Miss Strang Chapter 16
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 16

The birch was raised and another stroke was swished across John's bottom. It clearly made more of an impression. He pulled at me, and struggled, and gave not so much a gasp as a wailing cry. Then, after three more strokes, he was howling and trying to wrench himself free. Miss Strang stepped back for a moment.

"You see Livia, at first the twigs of the birch just irritate the surface of a boy's bottom. They redden it. They tickle it into a wonderful sensitivity. Then, as the surface becomes hot and inflamed, each succeeding stroke increases the agony. When that point is reached, his discipline truly begins."

John looked up at me imploringly. He naively thought that his big sister could somehow intercede for him, somehow persuade his governess to cease the torment. He did not know that I had no desire to plead his cause, no wish to deny myself the pleasure of seeing him well flogged. And I can remember feeling guilty about that.

Miss Strang, who was older and wiser, certainly felt no guilt about flogging a disobedient boy. For her it was simply necessary. It was for his own good, and for the good all around him. That she experienced a deep and pleasurable satisfaction as he writhed and roared under the rod was not evidence of a cruel and perverted disposition. Rather, for her, such feelings were accepted as normal and indeed a blessing. I remember her words to me, spoken a number of years later.

"Livia, if a boy needs a flogging, then providing that must be a good thing, while withholding it has to be neglectful and wicked. Of course a flogging is painful. If it were not, there would be little point to it, and the boy would learn nothing. To feel guilty about inflicting such pain is foolish sentimentality. Do not forget, Livia, it is sometimes necessary to be cruel to be kind"

I remembered, too, her words before she spanked me for seeking to spare John a punishment that he deserved. Some things had the appearance of kindness when in fact they were unkind and unhelpful. And here was the opposite. Something that had the appearance of cruelty but was in fact a kindness. A suffering that was redemptive and creative.

With John's buttocks well scarified by the initial strokes of the birch, Miss Strang now settled into the task of breaking him to her will. When the dragons' teeth were sown by Jason in Greek myth, there sprang forth armed and ferocious warriors. And from the seeds of Miss Strang's discipline, drilled relentlessly into John's flesh, there would spring equally ferocious, smarting weals.

But first, Miss Strang stepped forward and gently put her arm around him and eased him forward a little over the arm. I renewed my hold on him, and his hands fluttered like little birds as he nervously rocked backwards and forwards, gently pulling against my grip. Then, he burst into desperate pleading.

"Please . . . no, Miss Strang. Please don't . . . "

But she ignored him, again drawing the birch slowly across his bottom, tantalising him, letting him know that he was completely under her governance. He moaned as the harsh twigs scratched across his soft firm flesh, now inflamed and sensitive.

She raised the birch and drove her arm downward so that the birch accelerated with a whining ferocity. The lithe twigs cut mercilessly into his flesh, but this time she continued the fierce downward sweep of her arm, so that the birch was dragged across the skin of his bottom, scoring and tearing as it went. John roared and writhed, kicking his legs and drumming them against the arm. My face was hot and the saliva thick in my throat.

Miss Strang administered another stoke, and then another, until the schoolroom was filled with one long, shrill, screaming exhalation of agony. He twisted and wrenched, as he tried to escape from the torture.

With slow, measured determination, Miss Strang placed a further six vigorous cuts across his quivering, nine year old buttocks. They were now a deep uncomfortable red. In one or two places there were specks of yet deeper red where the sharp twigs had cut and pricked into the soft flesh, yet without, as yet, breaking it. Miss Strang gave a small smile of satisfaction at her handiwork, and stepped back. She returned the birch to the pail.

"Release him, Livia. John you may get up. Please remove your trousers and pants and place them neatly over the back of the chair. Now, come and stand here."

When he was positioned before her, hands behind his back, bare from the waist down, she looked at him and smiled.

"And did that hurt John?"

He was still sobbing, his face red and contorted.

"Well?"

His voice when it came was thin and strained.

"Yes . . . Miss Strang."

"Well it was meant to, John. And if I gave you a choice between the cane and the birch, which would you choose?"

"I . . . I'd choose the cane . . . Miss Strang."

"Yes, I am sure you would. And do you think you will be a polite, obedient, and industrious boy from now on?"

"I . . . I hope so . . . Miss Strang."

"I am afraid that hope is not good enough, John. What is needed is determination and an act of will."

She stared at him, her brow a little furrowed.

"But I am not sure that you are yet ready to make that commitment, to show such determination. Are you?"

"Please, Miss Strang . . . Please!"

"No, John. Begging to be spared punishment is not what I am looking for. A boy must have the fortitude to accept whatever is necessary to bring about an improvement in his behaviour. Not seek to escape it."

She turned to me.

"And what do you think, Livia? Has John been brought to that place where he is clearly going to make a real effort to be obedient, diligent, and polite?"

John looked at me, a desperate pleading in his eyes. Miss Strang saw it, too.

"I see John that you expect your sister to take your part. Is that right?"

He looked down and said nothing.

"John, have you not been told that it is rude not to reply when spoken to?"

His hand reached around to comfort his bottom and he whispered in a small raspy voice.

"Yes . . . Miss Strang."

"I am afraid that a boy who cringes behind the skirts of his sister, who rudely does not answer when spoken to, who clearly has no real intention of overcoming his sins, is in need of further flogging. Livia, am I wrong, or does John need to go back over the arm of the chair?"

I avoided John's eyes.

"Yes, Miss Strang, I think he does."

"You see, John, your sister agrees with me. But first I think you can spend half an hour in disgrace, face to the wall, displaying your bottom to Livia and Simon."

She led him to the wall and pressed his brow against it.

"And while you are in disgrace, Livia and Simon had better revise their spellings ready for the test we shall be having a little later."

The sight of the birch cutting through the air, its swishing whine as it descended, followed by a sound like water plashing on the ground after being shot out of a bucket, all had deeply affected me. But seeing John upright and face to the wall, with the marks of the birch fresh upon his bottom, I felt as though a number of small snakes were wriggling down into my stomach.

"Get on with your revision, Livia."

I put my head down. But from time to time I glanced up and my eyes lingered on John's small exposed rump. It had been lashed by the birch to a consistent crimson red. And yet the tough leathery twigs had also cut into the surface, leaving what looked like the footprints of some small scratching animal on his soft bottom flesh. And there were even darker red marks where the whippy tracery had bent round and bitten into the hollow of his right buttock.

I knew that Miss Strang's eyes were on me, and I made every effort to appear occupied with my task. But I found John's bottom irresistible. I looked at it greedily as a hungry man looks at a rump steak that is set before him, rare and delicious.

"Livia, I told you to concentrate on your work. I don't want to have to speak to you again."

From then on I was careful not to let my eyes linger too long on my brother's bottom. But as I went over my spellings, I became increasingly anxious about the further flogging John was to receive. Already his bottom looked as though it had absorbed all the punishment it could bear. But the anxiety was less a concern for his welfare, far more a restless anxious curiosity, a dreadful sensual itching to see the birching resumed.

(To be continued)