Foxheath

This is an extract from Foxheath, a pseudo-quaint bit of filth set in an anachronistic university where formalised corporal punishment is still a thing. If you want to read the rest, you can buy a copy for about the same price as your morning coffee.

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Livvy had been at Foxheath for almost a month before she saw someone being caned for the first time. It wasn’t that canings were rare at Foxheath – quite the contrary, in fact – but by good fortune she’d ended up in the lectures of some of the most lenient professors on campus. Most of them preferred to hand out a detention or administer a stern talking-to rather than resort to the cane.

During her first four weeks Livvy had only come anywhere close to being reprimanded twice. The first time was for calling out the answer to a question without first raising her hand and waiting for permission to speak. The second time was for lateness. On that occasion she had missed the start of a seminar by just a few seconds, and was allowed to join her classmates after suffering nothing worse than a stern look from the tutor.

Her classmates had been similarly lucky. When Judy Miller was caught talking to a friend during class she had simply been sent out of the room and awarded 150 lines as homework. Erin Philpot had arrived at class a full ten minutes late one Monday morning, but had been spared the cane, and instead made to stand in the corner with her hands on the back of her head for the rest of the lecture.

But that was all. Nobody in Livvy’s class had yet managed to earn themselves a caning.

This made her extremely lucky, Livvy gathered. In fact, she and Emily (who also studied English Literature) were the only girls in their dorm to not have received any strokes at all. Rachel and Myra had gotten two strokes each in their very first week for uniform violations, while Helena had endured a full four strokes after speaking back to a Senior Resident in the corridor one day.

Indeed, fully half of the girls in Livvy’s year group had – by this stage – been caned at least once. But not Livvy. Livvy was a good girl. So was everyone in Livvy’s class. As such, when Cherry Anders was called to the front of the dining hall at breakfast one morning, it would be the very first use of the cane at Foxheath that Livvy had witnessed with her own eyes.

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Most punishments were delivered immediately after the offence which they were intended to punish. That was in the Handbook. For very serious infractions, however, punishment was administered in front of the entire school at either breakfast or dinner, even if that meant delaying the punishment for a while.

Severe punishments – again, according to the Handbook (which Livvy had read in full) – were any that merited more than eight strokes. These were relatively rare. Only a few offences were worth more than eight strokes in and of themselves, and you’d have to work extremely hard to commit a combination of offences that added up to more than that.

The maximum number of strokes that could be delivered at one time was 16. If a girl earned more than that, she would be punished twice over the course of three days, to give her time to rest in between each session.

All of this was in the Handbook. Livvy wasn’t sure why she’d read the portion of it that concerned discipline at Foxheath over and over again until it was imprinted in her memory, but she had. At the time she’d found it oddly fascinating.

*

A hush fell over the dining hall the moment Cherry Anders was called to the front. It was instant, like a thick blanket had been dropped over everything, smothering conversations and choking off giggles and laughter. Every head turned to the front of the room. There stood Mr Patterson, the Headmaster. He scanned the room.

“Cherry Anders,” he repeated, his words now perfectly audible in the silence. “To the front of the hall. Now, please.” There was, in his tone, a hint of annoyance. He wasn’t used to having to repeat himself.

A chair scraped on the stone floor not far from where Livvy sat. It was Cherry, looking incredibly pale and shaky. Her face was already pink with shame, and she kept her eyes lowered as she made the long walk to the front of the hall.

Livvy watched, fascinated. She didn’t share any classes with Cherry, but she’d shared many whispered chats in the library. As far as she knew Cherry was a studious, quiet girl who – just like Livvy – was keen to make the most out of her time at Foxheath. What could she possibly have done to deserve a caning?

She didn’t have to wait long for her answer. Cherry mounted the low stage at the front of the hall and stood, small and abject, in front of Mr Patterson. He gestured for her to take a spot in the middle of the stage, next to a stout wooden table. Cherry did so, her reddening face hidden behind a fall of mousy brown hair. Every eye in the hall was fixed on her – an audience comprised of her friends, classmates, and tutors.

Mr Patterson cleared his throat. “Yesterday evening,” he announced, “Ms Anders left Foxheath campus without permission and without signing out. She was caught when returning, and confessed that she had been doing so regularly since the beginning of the semester. For each individual offence she will receive two strokes, for a total of ten.”

A murmur went through the hall. Ten strokes was a lot – particularly from Mr Patterson, who had a reputation for being particularly merciless. Livvy felt something in the pit of her stomach squeezing gently. Then not so gently. Was she nervous? Excited? It was the kind of feeling she often got before a big exam, but she couldn’t for the life of her work out why she was feeling it now.

“Silence,” said Mr Patterson, and silence fell. “Ms Anders? Take your position.”

Cherry sobbed. Once – a hitched, hiccupy, muffled sound that was nonetheless perfectly audible in the silent hall. As bidden, she took her place behind the table, bending forward to plant her hands on the surface.

“She’ll need to bend over more than that,” whispered Emily disapprovingly from the seat beside Livvy. The words seemed to come from far away. Livvy felt as though she couldn’t have looked away from the scene unfolding at the front of the hall even if she’d tried. “She’ll get an extra stroke if she’s not careful.”

Cherry didn’t get an extra stroke. Instead, Mr Patterson stepped forward, leaned down to her ear, and whispered something. Cherry nodded. “Sorry sir,” she said, her voice slightly choked. She went down onto her elbows, her back arched and her bottom in the air. Even from where she sat Livvy could see the poor girl shaking with nerves.

Mr Patterson strode across the stage to the rack mounted on one wall. There were a dozen differently-sized canes mounted on it, each one polished black and cruel-looking. He selected a mid-sized one, which looked to Livvy to be about the thickness of a pencil, and returned to the middle of the stage where Cherry awaited him.

“Lift up your skirt,” he said, his voice curt, almost disinterested.

Cherry reached back with one hand and, still shaking, hitched her skirt up over her hips. Now there was nothing between her bottom and the cane except for the thin fabric of her underwear.

“Remain still,” said Mr Patterson. “Count each stroke after it’s given.” He brandished the cane, and then swept it downwards through the air a couple of times, testing its weight. The hiss it made on each stroke made something inside Livvy clench tight. A powerful, strange, not-entirely-unpleasant feeling. She didn’t want to blink in case she missed something.

The sound seemed to have quite a different effect on Cherry. She twitched each time the cane cut the air, whimpering quietly under her breath.

Satisfied with the cane, Mr Patterson lined it up against Cherry’s bottom. She sobbed again, more plaintively than before. Livvy was sure that she saw a tear fall from Cherry’s face and plop against the polished table top.

For a moment there was perfect silence, perfect stillness. Mr Patterson stood with the cane levelled, stern eyes sweeping the hall as if to check that everyone was watching. They were. Livvy especially so. Without any further preamble, he raised the cane and brought it whistling down to hit Cherry’s backside.

The sound of the cane hitting flesh made the thing inside Livvy clench again – particularly when it was followed immediately by a high, gurgling yelp from Cherry. The impact was so loud! A plosive, powerful snap that resonated around the room.

Several girls close to Livvy gasped. Emily had a hand over her mouth. There were murmurs and sympathetic groans. All things that Livvy was only vaguely aware of. She was focussed entirely on the caning that was happening on stage. It was doing something to her, and she had no idea quite what.

“One,” moaned Cherry.

The second stroke came immediately afterwards – just as hard and loud as the first. She screamed this time; not just a yelp but a full-throated cry of pain. Livvy’s heart thumped against her ribs.

“T-two,” said Cherry.

And again, the third stroke came as soon as she had counted the second. The fourth after she had counted the third. By the eighth stoke Cherry was bawling openly, barely able to get out her count through the tears. Livvy, for her part, felt as though she was floating an inch above her chair. Her skin tingled and her chest was tight. She had to remember to breathe… and even when she did remember each cane stroke made her insides twist.

“E-e-eight,” cried Cherry, before howling with pain as the received her ninth stroke. Mr Patterson levelled the cane against her backside again and waited while the sobbing girl collected herself.

“She better hurry up,” said Emily in a sing-song whisper. “She’s pushing it.”

Mr Patterson waited. Livvy waited. The whole hall waited. Until, just when Livvy thought it was a sure thing that Cherry had delayed too long and earned herself an extra stroke, Cherry managed to quiver, “N-n-nine.”

She took her tenth and final stroke, tears flowing unrestrainedly. The word “Ten,” came out as a gasp, a relieved expulsion of breath from her lungs. Around Livvy, the air thinned out again. It was over. Surely it was over.

Mr Patterson put the cane down on the polished wooden table top beside Cherry. “Stand,” he said. “Face the hall.”

Gingerly Cherry stood. Her face was blotchy and streaked with tears, threads of her mousy brown hair sticking to her face. She brushed them aside and faced the hall, eyes downcast. Her skirt fell back into place over her bottom, and – after a moment – she was able to rein the tears in to the occasional hiccup or sniff.

Mr Patterson turned his back on her and addressed the assembled crowd once more. “It is in contravention to the rules of Foxheath University to leave campus without permission from a Senior Resident or tutor, and without signing out. To do so will result in the use of the cane to a set tariff of two strokes for each infraction. That is all. Go about your days.”

Having dismissed the hall, Mr Patterson left the stage. Cherry, tearful and shivery, remained where she was, awaiting permission before she dared to leave the spot in which she stood. She must have had a good view of all the girls of Foxheath grabbing their bags, finishing up their breakfasts, and taking off for their first lectures of the day.

Livvy, despite the sudden babble of voices and rush of activity around her, didn’t move. She didn’t trust herself too. The tightness in the pit of her stomach was still there. It was becoming more and more clear with each passing minute what it was.

Having just witnessed the first of several canings she would see at Foxheath University, Livvy was more unbearably aroused than she ever had been in her life before.

*

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