Date: Thu, 18 Apr 2002 18:19:49 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Mastery of Table-Turning (Chapter Six) [Gay - Authoritarian]

THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING

[THE STORY SO FAR  - Following the humiliations heaped
upon him as a result of an unfortunately revelatory
photograph taken of him at pupil Richard Mayhew's
eighteenth birthday bash, and his very public baring
in school at the hands of some disenchanted members of
his tutor group, thirty-year-old English public
schoolmaster, Alan Watson, has had to suffer the
indignities of role reversal heaped upon him whereby
he has been used and abused quite cruelly by members
of his sixth-form tutor group, bearing him a grudge,
for their amusement at his expense. Perhaps, to some
extent, a victim of his own making, surely a man in
his position could never sink as low as was to be
expected of him that night.]


CHAPTER SIX - A Night Out at the Local

The lads took me out for a drink that night. They
brooked no argument. I was given no choice. They
insisted. In fact, I was reminded of the hold they had
over me should I choose not to comply with their
wishes. They had brought with them a photograph of me,
naked, masturbating Richard, also naked, as he did me
in return. The ecstatic expression upon my face gave a
lie to any protestation I might have made in my
defence of my having carried out this obscene act with
a pupil under compunction.

The fact that Richard was eighteen and, according to
the law of the land, of legal age to indulge in
same-sex activities in private was little comfort. In
my position as his schoolmaster, and therefore acting
in loco parentis, it would be deemed that I had taken
gross advantage of one of my charges. I should suffer
instant dismissal therefore, as well as being struck
off the teaching register by the Department of
Education, and would face legal charges as well.

Of course they knew this. They had me, as they said so
colourfully, by the short and curlies. The photograph,
to be added to the growing portfolio recording my
downfall and subjugation at their hands, was all they
needed to persuade me to go along with them.

The large white van was outside. It turned out it was
Dave Newman's brother's. Dave was driving. Geoff
Talbot, Phil Marshall and Whispering Tim Robey bundled
me into the back. Richard was not there, and since he
had been absent from school all day nobody had been in
touch. The moquette armchair - scene of my first
degrading act so short a time ago - was there in the
van to mock me.

As I moved to sit, Tim stopped me with his voice.

"Ah - ah - ah - ah. Not you, Big Boy. You've got to
learn that when you're with us you come much lower
down in the pecking order. The floor's the place for
you."

So saying, he moved to the armchair and sat in it,
crossing his long legs and steepling his fingers as he
looked at me with sardonic amusement. My heart beat
faster. The tables had certainly been turned. I was to
be treated as the inferior.

"In future you will address us as  `Sir' when we are
alone together. Is that clear?"

My heart skipped a beat.

"Yes . . . Sir," I murmured, my voice thick with mixed
emotion.

"Another thing. When you are alone with us, you are
forbidden from wearing trousers. You are our plaything
now, Big Boy, and so you must be readily available to
play with whenever and wherever we choose. Do you
understand?"

My heart pounded painfully in my chest as I watched,
through hot wet eyes, Geoff Talbot fumble with my belt
buckle. Snatching it open and hauling it free from my
belt loops, he stepped aside to allow Phil Marshall to
unfasten my trousers and pull down the zip fly.
Dragging them down my rudely exposed legs, Geoff
steadied me as I stepped out of them and Phil bundled
them into the far corner. I jumped, startled, as he
groped me through the pouch of my underpants with his
other hand as he stood up.

"Say `thank you, Sir'" Tim prompted.

"Thank you, Sir," I echoed flatly.

"Be grateful it's only your trousers, Big Boy. I can
see a time coming when we'll want you bollock naked
all the time, For the moment, I think we'll only
insist on complete nudity when you and Lover Boy are
together."

I knew he meant Richard and I felt a hot wave of
embarrassment blast over me.

"Doesn't he blush prettily?" Tim mocked.

I was allowed to sit on the floor but all attempt to
cover my underwear with my shirt was stringently
disallowed. In fact they made me tuck my shirt tails
up above my waist so my Y-fronts were clearly visible.

"Hmmm, I think we'll have to go through your underwear
drawer sometime soon," Tim mused, head on one side as
he studied my capacious underpants with obvious
disapproval. "We must get you to chuck out some of
those big old pants you wear and get you into
something much smaller and sexier."

"Little frilly knickers!" Geoff chimed in. "It 'ud be
great knowing he was teaching us and underneath his
formal clothes he was wearing some tiny lacy girlie
number of our choosing."

I felt a hot flush pass over me again and the hairs on
my bare legs stood on end.

"He's throwing a boner!" Phil observed triumphantly.
"All that talk of satin panties has got him hot and
bothered," he added with a snigger.

"Come here, Big Boy," Tim said evenly.

The van was swaying so I moved towards him on my
knees.

"I want to feel it."

I stared into his eyes. He reached towards me. I
pulled away.

"Listen, Big Boy. From now on, if I hold out a cupped
hand like this - that's a signal to you that I want
your balls there right away. And I mean right away."

I shuddered and my penis bucked and started upon its
involuntary progress pushing out the front of my
underpants. I looked at his outstretched cupped hand,
my body rigid, my uncontrollable cock, straining at
the taut fabric, craning forward eagerly as if anxious
for that offered resting place.

Almost hypnotically slowly, I shuffled forward upon my
knees, my shirt rolled up and tucked in well above my
navel, the white expanse of my underpants clearly on
show before the fascinated gaze of my students, the
obscene outline of my tumescence exciting particular
attention and sniggers of derisive amusement. My
foreskin had rolled back inside my briefs, allowing
the fabric to rub the more sensitive exposed head or
glans and excite it to dizzier heights. My heart
seemed to be pounding painfully in my lower throat. My
mouth was dry and my lips were sticking to my teeth.
Each intake of breath seemed to scratch the back of my
throat. There was a dull pain in my temples. I stopped
breathing altogether as I felt my scrotum come into
contact with his fingertips. I froze. He never moved
either. After ten long seconds I moved a scrap forward
and lowered my testicles into the palm of his hand.

He sighed contentedly and leant back in the chair.

"Good boy. You've done well," he said to me with a
smile.

I felt a flush of warmth, an almost indescribable
feeling of pleasure at receiving such praise for the
completion of this grossly demeaning act that had been
demanded of me. My penis lurched in delight. I was
shocked at myself.

"You owe me, lads," Tim said, turning to the other
two. "I said I'd have Watty by the balls within the
week, and it's only four days!"

The van swerved and I lost my balance. Tim's other arm
shot out to stop me falling and he tightened his grip
on my scrotum. I gasped.

"What's the matter, Big Boy?" he murmured softly.

"Please . . . you're squeezing my balls," I said.

"Tut - tut - tut - tut. Two things are wrong with that
statement, Big Boy," he spoke softly. "Number one -
you forgot to say `Sir'; and, two - you don't have
balls any more, because they're mine now. So, what
should you have said?"

"Please . . . Sir . . . you're squeezing . . . your .
. . balls, Sir," I managed with a tremulous sob in my
voice.

"Don't be such a stupid wanker! I'm not squeezing my
balls, am I? I'm squeezing the balls of my slave," he
said in almost a whisper. There was a definite glint
of triumph in his eye. He was getting off on this
mastery.

The van had stopped and the engine was turned off.

Dully, I repeated the mantra about him squeezing the
balls of his slave, both prefixing and suffixing the
statement with a "Sir".

"Good boy. You're learning," he said, releasing his
grip. "Give him his trousers back," he added as we
heard Dave slam and lock the driving cab door.

I was not allowed my belt back as a punishment,
because I had forgotten to call him sir initially, I
was told. So, with the waistband of my trousers
hanging low on my hips, I was helped out of the back
of the van now parked on a pub' car park.

"You're in the chair, Big Boy. Four pints of bitter
and a lemonade for Driver Dave," Geoff told me as we
approached the door to the establishment.

I was just reaching into my back pocket for some money
when Tim leant forward and pulled down my zipper. My
hands flew to cover myself.

"Leave it open, Big Boy. You are forbidden from
touching your flies, unless somebody tells you they're
open. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir," I answered meekly, and we went in.

They found us a table and I made my way to the bar
feeling dreadfully self-conscious, casting hurried
anxious glances downwards to see if I was exposing
white material through my gaping flies as I walked.
Three times I had to walk to and fro carrying the
drinks. I was even concerned that they were all
legally of age, but decided that that was the least of
my problems. They had to be all within months either
way of their eighteenth birthdays by dint of their
position in the upper-sixth form. As I sat down with
my pint, my flyhole gaped wide open, I knew I dared
not touch it. I sat there nervously aware that there
was a definite response from the inside of my
underwear to the embarrassing situation in which I now
found myself.

Slowly, as time passed and beer was consumed, a
relaxing air of normality crept over the proceedings.
School life soon became the main topic of conversation
and amusing incidents were duly recalled and related.
As more beer was produced I was prevailed upon to
reminisce of my own schooldays and experiences at
university, but periodically, usually in the midst of
laughter, I would be made suddenly and painfully aware
of my position as their object of fun. As the alcohol
loosened inhibitions somewhat, teasing fingers would
pry into my trouser opening under the table, tickling
and probing what they found there, and I would be
reminded of the humiliations I had already undergone
at their hands and promised plenty more in the months
to come.

It was in the pub' that I was first made aware of all
the planning behind my very public rugby pitch
exposure of the previous afternoon, Over another round
of drinks they revealed how they had learnt of Frank
Hartley's collar-bone injury at the local RFC match
the night it had happened. Dave Whalley, our games
master, had been in the clubhouse bar after the game
and had been pumped for information as to a
replacement for the staff team the following day, and
my name had come up for selection. The great "Get
Watty Starkers" scheme had been hatched there and
then. The jock-strap had been obtained, the stitching
of which had been cut away to the barest essentials,
and the plot to get their hands on my kit and render
both shirt and shorts vulnerable to the slightest tug
went like clockwork. I ruefully congratulated them on
their success and even confessed how much further
repercussions had gone than they could have possibly
imagined. I told them of my ordeal on the pitch that
morning before the prying lens of a press camera, and
the fact that I had been forcibly obliged to strip
myself naked in front of the headmaster, the games
master and the two gentlemen of the press. They hugged
themselves gleefully as they cross-questioned me upon
every detail of my account. Did I throw a boner in
front of the Head, they wanted to know? Did he get
one? Did Dave Whalley? They whinnied in delight when I
confessed that the reporter had complimented me
admiringly, which had the effect of making me feel
even more self-conscious than I already was.

Eventually it was my round again. I suddenly became
aware of my sagging belt-less trousers and their open
fly which I had all but forgotten when they had grown
tired of exploring me within.

"Go on, Big Boy. Your turn to get them in," Tim
prompted.

I looked round the table. Everybody had drunk up
except me. I had a practically full pint still before
me. I picked it up.

"Have we time for another?" I asked, suddenly aware I
should have to pay a visit to the gents' before buying
more.

"You're the one with the watch," Phil said.

I was about to transfer my glass to my other hand so
that I could look at my watch when Tim seized my arm.

"No!" he said firmly. "Turn your wrist to look at your
watch as you are."

"But . . ." I began.

"Now, Big Boy, No ifs, no buts. Just do it."

I glanced round the room anxiously. Nobody was
looking. I stared back at him, knowing that I must go
through with it. I had to obey. Almost, I felt, I
couldn't let him down. With a hot flush and a heavy
air of inevitability, I turned my wrist to look at my
watch and a cascade of cold beer poured into my lap.

With cries of "oh dear!", "you clumsy git!" and
"you're soaking!", I was propelled swiftly by all four
of them towards the gents'. Once inside, they
feverishly worked to get me out of my soaking
trousers.

No, please!!!" I yelped as I felt my underpants being
dragged off too.

I was stripped absolutely naked, except for my socks,
and forced to lie on the cold tiled floor.

"Time for your baptism, Big Boy," Tim whispered with
grim relish as he unzipped himself.

I stared up, frozen in horror, as the other three
followed suit. Here I was, a respectable and respected
schoolmaster, lying naked on the floor of an open
public convenience - into which a pub' customer might
walk at any moment - with four of my pupils standing
over me getting their dicks out, for heaven's sake!

The heat and the flow force struck me most, I think. I
was hosed down the length and breadth of my body by
four steaming hot jets of urine drumming against my
vulnerable nakedness. Prime targets were my face and
hair, my chest and nipples and my cock and balls. The
acrid smell filled my nostrils. Salty splashes invaded
my lips. I had hot urine stinging in my eyes. Dave
finished first, I think. He had not had as much
lemonade as we had had beer, and so was hurriedly
ordered out to stand on the door and stop anyone
coming in. He was to say there was a naked bloke
getting cleaned up after an accident who wouldn't be
much longer.

"You did enjoy that, didn't you, Big Boy?" Tim crowed.
You threw such a big boner then, I thought you were
going to come all by yourself."

The pall of shame that hung over me at that moment was
almost tangible. I lay there, lazy ropes of steam
rising from my body, soaked in the spent urine of my
sixth-form students with a raging hard-on. How could I
possibly deny that I had not found the whole abasement
experience a turn-on? As they shook their remaining
dribble on me and began to put themselves away, Tim
spoke again.

"Now it's your turn, Big Boy."

I opened my eyes, blinking furiously to clear them,
and looked up into his eyes enquiringly.

"My turn for what?" I asked, grimacing as a trickle of
still warm urine rolled into my mouth.

"For a piss," he explained matter-if-factly as though
to a slow child.

"You mean, I've got to . . . ?"

"I mean exactly that," he said with a slow smile.

"Here?" I sought clarification.

"Here and now," he confirmed with a nod.

My penis bucked with the effort. I strained
fruitlessly.

"I can't," I said.

"No such word," he responded. "You must. In fact
you're not leaving here until you do.

I felt like crying. I was forced to admit that my
erection made it impossible. Eventually, after further
goading, I felt the valve, or whatever, open in the
shaft of my penis and a painful stream of burning hot
urine arced up into the air coming down and hitting me
hard in my own face and upon my chest. The flow went
on and on. The tip of my stretched and steaming penis
was stinging violently. I couldn't stop a groan
building in my throat. Suddenly the flow stopped as
though a blockage had formed on an instant. My swollen
member had a dull ache building in it. I stared at it
in alarm as a rigor suddenly hit my entire body. It
felt as though it was about to split open, as though
an alien force was seeking escape from the very root
of my vitals. Bursting from the angrily swollen
crimson tip came a shaming great wad of semen. I
watched in horror as it dribbled and drooled a mixture
of sperm and urine, until the flow returned, the
blockage subsided, and washed away the cloudiness and
strings with which I had bedecked my naked body.

Surely I had hit the nadir today.

As I lay naked in a veritable ammoniac pool of
commingled urine and sperm on that toilet floor, I
found it impossible to believe how I could be debased
further.

*			*			*