Institutionalised - Volume 1 - Beyond the Stanford Experiment

Neither Past, Present Nor Future


Lady Madison Daisy Bartlett

Erstwhile media mogul and ex fashion bunny she flowed across the floor with a dancer’s lithe grace and a businesswoman’s smart confidence, her floor length satin-draped gown a wind-swept late summer wheat field shimmer of golden waves echoed by her old-gold streaked brown shoulder length bob that glowed with random highlights and reflected in her honeyed solar-speckled hazel eyes. There was a golden-ish something around everything to do with Daisy Bartlett, or rather Lady Madison Daisy Bartlett as she was now entitled. From the golden glow of her bare shoulders and slender arms, a nod towards some long lost strand of antique exotic ancestry, to her carefully gold lacquered finger and toe nails embellished with the very latest holographic sparkle effects. Beneath the clinging folds of fabric a swelling fluid oscillation of heavy-bedded shadowing spoke of many hours of dedicated gym work as much as of the expense entailed by the finest breast and buttock enhancement that surgery had to offer.
The accessories and trappings were all there, the epitome of the wealthy, if somewhat ostentatious, businesswoman dressed for a fashionista Paris soirée - only the dark brown riding crop occupying her right hand, the latter white leather gloved lest she should suffer discomfort, spoke of different plans for her evening. Now with the full scene unfolding, her swaying walk took on a more threatening aspect, with each step a deliberate flexion of her right wrist brought the switch’s leather tongued tip to tap rhythmically against the ludicrously high heel of her hand-tooled golden strap-work open toe shoe.
Before her the blue-uniformed teenager knelt with haunches squatted back on her heels and head bowed, all the time following that swinging tip with a mesmeric fatalistic fascination through saucer eyes as blue as her uniform dress. Small shell pink manicured fingers fidgeted awkwardly between hands rested on an aproned lap of satin-sheened powder-blue and pastel-pink stripes. The long-sleeved frock had long since began to display the irregular darkenings, indicative of nervous tension, spreading along and through the fabric at the sides of the breasts, expansions of sweat following the lines and folds of the soft powder-blue fabric as juxtaposing wetted navy-blue contours around both armpits.
That there should have been such a corruption of her carefully contrived colour scheme had Lady Madison bristling with indignation.
Notwithstanding that the girl’s sweat was a perfectly natural response under the circumstances, a physical representation of terror and dread, a terror and dread that Lady Madison herself had carefully and lovingly crafted and instilled in her, nevertheless the slowly spreading staining was earning Lady Madison’s ire, it was ruining the entire aesthetic.
Quite with what strange perversity of aesthetic led her to lay such import upon the colour of what, after all, was merely a servant’s working dress exactly reflecting the girl’s eyes we will never know, suffice it to say that much time and effort had gone into sourcing a fabric that was suitable, practical and that exactly matched those huge, pretty, powder-blue eyes. She had eschewed the traditional black-and-white look and definitely ruled out any influence in the direction of the ‘ French maid’ as being “ most unsuitable”, feeling compelled to comment in her most haughty of tones: “ ... that the little strumpet should ever appear so overtly attractive is quite, quite unthinkable”.
No commercially available design could be found quite meeting her criteria and quite able to provide that critical balance between functionality, pleasing aesthetic and, importantly, humility. In the fullness of time Lady Madison herself had been forced to put pen to paper, a task for which she had had no little enthusiasm; indeed a fever set in that had her working practically day and night with an inspired fervour that she had never before achieved, nor since, if she be honest.
Drawing after drawing, each feverishly more outlandish than the previous, poured out of her imagination; through cycle after cycle of evolution, excitement nourished imagination and imagination in its turn stimulated imagination. The result was a froth of domestic femininity, a confection more likely the province of the more fetishistically-extreme transvestite than a real live teenage girl such as was presently facing her ire. That particular blue more than just reiterated those eyes but juxtaposed with the pastel-pink trimmings, details and accessories, emphasised prettily her girlish blonde looks; endowing her with an innocence beyond which she had long ago travelled, totally robbing her eighteen years of any pretence of adulthood while implying total servitude.
A soft and elaborate lacework trimmed the cuffs and collar, both of which were of blue and pink stripe so as to match the apron. The collar was an oversized circular affair lying flat across the shoulders and reaching down at the front to halfway between the dress’ second and third buttons and to a similar extent at the rear with its laced edging almost brushing the small neat puffballs of the shoulders at the sides.
The girl’s breasts rose and fell with an ever-increasing tempo, emphasised in their shadowy bedded curvature by the close tailoring of the bodice, its glassy-looking plastic buttons nestling neatly in the distinct cleavage thereby formed. Her mistress loomed ever closer, taking her time, always taking her time, letting the humiliation of the situation soak in; punishment was an opportunity. Chastisement was an opportunity to bring the girl deeper under her control, bind her; the mind was to be punished as much as the body, only then could the girl’s training be deepened, become truly irrevocable, a permanent and inescapable aspect of her psyche. The cane cracked down on the brown leather stool…
Momentarily the girl started before her response spelt out her resignation in her contrite bending at the waist - the French-plaited golden-tressed head dressed in frilled blue and pink striped cap springing down almost upon the floor, then lifting, so that her lips might meet the proffered riding switch to yield the required gentle kiss, the twin tails of her cap’s long striped ribbons lying heaped beneath on the immaculate polished parquet flooring.
From the very first stroke the tears came. She had no resolve, such had left her long ago hand-in-hand with her self-confidence, her pride, her vanity and the majority of her self-respect - the latter she now cursed for it had been through some residual remnant that her present situation had arisen; it was a malady that she knew her mistress had well in hand and would very soon have cured in its entirety.