No Title Required Time Again...

...but please do tell me what you think!

Best Gymslip Design of all Time? You Tell Me

Is it just me that thinks so, or is this the finest design of gymslip ever produced or even conceived of when it comes to setting apart a young lady from her peers as an aid to developing the correct mindset to accept the imposition of strict and restrictive discipline - discuss. (I can’t say I entirely approve of the knickers though.) Yes I know you’ve seen pics from this set before on this site, but not this particular shot I think (I hope); I’ve just come upon it. Now for the real reason for this post (not that I am not serious about hearing your points of view / ideas / designs – yeah, why not designs?):

A couple of days ago I mentioned setting up a series of Dropbox albums to share various stuff I have downloaded off the web over the years and also that I have scanned from my various collections of spanking and domination orientated stuff and various materials that have informed the descriptions in my books. Part of the impetus for this was having the album containing my collection of the spanking and D/S art work of Hobbs / Thorn (there is some contention over the true artist’s identity) deleted by those well-meaning folk at PicasaWeb and my desire to circumvent future strife.

Well, as an experiment I have now created a folder of the Hobbs / Thorn artwork on Dropbox. I have created an entirely new listing category in the right-hand sidebar to hold links to future Dropbox albums if the trial works out. It may well be that I’ll have to cycle these albums from time to time to work through my collection due to limited storage space. Dropbox has a limit of 2 GB on their free subscription service and I am also using it to back-up my writing and book cover artwork. However one way of working around this to free up more space would be for me to set up another Dropbox account under my everyday name for backup purposes. I’m going to see how well this works out first and how popular - or otherwise - it proves to be, so I’ll be looking for feedback (hint, hint). Remember to check the Dropbox album list in the sidebar (just below the ‘Spanking Artwork Albums’ list) from time to time as I will be adding to it when I have time but I may not always have sufficient time to tell you in a blog entry. Remember too that much will be adult content, especially the Thorn / Hobbs stuff!

I forgot to put in links in my last posting to the two sites I spotlighted. This I have now rectified – sorry for any inconvenience / frustration caused. I have also added a link in the ‘Useful Resources’ list situated in the sidebar to a source of ‘forced exercise’ photos on Tribes.net for all those that appreciate such things (click to visit or see sidebar).

Enforced Haircutting and Discipline

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From Behind Stained Glass: Meredith's Tale - Part 1

As promised, a short snippet from the upcoming volume 2 of INSTITUTIONALISED. It is only a rough draft at this stage so there are still probably some typos that I've missed. This particular snippet, I must admit, I have put out before on some of the newsgroups so some of you will have seen it and if so please accept my apologies but I had to start somewhere. This section follows up from the page 4 extract currently gracing the pages of 'The Institute' web site (see link, over to the right somewhere)

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and if so, and even if you didn't, please let me know: your feedback is essential and much valued either way (I'm a big boy now, I can take the criticism... I hope. And even if I can't, well...there's always a few more pints waiting down at the pub to rub away the pain).

As always; all characters and situations are fictitious and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

Opening Gambit

(Click on title to read previous volume 2 extract)

…Crrrack! Crrraack!

…Arrrghhh!!!

A young woman screams; she can hear his ancient laboured wheezing, mummified and dust-dry, behind her, can smell his sweat, feel the brow-shed spray settling on her back like a fine rain of passion. He pauses, as much to allow for the blaze to spread across her buttocks as to regain his own breath; the exertion of swinging the supple, heavy-leather tawse through the sticky, heavy air of the little garret room threatens to finally bring about the coronary that she has so often prayed would one day free her. Elfin and petite, Meredith Hewson lies motionless and sobs heart-brokenly; she knows it won't be today, it never is.

How he loves this little room, the shelter he has so thoughtfully provided her, tucked safely away under the eaves; the tiny steel-barred skylight its only natural light, the narrow bed and chamber-pot-commode its only furnishings, besides that is the thickly-leather-upholstered bench-come-horse over which she is presently thoroughly and very professionally immobilised.

Neatly-bare arching ballerina’s feet are set widely spread with toes flat on the dusty grubby floorboards and heels hovering above. Calves, finely sculpted by nature in any case, are masterfully finished in perspiration-glossed elastic tension. Thick, broad, red-leather straps encase exquisitely-formed slender ankles, run across soft-backed knees and sweep around the very tops of her soft, white, quivering thighs, the uppermost edges of the latter bonds lying obscured in the shadowed heavy-overhang of buttocks perhaps best described as generous but in truth over-chubby. Despite her eighteen years the puppy fat still lingers, and lingers there most of all; youthful, roundly firm, elastic and resilient, it taunts him, drives him, veritably invites the three-tongued kiss of the tawse... and the next and the next...

She is bent tightly at the waist over the curving lip of the purposely designed horse whereupon a fifteen centimetre wide soft leather band is tightened down securely across the small of her back. The only movement permitted her tautly-rounded, reddened and abused cheeks is to be seen in the rippled-waves of flesh bouncing and reflected to and fro across each globe as each dances in turn to the rhythmic tattoo of pliant leather most expertly applied.

Whereas the side against which she stands rises perpendicular beneath her abdomen, the far side falls way at 45°. Thickly and softly padded it has formed its surface as a counterpart to, and around, the feminine contours of her torso under the persuasively secure down-force of a further set of restraints. A band of leather, a full twenty-five centimetres in breadth, runs across her upper back and shoulder blades. Her head lies, turned to one side, facing a large ornately-wrought gilt-framed mirror, the latter tilted with apparent carelessness against the attic’s sloping dusty-grey wooden side-beams. A red band of leather, of a breadth as if chosen to be the measure of her forehead, encircles her hairline, passing just clear of those sweetly-tipped pixie ears, lest she should be distracted from the appreciation that such a passionately-iconic spectacle so richly deserves.

She lies saintly; a martyr to lust and temptation, to one man's sexual repression, to an antiquated religious dogma so self-righteously-twisted as to translate and translocate the shame of one onto the blame of another with terrifyingly justified ease. She lies with arms secured back along her sides, broad leather bands encircling thin wrists and elbows and with the crown of her head angled down into the filth of the boards, the fungi-musk of dry-rot a bass note to feminine perspiration and the more metallic lingering relic-tang of his earlier abuse of her person.

Crrrraack! Yet another slap of the intolerant leather leaves its imprint, the three flesh-tanning tails of the tawse each sharply resolved in bruising red-blue relief. In the reflection before her the mouth agapes anew in a long and silent scream. A searing white flash blinds her thoughts, shatters further, and again scatters, the shards of personality she scrabbles, still, to gather to her.

More tears fall. A muddy grey mire of dust and decayed pigeon droppings, further diluted, spreads its margins and deepens its incursion into the arid underfoot dirt, fated to retreat in drying; only the brown tide ring will remain to tell the story, it and its myriad brethren lying around and about.

The mental scars run deeper of course, crisscrossing well-rutted through thoughts and memories, worn deeper still and added anew with each abusive act performed upon her, and the subsequent beating it naturally earned her.

It wasn't even sex, not as such, not as she understood it to be. If he could only bring himself to ‘use’ her as nature and God, surely God, intended. It would be just as abusive, it would be rape just as certainly, she found the old man repulsive after all, and certainly she would earn just punishment for her tempting of him just the same, it was the devil's flesh, she understood that now, but it would be a natural act for all that. She might have been left with some semblance of self-respect, some sense of pride in her femininity, at the end of it all. And, yes, perhaps she might even be granted some modicum of relief from the eternally nagging frustration that accompanied her every waking moment, and her dreams too, those twisted phallic-daemon landscapes from which, pursued by yearning, she would again and again be chased, slithering drenched in sweat back into the darker reality of that dingy little attic and the unending hours of enforced Bible study - all that she might be purged of her sin.

And she would be purged in a different way too, before his every visit. She was no stranger to the Bardex nozzle, having to lie facedown on top of the little bed with knees drawn tightly up and buttocks pushed invitingly skyward, the latter naturally parted by the enforced position yet parted further still by the latex-gloved hands of his housekeeper.

Crrraaack! He has switched sides, the strike comes across the opposite buttock cheek; the silent cry comes again dryly in her throat, little more than a hoarse squeak now. She is cried out now, finished, yet the beating continues; it has to, it is an exorcism more than a mere punishment. And he has to exorcise the devil from the two of them, drive out the beast from within himself as much as from within the miscreant lying before him.

Always he has one eye on the roof beams above; he is, after all, a man of the cloth, he knows well the symbolism of the roof, the symbolism of charity, that which covers a multitude of sins. His other can't avoid contact with the origin of several of those sins, he has violated her there, mere moments before, and his thick seed trickles now from between those deliciously fleshy peach-mooned buttocks, yet if there should be some penalty, a penance demanded, then it is she who must pay; it is the girl who must be punished for the possession of that puckered rosebud, surely the devil’s-embellishment, that it should have driven such insane lust into God's own servant. This it had, time and again, demanding that she be chastised time and again; those once perfectly flawless globes were now marked and marred by countless strappings, canings and horsewhipings, just as that rosebud, set between, stretched and distorted by countless repeated and persistent violations, seemed plundered of its dewy youthful innocent freshness.

Whhhoosh! She cringe is in her bonds, nerves tearing, shredding, expectantly waiting the impact, the strike that never comes.

WWhooosh! Whhhoosh! Whhhoooossh! The stagnant, heavy atmosphere is rendered again and again and again, the three leather tails forcing still-air through turbulently splitting and twisting paths and each offering up its own whistling overtone to the diabolical aural assault; mere practice swings, nothing more.

Time and time again her buttocks tense, attractively dimpling; she tugs impotently at her bonds, her eyes squeezing tightly shut as if she might cower unseen behind their wrinkled shuttering.

Behind her, unseen, he is pirouetting around with surprising agility and a lightness of foot belying his age. He is exploring the cramped space beneath the tent of angled roof timbers with the tawse's backswing, seeking to best accommodated its arcing envelope, optimise his degree of freedom in wielding it, maximise the inertia imparted the flailing leather.

Whhoosh! Whhhoooossh! Whwhooosh! Still more practice strokes: he is twisting his body, shifting his weight from foot to foot and swinging the leather strap first this way and then that, exploring ever-increasing sweeping arcs and looking for all the world like some daemonic tennis professional.

Her nerves are stretched to their tensile limit, fraying, splitting, failing - she cries now as she never has before, screams her near-silent squeaking, hoarse, scream as if in pain beyond the mere psychological, as if each blow were indeed landing.

For an infinitesimally short, infinitely long, heavily-pregnant moment there is silence - all is still, deftly still... then... then...

The moment is irreversibly shattered: Ccrrraack! Crraaack! Cer,rrraack! Cerrr,rrraack!!! Forehand, backhand, forehand, backhand. Right buttock, left buttock, right buttock, left buttock: a never-ending staccato rain of flesh-searing pistol shots, going on and on and on… Her eyes are wide open now, bulging, her mouth gaping in eternal mindlessly-soul-wrenching scream.

He is shouting, hollering in punctuated rhythm, red-faced, demented by anger, a strange anger, an anger born of confused and displaced guilt.

“Unholy slut! Harlot! Devil-spawned temptress of filth…”

Cerr,raack! Cerra,aack! Crrrrraack! Cerrr,rrraack!: forehand, backhand, forehand, backhand. Pain flashes across her eyes in electric-white bolts, unimaginable pain, pain beyond enduring, then slowly, ever so slowly, begins to recede, fading along with his accusing, cussing voice, swirling and spiralling down into the welcoming arms of the abyss, the safety of the darkness. She is losing consciousness, blacking out as she has so many times before, so very many times, blacking out…blacking out… blacking… out…...

...White! All white! Everything! Everything is white!

White curtains are drawn around the bed, a common-or-garden hospital bed albeit with the chromed sidebars and grey metallic framework safely sheaved in soft matte-white plastic.
Through sleep-bleared eyes and blinked back tears the ceiling above defies focus, a depthless expanse of nothingness, a glance to the left and the right providing little beyond a glimpse of featureless walling and an obtusely-viewed misty day-white rectangle perhaps a meter to her left, the window somehow reassuring in its presence.

She has been tossing and turning fitfully for hours, her head swinging left and right then left again across the pillow, trickles of saliva left as traces of her distress upon the soft latex.

Soaked in sweat, the rivulets trickling down under the latex covers, her dark brown eyes had startlingly snapped open, gazing wide and uncomprehending from beneath curling dark lashes before just as suddenly disappearing behind defensively collapsing eyelids. Then slowly, ever so slowly, those lids had lifted again, fluttering, flickering, uncertain, those big brown velvet eyes swinging back and forth scanning for any hint, any clue that might separate dream from wakefulness, the normality of the situation seemingly too abnormal to fit her rational of reality.

The nurse leans over from the right-hand side, her smile friendly and welcoming yet tainted mildly with concern, a hospital nurse, a quite conventional hospital nurse, her white plastic apron softly crinkling over the perfect polyester-white of the uniform dress beneath: “ welcome back”, the words whispered in consideration of her patient’s alarmed state.

“…Wha…wha…where?”

“It’s okay, honey…everything’s all right now; we’ll look after you. You're in hospital, dear, a very special hospital. You’ll be quite safe here, quite safe now. Quite, quite safe….”

To be continued

Copyright (c) 2008 Garth. P. ToynTanen

The art of Paula Meadows (now known as Lynn Paula Russell)

Having spent most of yesterday in various houses of public refreshment I thought I'd spend the morning transcribing some of the stuff I managed to get scribbled before I finally keeled over. I've got a bit side-tracked here by some stuff I came across in my archive. I've always loved the work of this artist and the illustration on the left in particular; it's so evocative: what is going on? What is the relationship between the protagonists? You can read almost anything you like in to it; your imagination is the only limitation. In my head it brings all sorts of possibilities to light: it was a major inspiration for volume 1 of INSTITUTIONALISED and in particular CHAPTER 1...Lady Madison Daisy Bartlett, wherein the aforementioned lady so amply demonstrates her singularly refined approach to disciplining her recalcitrant maid. Not to mention a unique solution for dealing with soiled lingerie - Oh, those damned stubborn stains!

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!!!