Shame Clothing: And She Shall Have Music... The use of Bells to Enforce Corner Time Discipline

Everyone is familiar with the traditional conical dunce’s hat, a large letter ‘D’ printed in black on the front.  But how many would appreciate the value of a jingle bell sewn on a short tassel attached at its apex?  How many have even thought of such an embellishment?  Jingle bells are easily acquired from any traditional haberdashers or haberdashery department of some larger stores.  So why not?  (See article below). 

Another thought -today’s ‘social media’ actually makes it easier to drive a wedge between a headstrong young thing and her compatriots if properly managed and manipulated.  Ever thought about that?

 So...  The use of bells to enforce corner time discipline?  Nothing paticularly to do with my INSTITUTIONALISED series of novels, but an interesting concept nonetheless.

 

THE IMBECILE DRESS

 The Imbecile Dress is designed with a view to the enhancement and augmentation of the benefit to be derived from such traditional disciplinary impositions as corner standing and other forms of discipline requiring the maintenance of some manner of prescribed posture.  In the first instance the dress itself is designed to draw attention to the wearer, by way of its idiosyncratic styling and short skirt; to this end the sailor collar and integral neck scarf provide for a suitably juvenile aspect.  Variations, such as the high stiffened collar lend scope for even greater disciplinary vigour, in correcting poor posture for example.  The addition of jingle bells on the points of the collar, around the cuffs and hanging from the hem of the skirt allow for an extraordinarily high degree of control to be exerted over the young lady, even in the absence of direct supervision, when the discipline of corner standing is backed up by the threat of corporal punishment.  She can be arranged in any number of postures as a refinement of the discipline - such as with arms folded in the small of her back, hands on head or fingertips on shoulders and elbows out to the sides for example – and the disciplinarian can retire to his or her writing desk or favourite reading chair safe in the knowledge that the slightest deviation from the imposition will ring out like alarm bells. 

Outside of corner standing and so on, worn for extended periods the sound of jingling bells, especially those mounted on the points of the collar in the high collar variation, can be expected to become tiresome in the extreme to the pretty young thing, becoming a form of discipline in itself, encouraging her to ‘glide’ rather than stride, keep her arms down by her sides and her head straight and looking forward and discouraging any sudden energetic movements.  No more her gaily dancing around or rushing about as if on the tennis court, she will be restricted to slow, deliberate and unhurried movements, a tiresome state of affairs for an energetic young thing, but a constant reminder to her that she is under control, that her affairs are no longer her own. 

There is absolutely no reason why the disciplinarian should not take advantage of this aspect of the outfit’s design, after all he or she is unlikely to want to be bothered by jingle jangling bells.  A few days of listening out for the tell-tale tinkling and quickly backing it up with a stroke or two of the cane or crop across the back of her thighs or across her bottom given in a timely manner so that she associates it with the jangling will pay dividends in the long term. 

As far as refinements go, the dress already features a pair of metal loops, one at the rear of the belt, the other at the rear of the collar to which a leash can be attached  much in the manner of a toddler’s ‘reins’.  Alternatively this feature can be used to fasten her in a high, straight-backed chair to enforce maintaining a long-term seated posture for disciplinary purposes, whether for line-writing impositions or simply to keep her out of the way or as a punishment in itself.  It has been shown that simply being left facing a blank white wall in a quite room for an extended period can have a very satisfying salutary effect on a wilful girl and is a good starting off point for the recalcitrant, pouting, foot stamping headstrong type who refuses to submit to corporal punishment and who threatens to run away.  

A further refinement can be the addition of a name badge similar to the type sometimes worn by shop assistants, either pinned over the breast, as illustrated, or directly embroidered on to the fabric.  This can give her name or can have any one of many words or phrases calculated to add to the feeling of humiliation the dress itself is designed to engender written on it.  In the case of the illustration above, that word is ‘IMBECILE’, a term likely to capsulate how she feels with all those bells jingling like a court jester.  Another variation, shown above, has the word ‘IMBECILE’ embroidered across the rear of the collar – which is why it is called ‘The Imbecile Dress’ - where of course it might be covered by her hair, unless, that is, she is threatened with a haircut!   The word ‘imbecile’ is preferred over ‘dunce’ say, in that it better implies simple-mindedness and yet does so more fully than ‘simpleton’, say, in that it also implies some manner of mental instability or mental incompetence.  The use of the traditional dunces’ cap, incidentally, perfectly compliments The Imbecile Dress for corner standing.  Refined by the incorporation of a bell on a tassel attached at its apex, the traditional conical Dunce cap can be expected to magnify any movement of her head causing any attempt to look to the left or the right to result in tell-tale jingling, and a hard slap across the back of her thighs.

While essentially shapeless, to play down the wearer’s figure and thus not risk bolstering her self-esteem in that manner while adding to its juvenile appearance, nevertheless The Imbecile Dress is designed to be worn over heavy, rigidly boned, corsetry of the most restrictive type.  Whether that corsetry supports stockings is up to the disciplinarian.  There is a school of thought that says she should go bare legged, apart from a tiny pair of ankle socks or anklets and childish T-bar ankle strap shoes. 

The Imbecile Dress is designed to go with flounced short-legged bloomer-style knickers, the frilled legs of which – gathered into deep rubber lined leg openings just above the knees - are designed to show below the abbreviated skirt, and this works well with ankle socks.  On the other hand there is the view that stockings provide a juxtaposition with the juvenile appearance of the rest, which actually makes that childishness even more apparent.  Either way, the corsetry is key and in fact is key to ensuring the wearer is not tempted to divest herself of the outfit.  The Imbecile Dress possesses a feature – a metal ring – hidden discreetly beneath the bow, scarf or tie (which is integral with the dress) – which is designed to lock together with a matching ring mounted on the busk of the corset by way of a small padlock.  The design of the corsetry which goes with this outfit is outlined elsewhere. 

Conceptually The Imbecile Dress is as adaptable to the institutional environment as it is suitable to the domestic one, whether it be for the girl continuing her education at home, the new young wife who needs to learn her place or the runaway who, given room, board and shelter, proves reluctant to show her gratitude.                 

Caned In Their Regulation School Leotards

The regulation school issue leotards were delectable when filled out by the mature figures of the young women placed in his charge, young women old enough to know their own minds under different circumstances, even marry – albeit with parental consent in certain cases – yes, quite divine!  But this was no school.  The cane was banned in British schools – but not here.  Here corporal punishment could be legitimised by a special dispensation if need be.  But there was no need for special dispensation, no need to invite the interference of those busy-body social services types… And then there were all those ethics committees and such, endless protocols and checks to navigate.  No, it was best kept this way, discrete, quite, well away from scrutiny, public or otherwise, no need to legitimise it further. 

These idiots had actually VOLUNTEERED for this, after all, although he doubted any of them had expected to be detained as long as they had been thus far - nor as long as they were going to be.  He’d heard that fresh papers had been drawn up, that the extension they would be agreeing to this time was going to be for a full year, and that the wording was set out in such a way as to pave the way to eventually obliviate the need to put pen to paper altogether, if so desired; basically invoking the mental health act.  VERY clever, it explained why ever greater emphasis was being placed on psychological appraisal and record keeping.  He hoped that when the time came he would be the one overseeing their signatures.  Most probably the sheer force of Miss Swanley’s indomitable personality and will was going to win out – it had done before – but there was always the chance that one or two of them might require ‘encouragement’. 

And then there was that fifth girl; she’d been here longest of all, two years already, and he was pretty sure ‘choice’ had played no part at all in HER coming here, however misguided.  They had something special lined up for HER to sign – now, she WAS going to require some encouragement once she’d read through it! 

But for now he had the cane in his hand – and the unassailable, unquestionable authority to use it.  And all that temptation spread out before him, the glossy stretch nylon fabric of those school leotards adhering to every contour, outlining every dimple, every tempting nook and cranny somehow with greater clarity than if they were actually naked, the cut, fit and styling leaving the majority of the bottom uncovered to bounce and wobble and gyrate in front of his blazing eyes as he had them repeatedly touch their toes or perform those wide-stance deep squats that were such a favourite of his, almost as if DESIGNED to inflame his senses, his lust.  Of course he wasn’t allowed to ‘interfere’ with them, touch them in any way – he could only ever watch with mounting frustration the sheer fabric becoming slick with girl-sweat and ‘feminine staining’ as the backseam slipped deeper where he’d like to slip something else, the shiny dampening gusset worked ever more intimately in contact with...  But no, he wouldn’t use THAT, he’d slip it between those luscious bottom cheeks that tortured him so effectively, taunted him; the girl’s had frustration of their own to endure; and he wouldn’t want to deny them THAT by elevating their passion with his own.  

At an age when their hormones were raging, it took the closest supervision to ensure no unauthorised ‘tampering’ took place, that they were spared the temptations of their own bodies.  He could go home and take it out on his wife, bend her over any which way he wanted and take his pleasure – and HE was an old man in comparison.  He could only guess how it must feel at that age for a girl to have no outlet for her sexuality whatsoever, to not even be allowed to go to the toilet alone, to have her most basic bodily functions closely scrutinised, to not even be allowed to wipe her own bottom lest she use it as an excuse to ‘touch’ herself.  

Yes he was frustrated, frankly BURNING with lust, the obvious result of which was clearly bulging out from his slacks, despite his years.  But he had that cane they had given him in his hand.  He had absolute authority over them, these fat-bottomed temptresses, these little…. harlots!  He couldn’t touch them, but he could slake his thirst in other ways, take out his frustration beating a tattoo across their bottoms, he could thrash and thrash and thrash them mercilessly until his arm went numb, his breath came in agonised gasps – and that infernal throbbing had died down in his loins.  Why not?  Why shouldn’t he, just because he’d held back in the past, just because they’d rarely given him an excuse, just because they hadn’t given him an excuse today?  In fact their obedience had been exemplary, a tribute to Miss Swanley’s discipline and strength of purpose.  But something about that very meekness, that head-bowed submissiveness, for some reason inflamed him more than ever.  And he HAD the cane, right here in his hand, the cane Miss Swanley herself had provided him with.  And SHE obviously intended for him to use it!  He didn’t NEED an excuse.  Why NOT use it?  Why not… yes… enjoy himself….  Yes, he would enjoy it, enjoy watching them squirm, hearing them cry out, perhaps beg!  Yes…  yes he would… he WOULD thrash them, all four of them… girl’s like that had to learn… girls like that had to learn not to be so provocative, to have modesty…

“Ok, I was not happy with your performance today – I think six each across your fat little bums… to begin with!  Then we’ll have those leotards peeled right down, and we’ll see which of you needs to go to matron to be shaved again… yes, and right between those bottom cheeks too – matron has asked me to check there as well.  We don’t want any bottom fluff, now do we?”                  

Studying the Effects of Toileting Under Close Supervision

I call this one: 'Lesbian harassment in a private secure psychiatric unit'.  An image forged from an amalgam of three computer generated images originally produced by Angela Fox and put together by Garth Toyntanen.  The images were originally destined for a comic book or adult graphic novel loosely based on scenes taken from all three novels of the  INSTITUTIONALISED series (which may yet go ahead, prompted by the fact that I worked on this one fresh today).  The enema chair comes from an earlier set originally intended for an illustrated version of INSTITUTIONALISED VOLUME 3: A CONTINUUM OF DISCIPLINE.  The wall board I created today.  If I say INSTITUTIONALISED VOL 1 was subtitled 'BEYOND THE STANFORD EXPERIMENT'  you might get some idea of what is going on.   Of course, nothing is ever as simple as meets the eye, all is not as 'voluntary' as it might have started out - and there are shadowy figures in the background conspiring to ensure... Oh well, I expect you can guess... Or make your own storyline up - that is often much more fun.  But let me in on it - that is why I started writing my own stuff in the first place.

"Fully supervised toileting means exactly what it says - close scrutiny throughout!  But it must feel nice to get out of those smelly old pyjamas, hmm?  They make you look like a real mental patient - you look almost normal like this.  Now, what's all that squirming about?  Ahh, what's this, these raised weals?  Has Miss Swanley had to cane you again?  Sting do they?  Even when I brush my fingertips across your bottom THIS gently?  But you like my finger going up your bottom like this, though, don’t you, hmmm?  And my hand running across your breast?  ...   get those hands back on your head!  Now, why don't you wiggle your bottom against my hand, help my finger slide deeper in there?  Come on - wriggle that bottom!  There's going to be something MUCH  larger going up there in a minute - and then hold back as much as you want but you're going to be evacuating your bowels in a metal bucket while I watch.  How do you think THAT will make you feel, hmm?  Yes, I'm going to make you into SUCH a nice quiet mental patient!"

Seeing with the Benefit of a Blindfold?

If you have not noticed already, I have added another entry, dated 29th May tittled 'Another Unconventional Case' and which you may not have seen, as I'd had it saved as a draft copy until today.  It's a kind of mind control piece: scroll down to read!  Sort of two posts in one day - sort of!

 Now, blindfolds have never really been my ‘thing’.  It can be – and has been – argued that the use of a blindfold increases the disciplinary effect or efficacy of a caning by depriving the subject of the knowledge of when the next stroke is going to arrive – and yes, there are visual cues the miscreant can pick up on.  But such cues can be minimised even in the absence of a blindfold.  For example the subject can be secured facing down and away from the disciplinarian, lighting can be designed and arranged to either be shadowless (fluorescents are good for this, especially if diffused) or to cast the disciplinarian’s shadow back away from the subject and finally, there is a lot to be said for a girl being obliged to observe her own features in a mirror as she undergoes correction.  The latter can be achieved by the simple expedient of laying a mirror on the floor and works even if she is over the lap receiving a hand spanking – in which case keeping her eyes open throughout can form part of the discipline, with extra punishment dished out for disobedience.

Obviously, when across the lap it is very obvious when the next slap or whatever is coming – not so much when secured over an ottoman or even a purpose-made spanking bench or low padded horse.  A padded massage table can be purchased which has an opening at one end for the face.  Laid face down on this, with a cylindrical cushion under the hips to raise the bottom, she can be obliged to remain facing the floor - and thus the mirror, - throughout by the simple addition of a broad leather strap buckled tightly and passing across the back of her pretty head.  If the mirror is angled thoughtfully the disciplinarian is able to view the girl’s contorted features and thus ensure she keeps her eyes open throughout without her being able to glimpse anything of the rise and fall of the cane etc.  Better still is for a witness to be stationed in front to supervise that part of the disciplinary procedure, although of course that person mustn’t flinch or give away any other clue that the cane or the riding crop is about to fall. 

All this can be done – Whispers or Blushes or another of that stable of spanking magazines produced a nice set many years ago, and I myself have handed out a hand spanking with a girl across my lap hanging over a mirror – and can produce an exemplary effect on a headstrong young filly.  But the real enemy – even given the use of a blindfold – is sound.  Never mind the whhhooop of the cane or switch swishing through the air, the rustle of clothing, the shifting of weight on the floor, shoes squeaking, boards creaking – all these things are unmistakable clues that the next stroke is on its way.  Yes it is true that you can create apprehension and confusion by pulling up short from time to time, taking practice swings that do little else but produce noise or providing the occasional harmless ‘range finding’  tap, but it is still difficult to disguise the actual stroke.  No, rather than blindfolding what is really required is to block out those sound cues. 

Ear plugs work – up to a point – but have one or two drawbacks, and miss out on the opportunity to introduce some quite devious refinements that become possible when certain other alternative methods are put to use.  Nothing terribly sophisticated is being advocated her – nothing that hasn’t been available since the fifties or sixties.  What I am advocating is simply the provision of a pair of descent, padded headphones and a white noise source.  The latter is easy enough – an FM radio tuned off-channel, preferably with its aerial (antenna) removed or unplugged will suffice.  Failing that, a looped recording of surf on a beach or even a clacking diesel engine will suffice. 

Now, if care is taken the girl will have no idea whether or not the disciplinarian is even still in the room with her or not – and to that end, I see nothing wrong with the disciplinarian retiring for anything up to an hour, once she is secured, before commencing the punishment.  Utterly caught by surprise in such a manner and totally unprepared I would be surprised if she wasn’t reduced to tears within three strokes or so, possibly even by the very first stroke! 

And now the devious refinements I promised.  One thing now possible – and difficult with earplugs – is that arrangements can be made for her to hear the disciplinarian’s voice, easily arranged by mixing in the output of a microphone switched on and off as required (voice activation would also be easily achievable nowadays).  But THAT is all she’d hear – the disciplinarian’s voice, above a continuous babble of white noise.  Imagine her nerves shredding little by little.  ‘Oh my god… when is the next stroke coming?... when?… oh god!  When?’  Perhaps three strokes might fall in machinegun rapidity… craaack!, carack!,craaack!  Right across the centre line of her buttocks, with barely a split second between each and landing so close together as to almost land on top of one another…  And then nothing…  just the crackle of meaningless static filling her ears… perhaps in anguish, perhaps trying to concentrate to hear past, hear through, the all-blanketing rushing, hissing noise she closes her eyes… Crraaaackk!  The cane has been swung up and under the heavy overhang of her bottom, landing right at the point where the flesh is most tender, where the tops of the thighs swell in meeting meet the buttocks, right in that crease that forms there!  “Keep those eyes open, keep looking at yourself in the mirror – THAT stroke doesn’t count!” 

On the other hand, perhaps the disciplinarian wouldn’t have left the room at all.  Perhaps, if he or she has the patience, she is content to just sit, perhaps for half an hour, perhaps longer, waiting for the moment the girl closes her eyes or tries to look away from her own reflection – and then…. Crrrraaaack!  The punishment starts.

A second refinement:  Most disciplinarians would agree on the value of having the miscreant count aloud the strokes.  And I think most would agree penalty strokes or other, further forms of punishment should be awarded for failure to count, miss-counting, losing count – that sort of thing.  Similarly when it comes to the recitation of various formulae, such as giving thanks for her correction and so on, which of course should be given in some tightly stipulated manner, the later having an element of humiliation providing great disciplinary value.  All well and good, when she can actually hear her own voice, a little more difficult when she is deprived of that feedback by the constant rush of white noise filling her ears and seemingly, after a while, her head.  This becomes a LOT more difficult, requiring no little concentration, when she DOES hear her own voice, but delayed by half a second to a second – easily achieved with a directional microphone set close to her mouth and a tape delay; and it really comes in to its own when a group of several strokes are given together spaced by a roughly similar period to the delay and is exacerbated in any situation in which the girl is required to recite an extended formula along with the stroke number:  “….th,th,three…th, th, thank y,you miss –  thank you for correcting me, miss….   Four, th, th, th,ank thank you, you for correcting…”   “Wrong girl – start again:  The next stroke is number one!”

Her nerves are shredded. Her mind confused….  It is the second time the punishment has been restarted – and she can’t take any more…  But of course she will have to…

By finally it is over – and THEN it is time for the blindfold.  If a small enough device is available the white noise can be continued on her way back to her room.  This is where the blindfold comes in to its own.  Whether strapped into a psychiatric hospital wheelchair, or made to walk, led uncertainly along the meandering corridors, that lack of sight is a major contributor, both to disorientation and to a feeling of dependency on the person whose job it is to see her safely back where she came from.  And several twist and turns can be added to the journey, perhaps several turns around the floor, perhaps passing the actual door to her room several times before being led in. 

In bygone times there was a treatment available in some psychiatric hospitals which involved strapping a patient in to a chair which was then continuously revolved.  If such a device happened to be still in situ in some old disuse room somewhere thereabouts, and given the girl is kitted out in her blindfold and headphones or earplugs than there would be nothing wrong – and a lot might be gained  - from breaking the journey and popping her in the rotating chair for a short period.  Then on leaving, perhaps heading the other way, assuming a circular arrangement of corridors, back to her room the long way, thus making her disorientation complete.  And disorientation is the reason the Victorians built their psychiatric hospitals and workhouse with such long, convoluted, winding and maze-like corridors and passageways – it made running away more difficult and left the inmate easier to control.  And therein is a sort of another advantage of blindfolding – kept blind folded when not in her room or on the ‘ward’ – if kept with a small number of others – and only ever interacting with a very limited number of individuals, the girl can’t know if she is in some sort of huge rambling complex inside some large institution, or in some small network of cellars or suit of rooms under or within a private house.

      

But why have been prompted to write this when I say I’m not THAT keen on blindfolds.  Well it all boils down to yet another of those re-bloged images from Tumblr.  Except this one I never actually re-bloged.  It was one of a pair and I downloaded this one (picture above) but now I can’t remember where from.  Years ago I had the idea of taking a girl out essentially blindfolded, but in a manner not obvious to the public.  It was all about developing psychological dependency of course and my wife of the time and I came up with the solution of procuring for the girl we had living with us – and who was very much under my wife’s wing, as my wife liked to put it – a pair of very strong reading glasses, which of course the girl didn’t need.  These were of such a strong prescription that with them on the girl had to have her nose practically pressed to the page to read a book; her distant and mid-distance vision was hopeless and I gather all she could make out was a blur of shifting shapes – most disconcerting one would imagine – a bit like looking out through frosted or misted glass, except where she could see around the edges and down along her nose, that sort of thing.  And so we’d take her out – and of course she’d quickly kick up a fuss and take them off.  So how did we fix this?  Well, my wife did to tell the truth.  Our girl was proud of her hair back then (that was ‘fixed’ too, but at a later date – and another story).  My wife had tried fixing elastic to them, like they sometimes do with young children’s glasses to stop them falling off, which went around the back of her head, where it tucked under her ponytail out of sight.  And of course we are out, and she pops to the toilet, and she comes back with them tucked in her dress pocket (no – she wouldn’t have dared throw them away or break them; she knew how far she could push us!). 

So… and here comes the clever part… the next time my wife made her put the glasses on she popped a piece of the gum she had been chewing out of her mouth and pressed a bit of the gum around the elastic at the rear and pressed a small part of it in to the hair at the back of her head.  Just in case the woolly-headed thing didn’t grasp the implication my wife quickly told her what she’d done – and what would happen if she tried now to pull the elastic over her head and that pony tail of hers without help from one of us, how the gum would undoubtedly ‘string out’ spreading and gumming up her hair, and high-up where there would be little option other than to take drastic action with the sheers.  THAT did the trick… 

From that day on, each time we all went out together the glasses went on, and then a blob a chewing gum to keep ‘em on.  There was no popping into shops or wandering away on her own after that, when we were out!  Not if she had those glasses on.  She was like a puppy brought to heel with those things on – she couldn’t even go to the toilet unaccompanied.

But can you imagine what could be done with THIS little innovation (see above). Completely opaque contact lenses!  Now these would definitely make the best kind of blindfold.  If only they had been around in the eighties!!

A Day (An Hour) in the Sun: Discipline in PVC

 “Right, that’s long enough out in the sun for one day – it’s time to go back to your room.  One hour, weather permitting, once a… well how often is not your concern.  Just remember; being allowed out in the garden is privilege – being allowed out of your wheelchair to sit on the grass, even more so.  And privileges are easily taken away – so let’s have you up on your feet, back in your chair and safely strapped in, no argument, no fuss and…   


Get that hand away!  Right now!  Right this minute.  You KNOW you’re not to touch yourself!  I turn my back, just for an instant, speak to your stepmother for a second or two, and the next thing I know you’ve pulled open your top and are trying to play with yourself – DISGUSTING behaviour!”

Turning to the other woman present with an unmistakable expression of revulsion on her face – the smartly dressed blonde thirty-something in her sharp tailored skirt and jacket business woman ensemble – she spoke with urgency, a practiced note of shock in her voice:

“Look!  Mrs…. She’s playing with herself, your stepdaughter is trying to masturbate, right in front of you – and you wondered why I have been talking about having to be still MORE stringent with her care!  If you need to ask about her mental state, I don’t think you need look much further for your answer.  Too much fresh air, if you ask me – I think it is high time we thought about curtailing these garden visits altogether – they get her too excited…  Oh, look – now she’s burst into tears, she’s crying…  She does that a lot nowadays.” 

Squatting down at the quietly weeping girl’s side, placing a supportive arm around her shoulders, her broad haunches filling out the close confines of her dress, pulling at the seams of the skirt:  “Well it’s no good you doing all that weeping now, missy-moos – it’s not as if you get to see the trees, grass and flowers all that often, and…  What’s that?  Did I say you could speak?  You know how strict our no-talking rule is!  Are you’re nodding – yes? Good!  And you’ve broken that rule, one of our ‘golden rules’ – haven’t you?  Good girl, you’re nodding again.  So you know what that means when we get you back to your room – yes, that’s right; the cane!  Good and hard!”

Regaining her full height, smoothing down her snowy apron the uniformed woman fiddles with the clasp securing her tippet, at her neck, the short grey ribbon-trimmed royal-blue cape she has on over the similarly-hued long-sleeved dress, the latter part and parcel of what unequivocally identifies her as a member of the nursing profession.  The abbreviated little cape is overly-warm in the mid-summer sun, despite being open at the front and terminating only a little way below her bustline.  The stiffened white cuffs at the wrists do little to improve matters, three-button deep like something off a Victorian costume and the full-length open bottomed girdle that provides the otherwise over-plump buxom woman with her almost waspish outline, supports her dark seamed stockings and raises her bust to a startling extent, is doing nothing to improve her temper.  But here is a woman to whom – as out of date as it may seem - ‘standards’ are everything.  Perhaps even younger in years than her companion, her charge’s stepmother, the combination of the out-of-date-looking uniform with the raven bun pinned up so severely as to seem to stretch the skin of her forehead like a badly-judged facelift and full breasted, broad-hipped figure conspire to make her look perhaps ten years older.  The cap on her head, a traditional if nowadays old-fashioned form of headdress, dazzlingly white in the sun draws the eye from a face that despite the functional bare-utility of everything else about her has benefited from a modicum of subtly and expertly applied makeup, outlining large coal-dark eyes that hide a hypnotic intensity, bringing out high refined cheekbones only slightly submerged by the excess weight she carries, her surprisingly sensual – given everything else - full lips painted with deep ruby lipstick helping to play down the hinted-at double chin, the latter minimised by her habit of holding her head erect, a habit undoubtedly encouraged and enforced by the dress she wears with its stiff high collar. 

There is something of a triumphal expression on her face as she turns her head to the other woman, the flickering dawning of a barely-suppressed smile twitching at the corners of her mouth – it is something she is not entirely sure she particularly wants the other woman to be aware of; not really ‘the done thing’, not ‘professional’.  And she is VERY keen to be perceived as professional – she had once been so much more than this.  But that panel…  What did THEY know?  And that run-in with social services… and all that legal business… and being struck off – THAT had been the worst; having to change her name, her whole identity – start over.  And her name was recorded on some god-damn register now – a damning indictment indeed.  But among those that didn’t know there were those that didn’t care.  And sometimes, just occasionally – seemingly impossibly rare, one might be forgiven for thinking – there were certain roles for which such an indictment, such a stain, could actually stand as a qualification.  And she was VERY good at what she did – the best:

“You see that, Mrs….. She’s nodding.  She knows what to expect, so why does she keep doing it, insisting on talking without permission?  I – we – have  tried so, so hard to persuade her to desist – and through a firm but fair hand I thought we were getting somewhere; until today.  But we have to have that rule in place for her, otherwise she disturbs everyone else, forever insisting that there is nothing wrong with her, trying to catch the ear of all and sundry – basically trouble making… Oh well…”

She sighs. She shrugs resignedly, absentmindedly toying with the bright silver filigree ball clasp fastening the blue elasticated belt over the top of her apron, an ornate thing shaped like the spreading wings of a butterfly, then checks the fob watch pinned to her breast, before turning her attention back to the girl:

  “Oh well.” She repeats with an irritated puff, almost sighing again.  There is a sense of excitement growing within her somewhere now, within her belly like the ‘butterflies’ many a child has reported feeling when on a playground swing, a warmth she can feel in her cheeks.  She has already planned what she is going to say next - and it is that anticipation that is rising within her now like sap, from the tingling ache flowering around her groin area, spreading outwards from the pit of her stomach, up, up, up, rising like a fountainhead to her heavy breasts hot in the elevated satiny confounds of her corselette’s bra cups, seemingly swelling them like water rushing in to a pair of already over-tight balloons: watching the girl snivel she can feel her nipples stiffening, a moistening where she would rather not admit to:

“Place your hands on your head like you’re meant to when you have got something to ask - you might as well now.  That’s it, that’s better… come on out with it then, quickly… and try not to stutter, for heaven’s sake, child.  We haven’t got time for all that spluttering and stammering.  Oh for god’s sake, try again.  All that b-b-bu-bu-bu…  If you can’t say a word try a different one, a simpler one…  What’s that?  You’re getting very difficult to understand nowadays.  Don’t YOU think she is getting difficult to understand Mrs….?  Lord only knows what she is going on about…  Come along, child, out with it – some excuse I suppose, for your filthy behaviour in front of you stepmother and myself…  You weren’t touching yourself?  All that polythene is sweaty and making you itch?  Where is it making you itch?  Use the proper word.  Ha,ha,ha – sorry Mrs….  But did you hear that?  She says the plastic is making her fanny itch, making it go all red…  Stupid girl; it’s probably red because you’ve been playing with yourself…  Oh, now you say it’s because you were shaved this morning, where the razor burned?  Well, you HAVE to be shaved, for hygienic reasons – and if it itches, it itches; but that is still no excuse for touching yourself. 

You don’t touch that thing – that filthy thing between your legs - you don’t touch your bottom and you don’t touch your breasts; not EVER.  But you cannot be trusted – that is why you have to undergo supervised toileting, be given sponge baths rather than be allowed to wash yourself, not even be allowed to wipe your own bottom lest your fingers be tempted to wander, sleep with your hands in mittens; all to break this vicious cycle of you continuingly masturbating.  Do you think I LIKE having to stand there in front of you watching you strain and wince with your big fat bottom all hanging over the edge of the bedpan, having to pull on a plastic apron and rubber gloves to wipe you clean afterward with you slumped over my lap like a  big pink beached whale? 

What?  You STILL claim you weren’t touching yourself?  But both your stepmother and I both watched you masturbating right in front of our eyes.  So are you saying we’re both liars?  You’d better not be!  Good, sensible girl – you’re shaking your head.  So you WERE masturbating, then – it’s best to admit it; I’m sure you’ve learnt THAT much by now.  Good, good, you’re nodding.  See that Mrs….?  She’s nodding.  Then say it out loud – and watch that stammering – say you were masturbating, AND in front of people, right out in the open…  There.  See?  That wasn’t very hard, was it?  But it makes you think, doesn’t it?  I mean just think about it for a moment.  You keep insisting that there is nothing wrong with you, that you don’t need to be in care, that you could live on your own, fend for yourself that you’re not mentally defective – but there you were just now masturbating away furiously like some… I don’t know what – in front of everybody.  Isn’t that the sort of thing only the mentally ill would do?  

 Don’t start all that again, saying that you were sweaty and itchy and just moving the plastic about to get some sort of relief – you’ve just admitted to us that you were playing with yourself.  Well I can do nothing about you having to be kept shaved, so if it is the polythene making you sweaty ‘down there’ then I can only assume that the sun will be making it worse – another reason to curtail these trips outside I think.  Oh now look at you – you’ve started that rocking back and forth again.  Ahh you look startled, you’ve just noticed yourself doing it.  Rocking – you need to stop yourself doing that; even you must know that is a sign of mental instability…  So there you are rocking backwards and forwards, stammering and stuttering, masturbating in front of people.  And you expect people to believe you to be mentally competent?   

She’s been doing that rocking thing a long time now too, Mrs……  Yes I thought that would convince you of the need to keep her under our care longer.  And the need for more stringent measures?  So no more trips outside for her, a tightening up on her discipline – and a more structured, more institutional way of life.  I know you have many business trips coming up anyway, but I’d like to suggest leaving her in our care to a greater extent, by which I mean far fewer visits, or better still we can arrange for you to see her progress on a regular basis without being seen or making actual contact.  The less contact she feels she has with the outside world, the easier she will find it to let herself be assimilated in to institutional life – and then this question of her mental competence needn’t ever arise.  But if you have any papers that need signing today, I think you’ll find that once we have got her back inside - and she has faced the disciplining she has earned herself for today’s unseemly kafuffle – she’ll be more than amenable to your wishes; I think you’ll find she’ll sign anything you put in front of her… Unless of course she wants to claim to be mentally incompetent to deal with her own affairs, in which case we have paperwork already drawn up that will deal with that eventuality… 

Look she’s shaking her head – I didn’t think she’d want to go down that route."                         

Making Her Home – Her Institution

Making Her Home Her Institution

It had been bad enough seeing all her designer stuff go off in bin liners to the charity shop, screwed up like so many worthless rags, things her doting father had bought her.  The more everyday items had gone up in smoke in the incinerator; she’d been made to toss them in herself.  She’d put up a fight, mainly verbal and accompanied by much foot stamping and histrionics, a struggle from which her bottom was still paying the price, the throbbing bee-sting of twelve red-purple welts, the aftermath of not one but two sessions with the cane, each a no-holds-barred six-of-the-best thrashing now indelibly etched in her mind like a scar.

She’d been pulled back in to the room by her ear, painfully twisted, like a miscreant child, her new room, this new room which had been prepared for her right at the top of the house, tucked away at the back behind a whitewashed barred window, a plain institutional looking room with a hospital style bed and a child’s combined desk and chair abutting a wall and very little else – and pushed towards her new things, the pile folded upon the rubbery gloss of the PVC covered mattress.   

They’d stood there, the two of them, arms folded, while, visibly shrinking in defeat like a wilting shrub and stiff with pain and still disbelieving the situation, she had dressed in the unfamiliar garb, each thread seeming as she was drawing upon herself an ever increasing burden of humiliation along with the fabric. 

They’d smiled when she’d eyed the sturdy lock on the door, a square slab of bronze coloured metal inset within a door which, although like any other in that part of the house from the outside, being of heavy oak, was lined with beige steel on the inside framed within a trim of broad-headed rivets like a prison door – there was even an inset eyehole, disguised on the outside behind a rectangular brass plate marked ‘private’. And this new ‘bedroom’ she had been assigned – two floors up from her old one, when she had used to stay here - was indeed ‘private’; crushingly still, agonizingly quiet, oppressively close-walled, mind-numbingly bare and bereft of decoration.  Removed from mainstream education before having had the chance to sit those all-important final exams, and no longer at an age obliged by law to attend any particular establishment in any case, this was where her schooling was to recommence she had been told.  Or rather, her schooling would recommence in the rooms adjoining this one, the small cluster that sprouted off the top landing, the whole being self-contained and set aside from the main house by the door at the foot of the stair, itself a daunting obstacle of reinforced oak and furnished with a heavy duty lock.       

When she’d winced at puling up the knickers ‘skirt first, dear, knickers after’, the chill of crinkling plastic stinging like ligament or a spray of nettles over the inflamed pulsating furrows left behind by the cane, her already plump and full bottom having seemingly swollen to twice its normal size, at least in her mind’s eye, both women’s smiles had broadened.  Their smiles had broadened still further, to Cheshire Cat ear-to-ear lip-splitting grins, her guardian’s amusement particularly ill-disguised, the woman barely stifling a snigger, when she’d shuddered, visibly cringing, on setting eyes on one of her new ‘bedroom’s’ very few forms of ornamentation, the cane, heavy leather strap and Scottish two-tongued tawse which hung side by side on their wrist straps on the wall at the foot of the bed, where she would see them first thing on opening her eyes.

Then she’d tried to make a break for it.  But the door had been locked of course; it had locked automatically behind them; if she’d thought about it she’d have realised she’d heard it click.  And one of the women, the new woman her guardian had employed, this tall woman with her hair up in a bun in that old fashioned way and dressed head to foot in a nurse’s uniform seemingly from a past gone age, had stepped forward, still smiling sweetly.  She remembered how the woman’s slender fingers had been playfully toying with the keys dangling from a chain hung from a chromed clip on the side of her elasticated belt, the belt’s filigree butterfly-styled ball-clasp buckle starkly glistening under the fluorescent lighting, her other hand raising the thin bamboo cane she still held by her side, using its tip to point to the bed, taping its slender tip, the message loud and clear, against the PVC mattress, her starched white bib apron crisp against the blue and white checkered pattern of her uniform dress, rustling like damp leaves, her dark stockings – seamed, ‘fully fitted’ nylons; another element from a bygone age -  hissing together, the woman, big breasted, broad hipped, even though probably in her early thirties at most.  Yes, that had been her third caning – her guardian anchoring her over the side of the bed by the shoulders and flinging up her shaming, humiliatingly juvenile pleated skirt and yanking down those ridiculously horrid high-waisted, plastic-lined short-legged bloomer-style interlocked cotton school knickers that she had only just pulled on, with her other hand.        

But that had all been days ago, a lot of days ago – they’d said they’d leave her for a bit, give her a ‘cooling off period’, let her ‘settle in’.  Not that she’d be seeing much of her guardian; the woman had told her she had a lot of travelling to do ‘on business’ and in any case, her office space was down on the ground floor, and she doubted she’d have much time or inclination to make the stair climb up to the top floor very often; “…perhaps once a month once I’m back I might pop by, perhaps every couple of months… Who knows?”  . 

And she was never truly alone:  “bed is for sleeping on, the desk is for sitting at – you do not sit on the bed, and you sit up straight at the desk… bed at night, desk in the day, that’s how it works.”  She DIDN’T know how it works.  She didn’t know how, if she sat on the bed during the day, or got up from the desk to stretch her legs, they could know – or someone would know – and very quickly the door would burst open to admit a bustling uniformed figure brandishing the cane, or on occasion selecting the strap or the tawse from their respective hooks, slamming her broad behind down on the mattress with a hissing of escaping air from within and that odd rubbery squeaking the thick PVC made, the bed’s side rails – the side rail being folded down when the bed was not in use – rattling like discordant bells, and patting her apron-covered lap… and as she now knew, and already at some level partly accepted, god forbid that she should refuse to simply flop herself across the woman’s knees, her palms and toes touching  the floor.  A strapping, hand spanking or the tawse – even if hard – was infinitely more bearable than one of the woman’s ‘good hard canings’ or ‘six of the best, touching your toes’.

 And if she thought that getting her back in school uniform had been triumph enough for this pair of implacable women who had now ‘taken her in hand’ she was sadly mistaken.  She was beginning to realise that, as crushing to her self-esteem as being put in school uniform undoubtedly had been – especially as she had not worn a uniform when she actually HAD been at school; a ‘progressive’ establishment forever trumpeting the benefits of ‘free expression’ and decried by her new legal guardian as a ‘pampering waste of space - it had been merely the first step in her guardian’s scheme.  Now she had that woman standing over her, that stern, busty woman in her hospital nurse uniform, white cap on her head, starchy white cuffs stiff around her wrists contrasting with the pale-blue and white check of her long-sleeved dress, a disposable white plastic bib apron today, with her white elasticated crepe belt fastened over the top, the butterfly buckle like burnished frozen quicksilver, brandishing an equally silvery pair of chromed scissors, her intention all too obvious, even without her words.

“Time for a trim, hmm?  Or should we take some carbolic to that face again first – you can always trust carbolic soap to give a patient that well-scrubbed fresh faced look.  Why, I do believe that even after all THIS time I can STILL detect a trace of makeup – this really won’t do… this won’t do at all!  And we’ll have to cut those nails – we can’t have a patient harming themselves – a patient with long nails is a danger both to herself, and others.  But first we’ll get that hair cut – a proper regulation hospital cut, quick and simple and above the ears.  Don’t you fret, honey, it’ll be nice and even – see I’ve brought a bowl… We’ll just plonk it on your head and cut around it, just like we did in the hospital I worked at; we didn’t stand for any nonsense there, I can tell you.”

Why did she keep referring to her as her ‘patient’?  Somehow it was even more galling than the situation as it was – and that was bad enough.

“Didn’t your guardian tell you I’m from a psychiatric nursing background?  No?  Well I have a LOT of experience dealing with recalcitrant patients, and believe you me they all learn to do as they’re told in the end…”

    

Ahh Those Magdalene Sisters Again! A Caning, Near-Ideal Uniforms, AND a Disciplinary Haircut – All in One Clip (pardon the pun!)

Ahh Those Magdalene Sisters!  Near perfect uniforms – certainly get the Toyntanen thumbs-up for being conducive to strict discipline and discouragous (is that even a word?) to adopting airs and graces; and practical too! 

Perhaps that is where the institutional dress code does fall down a little – practical for the work house, and for discouraging undue pride in a girl’s (I prefer the term ‘inmate’ in such situations) appearance – but less convenient when it comes to metering out correction; witness the, albeit short, unseemly kafuffle regarding hitching up those frocks when it comes to receiving a little behavioural modification from the good sister’s cane.  A much shorter hemline would avoid all of this of course.  Their ‘modesty’ could still be preserved by a pair of sturdy short-legged bloomers, the type that would be gathered around broad elasticated leg openings, perhaps opening at the rear and fastened there with threaded laces so as to allow quick access to the bottom, or the cane can be applied to the rear of the thighs.  Shapely legs, that might otherwise give grounds for self admiration can be made to look decidedly less so in scratchy woollen or thick lyle stockings, providing that sufficient area is left bare to allow for attention to the upper regions of the thighs, if that is to be the site of their carers’ disciplinary zeal.

But what is that medallion or neck chain doing there?  St Christopher, undoubtedly, but surely nothing – and I mean, nothing – of a personal nature from the world at large can be allowed within the high walls of a strict long-term residential institution of this type?

This clip has it all – not just a caning, but verbal humiliation AND a penal-style haircut going in on in the background too!  You just have to love what she is doing with those clippers – and taking such care as well!  But don’t’ you think the caning is surprisingly informal – AND too brief?  Shouldn’t there be more procedure to it, more… yes, ritual?  Bending straight-legged and touching the toes, counting the strokes, asking for and thanking afterwards the disciplinarian for the correction, additional remedial or penalty corrections (not necessarily in the form of further caning; use your imagination; a good disciplinarian always should) for short comings when under discipline – all these things can add greatly to the psychological aftershock.  And those hair clippers should surely have been put to work on or near day one, as a standard part of the admission procedure – there is far too much scope for individualism on show here; but perhaps that itself is part of the procedure; perhaps this is early days and these two still have a way to go, especially the one on the left.  Now as to the girl on the right, on the other hand: perhaps that style would be suitable as a sort of institution regulation cut as it is?  Or perhaps that same style but somewhat reduced in length?  Any thoughts?  I’m NOT a fan of shaved heads or the spiky ‘skinhead’ type of thing – but one can still appreciate the value of forced hair styling / hair cuts, both within an institutional setting AND within the domestic environment given the right set of conditions, with out going to such extreme lengths (HA,ha,ha… another pun!  I’m on FIRE today… LENGTHS geddit?)     

I’m hard at work at the moment, modifying some of Roger Benton’s spankingly good fifties and early sixties period piece artwork for the artist, as well as putting together a couple of Photoshop-modified pieces for my own (and yours, I hope) amusement.  I still have a lot of half written stuff on my hard drive that I may revisit too, since I have a little time on my hands while my knee recovers.  I have managed to take my cycle out on the road now, but only for a short distance; most of my rehab work is going on in the gym on the stationary exercise cycle and using (light - very) weights.

On a more painful note (and my knee IS getting quite painful sitting here!, I’ll have to get up and move around in a mo) this computer is starting to complain.  The warning signs are all there.  On start up this morning it kept complaining that some component of Windows wasn’t present (a DLL file) and so it couldn’t start.  And I hadn’t backed up since September… OMG!  It turned out that despite running the RAID utility (I have 2 Western Digital Raptors – 10,00RPM – disks in RAID 0 to make it go faster) it was trying to boot from a third hard drive it has AND it wasn’t detecting the Raptors RAID array!!!  Yeah I know that strictly speaking what I have isn’t real RAID….  I have a bad feeling in my bones, and it aint just from the titanium in my new knee!