Date: Tue, 16 Apr 2002 22:38:01 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning (Chapter Four) [Gay - Authoritarian]

  THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING

[English public schoolmaster Alan Watson continues the
tale of his degradation at the hands of certain
members of his sixth-form tutor group, who had been
able to turn the tables on him. No longer his charges,
they were now triumphantly in charge of him and,
threatening the use of photographic evidence, could
force him to obey their every whim. He was powerless
to object. Mortified from being masturbated in front
of them, he had to overcome the ordeal of facing them
all the next day in the classroom]

CHAPTER FOUR  -  Turning out in the full Team Strip

I shall not dwell upon the sleepless night of turmoil
I underwent following the mortifying masturbation
scenario at Richard Mayhew's the previous evening.
Suffice it to say, every excuse imaginable to postpone
my return to school the following morning had run
through my mind in the vain effort of avoiding the
nightmare of appearing before my tutor group. I was in
no doubt all would have heard of my degradation at the
hands of leader Tim Robey and his cohorts. I did
manage, however, a couple hours of troubled sleep
through that long and tortuous night, only to wake and
find to my utter embarrassment I had ejaculated
spontaneously and copiously in my sleep, something I
had not done for a dozen years or more.

The fact that this set of circumstances was apparently
"turning me on" in some strangely compelling way
concerned me more than a little. Part of me was
definitely excited. Part of me thrilled to the
enforced eroticism. And that part of me had been
responsible for my having to change my bedsheets that
morning!

It was therefore with a leaden heart that the realist
in me saw me undergo my half-hearted preparations for
school. I was going to have to brazen it out, I told
myself, put on an act, and, if anyone were to take
liberties, then I should be down on them like a ton of
bricks with the full backing of the authority of the
establishment. It sounded good. I almost managed to
convince myself - but not quite.

A frisson of fear hit me as I approached the front
door and saw a brown manila envelope lying on the mat.
Tearing it open anxiously, I pulled out an athletic
support and a short typed note.

"Glad you enjoyed last night - and we've the photos to
prove it  :o)  Wear this jock-strap today instead of
your normal undies and be prepared for an  inspection!
Guess what'll happen if we find you've disobeyed ...."

With a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach I
retraced my steps towards my bedroom unfastening my
trousers as I went. I simply had to go along with this
for the moment - there was no discernible alternative.
My career, my reputation, my social standing would be
destroyed instantly if evidence of what I had done
were to be produced. I was in a cleft stick. But for
how long, I wondered, would I be treated in such a
fashion?

Pulling off my underpants, I shook out the support and
stepped through the two elasticated straps. The pouch
was made of a sort of loose knitted mesh and left
little to the imagination. Whilst not wishing to
appear immodest  and despite having earned (as a
result of that now infamous photo of me with an
erection in my soaked Y-fronts at Richard's party) the
rather patronising nick-name of "Big Boy" from
Whispering Tim, my reproductive organs could never be
described as small. Naturally shy, I would move heaven
and earth to prevent them being seen as they were so
rudely the previous evening. However, in all honesty,
this reticence on my part bore no connection to any
feeling that I was in any way at all "challenged" with
regard to their size in relation to my fellow man. Far
from it. Perhaps the fact that its very size drew
attention to that part of my anatomy when in a state
of undress went a long way to increasing my
self-consciousness. In my boyhood, impromptu erections
had proved a nightmare as they were almost impossible
to conceal - particularly in swimwear or athletic
clothing. As a result I had learnt to favour baggy
shapeless clothing rather than skimpy,
figure-revealing items, seldom wearing shorts even in
summer.

Whether or not the size of the athletic support was
small, it was quite an effort to ensure that all was
comfortably and safely gathered in, if you take my
meaning. Hence my always feeling more comfortable in
the roomier confines of a generous pair of Y-fronts.
The lack of material at the back was alarmingly
revealing, I found, and the white fabric straps which
ran across each buttock only seemed to accentuate my
demeaning exposure all the more. I glanced at myself
in the looking glass. The bulge created by my manhood
was obscene, being confined, lifted and supported
beyond where its accustomed position lay, so that all
was bunched up and pushed forward. My heart skipped at
the prospect of somebody requiring me to reveal myself
in this demeaning garment as had been implied in the
accompanying note.

Fully dressed again, I consoled myself that the
bagginess of my pleat-fronted trousers did much to
conceal the bulge I feared would be so prominent, and
set off for school. At registration we all played our
part, with the protagonists of my ordeal of the night
before answering their names respectfully, and, at the
same time, avoiding eye-contact. There was a momentary
frisson when Tim said: "Absent, Sir" as I called out
Richard's name. Startled, I looked up.

"Anybody know why he's not here?" I asked generally.

"No idea, Sir. He seemed fine when we left his place
last night, Sir. I was sure he`d come." Tim
volunteered with a fixed stare, laying extra emphasis
on the final word.

The double-entendre was not lost upon me. I fear I
blushed. I dropped my eyes. He was in charge. He knew
it - I knew it. Why else was I sitting there wearing a
jock-strap?

It was after assembly that my fate that day was
sealed.

"Alan, old friend," Dave said, clapping me on the back
a shade too heartily as I was about to leave the
Senior Common Room for a double period of the more
robust aspects of Chaucer with the Lower Sixth. Dave
Whalley was our Head of Games.

"Frank broke his collarbone in last night's game, so
can I play you after all in this afternoon's Staff
versus first XV match? I'd be ever so grateful.
Thanks."

So saying, he thrust a set of kit into my hands - or
rather on top of a pile of exercise books I was
carrying - and beetled off.

"You're a brick, Alan. I'll stand you a pint after the
match - two if we win!" he called back over his
shoulder as he loped off down the echoing corridor,
towards his purpose-built and grandiose sports hall.

I could hardly refuse. I had, in fact, volunteered for
the team in the first place. Frank Hartley, a new
member of staff - younger and fitter by far - had the
advantage of playing for the local RUFC, and so was a
natural for inclusion. It was last night's unfortunate
injury that precluded him and left the gap for me to
fill. As I walked off down the echoing corridor, to my
Victorian and far from grandiose tutor room, it
suddenly hit me that I was bound to cause a stir in
the staff dressing room as I took off my trousers and
before I stepped into my shorts. I consoled myself
that I could carry it off. After all, what was more
natural than to be wearing an athletic support for a
game of rugger?

The day passed uneventfully enough and I was lulled
into a false sense of security and found myself
immersed in my subject. The only cause for suspicion -
had I been looking for one - came mid-morning when a
boy knocked and entered, politely proffering Mr
Whalley's compliments and apologies for disturbing
everybody's lesson, but he had distributed the wrong
kit and could he have it back? The following lesson a
different boy respectfully delivered a replacement
set, and I remember glancing at it and thinking it
looked exactly the same to me, but thought no more of
it.

A lesson with my tutor group after break which I had
been dreading passed uneventfully too. Upon my
entering the room, I had been aware of some exchanged
dartings of looks, and my heart had been pounding,
fearful I was to be jumped, perhaps, and my trousers
hauled down before the whole group.

As the bell went signifying the end of the lesson and
I started to leave, Tim called out: "I see you've made
the staff team, Sir. Good luck. We want you know
you're going out there with our support!"

I thanked him brusquely and left the room. It was only
then that the significance of his remark hit me. Very
droll.

Why, I wonder, do the gods bless us with hindsight? It
is all too easy to see, looking back, that the omens
were gathering. As I pulled that rugby jersey over my
head I heard some stitches give, and found a tiny hole
in the seam under my right arm. There also appeared to
be a little wear and tear on the crotch of the white
shorts when I came to put them on, but since I was
anxious not to spend too long trouserless and sporting
a bare behind before my colleagues, I failed to
examine them any more than cursorily and leapt into
them pronto. The short-legged shorts fitted snugly and
seemed determined to exaggerate the bulge at my groin.
I decided to wear my jersey outside my shorts rather
than tucked in. While not being long enough in the
body to conceal that vulnerably visible area, the
looseness of the untucked jersey somehow prevented any
additional emphasis of my embarrassingly outstanding
profile. I had already had to endure with good grace a
robust enquiry as to whether I had five pounds of King
Edward potatoes in the pouch of my jockstrap much to
the amusement of several of my colleagues.

Like the schoolday which had preceded it, the match
proved largely uneventful too. Scoring had been
successfully and honourably foiled on a couple of
occasions for both sides and honour was definitely
even, signified by the equally matched support from
spectators of all ages comprising school, most of the
staff and a fair sprinkling of parents. As time was
running out, however, the competitive stakes were
increased and some of the tackling became much more
combative. A scrum down on their three-quarterline in
the last ten minutes or so before extra time suddenly
gave us an unexpected advantage.

The ball came right out of it into my waiting arms. I
could have sworn it came from one of their men. As I
parried a dive from their winger, a clear field lay
before me and I shot forward. As I did so I felt a tug
on the hem of my jersey and I was swung round by the
velocity of it. With a ripping sound, it split from
waist to collar, the left sleeve coming away
completely. I charged on regardless, my shirt flapping
like a flag. Somebody was closing with me fast but I
only had half a dozen strides or more  to the
touchline and nobody in front of me. I could hear the
cheers from the side of the pitch. I can even recall
seeing the headmaster trotting along with me. With
three paces or so to go I snatched a look over my
shoulder. For a fraction of a moment I hesitated and
wondered if I could veer towards the goal posts to
make my inevitable try an easier conversion kick. I
gambled and arced across in front of my pursuer, Geoff
Talbot, and one of my detractors from last night. He
had gambled too and guessed correctly at my move,
fractionally ahead of me, therefore gaining a distinct
advantage.

I heard the guttural grunt as he lunged toward me. I
felt him grasp the fabric of my shorts upon my hips. I
felt him fall and drag behind, until the seams
succumbed and came asunder. A mere stride and a
stretch from victory with the opposing team thundering
down upon me, and now naked - save for a very small
jock-strap - before the assembled throng, I dived
quite literally for touch. The exertion of such an
activity proved too much for the already deliberately
weakened stitching of the elastic straps on my sole
remaining garment. They burst away from the pouch
material allowing my recently confined genitalia to
spill out in full view of the roaring crowd.

Stark bollock naked in front of pupils, colleagues and
parents, I dived face down onto the muddy ground, and
a great cheer went up. I lay there frozen with a
mixture of fear and shame. The referee's whistle
acknowledged my touchdown and Dave Whalley smacked me
on my rudely bared buttocks.

"This one'll live in the memory, Alan. Great try! Well
done!" he said.

The headmaster came running up peeling off his mac.

"Congratulations, my dear Watson. What a show you put
on! You certainly don't believe in hiding your
impressively outstanding talents, do you, my dear
chap?" he chortled as he draped his coat over me.

With a rueful grin I thanked him for his thoughtful
loan and got up clasping his mac closely to my
entirely naked body. This was surely the ultimate
humiliation, I thought - to be stripped entirely naked
in public before the entire school.

I think you've certainly earned yourself an early
bath, old man," the Head added, delighted at his own
jocularity.

I left the field to a hearty round of applause. It was
intensely humiliating to reflect upon how much of me
everybody had seen. This was going to take some living
down!

*			*			*