Miss Strang Chapter 5
By Governess
liviaarbuthnot1@gmail.com

Copyright 2008 by Governess, all rights reserved

* * * * *
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.
* * * * *

Chapter 5

I walked slowly down the corridor to my room. My heart was racing and I shivered at the thought of my hands being strapped. And yet, I had betrayed Miss Strang. I had lost her favour. I had a trembling need to be restored, to be accepted again. Looking back, I was a soul at the gate of purgatory facing dreadful pain but knowing that it was the only way to blessing and acceptance.

I went into my room and undressed, standing naked in front of the cheval mirror that had belonged to my grandmother. I twisted round and looked at my bottom, pale and bare. I ran my hands over it. It was firm and softly delicious. From an early age I had loved the feel of my bottom and often before falling asleep I would lovingly caress it. But, as I ran my hands across the smooth flesh, it was John's bottom, that I was feeling.

When I had slipped on my nightdress, I slowly made my way back to the schoolroom. I opened the door. Miss Strang was sitting behind her desk.

"Livia, before you enter a room you knock first and then wait. Go outside, please, and tap politely on the door, and only enter when I give permission."

I felt my face burn at this further confirmation of my childish status. I stood outside full of a nervous anxiety, that mounted as the minutes passed. Then the door opened.

"You may come in, Livia."

Miss Strang went and sat behind her desk.

"Come and stand in front of me. Put your hands behind your back."

Although the desk sloped toward her the top levelled out into a flat area about a foot wide. On this the tawse had been placed alongside the cane and the hairbrush.

"Livia, do you know why you are standing in front of my desk awaiting punishment? A punishment that you told me was undeserved.

I bit my lip.

"Well? I am waiting."

"Because . . . because, I . . . I touched John."

"And where did you touch him, Livia?"

I squirmed.

"On his bottom, Miss Strang. I am sorry, really I am."

"And why was it wrong to touch his bottom?"

I shook my head, and felt myself very near to tears.

"I suppose . . . because he's a boy, Miss Strang."

"No, Livia. I thought I had explained this to you. It is not because he is a boy. It is because he is a child and under my authority. His bottom has been provided by a wise providence as a place where I can safely and lovingly chastise him. When John is obedient, he lives freely within the rules that I have set. But when he is disobedient he loses that freedom. Just as the marks on a little slave boy whipped by his mistress show that he is ruled by her, so the marks on John's bottom show he is under my rule and my authority. Do you understand that, Livia?

"I think so, Miss Strang."

She nodded.

"So, when you made John show you his bottom, and when you touched it, you were trespassing upon my authority. Your hands wandered where they had no right to go."

She slipped off the stool and came around the desk, Reaching back, she picked up the tawse.

I could hardly breathe and had difficulty in swallowing.

Miss Strang looked at my small outstretched hands. She drew the strap slowly, lingeringly, through her left hand, seeming to enjoy the feel of the leather.

"Livia, I am going to strap each hand alternately. After each stroke I will wait for you to recover. You will then change hands for the next stroke. Is that clear?"

I was in a state of almost nervous prostration.

"Livia, is that clear? I do not expect to have to repeat myself."

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"And you will keep your hands extended as I strap them. If you move them away from the strap, or interrupt the punishment in any way, you will receive additional strokes for your disobedience."

As she prepared to give the first stroke, I screwed up my eyes, shutting them tightly, trying to separate myself from my body, searching for a dark secret place within.

"No, Livia, you will keep your eyes open, please. There will be no hiding away. You will watch each stroke as it is given."

I tried to imagine that my eyes were glued open. I concentrated on my hands, staring at them unblinkingly.

Miss Strang laid the end of the tawse on my hands, measuring the distance, and then drew it slowly down my fingers until it fell away. She then quickly raised it, flicked it across her shoulder and then with a backward shake of her wrist brought it sweeping down so that the hard leather tails impacted with a dull crack on my outstretched palm. For a moment I felt nothing. Then it was as though my whole hand had burst into flames. The pain was indescribable. I did not so much scream as emit a long agonised gasp. I bent double, shaking my hand and then held it under my left armpit. I looked tearfully and imploringly at Miss Strang.

"Please, please, Miss Strang . . . it hurts so much."

She smiled, and spoke almost tenderly.

"Livia, I can understand that you want the punishment to stop. I am well aware how much it hurts. But it is intended to hurt. I am afraid your distress only tells me that I am punishing you as you should be punished."

She again grasped the split end in her left hand.

"Tell me, Livia, if I just smacked you lightly across the hands, what would you learn from it?"

I shook my head.

"Well you certainly would not learn obedience. That is learnt by submitting to painful correction And that, Livia, is why you are being strapped. To teach you obedience, and to help you appreciate the extent of your transgression."

She paused, letting her words sink in. A wave of desolation crept over me like a slow but remorseless incoming tide.

"Put your hands up to receive the next stroke. The left hand on top."

Again Miss Strang rested the tawse on my hands. Then, slowly, tantalisingly, pulled it across my palm, before lifting it over her shoulder. I watched mesmerised, like a rabbit caught in the beam of a lamp, as the harsh leather swiftly descended on my small bare outstretched hand. I crouched, howling. I was now flailing both my wrists, desperately trying to shake off the pain. I pressed my hands under my armpits in a fruitless attempt to ease the throbbing.

"Hands up again, please, Livia. Right hand of top."

I looked at my inflamed hands, red and smarting. My fingers were numb yet the numbness did nothing to lessen the agony.

As the tawse came down for a third time, I lowered my hand, and the leather smacked harmlessly against the material of Miss Strang's skirt. There was a moment of heavy silence full of foreboding. Then Miss Strang stepped behind her desk and brought forward the high stool.

"Pull up your nightdress, Livia, up to your waist and sit on the stool. I raised my nightdress and pulled myself on to the hard wooden seat. It was cold and unfriendly.

"I have a very effective way of dealing with children who refuse to offer their hands for chastisement."

She rucked up my nightdress, and pulling the material out knotted it behind my back. I sat there, my thighs bare to the slit of my small hairless vulva. My face was hot and wet, and I was more frightened than ever.

"Place your feet on the rail, Livia."

I did so and my thighs were thrust forward.

"Place each hand face upward on your thighs. No, Livia, just above the knee. That is better."

She waited, letting me sense my vulnerability.

"You will see that if you now move a hand away, the stroke will fall on the sensitive front of you thigh. And if that happens not only will it be very painful but the stroke will be given again. And repeated until you allow your hand to receive it. Do you understand?"

"Yes Miss Strang," I whispered.

I stared at my raw smarting hands, as with a powerful action the strap was again beaten down. I gasped and moaned, rocking myself, hunching my shoulders. Somehow I had managed to keep my hands pressed firmly against my thighs.

With scarcely a pause the tawse again curved through the air and descended with a dull splattering sound on my left hand. If my hands had been plunged in boiling oil, it could not have been more painful.

I had reverted to a small sobbing baby.

(To be continued)