Date: Fri, 14 Jun 2002 16:10:29 +0100 (BST) From: nder pants Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning, Chapter Twenty-Eight THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING [Public Schoolmaster, Alan Watson, forced by his young student masters to attend the Bickerstaffe's party dressed demeaningly and revealingly as a "naughty French maid", whilst all the other guests were formally dressed in smart evening attire, returns home relieved his ordeal is over. He groans inwardly as he feels the buzz of his radio-controlled vibrating cock ring whirr into action, and gazes dolefully at his reflection in the hall mirror as his penis swells, rises and bucks towards its inevitable and unstoppable climax inside the frilly little knickers he had been forced to wear - his only means of cover due to the brevity of his frock. With heart-stopping shock, he hears a noise, turns, and sees his mother standing looking at him from head to toe in utter amazement.] CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - A Spa Lunch Can one imagine anything more blood-curdlingly horrendous to contemplate than for a thirty-year-old man having to stand - in nylon stockings, suspenders and high heels, dressed in a tiny pair of frilly lace knickers, clearly on view and openly revealing his rampantly aroused manhood, shivering with pre-orgasmic lust, beneath a frothy petticoat and little black frock with cap and apron, a curly wig and a face made-up like a painted tart - before his astonished and speechless mother? "Mother! What on earth are you doing here?" I groaned in sheer dismay at her seeing me like this. My hands flew to my vibrating groin, pushing down the wired petticoat in a vain effort to conceal my chronic arousal and imminent and unstoppable orgasm. As I did so, it billowed up elsewhere clearly showing the ripped seat of my knickers and my bare bottom beneath. "I might well ask the same question, Alan," my mother replied tremulously, her hands clasped to her chest in shock. "But I'm not altogether sure I want to hear the answer." I blenched as I clearly saw her obvious embarrassment at having observed I was so sexually excited. I pressed the heels of my hands hard against myself in a fruitless attempt to curb the growing excitement that threatened to overspill at any moment. The ghastly prospect of standing before my mother with hot semen running down the insides of my legs was just too awful to envisage. I stammered a pathetic excuse about being caught short and shot upstairs to the bathroom. Mother murmured something about making me a strong coffee and departed for the kitchen. Ripping off the knickers, I sat on the toilet and pushed my bucking penis down until it had fully spent its spurting shots of hot seed into the lavatory bowl. As the wretched steel-encasing contraption buzzed on, my cock simply refusing to return to its flaccid state, I stripped off the rest of my feminine guise and stepped into the shower. Scrubbing my face vigorously, I scraped off every trace of make-up. As I towelled myself dry, I gratefully acknowledged the cessation of the buzzing from behind my scrotum. My tormentors had presumably decided they had given me quite long enough to bring to fruition a compelled ejaculation. Now came the conundrum of what to wear in order to go downstairs again and meet Mother properly. The ruling of my masters was that I must wear nothing but my terribly short towelling robe at all times when in the house with visitors. I knew that I couldn't face that ordeal - more likely, nor could she after her initial shock at seeing me! Pyjamas seemed a more suitable alternative, but they had been confiscated to prevent me from weakening, and disobeying the rule about sleeping entirely naked. There was nothing for it but to get dressed. I shot across the landing to my room, towel clutched firmly round my waist and dived into a pair of clean underpants. Clad in a polo neck shirt and a pair of corduroys, I casually strolled downstairs in a light-hearted attempt to greet my mother as if nothing were out of the ordinary. She stiffened as I gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek. I grinned ruefully as I told little white lies about being to a fancy dress party and getting a bit drunk. I told her I was simply bursting to go when she had caught me in the hall - too much beer, I had added with a guilty shrug. She seemed to accept my falsehoods - perhaps because it was easier to do that than to contemplate what might have been nearer the truth. A confirmed tea-drinker, I dutifully accepted the proffered strong coffee, together with the expressed hope that it might sober me up. Had there been the slightest likelihood of my being any the worse for wear through drink that night, all possibility was dispelled as I had stood with my turgid phallus in my hand before my mother in the hall earlier. We fell into general conversation after that, though there was still a slight air of stiff unease between us, and I felt very like the guilty schoolboy who had been discovered doing something not quite nice. It came to light that she had come up to see me this weekend because I had let her know I should not be home for half-term since I was going to the Lake District with Richard Mayhew. Associating trips to the Lakes with camping and outdoor activities, she had thoughtfully brought up my old sleeping bag which lived on top of the wardrobe in my old bedroom at home, thinking I might have need of it. I thanked her, of course, though explained that this holiday was a thoroughly civilised affair as we were staying in his parents' cottage. In full maternal mode she reasoned that, having being shut up all winter, the place might be damp and that, more than likely, I should be grateful for a nice dry and aired sleeping bag. I squirmed a little uncomfortably as I imagined what my mother might have said if she had known of our real plans over sleeping arrangements. Come to that, I wondered what Donald and Angela Mayhew's opinion might have been as well. No, I didn't - I knew! And Jiminy Cricket was giving me a hard time over it too! Finally, in the early hours of the morning, we retired to bed. I kissed Mother's cheek again as I left her at the guest bedroom door, an undeclared uncomfortable truce between us. Uneasily, I stripped off my clothing, overly conscious that I would be sleeping stark naked just four inches or so away from my mother. I ensured that my robe was within grabbing distance from my bed should any night-time emergency occur. A combination, probably, of the atrocious nightmare scenario experienced upon my mother's unexpected confrontation being replayed over and over again in my mind, together with the effects of the strong coffee I had been obliged to consume, conspired to deprive me of much sleep. Periodic small dry coughs from beyond the wall led me to believe that Mother was undergoing similar deprivation. I got up at seven, showered and shaved quickly and quietly, then dressed and popped downstairs with the firm intention of taking Mother an early morning cup of tea to bed. I was most surprised, therefore, to discover her already up and dressed and well on the way towards providing her son with a full cooked breakfast. Replete with eggs, bacon, sausages, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, and fried bread, followed by toast and her own home-made chunky marmalade, and a couple of cups of tea, of course, I felt altogether calmer and more at one with the world. I had taken the precaution of putting the sneck on the front door-lock to prevent any of my tormenters just walking in, as was their wont since turning the tables on me. It would have been quite inexplicable as to why boys had such free access to my house for my mother. So I was not altogether surprised to suddenly see Tim Robey's far from happy face glowering at me through the kitchen window some time later that morning. Fortunately, my mother was seated with her back to it and therefore did not observe his display of ill temper. I moved swiftly to the back door and threw it open. "Good morning, Robey," I began full of bonhomie. "And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" Cocking his head at me, with a look of startled questioning, he quickly latched on. "Good morning, . . . Sir," he managed, with only the briefest pause as he slipped into his former rôle. "It was a good night, last night, at the fancy dress party, wasn't it?" I was acting my socks off. "Erm, yes. Great." "He mouthed "who is it?" at me, and I mee-moed back "my mother!". "I just had Greg Bickerstaffe onto me this morning, talking all about it," he began quite naturally, but I could tell his mind was working hard to keep his conversation inconsequential. "They're having a bit of a "let's eat up the left-over's" do this lunch-time, and you're invited too. I volunteered to pass it on." A steely stare from him meant I was under orders to attend. I shook my head helplessly. "Oh that's very kind, but, the thing is, I've got my mother over for the weekend and we'll be going out to lunch today," I told him evenly. "Oh. I see." He was nonplussed. Mother called through. "Alan, I was thinking of setting off before lunch, actually, to avoid the heavy traffic. So I needn't spoil any plans you may have." "You'd better come in," I murmured to Tim. "This is one of my sixth-form students, Mother - Tim Robey. We were both at the same party last night," I added by way of explanation. "How do you do, Mrs Watson? Good morning. How nice to meet you!" Tim Robey turned on the charm. I could see that Mother was instantly enchanted. He was equally polite and subservient to me in front of my mother. It was quickly agreed that, as much as anything, because of the big breakfast, Mother didn't fancy a proper Sunday lunch. She was also less than happy about driving when the roads filled up with heavy commercial traffic, as they did later on a Sunday afternoon. If she set off at noon, she would be almost home before four-thirty - roughly the time they started to reappear. It was agreed, then, that Tim should return to collect me just before one. He left, expressing pleasure in having met Mr Watson's mother and wished her a good journey home. "What a nice, well-mannered boy," she said of him. I at once recalled him, in my mind's eye, pissing all over me. * * * They came for me at ten-to-one - just twelve hours since we had left the Bickerstaffes' earlier that morning. I had changed into my stipulated gear after waving Mother off, and stood before them now in jockstrap, shorts, singlet, socks, trainers and tracksuit. Both tracksuit bottoms and shorts had to come off in the car, though I was allowed to keep my jockstrap on. They listened avidly to my account of the humiliating experience with the vibrating cock ring under the unflinching scrutiny of my mother, and were suitably scandalized. I think at that moment they realised how far they had debased me, and it gave them pause for reflection. I thanked Tim for dropping his mastery of me in front of my mother and he seemed to genuinely appreciate my gratitude. When we got to the Bickerstaffes' there was a smaller crowd than last night, all casually dressed, so I did not feel too self-conscientious dressed as I was. Greg was Roger and Louise's son whom I had seen talking with my four young tormenters the previous evening. He was a good-looking, well-built boy and attended a long-established and much respected boarding school in the north of the country. He was already on his half-term holiday. Apparently, they were having it a week before everybody else and had tacked on the two Jubilee Bank Holidays of the following week to extend it. A clever ruse. I'd missed Angela and Donald Mayhew, who had popped in earlier with Richard for a buck's fizz on their way to take presents to Angela's mother for her birthday. Richard had wanted to stay when he knew we were expected, but was firmly told that his parents had declared the event a "three-line whip", and he had to attend - on pain of death - his grandmother's birthday lunch. I found myself in the company of Fiona from last night, together with her husband, whose name escapes me, and a couple called Tom and Marjorie. Marjorie Farnworth was not there this morning, I was relieved to discover. This was another Marjorie. It was only when they began to speak of their son's delightful girlfriend called Rosemary, that I realised I was talking to Neil Sanderson's mother and father. I fancifully imagined what an amazing conversation-stopper it would have been if I'd turned to them and said: "Oh you're Mr and Mrs Sanderson, are you? You're son came round to my place yesterday to suck my cock. In fact, that was just after Rosemary had been to call with exactly the same thing on her mind." The buffet was again superb. So much had been left over from the night before that it was hard to believe it was not a fresh supply. Roger, strong, shapely smooth tanned legs, in a becoming pair of faded terracotta canvas shorts and a cream open weave short-sleeved shirt, was being kept busy with an electric orange squeezer and popping champagne corks four at a time to keep up an endless supply of buck's fizz. Both he and Louise were attentive and generous hosts. The weather, whilst not startling, was sufficiently mild to encourage us out onto the terrace to eat, once we had stacked up our plates. I sat with the boys and we chatted socially of this and that, all thoughts of subjugation forgotten. Greg Bickerstaffe was a very pleasant young man; a charmer, in fact. He had inherited his father's rugged good looks which were tempered a little by the strikingly beautiful eyes of his mother, together with her softer mouth. He was wearing shorts also, though the fashionable baggy cargo style that extended to mid calf which gave him a slightly lost air in my eyes, almost as though he had severely outgrown his long trousers. These trousers were worn low on his hips, revealing a good two inches of baggy blue and white check cotton boxer shorts above the waistband. He was bare-chested and well bronzed with a necklace of natural wooden beads worn quite tightly round his throat, and giving him almost a pagan air. Tim was smitten. I could see clearly - and a few more scales fell away from my eyes. The thing I could not ascertain was whether Greg was as smitten with Tim. Phil Marshall, Dave Newman and Geoff Talbot remained complete oblivious, I noted. In spite of my unusually enormous Sunday breakfast, I managed a further heaped plateful from the buffet, followed by the plainest and fruitiest of the lavish desserts. I think I must have been on my sixth glass of buck's fizz and was feeling distinctly light headed, but, as Roger said, who was counting? As he poured me a seventh, and one for himself, he offered to show me the garden. It had seemed a touch abrupt and apropos of nothing, although he reminded me that last night I had commented on a spectacular floodlit rhododendron he had in flower by the drive. So we sauntered off down the lawn, side by side, sipping our glasses in an alcoholic haze of comfortable companionship. "I thought it was very brave of you last night, Alan," he said at length, and clasped me to him chummily by the shoulder. "I'd have hated to be the odd man out like you. Dressed like that, so revealingly, and leaving practically nothing to the imagination, I'd have wanted to curl up and die, knowing that everybody's eyes were firmly fixed on your cock all night - men and women both." My mind was a shade fuddled and I almost stopped to shake my head. Was I hearing him aright? And you're so obviously well-endowed too. Nowhere to conceal your manly bulge, so to speak," he pursued the matter further. I thought I detected a quickening in his breathing. A wave of embarrassment swept across me. "I must say I was very impressed, though. I thought you were magnificent. And I know I'm not alone in this. Several people said how they felt for you; how well you rose to the occasion and showed what a good sport you were. Dave Whalley was telling me . . ." Dave Whalley again! Already I had had to submit to the attentions of Neil Sanderson because of the Head of our Games Department at school. The fact that he himself was a cock-sucker appeared to be more widely known than I felt certain he would be comfortable to realise. I was sure that Donald Mayhew had heard something unsavoury about him, the way he behaved towards him at the Rugby Club on Friday. I tuned back in to hear Roger extolling the virtues of my sportsmanship on behalf of the school and the rugger incident of horrific recall. He confided in me that he had been privileged to have an early viewing of the incomplete portrait that Jason Farnworth was painting of me, courtesy again of Dave Whalley. He nudged me conspiratorially and confessed how impressed he had been to see the magnificence of my pendulous organ in the perpendicular ascendant, and that he considered it a crime against the Creator that it should forevermore be hidden behind a painted rugby ball. He wanted to know if Jason had exaggerated my attributes. I was forced to confess that I could not answer as I was not allowed the privilege which had been bestowed upon him. I was not allowed to look at the painting until it was finished. Quickly, and without warning, Roger Bickerstaffe grabbed hold of my elbow and propelled me into the rhododendron clump at the bottom of the garden. "Show me; show me now," he almost begged with limpid eyes. I was more than a little startled and momentarily speechless. "Roger, it's the drink talking," I said at last, nervously self-conscious. "Of course, it's the bloody drink talking! I would never have dared to ask you to show me your cock if I were sober," he raised his voice belligerently. "Sshhh!" "No I won't bloody shush! Show us your fucking cock and then I'll shush!" he grabbed at my waistband and missed. "Roger, no, please," I tried in an urgent whisper. "You know what you are? You're a fucking cock-teaser, that's what. All last night you were going round flashing it at all and everyone, and now you're not prepared to accept the challenge!" "What challenge, for heaven's sake?" I asked in alarm, urgently restraining him as he grappled with me in an effort to drag my tracksuit bottoms down. "The challenge to fucking show us your cock!" They must have heard the shout up at the house - if not what was actually said. I pleaded with him futilely to be quiet. Sullenly, he told me the only way he'd be quiet was if I showed him my cock. It was impasse. Wishing I were almost anywhere else - other than being forcibly masturbated in front of my mother - weighed down by the awful air of inevitability, I dragged down my track suit bottoms and shorts in one, and pulled aside the pouch front of my athletic support to let it all hang out. "Magnificent!" he muttered breathlessly after a slow beatific grin had spread across his drink-flushed visage. "Outstanding, superb! Let me bow down and worship it." So saying, he bent forward, took hold of my penis quite gently and bestowed upon it a reverential kiss. "Alan, Roger! Where are you?" Approaching voices spurred me back into my clothing in record time, and we shot out onto the lawn and stood as if gazing in wonder at the beauty of the rhododendrons. "Ah, there you are, both of you. I said I thought I heard you down here." It was Louise. "Roger, the boys would like to get into the spa, and I dare say some of the others might be tempted. Come and turn it on; there's a dear." All thoughts of further furtive fumblings in the shrubbery excised from our minds, we retraced our steps up to the house. On the south-facing terrace that ran along the back of the house, and under a canopy that could be completely screened in for cold weather usage, stood the impressively large spa bath. I gather it had been in use earlier the previous night but had not seen it. That it was a relatively new acquisition was obvious on two counts; namely, the owners' pride in exhibiting it, and secondly, it looked brand spanking new with bright jewel-like aquamarine mosaic tiles and shiny chrome bubble jet outlets. As we stood dutifully admiring it whilst Roger put it through its paces, turning the water from idle ripples to boiling rage in an instant, I was momentarily distracted by his son Greg who peeled off his top to reveal a splendidly sleek, tight and muscular torso. Dragging cargo shorts and baggy blue boxers down in one, I was almost disappointed that he had a pair of Speedo swimming trunks underneath. Almost disappointed, but not quite. They were extremely low cut and very figure hugging in a shiny, almost iridescent, aquamarine blue to tone with the spa bath lining itself. Even his father was momentarily put off his stride, and I had a sudden mental picture of him drunkenly shouting at his son: "Show us your cock!" Greg made the spa bath look very tempting indeed, and it was only moments before Geoff Talbot tore off his clothes and, similarly clad in bottle green Speedos, he jumped in too. Phil and Dave were next, though both wore the baggy shorts that appear to have found more favour now among the leisure swimming fraternity - presumably because they are less revealing. Tim Robey watched longingly I noted. "Why don't you join them, Tim?" I said to him quietly. "Yes, do, all of you. I've plenty of towels," Louise urged. He turned and regarded me closely with a challenge in his eye. "I will, if you will," he said. I smiled and said I had no costume with me, unaware as I was that there would be such an opportunity to use one. "I've got a spare one I can lend you, and he pulled from his capacious pocket the pair of white swimming trunks in which I had been subjected to such ridicule at the public swimming baths only the week before last. The steely look in his eye told me he would brook no opposition. Resigned to my fate, I took the trunks and followed Louise indoors. "Just a minute, darling!" Roger came flying in after us. "I'll show Alan where he can get changed. You see if you can't persuade the others to help finish the food off." So saying, he grabbed me by the forearm and steered me purposefully towards the stairs. "Now where were we, before we were so rudely interrupted?" he asked me with a wolfish grin as he grabbed me playfully through the front of my tracksuit bottoms. * * *