Date: Fri, 14 Jun 2002 16:10:29 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning, Chapter Twenty-Eight

THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING

[Public Schoolmaster, Alan Watson, forced by his young student masters to
attend the Bickerstaffe's party dressed demeaningly and revealingly as a
"naughty French maid", whilst all the other guests were formally dressed in
smart evening attire, returns home relieved his ordeal is over. He groans
inwardly as he feels the buzz of his radio-controlled vibrating cock ring
whirr into action, and gazes dolefully at his reflection in the hall mirror
as his penis swells, rises and bucks towards its inevitable and unstoppable
climax inside the frilly little knickers he had been forced to wear - his
only means of cover due to the brevity of his frock. With heart-stopping
shock, he hears a noise, turns, and sees his mother standing looking at him
from head to toe in utter amazement.]



CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - A Spa Lunch



Can one imagine anything more blood-curdlingly horrendous to contemplate
than for a thirty-year-old man having to stand - in nylon stockings,
suspenders and high heels, dressed in a tiny pair of frilly lace knickers,
clearly on view and openly revealing his rampantly aroused manhood,
shivering with pre-orgasmic lust, beneath a frothy petticoat and little
black frock with cap and apron, a curly wig and a face made-up like a
painted tart - before his astonished and speechless mother?

"Mother! What on earth are you doing here?" I groaned in sheer dismay at
her seeing me like this.

My hands flew to my vibrating groin, pushing down the wired petticoat in a
vain effort to conceal my chronic arousal and imminent and unstoppable
orgasm. As I did so, it billowed up elsewhere clearly showing the ripped
seat of my knickers and my bare bottom beneath.

"I might well ask the same question, Alan," my mother replied tremulously,
her hands clasped to her chest in shock. "But I'm not altogether sure I
want to hear the answer."

I blenched as I clearly saw her obvious embarrassment at having observed I
was so sexually excited. I pressed the heels of my hands hard against
myself in a fruitless attempt to curb the growing excitement that
threatened to overspill at any moment. The ghastly prospect of standing
before my mother with hot semen running down the insides of my legs was
just too awful to envisage.

I stammered a pathetic excuse about being caught short and shot upstairs to
the bathroom. Mother murmured something about making me a strong coffee and
departed for the kitchen. Ripping off the knickers, I sat on the toilet and
pushed my bucking penis down until it had fully spent its spurting shots of
hot seed into the lavatory bowl. As the wretched steel-encasing contraption
buzzed on, my cock simply refusing to return to its flaccid state, I
stripped off the rest of my feminine guise and stepped into the
shower. Scrubbing my face vigorously, I scraped off every trace of
make-up. As I towelled myself dry, I gratefully acknowledged the cessation
of the buzzing from behind my scrotum. My tormentors had presumably decided
they had given me quite long enough to bring to fruition a compelled
ejaculation.

Now came the conundrum of what to wear in order to go downstairs again and
meet Mother properly. The ruling of my masters was that I must wear nothing
but my terribly short towelling robe at all times when in the house with
visitors. I knew that I couldn't face that ordeal - more likely, nor could
she after her initial shock at seeing me! Pyjamas seemed a more suitable
alternative, but they had been confiscated to prevent me from weakening,
and disobeying the rule about sleeping entirely naked. There was nothing
for it but to get dressed. I shot across the landing to my room, towel
clutched firmly round my waist and dived into a pair of clean
underpants. Clad in a polo neck shirt and a pair of corduroys, I casually
strolled downstairs in a light-hearted attempt to greet my mother as if
nothing were out of the ordinary.

She stiffened as I gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek. I grinned
ruefully as I told little white lies about being to a fancy dress party and
getting a bit drunk. I told her I was simply bursting to go when she had
caught me in the hall - too much beer, I had added with a guilty shrug. She
seemed to accept my falsehoods - perhaps because it was easier to do that
than to contemplate what might have been nearer the truth. A confirmed
tea-drinker, I dutifully accepted the proffered strong coffee, together
with the expressed hope that it might sober me up. Had there been the
slightest likelihood of my being any the worse for wear through drink that
night, all possibility was dispelled as I had stood with my turgid phallus
in my hand before my mother in the hall earlier.

We fell into general conversation after that, though there was still a
slight air of stiff unease between us, and I felt very like the guilty
schoolboy who had been discovered doing something not quite nice. It came
to light that she had come up to see me this weekend because I had let her
know I should not be home for half-term since I was going to the Lake
District with Richard Mayhew. Associating trips to the Lakes with camping
and outdoor activities, she had thoughtfully brought up my old sleeping bag
which lived on top of the wardrobe in my old bedroom at home, thinking I
might have need of it. I thanked her, of course, though explained that this
holiday was a thoroughly civilised affair as we were staying in his
parents' cottage. In full maternal mode she reasoned that, having being
shut up all winter, the place might be damp and that, more than likely, I
should be grateful for a nice dry and aired sleeping bag. I squirmed a
little uncomfortably as I imagined what my mother might have said if she
had known of our real plans over sleeping arrangements. Come to that, I
wondered what Donald and Angela Mayhew's opinion might have been as
well. No, I didn't - I knew! And Jiminy Cricket was giving me a hard time
over it too!

Finally, in the early hours of the morning, we retired to bed. I kissed
Mother's cheek again as I left her at the guest bedroom door, an undeclared
uncomfortable truce between us. Uneasily, I stripped off my clothing,
overly conscious that I would be sleeping stark naked just four inches or
so away from my mother. I ensured that my robe was within grabbing distance
from my bed should any night-time emergency occur. A combination, probably,
of the atrocious nightmare scenario experienced upon my mother's unexpected
confrontation being replayed over and over again in my mind, together with
the effects of the strong coffee I had been obliged to consume, conspired
to deprive me of much sleep. Periodic small dry coughs from beyond the wall
led me to believe that Mother was undergoing similar deprivation.

I got up at seven, showered and shaved quickly and quietly, then dressed
and popped downstairs with the firm intention of taking Mother an early
morning cup of tea to bed. I was most surprised, therefore, to discover her
already up and dressed and well on the way towards providing her son with a
full cooked breakfast. Replete with eggs, bacon, sausages, grilled
tomatoes, mushrooms, and fried bread, followed by toast and her own
home-made chunky marmalade, and a couple of cups of tea, of course, I felt
altogether calmer and more at one with the world.

I had taken the precaution of putting the sneck on the front door-lock to
prevent any of my tormenters just walking in, as was their wont since
turning the tables on me. It would have been quite inexplicable as to why
boys had such free access to my house for my mother. So I was not
altogether surprised to suddenly see Tim Robey's far from happy face
glowering at me through the kitchen window some time later that
morning. Fortunately, my mother was seated with her back to it and
therefore did not observe his display of ill temper. I moved swiftly to the
back door and threw it open.

"Good morning, Robey," I began full of bonhomie. "And to what do I owe this
unexpected pleasure?"

Cocking his head at me, with a look of startled questioning, he quickly
latched on.

"Good morning, . . . Sir," he managed, with only the briefest pause as he
slipped into his former rôle.

"It was a good night, last night, at the fancy dress party, wasn't it?" I
was acting my socks off.

"Erm, yes. Great."

"He mouthed "who is it?" at me, and I mee-moed back "my mother!".

"I just had Greg Bickerstaffe onto me this morning, talking all about it,"
he began quite naturally, but I could tell his mind was working hard to
keep his conversation inconsequential. "They're having a bit of a "let's
eat up the left-over's" do this lunch-time, and you're invited too. I
volunteered to pass it on."

A steely stare from him meant I was under orders to attend. I shook my head
helplessly.

"Oh that's very kind, but, the thing is, I've got my mother over for the
weekend and we'll be going out to lunch today," I told him evenly.

"Oh. I see."

He was nonplussed.

Mother called through.

"Alan, I was thinking of setting off before lunch, actually, to avoid the
heavy traffic. So I needn't spoil any plans you may have."

"You'd better come in," I murmured to Tim.

"This is one of my sixth-form students, Mother - Tim Robey. We were both at
the same party last night," I added by way of explanation.

"How do you do, Mrs Watson? Good morning. How nice to meet you!"

Tim Robey turned on the charm. I could see that Mother was instantly
enchanted. He was equally polite and subservient to me in front of my
mother. It was quickly agreed that, as much as anything, because of the big
breakfast, Mother didn't fancy a proper Sunday lunch. She was also less
than happy about driving when the roads filled up with heavy commercial
traffic, as they did later on a Sunday afternoon. If she set off at noon,
she would be almost home before four-thirty - roughly the time they started
to reappear.

It was agreed, then, that Tim should return to collect me just before
one. He left, expressing pleasure in having met Mr Watson's mother and
wished her a good journey home.

"What a nice, well-mannered boy," she said of him.

I at once recalled him, in my mind's eye, pissing all over me.



* * *

They came for me at ten-to-one - just twelve hours since we had left the
Bickerstaffes' earlier that morning. I had changed into my stipulated gear
after waving Mother off, and stood before them now in jockstrap, shorts,
singlet, socks, trainers and tracksuit.

Both tracksuit bottoms and shorts had to come off in the car, though I was
allowed to keep my jockstrap on. They listened avidly to my account of the
humiliating experience with the vibrating cock ring under the unflinching
scrutiny of my mother, and were suitably scandalized. I think at that
moment they realised how far they had debased me, and it gave them pause
for reflection. I thanked Tim for dropping his mastery of me in front of my
mother and he seemed to genuinely appreciate my gratitude.

When we got to the Bickerstaffes' there was a smaller crowd than last
night, all casually dressed, so I did not feel too self-conscientious
dressed as I was. Greg was Roger and Louise's son whom I had seen talking
with my four young tormenters the previous evening. He was a good-looking,
well-built boy and attended a long-established and much respected boarding
school in the north of the country. He was already on his half-term
holiday. Apparently, they were having it a week before everybody else and
had tacked on the two Jubilee Bank Holidays of the following week to extend
it. A clever ruse.

I'd missed Angela and Donald Mayhew, who had popped in earlier with Richard
for a buck's fizz on their way to take presents to Angela's mother for her
birthday. Richard had wanted to stay when he knew we were expected, but was
firmly told that his parents had declared the event a "three-line whip",
and he had to attend - on pain of death - his grandmother's birthday lunch.

I found myself in the company of Fiona from last night, together with her
husband, whose name escapes me, and a couple called Tom and
Marjorie. Marjorie Farnworth was not there this morning, I was relieved to
discover. This was another Marjorie. It was only when they began to speak
of their son's delightful girlfriend called Rosemary, that I realised I was
talking to Neil Sanderson's mother and father. I fancifully imagined what
an amazing conversation-stopper it would have been if I'd turned to them
and said: "Oh you're Mr and Mrs Sanderson, are you? You're son came round
to my place yesterday to suck my cock. In fact, that was just after
Rosemary had been to call with exactly the same thing on her mind."

The buffet was again superb. So much had been left over from the night
before that it was hard to believe it was not a fresh supply. Roger,
strong, shapely smooth tanned legs, in a becoming pair of faded terracotta
canvas shorts and a cream open weave short-sleeved shirt, was being kept
busy with an electric orange squeezer and popping champagne corks four at a
time to keep up an endless supply of buck's fizz. Both he and Louise were
attentive and generous hosts. The weather, whilst not startling, was
sufficiently mild to encourage us out onto the terrace to eat, once we had
stacked up our plates. I sat with the boys and we chatted socially of this
and that, all thoughts of subjugation forgotten.

Greg Bickerstaffe was a very pleasant young man; a charmer, in fact. He had
inherited his father's rugged good looks which were tempered a little by
the strikingly beautiful eyes of his mother, together with her softer
mouth. He was wearing shorts also, though the fashionable baggy cargo style
that extended to mid calf which gave him a slightly lost air in my eyes,
almost as though he had severely outgrown his long trousers. These trousers
were worn low on his hips, revealing a good two inches of baggy blue and
white check cotton boxer shorts above the waistband. He was bare-chested
and well bronzed with a necklace of natural wooden beads worn quite tightly
round his throat, and giving him almost a pagan air. Tim was smitten. I
could see clearly - and a few more scales fell away from my eyes.

The thing I could not ascertain was whether Greg was as smitten with
Tim. Phil Marshall, Dave Newman and Geoff Talbot remained complete
oblivious, I noted.

In spite of my unusually enormous Sunday breakfast, I managed a further
heaped plateful from the buffet, followed by the plainest and fruitiest of
the lavish desserts. I think I must have been on my sixth glass of buck's
fizz and was feeling distinctly light headed, but, as Roger said, who was
counting? As he poured me a seventh, and one for himself, he offered to
show me the garden. It had seemed a touch abrupt and apropos of nothing,
although he reminded me that last night I had commented on a spectacular
floodlit rhododendron he had in flower by the drive. So we sauntered off
down the lawn, side by side, sipping our glasses in an alcoholic haze of
comfortable companionship.

"I thought it was very brave of you last night, Alan," he said at length,
and clasped me to him chummily by the shoulder. "I'd have hated to be the
odd man out like you. Dressed like that, so revealingly, and leaving
practically nothing to the imagination, I'd have wanted to curl up and die,
knowing that everybody's eyes were firmly fixed on your cock all night -
men and women both."

My mind was a shade fuddled and I almost stopped to shake my head. Was I
hearing him aright?

And you're so obviously well-endowed too. Nowhere to conceal your manly
bulge, so to speak," he pursued the matter further.

I thought I detected a quickening in his breathing. A wave of embarrassment
swept across me.

"I must say I was very impressed, though. I thought you were
magnificent. And I know I'm not alone in this. Several people said how they
felt for you; how well you rose to the occasion and showed what a good
sport you were. Dave Whalley was telling me . . ."

Dave Whalley again! Already I had had to submit to the attentions of Neil
Sanderson because of the Head of our Games Department at school. The fact
that he himself was a cock-sucker appeared to be more widely known than I
felt certain he would be comfortable to realise. I was sure that Donald
Mayhew had heard something unsavoury about him, the way he behaved towards
him at the Rugby Club on Friday.

I tuned back in to hear Roger extolling the virtues of my sportsmanship on
behalf of the school and the rugger incident of horrific recall. He
confided in me that he had been privileged to have an early viewing of the
incomplete portrait that Jason Farnworth was painting of me, courtesy again
of Dave Whalley. He nudged me conspiratorially and confessed how impressed
he had been to see the magnificence of my pendulous organ in the
perpendicular ascendant, and that he considered it a crime against the
Creator that it should forevermore be hidden behind a painted rugby
ball. He wanted to know if Jason had exaggerated my attributes. I was
forced to confess that I could not answer as I was not allowed the
privilege which had been bestowed upon him. I was not allowed to look at
the painting until it was finished.

Quickly, and without warning, Roger Bickerstaffe grabbed hold of my elbow
and propelled me into the rhododendron clump at the bottom of the garden.

"Show me; show me now," he almost begged with limpid eyes.

I was more than a little startled and momentarily speechless.

"Roger, it's the drink talking," I said at last, nervously self-conscious.

"Of course, it's the bloody drink talking! I would never have dared to ask
you to show me your cock if I were sober," he raised his voice
belligerently.

"Sshhh!"

"No I won't bloody shush! Show us your fucking cock and then I'll shush!"
he grabbed at my waistband and missed.

"Roger, no, please," I tried in an urgent whisper.

"You know what you are? You're a fucking cock-teaser, that's what. All last
night you were going round flashing it at all and everyone, and now you're
not prepared to accept the challenge!"

"What challenge, for heaven's sake?" I asked in alarm, urgently restraining
him as he grappled with me in an effort to drag my tracksuit bottoms down.

"The challenge to fucking show us your cock!"

They must have heard the shout up at the house - if not what was actually
said. I pleaded with him futilely to be quiet. Sullenly, he told me the
only way he'd be quiet was if I showed him my cock. It was impasse.

Wishing I were almost anywhere else - other than being forcibly masturbated
in front of my mother - weighed down by the awful air of inevitability, I
dragged down my track suit bottoms and shorts in one, and pulled aside the
pouch front of my athletic support to let it all hang out.

"Magnificent!" he muttered breathlessly after a slow beatific grin had
spread across his drink-flushed visage. "Outstanding, superb! Let me bow
down and worship it."

So saying, he bent forward, took hold of my penis quite gently and bestowed
upon it a reverential kiss.

"Alan, Roger! Where are you?"

Approaching voices spurred me back into my clothing in record time, and we
shot out onto the lawn and stood as if gazing in wonder at the beauty of
the rhododendrons.

"Ah, there you are, both of you. I said I thought I heard you down here."

It was Louise.

"Roger, the boys would like to get into the spa, and I dare say some of the
others might be tempted. Come and turn it on; there's a dear."

All thoughts of further furtive fumblings in the shrubbery excised from our
minds, we retraced our steps up to the house.

On the south-facing terrace that ran along the back of the house, and under
a canopy that could be completely screened in for cold weather usage, stood
the impressively large spa bath. I gather it had been in use earlier the
previous night but had not seen it.

That it was a relatively new acquisition was obvious on two counts; namely,
the owners' pride in exhibiting it, and secondly, it looked brand spanking
new with bright jewel-like aquamarine mosaic tiles and shiny chrome bubble
jet outlets.

As we stood dutifully admiring it whilst Roger put it through its paces,
turning the water from idle ripples to boiling rage in an instant, I was
momentarily distracted by his son Greg who peeled off his top to reveal a
splendidly sleek, tight and muscular torso. Dragging cargo shorts and baggy
blue boxers down in one, I was almost disappointed that he had a pair of
Speedo swimming trunks underneath. Almost disappointed, but not quite. They
were extremely low cut and very figure hugging in a shiny, almost
iridescent, aquamarine blue to tone with the spa bath lining itself. Even
his father was momentarily put off his stride, and I had a sudden mental
picture of him drunkenly shouting at his son: "Show us your cock!"

Greg made the spa bath look very tempting indeed, and it was only moments
before Geoff Talbot tore off his clothes and, similarly clad in bottle
green Speedos, he jumped in too. Phil and Dave were next, though both wore
the baggy shorts that appear to have found more favour now among the
leisure swimming fraternity - presumably because they are less
revealing. Tim Robey watched longingly I noted.

"Why don't you join them, Tim?" I said to him quietly.

"Yes, do, all of you. I've plenty of towels," Louise urged.

He turned and regarded me closely with a challenge in his eye.

"I will, if you will," he said.

I smiled and said I had no costume with me, unaware as I was that there
would be such an opportunity to use one.

"I've got a spare one I can lend you, and he pulled from his capacious
pocket the pair of white swimming trunks in which I had been subjected to
such ridicule at the public swimming baths only the week before last.

The steely look in his eye told me he would brook no opposition. Resigned
to my fate, I took the trunks and followed Louise indoors.

"Just a minute, darling!" Roger came flying in after us.

"I'll show Alan where he can get changed. You see if you can't persuade the
others to help finish the food off."

So saying, he grabbed me by the forearm and steered me purposefully towards
the stairs.

"Now where were we, before we were so rudely interrupted?" he asked me with
a wolfish grin as he grabbed me playfully through the front of my tracksuit
bottoms.

* * *