Just When You Thought Dr Swanley's Girls Couldn't Be Placed In Any More Stringent Bondage...

 ...Dr Swanley's inventive and creative mind comes up withan improved design 'posture correction' device...Yet another raw AI image...Took a long while to get but then all I've had to do is add some text and crop it a bit

 

A Girl And Her Governess

 

Aftermath

 I tride to make a sort of school badge. It was supposed to be embroidered on her blouse but I couldn't make it  work: It just wouldn't show up, so I put a small version on her tie.  It would show up on a gymslip or summer dress bodice though...Trust me! I'm working on it

The reason her hair looks so hacked about is that the disciplinarian hired to care for her never like the girl's waist-length hair in the first place, was jealous of it and now uses it as a form of discipline in addition to the strap and the cane, hacking a bit more off each time the girl steps out of line in the slightest possible way

A Bit More Enforced Hypnotherapy

 My usual mix of AI and photo manip.  Hope you enjoy it as much as I did creating it!

AI, Going Off On A Tangent, Somehow Hits Paydirt...

 ...albeit with a bit of help from the ol' Toyntanen imagination aided and abbeted by my ol' mate: The Gimp! So -  to cut a long story short - I'd written some prompts (instructions to the AI art image generator) involving hypnotic patterns and devices (still persuing the ol' MC thread
I've become fond of over the years) and late teen girls in schol uniforms in various situations, such as private secure psychiatric instituitions and various dubious - and likely corrupt - 'care' homes and so on....and all of a sudden, amongst the dross, weird stuff involving multiple limbs and so on and total failiors out pops this charming little study. I mean, apart for the fact you can just make out the white 'V' of her knickers under the tiny skirt, it's an absolutly innoculous scene...But what of all those hamburgers??? hmmmm???? What, well...MIGHT be going on??? I mean to say: She doesn't seem the sort to be wanting to stuff her face with all that grub! but perhaps...just PERHAPS...she has no, or very little, choice in the matter? Well, that's just how the ol' Toyntanen grey cells seem to work. 

Usualy when the AI throws up something NOT like a photographic image and looking instead as if drawn or painted I pretty much bin it straight away, but not so in this case - there was just something...I dunno...just sort of...charming about it. Ideal starting fodder for to work on using my favorite photo manip package, namely the afformention programe The Gimp!  The storyline, to me at least, was obvious. To be honest I fondly imagined I'd put something together around this as a starting point in a few hours, an evening at worst. It ended up sort of evolving through very many itterations and the result you see here is the result of around two and a half days near continuous work as each idea I managed to succesfully realsise led to the next idea and challange.

 

By the way:I just HAD to put in the, now obligatory, barred window. The idea of an element of some sort of imprisonment or control - whether physical, psychological or both (I've become more and more interested in the potential of psychological manipulation / coercion alone over the years) - seems essential to me in any such storyline.

Please DO let me know what you think..whether positive or negative (come on, folks, I can take it!...Probably!)

Before I go...Here is another spurious image the AI spewed out - this one only today, just a few hours ago - and once again, having very little to do with the type and subject matter of the images I was asking for. Actualy, I'd wager that if I tried actualy prompting for an image such as this the AI would flag up a 'safety issue' ans ask me to modify the prompt accordingly. I might not have been deliberatly trying for this image but now that it's here, let's not waste it!

 

Two questions...What is going through your mind right now as you look at it? And what would you add in order to embelish it - or would you just leave well alone? (Or do you just instantly hate it (some will, I know) becasuse - perhaps - it implies mental health issues?)

Paying Their Way...

 ...Well it costs good money to keep three young women in clothes and food even with the funds raised from their ransoms...

An Apology from the Central Department of Dodgy Links

What can I say? Flushed with the excitement of the moment - and a little too much ale - I neglected to put in the link from the illustration at the top right of my last posting to the artist's site. Suffice it to say that I have now remedied the problem and a click on the aforementioned pic will whizz you straight to his site. As a little compensation, here is an intriguing little number from that great doyen of spanking art, Paula Meadows (Lynne Paula Russel - a link to her site can be found over in the right hand sidebar, listed under 'Useful Resources'). The question is whether or not the young lady's outfit qualifies as a form of specialized punishment dress and thus part and parcel of her discipline. Is it intended to facilitate / augment corporal punishment or humiliate or is it just part of some rather edgy in-vogue fashion and worn by choice. If the latter, then the question becomes; should it be allowed or should the caning be closely followed by her being handed her new school uniform? By the way; for any who might be interested, despite the time of year it is sunny and bright here in London and I'm sitting out working in the garden - I wonder how long this will last? I am going to award myself one more day out in the pub next week, the proviso being that in that day I get the final outstanding part of the new book finished - the section wherein one luckless young thing receives a visit in the institution in which she has become incarcerated from her guardian and that formidable hellion woman's tame lawyer: there are some papers to be signed and the ever-present threat of the cane is there overshadowing events... Yum!

An Anonymous Contribution and a Reply

Some time ago I posted some story ideas under the title of; Some story ideas: An original inspiration (Click to view). An anonymous visitor has left an interesting comment on this post; one I thought inspiring enough to reproduce here - particularly as I am about to post in a serialised form (in two parts) a governess-and-her-charge orientated story scanned from a spanking magazine of the period the writer speaks of.

.....

I recall from the 1970s one of the "spanking" mags had a feature called "Diary of a Victorian Young Lady". The young lady's parents went abroad leaving her in the charge of a governess, who introduced her - never before so much as spanked - to he "delights" of the cane, the birch, and the heavy tawse.

I could probably recall some more detail of the story, if it be of interest. What I perhaps remember best is the reader's letter castigating the governess on her leniency.

- In case she takes it into her head to attempt to run away again, she should be taken to the blacksmith to have a chain permanently shackled to her ankles. This will prevent her wearing any drawers, but there is no need for such a garment - absence makes her person more readily available for discipline. She should not be allowed to idle away her time in the schoolroom, but should be helping the maidservants to scrub the floors, and they should be permitted to discipline her should her efforts slack. Finally the application of soothing creams should be totally forbidden, instead she should be birched every bedtime with stinging nettles. This is not only an effective punishment, but would help her skin to heal and be once more available for discipline on the morrow. Anon.

.....

I for one would love to hear more details from this story; it is not one I recall coming across and it sounds promising to say the least. Equally inspiring are the details from the reader's letter that our anonymous contributor quotes, particularly the part about the shackling of her ankles - an absconding charge is always a worry under such circumstances.

But there are more than one kind of shackles and not all bonds are visible nor, indeed, even tangible. Self-confidence can be fragile, self-doubt quite debilitating and, similarly, agoraphobia can be quite immobilising.

Whether the germ of the idea be introduced through manipulative suggestion or a mild propensity be amplified in severity through a similar means, the increased sense of dependency on her governess, sure to result, would serve to tether the girl every bit as well as steel or iron.

Although certain of the protagonists inhabiting the pages of INSTITUTIONALISED volume 2 will undoubtedly encounter individual physical restraint and those of volume 1, once actually ensconced within the walls of the institution, find themselves languishing behind steel security grilles, it is the more psychological approach, broached above, that has guided two such young ladies into their new lives and that threatens to curtail their freedom. In volume 2 we will see the power of such a non-physical technique lovingly as wielded by a particularly strict governess to control and bind her charges to her. Corporal punishment is of course introduced, with cane, tawse and martinet as is a suitably humiliating uniform for her girls, but the discipline applied and enforced within that invisible framework of restraint.

Annie's World, Matron's World

For today I've decided to put up another extract of INSTITUTIONALISED volume 1 for those who have still to read it. I'll probably add some sort of suitable illustration or pic at some later date. More of volume 2 will follow in future posts... and perhaps even some very early stuff from volume 3. As for the rest of the day; well, I'm off to the gym then on to the pub for a few beers and, of course, to write.

The last time I did any really new writing was Tuesday afternoon (I think) while sitting outside a coffee bar (Costas Coffee) in Muswell Hill (North London). I got somewhat distracted by an artist (variously known as the Chewing-gum Man or The bubble-gum Man) who kneels on the pavement and paints tiny pictures on discarded gum and then photographs them (Whatever: it takes all sorts I guess!).

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Annie's World, Matron's World

(For previous Volume 1 extract, click title, to view more at Lulu, click cover)

... For others the world is a very different place, there are a very different set of trials and tribulations to be faced this day.

Take Annie for example, a runaway once lost amongst the city's sprawl; what if we were to be offered a glimpse into her life this particular day, a snapshot as it were? The same day, a far, far different location, environment and routine...

Annie is 21 today. No 'happy birthday, birthday girl' here. For Annie, today shall start like any other and as any other day, Annie is awoken by the harsh shrill ringing of the morning bell. Opening her eyes, the view that greets her she knows only too well. The clinical whiteness of the dormitory walls, the twin rows of hospital style beds. She has spent the last five years of her life waking to this scene.

She climbs quickly from her bed, as do the five other girls. All around is silence save for the soft rustling of latex bed covers and the crinkling of plastic knickers; talking could never be allowable in the dormitory. As do the other girls, Annie meekly kneels on the snow white carpeted floor alongside her bed , hands crossed in front of her, palms facing outwards, head bowed. As are the others, she is waiting for Matron to bring her bed pan. Above her, hanging from a hook on the wall beside her bed, awaits, patiently, her gymslip with its short, knife pleated skirt.

Matron will appear in due course. Her approach heralded in this surreal suffocating silence by the soft rhythmic sighing of her uniform dress against the nylon of her stockings and the occasional softly-cushioned footfall of high healed shoes on carpet. Her dress and demeanour are a study in the art, development and presentation of authority; she is the absolute image of control and domination.

Matron wears her full - skirted blue uniform dress at calf length. From her elasticated nurse's belt with its ornate silver butterfly-wing clasp she hangs her keys to the left and her tawse to the right, the symbols of her rank and authority. She by far prefers to use a tawse to discipline girls - so much more personal than the cane somehow – but a cane hangs above the nurse’s station nonetheless.

This, then, is her world. She is queen here, empress, absolute ruler and dictator. The dormitory is her dominion, the girls, 'her girls', subservient serfs and the subjects of her realm. Her rules, her regulations, her stipulations, no matter how petty, are the unquestionable, unassailable law of this land. Unyielding, unbreakable. Unlike her charges, they who, in their turn, kneel, as is only fitting in such a majestic presence, in abject supplication; they are here to be moulded, one and all, broken to her will. The morning ritual is just beginning and ritual is all important here, in her world.

Not that there does not exist a higher authority, albeit outside of the immediate environs. Ultimately there is her employer of course but there are other determining forces; she never goes long without reflecting on her good fortune and her gratitude to their mutual benefactor.

From its inception the unit has been gifted with facilities and funding beyond their wildest dreams and set within premises of insurmountable and incomparable perfection of function. Presently the financial aspect still depended on that source; to date the provision of the new workhouse facilities only went so far towards their first stage goal of making the unit self funding, profitability lying some way off in the future.

Many might label as insane the substantial sums that have been poured into the unit, the old fashioned moirés upon which it is structured, the concept of 'protection from moral danger'. However, few are privy and those that are support whole heartedly the goals.

Their benefactor is a woman of not insubstantial means, influence and philanthropic drive who, having stepped back from the reins of her businesses, has seized the opportunity to indulge further her unusually active interest in aiding 'runaways' and the homeless. If some might be cynical enough to point the finger at her intention of profitability, labelling it as exploitation, so be it; as she sees it there are many other aspects and benefits to her work. These were young impressionable girls plucked from the jaws of the greatest moral and physical dangers the city had to offer. Some of these girls were barely out of school and generally were lacking even the most basic of qualifications let alone employment prospects; what chance of an education did they have, what chance now? “What these girls need most is a good, stable, secure home, a good education, caring but firm guidance”. She is simply a successful business woman in a position to offer exactly that, albeit so far to just a handful of young women but, with the completion of the new wing, she will soon be extending her hand to others. Soon a few more lucky young women will be coming under Lady Marchment's caring regime, to restart their lives in a 'fine, stable and secure home'. A secure home indeed. Lady Marchment sets great store by security, ‘protection’ as she sees it; few prisons could be more secure. Once a girl has entered Lady Marchment's program she finds that changing her mind is not an option; she has entered a private little world. A world of uniforms, bedpans, petty rules, strict routines and bells. Bells, bells, bells, always bells!…

This, then, is Matron’s world; a world within a world, ritualised and controlled. Today though there is disruption; there are girls here other than ‘birthday girl’ Annie and one of them is having difficulties adjusting.

Humiliation, shame, embarrassment, mortification. These terms and more could easily be applied to Jane's reaction to the situation in which she has found herself this morning, yet no mere words could truly do justice to describe the depths of her despair. She can feel the soggy wetness of the thick knicker-liner, is only too aware of that other soft squigyness confined within her plastic bloomers. She has caught sight of herself in the mirror, kneeling there, and her horror is written across her pretty face. She can see the areas of yellowing and those of the more shaming blackness within the semi -transparent garment. She is acutely aware of the smell and, what is more, she can hear Matron approaching. She can feel tears falling on her upturned palms.

If we could listen in we would hear words of comfort and kindness from Matron, her voice would be soft, no hint of anger nor irritation. We would hear her curt instruction to the nurse to ‘clean the girl up’ and the nurse’s prompt response; “yes, Matron”. We might, just might if we were to listen closely enough, make out the occasional soft grunt from girls desperate for control, forced now to wait for their bed pans while the girl is dealt with. There then comes a sequence of events, inevitable under these circumstances.

First there comes the voice of the nurse; “she is ready, Matron.”

Then Matron; “thank you, nurse”. Then Matron again “bend over, girl”.

There is a pause, perhaps a sob, before: CRRACK! “One, t,thank you Matron”; CRRACCK! “T,tt two, tthank yyyou, mmmMatron”; CRRRAACK!! “Th, th, thr, three, th,th,tt thank yy,y you,,’sob’, mmmMatron”.

A bell rings; six girls take their places squatting over bed pans barely adequate at best. There comes the gasp of the freshly punished girl. She has been lucky, had she failed to count, failed to recite her formula of gratitude there could have been many more than three strokes of Matron’s tawse; Matron is apt to re-start her punishments. There are other sounds filling the air now of which the more sensitive might rather not be privy and which the girls, without exception, would rather not anyone hear. Suffice it to say that the bell, although continuing its tintinnabulation throughout is never quite loud enough, particularly under the never distant supervision of Matron and her nurse, strolling up and down between the twin lines of squatting girls as if invigilators in some twisted exam.

Well, what of the rest of the day in Matron’s world? For most they will have slipped outside Matron’s immediate sphere; there are lessons to be attended. The next two hours Matron spends at her desk; there are reports to be filled in. There are also plans to be drawn up; there are soon to be many changes made, particularly within the framework of the research activities, a bold extension of scope, in fact groundbreaking.

Post lunch and Jane, the girl for whom the morning has proved so vexatious, is scheduled to attend her therapy session with Ms Soames. She has thus been returned to Matron’s jurisdiction with the reminder of the latter’s authority still throbbing across her rather full buttocks.

She has been left to stand at the foot of her bed to wait for Matron, her compatriots having returned to the class room. She stands with hands on head facing the mirrored wall at the room’s far end. There is little scope for anything else.

There are three doors, the two set in to the side walls, one on either side at the room’s end toward which she is presently facing, she knows lead to the class room and the examination room, the latter being kept locked. The third door, the one set into the centre of the end wall behind her, the only door in or out of the suite in fact, lies safely beyond the floor to ceiling iron security grille that bisects the entire room at that point and that sets the limit of their living space. The symmetry of its thick bars is disturbed only by its inset gate with its bulky lock beyond which the door itself would, of course, be locked. She knows that through that door and only a short distance along the passageway beyond is to be encountered an identical, if somewhat narrower, grille of equally imposing bars and equipped with an equally robust lock. Besides, in front of her, no more than two bed-widths distant, the nurses station is occupied, as it always is, the woman, a red head, her colouration set off prettily by her light blue uniform, sits with her back to the mirror working on her reports but occasionally glancing up.

There is always supervision here in Matron’s world.

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Copyright (c) 2008 Garth. P. ToynTanen

Taken from: Institutionalised Volume 1: Beyond the Stanford Experiment

Matron's Cane - a snippit from INSTITUTIONALISED volume 1

I thought I'd post a snippet from volume 1 of INSTITUTIONALISED today. I realise that most folk visiting here will have read it and be looking for tasters from volume 2 but despite the fact that this extract has been posted on certain newsgroups in the past, not every visitor will have come across it. For those that haven't read the book it should help put the snippets of vol 2 and the various other posts I have made in context.

Besides, the entire purpose of this blog is to gather feedback from readers and hopefully ideas / fantasies for inclusion in any future publications. After all, I am not a professional writer, or anything like it, but I am trying to develop an entire new genre in multi-fetish literature here and I need to know if I'm succeeding or failing, and to what degree. Finally: I'm not sure where the last pic originated - it looks like a manipulation. Clearly the situation is much different from that in the 'unit' wherein our hapless heroine is incarcerated but that wickedly whippy switch and the girl's helplessness conjures that INSTITUTIONALISED spirit quite nicely - don't you think?
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Matrons Cane

"30C, answer the doctor, sweetheart" Matron was using her softest, most coaxing, tones.

The girl, now known only as 30C, knew what was expected of her, she had been taught in the schoolroom, questions were to be answered promptly, one did not hesitate, one did not think about the answer, one answered yes or no, simply that, no less and certainly, no more. “Yyy yes, mm,m Matron” came the soft reply at last…

For a split-second a whistling hiss had filled the silence, SSHSWTHRRACK! Then a banshee shriek, AAAAGHH! She was on her feet, hands desperately kneading buttocks initially angrily wasp-stung then numb with shock but now developing a detailing to the pain much as a photographic negative might slowly emerge in the darkroom, a clarification to the agony, a screaming agony quite literally.

She had waited in position bent over the desk, outwardly a study in determination, inwardly a growing dread nibbled then gnawed away at that determination. The cane, crook handled, lay casually across the back of the desk filling her field of view, dominating her, the curved handle of yellowed rattan touching her nose as if to hold her there.

Behind her the conversation had continued, she had taken the placing of the cane there, across the desk, her careful positioning, to be the prelude to the caning but the conversation had just continued. And so she had waited, bent from the waist, chin resting on the padded desktop, hands placed behind the back of her neck, legs straddling the attached seat and each adjacent to its corresponding desk support, those knickers, the examination pants, stretched to their limit to contain those overripe buttocks, her imagination involuntarily filling with the image of her most intimate secrets freshly shaved and obscenely displayed through that transparent plastic gusset panel.

Perhaps she had imagined the retention of her knickers to be an ameliorating factor, that they might blunt the sharpness of the sting, then again perhaps she had the intelligence to realise that Matron would never allow such an amelioration if it were significant, yet might allow some slight amelioration if it were to be offset by an element of humiliation of great enough magnitude. As she fervently wished for a return to the conditions of her previous canings, bare bottomed and without the benefit of witnesses, we can conclude the latter to be the greater truth...and be appreciative of Matron's enlightened understanding of a young woman's sensibilities and vulnerabilities.

A hand, Matron's hand, the girl had recognised the cuff and sleeve of the woman’s uniform, had retrieved the cane. The girl had tensed, expecting the first stroke's imminence. Nothing happened, behind her the conversation had restarted, no mention of the upcoming event, not even a casual comment aimed to humiliate and degrade.
It was as if she wasn't there, they were apparently discussing another patient, another girl; there was mention of legal papers, something to do with drawing up a 'statement of change of status', of having the girl become a voluntary psychiatric patient, of the need to arrange power of attorney.

Then there had been a moment of silence, unexpectedly mid-conversation. Behind her, unseen by her but fully witnessed with approval by the good doctor, Matron had flexed the cane between her hands forming a full circle, a measure of its extreme suppleness, a suppleness that comes from the careful preparation of selected rattan kept steeped in brine solution. This cane had little in common with that which had been used previously, this was a very special cane kept for a very special and specific purpose.

Then that stroke had whipped in, and now, standing sobbing, hands brought up to her face in shame, she knew, the girl knew, suddenly she had only two more chances to avoid the threatened one-month extension.

The previous canings had been bearable, at least initially, and had gradually got harder, but this… The first stroke, had shocked her, had been harder and unimaginably more painful than even the hardest strokes of her previous canings.

"What do you think you are doing, girl? Get back down at once!"

The sobbing wretch remained standing, rounded, defeated, shoulders heaving up and down with each staccato-sobbing breath. Distraught tears oozed freshly-squeezed between fine, graceful fingers, emotion ravaged trembling hands cupped defensively in an attempt to hide the shame etched across her pretty, pain-contorted features. Behind her Matron stood coolly with her customary businesslike hands on hips posture, her cane, hanging as casual as a handbag from the fingers of her left hand, forming an acute angle with her skirt.

Matron was clearly unmoved by the girl's histrionics, neither sympathetic nor angry. She merely observed the scene with a casual detachment and a cool air of authority that well disguised the seething melee below.
"Well, that's another chance gone, you have got just two chances left now and you won't even have that many if you don't get back down across that desk right now, this instant!" She had spoken softly, gently, but with a voice gradually hardening until the emphasis on 'This instant' practically qualified as a bellow.
Still no response was forthcoming, save for a particularly deep and shoulder-shuddering sobbing intake of breath and a rubbery shifting of weight, the girl's knees momentarily threatening to give way to a knock-kneed collapse, still straddling, as she was, the seat.

"I'm going to count to five then you had better be back over that desk or you are down to your last chance, I mean it!" Now Matron had moved up close behind the shaking girl, her voice taking on an intimidating barking. "One, two, three, four..."

With a last defeated shuddering ‘sob’ the girl flopped her torso down atop the desk, her chin coming to rest close to the rear, simultaneously and involuntarily running her hands defensively back over her buttocks. Matron's voice instantly adopted its soft and coaxing 'reward' tone:
"That's better, sweetheart, now let's get those hands back where they belong, back behind your neck." Stiffly, reluctantly, the girl obeyed.
"That's a good girl", Matron's 'rewarding' voice again; she took great care in emphasising to her staff the importance of consistency in conditioning a girl and took equal care herself to ensure that she never failed to positively reinforce a desired behaviour with a praising word or an approving smile.
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Copyright (c) 2008 Garth. P. ToynTanen
Taken from:

Institutionalised Volume 1: Beyond the Stanford Experiment

News update and a tiny post

You may have noticed that I've recently changed the entire look of this blog. Basically I've just selected and slightly customised a preformed template but hopefully it will look much better in Firefox now as it seems many people are using that rather than MS Explorer these days, at least that seems to be the case with those of you visiting here. I think it looked all right in Explorer, to be honest, but when I viewed using Firefox I wasn't terribly happy with how it looked. I intend to continue to make changes and improve things as I go along and get to grips with the flavour of HTML etc that this thing uses. I've been away over this past weekend and unable to do any work so perhaps I should change my comments section to say that I'm hoping to make updates most weekdays. Now down to business...

But first a little thing I came across on the Web some time ago, (well, on a Yahoo group actually) and that I think goes long way in succinctly encapsulating the essence of the entire INSTITUTIONALISED series; that written and that still hiding in my head.

I've no idea where it originated but it says so much so simply that I just had to include it; it's all there in the body language. And what a charmingly whippy cane our nurse has here; just perfect for warming up a pair of prettily shivering buttocks straight after a nice cold shower! One has to get the old circulation going, you know! The little shivering miss does seem a little on the thin side though: the question is; should she be referred to the dietician... or has the dietician already done her work? Answers on a postcard please... (: