Cordelia Lavington Chapter 21
By Governess

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Copyright 2011 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 21

Mrs Lavington ran her eye down her list. There was Preuss and the other boy to deal with; a chat with William's form master; and Simon who was due to report to her in his lunch break. But first she would do a quick round of the infirmary.

"Well Mrs Simmonds, and how are the patients today?"

"Making good progress, Matron. Simpson can be discharged this morning, but Prewitt's fever is taking some time to abate and his throat is still very inflamed."

Mrs Lavington placed her hand on the boy's brow. It was hot and sticky. He looked up at her. His eyes were blue and his face flushed.

"Yes, you are still quite hot, Prewitt. A cool hand on your brow must be very welcome."

"Yes, Matron. Thank you, Matron."

She smiled. There was something very touching about small boys confined to the infirmary. Prewitt she knew could be a difficult child and was often in trouble.

"And although it's unpleasant to have a fever, Prewitt, you are at least being kept out of mischief. At least, as long as you obey infirmary rules."

She turned to the other boy.

"And how is your sprained ankle, today, Simpson?"

"It . . . it seems much better . . . Matron."

"Good. You'll soon be ready to hobble off back to your lessons, then?"

"Yes, Matron."

"Would you remind me, Mrs Simmonds, how Simpson sprained his ankle?"

"Certainly, Matron. He tripped while running down a corridor."

"Is that right, Simpson?"

"Yes . . . Matron."

"But I thought it was forbidden to run in the corridors?"

She waited, but the boy refused to catch her eye.

"Well, is it forbidden, or not?"

"Yes, Matron."

"Yes, what, Simpson?"

"Yes, it is forbidden, Matron."

"So you are in this infirmary because you broke a rule. If you had obeyed the rule you would not be here. Is that right?"

"I . . I suppose so, Matron."

The boy was flushed now. As hot and flushed as the fevered boy in the bed next to him.

"Well, Simpson, we are here to treat small boys who fall ill through no fault of their own. But your sprained ankle was wholly avoidable. You are here because of your disobedience."

She paused, looking at the small anxious boy before her.

"So, I am afraid you will need to pay for your treatment."

He looked dumbfounded.

"And what charge do you think we should levy, Simpson. In the cottage hospital you would pay a lot of money for this sort of care."

"But . . . but I haven't any money . . Matron."

She turned to Mrs Simmonds.

"And how many nights has Simpson been here?"

"Two nights, Matron."

"And will he need a third night?"

"No, Matron. I am sure he will be able to cope if he returns to his lessons, this morning."

"So, Simpson, a small payment of twelve strokes of the hairbrush. See it is collected, Mrs Simmonds, before he departs."

Susan Simmonds smiled.

"Certainly, Matron."

Mrs Lavington left the infirmary and strode along the corridor to Edward Crawley's classroom. She knocked on the door and without waiting for a response opened it.

"Good morning, Mr Crawley. My apologies for interrupting. But would it be possible for Oliver Preuss to come to the infirmary, please?"

Mr Crawley frowned.

"Now, Mrs Lavington?"

"Yes, Mr Crawley. Now, please."

He nodded at the boy.

"Then off you go, Preuss. And straight back to the classroom when Matron had finished with you."

The boy was full of foreboding. He trotted along at Mrs Lavington's side, struggling to keep up as she strode along.

At the entrance to the infirmary he couldn't avoid the sight of David Gordon, facing the wall, with his shirt tied up. And as Mrs Lavington placed her hand around his shoulder, ushering him through the door, she felt his trembling. Once in the inner sanctum of her large office, she pulled out a chair.

"Sit down, Oliver."

He sat, perplexed at being addressed by his Christian name.

"Oliver, did you see a boy outside the infirmary?"

"Ye . . . yes, Matron."

"And what did you notice about him?"

"He . . . he's been caned, Matron."

"Yes, Oliver. And do you know why he's been caned?"

The boy hesitated.

"N . . . no, Matron."

"Well, I'll tell you, Oliver. He lost his handkerchief."

The boy looked perplexed. He could understand a boy's being caned for losing his handkerchief, but not why Matron had brought him to the infirmary to tell him that. He looked at her blankly.

"But the handkerchief is no longer lost. We found it, Oliver. It was under his pillow. And it was damp and stained."

She studied the boy and noted his apprehension.

"So why do you think it was damp and stained, Oliver?"

"I . . I don't know . . . Matron."

"No ideas at all?"

"Perhaps he'd been blowing his nose, Matron."

"Now that is a very sensible suggestion, Oliver. But no. The handkerchief had a very strange salty smell to it. I don't think his nose was responsible."

She smiled.

"Come along Oliver. I am sure most boys would have some idea what was on the handkerchief."

Preuss felt his face reddening and a tight band across his chest.

"Oliver you look very hot and uncomfortable. Would you like to remove your jacket?"

"No, Matron. Please I'm all right, Matron."

"Well I think you should. Take of your jacket and hang it on the back of the chair."

Reluctantly he stood up and did as she bid.

"Sit down, Oliver."

She smiled.

"You see there's a possible clue in the fact that the owner of the handkerchief is standing outside the infirmary with a soundly caned bottom on display."

She waited.

"I don't think boys get caned like that for blowing their noses, do they?"

"No, Matron."

"Oliver, you do look very hot. It might be best if you were to have a cold shower."

"No, Matron. Please, I'm all right. Truly."

"Well I think otherwise.

"No, Matron . . . please. I don't need a shower."

"Oliver, I will be the judge of that. If I say you need a cold shower, then that is what you need. So off with your clothes. Hang them over the chair."

He began to open his mouth but she gently placed a finger over his lips.

"No more argument, Oliver. Do as I say."

Slowly, he undressed until he stood naked before her.

"Sit down. I'm sure you feel cooler and more comfortable without your clothes. You may have the shower in a moment. Now where were we? Oh yes, I was asking if you had any idea what the salty stain might be on Gordon's handkerchief. And why he was caned."

"No, Matron. I . . . haven't."

She reached forward and took his hand and pressed it gently in hers.

"But I am sure you have, Oliver. You see it's the same sort of staining that boys sometimes get on their pyjamas."

He sat very still. She squeezed his hand.

"Have your pyjamas ever been stained like that, Oliver?"

"I . . I'm not sure what you mean . . . Matron."

"Don't you, Oliver. It's the sort of staining that happens when small boys rub that little thing hanging between their legs."

She reached forward and held his small penis between her finger and thumb.

"Rub it, until it spurts sticky liquid."

She smiled and squeezed his hand again.

"Do you do that, Oliver?"

"Rub this until it spurts sticky liquid, and stains your pyjamas?"

His face was flaming. Indeed, his whole body seemed to be blushing at the searching, shameful questioning. He hung his head. She smiled.

"Oliver, you have the look of a guilty boy."

Again she squeezed his hand encouragingly. He felt the tears pricking at his eyes. To a boy separated from home and family, the warmth and concern in her voice and the physical closeness of her presence was deeply affecting.

"Are you going to deny what you have done, Oliver? Or would you like to confess it and be forgiven?"

He was crying now, a small naked boy, holding her hand, clinging to her.

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

"I'm sure you are, Oliver. And I'm here to help you. You wouldn't be the first small boy who's needed such help. There's no need to cry."

Again she squeezed his hand. He was shivering now.

"Let's have that shower and then we can have a little talk."

He walked self-consciously over to the shower and stepped into it.

"Raise you arms, Oliver. Back toward me, please."

She picked up the hose. He gasped as the cold water gushed over his shoulders and down his back.

"Bend forward and hold your ankles.

A jet of freezing water was directed between his buttocks.

"And now turn round."

She hosed down his chest and then played the fierce stream of water over his small penis and scrotum. His hand went down defensively to cover them.

"Hands away, please, Oliver. And keep them over your head as I told you."

When she had finished, she fetched a straight backed upright chair and placed it by the shower. Then, picking up a large white towel, sat in the chair with the towel over her lap. She beckoned to him.

He stood beside her, dripping and anxious.

(To be continued)