Date: Sat, 20 Apr 2002 00:52:35 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning (Chapter Eight) [Gay - Authoritarian]

  THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING

[THE STORY SO FAR  - Forced to relive his humiliating
rugger-field exposure for the unblinking lens of the
television camera, Alan Watson is further unsettled by
unchannelled signals he is picking up from fellow
colleague and games master, Dave Whalley. How much
does the man know? What does he suspect? And where
does Alan's future stand if Whalley's suspicions are
confirmed? In the meantime, there is Richard Mayhew to
bother about.]


CHAPTER EIGHT  -  Page Three Pin-Up


"Alan? It's Angela. Angela Mayhew. Didn't you get my
message?"

I apologised, and told her there had been several
distractions since I had received the note at school
informing me of Richard's migraine and asking that I
ring her back.

"How is he?" I asked.

"He's much better, but he's not right yet, Alan. He
doesn't want to go back to school though. It's not
like him to want to stay off. It's almost as if he
doesn't want to face something - or someone. I
wondered if you'd any idea if there was something that
had upset him."

I was so glad this conversation was happening over the
telephone. I could not have disguised the expression
on my face from her.

"I can't think of anything in particular, Angela," I
lied, that mental picture of  Richard and me both
stripped naked, on the floor of her lounge and being
forced to masturbate each other to a shuddering
climax, flashing like a beacon in my brain.

"I was wondering if I could ask a favour, or is it the
most colossal cheek?"

"What?" I asked, very much on my guard.

"I was wondering if you could just pop in, apparently
casually, to have a word with Donald and me - just a
social call, you understand. You were in the area,
say, and thought you'd call, to see how Richard was,
perhaps?"

"I - I don't know. I think he might smell a rat," I
countered warily.

"Please, Alan. He's definitely got something on his
chest. He might tell you if you came by."

I upbraided myself for the mental image I had conjured
up of his bare chest the moment Angela had mentioned
it. I had to concur it was just feasible that seeing
me privately might just make his return to school
easier.

"I have an essay of his. I could just pop in on the
pretext of dropping it off, I suppose, before our next
private lesson," I suggested hesitantly.

"You're a darling man, Alan. There'll be a large
Scotch waiting for you."

Donald Mayhew came to the door when I got there.

"Come in, man, come in!" he said excitedly. "You're on
the news!"

With an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, I
followed him through to the lounge. Richard looked up
from the sofa, startled at my arrival.

"I was just passing," I began unconvincingly, "and I
had this marked essay of yours. I didn't know whether
you'd be back in school tomorrow, so decided to pop in
with it so you could work on it at home in case you
weren`t." I ended, smiling lamely.

"Well, isn't that a kind thought?" Angela added, full
of false bonhomie. "Donald, get Alan a whisky for his
pains."

I looked at Richard. He was wearing a pair of light
marl grey jersey jogging or sweat pants, I think they
are called, with elasticated ankles, and he had on a
short-sleeved white pique polo-shirt which most
becomingly showed up the bronze tan on his muscular
forearms dusted with golden sun-bleached hair. He
looked gorgeous.

"How's the invalid?" I asked him.

"Fine, thanks," he offered a bit gruffly, avoiding my
eyes. He was definitely uncomfortable in my presence.

"He's not fine at all, Alan. He'd be at school if he
were fine," his mother interjected. "Anyway, what's
all this about you being the hero of the hour, Alan ?"
Angela wanted to know, tactfully changing the subject
- as well as the object of interest - at the same
time.

Apparently there had been some film clip of me haring
up the rugger pitch as a taster for the item coming up
later in the broadcast. I briefly explained what had
happened during the match two days earlier, and
ruefully admitted that I had had to undergo the whole
embarrassing ordeal that very afternoon for the
benefit of the television cameras as well as having
had to pose for the local paper the previous day.

"You had to be naked?" Richard asked, an expression of
horror on his anxious face.

My heart missed a beat. He coloured a little and
looked back at the television screen.
Donald returned with my whisky.

"I see you're a Page Three Pin-up as well, my lad!" he
said, laughing as I accepted the glass from him.

I was in fact front page news. Across three columns
was a full length photograph, in colour, of me wearing
absolutely nothing except an oval rugby ball held in
front of my vitals.

"Oh Alan!" Angela screamed in glee, grabbing the
evening paper from Donald`s grip.  "I must have a copy
of that and get it framed. Why, you sexy beast! I
remember thinking `Cor!' when I saw you in your wet
undies coming out of the pool!"

My insides were churning.

"There's more inside," Donald said.

My heart sank again as I caught sight of a rear view
shot of me running  -  nothing concealed at all.

"Oh my! Why, Alan, you have the cutest bottom ever!"
she cried with enthusiasm.

I was squirming with embarrassment. So was Richard. I
could sense he was as he sat alongside me on the sofa.

"Quick, Richard!" Angela ordered. "Put the video onto
`Record'. We must catch Alan's moment of glory for
posterity."

I sat in a silent daze as that afternoon's events were
played out again before me on the small screen like a
recurring nightmare. Donald and Angela hooted and
screamed their appreciation of every further
revelation. The long shot of me belting up the field
to the loud strains of the Chariots of Fire theme-tune
had been, I must grudgingly admit, been most cleverly
intercut and smoothly edited to great effect. My
clothing apparently dissolved, item by item. As I ran
towards the camera, the over-stretched pouch of my
jock-strap in slow motion bounced from hairy thigh to
hairy thigh provocatively and suggestively, and in
remarkable detail considering the director's
assurances that I should be spared graphic exposure
with it being a family programme.

Angela whooped in delight at the shot of my jockstrap
flying through the air and landing on Geoff's head. I
felt Richard react and snatch a startled look at me as
he realised the significance of who, for one, it was,
responsible for my uncovering. His mother hooted in
girlish glee at the final whirling close-up of me
stark naked lying on the ground.

"Oh just look at Watty's gorgeous botty! I could just
bite it! It`s so lovely and furry!" she almost
screamed. I heard Richard groan. I cast him a look. He
was scarlet in the face with embarrassment for me. My
heart softened. "Donald's backside looks like so much
cold tripe that's been left out on the butcher`s slab
all night," she added with a sideways smirk. Donald
took it in good heart.

"You can have a chew on it whenever you like, my
darling," he said with a laugh.

  I nervously swigged back my whisky as the programme
came to an end.

"Oh re-wind it, re-wind it. I want to see it again!"
Angela cried, almost beside herself.

"Well, I shall pass on that, if I may?" I said, a
touch frostily as Donald, grinning, crouched before
the set to carry out her command. "I wonder if I could
just have a moment of Richard's time to discuss his
essay with him before I go?"

I felt his reluctance to be alone with me, but it was
measured by his equal reluctance to sit beside me and
watch a repeat of such humiliating footage, so
reminiscent of our joint experience of enforced
nakedness. We moved into the small room across the
hall that they rather pretentiously called the study.
It had an antique bureau and a long bookcase that
qualified it for such a sobriquet, I suppose. Richard
ushered me in and closed the door behind us.

In a rather brusque, business-like manner I began
summarising my thoughts on his piece of work
immediately as I handed it back to him, pointing out
various omissions and suggesting suitable appendages.
He stopped me with a raised hand, a look of anxious
urgency on his handsomely troubled face.

"Have you received a photograph from them . . . . of .
. . . us?" he asked with much effort.

I nodded. I knew to which one he referred and was
grateful for the lack of description.

"What are we to do?" he almost whimpered in abject
helplessness.

I shrugged.

"As I see it, there is not a lot I can do without
risking my very livelihood," I said solemnly. "I have
reached the inevitable conclusion that I have no
option but to go along with their demands until they
tire of the hold they imagine they have over me."

"Just to grin and bare it, you mean?" Richard added
with a touch of gallows humour.

I vividly recalled my enforced stripping in the pub
toilets the previous night.

"Exactly so. I just want you to know how awfully sorry
I am that you were involved in what was my
humiliation," I began.

"The thing I can't get over is how excited I was,"
Richard interrupted.

He cast his eyes downwards and then met mine again. I
followed his gaze and saw with amazement the fabric of
his jogging trousers stretched out before him.

In puzzled awe, I searched his face, trying to read
every tiny nuance of his expression. Gently, he took
hold of my hand and guided it towards his bulge.

"You have caused this right now. Seeing you stripped
on the rugby field on television. Alan, if I'd have
had to sit through it again then, when Mum wanted a
replay, I'd have come in my pants  - I know!"

There was a definite break in his voice. His bottom
lip was trembling with suppressed emotion. He pushed
himself towards my hand and my instinct was to recoil
in horror.

"It's been bad enough replaying in my head what
happened between us  -  what we were forced to do to
each other, but I found it one hell of a turn-on. I'm
so hard nearly all the time  -  every time I think
about it, and I think about it a lot! That's why I
can't come back at the moment. They'd find out  -
make things worse."

My mind was seething. As he rubbed himself against my
hand, I snatched it away.

"No, you mustn't, " I began.

"Mustn't what?" He filled the pause with a question.

I didn't know. My brain was physically hurting,
swelling, about to explode.

"You must stop thinking about it, " I stammered.

"Can you stop thinking about it? Every time I think of
you now, I think of you naked. Looking at you standing
here  -  it seems so wrong that you've got clothes on.
So wrong that I`ve got clothes on too. We should be
naked together."

"Stop it! Stop it this minute!" I was panicking.

Suddenly I jumped as I felt his hand touch me. I
grabbed his wrist in alarm and, wracked with guilt at
my arousal being discovered by him, held it away from
me.

"You see? You're as excited by all this as I am!"

"I must go," I said with determination, turning
swiftly away and moving towards the door. Smoothing
down the front of my trousers firmly, my back to him
as I got to the door, I opened it.

"Read my comments and try a re-write of the marked
passages, and I think you'll be able to see for
yourself that it is comparatively easy to
conspicuously improve your structure," I rattled off
in business-like fashion as I stepped into the hall.

"Alan," he pleaded soulfully. "Please! We must talk
this through. It's doing my head in!"

I strode on and popped my head round the lounge door.

"I'm off now, both of you. Thanks for the whisky," I
called jauntily, belying my inner feelings.

"You're sure you won't have another?" Donald called
back.

"Stay to dinner, Alan. It's a casserole. There's
plenty," Angela called after me.

"No thanks. I can't, I'm afraid. Places to go; people
to see," I lied.

As I walked back past the open study door, I heard
Richard say urgently:

"Alan! I think I love you!"

I turned, horrified.

"Nonsense!" I said after a long pause.

My eyes ran up and down him, registering that he was
still sexually excited. And then I said the silliest
thing of all.

I said:

"It's  -  it's . . . . just hormonal. That's all."

He stood there, looking wounded, and I turned and left
the house.

*			*			*