Miss Strang Chapter 37
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 37

The tawse rested on John's hands.

"Look me in the eye, John."

Miss Strang's eyes were narrowed and inquisitorial as she searched his face, seeking assurance that nothing now remained of resentment and self regard but cold embers and ashes.

She smiled an almost imperceptible smile, as she pulled the tawse tantalisingly across his hands until it dropped, smacking gently against her dress. Then she raised it and draped it over her right shoulder.

John stood shivering his hands still extended waiting. Even had his governess been invisible, anyone who saw him would be in no doubt about his fate. The way he held his hands extended and crossed, a tense look on his face, his eyes red rimmed and glistening from recent tears, his lips compressed, the small anxious frown on his forehead. All told the same story.

"John, I trust that you are now quite clear in your mind that masturbation is wrong. That it is something that you are forbidden to do. That it is not only sinful but a most dangerous and debilitating habit. And that whenever I discover you have masturbated, you will be most severely punished."

She paused.

"Do you know the word 'genitals', John?"

"N... no, Miss Strang."

"A boy's genitals are what hang between his legs. They comprise his penis which is the little member that he uses to pass water, and which he finds especially delightful to rub and play with. And the little sac that hangs beneath his penis. That is called his scrotum. It is very sensitive and if a boy is hit there he finds it exceptionally painful."

She paused.

"The word 'genitals' comes from a Latin word, genitum, meaning to beget."

John still stood, anxious and shivering, with his hands outstretched, awaiting the impending stokes of the tawse.

"And do you know the word 'beget', John?"

"N... no, Miss Strang."

"Well, begetting is what a man does to make a baby. He implants his seed in a woman to make the baby grow. The seed is made in the little sac, in his scrotum. And when his penis is hot and stiff and rigid, he drives it forcibly into his wife, and shoots his seed into her. And that is what your genitals are for, John. For making babies. And until then, they are not to be played with. They are not to be used for selfish pleasure. And hands that do that will be strapped."

The hand holding the tawse was lifted and the thick, flexible, leather tails swung heavily down across the outstretched hands.

I felt a judder within my diaphragm at the impact. John roared and bent double, his hands dangling either side of his crouching form. But, while his left hand hung limply, the right hand was twisting and writhing in torment.

"Aaagh. Aaagh."

Just as I had done, and as is the instinct of all children whose hands are strapped, John inserted the throbbing hand beneath his left armpit and hugged his body to it. His face was now contorted and etched with a fearful anxiety.

"A strict governess would not allow you to wriggle like that, John. She would insist that you remained upright with your hands extended, awaiting the next stroke. However, I understand how painful it is for a small boy to have his hands strapped with a tawse such as this. So I will not insist upon such obedience. But you will resume position for the next stroke as soon as the instruction is given. Is that understood?

John seemed bereft of speech. His face was wet with tears. He nodded. Miss Strang watched him as slowly he regained a little composure.

"Hands ready for the next stroke."

Obediently, he extended his hands, and crossed them. The strap was raised, and for a second time its heavy weight beat down upon the small fragile extremity. I was mesmerised by the utterly unequal contest between the harsh leather and the frailty of the small hand that was being punished.

It is humbling for a boy to have his nether garments removed and to be bared for punishment. But discipline administered to the buttocks does afford a boy a modicum of uncertain dignity. He turns his back on the one chastising him. He offers a round, firm, fleshy bottom that seems to challenge any governess to do her worst. He is able to avoid that eye contact that can make the most robust of small boys wilt and shrink. And not only that, but he is also spared sight of the distasteful proceedings. He can shut his eyes and retreat into a dark world of his own.

But having the hands strapped is quite different.

John could see his tormentress. He could watch her face as she measured him for the next stroke. Watch his own hand proffered for the tawse. Watch it receive each searing stroke, as the leather smacked agonisingly across his palm. And know that his every expression, of fear, of anguish, of desperate hopeless pain could be seen by his governess, as she sought his complete capitulation to her authority.

Now he dangled his hands by his sides. Now he shook them frantically as though trying to separate them from his wrists. To sever them so that the dreadful, torturing pain might cease.

"Change hand, John, please."

Again the tawse swung down. And again. And again. After each stroke he violently convulsed and shook. I thought his screams must be heard all over the house, echoing down corridors and telling all who heard them that a small boy was being punished before being sent to his bed in disgrace.

The outstretched hand is a small, bony extremity and has no protective flesh. I remembered seeing Mr Noakes, our gamekeeper, bludgeoning an animal that had been caught in a trap. It had been small and vulnerable. And it had shrieked in terror and pain. And as I watched John's hands being tawsed, I thought again of that small, defenceless animal.

When the strapping was concluded, John was sobbing, kneeling on the floor, bent forward, his head on the ground, his hands pressed tightly under his armpits. Miss Strang watched. Her lips thin and tight.

She walked over to her desk and picked up a pencil and placed it on John's desk.

"Stand up, John. Quickly now."

Slowly and stiffly he rose. When he was standing, he again tucked his hands under his armpits and, hunching, squeezed them against his body. I noticed that he was shivering.

"Pick up the pencil, John."

He reached out and tried to pick it up with his first finger and thumb. But his hand, weak and shaking, was unable to grip it. The pencil slipped from his grasp and dropped on the floor with a clatter. He cast an anxious glance at his governess.

She reached out and ruffled his hair, running her hand up the back of his neck.

"There is nothing to fear, John. I am not going to punish you for dropping the pencil. I just wanted to see that your hands had been sufficiently strapped. That is how they should be after a sound tawsing."

She held him to her affectionately.

"And why was I chastising your hands, John? What had you done that made that necessary? Put your hands behind you back and answer, please."

She waited.

"So why were you hands strapped?"

"Because I mas... mast... "

"The word is masturbated, John. Say it.

"Masturbated."

"And again."

"Masturbated."

"And now say 'my hands were strapped because I masturbated.'"

"My... my hands were... were strapped, because, I masturbated."

"Good. I hope that lesson has been well and truly learned, John. And just as your numb, throbbing fingers were unable to hold the pencil, so I trust that when you are in bed tonight they will make no attempt to hold your nine year old penis and play with it. Is that understood?"

She waited.

"I said is that understood?"

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"And do you know what will happen to you, if I discover that you have masturbated again?"

"No... no, Miss Strang."

"That is good. For I do not think, John, you can begin to imagine what punishment I have in store for you should I catch you masturbating again."

She paused.

"Now go and prepare for bed and I will be in to settle you down in ten minutes"

There was a silence. Miss Strang busied herself, tidying her desk and putting the chairs back in place. Already I was dwelling on the flogging I was to receive the following day. A fearful but delicious shiver ran through me at the thought of being swished with a rod that I had myself bound up. I thought of John now in his bedroom. I wondered whether he would dare to masturbate again. And what punishment he would receive were Miss Strang to discover him.

"Miss Strang?"

She turned and her eyes looked at me with a sharp penetrating gaze.

"Livia, did I or did I not tell you that your were in disgrace?"

She must have heard my quick intake of breath.

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"And did I or did I not explain what that meant?"

"Yes... yes you did, Miss Strang."

"And what explanation did I offer?"

"Y... you explained that it meant that I mustn't speak unless spoken to or unless I was given permission by you to... to speak."

My voice trailed away.

"And did I give such permission, Livia."

I hung my head. My voice came in a whisper.

"No, Miss Strang."

"Go across to the armchair, Livia, and bend over the arm."

I did as she requested, shut my eyes and waited. I heard her footsteps on the wooden schoolroom floor. I felt my nightdress being raised and rucked up my back. Pulled over my shoulders. The window was open and I could feel the cool air. There was a long pause. An agonising pause.

"Livia, when I tell you that you are in disgrace and explain exactly what that means, I expect it to be remembered. It distresses me that you hold my word in such poor regard."

She reached out and placed her hand gently on my head.

"However, I am prepared to believe you were merely forgetful. But forgetfulness is something a child must overcome. You must learn to listen to instructions and then obey them. But where words are not heeded and fail to make an impression, then another impression needs to be made. An impression that I have found invariably assists learning."

She waited.

"I hope you agree that such a lesson needs to be taught, Livia."

I knew better than to argue.

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"And where, Livia, do you think that impression needs to be printed?"

I knew only too well.

"On... on my bottom, Miss Strang."

"Yes, Livia. On your bottom. God, in his wisdom, has decreed that unless there are good reasons to the contrary such a lesson is best imprinted on a child's soft bottom flesh. For good reason a child's bottom has often been called the seat of learning."

I glanced at her but quickly hung my head.

"But I am mindful, Livia, of the birching you are to receive tomorrow. It would be a pity to have to birch you on a bottom already wealed by a strapping."

I waited.

"So you will protect your bottom from the strokes of the tawse by placing your right hand where it can receive the strokes instead. Do you understand?"

I was almost breathless, held in the thrall of Miss Strang's indomitable will.

"Ye... yes, Miss Strang."

"Good. You will receive three strokes of the tawse. After the first stroke you will say in a firm, clear voice, 'I must listen to Miss Strang.' Say it."

"I... I must listen to Miss Strang."

"And after the second stroke, you will say again in a firm, clear voice, 'I must heed Miss Strang.' Say it.

"I must heed Miss Strang."

"And after the third stroke, you will say, 'I must obey, Miss Strang.' Say it."

I... I must obey Miss Strang."

"Good. Three strokes of the tawse to teach a very necessary lesson in listening, heeding and obeying. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Miss Strang. I understand."

She reached out and held my right arm by the wrist. And gently folded it back so my hand was resting palm upwards over my right buttock. I could sense the quickened pace of my breath and the tightness in my chest. I was trembling with a nervous, fearful anxiety that was almost pleasurable. And yet I was filled with foreboding.

"But what if you move your hand, Livia?

I was not sure how to reply or whether a reply was expected. But the question was repeated.

"I said, what if you should move your hand, Livia?"

"Th... then, the tawse would hit my bottom... Miss Strang."

There was a pause. I held my breath.

"And if you had been forbidden to move your hand, and you moved it. What would that be, Livia?"

"It... it would be disobedience, Miss Strang."

"Yes, Livia. It would be. It would be disobedience. And what happens when a girl disobeys?"

"Sh... she is punished, Miss Strang."

"Yes. As you will be punished if you allow the tawse to imprint my displeasure on your bottom instead of on your hand."

There was another pause. My bottom was cool and I could feel the goose-pimples.

"And if you are disobedient and move your hand, how do you think you might be punished?"

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

"Then, I shall tell you, Livia. If you move your hand, three additional strokes of the birch will be added to those you are to receive tomorrow. Do you understand?"

"Yes... Miss Strang."

(To be continued)