Date: Mon, 22 Apr 2002 00:28:18 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning (Chapter Nine [Gay - Authoritarian]

THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING

[THE STORY SO FAR  -  What had started as horse-play
at a birthday party to embarrass a schoolmaster had
now developed into the complete and utter domination
of one individual by a number of others who now hold
complete sway over him. Condemned to obey in every
deed their every demeaning demand, or suffer the
consequences of public exposure and humiliation, Alan
Watson has just learned that a new and unlooked-for
dimension has cropped up in the nightmare that has
become all too real  -  love.]

CHAPTER NINE - Heads or Tails


I remember absolutely nothing of my journey home,
which is, in itself, alarming. My mind was seething
with unanswered questions and unacknowledged answers.
How could I possibly hope to respond to Richard
Mayhew's startling declaration of love without hurting
or damaging him irreparably? Did I want to respond to
it negatively in the first place? I hurriedly put that
thought from me. This was not a time to face my own
agenda. My first thoughts should be for an
impressionable and confused young adult teetering on
the very threshold of manhood. Surely it could be
conveniently dismissed as immature infatuation,
admittedly late developing, and probably aroused by
the strange sexual play we had been forced into by the
Fearsome Four, as I now thought of them. I grew cross
with myself when I recognised yearnings and longings
rising within me as I thought of this. Good god, I was
heterosexual, damn it!

Why, there was Rosemary, for instance. Granted that
she had only recently kicked me into touch,  but it
had been an amicable enough parting of the ways. And
while we had never ever actually . . . gone the whole
way, it had got pretty steamy once or twice. I confess
I had harboured vague hopes of consummating our
relationship sometime in the future, but had never
ever quite got round to it. It was never the right
time. But I had had fantasies. These of Richard that
plagued me now did not mean anything at all . . . .
did they? No! Of course not, for heaven's sake!

I was scared at my reaction now, faced with this. I
had wanted to take Richard in my arms and hug him
tightly to me, and that admission to myself horrified
me. But surely, that was only to comfort him in his
distress, his confusion? Quite simply a  perfectly
understandable crush, that was all  -  albeit late
developing, I told myself. Why, it was a common enough
occurrence throughout the teaching profession - a form
of glorified hero-worship; nothing more. I should have
stayed, explained, offered comfort. I had handled it
very badly. I was unnerved, thrown . . . . excited.

I was intensely aroused, and as I angrily pushed
against it with one hand, the other on the steering
wheel, staring sightlessly through the windscreen,
driving almost on automatic pilot, I tried to convince
myself it was just a basic reaction to my celibate
life-style. I was not attracted to sex with Richard,
for heaven's sake! I was just attracted to sex! Yes,
that was it. It was simply a healthy masculine
over-reaction  -  a sort of bullish "I must have sex
with anything that moves!" I was only just thirty,
after all; still at my sexual peak and, let's face it,
not getting any. No wonder my mind was dwelling on it
at every opportunity! I had almost succeeded in
convincing myself as I turned into my road.

I must have driven through at least nine sets of
traffic lights between our two homes. I assume every
set must have been turned to green, for I never
stopped at any. The alarming thing, in retrospect, is
that I have no recollection of them whatsoever. Such
was my state of mind that I never registered seeing
the ominous white van either, parked further down my
road, or I might have driven on and gone to the
pictures, or something to kill time until they had
grown tired and left their vigil at my door. As it
was, I was easy prey and was accosted by them upon my
own doorstep.

Tim Robey's hand closed on mine with the key in the
front door.

"Hallo, Big Boy," he said in that cloying whisper of
his. "How does it feel to be a television star?"

He took the key out of the lock and gave it to Dave
Newman.

"Take this along to Asda, Dave," he said, "and get a
copy cut. I want access to Big Boy here whenever.
Hurry back. I'm sure you don't want to miss all of the
fun."

I began to protest, lamely stating that surely I was
entitled to some privacy in my own home.

"You're entitled to nothing, matey. We decide what
you're entitled to now. And as for privacy in your own
home  -  strip him!"

Immediately pinioned by Phil Marshall and Geoff
Talbot, as Tim moved in to unfasten my clothing, I
struggled half-heartedly and tried to resist. There is
something very shaming about standing, being firmly
held, and having one's trousers undone and pulled down
round one's ankles. It seems to strike at one's own
sense of dignity, and immediately you are reduced to a
state of complete ridicule - both in your own eyes, as
well as everybody else's. Likewise, to be rendered
totally naked amongst others who retain their
clothing, to be gawped at, mocked, examined in
minutest detail successfully enhances that sense of
extreme vulnerability.

That I had been paraded in a state of nature before my
headmaster, all my colleagues and the entire school
only that very afternoon should have been shaming
enough, but to be physically undressed and rendered
helplessly unable to prevent my complete and utter
exposure by some of my own upper-sixth form pupils
made me veritably light-headed with mortification.

"Stark bollock naked, Big Boy," Tim said with
satisfaction as he stood back to take in the full
picture. "I remember you saying once in a lesson that
naturists were only frustrated exhibitionists. That
you'd never be caught dead like that. I thought what a
patronising bastard you were. So now we're going to
turn the tables on you. Stark bollock naked - a
naturist in your own home. And that's how you will
always be in here from now on."

"Wh-a-a-a-a-t-t ?" I said with an incredulous nervous
laugh.

"Whenever you're in the privacy of your own home, and
by yourself, you must be stark bollock naked. Those
are my orders. And one of us will keep a check on you
to make sure you're obeying. You see, now we're
getting a key, we can pop in and check up on you
whenever we like. And woe betide you, Big Boy, if we
ever get here and find you with some clothes on - if
you're alone, that is. Remember what happened to you
in the pub' last night?"

I felt my face and chest redden as I recalled the
sensation of their hot urine rain down upon me again.
My cock jumped at the recollection and Tim sniggered.

This was insurmountable. I was to be at all times
naked in my own home, under dire threats from members
of my own tutor group. A thirty-year-old man in the
thrall of eighteen-year-olds.

Tim held out a cupped hand. I instantly knew what was
required of me. Mouth dry, temples pounding with a
blood rush, my penis bucking shamefully, I slowly
moved forward and placed my genitals at rest in his
hand.

"Good boy!" Tim said, pleased and smiling at my show
of obedience, and he gently squoze them almost
affectionately. Remember, whenever you see any of us
cup our hands, you must get your tackle out and put it
there."

"Whenever?" I asked, startled.

"Whenever," he repeated, a cold glint of triumph in
his steely eye. "Is that clear, Big Boy?"

"Yes," I said with downcast eyes.

"Yes, what?"

There was a sharper tone to his voice.

"Yes, whenever," I said a little confused.

"You must say `yes Sir'," he explained firmly,
reprovingly.

My eyes widened.

"We shall go on calling you `Sir' in school whenever
necessary, but out of school you must always call us
`Sir'. We are the real Masters now, Big Boy. Do you
understand?"

"Yes," I said and, as a questioning eyebrow rose, I
quickly added, "Sir."

"Over here, Big Boy!"

I turned to look and saw Phil Marshall standing with a
cupped hand. Tim took his hand away and I knew I was
being released to a new Master. I walked towards him
and gently docked my scrotum into the palm of his
hand. Somehow, I found myself almost automatically
demurely dropping my eyes. I think it was because I
could barely face meeting the scornful triumph in the
eyes of boys I had taught off and on for nearly eight
years and who now held me in their powerful sway.

"Good boy," he said and also gave me a gentle squeeze.

Geoff  Talbot called me across the room to him then,
and I had to repeat the demeaning ritual with him,
placing the most private and intimate part of me
trustingly into his hand.

Tim took charge again by demanding a supermarket
polythene shopping bag. I went to the kitchen to get
one. Then I was ordered to my bedroom and made to show
them my underwear drawer. All my white Y-fronts were
immediately confiscated and put in the bag. It is
exceedingly embarrassing having comparative strangers
sort through such private and normally unseen apparel.
I had some French slips I had bought on holiday the
summer before last that were very small and summery
which were light blue and passed muster with my new
Masters. I also had a shiny spandex clinging little
number that Rosemary had bought me in a roguish moment
and which were a very vivid scarlet. I became most
dreadfully self-conscious as these were picked through
and commented upon, which seems stupid in retrospect,
since I was standing there naked in the first place.
This sexy little red number earned a hearty seal of
approval and I was under instructions to wear them the
next day without fail on pain of another most
cringe-making, yet unspecified forfeit.

So, at a stroke, my supply of underwear was reduced to
less than half a dozen, the others being thrust into
the carrier bag for instant disposal. My pleadings
were ignored, and I was informed that shortly I should
be taken on compulsory shopping trips to buy more
revealingly saucy little numbers and would be
subjected forthwith to instant underwear inspections
to ensure I was complying with their requirements.
Next, all my pyjamas were commandeered as I was
informed that henceforth I must sleep entirely naked.
I anxiously enquired about holidays and shared
facilities, but was told there were to be no
exceptions. Any form of night attire, which included
the retention of underwear, was forbidden from that
moment on.

As all this was going on, periodically one of them
would click their fingers, and I would turn to see a
cupped hand. Instantly I had to cross over to whoever
it was and place my penis and testicles there.
Sometimes they would hold their hand a bit higher so I
had to stand on tiptoe; sometimes they would hold it
down at arm's length so I would have to bend my knees
and straddle their open hand most unbecomingly and
obscenely. It was as I was standing in this way that
Dave whistled from the doorway, having let himself in
with their newly acquired key.

"Look who I found skulking in the shrubbery, lads!" he
announced.

Shooting a look over my shoulder, I was appalled to
see Richard standing alongside him. I shall never
forget the expression on his face. It was a mixture of
blank amazement, shock, horror and intense
embarrassment at my condition. My penis jerked
involuntarily in Geoff's hand.

I could taste bitter gall in my throat. If I could
have died at that very moment I think I should have
counted it a blessing. My whole world went spinning
into decline. Here I was, in a state of total and
utter degradation, stripped naked by four of my
pupils, bare backside towards him, bare knees splayed,
obscenely crouching with my fast churning and swelling
genitals resting in one of their cupped hands, and
faced by a golden-tanned young Adonis, my private
pupil who had the hots for me, and who not an hour
before had declared undying love.

Mortified with shame, completely naked, and with my
genitals being cradled by another's hand, I was forced
to stand before the one pupil in whose total respect I
had always basked. That, of course, was not the only
indignity I was to submit to before his unblinking
gaze of disbelief. I had to endure exploring hands
running all over my bare skin, probing, plucking,
pulling at my chest hair, my nipples. I just had to
stand there and take it. I was no longer my own man. I
was possessed, owned, the property of others.
Richard's stared up and down me, and I could almost
feel his looks raining upon my nude body as hotly and
shamingly as my antagonists' urine had the night
before.

"Well, well, well, this is a turn-up of the book," Tim
crowed. "Sick Dick has got up from his bed of pain to
come calling on his favourite teacher. Feeling randy,
are you, Richard? From the look of your pants, you
are."

A quick, involuntary glance alerted me to the fact
that Richard was in a similar state of excitement to
that he was in, little more than an hour before, when
he had confessed that he thought he was in love with
me. Guiltily, I looked back into his eyes to read in
his expression that he had observed my swift
inspection of the state of his embarrassing arousal. I
knew he was imploring me to believe it was more than
just this between us.

"Sick Dick's prick is thick," Geoff said with a low
chuckle as he squoze my testicles.

"He's thrown a boner," Phil added.

Both seemed to consider these remarks the height of
sophisticated wit.

In an instant Dave snatched down Richard's
elastic-waisted sweatpants. His hands flew to cover
himself and he crouched forward protectively. Phil
rushed to help and, pinioning him firmly, forcing
Richard to stand up straight, enabled Dave to complete
his task of yanking them all the way down his
golden-tanned legs.

"Just one tiny cotton-picking moment," Tim drawled.
"Haven't I seen those underpants before?" He turned
towards me, grinning.

Richard went crimson instantly. Glancing at them, I
suddenly realised with an almost shocking pang he was
wearing mine. He was clad in the pair of Y-fronts I
had been forced to relinquish on that first fateful
night of my ordeal. I had then been made to don a pair
of what turned out to be Richard's turquoise briefs,
whilst my pair had been mailed to him anonymously. The
fact that he had chosen to surreptitiously wear them -
never suspecting for a moment his secret might be so
ignominiously laid bare - said much about his feelings
for me, and my pulse-rate increased accordingly as I
mulled further on these added ramifications.

There was much smutty speculation and still more
ribald remarks concerning his sporting my underpants,
as he was slowly parted from them along with the rest
of his clothing. They were eagerly intent upon him
being as nakedly vulnerable as me. As they dragged my
underpants off him, his penis smacked loudly against
his taut belly. He was ramrod stiff. Unnervingly, I
felt my own foreskin roll back of its own accord,
rudely exposing my moistly shining and fiercely
crimson glans  -  somehow emphasising my complete and
helpless nudity. There was nothing now I could
conceal.

"I think they want to wank each other again," Geoff
said, gripping my shaft and pumping at it. I began to
shiver uncontrollably, and an electric tingle seemed
to run down my spine, hitting a spot somewhere high up
in the fork of my legs and causing my entire
reproductive system to buck in his hand.

"No, please!" Richard begged huskily, still firmly
held in a position that thrust his naked loins
forward, crudely emphasising his ferociously rampant
state.

"Been there, done that, got the t-shirt," Tim said,
effecting a mockingly bored tone.
"I've a better idea! Let's teach them to do it by
numbers," he added with renewed enthusiasm and an
almost sadistic leer at us both. He began a low
machiavellian chuckle. "And the number I have in mind
is . . . . Sixty-nine!"

I hadn't the slightest inkling what he was talking
about. Perhaps some of my readers might find that a
little hard to believe, but I had had a sheltered,
well-bred, middle-class upbringing in provincial, if
not entirely rural, surroundings in middle England. I
had lost my virginity whilst at university in an
embarrassing state of insobriety, so that, whilst not
actually drunk, I had not a very clear memory of the
fumbled and hurried experience. That was all. Three
girlfriends later - chaste relationships, largely,
with only the occasional indulgence of pressing or
rubbing meaningfully and longingly against each other,
more or less fully-clothed - I was ill-experienced in
the variety of sex and its terms of description.

I was soon to learn the significance of the number
sixty-nine, though.

Forced to the floor first, Richard was propelled
alongside and onto his knees also.

"I'm so sorry about this, Alan," he murmured
anxiously.

I tried to summon up a smile of consolation. I could
tell from his expression he knew  what was about to
happen. Pride is a strange commodity. Reduced as I was
to abject humiliation in my nakedness and
unconcealable angry tumescence, I still had sufficient
pride to prevent me from revealing my ignorance by
asking what `sixty-nine' meant.

So I was led into position comparatively calmly, and
the significance of it did not become apparent until
Richard was persuaded to shuffle his loins nearer my
face.
Surely not, I thought in astonished outrage, and then
recalled their emptying their bladders over me in the
pub' toilets. I groaned libidinously at the sudden
sensation of Richard's hot lips and tongue enveloping
me, and shuddered with a sort of ecstatic rigor. I
think it was this reaction that brought it home to me
at last that I had really lost control over my own
body. An act was being committed upon me that, had I
been told about it beforehand, would have filled me
with abhorrence. As it was I was transformed with
animal lust.

Tentatively, and with not a few slaps and threats, I
moved my head nearer Richard's quivering and drooling
organ. I could feel the heat coming off it as it
neared my cheek. My teeth were gritted so hard, my
jaws were aching. They couldn't make me do this, I
told myself. Nothing they could do to me could force
me to commit this obscene act upon one of my own
students, for heaven's sake.

My mouth shot open with appalled alarm as I felt a
finger rudely invade my very last bastion. Outraged at
what was surely the ultimate indignity that could be
perpetrated upon my person, I allowed my mouth to be
invaded. Surely, this was better than to have my
rear-end invaded, albeit with Tim Robey's finger which
had touched me there and pressed to achieve the
trigger effect he had wanted.

Having Richard's penis in my mouth was not as
repellent as one might have imagined. All sorts of
thoughts had gone racing through my mind about the
taste of urine, the pubic hair. The fact that he was
enjoying the sensation became immediately clear. I
heard a groan being emitted from his mouth full of
mine, and I got a sudden salty taste upon my tongue as
I felt it move and stiffen still further in my mouth.
I could not take it all. As he involuntarily reared
against me, the head of his penis touched the back of
my throat making me retch and gag. As it was, I was
writhing and almost out of control at the sensation of
his tongue and the tickling of his teeth. Had we been
alone, had he not been a pupil of mine, it would have
been a moment of sheer ecstasy. As it was, with an
audience of my pupils urging us on to a shaming orgasm
in each others' mouths, forcibly stripped and demeaned
in this way, it was a nightmare.

I have read through what I just wrote and am
astonished at the sentiment expressed about the
sensation perhaps having been sheer ecstasy in other
circumstances. I cannot believe that I, an ordinary,
god-fearing heterosexual could confess this, and yet I
am trying to be totally honest. Am I, I wonder, being
totally honest with myself when I call myself
heterosexual? Is there some latent homosexuality
within us all that, when triggered by some emotional
need, seeks fulfilment and our basest urges hold sway
over our natural inclinations of revulsion?

I was not revolted. My initial repulsion at the
prospect of what was being demanded of me quickly
dissolved. As Richard's leg wrapped over me, I
shivered with joy at the sensation of his hairy inner
thigh against my cheek, the sensation of his warmly
moist and hairy scrotum sagging over the bridge of my
nose. I wrapped my arm round his torso, clasped a
handful of his buttock flesh and palpated it with my
fingers. He groaned again and released another salty
advance. The sensation of his hot and pulsing organ
bucking in my mouth was strangely exhilarating and
heady. The cruel eye of the video camera invaded our
private elation, as did the flash of the still camera
as it  intrusively recorded further damning evidence
against me  -  more ammunition to ensure my further
enslavement.

As I sucked on the eighteen-year-old Adonis's engorged
and magnificent weapon, buried almost up to the hilt
in my cheek, and as he tantalised mine with the hard
tip of his tongue trying to invade the gaping hole of
my urethra, I shuddered almost pre-orgasmically. In
what surely should have been an intense moment of pure
and exultant euphoria, I was assailed with thoughts
and fears of what lay ahead before my tyrants tired of
their abusive power. What further degradation would be
heaped upon me as they sought to reduce me to total
and utter subservience? Less than a week ago I was
their Master. Now the tables had been turned beyond
all credibility. They were my Masters now, and I,
their cringing slave!

*			*			*