Miss Strang Chapter 84

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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There was something deeply pleasurable in seeing my younger brother’s small body compressed against the back of the prie dieu, with the restraining nightshirt above his waist.

The hairbrush was raised and the first stroke brought down hard across the top of his right buttock. His head went back and he gave a piercing scream. Another stroke was given and then another. I edged round to stand where I could glimpse his face.   At each impact of the brush, his eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets; and like any small boy, he cried unrestrainedly. His face was soon wet with sobbing.

An ordinary spanking is given over the knee, with the child held in a firm but loving embrace. Here there was no such warmth. For a moment I shut my eyes. This was a young ship’s boy caught thieving, who had been stripped of his nether garments and bound to the grid for the boy’s cat to be whipped across his quivering rump. As I listened to the screams of the flogged boy, I felt hot vaporous fumes rising to my head, and saw with my inner eye the skin stripped from his bottom until it was raw and bloody.

Mrs Mountfield was spanking his thighs now, working from the sensitive place in the fold of the buttocks down to the hollow of each knee. He was shaking his head back and forth like a demented child in Bedlam, and his voice was now thin and hoarse. But despite his desperate twisting, the nightshirt that bound him firmly to the prie dieu rendered him helpless.

At last Mrs Mountfield made an end.

“Well, Master Simon, I trust that’s enough to teach you respect for your elders and betters.”

He stood, heaving and sobbing. His bottom was crimson and in a number of places there were sticky abrasions from which blood was oozing. His thighs looked raw and painful.

“Right, Master Simon. We’ll have you standing over there by the clock. No need to face the wall.”

Miss Strang nodded to me, and with some difficulty I peeled the nightshirt up, freeing him from its tight embrace, and let it fall back over his smarting flesh. He walked with difficulty and stood where he had been told, quietly sobbing.

Mrs Mountfield looked across at John standing in disgrace on the stool. Miss Strang followed her gaze.

“When one of those Clayton boys had been well-whipped, Miss Strang, he were made to sleep on a rough canvas sheet. No soft bed for him.”

She nodded at the memory.

“And, of course, when a boy’s been well whipped he wants the comfort of sleeping on his stomach. But Mrs Clayton wasn’t having none of that.”

“Indeed, Mrs Mountfield? So what did she do?”

“Well, she made it as uncomfortable for him to lie on his front as it was to lie on his back.”

Miss Strang raised her eyebrows.

“Yes, Miss Strang. She’d spank the fronts of his thighs until they were as raw as the backs. Then, whether he lay back or front, it’d make no difference.”

I shivered at the thought of such merciless discipline: to make a boy lie on a hard, rough sheet and to whip his thighs back and front so there was no escaping the agonising reminder of the unbending governance set over him.

Mrs Mountfield tapped John on the shoulder.

“So, Master John, that’s what needs to be done. So off that stool and over here.”

She pointed to a hard upright chair.

“Sit there.”

Slowly he lowered himself, giving a gasp as he sat.

“A nice hard seat for a well whipped bottom, Master John. And let’s have those hands on the head.”

She nodded.

“And you now know what happens when a boy’s hands wander from where they’ve been put, don’t you Master John?”

He could barely stutter his reply.

“Y . . . yes . . . M . . . Mrs . . . M . . . Mountfield.”

“So, what happens to them?”

“Th . . . they . . . are . . . are smacked . . . Mrs Mountfield.”

She smiled.

“Yes, and this time it’ll be a double smacking. So just you take care to keep those hands where I’ve put them.”

She turned to Miss Strang.

“If I might borrow that length of buckled strap you have, Miss Strang?”

“Livia, fetch it from my desk, please.”

Mrs Mountfield bent down and pushed his feet back under the chair. Then she ran the strap across the front legs of the chair, trapping him and preventing his moving his feet forward. He sat there helpless, with the tops of his thighs exposed.

“P . . please, Mrs Mountfield. I . . . I’m sorry. Please don’t . . . “

“Don’t want those legs smacked? Is that it? Well I’m not surprised. But just you be grateful they’re not being caned like Miss Elizabeth’s. Dr Clayton kept a little black book and recorded all her rude uppity behaviour in it during the week.   Then on Friday, before evening prayers, she’d be taken to the library. And she’d get three strokes of the cane for every entry. And how she’d howl.”

“And how old was she, Mrs Mountfield when Dr Clayton started to discipline her like that?”

“Well, Miss Strang, let me see. She must have been about seven when I first went to Windrush. And it was about a year after that. The black book was only for uppity behaviour mind. If she was just disobedient or told a lie, or broke a schoolroom rule, she’d be spanked. Spanked there and then, on the bottom, by Mrs Clayton.”

“So what counted as ‘uppity’ behaviour?”

“Well, it was a matter of attitude, Miss Strang. Dr and Mrs Clayton wanted polite, respectful children. The sort of children that don’t answer back. Who cast their eyes down when they’re addressed by an adult. Who do as they’re told without argument. But Miss Elizabeth could be a right little madam at times   Sometimes she’d roll her eyes and flounce around something terrible.”

“So did you assist Dr Clayton in punishing the girl?”

“Well, not exactly Miss Strang. It was me that brought Miss Elizabeth down to the library on a Friday. And of course, she clung to me and didn’t want to be taken. But there was no getting out of it, and she knew it. But once I’d delivered her to her father, he caned her without any help from me. He’d make her hold out her wrists and he’d buckle a little strap around each. The straps were joined together by a short chain and she’d have to stand on a stool and lift up her arms so he could hitch the chain over a hook. The hook was attached to one of the wooden pillars holding up the library gallery. It were that big a library. And then he’d read out all the entries for the week and tell her how many strokes she’d earned. Then, it was up with up her little dress and petticoat, and down with her knickers. As I said, Miss Strang, those Friday canings were always on the thighs. Never on the bottom.”

“But you watched her being caned.”

“Oh yes, Miss Strang. That I did.   Dr Clayton thought the shame would do her good. Well, she was certainly a quieter more respectful child afterwards. At least for a day or two. But it were rare for a Friday to come around without a visit to that library.   Of course, Dr Clayton was a busy man and he expected any uppity behaviour to be reported to him so he could enter it up. And he made it clear that we was to be very strict about that. A resentful toss of the head, even a less than polite ‘good morning’. All had to be reported.”

“And he caned her thoroughly?”

“That he did, Miss Strang. I think he relished those Friday corrections of Miss Elizabeth’s. Not that he was a cruel man. He did what was necessary. But then eating one’s victuals may be necessary but then, if it’s a tasty hotpot, it’s enjoyable, too.”

She gave a smile.

“Not that it was enjoyable for Miss Elizabeth. There was rarely less than ten entries in that book.   And that meant thirty strokes or more. She’d get the first twenty across the backs of her thighs. But for the reminder, he’d turn her round so she was facing him, and with her wrists hitched back again above her head, he’d cane the fronts. Once she kicked and resisted so much that she came off the stool. But Dr Clayton just continued, with her hanging by her wrists, screaming and writhing. And what a sight that was!”

She paused.

“But all that stopped when Miss Smythe arrived.”

“So you said, Mrs Mountfield. But given her parents commitment to the children’s discipline, I am surprised they were prepared to relinquish it.”

“Yes, Miss Strang. They were reluctant at first. But it had to be. Mrs Clayton was right run off her feet. She had a big household to run and Dr Clayton was a demanding husband that’s for sure. And at the same time she was schooling the three children. Well, as they got older, it became too much.”

“So they advertised for a governess?”

“Yes, Miss Strang. A governess with ‘old-fashioned values’ I think the advert said. Well, Miss Smythe certainly had those.   She made it a condition of accepting the position that she’d be responsible for all the children’s discipline without any interference. And that was how it was. And if Dr and Mrs Clayton were worried she wouldn’t be strict enough, well, they had no need. All the children were introduced to the birch as soon as she arrived. And most weeks, Peters, the gardener, had to bind up several rods. And they didn’t steep for long in the brine, that’s for sure.”

“And the Claytons never had any regrets about employing Miss Smythe?”

“None at all, Miss Strang. From time to time, Mrs Clayton would watch a child being flogged. Just to reassure herself, so she said, that a good standard of discipline was being maintained. For some reason she particularly liked watching the older boy being birched.”

Miss Strang turned to John, sitting naked and helpless on the chair.

“I hope you’ve been listening to this, John, and are grateful Mrs Mountfield will be spanking you with Mrs Clayton’s old hairbrush and not birching you as Miss Smythe would have done.”

Mrs Mountfield placed another upright chair in front of my brother and sat facing him. He was biting his lip now, his face pale and his eyes wide and dark. She said nothing as she raised the brush and brought it sweeping down across the front of his left thigh. There was a dull smacking sound. John’s head went back and he let out a shrill roar of agony, shaking his legs from side to side. Surprisingly, he made no attempt to move his hands but clasped them even more tightly to his head, rocking his body back and forth in his torment.

Stroke was laid on stroke and soon both thighs were red and inflamed. While the backs of the thighs are soft and slack, the fronts are more sinewy and the covering of flesh
thinner. They absorb less readily the hard strokes of a whipping, with the pain more intense and the bruising more frequent. John was gasping now, choking and racked with sobbing. There would be no comfort in his bed tonight I thought. And I doubted that even the pleasures of masturbation would hold any attraction.

Mrs Mountfield pressed his legs apart with her knees and exposed the soft inner walls of his thighs. John’s screams were like those of a hare being torn by the hounds. And in his torment, he snatched his hands from his head and flailed them desperately in the air. Mrs Mountfield stopped and waited. Slowly his screaming ceased.

“And what did I say, Master John about taking those hands off your head? What was it?”

He was sobbing, his head slumped forward. She gave a sharp slap of the brush to the side of his left thigh.

“What was it I said would happen if you was to take your hands off your head? Come along now, Master John.”

“Y . . . you said . . . said my hands would . . . would be smacked.”

She smiled.

“Smacked twice, Master John.”

She held his right wrist and extended his arm, turning the hand over and exposing the knuckles. Twice the brush was cracked against the small bony structure and then the same punishment was meted out to the knuckles of the other hand. He bucked and shook his legs, howling and screaming.

Mrs Mountfield sat back and watched.

“Just you stop it, Master John. I’ll not have such disrespect. Mrs Clayton couldn’t abide a self-willed boy and no more can I.”

With a sudden movement, she leant forward and brought the hard ebony back of the brush cracking down across his right knee. And then gave an equally sharp crack to the left knee. He roared and gobbled as the sickening pain rose within him like bile.

“Now just you put those hands back where I told you.”

Slowly, he complied.

Mrs Mountfield pressed open his legs and continued the spanking of his inner thighs. He screamed afresh as the exquisitely tender flesh was reduced to a sore and crimson rawness. He was a pitiful sight. A boy utterly broken. A small whimpering animal.   At last she made an end.

“Well, Master John, I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

Miss Strang stepped forward and, bending, unbuckled the restraining strap.

“Get up, John. And stand over there by your brother.   Livia help him on with his nightshirt.

“Thank you Mrs Mountfield. I trust you are satisfied that retribution has been exacted for the pain and suffering you had to endure over the past year.”

“Yes, Miss Strang. I do. And it were good to use that hairbrush as it was intended. I hope I weren’t over severe.”

“In the circumstances, probably not severe enough. But you have done what Mr Arbuthnot requested. Any deficiency on your part will be more than made good in the weeks ahead.”

She turned to me.

“And Livia please will you accompany Mrs Mountfield to the kitchen and return with a bowl of hot brine. You can then have the pleasure of sponging your brothers’ bottoms and thighs before they depart for bed. And while you are doing that, I will say prayers with them.”

(to be continued)

(The End)