Miss Strang Chapter 54

Miss Strang Chapter 54
By Governess

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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 54

Miss Strang stepped over to her desk and retrieved the cane.

"Well, Oliver, you seem to have learnt little from the few strokes you received in Mrs Claxton's shop. So clearly more need to be given. Do you recall Mrs Claxton's saying that when a boy has received a good dozen strokes with this cane his bottom will look like a washboard?"

"Y . . . yes, Miss Strang."

"Mrs Mountfield do we have a washboard?"

"We certainly do, Miss Strang."

"Would you fetch it, please?"

The washboard was held out in front of me.

"Run your fingers down it, Oliver."

I did so,

"And what do you feel?"

"It's bumpy . . . Miss Strang."

"Yes, Oliver. It is made of thick dark ribbed glass. As you can see, it is ridged from top to bottom. Thick ridges so that on wash day wet clothes may be rubbed over them and the dirt squeezed out."

She paused.

"Feel it again."

I did so.

"Tonight when you lie in bed and run your hand over your bottom that is exactly what it will feel like."

My eyes were cast down, but I could feel her gaze upon me, long and intent.

"But, Oliver, I hope that is all you will touch. I would not want your reverting to a naughty, disgraceful little girl. Just remember, Oliver, you are a boy who is not encumbered with that thing that most boys have hanging between their legs."

She smiled.

“Just imagine you are a small boy who has had it cut off. Nothing to play with. No temptation. No risk of having his hands tawsed for masturbation. What an easy life for a boy.”

She placed her hand on my shoulder.

"So, please remember. Oliver, you are a boy. Not a girl with nasty boyish habits."

She slowly, lingeringly, ran her left hand down the length of the cane.

"So let us have those breeches down, shall we? But first remove your shoes and socks, and place them under your desk."

I bent down and unlaced them. First one shoe, then the other. And slipped them off. I tucked the socks inside the shoes as I had been taught. I stood there in my bare feet, waiting.

And now you will divest yourself of your nether garments. Mrs Mountfield will help you."

"No, Miss Strang, please. I can do it myself."

Miss Strang frowned.

"How dare you argue with me!"

She stepped forward and pulled the braces from off my shoulders.

"Now raise your arms above your head. And keep them there until I give permission for you to lower them. Mrs Mountfield, remove Oliver's trousers and underpants for him."

My trousers were unbuttoned and lowered. Mrs Mountfield inserted her thumbs behind the waistband and eased them slowly down. And then did the same for my underpants. She seemed pleased to be acting as Miss Strang's assistant.

"Help Oliver to step out of them, please, Mrs Mountfield. Thank you."

I stood there and watched as Miss Strang took an armless upright chair from around the table, and placed it in the centre of the schoolroom. She then fetched the long padded stool upholstered in the pink faded velvet, and positioned it lengthways in front of the chair.

"Sit on the end of the stool, please, Oliver. No, with your back to the chair."

I sat there, puzzled, wondering what was to happen next.

"Mrs Mountfield would you be so good as to sit in the chair."

She did so her legs either side of the stool.

"And now Oliver, please lean back and rest on the stool."

I did so, my legs hanging over the end. And then Miss Strang reached beneath my knees, lifted my legs, and forced them back over my head.

"I suggest you hold his legs a little splayed apart, Mrs Mountfield, Perhaps brace his feet firmly on each of your knees."

Mrs Mountfield grasped my ankles. Never had I felt so exposed with the lips of my little hairless slit bare for all to see. I could sense my brothers staring with a hungry, fascination at my secret place, so different from their own.

Suddenly I felt the tip of the cane on my vulva, gently parting the lips. I gasped at the shameful invasion.

"No, please, Miss Strang. Don't."

"Don't? Is that what John said when Livia was about to insert the nettle stem into his bottom?"

And as she said 'bottom' the tip of the cane slipped down and rested on my anus, on the little wrinkled opening into which the suppository had been inserted the day before. The suppository that had burnt like vitriol, shaming me, and purging me in public. Again, I gasped, tightening in fear at what might be intended. The cane tip nosed its way deeper into me.

"Please, Miss Strang, No. I am sorry. Please."

"Hold him, firmly, Mrs Mountfield."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Miss Strang stepping back. And then forward as she brought the cane swishing down. There was a dull crack as the rattan impacted on my soft, taut bottom flesh. The pain was indescribable. My screaming was like acrid vomit. I wanted to writhe in my desperation but the childish position into which I had been placed made that impossible. Another stroke was given and then another. Slowly, Miss Strang worked her way up my bottom, laying throbbing ridge above throbbing ridge. I was flogged like a reformatory boy, and spared nothing.

"You know, Oliver, when a boy has a bottom like this, as round and soft as a girl's, there is no temptation to moderate the severity that the offence demands. I have had boys with scrawny little rumps whom I had to steel myself to flog. But a bottom like this can absorb endless punishment. And such rounded thighs, too."

She ran a hand slowly down the back of my right thigh.

"Have you ever seen such beautiful thighs on a boy, Mrs Mountfield?"

"No, Miss Strang. That I haven't. But when I was a girl over at Windrush with the Claytons, Miss Elizabeth had thighs like this. Firm and soft and rounded. Dr Clayton would cane her that regularly every Friday. That was before they had Miss Smythe as a governess. He believed in saving it up until the end of the week, did Dr Clayton."

"Well, Oliver, you heard what Mrs Mountfield said. Shall I cane these thighs just as Miss Elizabeth Clayton's were caned?"

She stood at the end of the stool, directly in front of me, and ran the tip of the cane down the inside of my right thigh until it rested on my vulva, the entrance to that place where the little wriggling snake had his nest. I held my breath. Then I felt the cane creeping further down to rest once more on my anus.

I twisted but Mrs Mountfield held me fast.

"Well, Oliver, what do you say?"

"No, please, Miss Strang. Don't. Please. Not on my legs."

She paused letting my anxiety grow until I was quiet with nervous apprehension. The cane was now resting across my thighs. And then gently, tantalisingly, was slipped up and down, caressing the smooth flesh.

"If you were a girl, Oliver, I would say that a washboard bottom was sufficient. Indeed, it would be rare for a girl to require such severity. A girl will learn from a little suffering and desist. But you are a boy. A boy has an endless capacity for wilful misbehaviour. And if there is any more such behaviour today, then your bottom will be used like a washboard. Except there will no article of clothing being scrubbed. Just your bottom with a plentiful supply of hot salty water."

She waited letting the full horror of what she had said sink in.

"You see, Oliver, a young colt is not broken by soft words and cajolery. He is broken by strength of will. By determination. Until he quivers and the whites of his eyes roll in submission. And then, once broken, he is only checked and curbed by bit and bridle. And by the whip applied to his flanks. And it is the same with a boy."

She bent down and stroked my head, running her hand through my short hair.

"And, Oliver, no boy enjoys having his bottom scrubbed raw. But if a washboard bottom does not bring about a submissive will, then we will have to resort to the scrubbing brush."

She turned to Mrs Mountfield.

"We do have a good stiff bristled scrubbing brush available for such use, Mrs Mountfield?"

"We certainly do, Miss Strang."

"Then, before Oliver settles down for the night perhaps you would bring it up to the schoolroom. Would you do that, Mrs Mountfield?"

"Certainly Miss Strang."

"Thank you. Now hold Oliver firmly, please."

I shivered as I was held in that childish posture, on my back with my legs over my head. I could feel the blood thundering in my ears as it coursed through my body. Shame, anger and fear were twisted into a corded rope that was strangling me. I could scarcely breath. But my shameful exposure was forgotten as I tensed myself for the cuts of the cane across my bare, smooth thighs.

I could see the cane raised, and then swept back over my governess's shoulder. There was a blur as it swished down and cut into the flesh of my right calf. I shrieked in agony. A dreadful howling scream. Again the cane swished down. I gasped for air, howling and sucking, moaning. The shrieking seemed to be inside me, a howling gale of agony scouring through my body.

The cane continued to rise and fall. Always the right leg. I writhed and twisted but to no avail. Mrs Mountfield held me firmly by my ankles, my feet pressed firmly against her. Looking up I could see her face through my legs. Her eyes were bright, and her lips compressed tightly together. She was breathing deeply. I could see Miss Strang, too. There was a calm intention on her face as she unhurriedly caned me, slowly moving up my right calf, and then my right thigh, and continuing up to the fold of my buttocks.

"Release him, Mrs Mountfield."

I flinched and gasped as my thigh and leg touched the stool. It was as though it were being rubbed with coarse sandpaper.

"Stand up."

I stood.

"Hands on your head."

She stepped over to the wall and lifted off the mirror that hung by a short chain. Then, stood behind me, holding it up.

"Look over your shoulder, Oliver. What do you see?"

I was weeping. Tears of shame, anger and self-pity.

"Come now, Oliver, anyone would think you were a girl."

She put down the mirror and produced a small scented handkerchief, and gently wiped my eyes. I suddenly felt profoundly grateful and loved.

"That is better. She picked up the mirror. I want you to see clearly the marks of your discipline. And to learn from them. What do you see?"

"I . . . I can see where you've caned me . . Miss Strang."

"Yes, Oliver, I am sure you can. But what do you see. Describe to me what you see?"

I started to weep again at the sweetness of her voice.

"I . . . I . . . I'm sorry, Miss Strang."

And then I was overcome with helpless sobbing. She put down the mirror again and placed an arm around me and pulled me towards her and I buried my head in the softness of her dress.

"Oliver, I want you to cease crying and answer my question."

Again the mirror was held up.

"What do you see?"

Again I turned, craning over my shoulder, and answered through my tears.

"I . . I see stripes all up my leg, right up to my bottom. Please, Miss Strang, I'm so sorry."

She turned to Mrs Mountfield.

“Mrs Mountfield, I must detain you no further. You have chores to do and a kitchen to run. While I have a schoolroom to manage and children to instruct. But thank you for all you assistance. I am truly grateful.”

And with this dismissal, Mrs Mountfield returned to the dining room and cleared the remains of lunch, before returning downstairs.

(To be continued)