The Library of Spanking Fiction: Wellred Weekly


Wellred Weekly
Volume 2, Number 2 : August 19, 2013
 
Articles
Items of interest regarding all things spanking

Institutionalised
by Garth Toyntanen

It is tempting (for brevity if for no other reason) in introducing a book or novel, or series of books or novels as in this case, to simply present a plot outline or précis, perhaps introduce a couple of the cast, add a little hyperbole in that conventional blurb-wised manner we are all familiar with. But I like to think I'm anything but a conventional writer, at least given my chosen literary path. I like to provide a little more; a little by way of 'added value', so to speak, to what otherwise might be all too easily construed as a simple advertisement. Accordingly, to my mind by far the best way to start is to first provide the prospective reader with something of an insight into the mindset of the author at the time of writing, the factors that led up to the development of that mindset and those influences and inspirations which informed the creative process (That sounds so poesy!). I'd like to think this an entertaining process, but also one which, once the reader grasps the motivation, the raison d'etre behind my having taken that momentous leap from often frustrated and unsatisfied consumer to (self-satisfied at least) creator, will go some way to illuminate the ethos behind the structure, scene-setting, plotting and characterisation to be found within the pages of my first three novels.

If you have read this far, then there is a fair chance that, like me, you too are an aficionado of a certain genre of literature. The writing of which I speak tends to revolve around the control, disciplining, subjugation and - yes (let's be honest) - the exploitation of flighty or headstrong (though often, in their way, highly vulnerable) young women; this being by way of the judicial application of the cane, the tawse, the riding crop or what have you, across tender bared behinds and lily-soft palms, along with the imposition of petty rules, rigid restrictions, humiliating uniforms and all the rest.

You, too, are probably aware of all the old favourites, the 'classic' writers, those classic books and publications, those 'top shelf' magazines you probably dubiously eyed in your formative years, and over far too many aborted, empty-handed reconnaissance missions to have swooped under the street corner newsagent's radar. I mean; who can forget the day they first self-consciously plucked an edition of 'Janus' or 'Swish', 'Roué' or perhaps 'Blushes', 'Whispers', 'The New Supplement' or 'New Uniform Girls' from the rack in some supposedly quiet moment? It never stayed that way did it? There was always the instant gaggle of young mothers and their pushchairs and prams that would suddenly materialize; or worse, the brace of leery nicotine-yellow-fingered builders, plasterers or Scaffolders after their packs of Weights, Bensons or whatever fags they puffed or the jostling crush of school kids bursting in like water through a breached dam, fanning out, hands dipping and snatching everywhere at once, all observant eyes and pointy fingers - and you know what a clear verdict would be emerging in those fixed-viewed minds.

I wonder if you, too, remember how the blood could run both hot and cold, chilling the veins yet simultaneously warming the cheeks as rosy as if seated too close to an open grate? Do you recall standing at the counter hastily proffering your purchases along with payment (pre-counted to the exact figure of course, to avoid delay), that one damming magazine hidden amidst a camouflaging selection of more innocuous publications; a couple of tabloids perhaps, a copy of 'New Scientist' or 'Scientific American' or perhaps Angler's Mail? Then would come the tinkling of the shop door bell and that sense of someone close on your shoulder? Too close! There were other warning signs; the scent of sandalwood, patchouli oil or perfumed talc and blusher and rosy-sweet lipstick suddenly mingling with the usual tobacco aroma, the glossy fresh smell of unread magazines and journals and the faintly exotic coriander, cumin, coconut and curried meat mix wafting from the backroom, the click, clack, clicking of 'heels' and an embarrassed (certainly embarrassing, if not mortifying) girlish giggle close by the ear. Alternatively there might have been the sickly bouquet of hanky-drawer lavender, the clump of rubber-soled 'sensible' shoes and a lower, more mature disapproving "harrumph!" made under the breath.

There were many exquisitely agonising facets to this self-inflicted trial by ordeal; and all would typically play out under the shopkeeper's knowingly judgemental grin, his glittering coal-black, hypocritically smiling eyes, half pitying, half mocking but brim-full of disapproval. You could tell he was simply dying to tell of this strange predilection he'd observed to all his brothers, cousins, 'brother-cousins' (whatever they are), 'regulars' and friends alike (while doubtless equally as glad of the profit as that derived from his splitting up of cigarette packs into pocket money-sized portions, selling single fags to flocked school kids at 'home time', one or two per child). It constituted a kind of coming-of-age process all future dedicated spankophiles had to go through, back in the days before the internet came of age.

And then, face beetroot red (or feeling so), as if all passing by or seated opposite on the bus or tube (subway) could see right through the innocent plastic carrier and the blameless brown paper bag or wrapping paper within, heart pounding with a heady mixture of fear, anxiety, fresh (but fading) embarrassment and anticipation, the purchase would be rushed back to the relative safety of home. I say relative safety, because initially there may have been prying parents or siblings to contend with (and it's doubtful that a copy of 'Justice' or - perhaps worse in some ways - an edition of 'Madam' ('in a World of Fantasy' - a quite imaginative fem-dom publication) uncovered secreted away beneath the mattress would have been equated with 'normal adolescent development' in the manner that a copy of 'Penthouse', 'Mayfair' or Men Only' probably would have). Later one might have gained an apartment of one's own, a house, a flat or bed-sit - and a few of the books, novels and publications advertised on the inside covers purchased by mail order. Later still, and with a partner on the scene all that secrecy and subterfuge would begin anew... But then the World Wide Web came along... But that's another story.

If self-control was to the fore - and the force was strong with me - then those precious glossy pages would be rationed. You see, that 'anxiety factor' revolved around the cost as much as anything. The purchase price of a magazine such as Janus, or any of those more - ahem! - 'specialised' publications, let alone a slim volume by the likes of Victor Bruno, say, obtained from one of those shops with the flowing rainbow of plastic ribbon strips disguising its entrance in late 70s or early 1980s Soho, was often comparable to the cost of a night out down the pub with mates. Many were the times when tied down by the mortgage on my first flat I forwent an evening out - sometimes two - because of some financially ill-advised purchase. Victor Bruno's 'The Taming of Julia' for example cost me £5 at a time when I had £10 to last the week; including fares to work! Insane! And so much cheaper in real terms these days too!

Now, speaking personally; I think the stories, letters and articles that plumped out the pages of those mags easily won over the pictorial content in those days, at least when it came to prizing my beer money from my tightly clenched fist, even if initially my attention had been grabbed by the cover. Once I'd plucked up the courage to raid those Soho emporia, however, and had learned the art of browsing, I soon came to appreciate that often it was the more discretely covered early back numbers that held the more interesting and stimulating content. The contents page would be the first to be devoured, and the most exciting sounding titles mentally noted and consciously left to last... ok just a little peek first, then; just to whet the appetite! And yes, on occasion, on the bus home, it's true that if alone on the top deck, perhaps the corner of a page or two might have been quietly turned back, a few lines read - just to get the flavour you understand. Such was the excitement, the buzz!

I once bought a very old and rare back issue of Janus from the eponymous shop in Old Compton street, Soho, on the strength of the first few lines of a certain reader's contribution I'd come across in the correspondence section. It was a very long letter, extending across two or three pages (always the best kind) and was illustrated by a well rendered drawing, which made it doubly exciting. Somehow I had resisted the temptation to dip into it on the way home; perhaps there had been too many prying eyes even on the top deck of the 253 bus to Hackney in the early afternoon. And as the anticipation mounted once back home, the sellotaped plain brown paper bag remained unopened whilst I instead revisited some past favourites from my already flourishing collection, all the time imagining what I was about to read, extrapolating from the few lines I'd read where I thought I could see the tale going, developing and embellishing in my mind's eye what I saw as (what I hoped would be) the direction the plot would take. The next day my wife of the time and I were due to set out on vacation and having resisted temptation for so long I quite deliberately set my new purchase aside, still in it's plain wrapping.

This was a painful thing to do - an indulgence twisted into a tour de force of self denial. But in fact it was to prove to be THE indulgence of all indulgences; the possibilities remained there in my mind throughout the full fortnight, branching, twisting and growing like a sapling or new shoot and bringing piquancy to the most mundane of moments, the most uninspiring days spent on a cold grey British beach. In short; by the time we had returned home, those few lines of correspondence I had glimpsed and left behind (and that promising pen and ink illustration) had blossomed into bouquet of tales and novelettes, though all in the mind - nothing on paper in those days...

It is such a shame that the reality - when the time came to shakily open those well-thumbed second-hand pages - hadn't lived up to anything like the expectation I had generated in my head, the letter simply petering out just when the going got interesting as if the author had run out of ideas just short of that critical juncture like a car running out of fuel just shy of the monotonous motorway or freeway turnoff, tantalisingly missing out on all sorts of twists and turns.


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