Days of the Raj Ch. 02

Haz 9, 2024 // By:analsex // No Comment

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A volcanic outpouring of CFNM material in this story, my friends, more than you would find in any other work of fiction. I suggest, therefore, that you read it in bite-size chunks, a bit at a time. I can testify to its truthfulness, if not its truth: there was a lot going on in colonial India during World War One, most of the white male folk away in the European war and its ladies left in charge of the dusky-skinned locals and ready to use total clothing humiliation to keep them submissive, in this school at least.


A Forced Stripping in the School Stables

Sarah did what she did after all of her triumphs. She closed her great oak door and settled in the tomb-like quiet of her principal’s office, heavy curtains drawn against the savage heat of the late Indian day. Outside, the banyan trees, the baking river flats, the temples and paddy fields, the circling vultures: the whole teeming world of North India. She assured herself it had not been a dream, what she had witnessed, what she had orchestrated. No, not a dream. There was the stolidity of her polished walnut desk to satisfy her. And on it her elephant tusk- so evocative in its shapeliness- years ago hacked out of a black tufted snout. She reached out and stroked, shuddered at its decisive curve. Ah, yes, that curve. She was disposed to curves. To curves…and overhangs…and to hard, straight lines as well.

Yes, she was now free to unwind in her mind’s eye the event she had just witnessed. No, witnessed…that was too passive. The event she had produced, brought into being, summoned up as Diaghilev his ballets. It had not been a dream but it might have, so textured, so sweet. Well, for some participants, so bitter-sweet.

World War One was tightening its grip on the vast network of colonial rule that was British Indian. The teacher shortage was acute, and she had been told that it was forcing closure of the near-by English Women’s College. Its 12 remaining 18-year old girls might have to be accommodated in her own school for young Indian men. An unprecedented mingling of races- and it would test her judgment as Headmistress. She must be prepared. Moreover in a mood of rising Indian nationalism her servants were becoming more…”forward.”

Yes, her sari-clad maids were more provocative. Yet when it came to enforcing her unique disciplinary code, this was probably a helpful development. Her philosophy was very explicit- Total Clothing Deprivation for young males, with the shaming embarrassment of involuntary erections, in front of- and here followed the third and indispensable ingredient- a female audience. Her school’s sari-clad maids were excellent in that respect. Those scenes in the corridors…goodness. That punishment schedule had become more excruciating for her students, subject to the goading of increasingly cheeky Indian girls thrilled to see Brahmin boys totally nude.

But enough.

She had been drawn to the school’s grand, masonry castle-like stables by a sudden racket. A second after arriving she understood what had happened. A party of girls from the adjacent college for young English women had arrived to inspect the polo ponies. From the heights of the building a party of Indian boys- young aristocrats from the Punjab enrolled only last week- had flung armfuls of straw, coating the hair, faces and shoulders of the females…who had joined a great uproar. The boys looked over the edge. Arrogant, merciless. Triumphant young nationalists.

A tigress coming across male deer, young stags feeding and nuzzling in a forest clearing, could not have resolved faster on a plan of attack. Sarah barked her order. The boys’ smiles evaporated.

Our clothes? All? In front of these girls? Brahmin boys, stripped to the buff? They had heard rumours about this school and a strange disciplinary code but had not believed them. They had not yet seen the spectacle of an 18 year old boy stark naked being marched down the corridor. Or standing in the barrel-vaulted corridor back to the wall, in his birthday suit. Arms behind his back, sari-clad maids smiling in his direction: secrets on display. They had not witnessed any of this- the school’s distinctive punishment, designed and implemented by this lady, Miss Sarah Maitland.

They soon would.

“I want you to start with your ties and shirts. And drop them over the side. The girls will catch them. Now!”

For Sarah this was the sweetest moment, the minute when males paused…swallowed…glanced around…and, then, as always, raised shaking hands and flickering fingers to start the process. Nearly as sweet was the electric mood of the girls, none of whom had seen naked male flesh- all thinking, can this be happening?

She had seen this when she had let sisters watch a brother be stripped before their eyes- not just unbreeched as other governesses did when the girls were afforded a glimpse of only a bared bottom, and they strained to see more through splayed legs or drooping shirt tails but- as Sarah did it- totally eliminated Betturkey of clothing, as naked as Adam, then rotated and bent over so sisters could see…well, everything; this was the radical nature of her discipline. She thrilled to set female eyes fired and furious, as when she had allowed girls from a neighbouring day school walk into a nude swim class at a boys’ school only two rungs below Eton in prestige. The difference in social standing- girls destined to be maids or nurses confronting naked boys destined for the City or Church or Commons and Lords- sparked a rare frisson. How delicious it was: boys exposed on benches or standing at pool’s edge or bending at their warm-ups, girls circulating with eyes popping, making many discerning remarks.

Right now the first bundles of clothing were obediently dropped into the girls’ outstretched arms, as she had instructed. Boys stood above with brown chests bare.

A pause.

She heard the girls breathing.

“Let down your trousers.”

She said it soft-voiced, making it routine.

She was an expert and knew that just as the hooded cobra was hypnotised by the weaving approach of the mongoose so human males are transfixed by the totemic power of this phrase, “let down your trousers,” and, in her experience, comply without demur. “Let down your trousers.” It made her shiver.

She loved the fumbling about belt and buttons, and- yes, “slither” was in fact her preferred verb for the slow descent. And an expert and connoisseur she let the next stage stretch out, knowing that none of her female audience wanted it stretched out, no- their hearts were beating for an immediate denouement: yet for her part she always savoured another lecture as the males stood trembling in white underwear.

Eventually she gave the most shaming order of all.

“Please remove your pants.”

They froze.

“Or I will have to let these young ladies do it for you.”

She heard the girls’ intake of breath.

This threat always worked.

As one, the boys reluctantly undid knots and edged their intimate garments to their hips…hesitated…looked wildly around…then pressed further, revealing wiry black pubic bush. At this moment their shame was devastating. Then they pushed further…revealing…well, revealing everything, then lowered the pants to their ankles and stepped out of them. And, under their orders, dropped them down to the thrilling girls.

If an 18 year old English girl in 1915, in crinoline or linen, wearing ribbons and bows, is to have revealed the…the private parts of a healthy young male, how better to have it done? What way could be more delicious? The boys now standing stripped on the edge of the stable’s upper floor, the girls clutching the boys’ abandoned clothes looking up, a perspective that emphasised the secret and the pendulant…the underside element…of enforced male nudity.

The poor, poor boys were putting on display their testicular sacs- some compact globes, some loose with stones in shameful, shameful outline. They were displaying the tips of their organs- some clear-cut defined glans and some puckering overhangs.

The girls were hypnotised.

So that’s what they look like. Brothers and cousins with their jodhpurs stripped off, the young men in the Bengal Lancers tricked out of their clothes, visiting naval officers undressed before bed. What girls have to wait for their wedding night to see. Even their household servants and gardeners with the long lashes and caramel skin- they too have those tufts, those stems, bulbous heads or tapering puckers, sagging sacks or globular bags. The great mystery of life was now being resolved before their bulging, inquisitive eyes.

Sarah now ordered the Indian boys to descend. Which meant one at a time. Slowly and carefully. By an unsteady ladder. Which she had the girls gather around and secure. Imagine the humiliation of the first boy, feeling air all over his naked body… lowering his unclad nether region…right into the field of vision, the eye-level of passionately inquisitive young females. He stepped off, to stand amid them, their eyes all over him. He was told to move to one side.

“And hands behind your back,” ordered Sarah. “That’s the way we do it here.”

Sarah’s years of stripping boys nude for punishment had rendered her a connoisseur of male equipment. She stared at this one. He had a tortuously long, tapering overhang. It reminded her of another, one she had inspected with a doctor friend. The overhang was attached to a nude 18 year old London laborer, crimson with shame that Sarah had been admitted to the Harley Street surgery. The doctor liked handling male genitals and especially those of young laborers which he recruited from Piccadilly Square for examinations, paying them five shillings a time. He had longingly stretched and coaxed the nude boy’s prepuce with ungloved hands- he worked at these examinations for hours and enjoyed Betturkey Giriş involving Sarah- while Sarah leant in close.

He said a long overhang was called an “infantile” or “redundant” foreskin. That “generous superfluidity of skin,” he had added, was what the Greeks- and he loved the Greeks, his rooms were full of photos of their athletes, warriors and gods- called an “acroposthion,” tugged by its “dartos muscle” into a proud little spout.

A fern-like odour from the groin of the nervous young man had floated up to them.

“The Greeks,” he said “Loved deliciously long foreskins- as long again as the penis stem itself! That was their ideal: as much foreskin as penis. Look how this one stretches! My boy, you would have been the toast of fifth century Athens!” The nude laborer looked up at them with terrified eyes, clearly afraid of getting an erection before the examination was over. On this London boy, as on this Indian, the lower lip of the twirling entrance was more prominent than the upper. “Just like a teapot,” she had thought then and laughed as she recalled this apt analogy.

Catching her gaze, the naked boy had withered at the mature English woman looking at his penis with amusement.

Now the next boy descended.

Eventually all boys were down. Sarah told them to remove their shoes and socks and they looked funny as they bent and tripped and struggled. Then they were standing more or less in line and the girls were able to feast their curiosity. One boy’s skin was coffee coloured and there was a gentle spray of hair across his chest and abdomen; his rod was thickish, dark brown and prominently veined with a pink snake head poking from the end. Another sported a broad but short member, the stem almost black but the end of it- what Sarah in her precision would call the “penis neck”- and the knob itself were a reddish tone, hanging before a round brown bag.

How the girls absorbed such details. Oh yes, their beady eyes took in everything to be glimpsed sprouting from the boys’ groins. But it was also the full-bodied nudity that electrified them- the revealed nipples, belly buttons, long straddling legs, all suddenly on display for girls who would have blushed at a boy’s trouser buttons.

Sarah lectured the errant boys and ended with an instruction, as far as the excited girls were concerned, a most delightful instruction: for the boys to show the girls the details of the stables, to bridle any horse a girl picked, to walk the horse around the yard and then to clean up the stables…under the supervision of the girls.

“No, not by any means with your clothes.”

She watched them curdle with shame.

Before this was over she would count on an extra embarrassment for the males. It hadn’t happened yet, she noted, surveying the line of exposed groins but in her extensive experience…

She allocated duties, and saw the tallest boy pad off to a stall under the direction of Wendy Cowgill, an angular and spectacle-wearing blond girl- he, awkward and downcast and blushing and close to tears; she, smiling like the proverbial cat with swallowed canary. Wendy looked sideways, hungrily, at his dangling genitals. She had never seen any in all her 18 years. So she took in the the coffee-brown penis stem with well-sculptured glans of lighter hue; and, at his rear, two globular buttocks, brown and dusted with black hair.

Sarah then supervised the others- frightened totally nude young males and flushed, frisky females fully dressed. While she gave orders she caught glimpses of these two in the stall. Somehow the sight of the naked Punjabi aristocrat- he was called Anwashi- and fully-dressed Wendy, both attending to the bridling of the white colt, was sweet, highly charged. Anwashi was if anything growing more embarrassed, Wendy more gloating.

Could it be, wondered Sarah?


Sometimes the problem sprouted fast, sometimes slower. But it always sprouted.

The two were in close proximity, he close enough to smell her perfume. The stall was cramped, her skirts were grazing his thighs. Brushing his bare legs. Boy and girl, inches apart, their intimacy was acute. He would surely feel this frisson.

Now they were ready to walk the horse out, him with the bridle, she by his side. And…Sarah’s instincts were right. How pleasing to have confirmed in life that some rules are immortal, that one’s instincts never fail.

The nude Punjabi patrician led the horse and the first sight of him to emerge from the stall was the glans and stem of his now fully erect, dark stemed, red-tipped penis, sticking out at a proud text book 45 degrees. No wonder his face was darkened with shame and that he failed to catch Sarah’s eyes or those of any of the girls distributed across the stable floor. No wonder, too, that Wendy by his side was beaming and aglow.

In one jump, fully at stand, thought Sarah. She knew from all her experience the stages of this phenomenon, this transformation, in the profile of nude males. First, the stiffening that produced what she described as The Slippery Slide, the penis lengthened and pointing at an angle to the ground. Oh, how she loved the emergence of The Slippery Slide. The agony of boys sporting this stiffening! This was the point of no return!

She recalled one piquant moment in a Nottingham house when she ordered the 18 year old son out of his clothes, even assisted with unbuttoning and the whisking down, with two sisters and a very inquisitive maid watching on. The boy was sandy haired, tall and bean-pole thin and twisting with shame when he stepped out of his underwear and felt female eyes. When she ordered hands behind his head he looked close to tears. Then, standing like that, fully and humiliatingly exposed, in one jolt his sleeping penis had come to life, a long and narrow tube with skin retracting to reveal a shiny, moist head- pointing to the floor at an angle. Even the family poddle had noticed and started barking at it, and all the females had fallen about laughing, while the young master had clenched his eyes and twisted his head. “Look, Thomas’ thingie has made a slippery slide!” exclaimed one sister.

Indeed right now Sara noticed one of the other Indian boys with two girls at his side and his penis stretching and pointing to the floor: it was wide but not long, beginning to lift. And another boy, now raking straw under the direction of a girl with plaits, was trying to twist and shield his groin from her gaze- his tube had detached itself from his testicle bag, and pointed boldly at the floor he was raking. It was black along the stem, bright pink from the neck. The girl, from a home with no brothers greedily repositioned herself, eyes on this revelation. An unexpectedly colourful one.

Meanwhile one of the boys was now evincing the next stage of the erection process. When he emerged from a stall, leading a roan by its bridle, with two maidens in tow, Sarah noticed his mahogany stick was parallel to the floor- parallel!- anchored by a huge vein running its dorsal length. When he saw Sarah staring he nearly withered. Hung his head. His girl companions seemed…well, proud. Their eyes were sparkling.

Ah, The Pointing Direction, thought Sarah, the second category of male erections: rigid and horizontal, pointing right ahead, as if to guide the owner and- in a case like this- his two lucky companions, like a hunting dog with raised paw. As he passed her, in profile view, Sarah noticed his glans, his penis head, was too small for its broad stem, like a little conical tower. Her two girls beamed back at her, proud of their prisoner and his endowment.

Yes, The Pointing Direction, how sweet it was. She recalled once visiting her friend Moira who was the governess at a Liverpool institute for naval ratings, and being brought to witness a genital inspection. As the naked youngsters queued in a small surgery they of necessity were pressing into the flesh of the boy ahead. And as more boys stripped and joined the queue the pressure worsened. They were virtually glued together. Soon all of them were showing erections pressed flat against the buttocks of the fellow in front or, repelled by this perversion, twisting to one side so their jutting sticks stuck out from the row of squashed-together nudes. “Tough as teak,” giggled Moira, a phrase that Sarah was never to forget.

One red-haired boy, more sensitive than the rest, had become very stimulated by the rubbing of flesh and turned sideways to face Moira and Sarah, doubling over and ejaculating in three huge spurts, his emissions slopping to their feet like a ritual offering served up. He looked guilty and aghast, like someone who had vomited on a busy street. Shamefully he then rejoined the queue, his draining penis smearing his ejaculate on the innocent cheeks of the boy in front. Then one by one the nudes presented themselves and their Pointing Directions to three young nurses on stools, the nurses clearly- Sarah thought- flushed and aglow at the sight of one rigid appendage after the other. Penis head after penis head, raised to look the nurses right in the eyes, all perfectly parallel to the floor.

A delicious recollection.

Now back to India…

Outside, Anwashi and Wendy were walking the colt in a circle, the nude boy trying to step with dignity but his penis bolt hard and upright. It was straight, absolutely straight, and pointed high, reaching for the belly. At that moment three sari-clad maids walked into view, giggling and gasping. The boy was devastated by their appearance.

A Flash Back to Sarah’s London Years: Louie’s Nudity.

Straight- perfectly straight, thought Sarah, and recalled Louie, the 18 year old rapscallion they had caught in the St John’s Wood house, burgling the garden shed. Back in her London years she had managed the residence as a disciplinary retreat for wayward upper class boys. From rich families and top schools but sent to her establishment for concentrated physical and psychological discipline by ladies. So it was easy for her to capture the grubby intruder and threaten to summon the police unless…Unless, in line with her developing philosophy of Total Clothing Deprivation, he stripped nude for her.

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