Miss Strang Chapter 21
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 21

Miss Strang waited for the screaming to abate.

"Now stop sobbing and stand against the wall as a boy is expected to stand when in disgrace after punishment. Hands on the head, please. That is better."

She turned to Simon, who was sitting pale and anxious behind his desk.

"Come here, Simon. How many spelling mistakes was it?"

In a small trembling voice, Simon replied.

"It was four Miss Strang."

"Yes, Simon. Four strokes. So stand in front of the arm of the chair, please."

She waited as he walked across and stood there, looking lost and lonely.

"Off with your shoes and lower your trousers and pants. Now hoist yourself forward over the arm."

He did so wriggling forward until his bottom was perched upward, inviting the cane. Although like an invitation to an unwelcome guest, he would happily have seen it declined.

Miss Strang picked up the cane, and swished it twice through the air. He had seen how effective an instrument of correction it had been across John's bottom. Now the whoosh and hum in such close proximity to his own bottom was like an insect eager to implant its sting in his flesh. He seemed to shrink a little into the soft padded arm.

Miss Strang tapped the cane against his bottom.

I had a special affection for Simon. I suppose because he was my younger brother. He was not a rival, as John was. Also he looked up to me as an older sister in a way that John never did. He seemed so small and vulnerable over the arm of the chair. His bottom was tight and compact, yet with an enticing roundness. The redness of the spanking he had received at suppertime yesterday had faded, leaving the oval outlines of the hairbrush plainly visible. And the marks of the cane from the day before could still be seen.

I could scarcely believe that Miss Strang would cane this small, seven year old bottom with the same zeal as she had shown in correcting John. And yet, I could see how enticing his bottom looked. Two conflicting currents were meeting within me, an unsettling confluence. I wanted to protect him, to see him spared such a caning; and yet I also wanted to see those four strokes whipped across his bottom. And whipped with the same verve and vigour as those that had cut into John.

Miss Strang swished the cane again. Simon lay across the arm squirming in anticipation.

"Simon, you can wriggle and you can scream. But on no account are you to wriggle off the arm and on no account are you to put your hands back. So please stretch your hands forward and keep them there.

She raised the cane, swished it back, and then with a sharp movement of her wrist whipped it back and down. It leapt with frightening speed and with a satisfying whup cut into the soft flesh of his bottom. Immediately a red welt appeared. She paused and waited, allowing him time to smart. He writhed in agony and howled in a small shrill voice.

Whup. The second stroke was perhaps not quite so fierce but although a wasp sting may be less agonising than a hornet's, it is still stabbingly painful. Simon bucked and kicked, howling in s high-pitched wailing moan.

Whup. Another welt was raised below the previous two. There was a longer pause. Then, the final stroke was given imprinting a fourth welt just above the meeting place of buttocks and thighs.

She let him writhe and kick, a small bundle of half naked sobbing boy. After a minute he quietened and lay still, the soft vellum of his bottom inscribed with Miss Strang's displeasure. It was written in that universal language that the youngest child can understand and that all who see it can read without difficulty.

"Pull up your trousers and pants, Simon. On with the shoes and back to your desk."

She looked across to John. Then walked over and stood by his side. She lifted his shirt tail and ran her hand lightly over his bottom, gently fingering the abrasions and the little seams that had opened up. He flinched and gave a little cry of protest.

"This is nothing unusual, John. A boy must expect a sore bottom after a sound birching. And a caning on top is bound to cause some distress. But there is no need to fuss. It is not life threatening."

She turned to me.

"Livia will you run down to Mrs Mountfield and ask her to fill a basin with rough cooking salt and bring it to me. Tell her I also need a tea towel and a larger bath towel. And while you are there ask her to send up Mary to sweep the schoolroom floor. If you cannot carry everything yourself, then I am sure Mary will help. Quickly now."

When I got to the kitchen, Mary was sitting at the table sewing. I conveyed Miss Strang's messages to Mrs Mountfield.

"Well, I wonder what she be wanting salt for, Miss. Has one of the boys been birched?"

When I told her that John was standing in the corner with a very sore bottom, she smiled again, filled a basin with the salt and handed it to me. I saw that the salt was rough and in small crystalline lumps and flakes.

"Mary. Fetch a tea towel and a bath towel from the cupboard. And just remember that you have still got the sewing to finish. So just you hurry back."

Mary and I made our way to the schoolroom. I had always liked Mary who had joined the household when she was fourteen. Although my parents had not liked me talking to her, I had done so whenever opportunity arose. She immediately asked who had been birched and when I told her it was John she nodded and said that she was not surprised.

"I could see he was in serious trouble with Miss Strang this morning when you were feeding him like a baby."

John must have been dreading our return. Not only was he obviously worried about the import of the mission to the kitchen but even more by Mary's seeing him standing in abject shame facing the wall with only the tail of his shirt covering his bottom.

"Thank you, Livia. Place the bowl of salt on the table please. And the towels, too."

She turned to Mary and smiled, a welcoming smile that lit up her whole face.

"Now, Mary, I am sure Mrs Mountfield wants you back downstairs as soon as possible, but I wonder if you could do something for me?"

"Of course, Miss Strang."

"Then will you take the tea towel and soak it in water so it is wet but not dripping wet. And I mean wet not damp. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"Good. Then off you go."

Mary soon returned. In the meantime Miss Strang had taken the large towel and had folded it several times to form a padded square which she placed on the seat of John's bench. She took the wet tea towel from Mary and laid it over the towelling seat she had made.

"Livia, hand me the bowl of salt, please."

She poured athe rough cooking salt thickly on the damp tea towel. When she had done this she walked across to her desk and picked up several safety pins that she had placed there in readiness. She handed them to Mary.

"And one more thing, Mary, before you disappear. Would you please pin up John's shirt so his bottom is completely uncovered. Pin it well up his back."

Mary lifted the shirt tail first and pinned it high up his back. As she lifted it, I noticed how she let her hand brush across the wealed flesh, so that he clenched his bottom and a sharp intake of breath could be heard.

"May I tell him to turn round, Miss Strang?"

"Of course, Mary. And pin the sides of the shirt as high as the tail, please."

As John turned to face us, I could see his little scrotum tight between his legs. His member hanging over it was thicker than I had seen it before. A hot flush suffused his face and neck and reached to the tips of his ears. He was covered in a mantle of shame, that hid nothing and which was fringed with the delicate stirrings of a boy on the brink of an early puberty. I glanced at Miss Strang and thought she, too, had noticed the change in his little member.

"And now John, please come and sit at your desk. I am afraid that sitting on damp salt will be uncomfortable and sting. But there are several abrasions on your bottom and one or two places where blood has been drawn. As I said, this is nothing to worry about. Any small boy who is birched must expect to have such a bottom. But it is necessary to make sure that it is clean and does not become infected. And for that salt is the best remedy and protection."

John lowered himself on to his seat and gasped as the sharp salt crystals cut into his tender flesh and stung the scratches and abrasions that the birch had scored and the cane had opened up.

He looked pleadingly at her.

"Must I, Miss Strang?"

"John, this is a matter of simple obedience. And you know the consequences of disobedience. I suggest you sit."

He did so and wriggled, screwing up his eyes and biting his lip.

"The more you wriggle the better, John. It will grind the salt into the wounds and cleanse them. The smarting sting tells you that the salt is doing what it is meant to do."

Mary was flushed when she departed to the kitchen. I wondered what she would say to Mrs Mountfield.

The rest of the morning was spent doing arithmetic. Miss Strang was very patient and carefully went through several problems with each of us. She had promised to drill us on our tables before lunch and I could see that Simon was dreading this. But despite struggling, he had not incurred any penalty by the time we went into lunch. John was made to carry his seat of salt with him. I followed him in and noticed how the salt crystals had adhered rather engagingly to the cheek of each buttock.

At the end of lunch, we returned to the schoolroom. I heard Mrs Mountfield clearing the table and Miss Strang called to her.

"Many I have a moment, Mrs Mountfield."

"Of course you may, Miss Strang. What can I do for you?"

"For reasons that are obvious John has been sitting on a wet, well-salted tea towel, following a rather severe birching. I now want to wash it off and it would be best to do this with a strong saline solution. Would you be so kind as to heat a kettle, dissolve a generous amount of salt in a bowl, and send it up to me with a sponge. But first add a little cold water to cool it."

"Of course, Miss Strang. I'll ask Mary to bring it up just as soon as it's ready. It won't take a moment."

She looked across at John.

"A wonderful thing salt. Very cleansing. But how it smarts on a boy's well flogged flesh! Isn't that right, Master John?

John's lips tightened but he knew he had to reply.

"Yes, Mrs Mountfield. It does smart a little."

She smiled.

After five minutes, Mary brought up the basin. Miss Strang dipped her fingers in it.

"That is just the right temperature. Thank you, Mary."

She placed one of the upright chairs with its back to her desk. She beckoned to John.

"Come and stand here. Livia fold up the damp tea towel and deposit it in the dirty clothes basket. And Mary remove the large towel form John's chair and spread it on the floor in front of the chair. Good. Now John step onto the towel, bend forward and place you hands on the seat of the chair. That is right."

Miss Strang took the basin of brine and loaded the sponge with the salty water. She then wiped in briskly over John's bottom. He clenched and squealed as the stinging moisture soaked into the abrasions and the little open seams cut by the birch and further broken by the cane.

She continued to sponge his bottom until all the salt crystals adhering to it were cleaned away.

"That is much better. A nice clean little bottom, soaked in brine, and beautifully antiseptic. Mary run down the corridor and fetch a fresh towel, please."

When she returned Miss Strang asked her to dry John's bottom. And I felt a gnawing twinge of jealousy.

"Not too roughly, Mary. No need to rub it vigorously. Just dab it so the bottom is barely surface dry. I want the flesh to be still full of salty moisture under the two pairs of pants John will be wearing for the rest of the day."

I watched as Mary dried him and I could tell that she was enjoying herself.

"Shall I dry between his bottom, Miss Strang?"

"Of course, Mary. John, stand with your legs apart, please."

John wriggled. I am sure from acute embarrassment, but also from the first stirrings of arousal as the towel rubbed between his legs. I was overcome with pangs of jealousy. Why had I not been entrusted with the task.

(To be continued)