A Rush Of Power

You tower over to Greg, your heart pounding with an exhilarating rush of power.

The now worn-out edge of his underpants is visible, sticking out from the waistband of his jeans. It's almost comical, the absurdity of it. You feel a cold, malicious satisfaction course through your veins as you grip the waistband again and yank.

Greg lets out a surprised gasp as his body jerks upward, his feet momentarily leaving the ground. His face is a mixture of shock, embarrassment, and pain as you pull the fabric of his underwear higher, making it dig cruelly into his backside. He chokes on a breath, trying to steady himself, but it’s impossible — the fabric is stretching painfully, the waistband biting into the tender skin of his hips.

"Ah!" Greg yelps, his voice breaking as the wedgie continues. His body trembles from the pressure, and he instinctively tries to reach back, grabbing at his waistband in a futile attempt to release the tension. But it’s too late. You’ve got him exactly where you want him, and his desperation only adds to the satisfaction building within you.

You watch, cold amusement flickering in your eyes, as he struggles, his muscles tensing in agony. The fabric presses uncomfortably against him, the painful wedgie pulling at his groin, a feeling of utter helplessness washing over him as the laughter of the invisible crowd swells around you. His movements are jerky, frantic, but there’s no escaping it.

"Does this feel familiar?" you hiss, savoring the moment. Greg’s usual cocky smirk is gone, replaced with something far more **** — fear, frustration, and humiliation. His face flushes a deep crimson, a mixture of the physical pain and the crushing emotional weight of what’s happening.

“Stop it... stop,” he gasps, his voice weak, but his protests only serve to deepen the pleasure coursing through you. The power to make him grovel before you, to strip him of everything he used to take for granted, feels intoxicating.

You tighten your grip, yanking harder on the waistband, and Greg stumbles forward, the rough fabric shredding his testicles and making him cry out. His hands fly out to steady himself, but they’re shaking, ****. The sting of the wedgie is unbearable, the fabric cutting into him like a vice. He feels exposed, raw — every ounce of his pride stripped away in an instant.

"Please..." His voice breaks, barely audible now, and for the first time, you see Greg as he truly is: no longer the cocky, confident bully, but a terrified, broken version of the person he once was. The high school king is now nothing more than a trembling wreck, reduced to begging.

You stand over him, feeling a dark sense of power as you watch him fall apart. This is what you’ve been waiting for, what you’ve dreamed of. And yet, even as his desperation rises, a bitter taste begins to form in your mouth. The rush of control is fleeting, the satisfaction souring into something less pleasant. Is this really what you want?

But you shove the thought aside, tightening the wedgie one last time. The sting in Greg’s face deepens — his mouth open in a silent scream of pain, his body going rigid under the **** of your control. His whole world is collapsing, and for once, he’s the one who’s powerless.

"You don’t get to walk away from this, Greg," you sneer, watching him crumble under your hands, your voice cold and filled with finality.

He just lies there, defeated, panting from the pain, unable to muster the strength to fight back.