Letter from Blushes Supplement 9 — One Man’s Meat

Dear Sirs,

I thought that Blushes 11 was a good issue, combining as it did some pithy stories with a variety of photographs. I have to admit that one of the things which pleased me was the absence of some of the least interesting items from recent issues (Reich Girls I found particularly bland). However, as is often the case with spanking magazines, the letters section proved the most stimulating. There certainly seems to be a surge of interest in the humiliation of pretty girls, and I’m all for it myself.

The general trend of opinion in these letters seems to be towards greater severity in your stories and pictures, and once again, I completely agree. I don’t think that I am being selfish in asking you to step up the amount of suffering your girls are subjected to — as others have said, there are many spanking magazines about now but they all seem to be pitched at the fans of mild C/P in which the excitement is as much for the spanked as the spankers. Frankly, I lose interest completely as soon as the girls start getting aroused. Experience has taught me to glance at the closing paragraphs of spanking fiction so as to avoid wasting my time reading soppy tales that end with the girls looking forward to the next time. Perhaps I shouldn’t be critical of other people’s taste but honestly, there is so much of this stuff churned out month after month that it should be obvious that there is a yawning gap in the scope of the C/P press — and that the market not being catered for is the one I’m a small part of.

I’m definitely not the only one crying out for real punishment. The letters pages of even the mildest magazines contain pleas for very strict measures to be applied to sweet young girls. You at Blushes have shown more than any other magazine that the law will permit a less friendly attitude to schoolgirl bums. The early issues were right up my street, lots of vulnerable young girls in the clutches of ruthless lechers. Recently there has been a slight shift towards greater subtlety, which is not in my opinion a good thing. Stories like Mandy (Supplement 4) seem blatantly over-written and verbose, whereas The Club (Blushes 7) is quite simply the finest piece of fiction I’ve ever read in a men’s magazine. That has everything — and no-one could call it crude or anything other than fluently literate. Young Charlotte is ridiculed, humiliated, discussed as a sex object while she stands there sobbing, dressed in the most embarrassing combination of childish and revealingly provocative costume, then made to reveal her breasts, bottom and pubic region specific bit by specific bit to four smug and deliberately callous men. When her shy little spirit has been lovingly crushed the more directly physical abuse of our blameless young lamb begins. First she is strapped on the bare bottom and then she suffers the ultimate defeat of feminine virtue, not once but four times, losing in the process something precious and irretrievable that she would have given as a token of love when she was older. Then comes the punchline in the final paragraphs, a stroke so delicious and wicked that I was inspired to read the whole story from the beginning again in the knowledge of that revelation. An utter masterpiece which gives me the same thrill every time I read it (which is at least once a week). At the time the issue came out I was involved in amateur dramatics in which there was a budding actress of precisely Charlotte’s age. I had a whale of a time imagining that delicious young thing going through the ordeals of The Club — I only wish that I could bring such a situation about. She’s a lovely kid — everyone in the drama society has remarked on it — and has a splendid rump. She’s also quiet and shy and I’m quite sure she has everything that Charlotte had to lose.

There have been other fine stories too of course Prepositions springs to mind with plenty of humiliation and sheer unfairness — The New Regime was less polished in writing but full of lovely things, especially the deliberately offensive way the men addressed the girls: But best of all has been The Club which was perfect in my view.

Among the letters I’ve enjoyed the celebrity punishments, Ellen Barker’s neat rediscovery of some documentary evidence of reform-school discipline, the account of a day spent ogling schoolgirl knickers at an open air museum, the account and photographs of a Norwich typists ordeal, and all the letters which rejoice in deliberate humiliation of teenage girls.

P.R. of Northampton has some interesting ideas in Blushes 11. I especially liked his comments about giving girls laxative pills and enemas. Not only are the effects thoroughly unpleasant in a particularly intimate way, but it emphasises control over a girl if even her internal functions are being tampered with by her master in order to make her life less comfortable.

P.R. also enthuses about humiliation, but the letter from J.C. of Scotland positively teems with gorgeous ideas for making bonnie lasses buckle under the weight of authority. All his ideas are amusing, but I will cite some of my most favourite — the coffee table tableau: nice to think of a girl being made to pose naked and defenceless while the guests mill around, delighting in her shame. She should, of course, be forbidden to speak or move, even though the position she has been forced to adopt is both revealing and achingly uncomfortable.

Sweeps girl: a super idea. We are always hearing about the cruelty of child-labour in Victorian times, but usually in the context of blanket condemnation of the practice and unqualified praise for the do-gooders who ended it. It’s certainly worth giving a second thought to the situations in which girls in their teens were made to perform the most unpleasant of tasks in the most squalid of situations. I believe that they were even chained together in some cases, the chain passing between their legs. Whether the girls were stuffed down mines or up chimneys, you can rest assured that frequent floggings were needed to curb their understandable resistance. All I would add to J.C.’s scenario is that the girl should be dressed in pathetic, tattered rags and her cruel master in opulent luxury.

Photographic records of menial tasks: mucking out a cowshed is my favourite of J.C.’s suggestions. The girl should be dressed in unsuitable clothing, for example a bridesmaid’s dress which is ruined by the muck.

One girl punished by many: a teenage girl’s defences are fragile at the best of times, but when her oppressors gang up on her the fun really starts! I love his suggestion of a step-daughter who is tormented by the whole family. Of course she does all the work in the house while the others lounge around, occasionally chiding her for missing a speck of dust, or yelling abuse at her when she crosses in front of the television. At meal times the family sit at the table while Camilla eats out of a bowl in a corner of the kitchen, on hands and knees like a dog. Sometimes she is nude, sometimes she wears one of her dresses, which are party frocks designed for eight-year-olds. The seams have been split to cram Camilla in, but otherwise they are unaltered. Beneath this she wears cherub white cotton pants, again designed for eight-year-olds and desperately uncomfortable where it really counts, as well as leaving most of her large bottom on display. Guests are sometimes permitted to walk her round the house and secluded garden on her lead. Needless to say, she is thrashed time after time by all the family.

J.C. is obviously interested in bondage and I think he is right to suggest that it would add a further dimension of wicked pleasure to the world of discipline and exploitation. I think that the appearance on the Soho streets of American bondage magazines over the past year has been a major contribution to the furtherment of male pleasure. J.C. has a point when he describes the pictures as ‘samey’ but nevertheless, ‘tied up ladies’ do make an appealing spectacle. I used to think that there was something vaguely fawning about the U.S. fixation with large breasts, but having seen tits trussed-up, attached to furnishings, pinched and distorted by clothes-pegs and G-clamps, stretched with pulleys and weights, and unceremoniously squashed between wooden battens, I now realise that big-breasted girls are properly appreciated across the pond.

Every now and then the bondage mags do come up with an original and witty idea. I wonder if J.C. has seen one of my favourites, in which a girl is literally treated as part of the furniture. The feature is titled Functional furniture and one girl is stripped and gagged, then tied up in various uncomfortable positions that enable her body to be used as a drinks trolley, a plant-pot holder, a wine rack and a television table. She looks really stupid with her young limbs wrapped around a plant-pot and a flourishing rubber-plant sprouting from her midriff. Big sad eyes eloquently express total defeat.

I realise that practically all I have written in this letter so far is comments on other people’s ideas rather than thoughts of my own. Here then are some of my personal suggestions.

A girl being made to perform arduous tasks while everyone else relaxes. For example a photograph showing, in the foreground a tearful girl making the first attempts to cope with a vast mountain of washing up while through the door of the kitchen can be glimpsed the complacent figures of middle-aged men enjoying a cigar and a sherry. Alternatively, a naked girl shivering in the snowy garden, while through the window behind her we see the rest of the family having a party.

Humiliation of a girl from a low-paid job (e.g. Student Nurse) by rich and lazy members of the privileged classes. Unable to pay the heating bills for her squalid, over-priced lodgings, Susanna has to report to the plush mansion inhabited by her landlord. There is a collection of his friends in residence, all amused by the idea of a beautiful young woman having to beg. The fun takes place in a large ballroom. The floor has been lightly marked out in chalk, a circle of about four feet in diameter at each end of the room, between them seven wide strips of floor area, equal width, initialled in chalk as the ‘property’ of the landlord and his six guests. A pile of shining one-pound coins is poured from a sack into the circle at the far end of the room, one thousand pounds in all its glittering glory. Susanna has come as requested in her nurse’s uniform. She goes down on all fours. The landlord lifts her striped skirt and pins it clear of her bottom, then peels her lacy white pants down to her knees, at floor level. Susanna’s task is to shuffle on elbows and knees to the opposite end of the room, then push the coins back, one at a time, with her nose, until she has enough to pay her bills. The men are all armed with a variety of implements to thrash her with, which each is allowed to do whenever she is in the portion of floor labelled with his initials. Since her progress is rendered even slower by the tangle of knickers, and her debts amount to over seventy pounds, Susanna is going to be a very sore and unhappy young lady by the time the evening is out.

Destruction of treasured items of property. A sixteen-year-old girl has fallen in love for the first time, a touching and genuine affection for a boy a year older. She is very proud of him and when some of the boys in her class tease her and falsely claim that he has been two-timing her she lets slip that he loves her so deeply that he keeps her love-letters in his desk. One of the lads duly nips into her boyfriend’s classroom next break, and filches the letters. They know that the English master hates this girl and persuade him to devote the afternoon’s lesson to her letters. He asks one of the class louts to read out her love-letters, loud and clear, one-by-one to the class. He says that they are from a ‘recently discovered cache of anonymous literature’ though everyone knows that they are Pauline’s letters. As each one is read out he savagely criticises the literary style, points out all the grammatical errors and encourages the kids to whoop with laughter at the gauche confessions of undying love. Pauline sobs quietly at the back, not daring to call out that they are her intimate letters, though nearly everyone in the class knows. Finally the master asks for ‘this pile of literary manure’ to be brought out to him at the front, where, with a few last waspish comments about the scented pink paper he tears each letter to shreds, all the time looking straight into the eyes of the blubbing Pauline.

Hanging signs round girls’ necks. An extension of the good old ‘Dunce’s Cap’ tradition. I leave others to fantasize about what could be written on the signs, but if anyone can better the true case of an American couple in recent years I’d be surprised — they sent their daughter to school in her pyjamas with a sign round her neck saying ‘Bedwetter’. A novel attempt at a cure for a common ailment.

Reluctant entertainer. For example, a teenage girl is passionate about ballet. When her mother dies, her stepfather keeps threatening to stop her lessons in order to save money. However, with much pleading, she is allowed to continue. One day her stepfather announces that he is having a little social gathering at the local village hall and that he wants Sarah to perform. Sarah grasps the chance, as she sees it, to show her stepfather that his investment in her lessons has been repaid by hard work — and perhaps to soften his increasingly distant and even harsh attitude towards her. She practises diligently her half-hour set for weeks until the elegant classical routine is near perfect. A shame no-one has pointed out to her the unlikelihood of a five-foot-two redhead with 38C knockers becoming a prima ballerina. Never mind. When she gets to the hall on the day she is given a terrible shock. It is a stag party with strippers, blue movies, booze by the gallon… Her stepfather shoves her into the changing room where he brandishes the cane with which she is all too familiar. He tells her that she must go through with her dance right to the end no matter what, or he will take all the skin off her bottom. Terrified, Sarah dons her pretty pink ballet togs. She waits in the wings while a comedian tells the most disgusting jokes she has ever heard to the delight of the drunken males. Then the comedian announces her act in mocking tones and she hears the tape of her music starting. A great beery cheer goes up as she moves gracefully on, soon followed by bellows of ‘Get ‘em off, darling’, ‘Christ, you’ve got big ones love!’ and like witticisms. After a few minutes her stepfather walks on stage carrying a large pair of dressmakers’ scissors. A further cheer goes up. ‘Keep dancing’ he hisses between his teeth as he slips the blade of his scissors underneath the shoulder-strap of her bodice. Snip! and the strap falls away to applause. Snip! and the other gives way, the bodice hanging limply, while her guardian makes a few more alterations with his scissors.

When he stands back her outer garments have fallen away from her breasts, though they are still in a bra designed to minimise their thrusting bounty. More cheers and obscene calls ring out, the babble eventually becoming a rhythmic chants of ‘Tits! Tits! Tits!’ Sarah dances on in justifiable fear, with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her stepfather moves behind her, and, encouraged by the crowd, reaches down and prods her breasts. For a while he stays there, poking them, bouncing them, squeezing them. Then the scissors come into play again, slicing through the elastic at her cleavage until the big bristols burst out to a welcome that lifts the roof off. A few more snips and her bra, or what remains of it, is tossed to the mob. The tormentor gropes and mauls them, then walks to the wings leaving Sarah to continue her pathetic terpsichorean capers. Now her breasts bob and bounce and swing to the lewd delight of everyone else.

When he feels that Sarah’s breasts have been properly appreciated, her stepfather comes back on stage and pulls her knickers down, not very far so as to allow her enough freedom to continue the dance. He lifts up her ballet skirt at the front to expose her pubic hair, then hisses ‘Turn round’. Again he lifts the skirt to show the crowd Sarah’s bare bottom. There is an enthusiastic reaction from everyone except Sarah as he manhandles the cheeks then makes a great show of rummaging between her legs. Still she dances on in floods of tears. Turning her round again to face her public he wanders off again, then returns with a large can of baked beans. Delicately he fills her pants with beans, pulling them up again. Then he anoints her breasts and finally tips the remaining beans over her head. There is wild applause. Meanwhile, large boxes of rotten fruit have been brought into the front of the hall and there is a mad rush forward to grab missiles. Stepfather barely has time to get off the stage before the fruit and tomatoes begin to come raining down. Sarah is pelted. Twice she tries to leave the stage but is driven back by the menacing advance of her guardian. Eventually the supply of projectiles runs out, but not before the poor girl is caked with mess of every kind. The final stages of her classical routine are enacted as her stepfather hoses her down from the wings.

Some time later, when the hubbub has died down, the men cluster round the bar, glancing up occasionally at the stage where Sarah, naked and weeping clears up the mess unassisted.

Well, that’s certainly a long enough letter for now! I do hope that there is some interest for you and your readers in this and that you will explore some of the fascinating ways in which girls can be humiliated for the pleasure of men, as well as applying cane, strap and paddle to them without mercy.

Sincerely,

B.L.

P.S. Any chance of a classified contacts section?