Date: Wed, 1 May 2002 13:57:48 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning (Chapter Fourteen) [Gay - Authoritarian]

 THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING

[THE STORY SO FAR  - Reluctant to face growing doubts
about his own sexuality in the light of a favourite
pupil declaring love for him, Alan as yet refuses to
acknowledge the strength of feeling he has in return
for eighteen-year-old Richard Mayhew. He is still in
denial as he prepares to join the boy's parents for
Sunday lunch. But first there's a Saturday night in
with a surprise visitor.]

CHAPTER FOURTEEN  -  A Drink or Two with a Colleague

"Well I must say, kitted out like that, you certainly
don't leave much to the imagination," Dave Whalley
said, his eyes fixed to my groin.

Standing, as I was, in the tiny papery shorts and the
abbreviated mesh singlet with my navel and nipples on
show to the world and his wife, I paled under his
steadfast gaze.

"What is it that you want?" I asked, finally finding
my voice.

He held up a couple of six-packs of beer. He raised
them slightly to draw attention to them

"I promised you a drink on me for playing in the staff
match, didn't I? I thought I'd pop round and pay my
debts."

I smiled weakly and nodded. I fumbled in my bag for
the door key in my trousers pocket.

"Thanks, but there was no need to come round
specially," I began, as I opened the door and led him
in and through to the kitchen.

"I wanted to, and I was in the area anyway, so I
thought to myself, I'll go and sink a few beers with
my pal Watty."

This did not ring true. Dave Whalley and I had never
been "pals". I don't think you could ever describe us
as close colleagues even. In fact, our baptism had
been distinctly fiery. Some years back, shortly after
I'd started there, I'd put a member of the first XV in
detention. It had happened to be held on the day of an
important fixture and I had refused to let the boy off
my detention to play in the school team. Dave had
tried all manner of manipulation to get me to release
his star player but I remained irresolute. I remember
his parting shot as he whispered some threat about
getting even with me one day through gritted teeth,
and calling me a f***ing w***er.

Admittedly, he had never attempted to carry out his
threat. Moreover, far from appearing to bear me any
ill will, he had always shown me a sort of grudging
respect - I assumed because I had not caved in under
his various threats and admonishments. In truth, we
had little in common; we spoke only briefly in
passing; we could certainly never be described as in
each other's social circle, and had only come together
when occasionally I had been invited to make up a team
for the odd staff rugger match, as had happened
recently - agonizingly enough for me, as it had turned
out.

I confess I had become a little wary of him in our
post match comings together. I had been a tad
uncomfortable alone in his company in the changing
room after the match replay for the regional
television news team's visit. I couldn't put my finger
on it exactly, but he had reacted quite strangely,
somehow, and I had been most fearfully embarrassed
that he had seen me with a raging erection as he had
handed me back my shorts on the games field after the
filming. He had then stood to watch quite brazenly as
I struggled into them. Most people, I should like to
think, would have done the gentlemanly thing and
turned away, not mentioning it. Dave Whalley, however,
had drawn attention to it, commenting on its size and
strength. He had smacked me on my bare bottom, and,
even more unnervingly, had called me "Big Boy"  -  the
nickname Whispering Tim Robey and my other masters had
given me.

"So, have you been out jogging like that?" he asked,
as once more he raked my body with his eyes. I was
feeling more naked than when I had to be.

"That's right," I lied.

My mind was running on ahead. According to my standing
orders from my masters, I was supposed to be naked now
- or at any rate in my robe since I had a visitor. I
could hardly strip off in front of him, though somehow
I had the uncomfortable feeling that he would not have
objected. Odd, really  -  not that I'm suggesting
anything. He's married with two kiddies, for heaven's
sake.

"Funny, that. I hadn't got you down as a fitness
fanatic," he said with a lop-sided grin.

"I'm not," I countered. "Just occasional light
exercise, that's all."

I felt myself blush slightly at this embroidered
untruth.

"Well, whatever your regime, it certainly works well.
Your body looks good on it, and, let's face it, I've
seen more of it than most," he winked and nudged me in
case I'd missed his bargepole subtlety.

"So! let's crack open this beer, then," he said more
heartily, smacking me across the behind.

I jumped.

"Look, you open one for yourself. I'll just hop in the
shower and then join you. I'm a bit hot and sticky
after the run," I explained.

"Want me to come and soap your back?"

I turned to look at him in alarm.

He met my eyes, winked, then laughed.

"Joke," he said, by way of explanation, with a roguish
grin.

I laughed weakly and quickly left the room. I kicked
off my trainers and pulled off my towelling socks as I
mounted the stairs. Once in the bathroom, after
turning on the shower I tore off the singlet and
pushed down the onion-skin shorts, hurriedly stepping
out of them and into the bath.

I was just lathering up my hair when I heard him say:
"I brought this up for you."

My startled hands flew to my crotch as I opened my
eyes to see Dave standing there holding out a can of
beer.

"Thanks," I said. "Can you just put it down there?"

"Go on, have a swig now. It'll help you unwind. You're
all tense," he said, holding it out nearer to where my
hands were.

I wavered.

"No need to be shy. I've seen it all before.
Remember?"

Oh, I remembered all right. I glanced down at myself.
How fatuous I looked standing covering myself in front
of another man. Sheepishly I drew my hands away and
took the proffered can.

"Cheers," he said with a grin, locking eyes with me.

"Cheers," I responded, and took a long swig.

"Good god, man, it looks bigger than ever now it's
shaved!"

I groaned inwardly.

I know it may seem unaccountably odd to some of my
readers, but I have never been comfortable with
nakedness and the exposure of my body. Just the
opposite, in fact. Part of this goes back, I think, to
my own schooldays. Even then, as a growing boy,  I
seemed to be more well endowed than many of my
contemporaries, and often found myself the brunt of
debaggings and more, being forcibly put on display for
the amusement of my fellows, even being stimulated
against my will at the whim of braying spectators
intent upon bovine horseplay at my expense. All this
unwonted exposure and forced exhibitionism seems to
have left me with an embarrassing complex about myself
and a desire to always avoid drawing attention to
myself. Intimates had often marvelled at my "luck" at
having such a "beauty" and could not understand why I
shrank from locker-room bragging and proud and
boastful display.

Frantically and feverishly I dredged for a plausible
excuse. I had read once that Olympic swimmers shaved
their body hair to lessen the drag factor underwater.
I mumbled something about that it helped when I went
swimming.

"That's funny. I heard something else," he said with
an enigmatic smile.

My heart stopped.

"Lighten up. You're so very tense," he said. "Tell you
what, I've got all my kit in the car 'cos I've been
buying some extra stuff today. I'll give you a
massage."

"No!" I started.

"I won't take no for an answer, pal. You need a
massage badly. It'll relax you. And your Uncle Dave is
going to give you one." He laughed suddenly. "What am
I saying? I can't believe I just said that. I'll be
offering to give you a blow job next!"

He left the bathroom chuckling softly. My brain was
seething.

I put the beer can down and feverishly finished my
ablutions. I dried myself briskly, my mind in a
ferment. My immediate instinct was to leap into as
many clothes as possible and hang the consequences.
But was that living dangerously? If I were discovered
fully dressed with the threat from my masters hanging
over me, the threat I knew that would expose me as an
unsuitable person for my position in the school - in
any establishment for young people - I was running the
risk of exposure that would not only destroy me, but
Richard and, very probably, the Mayhew family as well.

Resigned to my fate, I tucked the towel round my waist
and turned to leave. As I did so, I caught my eyes
reflected in the bathroom mirror. There was something
else in their expression that shocked me. I clearly
recognised the resignation to my lot, but what was
that glint, that shine, that slightly startled
sparkle? Was it excitement? I blushed and my heart
began a heady tattoo. I found myself starting to
tremble in anticipation of what lay ahead for me at
the hands of Dave Whalley.

*			*			*

"What do you think of Geoff Talbot then?"

I had just been beginning to relax. The heels of
Dave's hands pressing into the hard knots of tension
where my neck met my shoulders were having an almost
soporific effect. I had been slightly aware that there
was a very definite knot of tension in my reproductive
equipment and blenched slightly as I caught myself
wondering how he would deal with that when he came
across it. For the moment, I was lying face down with
it pressed into the makeshift towel-covered mattress,
rubbing gently against it as it lay trapped between my
belly and the table.

He had all the equipment, a collapsible massage table,
everything. It even had a padded surface but not deep
enough for real comfort so he had a long thick sun bed
mattress tied onto the top of it as well and he asked
me for plenty of towels with which he covered it. He
was very business-like and we talked in a
matter-of-fact manner about how beneficial massage
was, as well as useful remedially. He told me that was
how he'd met his wife, that she was a qualified
masseuse. She had taught him all she knew, and he had
taken it further with courses in sports injury
massage, etc. We talked generally as well about
aromatherapy and the use of various oils for various
complaints and results required. He was going to use
aromatherapy on me. He said he'd noticed the build-up
of tension in me over the past week and thought he'd
offer me some relief. Although aware of each one I
purposely failed to react to the barely disguised
double-entendres.

I asked him about his wife and children. They'd gone
to her mother's that weekend. He hadn't been able to
because there had been an important match at school
that morning. He was a little despondent since school
had been trounced and that was when he'd thought of me
as he was at the off-licence buying beer to drown his
sorrows.

"Much better than drinking alone," he said, handing me
another open can as he had helped me up onto the
table.

He had three towels over me at any one time. One
across my legs, the one already wrapped by me round my
midriff, and one draped across my shoulders. He had me
lying on my front with my hands by my side, palms up.
In fact, that was where he started; in the palms of my
hands. There were three oils he used - I can't
remember them all, but I'm fairly certain one was
lavender. It was amazingly relaxing, I must admit.
When he started on the back of my neck he said I was
really knotted up there and he worked quite hard and
applied a lot of finger pressure. But I could almost
feel myself loosening up. It was a wonderful
sensation. He lowered the towel and worked on my
shoulder blades. He was very good. I told him so.

He told me that he and his wife often did each other -
that sometimes they used it as foreplay. He kept
asking me if I was warm though, thoroughly solicitous
and constantly moving the towel, keeping as much of me
covered as possible. I began to feel very secure.
Massaging is warm work for both masseur and masseured.
The circulation is improved, and whereas a degree of
nervousness at the beginning may keep the temperature
down, as my confidence built I relaxed far more into
it.

"Phew, it's getting warm in here," Dave said rubbing
his hands on a small towel and then peeling off his
tee shirt. He wiped his forehead with it, his chest
and under his arms. He caught me watching him and
smiled openly at me.

"All right?" he asked solicitously.

"Fine," I answered.

"Enjoying it so far?"

"Amazing!"

He seemed surprised I had never had a massage before.
I explained that I was not a very tactile person, and
that I was surprised at myself as to how much I was
enjoying the sensation. He was pleased.

He had a good physique. I had often seen him stripped
to the waist on the games field during the summer. In
fact, I had often thought him something of a poseur.
The domestic staff obviously thought him something of
a pin-up for they had a picture of him in just a pair
of towelling shorts stuck on the wall of their
rest-room. I had seen it when I had bobbed in once to
request an urgent visit to remove some sick from my
classroom.

The fact that he was stripped to the waist now in my
living room, together with the fact that so was I, and
that I was wearing nothing below the waist except a
towel, seemed of little significance somehow. The
massage oils were beginning to have an effect on me
obviously. The pungent aroma from the three scented
candles he had lit too seemed to make me a trifle
light-headed.

"Here."

I opened my eyes to see he was holding the can of beer
out to me. I took it and emptied it as he drank his
down too. He pulled the ring tops off the last two of
the pack and put mine down by me.

"Are you warm?"

"Glowing" I answered sleepily.

He didn't put the towel back across my back as he
started on the soles of my feet, but it didn't matter.
I was as warm as toast. Semi-stiff, I pressed myself
slightly into the mattress. What would happen when I
had to turn over, I found myself wondering?

The sensation of his hands upon my feet is almost
indescribable. It was a mixture of tickling and pain.
I could hear bones crunching as he manipulated and
pulled upon each individual toe before pressing the
balls of this thumbs hard into the balls of my feet
and kneading them vigorously.

"I asked you about Geoff Talbot," he said at last.

"What about him?" I parried guardedly.

"What do you think of him? As a kid in general, I
mean. Remember, I only see him on the games field."

"Where he is at his best, I should imagine. He is
certainly not in his natural habitat in the Halls of
Academe," I added.

"I was meaning more as a person," Dave persisted as he
took my foot in one hand and my calf in the other and
rotated my ankle briskly.

I ran a few non-committal phrases through my head and
offered some as my opinion.

"A bit of a joker, I find," he persisted as he began
to pummel my calf muscles vigorously with the outer
edge of each hand.

"Oh?" I reached for my beer and slugged a mouthful
back.

"'Mind if I slip my jeans off? I've worked up quite a
sweat, and they're all clammy."

"No. Go ahead, feel free," I said expressionlessly and
took another swig from the can.

As I leant forward to put the can down again I glanced
up to see him stepping out of his jeans. He was
wearing a pair of white fitted boxer briefs. The
fabric was tautly wrinkled and stretched across his
well-developed rugby-player's thighs, and the ample
bulge at the front clearly indicated that Dave Whalley
was throwing a boner! I felt mine jump in empathy.

"Nothing he likes better than a debagging!" he added
with a chuckle as he put his jeans on the couch.

He came round and stood in front of me as he took a
drink from his can. My eyes were no more than six
inches from his bulge. I could feel the heat from it
on my face. I could smell him.

"Really?" I said in polite, disinterested response.

"Birthdays, initiations, that sort of thing. Any
excuse to strip a fellow down and old Talbot's the man
to lead the action. He certainly did a great job on
you in the match."

He chuckled again and returned to the bottom of the
massage table. He raised the hem of the towel round my
waist to just below my buttocks. I could feel cool air
on my scrotum. Rubbing more oil into the palms of his
hands - to warm it, he said - he set to work on the
backs of my upper legs and thighs, kneading the flesh
and muscle deeply. I became conscious of an increase
in my heartbeat.

"Did you hear what happened to Mike Hazelhurst?"

"No. I don`t teach him."

"No, very much a scientist, is Mike Hazelhurst. They'd
taken him on a pub' crawl in the village to celebrate
his birthday. Got him well pissed  -  not difficult.
In fact they were all well pissed by the end of the
night. They stretched him out on the stone fish slab
in the square and ripped his trousers off. Hazelhurst
starts to give chase, so they roll them up into a sort
of impromptu rugby ball and start having a game up and
down the little street. Finally, they're passed to
Geoff Talbot, who promptly posts them through the
police station letter-box."

Dave's fingers were getting nearer and nearer my
scrotum as he concentrated his efforts on working out
the tension from my inner thighs.

"Well, you can imagine, they laughed like drains at
that, then somebody started blaming Geoff for having
stopped their game of rugby by getting rid of the
ball. Like lightning, they bowled over Hazelhurst
again and set off up the street passing his shoe
backwards and forwards with him in hot pursuit. That
too followed the trousers through the police station
letter-box. To cut the story short, they stripped poor
old Mike stark bollock naked and left him ringing the
bell at the police station to ask for his clothes
back."

His fingers made contact with my testicles. I jumped,
startled.

"Fortunately, the law saw the funny side of it and all
was well. Can you raise yourself up a bit?"

I complied, and Dave stripped away the last remaining
towel. I was laid as bare as Mike Hazelhurst had been.

More oil was warmed in his hands and then applied
liberally to my gluteus maximae.

"Relax. You've gone all tense again," he said softly
as he applied more pressure.

He worked on in silence for a couple of minutes,
pummelling, kneading, smoothing. Then I became aware
that his fingers were beginning to intrude into the
crack between the cheeks of my buttocks. I froze at
the first touch of my anal bud. I felt the muscle
spasm.

"Calm down. I promise I'm not going to do anything you
won't like," he said soothingly.

He stopped working on me and I held my breath awaiting
the instruction to turn over. I thought I heard the
vaguest rustle of material but dismissed it as him
wiping his hands again on the small towel he used..

"Right, let's finish this beer off before we
continue," he said, and moved back up to the top of
the table.

As he bent forward to pick up his can I saw his bare
bottom. He turned to face me. He was stark naked. The
noise I had heard must have been him removing his
underwear.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asked as he saw me
studying his naked body.

"No," I answered huskily and had a drink to cover my
confusion.

"I thought you might be less embarrassed if you saw
that I was naked too. And equally as aroused."

Scarlet-faced and scarlet-chested, I allowed myself to
be assisted to turn over. My penis sprang up from its
resting place and bobbed and quivered not content
unless it was drawing the maximum attention to itself.

"My word, there's a lot of tension there. I'm going to
have to give that a real seeing to!" Dave said with a
cheeky grin.

He started once more on my hands, working on the backs
of them this time, applying thumb pressure to each
knuckle and pulling the fingers until they clicked.
Occasionally his penis would brush against a hand, and
mine would buck in empathy, as though connected in
some way.

He worked on my fingers, riffling them, bending them
back, stretching them. He rotated my wrists and
elbows, squoze and kneaded my biceps, and eventually
moved onto my torso. He alternated between pummelling
my chest and using a very light stroke he called
butterfly kisses which were amazingly effective when
applied in particular to my nipples. I found myself
groaning and even writhing a little as he did that to
me. I was suddenly embarrassed to feel cool liquid
land on my belly. A quick glance confirmed my worst
possible suspicion. A thread of clear glistening
moisture ran from the tip of my penis to my shaved
belly. I was leaking.

"Look, stop worrying. It's very flattering to me. It
tells me I'm pulling out all the right stops."

He worked down to my belly and I closed my eyes
awaiting the embarrassment of what came next. I was
quite surprised, therefore, when I felt his fingers
back on my feet - the fronts of them this time. Slowly
he worked his way up the fronts of my legs, spending
more time on the fleshier more muscular part above the
knees. When he first took hold of my testicles it was
to lift them, supremely gently, out of the way so that
he could gain access to the fork of my legs. So
recently invaded by other fingers and now devoid of
all hair, it did not seem quite as private a place as
it had before and I curbed my nervous rigor quite well
and clenched my jaws tightly to prevent my teeth from
chattering. He pressed and pummelled, exciting a
whimper from me and more moisture drooled from the
shivering head of my penis.

"Just a minute. Let me see to that for you," Dave
said, and leant forward to lick it off my stomach. I
felt the hard outline of his cock pressed across my
thigh as he did so.

I was astonished. He just smiled down at me.

"Nice," he said. "Quite sweet. Mind if I help myself
to more?"

He leant over me again and took my  rigid aching penis
into his hot wet mouth and I let out a long guttural
groan. The vacuum action of his cheeks pressing
against the sensitive shaft had an electrifying effect
upon me. I began to shudder and whimper.

It was over in moments.

"Too bad," he said with a rueful grin as he eventually
pulled his mouth off my fast shrinking organ letting
it smack wetly against my thigh. "Next time you must
make me work harder for my drink."

"Next time?" I echoed incredulously.

"Of course. You don't think I'm going to let a cock
like that go to waste, do you? A cock-sucker like me
looks for every opportunity. When I saw yours the day
of the televised stunt, it was just a case of where
and how long before I got to get my lips round it. I
was seriously contemplating going down on you there
and then."

He was unselfconsciously pulling at his own penis as
he offered me a hand and I swung my legs down from the
table.

"You? A cock-sucker?," I asked in amazement.

"Can't get enough," he said with a shrug and an open
smile as he continued to play with himself. My shyness
was already beginning to return. I wanted to cover
myself up.

"But what about your wife?" I wanted to know.

"Not much good. She hasn't got one, you see. That's
why I stick to blokes when I want to suck cock. When I
was younger I used to be able to suck my own. If I had
a whanger like yours, I probably still could. Man, you
are so tasty. Do you know that?"

Suddenly, still masturbating, the completely naked
Dave Whalley, Head of Games at the school where I
taught, got up onto the massage table in my living
room, lay down upon it, raised his legs up into the
air with as much a degree of elan as though he were
performing a gymnastic routine, before arcing his legs
forward from the hips and placing his feet above where
his head lay. Suddenly, he came copiously and noisily,
and, with finger and thumb of his left hand aiming his
penis downwards,  he opened his mouth wide and
promptly fired his seed straight inside.

*                         *                         *