From Page 4 of the draft

…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...

From Page 12 of the draft

It came at last, a command rather than an announcement and a relief for that fact; an eternity of anticipation had passed in a mere two seconds.  Matron's disembodied voice calmly, softly, yet authoritatively filled the room:

"One:  Stand, face the corner, fingertips on shoulders, elbows out to the sides, shoulder-blades back."

 For what would later seem an eternity Lavinia again stood nonplussed; in reality five seconds passed before the, ordinarily innocuous, nursery rhyme began its gentle chiming.  A few hours of sobbing and bended-knee begging were all that would be required for her repentance…

In time the little ditty came to a close.  There was a period of silence broken only by an occasional sob from the still distraught girl and then: A single chime, in a different pitch this time, again followed by Matron's commanding voice filling the room: 

"Three:  Stand in the centre of the room, face the door, hands down by your sides, hold your skirt hem between finger and thumb as if to curtsy."

She stood quickly where she had been crouching by her bed; the nursery rhyme began again, the girl adding the accompaniment of sobbing and begging.  This time she understood, realised her mistake.  She had practically thrown herself at the numbered circle as the tune began, but it was all too little, too late; it had smacked of hesitation and hesitation was out of the question, it was not allowed.

Again the tune ran its course and her loving, cradling, silence was returned her but this time only to be interrupted by the meal bell. 

Still sobbing she took her place at her desk and worked through the usual tasteless fare brought in by the nurse, all, as usual, to the constant accompaniment of the meal bell, all the time gradually regaining her composure.

For a time she had her quiet, her solace; even that soul destroying, mind numbing, tedium of silence was infinitely preferable to that nursery rhyme playing over and over and over and over.  Then came a chime, in yet another pitch, and Matron's voice, giving out yet another, pre-recorded, command: 

"Four:  Kneel at your bed, hands together as if in prayer, elbows on your bed and nose touching your fingertips." 

Patient 30C leapt to her feet and threw herself on to the circle numbered four at her bed's midway point, dropping to her knees in the required pose of prayer and she did so.  Her reward came in two parts; that there would be no repetitive little ditty to endure would've been enough but there was more and it brought a thrill to run through her, an involuntary, and quite frankly undesirable, shiver of delight.  A different voice came, a gentle West Country lilt, soothing, seemingly oozing forth from all around her, saturating her thoughts with its offering of syrupy memories, drowsily-warm sunny days and sleepy white-sheep-fluffy-puffy clouds:

"You are good girl, such a good girl"

Once she might have laughed out loud at anything even vaguely as patronising as this; Lavinia Vitesse would have done.  Patient 30C, on the other hand, having accepted her reward with gratitude, a tiny shiver having run down her spine, remained in quiet contemplation and on penitent knees, relieved by the continuing silence and her mind filled with conflicting, troubled, thoughts; what was this?  Part of the punishment they had spoken of?  Some sort of experiment?

In due course her puzzlement was interrupted; another chime, this one identical in pitch to the very first one she had heard.  Already, at some level, there was a certain anticipation, the command, when it came, not entirely unexpected.

"One:  Stand, face the corner, fingertips on shoulders, elbows out to the sides, shoulder-blades back."

       The phrasing, the intonation, the rhythm, everything was exactly the same as before, perfectly identical; if she had been in any doubt before as to whether this was some variety of recording then that doubt had now been washed away.  Even to patient 30C's now somewhat incarceration-dulled mind it was obvious that they now had her running around and obeying commands issued by some sort of automated system; it didn't matter, she would have to obey all the same.  The consequences of disobedience were dire, she knew that now, accepted it; a once much loved nursery-rhyme had been morphed in her mind to form a punishment more feared than the cut of her aunt's cane, more feared even than Matron's cane.  That was what they had done to her in the 'schoolroom', one of many ways in which they had changed her and, in time, she was to be returned there, that they might continue to 'work with her', that they might continue with her 'training'; Matron had told her so.

From Page 26 of the draft

The room was more or less featureless other than for a nurse's station positioned at its centre and consisting of a curvilinear white plastic desk and a matching chair upon which was currently perched a nurse.  An equally white flat panel computer screen was just visible behind and below the desktop and the rapid clicking of computer keys indicated that, out of sight, the woman's hands were busily occupied. Beyond, spanning the entire width of the space, the way was again blocked by the now all-too-familiar barricade of floor-to-ceiling bars, their linear perfection disrupted, as always it seemed, by the white square block that identified the locking mechanism, the being latter mounted within the rectilinear framework of the hinged access gate occupying the centre of the array. A large signboard was mounted across the bars above this point. Lower down there was print too small to be immediately read upon entering but the impact of the thick black characters dominating its top half was immediate enough; her heart leaden, Susan felt the room begin to spin, a hollow pulse-pounding-modulated fizzing-buzz rising in her ears leaving only the vaguest impression of the conversation going on around her…

The nurse rose to her feet, greeting Matron with a smile, not of familiarity but rather of professional recognition and respect.  She was dressed in the usual button-through white-polyester uniform dress with its tailored form-fitted bodice and full skirt, the latter following smartly the curvature of her hips before flaring in neat pleats to just below knee-length.  The soft hissing rustle of her dress gave way to a harsh discordant metallic jangle, as she stepped out from behind the desk, drawing the eye to chrome-silver-blue glint of the keys dangling at her hip; long, steel, keys, cell keys, mounted on a steel ring that in turn swung from a clip attached to her belt.

"Good day, Matron."  The greeting was ever the same; ambiguous and deliberately so, it inferred nothing of any particular fraction of the Sun's, arcing, sky-path nor, indeed, to which side of the horizon it presently lay.

"Good day, nurse.  You are expecting us I take it."

"Yes, yes, of course, the new inmate."  She glanced down to her side, to a clipboard lying on the work surface behind the desk's front. "Hmm, Patient 43C?"  She glanced up momentarily, pretty dark brown eyes sparkling in the unit's unrelenting soft white 'permalight' and looking not a day over twenty five despite her severe uniform and authoritative bearing. "The designation will of course be changed to 43W once she is put to work but initially she will be registered as 43P.  Special instructions are: Total social isolation; basic toilet privileges with punishment withdrawal as necessary; one-to-one counselling and behaviour modification.  I believe you have requested regular access and the use of the therapy room with her, Matron?

From Page 31 of the draft

 Reluctantly she again returned her attention to the report open on her desk, and to its subject, the latter presently residing in an airtight, sealed, cellophane wrapper and reclining lengthwise in a white enamelled dish alongside the folder.  She pulled on a pair of purple nitrile lab gloves, having over time developed an allergic reaction to latex, and, taking a pair of scissors from amongst the compendium of pens, paper clips and staples that occupied the shallow top drawer at the left-hand side of her desk, carefully cut open the sample's protective wrapper.  With almost religious reverence she laid the content back out in the dish from whence it had come, folding and depositing the now redundant wrapper in a small re-sealable, airtight, polythene bag.

She gazed at it lying there, her breathing quickening and with the expression of dumbstruck awe slowly spreading across her features serving, further still, to build the impression that she somehow regarded the contents of that enamel dish as might one the containment of some much revered reliquary, such was the admiration reflected in her eyes.  It was a reverence based on faith after all; there was nothing there evident to the naked eye to deserve such attention, indeed there was nothing evident at all of note other than if, perhaps, one was to utilise the most powerful of microscopes.

To most, dependent on their standpoint, it would have looked uninspiring in the extreme, perhaps distasteful, maybe, even, embarrassing; to the doctor it was a surprising, intriguing, development, inspiring in the utmost.  It was the result of much painstaking research; carefully developed by a close friend and colleague, the level of care ironically reflected in the everyday ordinariness of its appearance.  The very blandness that rendered it of so little interest to the uninitiated also lent most to its utility. It was a gift, a sample; at present it was a 'one-off' but she had been assured others could and would be manufactured if, and as, required.

The quilted panty liner, lying there so matter-of-factly in that dish, apparently differed by not one iota from the standard hospital issue for patients, other than, and this was just about discernible, a modest thickening of the quilting and a slight exaggeration of that pattern's definition.  Therein, though, lay the source of her excitement, in that thickened quilted layer, in that notion of irony; that something so much intended for feminine comfort and protection should harbour the source of such potential discomfiture, such uniquely feminine discomfiture at that. 

It was inspired, totally inspired, there was no other word for it; candida spores encapsulated and embedded within the quilting and designed to be released in response to the warm moistness of intimate contact.  Her nimble mind was already flitting across a landscape of possibilities and implications; the sealed humidity of a pair of close-fitting plastic or latex knickers would make for the perfect incubating atmosphere and pre-treatment with a course of a full-spectrum antibiotic to cleanse the body of its natural flora beforehand would ensure close to a one hundred percent probability of infection.  Thrush would be the primary result but there could be bloatedness, flatulence and diarrhoea and an itchy anus to be contended with; all the more of a misfortune should they strike a girl fitted with an anal dilator.  

Garth P. ToynTanen is always keen for feedback on his work; it really is the only way he can judge whether he has not gone far enough or if the ideas are getting just too weird. He is keen  to keep a modicum of realism in his work but he would like to receive your thoughts and ideas via his blog HERE . From the 'every day' to the blindly outrageous, don't hold back give him all you have.

If you have enjoyed Volume 1 and/or these snippets of Volume 2 please send him a note. With your help Volume 2 can be finalised and we are keeping everything crossed that enough material and ideas will come in for Volume 3 to be started. 

Written permission has been granted for this page by the author.