Chapter 13: Philosophical Punishment
The last fluorescent tube in the philosophy corridor flickered out with a resigned sigh, plunging the hallway into a deep blue dusk. Victoria stood outside the locked door to her own office, key in hand, not turning it. Her bag, heavy with ungraded papers, hung from her shoulder like a dead weight. Her body was a map of aches: the deep, familiar throb from the brand, the sharper sting of the muscles in her thighs from bracing herself all day, the dry heat behind her eyes from keeping her expression neutral for eight straight hours.
A text had lit up her screen ten minutes ago, just as she was packing up.
South Auditorium. Now. Use the back stairs.No question. Just a location. An order.
The South Auditorium was a relic, a 1970s concrete bunker used for film studies and overflow exams. At this hour, it would be tomb-silent. The thought of walking in there made her stomach clench. But her feet were already moving, her sensible heels clicking a hollow rhythm on the polished linoleum, the sound swallowed by the building’s emptiness. She took the service stairs, each step pulling at the tender skin of her backside. The door at the bottom was propped open with a battered copy of Being and Nothingness.
The air inside was cold and still, smelling of dust, industrial cleaner, and something else—a coppery, electrical tang. The main seating area was a cavern of shadows, but up on the stage, a pool of harsh light blazed from a single focused work lamp. It illuminated a nightmare diorama.
Wang stood beside a digital projector on a rolling cart, its fan whirring softly. A large, pull-down screen dominated the back wall. In front of it, centered in the circle of light, was a single, high-legged wooden stool. And beside the stool, resting on a lectern, was a long, thin riding crop. It wasn’t like the ruler. This was serious: polished leather, a tapered shaft, a wicked little flap at the end.
He didn’t look at her as she approached the stage steps, her movements slow and stiff. He was fiddling with a laptop, his face lit by the screen’s blue glow.
“Come up,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the hollow space.
She climbed the steps, the sensation of exposure absolute. The vast, dark room felt like it had a thousand hidden eyes.
“Sit,” he nodded to the stool.
The stool was tall. The seat was hard, unforgiving wood. When she sat, her feet didn’t quite touch the ground. The position pushed her hips forward, made the short skirt ride up further. The cool air touched the backs of her thighs. She knew without looking that the edge of the brand was visible.
Wang finally looked at her. His expression was focused, analytical, like a scientist preparing an experiment. “Today in class, you talked about Kant. About acting from duty. About universal laws.” He walked over to the lectern and picked up the crop. He gave it a gentle flex. It whistled faintly in the air. “I want you to recite the categorical imperative. The first formulation.”
Victoria blinked. This was academic. This was her territory. A fragile thread of normalcy. She cleared her throat, her lecturer’s voice emerging, shaky but recognizable. “Act only according to that maxim whereby you can, at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.”
“Good.” He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Now recite it backwards.”
Her mind went blank. “Backwards?”
“Word by word. Starting from the last word.‘Law. Universal. Become…’” he prompted, tapping the crop against his palm. Tap.Tap. Tap.
“I… that’s not…” It was linguistic nonsense. It dismantled meaning. It was a perverse game.
“Your duty,” he cut in, his voice dropping, “is to obey. That’s the universal law in this room. The maxim of this particular will.So. Recite it. Backwards. Now.”
She took a breath, her mind scrambling. “Law… universal a… become should it… will…” She faltered, the syntax collapsing.
CRACK.
The sound was electric, a shocking report that tore through the silent auditorium. The pain was instantaneous—a bright, searing line of fire laid directly across the fullest part of her backside, over the skirt. It wasn’t the deep thud of a hand or the ruler. This was a surface sting that exploded into a nerve-shredding burn. She gasped, jerking on the stool, her hands flying back instinctively.
“Hands on your knees,” Wang said, his voice calm. “Posture. And continue. You got as far as ‘will’.”
Tears pricked her eyes, born from shock as much as pain. She forced her hands to her knees, gripping the fabric of her skirt. She stared at the dark seats ahead, focusing on a torn red upholstery patch. “Will… can you… whereby… maxim that…” Each halting word was a desperate grab at a reversing waterfall.
CRACK.
This one landed lower, just where the stool met her thighs. A yelp escaped her. The pain was so sharp, so precise. It felt like a white-hot wire.
“You’re missing connectors. ‘At the same time’,” he coached, as if helping a struggling student. He walked slowly around her, a lazy predator. The work lamp cast his elongated, monstrous shadow up the screen behind them.
She was trembling now, the initial jolts settling into a throbbing, dual-line ache. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Maxim that… according only act…”
She braced, muscles tight.
No strike came.
“Open your eyes,” he said. He was back at the laptop. A few clicks.
Behind her, with a faint mechanical whirr, the giant screen lit up. The image was startlingly high-definition, blown up to monumental size. It was her own lower back, the curve of her rear, the short skirt, the brand. A live feed. He had a camera set up somewhere behind her. She was on display in the empty theater, her humiliation magnified a hundred times.
“Look at it,” he commanded, his voice hypnotic. “Look at your universal law.”
On screen, she saw the two raised, crimson welts from the crop stark against her skin. She saw the angry, scabbed letters of his name. She saw the slight tremor in her muscles.
“Now finish,” he said.
The spectacle broke her concentration completely. “Time same the at…” she whispered, utterly lost, staring at the massive image of her own branded and beaten flesh.
CRACK-CRACK.
Two rapid strokes, one on top of the other, landing precisely on the existing welts. The pain wasn’t separate now; it fused into a solid sheet of agony, a crescendo that ripped a choked sob from her throat. Her knuckles were white on her knees.
“You’re not trying,” he said, a note of disappointment in his voice. He walked back into her field of view, studying the screen. “The imperative is to try. To prove your will.” He tapped a key.
The image on the screen changed. It was a still photograph. From the dock. Last night. It was a close-up of the brand, fresh and wet, his hand holding the iron.Then another. Her face, tear-streaked, looking back over her shoulder. Then another. The moment of impact, the paddle he’d used mid-air before it connected.
He had documented everything.
“These are my maxims,” he said softly, clicking through the slideshow of her submission, her pain, her tears. Each click was a hammer blow to her remaining dignity. “My universal laws. And you willed them. You asked for them.Now. The imperative. Backwards. From the beginning. Don’t make me use the pictures for the lesson.”
He raised the crop. It hovered in the light.
Victoria drew in a shuddering breath. The words were ashes in her mouth. The image of her own enormous, violated body on the screen burned in her vision. The cold stool beneath her. The expectant silence of the dark room.
She began to speak, each word a fragment of a self she no longer recognized, recited to the rhythm of her own heartbeat and the silent, judging gaze of a thousand empty seats.