Miss Strang Chapter 11
By Governess
liviaarbuthnot1@gmail.com

Copyright 2008 by Governess, all rights reserved

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This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It contains explicit depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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Chapter 11

When in the schoolroom, Miss Strang cleared the long oak table and placed the basket upon it.

"Livia will you please run down to Mrs Mountfield and ask her to let you have four old copies of The Times, a ball of string, and a small bowl of water."

When I returned with the requested items, John and Simon were sitting at their desks writing. Miss Strang thanked me and placed everything Mrs Mountfield had supplied on the table.

"Livia, please sit at your desk and start writing a further short composition, this time on trees. Like John and Simon you may write on whatever aspect of trees you wish. I am looking for a good two pages of effort from each of you."

She opened one of the newspapers and proceeded to cover the table with double sheets. The string, the clippers she had used to cut the birch lengths from the tree, and a pair of scissors from her desk were placed on the covered table. She looked at everything for a moment, as if to check that all was there, and then turned to John.

"You may leave your composition for the moment, John. You will be returning to it later."

The table was used in preference to our desks when a larger area of space was needed for our work. It had four heavy oak chairs around it. Miss Strang sat on one and beckoned John."

"Sit here, beside me."

John lowered himself into the seat as though he were being invited to sit on hot coals.

"Now follow what I do, John."

She selected a length of birch that probably measured over three feet and, griping it tightly, ran her hand up it, stripping off most of the leaves as she went. John did the same with another length. Together they then removed any remaining leaves. They worked through all the lengths, placing the long switches side by side on the table. Miss Strang then selected one.

"What we want, John, are five or six lengths of more of less the same size that can be bound together. She picked up another length and held it with the first. She twisted them so that the whippy tracery of tough twigs at the end of each did not intertwine too much. She gave it a shake. Then she selected another length, trimmed it a little and then held it together with the other two. Eventually, she had six lengths. Not quite satisfied she took one away and replaced it with a length she considered more suitable. Then she shortened several lengths and again held the bundle up by the stock. Finally she clipped away several inches from the bottom. When she had finished the whole looked to be some thirty inches in length.

"Now we must bind the rod up, John. Pass me the string."

She cut eight lengths, and dropped them into the bowl of water. I remember counting them even though I was supposed to be attending assiduously to my composition. She then cut a longer piece of string and made a slip knot, tightening it around the centre of the threatening looking bundle.

"That is to hold it together, John, while we bind it properly. You are probably wondering why I have put the rest of the string in the water. That is because when it dries around the birch it will shrink and make a really firm, tight binding."

She reached into the bowl and selected a length and ran it around the bundle about two inches from the bottom, and knotted it, left over right, as you would in tying a shoelace.

"Please place your finger firmly on the knot, John, so that it does not slip. I will then finish off with a reef knot. That is a knot that will not loosen. No, press really hard. It has to be really tight. That is better."

This process was continued again and again until probably nearly three fifths of the length of the rod was bound tightly. The bindings were probably each spaced about two or three inches apart.

"John, go down the corridor to the cleaning cupboard and fetch the shovel and brush. I want you to sweep up all the leaves and the pieces of twig that are on the floor. When you have done that you can tidy the table, and then wrap all the rubbish up in a large sheet of newspaper. Quickly now."

He looked pale and apprehensive. As he had watched the rod being slowly constructed before his eyes, any lingering doubt that he would be spared a flogging must have drained away. And yet his governess's whole manner, her even temperament, her involving him in the work with such patience, all belied it. A dreadful tension between certain condign punishment and the hopeless hope of the condemned fought within him, creating, I could see, acute nervous anxiety.

He spread a large sheet of newspaper on the table and gathered up all the leaves and pieces of twig. Then, getting down on his hands and knees, he swept the floor around the table.

"Empty the shovel on to the newspaper and wrap it up. Now place it in the large wastepaper basket."

He obeyed with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

"John, go and sit at your desk and continue with your composition. I want you all to have finished writing within three quarters of an hour. That includes extra time because of interruptions."

There was silence in the schoolroom apart from the scratching of pens. I glanced sideways at John and could see that he was finding it difficult to concentrate. Several times he sighed, crossed words out, and stared hopelessly around him. I felt sorry for him, but also wondered when the newly constructed birch would be used.

When the time was up, Miss Strang collected our compositions. While she was reading them, we continued to learn spellings from the earlier work we had completed before lunch.

I was pleased with the way I had written about trees, and I was the first to be called out.

"A very good piece of work, Livia. One or two more spellings to correct but otherwise excellent."

Simon as always had struggled but Miss Strang commended the effort he had made.

"It is effort that counts, Simon. I want you to write out the spellings ten times, as you did before, and I will test you on all of them tomorrow. But very well done."

She looked at John.

"And now, John. Come out here."

"John, this is not a piece of work that any boy of nine should be proud of. It is even poorer than your earlier effort. It is again insufficient in length. It is ill-thought out. It is full of mistakes, mistakes that no nine year old should make. And above all it is untidy and slovenly."

She tore it in two and then again into four pieces. Then into eight. And then dropped the bits into her wastepaper basket. John was visibly upset.

She looked at him questioningly with raised eyebrows.

"So, what have you to say?"

He looked sullenly at the ground. Miss Strang narrowed her eyes, and spoke with a new edge to her voice that I had not heard before.

"I said, John, what have you to say. I am waiting for an answer."

John shuffled and looked defiant.

"I am not interested in trees and I don't want to write about them. I think writing about trees is silly."

He stopped, then bit his lip and looked at the ground.

I held my breath.

In the Book of Revelation it tells of a book with seven seals. As each seal is broken, there are strange and terrible happenings, and when the seventh seal is opened there is 'silence in heaven about the space of half an hour.'

The schoolroom was filled with a sense of dread and we waited for her to pronounce judgement. The weight of silence bore down on John and I could see that, for the moment, he was defeated, that all fight had gone out of him, that the weight of Miss Strang's authority was heavy upon him.

"John, I upbraided you earlier for your slovenliness, your lack of effort, and your insolence. And now I have to do so a second time. As the Apostle Paul said, God sometimes mercifully delays punishment, and that is what I have done. But the time of reckoning has to come, and for you John it has arrived."

She waited. He shuffled and I could see tears welling up in his eyes.

"Go and stand by the armchair. Face the arm."

He went. Anger and resentment may not have been driven out, but they had been crushed and contained.

"Remove your shoes and socks, and place them neatly behind the chair. Now slip off your braces and lower your trousers."

Both boys wore short trousers that showed a lot of thigh, and I had noticed earlier when we walked to the wood that, as the hem of John's trousers rode up his legs, the weal on each thigh, cut by Miss Strang's cane the previous day, was clearly visible. John had strong sturdy legs and I had thought the marks looked rather attractive.

Nothing expresses so vividly the authority at the heart of a governess's relationship with a small boy than the sight of him with his trousers and pants around his ankles, bent over the arm of a chair, or over a convenient block or bench, awaiting her attention.

With his trousers lowered, she inserted her thumbs into the sides of his underpants and pulled them down. She rucked up his shirt and vest, and bent him forward over the arm.

I watched as she stepped over to the table and picked up the birch. She bent her wrist back and brought it forward with a vigorous flick as though shaking off water. The whole birch bent but the splaying tracery of lithe twigs at its end moved with a truly horrifying elasticity. Unlike the deep whoosh of a cane, it made a swishing noise as the air whistled through its more open structure.

Miss Strang stepped over to John and stood by him. She drew the end of the birch tantalisingly across his bottom, letting the twigs scratch its surface, arousing a wholesome fear of the discipline to come.

"John, you are a rude little boy. You show no respect for authority. You are disobedient, and you compound that by insolence. Your work is shoddy, and you make no real effort. I am deeply displeased with you. Can you think of one good reason why you should not be soundly birched?"

"Please don't . . Miss Strang."

"Your disinclination to be flogged does not, I am afraid, count as a reason, John."

She looked at me.

"Livia, as this is the first time John has been birched, I think you had better assist me. Come and hold him by the arms as you did before. It is a concession he scarcely deserves, but I will allow it nevertheless."

I could hear the blood pounding in my ears. In my breast there seemed to be a small animal fighting to get out. Although I felt sorry for John, I had no wish to intercede for him. Far stronger that any sympathy was the desire to see him well flogged. I got up from my desk and crossed to the armchair.

"Grasp him firmly, Livia. John is about to suffer what many small boys down the ages have suffered, but which up to now he has been spared."

She drew the birch across his bottom, tormenting him further with the sharp, scratchy twigs. He shivered.

"And please remember, John, that Livia's holding you is not a licence for you to fight and struggle. And if you indulge yourself in that way, there will be a price to pay."

I reached out and held John firmly just above each elbow.

(To be continued)