Miss Strang Chapter 35
By Governess
liviaarbuthnot1@gmail.com

Copyright 2009 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 35

John lay with his nightshirt rucked up to his neck. Anyone with a passing knowledge of schoolboy misfortune would have seen that the boy had already been soundly birched. It might have taken a more experienced eye to identify the rashes that smothered his buttocks and genitals as inflicted by nettles. But few would have failed to recognise the narrow bands of inflammation embossed on the boy's thighs as having been administered with a leather punishment strap.

They might have concluded that the weals on the fleshy backs of the boy's legs demonstrated a determination to drive him remorselessly toward a red, raw and tearful contrition. And in that they would have been right. But for his governess, even a readiness to express sorrow for wrongdoing, even a heartfelt promise of future obedience, was not enough to bring the punishment to a conclusion. A full and complete satisfaction for sin had to be exacted. And that was not yet.

When the initial strokes had been administered with both legs stretched out on the stool, the end of the tawse had bitten most painfully into the furthest right thigh. Now, as it cut across previous weals, they became increasingly contused and raw. John choked and rasped in his agony, grunting as the heavy tawse impacted on his flesh.

As I sat at my desk, I touched the lips of my little slit through the cotton of my nightdress. I pressed my fingers into the material and twisted it deliciously into the opening. Another stroke was given. I was almost beside myself. I wanted to slip my hand under my nightdress, and inveigle a bare finger into that warm slithery place . . .

"Put your hands on the desk, Livia."

I complied with an ill grace. I was sure that Miss Strang had been aware that I had been surreptitiously touching myself for some time. And I wondered whether she had allowed my enjoyment to mount so that when the command came to desist, it would be the more grievous for me.

Six strokes of the tawse were placed skilfully upon John's right thigh leaving it with a wide band of sore inflammation stretching from top to bottom. Throughout, John drove out his breath in a series of animal like grunts, as though wrapping this expression of anguish around his torment, and trying to smother the shrill insistent pain. I am sure he had little success. He lay heaving and writhing, his whole body racked with a deep sobbing agony.

Although he was often irritating and disrespectful, I knew he was my brother, and I loved him. And yet this bond, this knowledge that we came from the same womb, that we shared a life together, was insufficient to make true compassion flow. As I anatomised each weal and relished his torment, there welled up within me a keen sensual pleasure, like a sharp pickle tantalising the taste buds, a delicious burning sensation that was utterly irresistible. If I felt shame, it was because I knew that in principle it was wrong for a sister to experience such pleasure at her brother's misfortune. But in practice, I felt nothing but a deep elation, a nervous greedy delight at every cut of the rod, and at every weal raised on his skin. At his desperate sobbing as he was taken to the very limits of his endurance. And I felt enormously grateful to him for the pleasure he was affording me.

"Stand up, John."

Miss Strang walked to her desk and sat behind it.

"You do know why you have been strapped on your thighs, John?"

He found it difficult to speak through his convulsive sobbing.

"You may take your time, but I want an answer."

"Be . . . because, I was ru . . . rude."

"Yes, John. Because you were rude and disrespectful and showed no appreciation of the seriousness of what you had done."

She looked at him, and spoke softly, almost caressingly.

"And what had you done, John? What had you done that required you to sit in such acute discomfort on nettles? What lesson was being taught?"

"Good. Well remembered. It was because you had masturbated. But please remember, John, to add my name when you reply. That is only polite."

She watched him for a moment.

"And do you recall my saying that your hands would be strapped at bedtime as a further punishment for masturbating?"

He looked down, biting his lower lip.

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"Then go and stand facing the wall by the clock and I will deal with you in a moment."

She looked at me.

"Come and stand in front of my desk, Livia."

I rose and did as she asked. There were conflicting currents running within me. I hated her for her change of attitude toward me, even though I knew it was justified. And I had resented her making me put my hands of my desk like a naughty six year old.

"Livia."

I looked at her. And she spoke softly, with warm tones, using her voice like an instrument to calm and reassure me.

"Livia, I do not want you to think I have anything but the highest regard for you. You have been exceptionally helpful in the schoolroom and I have trusted you. However, as I have said before, a girl of your age can think herself older than she is. She can assume responsibilities not granted to her. Responsibilities that are still beyond her years. In some ways such confidence is commendable. But where it leads to disobedience, then it must be punished. And in your case, it was more than disobedience, was it not? You disobeyed by not calling me to deal with John. But worse, you decided to punish him yourself. And that was my right and my responsibility alone. And in depriving me of it, you clothed yourself in my authority. In any other walk of life you would be called a thief and an impostor. And further, you tried to cover up what you had done, and encouraged John to be as deceitful as you had been. Am I right in all that?"

I wanted to deny it. To tell her that she was wrong. That none of that was my intention. But all that she had said was correct. I bowed my head in hopeless shame and spoke in a small voice.

"Yes, Miss Strang. It is right. And I am sorry. Please, believe me, Miss Strang, I really am sorry."

She looked at me.

"So what needs to be done, Livia?"

My resentment had dissolved. I wanted above all to be restored to her favour. To be forgiven. For my sins to be wiped out. And yet having seen her resolute determination to render John compliant, having witnessed her unstinting application of the tawse to his thighs, and having seen him sobbing in torment, I quailed at what might be necessary before absolution could be given.

I looked down.

"I . . . I don't know, Miss Strang. All I know is that I'm sorry. And promise never to do anything like it again."

She smiled and spoke kindly.

"I have no doubt about that, Livia."

She waited.

"So what needs to be done?"

"I . . . I don't know, Miss Strang."

"Oh, come, Livia! You must have some idea."

Again she waited.

Would you like to know what I think?"

I nodded mutely.

"Well, I think that Miss Livia Arbuthnot needs to be soundly birched."

Again, she paused, waiting for a response.

"Please, Miss Strang."

"Yes, Livia?"

"Please, I do need to be birched. I am so very sorry."

I began to cry. At first soft, gentle tears then tears that came from a fount deep within me.

"I am glad you accept the need, Livia. I will deal with you tomorrow. After lunch."

"And . . and will John and Simon be there?"

She paused.

"And from now until your punishment, you are in disgrace. You will not speak unless spoken to and only then if I grant permission. Go and sit at your desk. I have John still to deal with."

(To be continued)