Cordelia Lavington Chapter 37

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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Chapter 37

Mrs Lavington was pleased with the outcome of her talk with Howard Greaves. That each of her children would now be bringing home a daily note recording their behaviour was a welcome development. It was not only a check on the appropriateness of any discipline given, but also a declaration to each child that there was no corner of their young lives where her writ did not run.

She knew from her own childhood how she had resisted her mother’s rule and sought to hide from its pervasive scope. How she had created a secret retreat in the woods where she and Anna could meet to discuss and share childish concerns. And how her bedroom, even shared as it was with her brother, became a small satrapy where she enjoyed a measure of freedom from her mother’s oversight. And looking back she recognised that in that freedom, in those secret places, her sinful heart had fomented rebellion. When a moth eats a hole in a garment, the threads begin to unravel and the hole enlarges until more and more of the garment’s integrity is destroyed. And so it is with a secretive child who seeks to place herself outside the ambit of her mother’s rule. Slowly, the cohesion that binds her to her mother’s will is eaten away. Outwardly she may appear compliant but in her inner being she is far from compliant, resenting her mother’s rule and in secrecy feeding that resentment.

A frank, open child who hides nothing, who rests in her mother’s love and who renders her obedience and respect, is an unending joy. But a secretive child is an abomination to the Lord. As the Gospel said, every one that doeth evil hateth the light neither cometh to the light, lest his deeds should be reproved. And she knew how, as a child, she preferred those dark hidden places away from her mother’s gaze. And how, when a little older, in the darkness of her room, between the sheets, she would touch and stroke herself in ways she knew would earn her a thrashing with the martinet were she discovered.

And she was determined that Elizabeth, who was so like her, should be protected from the ravages of that worm which in the bud of a young child eats away her life. And she knew the best protection was a diligent mother ready to identify the signs of that inner resentment that wasted and destroyed. On her shelf at home was a little book entitled Managing the Older Girl. In its pages was the warning that a mother needs to pay careful attention to all those little indications that open a small casement on a girl’s inner life. Does she obey with reluctance? Does she display a lack of enthusiasm for the task in hand? Does she work at her lessons with care and attention or does she daydream? Is there a hint of rudeness, or even worse surliness, in her response? Does she disdainfully flutter her eyes? Does an intake of breath suggest suppressed dissent? If so, then outwardly the child may be complying but inwardly she is rejecting her mother’s rule over her.

It had become fashionable to believe that a child is born into freedom. But as the Apostle Paul said a child differeth nothing from a servant, though he be lord of all. From birth children are rightly in bondage to their mother and under her direction and tutelage. And this is in order to protect them from the ravages of sin. A mother has the responsibility under God to correct and punish sin, not just in its outward manifestations, but also in that hidden life glimpsed through that small casement which opens a crack on to the mass of anger and resentment that can seethe within, and which, unchecked, can eat a child alive.

She thought of the whipping William would be receiving later that afternoon. How he had flagrantly disobeyed her word, and worse had turned away from the Word of Truth itself, leaving it unread, and then lied and dissembled about it. For her the duty of punishing him would be undertaken without compunction. Indeed, there would be pleasure in breaking his will and rendering him compliant. He had passed into a desert place and needed to be returned to green pastures where flowed streams of living water. And it would be the rod of correction that would convict him and drive him home.

As she sat at her desk, she was aware of a boy crying. She rose and opening the door of the infirmary was confronted by Mrs Simmonds remonstrating with the boy Cranston. He was shaking his head and sobbing angrily.

“No, I won’t. I don’t want it. I don’t. You can’t make me eat it.”

Mrs Simmonds turned her head.

“I’m afraid Master Cranston is refusing his lunch, Matron.”

“Is he, Mrs Simmonds. Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

She stood in front of the distressed and sobbing child, and placing her hand under his chin forced his head back.

“Stop that noise, this instant, Cranston.”

And she smacked his face with a hard stinging slap.

“And why are you refusing to eat your lunch?”

“Pl . . . please, Matron, I . . . I don’t feel hungry.”

“I’m not interested in how you feel Cranston. How do you think I feel having a bad-tempered, wilful child in my infirmary? But I have to accept it and deal with it. Just as you have to accept and eat your lunch when it’s given you.”

Tears welled up in his eyes.

“B . . . but, it . . . it’ll make me sick . . . Matron.”

Nonsense. You’ll eat it and eat it with gratitude. And after that we’ll deal with your outburst. How dare you disturb my infirmary with your tantrums. Mrs Simmonds, give him an extra helping on his plate and when I return in ten minutes, I expect to see everything eaten and the plate wiped clean.”

She turned on her heels and returned to her office. Sitting down at her desk she checked the teaching timetable. As she thought Diana Fairclough was free for the first half of the afternoon as the girls were receiving religious instruction from the chaplain. She would send the boy to her for a sound spanking or indeed for whatever punishment was considered appropriate. The boy was barely seven. Although boys of that age were too young to appear before the Courts, if disruptive, and a danger to their community or to themselves, they could be sent to St Oswald’s as a place of safety and refuge where they could be reformed.

After ten minutes she returned to the infirmary.

“Well, Mrs Simmonds? Has the boy eaten his lunch?”

“Yes, Matron.”

“And the plate wiped clean? Let me see it.”

Mrs Simmonds showed her the plate.

“Good. So Cranston, how do you feel? Are you feeling sick?”

“He hung his head.

“No, Matron.”

“You will look at me when you address me, please. Are you feeling sick?”

The boy looked up, flushed and anxious. He had only been admitted to the Reformatory a few weeks previously.

“No, Matron.”

“So what was all the fuss about?”

“I’m sorry, Matron.”

“Eating your lunch after such a protest shows just how unnecessary it was. You deserve to be soundly spanked for such an pointless outrage.”

She looked at him.

“So I have decided to send you to Mrs Fairclough. She will enjoy spanking a naughty little boy who refuses to eat his food and unnecessarily protests about doing so. Get out of bed.”

He stood in his pyjamas, his hands nervously twisting by his side.

“You do know who Mrs Fairclough is, Cranston?”

“N . . . no . . . Matron.”

“She is the wife of the Principal. And she takes a particular pleasure in spanking small boys who throw tantrums like a two year old. Stand over there while I write her a note.”

She returned to her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper.

Dear Diana,

This young man, Cranston, has been in the infirmary with a temperature. He is now ready to be discharged and as evidence of his well-being chose to throw a tantrum over his lunch which he refused to eat. He maintained the food would make him sick. However, he was soon persuaded to change his mind and indeed was made to eat an extra helping. He has not been sick and the whole incidence was completely unnecessary and evidence of a recalcitrant spirit. I am sending him to you to discipline. He expects to be spanked, but how you deal with him is entirely up to you.

With my affectionate best wishes,

Cordelia

She inserted the note into an envelope and after sealing it, returned to the infirmary and handed it to the boy.

“You will take this to Mrs Fairclough and hand it to her. Mrs Simmonds will accompany you.”

The boy, still wearing pyjamas and with bare feet, was ushered out by Mrs Simmonds who propelled him down the corridor. When they arrived at the door to the Principal’s apartment, she knocked, and after a brief explanation to Mary the boy was admitted, clutching the envelope.

Mary, still smarting from her earlier caning, smiled. It was obvious to her that the flushed and nervous boy had come to be punished. She made him wait in the hall and knocked on the door of the drawing room.

“Come in.”

“Please Ma’am, there’s a boy to see you. And he’s wearing pyjamas.”

“A boy, Mary? In pyjamas? Then you had better show him it.”

She looked at the small boy clutching the envelope. And smiled.

“And what is your name?”

“C . . . Cranston, please, M . . . M . . . “

“You had better address me as Ma’am, Cranston. That would be the right thing to do. And is that envelope for me?”

“Y . . . yes . . . Ma’am.”

Nervously, he offered it to her. She took it and sitting on an upright chair opened it and read the contents slowly. She then reread the note, savouring each word, and as she did so she felt a slight constriction in her chest. She looked up.

“And do you know what this is about, Cranston?”

He shook his head, looking down and biting his lip.

“Well, it says here that you’ve been a naughty boy and refused to eat you lunch. Is that right?”

“Ye . . . yes, Ma’am.”

“And why was that?”

“I felt sick . . please Ma’am.”

Mrs Fairclough looked down at the note.

“It says here that you were persuaded by Matron to eat it even though you felt sick.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And how did she persuade you?”

“She . . she smacked me.“

Mrs Fairclough smiled, and stood up.

“She smacked you, did she. And where did she smack you?”

“On . . on my face.”

Mrs Fairclough stepped forward and gently placing her hand under his chin tilted his head back.

“Yes, I can see the mark.”

She stroked his cheek gently with her finger. And then ran it, caressingly, down his other cheek.

“You have very soft cheeks, Cranston. Soft, round little cheeks.”

She paused.

“But there is another pair of cheeks, isn’t there. Just as soft and round, although perhaps a little fuller and a little firmer. Isn’t that right?”

He reddened with embarrassment.

“And where are they to be found?”

His eyes were now brimming with tears.

“Please, Ma’am . . . “

“They’re to be found inside a boy’s trousers, aren’t they, Cranston? They form the plump little bottom that he sits upon.”

She smiled and reaching out gently ran her finger down the cheek that still bore the faint print of Cordelia’s palm.

“But a little boy’s bottom is for more than sitting on, isn’t it Cranston? Did Matron tell you what she was asking me to do?”

His voice was barely audible.

“Ye . . . yes . . . Ma’am.”

“And what was that? Why has she sent you to me?”

“T . . to be . . . to be spanked . . . Ma’am.”

“Yes, Cranston.”

She looked down at the letter that she was still holding.

“What Matron says is . . . I am sending him to you to discipline. He expects to be spanked, but how you deal with him is entirely up to you.”

The boy twisted in his discomfiture.

“So tell me again why you need to be spanked””

“Be . . . because I didn’t want to eat my lunch.”

“And why was that?”

“Be . . . because it would make me sick.”

“And did it make you sick?”

He hung his head.

“No, Ma’am.”

So why did you make all that unnecessary fuss?”

“I . . . I don’t know . . Ma’am.”

“Well, I do, Cranston. It was because you are a thoughtless, silly little boy. An attention seeker who says the first thing that comes into his empty head. Stand over there with you back to the wall and place your hands behind your neck.”

She left the boy, quietly crying, and went to her dressing room. Opening a drawer she took out an oval, ebony backed hairbrush. She smacked it against her palm and smiled. This had been her first choice for disciplining her own children. She had spanked them all from an early age and had continued to spank them until they attained the age of eight or nine. Thereafter, the cane was regularly used or, for wilful or repeated disobedience, the birch. Edward, her youngest, who was now thirteen, had been the last to feel the smart of that hard, ebony back across his bottom.

When she returned to the drawing room, the boy was still standing where he had been placed.

“Come and stand here, Cranston.”

She pulled the cord of his pyjama trousers and watched as they slithered to his ankles.

“Step out of them, Cranston. Pick them up and place them on that chair. And come here.”

And turning him around, she hoicked his pyjama top up over his shoulders.

“And now, Cranston, you will be spanked as Matron intended.”

And it was like a living memory. Seven or eight years ago, this might have been Edward. He had been a difficult child and rarely a week had passed without his being spanked. And she felt once again the thrill of having a small boy over her knee, trembling as he anticipated the punishment to come. And however much he struggled, however much he wriggled and writhed, there was no escape from that hard ebony back as it inflamed the cheeks of his soft little bottom. The spanking epitomised her complete control over his young life.

As a girl she had played ‘mothers and fathers’ with her dolls, and had frequently lifted their dresses and spanked them. But they were lifeless and unresponsive to her discipline. She remembered her own spankings. How they were an agonising assault on bare flesh and always brought tears to her eyes and left oval smarting marks on her bottom. And then, when she herself became a mother, she discovered how wonderfully different it was to spank a living child rather than a lifeless doll. And how she had delighted in the bodily transformation of soft, pale buttocks to a pair of red smarting cheeks. But the inner transformation of the spirit was less easily achieved. For a child only yields his will reluctantly, and needs the application of regular and unswerving discipline if a true spirit of obedience is to be inculcated and established.

She brought the hard back of the hairbrush down across the boy’s right buttock cheek. He gave a shriek of agony and writhed like an eel. But her arm was firmly around him and his writhing only served to emphasise his helplessness. She spanked slowly and with deliberation, allowing a full half minute between strokes. She wanted the boy to be in no doubt that the searing agony was fully intended and that she was taking a deep satisfaction in its infliction. After twenty four strokes, Mrs Fairclough paused. She was of a mind to continue. But resisted the temptation. She lifted the roaring child off her lap. Immediately his hands clutched at his smarting rump, and he stamped and cavorted around. As do all small boys if permitted to do so. But that was something that Mrs Fairclough had never allowed.

“Stop that immediately, Cranston. And stand over there. With your hands on the back of your neck. As they were before.”

She left him for five minutes until his desperate sobbing had been replaced by a gentle whimpering noise. She looked up from the escritoire at which she had been sitting.

“I hope you have learned your lesson, Cranston. Have you?”

“Please, Ma’am . . . Yes . . . Ma’am, I have.”

“And what is the lesson you have learned?”

“Pl . . . please, Ma’am . . . to . . . to do what Matron tells me.”

“Yes, Cranston. To do what Matron tells you. To do what any adult in this reformatory tells you. And to do it without fuss or silly excuses. Excuses such as ‘I can’t eat my food because I shall be sick.’”

She put her hand under his chin and tilted his head back.

“And did you really think you were going to be sick?”

“I . . . thought I might be.”

“But you weren’t, were you.”

She frowned and the boy shivered.

“What you need, Cranston, is to know what it’s like to feel really sick and to be sick.

He watched as she walked over to the bell pull. In a few moments there was a knock.

“Mary, I want you to go to the medicine cupboard in my bathroom. On either the first or second shelf you will see a glass bottle marked Syrup of Ipecac. Bring it to me with a jug of water and a glass. And then go and bring me the chamber pot.”

Mrs Fairclough stood by the escritoire and looked at the boy, damp and dishevelled. He had no idea what she intended, and that gave her a quaint satisfaction. On the top of the escritoire was a cane. She picked it up and swished it several times through the air before replacing it. The boy said nothing, but shivered nervously and nibbled his upper lip. How small and red his mouth was she thought. After several more minutes, there was a knock on the door and Mary entered.

“Thank you, Mary. Please place the tray there. And now go and fetch the chamber pot as I asked, and bring with it a large towel. And also a bowl of water and a sponge.”

(to be continued)

(The End)