Cordelia Lavington 21 to 30

By Governess
liviaarbuthnot1@gmail.com

Copyright 2023 by Governess, all rights reserved

 Chapter 21



"You do know it's wrong, don't you, Oliver? Playing with yourself like that."

She waited.

He nodded, biting his lip.

"Yes . . . Matron."

She squeezed his hand.

"And you do know why it's wrong, don’t you, Oliver, why it's forbidden?"

He found the warmth of her hand and the kindly way she was speaking reassuring. He glanced at her nervously.

"No . . . no, Matron."

She waited again, watching him intently.

"Tell me, Oliver, do you know where babies come from?"

He reddened.

"Girls have them, Matron."

"Yes, Oliver. But what has to happen to a girl if she is to have a baby? Do you know?"

He wriggled uncomfortably, ashamed to admit to such knowledge.

"I . . . I think so . . . Matron."

"So, what do you think, Oliver?"

"Well . . . if a boy and a girl kiss. . . on the lips . . . "

He could hardly finish the sentence.

"Yes, Oliver?"

" . . . then . . . then, she'll have a baby."

"Is that right?"

"Yes, Matron."

"You mean that if I kissed you on the lips, I would have a baby?"

He reddened and squirmed before her, not knowing where to look. Still holding his hand, she pulled the wet naked boy towards her. And gently kissed him. As she did so, she shut her eyes and savoured the sensual delight of feeling his soft warm lips on hers. He gave a little shocked cry and drew back, breathing heavily his eyes bright and a look of horror on his face.

"But Oliver, it's not true. If it were true, do you think I would have done that? Risked having a baby? A woman does not have a baby because she's kissed a man on the lips."

She waited, letting her words sink in. She squeezed his hand.

"So, don't look so horrified."

She reached out and gently pinched the skin of his little, circumcised penis. Never had he felt such intense and burning shame. He closed his eyes and wished himself anywhere but where he was. And a little shudder went through him as she rubbed the slack, puckered skin between her finger and thumb.

"It is this, Oliver, that makes a girl have a baby. This thing you play with in bed. And what happens when you play with it? When you stroke and rub it?"

He was unable to speak so acute was his embarrassment.

"It becomes stiff and hard. Doesn't it?"

He nodded.

"And your whole body quivers with pleasure. And you continue to rub it, more and more quickly, until with a delightful throbbing sensation you spurt all over your pyjamas. Isn't that right?"

He nodded, looking down and biting his lip

"Oliver, I want more than a nod. Isn't that right?"

There seemed to be an obstruction in his throat. His voice was thick and croaky.

" . . . yes, Matron."

"Yes, Oliver. And the sticky stuff that you so wantonly spill on your pyjamas, is the stuff from which babies are made. And you didn't know that?"

"N . . . no . . . Matron."

Never had she seen a boy in a state of such red-faced confusion. He was a sensitive child. Not a brash, brazen boy like so many of them. When he masturbated it would not simply be a rush to immediate gratification, but a lingering sensual experience coloured by an imaginative life that she could only guess at.

"But it's not only boys that have something between their legs, is it Oliver? A girl has something there, too. Do you know what it is?"

He shook his head. He was now red to the tips of his ears.

"No idea at all?"

He stuttered as though every word, every syllable, was painful to utter.

"N . . . no . . . M . . . Matron."

She placed her hand over her dress, opening her fingers so there was a visible slit between them.

"Here, Oliver, a woman, has a little opening into her body."

She paused. The boy was wide-eyed, listening intently.

"And when a man's penis becomes large and thick with excitement, as yours does in bed, he can drive it into that slit and thrust it in and out, becoming more and more excited, until he spurts into her, just as you spurt into your pyjamas."

She paused.

"And so precious is that liquid that once inside her it can make a baby start to grow."

The boy looked bemused. His eyes were large and dark.

"And when something is as miraculous as that, Oliver, to waste it, to spill it thoughtlessly, is an affront to God who has created it. Created it to make life, not to give little boys like you a selfish thrill in their beds."

He hung his head, and tears were running down his flushed cheeks.

"And, Oliver, it is more than that. Masturbation can become a dreadful habit. A boy becomes more and more obsessed with his own body and his own pleasure. It's all he thinks about from one day's end to the next. And the more he masturbates the more exhausted he becomes. He can't do his schoolwork properly. He's tired and bad-tempered. And, as a consequence, he suffers more and more correction and punishment."

She frowned.

"And so, Oliver, masturbation is forbidden. Nor is a boy allowed to thrust his little member into a girl until he is much older and married.

She paused. He was sobbing now, a small sensitive child, broken and desolate.

"You know what happens to a boy who is caught masturbating, don't you, Oliver? He is whipped and whipped severely. But a boy who is caught interfering with a girl, as that older boy, Merrick, did last year. Well, I don't need to remind you what happened to him, do I?"

She reached out and squeezed his hand.

"I know it's difficult, Oliver. I know how much a boy wants to masturbate. But as I said I am here to help you."

He looked up at her through damp eyes. He could still feel the warmth of her lips on his. Her voice was soft and her hand held his in a firm comforting way.

"First, I want you to promise that you will never masturbate again. Are you willing to do that?"

He felt a surge of confidence.

"Y . . . yes, Matron."

"Good. And what do you think must happen if you break your promise?"

He looked down. He knew that breaking his promise was all too likely. Never to touch himself, never to comfort himself like that again. Suddenly he regretted giving his word so readily. There was a constriction in his throat. He swallowed hard, trying to clear it.

"I . . . I suppose I would be punished, Matron."

"Yes, Oliver. You would most certainly be punished."

She waited, observing his discomfiture.

"Punished for masturbating and then additionally punished for breaking your word. A promise is sacred, Oliver, and breaking it is a serious matter. But the knowledge that breaking you word will lead to further punishment should strengthen your resolve to keep it."

She paused.

"Do you understand what I am saying, Oliver?"

"Y . . . yes, Matron."

"Good. So that only leaves the stained pyjamas that Mrs Simmonds discovered under your pillow yesterday morning. Stand up."

He looked up, pleadingly. She noticed how long and dark his eye lashes were. Just like a girl. His hair was still wet from the shower.

"P . . . pl . . . please, Matron . . . "

"You think, Oliver because you've been a good boy and made a firm promise never to masturbate again, that I should forget about the stained pyjamas? Is that it?"

"Yes . . . yes, Matron. Please . . . "

"But Oliver, if I did that what would you think?"

He looked down in his confusion, sensing that the faint, watery hope of a reprieve was dissolving as rapidly as dew on meadow grass.

"Well, Oliver, what would you think if I remitted your punishment?"

He bit his lip.

"I will tell you. You would think that masturbation was not, after all, such a serious matter. That if it had been condoned once, then it might well be condoned again. And if that was the case, you would have less of a reason to struggle against temptation. You would think that you might well be able to enjoy the fruits of masturbation without incurring any penalty."

She paused.

"Is that not right, Oliver. Is that what you might think?

He nodded.

"Yes, I am sure it is. Therefore, I have to punish you. But, Oliver, because of your promise, I will punish you less severely than I might. You will not be caned, like Gordon. But soundly spanked. And hopefully that'll be the last occasion you require such punishment. If there is another occasion, then you will be caned, doubly caned, because you will also have broken your word."

She stepped over to her desk and opened the drawer. The hairbrush was oval with dark bristles and a hard, smooth ebony back. Among the younger boys, it enjoyed a fearsome reputation. But at that moment from the infirmary next door, came the unmistakable sound of smacking. Mrs Lavington held up her finger.

"Listen, Oliver, that is young Simpson paying the cost of his stay in the infirmary. We are very happy to treat and care for boys who are sick through no fault of their own. But Simpson sprained his ankle by running in a corridor. Which as you know is strictly forbidden. He is making a payment of six strokes of the hairbrush for each of his two night's stay."

From the adjacent room came the sound of a boy's bottom being spanked, punctuated by loud, piercing screams. She grasped his hand in hers. It was like a small fragile nervous bird. When the screaming from the adjacent room had ceased, Mrs Lavington gently pulled the dripping boy over her lap. She held him securely over the towel and wrapped her left arm firmly around his small body; and raised the brush.

Chapter 22



For many, disciplining children is undertaken with little thought, and with little satisfaction: just as some will simply drop a bunch of flowers into a vase, while others will take time and trouble arranging the blooms in accordance with their colour and shape. From the outset, Mrs Lavington had disciplined her children with commitment and intelligence. When her second child arrived, she discovered that not all children were alike, or responded to chastisement in the same way. And she found that adjusting her discipline to cater for the differences and varieties of response was deeply satisfying. And when she joined the staff at St Oswald's, that was enormously enlarged.

With a brazen cocksure boy, who at heart was lacking in grit, she would lay on the first stroke with flesh rupturing force, stripping away all his pretence and braggadocio. And continue until he was writhing and screaming for mercy. But with a self-willed boy, determined to outlast her, she would moderate the severity of the flogging, allowing him some hope that he might succeed in his effrontery. But then, continuing with a slow steady application of the rod until she eventually wore him down and reduced him to tearful, wriggling submission.

With a small, insecure boy, she would proceed more gently, first lightly spanking his rump to a glowing pink, allowing him to acclimatise to the pain, and encouraging fortitude; before laying on firmer, more searching strokes that reduced him to sobbing contrition but without destroying completely his self-respect. Preuss, she thought, was rather a sensitive, beautiful boy. Such a boy usually responded well to a sensitively given chastisement.

The boy’s small, round buttocks were wet and shining with moisture. Mrs Lavington smiled. She remembered how on a seaside holiday, her younger brother, Marcel, had been forbidden to enter the sea. He must have been about eight at the time. It was a sensible decision for the sea was rough with a considerable swell. But Marcel delighted in surf and spray and was already a competent swimmer. Early the following morning, before anyone had risen, he made his way to the shore. The sea was as rough as the previous day and he knew that entering it was forbidden. But enter it he did.

Unknown to him, his mother had heard his leaving the house and had followed. And Cordelia had followed them both. After twenty minutes of exulting in the foam Marcel stepped onto the shingle; and then saw his mother standing between him and his clothes. In her hand was a birch. The birch that Cordelia had watched her mother bind up the previous evening after both boys were in bed. The twigs had been cut from a mature birch tree in the garden of the cottage where they were staying.

Her mother had beckoned to him. No word was spoken. None was necessary. She grasped the naked, dripping boy, half blinded by the brine and, with her leg outstretched, held him against her. She birched him on his cold quivering flesh, until his agonised screaming rivalled that of the gulls flocking and swooping over the shore. Afterwards, he was banned from the sea for the remainder of the holiday.

Cordelia raised the hairbrush and brought it down smartly on the round glistening flesh of Preuss’s right buttock. She never shied away from providing severe punishment when such was necessary, but spanking a boy over the knee was very different from flogging a boy secured for the cane or tawse. Then, the only contact with his tormentress was the remorseless cuts of rattan or leather. But when she spanked a boy, she could feel the weight of his warm naked body across her lap. HIs shuddering, squirming agony was not just something to observe, but to be physically felt and enjoyed. Her arm around him was caring as much as controlling, and his buttocks laid out before her were a place where loving discipline could be expressed as only a mother could truly express it.

She looked down at Preuss’s shining, wet bottom and brought the hairbrush down again with a firm smack. She knew, as her brother had discovered all those years ago, that a whipping on bare, wet flesh stung with an even greater tormenting agony than on dry flesh. The boy gave a gasp, and his legs kicked out.

"No . . . please Matron . . . no."

Another stroke was given and then another. Soon the boy was wriggling and howling over her knee. When she judged his buttocks spanked dry, she paused, letting him think that the torture was over. Slowly, he relaxed and lay there, quietly sobbing. She ruffled his hair, and then ran her hand down the backs of his thighs. They were damp to her touch.

"No . . . no . . . please, Matron. Please . . . no."

She lifted the hairbrush and brought it down with a firm smack on the moist thigh flesh. And then again. And again. Soon he was screaming and squirming, kicking his legs like a young lamb being shorn. Then she let him rest for a while, sobbing and heaving in his distress.

"Up you get, Oliver."

He flinched as she dried him, for the towel was hard and rough.

"And now put on your vest and shirt."

She watched as he did so. The choking sobbing had ceased but he was still weeping, but now more calmly for his ordeal seemed to be over. Or at least so he hoped.

"No, Oliver, not your trousers and pants. Not yet. Not for a moment."

He stood looking up at her and seemed to have difficulty focussing. His eyes were almost violet she thought, as she folded her arms and addressed him.

"Oliver, you have been punished for masturbating, for abusing yourself. You have paid the price of your sin and you are forgiven. But the punishment serves as a warning of what may befall you should you sin again."

She paused.

"And you remember your promise?"

He nodded.

"And what was it? What did you promise?"

"Th . . . that, I wouldn't . . . wouldn't do it again."

"Do what again, Oliver? What did you promise not to do again?"

"Ma . . . mas . . . masturbate . . . Matron."

"Yes, Oliver. You have solemnly promised that you will never masturbate again. And what did I say would happen if you were caught breaking that solemn promise?"

"You . . . you said I would be punished."

"Yes. Doubly punished. Punished for masturbating which all small boys know is forbidden. And additionally, punished for breaking your word. For breaking a solemn promise."

She studied the boy before her, bare from the waist down, trembling, and biting his lip.

"And how do you think a boy who has broken a promise like that would be punished, Oliver?"

"I . . . I suppose he would be whipped . . . Matron."

"Certainly, he would be whipped."

She watched him intently, savouring his discomfiture.

"Have you been birched, Oliver?"

"Y . . . yes, Matron."

"And was it painful?"

"Please, Matron . . . "

"I asked, Oliver, whether the birching you received was painful."

He hung his head.

"Well, was it?"

He felt as though a hot wave was coursing through his body. His tongue was thick with shame and he could hardly speak. When he did, it was a small croaking whisper.

"Yes, Matron."

"Look at me, Oliver."

Slowly he raised his eyes.

"When you address me, Oliver, you do not hang your head and you will speak clearly with a firm voice. I asked, 'Was it painful?'"

He was breathing in short nervous breaths now, dragging air down into his lungs.

"Yes, Matron. It hurt terribly. Mr Fairclough, birched me."

Mrs Lavington nodded.

"Yes, Oliver. And that is what will happen if I discover you've broken your word and masturbated again. You will be birched. Doubly birched. So, if I were you, I would make every effort to keep your promise."

She had intended to stand him outside the infirmary, as she had Gordon, but decided to spare him that indignity.

"You may dress and return to your classroom, Oliver."

She paused.

"And remember, I will be watching you."

He felt tears pricking at his eyes. For a while he had experienced the tenderness of maternal affection, even if expressed through discipline. Now he was dismissed with the threat of further punishment hanging over him. He glanced at the boy Gordon still standing in disgrace outside the infirmary, and slowly made his way back to his lessons.

Mrs Lavington sat at her desk and filled in the punishment book. She kept a meticulous record of every punishment she administered. And she did the same at home. She had a complete record of almost every spanking given to her children from their earliest years.

She rose and walked through the infirmary.

"I'm putting the punishment book here, Mrs Simmonds. I have just entered Preuss's punishment and you will need to do the same for Simpson.

She opened the door.

"Come in Gordon. He turned and, with eyes cast down, followed her through the infirmary.

Mrs Lavington sat at her desk, indicating that the boy was to stand before her. His shirt was still pulled up his back and over his shoulders. His hands went nervously to cover his genitals.

"Take your hands away, Gordon. Unless you want the tawse taken to them."

He quickly placed them at his side, biting his lower lip, aware that the threat was no idle one.

"So, Gordon? Tell me. Have you learned your lesson?"

"Yes, Matron."

"And what is the lesson you have learned?"

He hesitated. His hands were twisting in his desperation to give an acceptable answer.

"Well?"

"T . . . to . . . take better c . . . care of my handkerchiefs . . . Matron."

She smiled. Nothing gave her more satisfaction than to weave a sticky web around a child and bind him to her will. The fantasy about the handkerchief had been amusing. A tantalising barb on which to hook the wriggling boy. But both she and he knew it was a nonsense, and yet here he was choosing to live within the tale she had woven.

"So, you'll keep a close watch on your handkerchiefs in future, Gordon? Make sure they don't wander off and get you into trouble?"

He was breathing heavily now, sensing that the end of his torment might be close.

"Yes . . . yes, Matron."

"And no more damp, sticky handkerchiefs under your pillow?"

"No . . . no, Matron."

She pointed to the chair where his garments were to be found.

"You may dress. And straight back to your classroom."

She sat at her desk and watched as he scrambled into his clothes. When he was dressed, he turned to her.

"Th . . . thank you, Matron."

She looked up and smiled. He felt a flutter in his chest, at the sign that he'd moved out of the penumbra of her displeasure and back into the pale sunlight. But as he turned to the door, she stopped him. He felt a shiver of apprehension.

"Y . . . yes . . . Matron?"

"And Gordon, don't forget to ask Mrs Simmonds for your handkerchief tomorrow. She has a lot on her mind and we don't want it wandering off again, do we?"

"No, Matron."

"Then off your go."



Chapter 23



Mrs Lavington sat at her desk. There was still Michael Clough to deal with. He was small for his age with curly brown hair and bright smiling eyes. Popular with boys and staff alike. A while ago, she had asked for his file from the office. She found that after the death of his mother he had vandalised a greenhouse and been sentenced to twelve strokes of the birch. It was after that that he had been abandoned by his father and sent to the orphanage. She looked at the clock, and after checking the timetable, made her way to see Mrs Fairclough.

Diana Fairclough was a mother of three boys. The two eldest had left home. The youngest, a twelve-year-old boy, was away at school. Mrs Fairclough knew her husband had a high regard for Cordelia Lavington and, although secure in her husband’s affection, was aware of their close professional relationship. She also envied Mrs Lavington her opportunity to discipline the boys in her care; and looked back fondly to the days when, as a mother, she had been free to chastise small boys as often, and as severely, as she judged appropriate.

Mrs Lavington knocked at the door.

“Come in.”

The room was furnished with a pleasing sense of colour. There were several pictures that harmonised with the decorative scheme. The curtains were long and of a dark rich velvet. There was a walnut table with four matching chairs, a sofa and two armchairs.

“What a pleasant surprise, Cordelia. I was about to have an early lunch. Just coffee and sandwiches. Would you join me?”

“Thank you, Diana. That would be most welcome. I’ve had a busy morning disciplining two boys caught abusing themselves.”

“Yes, James told me you’d launched a campaign against that. And a good thing, too. I never allowed my boys to abuse themselves and that should be the rule here. I am glad you are enforcing it.”

“Indeed, I am, Diana. Some today see no harm in it. But I disagree. And it’s a problem I’m having to face it at home with my eldest. The trouble is that, until a boy has seminal emissions, it is difficult to detect. And that is the case with Samuel.”

“Well, Cordelia, even when it’s detected and punished, boys are not so easily dissuaded. And that’s why the response to masturbation has to be so severe. A boy’s not going to give up the pleasure of self-abuse if all he gets is a few light taps on his bottom. He’ll consider that a fair exchange for the delight of playing with himself. The first time I caught a boy masturbating, he got a dozen strokes of the cane across his bare bottom. And the next time two dozen. And from then on, he was birched.”

“And you found that worked, did you, Diana?”

“Well, it certainly made him think twice before indulging himself. But the key is shame, Cordelia. Boys should be taught from an early age that nakedness before others is shameful; and, most importantly, that they need to act with manliness at all times. A boy should be forbidden to grizzle and cry when he hurts himself, and a mother should avoid being over sympathetic. Unmanly behaviour should always be ridiculed. In that way shame becomes an essential component of a boy’s punishment.”

Mrs Lavington raised her eyebrows questioningly.

What I mean, Cordelia, is that a boy who has been taught it is shameful to expose the more intimate parts of his body before others, will find being stripped naked for a flogging a mortifying experience. And a boy who has a stout hairbrush applied vigorously to his bare bottom until he is sobbing uncontrollably, will be humbled and chastened by his unmanly tears. And that makes the punishment not only physically painful but also deeply upsetting. And that’s as it should be.”

She paused and rang for Mary.

“And at the conclusion, the assurance of forgiveness should never be withheld. Forgiveness binds a child to his mother’s will and renders him compliant. A sobbing, shamed boy feels utterly rejected. He has let both himself and his mother down. And if she has whipped him as he needs to be whipped, he will be desperate to be accepted, so that his manliness, dignity and self-respect may be restored to him.”

Cordelia nodded. She felt a deep affection for Diana Fairclough. She had no need to dissemble her feelings. They chatted on and after a while there was a knock at the door.

“Mary, would you be so kind as to bring some sandwiches and coffee for us. Perhaps a mixture of cheese and ham.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The girl was barely fourteen and fresh from the girls’ orphanage. Cordelia knew that Mrs Fairclough was an exacting mistress”

“How is Mary settling in, Diana?”

“Still learning her duties. She lacks application and needs her nose kept to the grindstone. I told the orphanage that we had high standards, and that if the girl fell short, she would be punished. At the moment she is being caned about once a week.”

Mrs Lavington smiled.

“We seem to share out the boys and girls between us, Diana. You have the girls to discipline and I have the boys.”

“Yes. But you have Elizabeth. And I’m sure at her age she’s not immune from correction.”

“No, Diana. She most certainly is not. Yesterday I caught her out in a bad lie and she compounded the sin by dissembling further and refusing to admit it. As it was past her bedtime, I postponed the punishment until today. And by the time I’ve finished with her this evening, she’ll feel very sorry for herself.”

Mrs Fairclough raised her eyebrows.

“I thought she was rather subdued when I took the register this morning. That would explain it. But her behaviour has rather worried me over the past few weeks. She’s been less than diligent and slow to obey. I have chided her and threatened her with the belt, but so far, I’ve held back.”

Mrs Lavington gave a smile.

“Don’t tell me you are turning into an Edward Crawley?”

Mrs Fairclough feigned horror.

“I hope not, Cordelia. James has told me about your difficulties on that front. It’s not that I am reluctant to apply the tawse when justified, but Elizabeth has always seemed to me a conscientious girl who responds to modest chiding and plenty of encouragement.”

“Now you do sound like Edward Crawley!”

Mrs Fairclough smiled.

“Except that when I apply the rod it’s something a child will not want repeated in a hurry. But from what you’ve told me about Elizabeth, I think some sharp classroom discipline is probably in order. She sounds like a girl who is restive under the yoke of authority. How old is she? Nine? Well, she’s probably reached the age when she resents instruction and feels she can rule herself.”

The door opened and Mary came in with the sandwiches and coffee.

“Put it there Mary, please.”

The girl stooped and as she did so the tray sloped and the coffee pot slipped. The girl righted the tray quickly and prevented the pot ending up on the floor, but in doing so the milk spilt and the two cups chinked against each other. Nothing was broken but it clearly fell below the standard expected by Mrs Fairclough.

“Put the tray down, Mary.”

She inspected it.

“And why is the coffee pot not standing on a rubber mat as I instructed?”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. Truly I am.”

“I am sure you are, Mary. And no harm’s done. But the issue is not whether harm has been done, but whether you have been slack and careless.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Well? Have you?”

“I . . . I suppose so, Ma’am.”

“Then you suppose correctly. And what happens to girls who are slack and careless?”

“Please, Ma’am, I am sorry. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

“In that case you will welcome a little stiffening of your resolve. Fetch the cane, please.”

“No, Ma’am. Please. It was an accident.”

“I am sorry, Mary. It was not an accident. It was the result of carelessness. So, no more argument. You will fetch the cane.”

The girl left the room and returned almost immediately holding a crook-handled rattan cane. It was about three feet in length and pencil slim. She handed it to her mistress, who stood up.

“Thank you, Mary. Bend forward and place your hands on the seat of the chair, please.

Obediently the girl complied. Mrs Fairclough lifted her dress and slipped it up her thighs.”

“Hold it.”

Then her knickers were taken down revealing her smooth, round, fourteen-year-old bottom. The evidence of a recent correction was still faintly visible. Mrs Fairclough raised the cane, swished it back and then brought it down with a sharp twist of her wrist. There was a satisfying whup as it impacted on the girl’s firm young flesh. Immediately, a red stripe appeared. Cordelia watched intently as over the course of the next few minutes, two dozen smarting strokes were administered. Apart from a gasp after each stroke, the girl made no sound.

Mrs Fairclough stepped back.

“Pull up your knickers.”

The girl adjusted her dress and turned around. Although she had taken the caning with little vocal resistance, her eyes were damp and her cheeks wet.

“It gives me no pleasure to punish you, Mary, but it’s the only way a girl learns. If disobedience and thoughtlessness go uncorrected, how will you improve? You’re on a three-month trial from the orphanage, and at the end of that I hope to retain you as my personal maid. Is that want you want?”

“Y . . . yes, Ma’am.”

She lowered the cane and held it out.

“Then, kiss the rod and determine to do better in future.”

The girl bent forward, bowed her head and touched her lips to the instrument of correction. She then curtsied.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. Please forgive me.”

She spoke in a formulaic way, as a familiar prayer might be said in church. But Mrs Fairclough smiled.

“Good girl. Now pour the coffee. And then get on with the other tasks you’ve been set. And hang the cane back on its hook.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

When she had departed, Cordelia commented on her demeanour when punished.

“Yes, Mrs Phillips at the orphanage is very strict with the girls. Like Sarah Wesley’s children they are taught to fear the rod and cry softly. And they soon learn that noisy, rancorous behaviour is unacceptable. But Mary is a good girl. She just needs training in the good old-fashioned way. As you saw I am not unduly harsh. She received no more than a naughty schoolboy or schoolgirl might receive for a poor piece of work.”

She took a sip of coffee.

“Now where were we Cordelia? Ah, yes. Elizabeth.

Chapter 24



“Yes, Cordelia, from what you tell me, Elizabeth, at nine, regards herself as a “big girl” who no longer needs guidance and discipline.”

Diana Fairclough smiled, and continued.

“She probably takes after you, Cordelia”

“Yes, she probably does. I can remember my mother saying, ’Just you remember, Cordelia, you are only nine years old. A girl of that age doesn’t choose what to do: she does as she’s told.”

“But of course, you didn’t heed her.”

“No. my mother’s favourite saying was on doit dresser les enfants. Children need to be taught. I remember once at the beginning of les vacances, the school holidays. I was looking forward to the freedom of running wild in the country around our house. But my mother had other plans. And she decided that the time had come to provide some necessary dressage.”

So, what did she do?”

“Each morning for a week, as soon as I had my clothes on, I had to sit quietly in the corner of the salon on a stool. And for the whole of the morning, I was not allowed to do anything other than what my mother told me. Eating breakfast. Going to the lavatory. All was in her gift and under her control. ‘It will teach you to appreciate the freedom you have, Cordelia, and to make you understand that even though you think you are une grande fille, you are still under la règle de la mère. And if there was any sign of an independent spirit, if I got off the stool or attempted to do anything on my own initiative, then the martinet would be taken down from its hook and I would receive une bonne fessée”

“I’ve heard of a martinet, Cordelia. But what is it exactly?”

“It is the usual implement for punishing children in France, Diana. It has a wooden handle about ten inches long and attached to it anything from six to a dozen or so leather tails. Each tail is about twenty inches in length, and usually about a quarter of an inch thick. And the tails are cut square, and dressed on one side, so they have a sharp edge. And when whipped across a child’s bare flesh they smart and sting horribly. As children, my brothers and I were very familiar with the martinet My mother also had a smaller one for punishing my brothers if she caught them masturbating. And naturally, both Charles and Marcel both dreaded being found out abusing themselves.”

“I’m sure they did, Cordelia. But did it stop them?”

“Well, it certainly made them think twice before indulging themselves. And my mother knew that if they did masturbate it was no longer an untrammelled pleasure. But always overshadowed by the fear of the consequences should they be discovered. I’ve written to my cousin asking her to send me a couple of these lighter martinets for use here and at home.”

Diana smiled.

“Does Samuel know about this yet?”

“No, but he soon will.”

Diana smiled again and offered her the plate of sandwiches.

“So, what do you want me to do, about Elizabeth?”

Well, Diana, I don’t need to give you permission to use the tawse. You do that already.”

She drew in her breath.

“But the way I see it is that in the classroom you are responsible for ensuring she does her schoolwork and is not a disruptive influence. And if she is, then I would expect her to be punished. But often with a child, poor work and inattention, stem from an on-going lack of commitment and a weakened sense of duty. And those are things that I, as her mother, need to deal with.”

Mrs Fairclough nodded. “I fully understand that. So, what would you like me to do?”

“What Edward Crawley is doing for Samuel, Diana. At the end of each day, he provides a short report on Samuel’s conduct. It would be helpful to receive a similar report from you on Elizabeth. Although for different reasons. As you know, Edward is too soft and sentimental when it comes to boys. And I need to check whether Samuel is getting the discipline he needs and, if not, make good any deficiency.”

Diana Fairclough smiled.

“I hope you don’t think me an Edward Crawley.”

“Certainly not Diana. I know that if you have to punish Elizabeth, you’ll to do the job properly, and I wouldn’t expect to have to punish her again. But if I can see there is an underlying spirit of laziness or self-regard, then that needs to be dealt with separately. You will have punished her for her poor work. But I still need to punish the underling attitudes that gave rise to it.”

“That sounds good sense to me, Cordelia. And I’m very happy to co-operate.”

She took a sip of tea.

“And how will you be punishing those underlying attitudes, Cordelia. With your martinet?”

“Well, depending on the offence and the severity of the punishment required, my children are spanked with the back of a hairbrush, or beaten with the cane, or tawse.”

Diana poured her another cup of coffee.

“So, what will you be looking for in my daily reports on Elizabeth’s conduct, Cordelia?”

“Well, evidence, I suppose, of consistently bad attitudes. Lack of attention, lack of effort, a pattern of poor work after you have fully explained what needs to be done. That sort of thing. And if those crop up several times in a week, then she should certainly be given a sound spanking by me at the very least.”

She helped herself to another sandwich.

“You said a moment ago, Diana, that a girl of Elizabeth’s age may consider herself too old to submit to her mother’s rule. And I am sure you are right. Elizabeth, even at nine, is becoming a ‘big girl’ in her own eyes. There are times when she disobeys not because she wants something and is prepared to risk punishment to have it, but because she wants to assert her will against mine. And that’s a very different thing. Then, she is not only rejecting my rule over her, but becoming a law unto herself.”

She paused.

“This evening, Elizabeth is to be punished for gross disobedience, made worse by deception and lying. And I hope that will convince her that her mother’s rule is not something she can disregard. But if not, then a little of my mother’s dressage may well be required.”

She paused.

“What concerns me are all those little indications of an underlying spirit of rebellion. I mean that toss of the head, that pained sigh of disapproval when instructed to do something, that slowness to obey which says ‘I’ll do it in my own time and not in yours’. Those must be driven out and a spirit of willing obedience restored.”

“And you say she is to be punished this evening. What exactly did she do?”

Mrs Lavington explained about Elizabeth’s creeping down the stairs to witness her brother’s punishment. And how she had lied and dissembled. Diana nodded.

“So, she’ll be getting the tawse across her bottom and the backs of her thighs? Well, if that doesn’t bring about a change of attitude, at least for a while, nothing will, Cordelia.”

“Well, I hope it does, Diana. But I’d still welcome your daily reports on her behaviour. But look, I have taken up enough of your morning and I’d better get back to the infirmary.”

“Yes, of course. But Cordelia, I’ve so enjoyed our chat. Perhaps we can meet like this once a week? I’d really like that.”

“Yes. So would I. Let’s try and do that.”

“You know, Cordelia, I really envy you.”

“Why’s that, Diana?”

“ Diana Fairclough was a mother of three boys. The two eldest had left home. The youngest, a twelve-year-old boy, was away at school. Mrs Fairclough knew her husband had a high regard for Cordelia Lavington and, although secure in her husband’s affection, was aware of their close professional relationship. She also envied Mrs Lavington her opportunity to discipline the boys in her care; and looked back fondly to the days when, as a mother, she had been free to chastise small boys as often, and as severely, as she judged appropriate.

Cordelia nodded.

“What you miss, Diana, is that closeness you had with your children when you spanked them. Spanking bonds a mother to her children in a special way. There’s nothing else like it. No boy wants his trousers and pants taken down and his bottom exposed to the cold air. No boy likes going across his mother’s knee. And certainly, no boy likes the hard, stinging smack of the hairbrush across sensitive bottom flesh. Let alone the cane or birch. But it makes for a very special relationship between a boy and his mother. An intimacy that’s achieved in no other way. And a deep respect, too.”

“You’re right, Cordelia. And I miss that. You’d think because a child feared and hated spanking, he’d hate and fear his mother, too. But it’s not like that.”

“No, it isn’t, Diana. A child will fear a parent who expresses anger by cuffs and random beatings, but not a mother who disciplines him lovingly and carefully, however severe the punishment. Where there are random cuffs and beatings there is a sense of helplessness in the face of the unpredictable.. A child never knows when a beating is coming or for what. But my children know exactly what they’ll be spanked for and therefore every spanking is avoidable. It arises not from my anger, but from their behaviour. And if they choose to disobey, then they have chosen the spanking, not me.”

“That’s so right, Cordelia. Clear rules and strict discipline. They provide a child with a safe and predictable world. But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there. A mother’s concern for her child is expressed in the way she spanks him. There should be no rough force or indiscriminate blows. There’s a routine. And the child is taught to accept that from an early age. And from that, he knows he’s the centre of his mother’s love and concern.”

Mrs Lavington nodded.

“Yes. Even the firm calm way she takes his trousers and pants down and bares his bottom tells him that. And also the way he’s held or secured so there’s no risk of injury other than to soft sensitive flesh.”

Diana looked wistful.

“You know, Cordelia, I really miss that. You’re right. There’s a special warmth and closeness that comes from spanking a disobedient child and correcting him. It gives a satisfaction like nothing else.”

Mrs Lavington gave a little frown.

“Well, I’m more than willing to send you the occasional boy to discipline, Diana. If that is allowed.”

“Would you Cordelia?”

“Certainly. But you’d better talk to James about it. He may have other ideas.”

“I can’t see why he should. But I’ll speak to him this evening. And, Cordelia, thank you so much.”





Chapter 25


Mrs Lavington made her way back to the infirmary. As she entered, she asked whether Samuel had come in his lunch break, but Mrs Saunders had not seen him. Cordelia nodded. She sat at her desk and started the paperwork that was a necessary but unwelcome part of her responsibilities. Records had to be kept, bills paid, and deficiencies in stocks made good. Several bed sheets and pillowslips had not been returned from the laundry and a curt note to the laundryman was required requesting that he find them. Certain medicines were also running low and needed to be re-ordered. She worked steadily through the afternoon. And when she next looked up, it was nearly four o’clock.

She made her way to the main hall to collect the children. William looked a bit sheepish and clearly had been in some sort of trouble. Howard Greaves was not like Edward Crawley, and had no hesitation in taking the cane to a boy if he judged it appropriate. Samuel was fidgeting and was obviously still in some discomfort from the tawsing he had received the previous evening. And Elizabeth had an envelope in her hand. She looked sulky, but also apprehensive. She handed the envelope to her mother.

“This is for you, Mother. It’s from Mrs Fairclough.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth. I think we should read this together. We’ll do that over tea.”

She put an arm around Samuel.

“And why didn’t you come to the infirmary at lunchtime so I could check on your bottom and thighs?

“I . . . I didn’t think I needed to. And the iodine does sting a lot.”

She smiled.

“But not as badly as the tawse.”

“No, Mother.”

“But it stings because, like the tawse, it’s doing you good. Your skin was broken in places and it’s important it doesn’t become infected. As soon as we get home you’ll go straight to your room and take off your trousers and pants and I’ll come and see whether more iodine is needed. And how was your day, William?”

He hung his head.

“Mr Greaves was displeased with you, was he? We’ll discuss it later. But now let’s get home for tea.”

The four of them made their way home across the grass and through the trees. Once inside the house Samuel went straight to his room and Elizabeth and William started to prepare the tea. After a few minutes, Mrs Lavington followed Samuel upstairs.

“There’s no need to look worried, Samuel. I’m not going to punish you. Coming to the infirmary was just a suggestion. But you were a silly boy not to come. Turn around.”

She lifted his shirt tail.

“There are still some places where the skin’s not yet fully healed. Lie on the bed while I fetch the iodine.”

“No, Mother, please.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Samuel. Any more fuss and it’ll be the hairbrush I’ll be fetching. Do as I say this instant.”

Reluctantly he lay face down on the bed. With a pad of cotton wool, the iodine was dabbed on the red, sore, sticky places where the tawse had broken the skin. He flinched and gasped as it stung him.

“Don’t be such a baby, Samuel. Get up and put on a fresh pair of pants and pull up your trousers. And then come down to tea. And no dawdling.”

In the kitchen, everything was ready. William, overseen by Elizabeth, had laid the table while she had boiled the kettle and brewed the tea.

Diana Fairclough was a mother of three boys. The two eldest had left home. The youngest, a twelve-year-old boy, was away at school. Mrs Fairclough knew her husband had a high regard for Cordelia Lavington and, although secure in her husband’s affection, was aware of their close professional relationship. She also envied Mrs Lavington her opportunity to discipline the boys in her care; and looked back fondly to the days when, as a mother, she had been free to chastise small boys as often, and as severely, as she judged appropriate. She went to the larder and brought out a large tin. Inside were a dozen or so small fruit buns. She took out one for each of them and set them on a plate. After a few moments, they were joined by Samuel who sat with almost exaggerated care on his seat.

After tea had been drunk and cakes eaten, Mrs Lavington picked up the letter Elizabeth had handed to her.

“William, fetch the letter opener from the sideboard, please.”

She slit the letter open and extracted the note within. Elizabeth watched nervously. After reading it, her mother looked up.

“Well, Elizabeth what do you think this is about?”

“I . . . I don’t know, Mother.”

“You’ve no idea? None at all?”

“No, Mother.”

“Then I will read it do you.

Elizabeth had behaved well today and completed all her assignments in good time. I had to correct her for speaking during a period of silent working but deemed a reprimand sufficient. She knows that if she repeats the offence, she will receive three strokes of the tawse across each hand. I trust you will both have a good evening.”

Mrs Lavington smiled at the final sentence with its oblique reference to the whipping Elizabeth was to receive. She looked up.

“Well, Elizabeth, what have you to say to that?”

“I’m sorry, Mother. I wasn’t meaning to talk. I was asking whether I could borrow Charlotte Grant’s ruler.”

“I see. And how else could you have done that without talking and disobeying Mrs Fairclough?”

She hung her head.

“I . . . I suppose I couldn’t, Mother.”

“No. You were clearly disobedient. And it seems you have been careless enough to mislay or even lose your own ruler. Do you know where it is?”

“In my room.”

“Well, it’s not much use there when you want to use it in school, is it?”

“No, Mother.”

“And do you know why Mrs Fairclough wrote this note to me?”

The girl gave a shrug.

“I suppose because I spoke in class.”

“No, that is not the reason.””

The girl gave another shrug.

“The reason is because I asked her to provide a report at the end of each day on your behaviour in class.

She paused.

“Both of us are concerned that you are becoming increasingly disobedient and disrespectful of authority.”

She looked at the girl, who cast her eyes down.

“The way you shrugged a moment ago is a good example of what I am talking about. It was impudent and is behaviour I am not prepared to tolerate. And when combined with a surly reply it is insolence. And that is exactly the sort of behaviour I have asked Mrs Fairclough to look out for and report to me.”

She paused.

“And while I am happy for Mrs Fairclough to punish your failures in class, I have told her that where those arise from a persistently bad attitude, then I wish to deal with that myself. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother.”

She looked at the girl, who had hung he head, and was nervously biting her lip.

“But as you are already facing a severe punishment this evening, we’ll say no more about it. But any more surly behaviour and there will be a job for my hairbrush to do. So be warned.”

She smiled.

“So, what do you say?”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“Good. Then finish your tea and get on with your homework.”

She turned to William.

“And what did you do to upset Mr Greaves, William.”

“I flicked something at another boy, Mother.”

“And what was it?”

He dropped his voice.

“An . . . an ink pellet . . . Mother”

“Flicked it with your ruler? Is that right?”

“Yes, Mother.”

She compressed her lips.

“So, another boy has a dirty ink stain on his clothing. Something for which he could easily be punished. Was that kind or thoughtful?”

“No, Mother.”

“No. It was not. And how did Mr Greaves punish you?”

“He caned me.”

“And quite right, too. Over your trousers?”

“Yes, Mother.”

She nodded.

“And was it painful?”

“Yes, Mother.”

She knew that Howard Greaves relied on a senior cane, and rarely stripped a boy for punishment. The cane’s length and its weight were more than sufficient to provide, in his judgment, an effective punishment even through a layer of clothing. Being broken and reduced to a crying baby before his classmates was undoubtedly shaming, but to escape the humiliation of being bared and exposed for punishment was not Mrs Lavington’s way. All her children had been spanked from the outset across bare flesh, and although the cane might, from the outset, be applied across thin pyjama trousers or in Elizabeth’s case her nightdress, once they attained the age of seven or eight, even the thinnest protection was usually denied them.

“Well after homework, I’ll inspect your bottom and we’ll see whether any additional punishment is needed. Now help clear the table all of you and then and get on with your homework. This evening I will excuse you the usual chores and do the washing up myself. What do you say?”

“Thank you, Mother.”

The children sat at the table and began their homework. At the end of the hour, Mrs Lavington inspected it. Pleasingly, all three children had completed their tasks well.

“Very well done, all of you. It’s a pleasure to see such good work. Now William let us see your bottom.”

She was aware that dropping his trousers and pants before his older brother and sister was unwelcome, but for a boy who had grievously misbehaved, she saw no reason to spare him.

“And turn around.”

She lifted his shirt. The six tramline marks of the caning were clearly visible. The flesh was still raised and the ridges were turning a dark bluish colour. She smiled.

“Well, Mr Greaves seems to have done a good job, William. I see no reason to punish you further. You may go to your room and play for half an hour before I come up to say prayers.”

She turned to her elder son.

“And I am forgetting, Samuel, to ask whether Mr Crawley provided a note on your conduct today. Did he?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Then why didn’t you give it me? I don’t expect to have to prise it out of you. It should be the first thing you do when you get home. Fetch it please.”

He went to his satchel and pulled out an envelope.

She slit it open and extracted the note. She read it and looked up.

“And do you expect this to be satisfactory or unsatisfactory, Samuel?”

“I . . . I’m not sure . . . Mother.”

“And what does that mean? That you misbehaved and hope Mr Crawley hasn’t mentioned it?”

“N . . . no, Mother. I’ve been good all day.”

“Well, I hope that’s true. Mr Crawley seems pleased with you and has commended your result in the spelling test he gave you. Eighteen out of twenty is a good mark.”

She smiled.

“So, let’s see whether we can get twenty out of twenty next time, shall we?”

His relief was palpable.

“Yes, Mother.”

“Well, I am very pleased with you. Now go to your room and you may read for an hour before prayers.”

When both boys had gone, she tidied away the last few things from the table and then turned to her daughter.

“Upstairs, young lady. And change into your nightdress and then come straight back down here. And no dawdling.”

Elizabeth reluctantly made her way out of the room and mounted the stairs. She could feel her heart thudding in her chest. She opened the door to her room and slowly undressed. Once she had slipped on her nightdress she turned with her back to the mirror and looking over her shoulder, raised the hem, exposing her bottom and thighs. She shivered. And then made her way back downstairs.

Her mother looked at her.

“And what do we need, Elizabeth? To punish you as you’ve chosen to be punished?”

There were two spots of colour on each of her cheeks.

“The . . . the tawse, Mother.”

“And where is that?”

“In Samuel’s room.”

“Yes. In Samuel’s room, hanging on a hook on the back of his door. Fetch it please.”

Mrs Lavington was all too well aware of the discomfort the girl would suffer at having to retrieve the tawse from her brother’s room. She gave a grim smile, as she waited.

Chapter 26


Elizabeth looked flushed and angry as she handed her mother the tawse.

“And what did Samuel say when you asked for this, Elizabeth?”

“He asked why I wanted it.”

“And what did you say?”

“I . . . I told him it was none of his business.”

“Did you? But it is his business, isn’t it, Elizabeth?”

She drew the tails of the tawse through her hand.

“Because you disobediently crept downstairs to watch him being whipped with this very tawse. Isn’t that right?”

She girl looked down.

“Ye . . . yes . . . Mother”

“And has it occurred to you that he might like to watch you being whipped?”

“Please, Mother. No.”

“You see, Elizabeth, the difference is you can plead to be spared that. But Samuel had no such opportunity. You stole his privacy from him. You were not only disobedient and a liar, you were also a thief.”

She looked at the girl, standing in her nightdress, small and resentful, twisting her hands in her distress.

“And I don’t think thieves deserve any consideration, do they, Elizabeth?”

The girl’ voice was low, barely audible.

“No, Mother.”

“In that case you will go and tell Samuel that I want him down here in his pyjamas immediately.”

Reluctantly, the girl made her way upstairs. As she did so, her hand went round to feel the soft contours of her bottom through the thin cotton of her nightdress. She paused for a moment before entering her brother's room. Then knocked. No child in Mrs Lavington’s household ever entered a room without first knocking. She pushed the door open.

“Mother says you are to come downstairs in your pyjamas.”

The boy looked up.”

“Wh . . why, Lisa? What’s she think I’ve done?”

“Do as she says, Samuel. You’ll soon find out.”

She enjoyed his apprehension, even if it was to be short lived.

Mrs Lavington, too, savoured the boy’s discomfort as he entered the room, white and anxious.

“Stand over there, Samuel. And put your hands behind your back. And now tell your sister exactly why I had to punish you yesterday.”

“B . . . but, Mother?”

“Do as I say, Samuel.”

He could feel his cheeks burning as he reddened in his confusion. Slowly he stuttered out his explanation.

“I . . . I . . . I was rude to you.”

“You were more than rude, Samuel. You were insolent and defiant.”

“Did you know Elizabeth watched you being punished, Samuel?”

“No, Mother.”

“Well, she did. She had been told to remain in her room, but she disobeyed me and crept downstairs.”

Samuel looked at his sister, biting her lip, looking at the floor.

“And then, when I confronted her with her disobedience, she lied about it.”

She looked at her daughter and gave a grim smile.

“So, we have agreed that the most appropriate punishment for her is to be flogged in the way she saw you flogged. Secured over the chaise longue with the very tawse with which you were punished.”

She held the tawse in both hands, feeling its supple, punishing flexibility.

“And as she watched your punishment, Samuel, I think it only right you should watch hers. And while you do so, you will keep your hands behind your back.”

Although Samuel has seen his sister spanked and, on several occasions, caned, most of her punishments were given in the privacy of her own room.

“Lift your nightdress, Elizabeth and over to the chaise longue”

Her mother assisted her up. Samuel watched as his sister was secured to the arm. His mother had positioned her well forward. Samuel knew that girls didn’t have penises or a little fleshy bag between their legs. Owen Bradley had told him that instead they had a little slit. And he had told him what it was for. He had hardly believed him. But now he could see the small soft lips for himself below her little puckered bottom hole. He felt a slight stirring in his pyjama trousers. He wanted to reach out and run his finger down the small tantalising opening, to feel how soft it was, to explore inside it.

His reverie was broken by his mother’s addressing him.

“And how many strokes of the tawse did you receive yesterday, Samuel.”

“I . . I’m not sure, Mother.”

“Twenty-four strokes. And that is what your sister will be receiving.”

There was a dull smacking noise followed by a piercing scream as the first stroke was applied. As the tawsing continued, he could feel his penis stiffening. Before half the allowance had been given it was fully erect and pressing against the front of his pyjamas. He kept perfectly still acutely aware that like all boy’s pyjamas there was no fastening in the front. He could feel the swollen member and gave a wriggle to try and contain it. But there was no stopping it, and he looked down in horror at the small bulbous knob. And looking up, he caught his mother’s eye and knew that she had seen it too.

At the end of the flogging, Elizabeth’s bottom and thighs were covered with red welts, just as Samuel’s had been. And In places, where stroke had overlaid stroke and broken the skin, there was raw wet soreness. After applying some iodine, Elizabeth was sent to her room, still sobbing. Mrs Lavington walked across and placed the tawse on the table. She drew out a chair, sat on it, and beckoned to her son.

“Come here, Samuel.”

He stood before her, grateful that the thing between his legs had shrunk and was no longer visible. She put her arm around him.

“You are at an age, Samuel, when it is important that you learn self-control. You know it is wrong to masturbate. But a boy cannot masturbate unless his penis becomes stiff and hard. So, let me be quite clear. I do not want to see any boy in this house with a stiff hard penis. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother. I’m sorry. Don’t punish me. Please,”

“I’m not going to punish you, Samuel. Not this time. I am just warning you. But in future, if I see a stiff hard penis like that, I will whip it. And should I catch you actually masturbating, you will be whipped first across the little member you have so shamefully abused, and then, whipped across your bottom and thighs. I can assure you that after that, you will be a very sorry boy indeed. So, whenever you are tempted to masturbate, I strongly recommend you remember the consequences of doing so. I wrote to Aunt Camille some time ago and asked her to send me a little whip called a martinet. It is something your cousins are very familiar with, as are all French boys of your age. And it will be of a size and weight that is perfect for whipping a naughty little boy’s penis when it stiffens. And I can assure you it doesn’t stay stiff for long when that’s done.”

Samuel felt a cold shiver run through him. He knew his mother was not given to idle threats. He looked down shamed and fearful.

“Now, go to your room.”

She picked up the tawse.

“And hang this back where it belongs. I’ll be up to say prayers in a moment.”

She sat at her desk and took some sheets of paper from the drawer, and spent a few minutes making some notes for the following day. At last, rising from her desk, she made her way to William’s room. He was already in bed, nervous of incurring his mother’s further displeasure.

“Good boy, William. I am pleased to see you in bed. But you can count yourself fortunate not to have been caned on your bare bottom. The next time Mr Greaves has to cane you, that is what you can look forward to as soon as you arrive home. Do you understand?”

He pulled the bed clothes up to his chin.

“Y . . . yes, Mother.”

“Good. Now out of bed and kneel for prayers.”

Afterwards, she kissed him and tucked him in. Then turning out the light and closing the door, she made her way to Elizabeth’s room.

Elizabeth was lying face down on her bed, sobbing into her pillow. Her mother stood beside her and reaching out stroked her head. How soft her hair was, she thought. She continued to stroke it gently for a minute or two, before speaking.

“I am sorry I had to punish you so severely, Elizabeth. But it was necessary. You do understand that?”

There was no reply from the sobbing child. Usually, Mrs Lavington would have reprimanded her daughter and insisted on a response, but she merely continued in a quiet loving voice.

“You see, Elizabeth, you must learn that in this household there is only one authority and that authority is my word and it has to be respected. And obeyed.”

She paused.

“Mrs Fairclough and I have been discussing what is necessary now you’ve reached the age of nine and are beginning to feel you are a big girl. Girls of your age start to think they are too old to be under a mother’s authority. They resent it. They disobey and become wayward and rebellious. And it’s a mother’s duty not only to correct such behaviour, but to drive out the spirit of wilfulness and of sinful self-regard that underlies it.”

Again, she paused, and listened to the girl’s gentle sobbing.

“And the way that is done, Elizabeth, is by severe and unremitting punishment. I hope what you have suffered tonight is sufficient to bring about a change of heart. But be assured, if it isn’t, then further punishment will follow. As surely as night follows day.”

She reached out and again stroked the girl’s head.

“As I said, I have asked Mrs Fairclough to report to me each day on your behaviour, noting any instances of surly, uncooperative, behaviour that need to be corrected.”

She waited a little until the girl had ceased her sobbing.

“And now let us say prayers. Out of bed and on to your knees, please. Quickly now.”

She placed her hand on the girl’s head.

Dear Father God,

We thank you for all your goodness to us. For school where we can learn and home where we can be trained in virtue. Help Elizabeth to accept this evening’s punishment. May she mend her ways so that in future she may be honest, hardworking, and obedient. And may she sleep soundly this night and awake refreshed for a new day. We ask this in the name of God the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Amen.

“Now back into bed. Quickly now.”

As the door closed, Elizabeth wriggled and turned face down between the sheets, and began to cry again.

Samuel in his bed was lying on his back, his eyes shut, with his hand inside his pyjamas. He was imagining once again his sister being whipped over the chaise longue, with her little slit exposed to his view. He pretended he was inserting his finger between those puffy little lips, exploring inside, enjoying her squirming and writhing. Suddenly he felt anxious. Where was his mother? What if she suddenly entered the room and discovered him? But the sheets were covering him, and dismissing his fears he continued.





Chapter 27


The following morning, Mrs Lavington accompanied Mrs Simmonds to the dormitory in which Michael Clough slept.

“Never mind the other beds, Susannah. I just want to check on Clough. He and I will be having a little talk during the course of the morning.”

Mrs Simmonds smiled. She knew what a little talk meant.

When they reached the boy’s bed, Mrs Simmonds pulled back the bed clothes. A small wrinkled mark was visible on the top sheet. Mrs Lavington reached out and touched it. It was quite dry. She pulled the boy’s pyjamas from under his pillow and examined them. The trousers were stained with what was obviously a seminal emission. And, as she glanced down, she saw on the floor beside the bed a handkerchief. She stooped and picked it up. She looked at the name tag. The handkerchief belonged not to Clough but to another boy, Graham, whose bed was on the other side of the dormitory.

“Susannah, will you check Graham’s bed please.”

Graham’s pyjamas were not folded and placed under his pillow as they should have been, but loosely left under the sheets, half way down the bed. That in itself was an offence against dormitory rules. Mrs Simmonds brought the pyjamas across and handed the bundle to Mrs Lavington. She laid them out on Clough’s bed and carefully examined them.

“Look at that Susannah.”

Low down on the front of the boy’s pyjama jacket was a large stain. It was dry and yet there was also another small damp patch. Mrs Lavington smelt it and wrinkled her nose.

“Quite disgusting.”

She held out the garment for Mrs Simmonds to examine.

“Well, Matron there’s no doubt about what that boy was up to.”

“No, Susannah. None at all. But why was Graham’s handkerchief on the floor beside Clough’s bed?”

She narrowed her eyes.

“I can think of only one explanation. Both boys were doing it together.”

“But in that case, Matron, wouldn’t the stains on the two pyjamas be either both dry or both damp. But Clough’s is entirely dry while Graham has a damp patch on his pyjamas.”

Mrs Lavington shook her head.

“I’ll tell you what I think happened, Susannah. Graham comes over to Clough’s bed, and they engage in mutual masturbation. Both ejaculate over their pyjamas. Graham makes his way back to his bed and, as he does so, drops his handkerchief. Probably it was in the pocket of his pyjama top, and became dislodged when they were wriggling about. And as he left the bed, it slipped out on to the floor. Then, shortly before rising, Graham masturbates a second time which would account for the smaller damp patch.”

She handed the pyjamas back to Mrs Simmonds.

“Put them back in Graham’s bed, just as you found them. I’ll question both boys during the morning and get the truth out of them. After which they will be punished. And punished severely.”

“Does the Principal need to be told, Matron?”

“Yes, Susannah. He certainly does. I have discussed with him our campaign to root out masturbation in the dormitories and he’s wholeheartedly behind it. But gross indecency between boys is another matter. Of that he must be informed. I will deal with both boys in my own way. But Mr Fairclough, I am sure, will have no hesitation in birching the pair of them.”

She smiled.

“At the moment both are blithely ignorant of what is awaiting them. But nemesis is just around the corner.”

On their return to the infirmary, Mrs Lavington worked at her desk for an hour and then, after her morning cup of coffee, sent for Graham and Clough. As both boys were in the same class they arrived together. Both looked white and Graham was nervously twisting his hands. Mrs Lavington stared at them with an expressionless face.

“Stand over there, both of you. Back to the wall. And hands by your sides.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Well, have you any idea why I have sent for you?”

There was silence. Both boys shuffled a little and Clough was biting his lip.

“Stand still the pair of you.”

She stepped across to Graham and, with her hand under his chin, tilted his head back.

“Does the fact that I have sent for both of you suggest anything to you, Graham? Perhaps something you may have been up to together? Well? Any ideas?”

“N . . . no, Matron.”

“Well, what about you Clough? Have you any thoughts on the matter?”

“P . . . please, Matron. No.”

Mrs Lavington put her head on one side and looked at him.

“I see. Then let me ask a few questions.”

She smiled and pointed at Graham.

“This morning your handkerchief was found beside Clough’s bed. Do you know how it got there?”

“No, Miss . . . I mean Matron.”

She nodded.

“Perhaps while you were asleep it took to the air and floated across the dormitory. Do you think that’s possible?”

“N . . . no, Matron.”

“I agree. It does seem most unlikely. But then, we are still left with the question: how did it get there?”

He looked down, saying nothing. She waited, letting his anxiety mount. She had him in her web and was slowing wrapping the sticky entanglement about him.

“You may not believe this, Graham, but yesterday I flogged a boy for losing his handkerchief. He lied about it. But there was something else. Can you guess what that might have been?”

He shook his head.

“N . . . no, Matron.”

“Come now, Graham. What do boys sometimes use their handkerchiefs for?”

He reddened.

“Then let me give you a clue. They sometimes use their pyjamas for the same thing.”

She paused.

“And the pyjamas like the handkerchief are left stained and damp. Does that help?”

He nodded, mutely.

“So, what is it called, that disgusting thing that boys do? Well?”

“W . . . w . . . wanking . . . Matron.”

“Yes, Graham. But the proper word is masturbation. You will use that in future. Say it please.”

“M . . . mast . . . masturbation.”

“It’s a long word. Difficult to say. But not something boys find difficult to do.”

She paused.

“But while the handkerchief has no stains on it, when we examined both your pyjamas, we found both were badly stained. With a stain that could have been made in only one way.”

She waited.

“So, what was your handkerchief doing beside Clough’s bed, Graham?”

She waited. The silence became heavy.

“I . . . I . . . must have dropped it . . . Matron.”

“Obviously, Graham. We have already ruled out the possibility that it fluttered there by itself like a bird. But the question remains how did you come to drop it there. Beside Clough’s bed.”

“I . . . I don’t know . . . Matron.”

She turned to Clough.

“Can you shed any light on the mystery, Clough?”

The boy was brighter and altogether more confident than Graham.

“No, Matron. I’ve no idea.”

“I see. No idea at all?”

“No, Matron”

“But stains were found on your pyjamas, too, Clough. Where did those come from? I suppose you have no idea about that, either?”

He looked down.

“N . . . no, Matron.”

She stepped across and putting her hand under his chin, forced his head back.

“Don’t treat me like a fool, Clough. I have been Matron in this orphanage long enough to recognise semen stains when I see them. You were masturbating last night, weren’t you? And I suggest you answer truthfully. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

She watched as his brash self-confidence faded under her strong, probing displeasure. His voice was low and barely audible.

“Yes, Matron.”

“You mean, yes you were masturbating?”

He nodded.

“But there is something else, isn’t there, Clough?”

He bit his lip, and his breathing was rough and nervous. She turned to Graham.

“Were you in Clough’s bed last night, Graham?”

The reply was barely audible.

“Y . . . yes . . . Matron.”

“And that is when you dropped your handkerchief?”

“I . . . I suppose so . . . Matron.”

“And why were you in Clough’s bed?”

“We . . . we were talking.”

“And what did you talk about?”

“I can’t remember, Matron. Perhaps, about the . . . the lessons we had.”

Mrs Lavington smiled inwardly at the thought of the two boys lying in bed discussing the difficulties of Pythagoras’s theorem.

“Well, I commend your dedication to learning. But you did more than talk, didn’t you?”

They said nothing. Both were suffused with shame and their hands were twitching with anxiety.

“You touched each other, didn’t you? Played with each other’s genitals until you both shot hot sticky semen all over your pyjamas. Isn’t that right?”

She waited.

“Graham, I said, isn’t that right? Answer me.”

“Y . . . yes, Matron.”

“And you Clough. Is that what happened?”

“Yes, Matron.”

“And you do know that masturbation is wrong, the pair of you?”

Whether they did or didn’t, neither was prepared to deny it. Both knew further prevarication would only add to their difficulties.

“Yes, Matron.”

She shook her head, and pursed her lips, with narrowed eyes.

“Solitary indulgence is one thing. But that you should have shared and wallowed in your depravity together! Fondling each other in the most wanton way imaginable!”

She paused.

“You do realise that if you were adults both of you would be imprisoned for a very long time. Fortunately, you are boys and can be dealt with in a different way.”

She looked at them.

“First, as you have broken my dormitory rules, you will be punished by me.”

She paused.

“But what you have done is so serious and so shameful, that it will have to be reported to the Principal.”

She nodded.

“And after absconding, he regards deviant behaviour such as yours as deserving of the severest of punishments. Have you anything to say?”

They shook their heads, pale and fearful.

“Then you will undress.”





Chapter 28



As each boy removed his garments, he folded them neatly and placed them on a chair. Mrs Lavington smiled. Only by strict and unswerving discipline could a boy’s natural inclination for untidiness and shoddy work be corrected. They stood before her naked and shivering.

Both boys were small for their age with well-proportioned bodies, not plump but well covered, with buttocks that were firm and round. Both were circumcised. She could imagine them in bed, wriggling and playing with each other until one, then the other, spurted sticky semen all over their pyjamas. It might be natural for small boys to indulge themselves in such a way, but it was an expression of their inner corruption and needed to be punished with the utmost severity. Nor would she have any compunction about reporting them to the Principal who would undoubtedly birch them. Possibly before the whole school.

She frowned.

“So, Clough, and you, Graham, what do you think would be a suitable punishment for what you have done?”

Both boys were silent. Each expected a sound spanking with Matron’s hairbrush at the very least.

“No suggestions, either of you? No?”

She beckoned to Clough, and pointed to the floor immediately in front of her.

“Stand there, Clough. And you beside him, Graham.”

Fearfully, they stepped forward.

“And which hand did you use to masturbate Graham, Clough? Was it the right or the left? Hold it out.”

Slowly, he extended his right hand. He was red with shame and visibly trembling.

“So, show me the part of Graham’s anatomy that you fondled in bed.”

Slowly the boy reached out and touched Graham’s small limp penis, and quickly withdrew his hand.

“Yes. But you did more than that didn’t you, Clough? Did more than just touch it? You played with it, didn’t you? Rubbing that little piece of loose skin on the front, between your finger and thumb. That’s what boys do, isn’t it, Clough? And you continued until he spurted all over his pyjamas.”

She reached out and forced Graham’s head back.

“That’s what he did, wasn’t it, Graham?”

The boy was crimson with embarrassment.

“Y . . . yes, Matron.”

“And did you enjoy it?”

The boy said nothing. She looked at his companion.

“Well, Clough, do you think he enjoyed it?”

“I . . . I suppose so . . . Matron.”

“Yes, I am sure he did. As you enjoyed it, when he did it to you.”

She narrowed her eyes and both wilted under her gaze.

“Most boys have some sense of shame. They masturbate in secret between the sheets. But you were both utterly shameless. Touching and fondling each other in your depravity”

She paused, sensing their mounting anxiety.

“So, I am going to punish those hands that gave such sinful enjoyment.”

She placed two heavy upright chairs together side by side. Each has a straight back with a flat, top rail. Earlier she had tied around each rail a small loop of string, and on each loop was threaded a small brass ring, the size of a boy’s finger.

“Stand behind that chair, Clough, and you, Graham, behind the other one.”

She reached across Graham’s chair and, with her long, slender fingers under his chin, she lifted his head.

“So which hand was it, Graham?”

Reluctantly, he extended his left hand.

“Rest it on the back of the chair.”

She turned to Clough.

“And it was your right hand, wasn’t it Clough.”

“Y . . . yes, Matron.”

“Then place it like Graham on the back of the chair.”

Carefully, she arranged each hand so the soft fleshy palm was upright, and then she slipped the ring over each boys’ middle finger.

“Raise your hands as far as you can.”

Each did so, until the loop tightened and the hand was restrained about three inches above the rail. She breathed in deeply, savouring their fear. They watched as she walked to the cupboard and took from a hook a heavy two tailed tawse.

“When I’ve finished with you two, the last thing you’ll be thinking about will be putting your hands inside another boy’s pyjamas. She stood in front of Clough and lifted the tawse, draping it over her right shoulder. His breathing was quick and shallow. His eyes wide open and unblinking.

With a flick, the tawse leapt up, and pausing for a moment at the top of its flight, descended with a heavy whooshing of air, followed almost immediately by a dull smacking sound as it struck the boy’s soft palm and outstretched fingers. For a moment the boy felt nothing, but then his face crumpled as his hand burst into flame. A penetrating burning that spread from his hand to consume his whole being. He roared and stamped his feet and, if his hand had not been restrained, he would have snatched it away and pressed it under his left armpit. But such comfort was denied him.

The restraint of the little loop with the ring was Mrs Lavington’s own invention. Not only did it prevent a boy from moving his hand, but it meant that with each stroke not only was the sensitive palm beaten, but the hand was driven sharply down against the chair rail, knocking and bruising the knuckles.

She waited.

“Hand in position again Clough. Lift it up as far as you can.”

She punished him unhurriedly, waiting each time for his writhing and screaming to abate before giving the next stroke; and she continued until two dozen had been delivered.

Learning to write is not learnt in a few short moments of time. It takes a succession of long intense lessons imposed by an unforgiving master or mistress. And for Mrs Lavington, learning the moral grammar of life was no different. Obedience was not taught with a few desultory spankings. Nor were truthfulness, cleanliness, and chastity. Wrong spellings might be marked in a child’s book and the corrections learned, but for moral failure and disobedience, the marks of correction needed to be written on a child’s bare flesh. In Mrs Lavington’s judgement improvement would never come from remonstrance and reproof alone. Words needed to be accompanied by chastisement.

When she stepped back, Clough was writhing and twisting in agony. After twenty-four strokes, his palms were red and inflamed, and his knuckles bruised and sore. If his hand had not been restrained, he’d have been madly flailing it, trying to shake away the terrible tormenting pain. But the little ring and the short leash attached to the chair tethered him both to the chair and to her will.

Some might have chosen to punish the boys simultaneously, giving alternate strokes to each outstretched palm. But that would have allowed them to find a little solace in their shared suffering. Far better to give Clough his two dozen strokes and let Graham witness his agony, and have him shivering in anticipation of his own impending suffering.

And as she turned her attention to Graham, she knew the faint tormenting hope rising within Clough that perhaps his punishment was over.

“Well, Graham, time for your hand to learn the lesson that Clough’s hand has just been taught.”

She tilted Clough’s head.

“And what was that lesson, Clough? What has your hand been taught?”

“N . . . not, not to . . . to touch things . . . Matron.”

“You mean nothing at all? Not even a pencil?”

“N . . . no . . . Matron.”

“Well, then?”

“I . . . I’m not to . . . touch . . . “

His voice trailed off.

“Well, if the lesson has not been learned, it will need to be repeated.”

“No . . . please, Matron.”

“Well, then? What has your hand been taught?”

“N . . . not, not to . . . to touch other boys’ . . . things.”

“You mean their possessions?”

He was red with embarrassment, biting his lip.

“N . . . no, M . . . Matron. Their . . . their . . . winkies . . .”

“And by winkie you mean what is to be found inside a boy’s pyjamas between his legs? Is that right?”

He looked down, his whole body hot with shame.

“Y . . . yes, Matron.”

“And that is the lesson you’ve learned: not to touch another boy’s winkie?”

Y . . . yes, Matron.”

“Or to use the language I shall employ when reporting your conduct to the Principal: not to get into bed with another boy and engage in mutual masturbation.”

She turned to Graham.

“And that’s the lesson your hand needs to learn, too, isn’t it, Graham?”

He licked his lips, flushed and bright eyed.

“When I speak to you Graham, I expect an answer. Let me repeat my question. That is the lesson your hand needs to learn, too, isn’t it?”

He was breathing through his mouth in short nervous gasps.

“Y . . . yes, Matron.”

She raised the tawse. And he shrieked as it lashed down. She paused letting him smart in agony. Then, slowly and methodically she continued. Each time the stroke cracked his hand down sharply against the rail of the chair, bruising his knuckles. But that was as nothing to the agony in his palm. It was as if he was holding hot coals, searing and burning the flesh.

After twenty-four strokes, she stepped back, and watched the boy twisting in torment.

“Look at me, Graham.”

He raised his head and struggled to focus through his tear-filled eyes.

“And will you be visiting Clough in his bed tonight, do you think, Graham?”

He was shivering, and struggled to get his words out.

“N . . . n . . . no, Matron. No. Please.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. But I’ll be vising you before bed tonight, Graham. And you, too, Clough. So, you both have that to look forward to.”

She walked over to the cupboard to replace the tawse and, as she turned, eyed their round little bottoms. Then, she slipped the restraining rings from their fingers. Both boys desperately shook their hands, and then thrust them under their armpits. Mrs Lavington ruffled their hair.

“You may dress. And then return to your classroom. I’ll provide a note explaining that you may find it difficult to hold a pencil for the rest of the morning. Quickly now.”

When they had gone, she sat at her desk and entered their names in her punishment book, providing a description of their offence and the nature of the punishment. She smiled. A further entry would need to be added later.

There was something very satisfying about keeping a punishment book. She enjoyed disciplining boys, but the sensual gratification was short-lived. Entering an account in the book was eminently satisfying. It was also the basis of her monthly return to the Principal.

At home, she kept a punishment book for each of her three children. Every punishment she had ever given from the first to the most recent was preserved therein. Each book was as thick as a ledger. Samuel was now into his fifth volume; and Elizabeth’s was not far behind. The entries she made were more fulsome than those for the orphanage boys, recording the offence in more detail, with an account of her feelings and the reactions of the children. Sometimes of an evening she would take down a volume and read from it.

But she needed to make preparations for what she had in mind for Clough’s and Graham’s further discipline. She stepped into the infirmary.

“Susannah, will you check that we have some of the embrocation we prepared at the end of last year to discourage that boy Carpenter from masturbating.”

Susannah Simmonds went to the medicine cupboard and unlocked it. Reaching in, she took out a jar. It was a forbiddingly dark green. She unscrewed the lid.

“Yes, Matron, there’s plenty left. It goes a long way.”

She put her nose down and smelt it and looked up.

“Well, by the smell, it’s lost none of its strength.”

“Good. But I’ll still freshen it up with another chilli or two. We don’t want to disappoint Clough and Graham, do we? Perhaps you’d slip out to Campbell’s and buy half a dozen. He keeps them for Brigadier Canning’s curries.”

The Brigadier had retired from the Indian Army some years previously and had trained his cook to replicate the very hot curries he had enjoyed there.

Red chilli peppers, with their seeds ground up, along with Wintergreen oil and mustard, formed the main, active constituents of the embrocation that had been applied to Carpenter’s genitals. The recipe for the embrocation was from Mrs Lavington’s mother who had used it on Cordelia’s brothers when she caught them masturbating. The matron’s eyes narrowed as she remembered their screams. She recalled how she had lain in bed and listened mesmerised and spellbound to their agony, her hand rucking up her nightdress as she ran her finger along her small slithery vulva and stroked that special little spot that gave such pleasure. Even at that age she had wondered why her brothers’ suffering should arouse her in such a way.

Her upbringing had been strict and her mother had insisted on absolute and instant obedience. By the age of seven, Cordelia had acquired an acute sense of sin and the heartfelt knowledge that sin could only be remitted and forgiven through punishment. Punishment that only ended when she submitted and accepted her mother’s forgiveness. Her mother’s pleasure at her restoration was always evident; and this opened the way to a more mature understanding of the divine forgiveness itself.

She came to see that the joy in heaven over one sinner that repents arose from the sinner’s submission to the great Judge of all men. As she had suffered punishment at the hands of her mother and had been led to submit to her will, so the suffering of Christ for our sins, led us in love to submit to His will and to receive life at His hands. That was the deepest desire of God for sinners. But if we remained unreconciled, then the terrible punishment that Christ had endured was ineffective and remained ours to bear. And even in that, there was a mysterious joy in the heart of God, as sinners received the just exchange for their sins in the fiery wastes of Hell. And so, her arousal and enjoyment of her brothers’ sufferings had been to share in a small way in that joy, as her mother had shared in it, and as she now did in the punishment of her own children.

When Susannah returned, she was carrying a small brown paper bag in which were half a dozen red chilli peppers.

“Mr Campbell warned me that these are some of the hottest chillies he’s ever encountered. Even the Brigadier has complained they were too hot – even for him!”

Mrs Lavington smiled.

“So, the Brigadier was distressed by the heat, was he? Well, Susannah, I can assure you that Privates Clough and Graham are going to be far more distressed than the Brigadier.”

She took the bag from Mrs Simmonds, and pulled out a chilli. It was large and fat.

“Hand me a pair of scissors, Susannah.”

She snipped the end of the chilli, and dabbed her finger lightly on the wet chilli flesh, and then brushed her finger across her tongue. She waited. And then opened her mouth and drew in air.

“Good gracious, Susannah, the Brigadier was right. I’ve never tasted anything so hot.”

She stepped across to the little larder cupboard and took out a jug of milk and quickly poured herself a glass, drinking it slowly and bathing her tongue in the liquid.

“Well, I’d been thinking of rubbing the chilli juice straight on to the boys’ genitals, but with chillies like these, I really think that would be too severe, despite what they’ve done. But we’ll certainly add a little of the juice and mashed up flesh to the embrocation.”

She nodded.

“But before that’s applied, the boys’ wrists will need to be secured to the bed rail. Unless restrained they’ll be running about in their madness and disturbing everyone. And we don’t want that.”

She gave a smile.

“The rest of the dormitory will find it hard enough to sleep with their screaming, without having to endure their rampaging around.”

She put the bag down on the table.

“So, Susannah, I’d like you during the afternoon to place two straps at the head of each boy’s bed ready for them to be secured for the ordeal. And I’ll ask Mrs Fairclough whether she would be willing to sit at home with the children and supervise them until I return.”

She paused.

“And I would like you to accompany me to the dormitory this evening.”



Chapter 29


Mrs Lavington made her way to the classroom in which Diana Fairclough was teaching. As she entered, she saw that her daughter was at the front with her hand extended for the strap. She pursed her lips and stood quietly at the back. It’s shaming enough for a child to be punished by her own parent, but to be punished by another with the parent witnessing her distress is even worse. Elizabeth felt a coldness in her stomach as she held out her hand for the first burning assault on the small bony structure. She glanced at her mother who was watching with a small frown creasing her brow.

Mrs Fairclough spoke sharply.

“You know the rules, Elizabeth. A girl looks forward with her eyes open when she’s having her hand strapped. That will be one extra stroke.”

The tawsing continued. At the end Elizabeth was crying. She shook her hand and tucked it under her armpit.

“Return to your desk, Elizabeth. And please remember that in this class, a girl does not speak unless invited to. Now continue with your arithmetic.”

She smiled at Cordelia and stepped across.

“Good morning, Matron. How can I help? Is it one of the girls you want to see?”

“No, Mrs Fairclough. Nothing to do with the girls. I have a favour to ask you. I have a duty in the orphanage this evening between six and seven, possibly as late as eight. And I was hoping you might be able to come across to the house and supervise the children’s homework and bedtime. Is that possible?”

“Of course, Matron. I’d be delighted to help out. I can be there at a quarter to six. And I’ll have a word with you in the lunch break to see if there’s anything else I need to know.”

“Thank you, Mrs Fairclough. That’s greatly appreciated.”

Elizabeth’s back was bent over her book, and she was writing diligently.

“And I’ll be eager to hear a little more about the background to Elizabeth’s punishment. Although I’m sure it will figure in your daily report about her behaviour.”

She noticed a slight stiffening in her daughter’s back. Obviously, she hadn’t mentioned the report to any of her classmates; and although she couldn’t see the girl’s face, she knew it would be reddening at the exposure of such a shameful secret.

And as Mrs Lavington returned to the infirmary, she thought about childish secrets. And how as a child she had wished to conceal from her friends that she was spanked by her mother. Some children boasted of being spanked, but she never did. To speak in that way was unthinkable. A spanking was not just an unpleasant experience, one of the hazards of childhood to be endured. It was intimately woven into the very fabric of her life.

Individual acts of naughtiness were but an expression of her sinful nature. Her mother had been less concerned to correct naughtiness than to confront her wilfulness and, by regular and consistent discipline, to induce a spirit of compliance. By the age of six, Cordelia was in no doubt that obedience was required both by her mother and by God; and that disobedience was the gravest of sins.

But breaking her will and rendering her submissive had been a long and difficult process. The baring of her flesh for the rod had been deeply shameful to her, but even more shameful had been the ignominy of being broken and reduced to sobbing tearful submission. It was that, above all, that had made her strive to keep secret her mother’s discipline. She had had no wish for other children to probe her disgrace and cause her to relive that burning shame.

But so deeply embedded in a child’s heart is self-will that it can never be completely rooted out. The strict demands made upon her revealed her weakness and her inability to live in complete obedience to her mother’s law; and the spankings, and worse, that she continued to receive, marked her out as a sinner, and taught her that only through suffering could forgiveness be bestowed. And, as she came to see, that that was an inestimable gift to confer upon a child. As the Apostle Paul said, the law is a schoolmaster to bring us to Christ. And her suffering under her mother’s law taught her that although spanking restrained sin, the inner pollution of her heart, from which sin welled up, could never be truly cleansed by the chastisement of her own flesh. It required the chastisement laid upon the Son of God to achieve that. And so, at the age of about sixteen, she accepted that Christ had died as an atonement for her sin and as the means of her sanctification.

And just as harsh unremitting punishment inflicted upon her as a child had restrained sin and led her ultimately to a divine forgiveness, so it would be for her own children and, God willing, also for the orphanage boys in her charge.

At lunchtime, Diana Fairclough put her head around the infirmary door and suggested she should come and share sandwiches and coffee in her apartment.

“So, what requires you to return to the orphanage this evening, Cordelia. I thought the staff covered evenings and night times.”

“They do, Diana, but I need to supervise the punishment of two boys. They were caught between the sheets together, abusing themselves. I’ve already strapped the offending hands but tonight they’ll be going to bed, wrists tied to the rail and with something to remind them that getting into bed with another boy is not something that will be tolerated.”

Mrs Fairclough raised her eyes questioningly.

“And what will that ‘something’ be?”

“An embrocation smeared on their genitals, based on wintergreen and chilli peppers. My mother used it on my brothers and believe me it’s something a boy remembers. At least for a while.”

Diana nodded.

“Yes. Boys, I’m afraid, have short memories. A sound spanking would bring about a remarkable improvement in Harry’s behaviour but quite often he’d be in trouble before the marks had even faded.”

Mrs Fairclough picked up the plate of sandwiches and offered it.

“But tell me exactly what you want me to do this evening.”

“Diana Fairclough was a mother of three boys. The two eldest had left home. The youngest, a twelve-year-old boy, was away at school. Mrs Fairclough knew her husband had a high regard for Cordelia Lavington and, although secure in her husband’s affection, was aware of their close professional relationship. She also envied Mrs Lavington her opportunity to discipline the boys in her care; and looked back fondly to the days when, as a mother, she had been free to chastise small boys as often, and as severely, as she judged appropriate. They chatted away for a while and Mrs Lavington was assured that Elizabeth’s tawsing during the morning was simply a classroom matter and the note she would be sending home late would raise no issues for her mother.

The door opened, and the Principal entered.

“Good day Matron. How nice to see you enjoying a short break. And sandwiches, too.”

“Indeed Sir. And excellent sandwiches they are.”

Diana stood up.

“James, Cordelia has just been telling me about a quite shocking incident. Two boys found in bed together, masturbating. Cordelia is punishing them herself, but I am sure an example should be made of them. The whole orphanage needs to know that sort of behaviour is sinful and unacceptable.”

Mr Fairclough sat down.

“You told me a short while ago, Matron, that you were running a campaign against masturbation in the dormitories. Is that still the case?”

“It certainly is, Sir. But it’s a campaign, not a battle. I’m not foolish enough to think masturbation can ever be completely eliminated. But the least we can do is to make boys realise they run the risk of severe punishment if caught. And to do everything possible to detect masturbation and punish it. I want every boy who’s tempted to abuse himself to stop and think, ‘Dare I run the risk?’ And then, if we catch a boy, we’ll know he’s utterly brazen and shameless, a boy who ignores all promptings of prudence and of conscience.”

She paused.

“I hope, Matron, you were not reading any criticism in my question. That was far from my intention. I know from my own son that persuading a boy of the iniquity of masturbation and defeating the habit is like cleansing the Augean Stables. And I am sure you are pursuing your campaign with the utmost dedication and zeal.”

“Thank you, Sir. I trust I am. And it was certainly my intention to report the two boys to you with a recommendation similar to Mrs Fairclough’s.”

He nodded.

“And who are the two boys?”

“Clough and Graham, Sir”

“Well, Matron, I will leave their immediate punishment to you, but when you judge it appropriate send them to me.”

Before Cordelia departed, Mrs Fairclough assured her that she would arrive no later than a quarter to six. And that she should have no worries about returning at any particular time.

. . . . . . . .

It had become the practice over the years to employ a local women each evening to supervise the dormitories and oversee the boys’ preparations for bed. Some were older women whose children had grown up and who welcomed the opportunity to earn a little pin money. A member of Mrs Lavington’s staff was always present to direct evening dormitory activities and to deal with any problems that might arise.

“Who’s supervising Clough and Graham’s dormitory this evening, Susannah?”

“Mrs Rowbotham, Matron.”

“Then, please tell her that once the boys have washed and changed, they are to stand by their beds in their pyjamas. With their hands behind their backs. And there is to be no talking. Once that has been done, she may take an early supper before supervising the dormitory from eight o’clock onward. And, I should like you to accompany me to the Dormitory now.”

In each dormitory there was a large cupboard where clean linen was kept together with a few extra pillows. Each boy had on his bed a sheet and a blanket, increased to two blankets in winter. Their pillows were flock filled and rather bulky. In addition to linen, each cupboard had hanging on the back of its double doors, several canes and a leather tawse. The boys had no access to the cupboards which were securely locked with the key kept hanging on a hook in the infirmary.

If the boys had been talking, they were certainly silent when the Matron and Susannah Simmonds entered. This was not surprising as the sound of their footfalls echoed up and down the corridor as they approached. Mrs Lavington waited a moment and then pointed to the boy standing by the bed nearest her.

“Well, Lewis, have you any idea why you’re all standing by your beds this evening instead of being in them?”

“N . . . no, Matron?”

She pointed to another boy.

“And what about you McLeod? Any ideas?”

“No Miss . . . Matron.”

“Then, I will tell you. There are two boys in this dormitory whose hands I had to strap today.”

She pointed again to Lewis.

“And have you any idea what those hands might have been up to, Lewis? Where they might have been?”

“N . . . no, Matron.”

“Anyone?”

There was silence. Not a movement anywhere. But as she glanced at Graham, she noticed a slight twitch of his head.

“Then I will tell you. They had been inside a pair of pyjama trousers.”

She paused.

“And what do you think they were doing there? Lewis? Have you any idea?”

Lewis was bitterly sorry his bed was so close to where Matron was standing.

“Well, Lewis?”

He reddened.

“I . . . I don’t . . . “

Mrs Lavington put her head on one side questioningly, as the boy swallowed.

“I . . . don’t know . . . Matron.”

“I find that very hard to believe, Lewis. The answer is, of course, that each hand had been playing with a stiff little penis, stroking and rubbing it.

She smiled.

“And you didn’t know boys did that, Lewis? Well, I am surprised!”

She watched as he writhed in his embarrassment, as matters any boy would wish to keep secret were exposed and openly spoken of. For a full half a minute she said nothing.

“Recently I have had to punish several boys for masturbating in their own beds, playing with themselves, abusing themselves.”

Again, she paused.

“But the two boys whose hands I strapped today were not simply abusing themselves. No. They were in the same bed together. Abusing each other. Playing with each other’s genitals. Stroking and fondling them, until they both ejaculated. Over their pyjamas and the sheets.”

She waited for a moment.

“Clough and Graham. Take two steps forward.”

Every eye turned as they moved, shamed and anxious, fearful of further punishment.

“So, Lewis, show me where Clough’s bed is.”

He pointed.

“Over . . . over there, Matron.”

“And Graham’s bed? Where is that?”

Again, he pointed.

“Th . . . there . . . Matron.”

“And if Graham was in Clough’s bed, as he was, how do you think he got there?”

Lewis bit his lip.

“I . . . I suppose . . . he walked . . . Matron.”

“Yes, I am sure he did, Lewis. And in a small dormitory like this do you suppose other boys were aware of what he was doing? And of what the two of them were up to?”

She paused. And then spoke with a beguiling sweetness.

“Did you know, Lewis?”

He lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

“Y . . . yes, Matron.”

“And do you think the other boys knew?”

“Please, Matron . . . ”

“How dare you prevaricate, Lewis. Answer my question. Did the other boys in the dormitory know what was going on?”

He was tearful, driven to the edge of the precipice.

“Y . . . yes, Matron.”

“Yes, of course they did. Everyone knew. But no one said anything. Each remained silent and allowed sin to flourish.”

She looked up and down the two rows of beds.

“A famous man once said that all that is required for evil to prevail is for good men to do nothing. And every boy in this dormitory did nothing. Each is as guilty of Clough’s and Graham’s sin, as they are.”

She looked up and down the two rows of small pyjama clad boys with their tense, anxious faces.

“So, the whole dormitory will be punished.”

Mrs Lavington stepped across to the cupboard and inserted the key. First, she took out a short but sturdy bolster, and placed it on the side table; and then reaching behind the door unhooked a swishy rattan cane.

“Every boy will lie face down on his bed with his head to the top, and reach out and grasp the bed rail. And no boy is to let go of that rail until permission is given.” She nodded to Mrs Simmonds.

And now Mrs Simmonds please would you pull each boy’s pyjama trousers down to his ankles, and ruck his top well up his back.”

There were twenty beds in the dormitory, ten on each side. And it was not long before each had a small boy stretched out, with his bottom bare and exposed to the cool dormitory air.

“Each boy will receive twelve strokes across his bottom and thighs. Except for Graham and Clough. For them the punishment will be doubled.”

She swished the cane through the air.

“Mrs Simmonds, please would you take the bolster and place it under the stomach of the first boy to be caned.”

She pointed.

“We’ll start with you Lewis. Slip the bolster down a little, please, Mrs Simmonds. Thank you. That’s lifted him nicely.”

She looked down the dormitory.

“And while I am applying the cane, Mrs Simmonds will be watching to see you all remain silent and that each boy continues to keep his hands on his bed rail.”

Susannah Simmonds was deeply grateful to Matron for allowing her to accompany her to the dormitory that evening and to assist her. From the infirmary, she would often hear the Matron’s measured tones of rebuke from the adjoining room and listen to the screams of boys being beaten. She approved of the retribution exacted and took a grim satisfaction as boys with hot tear-stained faces were sent on their way through the infirmary.

She had brought up four children, two boys and two girls, and had been a strict mother. Like Mrs Fairclough, she looked back with affection to the time when she had ruled her own children with the rod; and welcomed those occasions when the Matron permitted her to spank a boy, as she had with the boy Simpson. She always administered any punishment with a slow, lingering relish. And although she had hoped she might be permitted to cane some of the boys that evening, she was not unduly surprised when it was apparent this was a duty Matron had arrogated wholly to herself.

Mrs Lavington glanced up the dormitory. As a medieval baron stands at his board with an assortment of roasts before him, and sharpens his knife on the steel, so did Mrs Lavington stand, running the cane through her hand. The baron might have three or four joints to carve, but here there were twenty soft tender rumps to slice. She felt a little flicker run through her as she stepped forward.



Chapter 30


“Open your eyes, Lewis. And no clenching, or there will be additional strokes.”

She rapped the cane across his knuckles.

“And two additional strokes if those hands come off the bed rail. And that applies to every boy here.”

She waited. Not a sound could be heard.

“One.”

She brought the cane swishing down across Lewis’s small compact rump. There was a satisfying smack as it sliced into the soft flesh. He gave a howl and his bottom wriggled madly.

“Two.”

Another stroke was given. And then another. And by the time the full quota had been delivered the boy was sobbing and heaving, yet still grasping the rail in his desperation. He had clenched his bottom once or twice, but Cordelia had waited for him to relax sparing him any further penalty. With a different child she might have lashed the cane down on the clenched buttocks and taken pleasure in awarding additional strokes.

“You may remove the bolster, Mrs Simmonds. And please place it beneath the next boy.”

She swished the cane through the cool dormitory air.

“Well, Hughes, I suggest you unclench your plump little bottom and allow me to flog it as it deserves to be flogged. Soft and accepting, please.”

She paused.

“You do know why you’re being flogged, don’t you Hughes?”

The boy knew from experience that it was always best to agree with Matron.

“Y . . . yes, Matron.”

“Good. So please tell the dormitory why you are face down on your bed with your pyjamas around your ankles.”

“Be . . . because . . . “

But his voice trailed off in confusion. Why he was being punished, why any of them was being punished, for something Clough and Graham had done, he didn’t really understand.

“I . . . I’m not sure . . . Matron.”

“But a moment ago you told me you knew. Are you trying to be clever, Hughes?”

“Please, no, Matron . . . No.”

“I beg to differ, Hughes. Fortunately, I know how to deal with small, impudent boys. You will receive four additional strokes.”

“No, please, Matron!”

She shook her head despairingly.

“Eight additional strokes. And if you continue to argue with me, you’ll be spending the rest of the night on your knees.”

He bit his lip and tears pricked at his eyes.

“You are being flogged, Hughes, as are all the boys in this dormitory, for not reporting two boys who sinfully got into the same bed and abused themselves.

She paused.

“Which means you are complicit in their sin. You do know what ‘complicit’ means, don’t you, Hughes?”

“I . . . I’m not sure . . . Matron.”

“It means, Hughes, that because you allowed it to happen, you are as guilty as they are and as deserving of punishment.”

She raised the cane.

“One.”

He gasped and shrieked as the rattan bit into soft inviting flesh.

“Two.”

After six strokes, he was choking and blubbering in his torment. Mrs Lavington smiled. Reducing a boy to such helpless submission was both satisfying and necessary. It might seem cruel but half-hearted correction was worse than useless. It left a boy sullen and resentful. A boy needed to be taken to the limits of his endurance and beyond. When she had administered twelve strokes, she paused, allowing him to regain a little composure.

“So, Hughes, have you learned your lesson?”

His voice was hoarse as he struggled to speak through his sobbing.

“Y . . . yes . . . Matron.”

“So, what have you learned?”

“I . . . I . . . ”

“Yes, Hughes?”

“Not . . . not to do nothing when . . . when boys get into the same bed . . . Matron.”

“Good, Hughes. That just shows how a boy’s memory is improved when a lesson is well beaten in.”

She waited, raising his hopes that his torment was over.

“But there is something else that needs to be well beaten in, isn’t there, Hughes?”

He was still gripping the bed rail.

“Yes, Matron.”

“And what is that?”

“I was im . . . imp . . . “

“You were, impudent, Hughes.”

She paused.

“And what does ‘impudent’ mean?”

“P . . . please, Matron. I . . . I’m not . . . sure.”

“And yet you are happy to parrot the word, even if you can’t pronounce it. And you have no idea what it means?”

She paused.

“Are you being wilfully stupid, Hughes?”

“No, Matron. Please.”

“And did I give permission for you to let go of the bedrail?”

He was a small boy broken and desperate in his fearful misery.

“No, Matron. I’m sorry, Matron.”

“Impudent, Hughes, is another word for rude. And how many additional strokes was it for your impudence, for your rudeness?”

His mind was filled with confusion and a terrifying anxiety.

“W . . . was it . . . eight . . . Matron?”

“No, Hughes, it was four.”

She sensed a slight tremor of relief, and she waited a moment before continuing.

“Four for your impudence and a further four for arguing with me. And what did I say would be the penalty for letting go of the bedrail without permission?”

“T . . two more strokes . . . Matron.”

“So according to my arithmetic that makes ten additional strokes. Is that right?”

“Who’s supervising Clough and Graham’s dormitory this evening, Susannah?”

“Mrs Rowbotham, Matron.”

Slowly Mrs Lavington worked her way around the dormitory. When she came to Clough, she tapped the cane on the bedrail. He looked up, fear in his eyes.

“So, Clough, a double caning for you, I think. And how many strokes is that?”

“T . . . twenty-four, Matron.”

“Correct. Twenty-four strokes. And why are you receiving twenty-four strokes and not twelve? Well?”

“Because I, we . . . were in bed together.”

“And who is the ‘we’?”

“Graham and me . . . Matron.”

“No, Clough. Not ‘Graham and me’. Graham and I. Let’s get it right, please. So, who is the ‘we’?”

His breath was short now.

“G . . . Graham and I . . . Matron.”

“And what were you doing in bed together?”

He was unable to speak. Shame and fear had rendered him speechless. He looked up at her from his bed, his eyes dark and beseeching.

“Well, Clough?”

“I . . . we . . . Matron . . . were . . . were . . .”

His voice trailed off.

“So, Clough, am I to understand that you have no idea what you were doing? I find that difficult to believe given the fact that your hands were strapped for it earlier today. Shall we try again?”

He bit his lip.

“We were . . . touching each other . . . Matron.”

“Touching what? Knees, ears . . ?”

“No, Matron.”

There was a beguiling sweetness in her voice now.

“So, what were you touching together?”

“Our . . . our winkies . . . Matron.”

“Or in more adult language, your genitals. You were both masturbating each other. Wriggling and writhing in the darkness, and no doubt grunting like little animals.”

She looked across to Graham where he was standing white faced beside his bed.

“And you watch carefully, Graham. I’ll soon be working my way around to you.”

She positioned herself, and raised the cane.

“And a tight grip on that rail, Clough, if you know what’s good for you. And no clenching.”

The first dozen strokes were given with a slow, lingering vigour across the boy’s buttocks. He wriggled and kicked, clenching after each stroke in a convulsive spasm of agony. Mrs Lavington waited for him to offer a relaxed bottom before continuing the caning. Had he clenched while receiving a stroke she would have condemned him to additional cuts, but it pleased her to see his bottom cheeks contracting and tightening as the pain coursed through his small compact body.

After twelve strokes, she paused. The cane had raised long, throbbing weals across his firm bottom flesh. He was sobbing and twisting. She stepped back. All that could be heard was the wind rattling a window pane.

“I expect, Clough, that you consider that is sufficient punishment for your sin. That your bottom has smarted enough. Is that right?”

She waited for his reply as he struggled to answer.

“Ye . . . yes, Matron. Please, Matron . . . “

“The question is, Clough, am I to have regard to that. Should I spare you further suffering? Treat you as if you were one of the other boys in this dormitory? Is that what you want?”

He clutched at the slender thread of hope.

“Please, Matron.”

But the thread was too thin to bear the weight of his expectation.

“But you are not just one of the ‘other boys’ are you, Clough. Nor is Graham. Had it not been for you, they would all be sleeping now between the sheets.”

She looked down at him. His lashes wet with his tears.

“But I am sure your bottom has received more than its fair share of punishment. At least for the moment.”

He looked at her through tear-filled eyes.

“So, I will spare your little smarting bottom any further pain, Clough. What do you say?”

“Thank you . . . Matron.”

She smiled.

“Instead, the remaining twelve strokes will be across the backs of your thighs.”

His head slumped and then he looked up again through eyes that were dark and wet.

“Please, Matron . . . No . . . Please.”

She shook her head.

“And keep a tight grip on that rail, Clough. And don’t think that a caning across the thighs is all you have to look forward to this evening.”

With hard measured strokes, she caned him across the slack flesh. Over the years she had noticed how boys reacted vociferously to such punishment. Thrashing the buttocks produced screams and howls, but correct a boy across the thighs and he emitted shrieks and piercing screams of agony. His knuckles were white as he clutched the rail and when she finished, he was roaring continuously. She stepped back.

“I hope that serves as a lesson to you, Clough. Of how I deal with a boy whose bottom finds its way into another boy’s bed and whose hands wander between his thighs.”

She left him sobbing, great gulping choking sobs, as she moved to the next boy, and then the next. And when she reached Graham, she flogged him as she had flogged Clough. By the end, when she hung the cane back on its hook, she was breathing deeply and there was a tightness across her chest. She felt an inner warmth and a deep sense of satisfaction at the retribution she had exacted. And there was still more to be done.

“Mrs Simmonds, please will you go to the infirmary and fetch the embrocation. And in the meantime, every boy will remain on his bed gripping the rail.”

The boys heard the clack of Mrs Simmonds’ shoes on the flags of the corridor as she left for the infirmary. Then there was silence. Perhaps some who had taken in the Matron’s request and knew what an embrocation was thought it was to be generally applied as an easement of their agony. Certainly, Clough and Graham had no idea that it was for them, a continuation of their suffering, a further tier of punishment for their wickedness. Mrs Lavington looked down the dormitory at the round and reddened buttocks displayed before her. Most already displaying the tell-tale, tramline weals of a vigorous caning.

When Mrs Simmonds returned she was carrying a small tray on which was the jar of embrocation a small thin wooden spatula and a pair of thin cotton house gloves. She set it down on the table.

“Thank you, Mrs Simmonds. And now will you please go around and pull up each boy’s pyjama trousers, except for Clough’s and Graham’s. Theirs are to be taken off completely. I want them bare from the waist down.”

She looked down the dormitory.

“And while Mrs Simmonds is doing that each boy will continue holding his bed rail.”

Mrs Lavington watched as Susannah Simmonds carried out her instructions.

“And now every boy, apart from Clough and Graham, will get into bed. And stay there until morning call. I will not have boys wandering around the dormitory at night whatever the reason.”

There was the sound of creaking and rustling as sixteen boys twisted around and wriggled between the sheets. Mrs Lavington slowly advanced down the dormitory and stood and the foot of Clough’s bed.

“Let go of the rail, Clough and lie on your back.”

She looked across at Graham.

“And you, too, Graham. And each of you reach back and rest your hands on the rail above your heads. And now Mrs Simmonds, please secure both boys to the rail.”

Each small strap that Mrs Simmonds had attached earlier had another strap interlinked with it. And it was through that that each boy’s wrists were passed and the strap, then tightened. Mrs Lavington stepped across the dormitory and stood at the end of Graham’s bed. He was licking his lips, white-faced and anxious, knowing he was about to suffer some further, terrible retribution.

She smiled as she looked at his limp little penis and small scrotum. She bent over the bed and placed her index finger under the sac, lifting it slightly and then letting it drop back.