THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING
[THE STORY SO FAR - Reluctant to face growing doubts about his own sexuality in the light of a favourite pupil declaring love for him, Alan as yet refuses to acknowledge the strength of feeling he has in return for eighteen-year-old Richard Mayhew. He is still in denial as he prepares to join the boy's parents for Sunday lunch. But first there's a Saturday night in with a surprise visitor.]
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - A Drink or Two with a Colleague
"Well I must say, kitted out like that, you certainly don't leave much to the imagination," Dave Whalley said, his eyes fixed to my groin.
Standing, as I was, in the tiny papery shorts and the abbreviated mesh singlet with my navel and nipples on show to the world and his wife, I paled under his steadfast gaze.
"What is it that you want?" I asked, finally finding my voice.
He held up a couple of six-packs of beer. He raised them slightly to draw attention to them
"I promised you a drink on me for playing in the staff match, didn't I? I thought I'd pop round and pay my debts."
I smiled weakly and nodded. I fumbled in my bag for the door key in my trousers pocket.
"Thanks, but there was no need to come round specially," I began, as I opened the door and led him in and through to the kitchen.
"I wanted to, and I was in the area anyway, so I thought to myself, I'll go and sink a few beers with my pal Watty."
This did not ring true. Dave Whalley and I had never been "pals". I don't think you could ever describe us as close colleagues even. In fact, our baptism had been distinctly fiery. Some years back, shortly after I'd started there, I'd put a member of the first XV in detention. It had happened to be held on the day of an important fixture and I had refused to let the boy off my detention to play in the school team. Dave had tried all manner of manipulation to get me to release his star player but I remained irresolute. I remember his parting shot as he whispered some threat about getting even with me one day through gritted teeth, and calling me a fing wer.
Admittedly, he had never attempted to carry out his threat. Moreover, far from appearing to bear me any ill will, he had always shown me a sort of grudging respect - I assumed because I had not caved in under his various threats and admonishments. In truth, we had little in common; we spoke only briefly in passing; we could certainly never be described as in each other's social circle, and had only come together when occasionally I had been invited to make up a team for the odd staff rugger match, as had happened recently - agonizingly enough for me, as it had turned out.
I confess I had become a little wary of him in our post match comings together. I had been a tad uncomfortable alone in his company in the changing room after the match replay for the regional television news team's visit. I couldn't put my finger on it exactly, but he had reacted quite strangely, somehow, and I had been most fearfully embarrassed that he had seen me with a raging erection as he had handed me back my shorts on the games field after the filming. He had then stood to watch quite brazenly as I struggled into them. Most people, I should like to think, would have done the gentlemanly thing and turned away, not mentioning it. Dave Whalley, however, had drawn attention to it, commenting on its size and strength. He had smacked me on my bare bottom, and, even more unnervingly, had called me "Big Boy" - the nickname Whispering Tim Robey and my other masters had given me.
"So, have you been out jogging like that?" he asked, as once more he raked my body with his eyes. I was feeling more naked than when I had to be.
"That's right," I lied.
My mind was running on ahead. According to my standing orders from my masters, I was supposed to be naked now - or at any rate in my robe since I had a visitor. I could hardly strip off in front of him, though somehow I had the uncomfortable feeling that he would not have objected. Odd, really - not that I'm suggesting anything. He's married with two kiddies, for heaven's sake.
"Funny, that. I hadn't got you down as a fitness fanatic," he said with a lop-sided grin.
"I'm not," I countered. "Just occasional light exercise, that's all."
I felt myself blush slightly at this embroidered untruth.
"Well, whatever your regime, it certainly works well. Your body looks good on it, and, let's face it, I've seen more of it than most," he winked and nudged me in case I'd missed his bargepole subtlety.
"So! let's crack open this beer, then," he said more heartily, smacking me across the behind.
I jumped.
"Look, you open one for yourself. I'll just hop in the shower and then join you. I'm a bit hot and sticky after the run," I explained.
"Want me to come and soap your back?"
I turned to look at him in alarm.
He met my eyes, winked, then laughed.
"Joke," he said, by way of explanation, with a roguish grin.
I laughed weakly and quickly left the room. I kicked off my trainers and pulled off my towelling socks as I mounted the stairs. Once in the bathroom, after turning on the shower I tore off the singlet and pushed down the onion-skin shorts, hurriedly stepping out of them and into the bath.
I was just lathering up my hair when I heard him say: "I brought this up for you."
My startled hands flew to my crotch as I opened my eyes to see Dave standing there holding out a can of beer.
"Thanks," I said. "Can you just put it down there?"
"Go on, have a swig now. It'll help you unwind. You're all tense," he said, holding it out nearer to where my hands were.
I wavered.
"No need to be shy. I've seen it all before. Remember?"
Oh, I remembered all right. I glanced down at myself. How fatuous I looked standing covering myself in front of another man. Sheepishly I drew my hands away and took the proffered can.
"Cheers," he said with a grin, locking eyes with me.
"Cheers," I responded, and took a long swig.
"Good god, man, it looks bigger than ever now it's shaved!"
I groaned inwardly.
I know it may seem unaccountably odd to some of my readers, but I have never been comfortable with nakedness and the exposure of my body. Just the opposite, in fact. Part of this goes back, I think, to my own schooldays. Even then, as a growing boy, I seemed to be more well endowed than many of my contemporaries, and often found myself the brunt of debaggings and more, being forcibly put on display for the amusement of my fellows, even being stimulated against my will at the whim of braying spectators intent upon bovine horseplay at my expense. All this unwonted exposure and forced exhibitionism seems to have left me with an embarrassing complex about myself and a desire to always avoid drawing attention to myself. Intimates had often marvelled at my "luck" at having such a "beauty" and could not understand why I shrank from locker-room bragging and proud and boastful display.
Frantically and feverishly I dredged for a plausible excuse. I had read once that Olympic swimmers shaved their body hair to lessen the drag factor underwater. I mumbled something about that it helped when I went swimming.
"That's funny. I heard something else," he said with an enigmatic smile.
My heart stopped.
"Lighten up. You're so very tense," he said. "Tell you what, I've got all my kit in the car 'cos I've been buying some extra stuff today. I'll give you a massage."
"No!" I started.
"I won't take no for an answer, pal. You need a massage badly. It'll relax you. And your Uncle Dave is going to give you one." He laughed suddenly. "What am I saying? I can't believe I just said that. I'll be offering to give you a blow job next!"
He left the bathroom chuckling softly. My brain was seething.
I put the beer can down and feverishly finished my ablutions. I dried myself briskly, my mind in a ferment. My immediate instinct was to leap into as many clothes as possible and hang the consequences. But was that living dangerously? If I were discovered fully dressed with the threat from my masters hanging over me, the threat I knew that would expose me as an unsuitable person for my position in the school - in any establishment for young people - I was running the risk of exposure that would not only destroy me, but Richard and, very probably, the Mayhew family as well.
Resigned to my fate, I tucked the towel round my waist and turned to leave. As I did so, I caught my eyes reflected in the bathroom mirror. There was something else in their expression that shocked me. I clearly recognised the resignation to my lot, but what was that glint, that shine, that slightly startled sparkle? Was it excitement? I blushed and my heart began a heady tattoo. I found myself starting to tremble in anticipation of what lay ahead for me at the hands of Dave Whalley.
"What do you think of Geoff Talbot then?"
I had just been beginning to relax. The heels of Dave's hands pressing into the hard knots of tension where my neck met my shoulders were having an almost soporific effect. I had been slightly aware that there was a very definite knot of tension in my reproductive equipment and blenched slightly as I caught myself wondering how he would deal with that when he came across it. For the moment, I was lying face down with it pressed into the makeshift towel-covered mattress, rubbing gently against it as it lay trapped between my belly and the table.
He had all the equipment, a collapsible massage table, everything. It even had a padded surface but not deep enough for real comfort so he had a long thick sun bed mattress tied onto the top of it as well and he asked me for plenty of towels with which he covered it. He was very business-like and we talked in a matter-of-fact manner about how beneficial massage was, as well as useful remedially. He told me that was how he'd met his wife, that she was a qualified masseuse. She had taught him all she knew, and he had taken it further with courses in sports injury massage, etc. We talked generally as well about aromatherapy and the use of various oils for various complaints and results required. He was going to use aromatherapy on me. He said he'd noticed the build-up of tension in me over the past week and thought he'd offer me some relief. Although aware of each one I purposely failed to react to the barely disguised double-entendres.
I asked him about his wife and children. They'd gone to her mother's that weekend. He hadn't been able to because there had been an important match at school that morning. He was a little despondent since school had been trounced and that was when he'd thought of me as he was at the off-licence buying beer to drown his sorrows.
"Much better than drinking alone," he said, handing me another open can as he had helped me up onto the table.
He had three towels over me at any one time. One across my legs, the one already wrapped by me round my midriff, and one draped across my shoulders. He had me lying on my front with my hands by my side, palms up. In fact, that was where he started; in the palms of my hands. There were three oils he used - I can't remember them all, but I'm fairly certain one was lavender. It was amazingly relaxing, I must admit. When he started on the back of my neck he said I was really knotted up there and he worked quite hard and applied a lot of finger pressure. But I could almost feel myself loosening up. It was a wonderful sensation. He lowered the towel and worked on my shoulder blades. He was very good. I told him so.
He told me that he and his wife often did each other - that sometimes they used it as foreplay. He kept asking me if I was warm though, thoroughly solicitous and constantly moving the towel, keeping as much of me covered as possible. I began to feel very secure. Massaging is warm work for both masseur and masseured. The circulation is improved, and whereas a degree of nervousness at the beginning may keep the temperature down, as my confidence built I relaxed far more into it.
"Phew, it's getting warm in here," Dave said rubbing his hands on a small towel and then peeling off his tee shirt. He wiped his forehead with it, his chest and under his arms. He caught me watching him and smiled openly at me.
"All right?" he asked solicitously.
"Fine," I answered.
"Enjoying it so far?"
"Amazing!"
He seemed surprised I had never had a massage before. I explained that I was not a very tactile person, and that I was surprised at myself as to how much I was enjoying the sensation. He was pleased.
He had a good physique. I had often seen him stripped to the waist on the games field during the summer. In fact, I had often thought him something of a poseur. The domestic staff obviously thought him something of a pin-up for they had a picture of him in just a pair of towelling shorts stuck on the wall of their rest-room. I had seen it when I had bobbed in once to request an urgent visit to remove some sick from my classroom.
The fact that he was stripped to the waist now in my living room, together with the fact that so was I, and that I was wearing nothing below the waist except a towel, seemed of little significance somehow. The massage oils were beginning to have an effect on me obviously. The pungent aroma from the three scented candles he had lit too seemed to make me a trifle light-headed.
"Here."
I opened my eyes to see he was holding the can of beer out to me. I took it and emptied it as he drank his down too. He pulled the ring tops off the last two of the pack and put mine down by me.
"Are you warm?"
"Glowing" I answered sleepily.
He didn't put the towel back across my back as he started on the soles of my feet, but it didn't matter. I was as warm as toast. Semi-stiff, I pressed myself slightly into the mattress. What would happen when I had to turn over, I found myself wondering?
The sensation of his hands upon my feet is almost indescribable. It was a mixture of tickling and pain. I could hear bones crunching as he manipulated and pulled upon each individual toe before pressing the balls of this thumbs hard into the balls of my feet and kneading them vigorously.
"I asked you about Geoff Talbot," he said at last.
"What about him?" I parried guardedly.
"What do you think of him? As a kid in general, I mean. Remember, I only see him on the games field."
"Where he is at his best, I should imagine. He is certainly not in his natural habitat in the Halls of Academe," I added.
"I was meaning more as a person," Dave persisted as he took my foot in one hand and my calf in the other and rotated my ankle briskly.
I ran a few non-committal phrases through my head and offered some as my opinion.
"A bit of a joker, I find," he persisted as he began to pummel my calf muscles vigorously with the outer edge of each hand.
"Oh?" I reached for my beer and slugged a mouthful back.
"'Mind if I slip my jeans off? I've worked up quite a sweat, and they're all clammy."
"No. Go ahead, feel free," I said expressionlessly and took another swig from the can.
As I leant forward to put the can down again I glanced up to see him stepping out of his jeans. He was wearing a pair of white fitted boxer briefs. The fabric was tautly wrinkled and stretched across his well-developed rugby-player's thighs, and the ample bulge at the front clearly indicated that Dave Whalley was throwing a boner! I felt mine jump in empathy.
"Nothing he likes better than a debagging!" he added with a chuckle as he put his jeans on the couch.
He came round and stood in front of me as he took a drink from his can. My eyes were no more than six inches from his bulge. I could feel the heat from it on my face. I could smell him.
"Really?" I said in polite, disinterested response.
"Birthdays, initiations, that sort of thing. Any excuse to strip a fellow down and old Talbot's the man to lead the action. He certainly did a great job on you in the match."
He chuckled again and returned to the bottom of the massage table. He raised the hem of the towel round my waist to just below my buttocks. I could feel cool air on my scrotum. Rubbing more oil into the palms of his hands - to warm it, he said - he set to work on the backs of my upper legs and thighs, kneading the flesh and muscle deeply. I became conscious of an increase in my heartbeat.
"Did you hear what happened to Mike Hazelhurst?"
"No. I don`t teach him."
"No, very much a scientist, is Mike Hazelhurst. They'd taken him on a pub' crawl in the village to celebrate his birthday. Got him well pissed - not difficult. In fact they were all well pissed by the end of the night. They stretched him out on the stone fish slab in the square and ripped his trousers off. Hazelhurst starts to give chase, so they roll them up into a sort of impromptu rugby ball and start having a game up and down the little street. Finally, they're passed to Geoff Talbot, who promptly posts them through the police station letter-box."
Dave's fingers were getting nearer and nearer my scrotum as he concentrated his efforts on working out the tension from my inner thighs.
"Well, you can imagine, they laughed like drains at that, then somebody started blaming Geoff for having stopped their game of rugby by getting rid of the ball. Like lightning, they bowled over Hazelhurst again and set off up the street passing his shoe backwards and forwards with him in hot pursuit. That too followed the trousers through the police station letter-box. To cut the story short, they stripped poor old Mike stark bollock naked and left him ringing the bell at the police station to ask for his clothes back."
His fingers made contact with my testicles. I jumped, startled.
"Fortunately, the law saw the funny side of it and all was well. Can you raise yourself up a bit?"
I complied, and Dave stripped away the last remaining towel. I was laid as bare as Mike Hazelhurst had been.
More oil was warmed in his hands and then applied liberally to my gluteus maximae.
"Relax. You've gone all tense again," he said softly as he applied more pressure.
He worked on in silence for a couple of minutes, pummelling, kneading, smoothing. Then I became aware that his fingers were beginning to intrude into the crack between the cheeks of my buttocks. I froze at the first touch of my anal bud. I felt the muscle spasm.
"Calm down. I promise I'm not going to do anything you won't like," he said soothingly.
He stopped working on me and I held my breath awaiting the instruction to turn over. I thought I heard the vaguest rustle of material but dismissed it as him wiping his hands again on the small towel he used..
"Right, let's finish this beer off before we continue," he said, and moved back up to the top of the table.
As he bent forward to pick up his can I saw his bare bottom. He turned to face me. He was stark naked. The noise I had heard must have been him removing his underwear.
"You don't mind, do you?" he asked as he saw me studying his naked body.
"No," I answered huskily and had a drink to cover my confusion.
"I thought you might be less embarrassed if you saw that I was naked too. And equally as aroused."
Scarlet-faced and scarlet-chested, I allowed myself to be assisted to turn over. My penis sprang up from its resting place and bobbed and quivered not content unless it was drawing the maximum attention to itself.
"My word, there's a lot of tension there. I'm going to have to give that a real seeing to!" Dave said with a cheeky grin.
He started once more on my hands, working on the backs of them this time, applying thumb pressure to each knuckle and pulling the fingers until they clicked. Occasionally his penis would brush against a hand, and mine would buck in empathy, as though connected in some way.
He worked on my fingers, riffling them, bending them back, stretching them. He rotated my wrists and elbows, squoze and kneaded my biceps, and eventually moved onto my torso. He alternated between pummelling my chest and using a very light stroke he called butterfly kisses which were amazingly effective when applied in particular to my nipples. I found myself groaning and even writhing a little as he did that to me. I was suddenly embarrassed to feel cool liquid land on my belly. A quick glance confirmed my worst possible suspicion. A thread of clear glistening moisture ran from the tip of my penis to my shaved belly. I was leaking.
"Look, stop worrying. It's very flattering to me. It tells me I'm pulling out all the right stops."
He worked down to my belly and I closed my eyes awaiting the embarrassment of what came next. I was quite surprised, therefore, when I felt his fingers back on my feet - the fronts of them this time. Slowly he worked his way up the fronts of my legs, spending more time on the fleshier more muscular part above the knees. When he first took hold of my testicles it was to lift them, supremely gently, out of the way so that he could gain access to the fork of my legs. So recently invaded by other fingers and now devoid of all hair, it did not seem quite as private a place as it had before and I curbed my nervous rigor quite well and clenched my jaws tightly to prevent my teeth from chattering. He pressed and pummelled, exciting a whimper from me and more moisture drooled from the shivering head of my penis.
"Just a minute. Let me see to that for you," Dave said, and leant forward to lick it off my stomach. I felt the hard outline of his cock pressed across my thigh as he did so.
I was astonished. He just smiled down at me.
"Nice," he said. "Quite sweet. Mind if I help myself to more?"
He leant over me again and took my rigid aching penis into his hot wet mouth and I let out a long guttural groan. The vacuum action of his cheeks pressing against the sensitive shaft had an electrifying effect upon me. I began to shudder and whimper.
It was over in moments.
"Too bad," he said with a rueful grin as he eventually pulled his mouth off my fast shrinking organ letting it smack wetly against my thigh. "Next time you must make me work harder for my drink."
"Next time?" I echoed incredulously.
"Of course. You don't think I'm going to let a cock like that go to waste, do you? A cock-sucker like me looks for every opportunity. When I saw yours the day of the televised stunt, it was just a case of where and how long before I got to get my lips round it. I was seriously contemplating going down on you there and then."
He was unselfconsciously pulling at his own penis as he offered me a hand and I swung my legs down from the table.
"You? A cock-sucker?," I asked in amazement.
"Can't get enough," he said with a shrug and an open smile as he continued to play with himself. My shyness was already beginning to return. I wanted to cover myself up.
"But what about your wife?" I wanted to know.
"Not much good. She hasn't got one, you see. That's why I stick to blokes when I want to suck cock. When I was younger I used to be able to suck my own. If I had a whanger like yours, I probably still could. Man, you are so tasty. Do you know that?"
Suddenly, still masturbating, the completely naked Dave Whalley, Head of Games at the school where I taught, got up onto the massage table in my living room, lay down upon it, raised his legs up into the air with as much a degree of elan as though he were performing a gymnastic routine, before arcing his legs forward from the hips and placing his feet above where his head lay. Suddenly, he came copiously and noisily, and, with finger and thumb of his left hand aiming his penis downwards, he opened his mouth wide and promptly fired his seed straight inside.