Date: Wed, 12 Jun 2002 15:21:06 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning, Chapter Twenty-Seven

THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING

[After a thoroughly embarrassing visit from Rosemary, which results in Alan
Watson at last coming to terms with his sexual persuasion, this is swiftly
followed by Neil Sanderson who confirms any lingering doubts he may have
clung on to about mansex.

As Saturday night approaches, Alan faces the prospect of a fancy dress
party in the company his young masters with a sizeable degree of caution
and discomfort. After all, he has been forced to come three times already
that day.]



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - The Fancy Dress Party

I sat and contemplated my face in the proffered hand mirror. I looked
grotesque in the extreme.

"What do you think?" Phil Marshall asked as he stepped back to inspect his
handiwork with a critical eye, before putting away his palette of colours.

"I think I look awful, Sir," I wailed. "I look just like a pantomime dame."

"I shall take that as a compliment, then," he grinned. "That's exactly the
effect I was aiming for."

I was still stark naked, having just been showered and shaven, which only
seemed to accentuate, somehow, the bizarreness of my overall appearance. My
tormentors were keeping my costume for the fancy dress party from me as a
last minute surprise. I had undergone the application of make-up without
being able to see the various stages of it, so to be suddenly faced with a
powdered peach-like complexion, carmine exaggerated lips shaped in a
cupid's bow, eyes lined in the blackest kohl with broad splashes of
pearlised lavender applied from upper lashes to curved pencilled brows, was
something of a shock. I was left in little doubt as the gender of apparel I
should so shortly be forced into wearing and in which I should be required
to disport myself at the party.

As I was told to stand up, a woman's black lace suspender belt was produced
and fitted round my waist. Elastic straps with satin ribbons hung down at
both the front and back of each thigh with the little rubber button
clasp. Black nylon stockings were slid up my unprotesting legs and attached
to the suspenders, then a pair of white frilly knickers - the seat of which
was bulked out with layer upon layer of ruched lace - were held out for me
to step into. Small pink satin bows decorated the elastic leg holes, and as
they were slid into place they left a good ten inches of my thigh bare
above my stocking tops.

A black lace brassière was the next item of feminine attire into which I
was forced, the empty cups of which were then filled with tissue and cotton
wool. Then I had to step into a small stiff net wired petticoat on an
elastic waistband. It stood out like the top skirt of a ballerina's tutu,
ensuring that the knickers and what lay beneath remained in full view. A
very small shiny black frock with low scooped neck and a white Peter Pan
collar, puff sleeves with little white cuffs at mid-bicep was then
produced, and I immediately saw I was to be the proverbial "naughty French
maid".

A tiny frothy white apron, a curly brown wig, an absurdly small cap and a
pink feather duster completed the ensemble. I stood, resigned to my fate,
and regarded myself balefully in the mirror. It could have been worse, I
told myself. I had had visions of being made to go as Adam perhaps, wearing
only a fig leaf for maximum humiliation and exposure. Here, I was being
allowed much more coverage than I had anticipated - albeit of a demeaning
nature. A pair of glossy black high-heeled stiletto shoes were then
produced and I was helped into them. These were ankle-breakers, if ever
there was a pair. I teetered gingerly from piece of furniture to piece of
furniture, begging to be allowed to forego them. My masters were
unbending. It was useless to protest. They declared themselves pleased with
the overall effect.

As I minced unsteadily down my garden path in the high heels, the cool air
bringing my exposed thighs out in goose pimples, my frilly knickers clearly
on display to the entire neighbourhood, I earned a loud wolf-whistle from a
passing cyclist and hoots of derision from a couple walking their equally
surprised dog. Mrs Wilkinson next door's nets twitched as she struggled to
see what was going on.

Once in the car, I had to forfeit my knickers for the duration of the
journey. Such was the brevity of the skirt and the sticky-outness of the
stiff petticoat that I was afforded no privacy whatever. My newly-shaven
genitals were clearly on view to all - somehow, their bald nakedness
emphasized, as they were now almost obscenely framed by the black satin
straps of my lacy suspender belt and the black stocking tops, and
surrounded, exaggerated and upheld by the ring of steel.

Upon arrival at out destination, I was permitted to wriggle back into my
knickers once more before getting out of the car. We were parked some
distance from the venue of the party due to the earlier arrival of many of
the guests. A gaggle of small children appeared as if by magic and cruelly
jeered as they processed after me, drawing much attention from nearby house
occupants. The walk down the street alone was something of an ordeal for me
in those wretched heels without the mocking throng. The boys, however, were
very attentive and assisted me as much as possible, never hurrying or
upbraiding me in any way. They had chickened out of coming in fancy dress,
however, they'd told me, opting to go in ordinary black tie evening dress
but sporting dark glasses and calling themselves "The Management" whom I
understood to be a pop group or alternative comedians, I'm not quite sure
which.

Why I had not tumbled to it quicker I do not know. It had all seemed so
plausible. Even the stunned look of surprise on our hostess's face as she
opened the door to admit us did not immediately alert me. I fully
recognized how appallingly bizarre I looked, and this was emphasised still
more in contrast to the conservativeness of my companions' formal
attire. It was not until we stepped into the enormous lounge area to be met
by a stony silence and puzzled stares that I realised I was the only person
there in fancy dress.

I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. The boys, of course, were
cock-a-hoop. Their splendid practical joke at my expense had been pulled
off with élan, and after a brief and uncertain pause from the assembled
guests whilst the jape was explained, they were rewarded by congratulatory
gales of laughter and hearty applause - everybody feeling secure and
immensely relieved that nobody had thought to play such a cruel trick upon
them.

I, of course, was mortified, but had to mask this with a sheepish grin as
people came up to clap me on the back and tell me what a good sport I was
and how fond my pupils must be of me to treat me as an equal. I was a
credit to the profession that I could be the butt of their humour outside
school hours, yet retain their respect and admiration in the classroom. I
shuddered as I had the mental vision of Geoff Talbot in the library only
the day before, cradling my exposed genitals in the palm of his hand.

I don't think I can over stress how totally chastened and discomfited one
feels when one is displayed in such a revealing and embarrassing outfit -
the sole one - amongst a crowd of fully and formally dressed guests. My
stocking encased legs seemed much more exposed somehow, the bare flesh of
my thighs accentuated by the black suspender straps that ran up the
legholes of my frilly white knickers also on permanent display beneath the
abbreviated hem of my little black skirt lying atop the frothy petticoat
that stood up round my waist like the gauze of a pierrot's collar. The low
scoop of the neckline of my tiny frock exposed much of my chest hair - a
freakish and grotesque contrast to the feminised face and girly wig above.

"Alan, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you had a real exhibitionist
streak."

It was Angela Mayhew - Richard's mother - who spoke.

"Come on, you must pose with me. I want Donald to take a photo of
us. Richard'll never believe it unless he sees it."

For the next hour I had to pose for all and sundry in ridiculous and
embarrassing poses. One minute, I was sitting on some chap's knee in a
saucy pose - the next, I was lightly dusting the bald head of another, his
wife screaming with laughter as he groped at my stocking tops and leered
suggestively at the lens. One poor guy had come to the party in Highland
evening dress and I think he was as mortified as I when we had to pose
together in audacious style, with me attempting to stick my pink feather
duster up his kilt. He just managed to conceal his shame better than I. He
also managed to conceal what he kept under his kilt better than I. My
prominent bulge was very noticeable in the front of my lacy knickers and
was freely and often coarsely commented upon - even by Angela.

"I'd heard you'd earned your new nick-name of `Big Boy' after displaying
your wares so generously at the rugger match fiasco," she said to me with a
sly but knowing grin. "The way you are filling out those little panties of
yours tonight tells me that nobody was exaggerating your attributes. And,
by the way, I love it when you blush."

I jumped as she playfully tickled my naked thigh and twanged one of my
suspender straps.

I apologised profusely for my appearance to my host and hostess, but they
were most magnanimous, even asserting the opinion that I had succeeded in
adding a certain frisson to the festive atmosphere of the occasion. From
henceforth I was to call them Roger and Louise, whereas previously I had
only known them as the Bickerstaffes.

Teasingly they told me they thought I had a penchant for appearing
underclad at parties. It transpired they had been guests of Donald and
Angela's at Richard's eighteenth, when, as it had also been my birthday, I
had been forcibly stripped to my underpants by some of my heartier students
and thrown in the swimming pool. Also, Roger had been at the rugby club the
previous night when I'd again been stripped and had been forced to pose in
just my jockstrap with my raffle prize oval ball. He had apparently regaled
Louise with tales of the episode.

Dave Whalley and his wife were there and came across for a chat and a joke
about my appearance. She teased me about my more revelatory exposure during
last night's do at the rugby club, saying she understood her husband had
been instrumental in stripping me down to just a jockstrap. She promised me
good humouredly she would not let that happen tonight. Dave interrupted
with the rather coarse opinion that such a task would be impossible since
it was all too obvious I was not wearing one tonight, drawing unwanted
attention to the prominent bulge in my knickers, as they both stooped to
confirm his observation. Even though she was present, he managed to let me
know, in a round about way, that he'd had a word with Neil Sanderson since
his visit to my house that afternoon. He leant forward conspiratorially and
told me he was intrigued to know all about my new piece of jewellery and
couldn`t wait to see it for himself. I swallowed hard. I knew it would be
only a matter of time before he was round at my place demanding to see the
cock ring and requiring a full explanation.

"Have you got a hard-on at the moment, or does the ring keep you like that
all the time?" he whispered in my ear.

I was thankful the make-up would conceal my crimson reaction to such an
enquiry.

As I returned to the lounge with my plate piled high from the splendidly
generous buffet and looked for somewhere to perch in order to eat more
comfortably, a lady moved up for me, leaving a small space on the edge of a
couch.

"Here, Mr Watson. You take the weight off those high heels for a bit," she
giggled.

I thanked her, with a blank smile. I knew her not.

"Marjorie Farnworth," she said, by way of introduction. "My son is painting
you in the nude."

Marjorie Farnworth was blessed with one of those typically English
middle-class voices that would never ever need any artificial means of
amplification. Her tonal qualities carried perfectly, no matter what. The
buzz of animated party chatter stilled to nothing and all eyes turned upon
me. My appetite instantly disappeared and my mouthful of gravadlax and
cream cheese turned to sawdust as if by magic.

It was at that very moment, when I was the object of everybody's attention,
in an intense moment of suspended animation, when loaded forks had been
frozen in mid journey `twixt plate and mouth, when masticating jaws had
become momentarily paralysed, that my vibrator started vibrating.

"Why, Mr Watson, what on earth is happening? This cushion we are sharing
has started to tremble," she fog-horned in astonishment.

"How do you make the lace on your knickers shiver like that, Mr Watson?" a
woman sitting opposite me asked pointedly as she stared in fascination at
my groin.

I leapt up, a gibbering wreck.

"I - erm - I'm so sorry! Please excuse me," I stammered in utter confusion.

Turning, I bent to put my plate on the floor revealing my frilly bottom to
the room.

"Apart from the obvious, what have you got in those knickers, old man?
They look as if they have a life of their own," a man whose name escapes me
asked with a hearty laugh.

"It's my `phone," I lied, suddenly inspired. "I'd nowhere else to keep
it. Do excuse me."

"I told you it wasn't all him, Fiona," I heard somebody murmur as I made to
leave the silently stunned room. "Much too much of a good thing to be
sure."

"What a shame!" Fiona, or at least I assume it was, responded sadly.

I beat a hasty retreat and shot into the downstairs lavatory as I saw some
woman just vacating it.

I stood and, with mounting hysteria, regarded helplessly in the mirror my
growing appendage rise in the front of my stretched knickers as the buzzing
continued. Surely they would not be so cruel as to make me ejaculate in
them - something I was all too certain would make the front of them
virtually transparent?

I tore them down and stepped out of them, and regarded my bobbing erection
with immense distaste as the vibrating ring made my entire genitalia
visibly reverberate.

My cock rose still higher and wiped its exposed and glistening head on the
underside of my equally stiff petticoat. My balls churned in their tight
and glossy newly-shaven sac. I groaned in a mixture of frustrated despair
for my plight and basic animal lust.

As suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Of course, the fun had gone out
of it for them. I had escaped the humility they had planned for me. I had
found sanctuary. For what seemed an inordinate amount of time, during which
the door was tried at least three times, my tumescence refused to
subside. Needless to say, that was the whole principle behind a cock
ring. It restricted the blood flow from the erectile capillaries and once
there, prevented its quick dispersal.

To make matters worse - if that could be deemed possible - I stumbled and
lost my balance whilst stepping back into my knickers, thrusting a sharp
stiletto heel through the fabric and tearing off a length of the frilly
lace which adorned them. Hauling them up, I turned to glance over my
shoulder to survey the damage and was sickened at what I saw. The rent in
the seat of the knickers clearly revealed my right buttock together with a
brief view of the cleft between. My erection had gone - ring or no ring.

With my right hand clasped to my bottom, I sidled out of the toilet and
went in search of Tim Robey. He was at the bar, eating and talking with
Geoff, Dave and Phil, and another boy I did not know. I was frantically
trying to semaphore my anxiety to him across the room, and quickly became
aware that he was studiously avoiding looking at me. I knew he required me
to cross the room to him. After all, I was subservient to him. That was the
nature of our rôle-reversal. He was the master now.

"Sir," I began, momentarily forgetting the presence of the unknown boy.

"What is it, big Boy?" he turned to me languidly as he toyed with the food
on his plate with a fork.

"Please, Sir, I've accidentally torn my knickers. I need to go now. It's
too embarrassing to stay."

"Show me," he ordered staring me in the eye.

I slowly turned and slid my hand away fleetingly.

"Bend over. I can't see properly."

I bent over. Blood rushed to my face, but through pure discomposure. I felt
his fingers probe me through the hole in the fabric. I started as I felt
one pry my cheeks apart. I jumped again as I felt the material tear a
little more.

"Hmph! Well, it's not bad enough to go running home over. Go back and eat
your supper."

He turned his back on me, excluding me from his group. I was dismissed. I
caught the eye of the boy whose name I did not know and saw the look of
excited intrigue on his face. I blushed still more.

Dolefully, I returned to the lounge and Marjorie Farnworth. The room fell
silent as I entered, hand clasped firmly to my right buttock cheek.

"Nothing amiss, I trust?" she enquired in stentorian tones.

"Sorry?"

I was not with her. Much water had flowed under my bridge of troubles since
last we had conversed.

"Your telephone call," she nodded like a pony at the front of my knickers.

"The one you keep down the front of your knickers," Fiona added by way of
illustration.

I assured the assembled audience that all was well, thanking them for their
concern, and attempted to squat as decorously as possible next to my plate
on the floor to the left of Marjorie Farnworth. I smiled weakly and munched
my way through the supper in silence as Marjorie regaled the room with a
full account of my humiliation on the school rugby field ("Stark naked, he
was - naked as the day he was born!"). I didn't think it worth interrupting
to deny I had been born wearing a pair of rugby boots and hooped
stockings. Far better to let her take the floor and draw some attention
away from me and my current plight. She went on to recount the repeat
performances required for newspaper and television, and to add that that
was what had inspired her son to create a lasting record in his gift to his
alma mater in gratitude for his gaining a first class university
scholarship. The proud mother over-egged the pudding, of course, and her
initially wrapt audience soon began to clear their throats and mutter with
the first signs of terminal boredom. I heaved a sigh of relief. I was
already yesterday's news. My activities, dress, demeanour would no longer
be subjected to such close scrutiny. I could relax a little. Ever so
slowly, the taste came back into my food. Fiona's husband - no longer
feeling threatened by the size of my equipment, happily convinced I had a
mobile `phone down there as well - volunteered to get me another glass of
wine. The party was looking up. I even began to forget how ludicrous I
looked.

We left the Bickerstaffes' at ten to one in the morning, but not before I
had been subjected to more mirthful exposure as the tear in my knickers had
been revealed and an inspection demanded by the stalwarts who had remained
to the bitter end, and a photograph had been demanded to record the baring
of my bottom. Once more in the back of the car, my knickers were forfeited
for the duration of the journey, and I was subjected to much groping and
manipulation which I was unable to prevent in any way. I was their
plaything. At that I had to be resigned.

Once more the car drew up at the end of my road. My knickers were returned
to me, and as I struggled into them, succeeding only in tearing them a
little more, I was informed to be ready at midday. I had to be wearing my
tracksuit, under which I could also have my singlet and shorts together
with a jockstrap.

With a strange clip-clop echoing on the night air from my high heels, I
teetered homewards along the deserted pavement. I groaned and cursed as I
felt my vibrating cock ring spring to life. It was a cheap parting shot. I
could imagine them convulsed with laughter as they drove home imagining me
reacting, stiffening. An enormous sigh of relief escaped from me as I leant
against the inside of my door, lifting my skirt up out of the way to study
the enormity of my bloated turgidity.

It was so quiet I could almost hear the hum of the vibrating motor pressed
against the back of my scrotum packed in the lacy knickers I still
wore. Suddenly, I froze.

With a quake of abrupt fear, I realised I was not alone.

There was a light on in my living room. I could see it under the
door. There had definitely been no light on when we had left. It had still
been daylight then.

My heart began to beat a tattoo in my chest. The vibrator took up the
rhythm in my vastly swollen cock and balls.

I heard footsteps tentatively approaching the other side of the door. It
opened.

"Good god, Alan? What on earth . . . . ?"

I stared, appalled, into the astounded face of my mother.

* * *