"However, we must maintain a certain standard of decency. That is why you won't find a single student under the age of 21 in this school. In the future, we may establish another school where we will teach the more theoretical elements of our philosophies to younger students as part of a wider-ranging curriculum which will encompass all of the regular classes of a more mainstream school.
"For now, though... student or employee... you have been given a direct order that you have so far failed to act upon. You are important to us, Mr Munro, but you are not indispensible. So you will either be dismissed from the school within the hour, or you will take your clothes off, right now."
Alasdair still hesitated. He was having a very hard time absorbing all the ramifications of what he had just been told. Miss Wilson said nothing, however. She simply reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a small object, which she placed on a shelf where it was prominently visible to anyone facing in that direction. Alasdair had to turn round to see it himself, but he instantly understood its meaning when he did.
It was an egg timer and the sands were rapidly draining -- he made his decision.
The girls in the class giggled as he fumbled with his shirt and two buttons came flying off. He pulled the remainder of it over his head, then unbuckled his belt. His shoes were kicked off and then he slipped off his trousers and kicked them aside, too. Socks followed and suddenly all that was left was his underwear. He paused once more and looked again at the egg timer, then back to Miss Wilson. She raised an eyebrow pointedly, then they both looked at the egg timer together. The last of the sands were draining away. He steeled himself, then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pulled them down and stepped out of them.
There were a few gasps from the girls as he straightened up without making any attempt to hide himself. Alasdair had always thought that any man who tried to cover himself up with his hands if he was caught in the nude was simply compounding his own vulnerability. He had never been able to comprehend the notion that it was so terrible for someone to see his penis, simply because she didn't own one herself. The logic had always escaped him. Yeah, it made sense that nudity in certain situations -- such as this one right now -- equated vulnerability. But clamping both hands over his knob to hide it from view was going to enhance, rather than diminish that vulnerability. So he didn't bother.
A further bonus was the fact that he considered himself to be in such good shape. He was no narcissus, though. He never spent much time preening himself in front of a mirror and he didn't consider himself to be excessively attractive. He was fully aware that physical attraction was in the eye of the beholder and he knew that some would consider his face to be too angular, his features too sharp, his eyes to be a shade of blue just that touch too cold and shrewd. His hair was almost shoulder length right now, and while it might be too long for some, there had been times when it had been too short for others. He wasn't fat. He didn't have an ounce of spare fat anywhere on his body, in fact -- something that was plainly clear to everybody in the room. But he wasn't particularly muscular, either. Athletic, perhaps... but then once again, there were others who might consider him to be too skinny. So although he generally hoped that he might offer a pleasant countenance to anyone who looked upon him, he took no offence when someone didn't find him particularly attractive.
And then... there was that one detail that causes so much distress and so much self-consciousness to so many men. Alasdair wasn't exactly packing a monster between his legs, but with a girth and length that was above the average, he had nothing to be ashamed of and he was well aware of that fact. He strongly suspected that there were few men in the world who hadn't -- at some point in their lives -- looked down and felt that an extra inch would be sheer perfection. But on sober reflection, he had always concluded that he was happier without that inch.
Miss Wilson gave the girls a few moments to drink in the sight of Alasdair's body, before reaching into her drawer again, and producing a few scraps of leather that she threw onto her desk. "This -- Mr Munro -- is going to be your uniform for the duration of your stay at this school," she said.
"In this room, you mean?" he asked, looking at the scraps. There wasn't much there at all.
"Are you having difficulty understanding me? I meant anywhere in the entire school, unless certain provisions are made for you. Shoes, perhaps, for outdoor activities. Or protective clothing, should you need it. Activities will dictate your dress sense, to a certain extent. At all other times, however..." And she picked up one of the scraps. It was a collar. She held it out to him.
He took it and read the tag on it, then buckled it round his neck without further question. The tag bore the legend "Property of Blake School. Answers to Alasdair." Privately, he was pleased and impressed that his name had been spelled correctly. That didn't often happen.
Without being told to, he reached out and picked up one of the other scraps, then buckled it onto his right wrist. It was a leather cuff; fur-lined and surprisingly comfortable. There was a hoop attached to it with a catch - similar to one on the end of a dog's lead, but "double-headed" -- presumably intended to lock to the hoop on the other cuff to restrict his hand movements.
This only left a couple of the more arcane-looking scraps and he reached for the first of these, but Miss Wilson swept them aside before he could pick one up. "You will be introduced to those later," she said with a slight smile. He felt a stir of fresh trepidation at what that implied, but he asked no questions. There were times when you just had to restrain your curiosity and wait to see what was going to happen next.
"Well, now," Miss Wilson said, addressing the girls once more. "Who is scheduled to own Mr Munro first?" A hand went up. "Ahh, Miss Yvette McKenzie... step forward, please."
The girl who stood up was clearly both nervous and excited. She walked between the desks and approached Alasdair, giving him plenty of time to look at her. For the first time, he found himself particularly appreciating the school uniform that the girls were all wearing. A short, black skirt that stopped halfway down her thighs and a thin, white blouse. She wasn't wearing a bra -- clearly, that wasn't compulsory. And she wore boots, rather than shoes. Boots that were jet-black and very, very shiny with buckles all the way up the side. To his dismay, Alasdair felt that familiar throbbing that heralded the early stirrings of an erection. He tried to quell it. Clearly this was the wrong moment to begin appreciating the finer points of the school dress policy.
Miss Wilson rose from her desk and stepped to Alasdair's side. "As you can see," she said, "the girls are given a certain amount of liberty with their uniforms. There are certain rules, but so long as those rules are followed, there is room within them to personalise the details. I see you have already noticed Miss McKenzie's boots. Well done. Black footwear, black skirt and white blouse... all very much in order. The lack of a bra is commendable, too." Her eyes flicked downward, briefly. "It certainly hasn't escaped your attention, anyway."
Yvette's eyes flicked down as well, and she blushed slightly, but couldn't prevent a smile twitching the corners of her mouth. A giggle rippled through the room and Alasdair diverted more of his mental resources towards stemming that traitorous rising.
Miss Wilson pulled up a chair and instructed Yvette to sit down, facing the class.
"Now... how many of you have seen a naked man before?" Miss Wilson asked. Most of the girls raised their hands. Yvette didn't. "Hmm... not all of you. Well, that's hardly surprising. Most of your mothers have been almost as strict with you girls as they have been with your fathers, and I know for a fact that many of them wanted to restrict your sexual involvement with men until you had been to this school. A very commendable attitude.
"Which means that even though you might be familiar with the appearance of a man's body, you might not be familiar with the mechanisms of it, or with male responses to certain stimuli. Although I'm sure that most of you have recognised that Mr Munro has been evidencing the early stages of an erection. He has, however, very commendably been able to restrain that erection -- at least so far. Well done, Mr Munro. Very well done.
"Now, I had originally intended to leave the actual disciplinary section of the class until later, but I think a little rescheduling might be in order. Miss McKenzie... if you would be so kind?"
"You! Across my knee. Right now."
Alasdair looked at Yvette in confusion. The commanding tones had been delivered with nothing more than the faintest tremor in her voice to betray her own tension.
"A bit more confidence if you please, Miss McKenzie. And you shouldn't have to shout to get his attention. Remember... men and dogs respond to low voices. And Mr Munro, I shouldn't have to remind you that we expect instant obedience from you at all times. Do what you have been told to do, right away and without question."
Alasdair reluctantly moved to Yvette's side, knelt on the floor and bent over her knees. He tried to position himself so that his penis didn't come into contact with her bare thighs -- anything to actually minimise the skin-to-skin contact.
"Now, remember what you were taught in last week's class," Miss Wilson said. "You know how to manoeuvre him into position, don't you?"
