Cordelia Lavington Chapter 9

* * * * *
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.
* * * * *

The cane was of rattan a quarter of an inch thick and just short of three feet in length. It was wonderfully limber and seemed to have a life and purpose of its own. A purpose shared by the one in whose hand it was held. To raise throbbing weals on a child's soft yielding flesh.

The boy tightened his buttocks, or rather there was an involuntary tautening and twitching as he awaited the first stroke.

She waited. She was in no hurry. Cordelia Lavington was blessed with enormous patience. To a child who failed to understand a problem or task she would give unstintingly of her time to lead him to understanding. And it made no difference if the problem or failure was in the moral realm. Except that the satisfaction was the greater. For while an inability to spell might be a handicap, a moral failure like lying, drew the child into the realm of Satan. And as the Book of Proverbs instructed her

Withhold not correction from the child: for it thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die.

Mrs Lavington's arm went back, and with a dull whoosh the cane impacted on the boy's buttocks. It seemed for a moment as though he were clambering up the pillar as he pressed forward jerking upward. The cane was again swept back and another cut was laid across his bottom. And then another. The thin strips of leather that held him to the pillar cut into his wrists as he wrenched against them in his agony. After six strokes, Mrs Lavington stepped back to survey her handiwork.

Each of the strokes was parallel to the others. Already they were darkening and the tramline marks that announced to any who saw them that the boy had been severely caned were already apparent. Although Mrs Lavington enjoyed having a child wriggling over her knee or turned over the arm of a soft chair, there was something especially appealing about flogging a boy at the pillar. The cane, instead of descending almost vertically, was swished in a horizontal plane to cut into the buttocks of the standing boy. She could therefore, if greater severity was required, twist her body with each stroke, putting her whole weight behind it.

"But Lacy any boy in your circumstances would say the same. How can I believe you?"

"In my experience, Lacy, boys will promise anything. Words come easily to them. But doing what they promise is more often forgotten and neglected."

"You see Lacy, my concern is to drill into you the importance of truth-telling. Telling the truth is important for two reason. First, it is the good and right thing to do. If you get a reputation for lying, no one will believe a word you say. Secondly, every time I catch you in a lie you will be flogged. And next time the flogging will be twice as long and twice as severe."

"So Lacy, it is probably better that I give you another six strokes of the cane now to drive the lesson home. Better that than two dozen strokes in a weeks time if the lesson goes unlearnt."

She stepped forward and placed her hand on his shoulder. It was damp but warm to her touch."

All resistance had drained away from the boy. He nodded his head in a hopeless sort of way and whispered his agreement.

She swept the cane back and as she did so her body swivelled to the right and then as she bent her wrist and drove the cane forward, she twisted with the stroke and the whole strength of her body impelled the cane even more forcibly towards its target.

The boy heaved and tore at his bonds, writhing and drumming his feet on the raised platform on which he was mounted. Another stroke was given. And then another. Mrs Lavington was a skilful disciplinarian. She flogged thoughtfully and with intention. She now chose to cut the cane across the weals raised by the earlier strokes, breaking the skin so that thin trickles of blood ran down the boy's buttocks and on to his upper thighs. After six unhurried strokes, she stepped back.

The boy was limp and breathing heavily. She left him for a moment and went into the infirmary returning with some salve and lint and some other items on a small tray which she placed on a table. Then she went around the pillar and released him.

He did so still crying and rubbing his eyes. He looked damp and dishevelled the epitome of a small boy who has been soundly punished.

"Your buttocks will be sore for several days, Lacy, and that should serve as a reminder to you to tell the truth at all times."

She applied some salve to his wealed bottom and then a thin lint dressing. Then, she fetched a large glass of water.

He did so for his throat was sore from his roaring and he was hot and distressed. She refilled the glass and passed it to him. And again he drank it gratefully. She picked up the cane.

"And now there is your self-abuse to deal with. Get up and put your vest and shirt on."

He stood half-naked his genitals exposed beneath the front of his shirt tails. She placed the tip of the cane underneath his small limp penis.

"Self-control is being able to resist something that you want to do very much. Some things are very hard to resist. And a boy is easily tempted. So he needs to be trained in self-control. It is an important virtue, Lacy. Otherwise a boy will simply be ruled by his desires."

She paused and looked at the boy's flushed, tear-stained face. And again lifted his penis with the tip of the cane.

"In future the only thing this is to be used for is passing water. Do you understand, Lacy? Only for passing water."

"But as a lesson in self-control you will not be permitted to pass water for the rest of the day."

"And out of the kindness of my heart, Lacy, I will not punish you further. But if there is any failure of self-control then you will have to be dealt with most severely. Now finish dressing."

She went to her desk and wrote with great care on a card. When she had finished she read to him what she had written, slowly and with emphasis. She then hung it around his neck.

Paul Lacy
is forbidden the lavatory
until 7.00 p.m.

To enforce the above
he must be escorted at all times

Any accidents and he is to be sent immediately to Matron.

"Then, Lacy, you will have to exercise self-control. And if you wet or mess your pants, you know what to expect."

"You may return to your class. But first you will have two spoonfuls of castor oil."

He grimaced as the unpleasant liquid went into his mouth. But he swallowed it without making a fuss.

And yet she relished the thought of his being sent to her. In abject humiliation. His trousers and pants sodden with urine, or even fouled by his faeces. She smiled. Seven o'clock was a long way off.

But there were the other two boys to deal with, Clough and Preuss. Should she deal with them together or separately? She frowned. Better separately and later in the day, or even tomorrow. Word would get around about Lacy's punishment and she wanted both boys to live with their anxiety for a while. And then when several hours had passed or longer, they would begin to hope all was well. Then, she would cast her net and haul them in.

"Anne, Machin is due to be discharged today. Would you get him dressed and send him to my office, please."

She looked at the boy. He was a nine years old, with fair hair that had been cut short. He had blue eyes and a worried look on his face.

She placed a hand on his shoulder and propelled him towards the door. The clack of her shoes echoed down the stone corridor. She strode along and the boy had almost to trot to keep up with her. They passed through a double door and from thereon the corridor was carpeted. There were pictures on the walls. They stopped outside an oak door to which was affixed the name plate of the Principal. Mrs Lavington knocked.

Machin went and stood in front of the desk. Already he was fearing the worst. He knew of no reason why a boy should be sent to the Principal other than for punishment.

"So you have been in the infirmary, Machin. And for how many days is it Matron?"

"And why were you being so well looked after in the infirmary with its good food and comfortable bed?"

"I see. You fell out of a tree. But I thought all boys were expressly forbidden to climb trees. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, I am sure you were, Machin. And none too successfully. But what else were you doing in the tree?"

"Let me tell you what your were doing in the tree, Machin. You were disobeying. You were breaking a rule. A rule that Matron had asked should be made. And for good reason. She does not want her infirmary full of silly little boys who injure themselves climbing trees."

"But you had no right to be there. If you had obeyed the rule, you would not have been there. Is not that so?"

"Well, Machin, you suppose correctly. You had no right at all to be in that warm, comfortable infirmary. And yet Matron and her staff looked after you despite that."

The boy looked down. He was not sure where this was heading, but he knew full well that he was in trouble.

"So having made you warm and comfortable, I now suggest that Matron should make you warm and uncomfortable. What do you say, Matron?"

The Principal pulled open a drawer and took out a hairbrush. He handed it across the desk.

Cordelia Lavington stood up. She crooked the first finger of her right hand and beckoned to the boy.

James Fairclough was watching intently as the boy's clothes were slowly removed. He was now a small, pale boy, visibly shivering and stripped of all dignity. Although the Principal enjoyed disciplining boys, there was nothing quite as enjoyable, he thought, as watching Cordelia Lavington do so. Some women thrashed boys out of spite. They were often bitter and spinsterish. But not Cordelia Lavington. She had a quiet calm authority and whipped a boy as a mother might. With a commitment to the boy's discipline that spared him nothing, placing him at the centre of her attention.

"Well, Machin, the Principal wants me to provide some uncomfortable warmth. And where do you think that might best be applied?"

The boy shuffled uneasily. Two red spots had appeared on his otherwise white face.

"Well, I can see an obvious place. Nice and firm and rounded, with two very soft and sensitive little cheeks."

"Yes, your bottom. The place provided by a merciful God for teaching small boys obedience and right behaviour."

James Fairclough was aware that his breathing was quick and shallow. And there was a stirring between his legs.

He stood against her right thigh and then bent forward. She wrapped her arm around the naked boy and heaved him up. She ran her right hand over his bottom.

"But it won't be cold for much longer. Machin. There is nothing like the hard wooden back of a hairbrush for warming up a boy's bottom.

She brought the hairbrush down with a dull smack across the bareness of his right buttock. He gave an audible gasp and clenched his bottom as though trying to squeeze away the pain. Another hard stroke across his left buttock. There was another gasp, this time with an edge to it. He was twisting now, and his legs were kicking. The Matron had her left arm tightly around his waist. She was happy for him to struggle, to feel his desperate writhing response to the torment she was inflicting. There was no escape. And the spanking would continue for as long as she wished.

James Fairclough watched as the boy' buttocks became first pink, then red and finally a deep angry crimson. The boy was screaming now. Great sobbing bursts of anguish.

Cordelia Lavington paused, allowing him time to compose himself. Slowly his writhing ceased. Now he was resting across her knee, scarcely breathing, hoping that his punishment had ended.

Machin had been spanked by Matron before. But although a boy may remember past spankings, he never truly remembers the deep penetrating pain and the smarting agony. For a small boy every spanking is as fresh and shocking as the first.

Cordelia Lavington held her hand just over the surface of his bottom and could feel the heat radiating from it.

"Well, Machin, I think you have a bottom that is a little warmer that when I started."

The hairbrush was back in her hand and she gently smacked the boy's plump middle thigh flesh.

"What do you think, Mr Fairclough? Would it not be a kindness to warm the boy's thighs?"

"Well, Matron, the boy's thighs were no doubt as warm and comfortable as his bottom, when they were tucked under the sheets and blankets of his infirmary bed. A bed we agreed he should never have occupied. As his bottom has been spanked as a warning, I see no reason why he should not have his thighs spanked, too."