Miss Strang Chapter 20
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 20

John was to the right of us and Miss Strang stood behind him facing us. She tapped the cane against his bottom. This was still a deep red and looked very tender. Just the thought of his having to suffer twelve strokes of the cane on already inflamed flesh sent a little shiver running through me. I glanced at Simon and thought he looked rather pale. Perhaps he was imagining himself in John's position.

The first whup of the cane was startling after the softer more delicate sound of the birch. In many ways there was something feminine about the birch. It was light and delicate and the tracery of twigs burst from the bound stock like some strange flowering growth. It had an elegant and seemingly fragile life that belied its punishing power.

I thought how like Miss Strang that was. She was slim and beautiful. Her hands were delicate with long fingers. There was nothing rough or brutal about her. And yet beneath her beauty was a toughness and a spiritual resolve that did not shrink from the harsh pruning of young, wild, vigorous growth.

But the cane was different. The deep whoosh as it descended and the whup as it bit into soft bottom flesh were more masculine. It was long and slender but far more like a rod than the birch. As a girl I had seen a stallion in the field. And had secretly watched when it had covered a mare. And I remembered the wild whinnying of the mare as the stallion mounted her and thrust its member deep into her. It was as long, even longer, than the cane.

Miss Strang ran the cane down John's back and then into the cleft of his bottom. I watched as she paused letting the tip rest on his anus. She sent a tremor down its length and I heard a sharp intake of breath as it penetrated the tight little opening.

In the year before Miss Strang's arrival, I had found a large folio sized book in the library with some horrifying pictures in it. They were etchings of three small boys being impaled for some crime. I could not entirely understand what they had done. The first had his wrists manacled low down to a wall. His body had been raised up by two women so that his buttocks were prominently exposed. A long, narrow, cane-like rod was about to be thrust deep into his anal cavity.

Another boy, about Simon's age, was being held by two women above a sharpened stake. The artist had caught the look of terror in the boy's eyes as he was slowly forced on to its point. The third had already been impaled and was writhing in agony, his body contorted and twisted. And shockingly his little member was erect and stiff.

As the cane lingered over John's small anal opening, I imagined the rod in Miss Strang's becoming the stallion's eager member, searching out the mare's vagina, but instead thrusting deep into my brother's bottom. I reddened at my thought and saw that Miss Strang had noticed. I guiltily wondered whether she could see into my mind.

Then, the cane was lifted up, swept back, and brought down with a satisfying whup across John's bottom. He shuddered and gave a piercing scream.

"Livia, will you please count the strokes as they are given."

Another stroke cut into his flesh, and I wondered how it must feel to be caned on a bottom already birched so raw. John screamed like an animal being skinned alive. After each stroke, he would press up on his toes and sink his back, pushing out his bottom. He was unable to straighten up and escape from the rod unless he moved forward crossing the chalk line. His screaming was now one long continuous piercing shriek.

On a walk last summer I had watched John as he had taken a stick and had beaten an adder that had crossed our path. He had thrashed it vigorously and it had wriggled away into the bracken. And now his governess was subduing the viper of sin that had crawled into his will. She was torturing his flesh in order to drive it from his path. The spelling mistakes for which he was being punished were but the surface manifestation of a deeper ailment. A mole on the skin is but the outward sign of the cancer within. It can only be healed by the tumour's being cut out.

After six strokes, Miss Strang stepped back.

"Livia, do you find the noise John is making painful to the ears and unpleasant?"

It was difficult not to agree. But looking at the damage six strokes of such fresh, vigorous caning had inflicted on John's bottom, it was not surprising that he was screaming. The surface of his bottom abraded by the birch, raw and in places pricked by the sharp twigs, had now suffered a sustained welting.

"John, I am gong to insist, as an additional discipline, that you receive the last six strokes without screaming. In fact, I do not wish to hear a sound from you."

She fetched a pencil from her desk and reaching round told him to hold it between his lips.

"No, John I do not want you to bite on it. Put your teeth together. Now when I push the pencil against your lips, open them a little, and then shut your lips around it and hold it. That is right. Good."

She stepped back.

"This is to help you obey. If you open your mouth and the pencil drops on the floor you will receive a further two strokes of the cane. And, John, that is every time it drops. So I suggest you make a real effort to obey."

I was experiencing a horrified, yet nervous fascination at the way in which John's bottom was being required to absorb such unremitting punishment. That further strokes were to be inflicted on his wealed and smarting flesh seemed an act of almost superfluous cruelty. But for Miss Strang, it was neither cruel nor superfluous. For her, a boy's round, fleshy, protuberant, little bottom had been provided by the Almighty to enable such painful and repeated discipline to be safely inflicted. To spare a boy chastisement whose behaviour or attitude needed to be corrected was for her the true act of cruelty. And she had no compunction in applying the rod with an energy and vigour that left a boy in no doubt that she took the contest between his will and hers with the outmost seriousness.

She stepped back a little further, swishing the cane back over her shoulder and then stepped forward at the same time sweeping the cane down. It impacted on his soft pouting buttocks with a delicious whup. A shiver ran down me from my throat to the place between my legs which I stroked at night. There was a piercing scream from John and the pencil dropped, clattering and bouncing on the floor and then rolling towards me.

"Two extra strokes, John," Miss Strang said briskly. "And the last stroke will be given again. You are a foolish and ill-controlled child."

She motioned across to me.

"Pick up the pencil, Livia. And replace it between John's lips. Make sure he is not biting on it."

She bent forward and spoke to John in a quiet gentle voice.

"John, this is an important part of your training. Self-control is of the utmost importance in life. The earlier a boy starts to master himself the better. I am going to remind you each time before I give the stroke to keep your lips together. I want you to nod and then concentrate with all your might to do just that. Do you understand me? Nod, please, if you do."

John nodded, his brown hair flopping forward as he did so.

Miss Strang stepped back again, raising the cane.

"Keep your lips together, John."

There was a slight nod of the small brown head, before the cane whooshed down. This time he kept a tight grip on the pencil but gave a strange vibrating moan.

Each time she reminded him to keep hold of the pencil before lashing the cane into his soft, compact bottom flesh. After a further two or three strokes, she seemed to mitigate the severity a little. The birch had licked away at his bottom like the rough tongue of a cat. The skin had been worn thin, pricked and punctured but not yet truly broken. However, the cane now raised weals that broke the skin and as the caning progressed little seams of blood appeared, where weals raised by the caning split as they were overlaid.

After twelve strokes, Miss Strang paused and reaching round removed the pencil from between John's lips. It was the first time I had seen a boy whipped until he was bloody.

"Stand up, John."

He eased his feet forward and with a groan straightened up. He shook his wrists. They must have been stiff having supported his body for so long against the wall.

"You did extremely well, John. I am proud of you."

He bit his lip and his eyes filled with tears. His face was hot and tear-stained and his hair damp and dishevelled. She looked at him and smiled.

"I have decided to relent, John. I think your bottom has been flogged and caned enough for one day."

He looked at her, his mouth slightly open.

"Thank... . thank you, Miss Strang."

"When you were being caned with the pencil held in your lips, did you want to howl and scream because it was so painful? An honest reply, please, John. Did you?"

"Yes... . Miss Strang."

"I an sure you did. Any small boy would."

She paused allowing him to appreciate the respite she was granting to his tortured bottom flesh.

"So as a concession, I am going to give the last three strokes without the pencil and you will be allowed to scream as loud as you wish. And the strokes will be given not to your bottom but to the backs of your thighs."

John hid his face in his hands, sobbing. He had thought that his punishment was over. That the extra strokes had been remitted. But it was not so.

"Stand against the wall, John, and put your hands flat against it. As close to the wall as you can. That is right. Now stretch back your left leg as far as you can. No. Do not move the right leg, just bend it a little. That is right. Good."

John stood with his left leg extended backward. As the muscles of the leg tightened so the thigh became flat and smooth. Miss Strang swished the cane through the air.

"Now remember, John, I expect you to howl and scream. And I am sure that I will not be disappointed."

She stepped back, whipped the cane up, back beyond her shoulder, and then with a shake of her wrist brought it whooshing down across the back of the thigh. John gave a piercing scream. He shook his leg violently, kicking his foot against the floor, and then sunk down in an untidy and ragged genuflection. A startlingly red mark had appeared on his thigh just above the knee.

"Get back in position, John. I did not say you could move, only that you could vent your nine year old lungs. Quickly now."

The next stroke was lashed about three inches above the previous one. This time the scream came out in a strange continuous ululation of sheer agony. I wondered whether the boys being impaled that I had seen in the book had made a similar noise. The final stroke seemed as though it was intended to sever his leg so forcefully was it administered. Again, John did not disappoint Miss Strang in his response. It was a vociferous, howling, scream that I found unnerving and almost unearthly as though a demon was being driven from his body.

I suddenly realised that I had been holding my breath for a long time.

(To be continued)