RIP Computer and Another Inspiring Email Gratefully Received

On Friday my main home computer finally and sadly past away following a long illness. Those of you who have followed this blog since its inception will have heard before how throughout last winter on the coldest days the thing would be reluctant to start and – once persuaded to cooperate through fair means or foul - would then grind along sounding like an old tractor or diesel generator. I traced the fault to a dodgy cooling fan on the power supply, but as the problem rectified itself once warmer weather came and showed no hint of recurrence throughout this last summer, at least until relatively recently, I never got around to doing anything about it. The irony is that on Friday last I had agreed to help an old school mate with a problem on his machine, the idea being that I would ring him up and talk him through the fault-finding process while sitting at my computer and following his progress by duplicating his actions. I duly called him up, then went to boot up my machine...and you can guess the rest. My mate found it hilarious – the joke somehow escaped me! I was forced to adjourn to the pub for the reminder of the day – oh dear!

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My magazine scanning project has of course had to be shelved until repairs are carried out – which will probably be in the new year now, as I will be away from home over the Christmas and New-year period (staying in a hotel in Rye, East Sussex). My work on the new book will continue on paper and also using my new portable machine. But it is an annoying development as I only recently rediscovered my enthusiasm - and part of that revolved around my having developed some interesting ideas for the cover design, which I was itching to get started on. The portable machine I have is fine for writing but the screen size is far too small for any serious graphic work, whereas my desktop machine now has two large screens (as of a couple of months ago) across which I can distribute all the various elements I intend to use.

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Meanwhile I am still working through my email backlog; which brings me to today's subject. I received the following email around eight to ten days ago. I copied and pasted it to MS Word, intending to compose a answer later, then deleted the message - something that would not ordinarily be a problem, as it can be resurrected from the 'trash' folder...Except it can't! said folder is empty for some unaccountable reason and I have some how managed not to copy the writer's identity; probably because I had intended to double it up as a blog entry and so would have wanted to assure the correspondent's anonymity. Under the circumstances I am left with little option other than to reply as an open letter in any case. But I am incredibly keen to do so as the writer touches on so many points that I plan to address in the new work - it is almost as if he / she has been reading my mind!

“Hi Garth,
I have read both books and am looking forward to reading #3 in the series. Will that be available in early 2010?
If I may be allowed to do so, I would like to offer some constructive criticism and a few ideas. I think you could be a little more graphic in your descriptions of the canings. Reading about the preparation, dress being folded back, knickers being pulled down, the recipient waiting anxiously for the first agonising stroke can be very erotic. I think the lash of a cane is a more erotic description of a stroke than slash. That word conjures up something completely different. And speaking from experience, there is no delay in feeling pain from a cane stroke. It's agonising and instantaneous. When the inmates are using their bedpans, are these on the floor? Or are they placed on a chair? You could describe what a girl feels like to sit doing her ablutions in front of other patients and sneering or laughing nurses.

How about uncomfortable, larger sized suppositories, and ones that cause constipation with hard stools difficult and painful to pass, leading to punishment for irregular habits with strap and cane? You could be a little more descriptive in describing the insertion of these. The embarrassment of bending over legs apart, Knickers pulled down, the nurse slowly pushing them in one after the other. "Take a deep breath sweetheart, here comes the first one" Perhaps making the recipient squirm with the discomfort of being stretched and feeling them inside her bottom. “I know it's uncomfortable dear, but it's for your own good" Perhaps you could enlarge further on the discomfort of wearing plastic bloomers. I'm sure they become very warm and sweaty. Noisy when walking? You didn't enlarge on the fitting of anal and vaginal dilators. Having these fitted would be excruciatingly embarrassing for a girl surely.
But can I congratulate you on these books. As a great fan of Victor Bruno I never thought I would ever again read books so very well written and enjoyably erotic. And I speak as one who is more usually interested in classroom discipline, not 'toilet' sort of things.”

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There are some really interesting ideas broached here. I'm not too sure I like the term 'lash', though, as relating to a caning. I understand the eroticism involved - evoking as it does some sort of analogy with the use of the tongue in intimacy - but I feel happier with its association with the tongue-like action of a supple leather strap or tawse applied to the buttocks and thighs, especially with a girl positioned and pinioned over her mistress's lap, or a multi-stranded sauna-whip or martinet applied to the breasts.

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The point the writer makes about the potential eroticism inherent in descriptions of the folding back of a girl's skirt or dress and pulling down of her knickers prior to punishment is, I think, very true. In the new volume I expect there to be several instances of what I hope will be sufficiently vivid accounts written in the vein suggested - two such I have already completed and one of which incorporates a carefully worked through and detailed description that includes such attributes as the sound of skin-tight latex bloomers, adhering to the skin through the tackiness of perspiration, being pealed back with the girl lying across a nurse's lap.

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The section of the new volume through which we will be brought up to date with Lavinia's continuing tenure in the clinic's 'schoolroom' unit is planned to give ample opportunity to explore, in greater detail than has so far been possible in the series, the deeper feelings of the girls in view of their lack of privacy, though I can say little more for fear of giving too much away - other than it will be quite inventive. Remember that the introduction of bed pans, like so many refinements, has been at the whim of the staff. These are women who, unlike the supervising staff in the original so called Stanford experiment, who were selected at random from within the cohort of volunteers, have been carefully vetted and selected from within a group of psychiatric nurses based on their predisposition toward dominant lesbian tendencies and given free rein to develop the regime and innovate as they see fit.

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I have to say that, like the correspondent above, the 'toiletry thing' is not really my 'bag' either, but it lends itself to the medical fetish aspect that I was trying to incorporate and the subject seemed to arise quite naturally given the context of an experimental psychology clinic sited within a psychiatric hospital. I have to say that the use of suppositories to inhibit bowel movement had not occurred to me - a great idea, that - but the use of a steadily increasing size over time has. This is something explored within the new volume and strangely enough very much in the manner described. The insertion of a suppository (or suppositories) is somehow more personal and more of a violation of the person than the administration of an enema and is best given, as I see it, with the girl bent double across the starched-aproned lap of a nurse with an appropriate dialog as above. It is also a treatment I see as more likely to occur in the domestic setting that we explore before we see young Lavinia persuaded to sign up as an inmate of the clinic. Ironically though, despite the kind comments above - comparing my writing favourably with that of Victor Bruno - this particular direction of plot development is as much due to my trying to get away from that style of writing (despite having been so influenced by it) and go beyond the work of the great master as anything else. I should also point out to the uninitiated that despite any impression given by this discussion, the medical fetish aspect per se - i.e, as conventionally perceived - plays only a relatively small part in the story arc of the INSTITUTIONALISED series; it is definitely not obsessed with scatological concerns. Nor are there the long, drawn-out and inhumanly-severe canings that might be encountered elsewhere - the work was never conceived as a series of hard-core S and M novels. But then again, from a psychological standpoint, if one reads between the lines then in its own way the story-line could be perceived to be just as cruel, perhaps more so.

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Taking all that into account we finally come to the point regarding the prophylactic devices. I originally intended to weave more detail as regards the operation and fitting of these devilish devices into INSTITUTIONALISED volume two. Indeed a heck of a lot was completed at the time, but insufficiently so to really do the idea justice. Rather than use the material half-baked, as it were, I decided upon including greater detail and incorporating it into the plot line of volume three. I have since come to the conclusion that the best place to elucidate these ideas is within the pages of the upcoming 'in-betweeny' volume - think how a Victorian physician might have tackled 'obsessive self abuse', think of masturbation denied...but think also of temptation constantly and unrelentingly aroused. A similar fate befell certain ideas I harboured regarding the fitting of particularly ugly teeth braces to an otherwise pretty and vivacious girl and a description of what I like to call; 'Matron's, enforced self -critical body-image mirror therapy. The former I expect you will encounter in INSTITUTIONALISED volume three, the latter you will come across in the aforementioned, up-coming 'in-betweeny' book - I really must come up with a better working title!

Another Little Bit of Inspiration, Some Plans...and Some Excuses

Hi folks
More apologies are due for the sparsity of posts but I'm still been plagued by intermittent computer problems, my scanner/printer is down (I bought a new one about six weeks ago but have yet to connect it up) and I have been lumbered throughout most of the past weekend with helping the ‘other half’ with some desk research for an article on bridal wear. In between, what little time as has been left has pretty much been used up grinding away at a sticking point in volume 2, a particularly crucial but difficult to write chapter with several twists and turns and that in all honesty is all that stands between me and the completion of the work. The trouble is I keep coming across things while researching the part that I am supposed to be finishing that inspire new ideas and of course I try to get these down on paper while the enthusiasm is burning. Consequently volume 3 is coming along apace even as volume 2 stagnates somewhat. Meanwhile I'm back in the gym after various layoffs due to my surgical improvements, fighting to regain my aerobic fitness even though my strength seems to have been unimpaired and in fact has actually increased somewhat - probably due to the fact that one or two niggling injuries have had time to heal. Drinking is down to an all-time low due to the aforementioned surgical restrictions but then again so is creativity - I'll have to do something about that… and Wetherspoon's have a beer festival on at the moment…Hmm, say no more!

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Talking of inspirations I've just come across a few more scans of pages from a long ago sold spanking magazine. I can't remember at all what magazine it is from and from the looks of things the first page or so is missing but I do remember that it was one of those pieces that was partly responsible for encouraging the inclusion both of the institutional setting in my writings and also of some of the medical fetish interest that I later included. So, for those of you who are interested, here they are in order; the first three are arranged down the left-hand side of this post from top to bottom - the last page is on the right. As always; click to enlarge and read.

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For my next post I will be turning to a subject that was once so popular at one point in time in the letters pages of magazines such as Janus, Whispers, Blushes, New Uniform Girls et al and that plays a large part of setting the scene and building the atmosphere in the institutional settings I attempt to evoke in the INSTITUTIONALISED series: admission procedures. So, if any of you out there have any ideas of how you would prepare your lucky young ladies upon admission now is the time to post them up - imagine, if you will, that you are in charge of your own private and secure little institution with carte blanche over half a dozen young fillies and today is the day that a fresh faced pert blond young thing is delivered to your door… what next?… Dig out your old dog-eared copies of Janus and look through those well thumbed letters pages… any ideas? Incidentally if you are a fan of the above magazines and Roue as well (or even if you are not) you really must visit the yahoo group: Blushing Paddled Cuties (just click). I just did ... I nearly went blind! And I thought I was by now impervious to such things! Seriously though; there are some rare things there...download 'em, or post more up if you have some suitable stuff, before yahoo wipes them out - as they have so many fine groups in the past.

From Behind Stained Glass: Meredith's Tale - Part 2

As promised, if delayed, Yet Another extract from INSTITUTIONALISED volume 2: please understand, this is very much a first rough draft so if you find typo's / grammatical errors, please forgive me and, better still, point them out to me either by email or by way of posting a comment - the same goes for feedback, its all welcome, that's the point of the blog.

There's no actual spanking / caning / tawsing in this section but it develops the story. It is part of the manifesto for the INSTITUTIONALISED series that it should step away from what seems to be the convention in spanking literature of depicting an unrelenting series of beatings with only thinnest, vaguest of threads to tie it all together. The second part of the manifesto charges the series with attempting to integrate many disparate fetishes / interests rather then limiting itself simply to CP per se. (see the story ideas posted by Acid Tony - Click here). The third part states that the story arc, even though in fantasy, should at least contain some element of plausibility; some plot mechanism should be developed to explain the situation and the relationship between the various protagonists. To this latter end, volume 1 started with a fairly lengthy preface.

Incidentally, those of you who have read volume 1 may be puzzled by the characters introduced in some of these volume 2 extracts - Meredith is a new character but bares a strong relationship to the events that occurred in volume 1, as will become clear in the book. Similarly the storyline involving the characters in Volume 1 will be developed and we get to see how the two main protagonist's (Susan and Lavinia) have been coping, or not, with the strict discipline under which they have both found themselves and particularly how Susan has to learn to cope with confinement to a tiny bare (almost) cell and the humiliation of prison uniform. (There will also be a series of flashbacks during which we will learn more of the girls' pasts and come to appreciate the subtle, and sometimes not so subtle, means of the psychological manipulation that has lead them to their present situation. Finally, there will be punishments and impositions for them to endure; lots more spanking and caning (of course) but also some quite delicious psychological torment - the latter will rival, if not exceed, that endured by the unfortunate pair in volume 1!

(Hope you like the little pic; yeah, I know the cane's still a bit out of proportion but what do you want?...Oh, alright then; I'll fix it later. No, honest, I really will)

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Intermezzo

(Click on title for previous part - part 1)

Meredith lay lost in her thoughts, quite literally petrified and frozen in place, the bondage of her nightmares seemingly mirrored by the immobility of this new reality. This was how it always was, the dreams, the nightmares, then the awakening.

Always it felt as if a new reality had been built around her, a false reality, an illusion, a reality in which her helplessness was almost indiscernible from and as complete as in her nightmare world. Always, as if for the first time, she would glance down along her prone body and the shocking understanding of the nature of her hopelessness, the origin of her immobility, would bear down on her like some dead concrete slab. Arms set in plaster casts, modern soft resin-based casts, could do nothing but disobey her, lying straight and at 30° to her sides. Legs, similarly encumbered, rested angled toward the bed's lower corners. Even her fingers were held, each individually wrapped in its own cast, splayed out, fan-like and useless.

Memories spilled and unfurled like discarded spooled celluloid; edited dadaist highlights of confusion inter-cut with fantastical images of sojourns in some grotesquely abusive world, seemingly plucked from the mind of Poe and realised in the inflamed-red and bruised-blue pallet of chastised flesh.

Meredith Hewson; known as 'mushroom' to friends and acquaintances both, a tiny squeaky little thing – bouncy and bright as a gambolling lamb and with a smile like summer breeze nature had destined her for more. Yet, a Shropshire lass with a less than agreeable home-life to look back on, it was a somewhat hackneyed tail she had to tell.

Of course it would be simplest to lay the blame at the faux glamour portrayed in all those television shows, drawing her in, spiralling with moth-like lethality. The trends and bright fashions of Camden Market, the bars and bistros of Covent Garden; aspirationally bright beacons of such irresistible brilliance, far too dazzling for one of her innocence to see the darkness behind, far to beguiling.

To many she had been the welcoming smile behind the horseshoe bar, pulling pints with child-like wide-eyed glee; those tiny hands as pale and as perfect as porcelain - like that of the hand pumps her fingers failed to quite curl around, with their country scene decoration, all hunting pinks and running foxes.

She had brightened the day of many a jaded pen-pusher – her short stature obliging her to stretch for the ale-pumps, the effort causing those pert breasts to be thrust forward, the flesh bouncing, the cleavage distinct to the most bleary of drunken eye. Her pretty unworldly features would be moon-mist lit by the shafts of diffused sunlight filtering through the curling fern-like motifs of the Victorian acid-etched glass – the traditional public house windows and glass partitions had been retained here, along with the worn, once-red, leather seating.
She had been flirtatious, ever-smiling – then she was gone; a lover's tiff an ill-advised dalliance with her manager at that, forcing her flight.

Suddenly the London streets had not seemed so welcoming – not without money in her pocket, not without a place to call home; the accommodation had come with the job, you see…
Her mind ran back to the very first time, her first awakening to this world; it was a birth, or rather a rebirth, at least that was how it seemed now...

“The crash, sweetheart, surely you remember the crash?” The nurse's, concern had been palpable, her brow furrowing. Yet as insistent as the woman had been it had felt as if she were seeking to convince while, in some way, being unsure of her own sincerity.
Try she might she could recall nothing at the time; her immobility had almost seemed comforting in its familiarity yet otherwise there was nothing, just nothing. She could remember nothing still, at least of her history as they outlined it, nothing, that is, beyond the abuse, the beatings, something about a social worker, a friend, a young woman sworn to extract her from that hell.

Yes, the social worker; she had seemed so approachable, a woman who might care, who might believe her, who had seemed to care. The woman with the car, the woman who had promised to take her away, promised to save her from him. There was something else... what was it? A drink, a drink proffered from a flask, warm cocoa... that can't have been it! What possible significance could that have?

“You remember the crash, surely?”

In truth, she could not. There were fragments haunting her though, fragments of recollection or what seemed to be recollection; a jumble of shards, just as easily the constructs of imagination as bearing any relation to reality and feeling more like memories of what she has been told than of the actual events.

Feeling as if deceiving herself she nevertheless nodded in the affirmative; to do otherwise, to question it, would have been to risk being left starkly alone, ignored. This she had experienced many times before, being left ignored, isolated and alone in the silence of her curtain-enshrouded bed. Her inability to recall appeared to really irk the staff and as for her nightmares, her delusions as they referred to them, the merest mention was enough for the nurse or doctor or whoever was attending her to simply up and leave and many were the times she had found herself missing her next meal or diaper change after that.

And yet it was those dreams, those nightmares, that were the clearest representation of reality to her, her reality; certainly they seem more real to her than her present surroundings and the fuzzy pseudo-memories filling her head. There was a certain vivid and unmistakable clarity to their recollection, the clarity of truth and conviction.

Deranged? Deluded? Well, such were the murmurings, the whispered accusations that, on occasion, came to her from beyond the protection of her curtains, times when they were certain she was asleep and beyond caring; “…such a shame, quite deluded, poor girl”.

Yet it was all so real, so detailed, so, so clear to her: first there would come the probing wiggle of an investigative forefinger, then the thickly- gelling lubricant, ice cold, the digit urging in an out, in an out, twisting and turning, embedded to the knuckle. Then would come the sensational of building warmth, blood-flow stimulated by the mild irritant mixed in with the gel. Finally that podgy finger would be withdrawn and the first taunting rubber-touch of the nozzle would announce her imminent violation.

Every few weeks there would come the added discomfort of the first use of an increased diameter; in time she would become acclimatised, her sphincter gradually stretching to accommodate it, then would come another increment, then another and another, each adding to the soapy humiliation of the laxative the piquancy of torment that came from the knowledge that any improvement in her comfiture came only at the cost to be surely levied her in the future by way of the legacy of her stretched and weakened muscles and that it was all for the benefit of him, for his perverted pleasure.

Every detail was present there - if only in the world of dreams, if only the manifestation of her delusion, then from whence came the design, the knowledge and experiences that could make manifest the physicality of the illusion with such convincing Technicolor realism. What could a girl of her sheltered background know of such things? How could, even in conjecture, she conjure the sensation of a gently rounded belly, swollen with foully-cramping fluid, of youthfully elastic skin stretched paper-thin, of softly urging latex-covered, podgy, farmer's-wife fingers massaging, compressing, squeezing as if to exude the decoration for some filthily perverted demon cake or, perhaps, was it in some exaggerated parody of milking the beasts she once had the duty to? Then the was the voiding into the metal pail, the metallized ringing imparted to the initial fluidic-splattering fall of her wastes, the stink in the compacted surrounds of the room, the tiny skylight could not be opened to improve the ventilation, the cramping stomach muscles and twisting-agonized bowels. Finally it was she herself she saw carrying the bucket through the house so that all and any might see, she herself who would have to scrub it back to the pristine sheen of its manufacture in the yard outside in full view of the household.

He had absolutely despised the way she had been dressed, the way they were always dressed, her type, the young tearaways, the runaways that hung around the stations and the bus shelters on the cold winter nights. And it had been the coldest night of the coldest snap that most could remember, she had seemed the most desolate amongst gathering huddle, the most destitute, desperate bedraggled and forlorn. Then there were her looks, the pretty elfin face, the slight build, the short stature, the childish yet maturely curved frame, small breasted yet with hips and buttocks promisingly swelling and rounded with chubby resilient youthfulness. The denim, though, he just hated; women in trousers just left him cold, let alone jeans. He couldn't abide by anything that suggested other than sheer soft femininity, the slightest hint of boyishness in dress was an anathema to him; it is all to the more curiously contradictory and contrary therefore that the wretch so often bent and sobbing before him no longer possessed the cascades of wavy light brown locks she once had to hide her tears behind but rather a short tousled pixie cut. The latter styled around her ears and tightly tapered into the nape of her neck; the intent most clearly being to enhance that childish elfin look, the side parting, seemingly inadvertently, introducing an element of boyishness beyond anything that might be brought by even the most masculine of jeans or dungarees - such irony

The jeans and the rest of her outfit of that time had been most easily dealt with; his housekeeper, possessed of a rather traditional, if old-fashioned, outlook herself in such proceedings and not being exactly enamoured with modern attire of the like, was quite comfortable with the idea that they might simply fail to resurface from the launderette having become ‘lost’ as unfortunately things sometimes were. Mrs Veronica Merryweather-Cortez, a remarkable woman of an equally remarkable name. Herefordshire born and bred with broad hips and a buxom maturity of frame clearly at odds with her claimed thirty eight years of life and possessed of the ruddy apple cheeked complexion of a country woman, her coarse russet hair kept, on the main, beneath a plain, ‘sensible’, headscarf, she looked to more likely belong on some remote outlying farm as within the confines of the parsonage.

An ancient carved black oak chest dominated the vestry's end wall, squatting all but forgotten, despite its substantial bulk, in the dusky shadows beneath the tiny Norman-arched stained-glass window. Strictly speaking an oak coffer, it featured quite beautiful carved and arcaded front panels, each having an intricate inlay detail of flowers picked out in a variety of different woods, rarely appreciated, being near permanently under a thin layer of dust and tinted by the patina of age. The iron banding running around the sides and over the curving hinged lid was pitted and, blackened with age, was as dark as the wood itself; to the front a typical hand-forged mediaeval tongue clasp was secured by a very modern and substantial padlock.

It was from the latter, rarely visited, cache that Mrs Merryweather-Cortez was able to conjure up her singly peculiar solution to the problem of clothing the girl; if only as a temporary stopgap, for with every will in the world even she, with her archaic views, could hardly have considered such dress appropriate for, nor acceptable to, a modern girl of Meredith's age and background. It had been extracted and selected from a pile of ecclesiastical vestments dating back to perhaps the 1950s or early 1960s, if not earlier, to more prestigious times for the little parish church, to when congregations swelled to the rafters with uplifted voices and on occasion spilled out into the churchyard beyond, to when it had accommodated its own choir.

The princess-line dress she selected, despite Meredith's obviously small stature, had not appeared to the girl at the time to be the smallest there; she had felt certain she had seen at least two or three of a smaller size glanced at and then rejected while the woman was rummaging. She had stood there shivering in the thin cotton nightdress they had given her, grateful to receive anything that would provide some warmth and, more importantly, cover, even some ugly church dress as long as it was to be only a temporary arrangement. And ugly it surely was: featuring full length sleeves with overlong cuffs at the wrists, each fastening with three buttons, it was ‘easy fit’ in the extreme; indeed, it fairly drowned her small figure in its heavy black fabric.

An embroidered gold metallic Latin Cross decorated the region roughly corresponding to her left breast and was one of the few features allowed to alleviate the jet-black severity of the thing, the others being an arc of short stiff white frills around the top of the mandarin collar, matching sprays of frills around the cuffs that extended down to the upper parts of her hands when she was standing with arms to her sides and a large white button oddly sited to the rear of the collar. The latter’s function, enigmatic at the time, was to become clear in time and perhaps would have been so more immediately had she noted the matching buttonhole at the dress’s hem at the rear where it was picked out in white thread as if some proudly decorative feature of design.

Thickly-draping folds, the wetly-puddled shadows lying between even darker and serving to underline the gloss of the fabric where the light shimmered off its surface like moonlight of a black sea’s swell, hung and spread out from a point approximating her waist to the hem swinging barely clear of the floor. Once clear of her bust’s perky overhang the front hung straight and true with barely a hint of any contact with the form beneath, giving scant regard for style or flattery; seemingly dozens of small, tediously and unnecessarily fiddly, black-satin covered buttons, in reality sixteen in all, fastened it from her throat to her ankles.

The fabric, while as smooth as heavy black satin should be, concealed an inner lining of another material entirely, this having a texture approaching that of a rather coarse velvet, and therein hung the seed of another problem; not only was the whole loose-fitting ensemble ugly, heavy and hot to wear but the constant prickly-heat sensation of the inner lining quickly came to make its wearing intolerable. To her chagrin the material seemed particularly coarse in the region over her nipples and the latter's hardening in response only served to further augment their constant teasing.

She had winged and whined and bitterly complained; it had felt as if the constant grazing irritation, the prickling and the brushing back and forth, would serve to drive her quite insane, or so it had felt at the time, although she was later to encounter challengers to her sanity that would all but drive such concerns from her recall. Finally, her patience pushed to the limit, it was Mrs Merryweather-Cortez who was to yet again to save the day; it was simple, one of her own old cast-offs, a full-length slip in white nylon and as smooth as the girl's own skin.

Panelled and darted, with a seemingly hopelessly narrow waist and a pronounced tapering, beyond the curvature that allowed for the swell of the wearer's hips, so as to terminate at knee-length with a tightly-circular hem, the impression was of a garment of the early 1960s and designed to be worn below the pencil skirted fashions of the time. It clung to her hips and thighs like a second skin, the tight hem coming to rest tightly girdling her legs just above her knees.

The effect, whether intentional or not she had no idea, was to restrict her once tomboyish stride to a somewhat sedate and femininely-gentile shuffling gait that could not but reinforce the image of docility they were clearly striving to achieve for her.

Then there had been the question of underwear. The best that they had had to offer in terms of ‘underpinnings’ as Mrs Merryweather-Cortez was apt to quaintly describe the more intimate of garments was a pair of that woman’s own rather elderly cast-offs; a pair of white rayon directoire knickers, the waist far to large for her petite frame and, having been washed and re-washed into submission long ago, their waist-band had been left completely devoid of any residual elasticity in any case…

To be continued

Copyright (c) 2008 Garth. P. ToynTanen

A tiny, unfinished, gyno / medical tit-bit from INSTITUTIONALISED Volume 2

The device

(A tiny medical / gyno tit-bit from the up-coming volume 2... or volume 3, who knows? Click on title for next Vol 2 extract)

For this girl from now on her 'examination pants' would indeed live up to their name. Her vagina was going to gape through the transparent crotch window, the outer lips distended, darkly shadowed beyond the confines of the gusset, the inner labia squeezed smearingly against the steamy-moist polythene gusset panel. The girl, herself, would soon learn to appreciate the futility of guilty fumblings; true those sensitive lips would protrude, would ache for attention unbearably, but that all important release button, the clitoris, might as well have been excised. The stiff coiled-wire reinforced rubber protective clitoris hood would always separate her fingers from her release. And yet fingers of another sort were to be granted access, would not be denied in fact; a fine soft latex fringe would tantalise and brush gently with the slightest of movements.

In the coming months, even years, Matron would decide, she would learn to rock back and forth like the imbecile she was to become. Deliciously subtle sensations, sometimes even wonderful, heavenly sensations, would pursue her toward a quest without end, towards an all consuming and never ending obsession with unobtainable perfection. Forever in the foot-hills, the highest slopes attainable with the utmost concentration but always the final ascent just too abrupt, just too sheer; the summit forever out of reach, but only just, tantalizingly just the wrong side of normality.

As for 30C, this treatment was going to do her the world of good. Dress her in her ‘examination pants’ with this dilating grommet in place like some permanent speculum; why, it was going to work wonders for her. Pride was, after all, a sin and sin must be punished.

Externally the health-professional exuded detached efficiency, her expression, passive, inscrutable; simmering below, Matron, the woman, was breathless, floating in an untouchable, dreamlike reality. Here was a reality lying beyond mere rules, ethics and imposed limitations – a reality that owed its substance, the possibility, truth and probability to the carte-blanch freedom so uniquely afforded by this oh so very special institution.

Introduction and welcome message

Welcome, one and all, to the official

INSTITUTIONALISED

blog and discussion site

The home of Garth. P. ToynTanen, his ideas and, it is hoped, yours!

This is the place to learn more about the author and what makes him tick,to learn more about the influences and inspirations behind the INSTITUTIONALISED trilogy (more likely tetralogy, if all pans out)

This is most definitely NOT the place to discuss anything of a paedophilic nature;the author does not condone paedophilia in any form and where the term 'girl' is used it is as a derogatory term intended to apply to any young woman stripped adult privileges in one way or another.

If you are an aficionado of literature dealing with young ladies undergoing strict discipline, of the imposition and enforcement of petty rules and restrictions, of strict and humiliating uniforms and the enforcementof the same through the judicial application of the cane, the tawse, the riding crop etc as well as less orthodox, psychological methods...then this is the place for you!

This is particularly so if you tend to favour the imposition of discipline within the institutional environment, although there is much to be said also for the more domestic environment if suitably enclosed, secure, and isolated from prying eyes and interfering moderates: Given the right situation and a well chosen and imaginative governess, much can be achieved in curbing a young lady's spirit.

From the outset the idea behind the project was always to go beyond the traditional world of corporal punishment portrayed in the works of authors such as Victor Bruno, Richard Manton et al ( has much as I admire their work) and to attempt to incorporate more of a psychological aspect, both in terms of examining the mindsets of the protagonists, of the disciplined and of the discipliner both, and in terms of the approach to discipline and correction. Corner-standing, impositions such as the writing of lines or rote learning and strictly decreed postural requirements, such as having to sit for long periods with back straight and hands flat on the school desk; all these have their part to play. So feel free to discuss your own view of what discipline means and how it should be introduced to a young lady or young ladie, also how it might relate to the storyline of volume 1 (if it indeed does) or how it might fit into future volumes (or indeed the sort of thing you would like to see included).

It was also decided at the outset that the storyline should incorporate other fetishes interests that, while being strictly speaking outside my own sphere, nevertheless seemed appropriate in many ways as being amenable the imposition of restraint and of control. Various forms of bondage were an obvious inclusion of course, but then there are such subjects such as enforced diaper use, leading inexorably to the inclusion of plastic and latex rubber knickers, bloomers, pants etc. And then there are the uniforms, of course; the latter open to all sorts of discussion, from the physical aspects, the type of fabrics, nylon, serge, the underwear, girdles, corselletes, corsets, stockings, you name it, to the psychological effect on the wearer, whether submissive or assertive depending on the role.

And as all these aspects of control unavoidably involve changes to the psyche the inclusion of certain forms of mind control to the story-arc seemed most appropriate (indeed the entire project was originally stimulated by a series of mind control story ideas published on one of the newsgroups, of which more later). Thus aspects of sensory deprivation, hypnosis, NLP and even the deliberate induction or intensification of certain phobias can be introduced in order to wield control over a young lady; the latter approach while being particularly suitable in the institutional environment is not impossible to initialy introduce within a more domestic scenario.

So you see, there is much that can be discussed here, practically without limit, much that can be incorporated into the continuing story arc; your imagination is the only limitation, within the bounds of what can be logically incorporated in a sensible manner of course.

• What do you like, or dislike, or indeed hate, so far?
• What would you like to see incorporated in the story arc to come?
• What were your interests vis-a-vis the discipline and control of young women?

Let your imagination rip!!!