Mastery of Table Turning

THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING

[THE STORY SO FAR - Under threat of blackmail, English public schoolmaster, Alan Watson, has had to face a barrage of humiliating ordeals both in private and in public. Forced to accept completely debasing mastery by a number of his tutor group, the thirty-year-old has been stripped, abused, urinated upon, deprived of clothing and now demeaningly has had his manhood shaved.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Something for the weekend

I had a bite to eat in town, as much as anything so that I could keep my clothes on. My orders would have meant me being naked if I had returned home for lunch. I spent much of the early afternoon pottering in the back garden for the very same reason, putting off for as long as possible the time I must spend in vulnerable nudity.

"So, this is where you are!"

I looked up to see Dave Newman, hands on hips, regarding me from the side passage.

"We've been ringing the doorbell and wondering where you'd got to."

"I was just doing a spot of tidying up in the back garden," I needlessly explained.

"You're wearing far too much."

My heart missed a beat.

"Surely, you don't expect me to be naked outdoors too!" I exclaimed, dropping my voice though.

"That is just what we expect, but you may rest assured we'll be discreet. Not here, for instance. We don't want to frighten the neighbours, do we, Big Boy?"

I glanced up at next door's back bedroom window to see that I was being closely observed by old Mrs Wilkinson and her daughter Dottie, obviously freshly back from shopping and clearly reliving the moment when the mother had seen more of me than she had ever thought feasible. I felt fairly certain that neither lady would be in the slightest frightened at the prospect of seeing me completely naked, though I was not going to volunteer that information for fear my masters may put it to the test.

"Anyway, come on. We're going shopping," Dave added.

"Where?" I asked.

"That's for us to know, and for you to find out," he remarked smugly, tapping the side of his nose and winking conspiratorially.

I meekly followed him to the front door where Tim was waiting.

"Aha!" he said with a languid smile. "How very predictable you are! We said you'd be doing something like this to keep your clothes on. That's why we've devised this little plan to deprive you of them. You're to come with us now."

My mind was churning as I stepped into the back of the car. What further humiliation was in store for me, I wondered?

Tim let the passenger seat down again and got in. Dave was already in the driving seat and turned the key in the ignition. As the car engine started, Tim glanced back over his shoulder.

"Trousers off, Big Boy, You know the drill."

I gasped. Did they expect me to take my trousers off and travel without them in broad daylight in an ordinary saloon car?

"I thought that was just in the van, Sir," I ventured.

"Well, you thought wrong!" Tim said, clicking his fingers impatiently for me to hand the offending garment over.

Hotly embarrassed and with an air of resignation I unfastened my trousers and wriggled them down off my bottom. I froze.

"What about buses and high vehicles?" I asked.

"What about them?"

"Well, they'll be able to see into the car. So will pedestrians!" I explained plaintively.

"So what?"

"What I mean is they could see if I didn't have any trousers on."

"So?"

"Well, I'd be so very embarrassed."

"More embarrassed or less, do you think, than you would be if the Head saw pics. of you sucking Mayhew's cock?"

I could see it was futile. I had to obey. Without further comment, I pulled them off over my feet, and passed them forward to Tim.

Dave craned forward to look at me through the driving mirror.

"Stop concealing your crotch," he ordered. "Tuck your shirt tails up all the way round above your waist."

I was wearing a minuscule pair of pale blue French bikini narrow-sided briefs. I was most dreadfully self-conscious. My hairy legs, fully exposed, the outline in the front of my underpants leaving nothing whatsoever to the imagination, I was in sheer mental torment. The mixture of fear and excitement had caused me to bulge obscenely in the pouch and I was forbidden from attempting to cover myself even with my hands.

Eventually we arrived at our destination and I had my trousers tossed back to me. Gratefully I quickly clambered into them as Tim got out and thrust the seat forward for me to get out too. We were at a newly-built business park on the outskirts of town upon which were situated a number of large retail warehouse-like outlets. Tim and Dave led the way into a vast and characterless sports goods emporium. Equipment for every conceivable sport and pastime was ranged against the walls of this high concrete block-built hypermarket. Countless racks of sports associated clothing covered the floor. Tim and Dave obviously knew their way round the place. I followed on in almost open-mouthed wonder at the very existence of such an establishment.

"This is what we want," Tim announced. "Onion skins!"

So saying, he held up a minuscule pair of paper thin translucent running shorts. "This shall be your gardening wear from now on."

I stared at them in mind-numbing alarm as he also thrust a mesh singlet at me.

"There you are. Try them on in that cubicle. Oh, and take your underpants off as well. The shorts have a built-in support, so you don't need them."

The cubicle doors were a pair of swinging saloon-style ones, and to strip naked behind them concentrated the mind amazingly. As I was undressing, I was asked for my shoe size and a pair of trainers were spirited up, together with thick terry towelling socks.

I paused when I was undressed down to my small blue underpants, only too aware that anybody passing my cubicle could see my naked chest and thighs. I swallowed hard.

"Underpants too, you were told," Dave Newman said, looking over the door.

I stepped out of them and stood naked and ashamed, under his penetrating gaze.

Once rigged out I was ordered from the comparatively private confines of the cubicle to display myself to the store at large and my two masters in particular. The shorts were obscenely brief and barely opaque. Had I been allowed to keep my pubic hair, the darkness of it would have been clearly discernible through the papery fabric. The singlet was made of open mesh with narrow shoulder straps that wantonly displayed both my nipples. It also finished at my ribcage, leaving my midriff completely exposed.

"I can't garden in these!" I wailed, almost on the verge of tears.

"Eminently suitable," Tim said. "Just crouch down, legs apart. I want to judge how revealing they are."

I did so, and the mesh pouch enveloping my genitals fell out of my left leg-hole. Horrified, I stood again quickly, clutching myself.

"Most satisfactory. Just the effect I was looking for," he almost purred. "So, there you have it. Your weekend wear from now on."

"What?" I gasped in strangulated horror.

"You heard. During the week, conventional wear, shirt, tie, trousers, jacket, et cetera, naked at all times indoors, but at weekends what you have on now is all you are permitted to wear out of the house."

"No! Please! I beg! I can't go shopping in this get up. I sometimes go to school at the weekend too, to work on the computer or something. I can't go like this!"

He was listening attentively to me. They glanced at each other. He was relenting. I pushed my case further.

"Look, I've been invited to friends for Sunday lunch tomorrow, for instance. I can't possibly go like this and sit down with a family in these tiny obscene things," I plucked at the abbreviated shorts.

He pursed his lips in thought and looked me up and down critically, head askance.

Dave said: "Just a minute," and disappeared across the shop. I carried on pressing my case.

"And then there's church - not that I'm a regular attender, I must confess. However, you would ensure I never went again if you insisted that this was all I could wear. I like the theatre, trips up to London, visits home to my family. All these normal activities would have to be curtailed upon the grounds of common decency alone."

Dave returned with what looked like a white cotton sort of track-suit. The fabric was man-made and soft to the touch. It was a very bright almost opalescent white, disconcertingly thin and allowing skin colour to show through a little. The trouser legs were somewhat alarmingly fastened with press-studs from ankle to waist and rejoiced in the ominous name of "tearaways". The top had a drawstring waist, and a white zip up to the collar which concealed a folded hood.

"A compromise," Tim announced at last, having studied the suit Dave had brought from across the store, and held it against me.

I nodded, anxiously eager to hear what he had to say.

"For chores on your property, gardening, car-washing, house-painting, etcetera, you will wear exactly what you have on now." I nodded again, swallowing hard. "On other such occasions as stipulated by us, you shall also only wear what you have on now. Trips to go jogging in the park for instance, supermarket shopping on hot days, that sort of thing. As a concession to your modesty for other events - for instance, going out to lunch tomorrow - you may go in this tracksuit, but because of this concession you have to agree to the stipulation that nothing at all may be worn under it save a jockstrap. Is that clear?"

My eyes filled with tears of shame and my head reeled.

"As to the other events you outlined, and at which I am forced to agree that your proposed garb would be less than adequate, permission to vary from these rules may or may not be given if, as and when each occasion arises according to how pleased your masters are with you. At all events, forfeits will be demanded in lieu of the relaxation of normal weekend clothing rules. Do you agree to this?"

I blinked back the tears of relief and nodded vigorously, the lump in my throat quite precluding the possibility of speech.

I was not allowed to dress again but made to walk across the store to the pay desk. There I had to suffer the indignity of the young lad scanning the barcode label on each of the garments I was wearing, and indeed having to insert an instrument inside my shorts to extract a security device. He gave me a very quizzical look as the back of his hand grazed against my hairless penis. I stared hotly ahead.

I think you would be better with a medium size pair of shorts, Sir," the sales lad volunteered.

"Small will do," Tim interjected. "He likes them snug."

I felt myself blush. I was ordered to purchase three athletic supports as well.

"What size?" the lad enquired.

"Small," Tim answered for me. I shot him a glance but saw that it was useless to protest. He was intent upon making me wear them with as much embarrassment as could be extracted from my condition as was possible. The jockstraps, the tracksuit and my own clothes were put into a large carrier bag, I settled the bill with my credit card, and we made our way out of the store and to the car, several people turning to stare at the brevity of my scanty and revealing kit. Very little was left to the imagination. The mesh insert of the small shorts served to emphasise the bulge in the front of them as my genitals were bunched into it, creating quite an eye-catcher. I pulled at the hem of the singlet trying to cover a little more of my bare mid-section. My nipples stiffened as the cool outdoor air hit them. I had never felt so exposed in all my life.

Once in the car, I was ordered to pull down my onion-skin shorts despite my protestations that I was naked underneath. I was terrified of being seen. At traffic lights a pedal cyclist drew alongside our stationary car. I sat there petrified as he leant an arm on the roof of our car whilst waiting for the lights to change, but he apparently failed to glance in and see me so rudely exposed as I sat there trembling in the ridiculously abbreviated athletic vest.

As we drew away, permission was given for me to pull the shorts back up and Tim told Dave to halt the car.

"Right, Big Boy; get out," Tim ordered, doing so himself and tipping the seat forward for me.

We were in the middle of town. I shot him a fearful look.

"You make your own way home from here," he said as he thrust the carrier bag holding my other clothes at me.

"No, please!" I begged. "I don't want to be seen so scantily clad. I feel so very degraded."

"Good. You deserve to. You are too proud and stand too much upon your dignity," Tim said. "Running through town in that itsy-bitsy bit of see-thru running kit will do you a power of good. And I wouldn't hang about if I were you. It looks like rain, and just imagine what effect water would have on those tiny shorts of yours. Remember the swimming trunks we got you?"

He smiled with satisfaction at the expression of alarm on my face.

"Off you go. God, you do look naked!"

I gulped at the awfulness of the situation in which I found myself and, with a worried glance at the increasingly lowering sky, set off at an ungainly lope for home.

I kept my head well down and avoided looking at my fellow pedestrians, stopping only to stoop and retie my laces. Many vehicles hooted at me in derision and I earned a couple of loud wolf-whistles from passing vans. I was filled with remorse for my unenviable position. It grew worse as I approached my own road. The increasing likelihood of being spotted by somebody who knew me filled me with nervous foreboding. Panting heavily, a buzzing noise growing in my ears, my heart beating painfully in my chest and pulsing at my temples, I turned with a groan of relief in at my gate.

"Alan? Good god, man! What do you look like?"

I looked up to see an open-mouthed Dave Whalley, our head of games, looking me up and down.

"You know, you're lucky you weren't arrested going out like that," he said with an astonished laugh. "And what on earth have you got down the front of those little shorts of yours? A Rockingham tea service? Whatever it is, it's threatening to burst the seams."