Cordelia Lavington Chapter 22
By Governess
Copyright 2011 by Governess, all rights reserved
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
Chapter 22
"You do know it's wrong, don't you, Oliver? Playing with yourself like that."
She waited.
He nodded, biting his lip.
"Yes . . . Matron."
She squeezed his hand.
"And you do know why it's wrong, why it's forbidden, Oliver?"
He found the warmth of her hand and the kindly way she was speaking reassuring. He glanced at her nervously.
"No . . . no, Matron."
She waited again, watching him intently.
"Tell me, Oliver, do you know where babies come from?"
He reddened.
"Girls have them, Matron."
"Yes, Oliver. But what has to happen to a girl if she is to have a baby? Do you know?"
He wriggled uncomfortably, ashamed to admit to such knowledge.
"I . . . I think so . . . Matron."
"So what do you think, Oliver?"
"Well . . . if a boy kisses a girl . . . on the lips . . . "
He could hardly finish the sentence.
"Yes, Oliver?"
" . . . then . . . then, she'll have a baby."
"Is that right?"
"Yes, Matron."
"You mean that if I were to kiss you on the lips, I would have a baby?"
He reddened and squirmed before her, not knowing where to look. Still holding his hand, she pulled the wet naked boy towards her. And gently kissed him. As she did so, she shut her eyes and savoured the sensual delight of feeling his soft warm lips on hers. He gave a little shocked cry and drew back, breathing heavily his eyes bright and a look of horror on his face.
"But Oliver, it's not true. If it were true, do you think I would have done that? Risked having a baby? A woman does not have a baby because she's kissed a man on the lips."
She waited, letting her words sink in. She squeezed his hand.
"So don't look so horrified."
She reached out and gently pinched the skin of his little, circumcised penis. Never had he felt such intense and burning shame. He closed his eyes and wished himself anywhere but where he was. And a little shudder went through him as she rubbed the slack, puckered skin between her finger and thumb.
"It is this, Oliver, that makes a girl have a baby. This thing you play with in bed. And what happens when you play with it? When you stroke and rub it?"
He was unable to speak so acute was his embarrassment.
"It becomes stiff and hard. Doesn't it?"
He nodded.
"And your whole body quivers with pleasure. And you continue to rub and stroke it, more and more quickly, until with a delightful throbbing sensation you spurt all over your pyjamas. Isn't that right?"
He nodded, looking down and biting his lip
"Oliver, I want more than a nod. Isn't that right?"
There seemed to be an obstruction in his throat. His voice was thick and croaky.
" . . . yes, Matron."
"Yes, Oliver. And the sticky stuff that you so wantonly spill on your pyjamas, is the stuff from which babies are made. And you didn't know that?"
"N . . . no . . . Matron."
Never had she seen a boy in a state of such red-faced confusion. He was a sensitive child. Not a brash, brazen boy like so many of them. When he masturbated it would not simply be a rush to immediate gratification, but a lingering sensual experience coloured by an imaginative life that she could only guess at.
"But it's not only boys that have something between their legs, is it Oliver? A girl has something there, too. Do you know what it is?"
He shook his head. He was now red to the tips of his ears.
"No idea at all?"
He stuttered as though every word, every syllable was painful to utter.
"N . . . no . . . M . . . Matron."
She placed her hand over her dress, opening her fingers so there was a visible slit between them.
"Here, Oliver, a woman, has a little opening into her body."
She paused. The boy was wide-eyed, listening intently.
"And when a man's penis becomes large and thick with excitement, as yours does in bed, he can drive it into that slit and thrust it in and out, becoming more and more excited, until he spurts into her, just as you spurt into your pyjamas."
She paused.
"And so precious is that liquid that once inside her it can make a baby start to grow."
The boy looked bemused. His eyes were large and dark.
"And when something is as miraculous as that, Oliver, to waste it, to spill it thoughtlessly is an affront to God who has created it. Created it to make life, not to give little boys like you a selfish thrill in their beds."
He hung his head, and tears were running down his flushed cheeks.
"And, Oliver, it is more than that. Masturbation can become a dreadful habit. A boy becomes more and more obsessed with his own body and his own pleasure. It's all he thinks about from one day's end to the other. His life becomes small and mean. And the more he masturbates the more exhausted he becomes. He can't do his schoolwork properly. He's tired and bad-tempered. And, as a consequence, he suffers more and more correction and punishment."
She frowned.
"And so, Oliver, masturbation is forbidden. Nor is a boy allowed to thrust his little member into a girl until he is much older and married.
She paused. He was sobbing now, a small sensitive child, broken and desolate.
"You know what happens to a boy who is caught masturbating, don't you, Oliver? He is whipped and whipped severely. But a boy who is caught interfering with a girl, as that older boy Merrick did last year. Well, I don't need to remind you what happened to him, do I?"
She reached out and squeezed his hand.
"I know it's difficult, Oliver. I know how much a boy wants to masturbate. But as I said I am here to help you."
He looked up at her through damp eyes. He could still feel the warmth of her lips on his. Her voice was soft and her hand held his in a firm comforting way.
"First, I want you to promise that you will never masturbate again. Are you willing to do that?"
He felt a surge of confidence.
"Ye . . . yes, Matron."
"Good. And what do you think must happen if you break your promise?"
He looked down. He knew that breaking his promise was all too likely. Never to touch himself, never to comfort himself like that again. Suddenly he regretted giving his word so readily. There was a constriction in his throat. He swallowed hard, trying to clear it.
"I . . I suppose I would be punished . . Matron."
"Yes, Oliver. You would most certainly be punished."
She waited, observing his discomfiture.
"Punished for masturbating and then additionally punished for breaking your word. A promise is sacred, Oliver, and breaking it is a serious matter. But the knowledge that breaking you word will lead to further punishment should strengthen your resolve to keep it."
She paused.
"Do you understand what I am saying, Oliver?"
"Ye . . . yes, Matron."
"Good. So that only leaves the stained pyjamas that Mrs Simmonds discovered under your pillow yesterday morning. Stand up."
He looked up, pleadingly. She noticed how long and dark his eye lashes were. Just like a girl. His hair was still wet from the shower.
"P . . . pl . . . please, Matron . . . "
"You think, Oliver because you've been a good boy and made a firm promise never to masturbate again, that I should forget about the stained pyjamas? Is that it?"
"Ye . . . yes, Matron. Please . . . "
"But Oliver, if I did that what would you think?"
He looked down in his confusion, sensing that the faint, watery hope of a reprieve was dissolving as rapidly as dew on meadow grass.
"Well, Oliver, what would you think if I remitted your punishment?"
He bit his lip.
"I will tell you. You would think that masturbation was not, after all, such a serious matter. That if it had been condoned once, then it might well be condoned again. And if that was the case, you would have less of a reason to struggle against temptation. You would think that you might well be able to enjoy the fruits of masturbation without incurring any penalty."
She paused.
"Is that not right, Oliver. Is that what you might think?
He nodded.
"Yes, I am sure it is. Therefore, I have to punish you. But, Oliver, because of your promise, I will punish you less severely than I might. You will not be caned, like Gordon. But soundly spanked. And hopefully that'll be the last occasion you require such punishment. If there is another occasion, then you will be caned, doubly caned, because you will also have broken your word."
She stepped over to her desk and opened the drawer. The hairbrush had dark bristles and a hard ebony back. Among the younger boys, it enjoyed a fearsome reputation. But at that moment from the infirmary next door, came the unmistakable sound of bare flesh being smacked. Mrs Lavington held up her finger.
"Listen, Oliver, that is young Simpson paying the cost of his stay in the infirmary. We are very happy to treat and care for boys who are sick through no fault of their own. But Simpson sprained his ankle by running in a corridor. Which as you know is strictly forbidden. He is being charged six strokes of the hairbrush for each of his two night's stay."
From the adjacent room came the sound of a boy's bottom being spanked, punctuated by loud, piercing screams. She grasped his hand in hers. It was like a small fragile nervous bird. When the screaming from the adjacent room had ceased, Mrs Lavington gently pulled the dripping boy over her lap. She held him securely over the towel and wrapped her left arm firmly wrapped around his small body; and raised the brush.
(To be continued)