Weâre going to a party, nerd. Get dressed. We get ready together, teasing and groping, the occasional little tug on your waistband, but nothing more. I make sure you have on embarrassing, stretchy underwear. Perfect.
Itâs time to explain tonightâs game. Right now, you owe me an hour in a hanging wedgie. Donât pout, Iâm not finished. For every wedgie you get at the party, Iâll subtract five minutes, arenât I so kind? My friends are very nice, Iâm sure theyâd love to help you out. Youâll just have to ask nicely!
Normally when we go out together, your underwear are flossing your ass before we even leave the house. Tonight, youâll get no help from me. I get to play all the time, my friends deserve some fun.
At the party, everyone is laughing and having fun, oblivious to the task ahead of you. I watch you all night, giving you space to mingle on your own. The hours pass, your window of opportunity to lessen your sentence on the hook narrowing as people depart. Only my core group of friends remain. The panic in your eyes is delicious as you realize how late itâs gotten, and I have to stifle a laugh as I watch you scan the room and decide who to go up to.
You cross the room to a pair of my best friends, who stop their conversation to see what you need. I watch from afar as you stutter through the question, fidgeting, so embarrassed. They make you repeat the question, checking they heard you right. You want me to what? Give you aâŚwedgie? Like some high school bully? Really?
And then, two wicked grins are on their faces as youâre whipped around, hands on your waistband in a flash, your underwear yanked high up your back with one strong pull. Their laughter and the pathetic noise you make draws the attention of others. Now theyâre having fun, practically bouncing you by your waistband, being lifted repeatedly so your toes barely brush the ground, all your weight on your wedgie.
I watch as they finally release you. Your hands fly to pick your wedgie, embarrassed by the many surprised eyes on you. People are about to laugh it off as a prank and move on, when you walk up to another person and ask them the same question. Now, everyone is curious, gathering around. This friend is bolder, and you feel the pit in your stomach grow with their smirk.
You want a wedgie from me?
Disbelieving laughter from the crowd. Surely you wonât do it. Thereâs wolf whistles and cheers as you slowly turn around, bending at the waist and putting your hands on your knees. You swear you hear a recording start and pictures being taken. Your stretched waistband is already bunched above your pants, your efforts to pick your wedgie somewhat futile. My friend straddles your head, keeping you bent over as they gently tug your waistband higher to expose your leg holes, getting a solid under-hand grip on them. People are egging them on, telling them to pull hard. You think it may be the most embarrassed youâve ever felt.
The humiliation is interrupted by sudden pain, your underwear rocketed up to your neck. This position is brutal on your ass, forcing your back to arch and lift your hips as your wedgie pops under the tension. Your ass is split in half by your own underwear. Itâs so tight. The tugging is relentless, the crowd chasing the ripping sound. Someone else reaches over and yanks your pants down to your knees, exposing you to everyone, the crowd cheering. Enjoying your whimpers and poorly disguised moans. Are you really getting turned on by this? Your underwear would finally rip with a triumphant cheer, your waistband getting passed around like a trophy. A few people murmur, dissapointed their fun ended so quickly.
Thatâs when Iâd pull out the extra underwear I packed for you. Iâd explain the game to my friends - only ten more wedgies and you wonât have to hang at all! Of course, theyâre very eager to help you out. I told you they were nice!
Ten wedgies couldnât be worse than a hangingâŚ.right?
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