THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING Chapter One - The Birthday Party
Perhaps, upon reflection, it had been unwise of me to accept the invitation in the first place. After all, what had a man of my age in common with a bunch of sixth-formers anyway? I suppose I had been flattered to be asked. Yes, that was it. How many of my colleagues, I wondered to myself, would have received such an invitation in the first place? Precious few, I was certain of that. Preening myself over my popularity in having earned such an accolade, I allowed myself to accept magnanimously, mentally assuring (or perhaps reassuring) myself that I would leave around eleven, or at any rate definitely before midnight.
Of course, the fact that Richard had been receiving private tutelage from me for the past two terms, and that the invitation was to a party to mark his eighteenth birthday did much to assuage any natural disinclination I might have had about attending. That I had already been present at a small and intimate dinner party en famille, so to speak, to which only close and valued friends had been invited was pleasing enough. This fact I had cited when handed the invitation to the "Eighteenth Bash" by Richard as he had distributed them to the entire tutor group that fateful morning. Perhaps I had demurred too much, secretly wanting to earn their entreaties to reconsider. My hollow protestations of "you don't want an old man like me spoiling your fun," were met with cheerful cries of "Oh come on, Sir! Let your hair down! Be one of the lads for once in your life!" I wavered noticeably, and as I did so they renewed their efforts to persuade me. After all, it was the end of term, and furthermore, when I inadvertently let slip that the party night coincidentally happened to be upon my own birthday and that I had no other plans as to how to spend it, then all excuses were overruled and I found myself overwhelmed by a tide of backslapping hearties assuring me that it would be my best birthday ever.
Perhaps the prospect of leaving my twenties forever on that very day encouraged me to indulge myself in this last youthful fling before settling down to a life of middle-aged, middle-class respectability. Mind you, they were right. I had always been conservative in both outlook and dress - old before my time, an ex-girlfriend had once opined hoping to get a rise out of me. I think I was secretly flattered. I had gained a certain kudos at university for my fogeyishness, which I must confess was studied and cultivated - perhaps as a cover to conceal the real me. Perhaps I had been too successful. People had stopped trying to find the real me. Even me! I enjoyed a certain notoriety at school with my old-fashioned ways and mild eccentricities. The fact that I always referred to the boys - even the eleven-year-olds - as "Gentlemen", and was the only member of staff who called them by their surnames (until they were in the Upper Sixth and in my own Tutor Group) was often remarked upon with amusement by both pupils and colleagues. But, for all that, I know I commanded respect. And it has been the loss of that which has been the hardest for me to bear.
But I run ahead of myself. Richard had already shown he had a natural aptitude for my subject at GCSE level, and romped through with an A star grade, having found the whole thing "a doddle", to use his own vernacular. His lazy, devil-may-care attitude did not lend itself to the more searching aspects of Advanced Level study, however, and he soon fell back alarmingly, went to pieces completely in fact, and floundered hopelessly in end-of-term First Year Sixth exams. His worried parents sought me out on Parents' Evening and prevailed upon me to indulge their boy with extra tuition. I do not normally accept private pupils, but this appeal arose at a time when I had just overstretched myself by putting a deposit upon a larger model car than, in truth, I could afford, so the extra cash would come in handy. Rosemary had just thrown me over, furthermore, so I had time to fill. Thirdly, their son Richard was a personable boy with whom I had struck up an agreeable rapport despite his initial indolence. I accepted their entreaty with unaccustomed enthusiasm for the task, and progress was pleasingly evident from the start. He was a delightful young man to have as a pupil -quick-witted, charming, and extremely good-looking. During our sessions it was easy to build a relaxed and informal atmosphere throughout which we could behave as intimate friends, and many a spirited discussion ensued with both of us enjoying the cut and thrust of lively and entertaining debate. Many a time, after he had gone, or on my journey home, if we had had a session at his parents', I found myself laughing out loud as I recalled some riposte with which he had come up. All in all, I was getting as much out of these private lessons as was Richard.
To the boy's lasting good grace, he never took advantage of our relaxed intimacies in the classroom, reverting easily to respectful student, not seeking special treatment in any way. As time had passed and as a measure of gratitude from his parents I had been invited for a meal on several occasions - particularly if our sessions were at their home, and as we became more friendly then, of course, they called me Alan. Richard had called me by my first name too upon one occasion, earning a blistering look from his father, but I had been quick to come to his rescue. I argued that since I was permitted to call them Donald and Angela when they were both a good deal older than me, surely, in the intimacy of their own home, Richard could be afforded the same privilege of my first name, the age difference between us being somewhat less. Never once did he take advantage of that throughout this period, always referring to me as "Sir" or "Mr Watson" in school. Up until the night of the party, that is.
Donald had taken the Banqueting Suite at the rather exclusive country club of which he was a council member for his son's Eighteenth. It consisted of a lounge cocktail bar in which most of Donald and Angela's friends were collected, that led onto the actual banqueting room itself in which the magnificent buffet was laid out, and the large circular tables to which we would all go with our heaped-up plates. Off that room was the "function room", smaller, darker, hotter, in which the young ones gyrated to mindless and deafening noise before a phalanx of enormous speakers and a battery of blinding incandescence. All three rooms, forming three sides of a square, opening out onto a tiled lido and floodlit pool - more of which later.
Of course, I was in something of a quandary as to my position at this party. I had been Donald and Angela's guest at the dinner party for family and close friends held a fortnight earlier in Richard's honour, but tonight I was Richard's guest. My allegiance should be to him. My natural inclination was to the quieter bar area. Suffice it to say that Richard himself was sensitive to my situation and, probably taking his cue from the pained expression upon my face, as my ears were assaulted by such cacophony, he led me through to the bar and up to Donald's party.
"Dad," he said, "Alan's had enough of us for a while. Why don't you buy him a birthday drink?" It said much about the boy that he had remembered it was my birthday too, I thought to myself warmly, little realising how much the consideration of it being my birthday had preyed upon his mind.
When the buffet was served, we all made our way through to the banqueting room. Six chefs, all in their white finery, were on duty to carve the viands freshly for each guest. One of them said: "Hello, Sir" almost shyly and lavished very nearly half a filleted salmon upon my plate. I recognised the face from a classroom of not more than five years back but could not put a name to him, and bluffed my way round it calling him "my dear boy" in a rather theatrical fashion for which I was reputed. I was somewhat surprised to discover that a place of honour was reserved for me upon the birthday boy's very own table, at which were sitting most of my Tutor Group and their partners for the evening. I was duly introduced to each girl by their proud suitors, the reason for my presence being explained to them, putting all modesty aside, because I was, in their considered opinion, the best teacher in the school. Richard's girlfriend, Alyson, was a mousy little thing. What he saw in her, I could not imagine. However, as the meal progressed, it became clear to me that little Alyson was made of sterner stuff than I had imagined initially, and was more than prepared to make the entire running herself.
After everybody had paid at least two visits to the very generous buffet, and also had partaken of the exotic array of desserts, as the coffee was served and orders had been taken for liqueurs, I was a touch disconcerted to feel a hand upon my shoulder, and, upon turning round, to find a female police officer at my side.
"Alan Watson?" she asked. I admitted the fact. "I am here to caution you, and to warn you that anything you say may be taken down and given in evidence," she announced rather loudly. I felt myself beginning to blush, aware that a hush had fallen upon the room and that all eyes were upon me.
"What am I supposed to have done?" I asked rather nervously.
I honestly cannot remember how the dialogue progressed from there. All I can remember is the burning sense of horror that overcame me as I realised, with the tearing sound of velcro as the woman tore open her tunic, that I was the unsuspecting victim of a strip-a-gram. I sat there mortified and almost terminally self-conscious as she writhed in front of me, ripped off her skirt and straddled me, leaning forward to bounce her barely-concealed bosoms off my scarlet face as she peeled off her blouse. She placed a high-heeled shoe upon my thigh and invited me to remove a crimson garter from her black stocking top.
"With your teeth, love," she instructed as I sheepishly began to obey. I ignored her and continued to do so with trembling fingers, endeavouring to keep skin contact to the absolute minimum. Cameras flashed. Boys hooted in bovine mirth. Women cackled, screamed and clapped. Men leered and whistled, thumped the tables and stamped on the floor. With a foolish rictus grin set upon my scarlet features, I tried to carry it off with good grace as cameras flashed to record my ignominy. She sat upon my knee and straddled me suggestively, her fingers creeping beneath my shirt. I clutched at her with alarm and tried to stand. The creature had enough about her to realise I was not enjoying my ordeal and, after planting a couple of juicy and vivid lipstick stained kisses upon my face, left me alone to face the roars and derision of the entire assembly exultant in my humiliation.
I soon learned that this excruciatingly tasteless episode had been Donald's little treat, and I somewhat dazedly accepted his son's rueful apology upon his father's behalf. Donald was still braying with asinine laughter at my expense far across the room. I excused myself from the table with as good a grace as I could muster and went to the Gents' to clean myself up, tuck myself in, comb my hair and generally make myself look less ruffled with indignity. I remember noting that I was actually trembling as a result of the humiliating experience. Glancing at my watch, I tried to convince myself that it was not too early for me to thank my hosts, say goodnight to Richard and then make a diplomatic withdrawal. The night was indeed still young.
Returning to the table, I leant towards Richard's ear to apprise him of my decision to make an early departure.
"No!" he said quite loudly, causing conversation in the immediate vicinity of our table to cease. "No, you can't go yet! Is this because of Dad's tacky little joke? I told him I didn't think you'd like that sort of thing!"
I tried to assure him that my going had nothing to do with that incident, but could see he didn't believe me.
"Oh, Sir!" chorused my Tutor Group. "You can't go yet."
"Oh, Mr Watson, I was so looking forward to having a dance with you," tried the winsome Alyson, with a little smile across at Richard to see if she was earning brownie points.
"Look, just because you're mad at Dad, don't go, please. Come back into our room. I'll even get the DJ to turn the sound down a bit."
Richard looked so eager to make amends for what he clearly saw as his parent's lack of good taste that I found it difficult to refuse his proffered invitation to reconsider."
"Well, just for a little while longer," I smiled with a glance at my wristwatch.
As I write this, I tremble and groan inwardly as I record with hindsight how much I was to regret my change of decision.
I am not a dancer.
I danced firstly with Angela, who apologised both on behalf of her husband for the stripper-gram, and wanting me to know that her son had in no way associated himself with what had happened. She said she hoped it would not affect the very real friendship she felt we had built up over the past twelve months. I smiled thinly and said I hoped not too.
I danced secondly with Alyson, who coyly informed me that I was Richard's favourite schoolmaster and that he was always singing my praises to her and that he admired me enormously. I smiled thinly again and said I was gratified.
After that, when the DJ started silly games in the midst of the dance floor, things got rather too lively for me and I retreated to the disco bar where Richard plied me with large gin and tonics in between his other duties as host, and indeed enjoying his own eighteenth party. Time crawled by. At one point I was convinced my watch battery had failed me, as it appeared to stand completely still. He really was concerned for me and very attentive, constantly returning to where I stood and begging me to stay. I had been trying to hear what he was shouting in my ear above the din and the strident tones of the DJ when I heard Richard scream "What the fucking hell.....?" and turned to see him lifted off his feet.
As I watched in a state of mesmerised alarm, I saw his shoes go flying, and as he flailed to gain control amidst a sea of equally flailing arms, my heart began to pound as I beheld whooping hearties tugging at his belt and trouser fastenings. With high-pitched screams of girlish glee, the repellent Alyson jumped up and down clapping her hands together as Richard's trousers were hauled down his legs, torn off his stocked feet and swiftly thrown across the room to the DJ. Blushing, and with as good a grace as he could muster, Richard stood protectively clutching his silk patterned boxer shorts as teasing hands darted out to tweak his shirt tails whilst loudly appealing for the return of his trousers. I remember he looked so helpless, so vulnerable at that moment - so young and insecure. I was so discomfited for him.
With a growing sense of alarm and, I have to confess, also a sense of mesmerizing excitement I felt my heart lurch when it quickly became apparent that the revellers were not going to be content with their trophy of Richard's trousers alone. Whipped up into a frenzy bordering on hysteria when reminded of the pool outside by the oafish DJ, they fell upon Richard with renewed vigour and, raising him prone above their heads, began to process towards the lido area, divesting him of his dinner jacket as they went. I found myself straining to watch, fascinated almost like a rabbit in headlights, as his white dress shirt was torn from his well-developed torso. I craned in an effort for a better view as blood pulsed almost painfully in my temples, and I watched in horror as his boxer shorts were stripped from him, as were his black socks. Naked, save for his bow tie, he was propelled forcibly into the pool. Cameras flashed, crowds surged forward, including me, for a better view. I was appalled with myself.
All too slowly did I realise my own growing vulnerability.
"And there's some other bloke here whose birthday it is today, I believe!" the DJ announced remorselessly.
With a trumpeting sound I was grabbed. My shirt was torn open and buttons flew before my feet had even left the ground.
No, p-p-please," I stammered nervously, horrified at my rude exposure, as I felt eager fingers feverishly working at my trouser waistband.
I was terrified.
Quickly and unceremoniously divested of all my outer clothing, I almost bleated with fear as I felt the elastic waistband of my conservative white briefs being stretched over my buttocks as they were being dragged down and off.
"Remember, lads, he is your teacher," I heard Donald's voice shout a warning note. Fingers faltered. My underpants stayed on.
The water stung as it smacked my rudely bared flesh and it seemed to knock all the air out of me. I struggled to the surface blindly coughing and spitting and retching and believing I had swallowed half the pool.
I am an atrocious swimmer, and I panic very easily if I am out of my depth.
"Help! I cant sw....!" was all I could manage before I submerged again.
However, my cries went unheeded amidst the baying and whooping of the drink-befuddled revellers basking in our discomfiture. Richard was the first to realise my predicament though and ploughed through the water to me. My heart leapt as I saw his naked penis pass my cheek before I felt him take hold of me. I felt his hairy scrotum brush my naked thigh as he lifted me to the surface. He hugged me and I clung to him as I raked in lungfuls of air.
"Are you all right, Alan?" he asked, real concern showing on his face.
"I'm not a good swimmer," I confessed between belches and hiccups, my teeth starting to chatter.
Holding me with one arm round my chest - his thumb on my right nipple, my legs wrapped round one of his long well-muscled bronze ones, his penis and testicles lolling against my inner thigh - he effortlessly propelled me towards the stone steps. He swept me into his arms and with his other arm under my thighs, carried me up and out of the water to cheers, applause and wolf-whistles and a barrage of camera flashes. A flustered Angela and a staff member from the club held out towels for us.
We were both escorted to a guestroom and told to shower and wait whilst our clothes were collected. Richard kept apologising for the indignities to which I had been subjected and I did what I could to assure him that in my eyes no blame attached itself to him. Somewhat mollified, he went and had a shower while I wriggled out of my wet underpants under the towel. I was flustered and embarrassed. Tangled up in the clinging moist fabric of my soaked underpants was a reaction I could not easily explain away. I fervently hoped that it had not been noticeable to my rescuer as I clung to his naked body when he propelled me through the water. Glancing up, I caught him standing in the bathroom looking at me. He was naked. Somehow even more so, since he had removed the absurd bow tie left on by his strippers. The towel was hanging up by the shower door. My eyes automatically dropped to his waist. Horrified with myself at this reaction from me, I looked guiltily back at his face. He smiled openly at me, then slowly turned to step into the shower. My eyes shot down again to look at his magnificently firm bottom. I wondered what I could read into the expression of his face at the moment my eyes had looked back into his. The word enigmatic sprang to mind. I shuddered appalled.
I was listening to a Promenade Concert being broadcast live from the Royal Albert Hall when I heard the clang of my letterbox in the hall. Leaving the sitting room door open so I could still hear, I went to pick up a medium-sized manila envelope lying on the tiled floor in the vestibule. Only mildly curious, I opened the flap and drew out a photograph. From that moment I might have been struck deaf for I never heard another note the BBC Symphony Orchestra played that night. It was as though my ears were underwater again. I stared in horror. My temples were drumming painfully as if about to burst. My eyeballs were hot. My chest ached, my throat burned.
There, staring at me from out of the photograph was a bronzed and naked Richard stepping out of the pool carrying me. I, of course, was also embarrassingly naked but for a pair of soaking white briefs. I noticed with stark dismay that the underpants had been made almost translucent by the water, and clearly revealed I had a horrifyingly rampant erection. There was no disguising it. There was no ignoring it. It was blatantly self-announcing. I was portrayed gazing adoringly at the naked Adonis who had just saved me, and my basic urges were on display for all to see. The picture had captured Richard with his thigh raised and consequently obscuring his naked impedimenta as he stepped from the water. The way his arm thrust my thighs forward, however, made my embarrassing tumescence the main feature of the picture. It hit you right between the eyes!
I clasped my mouth in horror. My heart was pounding. This was simply mortifying. Slowly my mind came out of paralysis. I turned the photograph over. Nothing. I looked at the envelope. Nothing. I sat down numbly, staring at the photograph. I angrily adjusted my position and myself as I experienced a sympathetic arousal from just looking at the scene. I studied the faces of the spectators enjoying every moment. It was clearly obvious from the expressions of surprised glee, and indeed some pointing fingers, that my excited condition had not been overlooked. If anything, the glossy wet underpants emphasised and exaggerated the erection showing darkly ruby through the translucent fabric. For the first time in my life I felt myself regret the size of my appendage.
This was simply horrendous. Who had sent me this photograph? Why was there no message with it? Was it a student of mine? My mind buzzed feverishly over this and other points when I suddenly became aware of the telephone ringing. I got up and moved to the wireless, turning the unheard concert off before picking up the telephone receiver.
"Hallo, big boy," came a throaty whisper followed by a bit of a chuckle. "My, my, you are a big boy too, aren't you?"
"Who is this?" I asked crisply. The stab of pain in my chest nearly took my breath away.
"Ah, that's for me to know and you to wonder, big boy." The throaty voice took on a teasing singsong sort of cadence.
"What is it you want?" I managed between gasps.
"I want to know what you think of the photograph."
"What photograph?" I bluffed.
"The photograph I pushed through your letterbox not more than five minutes ago," came the crowing response.
"Look who is this? I really don't have time to indulge in childish guessing games!" I said with more than a touch of asperity. I marvelled at the control in my voice.
"What a pompous prat you are! Aren't you? I wonder if you'll be quite so cocky when your cock goes on public display."
"I'm going to hang up," I tried.
"You hang up and that photo gets sent all over. To the headmaster, all school notice boards, pupils and the local press!" The tone had hardened somewhat.
I froze.
Silent moments passed.
"You still there?"
I cleared my throat.
"Yes. What exactly is all this?"
"You still sound far too pompous, you know."
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to."
"Yeah, well, we'll have to alter that, won't we, big boy?"
"About the photograph. Why on earth do you imagine I should bother myself over threats of copies being sent to the headmaster, for heaven's sake?"
"Seen you with a stiffy before, has he?"
"I beg your pardon?" I felt myself blush, horrified at such a prospect.
"A hard-on, a woody, a stiff prick?" The synonyms were offered in a patronising tone. "Has he seen your nice big cock before either flaccid or rampant?"
"No, of course not!" Nobody had ever talked to me, about me, in such terms.
"So you're not in the habit of going into his study, then, and getting your old man out and flashing it about a bit, then?"
"This is ridiculous!"
"And embarrassing, I would have thought? Particularly since you are all but stark bollock naked in the arms of one of your students."
"What is it that you want?" I said in a resigned tone.
"That's better. Now you're talking, big boy," said the throaty whispering voice with another chuckle. "I think we need to have a little talk first. Just to see how co-operative you are going to be."
"If this is blackmail, I warn you I'll have no truck with it. I shall go straight to the pol..." I began angrily.
"Look at the expression on your face in the photograph as you're gazing adoringly at your young lifesaver. Look at the size of your excited cock as he holds you in his naked arms. I don't think the subject of such a pornographic photo should be quite so quick to go running to the police, do you? I'm sure there'd be an awful lot of difficult questions to answer for a start." The sinister singsong tone was in evidence again.
I was trembling now.
"Look I am not a wealthy man . . . "
"Did I say anything about wanting money?" The voice cut me off.
"No, but . . . as I say, I am not going to pay you to keep . . ."
"Did I say anything about money?" the voice repeated more firmly, cutting in again.
"No. . ."
"That's right. It's your body we're after, big boy - not your money." He laughed at his own joke. "Especially that poker you keep down the front of your jockey shorts!"
"I'm not going to listen to any more of this!" I said suddenly. It was too mortifying by far.
"That's fine by me, but just think on. It's your decision and you will be the victim of your own consequences."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Just a brief meeting now, and the photograph goes no further."
"Now?" I glanced at my watch. It was almost eight o'clock. "Where?"
"I was conscious of the fact that a murmured conversation was taking place at the other end of the telephone, a hand clamped over the mouthpiece.
"Look out of your window," came the order. I did. "Can you see the white box van in the street outside?" I answered in the affirmative. "Come out to it now and knock on the back door."
My caller hung up.
I stood transfixed. My brain seethed. My first thought was to ring the police, but then my caller's softly whispered description of what implication the police might read into the photograph gave me pause. I dialled 1471. The patronising recorded voice told me that the caller had withheld their number. I was not surprised.
I went to the window and looked up and down the road. It was deserted. The lonely large white van took on quite a sinister air as it stood malevolently by the kerb. Was this some sort of trap, I wondered? What was the worst possible scenario? Murder? Why? Robbery? What for? I emptied my pockets, turned out the light, closed the sitting room door and, with heart beating ominously, stepped out of my front door. Taking care to conceal my door key so as not to have it upon my person, I tentatively approached the van.
Everything was uncannily silent as if waiting. I cleared my throat and strained to hear any noise from inside the van. I tiptoed past to glance in the cab. It was empty. No key was in the ignition. I tiptoed back to the rear of the van and stepped off the kerb. My heart was thumping now, almost audibly. Looking around the deserted road, I appeared to be unobserved. I raised a knuckle to the metal door and tapped three times, retreating a couple of paces instantly.
The door opened as I did so. I peered into the darkness past the shadowy figure.
"Hallo, big boy. You took your time, didn't you?"
"Are you alone?" I asked nervously.
"'Fraid so. It all depends how this little meeting goes whether you get to meet the gang."
I strained to identify him. He was obviously disguising his voice and it was too dark to make him out.
"Welcome aboard," he said with a sweeping arm gesture.
"I'm not getting in there," I said. "There could be somebody else lurking somewhere who'd jump in and drive me off."
"You're right. There could be," he agreed. "But there's not."
"Huh, I've only your word for that," I added sceptically.
"It happens to be the truth, though. Look, you've got to get in. We can't have our brief chat in the street now, can we?"
The slight emphasis on the word "brief" was only tangible in retrospect. It was also only the second time he had used it. So what may have already sounded alarm bells in the mind of a perceptive reader, passed me by innocently enough.
It was impasse. We stood there looking at each other. I sized him up considering whether I could resist any attempt from him to overpower me.
"Are you unarmed?" I asked a trifle fatuously.
"On this trip, yes. I left the Kalashnikov on the hallstand," he said mockingly.
It worked.
"I can't see. It's so dark," I said, wavering slightly.
"Come in and I'll turn on the light," he responded reasonably enough.
"Why don't you turn it on now?"
"And arouse neighbours' curiosity as to why that nice Mr Watson is getting into the back of a parked van with a strange man and closing the door? Somehow, I don't think you'd like to be the object of such speculation and gossip, otherwise you wouldn't be here now trying to suppress the widespread distribution of photos of your thinly disguised rampant manhood."
Spurred into action by this last remark, I glanced around to reassure myself I was unobserved by curtain-twitching neighbours before stepping up beside him into the back of the van. He closed the door softly and switched on the light.
I gasped in shock. He was wearing black trousers, a black polo neck, black gloves and a black balaclava such as skiers and bank robbers wear with little eyeholes. His identity was totally secure - or at least I thought so initially.
"Don't worry, I'm really quite cuddly under all this lot, big boy," he said almost self-mockingly in an attempt to ease the tension. "Now why don't you sit down and relax?" He gestured towards an old armchair covered in red faded moquette and with the obvious signs of cat's claw damage on the right hand side.
I moved forward nervously, skirting him carefully and never for a moment breaking eye-contact, then sat, and he pulled up a kitchen upright spindle-backed chair painted in badly chipped black gloss paint, and sat opposite me leaning his forearms on his knee.
"Now let's get down to business straightaway, shall we? No more pussyfooting about, eh? What d'you think, big boy?" He was smiling. That much I could tell.
I stared at him, searching for any clue as to the identity. The pale hazelly brownish greeny eyes were vaguely familiar, I imagined; certainly not enough evidence though. The lips, emphasised unduly and looking an unnatural pink in contrast to the black wool surround of the masking, were no help at all. The assumed husky voice was not as obscure as it had been on the telephone and was virtually accentless.
"I said I wanted a brief chat with you, and that's exactly what I'm going to do - chat about briefs. You don't want that embarrassing and very revealing photo of you in your briefs to be circulated. Right? And my client doesn't want to circulate it - or, indeed, any of these other ones either."
So saying, he produced a dozen or so equally revealing snapshots of me being so degradingly stripped at the party, my naked buttocks clearly on view as my underpants had been tugged down at the back, on their way off before Donald's intervention on my behalf, together with an enlarged close-up of my very visible genitals through the wet fabric of the white briefs. The look of abject horror must have been etched upon my face.
"Don't look so downcast, big boy," my blackmailer said. "There is a way out of this."
"What?" I asked, stunned.
"My client wants to strike a deal. No circulation of the briefs photo if he gets the briefs."
I didn't understand and looked blankly at him.
"He wants your knickers, big boy. You turned him on."
My unbelieving lips began to form the shape of the word "who".
"Ah, that must remain a secret for the immediate present. But that's basically the deal. You give him a pair of your briefs and the pics stay unpublished."
"Unpublished?" I echoed foolishly.
"Yes, he was going to put you on the World Wide Web, big boy. You were going to have your very own page and your own Internet address circulated to all your friends and pupils."
"No!" I said, aghast.
" 'Fraid so. Unless he gets your knickers, that is."
I searched his unblinking eyes, which looked unnaturally small behind the facemask, and reached a decision.
"What guarantee do I get that this person will keep his word?" I wanted to know.
"You don't. You'll just have to chance it. But I guarantee that your Internet page will be up and running before midnight , and a set of pics hand-delivered to the headmaster as well, if you don't let my client have a pair of your underpants now."
"Very well, I have no choice but to give you the benefit of the doubt," I said after a brief pause, my mind in a turmoil and unable to see an alternative, rising to my feet.
I know I should have brazened it out with a Wellingtonian cry of "Go, do your worst! Publish, and the consequences be damned!" but the thoughts of having to live with jeers and sniggers - assuming no further or unpleasant connotations were drawn - were too horrible to contemplate. I did not want those explicitly embarrassing photographs to be seen by any more than had already done so, or who had been present at the party in the first place. That word-of-mouth gossip in itself would be bad enough to live down.
"Just a minute. Where are you going?" my blackmailer asked, standing also.
"I'm going to get a pair of my underwear," I said coldly, turning to face him from the door.
"Oh no! You don't understand. My client doesn't want just any old pair of your underpants. He wants the pair you are wearing."
"In the photograph, you mean?" I asked blankly.
"No. Now."
"Now?"
"Now."
"But . . ." I floundered weakly.
"I tell you, big boy, my client has got the hots for you really bad. And when he says he wants a fresh pair of your knickers, he doesn't mean he wants a brand spanking clean pair. No. He wants to sniff them. He wants to be able to smell you in them."
My heart missed a beat. I heard a sudden roaring sound in my ears. I was speechless; immobile. My brain seethed. Amidst all this, I became aware of a small but distinct physical change in part of my anatomy.
"I'll go and change, then," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper, and avoiding meeting his beady eyes staring at me through the eyeholes of his ski hat.
He laid a restraining hand upon my chest.
"Uh-oh," he said. "You change here."
I looked at him then, wondering if he could hear my heartbeat too..
"Here?" I said, wide-eyed.
"Here," he repeated.
"In front of you?"
"In front of me," he confirmed matter-of-factly.
I swallowed hard. I was sure I was already colouring up. Burning up, in fact.
With a heavy sigh of resignation as I glanced again at the pile of demeaning photographs, my heavy hands lifted to the front of my trousers and began to unfasten them as I kicked off my slip-on shoes.
This was the moment of my defeat. I had succumbed to an authority other than mine own. My fate was surely sealed from this point on. There could be no turning back.
Self-consciously bending forward, head low, clutching my shirt tail to me, I stepped out of my trousers, reluctantly letting him take them from me, as with one hand holding the front of my shirt down, I dragged down my underpants with the other. Even with the precautions I took for my modesty, the head of my slightly stiffened penis momentarily peeped between the flap of my shirttails as I stepped out of my briefs and handed them over.
"Here. Put these on."
"What are they?" I asked rather foolishly as I stared at a pair of minuscule shiny satin briefs in a vivid and almost iridescent aquamarine.
"They are my client's. He wants you to accept them as a token of his word and the bond now being struck between you. As he said, exchange is no robbery. Put them on. He wants a piccy of you wearing them."
I stared at him thunderstruck.
"You never mentioned that before," I said with justifiable anger, then realised how foolish I felt standing there, naked from the waist down, arguing with a masked man.
Snatching the tiny garment from him, I pulled it up. The back was little more than a thong. The low slung pouch began only at the root of my penis leaving all my pubic hair out on show. I was forced to accede to his demands that I pose for both a rear shot and a frontal with my shirt pulled up until my nipples were exposed, he insisted, before my trousers were returned to me. Sullenly, I refused any further dialogue and demanded to be released now I had carried out my part of the bargain, and stating that I hoped "his client" would keep the other part. I managed to muster as much distaste and scorn as possible when I said "your client".
I curled my lip with distaste as he sniffed my recently removed underwear before dropping it into a polythene bag. With the light turned out, he opened the back door of the van and we both got out.
"Doubtless, we'll be in touch," he said airily, as he walked to the driver's door and got in.
"Please, don't bother," I said with icy and sarcastic disdain.
"Oh it's no bother," he said brightly. "In fact it's been a pleasure."
The engine started, and with a cheery wave he drove off down the road.
I opened my front door and stopped to look at myself in the full-length mirror on the wall. There was an unaccustomed sparkle in my eye I could not account for. Without quite realising what I was doing before I had done it, I had dropped my trousers then and there and holding my shirttails high - above my nipples, in fact - I examined the overall effect. They were very revealing, leaving nothing whatever to the imagination. I turned and looked over my shoulder. The display of naked buttock was almost obscene. I turned again and watched in hypnotic fascination as my penis filled and rose, as if with a mind of its own, to peek over the extremely low slung waistband. Disgusted with the offending garment, and myself I snatched them off then and there and walked swiftly to my bedroom to put on a proper pair. I paused, guiltily, and, not in front of a mirror, sniffed the crotch of the tiny pants.
I think it was from this moment - although I was not yet to recognise the fact - that I was hooked.