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The Nervous Exhale

Wedgies are the nervous exhale.
The quivers of a body that knows its fate.
The in-betweens of each breath, of each heartbeat,
the inevitable purgatory I await.

I can almost feel what it’s like,
the intoxicating seduction of my leg holes slithering up my butt cheeks.
But no preparation can provide me a cure for the ecstatic euphoria
erupting to the tips of my feet.

Surrender.
Surrender to my waistband that betrays my groin but fulfils my devilish desires.
Surrender as I lie helpless to prevent the blood surging from my balls to fuel my heart’s sensations.
Surrender is all I can do whilst he sits on top of me, the vulture who has secured its prey.

One last tug tears the boxerbriefs, parting the ocean of stretched boyhood to reveal my bare skin underneath.
For a moment he stops, mischief gone too far,
but I reassure him they weren’t expensive anyway.
(You never wear the expensive stuff for a ripping wedgie).
So he continues, anchoring his feet against my shoulders as my vision is rotated out,
replaced by the navy blue of my torn undies.

Relief shudders in, our pants becoming one.
The exhilaration drains out with each breath.
My toes are the first to regain consciousness, followed by the rest of my body.
The stinging of my asshole being split in two, a feeling I adored, is now simply endured.
I hear him chuckle and I’m made aware of my body’s dorkish arch in submission.
‘You’re such a nerd’, he teases me, tossing my swimcapped hair.
My face blushes the rouge of my cheeks and before my self-awareness kicks in,
he kisses me, easing my bruised ego back to reality.

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