I recently saw the last few minutes of a movie titled, "Asylum."  
Although the plot (about a sexually repressed wife of the asylum 
director having an affair with an inmate) was of no interest to 
me, I was intrigued by the ending, where the icy woman who had 
once reigned over the place as the director's wife was now brought 
back as a patient.  Once inside, she was shamefully "processed" 
exactly like any other inmate and placed under the thumb of a 
doctor who lusted after her.

I find the role reversal and power exchange aspects of these types 
of stories fascinating.  Many of the stories on this group also 
feature these power themes.  -- Imreadonly





             INSANE: THE DIARY OF ELIZABETH FROSTEE

                               by

                           Imreadonly

 

Part 1

June 15th

I purchased this blank diary in the hopes that starting a new 
journal would suitably mark the beginning of a better life at 
Cecil's new job here in the country.  But, although this is 
only the first day, the signs are not promising.

After a tedious drive through endless countryside, we arrived late 
at our destination: the Ashton Asylum for Women.  The asylum is 
encased in enormous dark gray stone walls topped with broken glass 
and studded with search lights and guard posts.  But the walls 
tower so high that the asylum itself is hidden.

I was surprised to hear dogs barking on the other side of the wall 
and asked Cecil if the inmates were allowed to keep pets.  He 
laughed at me and explained that inside the outer wall was an 
inner wall, patrolled by guard dogs. 

Our home is a large Gothic castle which sits next to the asylum, 
but outside the gates.  The house is enormous, cold, and gloomy, 
but Cecil was pleased with it, since it is fully-furnished, 
stocked with servants, and will cost him nothing. 

What men do with all the money they save is a mystery to me.  They 
certainly don't spend it on their wives.

I was pleased to find numerous bedrooms, which will permit us to 
continue to have separate quarters. 

		****************************** 

June 16th

I was hoping for a tour of the asylum proper today, but it was not 
to be.  Cecil explained that the operations of the asylum itself 
were a purely medical affair and were under the supervision of a 
Dr. Peter Cuff.  As the Director, Cecil's sole concern was 
maximizing profit. 

The business office was on the first floor of our castle, which 
allowed routine financial and paperwork affairs to be conducted 
without the encumbrance of the asylum's overwhelming security.

During my inspection, I found our castle to be dusty and ill-kept, 
and I made it abundantly clear to my servants that this would not 
be tolerated.  Miss Bitterweed (the housekeeper) and the other 
servants were quite taken back by my attitude, and, by the end 
of my tirade, seemed cowed...as well they should have been.

		****************************** 

June 17th

Cecil went to town again tonight.  I think if we moved to the moon 
he would find a woman of ill-repute to satisfy him.  

Our separate sleeping arrangements are for the best.  Although 
I have refused to indulge his disgusting desires for some time, 
I know that the sight of me in my skimpy lingerie drives him 
to distraction.   

He actually insinuated that I was parading around in my scanties 
to tease him.  Really!  Why can't women dress as they please 
without men getting the wrong idea?

In any event, now that there is no chance of intimacy, the friction 
between us has decreased considerably, and we seldom speak, even at 
dinner.

		****************************** 

June 26th

Although Cecil has repeatedly refused me permission to enter the 
asylum, I saw my first inmate today.  I finished my morning 
constitutional and nearly tripped over a woman scrubbing the 
entry hallway on her hands and knees.

At first I thought it was a man because of her short pixie haircut, 
but, as I looked closer, I saw that the strange creature was 
wearing a faded orange sack. 

When she saw that she was in my way she instantly dropped the brush 
and leapt to her feet.  She was a slip of a woman, around 25.  She 
was barefoot, and her hair had been cropped into what I would later 
learn the townspeople referred to as "the crazy cut." 

The woman's orange sack dress was short and reached only to the 
middle of her thighs.  On the front of her uniform, a white label 
with large black letters proudly declared her to be "INSANE."

She certainly LOOKED insane, standing there barefoot, with her 
little boy's haircut and humbling uniform, unable even to make 
eye contact.

Given the elaborate security, I had imagined that the asylum was 
filled with frothing maniacs and axe murderers, and thus was quite 
surprised by her slight, waif-like appearance.

She seemed so frightened of me that it was impossible for me to be 
frightened of her.  She stood before me, head down, staring at her 
bare feet.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded.  She said nothing, but 
pointed at the brush and bucket.

Since the creature appeared to be mute, there wasn't much point in 
conversation.  "Get back to work then," I said curtly.  Instantly 
the woman dropped to her knees and began to scrub furiously.

I was wearing my hiking boots, which meant that as I traipsed past 
her I left a trail of muddy footprints behind me.  I shouldn't 
laugh, since the little insect had obviously been scrubbing 
furiously, but it was most amusing.

When I turned around to admire my footprints I saw the reverse view 
of the barefoot inmate scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees.  
The back of her uniform had an identical label which marked her as 
"INSANE."  As she bent in her toil her uniform rode up in the back 
and I was surprised to see a series of evenly spaced red lines 
across the backs of her thighs.

It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at, but when I 
did, I asked, "Did someone beat you?"

The inmate spun around like a frightened bunny rabbit and 
immediately tugged down her dress to hide the evidence of 
her shameful chastisement.

"Don't be afraid, I won't hurt you," I said.  "You're much too old 
for a school caning.  Did the police beat you before they brought 
you here?"

The frightened creature stared down at the floor. 

Since it was obvious that the wretched thing was either unable or 
unwilling to speak, I ordered her to remove my boots.  Then I 
retired upstairs and changed for breakfast.

		****************************** 

June 27th

As I passed my husband's business office this morning, I met 
Dr. Peter Cuff.  He is rather older than I expected, but he 
still has quite the eye for the ladies.  I "accidentally" 
dropped the mail, which gave me an excuse to crawl around a 
bit on my hands and knees in front of him.  The old letch 
ogled both my cleavage and my bottom.

Disgusting! 

Almost as an afterthought, as I was leaving, I invited him to tea.  
His answer surprised me.

"To what end?" he replied.

I hadn't really thought about my reason and didn't know how to 
answer.  "I was merely being pleasant to someone who works for 
my husband," I offered. 

"You're not pleasant to anyone else who works here," he shot back.  
"I understand you're quite the terror.  To what end are you 
inviting me to tea?"

I looked at him, quite amazed.  He smiled warmly.  "Forgive me, 
Mrs. Frostee, but, after speaking with your husband, I feel that 
I know you.  When a woman such as you asks a gentleman to tea, 
she has a purpose.  I merely inquired as to what it was."

His deep blue eyes seemed to look right through me, and I found 
myself squirming under his gaze.  "I'm curious about the asylum, 
and I'd like to learn more about it," I admitted.  "Plus, you are 
a doctor.  To be candid, it's a bit lonely here, and I thought it 
might be pleasant to have someone intelligent to talk to."

"I'm flattered," he responded, taking out his appointment book.  
"I have a two o'clock and a four o'clock.  I can slide you in at 
three."

"Fine," I replied.

To my surprise he handed me an appointment card, like the ones 
doctors use for their patients, with our appointed tea time, 
then smiled and walked away.

		****************************** 

June 28th

There is a kennel for the guard dogs near the castle.  Whenever I 
pass it, the dogs go quite insane, barking and frothing at the 
mouth.   Strangers, male and female, pass unmolested.  I even saw 
one young woman go inside and play with the vicious beasts, 
scratching their bellies and playing fetch.

In contrast, whenever I pass, the dogs leap and snarl and snap.  If 
it weren't for the fence I'm quite certain they'd rip me to pieces.

When I noticed the maids playing with the dogs, I asked Miss 
Bitterweed for an explanation.  Why would the dogs snarl only 
at their mistress?

"They've been trained since birth to chase down escaping inmates," 
she said.  "They're nice as pie with most, but when they see an 
inmate running loose they chase her down like a fox."

I was puzzled.  With my long, beautiful hair and stylish clothes, 
I certainly didn't look like a mental patient.  "Clothes don't 
matter, ma'am.  They just have an innate sense of it.  I can't 
explain why they act like that with you.  They've never been wrong 
before."

Miss Bitterweed smiled a broad, unpleasant smile that revealed her 
yellow, stained teeth.  I told her she was dismissed.

		****************************** 

June 29th

Cecil is quite proud of himself.  He claims the asylum is a 
veritable gold mine and that it is already making money by 
implementing his suggestions.

In addition to putting the inmates to work at our house, Cecil has 
contracted with a number of local businesses.  Some of the inmates 
will work inside the walls making hats while others will make 
brooms.  Others have been chained together at the ankles so that 
they can work at local farms or drain the rather nasty malarial 
swamps. 

In addition, he is saving money by warehousing the girls together 
in large dormitories where they can be guarded easily and their 
natural body heat will provide the needed warmth.  He has changed 
their diet to a sort of lumpy oatmeal paste that smells quite foul, 
but that he assures me is quite nutritious.

I don't pretend to understand business, but Cecil seems happy to be 
scrimping, which is nice.


		****************************** 

Part 2

June 30th

I experienced something startling today.  During my constitutional 
I saw them bringing a new inmate into the fenced-in "reception" 
compound attached to the main prison wall. 

I was surprised by her appearance, in that her hair was long and 
beautiful and her clothes appeared to be quite stylish.  If she 
had not been walking with her hands cuffed behind her back and 
with a guard on each arm one would have thought she was a fashion 
model.

When I moved toward the fence for a closer look, several guard dogs 
came out of nowhere and lunged at me.  If the chain link fence had 
not held, I'm quite sure that the vicious beasts would have ripped 
me to shreds. 

I was soon surrounded by a phalanx of armed guards.  Apparently in 
my innocent efforts to better understand the intake processing, I 
had crossed into the "no woman's zone" and had trespassed on asylum 
property.

Since I had never been inside the asylum, and my activities were 
limited to the house and the surrounding woods, the guards claimed 
not to know me.  I found this most curious since I had been walking 
past them (albeit at some distance) for the last several weeks.

I never bring my purse on my strolls so I had no identification.

Cecil was in town running an errand.

When I suggested they contact the household staff to verify my 
identity, they responded that they could scarcely count on the 
word of mere servants in a matter like this. 

I had given one of the guards a bitter and thorough tongue lashing 
a few days before when he had failed to take off his cap when 
entering the house to visit my husband in his office.  But, much 
to my surprise, although he admitted to visiting my husband, he 
claimed to have no recollection of the incident with the cap or me.

Men!  They would forget their names if their wives didn't shout 
them at them.

The guard whom I had reprimanded so bitterly wondered if I might be 
an escapee from the asylum transfer bus.  Another conjectured that 
I might be a former inmate attempting to break out a friend. 

Each time I tried to speak the dogs barked and snarled and totally 
drowned me out.   

"The dogs know," one guard said solemnly.  "The dogs are never 
wrong."

Quite independent of my opinion, the guards quickly agreed that 
the most prudent course of action was to take me inside for 
"processing" and sort out the details of my identity later.

The dogs had decided that I was not worth listening to and their 
male masters agreed.  My claims to be the Director's wife and a 
friend of Dr. Cuff's brought only dog barks and laughter, and, 
far from exonerating me, served as further evidence that I was 
quite insane.

One of the guards took a red marker and drew, actually DREW, a 
large red checkerboard pattern on my right hand while another 
guard held me still.  That amusing task finished, they cuffed 
my hands behind my back. 

As soon as I was cuffed the dogs calmed, apparently satisfied that 
I was now in custody.

Then, to my shock and horror, they spun me around and half-marched 
and half-dragged me toward the front gates of the reception center 
for the Ashton Asylum for Women.

Then, providence saved me.  I saw Cecil's car passing the gates, 
and I screamed. 

Fortunately, Cecil stopped and told them who I was.

He and the guards were still chuckling over the "minor muddle" when 
I saw another group of guards lead the fashion model out of the 
front door of the "reception" building and through the massive gate 
of the asylum proper. 

She did not look like a fashion model anymore.  Her beautiful 
blonde hair was wet and had been shorn down into the boyish 
"crazy cut."  She was also barefoot and wore an orange inmate 
uniform that labeled her "INSANE," front and back. 

Several of the guards whistled at the blushing girl and shouted out 
lewd comments, predicting delicious adventures for her inside the 
asylum.  As a proper lady, I blushed, looked away, and pretended 
that I did not hear.

However formidable the statuesque blonde might have looked before 
processing, to my amazement she now looked like a frightened bunny.

"Who is that?" I asked, shocked.

"You, if your husband had gotten a flat tire, love," one of the 
guards replied. 

At this witticism all of the men burst into uproarious laughter, as 
if the "minor muddle" of clipping my hair, labeling me "INSANE," 
and marching me barefoot through the gates of the asylum was the 
funniest thing in the world.  I wanted to give them a piece of my 
mind, but I was acutely conscious of the fact that I still had my 
hands cuffed behind my back, and I was the only woman in the 
vicinity who wasn't wearing either a matron's uniform or the 
demeaning "INSANE" label.

I fidgeted silently in my restraints as Cecil spent a few more 
minutes discussing what a "chucklehead" I was for wandering too 
close to the fence.  After an eternity of male chatter, I was 
finally uncuffed, and Cecil drove me home.

He scolded me briefly for "embarrassing" him, but otherwise seemed 
to treat the near-disaster with an insane level of calm, or so it 
seemed to me. 

When Miss Bitterweed saw the red checkerboard on my hand, she 
furrowed her brow and squinted at me in a most unpleasant way.  
After I described the near catastrophe at the front gate, she 
laughed merrily, explaining that the red checkerboard marked me 
for "special processing" which meant that I would be admitted to 
the asylum with no further paperwork required.

"I'm glad you told me that story, ma'am," she said.  "When I saw 
that mark on your hand, I was half-tempted to grab you by the ear 
and march you right back to the front gates.  What with the shift 
change, I imagine that would have placed you in quite a pickle 
again, wouldn't it, ma'am?"

I advised Miss Bitterweed that she should concentrate on scrubbing 
the floors and to stop minding the affairs of her betters.  "As you 
wish," she hissed, "but I'd be careful where you flash that hand of 
yours."

My brush with disaster was quite frightening, but, I must admit, 
also strangely...exciting.

		****************************** 

July 2nd

I spent the morning furiously scrubbing my hand in a vain attempt 
to wash off the humiliating red checkerboard, but it stuck to my 
skin like a tattoo.  Miss Bitterweed told me it would take several 
months for it to wear off and warned me again that I should "watch 
my step" until it does.

I dislike Miss Bitterweed intensely.  When I asked Cecil to sack 
her, he asked me for grounds.  When I replied, "insolence," he 
promised to "look into it" in that voice that husbands use when 
they plan to do nothing at all.

I donned white gloves and spent the remainder of the day modeling 
the various dresses and shoes I might wear for my meeting with Dr. 
Cuff.  I settled on a demure but sexy red dress that showed off my 
eyes, hair, and figure to perfection. 

It's fun to play dress up!  Plus men are such little dears (and so 
easy to manipulate) when you show them what they can never have.

		****************************** 

July 3rd

Last night I dreamt about what might have happened if Cecil had not 
driven by to save me.  When I woke up, I discovered I was most 
excited, in every sense of the word.  How strange!

Hot again, but I had a perfectly lovely tea with Dr. Cuff.  I 
looked smashing in my red dress and white gloves, and I could 
tell from the twinkle in his eye that he liked them too. 

I began by asking him about the hospital's elaborate security.  
I noted that the two women I had seen so far hadn't looked 
particularly dangerous, and the woman they'd "processed" 
yesterday seemed more like a model than a maniac.

"Dangerous is a relative term," Peter explained.  "The woman you 
saw was the mistress of a wealthy industrialist.  After several 
years of service, she developed a deviant pathology wherein 
seemed to believe that she was somehow entitled to money.  She 
had hired an attorney, which simply wouldn't do. 

"The young woman is dangerous fiscally, if not physically, and will 
remain here indefinitely.  Her lover, kind and generous man that he 
is, is paying us quite handsomely for her treatment, and we have 
assured him that escape is impossible."

"Yes, it looks quite secure.  I would hate to be an inmate here." 

"Would you?  Perhaps in some sense you already are.  I noticed the 
pattern of lights in your home last night as I was leaving.  Do you 
and your husband keep separate chambers?"

"Yes, we do," I replied.

"When was the last time you had marital relations?" he inquired 
casually.

"That is none of your business, sir!" I replied crisply.

"My dear Mrs. Frostee, I do apologize.  The women in my care are 
usually institutionalized for some sort of sexual dysfunction, 
and it is in my nature to attempt to help women in need.  No 
offense was intended."

"You would do well to remember that I am not your patient," I 
huffed. 

"Quite.  The inmates of this asylum are frigid housewives, bitter 
and repressed.  When their husbands express an interest in 
alternative forms of gratification, these shrewish women label 
them deviants and lock them out of the bedroom.  They satisfy 
their own frustrated desires by flirting and by lashing out at 
their servants.  Not like you, Mrs. Frostee."

I stared at him, dumbstruck, wondering how much Cecil had told him. 
Fortunately, before I was forced to answer, the timer on his watch 
BUZZED, and he was quickly off to his next session.

Later that day I went to town to buy some jam.  As I stood in line, 
I saw a young woman with a backpack and long, beautiful red hair 
talking with one of the clerks.

The young woman explained that she was an American on break from 
college and that she was hiking through Europe for the summer.  She 
had broken off from her friends for a few days to tour the English 
countryside. 

During her travels she met a man who told her some "deliciously 
naughty" stories about Ashton Asylum and the wicked things that 
went on there.  When she expressed interest in hearing more, he 
suggested that she might enjoy a visit, since the asylum had an 
inexpensive bed and breakfast where lovely young tourists 
traveling alone were welcome to stay free of charge.

I was about to interject myself to explain that I was the wife of 
the Director, that there was no B&B, and that tourists were not 
welcome.  However, the shop clerk beat me to the punch by 
pleasantly announcing that she should simply show up at the 
reception gate, explain her "interests" and ask for a full tour.  
Then he gave her directions and sent her on her merry way.

The clerk was all smiles as the lovely coed walked out the door.  
I wanted to ask him about his curious reply, but unfortunately 
the manager called him into the back room for restocking, and 
the opportunity was lost.

		****************************** 

Part 3

July 6th

Another scorcher!

Our backyard pool is large but not very deep, so I asked our 
housekeeper, Miss Bitterweed, to arrange for some of the 
inmates to dig me a second pool suitable for diving.

I spent the afternoon on my patio lawn chair thumbing through 
magazines as I watched the inmates toil.  It was too warm for 
gloves, so I simply bandaged my right hand, determined not 
to mingle with the inmates, considering that damning red 
checkerboard on my hand.

Many of the inmates had either red splotches or welts on the backs 
of their thighs.  One of them was not wearing underwear, and, when 
she bent over to pick up her wheelbarrow, I saw that her bare 
bottom was quite red and sore-looking, as if she had recently been 
strapped.  I suppose that is why she chose to labor sans panties. 

As I lounged in my chair, I noticed Miss Bitterweed dragging one 
the inmates (who had been scrubbing the stove) across the lawn by 
the scruff of her neck.  I watched her push the wretched woman 
into the tool shed and close the door. 

Curious, I followed them to the shed and quietly opened the door.  
Much to my surprise, I discovered the inmate over Miss Bitterweed's 
knee, with her orange dress around her waist and her prison panties 
around her ankles.  The inmate was crying as Miss Bitterweed 
spanked her bare arse cheeks with gusto. 

I watched transfixed for nearly a full minute as Miss Bitterweed's 
paddle-like hand reddened the girl's bottom.  I would have watched 
all afternoon, but Miss Bitterweed stopped when she noticed my 
presence.

"This is household business, MISSY," she snapped, talking to me 
in the sharp tone she reserved for the maids and inmates under 
her command.  "If you don't want to be next, you'll close that 
bloody door!"

I was shocked to be addressed that way, but her manner suggested 
that she was not joking.  Miss Bitterweed is a strong, husky 
woman, and she throws even the male servants about like rag dolls.  
Physically I am no match for her, and so, although I wanted very 
much to watch the rest of the spanking, I opted for a strategic 
withdrawal.

It was a blistering hot day, and I enjoyed watching the inmates 
work up a sweat.  If it hadn't been for my large parasol and my 
pitcher of Margaritas, I don't know how I would have survived.

		****************************** 

July 7th

I wasn't scheduled to see Peter until the 10th, but, since I was 
curious about the women's stripes, I asked to see him early.  He 
graciously agreed, and, after a very nice picnic lunch, we took 
a lovely stroll. 

He explained that the institution used "negative reinforcement" 
and "behavior modification," but never in a cruel or gratuitous 
way.  The modification sessions were designed to cure, not to 
punish, and the discipline was for the inmates' own good.

After his explanation I felt greatly relieved.

I mentioned Miss Bitterweed's correction of the inmate, and 
he replied that he knew nothing of it, before adding quite 
nonchalantly that contractually members of the staff were 
empowered to beat the inmates "as required."

"So I could spank one of the inmates?" I asked, quite startled by 
the idea.

"Yes, of course," he replied.

"Bare bottom?" I asked, my voice perhaps a tad too eager.

Peter laughed.  "Yes."  He thought for a moment, and then he 
suggested that we spend our next meeting in the side room adjacent 
to my husband's office reviewing the case files.  The punishment 
paperwork had become quite overwhelming, and Peter wanted to know 
if I might take charge of reviewing the demerit forms and assigning 
punishments. 

I assured him that I certainly had no experience in determining 
punishments, and I wouldn't know what to do with such an awesome 
responsibility.

He replied that "experience is the best teacher.  I've seen you 
crack the whip with your servants, and, believe me, you're a 
natural."

I had been concerned that he might be upset when he heard about my 
horrible misadventure in reception, and I had determined to wait 
for an apropos time to mention it.  Since he had just expressed 
great confidence in me, I knew that time was now.

I removed my white gloves and showed him the shameful checkerboard 
as I told him the whole dreadful story.  He seemed more amused than 
shocked, and I wondered for a moment if he hadn't heard about my 
adventure from Cecil or one of the guards. 

As I concluded my story I suddenly felt an urge to ask him about 
the reception process itself.  Did the women remove their own 
clothes?  How were they barbered?  Did the inmate have wet hair 
from the barbering or had she been bathed in some way?

Peter listened to my rush of questions and thought for a moment 
before replying.  "In the office, you would learn about how 
punishments are given.  Would you like to take a tour of the 
reception area to get the patient's perspective?

"Yes, I'd like that very much," I replied eagerly.  I had been 
keen to tour the asylum for weeks, and this was my chance.

"Would you rather assign punishments in the office or tour the 
reception area?" he asked.  "I should warn you that the latter 
is not without risk.  If I were called away, I would be forced 
to leave you alone there."

"Alone?" I asked, my voice quivering.

"Yes, quite alone," he said.  "Unless of course, there were other 
young women waiting to be processed.  In that case, you would wait 
with the others."

My heart raced at Peter's curious phrasing.  I was quite shocked, 
but strangely excited, at the way he casually lumped me in "with 
the others." 

Was I grouped in with them because I was a "young woman," or 
because I would be "waiting to be processed?"

Quite unconsciously I began to scratch at the incriminating red 
mark on my hand, the mark that would whisk me through processing 
with no questions asked.

Peter looked at me and smiled.  "Is it better to give or to 
receive?  Which would you prefer, the office or reception?  
You don't have to answer now.  Let me know then, on the 10th, 
and we'll tour one or the other."

		****************************** 

July 9th

This morning I noticed two of the brutes from the stables working 
in the garden by the side of the house.  I decided that it would 
be a good time to work on my tan, so I put on my swimsuit and set 
up my reclining lawn chair near the flowerbed.

I quite expected the two monsters to leer at me, or at least try 
to sneak a glance, which would of course have resulted in their 
immediate dismissal.

Much to my surprise, neither one of them even noticed me, although 
I was standing only a few feet away wearing practically nothing.  
The two had climbed up the side of the house and were peering down 
into the reformatory with two sets of binoculars, oblivious to my 
presence.

"What are you doing?" I called out.

"Nothing, Mrs. Frostee," they said.  I watched as the two men 
scrambled down like monkeys, stashed their binoculars, and 
resumed work. 

I walked around the corner and waited.  After all, men are not 
exactly the brightest creatures.  One Mississippi...two 
Mississippi...three Mississippi.... 

Sure enough, the two louts were again staring down with their 
binoculars. 

Determined to solve the puzzle, I went into the castle and walked 
up to the top floor.

I was quickly able to locate an unused bedroom that faced the side 
window of the reformatory the two brutes were gawking at.  Since 
our castle home is actually much higher than the asylum building, 
I was able to look down, and get a much better view than the 
gardeners had.

I looked down into a large general purpose room with a skylight.  
By looking through this skylight, the room opened up to me like 
a theatre. 

There were several guards standing about, but Dr. Cuff was clearly 
in charge.  Peter looked quite handsome and official as he made 
notations on his clipboard.  

An inmate wearing one of those dreadful orange asylum dresses was 
dragged before Peter.  She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, 
with her hair cropped into the trademark "crazy cut." 

Dr. Cuff and the young woman talked for a moment, and then he made 
a notation on his clipboard and nodded to the guards.  They roughly 
dragged the woman to a trestle and forced her arms over her head. 

I watched breathlessly as they stripped off the inmate's dress and 
unceremoniously shucked her plain white cotton prison underpants 
down and off. 

They strapped the woman down over the trestle with an ease born 
of long experience, much the way you or I might tie a shoe.  The 
pretty woman looked nervously over her shoulder as Dr. Cuff 
approached her with a large, well-worn leather strap.

SNAP!  I was a fair distance away, but I could still faintly hear 
the echo of the first stroke.  The inmate clearly felt the impact 
too, as she let loose with a most enthusiastic scream.

SNAP!  He cracked the strap again, and the second stroke landed 
just below the first.  It was a perfect hit, dead center, and I 
felt like applauding as I watched the strap wrap around the 
woman's curvy backside in a wave of absolute perfection.

SNAP!  The next stroke was lower, with the bottom of the strap 
cutting into the exquisitely sensitive area that separates the 
buttocks from the tops of the thighs.

SNAP!  The fourth stroke was lower still, across the tops of the 
thighs.  It would no doubt prevent the unfortunate woman from 
taking pressure off her bottom while she sat by shifting it to 
her legs. 

The guards unstrapped the woman and lifted her off the bench like 
a sack of potatoes.

A few minutes later another inmate was brought in and quickly 
stripped.  Much to my surprise, I realized that it was the lovely 
backpacking coed whom I had encountered in the store only a few 
days before.

She was quite lovely, but I noticed to my dismay that her beautiful 
red hair had been cruelly shorn off into the regulation cut that 
identified her as insane.  As I considered her boyish pixie cut, I 
was surprised to find myself nervously stroking my own long, 
luxurious hair.

I noticed a red checkerboard on her hand, identical to my own.  
Indeed, the young woman pointed to the checkerboard and protested 
loudly to the doctor.  I will admit that the young woman had not 
appeared insane when I had seen her in the store.  However, Peter 
had obviously concluded that treatments were required, and, in 
such circumstances, one must do as the doctor orders. 

In an asylum, the doctor is the expert, and his word is law.

The coed had quite a lovely figure, with perky breasts and a 
simply adorable scattering of freckles on her cute bum.  The 
guards appreciated it as well, since they turned the naked girl 
in circles several times, snickering and joking as they pointed 
to her freckles, before finally tying her down on the trestle.

I could tell that Peter enjoyed her freckles as well, since he 
spent several minutes tracing them with his fingers and laughing 
as the young woman squirmed on the horse in embarrassment.  Like 
all women, she viewed her backside as private and personal and not 
as an entertaining place for men to doodle cartoons.

Tiring of his game, Peter stepped back and raised the strap.  
However, after staring at her lovely freckled bottom for a 
moment, he changed his mind and picked up a wicked-looking 
cane.

I'm not sure how he did it, but he somehow managed to connect the 
dots and began drawing a lovely, flaming checkerboard on her 
freckled bottom, identical to the one on her hand.  There was no 
excess redness or smudge, and it appeared to be stamped -- or more 
accurately, branded -- on. 

He and the guards laughed as he "painted," and I found myself 
smiling too.  It is always pleasant to see someone who enjoys 
his work.  Watching his artistry was quite stimulating, and I 
quickly slipped my hand into my bathing suit and found my 
special spot.

SWISH!

SWISH!

SWISH!

Peter and I finished at the same time, and I had the most 
shattering spasm of pleasure as he laid on the final stroke.

When the redhead was helped up, she looked quite unhappy.  She 
limped away in tears, apparently unappreciative and ungrateful 
for the beautiful artwork decorating her posterior. 

Moments later the next inmate was stripped and placed on the 
trestle, and the cycle began anew.  And so it went, nearly a 
dozen pert female backsides, some white, some brown, some in 
between.  I watched for hours as all of the bottoms wiggled 
and jiggled and reddened under the doctor's skillful treatments. 

That night after Cecil went to sleep I lay alone in bed and 
weighed my options.

After my last experience, prancing around the reception area was 
obviously quite risky, particularly with the incriminating red 
checkerboard on my hand.  But it was a deliciously naughty risk.  
I wanted desperately to see what the intake area looked like and 
to know the details of the women's processing. 

On the other hand, working in the office would allow me to learn 
the stories behind the faces and bottoms Peter was spanking.  It 
was infinitely more exciting to watch the young redhead's 
punishment since I had seen her in better days and had heard her 
voice and knew her story.

It is much more exciting to witness a spanking when you know who 
the victim is and something of her personality.  By reviewing each 
woman's file I would learn their backgrounds and get to know them 
as individuals.  Then I would determine their sentences and race 
upstairs to watch.  How yummy!  

I lay in my bed giddy with power.  There were hundreds of women 
imprisoned in the institution, and soon each one of them could 
be under my power.

I lay in bed, quite uncertain as to whether it was better to give 
or to receive....

Oh dear!  What should I do?



Edited by C. Lakewood
_____________________________

Editor's Note:

Obviously this story, while very good, is incomplete and cries out 
for at least two more segments.  It was originally posted some 
years ago on a spanking site, and, according to the author, the 
reception was less than positive.  ("I got flamed a bunch...so I 
got bored and quit.")  I'm hoping that we can prevail upon him to 
continue it.  

 
		***********************************



             INSANE: THE DIARY OF ELIZABETH FROSTEE

                               by

                           Imreadonly

 

Part 4

July 10th

Another frightfully hot night!  There was a terrible thunderstorm, 
and I tossed and turned.  Cecil was drinking again, and once or 
twice, I heard the doorknob turn, as if he were trying to get into 
my room.  Fortunately the two bronze deadbolts I had had installed 
kept him and his disgusting desires at bay.

Despite my exhaustion I rose early, wanting to look my very best 
for my meeting with Peter.  Oddly, I spent a great deal of time 
deciding on my undergarments, for Peter had offered me a chance to 
tour the reception area, and I knew that in the intake area the 
women being admitted to the asylum were required to strip quite 
naked.  Although of course I intended to remain FULLY clothed, I 
found myself idly speculating as to what it would be like to 
undress with the frowning matrons (or perhaps even Peter) watching 
closely.  Are such thoughts strange, or natural?  Perhaps I should 
ask Peter.

In any even, I considered the matter...carefully.  Surely I would 
want to look my best, and so I chose a lovely pink chemise, with a 
racy garter belt that I had secretly ordered from Paris.  Oh, my 
frightened little rabbit of a husband would simply die to see me 
dressed so, the poor devil!

As I fussed with my makeup, I ran my fingers through my hair, 
wondering about what I might look like with my hair fully shorn.  
Imaging my ugliness, it seemed quite cruel to me, and I wondered 
if such a barbarity were truly necessary.  But I comforted myself 
by reasoning that such treatment was NOT for me, but for the 
asylum inmates.  In an event, I suppose Dr. Cuff knows what was 
best, and, since he considers it necessary, I heartily approve.

After much indecision, I finally selected a smashing red dress, 
with a tasteful yet exquisite strand of pearls, and my very best 
earrings.  As I strode through the grand hallway on my way to the 
door, I encountered Miss Bitterweed, our housekeeper, who seemed 
surprised at my appearance.  She asked me if there was a party at 
this hour.

I replied that there was not, and that I was going to meet Dr. Cuff 
to discuss a possible position at the asylum.  

"And what 'position' would that be, Mum?" Miss Bitterweed asked, 
in a tone that seemed to be accusing me of something most improper. 

"The floor of this hallway really needs to be waxed again, Miss 
Bitterweed," I replied.  "By hand."

"I'll get one of the inmates on it straight away, Mum," she said.  

"I wonder why we pay you so much when the inmates do all the work," 
I noted tartly.

"And I wonder why you're all dolled up for Dr. Cuff and keep your 
bedroom door locked like it's the Bank of England," she said.  
"Those deadbolts are bigger than anything they have over at the 
madhouse.  Are we keeping our husband out?  Or someone else in?"  

"I shall talk to Cecil about having your wages reduced," I said 
sharply.  "He likes to scrimp, and if we need to cut the fat I 
can think of no better place to start than your large, lazy 
behind."

As I exited the house I heard Miss Bitterweed calling out from the 
front door.  "Watch out for the dogs, Mum.  If they see you running 
around without your INSANE label, and with your hair grown long, 
they'll rip you to shreds, if they get a chance."  And, with that, 
the bitch starting laughing.
  
I was still breathing fire when I approached the gates of the 
asylum, and, as Miss Bitterweed predicted, the previously passive 
guard dogs went insane -- snapping, barking, and snarling at me as 
they threw themselves against the fences in their efforts to get 
at me.  It would have been quite terrifying, if I had not been so 
infuriated with Miss Bitterweed.

Recovering, I took a moment in the ladies room of the main 
administration building to check my makeup and hair, making 
sure I looked my very best before going in to see Dr. Cuff.  
Peter greeted me warmly and bade me to sit down.  We were soon 
talking like old friends, and the unpleasantness that was my 
morning encounter with Miss Biterweed quickly vanished.  

Peter walked me down to the side office next to Cecil's where the 
punishment forms and the women's files were kept.  Apparently in 
an effort to grind even more profits out of the institution, Cecil 
had instituted a new "carrot-and-stick" work regime.  

Each week the inmates were given a work quota.  If the quota 
was met, the girls were given a treat, such as some fruits or 
vegetables (a carrot!) or some extra gruel, which was quite a 
privilege, given how much Cecil had cut the women's rations.  
After each success, their quota was then raised 5%, to encourage 
them to work all the harder.  If a girl failed to make her quota, 
she was given demerits, and demerits inevitably meant corporal 
punishment.

Under this new scheme, profits had increased enormously, as the 
girls were now working both for food and to avoid the strap and 
cane.  However, the constantly rising quotas had led to a backlog 
of punishments, and my job would be to tally demerits and schedule 
the worst offenders for punishments. 
 
Alas, there were so many girls in need of "correction" that Peter 
and his staff could not keep up.  And so my ever-enterprising 
husband had endeavored to contract the work out.  He had found a 
select group of men at his local gentlemen's club who offered to 
pay HIM for the privilege of whipping the naughty girls' bottoms.

You had to admire the genius of it.  If the girls worked hard, 
Cecil would make ever-increasing profits off their labors.  But 
when the poor dears failed to meet their ever-increasing quotas, 
He would make money off that as well.  He had arranged with most 
of the local businesses to have the women perform some sort of 
labor and had even made an arrangement to sell the girl's remains 
to the local medical school when they died.  When I expressed my 
awe for Cecil's business acumen, Peter simply laughed. 

"Yes, your husband is the tightest tick I've ever met, always 
finding a new way to turn the screw.  We're going to start 
barbering the girls quite closely from today on.  Seems your 
husband has found a wigmaker who wishes to buy the inmates' hair.  
"No point in wasting it on their heads!" he says.

At this, I expressed my wholehearted agreement, for "anything that 
makes it clear who is an inmate and who is not is a good thing, 
for it leaves the dogs less confused."

"Perhaps the dogs aren't confused," Peter replied, cryptically. 
"When the dogs seen an inmate in uniform and with her head shaved, 
being led past them by the guards barefoot and in shackles, they 
do not bark, for all is as it should be.  Let the same girl run 
past them unfettered and in street clothes, and they will attempt 
to chew through the fence in their fury."

"Yes, of course," I said.  "They are trained to hunt down escaping 
inmates.  But whatever does that have to do with the way they bark 
at me?"

"I notice you're playing with your hair, Elizabeth.  Indeed, you've 
been playing with it since I mentioned Cecil's new "to-the-nub" 
barbering policy.  "Are you considering a change in hairstyle, 
perhaps?"

"I hadn't really thought about it," I said.  "Can't a girl fuss 
with her hair without a psychiatrist implying...well, I don't 
know what?"

"And that bandage on your hand," he said, noticing the place where 
I had used the bandage to cover the humiliating red checkerboard 
pattern on my hand, the insignia that incorrectly branded me as 
insane.  "Has the wound healed yet?"

"Not yet," I said, nervously running my hand over the incriminating 
but bandaged insignia.  "Why are you looking at me like that?"  

"I'm going to take you down to the reception area, Elizabeth, where 
we process the new arrivals.  I am quite certain all the answers 
you seek are there."

I had expected that Peter would take me out the door and across 
the yard to the front of the complex, where I had seen the girls 
in their restraints marched through the gates to begin their 
exciting adventure under the control of Dr. Cuff and Cecil.  
However, instead he took me down several flights of stairs, into 
a sort of dungeon.  It was dark and damp and very pungent, but, as 
we passed the barred cell doors I could vaguely see the terrified, 
frantic white eyes of female inmates staring out at me.  

"This part of the asylum is part of the castle complex you live 
in, actually, and dates back to medieval times.  We keep the worst 
cases down here."

I screamed as I looked down and saw a rat sniffing at my shoe.  
Peter kicked it away.  "Beastly things.  They get quite aggressive 
with the girls in straitjackets and have taken a liking to nibbling 
on their toes.  Once they sense a girl's helplessness they swarm in 
for supper.  They never bother me, of course.  Strange that they 
should be sniffing you.  What's that perfume you're wearing?  

"It's called 'INSANITY,'" I confessed, suddenly embarrassed by the 
name that had seemed so wonderful at the store.  "It's French."  

Peter laughed.  "Yes, that's it!  You have the whiff of insanity 
about you, Elizabeth," he chuckled.  "I knew it from the first 
moment we met."

"But I wasn't wearing this scent that day," I protested.  

Peter smiled, walking me up a flight of stairs and out of the 
dungeon.  "Of course in the asylum the girl's wear a very 
different sort of perfume, Elizabeth.  Have you smelt it?" 

"Yes, the girls in my house are quite pungent.  Good, though.  I 
want the little beasts scrubbed clean before they touch anything.  
Is it the carbolic soap?  I know Cecil switched to a cheaper brand. 
He said some of the girls complained that it burned them."

"Perhaps.  Or perhaps it was the delousing spray.  Let us see."

"Is the carbolic soap as bad as the girls say?" I asked.

"I'd be more interested in your opinion," Peter replied.  With that 
we entered a dark room, and Peter flipped some enormous switches, 
causing the huge industrial lights on the ceiling to hum to life.  
It was a large concrete room, totally devoid of furniture, open 
and increasingly well lit, as the lights gained power.  

"My, this is a big room," I said, my eyes adjusting to the light.  
But there's nothing in it." 

Looking carefully, I walked down the concrete steps into the pit 
that formed the major section of the room.  "Do you use it for 
storage?"

Peter laughed heartily, as if I were the silliest person in the 
world.  "No, my dear, these are the showers.  You are standing 
right in them, I'm afraid."

My eyes adjusted as the huge industrial lights brightened.  Looking 
at the concrete floor, I saw it was slightly sloped, so the water 
could run toward the drain.  And, looking above me, I could see the 
nozzles for the shower.  I reached up and touched one of them.  The 
floor was dry, but the nozzle was still damp.

"What are those red containers hanging everywhere?" I asked.  

"Carbolic soap," Peter replied.  "It's actually used in industrial 
laundries, and sometimes for cattle scrub.  Your husband discovered 
soap not designated for human use was considerably cheaper."

"Yes, Cecil does love his bargains," I said, feeling a bit queasy 
as I stood in the large concrete room.  "But I'm confused, doctor. 
You said there were showers, but I don't see any curtains or 
partitions.  How do the girls shower?"

"They shower right where you're standing, out in the open, where 
everyone can see.  Gracious, Elizabeth!  You can't have girls like 
this stark naked together and out of sight.  Some of these girls 
are chronic self-abusers and lesbians.  They'd do all sorts of 
beastly things to themselves and each other if they weren't 
monitored at all times by trained professionals...such as myself."

"You-you watch the girls sh-shower?" I stammered.

"Indeed I do.  In fact, you're standing in the center of one of 
our most popular tour stops.   The men who visit the asylum love 
to watch the dirty little birds scrub themselves squeaky clean. I 
stand precisely where I'm standing now, so I can control the water 
and the pressure.  And the girls stand where you're standing, so 
the visitors can get a good look."

I looked around, suddenly feeling quite self-conscious about the 
fact that I was standing in the pit, with Dr. Cuff smiling down at 
me with a strangely patronizing expression.  Odd as it may seem, I 
nervously touched my pearls, and then my dress, anxious to verify 
that I was still wearing clothes.

As if reading my mind, Peter's hand moved to one of the huge valves 
that controlled the nozzles directly over my head.  "Now if you'll 
just slip out of your things, Elizabeth, we'll get started."

"Excuse me?" I said, nervously clutching my pearls.

"Your clothes, you foolish girl.  Take them off.  If I turn the 
water on right now, you'll get quite a soaking.  Not that it 
matters.  We can always get you a uniform to wear."  

"Take off my clothes?  Everything?"

"Of course, you silly girl.  You can't shower in your underwear.  
You wanted to see if the carbolic soap stung, and if the smell 
on the girls was from the delousing agent or the soap."

"But, I didn't mean...."

"Really?  Because, when you entered the room, you walked directly 
into the showers, quite as if you belonged here.  Now strip off, 
and we'll get you scrubbed and sprayed.  Keep turning as you wash, 
so I can see your naked body from every angle: those are the rules. 
We need to make sure the girls scrub everywhere."

My mind struggled with outrage at what he was proposing.  "You 
wish me to strip naked and turn circles in front of you when 
I'm showering, as if I'm putting on a show?"

"I expect you to follow orders like the other girls in my care," he 
said crossly.  "Although I confess, with a girl as lovely as you, 
it will be a show, a most enjoyable one.  Nothing wrong with a 
doctor enjoying his work, is there?"

"No, I suppose not.  However, I'd like to see the processing from 
the beginning.  That way I can understand the process from the 
inside out.  Is there a tour group today?"

"Yes, and there are also some new arrivals."

"That sounds wonderful," I said brightly, quickly stepping out of 
the showers.  "I can join the group.  That way I can see it all, 
soup to nuts."

"Nuts indeed," Dr. Cuff replied, switching off the lights, and 
plunging us both into complete darkness.
He led me through the dark, and, when we entered the next room, and 
the lights flickered on overhead, I was surprised to see that we 
were once again in a large room, with an oak medical examination 
table directly in front of us.

It looked like the examination table in my own doctor's office, 
save for the straps on the side, which I assumed were used when 
the patients did not cooperate.  However, it was much more ornate 
than the one my own physician used (or at least attempted to use) 
on me, for I had long ago forbidden him from touching me in that 
way.  
 
The examination table wood was polished and quite lovely.  It was 
fitted with drawers and such.  But my eyes were drawn to the brown 
leather back, which was raised to a sitting position, and the 
polished foot stirrups, which sparked under the fluorescent lights. 

"This is quite a large room," I noted.  

"Yes, it's for the tour groups.  The visitors enjoy watching me 
examine the girls for contraband and feel their breasts for lumps 
and bounce their bottoms around a bit to see if they might respond 
better to the strap or the cane.  Rectal thermometers are over 
there," he said, pointing to a large jar filled with instruments 
that reminded me less of thermometers than turkey basters.  
Nervously, I moved forward and touched one of the shiny stirrups 
with my finger.  It gave me a frightful shock, causing me to jump 
backwards.  Peter laughed.

"I got a shock," I complained.  "And the stirrups are very cold." 

"Your dainty little feet would warm them soon enough," Peter said. 
"I should be very interested in examining you, Elizabeth.  Your 
fascination with this place strongly suggests you might become 
quite responsive after your legal rights had been fully stripped 
from you and you were helpless to do anything but submit.  I 
should very much enjoy getting to know you...how did you phrase 
it?  Ah, yes!  'From the inside out.'"

"I don't think I could spread my legs that wide," I said, laughing 
nervously at the spread of the stirrups.

"We shall see," he replied, smiling tightly.

More darkness, several twists and turns in a pitch black tunnel, 
with Peter taking me by the hand, and another flight of stairs 
led me up to the reception area, where the girls' adventures 
began.  "Another one, then, Doctor?" the matron behind the desk 
said, looking straight at me.  Reaching behind her she took a 
large, empty cardboard box off a shelf and walked across the room 
to a bench where a half dozen other wretched-looking creatures 
were nervously awaiting their admission to the asylum. 
 
"She's a bit overdressed, isn't she?" the matron said, looking me 
up and down in a most unpleasant way.  "Not that it will matter; 
it's all going in the box.  We'll scrub that stink off her, too." 

"It's her French perfume...very exclusive...called 'INSANITY,'" 
Peter said, none too helpfully, I thought.

"Indeed?" the matron snorted.  "Well, her majesty will have a very 
different smell when I spray the cootie killer on her.  Have a 
seat, your ladyship."  With that, she handed me my box.  

Following Peter's hand gestures, I sat on the bench next to the 
other girls and placed the box at my feet.  Nervously, I looked 
down the row of unhappy, misfit girls to which I now belonged.  
"I'm not dressed like the others," I said, nervously fingering 
my pearls.

"In the showers, you'll be dressed precisely like them," Peter 
said quietly.  "I will leave you here now, Elizabeth, and join 
the tour group."

"I thought I was going to join the tour group, too."

"Indeed you shall," Peter said.  "But you will be seeing things as 
you wished to see them...from the inside out."

"But I'm not insane." 

"Your evaluation period will prove that." 

"But I can't be...processed.  I’m not an inmate!"

"Tell it to the matron," Peter said, with just the hint of a smile.

I looked over at the scowling matron, who didn't seem in the mood 
to be told much.  Before I could say anything, the girl next to me 
interrupted.  "I'm not insane either, doctor," she said.  "My 
stepmother put me here, because she was jealous."

"And I'm not crazy," the next woman said.  "My husband was having 
an affair, and I caught him in bed with his tootsie.  He couldn't 
divorce me on religious grounds, so the bishop told him if he 
locked me in here he could have the marriage annulled."

And so it went down the line, with each girl relating her tale of 
woe.  Peter smiled indulgently.  "You see, Elizabeth?  You can 
simply tell the matron your story, same as the other girls.  But 
we'll have to be rid of this."  He took my hand, and, before I 
knew what he was doing, he had expertly used a pair of shears 
concealed in his other hand to clip my bandage off.  I nervously 
fingered my humiliating checkerboard, which matched the pattern 
on the other girls' hands.

"No bandages in the examination room," Peter explained.  "The girls 
are almost entirely naked.  Head to toe." 

"In the examination room, you'd see it was me," I said, struggling 
for air.  "You'd let me go then."

"Yes, I would see you...quite a bit of you, in fact.  When you put 
your feet in the stirrups, I'd see even more than I saw in the 
showers.  But I'm afraid your release would be out of the question. 
Once a girl has been admitted, even accidentally, a six-month 
evaluation period is necessary, to confirm her sanity.  You would 
be in for the duration, I'm afraid.  And, even then, you could 
be released only after the board unanimously found you sane."

"But I'm not insane!" I protested.

"Now, now, Elizabeth.  Admitting you have a problem is the first 
step in the long road to recovery.  I cannot help you unless you 
admit you need help and participate fully in your recovery.  You 
are the director's wife, and I will not admit you against your 
will."

"Admit me?" I said, staggered by the words.  "You can admit me?  
Or...I can go free?"

"Yes.  The choice is entirely yours."

I rose, uncertain as to what I do.  I looked at the matron, 
scowling behind the desk, and then at Peter, smiling at me 
with that enigmatic smile of his that seems to look right 
through me.  I felt warm for a moment, and then my eyes 
drifted upward, toward the lights on the ceiling.  Then 
everything went black.

I woke in my bed with Cecil holding my hand.  "Where am I?" 
I asked.

"You fainted," Cecil explained.  Fortunately Dr. Cuff caught you, 
so you didn't hurt yourself.  But you've been quite delirious for 
the last several hours, calling out all sorts of things about soap 
and basters and examination tables.  What a relief it is you're all 
right."

Pulling down the covers a bit, I saw I was wearing my nightgown.  
"Where are my clothes?" I asked. 
 
"I changed you," Cecil said.  "With Dr. Cuff's help.  He is a 
doctor, and I am your husband after all."

"You both saw me...naked?"

"Yes, I did," Cecil said, looking down at me intently.  "You're 
quite a lovely woman, Elizabeth.  It's been too long since we've 
been...together."

Recovering my senses, I slapped Cecil hard and repeatedly, shouting 
at him, ordering the filthy beast from my bedchamber, and loudly 
bolting the door behind him so the creature knew his boundaries.  

I have spent the last several hours recording my recollections in 
my diary, because they are fading, and even now I am not entirely 
sure what I saw and what I imagined.  I am becoming quite confused, 
but am most hopeful a good night's sleep will set me right again.



Edited by C. Lakewood

_______________________________

Editor's Note

I suspect this story can be "concluded" in perhaps one more 
chapter.