Date: Fri, 12 Apr 2002 16:12:57 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning (Chapter One) [Gay - Authoritarian]

THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING  	Chapter One - The
Birthday Party

Perhaps, upon reflection, it had been unwise of me to
accept the invitation in the first place. After all,
what had a man of my age in common with a bunch of
sixth-formers anyway? I suppose I had been flattered
to be asked. Yes, that was it. How many of my
colleagues, I wondered to myself, would have received
such an invitation in the first place? Precious few, I
was certain of that. Preening myself over my
popularity in having earned such an accolade, I
allowed myself to accept magnanimously, mentally
assuring (or perhaps reassuring) myself that I would
leave around eleven, or at any rate definitely before
midnight.

Of course, the fact that Richard had been receiving
private tutelage from me for the past two terms, and
that the invitation was to a party to mark his
eighteenth birthday did much to assuage any natural
disinclination I might have had about attending. That
I had already been present at a small and intimate
dinner party en famille, so to speak, to which only
close and valued friends had been invited was pleasing
enough. This fact I had cited when handed the
invitation to the "Eighteenth Bash" by Richard as he
had distributed them to the entire tutor group that
fateful morning. Perhaps I had demurred too much,
secretly wanting to earn their entreaties to
reconsider. My hollow protestations of "you don't want
an old man like me spoiling your fun," were met with
cheerful cries of "Oh come on, Sir! Let your hair
down! Be one of the lads for once in your life!" I
wavered noticeably, and as I did so they renewed their
efforts to persuade me. After all, it was the end of
term, and furthermore, when I inadvertently let slip
that the party night coincidentally happened to be
upon my own birthday and that I had no other plans as
to how to spend it, then all excuses were overruled
and I found myself overwhelmed by a tide of
backslapping hearties assuring me that it would be my
best birthday ever.

Perhaps the prospect of leaving my twenties forever on
that very day encouraged me to indulge myself in this
last youthful fling before settling down to a life of
middle-aged, middle-class respectability. Mind you,
they were right. I had always been conservative in
both outlook and dress - old before my time, an
ex-girlfriend had once opined hoping to get a rise out
of me. I think I was secretly flattered. I had gained
a certain kudos at university for my fogeyishness,
which I must confess was studied and cultivated -
perhaps as a cover to conceal the real me. Perhaps I
had been too successful. People had stopped trying to
find the real me. Even me! I enjoyed a certain
notoriety at school with my old-fashioned ways and
mild eccentricities. The fact that I always referred
to the boys - even the eleven-year-olds  - as
"Gentlemen", and was the only member of staff who
called them by their surnames (until they were in the
Upper Sixth and in my own Tutor Group) was often
remarked upon with amusement by both pupils and
colleagues. But, for all that, I know I commanded
respect. And it has been the loss of that which has
been the hardest for me to bear.

But I run ahead of myself. Richard had already shown
he had a natural aptitude for my subject at GCSE
level, and romped through with an A star grade, having
found the whole thing "a doddle", to use his own
vernacular. His lazy, devil-may-care attitude did not
lend itself to the more searching aspects of Advanced
Level study, however, and he soon fell back
alarmingly, went to pieces completely in fact, and
floundered hopelessly in end-of-term First Year Sixth
exams. His worried parents sought me out on Parents'
Evening and prevailed upon me to indulge their boy
with extra tuition. I do not normally accept private
pupils, but this appeal arose at a time when I had
just overstretched myself by putting a deposit upon a
larger model car than, in truth, I could afford, so
the extra cash would come in handy. Rosemary had just
thrown me over, furthermore, so I had time to fill.
Thirdly, their son Richard was a personable boy with
whom I had struck up an agreeable rapport despite his
initial indolence. I accepted their entreaty with
unaccustomed enthusiasm for the task, and progress was
pleasingly evident from the start. He was a delightful
young man to have as a pupil -quick-witted, charming,
and extremely good-looking. During our sessions it was
easy to build a relaxed and informal atmosphere
throughout which we could behave as intimate friends,
and many a spirited discussion ensued with both of us
enjoying the cut and thrust of lively and entertaining
debate. Many a time, after he had gone, or on my
journey home, if we had had a session at his parents',
I found myself laughing out loud as I recalled some
riposte with which he had come up. All in all, I was
getting as much out of these private lessons as was
Richard.

To the boy's lasting good grace, he never took
advantage of our relaxed intimacies in the classroom,
reverting easily to respectful student, not seeking
special treatment in any way. As time had passed and
as a measure of gratitude from his parents I had been
invited for a meal on several occasions - particularly
if our sessions were at their home, and as we became
more friendly then, of course, they called me Alan.
Richard had called me by my first name too upon one
occasion, earning a blistering look from his father,
but I had been quick to come to his rescue. I argued
that since I was permitted to call them Donald and
Angela when they were both a good deal older than me,
surely, in the intimacy of their own home, Richard
could be afforded the same privilege of my first name,
the age difference between us being somewhat less.
Never once did he take advantage of that throughout
this period, always referring to me as "Sir" or "Mr
Watson" in school. Up until the night of the party,
that is.

Donald had taken the Banqueting Suite at the rather
exclusive country club of which he was a council
member for his son's Eighteenth. It consisted of a
lounge cocktail bar in which most of Donald and
Angela's friends were collected, that led onto the
actual banqueting room itself in which the magnificent
buffet was laid out, and the large circular tables to
which we would all go with our heaped-up plates. Off
that room was the "function room", smaller, darker,
hotter, in which the young ones gyrated to mindless
and deafening noise before a phalanx of enormous
speakers and a battery of blinding incandescence. All
three rooms, forming three sides of a square, opening
out onto a tiled lido and floodlit pool - more of
which later.

Of course, I was in something of a quandary as to my
position at this party. I had been Donald and Angela's
guest at the dinner party for family and close friends
held a fortnight earlier in Richard's honour, but
tonight I was Richard's guest. My allegiance should be
to him. My natural inclination was to the quieter bar
area. Suffice it to say that Richard himself was
sensitive to my situation and, probably taking his cue
from the pained expression upon my face, as my ears
were assaulted by such cacophony, he led me through to
the bar and up to Donald's party.

"Dad," he said, "Alan's had enough of us for a while.
Why don't you buy him a birthday drink?" It said much
about the boy that he had remembered it was my
birthday too, I thought to myself warmly, little
realising how much the consideration of it being my
birthday had preyed upon his mind.

When the buffet was served, we all made our way
through to the banqueting room. Six chefs, all in
their white finery, were on duty to carve the viands
freshly for each guest. One of them said: "Hello, Sir"
almost shyly and lavished very nearly half a filleted
salmon upon my plate. I recognised the face from a
classroom of not more than five years back but could
not put a name to him, and bluffed my way round it
calling him "my dear boy" in a rather theatrical
fashion for which I was reputed. I was somewhat
surprised to discover that a place of honour was
reserved for me upon the birthday boy's very own
table, at which were sitting most of my Tutor Group
and their partners for the evening. I was duly
introduced to each girl by their proud suitors, the
reason for my presence being explained to them,
putting all modesty aside, because I was, in their
considered opinion, the best teacher in the school.
Richard's girlfriend, Alyson, was a mousy little
thing. What he saw in her, I could not imagine.
However, as the meal progressed, it became clear to me
that little Alyson was made of sterner stuff than I
had imagined initially, and was more than prepared to
make the entire running herself.

After everybody had paid at least two visits to the
very generous buffet, and also had partaken of the
exotic array of desserts, as the coffee was served and
orders had been taken for liqueurs, I was a touch
disconcerted to feel a hand upon my shoulder, and,
upon turning round, to find a female police officer at
my side.

"Alan Watson?" she asked. I admitted the fact. "I am
here to caution you, and to warn you that anything you
say may be taken down and given in evidence," she
announced rather loudly. I felt myself beginning to
blush, aware that a hush had fallen upon the room and
that all eyes were upon me.

"What am I supposed to have done?" I asked rather
nervously.

I honestly cannot remember how the dialogue progressed
from there. All I can remember is the burning sense of
horror that overcame me as I realised, with the
tearing sound of velcro as the woman tore open her
tunic, that I was the unsuspecting victim of a
strip-a-gram. I sat there mortified and almost
terminally self-conscious as she writhed in front of
me, ripped off her skirt and straddled me, leaning
forward to bounce her barely-concealed bosoms off my
scarlet face as she peeled off her blouse. She placed
a high-heeled shoe upon my thigh and invited me to
remove a crimson garter from her black stocking top.

"With your teeth, love," she instructed as I
sheepishly began to obey. I ignored her and continued
to do so with trembling fingers, endeavouring to keep
skin contact to the absolute minimum. Cameras flashed.
Boys hooted in bovine mirth. Women cackled, screamed
and clapped. Men leered and whistled, thumped the
tables and stamped on the floor. With a foolish rictus
grin set upon my scarlet features, I tried to carry it
off with good grace as cameras flashed to record my
ignominy. She sat upon my knee and  straddled me
suggestively, her fingers creeping beneath my shirt. I
clutched at her with alarm and tried to stand. The
creature had enough about her to realise I was not
enjoying my ordeal and, after planting a couple of
juicy and vivid lipstick stained kisses upon my face,
left me alone to face the roars and derision of the
entire assembly exultant in my humiliation.

I soon learned that this excruciatingly tasteless
episode had been Donald's little treat, and I somewhat
dazedly accepted his son's rueful apology upon his
father's behalf. Donald was still braying with asinine
laughter at my expense far across the room. I excused
myself from the table with as good a grace as I could
muster and went to the Gents' to clean myself up, tuck
myself in, comb my hair and generally make myself look
less ruffled with indignity. I remember noting that I
was actually trembling as a result of the humiliating
experience. Glancing at my watch, I tried to convince
myself that it was not too early for me to thank my
hosts, say goodnight to Richard and then make a
diplomatic withdrawal. The night was indeed still
young.

Returning to the table, I leant towards Richard's ear
to apprise him of my decision to make an early
departure.

"No!" he said quite loudly, causing conversation in
the immediate vicinity of our table to cease. "No, you
can't go yet! Is this because of Dad's tacky little
joke? I told him I didn't think you'd like that sort
of thing!"

I tried to assure him that my going had nothing to do
with that incident, but could see he didn't believe
me.

"Oh, Sir!" chorused my  Tutor Group. "You can't go
yet."

"Oh, Mr Watson, I was so looking forward to having a
dance with you," tried the winsome Alyson, with a
little smile across at Richard to see if she was
earning brownie points.

"Look, just because you're mad at Dad, don't go,
please. Come back into our room. I'll even get the DJ
to turn the sound down a bit."

Richard looked so eager to make amends for what he
clearly saw as his parent's lack of good taste that I
found it difficult to refuse his proffered invitation
to reconsider."

"Well, just for a little while longer," I smiled with
a glance at my wristwatch.

As I write this, I tremble and groan inwardly as I
record with hindsight how much I was to regret my
change of decision.

I am not a dancer.

I danced firstly with Angela, who apologised both on
behalf of  her husband for the stripper-gram, and
wanting me to know that her son had in no way
associated himself with what had happened. She said
she hoped it would not affect the very real friendship
she felt we had built up over the past twelve months.
I smiled thinly and said I hoped not too.

I danced secondly with Alyson, who coyly informed me
that I was Richard's favourite schoolmaster and that
he was always singing my praises to her and that he
admired me enormously. I smiled thinly again and said
I was gratified.

After that, when the DJ started silly games in the
midst of the dance floor, things got rather too lively
for me and I retreated to the disco bar where Richard
plied me with large gin and tonics in between his
other duties as host, and indeed enjoying his own
eighteenth party. Time crawled by. At one point I was
convinced my watch battery had failed me, as it
appeared to stand completely still. He really was
concerned for me and very attentive, constantly
returning to where I stood and begging me to stay. I
had been trying to hear what he was shouting in my ear
above the din and the strident tones of the DJ when I
heard Richard scream "What the fucking hell.....?" and
turned to see him lifted off his feet.

As I watched in a state of mesmerised alarm, I saw his
shoes go flying, and as he flailed to gain control
amidst a sea of equally flailing arms, my heart began
to pound as I beheld whooping hearties tugging at his
belt and trouser fastenings. With high-pitched screams
of girlish glee, the repellent Alyson jumped up and
down clapping her hands together as Richard's trousers
were hauled down his legs, torn off his stocked feet
and swiftly thrown across the room to the DJ.
Blushing, and with as good a grace as he could muster,
Richard stood protectively clutching his silk
patterned boxer shorts as teasing hands darted out to
tweak his shirt tails whilst loudly appealing for the
return of his trousers. I remember he looked so
helpless, so vulnerable at that moment - so young and
insecure. I was so discomfited for him.

With a growing sense of alarm and, I have to confess,
also a sense of mesmerizing excitement  I felt my
heart lurch when it quickly became apparent that the
revellers were not going to be content with their
trophy of Richard's trousers alone. Whipped up into a
frenzy bordering on hysteria when reminded of the pool
outside by the oafish DJ, they fell upon Richard with
renewed vigour and, raising him prone above their
heads, began to process towards the lido area,
divesting him of his dinner jacket as they went. I
found myself straining to watch, fascinated almost
like a rabbit in headlights, as his white dress shirt
was torn from his well-developed torso. I craned in an
effort for a better view as blood pulsed almost
painfully in my temples, and I watched in horror as
his boxer shorts were stripped from him, as were his
black socks. Naked, save for his bow tie, he was
propelled forcibly into the pool. Cameras flashed,
crowds surged forward, including me, for a better
view. I was appalled with myself.

All too slowly did I realise my own growing
vulnerability.

"And there's some other bloke here whose birthday it
is today, I believe!" the DJ announced remorselessly.

With a trumpeting sound I was grabbed. My shirt was
torn open and buttons flew before my feet had even
left the ground.

No, p-p-please," I stammered nervously, horrified at
my rude exposure, as I felt eager fingers feverishly
working at my trouser waistband.

I was terrified.

Quickly and unceremoniously divested of all my outer
clothing, I almost bleated with fear as I felt the
elastic waistband of my conservative white briefs
being stretched over my buttocks as they were being
dragged down and off.

"Remember, lads, he is your teacher," I heard Donald's
voice shout a warning note. Fingers faltered. My
underpants stayed on.

The water stung as it smacked my rudely bared flesh
and it seemed to knock all the air out of me. I
struggled to the surface  blindly coughing and
spitting and retching and believing I had swallowed
half the pool.

I am an atrocious swimmer, and I panic very easily if
I am out of my depth.

"Help! I cant sw....!" was all I could manage before I
submerged again.

However, my cries went unheeded amidst the baying and
whooping of the drink-befuddled revellers basking in
our discomfiture. Richard was the first to realise my
predicament though and ploughed through the water to
me. My heart leapt as I saw his naked penis pass my
cheek before I felt him take hold of me. I felt his
hairy scrotum brush my naked thigh as he lifted me to
the surface. He hugged me and I clung to him as I
raked in lungfuls of air.

"Are you all right, Alan?" he asked, real concern
showing on his face.

"I'm not a good swimmer," I confessed between belches
and hiccups, my teeth starting to chatter.

Holding me with one arm round my chest - his thumb on
my  right nipple, my legs wrapped round one of his
long well-muscled bronze ones, his penis and testicles
lolling against my inner thigh - he effortlessly
propelled me towards the stone steps. He swept me into
his arms and with his other arm under my thighs,
carried me up and out of the water to cheers, applause
and wolf-whistles and a barrage of camera flashes. A
flustered Angela and a staff member from the club held
out towels for us.

We were both escorted to a guestroom and told to
shower and wait whilst our clothes were collected.
Richard kept apologising for the indignities to which
I had been subjected and I did what I could to assure
him that in my eyes no blame attached itself to him.
Somewhat mollified, he went and had a shower while I
wriggled out of my wet underpants under the towel. I
was flustered and embarrassed. Tangled up in the
clinging moist fabric of my soaked underpants was a
reaction I could not easily explain away. I fervently
hoped that it had not been noticeable to my rescuer as
I clung to his naked body when he propelled me through
the water. Glancing up, I caught him standing in the
bathroom looking at me. He was naked. Somehow even
more so, since he had removed the absurd bow tie left
on by his strippers. The towel was hanging up by the
shower door. My eyes automatically dropped to his
waist. Horrified with myself at this reaction from me,
I looked guiltily back at his face. He smiled openly
at me, then slowly turned to step into the shower. My
eyes shot down again to look at his magnificently firm
bottom. I wondered what I could read into the
expression of his face at the moment my eyes had
looked back into his. The word enigmatic sprang to
mind. I shuddered appalled.


	*			*			*

I was listening to a Promenade Concert being broadcast
live from the Royal Albert Hall when I heard the clang
of my letterbox in the hall. Leaving the sitting room
door open so I could still hear, I went to pick up a
medium-sized manila envelope lying on the tiled floor
in the vestibule. Only mildly curious, I opened the
flap and drew out a photograph. From that moment I
might have been struck deaf for I never heard another
note the BBC Symphony Orchestra played that night. It
was as though my ears were underwater again. I stared
in horror. My temples were drumming painfully as if
about to burst. My eyeballs were hot. My chest ached,
my throat burned.

There, staring at me from out of the photograph was a
bronzed and naked Richard stepping out of the pool
carrying me. I, of course, was also embarrassingly
naked but for a pair of soaking white briefs. I
noticed with stark dismay that the underpants had been
made almost translucent by the water, and clearly
revealed I had a horrifyingly rampant erection. There
was no disguising it. There was no ignoring it. It was
blatantly self-announcing. I was portrayed gazing
adoringly at the naked Adonis who had just saved me,
and my basic urges were on display for all to see. The
picture had captured Richard with his thigh raised and
consequently obscuring his naked impedimenta as he
stepped from the water. The way his arm thrust my
thighs forward, however, made my embarrassing
tumescence the main feature of the picture. It hit you
right between the eyes!

I clasped my mouth in horror. My heart was pounding.
This was simply mortifying. Slowly my mind came out of
paralysis. I turned the photograph over. Nothing. I
looked at the envelope. Nothing. I sat down numbly,
staring at the photograph. I angrily adjusted my
position and myself as I experienced a sympathetic
arousal from just looking at the scene. I studied the
faces of the spectators enjoying every moment. It was
clearly obvious from the expressions of surprised
glee, and indeed some pointing fingers, that my
excited condition had not been overlooked. If
anything, the glossy wet underpants emphasised and
exaggerated the erection showing darkly ruby through
the translucent fabric. For the first time in my life
I felt myself regret the size of my appendage.

This was simply horrendous. Who had sent me this
photograph? Why was there no message with it? Was it a
student of mine? My mind buzzed feverishly over this
and other points when I suddenly became aware of the
telephone ringing. I got up and moved to the wireless,
turning the unheard concert off before picking up the
telephone receiver.

"Hallo, big boy," came a throaty whisper followed by a
bit of a chuckle. "My, my, you are a big boy too,
aren't you?"

"Who is this?" I asked crisply. The stab of pain in my
chest nearly took my breath away.

"Ah, that's for me to know and you to wonder, big
boy." The throaty voice took on a teasing singsong
sort of cadence.

"What is it you want?" I managed between gasps.

"I want to know what you think of the photograph."

"What photograph?" I bluffed.

"The photograph I pushed through your letterbox not
more than five minutes ago," came the crowing
response.

"Look who is this? I really don't have time to indulge
in childish guessing games!" I said with more than a
touch of asperity. I marvelled at the control in my
voice.

"What a pompous prat you are! Aren't you? I wonder if
you'll be quite so cocky when your cock goes on public
display."

"I'm going to hang up," I tried.

"You hang up and that photo gets sent all over. To the
headmaster, all school notice boards, pupils and the
local press!" The tone had hardened somewhat.

I froze.

Silent moments passed.

"You still there?"

I cleared my throat.

"Yes. What exactly is all this?"

"You still sound far too pompous, you know."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to."

"Yeah, well, we'll have to alter that, won't we, big
boy?"

"About the photograph. Why on earth do you imagine I
should bother myself over threats of copies being sent
to the headmaster, for heaven's sake?"

"Seen you with a stiffy before, has he?"

"I beg your pardon?" I felt myself blush, horrified at
such a prospect.

"A hard-on, a woody, a stiff prick?" The synonyms were
offered in a patronising tone. "Has he seen your nice
big cock before either flaccid or rampant?"

"No, of course not!" Nobody had ever talked to me,
about me, in such terms.

"So you're not in the habit of going into his study,
then, and getting your old man out and flashing it
about a bit, then?"

"This is ridiculous!"

"And embarrassing, I would have thought? Particularly
since you are all but stark bollock naked in the arms
of one of your students."

"What is it that you want?" I said in a resigned tone.

"That's better. Now you're talking, big boy," said the
throaty whispering voice with another chuckle. "I
think we need to have a little talk first. Just to see
how co-operative you are going to be."

"If this is blackmail, I warn you I'll have no truck
with it. I shall go straight to the pol..." I began
angrily.

"Look at the expression on your face in the photograph
as you're gazing adoringly at your young lifesaver.
Look at the size of your excited cock as he holds you
in his naked arms. I don't think the subject of such a
pornographic photo should be quite so quick to go
running to the police, do you? I'm sure there'd be an
awful lot of difficult questions to answer for a
start." The sinister singsong tone was in evidence
again.

I was trembling now.

"Look I am not a wealthy man . . . "

"Did I say anything about wanting money?" The voice
cut me off.

"No, but . . . as I say, I am not going to pay you to
keep . . ."

"Did I say anything about money?" the voice repeated
more firmly, cutting in again.

"No. . ."

"That's right. It's your body we're after, big boy -
not your money." He laughed at his own joke.
"Especially that poker you keep down the front of your
jockey shorts!"

"I'm not going to listen to any more of this!" I said
suddenly. It was too mortifying by far.

"That's fine by me, but just think on. It's your
decision and you will be the victim of your own
consequences."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Just a brief meeting now, and the photograph goes no
further."

"Now?" I glanced at my watch. It was almost eight
o'clock. "Where?"

"I was conscious of the fact that a murmured
conversation was taking place at the other end of the
telephone, a hand clamped over the mouthpiece.

"Look out of your window," came the order. I did. "Can
you see the white box van in the street outside?" I
answered in the affirmative. "Come out to it now and
knock on the back door."

My caller hung up.

I stood transfixed. My brain seethed. My first thought
was to ring the police, but then my caller's softly
whispered description of what implication the police
might read into the photograph gave me pause.  I
dialled 1471. The patronising recorded voice told me
that the caller had withheld their number. I was not
surprised.

I went to the window and looked up and down the road.
It was deserted. The lonely large white van took on
quite a sinister air as it stood malevolently by the
kerb. Was this some sort of trap, I wondered? What was
the worst possible scenario? Murder? Why? Robbery?
What for? I emptied my pockets, turned out the light,
closed the sitting room door and, with heart beating
ominously, stepped out of my front door. Taking care
to conceal my door key so as not to have it upon my
person, I tentatively approached the van.

Everything was uncannily silent as if waiting. I
cleared my throat and strained to hear any noise from
inside the van. I tiptoed past to glance in the cab.
It was empty. No key was in the ignition. I tiptoed
back to the rear of the van and stepped off the kerb.
My heart was thumping now, almost audibly. Looking
around the deserted road, I appeared to be unobserved.
I raised a knuckle to the metal door and tapped three
times, retreating a couple of paces instantly.

The door opened as I did so. I peered into the
darkness past the shadowy figure.

"Hallo, big boy. You took your time, didn't you?"

"Are you alone?" I asked nervously.

"'Fraid so. It all depends how this little meeting
goes whether you get to meet the gang."

I strained to identify him. He was obviously
disguising his voice and it was too dark to make him
out.

"Welcome aboard," he said with a sweeping arm gesture.

"I'm not getting in there," I said. "There could be
somebody else lurking somewhere who'd jump in and
drive me off."

"You're right. There could be," he agreed. "But
there's not."

"Huh, I've only your word for that," I added
sceptically.

"It happens to be the truth, though. Look, you've got
to get in. We can't have our brief chat in the street
now, can we?"

The slight emphasis on the word "brief" was only
tangible in retrospect. It was also only the second
time he had used it. So what may have already sounded
alarm bells in the mind of a perceptive reader, passed
me by innocently enough.

It was impasse. We stood there looking at each other.
I sized him up considering whether I could resist any
attempt from him to overpower me.

"Are you unarmed?" I asked a trifle fatuously.

"On this trip, yes. I left the Kalashnikov on the
hallstand," he said mockingly.

It worked.

"I can't see. It's so dark," I said, wavering
slightly.

"Come in and I'll turn on the light," he responded
reasonably enough.

"Why don't you turn it on now?"

"And arouse neighbours' curiosity as to why that nice
Mr Watson is getting into the back of a parked van
with a strange man and closing the door? Somehow, I
don't think you'd like to be the object of such
speculation and gossip, otherwise you wouldn't be here
now trying to suppress the widespread distribution of
photos of your thinly disguised rampant manhood."

Spurred into action by this last remark, I glanced
around to reassure myself I was unobserved by
curtain-twitching neighbours before stepping up beside
him into the back of the van. He closed the door
softly and switched on the light.

I gasped in shock. He was wearing black trousers, a
black polo neck, black gloves and a black balaclava
such as skiers and bank robbers wear with little
eyeholes. His identity was totally secure - or at
least I thought so initially.

"Don't worry, I'm really quite cuddly under all this
lot, big boy," he said almost self-mockingly in an
attempt to ease the tension. "Now why don't you sit
down and relax?" He gestured towards an old armchair
covered in red faded moquette and with the obvious
signs of cat's claw damage on the right hand side.

I moved forward nervously, skirting him carefully and
never for a moment breaking eye-contact, then sat, and
he pulled up a kitchen upright spindle-backed chair
painted in badly chipped black gloss paint, and sat
opposite me leaning his forearms on his knee.

"Now let's get down to business straightaway, shall
we? No more pussyfooting about, eh? What d'you think,
big boy?" He was smiling. That much I could tell.

I stared at him, searching for any clue as to the
identity. The pale hazelly brownish greeny eyes were
vaguely familiar, I imagined; certainly not enough
evidence though. The lips, emphasised unduly and
looking an unnatural pink in contrast to the black
wool surround of the masking, were no help at all. The
assumed husky voice was not as obscure as it had been
on the telephone and was virtually accentless.

"I said I wanted a brief chat with you, and that's
exactly what I'm going to do - chat about briefs. You
don't want that embarrassing and very revealing photo
of you in your briefs to be circulated. Right? And my
client doesn't want to circulate it  - or, indeed, any
of these other ones either."

So saying, he produced a dozen or so equally revealing
snapshots of me being so degradingly stripped at the
party, my naked buttocks clearly on view as my
underpants had been tugged down at the back, on their
way off before Donald's intervention on my behalf,
together with an enlarged close-up of my very visible
genitals through the wet fabric of the white briefs.
The look of abject horror must have been etched upon
my face.

"Don't look so downcast, big boy," my blackmailer
said. "There is a way out of this."

"What?" I asked, stunned.

"My client wants to strike a deal. No circulation of
the briefs photo if he gets the briefs."

I didn't understand and looked blankly at him.

"He wants your knickers, big boy. You turned him on."

My unbelieving lips began to form the shape of the
word "who".

"Ah, that must remain a secret for the immediate
present. But that's basically the deal. You give him a
pair of your briefs and the pics stay unpublished."

"Unpublished?" I echoed foolishly.

"Yes, he was going to put you on the World Wide Web,
big boy. You were going to have your very own page and
your own Internet address circulated to all your
friends and pupils."

"No!" I said, aghast.

" 'Fraid so. Unless he gets your knickers, that is."

I searched his unblinking eyes, which looked
unnaturally small behind the facemask, and reached a
decision.

"What guarantee do I get that this person will keep
his word?" I wanted to know.

"You don't. You'll just have to chance it. But I
guarantee that your Internet page will be up and
running before midnight , and a set of pics
hand-delivered to the headmaster as well, if you don't
let my client have a pair of your underpants now."

"Very well, I have no choice but to give you the
benefit of the doubt," I said after a brief pause, my
mind in a turmoil and unable to see an alternative,
rising to my feet.

I know I should have brazened it out with a
Wellingtonian cry of "Go, do your worst! Publish, and
the consequences be damned!" but the thoughts of
having to live with jeers and sniggers - assuming no
further or unpleasant connotations were drawn - were
too horrible to contemplate. I did not want those
explicitly embarrassing photographs to be seen by any
more than had already done so, or who had been present
at the party in the first place. That word-of-mouth
gossip in itself would be bad enough to live down.

"Just a minute. Where are you going?" my blackmailer
asked, standing also.

"I'm going to get a pair of my underwear," I said
coldly, turning to face him from the door.

"Oh no! You don't understand. My client doesn't want
just any old pair of your underpants. He wants the
pair you are wearing."

"In the photograph, you mean?" I asked blankly.

"No. Now."

"Now?"

"Now."

"But . . ." I floundered weakly.

"I tell you, big boy, my client has got the hots for
you really bad. And when he says he wants a fresh pair
of your knickers, he doesn't mean he wants a brand
spanking clean pair. No. He wants to sniff them. He
wants to be able to smell you in them."

My heart missed a beat. I heard a sudden roaring sound
in my ears. I was speechless; immobile. My brain
seethed. Amidst all this, I became aware of a small
but distinct physical change in part of my anatomy.

"I'll go and change, then," I murmured, my voice
barely above a whisper, and avoiding meeting his beady
eyes staring at me through the eyeholes of his ski
hat.

He laid a restraining hand upon my chest.

"Uh-oh," he said. "You change here."

I looked at him then, wondering if he could hear my
heartbeat too..

"Here?" I said, wide-eyed.

"Here," he repeated.

"In front of you?"

"In front of me," he confirmed matter-of-factly.

I swallowed hard. I was sure I was already colouring
up. Burning up, in fact.

With a heavy sigh of resignation as I glanced again at
the pile of demeaning photographs, my heavy hands
lifted to the front of my trousers and began to
unfasten them as I kicked off my slip-on shoes.

This was the moment of my defeat. I had succumbed to
an authority other than mine own. My fate was surely
sealed from this point on. There could be no turning
back.

Self-consciously bending forward, head low, clutching
my shirt tail to me, I stepped out of my trousers,
reluctantly letting him take them from me, as with one
hand holding the front of my shirt down, I dragged
down my underpants with the other. Even with the
precautions I took for my modesty, the head of my
slightly stiffened penis momentarily peeped between
the flap of my shirttails as I stepped out of my
briefs and handed them over.

"Here. Put these on."

"What are they?" I asked rather foolishly as I stared
at a pair of minuscule shiny satin briefs in a vivid
and almost iridescent aquamarine.

"They are my client's. He wants you to accept them as
a token of his word and the bond now being struck
between you. As he said, exchange is no robbery. Put
them on. He wants a piccy of you wearing them."

I stared at him thunderstruck.

"You never mentioned that before," I said with
justifiable anger, then realised how foolish I felt
standing there, naked from the waist down, arguing
with a masked man.

Snatching the tiny garment from him, I pulled it up.
The back was little more than a thong. The low slung
pouch began only at the root of my penis leaving all
my pubic hair out on show. I was forced to accede to
his demands that I pose for both a rear shot and a
frontal with my shirt pulled up until my nipples were
exposed, he insisted, before my trousers were returned
to me. Sullenly, I refused any further dialogue and
demanded to be released now I had carried out my part
of the bargain, and stating that I hoped "his client"
would keep the other part. I managed to muster as much
distaste and scorn as possible when I said "your
client".

I curled my lip with distaste as he sniffed my
recently removed underwear before dropping it into a
polythene bag. With the light turned out, he opened
the back door of the van and we both got out.

"Doubtless, we'll be in touch," he said airily, as he
walked to the driver's door and got in.

"Please, don't bother," I said with icy and sarcastic
disdain.

"Oh it's no bother," he said brightly. "In fact it's
been a pleasure."

The engine started, and with a cheery wave he drove
off down the road.

I opened my front door and stopped to look at myself
in the full-length mirror on the wall. There was an
unaccustomed sparkle in my eye I could not account
for. Without quite realising what I was doing before I
had done it, I had dropped my trousers then and there
and holding my shirttails high - above my nipples, in
fact - I examined the overall effect. They were very
revealing, leaving nothing whatever to the
imagination. I turned and looked over my shoulder. The
display of naked buttock was almost obscene. I turned
again and watched in hypnotic fascination as my penis
filled and rose, as if with a mind of its own, to peek
over the extremely low slung waistband. Disgusted with
the offending garment, and myself I snatched them off
then and there and walked swiftly to my bedroom to put
on a proper pair. I paused, guiltily, and, not in
front of a mirror, sniffed the crotch of the tiny
pants.

I think it was from this moment - although I was not
yet to recognise the fact - that I was hooked.