Some Cover Design Ideas

Hi Ya! I'm up in a coffee bar on Muswell Hill, North London, today.  I have been knocking around a few cover design ideas for the new book.  It's practically all written now, at least in so far as I wish to take.  As I've said before: it had not not my intention to write more in this idiom once the last volume was finished, other than the occasional idea or reflection to go on the blog.  My next work had always supposed to have been something on transmissible spongiform encephalopathies (mad cows' disease, CJD and the like) and / or so-called 'protein conformation disorders'. But it's done now, all but for a few paragraphs awaiting rewriting, all that copyright statement stuff and the 'by the same author' pages.

Anyway here are a few ideas I have been playing with.  The title is not absolutely finalised yet and I'm still open to ideas as it is very easy to change last minute. The main antagonist somehow ended up being called 'Alice' (don't know why) and so 'Alice though the something-or-other' or 'Alice in something-land', or 'Alice in wonder-something' came to mind, or some punning stereotypical horror based on one of these formats. I'm kind of glad I have not been seriously tempted down one of theses avenues (unless one of you has some outstandingly original idea or concept of course!).

Among other titles I am toying with are those including the words 'Tethered', 'tethering' or 'leash'. Alternatives that come to mind include; 'Alice Tethered' 'Alice: The Tethered Heiress', 'Tethering Alice', 'Alice on a Leash', 'Alice: Heiress on a Leash' and 'Girl on a Leash'. 

Just to explain: The term, 'tethering' is something I have used within the storyline as a direct replacement for the term 'shadowing'. The latter term was one used historically to refer to a particular disciplinary regimen operated within a real-life institution that I have used as inspiration in an attempt to inject a little more plausibility into the storyline. While the regime was not dreamed up by yours truly, it might well have been. It is certainly another of those 'you-could-not-make-it-up' (should-not-make-it-up?) factual (allegedly) inspirational sources, albeit adapted and augmented for literary purposes (but frighteningly, not exaggerated by much!). The crux of this technique harks back to a question postulated a few posts back; whether or not to alow some modicum of social contact between inmates.

To quote from the source: “Shadow[ing] meant she must be as close to her assigned staff member as a shadow at all times. She was not to speak, or look at anyone. She was to essentially disappear in the bustling close quarters of ------------- house. She was to become a 'shadow'”.

And: “Ten weeks passed and ------- [had] seemed to [have sunk] into herself. The bright, snapping intelligent eyes that never missed a thing [had] faded. She [had] spent hours [obliged to stare blankly] at the floor or the wall and had learned to [follow behind] staff without even a glance towards them or looking at her destination... Thirty weeks passed and she had begun wetting the bed. Forty weeks passed and [the] proud, [intelligent teenager] [had been left an empty shell]. [The once rebellious young woman] would [now sit passively, not moving a muscle] unless she heard someone approach, [when] she would then [cringe against the wall, submissively].”

The above is nothing like anything that appears in the book of course - I messed  around with it a whole lot more and it is realy only the concept I have stolen. I have to say, though, that this particular vein of source material  was an extremely influential one when it came to defining one certain section of the storyline (albeit, a relatively small fraction)... Well, I'm sure you get the idea!

A Contributed Essay

I’ve just signed up for ‘Artastic Tender Bottoms’, a forum on ‘Spanking Scouts’ (“Your source for adult spanking”), run in conjunction with the ‘Chross Guide To The Spanking Internet’ (see blog list in right hand sidebar). It’s free to join, chocablock with spanking art and other delicious stuff and it’s easy to sign up to – CLICK HERE). Anyway; you’re sure to find an interesting thread to follow (I posted a comment there myself – and I rarely do that; I just lurk, sinisterly, in the background). It is also where these fine Julian Guile works were pinched from. As it says on the forum (and I couldn’t have put it any better myself - which is why I’ve directly quoted):

“Julian Guile is an artist who works mainly in pencil, drawing erotic fantasy scenes of young women in punishment situations. Facial expression used to convey emotion is significant to Guile's work, sometimes giving the images just a hint of dark humour. The scenes he portrays usually take place in domestic or rather old fashioned school and reformatory type settings. His girls are mature, yet with a look of innocence and there is usually an element of humiliation in his pictures with the act of undressing and enforced nudity playing an evident part to the girl's punishment.”

Quite!

Like many others, I have often wondered if Julian Guile, Hobbes (or Hobbs) and Thorn are one and the same person – but let’s not go there. Suffice it to say that I came across the aforementioned forum while searching for the work of Julian Guile prompted by an email request I received.

Talking of emails: some time ago ‘imreadonly2’ emailed me a piece he originally conceived as a comment to be appended to ‘Now, That is What I Call Domination! Or is it? Discuss! (Part 1)’ (Friday, 16 March 2012 – click to go straight there). He was having a few problems posting and I was going to do it for him but then suggested I might post up as a main entry instead. Then I mislaid or deleted the email – and he was kind enough to re-send it – then I just plain got sidetracked (sorry, ‘imredonly2’!). So here is ‘imredonly2’s essay – the pics sort of go with it if you use a little imagination. He was interested in the phrase "gradual erosion" (used in the original post) and imagined this concept put to practice:

An Essay by ‘imreadonly2’

Imagine Kate, a lovely, doe-eyed wife of 28 who, with her Army husband, has made friends with the Reformatory's Headmaster. Both husband and wife have expressed a strong support for "law & order" and have been special guests of the Headmaster for several instructive evenings where Kate, gape mouth, watched as a wide variety of delinquents were disciplined. The Headmaster watches Kate's reaction to the whippings carefully, taking special note of the way the winsome wife bites her lip nervously as the girls are fastened over the punishment horse, and winces and jerks her bottom in sympathy with every stroke.

Katie expresses her sympathy with the "exposure" of the young women straddling the punishment horses, the Headmaster's tart response leaves her aghast. "Curious, my dear, how you identify not with the chastisers performing their wholesome and necessary corrections, but the delinquents and miscreants in need of discipline. Perhaps I should assign YOU a punishment horse, and place you in the front of the line, so that the executioner and his assistant tire their arms out correcting you, and spare the gentle, tender bottoms of the criminals you so wish to coddle."

Katie's husband laughs heartily at the sally, and the Headmaster joins him, but Katie's blushing, pie eyed reaction makes the Headmaster wonder if the lovely young woman with the spotless reputation might indeed harbour sympathies that are entirely inappropriate.  When her husband is stationed overseas, the Headmaster asks if Kate wishes to visit the reformatory for lunch "and perhaps sit in on a class or two." Kate eagerly agrees, and wearing her very smartest and most stylish business attire, attends Miss Pempleton's Recitations.

Upon entering the room her attention fixes on the row of straps, tawses, and canes hanging on peg hooks on the cupboard. She finds it curious to see such antiques on display in this day-and-age, and imagines they are merely part of the room's old fashioned décor, like the wooden peg holes in the desk where the inkwells used to go.

Strangely discomforted at the notion of sitting on one of the old wooden benches attached to the ancient school desks, Kate stands demurely at the back of the room, staring transfixed at the disciplinary relics of a forgotten age.

Kate's shocked when 19 year old Peggy misses a word of HAMLET, and is ordered to touch her toes, with her uniform skirt pinned up and her knickers around her knees, "for a taste of the tawse". Miss Pempleton finds Kate's naiveté amusing, and lays on Peggy's stripes with great vigour, so as to impress upon her amazed, slack jawed visitor the earnestness of the school's approach to discipline.

After several such "fieldtrips" Kate's shock dissipates and she gradually accepts the necessity of strict discipline. Sensing the change in her attitude, the Headmaster innocently wonders aloud if Kate might wish to TAKE a class, rather than merely observe one. Recitations, perhaps?

Kate demurs, and chooses a basic Algebra class, quite simple for someone with a Masters in Physics. Kate finds the work quite easy, and loves doing the problems with the other girls. She makes fast friends with several of them, even taking it upon herself to tutor several of them after class.

Her teacher watches closely as Kate gradually enmeshes herself with other students, and with the teacher's encouragement the students soon embrace Kate as one of their own. Kate chatters with them, studies with them, and furrows her brow as she diligently takes her "exams." The change is slow and gradual, but within a few weeks Kate's manner becomes less like a successful young woman and more like a schoolgirl.

The Headmaster is pleased to see the change in his demeanour, and smiles when he spots Kate gossiping with the other students before class. If you closed your eyes, and heard only her high pitched giggles, you might imagine she was a student…

But alas, in her stylish business attire, Kate does not look like a student. It is a lapse the Headmaster fully intends to correct.  Kate considers herself a model pupil and is rather surprised to be summoned to the office for a sombre conference with her teacher and the Headmaster.

"We are deeply concerned that your appearance, most specifically your makeup, jewellery, and clothing, might be having a disruptive effect on the girls. If you wish to continue your class, we must insist you wear a proper school uniform, and conform to the dress code, like all the other girls."

Kate is thunderstruck. She DID show off her earrings a bit, and discussing her outfits with the other girls, but surely it isn't a crime for a young woman to dress fashionably?

The Headmaster is adamant. "You may withdraw from the class, in which case you will receive an 'F', your first ever, I believe. Or you may successfully complete your studies, in proper uniform."

Katie bristles at the suggestion, for the Headmaster has touched a nerve. She has never failed at anything in her life!

"But sir…"

The Headmaster's eyes narrow as his voice hardens into the tone he reserves for his naughtiest students. "A proper uniform, young lady, right down to your green knee socks and bottle green knickers," he says, snapping the syllables in the word "knick-ers" in a way that momentarily diverts Kate's attention to the arsenal of canes hanging on the cupboard door. "Do I make myself clear?"

Kate swallows hard and nods. Fidgeting under her Headmaster's disapproving gaze, she feels oddly discombobulated, frightened, and ashamed. She can't explain her feelings to anyone, not even herself, but she knows she wants to be good, and please her Headmaster, and above all avoid another meeting in this office.

The girls are shocked when clothes-horse Kate shows up the next morning sans makeup, wearing the blazer, tie, knee socks, and short skirt that brand her as an academy girl. Her appearance is so radically different that most of the girls don't recognize her, and it isn't until the "new girl" nervously squeezes into Kate's old wooden desk, carefully smoothing her short shirt and blazer as she does so, and adjusting her tie, that the puzzle is solved.

The Reformatory hosts women 18-40, but in their uniforms all of them look, and act, like schoolgirls. Her teacher smiles, for 28-year-old Kate has now joined their ranks.

Over the next two weeks the teacher keeps the Headmaster posted on Kate's progress. Stripped of her stylish togs, Kate become increasingly diffident, less confident. Her teacher contributes to her condition by giving her complex problems to do in front of the class, urging her to finish quickly, and then pointing out her every mistake with an increasing sense of impatience. Unsure of her abilities, Kate's tutoring of the other students ceases, and her popularity with the other girls fades.

The Headmaster watches Kate closely, taking pleasure in her nervousness in his presence, the halting nature of her speech, and her nervous habit of trying to tug her short school skirt (for Kate is tall for her age) just a bit longer. The Headmaster, expressing concern for her enunciation, prescribes a daily two hour session with Miss Pemrose. Unfortunately, under Miss Pemrose's stern and disapproving review of her every utterance, Kate's occasional stammering soon mushrooms into a distinct stutter.

The Headmaster does his part to impress everyone with Katie's new role, greeting her in the hallway as if she were his newest student, and never missing a chance to verbally chastise her for "dallying", "slouching", "hair twirling" "fidgeting" or some other imagined offence. These verbal corrections elicit smiles and giggles from some of the other girls, and make it clear to everyone that whatever her former position the Headmaster regards the uniformed young wife as a young lady very much in need of correction.

After a few weeks an imaginary parking shortage forces Kate to sacrifice her parking pass, and she is soon required to take a lengthy public bus ride, in uniform, every morning. After several complaints to the Headmaster about her plight, he suggests she might be happier living at the Reformatory, and sleeping in the dormitory "with the other girls."

Katie, embarrassed at her inability to stutter a reasonable defence, reluctantly drops her car keys into the smiling Headmaster's outstretched palm.

The next morning Katie is highly embarrassed to finds herself standing naked in an enormous gang shower, washing herself with a gritty and foul smelling carbolic soap. She becomes even more self conscious when a few of the other girls tease "Ka-Ka-Ka-Katie" about her "flat boobies" and "skinny legs." Tragically, the bullying only makes her stuttering worse.

Katie is horrified a few days later when the Headmaster and a few of his friends casually walk through as Katie and the other girls are showering. Katie is mortified, but he pays her no mind; she is simply another naked girl in a sea of bare breasts and bottoms.

After a few days of spending her afternoons reading in the library, Kate is summoned to the Headmaster's office, where his secretary presents her with a full class schedule. Katie protests and asks to see the Headmaster, but is told tartly that "he is busy, and doesn't have time to listen to you stutter on-and-on without saying anything. There is a lengthy list of students who wish to see him, and the naughty, disrespectful ones go first. I can place you on that list, or you may return to class." Katie, feeling like an ant under a magnifying glass under the Secretary's burning smile, withdraws her protest, and scurries off to class.

The pace of the transformation quickens, and to Kate's horror she finds that her "institutionalization" has taken on an unstoppable momentum. Kate finds she is no longer permitted to leave on weekends, "at least until the end of term." A few days later, Katie is surprised to receive an appointment slip for the school's barbershop, where a grinning old letch of a barber quickly reduces her stylish coif to a pageboy cut "that lets those big floppy ears of yours show."

Katie's attempts to contact her husband are denied, although she is assured that he is in constant communication with the Headmaster, and "approves heartily of your progress, and is pleased with your ongoing reformation."

Kate, or "Katie Cow-Ears" as she is now know, has a schedule of Algebra, Latin, World History, Gym, and, of course, Recitations. She studies very hard, but when the inevitable happens, and she fails to stutter her way thru "chanticleer" in her recitation of AS YOU LIKE IT in front of the laughing class, she finds herself ordered to the front of the room!

Watching from the back the Headmaster smiles. Little Katie is too cowed to protest, but even if she dared, her stuttering has rendered her unintelligible. Meekly she touches her toes and grits her teeth as Miss Pemrose pins up her skirt and lowers her regulation knickers to her knees. Katie makes no protest as the cane whizzes thru the air. Like all naughty girls, she merely promises to be "ga-ga-ga-oood."

On the next punishment night Katie finds herself straddling the punishment horse with her bare thighs tightly squeezing the leather. How long ago was it that she herself sat in the crowd, watching eagerly as the girls were strapped down into place? It seems like another life...

In the front row, Katie spots her husband, who is sitting next to his new girlfriend, a little tart who has been attempting to steal his affections for years. Katie will come to know her well, for over the next few months her romantic rival will assume the role of Katie's stepmother, and Katie will be forced to stand in the Headmaster's office and listen as she and the Headmaster discuss the most effective tools for chastising Katie's naughty bottom.

SWISH! The first stroke lands, Katie winces and jerks her bottom suggestively. But this time, the pain is not in her mind.

Just a Little Something I Knocked Up Today for the New Book

Here's just a little something I knocked up today for the new Book. The scene is in an attic room converted into a 'schoolroom' in a country house in the south of England. It's more a scene-setting thing than anything else but give it a try anyway. The pictures are just a couple of things I've found and nothing really to do with the story as such. Oh! And it may well be full of typos, for which my apologies in advance - it is at that kind of stage; please let me know.

The Importance of Keeping Count

She stood resting against the wall at the back of the room. Here she could observe the scene without the girls being certain they were being watched. It was that element of uncertainty that was so important in fostering the sense of being under control she wished to reinforce in her charges; it kept them off balance. Levering herself upright she wandered between the school desks, casually observing the girls’ work as she moved toward the front of the classroom, their twin beribboned heads bent dutifully to their studies in the unnerving silence.

Today she had dressed in her white blouse, the crisp white shirt-collared one that she knew exaggerated her tendency to appear domineering; but that was something of an advantage here. Trim waisted and tailored where it mattered, it emphasised the aggressive thrust her long-line corselet gave to her bust. Finished off with a dark grey tie that tucked in to the waistband of her skirt, it also provided just a hint of intimidating masculinity. This she had teamed with a dark grey worsted pencil skirt having a hemline coming to within a couple of inches of her knees. Her athletically trim legs were encased in perfect dark-tan stockings of the old-style fully-fashioned variety she favoured and showed off calves stretched to their most adventurously shapely extreme by a pair of black stilettos.

Her coloured auburn hair – she’d had it dyed especially for the impact she wished to achieve - she had swept up, pining it behind a half-moon tortoise comb and forming an austerely tight bun. The latter’s rich hue, she knew, threatened to clash with her thin lips and nails - both attributes painted a glaring matching post-box red - but she knew it was a look she could carry off. Even if, against her naturally pale, almost alabaster, complexion, the effect was a little stark, she knew that element of starkness was something she could use to her psychological advantage.

Having reached the front of the classroom she stepped up on the dais, turning on her heel and stepping smartly in front of her desk, her heels clicking noisily on the hollow platform as she did so. Leaning back lightly against the desktop, supporting her weight with her left hand while simultaneously rattling the school cane against one of its legs with her right, she feigned a cough.

“Sit up straight! Now, girls, pick up your pencils – you are going to be taking notes; we’re going to be discussing your futures, your prospects if you will.” The imperious hazel-eyed school mistress surveyed the scene with what she fondly imagined to be a friendly, almost affable smile on her expertly made-up face. Discipline bolstered by punishment, yet tempered with love, even if affected; that was the way to mould the minds of impressionable young women like these two. By the time she was finished with them the two of them wouldn’t know if they were coming or going – but they would know how to obey her, they would want to obey her. In fact they would seek to earn her approval at every turn.

"Tell me, what do you see as the purpose of education?” It was a rhetorical question, as so many were that she posed; smiling, she went on without pausing for an answer. “Well, I’ll tell you – very little in terms of academic subjects as far as girls of your very limited levels of accomplishment are concerned. To be honest, there are very few jobs out there these days suitable for girls, such as your selves, that are… how should I put this? ...somewhat intellectually challenged, as far as I have been able to determine. Those paths that are available are unlikely to be particularly academically challenging.” She smiled condescendingly at the timid pair of young girls seated trembling before her as she spoke, her gaze shifting from one to the other in turn, continuingly gauging the effect her words were having on further quashing their spirits. She went on, leaving a pause for effect.

“…Domestic service, perhaps waitressing? …Shop girl?” She pressed a finger to her lips pensively, as if genuinely actually pondering. “…No, no, not shop girls – too much initiative required. And you, Alice, with your agoraphobia, your fear of the outdoors… Well, I guess waitressing would be out of the question…”

The sour faced school mistress softly laughed at that observation, her hands now in the attitude of prayer, her index fingers tapping together in an expertly affected show of faux consideration. Absentmindedly flicking an errant strand of hair that had somehow had the temerity to have escaped the austere grip of her tightly wound bun, she went on.

“…It would have to be something ‘live-in’ I think… Not children’s nanny - I don’t think you could be considered a responsible enough adult to be trusted with children; not with your history of drug problems. And besides; you’re ‘known’ to the police – that alone should be enough to put most people off!” She gave a knowing little laugh as the target of her belittling reddened prettily, the teenager’s glowing cheeks set off by the diagonal red stripe incorporated into her school tie and hair ribbons. “…No, for you, young Alice Marchment, it would have to be something ‘domestic’, something ‘in service’ as they would have said in the old days, but nothing too intellectually challenging; it would have to be a pretty menial position, I’m afraid, something right down at the bottom of the pile.”

Alice bristled inside, yet rather than the steaming anger that might once have soared up within her there was instead a sort of grumpy ‘acceptance under protest’. It was so unfair, all this constant questioning of her intelligence. She had been doing quite well at school… She had – hadn’t she? But that school report she had been handed… and now that letter, recently arrived, cancelling the university place that had been offered ‘on advice’… What did all that mean? She had become such a ‘muddle-head’ of late, perhaps… No, she was clever than that, she knew she was… If only she didn’t feel so ‘sheepish’, if only she had more self confidence! But she looked like a child, she felt like a child… No…they’d made her look like a child… they’d made her feel like a child.

Whatever the truth, nevertheless Alice sensed her shoulders sag, felt her eyes drop away, heavy with shame and she began to contemplate the Formica top of the school desk she was made to sit at day upon endless day. She knew every inch of its annoyingly finely ruled beige chequer pattern, just as she knew every nuance, every accent, encoded within the insistent, incessant tick, tick, tick of the school clock up on the wall and the fact that, try as she may, it was never possible to hear anything of the world beyond that nerve-twisting sound… The sheer monotony made her want to scream, to the point at which her teacher’s voice, even at its most humiliatingly belittling and bullying extreme, had become something that she mentally begged for – anything to fill in that dreadful silent void between one ‘tick’ and the next…

And every so many ‘ticks’ would come a heavier ‘tock’ - and every so many ‘tocks’ there would be a slightly heavier, more resonant, sort of woody, ‘tock’. Then there was that odd, metallic ‘scrunch’ – that only happened a few times per day; but she knew exactly how many ‘ticks’, ‘tocks’ and ‘woody tocks’ had to pass before a ‘scrunch’ came… It was important! She knew exactly how many ‘ticks’ made up a ‘tock’ and how many ‘tocks’ made up a ‘woody tock’ and exactly how many of those had to pass in turn before one of those metallic ‘scrunches’ would arrive.

More importantly she knew, or thought she knew, how many of those crunchy metallic ‘scrunches’ constituted a ‘school’ day. She had decided they would be hourly, it being a mechanical clock and all. But the trouble was that the roughened metallic quality was not particularly prominent, in reality little more than a subtle change in the character of the clock’s chanting, perhaps some defect in a cog somewhere; it had to be listened out for. She could – and did – count the ‘woody tocks’; but they constituted an even subtler variation in the timepiece’s voice. The basic ‘ticks’ and ‘tocks’ were easier to differentiate, but there were so many to count… so, so many. A cough, a chair scrape – the teacher’s, hers and Angel’s were an integral part of their desks –and the count was gone. Similarly the click of the teacher’s high heels – and she often wore stilettos more suited to a ball than to a classroom – would wreck her counting. She had burst into tears on one occasion simply because her teacher had risen from her desk and strolled across the room, yet still she had counted on.

She’d tried keeping time, surreptitiously tapping a toe when some sound detracted from the school clock’s rhythm, counting the taps rather than the ticking – she was doing it now while the teacher was speaking. Sometimes, if she’d been caned, the throbbing in her bottom would interfere and she’d find herself counting that instead. She’d also tried to stop herself, but that had failed also. Nor could she ignore it; it wouldn’t let her.

If only the hands would turn, as a clock’s hands were supposed to – but she knew they wouldn’t, they never had; it just ticked and ticked and ticked… What was the point of a clock it didn’t tell the time? Ah! But it did, it did! If you could only count the ticks and the tocks and the clicks and the clunks…

She’d lost count again, she was sure of it… It was so easy to lose count… And if she was made to do arithmetic, then how could she concentrate, how could she not lose count then? It was no wonder her school work was so poor…

What was the woman saying now? If she was going to make a good impression… what was that… sewing and cleaning and serving at table… no she’d be too clumsy at that…cleaning and polishing then…and keeping her uniform crisp and her apron starched, yes she could do that, that was important too! Sewing lessons, domestic training – no maths, no sums… it was going to be so much easier to keep count… she wouldn’t lose count… and it was important to keep count. If only that damn clock would stop that incessant ticking! But then she’d lose count, there would be nothing to count… Damn! She’d lost count… She’d have to start again… She was always losing count… Why was she doing it? Losing count or losing her mind? Or was it both?

Why was she thinking about losing her mind? She wasn’t losing her mind – just because her stepmother had her seeing a psychiatrist or psychologist or whatever… just because that woman wanted her in that clinic of hers, in that psychiatric hospital… just because they made her dress in school uniform, bend for the cane and didn’t let her leave the house any more. Why, perhaps that hospital would be a way out, if she went along with it, with what the psychologist woman wanted – she would be out of her stepmother’s grasp there, she could get help there… if only she could keep count…but the teacher’s voice…can’t hear the clock properly…I’ll go out of my mind if I can’t hear the clock…

“…Alice! Alice!… Alice Marchment – are you going out of your mind? Stop tapping your foot this instant… Get yourself out here and get yourself bent over my desk immediately – knickers down, skirt up and arms folded across the small of you back. Six strokes for you my girl – for inattention... and make sure you keep count!”

Miss Marianne Martindale's 'Wildfire Club' Publications: In Answer to a Reader's Inquiry

Anonymous' has left a new comment on the posting "More on Non-Corporal Punishment / Discipline" in which he (or she – there are some that visit here) asks whether there is any chance of posting the missing pages from the scanned extracts I posted regarding written impositions. (Way back on Thursday, 8 October 2009; Nostalgia–holic Garth).

The thing is: the book the extracts he (or she) is referring to came from is not one of mine but rather a work entitled 'THE FEMALE DISCIPLINARY MANUAL'. Now, I don't think it is right to scan in someone else's work in its entirety – a few snatches, sure (that's just being a little like Google books) but not everything; not even a complete section. In fact I'm not at all sure that I even posted a complete page, just isolated pargraphs mostly, cut and pasted together in a photo-manipulation package. However there is a link on the page (Click HERE or click on the blog page title above to visit) that will take you to an earlier group of extracts that I had previously posted.

Unfortunately I didn't have sufficient time to scan any more of the work – let alone the complete book – even for my own future delectation and delight. Secondly; sadly I no longer have the book, having since donated it to my good E-friend and arty collaborator 'Snooze' over there in the 'States, who's work you will have come across here gracing one or two past postings. The book was published by Miss Marianne Martindale's 'Wildfire Club' ca 1996 (-ish; I think) and – like the example of another of their publications I came across, above – was by Miss Regina Snow. Have a Google! I'm sure you'll find a fair selection of new and used copies through the usual outlets.

As for myself; I have recently returned from a little tour around the Romney Marsh area of Kent (Hythe, Dymchurch, Camber Sands, Lydde) and ajoining regions of East Sussex (Rye, Hastings, Battle and Winchelsea) – of which more next time.

Louis Malteste: I tried it… And I liked it!

An anonymous contributor wrote, as a comment appended to my last posting : “The first illustration is by an artist who went by the name of Louis Malteste (French 1870-1920). If you enlarge the posted illustration you can make out his signature. In addition to producing formal works of art he also illustrated erotic French novels. More of his outstanding spanking illustrations can be found on the web by searching his name.”

Well I tried it… And I liked it So much so that I just couldn’t resist posting up this little confection I came across, happened upon at a blog called “The Seduction of Venus” (now added to blog list – see right hand sidebar) a wondrous repository of “erotic artworks and photographs from throughout history”. Well worth a visit! Just click the blog’s title, above, or search out in the blog listing. I'd come across one or two works in this style in the past but I'd never specifically searched for Louis Malteste's work before. There is quite a body of work out there it turns out, and quite a lot capable of kick-starting the jaded imagination. Refreshing and just what I needed (thanks for that 'Anonymous')!

Actually I have come across quite a few blogs new to me of late while researching certain topics to finish off the new book. Most I have already added to the blog roll and I’ll post a complete list next time.

'Psychological Governance’, Nuns and the 'Wayward Girl'

A series of pieced-together extracts from a series of articles regarding certain religious houses for ‘morally wayward girls’ that existed through the 1950s and even up until the 1970s, offering “shelter and guidance to vulnerable girls and women.”

“The Sisters and courts working together decided when a girl was ready to leave the Home, but since the courts in turn relied on the Mother Supior's recomendations, her word was effectively law" and woe betide the girl who threatened the status quo - or who she took a shine to!
"Security and rehabilitation were big issues. The girls could not be trusted and neither could the outside world. To prevent residents from seeing the outside world and leaving the Home, locked doors and opaque glass had been installed behind barred windows, barbed wire fences, and alarm systems. There was no television, nor radio; listening to music was allowed, though the girls weren’t allowed to listen to male voices. [At mealtimes] the girls [were obliged to maintain] silence as they entered the dining room and sat down. Two nuns supervised lunch from an elevated platform and they frequently used the time to read and censor the girls' mail. In the dormitory, [each girl’s] toiletries [had to be kept] lined up with precision, with each item being assigned a specific placement.

Though these measures appeared harsh for some; for others, it offered protection and safety and enabled to them to concentrate on [rehabilitation]. In the sewing room, the girls and nuns made school uniforms, all clothing being [marked with a number, designating the individual girl.].”

From another source we hear of the “unfortunate necessity” to employ “certain drastic measures and remedies [in order] to control the risk of the introduction and spread of head lice”. And that although “alternatives were available and marketed at very little expense”, a preventative approach was to be preferred and “conferred certain other advantages”. The article goes on to guardedly hint at these ‘advantages’ pertaining to “good order and discipline” and to “the three vows of poverty, chastity and obedience”. We are left in blissful, blameless ignorance as to the details of these ‘unfortunate’ “drastic measures and remedies” and their ramifications – but we might hazard a guess.

Here again there is mention of the importance of an “emphasis on silence as a means of focussing attention on God”, “frugality in all things” and the provision of what is described as a “bare ‘maintenance diet’ – sufficient to keep from losing weight, yet [insufficient] t o risk encouraging the sin of gluttony with its associated unwarranted weight gain”. This particular institution was said to have “embodied regimented discipline”, imposed “extreme restriction on freedom of movement and privacy” and to have “embraced a culture of petty rules and restrictions” that “limited to the extreme [the] opportunities [for] forming personal one to one relationships between inmates”. The emphasis throughout was “one of conformity” with a “reliance on corporal punishment [for the maintenance] of discipline and good order”.

Elsewhere, albeit regarding an entirely separate establishment, it is somewhat enigmatically stated that “…the more closely [the institution] is modelled on the judicious application of the principle of psychological governance, the more salutary will be its discipline, and the fewer occasions will arise for resort to actual [physical] punishment”.

What this cryptic ‘principle of psychological governance’ might have consisted of is not expanded upon. However, it is noteworthy that in the same pamphlet it goes on to state that: “…any physical chastisement [may] consist of moderate childish punishment with the hand or punishments with the cane, strap, or birch” and that “only a light cane or rod [should] be used for the purpose of corporal punishment inflicted on an open palm”. Certain orders of nuns had experience of setting up and governing correctional facilities for women stretching back three hundred years or more, so one may assume that they knew what they were doing when it came to exercising control – psychological or otherwise – and that any young woman, however blameless, once delivered in to their hands would have quickly come to the conclusion that defiance was not an option. Nor was the likelihood of absconding particularly buoying, as I am given to understand it – after all the nuns had had time aplenty to refine the security precautions surrounding their ‘sanctuary for wayward young women’. And security was essential if they were to protect a young woman from further sin – even if (particularly if, some would say) that ‘sin’ or ‘moral infraction’ amounted to little more than having run from a craftily manipulative stepparent, an intolerably overbearing governess or a cruelly exploitative and equally manipulative guardian or indeed just having foolhardily rejected certain amorous advances.

One should never lose sight of that old “Victorian propensity to commit errant wives and stepdaughters to the asylum at the drop of a hat (or at the hint of an inheritance)”. And often a charitable donation made to such an institution spoke volumes, certainly carrying as much weight, if not more, than a learned doctor’s opinion (although the latter could be easily enough swayed if one had sufficient influence). There seems little doubt that certain of these ecclesiastical ‘shelters’ may well have fulfilled a similar purpose, a simple statement attesting to the poor thing’s ‘hysterical instability’, propensity to ‘overwrought imaginings’ and ‘delusion and derangement’ being enough to ensure that none would pay heed to any objections, accusations or entreaties the pretty, doe-eyed teenager might voice. Some mention of sexual impropriety included in the documentation, and a ‘well appointed’ buxom teenager could be assured a very hard time indeed under the reforming hand of the Mother Superior. And of course there was the added attraction of the possibility of visitation and the knowledge that any complaints, especially as such became - as they were sure to over time - more insistent and hysterical, would simply be recorded as yet more evidence of “the poor thing’s mental aberration”; more evidence to be recounted to the governors of the local asylum when the time came, should that be her guardian’s or stepmother’s wish.

The nun’s own isolation was sacrosanct and they had not been averse to adopting new modern ways over time to ensure it remained so. Similarly, it seems they had not been fazed when it came to applying modern methods to wielding the rigid control over their charges they deemed necessary in order to protect the more defiant, incorrigible and diffident of their young inmates ‘from themselves’ and once again one’s imagination is stimulated to muse over the cryptic use of that term; ‘psychological governance’.

Now, That is What I Call Domination! Or is it? Discuss! (Part 1)

See last post for explanation (but read this bit first as the last posting follows on from it)

In the comments section a couple of posts ago 'imreadonl2' wrote something interesting that caught my attention, whetted my appetite and got the ball rolling - now lets see where it rolls to:

'imreadonl2' wrote “The wonder of "institutionalization" is the way that it quickly destroys a girl's identity and sense of self.

Attending classes, eating with the other girls in the mess hall, sleeping next to them in the dorm, wearing your smart uniform, with the tie knotted tightly and your white socks straight, toeing the line. Guilty-or-not, it is soon impossible think of yourself as anything but "one of the girls."

And then there are the little indignities, which taken together, add up to a crushing weight: being addressed by your last name, being scolded for slouching, or being swatted across the behind and accused of "dallying" when you pause to chatter with your friends.

Relentlessly belittled and corrected, your self-esteem rapidly erodes. You come to think of yourself as "incorrigible" and "delinquent", the memory of your past accomplishments and accolades fading as rapidly as a forgotten dream.

You hate it when the Headmaster brings tour groups thru while you're in the shower, and feel humiliated as you feel the male visitor's eye's roam freely up and down your naked body. You comfort yourself that they don't you, or, to be more accurate, who you once were, and now see you only as what you (in your heart) now know that you are, just another naked delinquent justly and properly sentenced to an indefinite term of strict reformatory discipline.

I reply:

"Hi, 'imreadonly2'! That's an interesting analysis of the concept of the destruction (I prefer 'erosion' for some reason) of “a girl's identity and sense of self.” But it does bring up a couple of issues. For example, take the phrase; '...pause to chatter with [her] friends.'

This partial phrase in itself raises two questions in my mind. (1) Should a detainee be allowed sufficient latitude to form close relationships in the first place and (2) should inter-detainee 'chatter' be allowed under any circumstances, whatever form it might take? Imagine the sense of isolation suffered by the poor thing if surrounded by a cohort of others yet disallowed from communicating directly with any of them in any manner, under the continual threat of the cane or the strap for any slip – or indeed one of several subtle psychological punishments of even greater corrective efficacy. Surely far more psychologically stressful – if lovingly instigated, supervised, and with sufficient attention to detail - than simple solitary confinement?

The part about a subject “relentlessly belittled and corrected” resulting in rapid erosion of self-esteem and the subject coming to think of herself as "incorrigible" and "delinquent" is interesting, although I'm not fond of the terms “incorrigible" and "delinquent" in this context – 'inferior' or 'inept' might be more apt terms. As for “...the [the subject's] memory of past accomplishments and accolades fading as rapidly as a forgotten dream.” Yes, this would seem a worthwhile outcome to be expected of such a regimen. I seem to think that both aspects have been explored - both social isolation and continual belittling and correction - have been employed in a psychological research context in the past. The latter belittling and correction approach could indeed be applied quite subtly given the right context, so subtly and gradually that the subject herself might not be consciously aware of what is happening to her even as her personality is being remodeled according to someone else's template.

Now that. I think, is real domination!

On the right: The Finished Article? (Actually, just how right is this pic? Fantastic? Certainly got me thinking! If only her hands were in the prayer position it would be perfection - it's that close! Taken, or re-blogged or whatever you'd like to call it, from Cornertime for naughty girls, just click pic to visit - highly recommended!)