This story follows Rodney's Nude Humiliation Cpt 14 and Days of the Raj. If you like CFNM I am sure it will appeal to you.

*****

In the warming sun of a mid-Western summer, in a grove of Mrs Reilly's garden framed by trellises and rose shrubs, the well-dressed ladies milled about. It was one of the finest gardens in the mid-West and the ladies presented a glamorous sight, there on the immaculate lawns, next to the trimmed hedges and urns of spilling plants. They wore the American fashions of 1957: wide skirts with vivid colours and floral prints some with three quarter length sleeves or sober pencil thin suits by Dior and Coco Chanel. Their perfume filled the air and many wore hats and gloves. They could have stepped from pages of Vogue or The Saturday Evening Post.

Three 18 year old males stood before them, stock-still.

The boys were completely nude.

They were staring straight ahead, trying not to connect with the wide-eyed female stares.

One of the boys, Johnny Marcello, was on the upper rungs of an A-frame ladder with gardening shears, as if caught pruning the roses, looming above the women folk. In this position the underside of his erection- his banana-shaped erection- and his roomy testicles were perfectly displayed for the milling lady folk.

Rickey and Brad, standing by the flower bed, were also erect. Rickey held the handle of a rake, postured like a marine on sentry duty. Brad wore heavy gardening gloves on hands that hung by his blond haunches. Both stood looking straight ahead, like cigar store Indians.

The ladies were fascinated, aroused, tittering.

"Bless me! They're naked as jays! That's Mrs Marcello's boy! Up there on the ladder!"

"Johnny Marcello! Without a stitch! Delivers the groceries! A nice boy..."

"He is in my daughter's class...she says he's so polite...a real young gentleman..but now...just look!"

"He's just so...so naked! Oh...my...goodness!"

"I just remembered- I need to buy bananas!"

Johnny flinched at this reference to his curved penis. Kept his eyes right ahead.

"He's certainly...matured."

"Except..."

"He hasn't..."

"Any hair..."

"Down there..."

Johnny flinched again. He wanted to sing out, Miss Cuff made it happen! For the school musical! She wants us to look like Indians!

"Well, he's made for a photo or two."

"You're so right."

They lifted their cameras. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.

Miss Lynda Lindhoff, 47 year old virgin who lived with her aged mother, was right under Johnny's jutting appendage, on tip toes, snapping a picture of the young fella's scrotum. With her up-reaching arms she was holding her camera six inches from his testicles, her 1954 "Ful Vu" Super Ensign in wrinkle black. And talking of wrinkles: she was so close none of the wrinkles on the poor boy's smooth-as-an-egg scrotum would go unrecorded.

Ha ha, she thought, what fun!

Snap, snap snap. That bean bag would loom like a helium-filled balloon in each pic. "Ful Vu" indeed.

And 45 year old Mrs Kathleen Coster, president of Grover Cleveland Parents Association, jostled closer, aiming her 35mm Baldina Rangefinder at the underside of Johnny's rigidified penis stem- at the industrial-strength central artery, the street grids of delicate veins and bunched-up foreskin. No detail would be lost on any of the 16 frames. Snap, snap, snap.

But 60 year old Mrs Wendy Hessmeister, Brewer's librarian, seemed more focused on the profile of Johnny's rod, standing to the side with her 1950 Voitlander Bessa 1. Click! Its collapsible rangefinder poked out at his penis, the sterling German camera becoming erect itself, imitating the boy's own jutting flesh. Snap, snap, snap! What a contrast with her hubby Walter and his tiny, flaccid thing. And what a contrast with Walter's tiny acorn head- this boy's fat penis head, like...like...a prize-winning plum.

"Go ahead, girls. Some artistic shots!"

Mrs Winifred Wiseacre, 43, married to the town's chief Rotarian and insurance salesman, was manoeuvring to peer into Johnny's rear through the lens of her 1954 Bruan Paxette 11 camera. Oh, the shapliness of the curves- his manly buttocks, the groove between thighs and glutes- she thought, indulging her instincts disgracefully, but lamented that the intergluteal cleft was closed to view. Might someone ask him to part his legs, she wondered? Can I get to see his little twinkle hole? Give him an enema- wouldn't that be nice, she thought- didn't I do plenty of that as a nurse in the navy?

A Mom wearing a box hat with feathers was standing before Rickey Fasolt, snapping away with her husband's Bencini Comet. She and the aluminium, mirror-polished camera seemed transfixed by the perky six inch penis bolted into Rickey's groin, with its top-heavy mauve knob, glaring right back at them.

Rickey shivered, but stayed stock-still, rake in one hand, like a soldier on guard. He kept his blinking eyes straight ahead of him. She snapped her photos just as the first blob of glistening emission emerged from the boy's meatus and trailed the length of his underside, then dangled like a spider web to the grass. The hat-wearing Mom noticed, thought that this boy was getting excited- that dangling trail of moisture confirmed it.

Mrs Sadie Allworth was on her knees in front of Brad, crew cut footballer with a thick, meaty projection as hard as a hammer. Goodness, she might have been at worship before some pagan deity, some god of the phallus. Brad's hands, encased in heavy gardening gloves, were rigid as his sides. And those gloves only made him look more brazenly naked.

Determined not to miss the opportunity the 45 year old mother of three girls pointed her 1953 Kodak Brownie- a simple plastic box camera- right at Brad's groin. Seemed she was trying to capture the zig zag artery that throbbed away on the dorsal side of his erection. Or maybe the scrolled, bunched-up folds of his retracted foreskin. Or perhaps the abundant scrotum, with its gauzy auburn hair.

Brad stood stock still, eyes ahead of him, his Chiclet teeth locked in a rictus of a smile. A trickle of fluid drained from his meatus and trailed to the lawn.

Snap, went the 1953 Kodak Brownie. Snap, snap, snap.

Brad flinched slightly. Blinked. His meaty erection throbbed.

Mrs Emma Hoddie, 67, had relished the spanking display earlier this afternoon. Boy-on-his-back-legs-up was not a position she had used but she could see the advantages it offered. Now she stood looking at Rickey. Facing him head on, as he stood stock-still holding that rake like a sentry at Buckingham Palace. She was a grandmother and a widow and, on the farm, had applied full nude spankings to her two sons, flat on their tummies on their beds; she liked applying chastising slaps with her paddle till all their buttocks and thighs turned a glowing, fire engine red and they had twisted and turned seeking relief. Yes, this had been one of the joys of her widowhood.

In the same position she had required them to suffer a weekly enema. Oh how they wriggled as she had lubricated their little entrances with her ungloved finger, massaging Johnson's Baby Oil into the puckering hole, but if some drained over their pereniums (she was precise about the names of her boys' body parts) and over their ballooning scrotums, that was all very well as there was a fluffy towel to protect her sheets. And it was nice to see their testicle sacs when they got up, shiny as a car bonnet.

How they had raised their heads and gasped protests when she had corkscrewed in the rectal tip of the hose! How their bodies went rigid as they felt themselves filling up with the warm water! "Mom...mommy...it...it...feels...funny!" And she had insisted, "Take it like a cowboy, hon', take it like a man."

She allowed her daughters- there were four- to glimpse these exercises including the enemas. Oh yes indeed, the daughters strained for close-ups of that little procedure. And when after the enema the boys had risen to stumble off to the toilet with one hand sheltering their erections, the other hovering at their bottom hole just in case- hadn't their sisters guffawed behind cupped hands! Their brothers in their birthday suits, shuffling off to the outhouse! Oh...my...god!

Yes, she had applied the discipline right up till her sons left the farm and took their own wives at the age of 23 in one case, 25 in the other. The mystery for her forever after was how the boys had come to look forward to the treatment and reveal stubborn erections as soon as their pants came down.

And how readily in recent years they had offered up their own boys- five strapping grandsons- for working holidays on her farm with explicit requests that she apply "good 'ole frontier discipline" like she had with them. "And don't forget those enemas, Mom- did us a whole world of good," said her eldest. "And let the girls have a good look, teaches them to be mothers," said the younger.

Right now she was surveying Rickey with bulging-eyed pleasure. That swollen-headed erection, she thought, was like the pricks on her own two boys- and her five strapping 18, 19 and 20 year old grandsons. This boy's thing was identical to the Hoddie family cocks: standard size- she guessed a regulation six inches- well-developed purple head, resolute, unapologetic stiffness. Oh, the stiffness of those grandsons when she made 'em stand there in a row, bare as badgers, ready to lie down one at a time for a paddling. Those organs sticking up and out, all in a line, just as this one on Rickey was now. And her own sweet disciplinary policy: their sisters and cousins allowed in the bedroom, staring hard, as if all their Christmases had come at once, superior smiles wreathing their faces.

She longed to take Rickey aside and give him some of that same ole' fashioned farm boy discipline. She steadied her camera at his groin and saw him flinch. Yes, I'd make him tremble a lot more if I had him on the farm for a day. After a paddling I'd give him an enema too, prise the nozzle into his little, oiled-up hole. Make him wriggle away and gasp at the intrusion.

In the meantime, she raised the camera: snap, snap, snap!

All knew that tomorrow those photos would be developed at Mrs Donovan's Photo Shop and Drycleaners on Chestnut Street, where they would be studied by her and her three daughters. Those young women would file photos of their favourite boys. Then the owners would call and collect their photos in neat little packets marked Donovan's Photos, Brewer. Or they might have them developed at Mrs Guelf's whose two daughters were, pound for pound, as excited by the notion of nude boys as any girl in the school, or any of their mothers.

The mature ladies with their pics from either developer would ogle them as soon as they got into cars, or home in their bedrooms, and they would be stored in shoe boxes, shown to friends, taken to coffee klatches, swapped like playing cards, secreted in purses and hidden under underwear in cupboards.

The three boys in the garden knew their images were being captured, were terrified...but thrilled by the idea. As their stiffness confirmed.

Mrs Reilly, stood back smoking a Camel through a long ivory cigarette holder, her eyes narrowing behind her cats-eyes sun glasses as she savoured the three naked youths. Nice pricks, she thought, savouring the Old English language. And she liked the pre-ejaculatory fluid flowing freely. Cowper's fluid, it was called. She wore a smile of quite satisfaction as she assessed this piece of theatre which she had painstakingly planned.

Yes, in her own verdurous garden, with mothers and teachers and professional ladies of the town of Brewer- ladies she had invited. Insisting they bring cameras. These young males stripped in the garage by her two Negro maids, the boys delivered to her home by the local police chief she had bribed. All her doing, all reflections of her peculiar and, yes- she knew it- her half-insane genius.

The earlier scene of spanking and supervised masturbation played out in her living room had caused her panties- her salmon-coloured, Parisian panties with pink bows and the cutest embroided opening in the groin- to be somewhat drenched, to be perfumed with that telltale sour and intimate fragrance. In fact the globules of her personal jelly were forcing their way through that tailored opening in the panties and rendering fragrant her perma-girdle.

She couldn't help it- anymore than the naked males could help their excitement- and nothing excited Mrs Reilly more than young males being humiliated, forced into nudity and exhibited like this.

She saw the fear and the excitement in Johnny's eyes, the good looking, Italianate boy from a strict Catholic family, undergoing a trauma- and an epiphany, as up on that ladder he was assumed- like the Virgin in the great canvas of Titian in the Friary of Venice- assumed, into heaven, lifted to paradise. "The Assumption of the Virgin" it was called, Mary being lifted above the apostles- Mrs Reilly travelled on the Queen Mary across the Atlantic to Europe every spring and knew its artistic treasures- as Johnny, on top of the A-frame, might be rising beyond this world too, being borne into an exhibitionist heaven, a paradise where males went nude and were gawked at by girls and ladies, cruel and lascivious and dressed.

Clearly, she could tell, he was horrified but also thrilled to be putting himself on display. Perhaps, thought Mrs Reilly, to be relishing it for the first time, like a pilgrim arriving at his holy destination. Every few seconds she saw him catch the gaze of one of the ladies- friends of his mother's, mothers of his friends'- and see their dancing eyes on his privates. Mrs Reilly saw him tremble and his penis jolt and throb. Soon, she thought, he may very likely explode.

She drew on her Camel.

Imagine the thrill for a young male as he exposes a generously proportioned penis...and, goodness, one with a banana-bend! And showing off the balloon of his testicles. With his privates totally shaven. Now ladies were moving behind him to dilate on the view of his bottom; so he was also aware he was showing off the curve of his buttocks, seen from below! As if he were saying to these mature age women, the ages of his own Mom and his grandmother, look, this is me, these are my most secret parts- the curved stem, the mauve hat, the big sack, the ass cheeks. Look me over, ladies and make me tremble and emit some more pre-cum.

Imagine the thrill for the boy, thought Mrs Reilly, and expelled a filagree of smoke into the summer air.

Mrs Reilly's two maids, Doris and Dorothy, arrived with trays bearing three brimming glasses of milk, Minnesota milk freshly squeezed from the teats of local cows, to refresh the young males. Very evocative were the glasses of full-cream fluid, given the view of jutting erections and rounded scrotums: no lady missed the symbolism as the glasses were handed by the giggling Negresses to the naked boys and obediently gulped down, one after the other.

Protein-rich cow's milk. For the sprouting, mid-western youngsters.

Teddy's left a milk moustache decorating his upper lip. Not a few of the mothers smiled as they saw it, reflecting what a cute, naughty, naked boy they were viewing and some thought of their own sons. They wished they might daub it off, playfully strike his bottom. Even cup his tight little ball sack and waggle a rebuking finger under his nose.

And then a little procession- almost sacerdotal- reached the alcove.

There was Dr Speight, half moon glasses dangling to her broad bosom, looking very pleased with herself.

There was Mrs Gladys Hotchkiss, powerfully built secretary from Brewer's Sleep-Tite Pyjama plant, eyes dancing with excitement behind her wire-frames.

There was tall, elegant Mrs Moira Dockweiler, in her cinch-waist, polka-dotted skirt. She was still flushed from the public spanking she had given her boy.

And there was Homer himself, poor Homer, who they had allowed to assume socks and loafers but not another item of clothing. He was being kept in his birthday suit.

He was being made to pay a big price for being discovered by his mother with a lewd magazine.

Under his heavy, piled Elvis hair he was bean-pole thin. His narrow chest wore a mat of tangled black hair which he was surely ashamed showing off to all these females.

He was marched along by the three women as Amazon warriors might have brought back to their camp a boy captured from a defeated army; say, an army cadet or bugle boy who they had stripped of uniform and khaki underwear and were now leading off into a cruel feminine captivity.

His Adam's apple bounced as he swallowed and blinked nervously. His mother steered him, her hand gently placed on his lower back. On the other side Dr Speight gripped his upper arm. His cock with its flattened dish-like head and wrinkled stem, wobbled half erect in front of him, wanting to stiffen again but bewildered and frightened. Mrs Hotchkiss followed, eyeing his posterior red from the spanking.

"Well, here we are," said the doctor. "As your can see, Homer, you are not the only young fella being punished today."

Homer gulped with horror as he took in the scene of three nude males, and the swarm of ladies with cameras milling around, peering and pointing...and giggling...and aiming their viewfinders...and snapping away.

"Oh here's the other young fella, ladies," declared Emma Hoddie. "Another subject for our art photography!"

Ladies grouped in front of him, already aiming cameras.

His mother beamed. Homer shot his hands over his genitals and half-bent over to shield himself.

Photos, he thought, oh no!

"Homer! Don't be ridiculous! All these ladies have already seen everything you've got! Stand up straight! And hands by your sides!"

His mother was firm.

The young man, a slow, goofy young fella, had nothing to do but obey. He stood tall, and hesitatingly moved his broad veiny hands to hang at his sides. This revealed the loose-skinned stem and the dish-shaped glans of his penis, reddened by his recent masturbation before the ladies in Mrs Reilly's living room. It was beginning to shrivel.

"And..."

His mother had another suggestion.

"...go climb that ladder with the other boy so they can all see you!"

Whhhhhhat? Get up there on that ladder?

"Mooooom! Pllleeeeease!"

Tears welled.

His voice skidded like a little boy's.

"Noooo...Mummy...no!"

"Turn around and show me your rear young man!"

He did. It still blazed red.

"If you want to avoid another spanking..."

Her hand was raised. She let her words hang.

Ladies giggled.

Homer shuffled forward.

Ladies parted.

He could feel their eyes all over him.

He climbed the ladder to stand a few rungs below Johnny.

Ladies regrouped to point their cameras.

At this moment two young ladies, girls from Johnny's school- oh, he nearly fell from the ladder when he saw them- appeared in the grove. They were Ena Wertheimer and Cecily Axehead. They had missed out on the school rehearsals of Cowgirls and Indian Braves. They had never been summoned to one of the boys' medicals. They had never been recruited for the shavings. Nor been invited to watch boys swim nude.

Oh, they had heard whisperings of these things from other girls. They were ravenously curious. Seemed, however, they might always miss out. They might grow up to be spinsters. Truth was neither got taken on dates.

They had not seen a naked boy.

Then the invitation had arrived from Mrs Reilly, to join one of her garden parties.

So they stood now and their eyes popped greedily- very greedily- as they took in the scene.

Johnny Marcello...up there on the A-frame...without a stitch! The handsome boy from their school, the athlete with the Italian good looks.

And he saw them stare. Stare right at his midriff and its bold, jutting erection. It seemed for a moment that his hands, even holding the shears, were going to drop to cover his genitals but he thought better...and exposed himself again: his curved erection rearing above the throng.
He saw the two plain girls stare at it, eyes swimming.

His penis jolted and throbbed.

"What's all this?" panted Ena to Cecily.

"Dunno. Naughty boys...being punished, I guess," said Cecily, beat thumping. "I heard the rumours. But never dreamt...never! Not like this!"

Homer gulped.

He recognised Ena and Cecily. He whispered to his mother, "Mom! Mom! Let me down! Those girls...they see me at church!"

The Youth Fellowship of Fourteenth Street Baptist to be precise.

He was covering his groin again, desperate to block them from seeing his privates. Hell, they sung hymns with him! Went to picnics! Bible class! And here he was nude! Without a stitch! They would see...everything! Including his shamefully hairy chest! He wanted to cover up bad. To be able to step down from the ladder and creep back to Mrs Reilly's house and put on his clothes.

Pursing her lips Mrs Dockweiler just shook her head. She signalled for him to move his hands back to his sides.

He grimaced. And obeyed his Mom.

Just as the girls recognised the shy, gawky boy.

"Hey! That's Homer! From church!"

"Oh my god!"

"He's completely naked too!"

"Ena, look! He hasn't got a stitch!"

He saw them goggle. And drop their eyes to stare right at his genitals.

He saw their expressions. "Wow! Look at Homer's penis!" their eyes seemed to be saying. "Look at Homer's testicles! Aren't they...funny!"

"And at that hairy chest of his!"

Their mocking eyes seemed to be saying that as well.

His insides turned to water.

He could have melted from shame.

Sweet girls from the church. But now...seeing him naked...that expression in their eyes!

And in response to this strange feeling his penis lengthened...stretched...

...filled out...

...and lifted...

...in three jerks...

...jerk!

...jerk!

...jerk!

To full stand.

Almost flat against his abs. Its underside on veiny display.

All the ladies noticed.

"Oh my!"

"This young man's getting excited again."

"Goodness me!"

"Like one of the young goats on our farm!"

He saw Ena and Cecily nudge one another and ogle.

Homer looked close to fainting, mid-way up the ladder, big erection jutting up. Hands rigid, hanging at his thighs.

And Ena and Cecily now fixed him with syrupy smiles.

Beaming at his blushes and humiliation.

"Oh, this is sweet," thought Ena. "To see them completely nude! And this boy humiliated. And that Johnny Marcello too!"

She and Cecily were feeling very stirred in their own privates.

Meanwhile ladies did not miss the opportunity.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

What a subject for pics!

Snap! Snap! Snap!

And then another female arrived. Demurely, respectfully. Her dress, white and summery, was vaguely Edwardian. She sheltered beneath a white, laced parasol- the effect very much of the tropics or the ante-bellum South. Her sharp features were somewhat lined, her skin not far from parchment. Her brown eyes shone. Oh, say in her mid-70s. Clearly not from these parts.

It was Mrs Reilly's house guest.

It was Sarah Maitland.

Discretely, from a shadowed corner of the living room, she had watched the supervised masturbation and full-nude spanking of Homer Dockweiler. Her admiration for her host- who, it seemed, regularly organised these occasions- had grown. Not many women could deliver such a triumph. Or recruit so many ladies to participate. Nor render the humiliation of the young males so exquisite.

And the full-nude gardening work carried out by punished youths- yes, and their stripping by two Negresses- and now this theatre in the garden, with all these tittering viewers, well, this was the coup de grace.

Sarah's mind went back to her own years in England as governess and teacher and as manageress of the house in London's St John's Wood where boys were sent to be disciplined. And then her years in schools in Indian and the Caribbean where she implemented full nude punishments. Her years running discipline in juvenile detention facilities in the American south and her book, Teaching Boys to be Gentle Men.

But that curved appendage, on that nude young man...

It brought back a very specific memory of one punishment in her office, one day in-oh, it must have been- 1917, when full nude punishment of those Indian youths was gathering force, galvanising her female staff, curbing the arrogance of the 18 year old Brahmin males in her care.

Standing there in that garden, in the American mid-West in 1957, Sarah's mind roamed over the decades and settled on that sweltering Indian Spring.

The Great War was torturing colonial India. It was stripped of its male folk: a million soldiers off to Europe, natives and their white officers. The German raider Emden was capturing every British ship that appeared in the Bay of Bengal. Families- Anglo-Indian and native- had run out of savings. The fabled Saint Barbara's School for Girls had to close.

Where to educate these 18 year old English girls, their fathers off fighting battles in Flanders or the French trenches, their mothers stressed with the discipline of servants? In normal times it would have been unheard of, to install them in a school for boys, Indian boys, the sons of the educated Indian elite. But Sarah Maitland's discipline was legendary, spoken of across the Empire, and there were grand spaces available in the opulent red brick buildings designed by the Viceroy's Architects Office in Calcutta. Here on the edge of the Ganges and its baked mud river banks, the buffalo and circling hawks.

There was also an all-female teaching staff available. The older ones were highly regarded, stern spinsters dedicated to their craft and brooking no nonsense. The younger ones, recruited from Scotland and the North of England, left something to be desired: naive, unprepossessing girls, lower middle class or even less distinguished, overwhelmed by the tropics. Still, they were responding rapidly to Sarah Maitland's disciplinary philosophy.

As confirmed this morning in the headmistresses' grand study with its heavy curtains, the walled elephant head, the mahogany furniture, the hallmark tusk on her desk, the rich Rajasthani carpets.

Rathsida was 18. His nudity was shocking, stark. His skin was khaki. He was gaunt, lanky. He was decidedly not good looking, with a beak nose and big shifty eyes. Sarah noted with distaste his testicles. Normally she warmed to the sight, at once comical and suggestive: a bag, a purse if you will, loaded with two balls, sometimes tight- a little globe gauzy with hair- sometimes loose, hanging low with the objects outlined in the skin. In this case, however, there were two many folds, the hanging was too low, the weight of one testicle much heavier than its twin.

Yes, standing before her desk he was completely naked; he had been confronted with his misdeeds by his nervous young teacher and forced to strip at breakfast in the refectory. Then marched by the teacher through the school corridors to the office. Here he stood before her, as nude as Adam. Yet he was not a charming sight, thought Sarah. And it wasn't just his testicles, his over-loose, dangling scrotum. His dark penis, in a state of full erection, arced forward, bent downwards like a banana. Its tip was a blazing red, as if touched with lipstick- red and shiny as a kidney.

And this glans, this rich red penis head, was misshapen, turned upwards, as if carelessly jammed onto the stem: pointing up while the stem arced down, all unsymmetrical. As for the penis stem itself- relatively thick- the colouring was unsavoury: a patchy khaki with a chocolate ring around its middle. Oh yes, those rings were common but this one was broad and dark way beyond normal.

How humiliating must have been the long walk through corridors to her office. His meaty organ would have led the way, bouncing in front. What a delight to the sari-clad maids thronging the corridors, polishing brass and wood, mopping the floors, to see him stripped to the buff with his blushing teacher Miss Shawcross, new to her job, tugging him by ear or arm! If he had run into the English girls just enrolled..! What an epiphany for them! And for her teachers who may have seen him passing by- the shy newer ones, the worldly older: a new boy, humiliated and totally displayed.

Yes, the teachers fresh from England's cold, puritanical regions: how they would have gulped down the sight of a young Indian male nude and erect being marched down the corridors and up the stairs by one of their own.

Yet was he truly humiliated?

He stood, before her desk, his eyes shifting nervously. They were chocolate- same colour as that penis band. His eyelids blinked furiously. What was he thinking? Sarah knew no assumptions could be safely made. In this condition their minds race, imaginations fly, fantasies gallop wild.

A drop of clear fluid suddenly made its appearance at his meatus- how she savoured the correct term for the slit in the penis head- and she thought: nature gives us a clue. A smile worked at the corners of her lips. He saw it and shifted. But her conclusion was unavoidable: he was excited by being nude in their company.

Besides him the teacher, Miss Mildred Shawcross. She shook nervously. She was only 21, hardly older than the boy she had just ordered out of his clothes. She had arrived from Manchester a week earlier. She had been coached by Sarah in what had to be done to apply discipline: any errant boy should be instructed to remove every item of his clothing where he stood and then have you- his teacher- march him through the corridors holding him by the ear or upper arm. Outside the office he is to be positioned standing against the wall, facing the wall exposing his rear (a terrible disgrace for a Brahmin boy) or facing outwards exposing- well, everything- whatever the teacher thinks warranted. But if he is to face outwards he is to stand hands behind his back or on his head. This presents a delicious spectacle for passing females.

Sarah remembered that as Mildred and two other new teachers had been instructed about this rule their eyes had swollen, clearly with a prurient interest. A lively prurient awe. And that was before she began the instruction on corporal punishment. As Sarah outlined the protocols around full bodied naked spankings and canings their breasts had heaved and hot flushes run up and across their necks and cheeks.

Back to this unprepossessing boy.

He had been viewed that morning by sari-clad maids, teachers, some English ladies visiting for tea with Sarah: facing outwards, hands behind his back.

"Did he find it excruciating?" Sarah had asked her secretary, one of whose duties was to check on the punished boys, a duty that Miss Plimmer, a virgin, devoted herself to diligently.

"No, Miss Maitland. He did not act at all embarrassed. Even seemed..."

"To enjoy showing himself to all and sundry?"

"Yes. He even smiled at me when I looked..."

Looked! She blushed and corrected herself.

"...when I was checking."

"And his organ was engorged?"

"Completely. Throughout." She blushed deeper. At home she had never viewed a male organ. Now in the tropics they were presented to her throughout each school day. And at the bungalow house she shared with teachers, one of them, Hester Marsden-Smedly, had last week proposed that their young Indian male servants- cook, gardeners, houseboys- dispose of their longhis or shorts and move around performing duties in a state of nature. "Oh do! Oh let's!" had exclaimed one of the young teachers. At this stage it remain a proposal.

These sights, these prospects, filled under-the-sheets dreams and fantasies.

Meanwhile Sarah thought about this boy's defiant presentation. It happened occasionally. There may be- oh, call it a tipping point. A boy in a country house loses his shyness at being stripped. He shudders when ordered to pull off his clothes, not with embarrassment but eagerness. And when his mother or governess whisks off his underpants he is already throbbingly engorged. Underpants at his ankles, his penis bounces in the air as if flattered to be looked at. He contrives, while being paddled over a female lap, to twist and show off his organ, displaying it to watching females- sisters, cousins, an aunt, daring them to stare. He will misbehave- raid the pantry, taste the port, answer back and use bad words- to provoke nude punishment especially if in sight of a maid. A maid! Thrilling for them!

In this case? Certainly Rathsida was standing boldly, arms fixed besides his sides when most boys cannot stop them fluttering to shelter erections. His erection was hardy and resolute. The driblet on its end had become a trail of clear moisture- a dangle of Cowper's fluid- hanging and swaying in mid-air. Yes, some boys crave to display themselves naked. Her correspondents in research institutes described this as "exhibitionism." It seemed a likely hypothesis that this was his pathology. In which case her shameful punishments were ineffectual.

She looked up at the nude youth.

"Are you punished at home? Like this?"

He nodded.

"Made to undress? Or does someone take your clothes off for you?"

He shuddered uncontrollably.

"A maid. My mother's maid. She...undoes the things..."

His penis twitched in the air at the recollection, thrilling and humiliating.

"Does she- this maid- pull your underpants down?"

He shuddered and nodded.

"And make you step out?"

He nodded, shaking with some nameless emotion.

"With your mother watching?"

"Yes...and my sisters."

"And where does this take place? In your bedroom?"

"In the hall...or the big parlour...where visitors...my sisters' friends or cousins...can watch. Also, aunties..."

"So this happens today, even with you being a grown boy of 18?"

"Yes...my mother is very...punishing."

His excitement was obvious. His body shook. His erection jolted and the stream of fluid now trailed all the way to the carpet.

Sarah decided to go for broke.

She selected her words carefully.

"Do you find your sisters enjoy staring at you...naked?"

Her words hung in the air.

His trembling became more convulsive.

He nodded.

"Looking at you..? Down there?" She gestured at the capacious bent tube with its dark ring and garishly coloured head.

He seemed almost to faint. But she got the response she had been fishing for.

"Yes...they stare...at my...my organ..."

"At your somewhat large, engorged organ. With the bend. And the interesting colouring."

She might have been addressing his genitals for she was staring right at them.

Under his khaki skin he darkened and lowered his eyes. He nodded. Yes, he seemed to be saying, the bend...the colouring.

"Do you think they like what they see? Do they think it funny- the bend, the colours? Or does it frighten them?"

He looked bewildered. In return, she was only more cunning.

"Or all three- they like it and they think it funny and it frightens them, all at the same time?"

He seemed to reflect on this possibility.

"Yes."

"And they probably like to see it become engorged? Like now?"

"Yes. That makes them...laugh."

He looked miserable, as the memories awakened.

"They point at it...when it...gets...long. When it gets stiff. I am wanting to stop it...but not able..."

He looked down at his jutting member. Its head returned the stare and indicted him.

"Does that make you go all...shivery? Knowing they're looking? Looking and laughing?Does it make you feel strange?"

With a shy nod he acknowledged that this was what he felt.

"Shamed...to your core?"

"Yes."

"And strangely excited?"

Miss Shawcross stared sideways at the object of the questioning. It was so...thick, she thought. The knob on its end so...fat! And that band around the stem...so dark!

She gulped. Greedily.

"Yes."

"And I think you feel that now, don't you? After all, you are quite naked and...engorged as you say, in front of us, two women. Shamed...but excited too."

He was silent, seemed to think and then nodded.

And like a prisoner responding to interrogation his defences collapsed and the truth tumbled out.

He told Sarah his story, standing naked before her, with Miss Shawcross blushing and flushing and quivering at his side.

It seemed his mother- stern, angry and living apart from her husband who ran their big Punjab estate- applied the punishment at least twice a week. The maid she used was a favourite, an unmarried lower caste woman in her 30s with flashing eyes and a "naughty spirit." She clearly loved the unbuttoning, the pulling down of his trousers, the slow descent of his underpants, all the time smiling and catching his gaze. He said when this happened- especially at the moment his underpants were lowered- he shivered with shame. He said he could almost feel her eyes- those of the cunning maid- roving over his organ.

As for his sisters they supplied complaints to his mother to trigger this nude punishment, made up stories shamelessly- claimed he had bullied them, for example, when in fact all afternoon he had been in his room. Told other stories too, alleging he had sworn in front of them ("Bad words, Mama, dirty words!") or taunted maids or raided the pantry, all in order to see their brother forced to stand before them and be stripped by the maid- her name was Sunita- in the most humiliating fashion and forced to stand hands behind his back in corridor or parlour.

He spoke to Sarah, in a rush, about how the eyes of the girls and the maids came alive when he was stripped. He said one cousin jiggled with excitement staring at him as the maid eased his underpants down his legs and, when he had to step out, she caught his eye and showed a triumphant grin. Two young maids leant into one another and cuddled, giggling, as they fixed their eyes on him, as if they couldn't believe the sight he presented.

Another could not resist placing both hands between her thighs, bent over with excitement, her face twisted in concentration, as his clothes vanished- his trousers slithered down, his underpants were whisked to his ankles- and he assumed his humiliating nudity. She seemed to be stroking herself, pressing her own privates, as she stared at his exposed organ.

"You must have been deeply embarrassed?"

Yes, all the staring...even from his mother. She had looked at him intently. He said his mother had been without his father's company for 10 years. She seemed very curious, to compare him with his father perhaps. Or just to see a male like this. Or...to see him, a male, humiliated.

And there was his older cousin, an attractive young woman of 19 or 20 about to be married...

"The age of your teacher, Miss Shawcross, here."

Sarah's intervention was inspired, mischievous and it had its effect. The teacher blushed crimson and the boy swung to look at her.

For her part it was clear the teacher was tremendously stirred by the boy's narrative. Every time Sarah had looked in her direction she noticed the teacher gazing down and sideways at her student's jutting penis. Not a sight she was used to seeing, thought Sarah. Not something she had ever glimpsed back in dowdy, puritanical Manchester- the voluminous and erect member of a naked 18 year old male.

"Please continue."

The boy said that, yes, this cousin, about to marry, seemed the most curious of all. He said her eyes swam as she stared and she leant in so close he could feel her breath on his private parts. She seemed to be memorising the details...thinking, he speculated, of her approaching marriage. When she move away he said he noticed a far-away look in her eyes.

He described the embarrassment of having to stand there, his penis "engorged..."

"Erect is another word," offered Sarah, gesturing to his penis. "When a penis becomes stiff- when it stretches and pulls away from the body, standing up and out- we say that is an erection. An erection. Like what you are suffering now."
Miss Shawcross' eyes bulged. She had contorted to get a better view.

Still he struggled on with his shameful story, seemed determined to tell everything, standing there naked in front of Sarah and next to his flushing, quivering young teacher.

He said standing in the corridor when he was, yes, erect, and when his mother was gone, the maids and sisters and cousins examined him close-up- this, he thought, had been his mother's intention- bending and pointing, remarking on shape and colour. He felt as if he were a slave on the blocks, forced to stand there naked while women assessed his qualities before an auction. They asked him questions especially his older sisters and cousins, like how often his lavada stood up- although the maid insisted his organ be referred to not as his lavada but as a lola. Lola- the word implied a big organ, loli being the word for a boy's small one. He had to tell them that it stood up from time to time, certainly when he took his clothes off or when his thoughts wandered.

"Your naughty nerman," a cousin spluttered and all the girls laughed, looking at it.

Yes, nerman was the Hindi word for a stiff one, he explained- and they asked him whether he was full of shame about his nerman. He said he just nodded and hung his head which made them laugh at him. One cousin pointed out that it would cause an awful bulge in his trousers and his sisters confirmed that they often noticed it. When he got up from table, for example, or when they saw him in the corridors in his pyjamas. "It pokes!" spluttered his older sister. "It pushes his pants out- his funny, stiff snake!"

Then they asked why he had that sack- yes, sack, that little bag- hanging down, those androshka...like stones or marbles, they had said to bursts of giggling.

"Androshka."

He pointed to his scrotum, to help the headmistress.

"Yes, androshka, I know- the Hindi word for testicles," said Sarah who was just starting work on a dictionary of Indian anatomical and reproductive language. "Androshka sounds so right." She looked at the sad, hanging sack the boy displayed.

She saw Miss Shawcross swipe a lubricious sideways glance. "Yes, the girl would be curious about those," thought Sarah. "Maybe she has some scraps of information about their function or has overheard brothers discussing their 'balls.'

He went on telling her the questions they put to him, like why did his thing have all those thick veins and what was the point of the knob on the end of his toto (toto-another shaming word for his organ) and whether they could touch it...

Yes, of course, they would want to do that. All females did, the objects being so puzzling in shape and appearance.

"And?"

He drew the line at being touched. But once he had to suffer his artistic cousin sitting on a stool only a foot from him to sketch and colour a portrait of his organ while other girls looked over her shoulder and up and down at the subject she was so earnestly reproducing. They were full of ideas for rendering the anatomical portrait more realistic, making the androshka she was drawing droop lower, one especially lower than the other- there was debate about this, a lot of backwards and forward comparisons of the object and the sketch. And there was much animated and high spirited discussion about making the head of the lola bigger and redder, or the chocolate-coloured band darker and more sinister. All accompanied by cruel giggles.

He agreed this was terribly embarrassing.

Once his mother had punished him just as she and the rest of the family were leaving the house for a visit. They gathered, all the females, to watch him divest himself of jacket and shirt. The maid had then peeled his trousers down and then his pants while his sisters had stared and gasped at his nerman, and giggled at the androshka and he found himself left behind at the mercy of the maids, standing naked in the corridor. Maids- low caste girls and women and old ladies- those of his own household and their friends from neighbouring homes who had been summoned to see the Brahmin boy undergoing murgha or nude punishment. They thronged around him, about a dozen. The younger were enormously curious and elbowed to get close. Some appeared not to have seen a penis, at least in an erect state. Certainly not on an upper caste boy. Their stares, whispers, giggles and gasps made him shudder.

He turned to the wall to shield his groin and its rigidified content from their mocking looks- he could not, he said, make his nerman subside, his lola engorged, well, just like it was now. Again he explained to Sarah his inability to restrain himself. Touchingly he told her his "feelings were very strong" and made his "rod" (the English slang term, which he must have used with dormitory companions, tumbled out) go "hard, oh so very hard."

Reference to his erect state made Miss Shawcross tremble and look down with renewed hunger. Was it the big knob that had captured her interest, wondered Sarah, or the veiny stem? Imagine the effect on a girl, with all the normal impulses, who had never seen such a sight before.

He continued.

With his back turned he found the maids were even more enlivened- an upper caste boy, was revealing his bottom! This was shameful- and in front of females of the lowest caste! "We...can...see...your...gaandu!" one of them taunted. "Your naughty boy's gaandu!" And they all burst into laughter.

He had to go on presenting his buttocks (a bottom was termed gaandu, buttocks were called chootad) for what seemed hours. He winced when the girls giggled about his chootad. "What a jolly bare chootad on the boy!" Chootad: the very word- comic and euphonious- made him shrivel.

"What pretty chootad!" they taunted and teased. "Look...look! The boy's chootad! Oh, what jolly business! His naked chootad!" A cheeky and sensuous maid- an attractive young woman of 19- asked him lubriciously, "Aren't you shamed...a Brahmin boy?" She would never have spoken so familiarly in other circumstances. And then again she asked it, right into his ear, while for a second her maid's fingers flickered over the surface of his right buttock, she whispered: "Your maids can see you...all naked...Brahmin son and his bare chootad."

He said he shuddered at the thought they were seeing his naked behind, his gaandu and his chootad, these low caste females.

"You must have been...very ashamed," said Sarah, she herself now feeling excitement. "To have them staring at your...globes." She chose the word for its shaming effect. She pronounced it carefully, rounding the vowel. She saw Miss Shawcross tremble before a smile alighted on the corners of her lips. The teacher took a side-glance at the boy's behind. Appeared to be stimulated by what she saw, his globes on display.

His globes...nude.

Sarah breathed deep.

"Well, we used a lot of nude punishment- murgha- here," she pronounced. "If boys are naughty, well...it's the punishment: boys lose their clothes. All spanking here is done when boys are nude, the spanking delivered by females, by me and our staff..."

She saw his penis throb. His eyes went wide. As for his young teacher, from the cold climes of northern England and its chapels and sermons...there was sweat on her brows. If she had fallen to the floor in a swoon, Sarah would not have been surprised.

"...and we have English girls now enrolling in our school and..."

The excitement swept over him in a wave: girls! White girls! His age! Who might be viewing him when he was like this!

He shook. Shook uncontrollably.

"...they will be shocked when they first start seeing our boys being disciplined. Yes, English girls witnessing our punishments for boys. In the corridors, for example...or in classrooms...they are going to see boys deprived of their clothing..."

She let that sink in.

"But right now it's your punishment here, with me. And Miss Shawcross. Please, cross to the couch..."

It would be a paddling, with the boy lying on his back, legs in the air. His genitals on display, sticking up hard or flopping hopelessly. She liked that position.

His legs would be held aloft, in the first round, by Miss Shawcross with Sarah taking aim and delivering the strokes all over his thighs and rounded parts. Then she and the teacher would trade places. She would see the flushing and the quivering of Miss Shawcross as she learnt to make a grown boy bawl with pain and struggle like a colt. Then...

...then she would make this young "Miss Manchester" sit. And Sarah would order the red-bottomed boy to lie over her knees. They would hear the cackle of starch as his weight settled into her. And the hiss of his released breath. His lumpy, ugly organ would be pressed into his teacher's laces and linen. She would certainly be aware of it. Sarah would guide the chapel-bred girl to use hand and paddle on the boy's round, brown chootad, spread exposed under her very nose while she felt his nerman throbbing and jolting- maybe doing even more- pressed into her own virginal privates.

Miss Shawcross would see the boy strain and buckle, throw out arms and legs in a swimmer's motion, twist and turn and reveal all. From this position she would glimpse the inner regions of his intergluteal cleft, his most intimate characteristic.

This boy was shuddering and leaking already by simply being stared at. With a nude spanking he would surely deliver the ultimate male offering, a full-bodied ejaculation. In Miss Shawcross's lap. Its fresh boyish smell would flavour the air, perhaps perfumed with a scent of spices and tumeric.

Sarah thought that this girl's mind would weave together- perhaps for all time- her own exquisite carnal joy and the cruel, nude punishment of a young male. Her exaltation. And his shaming.

Miss Shawcross would never be the same again.

Sarah drew a paddle from a bottom draw and followed the boy to the couch. His erection bounced ahead of him, his nerman. And he was presenting his chootad. His globes, his Brahmin bottom.

His chootad, about to become the centre of everyone's attention.

Mrs Reilly's Cadillac left the drive way of her heritage mansion with her and her guest, Sarah Maitland in the back seat.

In the front, driving them was 18 year old Tom Wilson, a boy from Grover Cleveland High who had done time in the gardens working off some offence but been recruited for paid duties in Mrs Reilly's grounds. And in her house.

He was coal-black and athletic, a member of the school swim team. In fact he had been with other boys training in the nude when Miss Braithwaite and the girls had burst in, that famous occasion in the recent history of Grover Cleveland High. He had been one of two Negro boys.

His family had immigrated from Savannah. There Tom had worked as gardener in the grounds of an estate where older white ladies, mostly widows, had appreciated his physique. Seen him shirtless in the garden. Invited him indoors, showered him with gifts.

Mrs Reilly's patronage had not surprised him.

Today Tom was dressed in chauffeur's cap and neat white shirt and black neck tie under a navy blue jacket. It is not possible to describe what he wore below his waist for the simple reason he wore nothing below the waist. Doris and Dorothy had selected his uniform and broke the news that he would remain naked from the waist. He was less than astonished because he had worked for Mrs Reilly after school and on weekends for some time. He knew her rules.

Truth was he was beginning to enjoy the dictats of the chatelaine, even found the enforced exposure thrilling and the five dollars a week was a boon.

And he got to drive a Cadillac.

His jacket and shirt were very short, several sizes too small, ending at his waist. As a result when he had opened the car door for Sarah and Mrs Reilly their eyes had been able to devour the sight of his groin- and what hung from his groin.

As he felt their appreciative and curious stares his penis, already stretching, had immediately lengthened and stood to rigid attention.

The ladies had seen it as they had stepped in the car.

Now as he drove them his black penis with its huge vein and mahogany head stood rampant with the excitement of what he was doing- steering the Cadillac through downtown Brewer nude from the waist, with no pants- and his ample testicle sac lolling on the leather seat between his thighs.

In the backseat the ladies talked.

"I think you will enjoy the hospitality of Mrs Ricketson," Mrs Reilly was saying to her famous house guest.

"It's bridge, isn't it?" Sarah asked.

"Oh, that's the pretext. Truth is it's a little more. With these bridge parties she has her poor helpless son Rodney do some modelling. Normally the tiny Indian loin cloth he's wearing for the school drama."

Sarah laughed politely. She admired and liked this Mrs Reilly. Her American host was a gifted amateur. Her enthusiasm was formidable. Still, these were things- nude male punishments- Sarah had worked at for decades. She had seen it all.

Mrs Reilly continued, describing this Mrs Ricketson and her endeavours in the cause.

"Rodney's humiliation in front of the old dears and town mothers is simply exquisite. He has perhaps the best physique in the town. Think Michelangelo's 'ignudi' on the Sistine Chapel or David himself, only with with shapelier chest and with a decisively larger appendage than what you will see in the Academia in Florence. Yes, a big member with a big head like a prize winner mushroom at our local state fair. And being stared at..."

"He finds it impossible to control when looked at by females- the age old predicament. Their erections can't be stopped."

"Indeed. He's a real hoot in school medicals and swim events. Straight as a soldier within seconds. And at the bridge club we all get to see it close up. But today his dear mother has recruited his friends- a small, hairy little chap called Stevie, another swimmer called Mark, and there's a fella with a sideways slant to his prick- charming that is- and a tall basketball player with a delightful petite projection of no more than- oh, what did the tape measure tell us- three inches I think. Yes, He's called Carl."

Sarah's interest was rising.

"And she'll make these boys..?"

"They'll model some Shakespearean tights that they'll be wearing on stage at an event in the local womens' teachers college. Darling, these conceal nothing. Very tight. And so funny when they stretch away and produce emissions of Cowper's fluid and even...believe it or not...actually ejaculate while we look at them or rather, because we look at them."

"Yes, spontaneous ejaculations like your handsome recruit with the memorable curved member in your garden the other day- Johnny Marcello. Goodness, he just let fly with that emission didn't he? It was a benediction, all over the watching females standing beneath him, staring up."

"It was those schoolgirls staring that brought him to explode like that. Didn't you see the throbbing of his penis when the girls moved in to examine him? The twitching of his member? And suddenly he went rigid. And then...the first big splosh..! My goodness, it rained down on dear Lynda Lindhoff, into her hair and across her brow. It was cruel to laugh at her, but that lunatic expression on her face with his ejaculate hanging off her nose! Oh my god!"

Sarah had seen plenty of spontaneous eruptions- during strippings and spankings, during cannings and bathings. It was not common but it did happen. This one was a delight, however, with the boy high up on the ladder and ladies and girls milling under him. The boy being so good looking and his prick so sculpted.

"And the lad had much more to come."

"Yes, he sent a second shot at poor Wendy Hessmeister, our town librarian, and that jacket of hers will never be the same again. The expression on her face when his juice spurted in her direction! And it was the wrong moment for that nice young lady Cecily Axehead to be looking up mouth open! Mouth wide open! Suddenly the boy's fluid flew right into it- her classmate's sperm!"

I loved that," agreed Sarah, laughing. "She did swoon and reel and stagger and choke, all at once! And in her shock she swallowed! She's gone from being virgin to...something else, in one fun-filled moment."

"Later they all remarked on how HOT the fluid was! As she wiped her face clean Lynda exclaimed it was...hot...hot...as fudge!"

Mrs Reilly spluttered with raucous laughter. She added, "Maybe..maybe...it was that fresh milk I made the maids bring!"

"Cooking away in his testicles while he was up there, exposed to the sun's rays, I imagine."

Yes, she thought, the staged punishment had been a special event. Even with all she had seen in her lifetime- in English country houses, in Indian schools, in the Caribbean- Sarah had to agree it had been a choice entertainment. Full marks to her host, this Mrs Reilly.

The women fell into a momentary silence.

Steering the vehicle, Tom was listening. He had heard accounts of the occasion from other boys. In a corner of the school cafeteria they had told him about the garden punishment and Johnny on the A frame and the photographing. "They weren't allowed not even a stitch," they had whispered breathless. "And the 'ole crones watching and staring and snapping pics!" Their own erections had shown, pushing out their trouser fronts. And Tom had stiffened too. Now a slimy emission bubbled from his meatus. His bottom bare on the car seat, his erection throbbed.

Sarah returned to the subject of Johnny Marcello.

"Yes, my dear, it was hilarious, the way his sperm just flew out. That benediction for the womenfolk. He looked like he'd just been electrocuted. Shocked. I loved the way he required assistance getting down...and limped off head bowed, the milky fluid trailing from his organ."

"He was humiliated but..."

"But very much fulfilled."

"Yes, very much. Indeed I think on one level..."

"On one level," opined Sarah, the expert in full-nude punishments. "It was what he wanted, what he had been hungering for."

And she thought again of Rathsida all those years ago.

Tom Wilson steered them into Elm.

He wondered whether, when they got to Mrs Ricketson's, he would he be required to exit the car and open the door for the two ladies? Wearing nothing but the shirt and jacket that fell only to his waist. Showing off his prick and balls and the crinkly hair in his groin.

His erection was not flagging and the stream of fluid was running strong.

It was a thought that led to another: would he have duties inside the house, at the bridge party, in front of the old dears, with the other boys? And would it be the first time those old dears had seen a Negro boy's prick?

He certainly hoped the answer to both questions would be yes.

Meanwhile his nude ass cheeks savoured the leather. So did his lolling scrotum. His heavy Congolese erection jutted high and seemed to sniff the air around it, seemingly eager for exposure when they reached their destination.

"Oh boy!" Tom thought, "I sure hope they get me to show off my dick!"

And he wished it had been him on the A frame in the rose garden.

"Let me tell you the story of one boy in India many years ago," Sarah was saying to Mrs Reilly. "In several respects just like your Johnny..."