The Governess Of Bengal Pt 01

"Stop this!" she cried. "It is ridiculous."

"No!" he screamed back.

She swatted away his hands, finally slapping at them hard.

"Get away from me!" he yelled. She struggled to keep him on the table. Despite her size and experience, he fought her off, jerking his limbs wildly.

"Becca!" she shouted over her shoulder.

Becca stood in the doorway. The house servant Sarika had found her moments ago, informing her that the governess needed assistance with her cousin Ben, again. It wasn't the first time he'd behaved this way, and it was the third time a similar request had come since her arrival in early February. Ben was different. No one quite knew what to call it.

"Come in here. Take his legs. Now."

"Yes, mistress," Becca murmured.

"Get her out of here!" Ben cried. "She shouldn't be here."

The Day Room -- or more formally, the Schoolroom Annex -- was tucked at the back of the European wing of the bungalow, past the nursery and adjacent to the linen corridor. It served multiple purposes: part classroom, part mending station, and part infirmary. Its windows were shuttered to block the worst of the afternoon Bengali heat, unseasonably warm for March, casting the room in a drowsy amber. An electric ceiling fan, turning slowly, hung above a large central table, the kind meant for medical examinations, that her cousin and governess now wrestled upon.

"You should have thought of that before you made such a commotion," said the governess. "Now you'll really be embarrassed for certain."

Becca's ears grew hot.

What was going to happen?

She stepped quickly to the table, her heart already fluttering.

"Becca!" she yelled. "Hold him still! Grab his legs."

"I'm trying!" Becca snapped back, struggling for control.

The governess sighed. "Impossible," she muttered. "Ursula!"

The door opened almost at once, as if Ursula had been waiting just beyond it. "Yes, mistress?"

Ben's eyes widened in alarm. "Not her too!"

The governess laughed as she pinned him to the table. "You think I have a choice? Ursula, his legs."

"As you say," Ursula replied, her voice smooth. She stepped into the room, her blonde hair loosely braided, her blouse tucked and belted high, a row of pearl buttons fastened up to the throat, and a woolen skirt falling to the floor -- always insisting on London winter fashions, despite the heat of Calcutta. Though attractively plump in the hips and bust, she moved with an athletic ease toward the table and and caught hold of her cousin's ankle as it kicked at her.

Ben thrashed about, but between the three of them -- the governess pinning his upper body, the girls gripping each leg -- they had him subdued within moments. The governess worked the thick leather straps of the examination table around his wrists, then his ankles. She yanked them tight, cinching the buckles down. He cried out, the sound high and sharp.

"Always the hard way with you," she said, looking satisfied.

"Have we finished?" asked Becca meekly.

"We have not," she responded, making her way to the sewing station in the corner of the room. "You will need to hold him steady. He will never make this easy." She removed a large pair of black-handled fabric shears.

Becca's held her breath. "What exactly are we--"

"No!" Ben cried again, eyes darting wildly between the girls and the steel shears in the governess's hand. He struggled mightily, shaking the legs of the heavy table.

"Suit yourself," she smirked. "Exhaust yourself first."

He tried to free himself for another thirty seconds or so, before resigning out of breath.

"Very well," the governess resumed. "Ursula, remove his shoes and socks. Becca, his shirt."

Ursula curtsied and dutifully began to untie his left shoe as Ben weakly kicked. Becca shuffled to the head of the table as the governess passed her by.

"Why are you doing this?" He pleaded.

"We all have to do as she says," she leaned in and whispered to him. "Why can't you just make this easy?"

"I hate you! I hate all of you!"

"You don't mean that," smiled Ursula sweetly, slipping off his sock. "We love you, Ben."

"Yes, Ben," sneered the governess, shears in hand. "We only want what is best for you." She turned toward Becca. "His shirt, Becca."

"Yes, mistress," Becca reached for the top button of his shirt, unfastening it. Ben breathed quickly from his nostrils, frowning deeply. He spat at her, a sharp spray catching her face.

"Oh!" Becca let out, stumbling backward, wiping at her cheek with the back of her sleeve.

The governess was beside him in an instant, striking him with an open hand.

"Ah!" he cried out, stunned.

"Stop this nonsense! Stop it now!" the governess screamed, inches from his face, grabbing him by the shirt. He whimpered, lips twitching downward as tears pooled in his eyes.

She began yanking at the buttons, undoing them roughly. She picked up the shears, slid them into the open side seam, and sliced upward in one long, clean motion. The fabric split like paper. She circled to his other side, cut again, and let the remaining pieces fall to the floor. She reached beneath his back and yanked the shirt remnants out with a single tug. His undershirt came next -- thin and sweat-stuck -- the blades passing easily through.

Becca, still wiping her face, risked a glance up.

His torso was bare now -- pale, smooth, and slight. His chest was narrow, his nipples small and pink, his arms thin and wiry. Yet despite his boyish physique, his face held a striking mannish beauty: high cheekbones, a defined jaw, sky blue eyes, golden brown hair. When she looked at his face, she found him already watching her. His limpid hair shook with each movement, and his sad eyes seemed to beg for help.

She looked back down at the floor.

"Now the trousers," the governess said. Becca's eyes, still down, involuntarily widened. His trousers? She turned her head partly toward her sister, who wore a blank look over her shining eyes.

"Don't you dare!" Ben wailed. His face was blotched with color, raw from crying and rage. "You mustn't! You shouldn't!"

He bucked hard against the restraints, the table creaking beneath him.

The governess rolled her eyes and sighed. "Becca."

"Yes, mistress," she replied.

"Lie on top of him," she ordered.

"M-mistress?"

"Place your body," she spoke through her teeth, "on top of his body."

Becca's mouth opened but no sound came. Her body refused to move.

With a sharp inhale, the governess strode over, seized her by the arms, and pulled her forward. Becca stumbled alongside her until they reached the table. Without ceremony, she was shoved down, atop Ben's torso and face. Both of them grunted at the impact.

"Now, hold still, both of you," she said, retrieving the scissors. "Wouldn't want him getting cut."

Becca could hear Ben's muffled sobs as she lay frozen across him, looking down at his legs. She became keenly aware of her own body -- his breath on her armpit, her cheek on his bare shoulder, her loose hair covering his face, breasts pressing into his chest, the sweat suddenly oozing from all her pores, from her forehead to her inner thighs.

The governess pulled at his left trouser hem, lifting his leg with it. Holding it high, she squeezed the shears through the fold at the pleat. Becca shot a glance at her sister, whose eyes danced with fear and joy. The blades seemed to come right at Becca, beelining for her face, slicing through the waistband. The fabric fell off his leg, baring his haunch. Becca blinked.

Ben began to cry louder, squirming so much beneath her that she had to grip the table to stay on top. She noticed the trousers begin to open at the crotch, revealing the thin white cotton of his drawers, stretching and shifting as he moved, offering little in the way of concealment. She averted her gaze.

"Stop!" he pleaded. "Please."

"Ridiculous," the governess muttered again. "To make such a fuss." She walked over to where he could see her and leaned in. The governess was a tall and handsome woman, sinewy and strong, with severe features and a posture that never bent. She wore a starched white cotton blouse, buttoned high at the collar and fastened securely at the wrists, paired with a plain charcoal-gray wool skirt that brushed her ankles, her hands covered by close-fitting white gloves. Her dark hair was wound into an unforgiving bun, and at the moment her whole face was drawn into her mouth in anger.

"Do you see how you make me treat you?" she hollered, waving the scissors at him. "Like a child? You are eighteen years old, for God's sake!"

Becca thought this all harsh, but she admitedly agreed. Both she and her sister Ursula were roughly the same age -- Becca was nineteen, Ursula eighteen as well -- yet Ben acted much younger. He avoided eye contact when talking, and he constantly played with his toy train set rather than activities that other boys his age engaged in. If his routine was interrupted, he could grow unreasonably upset and sulk for hours.

While his behavior had certainly struck her as odd at first, Becca enjoyed his company, though she couldn't quite explain why. He could be brilliant -- he spoke Bengali, French, and Arabic fluently -- he even picked up Swahili during his father's brief assignment in Zanzibar. Many of his off-hand observations took her aback with their perspicacity. Though he was privately educated by the governess, his aptitude in mathematics had drawn attention beyond the household; a professor at Presidency College, impressed by his work, went so far as to call him a prodigy. Still, one could hardly imagine him managing on his own, let alone attending classes. His parents worried he would need a caretaker forever.

It was the governess's task to ensure this was not the case.

She stomped over to his other leg. "Ursula," she barked. "Tell Sarika to bring me Dr. Weatherly's case." Ursula stole another look at her sister, and her cousin, and skittered out.

The governess seized the cuff of his remaining pant leg, lifting it with one hand until his foot dangled slightly off the table. With the other, she smoothed the wool flat against his shin.

As she slid the shears through, Ben belted out a last protest, a prolonged "

Noooo!

" that came from far back in his throat. It stopped nothing. The blades passed through the waistband again, and the governess slowly pulled the long shred of pant off of him, revealing him now in just his underwear.

The governess paused and looked up for a moment. She caught Becca's eye. Becca was breathing heavily now, practically panting, and perspiring excessively. The front of her blouse felt drenched. Becca gawked at the governess dumbly.

Was she smiling?

Then, with deliberate ease, she slid the scissors under the edge of the drawers and gave a single, precise snip. Ben's body clenched. His face turned side to side, his body shifting beneath his cousin -- the movement unsettling Becca more than it should have. She gripped the table and held her breath, watching. The governess cut again, then again, moving slowly, ignoring Ben's screams, until the fabric was slack in her hands.

The governess plucked away the ruined garment, letting it fall to the floor beside the shreds of his trousers.

"There we are," she said simply. "No more pretense."

Directly in the eyeline of Becca was a tuft of dark, curly hair -- coarse and slightly damp with sweat -- and beneath it, the soft, pale-pink mound of Ben's penis, resting awkwardly against his thigh. She looked away, then back. Her lips parted, and her face flushed hot. Ashamedly she felt her nipples hardening into her cousin's ribs. Her mouth, already dry, filled too quickly with saliva, and a thread of drool slipped from the corner of her lips. She licked at it to keep it from dripping onto Ben's arm, wetting her lips. As Becca swallowed and tried to calm her shaking, the door opened.

"Oh!"

Ursula followed her interjection with a nervous giggle. The governess snapped her head around. Ben began to sob all over again: "Get her out of here! Get her out of here!" he cried over and over.

"That is quite enough, Ursula," the governess said sharply. Ursula curtsied again and quickly entered into the room. Sarika followed closely behind, eyes quick to register the scene: the boy laid bare, strapped helplessly to the table; his female cousin atop of him, staring at his crotch; the governess holding an enormous pair of scissors near to his exposed genitalia. Becca noted that her expression barely shifted -- just the faintest tightening at the corners of her mouth -- but that her eyes flickered toward Ursula for a fraction of a second. Ursula's amusement was not nearly as subtle.

"You may stand now, Becca," the governess said coolly.

Becca hesitated, then slowly pushed herself upright, her legs unsteady. Strands of dark brown hair clung to her neck and temples. Her blouse clung to her like a second skin, dark with sweat down the spine and across her chest, the outline of her chemise visible beneath.

The three girls exchanged glances. Ursula's eyebrows arched, a grin tugging at her lips; Sarika's eyes, dark and wide, glinted briefly beneath her otherwise unreadable expression; Becca's face flushed deep with heat.

Then, as if compelled by the same silent cue, they all looked down.

Ben appeared broken. His face was blotched red, his eyes glassy, lips twisted in mute despair. His limbs were stretched to the four corners of the table, his body without a stitch of clothing. Becca's heart ached at the sight. She let her gaze drift, first to his chest -- reddened where her body had chafed against his -- then to his abdomen, lean and lightly defined, unexpectedly pleasing to the eye. Her eyes traced the line of his slim thigh, before settling, inevitably, on the place she had tried not to look.

A tremor passed through her. It was the first time she had seen a mature one so fully. It was strange and charged with something sublime.

"Sarika," the governess said, holding out one hand without turning. "The case."

Sarika stepped forward with a small case -- an old leather box with brass corners and a medical clasp. She handed it to the governess without a word. The governess took it with the same measured grace she'd used to strip the boy. "Let us proceed," she proclaimed.

Ben's pale skin shivered against the wood, a fine sweat along his sides.

The governess snapped open the worn leather medical case, the hinges squeaking. From inside the velvet lining she took out a glass nozzle, a rubber bag, a coiled black rubber hose, a clamp, and a stopcock. She took hold of the bag, unscrewed the cap, and filled it with a warm concoction from a ceramic jug Sarika had placed nearby.

"I have told you, again and again," she began, hanging the bag from a wrought-iron hook mounted on the ceiling fan above the table. Her voice was calm, clipped. "I have given you every opportunity to correct yourself."

She turned, removed the coiled hose from the case, and fitted the nozzle with the same mechanical precision. Becca stood at the head of the table, white-knuckled, clutching Ben's straps. Ursula lingered near the foot, eyes greedily fixed on Ben. Sarika knelt, quiet and efficient, checking the placement of a bucket below the table.

"Yet you remain insolent and utterly unwilling to improve."

The governess dipped the nozzle into a shallow dish of castor oil, her gloved fingers rolling it slowly until the tip gleamed with a thick sheen.

"Do you think this household will tolerate a lack of progress forever? Knowing who your father is?"

Ben twisted away, but the straps held him firm. His legs were too tightly bound to lift, locked in place.

"Girls, assist me," the governess said without turning. "Becca, hold his arms in place. Ursula, Sarika. Open him, by the knees."

"What," asked Becca, "What is happening? Can someone tell me that?" No one answered.

Ursula stepped forward, sliding her hands beneath his right knee and pulling it upward and apart with uncertain force as Ben continued to fight. Sarika moved smoothly into place. She looped her left arm under his left thigh, pulling it toward her, and with her right hand she firmly pried open his buttocks, exposing his anus.

Ben was fighting with all the strength he had left, choking on his sobs. Becca could barely look. But look she did.

"You may tell yourself you are nearly a man, but your behavior speaks otherwise," the governess continued, ignoring his screams, approaching with the oiled nozzle in hand. She placed her left hand under his testicles, lifting them, and touched his sphincter with the glass.

Ben gave a panicked shout and tensed hard. The governess paused.

"Resistance will only make this more unpleasant," she said, cold and low.

Becca watched the governess's expression tighten as she pressed the nozzle inward. She looked at the others: Ursula, pulling him open at the knee, leaned in ever so slightly, her breath catching, eyes wide; Sarika, hand still lingering on his left buttock, kept her head bowed, but not enough to mask the gleam in her eyes.

"

Uhhhh

," Ben moaned, softly shaking with weeping.

"Men do not cry so, Ben," the governess said, slowly shaking her head. "A man does not avoid his duties, nor does he feel sorry for himself like a spoiled child."

She turned the valve at the clamp. "And since you insist on behaving as a child," she continued, as a soft gurgle echoed from the bag above as the warm liquid fell. "You shall be treated as one."

Ben sucked in a breath, fingers curling helplessly against the leather. His body twitched.

"The doctor himself confirmed what I already knew," the governess went on. "Your condition is not merely one of attitude but of the body... Stagnation, impurity... A corruption of the humours."

Becca's fingers dug in instinctively. She wasn't sure if she was holding him still, or bracing herself.

"He warned me that if left unchecked, it would fester. Well, I won't allow it! We shall pursue every remedy at our disposal to keep it from worsening."

Ben whimpered as the warm fluid slowly entered him.

"Remember that this is not punishment -- it is treatment, a necessary cleansing," she said, nodding. "If there is any punishment, it is that your defiance made an audience necessary."

The governess turned the clamp shut. "Mind yourself," she said, touching his thigh to steady him, slowly easing the nozzle free.

Ben groaned as it slid from out of him, his legs quivering, his breath coming fast and shallow. Ursula let escape a soft laugh of fascination. The governess turned her head toward her, eyes narrowing, but said nothing.

She returned her gaze to Ben. "Now, you must retain it," she said, giving his thigh a light pat. "Five minutes."

The governess walked back to the sewing station, putting the shears away, and the room fell into silence, broken only by the click of the ceiling fan overhead. From below, Sarika murmured something under her breath. Ursula gave a curt snort.

"Sarika!" the governess snapped. "What, in heaven's name, is so amusing?"

"Forgive me,

Memsaab

," Sarika said quickly, her voice low with shame. "I, I only mentioned to Miss Ursula that... that--"

"Something's stirred," Ursula finished for her, barely suppressing a grin. Sarika winced, squeezing her eyes shut, scrunching her face as if to push the laughter back inside.

Becca glanced down, then gasped -- his penis twitched, stiffened. She shrank back, hand flying to her mouth.

The governess drew in a sharp breath. "Why, Benjamin Hawthorne!" she cried.

Ben let out a guttural sound and strained against the straps.

The governess loomed over him, her expression hardening as she stared. "Disgraceful," she muttered, voice colder now, more quiet.

Becca resisted looking again, in vain. His erection jutted starkly from the pale skin of his groin, swollen to nearly double its former size. The foreskin had drawn back partway, revealing the purplish head; the shaft curved upward, like a capital J.