Date: Mon, 27 Mar 2006 15:30:23 +0100 (BST)
From: nder pants <nderpants@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: Unmasked  - authoritarian/College

I was still busy marking fifth form exercise books when the final bell
went.
"All right, gentlemen, you may pack up and go. Good afternoon," I said
barely raising my eyes from the task in hand.
With murmured thanks and goodnights the Upper Sixth set made their exits.
Suddenly I became aware of one lad remaining, hovering uncertainly by my
desk. I looked up.
"What's the matter, Dickinson?" I asked somewhat absently.
The good-looking boy smiled down at me, looked more than a little
flustered and said: "I just wanted to leave this for you, Sir, but
thought I ought to warn you to open it in private. You see, I don't want
to embarrass you."
I glanced down at the small anonymous package he had placed in front of
me.
"Good night, Sir," he called over his shoulder as he made a hasty
retreat.
I watched him go then turned my attention back to the small parcel. I
picked it up. Whatever it was felt quite soft and squashy inside its
anonymous paper covering. Curiosity got the better of me and I tore the
package open to reveal a brand new pair of Italian designer underpants.
I glanced at the glass door to confirm I was not being observed. A small
card fell out of them.
"A present from an admirer. Be sure to wear them online tonight,
underpants."
I froze, appalled.
Underpants is my gay chat room name, used by me while blithely surfing
sites of questionable taste in the blissful belief I would remain wholly
anonymous.
Obviously and somewhat alarmingly I had been rumbled, but by whom? Was
Mark Dickinson in fact my unmasker, or was he merely being used as a
delivery boy and in total ignorance of the bombshell which had been
wrought upon me?
I was trembling now. My fevered brain attempted to sift through any leads
as to the identity of my gift donor. I drew a crumb of consolation from
the words I recalled Dickinson saying "I ought to warn you to open it in
private. You see, I don't want to embarrass you."
But giving a schoolmaster a pair of underpants was embarrassing, surely
-- additionally so when enclosing a note stressing they must be worn
that night. And it was at that moment the scales fell from my eyes.
Horror of horrors, I had been communicating online with one of my Sixth
Form pupils! I had been indulging in sexual games with Mark Dickinson,
otherwise known as Master Dick-in. Had it really been so very difficult
to see before?
The whole sorry affair began to flash before my eyes like a video in
reverse, and I blenched at every sordid recollection. Who had approached
whom first? I couldn't remember that, but it was unusual for me to make
first contact with anybody. I normally let others make the first move.
Slumped in my chair, my fevered head in my hands I ran through the
scenario where I had let my youthful master take complete charge. How
many times at school had I stood before him in blissful ignorance that he
alone knew I was not wearing underwear that day upon his specific orders?
Why, oh why, had I allowed myself to be persuaded against my better
judgement to buy a webcam and submit to humiliating inspections and
indeed performances?
I had been scrupulously careful of my face being seen on camera in spite
of his many threats and blandishments, only succumbing last week in
sending upon his strictest orders that contact would cease unless I
complied, the smallest and most unflatteringly blurred snapshot I could
scan.
It had been enough though. Master Dick-in now had me wholly in his thrall
and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.