THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING
[THE STORY SO FAR - What had started as horse-play at a birthday party to embarrass a schoolmaster had now developed into the complete and utter domination of one individual by a number of others who now hold complete sway over him. Condemned to obey in every deed their every demeaning demand, or suffer the consequences of public exposure and humiliation, Alan Watson has just learned that a new and unlooked-for dimension has cropped up in the nightmare that has become all too real - love.]
CHAPTER NINE - Heads or Tails
I remember absolutely nothing of my journey home, which is, in itself, alarming. My mind was seething with unanswered questions and unacknowledged answers. How could I possibly hope to respond to Richard Mayhew's startling declaration of love without hurting or damaging him irreparably? Did I want to respond to it negatively in the first place? I hurriedly put that thought from me. This was not a time to face my own agenda. My first thoughts should be for an impressionable and confused young adult teetering on the very threshold of manhood. Surely it could be conveniently dismissed as immature infatuation, admittedly late developing, and probably aroused by the strange sexual play we had been forced into by the Fearsome Four, as I now thought of them. I grew cross with myself when I recognised yearnings and longings rising within me as I thought of this. Good god, I was heterosexual, damn it!
Why, there was Rosemary, for instance. Granted that she had only recently kicked me into touch, but it had been an amicable enough parting of the ways. And while we had never ever actually . . . gone the whole way, it had got pretty steamy once or twice. I confess I had harboured vague hopes of consummating our relationship sometime in the future, but had never ever quite got round to it. It was never the right time. But I had had fantasies. These of Richard that plagued me now did not mean anything at all . . . . did they? No! Of course not, for heaven's sake!
I was scared at my reaction now, faced with this. I had wanted to take Richard in my arms and hug him tightly to me, and that admission to myself horrified me. But surely, that was only to comfort him in his distress, his confusion? Quite simply a perfectly understandable crush, that was all - albeit late developing, I told myself. Why, it was a common enough occurrence throughout the teaching profession - a form of glorified hero-worship; nothing more. I should have stayed, explained, offered comfort. I had handled it very badly. I was unnerved, thrown . . . . excited.
I was intensely aroused, and as I angrily pushed against it with one hand, the other on the steering wheel, staring sightlessly through the windscreen, driving almost on automatic pilot, I tried to convince myself it was just a basic reaction to my celibate life-style. I was not attracted to sex with Richard, for heaven's sake! I was just attracted to sex! Yes, that was it. It was simply a healthy masculine over-reaction - a sort of bullish "I must have sex with anything that moves!" I was only just thirty, after all; still at my sexual peak and, let's face it, not getting any. No wonder my mind was dwelling on it at every opportunity! I had almost succeeded in convincing myself as I turned into my road.
I must have driven through at least nine sets of traffic lights between our two homes. I assume every set must have been turned to green, for I never stopped at any. The alarming thing, in retrospect, is that I have no recollection of them whatsoever. Such was my state of mind that I never registered seeing the ominous white van either, parked further down my road, or I might have driven on and gone to the pictures, or something to kill time until they had grown tired and left their vigil at my door. As it was, I was easy prey and was accosted by them upon my own doorstep.
Tim Robey's hand closed on mine with the key in the front door.
"Hallo, Big Boy," he said in that cloying whisper of his. "How does it feel to be a television star?"
He took the key out of the lock and gave it to Dave Newman.
"Take this along to Asda, Dave," he said, "and get a copy cut. I want access to Big Boy here whenever. Hurry back. I'm sure you don't want to miss all of the fun."
I began to protest, lamely stating that surely I was entitled to some privacy in my own home.
"You're entitled to nothing, matey. We decide what you're entitled to now. And as for privacy in your own home - strip him!"
Immediately pinioned by Phil Marshall and Geoff Talbot, as Tim moved in to unfasten my clothing, I struggled half-heartedly and tried to resist. There is something very shaming about standing, being firmly held, and having one's trousers undone and pulled down round one's ankles. It seems to strike at one's own sense of dignity, and immediately you are reduced to a state of complete ridicule - both in your own eyes, as well as everybody else's. Likewise, to be rendered totally naked amongst others who retain their clothing, to be gawped at, mocked, examined in minutest detail successfully enhances that sense of extreme vulnerability.
That I had been paraded in a state of nature before my headmaster, all my colleagues and the entire school only that very afternoon should have been shaming enough, but to be physically undressed and rendered helplessly unable to prevent my complete and utter exposure by some of my own upper-sixth form pupils made me veritably light-headed with mortification.
"Stark bollock naked, Big Boy," Tim said with satisfaction as he stood back to take in the full picture. "I remember you saying once in a lesson that naturists were only frustrated exhibitionists. That you'd never be caught dead like that. I thought what a patronising bastard you were. So now we're going to turn the tables on you. Stark bollock naked - a naturist in your own home. And that's how you will always be in here from now on."
"Wh-a-a-a-a-t-t ?" I said with an incredulous nervous laugh.
"Whenever you're in the privacy of your own home, and by yourself, you must be stark bollock naked. Those are my orders. And one of us will keep a check on you to make sure you're obeying. You see, now we're getting a key, we can pop in and check up on you whenever we like. And woe betide you, Big Boy, if we ever get here and find you with some clothes on - if you're alone, that is. Remember what happened to you in the pub' last night?"
I felt my face and chest redden as I recalled the sensation of their hot urine rain down upon me again. My cock jumped at the recollection and Tim sniggered.
This was insurmountable. I was to be at all times naked in my own home, under dire threats from members of my own tutor group. A thirty-year-old man in the thrall of eighteen-year-olds.
Tim held out a cupped hand. I instantly knew what was required of me. Mouth dry, temples pounding with a blood rush, my penis bucking shamefully, I slowly moved forward and placed my genitals at rest in his hand.
"Good boy!" Tim said, pleased and smiling at my show of obedience, and he gently squoze them almost affectionately. Remember, whenever you see any of us cup our hands, you must get your tackle out and put it there."
"Whenever?" I asked, startled.
"Whenever," he repeated, a cold glint of triumph in his steely eye. "Is that clear, Big Boy?"
"Yes," I said with downcast eyes.
"Yes, what?"
There was a sharper tone to his voice.
"Yes, whenever," I said a little confused.
"You must say `yes Sir'," he explained firmly, reprovingly.
My eyes widened.
"We shall go on calling you Sir' in school whenever necessary, but out of school you must always call us Sir'. We are the real Masters now, Big Boy. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I said and, as a questioning eyebrow rose, I quickly added, "Sir."
"Over here, Big Boy!"
I turned to look and saw Phil Marshall standing with a cupped hand. Tim took his hand away and I knew I was being released to a new Master. I walked towards him and gently docked my scrotum into the palm of his hand. Somehow, I found myself almost automatically demurely dropping my eyes. I think it was because I could barely face meeting the scornful triumph in the eyes of boys I had taught off and on for nearly eight years and who now held me in their powerful sway.
"Good boy," he said and also gave me a gentle squeeze.
Geoff Talbot called me across the room to him then, and I had to repeat the demeaning ritual with him, placing the most private and intimate part of me trustingly into his hand.
Tim took charge again by demanding a supermarket polythene shopping bag. I went to the kitchen to get one. Then I was ordered to my bedroom and made to show them my underwear drawer. All my white Y-fronts were immediately confiscated and put in the bag. It is exceedingly embarrassing having comparative strangers sort through such private and normally unseen apparel. I had some French slips I had bought on holiday the summer before last that were very small and summery which were light blue and passed muster with my new Masters. I also had a shiny spandex clinging little number that Rosemary had bought me in a roguish moment and which were a very vivid scarlet. I became most dreadfully self-conscious as these were picked through and commented upon, which seems stupid in retrospect, since I was standing there naked in the first place. This sexy little red number earned a hearty seal of approval and I was under instructions to wear them the next day without fail on pain of another most cringe-making, yet unspecified forfeit.
So, at a stroke, my supply of underwear was reduced to less than half a dozen, the others being thrust into the carrier bag for instant disposal. My pleadings were ignored, and I was informed that shortly I should be taken on compulsory shopping trips to buy more revealingly saucy little numbers and would be subjected forthwith to instant underwear inspections to ensure I was complying with their requirements. Next, all my pyjamas were commandeered as I was informed that henceforth I must sleep entirely naked. I anxiously enquired about holidays and shared facilities, but was told there were to be no exceptions. Any form of night attire, which included the retention of underwear, was forbidden from that moment on.
As all this was going on, periodically one of them would click their fingers, and I would turn to see a cupped hand. Instantly I had to cross over to whoever it was and place my penis and testicles there. Sometimes they would hold their hand a bit higher so I had to stand on tiptoe; sometimes they would hold it down at arm's length so I would have to bend my knees and straddle their open hand most unbecomingly and obscenely. It was as I was standing in this way that Dave whistled from the doorway, having let himself in with their newly acquired key.
"Look who I found skulking in the shrubbery, lads!" he announced.
Shooting a look over my shoulder, I was appalled to see Richard standing alongside him. I shall never forget the expression on his face. It was a mixture of blank amazement, shock, horror and intense embarrassment at my condition. My penis jerked involuntarily in Geoff's hand.
I could taste bitter gall in my throat. If I could have died at that very moment I think I should have counted it a blessing. My whole world went spinning into decline. Here I was, in a state of total and utter degradation, stripped naked by four of my pupils, bare backside towards him, bare knees splayed, obscenely crouching with my fast churning and swelling genitals resting in one of their cupped hands, and faced by a golden-tanned young Adonis, my private pupil who had the hots for me, and who not an hour before had declared undying love.
Mortified with shame, completely naked, and with my genitals being cradled by another's hand, I was forced to stand before the one pupil in whose total respect I had always basked. That, of course, was not the only indignity I was to submit to before his unblinking gaze of disbelief. I had to endure exploring hands running all over my bare skin, probing, plucking, pulling at my chest hair, my nipples. I just had to stand there and take it. I was no longer my own man. I was possessed, owned, the property of others. Richard's stared up and down me, and I could almost feel his looks raining upon my nude body as hotly and shamingly as my antagonists' urine had the night before.
"Well, well, well, this is a turn-up of the book," Tim crowed. "Sick Dick has got up from his bed of pain to come calling on his favourite teacher. Feeling randy, are you, Richard? From the look of your pants, you are."
A quick, involuntary glance alerted me to the fact that Richard was in a similar state of excitement to that he was in, little more than an hour before, when he had confessed that he thought he was in love with me. Guiltily, I looked back into his eyes to read in his expression that he had observed my swift inspection of the state of his embarrassing arousal. I knew he was imploring me to believe it was more than just this between us.
"Sick Dick's prick is thick," Geoff said with a low chuckle as he squoze my testicles.
"He's thrown a boner," Phil added.
Both seemed to consider these remarks the height of sophisticated wit.
In an instant Dave snatched down Richard's elastic-waisted sweatpants. His hands flew to cover himself and he crouched forward protectively. Phil rushed to help and, pinioning him firmly, forcing Richard to stand up straight, enabled Dave to complete his task of yanking them all the way down his golden-tanned legs.
"Just one tiny cotton-picking moment," Tim drawled. "Haven't I seen those underpants before?" He turned towards me, grinning.
Richard went crimson instantly. Glancing at them, I suddenly realised with an almost shocking pang he was wearing mine. He was clad in the pair of Y-fronts I had been forced to relinquish on that first fateful night of my ordeal. I had then been made to don a pair of what turned out to be Richard's turquoise briefs, whilst my pair had been mailed to him anonymously. The fact that he had chosen to surreptitiously wear them - never suspecting for a moment his secret might be so ignominiously laid bare - said much about his feelings for me, and my pulse-rate increased accordingly as I mulled further on these added ramifications.
There was much smutty speculation and still more ribald remarks concerning his sporting my underpants, as he was slowly parted from them along with the rest of his clothing. They were eagerly intent upon him being as nakedly vulnerable as me. As they dragged my underpants off him, his penis smacked loudly against his taut belly. He was ramrod stiff. Unnervingly, I felt my own foreskin roll back of its own accord, rudely exposing my moistly shining and fiercely crimson glans - somehow emphasising my complete and helpless nudity. There was nothing now I could conceal.
"I think they want to wank each other again," Geoff said, gripping my shaft and pumping at it. I began to shiver uncontrollably, and an electric tingle seemed to run down my spine, hitting a spot somewhere high up in the fork of my legs and causing my entire reproductive system to buck in his hand.
"No, please!" Richard begged huskily, still firmly held in a position that thrust his naked loins forward, crudely emphasising his ferociously rampant state.
"Been there, done that, got the t-shirt," Tim said, effecting a mockingly bored tone. "I've a better idea! Let's teach them to do it by numbers," he added with renewed enthusiasm and an almost sadistic leer at us both. He began a low machiavellian chuckle. "And the number I have in mind is . . . . Sixty-nine!"
I hadn't the slightest inkling what he was talking about. Perhaps some of my readers might find that a little hard to believe, but I had had a sheltered, well-bred, middle-class upbringing in provincial, if not entirely rural, surroundings in middle England. I had lost my virginity whilst at university in an embarrassing state of insobriety, so that, whilst not actually drunk, I had not a very clear memory of the fumbled and hurried experience. That was all. Three girlfriends later - chaste relationships, largely, with only the occasional indulgence of pressing or rubbing meaningfully and longingly against each other, more or less fully-clothed - I was ill-experienced in the variety of sex and its terms of description.
I was soon to learn the significance of the number sixty-nine, though.
Forced to the floor first, Richard was propelled alongside and onto his knees also.
"I'm so sorry about this, Alan," he murmured anxiously.
I tried to summon up a smile of consolation. I could tell from his expression he knew what was about to happen. Pride is a strange commodity. Reduced as I was to abject humiliation in my nakedness and unconcealable angry tumescence, I still had sufficient pride to prevent me from revealing my ignorance by asking what `sixty-nine' meant.
So I was led into position comparatively calmly, and the significance of it did not become apparent until Richard was persuaded to shuffle his loins nearer my face. Surely not, I thought in astonished outrage, and then recalled their emptying their bladders over me in the pub' toilets. I groaned libidinously at the sudden sensation of Richard's hot lips and tongue enveloping me, and shuddered with a sort of ecstatic rigor. I think it was this reaction that brought it home to me at last that I had really lost control over my own body. An act was being committed upon me that, had I been told about it beforehand, would have filled me with abhorrence. As it was I was transformed with animal lust.
Tentatively, and with not a few slaps and threats, I moved my head nearer Richard's quivering and drooling organ. I could feel the heat coming off it as it neared my cheek. My teeth were gritted so hard, my jaws were aching. They couldn't make me do this, I told myself. Nothing they could do to me could force me to commit this obscene act upon one of my own students, for heaven's sake.
My mouth shot open with appalled alarm as I felt a finger rudely invade my very last bastion. Outraged at what was surely the ultimate indignity that could be perpetrated upon my person, I allowed my mouth to be invaded. Surely, this was better than to have my rear-end invaded, albeit with Tim Robey's finger which had touched me there and pressed to achieve the trigger effect he had wanted.
Having Richard's penis in my mouth was not as repellent as one might have imagined. All sorts of thoughts had gone racing through my mind about the taste of urine, the pubic hair. The fact that he was enjoying the sensation became immediately clear. I heard a groan being emitted from his mouth full of mine, and I got a sudden salty taste upon my tongue as I felt it move and stiffen still further in my mouth. I could not take it all. As he involuntarily reared against me, the head of his penis touched the back of my throat making me retch and gag. As it was, I was writhing and almost out of control at the sensation of his tongue and the tickling of his teeth. Had we been alone, had he not been a pupil of mine, it would have been a moment of sheer ecstasy. As it was, with an audience of my pupils urging us on to a shaming orgasm in each others' mouths, forcibly stripped and demeaned in this way, it was a nightmare.
I have read through what I just wrote and am astonished at the sentiment expressed about the sensation perhaps having been sheer ecstasy in other circumstances. I cannot believe that I, an ordinary, god-fearing heterosexual could confess this, and yet I am trying to be totally honest. Am I, I wonder, being totally honest with myself when I call myself heterosexual? Is there some latent homosexuality within us all that, when triggered by some emotional need, seeks fulfilment and our basest urges hold sway over our natural inclinations of revulsion?
I was not revolted. My initial repulsion at the prospect of what was being demanded of me quickly dissolved. As Richard's leg wrapped over me, I shivered with joy at the sensation of his hairy inner thigh against my cheek, the sensation of his warmly moist and hairy scrotum sagging over the bridge of my nose. I wrapped my arm round his torso, clasped a handful of his buttock flesh and palpated it with my fingers. He groaned again and released another salty advance. The sensation of his hot and pulsing organ bucking in my mouth was strangely exhilarating and heady. The cruel eye of the video camera invaded our private elation, as did the flash of the still camera as it intrusively recorded further damning evidence against me - more ammunition to ensure my further enslavement.
As I sucked on the eighteen-year-old Adonis's engorged and magnificent weapon, buried almost up to the hilt in my cheek, and as he tantalised mine with the hard tip of his tongue trying to invade the gaping hole of my urethra, I shuddered almost pre-orgasmically. In what surely should have been an intense moment of pure and exultant euphoria, I was assailed with thoughts and fears of what lay ahead before my tyrants tired of their abusive power. What further degradation would be heaped upon me as they sought to reduce me to total and utter subservience? Less than a week ago I was their Master. Now the tables had been turned beyond all credibility. They were my Masters now, and I, their cringing slave!