Tear off those threads
Tanguy Rougey is a reserved PhD student with a thick, reddish-brown beard and reddish-blonde hair, closely cut on the sides and slightly longer on top. His soft blue eyes hold a hint of shyness and something held back.
When he moved to Montpellier, a few years ago, he entered adulthood by reducing his wardrobe to a minimalist rigid attire. The black T-shirts and shorts he wears year-round were his first step into his secret kink for public forced exposure.
Last week, his carefully controlled game unraveled when Jaxon, a predatory colleague, joined Marc and Finn. The two of them—Tanguy’s colleagues and friends—teased and bantered the “yellow bike guy” about his year-round short black uniform. Jaxon fueled their camaraderie, sensing Tanguy’s hidden desire and pushing the group to cross new boundaries in Tanguy’s exposure.
A new game began in the campus cafeteria when Jaxon requested Tanguy to discard his briefs and socks, forcing a public walk of shame to a trash can. The thrill and humiliation ignited Tanguy’s arousal, pulling him into a dangerous game of dominance and submission in public.
After the new game started, the evenings had become a different kind of ritual for Tanguy. No longer were they a quiet retreat into the predictable solitude of his apartment, but a silent, magnetic force drawing him in public places.
One of his favorite places was the Parc du petit bois de la colline. The park, near his apartment, was a rare accessible pocket of nature always accessible within the city. Its ancient trees cast long, deep shadows that bled into the encroaching night. It was here, in the low visibility and comforting concealment of the dark, that he began to test the limits of his kin, a reality where his body was no longer entirely his own.
His feet, wrapped in his worn black sneakers, beat a steady rhythm against the soil, marking an earthy counterpoint to his frantic heartbeat. The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and late-winter decay, clung to his skin.
Tanguy’s lean, toned cyclist's body was a natural radiator running hot all the time and requiring him to wear T-shirt and shorts year-round. This internal heat was a physical comfort, yet it also amplified the simmering shame and electric arousal that now resided within him.
In the deepest, most shadowed parts of the park, where he was certain no one could see him, he would publicly unfasten one button or two of his shorts. These clandestine acts of self-exposure were a quiet, modest surrender to a secret kink he was not yet ready to embrace.
He would walk this way for minutes at a time, the loose fabric sagging a little bit more with each step, the cold air whispering across the light blonde hair on his navel trail. Each step was a small, humiliating thrill—a private game he played with himself, one that left him both exhilarated and disgusted.
This private exploration led him to experiment with a new kind of public exposure of his body. He began testing with the hems of his shorts, meticulously cuffing from the originally modest 11 inches to far a more revealing 9 inches. This a subtle alteration was an act of self-exposure that he could easily reverse; however, it was enough to expose more of his toned thighs, and invite glances.
He would stand before his full-length mirror, his hands trembling, and study the deliberate changes to his uniform, a further step in his unraveling. He observed as if he were a lab specimen in a methodical experiment.
A week passed in this fashion, a cycle of private thrills and public, controlled exposure. But his former friends, now fueled by Jaxon, were silently observing.
A text message arrived from Jaxon when Tanguy was still in the office, a simple, declarative command: "Meet us at Allée Fragonard tonight. Seven."
The location was no accident, a place close to the campus and chosen for its pouches of privacy. A place where his public shame could be meticulously and privately orchestrated. Tanguy replied with a single, trembling "Okay." The word felt like a key turning in a lock he'd built around himself for years.
Tanguy decided to leave his bike secured to the fence in front of the lab building, and walk the short distance. When he arrived, wearing his light black cotton sweatshirt over a plain crew-neck T-shirt and worn-out shorts, the trio—Jaxon, the new predator; Marc, his former friend; and Finn, a sporty postdoc student a few years older than them—was waiting in the unfenced green path.
It had stopped raining just before, and the air was still cold and heavy, the ground soft and muddy beneath Tanguy’s sneakers.
"Glad you could make it, Tanguy," Jaxon said with a mischievous grin, the words dripping with a fake warmth that made Tanguy's skin crawl.
"We have a new move for you," Marc added, his voice more jovial, but with an edge of command Tanguy couldn't ignore.
"We've noticed you're still holding on to some things. That's not the point of becoming an adult man, is it?"
Tanguy’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of dread. He knew what they meant. His second pair of briefs and socks, of the three he had left, were about to be claimed. He felt a deep flush rise from his collarbone to his cheeks, a fiery tide of shame he was powerless to stop.
"We think it's time to let them go," Jaxon said, a casual cruelty in his tone.
"And since we want this to be a truly liberating experience, we want you to destroy them for us. Right here. Right now."
Despair and a strange, cold fascination washed over Tanguy. He had accepted once the loss of these items, but the new demand to destroy them himself was intimately humiliating, a new breach in the fortress of his control. His fingers, clumsy with nerves, fumbled with the first button of his shorts. The fabric, already worn, strained under his desperate movements, the buttonhole stretching, a thin, black thread pulling free.
He slipped a hand beneath the loose fabric, his touch a shocking warmth against his own skin, and pulled the briefs down with the shorts, his left hand barely covering his groin, pulsing and growing for the public humiliation. They were a cheap, worn-out pair of light black cotton briefs, but they felt like a security blanket, a last, fragile shield he was about to lose forever.
"The briefs now, Tanguy. Come on, don't keep us waiting."
Jaxon's voice was stern now, a sharp bark that cut through the still air. Tanguy felt the humiliation deepen. The path was open, and someone could arrive at any moment. Additionally, people could see them from the surrounding apartments. Struggling to stay on his feet for the tension, he pulled the briefs over his sneakers, using them to protect the shorts from the mud that covered them, ultimately renouncing modesty. Then, letting his bouncing dick and balls exposed, he took the briefs and pulled, as he was tearing down the wall of his inner resistance.
The fabric was thin, but not so thin that it would tear easily. He had to pull with all his might, the muscles in his arms straining. The fabric resisted, and a small, pathetic whimper escaped his lips. The sound was swallowed by the night, but he knew they heard it, a silent victory they savored. Finally, with a sharp rip, the briefs gave way.
He tore them again and again until they were a mess of tattered strings and small, black pieces of fabric, a pitiful pile of his former self. He quickly put his shorts back on, no longer caring about the mud on his sneakers dirtying the inner crotch. He rapidly refastened the fly and the distressed waist button—a futile attempt to regain control over his unraveling life.
"Good boy," Jaxon said, his voice a low, mocking hum. "Now the socks, hurry up, jerk!"
Tanguy’s hands trembled with a mixture of shame and exhilaration as he finally pulled off his muddy sneakers and socks. Standing barefoot on the cold, damp earth, he felt a new wave of humiliation wash over him, thrilling him and stiffening his bare dick in the shorts. He took one of the socks and tore it to shreds.
As he began to struggle with the second sock, Finn sent his sneakers flying into a ditch in the darkness with a swift, brutal kick. At the same moment, Marc grabbed the sneakers and threw them far away, too.
Tanguy, freeballing and barefoot on the muddy path, watched them go. This unexpected advance from their previous camaraderie made him feel both humiliated and excited. With a greater determination, he finished tearing the second sock, the process a slow and agonizing act of symbolic destruction.
"And now for your shorts," Jaxon said, his voice full of a new, cutting pleasure. "We need a few more tokens of your progress."
Jaxon stepped forward, with his edged smile. "I'll take the waist button," he said.
With a quick, practiced motion, he snatched it off. With an intentional twist in the gesture, he lifted the shirt hem high with his knuckles and brushed Tanguy's hairy belly up to the stern with a firm, intimate stroke. The gesture sent a jolt of shame and arousal through Tanguy.
"This is for the way you hide your belly. You think you're so smart, with your tight core, but you're just a boy who wants to be touched."
Next was Marc. He moved closer and placed his warm hand directly on Tanguy’s hip, beneath his T-shirt. "I'll take the lower button," he said in a low, teasing voice. To restrain Tanguy's movement and ease the tear, Marc grabbed Tanguy's crotch, squeezing it firmly—something he had craved for a long time. Tanguy moaned softly.
The pressure of Marc's full hand on his bare balls and cock under his worn-out shorts was a terrible, delicious torture. Marc laughed a low, cruel laugh and, with a sharp flick of his wrist, popped the lowest button.
Finn, the oldest and most serious in the group, was last. "I'll take a button from your rear pocket," he said in a flat voice, his eyes burning with cold fire. He gestured toward Tanguy’s left rear pocket.
"Rip it off." Tanguy's hands shook as he fumbled to find the button; his fingers were clumsy from a mixture of fear and excitement.
He tore at the fabric, leaving the pocket distressed and partly ripped. His shorts were significantly more distressed than at the beginning of the meeting, sagging and gaping dangerously at the crotch.
"There," Jaxon said while tossing the button away, a new, sharp demand in his voice. "We took our tokens. But what else have we got here?" His eyes on the cuffed hems of Tanguy’s shorts. With a theatrical flourish, he unfolded them, releasing the fabric to the original 11-inch length.
"See? You've been hiding a little bit of yourself all along."
Tanguy, his hands trembling, went to his thighs and frantically, meticulously, refolded the cuffs as he had learned to do in the secret of the park, alone. He felt a sudden, desperate need for control, a fragile, pathetic act of defiance.
Jaxon watched him, a low, satisfied hum in his chest. "You see?" he exclaimed, his voice a sharp, knowing whisper.
"You want to be exposed. You want to show more, but you're too ashamed to admit it. So you play this game of hide and seek with yourself, and with us. You're trying to hide, but your actions, Tanguy, your actions say everything. You want this. You want to be seen. And we’ll tell you how to do it."
Then, Jaxon picked up some of the tattered scraps of fabric and threw them back at Tanguy, a final, cruel gesture.
"Clean it up, boy," he ordered, his voice laced with venom. "And do it properly and immediately. You don't want to leave such a mess." On that final sentence, the friends left, their mocking laughter echoing in the wet cold darkness.
Tanguy stood like a statue, his shorts sagging and distressed, overcome with shame and humiliation. He stood barefoot and freeballing on the muddy grass, feeling the cold rise through his soles. He began collecting the scattered remains of his underwear and socks.
Near the park entrance, he found a trash bin and dropped the tattered fabric inside, his hands trembling.
Only after executing the order of the departed masters he began searching for his sneakers, fumbling through the darkness. His bare feet were scratched by the vegetation and muddy. He finally found them, but instead of putting them on, he simply picked them up.
His feet felt cold and dirty, making him feel ashamed. The thought of putting on his sneakers felt like a betrayal of his new, dirty reality. He walked barefoot to the lab building to get his bike. His feet were cold and raw—a final, total exposure he was powerless to prevent.
Once he arrived on campus, he tied the sneakers to the handlebars with the laces, then mounted his bike, still barefoot. The cold metal pedals were a new sensation against the bottoms of his feet. This sensation was added to by the closer and stranger feeling of the saddle against his groin, now covered only by the distressed shorts. It was all part of the game now. He was a variable he could no longer control.
A few days later, a new command arrived. This time, it was a group text. "Meet us at the campus library, in the outdoor reading area. Wear your sweater." The message was from Jaxon, and the words were a clear, unmistakable order. The library at campus was a busy place, a hub of student life. It was a public space, but the outdoor reading area was often a little quieter. The command to wear his sweater was a cruel irony. It was February, and the weather was still cold. Wearing the sweatshirt was not yet an option.
He arrived at the library with his sweatshirt pulled tight over his plain crewneck T-shirt. However, the sleeves of the sweatshirt felt like a foreign object, like a second skin he was desperate to shed.
He found Jaxon, Marc, and Finn waiting for him on one of the benches. They had books open on their laps as if they were actually studying.
"Tanguy," Jaxon said, a sharp, knowing glint in his eye. "We thought you'd appreciate a little academic study. A new kind of lesson."
Marc, always the more jovial one, smiled. "We've been thinking. Your style is... inconsistent. You have this beautiful body you've worked so hard for. Why are you hiding it?"
Tanguy’s heart was a drum in his chest. He knew what was coming.
"The sweatshirt," Jaxon said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding whisper. "It's a shield. And we can't have that. You want your body to be fully exposed, fully... present. So, remove the sleeves."
He fumbled for his keys, his hands shaking so badly he couldn't get them out of the sweatshirt pocket.
"No, no boy," Jaxon said, his tone one of mock concern.
"Don't be so dramatic. We don't want you to take it off. We want you to keep it as a part of your new wardrobe, but in the new uncovering fashion. We want you to unravel the sleeves. Right now. In front of us. In front of everyone."
He gestured vaguely at the few students who were scattered around the courtyard.
Tanguy’s mind screamed in protest, but his body had already begun to betray him, a pulsing hardon stiffening his shorts. He took a deep breath, his hands reaching for the fabric of his sweatshirt.
The sweatshirt, a comforting, familiar garment, felt like a traitor now. He found a loose snagged thread at the cuff of the left sleeve, a small, black string that had been pulled from a previous wash.
He tugged at it, and with a soft zzzzzzzzip, the thread came free.
"Here," Tanguy said, his voice a low, raspy sound, filled with a terrible, delicious shame. He handed the unravelled thread to Jaxon. "Please finish it for me."
Jaxon's eyes widened in surprise, a brief flicker of genuine shock before his malicious grin returned. "Oh? You want to be a good boy, do you?" he said, and with a sharp, theatrical snap of his fingers, he commanded Marc and Finn forward.
"Each of you take a sleeve," he ordered. "And Tanguy, you stand back. Move a little farther away. We want to see how you look when you're pulled apart."
Tanguy's mind was a jumbled mess of shame and terrifying, visceral excitement. He did as he was told. He backed away, the growing distance between him and his colleagues representing his psychological distance from his former, controlled self and his growing alienation from his friends.
Marc and Finn each grabbed a sleeve and, with a brutal, synchronized tug, ripped the fabric completely free.
The worn sweatshirt tore completely on the back, rendering it unusable. The sound of the tearing cotton was a sharp, violent crack in the courtyard's stillness, a sound of submission and irreversible change. He stood there in his plain crewneck T-shirt while the tattered remains of his sweatshirt lay at his feet.
Remembering previous lessons, Tanguy picked up the rags, tore them further, and threw them away in the nearby bin. His forearms, dusted with fine blonde hair, were now completely and definitively exposed to the cold February air and to their gaze.
He felt embarrassed, but also excited, when he realized that he was left with only T-shirts to cover his upper body.
He spent the rest of the day in a daze, his mind a disorganized mix of shame and terrifying, visceral excitement. He walked through the campus, braving the downpours in a clinging T-shirt that molded to the contours of his chest and revealed the coarse hair and soft belly beneath.
Despite his internal warmth, he felt the cold on his nipples and the air teasing the skin of his navel. He was hyper-aware of his body, a checkerboard for others' desires, a piece of art on display.
He walked into the shared office on the second floor of the lab building. The familiar scents of old paper and stale coffee were a stark contrast to the scent of wet earth and rain clinging to his skin. He felt their eyes on him; their gazes were a tangible force, a physical weight. As always, he sat at his desk, shifting his posture in a subtle, almost involuntary movement that exposed his navel.
His exposed belly was a silent provocation, an unapologetic scream to his friends: Go ahead and force me to expose more.
He felt the air on his skin and the fine blonde hairs standing on end. He began to trace the line of hair on his belly with a fingertip—a small, intimate gesture of self-reclamation; a private moment of ownership over a body that had recently been on public display.
He shifted in his seat again, pulling the waist of his shorts down with a deliberate movement until the tops of his briefs were visible—a small, shameful declaration to his masters that he still had them. It was a game now—a silent psychological war of wills—and Tanguy, the former passive subject, was now an active, albeit still submissive, player.
The pragmatic, disciplined Tanguy of the past would have been horrified. He would have run, hidden, and changed his clothes. But this new, broken Tanguy was different. He was captivated by the experiment, by the slow, deliberate destruction of his own sanity.
His former self—a fortress of routine and control—was clashing with his new reality of self-sabotage and surrender. Yet the vulnerability and naked, unadulterated power of exposure drew him deeper.
He was an academic experiment, a case study in human behavior—and he was conducting the research himself. After all, he was a scientist. He was supposed to be objective. He was supposed to observe. He was not supposed to feel the delicious, agonizing thrill of being seen. But he did.
And he knew that was the most terrifying realization of all.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
