Cordelia Lavington Chapter 17

Cordelia Lavington Chapter 17
By Governess

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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 17

Elizabeth crouched, holding her breath. Her mother had her back to her. The tawse was again swung heavily through the air. Elizabeth watched unblinking, savouring his helplessness. His screams came in desperate surges of agony as her mother embossed her discipline upon the cheeks of his bottom; and then on the soft roundness of his thighs, working slowly down each, from the under flesh of the bottom to the hollow of the knee.

Before the end, Elizabeth retreated up the stairs. She felt what she'd done was wrong and that if her mother knew of it she'd be in serious trouble. Soon she heard the sobbing boy being ushered upstairs and returned to his room. She stood by the door and listened. She could hear every word.

"Hang the tawse back on its hook, Samuel. And stop crying. I expect tears after a severe punishment but that is enough."

There was a pause.

"Sit on the chair. And look at me."

She could imagine her brother tentatively seating himself, flinching as his wealed flesh touched the hard, cold seat. And then looking up with a wet face and glistening eyes. Eyes that were nervously scanning his mother's face for a sign that his punishment was truly over.

"So, Samuel, why was it necessary to strap you so severely?"

Elizabeth heard a strangled sobbing noise.

"I said no more crying, Samuel. Do you wish to be punished for disobedience?"

"No, mother. I . . . I'm sorry."

"So let us return to my question. Why was it necessary to strap you so severely?"

She strained to hear her brother's response.

"Please, mother . . . because . . . I . . . "

His voice dropped to a whisper. Elizabeth edged the door a little further ajar.

" . . . because I . . . I mast . . ."

"The word is masturbated, Samuel. But it was more than that, wasn't it? I had to be particularly harsh with you because you lied about it."

There was a long pause.

"I . . . I'm sorry . . . mother."

"Well, I trust you have learned your lesson. And that there will be no more playing with yourself. And no more lies. Whether about that or anything else. Now let us say prayers."

Elizabeth quietly eased her door to and closed it. She wriggled back between the sheets and shut her eyes. It was not long before she heard the door open.

"Are you asleep, Elizabeth?"

"Nearly, mother. I put my book down when you said."

"Good girl. Now off to sleep properly."

She went out and closed the door. Then, made her way downstairs to the drawing room and removed the padded board from the chair, returning it to its place behind the sideboard. Then she went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. When the kettle was boiling fiercely she poured a little into the teapot to warm it and then emptied it into the sink. Two heaped spoonfuls of tea from the caddy were then added to the heated pot before the boiling water was poured on. She liked her tea strong. Taking it to her little study, she placed it on a small table adjacent to the armchair, and sat down. After a hard day she welcomed this moment of relaxation when the children had been settled down. She sipped the tea appreciatively.

Tomorrow she would speak to Howard Greaves about William. Perhaps she should institute a similar arrangement to that put in place for Samuel. The sooner a boy learnt the necessity of concentration and hard work the better.

And then there was Elizabeth. She was clearly enthralled by her brothers' punishments. Not that there was anything wrong with that. To her it was perfectly natural that a girl should enjoy witnessing a boy's suffering under the rod. She had enjoyed watching her own brothers punished. And it was a good foundation for motherhood. There were many mothers who were theoretically convinced of the benefits of a well deserved whipping, but who in practice were reluctant to provide it. But a duty that gave pleasure was seldom shirked. And from the beginning she had disciplined her children with enthusiasm. No doubt Elizabeth would do the same..

But there was a risk she might indulge Elizabeth, being so like her. That must certainly be guarded against. The girl had a wilful streak and a contrary spirit. She was also prone to lie and had been punished several times when caught in an untruth. An untruthful child was an abomination to the Lord. The girl might enjoy the sight of her brothers' being punished, but at the age of nine her own bottom would be bared for the rod many times yet.

She wondered whether Elizabeth masturbated. She felt far less strongly about a girl's indulging herself in this way, but it was certainly not something to encourage. Looking back, although it was difficult to be sure, she seemed to think that at Elizabeth's age she'd already discovered the delights of masturbation. Of running her moist finger up and down her little slit and finding that special spot that made her wriggle with a strange excitement. Several times her mother had caught her and spanked her soundly. But she was no way as severe on her as she had been on her brothers when they were caught masturbating. For a boy, it could become a vicious, controlling, destructive habit and any punishment was justified to keep him out of its clutches. She frowned as she thought of Charles and Marcel, and of some of the measures her mother had resorted to.

Upstairs, Elizabeth lay in her bed. In her imagination, she crouched again on the stairs and watched as her brother was flogged with that heavy leather tawse. She remembered how her mother had given it to him for his birthday. She could still see his face as he opened the wrapping, expecting some wonderful surprise. And then the bitter disappointment, made yet more bitter when he realised what it was. She savoured once more his cringing shame and humiliation.

Now she crossed from her crouching position on the stairs and stepped as an invisible presence into the room. Standing first where she could examine the marks raised on her brother's flesh, see the red inflamed pores. Then, she moved where she could see his face more clearly. His tongue protruding from his mouth, twisting in agony. The saliva on his teeth and chin. Her hand crept down and lifted her nightdress. Her eyes were tightly shut.

In the room opposite, Samuel lay face down on his bed. He wriggled angrily at being forbidden a pleasure that by now he regarded as his right. And as he moved, he could feel the sheets rubbing against his welted bottom and thighs. He sobbed in his frustration, and tears of rage and self-pity wet his pillow. He twisted a little on to his side and his hand went into his pyjama bottoms.

When he had been little he had rubbed his penis with a single finger, stroking it, slowly at first, and then more vigorously. But now he gently pinched the flaccid skin on its front, rubbing it between finger and thumb. A wave of calm swept over him. He had slipped the noose of his mother's control; and entered once more the paradise from which he had been cast. He felt a surge of self-confidence. But afterwards, he lay limp and guilty, wondering whether he would be discovered in his sin. Trying to convince himself that what he had suffered was a pre-payment for his present transgression. And then he remembered his mother's words of how fleeting the pleasure was.

William in his room stirred in his sleep. When he had clambered into bed he had slipped his pyjama trousers down and pressed his hot spanked bottom against the cool of the sheets. He had wriggled appreciatively at the contrast. But now in his dreams he was riding an elephant. Not riding it like a child in the zoo, but controlling it like a mahout. He was seated in a small basket almost on its head and was reaching forward with a long hooked stick. The elephant was gorgeously attired. Somehow he knew it was his mother. And then the trunk came curling back and seized him around his waist and began squeezing him. Tighter and tighter. But somehow he slipped free and a great crowd was cheering him and he was on a low platform accepting their adulation. And then at the back of the crowd he saw his mother. She came forward and the crowd parted for her. In her hand was a rattan cane. He murmured and twisted in his sleep.

Downstairs, Mrs Carrington was reading a letter from her cousin. It had arrived that morning but this was the first opportunity she had had to open it. She frowned as she read it. Then, as was her practice, returned it to its envelope and slipped it into a pigeon hole in her desk.

Camille was the widowed daughter of her mother's sister and lived in Provence. They exchanged letters once or twice a year. Amid the various items of family and village news was an account of how she was having regularly to apply the martinet to her eight year old daughter, Anna. Mrs Lavington smiled. She had last seen Anna two years ago. A wilful child with a small compact body. She could imagine the deep satisfaction of teaching Anna obedience with the martinet and raising those long narrow throbbing weals aux petites fesses rondes. Camille was a strict mother and under her tutelage, a child learned obedience by the swift and certain response of une bonne fessée déculottée.

She thought again of how she had wrung an admission from Samuel that he had been masturbating. As long as a boy released no seminal fluid, it was very difficult to catch him. And yet the earlier a boy was arrested in the habit the better. She had found her interrogation of the boy rewarding. It was a shock for a boy to be caught pleasuring himself, to be apprehended in the very act, and led red-faced to judgement and shameful punishment. But perhaps worse, and certainly as satisfying for his mother, was the slow, remorseless cross-examination that ensnared him in confusion and forced from him a reluctant confession of his guilt.

She sipped her tea.

Perhaps she should institute a session once a week to allow the children to confess their sins of the previous seven day. A weekly confessional. Followed by weekly penance. Doubtless there would be prevarication and a failure of absolute honesty. But then the punishment would need to be the more severe, and a double lesson taught. Well, she would think about it.

And tomorrow, there were still Michael Clough and Oliver Preuss to deal with. And when she ran her morning check on the beds, possibly other boys who would need to be punished. She remembered how she had used the martinet on Lacy's offending member. How he had screamed as the lanières de cuir has cut and bitten into the soft sensitivity between his legs. Again she remembered how her mother had dealt with Charles and Marcel all those years ago. She frowned.

And tomorrow she must speak to Michael Greaves about William. And whether a note system ought to be instituted for him as for Samuel. She sighed. A busy day ahead. She had better get ready for bed. But first she must read her Bible and pray.

(To be continued)