THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING
[English public schoolmaster Alan Watson continues the tale of his degradation at the hands of certain members of his sixth-form tutor group, who had been able to turn the tables on him. No longer his charges, they were now triumphantly in charge of him and, threatening the use of photographic evidence, could force him to obey their every whim. He was powerless to object. Mortified from being masturbated in front of them, he had to overcome the ordeal of facing them all the next day in the classroom]
CHAPTER FOUR - Turning out in the full Team Strip
I shall not dwell upon the sleepless night of turmoil I underwent following the mortifying masturbation scenario at Richard Mayhew's the previous evening. Suffice it to say, every excuse imaginable to postpone my return to school the following morning had run through my mind in the vain effort of avoiding the nightmare of appearing before my tutor group. I was in no doubt all would have heard of my degradation at the hands of leader Tim Robey and his cohorts. I did manage, however, a couple hours of troubled sleep through that long and tortuous night, only to wake and find to my utter embarrassment I had ejaculated spontaneously and copiously in my sleep, something I had not done for a dozen years or more.
The fact that this set of circumstances was apparently "turning me on" in some strangely compelling way concerned me more than a little. Part of me was definitely excited. Part of me thrilled to the enforced eroticism. And that part of me had been responsible for my having to change my bedsheets that morning!
It was therefore with a leaden heart that the realist in me saw me undergo my half-hearted preparations for school. I was going to have to brazen it out, I told myself, put on an act, and, if anyone were to take liberties, then I should be down on them like a ton of bricks with the full backing of the authority of the establishment. It sounded good. I almost managed to convince myself - but not quite.
A frisson of fear hit me as I approached the front door and saw a brown manila envelope lying on the mat. Tearing it open anxiously, I pulled out an athletic support and a short typed note.
"Glad you enjoyed last night - and we've the photos to prove it :o) Wear this jock-strap today instead of your normal undies and be prepared for an inspection! Guess what'll happen if we find you've disobeyed ...."
With a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach I retraced my steps towards my bedroom unfastening my trousers as I went. I simply had to go along with this for the moment - there was no discernible alternative. My career, my reputation, my social standing would be destroyed instantly if evidence of what I had done were to be produced. I was in a cleft stick. But for how long, I wondered, would I be treated in such a fashion?
Pulling off my underpants, I shook out the support and stepped through the two elasticated straps. The pouch was made of a sort of loose knitted mesh and left little to the imagination. Whilst not wishing to appear immodest and despite having earned (as a result of that now infamous photo of me with an erection in my soaked Y-fronts at Richard's party) the rather patronising nick-name of "Big Boy" from Whispering Tim, my reproductive organs could never be described as small. Naturally shy, I would move heaven and earth to prevent them being seen as they were so rudely the previous evening. However, in all honesty, this reticence on my part bore no connection to any feeling that I was in any way at all "challenged" with regard to their size in relation to my fellow man. Far from it. Perhaps the fact that its very size drew attention to that part of my anatomy when in a state of undress went a long way to increasing my self-consciousness. In my boyhood, impromptu erections had proved a nightmare as they were almost impossible to conceal - particularly in swimwear or athletic clothing. As a result I had learnt to favour baggy shapeless clothing rather than skimpy, figure-revealing items, seldom wearing shorts even in summer.
Whether or not the size of the athletic support was small, it was quite an effort to ensure that all was comfortably and safely gathered in, if you take my meaning. Hence my always feeling more comfortable in the roomier confines of a generous pair of Y-fronts. The lack of material at the back was alarmingly revealing, I found, and the white fabric straps which ran across each buttock only seemed to accentuate my demeaning exposure all the more. I glanced at myself in the looking glass. The bulge created by my manhood was obscene, being confined, lifted and supported beyond where its accustomed position lay, so that all was bunched up and pushed forward. My heart skipped at the prospect of somebody requiring me to reveal myself in this demeaning garment as had been implied in the accompanying note.
Fully dressed again, I consoled myself that the bagginess of my pleat-fronted trousers did much to conceal the bulge I feared would be so prominent, and set off for school. At registration we all played our part, with the protagonists of my ordeal of the night before answering their names respectfully, and, at the same time, avoiding eye-contact. There was a momentary frisson when Tim said: "Absent, Sir" as I called out Richard's name. Startled, I looked up.
"Anybody know why he's not here?" I asked generally.
"No idea, Sir. He seemed fine when we left his place last night, Sir. I was sure he`d come." Tim volunteered with a fixed stare, laying extra emphasis on the final word.
The double-entendre was not lost upon me. I fear I blushed. I dropped my eyes. He was in charge. He knew it - I knew it. Why else was I sitting there wearing a jock-strap?
It was after assembly that my fate that day was sealed.
"Alan, old friend," Dave said, clapping me on the back a shade too heartily as I was about to leave the Senior Common Room for a double period of the more robust aspects of Chaucer with the Lower Sixth. Dave Whalley was our Head of Games.
"Frank broke his collarbone in last night's game, so can I play you after all in this afternoon's Staff versus first XV match? I'd be ever so grateful. Thanks."
So saying, he thrust a set of kit into my hands - or rather on top of a pile of exercise books I was carrying - and beetled off.
"You're a brick, Alan. I'll stand you a pint after the match - two if we win!" he called back over his shoulder as he loped off down the echoing corridor, towards his purpose-built and grandiose sports hall.
I could hardly refuse. I had, in fact, volunteered for the team in the first place. Frank Hartley, a new member of staff - younger and fitter by far - had the advantage of playing for the local RUFC, and so was a natural for inclusion. It was last night's unfortunate injury that precluded him and left the gap for me to fill. As I walked off down the echoing corridor, to my Victorian and far from grandiose tutor room, it suddenly hit me that I was bound to cause a stir in the staff dressing room as I took off my trousers and before I stepped into my shorts. I consoled myself that I could carry it off. After all, what was more natural than to be wearing an athletic support for a game of rugger?
The day passed uneventfully enough and I was lulled into a false sense of security and found myself immersed in my subject. The only cause for suspicion - had I been looking for one - came mid-morning when a boy knocked and entered, politely proffering Mr Whalley's compliments and apologies for disturbing everybody's lesson, but he had distributed the wrong kit and could he have it back? The following lesson a different boy respectfully delivered a replacement set, and I remember glancing at it and thinking it looked exactly the same to me, but thought no more of it.
A lesson with my tutor group after break which I had been dreading passed uneventfully too. Upon my entering the room, I had been aware of some exchanged dartings of looks, and my heart had been pounding, fearful I was to be jumped, perhaps, and my trousers hauled down before the whole group.
As the bell went signifying the end of the lesson and I started to leave, Tim called out: "I see you've made the staff team, Sir. Good luck. We want you know you're going out there with our support!"
I thanked him brusquely and left the room. It was only then that the significance of his remark hit me. Very droll.
Why, I wonder, do the gods bless us with hindsight? It is all too easy to see, looking back, that the omens were gathering. As I pulled that rugby jersey over my head I heard some stitches give, and found a tiny hole in the seam under my right arm. There also appeared to be a little wear and tear on the crotch of the white shorts when I came to put them on, but since I was anxious not to spend too long trouserless and sporting a bare behind before my colleagues, I failed to examine them any more than cursorily and leapt into them pronto. The short-legged shorts fitted snugly and seemed determined to exaggerate the bulge at my groin. I decided to wear my jersey outside my shorts rather than tucked in. While not being long enough in the body to conceal that vulnerably visible area, the looseness of the untucked jersey somehow prevented any additional emphasis of my embarrassingly outstanding profile. I had already had to endure with good grace a robust enquiry as to whether I had five pounds of King Edward potatoes in the pouch of my jockstrap much to the amusement of several of my colleagues.
Like the schoolday which had preceded it, the match proved largely uneventful too. Scoring had been successfully and honourably foiled on a couple of occasions for both sides and honour was definitely even, signified by the equally matched support from spectators of all ages comprising school, most of the staff and a fair sprinkling of parents. As time was running out, however, the competitive stakes were increased and some of the tackling became much more combative. A scrum down on their three-quarterline in the last ten minutes or so before extra time suddenly gave us an unexpected advantage.
The ball came right out of it into my waiting arms. I could have sworn it came from one of their men. As I parried a dive from their winger, a clear field lay before me and I shot forward. As I did so I felt a tug on the hem of my jersey and I was swung round by the velocity of it. With a ripping sound, it split from waist to collar, the left sleeve coming away completely. I charged on regardless, my shirt flapping like a flag. Somebody was closing with me fast but I only had half a dozen strides or more to the touchline and nobody in front of me. I could hear the cheers from the side of the pitch. I can even recall seeing the headmaster trotting along with me. With three paces or so to go I snatched a look over my shoulder. For a fraction of a moment I hesitated and wondered if I could veer towards the goal posts to make my inevitable try an easier conversion kick. I gambled and arced across in front of my pursuer, Geoff Talbot, and one of my detractors from last night. He had gambled too and guessed correctly at my move, fractionally ahead of me, therefore gaining a distinct advantage.
I heard the guttural grunt as he lunged toward me. I felt him grasp the fabric of my shorts upon my hips. I felt him fall and drag behind, until the seams succumbed and came asunder. A mere stride and a stretch from victory with the opposing team thundering down upon me, and now naked - save for a very small jock-strap - before the assembled throng, I dived quite literally for touch. The exertion of such an activity proved too much for the already deliberately weakened stitching of the elastic straps on my sole remaining garment. They burst away from the pouch material allowing my recently confined genitalia to spill out in full view of the roaring crowd.
Stark bollock naked in front of pupils, colleagues and parents, I dived face down onto the muddy ground, and a great cheer went up. I lay there frozen with a mixture of fear and shame. The referee's whistle acknowledged my touchdown and Dave Whalley smacked me on my rudely bared buttocks.
"This one'll live in the memory, Alan. Great try! Well done!" he said.
The headmaster came running up peeling off his mac.
"Congratulations, my dear Watson. What a show you put on! You certainly don't believe in hiding your impressively outstanding talents, do you, my dear chap?" he chortled as he draped his coat over me.
With a rueful grin I thanked him for his thoughtful loan and got up clasping his mac closely to my entirely naked body. This was surely the ultimate humiliation, I thought - to be stripped entirely naked in public before the entire school.
I think you've certainly earned yourself an early bath, old man," the Head added, delighted at his own jocularity.
I left the field to a hearty round of applause. It was intensely humiliating to reflect upon how much of me everybody had seen. This was going to take some living down!