Stepping-stones

Story from Blushes Supplement 06.

Stepping-stones

My Dear Clive,

Thank you for your timely and instructive letter which arrived at a most appropriate moment! I agree with you entirely about grading girls and am pleased to learn that under your advice they are introducing the system you suggest at the newly-opened Academy for Young Ladies (delightful title!) which appears to be so conveniently sited for both of us.

The stepping-stones in your letter – if I may call them that – are very well placed. As you say, it does very little good to simply haul a girl over one's lap occasionally and redden up her bottom till she howls. There must be a certain delicatesse about it. On the one hand the pupil (for I believe it is proper to call her such in every respect) should be strictly disciplined, while on the other one does not want to scare her off. There is an element of conditioning in it all that you rightly point to. And, I suppose, in the broadest possible sense we ourselves are subject to it also.

The cruder schools of thought will not agree with this – which is of no matter anyway. They appear to me (and I am sure to your goodself also) to be divided between the outright sadists and those for whom the first gliding-down of a girl's navy blues – if such she is rightly made to wear – represent the short fuse towards a sexual orgy.

One must undoubtedly tread the middle path. 'Softly-softly catchee bottom', you once said to me, but we were both younger then and have learned much since. In particular, I think, we have learned (and I later in practice than you) that a loudly-squalling girl upsets all if she is taken roughly and rudely. 'There is an element of coaxing', you say, and this I wholly agree with. The coaxing, if I may so put it, is the velvet surface of the iron glove. Rough seizing and rough spanking are not at all conducive to the final quiet that should follow disciplinary measures. 'The softly-breathing peace that wafts like dusk between the disciplinary sessions', as you say.

I must say, though, that the first squeaks of surprise they utter are devilishly attractive. I admit that one finds oneself repeating the same words over and over again until they become like a sort of incantation, but then they themselves are the same. Is there a girl who does not squeak, 'Don't! Oh no, don't!' when one first flips up her skirt?

You say that the first spanking should be reasonably hard – authoritative – and I agree entirely with that. I admit to dealing with Suzy thus when I first spanked her some ten days ago. I admit, too, that there was a bit of a wrestling match to begin with. It helped, I believe, that she initially thought that I was being unaccustomedly libertine, for I had occasion to 'talk to her' anyway and had her seated on the sofa beside me – admonishing her, as one used to say. Her skirt being as appropriately short as I like them to be, I stroked her leg above her knee while talking to her.

She appeared not to notice this at first, having her hands clasped together and her head bowed a little. Quite idly, I do assure you. I discovered the top of her stocking with one fingertip whereat she appeared to come to herself and jumped. She then had the impudence (I believe you yourself would call it that) to thrust my hand down, and thereat the vital struggle began.

I recall that you once told me that in the otherwise difficult position when two are sitting together, one must swing one's arm swiftly up over their backs and haul them down without hesitation across one's lap. Well – I must say that good as that advice is it does not help much when a silky nylon blouse is worn! It rucked up under my hand – slid and slithered up. A rather desperate grabbing of my fingers into the evasive material forced it even higher – to her shoulder blades, in fact – whereat, in the act of getting her well over my lap two unbrassiered twin globes exposed themselves all too briefly to my view and then were hid as she hung down.

My dear chap, yes, of course she shrieked out 'No!' – and far too loudly for my liking. Dammit, the lounge windows were both opened at the top and her cry must have floated across the garden. Do they never realise that such invites a first and very hefty smack to quell the noise – or so one hopes!

On that first occasion I failed to peel down her knickers. Too hasty, you would say, but there are circumstances, dear boy, when haste must prevail. Deirdre was due back within the hour and would hardly take well to it to find her favourite niece with her knicks crumpled on the floor. Even so, the view was exquisite! As much as there is to be said for blue serge knickers so there may be also for these translucent panties that girls are nowadays wont to wear. Suzy's lustrous apple gleamed through admirably, allowing me a delightfully close and first acquaintance with that tightly inrolling cleft of hers. Long legs she was for a seventeen-year-old, but then you always said she had.

She was the very devil to hold, I must say, wriggling like a fish across my lap as I gave her precious bulb a second and a third smack which – guardedly – were not quite so hefty as the first. What a sensation it is to bounce one's palm off of such a bottom! – 'No, please – no, please!', she squealed and beat her fists upon the floor, her titties swinging now and then into my view. I said, 'Yes, my girl, you're going to have it' – though with no great originality on my part (whereat you will surely shake your head and say wisely enough, 'It does not really matter'). I added then, 'You WILL he obedient, Suzy', which I suppose comes under the heading of an oblique instruction, for she could take it either as referring to my talk with her or the mostly-accidental movement of my errant hand which had sparked off this particular fire.

I could see her right hand clawing into the rug as I briskly spanked those sweet, resilient cheeks of hers – remarking with approval the tightness of her suspenders as I did so. Her nether cheeks were half exposed, of course, and reddened quickly as my palm swept down. She howled, she pleaded, sobbed and then – to my amazement – suddenly went limp. One leg slipped sideways and she almost fell. That parting of her long slim legs did me no good at all, I must confess!

I told myself, of course, that this was her ploy to escape from further bottom-heating – but I admit that I wasn't sure. She sobbed and mumbled as I hauled her up, balling her squirming bottom down into my lap. I had a feeling that I was intended – consciously or not by her – to ask her if she were 'all right', but I resisted that. I made to let her shoulder fall against my chest. A cuddle afterwards, I thought, but she resisted that, jumped up and ran out of the room, saying I was 'a beast – a rotten beast'.

'Go to your room!', I called up after her. – 'No, shan't! I'm going to have a bath', she yelled back down and sobbed a huge great sob and slammed a door.

Well, old chap, what should I have done? Gone up and given her seconds? Was she ripe for it? On a matter such as this I do need your advice. She swivels quickly past me when we are alone now, hasn't referred to it at all. I felt at first that I had made Grade One, but seemed to have achieved nought but a minus point! Perhaps they could handle her better at the Academy. I believe that I could just wait out a term!

Sincerely,
Mark.

* * *

My Dear Mark,

In truth you have done better than you think, dear boy, and I would point to two things therein – the first being that a screechy and totally resistant girl would never have allowed you for a second to bring her bottom down into your lap where surely there were some stiff signs of eagerness by then? The second, and more subtle, is that 'bathroom cry' of hers. Take heart from that. Females rush to the bath when they're disturbed emotionally. Had she felt deep resentment (as you fear, perhaps) she would have locked herself in her bedroom and even screamed at you that she would tell her aunt.

It seems to me that, quite by accident, you HAVE begun to grade her, actually. It's early days. The next time, though, will count the most. I suggest you tell her that you want to talk to her. You are quite right about 'the words'. They come by rote, but therein offer signals and so have their value. She will almost certainly appear to flare up for a moment and will ask you blankly, 'What?'. Then I suggest you take her hand and lead her to the selfsame sofa where you sat before. Repeat the scene, repeat the scene; they have to get to understand routines, old chap.

Of course she will struggle. I want you to say to her, 'Now, Suzy, only a small one this time'. Yes, of course, you'll get all the cries of dismay, the squeaks, the protests – all of it. Repeat the words, 'A little one' – then spank her briskly. Not too hard at first. A sixer, quick and sharp: attend to both her cheeks. She will be sobbing, 'Let me up!' (or some such thing) but take no notice. Ring her waist and peel those panties down. Show firmness and determination. Keep the words a flowing, though. Yes, cut across her cries and moans, then spank her bared cheeks with a 'middle stroke' that's not too hard, but neither is it light.

A dozen? Yes! You'll be surprised at how they take it when they're tightly held and have their maidenly modesties unveiled. Then, tell her she is to have her bath. Routines – I do repeat – routines! She'll squeal and sob and kick, but carry her bare-bottomed up the stairs, give her a final smack and send her in. Tell her this time to come down afterwards, and say it firmly. Should she cry out rebelliously, do not reply but wait till she comes out (naked as she may be – girls often are) and bear her to her room and make her dress in front of you.

The reverse of what should be? Not quite. She will be so surprised that she'll obey. She has to, anyway, if naked then she is. Don't fondle her or touch her. Merely wait, reminding her to pull her stockings taut. She will be tearful, pouting – all of that. Speak to her firmly: 'Pull your knickers up more' – things like that. 'Now, let me look at you; there's a good girl'. The phrase does wonders, I can tell you that! Take her hand then and lead her out and close the door as if her single bed did not exist. It will be soon enough for both of you if you are patient, Mark, and she will know that too, but will not say.

The next step when she is 'safe' downstairs is to fondle her clothed bottom gently and tell her when you will spank her once again. Yes, difficult maybe, but then you must. I suggest you say it tonelessly – not with a crack of hope to show! She probably will blink and lick her lip. Then say no more about it afterwards, nothing at all. I know the urge is strong, but it is really better thus. To talk about it is to drool – or so they think. A single word or two is quite enough.

You will come then on the next occasion as to whether she must take her knickers off, or you. There are different schools of thought on that. I lean to neither one. Both are 'correct'. A fully-graded girl will always have herself prepared, with clean white socks or stockings taut, a bath beforehand and her knickers tight. The delicious apple must be slowly peeled, dear boy!

I wish you well. From what you say I believe it will be so. You will always have a little fretfulness. They believe it right to show it, I believe. Jackie displays herself to me with the same timidity she always did – the hesitant bending over and the legs together till they're nudged apart.

I will mention, too, that which you may not wish to ask about: to wit, the cane. Obtain a slender one and bend it much both back and forth before you use it. Weals? My goodness, no, I hate the word! There is little need for such to show if it is trimly, crisply used. I suggest you do not show it to her first, but bring it from a place of such concealment as you can once her obedience is such as to make her 'offer up'. By that I mean of course her darling chubby bottom and her knees apart a regulation twelve or eighteen inches at the least.

The first stroke should be laid out about an inch below the centre of the bottom, biting into both her cheeks. Ah yes, she'll squeal all right, but 'shush' her firmly if she does. Position her anew for every stroke, her back well dipped, her apple bulbed. Even if such is not necessary, yes. It helps to bring an interval between the swishing of the cane which – once again – should not be too hard nor too light. Six is enough at first, and then some gentle taps. 'Guide' her to such positions as you wish thereby. The taps are made to teach her to obey, and she will come to know that soon enough.

Keep your word, too, on all you do. A six is six and never is a seven! For her first caning her knickers should be down around her knees. And why? Because she is to pull them up a moment after the last stroke. She will be topless, yes, of course, and must get up and turn round for a moment's comforting, your palms assuaging the deep, quivering heat through that translucent nylon while your lips just momentarily touch hers, or brush the corner of her mouth. Praise her then, praise her. A few words wilt suffice, but say them clear. She will blubber on and let your arms enfold her, I believe. The medium becomes the cane becomes the message, don't you see.

You will want to spend more words on her than I do suggest, but don't. The temptation is to be avoided for good reason. Let her own thoughts do far, far better work than stumbled, over-eager words on your part would. Have her dress quickly, hold her hand and lead her back downstairs. She will be full of wondering – and that is mostly what you want. Her palm will be less hesitant to yours, and moist. A moist palm is the pointer to a nearly-fully-graded girl, the which I hardly need explain to you!

'But wait!', I hear you say. You search for more 'instruction'? Surely not! Take Jackie, now. I hear her upstairs in the bath. Occasionally she hums, then stops, remembering it is Friday night. She takes her time. I do not mind. In half an hour she will trip (clothes clutched in front of her) into her room and there begin to get into her uniform. It fits now where it touches, as they say, but still she looks the more appealing for it thus, the skirt too tight by now around her waist, the hem that barely reaches to her stocking tops. The buttons of her old, worn blouse will pop the moment that she kneels up on the bed: a cheekiness of nipples in the dusk, thrust forward slowly by the milky gourds from which the blouse will peel reluctantly. Their weightiness will come into my palm a little later on, but Jenny needs the cane at first, and knows she does. Silence is golden. You may find that, too – save for the hissing of the cane, of course, the broken cries, the moans – all that precedes the final crumpling of the sheets, the last moist kisses of obedience, the final pumpings of the hips (her upper lip curled back beneath my own).

I will leave her afterwards, half sleepy, wriggling still, fulfilled. Grade Three, dear boy – I trust you reach it soon!

Sincerely,
Clive.