Date: Sat, 11 May 2002 17:04:17 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning, Chapter Nineteen [Gay - Authoritarian]

THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING

As this has been my first ever posting to this site, it has come as
something of a surprise to me to receive such thoughtful comments and
constructive criticism from so many people all over the world. I have tried
to respond to each one individually, and if there is anybody who, through
some oversight on my part, has not received my very grateful thanks for
having taken the time and trouble to communicate with me, then please
accept this intimation of my appreciation especially for you. It is really
quite heart-warming, and yet at the same time concentrates the mind
wonderfully leaving one with a desperate desire not to disappoint and also
to try not to lower one's standard. Inevitably, I'm afraid, the posting
pace must be slackened as inspiration is used up, and I would like to give
my readers notice that I am presently considering making Chapter
Twenty-Four the last.

[Shamed into total subservience by members of his sixth-form tutor group,
master, Alan Watson must now accept their total mastery over him, dictating
what he may or may not wear and when. Forbidden underwear throughout that
day, he then had to suffer the further indignity of being forced to wear a
cock ring - dire consequences being threatened for its removal. That night,
his lover and fellow student of Watson's abusers, Richard Mayhew, arrived
under orders to shave his tutor's private parts. However, their growing
fondness for each other has manifested in such a way that what should have
been a humiliating torture was turned into titillating ecstatic
delight. Moreover, pangs of growing conscience threaten to interfere.]



CHAPTER NINETEEN - The First Sitting



Richard had had to dress and leave quite sharply after he had completed his
task of shaving my most intimate extremities. We had taken so long
indulging our passion in the shower, we had lost all sense of time and it
was really quite late. He telephoned me on his mobile when he got home to
say he had got quite a "razzing" from Donald, his father, for being so late
in on a Monday night.

I was in bed. He said he wished he were there with me; naked, alongside. My
cock began to grow in its shiny steel encompassment. He confessed he had
never been to bed with anyone in his life. I sheepishly confessed the
same. He made me promise that we would go to bed together the next time we
were alone.

That my night had started with sexual excitement and titillation from his
'phone call may well have been part of the cause, the fact remains I had an
extremely poor night, tossing and turning in my bed. That I was commanded
now by my masters to sleep completely naked each night had certainly done
much to increase my body awareness and heighten my sensual
sensitivities. The further requirement that my genitals henceforth be
permanently encircled in steel excited this added awareness enormously. I
rose rampantly at six-thirty and found to my added frustration that I was
unable to empty my bladder. Such was the extent of my morning erection,
exaggerated by the tight metal encirclement, that forcing my penis down in
an effort to aim it into the lavatory bowl only succeeded in squashing the
urinary canal within.

I wanted to go very badly, but couldn't. Finally, I thought of a solution
which was yet again an assault on my dignity.

I got into the bath and mentally struggled with myself to release the
flow. A stream of urine sprang forth like a fountain in a great rainbow
arc. I shuddered as my bare feet and legs were splashed, recalling that
horrendous night in the pub' when I had been pissed upon and forced to piss
on myself. My penis bucked at such a recollection, and hot urine splashed
my stomach and ran down the stalk of my cock to pour off my scrotum and run
in warm rivulets meandering down my hairy thighs. The stream was
never-ending, it seemed.

Showered, shaved and breakfasted, I dressed for school. Such was the bulk
of my equipment and the minuscule nature of the underwear I was now
allowed, I could barely get everything in. The top of the cock ring
glistened balefully at me above the low cut waistband of my pale blue
bikini briefs. I was not my own man, and it wanted everybody to know, so it
seemed.

At eight-thirty there was a knock on my study door. I opened it to admit
Tim Robey, Dave Newman, Geoff Talbot and Phil Marshall. The door was locked
and my traffic light turned to red.

"Trousers and underpants off completely, shirt tucked up to the armpits,
legs wide apart, hands on head. Assume the position, now!" Whispering Tim
ordered.

Heart drumming in my chest, I fell to obeying with alacrity.

"Lean forward, cheeks pulled apart."

I complied and trembled as I felt four pairs of hands run over my buttocks,
inquisitive fingers even prying tentatively at my anus hole. They strayed
between my legs; they stroked the back of my scrotum.

"Stand up. Turn round."

I did so. They crouched forward and examined my entire pubic area laid bare
before their penetrating gaze. Geoff, Phil and Dave had not seen the cock
ring before and all three were fascinated. I was asked what it felt like,
and if I liked the sensation. I answered meekly and respectfully and
thanked them. Tim finally proclaimed himself satisfied and announced that
Richard would be allowed to retain his pubic hair as long as he did a good
job of keeping me entirely hairless in that region. My spirits soared. He
was to be my regular barber from now on. They swiftly plummeted again as
the voice of my conscience told me it was wrong to feel such elation. I let
my shirt down and reached for my underpants. They were rudely snatched from
me.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Tim wanted to know.

"Sir?" I attempted timidly, unclear of how I had angered him.

"Were you given permission to dress again?" He stared at me coldly.

I submissively replied in the negative.

"Assume the position again immediately!"

Shirt tucked up to my chin again, head bowed of necessity to keep my shirt
up, I stood shamingly bare from the neck down, legs wide apart, hands
folded upon my head, looking thoroughly and obscenely ridiculous in just my
cock ring and socks.

"About this painting," he began eventually, as I self-consciously stood
there, my penis lengthening and swelling under their unblinking gaze.

"My very good friend Jason has got an Exhibition scholarship to do art next
year at university."

Blood started pulsating painfully in my temples. I think I already knew
what was coming. So did my cock.

"He had very kindly promised to donate a picture to the school as an
expression of his gratitude for what this place has done for him. Only some
ungrateful bastard has refused to sit for him, hasn't he? Can you imagine
how anybody could be so mean-minded?"

"They wanted me to pose in the nude, Sir," I tried to explain.

"So?" he said, staring at me blankly.

I could hear my heart beating on my exposed rib cage. My breath from my
nostrils caused my chest hair to blow. My nipples hardened. So did my cock.

"You posed in the nude for the local press. You posed in the nude for the
television. Is my pal Jason not good enough or important enough for you? Is
that it?"

I swallowed hard and said nothing. I started to tremble. With horror I
watched my foreskin suddenly spontaneously roll right back exposing a very
slickly glossy crimson glans. It was mortifying, knowing that they were
watching developments closely. I saw Geoff Talbot grin as he nudged Phil
Marshall to draw his attention.

"Now here's what you are going to do, Big Boy. You are going to see the
Head today, and Mr Bamforth, and you are going to tell them both that,
having thought it over, you will consent to pose for Jason in whatever way
he requires. Is that clear?"

"In whatever way he requires, Sir?" I echoed in alarm.

"In whatever way he requires," he repeated slowly and ominously. "Is that
clear?"

"Yes, Sir," I murmured weakly, my knees starting to shake.

"Good. I shall inform Jason that he may make preparations for his
preliminary sketches of you this afternoon immediately after school in the
art room. You may get dressed." Tim flung my underpants in my face and
plunged his hands in his pockets.

All four boys stared at me as I strove swiftly to clothe myself again. When
I was ready, they escorted me down the corridor towards the administration
block. I glanced at my watch. There was just five minutes before
registration. I gulped and entered the Headmaster's Secretary's office. As
it so happened he was free and I was ushered in. He looked up and asked how
he could help me, a tad starchily I thought. He was obviously peeved with
me over my having refused to sit for the boy's art project.

"Headmaster, I thought over the idea behind the picture the sixth form
artist wants to do for the school last night, and I wondered if perhaps I
had been a little hasty in rejecting it totally out of hand," I stammered.

There was a sudden thaw in his attitude.

"You mean you have reconsidered, Mr Watson?" he asked eagerly.

"I wondered if perhaps we might find some sort of compromise," I began,
frantically thinking on my feet. " I mean, perhaps he could do a head and
shoulders of me and use the press photographs as his guide for the rest."

The Head put his head on one side and appeared to give it his deepest
consideration.

"I'm not sure we should seek to compromise a budding young artist's
creative genius in such a manner, my dear chap," he said at length. "They
set great store by life models at the Slade, you know. I wonder if Mr
Bamforth would be happy in asking his protege to make such a concession for
his art." he added with an air of doubt.

"I wonder if Mr Bamforth would be happy in posing in the nude for his
protege?" I countered.

"Oh, I think we all know that artists couldn't care two hoots about that
sort of thing."

I told him in that case I was not an artist, and cared very much. He tried
to turn on the charm and flattery, extolling the virtues of my physique and
confessing to a failure of understanding why, blessed as I undoubtedly was,
I should wish to hide my light under a bushel, so to speak. I thanked him
for his compliments, adding that perhaps I should not be quite so bothered
had I access to a bushel, and was not reduced to the ignominy of hiding my
light under a rugby ball instead.

He had the grace to laugh. The bell went, and he promised to speak to Mr
Bamforth and suggest my proposals to him before the start of school.

* * *

".... Marshall?"

"Sir."

"Mayhew?"

"Sir."

My cock jumped at the very sound of his voice. I continued calling the
register.

"Very smooth today, Sir," Tim Robey ventured with a crooked grin and a wink
as I closed my register and stood. "Don't you think so, Mayhew?"

I knew he was not referring to my outward appearance, but rather to my
newly shaven private parts. The ironic compliment was not lost on Richard
either.

At the end of assembly, as he was about to leave the stage, the Head turned
and asked if he could have a brief chat with both Bamforth and me in his
study before the first lesson.

"Thanks for reconsidering, Alan," Derek Bamforth said as we entered the
secretary's office. "It'll mean a lot to Jason; boost his confidence no
end."

"At the expense of sapping mine," I muttered wryly.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, good news, good news," the Head greeted us
expansively, arms outstretched. "The picture is to be painted; the artist
has spoken. Who knows, we may be in at the birth of a masterpiece. Mr
Watson, we already know, is well-hung. Now he may well be hung in the Royal
Academy."

He nudged me playfully, tapping the side of his nose and winking in what he
imagined to be a saucy manner. I blushed for him.

I reiterated my disinclination to pose in the nude and was pleasantly
surprised that this appeared to be completely acceptable to all parties. I
also insisted that the sittings would be private and that Derek had to be
present at all times. I conceded that in an emergency another senior
colleague might substitute for him, and agreed to an open ended number of
sittings, considering the boy's lack of experience with portraiture.

The academic part of the morning passed uneventfully enough. Coming out of
the dining hall after lunch, I heard Robey calling after me. My heart
missed a beat.

"Sir! Mr Watson, sir!" I stopped dead and he caught me up. "Sir, it seems
you have forgotten our little arrangement this morning," he spoke in low
tones as pupils milled around us in the corridor. " The wording was most
carefully chosen and you appear to be reneging already. Remember? We agreed
that you will consent to pose for Jason in whatever way he requires. Say it
again."

Like an automaton I repeated the sentence.

"That's better," he said. "Jason, come here a mo'.

I turned to see a dark-haired sixth-former lurking against the wall. He
moved towards us, with a knowing smile at me. I had never taught the boy
but knew his face.

"Mr Watson has something to say to you, Jason," Tim said and looked
meaningfully at me.

"I will consent to pose for you in whatever way you require, Jason," I
repeated with a heavy heart.

"That's really cool, Sir," the boy said with a grin. "I think perhaps we'll
start with some camera work tonight and a few preliminary sketches in
various poses to give me inspiration, if that's all right with you?"

He raised his eyebrows questioningly. I swallowed hard.

"That is all right with you, isn't it, Sir?" Tim said deliberately.

"Yes," I said with a heavy heart. "That's fine with me."

My fate was sealed. There was no turning back now. A sudden stab of alarm
in the pit of my stomach alerted me to a further indignity I should strive
to avoid. I caught Tim Robey by the arm as I confirmed with Jason that I
would meet him in the art room at a quarter past four, which gave me just
fifteen minutes after school to grab a quick cuppa in the Senior Common
Room.

As the boy strolled off, I hissed in Tim's ear: "The ring!"

"What about it?" he turned and stared at me blankly.

"Please, you're not going to make me wear that while I'm posing, surely?
It's bad enough that I am shaven! You did promise me discretion, you know."

I could see him relent.

"Oh thank you, I knew you'd keep your word," I said gratefully, my face
relaxing.

"You very nearly didn't keep yours," he riposted. "I shall meet you at your
study at four o'clock and remove it then, and shall arrange for somebody to
replace it later. Are you in tonight?"

I told him I was.

"Then I, or one of the others will come round to replace it. It is
imperative that you never be given permission to remove it yourself." And,
so saying, he spun on his heel and moved off.

At four o'clock, true to his word, Tim Robey stood waiting for me by my
study door. I opened it to admit him, smiling gratefully.

"Trousers and underpants off, shirt tucked up to the armpits, legs wide
apart, hands on head. Assume the position, now!" Whispering Tim ordered
immediately.

I speedily obeyed.

"Up on your desk! You don't expect your master to kneel before you, do
you?"

I clambered up onto my desk and stood before him, legs spread wide, shirt
pulled right up, flagrantly starkers from the nipples down, and utterly
debased as Tim took hold of my penis and pulled it out of the steel
ring. None too gently, he pushed one testicle through it causing a dullish
ache and then pulled the ring off the other with a swift downward
movement. The whole region was ultra-sensitive and I experienced an
unpleasantly painful tingling sensation, doubtless due to the loss of the
cock ring, as my testes churned up and down the length of my sac, as if
exploring and re-acquainting themselves with the territory from which they
had been confined.

I was allowed to dress, and hurried to the Common Room to grab a cup of tea
before my ordeal of posing was to begin in the art room.

Refreshed, it was with a very heavy heart I made my way towards the art
room. Jason smiled slowly and broadly when he saw me. it was obvious from
his expression that he had hardly expected me to show.

"Right, where do you want me?" I said briskly in a business- like manner I
was far from feeling at that moment.

I looked around the room and saw a small dais Derek Bamforth was standing
on.

"Over here, Mr Watson," he said. We've set this up specially for you." The
backing was slightly curved ensuring that prying eyes from classroom
windows across the quadrangle would not be able to see me in the
altogether, he explained, and it was draped in neutral coloured fabric that
hung in folds and swathes. Three spotlights had been carefully arranged to
avoid my shadow being cast, I was told.

I looked around for somewhere to change.

"I think it might be best if you undressed up there with the screen behind
you, and then I can take care of your clothes for you," Derek said.

Resigned to my fate, I stepped up and slipped my jacket off my shoulders. I
whirled round like a startled gazelle as I heard the studio door open.

"Don't stop stripping on my account, Mr Watson. I've seen it all before,
remember."

There stood Dave Whalley, the games master, with a great broad grin on his
face. He was carrying a complete rugger strip and ball.

"Jason and I thought some preliminary poses in rugger kit to begin with
might break the ice a little," Derek Bamforth explained.

"Right," I said matter-of-factly, though a little relieved; then added,
looking meaningfully at the sixth-form student, "You know I have consented
to pose for you in whatever way you require, Jason."

I pulled my tie off and started unbuttoning my shirt. Three pairs of eyes
watched my every move. I knew I was already blushing. My chest hair began
to stand on end. I could feel my exposed nipples swell self-consciously as
I pulled the sleeves off my arms. Derek stood, already holding my jacket,
and extended a hand to take my discarded shirt and tie. Dave Whalley handed
me a rugby shirt to put on.

"If you want me to oil him up for you, Jason, when you finally get him
stripped down, give me a shout. I've got my massage oils in the gym-store,"
he offered magnanimously.

"Thanks, Sir, but I don't think so," Jason replied, weighing it up in his
mind as he studied my bare torso.

"It improves muscle definition no end," Dave persisted.

I pulled the rugby shirt over my head and struggled into it, then began to
unfasten my trousers. Easing the zip down, I pushed the trousers down over
my hips and, leaning forward to conceal the pouch of my tiny briefs as much
as possible, quickly stepped out of them. Derek took them off me and Dave
handed me a pair of thick white button-fly rugby shorts.

Rugby shorts are very short shorts - much shorter than soccer shorts;
though not quite as revelatory, the texture being so much coarser as they
have to resist the wear and tear of tackling in the much more physical
sport. The fact remained, though, that clad as I was in such brief apparel
with three fully clothed men studying closely my overall appearance was
extremely unnerving for me. How much more so, I wondered when I should be
bereft of everything, save the oval rugby ball clasped firmly to my groin?
Did they come in sizes, I found myself musing; it seemed so much smaller as
I hefted it in my hands.

The sudden flash alerted me to the fact that the session had begun. I
stood, sat, crouched, knelt, and was physically posed by the boy using me
much as though I were a bendy doll. Eventually Dave said he must go and
wished me luck, saying how much he was looking forward to being present at
the unveiling. He winked roguishly and clicked his tongue. His double
entendre was not missed by all three of us.

The camera Jason was using was one of these very sophisticated digital ones
and he could immediately download the shots onto the computer and study the
images. Apparently, it was an extremely expensive one a rich relative had
bought his brother, and he had been allowed to borrow it especially for
this occasion. Derek Bamforth was very impressed with its attributes, and
the two of them were soon absorbed in much technical exchange. I was
treated very much as an object to a means. Derek and he discussed each one
and various adjustments were made to the lighting and the backdrop as well
as to my poses. I was stripped of my jersey and made to repeat most of the
poses that I had undertaken with it on. The time arrived for me to part
with the shorts. I stood before them in my minuscule briefs. I held the
ball in front of my crotch and ensured that my wrists and forearms covered
the thin fabric sides of my underpants. Jason frowned critically. He took a
couple of shots and put them up on the computer screen.

He was insistent my underpants could be seen. I asked why he could not just
paint flesh there. Surely, I said, it was possible with computers to
obliterate the underpants in their entirety without necessitating my
removing them. Derek came to his student's aid woffling on about being true
to one's art. In my head I could hear my promise to Master Tim and could
only imagine the degrading reprisals which would be exacted upon me. With a
sigh, I turned my back on them and pushed my underpants to my ankles.

Unfortunately, whilst doing so, the camera flashed. Startled by it, I lost
my grip of the ball and it bounced to the floor and rolled away in erratic
fashion, due to its ovoid shape, of course, across the room. I feverishly
clasped my groin with both hands before I turned to see what was happening,
just in time to glimpse Derek retrieve it and throw it towards me. I
reached out with both hands to catch it - a natural reaction - and, once
more, the camera flashed. Jason assured me, however, that it was just the
flash that had gone off, and that no picture had been taken.

Completely nude now, and feeling very vulnerable, I was manhandled into a
variety of demeaning poses, desperately trying to ensure that my genitalia
remained concealed behind the rugby ball at all times. Once, as I was
squatting legs wide apart and sitting on my haunches, Derek came and
re-positioned the ball saying with a chuckle that we didn't want three in
the picture. I was mortified. Then came the sketching, and I was surprised
to note that both Jason and he sat at easels and began to sketch me. I
asked what he was doing.

"I don't often get the chance to use a life model - particularly a nude one
- so I thought I'd take this opportunity, if you don't mind, old chap?" he
said with an open smile.

It would have been churlish to refuse, but I was just a little niggled that
he had taken me for granted in such a way. But, there again, that was why I
was here in the first place.

I had been quietly musing over my predicament and the situation in which I
found myself when there was a knock on the door. I froze.

"Come in," Derek called casually.

"No!" I bellowed anxiously.

"Oh sorry, wasn't thinking," he said. "Erm, just hang on a mo'," he called,
but it was already too late.

As he stood up to go and answer the door, it opened. Petrified, and
frantically clasping the ball to me for dear life, "No! Don't come in!" I
yelled.

A face peered at me wide-eyed round the door. Of all people it was
Farnworth from my fourth-form group.

"Excuse me, Sir, sorry to trouble you," he said as his eyes raked my nudity
with alacrity, taking in every last detail, "but my mum's just arrived to
pick me up from games practice and wonders how much longer Jason'll be,
'cos, if it's not long, it'll save her making another trip."

My mind in a turmoil, nothing made sense.

"Just wait outside, Paul," Derek Bamforth said evenly, "Jason will be with
you right away," as he tried to usher the boy out of the studio.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir," Farnworth replied, before bobbing back in and
addressing me again. "Sorry, Sir. I hope I didn't embarrass you, Sir,
coming in like that, but I never for a moment thought you'd be posing for
my brother completely bare!"

Almost in tears I turned to look at the artist. So that's who he was -
Jason Farnworth - Paul Farnworth's elder brother. I had been captured yet
again on the infernal boy's camera.

* * *