Miss Strang Chapter 36
By Governess
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Copyright 2009 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 36

I sat at my desk in a strange limbo. I was immersed in the cold, clammy mist of disgrace. I was to be birched tomorrow. And I had witnessed John's flogging and had no illusions about how painful it would be. And I dreaded it. And yet I also embraced it as the path that would lead me back into Miss Strang's favour. But more. I could feel the dreadful fires of sensuality licking and burning within me. That my bottom should be exposed for such punishment. That the full soft flesh that I caressed at night, should be cut and marked by the birch. That it would be Miss Strang administering this harsh discipline. I could hardly breathe.

"John, come and stand in front of my desk, please. Show me your hands."

He stretched out both hands for her inspection.

"And do they still itch from holding the nettles?"

"Yes, Miss Strang."

She slipped off her stool and walked around her desk. She grasped both wrists and lifted his hands. They hung limply.

"Straighten them."

He stiffened them, palms upward.

"You agree, John, that these hands wandered where they had been forbidden to go, and touched something they had been forbidden to touch? Is that correct?"

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"Good. I am pleased at your swift response. But then it would have been foolish to argue."

She examined his hands, and then looked up.

"And tell me John, what is it that your hands have touched that was forbidden."

He reddened under this shameful interrogation, and found it difficult to answer.

"Well?"

She waited.

"Then let me help you. It was something that Livia found you touching in bed. Does that help?"

"Yes . . . Miss Strang."

"So what did you touch that you had been forbidden to touch?"

He could barely speak, so great was his confusion and abject shame. His face was hot and tears were pricking his eyes.

"My . . my . . . my winkie, Miss Strang."

"Yes, John. Your winkie."

She grasped his wrists and pulled them gently towards her.

"And these are the hands that touched and played with your winkie."

She looked at him and was pleased with what she saw. A small boy, his cheeks burning with shame. His eyes glistening with tears. His hair damp and dishevelled. A boy from whom all the natural assurance of a nine year old had been driven. A shrivelled boy. A boy who, for a while, was utterly broken and submissive. She smiled.

"So what do we need to do to these hands, John?"

He was sobbing helplessly. I could see him looking at her, pleading with her to spare him further torture.

"Please, Miss Strang. Please."

"You think I should spare your hands, do you John? Spare them the strapping that I promised?"

"Please, Miss Strang."

"But, John, what does a promise mean?"

Tears were running down his cheeks.

"Stop crying this instant. Answer me. What does a promise mean?"

There was a harsh cutting tone to her voice as she brought him to heel. He swallowed.

"I am still waiting?"

"It . . . means . . . it means that you will . . . will do what you say."

"Exactly, John. That is what it means."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Do you remember those tin soldiers we saw in the window of the toyshop?"

"Yes, Miss Strang."

She paused.

"And if I gave you an empty box instead of the promised tin soldiers, what would I have done?"

"You . . you would have broken your promise."

He hung his head.

"But the promised strapping will not be so pleasurable. Nor will it be forgotten so quickly. That you can rely on. And, hopefully, it will teach you that while toys may be played with, there are parts of a boy's body that he never plays with."

She smiled.

"Tell me, John. Did you find playing with your winkie, pleasurable. Was it nice to stroke it and rub it. Did you enjoy it?"

As a boy is slowly stripped of his clothing, piece by piece, until he is bare and shivering and ready for the rod, so Miss Strang stripped John. But not of his clothes. As a rabbit is skinned, until bloody and unrecognisable, so John was slowly flayed of his self-worth, until he was unrecognisable as the lively, spirited, even arrogant boy of before.

"Well? I am waiting. Did you enjoy it?"

In a small, raspy voice, that was barely audible, he answered.

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"Yes, John. I am sure you did. It is something that small boys find exceptionally pleasurable."

She still held his wrists.

"John, if I forbade you to eat dirt would I need to threaten you with punishment? Well?"

"N . . . no, Miss Strang."

"And why not, John?"

"I don't want to eat dirt . . . Miss Strang."

"Of course not. Punishment is only necessary when a boy wants to do something that is forbidden. And the more he wants it, the more severe the punishment has to be."

She still held his wrists.

"And let us imagine that I have placed a bowl of delicious chocolates, your favourite chocolates, on the library table. I have forbidden you to touch them. And I have told you that if you do, you will be given a smack on the back of the hand, like this."

She turned his right hand over and gave it a little light slap.

There was a pause.

"Yes, Miss Strang. I . . . I might."

"I think you probably would, John. And why?"

"Be . . because I like chocolates."

"Yes. That is true. But why did the fear of the punishment not stop you, John."

"Bu . . but it wasn't a real punishment, Miss Strang."

"Exactly John. Your love of chocolates was stronger, much stronger, than your fear of the punishment."

She held both hands again by the wrists.

"So you see, John, the more your want something, the more severe the punishment has to be. Or you may decide that the punishment is worth risking, or is a price worth paying, to have what you want so badly."

Still she held his wrists.

"And I am right in thinking that playing with your winkie is even better than eating chocolates?"

John bit his lip.

"You see John, you are not the first small boy I have governed. I know how much a boy loves to masturbate. How the first thing he does when he gets into bed at night is to touch his little member. Feel it stiffen Stroke it and rub it. And he holds his breath and becomes more and more excited. And then his breathing becomes quick and shallow and his eyes glaze over. And he is in a state of rapture. He thinks he is in heaven . . . "

She paused, gripping his wrists tightly now.

"But he is not in heaven, John. He is slipping down a slope of selfish sensuality to hell. And a governess who loves him, who cares for him, will do all that is necessary to stop him. But because he wants it so much, only the severest of punishments will make him desist."

She arranged his hands palm upward, crossing the right hand over the left. Behind the crossed hands was a narrow v-shaped space where the wrists parted. She turned and picked up the strap. It hung heavily from her hand.

"You will receive six strokes on each palm, John. I will give three to this hand. Then you will change hands and receive three strokes to your left hand. Then, that will be repeated. Do I make myself clear?"

John's voice was full of husk. His face already wet with tears.

"Yes, Miss Strang."

His eyes were shining. For the first time in my life, I thought how beautiful he looked. Miss Strang in shaping and bending this small boy to her will, had bestowed upon him a heart-rending loveliness. The arrogance had been whipped from him. The binding, constricting shell of self-regard had been torn away.

John was not particularly courageous under discipline, but within him was a smouldering resentment that was not easily overcome. A fire that burst into flames despite being well damped down. Miss Strang knew that only by the diligent application of the rod would such resentment, such a sullen determination to oppose her, be eventually beaten out. That Miss Strang found this necessary task of governance immensely satisfying was in no doubt. And her satisfaction now at driving out the swagger and self-conceit from my brother was abundantly evident.

But perhaps there was an even deeper satisfaction in whipping a boy who had been so subdued. She said to me some years later that it was only when a boy has ceased to fight the rod that his discipline truly begins.

(To be continued)