Days of the Raj Ch. 05

"My linga (my dong, my pintle!)

"Stop! Don't! Don't want ladies to see my anda (oval, testicles!)

"See my natamb (my buttocks, nates!)"

He was begging desperately, clutching the knot.

"Girls will even see my guda (my hole!)"

His last plea. Don't let them see "my hole!"

He grasped the knot.

The females fidgeted and tugged, bent before him.

He pulled the cloth tight.

His cunning mother- small, dark woman- had a thought. Kneeling before him, she reached above his ribs, and tickled him beneath his armpits!

His hands withdrew from his waist to push her fingers away.

At that moment the tugs of the three girls whisked the cloth from his lower body.

He gasped. He was suddenly in his birthday suit.

With linga, with anda, with natamb- his prick, ball bag, posterior- on display, as he had warned. His mother stared wide eyed with hunger. Nicholas thought, she's comparing her wretched son with his father, with her own brothers. She's slaking her curiosity about her son's private parts...and isn't she loving his shame!

His five and a half inches began to stretch, to his mother's delight- his glans emerging like a half moon.

Hermione nodded to the parent of her next victim, an Afghan mother who now approached her 20 year old son, Gool Khan. He was a pretty boy, golden brown with luxuriant black locks, wearing the embroided costume of a dancer.

Within a second his mother had his long shirt, decorated with floral design, whisked over outstretched arms. His upper body was bare as an egg- shaved, Nicholas guessed, for nude dancing at all-male tribal events. His mother was drawing down his white cotton pants which ballooned at his heels. Underneath...his privates were protected by a scarlet coloured, jewelled cup held by a red waist band.

An intimate, feminine undergarment.

His audience gasped.

His mother paused.

Hermione whispered an order.

The woman nervously reached for the red waist strap...and slowly tugged it. Down...slowly...to his knees.

Gool's pubis was shaved of all hair. Not even a whisker remained. His dainty coffee-coloured organ was secured with bright blue silk ribbon, capturing balls and cock, tied with a bow.

A gesture from last night's tribal celebration, thought Nicholas, from one of his no-doubt many male admirers.

The boy blushed deeply. The females shuddered as a wave of admiration swept them. And lust, for his frontier land beauty.

Like those of his partners, his petite prick swelled out...stretched...and lifted. As if with pride. He was quickly sporting a perfectly formed erection.

The sixth, Laksham Das, was already stripped, bent over, arms crossed to opposite knee, sheltering himself, whimpering. But a savage slap from his mother on his left buttock brought him upright, hands by his side. The females saw what he had been sheltering: a veiny, 45 degree erection straining every sinew of his five inch member. Yes, his glans was a defiant red.

The six sons stood, against the wall, arms rigid down their sides, facing the female crowd. Naked and, to their extra shame, erect.

"Mahogany hat racks indeed!" spluttered Cora.

All heard. A wave of laughter swept the girl students and women teachers. So apt, they thought, we could indeed hang our straw boaters on each of these pricks. What a hoot that would be!

Without understanding anything, except the steaming male shame, the sari-clad maids joined in. Their joy was unbounded. Each had wide grins.

None laughed as heartily as the boys' mothers.

Their delight is palpable, thought Nicholas. So cruel. Callous. At seeing their sons stand naked, with dressed females laughing and staring. It hardly bears thinking about. Revenge on the male species? Subterranean disdain for their husbands? Flipping normal roles? Sheltering his erection he discretely withdrew. He needed to relieve his excitement. Only Sarah noticed, and noted, and understood, the tent in his trousers.

For minutes all the females, young and old, relished the view of the six stripped males.

Their eyes glowed at the vision.

Absorbed the detail. Made comparisons. Above all, savoured the shame.

The boys saw their eyes, glowing.

They melted with the humiliation.

Sarah then gave the order to the group of young teachers, led by Hermione.

"Girls, to the bathrooms with the boys now. A good scrubbing. Into the tubs. Scrub every inch. Several times. The areas hard to get to, most of all. And take your time. Only their eyeballs to be untouched."

She might have said, enjoy it.

Like prisoners of Amazon warriors, the young men were led off and up the stairs, erections pointing the way.

Their mothers shared their pride.

Sarah Meets Her Ladies and Dangles a Cherry.

Within hours Sarah was in her study talking to six of the town's English ladies. Leaders of local society, their husbands off at the war. Her goal was to extract from them an endowment for the school of ten thousand guineas which would mean more teachers from Home. More girls as students. Scholarships to win more Indian boys, those from modest, civil service families. Boys chosen after weighing personal qualities, as much as academic excellence.

Above, the ceiling fan creaked away. Outside, the afternoon sun baked the river plain. There were distant cries from hawkers and the croak of circling vultures.

She was talking to them about the special fete she planned.

Punished boys on display for female visitors.

"We have only days ago uncovered an underground of immoral activity in the dormitories. I organised a raid at midnight. It caught the boy's red-handed. No, not that serious. Not the Oscar Wilde offence. I would call it a lewd game. Nothing more. Oh, we are all ladies of the world. Let me share the name they give it...cock fighting."

There was an intake of breath. Mrs Roberta Walters shifted in her chair. Her husband had left India, as an officer in the Naval Reserve, now protecting conveys in the Atlantic. He had often thrilled her with talk of what sailors did and had jovially quoted First Sea Lord Winston Churchill on the naval tradition of "rum, sodomy and the lash."

"Yes, draw your own conclusions but in one of our three dormitories we found boys stark naked, leaping around on their beds, cheering on two of their number- a boy called Cyrus..."

He of the "mighty steed," Sarah thought.

"...and one called Tagore..."

Equally well endowed, she might have added.

"...using their erect organs as weapons. A version of a sword fight, if you will."

Her audience, all middle aged or elderly, were aroused, smirking with embarrassment.

"In a contest to see...goodness, how shall I put this? Well, a contest to see who might be induced to...well, come to climax first. Before his partner, his competitor. It's apparently not unknown- this game- in the dormitories of schools, colleges, army barracks. And, not surprisingly, quite common below decks among sailors."

Mrs Walters yes, had heard of such things. Her husband had told her of indecencies among the men, sometimes younger officers. He had perhaps aimed to excite her. Certainly had succeeded. But now...their "cocks" as swords? Not even he had uncovered such ribald mischief.

"In any case, it calls for punishment, a mass punishment. Which I will combine with our gala day- for you ladies and your daughters- at this school."

There was a pregnant silence.

"I certainly like the idea of offering them as artists' models. I mean altogether nude," ventured Baroness Huskisson, quailing with the word "nude." Her own husband had been with the general staff for the three years of war. They had enjoyed a vigorous intimacy. She was feeling his absence. Sarah's vision of all the males lining the corridors without a stitch between them...each of them embarrassed by an engorged member...made her flutter below the waist.

The Baroness quickly explained herself.

"I've enjoyed water colours all my life. So do my two girls. The value of a live male model is so..."

Her voice trailed.

"...and some of the native boys are so..."

"Well, you will enjoy full access. And they, fully nude," promise Sarah.

Rubbing the cherry across the lips.

There was electricity in the air at this suggestion.

"The idea of a dance. I like that," said Mrs Ira Bland, an earthy mother of four boys with a husband in the War Office. "The orchestra...the young men lined up...in a state of nature. I mean what could be more exquisitely painful to them than dancing with us older women...I mean, 18 year old males without a stitch. And for you with daughters. What an education for them!"

"Do you anticipate they might become aroused?"

The question came from Mrs Halley Barbour, a mature, somewhat dumpy 42 year old, her younger, flat-stomached husband fighting in Flanders. Visiting the school for cricket she had observed the tented flies of Indian 18 year olds in their whites, also in jodhpurs at afternoon tea after polo. Sometimes formidable bulges.

"Invariably," opined Sarah. "At their age it's guaranteed. But it adds to their distress. It shames them more. It's very positive."

"Amusing for us!"

There was heartfelt laughter. Each of the six women were thinking the same thought. Hard cocks on young, dusky-skinned males.

Lady Granville thought of cucumbers. The vegetable she found so evocative.

"Two additional initiatives for our fete, in addition to those I've discussed. With a fundraising imperative. For the lady prepared to bid the most, the opportunity to act as school doctor. Yes, conducting full-bodied medical examinations on the boys. For a day. Or even a week. And the lucky lady will assume a doctor's uniform and full powers, and the opportunity to select girls as nurses. Perhaps her own daughters. Boys will arrive fully dressed but will clearly have to be stripped."

The eyes of each of the women swam as their imaginations worked.

This group would strip them like locusts, Sarah thought.

Then Sarah produced the "king hit" she knew would guarantee the fattest donative offering.

"And I will include my three young male teachers."

The women jerked in their seats.

"You've met them, I'm sure. Nicholas, George and Thomas have never been medically examined since their arrival."

There was an embarrassed tittering. Even a lowing noise from old Mrs Rachel Hellgot. Imaginations ran riot.

The Baroness was not going to be robbed of this. It was fundraising for the school after all.

"Er...I think my daughters would relish...I mean, benefit..."

"Excellent! That will be under your direction, Baroness. Doctor for the school! I just hope you and your daughters will be thorough. No room for embarrassment."

The Baroness looked at her lap and swallowed.

"Second, for a designated donation, I will offer a tutorial in physical chastisement. The punishment of boys. Full nude punishment. With palm, strap, belt or cane. Imagine, if you will, a totally nude boy crouching on the desk, bottom upturned...before a classroom of mature women, and me guiding you on use of the cane. On his bare, exposed bottom and thighs. Before that, of course, there is the art of disrobing, of debreeching...again, for shaming."

Another hum of approval.

"All of us who are...mothers would benefit...I'm sure..."

Lady Glanville ended her remark, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.

Assent all round.

"Techniques useful for disciplining servants too," offered Mrs Fiffy Maysbury, who each day watched through parted curtains her half naked gardeners with golden chests. Watched as they glowed under the sun. Even spying one cheeky boy urinate in the flower beds, his yellow stream sending off steam in the early morning air.

"But of course. And another plan. For a donation to our school, an English lady will serve as mother of an Indian youth from the town. Say, a strapping young man from one of the poorest families. An untouchable. We might begin, say, with his English-mother-for-a-day, stripping him for a bath...and giving him one, in one of our bathrooms. Seeing that he was scrubbed on every inch of his body, missing no part of his skin, the English way. He could work in your home, in a happy native state of undress..."

There was an intake of breath. Mrs Maysbury tentatively raised a finger. She would bid for this privilege. A naked youth...with feather duster...stalking the cool, shadowed recesses of her parlours.

"In fact, I've invited six such Indian boys to serve us tea now. Fresh from a bathing experience at the hands of our young female teachers- Hermione, Penny, Jenny and the others, and a medical examination by two of our teachers, Julia Maxse and Marigold Wainscott. They are dressed appropriately...for the time being..."

Sarah rang her bell.

"...only for the time being. But we should strip them off and waste no time about it."

There was a delay. Then Miss Plimmer opened the door- behind her hovered teachers Jenny Goodman and Hermione, still wearing the pink rubber aprons used in the bathroom for over-sighting boys bathing - and ushered in Seedee Gholum holding a tea tray and wearing nothing but a totally incongruous pink and ribboned pinafore, something one of the girls may have brought in a chest from home yet now seriously tented in front.

Seedee's pock-marked face looked demented with embarrassment. Sarah directed him to stand next to the Baroness...whose eyes dilated on the telltale thrust in the front of the pinafore.

The Baroness flushed with the strength of her feelings. She stared at the tenting.

Sayeed Mirza and three other boys, also carrying tea trays, were wearing tiny loin cloths hanging from strings around their waists. In Sayeed's case the cloth stuck out, prodded by his erection. But in this he was not alone. Sitar had a particular challenge. What ever female had dressed him had allocated the tiniest loin cloth. His long, narrow linga was fully erect, jerking skyward and had pushed it aside. His long linga was displayed, corded with pulsing veins. Ira Bland seemed fascinated with its shiny red topping.

"Waste no time about it?" said Rachel Hellgot. And she reached for the waistband holding Moran Lal's tented loin cloth and whisked it down. The boy's erection sprang free, inches from her nose. She stared greedily, then continued the descent of the cloth from knees to ankles.

The Baroness rose and lifted Seedee's pinafore over his shoulders, exposing his elegant haired body and stubborn, narrow erection. When the Baroness sat down again, it pointed inches from her nose. Like a mushroom on offer. The 18 year old was trembling.

The other women followed. They confiscated the boys' modest coverings.

Gool Khan's exposure- Mrs Walters had excitedly drawn down his loin cloth- showed both his sweet petite erection and his ballsac still held by the knotted blue ribbon.

"What a delight!" she exclaimed, thinking she had exceeded her husband's knowledge of below deck's earthiness. "This boy is very proud of his characteristics. He wraps them in a silk ribbon!"

"Your's to entertain. For the rest of the afternoon," said Sarah. "With the nooks and crannies of this vast old building at your disposal. Perhaps we could reconvene at three to discuss what commitment, and for what purpose, your support of our unique school might take..."

Being of a certain age the six ladies were united on a view of life: there was no longer time to waste.

That night Sarah flicked through shipping timetables. Getting out of the Bay of Bengal was the grand impediment. The war showed no signs of ending although the raider Emden had now been sunk by Empire cannonry. Shipping flourished from Manila to San Francisco and would leave her a rail journey across the Rockies and the plains, although she preferred the South, region of plantations and racial frisson. From New Orleans into the ports of the British-ruled West Indies seemed one next logical leap.

She sighed and stroked her neck.

She thought of obsidian nates, waiting to be lashed or begging a good, long hand spanking. Thought of what heft possessed by Negro youth might press into her aproned or skirted lap in preparation for an over the knee punishment. And for some reason she thought of the muscled descendants of former slaves- fathers to the 18 year olds she would be teaching- and whether in their bones lay dormant a desire for the disciplinary certainty of an older life. Delivered by a white woman, with finesse. Shaming them with unbreeching, exposing their involuntary engorgements.

She had learnt in today's mail she had been beaten by the New York museum to Lady Impey's and Bhawani Das' great work.

Well, she must stitch her own together from the Shaftesbury Avenue photographic studio and the works she had commissioned from it of stripped English boys and men, embarrassed to be ordered nude before the cameras. And the photos and paintings to be generated from her own open day, her gorgeous school fete.

So it goes.

To everything, she knew, there was a season. And a time to every purpose under the heaven.