Date: Tue, 30 Apr 2002 23:06:03 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning (Chapter Thirteen) [Gay - Authoritarian]

THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING

[THE STORY SO FAR - Under threat of blackmail, English
public schoolmaster, Alan Watson, has had to face a
barrage of humiliating ordeals both in private and in
public. Forced to accept completely debasing mastery
by a number of his tutor group, the thirty-year-old
has been stripped, abused, urinated upon, deprived of
clothing and now demeaningly has had his manhood
shaved.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN  -  Something for the weekend

I had a bite to eat in town, as much as anything so
that I could keep my clothes on. My orders would have
meant me being naked if I had returned home for lunch.
I spent much of the early afternoon pottering in the
back garden for the very same reason, putting off for
as long as possible the time I must spend in
vulnerable nudity.

"So, this is where you are!"

I looked up to see Dave Newman, hands on hips,
regarding me from the side passage.

"We've been ringing the doorbell and wondering where
you'd got to."

"I was just doing a spot of tidying up in the back
garden," I needlessly explained.

"You're wearing far too much."

My heart missed a beat.

"Surely, you don't expect me to be naked outdoors
too!" I exclaimed, dropping my voice though.

"That is just what we expect, but you may rest assured
we'll be discreet. Not here, for instance. We don't
want to frighten the neighbours, do we, Big Boy?"

I glanced up at next door's back bedroom window to see
that I was being closely observed by old Mrs Wilkinson
and her daughter Dottie, obviously freshly back from
shopping and clearly reliving the moment when the
mother  had seen more of me than she had ever thought
feasible. I felt fairly certain that neither lady
would be in the slightest frightened at the prospect
of seeing me completely naked, though I was not going
to volunteer that information for fear my masters may
put it to the test.

"Anyway, come on. We're going  shopping," Dave added.

"Where?" I asked.

"That's for us to know, and for you to find out," he
remarked smugly, tapping the side of his nose and
winking conspiratorially.

I meekly followed him to the front door where Tim was
waiting.

"Aha!" he said with a languid smile. "How very
predictable you are! We said you'd be doing something
like this to keep your clothes on. That's why we've
devised this little plan to deprive you of them.
You're to come with us now."

My mind was churning as I stepped into the back of the
car. What further humiliation was in store for me, I
wondered?

Tim let the passenger seat down again and got in. Dave
was already in the driving seat and turned the key in
the ignition. As the car engine started, Tim glanced
back over his shoulder.

"Trousers off, Big Boy, You know the drill."

I gasped. Did they expect me to take my trousers off
and travel without them in broad daylight in an
ordinary saloon car?

"I thought that was just in the van, Sir," I ventured.

"Well, you thought wrong!" Tim said, clicking his
fingers impatiently for me to hand the offending
garment over.

Hotly embarrassed and with an air of resignation I
unfastened my trousers and wriggled them down off my
bottom. I froze.

"What about buses and high vehicles?" I asked.

"What about them?"

"Well, they'll be able to see into the car. So will
pedestrians!" I explained plaintively.

"So what?"

"What I mean is they could see if I didn't have any
trousers on."

"So?"

"Well, I'd be so very embarrassed."

"More embarrassed or less, do you think, than you
would be if the Head saw pics. of you sucking Mayhew's
cock?"

I could see it was futile. I had to obey. Without
further comment, I pulled them off over my feet, and
passed them forward to Tim.

Dave craned forward to look at me through the driving
mirror.

"Stop concealing your crotch," he ordered. "Tuck your
shirt tails up all the way round above your waist."

I was wearing a minuscule pair of pale blue French
bikini narrow-sided briefs. I was most dreadfully
self-conscious. My hairy legs, fully exposed, the
outline in the front of my underpants leaving nothing
whatsoever to the imagination, I was in sheer mental
torment. The mixture of fear and excitement had caused
me to bulge obscenely in the pouch and I was forbidden
from attempting to cover myself even with my hands.

Eventually we arrived at our destination and I had my
trousers tossed back to me. Gratefully I quickly
clambered into them as Tim got out and thrust the seat
forward for me to get out too. We were at a
newly-built business park on the outskirts of town
upon which were situated a number of large retail
warehouse-like outlets. Tim and Dave led the way into
a vast and characterless sports goods emporium.
Equipment for every conceivable sport and pastime was
ranged against the walls of this high concrete
block-built hypermarket. Countless racks of sports
associated clothing covered the floor. Tim and Dave
obviously knew their way round the place. I followed
on in almost open-mouthed wonder at the very existence
of such an establishment.

"This is what we want," Tim announced. "Onion skins!"

So saying, he held up a minuscule pair of paper thin
translucent running shorts. "This shall be your
gardening wear from now on."

I stared at them in mind-numbing alarm as he also
thrust a mesh singlet at me.

"There you are. Try them on in that cubicle. Oh, and
take your underpants off as well. The shorts have a
built-in support, so you don't need them."

The cubicle doors were a pair of swinging saloon-style
ones, and to strip naked behind them concentrated the
mind amazingly. As I was undressing, I was asked for
my shoe size and a pair of trainers were spirited up,
together with thick terry towelling socks.

I paused when I was undressed down to my small blue
underpants, only too aware that anybody passing my
cubicle could see my naked chest and thighs. I
swallowed hard.

"Underpants too, you were told," Dave Newman said,
looking over the door.

I stepped out of them and stood naked and ashamed,
under his penetrating gaze.

Once rigged out I was ordered from the comparatively
private confines of the cubicle to display myself to
the store at large and my two masters in particular.
The shorts were obscenely brief and barely opaque. Had
I been allowed to keep my pubic hair, the darkness of
it would have been clearly discernible through the
papery fabric. The singlet was made of open mesh with
narrow shoulder straps that wantonly displayed both my
nipples. It also finished at my ribcage, leaving my
midriff completely exposed.

"I can't garden in these!" I wailed, almost on the
verge of tears.

"Eminently suitable," Tim said. "Just crouch down,
legs apart. I want to judge how revealing they are."

I did so, and the mesh pouch enveloping my genitals
fell out of my left leg-hole. Horrified, I stood again
quickly, clutching myself.

"Most satisfactory. Just the effect I was looking
for," he almost purred. "So, there you have it. Your
weekend wear from now on."

"What?" I gasped in strangulated horror.

"You heard. During the week, conventional wear, shirt,
tie, trousers, jacket, et cetera, naked at all times
indoors, but at weekends what you have on now is all
you are permitted to wear out of the house."

"No! Please! I beg! I can't go shopping in this get
up. I sometimes go to school at the weekend too, to
work on the computer or something. I can't go like
this!"

He was listening attentively to me. They glanced at
each other. He was relenting. I pushed my case
further.

"Look, I've been invited to friends for Sunday lunch
tomorrow, for instance. I can't possibly go like this
and sit down with a family in these tiny obscene
things," I plucked at the abbreviated shorts.

He pursed his lips in thought and looked me up and
down critically, head askance.

Dave said: "Just a minute," and disappeared across the
shop. I carried on pressing my case.

"And then there's church  -  not that I'm a regular
attender, I must confess. However, you would ensure I
never went again if you insisted that this was all I
could wear. I like the theatre, trips up to London,
visits home to my family. All these normal activities
would have to be curtailed upon the grounds of common
decency alone."

Dave returned with what looked like a white cotton
sort of track-suit. The fabric was man-made and soft
to the touch. It was a very bright almost opalescent
white, disconcertingly thin and allowing skin colour
to show through a little. The trouser legs were
somewhat alarmingly fastened with press-studs from
ankle to waist and rejoiced in the ominous name of
"tearaways". The top had a drawstring waist, and a
white zip up to the collar which concealed a folded
hood.

"A compromise," Tim announced at last, having studied
the suit Dave had brought from across the store, and
held it against me.

I nodded, anxiously eager to hear what he had to say.

"For chores on your property, gardening, car-washing,
house-painting, etcetera, you will wear exactly what
you have on now." I nodded again, swallowing hard. "On
other such occasions as stipulated by us, you shall
also only wear what you have on now. Trips to go
jogging in the park for instance, supermarket shopping
on hot days, that sort of thing. As a concession to
your modesty for other events - for instance, going
out to lunch tomorrow - you may go in this tracksuit,
but because of this concession you have to agree to
the stipulation that nothing at all may be worn under
it save a jockstrap. Is that clear?"

My eyes filled with tears of shame and my head reeled.

"As to the other events you outlined, and at which I
am forced to agree that your proposed garb would be
less than adequate, permission to vary from these
rules may or may not be given if, as and when each
occasion arises according to how pleased your masters
are with you. At all events, forfeits will be demanded
in lieu of the relaxation of normal weekend clothing
rules. Do you agree to this?"

I blinked back the tears of relief and nodded
vigorously, the lump in my throat quite precluding the
possibility of speech.

I was not allowed to dress again but made to walk
across the store to the pay desk. There I had to
suffer the indignity of the young lad scanning the
barcode label on each of the garments I was wearing,
and indeed having to insert an instrument inside my
shorts to extract a security device. He gave me a very
quizzical look as the back of his hand grazed against
my hairless penis. I stared hotly ahead.

I think you would be better with a medium size pair of
shorts, Sir," the sales lad volunteered.

"Small will do," Tim interjected. "He likes them
snug."

I felt myself blush. I was ordered to purchase three
athletic supports as well.

"What size?" the lad enquired.

"Small," Tim answered for me. I shot him a glance but
saw that it was useless to protest. He was intent upon
making me wear them with as much embarrassment as
could be extracted from my condition as was possible.
The jockstraps, the tracksuit and my own clothes were
put into a large carrier bag, I settled the bill with
my credit card, and we made our way out of the store
and to the car, several people turning to stare at the
brevity of my scanty and revealing kit. Very little
was left to the imagination. The mesh insert of the
small shorts served to emphasise the bulge in the
front of them as my genitals were bunched into it,
creating quite an eye-catcher. I pulled at the hem of
the singlet trying to cover a little more of my bare
mid-section. My nipples stiffened as the cool outdoor
air hit them. I had never felt so exposed in all my
life.

Once in the car, I was ordered to pull down my
onion-skin shorts despite my protestations that I was
naked underneath. I was terrified of being seen. At
traffic lights a pedal cyclist drew alongside our
stationary car. I sat there petrified as he leant an
arm on the roof of our car whilst waiting for the
lights to change, but he apparently failed to glance
in and see me so rudely exposed as I sat there
trembling in the ridiculously abbreviated athletic
vest.

As we drew away, permission was given for me to pull
the shorts back up and Tim told Dave to halt the car.

"Right, Big Boy; get out," Tim ordered, doing so
himself and tipping the seat forward for me.

We were in the middle of town. I shot him a fearful
look.

"You make your own way home from here," he said as he
thrust the carrier bag holding my other clothes at me.

"No, please!" I begged. "I don't want to be seen so
scantily clad. I feel so very degraded."

"Good. You deserve to. You are too proud and stand too
much upon your dignity," Tim said. "Running through
town in that itsy-bitsy bit of see-thru running kit
will do you a power of good. And I wouldn't hang about
if I were you. It looks like rain, and just imagine
what effect water would have on those tiny shorts of
yours. Remember the swimming trunks we got you?"

He smiled with satisfaction at the expression of alarm
on my face.

"Off you go. God, you do look naked!"

I gulped at the awfulness of the situation in which I
found myself and, with a worried glance at the
increasingly lowering sky, set off at an ungainly lope
for home.

I kept my head well down and avoided looking at my
fellow pedestrians, stopping only to stoop and retie
my laces. Many vehicles hooted at me in derision and I
earned a couple of loud wolf-whistles from passing
vans. I was filled with remorse for my unenviable
position. It grew worse as I approached my own road.
The increasing likelihood of being spotted by somebody
who knew me filled me with nervous foreboding. Panting
heavily, a buzzing noise growing in my ears, my heart
beating painfully in my chest and pulsing at my
temples, I turned with a groan of relief in at my
gate.

"Alan? Good god, man! What do you look like?"

I looked up to see an open-mouthed Dave Whalley, our
head of games, looking me up and down.

"You know, you're lucky you weren't arrested going out
like that," he said with an astonished laugh. "And
what on earth have you got down the front of those
little shorts of yours? A Rockingham tea service?
Whatever it is, it's threatening to burst the seams."

*			*			*