A Wet Nightmare
The late spring mornings gave way to a punishing early summer heat: a relentless, dry warmth that baked the apartment in Montpellier’s La Chamberte neighborhood. Tanguy, who would turn twenty-seven soon, woke to the sun’s glare.
His closet had shrunk as his kink for forced exposure in public had grown, a dichotomy he both feared and craved. It held little more than a whisper of his former life: two pairs of black shorts, one torn and distressed, both with cuffed hems pulled ever higher.
Two black crewneck T-shirts with snagged seams and necklines, showing signs of sabotage and wear.
The cheap plastic sandals were his last footwear, protecting his bare soles from the tarmac before he went barefoot definitively. There was also the threadbare white T-shirt that Tanguy stole from an exhibitionist in late February, along with a pair of five-inch tattered split shorts.
He stood before the full-length mirror and examined his increasingly sun-exposed skin. His body was a checkerboard of sun-kissed skin and pale flesh, begging to be set free. He had toned calves and thighs from his daily rides and defined shoulders and chest, but his belly was softened from long hours at the desk, with a faint trail tracing its arc.
He ran a hand over his short, tousled, light brown hair, then down his thick, reddish-brown beard. His soft blue eyes, usually guarded, looked back at him with a mix of dread and something else—a flicker of hungry, unapologetic desire.
Before putting on the T-shirt, he ran his fingers through his chest hair, tracing the tawny hairs and feeling the faint outline of a scar near his left nipple. It was his way of reclaiming his body, in response to the daily public consumption he was provoking.
The scar was from a childhood summer camp where bullies had pushed him against barbed wire, torn his shirt, and pinned him half-naked while laughing. The initial rush of exposure and the sensation of frayed fabric had sparked his kink for public stripping, now a full-blown obsession that ruled his life.
He let his hand drop to the waistband of his distressed, torn shorts. Like all his other clothes, they had been altered by his doms. He thought about how he had slowly unraveled every item of clothing that had not yet been altered, snipping a stitch at a time in the privacy of his apartment. The tiny tears and gaps were just another vulnerability waiting to be exploited.
He turned away from the mirror, sat down at his small table, and pulled out the checkers board—his older passion. The polished wooden pieces—a set he had won in a regional tournament years ago—felt solid and predictable in his hands. He set up the board for a silent game of strategy against himself.
It was his way of attempting to regain order in a life that had become defined by its unraveling. He moved a red piece, then a black one. His mind calculated probabilities and anticipated future moves in a solitary dance of logic.
However, his mind was already corrupted, even in this safe space. He remembered Jaxon's mischievous grin while mowing down the red pawn and Marc's teasing laughter while playing black. The game had finally become another stage for his internal conflict.
He moved a piece with a jerky motion; his concentration was broken. He stared at the board, lost in the storm of his own desires. He was losing, and he knew it. Not to an imaginary opponent, but to the reality of his shattered self-control.
The weekend after the annual conference, Jaxon organized a hike for the four of them—Marc, Finn, Tanguy, and himself at Cirque de Morèze, less than one drive from Montpellier. The afternoon hike began innocently enough.
They chose a secluded trail outside of town that wound through the garrigue, fragrant with thyme and rosemary. The midday sun beat down, and the air shimmered with heat. Tanguy, wearing his most recently distressed shorts and his second-to-last black T-shirt, found himself walking between Jaxon and Marc.
When picking him up outside his house, Jaxon told Tanguy to go back and leave everything except his keys. He didn't need anything else. Tanguy obeyed, as he used to do more and more. "It's just an afternoon hike," he thought.
He joined the others, wearing his usual black uniform: a crewneck T-shirt and buttoned shorts, which he wore commando, along with his thin plastic sandals. He also added his pair of cheap sunglasses. He trusted Jaxon to bring water without even bothering to ask him.
The light conversation was a welcome distraction, but a knot of tension coiled in his gut. He could feel their eyes on him and his shorts, as if they could see through them and his bare body. His T-shirt was begging to be ripped.
He had worked on it in his apartment, pulling stitches here and there to create small gaps waiting to be widened. He could feel the breeze through them, tickling his hair on his torso. His body wasn't private anymore; it was his doms' checkerboard for the exposure he was begging for.
It was an unusually hot afternoon in mid-June, and Tanguy was getting thirsty. They were all regularly drinking from their big iced bottles, but he wasn't.
He cursed himself for not asking and for not wanting to risk it. The last time he was thirsty, they gave him a pint of beer at the Broc Café, and he ended up with tattered clothes.
Jaxon changed the mood with some banter as he walked beside him. "Still rocking the same look as the day we met in January, huh, little boy?" Tanguy hated to be called "little boy" by him, but this taught him submission.
"You know, a grown man has to switch things up a bit. Show a little flair." He said this with a smirk and a predatory gleam in his eyes.
Tanguy shrugged, “It's practical.”
“Practical?” Marc chimed in, walking behind them. "That's what you said about all those gaps? The hair on your torso is peeking through them.”
“You need to decide if you want to cover up or expose that fur of yours,” Finn teased.
Those words hit him like a physical blow. His face flushed, but he kept walking, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. His body, however, reacted. The heat in his gut flared, igniting his stiffening groin. Big beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
He hated that they could do this to him, that their words held so much power. He was a PhD student, a scholar, a man of logic and reason. Yet, in their presence, he was reduced to a raw animal, craving exposure and touch.
Finn reached out the face of Tanguy and tore off the sunglasses, throwing them in a deep crevice they were siding. Tanguy was dazzled by the afternoon light and felt naked, even though the real undressing had yet to begin.
They stopped at a small clearing—a rare patch of shade beneath a towering pine tree. Without a word, Jaxon grabbed the hem of Tanguy's sleeve. Tanguy's breath hitched.
He knew what was coming. This wasn't a question or a request. It was a direct move on the checkerboard of his exposure—a cruel game with only one outcome.
He saw Marc standing behind Jaxon, looking quiet and expectant. Jaxon gave a sharp tug, and the fabric tore. The sound echoed the tearing of Tanguy’s own control. He felt the stressed fabric give way, opening a frayed gap on his shoulder.
With a triumphant laugh, Jaxon pulled the sleeve open around Tanguy's biceps. He tore the flapping rag down his sweating armpits, pulling down along the side seam and stopping just above the bottom hem. This left a wide, gaping hole that exposed the side of Tanguy's soft belly.
Marc did the same on the other side, further fraying the fabric. Then Finn took his turn. He slid his fingers beneath the crew neck and tore to widen the opening around the collarbone to show the top of his chest hair. In an instant, the T-shirt became a tattered, frayed vest, exposing his entire hairy torso from the lightly hairy nipple line down.
"You wanna clean up, bud, huh?" Marc teased.
"Destroy those rags now!" Jaxon added.
With no control over his body, Tanguy picked up the scattered cloths and started fraying them into threads that dispersed in the wind along with his dignity.
The hot, stifling air now felt cool against his skin. The sun, which had been a distant menace, now teased his nipples through the frayed hems. His glistening hair offered no protection; the adrenaline sweat soaked the tattered vest.
His colleagues circled him like players in a game he was excluded from, the game being played on his body. Yet beneath the humiliation, he could feel his heavy, hard dick pressing against the distressed fabric of his shorts, leaking precum. He hated it. He hated them. And he hated himself for wanting more.
"You're drenched," Marc exclaimed, his tone firm and authoritative. "Take it off!" he commanded, his gaze fixed intently on Tanguy, from his eyes to the groin.
Tanguy grabbed the hem of his tattered shirt and pulled it over his head. Hidden by the fabric, he couldn’t see what the others were doing.
He felt a warm stream hit his waistband and run down his buttocks. A second stream hit his side. Once Tanguy was finally free of the shirt, Jaxon grabbed it and used it to dry his cock. He had just pissed on Tanguy, followed by Finn. All the water they have drank was now hydrating Tanguy.
Marc wanted to join them. He unzipped his pants and pulled out his flaccid, girthy meat, pointing it toward Tanguy’s groin. He could feel the warm liquid soaking his bare feet in the sandals and pooling around him. Finn grabbed the shirt and used it to tie Tanguy’s hands behind his back.
"You need to pee, boy," Jaxon commanded.
Tanguy was puzzled because he couldn't drop his shorts with his hands tied. "Let it go," Marc teased. Shirtless and soaked, Tanguy was humiliated and excited by the new exposure.
Emptied of any will, he closed his eyes and dropped on his knees, splashing in the small pool of piss. The sharp pine needles pierced his skin but could not stir him.
Marc continued to piss on Tanguy, his stream now soaking his bare chest. Tanguy lowered his head, letting the stream soak his hair and trickle down his burning back and into his crack. He tilted his head back, opening his mouth wide, trying to quench his thirst.
Marc adjusted the aim, filling Tanguy’s mouth with foamy, warm amber liquid. His reddish-brown, wild, bushy beard was soaked and dripping.
Then he let it go. His hard-on was tenting his shorts, keeping his dick pointed upward. The stream started hesitantly, then grew stronger and skipped from the waistband, where the dick head was trying to peek out. He was always going commando, so the shorts were the only thing covering his modesty.
To push the limits further, Jaxon grabbed the waist button and pulled it open, exposing more of his soft belly. Now, only four buttons contained Tanguy’s throbbing groin.
Completely drenched in piss, Tanguy lingered with his eyes closed, hoping to wake up elsewhere. A wild kick to his balls brought him back to reality, making him gasp as he emerged from a deep dive. He never knew who it was. His hands were free again, the shirt soaked in the puddle of piss, reduced to a dirty rag.
"Stand up! We're going," Marc urged him, the others already on the path.
Tanguy hesitated and picked up his shirt. He squeezed it to drain the urine. He then decided to throw it around his neck and walk the path shirtless with his shorts completely drenched and dripping. At least the piss concealed the precum leaking from his rock-hard boner. They returned to the parking lot at sunset.
"You don't want to make my car dirty, boy," Jaxon intimated when they were ready to climb back in the car. Tanguy didn’t know what to do. Marc reached out for the shirt and tossed it on the ground. Finn used it to scrub his hiking shoes, tearing it further.
Pissed off by the lack of action, Jaxon walked behind Tanguy, grabbed the shorts on the sides, and pulled them down brutally. The buttons on the fly stayed fastened but were snagged dangerously. Tanguy looked down to see the shorts on his feet.
"Go ahead. No dirty attire in my car," Jaxon ordered.
Tanguy stepped out of his shorts and took off his sandals. He stood there like a puppet waiting for instructions. He was barefoot and naked in the parking lot, his dick semi-erect again, his hands lingering on the sides.
Other hikers could arrive at any moment. He felt profoundly humiliated and wanted to cover his dick. But his hands wouldn't have helped because he was sporting a stiff boner, throbbing and leaking precum again.
After an awkward moment of silence, Tanguy reached for his shirt and shorts. He squeezed them dry and shook the dust off his sandals. Then he crumpled everything up. He was tucking away his control and dignity, handing them over to his masters.
Jaxon opened the trunk of the car without saying a word. Tanguy found a dirty plastic bag and put his things in it. He hurried when he heard the car doors close and the engine start. He was afraid they would leave him there. Indeed, Jaxon drove away.
Tanguy stood there, frozen, and his dick got even harder from the embarrassment.
The car circled noisily on the gravel and returned. Marc and Finn were in the backseat. Marc opened the door. Not knowing where to go, Tanguy put a foot inside. They pulled him inside, stretching his bare body across their laps. He stayed like that for the whole trip back.
It felt like an eternity, but it was less than an hour. They turned him from time to time to play with his back or edge his dripping dick. They smeared the precum on his chest and nipples.
They arrived at the city center after it was already late evening. To avoid being too obvious, they rolled him underfoot. He had to crumble into the narrow space and try to hide from the other cars. Marc and Finn lifted their legs and stomped on his body with their dirty hiking shoes. Marc used his shoes to brush Tanguy's boner.
Meanwhile, Finn circled Tanguy's nipple with his left shoe while cleaning the sole of his right shoe on Tanguy’s mouth. This went on for a few minutes. Tanguy was exhausted when they finally arrived at Place des Lilas.
Jaxon stopped the car. Tanguy was still stomping under Marc and Finn's feet. From the noise, he understood that Jaxon had opened the trunk to throw away a plastic bag. "He's throwing out the trash before the collectors come," Tanguy thought stupidly. He hadn't noticed that the only bag in the trunk was the one with his clothes.
Jaxon, just to be a real jerk, even put in the bag the keys he had snagged from Tanguy that morning. Then, he tossed the bag into a small patch of land under the trees in front of Tanguy's building, dangerously close to the trash bin. Indeed, Jaxon was throwing away Tanguy's garbage just before throwing him away too.
Before Tanguy could realize what was happening, the car moved again and stopped down the hill near the high school. Only then did Marc and Finn let Tanguy out, kicking him off their feet. As soon as he was out, Marc shut the door, and they drove away.
Barefoot and naked, Tanguy felt completely dirty and embarrassed. He was petrified, trying to understand what had happened. He hoped the bag Jaxon had thrown away contained his clothes and keys. Surely, now they had thrown him away like garbage, too.
His cock went limp from fear, and he needed to pee again from the adrenaline rush. Mindlessly, he started peeing on himself while running from one spot to another, trying to reach Place des Lilas as soon as possible without being noticed.
Hopefully, it was late evening and the students were not there, as there was never anyone in his area on Sunday nights. His feet ached from running barefoot on the hot tarmac. He wasn't used to doing it on foot and was a little lost.
When he arrived at the familiar square in front of his building, he ran into the bushes and frantically searched for the bag in the dark. He hoped that the garbage collectors had spared it. After searching for a long time, he finally spotted it.
At that moment, he saw the light of a car shining on him. He threw himself on the ground, trying to hide. The dried vegetation scratched his bare skin, teasing his nipples, scrubbing his groin, the bare toes rubbing the dirt.
The car parked in the spot just on the other side of the small boundary hedge. He didn't dare look up for fear of being seen. He couldn't know they were the guys again. They were back to verify if he had made it. After a while, they left.
Tanguy jumped on the bag, tore apart the plastic, and tried to cover himself. He was disgusted to put on those rags that smelled of his master's piss. His hands still trembling, he took the key and went home.
He worked from home next Monday, needing time to recover from the shocking exposure, both physically and mentally. However, his dick throbbed every time he remembered his masters humiliating him and using his body as a checkerboard for their perverted game. Every move pushed the limits irreversibly.
A few days later, on June 7, the Brass Band Festival provided a new stage for Tanguy's exposure. It anticipates Music Day, which celebrates the summer solstice and fills every city and village in France with people and music of every type.
The tradition of brass band festivals in France, particularly in Montpellier, has a carnivalesque atmosphere. These bands, known locally as "fanfares," bring a high-energy mood to the streets, creating a joyful "village festival" vibe.
The "jungle brass" theme in 2025 allowed men to show off their bodies in provocatively ripped costumes, shamelessly celebrating male vitality. That June was hotter than usual, which allowed men to push the exposure even further, especially at night. Montpellier became a sea of a thousand faces, each one a potential witness to Tanguy’s humiliation.
Tanguy joined Jaxon, Marc, and Finn downtown at dusk. The same knot of dread and arousal was in his gut, but this time it was amplified a hundredfold by the sheer size of the crowd. He braved the crowd in an unusual outfit, one of the last he had left.
He wore the threadbare, fragile white shirt and the five-inch, worn-out, split shorts—the attire he had stolen from the exhibitionist in late February.
He wanted to feel like the exhibitionist, but with a much wider audience. He was now permanently going commando, no briefs spared. Captivated by the kink of public exposure, he had discarded his sneakers too, leaving him with only his thin plastic sandals, which he wore barefoot since his masters had requested that he destroy every pair of socks as well.
Finn, the group's observer jock, looked at Tanguy with a teasing smile. "All right, Tanguy. It’s too hot for sandals anyway. Hand 'em over." He gestured with his hand, as if to say, I want them.
Tanguy hesitated. The thought of walking barefoot through this crowd on hot asphalt and broken glass was terrifying. Yet, he knew better not to refuse.
He bent down and untied his sandals. He handed them to Finn, who loosely attached them to the handlebars of Tanguy's yellow bike. Tanguy had just locked the bike next to the main entrance near Beaux-Arts. Anyone could take them, leaving Tanguy barefoot for good. The thrill made his dick tent his shorts visibly, and his armpits sweated from fear.
That stern yet desired command was the final severing of his ties to normality. He stood there barefoot and vulnerable, feeling the hot, gritty ground beneath his soles. His feet, which were usually a source of constant tactile sensation, now felt utterly exposed. It was a new, intense thrill of public exposure that he had not yet dared to experience so publicly.
The festival was a whirlwind of stimuli. The music was a cacophony of different genres. The air was thick with the smells of beer and sweat. The crowd was a physical force, pushing and pulling him in every direction. But Jaxon, Marc, and Finn were even mightier.
They moved him not with words but with physical nudges and shoves, pulling him through the densest parts of the crowd. He was a puppet, and they held his strings. His threadbare white shirt was their current target.
First, Jaxon "accidentally" scraped Tanguy with one of the pointy decorations attached to the pole along the sidewalk. The fabric gaped wide on the right side, exposing his hairy, sweaty armpit. Finn pretended to hold him steady, but he actually pulled on the fragile collar. The seams broke, exposing Tanguy's left shoulder blade, lightly covered in blonde hair.
As darkness increasingly concealed the public scene, the crowd became a booster for his humiliation. People glanced at him, their eyes lingering on his exposed body and the tawny hair peeking out of his ragged-neck shirt.
The feeling of a hundred gazes on him was a powerful drug. He could feel his hard dick throbbing with a frantic, desperate rhythm, wetting the black shorts with continuous pulses of precum. He was no longer a person, but rather an object—a piece of entertainment for the crowd and the anonymous faces within it.
Then came the bold move. During a dance with a fiery rhythm, Jaxon grabbed the last of his shirt and yanked it off, tossing the tattered pieces to the crowd. The shirt, already hanging by a thread, tore completely, leaving Tanguy standing shirtless and barefoot in the middle of the teeming crowd. He was an embarrassed puppet publicly claiming his own unraveling.
The shorts were not spared, either. With the help of some friendly strangers who seemed to be in on the game, Marc and Finn pulled and ripped at the already distressed fabric until it was reduced to ragged cloth barely hanging at the fragile waistband. The split side seams were ripped further open, and the material frayed and hung loosely.
Tanguy was nearly naked in that crowd, freeballing, barefoot, and shirtless, with his groin and coarse hair nearly exposed. He felt a hand—not one of his masters—graze down his ass crack, circle his butthole, and almost penetrate it with a finger. He gasped.
The touch was not accidental; it was a terrifyingly intimate confirmation of his public, forced humiliation.
On the verge of a public scandal, Finn ended the game and escorted Tanguy back to the bike in that pathetic attire. Embarrassed yet excited, with his dick still rock hard in the ragged shorts, Tanguy biked home like that, braving the exposure and concealing himself in the darkness of night.
He rode barefoot, leaving his sandals attached to the handlebars. They clattered with every pedal stroke, like a metronome marking the rhythm of his descent. He was a ghost, a shame-filled apparition on a yellow bike pedaling through the crowded, post-party streets of Montpellier.
He felt the cold air on his bare chest and the sweat from the crowd, which had turned into a chilled sheen on his skin. The torn shorts were a visible mark of his humiliation—both unbearable and deeply arousing.
The thrill of his exposure—of the hundred eyes that had witnessed his public surrender—was a fire in his veins, making his body sweat and his hard dick leak.
He couldn't go home right away. The thought of his empty apartment felt like a trap. As he had done for the past few months, he rode his bike to Parc du petit bois de la colline, a quiet, dark park where he could be alone. He found that the fence was closed at night, but he knew of a way in from the back that crossed the boundary ditch.
He dismounted his bike and hid it in the wet ditch, leaving the sandals attached to the handlebars. He walked through the ditch into the darkness, his bare feet softly splashing in the dirty water. Then, he climbed up the bank, lay down under a big tree, and covered his soft blue eyes with his sweaty forearm, trying to calm the storm in his mind.
Shame and regret were a crushing weight, but the thrill—the savage, animal excitement—was a hurricane he couldn’t outrun.
A car pulled up to the curb, its headlights cutting through the darkness across the fence. Tanguy froze, his heart pounding frantically. He saw Jaxon's familiar, wiry frame step out of the car. The man had followed him. Tanguy’s gut twisted with a mix of fear and shameful anticipation.
Jaxon reached him, the casual cruelty of his gaze glooming through the dark. He sat down next to Tanguy without saying a word, just watching him. The silence was more menacing than any threat could be. Finally, he spoke in a low, teasing growl.
"Still trying to cover up your pathetic modesty, boy? "You want to lose your shorts, now, don't you?"
Tanguy didn't answer. He couldn’t. The words stuck in his throat. He was caught between his innermost desire for forced public exposure and the fear of being stripped completely naked in a public park.
Jaxon leaned in, his voice like a whip cracking. "You know you want it. I could see it in your eyes and the way you walked. I could see it when you didn’t fight back. You want nothing more than to be a public freak, boy."
The words were a direct hit—a brutal truth he had been trying to deny. Tanguy felt a tear roll down his cheek, but he didn't sob. He just stood frozen, a checkerboard waiting for the next move.
With a sharp motion, Jaxon grabbed the waistband of Tanguy’s shorts. He pulled hard, and the last of the seams gave way. His last remaining attire, flung into the ditch, washed away in the vile water. Tanguy was completely naked again, except for the few torn scraps still at home. He lay there in the darkness, exposed and shivering, as a new, visceral wave of humiliation washed over him.
With a satisfied grin, Jaxon brutally stroked Tanguy’s hard, dripping, uncut cock. He pulled back the foreskin and gripped the shaft with his palm and fingers, skin on skin, squeezing the dick head using the precum as lube. When Tanguy was about to cum, Jaxon pulled his hand away and walked back to his car.
Tanguy was left there with his throbbing, aching boner. He understood that he was not allowed to cum without his master's permission. To ease the tension, he started to piss, his hard cock shooting like a fountain onto his body. The stream pooling warmly on his back.
Then a light turned on on a nearby balcony. Overcome with fear, Tanguy slipped back into the ditch like the exhibitionist who had fled in February. His bare sole splashed in the mud as he lingered on Jaxon's last words, a promise of further torment: "You still want to be forced over."
For Jaxon, it wasn't a matter of cruelty. It was a living experiment in behavioral modeling, similar to the ones he and Tanguy were studying. He had watched Tanguy for months, noting the subtle changes: the tiny tears and gaps in his clothes growing wider, the hems of his shorts rising higher. He'd seen the way each piece of attire got shorter, tighter, more distressed.
Tanguy wasn’t a victim; he was a player. Despite his demure attitude and silent shame, he craved the very thing they were giving him.
Jaxon noticed how Tanguy’s body reacted to the humiliation: the flush on his skin, the rapid pulse in his groin, the noticeable bulge in his shorts, and the constant wet spot of precum. It was a beautiful and terrifying thing to behold. A man of logic and reason, a scholar who had built his life on routine and control, was being unraveled by his most primal urges.
Jaxon, the catalyst, felt godlike power and a compulsion to help. He wasn’t just watching; he was creating. He was a scientist of desire, and Tanguy was his masterpiece. Humiliation was not the end goal, but the method. Shame was the fuel for the thrill. Jaxon, with his wiry frame and cruel smile, held the match.
He drove home from the park with the image of Tanguy, stark naked and broken like a puppet, burned into his mind. He couldn't wait for the next step in the process. The office, the place of Tanguy’s greatest academic pride, would be the next stage.
It would be the perfect final humiliation—a public spectacle he was proud to have created.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
