Standing In The Corner - Hands On Head (Watching All The Sheep Go By)

(Caned in PVC knickers, corner standing discipline in prison uniform and hand cuffs, spanked over the navy-blue uniformed nurse’s knee in a judicial correctional facility)

Sharply she was instructed to stand. Her feet were to remain together within that black-outlined ring and not so much as one centimetre were they to move outside of it. There were a few centimetres of grace available, potentially a degree of freedom sufficient so as to allow some shifting of weight from foot to foot and some modicum of shuffling, but little more. The perimeter line itself, being of some four centimetres in width, contributed to this range, but only in so much as to be considered a kind of ‘no-man’s-land’; an incursion here would be met with an irritatingly repetitive warning bleep but no further punitive measures. The outermost edge was to be considered an absolute and ultimate boundary, any transgression beyond that point and there would be consequences.

Her every move was monitored here, tracked and recorded not only by the network of discreetly-concealed closed-circuit television cameras, the existence of which she had been informed of on her arrival, but also by more detailed and quantifiable means. Embedded within the fabric of the flooring, hiding unseen and unsuspected just below its surface layer, a fine matrix of pressure sensors was registering every shifting of her weight and shuffling of her feet, gathering data of sufficient resolution and sensitivity as to allow the position of each foot or shoe at any given moment to be recorded, right down to its outline and the contouring of its contact with the floor.

The rationale behind the installation of such a system, within the context of a behavioural research establishment, had been clear enough at the time of its inception: Data collection, pure and simple - this being in the present context, the detailed recording of a subject’s behavioural responses to close incarceration.

The redirection of this data collection and analysis system to the control of behaviour had come much later - and as a result of an experiment; the presently ongoing study in which Susan was now unwittingly a part.

For her own part, Susan knew the physical repercussions would be delayed. She knew the tariff well enough; a third punitive caning would be added to her outstanding debt of chastisement. She had already earned a second session with the Senior Wardress’s whippy white switch by refusing the first. As for the others, though, her unknown and unseen comrades in incarceration; for them the punishment would be immediate. Their distant wailing despair, their sobbing and begging, she knew, would be as terrible a chastisement psychologically as would be the hardest cut of the cane or riding switch physically.

It was so unfair to punish each and every one of them for her misdemeanour, but it was exactly what they would do. It wasn’t fair, it put so much pressure on her; it was as if she herself were making a conscious decision to punish them should she fail to conform. And it would work, their strategy, as they had known from the outset it would; she would stand there, nose to the corner, humiliated like a naughty child with just the falling of her tears to ease the monotony.

As it was, she risked running up a rapidly mounting debt and it was a debt they promised she would repay in full, given time. And they had time aplenty; they had her here, quite legally, for three months. She had agreed to it herself after all, signed the forms herself in black and white and all duly witnessed - it was a countdown to freedom, to the day when she would be free of the place, it had been a mistake, her mistake, but she would finally be free of it. But time was on their side, it worked only for them, it was their friend, their ally, their weapon of choice all rolled into one. This was the magnitude of her mistake, a clock that could only be started once they had won and that could be, and would be, stopped - or even reset - should she again take the initiative, resist them in the slightest.

This was her second ‘night’ to be spent standing in the corner, the second time in succession that she would hear the chiming of the sleep bell come and go, the blanket of white noise morph slowly to the gently rattling-drizzle of rain against window panes - so wonderfully soothing - and the slow rhythmic crunching-whoosh of the tide tumbling pebbles back and forth at the water’s edge.

Then would come that lilting voice, far off in the distance, gently gliding in on the wings of a summer’s breeze. A siren’s call to a world of slumbering cloud-meadows, where good girls docilely dream obedient dreams of silly, lazy, stupid little girls in prison uniforms, all deserving of punishment. Where nurses’ dresses in hospital-blue and white and navy, tower authoritatively overhead, looming, dominating - and where correct behaviour is simply learnt on bended knee at the hem of a nurse’s skirt.

It wasn’t fair, her eyes would close... she knew they would - how could they not? They would be so heavy, so, so very heavy. Her eyelids would be heavy because that soft lulling voice would tell her so, because they always were at bedtime, when the sleep-bell rang, because she had already been denied one sleep period already. She knew she would nod, jerk awake...then again nod. She would sway and her nose, her cheek, would contact the wall - and the rude electric jolt would again punish her.

Then gradually, ever so gradually, the rain, the soft gentle surf, would again return to the electronic mush of its origin - and in time even that voice would fade, its massaging indoctrination complete for another night, her slumbering charges left just that little bit more accepting of their situation, a little more certain of the authority embodied in a nurse’s uniform, a little less certain of their own competence, judgment and capabilities and diminished in self-confidence.

She knew the nature of that indoctrination now and she didn’t like it, she knew also the bitter truth that there would be nothing she could do about it. They would win, how could they not? In time the wake-up bell would come, then the toilet bell, the meal bell and the work bell. Then they would again come for her, take her back to that contraption of theirs - that medically legitimised punishment block - for such was the reality of the thing, with its straps and restraints.

And it was the idea of that restraint aspect that most terrified her - and did so more even then the undoubted agony of the punishment itself.

First of all, though, she would have to bend, grasping her ankles as before, for her two regular scheduled ‘morning’ strokes - even before being instructed to position herself over that block. And they would expect her to docilely lie in place while restraints were fastened, straps buckled and adjustments made.

It had been at that point that she had refusal previously - and she might well do so again, but what then? Would there be the award of yet another punitive caning, to be carried out on yet another ‘morning’? Another debt owed, to be paid back...all in good time? Would she be marched straight back to her cell and yet again be stood in that corner, nose to the wall? And after yet another ‘night’ without sleep, what then? Well, then she would submit, it was inevitable - and they knew it; time was on their side.

Of course they could have easily physically forced her down upon it, strapped her down. But that wasn’t how they worked in this place, she knew that only too well now - it was discipline that was of the greatest importance here, only that. She was expected to submit, to prostrate herself as ordered and when ordered: it was good for her, good for her discipline. It was all so hopeless, she felt hopeless, bitterly, despairingly hopeless. She was sobbing again: time was on their side, it always was, it always had been, it probably always would be...

Puppets Playing With Puppets’ Strings

In truth, time was not always entirely on the side of the staff; if she had been told of the background to the unit she might have understood, but would that understanding have been of any utility to the staff? If she had been told that she was, in actuality, now part of an experiment, that this was the experiment, that her whole experience to date had been, in fact, part of a much greater experiment, she might have understood. But in itself that knowledge would have invalidated the experiment; the test subject’s socially-conditioned obedience to perceived authority-figures was one of the variables being investigated. Had she been privy at that moment to the discussion taking place between the Senior Wardress and one of her nurses she would indeed have been granted understanding, but only at the cost of even greater psychological discomfiture:

“... We need to speed this up, nurse; we’ve only got five workers at the moment and we have to have the full six. As much as I would prefer it, we just don’t have the time to spend weeks gradually wearing the girl down. We’ll see how she feels in the morning, see if she’s any more agreeable - if she isn’t, then we’ll simply put her back in the corner for a third night; but we’ll also withhold her meals and deny her access to either the toilet or her bedpan.

I want her put straight into full diapers first thing in the morning... on second thoughts, if you wouldn’t mind accompanying me, it might advantageous to get her started down that path tonight - why wait? She is going to need a full diaper, locking bloomers - the latex ones would be best - and three suppositories, two with laxative and stool softener and one containing a mild muscle relaxant. And then that should be that.

She can have drinks and have her diaper changed once a day but no meals, no sleep, no sitting down - and other than for her doctor’s visits I want her standing with her nose in that corner twenty four hours a day until she begs to be strapped down over the caning horse. We need to break her, and break her quickly, get the lazy cow bent sweating over that workbench - and get some work out of her.”

More a monologue than a discussion, true, but one encapsulating the very essence of their condition: the staff, the unit, the experiment, and Susan’s place within it.

A small, select, group of staff had been given complete control over the unit and its test subjects and allowed free rein to design, develop, implement, and enforce their own regime utilising any of the facilities at their disposal. The only proviso to their keeping their highly-paid positions was that the running of the unit be made not only self sustainable but profitable. It meant taking in work from outside, commercial work, it meant ensuring that work was carried out rapidly and efficiently so as to generate sufficient income, it implied keeping costs low, dealing quickly and efficiently with troublesome subject’s and ensuring their compliance in what would clearly have to be a somewhat pressurised working environment if the unit was to be commercially viable with only six inmates.

Poor, poor Susan, always the last to appreciate the true measure of her own misfortune; she waited only that she might wait, only that she might have time enough to punish herself sufficiently as to be willing to submit herself to be punished by others in preference. She waited, not patiently for such might suggest some element of choice, of decision, but with the appearance of being patient nonetheless; it was part and parcel of discipline and they never stopped talking about discipline here. She waited as punishment, only that she might be punished in turn, only that she might be put to work, driven like a slave or workhorse in a prison sweatshop environment that most would consider a punishment in itself.

Poor, poor Susan Stringer, swaying in her corner, eyes heavy with sleep, legs numb with fatigue. The bed, so close, fearsome with its bars and restraints, a cage within a cage within a cage - now so welcoming, so vacant, so hungry for occupancy, yet not yet part of her ‘carers’ design. She would not be required to submit to the restraint of the broad padded straps of that thin mattress for two or even three more ‘sleep periods’ yet.

There was always some degree of defiance initially and a little sleep deprivation was by far and away the best way to deal with that. Had she much more than the mere dregs of defiance in her soul then surely it would be trickling into the sand, itself drying to dust. As it was, it was not defiance that kept her from submitting to their punishment. Rather it was fear of that very punishment itself, more precisely fear of the cane - and even then not so much as being strapped down for it. It was fear of that helplessness, of not being able to take it, not being able to stand the pain and yet having it inflicted nonetheless, perhaps her taut flesh spitting, the marks permanently branded to join those she was sure already had been.

Poor, poor Susan, punished for defiance yet in truth having none to speak of, punished for fearing to submit to being punished, wanting to submit, needing to submit, needing for her will to be broken and yet that human spirit flickering within her despite their efforts to extinguish it, despite her own efforts to quench it - soon she would be longing to be broken.

Dependency: A Short Digression

Behind her came a clunk, then another, then another two, sharper and snapping in rapid-fire succession, metallic, loud enough as if to prove a point, as if to shout; ‘impassable’, ‘immovable’, ‘beyond this point you will never go lest I should allow’. Had she the temerity to peer over her shoulder might she have fainted at the sight? Might she have become petrified like some green and white candy-striped sugared fairground novelty? Then again, she might not have understood the implications of the objects obsessively and ritualistically arranged on the nurse’s tray, not initially: The little dish with suppositories laid out ready; the piled white terry-towelling; the neatly folded thick, tough, white-rubber bloomers, old-fashioned, long legged and surmounted at their broad watertight waistband by a matching white painted padlock of ominously substantial appearance.

Short staccato jabs of speech ripped her from her semi-hallucinatory, delusionary and destructively self-analytical state: orders came, the bare minimum, efficient orders.

A large white plastic bucket was unceremoniously dumped at her feet. It smelt, it was not clean, nor empty: Folds of plastic and latex rubber lay heaped and stained in a multihued amalgam of browns and yellows. Here and there red-streaked panty liners slipped and slithered from between layers of twisted knicker-fabric and thick twists of soggy white-yellow towelling lay curved around some half of the interior circumference, stickily decorated with thick matted globs of foul smelling faecal matter.

“Knickers off, now!”

Susan immediately burst into tears; the woman had shouted, really hollered and what for? She hadn’t done anything wrong, she had been standing exactly where they had put her, in exactly the way they had positioned her. There had been no need for it, she wasn’t going to disobey.

Through her the sound of her own weeping she heard the order repeated and knew that she had already earned yet another punishment; hesitation wasn’t allowed, hesitation had just earned her another minimum six strokes of the cane. It would be added to her ever lengthening outstanding debt list; she now had three such punitive caning sessions hanging over her in addition to her routine, twice daily, allocation of two strokes across her bare bottom.

“I said I want your knickers off now, right now, and in that bucket. If you need to go to the toilet, then from now on you’re going to have to learn to do it in your knickers, or rather in your diapers, I should say.”

She had no idea how she was expected to be able to wiggle out of the sticky white plastic of her knickers with her hands securely fastened behind her back, but she knew that she would; they were clearly not going to release her hands so she would have to, she would just have to, that was all a was to it...