Caroline-To-Bella Lady-To-Maid

 

Slippering, Sunshine and Other Joys

Hi folks! It is a blindingly sunny day here in London and hopefully it is just as great wherever you are too. I didn't get to go to the beer Festival at Camden Town Hall in the end so I had to be satisfied by making up for it with a few beers yesterday whilst taking my mother out for Sunday lunch - it was 'Mother's Day' all mother or Mothering Sunday, as it is sometimes called. I had taken along my netbook computer and had hoped to get a few pages typed up while awaiting her arrival but as it turned out she arrived only a few minutes after I got the thing booted up - and that was that. I've only got a couple of free hours in which to get some writing done today so I'm going to go on with it in a moment and so I will keep this short and sweet for now. I just wanted to use this opportunity to tell you about a couple of blog I have just today come across and an 'Imagefap' user profile that is chock full of interesting pictures and artwork based around our favourite subject. The chap calls himself Mr Tawse and you can get to see his collection, such as the picture top left, by clicking on the link I have provided in the right-hand side bar - listed as Mr Tawse (amazingly) - under the 'Useful Resources' category (I know I have posted this pick before, but I just love it anyway). The two blogs are called 'Dr Fetish (Medfet's WebBlog)' - a medical fetish / medical restraint blog, well worth a visit and 'Simply Slippering' (does exactlyy what it says on the tin). Quite amusing, that latter one, as the other half seems to think that she invented the term 'slippering' - no, really, LOL! Now it's back to the grindstone; I'm so full of ideas that moment that something is going to go bang if I don't get them down on paper quickly. Meanwhile, click on either blog title to visit or look for the relevant link in the right hand sidebar blog roll (the Imagefap thing can be found listed under Mr Tawse in the 'useful resources list - also in the right hand sidebar ). Check out the nurse; just perfect, I pinched her from Mr Tawse's collection (well he's pinched a couple of my scans by the looks of things). She looks well worth a visit too (her site's URL can be seen on the picture - just click for a larger version). How I would love to be able to use her photo on the cover of the new book when it's finished - what could be more apt? Wishful thinking of course, but...wow!

The Demise of a Well Loved Machine?

What a crap day it has been so far today. Towards the end of last week I had reason again to visit 'the coast', which, together with gym sessions and driving lessons (car driving – yes, at my age I have yet to learn to drive), pretty much swallowed up my time. This morning, though, for the first time in ages I awoke at home (my home) – and with the day ahead totally free. Not only that but I both awoke at a reasonable time and fired-up with a burning enthusiasm to get on with writing - You may remember that recently I told you how I had come up with some interesting ideas, well now they have had time to ferment! So, picture the scene; I am sitting in front of my dual-screen work setup, microphone poised at my lips (I use voice recognition and dictation) and hands quivering in anticipation hovering over the key board. The computer boots up (takes just a few seconds – it uses two 10,000 RPM Raptors configured in RAID zero, for the technically-minded) and I duly log on to my account. Google pops up, my work folder opens, the voice recognition stuff loads and I lean back with my mug of tea, reading through my emails – all is as expected, all is right with the world and I am raring to go. But what is this? What is this strangely-pungent smell, somewhere between toilet disinfectant and singed hair? Having checked my barnet (Barnet fair – hair, get it?) and found it free of evidence of indigenous slash and burn agricultural activity and having felt an ominous tinge of familiarity tickling the back of my mind, I lean forward, tentatively sniffing at the keyboard, mouse and their environs...Yes...My suspicions are confirmed. The worrying fragrance is stronger here – actually it is becoming stronger throughout the room, almost eye-watering in fact – but it is definitely stronger here. Now that I come to think about it, I know that smell from somewhere – from the days I worked as an electronic engineer – it is the odor of stressed-out electronic componentry giving up the ghost...But this is a veritable funeral pyre!...And it is coming from the rear of the computer desk – I can see the smoke now!!! I reach for the off button but the reaper beats me to it – the screens go blank, the fans fall silent, the hard drives run down and brain-death is declared. For a few dumbfounded moments there is silence, then....Bang!!! A loud metallic concussion issues from the computer's backside – these things can happen to us all at the moment of our demise I understand.

To cut a long story short; upon undertaking the necessary postmortem examination I found encouragement in the observation that the odor of decay was strongest around the region of the heart (power supply). Upon opening up said organ I was further gladdened to find evidence of blackening and a splattering of the contents of one of the electrolytic capacitors. This is not to say that the patient is retrievable of course; the chances of resurrection depend a lot upon the strength of its immune system, ie whether or not the motherboard's over-voltage, chip set overheating, CPU over-temperature detection and shutdown measures stepped in fast enough. In the absence of visual evidence, the only way to find out for sure is by substitution. Accordingly I have just purchased what I believe to be a correctly tissue-matched transplant replacement.

Despite this drawback, I am determined not to let my enthusiasm become too dampened. To that end I have decided to do a little work on my notebook machine in a local coffee bar before returning, so that at least I have got something done toward getting the new volume out. Meanwhile the project I have been trying to get underway to scan and share my spanking / discipline magazine and book collection (and other related collections) has once again been delayed as has anything else requiring scanning / printing. To top it all, I have quite a lot of stuff on the main machine that is not backed up (and that is despite my forever harking on to anybody within earshot of the need to always back things up). Saying that, all work to do with my books has been backed up on DVDs or resides on more than one machine, other than the work I recently did on the cover art for the new book, but that was only tentatively trying out a few ideas and amounted to just a couple of hours work at most. There is quite a lot of downloaded research, source materials and pictures on the hard drives, though, that has not been backed up. As the drives are RAID zero and the data shared between them, this means that if the motherboard is indeed kaput, then retrieving all that stuff will have to wait for me to put together what amounts to a new machine. Meanwhile, for the chap who requested pictures of women carrying or using the tawse and for all those that appreciate the image of the strict nurse / governess figure, here are a few pics originating from our sponsors (ho, ho!) (see bottom of page or right sidebar) Sorry they are so small but they are just thumbnails that I have pinched off of one of their email newsletters. Ordinarily I would re-size / enhance them for your further delectation, but...Well you know the problem...Actually the last one is from elsewhere (though I'm not so sure from exactly where - it was sent to me) and not so small - think of it as a bonus. Cheers and beers!

Prison and Asylum Girls and the Tawse: A Few Requests Satisfied from Afar (Eastbourne)

Still in Eastbourne I'm afraid, but getting on with a little writing from time to time. It now looks as if I will not be back in London until after this coming weekend; I know I have said this before, but this time it really does look on the cards. Besides, I have certain commitments in London on Monday, so I have little choice in any case. Meanwhile I have received by email a couple of requests for pictures. The first was for pics of women holding a tawse, of which I have found a couple lurking on my backup DVD (I have loads more stashed at home that I can't get at right now, including in magazines awaiting scanning). Incidently; I have posted at least one other picture of a dominant nurse wielding a tawse in the past - check out the blog archive, see if you can find it (should be easy if I have tagged it correctly - but that's a big IF!). The second request was for prison / asylum girls pics. Luckily I have recently been scouring the web for just that of late. I have been looking for inspiration to inform certain ideas I have developed that revolve around the possibilities inherent in the concept of an exploitative private or charity-run workhouse, but always with an eye to how such a scenario might be integrated into the concept of a behavioral research unit and perhaps overlap with the latter's asylum-like structure.

An Anonymous Contribution and a Reply

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

.....

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

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

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

.....

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

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

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

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

Annie's World, Matron's World

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

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

........................................................................................................................................................

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.

.............................................................................................................................................................

Copyright (c) 2008 Garth. P. ToynTanen

Taken from: Institutionalised Volume 1: Beyond the Stanford Experiment

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

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

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

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

Opening Gambit

(Click on title to read previous volume 2 extract)

…Crrrack! Crrraack!

…Arrrghhh!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Wha…wha…where?”

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

To be continued

Copyright (c) 2008 Garth. P. ToynTanen

An alternative title: Dark Meanderings of a Darker Mind

INSTITUTIONALISED, volume 1 (see link in sidebar on right if you haven't already read it), was originally to have had an entirely different title and a far darker look, in more ways than one!

It's probably difficult to make out here but the nurse's uniform incorporates a three-tailed tawse hanging from the belt; painstakingly created by yours truly. Another lies meaningfully across the top of the school desk. The green object at the top left-hand corner, underneath the word, dark, is supposed to be a gymslip, minus its wearer of course; it's not really as I envisaged in the storylines but it was the best I could manage at the time.

To the right is an earlier rendition minus the cell bars; here there is also incorporated an American style 'jumper' and a traditional crook-handled school cane (lying across the jumper). In addition the nurse holds a cane hanging from her wrist where her hand rests on her hip. The web structure was supposed to represent the sprung trap (cheesy, I know). The basic group of figures got retained as the cameo style logo used on the back page and also the title page of the current version of volume 1 and will also be used throughout the series.

Introduction and welcome message

Welcome, one and all, to the official

INSTITUTIONALISED

blog and discussion site

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let your imagination rip!!!