Miss Strang Chapter 18
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 18

Miss Strang brought the birch down with a vigorous snaking twist of her wrist. There seemed no great effort in it. Rather than powerful and vicious, it seemed almost elegant. Just as a surgeon with his scalpel can slice through soft tissue with immense grace, so Miss Strang with an equal delicacy, sliced through the soft epidermal layer of John's firm little nine year old bottom. I watched transfixed.

A patient under the surgeon's scalpel feels nothing in his etherised world. But the deep moral stains of boyhood cannot be so painlessly removed. The birch has to cut and incise the flesh of a fully conscious boy, if the tumour of sin is to be removed.

And although Miss Strang had a deep sympathy for us, she never allowed that to stand in the way of the firm discipline that was necessary. Even at that early age, I recognised that Miss Strang took an especial pleasure in this aspect of our rearing and education. It was not a delight in the infliction of pain for its own sake. She hated thoughtless cruelty and spanked both boys on several occasions for indulging in it. But for her, the cruelty of the birch and cane was translated into a fiery cleansing.

Miss Strang was of an Anglo-Catholic persuasion and for her the sacramental life was of supreme importance. Here God filled material and human things with his healing power. Bread and wine retained the appearance of bread and wine yet became a means of grace; the waters of baptism continued to be water and yet were more than water. They became the gateway to eternal life. And here the corporal chastisement suffered by a child retained all its cruel agony while becoming a means of redemption, an opportunity for the child to be changed and lifted into a new and reformed life.

I watched as the birch was remorselessly swished across John's buttocks. The injunction to remain over the arm and offer himself to the rod had been heeded. Whether he feared the additional strokes or was now determined to show Miss Strang that his will was stronger than hers, I was not sure.

Miss Strang paused. Her voice became intimate and confiding.

"You see, John, the birch with its tough, lithe twigs abrades every inch of a boy's bottom."

She swished the birch upwards and then with her wrist made it spring forward. It bit into his bottom flesh. He roared and twisted in agony. She waited.

"And do you know what `abrades' means, John?"

I detected a suppressed sob. His voice when it came was thin and strained.

"No . . . Miss Strang."

"Well, when I say that the birch will abrade every inch of a boy's bottom, I mean that it will slowly wear it away until raw. The birch abrades a boy's skin because the sharp tough twigs do just that. They scratch and they cut. They score and they irritate. And as the strokes mount up, the skin of the bottom becomes thin and worn. And then it breaks, and little seams of blood appear. And then the boy is screaming and howling as though fierce red ants were eating him alive. He squirms and writhes frantic to escape from the devouring horde."

I watched in horrified amazement as the flogging continued. John's fingers would stretch out and then clench into a small fist. His toes wriggled and his feet twisted. And at each stroke of the birch, he would straighten and heave his body upward, trying to move his bottom away from the torment, if only by a few inches.

Miss Strang had said that the rod was good for a further ten or twelve cuts. In fact, she gave the full twelve, before pausing.

"Well, John, you have seen the best of this birch. Do I need to continue with the fresh birch steeping in the pail?"

John was full of choking sobs and could barely speak.

"Well? What do you say?"

"P . . . pl . . . please, Miss Strang . . . please, no more. Please."

"So do I take it that you have learnt your lesson?"

He gave a long groaning exhalation.

"Yes, yes . . . Please, Miss Strang."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes . . . yes. Please. No more. Please"

He started to sob again.

"And what is the lesson you have learnt, John? Stop grizzling this instant and answer me."

I found myself holding my breath. I was willing him to answer correctly. To remember why this tide of discipline had washed over him. But, then again, part of me wanted the flogging to continue. To see Miss Strang take up the fresh birch.

"Well, John?"

I watched as he struggled like a boy coming to shore out of a churning sea, his body whipped by waves and wind, stumbling over the shingle to dry land.

"I . . . I have learnt that I must not be rude . . . "

"And?"

"And . . . and to work harder."

"Good. And?"

"And to try not to be so . . . so slov . . . "

"The word is slovenly, John. But good. You remembered. And perhaps one more thing?"

He bit his lip and paused, waiting for inspiration.

Miss Strang smiled.

"You have done very well. What you are searching for is the word that describes what a small boy needs to be when told to do something by his governess. It begins ob . . . "

The relief could be seen on John's face as he grasped at the word.

"Obedient, Miss Strang."

"Yes, John. Obedient. And is that what you are going to be from now on?

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"Well, I am pleased with you, John. Very pleased. It just shows that for you, the seat of learning is not simply located in your head; and that the birch vigorously applied to your bottom is a vital aid to understanding. But remember, John, just rehearsing a list of what you should and should not do is not enough. You have to choose to do it. When asked to do something, obedience must follow as naturally and as inevitably as a red and smarting bottom follows a sound spanking. And the flogging you have just received is to help you achieve that instant spirit of obedience."

She paused and looked at him, her eyes open and her brow furrowed.

"And I hope for your sake that that is achieved, John."

She replaced the birch in the pail.

"And now John before you sit down to your lessons, there is something you must do. On the shelf over there is a bowl. Fetch it please."

He did so.

"Look down, John, Do you see small bits of birch that have broken off and are scattered all over the floor?"

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"Good. Well, I want you to get down on your hands and knees and pick them up, bit by bit, collecting them in the bowl. They can then be thrown away."

"But can't they be swept up, Miss Strang?"

I felt my throat constrict. She stepped beside him, and put her arm on his shoulder.

"John, a moment ago you told me you had learnt the meaning of obedience. Yet when I tell you to get down on your hands and knees, you argue with me. You tell me you know a better way of doing what I have told you to do. Is that obedience?"

"Please, I didn't mean it, Miss Strang. I didn't think. I am sorry. Really, I am, Miss Strang."

The desperation in his voice was unmistakable. The fear palpable.

She frowned and there was a long pause.

"John, do as I ask. Get down on your hands and knees. I want that bowl filled and not a speck of birch left on the floor."

He scrambled over the floor, picking up the bits as quickly as he could, pushing the bowl before him. His livid and wealed buttocks, alternately plumping and tautening as he moved. He was scrambling like some small desperately foraging animal fearful of some lurking predator.

The minutes ticked by and then Miss Strang strode across to her desk, and reaching within it took out a small suede leather bag with a drawstring, like a small purse. The drawstring threaded through it seemed unusually long.

"Stand up, John. No, pick up the bowl and hand it to Livia."

He did so. Despite the warmth of the day, he was shivering. She beckoned to him.

"Come here."

He approached, apprehensive and wary.

"Put your hands behind your head and do not remove them until I grant permission."

Slowly he raised his arms, and stood before her, naked and defenceless. She pulled the little bag wide open and slipped it over his scrotum. With a sharp tug she tightened the drawstring. It closed, capturing the soft pulp of boyhood within. She then wound the length of the string several times around the base of his scrotum, twisting it tightly and securing it. He grimaced as it cut into his flesh. Why was she doing this, I wondered.

John looked anxious. This overt statement of ownership over the most intimate and sensitive part of his nine year old anatomy was clearly distressing. He reddened. She stepped across and picked up the fresh birch, and shook it. Drops of water fell on the floor. John realising that further discipline was to be applied, gave a small whimper. She pointed with the rod.

She gave these orders firmly but calmly, with a voice full of authority. The tone was of one who is in no doubt that she will be obeyed. He was now prostrated before her like a small Mohammedan boy at prayer. Or given his nakedness and the marks of the birch on his small, round, upward jutting bottom, more like a slave boy before his mistress, acknowledging her mastery over him, her right to impose whatever further correction she judged appropriate.

From where I stood I could see the little suede bag between his legs shrouding his scrotum. A shiver went through me. I glanced at Simon. His face was pale and taut, his eyes unblinking.

Miss Strang stretched out a foot, her left foot. It was encased in a black, tightly laced shoe. She placed this on John's back below his neck and gently pressed down. He gave a gasp. She bent forward slightly and laid the birch in the cleft of his bottom, twisting it so that it scratched the tender inner walls that were so shamefully exposed.

"So, John, you thought that the bits scattered by your birching should be swept rather than gathered by hand. Is that right?"

His voice was muffled from beneath the hem of her skirt.

"No, Miss Strang, please . . . please. I didn't mean to be disobedient."

"But how can that be, John, when you questioned my word?"

She waited. There was silence, other than the sharp intake of his breath.

"Well, John, I see that you have no answer. Livia fetch a sponge from the washroom and bring it to me. Quickly now."

I ran down the corridor and fetched it, full of breathless curiosity, sure that this request boded no good for my brother.

"Place it in the pail, Livia, and soak it. Now wring it out a little. No. I do not want it loaded with water. Now hand it to me."

I did so. She took it, and bent forward, still with her foot on John's back, and gently squeezed it, moistening the inner walls of his buttocks, and running the sponge over his exposed anus.

"Now hand me the bowl, please. Livia."

She looked down at the small naked boy prostrated before her and smiled.

"You were eager to see the bits of birch swept off the floor, John. Is that right?"

John's feet fluttered and his toes wriggled in his anxiety. He gave a gasp as she shook the contents of the bowl over his bottom and down into the cleft. Some fell to the floor, but many adhered to his moistened flesh. She waited, savouring his anxiety.

"And now, John, I am going to flog away all those bits of birch that are clinging to your flesh. And as I do so, I hope that I am also sweeping away every last vestige of your disobedience. Do you understand?"

There was another sharp intake of breath.

"Ye . . . yes, Miss Strang."

She raised the birch and brought it sweeping down into the cleft of his bottom. There was a shrill piercing scream as the twigs cut into the soft tender flesh. I could see now why Miss Strang had shrouded his scrotum with its leather encasement. If she had not done so, the tip of the birch curling around would have bitten agonisingly into the tiny sac.

One or two bits of birch dislodged and fell to the floor. She raised the birch again, sweeping it down, this time into the inner wall of his left buttock. Again the birch was raised.

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

He gave a roaring cry of agony as the process of sweeping his bottom clean of birchen debris continued. A sharp twiggy nodule must have buried itself into his anus for with a piercing scream he started to rise, but was forced down by the pressure of Miss Strang's foot.

Another stroke was given and then another. She paused.

"Livia please come here and place your foot on John's back."

I felt a rush of blood to my head, a palpitating excitement at being able to dominate him in this way. And an immense gratitude to Miss Strang for allowing me to do so. I looked at John, sobbing on the floor, pounding his head in his agony. The long smarting weals on his buttocks had started to ooze again from the renewed assault of the birch. And I felt also a strange gratitude to him for the intense nervous pleasure he was affording me.

"Please . . . no."

I placed my foot on his back, and pushed down. I felt him give slightly under the pressure.

"Not too hard, Livia."

Miss Strang had now moved to stand behind the prostrate boy, his buttocks jutting upward toward her and his bottom crack open for her attention. She reached out a foot and forced his knees yet further apart, so that the darker flesh around the anus was taut and exposed, and the little hole itself humiliatingly visible. She proceeded to swish the whippy spray into the cleft, scoring the sensitive inner slopes and whipping his little anus. Like a desert storm, funnelling down a gully, so the birch swept between John's buttocks, tearing and eroding as it went. Never had I experienced such acute sensual pleasure. I wanted desperately to run my fingers over my own little anus, stroking it, and then around to the delicious slit between my legs, fingering, rubbing . . . but for that I would have to wait until bedtime.

I was suddenly aware of Miss Strang's handing me the birch.

"Replace this in the bucket, Livia. I hope that it will not be needed again today. Later we must bind up a fresh birch. With boys of this age, a governess needs always to keep a rod in readiness."

She turned to John, still prostrate and sobbing.

"Get to your feet."

He struggled up, biting his lip.

"Well, I hope you appreciate how merciful I have been. A truly strict governess would have hauled you over the arm of the chair and completely worn out that fresh springy birch on your already well flogged bottom."

She smiled and drew him towards her, holding him close and kissing his head. He started sobbing again.

"Now hush, John. Here let me remove the little leather pouch."

She unfastened it and returned it to her desk.

"Now, back on your hands and knees and complete the task you have been set."

(To be continued)