Cordelia Lavington Chapter 38

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 38

While Mary was fetching the chamber pot, Mrs Fairclough opened a small drawer in the escritoire and took out a safety pin. Then, seating herself on an upright chair, she beckoned to the naked boy, and easing her dress, stood him between her legs facing the room. Taking the towel from Mary, she draped it over her knees and, bringing the ends around the boy’s neck, fastened them at his back with the safety pin. The towel was like a large table napkin covering his front and spreading over her own lap.

“Pass me the Syrup of Ipecac, please Mary, with a spoon.”

Mary flushed.

“I . . . I’m sorry Ma’am but you didn’t ask me to bring a spoon.”

Mrs Fairclough gave an exasperated sigh.

“I do expect you to show a little initiative, Mary. Did you think the boy would be drinking straight from the bottle. Go and fetch a dessert spoon and hurry up.”

She stroked the boy’s head with a beguiling gentleness.

“And what did you have for lunch, Cranston. The lunch that you thought would make you sick?”

“It was a stew . . . Ma’am.”

She took the spoon from Mary, and pouring carefully, filled it with the Syrup.

“Swallow this down, Cranston.”

He made no protest but did as he was told. She handed the bottle and spoon back to the girl.

“And now a glass of water, please, Mary.”

She held the glass to the boy’s lips.

“Drink this down. All of it.”

She gave a small smile.

“The stew didn’t make you sick did it, Cranston. Despite your saying it would.”

She slipped her hand underneath the towel and gave his stomach a rub.

“And that’s where it is; but not for much longer. You clearly have no idea what it is like to feel sick or to be sick. But I am about to remedy that. In a moment, you will feel sick. Very sick indeed, Cranston. And you will not only feel sick but you will be sick. And you will bring up the lunch you didn’t want to eat into this chamber pot.”

She pointed to it and nodded at Mary who handed it to her. Mrs Fairclough spread her legs and pulled the boy further back into her crotch, and gripped him tightly. The chamber pot was held in front of him; and with her other hand she gently rubbed his stomach. Glancing across the room she could see herself and the small naked boy reflected in the mirror.

After what seemed a long five minutes, she could feel the boy shivering.

“Please, oh, I feel ill . . . Oh . . . ”

And he retched and vomited horribly. She pressed his head forward and made sure that all went into the pot. After a pause he vomited a second time and then a third. He was limp and shaking and making a strange rattling noise in his throat. He retched several times more but nothing further came up.

“Dampen the sponge, Mary, please, and pass it to me.”

She handed the girl the chamber pot and taking the sponge wiped the boy’s mouth and face. Then, she lifted him on to her lap and put her arm around him.

“So now, Cranston, you know what it is like to feel sick and to be sick. So let’s have no more idle threats about being sick when you don’t want to eat the food that’s set in front of you. And stop whimpering. You are not ill.”

She waited for a moment before continuing.

“Unfortunately, the lesson you’ve had to learn has meant that your good lunch has ended up in the pot over there.”

She turned to Mary.

“Please go and ask cook to put a small potato and a little cabbage on a plate. I am sure there is some left after lunch. And bring another spoon.”

She stroked the boy’s back while she waited. It was warm despite his having been stripped of his clothes. After a few minutes, Mary returned with the requested plate of food. Mrs Fairclough unpinned the towel and lifted the boy from her lap.

“Put the plate on the coffee table, Mary and you, boy, go and kneel in front of it.”

She smiled.

“We can’t have all that dinner wasted that Matron gave you in the infirmary, can we? Give me the spoon, Mary.”

And picking up the chamber pot, she dolloped several spoonfuls of sick on to the plate. The boy looked at her with dark, glistening eyes.

“P . . . please, Ma’am. I . . . I can’t. I’ll be sick again.”

She spoke with a warm reassuring voice.

“That’s quite all right, Cranston. You can be sick into the pot, and it can easily be scooped out and put back on your plate.”

“Please, Ma’am. I . . . can’t.“

She stepped across to the escritoire and picked up the cane.

“Let us understand one another, Cranston. If I say you will eat it, then eat it you will.”

She tapped the tip of the rattan on the table.

You already have a sore bottom, and with this swishy little cane, I can make it a lot sorer than it is.”

Again she rapped the cane on the table.

“Either you eat it without a caning or I cane you until you do eat it.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“So which is it?”

His voice was hoarse and flat.

“I . . . I’ll eat it . . . Ma’am.”

She placed the spoon on the side of his plate.

“So no more fuss.”

She watched as slowly he ate the potato and cabbage. She smiled. Some children delighted in leaving the best till last, but here the last was most certainly the worst and there was no delight in it. Already, he was visibly shivering, reluctant to consume the lumpy mess of vomit with its disgusting sickly smell. He looked at her imploringly.

“Eat it, Cranston.”

He shut his eyes and slowly ate. Once or twice he retched, but he kept it down. She replaced the cane on the top of the escritoire.

Picking up the face cloth and pouring a little water over it, she gently wiped his mouth.

“Good boy, Cranston. Now drink some water. No don’t gulp it down. Just a few sips or you might be sick again. That’s better.”

She sat on the chair and beckoned him to her. Lifting him, she sat him on her lap and put an arm around him. She could feel him shivering.

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

“Ye . . . yes . . . Ma’am”

“And what is the lesson you’ve learned?”

She felt him squirming as he struggled to give an acceptable answer.

“T . . . to do as . . . as I’m told . . . Please Ma’am.”

“Well, that is something all small boys should do. But what was it that got you into this trouble? What did you refuse to do that Matron asked you to do?”

“E . . . eat my lunch, please, Ma’am.”

“And will you always eat what is set before you in future?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“But you made a silly excuse for not wanting your lunch, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And what was that?”

“I . . . I said it would make me sick.”

“And will you make that excuse again?”

He shook his head

“No, Ma’am.”

“Good boy. Now get down.”

He wriggled off her lap.

“And you may dress.”

Most boys on being told to dress, after being stripped naked for punishment, first reach for their underpants. But instead Cranston picked up his vest. It was a short vest, barely coming to his waist and his red and well-spanked bottom was in stark contrast to its whiteness.

“Stand over there, Cranston, while I write a note for you to take to Matron.”

She sat at the escritoire and pulled a sheet from one of the pigeon holes at the back. The boy watched her nervously.

Dear Cordelia,

Thank you for sending Cranston to me. What an engaging child. But obviously one who finds the restraints of discipline difficult to accept. I questioned him closely and made him recount fully his folly and disobedience. He then received two dozen hard strokes with the ebony back of my hairbrush. This was last used on Edward shortly before his ninth birthday. And I had forgotten how deeply satisfying it is to spank a small boy.

You know, Cordelia, I am wondering whether in view of the boy’s young age and his need of a mother’s love and discipline whether he might be adopted by James and myself – at least until he’s a little older. What do you think about that?

Anyway, for the moment, I am returning him to you well chastised. And in view of his silly excuses about feeling sick, I gave him a dose of Ipecac. He was very sick and was made to eat two spoonfuls. As I told him, it was the lunch he was supposed to eat, and rather than waste it he could eat some of it now. I am sure there will be no more foolish excuses about feeling sick simply to get his own way. I hope you approve.

With best wishes and thank you,

Diana

She inserted the note into an envelope and licking it, stuck it down.

“Come here Cranston.”

She stooped down and kissed him on the cheek.

“What is your Christian name, Cranston?”

“David, Ma’am.”

“Well, David, I hope you’ve learned your lesson. You will hand this to Matron on your return to the infirmary. Mary will accompany you.”

Mary had watched David Cranston’s discipline with a trembling fascination. She knew the mistress could be strict but she had never imagined her as strict as that. She had been sent to the Orphanage after her mother, a war widow, had died of pneumonia when Mary was five. She could barely remember those early years with her mother and the little she could remember was coloured by an understandable longing for a lost Golden Age. The Orphanage to which she had been sent was firmly of the Age of Iron. The hairbrush across the bare bottom for the younger girls was the normal response to any rule breaking, while those who had passed their eighth year could expect to be stripped and caned, or in exceptional circumstances, birched. This Mary accepted with little resentment, and indeed the order and routine of the Orphanage offered reassurance in an uncertain world. In many ways Mary came to regard the Orphanage as her mother. But in her imaginative life she had another mother, a mother who was warm and accepting and a companion in all her trials and tribulations: the mother she had lost all those years ago. Some children cope with hardship by an outgoing positive attitude; but others, like Mary, retreat into an imaginative world, and are labelled dreamers and time wasters as a consequence. And bring down further punishment upon themselves.

When she had been selected to enter service with Mrs Fairclough less than a month ago, she had been pleased. Perhaps, her new mistress would be the mother she had never known. But Mary’s yearning for her lost mother was too sentimental and unrealistic. Mrs Fairclough was concerned for her in a practical way but treated her, naturally enough, as a domestic servant rather than a child to be cossetted. And when she fell short, the rod of correction was not spared. This Mary accepted, as she had accepted the Orphanage’s discipline, but her anxiety and disappointment made her often slow and unresponsive and her frequent daydreaming brought additional punishment down upon her head.

In her daydreaming she would imagine a world in which her mother was a lady of quality and she a favoured daughter with servants girls to do their bidding. Sometimes a girl would fail in her duty and her mother would whip her in front of her. The harshness of these whippings contrasted sharply with the imagined warmth and affection bestowed on her by her mother. And in this dream world, she could be both her mother administering that painful chastisement and the girl suffering at her hand. The prospect of an actual whipping inflicted on her own person was always to be feared and yet in her fear there was a trembling excitement; and afterwards she would dissect and analyse her suffering and relive it in her imagination.

As the door to the apartment closed behind her she took the boy’s hand and squeezed it affectionately. She felt grateful for the pleasure he had given her.

“Do you feel better now, David?”

He looked up at her nervously and she thought how his eyes were almost violet.

“Ye . . . yes, Ma’am.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘Ma’am’, David. My name’s Mary. You can call me Mary.”

She wondered whether she should sympathise with him, by telling him she too was subject to the rod, but she chose not to. Already she was imagining herself in a position of authority over him, as an older sister might be. Turning him over her knee and spanking him as the Mistress had done.

They walked in a companionable silence and his small hand felt warm in hers. When they arrived at the infirmary she opened the door and ushered him through, with the reminder that he should immediately hand Mrs Fairclough’s note to Matron.

As he entered, Mrs Simmonds looked up, and smiled. Mrs Lavington had told her she had sent him to Mrs Fairclough to be spanked. And the boy certainly had the look of a boy who had been soundly punished.

“Stand over there, Cranston and I’ll ask Matron whether she will see you now.”

She knocked at the door and entered. The boy could hear a murmur of voices and after a moment Mrs Simmonds reappeared.

“You are to go in, Cranston.”

The boy stepped across the threshold, and Mrs Lavington, who had an eye for such things, noticed how his hands were nervously twisting at his sides. His whole demeanour was of a boy who had been soundly spanked and who was uncertain whether his ordeal was entirely over.

“Is that a note I see in your hand, Cranston? Then I had better have it. I assume it’s from Mrs Fairclough.”

She took the envelope and slitting it open with a small ivory handled letter opener, drew out the folded sheet and read it. She looked up.

“And did Mrs Fairclough discuss any of this with you, Cranston?”

“N . . . no, Matron.”

“But she spanked you and then gave you something to make you sick. Is that right?”

He bit his lip.

“Ye . . . yes, Matron.”

“So you have learned your lesson?”

“Yes, Matron.”

“To eat what is put in front of you and not to make up silly excuses for refusing it.”

“Yes, Matron.”

She walked across to her desk and picked up a hairbrush.

“Are you sure about that, Cranston. Or do you need a further spanking to drive the lesson home?”

“Please, no, Matron. I won’t do it again. I promise. Please I won’t.”

She smacked the back of the brush across her palm. And let him inwardly writhe for a moment.

“Very well then. You may return to your class. I’ll discuss with Mrs Fairclough whether any further measures are called for.”

She sat at her desk and reread Diana’s note. Then, after a minute’s thought, selected a sheet of notepaper, and unscrewed the top of her fountain pen.

Dear Diana,

He is an engaging child, isn’t he? Did you notice his almost violet eyes? But there is a spirit of recalcitrance there that needs to be broken. His refusal of food was borne of obstinacy, and his excuse of sickness a mere fabrication to get his own way against the authority set over him. I am pleased you spanked him soundly, and I trust the marks will still be visible at bedtime. And I have to say that your recourse to Ipecac was more than justified. What an imaginative way to teach that dissembling and falsehood have consequences. And then to make him eat his own vomit! A harsh lesson in the need to be grateful for what is set before him at table and a warning that food is not to be wasted.

Now your suggestion that you should adopt the boy into your household. I assume he would continue to attend school in the Reformatory, just as my three do. But for him to receive additionally that searching, loving discipline that can only be provided in a loving home would be of inestimable benefit. And he is of an age when the twig is green and can still be readily bent. It also occurs to me that Mary might well be able to provide some supervision of the boy and help him with homework, even get him ready for bed before prayers with either you or James. Altogether I applaud it as an excellent idea.

With the best of wishes, and I am glad I sent Cranston to you!

Cordelia

She slipped the note into an envelope and went into the infirmary, and asked Susannah to take it along to Mrs Fairclough. Then looking at the clock she returned to her office, and settled down to some work at her desk. At three o’clock she would be accompanying Clough and Graham to the Principal.

(to be continued)

(The End)