A Punishment PT Session Begins - A Tiny Snipet from an Upcoming New Book

A very belated Merry Christmas and a happy new year to all.  Sorry I have been more than a little negligent about updating the blog but I travelled to Tenerife in the Canaries for the Christmas period and neglected to update the site before leaving... And then it all sort of rushed up on me.  I Flew out on the 19th after a fairly last minute booking, returned on Boxing day (which is a little weird I guess - but loads cheaper).  Then everything was displaced, I ended up at the other half's place - my main computer is housed elsewhere and I don't use hers - then there was a bit shopping and family things in the lead up to New years eve - and New years day I traditionally take my mum to lunch; which means a few beers and usually the start of a multi-day bender (the kids are away at their gran's and there's no one at home at the flat to complain nor care, you see).  I had intended to update while away but it is difficult from my Notebook computer nowadays (I'm updating from it now and I'll have to return to edit, tidy up and add pics etc later - probably tomorrow).  Anyhow - here is a tiny snippet from a new book I have been working on to whet your appetite:

PT and Tutus In The Playroom

 As always Flora McBainstone radiated good health, the fluorescents highlighting her even, white teeth and adding a chill to her wintry smile. She stood with her hands on her hips surveying the scene, adopting that typically wide-footed, well-balanced stance of hers that betrayed her martial arts background. She rarely wore much in the way of make-up but today the way in which her face had been made up was almost theatrical. Large almond-shaped emerald green eyes glittered with subtly menacing delight behind over-blown eye shadow of close to the same hue and her high, haughty cheekbones had been picked out with rouge against her near translucent paper-white complexion like autumn-ripe windfall apples in an early frost. Her long typically Celtic red hair rather than being swept back from her face in her customary ponytail was today piled up and pinned back on top of her head behind a tortoiseshell comb device where it formed a small neat beehive of writhing, coiling tendrils.

Today Miss Flora McBainstone’s supple, wiry-muscled yet full feminine figure was clad in a long sleeved emerald green leotard worn over opaque white pantyhose. A pair of rubber soled dance pumps adorned her feet, emerald green ankle warmers covered her shins and around her shoulders she wore a thin white cardigan left open over the leotard. If anything had been missed from the image of the strict domineering ballet teacher she had conjured it was certainly not in the department of ‘encouragement’. A long, thin, tapering white plastic switch hung loosely by her side from a carrying strap looped around her right wrist, an implement so devilishly pliable that it wobbled from end to end with the slightest movement.

The Wonderous Rosaleen Young in the best (in the author's opinion) ballet spanking photo set ever - and a great inspiration!

The statuesque gym teacher once held the post of chief physical fitness instructress in one of Her Majesty's Government’s ‘young offender’s institutes’. That had been back in the day when the experimental regime that had become infamously known as the ‘short sharp shock’ had been the order of the day’. She had been in charge of that part of the system the institute’s brochure had glowingly referred to as ‘inmate rehabilitation through physical fitness’ but that was euphemistically termed by the staff ‘PE’ or physical education and that was in actuality – in Flora McBainstone’s hands at least - forced PT. It had been partly her ‘over exuberance’ in her involvement with the latter that had been her downfall and that had led to her disgraced exit from the service. At least it had been the instigating trigger of the investigation that had followed – the ‘over exuberance’ that had resulted in her undergoing a certain period of incarceration herself, not to mention being placed on the ‘sexual offender’s register’, referred to another area entirely, although not entirely unrelated.

Suffice it to say that the downright terror she had engendered in even the toughest of the female delinquent inmates had been something one had to witness in order to completely appreciate; there had been something almost tangible about the aura of authority surrounding her when she had been at the head of a class of bending, leaping and squat-thrusting young women, the shrill sound of the whistle she carried around her neck cutting through the air. That much hadn’t changed; she still carried that silver plated whistle strung around her neck on its navy and gold ribbon lanyard. Her ability to engender fear merely through her appearance hadn’t dissipated over time either, if anything she had become psychologically more astute in the way she presented herself.

Certainly the pair of teenagers presently nervously fidgeting under her gaze viewed her with no little trepidation. Subtly twisting and turning and self-consciously clasping their hands nervously before them, the look in the two girls’ widening eyes spoke of nothing short of phobic terror. It was a look that the gym mistress knew well of old; it made her smile, the red gash of lipstick defining her broadly stretching thin lips somehow managing to bring an even harder edge to features that tended to the angular, if feminine and surprisingly refined.

Like their gym mistress the two girls were also clad in leotards, but there, with that term ‘leotard’, the similarity ended. Whereas their teacher’s was modestly opaque and generous in its styling and cut, the leotards worn by her two ‘pupils’ were skin-tight, high-cut at the hips and of a shiny, scantily sheer nylon fabric laced through with just enough Lycra fibre to ensure a suitably contour-conforming fit. Indeed, although superficially styled on the traditional school leotard, the skimpy garments accentuated every curve and bulge they covered while conspiring to leave the large majority of the wearer’s bottom open to the elements. The rear consisted of little more than an expanded backseam, perhaps a finger-and-a-half width of fabric running from the rear of the gusset panel and up between the buttock cheeks.

Far worse than the exposure per se - as far as young Alice Marchment was concerned at least – was the rationale behind the design and the manner in which the garment tended to both draw the buttocks apart while pressing them rearward; the styling made even Angel’s slim boyish backside appear fulsome, and her own heart-shaped creation positively bottom-heavy. The former rationale was of course to ease access of the girl's bottom to the encouragement provided by the gym mistress’ cane or switch; the latter styling aspect was partly a consequence of the selfsame feature that was presently causing the backseam of Alice’s leotard to protrude outward from between her full-bottomed cheeks like a miniature glossy black tent.

At the front both girls’ Lycra-covered crotches notably puckered inward around a circular indentation sited between the clearly and embarrassingly delineated outline of their labia as if something there were drawing in the fabric. Higher up and Alice’s full breasts were thrusting out into the stretched, thin material of her leotard like a pair of torpedoes giving off black stretch-nylon bow waves, held in place and kept elevated by a built-in underwired support. Even her companion’s flat chested form had been persuaded to make a showing of fabric covered cleavage.

Both girls’ hardened nipples were protruding shamefully out into the air, extruded through a pair of rubber-lined, elasticated sphincter-like circular openings sewn in to the front to their costumes - a favourite target for their gym teacher’s martinet on those days she chose to wield it; she believed in concentrating correction around those areas most closely associated with a girl’s sexuality. The latter was all about creating ambiguity in a girl’s mind, arousal with punishment and punishment with arousal - and all stirred together with the exposure of her own body and the sight of the displayed female form. It all came together in the form of a confused and conflicted sexuality.

But it was the site of the tented protrusion at Alice’s rear that had caught the gym teacher’s eye – and her ire. True the girl had only just that minute drawn on her leotard, but Flora McBainstone could plainly see the girl’s coy attempts to avoid the inevitable back there, wriggling her buttocks and self-consciously plucking at the fabric from time to time with the fingers of her left hand as if somehow that would avoid her notice. She was across the floor in two broad strides, whipping the switch across the backs of the girl’s thighs before landing a slap with her outstretched palm squarely on the apex of that dinky little tent protruding between the girl’s buttocks. There came a squeal of shocked pain from Alice, then a breathless gasp as the ‘tent’ disappeared, the fabric flattening and pulling in to the crease between her bottom cheeks urged on by the rubbery elasticity of the leotard’s back seam.

“There! Is that better, more comfortable now?” Again reaching behind Alice’s back the tight-lipped, smiling gym instructress gave a little tug at the top of the backseam, at the point at which the fabric broadened out into the body of the girl’s leotard. Then coming closer still, her breath brushing Alice’s flushed cheek, she reached lower, pressing her index finger on the button-like thickening at the centre of the leotard’s back seam and manipulating it with a circular motion. There came a sharp yet playful slap to Alice's naked rump - and with that the gym teacher was gone, striding across to retake her place standing on a raised platform before the two girls.

In the cloying warmth of the room a thin sheen of perspiration was already adding a healthy shine to both girls’ flesh, the delicately musky perfume of feminine sweat lingering on the air. Flora McBainstone took a deep breath, coughed out her instructions and blew on her whistle. Simultaneously she set the metronome she had set up on the table by her side in motion – she couldn’t see the need to have the distraction of music intruding into the proceedings. Smiling almost playfully, but with an unmistakably cruel twist to her lips, the gym mistress slashed her riding crop through the air, making the leather tab at its end whistle and both girls to wince in fearsome anticipation.

“Plié – demi-plié first… Begin!”

Both girls began to slowly drop, their knees pulling wide apart and the gussets of their leotards pulling correspondingly tightly into their crotches. In the demi-plié the dancer bends at the knees keeping her thighs and knees directly above the line of her toes while maintaining her feet turned outwards to either side.

“Now, let’s move it up another notch, shall we? Grand-plié…up, down, up down...”

The grand-plié meant performing that same sideward-facing knee bend motion but taking it down to the deepest possible position, the motion fluidic and continuous, not as much as pausing at the downward extreme before reversing the motion and rising by straightening the legs equally smoothly.

“Up…down… up… down…”

Setting a Scene

Imagine if you will the Victorian or Edwardian periods – definitely earlier, although certain forms of terminology would have to be changed, but little closer to the present for bureaucracy tightens its grip the further forward we come in time.  Go back far enough - before the English Republic that existed between the reigns of Charles I and Charles II, when all such machinations were made illegal – and so-called 'wardships' were a bought and sold commodity.  With care an inheritance acquired in such a manner could be milked until the cash-cow ran dry, well before the would-be beneficiary became old enough to exert control over his or her own estate – but where is the creative challenge in that?  By the aforementioned Victorian or Edwardian periods one had to be more creative to achieve one's aims if by good fortune – or serendipitous mechanism, whether by chance or ingenious design - one found oneself in legal guardianship of some comely young delicacy a few years shy of 'coming of age' yet theoretically of consenting, or even marriageable, age.  

Then there is the awkward wife who steadfastly refuses to move on in the face of the challenge of a rival.  Wisely, since in marriage her spouse may well have gained control over her estate and, having wrested the purse strings from her hands, taken steps to have spirited much away.  In the face of utter destitution is it any wonder she fights on.  Or perchance he has never fully gotten his claws in - perhaps due to a mixture of astuteness and forethought on his wife's part – and now she fights to retain what is rightfully hers.  Or she would fight on, given the chance.  But there are individuals pitted against her possessed of other ideas.  And, in an era in which almost any loss of composure on behalf of a woman  might be cause for a diagnosis of hysteria or 'weak-mindedness', however just her cause might be she could find the cards well and truly stacked against her.       

“She needs to be kept somewhere where she can be watched over, that one - all too capable of proving troublesome!”  Or:  “Pretty, bookish and shy she might be – but far too inquisitive for her own good!”  Or, perhaps in the company of certain ‘enlightened’ confidants – and within earshot of the sullenly pouting teen in question: “…of course she has her hopes set on university – but meddlesome minds are best educated at home; don’t you think?”

One can’t help but wonder how frequently such words or similar may have been spoken in those past times by some troubled legal guardian or harassed, lone, stepparent - or even the frustrated (gold-digging?) mistress of some would-be divorcé, mired in convoluted legal wrangling?  That first sentence is the one most fitted to the latter situation – though equally applicable to the former two – and if the young second-string were particularly resourceful may well have been followed up with a giggly:  “…and I think I have found just the place!”.  

The first of the former two scenarios and sentences might have been followed up with:  “Dr…… says an overly inquisitive mind in a girl that age can lead to hysteria, but that he knows of an establishment she can be placed in within which that inquisitive streak can be curbed – given time.”  Or:    “Dr…… says too much by way of mental stimulation may trigger hysteria – even mental aberration – in a young woman and that she is to be restricted to prolonged bed rest, all books and periodicals removed from her sight and that the windows of her room must be locked, barred-over and whitewashed lest she be disturbed by the goings-on in the world outside”

The second of those foremost two phrases might have come with a mutual nod of agreement and the opined comment that:  “A period of a good few years under the firm hand of a suitably stern governess is what she needs – time spent sitting at the sewing table or standing at the washing tub or ironing board – not swanning around learning some nonsense about equality.”  Or:  “I can see that new governess you hired has already made a good start, from the look of her – yes, Amelia, dear, no need to blush; you look very sweet in your new uniform, very smart!”  Another might have added in:  “Oh, and look at her wince when she shifts her weight on that footstall she’s sitting on – it looks like the woman is no slouch with the cane… and now she’s biting her lip…”

“Oh stop it, Alexandra – you’re embarrassing the girl.  Look, her face has gone like beetroot.”

“It’s not me, Genevieve, it’s that dress if you ask me.  It’s shocking – look you can even see her knees; it’s like a child’s frock.  She won’t want to be wandering far from home in that!”

“I had the same reservations at first, but her governess says it’s perfectly adequate around the home and it is good for discipline; discourages her from forming ideas above her station.  Besides she isn't going anywhere outside these few rooms from now on.  Look; there are big fat bars on all the windows to keep her safe, that hefty oak door you passed through from the passageway on the way in and then that locking iron, barred, gate thing the governess said I should have fitted as an extra precaution. There is everything a girl could need within this suit of rooms – why a girl could live for… I don’t know… years… in here, and never need to stray outside.   And we’re to call her Amy now, not Amelia… isn’t that right, Amy? … Yes what, dear?... that’s right!  Yes miss…that’s better!  

Now thank every one for coming to see how well-disciplined you’re becoming under the control of your governess rather than going to that silly university – what a silly, silly notion that was you had.  Wasn't it, Amy?… Say how ridiculous you were being… come along, tell everyone what a silly little girl you were being… I’ll fetch your governess and she’ll put you over her lap and have those drawers down in front of everyone… That’s better.  Now, up you get, Amy, and give your visitors a twirl so they can all see your new uniform properly – isn't that sweet ladies.  

Now curtsy – and thank your visitors once again for coming… lower than that… ankles crossed over, skirt held out to the sides… yes I know they can see your drawers; they’ll see the insides of them too if I have to call for your governess to put you across her knee!  Oh, you’re in your ‘special’ pantaloons; don’t cry, I didn't know – I could only see the leg cuffs below your skirt hem, and they all tie at that point with those big ribbon bows.  

But I imagine you deserved it – what was it?  Still refusing to use the chamber pot at your desk?  Oh you need to go now?  Well, it’s over there on the seat of your school desk – you can use it now why we wait, while we’re all still here… You don’t want to?… Then you’ll just have to wait until your governess returns – now back down on your stool, swivel round, nose to the corner and hands back on your head, please, Amy…Good girl!  Now don’t you dare budge until you’re told to.  We’re leaving now, but don’t think you can’t be seen – just you remember how the governess’s birch feels”

There’s a collective gasp and somebody whispers the word ‘birch’, a frightened awe detectable even as a whisper.

The voices will fade before the distant iron gate slams and the heavy oak door slams shut – and will come total silence… Then the gas lights will dim down and fade out – the gas taps and valves are outside, and ‘corner penance’ is always performed in the dark.  So how will she be seen?  She won’t be, can’t be.  But she’s already too browbeaten to stir.  Besides, she can be heard.  There are two small bells sewn on each of the cuffs of her long-sleeved dress and another two hanging from the ribbon bows at her knees.  And what could she do, where could she go?  She couldn't use the chamber pot – the evidence would be clear – even if she could wrestle the padlock from the waistband of the rubber pantaloons or un-knot the laces securing the rear opening.

In the distance she can hear the chattering fade:  “Of course it is a battle of wills... and she has to lose each one, one small step at a time, one battle at a time, if the war is to be won – that is what her governess says…. Oh yes, she knows what she’s talking about… Our poor Amy will hardly be able to hold a single thought in her head to call her own by the time she’s finished with her!”

Outside of that scenario perhaps there are other snippets of conversation we might have picked up on, in the Victorian era for example, that might have been worth exploring.  Consider the following, overheard statement in response to a query from some personal friend or other interested party:  “We did find her, but she ran away again.  And now we fear she has left these islands for good; eloped with that ne'er-do-well young rake we told you about.”

You see, here is another fairly innocent statement if taken in isolation – unless one happens to align it to one of those mentioned at the top of this article, given previously and in other company.  And what if it had then continued:  “Still, the courts will help protect her – he won’t get his hands on her inheritance.  We have already filed a motion for power of attorney so that should she not return by her majority, when she will inherit, we can manage her estate on her behalf.  And of course we already manage her trust fund for her – we have only ever had her best interests at heart you see!”  Ah, such good altruistic concern!  But it was so much easier to cover over a trail then; it fair makes the heart beat faster and the imagination to burn feverishly.  

Is the pretty, doubtless nubile, young thing's whereabouts really as unknown as all that?  Has she left the country?  Is there – or has there ever been – this young buck or 'rake' with an interest, romantic or fiscal or both, in our young heroine?  Wasn't it true the flowering and increasingly buxom beauty had led a sheltered life, ever less frequently seen outdoors since first being moved to her guardian’s sprawling country seat upon her parents' and elder sister's disappearance following the tragic sinking of The White Star Line's Britannic, the Titanic’s sister ship?  So how had she met her beau?  Who was he?  And what evidence was there that she had even ever left the house, let alone traversed the sprawling grounds - many, many miles from the nearest town or village and all of it surrounded by high and near-insurmountable walls and mantraps designed to maim would-be poachers and the like?  

All these questions and many more would be asked today.  Perhaps greater scrutiny would have been applied even in that era where the guardian was some handsome self-made, rakish 'new money' type himself.  But if a woman was involved - let alone one with impeccably aristocratic 'old money' credentials – well, with such a woman her word could be taken as her bond as much as any gentleman; perhaps more so, given the circumstances.  After all what interest could a woman have in a specimen of walking doll-like perfection  such as our missing heiress if not the purely fiscal?  But then 'old money' debts had an uncanny knack of floating just below the surface and remaining discretely overlooked.    And that other motive, had there been any male involvement, was of course quite unthinkable in polite (or most any) society – and this despite there being a large and burgeoning underground literature, and even brothels, catering for the taste.  Ahh!  Let's hear it for the willfully blinded eye of denial!  And that blinded by silver of course!

What relevance, if any, does any of this have to a tale set in today's world, in terms of plausibility?  You may well ask – and I have no hard and fast answers.  But the truth is, reality has a knack of being far richer than one's imagination. 

A (very) Quick Note

Hi folks!  I have to keep this V - quick today as I'm signed up for the 'school-run' all week.  Just a not to say how much I have appreciated all your feedback as regards the covers for the new book, both left as comments here and as direct email to me. Taking various peoples advice and the consensus opinion I have made one or two changes to the chosen cover which I hope improve matters.  A momentary glance at the sidebar will reveal I have taken the opportunity afforded by creating a link to my latest (not newest - never newest!) publication to rearrange various features, not least of which being to make my direct email link more obvious.  You will also see I have taken steps to ensure a PDF download version is easily available.  I have also made a hard cover edition available; I wouldn't expect anyone to purchase this - it works out far too expensive, what with the dreaded 'postage and packing' and all - but it all helps make the book more visible to the various search engines, especial;y LULU's! 

Right; before I go, here is a lovely little artwork sent anonymously to me and which I just couldn't resist sharing with you.  I hope it leaves you as it did me... er...stimulated...  In fact it has got me writing again!  Just when I had ground to a halt. I have no idea as to the artist's identity so if you are he (or her) let me know and I will acknowledge you (or remove the image should you object).   

‘VICTORIAN GOVERNANCE IN THE AGE OF FREEDOM’

... Or Spanking Gwyneth.  

"Her aunt's house was only a spitting distance from London’s Paddington station and hence the shops of the West End, which was more to the point.  

She knew nothing of the dark repressed days of the Victorian era when a young woman her age - or even older - might well have found herself transferred from that very same address to another, similar, house in Clifton, Bristol for a period of  ‘obedience training’ which might have lasted a year, eighteen months - or even longer! But then again, what was that knowledge worth?  

It was only history, after all.  And she certainly would not have taken at all seriously any suggestion that in some manner the spirit of that place - and of that age – might still be alive.  Nor that the influence of the long-deceased professional disciplinarian woman who had once owned and run that establishment for the ‘chastisement of wayward young women’ might still shadow and darkened her aunt's home. 

That view would change... and her bottom would pay the price of her ignorance!"

Or so it will say in the 'blurb' on the rear cover of the new book  A final, corrected version is now up on LULU as a PDF version but for a print version - and also where published through my 'proper' publisher, ANDREWS UK LTD, (through whom it will hopefully be made available in various ebook formats and through various outlets) - I like to try my hand at cover design. 

So here are a few variations to choose from - please let me know what you think (good or bad!).  The ''dropped T' font used for my name and for the second part of the title is called 'Bootle' and is based on the design on the drum used by The Beatles and is supposed to help put over something of the era the story is supposedly based in - as is the imagery.  The latter is based on photographs taken (by yours truly) around the area  of London mentioned by Richard Manton in his Janus story / article "Whips Incorporated" - in fact only a couple of streets away from the address he gives in his tale (which was an inspiration).  The differences may be subtle so take a close look!

I'll be getting to the comments that have been left later.  I have tried while on the move from my smart phone but something always goes awry.  I spent an entire hour yesterday; three times I wrote a reply, and each time it crashed at the uploading phase ad I lost all that I wrote - which is why, Ms Orage, I have been messing around with Twitter on the move... Tweet, tweet... LOL

Thanks to all those who have written in and bby email for your help, by the way!   

Go On! Open Your Beak - Have a Tweet!

I'm going to be out and about today tweeting my way around various Wetherspoon pubs enjoying their beer (Real Ale) festival - and hoping for a little inspiration to strike.  And I've fixed (I think / hope) the link to Twitter across there, over in the right hand sidebar, so there's no excuse!  My next full blog update will be tomorrow (or Wednesday at the latest; when I will be putting together the cover for the new book and hopefully putting together a new article for the Ezine 'The Well Red Weekly').  Meanwhile; I have a whole host of ideas to explore which have sprung up in my head recently, inspired by so-called 'harassment therapy' (of which I have written here in the past) but transposed into the domestic scenario and which I imagine unfurling in the past, perhaps in the early 1960s.

Fat Girls and Feeders - Implications and Questions (and I'm on Twitter - so tweet me or something)

I was thinking about the documentary film I saw a few weeks back - Fat Girls and Feeders (easily found on Utube et al but recently shown on UK domestic TV) - or rather I wasn't until I came upon this old advert, top left.  Now I, for one, am definitely not into gross, morbid obesity.  But a few chubby pounds constrained by a well designed, firm girdle corset, corselette or other foundation garment, well, that's another thing.  And if those few extra pounds were gained at the whim of another and beyond the control of the young lady herself - better still if enforced by a little judicious application of the cane or strap - that's definitely a whole different ball game... Or is it?  Discuss!  

"A prisoner in her own body" was a quote used.  Another alluded to the control that came with having another under one's care.  "A prisoner of her own mind" was a line I used in one of my own books - and there is more than one comparison drawn between 'care' and control... not to mention dependency.  I am drawn to yet another quote, one I once read in the reader's letters pages of an addition of Janus magazine and alluding to an earlier photo story:  "... [eventually] becoming a slave to her corset".  A different kind of dependency, but one born of the young thing's dependency on another's - much stronger - personality.  Under such a circumstance the imposition of further elements of discipline and yes, the cane, tawse, or riding crop, seems a natural progression - but it's a chicken and egg situation; which comes first dependency, domination or the imposition of corporal punishment. 

Before I go: If you haven't already, you can now read a little missive I wrote recently in the latest edition of The Well Red Weekly  the semi-regular Ezine published by The Library of Spanking Fiction - full of interesting articles and food for thought.

Finally: You can now follow me on Twitter ( @toyntanen ).  I'm very new to the medium and frankly don't know what I'm doing, but I'm off out in a moment, planning to circulate around a few Wetherspoons pubs for to partake of a few of their fine ales on offer in their UK-wide bear festival.  For the first time I am going to be 'tweeting' (I think the term is) about my adventures - and also any spanking / D & S orientated ideas and notions that happen to pop into my head along the way.  So join in... 

And I've earned it!  I have abstained entirely for one month now - and I have completed the new book; I have put it up on LULU as a PDF download but that is all, thus far. as I have yet to come up with a cover for it.  When I have, I'll offer it to ANDREWS UK LTD who publish and distribute all my other stuff in ebook / epub formats. (Difficult to motivate myself, though, when I know Amazon rejected my last book's cover design - they didn't like the depiction of pharmaceuticals - pills and capsules or what ever - err... what about Valley of the Dolls by Jacqueline Susann?)          

A Glance at the Past: A Glimpse of the Future?

I know, I know!  It’s been a long, long time again.  But in my defense  I have been working on three projects at once, including finishing off the latest book.  The latter has been presenting a few problems regarding the ending.  It has now been proofread (Orage – you have done a marvelous job; many thanks!) and all corrections… well… corrected, I suppose. But the ending… the bloody ending!  Quite rightly, its plausibility has been questioned; but then again the entire tale is not particularly credible, having started life as a simple re-write of a piece I once read back in the 80s (the first spanking-orientated novel I ever purchased) redirected, expanded and extended to better fulfil my tastes.  From that starting point though – and mindful of such pseudo-factual works by Richard Manton /  R.T. Mason as ‘Whips Incorporated’ (about an1880s ‘chastising service’, Janus Magazine Issue 38, 1985, Gatisle Ltd) – it slowly developed a certain aspect of the supernatural, the premise being that the action takes place in early 60s Paddington (London) and within one of the two houses previously occupied by that self-same ‘chastising service’ from the late 1800s into the Edwardian era and along with certain specialized ‘original features’ something of the ‘atmosphere’ of the place has survived . 

But it is the ending where it all goes awry.  What the problem comes down to, at that point, is the impression it gives of the number of people involved.  Too many people involved smacks too much of some kind of wide-spread conspiracy – and such things are unlikely to go by unnoticed.  It is the same problem I have with those James Bond-type movies in which some implausibly-rich despot apparently has half a small nation in his pay as his work force / private army; and not a whisper leaks out, despite the fact that he is quietly hollowing out the local volcano (as one does) and presumably tying up every JCB in whichever hemisphere he has chosen to set up his bid for world domination.  Not that are actually very many characters involved in my particular ‘conspiracy’ at all; it’s just that it is all too easy for the reader to form that impression in the last few pages, and the risk then is that the illusion is shattered. 

It is particularly embarrassing in light of the fact that I was recently asked to write a piece for the spanking ezine, the Wellred Weekly (the electronic journal of the Library of Spanking Fiction (link in the right hand sidebar, under Useful Resources’.  And of course I chose to pontificate on the subject of ‘plausibility’ in spanking story writing…  It is so embarrassing that I am even considering publishing the thing under a different name!  My proof-reader has suggested a way out, which I’m considering (thanks yet again, Orage) but until then it’s all up in the air a bit. 

Mind you, I still have the cover to do, and I will want to try to recreate a street scene from the early 1960s, which wont be easy.  I have already been to the Paddington area - even to the address given in ‘Whips Incorporated’ (the house has gone – if it ever really existed) - and have taken a few shots of the right type of house and a couple of terraces of houses from the correct era or earlier.

Talking of travelling: Around three weeks ago I was privileged to meet the guy who has supplied many of the 3D computer renderings I have featured on this blog in the past, Snoozz!  I’m pushed for time today so I’ll tell you more next time – suffice it to say that many beers were imbibed (at least in my case – ha, ha!  But what can I say: I get nervous!).  Also on my travels (Muswell Hill, North London) I came across a magazine cover in a box of odds and sods outside a tiny antiques / bric-a-brac shop (I spent an entire 25p on it!).  Dated 1929, I had to rescue it from the rain, but what really caught my eye was the advert (top, left).  Very much of its time, it gives an insight into a era when a fine display of maids’ uniforms and domestic service apparel in a high street shop window was not an open invitation to fits of giggles, embarrassed half-glances or the knowing wink of an eye.  It’s a sensibility I can imagine returning as the economic system worsens, labour becomes cheaper, the chances of a young woman or school leaver gaining a roof over her head plummets and the gap between rich and poor widens.  When the hunger begins to gnaw, the icy spiked rains of the British winter begin to cut through to the bone and the shop doorways look less and less hospitable; that’s when the prospect of a live-in position will seem most attractive, whatever her prospective employer’s restrictions, stipulations and – yes, perhaps even the veiled mention of corporal punishment.

The keen-eyed among you may well recognize that company name, E & R Garrould, from what I have said in the past regarding that point in my life when I was for a few glorious, golden years (along with my wife of the time) involved in a ‘lifestyle’ relationship with a pretty-ish, if naïve young thing who my wife had taken under her wing following the girl’s dismissal from her live-in position as children’s nanny.  Having literally come straight from having left school, and not particularly intelligent nor known for her initiative, personally I still to this day think it incredible that she had been employed in such a role in the first place – but I guess that’s another story.

As regards that company:  A professional nursing magazine dated Dec 19098 stated “Nurses who are accustomed to [purchasing] their uniforms and nursing requisites at Messrs. Garrould's, 150, Edgware Road, W1, will find at the present time that the spacious Nursing Saloon is transformed into a Christmas Bazaar.”  Well, I’m not sure about any ‘spacious Nursing Saloon’ but I do know from my earliest recollections of passing Messrs. Garrould's premises  that up to at least the late 70s, if not the early 80s, it existed as a double fronted shop with large display windows either side of the glass-door entrance hall.  By the mid to late 1980s when my wife of the time and I marched our live-in plaything up the Edgware Road the shop had dwindled to shadow of its former self , consisting only of the smaller of its original two display windows and the associated floor space beyond.  Although the door was in the same place, the entrance hall was now shared with the doorway leading into another shop entirely.  It was later to disappear completely, leaving only the Alexandra Workwear outlets for our further forays with the hapless Penny (and they  too evaporated as the 90s wore on, having expanded rapidly through the 80s). 

I think the problem with E & R Garroulds was that stylistically their various uniforms - and especially their domestic service apparel – hadn't moved on; indeed there had been little change in many of their styles since the 70s, with some examples clearly dating back even earlier than that.  But that was exactly what had caught our collective eye – my ‘other half’ and I.  And yes, back in late 1987 we were still able to purchase for our charge the traditional black dress, a selection of broderie anglaise tea aprons, a cap and an Edwardian-style bib-apron which had a flounced trim running around its square-necked bib that was so broad it formed cap sleeves over the shoulders and which looked like the Tenniel illustrations of Alice in Wonderland.  All well and good for serving at table and for special occasions, but when it came to more everyday work around the home and general domestic duties (most of the time for our dear Penny) it was down to the Marble Arch and in to their more modern competitors, the aforementioned Alexandra Workwear, where a very fetching outfit was available, a button-through dress in some highly practical man-made fabric, lilac, the lower half a solid block of colour, the bodice striped lilac and white.  A striped lilac and white waist apron and striped cap completed the picture.  With the latter accessories put aside and a lilac button-through cardigan (purchases later elsewhere) worn over the top, we judged the dress perfectly wearable in the street or when out shopping; something which could not be said for any of the Garroulds offerings at the time, to be honest.

   

The other pics just show the advertisement in context and the magazine cover, the latter largely so as to ensure its conservation, even if only as an image.  So many prints, books and periodicals are disappearing as they are sliced up and their various picture plates and illustrations framed for sale in antiques and collectables emporia.  Actually it took a fair amount of fiddling around, as the page is larger than A4 and couldn't be fitted on my scanner, necessitating I scan it piecemeal and then piece it together afterwards on the computer.