Miss Strang Chapter 40
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 40

I walked slowly to my bedroom. I was weak and my whole body seemed to be shaking. I sat on the bed and stared out of the window. The sun was soon to set, and shone obliquely through the trees and lit the room. I stood up and reaching behind with my hand raised my nightdress. I ran the other hand lightly over my bottom, delighting in its soft, firm resilience. I turned to look the mirror. It was so full and round and so utterly delicious. I bent forward a little and watched the thin insubstantial covering of skin tighten. Skin that was soon to be flayed, exposing the rawness of the flesh beneath.

Although there was a tantalising sensual pleasure in letting my imagination roam in this way, I knew that when the time came I would be terrified. The thought of pain was different from the actuality. And yet the actuality, the torture itself, would become in time a memory. A recollection that could be enjoyed without the searing agony. Perhaps for that it was worth enduring. Such thoughts were present even then, before my thirteenth birthday.

When in bed I lay on my stomach and pressed down upon my left hand. With the other I reached round and curled a finger into the cleft between my buttocks and with the tip gently scratched my anus. The dreadful burning was now but a tingling warmth. I thought of the boy of about Simon's age being impaled and I let my finger penetrate a little more deeply. Then, slowly and lingeringly I withdrew it. As I tantalised myself in this way, I was moving back and forward pressing down.

And my thoughts were reaching out in anxiety to the morrow.

I imagined that it was I who was administering the flogging. A young girl was bent over the arm of a chair, her bottom pale and full and almost translucent. I ran my hand over the soft contours, enjoying the firm resilience of the flesh. She stirred uneasily as I turned and stepped across to a pail in which a birch was steeping. I drew it out, shaking off the surplus water, and then stood beside her. She flinched as I rucked up her under vest. And, then, as I raised the rod and brought it sweeping down, a shrill whine as it cut the air . . . I came, biting the pillowcase, chewing it, muffling the scream.

That night my dreams were disturbed.

I woke at six, and was alert immediately. In the washroom, I slipped off my nightdress and stood looking at myself in the mirror. My breasts were still boyish and as yet had not swollen. I splashed my face with water and dried it. Invigorated, I returned to my bedroom and clothed myself. I had just finished buttoning my dress when Miss Strang entered.

"Well, I am pleased to see you have dressed so promptly, Livia. Go and fetch the long basket and clippers and I will meet you on the terrace in five minutes. And until breakfast you may converse normally even though you are still in disgrace,"

As we set off, we might have been going for an early walk to enjoy the morning. It was cool and yet the very coolness was a sure token of the day's coming heat. Miss Strang strode along and engaged me in conversation. That our grim purpose was the selecting of birch lengths to be bound into a rod to flog me seemed scarcely believable. We climbed over the stile and entered the wood.

"Now Livia I want you to suggest lengths that you believe would be suitable."

I pointed to one

"Now Livia, please remember that you are a twelve year old girl. Not a little six year old. That length is really not thick enough."

I pointed to another.

"That is better. Here are the clippers."

I went to cut it.

Slowly I gathered the lengths that I would soon be binding up into a rod for my punishment. When I had cut eight lengths, I stopped.

"Is that enough, Miss Strang?"

"No, Livia. It is not. Two birches need to be made."

"Two, Miss Strang?"

"Yes, two, Livia. Does that surprise you?"

"N . . . no, Miss Strang."

I continued cutting lengths of birch and laying them in the basket. When I had gathered about fifteen, Miss Strang stopped.

"Hand me the clippers, please, Livia. As Simon is under threat of a birching, it would be prudent also to prepare a rod for a boy of his age."

She cut a number of further lengths, shorter and less thick than those I had cut.

We made our way back to the house. My whole body seemed to be vibrating like the string of a violin that had been plucked. I felt strangely alive. When we reached the schoolroom, I placed the basket on the table. Beside it was a pail of water and into this Miss Strang plunged the birch lengths she was carrying. I then went to fetch the newspapers and the bowl of water.

"Now Livia I am sure you remember how we bound up the birch for John."

She smiled.

"The only difference this time is that the birch is for you."

She watched me as I proceeded to select and trim the lengths, binding six of them into a stout rod. Again the binding extended for about two thirds of the length, and the end that splayed out into a springy tracery of tough lithe twigs seemed to have a life of its own. The whole birch must have been nearly three feet in length.

"Give it a little shake with your wrist, Livia."

I did so. And the end jumped back and sprung forward as though on a flexible hinge.

"Tell me, Livia, can you imagine how that will feel when swished across your bottom?"

I reddened at the directness of her question.

"Yes, Miss Strang. I can."

"Good. Now bind up the second birch that I am sure is going to be needed."

When I had done so, Miss Strang took it from me and swished it vigorously through the air.

"An excellent rod, Livia. This could be used, without apology, to flog a boy of sixteen."

She smiled.

"If the local boys' reformatory hear of your skill, they will be granting you a contract to make rods for them!"

She placed both in the pail along with the unprepared lengths of birch that were for Simon.

The horror of what lay before me began to take on a greater and more painful reality.

"Miss Strang?"

"Yes, Livia?"

"Miss Strang . . . will I . . . will I be birched as hard as you birched John?"

How old is John, Livia?"

"Nine, Miss Strang."

"And how old are you?"

"I'm twelve, Miss Strang."

"And do you think that a twelve year old girl should be punished more severely than a nine year old boy?"

"I . . . I'm not sure, Miss Strang."

"Well, surely you have an opinion? Are you expecting to be birched more severely than I birched John?"

"I think . . . I think that you would . . . would birch a boy more severely than a girl, Miss Strang."

"Do you, Livia? And why is that? Why should a boy need to be birched more severely than a girl?"

"I . . . suppose because boys are naughtier than girls. I am sure John is. I . . . I am not sure about Simon."

She looked at me and smiled.

"You are right, Livia. Boys are more overtly disobedient than girls, and need to be flogged more often. And frequently with a greater severity, than I would contemplate for a girl. But there are some occasions when even a girl merits a thorough schoolboy flogging."

I hung my head.

"Tell me Livia, if you were a governess, how would you deal with a twelve year old girl who had wilfully disobeyed? How many cuts of the birch would she receive?"

I hesitated. I tried to speak confidently.

"I . . . I'm not sure, Miss Strang. I suppose she would deserve at least six strokes."

"You are very lenient, Livia. I would give her at least a dozen."

I bit my lip.

"And if she had also been deceitful and tried to hide her wrongdoing. What then?"

"I . . . I suppose she would deserve extra strokes."

"I am sure you are right. Livia. But how many?"

I was on a lonely, windswept headland, being driven towards the cliff edge.

"Perhaps six?"

"Six? I see. And if she had not only disobeyed, and hidden her wrongdoing, but had acted in a disgraceful way toward her younger brother, what then? How many strokes would you judge to be an appropriate punishment for that?"

"Please Miss Strang. I don't know. Perhaps another six."

"I see. Another six strokes. And if she had drawn her younger brother into her deceitfulness. Suggested that he say nothing about what she had done. Encouraged him to lie."

She paused.

"Another six strokes would you say. Or perhaps more?"

"Please Miss Strang. I don't know. Yes, perhaps six more."

"Well let us see. On your reckoning, Livia, that girl would receive a sound birching of twenty four strokes. Is that right?"

"I . . . suppose so, Miss Strang."

"You suppose so? I cannot think that there is any supposing about it. It is a matter of simple arithmetic. Well, I would regard that as the very minimum she deserved."

I felt a hard, hot lump in my chest.

"Well, we shall see, Livia. But bear in mind that we are talking about a twelve year old girl, not a little nine year old."

She stood watching as I hung my head.

"And now Livia, before breakfast, you had better make out that placard that I want you to wear to church."

While making the implement with which I was to be flogged had seemed somehow acceptable, to prepare a placard to wear to church declaring that I was in disgrace seemed insupportable.

"Please Miss Strang, do I have to wear it to church?"

She frowned.

"I thought I had made that quite clear, Livia. You do. And I want no more fuss about it."

She went to her desk and took out a very stiff piece of white card about ten inches by eight, and a pen with a broad nib. She placed the card on my desk, and handed me the pen.

"Take the pen, dip it in the inkwell and write the following.

LIVIA ARBUTHNOT
IN DISGRACE

That is to be written at the top of the card as if it were a heading."

I narrowed my eyes and I could feel my lips compressing. I knew that Miss Strang could see the sullen resentment on my face. But at that moment I didn't care.

"And underneath you will write clearly, centred under the heading

FORBIDDEN TO SPEAK
WITHOUT
MISS STRANG'S PERMISSION"

But before I could write she stopped me.

"This has to be written neatly, Livia. You had better first copy it out on to a piece of paper to make sure it is correctly spaced. When I am satisfied, you may transfer it to the card."

When this had been done, she went to her desk and produced a punch and a reel of cotton document tape. When two holes had been pierced through the top of the card on either side, she cut a length of tape, threaded it through, and knotted it. It was then hung around my neck. I could feel the anger seething inside me.

"You do you understand why this is being done, Livia?"

"Please, Miss Strang, I don't. Please it isn't necessary. I can't wear this to church. I can't."

There was sharpness to Miss Strang's tone.

"Can't is not a word I wish to hear from any child, Livia. I want no further argument. You will wear it. And that is the end of the matter. I am shocked by your attitude. The reason you are wearing the placard is to prevent your falling into further disobedience. If people speak to you, you will be encouraged to reply. And that is forbidden as long as you are in disgrace. You should be thanking me for such consideration, instead of wilfully refusing to understand. You are displaying a lamentable spirit of ingratitude. I will not countenance such wilfulness. I can assure you Miss Livia Arbuthnot that these sins will be added to those for which you already have to make atonement after lunch."

She paused.

"I can only commend my foresight in insisting that two rods were made up."

My head was hot and almost bursting.

"Go in for breakfast and sit at the table and wait. And not a word from you. Quickly now."

As I went in Mrs Mountfield was just finishing laying the breakfast. I went and sat at the table. She looked at me, read the card around my neck and nodded.

"In trouble, I see, Miss Livia."

I hung my head and said nothing.

"Well I wonder what Miss Strang has in store for you. I saw you both returning with what looked like a large basket of freshly cut birch. Now that may be for Master John . . . or Master Simon."

She paused and gave a knowing nod of the head.

"Or . . . it may be for you. I must say you have the look of a girl who is expecting a good tickling with a springy birch rod."

I could feel the anger simmering inside me. How dare she speak to me like this. But wisely I said nothing.

"Well, Miss Livia, you would not be the first girl of your age to be birched by her governess. When I was working for Dr and Mrs Clayton over in Windrush some twenty years ago, the children there had a governess. Miss Smythe it was. She was a real tartar. Three boys and a girl. And did she rule them with a rod of iron. The eldest boy was not more than nine. She'd whip those boys until the rod wore out and they'd be let down all bloody and smarting. But she'd not allow crying. Oh no! 'No crying here', she'd say. 'You'll just have to grin and gulp it down.' My, was she strict!

"And the girl. She must have been a bit younger than you Miss Livia. Miss Smythe would call me to the schoolroom and say 'Cressett'. It was Cressett in those says. I'd not yet met Mountfield. 'Cressett', she'd say, 'Miss Elizabeth needs taking up'. And the girl would be made to stand on a stool and reach her arms over my shoulders and then I'd lift her up on my back. And then with her horsed like that, she'd have her dress pinned up and her knickers taken down. And her stockings would be rolled down her legs to her ankles. 'Hold her tight, Cressett', she would say. And then I'd hear the swish of the birch. And did that girl wriggle and writhe! She'd plunge and twist and her legs would curl up in her agony and she kick like a lamb being shorn for the first time. And Miss Smythe would say 'No kicking here, Miss Elizabeth, or they'll be extra strokes'. I can still feel her tears running down my neck.

"I can tell you, Miss Livia, that girl's governess never hurried a flogging. The girl was given plenty of time to smart. And how she howled and roared. My ears were still ringing an hour later. Slow measured stripes laid on with vigour they were. That's the way Miss Smythe flogged. And every stripe cut the girl to the quick and left fresh red weals. And when she was let down, blubbering and bellowing, her bottom looked like two red round streaked apples."

She paused, almost breathless.

I had listened mesmerised. I felt a strange kinship with this girl and with her tingling flesh.

"But I doubt that Miss Strang will be as severe with you, Miss Livia."

I bit my lip. I was not so sure.

(To be continued)