Cordelia Lavington Chapter 40

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 40

Mrs Lavington raised the brush and brought it smacking down on the boy’s slack thigh flesh. He shrieked and bucked, but managed to keep his hands tucked beneath him.

“And that, William, marks the first day of creation. So what did God do on the first day?”

“He . . . he made . . . the light and dark . . . please mother.”

“Very good, William. That is correct. The light and the darkness. But what about the second day?”

The brush descended with a dull, smarting smack. There was a long piercing scream of agony. Mrs Lavington waited.

“And on the second day of creation, what did God make?”

He was sobbing, desperate for the torment to end.

“No, mother. Please, no.”

“I’m waiting for an answer, William. No and please are not answers. I repeat. What did God make on the second day of creation?

His whole body was racked with fearful hesitation. He knew he had to answer, but knew also that an incorrect answer would only prolong the torture.

“W . . . was it . . . the . . . the sky . . . mother?”

She was surprised at his remembering so well.

“Yes, William. Well remembered. On the second day, God made the sky.”

Then the hard ebony back of the brush smacked down for a third time.

“And on the third day, William? What did God make on the third day?”

She waited for the smarting agony to abate, and then repeated the question.

“Please, mother, please . . .”

“Just answer the question, William.”

“Please, was it . . . was it the . . . the sun and the moon.”

“No William it was not the sun and the moon.”

She raised the brush and brought it down with a sharp twist of her wrist across his thigh. He screamed and writhed, and began to kick with his legs.

“Stop that this instant, William. Unless you want to be tied by your feet.”

Slowly he quietened and lay sobbing, rocking his body gently, comforting himself.

“On the third day of creation, God made the sea and the dry land. You will repeat that and then I will then spank it in so you remember in future. Is that understood?

“Ye . . . yes, mother. Yes.”

“On the third day, God made the sea and the dry land. Repeat it.”

He did so and then visibly tensed awaiting the confirming smack of the brush. And for the last three days of creation, he again failed to answer correctly, and as a consequence received two more additional strokes for each failure. When she had finished, he lay heaving and sobbing across her lap, fourteen angry, oval marks clearly visible on his right thigh. She waited until she considered he had sobbed enough.

“You may get up, William. And go and face the wall by the bookcase. He stood there quietly whimpering, knowing that his lying had still to be punished.

She turned to her other two children.

“And how is your homework going, Samuel? What is your assignment this afternoon?”

“Please, mother, Mr Crawley set us some English problems.”

“English problems? And what are English problems? Show me.”

She looked in his exercise book.

“ I see. Words that sound the same but are different. And you are to show how each is used. She scanned her eye down the list of homonyms. A very good lesson.”

She frowned.

“But you have written nothing. Absolutely nothing. While I have been disciplining your brother you have simply idled your time away. Why is that?”

“I . . . I’m not sure what I have to do . . . mother.”

His voice tailed away.

“Surely, Mr Crawley explained what you had to do. Weren’t you listening?”

“Yes, mother. Yes, I was.”

“Then why are you unsure what to do?”

“I didn’t understand.”

His mother shook her head despairingly.

“I’ve told you before, Samuel, if you don’t understand you must say so and ask for a further explanation.”

“I . . . I’m sorry, mother.

“So what are we to do?”

“P . . . please, mother, can you show me?”

She nodded.

“What Mr Crawley is expecting is that for each pair of words you make up two sentence that shows what each word means. Do you understand?”

“I . . . I think so, mother.”

“Take this pair of words bare and bear. They sound the same but each means something different. One is an animal. Which one is that?”

He pointed to the right word.

“Good. So let us make a short sentence that shows you know bear is an animal. So write this down in your book. I saw a bear in the zoo.”

Slowly and carefully he wrote as his mother watched.

“And because you have mentioned a zoo that shows you know it is an animal.”

She paused.

“And now what about the other bare? What does that mean?”

“Does it mean not having anything on.”

“Yes. Something is bare if it is completely uncovered.”

She lifted her head questioningly.

“And what is often bare in this house, Samuel? When it needs to be punished.”

He looked down.

“Our bottoms . . . mother.”

“Yes. And all too frequently. So let us make a little sentence to show you know the meaning of bare.”

She thought for a moment.

“Write this: all boys should be caned on the bare bottom.”

Slowly and laboriously he inscribed it in his exercise book.

“And that clearly shows you know the meaning of bare.”

She smiled.

“And it will also serve as a little reminder to Mr Crawley of how boys ought to be caned. Now get on with the rest of the exercise. But remember it’s not just a question of making up a sentence with the word in it. The sentence has to show you know the meaning of the word.”

He looked puzzled.

“If you had just said I saw a bear that wouldn’t show that you knew what a bear was, would it? For all anyone knew, you might think a bear was a sort of hat. But by putting in the word zoo you show that you know it is an animal. And the same with the other bare. By using it together with bottom, you show that you know what it means. Now that’s enough explanation. I want to see the whole lot finished within the hour.”

She picked up the cane from the table, and flexed it between her hands, enjoying the display of its enormous flexibility. She turned to her younger son.

“Turn around, William. Before you settle down to homework, there is something that needs to be done. And what is that?”

“I . . . I have to be caned.”

“Turn around, William. Before you settle down to homework, there is something that needs to be done. And what is that?”

“I . . . I have to be caned.”

“Yes, you have to be caned. And why is that?”

“B . . . because I lied.”

“And why did you lie?”

He hung his head.

“Look at me, William. A boy doesn’t look away when his mother is speaking to him. That is rudeness; and you’ll receive an additional six strokes.”

“No, please mother. No.”

“And a further six strokes for arguing. I repeat, why did you lie?”

He shuffled disconsolately.

“Be . . because I . . . didn’t want to be punished . . . please mother.”

“I am sure you didn’t want to be punished, William, but you need to understand that each time you sin you need to be punished in order to be forgiven.”

She paused.

“You do want to be forgiven, don’t you, William?”

He hung his head.

Yes, mother. Yes. Please forgive me. I’m sorry.”

“You lied to me twice, William. First about having read your Bible when you hadn’t. And then denying that you were lying, when you were. That is why you are receiving a double caning.”

She pointed to the armchair.

“Over the arm.”

He went slowly to the place of execution breathless with the blood pounding in his ears.

“Right over, please, William. And tuck your hands down between the chair and the seat. A dozen strokes for each of your lies makes a total of twenty four strokes and a further twelve strokes for rudeness and arguing means thirty six strokes.”

She gave a grim smile and flexed the cane again, and stepped back. His buttocks were faintly marked from his recent caning in class, yet pale compared to the deep, red soreness of his welted thighs. She waited, letting him twist in nervous anticipation of the punishment to come. Elizabeth was sitting motionless, biting her lip, with an intense rapt expression on a flushed face. Her mother smiled. She remembered how she had similarly watched her own mother punishing her brothers, and how she had experienced a similar breathless excitement.

She had been a sensuous child from an early age, and had delighted in witnessing their punishment, particularly of Charles who was two years her junior. Her mother was an accomplished disciplinarian who took the boy’s dressage seriously. Each occasion of discipline was prefaced by a slow refined process in which his buoyant self-assertiveness was steadily eroded by skilful interrogation. Like a Greek tragedy that unfolds to its inevitable conclusion, so did her mother’s disciplining of Charles. And it was the whole enactment that she enjoyed. Often she knew of his naughtiness or disobedience before her mother and then sometimes she would inform on him, not blatantly, but by letting a word or indication slip, seemingly without intention. She was a moral child and knew he deserved punishment and saw nothing wrong in being the agent of his downfall. And given the rightness of his correction, she could see nothing wrong in savouring its unfolding. And just as a favourite story gains by its end being anticipated, so it was for Cordelia as she watched each step of her brother’s discipline.

She recalled a time when Charles, displaying an unwelcome greed at breakfast, had been forbidden anything other than bread and water for the remainder of the day. Her mother had slipped next door for ten minutes to speak to Mme Soler and Charles had taken a jar of strawberry jam from the cupboard and dipped his finger in it several times, savouring the forbidden sweetness. She had felt a quiver of excitement run through her at his disobedience. She watched as he hurriedly returned the jar to the cupboard fearing his mother’s return; but a small blob of jam had already fallen to the floor. Cordelia felt her heart racing as her mother entered the kitchen. She waited to see whether her mother would notice the evidence of wrongdoing. After five minutes she could barely contain herself.

‘Please Maman, why is there a spot of jam on the floor?’

Her mother looked to where she was pointing, and frowned. Then Charles had been summoned to the kitchen.

‘Can you explain, Charles, why there is jam on the floor?’

‘No, mother.’

‘Well, have you been eating jam? Perhaps while I was with Mme Soler?’

‘No, mother. You said I could only have bread and water.’

‘True. But a boy who is forbidden anything other than bread and water is going to find jam very tempting. Is that not so?’

‘I . . . I suppose so, mother.’

She had looked at him with a frown on her brow. And then she had walked to the cupboard and opened it. Cordelia had held her breath, her pulse racing. Her mother had given a grim smile..

‘Show me the jam, Charles.’

He pointed to it.

‘And is that where the jam is usually to be found, beside the coffee?’

‘I . . . I think so . . . mother.’

Well, you are mistaken, mon petit. It lives to the right of the cake tin.’

She paused.

‘So why is it in the wrong place beside the coffee?’

Cordelia felt a tightness in her chest as the cord of discipline tightened around the boy.

‘I . . . I’m not sure . . . mother.’

‘Well, I am, Charles. Hold out your hands.’

Reluctantly he did so. She held his right hand by the wrist and examined it.

‘And this finger is sticky, Charles. The finger you dipped in the jam before sucking it.’

She paused.

‘So tell me what happens to small disobedient boys?’

Charles had hung his head, and her mother had turned to her.

‘Well, Cordelia, perhaps you can enlighten Charles. What happens to a small boy who wilfully chooses to defy his mother?’

Cordelia could hear a pounding in her ears.

‘He . . . he is spanked . . . mother.’

And her mother had reached out and, placing her hand under her son’s chin, had tilted his head back. He shivered as he looked into her eyes.

‘Yes, Charles, spanked. Spanked on bare flesh with my hairbrush until he is squirming and howling.’

She paused.

‘But you were not only disobedient, were you, Charles. You were a thief who stole from his mother.’

She paused, looking at her four year old son.

‘And for that you will be birched.’

She remembered how pale her brother had looked, biting his lip, his eyes dark and unblinking. Her mother had fetched the hairbrush from the dresser and passed it to her to hold while she stripped the boy of his breeches and bared him for punishment. Then he had gone over her lap and received une bonne fessée déculottée. The spanking was given without a word. Without remonstrance. For her mother believed none was needed. That just as the Word of God had become flesh and shared our grief and sorrow for our salvation, so now her word became a painful and saving reality in the flesh of her son as he lay writhing over her knee. Slowly, and with measured intent, two dozen strokes were imprinted on her brother’s small, compact bottom. Even at four, he had been schooled not to scream and howl in defiance but as the agony increased and overwhelmed him he roared in his torment.

He had then been made to stand in the corner, a small, sodden boy, his bottom red and inflamed, awaiting his further punishment. He had been left in shame and disgrace for over an hour and during that time a birch rod had been bound up. Then, Cordelia had then been sent to ask Mme Soler whether she could assist in the punishment of un enfant méchant.

Mrs Soler had sat on an upright chair with the boy stretched diagonally across her lap, his head secured firmly under her arm. And her mother had slowly swished three dozen vigorous strokes across the boy’s thighs and his already sore and inflamed buttocks. Cordelia had watched with a flushed face and a throbbing in her chest.

And now as a mother she had the privilege of administering such discipline herself. She flexed the cane appreciatively. Twenty four strokes to which had been added a further twelve for rudeness and arguing. She swished the cane through the air. William tensed and there was a sharp intake of breath as he awaited the first agonising cut. She tapped the cane across his bottom.

“Three dozen strokes is a severe punishment for a boy of your age, William, but you have brought it on yourself. My advice is to learn from it so that a repetition is not necessary.”

She raised the cane and brought it swishing down. There was that unmistakeable whooshing noise followed by a plump smack as it impacted on the boy’s firm flesh. Cordelia glanced at her daughter. Elizabeth was watching, with her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open. Again the cane was raised and another stroke administered. William struggled to control his screams for uninhibited screaming was regarded as wilful dissent and subject to additional punishment. But by the twelfth stroke he was howling and writhing in agony. His mother stepped back. She had not spared him. Already his buttocks had been caned to a lively red, and the cuts of the rattan were clearly visible on his flesh. That his hands were still tucked down the side of the chair gave her almost as much pleasure as the marks of her discipline. It showed how well she had schooled him to accept bodily correction.

She remembered the first time she had read Wuthering Heights. How the book demanded to be read and how difficult it was to put down. And yet the insistent craving to read on was balanced by the desire to make the pleasure of the tale last forever. And so she had shut the book, having marked the place, and refused to open it until the next day. And the pleasure of waiting, the pleasure of containing her desire, was itself deeply pleasurable. She looked at her seven year old son, writhing over the arm of the chair. He had been promised three dozen cuts of the cane and expected them to be given as a single continuous correction. And part of her wanted to continue the flogging, to place further cuts on his red and quivering flesh until he was truly broken and sobbing. But then again the pleasure of keeping him under sentence, fearfully awaiting the resumption of his punishment, warmly commended itself. It would add to his torment while at the same time adding to the pleasure of disciplining him.

She tapped the cane against his bottom.

“You may get up, William. You have been punished enough. For the moment. Sit at the table and start your homework. You will receive a further dozen cuts before bed and the balance of the punishment will be given tomorrow before school.”

He sat gingerly on the hard upright chair. The edge rubbed painfully against his welted thighs and the seat itself gave no relief from the throbbing cuts of the cane.

“And what has Mr Greaves set for this evening?”

The boy was still tearful and in considerable pain and found it difficult to concentrate.

“I . . . I’m not sure . . . mother.”

“Pull yourself together, William. I have spared you the better part of your caning. Get out your homework, see what has been set, and start it immediately. You are in enough trouble as it is.”

Slowly he opened his satchel and took out his exercise book. Fighting his tears, he stared at the page.

“Well, what has Mr Greaves set you?”

“Some sums, please mother.”

“Well, get on with them. And I am expecting every one to be right.”

The boy stared hopelessly at the book. He had had to copy out ten problems from the blackboard and now had to solve them. Instead of lots of numbers there were sentences and then a series of questions. He was fearful of asking for help, yet he knew that without help he would be unable to proceed and that would invite further punishment. He sucked the end of his pencil and frowned.

“You don’t seem to be making much progress, William. What is the matter?”

“Please, mother, I don’t understand what I have to do.”

Mrs Lavington sighed.

“Is that because you were inattentive in class, William? I have warned you what the consequences of inattention are.”

She paused.

“A boy who is inattentive fails to learn. That is the first consequence and a very serious one. The second is more immediate and painful: he is spanked to encourage him to listen attentively so he learns in future.”

She reached out and took the book from him and studied it for a moment..

“What Mr Greaves has done is to describe certain groups of things and then asks you how many things are in each group. Do you understand?”

“I . . . I don’t think so, mother.”

“Well, I will explain and you will listen and give me you whole attention. Then you will answer the questions Mr Greaves has set and if there are any mistakes, any mistakes at all, I will have to conclude you were not listening to me and not making an real effort to understand. All of this is well within your ability, William.”

She smoothed her skirt as she sat down.

“Take the first question: a lady bought six apples, three pears, four oranges and three potatoes. (a) How many things did she buy? (b) how many fruits did she buy? (c) how many vegetables did she buy? And (d) how many round shaped fruits did she buy?”

She looked at the boy.

“All you have to do is read the question carefully and then answer the questions.”

She tapped the book with a pencil.

“So what about the first question: how many things did she buy? Well?

“Didn’t she buy . . . everything, mother?”

“Yes, the apples the pears, the oranges and the potatoes. So add up each of those and you have the answer. Write the quantities down as a sum, under each other, and then add them up.”

He did do and eventually wrote the answer of sixteen.

“Good, William. That is correct. But now within that total of everything there are smaller groups that make up the total. And what Mr Greaves is asking is how many things are in some of those smaller groups. For example, the second question asks how many fruits were bought. So which are the fruits?”

He sucked the end of his pencil.

“Please don’t suck your pencil, William. You’re not a baby. Look at the list. Which are the fruits?”

“The apples . . . and the pears and the oranges.”

“Good. So how many of each are there. Write them out as a sum and then add them up.”

Again he got the answer right and was commended.

“So now you can continue on your own. I’m not here to do your homework for you? Read carefully, think about the sort of things in each group and then answer carefully.”

She smiled.

“And after that explanation and advice, I expect you to get every question right.”

She watched as he settled down to his evening assignment. He was an attractive child, with his soft brown hair and firm robust body. That he was still able to be spanked across her knee was a delight that she knew she must enjoy while it lasted. Not that flogging him over the armchair was unwelcome when additional severity was required. Standing over him, cane in hand, and administering those long swishy strokes that cut and scored his flesh was the only sure way of bringing a stubborn child to heel: to that relinquishment of will that was the essence of discipline.

And as a general might regret the necessity of war but still feel a sense of elation at the abject defeat of the enemy, so did Mrs Lavington when a child sobbing and contrite accepted her rule and bowed his head in submission. But unlike a general in battle, a mother was opposing not merely flesh and blood. A child was conceived and borne in sin and from the earliest years fought to assert his will against his mother’s God-given authority. It was not only his angry refusal but his reluctance to learn from repeated correction that marked him out as a sinner. Some she knew questioned the efficacy of whipping saying that if whipping worked it would not need to be repeated, but such an opinion she held in derision. Sin was not so easily exorcised. And repeated punishment was necessary if a child’s recalcitrance was to be broken, combined with an increase in severity.

For severity was at the heart of a child’s discipline. A punishment that failed to leave a child with a red and smarting bottom and a flushed face wet with tears was an affront to the God who had commanded such chastisement. But severity did not reside in the chastisement itself, but in the will of the mother. In her determination to administer a wholesome and efficacious correction. Such correction left a child in no doubt as to his mother’s commitment to his discipline. The visible weals raised by unthinking brutality might have a similar appearance but spiritually they were as different as murder from lawful execution.

In God, severity and love found their most perfect expression, and a parent had to strive similarly to reflect that. Severity was not the antithesis of love but a love refined for a purpose. Love was never a vague sentimental thing, but a hard focussed act that reached out to the loved one for his benefit, whatever the cost. And a mother’s severity, her strictness and her readiness to take up the rod of correction were an expression of her love: a willingness to break a stubborn will and to render a child open not only to her love but to his Father in Heaven.

She looked at the clock.

“Time to finish homework, children. Samuel, let me see how you have done. “

She ran her eye over his work.

“That is very good, Samuel. Well done. I am very pleased with you. And I am sure Mr Crawley will be, too.”

She then turned to her younger son.

“And let me see your work, William.”

She looked through it, and frowned.

“This is very untidy and not at all well done. And that’s particularly disappointing after the help I gave you. I can only assume you were not listening and giving me your full attention.”

She sighed.

“And for that you should be spanked. However, as you’re already receiving another caning before bed, I will spare you. But don’t expect any leniency. Each cut will be well laid on, and there will be one small boy sleeping on his stomach tonight, that’s for sure.”

She ruffled his head.

“So put away your homework, William, and straight up to your room. And no need for pyjama trousers. When I come up I want to see you just in just your pyjama top with your face to the wall. Do you understand? Then off you go.”

She turned to her daughter.

“And your homework, Elizabeth? How was that?”

“It was fine, mother. I had no problems with any of it.”

“Good. You may read for half an hour before bed. And so may you Samuel.”

She picked up the cane and went into her small study room, leaving the two children to play until it was time for them to go upstairs for prayers and bed. Her study was a sanctuary where no child was allowed. It was where she prayed and read her Bible, and where, at the end of the day when all the children were settled down, she would sit and relax in the comfortable armchair. There was a double shelf running along one wall on which were kept some of her favourite books. Among them was The Management of Girls by Eugenia Strang and its companion volume The Management and Discipline of Boys. It was this latter volume that she took from the shelf. She greatly admired Eugenia Strang’s style. It was direct and unfussy, yet elegant and often arresting. She had acquired it when Samuel was still a toddler, realising that the foundation of discipline needed to be laid early on, just as it had been for her and her two brothers. The book opened at the chapter entitled The Sins of Boys. She smoothed the pages and began to read.

(to be continued)

(The End)