of inspiration, and there have been one or two ideas that have sprung from this source Nevertheless I thought I would reproduce this latest contribution here as not everyone reads the comments attached to the various postings

“I see that you are continuing to try and correct your niece’s behaviour by imposition of school type discipline. I am sure this is very humiliating for her but does not appear to be producing the required results. I would suggest to you again that you impose a more physically uncomfortable and constraining regime like that which was widely used here on US County Farms. Dress her in a simple dress of plain uncomfortable material such as sacking or the worsted you seem to use and nothing else except a pair of plimsolls. Find her a job in the local community which requires her to do hard physical labour at least in part in public. I am sure that the town council could utilize someone to clear rubbish, sweep the roads and clean the public latrines at minimal cost. When she is not working either have her doing your housework or physical drills. She should work from 5 am to 9 pm minimum. She should be confined at night sleeping on the floor in her dress. She should utilize a bucket and have no toilet access. Whether she can use the bucket in her cell or in front of you, you can decide. She should eat gruel for breakfast, no lunch and a mixture of mashed vegetables/potato and bread for supper. This regime should apply seven days per week. In addition I would suggest you employ corporal punishment as in the old “straffen första” program in Scandinavia i.e. corporal punishment is regularly applied for exemplary work with further applications for any failures. I would suggest eight to ten strokes of the cane to the behind twice per week as the basic application. Clearly any failures during work can be disciplined immediately “in-situ” as well as more formally later. This regime should require less administration on your part and deliver a severe punishment as well as allowing your niece to be used as an example to others.
After this for a few months I am sure that the petty indiscretions will no longer occur and your charge will be more appreciative of whatever limited privileges you grant her including if you so wish wearing uniform. Then perhaps you will be able to place your niece in a menial job of some description, where her freedoms can be limited and her dress be maintained as you see fit.”

To add my two pennies worth; I always thought the idea of this girl being allowed to work in an office job was far too lenient and offers far too much scope for her develop her independence - especially if she is allowed travel to and from work unescorted. Secondly; if she is to be kept in some sort of uniform of her aunts choosing it would surely be better if that same uniform - or some variation of it - could be retained both at work and at home and if she is to be employed in an office and to be in the public eye, this set is obvious limitations as to what may or may not be socially acceptable or expected. If she were to be placed in service, however, perhaps as a skivvy under the supervision of a suitably domineering mistress, and allowed home only at weekends than these complications disappear and her uniform can be made as humiliating as it is practical and functional with the only limitation being imagination of her employer and/or aunt. Then again there is something to be said for keeping her in the public eye, toiling day after day today under after day under the disparaging gaze of strangers - and this brings me back to the idea of finding her a suitable placement as a toilet attendant. It would be quite expected and socially acceptable for her to be kitted out with a nylon overall and apron and she could be escorted to and from her place of work with a gabardine raincoat tightly buttoned and belted over it. Of course the raincoat would return home with her aunt, to be brought back at the end of her shift for the return journey; she would thus be presented with a choice of staying at her post throughout of venturing into the street in her shabby nylon work-dress and apron. Whatever employment she is placed in I would expect all proceeds - such as they might be - any position being suitably low paid - to go straight into her aunt’s pocket. If she was to be employed as a skivvy or lady's maid then I would expect the majority of her meagre wage to go for room and board and of course to pay for her uniform in any case. Anyway, I've had a rummage around Internet this morning looking for suitable floor-scrubbing pictures and instead came up with these little gems. The dress I came across on Flickr and thought it perfect for either scenario - certainly no young lady of this day and age is going to want to be seen out and about in that and yet it is both eminently functional and smart enough for most forms of work if placed in service. The second picture is just an example of a nice little touch of shame and humiliation - perfect as an early step in taking a young woman down a peg or two when first entering an institution.

A Little Snipett Teaser

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

Watching the girl shuffling along - shoulders hunched, one hand employed hitching up her pyjama bottoms, the other hanging listlessly by her side and occasional tugging an overlong trouser leg out from under a foot – the thought occurred that the best way to proceed now might be to place the girl in total seclusion for a couple of days. Mind made up - and having arrived at the interview room – she gave the girl a hard slap on the bottom with her open palm, producing a yelp and propelling her patient towards the open doorway door.

“Come along now, back into the consulting-room you go, - that’s it, like a good little girl.”
Smiling pleasantly the doctor waited, one hand on her hip, the other holding back the heavy quilt-lined iron door, as the teenage girl shambled into the room ahead of her. The sense of triumph in her breast was almost palpable yet, sadly, she knew her elation could not be shared - indeed it was something she would have to take great care to conceal from her patient. Perhaps if she had never seen footage of the girl in a previous existence - as a self assured, self-confident young woman just coming up to her final exams, an Oxbridge place already predicted by most and a prestigious classical dance scholarship in the pipeline should she prefer - her pulse might not have been racing so, the flush less obvious around her cheeks and her breathing more measured. As it was, the stark contrast between the girl she had seen up on that screen - laughing and cavorting carelessly in her Donna Karan summer dress, her waist-length raven hair splaying out around her as she twirled - and the childishly-dependent cowed figure with boyishly-short side-parted hair shuffling unsteadily along in striped mental patient pyjamas and weeping gently, had a piquancy the effect of which she found difficult to disguise.
At one level it worried her - as a mental health professional it bothered her that she did not feel at least a modicum of compassion, let alone that she should view the scene through contemptuous eyes. She sometimes wondered if she were not, in some ways, as much a caged animal as were her charges - and equally as manipulated. But then there was that other side to her; the side that had led her to study psychology, to take up psychiatry, in a quest to rationalise her own undeniable predilections, to understand that part of her that she denied still and that was out-and-out dominant lesbian. The irony was that her denial itself was the key to understanding her personality, if only she could see it. That which roused her passion was the subjugation of her own sex and - being in denial - the guilt she laid squarely on the shoulders of the subject of that passion - especially if particularly fair of face and pleasing to the eye. The more attractive she found a young woman, the more she would seek to apportion blame and the more that attractive personality had to be curbed. This invariably resulted in still greater arousal and a burning guilt, which of course she would happily transfer to the object of her desire and which could only be assuaged by further spitefulness in retaliation. Luckily there were others who could see it, who had seen it, who had realised that here was something that might be utilised - a talent, one might say. Without the invisible guiding hand of these unknown individuals she might well have been destined herself to one day stumble around on a locked ward somewhere. Yet here she had been given free rein and thus stripped of the fear of consequence - even if not the guilt of a staunch, repressive Roman Catholic upbringing - and contrary to expectations the result had been stability and a flowering of her intellect.

Behind the reflective disguise of her black-rimmed glasses the doctor's eyes, though lacking none of their usual shrewdness, smoldered with dewy-eyed passion. The urge to upend the girl over her lap, to tug down those pyjama bottoms, to run her palms over the girl's drum-tight polythene knickers, was all but irresistible. But then again; what need was there to resist? After all, she had complete and utter carte blanc over this girl. She could draw a fingertip along the deep, sharply-defined declivity between those resilient globes, where the softly rounded elastic back seam dipped alarmingly if as if seeking to rend the girl's buttock cheeks, one from the other. She could trace around the circular outline of the cotton reel-sized rubber bung that distended and stretched the girl's sphincter - locked in place by an internal mushroom-shaped flange, its central cylindrical opening equally perfectly proportioned to facilitate the rapid insertion of all manner of suppositories or to accept the colonic irrigation nozzle. She could cup the swollen lips, clearly visible through the air-brush thin transparent polythene, feel around the coiled protrusion of the catheter and the little protruding thimble-like nubbin of the stiffened rubber clitoral hood that was there to prevent masturbation - except that it didn't, not fully.
What the latter prophylactic did do, though, was prevent culmination - it was a devilish little device, its platinum wire framework sutured into place with threaded fine wires of the same material, its internal surface lined with thousands upon thousands of fine threadlike latex strands that continually teased and tickled with the slightest movement but could do little else. She could keep the girl bent across her knee, spanking her with one hand and twiddling and rocking that little torture of Tantalus with the other, feeling the core heat of the girl's body, that young buoyant bottom, tight yet plump, desperately pressing back against her palm, the girl's hips pivoting in a psychologically damaging combination of frustration and pain. She could bring the girl close, so so close; she would keep her there, teetering on the precipice, her mind tied in a writhing, conflicted turmoil of yearning and abhorrence, confused and suggestible in equal measure and soaking up the ideas she would whisper like a sponge. She would bring the girl right to the edge, have her begging, without ever having to fear inadvertently providing the relief she craved. Then, when the girl was sobbing as much in frustration is in pain, she would push her, weeping to the floor, make her crawl to her room and have her kneel there with her hands on her head, or perhaps she might stand over her watching her frantically masturbate, soaking up her humiliation and berating her failure to satisfy herself. Alternatively she could bend the girl the across her desk, peel back the perspiration-tacky plastic of her knickers, tug them down around her knees and take the edge off her passion with half a dozen cuts or so of a nice pliant bamboo rod or, better still, a thin plaited leather riding crop. Yes, a riding crop, why not? She could almost feel it in her hands, hear it slashing through the air again and again and again, hear the girl's plaintive screams bouncing harmlessly off soundproofed walls. And she could repeat the procedure day after day, week after week, month after month; she could fixate the girl on her own bottom and on being dominated and spanked by her psychiatrist.
Indicating the girl’s usual place - the hard, straight-backed wooden chair set in front of the doctor’s desk – she gestured for the girl to take a seat. The girl sat and the woman was pleased to see her place her hands on her head without being instructed – the girl was coming along quite nicely now, she thought.

Another Blog to Visit While You Wait for the Next Volume

Just in case you missed the link posted as a comment to the update before last I have added the blog; 'Grumpy Old Fart' (sounds like me - ha ha!) to my blog list in the right-hand sidebar (or you can just click on the blog title to go straight there). Despite the title it is well worth a visit - my thanks to Summertime 75 for that. As for the artwork - it is just something that I think is evocative - at least vaguely so - of the part I am presently working on for the new volume...

And now, back to the writing.

Oh! I forgot to say; I have also just added another couple of drawings to the Picasaweb album entitled: Art by Lynn Paula Russell (Paula Meadows), which can be found under the banner of 'Spanking Artwork Albums' in the right-hand sidebar....And now back to the writing...No, really!