Monday 24 March 2014

Chapter One

I'd been at St Martinas University for a month before I saw someone being punished. Detentions and lines and being sent out of lectures were common enough, of course, but canings were reserved for only the most serious infractions. When they were given they were delivered in front of the whole student body, during the morning assembly, to act as a deterrent to other rule breakers.

I'll admit that I'd been curious. I'd heard plenty of rumours from the other girls, of course, most of whom seemed to know someone who knew someone who had been caned. The stories were frightening, and I suspect exaggerated. Nancy Sullivan claimed that the heaviest punishment that could be given was one hundred lashes, and that it had only been handed out once before.

"And afterwards the girl couldn't sit down for a week. She had to sleep lying on her front, and stand up at the back of the room for lectures." Nancy's eyes were wide as she told me. She clearly believed every word.

I on the other hand was not entirely convinced. I still found it hard to believe that I was attending St Martinas at all. The university was unique, modelled after a boarding school and with a strict disciplinary programme to match--in fact it was the only educational establishment of any kind in the country that still used corporal punishment. It got results, of course, and in academic standings it was second to none. Having come from an ordinary sixth form I was incredibly lucky to be where I was. It was only because of my high grades and passion for English literature that I'd been selected to receive one of few scholarships handed out by the university.

It had taken a good few weeks since my arrival to settle in and start feeling as though I belonged. The elegant surroundings of the campus were nothing if not intimidating: the grounds were vast, the hallways lined with portraits, the rooms wood-panelled and filled with bookcases which themselves groaned under the weight of thousands of leather-bound books. Even the dormitories, though warm and cosy with their big fires and curtained beds, were imposing to a newcomer like me.

But, to my surprise, I found that I did belong there. I say surprise because I had very rarely belonged anywhere before. At school I had always been the somewhat nerdy girl, the plain one who boys never took an interest in. I had spent most of my time in the library, keeping my head down and focussing on my work. I had few friends, and no close ones, and I was expecting this situation to continue when I arrived at St Martinas. If anything I was expecting the super-strict discipline for which the university was famous to make things even harder for me.

As it turned out, I slotted into place extraordinarily quickly. Within a week I was friends with all the girls in my dorm: we would stay up talking for hours after lights out, and at weekends we would venture out into the nearby village together.

I loved it. All of it. Life at St Martinas was so much better than life at home. Out here I felt like I belonged. It was all perfect, all just right. Even the idea of corporal punishment I found... well, fascinating. I had never seen anyone caned before, and my imagination conjured up all sorts of sordid imagery. Of course, I never really understood that what I felt was more than just simple curiosity. At least not until that morning in assembly when I saw my first ever caning.

We gathered as normal in the hall, sitting on our rows of wooden benches. The teachers drifted in and took their seats on the stage at the front. Everything was just as it was on any other day. And then they brought out the bench and a hush fell through the hall.

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