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In the Days of the Raj

By: aaronburr



(Let me lead you through the sepia-toned, historic setting for this tale - colonial India - and you will experience some of the most delicious examples of Clothed Female Naked Male fun you have ever come across.)

The views of school disciplinarian Sarah Maitland are coming back into focus and not before time.

Born in 1881 in Surrey, England, she was a true child of the Empire. A Governess, then a teacher at second-tier public schools she was to develop a theory on the disciplining of boys that made her sought-after on three continents. But her 1939 privately-printed Raising Boys to be Gentle Men was overtaken by the advent of war and was little heard of until recently.

She was certainly an interesting woman of her times. At Nottingham University College she struck up a friendship with young D H Lawrence and lent the future novelist her diaries recording one of her disappointing love affairs. In London she apparently met and impressed George Bernard Shaw and attended the opening night of his play Misalliance in his company. She may have had an affair with H G Wells and been hurt when he moved onto his next liaison. After her experience in India she engaged in correspondence with Sigmund Freud. 

Yet she had a very practical focus on discipline, wielding the cane, slipper, tawse, paddle and hairbrush as vigorously as any schoolmistress of her era. She became a cult figure among English ruling class males with a masochistic attachment to the punishments they received at female hands during their schooling. One of her former students, a member of the House of Lords, commented anonymously to The Times on her death,"Sarah had more finesse at delivering exquisite humiliation than any schoolmistress or governess ever known."

Just before World War One she left for Bombay and taught at a school for the sons of well-off Indian families. When the army summoned every available male teacher for the trenches in Europe or militia duty on India's frontiers she found herself promoted to Principal. Asserting discipline over 18 year old boys with no male staff to help proved a crucible in the development of her ideas. She was to be further tested running a school for black boys from professional families in Jamaica in the 1920s. Later she gave advice to detention facilities and prisons in the south of the US. She died in 1961.

Her answer was refined around 1914 in the Bombay college for 18 year old boys where she found herself Principal. Not spanking, not caning - at least not on their own - but a technique she called Total Clothing Deprivation was the means for bringing about a proper attitude to women. During the years of adolescent development, she concluded, there was an opportunity to "traumatize" males by exposing them totally nude to females, women older than them or their own age. From this point attitudes to women undergo a decisive change. She wrote:

"No more is it possible for them to maintain attitudes of smug superiority to the 'inferior' gender. Certainly not after they have been shamed and humiliated by being stripped of all clothing in front of a female in a disciplinary setting, perhaps where there are other female onlookers to witness his disgrace. I would add, however, that such a setting not be without tenderness and love. My experience is that boys who experience Total Clothing Deprivation at the hands of a female carer become sensitive and thoughtful men, true gentlemen."

In her book she offered abundant examples and case studies of the working of these principles, especially drawn from her times in India and Jamaica with Indian and black youth. It was brutally frank and scientific: she was candid, for example, in discussing the role of involuntary erections in shaming males. She wrote, "Absolutely unable to control the functioning of his own body the adolescent is distressed beyond measure when exposed to a female teacher, doctor or nurse in this condition; even more so an aunt, sister, mother or grandmother. Out of this trauma a more sensitive and submissive adult male will emerge. Put it this way, he will feel as if he has been left with no secrets. He will feel that females have seen the very essence of his being, his secret essence."

In fact in the book she provided a whole chapter on the treatment of involuntary erections, full of examples drawn from India and Jamaica. (That is why, in the climate of 1939 Britain, it needed to be privately printed.) She recommended the used of feigned indignation and anger when the embarrassment occurred, leaving the "offending" boy speechless and helpless. An alternative approach was to direct what she called "a scornful glance or a withering look" at the problem, making the boy feel extremely ashamed and apprehensive about what might happen next."

Eloquently she argued that men come into the world naked and in the care of women and there is nothing unnatural in this condition. In words that would send tremors of fear up the backbones of just about all males, she was to assert that this male nudity in front of dressed women be revived. She made a fetish of "total" clothing deprivation. Her philosophy went way beyond the traditional bared bottom:comprehensive shaming was essential to trigger mental change. And that meant youths with everything bared, and preferably before a group of women. And - to repeat a favorite point - the horror of involuntary erections being glimpsed or, better still, examined - by a nurse, teacher or governess or curious mother or sister - was a big part of the ritual humiliation.

Her personal memoir was recently located, unread, in The British Museum. It will shortly be published. In it she provides a no-holds-barred account of the things she saw and did. It is certain to feed into various strands of feminism and to galvanize the burgeoning CFNM community. It will point psychologists and educators to different ways of raising boys.

The first part of the manuscript deals with India. The war meant all her school staff were female and unmarried.They included older women, long established in India but living in all cases without male companions. They were likely to be stimulated by male nudity enforced on 18 year old boys and to support the strategy. Others were English girls, barely qualified as teachers, sent out to fill the posts vacated by the men and barely older than the boys they were to teach. For them, witnessing Total Clothing Deprivation was going to be challenging. Some would be excited by it, others afraid. All boys at the Bombay college were 18 and from upper caste backgrounds, inclined to reject female authority at first blush. As 1914 started Sarah faced real disciplinary challenges and was on the search for new approaches.

According to this unearthed memoir she then had the experience that was to shape her peculiar theory about the disciplining of young men, indeed her whole career. She was visiting the home of one of the lively Hindu families which had a senior boy at her school. Other guests were officials of the administration and Indian professionals. It was a happy celebration that began with drinks in the lounge attended by bare-footed male servants while sari-clad maids could be glimpsed in the corridors. 

But not only maids. Down one corridor she saw in profile the son of the household, her 18 year old student, standing back to the wall absolutely stark naked. He was standing rigid as a sentry, hands clasped behind his back. Totally nude.

The sight astonished and, she admitted in her memoir, it also excited her. He was a tall boy with darkly burnished skin, slender and athletic. She had to look several times, incredulously, to confirm that his flanks were indeed totally uncovered - his well-shaped upper thighs seemed to swell into a muscular bottom. Her gaze confirmed too that the bundle hanging from his groin was not underwear of any kind but his exposed genitals. She had had to struggle not to stare longer and to carry on conversation with other guests.

The surreal atmosphere was confirmed by servants coming and going, by maids walking past the youth and glancing and giggling as they looked him over brazenly. But his eyes remained ahead at all times. Finally as the party rose to go to the dining room an elderly and worldly Englishman with a silver mustache lent close to Sarah and said, "Miss Maitland, as a gifted pedagogue you would understand more than most. But Indian families punish males by making them present themselves, as in that scene there, completely in the nuddy. Seen it numerous times. Up to the age of 25, would you believe? Bit disconcerting to us English folk but apparently works a treat."

He went on: "Yes, they call it 'Murgha', nudity as punishment. Runs deep in their culture. For example, there's a religious group committed to poverty. Their men go naked to make the point, but their women are allowed to wear white robes. And apparently temple caves with carvings show men naked except for pendant jewelry, the women as priestesses fully dressed looking scornfully at their buck-naked menfolk. Whole thing gives me the shivers. But I imagine if you're a woman...."

His lively eyes were enamelled with mischief and...something else.

She blushed. She remained distracted and stirred during the long dinner and later, over post-dinner drinks, noticed with disappointment the corridor was empty. But at school the next day when she glimpsed Asoka, neatly attired in his uniform, he dropped his gaze and continued head lowered.

After that her theory of punishment took shape quickly. It came to a head when the same Asoka had been the centre of a violent argument and it was not disputed he had caused it. She had him brought to her office.

It was a beautiful study with mahogany furniture, plush curtains and a lion rug and other hunting trophies. These included a large elephant tusk used on her desk as paper weight. She loved its curved elegance. She was a devotee of the Viennese Dr Sigmund Freud (she kept his works and her collection of medical and marriage guidance texts in a locked cabinet in her Principal's bungalow - also a big stock of erotic literature she had daringly bought in Naples on the voyage out.) Freud enabled her to read her own desires; she knew her fondness for the ivory tusk said a lot about her own buried longings.

The door closed behind her and the boy. She was about to confront him. To be truthful her heart was beating. She could not be certain he would accept her authority.

She told him - with almost panted breath - she was going to punish him as he would be at home. 

He gulped. He could still remember the awful evening when she was among his parents' guests.

She told him to begin removing every stitch of his clothing. At this Asoka fell to his knees begging to be spared this humiliation. "Miss...Miss...oh, no...no, Miss..." while his brown eyes underneath his long lashes overflowed with tears.

She told him to stand up or she would call her secretary Miss Primmer and some of the maids to help her. This terrible threat worked. He hauled himself up, sniffling. His hands were immobilized, however, and she was required to unknot his tie and begin unbuttoning his shirt, even eventually to unbuckle his belt and draw his gray flannel trousers down his thighs. Finally he participated by stepping out of the shameful puddle of clothing. He was standing in his white regulation underwear and Sarah was kneeling at his feet when there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Sarah said. Miss Plimmer entered and stood shocked. For his part Asoka started with fear like a forest deer.

Sarah thought what happened next a delicious moment and was to remember it all her life: her first experience at humiliation of a young male through Total Clothing Deprivation.

"I'm punishing a bad boy Indian-style, just as he would be at home," she explained. Miss Plimmer's jaw dropped. She stood stock still, amazed. With this explanation to her secretary, Sarah reached up and took Ashoka's underpants by the elastic waistband. She felt him freeze with anxiety - no, terror. She hesitated, just for a moment and looked up into the boy's eyes. They were pleading and desperate, swimming with fear. She did not relax her gaze.

Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she now slowly and deliberately inched downwards the last shield of his modesty...but slowly...ever so slowly. It seemed to take an age, for example, before the downward movement of underwear reached the timberline of glistening black pubic bush. When it did, her gaze was still locked onto his. She saw his eyes fill with tears and the desperate, pleading look take over his whole features. Her movement became even more tantalizingly, teasingly slow...ever so slow. A smile cruelly flitted at the corners of her lips. He saw it, his tummy turned to water and he knew he was lost.

Another age, a millenium, and the waistband continued its slow, slithering movement. It revealed the first sign of the boy's coffee-colored appendage. Her eyes remained locked into his. Slowly, slowly...inch by inch...the secret centre of his being was being exposed to two English ladies. As the elastic cleared the final puckering tip, the boy's member flopped forward. Then... she delivered a sudden whisk...and the underpants reached his feet. The young man gave a cry and covered himself with his hands. Miss Plimmer, who had seen it all, gasped, "Oh my!" 

"Those hands, Asoka, behind your back! Just like you were at home!"

The trembling boy obeyed. A glance over her head told Sarah that Miss Plimmer, eyes on stalks, was feasting on Asoka's pubic region and that she had never seen the sight before. Sarah now told the Indian youth that he would spend an hour like this...only in the busy outer office, next to her secretary's desk in fact.

Miss Plimmer's gasp was audible across the room.

The boy fell to his knees again, begging and stammering, tears welling.

"Strange," said Sarah."It is what you are forced to do at home."

In a torrent of words he told her that it was a punishment he hated. That all his girl cousins and aunts had seen him in this state and he "was so deeply shamed." He said it was very "shaming" for an upper caste male, a Brahmin, to be stripped in front of low caste women like maids. And no, no, no, no - please, not in front of "white ladies - no, never, never, never English women to see me without stitches!"

Then, head hung and still on his knees, he told her there was a still more deeply shameful aspect. Sarah couldn't understand his mumbles and stutters but did pick up the word "engorgement." She had been secretly reading medical textbooks for years - for their lascivious content - and even enjoyed a cache of Victorian pornography ( again under lock and key in her Principal's bungalow ) and knew what he meant.

This was to be her introduction to the notion that forcing young men to display involuntary erections in a state of Total Clothing Deprivation was an acutely devastating part of their humiliation.

At his moment she experienced her epiphany.

This would be a ritual to which she would dedicate her life.

She coldly told Asoka to get up. She insisted again his hands stay at his sides. Then she stepped back to stand with her secretary, eyeing him appraisingly from head to toe. 

She put herself in his position: a haughty, spoiled Brahmin 18 year-old in this terrible clothesless state, with two dressed women looking at his every exposed inch. Totally, totally uncovered. His every secret on display. He must be melting with shame, standing there in his "birthday suit" - oh, what a suggestive term. What else did they say? In the altogether. Stripped to the buff. In a state of nature. Each funny euphemism packed with terror, with humiliation, for a schoolboy in the presence of two female teachers. 

She felt a warm inner glow, an almost chemical surge through her whole being, of fulfillment and justice. So now the tables were turned and all the humiliation she had experienced from men, all the neglect and superiority, was somehow reversed. Reversed because of how she had reduced this brown-skinned youth to shame under her cruel direction. Yes, fulfillment and justice she felt in full measure - and some other nameless emotion surged within her as well.

Feeling a welling of excitement she took by the ear and led him into the outer office.

As she arranged him in position - back to the wall, next to the secretary and her desk, within full view of passersby in the busy corridor - she wondered how long before the torture of "engorgement" would overtake the boy. In her experience in English public schools or as governess in great homes, she knew it could happen without warning, as a result of the slightest stimulation, or of none.

Asoka was to spend a total of an hour like a statue, with hands clasped at his back. He was on view - during that 60 minutes - to several maids going about their duties. Low caste women, who ogled unabashedly. Indeed word spread and maids discovered new cleaning duties in the precinct. Teachers, moving around on duty, were staggered. And they, too, seemed to find reason to linger. It was precisely half an hour into the full nude punishment - what a thrill it gave Sarah to begin thinking in these terms - that Miss Plimmer came into the Principal's office and, acutely embarrassed, asked her to please come out and look at something.

What had disturbed her was simply the arrival, not unexpected and, by Sarah, eagerly anticipated, of Asoka's "engorgement." One sari-clad maid a few feet away, on the floor cleaning, was in fact staring spellbound at the boy's rigidified penis. A smile played on her lips. A spinsterish teacher was at the door fixated, eyes bulging and excited. Asoka's eyes were welling with tears and his hands fluttering, not knowing whether he could get away with sheltering his privates or not.

Sarah's first thought was that, upright, his "organs of generation" were absolutely in proportion to his athletic frame. Yet from illustrations in her secreted medical texts she had expected the appendage to stand out at 45 degrees. Asoka's, however, rose parallel to his abdomen. Barely a gap between its upper side and his tummy. And there was a second peculiarity, she thought - color. While the stem of his organ was brown like the rest of him, the "helmet" or glans, previously covered but now on display, was a bright copper, or brown-red. Helmet was the correct term, too. Its sculpted shape made her think of the German infantry, so much in the news.

She improvised quickly. Standing close she gave him the one instruction he would not be able to complete. She watched his face contort, like someone "straining at stool." He kept it up for a moment eyes screwed shut, then looked down to check himself - only to be greeted by the copper-head still straining to point at the ceiling. Then he saw Sarah, her secretary, the teacher and the maid - all looking at the same thing. He groaned with the humiliation. And looked at his principal in pleading despair.

"Miss, I am wanting but not doing."

She repeated the instruction.

Again, he strained and clenched with eyes screwed. Then looked down checking himself. But to no avail.

Sarah swept into her study and returned with a whippet-thin cane and ordered Asoka to bend over. Moaning, he complied- he had been caned before at school and home. When he touched his toes he immediately opened for inspection the crevice of his posterior and the four women were riveted by the sight of a hairless hole, winking back at them. Oh, the total shame of this boy, they each thought! He also revealed the rear view of his black scrotum between his legs...before he corrected his posture. Then the full force of the wielded cane caught him on the middle of his bottom, almost lifted him off the ground and left a lacerating white mark. He howled and straightened himself rubbing furiously.


In the Days of the Raj Ch. 02



Sarah did what she did after all of her triumphs. She closed her great oak door and settled in the tomb-like quiet of her principal's office, heavy curtains drawn against the savage heat of the late Indian day. Outside, the banyan trees, the baking river flats, the temples and paddy fields, the circling vultures: the whole teeming world of North India. She assured herself it had not been a dream, what she had witnessed, what she had orchestrated. No, not a dream. There was the stolidity of her polished walnut desk to satisfy her. And on it her elephant tusk- so evocative in its shapeliness- years ago hacked out of a black tufted snout. She reached out and stroked, shuddered at its decisive curve. Ah, yes, that curve. She was disposed to curves. To curves...and overhangs...and to hard, straight lines as well.

Yes, she was now free to unwind in her mind's eye the event she had just witnessed. No, witnessed...that was too passive. The event she had produced, brought into being, summoned up as Diaghilev his ballets. It had not been a dream but it might have, so textured, so sweet. Well, for some participants, so bitter-sweet.

World War One was tightening its grip on the vast network of colonial rule that was British Indian. The teacher shortage was acute, and she had been told that it was forcing closure of the near-by English Women's College. Its 12 remaining 18-year old girls might have to be accommodated in her own school for young Indian men. An unprecedented mingling of races- and it would test her judgment as Headmistress. She must be prepared. Moreover in a mood of rising Indian nationalism her servants were becoming more..."forward." 

Yes, her sari-clad maids were more provocative. Yet when it came to enforcing her unique disciplinary code, this was probably a helpful development. Her philosophy was very explicit- Total Clothing Deprivation for young males, with the shaming embarrassment of involuntary erections, in front of- and here followed the third and indispensable ingredient- a female audience. Her school's sari-clad maids were excellent in that respect. Those scenes in the corridors...goodness. That punishment schedule had become more excruciating for her students, subject to the goading of increasingly cheeky Indian girls thrilled to see Brahmin boys totally nude. 

But enough.

She had been drawn to the school's grand, masonry castle-like stables by a sudden racket. A second after arriving she understood what had happened. A party of girls from the adjacent college for young English women had arrived to inspect the polo ponies. From the heights of the building a party of Indian boys- young aristocrats from the Punjab enrolled only last week- had flung armfuls of straw, coating the hair, faces and shoulders of the females...who had joined a great uproar. The boys looked over the edge. Arrogant, merciless. Triumphant young nationalists.

A tigress coming across male deer, young stags feeding and nuzzling in a forest clearing, could not have resolved faster on a plan of attack. Sarah barked her order. The boys' smiles evaporated.

Our clothes? All? In front of these girls? Brahmin boys, stripped to the buff? They had heard rumours about this school and a strange disciplinary code but had not believed them. They had not yet seen the spectacle of an 18 year old boy stark naked being marched down the corridor. Or standing in the barrel-vaulted corridor back to the wall, in his birthday suit. Arms behind his back, sari-clad maids smiling in his direction: secrets on display. They had not witnessed any of this- the school's distinctive punishment, designed and implemented by this lady, Miss Sarah Maitland.

They soon would.

"I want you to start with your ties and shirts. And drop them over the side. The girls will catch them. Now!"

For Sarah this was the sweetest moment, the minute when males paused...swallowed...glanced around...and, then, as always, raised shaking hands and flickering fingers to start the process. Nearly as sweet was the electric mood of the girls, none of whom had seen naked male flesh, eyes dilated, breathing hard- all thinking, can this be happening? 

She had seen this when she had let sisters watch a brother be stripped before their eyes- not just unbreeched as other governesses did when the girls were afforded a glimpse of only a bared bottom, and they strained to see more through splayed legs or drooping shirt tails but- as Sarah did it- totally eliminated of clothing, as naked as Adam, then rotated and bent over so sisters could see...well, everything; this was the radical nature of her discipline, and she thrilled to set female eyes fired and furious, as when she had allowed girls from a neighbouring day school walk into a nude swim class at a boys' school only two rungs below Eton in prestige. The difference in social standing- girls destined to be maids or nurses confronting naked boys destined for the City or Church- sparked a rare frisson. How delicious it was: boys exposed on benches or standing at pool's edge or bending at their warm-ups, girls circulating with eyes popping, making many discerning remarks. 

Right now her girls were asking themselves, is this me? Am I witnessing this?

Especially when the first bundles of clothing were obediently dropped into their outstretched arms, as she had instructed, and boys stood above them with brown chests bare.

A pause.

She heard the girls breathing.

The boys fear was palpable.

"Let down your trousers."

She said it soft-voiced, making it routine.

She was an expert and knew that just as the hooded cobra was hypnotised by the weaving approach of the mongoose so human males are transfixed by the totemic power of this phrase, "let down your trousers," and, in her experience, comply without demur. "Let down your trousers." It made her shiver, certainly made them. 

She loved the fumbling about belt and buttons, and- yes,"slither" was in fact her preferred verb for the slow descent. And an expert and connoisseur she let the next stage stretch out, knowing that none of her female audience wanted it stretched out, no- their hearts were beating for an immediate denouement: yet for her part she always savoured another lecture as the males stood trembling in white underwear.

Eventually she gave the most shaming order of all.

"Please remove your pants."

They froze.

"Or I will have to let these young ladies do it for you." 

She heard the girls' intake of breath.

This threat always worked.

As one, the boys reluctantly undid knots and edged their intimate garments to their hips...hesitated...looked wildly around...then pressed further, revealing wiry black pubic bush. At this moment their shame was devastating. Then they pushed further...revealing...well, revealing everything, then lowered the pants to their ankles and stepped out of them. And, under their orders, dropped them down to the thrilling girls.

If an 18 year old English girl in 1915, in crinoline or linen, wearing ribbons and bows, is to have revealed the...the private parts of a healthy young male, how better to have it done? What way could be more delicious? The boys now standing stripped on the edge of the stable's upper floor, the girls clutching the boys' abandoned clothes looking up, a perspective that emphasised the secret and the pendulant...the underside element...of enforced male nudity.

The poor, poor boys were putting on display their testicular sacs- some compact globes, some loose with stones in shameful, shameful outline. They were displaying the tips of their organs- some clear-cut defined glans and some puckering overhangs.

The girls were hypnotised. 

So that's what they look like. Down there. Brothers and cousins with their jodhpurs stripped off, the young men in the Bengal Lancers tricked out of their clothes, visiting naval officers undressed before bed. What girls have to wait for their wedding night to see. Even their household servants and gardeners with the long lashes and caramel skin- they too have those tufts, those stems, bulbous heads or tapering puckers, sagging sacks or globular bags. The great mystery of life was now being resolved before their bulging, inquisitive eyes.

Sarah now ordered the Indian boys to descend. Which meant one at a time. Slowly and carefully. By an unsteady ladder. Which she had the girls gather around and secure. Imagine the humiliation of the first boy, feeling air all over his naked body... lowering his unclad nether region...right into the field of vision, the eye-level of passionately inquisitive young females. He stepped off, to stand amid them, their eyes all over him. He was told to move to one side.

"And hands behind your back," ordered Sarah. "That's the way we do it here."

Sarah's years of stripping boys nude for punishment had rendered her a connoisseur of male equipment. She stared at this one. He had a tortuously long, tapering overhang. It reminded her of another, one she had inspected with a doctor friend. The overhang was attached to a nude 18 year old London laborer, crimson with shame that Sarah had been admitted to the Harley Street surgery. The doctor liked handling male genitals and especially those of young laborers which he recruited from Piccadilly Square for examinations, paying them five shillings a time. He longingly stretched and coaxed the nude boy's prepuce with ungloved hands- he worked at these examinations for hours and enjoyed involving Sarah- while Sarah leant in close. 

He said a long overhang was called an "infantile" or "redundant" foreskin. That "generous superfluidity of skin," he added, was what the Greeks- and he loved the Greeks, his rooms were full of photos of their athletes, warriors and gods- called an "acroposthion," tugged by its "dartos muscle" into a proud little spout. 

A fern-like odour from the groin of the nervous young man floated up to them.

"The Greeks," he said "Loved deliciously long foreskins- as long again as the penis stem itself! That was their ideal: as much foreskin as penis. Look how this one stretches! My boy, you would have been the toast of fifth century Athens!" The nude laborer looked up at them with terrified eyes, clearly afraid of getting an erection before the examination was over. On this London boy, as on this Indian, the lower lip of the twirling entrance was more prominent than the upper. "Just like a teapot," she had thought then and laughed as she recalled this apt analogy.

Catching her gaze, the naked boy withered at the mature English woman looking at his penis with amusement.

Now the next boy descended.

Eventually all boys were down. Sarah told them to remove their shoes and socks and they looked funny as they bent and tripped and struggled. Then they were standing more or less in line and the girls were able to feast their curiosity. One boy's skin was coffee coloured and there was a gentle spray of hair across his chest and abdomen; his rod was thickish, dark brown and prominently veined with a pink snake head poking from the end. Another sported a broad but short member, the stem almost black but the end of it- what Sarah in her precision would call the "penis neck"- and the knob itself were a reddish tone, hanging before a round brown bag. 

How the girls absorbed such details. Oh yes, their beady eyes took in everything to be glimpsed sprouting from the boys' groins. But it was also the full-bodied nudity that electrified them- the revealed nipples, belly buttons, long straddling legs, all suddenly on display for girls who would have blushed at a boy's trouser buttons.

Sarah lectured the errant boys and ended with an instruction, as far as the excited girls were concerned, a most delightful instruction: for the boys to show the girls the details of the stables, to bridle any horse a girl picked, to walk the horse around the yard and then to clean up the stables...under the supervision of the girls.

"No, not by any means with your clothes."

She watched them curdle with shame.

Before this was over she would count on an extra embarrassment for the males. It hadn't happened yet, she noted, surveying the line of exposed groins but in her extensive experience....

She allocated duties, and saw the tallest boy pad off to a stall under the direction of Wendy Cowgill, an angular and spectacle-wearing blond girl- he, awkward and downcast and blushing and close to tears; she, smiling like the proverbial cat with swallowed canary. Wendy looked sideways, hungrily, at his dangling genitals. She had never seen any in all her 18 years. So she took in the the coffee-brown penis stem with well-sculptured glans of lighter hue; and, at his rear, two globular buttocks, brown and dusted with black hair. 

Sarah then supervised the others- frightened totally nude young males and flushed, frisky females fully dressed. While she gave orders she caught glimpses of these two in the stall. Somehow the sight of the naked Punjabi aristocrat- he was called Anwashi- and fully-dressed Wendy, both attending to the bridling of the white colt, was sweet, highly charged. Anwashi was if anything growing more embarrassed, Wendy more gloating.

Could it be, wondered Sarah?

Already?

Sometimes the problem sprouted fast, sometimes slower. But it always sprouted.

The two were in close proximity, he close enough to smell her perfume. The stall was cramped, her skirts were grazing his thighs. Brushing his bare legs. Boy and girl, inches apart, their intimacy was acute. He would surely feel this frisson. 

Now they were ready to walk the horse out, him with the bridle, she by his side. And...Sarah's instincts were right. How pleasing to have confirmed in life that some rules are immortal, that one's instincts never fail. 

The nude Punjabi patrician led the horse and the first sight of him to emerge from the stall was the glans and stem of his now fully erect, dark stemed, red-tipped penis, sticking out at a proud text book 45 degrees. No wonder his face was darkened with shame and that he failed to catch Sarah's eyes or those of any of the girls distributed across the stable floor. No wonder, too, that Wendy by his side was beaming and aglow.

In one jump, fully at stand, thought Sarah. She knew from all her experience the stages of this phenomenon, this transformation, in the profile of nude males. First, the stiffening that produced what she described as The Slippery Slide, the penis lengthened and pointing at an angle to the ground. Oh, how she loved the emergence of The Slippery Slide. The agony of boys sporting this stiffening! This was the point of no return! 

She recalled one piquant moment in a Nottingham house when she ordered the 18 year old son out of his clothes, even assisted with unbuttoning and the whisking down, with two sisters and a very inquisitive maid watching on. The boy was sandy haired, tall and bean-pole thin and twisting with shame when he stepped out of his underwear and felt female eyes. When she ordered hands behind his head he looked close to tears. Then, standing like that, fully and humiliatingly exposed, in one jolt his sleeping penis had come to life, a long and narrow tube with skin retracting to reveal a shiny, moist head- pointing to the floor at an angle. Even the family poddle had noticed and started barking at it, and all the females had fallen about laughing, while the young master had clenched his eyes and twisted his head. "Look, Thomas' thingie has made a slippery slide!" exclaimed one sister.

Indeed right now Sara noticed one of the other Indian boys with two girls at his side and his penis stretching and pointing to the floor: it was wide but not long, beginning to lift. And another boy, now raking straw under the direction of a girl with plaits, was trying to twist and shield his groin from her gaze- his tube had detached itself from his testicle bag, and pointed boldly at the floor he was raking. It was black along the stem, bright pink from the neck. The girl, from a home with no brothers greedily repositioned herself, eyes on this revelation. An unexpectedly colourful one.

Meanwhile one of the boys was now evincing the next stage of the erection process. When he emerged from a stall, leading a roan by its bridle, with two maidens in tow, Sarah noticed his mahogany stick was parallel to the floor- parallel!- anchored by a huge vein running its dorsal length. When he saw Sarah staring he nearly withered. Hung his head. His girl companions seemed...well, proud. Their eyes were sparkling.

Ah, The Pointing Direction, thought Sarah, the second category of male erections: rigid and horizontal, pointing right ahead, as if to guide the owner and- in a case like this- his two lucky companions, like a hunting dog with raised paw. As he passed her, in profile view, Sarah noticed his glans, his penis head, was too small for its broad stem, like a little conical tower. Her two girls beamed back at her, proud of their prisoner and his endowment.

Yes, The Pointing Direction, how sweet it was. She recalled once visiting her friend Moira who was the governess at a Liverpool institute for naval ratings, and being brought to witness a genital inspection. As the naked youngsters queued in a small surgery they of necessity were pressing into the flesh of the boy ahead. And as more boys stripped and joined the queue the pressure worsened. They were virtually glued together. Soon all of them were showing erections pressed flat against the buttocks of the fellow in front or, repelled by this perversion, twisting to one side so their jutting sticks stuck out from the row of squashed-together nudes. "Tough as teak," giggled Moira, a phrase that Sarah was never to forget.

One red-haired boy, more sensitive than the rest, had become very stimulated by the rubbing of flesh and turned sideways to face Moira and Sarah, doubling over and ejaculating in three huge spurts, his emissions slopping to their feet like a ritual offering served up. He looked guilty and aghast, like someone who had vomited on a busy street. Shamefully he then rejoined the queue, his draining penis smearing his ejaculate on the innocent cheeks of the boy in front. Then one by one the nudes presented themselves and their Pointing Directions to three young nurses on stools, the nurses clearly- Sarah thought- flushed and aglow at the sight of one rigid appendage after the other. Penis head after penis head, raised to look the nurses right in the eyes, all perfectly parallel to the floor.

A delicious recollection.

Now back to India...

Outside, Anwashi and Wendy were walking the colt in a circle, the nude boy trying to step with dignity but his penis bolt hard and upright. It was straight, absolutely straight, and pointed high, reaching for the belly. At that moment three sari-clad maids walked into view, giggling and gasping. The boy was devastated by their appearance. 

Straight- perfectly straight, thought Sarah, and recalled Louie, the 18 year old rapscallion they had caught in the St John's Wood house, burgling the garden shed. Back in her London years she had managed the residence as a disciplinary retreat for wayward upper class boys. From rich families and top schools but sent to her establishment for concentrated physical and psychological discipline by ladies. So it was easy for her to capture the grubby intruder and threaten to summon the police unless....Unless, in line with her developing philosophy of Total Clothing Deprivation, he stripped nude for her.

In her study he obediently clambered out of his soiled East London overalls and grimy denims. He stood in his ragged underpants and started begging. It emerged in a rush: his last period in detention had been hell...he would do anything to avoid going back...the other boys had tormented him...he was mocked because he was "different"...he was "different" down there...he nodded to his groin. He stumbled out the word, "misshapen."




In the Days of the Raj Ch. 02



Nothing could have enlivened Sarah more. Her interest quickened. In her study she kept voluminous files which detailed the genitals of the boys in her care. She re-studied them- photographs, sketches, tracings, written accounts- very often. She shared them with friends like young David Lawrence the writer and Magnus Hirschfeld, a physician from Berlin. A nice young man going by the name E M Forster had been sent by Lawrence and spent a whole day in the corner studying the records- the tracings of boys' privates and photos and sketches- shaking like a typhoid patient. When he left his moustaches were twitching and a stain like a map of Ireland had appeared on the flies of his beige summer trousers. "Only connect," he had muttered headed for the door. "Only connect."

She advanced on Louie and knelt. Her hands went to the knot of the laces that held his underwear. She looked up into his eyes where tears brimmed.

She untied and pulled down, slowly. 

What she saw was stunted, hooded, white, networked with delicate veins...but by no means misshapen. The ball sack? She lifted the stem with her gloved fingers- which made him start- but behind the drooping worm the sac and its contents were normal. He must, Sarah thought, be focused on his size. But she knew smaller that this. Relished occasions when big, fully developed fellows were exposed possessing minnows three inches at full stretch. Loved their shrivelling embarrassment.

In any case Sarah's own meticulous records were confirming that five inches was the average, not the six that some of the literature had suggested. No doubt men got trapped by some methodological bias, the more modest among them never offering themselves for surveys or measurement. This was not an option for the young males in her care: when they stood naked and quaking before her, or lifted themselves shamed from her lap, they were in no position to run off when she produced her tape measure. They just froze with horror or fear as she stretched it along the dorsal side, never the ventral side, of the pulsing erection on offer. Five- this was her conclusion. Louie was flaccid but Sarah calculated would not fall woefully short of this mark.

At that moment the door opened and Marjorie, a chubby cheeked 18 year old maid, blundered in. Her eyes widened greedily at the sight of the naked burglar although in a household like this,10 boys held for punishment, she had glimpsed nudity often. Participated in their communal bathing, helped in the full-nude punishment. And relished it very much. But something in the slightness of this newest charge appealed and her interest flared. He felt it too, shivered and shuddered. She stood close. Instantly the boy responded: his thin penis stretched and lifted...and twisted to the right, and then poked back to his belly! 

Instantly Sarah saw what the problem. Nothing less than the most flamboyant case of Peyronie's disease she had ever witnessed. Because Louie's stem not only veered to the right- just under half the cocks she had studied featured bends- but his then turned and pointed back.

The eyes of the two females popped.

His punishment was to stay with them as a servant, kept nude at all times, with special responsibility for helping Majorie at household duties. There was a sweet session where he was photographed at a Shaftesbury Avenue studio- the photographer a woman, of course, a stern disciplinarian called Miss Aurelia Flint who wearing a spare gray smock and assisted by a servant girl, Sadie, specialised in having boys out of their clothes within minutes. Her command to "Strip off! Everything!" was as savage as a sea captain's and it was never resisted, never challenged. 

It was a studio which Sarah used to capture all her young charges naked, as soon as they enrolled in her establishment. After the shy lads dropped their clothes and shuffled nervously, hands sheltering their privates, they were made to pose against a canvas frame with a faded rustic scene of trees and grass. It was entirely absurd- this cheap stage backdrop- and the boys looked as if they were naked in some West End version of English farmland robbed of their clothes, about to be surprised by gambolling girls out for a stroll.

There were close-ups, too, of the boys' privates and those of Louie's- his penis coaxed into twisted erection- were designed to be a classic of their kind, shared and discussed by the small community of Edwardian sexologists and homosexualists Sarah corresponded with.

Louie became a kind of household mascot, stupid and good natured, desperate to keep their good graces. He polished floors, tiny skinny bottom pointing high, slapped by passing staff, one of the maids even reaching low to tickle his perineum and little testicle sac- goodness, did that make him start! He did washing up in the kitchen without apron- the cook declaring, "Laddie, instructions are for you to be in the nuddy and there'll be no exceptions in my domain, besides Ayes likes the looks of a naked boy." He sat with the servants at meals bare as a board, maids always teasing him about what was in his lap and whether it had come to life, even worked in the garden without a stitch, delighting girls in the houses on either side who stuck their beaming heads above the fences and burst into giggles.

Both Sarah and Majorie noticed that on these occasions- and the garden took a lot of time- he was initially appalled. To have 18 year old girls poised above the fence or hedge pointing and guffawing while he was stranded helpless and naked was savage treatment. Holding shears or shovel he could hardly shield himself. Yet as this happened more and more, Louie seemed to look forward to his exposure, even leave the house and enter the garden already erect and peering around to confirm his audience was in place. His near-constant erections had one maid exclaim, "That boy's always in for a rut! Mad as May butter!"

Much of the time he obeyed Majorie, trailing her as she performed her duties, letting her bathe him and even shave off his late-blooming body hair, from groin, scrotal sac and arm pits. It was something she had learnt when Sarah had organised plaster casting of boy's privates, a riveting responsibility that required hair removal to facilitate moulding with wax and plaster. Marjorie had proven particularly skilled at this delicate task, especially at the stretching and scraping of wet, lathered testicles- such a daunting assignment for a young maid from Manchester and the nervous males who sat naked and spread-legged on the toilet seat while she knelt on the tiles and razored curls from the most sensitive part of their anatomy.

Smooth as marble and naked as the day he was born Louie was to serve tea for visiting friends of Sarah's- to the delight of the female guests. They were ladies with careers like her's in schools, detention facilities or households. They were teachers, nurses, governesses. Once, at one of these gatherings, she had Louie wear a bow tie. It deliciously emphasised his nudity and absence of body hair.

Here, serving tea in the drawing room, his erections were frequent and attracted attention for their flamboyant twists.

"It's known as Peyronie's disease," explained Sarah and used him as model to illustrate what she had learnt from medical text books while visiting ladies- a whole roomful- gawped at the sight. They gawped no less than their daughters who accompanied them- more and more frequently as it happened; who could say no to an invitation to Sarah's now? With a show like this every time? And naturally Sarah thought of providing a contrast, by bringing one of her disciplinary charges- stripped for the occasion- to join them at the afternoon tea, a tall well-proportioned lad called Nicholas Elliot, and making him stand there blushing to demonstrate one of those organs that are perfectly straight and reach high, what might be regarded as "normal"- although Sarah's notes and photographs confirmed that only a minority (46 percent to be precise) fitted this category, matched this ideal.

The first occasions were excruciating for Louie, not less than for Nicholas, his companion. But slowly, Sarah noticed, Louie came to savour it- stiffening as soon as the first ladies arrived and he was sent to answer the door. Stiffening even faster and leaking pre-ejaculatory fluid if he had glimpsed from the windows that they came with a daughter. Savouring the humiliation when the other boy, Nicholas, entered the crowded room already nude and with a few rubs brought his penis to full stand, the two boys side by side. He, the good-looking one, his organ straight and high, was clearly coming to enjoy this too; Nicholas revolted when Sarah suggest he give another boy a chance to perform. Violently objected. He was now enormously wedded to the honor of walking nude into a room full of females and demonstrating how his penis stood- more and more readily with each occasion as it happened. 

The eyes of the females darted between them, the petite twisted member pointing like a finger back at its owner as if asking, "Who, me?" and that of his athletic companion standing hands behind his back, letting his regulation penis sprout at a text book 45 degrees, eyes straight ahead.

Louie liked the pats, hugs and caresses he received from compassionate ladies when the display was over. Some of the ladies held him very tightly indeed. More than one flickered her fingers very quickly over his object. And Louie loved the close-up curious looks of their flushed-face daughters. He always left the gathering erect and pulsing, seeking relief.

As Sarah discovered he found this in the administrations of the maid, Majorie. She surprised them in the larder, their mouths glued and Marjorie's hand around the boy's penis, her fat little fingers already overflowing with the boy's porridge-coloured, telltale fluid. She hauled them out and established that "tickling his thing" had become a habit, a reward for the elfin captive, this little mascot of Sarah's household. It wouldn't be long, she thought, before she discovered them doing more; and at that point she resolved she would arrange for them to become engaged. Majorie would win herself a little hubby who she could keep nude and subjugated at all times and whose stubborn, twisted little member she could keep happy.

Enough...this was the past. Sarah could dilate on that anytime- and pull out the file, photos and tracings from her trunk. Even the plaster cast she had had Majorie help her make; a perfect replica of Louie's intimate parts. How proud he had been to see it unveiled and to be positioned in Sarah's closet with the dozens that displayed curves, bends, shortness, length, width. The late, great Charles Darwin had not collated specimens more scientifically.

That was passed. The present was rich enough.

Here, in India. In the stables, and outside.

Where noble Anwashi, penis ahead, was providing not the slightest evidence of Peyronie's Disease. His erection was decisive, straight, high. The perfect penis of Victorian pornography, thought Sarah, whose secret collection she knew had been raided by so many of her teachers, their imaginations set racing by what they witnessed at this school.

The others, too, were all of them, at maximum extension. Yes, some hint of bends, but slight- take for example the penis of that long-lashed tawny-skinned lad who has just finished his raking, and stood with Clara Covington and three other girls asking questions of him in a teasing fashion. His not over-long member curved to the left. Ah, the elegance of a curved penis, sighed Sarah, not for the first time, and it stuck out, not up, a horizontal pointer. Horizontal and curved to the left. Its head was still shrouded in its foreskin and- what could be seen of it- was not dissimilar in colour from the coffee-coloured stem. It was hard as a board. Each girl would glance down at it between eager questions that had the poor boy perplexed, casting around, moist eyed, shifting arms by his sides.

Did he have sisters, one asked? Did they ever...see him like this? (Accompanied by giggles.) Was he embarrassed...now? Did he realise how...funny...he looked, in his birthday suit? 

"Just look at him..."

And they did, feasting their eyes.

"Without a stitch...Let me ask..."

And she paused, eyes fastened on his privates.

"That little brown sack, behind your thingamajig...what IS it?"

And she and her friends bent to look.

Sarah left them, as the boy stuttered out the word and the girls pressed him with queries about its shape, and how did it just hang there and what happened when he ran.

In another corner the boy with the spray of chest hair and the thick and dark penis, prominently veined, was standing straight as a soldier displaying the ventral or underside of a fine uprising erection- displaying the underside because the whole thing jutted out with the a slight "u" bend, as Sarah called a banana bend. Tilting back to the boy's abdomen, the penis put its own belly on nice display: the big artery, the veins that serviced it, the straining tissue of the frenulum. Its glans was generous and with its defined corona shaped like a coolie's hat and balanced on its end was a pearlescent bubble of moisture, threatening to spill down the sides. 

Two girls quizzed him eagerly. How long had he had that hair on his chest? Was he embarrassed that they could see- their glances fell to his groin- "all of him?" Was it common for "his thing" to stand up like that? Did his mother see him like this? He groped for answers, sensing Sarah expected it.

The hair on his chest- how he blushed at having to talk with them about his displayed body! - had sprung up in the last six months. Yes, after the other hair...the "hair down there." No, he did not like having all his clothes off, in front of them. It made him feel very ashamed. He did not want English girls to see "his bludgeon"- the slang term stumbled out before he could censor himself- and he didn't want the maids to see him- he glanced wildly outside where five sari-clad maids now had intercepted and stalled Anwashi and Wendy. His penis, he said, might rise like this several times a day. No, more, he conceded, hanging his head. Sometimes when he had "daydreams about naughty things." And, darkening and tearing-up, he said that his mother at home would subject him to "Murgha." Under further questioning he said that meant being stripped of everything and forced to stand against the wall of the living room or hallway.

"Where your sisters could see you?"

Sarah, overhearing, thrilled as much as the girls, hung desperate on his answer. Oh, how she hoped he had sisters and...

Yes, he had three. And cousins, girl cousins.

"What, they just...stand there, looking right at you?"

He confirmed that his sisters and cousins liked doing that and that, yes, they laughed at him in the nude and teased him.

"So...sometimes they would see you...like this?"

The girl gestured at his erection.

Sarah, the evesdropper, held her breath.

Yes, came the shameful admission. So...they saw him at full stand. At that moment the ball of moisture rolled over his glans and down his stem. More seemed to emerge. Behind, a loose scrotal sac displayed two prominent stones. 

Elsewhere, pinned against the wall, two boys stood, twisting- yes, turning this way and that, eyes clenched- with shame as five girls interrogated them, while two pricks- Sarah now thought in the terminology of her banned literature- stretched to their limits, "tough as teak." One was neat, smallish, uniformly brown, without a foreskin, and the testicles had vanished, entirely scooped up. The petite penis pointed up. "Let's see," calculated Sarah, to herself. "It's standing at an angle...oh, about 30 degrees above the horizon." It had no bend. 

But- oh my god!- the other! It was a big and a badly made shambles- loose ragged cloak hanging off the end revealing a bright red stunted glans with a huge smiling mouth. Like the glans the neck was also red, then there stretched a broad beam of dark-brown complexion. It's distinguishing feature was a vast industrial strength dorsal vein; its upper end connecting to his groin seemed to be holding the appendage up and driving it out and ahead. Behind there was- grotesquely enlarged hanging in huge folds- a capacious bag, luxuriously haired. With his bolt hard erection the glans might have reached his belly button except that the trajectory of the penis flattened. It was close to horizontal, with a lowering from around its midpoint, the second part of its length pointing down, at an angle just below the horizon. An "n" bend, thought Sarah. No, better still, what she called a "humpback" erection.

It belonged to a boy called Tagore, of average height, coffee-coloured skin, neither good or bad looking.

His prick was his distinction.

Especially measured against the compactness neatness of his short companion.

For the girls the sight and the contrast were intoxicating.

Sarah saw the light of divine revelation in the eyes of her maidens. Oh, those eyes blazed. They would forever wonder what lay in the trousers of males- the variety, the difference- never be able to resist downward swipes of their eyes when males entered. They would easily enlist for any mission catching males nude, which Sarah considered one of her goals.

"Bet you wish you didn't throw that straw!"

They twisted with humiliation, eyes shut.

The girls asked questions. What does it feel like to have all your clothes off in front of us girls? When we've got clothes on? Do you feel extremely embarrassed? Why do boys have "knobs"? What's that funny bag? Hey, there's water coming out!

It was time, however, to bring things to their conclusion. And there was only one: a caning.

She barked an order and the boys gathered at the centre of the stables, Anwashi joining them from the grounds. Arms swinging helplessly at their sides, eyes flickering nervously, they formed a group, each one with his stubborn ceiling-jabbing erection. With the females watching hungrily, she told them that as a result of their assault on the girls they would receive a caning. A bare bottomed caning. Here, in front of their victims. In fact, lying flat on that waist-high bale of hay right there.

First, one of them would have to go to her study and collect her cane. She picked Tagore, the one with the most curious penis, the wildest incongruities, the ragged foreskin and wide, spreading beam. The one with the "humpback" on his penis, that jutted out hard but in the end pointed just below the horizon as if burdened by its weight. This just happened to be the busiest time of day, and a day for that matter when the corridors would be full of mothers and sisters attending one form's presentation. He would go just as he was- yes, without a stitch. 

He begged to be spared. He cried.

Sarah's response was to send him off with fierce instructions that he walk with hands absolutely fixed to his sides.

"My little darling," she thought. "You'll show that big vein and that gaping foreskin and that humpback penis stem to all the women and girls around this school."

Tagore took himself at a shuffling place across the grounds that lay between the stables and the main school building. Just as he did a party of visitors- a mother, some young women, two maids- appeared, taking the same route. As one they saw the nude youth; they stopped, their eyes popped. They feasted on the sight, at once woeful and lubricious. The boy, hanging his head, hands rigid at his sides, kept shuffling...his big untidy penis wobbling ahead of him, parallel to the ground.

The group of females were heard to mutter to one another, "Murgha." The girls may have been comparing Tagore with their brother- subject to nude punishment at home- they were looking so hard, staring so intently at Tagore's outward- thrusting and lumpy penis. More indecently, so was their mother. Her dark eyes bulged and seemed to indicate that by comparison with this preposterously equipped schoolboy, the members of her husband and son were closer to Sarah's theory of an average five inches. Probably a good deal less. Tagore shuddered with shame- naked, erect, outdoors, being stared at intently by females. His stomach turned to water. 




In the Days of the Raj Ch. 02



But worse lay ahead. He kept walking and entered the building to mount the broad staircase.

A rowdy class of 18 year old boys bounded down, nearly knocked him over. They took him in with interest, kept moving.

Tagore continued his miserable Odyssey, up another two flights and...slap-bang! Right into another visiting family: this time what seemed a platoon of sisters or cousins, three mothers, several maids. There were shrieks, giggles, murmurs of "Murgha!" and ferocious staring at his organ, now soft, ample and dangling, his scrotum hanging low, its fat stones clearly outlined.

He struggled around them.

In the long barrel-vaulted corridor, with its cream walls hung with glum paintings of the English countryside and English royalty, he ran into his English teacher, Miss Hester Harriet Marsden-Smedley; her dark somewhat oily hair in a bun, grandmotherly glasses perched on the end of her nose, wearing her hallmark billowing gray smock. She reeked Girl Guides, women's college, spinsterhood. And, let it me said, a lively interest in sexual physiology- forbidden at home, unloosed in the tropics.

She simply loved Sarah Maitland and her philosophy of Total Clothing Deprivation. While she ordered shamed boys out of all their clothing or peeled the underwear over the hips of a handsome Brahmin who shivered with fear she kept thinking that back in the cold climes of England she might never have seen any of this. Her company had been entirely female, growing up into a sacred order of spinsterhood. Yet now..! In India!

What riches here, what excitement! She now knew what a 100 boys looked like, shorn of their clothes! Could recognise many boys by the moulding of their glans or the droop of their testicles. Hilarious and thrilling. Knew things she never dreamt even existed- that seam that divided a scrotal sac and then ran up the perineum, for example- Sarah had lectured on it while three boys had stood without clothes at a staff training session, forced to hold up their scrotums. Sarah had leaned in, pointing with a ruler, described the seam as the "scrotal raphe or perineal raphe" as she identified the curious notch on each pupil's sac.

Sarah had become animated when one boy's was revealed as black and prominent; he had nearly fainted as half a dozen females crowded in to inspect his testicle's ridge line. Miss Marsden-Smedley had learnt of the pre-ejaculatory fluid that leaked from a urethral opening or, again as Sarah named it, "the meatus." What a thrilling name! At the same session she had told the boys to hold their tubes, their organs, up and out- they were becoming rigid- even impatiently took hold of one penis and said, "There! The meatus! And see the fluid?" And glared at the cowering nude boy. Who shivered with shame, but still grew erect and leaked the more.

But it was the fun with the "scrotal raphe" that stayed with her, the game of making the boys' stretch their ridiculous scrotums and display their little decorations- any body part more intimate would be hard to find. Well, one perhaps. Oh, they looked shamed! 

Now in the corridor Miss Hester Harriet Marsden-Smedley looked at Tagore, bare-buck nude.

He was a victim, as much as- for a tigress- was a lame villager a victim, lost at dusk on the edge of the fields. She had not had the opportunity to strip a boy for a week. She resolved on a merciless plan to plunge this one into a vortex of humiliation that would sear him for all his days, burn male pride out of him for ever. She would simply pretend that he was not naked at all. What sweet fun this would be!

So she determinedly ignored what hung in his groin. She looked him right in the eye. In the friendliest fashion- looking determinedly in the eye- she told him she had finished marking his essay on Chaucer, that it was absolutely "topping" and that if he would be so kind as to accompany her now to the staff common room....

The staff common room? With all the other lady teachers? Could she not see that he was totally naked, without a stitch? He muttered and spluttered about having to fetch the cane for Miss Maitland but she swept all this aside. By the shoulder she steered him around and suddenly the two of them were walking back down the corridor.

He was in a state of shock.

Here he was, walking along side his female English teacher in the heart of the school, completely nude... 

...and somehow it seemed altogether right...

...in the back of his mind stirred the thought, although he could never have put it in words, that this- him nude alongside his teacher- was somehow part of a natural order. Some kind of long forgotten golden rule...in which The Boy...the eternal 18 year old Boy...might be required to Go Naked...under the rules, to be forced to live in the nude...and put all his newly acquired bodily secrets on display...while females around him wore their clothes. And in a continuing act of submission to the eternal Mother-Governess-Schooldame figure...The Boy would walk by her side, in his birthday suit...forced to be jovial and playful and...well, boyish. And she and her female colleagues could see...everything.

She chatted airily about Chaucer. Her eyes straight ahead. Smiling, happy.

She behaved as if it were the most natural thing in the world that he might be naked and submissive to his fully dressed female teacher.

He walked with her. They looked, of course, extraordinary.

In his groin, his penis inflated again, filled out.

They passed a maid, kneeling and scrubbing the floorboards, who looked up at the naked Brahmin and grinned- he thought-like a rock ape. Her hungry eyes fell on his abundant penis and testicles. Her smile broadened, grew hungrier. He shivered at being viewed, being desired, by an Untouchable, in this terrible condition.

Talking breezily, the teacher led the way into the teachers' common.

He followed.

And there, under a reproduction portrait of King George V and Queen Mary, lounged Miss Julia Maxse, his mathematics teacher, her blue stockings out of her high heels and a copy of Punch over her knees, a cup of tea in one hand. Tall, angular, middle-aged, she was unmarried but may have had affairs with several of the married officers in town before the war took them off. Often, it was suggested, men younger then herself. But since the war....they had all gone to France. She looked up, caught the image of naked Tagore at the side of Miss Marsden-Smedley and stared. Blank faced. Not shocked, not stunned but...just taking in the view of one of her 18 year old male students, in the buff. As it happened, totally bare. You might say, in his birthday suit. Ah, she thought, this is the reason I love this school. This is the reason I have stayed in India.

At a desk, face lowered over essays, was Mrs Favisham, a grey haired veteran of 20 years in India, who looked up at the arrivals...and whose eyes expanded to resemble saucers, behind her wire spectacles. She taught The Sciences. As a 58 year old spinster she too loved the schools's disciplinary regime. Had never seen naked males before her arrival. She might have worshipped Sarah Maitland for her system of discipline, here on the Gangetic plain of Northern India.

She had once had all 10 boys in her Chemistry tutorial standing at their benches stripped to the buff, working away on test tubes and Bunsen burners, as punishment for sloppy assignments. What a day that had been! How embarrassed the boys as she had stripped them one by one, lingering over buttons and belts. All nude as cherubs, she had lined them up- these stark naked 18 year olds- and lectured them sternly before sending them to their work. She had then moved between them, savouring their twitching bottoms and lengthening organs. Excited, she then invited three colleagues to come and witness this mass punishment: it made boys huddle and crouch at the benches, as best they could, embarrassed by the erections that had sprouted.

Right now she trained her scientific scrutiny on the boy who stood exposed feet away. His genitals, she thought, were copious, and interesting.

Miss Beverly Burrowes, the youngest recruit, had arrived in India barely a week before Tagore had come to the school. She was knitting, back to the window. This was her first sight of the schools' disciplinary code though it had been much discussed with her female colleagues. From Birmingam, without any experience of the male world, without brothers or youthful companions, she had come to seek a husband. Right now she just stared at the sight before her: a young man with all his secrets on display. Stripped buck naked. She stared, hungrily.

Miss Marsden-Smedley shepherded Tagore to her desk where she sat down. He stood by her side. She rummaged among essays. Head down the boy counted the seconds...and felt all the eyes in the room on his nakedness.

His penis stretched. Lifted from his testicles. Stuck out- yes, in what Sarah Maitland would describe as The Slippery Slide. Oh my god, he could do nothing. He felt certain that, seated, Miss Marsden-Smedley could see it out of the corner of her eye. He glanced up, and caught Miss Maxse, from her lounge, watching it from over her raised cup of tea, the magazine opened on her skirted lap. Her eyes were...fixed...on his stiffening penis.

He felt it lift again, as the fat dorsal artery filled out. He knew this dorsal vein was huge, outsize. And that it appeared to anchor his long heavy ugly penis to his groin. That hefty appendage was soon going to jut...to jut, parallel to the floor. The teacher seated at his side, still searching the pile of essays, must surely be aware of it. Could even see the shadow it cast across he papers. 

Tagore glanced sideways and saw Miss Favisham...and Miss Maxse...and Miss Burrowes...each expressionless, fixated. Staring, unapologetically. Right at his organ. Oh god, he thought, melting with shame. Even King George and Queen Mary seem goggle-eyed in their picture-frame.

He felt his red glans and penis neck poke beyond the ugly, jagged foreskin, to greet the outside world, an animal emerging from its lair. And he felt all these eyes on it. Yes, the whole apparatus lifted now and revealed his characteristic humpback, his penis sticking out horizontal but dipping from the middle of its broad beam. It felt...so...long!

Suddenly miss Marsden-Smedley stirred.

"Found it!"

And she looked up, looked over his penis and up to his darkening face.

"Your essay, Tagore! Now let's see...there are a few things I want to talk about..."

And, while she started to talk about English style, she planted a delicate hand, just in the boy's inter-gluteal crease, where his thigh jointed the right cheek of his bottom. To press him to stand in even closer to her and the desk. But...she left it there. Her hand, just below his bottom cheeks, then moving around the curve, onto the globe itself. The tingles he felt! Her feminine hand right on the most sensitive part of his buttocks, so light- teasingly light. It sent a flutter right through his glutes and into his groin! It sent a jolt into his hardened penis. Even his nipples stood erect. The insides of his tummy seemed to melt. He entered a glorious state of floating semi-consciousness, with his teacher's words washing through him...in these seconds his torments- the shame, the humiliation- gave way to a pleasure he had never known, a secret joy in being here naked with her- yes, with her fully dressed.

He looked up. The eyes of the three others were focused on his groin. He noticed young Miss Beverly Burrowes' were green and seemed to reflect some dream-like state. And the boy almost shivered with a new strange sensation, no longer embarrassed but warm inside and quietly thrilled, as he stood naked with the lady teachers.

And Miss Beverly Burrowes was in another state, too, a dreamlike return to things she had witnessed that summer she had turned 18 and had stayed with relatives in Dorset. The girls in the household, Yvette and Lucille, had been very stimulating in conversation, mainly about young men, and it became clear to Beverly that they had allowed liberties- how else could they talk about Harold with his "tiny little pego" or Stanley's "long white pole" before they collapsed in vulgar guffaws? 

Her two cousins were in their early 20s but both seemed to have enjoyed intimate games of some sort with the milk boy, Daniel, barely 18, who served them when each morning before breakfast one of the girls would go up to the diary on the hill. There was much teasing when either Yvette or Lucille would return with straw in her hair or skirts in disorder. How Beverly had dreamt about being sent herself, until one day Yvette had proposed it and Lucille, giggling, had agreed.

At the barn door on a cinnamon-fresh morning- the farm deserted- Beverly paused, the milk container in her hand. Paused and breathed heavily. An 18 year old boy...a farmboy...whose company her cousins seemed to relish...goodness, her heart beat. What would she find? Her nerves tingled. From inside a voice called,"Hey girlie! 

Come on in! Milk- fresh! Just for you, my sweet!"

She entered. Paused. In the darkness, she saw a stall, with a counter and behind, a shirtless youth, tousle blond hair, shoulders like building beams. He was grinning at her. Her first instincts were to turn and run- she had never seen a male's naked torso- but an inner hunger made her slowly approach. He beckoned her on, holding a pitcher. "Milk? Fresh- I pulled their titties myself!" He leered and again she thought of fleeing but he was such a picture under his blond helmet she advanced hypnotised.

Right up to the counter at the front of the stall. 

He was standing there, pressed against the counter. His body was white, lithe and strong. On his chest like big medallions stood pink nipples, broad and pointed. Around them, a surf of tough blond hair which narrowed like a tree trunk and ran downwards. She blushed to be seeing such things.

He grinned to be stared at.

He stepped back, still leering...

...revealing that he was not wearing anything. 

He had been standing at the other side of the counter without a shirt...but also without trousers or underpants. Without a stitch. The 18 year old farmboy was naked as the day he was born, his clothes nowhere to be seen on the straw around him.

Beverly nearly fainted but did not- could not- retreat, gazing at him in rapture.

His body was not sculpted like those of the Greek statues she had admired but was as lean and upright. From his powerful shoulders he tapered to a tiny waist. His groin was filled up with blond corkscrew curls. From it a white tube of flesh stood out and up.

He started to finger it, still staring at her and leering.

His thing was thin and, she thought, long. Coated with stretched blue veins, topped with a pink hat. Below it hung a sack with- it appeared- two marbles hanging inside, big fat marbles, covered with a protective coating of blond wire. She was staring...and he noticed, and this seemed to quicken his agitation. Yes, he liked her staring pop-eyed at his naked form, and he kept leering and nodding to encourage her. Stroking his thing, up and down its hardened length.

She was hypnotised.

It was clearly the most wicked, evil thing she had ever witnessed.

Moving his fingers up and down he now...winked at her. Winked! Ensnaring her in his lewd design. She shuddered. But still watched.

His breathing became heavy. His eyes closed. His body tensed. Suddenly flung from the tip of his thing flew a squirt of white fluid, hurtling in the air in her direction, splattering on the counter. Then another, also pooling in front of her. And another, falling to the straw. He stopped, breathed deep. Then Daniel's eyes opened and he leered at her again, appearing to squeeze the end of the tube and make more of the fluid- his milk- ooze out.

"Like...my...long, white corker?" He panted. "Like my big plums, Miss? Your cousins like them!"

She was about to turn when he called her back, insisted on filling her container from his pitcher, above the counter shiny with his grand emissions. She allowed him to do it, while he continued to leer, as if in a dream. Then, astonishingly, he emerged from behind the counter and positioned himself against the wall, fingering himself again, stroking his chest with his other fingers, tweaking one of his pink nipples, watching her with a crooked grin. Trembling all over she left the barn.

Apart from saying, "Oh, that Daniel! Bit of a show-off, don't you think?" Yvette- and her sister- said nothing. And Beverly was left with a mind racing over the thrilling thing she had witnessed, left to thrash herself beneath the blankets at night and, during his years in the classrooms facing 18 year old boys, to imagine what they would look like stripped to the buff like young Daniel in the stables proud of his nudity.

Then on the boat trip to India, she would stare at the loose-limbed sailors on deck and the brawny dockers labouring bare chested on the wharves and imagine. Imagine, shamefully, what they looked like without any clothes and wonder whether they too liked to show their bodies to girls. And making their things spurt milk. 

At her shared bungalow there was a youthful gardener with dark flitting eyes under long lashes who worked the lawns and flower beds. He was always shirtless. He had a superbly developed set of chest muscles: broad and sculpturally defined. She had stared from a distance and was struck by his large brown nipples and she tried to check whether he sported a line of hair running from his pouting navel. (Close, one day, she detected the faintest filigree but was struck by the prominence of his nipples, like two headlamps on the front of the Maharajah's Rolls Royce.) She dreamt of inviting him indoors, of serving him tea, of spilling some on his dhoti and insisting that he slither out of it for her to wash and dry while she would glimpse his "corker" and his "big plums," although she would find smaller "plums" more seductive.

And now...this Indian boy...buck naked in the staff commonroom...was presenting her with her first sight of a totally nude male since that time in the barn collecting the household milk.

Perhaps, shamed to be sure, he was...somehow...savouring his experience- as Daniel had.

Truth was that Tagore's insides were at war. He was raging with conflicting emotions, shamed and excited, as his English teacher's fingers found hairs on his upper thighs to lightly tease- tickling with her exploring fingers- while she talked about Chaucer pointing with her pen at his essay before her. Suddenly his meatus leaked a gob of pre-ejaculatory fluid that dropped onto the essay. It made the ink run. The three other teachers stared hypnotised. Another drop formed from the meatus, gathered volume and trailed off to the essay. It hung there, from his penis mouth down to the paper.

Right before Miss Marsden-Smedley's eyes. 

She ignored it.

"There, overall, a very effective essay."

Her congratulatory look swept up, over his leaking penis, up to his face, a look of shame- shame, and something else- enamelling his eyes.

"Well," opined old Miss Favisham, above her own essay pile, "Perhaps this fine scholar could make us all a fresh cup of tea." She would see more of him if he separated himself from her colleague, was made to move around their room.

And there was general agreement with this proposition which meant the naked schoolboy, shuffling to one end of the common room to rummage with cups and teapot and tray, his long heavy humpbacked erection pointing the way. While he worked at the sink he gave four female teachers the opportunity to admire his tawny bottom cheeks, each teacher feeling a frissure at such a revelation, at once so intimate, so manly, so boyish.

It was while he fixed the tea that Tagore experienced his "conversion experience." A passionate dizzying warmth now filled his tummy, his whole being. He had been almost lovingly exposed to these ladies, then caressed with their gazes. Golly, his fluid had trailed from his penis tip onto his essay under the nose of his English teacher. Truth was he did not want to leave the cosiness of his lingering presence here with them and not just because Miss Maitland's cane waited for him. Here, in the common room, he felt suspended in time: nude youth serving his ladies. Nude youth, their servant, bound in service by this nakedness.




In the Days of the Raj Ch. 02



He delivered tea to Miss Maxse who, still lounging with her magazine on her lap, looked slyly at his projecting penis. Her eyes narrowed, pruriently. "You must be very proud of that big vein," she said. He crimsoned, standing shyly, head bowed. She kept staring at his fat dorsal vein, which seemed to hold his heavy apparatus in place. From Miss Favisham, however, came a piece of sage advice, "Goodness, my dear, never...just never...comment on their equipment. They're bashful- these boys, at a very awkward age. Isn't that true, Tagore?"

He didn't know what to say.

"Oh, you're not shy, Tagore," objected Miss Maxse, looking him over- his whole shock-naked body, there right in front of her without a stitch. "I rather think this is a fella who likes being in the nuddy with nice ladies watching, serving us tea without a thread, all his secrets on display. Don't you like it, just a little bit, young Tagore?"

There was an awesome silence. The ladies were interested in this. Did men like...shameful clothing deprivation?

Some strange feeling flooded Tagore's being. A sweet submissiveness.

He nodded.

First Miss Marsden-Smedley, then the others, issued a polite round of applause.

"That's the boy," issued forth Miss Favisham. "Now serve our new recruit, Miss Bellowes. She looks very interested in your manly form."

Beverly blushed. She did not suspect her prurient interest was so obvious.

And Tagore returned to the kitchen counter to collect her tea. He then padded back across the floor, all female eyes on the long, heavy, humpback penis that pointed his way. As he handed the tea to her Beverly's eyes bulged greedily and she gulped. Her mind whisked her back to the cinnamon-fresh morning in a diary in Dorset, to the other "hard as teak" penis that had been thrust into her sight. Yes, this...this...Indian penis was thicker than Daniel's and thrusting out flat, not rearing up, its crown and neck were not pink but brilliant red. And what Daniel had cheekily called his big plums- those before her now, dangling in their hairy bag, were bigger and the sack looser.

Beverly settled on a resolution: she resolved that tonight she would invite her gardner in for tea and strip him naked.

Then Tagore delivered tea to Miss Favisham and bent, as he had seen manservants at home bend, so she could lift the cup from the tray. That her eyes were elsewhere when he stood before her- staring at the mouth on his big glans- could not be denied...which may explain the cup slipping and breaking on the floor. There was general distress. And it was Miss Julia Maxse, lounging in her armchair and so admiring of the boy's dorsal vein, who suggested that there was only one thing to do to a careless young fellow.

"And that is to take him over one's lap and give him a firm hand spanking on his naked, naughty botty!"

Miss Marsden-Smedley agreed as long as it wasn't too cruel. And Miss Favisham declared that each lady should take her turn and, no, it wouldn't be cruel but nor would it be playful. Beverly Burrowes blushed deeply and shifted her feet.

The next second Tagore was doing what he never dreamt he would be doing in his entire life. A big boy who had ridden at polo and joined his father hunting tigers presented himself for an over-the-knee spanking by an English lady. He carefully lowered himself, as instructed, over the lap of Miss Julia Maxse and shamefully eased his pole-like appendage onto her skirts. Her crinoline felt so...thin. He could feel the heat of her body underneath. And, for her part, she looked down onto his glutes and his inter-cluteal cleft as if at a cannibal banquet or some ritual offering.

She rested one long, slender, cold hand on his further buttock.

"You're shaking," she said. "Relax."

Her strokes were not fierce but sharp, landing like little explosions, and the pace was steady and the pain accumulated. Soon, the usual responses: the legs making regular kicks as if the boy were swimming and a steady murmur from his mouth that resembled a cat's meow. Meanwhile Miss Maxse, with an expertise acquired from discipline over troublesome 18 year olds in Kingbrooke Grammar in Sussex, was making a circle, around buttocks and upper thighs. They were steadily darkening. The kicking was harder, the meowing more resonant. Once she paused and did what she forced all the naughty 18 year old boys to do, here or back in the Home Counties: she asked him to spread his legs. He did. And he knew what he was revealing. Revealing shamefully to this female teacher. She feasted her gaze; the twinkling hole winked back at her. She smiled, and resumed the spanks.

When it ceased and he was told to rise, there was a damp spot on Mrs Maxse's skirt, clear fluid trailing from the tip of Tagore's still rigid member. The other women noticed. Noted.

Miss Favisham moved faster and harder, her hands larger and more square and, when they grew sore, she reached for her steel ruler. Aw! Its blows hurt him. The kicks were desperate now and Tagore even twisted in the lady's lap, throwing his stiff, damp member right into Beverly's line of vision. Her mind raced: she would get her turn. She would feel that...that thing, that "corker" and those "plums" pressed onto her thighs. Her insides melted, panties dampened but, seeing Miss Favisham's eyes dance and glitter, she knew she was not alone in this rich, warm delight.

And she was next.

The boy smelt her scented soap and...something else, a sharper, intimate odour, as he lowered himself over her knees. He knew that she could- must- feel his stiff penis as he edged his body into place. He felt her nervous shaking. When the first blow came he knew she had had no experience- she had never spanked a boy. Her slaps did not sting. And he sensed something else, too, namely that she was wanting to do this very much.This- this knowing- made him shift on her thighs, rhythmically, rubbing his penis into the curve of the leg. Rub, rub, rub. 

And he did something else: he parted his legs as wide as possible knowing what this would reveal: a bunch of scrotal sack like a tufted little balloon between his thighs and the twinkling, wrinkled, hairless hole in his bottom. Knowing she could see them made him more excited. He thought of being naked in front of these lady teachers. He thought of how they had seen every inch of his stiff penis. How they had seen it trailing fluid. How Miss Maxse had remarked on his big vein. How she had accused him of enjoying being nude in front of them....And he felt a big surge surging right up his penis stem.

Then Beverly Burrowes stopped. Time up.

He now faced his favorite, Miss Marsden-Smedley, his English teacher and noticed that she had assumed a white linen apron. Why had she put it on? Did she think that..? He lowered himself. Submissively- he already loved her- he tilted his bottom upwards. To invite her attention. This seemed to make her pause. With surprise at the gesture? With delight? Her hands then set to work vigorously. First they forcefully pried open his cheeks- he could have fainted with shame thinking what she was seeing through her grandmotherly glasses- and nearly did when she lent in and whispered, "Good boy. I see that you keep yourself clean down there where a lot of boys are dirty." He melted. He was her favorite; what a nice, kind lady, though, it must be said, a strict one.

Then she shoved his bottom and legs this way and that over her lap. Arranging and re-arranging, his penis rubbing across her apron with each movement. This made him want to melt yet again: he was totally helpless, under her control. Then for a moment her loose fingers trailed around his inter-gluteal crease where, earlier, as he had stood at her side, her hands had stroked and tickled. "Now you be a brave fellow," she instructed in a low voice. "Won't you, Tagore?" And he agreed he would, wriggling his erection over the curve of her thigh.

She started with a hard stinging explosive blow on the centre of his right buttock. "Ow!" he exclaimed and lifted his left cheek as if to ward off another blow. But with mastery she continued her remorseless pace. One mighty slam on the curve of his bottom started him rubbing his penis hard on her thigh...and, like clockwork- he could hardly believe it happening- she started moving her thigh, in time with his movements.

His excitement mounted. 

Her blows rained down. He rubbed harder with every one, even as he began panting little howls and kicked his protests, and she moved her thigh to tease his prick remorselessly. He thought of the sight he was presenting, and widened his thighs to let her see more, to let her see the little brown bag between his thighs, the speck of a spincter that these ladies seemed so eager to inspect. And in the lowest whisper she said,"Come on little fella...let it all come out...I know what you're wanting...wanting so badly..."

While she worked her thigh in time with the urgent rubbing of his erection.

It would have taken a boy made of iron to have resisted these mysterious feelings and Tagore was not such a boy. He rubbed harder- urgently, desperately- as his teacher lapsed into a mother's pidgin- a nursery monologue- that told him how silly he looked, and how she could see all his botty, and inside it too, and how silly boys were to get all hot and bothered about being naked in front of ladies and how they really liked it all the time and how there was nothing like a good old fashioned spanking and how....

His shoulders went first, that unmistakeable wobble as the lungs went into spasm. Then he went limp while he emitted urgent, desperate, little sobs. The spanking ceased. Miss Marsden-Smedley told him how brave he had been and stroked his hair and his dark brown bottom and he cried, totally limp and exhausted. He sensed that the other teachers were standing around.

His English teacher eased him to his feet. Her apron was sagging under the weight of his deposit. The fresh smell of the 18 year old's semen flavoured the air.

What a sight! His groin and tummy were webbed and plastered with his voluminous emission. His pubic bush was matted. His penis had subsided but trailed white fluid that hung down to his thighs. Standing close, the three teachers took it in, behind them Beverly dared to stare greedily.

"What a mess! " exulted Miss Favisham.

"What a spirited, naughty boy you are," teased Miss Maxse.

Miss Marsden-Smedley reached out and tousled his hair. "Oh you boys are so- so, silly. When we take your clothes off first you get so embarrassed.Then, so excited. You squeal and protest when we spank you. Then you realise you really like it. And finally- this!"

And she gestured to the mess all over him.

"Just look at you! Where did that all come from?"

The others chuckled.

The boy looked down helpless, and sobbed and laughed at the one time, as if agreeing with her indictment that he really was a silly young duffer while she continued to ruff up his hair, and he liked it all very much and wanted her to take him home with her and keep him naked and give him smacks when he was naughty. He had other silly thoughts, too, about her having friends around and him having to serve them tea and each of them getting to pet him and inspect him and share the spanking and all of them being so deeply interested when his penis spurted like it had a moment ago. Thinking these sweet thoughts made his penis fill out again. Miss Marsden-Smedley carefully removed her apron, sagging as it was with his generous deposit. She had to handle it as carefully as a maid with a brimming soup tureen in danger of sloping over the sides, and eventually she was able to use a corner to mop him up.

Miss Maxse proposed that Tagore should be made to visit them at least once a week-

- the boy felt a momentary disappointment that he had not heard her say "every day"-

-and remove his uniform and hang it in their closet, his underwear and shoes and socks too, and help the ladies with tasks like tea-making or sweeping or even, sitting down by someone's side, help with essay marking. Miss Maxse added that there was absolutely no need for him to keep clothes on during any of this. Being nude "would make it easier if Tagore needed a spanking from us like he did just now." 

His mind raced. Sit naked next to Miss Marsden-Smedley! Feel her fingers stroking his thighs or bottom! And, he thought, letting them all see his balls, his red glans, his penis downward bend, even inside his bottom. Instantly his penis reared up to project horizontal, although with its characteristic humpback, "tough as teak."

"Oh I think he likes that!" said Miss Favisham.

And looking at the erection the teachers laughed, except Beverly who just stared hypnotised, and Tagore laughed too, looking down at his projection. Laughed helplessly, with embarrassment and with pride.

Miss Marsden-Smedley said she would write a nice note that Tagore could take to the headmistress saying that the boy had been punished already.

"But before we let you go Tagore," she added. "Perhaps you could show us one thing- your raphe! Your scrotal raphe. Don't look so ignorant, it's the line that runs the middle of your testicles..."

And she reached over pointing with her finger at the underside of his balls.

Meanwhile, Beverly blurted.

"Goodness! Look at his 'plums'!"

And gulped at the secret knowledge she had shared. She blushed and wished she might swallow her words.

The others laughed. This young Beverly knew more than they might have thought.

The boy shyly pulled up his scrotum to let them inspect a prominent dark notch under the corkscrew curls and the ladies leant in close while King George and Queen Mary looked down from the wall at their loyal subjects. And seemed to puzzle.

Meanwhile back in the barn the tableaux presented itself. The girls were gathered in a semi circle, the boys, still naked, stood off to the side, shamed and downcast. Tagore clutched his note and moved closer; he joined his companions and peered over their nude shoulders. The view was frightful: on a long bale of hay a boy lay face down- he was the boy who had been first down the ladder, whose foreskin had so amused Sarah. Two girls bent over, pressing his upper body down, two at the other end holding his ankles, while Miss Maitland wielded a long thick belt- and right now brought it lashing down across the middle of the boy's dark brown buttocks. He shrieked as a broad silver line instantly appeared.

"How many is that boy?"

"Six, Miss," he panted through tears.

"And can he take any more, girls?

"NO! MISS! NO!" He shouted his protest, twisting to plead with her. His eyes brimmed tears.

"Girls, what do you think?"

"Oh, we think he can, Miss."

Still Sarah decided to inspect the damage, from the calves just above the ankles, all the way up over the back of the knees, across wide thighs that had held polo horses in their grip. She ordered him to spread his legs. No, more. And she appeared to bend over and inspect his globes or, more precisely, to peer between them. Some girls joined her.

"That's what is called the sphincter," she was saying, and she invited the other girls to move in to inspect the twinkling gray muscle with its delicate converging wrinkles. "No! Don't close your legs, boy!" And she delivered him a fierce slap which made him gasp. "Don't worry, he's shy...and doesn't know how absurd that makes him, all things considered, lying here like that." She went onto to tell the girls, who crowded closer, that the spincter was circular or ring-like and one of many such muscles on the body that regulate access to an internal organ. "It has been compared to the blowhole of a marine mammal..." she added, which made some girls laugh and the boy want to die, and his mates as well, as they watched. "For my own part I think it cousin to another part of a male's anatomy- another 'intimate' part- that this boy demonstrates in a pronounced degree. Roll over, boy!"

The boy objected which simply brought her belt down on his upper thighs and his inter-gluteal crease which made him howl. Quickly he rolled over, revealing a torso quilted from being pressed into straw and a soft, crumpled penis and loose sprawling scrotum. He suddenly resembled nothing as much as a naked male on a hospital bed in front of a half a dozen gawking trainee nurses and their instructor. In one ludicrous touch there was straw stuck in his pubic bush and- this looked hilarious- one piece emerging from his foreskin. Business-like Sarah reached for this offending item- he froze with terror- and plucked it out.

The foreskin, or its mouth, was in fact the feature Sarah wanted to discuss. It tapered and twirled and its wrinkled pout- what she had thought was like the spout of a tea pot- enabled the teacher to make her point about the puckering hole that had just enchanted them on the other side of his body.

"See: the mouth of the foreskin- cousin to the sphincter. So, so alike. So alike. My theory anyway."

The girls lent in for a good look. Sarah asked Wendy to pull the straw from the boy's pubic bush which she did carefully- almost lovingly- while he squirmed. The girls agreed that the pucker on the end of the foreskin did indeed have an uncanny resemblance to the pucker on the hole in his bottom, although some of them wanted to look longer and harder and discuss it before coming to this conclusion.

Meanwhile he melted.

Then it was time for him to roll over and bare his buttocks again.

"Miss...Miss...I really can't take any more," he husked.

"What do you think, girls?"

On the contrary they agreed he could take some more and so did Miss Maitland. The girls moved into place to press his shoulders into the straw and grip his ankles. She raised her belt again.

At the stable door Miss Beverly Burrowes appeared, under her fringed umbrella, like a distracted wraith, just as the squeal of the whipped boy echoed in the stable interior. She had slipped from the staff common room, she was headed home an hour earlier than normal. But she lingered just at the stables doorway, entranced. From this vantage point she saw a row of nude male bottoms- some recently punished, a sight so intimate and so boyish and so masculine that she felt weak- and the shilouette of two boys, yet to be punished, with rearing erections, one fairly grand and horizontal, one bashfully modest and upright.

Her excitement and resolve mounted: she would reach her shared bungalow before any of her housemates and have the gardener to herself before they came home.

The gardener was interesting. He was lithe and slender, apart from a powerful chest with very defined pectoral muscles, like one of the Greek statues Beverly had peered at in art histories when there was nobody around. He moved shirtless around the lawns and shrubs wearing only a short dhoti or loin cloth, close to nude, his body a lustrous caramel. He seemed a silent presence, hardly noticeable. Like a young Hindu deity, Shiva come to earth in the form of a beggar.

But one evening over the second gin Fanny Goodman, who shared the house, had told the most arresting story about him. She said their lissome gardener had been recruited from a Dhati temple, from a cult devoted to strangest, the most bizarre of all things: the cultivation of the male nipple as an organ of pleasure. On hearing this Beverly had gasped, blushed, looked astonished. Fanny grinning had passed a copy of Sir Richard Francis Burton's translation of the Karma Sutra and opened a page with a long footnote by Burton describing this cult.

Burton had written: "Do what your manhood bids thee: this, my guiding philosophy, has never found expression in anything like this confraternity. It is small, tiny even, perhaps with no more than 300 adherents, and represented only in parts of the Ganges region. This body of exclusively male converts takes literally verses out of Sanskritic texts from 400 BC to 200 AD. These lubricious follies, a 'scented garden' indeed, settle on the male nipple as the carnality command post, the trigger for all other impulses, offering more delight than the penis or anus or mouth. The nipple, then- the male nipple- as the ultimate erotic trigger but one demanding cultivation or training.




In the Days of the Raj Ch. 02



"This erotic heresy is built on an ascetic ritual of upper body exercises to enlarge chest muscles, to render pectorals as a kind of platform for expanded, stretched areolas and nipples. It recruits boys at 18 and the young devotees are committed to living in temple grounds in a state of nature- naked as the day that they were born- spending an hour each day wrestling one another and working on exercises designed to amplify their pectoral muscles to a pronounced degree. They work with weights and pulleys and perform push-ups. They also meditate in the courtyards, under the sun, to keep their bodies, shorn of all hair, as evenly brown as possible, this being seen as a heavenly token of health. 

"But the most defining discipline is that of the nipples: priests, also living naked, teach the boys to tease and stretch and torture this bodily part and for most of the day they wear pegs on them or ribbons wound tight, all the time repeating sacred mantras. I observed them applying suction caps for an hour a time to inflame both areola and nipple. Then the enlarged nipple is threaded into a tight rubber ring or a short tube that lengthens it into a tubular or conical shape. These may be worn for two hours or more.

"In the middle of the day the nipples are allowed to rest and recover before the procedure is repeated. Eventually the nipple is an elegant conical shape, projecting half an inch or more from the chest, further after manual or mechanical stimulation.

"It also assumes the most pronounced sensitivity so that after a few weeks of this training the young, trusting adherents live in a state of constant stimulation. In fact they become addicted to this pleasuring. They walk temple corridors and grounds with erections on full display. Even a brushed hand across their chest might produce a trembling excitement. 

"I was driven to the conclusion that the cult has settled on practices that render the nipples of young males nothing less than the masculine clitoris.

"The next chapter of training is even more extravagant and exotic. It recruits temple prostitutes. Two sit with each boy at stools arranged in a courtyard- each woman fully dressed, the boy nude- and each female strokes and flicks one of a boy's teats for up to 30 minutes, then pinches and tweaks them. As a special treat they lower their heads and lick and bite. The boys finally enjoy the most voluble and noisy ejaculations. These are collected on gold trays and offered to temple monkeys (although when I was present most of the monkeys just dipped their paws and stared apprehensively at the offerings, brought them by the priests.)

"Essentially the cult aspires, for the most obscure theological reasons, to foster ejaculation without resort to penetration either vaginal or anal or any manipulation of the penis. Meanwhile the boys develop larger and more defined chests, resembling Roman breastplates and fantastically extended and sensitive nipples, always able to deliver orgasms without reference to the penis.

"Being able to do this is regarded as a higher state of being, a capacity to live- not without sex- but without a dependence on the lascivious offerings of a damp and sweetened vagina. When they pass the acid test of producing frequent and easy orgasms through stimulation of the nipples the boys are released into the community and are expected to live according to temple principles, with wives each day manipulating their nipples to orgasm. They resort to the abomination of vaginal intercourse only for the obligation of procreation."

She read this and, shaking, returned the book to her pruriently grinning colleague. Beverly then contrived to move to the garden and position herself close to the boy who was digging a new flower bed. She saw that the story was true: his chest muscles were deep and defined- over-developed in proportion to his slender build- and emblazoned with areole like broad medallions that, in turn, projected long, tubular nipples. When he saw her looking- there could be no doubt what had caught her attention- he turned to face her, to let her gaze admiringly on his chest and its adornment. And indeed she stared fascinated. He smiled. He seemed proud of his chest and its natural jewellery, for that's what his nipples resembled. Plainly enjoyed her looking at it and them. She for her own part had gulped and blushed. Retreated.

Now Beverly left the school grounds, under her umbrella, walked down Coronation Parade, past the pink-veined sandstone Maharajah's City Palace with its parked 1910 Silver Ghost Rolls Royce and lounging Palace Guards with scarlet turbans. She walked past the neo-Gothic British Resident's home and the classical revival Secretariat Building. She threaded her way through the bullock wagons with their kerosene tins of water being delivered to the city to relieve the current drought. She waited for a camel caravan to clop past and crossed the dusty boulevarde and turned into a street of bungalows set in plush gardens.

At the gate of the Doric columned single storied home she shared with five other teachers she caught a view of the gardener trimming the hedge.

She thought for a moment. He was no innocent though his youth and lissome form suggested it. No, this boy had been used to walk nude in the temple and have his nipples stretched by priests; to wrestle his peers, all of them naked; to live with a peg or a suction cap torturing him into a realm of ecstasy; to have his chest buttons tweaked and twisted by temple prostitutes; and to know explosions from his nether regions, like those she had witnessed from Daniel the dairy boy and Tagore the spanked student, their milk sploshed and trailed before her. 

Sir Richard Burton, the notorious explorer and Orientalist, had witnessed and recorded this. Now she, Beverly Burrows, would enter The Perfumed Garden that others- her cousins Yvette and Lucille, all the lady teachers, the disciplined boys whose organs registered their appreciation of Miss Maitland's disciplinary regime- frolicked and danced in, all of them engaged in the wicked, teasing game of life, this Scented Garden of earthly delights from which she had been excluded. Up till now, up until this school and its headmistress, up till India.

Standing in front of him she again stared adoringly at his wide areole and jutting tubular nipples set on his breastplate torso, grander it seemed than last time. With a glance behind her she established that the garden was their's. His loin cloth, his diminutive dhoti, was barely decent; his near-nudity here, within her reach, was an outrage, an invitation anyway. 

With a deep breath she reached, and brazenly ran her palm across the boy's chest. His skin was warm and smooth. His perfect teeth showed an expression of deep pleasure. He had been waiting. He even showed relief that events only hinted at were now being unwound by the gods of fate. Something in his dhoti pushed forward and up. Not big by any means- not by the standard of Daniel in the Dorset dairy or Tagore in the staff room- but certainly noticeable.

They found themselves in his quarters, part toolshed, part storeroom with bedding in a corner. Their were lurid portraits of Hindu deities stuck to the wall. A smell of spices and garden, of fresh earth. One trembling, exploring hand loosened his garment and it unspooled by itself. For seconds it hung suspended like the loin cloth in a Durer crucifixion and then dramatically fluttered to the floor. He stood unencumbed. Yes, he was evenly brown all over. His privates were of delicate proportion, compatible with his slender form. In fact with relief she noted his penis was petite, half the length of Daniel's, a third of Tagore's- narrow too, and no humpback here, and standing up and out at 45 degrees with a slight point to the right. It was like all of him, evenly brown. The sun of temple courtyards had kissed him all over even while one special part of him had been twisted and coaxed.

She looked at the small scrotal bag that fell below it. Again with relief she noted the smallness of his "plums," marbles really. How sweet! Exactly what she had desired without knowing what she had desired. No threat here, equipment delineated by a god with the finest of brush strokes.

A pearl of moisture formed on the brown penis head.

Gently she touched his shoulder, eased him to sit on a low stool.

The naked boy planted his bottom and smiled up at her. She looked him over.

They jutted from the areole, yes, easily a half inch. Tubular. Like bullets. Brown pleasure buttons, clearly. Yes, the male clitoris, as long as her own. They seemed to be inviting her to touch them, to stroke and tickle, to squeeze and twist, like a priest training his naked young acolyte or a temple prostitute leading him to unknown pleasure.

He looked up, calm.

The projections, she might have sworn, extended further, invited her touch, her grip.

Her hand extended. 

His eyes closed.

"I will make you spurt your milk, my little darling," she heard an inner voice say. And started! It was not her voice! Whose voice was it, inside her, thinking such a thought? Clearly the voice of Sarah Maitland with her pursuit of Total Clothing Deprivation for young males, of Harriet Hester Marsden-Smedley with her passion for inspecting a naked boy's "scrotal raphe," of Julia Maxse prying open poor Tagore's buttocks and peering inside while he sprawled over her lap. Their voices now possessed newly-arrived Beverly Burrowes. She had been led into this world.

Her fingers extended. They picked at two ripe male nipples. She heard a little sigh. She squeezed.

The torch had been passed. She had stepped into her future.

In her office, curtains drawn, Sarah sat . Still reflecting, after the events in the stables, those fabulous events. She had letters on her desk.

One was from the recruitment agency in London. The astonishing fact was that three male teachers were on the way to her. She looked at the photos. There was George Applewhite, 23, square faced, absolutely boyish and with floppy hair looking like he had just emerged from his bath. Yes, the five foot seven tall youth was naked, photographed at the West End studio Sarah had used in the old days. How he had protested, when Miss Aurelia Flint had told him that nudity was not to be denied, this was the invariable practice, the school rules meant he would not otherwise get the job. Miss Flint, the photographer, had outlined all this in her letter as she knew Sarah would want such detail. Including that George's mother, aunt and sister had been present. 

Miss Flint reported he had shed his clothes in the end- the loss of his underwear had brought him to actual tears- but his mother had insisted he obey. After all, George was lame, his left foot shorter than its partner, the army not available and a young civilian, lame or not, made to feel very uncomfortable on the home front. His family needed him to earn a salary teaching in India and not stay at home drinking tea and feeling sorry.

Sarah focused carefully. Despite the family audience, or perhaps because of it, George had been roused to full stand erection; Miss Flint delivered some swift manipulation with cold cream or Vaseline when she leant close for the groin view, to arouse the penis and snap pictures both profile and head-on of the engorged member. Miss Flint had faithfully drawn her tape measure along his dorsal side and the result was a stubby four and a quarter inches. Still, decidedly thick. George's foreskin had become a concertina, contracted into a few folds squashed beneath the corona and his sac had withdrawn into thick hair. 

The front-on view of his erection featured the thickest cluster of frenulum bunching she had ever seen. She made a mental note to inspect it closely when he presented for his medical examination on arrival in India, it being a formality now that, with doctors hauled off to help India's million-strong army in France, the headmistress would perform all medical inspections for new staff.

In the full body photos George had a compact manly physique, a dusting of fine, dark hair between chest muscles. His face recorded shock and shame. He had asked his family to leave. They had firmly declined.

The other recruit was tall and athletic, wearing spectacles, his name Thomas Cowgill- goodness, Sarah read on, his application mentioned family in India, a cousin at the adjacent girls' college. That was Wendy Cowgill who had lead a naked boy through the stables today and been in the front line of excited participating females. Meanwhile his penis size was catastrophically small and a perusal of the papers confirmed that undeveloped genitals had been the grounds for his rejection from war service. "Relentless taunting by peers presents a danger of suicidal depression" was the board's decision. Sarah was skeptical, thought that this decision of the board must have been won by influence or outright bribe.

Everything about his physique except this one detail conspired to make young Thomas a hero: he was handsome, tall, broad shouldered, his body nearly as free of hair as if shaven by Majorie back in Miss Maitland's St Johns Wood establishment. All the more shaming that his member punched out at what Miss Flint reported a mere three inches, while his facial expression looked stunned. Apparently a maiden aunt had brought him to the studio and had been adamant that he would strip, allow Miss Flint and her maid Sadie to position him (and stimulate him) even herself participated in the exercise with tape measure. Against the painted backdrop of English fields and flowers his nudity looked especially shocking, fraught, vulnerable.

Sarah resolved that she would consult Miss Cowgill. Befriend the girl, share intimacies, quizz her about her impressions of the boys- go into details here- and then talk about this Thomas Cowgill, her cousin, excluded from war service for a most interesting problem. "Here, I think the photos tell the story..." Imagine the shame the boy would feel when, fresh to India, it dawns on him that his most intimate secret has been shared and not just with his cousin but all the female staff, Sarah's secretary, all his cousin's school friends.

His medical examination would be most arousing and there would have to be participation by others- his cousin as a trainee nurse, for example, other girls, teachers. While Sarah had only rarely practised enema as punishment something about George and Thomas suggested it. A general stepping-up of her discipline was called for, certainly Total Clothing Deprivation would be applied to these new male teachers who would like all new recruits sometimes fail Sarah's standards.

And why would not all her Indian students be subjected to full photographic registration at the start of each year? The demand on staff time would be great but think- she now had the girls from the college joining the school who might be recruited to help. Just think: bulging files that documented how Indian 18 year olds looked nude and erect. And with a wildly inappropriate painted canvas backdrop showing an English pastoral scene.

Talking of her English precedents there was a third new recruit and she knew him intimately: Nicholas Elliot, the boy who had been in her disciplinary establishment at St John's Wood and enjoyed, relished, being made to stand nude before the ladies to show a "normal" erection in contrast to Louie's case of Peyronie's Disease. The boy who had objected to being denied this duty. The boy who had liked it so much in the end he was erect the moment he entered the room. Who had stood tall and proud looking straight ahead so the ladies could gape at his perfect erection. 

He had been at war, fighting the Ottomans in the Middle East, serving with Lawrence of Arabia. He supplied his own photos, taken in front of the Pyramids, a dozen delicious shots of him stark naked and stiff as a poker, from every angle. Even bending over, bottom to camera, with his hands drawing back his cheeks. Now with a shoulder injury and retired with honor, he was seeking to join her staff.

Why not? 

In his last days in her London establishment he had become naughtier, provocative, defiant. She had taken to visiting him every morning in his bedroom where she would roll down his covers, ask him to loosen his pyjamas and lie with a pillow under his middle. Then she would give him some hard smacks with her hand, later with a ruler, "to set him up" for the day. Before long he would greet her out of bed and she would sit on its edge and untie his pyjama bottoms, wriggle him out of them, face his taut erection and ease him over her lap. 

Later still he would greet her each morning with his bottoms removed, his penis reared. Later still she opened his bedroom door to find him stark naked and, of course, ramrod stiff. While she noticed his penis was oozing clear fluid, it was also true her own groin had been lubricated since waking as thought of pleasure flooded her mind.

One morning not long after his first nude appearance- oh, it was hard in retrospect to tell how these things happen- she had sat in a low armchair with him kneeling between her spread legs, leaning forward to slap his bottom with a Badmington paddle. He seemed wildly agitated this day, not even bothering to hide his excitement, and his stem was pressed hard at her lap. She had long forgone underwear for these morning sessions and it was a small gesture to ease her skirts back along her thighs. Before long with each blow to his buttocks Elliot's glans, then part of his stem, was probing the entrance to Sarah's hot and steamy cave. Normal instinct carried the day and she pushed her whole pelvis forward and, with the next slap, the kneeling boy had penetrated her. 

Up to the hilt.

She saw his eyes pop with pleasure. And pain- as she delivered another blow with her paddle.

Her explosion quickly followed his.

This had become, in one variation or another, their morning routine until Elliot's father recalled him to Eton.

Years pass, she reflected, and he asks to join her staff in India.

His arrival was three months off, German cruiser activity- the Eden had been very active in the Bay of Bengal- permitting.

In the meantime there were distractions, like today's lovely theatre in the stables.

And the follow up.

She shuffled the photos and letters into a file to consign to her locked cupboard. She noted the tape measure was before her, also the jar of Vaseline, the swishy cane in the corner and a Badmington paddle on a chair. The stage was set, the cast- the cast of two- assembling.

She checked her silver ladies key-wound pocket watch.

There was a knock at the door.

It was Tagore, bathed and dressed, appearing as instructed, his punishment postponed on account of the note.

Postponed but not cancelled.

Another knock, tentative, hoping. Yes, insistent.

She rose. Tonight would be devoted to commanding scale, a humpback, a huge anchoring dorsal vein. Other things. Like a flaming red tip, like a capacious bag with plums. Ugly, imperfect. Ideal proportions and shape could wait. Another three months, German naval activity permitting.

It was time.



In the Days of the Raj



"Now turn around, Asoka," Sarah instructed. When he complied it was clear his embarrassment had subsided. The copper head could barely be glimpsed, again retreating into its brown cloak. 

Asoka's behavior changed from that day. He could never look the female staff in the eyes - as if he were afraid of inviting their knowing smiles (such smiles would have been searing) - let alone challenge their authority. The trauma of his stripping and humiliation guaranteed the most cautious behavior in classroom and on playing field. Oh, how he sought to avoid those terrible moments ever being repeated...as when his white underpants made their slow descent while Miss Plimmer stared right at his privates, or the hour nude outside, with the sideways peeping of the secretary or the fascinated stares of maids and teachers, or the awful experience of his wayward member stretching, and lengthening, and rising and going completely stiff to stand slap bang, up against his belly.

Traumatized by punishment under conditions of Total Clothing Deprivation, Asoka was now subservient and submissive.

Sarah was seeing a theory emerge from hypothesis.

Under her direction the TCD regime quickly became school policy. The standard procedure for discipline was as follows. If a boy was found misbehaving the teacher was required to take him to the most convenient site - dormitory or refectory or library - and have him disrobe completely. Sarah left optional whether the youth was to remove all his clothes under the direction of his teacher; or whether the female in charge was to remove his clothes herself. It was up to the teacher and her mood at the time. Most shifted between the two approaches.

The errant boy was then escorted with the teacher holding him firmly by the ear through sometimes crowded corridors to the Principal and was told to stand waiting outside the door to her secretary's office. This rapidly became the crux of the new punishment regime. Totally nude, the boy could be here an hour or more until Sarah was ready. At this time his teacher was summoned to join her and the boy. Sometimes after a full recounting of his offenses she would give him a stern rebuke. Other times she would administer a caning or a spanking with a hair brush. Sometimes she would grant this duty to the teacher with the boy over a chair or her lap. At all times the boy's nakedness was emphasized - he would be told how naughty and silly he looked and asked whether he thought his mother or sisters would want to see him in this state - and his humiliation drawn out. Other teachers or passing maids would be given the chance to witness. A visiting mother or sister of another boy could be invited in.

But the key was the total nudity of the corridor. There was rarely a time when there was no naked boy there, sometimes there could be a dozen queued up. They were completely open to viewing by maids, teachers, female visitors to the school.

Some of the 18 year olds would stand against the wall, hands placed over genitals, head drooped. Others felt they did not have this option, either because the size of their organs or an involuntary "engorgement" meant their hands could not provide enough cover. They therefore pressed themselves face-first into the wall. This, Sarah learnt, was not a happy alternative. In Indian culture displaying a nude posterior was frightfully shameful and it guaranteed being cruelly mocked by the maids. Other boys tried combinations of the above. She once saw a boy standing side-on to the wall but with one leg raised and bent so his raised thigh, parallel to the floor, covered his middle. He really did look very funny - like a yogi - and Sarah and a colleague laughed heartily when they saw him and saw his shame deepen further.

Once or twice a week Sarah would be pitiless and decree that, standing in the corridor, punished students would have to present themselves back to the wall, hands clasped behind - like Asoka. No concession to modesty. Occasionally every boy would be sporting an engorgement, hard as armor.

On such days word would spread fast. Even the kitchen staff might drift into that section of the corridor eager to feast their eyes, to the almost-fainting embarrassment of the nude schoolboys. The maids could be counted on to discover pressing cleaning tasks near the door, lingering over polishing the floor as if painting the Sistine. And regularly glancing up, with wicked grins, to catch the eye of a denuded youth. And then they would slowly reinforce his shame with piercing looks moving all over his stripped-off body. Or a young teacher, just recruited from Manchester or Glasgow - and stimulated by the tropical nights - might keep remembering to return a book or check timetables or run other errands in this vicinity. And she could be counted on to dart inquisitive glances at the top-to-toe nudity on display. Dark-skinned or coffee-colored, the boys stood like sentries, part of their anatomy pointed stubbornly skyward.

On one famous occasion a month into the experiment there were eight boys in the corridor, all back to the wall and all in this condition. It had caused bawdy giggling from the maids. Chemistry teacher Cora Wrightworth, with the risqué humor of a divorced 55 year old, surveyed the line-up as she swept down the corridor. "Like a line of hat racks!" she quipped. "Mahogany hat racks!"

Sarah deprecated such humor. The involuntary erection was such a core part of the punishment regime, of this ritual she was devising, she could brook no lightheartedness. The erections embodied their own shame and humiliation. A disapproving or contemptuous glance was enough to heighten it. Nothing need be said.

Still the sari-clad maids found it lasciviously entertaining. They would laugh aloud at the ridiculous contortions of the males in the corridor, at those desperate attempts at modesty. On days when Sarah had ordered that all queuing boys stand back to the wall, fully and cruelly exposed, they would be seen exchanging discerning comments about boys and their characteristics, pointing at favorites or those they considered funny. If a boy was waiting alone he was likely to be surrounded by a party of maids taunting and teasing before a teacher sent them off on their duties giggling loudly. The maids soon became as familiar with senior boys' bottoms and genitals - their size, shapes, colors and tendency to inflate - as they were their faces.

Visitors to the school were often in for a treat. Once three rosy-cheeked English schoolgirls had been invited by Sarah to inspect the college's excellent stables and they arrived at the Principal's office wearing jodpurs and riding caps and clutching riding crops. They were frisky and mischievous and were thrilled to see one of the darkest skinned boys waiting nude. He had been ordered to stand back to the wall with the threat of the caning of his life - and hands behind his back. To heighten his shame, his black organ with its brown tip was already half roused.

Did he go naked all the time, one of the damsels asked. Was this how he was punished at home as well? Oh my goodness, do your sisters get to see you like this? Your sisters! What, with all your clothes removed? Don't you feel terribly ashamed? 

Knowing they were guests of the Principal he was obliged to answer them politely, all the time back to the wall, hands behind. Yes, eyes downcast, he confirmed he was punished like this at home. Yes, on those occasions his younger sisters and the older one got to see him. Also female cousins. There were eight, no nine. Plus aunts. Yes, and friends of his sisters. Yes, girls your age. Yes, with all clothes removed. It did make him very ashamed. Yes, it made him feel like he wanted to die.

Emboldened, their questions continued, growing more cunning. What did he do with the dangly bits when he went riding? What were the Hindi terms for those things there? No, for the stick thing? For the little sack? Did he know the English slang? Had he hear the expression...( with a hush )..."cock and balls"... (much giggling.) 

Then one girl, who had kissed her share of cavalry officers in the last year, started making lascivious movements with her tongue. The boy's member rose all the way, as if jerked back by an invisible string. They were close to teasing it with their riding crops when Sarah arrived. She was happy to linger as the young ladies continued their verbal fun at the unhappy lad's expense.This was her theory in practice. The boy would never be the same.

For nearly half an hour he had been teased and taunted and, it must be conceded, there was a large element of racial superiority in the girls' behavior.

On another occasion a committee of Englishwomen engaged in war projects visited the school to work in its library. With bonnets and parasols, in dresses of white crepe or embroided linen, with their colorful silk shawls, the memsahibs presented a stark contrast to the six stripped-to-the-buff youths they encountered in the corridor. It was a day when Sarah was not enforcing back-to-the-wall standing and the nude students were free to twist and contort themselves, desperate to shield their exposed privates. Indeed their anguished facial expressions and their pirouetting were a comic delight. 

Certainly the ladies thought so, as they lingered in good humor for up to an hour. "Why! You boys are bare as boards!" one had exclaimed. "Naked as the day you were born!" Chimed another: "Yes, all of you without a stitch! You must be embarrassed in front of these maids! And I bet you didn't want to see us!" Followed by much laughter. Then the ladies wanted to know why they stood desperately pressing their fronts into the wall. "Goodness, what have you boys to hide? Don't tell us - you're just frightfully shy!"

Frankly, with husbands off at war, they had every reason to relish some male nudity and did everything to catch a glimpse of the boys' fronts, pressing close to the wall themselves and peering sideways. They made many comments on the shapliness of the boys' bottoms, on their smallness and tightness, some muscular and some soft, how some were dusted with hair and some smooth as eggs. The boys wriggled into the wall in agonies of shame. Beyond the English ladies, dark-skinned, sari-clad maids giggled at the humiliation of the young Brahmins.

It was only one more step for one of the bolder women to move in close and gently stroke the bottom of one of the boys. "Oh my!" She teased, "How very tight! You must play a lot of sport!" And gave him more strokes, turning to surreptitious tickling. But all she got to see, for her cunning teasing, was the brown frame press even flatter into the wall. And the poor lad's features grimace in agony, looking at her pleadingly.

Her friends came forward and each chose a boy for the same treatment. One of the ladies wore white pig-skin gloves, the fingers of which had a raised seam. She ran three gloved fingers around the upper thigh of one golden-skinned boy, then over the crease of his posterior, then round the globes themselves, then brazenly, in small quick flickering patterns, up his side and about his ribs. All the time looking at his profile with a wistful faraway smile. "Oh please, Miss, no tickles, Miss!" he begged her to stop. "No, no, no! Don't want touching bottom, oh please, Miss! Oh no, please!"

Another bold lady stood behind a youth - so close her rose-flavored perfume filled his nostrils - and began kneading both his buttocks, massaging the muscular glutes firmly, round and round. In protest, he began thrusting his posterior back as if to repel her insinuating touches, then forward, then assumed a rhythm, rubbing his front into the wall. All the while, gurgling a low protest, "Oh no, Ma'm, no...don't tickle me on rear... please dear Miss..."

Inspired, another lady stood behind a dark-skinned student and, with both arms almost embracing him, lightly ran all 10 fingers up and down his thighs, the parts closest to the wall, playfully...delicately...running them up and down. "Oh, no...no...no...Miss, please, will give me engorgement...you must stop now, Miss...I don't want but I am getting..."

He was twisting and contorting, close to tears. But he and his six naked mates - even as they begged their tormentors to cease - were done for.

The Principal came out to see the fuss. Beaming, she ordered all the boys to stop being so foolish and turn and face her. They groaned - they were shy and she had to threaten the cane. Slowly the boys turned outward. The maids squealed and the English visitors gasped.

This was certainly an instance where the secret centre of the male being was exposed. Each of the six was sporting an iron-hard erection. Pointing and, yes, engorged, as if to honor the female audience. One penis very dainty, like a cocktail sausage. Then a large one that stuck out parallel to the floor - too heavy to stand but nonetheless completely stiff. One modest one that veered off apologetically to the right. One only about three inches but thick as a cucumber. One that was very slim but with an overlarge head and, under the crown, thick bunched folds of loose skin ("very ugly" - was the unspoken verdict of several of the women). And one that was average length, broad but small headed. A head like one of those garden snakes, one woman thought. Each was dribbling a clear fluid, indeed the smallest - belonging to the boy who had been driven to massage himself into the wall - was positively slimy.

Then there were the testicles: most had vanished into the projecting flesh but the big boy's sack still hung, with heavy folds that reminded one lady of ribbed arches on a Gothic ceiling. In it, lolled two arrogant stones. Heavy and threatening. Very manly, thought the lady with the pig-skin gloves.

Behind, the maids were craning and giggling cruely.

The ladies' chuckled. Each was making comparisons with her husband and - in some lucky cases - a son, whose privates had been glimpsed during spankings or inspected during bathings. The Principal beamed proudly, her strategy in action.

The Brahmin boys hung their heads. Even with eyes averted, they could FEEL the white womens' eyes ravishing them, roaming all over their skin. The maids' cunning, mocking brown eyes as well. 

Then one lady proposed that Sarah should require punished boys to mount a cricket game - in this condition - that might become a war charity event. "My dear, let me assure you there would be no difficulty selling tickets. Every Englishwoman in north India would be there!" Another suggested, given the servant shortage, boys being allocated to serve like this for an evening in their homes. Lease out the errant boys, to be punished naked, serving in our dining rooms. "Oh, how exquisite, Sarah! Do consider it!" Smiling, Sarah said she thought both suggestions had merit. For the time being, though, she would allow the boys to escort the ladies to the library where, still nude, they could address envelopes under their direction.

Six naked and aroused boys padded off down the corridor, each in step with one of the fashionably attired females.

On these occasions the worst nightmare of upper caste youth were realized: while English ladies and girls relished their nakedness, over their shoulders low caste maids laughed at their disgrace.

As for the teachers Sarah was struck by the alacrity of the older ones in enforcing new rules. The spinsters, as she thought of them, threw themselves into TCD as if the whole British war effort depended on it. If she were in the mood, for example, Cora Wrightworth, the chemistry instructor, might find that up to three boys in a single period had offended school rules. She veered to doing the undressing herself, unbuttoning shirt buttons and unbuckling belts. She undressed them as if they were five year olds. She once confided to Sarah she found undressing an 18 year old for the first time was like unwrapping a Christmas present. 

Not surprisingly she favored a painfully slow removal of trousers and, when only underpants were left, her subsequent actions were ritualistic. Crouching or kneeling before a brown skinned lad, invariably taller then herself, she would look up into his eye and remind him how offensive he had been. Her fingers playing at his elastic waistbands were like creeping spiders. A boy might feel his pants - last shield of his self-respect - descend an inch before she paused and continued her lecture. Then another inch. And another. Next the timberline of pubic hair might be revealed. The boy nearly fainted with shame and her commentary resumed. The final descent, when it came, was always slow, with the genitalia coming into view bit by bit. Inches from her face....

The youth's shame, as he stepped out of the underpants, was total.

In her classroom she favored making her boys stand, hands behind back, until the end of her lesson. Some felt aggrieved that they seemed to be her regulars, and without just cause. And indeed she savored some of the boys' peculiarities. Ramash could be counted on to develop a rock-hard erection within minutes of losing his pants and it stayed that way all the time he was standing at the rear of the classroom. As a result nearly every lesson he found himself being singled out for the slightest transgression. And on cue, within minutes and to his teacher's delight, his apparatus would stretch, stiffen and jerk to a cast-iron 45 degrees.

When he was marched to the corridor he proved a great favorite of the maids.

Or Amesh who, notwithstanding his athletic build, knew his black, uncircumcised penis was petite - no, very small. Like a black worm, lolling on the tight little sack. He hated the exposure before his school mates. He suspected he had the smallest among them. He showered carefully and had kept it from their gaze. Yet his chemistry teacher seemed to take a singular pleasure in slowly divesting him of his underwear while he stood stock still in front of all his classmates. And drawing the whole thing out. And making him stand there as long as possible.

Again, the maids came to know his cute diminutive genitalia as well as they knew his handsome facial features. 

In view of Cora's cruel focus on Ramash and Amesh, another boy, Prasan, thought he may have escaped her attention. He knew he was less prepossessing than other boys. Almost ugly. He was short, his skin pale rather than golden. Perhaps this was why he had never been stripped by his teachers. But at the end of one lesson a test tube slipped from his grip and smashed on the floor. Irritated, Cora perfunctorily told him to stay behind and, this time, let the indicted boy remove his clothes himself while she bustled around the empty classroom tidying up. When she turned her attention to him he was nude and waiting his fate, hands clasped in front. Her prurience led her to inspect him and she became suddenly interested. His penis - rising to the occasion - was a broad six inches but veered dramatically to the left. She had never seen one like it.

She ran her hand up its shaft and over the glans. The bend was decisive. She was fascinated, 

A thought occurred to her. "Prasan, do you commit self abuse?"

His hang-dog silence told her he was guilty as charged.

"When you commit this act do you use your left or right hand?"

He muttered that he used his left.

Full of righteous anger she marched him nude and fully erect through the corridors - there were gasps and giggles from maids and intense staring from teachers - up a flight of stairs, across the refractory and into the Principal's precinct. The Principal was returning to her office from an inspection. Standing in the corridor in the hearing of Miss Plimmer and two teachers, and in the sight of three maids, Sarah began interrogating the now-wretched youth about the disaster of his masturbatory rites. How often did he do it, when had the practice started, where did he perform the act and did he have degrading thoughts about women at the time? His stammering replies did not satisfy her. He was dealt an hour a day of nude corridor punishment for a fortnight. Because of his peculiarity he became for a time a special favorite of the maids.




In the Days of the Raj



Sarah Maitland accepted Dr Freud's observation that masturbation was "the universal addiction." She practiced it herself, with abandon. Assumed all her teachers did, young and old. More fool they if they didn't. But the widespread guilt about the pastime - the sin of Onan, a draining of reproductive energies and so on - meant it was too good a chance to pile on more male shame. Call it Plato's "noble lie" but the fiction that it was a vile male offense was too useful to miss.

Hence at a meeting of the entire staff in the common room Prasan had to present himself naked while Miss Maitland lectured on the evils of the "solitary vice" - with many references to the prevailing literature, illustrated as well by reference to the boy's misshapen organ. His embarrassment was excruciating. Which is what his Principal wanted. Then she made him move among the 20 seated female teachers while she urged them to handle his penis and examine it close up. Cora led the way with long gentle appreciative strokes along the entire shaft, looking intently at it and saying,"Ummmmm. Most interesting." Prasan's eyes glazed over.

Some of the new recruits handled it guardedly around its curious end. The look on their faces as they ran tentative fingers along the bend in Prasan's engorged organ was shy and self-conscious but also...eager, keen not to miss the experience. One in particular couldn't resist an exploration of the testicles. They were soft and vulnerable, only gently furred, and she was curious about the small balls. And she was intrigued by the pronounced seam that divided them, as if the little bag had been stitched up. Her name was Emily Macintosh and she had never touched a man's privates. Her touching probably lingered longer than appropriate and her strokes nearly made Prasan swoon with a mix of emotions in which intense shame and sensual pleasure predominated. It   guaranteed his organ stayed stiff. 

It was only one more step to have the boy take a seat in the middle of the meeting and require him to demonstrate his self-pleasuring. He took his organ - yes, in his left hand - very uncertainly but, with more encouragement, fell into quick regular movement. He had been so excited by the exposure, the intense, heated looks from the young teachers especially, that he exploded very fast. The white fluid which had shot onto his brown chest reminded more than one of chocolate and cream desert. They hungrily watched him walk from their midst when bidden by Sarah, led by a maid given the job of soaping him off in the communal bath room. They savored the parting glimpse of the naked bottom at the door. For him, for some of them, the episode would be etched in memory for life.

Sarah gave one of her youngest recruits, Emily MacIntosh - as it happened - the job of visiting Prasan in his dormitory at six each morning. She was to fold down the sheet and untie the boy's pajama pants and draw the front flaps aside. She was to carefully inspect Prasan's private parts for tell-tale signs and, almost thread by thread, his pyjamas and sheets. She received from Sarah the most explicit description of these duties in which Sarah had had years of experience. Indeed Prasan was summoned to the office and the two practiced on him. It was to be part of the girl's training. The routine was to be daily, for the rest of the boy's time in the school.

Within some days of the routine Emily noticed a change in the 18 year old's behavior. Instead of being shamed and embarrassed Prasan was now ready and excited for his early morning inspections. When Emily draw back the sheet Prasan was stark naked, his pajamas in a neat pile under his pillow. He was ready for her and in a state of arousal - always a clear fluid leaking from the tip of his member - and his eyes shining at the prospect of being handled. When Emily took tentative hold of his organ, as instructed, Prasan would start clenching and unclenching his midriff, making it move in her grasp, looking her brazenly in the eyes. 

The first time he engaged in this wanton behavior Emily withdrew her hand in distaste. But subsequently, she let her hand linger. She liked holding the tube of flesh nearly as much as the little pouch under it. Grew to like it when he moved his member up and down within her grip. One morning she found...panting with excitement...she was pleasuring the cheeky boy. Couldn't resist, probably because the young man was enjoying her touch so deeply. Beaming and sighing and closing his eyes with pleasure. 

Each morning Emily would masturbate Prasan.

Then she would lovingly mop up the emissions that lay on his stomach and chest with his pajama top or bottoms. Sent to the laundry each morning they would provide confirmation that his self-abuse was a continuing problem that required her supervision.

The plain, pale boy with the embarrassing shape to his penis was loving this attention.

"I love you, Miss MacIntosh," he told her.

And the young woman was his devotee. She would stroke Prasan's naked body all over. He might be stretched out, arms curved luxuriously above his head like a dog wanting his tummy tickled. She would indeed tickle his tummy, then his chest, his ribs, his armpits, his groin...and up and down his thighs. His inner thighs, up and down, got the most attention since this seemed to make him coo with pleasure. And always, lovingly, those curious testes - the soft fabric of which intrigued her, as did the little balls, the pronounced seam. 

She would always pretend to find dried sperm on his penis or in his shiny black pubic bush - Sarah had coached her to examine the boy here - so she could say, "You naughty boy! I know what you've been doing!" Then she would roll him onto her lap and give him the gentlest of spankings before turning him over and bringing him to his delicious daily climax. 

He whispered a request that shocked her so deeply she could think of no reason to decline. In the otherwise deserted dorm she looked over her shoulder... and then slowly unbuttoned her blouse and lowered her bra. She let flop forth one ample, ivory-white breast. As Prasan gaped, she fed its huge pink nipple into his eager mouth. He licked, sucked and nibbled like a ravenous infant. He purred like a kitten. His upright member throbbed. For her part, she luxuriated in a pleasure she never thought she'd know. It became part of their morning ritual, usually after the tickling and the "pretend" spanking, sometimes with him sitting on her lap like her big baby boy, slurping at what they both called her "titties." While she fondled his very stiff, decisively bent organ and tickled what they now called his "naughty little ballocks.".

Sarah was not to find out for a year - it came in a gush of a confession from the girl - how easily her theory had been subverted. Miss MacIntosh confessed more. How Prasan had invited her to spend the holidays with his family - his father had been briefed by Sarah on Prasan's "secret vice" - in their sprawling house in the hills. How on the first night he had climbed the window naked and had curled up by her side. How it soon became her turn to have her body tickled all over while she entered a hypnotic state. How they began making love in her bed, every night. How she had shyly kept her nightdress on to shield her body from his eyes. How he had inserted himself inside it, to slurp at her breasts and nestle his crooked penis into her very lubricated passageway. It was like having a big puppy dog inside her nightie, pleasuring himself, pleasuring her.

She told how one day she had opened a poetry book and her eyes had fallen on a piece by John Donne in praise of full nakedness. "Full nakedness, all joyes are due to thee./ As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be/ To taste full joyes." She told Sarah that that night Prasan crept in through the window and drew back Emily's sheet to view, for the first time, her youthful fleshy form without her nightie. She was lying, fingering herself with anticipation. He had reeled with excitement and had ejaculated immediately - all over her white belly. Then they tasted "full joyes" till the dawn.

She told how he had brought a copy of a steamy book called The Kama Sutra from his father's library and insisted they tried all the things it described. And how Emily had found herself enjoying it more and more, wishing she had tried these things sooner in her life. But how each morning she would still visit him, back in his own room, for signs of self-abuse. They would still not surrender that morning ritual. The tickles, the breast feeding, the gentlest of spankings. The bringing to orgasm - perhaps the boy's fourth or fifth since night had fallen the day before - swift and sweet.

By the time of the teacher's confession Prasan had graduated with his matriculation and was off at Oxford. His father was a donor to the school and a strong supporter of Miss Maitland's strategies. All in all, Sarah thought it best to let the whole matter drop and undertook to help her young teacher meet the first Englishmen available.

But during the lurid confession the Principal's eyes had swum. She had found she was tightening her thighs, that her own vagina was growing very moist and her throat dry. Emily left and she sat at her desk and looked at the elephant tusk. Her thoughts wandered, and then focused: she stroked the tusk...and imagined what Prasan and Emily had looked like when they were doing the things she had talked about. She imagined their naked bodies locked together. She imagined the boy slurping at her nipples, the girl riding him on top gasping and moaning with ecstasy, the two of them making love standing up or sitting or crouching or upside down...The wicked little book, after all, was part of her own secret archive. She thought of Prasan's shapely penis and how the teacher must have enjoyed its entry to her passage each night. Several times each night, from what Emily had said.

That night she would unlock her treasure trove of secret literature. Yes, she would plunge into those secret gardens. She stroked the tusk, harder.

Sometimes, however, the young women, newly recruited to take the jobs of male teachers, were paralysed with shyness. Or seemed that way. Felicity Callow, only 21, taught geometry to senior boys and nine months into the new regime had not stripped and presented for punishment a single male. She was the only member of the teaching staff in this position. Indeed Sarah had noticed the pale, bespectacled girl even avert her gaze from the exposed males lined-up in the corridor.

"Oh goodness, Miss Maitland, I couldn't - just couldn't. Oh no, not that, no."

Sarah wondered for a moment whether there was an element of...what? Does the lady protest too much? Was she really averting her gaze in the corridors? Or had she been sneaking the most furtive of looks?

Anyway, it transpired she came from a family of three girls, raised in a community dominated by chapel and an aversion to drink, tobacco and swearing. Her school teaching in Scotland had not involved any experience in discipline of boys. Not a glimpse of a bare bottom or use of cane. Her plainess implied she had never "walked out" with a man and had no expectation of ever doing so.

"Give me the name of one of your boys who deserves punishment," insisted Sarah. This made her young colleague furrow her brow. "Well," she said, "I suppose there's Raj. He is a very fine boy. But recently very willful. For a week just not completing any assignments. Funny. Almost looking at me for a response, as if he's...I don't know...it sounds silly...but almost as if he is asking to be punished."

Sarah's antennae stirred, again. In schools in England she had sometimes observed this phenomenon. A youth, often with romantic instincts toward his teacher, who warms to the idea of punishment - physical punishment - at her hands. In her hands. She would watch this case very carefully. It was certainly going to be an interesting experiment.

She instructed Felicity Callow to bring Raj to her study. There she would teach her teacher. That is, about Total Clothing Deprivation applied to 18 year old school boys. She would not have one teacher in her school letting the males off the hook. Besides, it would be fascinating to watch this girl, callow by name and callow by nature, acquire confidence in the delightful and often thrilling procedure. Certainly all her colleagues were finding it the most joyful part of their vocations. In these grim years of world war, a real boon.

She instructed her teacher to bring Raj to her office promptly after lunch and told her to be ready to learn how to strip a male of every last stitch of clothing. She saw the girl shudder and fear - and perhaps something else - dance in her eyes.

Raj turned out to be tall and very slender, in fact lean as a jackal. He wore a red turban, his skin was a rich caramel. Long eyelids were fluttering nervously. The Principal was immediately keen to see him out of his clothes. Hence she pronounced sentence without delay: "You are here because you have not completed assignments. You will be punished. The main punishment will be losing every item of clothing except your turban. The lesser punishment will be being spanked with a hairbrush - the one you can see on that table. Miss Callow will dispense both punishments under my direction. Is that clear?"

He nodded. There were no protests about shame, the shame of being stripped by Englishwomen. Or what he had already experienced at home from nude punishments. Or the danger of being glimpsed by low caste maids. He seemed nervous but resigned.

"Good, now Miss Callow will remove your tie and shirt."

This Felicity proceeded to do with trembling, then violently shaking hands. In fact Raj was required to complete the unknotting of his tie. Then with much difficulty the girl teacher released the buttons on his shirt. She paused, looking to Sarah for instruction.

"Now tug the shirt out of his trousers...all around, that's right...now part the front...now lift it off his shoulders and help him out of his sleeves."

The shirt came off. Felicity folded it maternally and laid it on the table. The two women looked at their handiwork. Small nipples presented like ice chocolate decoration on a caramel cake. The abdomen was concave, as tight as a drum, silk stretched across rubber. Nervous sweat trickled from his armpits and an intimate body odor,with hints of spice, filled the air.

Raj stood still as a statue. Sarah noticed the start of a telltale tenting, not of his flies but in the left leg of his trousers. Her heart leapt a beat. 

"Felicity, his belt."

Felicity hesitated, fear in her eyes.

"My dear," said her Principal, "There is a principle that underpins our whole approach. Think of it like this. Raj came into this world naked. Like all men. Hence that charming expression,'birthday suit.' Naked, and in the care of women. How God decreed it. Raj will now return to that state of nudity and you, a woman, fully dressed, will be his carer."

Raj gulped.

The girl absorbed the homily and it seemed to embolden her. She fumbled with the belt. But when it came to unbuttoning the trousers the fingers of her shaking hands skidded wildly over the boy's pants front. It was clear to Sarah from the now-forward thrusting bulge - no longer in his trouser leg but pressing at his flies - that he was very well-endowed and very excited. Eventually the girl won the battle of the buttons and the trousers parted. With more encouragement, Felicity tremblingly helped ease them down his long legs.

The underpants.

"Felicity...pull...them...down."

Raj's projection was the challenge. When Felicity shakingly took hold of the elastic and weakly tugged, the bulge stopped any descent. They both saw the first promising hint of pubic hair but no further movement was possible. Ordered Sarah, suppressing her own excitement,"Felicity, draw them OUT, like this...yes, get close yourself...good...and draw the elastic away from his body..."

In a sudden movement the girl got it right. She tugged the elastic out and away. Liberated, Raj's rock-hard penis sprung free and...struck her in the spectacles over her right eye. The surprise nearly made Felicity fall backwards. But she steadied herself and gaped at an object she had never seen before.

It was dark brown shading into black. Again, Sarah found herself marveling at the unknown artist who had produced the spectrum of Indian penile coloring. But the size was the thing - disproportionate, long and thick. This, on a slender stick of a youth made it look like the poor boy was an appendage to his outsize member and not the other way around. And the shape: like an ivory tusk, magnificently curved and narrowing at the head. Like her ivory tusk, the one on her desk, that curved to a very sharp point.

If he was proud he did not show it. His eyes were closed, head downcast.

Sarah instructed both and in seconds the long-limbed youth, nude except for a red turban, was draped over Felicity's lap. Sarah thought Felicity must feel the engorged member pressed into both her thighs and wondered what she made of it. The boy was motionless. His red turban was making his nudity all the more obscene. On instruction, Felicity brought the first stroke down on the curve of his posterior hard enough to force an expulsion of breath and a shift in his position. The next strikes were firmer still. Soon he was making purring sounds like a cat. And before long Raj could be heard breathing in gulps of air and he was jerking his legs in a kind of protest.

"Now, lay it on his thighs, good and hard."

Felicity complied and her blows with the brush forced the boy to lift his head, utter groans and kick his legs more. One twist gave Sarah another glimpse of his member, less stiff than before but the black-brown tones as picturesque.

It was not to be the most severe spanking and Sarah was happy to call a halt before screams and tears. Raj hung limp, Felicity looked for guidance. "You must now stroke his bottom, dear, and say something soothing. Tell him he's been a silly goose but he's really a good boy, he's been very brave and learnt his lesson, and you love having him in your class and know he'll be sensible from now on."

Felicity dropped the brush. Then with surprisingly little self-consciousness began running her hand over the darkened cheeks of the caramel-colored boy. Very softly she cooed the words that Sarah had proposed. She gave every impression of actually enjoying the task. Indeed so much so that Sarah had her keep it up for about 10 minutes, far longer than normal. 

Which gave the girl the chance to summon up maternal language of her own: "There's a good boy. A boy who loves his mummy and daddy and respects his teacher. A good boy...a nice boy...who just gets a little foolish now and then...Silly Billy...just a silly little boy who needs to have his naughty little botty spanked..."

Sarah nodded her encouragement. She was in fact doing very well.

"....just as well his sisters can't see him now. What about that, Raj? Your sisters and your mummy? What would they say if they could see their big boy with all his clothes off, lying on the lap of his teacher, getting his naughty little botty spanked, naked...in front of two Englishwomen...in his birthday suit...."

Raj's eyes had assumed a glassy, far-away look. He started to purr again.

All the while Felicity was stroking intimately and affectionately his burnished bottom cheeks and thighs. Sometimes with a feather-light touch. Sometimes firmly as if ironing. Then a flicker or two, a fond tickle. Judging from his purring and distant absorbed look the boy might have been in some Sikh paradise.

Sometimes a master is amazed by his apprentice. So Sarah felt at this moment. 

She told Felicity she now had to help Raj get up. This the girl did. Sarah noticed at once that his member was as rigid as it was when he had been stripped. The boy did not make an effort to cover up, indeed knew it would have been useless. Sarah noticed as well that Felicity was staring at the object, no longer shy. There was a greed - no, a gluttony - in her eyes. Her Principal reflected, plain and timid she is still a young woman after all. Subject to all the instincts.




In the Days of the Raj



Raj stood, awkward. His nudity again was all the more dramatic because of the red turban. His penis showed no sign of subsiding. Medical texts again in mind, Sarah thought she could make no guess as to his circumcision status.

She looked him in the eye. "Raj, you will now stand in the corridor."

This was too much for him. This time he fell to his knees and begged to be spared. He liked Miss Callow, he liked his Principal but no, no, no, no, pleasezzzz! Not in front of servant ladies! They mock Brahmin boys! They make fun of buttocks! They laugh at manhood! His organ...engorged...couldn't help it!

The tears and beseeching were too much. The day would come for his corridor humiliation as it was coming for every last boy at the school. It did not have to be today. Moreover Sarah saw an opportunity. "Very well, Raj, we will spare you the corridor this time. But tomorrow Miss Callow will punish you again. Just like today. In this study at the same time. Sadly, I cannot be here. But she now knows how to go about it."

She smiled beatifically at her protégée. "After today she has my confidence."

The boy's gratitude was heartfelt. Sarah savored what ensued, watching Felicity dress him. The best part, needless to say, was her hauling the underpants up his legs and maneuvering the elastic up and over the hard brown-black protuberance. His spirits seemed to have lifted, his spanking behind him. He seemed to be enjoying the experience of being handled by one English woman and watched by another. Then, of course, he was overwhelmingly relieved to be saved from standing outside nude in his red turban, an object of laughter from low caste maids.

Sarah was reliving that first dramatic appearance of Raj's sex organ, the way it sprang out of the lowered underpants. The shock on the girl's face. Then the sounds and movements of the old fashioned spanking with hairbrush, a ritual of an English upbringing. The nudity underneath the turban. She loved the way Felicity had gained in confidence, had grasped the notion of turning a young man into a naughty little boy with a spanked botty. She loved the hovering humiliation - the terror of nudity in the corridor before the maids - that was keeping Raj obsequious to her every command. To be candid with herself, she loved his big organ - so like her own elephant tusk paper weight - and wanted to see more of it.

She loved seeing in practice her theory of male discipline through Total Clothing Deprivation. It was working.

Later that day Sarah instructed Miss Plimmer to take a much deserved holiday on the morrow. The secretary was reluctant. The procession of completely naked males through her office and outside in the corridor had enriched her job, her lonely life. She finished each day in a state of excitement. Her nights were now filled with dark-skinned figures doing fantastic things. Her dreams had never been more fulfilling. But her boss insisted. Sarah also reminded Felicity that, as useful as her training session had been, she had an obligation tomorrow in the Principal's deserted study where the two of them would not be interrupted. "We've made great progress with Raj," Sarah said. "Tomorrow should see that he will accept female authority the rest of his life."

The next day just before 2 pm Sarah opened the cavernous Victorian cupboard that stood behind her desk, stepped onto it and positioned the door so she would see everything without being glimpsed herself. Her heart was pounding. "Nothing human is foreign to me," she reflected, determined to watch Felicity and Raj, separated in age by only three years act out their roles.

Promptly the couple arrived. The teacher nervously locked the door behind them. She faced Raj. A pause in the drama. Sarah thought she could hear their hearts, was afraid they might hear her's. Then Raj came to life, stumbling out of shoes and socks and almost ripping off his shirt. Panting he faced Felicity with golden torso bared. In profile Sarah could see a huge tenting in the front of his trousers. Another pause while Felicity seemed fixated on his belt, maybe on the tenting. Then it was her turn to go to work, doing something she had dreamed of feverishly for 24 hours. She decisively unbuckled him and flew at his trouser buttons. Forcefully, as if eager to touch the animal rearing within them. She whisked trousers down his legs and he stepped out.

The tented underpants.

Felicity plunged her hands deep into them and brought them down to his ankles, again being struck in the face by the vibrating brown-black ivory tusk. This time it was dribbling a clear fluid, bubbling from the tip - Sarah could see it glistening. He wore only the red turban, again a shocking reminder of his long-limbed nakedness. The girl steered him, one hand on his bottom and with his appendage bouncing in front, to the leather sofa. They positioned themselves as yesterday.

His slender caramel-colored frame looked like a cannibal banquet.

She started talking to him.

Sarah started. It was exciting, filthy talk. Where had it come from?

She was cooing. "Raj, I have stripped you naked. All your clothes have gone, except your turban. And now, naughty boy, you are over the knee of your English schoolmistress, bare as an egg. And I am looking down on your brown botty...and, very naughty boy, I can feel your...stiff...engorged...manhood standing all the way up, pressed into my legs...oh, you are a naughty boy, and I am going to spank you hard!"

There was a silence as he took this in.

"Yes," he growled."Yes, I am a naughty Indian boy...and I'm stark naked with my schoolmistress...please, Miss, give me spanking...on my naked botty."

How fascinating, thought Sarah, they are exciting one another further with a little game.

Down came the first stroke with the hairbrush, right on the curve of his posterior. SLAP! Then a second - this, on his upper thighs. SLAP!

Her strokes were harder and more confident than yesterday. Soon with each he was forcing out an "Aw!" or an "Ouch!" He was also beginning to move rhythmically, rubbing himself on the tops of her thighs with each blow from the brush. He was clearly pleasuring himself, his ivory tusk working backwards and forwards. Like a dog on heat rubbing itself on a master's leg. His eyes were open, staring ahead ahead of him and on fire.

Her's had a glassy, wondering, far away look. Her breathing was heaving, gradually rising to an unending, breathy moan. Her thighs started to move in and out. And this in turn seemed to make his thrusts more forceful as if determined not to miss out on their massaging.

"Oh, you naughty naked Indian boy - I can feel your stiff pego moving on my leg...you like it, don't you, Raj? Is it giving you delicious dirty feelings?"

"Ohhhhh,yes, Miss, I am loving my pego on your legs, Miss...I have lovely dirty feelings, Miss..."

Down came the brush on the curve of his bottom and the upper thighs. Then came his "Ohhawwww!" He slid forward on her thighs, rubbing his stiff member, pleasuring himself. That brought forth a louder and louder moan from the girl. Sarah thought, she must be feeling it. It is too big for her not to feel. Indeed she was now emitting one continuous moan. She clenched and unclenched her thighs, in turn making his movements more frantic. Her upper body lent back, her lap came forward.

Now she stopped spanking and reached for her skirts and petticoats, hauling them up her thighs. Raj was now lying on her stockinged upper legs. He let out a loud guttural moan. "Oh, I am liking new feeling very much, Miss...my cock on teacher's leg...ohhhhh..."

"That's right, naughty boy. Closer! Press into me!"

He turned his body towards her. He was now lying on his left side, tilting his right hip into Felicity's crutch. From the cupboard Sarah could see the muscles in his buttocks clenching and unclenching as he drove his engorged member. His thrusting was now fast and furious. Sarah thought of that sharpened point to his penis... and how it must be probing and pounding into the girl's silk panties. Even threatening to tear them apart. Felicity became frantic too, slapping down the brush on his bottom and with her other hand yanking his lower buttock closer into her.

She was moaning loudly, he letting forth a fierce, animalistic growl.

Now she started taking frightened looks at the door obviously fearing her Principal might come back early. This only made her mounting climax all the more urgent.

At the one moment they both seemed to explode, she tipping her head back and letting forth a choking cry while stamping both heels on the floor. His buttocks drove into her, powering his ivory tusk of a member- Sarah could imagine the pointed tip exciting her crutch - and the clenching and unclenching of the buttocks was now piston-like. He started a harsh, manly howl.

And suddenly they both subsided, panting.

A moment passed.

They rose and faced one another shyly. Both faces were flushed. His appendage was subsiding, shiny and wet. Felicity pulled her skirts straight, hesitated and then moved her hands around to stroke his buttocks. Close, it brought the tip of the penis to touch her tummy. She were almost embracing.

They recovered their breathing.

They were looking one another in the eye.

She started idly stroking his bottom.

He let his head fall to her shoulder while clearly thrilling to her stroking.

He murmured in her ear that his father approved of this school's disciplinary approach very much and wanted Raj to invite his favorite teacher to stay with the family in their summer home in the hills during the holidays. But his father, who still enforced nude discipline on Raj and his older brothers, would insist that the teacher be in charge of discipline during the four weeks. Just like at college, he said, no slackening of school discipline during holidays. Discipline for Raj mainly, but his 20 and 23 year old brothers as well. Would Miss Callow..?

Felicity said she would be honored.

Her strokes on his globes and this answer - with all it promised- made his penis raise to full stand. Sarah could see it throbbing.

Felicity's eyes, too, were flaming again.

There was a moment when anything might have happened.

What happened was that the girl-teacher reached for the side buttons to her skirt and undid them. She helped her skirt slide to her boots. She stepped out of it, looking Raj in the eye throughout. Then with ingenious swiftness she released the buttons to her pleated blouse and pulled it off. She lifted her petticoat over her head. She stood facing her pupil in her brassiere and bloomers. "Now...strip...me!" she instructed the Indian.

His penis throbbed to the point of vibration. His eyes were standing on stalks.

Raj plunged his hands into her bloomers and tore them and her silk panties down to her ankles. Sarah could see that the panties were soaked, thought she could smell them. In any case Felicity stood with her lower half bared, a vagina clothed in blond hair, flattened and wet, a pair of pouting lips visible. They were glistening. She loosened her bra and let it drop. Her ample white breasts jiggled loose. She had big rubbery pink nipples - unusually, even freakishly prominent - standing hard. It was Raj's turn to be gluttonous: she had a gorgeous body. 

From the neck down she was a beauty, thought Sarah, an hour-glass figure, a perfect Venus worth of her own canvas in London's National Gallery. The girl needs to be seen naked to be appreciated. And her soaked vagina, whose fumes were reaching Sarah even in her hiding place? What did Shakespeare write about the burning sexual desire that rages below the waists of young women? They are "centaurs" all below? She remembered discussing the passage from Lear with David Lawrence at university in Nottingham. "But to the girdle do the gods inherit / Beneath is all the fiends / There's hell, there's darkness, there's sulfurous pit...."

It was confirmed by what happened next.

Equally naked - except for the male's red turban - the couple with one mind collapsed onto the lion skin rug. Sarah saw Felicity part her legs - like a lioness in fact - and with one hand guide the curved protuberance into her crotch. She saw its black-brown length vanish into Felicity's hole, thought she could hear a suction sound as it plunged in. Then...Raj's coffee-colored buttocks, still darkened from the spanking, went into piston-action again, pounding the white-skinned teacher. She resumed the breathy, continuous moan. He commenced an angry baritone growl.

She loves it, thought Sarah, more than anything in her life. She loves getting "rogered" - she'd read that expression in her secret literature - by this turbaned naked youth who, a moment ago, she had been beating over her lap. Now she's got that long, thick, black-brown appendage right up her well-lubricated cunt - that was the only word, again from her secret cache of obscene books....

Felicity was whispering in the ear of her brown-limbed lover. A short pause ensued. Then he obeyed her request and rolled off her body. He was standing, his prick slimy and shiny. For her part Felicity rolled off the lion skin to lie limbs askew on the carpeted floor. Again, like a lioness on heat. Raj hauled the lion skin up and, with a broad, prurient grin, draped it over his shoulders, the lion head with bared teeth devouring his turbaned head. He was something different now: a half-man half-demon from a mythical forest with one mission - to get his great beastly prick plunged deep back in that well-lubricated human vagina. Now he fell on her with a ferocious growl.

"A lion...I'm doing...IT...with a lion!" Her exclamation was hysterical. "I'm being FUCKED by a lion-man!"

Sarah was shocked. Where had she got that word from? From what collective unconscious had she dredged it?

"Yessss!" growled Raj. "The lion man is fucking you, white English lady!"

"I can feel your big lion cock right up my juicy CUNT!"

She was almost howling with the abandon of pleasure.

The two were moving to another mighty climax.

Felicity's white legs were locked around the lion skin on his back when the two of them exploded. This time her howls were so so loud Sarah imagined her with a megaphone clamped to her lips. She was certain her bellow must have echoed down the stairs and corridors of the entire school. Raj's head was thrown back, eyes to to the ceiling, and his guttural growl was a triumphant shout.

They collapsed. And just lay there.

The skin slipped off Raj. He was a naked brown boy again, lying on top of his white teacher.

Their panting slowly subsided.

She started talking softly. She told him that she and two other young teachers had access to the Principal's library in her bungalow residence while she had been off in New Delhi. They had stumbled upon a secret cache of books. They had been in a locked cupboard but in fact the lock had sprung open, almost by chance - well, with a little probing. 

Sarah almost lent forward, her insides seized up. Her books...her secret literature...had been discovered.

Felicity was saying she and her friends had found a treasure trove of forbidden literature, stories of what men and women really did when they had the chance. For two weeks the girls had absorbed every volume. It had made them very excited. There were several stories about young buxom governesses spanking schoolboys with huge endowments. And of teacher and pupil then discovering the joys their bodies could produce together. These stories had particularly enthralled Felicity and her friends. 

There were other stories about a wicked step-mother introducing her step-son and step-daughter to mutual "frigging" or "shagging," about maids joining masters in fabulous revels in the bedrooms and grounds of country houses, about the wives of clergymen lying down on the straw in barns with stable boys while their husbands secretly watched and pleasured themselves.

The participants peeped on one another through keyholes, pursued one another's "bubbies" and "ballocks" and "muffs" and "pegos"; they sucked and licked, "rogered" and "frigged," they "tossed" one another off, did it with brother and sister, aunt and uncle. They used tongue, finger and dildo and did it with more than one partner. Men ended up in petticoats and panties, women with contraptions belted to them. Men and women spanked one another. They did it in barns, carriages, hotel kitchens and under tables. Women would pleasure women with tongue and finger and various aids to be found in the pantry or concealed in deep cupboards. Sometimes a woman would be entered rear and front - wonderfully, at the one time. In the stories the ladies started reluctantly, shyly, but ended up being as crazed for it as the men. And always came back for more.

The young women read aloud to one another, at first with much blushing and giggling. Then with mounting gusto. And Felicity admitted, in even lower breath, that she and her friends had experimented with one another - in fact, on their Principal's bed, with the blinds pulled low, and the three had done it with the kind of humor and enthusiasm the characters in the secret literature had shown. They had "tossed off" one another, kissed, and applied their tongues to their friends' private parts. The three of them together, glueing their mouths to friends' "muffs." And stroking one another's breasts, kissing one another's nipples. Once they had used a cucumber, just like the activity described in the naughty novels.

The three girls realized they had never been told the truth. Now they were learning the secret gardens that men and women revelled in, of what they could do with their bodies if they...well, took a deep breath and did what their bodies had been telling them to do all along.

Which is what, she sighed, she and Raj had just been doing.

She told him he was a better lover than any in Sarah's books and she had loved doing it with him much, much more than the games with her two friends. None of the things we girls did, she said, could compete with the feeling of Raj's "thing" up her "cunt." 

Raj said he and his friends sometimes pleasured themselves in the dormitories and the bathrooms. But there had been much more activity since the nude punishments started. Going naked, being looked at by women and seeing their friends with "engorgements" seemed to make many boys "very, very eager." When one of his colleagues, Asoka, returned from an hour on nude corridor punishment he had roamed the dormitory naked and erect and entered the beds of at least five other boys, gaining relief. So did Prasan after his nude, anti-self-abuse punishments, masturbating brazenly in the showers and grabbing other boys from behind. Some boys were always seeking to touch Raj's member, some to suck it. A few boys would allow him to enter them but he would only manage it if there were some aromatic Indian oil on hand.

"That makes them like women," he explained.

But he added that it was nowhere as delicious as the feeling he enjoyed when his member had plunged into Felicity's juicy hole. "That was like heaven," he sighed.

At home his father had many books like those Miss had read and he had urged his sons to read them. He said the stories always made him very "eager and restless." Once after reading some nineteenth century erotic literature he had had to pleasure himself five times, sometimes to find an experienced older maid to help. "There is some old Hindu wisdom," he said. " 'The hand or the penis - what will get tired first?' "

When Miss came to their home in the mountains he would slip into her room. They would strip off all their clothes, they would read these books in bed together.

"And we will do those secret things."

He was moving on top of her again. And she was plainly excited by what she had been saying and by his revelations. The world was, in fact, how it was described in those books.




In the Days of the Raj



But time had run out. There would be no excuse if she were found undressed. She scrabbled for her clothes and he helped her.They stood facing each other...clothed female, naked male again.

Flushed and fulfilled, she had something more to say. There was something he would need to do for her.

Miss Maitland wanted Sarah to start to discipline boys more...discipline in the corridor sense. Her career at the school would depend on it. Even her opportunity to be allowed to spend that month with Raj's family where...yes, they would have many hours together. She knew Raj was terrified of being seen by the maids but she would have to insist. And it would have to be now, today, so Miss Maitland would see him on her return.

The boy hung his head. His loathing of being seen by the maids was bred in his bones. From her hideout Sarah knew this would be the moment, the test. For him, for her, for all of them.

The boy nodded.

He had been broken. Submissiveness flooded his veins. Naked into the world in the care of women, naked in their care now. And if sari-clad maids would stare and mock then that was part of his new subdued, obedient male role.

They sealed their understanding with a kiss. 

Felicity led him by the ear - naked except for the turban, his member, fully engorged and shiny, pointing his way. They left the study and closed the door behind them. Sarah thought when the maids saw him, for the first time naked, they would not believe their luck - this was the day they won the lottery. 

She waited a minute and then crept from the cupboard. She slunk at her desk and slid into deep thought. There was so much work to do. There was, for example, the nude cricket game to be played for charity before a gathering of white ladies. She had resolved to do it: the ladies, under their parasols, would be served by the school's maids, the boys would be running and bowling and batting naked. It would last for an entire afternoon. They would hate it. She must ensure those English schoolgirls get to join the crowd as well. And a special invitation to the sisters of the boys required to play. 

Lying in front of her was a recently received letter from the West Indies, from a colonial administrator who had heard of her educational leadership in Bombay, especially her approach to disciplining young males, and inviting her to run a college in Jamaica. It was a well-endowed school for senior boys from Negro families, grandsons of slaves. The boys were big and athletic and full of energy. Discipline was even a greater challenge than in India. The conditions would be good, the support from the trustees for anything she wanted unquestioning. Discipline would be entirely her's to enforce.

She thought of cricket, under the Caribbean sun. And corridor punishment....

There was a letter, too, from a Maharajah, the uncle of a boy at the school who believed his nephew had benefited enormously. He himself had been raised on this nude discipline and was a great believer in Total Clothing Deprivation as practiced by "good ladies such as yourself." He was a widower and he enclosed a photo showing himself as a fine looking man. He proposed Miss Maitland visit him in Rajasthan and even accompany him to the south where he proposed to show her some little-seen cave sculptures which "may be seen to reflect our philosophy."

Oh yes, those Khajuraho cave temples where the relief sculptures explore the tumbling variety of human desire, the pluralism of Hindu sensuality, the Indian science of love. She could well believe there were depictions of males without any clothing other than pendant jewelry, subdued and submissive, standing under the pitious gaze of temple priestesses.

There would be time, she thought.

But now another priority, an urgent one. She went to the door and locked it. She picked up the paper weight elephant tusk from her desk and took it with her to the leather sofa. Seating, she breathed the fragrances hanging in the air from the recent wild activity. She found the odors intoxicating. She noticed the sofa was drenched in a mix of fluids. She ran her finger over it and held it to her nostrils. She reached up under her skirt and drew down her bloomers and panties and hitched up her dress.

There was moisturizer in her desk and some Indian oils. But she wouldn't need them.

She maneuvered the tusk, pointed end first, to a humid cave of her own. She let her head fall back and closed her eyes.

Yes, there would be time.