Date: Fri, 7 Jun 2002 14:28:50 +0100 (BST) From: "[iso-8859-1] nder pants" Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning, Chapter Twenty-Five THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING [On his way home from the Rugby Club "Do", Alan Watson has been forced to perform a striptease on a country road, and to masturbate himself to a satisfactory conclusion, both in the full glare of car headlights. Unbeknownst to him, his performance had also been witnessed - to his utter mortification - by a former pupil, parked on the grass verge where he had been canoodling with Alan's former girlfriend, Rosemary. After a sleepless night of horrendous waking nightmares, Alan faces a bleak weekend of further clothes deprivation guaranteed to intensify his young masters' controlling humiliation.] CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - "Supermarket Challenge" I think I died a little that night - or rather in the early hours of that Saturday morning. When I realised that my obscenely degrading display had been witnessed by none other than a former head boy of the school in which I taught, parked up and petting a former girlfriend of mine, I believe I really lost the will to live for a moment. I had grabbed my discarded clothing from the bonnet immediately and, clutching it to me, had sought the protection of the car only for the teasing Dave to drive off, necessitating I sprint off down the lane after him, my naked buttocks clearly on display to the lovemaking twosome. The fact my anxious glances shot in their direction had elicited the information that they were neither of them fully-clad themselves did little to comfort me. Eventually the lads stopped and allowed me to get back in, though I was made to ride home completely naked, my clothing bundle confiscated. Squozen between them on the back, I had been subjected to gropings and molestation throughout the journey for their amusement and entertainment. "Remember it's Saturday, and all gardening activities have to be undertaken in just your new shorts - no vest, even, this week," Tim had said. I winced as I remembered how badly the lawn needed attention. I could not put it off any longer. "Furthermore, if you have to go shopping or into town, you must wear the tracksuit, but we're not going to allow you to wear anything at all underneath it this time." "But, Sir," I began plaintively, "I need the jockstrap to contain the bulge a bit. The cock ring you have locked on me makes me look very . . . prominent." "You should be thanking us, then," Phil Marshall chuckled. I could gain no concession from them and sat glumly resigned for the remainder of the journey home. I was refused permission to dress when they arrived at the end of my road, and was brusquely put out and forced to sprint to my front door carrying my clothes before me. Fortunately, at that hour of the morning, it was completely deserted, and I made it into my house, stark naked, without any further drama. I had relived that ghastly gut-churning moment in the country lane throughout the rest of the night. Indeed, I often found myself openly whimpering and groaning out loud, shedding tears of frustration for my situation there. I shuddered and my flesh crawled at the awful realization that these two had been sitting watching through their car windscreen with disbelief whilst a grown man - known to both of them - a quiet, unassuming, conservative, professional pillar of the community, had stood in the bright, unblinking beam of headlights and had begun to perform a complete strip tease, and then to commit an act of gross indecency. I blenched at the thought of my having actually fired arcs of my seed before Rosemary's eyes, and hugged myself tightly in appalled disbelief as I lay in my sleep-free bed curled in a foetus-like ball. Breakfasting in the nude was still an uncomfortable feeling for me, as was remaining naked at all times indoors. Although I could be fairly certain not to receive an early morning visit from my tormentors on a Saturday - particularly after such a late night - I was not prepared to take the risk of being caught disobeying. They had too much against me, though I was gaining a crumb of comfort from the growing suspicion that they had no intention of using any of the incriminating material they'd accumulated. I was just glaring ruefully at the state of the lawn, resigning myself to the inevitability of my having to go out and attend to it, when my cock ring began to vibrate. I cursed. There was no way I could go out and cut the grass in my minuscule shorts with a hard-on, for heaven's sake. Just then, the 'phone rang. It was Richard. "Hallo, Big Boy. Up early this morning, are we?" I could tell from his teasing tone that he was paging my vibrating third testicle buried behind my scrotum, and which housed the buzzing motor that so effectively stimulated me. "Stop it at once, Richard. I'm not in the mood," I said harshly. He did so. "A bit snappy today, aren't we?" he gently admonished me, and I explained the circumstances of the previous evening to him. He had not seen his father. He was still in bed - Richard, that is, not his father - so he knew nothing of the Rugby Club "Do" and my presence there, although Donald had left before my humiliation at the hands of the freelance photographer had begun. He listened avidly and lent a sympathetic ear, although he could not quite curb the excited tone of voice which betrayed he was experiencing a vicarious thrill at my expense. I knew from his breathing that he was playing with himself vigorously as I recounted the experiences of my county lane strip and wank. I even knew he came as I got to the bit about Neil Sanderson and Rosemary having watched it all, but I said nothing. Knowing I had aroused him, in turn, aroused me. "Guess where we'll be exactly one week from today," he purred at me, as I heard him slide languorously over the sheets and stretch. "In bed together, in each other's arms, my cock deep up your arse." My eyebrows shot up in surprise. So did my penis. "Richard!" I said with a tone of scandalised reproof. I know many of my contemporaries consider me to be old-fashioned - even prudish - but I do find coarse language surprisingly unnerving still, though I must confess recent experience has blunted the shock somewhat. I had to admit to myself that I found the prospect of our lying together, our naked bodies clasped to each other, in just seven days a distinct thrill. My heart also somersaulted as I learnt that Richard fully intended to take over Tim's reins to some extent. Rules were to be scrupulously obeyed. I would be kept naked at all times inside the cottage, and was warned that I might also be forced to endure a naked outdoor hike. I looked aghast at my glossy and swollen scarlet glans as my foreskin almost audibly rolled back and my tumescent penis reached for the sky. Involuntarily, my hand moved towards my engorging shaft. "Are you having a wank, Big Boy?" he asked me in teasing tones. I jumped guiltily. "Why not?" he asked when I told him no. "Go on! You know you want to. I am." "I know you are," I said and he chuckled. I continued to resist the temptation to join him; something I would live to regret, as it so transpired. I found myself idly musing on Richard's teasing threat to continue mastering me throughout the half-term, only dismissing further speculation from my mind when it became evident that such thoughts would not lead to my achieving a state of limpness in order to permit me tend to the garden. Finally, I gulped as I studied my reflection in the hall mirror dressed as I was in the tiny, papery thin shorts, before plucking up sufficient courage to step out of my front door. Somehow, the wearing of this scant piece of fabric served only to enhance the thoroughly demeaning exposure of the rest of my compulsorily exposed bare flesh. Whilst crouching down to pull some balled-up grass cuttings off the mower blade, I was appalled to see my scrotum hanging out of the leg hole of the shorts. A quick glance reassured me that such exposure had been unobserved, however, it also meant that I would not crouch down in such a fashion again. Not wishing to linger over it, the lawn was cut with far less care than was my normal wont, eager as I was to get back inside. Exchanging my shorts for my tracksuit I inspected myself critically. I had been forbidden from wearing anything under the suit that morning, and I fussed fretfully with the flimsy fabric in an effort to conceal or disguise the emphasised bulge of my manhood, gathered together and pushed forward as it was by the enforced wearing of the vibratable cock ring. I consciously developed an academic stoop to mask my loins as much as possible, and, grudgingly approving its effectiveness in the looking glass, I set off in the car to complete the weekly "shop". Bending slightly forward over the handle of my supermarket trolley as I inserted my pound coin to release it, I drew comfort from the fact that all was safely concealed and set about my mundane task in an almost carefree manner. All was going swimmingly, until I turned into the next aisle. "Why, if it isn't Alan Watson! And you're wearing a bit more than the last time I saw you!" It was the Rugby Club secretary out shopping with his wife. He told her the tale of my winning the rugby ball in the raffle and that I'd agreed to pose in just a jockstrap for them. He reminded her at length of my school rugger pitch exploits which had been so faithfully recorded in the local paper and on the regional television news, and I blushed self-consciously as I became aware of her eyeing me up and down and mentally undressing me as he spoke. He had a loud voice. Ashamed of the attention being drawn to me as he recounted my exploits, my eyes darted at passers-by, who lingered in listening range, attracted by his full and lurid account. Suddenly I saw the cruelly triumphant grin of Tim Robey as he stood facing me at the end of the aisle, dressed, so obviously straight from bed, in scruffy t-shirt and baggy crumpled cargo pants. I stared mesmerised as he took his mobile telephone from his trouser pocket and typed in a number. There was a lengthy pause, and then, suddenly, I felt the first ominous throbbings that told me he had just set my cock ring in motion. Trapped as I was by the social niceties forced upon me, I listened politely to the man's ramblings, growing ever more alarmed as I recognised the initial threatening stirrings from the very root of my steel encircled reproductive system. I knew instantly I was about to be made to come. Appalled, as I felt my organ swell in its bindings, my mind ran on ahead. I had no underclothing to mask its unavoidable rise, or with which to absorb its inevitable spendings from what was to be a compulsory public orgasm. "Would you excuse me? I've just seen a student of mine I must speak with," I explained to the couple and hurried away towards Tim. He turned abruptly and moved off. "Tim!" I called after him, breaking into a run. As I picked up speed I could already feel my stiffening penis bounce from thigh to thigh. I grabbed at his shoulder and spun him round. "Take your hands off me!" he spat with vitriol. I started back in fearful alarm. There was such a cold hardness in his eyes. "Please, I beg you. Don't do this to me," I murmured urgently. "Kneel and beg!" he ordered curtly. I studied his expression. It was unwavering. Glancing round, I ascertained the aisle in which we now stood was deserted. I dropped to one knee, hoping beyond hope that if anybody rounded the corner in the next moment they would assume I was seeing to a shoelace which had become undone. "Please, I beg you," I repeated urgently, dropping my eyes in alarm as I felt my throbbing penis push up against the insubstantial material of my track suit bottoms. "Please what?" he demanded icily. "Sir!" I quickly interjected, cursing my inadvertent exclusion of the title I had to use. "Kiss my feet!" he ordered. With the pulse banging painfully in my temples, my penis bucking against the thin tautening fabric, I had no time to prevaricate. Swiftly, I knelt forward and did as I had been bade. "Right, stand up. Get about your shopping," he said dismissively as he turned and walked away. I leapt to my feet and followed, abandoning my shopping trolley. "Sir, it hasn't stopped!" I cried urgently. "Nor will it," he remarked crisply and strode off purposefully towards the exit. I groaned audibly at the inevitability of my ordeal, and frantically set about attempting to minimise my public humiliation. Reunited with my trolley, my mind surged as I flew for kitchen rolls and Kleenex tissues, stopping suddenly, as if burnt. "My, my, you really do like shopping, don't you?" a grinning Geoff Talbot announced with a chuckle as he stood in front of the shelves I had targeted, his eyes firmly on my distended crotch. I had been outgunned and outflanked by my masters. The smile left his face and he regarded me coldly. "No paper products allowed today," he said flatly. I pleaded, begged and cajoled with increasing urgency as I felt myself approaching the plateau from which there was no return. "No paper products allowed today," he repeated. "You have had your orders. You will now proceed towards the cash out. Do not go to jail. do not collect two hundred pounds." He grinned at me and I threw him one last baleful hopeless look before he shepherded me in front of him towards the payment area. By now the vibrating had stimulated me fully. My cock had risen to its apogee and such was the thinness of the fabric covering it, you could clearly see the material shivering with the mechanical vibrations from underneath. Each cashier had a queue which, of course, prevented a speedy departure before the inevitable orgasm struck. I quickly chose the shortest queue with a male cashier, thinking it less likely that his eyes would be attracted to my trembling crotch area than those of a female. As it happened, the person in front of me paid for her groceries with a credit card, and an inordinate amount of time was taken for the card to receive clearance. I was in the middle of my transaction with the young man on the till when I ejaculated copiously. It pumped out of me and my penis jerked in rigid excitement four or five times with each outpouring. I felt the wet stickiness on each thigh, matting in the hair there and pressing against the papery fabric. A stolen glance confirmed my very worst nightmare. It was patently obvious what had happened. As I looked up again, the shock of realisation of my mortifying predicament etched across my face, I met the startled, shocked and embarrassed eyes of the young assistant who had also been drawn like a magnet to the spreading patch of glossy moistness soaking through and making the fabric alarmingly translucent. If only I had wanked when Richard had wanted me to I should not have come so abundantly now, I upbraided myself. Still the blessed ring throbbed on. Still my rearing cock bucked and smeared against the glistening wet material. With my face burning, I hurtled my provisions into the trolley, thrust two twenty pound notes at the boy and muttered an apology, adding a burbled and entirely unconvincing excuse about my having spilt something. He was probably thinking that, like Onan, I had, in actual fact, spilt my seed. Whether he was disgusted at my all too obvious orgasm, whether he was appalled at the prospect that he might well have induced this unwanted show of arousal from a dirty-minded sex fiend who had "got off" in front of him, I do not know. All I know is that he was as hotly embarrassed as I. He refused to meet my eyes again, thrust my change and receipt onto the counter rather than into my outstretched hand and hastily began serving the customer waiting behind me. Totally and utterly disgraced and dishonoured, I made my way from the store and across the car park. Tim was leaning on my car with a sardonic smile on his face. "So you came at last!" he said, pleased the double entendre hit home. I begged him to stop the vibrations which were now creating a painful dull ache as my flaccid penis beat uselessly against my scrotum and thigh. With a flick of his finger on his dialling pad, it stopped. "Why do you delight in berating me so?" I asked weakly, feeling completely broken. "Why?" he echoed. "Because I can!" There was more a note of matter-of-factness in his answer than triumphalism. "Look, what have I ever done to you to deserve this?" I asked him. "Nothing," he said with a smiling shrug. "Was it because of that beating you took from the Deputy Head that I had to witness?" I wanted to know. He regarded me vacantly for a minute, then said quite openly: "Do you know, I'd forgotten all about that? Not the beating, of course, but the fact that you were there." "Then why?" I beseeched, tears pricking my eyes. "Because we all enjoy it. That's a very good reason. And, let's face it, Big Boy, you enjoy it just as much as we do. Can you deny you've enjoyed our mastery over you?" I regarded him closely. My mind was in a ferment. I could not deny that, and he knew it. A slow smile was spreading across his face as he recognised my quandary. "I tell you what," he said at last, still regarding me closely with his quizzical smile, "this next week is the last proper teaching week. When we come back after half term, we're straight into exams. So, at the end of next week, I promise I'll tell you the real reason why, but only if you obey every one of our commands throughout the week." I agreed reluctantly, and pondered my lot, filled with forboding for the week ahead. "Now go home, take a shower, wash the come stains off your track suit because you'll be needing it again tomorrow, and remain naked, awaiting further orders." With that, he turned on his heels and left me. * * *