I originally started work on the missive below as
a short additional reply to a comment posted by 'Vlad' and it... well... it
sort of expanded somewhat!
I have to
admit that what I have written tends towards a sort of 'stream of consciousness'
type of thing in style, but bear with me.
In addition; I wrote the vast majority on my 'smart' phone and in a
piecemeal manner so my apologies if it is a little disjointed and contains
typos, missing words and so on - I have had little free time on my hands
recently and can't really justify the time it would take to thoroughly read
through and proofread as I would with one of my books or novels or get someone
else to do it, what with me being badly dyslexic and all!
By the way, I make no apologies for including yet
another view of that wonderful leather-skirted mistress from The English
Governess. com (left - found on Tumblr). She looks
SO much how I envisage the dominant psychologist or psychotherapist from my INSTITUTIONALISED
series looking, once divested of her white coat.
....................................................................
I think the thing to remember about admission
procedures is that, within the context we are speaking about here, they serve a
dual purpose. The first and most obvious purpose is all about such legitimate
tasks as gathering information, registering name and address perhaps gathering
baseline data if a medical facility, weighing, taking measurements, blood
pressure, perhaps taking a shower and so on. The second and less obvious aspect
– though not necessarily purposeful – is all about drawing a sort of psychological
line in the sand, a sharp demarcation between the subject's previous and new
life and circumstances. Where the desire is to impose some measure of control,
discipline and restriction over the individual then this latter aspect may well
be quite purposeful, if not carefully calculated and intentional. Perhaps there
might be some sort of short sharp shock.
On
the other hand perhaps there might be a carefully engineered series of steps, a
series of psychological barriers crossed one at a time. I can imagine each one
of these steps as being in itself minor, perhaps each not counting all that
much in of itself but each stripping away a little more of what keeps her
connected her to the outside world. Each procedure would take from the girl a
little more of makes the her the girl she is; self-confidence, self-respect,
even aspects of her personality, being systematically stripped away from like
the layers of an onion skin as her processing progresses, letting more and more
of the repressive atmosphere of the institution seep in, culminating with her
entering some sort of inner sanctum of the institution, some final entry point,
dressed in whatever regulation manner the institution demands, already deeply
steeped in institutional culture, the outside world seeming to her as far away
and as out of reach as deep space.
So,
whether becoming resident in the reformatory, coming under the protective wing
of the Church-run 'Charity Home for Wayward Young Girls and Women in Peril of
Moral Corruption' or having been tricked and manipulated into placing herself
(or being placed) under psychiatric care, the irony is that in many ways it is
that aspect which ordinarily might be considered secondary and minor which not
only comes to assume major importance but is actually the raison d'etre
for many of the procedures our nubile young candidate finds herself being put
through.
And
this is particularly the case in the third of these three exemplar scenarios,
wherein, hopelessly out of her depth, our pretty bright young thing finds
herself being inexorably led deeper and deeper into the workings of the mental
hospital.
After
all, having her valuables, all jewellery, her watch etc, placed in a safe, her
suitcase stored away somewhere, even having to leave her phone outside at the
reception desk along with her bank cards – all this wouldn't be questioned; its
only the sort of everyday procedure she will have encountered at airports and
so on, all very easily legitimised. OK, perhaps the offhanded way she has been
greeted and spoken to will have come as something of a surprise – but that will
have knocked her off balance. And they'll make sure she'll be kept off balance,
moved along briskly with no time allowed for her to pause to question, to
gather her thoughts and reconsider what is happening to her, the way in which
the way she is being treated and spoken to is gradually changing as her
processing continues, the staff's attitude to her gradually hardening. It's no
surprise to be offered the chance to take a shower, not that surprising to find
a laundry basket to deposit her clothes in, not entirely surprising to find
waiting for her when she gets out one of those open-back hospital examination
gowns and a pair of disposable paper knickers - but it is somewhat more
disconcerting to find the laundry basket has been removed.
But
she's hurried along further down the corridor, away from the way she came in
and through a locked iron security screen and off to her first psychiatric
appraisal with the doctor she's been told is running the project, her
objections met only with an irritated tut from one of the two uniformed women
escorting her... And even now it all seems understandable – surely her clothes
will be waiting for her when she's brought back?
There
will follow all the usual medical tests one would imagine, and all legitimately
understandable, if a little more intrusive than she will have expected. But
then there comes the first of a series of steps not so easy to legitimise. Why
for example does she need a thorough intimate internal exam. Why does she need
to be intimately shaved beforehand, put through a long drawn out virginal
douche procedure and have to accept a series of three suppositories in her
bottom?
In
that latter scenario - especially if, as in the INSTITUTIONALISED series, she
has been led to believe she is surrendering herself to some sort of residential
psychology experiment without fully understanding its nature – I would imagine
the procedural steps continuing on for days.
In
terms of the longevity of admittance procedures; I think a lot depends on what
point you consider her having been admitted. Given the latter scenario I think
some might put forth the argument that it would be the stage whereat our
heroine is issued with her regulation hospital pyjamas. Beyond that point I
would imagine that as she progresses further through the system there would
also be a shift in the staff set in charge of her.
Gone
will be the two women she's initially been shepherded around by, the two nurses
who seemed to know all about the clinical study she's enrolled herself in,
replaced by nurses and orderlies who seem to know nothing of any of this. They
treat her like a real mental patient – and unsurprisingly so, since she's now
clothed in an outfit that not only makes her look no different from any other
psychiatric case they have to deal with but which actually explicitly states
her diagnosis for all to see. Perhaps it's unsurprising therefore that these
hard-pressed staff members' only response to her constant insistence of there
having been some sort of mistake is to dish out a sharp slap to the face. The
only person she now gets to see who knows that she is supposed to be a clinical
trial candidate is the stern female psychiatrist she'd initially seen, who had
dealt with the paper work and administered her initial psychological appraisal.
On
the other hand it could be argued that admission is the point at which she is
first taken to the secure psychiatric ward where a bed is waiting for her. If
that is the case, then the likelihood is that several days if not a week or
more will have passed by since she first walked into the lobby of the main
hospital. She'll have been fobbed off with promises and excuses and delays,
finding herself continuously shuttling between the doctor's interview room and
office for psychometric testing and so on and the secluded quiet little room
she's been allocated to sleep in, all the time keeping herself going
anticipating meeting the other volunteers, girls like herself who she fondly
imagines she's bound to get on with; undoubtedly a lively, gregarious vivacious
chatty fun-loving bunch.
By
the time she is taken to the ward itself she'll have lost all track of time and
largely been browbeaten into submission already. Perhaps she's even received her
first caning by this point. Then again, perhaps she's yet to taste corporal
punishment; perhaps her first introduction to the ward and the small group she
desperately wants to believe are her fellow clinical study candidates is to
coincide with her first experience of the kiss of the plaited leather riding
switch, rattan cane, leather strap or folded belt across her delectably plump,
weighty, full rounded bottom.
If
the latter is to be the case, I prefer these days to imagine a highly
ritualised affair rather than a straightforward scene of her being flung across
a desk, table, couch or bed, held down and thrashed to the point of begging for
mercy.
There
may have been a time back in my book-buying past when I would have found such a
scene presented in a similar manner satisfying enough – exciting even (to a
point) – but where does one go from there? Two or three such thrashings down
the line and one becomes desensitised – and the only path most authors can
offer the reader from that point on in terms of punitive measures is to
continually up the ante with ever more ferocious beatings, ever escalating
numbers of strokes or lashes or whatever awarded utilising increasingly
heavy-handed and sadistically vicious implements wielded under ever more stringent
and inhuman circumstances.
Thus
it is, in the hands of Victor Bruno (an author I respect and have enjoyed very
much over the years) et al we find ourselves ending up being treated to
accounts of rhino skin whip beatings and one hundred stroke canings and so on,
to the point of smelling salts being called upon in order to revive the hapless
victim so that, having been beaten insensible, she can be brought around to
continue to suffer. But any fool, given the right circumstances and resources,
can chain or strap their victim down or otherwise restrain her (or him – each
to their own) and beat them into insensibility; it takes no brain nor skill;
there is no finesse, and ultimately little lasting excitement; when it's done,
it's done. It is quite another matter to arrange for a girl - perhaps an early
school-leaver (though of marriageable age) if considering a home-schooling /
governess-type scenario, or in her late teens or even early twenties given the
type of institutional storyline being considered here – bend and touch her toes
for the cane on command and to stay in position with no physical restraint of
any kind.
You'll
note I make a point of stipulating no PHYSICAL restraint in the paragraph
above. I make no mention of the restraining effects of the psychological
pressure to conform which will have been brought to bear, something which will
have been building throughout the long drawn-out series of admission procedures
the girl or young woman (I commonly use the terms freely and interchangeably) will
have been put through up to this point and which has been partially the aim
throughout.
So
the sort of inaugural or induction caning I envisage – in addition to being
witnessed by the assembled group she is about to join – would be embedded
within a rigidly stipulated ritual. This would be chock full of pointless,
tedious rules and demands designed to heighten the newcomer's sense of
humiliation and sharpen and highlight that feeling of utter powerlessness which
can develop when punishment is handed out for no good reason other than to
inculcate the need for utter unquestioning obedience.
And
that latter aim is most important off all. Despite my possibly misleading use
of the term 'punishment' above, I see it as vital that throughout the
proceedings the point is repeatedly made – and reiterated at every opportunity
– that this is NOT a punishment in the classical definition of the word, in
that the indignity and physical suffering she is experiencing is not a
consequence of anything she has said or done. Indeed she has done nothing to
deserve it - just as she keeps insisting - nor is there anything she could have
done to have avoided it. It is just a procedural thing, part of the ritual of
being inducted into the group and designed to undermine her status or standing
within that group before she even gets started.
To
the onlookers - forced to watch, each cringing inside, wincing at each whooping
whistling crack of the cane or hiss and smack of the riding crop across the
newcomers bottom - it is something each and every one of them will instantly
recognise; each will have been through it. Not only that, but if those placed
in a position of authority over this corralled group of nubile girl-flesh are
worth their salt they'll have instigated a regimen of 'divide and conquer'. A
major aspect of any such policy will undoubtedly incorporate some method of
fermenting distrust between the individual members of the group; a secondary
aim might well include measures designed to induce neurosis and thus further
encourage distrust between peers.
One
way to meet this secondary aim might well be the random allocation of
'punishment' similar to that being witnessed. Thus it is likely that more than
one of the small group of teenagers making up the audience will be nursing a
burning, bee-stung behind herself, while completely at a loss to explain what
it was she was supposed to have done to have earned it, knowing only that it
had to have been SOMETHING she'd done.. Otherwise, why else would she have been
punished?
If
you try, perhaps you can imagine the questions running through such an
onlooker's mind as she struggles with the urge to massage her scorched bottom
cheeks through the seat of her pyjamas and the rubbery plastic knickers she has
on beneath, the fire reignited by the sight she is being forced to witness ...
What
could she have done to have avoided it? What can she do in the future to avoid
such a thrashing? How can she best please the carers, nurses and others in
authority over her?
If
convinced she'd done nothing, had been blameless, then perhaps a different type
of question might be popping up in her mind as she looks on. Had having her
bottom practically skinned by a riding crop wielded by one of the nurses been a
consequence of one of the other girls 'telling tales' about her in order to
gain favour, to earn herself some sort of 'privilege'? If so, who?
Which girl?
If
you could see in to her head perhaps then you could read her thought patterns –
then what? What might be running through her poor little confused and
professionally deluded mind?
“What
about that girl the doctor gave chocolate to the other day, the blond girl
designated 'patient 16A'? Six squares she got! True, she'd looked surprised
right enough. But she'd been happy enough to nuzzle them out the doctor's hand
like a pony fed half a dozen sugar cubes – and there'd been no lack of
enthusiasm; she'd been grinning ear to ear with unbridled childish gratitude,
like a toddler rewarded by a parent for good behaviour... Yeah... but it says
'delusional psychosis' on her bib and the signboard up on the wall behind her
bed...
I
KNOW I'm normal, but that girl is one of the REAL mental patients – I'm sure of
it. Otherwise why would she rock like that, back and forth all day, grinning
like an idiot? They said there'd be SOME real patients, a couple or so. And if
she's delusional, all those smiles and nuzzling chocolate pieces out that
woman's hand could mean anything... Yeah, but why would SHE be given chocolate
in the FIRST place? You didn't get treats like that for nothing. Surely she
must have done something to please someone, somewhere? Telling tales? But who
would be stupid enough to believe anything she said if she were delusional?
So... Was she a stooge? Was she some sort of plant, someone employed to act out
the role of a mental patient – or perhaps a real mental case, but one trusted
to be the ears and eyes of the institution?
And
what about that other girl, a while further back still; the brunette? The poor
thing was supposed to have dementia – that's what it said on her bib, and on
the top pocket of her pyjama jacket; she even had her hands locked in stiffened
mittens to prevent self harming; the nurses had to do everything for her,
absolutely everything. And yet... A while back they took her mittens off and
for quite a long time she had her toilet privileges restored – they'd take her
to the loo and back a couple of times a day instead of having her use a bed pan
like everyone else or – worse – use her knickers... Why was that? Surely it was
SOME sort of reward, for SOMETHING – but what? Was SHE a stooge? Surely not –
surely SHE was the real thing. She has these ugly great metal braces on her
teeth (what for, who knows?) that push out her lips like a pouting trout and
make her drool all the time – and with her mittens on and her arms fastened
across her chest under her plastic bib there's nothing she can do about it and
it all trickles down her front... No she couldn't be a stooge, she had to be
the real thing. But then again – why did she suddenly seem to be everybody's favourite
at the moment? Could she trust anyone? Did anyone trust her?”
Yes
– in the régime I envisage it wouldn't only be 'punishments' and 'corrections'
that would be handed out randomly. Indeed, our 'new girl' might not be inducted
in to the group by way of some sort of ritualised punishment at all. Instead
she might be required to watch one of the 'old guard', one of the pre-existing
members of the group, being put through her paces in a similar manner to that
outlined above, as an example of what comes of defiance.
Any
such a demonstration will be of particular value in terms of its psychological
impact if, as some component of the admission procedures thus far, our newcomer
has been shown something of one or two members of the group she is being
introduced to in their previous incarnations prior to their own admission:
Imagine for instance she has been shown a couple of dossiers - complete with
photographs - by way of encouragement, a couple of examples of recent recruits
she'll be meeting and staying with. Of course the fact that the term, 'recent',
as applied to the fun-loving leather-jacketed gum-chewing 'trendy' and the
smiling vivacious-looking designer blonde she has been shown refers to some
twelve months or more back will have been somewhat glossed over.
Perhaps
in addition to witnessing – but not participating in – this ritualistic caning,
the newcomer being spared the actual pain of the rod itself, she might be given
some sort of 'treat', great show being made of her being rewarded with some
kind of privilege or favour, anything from a smiling pat on the head (or
bottom) to a sizable hunky bar of chocolate:
“Now
you run along and pop into bed... And don't forget to let me know if you see
anything untoward.”
The
leather-skirted psychiatrist's enigmatic parting words might well leave our
newcomer puzzled. But although quietly and conspirationally spoken - reinforced
with a reassuring nod and knowing smile – in the quiet of the ward five other
pairs of ears will have pricked up, and the inference will not be lost on any
one of them. Even in the absence of the strictly enforced 'no talking' rule our
newcomer's isolation will have been doubly ensured from the outset. And in her
own mind – looking around at the assembled pyjama-clad group - she'll have that
remark she's overheard beforehand running through her head, the woman
psychiatrist to some unnamed individual on the other end of a phone line:
“...
I have my eyes and ears everywhere...”
And
what if, instead of just passively witnessing this ritual, our newcomer is
instead made to actively participate, acting as the glamorous psychotherapist's
proxy and wielding the cane herself, under instruction? Or if it is our
newcomer who is to taste the cane or the riding crop – what if it is one of the
assembled group of onlookers who is handed the length of thin pliant bamboo or
plaited leather switch?
But
with all that said and done; I have to say, I still find it difficult to conceive
of any situation able to provide greater psychological impact than for a
nubile, perhaps naturally shy, young thing to be systematically reduced to
tears in front of a small cohort of girls of similar age to herself she
imagines are soon to become her comrades, as a means of welcoming her into the
fold! And I do think a good hard caning to be best under such circumstances,
rather than an over-the-knee strapping, paddling, hand spanking or similar. The
point is; after such an experience and being made such an exhibition of, it will
be well nigh impossible for her to cut any sort of figure in front of her new
peers.
In
actuality, the caning doesn't have to be all that severe in terms of
out-and-out force to produce the desired psychological effect in this
situation. There is no need to really slash in the strokes, as one might for
the purposes of behavioural correction and modification or to break through
some stubborn streak the girl might have. Rather it is more a symbolic
procedure than anything else, one designed to start her off in her new life
with the correct mindset, so that in her own eyes - and those of the girls and
young women comprising the group into which she is being inducted - the image
is formed and brought in to sharp focus of a girl already surrendered to
authority. As such she is less likely to be able to inspire others to insurrection
and since those she is about to join are so browbeaten already – as she will
discover – she is unlikely to find the peer support and strength to rebel
herself; indeed, mixing with those already broken to the system will tend to
further undermine her own sense of self worth, individuality and defiant
independent spirit still further.
All
that is really required of this procedure then is to foster in the girl's mind
and those of the onlookers the requisite image; and for that, all that is necessary
is that she submits to the ritualised caning, that it stings enough to bring
home to her the shame of it, and that it is witnessed by the group of her
peers. Carried out correctly, with all ritualistic elements observed as
outlined, and even though not agonising – in the classical sense that a caning
is so often depicted as agonizing in main-stream spanking literature (all those
smelling salts and so on) – nevertheless it will be indelibly imprinted in her
psyche forever.
The
type of ritualistic caning I like to imagine is best embodied by the type of
'knickers down, knickers up' form of ritual mentioned in a sort of oblique way
on a couple of occasions back in the day in Janus magazine (I think they once
marketed a film based around this idea). Sketchy and oblique the reference may
have been, but it stuck in my mind over the years, was nurtured and expanded
upon in my imagination to emerge in the form I imagine today.
Given
the situation I have outlined above the girl will of course be bare-footed and
in hospital-issue pyjamas, a thick transparent polythene tabard, something approximating
a very large baby feeding bib, over the top of her upper half, the two halves
buckled together at the sides at her waist.
The
idea of the plastic tabard is something of a new innovation in terms of this
happy little scene I like to conjure up in my imagination and does not feature
in any of my presently published books. There are versions marketed by medical
suppliers which are easily obtainable and intended for dentia sufferers and
others of restricted mental acuity to protect nightwear from food spillages,
drooling and so on. Modified versions can double as part of a restraint system
where it is necessary to confine the wearer to a chair, wheelchair or bed. The
form I imagine would allow the girl's regulation hospital green and white
striped pyjama jacket to be seen beneath it, complete with hospital crest
embroidered on its top pocket – albeit the thick rubbery polythene introducing
a greyish cast – but would have the hospital name, the words 'secure
psychiatric wing' or perhaps 'psychiatric patient' or something similar and
some sort of suitable 'diagnosis' such as DEMENTIA or DELUSIONAL PSYCHOSIS
printed across the front in bold black lettering, thus ensuring the wearer
tends to be viewed and treated accordingly.
All-in-one
'tamper proof' pyjamas are also commercially available – intended for the same
kind of patient - and are easily procurable, even for home use if wanted, and
can be obtained in a form with sewn-in anchor points to allow for various forms
of restriction where self-harming is an issue or tampering with dressings, cannulas,
incontinence precautions and catheters and so on is a danger. I have toyed with
the idea of a recalcitrant young charge dressed in such a manner with her arms
crossed over her bust, a brass ring or eye at her left wrist clipped to a ring
sewn into a tab at the right shoulder and similarly her right wrist secured to
her left shoulder and then the polythene tabard secured over the top, its front
and back halves buckled together tightly around her waist just below her elbows
and thus further securing her arms. I have toyed, too, with the idea of
'special' pyjamas for home use having a more conventional appearance but with
similar anchor points sewn in, and again designed to be worn with a tabard or
restrictive quilted bed jacket over the top.
More
recently I have been tinkering with the idea of a restrictive corset with laced
channels or open-sided sleeves capable of securing a girl's arms down by her
sides over which would be worn special pyjamas or even especially manufactured
outdoor wear designed and tailored without sleeves or arm holes – in terms of
hospital issue pyjamas with one of those tabards worn over the top I imagine it
would produce a pleasingly clean line, as if she had been born without arms.
Very sweet, very helpless and – importantly given the current context of this
discussion – very dependent.
For
now though it's probably best we put those thoughts and possibilities on hold
and keep things simple (though your comments, criticisms and further ideas are
always welcome).
So
our newcomer will have on a pair of hospital issue pyjamas such have been described
and outlined in the INSTITUTIONALISED series. Doubtless she'll have on
underneath a pair of 'tamper proof' polythene bloomer-style knickers, as
designed for dementia sufferers, with a locking waistband secured at the rear
by a small padlock, which will have to be released first by the smartly
uniformed nurse accompanying her.
You
have to imagine our new girl has just been led in. She finds herself standing
at the front of a narrow hospital ward, three hospital beds lined up to either
side – giving six in all – separated by a gangway just large enough for a
hospital trolley to pass – perhaps the width of a bed – and each bed separated
from the next by a green plastic curtain which can be drawn around if and as
required. The quiet is extraordinary, just the shuffling of five pairs of bare
feet – five well-developed big breasted teenaged girls, all identically dressed
in hospital pyjamas and polythene tabards, two marked up with the words
'delusional psychosis' and three with the single word 'dementia'.
There
is a desk at the front of the room at which a stern-faced woman in a tightly
belted navy blue uniform dress sits, a starched white nurse's cap on her
tightly pinned raven hair. There is a full length mirror screwed to the wall
behind the desk, reflecting the rear view of the seated woman, the entire
length of the room, the assembled group of bowed-headed pyjama-clad girls and
the newcomer with her nurse escort, a girl not all that much older than herself
dressed in a fitted blue and white check dress, a white cap perched on her
blonde hair and a tight elasticated crepe belt around her trim waist. And above
the mirror, the reason for the deadly quiet – or part of the reason at any rate
– a large sign in bold black letter spells out what will soon become apparent
to her is the cardinal stipulation: “NO TALKING AT ANY TIME”. It is actually
the second highest ranking of several cardinal rules, as she will discover –
the first and highest principle is simply 'obedience'.
She
is made to turn, face the assembled group of girls, her cheeks burning bright
as embers, disquieted by the cowed, downtrodden atmosphere hanging over them
all, the way they stand with hands crossed in front, heads lowered, eyes
averted and how each pointedly avoids eye contact. She's seen the metronome on
front of the nurse's station desk – and now, behind her back, she hears it
started up... TOCK, TOCK, TOCK, TOCK...
Then
comes the order: The psychiatrist has entered and its her voice, syrupy,
plummy, educated and self-satisfied. She is the only one not wearing some sort
of uniform. Even the girls, even the new girl herself, can be thought of as
wearing some sort of uniform; theirs mark them out as mental patients; it practically
says as much on the rubbery plastic tabards over their pyjamas. Right at this
minute she doesn't even have her customary white coat on. Instead she is
dressed in a tight knee length black leather skirt, tailored and close-fitted
white satin blouse and high heels, her face made up as if going out for the
evening, her glossy black hair up in a tight no-nonsense bun. Big busted and
broad hipped she nevertheless has a remarkably trim waist and looks a good ten
years younger than her actual age which is nearer forty five. It is she who is
going to administer the punishment – and it is not the cane the girl has spied
resting against the nurse's chair she is going to be putting to use; she has
just strolled in carrying a thin plaited riding crop, is running it through her
fingers, toying with it, flexing it experimentally:
“Right,
six strokes – jump up, rise before you're told to, forget to count the stroke
out loud or refuse to bend and it starts again from the beginning. Refuse point
blank to accept your introductory caning and... Well you KNOW what to expect!
Ok... let's have those pyjama bottoms down... knickers down... touch your
toes... knees locked out... legs wider apart than that, girl!”
Swisssh
- crrracck !!!
You
can, I'm sure, imagine the thin red line developing across the pure lily-white
skin of her well-formed naked behind.... and the wail of dismay as the heat of
the stroke sinks in... Somehow she hasn't sprung up – this time!
“Stay
in position, listen to the metronome, count thirty-six beats... and... now
straighten up. Pull up your knickers, pull up your pyjama bottoms and turn to
face the mirror, hands on head. Thank me for the stroke...”
Somehow
she manages a strangled-sounding “thank you, doctor”.
The
woman holds out the switch to the girl's lips.
“Kiss
the switch...”
Red
faced the girl kisses the supple leather.
“Now
look at yourself in the mirror, and as you count sixty-four beats of the
metronome I want you to think about how you look, what your friends would think
of you if they could see you – a mental patient in a psychiatric hospital...
count the beats... count out loud...”
“sixty
two, sixty three, sixty-four...” The girl's voice is shaky, breaking, already
becoming interrupted by sobbing laboured breaths as she struggles to deal with
the spreading pain radiating out across her backside... and the fear of the impending
next stroke builds within her as the metronome beats pile up. Her face begins
to burn brighter still as she catches sight of the smile spreading across the
face of the young nurse standing alongside her in her neat blue and white
uniform dress.
“Keeping
your hands on your head, turn, face the other patients, count thirty six beats
of the metronome, then lower your hands, drop your pyjama trousers, pull down
your knickers and touch your toes like before...”
SSSSwwwwwissh
– cccraaack!!!
“No
you don’t – don't you DARE get up! Listen to the metronome – thirty-six beats;
THEN you can straighten up!!”
And
so it goes on, each position regulated by the unvarying, unrelenting rhythm of
the metronome.
On
the other hand, perhaps the newcomer might have to watch as one of the more
established inmates, chosen at random, is caned, perhaps put through a similar
regimented routine while she watches. Either way, you can bet she'll be quiet
and contrite as she is led over to her bed.
I
sometimes think such a ritualised procedure as this works even better where
some kind of school uniform is involved – the fussier the better. Perhaps
carried out by a newly appointed governess-cum-tutor figure by way of
introduction to a newly-introduced home-schooling régime, and in front of her
guardian or stepmother or whoever has had the inspired imagination to have
employed such a woman.
Posts
.png)
