Miss Strang Chapter 1
By Governess
liviaarbuthnot1@gmail.com

Copyright 2008 by Governess, all rights reserved

* * * * *
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.
* * * * *

Chapter 1

I remember Miss Strang's arrival, as though it were yesterday. We were in the schoolroom. I was reading; Simon was building a castle with bricks; and John was sticking something into an album. Two days before we had been taken to our mother's funeral. She had been ill for sometime and although my younger brothers had no idea how serious it was, my father had warned me that she might not survive the autumn. I suppose he confided in me as the eldest and because I was a girl. Just as he confided to me immediately after the funeral that he was appointing a governess to take responsibility for our welfare and upbringing.

Two weeks had passed, when I heard the creaking on the stairs. They had always creaked for as long as I could remember. The door opened and there was my father.

"This is Miss Strang, children," he said. I don't know what my brothers thought, but what went through my head was how beautiful she was. Slim, tall (although probably only tall to a child's eyes) with brown hair swept back and fastened in a tight bun. She wore a white blouse with a long dark skirt from which the shoes that peeped out appeared to be tightly laced. As a twelve year old, I had no thought of her age. She was simply older than me but younger than my mother.

My father continued, "Miss Strang is to be your governess. I have had a long talk with her and we have agreed that she will be fully responsible not only for tutoring you, but for every aspect of your upbringing, including your discipline."

We listened in silence.

"I have explained that over the past twelve months, for obvious reasons, all of you, but particularly John and Simon, have become rather wayward and disobedient, and that is something she will be addressing."

Miss Strang smiled and inclined her head in agreement.

When she spoke her voice was firm and vibrant but with a sweetness about it that made it immensely attractive.

"Well, children, I am pleased to see you all occupied and industrious. I have a particular aversion to laziness, and regard lack of effort and lack of application as serious sins and always deserving of punishment."

She turned to my younger brother.

"And what is your name?"

"Simon."

"Now let us begin as we mean to go on, Simon. All of you will address me as Miss Strang; and when answering a question it is only polite to add 'Miss Strang' at the end. So Simon, how old are you?"

"Seven . . . Miss Strang."

"Good! That is much better. Please do not forget how to address me in future. Good manners are important and will make life more pleasant for all of us."

"And you must be John," she said. "And how old are you, John?"

"Nine, Miss Strang."

She turned to me.

"And that leaves Livia. Your father has told me you are nearly thirteen and very responsible for your age. I trust that is correct?"

"I hope so, Miss Strang."

"Well, I hope so, too, Livia."

She looked around the room, inspecting it with sharp interest.

"Well, you may all continue with what you are doing while I have further discussions with your father. At four o'clock we will have our first lesson which will be an arithmetic lesson. I suggest you get out your books in readiness."

She left and we all looked at each other.

"I think she's nice," said John. Simon without looking up from his bricks agreed. I was not so sure.

Half-an-hour later Miss Strang returned. She entered with a firm stride and crossed to her desk, a high clerk's desk behind which was a tall stool. She sat on it. In her right hand she held an old-fashioned wooden hairbrush and a long rattan cane. These she placed on the top of the desk.

"Sit at your desks and get out your arithmetic books. Quickly now. As you will discover, I do not tolerate dawdling. And when I ask for something to be done, I expect it to be done immediately and without question. If I need to ask a child twice to obey, then that I regard as disobedience, and it will be dealt with as such."

By this time we were seated and had our books in front of us. She then asked each of us in turn a series of mental arithmetic questions, making notes of our performance in a black notebook. She asked me whether I could do algebra and I answered in the affirmative. When she had finished she instructed us to turn to a page that she considered appropriate and set us each twenty problems. Simon has some adding and subtraction to do, while John had long division, and I some simultaneous equations.

"This is a timed exercise." she said. I am confident that each of you should be able to complete this assignment in no more than a hour. Take care and check as you are going along and then again at the end. For each wrong answer you will receive one stroke of the cane and for each problem that has not been sensibly attempted, two strokes of the cane. You may begin."

Fortunately, I found the algebra easy and had time to correct an error that would have earned me my first acquaintance with the cane. However, I knew that both Simon and John found arithmetic difficult and I watched them as they struggled to complete the assignment. At the end of what must have been an hour, Miss Strang rang a little hand bell, the sort used at table to call the servants, and told us to stop writing immediately. John in his anxiety continued to write for some moments after the bell.

"John, why did you not stop writing when instructed?"

"Please, Miss Strang, I wanted to finish it. I had three more to do."

"I am sure you wanted to finish, John, in view of the penalty for not doing so. But I am afraid that your disobedience is something that must first be dealt with. Come out to the front."

John slowly got up and went forward. I felt my chest tighten and the saliva seemed to thicken in my throat.

"Fetch the chair and place it there."

John did so. The chair was a hard-backed armless chair of the sort that might be found around a kitchen table. John's face was flushed and his eyes were dark. He looked scared and trapped.

"And now take off your shoes and socks, place them under your desk and then remove all your clothes except for your under vest. You will fold your clothes neatly and lay them on top of your desk."

John slowly and with a manifest reluctance complied. When he was naked but for his short cotton vest, Miss Strang said evenly and without a hint of rancour,

"Are you purposely trying to anger me, John? When I tell you do something, I expect it to be done quickly and willingly and with a compliant spirit. Do you understand?"

John hung his head and said nothing.

"And when spoken to, I expect a reply."

"Yes, Miss."

"Yes, Miss what, John?"

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"Good. Now come here."

She placed her hand on his head and ruffled his hair. I could see a glimmer of hope in his eyes that perhaps he was to be forgiven without punishment. Miss Strang paused letting the hope grow. Then with her hand still on his head, she said in a even voice,

"John, you are a rude, disobedient little boy who needs to be spanked."

There was a further pause as she let him grasp that the tender growth of hope that had taken root had withered and died.

"So please repeat after me: 'I am a rude disobedient little boy . . .'"

John swallowed and slowly repeated, "I am a rude disobedient little boy . . ."

". . . who needs to be spanked."

There was a longer pause. I could see John struggling with the words, resisting such an abject acceptance of his fate.

At last in a small raspy voice he added " . . . who needs to be spanked."

She reached across to her desk and picked up the hairbrush. It was oval with dark, almost black, bristles and a hard wooden back. She sat on the chair and beckoned John towards her. He stood by her, and with her left arm she bent him over her lap. The same arm held him firmly in position, wrapped tightly around his waist. She waited, allowing him time to appreciate his helplessness, and for fear to grow as he anticipated what was to come.

I watched as he clenched his buttocks. Miss Strang frowned.

"John, you are clenching your buttocks. I do not allow small boys who are being spanked to clench their buttocks."

If he had any doubt about what "buttocks" and "clenching" meant, she assisted his understanding by giving his bottom a sharp smack with the hairbrush.

"Let your bottom go, John. I want a nice, soft, accepting bottom. Not a hard, tight bottom that resists the discipline that I am providing. I am not spanking you for my own pleasure, John, but for your own good, to teach you that rudeness and disobedience are not acceptable in small boys, indeed in children of any age."

She gave him another sharp smack and waited. Slowly John relaxed his bottom and his small buttocks became soft and fleshy.

Still she waited. I could hear John's breathing becoming more rapid and more shallow. And then a shiver ran through me as the brush was raised. It was lifted slowly, back over her shoulder, and then brought sweeping down, so that it impacted with a sharp crack across his firm resilient bottom flesh. For a brief moment nothing happened. Then, John was writhing, and screaming with a long piercing scream like an animal suddenly caught in the sharp serrated metal teeth of a trap. She held him tightly, her arm close around his waist as his body arched and his legs kicked. The faintest of smiles played around her lips.

I could see the reddening oval mark of the brush on his right buttock.

Then the chosen implement of discipline was again raised and brought down with a strangely satisfying smack to the other buttock. The sight of my brother's nine year old bottom, bare and pale, now carrying the livid, darkening marks of Miss Strang's discipline made my heart race. I wanted her to stop for John's sake; but for my own sake, I knew that I wanted her to continue.

(To be continued)