A Little Reiterated Reassurance

What with all the discussion recently about padded cells, baggy institutional pyjamas, nappies, plastic pants and psychological punishment in various forms, it occurred to me that it might be a good idea to reiterate something that I wrote a few moments ago as a comment on an earlier post. I'm quite keen to avoid the impression that the new book - and even the previous two volumes - is purely focused on various forms of institutional incarceration; there is plenty dealing with domestic discipline also. This is particularly the case in the new volume I am working on, wherein we gain insight into one of the character's previous life under the domination of her aunt - a woman who believed in strict discipline, petty rules and restrictions…and in the imposition of a strict and restrictive uniform for her charge as an aid to her achieving those aims. We learn more too of the subtle forms of psychological manipulation the woman - along with her psychotherapist acquaintance - employed in bringing the girl under her control. But then again, perhaps that is obvious from what I wrote a couple of postings ago.

What I'm really keen to avoid - when it comes down to it - is giving the impression that we're talking about hardcore BDSM here. In many ways nothing could be further from the truth. One thing I set out to avoid at the outset is an over-emphasis on ever escalating, ever more sadistic, corporal punishment - you know, the type of thing one sometimes reads in other novels of the genre, notably - but not restricted to - Victor Bruno et al: 100 strokes of the cane followed by smelling salts and the continuation of the vicious beating, copiously bleeding buttocks, that type of thing. By now: I have to nip off and do a couple of chores - all the way out in darkest Epping - and I have an important e-mail to deal with first.

Spanking Machines and an Italian Spanking Forum to Visit

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

A Sunny Monday Update (Posted on a Tuesday) and a Bottle-green Gymslip

I am ashamed to say that I spent most of yesterday in a pub. I'd taken my computer with me and decided to do a bit of work on the book before getting round to answer my e-mails. I actually got quite a lot written for the new book but then got sidetracked by a conversation with a fellow regular and it got all a little too late in the day. As you may know if you been following this blog; for one of my characters in the new book she is about to trade in the institution's somewhat idiosyncratic take on the good old-fashioned 1950s or 1960s style school uniform for a pair of ill fitting baggy stripey institutional pyjamas and plastic pants.

As she had been taken straight from the so-called 'schoolroom unit' to the section psychiatrist's consultation room for her customary interview and analysis session this provides a good excuse for a long winded (hopefully not too long) and typically fetishistic discussion of the highly restrictive, juvenile school uniform they have her dressed in.

As she will not be returning to the schoolroom - she is going to be placed in a small secluded room leading straight off of the doctor's consultation room enabling her to have the doctor's full attention 24/7 - she will be required to strip and change into her new and perhaps in some ways even more humiliating garb in situ, thus providing full scope for a detailed description of some of the more devious refinements that have been made to the girl's uniforms.

In addition, she receives a good long hard caning while still in her school uniform by way introducing her to her new regime and to encourage her compliance when told to get changed and to go into the tiny room that is to become her new home. Of course she is reluctant even to get changed in the first place; the pyjamas are so ill fitting that she is going to have to continually employ one hand to hitch up the trousers and it doesn't help that she has been told that the whole point is to help her to "feel more like a mental patient". You can imagine her extreme reluctance when, with her wrists in leather restraint cuffs and gingerly clutching at her baggy pyjama bottoms to stop them from simply dropping around her ankles, she is ordered into a teeny bare room in which the only furnishings are the usual standard hospital bed and a small desk and chair combination - both rather sinisterly equipped with restraints. By this point she has received a second caning for not changing straight away into her new garb and is still wildly weeping when she makes a break for it.

She gets no further than the consultation room door, which is of course locked from the outside. She rushes at the drapes behind the doctor's desk but what she finds there behind the heavy fabric only results in her becoming more frantic. Finally the problem is dealt with in the doctor's own unique inimitable style - but not in the way one might think. Without giving too much away it involves her being taken for a little sojourn beyond the institution's walls and a demonstration of psychology that leaves her docilely shuffling back to her new home with the triumphantly smiling domineering psychiatrist bring up the rear, cane in hand - the girl now knows there had never been any point in her running, but she tried to run and so must be punished in any case.

And there you have it, pretty much. Other than that I also use one of the caning sessions as an excuse for a series of flashbacks to her aunt's home and the uniform that woman made her wear while she lived there, which in turn allows me to introduce some new ideas which to be honest are not entirely 'my bag' but which introduce some interesting discipline possibilities: So we hear about her hot and rather uncomfortably sticky summer dress and the heavy bottle green gaberdine raincoat that she wears at all times when out of the house no matter the weather.

It all leads to a nice little quandary, that one: It turns out that her aunt doesn't actually insist that she wear the thing but she does dictate that if it is to be worn then it must be worn correctly, fully buttoned up, tightly belted and with the hood up. Of course in hot weather this is both impractical and looks somewhat ridiculous, but the only other option is for others to see the uniform that she has on underneath it, the fully buttoned blazer, the long-sleeved school-style summer dress - a design of her aunt's own devising - and beneath that; the full-length thick nylon slip and high-waisted long-legged school knickers.

As it is she finds it bad enough being obliged to remove her raincoat so as to sit in her aunt's car - but that's her aunt's rule and she is a very strict, very overbearing woman. The latter point is very interesting and there is some discussion as to how the girl, once quite outgoing - even outspoken - and spirited came to be so dominated by this woman that she finds herself weighed down by petty rules and restrictions, subject to corporal punishment, taken to see a psychotherapist for a series of conditions, most of which seem to have been fabricated by the woman herself, and finally told, without a by or leave or having any say in the matter whatsoever, that she is to be entered as a volunteer patient in an experimental psychology program. The rest as they say is history and I can't wait to write it!

But for now: The only person who ever speaks to young heroine or as much as acknowledges her existence is the good doctor herself and the only breaks the girl has from the tedium of her isolation are the long hours of psychoanalysis and questioning sessions she spends with the that woman. All the time all she ever hears talked about is her 'mental condition' or her 'psychological state' and if she ever speaks out about any of the ideas the doctor discusses with her or attempts to change the subject then the doctor is not shy of introducing the cane or the strap to the girl's behind. As the weeks turn into months we can only watch as she is gradually ground down by a series of procedures, some quite subtle, others less so, and a regime akin to brainwashing and designed to actually turn her in to a docile mental patient. Cruel, I know but there you have it!
Remember, though: as always this is only part of the story - there's loads more going on behind the scenes for us to learn about. Talking about 'shame clothing' and 'dress discipline' which we were - sort of - how about this little combination I recently came across (See top).

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).