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Friday, 20 December 2019

Letter from Blushes 8

From Blushes 8
Dear Editors!
I had very recently several discussions with my husband on the advantages and disadvantages of the use of corporal punishment on our growing-up daughters. In the course of these discussions I told my husband very detailed about my own in principle known experience with that sort of thing and it was at that time that he suggested to write down my experience, putting particular emphasis on those aspects I found myself particularly important.
One of these aspects was the waiting for punishment at home where we were three girls. When Papa — he was an architect — had decided that I needed punishment again it was always in the morning at breakfast that he said so. I knew that he would actually punish me only after lunch at about 2pm.
The hours up to that time were already dreadful enough, the fear of the punishment like being kicked in the bowels at the very announcement and then accumulating there steadily over the hours like a growing lump of ice. Fear got me so badly often, that I had to excuse myself for the loo every half hour and more than once was near to pee right in my panties. This actually happened sometimes during the time after I came back from school and the moment I was called into my father’s office. During that interval I had to wait at the door outside the office with my family at lunch and afterwards everybody passing while I waited.
To be found in such a humiliating state after such a childish accident was not very nice and I would have liked always to vanish through the floor. I could not look into anyone’s eyes and were usually crying. My legs wet, my panties dripping, trembling like jelly and my lips quivering as uncontrollable as my bladder had been.
To avoid such a mess during my punishment Papa sent me always to the loo before the punishment began and I got quite some added punishment if it had happened before.
Once called into his office where he was found behind his big desk, the door was left open and I had to tell Papa in all details what I was to be punished for, and I did so always interrupted by several sudden outbursts of tears. Finished with my confession I was told to undress, undress completely until I stood there naked before Papa — as little girl, as teenager and as young lady, it didn’t matter at all!
In my Eva’s costume I was first told to go to the loo, disregarding completely whom I would meet on my way to and from. Back in father’s office I was told to fetch the cane from the wardrobe at the end of the hall. Again I would rush out naked and humiliated, eyes cast down to avoid any curious looks, to fetch the cane from its place in the wicker-basket used for the umbrellas. Then back, the cane burning like a flame in my hands to put it on the desk in front of Papa.
Papa would then get out of his chair, come around the desk and embark on an intensive lecture, walking circles around me, standing myself there at attention with my hands behind my head, and he kept constantly tapping with the cane at me. And all the time I had to follow him with my eyes. During those minutes the fear in my stomach reached usually its peak and I began to cry miserably, almost jumping at every touch of the cane. Papa could make me more than clearly aware of my nakedness, of my standing there as a naked female before him, robbed even of the protective fur of pubic, which we had all three to shave off regularly, for reasons of hygiene and habitude (I do it still today). And Papa made me more than only uncomfortably aware also of those parts of my naked self which were soon to be visited very viciously by the cane.
At the end of this lecture I was always an utterly miserable and stark naked bundle of fear and more than ready to welcome the cane to release me from those dreadful suspended fears — to get it all over with quickly. But Papa would not let the caning wreck my careful built-up state of frightful and almost eager anticipation.
He did not haste through the caning in a rush of strokes nor did he work through in measured timing — he went walking around his naked daughter and talking about how I needed the cane and how I was to get it and did so for any irregular times before he would stop and I could see him lift up his left arm (he was left-handed) and sweep down that cane on my buttocks or on the back of my upper thighs. And dear me, if I did not keep my feet to the floor and my hands where I had locked them! Then it would be one stroke — one additional, of course — on the front of my thighs. So everybody could tell afterwards with a look at the front of my thighs how I managed to take my punishment.
The only freedom to express the pain stabbing like knifes through buttocks and thighs was to cry and scream and to twist and turn, bend and bow my naked body, but only with my feet screwed to the floor. Before the next stroke my legs had to be straight again, of course.
Papa caned very hard, the weals he left with his cane on my buttocks and thighs were outstandingly long and fat, swelled and protruding and took on a colour which was alone enough to make one cry, not to tell of the time they needed to fade away afterwards.
Particular piercing screams would be heard outside the office when Papa brought up the cane in a wide sweeping and low arc and whacked it onto that part of my buttocks which with a nice, full and round overhang met (and still meet) my shapely thighs. Pain burning into my maltreated flesh like red-hot flames forced me to the tip of my toes as well as to the top of my voice, and more often than not these strokes were followed by one on the front of my thighs — naughty girl I had been. With these strokes, when placed by Papa at the very top of my thighs, the cane had not only a good chance to make a painful visit on my bare pubic but my far-carrying screams would tell everybody outside, who cared to listen (and they all would even if they didn’t want to) where the cane viciously had kissed me. They had such tell-tale quality, my screams!
Then again waiting, following Papa’s circles after every stroke, the endless moments of lecturing which seemed to stretch into hours, hours of agonizing waiting before one was, at length, saved by the next swish and whack of the cane.
Twelve stokes at those most irregular, slow intervals on buttocks and thighs had to be reached, the weals on the front part of my thighs not counted, before Papa handed the cane back to me and retreated behind his desk to his chair for a very short lecture. Still crying copiously at its end I was dismissed to wait outside the office.
There I stood, looking at the office door, the cane in both hands like a present before me, feeling hot waves of pain throbbing through my glowing thighs and burning buttocks, feeling the long, fat weals still swelling until they stood out like cords laid around the soft, smooth skin.
I had seen them myself often enough on the buttocks of my sisters but I could also observe with a horrible fascination how they developed on the front of my thighs. There I could not only feel, but see them change colour and disfigure the fine skin. And it needed rather a bit of time to interrupt the flow of tears and reduce my crying and eventual howling to sobbing only and then occasional sniffs and moans. And all the while someone passing behind me and staring at my backside with its pattern of weals, taking an occasional view at the front of my thighs to make a most unnecessary comment on my braveness or naughtiness under Papa’s cane. My sisters would more than once slyly crouch up only to pinch my cane-treated buttocks and make me squeal accusingly — but they must not be caught at it by Papa or Mama; they would not allow such things at all. Mama was mostly sympathetic with me unless I was caned for some foul thing I had done to her. She would pat my bottom cautiously and with loving care hugging me whisper into my ear ‘her dear girl should be brave’, ‘that it would all come to an end’, ‘that it happened for the good of mine’ and ‘that it was only an expression of the great love and care she and Papa had for me — even if it made me cry and scream’. And with a loving kiss on my wet cheeks she would depart to her daily doings. It made me always cry again, cry with a sort of desperate happiness and miserable self-pity.
To make it still worse, Mrs Heller, Papa’s secretary came often back from lunch about that time to occupy again her small bureau adjacent to Papa’s office. Her malicious smile and humiliating comments I could have easily done without. She was herself very much in favour of Strenge Zucht (Strict Discipline) and said always ‘that your father does right giving you such a thrashing, serves you right, I am sure. — Got the same sort of chastisement myself, years ago, and good it did me — look at me today!’ And off she went completely content with what she had seen to hammer away again on her typewriter. Papa’s ‘wonderful Frau Hannelore’, she never failed to mention to Papa and everybody else at home that ‘I had to take again the cane to my eldest — eighteen she’s got this time. That’ll teach her!’
From her place she could easily overhear everything in Papa’s office since only a swing-door separated both rooms, and a window in the upper third of it gave her ample opportunity to oversee also the proceedings, although she must not be caught at doing so.
But above all was the waiting, waiting with the materialized cause of my pain in my own hands, moist already from cold sweat. For the terrible thing was, that I did never know what was awaiting me there behind that door, a final lecture from Papa indicating the end of my punishment or more punishment, more of that dreadful cane in my hands.
I tortured always my memory again and again by weighing my sins against the ‘twelve’ burning on my backside. I call, tried to call back previous situations similar to the present for comparison, flooding my eyes once more with tears if they proved fatal in this respect and raising fresh hopes to escape more punishment if they proved lucky. Thus one long minute after the other went by. Waiting added-up to a quarter of an hour, then to half an hour — minimum waiting time always — and could stretch into three quarters and even one full hour of waiting, with me always anxious and frightened at the same time to hear Papa’s voice from within calling me back inside.
When that hoped of and yet dreadful ‘Come in, Ellen’ reached my ears at last, and painstakingly built-up hope melted away like snow in the sun and left only the heavy, painful knot of fear in my stomach and by some psychosomatic trick it increased the sensitivity of all nerve-ends in my buttocks and thighs, bringing back freshly the pain of each individual weal already there. On legs which felt like rubber sticks I opened the door and crept into the office, stopped trembling in front of the desk and waited — waited for Papa’s next words. At the end of them I should know — more of the cane or the end of my punishment.
With the years my chance of escaping another painful encounter with the cane had become steadily smaller. More often than not Papa would equip himself again with those pain-fraught 80 centimeters of bamboo and look for those stripes on my rear which he had previously left untouched.
As it was, waiting for the decision on my further fate would often simply turn into waiting for the next stroke. Again I writhed, winced, struggled and twisted, screamed, howled and yelled under each whack with the cane of my already welted behind, but of course, without any effect on the proceedings. Papa would not stop his walking around me and lecturing me. He would give me my strokes one by one in all unexpected intervals until ‘six’ was reached.
Standing there, with my hands still clasped behind my head, complete starkers with 18 heavy weals on each buttock and the back of my thighs and with a few more weals on their front, standing there with fourteen, sixteen, eighteen and, yes with twenty, facing Papa through a blur of tears, crying my eyes out at him and screaming my voice into hoarseness, winding my poor nakedness into every possible shape to ease the stabbing, throbbing pain a bit and still now allowed to move my feet, that was an experience not so easy to forget. It would undoubtedly improve my future behaviour definitely — for some time at least and I can still remember it today as if it had been only yesterday, that I emerged from the office to begin a second naked waiting facing that door.
At the end of another miserable wait Papa’s sharp voice called me back once again into his office, filled as usual with that perpetual cigar smoke of his havanas and again the terrible moment had arrived for the decision if I was ‘out’ or still ‘in’ and due for another ‘six’.
To receive eighteen or twenty four by the cane I was never to tell. It needed not much more for twenty four in comparison to eighteen, but one never knew how much more actually it needed. There was, I believe a certain arbitrariness in Papa’s decisions. So, often enough I collected another six weals on my bare, beaten buttocks and thighs, and the one or other of the additional ‘uncounted’. It was not much of a difference to the ‘six’ before, except that it was just a little bit more painful for obvious reasons.
Papa had much skill in caning female buttocks and female thighs — with three daughters at hand (or should I say at cane?) it was no wonder, but nevertheless, he could not completely avoid to overlap or cross the one or other of the previous weals with a new one, a thing I could tell the moment it happened by its own, special quality of pain shooting through my backside. My screams immediately after would make it known also to Papa and the family (and Mrs Heller, of course). Often enough I could not other than violate the rules governing my behaviour under the cane after a stroke like that, and I left my place and even danced around occasionally. It depended purely on Papa if he would blame himself or me for my naughtiness, in which latter case a new fat and uncounted weal would bloom out on the front of my thighs a bit later.
My buttocks and upper thighs were one terrible succession of sickening, double-ridged, outstanding weals by then. I knew quite well through my sisters that it would have now almost the appearance of a washboard, the ghastly coloured bumps and grooves of which were slightly distorted at places.
And just that sort of sight I would present myself, stumbling out from the office, the cane in my hands, tears flowing from red, puffy eyes, drawing wet paths down hot cheeks — and with the ‘twenty four’ of the cane only just received. In a most desperate and desolate state I was, crying much throughout the waiting. The only comfort were Mama’s short visits to take ‘my poor girl’ into her loving arms, kissing a few hot tears away and running her hand cautiously over the corrugated surface of my behind, being most lovingly with pityful remarks on its frightful state.
My sisters were then also rather reserved in their attitude towards me because ‘twenty four’ that was something, something to respect and not make jokes about.
But at least now I could make a rather good guess at the outcome of this new waiting period. Because, unless one had not done something inexcusable, like for instance lie to Papa over some disciplinary matter, or for instance stealing money as Monika, my younger sister once did (and only once). Unless some such thing was the reason for the punishment, it would be the last waiting period. Only for the very serious sins six more with the cane were to expect, but that was not often to happen. But when it happened, it was terrible. Terrible and again terrible! Thirty strokes with a high-quality cane and the last ‘six’ crossing mostly previous weals, that makes one feel as being dipped with bum and thighs into boiling oil and it lets one no way to forget of them weals. Neither walking nor standing, sitting or laying will help. But as I said that did not happen often.
So, after this (mostly) last waiting, not less bad in any way than those before, and after a final lecture, taking the cane back to its place in the wardrobe, it was at an end, my punishment. I could collect my cloths and retreat to my room but only to deposit my cloths there and then to stand outside, naked, till after supper. Only then I could change into my pyjamas and find Papa for a first inspection. And with these inspections it is again something special.
Waiting, as I explained at the beginning of my letter — some way off already as I notice with surprise — anxious waiting was one important element of our punishment at home. Humiliation was another very important feature too and it was held vivid for quite some time after the punishment.
Every evening before I went to bed I had to appear before Papa in my nightie, and pulling my pyjama trousers down had to present my buttocks and thighs (back and front) to him for an inspection of the cane marks. This humiliating procedure was to be repeated every evening until my cane marks had rather faded away. It did not matter where I would find Papa, in the living-room, my parents’ bedroom or his office, and it did not matter who was with him then — I had to go through that humiliating routine and give him as much time as he wanted or needed for his inspection. It could be only a mere glance at me or it could be done really scrutinizing, turning me back and forth, fingering and commenting my weals and so on. An exception were those occasions where other witnesses than either of the bigger family circle or of the smaller group of close friends and neighbours were present. Then Mama would give Papa a sign that I was waiting and he would come out to have his look at my slowly disappearing weals. Papa did, of course not go through his inspections without bringing my nude or rather half-nude and shameless state back to my mind very plainly by directing my consciousness to my bare bottom and nude backside and particularly to my bare pubic — and I was always aware of it, very much; was aware of Papa’s eyes going over my body and was very much aware when the cane had touched down there only recently.
With two sisters who were under no less severe discipline at home than I was, it happened often enough that I went to find Papa in company of one or the other of them, or even appeared at times together with both of them before Papa.
Both, the time these fat cane weals needed to fade away properly and the fact that the cane came to action at least about once per month for one of us three, both were together responsible for these joint sisterly presentations of our bare rumps to Papa on many a night.
That it was not a pure pleasure to do so, in particular if he had guests, is not difficult to understand. How very humiliating and shameful these nightly situations really were is more difficult to imagine in full depth. And with the years this humiliating routine did not become easier for me. As a young lady still to give Papa a complete view of my ever so naked, shaved pubic and bare buttocks, disfigures still with a series of long and more or less faded cane weals, that is always humiliating enough.
There is still a lot more to tell about discipline at home, for instance how Mama was punished, for she was punished also by Papa. I did not learn any details about it than only after my twenty first birthday. She would exactly know what her daughters suffered under the cane, because the severity of her punishments went definitely beyond ours. She would receive her punishment always during the morning, with me and my sisters at school and when Mrs Heller had her day off, and her punishment would go also beyond a mere caning. Only after I had first realized at about twelve or thirteen that Mama was punished at all by Papa, I did notice the after effects of her punishments when back from school. I noticed them in her already splendid made-up face as well through small indications of the still present pain and I was always compelled to be particularly loving and sympathetic to her then, as were my sisters.
Well, I do have to close my letter now, it has grown rather longer than I had thought and I can only hope that my long untrained English is sufficiently understandable.
Thanks very much for your patience and attention and goodbye.
With all best wishes.
Ellen F. and husband

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