[Thirty-year-old English public schoolmaster, Alan Watson, who for the past fortnight as been forced to obey every demeaning whim of his upper-sixth form student-masters, is confident that with the end of May in sight his ordeal is almost at an end. School breaks up for the special half term on the coming weekend and from then his pupils go on leave, only returning after the break to do their exams. If he can just get through this last week . . . . Surely there can be few more indignities to be piled upon him . . . .]
Going Commando
The evening having been declared an artistic success. The beer having been all consumed, the mould carefully placed in one of the plastic buckets for safe carrying, upon the return of Mr Farnworth, the evening broke up and cheerful farewells were made all round. It was not until everybody had left and I had stepped into the shower that I was suddenly made aware by my own exploratory fingers helping to sluice off the stickiness of the petroleum jelly, mixed liberally with my own spendings and little bits of dried plaster, that I was ringless. My masters had totally overlooked the replacement of my vibrating cock ring. I was suddenly confronted by the mixed emotions which hit me in that moment of realisation. There was elation at my = by now - unaccustomed freedom, but, at the same time, there was a definite pang of regret that I had been neglected and overlooked. I was stunned at such an unlooked-for response.
I slept fitfully that night, very conscious of the different unharnessed sensation round my reproductive equipment, an airy lightness of being, strangely inhibiting instead of emancipating. Was my nakedness emphasised or exaggerated by the loss of my ring, my symbol of domination? I felt so, somehow, and was quite unnerved by the feeling.
The ’phone rang as I was eating my breakfast. It was Tim Robey.
“Who’s a naughty boy, then?” he chided me as if I were a small child. “You never reminded us to replace your cock ring last night. As punishment for that, you are forbidden from wearing any underpants today. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir,” I murmured, duly chastened.
I had another sitting that day for Jason and, as it was by now the accepted custom for me to strip down in front of both him and Derek Bamforth, the art man, I grew self-conscious at the thought they might notice I was not wearing any underpants beneath my trousers. I had been very much aware each time how their eyes had followed every step I made as I undressed or dressed before them.
I was mulling over how best to handle the matter should observations by either of them be made with regards to my ‘going commando’ as I drove in to school, passing, as I did so, Angela Mayhew, dropping Richard off. They both acknowledged me, and I proceeded to the staff parking area. As I walked back, I found Angela was waiting for me
“Alan, have you a moment?”
“Yes, certainly. What is it?” I smiled approaching the driver’s side.
“Get in for a moment, will you?”
I moved round to the passenger side and opened the door.
“Is anything the matter?” I asked, sensing a somewhat strained atmosphere.
“I think I know at last Richard’s love interest,” she said, staring after her son in the distance now, on the other side of the quadrangle.
“Oh?” I said. My heart missed a couple of beats.
“It’s you, Alan, isn’t it?”
Just by looking at me, she could tell she was right.
“Has he said something?” I asked, after a breathless pause.
“No, not a word,” she said, and then turned to face me. “But Donald has.”
“Donald!??” I was astounded.
“Yes. He said he thought he knew it before Richard did.”
“The birthday party?”
“Oh no, before that, he said. Numerous times when you were with us. The look on h Richard’s face that night just confirmed his suspicions.”
“What d’you mean?” I asked tentatively.
“Sheer adoration as he cradled you in his arms. Donald showed me the photograph last night, when we were having this conversation, and I could see it for myself. I feel so stupid I’d not seen it before.”
We both stared unseeingly out of the windscreen. This was horrible.
“I said it was a schoolboy crush,” she went on, “but Donald said it was much more than that. He’s right, isn’t he, Alan? Tell me the truth.”
Tears were running down my face – hot tears of intense embarrassment.
“Yes,” I whispered huskily, my voice failing me. “He’s right.”
“And you?” she wanted to know.
I glanced across and looked away again, unable to face her with the truth.
“When I realised . . . when I knew how he felt . . . what he was experiencing. . . that he thought he loved . . . well, I was absolutely . . . But I grew to see that it was . . . very real to him. I tried to reason, but he would have none of it. I promise you, I never led him on – in fact, just the opposite . . .”
“Are you gay, Alan?”
“I never thought so – until . . . Richard.”
“Is he? Have you . . .?”
“Yes.” I almost whispered my confession, unable to meet her gaze.
“Oh, Alan!”
The reproach was palpable.
I sat there, trying desperately to blink back the tears. I was trembling uncontrollably. This was it. My job was on the line. I would be escorted off the school’s property, banned from teaching at the very least – possibly sentenced to prison.
“I know he’s over the age of consent and therefore you’ve not broken the law, but morally, Alan – I mean, to me, he’s still my little boy, you know.”
There was a heart-wrenching break in her voice. I felt a stab of pain in my heart too.
I inwardly groaned as I saw the headmaster drive in and bow ingratiatingly towards Angela as he passed. My fate was to be settled sooner than I had thought.
We both sat in stony silence. I heard the head’s footsteps on the gravel as he approached.
“Good morning, Mrs Mayhew; a lovely morning, isn’t it?” and acknowledging me, “Mr Watson.”
“Lovely, Headmaster,” she smiled thinly at him. “Let’s hope it stays like this over half term.”
“Yes indeed. Have you family plans for next week?” he wanted to know.
“Donald and I are off to the Canaries, while Richard and Mr Watson here are going to spend the week at our cottage in the Lake District,” she said.
“How lovely for you all. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I must get on. Good day to you and do give my regards to your husband.”
I sat staring ahead. The axe had not fallen. Not a word had been said. In fact, even our proposed trip to the Lake District had been mentioned. Surely, that would be the very first thing to bite the dust.
“Thank you,” I murmured in gratitude, and as I glanced at my watch: “I must go.”
“Yes, and so must I. Hair appointment,” Angela remarked in brittle tones. “Come to dinner tonight. We must talk – as a family.”
“Oh god; are you sure?” I said.
The last thing I envisaged was sitting down and baring my soul to Richard’s parents. Was I to warn Richard what was in store for us that night, or was I to keep quiet?
“Do I say anything to Richard?”
“No, Alan, I don’t think so. I think it would be better coming from Donald and me. Let us talk it over together today and think how best to tackle things tonight.”
“Look, Angela, I’m so very sorry this has happened. I can understand what a shock it’s been for you.”
“The shock is that Donald noticed all the signs and that I didn’t. Mothers are supposed to be intuitive about their sons, aren’t they? Does your mother know about you?”
I suddenly had that awful mental picture of my standing in front of my mother dressed in a naughty French maid’s outfit, pressing my orgasming penis inside my frilly knickers.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “But then, neither did I until very recently.”
* * *
I had watched Angela drive away, and still trembling, made my way into school. Robey and Marshall were waiting at my study door. The brazen lad had my cock ring in his hand. I was appalled. I was shaking so much I had trouble getting the key into my keyhole to gain admittance. He closed and locked the door whilst Marshall turned on the red traffic light.
“Right, Big Boy, you know the drill. Assume the position.”
I slipped off my shoes, took down my trousers, revealing I was, as had been ordered, “going commando”, hitched up my shirt into my armpits and mounted my desk to stand with legs wide apart and hands clasped behind my neck.
Marshall teased and squeezed my nipples while Robey snapped shut the cock ring and tightened the little screw with the Allen key. It felt heavier than I recalled, and I glanced at it to ensure it was not a new model, with perhaps further torments concealed in its bigger egg. Reassured it was, in fact, the self-same one I had worn previously, I was nevertheless resigned to the control these boys exerted over me.
“Now, Big Boy, you have a choice of what to do during our English lesson today.”
I was allowed to get dressed again as he spoke, outlining the choices.
“You may sit on the front of your desk as so often you do and experience and undergo an orgasm directed by us,” and so saying, he gave me a buzz.
“Or you may sit behind your desk and not experience one, but only if you sit there with your trousers round your ankles.”
“With my trousers round my ankles?” I echoed in sheer disbelief. “I can’t do that!” I cried. “For a start, I’ve no underpants on. What if someone came out to my desk?”
“Be very certain someone will – to check you are obeying orders.” Tim Robey warned.
“No, I meant somebody else – someone who wouldn’t know . . .”
“Then they’d get quite a surprise, wouldn’t they? So, what’s it going to be? Blasting a load of come out into your trousers, with no underwear to help absorb some of it? Or sitting quietly and safely with your desk concealing your metal-framed cock and bollocks, with your trousers all the way down to the floor?”
* * *
Richard sidled up to me in the corridor, later that morning.
“I believe Sir is playing soldiers today,” he croaked out of the corner of his mouth. “Commando soldiers,” he added and sniggered.
“Not very funny!” I grunted.
“I do love you!” he whispered urgently and moved off in the crowd of boys ahead.
My heart missed a beat, and I stopped in my stride, watching as he disappeared from view towards the chemistry labs. He’d just said he loved me, and I felt the sincerity in what he had said; and I felt the urge to respond – at the same time afraid of what would come to pass that evening in front of his parents.
* * *
Fourth form English was going quite well. Golding’s “Lord of the Flies” was proving a popular read with them. You may recall the story of a group of schoolboys marooned on a desert island after a plane crash in which all the adults are killed. Ralph is the leader, whose authority is challenged by Jack the repressed choir leader, and Piggy is the fat boy scorned by Jack and who sticks with Ralph even when all the others desert him.
We had just got to the bit where Simon comes face to face with the pig’s head on the stake, the imagery of the pig’s grimacing grin covered in a swarm of flies. Undeniably charged with intense, visceral imagery that can be interpreted as symbolic of a psychological metaphorical and even physical climax, the language used—such as the pig's head "grinning" and the overwhelming sensory experience Simon undergoes—can be read as a metaphorical climax, representing his confrontation with the primal, chaotic forces within human nature. This interpretation hinges on the symbolic and psychological intensity of the moment, and it was this that caught the boy’s imagination and led to an unexpected field of questions.
“Is Simon gay, d’you think, Sir?” Farnworth chirped up.
“What on earth leads you to that conclusion?” I asked him in surprised exasperation.
“Well, it reads to me as though he had an orgasm after that long sort of ritual session with the Lord of the Flies”.
I didn’t usually debate the subject of orgasms with my fourth form sets, but there was the precedent set by my own in his presence only a day or two before.
“Oh really, Farnworth!” I tried to accept his remark scornfully, but he persisted.
“Do you think he put his willy in the dead pig’s mouth, and that’s what disturbed the flies?”
There was laughter at this.
“Don’t be ridiculous, it was the dead beast’s putrefaction,” I said.
“Wasn’t there some British politician, or prime minister even, who was supposed to have had sex with a pig’s head when he was at university, Sir?” Makepeace asked and earned a bovine jeer or two, together with the name of the would-be Bullingdon Club member and former prime minister.
“I definitely think Simon masturbated, Sir,” Farnworth volunteered. “And in the heat, that explains why he passed out. The French call it le petit mort, don’t they?”
“He’s not the only gay there, though, is he?” Wolverton chimed in.
“Ralph’s not gay,” Makepeace challenged.
“I didn’t say Ralph was. It’s Jack I was meaning.”
“How d’you make that out?” Farnworth wanted to know.
“Well, for a start, he’s obsessed with Ralph, and he wants to get power over him, to be in charge and order them about. And then there’s the clothes thing. To begin with, he’s all togged up in his choir gear, but then they all take off their clothes when they descend into savagery.”
“That needn’t make him gay, though,” Makepeace opined.
“Of course, he’s gay. He’s in the choir, isn’t he?” Wolverton added.
“Don’t be ridiculous; I’m in the choir here!” Farnworth butted in.
“Point proved!” Wolverton trumpeted and that’s where I stepped in and brought things back to normal before the bell rang.
As the fourth form filed out, Farnworth came up to my desk.
“Sir?” he said, “Do you think I’m gay, because I wanted to make a cast of your penis and scrotum, Sir?”
His voice seemed particularly piercing, and I shot a very worried look to see if any others had heard.
“I know I came before you did, when I wanted you to keep it stiff for the mould to work, Sir, but I think that was just the sexual excitement. It doesn’t mean I fancy you. It’s just an artistic admiration, Sir. Nothing more. I honestly don’t fancy you, or anything like that. It’s Mayhew that’s got the hots for you, not me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, boy!” I said.
“It is, Sir. My brother says everyone in his year knows that.”
I hustled him out of the room in front of me.
“Cease this nonsense instantly. It is very wrong of you to spread malicious rumours like that.”
“I’m not doing, Sir. You’re the first person I’ve said it to.”
“Well, make sure I’m the last as well,” I said as I ruffled his hair.
“But do you think I’m gay, Sir?”
“I haven’t even considered it, boy. Run along to your next lesson and stop talking drivel.”
As I walked back to the Masters’ Common Room, I weighed the boy’s words: Everyone in Richard’s year knew that he had “the hots” for me. Did that mean they also knew I had “the hots” for him? That was far more serious. Schoolmasters were often the object of schoolboy crushes, but the other way round . . . . . . .
* * *
As the bell rang signalling the end of morning break, I swigged back the last of my coffee and became very aware of my heartbeat thumping almost in the back of my throat as I swallowed. Drumming in my ears as I left the sanctity of the Common Room, my head ached with the intensity of it as I stepped out into the corridor. Much as a condemned man might have felt as he approached the scaffold, I was heading to my nemesis.
The sixth form English suite was locked so my group were lined up at the door. First in the queue was Robey.
“Sir, may I have a private word with you in there, before the others come in?” he asked. “It is something personal.”
“Very well; the rest of you wait out here for a few moments, will you, please?”
I was surprised how calm I sounded, but noticed my hand trembling as I tried to get my classroom key into the lock.
“After you, Robey,” I stood back to let him go first and then stepped in after him.
He shut the door and led me to the front of the classroom.
“Right, big boy, drop ‘em!” he ordered.
“Can I beg you to rethink this, Sir?” I asked.
“You can beg, yes. And I can rethink. How about my rethink being I want you stark bollock naked rather than just your trousers round your ankles?”
My hands still trembling, I placed my books on the desk and, stepping behind it, I fumbled with my trouser fastenings.
Pushing them off my thighs, they dropped to the floor and pooled around my shoes.
“Right, sit down and pull your chair as close up to your desk as you can,” he directed, and for the first time I detected a slight nervousness in his approach, as though he was at last realising, he had gone as far as he dared in his control over me.
He went to the door and opened it.
“All right, you lot. Sir says you can come in now.”
As they filed in, I sat rigidly whilst they found their places, and all sat down.
And the lesson began.
. . . . . . . . and ended without incident. I cannot believe I sat teaching a sixth form group for forty minutes with no trousers on; with nothing on below my waist! Anything might have happened. Another member of staff might have come in to consult me about something or other. A boy might have asked if I’d go and look at his piece of work, or come out to ask a question, or check a quotation. But there was nothing. The whole thing was entirely free from the cataclysmic drama of which I had been terrified.
The relief was colossal, as I hauled my trousers back up my legs, tempered only by the prospect of an ordeal over dinner that night with the Mayhews.
