Alice and the New Magdalene Laundries - And a Clip of Victoriana Nonsense I Came Across Long Ago

Yes, you've guessed it!  I  finally  have the new book at the point where it is nearly ready to be published.  It requires only a few more corrections - and of course the all-important (to me at least) cover art / marketing imagery.  The title I have come up with in truth relates to only part of the tale but is unashamedly designed to ride on the renewed wave of interest here in the UK in the press and on the radio over the notoriety of the Magdalene laundries.  Of course the institution I describe is entirely fictional - but it is also all too plausible; especially when one considers the fact that the last of those deplorable institutions was only closed down in 1996!  I may elect to place it on LULU sans cover art to begin with, as I did the last title I produced (which is now out on Amazon et al courtesy of Andrews UK LTD by the way) so it may be worth a search through LULU to check from time to time.

  

Alice Under Discipline - Book Two

Alice and the New Magdalene Laundries

Now that I have that off my chest I can be off out to the pub.  You see the cat's away (the wife - and she 's taken the kids!) for the week and as I haven't been near a pub since the 3rd of January (and it's sunny here in North London) so I have decided to award myself a few days imbibing the local Ales.  At the same time I'll be taking the netbook computer I have and God-willing I'll be putting together some introductory articles and such for the website.  The latter I shall be updating next either tomorrow or Thursday, most probably with a few pages spotlighting the work of a guest author.  And on that subject; I plan to host a series of pages on the website (link in the right hand sidebar) devoted to publicising the work of other authors, so if any of you are interested in giving your work the light of day let me know, either here or by email, Twitter, Facebook or whatever.

 Talking of other authors:  Ages ago (many years actually) I came upon something which later went a long way in influencing the kind of thing I tend to write about.  If you look you'll doubtless recognise many themes I have used or touched upon in my novels or on this blog over the years.  

........

  

"...suffice it to say that after five years both signatures were dully obtained – and then both names fade from history, just rumours of institutional care remaining.  Others, though, have pointed out the startling resemblance of two of a certain titled lady's maids to the twins she once had in her care, not to mention marvelling at the exacting level of obedience she managed to extract from the girls.  One visitor describes the pair of them as obliging and sweet, but “little more than pretty automata, seemingly without a thought of their own in their heads”.  

 The regime which may or may not have produced such “exacting obedience” we know more of, though – our lady disciplinarian was something of an obsessive journal keeper, it turns out.  For instance every detail of the two girls' 'finestred'  - or windowed, as she describes them – dresses is outlined, detailing how she based the dress design around the summer uniform of a particularly strict girl's boarding school, before adapting it to her own specification, complete with underwired cut-outs to expose the breasts and a mid-thigh widely-flared skirt (her description) – and all this in an era when to show the ankle was deemed outrageous, if not downright obscene.  Then she plaits and coils each girl's long hair, tying each plait with a blue gingham ribbon - chosen to match the schoolgirl dress - at its end before coiling it up either side of the girl's head and pinning it in place like a straw tea mat, before then plonking a straw boater on each girl's' head. 

Actually, it is only when one of the girls throws something of a tantrum over having to wear what the girl herself calls “that stupidly childish hat” that this disturbingly clever woman's imagination really goes to town.  She deals with that little disturbance by taking a pair of barber's clippers (manual in those days) to the tops of both girls' heads, cutting bald a pink-hued path the width of the clippers (around an inch and a half to two inches in width I imagine) down the centre of each girl's head before plaiting the remainder.  From that point on she takes a cutthroat razor to that furrow on a weekly basis to keep it clear, ensuring that neither girl has much desire to remove her school uniform hat, even in private.  At one point, at least in her journal, she considers shaving them both bald, but then considers that she prefers the manner in which the residual plaits coiled to both sides of the head makes them look ridiculous – she doesn't tell the girls that, though, always holding over their heads (forgive me) the threat of taking the clippers and the razor to their remaining 'crowning glory'. 

But she does eventually take the razor to their eyebrows – you couldn't make it up – and I haven't, then even takes a small pair of scissors to their eyelashes.  It almost goes without saying that intimate shaving is the next step - backed up by the not-so-judicious application of the school cane she quickly introduces.  The latter is treated to a long, drawn-out, blow-by-blow or cane-stroke-by-cane-stroke description of how she wears down both – interspersed with ice-cold showers, day on day – before they finally submit to her intimate attentions.             

Then we have listed is a step by step series of measurements detailing the drawing out and distension of the girl's nipples, ending when both girl's nipples had been stretched to very nearly two inches in length.  And their breasts seamed to have been elongated to some extent too.  And not satisfied with that, she then starts adding thicker and thicker – and therefore heavier, one would think - nipple rings, with the expressed intention of widening the holes “so that they never can be hidden” as she says.  The very next thing – well it's not the very next in that the nipple stretching exercise is in the early stages, though well on the way and both girls are becoming well familiar with the breast-whip, both around the nipples and on the undersides of the bosom, but the next thing is the nose ring.  Now in today's world that is possibly not that astounding, but in the Victorian world?  I for one didn't even know that sort of thing went on.  And did they even have anaesthesia back then?    Well, I'm not sure of that last part, nor where the Victorians would have obtained ice from in the middle of summer.  What I do know is that there is a very detailed, wholly realistic and believable account of how a female specialist, some colleague member of some discrete Sapphic organisation or club judging by the impression I get, is called in and how she applies ice to the septum of each girl's nose before carrying out the act itself.  Needless to say a very long-drawn-out caning precedes the treatment, neither girl being what one might call exactly keen. 

 But nonetheless, the treatment goes ahead and both girls are soon sporting what sounds to have been quite a large and cumbersome nose ring.  And as with their nipples it isn't long before a larger and heavier ring  is substituted for the original - and then another and another, each designed to stretch the original piercing larger.  And when one of the duo goes running, crying to her guardian, instead of castigating the girl's governess the guardian actually suggests to the woman that she adds a bell to each girl's nose ring as a form of discipline, even going so far as to suggest it too, like the ring itself, be made progressively larger and heavier.  It is only a short step from there - once the idea had taken hold and the two girls' refusal to speak with the lisp their governess had decided she liked had grown to irritating proportions - to piercing the tip of the tongue and the lower lip of each girl and conjoining the two body parts with a ring.  I imagine that latter operation dealt with the refusal to develop a lisp alright!

 Then we come to another apparently anachronistic development.  We come to the question of our duo’s knickers.  Don't forget we are talking about the Victorian era here, when skirts brushed the floor except for those of little children, and drawers or bloomers were knee length or even ankle length.  We have already mentioned the fact that our duo's frocks were mid thigh, if full-skirted, and based on strict long-sleeved and high-collared school summer dresses, albeit cut away where it mattered to expose and 'present' their breasts.  The styling, as I understand it, was some sort of variation on the favoured 'sailor suit' dress usually reserved at the time for children, but in a gingham check pattern with contrasting stiffened white collar and cuffs and 'cut' and 'boned' to not only allow for the maturing figure, but to actually augment and exaggerate it.   So what about their knickers or bloomers – well, what would you have come up with, given the limitations (perhaps advantages -  just think about that for a moment) of the Victorian era?  I wonder?  I wouldn't mind betting it wouldn't involve rubber. 

 Vulcanised rubber was a fairly new material back then.  And who would have thought then of employing this new material in young women's underwear – very few, I'd wager.  But this singularly brilliant woman did – and who other than another woman would have appreciated the torment this new fabric could potentially cause the female person?  She describes her design work as trunk-style.  She goes on to detail “a close-fitting garment” having deep-sectioned ribbed cuffs around the thighs and possessing a high waistband, the latter consisting of the rubber wrapped around and over a girdle of spring steel and arranged to come together at the rear with a tongue and clasp arrangement designed to take a small padlock (to deter tampering – as she says).   A “virginal slit” occupied the gusset position, this being in reality a double slit separated by a thin tubular centre seam, the latter clearly intended to separate the outer labia and encourage the inner labia to protrude through the thin slits either side.  Going further to the rear, and this centre seam split in two to form a 'y' shape, the two halves being studded with reinforced brass eyes that were, in wear, laced together with a tough cotton cord, of which the latter could be rapidly drawn out to allow for natural functions – or the attention of the cane or strap – if of course one had the key to the second padlock that secured the eyed ends of the laces.  Which of course neither girl had.  

It was all about control - but also about exposure; one can only imagine the obscene view presented by a girl bent over her desk, so dressed, her inner lips hanging like coral-pink curtains pressed out either side of that tight latex bar stand-in for a gusset, pulled up inhumanly tight between her legs.  And then you  have the skirt, a nest of heavyweight gingham check satin puffed out over layers of sky-blue petticoats like an inverted carnation, irresistibly drawing the eye to the glistening centre.  And why a glistening centre?  Possibly  not totally unconnected with the fact that the front of the gusset - the precise point upon which the two split haves converged on the centre seam – was occupied by a little circular beard of bristled rubbery filaments purposely aligned to impinge directly on the most sensitive part pf a girl's anatomy.  How could that part not glisten, teased, massaged and stimulated as it was with the girl's every step?  So each was kept, aroused, punished and humiliated in equal measure - and all at once - each girl's mind a permanent swirling turmoil of conflicting emotions.  And masturbation was out of the question:  Handcuffs had been invented and a single slim, short but strong slither of leather twixt the centre point of the linking chain and the girl's nose ring was all it took to keep that particular temptation at bay.  A ribbon sewn in to the high-throated collar of her long, chaste, woven woollen nightdress would take care of keeping her nipples and breasts under the tension required in order to stretch the flesh of those parts, the unrelenting tension being increased week on week, if not night on night! 

And then started the process of fattening them both up...  Another facet one might consider modern.    Our strict governess priestess apparently considered her bended-knee worshipers insufficiently worthy if not what she would have described as pleasantly “plumped-up”.  This implied, apparently, the result of prolonged overfeeding whilst the waist and tummy were simultaneously constricted by tight and strict corsetry, the idea being that “the fat should be laid down where it will be of most delight to the eye”.  By this statement she clearly inferred that the excess pounds should be deposited around the thighs, bottom and bosom. 

The result of all this - once squeezed into a fitted, boned, wide-skirted frock - was a startlingly wasp-waisted, broad-beamed figure, especially when augmented by the breath-stealing corsetry of the age.  And perhaps surprisingly the process apparently did indeed result in the weight going on around the bottom, hips, thighs and breasts as intended!   “Plump in all the right places” – as they used to say back then.  And that was exactly how she had the twins look– plump in all the right places – only perhaps a little too much plumpness for some tastes.   Not that the girls themselves had  too much choice in the matter, being weighed each day with the penalty of a good hard caning to be paid for insufficient weight gain.  A similar tariff was payable for insufficient nipple elongation.    The only way out of suffering for the latter was through the girl tugging and pulling on her teats herself of course,  Avoiding punishment for the former just required working on the appetite and stacking away the calories - and perhaps avoiding the mirror as the double chin became apparent.  The constantly varied diet helped, encouraging overeating at a most basic level - another anachronistic innovation worthy of a modern viewpoint. 

Avoiding the mirror was near-on impossible  since the tiniest pleat out of place  on what was termed their 'home uniform' was cause to be upended over their governess's knee and self inspection was made a de rigour part of the daily régime.  The flared-skirted childish sailor suit dress had to hang just so, with exactly a certain amount of bare flesh visible between the hem and the white cotton  stockings, the latter to reach to just above the knee where they were each tied with a blue gingham ribbon bow garter to match the dress.  And that bow had to be on the outside of the knee and dead horizontal – god forbid it was ever crooked!  And then the light blue patent leather lace-up ankle boots had to be tied just so.  High-heeled and with an acutely curving and potentially crippling 'S' shape sole they were all but impossible to walk in, enforcing a tiny, dainty step and teetering gait, but that was the intention – and they gave a pleasant uplift to a girl's bottom, which was a pleasant plus to their governess's eye.  And the straw hat was a fussy affair, it tied with a gingham ribbon bow beneath the chin but that ribbon had first to pass around the rear of both ears and then had to be tied so tight as to result in the ears sticking out – and that bow, large and ungainly as it was, had to tied just so, perfectly horizontal...."                                                                                                       

Humiliated Lyons Tearooms Nippys - And Website News

Hi Ya’ll!  Well another week has slipped through my fingers.  But not entirely fruitlessly.  I have polished off  part 2 of Alice Under Discipline, though I am not sure if satisfactorily so as yet; I am  not sue how happy I am with certain aspects of it.  The problem has been that in my mind’s eye I have moved on since part 1 and in addition to working on a serious sciencey book about protein conformation disorders I have a plethora of incomplete fragments of something which amongst  other things revolves around a character who, along with her cronies, delights in watching (sort of stalking), picking out and then causing untold problems for certain young attractive ‘nippys’ who wait on her and her friends at afternoon tea at various Lyons corner houses or tearooms (the tale seems to have set itself in the early 1960s). 

This they contrive to do by picking fault in their service, both by conniving as a group or at other times as individuals, complaining to the manageress or supervisor with the aim of watching the sweet  recent-school-leaver of their choice being berated in front of them, with the sure and certain knowledge that the next time she serves one of them, the resulting flustering will likely result in yet another opportunity to nit-pick and trouble-make for their blameless young target.  Working together, by visiting the restaurant at different times as individuals and pairs and contriving to be served by their target, they are able to make it appear that the poor red-faced, flustered young thing is quite incapable.  It is a game with them:

They even go so far as to set up a certain pleasantly plump, well-developed young girl with one of their number’s nephew, merely so he can take her out in her lunch break (a persuasive young chap, and a chip off his aunt’s block) thus enabling one of them to later pass comment over the smell of alcohol on the nippy’s breath (he’s surreptitiously slipped a shot or two of gin in the shandy she’s risked imbibing).  
 In this manner, as it begins to take more and more to satisfy the group’s yearning to witness the public humiliation of others, several girls are brought close to getting the sack (and brought to public tears).  But with one girl  in particular they are indeed successful in getting her dismissed – and without references and little chance of re-employment… That is, unless one of the group were to step forward of course…  And needless to say the central character - and instigator of all this - has a 'thing' about ''nippies' and their uniforms, and discipline, not to mention holding strong views on the benefits of corporal punishment!  

The pics here (certainly the uppermost one ) are from 1925 -ish, but I understand that some variant of the uniform survived in to the early 1960s.

I have been doing a whole lot more on the new website, by the way.  It now has an all-black background (since I took my life in my hands and dug down into the HTML / CSS code), albeit with a grey bit at the bottom of the page; coz I haven’t worked out how to get rid of that yet.  It has a long way to go though; I am mostly uploading content from my collection of stuff at the moment and so there are still no words of explanation nor much in the way of text contributions generally.  In terms of site navigation:  in addition to the nesting pull-down menus or tabs at the top of the pages I am also building in a system of pictorial links as I go along…  Give it a try and see!   And let me know!   There is a pretty sad-looking link near the top of the right hand sidebar, which I'll sort out in time.

Yeah, Yeah I know; the text colour i've used here sucks.  But I'm pressed for time and I'll fix it later.. And hopefuly add a pic or two! 

And now I've fixed it - no more garish lime green (Thurs 14th)

Ballet School Discipline - and the New Magdalenes?

A little while back I posted up a snippet involving a modicum of private ballet class discipline.  Recently that set me to thinking how within a suitably private, secluded scenario the approach of involving a young minx within a structured ballet class or school environment need not necessarily have anything to do with her learning ballet per se.  Nevertheless it might still be advantageous if she happened to be led - or allowed - to believe that the rigorous,  stern regime instigated by her new governess or dance teacher or what have you is headed that way, perhaps with the vague promise of a place at a prestigious ballet school at the end of it; and the dire warning of her lack of prospects otherwise, forever ringing in her ears.

Anyway what led to that particular train of thought was a little confection I blundered across today (see left) while searching for a few more Julian Guile illustrations to pad out my otherwise somewhat sparse collection of that artist’s work for inclusion on my new website.  Funny how these things work out!  When I was actually looking  I didn’t seem to be able to find much beyond that famous (I hope – it deserves to be) Rosaleen Young set and that photo set that was published way back in the mid-eighties in Janus and which I alluded to.       

While on the topic of Julian Guile:  Is it me or is his style virtually inseparable from that of ‘Thorn’ (can we even mention that name nowadays?  Last time it almost cost me having the blog shut down – I certainly won’t knowingly be including any of his work on the new website).

In terms of writing; much of today has been taken up writing about this sort of garb (eyes right!) for the new book but I have to admit to having been sidetracked by this little offering (left).  Now I am not one to be easily moved by art – and I don’t know what it is exactly – but I think I’ve fallen in love with a girl made of ink, pencil and pen!  (at least she can’t argue back)  (I originally wrote ‘pen and ink girl’ here, but that has unfortunate connotations in London-speak!).  And then earlier today on BBC Radio 4 - right as I happened to be working on a section relevant to that very subject - there happened also to be a discussion about Ireland’s Magdalene Laundries, the last of which was only closed down in 1996 as you probably know by now; talk about coincidence!  It leaves me a little worried, though, that I might leave myself vulnerable to moralistic criticism if the public spotlight begins to focus too brightly on that particular area.  That is particularly the case considering a subtitle something along the lines of ‘The New Magdalenes’ has been running around inside my skull for some time now!

Just what is it about this one?  Might it be the face or exression?

In the background I have been adding and uploading more content to the website (which eventually will also host unfinished pieces, sketchy ideas and snippets that have not made it into my books or are intended to one day form parts of new works.  I have also managed to put aside a little time to make a few changes to the blog.  For example I have recently added  ‘Curious QBuzz’,    ‘The Spank Shop’,  ‘Teen Spankings & Discipline’ and  ‘Red Lion Street’ (“An illustrated erotic blog in 50 chapters by Captain Shame. ‘Impossible things happen on Red Lion Street’”)  to the blog list over in the right-hand sidebar.  In a new departure 

I have also started hosting links to ‘tumblr’ blogs and a new section has duly been created in the sidebar for just this purpose (I’ve just lapsed into the passive voice again – ignore it; I’m a scientist).   

For the time being the tumblr blog list shall be sited above the main blog listings to make it easier to find but “keep ‘em peeled” coz I’ll be adding to and updating the tumblr listing to as we go along - and eventually the list will move.

To get the ball rolling I’ve added to the tumblr blog list:  ‘Discipline Days’,  ‘A Firm Hand’ and  ‘Spanking and Punishment Art’.  The latter I found to be full of imaginative stuff beyond the expected and ordinary (For example: see right for yet another image that spawned a burst of creativity today – pinched off that very site), although they all proved inspirational...  Great stuff!.  

And if I may now make a request it is this:  This blog is haemorrhaging readership (probably through my having so often neglected it over the last year or so, but I don’t think that is the whole story) and so it would be helpful if, when visiting or linking to other blogs and resources from here, you could perhaps - if leaving a comment or two or feeding back to the author for example - see your way clear to also giving a mention to this blog.  I’d be most grateful!

  

My New Website - Now Under Construction!

Yes that's right!  While finishing off my new book, in the background I have been working on putting together a full-blown, full-featured website.  At the moment it consists mainly of all the stuff - women's workwear and uniforms catalogue scans and so one - that used to exist as Picasaweb albums linked to the blog, but hosting even more of my collection.  

As time goes on it will expand to contain all the things I have featured on the blog in the past and which went to inspire and inform my writing and motivate me to start writing in the first place (and much more besides), but in a more easily accessible and searchable form.  Right at this moment the website only exists in a draft form but you can visit this early - 'under construction' - draft version by clicking on either the title banner above or the mission statement thingy picture below.  I am very keen to hear your feedback / criticism so feel free to comment here, email, Facebook or Tweet me...  I look forward to hearing from you!

For now, this is how two sections of the home page look  Whether the title stays as it is depends on the feedback I receive; so it is sort of up to you.  I decided to call it Beyond the Barred Window rather than Behind the Barred window because...  Well... because it is sort of going... Beyond!  Beyond this blog and hopefully beyond the usually accepted remit expectedof a spanking or corporal punishment orientated website (or something like that!).

Women's Prison Uniforms

Yeah, Yeah!  I know I said in a comment recently that the next posting would be Monday (i.e. yesterday) but when you've got the muse you've gotta write; and I have come across so much recently that has inspired me.

In the comments section of my last offering I have been in contact with - among others - 'WIP Fan' (WIP - Women In Prison):  There used to be a Yahoo Group by that name once - Women In Prison - such a shame so many of those groups got taken down by Yahoo!  Anyway, I digress, as I always do: I suddenly remembered the aforementioned Mr 'WIP Fan' (I think it was, at least) sending me a series of scans or pics of the front covers of various pulp novels dealing with women in prison and so on.  I think the reason was that I had mentioned that despite my best efforts to put over in words the prison uniform-type dresses imposed on certain of my heroines within the INSTITUTIONALISED series (trilogy) I still from time to time receive emails from readers uncertain or unable to fully visualise in their mind's eye the type of look I am trying to put over.  Now of course the setup expounded within the pages of the first three books is not a real establishment-sanctioned penal institution, but is rather an unofficial regime approximating to one, limited in size and residing within the department of experimental behavioural psychology, itself situated within the secure psychiatric wing of a private and exclusive hospital.  

It is also true that I originally based my descriptions on 1960s and early 1970s women's workwear, and have posted examples of influences elsewhere on this site, but one cover illustration in particular came extraordinarily close - considering I walked into the first novel entirely ignorant of such matters - other than that it features short sleeves and a single-buttoned belt (I think such a feature was termed a 'self-belt' if it was attached and so an nondetachable part of the overall or dress), whereas I define a style with long button-cuffed sleeves, two in-line buttons fastening the belt and (in one variant) a high buttoning collar.  The second photo I remember coming across myself the very same day while looking for something entirely different (not even to do with my books) and which I found on The Huffington Post.  The dress is purported to date from the late 1940s, but as to why the pic was on that site I have no idea; I don't remember it having much to do with the story.  Stylistically it deviates to an even greater extent from the ideal but what matters here for illustrative purposes is the sheen the fabric possess.

Other News:  Before I forget  Mr Strict's Intimate Invasions blog (enforced enemas) has moved for technical reasons to http://mrstrict.biz.  I have duly corrected the link in the sidebar blog list.  I also added a few blogs in the lead-up to Christmas but neglected to keep score so it may be worthwhile taking a careful peak at the blog list; there may be something you've missed or not seen before. 

There would have been a third pic - this one to satisfy an anon contributor who wrote a very stimulating piece about locking romper suits (a great idea to tame a recalcitrant teen; paired with terry nappies and regular visits by Madam Sting, the cane).  It is of a nice little frothy PVC number, easily adapted with a little reddesign, requiring a change of fastening system to one featuring a zipper running up the rear and a reinforced collar with a suitable anchor point to slip a little padlock through securing the zipper tab..  I did write to the site I pinched the pic from, requesting permission to feature it, and have been waiting for a response (I had been hoping to set up some sort of affiliate link).  In the interim check out this: 

http://cosyndry.com/products/pvc-adult-romper

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.