Cordelia Lavington Chapter 11
By Governess
Copyright 2010 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 11
It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Lacy was sent to her. He had been aware before lunch that his bladder was full, and he was worried that he might not be able to contain himself until seven o'clock. But after lunch, he became increasingly sure that he would not. By half past three he was desperate, chewing his lip, and almost bursting. He was reprimanded for his lack of attention and soon had the threat of a caning hanging over him. Then, just before four, he felt that sharp insistent feeling that presages a bowel movement. He clenched; but to his horror began to go in his pants. Then almost immediately he emptied his bladder.
There are few things more shaming and distressing for a small boy than publicly defecating in his trousers. And to empty the bladder, too, so that urine runs down his legs and on to the floor, is a burning and shaming humiliation. He looked down and began to cry. Then was sent to Matron with the sniggers of his classmates in his ears.
"Come in."
He stood at the door, clutching his short trousers and trying to bunch them up around his legs. His face was hot and tear-stained. Mrs Lavington smiled. A grim, hard-lipped smile. She stood for a while savouring the boy's distress.
"So you have disgraced yourself, Lacy."
She pointed to a tiled shower.
"Stand in there. Off with your shoes and socks. And now undress. And hand your clothes to me as you do so."
Soon the boy was naked. She had taken his soiled pants and placed them to the side. Now she picked them up. Carefully turning them inside out.
"Do you know how they teach a young puppy not to mess on the floor, Lacy? How they toilet train him?"
"N . . no Matron."
She stepped towards him.
"They rub his nose in his own mess, Lacy."
She pulled his head back by his hair and rubbed the brown, soft, faecal material over his face. She poked it up his nose and then, holding his nostrils together, forced it into his mouth. He was choking now, wriggling furiously. But she held him tightly by the hair, almost lifting him off the ground. He was gasping, a harsh bitter taste in his mouth.
"Stand with your hands on your head, Lacy."
He stood shivering and sobbing, his feet cold on the tiled floor of the shower. In fact, it was not a true shower for there was no overhead unit, only a cold tap at knee height to which was attached a length of hose. Mrs Lavington deposited his soiled clothing in a sealed bag and dropped it in a basket. He watched nervously as she continued to busy herself. Then, after several minutes, that seemed to the boy a good deal longer, she put on a long rubber apron and came over to him.
"And kneel."
He went down. The tiles were hard and painful against his knees. Turning him round so his head was facing her, she picked up the hose and turned on the water. It gushed across his back and he have a scream for it was icy cold. Slowly, she hosed his down, paying particular attention to his buttocks and legs. And then his anus. Then she turned the fierce stream full on his face. He twisted to avoid the choking flood, but she grasped him by the hair and held the hose over his nostrils. He struggled spluttering and choking. When she was satisfied that he was clean, she ordered him out of the shower, still wet and dripping, pointing to an oval shaped stool over which she had placed a thick absorbent cloth."
"Stand by the stool, Lacy."
She went to a drawer and took out a large roll of towelling about a foot and a half in width. Shaking it out, she draped one end generously across the stool, holding the remainder of the length in her hand.
"Lie over the stool."
He started to lie across its width.
"No, not across the stool. Along its length, please."
He did so, and while his body was supported, his legs hung either side of the stool's oval end. His thighs were forced slightly apart.
First she drew the length of towel on which he was resting back over his body and tucked it under him. Then the towel she was holding was passed over his body and under the stool and then over his body again. She gave it a tug before passing it once more under the stool. Then, taking two safety pins from her pocket, and after a further tug to make sure it was tightly secured around the boy's body, she pinned the material to itself.
She stepped back. From one end, his head and arms emerged. From the other, where the towelling stopped short at his waist, his buttocks flared out in a soft, provocative mound, his legs hanging either side of the stool's oval end.
She walked across to a cupboard and opening it took out a martinet.
Mrs Lavington's mother had been born Marie Réglat, a French woman from a strict Protestant family in Provence. She had married an Englishman and had moved to Northumberland just before Cordelia's sixth birthday. Much had been left behind, but not the martinet. It had been regularly used during her childhood, and was a formidable implement of correction. It consisted of a wooden handle, to which were attached eight leather lashes, thick and hard, cut square down their length so that each lash would bite into soft flesh. After her mother's death, Cordelia had kept the martinet and looked after it, knowing that at some time in the future she would use it. Use it as it had been used on her.
She had, for reasons not entirely clear to her, never used the martinet on her own children, preferring the more traditional English implements of hairbrush and cane. However, a month ago she had found the martinet in a drawer and decided to take it in to the reformatory where it might prove of use. Before being put away all those years ago, the leather lashes had been well smeared with a thick leather dressing. She couldn't remember doing it, but the leather had been well preserved and, after some further treatment, proved as supple and punishing as it had been on first purchase.
She stood behind the boy. There were beads of water on his neck and on his buttocks and legs. Where his thighs were parted by the oval end of the stool, she could just see his small puckered anus. Below this, out of sight, but clear of the stool end, was his tight little scrotum and limp penis. She gave a smile of satisfaction, and ran the lashes of the martinet through her hand.
"Well, Lacy, I thought you were instructed to exercise some self-control over your bodily functions."
She paused.
"I am very disappointed in you, Lacy. Very disappointed."
She flicked the lashes of the martinet so that they dropped into the cleft of his buttocks. She gave another flick and then drew them slowly, tantalisingly, back. He gave a gasp at the creeping sensation.
"But there is a remedy, Lacy. And this is it. A little whip that most French boys of your age are very familiar with. It is called a martinet."
She paused.
"And it is a very versatile little whip, Lacy. Very versatile. It can be used to punish any part of a boy's body. It can be lashed across his back, or his bottom, his legs or his hands. But that is not how I intend to use it on you Lacy."
Again she paused. And then flicked the lashes forward into the cleft of his bottom.
"Tell me, Lacy, what are the parts of your body over which you seem to have little or no control?"
She waited.
"I am surprised that you find the question so perplexing. Let me help. You have messed your trousers, Lacy. Where did it come from?"
The boy was terrified. He could hardly speak.
"F .. . f . . . f . . . from, my bottom, Matron."
"And where in your bottom?"
Any embarrassment at speaking of such things had been driven out by the greater shame of his predicament.
"F . . . f . . . from the hole.
"The hole, Lacy, is known at the anus."
"And there is another part of the body over which you have no control, isn't there?"
"Please, Miss."
"'Please' does not answer my question, does it, Lacy? And you will not address me as Matron, not Miss."
She waited.
"Ye . . . yes, Matron."
"So over what other part of your body have you shown a lack of control? The answer it surely obvious?"
"My . . . my . . . thing, Matron."
"Your 'thing', Lacy? And what is your 'thing'?"
He was squirming now, as she tortured him with her inquisition.
"I said what is your 'thing', Lacy?"
"It . . . it's what I wee with . . . Matron"
"What you wee with. What you wee with into your trousers, Lacy. And what is its proper name?"
"My . . my . . . my penis . . . Matron."
"Yes, your penis. And that's not all you do with your penis is it, Lacy? Wee into your trousers."
The boy was writhing now in his desperation, a small snared animal with no hope of escape.
"Well is it?"
The reply was barely audible.
"No . . Matron."
She walked round behind him and, with the handle of the martinet, reached under and tapped his limp, flaccid penis.
"So, what do you do with this? And let's use the correct word, Lacy. What is the word for what you did?"
"M . . m . . mast . . ."
"The word is masturbate, Lacy."
She walked around him and lifted his chin.
"And do you enjoy masturbating, Lacy? Does it give you a good feeling?"
His face was burning. There was a drumming in his ears.
"Well, Lacy? Is it enjoyable?"
His voice was dry and barely audible, a croaking whisper.
"Yes . . . Matron."
With his chin forced up, he had to look into her eyes. She held him in her gaze.
"So tell me, Lacy, what do you think would stop a boy masturbating when it's so very enjoyable?"
"I . . . I'm not sure . . . Matron."
"You are not sure?"
"N . . . no, Matron"
"But the answer is surely obvious, Lacy. It has to be a punishment that is so painful and so unpleasant that no boy would dare risk it even for the pleasures of masturbation."
She paused.
"But I am going to be merciful, Lacy. I am going to restrict your punishment on this occasion to merely teaching a lesson to those parts of your body that have let you down. That need training in better behaviour. And we have already identified which they are, haven't we?"
"Ye . . . yes, Matron."
"Yes, Lacy. We have. A lesson to that little hole in your bottom, not to mess in your trousers. A lesson to your penis not to wet in your trousers. And another lesson to your penis not to become over excited first thing in the morning and tempt you to masturbate."
Suddenly, he knew what she intended. He kicked his legs and stretched out his neck.
"No . . . no. Please, Matron. Please. I'll never do it again. Please. I promise."
But nothing could prevent her whipping him as she intended. She stood in front of him and raised the martinet.
(To be continued)