By Governess
liviaarbuthnot1@gmail.com
Copyright 2025 by Governess, all rights reserved
[2,397 words]´
* * * * *Cordelia Chapter 82
Meanwhile, James
Fairclough had been watching the proceedings with an outwardly calm,
yet severe expression. To all appearances Clough’s flogging was for or
him no more than a distasteful duty that had to be undertaken. However,
at the first stroke, he felt his saliva thicken and a deep pleasure
pervade his whole body, a delicious shudder as he recalled his own
birchings inflicted so patiently and lovingly by Miss Ravenscourt.
In those first weeks, she had introduced him to her strict and
unbending rule first by spanking him with the back of a solid hog
bristled hairbrush, and then by birching him. Her discipline was
imposed with an unrelenting thoroughness and a frequency that far
exceeded anything he had experienced before.
Her method in
the schoolroom was to set a portion of work that was to be completed in
a certain period of time, at the end of which, if he had failed to
complete the assignment both in its entirely and without error, he was
punished. For such academic failures, she continued to use the
hairbrush spanking his bare bottom with hard measured strokes. She was
anxious for him to succeed and regarded any failure as a personal
affront. Always, he was punished with a severity that reduced him to
frantic, helpless sobbing, and when the spanking was over, he’d promise
through his tears to make a greater effort in future. However, the work
she set always took him to the very edge of his knowledge and tested
him beyond his existing competence. As a consequence, a week rarely
passed without his being spanked several times. Slowly, although the
pain never lessened, his acceptance of the regime grew. And when the
pain faded to be replaced by a tingling warmth, he experienced a
strange pleasure that was some small compensation for the suffering he
had undergone.
After a week of her governance, she had
reckoned him ready for the birch. From then on any hint of opposition
to her will or tardy compliance to her word and he'd be turned over the
end of the chaise longue and reduced to a small wriggling boy with the
traditional marks of a governess’s displeasure upon him.
He
remembered his first flogging vividly. He had been truculent and
defiant. She had sat on the upright chair she used to spank him, and
drew his angry stiff little body close to hers with an arm wrapped
lovingly around him.
“I can see you are angry, James. All
little boys are angry when they cannot have their own way. There is
nothing unusual about it. Just as there is nothing unusual about a boy
telling lies, or disrespecting authority.”
And she gave me a hug.
“Do you know what a birch is, James?”
“Yes, Miss Ravenscourt.”
“Your are familiar with it from school, I assume?”
“Yes, Miss Ravenscourt.”
“And it was regarded as an implement of punishment?”
“Yes, Miss Ravenscourt.”
“And so it is in a large community of boys, where punishment is
necessary to keep order. But here it is different. I am here, as your
friend, to teach you your letters and the hairbrush is here to assist
me in that. But the birch helps me teach a boy how to behave. I explain
what is expected of you; you listen and obey; and if you disobey, the
birch will lovingly express my disappointment and correct you. Then,
the next time, hopefully, my expectations will be met.”
I then
noticed a pail in the corner in which several birch rods were steeping.
She went across and selected one, shaking off the surplus water.
“Six swishy lengths of birch, James. Bound up and eager to be assist in helping you to behave.”
She extended the hand holding the birch.
“You may kiss he rod as an acceptance of its authority and of the
consequences if you fail to be a hard-working, truthful and obedient
boy.”
Then, she hugged me and then led me to the chaise longue. She spoke kindly with a concerned, unthreatening voice.
“You will take off all your clothes and place them here on the seat.
Remove your shoes and socks first. Then, your jacket, shirt, trousers
and pants and your vest, too.”
Slowly, reluctantly, I obeyed. I stood shivering in my nakedness, as she put her arm round me.
“What I am about to do, James, may seem cruel but it is the greatest
kindness that can be done to a boy. Boys are naturally sinners. They
find it easy to do wrong, to disobey, or obey unwilling, to lie and to
be full of angry resentment. All those are ugly in the sight of God,
and need to be driven out. And this is the means of doing that.”
She swished the birch through the air.
“This is a friend to small boys, and older boys too. Wrongdoing leads a
boy down a slippery slope. But the birch because it inflicts such pain
encourages, indeed drives, a boy up the steep slope towards Heaven.
Some believe the path to Heaven is through Purgatory, through
redemptive suffering, and that is certainly so for small boys. There is
a saying, ‘You have to be cruel to be kind’, And what is about to be
done is a kindness, not cruelty.”
And I was lifted over the
end of the chaise longue and birched. At school I had once, or twice,
being flogged by the headmaster. But the stokes were given more as a
display of his authority and lacked firmness and resolve. And after six
cuts he put down the rod and lectured me on the need for an improvement
in my attitude and sent me on his way. I was barely tingling and had
not shed a tear.
But that was not Miss Ravenscourt’s way.
She had a higher opinion of a boy’s stamina and endurance and never
gave less than a dozen strokes and for egregious naughtiness might give
as many as four dozen. And every cut was given with intention and a
determination to mark skin and sear flesh and leave a boy trembling in
dread of a repetition.
And so she continued to stretch me
academically, exposing weaknesses in my knowledge and ensuring I was
regularly turned over her knee and encouraged to greater effort and
commitment. And as for my general behaviour, the exacting standards she
set meant that several birch rods were required each week to correct
what she termed my moral failures.
Although the shock of
exposure by a young woman was at first deeply shaming, as time passed
the shame lessened, until its very intimacy fortified me in my struggle
to endure. There was little doubt that the contrast between first
gently and lovingly baring me and the harsh punishment that followed
would create an ambivalence in any boy. I loved her and at the same
time hated her. But even my hatred was far more a hatred of my lack of
manliness, as I cringed and wept before her, than a true rejection of
the one who so lovingly disciplined me.
All these thoughts
occupied James as he waited for Diana and Cordelia to return. When they
did. Cordelia came over to him and explained that Graham under the very
shadow of his punishment had had the effrontery to make it difficult
for Elizabeth to help him into his shirt, and how she had promised
that, as a consequence, she would be treating him with additional
severity.
“Quite correct, Matron, it would be remiss not to do so. What do you have in mind?”
Well, Sir, I would like the vaulting horse turned so the boy can sit on
the end with his legs either side and bend forward to be secured to the
horse with a strap. I also think that as a safeguard, he should be made
to empty his bladder. If you agree, I’ll send Elizabeth to fetch what
is necessary from the infirmary.”
“Yes, Matron I am very happy with that. And I take it that you’ll be applying additional strokes for his lack of compliance.”
“Yes, Sir. That would be my intention.”
During Clough’s flogging, Graham had been standing against the back
wall, with his hands behind his neck. This had lifted his shirt and he
knew that his willy and balls were exposed. He had felt frightened and
vulnerable. He bitterly regretted his stupidity in fighting Elizabeth
Lavington as she helped him into the shirt; and having just overheard
what the Matron had said to the Principal he was frankly terrified.
What had possessed him? He had once been beaten by Matron. She had
secured him by a strap to a long padded stool. Never had he felt so
helpless, so utterly in the power of another. And then she had caned
him. Two dozen slow swishy strokes across his bottom, raising long
throbbing weals. The marks had been still faintly visible after a week.
He remembered how he had checked every day in the long mirror in the
washroom. He always wondered why there needed to be a mirror there.
Perhaps it was for boys to see themselves naked and vulnerable, and to
do as he had done.
He watched as the gymnasium buck was
turned length ways. And then Elizabeth returned carrying a chamber pot
and a length of coiled strapping. She handed the strapping to Matron
and placed the pot on the floor. He immediately knew what was intended
and at the thought of having to pee before everyone, including the
girls, he felt a hot flush pass through him. Why had he been so stupid!
James gave a nod to Cordelia making clear that it was her responsibility to announce the new development.
“This morning, as this boy was being prepared for his punishment he
made a point of holding himself awkwardly, stiffening his arms, and
making it difficult to help him on with his shirt. This was from a boy
who was under sentence of a severe flogging and from whom some
semblance of regret and contrition might be expected. Instead, there
was only arrogance and self-assertion. I told him that, as a
consequence, he would expect to be dealt with particularly severely.
And so he will be.”
She turned to the boy.
“You look nervous, Graham. Are you nervous?”
“Per . . . perhaps, Matron.”
“Perhaps? Well if you are not nervous you are an even more stupid than
I thought. You made life difficult for the girl who was helping you,
and were thoughtless and arrogant. Mrs Fairclough and I are going to
flay the skin off your bottom and not only will sitting on a bench be
an agony, but even the rub of clothes against your beaten flesh, After
your flogging, you will need to recover in the infirmary. And I will
ensure that your time there is something you will remember for a long
time to come.”
He could feel his heart racing. He remembered
how he had been caned in the dormitory and his private parts rubbed
with some sort of paste that had nearly driven him out of his mind. He
had every reason to fear her. He knew that what she might do to him was
truly frightening.
“Well, if you are nervous and fearful,
Graham, you probably need to empty your bladder. Boys often do. We
don’t want an embarrassing accident when you are being flogged, do we?
Urine dribbling out, running down your legs on to the floor and wetting
this nice piece of gymnasium equipment. We don’t want that do we?”
“N . . . no, Matron.”
“Then, you’d better relieve yourself.”
She moved the chamber pot more into the open with her foot.”
“Kneel behind it and empty your bladder.”
He knelt. His face was hot and his whole body tingled with
embarrassment. It was one thing to pee with other boys in the bog, but
to do what he was doing on a stage with everyone watching, and with
girls too, made him burn with shame. He tried to go. He shut his eyes
and imagined he was alone. He knew there was pee there to come. He
concentrated his mind, trying to force himself to go.
He looked up. Matron was standing over him.
“Come along, Graham. We are all waiting.”
She smiled.
“Elizabeth wriggle your finger into his testicles. See if that helps to get him to get going.”
The boy froze in horror.
Elizabeth reached out. Her finger was firm but gently probing. He was
acutely aware that a girl was touching him, almost caressing him. He
felt his willy stiffening and watched horrified as it slowly thickened
into a full erection. Hastily, he pulled sown the shirt tail he had
been holding up to pee, desperately trying to cover his shame. But it
caught at the base of the engorged penis that by now stood rigid and
proud, visible to all. He was suffused in a burning shame, and tears
were pricking at his eyes.
Elizabeth looked at her mother.
“You can stop what you are dong Elizabeth. A boy in that state is never going to pass water. Graham stand up.”
Slowly the boy arose, trembling, aware that the eyes of the whole assembly were upon him.
“Here,” she said pointing to the ground immediately in front of her.
“Stand here. Look at me.”
For a moment, she savoured his shame, then raised her hand and with all
the strength of her arm landed a resounding smack to his left cheek .
She waited, letting the shock of the blow register before raising her
other hand and giving an equally hard smack to the other cheek.
“How dare you show such impudence, and disrespect!, Graham. I instruct
you to urinate into the pot and you choose to make an exhibition of
yourself.”
By now the erection had vanished and he had become small, and shrivelled.
James Fairclough narrowed his eyes. He was experiencing a deep and
satisfying pleasure at the sight of his Matron’s effortless control
over the boy as he was reduced to a quivering, fearful submission.
“I am giving you one last chance to empty your bladder, Graham. Kneel and do as instructed.”
The boy knelt. And, in the silence, all heard the sound of the boy's urine as it tinkled into the pot.