Miss Strang Chapter 34

Miss Strang Chapter 34
By Governess
liviaarbuthnot1@gmail.com

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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 34

I went to the schoolroom. John looked up as I entered.

"Why did you tell her, Livvy?"

"I didn't tell her. She must have guessed. Anyway, she said I was not to speak to you and you were not to speak to me. We're both to sit in silence. And I think we'd better do as she says."

We sat there. I do not know what John was thinking, but as I sat there I could feel the tears pricking at my eyes. I wanted more than anything to be restored to favour. At that moment I would have done anything to show that I unquestioningly accepted her rule over me. The minutes ticked by. John and I said nothing, not daring to speak. Then the door opened.

She walked purposefully over to her desk, opened it, and removed a tawse.

"This children is the new tawse I purchased in town yesterday. It is thicker and heavier than the one with which you are familiar. Hold out you hand John."

He did so, with a pale, wary look. She rested it on his palm.

"Hold it, John. Feel how thick and heavy the tails are."

He wrapped his small hand around it. And as he did so, she gave the tawse a gentle pull so that the smooth, hard leather chafed against his grasp.

"Do you recall my saying this afternoon, that at bedtime, your hands would be strapped?"

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"And why are they being strapped, John?"

"Because I mast . . . "

"The word is masturbated, John. Say it."

"Mas . . . masturbated."

"And again."

"Masturbated."

"So, why are your hands to be strapped?"

"Because I . . . masturbated."

"Livia told you this afternoon how dangerous masturbation is. And yet you said you did not care. Is that right?"

He hung his head.

"Look at me, John."

He looked and from the way Miss Strang narrowed her eyes, I thought that she could detect a still smouldering defiance.

"Answer me. Did you say that you did not care?"

The admission was reluctant.

"Yes."

"Yes, what, John"

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"And not only did you say you did not care but you spoke rudely. Is that right?"

"I suppose so, Miss Strang."

"You suppose so. And what does that mean?"

He made no reply.

"I shall tell you what it means, John. It means that you have neither the honesty nor the courage to admit that you were rude. You are deceitful and cowardly. And those are shortcomings that I am not prepared to tolerate in a boy. Indeed in any child. When present they need to be whipped out, and whipped out they will be."

She pointed to the armchair.

"Raise your nightshirt, and stand by the chair."

He walked stiffly, reluctant to offer his flesh for further torment. And yet the fear of the torment was overshadowed by the fear of resisting his governess's will. I recall Miss Strang saying to me that it is not sufficient for a boy merely to fear the rod. He must fear the hand that wields it. That is the beginning of wisdom. His governess must set clear rules that mark a boundary beyond which is forbidden territory, a trackless wilderness. The realm of Satan. And it is he who tempts a boy to disobey. For the rules seem irksome, a constraint upon his activity. And he disobeys, seeking the illicit freedom of that kingdom where there are no rules, no signs and no pathways, and where a boy is lost and lured ever deeper to his destruction.

And such a boy must learn that although he may choose to ignore the will of his governess, he cannot escape it. That whatever is necessary to bring him to heel will be done. And it is that that he fears. That unflinching determination to secure him once again within the confines of her will. That utter lack of sentiment that will never relent or grant premature remission. That will inflict whatever torment is necessary to break him and render him complaint.

A stubborn boy, she said, must sometimes be taken to the very edge of Hell, and be made to look therein. He must know that the agony of each cut on his flesh is but a cool hand on a fevered brow compared to the fires of that abyss; that his screams are but a whisper compared to the horrible cacophony of those souls suffering eternal torture; and that his helpless writhing is as nothing compared to the frenzied agony of those enduring such torment.

John lifted his nightshirt. Against the far wall was a long, low, padded stool, upholstered in a faded pink velvet. Miss Strang picked it up and brought it across to the chair. In height it was about a foot below the top of the arm against which she placed its end.

"Kneel on the stool, John, and lean forward over the arm."

He was now stretched out along the length of the stool with his thighs gently sloping downward. He knew what was coming and whimpered.

Miss Strang stretched out her hand and ran it lightly down his back and over his bottom. Her fingers lingered over the swollen rashes raised by the nettles. She scratched them gently with her nail, relishing his response, the sharp intake of breath, the nervous twitch of the buttocks.

"No . . please, Miss Strang."

"What do you mean by no, John?"

"Please not there. Not on my legs."

"But why not, John? Your bottom has surely suffered enough. Indeed, it is probably too numb for a truly effective punishment to be given."

"Please, Miss Strang. It hurts there."

"I am sure it does, John. A boy's thighs are particularly sensitive. But that makes them the obvious choice when a governess is seeking to inculcate a little respect into a rude, stubborn and disobedient boy."

She rested the tawse across both thighs. He clenched his buttocks and his feet tightened.

"No, John. You will not tighten and resist."

She waited until his bodily posture conformed to her will.

The tawse was lifted and she rested it over her right shoulder. And then with an upward flick, she brought the hard leather tails sweeping down. There was a gasping shriek as they landed on the soft rounded flesh of his thighs. The furthest right thigh took the brunt of the impact but as she drew the tawse away both were marked. The nearest had a single band of red inflammation, while two narrower separate bands of agony, slightly diverging from the parallel, had been imprinted on the skin of the further thigh.

Another stroke was given. John, screamed. A long, shrill roaring scream that seemed enough to strip away the lining of his throat. He thrashed his legs against the seat of the stool, his whole body taut.

After six strokes, she paused, stepping back, admiring the thick ridges the strap had raised. She watched the boy, writhing and twisting, sobbing in an agony of smart, the backs of his thighs red and inflamed. And as he threshed in agony, I noticed how the fleshiness of his thighs quivered like a jelly.

If John thought that his ordeal was over, he was mistaken. I watched as Miss Strang lifted his right leg and dropped it by the side of the stool, leaving his left leg stretched out.

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

His voice was hoarse and his pleading barely comprehensible through his desperate, choking sobs. And as the tawse swung heavily through the air and impacted with a dull crack on the already wealed thigh, I realised that what I was witnessing was but a prologue to my own suffering. Miss Strang beat him without compunction, putting all her vigour into each stroke, working from just beneath the fold of the buttock, right down to the hollow of the knee.

He was chewing his hands in his agony. Substituting a pain over which he had some control for that over which he had none. Miss Strang was a skilful disciplinarian, and in her hands the tawse amply realised the intention of its maker. An instrument constructed for no other purpose than to inflict acute disciplinary pain on the body of a small boy.

John's screams were no longer so shrill. Instead there seemed to be a fearful acceptance of the inevitability of torment. The first roaring shrieks of startled anger at the agonising pain had been replaced by something almost more terrible. A deep throated rasping sound interspersed with grunts as the tawse thudded into his flesh.

After six strokes, placed neatly one below the other, Miss Strang seemed satisfied that the whole of the thigh had been adequately strapped from buttock to knee. The right leg was then lifted on to the stool and the other hung at the side. But before continuing the punishment, she stepped around and placed her hand on John's head.

"If I seem over severe, John, it is for your own good. You must learn to accept my authority without question, and to respect it at all times, even when my back is turned. And a small boy does not respect his governess because she is kind or sympathetic or indulges him. He respects her because he fears her. And what he fears is her unswerving commitment to his discipline. Her unhesitating recourse to the rod as the only sure means of delivering him from sin. From sin that is rooted in his heart. Whose vigorous growth must be ruthlessly cut back again and again . . ."

She paused.

"Please . . Miss Strang . . . "

He was suddenly racked with sobs. His whole body heaved and he was choking on his tears.

"No, John. The lesson is not yet over.

(To be continued)