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Christopher & The Governess

By "slave nick"Chapter 1.

"Turn around, please," she said.

Emma's plane had been in the air for less than an hour before Christopher found himself standing naked in the "Dark Room" in the basement, hands laced behind his head while Susan looked him over carefully.

After he dutifully rotated, she stepped close to him, brushing against his backside, reached up to the back of his head and pulled his fingers apart.

"Don't lace your fingers together. Just touch the tips of your fingers to each other. I don't want you to support your head with your hands. Keep your head up, please, shoulders and elbows back." Her voice made it sound like a request, not an order.

"Good." She patted him on the shoulder and stepped back. "Face me, please, Christopher."

This Saturday morning in early June, Christopher and Susan had driven Emma, Christopher's mother, to Kennedy airport, and as soon as they were back in New Haven, Susan had ordered him down to the basement, "stripped and hands behind your head, please." The manner in which she said it, so matter-of-fact and yet so gentle, made it seem an ordinary request. She had been waiting for this moment for over a month, and she relished the surprise, and then acceptance that came over the face of the 18-year old. A few minutes later, when she descended the basement stairs and entered the room, closing the door behind her, she was also pleasantly surprised to find his naked body as pretty as his features had promised. Slender, but not skinny. What they call a stripling, she thought. Hairless chest, wispy hair underarm and on his calves and forearms. Skin unblemished. Fine muscles in the thighs and buttocks. Well-shaped, full buttocks. His arms and chest needed some work, but they would have the summer to improve his upper body. And last, but not least, his cock: well shaped, a nice length, sufficient girth.

When Emma had accepted a 2-year visitor teaching post at the University of Sydney her principle worry had been what to do about her son who was about to graduate from high school. Chris had been accepted at Yale, tuition-free as the son of a faculty member. There was no question that he would stay in New Haven while she went to Australia - but where would he live? On-campus housing would be expensive, and although Emma could have rented her house to another professor, she didn't fancy the idea of strangers living in her house and using her furniture. Besides that, Christopher was too immature for living on his own, and she didn't relish the idea of him spending too much time with other Yale freshmen. She had brought him up, as single mothers often do, with a good deal of oversight and control. If she were to let him wander off to school by himself there was no telling what kind of trouble he would find himself in.

Susan chose her words carefully, and spoke slowly, looking directly at Christopher. "I have some things to say to you right at the beginning of our time together, Chris. I find that boys pay more attention to me if they are naked and at attention. Don't you agree?"

She seemed to wait for an answer. Finally, he supplied one, after clearing his throat.

"Yes, I guess so."

"Please. Chris. When we are having a serious discussion, and this is serious, address me as Miss or Miss Susan."

He swallowed. "Yes, Miss."

"I'm sure when your mother is talking to you down here in this room you address her properly."

Chris wanted to say that he was always formal in his speech to his mother. She was British, after all. "Yes, Miss, of course."

For Emma, Susan was the ideal solution. Emma searched carefully for someone who could live in her house with Christopher and keep an eye on him and the house in Emma's absence, making sure his first years at Yale were fruitful, and that the precious Victorian mansion was properly maintained. Susan fit the bill perfectly. She was in her late 20's, entering Yale Law in the fall, a bright, energetic, and capable young woman. She had been in the Marines for 4 years right after high school but didn't seem to have the rough edges that a stint in that organization would leave. Then she had gone to Europe to get her bachelor's at the University of Zurich. There she had worked as an au pair/governess for a British family of 3 teenage boys where she gained her experience in bringing up young men. Emma had vetted Susan carefully, looking into all of her references, and had several long interviews. They both loved idiosyncratic, old houses like this one. And both knew how important it was for young men to have proper guidance in their studies, and indeed, in all aspects of their lives.

"You did enroll in the summer writing class for entering freshmen, didn't you?"

"Yes, Miss. Class will be 4 hours a day, three days a week for 6 weeks."

"When does it start?"

"Next Monday, Miss."

"We, your mother and I, expect you to get an A in that course. If not an A+."

He looked doubtful. "I'll try, Miss. I wasn't that good at writing in high school."

"Oh?" Susan raised an eyebrow, and put her hands on her hips. "You'll have lots of practice. In addition to the writing for your class, I want you to write a letter to your mother every week, at least five pages, hand-written in a clear and readable hand on good stationary, even lines, narrow margins, and most importantly, interesting content and error-free grammar, punctuation, and spelling. You will also write an essay for me every week, 2000 to 2500 words, printed from your computer."
Now Susan paced slowly back and forth as if deep in thought, composing her assignment for Christopher.

"You will give me a diskette containing the one essay and nothing else, Word format. Both the essay and the letter are due for my inspection on Friday evening at 6 o'clock. I will review them by Saturday morning. Every Saturday we will meet here, in the Dark Room, and you and I will go over your writing projects. We will, as well, discuss in detail any other problem or situation that needs to be discussed. I think a regularly scheduled meeting, like the one we're having now, will be extremely beneficial, don't you Chris?"

Again the raised eyebrow.

"Yes, Miss, I'm sure."

"The topic of your first essay will be this: "The Role of the Governess in Raising Young Men." I want attributions to every source you use, and I want no more than 300 words of direct quotes. Understand?"

"Yes, Miss."

Emma had raised Christopher in the British tradition, so he was no stranger to the idea of obeying his elders, and the punishments of the cane, the strap, or the tawse when that elder deemed it necessary. When Emma got her appointment at Yale, and managed to purchase this 1890's house, one of her first projects had been to build a room in the basement where Christopher could be disciplined, whenever she saw fit, in a quiet, remote part of the house, where no passerby could hear the sound of leather or rattan on yielding flesh, or the protestations and tears of the unlucky youth on the receiving end. The room was airy, warm, comfortable and soundproof, and equipped with a bench or horse that held the boy in position. Hanging nearby were several canes of varying length and thickness, and the "convent strap", the implement she favored when she thought leather was the best choice of material. There were also several small, lighter straps and tawses that Chris had outgrown, and these had been unused for several years, although Emma kept them around for sentimental reasons.

"I believe strongly in corporal punishment, Christopher, as your mother does, and I'm sure you do. You do, don't you Christopher?"

She gave me such a sweet smile that he blushed, and glanced down at his cock which seemed to be on the verge of leaping upwards.

Susan took the opportunity to put a finger behind his testicles and push them forward a little. That was enough to cause his erection to proceed onward, and his blush to deepen, and he pulled his stomach back as if he could stem the rise.

"Oh, don't pay any attention to that, Chris. I'm sure that your hard on will subside in a few minutes, one way or the other."

"Hard on" was not a phrase his mother had ever used, and he blushed again at the word this direct young woman employed.

"Well," Susan continued, "You can expect punishment from me for any mistakes and wrongdoings, of course. That's my job as governess. But I will apply the rod in a preventative fashion, too, that is, to remind you of your duties and obligations, to keep you in a frame of mind that you are growing and learning and need constant discipline and supervision. And remember, Chris, I'm responsible for more than just your school work. I will be guiding you in all your physical, moral, and mental development."

She gave his genitals another stroke of her hand.

"That includes your sexual development, too."

With that, his erection grew to full, rigid, attention.

Susan fell in love with the New Haven house on the first interview she had with Emma. Christopher had not been home that spring morning, and after talking for over an hour, getting to know each other, Emma had felt comfortable enough to give Susan a tour of the house. There were three stories, plus a full basement, and 4 bedrooms on the second floor. The house was painted blue on the first floor, and yellow on the upper stories, with a violet front door. The interior rooms had all been pained a different color, the kitchen and bathrooms modernized but with a Victorian look. The first floor had an enormous library that Emma used as an office, as well as a formal living room and a conservatory.

It wasn't until her second visit, after they both acknowledged that discipline for Christopher had been, and would continue to be, an important part of his upbringing and Susan's responsibilities, that Emma showed the basement with its 10-foot ceilings and Dark Room to Susan.

"I called it that when the carpenters were building it," she admitted. "I didn't want them to know what it was really for."
Susan had looked at the bench and the implements on the wall and nodded approvingly. "I see you are serious about old-fashioned virtues, Mrs. Hamlin. No wonder you selected a Victorian house to live in."

Emma smiled. "And I think that in you, Susan, I have found a sympathetic hand. Come, let's have tea now and discuss details."

"Now, Christopher, even though you've done nothing to be punished for, I'm going to give you a good thrashing starting with the cane and finishing with the strap, just to show you that I mean what I say, so there can be no misunderstanding about our task ahead of us."

Susan walked over to the wall and after looking at and touching the several canes that hung there, selected one of the middle-sized ones, the one Emma called the "junior" cane. She tested it by swishing it hard through the air several times, then walked to stand in front of Christopher with a serious and concerned look on her face.

"I don't want to tie you to the bench, Chris. I want to teach you to take your punishment or correction with the proper attitude. Your feeling should be that a thrashing is deserved, appropriate, and for your own good, and you should try your best to take it in the spirit in which it is given. Oh, I expect you will jump around and cry out, Chris. All the boys do, and I don't mind the noise. In fact, I like to know I'm having a good effect. But I do object to boys that try to avoid the strokes. Get back in position as soon as you can, take a deep breath, and remember that you are growing up, and growing up has hardships. By the time your mother returns from Australia, I expect you will be coming to me and telling me that you deserve a caning rather than the other way 'round."

Susan flexed the cane almost double and smiled again at her young charge.

"Bend over, sir, and present yourself," she said.

Chapter 2.

Christopher looked flustered and uncertain. "I don't know…" he began.

"Put your hands on your knees, keep your legs straight, and face that way." She pointed to her left.

Christopher turned to his right, put his hands on his knees and bent over.

"Like this, Miss?" he asked, turning his head to look at his new governess.

"Almost," she said. "Put your feet a little farther apart, and flex your knees a bit. You need to keep a good base to keep in position. Arch your back and push your bottom backwards. Your buttocks should be nicely extended, ready and willing to accept their chastisement."

As she said this she used the tip of the cane and her hands to move him into the correct position. She pressed downwards on the small of his back to achieve the presentation she desired. At last, satisfied, she stepped back to an arms length away, took her stance and placed the cane against his buttocks so that the tip rested in the center of his right cheek, the one furthest away from her. She faced him and held herself and the cane perfectly still.
"Remember this position and return to it after each stroke. Your mother has taught you the mandatory response for each stroke, I assume?"

"Yes, Miss." The youth's face was blushing a deep pink.

There was silence as Susan waited and focused her mind. It's been a long time, she thought, since I've held a cane onto a boy's bottom like this. Her mind drifted back to Switzerland and the three sweet boys who had to offer up their backsides to Susan's discipline. She could feel a dampness under her arms, and between her legs. Oh, I could have waited a few days, she thought, but that would have made me crazy. She took a deep breath and released it slowly, the cane pressing into Christopher's rump, which quivered slightly with anticipation. Then she drew the cane back, and with a flick of the wrist moved it forward with astonishing speed, landing squarely across the meatiest part of his buttocks with a healthy thwack.
Christopher was as prepared as he could be, but still the first stoke caused him to jerk upwards with the pain, and as there was not the usual straps to restrain him, he went farther than he should have, hands flying up.

"Arghh! One! Thank you, Miss Susan, may I please have another?" he yelped, returning his hands to his knees.

"Certainly," she murmured. "As soon as you get back in position. And this time, Chris, keep your hands on your knees, please."

Again she waited a long time before delivering the second stroke. And, as she had been taught by Mrs. Smith-Hanzer, the mother of the three English boys, this stroke was, as far as she could make it, exactly equal in intensity to the first, the only difference in that it was placed a half-inch lower on its target.

The reaction was similar, but better controlled. A jerk upwards onto tip toes, but hands remaining in contact with the knees. Return back down. The polite response after the initial cry of pain.

"Two! Thank you, Miss Susan, may I please have another?"

"I won't tell you again, Chris. Return to the exact position or the stoke won't be counted. Back arched, bottom full out."

Chris strained to place his bottom out to her liking, and was rewarded with the third stroke, yet another one-half inch lower. This time he made every effort to give her a good target for the next stroke.

"That's better, Chris," Susan approved. "I knew you could do it."

The next three strokes, bringing the total to six, continued lower toward the top of his thighs, a more tender area for the rattan to find. But Chris held his own bravely, breathing deeply with each stroke, and Susan began to find the rhythm in her caning. She was gratified to see that her aim was still as good as ever, and when she had completed the six and saw the well-spaced pattern of thin welts her strokes had left, she nodded slightly with satisfaction to herself. As for Christopher, he was beginning to make that keening sound, high-pitched gasps that told Susan the cane was having its desired effect.

"Turn around, please, Chris," she said after the sixth stroke had been acknowledged. "Face the other way."

He stood, turned 180 degrees and returned to the classic position of the boy under the rod. Susan moved the cane to her left hand, and assumed her classic stance once more, the cane pressed into his buttocks, now from the opposite side, the tip placed in the middle of his left cheek.

"We'll continue now," she said. "The count stands at six completed."

Much to Christopher's surprise and dismay, her left-handed strokes were every bit the equal of those from her dominant side. It was another thing she had learned from Mrs. Smith-Hanzler. "Your arm will get tired, especially with three boys," she had said. "Practice with your left arm on a pillow until you get the accuracy and force."

Six more, numbers 7 through 12 were laid down over the first six, descending downwards, spaced a half-inch apart. The two sets of stripes weren't precisely parallel, so the effect was a thin cross-hatching on Christopher's bottom. These six, coming as they did on top of the first set, hurt even more, causing Christopher sufficient distress that Susan had to warn him twice about position, but she was kind enough, since it was his first caning at her hands, not to call for a repeat. There'll be plenty of opportunity for that this summer, she said to herself.

After the twelfth, and the automatic request for another, she simply said "No, that's enough" and returned the cane carefully to its place on the wall.

Returning to his side she directed him to stand up and face away from her.

"Put your hands behind your head," she directed. "You know not to touch your bottom, don't you?"

"Yes, Miss, I guess so," he replied.

She frowned. "Christopher, I don't like that phrase 'I guess so'. It sounds lazy and uncommitted. Say 'Yes', 'No', or 'I don't know', will you, please?"

"Yes, Miss. I'm sorry, Miss."

"And I'm not crazy about 'I'm sorry' either. Take responsibility for your words and actions."

"Yes, Miss. I'll do better in the future."

"Good." Susan smiled. A genuine smile, one of happiness that he was paying attention and trying to please her. In a now more jovial voice, she said, "Now, let's take a look. Bend forward a little, Christopher."

He did as directed, exposing his striped buttocks fully to her gaze. She looked carefully at the thin, red stripes and ran the fingers of her left hand gently over them while her right hand brushed over her pudendum lightly, resisting the urge to rub harder.

"All right, that's not bad. Stand tall."

He stood facing away from her while she went to the wall and pulled off the strap that hung there, a leather strap about 18" long and 2" wide, tapered at one end to make the grip easier.

"Turn around, Chris. What do you know about this?" She held the strap up for his inspection.

"Mother's had it for two or three years. She got it in England on one of her trips. She calls it the "convent" strap - saying that it was used in church school, reformatories, places like that. She said it was perfect for a teenager."

"It looks it," said Susan. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes, Miss Susan," said Christopher. "It can."

"You know, Christopher," said Susan, "I think of your bottom as a canvas, one that I'm drawing a picture on." She smiled, this time a mischievous look. "I think we'll put in the background color now."

Her smile disappeared and was replaced by a glint of purpose. "Present yourself, sir. You know the position. Do not waste time."

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