For whoever it was who wanted to see plastic pants

Yet another image inspired by that Lady-To-Maid 'Caroline' strory... I think this could be Caroline and a cousin perhaps?  I do think these two look too defiant. The question is: Will they feel quite so defiant after a few days?

It's such a shame the hair is so different...So, perhaps Caroline and her two cousins?  They look deliciously contrite, especialy the one on the right, who I think might be Caroline / Bella herslef and who I think has just had a thrashing with the cane or strap or both - perhaps for using 'grown-up words'?

 

 

Enemas, Beers, Writing, Scans and History

I have noticed quite a few new faces appearing here and to those folk who have just discovered me I would like say welcome and also point out that there is over a year's worth of postings in my archive which can be easily viewed using the archive pull-down menu device over in the sidebar on the right - it's probably the best way of getting a flavour of what this little site is all about.

Yesterday I did a little scribbling in a pub in Tottenham known as 'The Elbow Room' while waiting for an old chum to turn up. Then it was off to 'The Rochester Castle' a Wetherspoons pub in Stokenewington (all these exotic locations are in North London of course) to actually meet my mate. He had been somewhat delayed which turned out to be advantageous and you will doubtless be pleased to know that not only did I manage to re-write from memory the section of the new volume that I lost - and that I spoke about last time - but I also had time enough to extend and expand upon it.

Today I have done a little experimental writing, developing a new theme entirely (see below). I have also at long last dug out an old suitcase I have been meaning to get from the attic for some time now.; filled to the brim with old spanking mags and books it is and I have just started getting around to scanning some of that old stuff for your delectation and delight. A couple of said scans are here. They are reduced in size and resolution to suit web page publication and to make uploading quicker, but if anyone wants the full size versions I will email them with pleasure. In the fullness of time I will upload all the full size versions to my various PicasaWeb albums in any case.

Aunty's Enema Discipline

(A rough first draft taken from the upcoming new volume soon to join the INSTITUTIONALISED stable - probably)

The cold nozzle of the rubber tubing inching up inside her bottom, the teenage girl felt the muscles around her gently-rounded belly tightening.
This was a procedure that had once been preceded by a few swishing strokes of the cane thrumming through the air, the harsh crackling snap of a searing flame-tongued tawse or the ruthless crack of a supple leather belt - the latter would generally be doubled over and would brand the girls naked buttocks with its outline, the broad swollen stripes being punctuated longitudinally by a raised blister-like pattern where its holes fell.
Now she unconsciously raised her swelling peach-like bottom , as if offering it up willingly to the ingress of the wide-bore rubbery enema nozzle that was once more raping her backside; as it had the evening before… and the morning before that… and as it would continue to do, twice per day, for the foreseeable future.
She had been fiercely proud, this one; learning to curb and bridle herself had come slowly and painfully to her, but it had come nonetheless. An acceptable level of obedience had been achieved - now it would have to be perfected, honed and refined. This constant and repeated submission to the soapy urging of the enema was very much part of that refinement.
The girl had been quick tempered and prone to brusque outbursts; but the tight leash of discipline she now had the girl under was doing wonders in beating down and subduing that former volatility. She had taken her time with the girl; the luxuries and indulgences she had been used to had not been removed all at once but rather gradually and insidiously replaced by the privations she knew the girl detested. At each step it seemed as if deep down inside some part of the girl’s personality and character was being peeled away and discarded along with her increasingly limited freedom.
With a rising sense of satisfaction the uniformed woman had watched the girl struggling to squeeze her somewhat overly mature curves into the tight bottom-hugging white plastic enema knickers she always insisted the girl wear for these treatments. She had smiled to herself knowingly as the girl flinched, oh so prettily. Partly that faint grimace came about through the final snap of the elasticated waistband, once the girl had succeeded in kneading and moulding the excess flesh of her ample bottom into the intimately detailed glossy PVC covering. Partly the girl’s discomfort came from the leg elastic biting into the yielding flesh around those milky thighs of hers, but more importantly as far as Julia Soames was concerned, a major part came from the sense of humiliation that the garment seemed actually designed to engender.
The sanatorium-style examination table would have seemed hopelessly incongruous in a domestic setting had it not been for the Spartan furnishing and institutional-looking décor of this roped-off segment of Aunt Julia's home. This was a self-contained home-within-a-home; the plush carpeting of the rest of the house came to an end at the foot of the stair on the floor below, becoming hospital-style white cushioned linoleum once past a sturdy door habitually kept securely locked whereupon it climbed a short flight before spreading out across a skylight-lit landing and flowing into four small but sufficiently functional rooms, each nestling behind its own equally securely-locked door. The accommodation comprised a toilet, little more than a cubicle sufficient to house the pedestal and a bidet, a shower room that also contained what appeared to be a massage table but one that strangely had been furnished with a system of broad Velcro-fastening padded-nylon straps, and the girl's bedroom. This latter was a strangely frothy and flouncy concoction of girlish femininity seemingly completely at odds with the institutional flavour of the rest of this part of the house, other than for the bed which was a standard hospital bed - but one which hid under its soft pink flounce counterpane the padded leather cuffs and strong webbing straps of a humane restrained system as might have been found in any asylum. Then, of course, there was the room in which the attractively curvaceous girl now waited bottom-up on the white leather-topped examination couch.
The glossed plastic of the seemingly sprayed-on knickers trapped light in little puddles that served to emphasise the shadowed cleft whereat the back-seam dipped sharply down and inward, practically disappearing from view, and where the cleverly contrived construction while moulding the buttocks into an eye-pleasing heart shape simultaneously drew the swelling cheeks widely and quite lewdly apart. The eye was quite naturally drawn over the perfect mirror-sheen surface of white plastic coated globes, bringing the suggestion to mind of two over-inflated balloons sat side by side, and down on, along the tightly-lined plastic valley to where the slippery fabric again pressed outwards, puckering and pulling into a glossed and detailed outline of intimate lips already moistening in the unrelenting humidity of their covering. Somehow this thin yet tough PVC sheaving managed to reveal even more intimate detail than if the girl had actually been naked - something she was only too keenly aware of and that brought colour to her cheeks even before a procedure that humiliatingly took control from her of one of her most basic bodily functions.
At the centre of the back-seam of these purpose designed knickers the plastic thickened and turned inwards for a couple of centimetres, thus forming a semi-rigid sleeve that connected with the outside world by way of an elastic-circled sphincter of plastic fabric mirroring the puckered pink flesh beneath into which the sleeve was designed to worm its way. This feature was customarily aided in its purpose by having been liberally coated with a medical lubricant beforehand and once in place it was simplicity itself to introduce the big black ribbed rubber enema nozzle into the girl's backside, from between who’s swelling plastic coated buttocks the length of red rubber tubing now protruded so obscenely. Copyright Gath P Toyntanen 2009

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