Miss Strang Chapter 83

By Governess

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and sexual activity of preteen and young teen children for the purpose of punishment. None of the behaviors in this story should be attempted in real life. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.

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Mrs Mountfield narrowed her eyes and looked at the two boys in their nightshirts. Both were pale.

“Right Master John, I’ll have that nightshirt off. And you come over here.”

He stood before her small and bare. Bare as only a small boy can be, with smooth skin and soft, young flesh. He gave a shiver.

“You see that stool over, there, Master John. Place it here.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he did so. She compressed her lips. And with a sudden movement cracked the hard back of the brush against his right knee. He gave a shriek of pain and collapsed on the floor, moaning and writhing as the sickening pain spread to his stomach.

“You were dawdling, Master John. Well, now you’ve a reason for dawdling. But not one I’ll accept. You get up. And quickly now.”

He limped to his feet, crying. His face screwed up in agony.

“You turn round, and let’s see that bottom of yours.”

She nodded.

“Well, Miss Strang, I’ll not be spanking a nice smooth unmarked bottom. That’s for sure.”

She frowned and rose, moving the stool slightly to the left. And pointed to it.

“Up on it, Master John, and hands on those hips.”

With difficulty, he stepped on to the stool, standing unsteadily.”

“I said hands on hips, Master John. And no coming off that stool, till I say.”

She moved around him.

“Do you remember that time in the kitchen when you tripped me up with your nonsense and I slipped and fell? Well, do you, Master John?”

“N . . . no, Mrs Mountfield.”

“No, I don’t expect you do. But I remember it. I cracked my elbow. Just like this.”

And she cracked the back of the brush hard against his right elbow. He shrieked at the sudden intense burst of agony and, half crouching on the stool, grasped it with his left hand.

She stood in front of him, her eyes bright and her lips compressed. I glanced at Simon. He was as pale as a moth against a window pane on a dark night.

Mrs Mountfield reached out with the brush and tapped it against John’s tight little scrotum. He winced. He was breathing now in quick shallow breaths, stiff with fear. She rapped the little sack sharply.

“What did I tell you to do with your hands, Master John?”

“K . . . keep them on . . . on my . . . on my hips.”

“Hold out your right hand.”

She took it by the wrist and turned it over, palm facing down. She smiled as she raised the brush. I held my breath as it was brought down with a dreadful crack across his knuckles. He crumpled up, shrieking and plunging his wounded hand under his armpit, but somehow maintaining his balance on the stool.

“And the other hand. Quickly now. I’ll not have dawdling.”

Again the brush cracked down. I looked at Miss Strang. There was an intent look on her face, but no hint of disapproval.

“Stand up straight. And let’s have those hands back on those hips, like I said.”

She paused. And then reaching out again with the brush, lifted his small, limp little penis.

“Does he play with this, Miss Strang?”

“I am afraid he does, Mrs Mountfield. And has been severely punished for it.”

“I’m not surprised, Miss Strang. It’s a sinful and disgusting habit, that’s for sure. And they won’t put up with it at the reformatory, Master John. No doubt about that.”

He flinched as she gave a sharp upward smack against the soft pulp of his boyhood. Then she moved behind him. His eyes fluttered and he licked his lips. Suddenly she brought the hairbrush down with a resounding smack across his left buttock. There was a piercing scream and instinctively he reached back to rub and comfort the smarting flesh.

She smiled and shook her head. Then, grasping the roaring boy by the wrist, and stretching out his arm, she brought the brush down with another sickening crack across the knuckles of the offending hand.

When a boy is turned over his governess’s knee, he can clutch her skirts and hide his face in the softness. He knows he’s not utterly rejected and that the one whipping him is also his comforter. That she cares for him. That her discipline’s an expression of her love. But it is otherwise when a child has to stand, bare and exposed for his whipping. Where there is no skirt to clutch and no place to hide his tears. Like Lear on the windswept heath, facing the tempest, he is alone and without hope in a loveless world.

“Stand up straight, Master John, and I think we’d better have those hands on the head. Quickly now, if you know what’s good for you. Your father said I was to send you to bed with a hot bottom and smarting thighs, and that’s what I’ll be a doing. So just you stay on that stool.”

She positioned herself behind him and, after a pause, brought the brush sweeping down to impact again on the left buttock. And then again and again. He stamped his feet and howled in his agony and desperation. Yet somehow, he remained on the stool. Twenty strokes and then another twenty to the other buttock. He was sobbing. Tears were running done his face, trickling on to his pale smooth chest.

“Stand up straight, Master John, Mrs Clayton couldn’t abide a boy slouching, and no more can I.”

Slowly he straightened himself, quietly sobbing. I could see that his lip was bleeding where he’d bitten it in his anguish. His bottom was a smarting crimson, and in several places the brush’s hard ebony back had broken the skin.

Mrs Mountfield smiled.

“Well, that’s a nice red bottom, and no mistake. But to my mind it could be a shade darker. What do you think, Miss Strang?”

“Mrs Mountfield, the decision is entirely yours. The boy has been handed over to you to discipline as you judge appropriate.”

“Well, Miss Strang, I don’t believe in half measures. If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. So, Master John, I think another twenty on each of those bottom cheeks.”

“No . . please, Mrs Mountfield. No . . . “

He began sobbing, desperately wriggling on the stool, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Now then, Master John, enough of that. And keep those hands on the head.”

She smiled.

“And then we’ve got those thighs to redden, haven’t we. If I remember, your father was quite clear about going to bed with sore thighs as well as a sore bottom. Isn’t that right, Miss Strang?”

“Yes, Mrs Mountfield, that is my recollection, too.”

Mrs Mountfield raised the brush and brought it down with a sweeping, stinging smack to the crown of his right buttock. And then repeated the stroke. And then again and again, until he was stamping and screaming.

“I think, Miss Strang, somebody needs to hold the boy up. He’s near to falling off that there stool and we don’t want that, do we?”

“Livia, assist Mrs Mountfield, please.”

I stood in front of my brother, my arms around him. As further retribution was exacted, his body writhed against mine and his shrieking was in my ears.

At last, Mrs Mountfield stepped back.

“Help him off the stool Miss Livia. And put it over by the wall. Over there by the clock. And now you get back on that stool, Master John, face to the wall. I’ve not finished with you yet. And hands on your head.”

Slowly, painfully, he clambered back and stood there sobbing and heaving. The skin of both buttocks had burst in places, exposing the red, moist flesh beneath. He would certainly be sleeping on his stomach tonight, I thought.

Mrs Mountfield slipped the brush into her apron pocket and then wiped her hands down her apron front. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed. She beckoned to my younger brother.

“Over here, Master Simon.”

His face was as pale as a blanched almond, his eyes dark with apprehension. He moved forward and stood where she pointed.

“Hold up that nightshirt.”

Quickly he did so, fearing punishment for any hesitation.

“And look, Miss Strang, there are those little cherub spots that I spanked on to his bottom two days ago.”

She reached out and turned him around.

“But you’re no cherub are you Master Simon. A cherub is a little angel. But the way you acted towards me over the past year was not that of an angel.”

She placed the hairbrush under his chin and forced back his head.

“Was it Master Simon?”

“N . . no . . Mrs Mountfield.”

“No, that it wasn’t. You behaved like a little demon. And egged on by that brother of yours. But you’re old enough to know better than to follow his promptings. That you are.”

I could feel my heart thumping against my rib cage, as I wondered how she was going to deal with him. I doubted she would be content simply to turn him over her knee like any naughty child.

“Turn round, Master Simon.”

She pointed to the prie dieu.

“Kneel on that. That’s if Miss Strang has no objections.”

“None at all, Mrs Mountfield. The prie dieu is there to be used.”

“Yes, Master Simon and what’s it for, a prie dieu?”.

“It . . . it’s for saying p . . .prayers on . . . Mrs Mountfield..”

She nodded

“So what are you a going to pray for?”

She waited, smacking the hairbrush against her palm.

“Cat got your tongue, has it?”

She looked at Miss Strang.

“That older Clayton boy once told his mother he’d prayed to God and asked for forgiveness. He said as God had forgiven him he didn’t have to be punished.”

“And what was Mrs Clayton’s reply, Mrs Mountfield?”

“Well I’ve never forgotten it, Miss Strang. She said God always forgives sin but a child still has to accept his punishment. To ask for forgiveness and not be prepared to accept a whipping meant he didn’t truly want to be forgiven.”

“A very good answer, Mrs Mountfield.”

“Yes, so I thought, Miss Strang.”

She looked at Simon, and smiled.

“So now you know what to pray for, Master Simon. For the whipping you deserve so your sins can be forgiven.”

How many had knelt there, I wondered, praying for forgiveness, begging for guilt to be lifted, desperately seeking acceptance? How many had promised to submit to whatever affliction a righteous God might send as a penance for their sins? And here was a small boy kneeling in the same place. Offering his body for chastisement, to pay the penalty for his sins.

Mrs Mountfield looked at him, her eyes narrow and her lips compressed.

“I think you’d better stand, Master Simon. If Miss Strang doesn’t mind you standing on the seat.”

“Not at all, Mrs Mountfield.”

“Right then, young man, up you stand. And face the back with your hands by your side. And just you keep them there.”

She stepped round and faced him, smacking the hairbrush against her palm.

“This hairbrush, Master Simon, has never been used to brush a boy’s hair. Oh, no. Mrs Clayton kept it just for punishment.”

He gave a loud sniff.

“And if there was one thing Mrs Clayton couldn’t abide, it was a boy sniffing. Do you know how she taught a boy not to sniff?”

“N . . . no, Mrs Mountfield.”

“Like this, Master Simon.”

And she rapped the brush smartly across his nose. He squealed and his hands flew to his face. He was choking and sobbing.

“I thought I said hands by your side, Master Simon. Isn’t that what I said, Miss Strang?”

“Indeed it was Mrs Mountfield.”

“Arms up, Master Simon.”

Slowly he raised them. And she pulled the nightshirt off.

“Hold this, Miss Livia.”

He stood naked and shivering. She reached out and grasped his right wrist, stretched out his arm, and with the hand turned over, cracked the hard ebony back against his knuckles. He tore his hand away shaking it in his desperation, howling profusely. Mrs Mountfield waited and then grasped the left arm and extended it. He whimpered, knowing what was coming, dreading the shrill agonising pain.

“And now let’s have those arms by your side like I said, Master Simon. Pass me the nightshirt, Miss Livia.”

She took it and dropped it back over his body, and also pulled it down like a sleeve over the back of the prie dieu with his arms imprisoned within. It was a tight fit. And then reaching down to the hem, she wriggled it up until it was well above his waist.

(to be continued)

(The End)