Date: Sun, 14 Apr 2002 17:01:32 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning (Chapter Two) [Gay - Authoritarian]

I respectfully submit the second episode of my saga of
demeaning degradation, spurred on by the plea from the
author of the excellent "Team Sports" for more tales
with an authentic English flavour.

*			*			*

[In Chapter One, staid English schoolmaster Alan
Watson, old beyond his thirty years, unwisely accepted
an invitation to his pupil's eighteenth birthday
party. During some rumbustious horse-play, handsome
student, Richard Mayhew, was stripped naked and hurled
into the swimming pool. Teacher Alan, who shared the
same birthday, was similarly stripped to his
underpants and thrown in too. Here he was forced to
address the fact that he found the situation intensely
arousing in spite of the humiliation. He hardly dared
admit to himself that he was strangely attracted to
the young man, his protege.
Shortly after the embarrassing evening in question,
Alan received photographic evidence of his mortifying
arousal followed by threats of imminent public
exposure unless he complied forthwith with certain
orders. Flustered beyond measure he foolishly agreed
and soon found himself even more enmeshed, having to
pose for further photographs dressed in somebody
else's more revealing underwear. Alan continues his
tale of further degradation in Chapter Two.]

THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING    -   Chapter Two -
Brief Encounter


I slept very badly that night. If I dropped off into a
doze I shot awake, heart pounding, upbraiding myself
for the weakness I had shown in complying. I shook my
head incredulously as I recalled how I had been
manoeuvred into removing my trousers and underwear in
the back of an anonymous van, into posing in obscenely
revealing scanty panties for a camera held by a hooded
blackmailer. I tossed and turned and groaned and
sighed as I relived my stupidity of last evening, and
asked myself yet again why I had been vain and foolish
enough to attend the eighteenth birthday party in the
first place where my downfall had occurred. What
troubled me also was the uncomfortable tumescence I
experienced throughout most of that night. It served
to reproach me somehow, and I found it most unnerving.
I lay trying to conjure up wholesome pictures of
happier times spent with Rosemary, my late-lamented
girlfriend, but soon found myself turning to bury the
object of my embarrassment into the mattress as
pictures of my handsomely naked and well-endowed
pupil, Richard, burned themselves into my mind.

The following morning a brown manila envelope lay on
the mat and my heart leapt. This was properly stamped
and addressed, however, unlike the envelope from the
previous night. I tore it open feverishly, gasping as
I realised the contents were yet more photographs. I
was temporarily mollified to discover they were
photographs of the embarrassing stripper-gram episode
together with a short note from Richard's father,
Donald Mayhew, saying that he hoped I would accept the
incident in the spirit with which it was intended,
just a bit of fun. He stated he realised that in
hindsight it was thoughtless with a view to my
position of authority among the vast majority of
Richard's friends and justified himself to an extent
in pointing out how he had insisted they left my
underpants on to preserve at least a modicum of
dignity when I became the object of their birthday
horse-play later that same night. He added that he
hoped it would not affect the friendship that had been
built up with his whole family and me. I turned to
look through the photographs he had enclosed.

What a trollop the girl looked. How I had for a moment
thought she might have been a real police officer, I
could not imagine. I studied the look of distaste upon
my face as I regarded her. Even through the outward,
if ill-sustained, show of embarrassed amusement, there
was no disguising it. The last three photographs set
my heart racing again. They were of the pool incident.
The first one was of me being carried out above
everybody's heads, stripped down to my underpants. I
studied the bulge closely. I think it was merely a
bunching of the fabric at this stage. The next showed
Richard, naked, coming out of the water with me. One
arm was under mine; the other was behind my knees. My
bottom sagged down concealing Richard's nakedness, but
the leg holes of my underpants stretched with water,
slightly revealing the crack of my exposed bottom. The
third picture was horrifyingly similar to the one I
had received the night before, though not quite as
revealing of my state of obvious excitement. What did
excite me, I must confess, was that, as opposed to the
previous night's shot, Richard had moved his arm
further up my thighs from my knees, thus raising me,
and thereby also allowing a clear shot of his naked
genitals. I pored over them, my heart fluttering.

He was gorgeous - an Adonis. I could not help but
notice that he was impressively well-hung. I shifted
in my seat as I studied him carefully. Shocked and
appalled, I started at the reaction I was
experiencing. I dropped the picture guiltily as the
telephone rang.

"Good morning, big boy."

The voice was unmistakeable. My whisperer from the
previous evening.

"What d'you want?" I snapped.

"Now that's not very friendly, is it?" he reproached
me in mocking hurt tones

"I'm no friend of yours!" I countered.

"And I thought we were getting on so well last night
when you took your trousers off for me and gave me
your underpants." I had never heard a smirk before.

I was struck dumb.

"You still there?" he asked after a pause.

"Yes," I snapped.

"Well, I'm just ringing with your orders."

"Orders?" I was utterly bemused.

"Yes. You've got to wear my client's underpants today.
Is that clear?"

"I shall do no such thing!" I announced in ringing
tones.

"Hmm, pity, that. You see, if you don't co-operate,
then the ball is set in motion."

"What ball?"

"Operation Big Boy. Your website, photos stuck up
round school, delivered to the Head - maximum
humiliation, in fact."

He waited silently for this to sink in to full effect.

"And none of this happens if I wear those underpants?"

"Absolutely."

My brain seethed. This was ridiculous. I was trapped.
All my instincts, save one, urged me to resist. The
one that didn't urged self-preservation.

"All right," I said in a resigned tone. "I'll wear
them."

"Ah, I'm glad you see reason. Er - you do realise,
much as I'd like to take your word for it, a check
will have to be made at some stage of the day?"

"A check?" I echoed, bemused.

"Yes. At some stage during the day you will be asked
to prove you are wearing them."

"You mean I shall be asked to show my underwear?" I
asked tremulously, appalled at the prospect.

"Exactly so. Don't worry. We shall be discreet  - upon
this occasion."

I could see no way out of the nightmare.

"Very well," I had to agree.

I put the phone down and went back into my room,
feeling very much like a condemned man, to change out
of my sensible white Y-fronts.

Throughout the entire school day I kept my eyes peeled
for the white van. One drove right up to school in the
lunch hour, and my heart nearly beat its way out of my
chest as I waited for what I felt sure was to be a
summons to inspection. It turned out it was only a
delivery of stationery.  The final double period of
the day was with my own sixth-form tutor group, the
first time - apart from morning registration - I had
spent any time in their company since the party. That
alone was a cause for mild concern. I wondered how
they would react. I was also all too conscious that no
attempt had been made to check that I was in fact
wearing the luridly turquoise glossy little briefs
that were even then working their way more intimately
still into the crease of my buttocks. My mind started
to leap to horrifying conclusions. What if my group
were in on this? What if I were to be called upon to
drop my trousers in front of them all? Or worse,
perhaps, to be debagged by them at the end of school
and left without my trousers!

I dismissed these fantasies from my fevered mind,
swallowed the knot of fear in my throat and strode
purposefully into the room. I flatter myself I am
sensitive to atmosphere and felt that there was an
electric air of expectancy which only gradually
subsided. In retrospect, I think at that stage it was
merely a sense of wonder whether our business-like
relationship would have altered at all after the
extra-mural shenanigans of the birthday party. That I
strove hard to maintain the easy but slightly formal
ambience of old, I think they and I both found
reassuring. As the lesson drew to a close and only the
briefest of veiled references had been made to
life-saving techniques and the risks of exposure, at
which I allowed myself a sardonic tight little smile
of recognition and, glancing at Richard, noted a
sheepish grin and a becoming blush upon his handsome
face, I was asked, apropos of nothing, in the final
moments of the lesson if I had made the team in the
following day's staff versus first team charity match.
This was a keenly-fought annual fixture for which
spectators were charged, all proceeds going to a local
charity or worthy cause decided upon each year by the
Head. Whilst far from being rugger material, I had
been a reasonable sprinter with a fair burst of speed
in my own schooldays, and so had made the scratch team
as a winger in the past. As I confessed the team had
yet to be picked, that reminded me of a meeting for
just such a purpose after school which would make my
private tutoring session with Richard late.

The bell went and as the students filed out I called
Richard over. Explaining about the meeting and the
subsequent delay in my getting home and preparing
something to eat, I suggested that he might like a
free night. He looked quite disappointed, then quickly
came up with a solution. His parents had gone up to
Town for the evening, it transpired, and had left him
a casserole in the oven. Why didn't I drive over to
his place straight after the meeting where a meal
would be waiting for me, and then we could have a
lesson afterwards? It would save time for both of us,
and he could still have his girlfriend Alyson call
round when we had finished. It seemed so simple.

Safely ensconced in the Senior Common Room with a cup
of tea and a custard cream, I listened to the Head of
Games draw up the team for the following day`s
fixture. I must confess to a sense of relief upon
learning that my skills upon the rugby field were not
going to be called upon this particular year. Two
young hearties had joined the academic staff at the
beginning of last term, one of whom played for the
local fifteen - in fact, he had a match with them that
very evening - so I was graciously thanked for having
volunteered and that was it.

With a nervous air of expectation, I made my way
through the deserted school to my study. Turning into
the main corridor, my heart leapt into my mouth as a
cleaner dropped her bucket behind me. I was on
tenterhooks, expecting to be ambushed at any moment,
pounced upon and my trousers rent asunder. It was not
until I was actually in my car that I breathed an
enormous sigh of relief, and upbraided myself for
having let such an idle threat as that made by the
whispering caller that morning ruin the entire day and
leave me a gibbering wreck.

With all thoughts of my ordeal behind me, a large
portion of a very good casserole inside me and a
second glass of  vin ordinaire at my elbow, I sat
reading Richard's latest essay in a comfortable and
relaxed state of ease as my attentive host filled the
dishwasher next door. It was really quite good. He was
beginning to find a style of his own. While there was
maturity and an attempt at forming an opinion clearly
evident, he was still a little too easily led at
jumping to conclusions. I murmured something to this
effect as he came into the room. Glancing up at his
lack of response, I saw him, transfixed to the spot,
brown manila envelope in one hand, photographs in the
other.

I don't know exactly how many heartbeats I missed at
that particular moment. From the expression upon his
face as he stared at the photograph, I knew unerringly
what he was looking at and I didn't know what to say.
"How's that for a hard-on, then?" didn't seem right
from my lips somehow, though doubtless it would have
gone some considerable way towards breaking the
tension.

"May I see?" I finally managed to say.

Richard shot a look at me and recoiled, clasping the
photos to him, then slowly it dawned upon him with an
awful realisation that I already knew what they
portrayed. I watched the colour come back to his ashen
cheeks. Silently he held them out to me. There were
just two. The first was the one where he was stepping
out of the pool cradling me in his arms, his own
nudity masked by my body. The second was an enormous
enlargement of my underpants-clad loins. The
translucency of the soaking garment exaggerated what
lay beneath and even gilded it with an obscene
glossiness. That I was sporting a massive and rubicund
erection was impossible to ignore. The picture swam
before my eyes, and I blinked back hot tears of shame.

I have never felt happy with exposure of my body if
truth be told, being extremely self-conscious, even
reneging at wearing shorts on holiday. To be so rudely
and publicly divested of all save my underwear was
enough of an ordeal for me to cope with. Now, faced
with this blatant record of my mortifying arousal
blown up out of all proportion in all its
crimson-headed glory - and to know that it had been
sent to one of my students, one whose opinion of me I
valued more than I cared to admit - well, it was more
than I could bear. A strangled sob escaped as I tried
to exhale silently and my hands began to tremble.

"I'm so sorry, Sir," Richard barely whispered.

It was strange that he had automatically slipped back
to calling me by my professional title. Strange, and
at the same time, depressing. Something had changed
between us; an innocence had been lost. He was
eighteen, for god's sake. A man. He could vote, drink
alcohol, go to prison - but he was still an
impressionable boy to me, and I was worried at the
newly-formed impression he had of me now .

"You have nothing to apologise for, Richard," I said
very quietly and evenly, avoiding looking up at him,
and staring unseeingly at the illustration of my
degradation.

"But this is so embarrassing," he persisted.

"For me, I grant you. No need for you to be
embarrassed."

I handed him back the photographs. He craned his neck
to study them closely again and I was struck once more
by a pang of shame.

"You've seen it before? - The photograph, I mean . .
." he added hurriedly.

"Yes, but not as big as that . . . . the photograph, I
mean," I added dryly.

"Dad didn't take these, I'm sure," he said earnestly.

"Oh no, I agree. Besides, I received a separate batch
from your father with a note of apology for the
strippergram incident," I explained.

"Then who . . . ?"

"Then who indeed . . . ?"

There was an uneasy silence. All the while Richard's
gaze pored over the scene of my grossest humiliation,
taking in every detail and contour. I was squirming
inside.

"This is awful," he said in hushed tones after
shooting me the briefest of knowing embarrassed grins,
returning his gaze to the picture. "Who would have
done this?"

"I have no idea," I said flatly.

"And why?"

"For blackmail purposes." My voice sounded full of
hollow resignation.

"Blackmail? What on earth could they want from you?"

I attempted a shrug, but avoided meeting his eyes. I
could not bring myself to tell him what indignities I
had already been subjected to, what in fact I had
already succumbed to, in order to avoid the threat
hanging over me. We both started guiltily at the
doorbell. Hastily he shoved both pictures back into
the envelope and gave it to me. I quickly thrust it
out of sight behind the cushion as Richard went to
attend to the door. I was seething with embarrassment
as well as shame. It was clear that no further work
should be done by either of us that night. I had
decided that the moment he returned to the room I
should make my excuses and leave. We would both be far
more comfortable. I would, of course, ask if I could
take the photographs with me, but I was resigned to
the fact that nothing could erase that indelible
memory of my complete and utter discomfiture he would
carry of me. I drained my wineglass and shuddered. A
touch too `ordinaire' for my palate.

"Hallo, big boy!"

I froze.

"Did you think we'd forgotten you?"

The voice timbre was unmistakeable. A startled glance
confirmed my worst suspicion. I was struck dumb.

"Been waiting all day for us, have you?"

I have seen nature programmes on television in which
the stalked prey becomes rigid with fear, almost
trance-like as the inevitable end beckons, unable to
flee or save itself. That is how I felt now.

I gazed helplessly at that characterless, and yet
somehow sinister, ski-mask.

Of course, my mind was working overtime. How did he
know I was going to be here? Where was Richard? Was he
all right? Had he been overpowered? Was he being held
against his will?

"Waiting and wondering when, or even if, we were going
to come and check up on you, were you?"

I suddenly became aware of the muffled sounds of a
distant struggle.

I found my voice at last.

"Where's Richard?"

"Never you mind your little head about Richard. He's
all right. Now if you just do as you're told, he'll go
on being all right too."

"If you hurt one hair of his head . . ." I began,
trembling with a mixture of anger and fear.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah - whatever. Look, just get your keks
off and let's look at your panties, then we can be on
our way."

"But what about Richard?" I asked anxiously.

"Richard's got problems of his own at the moment, and
the sooner you drop them, the sooner his problem will
be over," came the reply.

Grinding my teeth with impotent rage, and not knowing
how many cohorts were grappling with Richard out of my
sight, I decided there was nothing for it but to
concur. With a deep and shuddering sigh I gave in to
the inevitable and moved my trembling fingers towards
my trouser fastenings. As I held them suspended about
my mid thigh, I was ordered to drop them completely
and to tuck my shirt tails up as high as my armpits
and exposing my nipples. Shamefully I carried out my
instructions. There was a camera flash. Temporarily
blinded, I was aware of a fracas as somebody burst
into the room.

"What the bloody hell???" It was Richard's voice.
"Alan, what the hell are you doing?"

Blood pulsed in my temples with renewed shame at being
discovered like this. With a sudden realisation of
horror as my eyesight grew accustomed again after the
flashbulb's blinding glare I registered that Richard
was now clad only in a pair of boxer shorts.

Before I could move or say anything, he added in
ringing tones:

"And why are you wearing a pair of my bloody
underpants, for fuck's sake?

*			*			*