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Saturday, 30 November 2019

The Votary – Part 1

A lengthy but rewarding story in two parts from Janus 87 and 88 by Laurence Piper
Through the mist and rain I spy her. She is standing glumly in the drizzle, scornful of shelter. Her air is sullen, and she slumps under the weight of her shoulder bag as if in the terminal stages of ennui.
I raise my hand to toot the horn, but there is no need. She sees me almost at the same moment and a singular transformation takes place, like a butterfly emerging from the chrysalis. Her slight, wiry frame straightens, the boredom and Weltschmerz evaporate. Liveliness floods her features in a vivid smile as she stretches to wave eagerly.
I watch this transformation, as always, with a blend of joy and sadness. Joy that this enthusiasm is for me; sadness, because youth calls to youth. One day this brilliant butterfly will flutter out of my orbit and that eager smile will explode for someone else.
Now, however, if only for this brief while, she is mine. Only I, for the present, am the recipient of all that marvellous abundance as she tugs at the car door, tossing her hair meaningfully at the dripping sky. I lift the lock and she bursts into the car, soaked but elated, bag whizzing past my ear into the back seat.
‘Hello-ello-ello!’ she burbles, aiming a kiss at my cheek and landing on my eye. ‘Here we go again; back at the tingle factory.’
She plumps into the passenger seat, scrunching down voluptuously, while I regard her with exaggerated, amused  patience. ‘Come on, Come on!’ she cries, pounding at the dashboard. ‘Let’s go!’
‘Yes, all right,’ I respond, striving for firmness, almost spoiling it by breaking into laughter. ‘Soon as you’ve done up your seatbelt.’
‘Oh, poo!’ Disdainfully, as obediently she buckles up. ‘That is actually a very stupid law, you know.’
‘Yes, well,’ I say, drily. ‘That’s because we have stupid politicians. Now, then. Ready? Good.’
We move out into the flow of traffic while Linda cranes eagerly about, hungry for familiar sensations. Already her fine golden hair is recovering its spring. As I took at her from the corner of my eye, she flashes that smile again.
‘April home?’
‘Yes.’
Linda nods, her eyes once more sweeping the sky. Shivering, she snuggles down into her anorak. ‘It’s cold. And wet.’ Her sidelong glance, hesitant, wary, is not lost upon me. Inwardly I sigh. Outwardly I maintain a poker face. When next she speaks her voice is uncertain.
‘Just right for the moors…’
‘Is it?’ I reply unenthusiastically. This is her fantasy, not mine. To me it is nothing more than a cold, wet day in the wilds: an uncomfortable day altogether, and I would be warmly dressed!
‘You promised!’ Her voice, forlorn. The life has drained from her eyes and she slumps pouting in her seat. At 19, time is passing her by. If she does not do things now the chance may never come again.
‘I’m busy tomorrow,’ I say. ‘All day. Something I absolutely must do.’
Linda sighs, disappointed. Suddenly I realise that throughout the journey she has been peering from the window, gloating at the heavy skies and dreaming her dreams. Yet she is a generous young woman; besides, my word is her law. She swallows her chagrin bravely, sitting straight once more.
Touched, I all at once comprehend how much this means to her. Why, I cannot imagine; but it is, after all, a small sacrifice to make. ‘This lot has settled in for the weekend, you know,’ I tell her, compromising. ‘All weekend.’
Linda jumps up in her seat, clapping her hands. Then… we’ll do it?’
‘Sunday.’
Now it is settled, for if my word is her law it is also my bond.
Linda almost flings herself into my arms, but a look quiets her. She sits for a moment, still as stone. Her nature is too volatile, however, for her to be quiet long. In a minute she gives me an edgewise glance.
‘Did you get the switch?’
‘Oh, hell!’ I exclaim apologetically, resting my hand on hers. A small enough gesture, but sufficient. With a gentle pressure of her fingers, Linda forgives me.
‘I’ll get it,’ she says. ‘Tomorrow. As a prezzie.’ Then she adds cunningly, giving a sweet smile as she weighs my patience, ‘You’ll have to give me the money, though. I’m broke.’
‘If I get many presents like that I shall wind up in the workhouse,’ I observe ruefully.
‘Well, I’m only a poor student!’ A theatrical moan, while she giggles hysterically, waving her arms about.
Time to bring her to heel.
‘Position!’ I snap. Instantly she stills, facing firmly forward, back ramrod straight. Ankles crossed, she parts her knees and lets her hands fall, palms upturned, on to her thighs.
Linda loves this, this instant passage from excitement to obedient, responsive control. She is uncomfortable with choice. To her, any prescribed course of conduct, no matter how difficult or painful, is infinitely preferable to what I believe she regards almost as logical anarchy.
As always, obedience earns reward. I utter the words that never fail to stir her. ‘That’s better! How often must I speak to you about your behaviour? Well, if you won’t be told, you leave me no choice. I’m afraid I shall just have to smack your bottom.’
Her eyes glow, and her lips part fractionally. Otherwise she gives no sign. The remainder of the journey passes in silence, Linda jealously maintaining her pose, even on the bumpy lane that leads to home.
At the door I lean across and unclip her seatbelt. She does not move, however; permission has not yet been granted. She sits quietly as I undo her anorak and weigh a breast in each hand, squeezing gently through the thick woollen material of her shirt. Linda does not resent this. To her it is a reaffirmation of ownership, an assurance that she is still wanted.
‘In you go,’ I tell her, removing my hands from those electric mounds; and I kiss her gently on the corner of her mouth. Her eyes show that she would like to respond. But, with the docility so strenuously instilled in her, she goes indoors with a backward glance.
----//----
I have never paraded my passion for corporal punishment, for passion it truly is. Martha knew of it, of course, for she was my wife and the willing partner of my youth. With her death, however, it seemed that my participation in active CP was over.
As for my daughter, April, it never crossed my mind to use physical chastisement upon her. The thought of striking a child is repugnant to me, and one is anyway wary of arousing such predilections in one’s offspring. Instead, I used psychological methods of correction and instruction and had hardly a moment’s anxiety about her, perhaps because I was able to structure my career so that I could work from home and thus always be there when she needed me.
April was an extremely clever, precocious child. A hard worker, too, and consequently rather unpopular. She was lonely for companionship, but always denied. She was either ignored, teased or bullied. Only at home could she feel cosy and comfortable, and it was not until the Sixth Form that she began to make friends, most especially with Linda, who was almost as clever and quite as lonely as she.
They looked an unlikely pair. April was small and dark, the image of her mother, self-reliant and positive, while Linda was fair and slender with something of the waif about her heart-shaped face and wistful blue eyes. In her, loneliness had become an eagerness to please, a willingness to follow, that made her the ideal foil for my bossy-boots daughter. Yet although Linda could be led, could be compelled, it must only be by those whom she herself appointed to do so.
In all this, I too was lonely, for while raising my child had been an act of love in which any sacrifices had been willingly made, yet I sensed ‘life’ slipping by. It became a second-hand thing, especially my long-repressed passion for recreational CP.
As far as I had been aware, April knew nothing of my interests. It may be, however, for she was a curious child, that she found the books and magazines I kept ‘hidden’ from her.
However it came about, she obviously was aware, and had presumably mentioned it to Linda in one of those marathon talks in which they breach the dams of solitude together.
Linda was a regular visitor. She is by nature aloof, apparently sulky, and somewhat hypercritical. Few have gained her approval, including her own family; although she is at last beginning to tolerate them, perhaps because the treatment she receives at my hands relaxes or releases inbuilt hostilities.
For the rare ones who have won her approval, though, all the rich sweetness of her heart is freely bestowed. Among these, April and I figure most prominently — for there is not much that will shock, still less surprise, us; and she enjoys the relaxed atmosphere of our house.
For myself, Linda was welcome only as the companion April so sorely needed. Soon, however, I began to see beyond the defensive sullenness to the endearing girl beneath, and grew to like her very much. I respected her considerable qualities of mind and her wide-ranging talents. In turn, as she grew more involved with us, she took great interest in my work, offering eager assistance that proved of enormous help. Then I began to welcome her presence for its own sake as I watched her blossom from a gawky adolescent to a lissom beauty of 19.
Linda loved especially to share our walks. I have always had a passion for the nearby moors. So, as a child, did April, striding alongside me for miles, small, sturdy, and endlessly questioning. With the appearance of Linda her interest reawakened briefly. Most weekends would find us with packed lunches exploring the desolate sweep of grassland and the gently folding hills. Those came as a revelation to Linda. The lonely wilds seemed to call to something within her. She felt, it seemed, an almost religious awe as she walked, for the first time, among scenes that appeared to have had for her the welcoming warmth of the familiar and well-loved.
This uncanny sense of welcome seemed especially cordial at one of my own favourite spots. Set in the steep hillside, it was little more than a deep recess in the rock, circling narrowly about a slab of granite lying at the entrance. To my eye this slab looked too regular, deliberate and convenient to be an accident of nature. The size of a medium dining-table, its flat rectangular top was at waist height. Just the place, I thought, for the celebration of primitive rites.
On Linda its effect was dramatic. On catching sight of it she stood wide-eyed, staring fixedly as if at something long-lost and newly rediscovered. She moved towards it with a cautious, almost reverential air, slowly circling the stone slab. I began to comment on the shape and situation of the place but she stopped me with an impatient toss of her blonde curls. To her, speculation was unnecessary. She knew, and in that knowledge I was somehow implicated.
On subsequent walks Linda would accompany me with a taut eagerness, impelling me, it seemed, to the cave and its ‘altar stone’. When I questioned her about her obvious fascination for the site, her lips closed obstinately tight. What she knew, or thought she knew, was not for sharing: although once she talked of ancient rites, knowledgeably and confidently, as if convinced that they had been celebrated at this very spot. She began to confide her inmost thoughts when we were alone and, because I treated them seriously, Linda attached herself to me.
Quite how attached she was becoming, I did not realise. These things develop unnoticed. She had a quality of startling frankness with those she trusted, asking the most surprising questions; to which I tried to give clear, unstartled answers.
Her parents were happy that Linda was spending so much time with us. They were fond of her but could not make her out and, I think, writhed under the lash of her scorn. At first they would phone to check on her, but eventually accepted that she was in good hands, that I would always see her safely home.
Her growing attachment to me was not lost on April, who observed us with close interest. ‘Mark my words, Dad,’ she observed. That kid is getting the hots for you.’ April was going through a stage where she was conscious of her three-week superiority of age.
I was shocked. ‘Nonsense!’
April grinned. ‘You’ll see. But be warned, Dad. That one knows her own mind…’
I thought of what she had said, then dismissed it from my mind. I did, however, register her rather surprising approval, for while the young claim licence for themselves they are inclined to be narrow-minded where their elders’ morals are concerned. I didn’t believe it, of course: youth calls to youth — not to work-worn, middle-aged men.
----//----
So time passed. The girls took their ‘A’ levels, winning places at different universities, both within easy distance. I drove April to her hall of residence, and watched my little girl walk into her future with a sore heart. Now she no longer belonged entirely to me. She was a woman, and I was going to miss her.
They left for their first term shy and uncertain fledglings. As they came home for the odd weekend, I could measure their growing confidence. When they met now their heads were stuck together, gold against black, while they exchanged confidences from which I was excluded. This was only natural and right, and I was careful to respect their privacy.
Quite how much they had matured was demonstrated one Sunday evening during their first term. Linda had formed a habit of taking little digs at me, mocking me gently, and at times I was hard put to hold my own.
One evening I turned on her in mock anger. ‘If you don’t watch it, young lady,’ I exclaimed, ‘I shall turn you over my knee and give you a good spanking!’
Having said it, I could have sunk through the floor. I had never even casually mentioned spanking before, nor could I understand what mental aberration made me do so now.
My confusion was compounded by Linda, who stood stock still, gazing at me with wide eyes and parted lips, her face flushed. I was mortified at having embarrassed the girl. April, however, seized on my words gleefully.
‘Watch   out,   Linda!’   she   teased, whenever I made the slightest move. ‘He’s coming after you, Linda!  Sit down, so’s he can’t get at you…’
Linda quickly recovered her poise, and began to make a joke of it too, although that remote look was still at the back of her eyes. Between them they made such a joke of it that I, too, pretended to go along with it all as the easiest way out of a sticky situation. It got rather tiresome, though, with April constantly ‘warning’, and Linda backing ostentatiously away from me whenever I approached.
To be honest, they were rather a nuisance that evening, especially as April began grabbing Linda and pretending to throw the shrieking girl over my lap. It is hard to endure the relentless spirits of the young, and these two were determinedly silly, although it was April who kept the joke going whenever it seemed to flag.
In the hope of calming them down I took them to an Italian restaurant, before driving them back to their universities. Of course, they demanded wine with the meal, which only had the effect of making them more giggly than ever. I, having many miles to drive, contented myself with water or coffee, while Linda poked gentle fun at me, and April, with noisy excitement, jumped about and took the micky out of us both. Despite a growing irritation at the silliness of it all, it was really a warm and jolly little party.
As the girls’ colleges are roughly equidistant I would sometimes drop Linda off first, wanting a word with April free from the constraints of home. But this evening April said she had an urgent essay to finish, though I rather suspect that they had fixed the matter between them. Whatever the reason, they kept up the ‘joke’ throughout the journey until I was nearly mad with irritation.
Even after we had dropped April, Linda persisted until my lack of response deterred her. As she got out of the car at her university, however, she had one last crack to make.
‘P’raps it would be safer if I backed out.’
Thoroughly annoyed, I turned to her. ‘If you don’t drop the subject for good and all, my girl,’ I said icily, ‘I really will put you over my knee!’
She was kneeling on the front seat and lifting out her bag. In the face of my angry stare she grew quite still, her blue eyes, widened and rounded, meeting mine full on.
‘All right, then; why don’t you?’
‘What?’ I said, stupidly, for there was no mistaking that she was deadly serious.
‘You heard.’ There was a note of bravado in her voice, then she went on rather shakily: ‘I wouldn’t mind.’
I stared at Linda in the gloom, struggling to clear my head, to deal with tact and delicacy with a totally unlooked-for situation.
‘You don’t mean that…’ I floundered.
‘Oh, yes, I do!’ No quiver in her voice now, and her look was frank. ‘I want you to. I want you to put me over your knee, take down my knickers and give me a good, sound spanking on my bare bottom. Just like in those magazines of yours. And when you’ve done that…’
‘What?’ I asked, in a voice I did not recognise. Linda smiled.
‘Why, then you can start all over again; and again, and again. Anything you like.’
Benumbed by sudden, entrancing visions I shook myself into coherence. ‘Look, Linda,’ I blustered, ‘I’m old enough to be your father…’
Even in my own ears it sounded pompous. Linda gurgled joyously. ‘Silly old Harry!’ she murmured in the tone of one much older and wiser than I. ‘Dear, silly old Harry!’
And she bent and kissed me softly on the lips. It spoke volumes. I know in my heart that one day Linda will leave for someone younger. But I remember that kiss, and I wonder…
‘We belong together, Harry,’ breathed this entrancing young minx as her soft lips touched mine yet again and she addressed me, for the third and last time, by my Christian name. ‘We do, you know. I knew it the first time I saw that place.’
‘What place?’ But she was already out of the car, bag over her shoulder as she walked with hips swivelling exaggeratedly to the door of the residence. Once there, she turned and waved at where I sat staring.
‘Next weekend,’ she called. ‘Just you and me.’
Then, she was gone.
I drove home in a daze. Until that moment I had honestly not realised how frustrated I had become, how much I missed CP. Till then it had been a need thrust out of mind. Now opportunity had thrust it very much back in again, an opportunity I could not with honour seize! As an older man it was my responsibility to put a stop to this business before it got out of hand.
But, oh! to have the lovely Linda bare-bottomed across my lap! To spank those firm little apple cheeks to a bright pippin red! To have her bent over, hands gripping ankles, while my cane made those tender buttocks jump and flinch!
It was one hell of an opportunity I was turning down.
I slept poorly that night and could not settle to work next day, fuddled as I was by visions of what could be were I just that touch unscrupulous. In the afternoon I gave it up and went for a walk on the moors, finding after long hours of strolling that I had by some freak arrived at the cave, its walls dripping in the misty afternoon and the granite table sheened with damp.
Usually, I found peace of mind here. Today, however, it only increased the confusion in my brain. It was as if messages were floating on the moist damp air, messages I could neither quite hear not translate.
Again, my sleep was fitful. Tumbled dreams and turbulent thoughts combined to keep my waking until, about 4.30, I rose and went to my desk, burying myself and my confusion in work. The next thing of which I was conscious was the trilling of the alarm. I raised my eyes in surprise, staring out of the window to see the rising sun beginning to touch in the hues of the day.
Breakfast was out of the question. In my exhausted mood the thought of food was nauseating. Coffee was another matter. I made a cup, carrying it back to the bedroom while I sorted out fresh clothes. Just for a moment I lay down, coffee steaming to hand, and closed my eyes to think — of Linda, and all I knew of her and her character; of my life and where it was going.
When I awoke it was noon, and I was starving. Picking up the congealed coffee I made for the kitchen and a scratch meal. As I prepared it, I was startled to hear myself whistling. I paused, knife in mid-air, and took survey of my inner self. Confusion, doubt, irritation had all vanished, leaving a happy certainty, for it seemed that during my sleep my brain had been processing data and drawing conclusions.
Dimly, at the back of my mind, a Cassandra whispered direly of future loss; of handsome, forceful younger men who would enter the scene and leave me lonelier than before. Yet the larger part of me was accepting that nothing is forever, that to refuse present joy for fear of future pain was to abdicate from living entirely. The thorns come with the rose, and none may escape their jab.
----//----
Even before I opened the kitchen door that Friday evening, I recognised her outline through the pebbled glass. My heart lurched, excited and anticipatory, as I opened the door and realised that she, too, had seen my silhouette and was looking desperately for a clue as to how she should act.
‘Come in, Linda.’
Was that easy, authoritative voice mine? I was surprised. As for Linda, instead of her usual bouncing in, she was hesitant. Even so, as she entered she suddenly flashed an upward glance from those brilliant eyes that nearly buckled my knees.
‘Uh… coffee?’
She nodded, letting her bag fall with a thump, watching as I poured. There was silence between us, heavily uncertain. Frantically I racked my brain for a neutral topic.
‘Good journey?’ I asked, at last. She shrugged.
‘So-so.’
Tension grew. The atmosphere, strained already, rapidly deteriorated. Almost, we were strangers. I saw that unless I did something positive the gulf would become unbridgeable.
The move I did make was a monumental risk. After all, I had no way of knowing whether Linda had been completely serious, or whether she had changed her mind. But she had, after all, arrived, and any move was surely better than none. I drew in my breath and put down my cup with as decisive an air as I could muster.
‘This won’t do at all,’ I said firmly. ‘We won’t get anywhere until we get this other business out of the way.’ I grasped her wrist. ‘Come along…’
Her whole body quivered at my touch, but she followed the urging of my hand meekly enough as I moved her into the dimly fire-lit lounge and settled myself into a chair.
‘Now, then…’
I reached for the waistband of her jeans. Standing with blonde head bowed, staring intently at the floor, Linda flicked my fingers away.
‘I’ll do it!’
Without so much as a glance at me she slid the zipper down. The jeans were skin-tight. At any other time it would have been laughable to watch as Linda urged them frantically down, wriggling and pushing while her eyes glistened reflectively in the firelight and the blood roared in my temples. At last, however, they were bundled about her knees, her knickers with them, while long firm thighs and a triangle of crisp fair curls were fleetingly revealed.
Oddly enough, as I became excited Linda seemed to grow calmer, and it was with an almost matter-of-fact air that she went about settling herself over my knees.
It had been years since I had had a young woman in this position — or, indeed, any position at all, and I had forgotten the astonishing compactness of weight and warmth. Linda hung easily over my lap, half kneeling on the carpet, the modesty of her backside still as yet protected by the tail of her thick woollen shirt.
Not for long, however. As I urged her more conveniently over my lap I reached eagerly to lift that last veil, to remove the final barrier between ripe, ready buttocks and my eager palm. Nor was I to be disappointed, for the bare bottom that discovered itself to my dazzled gaze was full, and round, and silky; cool to my touch yet pulsing with desirous heat.
Feeling my hand on her nether cheeks, Linda lifted her head, craning back curiously at me as I eyed my prize greedily, fondling those exuberant rondures which quivered so responsively to my caress.
Her look was absent, almost enquiring. Timorously, she seemed to be actually begging approval for the bare bottom she was offering me. Yet there was an eagerness too, and over the hoarse sound of my own breathing I could sense the light panting of Linda’s respiration; could half sense, half see the gleaming teeth biting nervously into her lower lip.
Her mouth fell open. A sound, part sigh and part moan, escaped her lips. Then, in a surrender which caused her whole body to sag bonelessly, her head dropped towards the carpet.
As if at a signal, I raised my hand and brought it down resoundingly on to the fullness of Linda’s right buttock. She jerked convulsively, gasping with surprise, and the imprint of my fingers bloomed, pink into white, over her quivering bottom.
Eagerly I smacked again, this time full over the left cheek. Once more Linda jumped and jiggled as I watched the imprint of my hand, like a proprietary brand or some exotic declaration of possession, double-imaged on the creamy roundness of her bare backside.
Linda’s head dropped lower still. Her knees tightened, her toes pushing at the carpet, urging her bottom up to me in an acceptance, full and free, of my absolute right — my obligation, even — to chastise those nakedly bounteous orbs.
Taking the sign at face value I began smacking at her bottom vigorously in a steady, rhythmic action, my hand bouncing delightfully from those glorious globes while the room echoed with the meaty impacts of palm meeting bottom-cheeks, and with the moans and soft sighs as Linda reacted to the stinging of her buttocks which were colouring enchantingly, soft strawberry on twin mounds of cream as my deliberately light spanks stirred them into warmth beneath the silky skin.
I was spanking her busily, gradually increasing the force of the smacks as I found Linda’s bottom able to absorb them. I was taken by surprise when, with a surge of her hips, she gave an impatient wiggle of her bum. It was a sign, unmistakable and direct, that I should stop playing around and spank her properly; although I think the force of my next smack astonished her, for as I responded to her unstated demand she cried out aloud.
In the next few minutes her distress became an uninterrupted sighing wail as I settled to my task and her bottom bucked and wriggled over my lap. I have to give Linda her due: having provoked the severity of her spanking she tried to accept it with humility and endurance. But, whether her bum was tender for lack of such attentions, or merely because of the embarrassing novelty of her position, she was crying lustily long before I had had my fill of spanking those delectable mounds. Indeed, the very mobility of her bottom over my knee, which made my spanking of her that much more difficult, only provoked me all the more, so I circled her slim waist in my left arm and gave her my very best shots.
When finally, with fiercely stinging palms, I stopped smacking her bottom, Linda hung over my lap sobbing, those marvellous buttocks clenching busily, urging in the smart. I rubbed gently at the ravaged cheeks, murmuring soothingly until, with a soft rustle, Linda slid gracefully to the carpet.
I saw that her face was as crimson as her bum. Her blue eyes glittered wetly. As I sat trembling slightly, gazing at her, Linda frantically kicked her legs free of the encumbering jeans and knickers…
Later, leaning against the kitchen counter, I watched with proprietorial pride as Linda, clad only in the gaping wool shirt, hummed as she prepared bacon and eggs. Her colour was high, and there was a light and happy look on her face. From time to time she would absentmindedly lift the tail of her shirt and rub reflectively at her shapely, well-spanked bottom. Once or twice, as she did so, she looked up and caught my eye with a cheeky, conspiratorial grin. We did not speak, for we had no need of words.
Only when we were eating did I glance over at where Linda was forking food into her mouth with single-minded appetite.
‘How do you feel?’
Her smile was like the sun bursting through cloud. ‘Great! I feel really good. But I have an idea it won’t be long before I will be naughty again…’
We woke late next morning to a sunny, warm, late-autumn day. Linda moved busily about, making up shopping lists, preparing meals, organising a hundred little things with a happy air of performing habitual tasks. In fact there was more than a hint of feminine bossiness as she offered me suggestions that were lightly veiled commands. Yet in everything she did there was a charming diffidence, as if it were an understood thing that this was a game she were playing — an excuse, if one were wanted, for calling her to order. We hardly spoke, for all our actions were lit with that inner grace that comes from a shared completeness. From time to time Linda would stare at me with a questioning, wondering look and I would smile back, knowing exactly what she was feeling, for that wonder was within me too.
It was lunchtime. Linda was just clearing the first course when she paused, plates in hand.
‘When are you going to cane me?’
Her tone reminded me of an impatient wife enquiring of her husband when he was going to stop lazing around and get on with the redecorating. I answered in the same spirit.
‘Bedtime. I’ll cane you at bedtime.’
‘Oh! Okay!’
----//----
‘Six,’ I said.
Linda had just emerged from the bathroom fluffing out the shining gold nimbus of her hair, and had just opened her mouth to speak when she caught sight of the cane in my hands. For someone who had demanded it, her reaction was extraordinary. She stopped, stock-still and wide-eyed. I heard her gasp almost inaudibly as she caught her lower lip in her teeth, and her face coloured like a sunset.
‘O’ny six?’ In that country voice she uses when she is stressed. A look, almost of disdain, came into her eyes. Her glance moved from my face back to the cane, which she now began to eye with frank curiosity.
I smiled. ‘I think you will find that quite enough, young lady, especially for your first experience.’
How easy my voice sounded! How natural and firm, with no tremor to betray the boiling excitement within me that threatened at any moment to get out of hand. No trace of the nervousness I felt, either. It had been many years since I had caned a young woman’s bottom, and I was afraid of making mistakes, of spoiling things.
As for Linda, her reaction to my words was surprising, for her mouth turned down and her lower lip protruded sulkily. Obviously she did not believe me when I said that six would be enough and equally obviously she resented my putting bounds to her powers of endurance. For one moment it seemed as though it might all go sour. Then, with an indifferent shrug, Linda slipped her dressing gown off her shoulders to stand before me, naked and stunningly desirable.
I stared at the vision of her greedily while she posed poutingly: at her breasts, firm and full, the nipples revealingly erectile from the pale pink areolae; at the glowing, rounded belly that flowed sweetly into a tangle of clustered honey curls, and the long, perfect legs; while, reflected in the cheval glass mirror, were the round tensile cheeks of her bottom, snowy mounds which quivered eagerly for the cane’s first kiss.
‘Where d’you want me?’ Her voice, overlaid with sulkiness, broke the thread of my enchantment and I wrenched my thoughts from that vibrant nudity to the matter at hand. Time, I thought, to get on with it, for it was plain that she would not become her usual sweet, reasonable self until the cane had scored that delectable bottom of hers with its own convincing argument.
‘Bend over.’
For one moment more she resisted. Then, arching her supple spine, thrusting her buttocks back at me defiantly, Linda waited, hands on knees. Her gaze was directed disdainfully ahead of her even when, unable to resist the lure of those full satiny orbs, I reached out and fondled her backside. She gave no sign, and not until I tapped the cane measuringly across the span of her proud arse did she look back speculatively at the slender rod.
ThhhwwwuuPPP!
‘Owwooh!’
With an almighty leap Linda jumped about six feet forward, her hands flying to grip her haunches as she hopped frantically about, breasts jiggling rhythmically responsive.
Christ! That bloody hurt!’
‘Told you it would!’ Smugly, noting with satisfaction that the tears were already coursing down her face while she stared from me to the cane with a new, respectful dread subtly layered with anticipation.
Wowww! Look what it’s done to my poor bum!’ she continued, peering over her shoulder to view her buttocks in the mirror, and tracing the blossoming stripe with fascinated fingers.
‘Never mind,’ I said, unfeelingly. ‘Only five more to go. Now stop messing about and get bent over again.’
She did not quite want to, even though her body began to bend involuntarily before jerking upright once more. Not until I held the cane before her wondering gaze, lowering it slowly until it pointed at the floor, did she obey, her body following its lead as if hypnotised. Then she was bent down again, hands on knees as before, though her haunches cringed away now instead of being boldly proffered as a target, and I had to wait patiently while her hands flickered protectively over those perfect nether-cheeks, graced as they were with the single streak that marked her entry into the novitiate of the cane.
Her weakness was only brief. In a moment Linda drew a deep breath and returned her hands firmly to her knees, hollowing her back in generous offering of her posterior to me.
Thhhwwicckkk!
‘Aaarrrgghhh!’ Again the agonised hop and skip, the clenching of frantic buttocks then the reluctantly eager resumption of her punitive posture. The twin stripes stood out proudly over the creamy cheeks, describing a rough V. Not good, I told myself, even as Linda settled unprompted into position. I needed practice to control the direction of my stroke.
Thhhwiiccckkk!
‘Ooohhhooohhh!’
Now she was prepared for it, her body swaying only slightly as the cane drew a third sizzling stripe into being. For the remainder of her punishment Linda maintained her position stoically while I joyfully decorated that alabaster arse with three more pinkly-glowing tracks, and only her resounding cries betrayed what she suffered.
When at last I stood back, breathing hard, staring at the six blossoming lines of livid pink that proclaimed my prowess and her submissiveness to me. Linda came nestling against me, weeping into my shoulder, clasped in my arms as her own hands gripped and kneaded those stinging rotundities.
I held her soothingly, raining kisses on the top of her head as she sobbed into my dressing gown. No word had been spoken; none was needed. There was a closeness between us now that transcended the mere using and being used. What had occurred between us had spanned the gulf between the islands of self and we had merged, chastiser and chastised, into the dual power of completeness.
Presently Linda regained control. She ceased to weep, and eased herself from my arms. She quivered, still gripping at her bum, and regarded the cane with brimming eyes, her face a blank upon which decision had yet to be written. Then, abruptly, it was. She bent once more, fully this time, grasping her ankles and offering her bottom with confidence.
‘One more!’
‘Well, you asked for it,’ I said, and brought the cane singing down across those taut expectant buttocks as hard as I could, intersecting all the other stripes with this final stroke.
Now Linda could surrender, as if a wall had been breached between us. Now she could cling to me, crying out her pain. There was trust, and a deep peace, between us as we lay entwined in the deep dark of the night. She could give herself to me with all the hungry abandon of her urgent nature, safe in the knowledge of the power she had given me in resigning that marvellous bottom to my clemency. Thus it was that in the peace of the pre-dawn she felt able to wake me once more to murmur her dream of the cave on the moors.
To be continued…

Friday, 29 November 2019

Letters from Blushes 6

From Blushes 6
Cambridge, Oct 1984.
It is always a joy to greet a brilliant newcomer on any stage, whether that stage be the arts, journalism, the sports field or the political arena. When the particular stage is the CP press it is doubly a joy, and when the brilliant newcomer is of the quality of Blushes, then that joy is unbridled.
To which I can only add this: Blushes is not just another CP magazine, but one that fills the gap left by the others. One would think, from the number of titles now available to the spanking enthusiast, that we were rich in literature. However, behind the covers of these apparently varied publications is a numbing monotony, and much that is simply shoddy. True, one has a fine artist — but he seems sadly inhibited by the magazine’s lack of ‘balls’. Another produces splendid, sharp colour photographs of wealed bottoms, but takes all the satisfaction out of them with its insipid copy, insisting that the cane is a nice stimulant to nice lovemaking between nice couples. Another fills half the publication with letters even more fanciful than they are illiterate. Another seems determined never to use a model under forty, or dressed in anything that remained in fashion when rationing went out…
For one who finds a constant pleasure in the mere thought of pretty girls being beaten, it is difficult to believe that so many words and pictures can be wasted on the subject without a spark of stimulation being produced. Now, I’m quite willing to believe that tastes can vary tremendously even within a fairly specific enthusiasm. But is it really feasible that the vast majority of people who buy these magazines want to read about spanking only as a means of turning on a partner? It seems as likely to suppose that folk read Horse and Hound because they like to see little foxes getting plenty of healthy exercise.
However, all hail Blushes, which seems to give the pendulum an almighty and persuasive push back in the right direction. Your text is full of deliciously open enjoyment of the vulnerability of teenage girls, celebrating the ways in which adult male authority can be used to devastating effect against their fragile defences. How smugly you contemplate the erotic power of the school uniform, which so nicely denies an adolescent the right to self-expression, labelling her instead as subject to the whim, will and indoctrination of older and wiser people. When a teenage girl dresses herself she emphasises those aspects of her character and figure which she wants the world to see in her. When she is made to wear school uniform she has our standards imposed upon her — she is unable to create an impression of anything other than immaturity. Her individuality is no longer defined by her personality, but by her physiology. She may be a leggy schoolgirl, a fat schoolgirl, a blonde schoolgirl or a big-breasted schoolgirl, but she is a schoolgirl first and foremost and thus unwillingly packaged as a sex object for our delectation.
The full implications of this are spelt out in Blushes. She will be subject to discipline — she has to do what she is told, whether she thinks it right or wrong, or else she will be punished. We all hope it will be physical punishment, but even if not, she will be subject to male fantasies about physical punishment. As she trots home from school, men will be eyeing her up, thinking about her bottom, and they will be imagining her squirming and squealing as a strap or cane lashes across her suffering behind. Your magazine is a wonderful stimulant to such delightful notions — it proclaims loud and clear that teenage schoolgirls have lovely wobbly arses and that thrashing them is damned good fun.
Please continue to concentrate on the present-day teenager. We like to be able to interchange the sweet young things we meet in daily life with the characters in your stories and the girls in your photographs. Blushes helps to give substance to our daydreams and stratagems. While other magazines seek to imply that corporal punishment belongs to some faraway St Trinian’s memory, Blushes helps us to picture young Sally from the house opposite, knickers down with a dozen blazing strap weals across her plump haunches — or nubile Wendy, who works in the newsagents on school holidays, blubbering out unheeded protests as she lies spread-eagled in her bedroom, wondering what will happen next.
What could you possibly do to improve Blushes? Well, I can’t agree with A.D. of Derbyshire in Blushes 3 when he asks for no letters page. I think he has been misled by the magazines which don’t bother to select only the best letters. A letters page allows us to participate in the good work and it brings some fascinating cases to light — witness the systematic humiliation of ‘Christine’ by D.M. of Norwich in Blushes 2. Surely you wouldn’t want to be without that little piece of cockteaser control, A.D.? But please ask your correspondents to distinguish between fact and fantasy. If the girl you photographed on the beach last summer arouses a particular desire within you, write and tell us what you would like to do to her (and send in the pic for publication so we can join in) — but don’t make up some wild story about her and try to pass it off as truth.
I would also like to see some correspondence regarding celebrity chastisement. The press used to contain a fascinating forum on the drastic punishments deserved by famous females, but for some reason the magazines got cold feet a few years back.
As a consequence, some star bottoms have been making their debuts on our TV screens without anyone drawing attention to their potential. One of the biggest (bottoms and potentials) belongs to Janet Ellis, the new crumpet on the children’s programme Blue Peter. She has large and somewhat floppy breasts which seem rather an embarrassment to her, but they’re not half as embarrassing as her broad and solid backside. If I had my way Janet, I’d set up a deckchair in the cellar where we won’t be disturbed. I’d settle myself in it and have you remove your dress. You pose mournfully in front of me in bra and pants while I look you over. Then I have you turn round before taking off your shoes so that I can watch your bottom bulging fatly out above and below your knickers as you bend to the task. You stay bending while I slowly take your pants down, displaying your inelegant white buttocks to my amusement and your eternal shame. Now I’ll have you shuffle your feet apart (remember I’m still in my deckchair with my face about eighteen inches from your quivering moons), dip your hips, adjust your position for at least five minutes while your back begins to ache unbearably with the strain. Your massive bottom has my full attention and I make sure you appreciate the crushing irony of having to present your rump to me and lewdly stick it out until I’m completely satisfied that it is utterly vulnerable to the cane.
By that time, when I’m finally ready to flog you, you are weeping copiously, salty tears running down your face and dripping onto the cellar floor. Don’t imagine that you have stirred my sympathy though — the stirrings will be of quite a different kind.
I will make you count the strokes out loud as I lay into your fat cheeks. It’s not that I have any intention of limiting your punishment to any predetermined number — just that I want to hear that irritating cut-glass accent of yours cracking under the pain.
After, say, a couple of dozen searing strokes from my whippiest cane I’ll have you straighten up, face me, and step out of your half-masted knickers and take off your brassiere. Then you can start some vigorous running on the spot, with your big tits bouncing about like a couple of balloons full of custard. I’ll make sure you put plenty of effort into it, give you plenty of encouragement with nonchalant slashes of the bamboo across your thighs. As if the discomfort to your unfettered breasts isn’t enough, the weals on your bottom are beginning to swell, tightening the flesh and making it a real torment to get your knees up to my satisfaction. When you are quite out of breath, a veritable picture of dishevelled and sobbing defeat, you can kneel on the floor, flatten your hands in front of you, stick your rump up and spread it for a final devastating leathering from my belt. I’d love to see your fat arse after that little lot, Janet Ellis!
Do any other readers have favourite fantasies about female celebrities? Might the names Shirley Strong, Floella Benjamin, Sarah Kennedy or Bonnie Langford conjure up a response?
Tom G.
Occupation ‘Diplomat’, T.G?
Central London
With (at the time of writing) only three issues, Blushes has established itself as the world leader in magazines dealing with schoolgirls, discipline, uniforms and all the other essentials to a happy life. Your stories are literate, atmospheric and often wickedly funny; your photographs are a tonic, with lovely models who look young and fresh and pleasingly plump especially around the buttocks; your drawings are skilful, apposite and witty.
It is, however, a letter which you published that has prompted me to write. I felt I had to express my appreciation of the account by your Norwich reader of Christine’s office ordeal and the most enjoyable photos which accompanied it. Thank you, sir, for sharing that teenage bottom with us and thank you, Blushes, for publishing the details in all their glory.
While reading the letter, relishing the thoroughness with which a sensitive little 17-year-old had been humiliated and exploited — and while gazing with delight at the pictures of her sore, bare bum — I experienced the largest and hardest erection of my life. That, surely, is what it’s all about.
It isn’t often that a girl is silly (or obedient) enough to allow her punished bum to be photographed. That was a very special element of the ‘Christine’ story. However, it is always pleasant to look at photographs of girls who are known to be subject to thrashings, even if it’s only a demure facial portrait (though the more flesh on display, the better). There is a deep satisfaction in being able to look over a teenage girl, ostensibly a young lady of dignity and confidence, in the certain knowledge that she is regularly reduced to a howling, squirming, pathetic little girl. What a joy it is to peruse her pretty features while reading all the details of the painful and humiliating regime she is made to undergo! And the wholly desirable effect of humiliation is increased by the publication of her picture.
A couple of years ago there were encouraging signs that one of the top spanking magazines was going to publish a regular gallery of such pictures. One can imagine the delights: ‘This is Sharon, aged 16, who is strapped on the bare bottom on average twice a week.’ — ‘Here we see Rebecca in her netball kit; on the evening of the match she was given eight strokes of the cane to discourage smoking, some of the stripes falling across the firm young thighs you can see in the picture.’ — ‘This photo shows Valerie, my 17-year-old stepdaughter, in her school uniform. She has been caned 3 times at school and is given regular slipperings on her large bum by myself. She is a real cry-baby, but that doesn’t stop me from walloping her as hard as I can.’
It would be a marvellous addition to Blushes if a ‘gallery’ feature such as this could become regular. I would also like to see readers’ candid photographs taken on sports-fields, local swimming pools, tennis courts or beaches, which feature teenagers in knicker-showing or bum-emphasising poses. Or any pictures of girls in uniform (drum-majorettes, girl-guides, Salvation Army, nurses, as well as schoolgirls).
The other main areas in which Blushes might improve and expand would be in the reprinting of newspaper articles. I’d love to see some of the famous case-histories alongside your stimulating photographs. Not just CP stories, though, anything titillating involving schoolgirls, nurses, or the other luscious pets that make Blushes what it is.
It is so nice to have a magazine which concentrates on spanking and caning as punishment, and not as some frivolous activity between lovers. You rightly assume that your readers are a bunch of smug, lecherous bastards who like nothing better than to see some sweet young angel whacked into blubbering submission — the less they like it, the more we enjoy it. Could we possibly see more evidence of tears on the girls’ faces? This is the only respect in which other magazines outdo you. The sight of a schoolgirl’s face screwed up in pain and anguish as the salt water streams down her cheeks is one of the finest in nature — surpassed only, perhaps, by the sight of raised weals and welts on a teenage bottom.
I look forward to future issues of Blushes.
C.P.

Barnet, Herts.
Dear Sir,
In a recent edition of your magazine you asked for the woman’s view, and my husband suggested that I wrote this to you to give a sort of birds-eye view, as it were.
It is very difficult to pinpoint where exactly my fascination with corporal punishment began. As a young girl, I am now in my thirties, I remember avidly watching Billy Bunter, and I seem to recall that any film or T.V. programmes that had a school in them usually had a caning sequence. Mostly it was boys that were caned but my memory seems to recall a few girls, including one girl at a Victorian school getting it on her bottom.
As a schoolgirl, corporal punishment was very much a way of life in the classroom, and even in infants school we were smacked, usually on our legs, but for something very naughty, we got smacked on our bottoms. I certainly believed, as I think did the rest of the children, that there was a cane lurking somewhere in the classroom, and that there was certainly one in the Headmistress’s office. This ensured that normally our behaviour was very good.
At Junior school, at the age of seven, I recall that our teacher, one Mrs Graves, seemed to have a fascination with corporal punishment. All the many stories she used to tell us usually finished up with the boy or girl concerned getting the cane from our Headmaster. In our classroom was a very tall cupboard, much too tall for a seven-year-old to see what was on the top. Mrs Graves assured us that that was where her cane was kept, which had been used on several boys and girls ‘last year’. We were never able to prove, or disprove the existence of this cane, as although we often promised to climb onto the cupboard during play time, we never actually did.
Despite all of her talk about her cane, the only punishment Mrs Graves ever dished out was the ruler across the left hand, which caused some of us to cry, but being a brave girl I always just managed to hold the tears back.
Our second year teacher was a confirmed leg slapper, although if a boy really did step out of line he might get hit on his bottom with a ruler. I really used to hate having my legs slapped on a cold day as her hand really did sting!
The third year teacher was a ruler woman again, girls on the hand, boys on the bottom, this one used to make me cry, although we girls noted that few if any of the boys ever cried, what with the protection of their trousers.
It was as a ten-year-old third year that I had my only encounter with the Headmaster. As you will realise my schooldays were not a great length after the war, and as a result the school air raid shelters were still in the far corner of the playground. However by 1957 most of them had become flooded, and we were strictly forbidden to go anywhere near them. Being kids we used to dare each other to go into the shelters. On this particular day I and six of my friends, boys and girls, were rounded up along with two fourth form girls and two fourth form boys, and all of us were marched off to the Headmaster, Mr Churcher. Now I really feared him. He was middle-aged, and I believed that he spent all his time using the cane. My reaction was that we would all get the cane, Carol, however, was of the opinion that there were far too many of us and he would just shout and rave at us.
He really did bawl us out, rightly so; the shelters were a dangerous place.
He then crossed the room to one of his cupboards and my heart missed a beat as he took out his cane. He handed it to Carol and told her to ‘Feel that, girl, then pass it around your friends, and I promise you that the next time any of you are in here you will be feeling that across your bottoms.’
Carol examined it and passed it gingerly to me. I remember shaking as I took it in my hands. I suppose it was the first awakenings of the feeling of excitement that I get when I am about to be punished. My stomach turned a somersault. I went to hand it to one of the fourth year girls, ‘No’ said Mr. Churcher, ‘these four are quite old enough to know better. They are going to feel it across their bottoms.’
One of the fourth year girls, Ruth Edwards, burst into tears. Mr Churcher simply turned to her and said, ‘there will be plenty of time for your tears when I have finished with you, young lady.’
The rest of us did not get off scot-free however, as from his cupboard he withdrew a large slipper, and in turn we each bent over and got six very hard whacks indeed from him. As I left the office, in tears, and with a stinging bottom I heard the cane swish and the cry of pain from one of the fourth form girls as she got her first of six strokes.
In my own fourth year I came across my first real live bitch, Mrs Marshall. She made no secret of the fact that she totally disliked girls. In fact looking back I really wonder if she was suitable to be a teacher in a mixed school at all. On our first day in her class we were shown her slipper, which, she told us, would be in frequent use, especially on the girls, because girls are nasty little creatures!
She was not wrong. It seemed that the boys could do anything without incurring her displeasure, but if a girl stepped out of line then she got the slipper. In truth we normally only got two or three whacks, but I really did learn to fear that slipper!
At the age of 11, I was sent, against my will, to an all-girls Roman Catholic school. The place was very drab! Strict uniform, no make-up of any kind, no sweets inside the school gates, no jewellery, skirts one inch, exactly, above the knee, no talking in the corridors, sensible shoes, the lot. This all had a very good self-disciplining effect on us. Somehow a girl always felt uneasy within its walls. For the girls not sufficiently discouraged from disobedience by the surroundings there was the cane, applied on your hand in class and across your bottom, with great vigour, in Sister Cyril’s study. Failing to do homework always brought the cane down across your left hand, two strokes, then back to your seat, your hand clasped to your side. For serious offences, smoking, truancy, fighting, wearing make-up, or cheeking teachers it was a visit to Sister Cyril. Her cane was a lot thinner than the ones used in class, and was a good deal stingier. You had to bend over and grasp your ankles, your skirt came up and the cane was applied across your bottom, normally six times, regardless of the offence. The stripes it left were fourteen or fifteen inches long, the cane was so whippy that it wrapped itself right around the girl’s bottom. I got the cane from Sister Cyril four times in my seven years at the school and I can assure you that sitting down after a trip to her was no easy matter! The marks from a caning lasted about a week, and the cane was so whippy that there was never any bruising, just red lines getting thinner and thinner.
The real turning point in my life, I suppose, came when I was 14. I misbehaved in one of the male teacher’s classes. I really had a schoolgirl crush on him, and was very upset that I had incurred his anger. He told me to remain behind at the end of the lesson, the last of the day. It was no surprise to me when after the last girl had left he took the cane out of the drawer and told me to come out the front and hold out my hand. I held my left hand out at shoulder height, as we were expected to do, relaxed so that the cane did not hurt so much, but before he raised the cane I said, ‘Please sir, I’ve already had the cane today.’
Which was true; I, along with the rest of the class, had been caned by the Gym Mistress for messing around in the changing rooms and taking a long time to change for P.E. He looked at me and examined my hand: I winced as he ran his lovely hands across my palms, hoping to avoid another caning. He told me that he had no choice, I had to be caned, he was very sorry but if I did not hold my hand out he would have to send me to Sister Cyril, and I knew what that would mean. I really did not believe what I heard myself say next; ‘You could cane me on my bottom, sir.’ He looked at me, ‘It’s alright sir, I’ve been caned on the bottom by Sister Cyril before.’
He raised an eyebrow and said, ‘Bend over, then, like you do in Sister Cyril’s study.’ I bent over and he applied two very hard cuts to my skirted bottom, I cried unashamedly, rubbing my bottom, and he looked embarrassed. That night I lay in bed, on my tummy, with my bottom still stinging as if it were on fire, thinking about what he had done to me, with this strange feeling deep inside my tummy, then I felt my hand going to where as a good catholic girl it should not have gone, and…
The desire of a grown-up woman to be spanked, or caned like a naughty schoolgirl cannot be traced back to one particular cause. In a number of cases, like mine, the girl was caned at school, but I know girls who were never caned, or even went to a school where corporal punishment had been abolished, who are really into spanking. Perhaps their desire is a backlash against their youth, a desire for a stricter but more secure life style.
For the last ten years I have been a ‘caned schoolgirl’ wife. For me part of the thrill is putting on my ‘school’ uniform; old school tie, and hat (really) and waiting outside the door for my ‘Headmaster’ to summon me in. I no longer get spanked, big girls get caned, caned on their bare bottoms. Whatever would Sister Cyril think!
The canings I get now cause me to ‘Oh’ and ‘Owch’, but they are not as severe as the ones Sister Cyril dished out!
Yours faithfully,
Jennifer Willis.

München, den 22. Oktober 1984
To the Editor of Blushes
Dear Sirs!
I can only hope that my husband does not read your publication — and in doing so feel sorry that I have to grudge you one more reader, but if he would see my lines there, my god, I better don’t think of what would happen then to me.
Where I have, then, your address from? Well, when I decided on writing a letter such like this, a letter for advice, I simply asked a newspaper agent at the station if he knew where problem of that kind could be sent to. Of course I did not mention the exact circumstances I wanted to put forward to you, but I gave him the right idea. He looked a bit wondering at me, wagged his head — and gave me your name and address.
But let’s come to my problem. It’s a problem of reasonability of measures over which my husband Walter and I are in total disagreement. To give it all the necessary background I should say in the first place, that I am one of those wifes who are beaten by their husband — and I should add at once, that this fact is not, I repeat not, my actual problem. Okay, I don’t like it being beaten, but I think it myself a necessary thing from time to time — women can become awfully disturbing if not put into their proper limits now and then. On the other side, in doing this, I mean wife-beating, I think it is most important to keep moderate and not to overdo it — but exactly that it is what my dear husband does!
What exactly he does I will tell you in a second and then you can judge yourself and make up your mind about my husbands ‘methods’.
At those occasion when I am about to be set back into my limits, our children are always with their grandparents, half an hours way with the bus. When they have left we both, my husband and I go up into our attic. That is for the simple reason, that during a renovation about twenty years ago, when everything was to be isolated for fear of loss of energy our pre-owner of the house did more than only that and had a part of the attic converted into a sort of soundproof studio for his hifi equipment.
When we had bought the house afterwards, my husband immediately saw the advantage of this room for his disciplinary purposes — and after a bit of painting and furnishing it was ‘our punishment room’.
Up there I undress first and completely and then fetch the utensils from a corner-cupboard: a ping-pong paddle, a cane and a sort of small whip. Doesn’t sound very nice, does it? The next thing I am to do, is to fold my hands at the back of my neck and kneel at the end of a low bench in the middle of the room in front of Walter who is sitting on the other end, opposite to me. When I face him so, he takes the paddle and starts to slap my bare bouncing breasts with it, from left and right, from up and below or just fully frontal. He does this with sharp flaps of the paddle, short and fast which set my 38-inch breasts at once into jelly-like quivering and heavy swinging movements. And as soon as these movements are about to die down he stirs them up again with new flaps of that paddle.
Since those slaps are not given with full force behind them, they don’t hurt extensively as single ones — which doesn’t mean that they don’t hurt at all — but after a few minutes treatment like that my poor boobs are so sensitive that they feel the pain of all those slaps adding up to a rather intolerable amount of pain. The colour of my breasts by then is changed from cream-white to pink or even darker pink and soon afterwards I can’t hold back any more my tears.
But on it goes, my boobs now accumulating colour as well as volume and becoming more sensitive at the same time, so that after about ten minutes I cry unashamedly and loud and have the feeling as if two large tense and boasted balloons, filled with pain to bursting point were bouncing under my eyes left and right, up and down and to and fro.
Particular painful are those slaps where the paddle is applied from the front and squeezes my poor nipples home into their by now blazing bed.
And nevertheless I must not dare to take my hands from behind my neck to protect my poor boobs, it would only prolong my suffering through added minutes of the same treatment.
After fifteen minutes my breasts are definitely swollen, they no longer feel only boasted and have acquired an intense shiny red glow all over them with my dark nipples twice their usual size and protruding like little fingers. And with tears flowing down my cheeks and falling on my poor hot breasts I kneel there, howling with immeasurable pain.
But only then begins my battle against myself. Every minute I keep my hands longer behind my neck subtracts one more point from my account which had been set to 60 at the beginning and is now already down to 45.
Knowing that every remaining point means one stroke with that cane on my behind and on my thighs I try desperately to gain as many minutes as possible. But when several more minutes of breast-paddling have passed I usually capitulate howling unashamedly with my boobs now feeling twice their usual size, swollen, blotched all over and bursting with pain, standing out in deep red colour like those of statues only do, tight, tense, glossy and enormous.
But I don’t have much time to meditate further about their state. Without much thinking or better, not being able to think at all in my state I lay back on that bench, raise my legs and lock them at my knees into my arms. Doing this I squeeze my poor bust in a way that they definitely don’t like then, don’t like at all after that painful treatment, but it can’t be helped. What then follows can help me to reduce my account further and with it my dose of the cane which is waiting for me. Reaching for the small whip, made from some soft sort of leather and ending in an oval flat shape Walter starts to whip my squim. Not hard, but in a way that is painful enough to renew my tears and howls at once. With one minute between he flashes the whip down on my pussy, bulging out from the creamy, chubby frame of buttocks and thighs. And the longer the whip falls down there the more my pussy swells and protrudes and opens up, giving ever more tender parts a taste of the whip. At the same time its colour changes from pink to a dull red which doesn’t look nice. After about five strokes my poor clit and its surroundings share the full impact of the whip and howling long and loud after each stroke which I see coming down I find it more and more impossible to keep my position for the whip. Around number ten of the strokes which I have to count myself, by the way, I almost always let go of my legs and let them slide down to the floor and find myself laying there, cringed with that terrible pain between my legs and in my boobs.
Only then I will know exactly how many strokes I will get with that dreadful one-meter cane of my husband. Its length is not without a good reason one meter. It is my average measure around where the cane is to be applied, or as Walter puts it in his humorous words: Every bouncing bum needs his length of cane!
And to give that long cane its meat, I drape myself now over that same bench with my breasts squeezed on the hard top and my whipped pussy squeezed between my closed legs which are stretched backwards.
And then the cane swishes down merciless in intervals on one minute or more, for Walter never gives me the next stroke until I am completely ready for it, which means for him, steady and perfectly relaxed over the bench. Therefore those canings need at best half an hours time, but more probably three quarters of an hour.
After each stroke, given with full force, I almost leap up into the air from my painful resting place — so terribly cuts the cane into my flesh and so unbelievable is the pain searing through my behind. Slumping back I howl the number of strokes into the room and then begin to wail, to wail like hell, climbing up and down the scale until I am completely exhausted of breath and I lay there whimpering until I have regained enough breath for the next outburst of howls. I wriggle and writhe on that bench like mad, bucking and stooping in the extremest of ways and only unconsciously try not to fall off or to get up — that would mean the last stroke repeated and one more added.
The more my caning proceeds the more time I need to lay quiet again, ready for the next stroke to arrive and to draw another of those extremely ugly weals on my broad buttocks or my ample thighs. My screams and yells must be ear-splitting and hair-raising sometimes, but I can be sure that there is nothing to be heard than some indefinite noise outside — perhaps some muffled sort of whining sound rises from the roof, but who is there to hear it, other than the sparrows or swallows or the chimney-sweep, but fortunately they don’t climb onto the roofs nowadays anymore.
Walter remains not unmoved during all that time. Waiting patiently and simply ‘doing his work’ as he would describe it, he takes a definite interest in the visible results of his ‘work’, whereas he does not pay much — if at all — attention to my pains, my tears and howls and contortions. What for does he cane me — if not to hurt, hurt terribly, he would say.
Only at the end of my caning, when I am allowed to get up at last, with a paddled bust, whipped squim and caned backside and after I have restored cane, whip and paddle to their resting place again, he inspects my boobs, pussy, buttocks and thighs somewhat sympathetically, to make sure that ‘I have got what I needed’ and that no real damage has been done by ‘getting it’. And unexpected as it may seem, there is no harm done usually, no ‘real harm’ that is.
Well, those are my punishments, always and invariably like that and am I not right in saying that they are more than is necessary — even if a wife, like me is actually willing to submit to her husband’s discipline and correction?
I believe it is too much what I have to suffer and would like to hear if I am right with that, my opinion or not and I will look for comments and answers in the coming issues of your publication, if you print this letter. There will be some awkward moments, when I buy your periodical, being probably the only woman among all male purchasers. But I will stand that as I did already when I asked for your address.
And I think I will risk my husband reading it also — for I know, that sometimes he take a look at similar things. So let’s hope that he does not just then and not yours he buys then (sorry for you, again). My fear is, that when he reads it he will react just the opposite way of that I had in mind, i.e. increasing my punishments. While my intention is to confront him with comments and opinions on my punishment which favourite decreasing of their intensity (and I hope that they are in that way), then trying make him change the severity of his punishments on the background of other opinions. Abandoning my punishments all together is the last I hope for — and is actually not what I look for — some punishment has to be, that I know very well for myself.
With much hope for your help (by publishing my letter) and all my wishes for you and your staff.
Hanna-Renate Kluge

Dear Sirs,
I am compelled to write and congratulate you on the quality and contents of your new magazine Blushes, and would like to make a suggestion on how to further improve it.
A number of your readers must be familiar with the erotic Victorian-style ‘horsing’ techniques used in establishments of correction. How about using some of these in your photo articles. For example, a Headmistress ‘horsing’ a naked schoolgirl on her back, the girl being caned by a Headmaster; alternatively, one schoolgirl ‘horsing’ another, preferably unclothed, each being punished in turn by a Headmaster or Headmistress. Incidentally, I must mention the superb photo submitted by K.V.F., Essex, of that young lady bending over the back of an armchair, having just received ‘six of the best’, knickers lowered to just the right height, white socks perfectly level with each other, displaying her feminine charms, and that crook-handled cane bound with tape for ease of use balanced on the girls’ back.
Judging by his letter, this gentleman is a true connoisseur of C.P. and I sincerely hope that you will be printing more photographs from his private collection. It is unfortunate that we readers don’t have access to his tapes also.
In the meantime, keep up the good work and I wish you every success for the future.
E.J. (Liverpool)

Dear Sir,
Congratulations! Your magazine is clearly streets ahead of the rest. My only complaint is that it ought to be published monthly. I particularly like the emphasis which is placed on embarrassment. Your magazine certainly lives up to its name ‘Make em blush! Right down to their nipples!’ that’s what I say. In my opinion the art of portraying embarrassment is to show a series of shots during which the girl or girls preferably, are made to undress in front of a number of men and then lots of photographs showing them getting their just deserts totally naked. As far as I am concerned it is a must that the girls are made to display their tits and please let’s have plenty of colour in their cheeks and even spreading to their breasts. I would love to see a sequence showing 2 or 3 girls having their measurements taken prior to punishment i.e. standing there completely nude, blushing furiously with a tape measure around their tits and then their hips. Can you come up with anything along these lines? It would also be nice to see girls having other parts of their anatomy punished i.e. their tits and pussies.
Perhaps I can relate a favourite fantasy of mine which may appeal to your readers. The action takes place in some secret corrective establishment run by men and visited by male guests. Imagine a large well-furnished room within this establishment and 5 or 6 middle-aged men, paunchy and balding, comfortably seated in armchairs sipping brandy and smoking cigars. Standing in front of them is another man who is a member of the, shall we say, management of the establishment. Next to him we have 3 lovely young girls, all nude apart from the skimpiest pairs of knickers imaginable. They are obviously incredibly embarrassed and although they are not actually crying they are clearly trembling and biting their lips as they are forced to look into the sneering gloating faces of the watching men.
The man standing then addresses the male audience. ‘Right gentleman, I believe these are the young ladies involved’. There is a general murmuring in the affirmative and the grinning increases. The man then turns to the quivering girls. ‘Now then, I hear from these gentlemen that you three have been rather naughty girls. What have you to say. Claire?’ The girl called Claire, a delicious young blonde with tits like melons begins to stammer and whimper. ‘Hmmff ooogh ssssir we just c-couldn’t help it. The the things they were making us do oooogh it was so embarrassing’. The tears are now starting to run over her scarlet cheeks. ‘Yes, I imagine it was my girl; still that’s what you’re in here for isn’t it? Believe me you’re going to do some blushing tonight young lady. You are now going to find out what happens to naughty girls. Let me tell you what we’re going to do to you this evening in front of all these gentlemen.’ The men seated in the armchairs were now gloating more then ever and were almost laughing at the girls who stood before them sobbing and trembling the blushes gradually spreading to their necks as they saw the men grinning and inspecting their tits and their knicker-clad hips.
First of all we’re going to redden your bottoms and I mean redden them!!! The girls gulped and their whimpering increased. ‘When your bottoms have been well and truly reddened, we’re going to give you some sore titties!’ The expressions on the girls’ crimson faces as they heard this piece of news was a picture. The blonde girl and indeed the other two now began to plead. ‘Oh no please n-no ssss-sir ooooogh pleeeease.’ The men simply continued to sneer and gloat. ‘Oh yes girls, yes but that’s not all,’ continued the man who had now moved next to one of the other girls a raven-haired young beauty, red-faced and tits trembling. ‘After all if we’re going to warm up your bottoms and titties we can’t very well forget about these can we?’ and he placed his hand inside the front of the girls knickers gently patting her pussy. The three girls almost fainted on the spot! They immediately began to gulp and there was a series of choking pleas and promises. ‘Oh god no p-p-pleeease nooooo! I’ll be a g-good girl sir, pleeeease, I’m sorry I was naughty’. The girls were now all crying and the blushes had now suddenly crept down to their heaving breasts. Their tear-filled eyes turned to the men and they each had a pleading expression on their scarlet faces but all they saw were grins as the men gloated and mocked them. The man who was standing now approached a table on which lay 3 leather straps all of different size and weight. He picked up the heaviest of the straps and waved it in front of the whimpering girls.
‘Now then girls as you can see we have here 3 straps. This one we are going to use on your bottoms. This strap is for your tits and this one, my little beauties is for those pussies of yours!’ The lightest of the straps was simply a thin strip of leather.
‘Now this strap may not look much but when you get it across your pussies believe me, it will make you jump!’ The looks on the girls faces were now absolutely delightful; they all looked as if they were going to faint at any moment.
‘Now then girls let’s get on with it. Off with those knickers!’ The sobbing girls hesitated until the strap was cracked in the air. ‘Come along get those knick-knicks pulled down and put them on the table.’ Whimpering the three girls did as they were told. Now they stood trembling, totally nude and displayed for inspection. ‘Right I think we’ll start with young Claire, Come here my girl!’ The blonde was grabbed by the hair and pulled closer to the seated audience. She was made to face them and to bend slightly leaning forward toward the men so that her tits swung and joggled before them. ‘Now then start dancing my girl!!!!’ The man brought the strap down with a resounding crack across the girl’s bottom ‘Eeeeyooww!’ the girl squealed and danced, her tits bouncing and swinging. Her tears splashed onto her breasts which were now pink with her blushes. When she had got herself back into position, the strap whistled around her bottom again ‘Eee-yowchh!!’ Each of the girls were dealt with similarly until all three had a bright crimson bottom. Throughout the strappings the men continued to laugh and gloat mockingly over the girls who now stood sobbing and whimpering before them. It was difficult to say which was the reddest, their faces or their bottoms. Eventually the proceedings continued. ‘Right girls now for your titties!’ The tears flowed even faster and one could almost feel the heat from their blushes. Once again it was Claire who was dealt with first. This time 2 of the men held her wrists with her arms straight and pulled slightly behind her so that her breasts were nice and prominent oh how she howled as the strap cracked across her tits and how they bounced!
By the time the men had finished with her, her tits were glowing; The other 2 girls were then given their medicine and they all 3, then stood there to attention having their burning tits inspected. ‘Right girls now you’re really going to dance!’ The man in charge had now picked up the pussy strap! The girls were now crying hysterically and seemed to be blushing all the way down to their thighs. Once again Claire was seized by the hair and pulled forward her reddened tits swinging and bouncing. She was struggling a little until her tormentor gave her a series of hefty slaps, 2 on her bottom and 2 on each tit. She was made to stand in front of the man and thrust her hips forward bringing her pussy to the fore which incidentally had been closely clipped so that her mound was clearly visible. ‘Eeeeyowwchh!!!’ The first stroke of the little strap across her mound had her jumping in the air, her big tits bouncing all over the place. Her pussy was strapped in this manner for several minutes until she was pleading with the laughing men. ‘Oh pllleease nnno mmore, please stop please, I’ll be a good girl, please.’ Smiling the man with the strap looked enquiringly at the male audience. ‘Well gentlemen?’ The men hesitated sneering at the girl, gloating over her as she stood before them, crimson with embarrassment, tears streaming down her face her bottom, tits and now her pussy smarting and stinging. ‘Continue,’ smiled one of the men ‘Oh noooo please yowwwww!!! shrieked the girl as once again the thin leather strap cracked across her pussy. Eventually all three girls had had their mounds attended to and stood before the men for inspection. They thought that at last their punishment was over but alas they were sadly mistaken since the men were then invited to deal further with the girls if they thought fit and they certainly did. The squealing girls were each seized by the men and thrown across their knees for a good spanking! Throughout the evening the girls were spanked and slapped by all the men present. Squealing and shrieking they were passed around across the men’s knees as their bottoms, tits and pussies were slapped without mercy. They were finally given an ice-cold shower and put to bed to cry themselves to sleep.
J.P.W South Yorks.