A Caned and Confined Debutante? or What Can Be Got From a Picture?

Where, exactly does today's illustration come in to the scheme of things?  You may well ask – and I have no hard and fast answers; thank the Lord!  For the imagination is always far richer than reality, even if that 'reality' only exists in someone else’s imaginings.  What I mean is just look at it!  I'm well aware I have featured this print before, but let us devote a little time to its analysis – then with hope you'll see what it is about it that spawned all that has just gone before (above).

To start with:  What exactly is going on here - I mean beyond the obvious application of corporal punishment? What is here, what clues have we?  

There is a stern-looking woman dressed in what appears to be some sort of authoritarian-looking uniform holding what might be a wooden paddle (or a vanity mirror?).  

There is a half-naked, kneeling, bound female figure who is dressed in a very short shift and stockings, her bottom bared for punishment.  The latter’s hands and forearms are bound behind her back, presumably so that she cannot protect her bottom, and yet interestingly her ankles have been left free, suggesting an element of discipline by which she is obliged to keep position of her own accord.  

Finally, there is a woman dressed in high-fashion as if for a genteel soirée and looking about as out of place as it gets, a rope of pearls around her slender neck.  And yet she too is holding some form of correctional implement, making her very much part of the scenario despite her incongruous appearance given the background.

Then there is the dinner plate or perhaps shallow bowel.  That dinner plate - and the part it plays (or has played) in the proceedings - has always intrigued me; indeed for me it is what the picture is all about.  The artist has included it for some good reason; it clearly plays some important part in the story otherwise why put it in?  There is no need for anything to be included at that point in the illustration if the intention was to merely depict a young woman about to be -or having been – punished in the usual sense.  Yet the platter appears to be empty and has been drawn off-centre, as if having played its part it has been withdrawn from centre stage, yet has been left in view as a reminder of its importance.  

The first question I guess comes down to whether what is being depicted is something occurring within a domestic or institutional environment.  If the latter then the question comes down to: Is the establishment in question penal, scholastic (or even a medical or psychiatric) in nature.  All of this has a bearing on what might be going on, the identity of the participants and the role of that enigmatic dinner plate - and even possibly on whatever it may have held, or perhaps still holds indiscernible to the viewer.  

The latter - that there is something resting on the plate that the artist has chosen to leave invisible to the observer for some reason - is still a possibility, despite the object’s off-centre positioning.  What makes me think that maybe that is the case is the manner in which the girl's head is bowed while simultaneously twisting towards the lunch plate or whatever it is.  If she is being made to take something from the plate’s surface with her mouth, her hands and arms having been safely removed from the equation, then the plate having been placed off-centre in the manner depicted might make sense.  The plate having been placed in that position then obliges the girl to both twist and bend forward in order to reach its surface, leaving her bottom cheeks even more exposed to the fronds of the small whip the well-dressed woman is holding while of course simultaneously making the movement far harder for the girl to carry out.

The rough-hewn platform on which the subject is kneeling would not seem consistent with a domestic environment and no detail of the surroundings can be made out, although I for one find myself forming the impression that it is somewhere quite cramped and dark.  I find it difficult from the shadowing to identify the direction the scene is illuminated from.  The plate seems to possess a narrow ring of shadow running all the way round beneath its perimeter and the girl’s back seems nearly devoid of shadow other than beneath her forearms  Both these factors suggest to me that the scene is illuminated from directly above the girl's back, the light presumably coming from a lamp of some kind, with little or no natural light coming in obliquely, which in turn argues against there being a window present.   

None of these aspects totally rules out the drama being played out on the domestic stage, as it is quite possible that this scene is taking place in some segregated, perhaps especially arranged, area of a large house, but I think there is an argument suggesting that the circumstantial evidence leans towards some kind of institution.  And of course, if it is some form of institution, even if a penal institution, then if small and privately owned it might still exist within some enclosed area of a large private house or state.  You have to remember that this was an era devoid of any welfare system and when a large land owner might well take it upon his or herself, if charitably minded, to set up a workhouse or industrial school funded from his or her own pocket - for the finest philanthropic and charitable reasons, of course.

The uniformed woman could be taken for a governess employed in a large household, just about.  And yet her uniform with its black necktie and white-collar, blouse and long skirt looks a little too severe to my mind and more reminiscent of the uniform of a prison or reform school wardress of the era.  And again, the girl's arms being fastened behind her back in that manner somehow doesn't gel with me as the sort of approach a professional governess might have taken.  One would imagine any professional governess worth her salt would have used her strength of character, domineering personality and the application of discipline to make a girl keep her hands away from her bottom rather than fall back on physical restraint.  

Once again I think this argues for some kind of institutional scenario.  The only problem is the glaringly awkward presence of the well-dressed, well appointed woman.  If the scene were taking place someplace tucked away in a large house somewhere, then her presence might be more explainable.  I suppose that within an institution of some kind she might be one of the visiting Board of Governors or the chief warden or - if some form of reform school of reformatory - then perhaps the headmistress.  But even then, would she really be dressed like that, as if about to attend some high-class social ‘do’?  And would she be sullying herself by taking part in a punishment session herself.  The only explanation I can come up with is that she has some personal interest in the character about to go under her a whip - otherwise why not merely supervise, if supervision is the reason for her being there, while the wardress administers the punishment in the normal manner.  

I like the idea of the well-dressed woman being someone visiting - perhaps breaking her journey on her way to some big dinner or other social gathering - but I feel there is some more personal aspect to it than one of the governors giving the establishment the once over.  But then who she, why is she there, why is she so smartly dressed?  As in the case of the plate, there must be a good reason she has been drawn in that manner.  And of course we still have to explain the plate itself and how that might fit in.  

But imagine if, whoever this socialite woman actually is, the social gathering, or better still, dinner - given the presence of the plate - she is off to next is one the miscreant herself might have otherwise have been attending.  Perhaps it is a formal dinner appended to one of the more major debutant ‘coming-out’ balls of the season the well-dressed socialite is about to attend, a night that should have been one of the most important of the young lady's life, had she not stepped in some eighteen months or so previously to put an end to all that.  She greased some palms with silver then, and she has crossed others with silver since and now, as she does whenever she comes to visit.  But she begrudges that expense much less than drawing the cost of the debutant season with all its attendant ball gowns, hairstyling sessions and makeup artists from the girl's trust fund - she has other uses for that.   

Tonight’s is billed as one of the top five debutante balls of the world, and the second of the season.  But she won't be mean, she will share the experience.  She will be taking her notebook with her, sketching down notes of the latest styles and fashions; who was wearing what, who was wearing her hair in which style, which girl made the best entrance and who was dating who, that sort of thing.  She'll bring it with her next time she visits, read from it, regale the girl with so many vivid descriptions she will feel as if were there.  It is a shame that she can't be, but they wouldn't be able to be much with that hair anyway - too short for the latest piled-up styles… and so matted.  But then they have the girls work so long and hard in that work room - and you can expect them to leave hair brushes lying around in a place like this in any case, when they could be used to cause harm.  She’ll have a word with them before she goes; get them to cut it a little shorter for her.

Yes, she likes to keep her ward up to date on all the latest social chatter - it seems only fair, after all it is her trust fund that makes much of it possible these days, although much goes on paying for her keep too. But that is only as it should be; the fund was set aside for her education after all and they seem to be doing a good job; etiquette, deportment, manners, voice training, needlework, they covered it all here - and so much cheaper than one of those expensive Parisian academies.  In fact under such circumstances - if she hadn't written her ward’s committal record herself, in her own fair hand - it would be free, paid for by one of the church charities she was chairwoman for.  Yes it was sweetly ironic; Home for the Delinquent, the Destitute and Young Women in Moral Peril, it said on the signboard outside the gates.  Destitute – and yet her ward was not even the wealthiest in there; there were three such like her in total.

She'll bring her ward a piece of cake from tonight’s event too, with icing on, just like she did this visit from the first ball and dinner of the season.  Perhaps the girl will eat it without all this fuss the next time.  Why, she thought she'd be grateful for it after all those meals of oats steeped in fish-head stew.  Such a nice hunk of cake - expensive cake too, fit for a debutante’s ball, which is where it came from - and yet such distaste written all over that face, that pretty ski jump nose of hers wrinkling in distaste.  Such ungratefulness, it had to be punished, and she did eat it all up in the end anyway, every crumb - so why all the trials and tribulations among why?  Must have been something to do with what it had been marinated in after she had got it home…  If she didn't like that, perhaps next time she'd add a little something to the icing - perhaps re-do it altogether... 

First impressions are lasting impressions! Just a Few Strokes of the Cane in Preparation for the Doctor's Visit

I’m just back from Eastbourne where I’ve been all week and guess what?  My internet access is working and up to speed!  So I have been hunting around tumblr.com looking for some inspirational illustrations that might fit in with some stuff I started writing while away and perhaps offer a little extra inspiration, now that I don’t’ have the beer flooding through my veins.  I haven’t actually found any specifically dealing with the subject matter (which I may well elucidate next time, but suffice it to say it is something of a departure from my usual area and timeframe).  What I did come across though was this little gem on the left.  I'm not sure of it's origin but I believe it probably comes from a photo set, some others of which I have featured before.  

I found looking at it last night that in my minds eye I instantly saw the title or caption:  Just a few strokes of the cane in preparation for the doctor's visit.  And before I knew it whole string of ideas had sprung into my head, albeit pretty much along the lines of the sort of thing I have been interested in for years, primarily the idea of the ever extending incarceration, whereby a short period, perhaps triggered by some minor indiscretion, becomes either inadvertently or deliberately extended again and again.  That is what I liked about that story by imreadonly2 or whoever it was wrote it and posted it up in the comments to my last contribution.  The part where the most minor of infringements of the institution’s rules is doubly punished, not only by the application of corporal punishment but also by an additional month added to the sentence.  

In a similar vein I remember liking a certain reform school story I once come across that was set in the Victorian or Edwardian era, the upshot of which was that at the end of the young lady's original sentence she was recommitted right before the moment of release to serve again the entire sentence from scratch.  The particularly piquant punch line was that the order had been signed in advance, at the time of the original sentencing in fact, by the elderly judge concerned (citing incorrigible ill behaviour while in custody) simply because he found the girl attractive and knew she was a runaway. 

And her original crime?  Little more than over exuberance that had attracted the eye of a gentleman, and having sworn when approached.  That action had already been exaggerated into something sounding far more antisocial on the paperwork, giving an excuse to impose a sentence the severity of which went well beyond such a petty misdemeanour.  And of course having already been convicted of ' incorrigible ill behaviour while in custody' might not the door have then been opened for exactly the sort of stepwise extension of sentence outlined above.  Once inside those doors and with no one on the outside to step in on her behalf, one can well imagine her being condemned to serve her entire sentence perhaps a third time, or perhaps even more serious charges and offences being heaped on her; insubordination, troublemaking, corrupting others.  One might imagine her rejection of the old judge's advances or those of one of  his gentlemen friends - maybe even the gentleman instrumental in her original incarceration - being put down to some form of assault and a fresh and a far, far longer sentence being added on to her tariff, to run immediately after her present incarceration ends.  

Even her current incarceration may well at that point have been extended by two or three more months by way of penalties for various forms of disobedience and recalcitrance - and imagine how galling and crushing an additional month of imprisonment would be, perhaps awarded simply for some real or imaginary fault with the way in which she was wearing the reformatory uniform, or simply not curtsying low enough to one of the wardresses, or neglecting to thank that visiting gentleman for showing sufficient interest in her as to have been instrumental in removing her from the street to be thoroughly reformed.  

But all that would have paled into insignificance once something like assault had been added to her charges - now a tariff numbered in years could be added in, even if she did get past this second helping of her original sentence with its stumbling block of ever mounting penalties.  One can imagine that such an institution would have been extraordinarily strict when it came to discipline anyway, but one can also imagine the old judge with his influence encouraging the staff to crack down on this particular girl harder and harder (and perhaps others he might have had an interest in), encouraging them to watch for the tiniest fault, to punish with the strap and the cane mercilessly, to report every misdemeanour personally to him and his office, safe in the knowledge that another month's extension of her incarceration could and would be added with a simple stroke of the pen for something as seemingly innocuous as talking without permission or raising her eyes from the floor or failing to walk correctly with head bowed and hands crossed in front of her lap while being led with the other girls in single file to and from the workroom.  

One can imagine her trudging silently back to her cell within a silent crocodile of others after seventeen or eighteen solid hours sitting sewing or performing laundry work in the drab windowless workroom, dressed in the severe, high-collared and long-sleeved work frock, the uniform of the reformatory, with its widely flared but humiliatingly short skirt hem floating around and just above her knees -and this in an age when to show an ankle was to be daring.  And then she recognises a gentleman in a top hat and an older bearded man next to him - both of whom she knows only too well - standing outside the bars at the end of the corridor.  And the older man calls the wardress over, passing a piece of official looking paperwork through the bars, informing her that one of her charges has now been re-convicted and that her sentence ratified by the court in her absence.  And she hears it read out; and it is in years, not months.  And forgetting herself she calls out in dismay.  

Along with the sharp slap around the face from the second wardress bringing up the rear comes the realisation that along with the half-dozen strokes of the prison cane she will receive before bed that night she will also have earned herself yet another month's extension added on to her present sentence, and this coming only days since the last she had earned... Imagine the effect on her of the realisation at that point, then, that not only does she now have this new, far longer, term to serve hanging over her after her present sentence comes to an end but her present sentence is in effect going backwards, growling longer rather than shorter - it has become so that with every month she serves another two have been added in...

But I digress:  the real reason for this posting is the following (below) which is the actual train of thought that came into my mind looking at the above photograph so I might as well call it:  A  few strokes of the cane in preparation for the doctor's visit. Just to give it a title.  Of course it is not unconnected to the rambling above, in fact a similar principle applies, but attained in an entirely different manner and in a more up-to-date timeframe.  Here it is actually left to the girl herself to arrange for her own extension of stay - and in one manner or another she has little option but to comply.   

A few strokes of the cane in preparation for the doctor's visit.

The girl knows what to say, how to behave, what answers to give to all those probing questions.  She's been schooled in it, it's been drummed into her for weeks, if not months - she's even been given pamphlets to study, set essays to write over and over again so that when the time comes the required responses should fall parrot fashion from her lips.  Nevertheless a dozen or so strokes from matron’s cane - with the promise of twice that number to follow should she fail to co-operate - should serve as a timely reminder of the need for total compliance when it comes to matters pertaining to her care here.  But then again she is well aware of that fact; it has been a year now and from the very first day she has been subject to matron's discipline - and to matron's cane.  

In fact she received her very first caning, a good dozen hard strokes, within thirty minutes of arriving, held down across a desk by smiling young nurse grasping her wrists.  The reason then was having said she was well, having claimed she suffered none of the problems that had been reported when she had been brought in.  She learned then her first lesson: she was just not allowed to say she was ‘well’.  In fact she was not allowed to say anything at all, unless spoken to first, and then only in direct answer to questions, and only ever to staff members.  

The no-talking rule was one of the most strictly enforced stipulations they had - and one of the most difficult to abide by; she often had her face slapped by a nurse or felt the bite of matron's cane or strap in those early days and weeks for talking out of turn.  But it was not the very hardest stipulation they had.  That honour went to the rule they had about never making eye contact.  That rule had earned her many sessions over a desk under matron's cane or bent over her lap, her bottom dancing under the tattoo of a heavy leather strap, in those early days.  She had found it difficult locking herself away in her own little silent shell, but gradually it had become second nature.  Now she shuffled around never once taking her eyes off her shoes, let alone looking to the left and right.  

And that was a strange thing itself, nowadays, staring down at a pair of lace up school shoes in a place such as this.  The school uniform came along with the pamphlets and booklets she had to learn off by heart and the hours spent sitting at a cramped school desk set up facing the wall in the corner of matron's office poring over essays and line-writing impositions.  It had been set up there so she would remain under supervision.  And that was a difficult thing to deal with too, the close supervision.  The stipulation was; she was always to be within sight of a staff member.  She was accompanied everywhere, even to the toilet, watched closely, sometimes criticised and belittled while performing her ablutions, sometimes made to use a bedpan set up on a chair in front of a mirror while a nurse stood behind her with a clipboard recording the details and reading out loud what she was setting down on paper.

So many rules, so many stipulations, covering every tiny little detail of her existence, right down to the way in which she eats her food.  And all under the control of a woman who is a mistress of humiliation.  So now it’s been a year, and now finally her appraisal has come around, the doctor and board of governors will have assembled.  And so she writhes and sobs and cries under the kiss of matron’s cane while she waits to be sent for.  And yes, she has been well prepared.  And yes, she does dread a repeat visit with at least double the number awarded.  And she knows too that even if she doesn’t behave as rehearsed, even if she manages to pull herself back to something resembling normality, there will still be a holding period of a couple of months to review the various reports matron and her staff have posted, so matron will indeed have her way.  

If she reports her treatment, she knows only too well she will not be believed; it will be put down to ‘instability’ as it was last time.  That was what got her original six month period extended to a year in the first place.  It had also earned her an entire week of being caned three times a day, alternated with the same number of iced baths.  Then there had been some unknown period spent in a tiny white-painted room with nothing to hear but a constant regular tick, tick, tick coming from somewhere like a constantly dripping tap.  That had very nearly driven her insane – perhaps it would if there were a next time; and matron would have two months on her hands to make that possibility come true.

But on the other hand she knows that if she does as she has been trained, says the things she has been told to, recites the symptoms she has learned, displays the hand-wringing body language she has practiced, then in all likelihood she will be condemned to remain under supervision in this place for many years to come.  If she did a really good job then she might well end up proving herself ‘incurable’, as she has been trained to.  But then again, there is the dread of the cane – and all those other things matron can do to her.  The truth is the woman has got her completely and utterly under her thumb.  The best she can hope for is to go just far enough to not demonstrate defiance while hoping for another review date some time in the future.  But that would give matron another year, maybe two, to further prepare her.  

And matron has already done a good job:  The hand-wringing, twitches and facial ticks have become real enough now and hard to control - and the nervous stammer she has become inflicted with makes her all but unintelligible under stress.  So she will be let up in a moment, allowed to change out of that humiliating school uniform and back into hospital issue pyjamas…  She doesn’t know yet of the prior warning matron and her staff have sent to the panel regarding her ‘violent and abusive behaviour’, nor that she is to be presented to them in a straightjacket.  Matron thinks it a shame that the hand-wringing behaviour won’t be observable, but the facial ticks still will be, and she’ll still expect her protégé’s compliance when it comes to the questioning… But after all:  First impressions are lasting impressions

ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE DAYS: OR A GIRL FOLDING HER PRISON FROCK (again and again and again)

Just a snippet of something I have been working on - it is in a bit of a raw form but let me know what you think.  I can't say I'll answer anytime soon though; it all depends on the state of my home phone-line and so the availability / reliability of my internet connection.  And I could find nothing more apt nor better than my favoritest (is that a word?) ever illustration from my old pale Snoozz!  This one based on the old Roger Benson Reformatory series

........

It was another one of those days – they all were; they were all the same, give or take.  The bell had rung for bed, but she could no longer just thankfully divest herself of the sweaty nylon prison dress and reach for the rough hessian ankle length nightdress she had been issued with some time back.  Oh no.  She had been presented with a clean, new, pressed prison frock for ‘good behaviour’ - for which she was grateful, the other having become rank, crisp in parts from the build-up of grime, stains and filth and stinking.  But along with this new privilege had come a new stipulation.  

Now the rule was, whenever the ‘night bell’ rang she was to fold the prison uniform dress in the pristine, crisp manner it had arrived from the shop, manufacturer or dressmaker or wherever they had got the thing from and pass it back through the door slot for inspection before receiving her prison nightgown.  And woe betide her if it failed – there might be a night of the tape loop to look forward to, or a visit from the prison-weight cane or the kiss of the hazel switch across her bare buttocks, or indeed some combination.

This new imposition implied folding the Bri-nylon prison frock so as to appear as a dress shirt might in a shop display cabinet, as it had appeared when first it had been presented to her in its clear cellophane packaging.  It was a painstaking and tedious process:  Firstly all buttons had to be correctly refastened and any puckering, wrinkles or (God forbid) creases had to be smoothed out so that the frock was perfectly flat both front and back.  Then she had to find the imaginary ‘fold line’ running from the centre of the shoulder and ending at the skirt hem and fold inwards exactly one-third of the width of the garment each side.  

The next step was to make a preliminary fold of several inches of the skirt, just sufficient so that when the skirt was then folded up and back it would precisely match in length the upper half of the partially folded frock.  The rule was that, once folded back, the skirt hem had to end just behind the collar of the bodice while the two buttons at the front of the fabric belt at the waist (both fastened) faced forwards, the belt perfectly flat.  The substantial flare to the skirt made the latter manoeuvre the most difficult and fiddly to achieve, especially as all the relevant seams had to line up.  

Finally the long sleeves had to be folded around to the front, in such a manner as to display the buttoned cuffs to either side of the bodice's central row of buttons, the cuffs being positioned just below the breast pocket with its embroidered monogram of gold and red overlaid with a large '3' in bold black block thread.  The significance of the latter digit was presently beyond her, but she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something particularly sinister inherent in being 'numbered' in such a fashion.  This was especially so in face of the recent addition of the painted digits '1' to '3' to three of the four doors of an identical pattern leading off the cellar, such that her 'cell' door now sported a large black number '3'.

In all the ritual took many long minutes to get right, and throughout the ‘night bell’ would ring incessantly, stopping only when all stipulations were fulfilled.  It was prison (or reformatory, or indeed ‘reform school’ – the woman seemed to use the terms interchangeably these days) regulations.  And it had to be carried out in this counter-intuitive way, despite the fact that it would have made more sense to fold the skirt back first, prior to folding the garment longitudinally - and definitely prior to bringing the cuffs and sleeves to the front.  She was carefully scrutinised throughout to make sure.  She knew this from painful experience, from the one time she had been tempted to take a 'shortcut' – and had paid for it with a blazing behind, her chubby bottom set alight by a dozen or so landed with a length of finger-width rubber tubing of a type she had last seen supplying gas to the Bunsen burners in her late school's science room.

Yes, it was just one of those days alright!  One of those days when the scrutiny was particularly keen, those observing eyes especially vigilant and the supervision pedantically picky.  It must have been that because she'd gone without sleep completely before now, folding and refolding over and over to get it right, both the dress and the zip-fastening opening-back pantaloons she now had to wear beneath it.  Her fingers were experienced now, educated to the methods of easing out every crease, smoothing flat the perspiration-sleeked fabric, crisply folding along the correct seams and obsessively lining up one seam with the next.  The result nowadays did indeed resemble factory conveyor-belt output, albeit minus the cellophane wrapping, cardboard collar and cuff inserts and plastic clips – her product was all held together through the near-inhuman care lavished in the folding.  But even that perspiring attention to detail had come to nothing this time.  

She had no idea which of her captor's was responsible for overseeing her this time – usually nothing would be said unless she was to be caned for 'slovenliness', for which she would be removed from her cell – but whichever of her tormentors it was, she (he, for all she knew) was proving impossible to satisfy.  Twice now her efforts had been rejected, the garment – to her chagrin, apparently untouched - being wordlessly posted back through the door slot.  Each time she had had to re-dress – that was the rule – before again undressing, button by button, laying the dress out on the cell floor and refastening every button before going through the entire folding procedure from scratch.  

It had only been moments since she had posted her third - and final, another rule – attempt out through the shallow slot at the foot of the cell door, although it had seemed like an eternity to the girl shivering with trepidation.  Her blood froze in her veins at the first glimpse of bottle-green nylon sheen coming back through the letterbox style slot.  Not a word was spoken – it was unnecessary.  She knew to re-dress as quickly as possible in full prison uniform, to stand with hands down by her sides facing the door.  That would be that as far as this night (or day or whatever it was outside) was concerned – there would be no bed this night.  But there would be other consequences – perhaps the cane, perhaps... No!  No! No!...  The cane was infinitely preferable.  The cane did at least get her out of her cell.   But this... THIS... THIS...  

She knew what to do for this too, knew what was required of her.  As her 'aunt' said; she knew the words of that television theme well enough by now not to actually need them.  Aunty Governess Flora would supply the song, and she, Alison, could supply the words herself.  That was another of the new stipulations.  From somewhere a music-only tape had been acquired, a plink-plonk xylophone rendition of the theme to what had at one time been a fond childhood memory but had now become a phobia.  Worse, she was obliged to sing along, over and over.  There would be someone out there listening-in, checking, perhaps sporadically, perhaps continuously – there was no way of knowing.  There was also a second tape recorder, set to record, that could be checked – that much she had been told.  If she sang along, if she didn't falter, then eventually it would cease, she would be given some rest... if she faltered or refused, well then it would go on and on and on, a mental hell without end..

The first notes jingle-jangled out... the first words lisped from her lips, as childishly girlish as she had been taught, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers brushing her prison frock as she rung her hands in helpless anguish... “Andy Pandy's coming to play, la,la,la, laa,la la... Andy Pandy's here today, la, la, la, la..”  Tears running down pretty plump cheeks, a giggle or two spluttered out between the words... then the laughter began, then the sobbing... that was how it progressed, that was how it always went.  Still softly singing she sunk to her knees.  Absentmindedly her hand slipped under the buttoned skirt of her prison frock, her other beginning to kneed and massage a needy nipple thorough the slippery nylon fabric of the button-fronted bodice.  Rocking slowly back and forth to the mind-eradicating melody she began to masturbate, despite the fact she knew that satisfaction wouldn’t come, despite the fact that in so doing she was only reinforcing the mental block that was steadily building between herself and that blessed sweet relief.   It was just one of those days! 

Victorian Governance in the Modern World? - And an Excuse (Internet Woes Keeping Me Off the Air)

Sorry for the 'no-hear' but I have a major problem with  the home internet connection, a fault my phone-line provider - The UK Post Office - fails to find but which keeps knocking my router off-line.  I can update from my portable machine but only in the absence of any pictorial content (very boring).  I do have, it seems, some intermittent access today but little time to enjoy it.  I have to pick up and put down the phone several times every now and then to clear the fault temporarily.  Anyway, here is a pic I came across a while back when the thing was working ok - and then forgot about.  A suitably morose pair that I, in my fertile imagination, have decided are undergoing a prolonged period of Victorian Governance in the modern world, courtesy of some select private and highly secure institution or homeschooling set up somewhere well away from prying eyes.

It was this picture that has led me to re-titling the book I'm presently working on as: 'Victorian Governance In The World Of The Sixties'.   Now, there's food for thought, I'm sure you'll agree!  The pic is, I think, actually from the online catalogue of a company that makes and sells Victorian and Edwardian costumes.  

I've still got that pic of me with the Olympic torch to share with you, but I'll Probably put that up on Facebook  - I'll let you know.

Talk of a Girl - All Alone in the Doctor's Office

Can you believe I could have overlooked a blog called 'Disciplinary Tales'?  No, it doesn't seem possible, especially as it's been around since 2010.  I love the drawing from the magazine Roue used as the blog's banner (left) Just click the blog's title to visit.  

Talking of inspirational pictures painting all those words and all that.  A long time back (I think) someone sent me this one.  I have absolutely no idea who this woman is or where the photo is from so if it embarrasses or annoys anybody I'll of course take it down at once.  But...OMG!  Wouldn't she be the absolute model of our strict, domineering and somewhat less than entirely ethical clinical psychotherapist, Dr Anne Ecclestone.  Can't you just imagine her slinking around the department of experimental psychology, with her white doctor's coat flapping open over that outfit, perhaps leading some hapless bare-foot young thing in an open-backed hospital examination gown along by her painfully twisted ear?  Or perhaps sitting at her desk in her office, her white coat folded over the back of her chair and a silver nurse's fob watch pined over one breast, calmly yet firmly explaining yet again to the pretty young thing sitting opposite her the reason for her being put in those ugly leg calipers, fixing the girl's eyes on hers, forbidding her to look away with her commanding stare while forcefully reinforcing over and over all she has previously suggested about hysterical paralysis and weakness of the legs, smiling reassuringly as she watches the suggestion take root, the belief growing in the girl's eyes day on day.  And now, of course she reaches for the leather strap she keeps coiled her desk drawer.  The girl has been trying again to get by without her leg calipers; and it wont be the first time she has had to go across the doctor's knee for non-compliance with the protocols of her treatment.  She could refuse to flop down, drape herself across the doctor's lap and drop the bottoms of the ugly, shapeless green-striped hospital-issue pyjamas she is dressed - but she wont  Her medication would be stopped if she did that...And the doctor has got her on the most deliciously addictive sedative now...    .........................................................................................................................................

By the way - I saw the Olympic torch procession and then later one of the torchbearers, a sprightly old chap call Bill  who has apparently run in every London Marathon there has ever been, brought his torch into the pub I was in (The Tollgate, Turnpike Lane, North London) and I got a photo of me and him with it.  Hopefully I'll post it up soon here and on my Facebook account but it is on someone else's camera and that person is out of London until Monday...  Oh Bollocks!    

Girl in a Private Prison? You Decide!

 I though you might like a glimpse of something I have been working on this morning.  Yeah I know the illustrations have precious little to do with the writing but I like 'em, so get over it.  The final illustration is an early rendition sent by my old mate Snooz (many, many thanks!), inspired by that old Marks and Spencer salesgirl uniform thing and which might just be adaptable as a suitable 'prison' uniform for some private institution - it's food for thought.  Now I'm off out for a pint to celebrate my birthday (at last - after waiting a week).  I will be in Enfied Town in the George, then the Enfield Wetherspoons and then The Ridgeway (around 4 onwards) if anyone fancies a pint.  I was in Camden yesterday  - terrible place; was served three stale pints in one afternoon!  But that seems par for the course in Camden - don't go there!  Tomorrow I will be in the Tollgate, the Turnpike Lane Wetherspoons pub, for to see the passing of the Olympic torch - pictures here at some later date hopefully!   

Out of Her Cell - Out of Her Mind?

The girl watched, bemused, as her aunt, dressed in her strange Edwardian garb, dropped the cane to her side and crossing to a carved dark-wood straight-backed chair hooked its crook handle over the back before seating herself, smoothing down her long tight tweed skirt as she did so.  “Come here, lie across my lap.”  The stern faced woman was patting her lap,  hooking the index finger of her other hand in a beckoning gesture towards the weeping disheveled mess that she had now reduced her ‘niece’ to before than pointing meaningfully at her lap.  “AT ONCE GIRL!”  Her voice had sharpened and she’d raised it – and Alison found herself coming running like a well trained lapdog, draping herself over her mistress’s knees.  “Good girl” her aunt purred softly in response.  “You see!  It only took one good prison caning to put you under your governess’s thumb.  And that’s where you are going to remain; under my thumb.”
It had taken a great deal more than that, as the woman knew well enough, and that psychological softening-up procedure with the intermittent lighting and the tape-looped children’s television theme tune would continue.  But now the re-education phase could begin.  It would commence the moment the girl willingly put on her prison uniform and returned to her cell when instructed without a struggle.  She would reward the girl with a book or pamphlet to read, the only thing she will have had to relieve the deliberate controlled tedium of her existence for months.  ‘Understanding the Lesbian Mind’, yes that would be a good starting off point.  Then she’d have the girl write an essay on it.  She brushed aside the lower portion of the girl’s hospital exam gown, in her mind’s eye now a reformatory punishment dress.  

Hooking an arm around the girl’s trim waist to anchor her over her lap from the side table positioned alongside the chair she slipped out a drawer and drew from it a hair brush.  She felt the girl tense as in the cheval mirror opposite the girl caught sight of it.   She began to brush through the girl’s long blonde tresses, patiently untangling sweat-tangled ringlets and working through the near-waist length glory from ends to roots, sensing the delicious young thing draped over her lap gradually relaxing as she did so and as the girl realised the wood-backed brush was not to be used on her defenceless and agonizingly throbbing backside.  Then, putting the brush down on the table top she reached back inside the drawer, extracting a rubber band.  Gathering the girl’s partially rehabilitated locks she deftly drew the girl’s hair back and through the elastic band, working the band up close to the back of the girls head.  “There, that’s neater!”  She patted the girl’s rounded dimpled bottom with the palm of her hand:  “Good girl for lying still – not every thing has to hurt you know!”  She whispered, her soft voice sounding oddly throaty to the girl’s ears.   

For a moment or two she ran her hand appreciatively over the girl’s plump behind, pleased to note the lack of any struggle, though she saw the girl wince in the mirror facing her.  Then she reached back to the little side-table, sliding open another, lower, drawer.  The girl barely saw the light glint off the polished stainless steel as the scissors came out in her aunt’s slender hand.   With a single movement and using the rounded neck opening of the hospital examination gown as a guide the woman slipped one blade beneath the ponytail and before the girl could as much as wriggled began to hack through it with a series of jagged slicing cuts, the razor edged hairdresser’s shears making short work of what had taken years to grow and train.  Tightening her grip around the girl’s waist with her restraining arm left, with her right - having relinquished the shears, resting them across the small of the prone girl’s back - she swung the long detached ponytail in front of the astonished and horrified girl’s face before dropping it unceremoniously to the floor.  “There!  I’m going to have Mrs McAlistaire pin a lock of that to the breast pocket of your prison dress before she locks you back up in you cell as a constant reminder of what prison discipline is all about.  You’ll get a proper prison haircut as soon as we get some clippers – I’ll have Mrs McAlistaire do it’ she’ll enjoy that”.                        

Plucking the shears off the girl’s back and dropping them back in the open drawer, sliding it shut, she went back to caressing the girl’s bottom with her free hand as if nothing had happened, smiling as she watched the girls eyes staring at the shorn ponytail lying on the floor in the mirror, the pretty teen’s eyes bulging  almost madly.  Yes, she thought, that has broken you a little, hasn’t it – it’ll break you still further once Mrs McAlistaire takes her clippers to you.  She smiled at the girls’ worried face in the mirror, the girl’s tears flowing freely again, having subsided somewhat from the birching and then the caning of earlier.  “You’ve never had another woman touch your bottom before, have you?”  She watched the tearstained features slowly move in the mirror as dumbly the girl shook her head.  

The jar on the side looked like the cold cream that her aunt’s housekeeper used to soften her hands, but it wasn’t.  Her aunt had just looped out a substantial dollop of the stuff and she’d caught sight of it on the woman’s fingers, all gelatinous and bluish-grey.  The label  was around the other way but she didn’t need to have sight of it to know what it was, the slightly medicated odour of petroleum jelly and the greasy texture as it made contact with her skin was enough to tell the story.  But if she expected her aunt to use it to cool her toasted backside she had another thing coming.  

“`That’s an awfully warm chubby bottom you’ve got there” Flora McBainstone murmured as she caressed the quivering smooth resilient flesh of the girl’s globes, tracing the ridges of the outline of the cane with her finger. Mutely Alison felt herself twitch at the woman’s touch.  “You’re going to be so very grateful to your governess for having corrected you” the older woman cooed, extracting another goodly-sized dollop of cream and beginning a slow, firm and disconcertingly erotic massage, easing the oozing cream into the glowing ridged and wheal-covered flesh.   For the first time Alison now found herself struggling to overtly come to terms with her aunt’s sexual desires – and those unrequited the woman was clearly trying to ignite in her.  And the awful thing was, the woman was succeeding; she knew exactly where and how to touch, and her own body was betraying her, responding to the woman’s knowledgeable fingers whether she liked it or not.   

It's Raining Blogs (And Strict Nurses and Wardresses)

While looking for some background for the new book I’m working on I just stumbled across a blog I’ve somehow never seen before:  I've Been a Bad Girl  (just click to visit, or check out the link in the right hand sidebar).  Anyway, there are some great pictures on it, many of which are new to me – including this wondrous image, top left.  It could have come straight from my own imagination (but didn’t) and all sorts of tales spring to mind! 

Talking of images that look as if they have come straight from my twisted brain the one on the right (below) could have come straight from the plot of one of the more institutional scenarios depicted in my books.  Where it actually came from was ‘Plector’ (just click to visit, or check out the link in the right hand sidebar) which apparently (according to the author) is Latin for ‘to be punished’.  The site / blog deals with the “spanking / caning / corporal punishment of females” (don’t we all!!!).

Finally: I’ve updated the link to The Pink Report, which had ‘moved’ (Click to visit, or check out the link in the right hand sidebar).  For the time being I’ve also retained the old link.  All four related links can be found grouped together in the main blog listing under ‘P’ as Pink Report, Old (The) and Pink Report, New (The)…  I’m sure you get the idea.  Otherwise you end up with a list with dozens of items filed under ‘T’ for ‘The’.

And now I’m off to the gym – Bye ya’ll!