Highway to humiliation
Tanguy Rougey, the "Yellow Bike Guy," is a reserved PhD student in Montpellier who cycles year-round in a minimalist black T-shirt and cargo shorts. His heat-radiating, toned physique and soft belly are dusted with blonde body hair. A reddish-brown beard, kept natural, frames his soft blue eyes and closely cropped reddish-blonde hair.
Drawn into a checkerboard game of dominance by his secret kink for forced public exposure, he yields to his predatory colleague, Jaxon, and his accomplices, Marc and Finn—former friends turned doms—who impose escalating humiliations.
Since January, he had already been forced to publicly destroy three pairs of briefs and socks out of the four pairs he usually rotated throughout the year, as well as ruining his only sweatshirt. The game entered a new stage when his four black crew-neck T-shirts and cargo shorts were attacked.
A few weeks ago, his new doms tore the first pair off, which was then switched by Tanguy with the distressed attire of an exhibitionist he encountered in February.
It was a late afternoon, during a heavy downpour, when Tanguy encountered a man who stripped naked to piss and cum on his discarded clothes. Tanguy stole them, causing the man to flee. He ripped off his tattered black clothes and replaced them with the man's piss-soaked, distressed shirt and tiny shorts.
This sealed his transformation from a disciplined scholar to a submissive player in a thrilling yet humiliating game of public forced exposure.
Since January, the arrival of Jaxon, his new predatory colleague, had fueled a transformation in his wardrobe, turning it from a symbol of his minimalist discipline and adulthood into a checkerboard of unraveling and embarrassment.
His routine, his fortress of predictable control, was crumbling brick by brick into something far more dangerous and thrilling.
Each of his remaining three identical outfits was now at risk of being the next casualty in his game of public exposure. Captivated by his doms, Tanguy had become his own master of embarrassment, intensifying the constant, growing unravelling of the clothes that remained.
He was determined not to be the first to stop and not to replace anything that was lost.
The cool air of early March in the southern French city of Montpellier was a sharp contrast to the growing heat inside Tanguy. He dissipated it through the stubborn, almost clinical process of distressing his remaining outfits.
After long working sessions in the office crunching data for his PhD thesis on farming behaviour, Tanguy would ride home and eat a light supper. Then, in the dim light of his modest student apartment, he would hold up a T-shirt or pair of shorts and find a weak point along a seam or hem.
He searched for it as if it were a new tear in his resistance to permanent public embarrassment.
With a subtle, precise pull, he would unsnarl a thread or two every day. He would test the fabric's resistance, relishing the thrill that coiled in his gut with each deliberate fray. He knew with a shameful and exciting certainty that these small tears would grow and widen over the weeks, creating more windows through which everyone could see what he desperately wanted to hide.
Tanguy unravelled the threads at the hem of his shorts until the fabric hung frayed and a couple of inches shorter. He used his fingers to pull and rip, shortening the length to expose more and more of his hairy thighs. He liked the look. Next, he turned his attention to the crotch seam, spending hours at night working the threads and creating tiny snags that promised future, uncontrolled holes.
It was his way to play the game. Every snagged thread mirrored the taut string in his gut, humming with every flaw he created. He thought about the day the clothes would finally break, wondering what it would be like to be completely naked among clothed men.
April brought the heat, and his shorts began to show the wear and tear. The frayed hems gradually rose higher on his thighs as he folded them. Fly buttons flapped every week a little more, teasing onlookers and challenging his modesty, now that he was permanently going commando, saving the last pair of briefs for special occasions.
One hot afternoon, the accident he had been preparing for finally happened. He was in a crowded, stuffy classroom, which made him feel restless. Sitting at the back, he wore his usual black uniform, now limited to secretly unravelled T-shirts and cargo shorts.
His buttocks were pressed against a broken wooden chair in the old amphitheatre. And then, when he slid a bit to spread his legs and cool his burning groin, he knew the moment had come.
He heard a noise, a loud, tearing sound that went down the rear pocket. The fabric he had so long unravelled had just given way. The sound attracted the attention of nearby students. Even the speaker paused for a moment, disturbed by that alarming noise.
Tanguy froze. His face flushed a deeper red while the bare skin of his right buttock grew cold. He knew there was a wide, frayed tear running along the side of the pocket that had caught on a protrusion of the old seat.
His hairy buttock was now exposed and vulnerable, with no other layer of protection. He could feel the glances and whispers coiling around him. The lecture and the numbers faded away. The only things remaining were the split in the shorts and the gazes on his unclothed physique. T
anguy was the only one who truly knew the full extent of the damage, hidden until he was seated. His fantasy had become a frightening reality in a place much more crowded than he would have wanted.
As soon as the lecture ended, he stood up and ran out of the hall. His face was a mask of embarrassment and excitement, and he tried to cover the gap exposing his bare, hairy buttocks with his right hand.
Would the others realize that he was going commando? What would they think of his frayed attire?
He frantically hopped on his bike and sought refuge in his office. However, his new masters were waiting for him like predators in the empty office. Jaxon was the first to see it, grinning like a predator. His eyes immediately scanned the damage, and a low, judging whistle escaped his lips.
"Well, well," Jaxon said, "looks like a little boy is breathing his flaming buttocks." He was leaning back, his mock sympathy aimed at embarrassing Tanguy with no mercy.
Marc and Finn looked up, their expressions changing as they followed Jaxon’s gaze. Tanguy stood with his back to them, his body a tight knot. He wanted to scream and disappear. But another part of him wanted to stay. He craved their stares, the shame and the lack of control. He felt like an impostor, finally being seen for who he truly was.
“What happened to your shorts, Tanguy?” Marc asked, sounding concerned.
Jaxon’s amusement overshadowed it. “Oh, I know what happened,” he hissed, standing up and circling Tanguy like a shark. He reached out and grabbed the flapping pocket.
"The threads were weak, weren't they? You snagged the thread yourself.”
Tanguy’s cheeks burned; he said nothing. He clenched his fists and his breath became short. He felt a hot flush crawl up his neck. Jaxon knew. He had known all along.
“It looks like you want a little help from us,” said Jaxon, giving a brutal tug and pulling the pocket clean off.
There was a sharp ripping sound. The fabric gave way. The side seam came undone, leaving a gaping hole running down the right side of Tanguy's back. He felt the breeze on the underside of his now exposed buttock, and the tension pulling at his groin. Despite the warmth in the office, he felt the fine tawny hairs on his legs prickling from the cold.
Tanguy was cursing himself as the new move on the checkerboard caught him unprepared again. Jaxon held up the ruined pocket, smiling triumphantly.
“Just trash to get rid of,” he said, tucking the fabric away. “Something you'll soon throw off completely.”
Against the embarrassment, these words made Tanguy's dick throb against the shorts, the fabric loose from the frayed back.
The silent observer, Finn Lemoine, chuckled. “You can’t come to work like this,” he said. “They're barely shorts anymore.”
Tanguy just stood there, precum starting to wet the head of his dick while the foreskin was gradually pulled back by his erection.
“He's right,” Marc whispered warmly in Tanguy's ear. “You want to get out of their misery.”
Jaxon and Marc pulled the front fly open with a brutal force, popping the buttons off. They then simultaneously pulled the ragged shorts down, revealing the reddish-brown bush on Tanguy's groin, contrasting with the light tawny hairs on his legs.
Jaxon knew that Tanguy had been going commando lately. He stood frozen, his throbbing, vulnerable erection on display. A hot coil stirred beneath this new physical embarrassment, thick precum dripping from his now fully erect dick.
He was forced to be exposed, and this aroused him beyond control. He had wanted this moment, and now it had come. It was both a victory because it was a defeat. Jaxon’s fingers reached out again, but this time they were neither quick nor gentle. They dug into Tanguy’s exposed hip, his nails scratching wildly at the pale skin. Tanguy flinched but stayed still.
Jaxon’s thumb brushed down to the soft, fine hair on Tanguy's outer thigh. Tanguy felt a shiver run through his body. Jaxon’s other hand brushed against the tip of Tanguy's dick, grazing some precum and smearing it on his nipples to mark the new lesson for the boy.
Tanguy tore off a strip of his T-shirt — baring his soft belly and hairy lower back — and used it to hold up his shorts and cover himself while riding back home.
Over the following weeks, the public embarrassment escalated alongside the spring warmth of southern France. Tanguy’s shorts were becoming an increasingly ragged mess of frayed fabric and holes.
He no longer wore underwear or socks, saving the last pair for when modesty was required. However, he couldn't get used to the thrill of feeling his uncircumcised cock swinging freely, with the distressed black fabric of his shorts constantly teasing it, as well as the air penetrating the hem that rode ever higher on his thighs.
Occasionally, he had to walk with a sway to keep the shorts from easily sagging down his bare hips, as he wasn't wearing briefs. More frequently, his boner tented at the front, barely contained by the gaping fly buttons. His colleagues started to notice. Their teasing became more overt. They pointed and whispered.
His T-shirts were a mess of gaping holes, too. The fabric thinned from constant use. His pristine clothes were a distant memory.
The good maths student's discipline had now turned into a pervasive kink for exposure. He was still the 'Yellow Bike Guy', but the changes to his uniform finally earned him the lustful glances he was secretly craving.
In May, a festival at Parc Montcalm degenerated into depravity. Tanguy, dressed in one of his tattered outfits, was dragged into the crowd by Jaxon and his accomplices under the scorching sun. The smell of fried food and beer greeted him at the entrance to the park, where music was pulsing like a heartbeat.
Jaxon jabbed Tanguy's sun-kissed bicep. 'Look at these pistons of yours, little boy,' he said loudly enough for others to hear.
"All that cycling tones your thighs, but it keeps your other muscles toned too. Then, slapping Tanguy's groin hard with the back of his hand, he added, "It's clear why you are always boiling."
Tanguy clenched his teeth in pain and his heart hammered as he dropped his gaze to the ground. His body was like a coiled spring. He broke out in a cold sweat, not from the heat, but from adrenaline and pain. Yet a warm slickness pooled at the tip of his penis, easing the foreskin's glide as he got hard again from the public humiliation. He was so wet, so fast.
"Take that shirt off," growled Jaxon, pinching Tanguy’s nipple through the fabric.
“It’s hot. You want to cool down.”
“I’m fine,” Tanguy mumbled, his voice little more than a whisper. He wanted to run, but it was as if his feet were bolted to the ground.
“No, you’re not,” said Jaxon. With a brutal tug, he tore the left sleeve off, down to the hem. Crrrt. A gaping hole opened up, exposing Tanguy’s arm, side and nipple. His pale skin gleamed beneath the frayed fabric tickling the light hair around his nipple.
He flinched but said nothing, enduring his humiliation. Precum slowly dripped from the tip of his hard-on, forming a growing wet stain that soaked his tenting shorts. It was a physical symptom of his body betraying the pleasure he was enjoying from such a public, forced humiliation.
'That's better,' said Jaxon, throwing the sleeve away like a dirty rag.
“Now let’s free the other one.”
Marc was just as cruel. He ripped the second sleeve off, tearing it deep along the side seam all the way to the hem. Tanguy stood there in his ragged vest, which barely covered his torso. His upper body was increasingly exposed to the evening breeze. But the teasing continued.
Finn grinned and tugged at the shorts' waistband.
'What about these shorts? They look weak and pathetic. You need help again.”
The three of them started pulling Tanguy through the crowd by tugging at his shorts. With each pull, a new gap opened up, exposing further of his hairy groin.
Tanguy felt the fabric give way. He felt the cool evening air tickle his skin. By the end of the day, his shorts were ruined and barely covered his throbbing groin. He was the object of public ridicule, his body a checkerboard for their moves.
As Jaxon and Finn walked through the crowds, they began to grope Tanguy. They brushed their dirty shoes against his bare legs, occasionally kicking his balls from behind and catching him off guard. Their hands scratched his torso, pinching him hard like mosquitoes and pulling at his body hair roughly.
Their fingers penetrated the back of his shorts to tickle his buttock cleft, fingering his damp hole. The touches were rapid but constant. Tanguy had no escape. The humiliation was a hot, growing wave. Sometimes he didn’t even know whose hands they were.
Precum slicked his thigh as the crowd's clothed bodies pressed against his near-naked flesh, his shame fuelling a rock-hard boner. By dusk, he was quite a sight, his shorts barely clinging and his cock threatening to spill out.
Mid-June arrived. It was time for the annual project conference, which was being held in Lyon this year. It was a four-hour car drive north from Montpellier.
Tanguy sat in the back seat, sandwiched between Marc and Finn. Jaxon drove. They had asked Tanguy to wear the most distressed items he owned, probably the ones he had worn at the May festival in Montcalm: a T-shirt that had been reduced to a vest and a pair of very distressed shorts. He also wore his battered sneakers.
Afraid of being too exposed, he put on the last pair of briefs and socks, thinking he would need them at the conference as well.
Securely locked in the boot of the car was his last pristine outfit: a plain black crew-neck T-shirt and a pair of 11-inch cargo shorts, which he had started wearing cuffed at 9 inches. These were for the official conference with colleagues from all over France. He clung to them as a sailor clings to a piece of driftwood. Despite being almost empty, the backpack felt heavy. It contained the remnants of a life that was gone.
The trip began in silence — a heavy silence that was more terrifying than words could express. Tanguy left Montpellier, heading into the unknown. The car was the next stage of their sadistic game. Jaxon spoke first.
“Tanguy,” he said, looking in the mirror. There was a cruel glint in them. “You want to feel comfortable on this long trip with your doms.”
Anticipating the new humiliation, Tanguy’s heart pounded. He swallowed hard and said nothing. The air in the car was thick. He could feel their gaze undressing his body.
“Take off your shoes,” commanded Jaxon. “You don't want to get the work car dirty.”
Feeling unclean, Tanguy began a process whose outcome he could not yet foresee. His hands trembled. He unlaced his worn-out trainers, which he had stolen from an exhibitionist in the park last February and had mostly worn barefoot since then, and pulled them off.
His last pair of no-show socks were now exposed to his masters' predatory gaze.
“Give them to me,” said Jaxon. Tanguy handed them to him. Jaxon tossed the sneakers under the passenger seat, out of Tanguy’s reach. The car drove on. The silence returned.
Ten minutes later, Jaxon spoke again. “Those shorts. They’re ragged. We’re meeting important people. You don't want to look like a scruff.”
Finn and Marc chuckled. Tanguy's face burned. The excuse was absurd. He knew the request was sinister. He knew they were playing a game and that he was the pawn.
“Take them off, boy,” Jaxon commanded. "You want to get rid of them before we arrive."
Tanguy's hands trembled. He undid the fragile buttons that had snagged. His fingers fumbled. He felt their eyes on him. The shorts slipped down, revealing that he was wearing his last pair of briefs — his very last layer of modesty.
He sat with the shorts in his lap, a pathetic pile that he was using to try and conceal his erection. His penis was already tenting under the thin fabric, leaking a growing wet spot of precum — a betrayal of his mind, wildly excited by the humiliation.
He was thinking that more and more of his body hair was becoming exposed. The tawny hairs on his legs and the coarse reddish hair on his groin. He thought of all the times he had tried to hide it yet longed to be seen.
“Now,” said Jaxon as they passed Avignon, one hour into the ride. “Those pathetic shorts. Tear them up and throw the pieces out. You want to keep the work car clean.”
Dissociating his mind from his hands, Tanguy tore off his shorts, without thinking about what he would wear when they arrived. However, his hands trembled as he struggled to cope with his anxiety. The shorts tore with a wet, brutal sound, reminiscent of the tear in the rear pocket in the conference hall in April. He shredded them.
His fingers moved faster and he gasped for breath like he was running away from something frightening. Jaxon rolled down the rear window and accelerated.
Tanguy obeyed wordlessly, throwing the pieces out of the window. The rags of his modesty were swept away. They disappeared. His old sense of control and tendency to overthink were being erased.
The slow striptease unfolded as the road unravelled beneath the car. Marc requested the T-shirt. He cited the sweat and the heat that Tanguy was radiating. Tanguy's breath hitched.
A primal need rose within him. He wanted to destroy his old self and escape that trap. Instead of taking the shirt off, he grabbed the hem and tore it upwards with a violent shrrrrp. He ripped it from his body.
Finn snatched two strips. “I'll hold on to these,” said Finn possessively. “For later.”
Tanguy sat there, his lean, gleaming torso fully exposed, his chest and light back hair on display. He felt the air on his soft belly and noticed the occasional glance from passing cars. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of other colleagues passing by and seeing him like that.
He said nothing; he just stared out the window. But the dripping hard-on in his briefs pulsated, betraying his big "YES" to that.
Finn wanted Tanguy to take off his socks. "It's unhealthy to keep your feet from breathing. You want to free them now!" he ordered. Tanguy pulled them off.
Jaxon opened the rear window. "You don't want those sweaty rags in the work car," he said.
Tanguy stretched out his right arm in front of Finn and felt his hot breath on his bare forearm. He discarded the socks.
Tanguy was now sweating and naked except for his briefs, with a big stain of precum unmistakably wetting the tip of his stiffening dick. The briefs were last.
"Well, Tanguy," Jaxon whispered triumphantly. "The grand finale. The last vestige. You want to be completely free, don't you?"
His hands shook from the tension between his body, submitted to the order, and his mind, reluctant to that irreversible humiliation. He knew what would happen. The stares. The whispers. The cold eyes.
The elastic caught on his boner, making it slap noisily against his soft belly—an unwanted, embarrassing tease sliding onto the wet dickhead.
Marc and Finn squeezed him further, making it even more difficult for Tanguy to pull the briefs along his legs. He had to lift each foot to free the briefs. Finally, he pulled them off and held them to his groin, feeling truly vulnerable.
He clenched his fist around the fabric, hoping to save them for later. His dick, though, seemed not to respond to his fear. It throbbed, oozing a thick rope of precum onto his bare feet.
"You want to get rid of these rags," Jaxon insisted, opening the rear window again. Tanguy's body obeyed. His mindless hands tore the worn briefs in two, then into more pieces. His fingers were feverish as he consciously destroyed his last pair of briefs on a trip for an important work conference.
He threw the rags out and watched them disappear as Jaxon accelerated on purpose. He felt a moment of pure, raw freedom in his groin and real fear in his gut.
Only then did Finn act. He saw the thick stream of precum oozing from Tanguy's throbbing, hard dick. He used the pieces of the T-shirt he had grabbed earlier. With a knowing glance at Marc, who had immobilized Tanguy, Finn bound his hands behind his back.
"There you go," he said, his voice rough. "No sticky hands. You won't get the car dirty.”
Their fingers teased—light grazes on thighs, balls, shaft—lubed by his copious precum, an agonizing build without release.
Tanguy was now barefoot and naked with his hands bound behind his back. His thick, rock-hard dick glistened, pooling precum on his thighs and bare feet. Unsatisfied, Finn used the last cloth to gag him. There was no way to avoid that public embarrassment. He had just shredded his entire outfit and thrown it out the window onto a public highway during a work trip.
Unsused to being gagged and doped with adrenaline, Tanguy was sweating and drooling on his groin uncontrollably. This made Marc and Finn even more excited. They became even more rude, their fingers pinching and scratching Tanguys's entire body. They spread their clothed legs wide open to further constrain Tanguy’s movements, trapping his naked legs over their laps.
Despite being on full display, his cock stayed hard and dripping for the last two hours of the trip—a betrayal of his reluctant pleasure in public forced humiliation. Such endurance to embarrassment was boring, so they pushed the limits.
They punched his balls and slapped his shaft, giving some hard strokes. They used the mix of his own pre-cum and drool on his bare dickhead. This was an agonizing build without release. He was a prisoner in his own body.
Marc and Finn, his former friends, had been waiting a long time to grope their boy and graze his hairy chest and groin. Jaxon, bolted in the driver's seat, interacted in his own way by opening the windows wide to maximize Tanguy's sense of exposure.
He felt the breeze on his chest and groin. But he also felt the thrill of being seen by other drivers, knowing that some of them might be their colleagues.
Jaxon stopped only at a gas station just behind the conference hotel. There, they allowed Tanguy to exit the car barefoot and naked to retrieve his backpack and change into his last pristine outfit: a black T-shirt and a pair of 11-inch shorts cuffed to 9 inches, paired with his beat-up sneakers. This was the only outfit Tanguy would wear for the two-day conference: definitively commando and without socks.
He felt constant shame and unease for going commando (and without socks) in such a public place, where almost everyone knew him. He tried to be a ghost of his old self, concealing his sense of humiliation and the fragility of his attire with a void smile.
During the first morning coffee break, Tanguy sipped water at a high table, trying to keep a low profile. Yet some colleagues joined him and started teasing him about his attire.
"I see you're still unwinding," said Ryder Beaumont. "You're always wearing the same black T-shirt and shorts as you used to when I was in Montpellier!"
Tanguy turned crimson, but his former colleague, who had moved to work with a new group a few months ago, didn't stop. After months of silent study of Tanguy's attire, he was finally speaking out.
“I know you like to wear the same thing year-round,” he said with his super confident smile and brown hair. "But you still got nothing else to show us?"
Ryder was cruelly teasing Tanguy about his delay on the PhD thesis. This embarrassed him even more. This was the second year of the project, and he still had no results to present. His kink had absorbed too much of his energy, making things even worse. The talented math student was now facing a major academic failure.
"He may be reserved and on delay scientifically, but he's at least ready to be shown naked!" A muscular guy with a rugby player physique teased.
Jaxon joined the table at that moment, sensing the tension.
"I saw you were hot in the car on the way here," the rugby player insisted with a perverted grin, while Tanguy tried to escape the firm hold of Jaxon.
"I was behind your car for a while along the Rhone, before overtaking you in Valence." I recognized you by your hair,” he said. "I had no idea I'd run into you here, but I noticed that you were completely naked at that very moment."
That was too much humiliation for Tanguy, and a tear began to roll down his cheek, burning with embarrassment. However, his hard-aching dick, tenting in his shorts, was leaking too.
Then, the guy dressed in tight denim shorts and a tight T-shirt that showed off his muscles left the table, slapping Tanguy on the crotch as he went by. Tanguy had been publicly busted by his colleagues and even by someone he had never met before. Jaxon heard everything and was satisfied with the progress of Tanguy’s public embarrassment.
On the way back, Jaxon decided to ease up on the risk. He allowed Tanguy to sit in the passenger seat next to him. However, he had to remain naked from the waist down, with his hard-on trapped under the seat belt and his T-shirt. His sneakers and shorts were confiscated by Marc, who threatened to fly them through the window if Tanguy went limp.
To help Tanguy stay committed, Marc teased his nipples and easily slid his hands lower to tease his cock through the T-shirt, which was wet with precum. Finn took his toll, too, removing the laces from the sneakers and keeping them for later. Now that he has gotten used to being barefoot, the worn-out, laceless sneakers felt like a cage to Tanguy when he had them back.
When they arrived in Montpellier, the sun was setting. They dropped him off in front of the lab building where Tanguy had locked his yellow bike. He mounted the bike, his backpack now empty. He was left with only the last outfit and his now laceless sneakers.
As he cycled home, he reflected on the past few days. His world had been shattered by feelings of humiliation, but his mind was drifting toward a new carnal pleasure.
Lost in these thoughts, he turned to Parc Petit bois de la colline, where he often tested new frontiers of his public exposure. There, he tossed off the sneakers in the same place he had stolen them from the exhibitionist in February. In the same place where the thrill ignited, he stepped into a new phase and lost himself.
He biked home barefoot. It was a new level of self-imposed exposure.
The metal pedals felt strange under his feet. He felt passersby staring at him more intensely. The anxiety in his gut built up like a snake of freedom and fear. The old yellow bike guy was gone, unraveled by the kinky one.
The new Tanguy biked home barefoot. He had no more briefs or socks to wear. His wardrobe was increasingly shrinking and distressed. His dick was achingly hard and throbbing, a glorious confirmation that he intimately craved all that. But the exposure wasn't complete yet.
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