Cordelia Lavington Chapter 4
By Governess

[email protected]

Copyright 2009, 2010 by Governess, all rights reserved

* * * * *
This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It contains explicit depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
* * * * *

Chapter 4

Mrs Lavington sat at the table. In another quarter of an hour she would go and say prayers with Samuel. Afterwards she would retire to her little study and read her Bible. She always tried to fit in an hour's Bible reading as soon as the children had settled down and before she completed the final tasks of the day. The children's own Bible reading she insisted upon first thing in the morning immediately after breakfast and before school.

As she sat, she thought about Samuel and his lack of application and his casual often surly attitude. Although his voice had not yet broken, he was on the brink of puberty and this, she knew, was a confusing time for boys and a vexing time for their parents. The important thing was to provide support and stability and not to be overly sympathetic. His poor behaviour and effort needed to be met by a firm commitment on her part to his discipline. He needed to be kept on a tighter rein. Even small matters where normally a verbal correction would suffice, ought probably to made subject to the discipline of the rod.

It had been the boy's birthday three days ago, and she had given him a two tailed leather punishment strap, a tawse. It had been wrapped in thick brown paper tied at intervals by short lengths of string sealed with wax. It had looked most mysterious. William had said that it must be a sword, but Elizabeth had pointed out with a sister's scorn that it was too bendy and that anyway a sword would have made a hole in the paper.

Samuel was clearly excited. His mother watched his face as he tore at the wrapping. How the excitement had turned rapidly to disappointment, and then to a red-faced shame, as he held the implement of correction in his hands. It was her only present to him.

He had looked at her in an imploring way, at a loss for words.

"And what is it, Samuel?"

The sudden silence made it difficult for him to speak.

"Well?"

"I . . I'm not sure, mother."

"Well, what do you think it might be used for?"

His face was burning and there was a desperate look in he eyes.

"Well? No idea at all?"

She turned to her daughter.

"Well, Elizabeth, have you any idea what it might be used for?"

Elizabeth nodded. Mrs Fairclough had one on her desk and she had seen it used.

"Yes, mother."

"Well?"

There was a tremor in the girl's voice as she replied.

"It . . it's used for punishing children on their hands."

"Good. And do you know what it is called?"

"A tawse, mother."

She turned to Samuel who was standing, all the excitement and pleasure of his birthday wrung out of him as moisture is wrung out of a blanket that is passed through the mangle.

"Elizabeth is right, Samuel. It is a tawse. And why do you think I have given your a tawse for your birthday?"

He hung his head. His face was burning at the shameful interrogation.

"I . . I don't know, mother."

"Well, what are we remembering on your birthday?"

"H . . how old I am."

She drew the answers from him like fingernails torn from the quick. Tears welled in his eyes.

"Yes, Samuel. We are remembering how old you are. And how old is that?"

"E . . . eleven, mother."

Yes. You are now eleven. You are at an age when more is expected of you. And when that more is not forthcoming, the punishment needs to be more severe. Over the last few months, your behaviour and attitude have been disappointing to say the least."

She took the strap from him and slowly drew the harsh leather tails through her left hand.

"And this, Samuel, is the remedy. It is given as a birthday present because discipline is the greatest gift a mother can give a child. Toys are played with for a while and then forgotten. Thrown into a box or a cupboard. They confer no lasting benefit. But the benefits a boy receives from a strap such as this last a lifetime."

She smiled.

"Do I hear a thank you for your present, Samuel."

And he had whispered a reluctant thank you and she had sent him to hang the new acquisition behind his bedroom door. It had not yet been used, but she had no doubt that it soon would be.

The thought of the birthday tawse brought back to mind the problem of Edward Crawley. She frowned. The man was too soft with boys. There was a place for kindness and encouragement. But a firm commitment to a boy's discipline was the greatest kindness you could bestow. Boys were lazy, selfish and careless. To produce a hard-working, thoughtful and conscientious boy without recourse to the rod was like asking a sculptor to throw away his chisels and work with his bare hands. But that seemed to be Edward Crawley's approach. She shook her head and decided that she would speak to him once more before taking the matter up with the principal. She had every confidence in James Fairclough.

She rose and went to say prayers with Samuel.

The boy was not yet undressed but was sitting at a small table drawing.

"I thought I told you to undress and get ready for bed, Samuel. Did I say anything about drawing? I recall giving permission to read for half an hour before prayers, but that is all."

The boy bit his lip.

"Give me the drawing."

She took it and tore it up.

"I asked you to undress. You had better do so. And be quick about it."

She watched as her son, sat on the bed and reaching down unlaced his shoes. He took them off and then pulled off his socks, tucking them inside the shoes as he had been taught. He loosened his trousers, slipping off the braces and then eased out his shirt and pulled it over his head. The vest followed. He hesitated.

"Yes. And the trousers, please, Samuel. And the pants. All off, and folded neatly on the chair."

He reached under his pillow for his pyjamas.

"No, Samuel. Leave the pyjamas."

He stood there naked, shivering in the cool air.

"And what is hanging on the back of your door, Samuel?"

His throat was dry.

"The tawse, mother."

"Yes Samuel, the tawse. The tawse that I gave you for your birthday."

She paused.

"And when was that, Samuel?"

"Th . . three days ago, mother."

She sighed.

"And already it has work to do. Fetch it please."

He went to the door and unhooked it, his face flushed and his hand shaking. She drew it through her left hand and then let it drop. It hung beside her like a thick flat snake that had been slit into two.

"Go downstairs to the drawing room, Samuel. I will deal with your there."

He turned and went. She followed him, her eyes on his compact, round bottom.

And as he descended, Samuel too was aware of his bottom, as well he might be with his mother following him, tawse in hand. However, as with any boy who has been subject to a mother's strict discipline from an early age, his bottom figured often in his consciousness and even in his dreams. Rarely did he undress, exposing his bottom to the cool bedroom air, without a sense of uneasiness. His hand would often reach round to feel it, to claim it for his own. But although it was his bottom, he accepted, as a matter of course, that his mother had the right to bare it and whip him, until he was squirming and crying. Spankings had started from his second birthday. And even at that early age his mother had used a hairbrush. At first lightly smacked across his tiny rump, stinging it and making him howl. But as he grew older the spankings became harder and were given with a vigour that invariably left him sobbing with a red and smarting bottom. And then a few years later at about the age of eight she had started to cane him.

The boy deeply resented his mother's claim over his body, and her use of the rod. And yet, despite his resentment, he accepted it. It was natural that she should whip him for his sins, and it was unthinkable that she should apply the rod anywhere but to his bare bottom, and sometimes his thighs. That he resented it, and on occasions resisted her, only confirmed that he was a sinful boy who deserved every smarting stroke.

He pushed open the drawing room door. His mother followed him in, the tawse swinging at her side. She sat on an upright chair.

"Stand here, Samuel."

He stood facing her, naked and ashamed.

"And put your hands behind your back. And stand up straight."

He had not yet reached puberty but had already discovered the delights of masturbation. That if he slid off his bed, the between his legs made him feel good. He had quickly worked out that rather than spend time slipping off his bed and then clambering back to repeat the process, he could achieve the same pleasurable effect by holding his little penis with his left hand and stroking the front with his finger. Strangely he always felt guilty about it, and wondered how his mother would react if she found out. His instinct told him that she would not approve, and nothing on earth would have induced him to mention his secret to her.

Cordelia Lavington looked at the boy standing before her. He was s small, well-proportioned boy with sturdy legs. She was pleased that neither of her sons was lanky and displeasingly thin and sparse. She hated a fat child, but equally disliked skinny, meagre children. Samuel had a compact, generous body. His flesh was firm and whippable.

She looked at his little boy's penis and his tight little scrotum. He was aware of her gaze and bit his lower lip and reddened. He wondered whether she knew his secret. But how could she? But his mother as matron of the reformatory was all too aware of the habits of boys and their eagerness to abuse themselves. Over the past four years she had reported many boys for such shameful behaviour and now had the authority of the principal to punish them herself. She turned the tawse around and grasping it just below the point from which it hung, reached forward and placing the end under his little limp penis, lifted it gently upward.

"I hope you are not playing with this, Samuel?"

The boy decided that a blank look and a denial were his best protection.

"N . . no, mother."

"You do know what I mean by 'playing with it', don't you Samuel?"

The boy hesitated.

"N . . no, mother."

Cordelia Lavington smiled.

"Then how were you able to assure me that you did not play with it . . ?"

She paused

" . . . if you had no idea what playing with it meant?"

The boy twisted in his desperate confusion.

"But . . . "

"We'll have a little talk about it after you have been punished for your disobedience."

She drew the tawse through her hand, and then held it in her grasp.

"And what did Elizabeth say this was used for, Samuel? Can you remember?"

"She said it was for punishing hands."

(To be continued)