Cordelia Lavington Chapter 45

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 45

She beckoned to McCourt.

“Come here McCourt. And stop snivelling and put your hands behind your back.”

She put her fingers under his chin and raised his head.

“Tell me, McCourt, do you think I was unduly harsh with Hammond. That I was over severe?”

“N . . . no, Matron.”

“You may have felt I should have been more understanding? Less ready to punish him for his lack of self-control?”

“N . . . no, Matron. No.”

She let her hand drop, and her voice became softer and less threatening.

“And have you ever wet yourself like that, McCourt? Soiling your trousers and urinating on the floor?”

He shook his head vigorously.

“No, Matron.”

She nodded.

“Good. But self-control is more than not wetting yourself. It is being able to live your life in obedience to rules. In the Bible, God tells us he made the world in accordance with rules, so that everything worked properly. And if everything in our lives is to work properly, we need to follow the rules we have been given.”

She paused.

“Have you seen a cat wash itself, McCourt?”

“Ye . . . yes, Matron.”

“And does it wait to be told to wash itself, like a naughty boy who has to be driven to the sink. Well?”

“N . . . no, Matron.”

“No. A cat washes itself without being told because the rule is inside the cat not outside. It washes itself instinctively. You know what ‘instinctively’ means McCourt?”

“I . . . I’m not sure . . . Matron.”

“It means that a cat does the right thing without being told. Unlike a boy. A boy’s natural instinct has been warped and twisted by sin. Not only does he have to be given rules to govern him, but he had no wish to obey the rules when they are given. Until they are well beaten in. A cat never has to be punished for disobedience, but a boy does. Only by punishment will a boy learn to do the right thing.”

She put her head on one side and raised her eyebrows.

“So what rule have you and Hammond broken, McCourt? Well?”

He was like a pony caught in the drift, moving ever closer to the corral where the branding iron awaits him.

“I . . . I . . . we were fighting in the corridor, Matron.”

“Yes. And for that the Principal will punish you. So why did I say I was punishing you?”

“F . . . for wasting your time, Matron.”

“Yes. For wasting my time. So, let us waste no more of it. As Hammond is totally without any clothes, I suggest you join him in his state of undress.”

She watched as he slowly removed each item of clothing until he stood naked and shivering before her. She sat on the chair and, with a smile, beckoned him to her. And he came without protest. She had noticed, over the years, how completely stripping a boy was the surest way to render him compliant. A boy, while dressed, might argue and protest his innocence. Even bare from the waist down with his bottom exposed for the rod, he might still, desperately plead for remission. But strip him completely bare, with not a stich of clothing to protect him from the gaze of the world, and the heart was cut out of him. She had noticed that with her own brothers. And it had been the same with her. Usually her mother had been content to raise her dress and take down her knickers for a whipping, but on occasions she, too, had been stripped completely naked. And she remembered that feeling of utter vulnerability. Not just to bodily chastisement, but as though without clothes she had lost all worth, all identity, and was utterly helpless in a hostile world.

And she remembered how Adam and Eve when they had been cast out of Eden found their nakedness insupportable. How they had wanted to clothe themselves and establish an identity that separated them from God who was now their judge. And conversely, a mother in stripping a child declares she has the same rights over him as she has over her own body. There is no escape from her judgment and no limit to the punishment she may inflict. She trains and schools him by the unstinting application of the rod. He suffers the shame of being broken like a young colt; and it is that shame he fears, as much as the smarting stripes of chastisement.

And just as there is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, so on earth there is a deep, pleasurable satisfaction in driving the wildness of sin from a child and rendering him compliant.

She brought the hard smooth back of the brush down with a resounding smack across McCourt’s bottom. She waited until the smarting agony had fully run its course before again raising the brush. Her left arm was wrapped tightly around his waist, restraining his small naked body as he heaved and roared in his agony. After twenty strokes, she paused allowing him to believe that the torture was over, before continuing with the final ten strokes that left him sobbing and broken.

“Stand over there, McCourt. And face to the wall.”

She turned to Hammond.

“I think it might be prudent, Hammond, if you were to relieve yourself before going across my knee. If you have another accident and soil my clothing, I will be most displeased.”

She stepped over to the cupboard and took out an enamel chamber pot.

“And have you emptied your bowels today Hammond?”

“N . . . no Matron.”

“And why not? You know the rule. Boys are to go to the lavatory before the start of the school day.”

“B . . . but Matron, I tried, truly I did, but . . . nothing came out.”

Mrs Lavington raised her eyebrows and her voice expressed concern.

“But when did you last go to the lavatory, Hammond? And I mean a bowel movement.”

“I . . . I’m not sure, Matron.”

“Come now, you must have some idea. Was it yesterday?”

“No, Matron.”

“So when was it? Three or four days ago?”

He was blushing at such an intimate enquiry.”

“Come along now, Hammond. When was it?”

“Probably four days ago, Matron.”

“Or possibly more. Well, this is a serious matter and needs to be dealt with. But first I want you to urinate into the pot.”

And sitting down, she held it in front of him.

“I want to see a nice stream of water coming from that little penis of yours.”

The boy was now scarlet with shame and could hardly speak.

“B . . . b . . . but, Matron, I . . . I don’t think there is any . . . any more to come, please, Matron.”

“Nonsense, Hammond. If you have not gone in the next two minutes, you will be caned.”

The boy bit his lip, standing with his small member resting over the cold enamel edge. He screwed up his face and tried to go but nothing came, not even the smallest dribble. He looked up desperately.

“B . . . but, Matron. I can’t. It . . . it all went on the floor.”

She glanced at the clock.

“You have another minute to produce something before I fetch the cane.”

The seconds ticked by and still the pot was as dry as when it had been taken from the cupboard. She placed it on the floor.

“Kneel on all fours, over the pot.”

He went down and she positioned it so it was immediately beneath his small limp member. Walking across to the cupboard she selected a cane and swished it through the air. Then, standing behind him a little to his left, she raised the rattan and brought it down with a deep whoosh across his bottom.

“Aaaaagh . . . aaaaagh.”

With his hands supporting him on the floor, he was unable to reach back and he knew better than to try and rise.

“Please no, Matron. I’ll try and go. Truly I will. Please, no, Matron.”

Whoosh went the cane and a second livid stripe was cut across his bottom. He shrieked and pressed backwards onto his heels.

“Straighten up and kneel properly, unless you want me to double the dose.”

And he felt the tip on the cane twisting down between his bottom cheeks, impaling him and making him squeal.

“I said straighten up and kneel properly. Do as you have been told.”

Unhurriedly, a further four strokes were given, each followed by a shrill piercing scream. He was sobbing now and the floor was damp with his tears. She stepped back.

“You will kneel there, until you obey.”

She turned to McCourt.

“Turn round, McCourt.”

She put her hand under his chin and raised his head.

“I trust you have learned your lesson. Not to fight in the corridors, and waste my time?”

“Ye . . . yes, Matron. I have. Really I have.”

“Good. But remember, you still have a visit to the Principal to look forward to. But for now you may dress and return to your classroom. Who is teaching you?”

“Mr Fitzherbert, please, Matron.”

“Then you will explain your lateness by telling Mr Fitzherbert that Matron has been teaching you a lesson with the back of her hairbrush. Is Hammond in the same class?”

“Yes, Matron.”

“Then, you will tell Mr Fitzherbert that Hammond is still with Matron and will be for some time.”

When he had gone she picked up the cane and, placing a chair immediately behind the kneeling boy, sat down. She said nothing, letting him sense her presence and the threat it implied. After a while she inserted the tip of the cane beneath the boy’s tight little scrotum, and gently stroked it.

“Come along, now, Hammond. I have no wish to cane you again. All I want is a little dribble into the pot to show your obedience.”

Then moving the cane to his small puckered anus, she placed the tip against the opening and softly almost imperceptibly sent a vibration down its length. There was a sharp intake of breath.

“Just a little dribble, Hammond, that’s all I am asking. Come along now.”

She waited, and then after several minutes she applied a little pressure so that the cane tip penetrated into the anal opening. And there she rested it, sending further small vibrations down the cane’s length, making the boy gasp.

He heard the scrape of the chair on the tiled floor as she stood up. Then, the cane was resting across his bottom. Several little taps raised his apprehension almost to breaking point.

“No, please Matron.”

Then, swishing the cane right back over her shoulder, she brought it down with flesh rupturing force across his already marked and wealed flesh. His bottom was clenching and unclenching as he tried to escape from the searing pain. He was choking and sobbing, but then, as the agony began less acute, his bladder opened and a thin stream of urine tinkled into the pot. Mrs Lavington smiled.

“Good boy, Hammond.”

He relaxed. But she had not finished with him. He screamed, as she caned him, with the shrill piercing screams of a boy whose voice is not yet broken. It was a voice which if trained for the church choir would have been vibrant and thrilling. But for Mrs Lavington his screams were thrilling enough, while his bare flesh had more appeal than a starched surplice. After ten cuts, she placed the cane on her desk.

“Stand up, Hammond. I expect you are wondering why I continued to cane you after you had urinated into the pot. And stop sniffling.”

She stroked the back of his head and ran her hand down his back, resting it on his bottom and running it lightly over the soft, firm surface, appreciating the weals she had raised. He flinched. Her voice was now more gentle.

“Well are you wondering?”

He gave a small choking sob.

“Ye . . . yes . . . Matron.”

“Then, I will tell you. It is because you wasted more of my time. A boy has to learn that obedience is not obedience unless it is immediate. That is he does what is required of him as soon as he is told.”

She paused.

“Our Lord Jesus Christ when he was healing people, met a Roman centurion, a soldier who had command over a hundred other soldiers. And that centurion wanted him to heal his servant, probably a boy not much older than you, Hammond. And do you know what he said to Jesus? He said I know that you can heal him with just a command, because with my soldiers I say to this one, 'Go!' and he goeth, and to another, 'Come!' and he cometh, and to my slave, 'Do this!' and he doeth it."

She sat on the chair and pulled him toward her, wrapping her arm around the sobbing, heaving boy. She gave him a kiss on the forehead.

“And small boys need to be like those soldiers, Hammond. When they are told ‘Do this’ they do it. And they do it immediately and without question.”

She continued to stroke the back of his head, running her hand up through his hair. He shivered.

“And that boy who served the centurion was healed immediately Jesus gave the command. He ordered the sickness to go from his body, and it went. But boys are sick with something far worse than a disease of the body, Hammond. They are sick with sin. They are lazy, dishonest, stubborn and self-willed. And that is much more difficult to heal than a sickness of the body. And do you know why that is? It is because it requires an effort from the boy himself. He has to want to be good and obedient. But a boy has no wish to turn from his sinful ways.”

She kissed him gently on the cheek. And he felt her hand resting on his bottom. He flinched.

“But Jesus is just as concerned to break the power of sin in a boy as he was to heal the centurion’s servant. And to do that, all children, girls as well as boys, are given rules. And if they break those rules, they are soundly whipped. In that way they learn to choose good over evil and obedience over disobedience.

She paused.

“I caned you, Hammond because you were slow to heed my instruction to open you bladder. And that was to help you not to disgrace yourself when I spanked you for wasting my time and Mrs Simmonds time.”

She felt his warmth as she pressed his naked body against her.

“And that spanking has still to be given.”

She got up and walked across to the desk and picked up the hairbrush.

“Please, Matron. No. Please, no.”

She sat on the chair and hauled the boy, naked and wriggling, over her lap. And with measured strokes she spanked him on flesh already wealed and cut by the cane. When she had finished, he was sobbing and writhing in agony. Never had he experienced such torment.

“Get up, Hammond, and stand over there, back to the wall, with your hands by your side.”

She left him for a moment and, opening the door to the infirmary, called out to Mrs Simmonds.

“Mrs Simmonds would you mix up a quart of extra soapy water for an enema. And let us have it as hot as a boy can take it, please. And add a good spoonful of salt.”

“Certainly, Matron.”

She closed the door.

“Have you had an enema before, Hammond?”

He could hardly speak.

“N . . . no. P . . . please, Matron. No, I haven’t.”

“Then I had better explain.”

(End of File)