Haron was restless the other night – my habit of sleeping with the window open isn’t always that helpful when the north-east temperatures plunge towards freezing. I started to dream of girls at a reform school, sent to bed at an early hour. The rules would be simple: if they were caught awake after a certain time, they would be caned.

A master wandered through a dorm; too late, a girl noticed him, and pretended to close her eyes. “Report to my study,” he ordered, before continuing his inspection.

Through the chill, dark, empty corridors she crept, terrified. A caning was inevitable – her first in many months, since she’d vowed to stay clear of trouble. The memories of previous punishments came flooding back.

A long wait ensued outside his door: was his tour of the dorms taking longer than usual? Had he forgotten her?

And then, in the distance, his footsteps, drawing nearer. As he approached, she felt herself cower. He showed her in: was brisk, to the point, already fetching down the cane as he explained that she knew the rules and knew the consequences. He made her lift her nightdress, touch her toes: the six strokes were harsh across her cold, bare backside.

At this point, I woke, and whispered details of the dream to Haron. And then the story developed some more as we cuddled. The master had ordered the girl return to the dormitory without further ado. But she’d taken a detour, curled up gingerly on some bench to compose herself. The reformatory headmaster appeared around the corner. Her heart leapt.

“What are you doing here?”

She murmured a panicked explanation: she’d got into trouble; she’d been caned; she was just catching her breath.

“But this isn’t on the way back to your dorm from his study…”

“No, sir.”

“Did he tell you to go directly back?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you will follow me.”

And he lead her into an empty classroom, took the cane from the cupboard, made her remove her nightdress and bend over the front desk. “Six strokes clearly weren’t sufficient to teach you the importance of obedience, young lady,” he’d say. The pain of his first cut would make the other master’s whacks feel like gentle caresses; by the time she’d taken all twelve, she’d be sobbing for forgiveness.

And this time, when it was over, she would run straight back to the dorm, clambering into her bed and pulling the sheets over her lest the other girls saw her cry.

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