Trials And Tribulations

Obsidian Day, Sun-Bright Night: A Fictional Reality

(Orgasm denial, latex & PVC bondage, medical restraint, toilet training, spanking, caning & strapping in a tight corselet, nylon slip & plastic knickers and rubber pants)

Elsewhere, at that very moment, for a certain violet eyed girlishly svelte beauty such a time was imminent; for her the time was indeed very right.

She had been torn down in her entirety, this girl; twisted and warped between the stupefying boredom, the bitterly chilling isolation and the personality-extinguishing disciplined uniformity of the institution in which she was being held into a pretty, yet grotesquely-shambling, cringing, nervously-racked remnant of wide-eyed obedient innocence. A doll of a girl, a marionette in a woman’s likeness, its strings tangible, tangled and tightly griped; she would dance in the hands of her carers, jerked about at a whim by experimental psychologists, Matron, nurses, anyone...

In the secret deathly crypt-silence of the girl’s room the fluttering polyester of the woman’s uniform dress, its full skirt swinging about her calves, would have been plenty enough to alert its occupant to her entry. As it was she made sure of announcing her arrival - quite deliberately slamming the heavy thickset door behind her. The latter’s many layers of tough plastic-clad padding and airtight-sealing limited her reward to a deep, solidly-muffled thud; the sound as dry and final as all sounds were in that acoustically dead chamber, but nonetheless it was sufficient for her purpose.

The violet-eyed girl remained kneeling at her bedside, fingers pressed together as if in prayer with her thumbs, held widely spread from her and fingers, just touching, barely brushing, the tip of her neatly upturned nose. Her head was sharply bowed, the curvature of her upper torso bringing her chin to rest against one of the translucent plastic buttons fastening her dress front; that second down from the collar button and at the point at which the well-fitted fabric first began its nestling-in, closely adhering to the narrow gully formed between her bosom’s out-swelling. Her wrists she kept tightly pressed together and in contact with the upper edge of the mattress while not actually quite resting on it; a softly-telling indentation of the latex was just perceivable, but was within allowable limits - the posture just screamed supplication, the very image of submission

The bed itself was recognisably institutional in design, a basic hospital model with all the adaptations necessary for its role in secure-unit psychiatric nursing added at the point of manufacture.

White-plastic covered padding enclosed all the fittings and fitments and wheels had been abandoned in favour of flange-plates securely bolted to the floor. Locked panels blocked access to the bed’s underside at the ends and sides lest a handy hidey-hole be made available for the secretion of contraband - here defined as absolutely anything not specifically issued and explicitly sanctioned by the hospital. No personal effects were allowed here, nor writing paper, magazines books or pens and the like. Not even toilet paper or wipes could be brought in, other than at those specific times allowed for the patient’s toilet - and even then only in sufficient quantity so as to deal with the situation to hand.

Plastic-coated metal toggles lined the bed’s base along each side, these positioned just below the level of the mattress and designed to engage in metal eyes set into the bed cover, the latter formed of a particularly tough and resilient form of latex. This system in itself served as a form of low-level restraint for the patient but anchor points designed to accommodate a more conventional medical restraint system were provided although presently remained unused - the girl’s night attire itself served well enough to curb the temptation of wandering fingers - locking clips attached to the cuffs of her nightdress, the latex purposely thickened and reinforce at that point, were designed to engage with the ‘D’ rings that hung from the leg cuffs of the bloomer-style knickers she had to wear in bed, effectively securing her wrists to the outside of her thighs at the latter’s midpoint.

Just how the sterile, medicated caressing-cleanliness of all that latex, PVC and polythene would come to dominate her life she could have had little concept in her previous, free, existence. In the world of freedom she had once enjoyed, had taken so for granted, the world she had danced through in the days before she had so stupidly allowed herself to be talked into this incarceration, such materials and fabrics had existed only as packaging to be torn away in excitement or perhaps as baby pants or medical gloves.

It had all happened so quickly, or so it seemed. She had initially registered as a volunteer medical research subject; they were trialling a combination therapy that promised a single path to recovery from the entire gamut of psychological problems that she had somehow become inflicted by. Almost before she knew it they had had her signing a series of waivers; stepwise allowing the use of ‘negative enforcement’, ‘protective restraint’ and ‘behavioural correction and chastisement’. Then, after a concerted series of these ‘behavioural corrections and chastisements’ they had her sign a ‘voluntary committal’ application.

That was what weighed on her the most - that change of status. She was now officially a psychiatric patient, albeit of her own volition, not sectioned under the mental health act as yet, but a psychiatric patient nonetheless - and held in a secure unit to boot! The defamation would surely haunt her for the rest of her life, it would curse her, blight her prospects. Computer meta-searches were the curse of the modern world; whatever the field - and her prospects were, or rather had been described as, highly promising. But now if a background search was carried out -and it surely would be - the result would likely dash all her hopes. Mental health issues were a social taboo, always had been, probably always would be to some extent no matter how enlightened society imagined it had become. In a very real sense she was now scarred, marked for life.

But freedom is in itself a relative term; who has ever been truly free, who doesn’t bow to one master, or mistress, or another? After all, in a stable society there must be rules to govern and safeguard that stability; rules or laws, however vaguely-flexible they might be, set limits, by their very definition, on freedom.

Thus society by its very nature dictates boundaries and behavioural conventions. It is by way of those very same entrenched and accepted conventions, more specifically the acquisition of conditioned social compliance, being the acceptance of obedience to authority and to such figures that are, by social convention, seen as embodying that authority, that this girl has been coerced, reigned in and enclosed. This socially-defined equation of roles, authority and dress-conventions, of rules, law-givers, enforcement, rulers and the ruled has been rebalanced here, its parts conspiring to curb her.

Even in her own mind she could hardly have failed to consider just how free she had been in the months prior to her coming, or rather being brought, here. Even during the month after month she had spent previously, largely confined to her ‘aunt’s’ house and living with a woman who, while professing to be endeavouring to help her, seemed by her every move, as dispassionately viewed from outside of that cosy circle of ‘aunt’, housekeeper and psychiatrist, to have been determined to undermine, restrict and make dependent the girl.

In truth, though, even then there was a sense in which it could be argued that she had been imprisoned. Agoraphobia had formed the chains, but it was her ‘aunt’ who had forged the links. But even had she the wit, would she ever have considered the coincidence of that debility’s emergence with her first having made the acquaintance of that woman she now called ‘aunt’? Would she have considered its parallel development within the flowering of that relationship and the concurrently mirrored development of her stammer too?

How free had she ever truly been, then? Had her ‘freedom’ been largely illusionary, even then? The question must be asked; she asked it of herself then, and asks it of herself still. After all was said and done; had she not been delivered to the portal of this very institution, a young woman of seventeen summers - closer to eighteen in actuality - dressed head to foot and from skin outwards in the most anachronistic of school uniforms, whether it be judged by the suitability of its styling to her age or in its sociological and historical context. She had been brought here, a young woman old enough to marry and to have children of her own, dressed in a hideous and deliciously-humiliating concoction mostly of her ‘aunt’s’ own devising yet owing its inspiration to a late 1950s primary school; the latter private and exclusive and catering to the more privileged eight to eleven-year-olds of the time.

And yet humiliation, too, even that level of humiliation, can be considered relative. At this stage of her life that pleated-skirted gymslip, a froth of nylon-lined fine cotton-serge and ribbon, would come as a veritable breath of fresh air, a triumph, a sartorially elegant triumph. It could never be of course, not here; she was in an institution, it had its own roles to be filled and played out - and it had its own uniforms to define, refine, accent and reinforce, them too. And so it had come to her; it was somehow preordained that her world should consist of sterile, cleansed whiteness and that she be clothed in plastic, rubber and nylon - humid, sweaty and forever slithering slickly over pale velvet-soft flesh.

She remains kneeling because she has yet to be told to do otherwise, her vision obscured and restricted in both azimuth and elevation by a green and white striped nylon-sheened bonnet; the latter an escapee from a museum or film-set, its peak and side cheeks set well proud of her face and permanently overshadowing prettily-fine-boned features already blurred, smeared and depersonalised by being kept shorn of eyebrows and with lashes clipped short.

She remains kneeling in prayer because that was the last command she heard, because that was what she did when sent to that particular numbered circle - one of several inscribed upon different areas of the floor - because that last tone, that last musical note, was ‘A’ above ‘middle C’, ‘concert A’, a pitch of four hundred and forty-two Hz exactly.

Her white PVC knickers are slick with sweat now; urine saturates their thick absorbent pad, the latter lying secured by the straps provided internally at either end of the gusset panel. It has been many hours since last tolled the ‘toilet time’ bell, she has become quite well conditioned to its ringing now but by the same measure her recent catheterisation has put paid to even that proxy level of control.

To her rear the creeping up and creasing of her dress’s skirt would have been sufficient to satisfy even the most demanding of voyeurs, the view most rewarding. Her tan stocking-seams are of course laser-straight; crooked seams would be rewarded by several swipes from Matron’s cane. The position, her posture, tautens the suspenders, squeezing flesh into reddened furrows at the front, rear, and lateral faces of pale thighs, young and resilient yet oft punished - a history of pain left to be read as a fading pink web-work of rattan-whipped chastisement. And all of this is lying beneath, yet not quite hidden by, the flesh-pink-tinged thin white PVC of her knickers’ legs. It must be said, though, that even when standing, other than with her arms held straight down by her sides, her dress would be hard-pressed to cover the latter’s broad leg cuffs.

Of that dress a more accurate description would be that of an overall, albeit one styled in the form of a dress or frock. Button-through, long-sleeved and full-skirted it owed its origin to an early 1960s pattern, although in its present incarnation having a drastically abbreviated length as compared to the designer’s original intentions, the skirt falling to little more than mid-thigh on the girl.

The dress featured a particularly severely-cut and tailored bodice, the latter panelled, closely figure-hugging and with darting and pin-tucking tailored so as to allow for the high-perched swelling of the girl’s breasts, the whole being realised in bottle-green and white striped nylon and tightly cinched at the waist by a belt of the same material, this featuring a double-buttoned fastening to the front. Two hip pockets added detail to the skirt yet existed merely as decoration, a breast pocket provided for similarly functionally-useless purposes, the latter merely serving as a focal point for the hospital name, crest and - embroidered in thick bold black characters - the girls ‘patient number’, 30C.

How she hated that dress, the way it looked and the way it made her feel; it was ugly, dowdy, severe, humiliating - but most of all it was institutional. The fabric was chosen for the convenience of the institution rather than to accommodate the comfort of the wearer and the styling and cut were designed to be both demeaning and to suggest subservience.

Initially dispassionate and cold against the skin, even unfriendly, the nylon fabric was nonetheless slickly-hot and sticky in its wearing. Not that the room was particularly warm, indeed the temperature, like everything else about it, was deliberately quite neutral and boringly affable, neither particularly hot nor cold, just unvaryingly, boringly comfortable. It was the fabric itself that proved so problematic; it just didn’t ‘breathe’; sweat accumulated, insinuating between the woven nylon fibres. Then there was the continuous rustling and crinkling of the material, it accompanied every movement and, although neither particularly noticeable nor bothersome against a more conventional backdrop, to one buried alive in such a tomb of the intellect it was an annoyance of such magnitude as to, at times, seem to threaten her very sanity.

The problem she had with it really boiled down to the thickness and weight of the nylon fabric itself; practical and hard-wearing it might well have been but to wear over a long period of time it was just so, so uncomfortable. And she was expected to wear it day after day, just as it was, just as it had been taken off the previous day...and the one before that, and the one before that. She was allowed to sponge it down on the outside, indeed she had to, it had to look immaculate, but that was it; the dress quickly developed an aroma about it, musky, pungent. On the exterior it looked clean. But dressed in it, despite her regular showers, the routine intimate inspections and the hospital’s near-obsessively strict feminine hygiene regulations, she felt grubby, shabby - it smelt of stale perspiration and of body odour...she smelt of stale perspiration and body odour. But even her personal intimate cleanliness was at some jeopardy now.

This was a punishment regime that she was now under - punishment training they called it. She no longer even had the shower to look forward to, she no longer left the room to be taken to the shower. Indeed, she no longer left the room for any reason whatsoever. Cleanliness and hygiene, especially intimate hygiene, was still an obsession with them but the procedures were now limited to those that could be carried out in situ, in her room; the regime was sponge-clean only, her more intimate regions being dealt with by douches and enemas.

It was humiliating; she had to submit to being washed by a nurse, had to stand and hold apart her bottom cheeks when told, or lay back on the bed and let the nurse part and manipulate her labia, washing, cleaning, applying creams that stung and irritated, inserting suppositories that stole her bowel control, that sedated her, left her mind woolly, her thoughts jumbled. She was no longer allowed to do one thing for herself, not one single thing, she was not even allowed to touch her own body other than as ordered and then, as often as not, it would be as much for the purpose of humiliating her as for any real practical reason.

From the very start of this regime it had been made clear to her; she could either submit to it in its entirety, stand docile and accepting, or she could remain dirty, itching, stinging, with rashes covering her buttocks and mound. Indeed for a while she did resist - but it was a half-hearted resistance, it crumbled soon enough.

Underneath that much-hated dress, she was all held in and constricted, her waist drastically reduced, her breasts thrust upwards and outwards, scaffolded dramatically and unnaturally high, squeezed and distended into an almost conical profile.

The corselet was like something from another age entirely, a bygone age. She had never worn such a thing and outside of this institution would never have dreamt of it. Such garments were the province of old women, not fashion-conscious girls in their late teens. It was of white satin nylon with firm, strongly-elasticated, Elastane crossover-panelling at the abdomen and possessing similar figure-controlling panelling at the sides, the latter, tightened with buckled side straps, enforced a drastic in-curving at that point, producing a consequential over-exaggeration of the female curvature.

Had it stayed at that it might not have seemed so bad, as it was though, the whole thing was lined with a thin layer of rubber, a fine, soft latex. All attempts at rationalising the latter’s inclusion on the grounds of function, ‘wearability’ or perhaps, in some strange way, improved hygiene, seemed doomed to fail. The only rationale that seemed to fit, as bloody-minded as it seemed, was that it was to ensure the discomfiture of the wearer as much as anything else. In wearing, a thin layer of perspiration quickly built up on the underside where it would lie permanently as a slick film, encouraging the fabric to move in a continuously slithering lubricated-motion against the skin as she walked. It was a wet, tacky sensation of which she was continually aware but could do nothing to ameliorate.

At times a suction would seem to build up, then any movement would cause the thing to suck and draw on her breasts; her nipples at least were spared this torment, the area around the areolae and teats being cut away - for ‘hygienic reasons’ she had been told. This feature in itself, though, brought its own peculiar brand of torture into play; any movement, however restrained, brought the nylon of her dress and the full nylon slip she wore beneath it dragging to and fro across the very tips of her soft pink buds, the latter, responding with firm turgidity, augmented their own sensitivity while serving to still further facilitate that fabric’s maddening frottage.

She was a sensitive young woman, a sensuous and sexually-aware being that savoured her pleasure, both shared and solitary; now she ached in frustration and near permanently yearned for release. Yet even if she had the temerity to try, she knew she could achieve little through the combined thickness of her knickers and incontinence towel to ease that embarrassing urge.

As if to make matters worse - and she could see no rationale in this either, beyond a further affront to her person - the open-bottomed style of corselet that they had previously been quite satisfied to force upon her had more recently been superseded. The panty-corselet she now wore featured a broad, close-fitting and Elastane-reinforced, gusset panel; the latter resulted in the retention of the PVC of her knickers - and the thick wodge of absorbent-towelling beneath - pressed tightly up and into her crotch.

Urine and perspiration, both, were now carefully kept placed in intimate contact with her most sensitive flesh; she was developing an infection, she was sure of it; it itched ‘down there’, sometimes it burned and throbbed - but it was the itching that was slowly driving her to distraction. Yet she daren’t even attempt to touch herself now, daren’t attempt to alleviate that awful insufferable irritation; that was the measure of the hold they had over her.

Then, besides the discomfort, there was the hopeless impractical inconvenience of the thing; the gusset did not unfasten. She had now to practically undress to the skin in order simply to use her bedpan. The little toilet that these ‘waiting rooms’ all contained in this case had had a lid fitted - and the latter was kept securely padlocked at all times. The bedpan was brought in at toilet time and only at toilet time - and it was always promptly removed upon the successful completion of her ablutions. Her dress had to be removed in its entirety and neatly folded - the corselet along with her knickers and incontinence towel were allowed to be deposited around her ankles, the odour, they knew, added a certain piquancy to their charge’s humiliation.

She remained kneeling despite the torturous irritation, despite her misgivings and her hatred of herself that she could be - had been - so easily cowardly-subdued and browbeaten into submission. She remained kneeling despite the knowledge that her isolation had been penetrated - the urge to look and the instinct for curiosity that most would find irresistible was instead resisted, defied and reined in.

Ultimately she remained kneeling because she was disciplined now - she was a good girl and desired with all her heart to remain a good girl; and a good girl was an obedient girl. That mantra ran through her head as easy as, no, easier then, breathing now. It interrupted her innermost thoughts, intruded into her daydreams and meditations; there were times now when it was difficult for her to think of much else. She remained kneeling because she was just that; they had made her an obedient girl, they had succeeded - but she knew they wouldn’t be satisfied to stop at that.

...Ping! Without thinking she was up on her feet in an instant. A mere two strides later and she was facing the door with her shoulders pulled smartly back and her elbows position out to the sides, her fingertips gently brushing her shoulders, left to left and right to right. She stood thus stock-still, with ankles and knees pressed tightly together and with breasts humiliatingly offered up; the latter thrust aggressively and tightly out into the sweaty-nylon confounds of that, oh so ugly, dress.

Now standing to her charge’s right hand side, her hands resting on the maturely-swelling curves of her hips, Matron smiled that satisfyingly benign smile she reserved for such demonstrations of disciplined obedience:

“Good girl” she said softly, almost cooing into the girl’s ear. The tone was caring yet authoritative, cheerfully patronising, as if delighted at some twee pet poodle’s newly learned trick. Then without the slightest hint of a warning, the smile never for a moment fading from her lips, stepping smartly across to confront her charge and using fingers only - the acuteness of the shots more than making up for sheer force - she planted a sharp slap to the girl’s right cheek and then one to her left.

The girl had closed her eyes, just fleetingly. Whether through fatigue, whether to escape her monotonous surroundings, whether an attempt to sidestep the hopelessly despairing humiliation of her situation, mattered not a chit to Matron - it was clearly a voluntary action on behalf of the girl and as such it was a behaviour that had to be corrected and swiftly.

In the woman’s right hand the remote-control box waited. Plastic and as white as the walls of the room itself, numbers were inscribed in black on mosaic-tile buttons, 10 in all; some would cause a musical note to be produced, others would trigger the ‘toilet bell’ or the ‘sleep bell’ if depressed. Two in particular would have an affect most pertinent to Lavinia, as she was shortly to discover - and it was to be a revelation from which the girl might never fully recover...

She had sidestepped in front of the girl so as to correct the latter’s ill-behaviour. Now she was able to peer into those eyes, watch the spreading despair of helpless realisation gently cloud-over the girl’s soul - even allow the girl to see her choose the number and press the button...

Bong! The girl scrambled to occupy the numbered circle marked out in the centre of the room, dropping to her knees and flailing her arms out before her as if in prostate worship of some invisible deity, burying her nose in the white carpet, her rounded, tightly PVC-sheaved globes pressed obscenely high, thighs parted, into the air at her rear.

Matron’s smile broadened further still: “Good girl”; the praise was an important enforcer. A little over one month of seventeen hours a day spent in training had achieved all of this. And now the girl would be remaining in this room for at least another month, she would see to it. Particularly as they now had her, essentially, for as long as they liked - or at least they soon would have, if all went to plan.

But for now there was a different area of the girl’s psyche to be explored - and this was just the right time to probe it:

“Kneel!” The girl knelt up smartly before settling back on her haunches and heels, as was allowable when in this position.

“Look over at the window and pay attention...”

The girl’s gaze was quickly targeted as directed; the window lay back, bathed in inky-blackness, clearly it was night time ‘out there’.

“...Is it day or night, girl?

“N,ni,night, t,time, m,ma, Matron.” The answer had been given in a pleasing softly-velvet near-whispered, lisping girlish, voice - simpering and pathetic in its way.

“Yes, good girl. That’s right, it is night time now.”

Matron moved across to stand to one side of the protective white security grille behind which lay back the presently darkened frosted glass of the room’s only window. She wanted the girl to see the remote-control in her hand, wanted her to fully appreciate the implications of her next action: A button was depressed... There came a flicker...And daylight flooded through the square white meshwork of the window’s safety grille in bluish, frost-diffused, scintillating shafts.

“What time of day do you think it is now, girl? Is it still night-time out there, do you think?”

...No answer, just a shocked-sharp intake of breath, the girl kneeling now in slack-jawed incomprehension.

Another button was pressed and the window once again reclaimed its sombre night-time attitude, not with a sudden stepwise shift in tone this time but rather graduating through a continuum of shades of grey; day gently drifted into twilight and dusk before settling into the carbon-finality of velvet-black midnight.

“...And now? How about now? What time is it now? Is it Night, or day? Come on girl, you’re supposed to be the clever one here, the one with all the answers, the one with the ‘promising’ future ahead of her. Is it night or is it day? It’s a simple enough question, surely.”

Still silence, still incomprehension blearing those saucer-wide violet eyes - such beautiful eyes, once so full of life, so vivacious, now clouding, becoming glassy in numb despair and disbelief.

Then the tears began to form and well up, the hands went up to cup the face in their slender fingers, the elbows and forearms hugging the body in comforting embrace, squeezing and crushing those swelling melon breasts... Then the rocking began; stereotyping, psychologists call it, something rarely seen other than in ill-treated zoo animals damaged by their impoverished incarceration - or in long-term mental patients, the uncared for, the incurable, those left locked up alone for month after month, year after year...

Then the wailing began; beseeching, soul-wrenching banshee wailing, the death throes of a lost soul, a broken mind, a young woman pushed to her breaking point...then eased past it. She was not yet in a state of total mental breakdown, not quite. But such was the direction in which she was now headed - and none could take more delight in fulfilling the guise of loving guide along the way than this woman: Matron.

For the immediate, there would be some respite - but for how long? How long would it be before that tormentress in nurse’s uniform, that inquisitor in rustling navy blue polyester, with that customary whiff of carbolic and disinfectant she always carried about her, would return, rattan or plastic switch in hand - or indeed, leather strap or tawse or perhaps even the fine-fronded martinet, this to be taken to the tender soles of her feet? By way of the lack of that certainty she would be forced to punish herself, psychologically - it was a deliciously subtle little mental torment and one expertly purpose-crafted to help her on her way down Matron’s chosen path for her. The one certainty was that at some point the woman would return and then she would be upended over her lap, skin-tight hospital-issue rubber knickers peeled back and the sweat-glistened drum-taut globes of her plump backside would be spanked with a latex-gloved hand or strapped with the heavy-leather tawse. Or perhaps, instead, she would be bent across the plastic mattress of her hospital bed, obliged to keep her arms folded tightly across the small of her back and her heels from the ground, with the promise ringing in her ears of a punishment repeated in its entirety should her posture falter in any way or should she tense her buttocks as her caning progressed from the upper slopes of her nether-cheeks, down the rear of her thighs to the sensitive flesh at the backs of her knees and then back again. And she would be in tears of course, well before the end, whether she be spanked across the woman’s knees or strapped or caned across her bed or the little school desk and chair combination she was obliged to work at - Matron always broke a girl to tears, it was just her way, it was good for discipline.