The Urge

I have an urge. An urge to torment, to humiliate, to bully.

Ever since school, seeing those dweebs in the changing rooms with their tighty whitie-clas backsides stuck out towards me, the blinding fabric hugging their backsides in such an inviting way, I’ve felt that urge. It was as if the underwear themselves was begging to be tugged, pulled, hoisted upwards. And I always give in to that urge. Always.

I don’t know what I prefer more when I wedgie someone. The pain I inflict, or the humiliation that comes with it.

When I wedgie a nerd, I make sure it hurts. I have perfected my technique over the years to make sure it is as agonising as possible. I go for the waistband first, for a two-handed yank. This is just as much to assert my dominance and control over them as it is to make it as painful as possible. I pull up hard and fast, using the bend in my legs to give myself added lift as I straighten up. The nerds will always struggle at the first yank, but by then its too late. I’m in control.

I hold the first tug for a few seconds before getting into my rhythm. I prefer the slow, repeated tugs upwards over and over, hiking the underwear up higher and higher with each small tug. The nerd at this point realises his fate and stops fighting back, left to just plead and whine as I floss their backside, turning their most intimate item of clothing into a weapon against them. The next few minutes are spent making sure the waistband is as high as it can possibly go. The nerd can feel the burning sensation in his buttcheeks constantly, never letting up and only becoming fiercer. Then I move to the leg holes.

The leg holes at this point have been stretched, but not enough to cause any rips or tears in the seams. Plenty of time to change that, though. I enjoy this part of the wedgie the most, as I swap my grip from a pull to a pushing motion with the underhanded grip on the leg holes. I bunch the tighty whities together as tightly as possible, as if I’m trying to turn the dweeby underwear into a thong. Which, to some extent, is exactly the plan.

With the first forceful push upwards, I always get the nerd onto their tip toes. There is no rhythm for the nerd to prepare for, just pure unadulterated agony as more cotton slices between their legs. Their crotch becomes squeezed and crushed by the minimal fabric remaining there, the rest beginning its journey around the back to try and make up for all the yanking I’m doing, but that merely gives more to work with.

By the second push, I have them off the ground. I hold them in the air briefly and let gravity do my work, before letting them drop back down. I must save my strength for the finale, of course. The nerd by this point has changed from gasps and whimpers to yelps and howls of pain, which rings like music to my ears. It reassures me to know I’m causing them as much pain as possible, an appropriate reaction to the punishment I am dishing out.

After a few more lifts off the ground, it is time for the finale. I hold them off the ground for an extended period of time and begin bouncing them by their leg holes. The nerd has tears in his eyes as the beautiful sound of shredding and tearing underwear can be heard across the room, as both gravity and my own strength work together to utterly destroy the nerd’s underwear. I want these dorky briefs to be so ruined the nerd will be going commando the rest of the day. And I make damn sure of that. The pain will get worse for the nerd as more rips, and less fabric is holding him up. And when the final seam pops, the underwear slices through his backside as he falls to the ground. Even at the front there is sudden relief, followed by agony as I will yank the remaining fabric free. I will always keep the shredded underwear for myself, as a trophy.

Of course, that’s just my standard wedgie technique. Don’t assume for one minute I won’t dish out a squeaky clean, a hanging wedgie, a messy wedgie or an atomic every now and again. And who needs to just stick to wedgies? My swirlies and purple nurples are world renown. And woe betide any fool who has a bubble butt that jiggles so much it practically begs for a spanking to make use of all that juicy meat.

The humiliation I inflict on the nerds always feels right, too. It feels like I’m providing a service to these nerds. It’s a well known fact that tighty whities are for little boys and dorks, and it should only be acceptable for one of those groups to wear them. Once you get old enough for your mommy or daddy to stop buying you your underoos you better consider upgrading, or I’m going to be there to give you that punishment you clearly desire. I mean, why else would you wear them?

I do wonder sometimes if the nerds I torment have a similar urge as I do. Perhaps deep down they have a desire to be dominated, and humiliated. Do they see me coming and put on a façade of fear, whilst secretly glad I’m there to give them what they need? What they deserve?

Hell, maybe one of those nerds is reading this right now, wishing that I was there to give them the wedgie of a lifetime. To yank upon their underwear until they have tears in their eyes and tears in their waistband. To berate them and embarrass them publicly and privately about their underwear choice, and to make it my mission to rip every single pair of tighty whities they own, regardless of how many new ones they buy.


Well if they are reading this, don’t worry. I’ll be visiting you real soon.

END