THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING
[THE STORY SO FAR - Alan Watson, stripped of his own free will and subjected to the use and abuse of a group of his sixth-form pupils who have a hold over him, is forced to live naked in his own home and only permitted to wear demeaning and revealing garb outdoors at weekends without special permission and being subjected to further humiliating forfeits. Returning from a run in minuscule paper thin shorts, he finds a colleague waiting for him. Having been suspicious of the games master's motives, the unexpected show of friendliness surprises Alan, but nothing has prepared him for the revelation that the sporting-mad head of games would like nothing better than to suck his cock on a regular basis.]
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Meat and Two Veg.
Over the remaining pack of six beers, Dave Whalley, showing not the slightest shred of embarrassment about lounging naked with me in my living room, nor about his recent masturbatory activities, or even his professed pursuit of every opportunity to get his lips round my penis, unwound and revealed what he knew of the situation in which I now found myself.
I was quite frankly surprised and relieved to learn of how little he did know actually. He had heard common school gossip that I had been stripped to my underwear and thrown into the pool at Richard Mayhew's eighteenth, but nothing of the blackmailing or photographs. He had then assumed that my own birthday had been separately marked by a debagging and the shaving of my private parts - a tale he appeared to have been fed piecemeal by Geoff Talbot, the boy with an appetite for such horseplay as Dave himself had revealed to me earlier during the aromatherapy session. I did not disincline him of this belief, and drew a spot of comfort from the fact that this appeared to be a sign of proof as to my masters' tacit promise to be discreet.
As time passed and he appeared to show no signs of bringing his visit to a conclusion, I began to grow concerned in case one of my students called round to check up on me. How would I explain the fact that they had access to my house at all times? How would Dave Whalley feel, being found lounging stark naked with a fellow colleague - and male, to boot - by members of his admiring First XV? I was in something of a quandary. If I asked him to dress in case we were surprised by unexpected visitors, he'd wonder why I remained naked. If I dressed as well and my tyrants arrived to find me clothed, I should suffer the consequences as I had been well and truly warned.
As each moment passed I grew more restive, and he appeared to grow more relaxed.
"I can see I'm going to have to make a regular appointment to keep you loosened up, Alan. A strict regime - that's what you need," Dave said at length. "You're far too uptight and anally retentive. We're going to have to work on that together." He leant across and stroked my belly. I jumped at his touch. He chortled at my discomfiture. "First of all we're going to have to get you content with your body. Your hang-ups are showing. Let it all hang out. From now on, be nude as much as possible round the place. It'll relax you, believe me. You'll gradually become far less inhibited."
I could have laughed. It was almost like having a second opinion. The irony was that the same diagnosis had been prescribed for very different symptoms.
Eventually, he did pull himself together sufficiently to languorously dress. Taking hold of my penis, he leant forward and kissed it.
"'Bye 'bye, Big Boy," he said to it, teasing the tip of it with his thumb. "We must do this again quite soon, and he gave me a leering wink as he rose none too steadily to his feet.
I helped him with his massage table and other equipment to the front door, and donning my dressing gown, nervously accompanied him to his car with it all, thankful that it was dark by now. He teasingly groped me through his open window before he drove away, and I leapt like a startled gazelle. He had chuckled and made his farewell. Scuttling back indoors, I removed the robe and returned to my living room.
After a late supper - the only item in an otherwise uneventful night after Dave Whalley's departure - I went to bed and lay there re-running the events of the day through my head. There was one thing for certain, I told myself. No way was I going to present myself at the Mayhews for lunch on the morrow wearing nothing but a jock-strap under the opalescent white tracksuit with tearaway bottoms.
Once in bed, I grew hotly aroused as I relived my sensuous massage. The vivid memory of the games master of all people, naked and tumescent, feeding upon my own rampant organ was extraordinary powerful. Struck suddenly with a pang of guilt that I was writhing in my sheets to this recollection, and not to the memory of Richard's less accomplished mouth, and shamefully berating myself for my disloyalty to him, I found myself then comparing and contrasting their methods and my differing reactions to them both. With Richard there was so much warmth and affection and yearning. With Dave Whalley it was sheer, basic animal lust which was being gratified. Richard had declared his love for me. I had not reciprocated and I felt ashamed, unfulfilled. I knew what he was feeling. I, too, had a deep aching void when I thought of him. I just lacked the courage to face what this was - to give it a name - to declare myself as equally besotted with him as he was apparently with me.
Desperately, I tried to think of Rosemary. More heterosexual thoughts were healthier. Unnervingly, I realised with what difficulty I had to bring her face clearly to memory. Richard's was there in every detail. So was his body. I had seen so much more of him than I ever had of her. I lusted after him. I had never lusted after her, I had to confess to myself. I also had to acknowledge that I did not lust after Dave Whalley. I knew I would let him suck me off again, and that I would enjoy it - that it would satiate my urges. It would never be the celebration that such an encounter with Richard - were it possible - would be.
Suddenly my bedroom light was turned on and my covers snatched back. I leapt.
"Ta - da!" Tim Robey fanfared triumphantly. "Big Boy's got a boner!"
So saying, he took hold of it and began to manipulate it. My hands flew to restrain him as I glanced round at all my masters looking down upon my naked form.
Tim froze.
"Take your hands away," he said icily.
"Please, Sir . . ." I began.
"By your sides," he added peremptorily.
Utterly cowed by his whole demeanour, I loosened my grip on his wrists, and dropped my arms to my naked sides. I lay, rigid, rudely exposed under their withering gaze.
He began again, intent upon masturbating me in front of them all.
I lay there, their plaything, their toy, used merely for their entertainment and amusement. I could feel their sense of power and triumph over me as I was brought off before them all, stripped of every semblance of manly dignity, reduced to a grovelling obeisance, firing up shining ropes of shaming semen which fell back across my prone and shorn form, as my body shuddered with the animal outpourings which demeaned me all the more in their eyes. And a groan escaped from my throat as I screwed up my eyes, unable to acknowledge any expression upon my students' faces of how low I had sunk in my own estimation, let alone theirs.
Before they had left, I had been required to anoint myself from head to toe in my own spendings, forced to smear it through my chest hair, over my thighs, and refused permission to bathe until the morning. I had also been given my instructions for the following day. In spite of my pleadings to the contrary, I was to present myself for lunch at the Mayhews' and, because I had begged not to be made to go, as a forfeit, I had been ordered to cut my hedge before I went, wearing only the onion-skin shorts . Then I had to change, putting on one of the small jock-straps, and wear my white tracksuit only. I had also to find some time alone in order for Richard to become adept at removing the tracksuit tearaway pants at a stroke - a new-found skill in which he would be required to demonstrate his proficiency sometime in the near future.
Bathed, shaved and breakfasted, and with a hedge neatly clipped and much admired by worshippers on their way to church, whose comments added to my humiliation enormously as I had stood before them all but nude save for the abbreviated shorts, I washed off all traces of my exertions in the shower before talc'ing my shaven and shorn extremities and trying to bundle them into the confines of a ridiculously small athletic support. As I stood surveying myself in the tracksuit, my heartbeat missed as I turned, glancing down at my back view, and noted with alarm the straps which framed each buttock clearly visible through the thin manmade fibre of the tearaway bottoms. Facing front, I moaned as I realised my nipples also were all too obvious.
Desperately, I rehearsed excuses that I might offer for being so casually clad, wincing at the increasingly pathetic nature of each one as it struck me. What really alarmed was that the very lightness of the fabric seemed to emphasise my nakedness underneath. I felt so disgustingly aware of my body, as well as of my vulnerability.
Of course, the real scenario was not as bad as any of the ones I had formulated, and whilst expressions revealed both shock and amazement at such a change in my normally conservative and staid appearance, a quick suggestion that I had thought going for a spot of exercise with Richard a little later might be a fine opportunity for a private word with him was welcomed by his mother and father alike. The fact that it would also provide us with the opportunity for Richard to practise his required skills at removing my trousers with a flourish was an added, if not unlooked for, bonus.
After three or four glasses of wine, Angela Mayhew declared herself impressed with the new-look Alan Watson. I know I reddened when she went on to add that the outfit made a feature of drawing attention to the attractiveness of my pert bottom. Donald coarsened matters still further by adding that it showed off my "bloody big nadgers" to advantage as well. I glanced at Richard in some embarrassment, to note that he was even more scarlet than I.
"You invite the chap round for Sunday lunch, only to find he's got more meat and two veg in his pants than you can put on his bloody plate!" Donald had added with a guffaw and a stout clap on my back.
Of course he meant well, and I had to take it all with as good a grace as I could muster. `Humiliation is good for the soul' runs the old saying. If there is any truth in it, then I was certain to be on a first class ticket straight through the fast lane of purgatory.
The lamb was succulent; the baby garden peas and leaf spinach tender and flavourful, the new-crop Jersey potatoes - as yet, at an early-in-the-season prohibitive price in my local greengrocer's - full of the flavour for which they were justly famed. A date-packed home-made sticky toffee pudding served with vanilla ice-cream filled any remaining crevices and determined a late start to any suggestion of physical activity such as I had recommended their son and I might partake of in order to "have a chat".
Instead we chatted as a family. Topics covered were fairly anodyne - holidays and suchlike. I knew the Mayhews were fairly exotic in their tastes and so remarked with some surprise when I learned for the first time that they owned a much under-used Lakeland cottage virtually adjacent to Crummock Water in the less touristy western part of the Lake District. Angela confessed to a strong penchant for the heat of the tropical sun, which was almost self-explanatory as to their infrequent visits to Cumbria. Richard, however, had prevailed upon his father not to get rid of it as he had fallen in love with the area when a child, and had vowed to use it when he grew older. When pressed, I owned to a lifetime's romance with the whole area and felt both my heart and my loins jump when it was idly suggested that he and I might care to spend half-term up there by ourselves.
I insisted on helping Angela clear the table and helped her fill the dish-washer, while Donald went out to mow the lawns on his sit-on mower. Richard, meanwhile went to change into something more appropriate for taking light exercise with me.
"It is good of you, Alan. I'm sure Richard will open up to you," Angela said as she patted my hand as we both bent over the dishwasher. "You know, he has a severe case of hero-worship over you. I just know he'll listen to your every word. He'll be putty in your hands. If it's love, be gentle with him. Don't scoff."
I froze.
"Love?" I echoed distantly.
"If he's fallen head over heels for some girl or other, let him down gently. I know we can rely on you to always act in his best interests."
I was appalled. This was simple torment. My whole professional ethos was being put on the line here. I didn't know how I could cope.
Richard appeared in the kitchen wearing an old rugby shirt and his grey marl jogging bottoms that displayed his basket so temptingly. He knew I had looked at him there and had blushed becomingly.
"Let's go, then," he said rather tightly and opened the kitchen door.
We jogged silently along the hedgerow of two newly-sown fields and into a spinney. There were bluebells. It was idyllic. Birds were singing. A small stream was chattering over its pebbles. I sat upon a mossy stump and Richard leant against a tree. We listened, lost in our own thoughts.
"Your mother's worried about you," I said after a while.
"In what way?" he asked, turning to look at me for the first time.
"She's noticed a change in you."
He continued to stare at me, waiting for me to continue.
"She thinks perhaps you've fallen in love," I said.
"She's right then. I have."
I looked away. I knew he looked away as well.
"She thinks it's some girl you've met . . ." I began, examining my fingernails.
"Whereas you and I both know it's a guy," he finished.
"Richard, listen to me," I deliberately hardened my tone. "You don't love me. Oh, maybe you have a schoolboy crush on me - nothing wrong with that - but . . ."
He interrupted me and pulled away from the tree trunk against which he had been leaning.
"I did have a schoolboy crush on you, Alan. I freely admit that. I even confess how worried I was when I suspected that it was turning into something more than just that. I was horrified with myself when I found I was getting serious erections whenever you walked into a classroom. I even started to have wet dreams about you too. I still do. You can't imagine how excited I was the night of my eighteenth birthday party when I discovered that you were feeling the same thrill I was. I shall never forget that look of startled recognition on your face as we faced each other naked in that bedroom at the club. I was about to get in the shower and I turned to look at you. You looked at me, and we both knew, didn`t we?"
I blinked back the hot tears of my embarrassment. There was photographic evidence of how thrilled I had been on that occasion, I hotly recalled. Stripped to my Y-fronts, I had been hurled into the same pool as the completely denuded Richard. He had swept me up in his strong arms as he had rescued me, revealing to the camera and the world how intensely arousing I had found the experience, as clearly delineated through the translucently wet fabric of my stretched underwear as if I had been as naked as he.
He crouched down before me and grabbed my head. Before I knew it, he had pressed his lips to mine. His tongue invaded my mouth as I opened it to protest. He embraced me in a great bear-hug, before taking one of my hands and placing it on his throbbing manhood pressing through the jersey fabric of his jogging bottoms.
"Is this just a schoolboy crush, Alan?" he whispered hotly and breathily in my ear.
I jumped as I felt his hand touch me at the fork of my legs.
"And is that a schoolmaster's crush?"
"What else can it be?" I asked helplessly.
"It's love, Alan," he said urgently.
"No it's not. It's lust!" I argued.
He let go of me. I stood up and moved away a little. I was conscious of my breathing.
"I'm not even sure I'm gay," I confessed.
"I'm sure," Richard responded quickly as he walked back towards his tree.
"About you or me?" I enquired uncertainly, turning back towards him.
"About both of us."
"But I've always been attracted to girls in the past," I countered weakly.
"But that was before you met me," Richard said as he turned to look at me.
Again I looked away. I could not meet his penetrating gaze.
"This is ridiculous," I said helplessly. "I'm twelve years older than you, for heaven's sake. I'm your teacher, your tutor - in charge of your moral education and welfare. Your parents trust me to care for you, engage me privately to help in your studies."
"And thrust together like this, we have fallen in love. What could be more natural?"
"Natural? This is not natural!" I stood up and gestured in futile despair at my shamingly obvious erection tenting out the taut fabric of my tearaway tracksuit bottoms.
Richard walked towards me again, reached forward, grasped the side of them and tore them off in one.
"Why it's the most natural thing in the world," he said softly, taking me in his hand as he pressed another all-consuming kiss on my mouth.
My penis leapt and bucked in his gentle palm, and I groaned longingly and uncontrollably as my arms enveloped him and drew him still nearer to me. We squeezed each other so tightly it was hard to breathe.
As my head cleared, the birdsong grew almost deafening, over and above the music of the stream bubbling and bickering along its stony bottom. As my breath slowed the heavy scent of bluebells filled my nostrils. I felt the spring breeze riffle through the hairs on my rudely bared legs. So much for Richard having to practice debagging me.
"Say it, Alan," he whispered breathily in my ear, one arm clasping me powerfully to him, the other hand cradling my pouch-clad genitals firmly but gently.
"Say what?" I tried, prolonging the moment before I knew I had to face a life-altering commitment.
This was something deep down, suppressed, but now determined to burst to the surface. I could almost feel it bubbling up like molten lava in a volcano.
"Say it," he repeated, and I thought he held his breath.
I could hear his heart beat. I could feel his heartbeat. It was in tune with mine.
I breathed in.
"I . . . think I . . . love you," I whispered, trembling uncontrollably, tears pouring hotly down my face.
I felt him stiffen suddenly and then shudder against me.
"Richard?" I ventured softly after a moment, convinced that he was silently sobbing too.
"Thank you, Alan. I know how hard that was for you to say," he whispered, and pecked me gently on each cheek.
He held me to him again, our eyes closed, our cheeks pressed together, the heat of our bodies commingling, our breathing and heartbeats now having taken up the tempo of each other. We stood like a breathing statue, the world racing noisily round us.
"You know how I told you I got a raging erection every time I saw you?" he said after another moment.
"Yes?" I answered.
"Well, when you told me you loved me just then . . . I came!"
He pulled away from me, still holding my arms, and we both looked down to see a large dark wet patch at the fork of his grey marl jersey jogging bottoms.