Days of the Raj Ch. 05

George screwed his eyes tight. His whole body stiffened.

The long exposure...the acute humiliation...the thrill of being revealed like this: yes, even despite a night of masturbation anticipating today's ritual, he was close to ejaculating.

"...and right now he's even more embarrassed because we also have a schoolboy standing here naked before us and he has a more mature physique than Mister Applewhite. A schoolboy. One of Mister Applewhite's students."

She advanced on Pedro.

"Look at the abundant hair on the boy's chest..."

And her pointer stroked it, straightened out the hang of the crucifix and came to circle and tickle and flatten the boy's rather prominent dark brown nipple...then its twin. The boy clenched his eyes, seemed to strain. Clearly, he was...sensitive...in his nipples...

"...and his hair runs down lower than his chest..."

The pointer trailed to the boy's belly button and explored it. He jolted.

Each girl, on tenterhooks with eyes glazed, was following its every move.

"...and lower..."

It moved up and down, up and down again, the tracery of hair between navel and pubic bush...

...gentle but insistent...

...up and down, tracing the fuse of hair.

The boy stiffened again. His erection throbbed vigorously. A fat dollop of moisture swelled from the slit of his cock. The girls held their breath, strained forward where they stood or sat. One or two silently left their seats and moved closer to get a better view.

"And what do you notice about our boy's...again, girls, the correct name?"

Daringly she was moving the pointer up and down the dark, rigid penis shaft. It bumped its way over the ridgeline of veins. Pedro was standing as struck by thunder and holding his breath.

"And I will give you a clue. It is not his...whangdoddle!"

All the girls laughed in good spirits. Up and down the shaft, and around the glans, the pointer moved. Up and down and around and around.

"Nor do we call it by other slang names, like..?"

"His cock!"

"Prick!"

"Tallywag!"

"Good girls. We don't use slang. This is biology. Human biology. We use scientific terms. It's called..?"

"His penis!"

"His erect penis!"

"Yes. Good."

She moved the pointer much more vigorously. Up and down, firmly this time. And around and around his red cock head, or his glans. And for a longtime underneath, around his frenulum.

"Pedro is...suffering...an erection, and why?"

Silence.

Then Dorothy had an answer.

"Because he likes being naked, being humiliated naked...in front of females. And he is excited. He's aroused!"

Beverly nodded. She was mushing the end of the pointer around the boy's glistening black pubic bush. Somewhat vigorously.

" Yes, like the teacher he's also enjoying letting you see him...what a naughty boy you are, young Pedro!" She moved the pointer more vigorously around his whole pubic area.

The other girls laughed st Dorothy's daring. The boy winced. He wanted to declare that he couldn't help it and that his prick stood up like that a lot and so did those on other boys and that nothing was further from his mind than stripping in front of females. But he just suffered their derision and worried that if that pointer continued to stroke him- right now around his balls while this bold young woman talked about scrotums and testicles- he was going to spurt his bodily fluid right in front of them all.

All the girls were scanning his finely haired scrotum and its two testicles, listening to Beverly's reproduction narrative. And the touch of the pointer on his sac hovered between pain and pleasure.

She returned to his penis stem, moving up and down.

Pedro felt his sap rising.

Suddenly...

Golly!

Up his stem...

...and in one enormous spurt...

...out the end and, in a bold parabolic arc, through the air and splop right onto the shoulder of Dorothy, seated on the bench at her desk.

...with a second splashing on the desk of Kate.

...and a third on the floorboards.

He had the look of someone who had been abducted into a fairytale.

From the back of the classroom, through a spy hole drilled through brick and plaster, and through the panel of a muddy reproduction of a painting of St George's chapel, Windsor, Sarah Maitland watched. Standing in the storeroom given over to old textbooks and enrolment records, the school principal stood, one eye pressed to the spyhole, with her dress and petticoat hitched and a hand down her silk panties.

The hand manipulated a plaster cast of the erect penis of Willy Johnson, an 18 year old boilermaker from her London disciplinary establishment, with an eight inch penis noteworthy for the prominence of a huge dorsal artery and a massive wart at the end of his stem, just before the pubic wall.

Plunging the cast of his bold prick in her aperture, Sarah watched.

Watched, and willed.

Willed her acolyte Beverly, having achieved such wonders, to take that rod now to the penile shaft of her colleague, the trembling George Applewhite. Having produced that spectacle with the brown skinned boy, to do the same with the milk-white teacher.

Sarah felt Beverly had the makings of a true custodian of the grand tradition, the tradition of bare-bottomed chastisement of males, delivered by females. And she might help see this tradition enshrined. Indeed the future of full nude punishments, and of the shame of involuntary erections on display, might be vouchsafed through this girl's actions.

Shame, as a disciplinary implement, might be entrenched- yes, in the schools of a mighty independent India. Or further afield, in the Caribbean colonies among the descendants of African slaves. Even across the broad prairies of America in what are now the prosperous settlements of its sprawling mid-west. Why- in each of these places- might errant males not be ordered stripped by a female schoolmistress or doctor? By stern mother, aunt or mature-age sister? Stripped of everything- yes, suffering total clothing deprivation. Not a stitch. Kept in such state till their organs stiffened and stood, with other females gathered to look on? And then be subject to punishment with hand, paddle or cane?

Would the girl, her own savant, Beverly, now seize this moment pregnant with such global potential?

As if Sarah's puppet, the young woman cast aside the restraint of Dorset and embraced the opportunities of the tropics.

She directed the classroom pointer to George's member and firmly stroked his shaft up and down, lingering on his penis glans.

Up and down.

And around and round.

Several times.

His whole body stiffened.

And obligingly, sunk in ambiguous yearnings and warring emotions, the young teacher felt his penis just bubble over...a turgid flow, like water from a faulty drinking fountain in Kensington Gardens...

...emerging sluggishly and sploshing to stick to his feet...

...draining his testicles.

Emptying his whirly gigs.

There were gasps from the girls and the wafting scent of these boyish offerings drifted to their nostrils.

Sarah, at her spyhole, relished her own orgasm triggered as she saw George evacuate himself again. Her lean body shook and she stifled moans, as she had seen all the girls do, while she watched at her spyhole, at the morning's revelations.

Beverly began to talk. She began to dilate on the nature of semen. "Semen, George has ejaculated his semen, produced in his seminal vesicle which is in his pelvis...here!"

As the pointer prodded his abdomen, George stared, glassy eyed and guilty, at the roomful of girls, his bare feet shining with his silvery deposit.

Sarah contemplated the problem of how she might manage Master Applewhite.

"Let me be cruel, not unnatural."

Hamlet's words were her motto. She would be cruel but not to excess.

She knew what George Applewhite required emotionally, if the rest of his life were not to be a twilight existence pining for these days under the Raj. Pining for what had happened this morning. She knew he would want her to do what she now planned- would want to submit to the order she would have to give.

Namely, to be required from now on to give all lessons to girl students in conditions of total clothing deprivation. All lessons.

To be unrigged.

To be bare as an egg.

In front of roomfuls of girls. Facing, in his birthday suit, their skittish presence. Their laughing eyes.

His tallwag on display.

And his whirligigs. Or at least what might be glimpsed of them in the little gauzy bag pulled tight by his erection.

Sarah would now design this denouement. Would enforce it. And record it for other sexologists like Magnus Hirshfeld and Sigmund Freud, even for the young writer David Laurence. What a pity the great Richard von Krafft-Ebing were not alive to contemplate her laboratory study of exhibitionism. This might be a crowning achievement: a young male teacher, stark naked and erect and his penis drooling, forced to teach classes of lively girls.

Sarah saw this. And saw, too, that with such an arrangement and a few other grand plans, her days in India might be ending. The appeal of the West Indies was making itself felt, like a salty ocean breeze rippling through palms.

She withdrew her hand. She placed the slimy plaster cast- with its upward bend and that fat, rippling artery and that thrilling big mole- in the deep pocket of her smock. She hitched her underwear and let her skirts fall. Yes, the West Indies. And bodies darker even than this Pedro's. And veins bigger, and the glans penis on average twice the plumpness of those in India. Perhaps bottoms even naughtier and males yearning even more urgently for punishment at the hands of ladies, and to have girls watching. Wanting to be ordered and handled. Yes, and white women even more eager to see it happen.

Indian Mothers Strip Their Sons.

As usual it was Nicholas Elliot who moved fast and put the plan in place.

He interviewed a score of the sari-clad school maids, the dark skinned women in bright colours who mopped and polished the school building or cooked and served the meals or did the laundry. He used his florid Hindi language skills to press them. Do you have a son, a big strong 18 year old? A tall boy, with a mature body- here he gestured vaguely over his flies- and handsome, with long eye lashes and glistening curls? His language was suggestive.

And would you like to practise Murgha when he is naughty, as we do at this school? The mothers' eyes flashed. They most certainly would, on their naughty boys. And, it seemed from their expressions, it would bring them pleasure. Yes, take his kurta, his shirt, from him? They nodded, with a grin. And his dhoti or kaili- his sarong- from him? Yes, and they grinned wolfishly. Nicholas knew that in families so poor there was no question of underwear beneath. Leaving him nanga- which meant bare, stripped, naked? Yes, they nodded, shivering at the delicious possibility, nanga. Or even ughara- which might mean, "buck naked?"

The eyes of the maids glinted. "Yes...ughara."

And they grinned suggestively.

Which meant that Nicholas saw in his imagination a tall, gangly, dark-skinned youth allowing his mother to slowly unknot the cord at his waist...and unravel his skirt...have it fall free and withdraw it...

...seeing suddenly all his bodily charms.

Nicholas shivered at the thought.

He pressed on, with the maids. Why not at this school? Under Memsahib Sarah? Our boss lady will take care of your boy, just like in the corridors with students, punished...without clothes, the boys rendered nanga or ughara? Like that- for your son? And you deliver him up to us at school and there will be a fat 50 pence for each time.

Which meant that within two days six maids arrived at the school with their sons in tow.

In the corridor young teachers Hermione and Fanny Goodman were in charge, breathless with excitement. The older females teachers had gathered too- Marigold Wainscott with her facial mole that so disconcerted Sarah, Harriet Marsden-Smedley determined to examine a new set of perineal raphes through her tortoiseshells, Cora Wrightwick torn apart with frustration at the absence of the English males off fighting and in love with what she had brilliantly termed "mahogany hat racks" and Miss Favisham who loved stripping boys stark naked in her chemistry classes- in double periods, with girls present.

There was Julia Maxse, whose raging desires told her that this week- no later- she would need to take a young lover, and was going to make it an 18 year old Indian, Untouchable or upper caste. Brown red-tipped cock, the thing.

Olivia Crayfish had joined them, leaving her class pleading an ailment to check out naked boys in the corridors. Now this! She swallowed greedily.

And Miss Plimmer hovered, flush faced, eyes on fire.

Hermione, who had learnt basic Hindi, asked the boys to separate from their mothers and stand in line against the wall.

The boys were rangy and broad shouldered, dark eyes under nervous, fluttering eyelashes.

Hermione leant in to one of the mothers and nodded in the direction of her boy.

Eager, the mother nodded...and walked to her twitching son, somewhat pock marked 18 year old Seedee Ghulum.

Grinning with expectation, she reached for the buttons on his dusty cotton shirt.

Behind the crowd of female spectators- Sarah herself had joined them, and a dozen sari-clad maids- Nicholas craned his neck. A seven inch, blood-hardened erection thrust at the flies of his linen suit. There is, he thought, a special fission about mothers stripping sons, especially when their sons were 18 year old. He felt the butterflies in his own tummy, felt the thrill in all his limbs.

The shirt on the boy fell open and his mother smiled like a crocodile as she whipped it off, revealing a long, lean chocolate torso dusted with hair in the shape of a tree- spreading branches across his wide chest, a long narrow trunk vanishing into his dhoti.

His mother now reached with eager brown fingers for its drawstrings.

The dhoti was a single piece of cloth, dangling to cover thighs and cupped at the crotch.

Her fingers worked at the knot...

...her son looked terrified...

...and could be heard to mutter desperate, whispered pleas in which Nicholas could identify the word "nanga...nanga..."

"Don't make me naked, mama, not completely stripped naked in front of ladies!"

...which his mother cruelly ignored...

...working at his knot...

...until...

...the single long cloth fell open, and dropped to the floor...

...leaving the boy stripped to the skin.

Look at his expression, thought Nicholas, he's now sinking into cataclysmic shame, knowing his mother can see the secret changes in his body: the burst of pubic bush...sizeable penis now animating itself...the hang of his testicle sac, stretched by the two big balls that fill it. A scrawny testicle sac. Oh what a comic addition to male anatomy, Nicholas thought. There's not a female who doesn't think they are absurd. Including mamas.

His balls, and everything else- now on display.

To his grinning, triumphant mother most of all.

And to all the circle of females, including five schoolgirls moving between classes who had just this moment sensed that their principal might not object to them staying here and watching. Cressida Crabtree thought her eyes would pop out of her face as she devoured the male nudity.

Seedee was shaking uncontrollably. He's a virgin, sensed Nicholas, strictly raised. Ashamed of the changes in his body yet subject to incessant erections that tent his skirt. Right now his penis was stretching, longish and narrow but with a hefty upper end. Bludgeon-shaped.

Every female was watching it lift.

It was now parallel to the floor and rising more.

He was aware they were all watching his member. He shook more violently.

The next mother was signalled by Hermione to go forward to her son, Sayeed Mirza. He had arrived bare chested. His bronze upper body was muscled from physical labour, and as bare of hair as if he had been shaved. His small mother was delighted by the task- all saw the fire of curiosity in her eyes- and with one fierce tug she had her son's dhoti unravelled- to his horror. She whipped it off him, holding it aloft like a captured enemy pennant.

He stood buck naked, with the big audience of females scanning a short but broad beamed brown penis hanging from an exuberant burst of pubic bush. Any ballsac was invisible. He stood frozen, staring right ahead but within seconds his organ sprang to full stand...positively sprang forward...up at 90 degrees, slapping the hairy camouflage of his pubic bone.

"As soon as they lose their precious skirt, they get stiff!" whispered Jenny.

"Yes, so funny," replied Gloria. "Just like our four servant boys. Erections on demand!"

Nineteen year old long-limbed Sitar Ram gulped as his mother approached. His upper lip and cheeks boasted thin, straggly hair which she forbid him to shave- he was still a boy, she would say, not a grown-up. His arms rose, in protest, as she reached for the decorated yellow waist coat. Nicholas was able to understand Sitar's whispered pleas in his native Hindi.

"No, mama, no...pleassssse...not nanga! Not nanga- with these white ladies!"

Nicholas sensed this mother had never glimpsed her son nude. She eagerly hauled his waistcoat away and stood back to view his elegant, hair dusted torso, wetting her lips with the point of her tongue...and reached for the corded waist of his dhoti.

Her boy- this sensitive, shy son- pressed his palms to his face...and burst into tears. To no avail. His mother was...very, very eager. She grabbed at the single, unstitched piece of cloth that, this morning, he had so routinely wound around his waist and legs. She unravelled the knot. The cloth fell to the side and his mother pulled it away and revealed the longest, thinnest penis most of the females had ever seen, already wobbling and rising and stretching itself from the glistening black jungle in his groin.

It had a red head.

"That's not a penis. It's a snake!" declared Harriet Marsden-Smedley.

"And those tears! He hates us to see it!" This was the assessment of Julia Maxse.

"Look- up it goes! Three cheers for the red, white and blue!" This was Mrs Favisham who tapped out applause with her walking stick.

The boy stood weeping into his palms as his narrow flesh rose to jut out at 45 degrees, red tip on its long narrow stem. The females were dazzled by his genital fireworks. His own mother looked back at the crowd of females, proud.

The other mothers moved decisively to strip their sons- again, thought Nicholas, they were doing so with relish. Asserting their prowess over the frisky young males. Showing they were in charge. And something else...

He could see it at work now as his mother knelt in front of 18 year old Moran Lal and fiddled and tugged with the knot of his pleated mardanni, his bright orange sarong. The boy, handsome under long black locks, was distraught, terrified. Had he knotted his cloth more tightly than normal, traumatised by rumours of Murgha, naked male punishment? His mother could not loosen it. Could not strip her son.

Certainly she, having slipped his shirt over his outstretched arms, and having thrilled to the sight of his nude torso, was feeling cheated. On her knees, she looked over her shoulder and said something to Hermione. The girl waved forward Fanny Goodman, who so loved reading wicked stories, and Jenny Goodman, who had grown to so relish smacking the servant boys' bottoms. Moran Lal now had his mother and three young women pulling at the wrapping of his cloth around his waist.

It sent him into a burst of eloquence, every word of which Nicholas could translate.

"Mama! Golly, gosh, mama! No! Girls will have me ughara (buck naked!)