THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING
[Thirty-year-old English public schoolmaster, Alan Watson, has been permitted sight of the painting at last for which he has been reluctantly posing in the nude. Devastated and traumatized at the soul-stripping revelatory nature of the portrait which has succeeded in laying unnervingly bare far more than just his mortal flesh, Alan is more than a little alarmed to learn it is the young and gifted artist's intention to competitively enter this work and put it on display in public exhibition. The graphic detail of his tumescently rigid penis and lust-filled scrotum, together with the clear expression of wanton homophilic lechery etched into his features has appalled him, and he considers appealing for Jason, the artist, to reconsider before submitting him to such public opprobrium and ignominy.]
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE - Biting The Bullet
My mind was in ferment.
The prospect of my blatant nudity and rampant homosexuality being displayed in public was too harrowing and ghastly to contemplate. I was going to have to beg the boy to reconsider.
"I don't think I can cope with this, Derek," I confided in Bamforth, the art man, as Jason set up his easel.
"Worry not, old chap," he murmured comfortingly. "Just insist on being anonymous; that's all you have to concern yourself about."
I stared in mounting horror at the portrait. A fat lot of good insisting on anonymity would be to deter anyone who set out to identify me! The backdrop to the painting was a well-known and popular view of the school - itself an architecturally listed building of repute. The scent of lurid scandal would be all too tempting for some seasoned hack journalist from one of the more disreputable, sensation-seeking red-top newspapers to attempt tracking me down and exposing me and my vice to the world.
"Jason, can I appeal to your better nature?" I began tentatively after a few minutes of intense silence.
"In what way, Sir?" he countered evenly, looking up at me blankly.
"When I agreed to pose for you, I did not realise exactly how much of me you were going to strip away," I continued evenly and as unemotionally as I could manage. "I can see things in your portrayal of me that even I did not know were there to be revealed," I confessed. "It is intensely unnerving."
"I painted what I saw," he shrugged expansively.
"Can I plead for it not to be displayed though?" I begged fervently. "That portrayal is not what I posed for, you know. I agreed to pose for a painting you were going to donate to the school. We are all agreed that that picture is totally unsuitable. I squirm at the very thought that the Head and those parents saw it this morning. I am intensely uncomfortable that Mr Bamforth has seen me like that. Can't you appreciate how mortifying it would be for me if others who knew me were to see it?"
I quaked a little as I thought I detected a cold tight little smile flit across his otherwise expressionless face.
"I'll admit you have given me food for thought, Sir," he said at last. "I tell you what - I give you my word I shall reconsider my decision in light of your appeal."
I thanked him meekly, resigned that there was nothing more I could do at the moment, but risk influencing him against me were I to persist with my argument.
As I sat naked before him, my mind whirred almost as I found myself conceiving dastardly plots to destroy the canvas. There was no doubt I was desperate enough almost to contemplate such a thing. I had visions of people like Louise Bickerstaffe looking at it and saying, "Of course, I knew his guilty secret all along". I imagined Angela Mayhew seeing it and commenting "Well, the scales have certainly fallen away from my eyes now!" I couldn't even bring myself to envisage the response and reaction of my mother. It was just too starkly shaming.
"I'll tell you what I've come up with, Sir."
I turned, startled. After the sitting, I had dressed and gone to my study to collect some work to mark. As I had stepped out of school heading towards my car, Jason Farnworth had been waiting for me.
"If you let me exhibit in London, I will promise that - should it not receive a private bid - I will give the portrait to you to do with what you will."
I was staggered at his generosity of spirit.
"There is just one favour I must call in in return," he sounded a note of caution.
I was far too elated to hear it.
"Name it," I said, rapt.
"As you possibly know, my young brother Paul is besotted with you. He too is a budding artist. This painting has really excited him. He was so thrilled when he was able to sit in on our session last Friday."
He paused and looked at me a little sideways.
"Yes?" I urged him on.
"He was thoroughly overwhelmed at seeing you, his idol, with a boner," he added.
Hot shame enveloped me.
"He wants to sculpt you."
"Sculpt me?" I echoed in amazement.
"That's right, yes. But not all of you," he went on to explain. "You know how you can get plaster casts of bits of the statue of David in Florence? Like, his nose, his mouth, his foot even?"
I nodded, bemused.
"He wants to take a plaster cast of your rampant dick."
I groaned in total despair.
"Now think about it, Sir, before rejecting such a proposition as totally out of hand," Jason continued. "Were my painting to be seen, the likeness would more than likely be spotted by anyone who knew you. It is, however, extremely unlikely that anybody who has even had the privilege of seeing your stiff prick would recognise it from a plaster replica. A prick is a prick after all - even if it's a fairly outstanding one like yours. Folk seeing Paul's model are going to say "god, what a big prick!" You can be sure they're not going to say "god, that's Watty's big prick - I'd know it anywhere!" - are they?"
I was dumbstruck, and though I stood immobilised in shock, my brain seethed as it searched the pros and cons of what the boy had said.
"So, basically, if I agree to your brother having hands-on experience with my penis, the picture's mine?" I enquired.
"After it has been exhibited at the Royal Academy and if it failed to find a private buyer," Jason added by way of clarification.
"And my name will not appear at all?" I asked.
"Why should it?"
"I mean it's not in the title of the painting, or anything like that?" I persisted.
"No nothing at all like that. The name of the picture is very bland and its very ambiguity is subject to a degree of interpretation."
"Why?" I questioned. "What are you calling it?"
"I've already thought its title up. `The Tables Are Turned' I think seems to fit that look of haunted inevitability of the sitter's humiliating predicament quite well, don't you?"
Situated as I was between a rock and a hard place, I was left with no alternative I could see but to bite the bullet and agree to have a cast made of my reproductive equipment. I'd insisted that Jason be present throughout. Paul, of course, was a minor, and though undoubtedly the fact was that he was in charge of me during the demeaning act I was being expected to perform for him, I was only too aware such behaviour would be strictly frowned upon by any right-thinking individual. Having the older brother there was therefore some form of insurance for me, I felt.
I need not have worried about being alone with my sculptor. Word had obviously spread of my impending ordeal on the grapevine. At the appointed time, Whispering Tim walked in to my living room closely followed by Geoff Talbot, Phil Marshall and Dave Newman, all four carrying six-packs of beer.
"Hallo, Big Boy," Tim Robey said with a tigerish smile. I see we're in plenty of time. We didn't want to miss this, did we, lads?"
They chorused "no" as their eyes devoured my nakedness. They filled my fridge with their beer, and I was permitted to put my gown on as the doorbell rang before I moved into the hall to admit Jason Farnworth and his brother Paul. I was more than staggered to be introduced to Mr Farnworth who had acted as chauffeur. He eyed the brevity of my robe with a quickly dismissed air of puzzlement as he dropped a small sack of plaster of Paris across the threshold and then firmly shook me by the hand.
"It's very good of you to help young Paul with his project, Mr Watson. I'm sure Marjorie and I are most grateful," he said warmly.
I gazed in wonderment. What on earth could they both imagine young Paul's project was, for heaven's sake? Surely, they had to be completely unaware that their fourteen-year-old son was about to create a plaster replica of his English master's genitalia?
Two plastic buckets, a scoop and a spatula, together with a roll of polythene sheeting were then similarly unloaded from his car, and as their father departed with a cheery wave, between them the brothers carried all the equipment through to the living room.
With the floor covered in polythene, and my refectory table similarly swathed, I was unceremoniously divested of my scanty covering, and helped to recline wholly naked on the table top. Six pairs of eyes raking my denuded form, and since they were set in the heads of half a dozen of my fully-clothed pupils, they only served to strip me even barer. A large jar of Vaseline was then produced and Paul's eager little fingers scooped out an enormous dollop and began to apply it to my fast-growing cock.
"It's lucky you keep yourself shaven, Sir," Tim remarked in a voice dripping with irony, "otherwise removing the plaster of Paris could have been extremely painful."
"Oh, I should have had to shave him first," young Paul Farnworth said matter-of-factly. "His pubic hair would have interfered with the clean outline I'm aiming for."
The boys exchanged amused glances. It soon became clear to me that although Jason Farnworth was a party to the "special relationship" that had been built up between my four young masters and me, his younger brother remained blissfully unaware. Such was the strength of their discretion with which I had been promised by Tim Robey from the outset of this strangely compelling domination. I could almost rest assured that when they had tired of me, life would revert to its more normal plain. Or could it indeed? For without doubt I had changed forever.
I marvelled at my own sheer audacity as I lay naked on my dining table under the unremitting gaze of six of my pupils, the youngest of whom - a mere fourth-former - was very effectively arousing me to an erection, by vigorously slicking my engorging penis up and down with thick applications of Vaseline applied all over the stem and head, under the foreskin and all over my testicles as well.
"You're doing magnificently, Sir," he praised me with boyish enthusiasm as he continued to masturbate me with the petroleum jelly, and I know I blushed.
All six boys had erections, I could not fail to observe, and this fact spurred me to even dizzier heights. I cleared my throat and shifted my position somewhat.
"Um, that's about as far as it goes, Farnworth," I told the boy, feeling so utterly foolish, but fearful of passing my peak.
Expressing enthusiastic satisfaction, he set about mixing the plaster and water.
"I have to be very careful to get all the air out," he explained. Any little bubbles left in the plaster come to the surface as it dries out and this could ruin the definition."
He kept up the running commentary for my benefit as well as his eager and attentive audience. He enlisted the help of his brother in the preparation of the mixture as he said he had to work fast once the consistency was right. I was warned that I should probably experience the drying plaster becoming quite hot, but that this was quite a normal chemical reaction. Due, however, to the sensitivity of the region to which it was being applied, he was concerned that I might feel more discomfort than would normally be expected. He hoped it would not affect my erection and said he had contingency plans to implement if he thought there was any danger of my going limp.
The whole length of my penis was quickly coated in the thick white viscous substance, as was my scrotum. Then dollops more were liberally applied to the area until I had what appeared to be a snowy white termites' nest built in the fork of my legs. The weight was amazing, as was the slow-building warmth. I could feel the blood pulsing in my engulfed penis - a very odd sensation, almost of suffocation.
Suddenly to my shocked surprise, Tim Robey leant across and quite roughly grasped my nipples and squeezed them.
"Phil," he barked at Marshall," stick a couple of fingers up his bum."
"What on earth . . .?" I began in alarm.
"We've got to keep you stiff, Big Boy!" he said my way of explanation and gave each of my nipples a cruel twist. "We're under young Paul's orders."
Paul Farnworth, panting quite hard meanwhile, was running his fingers though the sworls of hair that coated my inner thighs. The sensation was electric and I found myself unable to prevent my head from rolling from side to side. Geoff Talbot was tickling in my navel and I squirmed and groaned at the tickling sensation. Jason Farnworth was concentrating on riffling through my chest hair and armpits, whilst Dave Newman was teasing the soles of my bare feet. Begging and pleading with them to stop, I was in paroxysms - a mixture of laughter, anger, emotion, fear of loss of control. Suddenly I knew I had lost control. I felt the surge of an oncoming orgasm.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I screamed out in a combination of intense agony and ecstasy at the violence of the climax which had me shuddering as wave upon wave swept over me. "I couldn't hold on any longer, I'm sorry."
They stopped what they were doing to me instantly. Paul looked down into my eyes and grinned.
"That's all right, Sir. I came ages ago," he said.
He regarded the look of questioning surprise in my eyes.
"I knew I'd never be able to hold out, so I took precautions before I got here. I'm wearing a condom."
"You and me both, little bro'," Jason added as he dug an elbow into his brother's ribs.
"Right, chaps," Tim Robey suddenly struck the table for order. "Let's break out the beer and have a can or two whilst we wait for the plaster to harden some more."
"Yeah, let's get drunk out of our minds," Dave Newman crowed.
"Mr Watson looks like he's plastered already," Geoff Talbot jeered, and someone threw a can at his head.
"Sir, may I have one?" Paul asked.
Suddenly I was hit by a burst of hysterical giggling. Here I was - stripped stark naked and forced to lie on my own dining table whilst my manhood had been manipulated to full arousal by a fifteen-year-old pupil of mine. Here I was - lying in a post-orgasmic state of euphoria under a mound of fast-setting plaster of Paris taking an impression of my sexual organs for the said fifteen-year-old, and yet suddenly I had become the authority-figure again in his eyes as he sought permission from me to have an alcoholic drink. It did not seem to strike anybody else as amusing and they looked at me in puzzled amazement as I shook with uncontrollable laughter at the ridiculous situation in which I found myself.
Adopting schoolmasterly tones - totally absurd in the circumstances, but obviously expected of me - I enquired if he was allowed to drink alcohol at home. Since his brother substantiated his answer in the affirmative, I permitted him just the one can.
I suddenly became aware of a tickling sensation beneath the plaster. I think that it must have been the effect of my erection subsiding. My testicles in particular seemed desirous of a good scratch. I have heard those who have had plaster casts applied to broken limbs speak of the fiendish itching experienced of skin underneath the plaster. I was undergoing a fraction of that discomfort at that moment and urged my sculptor to complete his task with all possible haste.
The shrinkage of my member meant that its extraction was really easy. Paul proclaimed himself well-satisfied with the strength of the mould, and, with the help of a torch, declared the definition excellent. It would be the morrow before he could attempt to make the first replica. That is when my first tremor of doubt crept over me. He spoke of "the first replica". Slowly, it dawned on me that, now he had the mould, embarrassing replicas of my manhood could be produced to order, ad infinitum.