Miss Strang Chapter 85

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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When I returned, prayers had been said and the two boys were standing with their backs to the wall, their nightshirts lifted and draped over their shoulders.

“Put the bowl on the table and fetch two large towels from the cupboard, Livia.”

The towels were rough to the touch for Mrs Mountfield always dried towels in front of the range.

“And sit on that chair with a towel across your lap.”

Each boy in turn was made to lie across the towel and each squirmed and gasped at the hot briny water was sponged across his wealed bottom and thighs. And then John had to stand and allow the front of his thighs to be sponged.

“Place your hands on you head, John. This is being done for our own good.”

And then I was instructed to dry him. I pressed the towel against the wetness, reluctant to rub the harshness of the towel against the hot, sore flesh.

“No, Livia, that is no way to towel a boy. A good vigorous rub that leaves the skin tingling. Do it properly, please. And then the same for Simon.”

When I had finished both boys were sobbing. Miss Strang gave a grim smile.

“Enough of that. And down with your nightshirts. It is upstairs to bed for both of you. Lights straight out. And count yourselves fortunate you have a soft cotton sheet to lie on and not rough canvas. I will be up to check on you a little later.”

Miss Strang pulled out a chair and sat on it, and beckoned to me.

“Come and stand here, Livia. And hands behind your back, please.”

I felt a nervous tremor run through me.

“Do you remember what I said before Mrs Mountfield arrived to spank the boys, Livia?”

“Yes, Miss Strang.”

“And what was it?”

I squirmed inwardly for I knew where such questioning was leading.

“You . . . you said that I had a . . . a poor attitude and that . . . that we’d need to discuss it later.”

“Yes, Livia. An attitude of anger and resentment. So please fetch the hairbrush from my desk.”

I walked over and picked it up. She took it and smacked it across her palm.

“No, Miss Strang. Please, no.”

“You do not argue with me, child. Off with your jacket. And slip your braces down. And over to the armchair. I can detect a stiffness of neck and a spirit of resentment from the very way you walk.”

I went clutching my breeches, and stood facing the arm. There was something frightening and yet arousing in the way she pulled my nether garments to my ankles.

“And bend over.”

I positioned myself over the arm and waited. I heard her again smack the brush across her palm. And I could feel my heart starting in my chest.

“You are a very foolish girl, Livia. Your father still believes that a spell in the reformatory would be the best way to teach you ladylike manners and comely behaviour. And I had to argue, argue fiercely, to prevent that. And yet you are still behaving like a spoilt child.”

She paused.

“Do you want to join your brothers in the reformatory? If so, that can most certainly be arranged. Tomorrow you will be taken there to be birched. Birched, as a reformatory boy is birched. And it would be the easiest thing in the world to leave you there. To lick your wounds. To be subject to harsh reformatory discipline for the rest of the month. Or longer.”

Smack went the brush across her palm.

“Is that what you want?”

My head felt hot, and my heart was like a small trapped animal in a cage.

“Please, Miss Strang. No. Please.”

“No. I am sure not. But the question remains. What is to be done in the face of such childish resentment. Well?”

“I . . I thought you were going to . . . to spank me . . . Miss Strang?”

“Was I? Or perhaps I am going to send for Mrs Mountfield and have her spank you as she spanked your brothers. Or cane you as Miss Elizabeth Clayton was caned.”

She roughed my boy’s shirt up my back and her hand was warm on my skin.

“Or should I simply ask Mrs McLaughlan to double the flogging you are to receive tomorrow?”

I lay over the arm of the chair, my breathing short and anxious, but strangely secure within the confines of her will. And then I felt the smooth hard back of the brush gently smack my bottom cheeks, the usual preliminary to a sound spanking. I waited, holding my breath.

“But in many ways, Livia, it would be a shame to send you to Mrs McLaughlan with a marked and bruised bottom. Most of the boys she punishes have bottoms scarred by recent flogging. And I am sure she would appreciate a clean, fresh young bottom to birch.”

She paused.

“Get up. And stand up straight. And hands behind your back.”

I stood there with my breeches around my ankles. Her voice was soft and enquiring.

“And when did you last examine your bottom in the mirror, Livia?”

How well she knew the ways of children. Often, after being settled down, I would disobediently climb from between the sheets and stand in front of the cheval mirror, raising my nightdress and twisting around to run my hand over the enticing fullness of each buttock. Feeling the softness and the springy resilience. If I had been recently spanked, I would examine the marks, fingering the raised flesh. And as the days passed, I would note how the marks slowly faded until all that was left were the pale outlines of the brush’s hard oval back. And if I had been caned, I would trace my finger lightly along the raised throbbing weals, sometimes with my eyes closed like a blind man reading braille.

“I asked, Livia, when you last examined your bottom in the mirror.”

“Last night . . . Miss Strang.”

“And what did you see? Was it marked?”

“No, Miss Strang. But it was red and looked sore.”

“And was it sore?”

“Yes . . . Miss Strang.”

“And why was that?”

“Because of . . . what Mrs Mountfield did after I had knelt on the scrubbing board.”

“And what was that?”

I reddened with shame at the memory.

“She . . . she scrubbed my bottom with . . . with a scrubbing brush.”

“And why was that? Why did a girl of your age need to be dealt with in such a way?”

“Be . . . because . . .”

“I am waiting, Livia.”

“Because I went into John’s bedroom.”

“I may be strict, Livia, but I do not punish a child simply because she goes into her brother’s bedroom, unless forbidden. What were you doing there?”

“He’d had a bad dream and . . . and I was comforting him.”

Her voice was soft and enquiring.

“And you were punished for comforting your brother?”

“No, Miss Strang. I got into bed with him and . . . and comforted him.”

“What you mean, Livia is that you stroked and fondled between his legs. That you masturbated him. Knowing full well that was wrong. Is that correct?”

I hung my head.

“Look at me. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Miss Strang.”

“But that was not all, was it? You then attempted to make him touch and fondle you.”

She smiled.

“But like most boys he was more interested in his own pleasure than in yours. And then what did you do?”

“I . . . I started to do it myself.”

“And?”

“And you came in and stopped me.”

“For which, Livia, I hope you are grateful.”

She paused.

“And so, on my instructions, you had your bottom scrubbed by Mrs Mountfield. And rightly so. For your disobedience was a stiff-necked opposition to my will. And that, I am afraid, is what I am still seeing in your attitude, Livia.”

She placed her fingers under my chin and tipped my head back.

“And what were we discussing before Mrs Mountfield came in?

“It . . . it was about the punishment John and Simon were to receive and . . . and how Mrs Mountfield would punish them.”

“Indeed, Livia. And you confessed to finding the sight of your brothers being whipped not altogether disagreeable. Is that right?”

“Yes, Miss Strang.”

“And if I recall correctly, it was at that point that you became stiff-necked and began to display a resentful and impudent spirit.”

I cast my eyes down.

“Yes, Miss Strang.”

“And why was that, pray?”

“I’m . . . I’m not sure . . . Miss Strang.”

“Then I suggest you reflect a little more carefully.”

She waited.

“Well?”

“I don’t know, Miss Strang.”

“Then I will tell you, Livia. You were feeling bitter about your own impending chastisement at the hands of Mrs McLaughlan. A chastisement to which I, in my wisdom, had sentenced you. And, may I add, with the agreement of your father, who would have sent you to the boys’ reformatory for more than a whipping. And you were resenting my decision. A decision taken for your own good in response to your perverse behaviour.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Am I right?”

I reddened and hung my head.

“Yes, Miss Strang.”

“Yes, Livia. And in that case, I am sure you will agree you need to be punished. Resentment and an ill-governed spirit in a young girl cannot go uncorrected. And to those faults we may add ingratitude for my shielding you from the severity of your father.”

She paused.

“But I have no wish to mark your body before your flogging by Mrs McLaughlan tomorrow. When we arrive at the reformatory, I will discuss with her what additional penalty should be imposed. In the meantime you will pull up your breeches and go and change into your nightshirt. And you will then go and stand outside my door. I’ve not finished with you yet.”

And as I stood outside her door, I could feel my heart beating and there seemed to be a singing in my ears. I remembered the last time I had entered my governess’s room. Of the tantalising caressing and the bitter disappointment that ensued. I felt my resentment rising like bile.

It was not long before I heard her steps mounting the stairs. She opened the door.

“You may enter, Livia.”

As before I breathed the delicately perfumed air and felt a momentary elation at being permitted to step into her private room.

“Stand over there. With your back to the wall.”

She went to a cupboard and opening it reached inside and removed a wooden tray. It was about eighteen inches in length and looked to be a foot wide. It was about an inch in depth. I watched as she placed it on the floor at my feet. She then returned to the cupboard and took out a large jar.

“I once had the good fortune, Livia, to govern a small Japanese boy. He was about eight years of age. He was a very intelligent child. His father was a diplomat and his parents were anxious their son should be taught by an English governess and commence learning our language. In addition to corporal chastisement, which was to be administered with a swishy length of rattan cane, his mother instructed that he should kneel for half an hour both before and after punishment.”

She unscrewed the jar and emptied the contents onto the tray.

“As you see, Livia, the tray is now covered with a scattering of rice.”

She smiled.

“And that was what the boy Noritaka had to kneel on. His mother said that boys need to shed tears in readiness for punishment; and then again afterwards as they contemplate their wrongdoing. He had been named Noritaka, she told me, because it means obedience to a parent’s law.”

She smiled, and pointed to the tray.

“Kneel.”

I hesitated.

“I said kneel, Livia.”

Slowly, I placed my knees on the tray of scattered rice. At first I felt nothing but slowly the hard grains began to dig into the tautened skin across my knees. And soon I was grimacing and mewing in agony.

“You will kneel in silence, Livia, and with a straight back. Any wriggling and I will add five minutes to the time.”

I watched as she performed her bedtime toilet. She had no shame in exposing herself, and I felt a flickering within at her nakedness and the soft, slim, roundness of her flesh. She arranged her pillows and peeled back the sheets. Then, sat in bed and picked up a magazine from the small bedside table.

There was no clock visible and I had no idea how time was passing. All I knew was that my back ached and the pain of the rice granules digging into my knees. After a while, Miss Strang looked up.

“You are wriggling, Livia. It is better that you remain still. Moving about is only going to make the pain worse - and in view of what I said, it will prolong your punishment. You will remain there for an additional five minutes.”

“No, please Miss Strang.”

“And did I not say you were to kneel in silence?”

I wilted and slumped in my despair.”

“And to keep a straight back?”

She placed her magazine on the counterpane, and picked up a small clock from the bedside table.

“It is now ten past seven, Livia. You will remain on your knees for another half an hour until twenty to eight. And if there is any further disobedience, the time will be extended further. Do you understand?”

“Ye . . yes . . . Miss Strang.”

She resumed her reading, marking the text from time to time with a pencil. After a while she looked up.

“I know this must seem cruel, Livia, but it is being done with your best interests at heart. And however much you resent it, the flogging tomorrow will also be done out of a deep concern for your welfare. I hope you appreciate that.”

She continued reading. I tried to ease my position without moving, but as I reduced the weight on one knee, the pressure on the other increased, and the hard grains of rice ground into my flesh. I gave a little gasp. I stared at my governess, expecting her to look up and condemn me to further suffering, but either she didn’t register the sound, or chose not to respond to it.

The measure of time when one is in agony moves at a different pace to ordinary time. Whether five or fifteen minutes had passed before Miss Strang looked up again, I was unable to say. She held up the magazine from which she was reading.

“This, Livia, is a journal for mothers and governesses. I am reading a most interesting article called Penitential Postures. It is about the various ways in which positioning a child may be used in punishment. I would like you to listen to this, please. And you will straighten your back and stop slouching.”

She read with a firm yet entrancing voice that demanded attention.

Young girls, as childhood slips away to be replaced by increasing maturity, may become restive and display a mutinous and defiant spirit. Some parents may indulge this and pander to the child, but that is to eschewed.

She looked up.

“Do you know what ‘eschewed’ means, Livia?”

I shook my head.

“It means ‘to be avoided at all costs’. In other words, children should never be pandered to or indulged.”

She continued to read.

Childish behaviour is no less childish because the child is twelve or thirteen. Indeed, such behaviour should be regarded as more reprehensible in an older child than in a younger. Childish resentment, thoughtlessness, tantrums, all require the same response from parents and guardians: a sound bare bottom spanking with the back of a hairbrush. And should that not bring about an immediate improvement in attitude, then sterner measures are required.

My own daughter went through such a period of thoughtless and rebellious behaviour just before her thirteenth birthday. Several spankings followed, but to no avail. She was told that a repetition of such childishness would result in her spending a period on her knees both before and after punishment. Her lack of concern at such a prospect rapidly dissolved when she discovered she was required to strip to her under vest and kneel upon two bricks that I had placed in the hall. And she had to remain in that position with her back straight and in silence for an hour. And then after two dozen swishy strokes across her bare bottom with the rattan cane I kept for her brother, she had to return to the bricks for a further hour. I have to say that after several such sessions her behaviour improved rapidly.

She put the book down and looked up.

“I trust that makes you realise, Livia, that I am not alone in taking the step I have in confronting your untoward behaviour. Behaviour that will not be tolerated either by me or, I may add, by any responsible adult. And certainly not by Mrs Innes into whose charge you are shortly to be placed. On this occasion I have spared you the rattan cane, but Mrs McLaughlan will more than remedy that omission tomorrow at the reformatory. You will continue kneeling for another ten minutes before we say prayers.”

When I had returned to my bedroom, I sat on the bed and examined my knees, and spent some time digging out the rice grains that had become embedded in the numb yet aching flesh. I looked around the room and felt a sharp pang of self-pity at the thought that I would not be sleeping there again for a while.

I snuggled down between the sheets and after a while my hand crept to the soft enticing place between my legs. Slowly I stroked my middle finger up and down the soft moist lips of the opening and then inserted it further in.

I was imagining a boy being flogged across the birching table at the reformatory.

(to be continued)

(The End)