Days of the Raj Ch. 03

The voice was Sarah Maitland's.

Beverly struggled to stand. She straightened her dress. In her dazed state her future swam before her. Home on the next boat across U boat-infested seas? A caning herself? Worse, a complete loss of faith, on the part of her headmistress?

Standing in the middle of the library Sarah looked up, her face illuminated by a raft of light, like a saint in a dramatic baroque canvas. The Magdelene by Caravaggio. In that errie setting Miss Maitland may in fact have been a witch or sharman, apostle of the occult. Some of the young teachers had whispered of such things- that Sarah had magical powers, could read minds and bend others to her ferocious will. "She has more of the sorceress in her than anyone I know," had averred Harriet Marsden-Smedley.

"I can understand you wanting to be up there..."

The illuminated head was talking.

Was she giving her benediction to the girl's voyeuristic yearnings? Did she see her...perhaps...as a kindred spirit?

"... with the books. My special collection. Rich, stirring material."

So she was not being condemned for probing Sarah's collection. Beverly began to breath easy.

"Congratulations for discovering them, priceless volumes some. Ashbee's collection- all that luscious last century erotica- has been so mistreated by the British Library- these may be the only extant set. The photos of the Italian youths by Wilhelm van Gloeden were a gift to E M Foster, which he passed onto me. All those nude youths. What suggestive comparisons with our own young men, waiting to have their charms recorded with the same photographic precision!"

Those photographs came to Beverly's mind. Naked Italian 18 year olds, with garlands in their hair and the Mediterranean backdrop. Their appendages displayed, thickly foreskinned, dangling between thighs.

"I heard you've been sharing these treasures..."

Beverly blushed.

"...yes, with the other young teachers. Don't be shy, you are the most promising of the younger staff. I've noticed your keen interest at tutorials when we gather boys to teach anatomy. To have them display glans, frenulum, meatus, raphe, perineum. But right now, I need your help with some disciplinary treatment of our newest boy...please follow me into my study. Julia Maxse brought him to me...a question, she said, of Hygiene..."

The way she pronounced "Hygiene" suggested some scepticism about Miss Maxse's motivation, a tang of disapproval. Perhaps she suspected the teacher's motives.

Quaking, with relief- she wasn't in trouble after all- Beverly descended the iron steps and followed Sarah.

"...seems Miss Maxse detected Cyrus with a huge stain on the front of his trousers. On inspection, yes- Cowpers Fluid, which we've discussed, as you know, at the tutorials and workshops- with naked boys on hand. You've seen them with those emissions streaming from the meatus. And this boy had been observing English girls playing croquet. Right now... he's in here...undressed."

They entered.

Through the door and past Miss Plimmer's desk, into Sarah's inner sanctum with lion head and elephant tusk and rugs from Rajastan and into a high ceilinged bathroom...all white tiles and a huge claw bath half full with what must have been cold water...in which Cyrus stood, still erect. He looked fearful, ashamed.

But Sarah was bustling.

"There's a special punishment for anything that infringes on Hygiene, so important here in the tropics, such as- and excuse me rattling off a list- seminal emissions on pyjamas, fecal material in the integluteal cleft, smegma- which you've heard me describe at our tutorials..."

Beverly loved those tutorials, in Miss Maitland's study and always with male students, naked and embarrassed, to illustrate anatomical principles.

"...It can also include Cowpers fluid or pre-ejaculatory fluid. And it is this problem, displayed on the shorts and trousers of this boy..."

Here Sarah reached to the clothes hanging on a railing. The undershorts had a damp blotch near the buttons, the gray trousers a circle to the right of its flies.

"...that had Miss Maxse strip him and haul him here. Especially as she had detected him in shrubs next to the crouquet court and our young ladies. Exciting himself, it seemed."

Here she looked accusingly at the naked prisoner. He winced. Obediently, he had his hands at his sides. His erection- streaming from its slit, its "meatus"- indicted him.

Miss Maitland commenced the hygenic punishment.

First, she produced from behind the door two full-length red rubber aprons. It felt like armour, Beverly thought, as she struggled into her's, tying the sash behind, so thick, so heavy. In a flash she had a vision of what might come: of Cyrus, naked and wet, splayed across Miss Maitland's lap, over her heavy red, rubber apron. To be spanked over the rubber? Was this where this might lead?

Sarah also armed them with long-handled brushes with dense coarse bristles on the ends. She showed the girl how to rub the bristles into bars of carbolic soap, working up a lather; all the while the boy looked on with his erection downward pointing and an expression of horror.

"Ready? So now we both go at him, front and back, leaving no inch unscoured. All over, Miss Burrowes, every inch of him...except his eyes!"

And the two set to work. His chest was an obvious place to start and their brushes scoured, Sarah's on the right side, Beverley's the left. His nipples- Beverly was quick to notice- popped out, in pleasure or pain. And they were large, reminiscent of those of the boy in the garden with nipples developed during the erotic exercises of the temple cult.

As the brushes circled his upper body Cyrus' eyes glazed, with pain or pleasure or both. After they had worked his chest Sarah ordered him to clasp his hands at his neck which enabled the women to scrub his armpits, flamboyantly decorated with a fierce black bush. His giant cock throbbed, Beverly noticed, even though their strokes were vigorous. As for the pre-ejaculatory fluid about which Miss Maitland knew so much and about which she had enlightened them in her tutorials, Beverly had never witnessed on punished boys the abundant flow that dangled from Cyrus.

And up and down his rib cage...in circles around his tummy...this made him hold his breath...and, following Sarah's lead, Beverly's bristles were soon competing with Miss Maitland's around and around Cyrus' moss-Iike pubic curls- working up a real lather. This attention made the boy tighten his eyes, rendered his erection even harder, made it pulse more vigorously. This brought their brushes to the base of his throbbing erection. Clearly for their prisoner the sensations were indescribeable.

The boy was breathing now in short, sharp gasps...but then froze...as, in the next stage of his treatment, the bristles travelled up and down his very penis stem. He doubled over in shock. Up and down...the girl thinking, "He's naked...being washed by us...his penis! Being washed by us! Us- an older woman and a younger...what a humiliation for him!" And her "cunny"- again, the term rose from the memories of those wicked books- bubbled with her juices.

She gave special attention to the big dorsal artery seeming to anchor his rod to his groin...and noticed he shuddered as the bristles brushed over it. She made her touch almost gentle. He...seemed to acknowledge this. She looked up into his glazed eyes.

She and Sarah kept up their ministrations, the girl's light and tantalising, the woman's coarse.

Around his huge, spherical, glogular ballsac. Here Beverly lightened her touch, aware of the sensitivity of boys in this appendage...then up and down his thighs...his calves...even his perfectly shaped feet with hammerhead toes...turning the golden skin bright pink. Meanwhile Sarah's ruder assault made the boy contort and huddle and twist.

"Still! Don't move!" Sarah gave him a slap on his bottom with the back of her brush.

Scrub, scrub, scrub went the bristles.

Sarah had him turn, so they could work his back. All over, scrubbing hard enough to have him flinch and grimace. And they arrived at the delightful challenge of scouring his bottom cheeks and upper thighs. But let's focus first, she said, on his "gluteal crease"- where buttocks met upper thigh. When the area had been assailed twice- no, three times- Sarah ordered him- it made Beverly gasp to hear it- to bend over and reach back and prise back his bottom cheeks.

"Now inside the intergluteal cleft."

He hesitated.

"Open up! We want to clean your bottom inside!"

Then, weighing his vulnerability, he obeyed.

"See that suede coloured zone, from his anus..?"

His "anus." Beverly shivered at the term and nodded. Yes, she had seen into boy's bottoms during the spankings in the staff room with youngsters like Tagore. She had become a connoisseur of these holes, like so much else. The anus of Cyrus was pouting, a tiny crater, with sparse, fine hairs. Like everything else about him it achieved a kind of perfection.

"...which becomes his perineum divided by his raphe- that ridge or seam- his is very dark and prominent- which here...joining his scrotum...becomes his scrotal raphe dividing his marvellously abundant sac...goodness, I assume you've noticed, how abundant, compared to those of our other boys..."

Beverley nodded, blushing. Yes, she had indeed noticed.

"Cyrus, are you listening? Keep your hands pulling your bottom open. Miss Burrowes, you have unfettered access to his anal zone. Use it! Which gives me the opportunity to assume these rubber gloves..."

She she proceeded to do so, putting down her brush. They were heavy and red, out of the same material as the aprons.

"...and for me to pay attention to his penis...just twist, so I can reach it, Cyrus- yes, while Miss Burrowes explores your rear I will apply myself to your front- there's a boy- and with the help of soap and water my finger tips will join the search for that horrid cheese-like substance, that smegma..."

Sarah reached out for his penis which because of its hearty length she had no trouble reaching, even while he bent over exposing his rear for Beverley.

"...under the foreskin...just watch, Miss Burrowes, how I'm unhooding...nice word that, unhooding...the foreskin, this one being so decidedly strong and thick...there, I've peeled it...and I'm now probing around the exposed coronal ridge."

The face of Cyrus registered that sometime extraordinary was now happening: to his penis head, with the painful scouring having given way to gentle fingering and also the playful, whispy touches on his most intimate spot- the hole in his rear! But...

He was afraid something might be happening.

Miss Maitland...with her rubber-enclosed finger tips was...holding his cock head...and running one soapy, slimy finger softly round and round its exposed coronal edge.

And the younger one was now tickling with the bristles the rear of his balls...then running those bristles lightly up his seam, what she just called his "raphe"...to his anus...and tickling his hole...appearing to linger, making her touch even lighter...again, moving back...lightly running those bristles down his...his seam, that ridge..to his balls and all over his balls...so ticklish...oh god! He wanted to leap up and down...his balls...oh god, his balls...and she was now doing it with such a light touch! So light!

He felt a...surge!

Was he coming close to..?

If they don't stop their...their...touching...anything could happen!

Sarah kept up her commentary. And her finger tip examination of his penis head. So lightly...moving her finger tip under his foreskin...over his glans...around its edge...

He was shuddering.

"We examine our boy's necks to make sure they have been washed. Well, this is the neck of the penis..."

Her words gave him a deeper shudder. The neck, he thought, of my penis!

"...it too must be soaped. Especially here in the tropics. And I think...yes, just exploring some more...under his hood, what the textbooks call his prepuce...that Cyrus had been taught by his mother to wash himself thoroughly. Cyrus? Did your mother help you wash down here? Under the overhang of skin? Did she bath you?"

He choked out a "Yes."

"And your maids too? Did they help bath you when you were growing into manhood?"

He choked again, with embarrassment.

"Yes."

"Just like I'm doing now? Teaching you to pull back...clean this space?"

"Yes...the maids..."

"How delightful!"

"They...they said they did it...with their sons..."he added in a rush.

Beverly gulped at the image. Imagine- this boy Cyrus standing in his bath and maids fussing over his foreskin- this thick over-hang of flesh- and the cleanliness of the intimate pink space under it! Could anything be more humiliating for a young warrior? And his mother...? Forcing him to stand still, totally nude in his bath, while she probed and stretched and examined?

"Ah, lovely tradition, of Parsi cleanliness. Bodily hygiene. Not always the case in England, I'm afraid."

Sarah finished with his penis tip and returned to work her brush around the front of the globular scrotum- Beverly thought for an unnecessarily long time, although she happily maintained her own feathery-light attention to the perineal zone, this "back avenue" as Victorian literature called it: the puckering entrance, the ridge line- in this case, black and prominent- and the rear of the ballbag.

The effect of these administrations- brushes at work simultaneously on the front and rear, was devastating for the boy, transporting him to a new plane of shame and pleasure. His eyes looked far off. His rod wobbled in its stiffness.

It might have continued forever.

It was, nonetheless, the prelude to a spanking.

First Sarah bid the boy stand straight so the two females could sluice him with two wooden dippers till he was glistening.

Were they now going to dry him, wondered Beverley? The two of them, mop him all over...every patch...with the thick towel hanging from behind the door?

Miss Maitland, however, positioned a four legged, cork-topped stool and hauled Cyrus from the tub, hoisting him to her rubber-aproned lap. She was clearly impatient to begin.

He was sopping wet and later- when it was all over and they were having tea- Sarah would tell Beverley that this had been a "wet spanking" and left the girl to wonder, whether that had more than one meaning.

Right now Beverly watched as the boy was positioned and his projecting rod flattened over Sarah's wet apron. Quiet gently Sarah brought both his damp wrists behind his back and gripped them with her own left hand. With her right, she pressed down on the backs of his thighs until his sprawling legs made contact with the wet tiles.

The boy relaxed into a prone position, his bottom displayed...like a cannibal offering. His eyes were glued to the floor.

Sarah commenced.

She was practised.

Her palm hit- flat, sharp, stinging. First on Cyrus's roundest parts, leaving bright pink blotches, overlapping. Then- smack- across the right thigh. Then the left. Then full-palmed across the lower part of his bottom. Smack!

The boy twisted at the last one, and his "Oooh!" co-oincided with the next smack which was more or less where the first one had been. She placed her spanks with accuracy and deliberation but not with anything like her full strength. But she built up her speed and Cyrus was now wriggling energetically and making mewing sounds like a cat. Meanwhile the target was glowing red all over- a scarlet to set against the lingering pink of his scrubbed body, twisting on the ochre-red of the rubber apron.

He was writhing against Sarah's thighs, sheathed in the hard damp rubber, under the resolute shower of crisp slaps applied to his upturned seat, itself still lingeringly wet from the bath.

Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Now Sarah was using all the width, weight and flexibility of her powerful palm. Full force.

Soon, as the slaps rained down, he was twisting so the girl caught the sight of his ferocious rod, still ramrod stiff, rising from the shiny, rubber-clad lap.

Sarah ploughed on, turning the golden globes a shameful scarlet and the upper thighs as well, darkening deeper the "sit spot."

"Oh please Miss...please...please..."

His pleas were a measure of how forceful Sarah's practised palm.

More smacks. Sans misericorde: without mercy.

It would have taken a boy of stone resolve not to have responded to the mysterious potions stirred into life during these exotic minutes. Cyrus was no such boy. So soon he was responding, thrusting, backwards and forwards over Sarah's wet, rubber-clad knee. Rhythmically too, in response to each slap. And in response to his rubbing on her knee, Sarah remodulated: she hit him fast and furious on the rounded part of his bottom- the horizontal fold of his seat, above the thighs.

Slap! Slap! Slap!

Her slaps, concentrated on his intergluteal crease, drove him faster. He was panting.

The young teacher saw his hips tighten, pressing his manhood harder into Sarah's rubber-sheathed knee...

Beverly thought he might even shoot forward, off Sarah's lap and onto the tiles.

"Oooow! No...Miss...no...ahhhh!"

Beverley watched, eyes on stalks, sopping wet it must be said in her own personal cavern.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Thrust! Thrust! Thrust!

And it happened as it was ordained to happen.

The boy's head and torso reared.

He groaned like a jungle animal.

And from the tip of his penis, extruding itself like a striking snake from Miss MaItland's knee, shot a cannonade of pearl white fluid, across the room to spatter on the tile wall. And another...and another from the purple penis head..both splashing to the floor.

Cyrus groaned and slumped to hang low again.

Sarah delivered one last decisive blast to the middle of his rear. Like a punctuation mark. A final volley in a seige. A concluding quote of scripture in a sermon.

SLAP!

"Ah, yes," said Sarah. "Quite an emission. Like a salmon river in spate."

The two were drinking tea, the boy having been despatched to walk through the long corridors, under the framed portraits of kings and queens and illustrations of coronations, to his clothing piled on the floorboards outside Miss Maxse's staffroom, bottom bright red and eyes swollen and genitals, now subsided, swinging from his groin.

Salmon river? Beverly blushed.

"Forgive the colourful metaphor. Salmon-filled waters indeed- my Highlands heritage. But a very revealing session and a good education for you, Miss Burrowes. Yes, his first disciplinary experience in this school. And an interesting admission about bathing at home. Just think, maids! And his mother! Little wonder she thought this school the right place for him..."

Beverly allowed herself to smile. Sipped her Darjeeling, shyly.

"His final moment- the abundant overflow- brought on by the self-pleasuring he was prepared to give himself over my knee, suggests he might find it hard to resist provoking us in the future. He might, like many of them, misbehave...in order to be punished again..."

She looked at the girl with an arched eyebrow.

Beverly swallowed.

"...in which case, Miss Burrowes, he might be an ideal candidate for you to gain experience. Over your knee..."

The girl shuddered.

"...sheathed in wet rubber."

She shuddered again.

"And unable to stop responding as he did over my knee- that is, if your strokes are hard enough and concentrated, as mine were, on his crease."

His crease.

Beverly's mind swam at the idea of her administering punishment to Cyrus. Smacking his crease. Even ordering him to unbreech would be a dream fulfilled, seeing the fear in his eyes as his trousers slithered.

"And, of course, you will be present in the girls' drawing class tomorrow afternoon. I want a female teacher to supervise the classroom as George Applewhite gives his 80 minute lesson. He has been punished today because he had boys resume their clothes. And tomorrow his punishment continues when he teaches that class in the nuddy. Yes, in the buff. I did promise him his academic gown but have reconsidered..."