Days of the Raj Ch. 02

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.

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.

A Flash Back: A Naked Dorset Farm Labourer.

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, recently turned 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, tousled 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.

The Youthful Garderner and a Naked Male in the Female Staff Room

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.