Chapter 12: Public Display of Submission
The walk from the parking lot to the philosophy department felt like crossing a desert. Each step sent a dull throb through Victoria’s hips, a deep, internal ache that resonated with every click of her heels on the pavement. The too-short pencil skirt she’d chosen—no, that Wang had laid out for her—brushed against the backs of her thighs, a constant, whispering reminder of the state of the skin beneath. The hem felt precarious.
Students flowed around her, a river of backpacks and phone screens. She caught snippets of conversation, laughs, plans for the weekend. A normal Tuesday. Her world had cracked open and swallowed her whole, but here, the coffee cart still smelled of burnt beans, and the lawn sprinklers hissed in the same uneven pattern.
She felt the brand like a spotlight.
It wasn’t just the lingering soreness of the burn, now a tight, scabbed ridge. It was the knowledge of it, the word carved into her just above the cleft of her rear. ‘Wang’. Simple. Final. When she moved, the waistband of her skirt, sitting lower than usual, grazed the very top of the letters. A tiny, intentional adjustment he’d made this morning as she dressed. Let it breathe. Let it show if you bend. She’d obeyed.
A group of sophomore boys passed, their eyes automatically dropping to her legs, her ass, as they always did. But today, one of them, a lanky kid from her Intro to Ethics section, blinked and looked again, his gaze snagging on her lower back. He whispered to his friend. They slowed. A hot flush crawled up her neck. It wasn’t desire in their look now; it was confusion, then dawning, intrusive curiosity. What was that mark? A tattoo? It looked raw.
She kept walking, her chin up, her lecturer’s posture fixed in place. The confidence was a shell, hollow and brittle. Inside, she was tracing the phantom sensation of the leash in Wang’s hand, the rough wood of the dock, the cold lake water between her legs afterwards.
She turned the corner towards her building, seeking the shadow of the huge, ancient oak that dominated the courtyard. The relative quiet there was a relief. She paused, leaning a hand against the rough bark, just for a second, to let the sharpest pang of pain subside.
“Ms. Ashby.”
The voice came from the shadow of the tree’s trunk. Smooth. Familiar.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She turned.
Wang stood there, leaning casually, one foot propped against the bark. He was dressed like any other student—dark jeans, a grey hoodie, a backpack slung over one shoulder. But in his right hand, he spun a long, wooden ruler. It was a pale, polished thing, probably pilfered from a math lab. It whirled between his fingers with a practiced, lazy grace.
His eyes weren’t on her face. They were fixed on the sliver of exposed skin at the small of her back, where her blouse had ridden up a fraction as she leaned.
“You’re limping,” he observed. His voice was conversational, almost concerned. A teacher noticing a student’s injury.
She couldn’t speak. The courtyard was empty except for them, but the sounds of campus life were just feet away—the rumble of a delivery truck, a distant cheer from the gym.
He pushed off from the tree and took two steps closer. The ruler stopped spinning. He held it flat in his palm. “Does it hurt? To walk?”
She nodded, a tiny, jerky movement.
“Good.” He smiled then, a small, private thing. “It should. For a while.” His gaze flicked up to meet hers. The possessiveness there was absolute, a chilling contrast to his student-grade clothing. “You made it through your first class yesterday after. The big lecture. How was that?”
“Strange,” she breathed. “I kept… feeling it. The chair.”
“I bet you did.” He reached out with the ruler. Not to strike her. He simply laid the cool, flat edge of it against the back of her thigh, right where the skirt ended. She flinched. “You see them looking today? The boys?”
Another nod.
“They don’t know what they’re seeing. They just see something’s off. Something’s different. They see the limp. They see you wince when you sit. They see this…” With a flick of his wrist, he used the ruler to lift the back of her skirt hem by a millimeter. A sliver more skin was revealed. The very top curve of the ‘W’ was now unmistakable. “…mark. They don’t know it’s a name. My name.”
He let the fabric fall back. The touch of the wood had been clinical, deliberate.
“Bell’s about to ring,” he said, nodding toward the humanities building. “Don’t want to be late. I’ll be in my usual seat.” He began to walk away, then paused, looking back over his shoulder. The ruler tapped against his leg. “Oh, and Ms. Ashby?”
She stared at him, frozen.
“Keep the skirt. It’s a good look on you.”
He vanished around the side of the building, blending into the stream of students heading for the 10 AM classes.
The bell rang, a harsh, electronic jangle that shattered the moment. Victoria jumped, the sound physically painful in her wired state. She pushed herself away from the tree, forcing her legs to move. The walk to her classroom felt longer, more exposed. Every person she passed now felt like a potential witness. Her blazer was in her office. She had nothing to cover herself with.
She entered Room 214 just as the second bell sounded. Forty faces looked up at her. She saw the usual mix: eager, bored, hungover. She saw the lanky sophomore from earlier, his eyes wide, whispering furiously to his neighbor. She saw Wang, in the third row by the window. He was already taking out a notebook, his expression one of polite, engaged attention. The ruler was on the desk beside him.
She set her bag down, her hands trembling slightly. She turned to write the day’s topic on the whiteboard. Kant: The Categorical Imperative. As she reached up, the fabric of her blouse stretched and lifted.
A soft, collective intake of breath hissed behind her. A choked cough. A stifled laugh.
They could see it. Not all of it. But enough. The angry, red line of a fresh brand, peeking above her waistband. The edge of a character that looked nothing like English script.
Her face burned. She finished writing, the marker squeaking in the silent room. She put the cap on slowly, deliberately, using the moments to gather the shattered pieces of her professional self. When she turned around, her face was a calm, placid mask.
“Good morning. Last time, we discussed Hume’s is-ought problem.” Her voice was steady, a minor miracle. “Today, we move to Kant’s response, which begins with the concept of duty.”
Her eyes scanned the room. They landed on Wang. He was looking right at her, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips. His hand rested on the desk, his fingers idly stroking the length of the wooden ruler.