THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING
[THE STORY SO FAR - Following the humiliations heaped upon him as a result of an unfortunately revelatory photograph taken of him at pupil Richard Mayhew's eighteenth birthday bash, and his very public baring in school at the hands of some disenchanted members of his tutor group, thirty-year-old English public schoolmaster, Alan Watson, has had to suffer the indignities of role reversal heaped upon him whereby he has been used and abused quite cruelly by members of his sixth-form tutor group, bearing him a grudge, for their amusement at his expense. Perhaps, to some extent, a victim of his own making, surely a man in his position could never sink as low as was to be expected of him that night.]
CHAPTER SIX - A Night Out at the Local
The lads took me out for a drink that night. They brooked no argument. I was given no choice. They insisted. In fact, I was reminded of the hold they had over me should I choose not to comply with their wishes. They had brought with them a photograph of me, naked, masturbating Richard, also naked, as he did me in return. The ecstatic expression upon my face gave a lie to any protestation I might have made in my defence of my having carried out this obscene act with a pupil under compunction.
The fact that Richard was eighteen and, according to the law of the land, of legal age to indulge in same-sex activities in private was little comfort. In my position as his schoolmaster, and therefore acting in loco parentis, it would be deemed that I had taken gross advantage of one of my charges. I should suffer instant dismissal therefore, as well as being struck off the teaching register by the Department of Education, and would face legal charges as well.
Of course they knew this. They had me, as they said so colourfully, by the short and curlies. The photograph, to be added to the growing portfolio recording my downfall and subjugation at their hands, was all they needed to persuade me to go along with them.
The large white van was outside. It turned out it was Dave Newman's brother's. Dave was driving. Geoff Talbot, Phil Marshall and Whispering Tim Robey bundled me into the back. Richard was not there, and since he had been absent from school all day nobody had been in touch. The moquette armchair - scene of my first degrading act so short a time ago - was there in the van to mock me.
As I moved to sit, Tim stopped me with his voice.
"Ah - ah - ah - ah. Not you, Big Boy. You've got to learn that when you're with us you come much lower down in the pecking order. The floor's the place for you."
So saying, he moved to the armchair and sat in it, crossing his long legs and steepling his fingers as he looked at me with sardonic amusement. My heart beat faster. The tables had certainly been turned. I was to be treated as the inferior.
"In future you will address us as `Sir' when we are alone together. Is that clear?"
My heart skipped a beat.
"Yes . . . Sir," I murmured, my voice thick with mixed emotion.
"Another thing. When you are alone with us, you are forbidden from wearing trousers. You are our plaything now, Big Boy, and so you must be readily available to play with whenever and wherever we choose. Do you understand?"
My heart pounded painfully in my chest as I watched, through hot wet eyes, Geoff Talbot fumble with my belt buckle. Snatching it open and hauling it free from my belt loops, he stepped aside to allow Phil Marshall to unfasten my trousers and pull down the zip fly. Dragging them down my rudely exposed legs, Geoff steadied me as I stepped out of them and Phil bundled them into the far corner. I jumped, startled, as he groped me through the pouch of my underpants with his other hand as he stood up.
"Say `thank you, Sir'" Tim prompted.
"Thank you, Sir," I echoed flatly.
"Be grateful it's only your trousers, Big Boy. I can see a time coming when we'll want you bollock naked all the time, For the moment, I think we'll only insist on complete nudity when you and Lover Boy are together."
I knew he meant Richard and I felt a hot wave of embarrassment blast over me.
"Doesn't he blush prettily?" Tim mocked.
I was allowed to sit on the floor but all attempt to cover my underwear with my shirt was stringently disallowed. In fact they made me tuck my shirt tails up above my waist so my Y-fronts were clearly visible.
"Hmmm, I think we'll have to go through your underwear drawer sometime soon," Tim mused, head on one side as he studied my capacious underpants with obvious disapproval. "We must get you to chuck out some of those big old pants you wear and get you into something much smaller and sexier."
"Little frilly knickers!" Geoff chimed in. "It 'ud be great knowing he was teaching us and underneath his formal clothes he was wearing some tiny lacy girlie number of our choosing."
I felt a hot flush pass over me again and the hairs on my bare legs stood on end.
"He's throwing a boner!" Phil observed triumphantly. "All that talk of satin panties has got him hot and bothered," he added with a snigger.
"Come here, Big Boy," Tim said evenly.
The van was swaying so I moved towards him on my knees.
"I want to feel it."
I stared into his eyes. He reached towards me. I pulled away.
"Listen, Big Boy. From now on, if I hold out a cupped hand like this - that's a signal to you that I want your balls there right away. And I mean right away."
I shuddered and my penis bucked and started upon its involuntary progress pushing out the front of my underpants. I looked at his outstretched cupped hand, my body rigid, my uncontrollable cock, straining at the taut fabric, craning forward eagerly as if anxious for that offered resting place.
Almost hypnotically slowly, I shuffled forward upon my knees, my shirt rolled up and tucked in well above my navel, the white expanse of my underpants clearly on show before the fascinated gaze of my students, the obscene outline of my tumescence exciting particular attention and sniggers of derisive amusement. My foreskin had rolled back inside my briefs, allowing the fabric to rub the more sensitive exposed head or glans and excite it to dizzier heights. My heart seemed to be pounding painfully in my lower throat. My mouth was dry and my lips were sticking to my teeth. Each intake of breath seemed to scratch the back of my throat. There was a dull pain in my temples. I stopped breathing altogether as I felt my scrotum come into contact with his fingertips. I froze. He never moved either. After ten long seconds I moved a scrap forward and lowered my testicles into the palm of his hand.
He sighed contentedly and leant back in the chair.
"Good boy. You've done well," he said to me with a smile.
I felt a flush of warmth, an almost indescribable feeling of pleasure at receiving such praise for the completion of this grossly demeaning act that had been demanded of me. My penis lurched in delight. I was shocked at myself.
"You owe me, lads," Tim said, turning to the other two. "I said I'd have Watty by the balls within the week, and it's only four days!"
The van swerved and I lost my balance. Tim's other arm shot out to stop me falling and he tightened his grip on my scrotum. I gasped.
"What's the matter, Big Boy?" he murmured softly.
"Please . . . you're squeezing my balls," I said.
"Tut - tut - tut - tut. Two things are wrong with that statement, Big Boy," he spoke softly. "Number one - you forgot to say `Sir'; and, two - you don't have balls any more, because they're mine now. So, what should you have said?"
"Please . . . Sir . . . you're squeezing . . . your . . . balls, Sir," I managed with a tremulous sob in my voice.
"Don't be such a stupid wanker! I'm not squeezing my balls, am I? I'm squeezing the balls of my slave," he said in almost a whisper. There was a definite glint of triumph in his eye. He was getting off on this mastery.
The van had stopped and the engine was turned off.
Dully, I repeated the mantra about him squeezing the balls of his slave, both prefixing and suffixing the statement with a "Sir".
"Good boy. You're learning," he said, releasing his grip. "Give him his trousers back," he added as we heard Dave slam and lock the driving cab door.
I was not allowed my belt back as a punishment, because I had forgotten to call him sir initially, I was told. So, with the waistband of my trousers hanging low on my hips, I was helped out of the back of the van now parked on a pub' car park.
"You're in the chair, Big Boy. Four pints of bitter and a lemonade for Driver Dave," Geoff told me as we approached the door to the establishment.
I was just reaching into my back pocket for some money when Tim leant forward and pulled down my zipper. My hands flew to cover myself.
"Leave it open, Big Boy. You are forbidden from touching your flies, unless somebody tells you they're open. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir," I answered meekly, and we went in.
They found us a table and I made my way to the bar feeling dreadfully self-conscious, casting hurried anxious glances downwards to see if I was exposing white material through my gaping flies as I walked. Three times I had to walk to and fro carrying the drinks. I was even concerned that they were all legally of age, but decided that that was the least of my problems. They had to be all within months either way of their eighteenth birthdays by dint of their position in the upper-sixth form. As I sat down with my pint, my flyhole gaped wide open, I knew I dared not touch it. I sat there nervously aware that there was a definite response from the inside of my underwear to the embarrassing situation in which I now found myself.
Slowly, as time passed and beer was consumed, a relaxing air of normality crept over the proceedings. School life soon became the main topic of conversation and amusing incidents were duly recalled and related. As more beer was produced I was prevailed upon to reminisce of my own schooldays and experiences at university, but periodically, usually in the midst of laughter, I would be made suddenly and painfully aware of my position as their object of fun. As the alcohol loosened inhibitions somewhat, teasing fingers would pry into my trouser opening under the table, tickling and probing what they found there, and I would be reminded of the humiliations I had already undergone at their hands and promised plenty more in the months to come.
It was in the pub' that I was first made aware of all the planning behind my very public rugby pitch exposure of the previous afternoon, Over another round of drinks they revealed how they had learnt of Frank Hartley's collar-bone injury at the local RFC match the night it had happened. Dave Whalley, our games master, had been in the clubhouse bar after the game and had been pumped for information as to a replacement for the staff team the following day, and my name had come up for selection. The great "Get Watty Starkers" scheme had been hatched there and then. The jock-strap had been obtained, the stitching of which had been cut away to the barest essentials, and the plot to get their hands on my kit and render both shirt and shorts vulnerable to the slightest tug went like clockwork. I ruefully congratulated them on their success and even confessed how much further repercussions had gone than they could have possibly imagined. I told them of my ordeal on the pitch that morning before the prying lens of a press camera, and the fact that I had been forcibly obliged to strip myself naked in front of the headmaster, the games master and the two gentlemen of the press. They hugged themselves gleefully as they cross-questioned me upon every detail of my account. Did I throw a boner in front of the Head, they wanted to know? Did he get one? Did Dave Whalley? They whinnied in delight when I confessed that the reporter had complimented me admiringly, which had the effect of making me feel even more self-conscious than I already was.
Eventually it was my round again. I suddenly became aware of my sagging belt-less trousers and their open fly which I had all but forgotten when they had grown tired of exploring me within.
"Go on, Big Boy. Your turn to get them in," Tim prompted.
I looked round the table. Everybody had drunk up except me. I had a practically full pint still before me. I picked it up.
"Have we time for another?" I asked, suddenly aware I should have to pay a visit to the gents' before buying more.
"You're the one with the watch," Phil said.
I was about to transfer my glass to my other hand so that I could look at my watch when Tim seized my arm.
"No!" he said firmly. "Turn your wrist to look at your watch as you are."
"But . . ." I began.
"Now, Big Boy, No ifs, no buts. Just do it."
I glanced round the room anxiously. Nobody was looking. I stared back at him, knowing that I must go through with it. I had to obey. Almost, I felt, I couldn't let him down. With a hot flush and a heavy air of inevitability, I turned my wrist to look at my watch and a cascade of cold beer poured into my lap.
With cries of "oh dear!", "you clumsy git!" and "you're soaking!", I was propelled swiftly by all four of them towards the gents'. Once inside, they feverishly worked to get me out of my soaking trousers.
No, please!!!" I yelped as I felt my underpants being dragged off too.
I was stripped absolutely naked, except for my socks, and forced to lie on the cold tiled floor.
"Time for your baptism, Big Boy," Tim whispered with grim relish as he unzipped himself.
I stared up, frozen in horror, as the other three followed suit. Here I was, a respectable and respected schoolmaster, lying naked on the floor of an open public convenience - into which a pub' customer might walk at any moment - with four of my pupils standing over me getting their dicks out, for heaven's sake!
The heat and the flow force struck me most, I think. I was hosed down the length and breadth of my body by four steaming hot jets of urine drumming against my vulnerable nakedness. Prime targets were my face and hair, my chest and nipples and my cock and balls. The acrid smell filled my nostrils. Salty splashes invaded my lips. I had hot urine stinging in my eyes. Dave finished first, I think. He had not had as much lemonade as we had had beer, and so was hurriedly ordered out to stand on the door and stop anyone coming in. He was to say there was a naked bloke getting cleaned up after an accident who wouldn't be much longer.
"You did enjoy that, didn't you, Big Boy?" Tim crowed. You threw such a big boner then, I thought you were going to come all by yourself."
The pall of shame that hung over me at that moment was almost tangible. I lay there, lazy ropes of steam rising from my body, soaked in the spent urine of my sixth-form students with a raging hard-on. How could I possibly deny that I had not found the whole abasement experience a turn-on? As they shook their remaining dribble on me and began to put themselves away, Tim spoke again.
"Now it's your turn, Big Boy."
I opened my eyes, blinking furiously to clear them, and looked up into his eyes enquiringly.
"My turn for what?" I asked, grimacing as a trickle of still warm urine rolled into my mouth.
"For a piss," he explained matter-if-factly as though to a slow child.
"You mean, I've got to . . . ?"
"I mean exactly that," he said with a slow smile.
"Here?" I sought clarification.
"Here and now," he confirmed with a nod.
My penis bucked with the effort. I strained fruitlessly.
"I can't," I said.
"No such word," he responded. "You must. In fact you're not leaving here until you do.
I felt like crying. I was forced to admit that my erection made it impossible. Eventually, after further goading, I felt the valve, or whatever, open in the shaft of my penis and a painful stream of burning hot urine arced up into the air coming down and hitting me hard in my own face and upon my chest. The flow went on and on. The tip of my stretched and steaming penis was stinging violently. I couldn't stop a groan building in my throat. Suddenly the flow stopped as though a blockage had formed on an instant. My swollen member had a dull ache building in it. I stared at it in alarm as a rigor suddenly hit my entire body. It felt as though it was about to split open, as though an alien force was seeking escape from the very root of my vitals. Bursting from the angrily swollen crimson tip came a shaming great wad of semen. I watched in horror as it dribbled and drooled a mixture of sperm and urine, until the flow returned, the blockage subsided, and washed away the cloudiness and strings with which I had bedecked my naked body.
Surely I had hit the nadir today.
As I lay naked in a veritable ammoniac pool of commingled urine and sperm on that toilet floor, I found it impossible to believe how I could be debased further.