Days of the Raj Ch. 03

I recommend you read the first two chapters if you have not, especially Chapter 02. This is loaded with CFNM and it is somewhat long. You might not devour it in one giant gulp but in bite-size chunks. All my characters are 18 or over.

*****

Even Sarah Maitland trembled at a moment like this.

Yes, after all she had faced, in her varied life. Several lives really. Her time as governess in great British country homes, as matron and teacher in public schools. She had served as head of a disciplinary establishment in London's St Johns Wood. Now in 1917 she was head of this school in British India: after all this, she felt her authority tremble in front of her.

Yes, even in the face of her close bond with young D H Lawrence in their days at Nottingham Teachers' College, her lively friendship with G B Shaw, her short affair with H G Wells; even her correspondences with Sigmund Freud and Magnus Hirschfield- these associations, at once so stimulating, might soon mock her and her pretensions.

Her theories of male discipline based on total clothing deprivation and the exposure of the inadvertent erection might now collapse, her great notion that enforced, shameful nakedness could turn boys into gentle men might be disproved.

Even here in her own study with the heavy curtains drawn against the boiling heat of the Indian summer- the heat that baked the mudflats of the Ganges and dried out the rice paddies- here in her study with mounted lion head and cupboard with canes and paddles, Sarah Maitland felt her status- indeed her very self- quail and wobble.

Even, with prints on the wall of the Delhi Durba of 1911 and King George installed as Emperor of India, the authority of British India itself might be threatened at this moment, just as much as by any stirrings for independence.

Sarah Maitland's standing was under assault.

Twenty three year old George Applewhite, one of three new male teachers recruited from Home, stood in front of her. He was all that his photographs had promised. He was innocently boyish, five foot seven, with auburn hair flopping over the right temple. He wore the ill-fitting white suit he had bought from a tropical outfitter at Charing Cross. Over the suit hung his shabby academic gown and on his head rested his threadbare mortarboard.

His lambert brown eyes flashed with fear. He knew he was in trouble.

In India for only a month he was this day charged with undermining her unique disciplinary code. He had given permission for a punished boy standing naked in the corridor, being shamed in the sight of sari-wearing maids and passing female staff, to return to his classroom and re-assume his uniform.

Unheard of!

Yesterday he had ordered the British schoolgirls who had recently been absorbed into the school, out of the science laboratory where, secure in their linen and cotton, their ribbons and crinoline, they had been enjoying working with nine nude Indian boys hobbling embarrassed with test tubes and bunsen burners. Girls ordered out! When the frisson of having them present, and beautifully attired, was essential punishment for the Indian boys kept nude as Adam.

George Applewhite, unfit for military service because of his slight lameness, stood in front of the seated principal. His square face, neither ugly or handsome, registered his anxiety. He trembled visibly as he offered his defence.

"Miss Maitland, it was acutely embarrassing for the boys. They...they...were ashamed...oh, so very ashamed of their...of their...of their status."

"Status? Such an interesting word to chose. You mean their clothes-free status?"

He blushed.

"You mean being stripped naked?"

He blushed deeper. His whole face turned a deep, dark crimson.

She could not resist a fleeting smile at his embarrassment at talking about male nakedness. But yes, he wanted to expostulate, yes- I am indeed opposed to 18 year olds being in the buff! Yes, in their blasted birthday suits in front of females, dressed females! He wanted to protest that he boy in the corridor had been made to stand back to the wall, hands behind, his genitals on display as maids giggled while they polished and swept the floor. The boy had twisted and contorted with shame, tears had streaked his cheeks. But how could he tell Miss Maitland about the trail of Cowpers' fluid that dangled from the tip of the boy's organ when it had become erect and about the devastating glances of passing female teachers, almost indecently attentive to the boy's formidable brown organ?

And the boys in the laboratory...half of them had suffered projections from their groins as they had worked at the benches, the girls by their sides casting sidelong looks at their profiles and spluttering with laughter? Hangdog and quaking, the boys had been in agonies of shame. Agonies. Of course I ordered the girls out, he wanted to expostulate, of course I wanted to curtail the boys' humiliation. Of course I did!

I am, after all, only a few years their elder, he might have added.

If he had been brave.

She read his mind.

"But it wasn't your decision to make. You are, after all, not much older than they. When you signed your contract in London you accepted my authority as final in all matters of school policy. Did you not, Master Applewhite?"

She deliberately chose the diminutive to remind him that in female eyes here he was no more than a boy himself, a white boy, an Anglo Saxon but with the same standing as the dusky Indian 18 year olds in the classrooms and dormitories, the ones she forced to go totally naked.

He nodded as tears welled.

She pulled open a drawer and produced a leather document folder and from it a large red envelope and shook its contents onto the table. They were photographs. Maybe two dozen. From the Shaftesbury Avenue studio of her friend Miss Aurelia Flint. She spread them.

"You might easily be serving in the Shropshire Yeomanry. In the trenches. But it seems you were eager enough to teach here in India- to support your mother, your aunt and and sister- to subject yourself to naked inspection..."

His knees shook. He was close to swooning. He saw the photograph she was holding. Oh my god, he thought. It was a close up of his own organ! His...penis!There it was in black and white: short, stiff, shiny. In profile, emerging from his pubic curls.

"...perhaps you overlooked the contractual clause that read, 'all males on school premises will be subject to the same disciplinary rules as apply to students'..."

Miss Maitland made this observation not taking her eyes from the photograph.

"Yes, but..."

"You signed it, Master Applewhite which means..."

While talking, she picked up another photo which showed a close up of his bottom, two peach-like halves cleaved by a deep fissure. The composition included, shamefully, the fold of skin where his bottom reached his thighs.

He saw her studying it, his bottom. His insides turned to warm water. She looked at it while she continued her remarks, not lifting her eyes.

"...any disobedience from now will be met with your dismissal. No other school in India will employ you and you will be seeking a loan for an expensive fare back to Southampton and your family will be plunged into penury..."

She was examining another photo of him facing the camera. His penis stuck out parallel to the floor, as if indicting Miss Flint's camera. Or excited by it. My god, he thought, she knows my every secret.

"...and, by the way, if you were to leave the school I will employ these photos as aids in teaching biology to our young ladies, projected in all their intimate detail on the wall with our glass plate lantern. For example- and this hardly exhausts the possibilities- this photo hints at moisture emerging from the meatus of your glans..."

He reeled- that she was talking about something so intimate. His "meatus!" His "glans!"

"...what the texts call, Cowper's fluid, Master Applewhite, or pre-ejaculatory fluid..."

The shame! He crunched his eyes shut. Bullets of sweat appeared on his forehead.

Her eyes never left the pictures.

"Our young English ladies have a double lesson in technical drawing tomorrow afternoon at 2 pm. You are their teacher and I know your lessons are well prepared. This one will be no different from those. Except in one respect..."

He knew telepathically what was coming.

"...15 minutes before the class you will come here. My secretary Miss Plimmer will be waiting. In this study, under her direction, you will carefully remove every item of your clothing. Yes, that includes undergarments."

Oh my god, he thought, not even underwear!

"You can keep your mortar board on your head and resume that academic gown. Then she will escort you to the third floor classroom where you will present your lesson in a way that will leave no girl in doubt that my authority in this school is absolute and unshakeable."

He choked.

He attempted to present a raft of objections, desperate with tears coursing his cheeks. The gown..? It didn't close at the front! What if female teachers- his colleagues- were in the corridors? What of the sari-wearing Indian servants? He wanted to find ways of saying other things- that inevitably, in the presence of attractive young ladies, he would suffer an erection. He wanted to add that the classroom was small, a tutorial room no more...that he would be required to visit their desks and lean over by their sides and correct their work...

But these arguments died in his throat.

His tears overflowed.

"But that's not all."

Her green eyes were glazed with cruelty.

"In one hour you will receive the thrashing of your life. It will be more severe than any you have received at..."

She consulted his file.

"...at Shaftesbury Teachers College or your old school, Binksbury. But then you have never challenged authority as you have challenged mine."

Her authority was the essence of it.

"So..."

She stroked her somewhat pointed chin.

George wanted to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness.

"...you will..."

She enunciated with a slowness than was menacing.

He felt it in every fibre of his being.

"...go and ask Miss Plimmer to escort you to the staff library across the corridor. When you are in the library ask her to help you out of those clothes. I require everything off. You will strip quite bare. When you are entirely naked even, this time, without your academic gown..."

A new wave of despair swept through him.

"...you will allow her to position you in the corridor. Obviously you will face outwards. Your hands behind. I will allow one small concession..."

His heart leapt.

"...you may keep your mortarboard. That allows any visitor to the school to know that..."

She chose the next words carefully.

"...despite your boyish characteristics..."

She looked down at the photos.

"...you are in fact a teacher...although being shamed like any of the boys."

He was frozen.

"Then, after an hour of corridor time, I will have five of your colleagues in this room to witness the next stage in your punishment. They will be Miss Hester Harriet Marsden-Smedley, Miss Julia Maxse, dear old Miss Favisham and Mrs Cora Wrightwick. Maybe one of the younger ones too, like Fanny Goodman or Beverly Burrowes..."

What?

He had got to know them all. There had been polo picnics. Cricket afternoons, with drinks in a tent. A dinner where he has sat between Mrs Wrightwick and Miss Julia Maxse...although he had caught them once exchanging smiles and avoiding his eyes when the subject of "school discipline" had come up. The corridor nakedness was a subject never discussed with female teachers, at least in his experience. He had danced with Miss Marsden-Smedley although he suspected her excruciating pace was designed to remind him that she was taller and stronger and perhaps, too, of his slight lameness. Mrs Favisham had been nice- even motherly. He thought her kind. And he had exchanged sympathetic glances with young Beverly Burrowes who was his age.

Was Miss Maitland now suggesting..?

"They will see you paddled over my knee like the boy you are..."

Yes, they would watch. All those females. His eyes swam with terror.

"...yes, just as I punish the Indian students."

That meant stark naked. He knew that.

"Over my knee while I sit on that elegant long leather couch."

George swayed on his feet as he thought of these females, his colleagues...and what they would witness.

"Then there will be afternoon tea served by our maids. During this time you will stand, still deprived of clothing, your reddened and stripped bottom on display, in that corner. Yes, the bottom you displayed for us in these photographs..."

She lifted the close-up photograph of his rear.

"I think you will find our colleagues very interested in the sight of your rear and not just because it is so shapely. Ladies who witness punishment have a lively interest in how the male gluteals take on a new hue. That, Master Applewhite, is the time-revered fate of errant boys who defy authority. And then tomorrow..."

She looked deep into his distraught eyes. Her own were glazed with mischief.

"...tomorrow it will be the girls' drawing class."

He trembled.

"A double class. Yes, 80 minutes before them, only wearing your academic gown and mortarboard. But now, please present yourself outside to Miss Plimmer."

Devastated, he withdrew.

Sarah reached instinctively for the mounted elephant tusk and stroked it. It was so smooth and hard. She loved it. It reminded her of so much. With her other hand she reviewed the photographs of her young teacher naked and ashamed in the Shaftesbury Avenue photo studio, against the faded painted backdrop of English countryside, his mother, aunt and sister seeing him without clothes for the first time in years and, for good measure, Aurelia and her female assistant: five dressed females.

She allowed herself a long sigh.

Her authority had been upheld.

Was being upheld, with every item of clothing young George was now shyly handing over to Miss Plimmer in the sepulchral quiet of the staff library.

Would be upheld, the moment Miss Plimmer positioned him facing outwards, hands behind his back in the school corridor.

Would be reinforced, when the first maid or female teacher or English schoolgirl passed by, and looked him over with astonishment and prurient smile.

Whatever gods there be- she favoured those of Greece, perhaps of Hindu India with their beloved cave art- she thanked from her heart...no from the damp, humid core of her being which, raising her skirt and lowering her underwear, she reached with insistent fingers.

At the end of school that afternoon Beverly Burrowes' fingers were exploring her own damp, humid essence, her skirt and petticoat hitched and panties at mid-thigh. She was in the most advantageous hiding place, like a sniper in the branches and leaves of a stout oak peering down at an enemy platoon. She had searched the remote reaches of the dark, dusty staff library in search of forbidden books- the kind she knew Miss Maitland collected, such as medical texts, erotic stories from the Arab world, a long novel called My Secret Life.

Months ago she had tentatively climbed rusted metal steps to a library mezzanine. She had tip-toed cautiously across the bridge thinking of the advice from Antony and Cleopatra, "place not thine trust in rotting planks" and surveyed the shelves of musty Victorian learning. Then- discoveries! She found photograph albums of naked Sicilian youths! Thrilling! How she fell on these! Then she discovered the numbered, signed volumes of a bibliographer of Victorian pornography called Henry Spencer Ashbee. These were rich discoveries to be sure and she had smuggled volumes home to be shared with her young colleagues. They had enjoyed comparing Wilhelm van Gloeden's pastoral photographs of nude Calabrian youth with the Indian specimens they saw daily- on balance, they thought, the Italian salamis, displayed between boyish thighs, thicker than the Indian, their sacs baggier too.

As for the forbidden Victorian literature, they read the volumes late into the night, savouring the shocking words and images- the lights low, and the servants out of the room. But rootling these library shelves for such wonders Beverly had found something even more titillating- no, thoroughly arousing- behind a shelf of mouldering volumes: a ventilation opening from which, on a stool, she could look down on the corridor- the blessed corridor, where naked boys were installed awaiting punishment outside Miss Maitland's study.

Like a sniper, unseen, she had an unchallenged line of sight. It was a secret observation post.

Now most afternoons, in the dark up in the little mezzanine of this almost abandoned staff library smelling of moulding volumes, she slowly fingered herself watching the naked youths wait punishment. Savouring their shame. Passionate about their humiliation. Brown skinned 18 year olds without a stitch of clothing stood, hands locked behind and pricks rising or subsiding according to their moods, eyes darting anxiously and swooning with shame at the approach of sari-clad maids who giggled and stared; or the skirted female teachers who flicked them with their gaze. More recently, added to these demons, were the dozen or so English school girls whose own school had closed and whom Miss Maitland had recruited.

Until arriving in India Beverly had encountered only one nude male. Only one, the time in the stables during her stay with her Dorset cousins, the 18 year old milk boy, Daniel. "Like my long white corker...my big plums?" His filthy, arousing words- "corker," "plums"- clung to her, as had the sight of this young farm worker presenting his privates when he had moved from behind the bench, showing himself to be not just shirtless but completely naked.

But here in the tropics she had felt in a male harem- a stripped Indian youth around every corner, whole classes in the buff if it suited one of the female teachers, a world where her colleagues talked about boys' characteristics- about scrotal raphes and foreskins and a meatus- and most spectacularly, Tagore being spanked naked in the staff room, exploding that silver fluid in the aproned lap of Harriet Marsden-Smedley. And Julia Maxse now bringing boys in, sometimes two a day, to be similarly punished: stripped, paraded, spanked. And Beverly being invited by her to try her hand, to have a boy lower himself over her lap, stiff penis pressed into her skirts.

There were the encounters with the young gardener in their bungalow who, after his erotic training in a unique cult, would produce gushes of seminal fluid when Beverly tweaked his nipples.

But from her vantage spot up in the ceiling of the staff library Beverly was cultivating her deepest passion: exploring male humiliation. It was not just the brown-skinned nudity. It was male shame that made her shiver with excitement.

Today she parted the books that blocked the view. She might see anything. There could be half a dozen Indian students experiencing Sarah's "total clothing deprivation" or only one or two. The unpredictability was part of the appeal. She peered out...to witness the unthinkable!

It was...her colleague George Applewhite! Incredible! A teacher! A colleague!Yes, fresh-faced, auburn-haired George, 24 year old George. George, the new recruit who walked with a barely noticeable limp, shy George who often blushed when an older woman addressed him...

...and he stood...

...under his mortarboard (how sweet, how comic)...

...naked as the day he had been born...

...without a stitch.

She choked.

Yes, under a mortarboard which made him all the more naked.

Right now, three maids with buckets and mops had stopped in front of him. The novelty of a young Englishmen in this condition had clearly electrified them. They were chattering, laughing and pointing, mainly at George's organ- his "needle" or "arrow" as the wicked literature called it- which, stubby as it was, now jutted parallel to the floor, loose skin bunched under its red, shiny crown.