Cordelia Lavington Chapter 44

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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Cordelia Lavington Chapter 44

By Governess

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Mrs Lavington arrived back at the infirmary to find Mrs Simmonds treating two boys, one had a cut to his face and the other a badly bruised knee.

“Two boys, Matron, fighting in the corridor between classes. Sent by Miss Harris with a note.”

Miss Harris had only recently joined the staff, and taught the girls for several periods a week to allow Mrs Fairclough time for other duties. Mrs Lavington read the short note and looked up.

“Patch them up, Mrs Simmonds, and send them in to me.”

She went into her office and sat at her desk. After ten minutes, Mrs Simmonds knocked at the door.

“I’ve dressed the boys’ wounds, Matron. Do you want to speak to them now?”

“Yes, please, Mrs Simmonds. Send them in.”

They came in nervously, fully aware of the Matron’s reputation as a disciplinarian. She looked up and smiled.

“It’s McCourt and Hammond isn’t it?”

“Yes Matron.”

She nodded.

“Stand in front of the desk and place your hands behind your backs. And no talking.”

She continued to work for another five minutes letting the boys’ anxiety rise. Eventually she put down her pen and picking up Audrey Harris’s note, studied it, as though reading it for the first time.

“This note from Miss Harris says you were fighting in the corridor between classes. So what was that all about?”

She spoke in a friendly enquiring way, which encouraged the boys’ confidence.

“He pushed in front of me.”

“I never did, and he swore at me. And he called me a pig.”

“Did you, McCourt? Did you call Hammond a pig?”

“No, Matron. I never did.”

She smiled.

“Well that seems all rather silly to me. I think you had both better apologise to each other and shake hands.”

She raised her eyebrows encouragingly. They turned to each other and each muttered an apology and hands were shaken.

“Well that is settled then. You are friends again?”

“Yes, Matron.”

She could see a palpable relief on their faces for each had expected to be punished.

“Good. So all is well then?”

She paused, letting their hope increase until they were almost bursting with relief that they had escaped punishment. Then, she smiled.

”Except the Principal has strictly forbidden boys to fight in the corridors, and has asked that any boys caught doing so should be sent to him.”

She paused.

“But first, as you have wasted my time and Mrs Simmonds’ time, I will be punishing you myself. How old are you McCourt?”

He was breathing heavily now. The lightness of a moment before had been replaced by a fearful weight.

“I . . . I’m eight, Matron.”

“And you Hammond? How old are you?”

“I . . . I’m eight, too, please, Matron.”

“And how do you think two eight year old boys who disregard reformatory rules should be punished? Hammond?”

“I . . . I’m not sure, Matron.”

“What about you, McCourt?”

“I don’t know . . . Matron.”

“Then let me describe what I propose, and see if you can give it a name. First, I will ask you to take off your shoes and socks, remove your jackets and slip off your braces. Then, your trousers and pants will be taken down, your shirts removed, and you will be standing in nothing but a short vest. Then, I will sit on a chair, turn you over my knee, and with the back of this hairbrush raise smarting weals on your bottoms until you are howling and begging for mercy.”

As she was speaking she had picked up the brush and looked inquiringly at the faces of the two boys.

“So what is that called? McCourt?”

He looked down.

“Come along McCourt, it is not that difficult. What have I just described?”

His voice was low and he seemed to have difficulty speaking.

“A . . . a spanking, Matron.”

“Yes, a spanking . . .

. . . as a small girl, in Ste Foy, it had always been une bonne fessée. But when they had come to live in England, her mother had employed a nanny to help with the children’s English. The nanny, Miss Warriston, spoke good French but Mme Réglat insisted she speak only English to the children, except when teaching vocabulary or making a grammatical point. And the children were strictly forbidden to reply in French. Miss Warriston had been instructed to provide une bonne fessée should they do so.

At first, Miss Warriston’s promise of ‘a sound spanking’ lacked the stomach churning power of its French equivalent. But a hairbrush is a hairbrush irrespective of the language used. And provided it has the same hard, smooth, wooden back and is applied with the same firm intention of inflicting salutary pain, the words announcing the punishment, even if in an unfamiliar language, will soon arouse a similar fearful apprehension.

Miss Warriston’s threat of a spanking was always accompanied by the promise that it would be given ‘on the bare bottom’. And it was clear from the way she savoured the words that her delight in baring a child for discipline was more than equal to the child’s dread. Looking back it was clear to Cordelia that Miss Warriston had been appointed not just for her fluency in French but because she shared her mother’s commitment to strict and unremitting discipline.

And that commitment was shared, too, by Mrs Atkinson who lived in the adjacent cottage. She was a frequent visitor to the Réglat’s household, and would often describe the punishments inflicted on her two sons, Edward who was six and Anthony who was eight. This was often done in their presence, and Cordelia would watch as they blushed and squirmed at such intimate and shaming disclosure.

Yesterday, I had ‘a little talk’ with Edward before bed, Miss Warriston. And we both know what that means, don’t we, Edward?

He flushed. And she continued to describe his punishment.

I had him down in his pyjama top, just before bedtime. Then, it was over my knee and the hairbrush doing the talking. All addressed to his bare little bottom, Miss Warriston. That hairbrush only knows one word, doesn’t he Edward. And he repeats it again and again. There’s no stopping him. Smack, smack, smack. Smack, smack, smack. My mother used to say, there are few things prettier than a boy’s bottom after it’s been well spanked. So it’s into the corner for an hour, face to the wall, so everyone can enjoy it.

By this time the boy was crimson and almost weeping with embarrassment.

Miss Warriston smiled.

I agree with you Mrs Atkinson. When something is as pretty as that it would be a crime to hide it away. But just look at the boy. I can see at one glance that he lives in dread of that hairbrush. And that is as it should be. No boy fears a verbal reprimand however severely it is delivered. But five minutes over the knee, spanking his bottom raw, will teach a boy a lesson that words alone will never teach. We do not expect a boy to become good at his sums with just a couple of lessons. It takes time and commitment from his teacher. And so does teaching obedience. A lot of effort needs to go into it. Do you not agree, Mme Réglat?

Bien sûr, Miss Warriston. A boy sits at a desk to learn his sums but goes over his mother’s knee to learn obedience. And the lesson is best taught sur ses petites fesses molles et nues.

Miss Warriston looked at Charles.

And how do we translate that into English, Charles, ‘sur ses petites fesses molles et nues’?

He blushed.

It means on his soft little bottom, Miss Warriston.

Yes, Charles. On his soft bare little bottom. And that is how all boys should be spanked. But we have something to teach your obedience as well as the hairbrush, don’t we, Charles?

Charels was now red to the tips of his ears. He looked down.

Yes, Miss Warriston.

And what is that?

A martinet, Miss Warriston.

Although Mrs Atkinson had seen the Réglat children thrashed with the martinet on several occasions, she always refused Mme Réglat’s offer to write to her sister in Ste Foy asking her to send one for her own children. She was quite happy to use what she described as the traditional English implements. A hairbrush was kept on her hall table, both as a deterrent and to shame her sons before visitors.

Cordelia smacked the brush against her palm, and smiled at the boy before her.

“And when were you last spanked like that McCourt? Spanked in the way I have just described.”

He reddened as any boy would at such a shaming and probing question.

“P . . . please, Matron. M . . . my mother spanked me with a slipper.”

“And what is this slipper like, McCourt? Is it stiff and hard or soft and floppy?”

“I . . . I think it is soft and floppy, please, Matron.”

“In other words, quite useless for disciplining a boy, even if applied to a bare bottom.”

She paused, relishing his discomfiture.

“And was it applied to your bare bottom, McCourt?”

“N . . . no, Matron.”

“You mean you were spanked over the seat of your trousers?”

“N . . . no, Matron. I . . . I was hit on the legs.”

“And did it hurt, this smacking on the legs with your mother’s soft floppy slipper?”

He looked down.

“Well? Was it something you feared? Did you obey her when she threatened to smack your legs?”

His reply was barely audible.

“N . . . no, Matron?”

“No, I am sure not.”

Again, she smacked the hairbrush meaningfully against the flat of her hand.

“What a boy fears, McCourt, is pain. And because most boys want their own way, the pain of punishment has to be greater than any pleasure gained from disobedience. Do you understand that, McCourt? And you, Hammond?”

“Ye . . . yes, Matron.”

“And that is why a soft floppy slipper will never persuade a boy to choose obedience over disobedience. He is quite happy to sin and enjoy the fruits of his sinning and then to smirk inwardly when he is smacked with such an implement. And why? Because it causes no pain.”

“But this . . .

And she smacked the back of the brush once more across her palm.

“ . . . this is not a soft floppy slipper. Is it McCourt?”

“N . . . no, Matron.”

“No. It is a hairbrush with a hard smooth back. Can you imagine how painful it is, smacked across a boy’s bottom?”

She smiled.

“But fortunately there is no need for you to imagine. A boy may look at a jar of toffees and wonder how soft and sweet they are, but when the sweetshop owner opens the jar and gives him a toffee he no longer needs to imagine. He has tasted the real thing.”

She smiled.

“However, the sweetshop owner gave the boy only one toffee to taste. But I am more generous. And you will be getting far more than just one smack of this brush.”

She paused savouring their fear and relishing her power over them. Power to correct and to shape them to her will.

“The Principal will punish you for breaking his rules and fighting in the corridor, but I am spanking you for wasting Miss Harris’s time, my time and Mrs Simmonds’ time. And our time does not come cheaply. The time Miss Harris has spent in apprehending you and recording your bad behaviour is worth at least eight strokes.”

Again she smacked the brush across her palm.

“And Mrs Simmonds’ time is certainly worth a further ten strokes; and my own time, well, let us say a dozen strokes.”

She paused.

“And on my calculation, that makes as total of thirty strokes across each of your bare soft little bottoms.”

She paused,

“Thirty toffees would be soft, sweet and delicious. But unlike toffees, this brush is very hard and has a very bitter taste.”

The boy Hammond suddenly bit his lip and gave a suppressed gasp. A damp patch had appeared on the front of his trousers and there was urine trickling down his left leg. His eyes filled with tears.

Mrs Lavington rarely had any sympathy for boys who wet themselves. Controlling the bladder was a matter of will-power and self-discipline. She walked around her desk and stood in front of him.

“Put your arms across your chest, Hammond, and tuck your hands under your armpits and keep them there. She raised her right hand and gave a stinging slap to his left cheek, followed after a pause by two more. Then, with her left hand she gave three equally stinging gifles to his right cheek.

“How dare you urinate on my floor, Hammond. Have you no self-control? And stop that grizzling. I want every stich of clothing off. And place the soiled trousers and pants in that basket over there.”

He stood naked and ashamed, crying softly. The imprint of her fingers visible on both cheeks. She smiled.

“And now down on your knees and lick up that pool of urine you have dribbled on my nice clean floor.”

He looked at her, stunned at her command.

“L . . . lick it up . . . Matron?”

“Am I speaking in some strange tongue, Hammond? You know the word ‘lick’. It is what cats do. Kneel down, bend forward and lick it up. Now.”

He knelt and slowly his head went down, and he ran his small pink tongue over the wet pool on the tiled floor. He screwed up his face and lifted his head.

“Please, Matron.”

She walked over to the cupboard and unhooked a limber rattan cane. She rapped it on the floor in front of him.

“Lick it up, Hammond.”

Still he held back. She raised the cane and brought it swishing down across his buttocks. He shrieked.

“I said lick it up.”

And his head went down and he began licking.

“Not like that, Hammond. Use your lips and suck it into your mouth. And swallow it down.”

She could see after a minute or two that there was little more to lick up, but she kept him at the task for several more minutes. By the time she let him rise, there was an ache at the back of his throat and his neck felt sore and twisted. He looked at her through tear-filled eyes.

“P . . . please, Matron. Please.”

She put her arm around him. He was shivering, yet his body was warm to her touch.

“I will be considering whether you need some further training in self-control, Hammond. For the moment, stand with your back to the wall and watch while I punish McCourt. And when I have finished with him, it will be your turn.”

To be continued

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