Miss Strang Chapter 77
By Governess

liviaarbuthnot1@gmail.com

Copyright 2010 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 77

"Listen to me, John. When the Prodigal Son chose to leave his father and go into a far country, God sent him pain and grief. He suffered hunger and was reduced to eating the pig's food. He was starving to death. Only then did he repent and return home."

She paused.

"Can you imagine such gnawing hunger? As though a rat had eaten its way inside him and was consuming him alive. But that was the only way God could reach him and bring him to his senses."

And at her words, I remembered a book in my father's library. I had discovered it one Sunday afternoon. It was entitled The Realm of the Son of Heaven, and was about the power of the Chinese Emperor. It was wonderfully illustrated, with prints and lithographs and also some photographs. One section described the tortures inflicted on those who had failed in their duty to the Emperor or transgressed his commands. There had been a series of images of a young boy suffering such exemplary punishment. The text explained that he had shown disrespect by failing to prostate himself. There was an illustration of his being forced to the ground. Then, fastened to a bench, stripped of all his clothes. Breathless, I had surveyed the succeeding pictures. A woman was forcing a tube between the boy's buttocks pressing it tightly around his anus. Another woman was inserting a rat into the tube. A rat, as the text explained, that had been starved for many days and was ravenously hungry. Then, a heated rod was poked down the tube, driving the rat into a frenzy. There was no way of escape from the hot tormenting probe other than by burrowing downward. It bit and scratched around the boy's anus, gnawing its way into him. In the last illustration, he was depicted with his head back, roaring in unimaginable agony, as the rat tore and twisted inside him, feasting on his flesh.

I blinked at the memory of the disturbing image.

"And what had he done, John that made such suffering necessary?"

"He . . he'd run away, Miss Strang."

"Yes. He chose pleasure in a distant land rather than duty to his father, honouring him, and supporting him in his work. He selfishly demanded his inheritance, and left to enjoy himself."

She gave a sigh.

"Just as you, John put your pleasure before your duty toward Mrs Mountfield. You set play and games above helping another. Just as the Prodigal did."

She looked at him. His face was hot and damp.

"But there is a difference, John. A difference for which you should be grateful. The Prodigal placed himself beyond the reach of his father. He was in a far land. Only God could reach him. But fortunately for you, John, you are not beyond my reach. God in his kindness has decreed that boys such as you John should be taught not by starvation and gnawing hunger, but by the smart of the rod applied to bare flesh."

She ran her hand up the nape of his neck.

"And how often do you think you were unhelpful toward Mrs Mountfield, John?"

He frowned, biting his lip.

"Per . . . perhaps three times . . Miss Strang."

"Only three times, John? Are you sure about that?"

"Perhaps . . . perhaps four, Miss Strang."

"Perhaps, John. But if four, only because Mrs Mountfield had given up asking for your help."

He hung his head

"Put four stones on the scales, John."

Slowly, reluctantly, he did so, as his governess marked the sheet on which his offences had been recorded.

"So let us continue."

She scanned the list. And frowned.

"And now we have something as bad as anything we have had so far. Probably worse."

She looked up. He was shuffling nervously. His face flushed and tear-stained.

"Stand still, John, and stop snivelling. You should be pleased that someone has taken the trouble to bring these sins into the light of day so they may be corrected. And more importantly atoned for."

She looked down.

"What Mrs Mountfield has written is that on several occasions she upbraided you for your behaviour, and you were not only rude but lost your temper. You threw a plate on the floor and another time smashed a vase."

She raised her eyebrows.

"So what have you to say to that?"

He was breathing quickly now, anxious and alert.

"Please Miss Strang. I only did that once . . . please."

"That is not what Mrs Mountfield says, John. She says quite specifically that you lost your temper several times. And in addition to throwing a plate, also broke a vase. Are you accusing her of lying?"

He hung his head. His whole body went limp.

"No, Miss Strang."

"In that case, it must be you who are lying."

"She paused. Her voice was sweet and reassuring.

"Did you break a vase?"

"Ye . . yes . . Miss Strang. I did. But really it was an accident."

"An accident? But you lost your temper."

"Ye . . . yes, Miss Strang."

"And if you had not lost your temper, would the vase have been broken?"

"I . . . I suppose not . . . Miss Strang."

She compressed her lips.

"You know what the Bible says about anger, John?"

"I . . . I don't think so, Miss Strang."

"It says 'A man of great wrath shall suffer punishment, for if thou deliver him, thou must do it again.' Do you know what that means?"

He shook his head, tearfully.

"It means that punishing a boy once for anger is seldom if ever sufficient. A boy who loses his temper will do it again and again until he learns self-control. And he learns self-control by being punished. Not once but every time he loses his temper. Until the habit of losing his temper is eventually driven out."

She looked at the small boy before her, shrunken and guilty.

"Put three more stones on the scales."

She marked the sheet.

And so it continued. At last all the sins on the list had been accounted for. And when she had finished, John was invited to place his hand under the side of the scales weighed down by the stones.

"Is it heavy, John?"

He could barely speak in his distress.

"Ye . . yes, Miss Strang."

"Very heavy?"

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"Then let us make it lighter. Start putting stones on the other side of the scales until your sins are balanced by the punishments that are your due."

Slowly, reluctantly he did so. Adding stone after stone. He must have been wondering how he would ever discharge such a debt to the Bank of Chastisement. I counted thirty stones in all.

Then, as with Simon, he was made to scoop the stones into a leather drawstring bag that was hung around his neck.

"And now go and sit at your desk, John. Take out your English book and turn to page forty four. Your last effort at parsing was far from satisfactory. Let us hope for your sake that we see an improvement."

She turned to me.

"And Livia, I want you to write a short essay entitled How Boys Learn from Punishment. I shall be most interested to see your ideas on the subject. And not a word from any of you for the next three quarters of an hour."

I sat and sucked my pencil and began writing. From time to time I glanced at my brothers, and I could see both were struggling with the assignments they had been set. John was especially restless. The weight of the thirty stones around his neck must have been desperately uncomfortable.

After the three quarters of an hour, Miss Strang gathered in our work. I could see that both John and Simon had little confidence about the value of their respective efforts. Miss Strang read their work through, frowning from time to time. I noticed that when she read through my essay she smiled once or twice and nodded as though in agreement.

"A very good and interesting piece of work, Livia. I will discuss it with you later."

She looked at Simon.

"Come out here, Simon. I have no wish to add to your troubles, but of the four problems you have attempted only one is correct. In the time allowed I would have expected to see ten problems completed correctly."

She paused.

"You know the rule."

He looked down.

"Livia, please tell Simon the consequence of his poor effort."

Something stirred inside me. A small creeping insect in my stomach.

"It's two strokes of the cane for each problem that he hasn't attempted and . . . and one stroke for each that is wrong."

"Well remembered, Livia. Fetch the cane please."

"No, Miss Strang. Please. I really tried . . ."

His voice trailed off.

" . . . Please. They were really difficult."

"Well, in that case let me set an easier problem. If a boy is to receive two strokes of the cane for each unattempted problem, and there are six unattempted problems, how many strokes of the cane does he receive. Quickly now."

He frowned with the effort.

"Twelve strokes, Miss Strang."

"Correct. And add to that one stroke for each of the four wrong answers?"

He looked confused.

"Livia?"

"Sixteen strokes, Miss Strang."

"I suppose we might add this punishment to those already owing. We might place yet another stone in the bag."

The thought of such a postponement obviously appealed to my brother. He clutched at it as a man clutches at a small poorly rooted bush on a steep and slippery slope."

"Yes, please, Miss Strang . . . "

She shook her head.

"But no, Simon. It would be wrong to add yet another punishment to an already substantial tally. Stand by the armchair."

He did so, his face flushed and his eyes dark.

"Take off your shoes and socks and place them to the side."

I watched as he stooped down to unlace his shoes.

"And now off with the jacket."

Slowly, reluctantly, he removed it. Outwardly he was obedient, but inwardly resentful. And his governess could see it.

"And now let us have those breeches down."

He slipped the braces from his narrow shoulders. His trousers dropped slowly to his ankles, almost as though sharing his reluctance.

"And the underpants. Quickly now. And step out of them. I want them off completely and placed neatly on your desk."

He stood there shivering, awaiting her discipline. She pointed.

"Over the arm, Simon, and press your hands well down the side of the chair."

He turned and his bottom cheeks clenched nervously.

"How many strokes was it, Simon?"

"S . . sixteen, Miss Strang."

"Yes, sixteen. But you know better than to clench your bottom. So two more strokes for clenching."

"No, please Miss Strang."

"And another two strokes for arguing."

He clenched his bottom again. She tapped it with the cane.

"I said no clenching, Simon. We are slow to learn this afternoon. Two more strokes for further clenching and another two for not paying attention to my earlier rebuke."

She looked at me.

"So how many is that, Livia?"

I had been keeping count, feeling a mounting excitement as additional strokes were added to an already severe caning.

"Twenty four, Miss Strang."

(To be continued)