Date: Mon, 15 Apr 2002 18:41:27 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning (Chapter Three) [Gay - Authoritarian]

 THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING

[THE STORY SO FAR - Alan Watson was stripped and
humiliated before many of his pupils at Richard
Mayhew's (his favourite student's) eighteenth birthday
party. Rescued from the pool by the naked teenager,
Alan very publicly became aroused, and embarrassing
photographs were taken to record the occasion.
Submitting to all sorts of demeaning demands in an
effort to avoid public exposure of his true feelings
for Richard, Alan was forced to spend the day in a
tight fitting pair of demeaning style underwear
supplied by his tormentors. Whilst at Richard's house,
giving him private lessons, they were both surprised
by unexpected visitors. Alan was forced to strip to
reveal that he was indeed carrying out his orders,
when, at that particular moment, Richard arrived in
the room, having also been accosted, and stood looking
at his tutor in utter astonishment.]

CHAPTER THREE - The Assailants Unmasked


Frozen in abject shame and horror, I stood with my
trousers round my ankles and my shirt hitched up to
expose my armpits, gazing glassily at Richard,
himself clad only in a pair of  navy blue baggy cotton
boxer shorts. Three other figures, kitted out in
similar vein to my sinister whisperer, and in black
from head to foot, entered the room behind Richard.

"What the fucking hell's going on?" Richard wanted to
know.

My whisperer turned to me and said:

"Shall I tell him, Big Boy, or will you?"

"What`s going on, Alan? Why did they jump me and tear
all my fucking clothes off? Why are you standing there
like that, and why for fuck's sake are you wearing a
pair of my underpants?"

There was a mixture of fear and anger, bordering upon
hysteria in the agitated eighteen-year-old's voice.

"I don't know who they are, Richard. and I didn't know
these were your underpants. I was given them to put on
by this man." I answered as coolly as I could.

"They were stolen during games from the changing room
at school last week. I thought it was a joke," Richard
volunteered bitterly looking from one to other. "Why
have you come here? Why have you done this to me?" He
gestured at his newly-acquired state of undress. "Why
have you done that to Mr Watson?" he asked them
angrily, pointing at me.

There was something in his tone that unnerved me.

"So you know these people, Richard?" I asked
tentatively.

"Know them? Of course I fucking know them ! And so
should you. It's Dave, Geoff and Phil who jumped me,
and this one's Tim."

I was thunderstruck. Of course, The Whisperer was Tim
Robey. He and I had crossed swords before. I had
thought him aloof and arrogant and had said as much in
his last report. I knew his parents had confronted him
with my comments and that sanctions had been imposed.
All this term there had been a definite something in
his attitude towards me bordering on the
confrontational which I had chosen to diplomatically
ignore. The condescending manner of his alter ego
towards me was now glaringly obvious, but my extremely
nervous state had prevented me from identifying him.
My satisfaction upon knowing their identity, however,
had to be tempered with the additional intense
humiliation I now felt standing as I was in front of
four further members of my sixth-form tutor group. I
quickly dropped my shirt and stooped to pick up my
fallen trousers.

"Ah - ah - ah - ah !" Whispering Tim remonstrated. "I
don't remember giving you permission to move, Big
Boy." He clicked his fingers at two of the others.
"Strip him," he ordered.

Within a heart-stopping, embarrassing moment my shirt
was torn open, buttons flying round the room, dragged
off my shoulders and - my protestations ignored -
down my arms, as my trousers were yanked off my feet
together with my shoes. I stood, stunned before them,
reduced to a pair of socks and an obscenely brief pair
of shiny turquoise underpants which consisted of
little more than a pouch front and an abbreviated back
not dissimilar to a thong. Glancing down at myself, I
was appalled at how little they did in fact cover.
They were so low at the front that  my pubic hair was
clearly on show, and there was nothing I could do to
conceal it except with my hands. This was not allowed.
Upon each of my two attempts to do so, they were
firmly knocked away.

"So, Richard, my buck," Tim Robey began, as he tore
the ski-mask off over his head, "don't you think he
looks good in your pants, then? He certainly `fills'
them well, eh, Big Boy? Now that was a surprise -
when we all got to see it in its rampant splendour on
the night of your party. I'd never imagined Mr Watson
having a big hard prick like that. In fact, truth to
tell, I'd never imagined him having a prick at all."

He chuckled. It was echoed by the other three who
bizarrely retained their masks.

"So, you stole my underpants the other day," Richard
said, realisation dawning.

"Stole is such a harsh word," Tim said in a tone that
suggested his sensibilities had been hurt. "I would
prefer `borrowed'. Besides exchange is no robbery?"

"What the fuck are you talking about  -  exchange?"
Richard burst out.

"I'm talking about the pair of Y-fronts you received
this morning."

Richard's eyes widened and he slowly turned his gaze
on me. I flinched as his eyes ran over my naked flesh
and rested over long upon the turquoise pouch and bush
of my pubic hair bubbling uncontrollably out of it.

"You mean . . . ?" he began in a daze of incredulity.

"That's right. Watty here got yours, so it was only
right you should have his."

"But . . . how . . . why?" he asked, struggling to
understand.

"Because it's been patently obvious to the rest of us
for months that Big Boy here has been longing to get
into your knickers, so we thought we'd help things
along a bit."

I know my jaw dropped. I'm fairly sure I went crimson.
I was staggered. Never had I entertained the vaguest
thought . . . . had I? Suddenly, the painful picture
of me grinding myself into the mattress at my
alcohol-fuelled nocturnal remembrance of my reclining
in the arms of the naked Adonis flashed before my
overly moist eyes. Richard stared in open-mouthed
disbelief, then he too began to colour up.

"Bollocks!" he said with vigour. "You're talking utter
crap!"

"Am I ?" Tim countered with a lofty grin. "Take
another look at that photo we sent you. That's how
excited he got just being in a bloody swimming pool
with you."


"What a load of old cobblers!"

Richard managed a disdainful hollow bark of laughter.

 "And is this a load of old cobblers too?" Tim
countered. "I seem to remember you were fairly keen to
get Watson stripped and into the pool with you at your
party. `Let's get to see his wedding tackle, lads'  -
that's what you said, if my memory serves me - `and
I`ll get to keep his undies for a souvenir'. Only of
course your father intervened, didn`t he?"

It was Richard's turn to go crimson. Clearly he wanted
to deny what Tim Robey had just said. He turned to
look at me and with superlative effort met my eyes.

"I didn't know the underwear I got this morning was
yours, honestly, Sir," he said to me earnestly. "I
thought it was a joke pair from Alyson."

"Oh yeah, sure. Just the sort of joke that fag hag
would play," jeered Tim.

"Look, let's leave Alyson out of this, shall we?"
Richard turned on Tim belligerently.

"I think she's well out of it already," Tim opined
smugly. "I think even she knows that. It was
interesting to note how she was flirting with Big Boy
here at the party, just so she could stay in her ickle
Dickie's good books. You see, even she saw him as a
challenge and a threat."

"You're sick. That's what this is. Just `cos he told
the truth about you on your report, and your parents
gave you a hard time. You're sick and you're jealous!"
Richard rejoindered forcefully. "You're warped!"

It was Tim's turn for hollow laughter.

"You have the audacity to say I'm the one who's
warped?" He turned to the others. "Did you just hear
what sick Dick the prick said just now? Unbelievable,
isn't it?"

Like lightning he turned to me and snatched my
underpants down and off. I stood clasping my groin and
wearing just a pair of socks. I was a trembling wreck.

"Hold his hands behind him," he barked an order at one
of his cohorts. "Don't let him cover himself. I want
to throw some light on exactly who is warped round
here."

There was more than a hint of menace in his tone.
Geoff Talbot firmly grasped my wrists behind me. I
shot a baleful glance at Richard and saw that his eyes
rested on my fully exposed groin.

"Now, Richard, with your help, I'm going to conduct a
little experiment to try and ascertain who is exactly
the real warped one round here."

With a nod at Dave Newman and Phil Marshall who
positioned themselves at either side of Richard and
grasped an arm each firmly, he added: "Let the
unveiling begin."

I watched closely as, with their free hands, both boys
moved to the elastic waistband of Richard's boxers.
Richard broke his hypnotic stare at my stark naked
genitals and looked down at himself.

"No!" he shouted, as with a supreme effort to free
himself he writhed his body, but to no avail. He was
pinioned.

"Look, stop it now, and we'll say no more about it,"
Richard tried. He looked across at me for
confirmation. "All right with you, Alan?"

As a condemned man might, I met his earnest gaze but
said nothing. He could read my expression. Tim Robey
didn't even bother to answer. There was no way he was
going to stop until he had succeeded in proving his
point.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the navy blue cotton fabric
was dragged down to reveal a rounded and smooth young
belly, taut with muscle, glowing with good health and
sun-tanned tone. Suddenly a teasing little curl or two
peeped above the descending waistband as if newly
awoken and anxious to see what was going on. With a
pang of alarm I became aware that I was being closely
studied for a reaction to this snail-like strip-tease.
I shook uncontrollably and my teeth chattered. I
begged some omnipotent force to come to my aid, to
spare my contumely, but a jolt in the pit of my
stomach awoke me to the base futility of such a
request.

As a springing of luxuriant undergrowth became newly
exposed to view and one could clearly make out the
root of Richard's organ where it joined his
magnificent torso, I swallowed. My mouth went dry. My
tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and I felt the
unmistakeable sensation of blood flowing into my
lengthening penis.

"Ther-e-r-e-r-e-r-e-r-e-r-e she goes," Tim Robey
almost whispered in triumph, in the sort of tone a
snooker commentator might adopt as the last black ball
trickles agonisingly slowly across the seeming acres
of green baize towards the pocket as he drew
everyone's attention to the first stirrings.

He cast his eyes back on Richard as the fabric was
pulled ever lower and the wrinkled flesh of his sac
could now be seen behind the thick pendulous stalk of
his organ. I risked a quick glance down at myself and
again felt a stab in the pit of my stomach as I saw I
had risen approximately forty-five degrees above the
vertical. There was no denying the effect this
deliberate unveiling was having upon me. Blood raced
in my temples as well as elsewhere, and I could hear
my heartbeat in my ears. My nipples prickled and all
the hairs on my rudely bared chest, arms and legs
stood on end.

With a graceful bob, Richard's penis acknowledged its
freedom, soon to be followed by each testicle. He
glanced down at himself, tearing his eyes away from my
reproductive system at which he had been staring in a
sort of hypnotic fascination with the growing change
that had come over it.

"Ta - da!" Tim trumpeted as the boxers slid down
Richard's thighs and to the floor, succumbing to the
law of gravity.

"Now, let Warp Factor Two begin!" he announced
importantly.

"I looked at him, unclear of what he meant. I glanced
down at myself again to see my rigid member sticking
out at right angles from my belly. Tim, in the manner
of a spectator on the centre court at Wimbledon, was
looking from my groin to Richard's and back again.
There was a tremendous air of expectancy. Richard got
a tremendous wobble on as his boxers were
unceremoniously snatched from off his feet, and it
seemed almost as if he did not return to the same
position when stilled. I held my breath.

It bucked. Yes, it definitely bucked.

Mine bucked as if in response. Who am I fooling? It
was definitely in response. Mine was fast achieving in
excess of one hundred and twenty degrees and a hot
flush of shame hit me as I watched my foreskin peel
back voluntarily, revealing to my pupils my most
intimate and secretly private part in all its moist
and glossy splendour. Who was the master now, I asked
myself? The tables most definitely had been turned.

I looked back at Richard's. He dropped his eyes from
mine and stared in fascination at his own as it rose
to the perpendicular in one magnificent move.

"Warp Factor Two achieved, I think you will agree,
gentlemen," Tim remarked with sardonic satisfaction,
to be met with appreciative sniggers from Geoff
Talbot, holding me still, and Phil Marshall and Dave
Newman, each hanging on to Richard.

"All right, so you've had your bit of fun. Pathetic
creep! Now let us go."

Richard was choking with emotion. I could hear it in
his voice. I knew only too well how shamed he felt. My
throat was closed as well.

"Not quite so fast, Mayhew. Our fun and games aren't
over yet by a long chalk."

My heart started to beat painfully in my chest. Each
breath of air rasped against the back of my throat. As
I fought the futile urge to escape, my penis slapped
noisily and wetly against my belly drawing everybody's
attention to my most atrocious degradation yet. I was
leaking with excitement at the situation in which I
found myself.

A low chuckle betrayed their amusement at my
predicament. I flinched as Tim's finger wiped across
my  unprotected and dripping glans and watched,
horror-struck as he smeared my slime across Richard's
lips.

"Just you wait, you fucking warped bastard!"

Tears of impotent rage and frustration ran down his
cheeks as he spat at our chief protagonist.

"That's rich, to be called a warped bastard by one of
two gay boys who have raging hard-ons for each other,"
Tim said.

"Now for our next challenge, and I warn you, for this
game the winner gets a prize!"

The patronising, sing-song style of voice he adopted
to speak to us was calculated to demean. He was
succeeding very well, with me, at least. I was
thoroughly cowed. I felt I would have gone through
with almost anything just to get it all over and done
with.

"This game's called `Who Comes First?'" Richard
announced with the air of a master of ceremonies at a
children's party.

"No way!" yelled Richard. "You can fuck off, the lot
of you!"

"Now, there's an idea I hadn't thought of," Tim said,
as if considering the proposal.
"Still, thanks for the suggestion, but I'm not all
that keen. I know they say don't knock it if you've
not tried it, but I think I'll take a rain check on it
- for now, anyway."

"I am not tossing myself off in front of you lot,"
Richard added by way of clarification.

"Correct!" Tim agreed.

Richard was puzzled.

"What, then?"

"Mr Watson gets to toss you off."

"No!!!"

"At the same time you get to toss him off."

It was my turn to react in horror.

"No, please!" I begged, my cock jumping and drooling
in alarmed and excited anticipation, traitorously
belying the fervour of my request not to participate
in such an exercise.

I have thought long and hard before I write this,
examining my conscience closely. In spite of the
horrific prospect of suffering the most colossal
indignity of a pupil (albeit an adult) touching me
there, stimulating me in such a degrading and
animalistic fashion, exciting me to an orgasm in front
of them all, making me ejaculate before them, I have
to confess there was a secret thrill, a frisson of
forbidden ecstasy at the enormity of such an erotic
prospect.

In a state of almost feverish hysteria, I cannot
recall the list of threats and blandishments that
finally overcame all our protestations. Merely to be
reminded of the blackmail threats would surely have
been sufficient. I just recall the electric shock that
ran through my naked body at the first sensation of
Richard's tentative touch as his trembling fingertips
strained to make contact with my rampant and engorged
member. A whimper escaped my clenched teeth at that
very moment and I shuddered uncontrollably, lost upon
a sea of wanton and abandoned lust.

The thrill of contact was almost painful for me as the
head of his turgid member brushed hotly against the
palm of my trembling outstretched hand. I remember
being surprised at the heat as my fingers closed round
his hardened rod of tumescent flesh. He groaned and
gasped noisily through clenched teeth.

"No!" he yelled, almost as though in pain.

I was on the verge of tears myself. Tears of impotent
rage and humiliation. I knew I was on the brink of an
orgasm too which made everything seem that much worse.
The thought of ejaculating copiously in front of them
all was almost more than I knew how to bear. And yet,
truth to tell, this was the most fiendishly exquisite
moment, feeling this young man's hands holding my most
intimate parts and stimulating me into sheer hedonism.
We fell into a mirrored rhythm, and our breathing
reflected each other's too. I shot a glance at
Richard. His eyes were screwed up with exertion. His
forehead was bedewed with perspiration. He was
experiencing just as much intensity as I. We were both
so close. We pumped each other faster, animal lust
taking over now, and disregarding our coarse and
threatening spectators. He tightened his grip on my
shaft and pulled harder than ever, his fingers flying
up and down. I started grunting like a rutting animal,
all self-control thrown to the winds. The sap was
definitely rising. The point of no return had been
reached.

I came first. I had shot twice when I felt a hot
bullet of Richard's sperm hit me on the cheek and run
down onto my naked chest. I opened my eyes in time to
see him fire again and heard his little high-pitched
whine of exertion. My heart sang, and at the same time
I was appalled. This was so intensely exhilarating
and, at the same time, mortifyingly shaming. The
camera's flash alerted me to the fact that further
degradation was inevitable with such a record being
kept of my fall from grace. And then I wondered if it
were possible for me to stoop lower.

As I said at the beginning of my tale the loss of
respect of my pupils was going to be the hardest for
me to bear. But now, what of my carefully built
relationship with Richard Mayhew? The sudden pain in
my chest alerted me to how much I cared about that. We
looked at each other sheepishly, searching for some
expression that would tell the other how what had just
happened had affected us. Our eyes ran over our
vulnerable nakedness. Suddenly Richard took hold of my
hand and squeezed. What we had been forced to go
through, we had been through together. I squeezed
back.