Time for some letters from Roué, where they were always a significant part of the magazine. The fact they had such a bulging postbag even in issue 1 might make a cynical reader suspect a fictional element to the correspondence, but it is entertaining nonetheless.
As with most Roué features, the photos have a charming/infuriating lack of relevance to the item they are illustrating.
A Highland Fling
Asked to contribute to your correspondence section, I have been unsure of quite what to write about from my own personal experience, which is somewhat limited.
However, there is one incident, in which I was in no way involved, which has stuck in my mind for some six or seven years. It was reported in the national press, but, unlike the almost classic story of the man who caned his filing clerk because she stole some money, and who was subsequently sent to prison for his rashness, I have never seen it referred to in any publication dealing with corporal punishment, although it was round about the same time. I feel it to be worthy of mention because it seems to me that it raises some interesting points.
The incident occurred in Scotland, sometime in the sixties, in a tourist spot somewhere near the border. Apparently a man who ran a souvenir shop, assisted by his wife, was accustomed to take on some extra help during the peak season, and on this occasion he took on two girls who were on holiday from school.
Like the man who caned his filing clerk, this gentleman also found that, on a number of occasions, money was missing from the till at the end of the day. The newspaper reports that, having questioned the two girls, who admitted that they had taken the money, the shopkeeper then informed them that he was going to punish them. No threats were made. He simply stated it as a fact.
After closing the shop, the man then produced a cane, which he just happened to have handy, and, with his wife holding the girls’ hands, he bent them one by one across the counter and proceeded to cane them on the seat of their knickers. So far this doesn’t seem unlikely, if slightly risky. But the remarkable thing is that, by the time he was apprehended and charged, it is reported that this regular punishment had been going on for something like six weeks, more or less every day, and the two girls had been calmly bending over the counter with their skirts up around their waists, with their bottoms getting between six and a dozen strokes, and had then been unconcernedly going home, saying nothing to anyone, and then turning up for work again the next day in the full knowledge that by the time they went home again they would very likely be doing so with yet another sore bottom.
Obviously, the canings must have been more than little tickles as the man’s wife had to hold the girls down across the counter, and I don’t suppose their knickers gave much protection even if the shopkeeper didn’t occasionally pull the legs of their pants up a little so that he could use the cane on their bare cheeks.
When this affair came to light, and, mark you, it only did so because of a chance remark by one of the girls which was overheard, the man and his wife were taken to court.
The court merely fined them, because, apparently, the only charge which could be brought against them was one of common assault, though it could have been indecent assault had the man taken the girls’ knickers down, and the situation was yet further eased because neither of the girls could be persuaded to testify in court in any but the most complimentary terms. The saving factor, of course was that the man had made no threats about what would happen if they had failed to comply, which would have been a much more serious matter.
Speculating on this incident has given me more than a little pleasure, and I would be grateful to know if any of your readers could give me a convincing explanation of why two schoolgirls should willingly allow themselves to thus be caned on a regular basis. As I say, this is a perfectly factual account published in a national newspaper. One wonders, in the light of this, how many other girls get caned in similar circumstances and never report the fact.
In response to your request for ideas and suggestions for your forthcoming publication, I thought you might be interested in my wife’s account of her experiences in the Women’s Royal Air Force, which, incidentally, have given me food for thought now that she has discussed the matter with me fully for the first time.
‘After doing our basic training at an ‘Induction Centre’, we girls were then sent on to other, more specialised establishments which were to undertake our training in the occupations which we had been told we must follow. I, along with a number of other girls, went to an RAF station in Kent. At this station, and I’m talking about the early nineteen sixties, we lived in barracks, called by the slightly nicer name of dormitories, with about eighteen or twenty girls in one long room, with beds and lockers and very little else. There were also showers and loos adjoining, and each of these little units was overseen by the corporal, who lived in comparative luxury in her own room at the landing end of the dormitory. She was responsible for us to a certain extent, and was also theoretically responsible for the standards of efficiency and cleanliness in our accommodation.
Our particular corporal was named Waverly, or something like that, and she was a girl of about twenty-one or two, and therefore older than most of us by a couple of years. This, combined with her two stripes and her undoubted position of authority meant that, in all practical details, her word was law.
The first brush with her authority wasn’t long in coming. Young girls can be boisterous, just like young men, and a couple of us, me included, got back rather late one evening to the accompaniment of excited squeals and giggles and the unpremeditated eruption of a fire extinguisher, which somehow contrived to fall off its hook and spurt foam all over the highly polished floor of the dorm.
Corporal Waverly appeared, her face a mixture of amusement and affronted dignity. She looked us up and down, while we stood anxiously in an untidy group and waited for the knell of doom.
The blow, when it came, seemed catastrophic.
‘Confined to barracks, tomorrow night, the lot of you. And I mean all of the dorm, not just you four.’
There was an immediate howl of protest from the other girls, but Corporal Waverly remained unmoved.
‘There will be an inspection here tomorrow evening at eighteen hundred. No one is excused. That’s all.’
The four of us who had caused this calamity suffered the displeasure of all the other girls until the following evening, by which time, as we got ready for the special inspection, some of our dormitory companions looked as if they could cheerfully have killed us.
At eighteen hundred, Corporal Waverly appeared. We had expected a ‘dressing down’, but we got rather more than that!
Corporal Waverly knew exactly what she was doing. She obviously realised that, having allowed enough time for resentment against we four culprits to fester for almost twenty-four hours, any suggestion she might make as to an alternative to being confined to barracks, particularly if it included an opportunity for the rest of the girls to get their own back, would be very well received.
Having delivered the expected lecture, she slipped in the punchline.
‘The alternative to my punishing you all by restricting you to the dorm tonight, is one which you might possibly prefer.’
The chance of a reprieve was at once received with considerable enthusiasm.
‘The alternative is that you, and I mean those of you who were not responsible for last night’s fracas, might prefer to punish the culprits yourselves.’
Possibly you can imagine the spirit in which this suggestion was received. Shocked by the animalistic shrieks of glee which erupted from the others, the four of us withered with frightened anticipation of what this punishment might be. There was considerable noisy discussion as to just what the other girls ought to do to us. Corporal Waverly waited for the hubbub to subside and then mentioned that, if all were in agreement, she might have a satisfactory solution. The four of us were ordered to wait in the shower room, across the landing. We waited for what seemed ages, and our qualms were by no means eased by the sounds of giggling and uproarious agreement which carried to us from the dorm.
Then the press gang arrived, headed by Corporal Waverly. They pounced on poor Linda, who was about the youngest of us all, and led her protesting into the dorm. The remaining three of us were told to wait where we were, with threats of dire consequences if we didn’t.
As soon as Linda had disappeared through the double doors of the dormitory the giggling and laughter resumed, and now and then a shriek which didn’t sound like one of amusement sounded shrilly above the babble. With considerable trepidation we realised that the squeals must be Linda’s.
Whatever they were doing to her seemed to go on for ages. Certainly it was a good ten minutes, which can be an age. And then they came back. For me.
Scared stiff by the yells Linda had been making, I didn’t want to go, but I hadn’t a chance. Kicking and struggling, they dragged me through the door.
Immediately my eyes found poor Linda. I was absolutely shocked by the sight. Her hair was straggling all over her face, she was half-naked, with only her blouse and tie still more or less in place, and was lying face up across a bed with her arms and legs pinned by four of the girls, her thighs spread-eagled and her eyes staring with fright as she lifted her head and looked at me.
As I was brought in and shoved to the middle of the long room, Linda was hoisted unceremoniously to her feet and propelled forcibly to the far end of the dorm. With shocked amazement, I saw the hot looking red blotches on her bare bum, and the same angry crimson spank-marks down the backs of both thighs. She was dumped, bottom uppermost, across the bed at the end of the dorm, and threatened that if she didn’t want another dose she’d better stay where she’d been put.
And then it was my turn. Struggling, I was dragged to a bed, forced face down across it, and my shoes, stockings, skirt, slip and knickers literally yanked off me, while someone sat on my neck and someone else clung onto my hands. Half-stripped, I was then pulled to my feet and taken back to the middle of the room, amid jeers and catcalls and considerable laughter.
The girls were to be armed with various implements, mostly hairbrushes. Corporal Waverly, also equipped with a hairbrush, stood in front of me with the most angelic smile on her face. I suddenly found that someone had slipped a pillow case over my head, so that I could see only vague shapes through the linen, and then I was forced to my knees on the floor. Strong thighs clamped either side of my waist, hands held my wrists, and then it started. My poor bum jumped with the first swipe, and I yelped with a mixture of pain and fright. Again and again the pain sizzled into my bottom, a dozen or twenty, I don’t know. But I do know that before it had finished, I was bawling like a child and wriggling like mad to escape the sting of that hairbrush.
Then the thighs released me, and their place was taken by another pair. I squirmed, trying to get free, and I felt yet another pair of thighs clamp either side of my ears, and the weight of someone’s soft, heavy bottom on the top of my head bearing me down to the floor. The spanking started again. I screamed and bawled, but I was absolutely helpless, and the smart grew in my stinging backside until I hardly knew how I would stand it. This process was repeated again and again. I was absolutely breathless from crying, and my knees were bruised and raw from scrabbling about on the wooden floor. At last they had finished with me. Absolutely wretched, I was eventually lifted to my feet, and then I, like Linda, was spread-eagled face-up over a bed without an ounce of fight left in me.
The giggles grew louder, and then something cold and slippery started to worm its way up inside me. I screamed, but it still splodged into me, and then, at last, it was over.
The pillow case was removed, I was plonked down on the bed at the end of the dorm next to Linda, and I heard them bring in Anne, heard them stripping her, and listened as they spanked her naked bottom as they had mine. Then it was Julie’s turn, while the three of us lay across our beds too terrified to move.
They finished with Julie, and then Corporal Waverly’s voice sounded behind us. We got another dozen or so each across our sore and quivering bums, before they let us up at last.
As a spanking, it must have rated as a pretty severe one. There were fourteen other girls, besides us four, in the dorm, plus Corporal Waverly, and they must have each given us a good twenty stingers each. The bruises on my bum stayed for almost a week and, honestly, I couldn’t sit down comfortably for a couple of days.
I never got spanked like that again. But, I have to admit, when it was someone else turn to get it, I was as eager as everyone else, and I should think I got as much enjoyment from it as the other girls had when it had been my turn. And incidentally I found out what the goo was that they’d squirted up inside me. It was only toothpaste. But with your head inside a pillow-case, a tube of toothpaste can feel like a hundred other bloody awful things.
Whether that kind of thing was common enough in Corporal Waverly’s dorm, but with the benefit of hindsight it is perfectly clear that she thoroughly enjoyed it, and engineered repeat performances on every possible occasion.
Perhaps someone else will be able to shed more light on this kind of thing.
Following the recent, and well-publicised decision of a Midlands County Council to reintroduce corporal punishment in its children’s homes, I have read several accounts in various magazines which detail the punishments involved. As many people will already know, the pupils, including girls up to seventeen, may now be caned, by a female member of staff, over not more than one layer of clothing, which presumably means a pair of knickers or shorts, and always in the presence of the headmaster, which is a necessary part of the routine as laid down by the council.
This decision is naturally regarded as a novelty, and has been reported as such. I would like to point out however, that though it may be a novelty to have girl pupils caned in council run homes, it is by no means a new idea in certain other establishments.
There are thousands of other homes, run by all sorts of charitable and other associations, where corporal punishment, whether sanctioned by officialdom or not, goes on nevertheless. Obviously I cannot speak authoritatively of the majority, but from personal experience I can say that in one, at least, official policy turned a blind eye to the actual facts of life.
I lived in a privately run home from the age of thirteen until I was sixteen, and then, having no other home to go to nor a job, I stayed on, as did several other girls, as domestic staff cum children’s nurse.
The head of the establishment was a man whose scholastic qualifications were minimal, but whose experience in running organisations for young people apparently made him a suitable person to administer the home.
His methods were fair enough, I suppose, and he was certainly a ‘father figure’ to many of us. Which no doubt excused, at least in his mind, the exercise of ‘parental discipline’ on occasions. The nature of this discipline was common knowledge to all members of staff, and as I happen to know, to one at least of the governors of the home.
Discipline was ‘unofficial’, in that its application was casual rather than ritualistic.
Being sent to the principal, for the boys, usually meant a bit of a lecture and then some imposition such as additional duties or a loss of privileges. For the girls, it meant much the same, unless you were one of his favourites. To qualify as a favourite, you needed to have a pretty face, a naturally obedient nature, and as few visitors from the outside world as possible. It also helped if you were one of those whose school life, which was outside the home, wasn’t a particularly happy one, which meant that you weren’t likely to have made any close relationships with the teaching staff.
A ‘favourite’ really had to suffer the usual impositions and punishments, but her ‘discipline’ was carried out on a much more paternal level. A fairly common imposition involved dusting the bookshelves in the principal’s office, for which purpose he kept a little step-ladder. The girl dusted the shelves, and then each book in turn had to be taken down and shown to him for inspection, while she stood up on the ladder. Any book which still retained a speck of dust would bring a ‘Tut-tut’, or a ‘Dear me’, and an admonitory pat on the bottom, delivered from underneath the girls’ skirt. Having gone through this ritual on several occasions, without her having complained of the intimate liberties which he took in the process, it was only a small step to finding herself across his lap with her knickers pulled up tight and getting a mild spanking. She would then graduate to a bare bottom spanking, by which time the precedent had been established, and she took it for granted that having to go to the principal’s office meant taking her knickers down, a performance which quickly became an almost automatic response.
Cold showers were another ‘favourites’ favourite, witnessed, of course, by the principal, to be sure you didn’t duck your punishment.
These admittedly mild punishments, because I have to say that even a bare bottom slapping was never really more than a token affair, were not at all out of the ordinary for some of the girls. But it was when I officially ‘left’ the home, as a pupil, and rejoined as a member of staff, that punishment came to figure more ominously in my life.
On the day before I ‘left’, I was called to see the principal. The transition from inmate to staff had, of course, already been discussed with him and others on the staff. The interview was designed to put me firmly in my place. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that although I had passed from his responsibility in one respect, nevertheless as an employee I now had my own responsibilities to him, and he had a duty to the home’s governors. In future, if I wanted to stay under the roof which had protected me for the last four years, I must expect to be treated as a responsible adult, and grown-up girls, in his opinion, needed more than the odd smack on the bottom to keep them in order. With this menacing thought firmly implanted in my mind, I moved into my own upstairs room, in a corridor up under the eaves where the other girls on the staff had their accommodation. I was, of course, in no position to defy him. I had no family, and no money of my own, and there was really no possibility of my leaving at that stage. And also, to tell the truth, I, like the other girls who had stayed on, was uneasy about starting life anew elsewhere. The home was home, that’s all there was to it. And after four years, taking my knickers down for a spanking didn’t seem particularly dreadful. I was used to it, and anyway, despite his own particular style of discipline, the principal was in every other respect a likeable man, whom I had come to look upon as a substitute father.
I had been ‘on the staff’ for only a few days when I found out just how it was that he ‘kept the girls in order.’
For some reason or other which I forget, I found myself in trouble. I paid a brief visit to his study, expecting to be put across his knee as usual. Instead I was told to be in my room at nine that evening, ready for bed.
Dutifully, I did as I was told. Ready for bed presumably meant in my pyjamas. By nine I was ready, and waiting for his arrival, which was right on time.
In his hand he carried a cane. I stared disbelievingly. I was told to take down my pyjama trousers, which I did, and then I was instructed to lie across the bed, my bare bottom held up high, and then I was given my first ever caning. I have to admit that I blubbered, it stung like mad, and he had to hold me down for the last few. I got a dozen, and the marks stayed for about twenty four hours.
Thereafter, even when it wasn’t my turn, on six nights out of seven at least one of the girls upstairs was caned. The rest of us could hear the swish and whack of the cane, and the unlucky girls’ weeping coming muffled from her room. Nor was it only the principal. Now, the matron also took a hand. I got the cane on average about three times every two weeks, and got slippered by Matron about once a week. And several times, when I got a little older, I was told to report to Matron’s room where, naked except for my bra and pants. I was ‘introduced’ to a man whom I recognised as one of the trustees. On each occasion I was stripped naked, then pulled across a table and my hands held by the man, while Matron thrashed me with a strap across my bum and my thighs. Then, with a patronising peck on the cheek and a lingering pat on the bottom from this man, I was packed off to my room, my place over the table being taken by another girl.
This arrangement continued for the two remaining years that I was there. At any time, I suppose, I could have left, but having become ‘institutionalised’ I could never quite get up the nerve to actually try and make my own way outside the home.
Now, I can’t say this is typical of homes like mine, but from several other girls I have met, one way and another through associations connected with these institutions, it seems more probable to me than not that there is a good deal more goes on out of sight than anyone might imagine. The councillors who so daringly recommended the introduction of corporal punishment in establishments under their jurisdiction are simply giving the seal of approval in their own homes to something which goes on anyway, officially or not, in plenty of other places of a similar sort.
Getting the Message
Perhaps you will be interested in the story attached, which is about my time as a messenger in a merchant bank in the City, in the early nineteen sixties.
At that time I was in charge of messengers, and there were three others under me. It was our job, amongst other things, to go round to each of the offices at the end of the day and collect any letters or packages left in the messenger’s trays. So that we didn’t inconvenience the staff, particularly the directors and senior executives, we would usually wait until all the offices were empty before collecting.
One evening, later than usual, while on my rounds, I ambled unannounced into an office, and saw something which completely took me aback. Across the large, polished desk which was opposite the door was the incredible sight of a girl, whom I took to be one of the secretaries, spread-eagled face down against the top, with her dress tucked up around her waist and her bottom unashamedly on display, covered only by a pair of nylon knickers.
I stopped in my tracks, but she didn’t move. Presumably she hadn’t heard my footsteps on the thick carpet. Confused, but with sense enough to realise that I ought to make myself scarce, I slipped away into an adjoining office, where I sat down and collected my thoughts. I decided, out of sheer fascination, that perhaps I ought to hang around and see what happened.
The topmost eighteen inches of the wall which divided the offices was built of glass, no doubt to let a little light through into the inner room, and by very quietly moving a desk, and by placing a chair on top of it, I found that I could see over the partition. I installed myself in my vantage point and awaited developments.
Nothing happened for a while. The girl was quite alone in the office. I reckoned she must have been about nineteen. She was dark-haired and although I couldn’t see her face properly, I gained the impression that she was quite a pretty girl. She was certainly a nice shape. Her bottom looked solid and plump, and her thighs were nice and full where they swelled out above her stocking tops. Her posture across the desk gave me the distinct idea that she was there for a spanking. The thought of that got me very excited indeed.
Patience was rewarded, and in a little while a man, one of the bank’s directors, arrived. I knew him fairly well, on an employer/employee basis.
To my surprise, he seemed to completely ignore the girl across his desk, while he fiddled with some papers in a filing cabinet. Only when he’d finished whatever he was doing did he seem to notice her. Then he came round to the front of the desk and started to talk to the girl, while he stroked and fondled her half-naked bottom from behind. I heard him talking, but I couldn’t catch her answers. She seemed very anxious.
Then, from a cupboard, the man produced a short, thin cane, about two feet long. Walking up behind the girl, he started to cane her, not very hard, across the two heavy swells of her buttocks which were left bare by the briefness of her knickers. I could hear the soft ‘popping’ of the cane as it landed. He caned her slowly, and little by little she began to wriggle after each stroke, and to do a kind of little jump forward against the desk.
He gave her about thirty like this, then stopped. I couldn’t see any actual marks on the girl’s bum, but it looked faintly red more or less all over the exposed parts of her cheeks. He said something to her, and I saw her start to fumble with her knickers, then stop.
Suddenly, even taking me by surprise, he whacked the cane quite hard across each of her bare thighs in turn. I heard her squeal, and then almost at once she had wriggled her knickers down off her bottom, down past her knees, and lay looking nervously back over her shoulder. Her bare bottom looked very nice indeed, especially with the redness covering the lower parts.
Then, much more determinedly, he began to cane her properly. She squirmed about after each one, and I heard her gasp even through the glass. He whacked her slowly and methodically, waiting for what might have been thirty seconds between each stroke.
I watched, enraptured, as the livid weals began to swell up, plain to see even from my observation point. She got about twenty more like that, the last few taking a long time because she started to jump up almost to her feet as the cane landed, and would only get back down again very reluctantly. The whacking made her cry, and I could plainly hear her sobs, but for some reason she stuck it out.
When he’d finished with her, he left her face down across the desk while he put the cane away, then he came back, took her knickers down to her ankles and lifted her feet out of them, then undid his trousers and slipped his cock up inside her from behind.
I watched him screw her, which he took his time about, and all the while the girl clung on to the far edge of the desk and let him have her just as he wanted.
When he’d finished, I imagined that it was all over for the poor girl, but no. He straightened himself up, then, spreading her legs as wide apart as they would go, he took a ruler from his desk and began to slap the insides of her thighs, above her stocking tops, while she rolled about across the desk top, clamping her legs together every now and then, when he would prise them apart, though with some difficulty, and resume her punishment, which went on until she was in tears again after something like fifty or so slaps with the ruler.
At last he seemed to have finished with her. She stood up, and wandered miserably around the office, touching at her crimson bottom in a very dubious and careful way, yet still holding her dress up, apparently on instructions from him.
I imagined at this point that it was all over. She’d been soundly caned, and the marks were still visible, she’d been fucked and then she’d been punished yet again with the ruler. Whatever she’d done to deserve it, she’d certainly paid the price.
So I was rather startled when, on his instructions, she stopped her wandering about and started to take her dress off, then her slip and finally her bra as well, leaving her in nothing other than her shoes, stockings and suspenders.
They walked together to the door, then he had her bend over while he gave her a couple of hefty spanks on her sore bottom, then she was helped into her coat and they left.
I gave them ten minutes, then emerged myself. I could only suppose, from what I had just seen, that the unhappy girl’s punishment was not yet over, though her bottom had certainly taken a good walloping. I can’t imagine what she could have done to deserve it, unless there was more to it than that.
Fascinated to discover who this girl was, though I hadn’t recognised her, I spent the next few days searching every office in the building, without finding her. I never did find her. Who she was is still a mystery to me, though obviously she couldn’t have worked at the bank. Somehow, the idea that she had come to the bank specifically and presumably by appointment, to wait across the director’s desk with her dress up round her waist, for him to then turn up and punish her at his leisure, adds a flavour to the episode which I still find exciting after all the ensuing years.
Asked for a contribution, I have concluded that the most sensible and realistic thing I have to say is this:
I am old enough to remember Teddy Boys, and Girls, as something of a nuisance to one who was twenty years or so older than their generation. I also remember Beatniks, Beatlemania and Ban-the-Bomb demonstrators, who were also a damned nuisance.
But for sheer arrogance and vicious disrespect for other people’s values, this present wave of Punk, whatever that is supposed to be, takes the bloody biscuit.
The other day, I watched two young girls, still obviously of school age, insulting and mocking a porter on a London railway station, making obscene remarks and even throwing things at him, apparently secure in the knowledge that, apart from the extremely remote chance of court action, their behaviour could go unchallenged and completely unpunished.
If they were fourteen years old I’d be surprised, but, for all that may be criticised for saying it, I would cheerfully have collared them and taken their pants down for a good whipping there and then. Their arrogance and lack of consideration would have evaporated if I’d been able legitimately to get my hands on them. I would have spanked their bare behinds until they squealed for pity, and I would not have desisted until their impudent rumps were scarlet all over.
The sooner something is done about this disgusting tendency to disrespect in the young, the better. The psychologists have had their turn, and failed dismally. It’s about time that educationalists were given the go ahead to put the emphasis back where it belongs, across the backsides of these hooligans, and preferably with a good swishy cane!