From Blushes 9
Readers of Blushes who do not read The Times may be interested to learn the results of an exclusive Mori Poll which the newspaper published earlier this year. The main conclusion was:
63% OF ALL PARENTS FAVOURED THE USE OF CORPORAL PUNISHMENT SUCH AS CANING. 33% OPPOSED THIS.
Moreover, 65% of parents said they would give permission to teachers to employ corporal punishment on their children.
Another interesting fact which emerged was that, when these parents were at school 87% of fathers received corporal punishment and 48% of mothers.
The poll covered all classes of society, all age groups and all political parties and the percentages in favour of corporal punishment were evenly spread. It also appears that parents were only 10% less in favour of girls receiving this kind of punishment as against boys.
How these beatings should be carried out was not delved into, i.e. on the hands, on the bottom, over clothing, or on the bare etc. A rather typical piece of British hypocrisy that, I feel.
Here are just a couple of quotes from this half-page article:
The argument for retaining corporal punishment, be it by cane, strap, slipper, or hand, is that it is regarded by many teachers as a necessary disciplinary device.
One Educational Councillor admitted:
‘Sending a teacher into a classroom with no cane is like sending a boxer into the ring with one hand tied behind his back.’
One working party studying alternative disciplinary measures for troublemakers came up with ‘Segregation’. However, it was pointed out that this would mean 60 extra teachers!
Finally the headmaster of a large comprehensive school stated that he was not surprised by the result but believes that the cane is less of a deterrent than it used to be.
That statement gives me cause to wonder. Could it be that today’s teachers are not using it often and hard enough?
In any event, this nationwide poll certainly gives a lot of do-gooders and supporters of S.T.O.P.P. cause for thought.
I was delighted when Tom G’s letter in Blushes 6 brought up the theme of celebrity punishments. This is something which was tremendously popular for a long time in another magazine before the Editor — under duress, I suspect — brought it to an end. After all, most of us, alas, are obliged to enjoy the punishment of shapely female bottoms much more in fantasy than in fact. It’s only natural that our dreams should be centered on attractive wenches we see in the press, on films, and most of all, I suppose, on TV. The very fact that they are celebrities makes it all the more enjoyable to think of them being reduced to abject, humiliating submission. Apart from making my own suggestions I always enjoyed reading other people’s ideas of who should be punished and how they should be dealt with. I hope that in turn other readers will approve of my nominations.
To my mind, the most tempting girl on TV at present is Candy Davies, who plays the gorgeous blonde secretary in Are You Being Served? I’d love to re-write the script for that series to make sure that Candy got her lovely arse well and truly tanned in every episode. In one episode, for instance, we could see Candy squirming and weeping face down across Mrs Slocombe’s matronly lap, skirt up and knickers down, with her tender bare bum glowing scarlet under a very thorough spanking. The following week, it would be Miss Brahms’ turn to spank her into a state of blubbering, fire-bottomed misery, this time with the back of a hairbrush. Next it could be Captain Peacock’s turn to chastise her, making her touch her toes for twelve scorching strokes of the cane, and of course we would expect to see her regularly punished by her boss, Mr Rumbold, either before the assembled staff or in the privacy of his office, howling, sobbing and pleading across his desk as a thick, supple leather tawse thwacked across her blazing backside.
Another lovely blonde who appeals to me is Cheryl Baker of Buck’s Fizz. I would love to have her working as my servant for six months or so. Her first duty every morning would be to come to me and present me with a slipper before going across my knee to have her beautiful bare bum soundly spanked. For the rest of the day she would do the housework, cook and serve my meals, and do everything in her power to please me. The slightest lapse from perfection would mean her apprehensively lowering her knickers and bending over a chair or table to have her lovely rump roasted with whatever implement took my fancy at the time, cane or birch-rod, strap or paddle or riding switch. Finally, at bedtime she would unhappily go across my knee once more, have her knickers taken down to expose an extremely sore and well-punished bottom, and suffer the traditional fate of naughty little girls by being soundly spanked and sent to bed. Cheryl has an air of innocent mischief — or do I mean mischievous innocence — which makes it seem entirely appropriate that her plump and pleasing buttocks should be frequently bared and whacked hard and often, resulting in floods of tears and eloquent appeals for mercy.
A rather more mature lady who also appeals to me is Jan Leeming. There is an appearance of vulnerability about her which makes dear Jan most eligible for painful and undignified chastisement. I imagine the Nine O’clock News starting with Jan sitting at her desk, blushing vividly and eyes brimming with tears. ‘The first item of news,’ she breathlessly announces, ‘is that I have just been put across the producer’s knee for a sound spanking on my bare bottom — and that was just to warm me up in preparation for the public thrashing I’m going to get at the end of the news!’ After the news has been read, with rather less than her usual professional composure, Jan says ruefully, ‘And now for the good hiding I’ve been promised!’ She walks into the centre of the studio towards a stout table with a padded leather top. Submissively, she bends over this, gripping the far edge, and waits. After she has been kept in wriggling suspense for several minutes a man appears and calmly turns up her skirts. A delightful vision of stockings, suspenders, bare white thighs and unexpectedly frivolous panties. Jan gasps in dismay as her knickers are briskly pulled down to knee level. Then for the next fifteen minutes the lovely Miss Leeming screeches and sobs and writhes in agonised humiliation as her sensitive seat is very soundly whipped. A dozen with the tawse first, then a dose of the cane, with half a dozen strokes across her bare thighs for extra punishment. Finally Jan is thoroughly birched, howling and squirming desperately as her tender buttocks and thighs suffer under the lashing twigs.
Well, those are my suggestions to start with. Let’s have lots more from other readers, please.
P. Howarth, Manchester
A lot of your features and letters deal with the spanking and caning of schoolgirls, which is all very well and most enjoyable. I am writing to tell you, however, that in my personal experience, a lot of young women have to submit to corporal punishment after they leave school. At least, they used to. Whether it happens today so much it is difficult for me to know. Since human nature doesn’t change very much, it probably still goes on.
My experience came when I was a youngster of 17, working for a village publican in Somerset. It was a small thatch-roofed place, very typical of the inns in that area in those days — the kind of place you see on picture postcards and which town dwellers dream about using. However, reality is different from fantasy and, to tell the truth, the place was pretty run down and gave poor service. Very poor service when compared with what customers expect today. I suppose the owner just about scraped a living but no more. He was a widower and seemed quite old to me but I suppose he was only in his fifties. Since he had a gammy leg, caused by a First World War wound, he couldn’t manage the cellar-work and that was where I came in. He employed me for a few shillings to come in three times a week to shift barrels and the like.
A young woman worked in the bar. She was about twenty-five, I suppose, and married, but her husband was a ne’er-do-well and had gone off to another part of the country and never been heard of since. She was rosy-cheeked. bright-eyed and buxom; a typical country girl, you might say. On reflection, she must have been pretty simple, too. She took my fancy no end but I dare do nothing about it for, as far as I was concerned, she was a grown woman. I have to confess she became the subject of my masturbatory fantasies.
The first time I knew that ‘something was going on’ was a warm summer’s afternoon. I’d been working that morning so was finished for the day — not expected in again until the Saturday. But, you see, I’d left my jacket behind in the cellar and went back to fetch it. I went in very quietly through the back door, to which I had a key, reckoning the gaffer would be snoring the afternoon away. He didn’t half put away his own scrumpy! Down the cellar steps I went and just as I got to the door, I heard something. It was a woman’s voice… and I realised it must be Tess, the barmaid.
‘Only two bob this week, Gaffer… I swear it…’ she said.
‘You wouldn’t lie to me, girl, would you?’ came the voice of my employer. ‘You did so once before and you know what happened? You got double.’
‘I’m not lying, Gaffer. On my oath. Just two bob…’
What on earth was going on? Why were they alone in the cellar and what was all this about money? I dare not open the door but there was a fair-sized chink in it. Holding my breath, I pressed one eye to it. I could see Tess, looking pale and clenching her fingers. The gaffer must have been to one side of her.
‘Alright then, young woman. Two bob it is. Twenty-four pence at tuppence a time, that makes twelve. Get yourself ready.’
Then, to my amazement, Tess lifted her long skirt and pulled down her drawers. I was so fascinated by the sight I was almost frightened. Here was a young woman undressing, something I had never seen before. But why? I was soon to know. The gaffer now came into view. In his hand he had what, in those days, used to be known as a ‘working-man’s belt’. It must have been two and a half inches wide and pretty thick. In my innocence I wondered if he were about to take his trousers off but then saw they were held up by another belt.
‘Over you go,’ he said gruffly. Then, to my even greater amazement, Tess hauled her skirt right up high around her waist to expose her buxom bottom stark naked. I’d never seen such a thing before, but I’d dreamed about it. Something at once began to happen within my trousers. My God, what a sight it was! All soft and wobbly, but not white as it would have been in my imagination. It was red-blotched and as rosy as Tess’s cheeks. The reason would soon be obvious. The next moment, Tess had placed herself over one of the spare barrels lying — luckily — within my vision. Her uplifted bottom looked even bigger. Now I could see things I had never seen before. Now I knew what a woman was! So… like that, eh? The pressure in my trousers intensified. Was I now going to witness what was known as ‘coupling’? The blood was pounding in my temples. This was real grown-up stuff, was it not? Heady, indeed, for a simple country lad like myself.
Then I got an even bigger shock. The gaffer moved to one side of the barrel and gave Tess a terrific wallop with the strap, full across the centre of her bottom. She gave vent to a gasping cry and her bottom bounced and twisted wildly, making that buxom flesh wobble all the more. It was an incredible spectacle and a most exciting one for me. However, what I could not make out was why the gaffer was beating Tess. Why wasn’t he doing something else with her, since she had her skirt up and drawers down?
The belt continued to fall at regular intervals, striping those juddering buttocks vividly. Tess, it seemed to me, was remarkably tough. Not many young women could have taken a belting like that and remained curving over the barrel. It suddenly occurred to me that she was used to being beaten in this fashion. It was all so puzzling. Yet, as I have said before, very exciting.
‘How many’s that, young woman?’
‘Ah… hhhaaahhh… e-eleven, Gaffer…’
The twelfth stroke thwacked down as hard as all the previous ones had. Tess remained there, shoulders heaving but not sobbing audibly. Yes, she was a strong lass, alright.
‘Will you be putting your hand in my money drawer again, Tess?’ asked the Gaffer almost solicitously.
‘I… I’ll try not to…’ came a choked answer.
‘I mean, is tuppence worth a whack?’
‘I’m very poor, sir…’
So that was it. Tess was being strapped for thieving out of the till. Well, I thought, that was a serious offence so I supposed she deserved it. After all, if the gaffer had told the police she would most likely have gone to prison and never been able to get a respectable job again. So perhaps this was a better alternative. Then, to my great surprise, I saw the gaffer start to run a hand over Tess’s big, reddened bottom. To my even greater surprise, Tess did not protest but remained bent over the barrel. Then I heard her begin to sigh with something like contentment. How extraordinary! The gaffer’s body was partially obscuring my view so I couldn’t see exactly what he was doing. This was most frustrating… as Tess’s sighs got louder and longer.
I was stunned when, a little while later, I saw the gaffer unbuckle his waist belt and drop his trousers. Once again the hair on the nape of my neck rose. This was real grown-up stuff. So this was what they did; how they did it. Just like animals when you come to think of it. Soon they were both grunting like pigs; then shuddering and gasping; then still and moaning. It was time for me to be off. Still jacketless. I made my way back up the cellar steps and out into the sunlight.
That had certainly been some experience and my trousers were still bulging. Something, I knew, would soon have to be done about that!
In my innocence, I assumed that Tess was just caught occasionally doing a bit of light thieving, but subsequent visits, on the same weekday. to that cellar proved that this was a regular event. She felt the gaffer’s strap every week… and he had his way with her.
The interesting thing was, I realised after a while, that Tess was fully in control of the number of strokes she received each week. She could steal sixpence, two shillings, or even four shillings if she wished. It was certainly a painful way of supplementing what must have been a pretty pitiful income!
On the other hand, as I saw regularly, it had its compensations.
Tom D. Gloucester
My first vivid memories of corporal punishment are not (as I would imagine is more usual) of a visual nature but of an auditory one. Yes, I can clearly remember, when I was about 14 or so, being both intrigued and excited by the sound of punishment being administered.
This, I may say, was in the mid-thirties when I was a pupil at a boys’ Secondary School… and it was one of those which had a complimentary School for Girls which was situated in its own grounds about a mile and a half away from us. In those days, the idea of boys and girls mixing together to receive lessons would have horrified both master, mistresses and parents. Whatever would the little darlings have got up to? One wonders. The other great difference in that era between two Great Wars was, of course, the matter of discipline. I was caned several times by the Head — once before my form-mates — and thought nothing of it. It hurt a bit at the time but I am sure it did me good.
On the occasion I first heard a punishment, I had been sent with a letter from our Head to the Headmistress of our co-school. Why I was selected I don’t know but I do recall it was a great joy to be out of class and going through the streets with what I assumed to be an important ‘missive’ in my hand. It made me feel quite grown up.
It felt both strange and somehow exciting to be going into that girls’ school. Just think of it, I said to myself, there are hundreds of them here. So near you. All wearing knickers and skirts. All different to you. It would certainly give me something to think about that night when I got into my bed, I reckoned!
A caretaker had directed me along a corridor towards the Headmistress’s study. The floor was highly polished; I can still smell that polish. At one point two girls came towards me. I felt myself flushing as they passed and looked away. It was humiliating to hear them giggling.
At last, heart thumping a little, I came to a wide, mahogany-coloured door with a plate on it which announced ‘Headmistress’. I gathered myself together, felt to make sure all the buttons on my jacket were done up, then prepared to knock. At that point I heard a sharp whistling sound followed immediately by a series of high-pitched gasping sounds. I was flabbergasted. Puzzled, too. What on earth was going on? I stayed my knock. The same whistling sound came again, followed by some more anguished gasps. The hair on the nape of my neck rose. I had enough experience to realise someone was being caned. And that someone must be a girl! That knowledge filled me with an intense pleasure. I sup-pose it must have been sexual pleasure, of a kind. From that moment, I am sure, my interest in the punishment of females has stemmed.
I heard a third stroke delivered and the cries it evoked were even more anguished. Greatly daring, I pressed one ear to the door. Sobbing sounds could now be heard and, above them, a rather strident female voice delivering some kind of homily. Unfortunately, I couldn’t make out the words but it was surely the Headmistress admonishing some girl she had just caned. I was quite fascinated to think that, behind that door, a girl was probably still bending over a desk. She might even have her knickers down! I backed away from the door in case it should open suddenly. Then I had the thought that, if I knocked and then opened that door, I might actually see that girl. I was torn between fear of the consequences and intense excitement. For some time a silence had reigned. Once more I pressed my ear to the door. Sobbing was still going on. Then came the Headmistress’s voice again. Sharp and commanding. I waited, indecisive, heart pounding. Someone was pleading. There came more commands. Then, to my amazement, the whistling and cracking sounds were resumed. I realised a second girl must be getting a caning.
One… two… three… four… Strokes laid on at about ten-second intervals, each of them followed by breathless yelping cries. Was she getting it on the bare? I longed to know but could not pluck up enough courage to open that door.
Five… six… Louder yells were followed by prolonged sobbing whilst another homily was delivered. What should I do? Lacking the courage of my desires, I retreated about ten yards down the corridor and then began to advance slowly again. At that moment the Headmistress’s door opened and out came two girls. They were both obviously senior girls, both with good, big titties. Each was clutching hands urgently to the back of her gymslip; each face was red and streaked with tears. They hurried past me, seeming not to even notice me. Perhaps they had rather a lot on their mind at that moment!
Once more I reached the door and this time I knocked. I was summoned in and just had time to catch side of a formidable-looking woman hanging a hooked-handle cane up in a cupboard. I also saw that the cupboard contained several more canes as well as some nasty-looking straps. Discipline, it seemed, was even tougher at the girls’ school than the boys!
‘I have a letter, Ma’am…’
‘Put it down on the desk, boy, and go.’
I did so at once. It was quite some relief to get out of that study. Somehow that woman frightened me more than my own Headmaster. What must the sight of her have done for the girls, I wondered?
Those indeed were the days…
J. K. Lincoln