Miss Strang Chapter 17
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 17

When the half an hour was up, Miss Strang stepped across to John. She stood by him and gently put her arm around him. There was something deeply caring in the way she did this. Then she bent down, her head very close to his, and spoke quietly in an almost intimate way.

When John had first been placed in disgrace he had continued sobbing for about ten minutes. Then, as the initial searing pain had faded, his sobs became less desperate and more an expression of that hopeless abandonment that a boy feels after a flogging. And eventually he stood face to the wall, without even the comfort of tears to console him. But when he felt the warmth of Miss Strang's hand and her arm resting on his shoulder, he became tearful again. She rubbed her hand affectionately up the back of his neck and made him turn round and face her. She then repeated her question.

"I asked you John whether being birched is the most painful thing you have had to suffer?"

"I . . . I think so . . . Miss Strang."

"Yes, I am sure it is."

She gave a sigh and raised her eyebrows, pursing her lips.

"Tell me, John, why were your birched?"

He looked down at his feet.

"I . . . because . . I was rude . . and . . ."

"Yes, John rude and . . . ? And what, John? Do you recall the word 'slovenly', or the words 'lazy', and 'disobedient'? Do any of those come to mind?"

He answered in almost a whisper.

"Yes . . . Miss Strang.

He bit his lip and looked up at her imploringly.

"Please, Miss Strang."

"Please what, John?"

He hung his head and started to weep.

"I said 'please what?', John. What are you pleading about?"

"I . . . I don't want to be flogged again. Please don't flog me. Please, don't, Miss Strang."

"Well, I can understand your reluctance, John. No small boy wants to be birched. It would be very strange if he did. But the issue is not what he wants, but what is necessary. What is good for him. What is going to help him to behave better and bring about a change of attitude."

She paused, looking at the small weeping boy in front of her.

"John, you will please go back over the arm of the chair. Livia, I am sorry to have to ask you again, but would you leave what you are doing and hold John as you did before."

Miss Strang put her arm around him and went to shepherd him across the room. But he backed away.

"No . . . I won't. I won't."

Miss Strang's expression changed instantly. Her hand reached out for his ear. Her thumb went behind it and she squeezed it tightly against the side of her hand. He squealed as she tightened her grip, twisting it, controlling him and rendering him compliant.

"No boy says 'I won't' to me, John."

She led him by the ear, crouched and wailing, to the place of execution. Then, forced him downward over the soft arm of the chair.

"Livia, hold him again."

I reached out and pulled his arms forwards. Then grasped them above the elbow. He howled and struggled, drumming his legs against the chair and trying to tear his ear free.

"John! Lie still this instant."

Miss Strang's voice was like a knife sharpened on the scullery step.

"Do you want me to send for Mrs Mountfield and have you horsed across her back? Do you?"

"No, no . . . I don't want her . . . No!"

"Then, stop this foolish struggling."

I was not sure what Miss Strang meant by 'horsed across her back' and I was certain that neither did John. But the threat of allowing Mrs Mountfield to see his being punished was more than enough to quieten him.

He lay still, breathing heavily, a small boy caught within the prison of his governess's will.

She picked up the birch and examined it carefully. It had been used to administer fifteen strokes and although bits were scattered around the chair, it seemed to be largely undamaged by it vigorous use. She shook it and the water droplets glistened in the sunlight.

"Well, Livia, I would say that this birch is good for another ten or twelve cuts. What do you think?"

I flushed at being involved by Miss Strang in such an important decision.

"Yes, I think so, Miss Strang. It still seems quite swishy."

"Indeed, Livia. But the important thing is that the small tough twigs at the end have not broken. If they have, they cease to prick and sting."

She put her hand on John's head.

"But there is no need to worry, John. When this rod is worn out by use, there is another to replace it. I prepared it, with Livia's help, yesterday evening."

John raised his eyes and could just see the second birch standing in the pail, springy and vigorous. It looked eager and alert, ready to lash a boy's bottom to a lively, smarting red.

I watched as she inserted her thumbs on either side of his shirt and vest and rucked them up almost to his neck. Again I noticed how long and slender her fingers were. John squirmed.

"Pull him a little further over the arm, Livia. That is better."

She rested the birch on his back, pale by contrast with his bottom. She gently dragged the scratchy twigs down his spine and then rested them just above the cleft of his buttocks. He shivered.

"John, I have a question for you. If you stand at the door of a house and knock and no one answers, what do you do?"

I could hear his breathing.

"Come now, John, it is not a difficult question. There is no trick to it. If you knock on the door of a house and no one answers what do you do?"

He swallowed and then replied in a small voice.

"You . . you . . . knock again, Miss Strang?"

"Yes. That is right. You knock again."

"Please . . . Miss Strang."

"John, I asked you a question. I want a reply. Please is not an answer."

"I . . . I suppose . . I suppose you knock harder."

"Yes, John. That is exactly what you would do."

She slowly drew the birch down the crack of his bottom.

"And you see, John, I have knocked on your door. I have birched you soundly. But you have not answered. I wanted to hear that you had learnt your lesson. That you were now determined to make a real effort with your work. To be polite. Above all to be obedient. But instead you skulked behind the door. You hid behind your sister's skirts. Rather than give a commitment to effort and improvement, you pleaded and whined. And just like the man at the door who knocked and got no response, I have to knock again. And this time, like him, I will knock harder and longer."

Again, she rested the springy twigs at the base of his back, and drew them slowly, lingeringly down the cleft of his buttocks, letting the twigs scratch and prick the inner walls.

"And I think, Livia, that this time you will not hold John in position over the arm. He deserves no such indulgence. Come and stand on my right. And Simon, I suggest that you watch and learn. Many boys of your age, have already received their first birching."

I released John's arms, and moved to where Miss Strang had indicated. She put her hand on John's head.

"You have been mollycoddled long enough, John. You will lie without fuss, willingly offering your flesh to the healing and cleansing strokes of the rod. As is written in the Book of Proverbs, 'The blueness of a wound cleanseth away evil."

She pursed her lips and then added more grimly,

"And as the Apostle Paul reminds us, 'without shedding of blood there is no remission.'"

She paused and let her words sink in.

"And bear in mind, John, that any attempt to put your hands back or to wriggle out of position, any attempt to frustrate the punishment in any way, will mean an additional two strokes. Each time. So I suggest you make a special effort to lie still and learn from your punishment."

She stepped back, and raised the birch

(To be continued)