Cordelia Lavington Chapter 20

Cordelia Lavington Chapter 20
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 20

She studied the boy before her.

"But if your handkerchief was stolen, why was it under your pillow, Gordon?"

He bit his lip.

"I'm . . . I'm not sure, Matron."

She nodded.

"Take it over to the basin. The first thing is surely to wash it."

He walked across and stood waiting.

"Go on, boy. Fill the basin with hot water. And now soak the handkerchief and rub it with the tablet of soap. A good vigorous rubbing to get out all those smelly stains. And now rinse it in cold water. And hang it over the side."

He stood, wriggling nervously. His fingers twitching.

"You know, Gordon, I don't think anyone stole your handkerchief. I think it just wandered off on its own. Jumped out of your pocket, perhaps. And then someone else found it. And it never mentioned it belonged to another boy who'd ould be in trouble if it went missing. A most thoughtless handkerchief."

She paused, smiling.

"What do you think, Gordon?"

He was perplexed. And hesitated.

"I . . . I'm not sure, Matron."

"Well, from what you say, I'm sure that's what must have happened. So what do you think needs to be done?"

He looked blank.

"Well, if you'd been disobedient and wandered off when you should have been in class, what would you expect to happen?"

"I . . I'd be punished."

"And how would you expect to be punished?"

He reddened.

"I . . . I suppose, I'd be caned . . Matron."

"Yes, I'm sure you'd be caned."

She looked at the boy.

"But that is not all your handkerchief did, is it Gordon? It did more than just run off, didn't it?"

He looked at her perplexed.

"D . . . did it, Matron?"

"Of course. Not only did it run off but it allowed some other boy to masturbate on it. And then it crept back to your bed and tucked itself under your pillow. Letting you take the blame.

"And what do you think would happen to a boy here who did that. Who deceitfully refused to own up and was happy to see another punished as a consequence?"

"I . . . I'm not sure . . . Matron."

"Well let me tell you, Gordon, that this reformatory sets great store by honesty and fairness. And any boy who offended against such basic moral standards would be soundly flogged."

She placed her fingers under his chin and tilted his head back.

"So, I should say your handkerchief is in serious trouble, Gordon. What would you say?"

"Ye . . . yes, Matron."

"Yes, very serious trouble. And do you know what I am going to do, Gordon?"

His eyes were bright and his hands twitching.

"I am going to punish that handkerchief of yours and punish it very severely. And after I've finished with it, I should be very surprised if it ran off again and allowed an unknown boy to masturbate onto it and then crept back to your bed with the horrid, damp, sticky, incriminating stains all over it."

She watched as he struggled to absorb what she was saying.

"Do you know what it means to horse a boy, Gordon?"

She knew that some three months ago he had been summoned to the Principal's study and birched. And when Mr Fairclough birched a boy, apart from public floggings, that boy was horsed on the back of one of the groundsman's young assistants, most of whom had been reformatory boys themselves.

"Ye . . yes, Matron."

"And what does it mean, Gordon?"

"It . . it means you're hung over someone's back with . . . with your trousers pulled down . . . and . . . and . . . birched."

"Yes, Gordon."

"So I think your handkerchief had earned itself, perhaps not a birching, but certainly a sound caning. And I propose you should have the satisfaction of horsing the offending handkerchief yourself. It's you, after all, who've been accused because of its thoughtless behaviour."

"But . . . Matron . . . "

He looked puzzled and worried.

"Yes. Gordon?"

"But, how . . Matron?"

"How what, Gordon?"

"How . . how will you cane a . . . a handkerchief?"

"As I've explained Gordon. You will horse the handkerchief, just as a naughty boy is horsed. Well almost. Because the handkerchief will not be across your back but spread wet and dripping over your bare bottom. That is a much more suitable place for a handkerchief. And there it'll be soundly caned. That should teach it to mend it's way, don't you think?"

The boy said nothing. There was a look of horror on his face.

"But, Matron . . . "

"No more buts, Gordon. Off with your shoes, socks, trousers and underpants. And better take off the shirt, too. Let's have you in just your vest. And quickly now. Don't let's keep the handkerchief waiting."

The firmness of her voice told him there was no escape. Not that a boy seriously thought twice about openly questioning Matron.

"And fold those clothes neatly and place them over the chair, Gordon."

He stood utterly bare from the waist down, feeling the chill from the window on his skin. He shivered. As he had been undressing, Mrs Lavington had been preparing for the flogging. She had placed the long oval stool in the middle of the room and covered it with a towel. Then, from a cupboard had retrieved a short, well filled, firm bolster about fifteen inches across. This she placed across the stool. She patted it and beckoned to the boy.

"Lie along the stool, Gordon with your genitals pressed into the front of the bolster."

She carefully arranged him so that his bottom was forced up. He was now breathing with short, shallow, nervous breaths. She went and fetched the narrow length of towelling that so recently had been used to secure Lacy to the same stool, and ran it over his waist, under the stool, and then up and over again, securing it tightly around him. She stepped back.

"And now for that mischievous handkerchief, Gordon. By the time we've finished with him, he'll not go wandering again and getting you into trouble that I'll wager."

She ran the thin cotton handkerchief under the cold tap and laid it carefully over the boy's raised buttocks. It was a good size and almost completely covered both cheeks. He gave a wriggle as the cold wet cloth clung to his skin. He twisted his head round.

"Please, Matron. I . . I'm sorry. I . . . "

"Why are you sorry, Gordon. There's nothing to be sorry about. It's the handkerchief that should be sorry. And believe me, Gordon, it will soon be sorry, very sorry, indeed."

She walked across to the cupboard and selected a limber length of rattan that was hanging behind the door by its crooked handle. It was thicker than a pencil and nearly three feet in length. She swished it through the air.

"Yes, Gordon. A very sorry handkerchief indeed."

She ruffled his head.

"You must be pleased to be assisting in its punishment. To have the pleasure of feeling each cut of the cane whipping into such a thoughtless little piece of cloth."

She noticed how the boy's toes were curling and uncurling. How both hands were clenched into tight little nervous fists. She waited, letting him anticipate the first stroke. Slowly she raised the cane and then with a flick of her wrist brought it down smartly across the wet clinging handkerchief. There was a satisfying smack. The boy gave a gasping scream.

"Did that hurt, Gordon? Did it sting and smart?"

"P . . please, Matron . . . "

"You surely don't want me to stop? If you had done what the handkerchief has done, how many strokes would you expect?"

She waited.

"Well, Gordon?"

"Please, Matron . . . "

He was sobbing now in his desperation.

"W . . . would it be . . . s . . . s . . six, Matron?"

"No, Gordon. No boy learns to mend his ways from six strokes of the cane. Even with a swishy length of rattan like this. At least twelve strokes and in most cases two dozen are required to start a boy even thinking about improving his behaviour."

She smiled.

"And I'm sure it's the same for handkerchiefs."

"B . . but, Matron. It's hurting me as well as the handkerchief."

"Yes, Gordon. I'm sure it is. But discipline is a painful business for all concerned. Do you think I enjoy disciplining naughty little boys? It's tiring and disagreeable. But it's necessary. And if you want a better behaved handkerchief then you must accept the pain as an inevitable consequence of assisting in its well deserved punishment."

He turned his head toward her.

"But . . but Matron, you . . . you don't think my handkerchief did all those things . . . D . . . do you, Matron?"

"Well, from what you've told me, Gordon, I can't think of any other explanation. Can you?"

He felt the hot tears pricking at his eyes. To confess to what had truly happened was sure to bring down upon him even more severe punishment. His voice was barely audible.

"N . . no, Matron."

In that case, Gordon, we had better continue, hadn't we?"

Again the cane was raised and brought down with a whoosh across the wet piece of cloth stretched over his buttocks.

"Aaaaagh . . please, Matron . . . aaaaaagh."

After a further six strokes she peeled off the handkerchief, noting with satisfaction the swollen weal marks beneath it. Walking across to the basin, she turned on the cold tap, and held it under the icy flow. She turned back to the boy who, if he thought his torment was over, was soon to discover otherwise. He flinched as the dripping handkerchief was laid once more over his small, round buttocks. And the whipping continued. Every six strokes Mrs Lavington would rinse the handkerchief, soaking it afresh. And it was not until three dozen smarting cuts had been caned across his bottom that the rod was laid aside.

The boy had screamed and roared during the flogging but now was gasping, racked with heaving sobs. Mrs Lavington waited. After several minutes he was gently writhing, emitting soft little comforting noises to himself. She peeled off the handkerchief. After two dozen strokes, it had been specked with blood. Now at the conclusion of the flogging, there were thicker blood stains where the cane had burst the boy's skin. She held it in front of him.

"Well, Gordon, I'd say that was a well punished handkerchief, wouldn't you? Let us hope for your sake it has learned its lesson."

The boy looked at the handkerchief. His eyes were brimming with tears and he had difficulty focussing. Bending down she released him from the towelling that bound him to the bench.

"Get up, Gordon, and stand over there."

She left him shivering in his distress and stepped across to the basin, rinsing the handkerchief for the last time. She dropped it into the washing basket. Then, put her head around the door and asked Mrs Simmonds to prepare a hot saline solution. While this was being down she sat at her desk and checked her diary. She had written a note to herself yesterday that she still had to deal with the other two outstanding masturbators who had been caught in yesterday's trawl. Oliver Preuss, and Michael Clough. After five minutes, the door opened.

"Here you are Matron. I've made it nice and strong and there is a sponge to apply it."

"Thank you Mrs Simmonds. Please place it on the small table by the chair. She went across to the towel cupboard and selected a large towel. Sitting on the chair she draped it over herself and then beckoned the boy toward her."

She pulled him over her lap and then hoisted him forward as though for a spanking. She let him rest there for a minute, nervously waiting, wondering whether his ordeal was truly over.

"Well, Gordon, you've certainly suffered in the interests of correcting that naughty handkerchief."

She studied his bottom. She'd never had any difficulty in believing that a divine providence had provided a child's buttocks for the purpose of correction. And now that correction had been administered, the boy's smooth, pale flesh bore the tell-tale marks of a severe caning. Long streaked ridges with that distinctive tramline appearance. In places, where the cuts had overlaid each other, the skin was broken. Bloody and oozing. She smiled. The boy's torture was not yet over. He gasped and wriggled as she sponged his bottom with the hot salt water, and then towelled him dry.

"Off my lap, Gordon. I'm sending a note to your form master telling him that you will standing in disgrace outside the infirmary for the rest of the morning. You can catch up with your lessons later."

She smiled.

"Your handkerchief may have been punished, Gordon, but it was your responsibility to make sure it didn't run off and get into mischief."

He stood before her in his nakedness, mortified and shivering.

"Put on your shirt, Gordon."

She watched as he struggled into it, hurrying lest he incur further punishment.

"Come here."

She reached down and gathering up his shirt, hoisted it over his shoulders. Then, placing her hand on the nape of his neck, she propelled him forward out through the infirmary.

"You can choose whether to face the wall exposing your bottom to the world or face the other way showing off what little boys have between their legs. The choice is yours."

And with a face wet, and cheeks red with shame, he turned his face to the wall.

(To be continued)