Date: Tue, 21 May 2002 00:38:20 +0100 (BST)
From: "[iso-8859-1] nder pants" <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning, Chapter Twenty-Two [Gay - Authoritarian]

THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING


[Painfully and humiliatingly violated before his young masters, Alan Watson believes he has at last sunk to the very depths of degradation. What more can his tormentors have in store for him?]

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - A snack at the Movies

Going to school the following day was probably one of the biggest hurdles I
have had to overcome in my life so far. I dreamt up several very good
excuses for not going, to avoid the degradation of having to face my
triumphant violators rejoicing in having brought me so low. Deep down,
however, I knew I was only putting off the inevitable.

It was with a heavy heart, though, that I drove into school the next
morning, screwed my courage to the sticking post and got out of my car.

Richard came in late half way through my calling the register, avoiding all
eye-contact and mumbling an apology.

"Mayhew's a pain in the arse, isn't he, Sir? Don`t you think?" Geoff Talbot
crowed.

I ignored the pointed remark, other than to reprimand him for calling
out. I was aware, however, of the hurried exchanges of meaningful looks. I
prayed fervently that they would not brag of their conquest and spread word
of it abroad.

The academic day passed peacefully enough, with no sudden vibrations, even,
from my cock ring pager. I concluded that my tormentors had taken pity on
me after my ordeal at their hands the previous night. At four o'clock Phil
Marshall was waiting to free me from my steel adornment for my nude sitting
with Jason Farnworth.

"I can't stay to refit it, Sir," he said, forgetting the role-reversal
apparently. "We're all going to the cinema tonight. So you're going to have
to meet us there."

I meekly agreed, arranging a time and place, and made my way to the Common
Room for a quick cup of tea before my art-room tribulation. As I walked in,
Dave Whalley came straight over.

"Alan, old sport, I've got a tremendous favour to ask," he began
expansively as he clapped a beefy arm round my shoulders and began kneading
me there, reminding me a shade uncomfortably of his massage
technique. "You're posing for Jason now, aren't you?"

I admitted that fact.

"Well, look, I'd said to Derek that I'd sit in for him, since you said you
always wanted a member of staff there, and that's what was agreed . . ." he
paused.

"And?" I asked expressionlessly.

"Well, I forgot I'd got an athletics practice, so I was wondering - since
you've been broken in now, so to speak . . ."

"No, Dave. I am not sitting for over an hour stark naked in school with a
pupil."

My own words rose up to haunt me, and I fancy I blushed.

"Oh," he said falteringly.

"Would you do it?" I pursued my point.

"No, I s'pose not," he admitted grudgingly. "All right then, I'll have to
cancel the practice. I'll be along in five minutes."

"I shall wait for you," I said, as he ambled out of the room.

I made my way up to the art-room where Jason Farnworth was setting up his
easel, and I explained the reason for the slight delay - namely that Mr
Bamforth had been called away, and that Mr Whalley had kindly agreed to
stand in at short notice. Innocently, I edged round to catch a glimpse of
the work in progress. Swiftly, Jason snatched his canvas away.

"No, Sir! The subject cannot see it until it is complete," he said quite
sternly.

Somewhat chastened, I moved away.

"Tell you what, Sir - to save a bit of time, you could get undressed while
we're waiting," he said at length.

I told him I had no intention of undressing without a member of staff
present.

"Afraid I might try it on with you, Sir?" he said with a roguish leer.

My heart missed a beat, but I affected to take no notice.

"Sir, can I ask you a question?" he ventured after a lengthy but
atmospheric silence.

"You just have," I replied unhelpfully, distantly, and on automatic pilot.

"Why d'you shave your pubes, Sir?"

I jumped. My heart upped tempo suddenly and I could feel colour rising.

"Lots of swimmers do," I explained loftily without turning from my apparent
nonchalant gaze through the art-room window.

"I thought you'd say that, Sir," Jason remarked. "That's why I couldn't
understand it when I clearly remember seeing all your pubic hair that night
at the public baths when you were wearing those see-through bathing
trunks!"

There was a definite edge in his voice, and an air of "Game, set and
match".

I was spared, however, by Dave Whalley's arrival. I turned gratefully only
to freeze again, appalled. Beside him stood the cross-questioning artist's
broadly grinning fourth-form brother, Paul.

"Hallo, Sir," he said sunnily.

"What are you doing here, Farnworth?" I asked in amazement.

"Mr Whalley's cancelled the practice, Sir, so I've got to hang around until
Mum picks up Jason after this." He gestured to my posing dais. "So Mr
Whalley said I could wait in here and do my prep'."

"Well you can't!" I snapped.

His face fell.

"Erm, Mr Watson, look, sorry if I acted out of turn, but I cancelled this
practice just for you - and Jason here, of course - and it's not as if the
kid hasn't seen it all before," Dave Whalley intervened. "He himself told
me he'd walked in on your first session. He's seen all the pix as
well. They were taken with his camera, after all, and downloaded on his
computer at home. Surely he's not doing any harm if he sits at the back
quietly getting on with some homework. You see, I'm afraid I said he
could."

It seemed thoroughly reasonable when put like that, and somehow awfully
churlish of me to insist he be made to wait outside, and yet I keenly felt
that yet more shreds of my fast disintegrating dignity were being shorn
away if I were to be exposed to the unblinking gaze of a fifteen-year-old
fourth-former.

Very grudgingly I agreed. There was an unmistakable gleam of excited
delight on the boy's face. I walked to the dais as though it were my place
of execution. I knew there were three pairs of eyes burning into me as I
began to remove my clothes.

I suddenly recalled being almost boyishly embarrassed when, as a
fully-grown man, I escorted my toddler godson and his father, an old school
chum, to a busy motorway public convenience once. After father had held the
child up to the urinal, it had become the turn of the adults and I remember
he was most unfeelingly amused at his small son's persistence to get a
glimpse of "Uncle Alan's willy". As I shyly fought to avoid this relentless
attempt to inspect my equipment, my friend laughed equally loudly at both
the efforts of his son and the avoidance techniques I pursued to retain my
privacy whilst urinating. Modesty does not prevent me from confessing to
the sense of slightly smug satisfaction I felt when, upon his finally
snatching a glimpse, my godson announced loudly that mine was a vastly
superior model to his father's. The laughter died on my friend's lips and,
snatching up his son and heir, he beat a hasty retreat from the
establishment and its sniggering occupants. How much more cringe-making
having to completely undress now closely watched by a young pupil!

There was an air of inevitable unavoidability hanging heavily over me. As I
stripped off each garment I felt the weight of utter humiliation pile
on. As I lowered my trousers down my thighs, I heard my avid young critic
murmur: "Mmm, nice!" Dave barked: "Hands above the table, Farnworth!"
rather coarsely and suggestively. I blushed still more. To be made to strip
in front of eighteen-year-olds, whilst demeaning in the extreme, is bad
enough. But, at least one is stripping before one's fellow men, fully
developed, mature. To be made to strip before the eager and feasting eyes
of a fully-clothed pubescent boy you know only too well has the "hots" for
you . . . . well, it seemed an insurmountable obstacle.

Leaving my skimpy underpants on, I turned and faced my artist.

"You shall have to concentrate on other aspects of the portrait today," I
told him.

"No Sir, I'm sorry. It just so happens it's very important today I
concentrate on that part which remains covered."

I met his steely glare, and my resolve faltered.

"Let me remind you of your promise, Sir," and I could catch the rising
timbre of triumph in his voice as he quoted my words back to me. " `I will
consent to pose for you in whatever way you require, Jason'. That's what
you said, sir, isn't it?"

I was forced to agree. After a little further dialogue in which he stressed
the importance of getting the proportions right and I rather ungraciously
ventured an opinion that proportions hardly seemed important when they were
concealed behind a rugby ball, his voice rose to a crescendo and I was
flummoxed.

"Ah, but that's my whole point, Sir. Proportion is everything, and I shall
never get that rugby ball to look right unless I'm able to paint what lies
behind it. So today I want you stark naked and with no balls in the way -
other than your own, of course."

He allowed himself a challenging but triumphant grin as he added: "Robey
said you'd be sure to oblige."

He swam out of focus. My eyes had filled instantly as floods of hot
embarrassment swept over me. Succumbing to the inevitable and on the verge
of tears of impotence, I stuck my thumbs into the waistband of my briefs,
and, leaning forward, pushed them down to the ground and dragged them off
my feet. Purposely leaving my gaze unfocused, I sat down and took up my
pose without the rugger ball.

"Mmmm, very nice!" I heard purred from the back of the room, followed by
some lip smacking.

"Farnworth???!!!" Dave Whalley growled.

"What, Sir?" a voice thickly coated in innocence responded.

"You know!"

"No, Sir, it was this recipe, Sir, in Food Technology, Sir."

He was convincing nobody.

"Can you just spread your legs, Sir?" Jason Farnworth asked pointedly.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dave Whalley put his hand under the table
and adjust the fork of his tracksuit bottoms. Instantly, I felt mine lurch
in empathy. The full horror of my position hit me at that moment. I was
about to have an erection in front of a colleague, an eighteen-year-old
upper-sixth form pupil and a fifteen-year-old fourth-form pupil, and there
was nothing I could do to prevent them from seeing the whole
thing. Nervously, I glanced down at it. It jumped again and moved almost
imperceptibly to lie against my left thigh.

"Can you keep it still, Sir?" Jason asked forcefully.

I knew I was scarlet. It moved again, rubbing along the hairs of my inner
thigh.

"Tut, no, Sir. Let me position it," the temperamental artist said, striding
out from behind his easel.

Before I realised what was happening - let alone able to make any attempt
to stop him - the boy took hold of my slowly swelling organ and endeavoured
ostensibly to reposition it. His touch was like electricity. I saw the
thrill of power in his eyes as he felt me jump in his hand. Just like Baron
Frankenstein, the monster in his grasp lived.

I groaned as it reared up, stretching and engorging, endeavouring to bury
its glossy newly peeled back head in my navel.

"Wow, Sir!!!" Farnworth Minor squeaked. He had moved to ensure a continuing
view.

"Erm, I think that's enough for today, chaps - don't you?" Dave Whalley
said, standing up and quite obviously sorting out the arousal he himself
was experiencing. "Mr Watson's had enough. Pack up and go and wait outside
for your mum."

He shepherded them out quickly as I sat silently sobbing with shame. I
heard him lock the door and come back to me. He knelt in front of me and
very gently thumbed away my tears.

"Well you certainly put on a show for them today, old sport, and no
mistake," he said softly with a gentle chuckle, and he held me to him and
gently massaged the back of my neck. "Outstanding!"

"I am so embarrassed, Dave," I stammered between dry sobs.

"You've nothing to be embarrassed about, old lad. I've told you that
before," and he gave me a very slight matey sort of play punch on my left
bicep.

"I can't face them again. That's it," I said a touch melodramatically.

"Why on earth not, for heaven's sake?" he asked, cradling my forehead on
his shoulder and very gently rocking with me to and fro as though
comforting a child.

"That erection . . . ." and I broke down sobbing again.

"That erection was - and is - magnificent! And you weren't on your own, you
know. There were four erections in this room. Believe you me!"

I looked up at him, surprised.

"Were there?" I asked.

He smiled up at me with a wicked gleam as he move a hand to stroke himself.

"And there are still two now," he went on, "though judging by the one on
show there's no competition as to the biggest and tastiest mouthful," and,
so saying, he opened his jaws wide, at the same time folding his lips over
his teeth, then leaning forward he enveloped my still rampantly turgid
member with his hot, eager mouth.

* * *

Glazed in a fine coating of post-orgasmic perspiration, moisture glistening
on our flesh, tiny droplets glinting like seed pearls caught up in my chest
hair we walked only partially dressed through the silent echoing
corridors. Emboldened by our post coital excesses (I had tossed him off in
return for favours received, balking at sucking him somehow), he had lent
me his tracksuit bottoms, and we had both traversed the empty school, he
bare-legged and I bare-chested, to his private shower. There we had soaped
each other, enjoying unashamedly the extra stimulation we experienced as a
result. Such was the intensity of his attention that I fast rose once more
to full arousal.

Sinking to his knees, as we were, under the powerful spray, he had again
suckled me with an insatiable fervour until I'd donated another ration of
protein directly into his eager throat. It was then I had felt almost
obliged to return the compliment. After all, I had sucked Richard, and
Geoff Talbot, and lived to tell the tale. He was like an excited child at
Christmas as I dropped to my knees and he realised what my intentions
were. He groaned so loudly and effusively as he clasped my head to his
groin, desperately seeking a further orgasm, I feared for care-taking or
cleaning staff being alerted to our presence.

Panting for breath through his thickly damp and curly pubic hair, I could
feel his juices well up and force their way along the thick tube on the
underside of his inflamed weapon. I swallowed them all and came off him
licking my lips in a matter-of-fact sort of manner as I rose to my feet,
almost as if I were leaving the table after having consumed some choice
delicacy. I was momentarily appalled by my very casualness. He was so very
grateful. He told me I was a better cock-sucker than his wife. I think he
meant to compliment me.

As we dried, dressed and groomed ourselves for the outside world, he did
much to build up my confidence. The disgrace of the natural reaction before
the two boys was far outweighed by the magnificence I achieved, he assured
me, and that it would be that fact they would remember rather than the
debasing act in itself. Somewhat comforted I set out to get something to
eat.

Dave said I was welcome to join him for pot-luck at his house, but somehow
I knew I would feel uncomfortable sitting down at table with the wife of a
man whose cock had been in my mouth less than twenty minutes before. A man
has scruples, after all!

I went to a little tapas bar I know and indulged myself on four or five
plates, much enjoying the variety, and washing it all down with two glasses
of the house Barolo.

Very conscious of the unrestrained freedom round my genitals, and the
comforting fact that my penis was the smallest it had been for days, it was
with something approaching a doom-laden air of inevitable servitude that I
drove to the new cinema complex on the edge of town. As a very infrequent
cinemagoer (I much prefer the live theatre and concert hall) I was a little
ill at ease upon entering. The establishment was enormous, comprising ten
screens, I think, and rejoicing in the name of "multiplex" which presumably
reflected that fact. I looked at the titles "showing now" - most of which
meant nothing to me - finally deciding (rightly, as it turned out) that my
group of corporeal tormentors would be assembling to watch "Spiderman",
which had very recently been released over here, I knew from press
coverage.

I saw my little party arrive, dressed casually, and looking so much more
mature because of that. I was still attired, of course, in my suit.

"Not been home to change into your trackie, Big Boy?" Whispering Tim asked
with a deadpan stare.

Had I missed, or misunderstood, an order, I wondered?

"Have you got your ticket yet?" Geoff Talbot asked eagerly.

"I - I didn't know you expected me to go in with you," I stammered.

"Well, you don't think we're going to put on your fucking cock ring out
here, do you?" Dave Newman asked, none too quietly, and I shot an anxious
look around to see if anybody had overheard.

Firmly ensconced in the back row with two of them either side of me., Tim
Robey gave me my first orders as the lights went down.

"Trousers and underpants off now!" he murmured.

Heart beating feverishly, and groaning inwardly, I fumbled at my trouser
fastenings, nervously glancing about to ensure my actions were
unobserved. Raising myself off the seat slightly, I pushed down trousers
and underpants in one and held them round my knees, ready to tear them back
up in a second.

"I said `off'," Tim repeated.

"No, please," I begged urgently.

He dived to snatch them from me. I grabbed at him fearfully, and was
immediately aware that such sudden movement had caught attention and three
people turned round in an effort to ascertain what the matter was. I froze
in sheer panic and gazed unseeingly at the screen.

"Do you need telling again?" Tim hissed at me through gritted teeth.

Hearing my own blood coursing through my ears, I snatched a look around to
ensure that the film was once more engaging everybody's attention, before
leaning forward to slip off my shoes, then removing trousers and
underpants. Tim took them from me and passed them to Geoff who stuffed them
under his seat. Phil then produced the ring and Tim took it off him and
slipped it on me. I shivered at the coldness of its touch. He fumble in his
pocket for something. As he snapped it on, I realised it was a pen torch
aimed right at my exposed genitals. My hands shot to cover myself.

"How can I screw it back on with your hands in the way?" he said as he
produced one of the Allen keys. "Tuck your shirt, and tie up and then put
your hands along the back of the row out of the way."

In spite of what it had been through little more than a couple of hours
earlier, my penis started to swell again. I complied with what had been
asked of me, and sat fully exposed, naked from mid-chest down, on the back
row of the cinema. I stared at the screen desperately wishing myself
anywhere else in the world. I felt so wholly vulnerable, but, in
retrospect, it was not quite as bad as it had seemed at the time. Modern
cinema seats have much higher backs than they used to have. The youngsters
in front of me - if they did look round - could only look into my eyes,
unless they stood up. The two boys on either side of me were acting as
human shields to prevent sideways glimpses. It was a calculated attempt on
their part to make me feel excessively vulnerable. In this, they succeeded
all too well, but, in the cold, clear light of day, I can see the whole
scenario was being carefully controlled by my young masters who I admit, at
the outset, had promised me degradation with discretion.

With the pen torch in his teeth and the Allen key between finger and thumb,
Tim slithered off the seat and leant across my bare legs. I could feel his
breath on my stiffening penis.

"Sit still; he's dropped a contact lens, that's all," Phil Marshall hissed
at an inquisitive soul who leaned round in an effort to see what was going
on.

I was trembling like a leaf. I had visions of some sort of emergency; the
lights going up; somebody screaming blue murder, and my being escorted from
the premises, a bobby's helmet clasped firmly over my offending parts as I
was frogmarched into a waiting police van.

Slowly he managed to tighten the screw, which - fortunately - could not
fall out. It could only be loosened and was then retained in its hole. He
took me in his hand to ensure that it was properly fitted and could not be
removed. He none too gently pulled my ball sac to ensure it was all
through, and likewise ensured that the ring sat at the very root of my cock
resting on the pubis bone before regaining his seat.

"Now, Big Boy, Geoff told us how you sucked him off yesterday afternoon,
and he's made Phil really envious, so guess what you are going to do next?"
Tim whispered.

I implored him not to make me do that here in the cinema. I promised I'd do
it anywhere he stipulated as long as it was in private, but he would not be
swayed. I slid off my seat which alarmingly banged up into an upright
position causing others to look round.

"Sorry, it's his contact lens. He`s dropped it," Tim whispered the
explanation. "Please keep your feet still."

With the odd `tut' of exasperation or annoyance they turned round and
settled down to watch the film that was denied me.

Phil's penis was circumcised, and the dry bulbous head was like a child's
sponge rubber toy. There was a faint odour of talcum powder, but otherwise
nothing. he was scrupulously clean, and my fastidious self silently thanked
him for this. Geoff Talbot had been rather on the strong side yesterday in
comparison, as he had come to me fresh from his exertions at putting the
shot. Furthermore, I did not think he had been as scrupulously clean under
his foreskin as he might have been.

Phil had readily slipped his trousers and boxer shorts down to his ankles
and had splayed his bare knees wide to accommodate me. He sighed
contentedly and grunted gently as he thrust rhythmically into my mouth. I
grasped the stem to prevent him from getting it all in and choking me, and
knew from his accelerating hip lunges that he was fast approaching
climax. I sucked and swallowed furiously, letting slip one very noisy and
embarrassing slurp.

Phil's hands on either side of my face, eased me off him. I reached up and
pulled two pubic hairs off my tongue. A tap on the head alerted me to the
fact that Tim now wanted me to do the same to him. My jaws were aching.
Unbeknown to them, I had already sucked Dave Whalley's cock, and the
unnatural or unaccustomed position was fast giving me face-ache. I shuffled
across on my bare knees, and took Tim's rigid weapon in my mouth. His whole
demeanour was entirely different somehow. He truly was masterful. Although
I had been forced to suck Richard, Geoff and Phil, just now, all three -
together with Dave - had worked with me. Tim Robey just sat there. He was
fully aroused as any red-blooded eighteen-year-old would be in such a sexy,
sensual situation, I should imagine. But he resisted the urge to pump, to
thrust; he was icily in control.

He made me work so hard before I was able to drain him of his male essence,
my mouth was sore and my jaws ached. He finally pushed me off and I got
up. My trousers and underpants were returned to me and I was allowed to
dress in them again as the film reached its conclusion. I never saw
"Spiderman". If I want to know the plot, which seems unlikely, I shall have
to go again.

* * *