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Dare gone wrong
You stand at the fence line, heart racing, palms sweaty, as your friends' laughter echoes through the night. The dared panty raid on the all-girl school seemed like a brilliant idea just moments ago, but now, your waistband is snagged on the unforgiving barbed wire. You squirm and struggle, trying to free yourself from the humiliating wedgie that's lifting you off the ground. Your jeans slip down, revealing your neon pink underwear with "Tuesday" emblazoned on the back. The chilly breeze sends a shiver down your spine, but the embarrassment is the real cold slap in the face. You hear giggling approaching, and fear clenches your gut tighter than the wedgie itself. As the shadows of the school's silhouettes come into view, you realize your friends have abandoned you. This isn't going to be a tale of triumph; it's going to be a legend of the boy who got stuck with his pants down.
A flashlight beam sweeps over the fence, and a group of girls from the school, their faces painted with malicious amusement, spot you in your precarious predicament. "Oh, look what the cat dragged in!" one of them exclaims. The pack of them, dressed in their school's uniform skirts, blouses, and knee-high socks, saunter closer, their laughter growing louder. You feel a mix of mortification and dread as they gather around you, eyeing you like a trophy they never knew they wanted. "Well, well, well," the ringleader says, tapping her chin with a pen, "What do we have here?" Her cohorts giggle in unison, whispering and pointing.
"Let me go, please," you squeak out, your voice trembling with embarrassment. "We're just having a little fun," the ringleader replies with a smirk. "But I think we can make this a lot more entertaining." With that, she reaches up and graciously accepts your shirt, which one of her friends tosses over. They then proceed to tug it off over your head, leaving you in a state of utter exposure. "Don't worry," she says, eyeing your neon underwear, "we're just going to accessorize you a bit." They grab the pen from her hand and start scribbling on your bare chest, drawing a makeshift bra, complete with exaggerated **. The sensation of the ink on your skin is almost as painful as the laughter echoing in your ears.
"Hold still," another girl says, plucking a piece of dog ** from the ground with a stick. Before you can react, she smears it into the back of your wedgie-laden underwear. You gag and squirm, but the wedgie is so intense that you can't escape the foul intrusion. The girls shriek with laughter, and your cheeks burn hotter than the sun. They take a step back to admire their handiwork, and the ringleader snaps a photo with her phone. "This is going in the yearbook," she says, grinning.
Panic sets in as you realize the severity of the situation. "Please, guys," you beg, "this isn't funny. Just let me go." But they're not done yet. One of the girls reaches into her pocket and pulls out a roll of duct tape. "Let's make sure our little statue doesn't go anywhere," she says, and they all set to work, wrapping the tape around your wrists and ankles, securing them to the fence. The sticky tape bites into your skin as they pull it taut, ensuring you won't be escaping this embarrassment anytime soon.
"But wait," the ringleader says, her eyes gleaming with mischief, "why stop there?" She motions to your jeans, and the group of girls collectively pounces, yanking them from your ankles. You kick and protest, but the wedgie holds firm, and before you know it, you're left in nothing but your ridiculous underwear, dangling in the cool night air. The girls laugh and snap more photos, their flashes blinding you. "These are going to be great for blackmail," one of them cackles.
"Come on, guys," you try to plead, your voice cracking. "That's enough." But the girls are on a roll now. They stuff your jeans and shirt into one of their bags, ensuring you won't be able to cover up anytime soon. You're left hanging there, feeling more vulnerable and embarrassed than you ever have in your entire life. The ringleader leans in, her breath hot on your face, and whispers, "You're our little secret now. Don't worry, we'll make sure to visit you every night." With that, she gives your underwear a little tug, sending another spike of pain through your body, before she and her friends turn on their heels and stride away, their laughter fading into the night.
You're alone, stranded, and utterly humiliated. Your mind races with thoughts of what your friends will say, what the girls will do with the photos, and how you're going to explain this to anyone. The fence digs into your back, the cold metal biting through the fabric of your underwear. You try to ignore the dog ** squishing against your skin, but the stench is unbearable. You tug and pull at the barbed wire, trying to free yourself, but it only seems to tighten its grip. Each attempt at escape only worsens the wedgie, and the pain is becoming unbearable.
OP is back at it, a failed writer living in mommy’s basement, pulling on his own dongle and drafting stupid stories.