Miss Strang Chapter 48
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 48

Miss Strang handed the hairbrush to Mrs Mountfield.

"And you will do exactly what Mrs Mountfield tells you, Simon. I expect her to administer as sound a spanking as I would have done. Probably more severe."

She stepped back.

"Thank you Mrs Mountfield."

Enid Mountfield was a countrywoman. She was older than Miss Strang but not that much older. She always had a kindly expression with lively brown eyes. Her brown hair was swept back and bobbed into a bun. She had a practical intelligence without any sentimentality, particularly toward animals and children. I could recall her picking a caterpillar out of a cabbage, placing it on the chopping block, and killing it with the edge of a kitchen knife, slicing and pasting it with a ruthless, practical efficiency.

Miss Strang's intelligence and deep understanding of children allowed her to combine physical suffering with debilitating emotional pain. But Mrs Mountfield's straightforward practical nature meant that she would wield the rod with little awareness of its power as a sceptre of authority before which a child could be made to abase himself in shame and humiliation. She had no doubt suffered chastisement at the hands of her parents and had seen her brothers and sisters spanked and possibly caned. She knew what was expected of her. And she did not disappoint.

"Well, young man, you heard what your governess said. Let's see those trousers and pants coming down. I am sure you know better than to expect a spanking on anything other than a completely bare bottom."

Simon was white and shaken at the prospect of being spanked by Mrs Mountfield. Although only seven, he had already acquired an awareness of social rank in the household. While he dreaded being punished by Miss Strang, he nevertheless accepted it as a natural consequence of wrongdoing and of her status as his governess who exercised a complete and untrammelled authority over him. That she should now delegate this authority to a servant was an added degradation, both frightening and shameful.

"Should he take off his shoes, Miss Strang?"

"Mrs Mountfield, if you want him to take off his shoes, just ask him to do so. He will do exactly what you tell him. And there is no need to refer to me. He is yours to deal with as you think appropriate. If you wish him to remove every stitch of clothing, that is your choice. As is the severity of the punishment you administer."

I watched Mrs Mountfield's face as she was given carte blanche to punish Simon in whatever way she chose. There was an eagerness on her kindly face and her eyes became small and bright.

"Well, Master Simon, I think we'd better have all those clothes off, then."

So, slowly and reluctantly, Simon had to remove not only his shoes and socks but all his garments until he stood in utter nakedness, shivering and anxious.

The room in which we took our meals was large, light and airy. In front of the window was an ottoman and it was to this that Mrs Mountfield propelled Simon with a hand behind the nape of his neck. She sat, eased up her dress slightly to take the tension out of it, then pulled him across her knee.

If Miss Strang has been spanking him, she would probably have tantalised him for a few moments, resting the hard cold back of the brush against his soft bare bottom, perhaps smacking him lightly, encouraging a nervous anticipation of the agony to come. But this was not Mrs Mountfield's way. Her practical spirit suggested no such preliminary torment. Instead, she raised the brush and brought it down with all the force she could muster across the crown of Simon's right buttock. He gave a piercing scream. Another equally hard stroke was given just below the first. And then another.

In the kitchen, Mrs Mountfield kept a wooden implement that she used to tenderise meat. I had watched her using it, beating a steak repeatedly with all her strength. And so she beat Simon. He writhed and screamed, a high-pitched squealing wail of agony, as his bottom flesh became increasingly tender and raw. Each time the brush was driven into the firm protuberant cheeks, the soft yielding flesh closed for a moment tightly around its hard oval edge, leaving a red outline of inflammation. And each time the firm flesh sprang back, inviting further spanking.

Despite his struggles, Mrs Mountfield had no difficulty in mastering him. She was a strong countrywoman, and her left arm was wrapped firmly around his waist. The previous year I had watched her assist in the killing of a small pig. Its smooth, pink body wriggling, its forelegs bound, as she forced its head back for the knife to be sliced across its throat. And as I watched Simon's small writhing body, I could see and hear again the pig in its agony.

After a dozen or so strokes, she switched her attention to his other bottom cheek and again beat it with the same hard practical measured strokes, using all the strength of her arm, until it was as raw and tender as the right buttock. Eventually, she stopped.

"Well, young man, that should be enough to make you think twice before turning up your nose at my cooking."

He was desperately sobbing and twisting over her knee. His bottom was a deep, dark red. After a while, he became calmer and lay still, making little tearful noises as if to comfort himself.

"And now Master Simon, I'm going to provide something that my mother used to provide. Something that a child finds very helpful after a thorough spanking."

She made it sound as though she was about to apply some comforting, soothing embrocation to his sore and smarting rump.

"Th . . , thank you . . . Mrs Mountfield."

She smiled.

"No need to thank me yet, young man. Wait until you've had the benefit."

If he had thought he was to be released from her hold, he was mistaken.

"After my mother had given a spanking, she'd turn the brush over and give the same number of strokes again, but with the bristle side. After two dozen or so solid smacks with the hard wooden back of a hairbrush to a boy's bare skin, it doesn't sound much, does it, Master Simon? But believe me, it's a wonderful way to make a child remember he's been spanked. Without it, he'd forget all about it a few days with all that tingle gone from his bottom. And we don't want that, do we?"

She waited.

"Do we young man?"

"N . . . no, Mrs Mountfield."

"No, Master Simon, we don't. A boy needs to remember his folly so as not to sin again."

She raised the brush and brought the bristle side down sharply across his right buttock. It made no sound and seemed quite innocuous. He wriggled a little, for his flesh was already sore and tender. Another stroke was given in exactly the same spot and then another. She proceeded unhurriedly, always spanking the same spot, just below the crown of the buttock, with firm brisk strokes. Soon he began to wriggle in obvious discomfort.

I looked at Miss Strang. She was watching, frowning, but with an almost imperceptible smile, her lips slightly parted.

I could soon see that the bristles were acting like tiny needles, pricking into the skin. Soon blood began to well out of the tiny punctures. After a dozen or more strokes had been given, Mrs Mountfield turned her attention to the left buttock, again placing stroke after bristly stroke on exactly the same spot, cutting and puncturing the skin until it was bloody.

When she had finished, she looked up at Miss Strang.

"Well I have dealt with him as I thought fit, Miss Strang. As you gave me permission."

"Thank you, Mrs Mountfield. I assume that for the next few days Simon will have two very sore spots on his bottom."

"Oh for longer than a few days, Miss Strang. More like a week, I'd say."

She smiled.

"Like a little cherub with a red oval patch on each cheek."

"Well, let us hope that he behaves like a cherub, Mrs Mountfield. And if he does not, no blame attaches to you. You have provided some excellent and much needed discipline."

"Up you get, young man."

Simon struggled off Mrs Mountfield's lap and stood by her side, forlornly clutching each bottom cheek.

"Simon, you will apologise to Mrs Mountfield for being rude about her cabbage."

She waited. Simon managed a tearful apology.

"And now Mrs Mountfield, tell me, have you any of that excellent cabbage left?"

"I certainly have, Miss Strang."

"Then perhaps you would send up a good helping on a plate for Simon to enjoy."

Mrs Mountfield smiled.

"Yes, of course, Miss Strang."

"And do you think you could also dissolve a good dose of cooking salt in a small bowl of hot water and bring that, together with a cloth and an old towel."

"Of course, Miss Strang."

She bustled off, in noticeably good spirits.

Miss Strang turned to Simon.

"And now Simon you will stand face to the wall until Mrs Mountfield returns."

I watched fascinated as the blood trickled slowly in thin rivulets down the slope of his buttocks and the tops of his thighs. In those days, in country districts, few would have frowned upon such severity. The shedding of blood was a common occurrence in daily life. Living on a country estate, children regularly saw domestic animals slaughtered; and when a pig had its throat cut, blood flowed freely in the cobbled yard. And in the hunting field, children on their first hunt were bloodied, with the fox's blood smeared on their faces. And for a boy to be whipped until the blood ran, whether in the home, the school or by order of a magistrate, was in no way exceptional.

Mrs Mountfield returned within five minutes and deposited the towel and bowl of salt-saturated water on the table.

"And here is a plate of Master Simon's favourite cabbage."

Miss Strang picked up the bowl and cloth and walked across to Simon, still standing face to the wall. She partially rung out the cloth and wiped Simon's bottom with the saline solution. He gasped and contracted his buttocks.

"I know it stings, Simon, but that is how it should be. It is cleaning away the blood and preventing infection. Stand still."

When she had towelled him dry, she folded the towel and placed it on the seat of his chair and motioned for him to sit down. He was no doubt grateful that he was not having to place his spanked and smarting bottom directly on the hard wooden surface. As he ate the cabbage, I watched to see if he gave even the slightest grimace or sign of distaste, but he had learnt his lesson. At least for the moment. When he had finished, he had to thank Mrs Mountfield again for the cabbage before she cleared the table.

"And please, Mrs Mountfield, remember to let me have that list of the children's misdemeanours over the past year. Retribution ought normally to be swift, but where it cannot be, the axe must fall when it will."

She turned to Simon.

"And now, Simon, I have yet to deal with your lying. Stand up."

He bit his lip, the epitome of a small boy about to be sentenced for a serious misdemeanour."

Miss Strang smiled.

"You will be pleased to hear, Simon, that I am going to err on the side of leniency."

He stood quite still, holding his breath, waiting for judgment to be passed."

"Yes, Simon, possibly over-lenient. Go into the schoolroom."

I listened with a nervous curiosity. I wondered how I would have punished him, had I been his governess. Probably the cane applied to his well-rounded little thighs. Or the strap across his hands. I felt a frisson of excitement in the centre of my chest. But through the open schoolroom door I heard Miss Strang instruct Simon to take out his rough exercise book

"And you will write out twenty times 'I must not lie.' It will be written neatly with the letters properly formed. Any line that is not perfect will be written again. And there will be the usual consequences should that be necessary. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Miss Strang."

She took the book and I could see her through the door writing out the phrase he was to copy.

Now sit at your desk, Simon."

"Please Miss Strang may I put on my clothes."

"Certainly not, you will sit there naked, just as your are, with your wealed bottom on the hard seat. And you will compete the task you have been set without any complaint."

A moment later she returned to the supper room.

When I returned with my diary, Simon was still twisting over his desk laboriously writing out his lines. He was obviously anxious to make each line completely acceptable to his governess. He was a slow writer. When he had finished he raised his hand.

"Yes, Simon? Have you finished?"

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"Then, bring the book out, please."

She had already taken out the tawse and placed it on the top of her desk. Simon handed her the book.

"Hands behind your back, please, Simon. And stand up straight."

I could see the tension in his body as he waited while Miss Strang checked what he had written. She slipped off her stool and picked up the tawse, drawing the tails through her left hand.

"So, are you satisfied with the way you have written your lines, Simon?"

He had taken enormous care over the task. Concentrating for all he was worth. Making every effort to avoid further correction. He had his back to me and I could see how he was wringing his hands together as they were clasped behind him.

"Ye . . . yes, Miss Strang."

She paused, stroking the tawse.

"Stretch out your right hand, palm upward."

I could see his whole body stiffen at the prospect of further punishment. Miss Strang smiled at his discomfiture. Then, slowly, she turned the tawse around and rested the single end across his hand.

His relief was immense. He seemed to sag like a marionette. when the strings cease to be held.

"Th . . . thank you, Miss Strang."

And now, I think all you children should have an early night."

There was a long pause.

"But first, Simon, you had better fetch the button that you have to return to me at the end of the day."

(To be continued)