THE MASTERY OF TABLE-TURNING
[THE STORY SO FAR - Utterly degraded in the Gentleman's toilet at the pub' where he was stripped and urinated upon by his students, Alan Watson is in total despair and wonders how much lower he is expected to sink.]
CHAPTER SEVEN - Action Replay
As I stood in my shower later that same night, tears streaming down my face, I felt almost numb as the shower droplets drummed upon my naked skin. They were not tears of sorrow, however, but tears of shame. I shuddered involuntarily under the warm cascade, reminded of the warmth I had felt earlier as my four tormentors had emptied their bladders over me. I found I was hugging myself at the memory. In shocked surprise I looked down at my growing tumescence. Why should rerunning what was undoubtedly the most degrading experience of my life excite such an amazing response within me? Did I dare admit to myself that I was indeed excited by it? I reached for the shower gel and began applying it vigorously, not wanting to dwell upon such uncomfortable thoughts. I scoured myself, concerned to remove every last vestige of my ordeal.
I had stripped at the door the moment I had shut the world outside and thrust everything I had been wearing in the washer, setting it in motion before adjourning to seek solace in the bathroom.
After they had drained their bladders over my supine and inert body, I had been forced to dress again without being allowed to wash or even dry myself. Consequently, my clothes were instantly clammy and moist and I smelt dreadfully. I'd been shepherded out of the gents' toilet and out of the pub' as well. It was dark now, and raining. I had waited meekly, shivering from shock more than cold, for Dave to unlock the back of the van and let Geoff, Phil and Tim get in ahead of me. As soon as I had got in Geoff reminded of the new ruling which obliged me to remove my trousers. I did so. Utterly degraded, I had looked down sadly at my soiled underpants, almost translucent with wetness.
"Pooh! You're a bit strong, Big Boy, Get away over into the corner, as far away from us as possible." Tim Robey had wafted a hand distastefully in front of his face. I had squatted miserably in the corner of the van, a social pariah, avoiding their eyes as much as possible. I could feel their stares raking over my body - their body. They had made my future position entirely clear. I was now theirs completely, to do with what they would.
I shuddered again as I stepped from the shower and began to briskly dry myself. With a jolt I recognised a strange thrill run through me at that thought. An unanswered question hung in the air. Could I even have the courage to frame that question? Did I crave such absolute subjugation at their hands? I did not dare to search for an answer, fearful of what I might find within.
Richard was still off school the following morning. At mid-morning break I received a message that had been 'phoned in to the school office by his mother, Angela Mayhew. He had had a migraine, apparently, was over the worst, and should be fit to return on the morrow. She had asked if I could telephone back at my convenience. I stared hot-eyed at the message as a mental picture of Richard and me, both naked, both masturbating each other whilst the others looked on, floated before me. I put the fingers of my left hand swiftly and seemingly casually upon my right thigh and pressed down with the heel of that hand against the unwanted reaction such a stimulating vision had immediately aroused within me. A quick glance round the Senior Common Room assured me nobody was observing me. I was, for the moment, yesterday's news. That thought calmed me a little until I suddenly remembered that I was sure to feature in that evening's local paper.
The rest of the day was uneventful. My lesson with my tutor group went surprisingly smoothly and to all intents and purposes naturally. My authority throughout was unquestioned and unthreatened. I found myself looking at Tim and Geoff and Dave and Phil, and almost failing to perceive that these were the self-same young men who had inflicted such perverted derision upon me the night before. Standing before them at that moment I could feel once again the intensity of the sensation their hot and manly streams made raining down upon my chest. My stomach tautened anew to receive the force of their jets aimed up and down me as I relived the experience once more in my fevered imagination, marking their single-minded determination to hose down every square inch of my enforced nakedness. Even as I pondered, a prefect arrived with the request that the whole school assemble in the hall immediately for an announcement from the headmaster.
Amidst noisy and excited speculation we all made our shuffling way through school corridors, my colleagues and I allaying the wilder conjectures of imaginative third-formers that the Head would appear on stage with a band of armed terrorist fanatics holding him at gunpoint. When we were all assembled a runner was sent to the Head's study to inform him, and within a couple of minutes he arrived with one smartly dressed and vaguely familiar man and two others in casual and somewhat scruffy jeans. He was smiling and there was a distinct glitter in his eye. As soon as he began addressing the school my heart plummeted. Tim Robey rather ostentatiously turned round to study my expression. He was not alone, although his expression was more sardonically triumphalist than the others.
It transpired that the "distinguished visitors" were from the regional television news programme. Upon seeing an early edition of the local paper and their account of the staff versus First XV match during which I played such a spectacular rôle, the powers that be had decided they would like to recreate the scene for the television camera as an amusing item to end their programme. The Head was obviously thrilled by the media exposure. I was horrified at the prospect. The exposure was very obviously going to be mine.
I sat, paralysed with fear, my brain seized up, my eyes glazed over, as the Head informed the school that for filming purposes the rest of the normal school day was to be abandoned. Everybody would shortly adjourn to the games field where they would all be televised as enthusiastic spectators, whilst team members reported to Mr Whalley for their kit. He then handed over to the television people who called the pupils "kids" and ingratiated themselves with them. My mind was in a complete state of turmoil. My natural instinct was to refuse to take part, but, very wrongfully, the Head had completely taken me for granted. It was nigh impossible for me to do anything but go along with things now - particularly since the announcement to the whole school and the state of excitement resulting from them all going to be on television. Even some of my colleagues on the staff team were grinning foolishly at the thought of their five minutes of fame. I just sat there, appalled - the condemned man.
As everybody milled excitedly out of the hall I saw Dave Whalley, with one eye on me, talking urgently to the Head. He looked my way.
"Mr Watson!" he called above the melée, "A quick word, if I may?"
I moved towards him like a sullen schoolboy.
"My dear chap, I'm most awf'lly sorry. All this was heaped upon me at the last possible moment. I simply didn't have a chance to alert you any earlier because I didn't know myself," he gushed, watching me closely for any change in my expression.
"I'm sorry, Headmaster, but I am not at all happy about this," I began. "I was rather rail-roaded against my will into the newspaper thing without realising quite how humiliating the experience was going to be. And now you are taking it for granted that I am prepared to suffer the same indignities again - this time, before the entire school - and in front of television cameras as well!"
My dander was up. I had never dared to speak to the headmaster so forcefully before. I could see he was taken aback.
"Alan," he said placatingly. He hardly ever called me by my Christian name. "Alan, my dear fellow . . ."
He went on to heap praise upon my efforts on behalf of the school, how he valued me as a member of staff, and how he felt sure he could rely on me to be so thoroughly supportive, etc., etc., etc., always ready to act in the school's best interests, etc., etc., etc.
He could see my resolve was weakening. He risked his all and brought in the big guns.
"I'd like you to meet Duncan Bailey, the chief regional reporter. He often hosts the programme as well," he said expansively as he ushered the smart-suited man forward.
Obviously Dave Whalley had primed him too that I was less than happy at the thought of revealing my all to every home in the region.
"Alan," he said as though we were old friends as he pumped my arm vigorously. "Great photos! Congratulations! You're quite the hero of the hour!"
I informed him icily that he had the advantage of me as I had not yet had the opportunity to see the photographs.
I was then quickly introduced to Jeans Number One, who was the director (Doug something). Jeans Number Two was the television cameraman - Steve. The three of them set about trying to reassure me that everything would be done in the best possible taste, that of course I should remember that the regional news programme went out at six-thirty with many households gathered round the set eating their evening meals. Doug tried a touch of vulgar jocularity saying something to the effect that with that in mind they would ensure that they did not include my meat and two veg to put everyone off. They all laughed uproariously willing me to join in. I resolutely refused.
Doug tried a different tack and began to talk me through the scenario as he saw it. He explained that it would be almost impossible to replicate what had actually happened. Besides which, there wasn't time. The film had to be shot and downloaded back to the studio to be edited into a "And finally . . ." two-minute slot at the end of the local news. He said they had already filmed the exterior establishing shot of the school with the begowned headmaster talking benignantly with two small pupils, then a long-shot of Duncan Bailey talking to camera on the pitch, scene of the incident they were about to recount. The next shot would be a pan of the entire school lining the pitch and cheering madly, supposedly watching the match in progress. This would be followed by a close-up shot of the ball in a scrummage, then an action shot of me catching it and setting off towards the touchline. The boy who attempted first tackle would then be filmed grabbing my jersey. The camera would be stopped and he would be handed a torn jersey to hold; then he would be filmed looking at the handful of torn material and scratching his head. This would be repeated to illustrate the loss of my shorts. Finally, a third boy would be pictured taking a flying lunge at me - a cut in shot of an athletic support being hurled into the air - then I should be asked to disrobe, screened by colleagues from the rest of the school, and lie down on the ground placing the ball in touch. Apparently my bare backside was deemed fit for family viewing.
The Head was more than a bit peeved they were not interested in a shot of him rushing up with his mac as he had at the actual match. He said he thought it would round it off nicely, but Doug the director seemed less than impressed. More than a little mollified to learn what was required of me, I reluctantly agreed and went off with Dave Whalley to get changed into rugger kit. Fortunately he had not got round to throwing away the torn kit from the actual match two days earlier, so it was to hand for the film crew to use. He stood over me as I undressed, and somewhat unnervingly insisted I remove my underpants as well. His reasoning was that they would show through the shorts as I bent before the scrum down and it would make a complete nonsense of the jock-strap bit. Following his logic I shucked them off and under his surprising scrutiny, self-consciously stepped through the straps of the white mesh support he handed me.
"Quite a handful, aren't you, Watty?" he sniggered appreciatively. "I'm surprised Rosemary kicked you into touch."
The reference to my former girlfriend linked with the size of my equipment made me blush and I coughed nervously as I turned away, unable to think of an appropriate response.
"It's becoming quite a habit, my seeing you with your kit off, isn't it?" he persisted.
He was making me most dreadfully self-conscious and I leapt into my shorts like a startled virgin. I knew it was silly. People who are regular sports enthusiasts and spend much time in gymnasia and changing rooms lose their inhibitions and can talk quite openly about their bodies, I suppose. But I had the most terrible hang-ups, and, of course, they were not being helped by Whispering Tim and his cohorts, intent upon their degrading mastery of me.
My walk to the pitch felt much as it must have done to a condemned man of old. I breathed a heavy sigh of resignation as I saw everybody waiting for my appearance and my heart began to beat ominously in my chest. A cheer went up as they espied my approach which quickly transmogrified into a chant of "Off . . . off . . . off . . . off!"
"What do they mean?" I asked Dave Whalley.
"They want you to get your kit off for them," he grinned.
I blushed again.
"Do they not know I am about to?"
My question was rhetorical.
"Indeed they do, and they can hardly wait," Dave said with ill-suppressed glee.
Did I see him adjust himself in his tracksuit bottoms, or was it my fevered imaginings, I wondered, perplexed at his sudden and snatched clandestine movement? Self-conscious that even my knees were exposed, I thought of how much more was about to be revealed, and - still worse - before the unblinking television lens.
"Steve" had already filmed the crowd of spectators cheering at full throttle. "Director Doug" now appealed for hearty laughter and looks of surprised glee at the moment of my supposed exposure. I stood despondently waiting for my cue. "Director Doug" was not happy with the lack of spontaneous amusement.
"Hang on - keep filming. I've got an idea!" Dave Whalley cried out.
Suddenly, he moved behind me and yanked down my shorts.
The whole school erupted.
Appalled, I stood frozen with my shorts around my ankles. Snatching the hem of my jersey, he hauled it up and over my head, clearly revealing the stretched mesh pouch of my jock-strap to all and sundry as he spanked me soundly across my rudely bared buttocks as he had done after the match.
As I fought desperately to cover myself again, the excited din reached crescendo pitch and Steve and Doug declared themselves well-pleased. I looked at Dave Whalley malignly.
"All for the good of the school, old man," he said with a roguish wink.
"Then why didn't you pull yours down?" I spat at him belligerently.
"Because mine wouldn't stand comparison with yours; that's why, Big Boy."
He patted me on the backside again - through my shorts this time - as he moved away to organise the scrummage.
It was as though I had been struck by lightning. The realisation of what he had called me just then pole-axed me. He had called me "Big Boy" ! It was the very name Whispering Tim had coined for me following that first photograph revealing my palpable erection, clearly visible through my wetly translucent underpants as the naked Richard rescued me from the pool into which I had been precipitated. Was it just a sheer coincidence, his using the very same words? I began to tremble as the various connotations ran through my agitated brain.
The scrum-down wheeled before me, and before Steve's lens. A clever shot was for them to scrum down with his standing in the centre, and they wheeled round him as their axis, with me crouching as if awaiting the ball to be thrown out to me. Then they filmed me scooping the ball from a morass of muddied boots and beginning my attempt at a try. "Director Doug" then took me on one side.
"Watty," he said, chummily slipping an arm round my shoulders. "The kids call you Watty. Is it all right if I do?"
"I suppose so," I said grudgingly.
"I've had an idea for another shot we can use, Watty," he said. " I want a long shot from the goal of you charging up the pitch, and we'll play the `Chariots of Fire' theme under it. What I want is three shots of you running, which we'll crossfade into each other probably. I'm thinking on my feet here, you understand? How about it, eh? First shot has you running just as you are; second shot running without your shirt, and third shot, without your shorts. Great idea, eh? What do you think?"
I was light-headed. The world swam before my eyes. I blinked hard to clear my flooded eyes. Steve was already between the goal posts. It was a fait accompli. My agreement had been taken for granted. Already he had turned and addressed the school.
"We're going to film Mr Watson running with the ball three times in various states of undress," he announced through the school's loud-hailer. This was greeted by wild whoops of glee.
"I want you to shout `Good old Watty!' while we're filming. Okay?"
Desperate for it all to be over, I meekly complied without further ado. I hared up the field as if my very life depended upon it, snorting through flared nostrils and snarling at the camera lens. Then I had to walk back and do exactly the same shot again, only removing my shirt first.
As I stood on the pitch and pulled the shirt off over my head, I was greeted by some wolf-whistles and good-natured jeering.
"Go on, Sir! Show us your pecs!"
I turned with a sheepish grin which froze on my face as I met the concentrated gaze of Tim. My legs turned to jelly. He was mastering me here, now, in front of everybody. He knew it, and I knew it, and I was so very, very scared.
Having completed my topless run came the most humiliating one, where my bare bottom would be on show to staff and pupils alike for far longer than was the case in the actual match. Dave Whalley and Frank Hartley screened me a little as I stepped out of my shorts and took hold of the rugby ball to conceal my pouch as I waited for the signal to begin my third run. I was panting hard by now, unused to such physical exertion.
"Has anybody ever told you what a pert little bottom you have?" Dave Whalley said to me, giving Frank Hartley a nudge. Frank chortled appreciatively.
I was reminded that I would not have been in this position were it not for him having broken his collar bone the previous night in a match with the local club for which he also played.
"Do you know? It's a real battle of will I'm having to fight in order to keep my hands off it."
Frank got a fit of the giggles.
"Don't you dare!" I hissed at him. "Not in front of the children!"
"When then? When then?" he asked eagerly, making little dives at me from which I flinched.
"Stop it at once, you fool!" I was really jumpy by now.
That was when I got the go ahead for the final jock-strap run. To a cacophony of excited whistles, shouts and jeers I thundered up the pitch to the goalmouth. There I stood in this tiniest of garments while they filmed the three supposed tackles with the boys, then the shots of them left holding the torn garments in their hands. Dave Whalley had not brought a spare jockstrap so I was forced to forfeit mine for the shot of it being hurled up into the air. I stood there mortifyingly stark naked, hands clasped to my groin until the headmaster came cantering to the rescue with his mac again.
"You're an absolute brick, Alan, my dear boy. This is a definite case of deja vu, isn't it?" he said as he cloaked me in it. "I'm treating you simply outrageously, I know it, old chap, and I feel awful about it! You know you're quite honestly magnificent, you know - just taking it on the chin and coming back for more. You're a capital fellow and we are all very proud of you."
I gave him a thin-lipped tight little smile. He was working desperately hard to smooth down ruffled feathers.
"I think it's enormously brave of you to stand before the entire school without a stitch on. I can't believe I had the audacity to ask you - not just the once, but twice. It's just too shaming to think about."
He was over-egging the pudding now, and I ignored him concentrating on what they were doing next. Another new touch was to film my jockstrap landing on the boy's head. The boy in question was Geoff Talbot. They took a close-up of the expression on his face and then simply dropped the support into shot. Satisfied they had everything they needed, Director Doug turned his attention once more to me.
"Now we come to the money shot," he said with a smirk, as he whisked the headmaster's mac from my shoulders. I was helped into position front-side down across the line, arms out-stretched still holding the ball. Cameraman Steve was going to rotate round me while I touched the ball down.
"Make sure his testicles aren't in shot," Doug said, and I leapt as I felt fingers touch the back of my scrotum and attempt to tuck it up under me.
"Do you mind!" I yelled.
"Sorry, just trying to help," Steve said.
The enormity of it astounded me. My most intimate parts were becoming common property with nary a thought for my feelings on the matter. I was a commodity to be used and abused for other people's amusement. With a note of alarm I felt myself stiffen.
No, please,' I prayed silently and urgently. Not now! For pity's sake not now!'
"They're still showing, Watty. Can you lift 'em a bit higher and push 'em under you?" Doug urged.
Scarlet of visage, I raised myself and attended to his request. At the same time, my penis arose so, as I lowered myself again having made the required adjustment, the entire underside of it pressed into the cold mud.
The final shot taken and the television people having declared themselves satisfied, the headmaster eagerly came across to thank them and shepherd them away for drinks in his study. I was lying completely nude, face down upon the ground, surrounded by a crowd of self-congratulating folk on a high after their bit of fame.
"Mr Whalley, do join us as soon as you can - and you too, Mr Watson, of course," the Head piped up over his shoulder as he skilfully steered them towards the main building.
Dave Whalley smacked my bare bottom again.
"You've a great botty, Watty!" he said, and a great laugh went up with echoes of "Watty's botty!" circulating round me.
"Where's my kit?" I asked, the strain clearly audible in my voice.
"Your kit?" he repeated blankly. "Um - well, to be perfectly frank, I haven't got a clue, old man."
"Wh-a-a-a-a-a-a-t???" I managed a strangled cry.
He dangled a pair of shorts in front of my eyes and chuckled.
"I got you going for a moment, there, didn't I?" he crowed.
I snatched them from him with ill grace.
I was now in something of a quandary. How was I to get them on without revealing my rampant erection to a large number of excited rubber-neckers who had gathered on the pretext of congratulating me upon my performance?
"Am I to be allowed no privacy whatever whilst I clothe my nakedness?" I asked, mustering far more dignity than that to which I felt entitled in my present condition.
"Go on, lads, the show's over," Dave said to them. "Let Mr Watson get dressed in peace, now. There's decent chaps."
Reluctantly, they drifted away, some calling out "Great show, Sir!" and "Can't wait to video it all tonight, Sir!". My heart sank. I had never considered the preserving qualities of the video recorder. I had envisaged my infamy to be fleeting with no thought of the lasting quality of numberless re-runs. I groaned as I swung round and thrust my legs into my shorts.
There were a few titters, something about muddy balls, and, as I snatched them up and on as fast as I could, I distinctly heard somebody say: "Did you see? He's thrown a woody!!!"
"Begone!" Dave bellowed ferociously as he held out my jersey, and they all scampered away chattering excitedly and animatedly.
"Sorry about that," he said gruffly. "I should have thought. Embarrassing, kids seeing you with a stiffy. Though bloody impressive, I must say. If I hadn`t seen it with my own eyes, I'd've never . . . " His voice petered out and he gave a low whistle of incredulity.
The fact that he had so obviously seen my arousal was something I just did not wish to acknowledge. I dressed in silence and hobbled from the field. He stayed supportively close but unspeaking, However, I could almost hear the unspoken and unformed words whirling round his brain.
As we got to the changing room, he said: "Look, Alan, you'll need to get the mud off your . . . ."
Words failed him again. I knew I was colouring up.
"I'll stop anybody coming into the shower while you're there, Big Boy."
I nodded in appreciation and silently went in to wash and change. Suddenly I froze. What had he called me? "Big Boy"?? No, surely not! It had to be a sheer coincidence that he chose the nickname that Tim Robey had given me. Paranoia was setting in, that's what it was. I glared malevolently at my reflection in the mirror as I walked in, my manhood bouncing obscenely in the front of my shorts as I walked, drawing attention to itself again and again.
In less than twenty-four hours I was standing once more vigorously soaping my private parts and sobbing from shame in a shower.