Miss Strang Chapter 63

Miss Strang Chapter 63
By Governess

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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 63

I got out of bed and sat there. My dream had been so vivid and so upsetting that I wanted desperately to visit John in his room to check that he was all right and to comfort him. Never had I felt so strongly that he was my brother whom I loved and had a duty to protect. Yet I knew the consequences would be grave if I were caught out of bed by Miss Strang. I hesitated, but then remembered that my father had asked to see her once we were all settled down for the night. I had no idea of the time nor how long I had been dreaming. I opened the door a little and listened. All was quiet. There was a door to Miss Strang's room directly opening on to the passage in which our rooms were located. There was no light under her door. Again I listened, slightly breathless. All seemed well. I slipped down the corridor to John's room.

As I entered he was breathing evenly but as I entered he stirred and gave a little moan.

"John. It's Livvy. Shhh. Don't make a noise."

Almost instantly he was awake.

"What do you want, Livvy?"

"I had a horrid dream and wanted to see that you were all right."

"Of course I'm all right. . . "

Than after a pause.

"What was the dream?"

"I dreamt that you were dead."

"Well, I'm not dead. But my bottom hurts dreadfully."

"Shall I look at it?"

"No. You'll have to turn on the light. If she finds us together, we'll both be in frightful trouble."

"Then let me get into bed with you."

I inveigled myself between the sheets and felt his warm body next to me. He was lying on his tummy, but wriggled round so that he was resting on his left side. We lay together like two babes in the wood.

"Thank you for coming, Livvy."

"Well, I had to come and see that you were all right."

There was a long pause as we enjoyed each others soft, warm, physical presence.

"John?"

"Yes, Livvy?"

"John have you played with your winkie tonight?"

"No, I haven't."

"Would you like me to . . to do it for you?"

He said nothing, but gave a little wriggle and my hand crept down between his legs. His small soft penis and his scrotum were cupped in my hand. There was an intake of breath and I felt them stir as he gave another appreciative wriggle.

"How do you do it when you do it yourself? Can you show me?"

His hand slipped down and I could feel him pinching the front of his penis gently between his finger and thumb and rubbing the loose skin between them.

If I had been expecting his penis to grow and thicken like the stallion's I was disappointed. But as I vibrated the frenulum I felt it become a little less flaccid. With a spare finger I gently dug into his tight little sac and could feel the testicles within. I scratched tenderly on the strange puckered surface and then began to probe my way in between his balls. I vibrated the tip of my finger gently between them and was rewarded with another appreciative wriggle.

"Not too hard, Livvy."

There was a note of anxiety in his voice. Suddenly I felt the power I had over him. Holding him like this. A sharp squeeze would be painful and if I slowly, inexorably tightened my grip . . . But I did neither and continued to pleasure him, gently exciting him by the slow deliberate rubbing that pulled on the frenulum, tightening it, and twisting the tiny glans at the tip of his member. He was groaning now and I could imagine his eyes closed in a delirium of sensuous delight. Why did I find it so enjoyable to reduce this small whipped boy to a twisting bundle of animality? And I knew it was because, like an Emperor of ancient Rome, I had complete power over this small subservient creature. The power to give and the power to take away.

I came later to understand that in every act of mutual sexuality, this same power is ever present. The power to receive pleasure by giving pleasure. And also the tantalising pleasure of denying pleasure to another. Of reducing a boy to a writhing, babbling impotency, pleading for release, until he sinks into an sullen morose dissatisfaction which calls forth condemnation and punishment. And woe betide him if he tries to thwart his governess by attending to himself, pleasuring himself.

But at the age of nearly thirteen, the pleasure of masturbating John was sufficient. I continued to stroke and tantalise him, increasing the rhythm of my attention until he came in a small boyish orgasm without any of that hot spurting stallion sperm that I had imagined in my dreams.

I was surprised how excited I had become at touching his small boy's body. As he lay there my own hand crept down between my legs and I began to stroke myself.

"What are you doing, Livvy?"

"I am dong to myself what I have just done to you."

He wriggled up to me, carefully avoiding any pressure on his bruised and wealed buttock.

"But how does a girl do it, Livvy . . . without what I've got?"

Part of me wanted him to keep quiet and let me concentrate on pleasuring myself. But the temptation to be his older sister, mentoring him in such matters was too strong.

"She may not have a winkie, John, but she has something else. It's here."

I took his hand and guided it between my legs inserting his finger into my vulva, sliding it up until the tip rested on my clitoris.

"There do you feel that?"

"But there's nothing there?"

"Yes there is. Wiggle your finger a little. There's a little button beneath the skin. Can't you feel it."

I felt his fingers exploring, in a little boy way.

"Oh, yes. A little bump."

"Yes. That's my winkie . . . Stroke it gently with your finger. No, with the tip of your finger. That's better."

However, after a short while, I could tell that he was not really interested in pleasuring me. Like most small boys he was selfish and greedy, eager to wallow in his own sensuality but once satisfied unwilling to put himself out for another. I took his hand away.

"You don't want to do it, do you, John. I've done it to you but you are just too selfish to do it to me. You're just a spoilt little boy."

"That's not fair, Livvy."

"Yes, it is. I'm glad you are having to be dressed as a girl. Perhaps that will make you more like one and be ready to share a bit more."

"Then why are you having to dress like a boy?"

"That's none of your business."

I threw back the bedclothes and got out of bed. Then reaching down I pinched his bottom hard where it had been strapped raw. He gave a squealing gasp. I turned to go and opened the door gently. Miss Strang was walking down the passage.

"And what are you doing in John's room, Oliver?"

"I . . I had a bad dream about him . . . and . . . and came to see he was all right . . . "

"Did you. Oliver? That was thoughtful. And is he all right? I thought I heard a cry from him. You are surely not leaving him if he is distressed?"

"No, Miss Strang. He is all right. Truly he is."

"Well I had better make sure. Go back into his room, please."

I went, inwardly shaking with concern. I saw that John had snuggled into the bed and was giving the impression of a boy well asleep.

"John!"

He stirred and tried to give the appearance of waking from slumber.

"Ye . . . yes, Miss Strang?"

Her voice was hard.

"Do not pretend to be asleep, John. I heard you cry out in the corridor. What have you two children been doing?"

I hung my head dreading the interrogation.

"Well, John?"

"N . . nothing . . Miss Strang. Nothing."

She looked at him and for a moment said nothing.

"Out of bed. Stand here. And put out your hands."

I could see he thought they were to be strapped, although there was no sign of the tawse. She stepped forward and took his hands in hers and bending down smelt them. Running her nostrils down his fingers and breathing in deeply. She shut her eyes and then straightened.

"And what do I smell on these hands, John?"

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

And I believed him.. He was only a small boy.

"Smell them yourself."

He raised his hands to his nose and I watched as it wrinkled and he gave a little frown.

"What is it, Miss Strang?"

"You have no idea?"

He shook his head, a look of puzzlement on his face.

"Oliver, you smell it. What do you think it is?"

She waited.

"I'm not sure, Miss Strang."

"Oh? I am surprised. Give me your hands."

Slowly I stretched my arms out. She grasped my hands and drew them towards her, bending towards them and running her nose down the length of each.

"You smell them, Oliver. Is not that similar to the smell on John's fingers?"

There was an edge to her voice.

"Well is it?"

I knew it was pointless to dissemble. My voice was low and throaty with fear.

"Yes, Miss Strang."

"So you two boys have been in bed together, touching each other."

She put an emphasis on the word boys as though it were distasteful in the extreme. She turned to John.

"And what did Oliver do to you, John?"

He swayed slightly and was lost for words.

"John, when I ask a question I expect an answer. What did he do to you?"

"She . . . he touched me."

"And where did he touch you?"

He bit his lip and looked down.

"Here."

"I see. And was there more than touching, John?"

"More than touching, Miss Strang?"

"Yes, John. More than touching."

She waited.

"Oliver, please tell me exactly what happened. A full and truthful account please."

I struggled to gather my wits.

"Well, I . . . I was worried about John after my dream and I came to check that he was all right."

I paused.

"Yes? And?"

"Well I thought I might comfort him so I got into his bed. And . . .

"And you touched him. Was that to comfort him?"

"Yes, Miss Strang. Yes, it was."

"And how did you touch him?"

I stood there silently.

"John lift up your nightdress."

She turned to me and spoke in a quiet, clear voice.

"Show me how you touched him, Oliver."

I hesitated. John was crimson with shame. He stood very still, his eyes dark. He shivered, and looked pleadingly at his governess.

"Please, Miss Strang . . . "

"Why are you pleading, John? Did you not enjoy what Oliver did to you. I find that very difficult to believe."

"So, Oliver, show me how you masturbated him. For that is what you did, is it not?"

I was breathless, my chest was as if in an iron band as I stretched out my hand and gently stroked his small flaccid penis. I cupped my left hand under his scrotum and with the thumb and forefinger of the other hand found the tiny piece of loose flesh beneath the knob of his winkie and rubbed it. I looked at her.

"I see. Like that. I started to take my hand away.

"Did I say you could take your hand away?"

I continued to rub his tiny frenulum. I looked at his face. It was twisted in shame, his lips trembling, his eyes welling with tears. And yet I could feel his little member responding to my touch.

Miss Strang placed her hand on his head and ruffled his hair.

"And did you enjoy it, John?"

He gave no response, crying now with the bitterness of his disgrace. He was a boy cast down the well shaft of his own despair. The waters were the water of Marah and the oculus of light above him was an accusing eye as it looked down on his distress and humiliation.

"Well, Oliver, it seems John has no answer. What do you think? Did he enjoy it?"

"I . . . I think he did, Miss Strang."

She smiled.

"And what makes you think that, Oliver? What sign of enjoyment did he give?"

Like a small butterfly not yet dead but still struggling in the killing jar, I looked at her. There was no hint of any remission. I was to be pinned to the board.

"He . . . he wriggled, Miss Strang and his little . . little thing went stiff."

"I see. It went stiff and he wriggled did he. Take your hand away."

She compounded his exquisite shame by placing her finger under his testicles, and then crooking it. She wriggled it, digging into the tiny, wrinkled still immature sac. He winced.

"You wriggled, did you, John. Well, believe me I know how to make a boy wriggle. I have many ways of making a boy wriggle. And he does not wriggle with pleasure. She slipped her hand over his scrotum and slowly squeezed it. He gasped.

"Please, no, no. Please, Miss Strang."

(To be continued)