No

The bell announcing the end of the class sounded like a final shot of mercy, a metallic clang that cut through the carnal tension of the classroom. For the others, it was freedom. For Sabrina, it was the beginning of a new ordeal.

"Right, that is all for today," Mr. Andrews announced with a psychotic normality. "Don't forget the essay on the Laws of the Twelve Tables for Friday."

The students began to stand up, gathering their belongings with a nervous haste. Their gazes avoided Sabrina, now darting sideways, filled with a mixture of pity, prurience, and guilt. The murmurs grew, drowning out the sound of her own contained sobs. She remained motionless, stuck to the whiteboard, arms crossed over her chest in a pathetic attempt to cover herself, the tunic in tatters and the stamp's mark burning with a cold fire on her crotch.

The professor collected his own things without looking at her, as if she were just another piece of furniture in the classroom. When the last student left, closing the door with a dull thud, he walked toward the exit.

"You may go change, Sabrina. Good work today," he said, his voice cold and professional, like a director congratulating an employee.

She did not move until the door closed behind him, leaving her in a sudden, oppressive silence. Only then, with trembling legs, did she hurry across the empty classroom and slip into the small adjoining room where she had changed before.

There, she desperately searched for the pile of clothes she had left on the chair. Her hoodie, her jeans, her underwear... everything that represented a barrier, an identity, a normality.

There was nothing.

The chair was empty. She checked the floor, looked behind the door, and opened the small janitorial closet in the corner. Nothing. Only dust and silence.

A new panic, deeper and more **** than anything she had suffered in the last hour, seized her. They had been taken. Who? The professor? A student as a cruel joke? It didn't matter. The result was the same.

She was trapped.

She stumbled out of the room, back into the deserted classroom. The empty chairs seemed to mock her. She looked into the hallway through the small window in the door. Students swarmed the corridors, laughing, chatting, living their normal lives. And she could not join them. She could not go out.

How was she going to cross the hall? How was she going to get to the concierge or the principal's office? With the tunic destroyed, transparent, and open, showing the tears on her side and shoulder, and what was worse, with the SPQR mark etched in full view on her pubis. Every step would be a new exhibition, a public confirmation of everything that had occurred.

She slumped against the wall, sliding to the floor, hugging her knees. The torn fabric of the tunic opened even further with the movement, exposing the mark on her skin. She had no tears left. Only an icy void, a feeling of being trapped in a nightmare from which there was no waking. The history lesson was over, but her punishment, her exposure, continued. She was a prisoner in her own skin, dressed only in the shreds of her stolen dignity and the indelible evidence of her humiliation.