Caged in the Kink
Spring was coming to an end, yet it already felt like the hottest summer. As the temperature outside and inside him rose, Tanguy felt an urge to finish the unraveling of his attire. Others called him the "yellow bike guy" because of the bright bike he rode in black shorts year-round. Tanguy Rougey, a reserved Ph.D. student in Montpellier, was playing a checkerboard game of dominance, driven by his secret kink for forced public exposure.
Since January, he had submitted to his new predatory colleague, Jaxon, who had fueled the camaraderie of his former friends, Marc and Finn. They summoned him to public places and commanded him to remove and destroy his clothing, piece by piece.
Tanguy committed to the game, secretly unraveling his wardrobe and igniting a thrilling shame that reshaped his controlled life into one of raw, public surrender. His minimalist wardrobe still provided enough coverage to protect his modesty, but he craved being forced to expose himself more in public.
On that last Monday of mid-June, the morning sun brutally shone through the wide-open window of Tanguy’s apartment. He woke with a gasp; the remnants of the weekend lingered as a phantom ache in his chest and a raw feeling on his skin. He stood before the mirror and a new reality stared back at him.
His last black T-shirt, which he had meticulously sabotaged, and his distressed shorts — now little more than a joke — were the only clothes he had, aside from a severely ragged pair of T-shirt and shorts. He practically went barefoot in his pathetic plastic sandals, the last protection he felt compelled to keep to save his soles in the hot weather.
The city, which was usually his favorite provocative stage, now felt like a predatory beast with a thousand eyes watching and judging him. He biked with his head down in a futile attempt at modesty. He could feel the eyes of strangers bearing down on him like a crushing force, threatening to buckle his knees.
He arrived on campus, locked his yellow bike in front of the MEC research lab building, and moved toward the entrance. The polished glass doors were a cruel reflection of his ruined state.
The night before, Jaxon sent him a message: "Starting tomorrow, you'll leave your sandals at the entrance. You want to stay barefoot in the office.”
He pushed the door open and kicked his sandals into the corner near the entrance. The cool air from the air conditioner hit him, feeling like a shock after the heat outside. The sound of his bare feet on the dirty linoleum floor echoed loudly in the quiet academic space. Slap, slap, slap. Each step was a submission to his masters, a surrender to his secret kink.
He walked past his colleagues' offices to reach his own at the end of the corridor. It was a forced parade in his academic environment. Some of them gave him a distracted, quick look, then turned away. It was an acknowledgment. A silent, nonverbal declaration that they saw him. All of him. His torn clothes. His bare feet. His complete and utter public humiliation. He could feel their gazes piercing his skin like a thousand silent icy arrows.
He saw Jaxon sitting at his desk with a cruel, triumphant smirk on his face. Marc gave him a quick nod that said, "I see you. I know."
He saw Finn, who simply looked at him, his gaze unreadable, acting as a silent accomplice in his public degradation.
Tanguy walked to his desk, the farthest one in the room. He kept his head down as his bare feet touched the cool, polished metal of the desk, a feeling that was intimately sensual. He could sense the blood rushing in his head and his dick, mixing shame and thrill.
He used to be a scientist focused on transforming farmers' behavior into mathematical models. But in that moment, he was nothing more than a checkerboard for his colleagues' public game, incapable of controlling his own behavior. And he liked the thrill intimately.
The morning dragged on, an agonizingly slow play. Tanguy sat at his desk, using his laptop screen as a shield against his colleagues' inquiring gazes. The rustle of paper, the click of keyboards, the low hum of conversation—each sound sounded to him like an accusation or judgment of his visible shame. He was unable to work; his mind was clouded by regret and desire.
He felt the cold air on his bare soles and the coarse fabric of his shorts rubbing against his hairy thighs and crotch, fueling an urge for further exposure and embarrassment.
In the late afternoon, the sky outside turned an angry, bruised shade of purple. A sudden, violent gust of wind rattled the windows. The hum of conversation in the office quieted and was replaced by a low rumble of thunder. Then, the storm broke. In this region, they call this sudden, heavy storm a cévenol event, a burst of Mediterranean energy that comes without notice.
A furious hailstorm slammed against the windows. The deafening roar of the hail drowned out all other noise, like a relentless drumming. The sky flickered white as lightning tore through the dark clouds. The outside world was now a chaotic, brutal blur. What had been a place of quiet work was now a cage of shame for Tanguy in a raging sea.
"Tanguy," Jaxon said sharply and demandingly.
He stood at the front of the shared office, a laser pointer in his hand, and gestured to the projection screen.
The image on the screen was a simple graph of data on "The Economics of Public Behavior." But the subtitle, written in bold, mocking letters, read differently: "The Tanguy Rougey Model of Public Forced Exhibitionism."
Tanguy's blood ran cold. His name. His research. His shame. All of it was a cruel, public mockery. He looked at his colleagues' faces, which showed a mixture of amusement and professional curiosity.
They weren't just watching; they were judging. They studied his humiliation and unraveling as if they were scientific phenomena.
"Come on, Tanguy," Finn said in a bantering hiss. "The floor is yours. You finally want to show us your unashamed results.
Tanguy's hands were shaking. He rose from his desk, his bare, sweaty feet making a soft squeak on the floor. The storm outside was a roaring cacophony, mirroring the chaos in his mind. He walked to the front of the room, his body fragile and exposed.
He could feel his colleagues' eyes on him, on the torn fabric of his tattered shirt and the ragged shorts that barely covered him. The shorts gaped dangerously at the fly, threatening to reveal his groin.
He felt their gazes on his chest and legs and on his exposed, leaking boner, barely concealed by the shorts.
He stood at the front of the room and looked at the screen. His name was displayed alongside the cruel, mocking title that treated him as a study object. He tried to speak, but the words were a painful knot in his throat. He looked at Jaxon and Finn.
Their faces were masks of professional cruelty. He felt a shameful jolt of arousal at that utterly public embarrassment. The shame was overwhelming, but the thrill was even stronger.
Then, Marc stepped forward, his eyes blazing with a vicious cruelty. He grabbed Tanguy’s pathetic, ragged shirt and pulled. “We need a physical contribution, Tanguy,” he said in a sharp, chilling command. “The theory needs evidence.”
Tanguy’s heart hammered against his ribs. He knew what was coming. Marc pulled firmly and unapologetically, and the last piece of torn fabric gave way. The flimsy piece of fabric fell to the floor, leaving Tanguy naked except for his shorts.
Dizzy and blinded by the projector beam, he stood there, his tawny, coarse hair visible on his bare torso. A hairy trail traced his soft belly down to the bush on his groin, barely concealed by the shorts he had unfastened just moments before when his shirt still covered them.
Finn smirked as he took a marker and walked to the whiteboard. "For the final variable, we need to see the physiological response," he said, his voice laced with cruel amusement.
"The data, Tanguy. We need to see the graph." He pointed the marker at the board, and then slowly pointed it at Tanguy's groin.
"Demonstrate the rising curve of arousal, Tanguy. Show us the data and the growth curve."
A wave of cold nausea washed over Tanguy. He was a scientist, but he was also an animal. In that moment, he was nothing more than a living, breathing piece of data. He was the subject. He was the experiment. He was forced into public humiliation.
He raised a shaking hand and began to present, his voice little more than a pathetic whisper. "The Tanguy Rougey Model of Public Forced Exhibitionism," he stammered, his eyes darting from the screen to the faces of his colleagues. The storm raged outside, providing a roaring soundtrack to his final public descent.
"It begins with subtle acts of humiliation. Small gaps in a T-shirt. A pair of shorts with the hem folded up the thighs..."
Tanguy stirred abruptly in his stifling apartment. His lean body, slick with sweat and sticky fluids, was sprawled across a bare mattress under the moonlight that flooded in through the open window.
The quiet streets of Place des Lilas and La Chamberte lay below. He’d chosen this raw exposure, embracing vulnerability even in the soft hush of night. His shutters were always wide open, and he had thrown away every curtain from day one (including the one in the shower), offering passersby a clear constant view of his intimacy.
His chest rose with uneven breaths. His soft blue eyes flickered open wide and searched the dimness. The nightmare clung to him, vivid and cruel. He was in an office during a storm. Hail pounded the windows like accusations. Jaxon’s sneering title glowed on the screen: “The Tanguy Rougey Model of Public Forced Exhibitionism.”
His colleagues' stares sliced through him as his shirt was torn away and his shorts were ripped open, baring his throbbing arousal to all. Betrayal pulsed through his body, caught between terror and thrill, the kink wrapping tightly around his core and whispering its relentless hold.
It was just a wet nightmare, but its erotic grip refused to fade. Tanguy sat up and felt the mixture of fresh cum from the nightmare tangled with crusted precum from last night’s music festival coating his groin.
He struggled to remember last night. Exhausted from the extreme public exposure, he had slept on the floor like Jaxon had left him in the park—barefoot, naked, and covered in precum and piss. His body was a chaotic mess of smeared fluids, matted hair, and the sharp tang of sweat, each sensation amplifying his body awareness.
The thrill and embarrassment had probably unleashed his ultimate fantasy of a new work day pushed to the extreme.
Eventually, sleep was impossible; the phone glowed “3:17” a.m. He also saw that Jaxon's message was real: starting tomorrow, he had to stay barefoot in the office.
His cyclist's tan was fading where his shirts and shorts used to shield it. His tousled, hazel hair was dirty and his thick, reddish beard was rough under his fingers. It framed a face etched with conflict.
His soft blue eyes traced his form—blonde hair like a teasing whisper on his thighs and coarser trails connecting his soft belly to his groin, where his thick, uncut shaft throbbed and leaked again replaying the recent episodes of public forced exposure.
The shrinking wardrobe was a tribute to his dedication to Jaxon’s challenge: the complete unravelling of his closeted life. Months ago, when the first pair of briefs and socks met their end in the cafeteria trash, he sealed his vow to buy nothing new and accelerate the exposure. No new items were allowed; only irreversible forced embarrassment.
Captivated in the descent, he accelerated his unraveling, pulling threads in solitary rituals to invite mishaps, exposures, and public humiliations. He had fully embraced the ENM kink—there was no turning back. His body thrilled at the surrender, and his fingers constantly itched to snag and break free every remaining thread.
A quick, proud check confirmed his progress. He was left with only two outfits.
One black T-shirt, slowly and quietly ripped, showed his collarbone and the top of his hairy chest and neck. The shirt matched a pair of shorts that were snagged at the seams. He had been wearing them commando since the last pair of briefs was destroyed on the trip to the annual conference weeks ago.
As a risky backup, Tanguy was left with a frayed, sleeveless T-shirt with deep armholes and shorts with wide tears climbing high on the thighs; both were ruined during the hike a few days ago.
The only footwear was a pair of worn-out, thin sandals. Nothing else was left.
Braving one of his taboos—keeping the clothes clean and wearing them only after a shower—he slipped into the tattered sleeveless T-shirt and shorts, his body still dirty from the night before. He wanted to feel like garbage.
His clumsy morning movements caught on the fabric, tearing the back of the T-shirt open and further exposing his shoulder blades. His dirty foot got caught in the shorts, tearing the crotch and thinning the already threadbare fabric.
Without underwear, the shorts sagged dangerously low; with every shift, the gaps risked exposing his cock and balls. Driven by obsession, his fingers snagged another thread on the T-shirt’s hem, unraveling it further. Then he tugged at the shorts’ waistband, fraying it to increase the exposure.
His T-shirt hung loosely, the deep armholes baring his arm hair. He stepped into the tattered sandals, but immediately kicked them off, remembering Jaxon's new order despite he was still at home.
Dawn was still hours away, the sky still dark.
Tanguy dared a barefoot bike ride to clear his mind, the thrill of exposure pulling him out. For added risk, he peeled off the T-shirt, tossing it at his feet and trampling it, remaining shirtless, his tawny chest and soft belly bare to the night.
He crept downstairs, his sweaty soles slapping the cool concrete steps. He unlocked his bike and went out, mounting again his yellow city bike, the sharp edges of the pedals grounding him as the cool air washed over his feet. His heart raced as he pedaled through La Chamberte, the tattered shorts his only cover, their frayed seams rubbing his thighs, the gaping buttoned fly teasing his leaking boner.
Excited by the thrill of being in public with only a pair of tattered shorts covering him, Tanguy began teasing his asshole on the narrow saddle, thinning the fabric at the crotch. The wind swept across his chest, tightening his nipples and tickling his tawny back hair.
The fading darkness sharpened his senses, every brush of fabric or breeze amplifying his arousal. Precum seeped through the shorts, the damp spot spreading as the excitement of being almost naked outdoors, making him moan softly into the night.
Tanguy aimed for the banks of the river Lez, cutting through the city. He passed the Corum, its silhouette looming, then reached Parc Rimbaud. The park was locked, so he headed to the opposite river bank across the Garigliano bridge.
The wide road’s streetlights casted long beams on the almost naked cyclist, the bright glow made him visible from afar. Fear prickled his skin, but the thrill pushed him on. He accelerated, trying to escape the kink that was trapping him from inside.
He reached the Bishop’s Mill Footbridge, its stairs descending through bushes to the water. He tried the first stairs, bare soles slipping on damp wood, but the creeping dawn—pale light edging the horizon—made him feel too exposed.
Heart pounding from the effort and from the thrill, he crossed back over the footbridge and pedaled along Mediterranean Avenue, where a narrow path led directly to the riverbank. He dismounted, the cool, sandy soil soft under his soles, grounding his racing pulse.
A wave of arousal hit, sweat dripping on his back down the ass crack, his cock grinding against the shorts’ buttoned fly.
Taken by the urge, Tanguy pushed the shorts down. They pooled at his ankles, with a button that popped out. His body was now fully barefoot and naked, the stiff boner pulsing free, balls sweaty in the cool air.
He stepped into the shallow Lez, the cold water shocking his skin, cooling the heat in his groin. His toes sank into the muddy bottom, the sensation raw and grounding, but the rising sun stirred fear—someone could see him, a naked figure in the open.
He scrambled back to the bank, grabbing the shorts and tugging them on, the fabric catching and tearing further, the crotch now a gaping hole barely covering his groin. His fingers, compulsive, snagged another thread, widening the split, his cock’s base peeking through as he mounted the bike.
An early-morning jogger passed, eyes widening at Tanguy’s near-nakedness, the torn shorts revealing his bushy groin. Tanguy’s heart raced, but he didn’t cover up—instead, he pulled another thread, the shorts sagging lower, his cock nearly slipping free. The risk was electric, his body trembling with need to break free completely and irreversibly.
He rode toward Place des Lilas, the city waking up around him—cars humming, pedestrians glancing. A delivery worker whistled, eyeing Tanguy’s hairy chest and tattered shorts, the exposure pushing him to the edge of climax.
Back home, he finally showered, the water rinsing the mess but not the inner storm. The ragged T-shirt and shorts he wore in the night were definitively unusable: he tossed them in the garbage.
Finally, he was left with the one outfit: the last T-shirt and shorts slowly unravelled were the last frontier to brave. His awkward movements tore them further, the absence of underwear made each crotch tear dangerously revealing. Insatiable and captivated by the obsession, his fingers lingered, snagging threads obsessively and unraveling the sides of the T-shirt and the hem of the shorts, each pull feeding his kink's hunger.
The office was quiet, summer having thinned its ranks. He locked his bike and kicked off his tattered sandals—Jaxon’s rule demanded bare feet, and Tanguy took it a step further by removing them outside. Although he had gradually accustomed his colleagues to his freaky behavior, he felt awkward walking barefoot in the workplace.
At his desk, the laptop hummed with data, but his focus slipped. His fingers snagged a stitch in the back of the T-shirt, his obsession drove him to unravel more.
The morning dragged on. Marc burst in with a sharp grin, his eyes raking over Tanguy's T-shirt and shorts. "Campus freak in rags, begging to be stripped."
His words cut deep. He leaned in and pinched the fabric of the T-shirt, ripping the back tear wider to bare more skin. Tanguy flushed and his body tensed as the air hit his exposed back. Marc’s hand grazed the split in his shorts, brushing his thigh and sparking heat.
“Leaking? Let’s wreck these.” He tugged at the crotch, the threads snapping and the gap threatening to expose his lack of underwear. Tanguy confirmed his submission by tugging the fabric further, his balls now barely concealed by the threadbare crotch.
The afternoon brought colleagues' cruelty. On his way back from the cafeteria after lunch, they seized his tattered sandals near the yellow bike. They brutally tore off the side and keeper straps, leaving only the front strap. The sandals were reduced to severely tattered remnants, like utterly ragged slippers. They tossed the sandals into the nearby bushes.
"You'd better search for your sandals, boy," Jaxon sneered at Tanguy when back in the office. "You'll need them to protect your soles this summer, but they'll show your shame."
In a further act of submission, Tanguy stood up and went out, barefoot, to retrieve the sandals and tugged the last loose strap, accelerating their complete ruin.
He showed the humiliating scraps through the windows from which his colleagues were monitoring him, to demonstrate Jaxon his voluntary submission. Then, he tossed the sandals again near the bike, taking the risk that anyone could either trash them or take them away. His sweaty dirty feet slid on the linoleum when he crossed the aisles to reach his desk again.
As Tanguy continued to crunch data for his PhD thesis, the shadows grew longer, casting a shadow over his concerns about the delays he was accumulating on the program.
The masters had left long ago, but not their control over Tanguy. The text arrived late in the afternoon, buzzing against his thigh like a command he couldn't ignore. "Beaux-Arts Square at dusk. Wear the rags. You'll finish what you started before I leave."
The message was from Jaxon, the wiry catalyst whose mischievous grin had first sensed Tanguy's hidden desire in January. Jaxon had transformed friendly banter into dominance, reshaping Tanguy's life. Jaxon's six-month visit was ending, and he wanted to wrap things up.
Tanguy arrived as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the square's bustling crowd—students lounging on benches, couples strolling under the green canopy of trees, the air thick with the scent of street food and distant brass bands echoing from the recent festival's aftermath.
He locked his bike near the entrance on the main road and kicked off his tattered sandals. His bare feet immediately registered the warm grit of the pavement. The exposure was acceptable in the fading light. But the renewed vulnerability made his heart race. Passersby glanced down. Their clothed attire was a stark contrast to his fraying edges.
Jaxon, Marc, and Finn came out of the crowd. Their neat, casual attire—buttoned shirts, fitted jeans, and clean sneakers—made Tanguy's messy condition stand out even more.
Jaxon's eyes gleamed with that familiar predatory intensity, scanning Tanguy's body like a checkerboard ready for the final moves.
"Look at you, boy," he murmured, close enough for his breath to brush Tanguy's ear, "still clinging to those threads like they mean something. But you want them gone, don't you?"
Marc chuckled, his jovial tone edged with cruelty, while Finn observed silently, his sporty build exuding quiet authority. They pulled him into the square's flow, not with force but with guiding nudges—Jaxon's hand on his lower back, Marc's fingers grazing his hip—leading him through the thinning daylight crowd where exposure felt risky but not overt, the gathering dusk promising concealment.
The unraveling began innocently, a slow burn that mirrored Tanguy's burning torment. As they wandered toward a quieter corner near the trees, Jaxon "accidentally" snagged the frayed neckline of Tanguy's T-shirt on a low-hanging branch, tugging just enough to widen the gap, exposing more of his collarbone and the top of his chest hair.
Tanguy felt the cool evening air kiss his skin, a shiver running down his spine as a nearby group of students glanced over, their whispers lost in the ambient hum but their eyes lingering on the tear.
"Oops," Jaxon said with mock innocence, his fingers lingering to pull a loose thread, unraveling a small section along the shoulder seam. Tanguy's breath hitched, his cock stirring beneath the shorts, the humiliation as a live wire igniting his arousal.
He didn't resist; instead, his own fingers twitched, subtly snagging another thread in a compulsive act of self-sabotage, widening the shoulder gap to reveal the curve of his armpit and the blonde hairs there.
Marc noticed, grinning as he leaned in during a pause near a bench. "You're helping us now, huh? Good boy."
He gripped the opposite shoulder and pulled slowly, the fabric giving with a soft rip, exposing symmetric glimpses of Tanguy's torso—his soft belly's faint trail visible in flashes as the shirt sagged.
The pace dragged deliberately, each tear a prolonged agony of exposure. They moved deeper into the square, the crowd's density providing fleeting brushes—clothed arms grazing Tanguy's bare patches, amplifying his vulnerability.
Finn, ever the observer, took his turn next, his hand slipping under the hem during a pretend stumble, fingers tracing the tawny hair on Tanguy's lower back before tugging upward, ripping a vertical slit from hem to mid-back. The shirt now hung like a tattered vest, the sides gaping to reveal his hairy flanks and the occasional peek of nipple as he shifted.
Tanguy's face burned as his soft blue eyes darted around, avoiding the stares of onlookers. A group of his fellow students slowed to gossip, their familiar faces judging his exposure. But the dimming light softened the scrutiny, turning obvious exposure into teasing hints.
His erection throbbed painfully in his shorts. The precum spot grew as Jaxon teased, "Feel that breeze on your fur? Imagine when it'll be all exposed.”
Tanguy moaned softly, his hands betraying him again, pulling at the front hem to fray it further, exposing the top of his navel trail.
As twilight deepened, veiling the square in shadows, they targeted the shorts. The group settled on a secluded bench under the trees, the crowd's edges blurring into night, providing credible cover for the escalation.
Marc started, his warm hand sliding into the gaping crotch during a casual lean, fingers brushing Tanguy's balls—commando as always—before pulling a thread, widening the split to expose a glimpse of his hairy balls.
"No briefs to save you now," he whispered, squeezing lightly, drawing a gasp from Tanguy.
The touch was electric, his cock leaking freely, the fabric damp and clinging. Finn joined, his fingers methodical, snagging the side seams and ripping slowly upward, the splits climbing to reveal the curve of his ass cheeks.
Tanguy, lost in the haze, contributed compulsively, tugging the waistband until threads snapped, the shorts sagging low on his hips, pubic hair peeking over the top.
Jaxon's final move was deliberate: he gripped the fly's remaining buttons and popped them one by one, each snapping a thunderclap in Tanguy's mind, the front gaping wide to expose his erect cock briefly before he shifted.
In the gathering darkness, exposure remained plausible—full nudity was concealed by shadows, but arousal was fueled by the thrill of near-discovery from distant passersby.
The trio stepped back, admiring their work.
"Finish it, boy," Jaxon commanded, his voice a velvet blade.
Tanguy's hands trembled as he pulled the last threads— the T-shirt shredding completely, falling in rags to the ground; the shorts giving way with a final rip, pooling at his feet. He stood barefoot and naked, his lean cyclist's body fully exposed—tawny chest hair glistening with sweat, soft belly heaving, uncut cock erect and dripping, balls hanging heavy.
The night darkness cloaked him just enough, turning his forced exhibition into a shadowy spectacle; a few late strollers glanced curiously but moved on, their clothed indifference heightening his humiliation. He exhibited there, hands at his sides, erection pulsing under their gaze, the kink consuming him in waves of shame and ecstasy.
The unraveling was complete. Tanguy had finally destroyed all of his clothes, definitively submitting to public embarrassment and exposure.
This made him explode, as he had been edged for six months. The thick ropes of cum erupted onto his closely cropped hair, his reddish-brown beard, and his tawny, hairy chest. He kept his soft blue eyes wide shut to fully experience the exposure and commit the moment to his memory.
Finally released, abandoned by his masters, Tanguy retrieved his bike, mounting it barefoot and naked, the saddle's point pressing insistently against his asshole as he pedaled homeward through the darkened streets. He rode through boulevards—Pasteur, Henri IV, Laverune—passersby staring, their neat clothes mocking his hairy, exposed body, blonde legs pumping, cock leaking for the extreme freedom and definitive exposure.
The wind whipped against his bare skin, drying the cum on it. His cock was erect again, leaking trails of precum down his thigh. Streetlights cast fleeting illuminations, risking glimpses from cars or pedestrians, but the late hour kept encounters sparse, making his exposure a worthy midnight thrill. His mind raced with realization—his wardrobe obliterated and his body surrendered—as the arousal gradually turned to regret.
Halfway home, near the quiet edges of La Chamberte, Finn's car pulled alongside, headlights dimmed. The older postdoc stepped out, his sporty frame clothed in a simple shirt and jeans, holding a bundle of worn-out clothes—a faded gray T-shirt and baggy shorts, threadbare from use but offering basic modesty.
"For your sake, Tanguy," Finn said flatly, his eyes tracing the naked form with detached authority.
"Can't have you distracted forever. Focus on that thesis."
He tossed the clothes over, then produced a small metal chastity cage, cold and unyielding. Kneeling swiftly, Finn locked it onto Tanguy's cock patiently waiting for it to go limp, the click echoing in the night as the device confined him, restricting any release.
"I'll keep the key," Finn murmured, pocketing it with a faint smile.
“This is for your head,” Finn said, voice firm but calm. “You’re a scholar, Tanguy. Finish your work. No release, no distractions—just focus. You’re mine to keep in line, clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Tanguy said, the cage a heavy weight, his submission complete. Finn patted the caged groin, firm, then left.
For eighteen months, Tanguy stayed caged, the cockring and metal a daily reminder, his hairy body tense under Finn’s clothes.
Tanguy’s kink didn’t vanish—it burned quietly, pulling him into the night. Under the cover of darkness, he’d slip in the large ditch surrounding Parc Petit Bois de la Colline, the accessible pocket of nature near his apartment in La Chamberte. He’d kick off Finn’s tight shirt and shorts, the fabric chafing his hairy body, and stand barefoot on the cool, damp earth, grounding his internal fire.
His thick, uncut cock, locked in the chastity cage Finn had clamped on months ago, throbbed uselessly, the metal biting as he exposed himself to the shadows. The jagged scar by his left nipple—a mark from a childhood summer camp where bullies tore his shirt on barbed wire, laughing as he stood half-naked—ached, a reminder of the thrill that fueled his obsession with public exposure.
One humid July night, Tanguy stood at the park’s edge, the city’s hum distant. He peeled off the shirt, letting it fall into the dirt, and shimmied out of the shorts, his blonde leg hair bristling in the cool air. Barefoot naked, he stepped deeper into the trees, his heart racing for the thrill. A rustle in the bushes made him freeze, his breath catching, but it was just a stray cat.
“You’re losing it, Tanguy,” he muttered to himself, voice shaky, fingers grazing the scar, the old sting of being seen alive in his skin. He lingered, letting the darkness wrap around his hairy body, cock straining against the cage, a mix of shame and need pulsing through him.
Regularly going at the MEC lab, the cage forced a strange clarity. Tanguy sat at his desk, Finn’s tight shirt clinging to his tawny chest, the shorts rubbing his hairy thighs. His bare soles, toughened from months of enforced bareness in the thin sandals, pressed against the cool linoleum, grounding him as he typed. His thesis on behavioral economics sharpened, data aligning as he worked late, the office quiet except for the hum of his laptop.
Colleagues’ whispers—about his ragged appearance, his barefoot habit—faded as his focus grew, each breakthrough tied to the cage’s restraint, a painful anchor keeping his kink in check.
One evening, Marc burst into the office, his jovial grin now sharp. “Still caged, freak?” he said, leaning close, his breath warm on Tanguy’s neck.
“Jaxon’s gone, but you’re still our toy, aren’t you?” Tanguy’s cheeks flushed, the scar tingling as his cock twitched in the cage.
“I’m working, Marc,” he said, voice low, trying to sound firm.
Marc laughed, grabbing Tanguy’s shoulder, fingers digging into the tight shirt. “Work all you want, but you’re dying to be seen. Admit it, boy.”
Tanguy’s throat tightened, shame warring with desire. “I… I need to finish,” he stammered, but Marc’s hand slid down, brushing the shorts’ seam, grazing the cage.
“Good boy,” Marc said, stepping back.
“Keep it locked. Finn’s orders.” Tanguy nodded, admitting the presence of the cage as a reversal exposure, his fingers trembling as he returned to his data, the numbers a lifeline against his urges.
By summer 2026, Tanguy’s research deepened, exploring new models of farmer behavior, each equation a small victory.
He’d slip out at night, unable to resist the pull of exposure. One August evening, he biked to the river Lez, stripping naked on the Bishop’s Mill Footbridge, the cool water lapping at his soles. He stood, hairy body bared, the cage glinting in the moonlight, his soft blue eyes scanning for onlookers. A distant jogger paused, staring, and Tanguy’s heart pounded, but he didn’t cover up.
“Let them see,” he whispered, fingers grazing the scar on his nipple. He dressed quickly, the tight shorts chafing his blonde leg hair, and pedaled home, the cage keeping his arousal trapped.
In November 2026, Finn called Tanguy to the office’s break room, his small, muscular frame tense, hazel eyes piercing.
“You’re close to finishing, Tanguy,” he said, voice calm but firm, leaning against the counter. “But you’re still sneaking out, exposing yourself. Think I don’t know?” Tanguy froze, his tawny chest heaving under the tight shirt.
“I… I’m trying, sir,” he said, voice breaking.
Finn stepped closer, his compact shoulders squared, fingers tapping the cage’s key in his pocket. “Trying’s not enough,” he said. “This cage stays on until you defend. You’re a scholar, not a slut. Prove it, or I’ll tighten it until you can’t think straight.”
Tanguy nodded, the cage’s weight heavy, his soles shifting on the linoleum.
“Yes, sir,” he said, the words a surrender, his mind sharpening under Finn’s control.
He returned to his desk, diving into his thesis, the data flowing as the cage held his desires in check. Colleagues noticed his focus, their glances softening, his barefoot state now just part of the lab’s odd rhythm.
On December 15, 2026, Tanguy defended his PhD in a small lecture hall at the University of Montpellier. He stood in Finn’s tight black shirt, the fabric stretching over his tawny chest, the shorts hugging his hairy thighs, the cage hidden but pressing against his groin. His voice was steady as he presented his behavioral models.
The committee nodded, impressed, their questions sharp but fair. Tanguy answered with precision, the cage grounding him, his mind free of the haze that had plagued him. When they approved his thesis, he exhaled proudly.
Afterward, he biked home through Boulevard Pasteur, the city alive with holiday lights. At his apartment, Tanguy stood before the mirror, peeling off the shirt and shorts.
His body was a map of his journey: broad shoulders sloping to toned arms, blonde hair dusting them; a tawny chest matted with sweat, nipples tight; a soft belly quivering above a blonde trail to his bushy groin, the cage glinting, cock straining; strong legs shimmering with blonde hair, soles raw and gritty.
The scar by his nipple stood out, a mark of the childhood shame that had shaped him, now quieted by Finn’s control. He touched it, his fingers lingering, then stepped onto his balcony, naked but for the cage, the night air cool on his hairy skin.
Finn’s voice came from the doorway, startling him.
“You did it, Tanguy,” he said, leaning against the frame, his small frame radiating quiet power.
“PhD’s yours. But you’re still mine.” He held up the cage’s key, eyes hard. “Keep sneaking out, and I’ll know. This stays for another six months. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Tanguy said, voice soft, the cage a heavy anchor. Finn tossed him a new shirt and shorts, slightly looser but still tight, chafing his hairy body. “Wear these. No more stunts,” Finn said, turning to leave. “You’re a scholar now. Act like it.”
Tanguy nodded, slipping into the clothes, the fabric rough against his tawny chest. Alone, he biked to Parc Petit Bois one last time, the night deep and quiet. He stripped again, standing naked, soles sinking into the earth, the breeze teasing his hairy body, the cage holding him in check.
His PhD a hard-won victory shaped by submission, forever marked by his unraveling.
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