From Blushes 2
Standard to maintain
Yours is a splendid new magazine — much better than anything I’ve seen before. I especially liked the two colour page sequences — the blonde girl over the desk has the most caneable bottom imaginable — really firm and full-looking and simply begging to be caned! I should love to think that she actually has been caned by someone at some time — perhaps the man in the photos? She should be encouraged in the belief that a bottom like hers is a part of the National Heritage, and you should persuade her to let us see more of it in future issues.
The picture on page thirty is my favourite — those strong young legs kicking as the cane cuts across those delicious bum-cheeks! If I had her to myself in the circumstances depicted in the photos I shouldn’t let her up until she’d had a good few more strokes than the inspector has given her! In particular I like the way the pictures have been arranged to show her progressing through her punishment from saucy young imp to the weeping, demoralised girl we see on the last two pages.
From the excellent content of the first issue, I confidently expect to see more of the same high quality in future numbers. If so, they will be well worth the rather startling price on the cover.
More of the same, please!
How pleasant — and memory-jerking — to see a girl in those old-style navy blues, ruched up round the waistband and full enough to spread out over the bottom itself without inhibiting it’s shapeliness by becoming too tight. The upside-down miss who got the amusing letter from her uncle fits her knickers admirably — even the wrong way up. The right-way-up picture on page seventeen says it all, doesn’t it. If a girl’s bum ever asked to be spanked hers does! And it’s those knickers that do it, you know.
I wish I could say I’d had the opportunity to spank a girl in navy blues, but that is something which has eluded me thus far. I don’t suppose the chance will come now, not least because I dare say most girls grow out of navy knickers much earlier than they used to. In the ‘good old days’ girls at school wore navy knickers until they were sixteen or seventeen, as I’m sure many of your readers will remember. It has to be said that schoolgirl knickers actually look better, as a rule, on ‘grown up’ girls than they do on those they’re intended for — (now how would you know that, M.A.?) However, in guarded conversations at various times with girls of my acquaintance, the girls’ opinions have always been that navy knickers are childish and definitely unsexy to the ultimate degree. How wrong they are! If only some adventurous manufacturer would promote the image of school knickers as they really can be when worn by a well-shaped girl in her late teens, then perhaps we could look forward to office girls in navy pants, posters on the Underground of the same, and a consequent remodelling of the image the modern pert miss has of herself into something more like the feminine ‘blushfulness’ one remembers with such affection from one’s youth.
It is refreshing to note that your magazine is not afraid to present the reader with situations, written, photographed and otherwise illustrated, in which teenage girls are given proper punishments. The canings which you have described are more like the punishments that wilful girls actually need — namby-pamby bottom smackings, whilst entertaining no doubt, are not adequate either as punishments or as deterrent measures.
I note also that you have not been seduced by the notion that the usual ‘schoolroom six’ is sufficient to correct the wilfulness of such girls in their middle and late teens. Twelve good strokes should be regarded as the minimum necessary to teach the lesson of obedience to a big, healthy girl whose bottom is adequately plump, and I am pleased to see that punishments of eighteen strokes and more are recommended.
Canings, as the authors of your stories have indicated, are not really the organised, legs-out-straight and penitently-presented bottom affairs that one might suppose them to be from reading some other accounts. They are noisy and tearful struggles against the will of the caner to administer the necessary ‘dose’, and the girl who could keep her bum quietly and indemonstrably in position for stroke after stroke I should like to meet — or rather, I should not like to meet, since it is the struggles and the protests, the promises to be good and the plaintive weepings which turn caning a girl into an erotic experience rather than a repulsive act of brutality.
Threats of further punishment — either more strokes of the cane then and there or a promised resumption of the punishment on a subsequent occasion — are the only methods of persuasion that will subdue a girl once her bottom has felt the sting of a properly applied cane. Threats, and an inflexible determination not to let the girl off lighter than was originally intended, have proved, in my admittedly limited experience, to be the only viable alternative to actually securing the girl in position.
Kindly continue to offer us the same strong-minded exposition of the art of the caned female bottom; I shall look forward to each issue with interest.
You may find the enclosed photos interesting, in which case please feel free to publish them. Several of them have had small sections removed to ensure discretion: packaging material bearing the name of a certain company would otherwise receive publicity which would probably be unwelcomed, and my own integrity threatened. I trust the ‘surgical incisions’ will not detract too much from their interest.
The girl, whose name I shall say was Christine, (same initial, at least) was employed by the company for whom I worked as a kind of office girl come occasional (and very bad) typist. The photos span a period of about eleven months in the mid-seventies, the lower numbers relating to earlier dates and vice-versa. Those being the background facts. I shall explain the details.
I have tried once to write this letter as a letter, but written in that way it conveys none of the subtlety of what I want to say. Thus from this point I have settled on a half-letter, half-story presentation which I think makes a better job of it.
Apart from her bum, which I was probably not alone in finding fascinating to have about the office, Christine had little to recommend her as an employee. She seemed rather a snooty, couldn’t-care-less girl — particularly irritating in a seventeen-year-old — but her prime failing was her habit of being late for work by between ten and thirty minutes each day, with rarely a word of apology and little difference made by frequent tellings-off. As office manager, and despite the consequent loss of her charming posterior aspect about the office, I eventually sacked her. (Yes, I would have liked to spank her, but I should have liked to do the same to any number of girls without any likelihood of actually doing it — certainly not at work.)
You will understand my surprise therefore when she turned up in my office about ten days later, having obtained an appointment over the telephone as an applicant for a typist’s job which the company had advertised, giving an assumed name. Without labouring the obvious; that I was at a loss to understand what she thought she was doing: the girl sat in my office in tears while I attempted to calm her down (unsuccessfully), eventually suggesting that she should meet me in a nearby pub after work simply in order to extricate myself from an embarrassing situation. The meeting, which I went to mostly for fear that there would be a repetition of the scene in the office if I didn’t, provided me with an entirely new point of view of Christine and her odd behaviour.
Far from being the stuck-up little madam I had supposed her to be, I realised that in fact she was very shy — painfully so — and her attitude at work had been simply a defence mechanism (my interpretation). Indeed, so uncertain was she of herself, it seemed she hadn’t even told her mother (she lived at home) that she had lost her job, for fear of being made to feel inadequate. (My interpretation again). The loss of her job, the only one she’d had since leaving school, was especially difficult for her because she had got it originally through the good offices of a neighbour who worked for the company. For the past ten days, apparently, she had been leaving home at the usual time each day and spending the hours she would normally have been at work in the park or the library — clearly a situation which could not continue.
She said she didn’t have the self-confidence to try for another job, and was worried anyway that the reference she would get from the company (from me, that is) would have been a bad one. (It would have been, I must admit.)
I have to confess that whereas I may have day-dreamed that I would like to have spanked some of the girls at work, it had hitherto been only that — a day-dream; and in fact if it had come to it I would have preferred to have spanked almost any of the others rather than Christine, simply because I don’t find self-confident girls (even if that self-confidence is only apparent) much of a turn-on. Actually I think they scare me a bit. In the pub though it was an entirely different girl I was dealing with. I remember clearly the erection it evoked when she started crying afresh over her bag of crisps — not because she was crying but because she suddenly appeared to be completely vulnerable. The arrangements I then made; to take her back on condition she went on a typing course so that I could justify re-employing her in a new position, were conducted with me in a bemused state of sexual excitement centred around the girl’s helplessness in having to appeal to me to rescue her from an impossible situation. No longer did she seem snooty and self-confident, but rather the opposite. I was moved to mention that seemingly insuperable obstacle to re-employment — her habitual lateness — having the idea large in the back of my mind that her unpunctuality would make an ideal excuse to spank her; remember that during the short time we had been in conversation in the pub I had become entirely besotted by her, and the thought of, actually getting her knickers down, was almost too much to bear in patience. But patience I had to have.
She said that she’d tried not to be late — the tellings-off, I gathered, had had more effect than I’d realised — but she was simply unable to do anything about it. At school she had very often missed the bus in the mornings, and had constantly been in trouble for it, and now she was at work it was no different. It wasn’t that she couldn’t get out of bed: simply that she always seemed to leave too little time for the journey.
By now I had fallen under the spell of her little-girlishness so completely that I had become very sympathetic towards her, (genuinely, it having much to do with my feeling of guilt for having misjudged her earlier), not so much so, however, that my sympathy overcame my fascination with the idea of putting her across my knee. Feeling rather vulnerable myself, I put the following proposition to her.
That I felt responsible for her present invidious position, admitting that I had misjudged her before and had sacked her through lack of understanding and charity.
That I would not be able to swing it if I re-employed her in her former capacity — she would have to go on a typing course, which I said I would pay for (I was perhaps a little over-eager there) which would provide her with a paper qualification at the end of it. In that case I could, and would, take her on as a typist.
That — and here was the crunch — I really did feel that she needed a ‘firm hand behind her’ over the unpunctuality business — didn’t she think so too? She said she did (I think she would have agreed to anything at the time out of sheer relief at getting her job back).
That the ‘firm hand’ theory should involve the application of the aforementioned hand (mine!) to her bottom. I said it with a serious face and managed to convey the idea of earnest intent. We both said that it would be for her own good; that is, I said it and she nodded obligingly. I did not mention bared bottoms, knickers, or things like that. I asked if she thought it would be a reasonable solution to the problem of her lateness (which would get her sacked again if nothing was done about it, and I would be in hot water etc. etc.) Yes, she thought so, and was very, very grateful. She’d work hard, come on time, be very good at typing —.
Christine did learn to type, she did work hard, and she did try to get to work on time. Not hard enough, however — I think she still managed to be late six times in the first two weeks, or something like that. Not wishing to blow my cover by being too strict with her too soon, the first week was allowed to slip by without more than a passing reference to Christine’s lateness. In fact I was more than eager to get her across my knee, but didn’t want to let her know it in case she suspected that she was being taken for a ride. The same considerations — plus a degree of nervousness on my part — led to the following weekend’s encounter being less than conclusive from the smacked bottom point of view, but a moral victory that augured well for the future.
On the Friday afternoon I had Christine come to my office after my secretary had left to account for her unpunctuality. The company closed down at four o’clock on Fridays so there would be plenty of time. In the quiet way I had practised, I lectured Christine as she stood in front of my desk, mentioning in particular the efforts I had gone to on her behalf. To my surprise she began to cry. I pressed on with what I thought was a reasonable presentation of the facts of the matter, feeling both more conscience-stricken and more sexually aroused as she continued to cry and began to apologise for her stupidity. As I had planned — I had had several weeks to think out every last detail of how I would do it — I told her to take her own knickers down, standing there in front of me. This she did, crying no less, holding up her skirt when I told her to, so that I caught my first glimpse of those concealed bits of her body I had fantasised about ever since she had agreed to my suggestions in the pub. The trouble was, I began to feel quite worried about all the tears, wondering what on earth she would be like once I actually began to spank her bum. I imagined, of course, that she was crying because she was going to be spanked; it did not occur to me that there could be any other reason. In some trepidation I got her across my knee — I can still remember the feel of her body across my thighs. My own arousal was almost unavoidably obvious, I should have thought. I held both her hands behind her back and began to spank her. It was the very first time I had spanked a girl, and I had no idea really how to do it. On reflection I am sure I must have been altogether too careful with her — she had probably come expecting a thorough tanning and instead got a rather mild spanking. I have to tell you though that that spanking was an erotic high-point for me; I dare say it was all the tears and her charming obedience to each little suggestion I made — time and again she repositioned herself across my lap as I let her slip off, with never a word of protest — and the excitement of seeing her bare bottom going redder and redder under my hand. I shouldn’t think the whole thing lasted much more than five minutes. I then had her stand there with her skirt up and her knickers down (like in the spanking magazines, which had been the entire limit of my horizons until then) while I told her off some more. At the time I was lost for a way to account for the fact that she had actually cried a lot less whilst being spanked than she had when being told off both before and after. In due course I sent her off home, hugely excited and elated by the success of the first spanking I had ever given a girl.
I learnt a lot in the ensuing months. The whole thing was, of course, constructed around the ploy that what was happening to Christine in my office on Friday afternoons was ‘for her own good’. I knew by some intuition that that was the only way it would ever work — the girl was much too sensitive to be exposed to the truth about my interest in her. It also has to be said that I began to like her rather a lot — it didn’t stop me smacking her bottom, and a good deal harder as time went on — and naturally, given the circumstances, it was part and parcel of the whole thing that I took a considerable and distinctly paternal interest in her welfare thereafter. I lent her money, gave her lifts and so on, in a genuine way that I am sure she appreciated. I realised that she actually felt very grateful to me, and was genuinely sorry whenever she felt — or I made her feel — that she had let me down. That. of course, was why she had cried so much on the occasion of her first spanking. I have to admit that when I realised the guilt she felt I exploited her emotions shamelessly — much though I liked her, the chief thing was always the excitement of taking her knickers down and making her cry across my lap, which she did much more readily once I lost my inhibitions about hurting her little bum. I also discovered that she was very shy, in the sense of being shy about being made to undress in front of me. This, too, I exploited, finding it more exciting than ever to make her take off everything below her waist prior to spanking her. The photographs, which accompany this letter, were all part of that exploitation — I did it to heighten her embarrassment and my own enjoyment of what was in truth her submissiveness.
In some of the photos you will see that she had been caned, in others strapped. These punishments I always made a meal of, having her across the desk for them, making her wait and wait for the first stroke, and wait some more in between while I told her off and she, since I am sure she somehow needed the emotional release of tears, cried at her having ‘let me down’. I hope those photos will be appreciated by your readers — Carol’s bottom went through a lot in the course of their being taken. My reasons for offering them for publication are mixed, but I shall enjoy seeing them in a magazine if you print them, that pleasure being somewhat lewd, I suppose, in that even after these several years it will still seem enjoyable to expose the girl to the unobstructed view of thousands even if only in photographic form; she would be deeply shocked, I dare say, if she saw them, although I imagine that would be an unlikely happening.
The termination of what was for me a never-palling excitement and for Christine probably something much the same, although on an emotional level, was a painful experience for me. Her mother caught sight of her daughter’s bum one Friday evening, wrenched the whole story out of her, and descended upon me in my office at half past eight on the following Monday morning. Curtains descended all around. I need hardly say more.
D M Norwich
Imagination gingered up
I found your magazine most interesting, and in particular I found the section including the girl undressing at her uncle’s elbow — was it her uncle, by the way? — stimulating and, above all the looks of genuine apprehension and distress on the girl’s face as she was systematically undressed and then spanked. I find myself half convinced that we were privileged to have witnessed the actual event.
My imagination runs ahead and pictures the scene a little later, when ‘uncle’ goes upstairs to ensure that the girl, fresh from her bath, is securely tucked up in bed. Does he simply peck her on the cheek and tell her to go to sleep — I doubt that I should have such self-control — or does he pull back the bed-clothes, ostensibly to inspect the site of the earlier chastisement, and possibly deliver another ‘reminder’ with her stretched out full-length on the bed? Having done so, is he able to resist the temptation of total privacy, a well-spanked and no doubt tearful girl, and her sore-bottomed eagerness to please lest her bum be spanked some more? I’m afraid I know what I would do!
Do you think you could publish a photo of that same young lady, or one very like her, stretched out on her tummy across her bed — bare-bottomed, of course — so that I can see for myself the culmination of the fantasy which the scene in the downstairs room sparked off? Alternatively, perhaps we could see her across her bed on some other occasion — home from school, perhaps, or from a day out with her friends — with her knickers pulled well down and her bottom made ready for a slippering or spanking, with the opportunity of a glimpse of those private places which the shadows in the living room discreetly hid from view. I should be most grateful if you could manage to do so.
I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the magazine, by the way, so I shall not be too disappointed if you are unable to meet my request, but do please try.
W.B. Bromley, Kent