Date: Thu, 20 Jun 2002 01:51:41 +0100 (BST) From: nder pants Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning, Chapter Thirty THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING [Alan Watson has travelled far along the road to depravity within the past fortnight. Head still spinning from some of the excesses to which he has been subjected, the circle-jerk he experienced in the Bickerstaffes' spa bath is merely the latest in a series to test his growing appetite for humiliation. After a night of reflection, occasioned by Louise's advice, he prepares himself for the last week of school before his holiday with Richard Mayhew - a week in which the portrait must be finished, School Sports Day accomplished, to say nothing of the charity auction, before heading north for the Cumbrian Fells.] CHAPTER THIRTY - On My Side of the Street All night long, in between fitful bouts of broken sleep, I had pondered closely on what Louise Bickerstaffe had mumbled at me through her mouthful of roast pork as we stood regarding each other in the dining room doorway. "If it's against your nature, much better face the facts and settle for playing on your own side of the street," she had said with a meaningful look, to qualify her sudden advice not to marry. I'd immediately felt guilty wondering if our filthy little depravity in the spa bath had been observed by her. Certainly, one had to reflect that, as a couple, they did not appear to be a particularly good advertisement for the institution of marriage. He had a drinking problem apparently and she, an eating disorder, whilst the fruit of their loins gave the very real impression of thriving on homosexual incest. As my late lamented grandmother would have remarked: "How different from the home life of our own dear Queen!" Which side of the street did she think was my side? The same side as I thought? Was I now convinced upon which side I wanted to play? I faced facts. I was thirty and had never had sex with a girl. Up until two weeks ago I had never had sex with a boy either. Now, I had, and I was filled with lustful and excited thoughts of my week's holiday alone and in the arms of Richard Mayhew. I grew hard instantly and pushed my hardness into the mattress on which I lay face down. I balked a little at the thought that Louise Bickerstaffe had seen through me so easily. I wondered if Angela Mayhew had suspicions too, then reasoned that she would hardly allow me to spend a week alone with her son if so. That thought awoke Jiminy Cricket within me again. My troubled conscience warred and struggled that the right thing to do was to pull out of the Lake District trip, and then I countered that argument with the evidence that Richard seemed far more secure with his sexuality and the side of the street on which he played before ever I had appeared on his patch of pavement. Indeed, I was beginning to suspect that he was more than vaguely instrumental in ensuring I turned up for practice. How I yearned for his naked body pressed against mine at that very moment! A week seemed an interminable time to have to wait. I'd groaned into my pillow and ground myself into the bed once more. Angela had confided she believed the holiday might go some way to distracting her son from what she imagined to be his unfulfilled love affair with some as yet unknown girl. I imagined how appalled any mother would be if she had known she was in fact conspiring to fulfil his true love affair - for it was with me. My heart leapt with the knowledge of that, and I hugged myself with glee. Richard was so perfect a specimen of young manhood, and I rejoiced in my fortune that he looked more than fondly upon me. * * * ".... Marshall?" "Sir." "Mayhew?" "Sir." My cock jumped at the very sound of his voice, and he buzzed my vibrating ring for one brief teasing moment of intimacy. I continued calling the register with as steady a voice as I could muster under the circumstances of my growing excitement. "Mayhew, stop what you are going immediately, or you shall excite my disapprobation," I said sternly, avoiding his eyes. Talbot turned round and jeered. "Mayhew, leave it alone, boy! You'll go blind. And you'll also have to start shaving the palms of your hands," he mocked outrageously. The buzzing subsided under the mounting derisive laughter, and we left for assembly. After the religious service came general notices. The headmaster reminded School that all lessons would end at mid-morning break on Friday, the rest of the day being set aside for Sports Day. He also set about drumming up enthusiasm for the Parents' Association charity auction which was to be held in the school hall on Wednesday evening. The worthwhile cause they had chosen to support this year was "Sports Relief", and the items generously submitted for auction were as varied as a fortnight's holiday on the Isle of Man, a meal for four at the Imperial Gate Chinese Restaurant, or a night out with Mr Hartley. The latter item produced some good-humoured hilarity and we left the stage in high spirits in this beginning of the last week of the half-term, and indeed the last week of lessons for the fifth and upper-sixth form groups, since exams would start shortly after the return to school after the holiday. My double revision period with my upper-sixth group passed without any incident. The mood was of sensible and earnest study as we set about clarifying and refreshing a few points from the general syllabus that had been studied in depth at the beginning of the course. At mid-morning break, Dave Whalley came acrossthe Common Room to me as I drank my tea to confirm my availability for stewardship of the high-jumping competition once more for Sports Day. It was not a particularly arduous or onerous task and so I accepted my posting quite happily. I found putting the shot or throwing the javelin with all the walking backwards and forwards and measuring, mind-blowingly boring, and had been much relieved to have avoided either of those events in recent years. The fifth year were having French orals after break so that meant I was free, and Derek Bamforth came up to me and asked if I would pose for Jason Farnworth instead. With a heavy heart, I agreed. After all, each sitting meant the portrait was nearing completion, and so my embarrassing ordeal would be over that much quicker. Frank Hartley, the auctioneer for the charity auction, came and asked if I would sign the rugby ball that had been nestling in my groin during the painting of the portrait and enter it as one of the lots to be bid for. I agreed, of course. Suddenly realising my cock ring was about to be revealed, I darted out of the Common Room to try and track down one of my masters, trusting to luck they had an Allen Key with them. Dame Fortune was certainly smiling upon me, for I immediately bumped into Phil Marshall who produced the key and readily followed me to my study. I was, however, put fully through my paces by him, having to strip off my trousers and underpants, and to tuck my shirt right up into my armpits, my chin holding it up to expose my chest hair and nipples, then to stand, feet wide apart, upon my desk with my hands clasped behind my head. They called it "assuming the position." Once free of their restraint, my testicles rose and fell with gay abandon, disporting themselves in the manner of young animals when released after a night's confinement in stables or kennels. I was permitted to dress again and told that I should receive a visit that night for it to be restored to its rightful place. I thrilled at the prospect of best part of a day without having the weight and constriction of it. It was being left off for so long because there was to be another session with the artist after school. Stripped completely naked and assuming the position required by Jason Farnworth, I felt less self-conscious somehow. Derek Bamforth said I was relaxing into it. Certainly my penis was a lot more relaxed and laid back than the last time I was forced to pose. Even the unexpected appearance of the headmaster did not worry me unduly. "Ah, Mr Watson, you're an absolute brick," he commented with an absent smile, "an absolute brick." I did start, however, when he stepped aside to admit a strange man and woman. "This is Mr Watson, one of our English masters whomanaged to achieve more than a degree of notoriety on the games field during a recent First Fifteen versus Staff Team match when, despite being disadvantaged by disintegrating kit, he went on to score a magnificent try. He is at present gallantly recreating the moment to be captured in oils by our exhibition scholar Jason Farnworth. And this is Mr Bamforth, the art master," he added with an airy gesture towards Derek almost as an afterthought. "Acrylics, Headmaster," Derek corrected him. The headmaster regarded him blankly for a moment. "I beg your pardon?" "Acrylics. That's the medium Jason is using - not oil paint," he explained. "Ah, I see, acrylics," he tapped the side of his head elaborately as if enlightened. The woman stared at me, voraciously devouring my nudity. Her husband was almost as avid in his interest. I felt alarmingly vulnerable. "I knew you wouldn't mind me popping in with these prospective parents, Mr Watson," the Head continued, "what with your having disported yourself so willingly for the media already on several occasions." "That's right. I think I saw you flashing your bum on Friday night at the rugby club," the man volunteered with a leery grin. As one, the head, Derek and Jason Farnworth turned and looked at me in more than mild surprise. I wanted the floor to open, but had to launch into an explanation as to how I had been prevailed upon to disport myself in just a jockstrap in order to gain the club maximum publicity. "My, my, Mr Watson, you are fast achieving notoriety, almost, for your media exposure - if you'll pardon my little pun," the Headmaster tittered. Sitting stark naked with only a rugby ball to clutch to me, entering into small talk with one's employer and two total strangers is a wholly invidious experience I would not wish upon my worst enemy. The nightmare-like quality never left me. My manners upbraided me, however, for remaining seated in front of a standing lady, though I salved my conscience somewhat by trying to assure myself that no lady would stare quite as much as she was doing. And if indeed I did stand, I convinced myself I should only succeed in giving her more at which to stare. After closely cross-questioning Farnworth as they studied the partially complete painting I had not been permitted to see, wanting to know why he had bothered painting in my genitals if they were to be concealed from view by the rugby ball, and also wanting to know if I had posed without the ball for the boy, they finally left to tour other parts of the school with the head as their genial guide. He had repeated his little bon mot about Mr Watson, as they could see from the portrait, being not only well-hung but that I might well be hung in the Royal Academy as well. They had chuckled politely as their inquisitive eyes had pored over my flesh for the last time. As I hurriedly dressed upon the bell being sounded, Mr Bamforth kept out the fourth-formers until I was ready to leave. After I passed out of the art room, my clothing fully restored to me, Farnworth Minor called out: "Have you been posing in the nude for my brother again just now, Sir?" I walked on. The entire lunch hour was wholly uneventful, except I was asked to supervise some high-jump practice on the spare ground outside the sports store, so the big landing cushions did not have to be dragged too far. There, particularly the younger boys wished to hone and improve the showier aspects of their Fosbury Flops. Afternoon lessons passed without incident and following a quickly snatched cup of tea at four o'clock, I once more reported to the art studio and began to disrobe. Derek Bamforth, the art master, let me see his various lightning sketches of my naked pose, and I was infinitely relieved to note he had left my facial features fairly anonymous. He did appear, however, to have some sort of embarrassing fixation about the size of my reproductive equipment, which was frequently portrayed by him in lurid detail lolling in bloated distended fashion on either thigh, finishing only fractionally above my kneecap. Self-consciously, I commented on this exaggeration which he claimed not to have noticed. He then ventured an opinion that it must have been something deeply psychological with him, as he always drew women's tits too big also. As I stood, clasping the ball to my nether regions and glancing at Derek's efforts, Jason entered the room and went to retrieve his painting from its locker and I moved to take up my pose. "Well, if Mr Bamforth's shown you his, then I suppose I ought to show you mine, since it's so nearly finished, Sir," Jason said suddenly with a little sigh. The double entendre of what he had said did not go unnoticed, but I ignored it and moved in grateful anticipation towards his canvas. It was stunning. I was portrayed with an almost photographic intensity of style, and yet, bigger and bolder than in life. The face had been captured extremely well, I had to admit, but it was the expression in my eyes that haunted me. I had been more than stripped naked by this young artist. He had seen into and exposed my very soul. Written across my face, my pose, the entire thing, was the deeply seared sexual thrill I clearly experienced from being stripped of my dignity and subjected to total grovelling humiliation and degradation. I was more shamingly, transparently nude on the canvas than I had ever been in life, and the haunting thought that this was to be displayed to generations of pupils for evermore was horrifically unnerving. My chest hair was graphically drawn, my enlarged nipples, emphasised like crimson wing nuts, betraying a sexual excitement or awareness that was almost obscene. My hair-surrounded navel was worryingly vagina-like, giving a disturbingly hermaphroditic style to the work. But the pice de resistance was undoubtedly the portrayal of my genitalia. My swollen and glossy-stalked penis had been captured in lovingly lubricious detail; the scarlet peeled-back head so realistically moist one was almost tempted to reach out and touch. The wrinkling of the scrotum beneath was so unbelievably life-like that it was hard to believe the effect had been captured in paint. The whole thing was positively pornographic, having been imbued with an erotic, carnal salaciousness that was shocking beyond belief. My wide splayed thighs spoke volumes as to my libidinous thoughts, and even my winking anus was on open view. I was appalled at how revelatory the whole thing was. I lay stripped of all pretence, bare-faced, bare-souled, bare-arsed. Tears pricked at my eyes. My throat was thick and full. I began to tremble uncontrollably and I felt my penis thicken and lengthen against the leather of the rugby ball. Derek Bamforth broke the silence. "Very fine," he murmured in awe. "This is your very best brushwork to date, Jason." I blinked my eyes furiously and met Jason's penetrating gaze. "So what do you think, Mr Watson? I'd like to know your opinion," he asked steadily. "I am totally overwhelmed," I gasped breathlessly with a shrug. "You have exposed far more of me than I knew possible," I whispered as an afterthought. "It seems almost a shame to add the rugby ball," Derek said reverentially, pointing at the bluish vein that almost pulsed in my engorged penis. "I'm not going to," he said. My heart stopped. "But you must," Derek urged. "Why, it's almost pornographic without it. Besides which, the Head would never put it on display with Mr Watson`s bits on show." "I know. That's why I'm not giving it to him." My mind was in a turmoil. "But . . . ?" Derek interjected. "I'm going to do another for the Head." Relief flooded through me, weakening me. This was followed by another surge of alarm. "If - if you're - you're not giving this one, what's going to happen to it?" I stammered anxiously. "I'm going to enter it for the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy." My heart began to drill a tattoo upon my ribcage. The Head's words had proved to be prophetic. I might very well be hung there after all - in all my naked glory, and far more alarmingly revealed than I had ever deemed possible. I stared at my troubling and thoroughly disconcerting image in absolute dismay. One brief look into my eyes in the portrait was more than enough to tell you exactly which side of the street I enjoyed playing upon. Of that, there was no possible, probable shadow of doubt, whatever.