Krishna plays his pipe

“The look on her face,” laughed Padma, splashing around in a secluded beach known only to herself and a few close friends, including the dozen or so beautiful women who’d helped her prank the Governess. “And she still thinks it was just a mistake! I’m going back tomorrow to give her the old hot-pussy treatment again!”

“Does she really let you hogtie her?”

“Oh, she’ll do pretty much everything I say, as long as I convince her it’s an ancient Indian healing ritual. Pressure-point massage. Ice baths. Naked yoga sessions on the front lawn of the governor’s mansion. The other day I made her do ten nude laps of the mansion with a banana in her pussy and a peeled ginger root up her bottom, in front of all the staff! She hates every second of it, of course, but she’s convinced it’s the only way the British will ever be able to keep India.”

“Ha ha ha ha! Brilliant!”

“I know,” said Padma, smirking and taking a little bow as her friends all congratulated her on what a genius she was. Their saris lay in a pile underneath a spreading banyan tree. The beautiful Indian women were bathing naked, quite naturally, since this was their special beach and only they knew about it.

There came a smell of incense, and the distant sound of somebody playing a pipe.

“Hello,” said the god Krishna, standing by the water’s edge, his skin a radiant blue. “Don’t you all look lovely.”

Padma squealed and ducked under the water, along with all the other beautiful maidens. Krishna laughed heartily at their flustered dishevelment, and brought his pipe to his lips. He played a merry tune. Instantly, all their saris flew through the air and landed in the high banyan tree overhead.

“But you must be cold,” he said. “Please, come out.”

The girls were greatly affronted by this demeaning dictate, and grumbled to each other about it, but of course they could not reject the invitation of a god. They emerged from the shallow water onto the beach’s pale sands, dark eyes flashing with fury, black hair plastered to their luscious brown skin, hands struggling to conceal their feminine charms as the god’s bold eyes swept over their deliciously bare forms.

“I am afraid,” he said, shaking his head, “that you girls have transgressed upon my sacred waters.”

“The Indian Ocean?” said Padma.

“Precisely so. You must offer me obeisance, with the proper gestures.”

“This is the nineteenth century,” protested Padma. “India is ruled by Christians. We are no longer governed by these absurd superstitions.”

“Ah, but it’s a long walk home, and I have all your clothes.”

So the dozen or so red-faced, indignant subcontinental beauties had to place their palms together, above their heads, and make the proper Vedic gestures of ritual submission to divine authority, bowing low in respect for Krishna’s majesty and might. Krishna’s loud, divine laughter rang like temple bells in their ears as they were compelled to expose their breasts and pussies for the god’s inspection. Each of the girls had to pose for him in turn, not permitted to hide any part of her body.

“Dance for me,” he said, bringing his pipe to his lips. And Padma had to lead the girls in a nude, head-bobbing, sinuous temple dance, right there on the beach, while Krishna cavorted around, summoning the liveliest imaginable music from his pipe as he let his eyes linger over the girls’ bouncing brown breasts and twitching bottoms.

“Your embarrassment is a metaphor,” he explained, “for your devotion to me.”

“No it isn’t!” snapped Padma, blushing hotly as she danced in the nude under Krishna’s watchful eye. “We’re just embarrassed!”

“It’s an important lesson about learning to let go of worldly things.”

“No it’s not!”

“It sounds to me,” said Krisha, “like you haven’t learned your lesson very well. Let’s try again.”

He played a short tune on his pipe, and the saris all flew out of the tree, into the air. The girls all watched glumly as the swathes of lovely green, gold, red and purple fabric disappeared into the high clouds above Bombay, flying this way and that like excited tropical birds. They were now stranded in the nude on a bare strip of sand somewhere north of the city, a considerable distance from the safety of home, with no way whatsoever to conceal their charms from whoever might come along.

“When Krishna laughs,” explained Krishna, “the universe laughs with him. Have fun finding your saris, girls. You’ll feel neither heat nor cold, neither age nor injury nor inclement weather until you do. And you’ll wear nothing else, nor shall your hands serve you as concealment. And all things in creation will laugh at you. Such is my decree.”

“Hello, girls,” said the leader of a troop of British soldiers, suddenly appearing over a nearby sand dune. “Lost all your clothes, eh? Rather splendid show, I dare say.”

“Ah, ze beauties of the Orient. So modest and graceful are they, and yet one may surprise them, no?” said a French naturalist with a whole crew of assistants armed with cameras, appearing from over a different sand dune on the other side.

“It is positively indecent,” scoffed the Governess, leading her entourage of bureaucrats, plus the entire Bombay branch of the Ladies’ Moral Decency League, with gentlemen auxiliaries. “Bathing nude, out in public? Why, the nerve!”

“EEEEEEK!” shrieked Padma, mortified, as the soldiers laughed and the French leered and the Governess scowled, and did an awkward little dance in place as her hands hovered helplessly at her sides, entirely unable to assist with the suddenly very important task of concealing her slender bare brown body. Krishna, of course, had completely disappeared.

Bewildered, bare-bottomed and blushing, the brown-breasted babes barrelled between the baying, beastly beholders of their bafflement, heading in the general direction of Bombay. The Governess watched them flee with a sneer on her lips, marvelling at their lack of sophistication.

“Typical,” she said. “Indians do have promise, but they’re not quite the thing, you know.”

Instantly, Krishna reappeared, blew a short note on his pipe, and vanished again. The Governess’ dress, corset and bloomers were immediately whipped over her head by a mysterious wind, and transported to the branches of the banyan tree, along with all the clothes of every last member of the Ladies’ Moral Decency League. The breasts and pussies of the suddenly mortified naked women were coated in a flash with crimson spice powder, which made them feel very hot and bothered as they started dancing naked for the gathered gentlemen’s entertainment.

Krishna, looking down from the top of Mount Meru, considered this amusing spectacle for a moment. Then, he let his eyes turn to Padma and the rest of the brown beauties, as they fled squealing through the busy streets of Bombay, dodging carriages and amused policemen, trying to work out where they might even begin looking for their stolen saris.

He shrugged his blue shoulders, and blew a note on his pipe. Immediately, Padma and her friends found their breasts and pussies coated with crimson spice powder as well.

They shrieked and cursed the gods, feeling the heat blaze between their legs and tantalise their nipples, while Krishna rolled on the floor laughing at their indecent predicament. Of course, being a god, he knew all of this was precisely in line with the will of the cosmos.