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?
Occupation ‘Diplomat’, T.G?
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.
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!
München, den 22. Oktober 1984
To the Editor of Blushes
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.
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.
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.