As the words of your best friend roused you from your slumber, you became immediately aware of two facts: first, that the throbbing pain pounding through your skull indicated that you were very, very hungover; and, second, that you were blinded by a sea of white. Massaging your aching head, you felt the familiar fabric of what could only be one thing, namely, your briefs, stretched over your head and hooked securely beneath your nose. The additional, not-too-unpleasant pain which you then became aware of, concentrated around your groin and ass, confirmed your mounting suspicion that you were in an atomic wedgie. This was a predicament you had been in countless times before, but only by your own hand, in total privacy, and never in the company of anyone you knew. The taste of stale alcohol was still on your breath when you managed to croak, ‘What... what happened last night?’
Your friends gave you the run-down of the events of the night before. It had started as a normal Friday night with the bros, drinking and chilling and amusing yourselves as you did every week. But when your friends reached the next point in the narrative, your blood froze. Maybe you’d not eaten enough beforehand, or maybe you didn’t pace yourself as well as you should have, but eventually your intoxication reached such a point, your disinhibitions lowered to such a degree, that you confessed to your entire friend group that you had a ‘thing’ for getting wedgies. Shame and humiliation coursed through your veins at this revelation, and it only got worse from there. You had, in your drunken stupour, shown them photographic and videographic proof to verify your claim, flipping gleefully through your phone’s private media gallery as you flaunted image after image of yourself. In one photo, you were shown suspended a good two feet off the ground by your underwear, clearly in a self-inflicted predicament. In another, you were showing off a clandestine shoulder wedgie hidden under your T-shirt. In each and every one of them, though, only one conclusion could be drawn. You were very much into this, and you always had been.
You quickly pulled your waistband from your nose and let it snap back in place at your lower back. You knew with certainty that, though you hadn't looked in a mirror, your face had surely gone a deep shade of crimson as you profusely apologized, begged forgiveness, and pleaded that they just forget you had said anything at all. You couldn't even make eye contact with any of them as you swore it would never happen again and that you needed them to just act like last night had never occurred in the first place. When you finally managed to look up at them, though, you didn't see the looks of discomfort, disgust, or contempt which you had expected. All around you were devious, knowing smiles which only added to your acute sense of embarrassment and confusion, before it was explained to you how the night had proceeded from that point onward.
As it turned out, your bros had been more than willing to indulge you, and they themselves had more than enough proof. You were shown dozens and pictures and videos, taken throughout the night, of you in all manner of wedgie-centred predicament. Your eyes went wide as you were shown shots of you, utterly and shamelessly blissed out in one extreme wedgie after another, your bros enthusiastically fulfilling your fantasy of a lifetime. The recordings jogged your memory, and your mind began to piece together the events of a night that almost defied belief. To have your tighty whities pulled, tugged, yanked, and stretched all night long had felt a hundred times better than any wedgie you'd ever given yourself, and the mere recollection of the previous night, however fragmentary, was more than enough to prompt an involuntary stirring in your traitorous loins.
'Don't worry, bro. Your secret's safe with us,' one of them said with a pat on your shoulder. 'As per the arrangement, anyway.'
This last part was puzzling. 'What arrangement?' you asked quizzically. There were snickers all around, and you felt your friends starting to close in around you.
'You don't remember? Well, don't worry. You'll figure it out soon enough.' Without warning you felt your shorts yanked down, exposing the tighty whities that had been over your head no more than five minutes ago. 'But for now, let's just say you won't need to get your fix from yourself anymore... wedgie boy.'
tangentwithtanner
janainaart
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