Miss Strang Chapter 15
By Governess
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Copyright 2008 by Governess, all rights reserved

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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 15

With a final lingering glance at John, Mary left the room.

Miss Strang looked purposefully at John, who was still sitting with smarting thighs in the chair. I noticed one or two globs of porridge on the front of his nightshirt. She stepped across and unbuckled the restraining strap.

"John, go and dress, please, and then return to the schoolroom. Quickly now. And put out that nightshirt to be washed. You are as careless in your eating as you are in your work."

I saw a look of confusion on John's face. He had been led out by Miss Strang, obviously expecting to be flogged. But instead, he had been made to sit at the breakfast table and, despite his protestations, been painfully spanked for his wilful refusal to eat, and then been force fed.

For Miss Strang, compelling John to live in the dark shadow cast by the impending flogging was an integral part of his discipline.

John was like a small boy who has been sent to his room to await a spanking. Such a boy, even before his governess arrives, reddens with shame. He tingles with apprehension, nervously aware that his firm, little bottom will soon be bared for her attention. He hears her tread on the stairs, the creak of the door as it swings open. She stands hairbrush in hand, smacking it against her palm. But then, to his consternation . . . chooses to postpone his punishment. Not out of compassion but in order that he may continue to be slowly consumed by a terrible, gnawing anxiety. She knows that the dread of punishment is perhaps more potent and more debilitating than the infliction of the torment itself. A torment that is but delayed to a moment of her choosing.

The several postponements of John's birching were similarly designed to secure him to the rack of her will. She wanted every emotional sinew to be remorselessly tautened, until it was almost cracking. Until he would almost prefer the torment of flayed skin to the dreadful agony of time stretched out in fearful anticipation.

When we had all assembled in the schoolroom, Miss Strang handed a sheet of paper to each of us.

"Before school commences I have decided to give you a short dictation. Some of the words will be easy and I will expect Simon to get all those right. Others will be more difficult and will present a test for John. I will be expecting Livia to be word perfect. So please listen carefully and take particular care with punctuation."

She smiled.

"So let us begin."

I still have the dictation that I took down that day. It is now old and yellowing but still completely legible. Miss Strang dictated it slowly, phrase by phrase.

"Three children had a governess. The governess loved the children and disciplined them when that was necessary. There were two boys and a girl. One of the boys was not only disobedient, but also very rude, careless, and lazy. The boy was spanked several times with his governess's hairbrush. He was also caned. But neither spanking nor caning brought about an improvement in his behaviour. But the governess did not despair. She knew that the boy needed to be soundly flogged with a birch rod. And that that would bring about an improvement in his behaviour. The boy's name was . . ."

Her voice lifted questioningly. She looked at John.

"Well, John, what do you think the boy's name was?"

I looked at my brother. There was a hectic spot on each of his cheeks.

" I . . . I . . . Please Miss Strang."

She smiled, encouragingly.

"Well, can you tell me what you think it might be?"

I could feel John squirming inwardly. He looked at Miss Strang, biting his lower lip. He parted both lips, but no words came out.

"Well?"

There was a long pause and then he whispered his name, still nibbling his bottom lip and with tears in his eyes.

"Jo . . . John . . . Miss Strang."

"Yes, that is his name."

She waited, her eyes clear and shining.

"Bring me your dictation, John."

He handed it to her and she sat at her desk reading it. She marked it, and looked up smiling.

"This is a much better piece of work, John. You seem to have made a real effort to write neatly. There are a number of spelling mistakes, but most are words that a boy of your age might be expected to find difficult. She handed it back. You will add the spellings to your list for tomorrow. You may sit down."

She then marked Simon's dictation and then mine.

"And now, John, there is something that we need to attend to before school. Please remind me what it is?"

"Well?"

"I . . . I have to have the birch . . . Miss Strang."

"Yes, John. Except you do not say `have the birch' but rather `I have to be birched' or `I have to be flogged.'

While in the schoolroom, during my feeding of John, Miss Strang had plunged the heads of both birches in the pail of water to steep. She reached down and picked one out, examined it, and then swished it through the air, this time shaking real water from it. I felt a shiver run down my back. The whistling sound and its startling suppleness made it seem almost alive. She swished it again, and then pointed with it toward the armchair.

"Go and stand facing the arm, John,"

He moved with reluctance and stood there flushed and anxious.

"Take off your jacket and hand it to Livia."

She motioned me forward.

I took the jacket and hung it on the back of the upright chair.

"And now your shoes and socks."

I placed them under the chair.

"And now drop your braces, John, and lower your trousers. And your pants. Right down. And now over the arm, please."

She rucked up his shirt and vest, exposing his smooth, pale back. But my eyes were on his full, firm, little bottom. I was drawn to it by a strong, almost mesmeric, attraction. Every night I would turn and look at my own bottom in the mirror, at its fullness, flaring out from my waist, fleshy and generous. And in it I saw all my latent sensuality expressed.

But in John's small but wonderfully protuberant little bottom, I saw all the arrogance of a nine year old boy, his wriggling self-regard. And it was to those buttocks, swelling with pride, quivering with resentment, bare of all protection, that chastisement was to be applied. Miss Strang firmly believed that thereby the demon of sin would be exorcised and driven out. And the more wilful and determined a boy was in his sinning, the more thorough and extended the whipping needed to be.

She looked at John, positioned over the arm.

"Livia, hold his arms as you did before."

I reached out and grasped him.

"Hold him tightly. I have never known a boy who is birched not to writhe like a cut worm."

As yesterday, she drew the twigs tantalisingly across his bottom, making him acutely aware that she could delay punishment as well as administer it. That she ruled over his body and by such rule could break his will and confine it within her own. He shivered and his buttocks contracted. She waited, allowing him time to anticipate the first stroke. I looked at her. Her lips were slightly parted. She raised the rod, swept her wrist back, and brought it whistling down. It raised an immediate flush.

I had expected John to scream and writhe, but instead he just gave a gasp and expelled the breath that he had been holding in.

"Perhaps you are wondering, Livia, why John is not yet writhing like the cut worm that I promised."

She reached forward and placed her hand on his head.

"And perhaps John is wondering, too. Perhaps he thinks the birch is not that painful. That it is over-rated as an implement for a boy's correction. Well, John?"

"I . . . I don't know . . . please . . . Miss Strang."

"But surely, you must have some thoughts. You can at least say whether it is more painful than the cane. After all you were caned only yesterday."

"I . . I . . think the cane hurts more . . . Miss Strang."

She smiled and gently rubbed the back of his neck.

"Shall I let you into a secret, John. I always ask a boy that question after his first few strokes of the birch, and the answer is always the same. All boys say that the cane is more painful. But when I ask them again, when they have been soundly and thoroughly flogged, the answer is quite different. Quite different! You see, John, the tough lithe twigs at first only scratch the surface of boy's bottom. At the beginning, it seems of little consequence. He does not realise that the first strokes are but harrowing the surface. Only then will the dragons' teeth of real discipline be sown and drilled into his flesh. At first he feels that little gnats are biting him. Then, the gnats become a swarm of angry, stinging bees that fly at his bottom, that lance and burn. And before long, the bees become birds that peck and claw his flesh until he is covered in great, red, throbbing weals. But from all this comes, we hope, a harvest of righteousness and a firm intention to improve."

I was not sure whether John fully understood what she was saying other than that his belief that the cane was more painful than the birch was about to be proved wrong.

Miss Strang, her hand still on his head, looked up.

"Hold him firmly, Livia."

(To be continued)