Cordelia Lavington Chapter 31

By Governess

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and sexual activity of preteen and young teen children for the purpose of punishment. None of the behaviors in this story should be attempted in real life. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.
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“Open your eyes, Lewis. And no clenching.”

She rapped the cane across his knuckles.

“And the same if those hands come off the bed rail.”

She waited. Not a sound could be heard.

“One.”

She brought the cane swishing down across Lewis’s small compact rump. There was a satisfying smack as it sliced into the soft flesh. He gave a howl and his bottom wriggled madly.

“Two.”

Another stroke was given. And then another. And by the time the full quota had been delivered the boy was sobbing and heaving, yet still grasping the railin his desperation. He had clenched his bottom once or twice, but Cordelia had waited for him to relax sparing him any penalty. With a different child she might have lashed the cane down on the clenched buttocks and taken pleasure in awarding additional strokes.

“You may remove the bolster, Mrs Simmonds. And please place it beneath the next boy.”

She swished the cane through the cool dormitory air.

“Well, Hughes, I suggest you unclench your plump little bottom and allow me to flog it as it deserves to be flogged. Soft and accepting, please.”

She paused.

“You do know why you’re being flogged, don’t you Hughes?”

The boy knew from experience that it was always best to agree with Matron.

“Ye . . . yes, Matron.”

“Good. So please tell the dormitory why you are face down on your bed with your pyjamas around your ankles.”

“Be . . . because . . . “

But his voice trailed off in confusion. Why he was being punished, why any of them was being punished, for something Clough and Graham had done, he didn’t really understand.

“I . . . I’m not sure . . . Matron.”

“But a moment ago you told me you knew. Are you trying to be clever, Hughes?”

“Please, no, Matron . . . No.”

“I beg to differ, Hughes. Fortunately, I know how to deal with small, impudent boys. You will receive four additional strokes.”

“No, please, Matron!”

She shook her head despairingly.

“Eight additional strokes. And if you continue to argue with me, you’ll be spending the rest of the night on your knees.”

He bit his lip and tears pricked at his eyes.

“You are being flogged, Hughes, as are all the boys in this dormitory, for not reporting two boys who sinfully got into the same bed and abused themselves.

She paused.

“Which means you are complicit in their sin.   You do know what ‘complicit’ means, don’t you, Hughes?”

“I . . . I’m not sure . . . Matron.”

“It means, Hughes, that because you allowed it to happen, you are as guilty as they are and as deserving of punishment.”

She raised the cane.

“One.”

He gasped and then shrieked as the rattan bit into soft bottom flesh.

“Two.”

After six strokes, he was choking and blubbering in his torment. Mrs Lavington smiled. Reducing a boy to such helpless submission was both satisfying and necessary. It might seem cruel but half-hearted correction was worse than useless. It left a boy sullen and resentful. A boy needed to be taken to the limits of his endurance and beyond.   When she had administered twelve strokes, she paused, allowing him to regain a little composure.

“So, Hughes, have you learned your lesson?”

His voice was hoarse as he struggled to speak through his sobbing.

“Ye . . . yes . . . Matron.”

“So what have you learned?”

“I . . . I . . . ”

“Yes, Hughes?”

“Not . . not to do nothing when . . . when boys get into the same bed . . Matron.”

“Good, Hughes. That just shows how a boy remembers best, when a lesson is well beaten in.”

She waited, raising his hopes that his torment was over.

“But there is something else that needs to be well beaten in, isn’t there, Hughes?”

He was still gripping the bed rail.

“Yes, Matron.”

“And what is that?”

“I was im . . .imp . . . “

“You were, impudent, Hughes.”

She paused.

“And what does ‘impudent’ mean, Hughes?”

“P . . please, Matron. I . . I’m not . . . sure.”

“And yet you are happy to parrot the word, even if you can’t pronounce it. And you have no idea what it means?”

She paused.

“Are you being wilfully stupid, Hughes?”

“No, Matron. Please.”

“And did I give permission for you to let go of the bedrail?”

He was a small boy broken and desperate in his fearful misery.

“No, Matron. I’m sorry, Matron.”

“Impudent, Hughes, is another word for rude. And how many additional strokes was it for your impudence, for your rudeness?”

His mind was filled with confusion and a terrifying anxiety.

“W . . . was it . . . eight . . . Matron?”

“No, Hughes, it was four.”

She sensed a slight tremor of relief, and she waited a moment before continuing.

“Four for your impudence and a further four for arguing with me.   And what did I say would be the penalty for letting go of the bedrail without permission?”

“T . . two more strokes . . . Matron.”

“So according to my arithmetic that makes ten additional strokes. Is that right?”

“Ye . . . yes, Matron.”

When she had finished, she gestured to Mrs Simmonds to remove the bolster, and left him, as Lewis had been left, with his pyjamas around his ankles and his bottom marked with the weals raised by the cane. She glanced along the dormitory. At the firm round buttocks awaiting punishment.

She remembered when her brothers had been caught playing in the barn. It had been forbidden them because the hay loft was in need of repair and was judged to be a danger. They had been marched into the yard and made to stand with their faces to its side. She remembered how warm the day had been, although almost immediately a cloud had passed over the sun and a chill breeze had begun to blow. She had been about twelve, two years after moving from France. Marcel had been four and Charles six. Her mother had instructed her to unhitch their braces and, when their trousers had slithered down, to lower their underpants to their ankles. Her mother had then lifted their shirts and vests, hooking them up over their small shoulders. And there they had stood, facing the side of the barn, awaiting their mother’s retribution. Cordelia remembered how she had sat on a bench, unable to take her eyes off those small, round, compact bottoms. They has stood in the shadow of chastisement for about an hour. Part of her wanted her mother to come and punish them; but another part wanted her to delay, so shecould continue to feast on their bottom flesh and enjoy the anticipation of the flogging to come.

Slowly Mrs Lavington worked her way around the dormitory. When she came to Clough, she tapped the cane on the bedrail. He looked up, fear in his eyes.

“So, Clough, a double caning for you, I think. And how many strokes is that?”

“T . . . twenty four, Matron.”

“Correct. Twenty four strokes. And why are you receiving twenty four strokes and not twelve? Well?”

“Because I, we . . . were in bed together.”

“And who is the ‘we’?”

“Graham and me . . . Matron.”

“No, Clough. Not ‘Graham and me’. Graham and I. So let’s get it right, please.   So who is the ‘we’??

His breath was short now.

“G . . Graham and I . . . Matron.”

“And what were you doing in bed together?”

He was unable to speak. Shame and fear had rendered him speechless. He looked up at her from his bed, his eyes dark and beseeching.

“Well, Clough?

“I . . . we . . . Matron . . . were . . . were . . . “

His voice trailed off.

“So, Clough, am I to understand that you have no idea what you were doing? I find that difficult to believe given the fact that your hands were strapped for it earlier today. Shall we try again?

He bit his lip.

“We were . . . touching each other . . . Matron.”

“Touching what? Knees, ears . . ?”

“No, Matron.”

There was a beguiling sweetness in her voice now.

“So what were you touching together?”

“Our . . our winkies . . . Matron.”

“Or in more adult language, your genitals. You were both masturbating each other. Wriggling and writhing in the darkness, and no doubt grunting like little animals.”

She looked across to Graham where he was standing white faced beside his bed.

“And you watch carefully, Graham. I’ll soon be working my way around to you.”

She positioned herself, and raised the cane.

“And a tight grip on that rail, Clough, if you know what’s good for you. And no clenching.”

The first dozen strokes were given with a slow, lingering vigour across the boy’s buttocks. He wriggled and kicked, clenching after each stroke in a convulsive spasm of agony. Mrs Lavington waited for him to offer a relaxed bottom before continuing the caning. Had he clenched while receiving a stroke she would have condemned him to additional cuts, but it pleased her to see his bottom cheeks contracting and tightening as the pain coursed through his small compact body.

After twelve strokes, she paused. The cane had raised long, throbbing weals across his firm bottom flesh. He was sobbing and twisting. She stepped back. All that could be heard was the wind rattling a window pane.

“I expect, Clough, that you consider that is sufficient punishment for your sin. That your bottom has smarted enough. Is that right?”

She waited for his reply as he struggled to answer.

“Ye . . . yes, Matron. Please, Matron . . . “

“The question is, Clough, am I to have regard to that. Should I spare you further suffering? Treat you as if you were one of the other boys in this dormitory? Is that what you want?”

He clutched at the slender thread of hope.

“Please, Matron.”

But the thread was too thin to bear the weight of his expectation.

“But you are not just one of the ‘other boys’ are you, Clough. Nor is Graham. Had it not been for you, they would all be sleeping now between the sheets.”

She looked down at him. His lashes wet with his tears.

“But I am sure your bottom has received more than its fair share of punishment. At least for the moment.”

He looked at her through tear-filled eyes.

“So I will spare your little smarting bottom any further pain, Clough. What do you say?”

“Thank you . . . Matron.”

She smiled.

“Instead, the remaining twelve strokes will be across the backs of your thighs.”

His head slumped and then he looked up again through eyes that were dark and wet.

“Please, Matron . . . No . . .   Please.“

She shook her head.

“Keep a grip on that rail, Clough. And don’t think that a caning across the thighs is all you have to look forward to this evening.”

With hard measured strokes, she caned him across the slack flesh. Over the years she had noticed how boys reacted vociferously to such punishment. Thrashing the buttocks produced screams and howls, but correct a boy across the thighs and he emitted shrieks and piercing screams of agony. His knuckles were white as he clutched the rail and when she finished he was roaring continuously. She stepped back.

“I hope that serves as a lesson to you, Clough. Of how I deal with a boy whose bottom find their way into a another boy’s bed and whose hands wander between his thighs.”

Sheleft him sobbing, great gulping choking sobs, as she moved to the next boy, and then the next. And when she reached Graham, she flogged him as she had flogged Clough. By the end, when she hung the cane back on its hook, she was breathing deeply and there was a tightness across her chest. She felt an inner warmth anda deep sense of satisfaction at the retribution she had exacted. And there was still more to be done.

“Mrs Simmonds, please will you go to the infirmary and fetch the embrocation. And in the meantime every boy will remain on his bed gripping the end rail.”

The boys heard the clack of Mrs Simmonds shoes on the flags of the corridor as she left for the infirmary. Then there was silence. Perhaps some who had taken in the Matron’s request and knew what an embrocation was thought it was to be generally applied as an easement of their agony.   Certainly, Clough and Graham had no idea that it was for them, a continuation of their suffering, a further tier of punishment for their wickedness. Mrs Lavington looked down the dormitory at the round and reddened buttocks displayed before her. Most already displaying the tell-tale, tramline weals of a vigorous caning.

When Mrs Simmonds returned she was carrying a small tray on which was the jar of embrocation and a small thin wooden spatula. She set it down on the table.

“Thank you, Mrs Simmonds. And now will you please go around and pull up each boy’s pyjama trousers, except for Clough’s and Graham’s. Theirs are to be taken off completely. I want them bare from the waist down.”

She looked down the dormitory.

“And while Mrs Simmonds is doing that each boy will continue holding his bed rail.”

Mrs Lavington watched as Susannah Simmonds carried out her instructions.

“And now every boy, apart from Clough and Graham, will get into bed. And stay there until morning call.   I will not have boys wandering around the dormitory at night whatever the reason.”

There was the sound of creaking and rustling as fourteen boys twisted around and wriggled between the sheets. Mrs Lavington slowly advanced down the dormitory and stood and the foot of Clough’s bed.

“Let go of the rail, Clough and turn around and lie on your back.”

She looked across at Graham.

“And you, too, Graham. And each of you reach back and rest your hands on the rail above your heads. And now Mrs Simmonds, please secure both boys to the rail.”

Each small strap that Mrs Simmonds had attached earlier had another strap interlinked with it. And it was through that that each boy’s wrists were passed and the strap, then tightened. Mrs Lavington stepped across the dormitory and stood at the end of Graham’s bed. He was licking his lips, white-faced and anxious, knowing he was about to suffer some further, terrible retribution.

She smiled as she looked at his limp little penis and small scrotum.   She bent over the bed and placed her index finger under the sac, lifting it slightly and then letting it drop back.

(to be continued)

(The End)