Days of the Raj Ch. 02

"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.

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 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.

The Gardener Nude.

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.