Beer and Bare Shame
They used to call him the "yellow bike guy" because of the bright bike he rides in black shorts year-round. Tanguy Rougey is a reserved PhD student in Montpellier, a sunlit student city in southern France. He has a lean cyclist's build with a soft belly, and toned legs and arms dusted with blonde body hair.
His soft blue eyes are framed by a thick reddish-brown beard framing and closely cropped reddish-blonde hair. He is being pulled into a checkerboard game of dominance by his secret kink for forced public exposure.
Since January, he has submitted to his new predatory colleague Jaxon, who fueled the camaraderie of his former friends Marc and Finn. They summon him to public places and command him to remove and destroy his undergarments. Tanguy commits to the game, unraveling his modesty stitch by stitch and igniting a thrilling shame that reshapes his controlled life into one of raw, public surrender.
His minimalist wardrobe of identical black T-shirts and 11-inch buttoned cargo shorts — often cuffed shorter for subtle exposure — has already lost a light sweater, two pairs of briefs, and two pairs of socks.
It was mid-February, and the end of that Friday afternoon was a low hum of activity in Tanguy's office at MEC research lab. Papers rustled, keyboards clicked, and the air was thick with the faint scent of coffee and stationery. For Tanguy, it was a time of quiet discipline, a final push before the weekend's predictable solitude. A solitary bike ride, a quiet dinner, a few chapters of a book.
The familiar ritual was shattered by a single, digital chime. His phone, which he kept face-down on his desk, vibrated with an incoming message. It was from Jaxon.
"Marc, me, and you at Broc Café. Saturday. 2 p.m. Don’t be late."
The message was casual, but its implications were like a cold fist closing around Tanguy’s gut. The Broc Café is located on the bustling Boulevard Henri IV, directly in front of the botanical garden and on the edge of Montpellier's historic center. It's a place where people gather to be seen and observe a stage far more public than any park or campus plaza.
The casual "Don't be late" was a subtle command, a tug on the leash that had become his life.
Tanguy read the message once, twice, and a third time. After the last "training" meeting a couple of weeks ago, where they ripped off his sweater, he returned to his studies and quiet self-exploration. He felt a sudden, profound emptiness in his stomach.
The quiet meal he had planned for lunch, which was part of his routine, was now impossible. The thought of putting food in his mouth and nourishing a body that was no longer entirely his own felt like a betrayal. He felt flustered and foggy-minded. The clean, scientific logic of his work was slipping away.
After a blurry afternoon of work, he packed his bag and left the empty office. He rode home on his yellow bike. The familiar rhythm of the pedals was a stark counterpoint to the fluttering of his heart.
That evening, he felt hunger pangs—a deep, hollow ache in his stomach. But he did not eat. He could not. The thought of the Saturday meeting and the public exposure to come was a potent, suffocating hunger all its own.
On Saturday afternoon—a long, languid afternoon that promised to stretch into a humid, unforgiving evening—Marc and Jaxon sat at a small, round table on the side of the road on the terrace of Broc Café.
They arrived at 1:55 p.m. Marc leaned back in his chair, his leg bouncing with nervous energy at odds with his perpetual grin. Jaxon, with a glint of something predatory in his wiry frame, leaned forward, scanning the street.
The cold, wet air made the minutes tick by in an uncomfortable crawl. A silent, tense anger simmered between them. They relied on Tanguy's predictable nature, so his lateness was a break in the pattern, a small but unsettling ripple in their shared game.
Then, at 2:05 p.m., a flash of yellow materialized. Tanguy rode up to the café on his bike, his movements hurried. His yellow bike stood out against his black uniform and pale skin. He dismounted with a small, controlled series of actions and leaned the bike against a nearby rail.
He immediately spotted Jaxon and Marc and walked toward their table in plain view. His shorts and T-shirt clung to his body, and the faint sheen of sweat on his skin was proof of the oppressive struggle and inner turmoil that had kept him fasting since the previous evening.
He sat down stiffly, his hands dully resting on the table. He tried hard not to curl his fingers into fists. He was the checkerboard, and they were the player. Jaxon and Marc remained silent for an uncomfortable amount of time, their predatory gazes fixed on him.
"This warm humidity is odd for mid-February," Marc said, finally breaking the silence in a casual, almost conversational tone. "It must've been rough riding your bike over here. You're practically glistening, even though you're wearing just a T-shirt and shorts."
"This warm humidity is odd for mid-February," Marc said, finally breaking the silence in a casual, almost conversational tone. "It must've been rough riding your bike over here. "You're practically glowing despite wearing just a T-shirt and shorts, and... what else?"
Jaxon chimed in, his eyes never leaving Tanguy's. "Yeah, all that athletic energy trapped in that little black T-shirt. It's practically vibrating. You can almost feel the heat radiating from you. His words were a low, predatory growl, a verbal stroke that made Tanguy’s skin prickle with shame and something else—something hotter. "You're a fever furnace, Tanguy."
Jaxon's grin widened. "This attire is just a bit too suffocating, isn't it? It's a bit of a burden on a day like this." He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Isn't it time you set yourself free?"
Tanguy's mind was a chaotic fog of hunger and exhaustion. He looked at his black T-shirt and then at Jaxon. The words blurred into one confusing thought. He felt his left hand rise as if it were not his own and reach for the soft cotton of his right sleeve.
He pulled with a sudden, nervous yank—an uncontrolled force that was a strange echo of Jaxon's silent cruelty. The already faded fabric ripped loudly at the shoulder seam and then along the rest of the sleeve. He couldn't stop. He kept pulling, deepening and widening the tear, ripping past the armhole and down the side seam of his body, ending just above the hem.
The sound was a long, rough sound of unraveling. As the fabric gave way, exposing his side from shoulder to midriff with a long, vertical gash, a sudden, brutal clarity filled Tanguy’s mind. The cool air hit his skin, awakening his senses and ripping the fog from his thoughts.
The frayed edge of the tattered fabric now sat dangerously close to his right nipple; the exposed flesh was a new and terrifying vulnerability. The veil of theory and academic abstraction had been torn away. In this moment, he was a physical object, a body on display.
Jaxon’s grin was one of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. Leaning forward, he kept his eyes on Tanguy's as he reached for the intact left sleeve. His fingers grazed the fabric. He did not tug. Instead, his right hand slid under the collar, tickling the soft hair on the top of Tanguy’s chest with his fingertips. It was a shocking, intimate violation; his fingers gently teased the faint, blonde chest hair.
He moved his fingers slowly and deliberately across Tanguy’s chest. His thumb traced the line of his collarbone and his index finger circled his right nipple. Tanguy flinched with a sharp, involuntary intake of breath. The sensation was a potent mix of terror and arousal.
"You have to be careful with these things," Jaxon said, his voice a low, teasing whisper as his fingers still traced the outline of Tanguy's nipple. "You don't want to tear it too deeply. Although, as you desire. . .”
With that, he grabbed the collar of the T-shirt with one hand and tugged the left sleeve off with the other. The sleeve came off easily at the seam, but he had to pull firmly to match the deep tear on the other side. Finally, the entire left side of Tanguy’s body was exposed, revealing an uncomfortable nakedness.
The shirt was still a crew neck at the top, but it now barely stopped at the shoulder. The badly frayed, deep armhole rips on the sides exposed his hairy armpits, as well as a large glimpse of his hairy torso and back. They also teased the light hair around his nipples.
Jaxon then caught the eye of a passing waiter. "A pint of beer for my friend here," he said, gesturing toward Tanguy. "He's burning up and thirsty from working hard."
A whole pint of amber liquid, crowned with a thick foam, was placed in front of Tanguy.
He hadn't asked for it. He hadn't wanted it. Yet, the sight of it, the cool condensation on the glass, was a siren's call to his parched body. His mind, still a chaotic fog of hunger and exhaustion, was no longer his own.
"Go on," Marc said, leaning forward. "Don't let it get warm. You've earned it." His words were a plain mockery given the cool weather of February.
Tanguy took a long, desperate gulp. The cold liquid was a wonderful relief. He drank deeply, the beer sliding down his throat in a single, continuous motion. He finished half the almost half-liter glass in one go, then stopped to catch his breath.
"Swallow it all," Jaxon said in a low, commanding whisper. "Don't leave a drop."
Tanguy lifted the glass again, his hands trembling. He took a long, uncomfortable gulp, which felt less like drinking and more like a forced plunge. When he set the empty glass down, a dizzying warmth spread through his body, shocking his empty stomach.
A wave of lightheadedness washed over him, leaving him stunned.
Watching his reaction, Jaxon leaned over and placed his hands on the nape of Tanguy's neck. His rough fingers grazed the skin below the collar. He massaged the tense muscles. The touch was deliberate, possessive, and humiliating, meant to wake Tanguy up and shock his stunned senses back to life. The fingers dug in, pressing firmly and insistently. This ignited a fire in Tanguy's groin, despite the dizziness, reminding him of his vulnerability.
Tanguy, lost in a daze, felt a sudden, urgent need. He had to piss. But the thought of getting up, of moving away from the table, felt like a violation of an unspoken rule. He looked at Jaxon, his eyes wide with a new, terrifying dependency.
"I need... May I go to the bathroom, please?" he stammered
Even Tanguy was shocked by his words. He had asked for permission. The disciplined academic of the past would have simply gone. Though, the new, submissive Tanguy was different.
Jaxon's mischievous smile widened. He leaned in closer, his fingers tracing the line of Tanguy's collarbone, the breath warming his cheeks. "Go," he said, the word a soft, intimate command. "But first, pay your price."
Tanguy's heart hammered against his ribs. The command was another assault on his remaining privacy. Jaxon pointed to the space between them on the table.
"I want a piece of your briefs. Tear it off right now. Hand it to me along with your sleeves. Then you can go."
Taguny was still seated and obeyed the no-brainer order. His hands trembled as he struggled with his shorts. His fingers fumbled to find purchase on the briefs underneath. The combination of beer, humiliation, and a desperate need to urinate made grabbing his underwear a clumsy effort. As he pulled, his hand pushed against the top of his shorts. With a neat pop, the waist button snapped off and clattered onto the table.
Tanguy froze. His waistband was ruined, but the fly was still secured by the four remaining buttons. With one final, desperate tug, the briefs tore.
Nervously, he pulled his shaking hand out further, tearing a large, ragged piece from the front of the briefs. He placed it on the table as proof of his desperation and submission. Then, he placed the two ripped sleeves next to it.
His shorts, now dangerously sagging under the frayed shirt, offered only a precarious shield between his body and the world. He was truly becoming an exhibitionist—a man eager to show off.
Free for the moment, Tanguy stood up and crossed the crowded tables. He stumbled toward the back of the café, his frayed shirt a symbol of his growing submission. He reached the small, battered bathroom and didn’t bother to lock the door.
He leaned against it, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His second-to-last pair of briefs were soon gone.
He quickly unfastened the last four buttons and let the shorts fall. The feel of the loose air on his body was a physical shock. He tore off the ragged remnants of his briefs, accepting to go commando. He then emptied his bladder, feeling a hot, wonderful rush of relief that momentarily cleared his head.
He quickly picked up the torn briefs from the dirty floor and used them to dry himself, a final, intimate act of self-degradation. Then, in a fit of frustration, he dropped the torn briefs again and trampled them under his sneakers, grinding them into the tile as if grinding away his own dignity.
He stood there for a moment, naked from the waist down. The yellowish bathroom light was a cruel spotlight on his body. The humiliation was a deep, burning ache. Beneath the shame, however, a wicked thrill began to stir. He had been exposed and made vulnerable, and he was submitting. It was a strange cocktail of terror and exhilaration.
He put his shorts back on. As the distressed fabric glided against his bare skin, he felt his dick harden unexpectedly. A deep blush spread across his chest as he felt the first trace of pre-cum wet the head of his dick and the fabric of his black shorts. The shock of it—the raw, undeniable proof of his body’s betrayal—was a terrifying confirmation: he liked to be embarrassed and humiliated in public.
He threw the ragged pieces of his briefs away, washed his hands and face, and used the hem of his tattered, frayed shirt to dry off. Then, he walked back to his table and sat down. His hands trembled slightly, an uncontrolled expression of his inner tension. His ragged black uniform, which he now wore sleeveless and commando, kept his boner scarily stiff.
Jaxon spoke to Tanguy again. "We need to clean up the table. Do what is needed!" he said, teasing a further step to confirm his public submission. With shaking hands, Tanguy gathered the three pieces of fabric from the table—the two ripped sleeves and the front piece of his briefs.
Standing up, he felt his erect nipples being tickled by the frayed edges of the T-shirt and the cool air. With a dripping boner in his sagging shorts, he walked toward a passing waiter and held out the rags. "Please... throw this away," he mumbled, shocked by his own words. The waiter looked him over from head to toe, took the rags, and left.
Marc, watching all of this with an amused smile, simply nodded. "Finn is waiting for us at Esplanade, now!"
Tanguy moved toward his bike instinctively, but Jaxon was quicker. He was on his feet in a flash, his hand on Tanguy’s hip with a firm, possessive grip that stopped him in his tracks.
"We're walking," Jaxon hissed.
“You want everyone to see you. You want to show your freeing project." He gave a final push, sliding his hand under Tanguy’s shirt to grope his soft belly—a clear command to move. Tanguy, a hot, trembling knot of submission, obeyed.
Unaware that Tanguy was now commando, Jaxon bantered, "It's a shame you insist on hiding what's underneath."
The walk from the café to the Esplanade was a humiliating yet thrilling parade. The Saturday afternoon crowds were a lively sea of people—a thousand potential gazes.
They first passed the Arc de Triomphe, an iconic landmark, and walked along Rue Foch, a tree-lined avenue full of shoppers. The sidewalks were narrow and crowded. Tanguy’s ragged shirt, exposing his sides and teasing his hairy nipples, felt like a marker of his shame. His shorts, missing the waist button, sagged slightly, the loose fabric amplifying his public humiliation.
Jaxon walked just behind Tanguy to his right and slid his hand into his rear left pocket. The warm, possessive touch sent a shiver through Tanguy's body. Jaxon guided him, squeezing his buttock—an unseen nudge that made Tanguy's body tremble, a new rope of precum dangerously wetting the front of his shorts.
Desperate to conceal the growing stain, Tanguy tried to tug the hem of his shirt down, but Jaxon’s hand was quicker. He slid his hand from the rear pocket to the front and, with his palm, pulled Tanguy’s shirt up, stroking the light hair on his soft belly with a deliberate, teasing touch.
Jaxon let him go, and Tanguy walked side-by-side with Jaxon and Marc, leaving his shirt pulled up above his belly as Jaxon had positioned it. Tanguy accepted leaving the front of his shorts dangerously exposed, his mind lost in a dizzying fog of shame and arousal.
They then turned onto Rue de la Loge, a wide, crowded shopping street that allowed Jaxon to parade Tanguy in front of even more people. There was construction in the street, forcing people through narrow passages.
The proximity of the crowds and the press of bodies created a suffocating intimacy. Tanguy could feel the physical pressure on his skin and the weight of their glances. This gave him a prickling flush of shame and excitement.
The fresh February air constantly tickled his barely concealed nipples and the soft, blonde hair on his chest—a sensation that was both uncomfortable and exciting. Finally, they emerged onto the grand, open space of Place de la Comédie.
The central esplanade was a vast public stage where the city's life unfolded in a noisy, vibrant crowd. The square was packed with people—tourists, families, and young couples taking photos—all of whom were an unbearable audience for Tanguy's embarrassment.
Jaxon, Marc, and Tanguy made their way through the Esplanade to the green area behind the Pavillon Populaire, where Finn was waiting for them.
Finn, a lean, sporty guy a few years older than them, was sitting on a bench. Though he appeared reserved, a determined glint in his eyes mirrored Jaxon’s own. He watched them approach with a lazy, predatory gaze that swept over Tanguy's exposed body. He said nothing, simply watching with a silent observation that added a new and terrifying layer of scrutiny.
To reestablish control, Jaxon stopped in front of Tanguy. Without saying a word, he reached out and seized Tanguy by the crotch. The warm, firm grip came as a shocking, intimate violation. Tanguy froze, his breath catching in his throat.
Jaxon’s hand was a hot, inescapable clamp on his most sensitive area. With a brutal, deliberate motion, Jaxon’s fingers found the lowest of the four buttons on the fly. He yanked it free; the small, vicious pop was lost in the ambient noise of the park.
"You want to open more," Jaxon said in a low, possessive breath, tossing the button away.
Tanguy's shorts, already sagging, now gaped open on his bare groin.
Marc watched the scene with a flash of jealousy and acted on impulse. He moved to Tanguy's side, his hand moving quickly. He grabbed the left pocket and ripped the fabric with a vicious tear, unfolding the cuffed hem.
A long, ragged rip pulled the side seam apart, exposing more of Tanguy’s thigh. Tanguy felt a shocking rush of cool air against his skin and a new, unsettling nakedness.
With a slow, sadistic smile, Finn finally broke the silence. "You don't want to leave it unbalanced, boys. It’s bad form.”
He reached for the right pocket and ripped it off with a single, deliberate tear. The shorts were now a more frayed, mutilated garment, proof of their domination and his submission.
Still lightheaded from the walk and beer, Tanguy had not expected such a fast, coordinated attack. He stood there, his hands powerless at his sides, a dizzying fog of embarrassment and arousal clouding his mind. He looked down at his shorts; the frayed fabric mirrored his shattered dignity. Seeking some semblance of control and agency in this humiliating situation, he tore off the flapping rags, evening the length. Then, he rolled them up twice, the frayed hems disappearing into a shorter length that exposed more of his thighs.
The shorts were suddenly reduced from eleven inches to seven—a desperate acceptance of his humiliation.
Finn watched with a bored expression and pointed to Tanguy's feet. "Take those off. Socks too. You want to be barefoot."
Still reeling, Tanguy sat on the edge of the bench and took off his sneakers. His hands shook as he bent down, desperately trying to find a way to tear off his socks. His fingers were clumsy and panicked as he fumbled with the fabric.
As he struggled, Marc and Finn sent his sneakers flying across the grassy area with a coordinated, vicious kick. Tanguy watched them fly, another pathetic symbol of his powerlessness.
He pulled the sock off, a motion that was more about unraveling than tearing. Finally, one sock frayed. He did the same with the other sock, moving slowly and methodically, as if performing a grim ritual of self-mutilation.
When he was done, he sat there, his bare feet pressed against the cool grass, and a small pile of torn fabric in his hands. He looked up, his soft-blue eyes wide and vulnerable, but the bench was empty. Jaxon, Marc, and Finn were gone. They had left him.
He was alone and barefoot, a tattered and ruined mess abandoned in the middle of a public park. His sneakers looked like an unreachable prize. He stood up, his body trembling, and took a step. The grass was cold and damp against his feet. He threw the rags away and began to walk toward his sneakers, shuffling slowly and uncomfortably.
Walking barefoot on public grass while wearing a frayed shirt and sagging shorts was an added humiliation. He picked up his beat-up sneakers and, with grim determination, put them on without socks, despite his dirty feet.
The rough interior of the sneakers against his bare feet was an uncomfortable but grounding sensation. The distance back to his bike was a long, uncomfortable journey in his tattered attire.
Fifteen minutes later, Tanguy finally made it back to his bike, still parked in front of the Broc Café. Its bright, defiant splash of yellow was a small comfort. He lingered there for a long moment, gathering his thoughts. It was five p.m.
Despite his hunger and deep emotions, he couldn't ride home now. The shame of being seen in his distressed clothes and barefoot was too much to be brought home. Instead, he took hold of the handlebars and began walking alongside his bike towards the nearby Promenade du Peyrou.
The Promenade du Peyrou was an elevated, elegant park with sweeping vistas of the Montpellier surroundings, perched atop the grand arches of the aqueduct. It was a place for jogging, leisurely strolls, and lovers. For Tanguy, it was a kind of private stage. He walked along the grassy areas on the upper level where joggers ran past with swift glances.
He found himself walking with a stubborn sense of commitment. His torn and tattered shorts were no longer a source of shame but rather a distinctive sign of his repressed exhibitionist kink. He pulled them down, leaving the fly gaping as a defiant statement in his struggle for freedom. He even lay down on the cold, humid lawn.
He settled in, letting his frayed shirt rise above his soft belly and the rolled-up hems of his shorts ride up his thighs. His legs were spread apart, exposing his crotch in a pose of casual vulnerability. The soft, cold grass against his bare lower back was a new kind of intimate surrender.
Seeking further public humiliation, he unfastened the three remaining buttons on his shorts, refastening only the button just below the waist. The fly gaped wider, offering a clear view of his light reddish curly pubic hair and pulsing, dripping dick. The thrill of this self-imposed vulnerability gave him a renewed boner, which dangerously tented the gaping fly.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, cold shadows spread across the park. The clocktower of the nearby Saint-Pierre cathedral chimed six. It was closing time for the park in winter. Tanguy took a lingering look at the retreating sun before riding his yellow bike home.
It was a quiet evening, a time for him to process this new level of forced public exposure. He stripped naked and sat on the cool tile floor of his apartment, his cock still pulsating and dripping precum.
The embarrassment was mixing with a new revelation. The exposure he had subjected himself to in the public park—the exposed skin of his thighs and the daring glimpse of his groin—was even desirable. The truth is, no one had pointed or stared.
Somewhat disappointingly, no one had stopped him. Montpellier, with its student population and proximity to the naturist beaches of Cap d'Agde, seems accustomed to exposure and oddities. He had pushed the boundaries, and the world had not pushed back. It was a kind of freedom, a new kind of thrill.
So, he renewed his commitment to continue this game and keep testing the limits, slowly shrinking his wardrobe.
The following days were a blur of new freedoms and anxieties, dictated by the demands of his limited wardrobe. With just one pair of briefs and one pair of no-show socks, he had to develop a new routine: going to work freeballing with socks or wearing briefs without socks.
On days when he wore briefs, he would sit at his desk and, in a quiet, furtive motion, unfasten the waist button of his shorts. This small act of defiance allowed a sliver of his briefs to peek out, along with a hint of his light, reddish, curly pubic hair.
He was an exhibitionist who was still terrified of being seen.
On the days he went commando, however, his shorts remained buttoned tight. Yet he continued to push his limits, slowly and methodically undoing his clothing and his identity.
He began by carefully unraveling some stitches along the seams of his T-shirts, first on the sides and then on the shoulders. He pulled and stressed the fabric in subtle, random ways—a small, quiet act of violence against his own clothes.
He craved the sight of the material giving way and the sound of the threads snapping—visual proof of his slow, quiet destruction. The small, distressed gaps and tiny, almost imperceptible windows to his skin would ignite a burning anticipation in him.
He could not simply remove his clothes here, in his place of academic rigor and routine. So, he was forced to find a new way to slowly expose himself.
He expected glances and murmurs, some kind of reaction. But there was nothing. The professors, students, and colleagues all walked past him, their gazes a blur of focus and disinterest. It was a new and unsettling kind of cruelty.
After all, he was a scientist—an academic experiment in human behavior—and he was the one conducting the research. He was supposed to be objective. He was supposed to observe. But the fact that almost everyone ignored him, as they had before, posed a new and terrifying challenge.
His body was the checkerboard, but the world refused to play. That, he knew, would push him soon to cross unexplored boundaries.
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