Introduction to the series
In Montpellier’s sunlit streets, Tanguy, a reserved PhD student, clings to a fortress of routine—black T-shirts and cargo shorts all-year long, a life of logic cycling on his yellow bike across the city. But when Jaxon, a predatory colleague, senses his hidden hunger for public forced exposure, the game begins.
With Marc and Finn, his former friends turned by Jaxon in eager accomplices, they strip Tanguy’s control and clothes, thread by thread, in public challenges from cafés to festivals. Each tear of fabric, each command, pulls Tanguy deeper into a vortex of shame and thrill, his body a check-board for their dominance game, his soul a battleground of desire and dread to be seen.
Get rid of your briefs
The cool, crisp air of a late January morning in Montpellier was a stark contrast to the simmering heat Tanguy felt inside. He stood in the middle of his small apartment in a student residence on Place des Lilas, in the southeastern part of the sunny southern French city. He moved there a few years ago, finally leaving his parents' house to enter adulthood as a university student and now a young researcher.
His blue eyes traced the lines of his body in the full-length mirror. His face, framed by a thick, reddish-brown beard, held its usual mask of calm control. But underneath the surface, a new current was beginning to run, a delicious, agonizing malfunction deep inside him. His entire life had been a fortress of routine, built brick by brick to keep out the unpredictable. His current PhD work at the MEC research lab was about predictable models and logical choices.
When he moved from his parents’ house near Annecy to Montpellier, he threw away most of his clothes. His wardrobe was now limited to a handful of four identical black plain crew-neck T-shirts, 11-inch buttoned shorts, and a light black long-sleeve sweater. This was a physical manifestation of discipline entering adulthood, an act of intentional minimalism that was supposed to make his life more controlled. Shedding his clothes was a symbolic and physical choice to strip away layers and unleash his intimate kink.
Today, he was fully dressed: his only black long-sleeve light black sweater over one of his identical T-shirts, his usual 5-button 11-inch black cargo shorts, and a pair of black no-show socks tucked into his worn sneakers. In a subtle nod to a symmetry of control and exposure, he had started exploring to leave sometimes the first button of his shorts undone, allowing them to sag slightly and reducing the friction against his crotch while cycling. Beneath it all, he wore a single pair of black cheap briefs, consistent with his overall plain uniform.
The phone buzzed, a digital intrusion into his reverie. It was a message from Marc Vasseur, his colleague, the friendly, gregarious one. A simple question. "Lunch today, Tanguy? There's someone new we want you to meet."
Tanguy typed a terse "Yes," the word a lie.
He was anything but free. Though, he was driven by the familiar thrill and dread of exposing himself to the new, the unpredictable. The thought of a new variable being introduced into his carefully controlled equation sent a jolt of anxiety through him.
He thought back how things used to be. The group—Marc, Finn, and him—had a relationship of friendship and camaraderie, albeit not without jokes and banter. Their teasing was playful, a light prodding at the edges of his routine.
They would joke about his "yellow bike guy" persona or his minimalist black wardrobe and all-year-long shorts, but their words lacked a sharp edge. The camaraderie was real, if superficial. It was a comfortable, predictable space. Tanguy knew they saw his reserve, but they respected it, for the most part. They were academics, after all, and they shared a quiet understanding of each other's eccentricities.
But Jaxon's arrival had changed everything. Jaxon Garnier was the someone new that Marc wanted to introduce to Tanguy. Jaxon was a former schoolmate of Marc, now joining them for a 6-month research visiting period.
Differently from Marc, Jaxon was a harsher predator, a brand new factor none of them had accounted for. He was a catalyst, a new kind of energy that wasn't content with the old rules. Where Marc had been a friendly tease, Jaxon was a silent, demanding force.
Since their first meeting that day, he looked at Tanguy with an unsettling intensity that went beyond simple observation. He had sensed Tanguy's secret desire for public humiliation and shame, and he wasn't going to let it lie. He was the one who would push them all to the brink, and Tanguy would be the first to fall.
Later, as they sat at a secluded table in a quiet corner at the campus cafeteria, the air buzzing with the low hum of conversation, the banter began. Marc, gregarious and smiling, leaned forward, his elbows on the table. Finn Lemoine, a quiet and observant postdoc fellow a few years older than them, simply listened, his gaze missing nothing. Then was Jaxon, with a wiry build and a mischievous grin, the new predator.
"So, Tanguy," Marc began, his voice a friendly rumble. "This is Jaxon. He’s new, but he's already a big fan of our... “camaraderie” about your uniform and over-control. He thinks we've been too soft on you. Says you're still holding on to the last scraps of your old boy life."
Tanguy felt the blood drain from his face. His heart hammered against his ribs. The world around them, the other students, the clinking of glasses, the murmur of the students crowd, all faded away. He was suddenly alone with them, and their cold, predatory eyes. Jaxon watched him with an unsettling intensity.
"What do you mean?" Tanguy managed to choke out, his voice a dry rasp.
"You've been so good, Tanguy," Jaxon said, his voice a low, teasing hum.
"So compliant. You got rid of your old clothes moving to Montpellier, but you're still a prisoner of your modesty. I guess you still have your... briefs. And your socks. You know, to keep your feet and your boyhood decent. Be consistent with your choice to be an adult man, get rid of those, too."
Tanguy wanted to scream. He wanted to say no, to stand up, to walk away and never meet Jaxon again. But the words, the defiance, caught in his throat and resonated in his soul. He felt the cold shock of it, the humiliation, yet the thrill of something unspoken.
It was a command, not a request, leaving Tanguy no room for overthinking. He was being reduced to a variable in their own crude, psychological experiment. Yet, beneath the shame, a different feeling, hot and shameful, began to stir. A faint tingling, a pulse of excitement at the prospect of being forced to do something so brazen, here, in a public space.
"Now?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper hiding a hint of hope.
"Yes, boy. Now," Jaxon's voice was firm, a different tone from the usual friendly rumble of Marc or Finn. This was not a request. This was a command. "We give you five minutes. Go to the bathroom and get rid of them. Both. Your briefs and your socks."
Tanguy stood, his body tense. He felt the weight of their gazes. The table suddenly became a small circle of dominance and submission. Tanguy stood up, then slowly, deliberately, walked toward the restroom. The walk felt like a performance, a deliberate display of a boy about to surrender. Inside the small, vaguely filthy room, he stood before the mirror, his chest heaving.
In his quest for minimalism, he had already gotten rid of every belt, leaving only the buttons to hold his shorts. So, unbuttoning the shorts in that context was a sort of continuation of his pristine choice.
With a firm move he pushed the shorts down, exposing the briefs entirely in that public mirror. Then, he removed his sneakers, then pulled off the briefs, one leg at a time, his movements slow and agonizingly deliberate. He felt the cool air against his skin, the sudden foreign freedom of his groin, the rush of blood to his cheeks.
He then peeled off his black no-show socks, purposely so small to disappear in his shoes, leaving his calves completely bare and exposed all year round. He stood there, bare from the waist down, the coldness of the filthy floor rising from his bare soles to the groin, feeling the strange, thrilling sensation of being exposed in a public place.
He then put his shorts back on, fumbling with the buttons in the hope of covering up completely, the absence of the briefs making him aware of his manhood between the legs, trying to restore some semblance of his old self. At first, he refastened all the five buttons, then defiantly decided to leave the waist one undone, accepting the challenge of becoming a man.
The sagging made him feel uncomfortable, a visible sign of his ongoing public humiliation, but it was also a sort of relief as it reduced crotch friction and teasing. He then slipped his bare feet back into his worn sneakers, feeling the unusual absence of the comforting layer of socks.
He returned to the table, his shorts buttoned back up but hanging a little bit lower on his hips, his chest heaving. Jaxon held out a hand. "Give them to me, boy."
Tanguy, his hands shaking, handed over the briefs and socks. He had neatly folded them to try and disguise their nature, making them a compact block of black fabric. Jaxon took them, a smirk on his face, and unfolded them with a flourish, his eyes fixed on Tanguy's.
"You know what, Tanguy? I've changed my mind. I'm not going to keep this crap." His smirk widened. "I want you to throw them away. Right now. Over there." He pointed across the busy cafeteria to a large trash receptacle near the exit.
"Don't be discreet. We want to see you do it."
Tanguy's blood ran cold. He felt their eyes, their silent judgment, their victory. It was a moment of complete and utter surrender. His public humiliation was total, and yet the thrill was a live wire running through him, a current of electricity he was powerless to control. He walked, a public walk of shame, toward the trash can. With every step, Tanguy felt a hundred eyes on him, though none were.
That act was part of the initiation to a new process. He threw the briefs and socks into the trash can, a first act of renunciation to the old Tanguy. He was a spectacle. And they, his former friends now turned to his new masters by Jaxon, were his new demanding audience.
He returned to the table. He felt their eyes on him for the rest of the lunch, a palpable weight that made his skin crawl. They spoke of other things, of their research, of the weather, but the command hung in the air between them, a silent contract for a new public game of power.
After a long afternoon of work in the office, Tanguy finally rode his bike home, the saddle a strange, new sensation against his freeballing groin. He felt an acute body self-awareness, the coarse fabric of his shorts brushing against his balls and cock with every pedal stroke. The friction, a constant, low-level caress, made his heart pound. A deep, shameful humiliation, an open wound of his public surrender, was a live thrill running through his body, and it gave him an uncontrolled hard-on.
That public concealed erection, a shameful monument to their victory, was impossible to ignore. He tried to shift, to hide it, but the shorts, sagging low with the top button undone, offered no cover. He felt the point of his cock press against the loose fabric, threatening to peep out, a risky exposure he was powerless (and unwilling) to prevent.
The humiliating challenge was a switch in the relationships with his former friends. Tanguy felt to have started becoming a variable in a game he could no longer control. At the end of that day, he was left with only three pairs of briefs and socks.
He was determined to face the future challenges that might take him off those and more. As such, he committed to the challenge and decided not to buy anything, but rather to slowly unravel what he already had. Every single item in his wardrobe, stitch after stitch.
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