Cordelia Lavington Chapter 19
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 19
At breakfast, Samuel sat with an almost infinite care, lowering himself delicately onto the hard wooden seat. He grimaced as his bottom took the weight of his body and he wriggled uncomfortably.
"I'm sure your bottom's hurting, Samuel, but I'll not have wriggling at the breakfast table. Did you look at your bottom and legs in the mirror this morning?"
"Yes, mother."
"And what did you see."
He cast his eyes down and flushed.
"They were red and there were marks. And . . . and in places it's still very sore and a bit sticky."
"Yes, I am sure it is. I'll give you a note for Mr Crawley. And you had better come to the infirmary at lunch break and I'll see whether more iodine is needed."
Mrs Lavington glanced at her daughter. Elizabeth was quiet and subdued. She frowned.
"I'm sure you consider there are good reasons for being a bit sulky this morning, Elizabeth, but my advice is to pull yourself out of it. If you don't, you won't concentrate on your lessons. And you know how Mrs Fairclough is likely to deal with that. Now all of you eat up your breakfast."
She rose from the table and went to her study. Sitting down she took out a sheet of notepaper.
Dear Mr Crawley,
Thank you so much for your report of yesterday about Samuel. I am most grateful. But a mark of ten out of twenty for spelling is simply not good enough. I am sure he has difficulty in remembering words but that only means that greater effort is required. As I said, Samuel is not a boy who will spontaneously increase his effort. I truly believe that the best way is to set a demanding target and then apply the rod whenever he falls short. I know you are reluctant to do this, but I am not. Last night he was soundly spanked for his poor marks in both spelling and arithmetic
And thank you for alerting me to his propensity not only to chatter in class but to do so when talking has been expressly forbidden. He certainly deserved three strokes of the cane. However, to reinforce the lesson I have given him a further caning. This time across a completely bare bottom.
I have also had a little talk with Samuel about masturbation. He admitted that he frequently abuses himself. However, the confession had to be painfully drawn out of him and during the process he repeatedly lied to me. For that he was severely tawsed. I mention this because he will probably wriggle at his desk during the morning and find it difficult to concentrate. My advice is not to indulge him but to insist he sits up straight and attends.
Once more, thank you, Edward, for your co-operation. It is greatly appreciated. I look forward to the next report at the end of the day.
Cordelia Lavington
She slipped the note into an envelope and licking it, stuck it down.
"Here, Samuel. Please hand that to Mr Crawley at the first opportunity."
On arriving in the infirmary, Mrs Lavington sent immediately for Mrs Simmonds.
"And what have you discovered this morning, Susannah?"
"Well, Matron, I've checked Dormitory D and there are no damp or stained pyjamas, but one boy seems to have used a handkerchief. I found it under his pillow. It has the unmistakable smell of semen on it."
"And who was that?"
"David Gordon, Matron."
"And what did you do with the handkerchief?"
"I have it here, Matron."
She produced a rather dirty handkerchief."
"It has his name tag sewn on it. He can hardly claim it isn't his."
It was one of the rules of the reformatory that every article of clothing, every belonging, of which there were few apart from clothing, was marked with the boy's name. An inventory was kept and a check made periodically that all items were still in the boy's possession.
"Thank you Susannah. Place it on the ledge by the window. I think I will start the day by having a little chat with Master Gordon. That will leave Preuss and Clough to deal with from yesterday. Perhaps you would slip along and ask Gordon's form master to send him along to me."
Before long there was a faint nervous tap at the door.
"Come in."
"Gordon, I am conducting a spot check of handkerchiefs. You should have six in your possession. And I hope you have one in your pocket. It is a reformatory rule that a boy should carry a handkerchief with him at all times."
She smiled.
"And use it when necessary."
The boy felt in his pocket.
"Well?"
"I . . I'm afraid I've forgotten it, Matron."
"Then you will be needing a lesson in remembering, won't you Gordon? So where is the handkerchief?"
He flushed.
"It . . it's probably still under my pillow, Matron."
"Then you had better fetch it, together with the other clean handkerchiefs in your possession. I need to check none is lost. And I hope for your sake none is."
The boy went. He could feel his heart throbbing in his chest. Should be pretend the handkerchief was lost or take it damp and smelling to be checked. He hurried down the corridor, not running for that was forbidden, but wasting no time. Like all the boys he had a deep respect for Matron's authority and a real fear of the consequences of wrongdoing. He reached under his pillow and then moved his hand rapidly back and forth. Nothing. He scrambled on to the floor and looked under the bed. Still nothing. His heart was beating now and his breathing quickened. He stood biting his lip, frowning. Well, he would have to confess that the handkerchief had been lost. At least he didn't have to worry about the telltale stains on it. He went to the small trunk at the end of the bed and extracted the five remaining clean handkerchiefs. He then scurried back to the infirmary.
Matron was standing waiting.
"And what kept you, Gordon?"
"I . . . I've been as quick as I could, please, Matron. But . . . but I . . . couldn't find them all."
"Then how many have you managed to find, Gordon?"
"Five, please, Matron."
"I'm sorry," he added hopelessly."
"So where is the sixth?"
"I . . . I don't know . . . Matron."
"Well, when did you last see it?"
"I . . . I'm not sure, Matron. Perhaps yesterday. I think I had it yesterday."
"And you don't remember blowing your nose since then. Or having it in bed under your pillow?"
"No, Matron? I'm sure not. I . . I'm sorry. I . . . I must have dropped it somewhere. Perhaps someone will find it."
Mrs Lavington paused, studying the boy. Like many boys in the reformatory he was small for his age. He had short fair hair and a beguilingly innocent expression. A boy whose whole demeanour invited the rod. He was twisting his hands nervously. As well he might, she thought.
"So you think the handkerchief may yet be found?"
"I hope so, Matron."
"Well, fortune is smiling on you, Gordon. I can tell you that the handkerchief has indeed been found."
She looked at him intently. And noticed a slight hesitancy before he replied.
"Ha . . . has it, Matron."
"Yes, Gordon. It has."
She stepped across to the ledge by the window and retrieved it. She held it by one corner as one might hold a dead mouse by the tail.
"Take it, please."
He stretched out his hand and took it, his face pale and his eyes bright.
"Well, Gordon? Aren't you going to thank me for recovering your handkerchief?"
"Th . . . thank you . . . Matron."
"But aren't you going to ask me where it was found?"
He looked down.
"Perhaps there might be a clue if you examine it, Gordon."
He picked at it, a small desperate boy who can feel the net closing about him.
She smiled and her voice was soft and alluring.
"Well, Gordon?"
"I . . . I . . . "
"Give me the handkerchief."
She stretched out her hand, and reluctantly he parted with it. She smelt it.
"A strange salty smell, Gordon."
She held it out to him.
"What do you think that is?"
He made to smell it.
"I . . . I'm not sure . . . Matron."
"Are you not? And look."
She held the handkerchief by the corners and let it drop. But parts of it were stuck together. She pulled them apart and straightened the small piece of thin cotton rag.
"It seems to have had something sticky on it. It is stained and still a little damp. Now what can that be?"
She looked at the boy, who was reddening now and biting his lip.
"Well, Gordon?"
I . . . I . . . I'm not sure . . . Matron."
"Well, shall I tell you where it was found? Perhaps that may provide a clue."
He wriggled uncomfortably.
"This dirty, damp, stained and smelly handkerchief was found beneath your pillow, Gordon."
She waited, but he made no reply.
"Nothing to say? No explanation as to why it is so dirty, damp, stained and smelly?"
He gave a wriggle, almost a shrug, his eyes cast down.
"Then, shall I tell you what I think, Gordon?"
Still no word. His full red lips were compressed and there was a spot of high colour on each of his cheeks. His whole appearance was an open provocation, an almost imperceptible rejection of her authority. This was a boy crying out to be flogged. She knew that the Principal had birched him only a week ago.
"What I think, Gordon, is that you masturbated into this handkerchief. Probably in bed. Then you screwed up the evidence and placed it under your pillow. Where it was found by Mrs Simmonds this morning. Is that right?"
He was breathing rather quickly now. He made no reply. There was an edge to her voice now.
"I said, Gordon, is that right?"
"It might be, Miss."
She ignored the incorrect form of address.
"And what does 'might be' mean"
"It means I don't know whether Mrs Simmonds found it or not."
"Well, Gordon, I can assure you that she did. But that is hardly the issue. The issue is did you or did you not masturbate into your handkerchief in bed. I have been Matron of this reformatory long enough to recognise the evidence of masturbation when I see it. This handkerchief smells of boy's semen. It is badly stained. And it is still damp. And your name is on the name tag."
"Perhaps it was some other boy . . . Matron. Who stole my handkerchief."
Mrs Lavington smiled.
"Well, I suppose that might be a possibility.
(To be continued)