Cordelia Lavington Chapter 8

Cordelia Lavington Chapter 8
By Governess

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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.
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Chapter 8

Cordelia Lavington sat in her office and checked the dormitory roster for the week ahead. She had three assistants who took turns in sleeping overnight in the reformatory in case of an emergency. Mrs Simmonds who had checked the boys' pyjamas was one of these. She was a widow, too, but unlike Mrs Lavington had no children. The other two women were single. She walked into the infirmary and called Anne into her office.

"Anne please would you run across to Class B and tell Mr Yates that Matron needs to see Paul Lacy in the infirmary immediately."

She sat back and waited. She had no intention of confronting Lacy with his stained pyjamas. The longer the boys were kept in the dark about her new routine of inspection the better. After several minutes a small pale looking boy was knocking on her office door.

"Come in. Stand over there Lacy. And hands behind the back please."

She continued working at her desk. She knew the benefit of making a boy wait, anxious about her intentions. Any boy in the reformatory who was summoned by a member of staff had cause to worry. He expected trouble and was usually not disappointed. But Lacy could think of no reason why the Matron would wish to see him. Unless . . . but he dismissed the idea. Nevertheless, he felt increasingly nervous as he waited, watching her writing at her desk. Ten minutes must have passed before she looked up.

"Have you any idea why you are here, Lacy?"

"No, Matron."

She smiled.

"Take off your shoes and socks and place them under the chair. And then stand as before with your hands behind your back."

She resumed her work and made the boy wait another five minutes, before looking up.

"And now remove all your clothes and place them on the chair. You may hang your jacket over the back."

She watched as he divested himself of his clothes, until he stood before her naked and shivering.

"And you have no idea, no idea at all, why you are here?"

"No, Matron."

There was a nervous edge to his voice now.

Cordelia Lavington walked across to a cupboard and opening it, took out a cane. She stepped across to the boy and stood in front of him. He watched mesmerised as the tip of the cane reached out and tapped the side of his small limp penis.

"So, no idea at all, Lacy? Is that right?"

"Yes, Matron."

He was anxious now and his face betrayed it.

"Tell me Lacy, do boys in your dormitory talk after lights out?"

"Sometimes, Matron."

"And yet that is forbidden?"

"Ye . . . yes, Matron."

"And do you engage in forbidden talk, Lacy?"

"No, Miss."

"So what do you get up to in the warmth of your bed?"

"Well . . I . . . sleep."

"Yes, I am sure you do, Lacy. And what do you do when you wake in the morning?"

"I . . get out of bed and dress myself."

"Indeed. And before that?"

"I . . . I . . . think about getting up."

"Do you Lacy? And is that all you think about?"

By now the boy was certain that she knew. Knew that he masturbated most mornings. Somehow he was sure it was wrong but he couldn't help himself. Some of the boys did it together but he had never done that. He bit his lip. Foolishly he decided to brazen it out.

"I . . . I don't think about anything else. Truly, Matron."

She raised the cane and tapped his little penis.

"You never give any thought to this?"

He reddened. Suddenly aware of his nakedness and vulnerability.

"N . . . no, Matron."

Cordelia Lavington frowned.

"I think you're lying, Lacy. I think you not only think about it, but play with it. Am I right?"

There was a look of helpless desperation on the boy's face.

"No, Matron. Please, no."

She raised the cane and brought it swishing down against the side of his left thigh. He shrieked and his hand pressed against the hurt.

"Let me repeat my question, Lacy. And hands behind your back please."

Again the tip of the cane was resting under his penis.

"Do you play with this before you rise in the morning? And be warned, it would be very foolish to continue lying to me. You know what happens to liars, Lacy. Well?"

The boy was crying now.

"Sometimes . . . I . . . sometimes . . . I touch it. Please, Matron."

"Touch it. Is that all you do? Just touch it."

"Yes, Matron."

"Show me, Lacy. Show me how you touch it."

He withdrew his hand from behind his back and touched his penis lightly and then took it away again.

"And that is all you do?"

"Yes, Matron."

"Hands behind your back."

He watched as the cane was raised.

"No, Matron. Please. No."

He shrieked as the rattan cut into his thigh.

"I said put your hands behind your back. Did I give permission to move them?"

She waited, relishing his distress.

"Let me put my question again, Lacy. Is that all you do? Just touch yourself as you showed me. Or do you do something else."

"She began to raise the cane.

"No Matron. Please."

"Well?"

"I . . . I sort of rub it."

"You sort of rub it. And then what happens?"

"I . . I . . . I go on rubbing it."

"And what happens when you go on rubbing it?"

He hung his head, his face red with shame.

"Let me help you, Lacy. Your little penis goes quite stiff. You rub it and it feels very nice. You rub it faster and faster until suddenly a thick blob of sticky stuff spurts out all over your pyjamas. Am I right?"

His reply was barely audible, as he gave a whispered confession of his terrible guilt.

"Yes, Matron."

"And do you think that is the right way for a boy to behave?"

He was now cowed and despairing.

"No, Matron."

"Well, Lacy, I am pleased you recognise that."

She paused.

"And what happens to boys who deliberately choose to act wrongly. In your case, Lacy, a boy who shamelessly abuses himself?"

There was a long wait. No boy wishes to pronounce sentence upon himself.

"Well?"

"He's punished."

"Yes, Lacy. He's punished. And what do you think an appropriate punishment would be in this case?"

"Th . . . the cane . . . Matron."

"You think the cane."

She smiled.

"Well, we shall see. But first there is something else that needs to be dealt with, isn't there, Lacy? And what is that?"

He hung his head. The memory of his hopeless dissembling was painful.

"I . . . I lied to you Matron."

"Yes, Lacy. You lied. All lying is serious, but some lies are worse than others. A lie to escape punishment is particularly serious. And you know what that means."

He knew only too well.

"So let us deal with the lying first. Over to the pillar."

The Matron's office was in fact a very large room. There was a desk, a couch on which a sick boy could lie and be examined, and weighing scales with sliding weights on a bar. On the far side of the room was an open shower with a large tiled floor. Close by was a long oval shaped stool over which a towel was draped. But towards the far end of the room was a pillar about eighteen inches in diameter that ran from ceiling to floor and that played some, not altogether obvious, part, in the construction of the building. On first seeing it, Cordelia Lavington had thought immediately of a whipping post, and in fact that was how she now used it.

She had asked Mr Hodges to construct a platform that was about a foot high to run around the front half of the pillar. When a boy stood on this it raised him to a convenient height for flogging. Before mounting the platform the boy would be made to hold out his hands and to each wrist she would tie a length of thin leather cord. Then once having mounted the platform, he would stretch his arms around the pillar, and the cord would be fastened to a strong metal ring that she had also instructed Mr Hodges to fix on the far side. The boy was then raised and standing for his whipping, and although free to writhe in his anguish, there was no way he could avoid the strokes that she chose to apply to his small, naked body.

She had been a companion to her aunt as a young girl and had travelled with her to Italy. And in several galleries she had seen pictures of the flagellation of Christ. He, too, had been tied to a pillar, sometimes facing it and sometimes, cruelly, with his back to it, exposing his chest and stomach to the flagrum. His genitals were covered by a loincloth, but in reality he would have been naked, as naked and unprotected as the boys she flogged.

"Hold out your hands, Lacy."

Flushed and nervous he offered his wrists for the leather cording to be fastened.

"On to the stand. And arms around the pillar, please."

The boy shivered as his body met the cold surface. He stepped back a little so that his scrotum and penis were not pressed hard against it.

Mrs Lavington, walked to the other side and reaching across grasped the ends of the leather cords, dangling from the boy's wrists. They were of the kind used by workmen to lace their boots. She passed them through the ring and fastened them tightly so his arms had no movement at all. Only his body could move. And already it was shifting uneasily, his buttocks contracting in fearful anticipation of the whipping to come.

Mrs Lavington picked up the cane, flexed it and then swished it through the air. There was a sharp intake of breath from the boy and he shivered.

"Please, don't cane me, Matron."

Cordelia Lavington smiled.

"I cannot think why you consider you should be spared the cane after such shameful lying. Lying to escape punishment is especially reprehensible. Your pleading to be let off shows how little you appreciate the seriousness of the offence. And if that is so, Lacy, then even greater severity is required."

She tapped the cane across his buttocks. She could almost smell his fear. She breathed in deeply.

On her travels around Europe with her aunt, following her mother's decease, she had witnessed a young criminal being flogged. The pair of them had taken a donkey up into the hills with a local guide. They had arrived in the village square to find a crowd assembled to watch the punishment. The boy must have been about sixteen and was fastened to a whipping post much as Lacy was now fastened to the pillar. He was not completely naked, but was wearing thin cotton trousers. As far as she could see the whip was made of perhaps nine or ten thick leather thongs each of which seemed to be knotted at the end. The boy received two dozen strokes across his bare back. These were laid on slowly and skilfully with enormous force. After only four or five strokes blood had been drawn and when it was all over the boy's skin was badly broken and torn. The blood was flowing freely, running down his back, staining his trousers and splattering on the ground. She had watched with an eager fascination, a throbbing sensation in her chest that was far from unpleasant. As the boy was released, she had looked to see if there was another delinquent to be flogged. She remembered being acutely disappointed when there was not. She never discovered what the boy had done.

She flexed the cane and smiled. Last week she had seen a local boy in the meadow, completely naked, splashing in the stream. She had watched him for several minutes delighting in his lithe bareness and the firmness of his buttocks. But how much more delightful, she thought, was the sight of this boy stripped for flogging and bound as in the prison yard. And at Lacy's age the prison house needed to close around the untrammelled delights of the child. Continence and restraint had to be taught and learned.

But first, a lesson in the need for truth-telling.

(To be continued)