A Full Education

By Klayton Frost

Copyright © Klayton Frost

 

The right of Klayton Frost to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights and Patents Act 1988.

 

All rights reserved.

 

Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

 

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

An Education

 

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.

Like most things in the school the bench is an antique, but a well maintained one. It only has one purpose, and everyone knows what it is. If they bring out the bench it means that someone is about to be punished. I watched a couple of the tutors carry it out into the middle of the stage, the dark wood and leather of the old contraption gleaming in the light that flooded in through the big windows. As yet I'd not seen anyone strapped into the bench, but I could see how it would work. They would lie on their front astride the bench, backside exposed, legs and arms cinched in place by thick leather restraints. Already my mouth was dry.

"Who do you think it is?" whispered Nancy from beside me.

I shook my head. "No idea." For a brief moment the possibility that it might be me flitted through my head. I imagined my name being called, standing and walking to the front, bending over the bench... My stomach fluttered, and I returned to reality. Of course it wasn't me. I'd done nothing wrong.

Silence fell throughout the hall, every head turned towards the stage and the bench. People were craning to look, eyes wide. The senior teachers sat in a line at the back of the stage, unperturbed. And then from the left emerged a pair of girls accompanied by Mr Anderson, the teacher in charge of discipline. Both wore plain white dressing gowns and expressions of wide-eyed fear.

With a shock I realised that I recognised one of the girls. Her name was Cherry, and she lived in the dorm across from mine. I had often seen her in the common room, or in the corridor, and although we had always traded smiles and greetings we had never really talked. Here she looked pale and small beneath her mop of shoulder-length red hair, very different from her usual self. She scanned the hall, then lowered her head as she was escorted across the stage.

The other girl was a blonde with long curly hair and a curvy figure. It was she who Anderson took to the bench first. Cherry was left to wait at the side of the stage, hands on head and facing away from the hall. Anderson lowered his head to the blonde girl and said something to her in a voice that I couldn't quite catch.

Shyly, with a pleading glance at Anderson, the blonde girl removed her gown. Beneath her body was pale and naked except for a plain black bra and panties. Her breasts were big, and her hips wide, leading down to strong peasant legs. If I could have seen her face I'm sure she would have been blushing. Of course, humiliation was part of the punishment.

Anderson set about securing her to the bench. Even watching the process sent shivers through me. When he put a hand on the back of her neck and bent her over the wooden device I felt as though it was my neck he was touching. As he cinched her wrists and ankles and thighs tightly with the leather straps I felt my own limbs tingle. And when the last strap--the thickest, strongest one that ran over the blonde girl's back--was fastened into place I couldn't help but shiver.

The silence in the hall was absolute. I was sure I could hear the blonde girl breathing, though looking back that must have been my imagination. Anderson's footsteps echoed as he strode across to the side of the stage and picked up the cane. It was a thin, whippy black thing. Not wood, but something synthetic and cruel looking. Anderson crossed the stage once more, slowly and leisurely, and took up position behind the blonde girl.

Everyone waited.

"Last week Elisia Simpson and Cherry Harris left university grounds without signing out, and returned drunk and under the influence of drugs. For this breach of the rules each shall receive fifty strokes with the cane." Anderson turned his attention to the blonde girl, Elisia, speaking to the back of her head in a voice the whole hall could hear. "If you swear or otherwise behave unacceptably during your punishment, an extra twelve strokes will be added."

And then, without any further ceremony, the punishment began. It was brutal.

Anderson lowered the cane against the curve of Elisia's bottom, clearly taking his mark. Then he raised it up high to his shoulder and brought it swishing down. I and everyone in the hall heard the noise it made as it cut through the air. And then: CRACK! The sound of the impact was so loud and so sharp it made me jump, my heart pounding. Poor Elisia jerked against the straps the held her, a strangled yelp escaping her lips. The way she was angled I couldn't see her face, but I could imagine the look of pain there.

Anderson didn't pause. He raised the cane and brought it down again, as hard and fast as before. This time I saw it hit. Little ripples ran through the flesh of Elisia's bottom and thighs. Already livid red marks were just visible around the edges of her panties.

Another stroke. Even though I knew to expect it the sound made me cringe. He was hitting her so hard! "Oooowwww!" Elisia screamed at the top of her lungs, but Anderson paid no attention whatsoever.

The strokes kept coming, hard and fast. No sound in the hall except for the rhythmic swish and CRACK of the cane, and Elisia's anguished wails. Within ten strokes she was crying freely, her body tense and thrashing against the restraints, desperate to escape any further pain. But there was no escape and she could do nothing but lie there helpless and take it, and howl with fresh pain each time the rod landed.

It seemed to go on forever. At thirty lashes all the fight seemed to go out of her, and she went limp over the bench, shuddering. Her yelps of pain were weak now, drowned by her sobs. "Please! Please it hurts so much. I can't... Not any more... OOOOWwww!"

It felt as though the punishment had been going on forever. Thirty-five strokes, then forty. Elisia clung to the bench, head down, no longer fighting, but howling and crying out with each blow that landed. I glanced over to Cherry where she stood at the side of the stage, hands on head. She was shaking from head to toe. I wasn't surprised. What must it be like to stand there and hear Elisia's cries of pain and know that you would be next?

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The End

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