Date: Fri, 7 Jun 2002 14:28:50 +0100 (BST)
From: "[iso-8859-1] nder pants" <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning, Chapter Twenty-Five

THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING

[On his way home from the Rugby Club "Do", Alan Watson has been forced to
perform a striptease on a country road, and to masturbate himself to a
satisfactory conclusion, both in the full glare of car
headlights. Unbeknownst to him, his performance had also been witnessed -
to his utter mortification - by a former pupil, parked on the grass verge
where he had been canoodling with Alan's former girlfriend, Rosemary. After
a sleepless night of horrendous waking nightmares, Alan faces a bleak
weekend of further clothes deprivation guaranteed to intensify his young
masters' controlling humiliation.]

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - "Supermarket Challenge"



I think I died a little that night - or rather in the early hours of that
Saturday morning. When I realised that my obscenely degrading display had
been witnessed by none other than a former head boy of the school in which
I taught, parked up and petting a former girlfriend of mine, I believe I
really lost the will to live for a moment.

I had grabbed my discarded clothing from the bonnet immediately and,
clutching it to me, had sought the protection of the car only for the
teasing Dave to drive off, necessitating I sprint off down the lane after
him, my naked buttocks clearly on display to the lovemaking twosome. The
fact my anxious glances shot in their direction had elicited the
information that they were neither of them fully-clad themselves did little
to comfort me.

Eventually the lads stopped and allowed me to get back in, though I was
made to ride home completely naked, my clothing bundle confiscated. Squozen
between them on the back, I had been subjected to gropings and molestation
throughout the journey for their amusement and entertainment.

"Remember it's Saturday, and all gardening activities have to be undertaken
in just your new shorts - no vest, even, this week," Tim had said.

I winced as I remembered how badly the lawn needed attention. I could not
put it off any longer.

"Furthermore, if you have to go shopping or into town, you must wear the
tracksuit, but we're not going to allow you to wear anything at all
underneath it this time."

"But, Sir," I began plaintively, "I need the jockstrap to contain the bulge
a bit. The cock ring you have locked on me makes me look very
. . . prominent."

"You should be thanking us, then," Phil Marshall chuckled.

I could gain no concession from them and sat glumly resigned for the
remainder of the journey home. I was refused permission to dress when they
arrived at the end of my road, and was brusquely put out and forced to
sprint to my front door carrying my clothes before me. Fortunately, at that
hour of the morning, it was completely deserted, and I made it into my
house, stark naked, without any further drama.

I had relived that ghastly gut-churning moment in the country lane
throughout the rest of the night. Indeed, I often found myself openly
whimpering and groaning out loud, shedding tears of frustration for my
situation there. I shuddered and my flesh crawled at the awful realization
that these two had been sitting watching through their car windscreen with
disbelief whilst a grown man - known to both of them - a quiet, unassuming,
conservative, professional pillar of the community, had stood in the
bright, unblinking beam of headlights and had begun to perform a complete
strip tease, and then to commit an act of gross indecency. I blenched at
the thought of my having actually fired arcs of my seed before Rosemary's
eyes, and hugged myself tightly in appalled disbelief as I lay in my
sleep-free bed curled in a foetus-like ball.

Breakfasting in the nude was still an uncomfortable feeling for me, as was
remaining naked at all times indoors. Although I could be fairly certain
not to receive an early morning visit from my tormentors on a Saturday -
particularly after such a late night - I was not prepared to take the risk
of being caught disobeying. They had too much against me, though I was
gaining a crumb of comfort from the growing suspicion that they had no
intention of using any of the incriminating material they'd accumulated.

I was just glaring ruefully at the state of the lawn, resigning myself to
the inevitability of my having to go out and attend to it, when my cock
ring began to vibrate. I cursed. There was no way I could go out and cut
the grass in my minuscule shorts with a hard-on, for heaven's sake. Just
then, the 'phone rang. It was Richard.

"Hallo, Big Boy. Up early this morning, are we?"

I could tell from his teasing tone that he was paging my vibrating third
testicle buried behind my scrotum, and which housed the buzzing motor that
so effectively stimulated me.

"Stop it at once, Richard. I'm not in the mood," I said harshly.

He did so.

"A bit snappy today, aren't we?" he gently admonished me, and I explained
the circumstances of the previous evening to him.

He had not seen his father. He was still in bed - Richard, that is, not his
father - so he knew nothing of the Rugby Club "Do" and my presence there,
although Donald had left before my humiliation at the hands of the
freelance photographer had begun. He listened avidly and lent a sympathetic
ear, although he could not quite curb the excited tone of voice which
betrayed he was experiencing a vicarious thrill at my expense. I knew from
his breathing that he was playing with himself vigorously as I recounted
the experiences of my county lane strip and wank. I even knew he came as I
got to the bit about Neil Sanderson and Rosemary having watched it all, but
I said nothing. Knowing I had aroused him, in turn, aroused me.

"Guess where we'll be exactly one week from today," he purred at me, as I
heard him slide languorously over the sheets and stretch. "In bed together,
in each other's arms, my cock deep up your arse."

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. So did my penis.

"Richard!" I said with a tone of scandalised reproof.

I know many of my contemporaries consider me to be old-fashioned - even
prudish - but I do find coarse language surprisingly unnerving still,
though I must confess recent experience has blunted the shock somewhat. I
had to admit to myself that I found the prospect of our lying together, our
naked bodies clasped to each other, in just seven days a distinct
thrill. My heart also somersaulted as I learnt that Richard fully intended
to take over Tim's reins to some extent. Rules were to be scrupulously
obeyed. I would be kept naked at all times inside the cottage, and was
warned that I might also be forced to endure a naked outdoor hike. I looked
aghast at my glossy and swollen scarlet glans as my foreskin almost audibly
rolled back and my tumescent penis reached for the sky. Involuntarily, my
hand moved towards my engorging shaft.

"Are you having a wank, Big Boy?" he asked me in teasing tones.

I jumped guiltily.

"Why not?" he asked when I told him no. "Go on! You know you want to. I
am."

"I know you are," I said and he chuckled.

I continued to resist the temptation to join him; something I would live to
regret, as it so transpired.

I found myself idly musing on Richard's teasing threat to continue
mastering me throughout the half-term, only dismissing further speculation
from my mind when it became evident that such thoughts would not lead to my
achieving a state of limpness in order to permit me tend to the garden.

Finally, I gulped as I studied my reflection in the hall mirror dressed as
I was in the tiny, papery thin shorts, before plucking up sufficient
courage to step out of my front door. Somehow, the wearing of this scant
piece of fabric served only to enhance the thoroughly demeaning exposure of
the rest of my compulsorily exposed bare flesh.

Whilst crouching down to pull some balled-up grass cuttings off the mower
blade, I was appalled to see my scrotum hanging out of the leg hole of the
shorts. A quick glance reassured me that such exposure had been unobserved,
however, it also meant that I would not crouch down in such a fashion
again.

Not wishing to linger over it, the lawn was cut with far less care than was
my normal wont, eager as I was to get back inside. Exchanging my shorts for
my tracksuit I inspected myself critically. I had been forbidden from
wearing anything under the suit that morning, and I fussed fretfully with
the flimsy fabric in an effort to conceal or disguise the emphasised bulge
of my manhood, gathered together and pushed forward as it was by the
enforced wearing of the vibratable cock ring.

I consciously developed an academic stoop to mask my loins as much as
possible, and, grudgingly approving its effectiveness in the looking glass,
I set off in the car to complete the weekly "shop". Bending slightly
forward over the handle of my supermarket trolley as I inserted my pound
coin to release it, I drew comfort from the fact that all was safely
concealed and set about my mundane task in an almost carefree manner. All
was going swimmingly, until I turned into the next aisle.

"Why, if it isn't Alan Watson! And you're wearing a bit more than the last
time I saw you!"

It was the Rugby Club secretary out shopping with his wife. He told her the
tale of my winning the rugby ball in the raffle and that I'd agreed to pose
in just a jockstrap for them. He reminded her at length of my school rugger
pitch exploits which had been so faithfully recorded in the local paper and
on the regional television news, and I blushed self-consciously as I became
aware of her eyeing me up and down and mentally undressing me as he
spoke. He had a loud voice. Ashamed of the attention being drawn to me as
he recounted my exploits, my eyes darted at passers-by, who lingered in
listening range, attracted by his full and lurid account. Suddenly I saw
the cruelly triumphant grin of Tim Robey as he stood facing me at the end
of the aisle, dressed, so obviously straight from bed, in scruffy t-shirt
and baggy crumpled cargo pants. I stared mesmerised as he took his mobile
telephone from his trouser pocket and typed in a number. There was a
lengthy pause, and then, suddenly, I felt the first ominous throbbings that
told me he had just set my cock ring in motion.

Trapped as I was by the social niceties forced upon me, I listened politely
to the man's ramblings, growing ever more alarmed as I recognised the
initial threatening stirrings from the very root of my steel encircled
reproductive system. I knew instantly I was about to be made to
come. Appalled, as I felt my organ swell in its bindings, my mind ran on
ahead. I had no underclothing to mask its unavoidable rise, or with which
to absorb its inevitable spendings from what was to be a compulsory public
orgasm.

"Would you excuse me? I've just seen a student of mine I must speak with,"
I explained to the couple and hurried away towards Tim.

He turned abruptly and moved off.

"Tim!" I called after him, breaking into a run.

As I picked up speed I could already feel my stiffening penis bounce from
thigh to thigh. I grabbed at his shoulder and spun him round.

"Take your hands off me!" he spat with vitriol.

I started back in fearful alarm. There was such a cold hardness in his
eyes.

"Please, I beg you. Don't do this to me," I murmured urgently.

"Kneel and beg!" he ordered curtly.

I studied his expression. It was unwavering. Glancing round, I ascertained
the aisle in which we now stood was deserted. I dropped to one knee, hoping
beyond hope that if anybody rounded the corner in the next moment they
would assume I was seeing to a shoelace which had become undone.

"Please, I beg you," I repeated urgently, dropping my eyes in alarm as I
felt my throbbing penis push up against the insubstantial material of my
track suit bottoms.

"Please what?" he demanded icily.

"Sir!" I quickly interjected, cursing my inadvertent exclusion of the title
I had to use.

"Kiss my feet!" he ordered.

With the pulse banging painfully in my temples, my penis bucking against
the thin tautening fabric, I had no time to prevaricate. Swiftly, I knelt
forward and did as I had been bade.

"Right, stand up. Get about your shopping," he said dismissively as he
turned and walked away.

I leapt to my feet and followed, abandoning my shopping trolley.

"Sir, it hasn't stopped!" I cried urgently.

"Nor will it," he remarked crisply and strode off purposefully towards the
exit.

I groaned audibly at the inevitability of my ordeal, and frantically set
about attempting to minimise my public humiliation. Reunited with my
trolley, my mind surged as I flew for kitchen rolls and Kleenex tissues,
stopping suddenly, as if burnt.

"My, my, you really do like shopping, don't you?" a grinning Geoff Talbot
announced with a chuckle as he stood in front of the shelves I had
targeted, his eyes firmly on my distended crotch. I had been outgunned and
outflanked by my masters.

The smile left his face and he regarded me coldly.

"No paper products allowed today," he said flatly.

I pleaded, begged and cajoled with increasing urgency as I felt myself
approaching the plateau from which there was no return.

"No paper products allowed today," he repeated. "You have had your
orders. You will now proceed towards the cash out. Do not go to jail. do
not collect two hundred pounds."

He grinned at me and I threw him one last baleful hopeless look before he
shepherded me in front of him towards the payment area.

By now the vibrating had stimulated me fully. My cock had risen to its
apogee and such was the thinness of the fabric covering it, you could
clearly see the material shivering with the mechanical vibrations from
underneath. Each cashier had a queue which, of course, prevented a speedy
departure before the inevitable orgasm struck. I quickly chose the shortest
queue with a male cashier, thinking it less likely that his eyes would be
attracted to my trembling crotch area than those of a female. As it
happened, the person in front of me paid for her groceries with a credit
card, and an inordinate amount of time was taken for the card to receive
clearance. I was in the middle of my transaction with the young man on the
till when I ejaculated copiously.

It pumped out of me and my penis jerked in rigid excitement four or five
times with each outpouring. I felt the wet stickiness on each thigh,
matting in the hair there and pressing against the papery fabric. A stolen
glance confirmed my very worst nightmare. It was patently obvious what had
happened. As I looked up again, the shock of realisation of my mortifying
predicament etched across my face, I met the startled, shocked and
embarrassed eyes of the young assistant who had also been drawn like a
magnet to the spreading patch of glossy moistness soaking through and
making the fabric alarmingly translucent.

If only I had wanked when Richard had wanted me to I should not have come
so abundantly now, I upbraided myself.

Still the blessed ring throbbed on. Still my rearing cock bucked and
smeared against the glistening wet material. With my face burning, I
hurtled my provisions into the trolley, thrust two twenty pound notes at
the boy and muttered an apology, adding a burbled and entirely unconvincing
excuse about my having spilt something. He was probably thinking that, like
Onan, I had, in actual fact, spilt my seed.

Whether he was disgusted at my all too obvious orgasm, whether he was
appalled at the prospect that he might well have induced this unwanted show
of arousal from a dirty-minded sex fiend who had "got off" in front of him,
I do not know. All I know is that he was as hotly embarrassed as I. He
refused to meet my eyes again, thrust my change and receipt onto the
counter rather than into my outstretched hand and hastily began serving the
customer waiting behind me. Totally and utterly disgraced and dishonoured,
I made my way from the store and across the car park.

Tim was leaning on my car with a sardonic smile on his face.

"So you came at last!" he said, pleased the double entendre hit home.

I begged him to stop the vibrations which were now creating a painful dull
ache as my flaccid penis beat uselessly against my scrotum and thigh. With
a flick of his finger on his dialling pad, it stopped.

"Why do you delight in berating me so?" I asked weakly, feeling completely
broken.

"Why?" he echoed. "Because I can!"

There was more a note of matter-of-factness in his answer than
triumphalism.

"Look, what have I ever done to you to deserve this?" I asked him.

"Nothing," he said with a smiling shrug.

"Was it because of that beating you took from the Deputy Head that I had to
witness?" I wanted to know.

He regarded me vacantly for a minute, then said quite openly: "Do you know,
I'd forgotten all about that? Not the beating, of course, but the fact that
you were there."

"Then why?" I beseeched, tears pricking my eyes.

"Because we all enjoy it. That's a very good reason. And, let's face it,
Big Boy, you enjoy it just as much as we do. Can you deny you've enjoyed
our mastery over you?"

I regarded him closely. My mind was in a ferment. I could not deny that,
and he knew it. A slow smile was spreading across his face as he recognised
my quandary.

"I tell you what," he said at last, still regarding me closely with his
quizzical smile, "this next week is the last proper teaching week. When we
come back after half term, we're straight into exams. So, at the end of
next week, I promise I'll tell you the real reason why, but only if you
obey every one of our commands throughout the week."

I agreed reluctantly, and pondered my lot, filled with forboding for the
week ahead.

"Now go home, take a shower, wash the come stains off your track suit
because you'll be needing it again tomorrow, and remain naked, awaiting
further orders."

With that, he turned on his heels and left me.

* * *