I read your recent case and was taken by the similarity with this confidential report from the British Raj in 1886.

A friend.

I swear that this account is true and accurate and understand the need for secrecy to protect the Raj. God save The Queen. For the convenience of the British I call myself John Priest, although that is neither my first name and my family are mainly Jewellers rather than teachers of faith.

I am an honest hard working man of 21. Rather than follow the family business I chose to work in Barrackpore, West Bengal, the military and administrative centre for the British. My job was to investigate and identify malcontents who wished to repeat previous acts of rebellion.

A new arrival from England, Lady Mary, had caused some consternation. In deference to her illustrious family I will not record her surname. She was an adventurous young woman, ornithologist and sportswoman, a few years older than myself, who had been seen mixing with local women without a chaperone. British Intelligence were concerned about women’s groups among the populace and I was to be discreet in my investigation of her.

Standing around 5’3” with a petite slender figure emphasised by a corset pinching her waist which made an average sized bust more prominent, Lady Mary looked regal in long flowing dresses. Although a member of the British upper-class I did not find her particularly attractive. Cold, aloof and arrogant, certainly but attractive, no. She had a long oval shaped face with small piercing brown eyes beneath low eyebrows set atop a long sleek nose between the broad flat plains of her cheeks with a thin-lipped mouth set impassively over quite a deep dimpled chin. Her dark brown hair was styled back from the forehead and rose in waves atop her head and clear of her ears. Against the fashion of British nobles, she adorned herself with little jewellery but what there was looked expensive.

Observing her discreetly I saw her leave the barracks without an armed escort or chaperone and so followed her. Although over-dressed by local standards, her ladyship wore a white dress that fell in long vertical pleats, like an accordion, down to a wide silk hem that covered all but the pointed toes of her shiny black leather lace-up shoes with a chunky low heel. It danced around her legs as she walked in a way that suggested that they were long and slender. The blouse portion of the dress matched the billowing skirt with a wide frilly two-layer bib over her upper chest and led to a very high collar around a slender swan-like neck that almost came to her chin. Long billowing sleeves were constrained by narrower bands around the elbows and from mid-forearm to wrists to permit free movement of the joints, while the waist was cinched by a belt. Upon an elaborate hairstyle that sat upon her head like a strange oversized bun was a black wide-brimmed hat to provide some shade from the sun and supplemented by a white parasol.

As I tailed her, I worried when I lost sight of her as she disappeared around the corner of a dilapidated building to enter an unsavoury area. Hurrying to regain sight on her, I round the corner and forced to stop to avoid bumping into her!

“My forgiveness, memsahib!” I apologise, lowering my eyes in respect.

Lady Mary fixes me with her small hard eyes while studying my face for several drawn out moments. I noticed that the parasol had been closed and tucked into the side of the belt around her waist.

“Why are you following me, boy?” she asks bluntly, sounding as if she had a plum in her mouth.

“Memsahib, this is not a safe area to be without an escort.”

Her relentless cold steely gaze was unsettling.

“You did not answer my question. Do you intend to take advantage of a lone English woman?”

It was a very compulsive tone from one born to privilege.

“I mean you no harm. I saw you enter the street and became alarmed for your safety. This is not a good area. I only wanted you to avoid it”.

“What is your name, boy?” she asked in an arrogant demeaning tone.

Her brown eyes bore into me, seeming to look down her nose at me even though I was a good 5 or 6 inches taller. The hard set to her thin mouth and the harsh tone of her voice added to the sense of authority.

“John Priest and I am not a boy.”

I saw the barely suppressed flare of anger in her eyes and the tightening of her mouth. Had I pushed things too far? She could report me and have me executed without trial.

“I apologise for speaking out of place,” I quickly added. “But I am only concerned with your welfare. This is no place for a lady of your standing.”

“I am perfectly capable of looking after myself without reliance on a man, as you will discover if you persist on following me,” she told me in an annoyed terse tone that was almost a hiss. “Leave.”

It was an order to one of the lower classes from a superior.

As the conceited aristocrat turned away from me with a smug smile to continue down the squalid street I felt burning irritation for her superior imperialist attitude and anger at myself for automatically complying like a slave.

“Please Memsahib, I beseech you to turn back,” I pleaded while stretching out my right hand and placing it upon the back of her shoulder.

As soon as I felt the silky softness of her dress, I knew I had transgressed for a man should not touch a lady in such an intimate manner. Her ladyship spun around to face me with the fires of Hell blazing in her eyes.

Before I had withdrawn my hand, she struck like a cobra, startling me by seizing it in a surprisingly strong grip like a blacksmith’s vice. Gripping my wrist with one dainty hand while holding my fingers with the other, her thumb pressed into the base of my palm. In disbelief I watched as the young sophisticated lady in a long flowing dress bent my hand right back at the wrist in an unnatural manner forcing me to cry out, fearful that it would snap. I had no idea how she was doing it but I was powerless to stop the well-dressed lady keeping my arm tensed while twisting it so that my palm faced upwards. With a smug smile, she raised my hand above her head painfully forcing me onto my toes into a dance of agonised humiliation which I had to endure for several seconds. With self-satisfied indifference, the elegant lady forcibly brought the back of my arm down over her left shoulder. That pulled my body uncomfortably close to her back and again forcing me onto my toes. I cried out at the tension in my arm as it stretched downwards stressing my elbow.

“Keep resisting and your arm will break in several places,” she stated in an arrogant condescending tone. “And it will never heal properly.”

To my shame and embarrassment, the entitled young woman kept me in that humiliating position, feeling the power she had over me, for any passer-by to see.

“Please your ladyship,” I begged.

“Please break your arm, why certainly,” she taunted with aplomb.

I yelped as more pressure was applied to my bent wrist while using the back of my elbow as a lever. Once again I was forced on the tip of my toes with the front of my body pulled indecently close against her petite back. I could not understand how the delicate upper-class woman had the strength to bend my arm back to the point of snapping. Each time I cried out in agony she gave a mocking laugh, clearly enjoying her dominance over me. Did it make me less a man that a woman had me in a crippling hold? It certainly felt that way. Her self-entitled attitude was horrible but alarmingly, despite the pain, there was a stirring in my loins that stiffened with each passing second that the woman physically exerted her superiority.

I felt relief and thorough humiliation as her ladyship raised my arm off her shoulder and lowered it by her side, although still keeping my hand bent painfully back at the wrist.

“Desist following me and allow me to go wherever I wish,” she instructed.

Keeping my arm straight and palm upward the unsmiling woman lowered my hand. I was shocked that this forced me to lean forwards against my will to look down at the dirt. Yelping as her other hand pressed down upon my elbow whilst she raised my wrist, I was completely at the mercy of a woman making me feel emasculated. Wincing with pain, I was forced to crouch in an undignified manner by the side of her long pleated dress. Hooking her right arm over the top of my elbow, she levered my forearm over hers inducing crippling agony. I was in tears, sure that my wrist and arm bones would shatter and my elbow would break. My cries for mercy were coldly ignored as she used the hold to cruelly exert her superiority, inflicting more pain that forced me to go wherever she led me.

Being raised in India I was aware that village women often wrestled suitors but never expected a sophisticated British woman to participate in unarmed combat, let alone with men. It was dishonourable and shameful to be rendered powerless by the peeress’s debilitating hold while she maintained an aloof air of hauteur. Looking prim and proper in her long dress, I am further degraded as the well-dressed lady applies painful bone-stressing leverage on my arm to toy with me. Demonstrating my inability to escape a woman’s clutches, she forced me to stand, go one way then another, bend, and go where-ever it she determined. Strangely, being physically subservient to a woman, caused my manhood to stir inside my trousers. Even more so when she forced me right down upon my knees before the drapes of her long luxurious dress so that my face was rubbing in the dirt. My arm felt like the joints were going to shatter at any moment while my trouser sword stiffened quickly under the young ladyship’s control.

“Will you cease following me or shall I break your arm?” she asked with high-handedness.

“Yes, yes. Just return my dignity and let me go,” I begged, fearful of fractured limbs and any by-passers seeing my humiliating predicament.

With one arm arm across the back of my elbow as a lever, the young heiress bent my arm back the wrong way forcing me yelping to scramble ungainly back to my feet, in fear of it breaking. Facing me, the petite slender-bodied noblewoman applied a strong clamp on my right wrist and bent my hand fully forward in an agonising grip that brought tears to my eyes.

“HAI!”

An unladylike sharp shout emanated from the titled woman’s mouth unnerving me then the side of her hand struck my side with the fingers held straight. I cried out as pain lanced my kidneys, feeling like she had taken an iron axe to my side. She surprised me further by turning her back to me while stretching out my right arm over her right shoulder. I was puzzled as she leant slightly forward then horrified as my front was pulled against her slender back and felt her rear press into my groin. That brief contact caused a surge of stiffness in my rod but then, in shock, I felt my feet leave the ground as I was pulled onto her slender back as she bent forwards. The next instant I was astonished to be flying over the shoulder of the young mistress at a tremendous speed. In that brief moment the world span around me making me dizzy as my body flipped completely over her narrow shoulders then in terror saw the ground come up fast to meet me. I cried out as my back slammed heavily on the crude dirt-packed street before the impact knocked the breath from me.

I laid in the dirt by dainty shoes with my right arm stretched vertically along the front of a fashionable long dress, trying to comprehend that I had been thrown by a young dignified elegantly dressed British aristocrat. How could a feminine elegant woman throw a man, taller and heavier than herself, to the ground with such finesse and ease? It didn’t seem possible yet here I was laying on my aching back looking up at the young Madam as she stood over me looking smugly triumphant. Although in India matriarchal centred families are common, I shared the wider perception that men were the stronger sex. A perception that was sorely being put to the test by this young aristocrat! Pulling upon my captive arm, she forced me onto my side and pressed the sole of a shoe against the side of my face. Grinding my face in the dirt, the elegant lady proceeded to stress my overstretched arm. I cried in hurt swearing to stop following and to let her go wherever she wished if she released me. This unnatural submissive position for a man had my manhood rigid to my further distress.

“Have you finished playing with your victim like a cat?” another woman’s voice spoke.

I was aghast that somebody else was seeing me in this shameful degrading position. The heavy accent indicated that the newcomer was Indian and spoke English suggesting she was educated and not from this rundown area. A large pair of bare feet wearing sandals appeared before my face. I looked up as much as I could to see a fine red saree chequered with yellow squares and gold filaments over a red short-sleeved choli. A mature unforgiving broad severe face looked down at me in an offhand manner with her hands, adorned by numerous gold and silver bracelets, upon broad hips. She was hardly attractive with fleshy cheeks, a flabby chin and small brown hard-piercing eyes together with a short squat nose and a small thick-lipped mouth. A blood red bindi spot sat in the centre of her forehead close to the eyebrows while long jet black hair, gathered behind her head, was streaked with strands of grey that reflected the age in her creased hard-worn face. She resembled the traditional Indian ‘aunty’ with a short plump figure and an extremely well endowed bust, grumpy face and a matriarchal attitude.

“Kill him and let us go,” she said harshly.

“That is not how civilised people behave. He did not attack me or offer violence towards me, merely expressed a chauvinistic concern for my safety which I have corrected him.”

“Go, I wish a word with him then will catch you up. I will not kill him, I swear.”

I watched as her ladyship walked into the seedy street. As I got to my knees the unsmiling plump mature Indian aunty clenched her hand. I was shocked by how large and formidable looking that fist was atop a thick rugged powerfully tapered forearm that looked like it could cause a lot of damage.

“Please aunty,” I begged, fearing for my face and life.

“I am not your aunty, my name is Meena.”

Reaching down, the short squat woman grabbed the front of my shirt with one hand then, to my amazement, effortlessly hauled me to my feet. As she did, I noticed how her bulky upper arms remained very solid as she pulled me to my feet rather than flabby as I would have expected for one so bulky. They also featured scary prominent rugged veins that were quite intimidating and not very feminine in nature. I knew some hard-working village women were strong due to their labour but were usually scrawny of build and few knew English. Still gripping the front of my shirt, the chunky aunty pulled my face close to hers to look into her hard chilling staring eyes. I was unsettled by the huge solid bulging mass of immense strength upon her upper arm yet had an inexplicable hardness in my loins.