Cordelia Lavington Chapter 15
By Governess
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 15
Samuel changed into his pyjamas and sat on the edge of the bed. Before pulling up the striped cotton trousers, he had looked once more at his bottom and run a finger over the raised marks left by the cane. He wondered what his mother wanted to talk about. Usually when she used the expression "a little talk" she meant a sound spanking or worse. But he'd already been caned. He shivered.
He heard his mother go into William's room to say prayers. Then her steps as she crossed to his room. She stood there in the doorway for a moment, before entering and closing the door behind her.
"Stand up, Samuel. A gentleman doesn't remain seated when a lady enters the room."
The boy got up and waited. His mother ran her eyes up and down his small compact pyjama clad form.
"Samuel do you know the boy, Lacy?"
"Yes, mother."
"I had to punish him today. Punish him most severely."
She paused.
"And do you know why I had to do that?"
"N . . no, mother."
"It was because I found evidence that he had been playing with himself, abusing himself."
Again she paused, noticing how he was colouring up, nervously shifting from one foot to the other.
"And do you know what that evidence was, Samuel?"
"No . . mother."
"It was a nasty sticky mess on his pyjamas. And do you know where that came from?"
He was scarlet now. He had heard boys talk about it and snigger together.
"Well?"
"I . . I'm not sure, mother."
"Drop your pyjama trousers, Samuel."
Reluctantly he did so, letting them fall around his ankles. She stepped forward and placed her finger under his penis.
"This, Samuel, is your penis. When you want to pass water you stand in front of the lavatory and urinate. Passing water is known as urinating because the water that comes out is called urine. Do you understand?"
"Ye . . . yes, mother."
"But boys use their penises for something else, Samuel. Don't they? They touch and play with them, often in bed at night or early in the morning. And they like the feeling. They like it very much, don't they?"
He hung his head.
"Well, don't they?"
"Ye . . yes, mother."
She paused.
"And is that something you do, Samuel?"
He knew that his hot face gave him away. To deny it would be a lie. And he knew how his mother dealt with lies. He bit his lip
"Yes, mother."
She nodded.
"I am not surprised. It's a great temptation for a boy. It can become a habit that can dominate the whole of his life. Make him its slave."
She smiled.
"And we don't want that, do we Samuel?"
He was trembling now, his lips quivering, his mouth slightly open.
"Well, do we, Samuel?"
N . . no . . . mother."
"So how often do you do it?"
"N . . not often, mother."
"And how often is 'not often'? Once a month?"
"Yes, mother. About once a month."
"Really? Once a month?"
She waited. He said nothing.
"Are you sure it isn't once a week?"
He wriggled uncomfortably.
"Well?"
"Per . . . perhaps sometimes once a week."
His voice trailed off. He blinked back his tears. She reached out and tilted his head back, looking at him intently. He was unable to hold her gaze.
"I see. First once a month. And now once a week."
She paused.
"So, Samuel, when was the last time you did it? Was it a month ago? A week ago?"
She tipped his chin back even further.
"Or was it last night?"
"I . . . I . . . "
"Well?"
"Please mother . . . "
"Why are you pleading, Samuel? All I'm looking for is a simple answer to a question.
The boys squirmed in his desperation.
"You will answer me, Samuel. And I want the truth."
She reached out and circled her forefinger and thumb around his little penis and scrotum. And squeezed.
"Answer me. When did you last play with it? Was it last night?"
He squealed.
"No, mother, please."
"So when was it?"
"This morning. It was this morning."
"When this morning?"
"Please, mother. In bed. Before I got up."
She released him.
"Pull up your pyjama trousers, Samuel."
Whimpering he reached down and drew them up, tying the cord around his waist. She looked at him.
"Go to the drawing room. I will be down to deal with you in a moment. And while you're waiting you'll stand facing the wall by the clock with your hands behind your back."
Disconsolately, he went, acutely aware of how the thin cotton of his pyjama trousers tautened and rubbed against his bottom as he descended the stairs.
Mrs Lavington made her way to her bedroom. She knew she had to punish him severely. Both for his failure to tell the truth, and for abusing himself. She sat at her desk and opened her Bible. It fell open at the Book of Proverbs. It was one of her favourite books. And certain chapters were favoured above others. She read from Chapter 23
Withhold not correction from the child: for it thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die.
Thou shalt beat him the rod and shalt deliver his soul from hell.
Although already soundly caned for his lack of effort and for his chattering in class, she wouldn't hesitate to make him submit to further correction. She bent her head in silent prayer.
But her mind wandered back to the time when her brother Charles had started masturbating. He must have been about ten. The house had been small and they had shared a bedroom together. He had woken her early in the morning by his movements and she had listened to him playing and pleasuring himself beneath the sheets. She knew what he was doing for she had overhead her mother talking about it to a friend.
No Miriam, not yet, but when he does I will know how to deal with it.
And her mother did know how to deal with it. She still remembered the first time. She had alerted her mother to Charles's wriggling and groaning in bed, claiming that it had disturbed her. He had been summoned and made to submit to a shaming and probing inquisition. At the end, his guilt established, he had been whipped. The severity of the whipping brought home to Cordelia how grievously he had sinned. Afterwards her mother explained that God had provided illness and even blindness, as a natural consequence of such sinning. Better by far that he should be punished by his mother. But Charles found masturbating irresistible. Like the moth that is burnt by the candle he returned with singed wings to be burnt again.
Sharing a bedroom made it difficult for him to hide his wickedness. And he would plead with his sister not to report him. Perhaps a week or more might go by and she would say nothing. Then, when he least expected it, she would inform her mother and see him well flogged. For she concealed his sin, not to spare him, but to tease and tantalise herself, to wind the spring of her sensuality to an ever tighter coil. Sometimes with a flogging hanging over him, he would beg her to intercede on his behalf, and she would promise to do so, keeping him on tenterhooks until the very last moment, feeling the coil inside her tighten even further almost to breaking point. But she knew any intercession would be fruitless and indeed a remission of the penalty was the very last thing she herself desired. Afterwards she would go to his room and offer comfort, being almost grateful for the pleasure he had given her.
When Mrs Lavington entered the drawing room, Samuel was standing facing the wall as she had instructed.
"Turn round, Samuel."
As he did so, he saw the tawse in her hand.
"No, please, mother. I'm sorry. Please, not the tawse."
"And why not the tawse, Samuel?"
He hung his head.
"Be . . . because it hurts . . . so much."
"It is meant to hurt, Samuel. How do you think small boys learn how to behave. To avoid wrongdoing. Well?"
He said nothing. She spoke more gently.
"Would you fear a punishment that didn't hurt, Samuel? Well, would you?"
His voice was low and barely audible.
"No, mother."
"Of course not."
She paused.
"Sin is a dreadful thing, Samuel. Although it is sweet and tempting, it makes us ugly in the sight of God. Children are born sinners. No child has to be taught to lie. He lies naturally. No child has to be taught to disobey. He disobeys because disobedience is in his very nature. So what God has done is to provide those who rule over children with a means of making the sweetness of sin, bitter. A boy may be desperate to sin, but if he knows that the bitterness of punishment will be greater than the pleasure of sin, he may think again and control his sinful urges."
She put her arm around him.
"The Bible talks of us enjoying the pleasures of sin for a season. That is for just a little while. The pleasure of sin is not a lasting pleasure."
She took her arm away and loosed the cord of his pyjama trousers. They slowly slithered to his ankles.
"No, please, mother."
She placed the tip of her finger under his little penis.
"And when you play with this, Samuel, is it pleasurable? Do you enjoy it?"
His face was red, his eyes bright. He had the look of a boy suffused with guilty fear. He looked down. His voice was low and gravely.
"Yes, mother.
"Yes, I am sure you do, Samuel. And you are not alone. All boys find it most enjoyable. But it is a sinful enjoyment."
She paused.
"And does it last long, that enjoyment? Does it make you feel full of joy all day? Bright and happy? Or does it disappear? Slip away as if it had never been?"
He nodded, hopelessly.
"Yes, Samuel. The pleasures of sin don't last. That is why you are tempted to sin again and again. Searching for that little fleeting pleasure. Hundreds of little steps leading a boy to Hell."
Again she paused. He was weeping now.
"I . . . I'm sorry . . . m . . . mother."
"I'm sure you are, Samuel. But a boy needs practical help to keep him from sinning."
She ran the tawse through her hand.
(To be continued)