Days of the Raj Ch. 04

Breathing heavily Beverly too vanished into the corridor.

Which left two young English females behind, giggling as they pointed out the splotches on the floor.

Nicholas eased himself from the window, through the jumble of azaleas, and tip-toed on his gilded sandals past the porticoed front entrance. He turned to the left side of the building. A crescent moon grinned knowingly at his nude form and crickets set up an excited clacker as he approached the first window, with its hint of candlelight. He raised himself on tiptoes. A glance inside confirmed all the young man's expectations. Gloria was already nude and stood in a hip bath while her two friends, still dressed, sluiced her lovingly with water.

Nicholas noted the upward tilt of her young breasts and her dark rubbery nipples.

Still, like the diligent spy he was, he moved noiselessly half a dozen steps away to the window of Jenny's room. Through the mosquito wiring he heard her increasingly frantic pants. On tiptoes he spied the scene inside, illuminated in a sheen of moonlight. He saw them in profile. "The beast with two backs," he thought.

They were kneeling on her metal-framed bed. The girl was on all fours, dress and petticoats thrown over her head while tall, rangy Lalo knelt at her rump, loins slapping against her rear, cock jamming her cunny.

"G...g...g...garhhhhh..." went the girl.

Lalo went at her like a man possessed.

There was a swamp-like squelch as he jabbed at the rich, moist aperture.

In out, in out, in out.

Nicholas quickly retreated. But his cock was rearing, as the notion of Lalo's black, veiny dick inside the girl's blond quim fired his imagination, and the slap of his brown thighs against the girl's pale bottom.

The next window was the kitchen, ablaze with lamplight. Near the well-scrubbed oak table Akim and Johor stood, taking turns to examine each's darkened backsides and whispering exclamations interspersed with disbelieving giggles. In both cases the boys' pricks were parallel to the floor. The door creaked open, and a flushed and wide eyed Fanny appeared.

Nicholas thought, I've never seen a female so eager.

She crooked a finger.

Her gesture meant one thing.

Akim and Johor started, eyes ablaze.

They saw the girl, saw her hunger.

Suddenly their cocks reared to full stand.

They looked at their groins, now sprouting their desire. Looked at one another's.

They exchanged glances and smiled and then moved to the door, erections wobbling ahead of them.

Nicholas dropped back into the darkness. The moon disappeared behind the clouds. Staves of bamboo rattled as a sudden breeze stirred. There was a distant lowing of cattle. The young man crept to the servants' entrance, parting his way through sheets and womens' underwear crucified on clothes lines. He barely touched the knob when the door was pulled back to reveal Fanny. She urgently gripped his wrist and pulled him indoors, marvelling at his nudity, and only wearing knickers herself...

It was to be close to two in the morning when he was to leave, having fucked the young teacher "up the the hilt," as he might put it to Sarah, "in and out of her plump quim." Still bearing her smell, he was to sprint back to the school, like any cunning spy, by a different route. This time he pranced through the dark and shuttered markets, past St James Anglican Church and past the Gymkhana Club where most days he exercised and rode. He sprinted down the avenue of trees that shaded the villas of Plassey Crescent and into the school building through the kitchen where sari-clad maids, even at this hour, were at work scouring and scrubbing and would see little shocking in another naked young man, even one in gilded helmet and sandals, shining with sweat.

He might have been Hermes, back in Olympus, panting from a mission. Indeed just like Hermes with tales for Zeus about the antics of mortals down below, he bore the most delicious tale to relay to Sarah, about Beverly Burrowes and the gardener Kama and how lust had triumphed over caution. His report would wait till tomorrow. He flung himself on his bed. He was sated with a night of fucking and the scenes in that drawing room, watched from the dark, and the memory of the spongy grip of Fanny's cunny around his tool, and sleep came fast.

At eight in the morning Sarah sat at her desk. Across from her, trembling, sat a very tense George Applewhite. He was still dressed. He wore his pale linen suit bought from Shaftesbury Avenue for his teaching career in the tropics. He wore his mortarboard.

Sarah chatted breezily, slicing open an envelope and absorbing herself in a letter. She took a minute to read it. George sweated nervously.

"Fascinating..."

And she lay it on the desk.

"...I've a friend in Manipur. She is a widow. Owns an estate..."

George strained to look politely interested in his headmistress' talk.

"...and I told her about our approach to discipline here. The male nudity..."

George gulped and blushed fire engine red. How much longer would he be allowed his suit?

"...she was, of course, very, very interested..."

Sarah smiled. He started quivering. She was talking about...male nudity.

"...as ladies of her type- all types- tend to be. She has peppered me with questions about how we apply total clothing deprivation. And so she has just written with a very interesting story. She said that a Mrs Ethel Grimwood, wife of the political agent back in the 1890s, wished for some Hindu gardeners wearing dhotis. That, she saw as respectable, but the Hindus were not available. So she had to put up with Naga tribesmen. Mind you, this was in another era. Victorian times, literally. The Naga tribesmen did their gardening in the nude. Yes, nude. Insisted on it. Could not do it any other way..."

George's imagination was now all on fire. An image flashed. Of slender, dark-skinned youths tilling an English garden recreated in the tropics, nude as Adam. Naked! His cock reared, underneath his linens. And in this mental picture he planted an English woman, gray hair pulled tight, her dress all the way to her feet, in a white blouse with blue ribbon at the neck, looking on. Perhaps with daughters, 19 or 20 years old, eyes popping lewdly as they were allowed this prurient liberty: looking, as they might never be allowed in England, at nude males their own ages. Stark naked males! In his mental picture he endowed the boys with elegant, long, brown appendages, swinging between their thighs as they worked. The females were aroused, stirring with wicked notions, as they stared. And the boys' bottoms as well, rounded and cleft- the women excited by the view.

His cock pulsed.

Sarah knew she was exciting him.

"Like any prude of her era, she was determined on reform. She gave them bathing-drawers. Expecting the tribesmen to immediately shelter their genitals..."

George jolted at the textbook language. Genitals! Like his own! Sarah dropped her eyes to his lap, for a second.

"...but they preferred to use them as turbans..."

Sarah beamed.

"...see, they preferred being nude. Preferred it..."

George felt obliged to nod. Blushing.

"...with females watching."

He shook, quite noticeably. Sarah knew, he was certain, how much the notion- of males naked in front of dressed women- now stirred him.

Sarah noticed his uncontrollable excitement.

"Perhaps especially with females watching. This pathology at work...even with headhunting tribesmen from the remote frontiers. Deeply touching, that this buried male instinct seems almost universal..."

Acutely embarrassed he also felt...liberated? She knew this was his affliction. But was saying it wasn't just him. Even tribesmen had the same shameful yearnings.

She told him he had to get ready for his class.

"Stand-up and I will have Miss Plimmer and Miss Burrowes join us to help you undress."

The two females must have been at the door. They swiftly slipped into the study, eyes ablaze.

Sarah asked them to be seated, one on each side of her, facing the male.

She looked at George, standing quaking with fear and excitement.

"Master Applewhite, please remove your coat..."

Shaking uncontrollably, he complied.

"...and now your tie...and shirt. Miss Burrowes will help...especially with those buttons which appear to be a challenge to your somewhat quaking fingers..."

And indeed the girl was ready to offer her own busy fingers, picking at the male's shirt front.

His shirt fell open. His white chest revealed, one orange nipple.

But then from Miss Maitland came a sudden countermand.

"That's enough. Leave the shirt be...for the moment. George, I want you to loosen your belt and undo your trouser buttons..."

He struggled to obey. Beverly looked eager to assist, a prurient glaze in her eyes as she contemplated the boy's midriff and the small jutting in the flies.

His trousers slithered to his calves. He shook almost violently.

"Now pull your under-things down to your ankles."

He bent to comply.

Sarah ordered Beverly to her chair and fixed the male with a terrifying glance.

"Now I want you to lift your shirt front high..."

He had been expecting to be told to strip completely. He froze but then, like an obedient schoolboy, lifted the shirt. He exposed his stubby erection. Shamefully, it was already dribbling.

"Stand still, and answer my questions."

Beverly and Miss Plimmer marvelled at Sarah MaItland's capacity to amaze. What was she doing? What was this cruel game?

Her voice changed. It was now softer, warmer, like a mother comforting her beloved child.

"George," she said, "do you feel humiliated that you have pulled down your pants and displayed your penis and testicles?"

He trembled. The women noticed his penis jolted, became stiffer.

He swallowed and whispered, "Yes, Ma'am."

"You feel shamed...standing there, made to hold your shirt up so we can see everything?"

His penis throbbed.

"Yes, m'am."

 In the same caring and comforting voice, she said, "Even though you feel embarrassed, does it arouse you to know we are looking at your naked genitals? Your...penis? Your...testicles? Does it...arouse you?"

It made Beverly hold her breath. Will he admit to this awful suggestion, she wondered.

 A violent tremble shook him.

He hesitated, but then whispered, "Yes, Ma'am."

There followed an ominous silence.

Beverly felt that some border had been crossed.

 "George," Sarah asked in a voice dripping sincerity, "Do you want to pull your pants up?"

There was a long pause as the boy looked confused. Conflicting emotions played across his face until he settled on some revelation. He then admitted very quietly, "No, Ma'am."

Beverly and Miss Plimmer took in sharp breaths.

His eyes fell to the floor.

Beverly almost trembled herself at this revelation of the boy's deep-buried yearnings.

"So..." continued Miss Maitland, thoughtfully.

"...showing your private parts to females, as you are now, gives you some sort of pleasure?"

He nodded, guilty.

"A deep pleasure?"

He nodded.

The Head Mistress smiled. "Good boy, you may be seated."

He started to reach for his pants, but then looked up at her for guidance. She smiled and shook her head. He left his pants pooled at his ankles as he sat down, with his now erect penis lewdly jutting up from his lap.

Sarah asked her companions to leave the room. The door snapped shut behind them.

Again in maternal tone she said to him, "I will shortly ask you to remove all your clothes, except your mortarboard and order them to take you to the girls' classroom. But...that there, in your lap...you are hardly in a condition to stand before schoolgirls in your birthday suit in blatant engorgement..."

That terrible expression, "birthday suit," shamed him to the core. And "engorgement."

"...so what, I wonder, can we do to relieve your excitement? There is, in my experience, one remedy only..."

His eyes bulged.

"I think you understand what I want."

And so, after no more than their eyes meeting, George had his fingers drift to his penis stem. He held it, furtively. He looked for guidance.

Sarah nodded.

He proceeded, like a man under hypnosis, to tentatively move up and down.

Up and down.

Up and down.

He was squelching his eyes.

Now, faster and more determined.

Up and down.

Up and down.

The mission of his fingers was accomplished in less than a minute. This was not to be wondered at, all things considered: his vivid imaginings through the night, his below-the-midriff nudity before three females- one his own age- and the delicious prospect that awaited him at the blackboard in a classroom down the corridor. To say nothing of Sarah's dancing eyes.

His emission bubbled over, like water from a drinking fountain, glueing his fingers. The pine-fresh smell filled the air, mingled with the scent of Sarah's lavender soap. She moved to him and handed him a cotton handkerchief and watched him mop his penis stem.

Under her gaze he wiped the tip of his prick.

"Squeeze hard," she advised. "Don't leave droplets."

He winced at the revelation she knew about such things.

"That's right. Clean the meatus right out...meatus, your little penis mouth."

He was as obedient as an abashed 18 year old caught by his aunt masturbating in his bedroom.

She took the compromised handkerchief from him.

She ordered him now to leave her study.

"The ladies are outside, ready to help you out of everything."

He rose, clothes hanging loose. Coat over an arm.

"They'll strip you like locusts..." she added playfully.

The words caused his tummy to flip.

"Then they will escort you to the classroom where our schoolgirls are going to be very diverted. You may leave on your mortarboard."

His insides melted with an erotic panic richer than any of the queer emotions that had stirred him in the last 24 hours. He bent to pull up his underwear and trousers.

"Leave them there, around your feet. It's good for a boy to shuffle...all things considered."

To be forced to shuffle out of her study, clothes around his heels. He quivered all over.

To be stripped by two females "like locusts." He trembled.

His short member, which had begun to slacken, instantly reinflated.

George half-tripped his way to the door and beyond. In the outer office hovered a very eager Beverly Burrowes and Miss Plimmer, eager to complete his shame.

From her desk Sarah caught a glimpse through the door, left ajar by the stumbling, shaking youth.

She watched him has he handed across his coat and then stood immobilised by shame while the eager fingers of both females helped him out of his unbuttoned shirt. And then, after a tense few seconds, Sarah watched his bottom- with its punchy rounded shape and deep cleft- twist and bend. He wriggled free of the encumbrances around his ankles.

He handed over his underwear and crumbled suit pants.

From the rear she glimpsed his total nudity as he faced them.

Both, she saw, looked at him and suppressed giggles, struck by the incongruity of his boyish nudity combined with archaic mortarboard. Perhaps at a recrudescent erection.

In a flash he was marched off.

Which left her time to think of the curious intelligence brought by two of her allies only this morning.

Mrs Marigold Wainscott, who taught science, had stopped Sarah in the corridor. Her facial moles had always troubled Sarah, and her dowdiness. Breathlessly she had reported that boys appeared very distracted. Lots of excited whispering, and she had made out talk of laying bets on some secret sporting activity. Secret? Sarah's suspicions were aroused. Could it be? She shared nothing with her colleague who she suspected of lower church instincts.

Then Miss Harriet Marsden-Smedley at breakfast had told her that she had overheard several boys under the window of the staff room talking lubriciously about something they called "the cock fight." Harriet had winked lasciviously, lowering her volume. She said the boys had spoken as if it were a joust or tournament and made reference to rules and scores and referees. They made reference to "champions" invoking their classmates Tagore and Cyrus. "Equipped perfectly for the role, I think," Harriet had added. "Those two boys."

"Cock fights." As she had suspected.

Indeed she had wondered how long it might take for this entertainment to emerge here in the tropics. That the erect penis might offer swordsmanship and self-pleasuring was a staple of English life in army barracks or among sailors "below decks." That it might manifest itself in a school- an English public school with all its traditions and with 18 year old boarders cooped up and sething with energies- was not surprising. After lights out, in dormitories while staff slept, two naked males with hands tied behind backs, might be mobilised to strike one's opponent's erect organ with his own, victory going to he who ejaculated first or- the rules may vary- forced his rival to do so. Meanwhile their classmates stood on beds and silently cheered on the gladiators.

But how had boys at this school learnt the practice?

Sarah's suspicions fell on the third of her young male teachers recently recruited- Thomas Cowgill, who Nicholas Elliot had told her, out of sympathy, he had sodomised on the long voyage out. "All a matter of lubrication," he had told Sarah at dinner. "The right oils and unguents. Not my first choice by any means but I learnt what I know from Lawrence and Arabs. And during the long nights crossing the Arabian Sea young Cowgill was pinning...and oh, he loved every minute."

"Cock fighting" taking root here. Who was to blame? Sherlock Holmes would make young Cowgill, the invert, his first subject. What did he know, and when did he know it?

Leave aside the rights and wrongs, Sarah was quick to dilate on the opportunity that a mass misdemeanour would provide for, yes, a mass punishment.

Her style of mass punishment.

The one of which she had dreamt after reading Burton's evocation of that Zanzibar slave market.

Imagine, the boys of the school arraigned in the corridors, yards apart, hands behind backs. Boys paying the price for the lewd sport they had been engaged in,between dormitory beds by candlelight. And at which they had been caught by female teaching staff.

A mass punishment, with English ladies and their daughters invited to the school to bear witness, as to a grand fete. They would be fundraising for war charity.

For any of the females, there would be the opportunity to cane or spank. Choose the boy, choose the instrument. An opportunity, as well, to select a boy as dance partner, waltz tunes provided by the town's six man orchestra. That would be another sweet opportunity for ladies without husbands, girls without gallants. Even, thought Sarah, a mother might pick a 18 year old nude Indian youth and gift him to her smirking daughter for Viennese waltz or Pride of Erin, for example. The girl might blush as she was coupled with tawny-hued boy shorn of all clothing but would not decline. Oh no, never decline. They never did. What a sight on the dance floor! Endless possibilities might present themselves.

Would her critics say she had this time gone too far?

Frankly, Sarah was not aware of such critics. Her students' fathers to a man eagerly embraced her approach to discipline, often hinted they might relish being included. Even Maharajahs or rich Parsi merchants.

And there was the advice from Nicholas that night he had modelled for her as the god Hermes, naked apart from gilded helmet and sandals. Elegant cock rearing, eager for his spanking and entry to her sultry cave, he had explained.

"Hermes was the god of transgressions. He crossed the boundaries."

His body gleamed. Might have been marble. The statue in the Vatican.

"Push the boundaries, Sarah. Always push the boundaries."