Brainwashed Back Into Nappies (1)

 A little bit of photo mapiulation went in to this one to repair somethings which had gone a bit amiss in the raw AI image...but not much, to be honest.

I've always been interested in the idea of sitting a girl in a nappy on a toilet as a way of overcoming reluctance to use nappies....Dunno why...It's just interesting

This one is raw AI...Just as it poured out of the tin!

This one too is a raw AI image

...as is this....Starting get some pooy nappies now!

Some interesting bondage ideas, once again, raw AI and straight ot of the tin. I love the way the body brace forces the girls to keep their backs straight, shoulders pulled back but forces the bottom to stick out...pefectly presented for the nurse's switch

Doesn't Need A Title

 

'Wringing' Out the Inspiration

Hi folks. I was going to put up a few views of post-'riot' Wood Green North London but I have just had a change of heart. I have now worked out how to download the photo's off of my phone (took all of two minutes) but while reorganising the various folders on the desktop computer I came across an archive of 'Wringer's' photoshots that I had gathered together for my own enjoyment from various sources.

No matter what has been stamped across one of them, these are - to my knowlege at least - all the work of 'Wringer'. My first inclination was to load these on to a memory stick and upload them from my holiday hotel (WiFI extra but 'reasonable' I have been assured). On second thoughts there is always the chance of said memory stick falling into 'judgemental' hands while passing through customs or what ever, by being stolen or indeed lost and so I decided to quickly upload now and to take the riot pics (not very exciting, frankly) and a couple of pics from my last holiday (Pompeii, Herculaneum, Mount Vesuvius - that sort of thing) and upload them later in the week from the island of Koss. Some of these Wringer pics you will have seen before, perhaps here, and other's you will have not.

They are also widely variable in terms of resolution etc - but this reflects their various sources; all now lost in the mist of time but including several Yahoo Groups I seem to remember. The thing is how one almost automatically tends to weave a multitude of tales around them, individually or as a set - I think it has a lot to do with the ambiguity of the background (especially in those atmospheric black and white shots) along with the institutional appearance of the bed, leaving one's imagination to fill in the gaps as to whether one is being made privy to a domestic or an institutional scenario. Wonderful stuff!
I have to be off now. Gym first (if it ain't been burnt!) then off to Gatwick, leaving North London around 4 o'clock this afternoon. The flight is not until tomorrow, but it is at 4 o'clock in the morning!!! and so, I am staying in Gatwick for the night. I guess in theory I need not leave London until late this evening, but I want to miss the rush hour (about four hours these days) and also preempt some genius coming up with the idea of burning the stations... Just a matter of time!!!

Hi to 'Orage' there! Good to hear from you too! Hi, too, to anyone who has emailed and still waiting for a reply or who has not heard from me for some time (especialy 'Snooze' and 'Miha')- I hope to catch up on my emails while away, along with completing my commissioned piece (which I must say has down much to reawaken me!), and so you should hear from me in the next week.

Oh! And I forgot to say: INSTITUTIONALISED volume 3 is now available in the Ebook format through Andrews UK LTD at Amazon Kindle (click to visit). I be setting up a direct link in the right hand sidebar sometime in the near future.

Is it Me, is it Nanny’s World - Or Just a Spot of Sanitary Protection?

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Two New Blogs, a Couple of Changes and Some News and Views

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Our Institution Girl: Should We Put Her Back in Nappies?

It's the great Wetherspoons real ale festival - and my favorite pub-chain has 50 different brews up for grabs and spread across its various branches, Consequently, having finished my driving lesson for the day - and requiring a quiet spot in which to set up my traveling office and knock out a little bit of suitably inspired prose - I have come to rest in the 'Alfred Herring', Palmers Green. Only it is anything but quiet - in addition to the usual betting-shop escapees a, drunks (I do include myself - I'm not that hypercritical) and assorted crazies (the same proviso applies) the place seems packed to the rafters with the populace of the various offices that nestle above (and sometimes, alongside) the rather dowdy local shops : brain-dead 'nail technicians' and 'stylists' giggle over nothing in particular and jostle for territory with a 'deception' of estate-agents (real-estate agents, for those State-side) here and an 'apology' of financial advisers, there (I've no idea what you lot across 'The Pond' call them - but I imagine you have 'em there). As for 'yours truly' I shall momentarily be embarking on extending and embellishing a chapter that I have provisionally named 'Sparrows in the Window and Bats in the Attic' and in which I am currently working through a scene in which our hapless heroine in her baggy institutional stripy pyjamas is put to the test - or rather her mental health is...Well just what should she choose to do- should she accept the gift of a soft pink-furred teddy bear, a terry-toweling nappy, flounced hospital-issue plastic pants (knickers) in exchange for the life of her little birdie companion...or refuse and effectively place herself in an even greater perfection of seclusion...It's a diabolical little quandary - and the biting sting of the implacable psychiatrist's leather belt across her bare behind, as always, is there to spur her co-operation, which ever path she might choose. Considering, then, the pivotal role played by a simple soft toy (and I can give no more away at this stage) and a pair of plastic pants, it is all the more coincidental that only this morning I blundered upon the the little bit of art presented above; I came across it on an old backup CD while searching for something completely unconnected and have no idea of its origin. It's a lovely little image though, whatever its origin - near perfectly evocative of our little mind-controlled trollop.

Yet More Pyjama Spanking - And Even a Hint of Enforced Weight-Gain

Hi folks! I'm working from home today, I have to get uploaded the substantial backlog of work that I have scribbled down in my trusty notebook wall in various pubs over the last week or so. It's true that thanks to my little netebook computer that I now habitually carry around with me, quite a lot of work already exists in various files. But the thing's battery life is limited whilst my appetite for ales not quite so and I still end up scribbling copious notes. I'm still working on the cupcake thing that follows on from the initial interview / interrogation scene which in turn is the part that involves our heroine being put in shapeless stripey institutional pyjamas, which - to turn full circle -play an interesting pivotal role in the cupcake scene.

Actually, it has been surprising just how much interest there has been in the whole pyjama concept and so, thanks to an anonymous contributor who wrote to tip me off, I have today added a link in the sidebar blog list to 'Girls Pyjama Spanking'. I couldn't resist taking a quick gander and found it to be a fascinating blog, the most recent posting featuring a marvellous little photo set based around a delectable little thing called Kami Robertson. Needless to say I also couldn't resist having a quick Google around her name looking for more examples and of course I got sidetracked, but in so doing was led to the work of an artist that I hadn't come across before called Kami Tora, see the art work above left - just click on it to see more of his work or look out for the link in the 'Useful Resources' section of the right-hand sidebar. Of course I then had to Google for a bit more of this artist's work which in turn lead to yet another diversion and the evocative little photo, below on the right - I have yet to visit the site it originated from - WWW.nurse-helena.fr - in fact I dare not as I just know that I would get totally sidetracked and get absolutely nothing done for the rest of the day.

So from this point all it's back to the grindstone, although it is not all been frivolous Web surfing today. To go back to the 'Girls Pyjama Spanking' blog again, just for the moment; I came across a comment posted by blog's writer as regards the featured pyjama-clad girl saying something along the lines of how, despite one particular pair looking perhaps a little large on her, nevertheless once the girl was bent over her " perfectly round bum filled them gloriously ". Of course the depicted pyjamas are nothing like the baggy shapeless green and white stripey institutional things I envisage our heroine, in but it was that bit about her bum filling them that " gloriously" that got me thinking. There is a similarity to a certain piece of dialogue that I've been working on over the last couple of days, just something that the institution's psychiatrist mentions about wanting to see the girl in her charge " fill out those pyjamas". I've been thinking that what with the girl only possessing that one pair that the doctor has given her and being confined either to the doctor's office - where she is questioned day in day out - or the little room that leads off of it, with the minimal facilities that implies, several weeks or perhaps a couple of months in to her residency those pyjamas are unlikely to feel so fresh on. When she is informed that her guardian will be paying her a visit in addition to the humiliation engendered by her appearance she is horrified by the way that woman will perceive her personal hygiene.

By now the shapeless pyjama bottoms no longer fit quite so loosely around her waist hips and bottom and despite any misgivings she may have regarding her blossoming figure she has at least cheered by the fact that she no longer has to continually struggle to keep them from falling around her ankles - something she would find particularly humiliating in front of her hated guardian. One can imagine the relief when she is reassured by the doctor that in return for some new level of co-operation she will be rewarded with a nice fresh crisp clean pair - then comes the dilemma. The good doctor lets slip that the only pair available in the girl's size are the ones she has one - the nice new clean pair she holds up in front of the girl are a good couple of sizes too large. If she wants to wear these in front of her visitor she can but with this privilege comes a price; she must bend for six strokes of the doctor's cane across her bare behind just prior to meeting her visitor. She must also accept the equally baggy and shapeless bloomers that come with the new pyjamas and which of course, like the pyjamas, are also devoid of waist elastic or any other method of fastening at the waist. She has been told many many times that pyjama cords, lengths of elastic and the like can present a danger to psychiatric patients - the implication is not lost on her and the tedium of having to constantly walk around holding up her pyjama trousers and now her underwear keeps that thought ever fresh and in the front of her mind. She has a choice but there is a deep element of humiliation attached to either. In addition there is the bitter humiliation of the meeting itself haunting her; she is told that she is to greet her guardian pleasantly and politely, she is to thank the woman for being kind enough to visit her, she had to say how well she is being looked after in the hospital and how thankful she is for being under the good doctor's care. She also has to recite in detail the long list of ways her therapy is benefiting her - a list ingrained by hour upon hour of tedious line writing impositions under the doctor's supervision - and how at home she is now beginning to feel in the institution. The latter is not entirely an untruth given her months of isolation and almost constant indoctrination at the hands of a skilled psychologist. Throughout, she is told, she must sit up straight with her hands on her head, listening without comment to everything her guardian has to say. If given certain papers and documents to sign she is to do so without question or hesitation. The doctor is going to be present throughout the visit and any failing on the girl's part will earn her six strokes of the doctor's cane across her bare buttocks in front of her visitor and another six strokes later on, once her visitor has left, followed by a prolonged period of isolation locked in the cramped little anteroom with just the hospital bed and desk for company..And a surprisingly subtle punishment of the doctor's own devising of which I shall say no more for fear of giving too much away.

See you later, folks. PS: don't forget, the beer drinkers amongst you, that is the London Beer Festival at Camden Town Hall on Wednesday Thursday and Friday of this week, though I'm not sure yet which day I shall attend.

Emails, Latex, Starched Collars, Restriction and Enforced Tattooing

My apologies to all those who have emailed me over the last week or so and have yet to receive a reply. I have been out of action for one reason or another and on and off for quite a while now and in the meantime the incoming e-mail tends to build up. The new arrivals eventually push earlier messages further and further down the pile until they disappear off the bottom of the page and go out of focus - then they are all too easily overlooked. I am now working my way through my outstanding email stack and in so doing I thought I might use one or two to illustrate points regarding the INSTITUTIONALISED story arc and the influences that have impacted upon it thus far. As always I'll keep everything anonymous unless the writer concerned requests acknowledgement.

.....

Here is one that unfortunately it has taken me seven days to reply to - seven days languishing in my mailbox is unforgivable, sorry old chap - and my reply. The pictures are from a set that somebody recently sent me anonymously, for which my heart-felt thanks, and which deliciously illustrate - in an in-between-the-lines sort of way - the spirit of part of the upcoming new volume. There is piquant ambiguity there; of which, for our purposes, one might wish to choose the darker interpretation - is the girl truly as content as she seems... or has she just come to think of herself as content?..or been expertly led into a mindset of dominated acceptance? hmmm! I know not the origin of these pics so I can only hope I am not treading on any one's toes, copyright speaking, here - if so I will of course remove them at once.

.....

“I am really enjoying the descriptions of the uniforms, especially Lady Madison’s “maid” and the girl in the wheelchair, 24C, I’m not that keen on latex but the idea of all white, including the Nurses’ uniforms is great, adding the Nun style wimple adds to the effect. The idea of tattooing the individual “patients” number on their buttocks is inspirational, just a couple of questions though, why get the girls to write their names when consenting, wouldn’t it have been better to have them sign in a previous chapter that they would in the future as eg 23C and then any consent form would only use their number, or was the intention to introduce a little confusion when they used their previous name. Also what would happen if the patient changes from the school to the cells, eg 30S / 30C and then back again, would she have been tattooed?”

.....

I have to say that latex is only on the peripheral my interests, my interests really lie more with the use of corporal punishment and imposition of strict discipline and school uniforms and the like on young ladies in their late teens or early twenties. As I have said before; my formative reading matter tended to be the likes of Richard Manton and Victor Bruno, and if you know the works of these authors you'll get a feeling for where I'm coming from. As I read around more over the years and discovered other people's interests, the discomfiture inherent in the idea of the heroine having to contend with snug-fitting school knickers, say, fitted with a latex lining seemed to lend itself to developing that all-important sense of restriction. I saw the use of latex under such circumstances much in the same vein as crisply starched school blouses having high, tight starched collars, a girl's hair being tightly plaited and pinned coiled to either side of her head or cut to a short boyish, collar length, style, restrictive corsetry incorporating a stiffened backboard so as to ensure good deportment at the school desk, heavy gabardine rain-capes worn on the warmest of days or toe-crushing shoes cunningly designed to hobble the wearer and so ensure a suitably submissive dainty, girlish gait. You have to realise that when I set out to write these books I also set out to incorporate as many disparate fetishes that seemed to fit with the storyline - not necessarily my own interests in all cases.

.....

The level of discipline and restriction that many letter writer's seemed to advocate in the correspondence pages of Janus, Blushes, Whispers and some other magazines published in the 1980s, the period when I was mostly reading them and tend to hark back to, never really rung true with me in the context within which the correspondents would develop their ideas - such regimes as were often advocated seemed unlikely, if not downright distasteful to the point of being a turnoff, in the context of the parental home or in any sort of conventional and publicly scrutinised school system. Where on occasion some sort of promise of plausibility did seem to arise it was to be found more often than not broached in connection with the subject of ' admission procedures’ wherein the existence of various small, secure and privately funded institutions were sometimes posited - apparently run as much for the amusement of the rich patrons that fund it as to benefit the reformation or education of the inmates.

.....

One writer talked about an establishment wherein a young lady might be confined and where she might be visited from time to time by the man or woman responsible for her incarceration. Some spoke of reformatory schools and short-sharp-shock regimes, lasting two to three months perhaps. Others, excitingly in my opinion, spoke of minimum periods above a year while still others used that wonderful term 'indefinite'. Then one would sometimes come across the idea of a young lady cloistered behind the high walls of her ancestral home, kept from her inheritance by a cruel guardian or stepparent and under a regime of some sort of scholastic discipline whether mediated by a stern governess, dour children's nanny or strict nursery nurse. Influenced by all of the above and having read about the church run, so-called, Madeleine laundries and the ease with which a young woman could find herself committed to such a place - or indeed, in the Victorian period, to the local mental asylum - merely for having refused the advances of the local squire, as well as the unethical psychological experiments carried out in the 1930s through to the 1960s, I chose to invoke a combination of these ideas, centring around a privately funded research unit embedded within a secure psychiatric hospital. As you know it is basically the story of a girl who, having been manipulated into becoming a voluntary research subject for a short period, finds herself increasingly less able to extract herself from the situation to find herself in.

The idea of having the girls sign an earlier legal document stating that from that point forth, while within the institution, their assigned patient number would stand for their given name in all further waivers is a nice one. The reason I opted to have the girls sign the documentation, giving the hospital the right to tattoo them, using their full names, was to impress upon them the legality of their situation and to further impress upon them the futility of attempting to stand against the reform--school / boarding-school regime they are being kept under. It is for similar reasons that the documentation itself is dictated to the girls and has to be rendered in their own handwriting while sitting at their school desks. Obviously, pre-printed sheaves of papers, merely requiring the subject place her signature at the relevant points, could have been handed out, but that would have been missing out on a wonderful opportunity to further apply psychological pressure on them - remember that during the dictation process, any one girl making a mistake or failing to achieve sufficient copperplate-neatness caused the group as a whole to have to start again from scratch. Recall also that the documentation was worded so as to be not so much a permission given to the hospital as it was a request from the girl concerned that the hospital authorities should permanently tattooed each with her assigned patient number. You have hit the nail on the head when you posit the intention of introducing a little confusion when the girls are forced to use their previous names - a girl finding herself automatically going to use her patient number despite herself, perhaps finding her given name appearing almost strange to her, will surely be mindful of the effect that her time in the unit as already had upon her.

As to what would happen as regards the tattoo if the patient was to be changed from the 'schoolroom' regime to the ' prison' or ' workhouse' regimes - there is a good reason why this would not be of too much concern but to elucidate further would be to give too much away.

Dietary Discipline & Harassment Therapy: A Reader's Account (Part 4) - Of Nappies, Leg Braces and Psychological Bondage

I have to admit to having spent far too long overthe last couple of days investigating the selection of real ales on sale in various London branches of that marvellous pub chain, Wetherspoon's (they have had a 'beer festival 'running since the beginning of April with 50 different ales on sale of which I've been attempting to sample as many as possible). That I am back at the desk finishing off a little work on volume 2 and fiddling around with the text of volume 3 – I've also managed to enlist the much welcomed aid of an e-mail correspondent chum in proofreading volume 2 so all is rushing ahead nicely now. As you can imagine am a little to push the time to write anything much myself today so I thought I would just post the concluding part of the account of sent in by a correspondent regarding her time in a mental hospital. As you probably remember from last time; this takes the form of a series of questions posed by e-maile, by yours truly, along with the anonymous correspondent's responses and so has something of the tone of an interview. With the exception of the use of nappies (diapers) the parallels with the happenings portrayed in INSTITUTIONALISED volume 1 and the treatment meted out to our hapless young volunteers under the guise of an experimental psychology study is remarkable. Along with the accounts that one comes across out there on the Web of life in those wonderful church run institutions, Ireland's industrial schools, with their strict cane or strap wielding nuns, and equally strict dowdy uniforms (is just so much mileage there for the writing of fiction, with a little imagination) and those highly dubious and of the unethical psychology studies carried out in past times; it all goes to show that truth really is stranger than fiction. Click here for part 3 ... here for part 2... and here for part 1... And here to read the original letter that started the ball rolling. Now, as they say, read on:

“In the average small hospital ward (and I imagine the ward you were confined to would have been quite compact) there are usually only one or two (if that) toilet cubicles. A weird subject I know but one with many disciplinary connotations, particularly under the circumstances you describe, as once in a cubicle the patient could be out of sight for example and might choose to regurgitate an unpleasant meal. And bearing in mind the regimentation of the dietary procedures you describe one can't help wondering whether such toilet visits were regimented in any way (I make mention in volumes 1 and two of my book of bedpan use, both for convenience and for ' medical ' reasons - to allow for easy monitoring of waste output, shall we say (humiliating for the patient, I know, but perhaps necessary).”

Toilet Re-training

“The hospital must have been built in the late 1800's and while it did have running water and electricity (would these mod-cons have had to be added after it was built I wonder) nobody had thought to include toilets - unless the staff had access to toilets somewhere within their private domains. But I certainly never saw a toilet. We used pots that were kept under our beds and we were expected to use them when we got up and when we went to bed. The dormitories were kept locked during the day, but we would be taken, in small groups, to use our pots once during the day, usually after the (nominally) midday meal. I know for a fact that great attention was paid to our output - there were charts of volume, weight, colour and consistency and any irregularity would be treated with laxatives, enemas, dietary changes and punishment.
It only took an increase in liquid intake and the withholding of potty privileges once or twice and a girl was bound to be found standing in a puddle of her own making in the dayroom or she would wake up with a wet bed.
Such events, whether deliberately induced, entirely accidental, or just written up on paper, were the usual precursor to the loss of potty privileges (called toilet privileges) altogether. That meant having to wear nappies - at least during the day and maybe at night too. If you were one of the retarded girls they might be regular nappies, but those of us who were deemed to 'know better', or be aware of our 'actions', were often made to wear punishment nappies... (the pictures, I think, evoke quite nicely the sort of thing that would be considered suitable garb for such a patient once ensconced in the experimental psychology department, deep within the secure wing of the institution I depict - Garth).

Girdled and Back in Nappies

The basic punishment nappy was comprised of large thick nappy pads made from old sheets quilted together - and might have canvas or hessian liners that were incredibly abrasive and itchy. They would [on ocasion] be fastened on already soaking wet. After all, the nurses were [often] heard to say, “why bother drying them when a little shit like you is just going to pee in them”. And then to stop them sagging we had to wear a panty-girdle like garment - but made from stronger elastic than any panty girdle I have ever seen and with laces up the back. Big thick brown rubber bloomers finished off the arrangement - unless you had to wear another lighter 'panty girdle' over the rubber pants. Believe me, you could do little more than waddle by the time they were done with you. And it wasn't long before the urine, and whatever else that overflowed from the nappy. would pool in the bloomer legs. There were times that I was put into punishment nappies - and only ever escaped when the rash became so bad that I had to be allowed out - though there was no guarantee that you wouldn't go right back in them as soon as the rash improved.
It was on one of the occasions when I was consigned to punishment nappies that I was taken down to the brace shop to have a crotch plate made. The design is a little hard to explain. Firstly my body brace was modified and the waist was reduced even further - making me look more like a wasp than a girl. Then a narrow and most uncomfortable strap was attached to the back of my body brace and passed between my legs and tightly buckled to the front of my body brace. Then a wide rigid plate was made, rubber covered steel I think, and that was similarly attached, by multiple straps, to the back and front of my body brace. By the time all the straps were pulled as tight as the nurses could manage (the narrow understrap could still be tightened after the crotch plate was attached because the crotch plate did not cover the buckle) I was barely able to walk, for the crotch place was about 5 inches wide at its narrowest, and unless I moved very gingerly it would leave me with wheals where it rubbed against my thighs - even through the rubber bloomers, 'panty-girdle', and layers of nappy. Believe me - the panty girdles were very unpleasant, the way they held the sodden nappies in constant contact with your crotch, but the crotch plate was many times worse. Not that I escaped that - I still had to wear a panty girdle, both under and over the rubber bloomers. If you were unlucky enough to be moved to the 'dirty dormitory' then your nappies were usually only changed at bedtime each day. Your dirty nappy and liner were removed and replaced with a 'clean', but still urine soaked, nappy and liner. The dirty nappy was [sometimes] not placed in the nappy bucket until the next morning.
We deviants had our own dormitory, and normally we would never be moved to another - they didn't want any chance of our corrupting the other girls - but the 'dirty dormitory' was an exception - we could be transferred there, and often were.
But punishment nappies were not usually the first disciplinary measure, of that type, a new girl would encounter. They would usually work up to it. My own first experience was when I came back from the bathroom, shivering from a long cold bath. On this occasion I was not wearing a jacket - though often we would wear our jackets in the bath - and as I stood next to 'my' bed the nurse pulled down the cover, and the rubber sheet below it, to reveal the bed made up with urine soaked, sheets and pillowcases - obviously sopping wet, not just damp. It was a very unpleasant experience indeed, though it became even more unpleasant when I was instructed to remove my nightgown and take the gown from beneath the pillow and put it on. Besides being wet and very cold, it too, was saturated in urine. Getting into it was no easy task because the material would keep sticking to itself and the nurse had to help me, much to her annoyance. When told to get into the bed I soon found that the indentation I made rapidly filled with cold urine. It was only an introduction, but that night, and the following nights pent in that bed were very unpleasant”.

Life Behind the Barred Window

“Under the circumstances you describe and giving your average rebellious teenager (and particularly taking into account the time scale you seem to imply) the temptation must have been to simply walk out. I imagine, therefore, all this would have taken place in a secure, locked ward. In which case I would be fascinated to learn of the security precautions?"

"Yes, I was always kept in a locked ward and would have had to pass through a large number of locked doors to get out. The windows in the dayroom were beyond the line that demarked where we could go so I could not see very much out of them, but on a couple of occasions I was able to sneak a look. On at least one of those occasions I could see patients being taken for a walk outside - but I was never afforded that privilege. We were high up - the 3rd floor I'd guess and the windows were barred, so there was not much chance of getting out that way.
The only times I ever left my ward, where I ate, slept, performed my ablutions, and recreated, was to visit my therapist, the therapy room, or the brace shop - and on all such occasions I was securely fastened into a wheelchair that had a top similar to a pram that could be pulled up, and in my case, pulled down, so that I could see nothing of my surroundings as I was moved between locations.
But I could usually still hear what was going on and it was clear that the nurses from my ward were not able to open many of the doors themselves - they were dependent upon getting assistance from others who would only do so if they recognized 'my' nurse. In fact when there was a new nurse on my ward she would have to leave the ward with one of the old-time nurses in order to be introduced to and later recognized by these 'gatekeeper' nurses.
So stealing keys would not have taken me very far. Besides, escape attempts were punished. One girl was already in a full bodycast for attempting to leave the ward when I arrived and she spent another 2 or 3 months in it before she was released. After that she wore heavy leg callipers (click to view pic on Eric Kroll's site) and only moved around with great difficulty. I don't know if the callipers were necessary because she had lost muscle strength or whether they were just an additional punishment or precaution against any future escape attempt. If it was punishment, she wouldn't have been the only girl punished in that way - there were several girls wearing leg braces and other orthopaedic devices that were made for them in the brace shop as punishment for some infraction or other.
I suppose I could have tried asking if I could go out for a walk, but I knew the answer would be no. And the nurses on the ward did not encourage questions (my oft gagged state bore silent witness to that) and we soon learnt that asking questions would lead to punishment. Equally my therapist did not welcome questions, and even in my sessions I was usually gagged. She would say that she had no interest in my opinions, or my lies, only in the measurable results of my treatment. She said that nodding yes or no when she asked a question was quite sufficient. Of course as you might imagine, not being able to ask questions, or even try to clarify what she meant by a statement or question, and not be able to give a more complex answer than yes or no was incredibly frustrating, and I would often leave those sessions screaming to myself from frustration and the feeling that I had been manipulated into nodding yes or no to something I didn't really agree to. For instance I might have to answer yes or no to a general question and then she would assume that I had said yes or no to a much more specific question - one that I would have answered differently had the more specific question been asked.

Kneeling at the Wall Bars

The only book we deviants were allowed to read was the bible and I had little interest in it or religion. The closest I came to 'education' was writing assignments where I had to copy out tracts from the bible - often the same tract every day for a month. I wasn't very keen on the extended prayers we had to say before bed - which was just one reason I sometimes found myself strapped to the climbing bars the next day. I have no idea why the dayroom would have climbing bars in it - maybe in the original hospital design (I'm sure it was designed as a mental hospital) it was a gymnasium - or perhaps the architect thought climbing bars in the dayroom would be a good idea - but whatever the reason they were there - but no longer used for their original purpose. Now they were a useful place to 'plant' troublesome patients. I often found myself being 'planted' there for the day. I would have to kneel facing them while I was securely strapped to them - with nothing to look at besides the wall behind them, and then my lower legs would be folded up behind me and strapped there so that I was left kneeling on my knees all day.
For the girls on regular diets, being restrained somewhere for the day meant that you would miss a meal or two - meals that were sorely missed judging by their reactions. But for anybody on a 'special' diet, their meals would be saved for them and they would have to eat any missed meals the next day. After a two-day fast, or longer, the 'extra' food might take a couple of days to consume.

"The possibility of the nurses manipulating the results of the tests is a particularly interest aspect; along with denial being virtually taken as symptom and backed up by results guaranteed to prove the point and assuming that the length of stay is dependent on a cure (of a condition not present in the first place) it must have been quite difficult to get out once admitted in one can't wonder whether one or two inmates (for want of a better term) may simply been admitted as a matter of convenience (or even amusement perhaps) to some one or other."

"Well, for me it proved impossible until the program was ended - and even then it was difficult. As for people being admitted as a matter of convenience, you might almost consider me one. Of course there is almost always an excuse - or at least a veneer of an excuse - but when you scratch it you often find there is nothing really there. There is no doubt that people were committed for the most trivial reasons - you only have to read the newspapers from the years when the hospitals were being closed to find long lists of people that had been committed for 'being at risk' (aka too pretty) or difficult (didn't get on with new stepmother). The lists went on and on. And it's probably only because the hospitals have closed down that people are no longer being committed for trivial reasons and as a matter of convenience. Of course there are other avenues available nowadays. There are plenty of 'schools' and 'programs' available for 'troubled' teens in far-flung corners of the world, where the authorities cannot intervene. And some of them sound little better than my program. Well, ok, they do sound a bit better than that. "

One Girl's Pyjama Discipline

Hi again folks. following on from Judith's captivating story, I have been sent this fascinating contribution from a female reader, to whom many thanks - it all helps take a little pressure off yours truly while I struggle to complete volume 2. It is also very inspiring and the latter tale does have a taste of the frustration engendered by those hospital issue latex incontinence bloomers that Susan finds herself placed in within the pages of INSTITUTIONALISED volume 1, with their neat little integral key operated locking waistband. Perhaps its time for some proper purpose designed locking pyjamers - nicely latex-lined where it matters and fasting with a locking zipper at the back of the neck?

"Reading Judith's story brought back memories of my own punishment, in particular one of the last occasions I was punished at home.

One evening shortly after I had left school I went out with a couple of girlfriends to a local music festival without telling my parents, knowing very well they would not approve and would probably forbid me to go. We had a fantastic time and met up with a couple of boys who took us for a drive in their car. I knew it was getting late and I was under strict instructions to be home by midnight, but lost track of time and before I knew it realized that it was already way past the time I should have been home. I tried to ask the others to drop me off but they didn’t take any notice at first. I knew I would be in big trouble if anyone heard me coming in, so tried to creep in through the garage when I eventually arrived home but unfortunately my parents were waiting up for me. I tried to apologize but my mother simply told me to go straight to bed, adding that she would deal with me in the morning. I was hardly able to sleep, dreading having to face my mother in the morning.

I decided the best thing would be to appease my parents by getting up early and helping with the horses so quickly got dressed in a sweater and jodhpurs and went out before breakfast to start clearing up the stable yard. After a while, my mother came out demanding to know where I had been the previous evening. I told her we had been given a lift and had broken down, but it was obvious she didn’t believe me.

“It’s pyjama time for you, young lady,” she said. “You can’t say you haven’t been warned. Go in and get undressed. I’ll be up in ten minutes.”

I knew she meant me to wear the pyjamas she always made my sister or I wear whenever we were punished. They were a pair of old school pyjamas she had sewn together at the waist. To make matters worse, they had to be worn back to front so that they buttoned up at the back, making them difficult to remove without help. It was so degrading and I really hated having to wear them. Sometimes my mother would make me stay dressed like that that for a whole day, locking the rest of my clothes away so I couldn’t wear anything else.

On this occasion however, I stood there in the yard refusing to do as instructed, pleading with my mother. “Please, mother. I’ve said I’m sorry. I really am. It won’t happen again, I promise.” It was futile to argue with her but the thought of such a degrading punishment was just too awful.

“Go and do as you are told or you will only make things worse for yourself,” was the inevitable response.

With tears of frustration in my eyes, I made my way indoors clinging to the hope that I might at least avoid a spanking if I complied. Back in my bedroom I decided to change back into the pyjamas I had been wearing earlier, again hoping my mother would accept that as punishment enough for a girl of my age. Undressing and pulling on my pyjamas again, I felt intensely silly as the sunlight streamed through the window. But I was also very scared. It had been nearly a year since I had last been punished with a spanking and I hated it, not just the pain but the awful humiliation.

Of course my mother was having none of it when she eventually came in with the punishment pyjamas she kept specially for such occasions. With one look at me standing there in a pair of pretty pink satin pyjamas, she shook her head.

“It’s no good wearing those, my girl. Take them off, you know the rule.”

“No... Please mother… I'm eighteen now... You can't make me wear those horrible things any more.... Please…” I protested, but to no avail.

“Yes, you are, so you should know better. But if you behave like a little girl then you will be treated like one. Come on, do as you are told or else you will not be allowed out riding with us tomorrow....” My mother knew the threat would be enough. More than anything else, I had been looking forward to the hunt the following day and desperately did not want to miss it.

With a groan of despair, I obeyed. As I had done so many times in the past, I put on the pale green winceyette pyjamas that I had once worn at boarding school, except that the jacket and trousers had been sewn together and I had to put them on back to front so that I even had to wait while mother fastened the buttons up at the back, knowing just how ridiculous I must look in such a childish outfit. As soon as she had finished I had to leave my bedroom which was then locked to prevent me from getting at any of my clothes. Even my sister’s room was locked as well. I wasn’t even allowed any underwear, feeling cold and naked underneath the thin pyjama material.

“How long have I got to stay like this?” I asked wretchedly, wondering just how long it would be before my mother decided I had been punished enough.

“Until I say so,” came the usual reply. Dressed in those awful pyjamas, all I wanted to do was hide in the bathroom but I knew that if I went downstairs and helped with the housework I might be allowed to have my clothes back sooner than if I just stayed upstairs.

Looking back, it seems ridiculous that I submitted so meekly to such a degrading punishment but I so wanted to be allowed to join everyone the following day that I was prepared to endure anything to appease my mother. As it was, I remained in pyjamas for the rest of the day until supper when I was allowed to get dressed. More than anything, though, I dreaded the possibility anyone else seeing me like that. I think I would have died of shame."

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

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