Cordelia Lavington Chapter 23
By Governess
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 23
For many, disciplining children is undertaken with little thought and little satisfaction is derived from it: just as some will simply drop a bunch of flowers into a vase, while others will take time and trouble arranging the blooms in accordance with their colour and shape. From the first, Mrs Lavington had disciplined with intelligence and diligence. But when her second child arrived, she discovered that not all children were alike, or responded to chastisement in the same way. That boys and girls were different. And for her encountering the differences and variety of response was deeply satisfying. And when she joined the staff at St Oswald's, the scope was enormously enlarged.
With a brazen cocksure boy, who at heart was lacking in grit, she would lay on the first stroke with flesh rupturing force, stripping away all his pretence and braggadocio. And continue until he was writhing and screaming for mercy. But with a self-willed boy, determined to outlast her, she would moderate the severity of the flogging, allowing him some hope that he might succeed in his effrontery. But then, continue with a slow steady application of the rod that would eventually wear him down and reduce him to tearful, wriggling submission.
With a small, insecure boy, she would proceed more gently, first tickling his rump to a glowing pink, allowing him to acclimatise to the pain, encouraging him in fortitude; before laying on firmer, more searching strokes that reduced him to sobbing contrition but without destroying completely his self-respect.
Although she knew Preuss for a malingerer, and a boy who had been birched by the Principal for his lack of effort, he was by no means an arrogant boy. She found him rather shy and unassuming, with a nervous disposition. Altogether rather a beautiful boy. Such a boy usually responded well to a sensitively given chastisement.
His small, round buttocks were wet and shining with moisture. Mrs Lavington smiled. She remembered how on a seaside holiday, her younger brother, Marcel, had been forbidden to enter the sea. He must have been about eight at the time. It was a sensible decision for the sea was rough with a considerable swell. But Marcel delighted in surf and spray and was already a competent swimmer. Early the following morning, before anyone had risen, he made his way to the shore. The sea was as rough as the previous day and he knew that entering it was forbidden. But enter it he did.
Unknown to him, his mother had heard him leaving the house and had followed. And Cordelia had followed them both. After twenty minutes of exulting in the foam Marcel stepped onto the shingle; and saw his mother standing between him and his clothes. In her hand was a birch. The birch that Cordelia had watched her mother bind up the previous evening after both boys were in bed. Behind the house were two mature birch trees and on their very first day, her mother had referred to the possibility of their providing a suitable instrument of chastisement should such be needed.
Her mother waited patiently for Marcel to come out of the water. When he did, she beckoned him to her. No word was spoken. None was necessary. She grasped the naked, dripping boy, half blinded by the brine and, with her leg outstretched, held him against her. She birched him on his cold quivering flesh, until his agonised screaming rivalled that of the gulls flocking and swooping over the shore. Afterwards, he was banned from the sea for the remainder of the holiday.
She raised the brush and brought it down with a firm smack to the boy's right buttock. She knew, as her brother had discovered all those years ago, that a whipping on bare, wet flesh stung with a tormenting agony quite unlike that on dry flesh. The boy gave a gasp, and his legs kicked out.
"No . . . please Matron . . . no."
Another stroke was given and then another. Soon the boy was wriggling and howling over her knee. When she judged his buttocks spanked dry, she paused, letting him think that the agony was over. Slowly, he relaxed and lay there, quietly sobbing. She ruffled his hair, and then ran her hand down the backs of his thighs. They were damp to her touch.
"No . . . no . . . please, Matron. Please . . . no."
She lifted the hairbrush and brought it down with a firm smack on the moist thigh flesh. And then again. And again. Soon he was howling and squirming, kicking his legs like a young lamb being shorn. Then she let him rest for a while, sobbing and heaving in his distress across her lap.
"Up you get, Oliver."
He flinched as she dried him, for the towel was hard and rough.
"And now put on your vest and shirt."
She watched as he did so. The choking sobbing had ceased and he was weeping now from relief that his ordeal was over. Or at least so he hoped.
"No, Oliver, not your trousers and pants. Not yet. Not for a moment."
He stood looking up at her and seemed to have difficulty focussing. His eyes are almost violet she thought, as she folded her arms and addressed him.
"Oliver, you have been punished for masturbating, for abusing yourself. You have paid the price of your sin and you are forgiven. But the punishment serves as a warning of what may befall you should you sin again."
She paused.
"And you remember your promise?"
He nodded.
"And what was it? What did you promise?"
"The . . . that, I wouldn't . . . wouldn't do it again."
"Do what again, Oliver? What did you promise you would not do again?"
"Ma . . . mas . . . masturbate . . . Matron."
"Yes, Oliver. You have solemnly promised that you will never masturbate again. And what did I say would happen if you were caught breaking that solemn promise?"
"You . . . you said I would be punished."
"Yes. Doubly punished. Punished for masturbating which all small boys know is forbidden. And additionally punished for breaking your word. For breaking a solemn promise."
She studied the boy before her, bare from the waist down, trembling, biting his lip.
"And how do you think a boy who has broken a promise like that should be punished, Oliver?"
"I . . . I suppose he would be whipped . . . Matron."
"Certainly he would be whipped."
She watched him intently, savouring his discomfiture.
"Have you been birched, Oliver?"
"Ye . . . yes, Matron."
"And was it painful?"
"Please, Matron . . . "
"I asked, Oliver, whether the birching you received was painful."
He hung his head.
"Well, was it?"
He felt as though a hot wave was coursing through his body. His tongue was thick with shame and he could hardly speak. When he did so it was in a small croaking whisper.
"Yes, Matron."
"Look at me, Oliver."
Slowly he raised his eyes.
"When you address me, Oliver, you do not hang your head and you will speak clearly with a firm voice. I asked, 'Was it painful?'"
He was breathing in short nervous breaths now, dragging air down into his lungs.
"Yes, Matron. It hurt terribly. Mr Fairclough, birched me."
Mrs Lavington nodded.
"Yes, Oliver. And that is what will happen if I discover you've broken your word and masturbated again. You will be birched. Doubly birched. So, if I were you, I would make every effort to keep your promise."
She had intended to stand him outside the infirmary, as she had Gordon, but decided to spare him that indignity.
"You may dress and return to your classroom, Oliver."
She paused.
"And remember, Preuss, I will be watching you."
At the harsh reversion to his surname, he felt tears pricking at his eyes. For a while he had experienced the tenderness of maternal affection, even if expressed through discipline. Now he was dismissed with the threat of further punishment hanging over him. He glanced at the boy Gordon still standing in disgrace outside the infirmary, and slowly made his way back to his lessons.
Mrs Lavington sat at her desk and filled in her report book. She kept a meticulous record of every punishment she administered. And she did the same at home. She had a complete record of every spanking given to her children from their earliest years.
She rose and walked through the infirmary.
"I'm putting the report book here, Mrs Simmonds. I have just entered Preuss's punishment and you will need to do the same for Simpson.
She opened the door.
"Come in Gordon. He turned and with eyes cast down followed her through the infirmary.
Mrs Lavington sat at her desk, indicating that the boy was to stand before her. His shirt was still pulled up his back and over his shoulders. His hands went nervously to cover his genitals.
"Take your hands away, Gordon. Unless you want the tawse taken to them."
He quickly placed them at his side, biting his lower lip, aware that the threat was no idle one.
"So Gordon? Tell me. Have you learned your lesson?"
"Yes, Matron."
"And what is the lesson you have learned?"
He hesitated. His hands were twisting in his desperation to give an acceptable answer.
"Well?"
"T . . . to . . . take better c . . . care of my handkerchiefs . . . Matron."
She smiled. Nothing gave her more satisfaction than to weave a sticky web around a child and bind him to her will. The fantasy about the handkerchief had been amusing. A tantalising barb on which to hook the wriggling boy. But both she and he knew it was a nonsense and yet here he was choosing to live within the tale she had woven.
"So you'll keep a close watch on your handkerchiefs in future, Gordon? Make sure they don't wander off and get you into trouble?"
He was breathing heavily now, sensing that the end of his torment might be close.
"Yes . . . yes, Matron."
"And no more damp, sticky handkerchiefs under your pillow?"
"No . . . no, Matron."
She pointed to the chair where his garments were to be found.
"You may dress. And straight back to your classroom."
She sat at her desk and watched as he scrambled into his clothes. When he was dressed, he turned to her.
"Th . . . thank you, Matron."
She looked up and smiled. He felt a flutter in his chest, at the sign that he'd moved out of the penumbra of her displeasure and back into the pale sunlight. But as he turned to the door, she stopped him. He felt a shiver of apprehension.
"Ye . . yes . . . Matron?"
"And Gordon, don't forget to ask Mrs Simmonds for your handkerchief tomorrow. She has a lot on her mind and we don't want it wandering off again, do we?"
"No, Matron."
"Then off your go."
(To be continued)