Date: Thu, 25 Apr 2002 12:01:43 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning (Chapter Eleven) [Gay - Authoritarian]

THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING

[THE STORY SO FAR  -  Could it get any worse? Used and
abused by members of his sixth-form tutor group
entirely for their amusement, English public
schoolmaster Alan Watson has suffered the ultimate in
embarrassment  -  being deposited at the local
swimming pool clad only in swimming trunks guaranteed
to go transparent the moment they touch water.]


CHAPTER ELEVEN  -  The Nightmare Continued


Consternation reigned. Hands flailing to keep me
afloat until my feet found bottom, I finally stood up
to discover myself only mid-thigh deep and
consequently on full display to all and sundry. My
white trunks had been rendered translucent by the
absorption of water and all my reproductive equipment
and pubic hair was clearly visible. Clasping myself in
alarm, I ducked down in an effort to conceal myself.
As I shot anxious glances all round, it was clear to
see I was the butt of everybody's humour. All were
revelling in my humiliating exposure.

"Go on, mister, show us all your cock again!" and
"Haven't you got a big one, then?" were screeched
across the water by the ghastly girls whose initial
screams of outraged glee had alerted me to my
see-through condition. Hotly embarrassed, I strove to
ignore their hysterical screams of delight at their
own pathetic attempts at wit, and instead searched the
pool for Richard and my tormentors. It took me ages to
realise they were not there. I ran my eyes round the
sides. They were not there either. A sinking feeling
suddenly hit me. After I had hit the water, they had
obviously turned tail and had beaten a hasty retreat.

I had to walk through the water past amused and
braying occupants to the far end of the pool - the
shallow end - to get out of the water up the steps. I
glanced down at myself as I had to remove my hands to
steady myself up the steps hanging on the steel hand
rails. I was alarmed to see that the overall effect
was as if I were completely naked, the fabric somehow
enhancing this by giving a darkly matted look to my
pubic hair, and a plummy squashed look to the head of
my penis pressed up against it. Firmly cupping myself
once more, I proceeded alongside the pool's edge;
there was nothing I could do to conceal my buttocks,
apparently equally laid-bare. I had to walk the length
of the pool, echoing to a chorus of caterwauling and
wolf-whistles, every eye feasting libidinously on my
starkly exposed physique that left absolutely nothing
to the imagination. Stepping once more through the
shower towards the male changing area, a sense of
panic rising within me, I moaned aloud as I realised
my worst suspicions had been confirmed. My locker door
lay open and empty. I had been deserted. All my
clothing, and even my towel, had been removed. I was
alone, in nothing but a pair of see-through swimming
trunks.

I was swamped by a massive sense of impotent
helplessness and hopelessness. Even cruel sniggers
from some youngsters getting changed could not
increase my sense of utter desolation. I was going to
have to walk out into the public foyer, apparently
nude, where everybody else would be fully-clothed and
wholly judgemental. Screwing up my courage to venture
forth unclad, I swallowed and drew a deep shaky breath
before flinging open the door and striding
purposefully out.

A shocked grandmother shielded a child's eyes as I
emerged from the male changing area. I couldn't help
but notice that she didn't stop looking herself
though. Mortified, I made my way to the booking office
door. It was locked. I tried knocking on it, but a
voice yelled out after my second fruitless attempt to
attract attention there: "You'll have to go round to
the front!"

There was a large queue; men, women, children of all
ages. All turned with excited, amused, and even
scandalized interest to examine my apparent nakedness.
Feeling excessively foolish in the glare of their
brazen and unbridled curiosity, I `beg-pardoned' and
`excused-me'd' to as near the front of the queue as
possible, ruefully grinning at each robust and ribald
remark as they rained down upon me. And all thinking
themselves so original! It is part of the human
psyche, I think, to make very obvious and fatuous
remarks at the expense of others. How many times does
the bearer of a black eye have to endure the question
`what does the other fellow look like?'? I lost count
of the number of witty ripostes on the theme of
`haven't you forgotten something, mate?' together with
pats, tweaks, observations about `not getting many of
them to the pound'. Even the man in the ticket office
would not spare me.

"We've got changing rooms inside, mate," he said,
chuckling at his own humour. "No need to strip off on
the car park."

I quickly explained what had happened, and had to
repeat it louder as he couldn't hear me through the
plate glass divide. A great crow of amused jeering
went up from the highly amused spectators in the line
behind me when they discovered the cause of my
predicament.

"Well, you don't look as if you've got anywhere for
your car keys or bus fare," he said, enjoying himself
immensely at my expense. He even paused, soliciting a
response in the form of encouraging applause from his
eagerly listening audience, and then proceeded to give
me a loud lecture on the advisability of keeping my
locker key with me at all times.

I quickly found myself in the rôle of a teaching aid
as he upped the volume of his little homily to point
out that the municipal authorities could not be held
responsible for any loss of personal property as I had
quite obviously not fulfilled my contract by obeying
their rules and regulations stated quite clearly on
the reverse of each and every ticket of admission, and
posted on the backs of all doors in the changing
areas. I stood there, naked, sheepishly, shivering,
teeth chattering with nervousness, and feeling
exceedingly foolish as he rambled on endlessly.

Finally, after subjecting me to this interminable
lecture during which I was alarmingly goosed by some
anonymous groping hand I suspected to be male, the box
office attendant agreed to telephone for a taxi.

"Here, you're Mr Watson, aren't you?"

I turned in my bemused trance-like state to see a thin
anaemic-looking girl with damp hair and an
unappealingly toothy Cheshire cat-like grin.

"You teach my brother," she told me. "I saw you on the
telly when you got your rugby kit all torn off. We did
have a laugh seeing you naked!"

The ghastly child had a voice like a corncrake and a
laugh like a jackass. That I was the centre of
attention due to her stentorian triumphalistic
diatribe aimed at me made me shrink in horror. I felt
almost like a rape victim must, as her goggle eyes
raked my naked flesh.

"Of course, we didn't get to see your willy on telly,"
she addressed me as though I was a public meeting,
"but I got to see it in there!" and she pointed
towards the pool.
"I can't wait to tell my brother I saw you."

Nobody seemed prepared to move. Those queuing for
admission had obviously decided that if they were to
move off into the actual pool area they might miss
something. Likewise, those who had finished and were
homeward-bound were reluctant to leave the premises
and hung around to await further amusing developments
at my expense. The foyer filled with gawping
bystanders, not afraid to voice comments and opinions
loudly.

"Not a good colour, white, for swimwear," opined one
young woman with tight-mouthed smugness. "I came out
of the sea at Scarborough in a white one-piece from M.
& S. a few years back, and if it hadn't've been for
our Hayley, I'd've never got back up the beach without
everybody seeing everything. I clung that child to me
for dear life!"

"He's got a nice bum," a middle-aged woman ventured,
and her comment at my expense was greeted with noises
of agreement and even a few handclaps. It was
appalling. "I like a nice bum on a man. I like to
squeeze a nice handful of bum, if I have a weakness,"
she went on to volunteer and was greeted by cackles of
outraged delight.

"I prefer I nice handful at the front!" a woman in her
mid-sixties bawled out lewdly.

I was so utterly humiliated, standing before the crowd
of interested and fully-dressed spectators, clutching
my genitals, scarlet in the face at the indignities
being heaped upon me.

"Go on, give us a quick flash," another woman
suggested with a vulgar wink and gesture, and this was
met by an enthusiastic cheer.

"I know you!" a young man pointed at me and turned to
address the crowd. "He's that geezer on the telly
last night! Remember? That rugby match where all the
kids tore his kit off."

I was an instant celebrity. The magic word
"television" had been mentioned. They pressed nearer,
I was jostled eagerly by some, suggestively by others,
all keen to revel in their moment of reflected fame.

Fortunately the taxi arrived and, to a round of
farewell applause, I was finally able to scuttle into
its dark and comforting confines. Of course, I had to
recount every lurid detail of my ordeal for the
delight of the taxi-driver. As we approached my home,
the prospect of another nightmare loomed. Mrs
Wilkinson, the old lady who lived next door, and I had
a reciprocal arrangement whereby we kept each other's
spare door key in case of emergencies such as this. I
begged the driver to collect the key for me so I could
then go and get some money to pay him. Reluctantly he
agreed. After what seemed to be an eternity, but in
fact cannot have been even five minutes, he returned
to the car.

"She won't give it to me," he said.

With a heavy-hearted sigh, but at the same time
recognising that the old girl was acting in what she
genuinely thought were my best interests, I swung my
bare legs out of the car and trotted self-consciously
naked up her path. She had closed her door again.
Frantically I knocked and rang. Out of the corner of
my eye I saw her curtains twitch in her front bay
window.

"It's me, Mrs Wilkinson," I called reassuringly.

With a look of astonished horror, she slowly and
unbelievingly looked me up and down, somehow
emphasizing my nudity as her old eyes pored over my
naked flesh.

"What on earth's the matter, Mr Watson?" she called
through the closed window.

"I'm the victim of a robbery," I called back.

A passing couple stopped to watch the drama unfold. A
man walking his dog in the opposite direction also
came to a halt.

"You mean they stripped you stark naked?" the
frightened old lady wanted to know.

"No, no, nothing like that. I was at the swimming
pool, and had all my things taken while I was in the
water," I explained, all too conscious of a growing
audience as my neighbours front doors began to open.
"If you could just give me my spare key . . . ?"

After an almost interminable time during which the dog
grew restless and had to be severely reprimanded by
its rubber-necking owner who obviously wanted to stay
to the bitter end, old Mrs Wilkinson opened the front
door and gave me my key.

"Oh, you poor thing," she said in a motherly tone.
"Tell me all about it."

I managed to extricate myself  from too lengthy an
explanation, other than that I had been the victim of
a cruel prank, with the excuse that the taxi-driver
was waiting to be paid, and that his meter was still
running. I let myself in, got money for the driver,
closed my front door with a sense of enormous relief,
leant against it with my eyes closed and tried to get
my breathing back to normal.

The lounge door opened.

"What's this?" Tim Robey's voice asked querulously.
"You know you must be stark bollock naked at all times
in the house. Get those trunks off immediately."

*			*			*