A Blushes video
In several issues of Blushes we have published stories centred around that ideal focus of attention for the spanker of girls’ bottoms, the school detention room.
Considering, then, what the subject matter should be for the new [and possibly the last] Blushes video — forthcoming legislation in respect of official censorship of all new videos may make it impracticable to market videos of certain types after September — we decided to take the best bits of three of our detention room stories and combine them in this 90 minute video.
Extracts from these stories are republished here to give the flavour of The Detention Room together with photographs taken at the time of shooting whilst the girls’ bottoms are still — quite literally — smarting from the application of palm and cane!
If you’d like to see The Detention Room or any others of the Blushes titles on your own T.V., don’t leave it too long before you order — governmental policy may render them unobtainable anywhere after September!
Extract from Fifty Lines from Blushes 7:
Fifty times: I must treat my teachers with respect. Chalk scratching on matt black paint on a blackboard fixed to the front wall of an empty classroom; empty, that is, but for the writer and the begowned figures of he who has inflicted this imposition upon the unfortunate at the blackboard.
Treat-my-teachers. The girl’s fingers are dusted with chalk and there are specks of white down the front of her grey cardigan. Her blouse, longer than the cardigan, edges it with white, both garments rucked up to waist level. With-respect. Plumped out navy knickers below the white-bordering blouse are streaked with chalk dust across the fullness of both cheeks, the scrabbling, groping traces of fingers palely evidenced on the dark blue knap.
Firm-cheeked bottom bobbing snugly inside the knickers, slow and hesitant steps and a scuff of polished black shoes against dark-stained floorboards.
‘How many’s that, hmm?’
‘Er — d-don’t know sir,’ timid, quiet, breathless voice. Knickers tight round soft peachy pubic mound.
‘Go and count them then.’
‘Yes sir —’ More slidey, hesitant footsteps, more demure waggling of navy-knickered buttocks. She goes back to the board and counts the lines down from the top.
‘Um — Seventeen, sir.’
‘Come on then —’
Her face is a picture of not wanting to. Her hands clutch at her blouse and cardigan and pull them up a fraction and she makes herself stand between his legs as he half-sits, half-leans on a desk in the front row. Her thighs brush then press against the inside of his left leg; he puts a hand in the hollow of her back and coaxes her into bending forward a little. Her bottom pushes out saucily behind, the knickers tightening around the shapeliness beneath. Rosy-hued fingers, each about an inch wide where the individual ruler marks can be seen, spread in a fanned-out swathe across the unknickered underbits of her bum and impinge too on the pale beige skin of the backs of her thighs, close up under the buttocks. Sixteen strokes all told, but half of that number hidden under the pants; the seventeenth about to be delivered.
‘Ooooooghooooo!’ Her bum jerks forward a fraction of a second after the heavy, eighteen-inch ruler impacts on her knickers and part-bare bum. Without a steadying hand against her tummy, nudging up close under her breasts, she might have toppled across that left leg. As it is she just about keeps her balance; her hands squeeze frantically at her bottom, fresh chalky streaks adding to the finger marks already there on her knickers, except that a stripe has now been spanked across the chalk-dusted pants which the new finger-marks only partly occlude. A haze of white powder raised in a thin flurry by that last stroke, sifts down upon knickers and shivery bottom and trouser legs and…
Extract from Detention Room from Blushes 1:
…next girl’s essay was read out loud. Fault was found, inevitably. Her knickers came down and she too was strapped until she was sobbing uncontrollably. Each of the seven girls took her turn across her desk, bottom strapped until she had been introduced in no uncertain terms to the implement which was going to measure out the remaining hour and a half.
The strappings concluded, and two of the girls still weeping noisily, Mr Howell returned to his desk distinctly breathless.
With the sound of weeping fading gradually, the class stood beside their desks — fidgety, nervous, one girl rubbing at her bottom under her skirt, while the history teacher regained his breath sufficiently to announce that there would now be a quiz, the subject being history, of course.
An auburn-haired girl in the front row was directed to bend over her desk again, and arrange herself with her skirt rolled neatly to her waist and her knickers halfway down her thighs. Having done as she was told in a jittery muddle of trembling fingers and jellified knees, with her strapped bottom looming round and rosy behind her, she spluttered into tears, not knowing what she had done this time but certain that she wouldn’t be on her tummy across the desk again if that strap wasn’t going to revisit the tender places it had already attended to.
‘Now then — each of you will do precisely as this girl has done.’
With sideways looks, mystified, dubious, knowing that whatever was about to happen it was likely to be painful, the six girls still standing fiddled with their clothes, slipped their knickers down, shuffled into position across their own desks and kept their eyes on the strap as Mr Howell took it in his hand and began to patrol along the rows and down the aisles.
‘Pat — pat — splatt’ The sound of leather against palm set several bottoms twitching as their owners felt the passage of Mr Howell and his strap behind them, in their blind spots. The pacing finally stopped, directly behind the auburn-haired girl, and the playful splatt! of the strap across her heated buttocks made her whimper faintly in dread anticipation.
‘Battle of Hastings — when was it, girl?’
‘Um — ten sixty six, sir,’ she gasped, hands sneaking along her flanks as though she wanted to cover her nakedness but didn’t quite dare to do so.
‘Yes. You see — it’s easy, isn’t it.’ He strolled in a leisurely fashion to the next girl, with her bottom up-thrust, head down, eyes watching his feet as he stopped behind her.
‘Battle of Trafalgar?’
‘Um — er —’
‘Eighteen — what?’
‘Eighteen — um — ten, sir?’ Whack! The girl squealed as the strap smacked firmly across both of her bum-cheeks.
‘Oh five, miss. Eighteen oh five.’ Whack! ’Got it?’
‘Ooogh — ooh — y-yes sir — eighteen oh five, sir.’
Her hot little bottom shivered as the strap was laid thoughtfully across its twin rotundities.
‘One — eight — oh — five. Now then, what does one and eight and zero and five add up to, hmm?’
‘Er — eight, five — oh, and one — um — f-fourteen sir?’
‘Correct.’ And slowly, deliberately, the strap applied fourteen strokes, solid whacks each one, while the girl’s bottom jumped and swivelled and her hips bounced up from the desk with each stroke.
Fourteen fresh strokes, overlying the dozen or so she had already been given for the inadequacy of her essay, was enough to have the wretched girl in a frenzy of weeping before even half the punishment had been given her. When it was complete, after she had been ordered and eventually pushed back over her desk several times when the smart in her bottom had made her jerk to her feet, she couldn’t help but stand up again, doing a little dance on the spot as she clutched at her bum and sobbed loudly. Mr Howell passed on.
‘Battle of Waterloo?’ the strap splatted eagerly across the next obediently uplifted pair of buttocks, suffused with red in swathes which curved around each chubby cheek.
‘Um — er —’ She may well have known the answer, but the threat of the strap playing with her helpless bum-cheeks drove it from her mind. The only thing she could think about was the wretched vulnerability of her bottom.
Crack! The trembly cheeks squeezed together as the girl wormed her hips and clung to the edge of the desk, white-knuckled.
‘Eighteen fifteen. Add it up, girl.’
‘Ooo — oogh — eight, sir — and one — and one and five, sir — oogh — um — fifteen, sir.’
‘Er, yes sir. Fifteen sir.’ The strap flicked across the waiting buttocks.
‘Eighteen and fifteen? I make that thirty three, don’t you?’
The girl’s stifled groan said that, yes, if you looked at it that way, sir, it was thirty three.
‘But you make it fifteen, you say?’
‘S-sir — I’m sorry — I thought that was what you —’ She whimpered into silence.
The strap descended upon two more huddling, twitching, bobbing buttocks fifteen times, then the sobbing girl was told, ‘That’s your fifteen — eighteen you owe me.’
The strap stroked the full, sore, pert cheeks. It wasn’t her fault that her bottom’s impudently healthy invitation had taken the old man’s fancy.
‘You can come and get them tomorrow, in my storeroom, understood?’
‘Ooo — yes sir, yes. Tomorrow, sir — in your st-storeroom.’‘Quite so.’…
Extract from Social Climber from Blushes 8:
…All the other girls have found their pins; there are no voices raised to say otherwise. Mr Eversley looks at Janet, whose blushes heighten on the instant. ‘Your pins, Janet, are on the ledge at the bottom of the blackboard. Go and fetch them and then come here.’
‘Y-yes, sir —’ Janet slides out from behind her desk with a flash of pale thighs and goes to find her pins. She returns and stands self-consciously beside Mr Eversley, pins clutched in her hand.
‘Now then —’ he says to the class in general, and — holds out an open palm into which Janet places her pins after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Some of you will remember this from our last meeting in this room.’ Some of the girls; Victoria and Susan and pert-breasted Lucy; do indeed remember and not without rueful looks on their young faces. ‘Although in the ordinary way I suppose we might say that the skirt which each of you is wearing —’ (All grey, with pleats at the sides and back; all a regulation four whole inches above the knee) ‘ — could be described as roughly circular in shape, around the hem-line —’ Mr Eversley twirls a finger in front of Janet, his unwitting assistant in the forthcoming demonstration; being bright the girl catches on and does a halting pirouette then stops, blushing again at being made the centre of attention. ‘— for this evening’s purposes we shall regard skirts as having four corners.’
Bewildered looks on the faces of most of the girls afford Mr Eversley a slight smile as he sends Janet to bring a chair, on which, he says, she is to stand. The chair is clattered into position at the front of the class and Janet clambers up onto it.
‘Here,’ Mr Eversley plucks at the hem of Janet’s skirt where it runs across the front of her left thigh. He lifts it several inches higher than is strictly necessary, though he may be excused that since no doubt he wishes everyone to see clearly what he means. Janet’s thigh, up to and a fraction beyond the leg-elastic of her navy-blue knickers, is treated to a cursory but observant glance from Mr Eversley, before he makes the same demonstration with Janet’s skirt where it covers her other leg. Janet gets pinker in the cheeks by the second. ‘And here. Turn round, please Janet.’
Awkwardly Janet turns to face the blackboard.
‘Similarly at the back.’ Another pluck at the skirt and the crease along the underside of Janet’s chubby left bottom-cheek appears momentarily, the upward diagonal of her knickers seen for an instant. ‘One corner —’ Mid-thigh on the other side. ‘— and another. Everyone understand?’ A chorus of ‘yes sirs’ though muted. ‘Good. Now then — all of you place a safety pin at each of those four corners I have indicated, on your own skirts.
Several girls stand up to put the pins in at the front, while almost all do so to put in the back pins. Bare legs and the odd glimpse of navy blue can’t be helped as the girls pull their skirts round and twist them obliquely from the waist to see what they’re doing. One girl squeals as she sticks a pin in her finger: a couple accomplish the task still seated behind their desks. To Janet’s embarrassment Mr Eversley puts in her pins himself and doesn’t tell her to get down from the chair when he’s done it.
‘Sit down when you’ve done it,’ chairs scrape back under desks. ‘Hands on your head, please Janet.’
‘Sir! P-pardon, sir?’
‘Put your hands on your head, please.’
‘Er — yes sir.’ Janet reaches up and overlaps her hands across her crown, which makes her handful-sized breasts push themselves firmly against her blouse.
‘Pin number one — left thigh — goes here; when the time comes, that is,’ Mr Eversley takes Janet’s ‘number one’ pin, and with it, of course, the hem of her skirt and lifts it up to the apex of her left shoulder — he can reach quite comfortably — where he deftly slides it through the material of her blouse and clicks it shut. Janet’s skirt hangs like an untidy sash across her front while she blushes furiously; there being only some thirteen inches of skirt between hem and waistband when worn properly, and Mr Eversley having had to hoist it up quite tight in order to pin it to her shoulder. Janet’s knickers are visible from right hip to the waistband elastic on the other side, with indeed a tucked in ruck of the blouse the only thing hiding bare flesh above the top of the knickers. ‘Pin number two — right thigh.’
Each pin is put in in order, with Janet made to turn by degrees with her hands still on her head as each ‘corner’ is secured at shoulder level, and now that all four pins are made fast it is plain that one of those ‘certain ways’ in which the girl has gained Mr Eversley’s attention must surely have been the saucy-bottomed and plump-pubed way she fills out her slightly-too-small school knickers.
‘Face the class, Janet.’ Her bottom trembles firmly as its cheeks are obliged to brush themselves across the palm of Mr Eversley’s over-solicitous hand as she turns. She lets a faint ‘oooh’ of embarrassment escape her as a finger slips under the elastic at the waist of her knickers and runs across her tummy. This same digit dips into the hollow of her navel as a ruffle of tucked-in but now un-tucked blouse which fringes the waistband of the hoisted-up skirt is edged aside; Janet pulls her tummy away from this intrusion, which makes her bottom push out behind. Her knees and her soft thighs press virginally together but she is paid no particular heed.
‘I shall want no sloppy pinning-up of skirts. If they’re pinned up properly I should be able to see your navel —’ his fingertip wiggles teasingly and Janet tries to wangle away without falling off her chair. ‘Is all that quite clear?’
There are ‘yes sirs’ from everyone, though some responses are little more than nervous whispers; one girl at the back of the room gets uncertainly to her feet with the hem of her skirt in her hand. Another girl does the same…
Second half of the film to follow next week…