Days of the Raj Ch. 03

His agony was writ large in his tortured features.

Beverley found it delicious, and exactly what she wanted. Oh, how she wanted it. A young man stripped, bare as an egg, and dressed females laughing, "rubbing it in" as it were. This time- oh glory be- an English boy naked, before the female viewers, dark-hued and lower caste.

Her fingers entered her "muff," as the wicked literature referred to it- or her "cunny"- and scooped dollops of her fluid which she then massaged into that magic button just above her aperture and which produced the most salubrious sensations...as she savoured and relished the young man's trauma. And his trauma was worsening. Her eagle eye detected the appearance of a bubble of fluid at his penis slit, what in her special tutorials Miss Maitland said was to be called a boy's "meatus"...then, quickly, the descent to his knees of a shiny trail, dangling like a spider web. It swayed in the air, hanging from his "glans."

From one of those tutorials conducted for young recruits by Sarah, with three naked Indian boys on view to display their privates ("Better than any biology text," Sarah had asserted) Beverly knew about this fluid. "Cowper's fluid," it was called, and she had copied it amid so many other evocative and scientific terms into her notebook. It was shameful for a boy to sprout it. It indicated he was having lurid thoughts and desires.

Its appearance fed the lubricity of the excited maids.

Meanwhile old Miss Favisham had appeared- she walked with a cane- and had come to a halt in front of George. Shocked, she now stood a foot from him rooted to the spot. "Young George Applewhite! Bare as a board!"

The elderly teacher appeared to be taking in George's every unclothed inch.

How the sight quickened Beverly's passion. She imagined what the wretched boy must be suffering.

Then the mischievous divorcee Cora Wrightwick and Beverly's housemate Fanny Goodman pulled into view.

"Georgie Applewhite absolutely unrigged!"

The gush from Fanny was spontaneous. She was a broad, fleshy young woman from Liverpool. She relished the erotic works that Beverly had smuggled into their bungalow. Loved to read them aloud in her rude, mocking, earthy accent. Beverly knew now, in a flash, that George was not the only Englishman that Fanny had seen naked. That is, "unrigged."

"Oh my god! He's in the nuddy! Standing there, projecting a hat rack for us..."

It was Cora's well worn joke about boys on corridor display with erections.

"...only this time not a mahogany hat rack..."

The three women laughed.

"...rather white...with pink touches!" Cora guffawed in triumph at her witticism. There could be no doubt where the women's eyes were resting.

Watching this humiliation from high in the wall, Beverly swooned and clawed at herself the harder.

Miss Julia Maxse and Miss Harriet Marsden-Smedley arrived, clattering down the corridor, the other women who had taken to spanking Tagore on his regular visits to their common room. But Tagore was dusky-skinned. The nude Master Applewhite was one of their countrymen.

When they rounded on the young man they both gasped.

Before they recognised him, they registered the colour of his skin: white as snow.

George saw them and plunged his hands over his privates. He spread both hands and pressed them into his groin, flattening his short, thick member. Why? Because he had danced with Harriet? Or was it Julia's lubricious, slightly demi-monde air? Did her wicked eyes threaten him? His new posture- this Venus pose, an embarrassed naked boy frantically covering up- thrilled Beverly to the core: George stark naked, flattening his hands into his groin, crouching in front of dressed females...

She relished the sight. She clawed herself the harder. Her vagina emitted more of her juice, which she spread over her pleasure button.

"Oh, he's shy...covering up his little tallywag."

"Tallywag." Julia knew the slang. And seemed to know the effect it would have on the boy.

A "gay blade," she'd been known to have had enjoyed flings with army officers younger than herself- that is, before the war had carried them off to the trenches. And she had entertained the staff room with tales of her time at Kingbrooke Grammar in Sussex and "handspanking" 18 year olds in her charge.

"Doesn't want us to see his whirly gigs either."

Julia had told her colleagues that spanking boys in the Home Counties she had always required them to spread their legs, giving her a sight of their testicles- their "whirly gigs." She also told her colleagues that she had enjoyed seeing erections when punished boys had lifted themselves from her knee.

"Goodness, though, he has some nice hair on that chest of his...how sweet for us to see his secrets."

It was Miss Favisham, maternal Miss Favisham, kind Miss Favisham. Even she was making fun.

In a lightning flash Cora seized his arms and reinstated them to his rear. "Our principal does not permit modesty in punished youths, young man."

The five ladies stared afresh at his privates.

"But Mister Applewhite," Julia managed. "Aren't you embarrassed...in front of us? You are in a state of nature."

The question admitted no reply.

"Yet embarrassed or not, you have...risen to the occasion!"

Cora's directness- she had been divorced twice- brought more laughter.

"I thought only younger boys..."

Fanny, who Beverly thought knew all about erections, was being mischievous.

"...suffered this problem," she finished with a glint in her eye.

At this, a tear rolled down his cheek.

"The least we can do is clean you off," and Harriet produced a silk handkerchief and deftly mopped the glans of the devastated youth, collecting much of the sticky transparent trail.

"Generally it is only younger boys," opined Cora. "But George appears a late developer."

It was surely the final humiliation. Beverly saw the helpless terror in George's eyes...and in seconds brought herself to her climax, pawing harder and shaking all over, gasping hard.

The five females and hapless youth might have heard her high-up moans, like the hooting of an owl in the rafters, if at that moment the office door had not opened and Miss Plimmer appeared to usher them into the principal's study. Beverly caught the sight of George's bottom, exposed and vulnerable, as he vanished. There was little doubt the punishment he faced would centre on that bottom.

Beverly straightened her clothes and descended from the high-up walkway and its shelves. She noticed on the library table the boy's neatly folded beige coloured suit and other items, including, shamefully, his linen under-shorts. Underneath the table, his boots- one with raised heel. Here he had suffered his shameful stripping. Altogether, a sad little memorial to his humiliation.

With a pause of only seconds she resolved to leave a letter for him in an inner pocket. She sat down and wrote it.

The words flowed.

And yet her day- thrilling as it had been- was not done. Not by any means.

Although it felt that way for the next 40 minutes as she sat at her common room desk and marked tests and essays. And yet, part of her mind kept returning to that lookout and naked boys standing in the corridor. She tried to imagine Georgie's punishment in Miss Maitland's study with those females, five of them. As the minutes passed the old longings stirred again, thinking of George naked in front of taunting women. How rich his humiliation had been. How thrilling to watch. She stirred, down there, again. Goodness, she thought, I'm...incorrigible.

As if in a trance she rose from her desk and walked the empty barrel-vaulted corridor, with its framed portraits of kings and queens and prints and lithographs of English landscapes, to the staff library. What did she want? To intercept George as he returned to pull on his clothes? To stand in the shadows and watch him dress? To catch a glimpse of his handsome bottom- the most handsome in the school, she thought- reddened and sore? That, she thought, would be wildly thrilling. Or was she at her old deeply exciting pursuit? To climb to that little ironwork mezzanine in the musty library, to edge out along that bridge, to occupy her secret observation post and peer down and wait for another naked boy to be positioned in the corridor? And yes, to stroke her quim while she relished his humiliation.

As she moved through the school, classrooms empty, the only noises were distant: from the cricket pitches the tap of cricket ball on a bat, the more distant beating of polo pony hooves, the yells of student sportsmen.

The corridor outside the principal's study was empty.

She gingerly opened the door that faced it, the door to the staff library. It creaked. The darkness and the mustiness assaulted her. But the light from the corridor fell on the desk and showed that George's clothes and shoes had vanished. She had missed him. His punishment had finished and he had been despatched. She imagined him struggling into his underwear with a blazing red bottom, seared with humiliation after his full bodied exposure. She would have loved to have seen the tears in his eyes, the red splotches on his rear. A sense of disappointment overwhelmed her.

She closed the door behind her and climbed the iron stairs, mounted the footstool and shunted to one side the mouldering books, opening up the ventilation space and her sniper's view of the corridor below. At that moment the silence was broken by the echoing metronome footfalls of a female teacher and...what? The shuffle of bare feet? The feet of a bared boy? Beverly dared to hope, secure in her vantage point.

She dared to hope.

Suddenly they were there: teacher and nude male captive.

The teacher was Julia Maxse. Of course, Julia! Something told Beverly she had become flushed with passion by the earlier punishment- poor stripped George Applewhite- and his spanking behind the study doors, that her juices had flowed and she had sought another victim, quickly identified one and ordered him out of every last bit of clothing. Like a prowling tigress on the edge of the forest who had eyed her prey and, afraid of being beaten to the prize, moved swiftly and expertly.

And the boy! Oh my goodness!

The one every teacher was longing to see punished without his clothes.

The boy was the newest arrival at the school. He was the scion of one of the leading Parsi families from Bombay. His widowed mother had learnt of Sarah's educational philosophy. She had agreed their boy needed special discipline if he were to take the reins of the family businesses in textiles and banking. She liked the Indian notion of Murgha, nude punishment of males.

Since his arrival in 1912 model "Silver Ghost" Rolls Royce, with maid, butler and valet, the boy had been the subject of much day dreaming by female staff. Miss Marsden-Smedley had sighed that the new boy from Bombay was "an angel but angels always look better naked." The others had tittered pruriently. And expectantly. Even old Miss Favisham had speculated that one day "that most handsome lad" would show us "what the models for Greek statues looked like in the flesh." Julia Maxse had looked off in the middle distance and, as she inhaled her Craven A through long cigarette holder, her eyes had swum with lust. Unbridled lust.

There was no question of the new boy's arresting good looks. He was broad shouldered, narrow waisted. His lustrous dark eyes flickered under curling lashes. There was a purplish glaze over his sculpted jaw- clearly he had been shaving for some time. A glimpse at his trouser flies confirmed he was subject to the feelings, the yearnings, of all teenage boys. Sometimes a thrusting tented the pleats on the right side of his cricket whites and suggested he was endowed- the analogy occurred to Mrs Pamela Goodhew, wife of an Anglican Minister- "like a healthy young colt." She had shared this, daringly, with Beverly who blushed because she too had noticed that telltale tenting. When he walked the corridors in his jodhpurs- the tight tailoring distorted by a blazing erection- Cora Wrightwick had commented from the side of her mouth, "What a strapping young man! Absolutely strapping!"

To which Julia Maxse could only respond with a grimace, and a troubled, hungry look in her eyes. She had indeed noticed and even thought she had detected the outline of his glans. Which meant he was built on a scale, perhaps reflecting Persian origins, more generous than other boys.

Right now, however, Cyrus Poonwalla was bollock-naked, not graced with a single thread of clothing. In puris naturabalis.

And being marched along the corridor by Julia Maxse. The lean 40ish spinster with her blue stockings held her captive by an earlobe and looked flushed with excitement, with passion. Yes, thought Beverly, it had to be Julia. She had been aroused by George and his nakedness and his punishment, and had been driven to strip Cyrus who had been filling her imagination anyway. Probably on a pretext.

Yes, Beverly thought, if any teacher were to beat her colleagues to the boy it would be Julia Maxse. Pound for pound, she was more wedded to Sarah's notions of punishment than any other teacher. How often had she made references to "handspanking" 18 year olds in England and regretting that baring bottoms was as far as the principal of Kingsbrooke had allowed her. Recently, after the experience with Tagore, Julia had relished escorting other students to their common room, maybe two a day, and orchestrating their humiliations. "Julia has been seething with frustration," Cora had once remarked. "Since her men took off."

Right now Miss Maxse positioned her captive outside the office and in a voice taut with tension told him to stand with his hands behind his back. She looked him up and down several times, seemed reluctant to depart. Beverley noticed she had the boy's trousers and under-shorts over her arm, as if evidence for a police court. She entered Miss Plimmer's door.

Beverly gazed down on the most beautiful sight she had ever seen.

The naked boy was in her direct vision.

His body made a unity- yes, like the Greek statues that Marsden-Smedley thought he might very well have inspired. Or Michelangelo's David, thought Beverly. Or his grace might have come from Myron, the sculptor of ancient Athens and his famous Discobulous, a nude athlete captured in motion. His heavy shoulders flowed seamless strength into his upper arms where his biceps and triceps could have been carved on Olympus; the same for hips and waist.

His skin looked like golden silk stretched over rubber. When the unknown artist had finished with it he had bid dark black hair to sprout around each nipple, not wispy but thick, forming two doughnut-shaped savannahs; and another thick, black outcrop had sprouted diamond-shaped on the middle of his stomach but stopped before reaching his groin. There the hair was a glossy black foam. And what fell from it...

The expression "prodigious engine" from one of the obscene novels found on these very shelves came unbidden to Beverly's mind.

His "prodigious engine" was a deep caramel colour and hung heavily and seemed prehensile, having a life of its own. It threatened to lift and rise, to fill out, like one of those barrage balloons performing such useful duty in the aerial defence of London. There was a big sculpted head pushing itself out of its thick protective cape; a middle now inflating, broad beamed like the middle of a banana; and its upper stem with pulsing dorsal artery seeming to anchor it to the groin, then diverting, lower, into a delta of smaller veins.

Behind this "steed"- again, the language of the forbidden works seemed necessary- Beverly was thrilled to note there was not the dangling, scrawny bag with marbles one saw on Indian boys, not the most wholesome adjunct. But this boy, along with his other charms, boasted a huge sphere- a globe, hairless, perfectly globular as if pumped with air, as symmetrical as a balloon. Beverley longed to touch it.

Cyrus was on display for her.

"Unrigged."

The terror in his eyes was all the girl needed to hitch her skirts and put her fingers to work. Thrilling, to her, that he had been forced out of all his clothes to be, as they said, "naked as the day that he had been born." Imagine his surging humiliation! And that he had been marched- hauled, jerked by an earlobe- through corridors where females must have glimpsed his intimate details such as that black body hair in its unique patterns...oh, she thought, the delicious shame of that journey! And that he was now positioned here with his heroic appendage threatening to rise and, it seemed, touch his chin, or graze on the hair around his nipples like an elephant trunk rising to upper branches...

...and that he was a prisoner of the all-powerful women teachers who had delivered him to their leader Miss Maitland. And that they- all of us females ultimately- would get to view that huge perfectly shaped ball, that globe...that "majestic steed"...the physique of a Greek god or warrior ordered out of his tunic.

Beverly swooned with the feeling that surged from her own inwards to suffuse her.

That very moment Pamela Goodnew, enthusiast for horse breeding and wife of the parson, padded into view having been told about the boy on display- the boy whose penis had grabbed her attention and earned the equine analogy. She stopped, rooted, and stared wordlessly, her mouth opening and closing like that of a fish, eyes on stalks. The boy saw her, seemed to go weak with shame.

Watching, Beverly felt her juices flow. She scooped them and spread their lugubrious thickness around her slit, like a health-giving honey.

Pamela Goodhew stared...gawked...blushed with her own shame. As if in response Cyrus' organ filled out, lurched foreword. And from the slit on its end a bubble...then a stream...a flow of fluid began to appear, trailing to the floor. Shocked, shamed, the parson's wife and horse lover turned abruptly and padded off, terrified of being caught.

A schoolgirl Clara Covington panted into view. She wore a mauve bow on her blouse, a cream pleated frock, white stockings reaching into her buckled shoes. In short, she was very dressed. She stared, eyes bulging, her features a ghostly white. The boy saw her, winced, closed his eyes. His organ jerked mightily. Like a battering ram aimed at fortress gates it now poked parallel to the floor.

The ribboned and skirted girl, the buck naked boy: Beverly swooned with excitement.

Clara stared immobile, gluttony all over her face, eyes popping. She looks so...greedy, thought Beverly. He must feel her stares up and down his cock, she concluded. Then gulping and bug-eyed with yearning, Clara turned and beat a retreat, full of shame, scared to be sighted.

Three maids came into view, bare feet padding and low whispers urging each other on. They stopped, rooted. There were no giggles or pointing as on other occasions when they caught a naked youth. They stared in wide eyed wonderment. The boy looked at them. The penis of this proud young Parsi was completing its ascent- he seemed in agonies of shame that this was happening beyond his control- stretching hard and straining up, the crown well above his furred belly button.

With the maids watching, his erection became complete. It slapped at his belly.

He did not know where to look.

The boy's humiliation steamed off him.

His naked humiliation. His engorgement sticking up like that. In front of these maids. It was all Beverly needed, this shame. It lifted her to orgasm.

She exploded in long gurgles and and moans. She slid sideways off her stool, propped herself against the wall, gasping. She lost consciousness. She blanked out. It might have been...a minute? More?

"Miss Burrowes!"

What?

The girl "came to."

Who was talking to her?