It begins with the darkness taking over.
It blocks everything else out.
Then the need comes.
And there they are. Possessing the most important trait that women could: they're wedgieable.
Three tight, slim bodies dangle from chains in front of you. Their wrists are caught up in handcuffs attached to a pipe running above them. Their mouths are gagged because you're tired of the foreplay.
You don't want to hear them say "No" anymore.
"No" is a pair of panties ripping after just one pull—and you want this to last.
You have all the power here. Power is knowing they want it, and understanding that everything else is just games.
In this room, for now, there is only "Yes."
On the left is a slim blonde with a white pair of granny panties speckled with small pink hearts.
In the middle is a small redhead with bright yellow boyshorts that are already a little wedged between her cheeks.
And on the right is a tall woman with caramel-coloured skin and a slim red thong.
You've brought them all here to serve the hunger, and now they're trapped, restrained, quivering and pretending like they want to get free or standing perfectly because they can't wait for you to pull on their underwear.
They're all yours. Who will you wedgie and enjoy first?
[[Granny Panties]]
[[Boyshorts]]
[[Thong]]
<h1>Serial Wedgier</h1>
<h4>By: Hannsgutherson and RTBlackwood</h4>
<div class ="first">
[[New Dream->Introduction]]
</div>She's begging to be let free. She says she won't turn you in. She's on her knees and pleading.
Do you let her go?
[[Yes]]
[[No]]
In this room, for now, there is only yes.
You will let her go.
You step aside and she runs past you.
The darkness shirks off you.
You feel yourself erupt back into another dream. The darkness fades and you sink into a sort of conciousness.
You wake into another level of reality and you're on a too small bed, and you hear the sound of whining coming from nearby.
You blink and letharigcally prop yourself up to look over your bed at the floor. A slim woman lies there on her stomach, the legholes of her underwear, a faded white pair of granny panties with off-red hearts, pulled backwards and her feet are pulled until they're pressing against her butt.
You had covered her mouth with duct tape, and you're sure that there's a pair of her ripped panties shoved in her mouth as well. Her writsts are also taped together. Her fingers are trying to bend back to scratch the tape. But there's a lot of tape there, so you're confident she'll stay where she is.
Besides, her feet are hooked through the fabric, and you can see she's trying to keep still to not make the jock-lock wedgie any worse.
You smile at her.
She's either unaware that you're watching her trying not to struggle against her wedgie prison.
You admire the wedgie. She's wearing nothing but a white bra and the panties. The underwear doesn't look like it's pulled up that far, but it never does when it's secured into a jock lock. But you know if you reach down and grab onto the line of material that's pulled tight and thin between her cheeks and give it a tug then she'll squeal through her gag.
But there will be time for that later. Or there won't be. Either way, there will be more wedgies.
Wedgies are all you know now.
And you close your eyes, letting the darkness come.
[[The End->Start Menu]]You don't want to hear them say "No" anymore.
"No" is a pair of panties ripping after just one pull. And that's not the sort of rip-off you're interested in.
You step to the side and she goes to run by and as she goes to slip past, you reach out and grab the back of her bright yellow and blue polka-dotted boyshorts. Her entire body tenses up and you press yourself up against her. You wrap your hands around her underwear, giving the underwear a few quick testing tugs to get a feel of the material.
You suddenly feel like BetweenTwoCheek's Luna (who you don't know why she gives wedgies. Perhaps that's the big separator between the realistic stories and the popular ones: You either know why they're giving wedgies or not). Like almost every giver in AntiCherry's stories. You feel like someone better, stronger.
You want them to want it. To demand you give them wedgies, to beg you for it.
But sometimes they play hard to get. Sometimes they act like they don't want it, just to tease you. But she wouldn't be here, in just her bra and panties, and her panties wouldn't be in your hands, if she didn't really want it.
You haul back on her underwear and she's lifted to her tip-toes as the panties stretch toward you.
You're MagniPull's Michelle. You're the dominant sister from Blood Money. You're truly untouchable. You're the Wedgie Goddess. You're the serial wedgier of serial wedgiers.
She's squealing, shaking her hips and trying to pull away and turn around. But getting out of a wedgie is not that easy. Not when the person giving it wants to keep it going even more than the reciever wants to end it.
You pull the underwear until the fabric is a small line between her cheeks. It's taut and yellow material is bunched up and wedged tight enough that when she gasps you almost can't hear it over the sound of the fabric expanding in your hands.
She's pressed against you, your bodies rubbing as the underwear grinds against her. You want to bounce her up and down by the underwear and you're yanking as hard as you can to make her feel everything you can.
Another victim and you'll never let her go. Once you're finished with her you'll leave her to change into a fresh pair of panties and keep her until the hunger returns. And if you ever get bored, well there's worlds full of women who want your wedgies. Why else would they all wear panties?
Her panties begin to rip and you pull hard enough that's the reciever is screaming, and you're so excited that you keep pulling again, again again.
"How's the wedgie?" You ask. "How do the panties feel between your cheeks? Describe it to me. You love my wedgies, don't you?"
The underwear breaks apart in your hand and she falls to her knees in front of you. You lift the a chunk of the material up above your head and curl it into your fists, smiling down on her.
And in the other room three women are handcuffed to a pole, waiting for you to wedgie them.
[[The End->Start Menu]]There's a name stenciled on the waistband of her panties.
Did she write it there? Did her mom? Or did you?
You think of that old Arghtime story where you could pick what woman you wanted to wedgie, and one of them secretly liked them, but here all of the women like the wedgies.
Did she write her own name on the waistband to live out some perverted fantasy where I'm her bully and she's my nerd, you think.
It's like AnimePanties' "Two Worlds," except here no one is acting. No performances and deceptions. It's all real, because people are never as real as they are when they're getting a wedgie. It's the same with you, except you're only half of yourself when you're not giving them.
She wrote her own name to tease you, to encourage you.
Such a big pair, so classically geeky. She's asking for a wedgie.
You step behind her and you can hear the other two sigh with impatience because they all wish they were first to feel you yank their panties.
You curl your hands into the underwear in a strong underhand grip, wrapping your fingers into the material until you can feel your fingertips pressing into your palms through the pale fabric.
But then [[the doorbell rings]]The small red head must have started giving herself a wedgie without you. That would explain why those bright panties are already partly between her cheeks.
That sort of behaviour deserves to be rewarded with another wedgie.
You sidle up behind her and the closer you get the more she shakes. You're holding your breath as you ease your fingers toward her restrained body. You can do whatever you want with her and she can only enjoy it.
This is what what every relationship should be: full of wedgies and nothing else.
"Do you love my wedgies," you ask.
And you hear her say yes. You hear all of them, but the babe in boyshorts is the loudest and most passionate.
You press yourself up against her, grinding close and placing your hands on the panties, cupping her butt cheeks and squeezing.
You breathe in and smell her sweat mixing with your own. How many wedgies have you given today? Is this the first one?
Either way, this will be the best one yet.
You ease your hands up to the waistband of her panties, the fabric curdles in your fingers and you're so feeling hot. It's so dark but the colorful underwear is bright enough to guide your hands. You clasp the waistband in a tight underhand grip.
It dawns on you that everything about panties—from the legholes that make convenient handles, to the stretchy waistband—is designed for wedgies.
You begin to pull the underwear. It eases between her cheeks and she gasps, already moaning as she's moved to her tiptoes and the undies dive between her cheeks.
"Oh yes," you mutter. There's nothing like the beginning a wedgie, when you can do anything to the underwear.
The panties creak and you give a ginormous heave, stretching the underwear and your muscles to the limits in one movement that jerks the underwear between her cheeks. You bite your lower lip, open your eyes wider and try to bring the underwear closer as if you were trying to give the fabric a hug.
So much pressure as the panties resist you and you grit your teeth, square your shoulders, tense your body up and leap. You're flying with the underwear and it's growing larger, and you hear the sounds of air passing by you as you thrust the panties higher. And those small clouds or birds floating around you are threads that are breaking off the panties you're wrecking. And through it all is the sun, this glorious and hot light in your hands. You're murmring now, about how good it is. about how much she likes the wedgie, wedgie, wedgie.
You've spent many hours talking to other wedgie fetishists, and can't bear it when you hear that they still can't stand the sound of the word. But you smile and nod as they say it, because that's the ultimate way to blend into this world of idiots and fools who you can't wait to get away from.
You know that every person is defined by a fundamental fear, and for you it's shame. It emerges at its strongest when you think about wedgies, when you consider what you'll experience if anyone ever finds out about your secret fascination. And it's somehow fitting that you're only fully free of it when you lose yourself in a powerful, hard and humiliating wedgie.
And here she is rubbing against you as you jerk the panties back towards you, lifting her up off the ground as she wails into the gag. Her yellow boyshorts stretch and creak and although it's like all the other times you've pulled on a person's pair, her movements, the way she shifts side to side, the quiet sounds coming through the ripped pair of underwear in her mouth are so singular that this might as well be the only wedgie you've ever given.
Your body is reacting to the feeling of the underwear going tight in your hand and you're biting your lower lip. Your underhand grip forces the panties higher and you wish she was on her knees with her mouth against you.
You can hear your parents fighting inside of you. All of their worst traits fight for dominance and you don't know how you're supposed to be good when you're the worst parts of everyone you've ever met.
You think once again that the difference between the popular stories and the realistic ones is knowing why the giver is delivering them.
Your curling your arms up toward yourself, trying to pull stretchy boyshorts right off of her, to weld them into her and she squealing into the gag. You can hear her telling you how good it feels, how she wants it harder, how she loves your wedgies.
She's cryig out please, asking you to never stop. To rip her panties off of you. She's begging you to do whatever she wants to her, as long as the wedgies don't stop. Don't ever stop.
Please, she's pleading, never stop giving me wedgies.
And then you hear [[the doorbell as it rings->the doorbell rings]]Thongs rip so quickly and the wedgies rarely last as long as you want them to. But sometimes that quick stretch and inevitable rip is all you want from the first wedgie you're giving.
That is [[the doorbell ringing->the doorbell rings]] What is a dream inside a dream?
And who is this woman suddenly appearing before you.
But that is all gone now. There would never be another wedgie with her.
She was dead. Run over by a drunk driver who thought the sidewalk looked like a good place to put his car. It was a freak accident. If she had been at that same spot five minutes earlier or five minutes later she would still be alive and with her to give wedgies, but now all there was this sickening lack, as if someone had ripped out her lungs and told her to try and breathe. She didn’t think she could do it.
It would have been like Alicia taking away all her clothes and then telling her to give herself a wedgie, it just wasn’t possible.
That was what this pain was like. Pain was too general a term she thought, too abstract. For her it was like having the constant desire to give yourself a wedgie. But not only did you lack clothes, you also didn’t even know what a wedgie is. You know you have a need but you don’t know what can fill it.
And now, the pain. A voice in her head spoke to her once more.
She’s gone and you’ll never get her back. All you have now are your dreams and your unfulfilled desires. What are you going to do now?
Later you can talk about the voice, it asked its hateful questions, trying to punish her for all she thought and did. She couldn’t go for long without it whispering its black truths into the core of her mind. Its disconcerting facts branching off like poison slipped into the bloodstream, spreading throughout the body, rotting it from the inside.
It was like waiting years to give a wedgie but then having your hands fall off just as you were about to do it. What a hassle that would be, she thought. They often tried to come up with jokes around wedgies, the two of them. They didn’t know any and hadn’t heard other members of the community make up any. So they tried to do what they could. But they never posted them anywhere, they never got around to it. Alicia often joked that despite the fact they both knew if they wanted they could take a moment away from their wedgies to tell the community about a few of the jokes they came up with. But they both also knew that the jokes they came up with, just like the wedgies they gave each other, were not meant for the rest of the community, they treasured the community just as they treasured each other, but somethings just had to be sheared between a few people. That’s why they never filmed their wedgies or took pictures, and that’s why they never posted any of the jokes they come up with.
What do sadists, masochists and wedgie fetishists have in common?
What?
Their mottos.
Which is?
No pain, no gain.
Boom, clash, and hear the symbols resonate with the sound of an audience’s emphatic laughter. Laughter is at its most real when it’s unexpected.
Just like with a wedgie. Just like with love.
They had been each other’s audience. And now that Alicia is gone, what was the point of performing for anyone ever again? It was like being a person’s wedgie slave for fifty years and then having your master die.
You end up getting so used to how they pulled your underwear, almost to the point where it became routine, which is, without a doubt the worst thing that can happen to wedgies when you are a fetishist. Because routines have little meaning. Whatever rituals you perform, they lose their power when done too many times. And then your master But Alicia and her hadn’t encountered that problem yet. They experimented with different kinds of wedgies, switching up who gave and who received in a way that they felt would fight off the inevitable approach of monotony that turned everything into something that was boring. But that fear of a wasted future was never as strong as it could be, because they had the one solution to it. Love. Julie had never feared getting tired of Alicia, and the wedgies they shared. Because every time she saw Alicia she felt how she felt when she got a wedgie. That feeling of overcoming bliss that nothing else could ever afford her. She didn’t think anything other than wedgies would ever make her feel so good. And the fact that Alicia did had been one of the most gratifying facts of her life.
She had to stifle a sob, and shoved her fist in her mouth before biting down, her sparkling white teeth, which looked like they had been manufactured and then mass produced, dug into the back of her hand, and she felt a line of pain rise up where the teeth touched the skin with their hard surfaces. She wanted to laugh at the joke, Alicia would have loved it. She would have stared at Julie for a minute as if Julie had started speaking a different language, and since Alicia was often the one coming up with the jokes, Julie could almost understand how she was sort of speaking in a way that was unexpected, and then she would erupt in laughter as if underwear that had been sitting just below the top of a persons pants had been thrust out into the air and up their butt. That was what her laughter was like, a quick and unexpected wedgie. And just like a wedgie, it always made her happy to see it. And then Julie would join her in laughing, Hand falls off! That’s a good one! She could see the two of them holding each other as their bodies shook with the uncontained laughter of the truly happy. Rare moments like that would be drawn out for all their worth. And the joke wouldn’t be mentioned again for a long time, because there were only a few things worse than a joke that died.
Death! Speaking of death, it’s the voice in your head here to remind you that there will be no more laughter, no Alicia’s to share the jokes with, no holding each other as you forget about everything else but the sounds of one another when you’re happiest. Only death and silence. Whoop-dee doo, and don’t forget!
And she couldn’t forget, she knew that. That was why her hand was in her mouth, and her teeth drew a red line against the back of her hand, marking the veins as rest of her fingers touched the bottom teeth and her tongue, barely felt, stayed still in her mouth, trapped behind a fist that didn’t know if it was holding back tears or laughter, just knowing that both were welling up inside of her. She wanted to do both, and neither. She wanted to just lay down and die. At least then she wouldn’t feel this swirl of emotion like a chaotic gang wedgie where no one knew what was happening and people were grabbing everyone else’s underwear in an attempt to join in on the madness.
New Years Eve ball dropping to madness, Alicia would often say, in her oddly cute and poetic way she sometimes adopted, Will everyone cheer when the lights go out? Julie remembered giving Alicia a wedgie or two after she said cryptic things like that. She would bite her lower lip while saying things like that. Winking at Julie. Knowing she would get a wedgie for provoking her. And Alicia just giggled all the while, not explaining what she was saying even when her panties scorched her nether regions and the waistband elongated while all of her panties culminated into a thin line of pain, (sort of like what Julie now felt on her hand from where her teeth bit down) that divided her butt cheeks while also dividing her mind into the two spheres of being that only wedgies could produce so unequivocally well.
She would feel both pain and pleasure simultaneously. And if what she thought of and felt during those moments of paramount bliss where all there was was the wedgie and nothing else, then Julie could guess that Alicia wanted for nothing and was at her happiest when getting a wedgie from the girl she loved. And as Julie thought about she concluded Alicia wasn’t the only poetic one in their relationship. Maybe a bit of that rubbed off on her.
No more love, the voice of pain said. And she cut it off before it was able to speak more. It was time to choose which way to go. Ahead of her were two options. A veritable fork in the road of her life, she thought. She would rather this rollercoaster ride into pain and longing just ended before it took another dive; then again, other than remembering the wedgie the two of them shared everything that has happened so far has been drops and descents into depression. And even the wedgies she remembered only made it worse, because they served as the most potent reminder possibly, of what exactly she had lost.
She tried to avoid introspection and self-analysis but always found herself doing it anyways. She supposed it was natural after what happened. But she didn’t want to think. She just wanted to do. Two options in front of her. Somehow she understood she could only pick one.
Time was not unlimited. The rollercoaster was still chugging along all the same, the underwear was still being tugged by whatever cosmic force had first brought Alicia and Julie together before killing Alicia off.
But it wasn’t any cosmic force, was it…? She ignored the voice, now with more effort than she had exerted before. She had to keep moving. Some thoughts she didn’t want to even acknowledge, and that was one of them.
But she feared, before this dream cooked up by her unconscious mind was over, she’d have to deal with a lot of things she would much rather avoid.
She wanted to try to forget but she knew this house, this place, was all about remembering. She needed to keep moving forward, something pulled her and she had to make her choice. There were two doors, one to her left which leads to the bathroom, or does she go right, to a door that will take her out to the garage.
Did she go to the right door that leads to [[the garage]] or to [[the bathroom]].She didn’t think she could even recall what the garage looked like if someone asked her to describe it. Alicia often joked that Julie had a very special kind of memory, special because it didn’t seem to remember the most obvious of things like what areas in her house looked like, but she could remember seemingly countless types of wedgies, as well as writers and artists in the wedgie fetish community. Julie would just grin and tell Alicia that she remembered the things that mattered.
And there was one thing in the garage she remembered.
Two hooks about four feet up hung from the back wall of the garage. There was a lot of junk strewn around the ground, old toys that needed to be thrown out, bins and trashcans spread haphazardly around the room. It had a high ceiling and pink insulation that was peeling off the side of the three walls. A large metal door separated the outside world from the garages interior. It could be lifted up from the outside by a handle, but there wasn’t much reason for the garage to be used regularly since all the junk had cumulated and made parking a car in there difficult.
So when Alicia said she wanted to check it out Julie was a little surprised. It had been over a year ago but she remembered it all with an almost eerie clarity. It seemed more real than it possibly could in a dream. She saw herself and Alicia come into the garage while at the same time, and she was coming into the garage. She was both observer and participant. A part of her wished she was just watching a movie starring two people she didn’t know, because not only could she remember the events as they occurred, but could remember everything she had felt that day at this time. It almost made her sick, the overwhelming happiness that seemed to pulse off her younger self as she led Alicia into her garage. She had been so naïve. No idea that such pain could even be possible.
For the first time she wanted to yell at her past self, who walked right through her as she spoke to Alicia telling her about the garage. Alicia who knew she was dreaming, and at the same time, reliving past events, wanted to scream at the girl that she used to be, the girl who beneath her quiet façade, her apathetic artifice as Alicia liked to call it, there was someone who just wanted to be happy. Someone who hoped that life would always be this good, and couldn’t comprehend why it might not be.
Julie of the past was pointing to some of the tools they used for gardening that stood near the garage door that led outside to the front yard. Alicia was completely focused on the two twin hooks directly across from the big garage door. She was looking at them as only a wedgie fetishist might, calculating the probability of getting a wedgie from them, and imagining what someone might look like with their underwear attached to the hooks. Dangling just barely above the ground, their toes tickling the ground as they shake and move their body in an attempt to not have their entire weight forced onto a pair of underwear which would cleave and cause a massive amount of pain on their most private parts.
The hooks were to a wedgie fetishist what a really big box was to a kid who got presents on Christmas day. A promise of something that had to be great. Just like the old cliché states, and it is certainly true of wedgies, bigger is better.
Julie watched her past self-turn around and see what Alicia was looking at. Julie grinned, and rubbed her hands together. She took a few steps toward Alicia whose back was to her. Julie made sure to avoid stepping on any of the junk strewn along the ground. Her head was moving up and down as if she were nodding in agreement to some unheard proposition.
Alicia was wearing black skinny jeans and a tight red t-shirt that cut off at her midriff exposing a bit of her toned stomach.
“Nice hooks,” Alicia said, and Julie stopped mid-step. She remembered wondering if Julie knew she was behind her.
“Uh huh.”
Julie reached her hands toward the top of Alicia’s pants. As usual a bit of her underwear, a big pair of stretchy white granny-panties, her favourite type to wear when it came to getting wedgies, was sticking out slightly from her pants. Julie could just imagine what it would be like to take hold of that soft white fabric. Alicia always wore big underwear so it could be pulled over and over again, so it could stretch, veering her back, and ensuring while there was a lot jammed up her butt, there
would be a lot for Alicia to feel, and a lot for Julie to play with.
“You could…get a nice wedgie from them. And they’re not too high. Stories always talk about lifting people up and putting them on the hooks. I don’t think they get how…hard…that would be. You would have to literally lift them up while keeping their underwear pulled up.”
“Uh huh…”
“But these are nice and low, high enough that the underwear can stretch up to it and you could maybe dangle a bit. If you wanted to hang you’d have to lift your legs up. But that’s safer and smarter. Another thing the writers seem to ignore is how much a hanging wedgie actually hurts.
First time I tried it I was all like “this shouldn’t be too bad, all those OC’s hang in wedgies for hours.” I didn’t even last a minute, my body pushed against a piece of cloth that pushed back. But now I know exactly what underwear and gravity-"
Julie grabbed Alicia’s panties, her fingers curling around the waistband as if it were a delicate flower that she was carefully digging out of the ground to make sure its root system wasn’t compromised. Alicia went completely still, as if, by touching her underwear Julie had somehow petrified her.
It was always this way with her, she was looking up now toward the high ceilings of the garage, her hands already balled into tight fists as she waited with a hot anticipation for what was coming.
There was only one Julie now, and she was behind Alicia, her own heart laying down a quick beat which the rest of her body seemed tensed and poised to follow.
For a brief moment she imagined that she could feel, through the underwear, Alicia’s heart keeping time with her own. As if a pulse traveled up the vein of her panties bringing knowledge to the brain.
Julie leaned forward, her dirty blonde hair dangling around her face she stepped closer to Alicia until their bodies were touching. Alicia shivered, and Julie moved her face beside Alicia’s right ear. Looking forward, toward the hook, she whispered to her.
“Are you ready?”
Julie could feel the underwear’s threads against her soft skin, she worked it in her hands as only someone who has a lot of experience with pulling underwear would. She let it run across her palms and closed her eyes taking in a deep breath and smelling Alicia who gave off scents of fruits so potent that Julie could almost see the ripe apples as they dangled from the trees. It wasn’t just the wedgies, maybe for a time it had been, but now just being with this woman she knew she was happy. She knew she loved her. Because only with her could she be transported away, even if just or a brief second, to a place where she knew she could have everything she wanted. She knew she didn’t want much. Wedgies, some solitude every once in a while, and this was the first time she ever thought that maybe Alicia could be added to that list. Such changes to what was regular and comfortable often scared her, but not this. This revelation actually brought her some comfort, it seemed like something she had been thinking about for a while but only just understood to be true. Like how much she wanted to give and get wedgies to and from Alicia. That was something she was sure about. And now she was becoming sure that she loved her as well.
“Always.”
Julie clenched the panties in her hand, the elastic of the waistband giving way because of its malleable nature, and the quietest sounds of Julie’s nails scrabbling against the soft cotton could be heard. She pulled up, both hands on the waistband, her palms facing her own stomach, her fingers covered underneath the strip of fabric which she bent and curved. Her thumbs atop the fabric, they were the only part of her hands that was visible. The best way think about this sort of grip, Alicia would often tell Julie, was to think about how you would ordinarily have your hands on a lawnmower. Once you figure that out, you flip your hands upside down, and you got the grip. Julie liked to think of giving a wedgie like using a lawnmower, first she had to get it started, which thankfully wasn’t hard to do. And then she just had to keep on going with it, until the job was done. Keeping her hands tight on the handle all the while, and just making sure the lawn was all clean before she ran out of gas. She tried describing this extended metaphor to Alicia once, she just smiled and shook her head.
Julie lifted up the underwear. Wedgies were funny in the sense they always started the same way, and in a lot of ways they were the same thing over and over and over again. What was that stupid cliché that all the T.V. shows used, Julie wondered in the first few seconds between her starting to lift the panties out of Alicia’s pants and before the wedgie actually started. Something about, ‘the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different result. Most T.V. shows sneak it in at some point, but Julie just didn’t believe it at all. Doing the same thing over and over again was what having a wedgie fetish all was about. Even if years had passed and you were one of the biggest ironies of them all, because you had been going commando, you’d still find inevitably end up giving yourself a wedgie. Pulling on your own underwear, feeling it tighten against you, in a way that was almost worrisome, because you weren’t sure what sort of damage this could do. But you would want more at the same time. To be a wedgie fetishist, Julie thinks, is to always want more. You think about hanging yourself up from the underwear, having it rub against you, stimulating, like a hand, that massages, with a rough but tender caress, all the parts of you that only wedgies can satisfy.
She yanked the underwear up, both hands pulling the panties straight up into the air. Julie’s knuckles were almost touching Alicia’s back as they pressed against her shirt. Alicia squealed, rising to her tip-toes as if she were about to float away, or be carried off somewhere else. And in a way she was. But Julie, already somewhat afraid of losing Alicia, tightens her grip on the underwear, before pulling again. She didn’t want Alicia going anywhere during this.
Alicia balanced on her tip-toes, her underwear forcing her upward as the gears and machinery in one of those rides that rose to incredible heights just to drop its passengers. And wedgies were a lot like that ride to, in a way, because the going up wasn’t the hard part, nor was the going down. But as anyone would tell you, it was those few seconds in between, when you’re up at the highest point and you’re waiting for the machine to drop you. Getting a wedgie when you have a fetish for them, Julie thought, was sort of like living in that space in between for a long time. You know you’re going to get dropped, and the longer you’re up there the more you know it. The question then becomes, do you ever just go crazy from the wait, of being unsatisfied and never dropping, or do you just accept that it’s coming, and live without fear or impatience.
Julie huffed to herself, what was all this thinking about, she just wanted to think about wedgies. She couldn’t remember the last time she had dreamed about them. And she knew if she ever did then she would be instantly satisfied. Maybe that’s why she never dreamed of them, even though she would rather dream of wedgies than anything else; because to do so would be too easy. She wouldn’t need anyone else. And wedgie fetishists, just like everyone else, if not more so, are beings that need others.
Julie gave the underwear a second pull, she groaned as she pushed her body against Alicia, driven less by conscious choice than primal instinct as already the baser needs, and her want for wedgies was taking over her actions. It always happened this way, and she was surprised so few writers of wedgie stories talked about it.
Maybe it was just her, but she wasn’t so sure, or maybe most people could control themselves more than she could, but still she wasn’t sure if that was true. Because Alicia as well would start out giving her a wedgie, and then wouldn’t stop. Both of them would just keep going over and over pulling tugging, yanking, there would not be enough synonyms to describe what they did for any length of time. But Julie could recall almost zoning out, as some might put it, where Alicia was making sounds and noises of either displeasure or pleasure, but it sounded muffled. As if she were calling on a telephone that had a bad connection, she just couldn’t hear her very well. But at the same time, she just didn’t care.
It was almost like she was dreaming, surreal and like someone else had taken over the wheel of the car that only she drove. She became a passenger and saw exactly what was happening, but it didn’t seem to be her doing it. She thought of it as her wedgie fetish taking over. This silent part of her, like a rabid animal living in a hollow beneath some rotting tree in the vast forest of her mind, and for the most part it didn’t do anything. It knew it couldn’t come out. It wants to though.
More when you and it are younger. That’s when it doesn’t understand how the world works, when it doesn’t know that animals like it aren’t exactly welcome to roam around. It becomes aware of the rules of the world. Wedgies can’t always be given; or even talked about. You must hide if you want to be safe. All animals that aren’t at the top of the food-chain know that. But when she gives a wedgie, not with a quick pull like the kind that permeates cartoons, media and the lives of wedgie fetishists for the most part. But when there is a real wedgie happening. One where the act is important but so is the intention.
When a wedgie fetishist opens up their mind to their desire that lurks beneath that rotted old tree, and darkness overtakes the land, then the wild beast comes out. It knows it is allowed in the darkness, where no one can see it. There its slinking ways of deviation are not only welcome but expected, because now it isn’t about hiding from the top of the food-chain anymore. It is about being, for a short time, the very top of the food-chain. Because now the big predators can’t see you, and the rules of the forest change. And because the beast stays in the ark, isolated with a growing hunger when it does come out it is yearning to feed. It is starving.
Julie gives another pull, her breasts press against Alicia’s back, and Julie strains to stretch them quickly as possible so her breasts can be touching the pulled up fabric. Wedgies! She thinks, I want wedgies. It is her mantra and her motto. I want wedgies. Some days, especially when she is bored it’s all she thinks about. I want wedgies. And now she thinks it. It’s almost unnecessary and ironic. But she knows her need for them will never cease.
She yanks the panties up, as straight and as high as she can attempting to pull them directly into the air, and out of Alicia’s pants if possible. Her eyes are closed now and she works by the other senses. But sight is key for a wedgie fetishist, she will need to see everything that is happening to remember it for later. But for a brief moment she closes her eyes, feeling the soft underwear in her hand, her fingers wrapped around it, feel the heat off of Alicia’s body as her underwear penetrates her rear and lifts her up somewhat with the force of it. She still smelled Alicia’s fruity scent. She could hear both of them breathing, their moans and burgeoning sighs mixing in a harmony of increasing excitement.
Julie began to force the underwear up and down, jamming as much of the fabric into Alicia’s butt as she could, turning the pad of underwear that covered her, into a whip that grappled onto her and flung itself upward. The underwear tightened against her in a way that she would only be able to describe when Alicia dies a year later. It’s an ineffable feeling of utter constriction. And yet unlike the with the loss of Alicia, this tightening felt like someone were squeezing out everything that was bad and impure, all her worries, and fears, they were still present in her mind. Such things could almost never be gotten rid of entirely, much like her fetish in that way, but the underwear gripping her like a machine at the arcade where you use a claw to grab toys, except this one didn’t drop the toy, it held on tight and didn’t let go.
She brought it up and down as if she were trying to shake out some dirty sheet, her hands rose and fell with a dangerous speed as she tried to stimulate them both simultaneously. She rubbed her body up and down in time to her hands, not just lifting her arms but her entire body, grinding against Alicia. Who began to rise up and down on her tip, toes, her feet clapping against the ground as her soles on her feet touched down before rising up again. Her feet might actually be sore after this, bouncing up and down on them. And if her feet were sore Julie could only imagine how Alicia’s butt might feel.
Just the thought of her butt was enough to make her force her body close to Alicia’s. She tried even harder to rub herself against her, she began to feel the slightest movement of her own underwear through her pants as she moved behind Alicia. Her underwear stirred and brushed up and down inside of her pants, tickling her with its soft fabric. It didn’t feel as good as having someone pull her underwear up, pulling it into and against her, making her weak and powerless next to the underwear’s power to bite and hurt her.
Her crotch shook through the underwear that simultaneously separated the two of them, while at the same time, being the thing that brought them closer together. Alicia once told her soon after they met that wedgies were a sort of paradox. She hadn’t understood what she meant at that time, but in moments like this, when the underwear wasn’t just touching her hands, but her pants and her chest as well, moments when she could continue to pull Alicia’s panties and then everything would make sense.
With her mouth open, Julie panted as if giving a much needed confession, she could taste the fruits of Alicia’s perfume which she always wore when they were together. Just like how she always had her stretchy underwear peeking out of her pants whenever they hung out.
Julie pulled the panties straight up between the two of them, until it was close to her own nose and she was able to smell the unique combinations of sweat, Alicia’s skin, and that of her perfume which stuck to ever part of her clothes, and was always very strong on her underwear. She held her hands close together, the underwear quavering between their squished together bodies. Both of them shaking slightly like the underwear was, Alicia had her hands clasped in front of her like a school girl awaiting some sort of scolding, her eyes were also closed, and she was biting her lower lip. If Julie could see her now she would recognize this position from the same one she always seemed to take when getting a wedgie. It was cute and endearing, Julie would often think it made her look like a kid half her age. Which made sense given that their fetish was for something innately childish. It was only appropriate that it sort of returned some of the youth it connoted. Even if just for a short time.
Alicia’s face was scrunched up, her soft white panties, now a clothesline that moved with well-oiled gears along her most intimate areas, she cried out in a whisper that only Julie could hear, and that only other wedgie fetishists could truly understand. The wire of her underwear slid along, greased by her own sweat that was blossoming on her body as well as by Julie’s furious effort to rip the underwear up as high and as hard as she could.
“You’re going to tear my underwear!” Alicia cried out, still in the hushed voice of those who want their secret pleasures to remain hidden. It was their secret cry, one they shared between only each other. They had heard it in videos they had watched by themselves and then together when they met. Or perhaps when they were brought together as Alicia liked to call it. And that made some sense to Julie, with billions of people in this world and maybe only a few thousand wedgie fetishists, the fact they were able to find each other was nothing short of miraculous.
The underwear filed into the crack of her butt, clamping down on her skin and cleaving upward in its unique motion that would always put pressure on both the front and back of her nether regions at the same time. It created the remarkable sensation that made her feel like a fist was punching upward, impacting her skin, but the force of it reverberating in her loins. The underwear was a persistent steamroller, pushing and pushing and pushing, trying to flatten the underwear against Alicia, into Alicia, until the two became grafted together, until they were one thing with Julie attached. Her stretchy white granny-panties, a bird of pleasure signaling, with its unique flight patterns, a good life. Julie had heard about mockingbirds, how they were the most innocent thing in the world. She had made a promise to herself that she would see one before she died. If she did, well, then she would know there was still good in this world. That was before she met Alicia. And thinking back now at the wedgie she had given her, at how she had tugged Alicia’s underwear as if there was nothing else to do, and nothing else worth doing but giving a wedgie to her best friend, she wondered if Alicia was her mockingbird. She thought she just might have been.
Julie leaned back, bringing her hands against her chest, almost shivered when the waistband of Alicia’s underwear touched her breast through her shirt. The underwear was the long neck of a giraffe that reached from its body to the sustenance to be found in a high tree that only it could reach. The hooks hadn’t left her mind, she was just more focused on the immediate sensation of pulling the underwear herself. When that need, that drive to do it came over her, that was all she wanted to do. Just pull, and pull and pull. See Alicia bend forward as a part of her instinctually tried to run while the rest wanted to feel the wedgie.
It was a war of the mind, a similar one was occurring in Julie’s mind as well. She needed to give wedgies, but she knew it hurt to get wedgies. That was, unfortunately why so many others had refused to give her wedgies when she tried to trick them into it. Using the old lines about how she had never gotten one and wanted to know what it was like.
“But I don’t want to hurt you,” they had said, effectively shutting off any hope for a wedgie from them. And to push them anymore would have been to risk them finding out about the wedgie fetish. And if there was one rule that came in the ingrained text that was the wedgie fetishist’s raison d'etre was that only the right people can know about the wedgie fetish. It was like telling the wrong people about the fountain of youth, or about some other great treasure that lesser people could abuse and misunderstand.
Maybe her arms needed a break. Those hooks had begun this wedgie after all, it was only fitting (unlike Alicia’s underwear now. That was a wedgie joke she would have loved, Julie thought) that the hooks be the thing to end it.
Or she could keep pulling the panties herself. Maybe they would be able to reach all the way over Alicia’s head. Or maybe they would rip right off of her. If she kept bending back she would be able to lift her right off the ground. But then again, if she hung her up, she would definitely be off the ground. But it wouldn’t be as personal…But did it have to be?
She had to choose fast, wedgies were a thing best done without interruption. Something that demanded all of you to be present in the moments of it lest it not be as gratifying for both involved. Julie personally believed that people fed off each others energy. If you were playing with someone who was bored, then they would drain you of your energy. You’d be bored to. But if both of you were fully committed and energized, then you would invigorate each other, pouring your own energy into a sort of communal pot you could both draw from. Your energy would become one thing, and like their pleasure over the wedgie, it would be a greater joy that they felt because they knew it was one that was shared.
She had to choose before she lost some of that energy. It didn’t take much to ruin a wedgie. No matter how deep into it you were, it was a fragile thing. Julie could see both possibilities. Whether they really happened or were just fantasies of hers, it was hard to tell. Things seemed to blur together in this wedgie dream. But she wasn’t going to let that bother her. She could choose either one.
[[Hooks]] or [[Do it herself]]There’s a laptop in their room together they watched lots of wedgies videos and read lots of stories together. And Alicia said she wanted to try this wedgie and they opened up a word document and began to give Julie a wedgie demanding she write about it in as much detail as she possibly could. Asking for more and more and more detail.
Aicia is beside her. Someone once asked about the connection between bondage and wedgies online, saying there was nothing to it, they didn’t understand the connection they wrote online, but Julie got it right away, She wanted to feel bound by her underwear, unable to move, completely submitting to it, and what better way than to give yourself completely over to something that to be complete at their mercy, to be unable to fight back against them. Being trapped, bound to be precise, left the other person with complete control, and in a way Julie felt that in the end that was what the fetish came back to.
What it all always came back to: control.
What did it mean to be a wedgie fetishist though, she had gotten off track and rambled on abut stories, but that was the way the mind worked, you get so focused on one thing and then the mind tears you away from that thing, like a bully who is hard a t work trying to pull your underwear overt your head, going for the classic and equally dreaded atomic wedgie, grinding the fabric that would have to be very stretchy and durable to even get to half that point, not to mention the bully ‘s considerable strength for them to be able to pull the underwear that high. But that was real life concerns.
In the world of wedgie videos the models and actresses weren’t bothered that much by realism, if they wanted to give their audience an atomic wedgie they just put super stretchy, really big underwear on and then in a few easy pulls the fabric covered the entire face. For Julie there had to be a build-up, the anticipation, the continuous persistent pulling, not just jumping right into the wedgie but moving toward it earning it, that was what wedgies should be about in their entirety.
And there I go again, she thought, why can’t I focus on what it means to be a wedgie fetishist? And for the first time she thinks that maybe it’s because she doesn’t want to know. She doesn’t even want to think about it. But her desire to not answer that question is so deep within her, part of a fear that is buried so deep she can’t even see it under all the dirt that’s piled on top of it, a fear that says once she identifies what a wedgie fetishist is then she instantly becomes that thing. A fear that tries to tell her that the mystery and unknown that makes up the wedgie fetishist are important part s of it and shouldn’t be tampered with. Like bottles with a skull and crossbones on it they must be handled with care, avoid getting them near your eyes and don’t leave them within the reach of children, they might hurt themselves if they start playing with the dangerous substances which is the wedgie fetish. Maybe she shouldn’t even care what it means to be a wedgie fetishist, maybe doing so would be detrimental because it might involve saying people are a certain thing, or a certain way, all wedgie fetishists are this, or to be a wedgie fetishists means that. But that is limiting isn’t it? That is something that restrains their uniqueness, the individuality and potential of wedgie fetishists, until someone comes along and says sure it might mean this to be a wedgie fetishist, but it can also mean this. And once she says what it means to be a wedgie fetishist then she’s said it.
It can’t be something she can take back. What if she says something wrong? What can she say that is wrong if she believes it about wedgies fetishist, and it’s something that she herself eels to be true then in a way it can’t be wrong. All wedgie fetishist love. She could say that, and maybe it would be true for basically all wedgie fetishists, maybe there is one who is a psychopath. She realizes she is thinking absentmindedly, an almost stream of consciousness way of being. But that is how this dream is, isn’t it, taking her from one thought to another, one memory to another, one feeling to another. But that was not completely true, some of it was happening one thing at a time, but for the rest of it, her thoughts, feelings, her memories, they never just came one at a time, they always came tens and hundreds all of them rushing into her brain, crying for attention with the screeching calls of the ripping underwear when it is broken and torn apart thread by thread.
This dream was making it easier for her, now she could take the time to look over specific memories in this episodic fashion and work through things one thought at a time. Like with the internet she could go from one site to another, this dream was her portal to everything she needed to accept but couldn’t without first sitting down and logging in. It was all so much like a journalist wedgie in a way she felt was far too coincidental to be reality. It had to be some sort of plan created by some al powerful deity who had decided that such things should just make sense, that all these connections can and should be made and then there were. She didn’t know what she believed in, not some magical deity who controlled everything, that just wasn’t her, but she did believe there was something. She used to believe in Alicia, and only her, as people who had only seen the sun would believe in that and not even think there was something called darkness and the stars, who would never imagine there could ever be any other different kind of light that what always filled the sky. Julie knew the brilliant warm and even burning light of the giant sun, and didn’t even consider the fact their might be a quieter, more subtle light that came not just from one source but from billions that were too far to see clearly except for dots of light. Maybe the stars were like other people while the sun was Alicia, Everyone else could provide light, not in the same way Alicia could alone. But if you take every person together and combine their light and heat, the n maybe they could emulate what Alicia did. Enough so that you weren’t so cold, and so that you were at least able to see.
And Julie wondered what it meant to be a wedgie fetishist. How would she ever to describe it to someone if they asked, what did it mean that she was a wedgie fetishist. There was the obvious, “well, I like wedgies,” which would inevitably be one of the first things she had to say. But it was more than liking wedgies, that was why she always added in a lot in sentences when she was talking to Alicia about them, or commenting on stories or thinking about her own stories she could write. But she didn’t think she would write a story anymore. She and Alicia had thought about it, they had talked about collaborating and writing one together, that had excited Julie. What was greater than working with someone you care about on something you both are passionate about?
She hadn’t written anything before but she felt like with Alicia working with her the two of them would have been able to create a wonderful story. But without Alicia the motivation to write anything was gone.
It wasn’t the story she was interested in so much as doing something with Alicia. And she only just learned that now as she went down to write found she was able to type a few words and she knew she could write more, she could force our sentences and then paragraphs and in the end she would have a story, shed read enough to be able to recycle all the plots and twists and words she had ingested, heard and known in her life to have a document but she couldn’t do that. Writing wasn’t just putting the words down, it was about being driven by a passion. Julie never had a passion for the words, but she did have one for Alicia.
If she wrote anything now it would be lacking in a fundamental and yet unexplainable way that Julie would never be able to communicate to anyone, but all the readers would just know. They’d feel that lack in the story, they would just know something was missing. And in the undercurrent which is the collective identity of all wedgie fetishists, there would be the knowledge that the story wasn’t written with love. And that most ineffable, complex and frustrating of all the abstractions is what really makes the difference between a story and a good story.
Even if her story was written without any grammatical or spelling errors, with fascinating characters and a great story that was permeated by wedgies it just wouldn’t be the same. Without Alicia it wouldn’t be what it could be. And she might even gain some popularity among the wedgie fetish community of she wrote her story, but she dismissed that thought as quickly as it came. She would never write for popularity because she would never write for anyone other than Alicia, and when Julie thought about it she understood that that was the true reason she didn’t want to write anything. Because whatever she wrote would be meant, at its spine, to be read by an audience of one, and if Alicia wasn’t there to read what she wrote, then what was the point? Nothing she did was ever for the community, it was all for Alicia. That was why she had taken the pictures, the same reason she never posted them online. Something she often wondered about and only now was really understanding.
Besides, Julie thought as she moved toward her two options facing down the doors that she knew would lead her to more memories and more pain, I use way to many ‘thought verbs’ for anyone to ever like anything I write.
Alicia never kept any of the praise she got for very long. And once more Julie was reminded of her thought that the true value of a thing was in how easily you were able to, not give, but throw it away. Maybe the people with the real problem were the ones who held onto anything, who couldn’t let go , who needed physical reminders all around them,. It was like someone had taken from them something integral at a young age when they were too young to understand, and now were forced to try to fill that void with inanimate objects in the hope they might be fulfilled. But they are not wedgie fetishist, wedgies cannot satisfy them, just as words of praise didn’t hold the value that Alicia truly wanted. She would read the messages of praise she got from a few readers of her work. It didn’t take much to send her a quick thank you but hardly anyone ever did. But those who did were the ones worth getting thank you from, Alicia would always say. She would read what they wrote a few times, she would smile and laugh and she would tell Julie that whenever she read nice things people wrote to her feel suddenly inflated with this feeling that she would, and could only describe as “transcending.” Transcending what? Julie never knew. But she thought she understood.
And then, after a short while she would delete the comments, the thanks you’s and whatever praise she got, making it as if it had never happened. Sometimes she would want that praise, Julie could see it in evry line of her face on those days when life was hard and she needed something to taek then weight off her back, to at least help her forget about the burdens this worl forcesd on everyone. Wedgies could help her forget got a bit, that was the blessing of being a wedgie fetishist. People’s praise could heldp her forget to. Alicia said reading the praise she got was like getting to the edn of an incredible book series, and just basking in the marvelous ending. It was like standing naked under the hot sun, while a cool breeze rubbed your body. And yet all of those feelings were happening on the inside of you.
So why deleted the comments she had asked. And Alicia had given her a few answers. She didn’t need them, she had said. She didn’t think she deserved them was another reason she gave. But did anyone ever really deserve praise? My work is going to read by others, she once said. And people are going to see it, and most people, whether or they’re inspired aren’t going to say a thing. A few people are going to tell you they loved it. Or they won’t. But that doesn’t mean someone somewhere wasn’t deeply affected by what you wrote. The only certainty when it comes to writing wedgie fetish fiction is the fact that, no one will feel anything about your work, if you don’t write any.
Julie didn’t know how to tell Alicia that she was great. Like so many people who read stories she imagined that the writers knew. They had to. Even if you never went around talking about the story, you carried around a part of it in every word that you spoke and every thought that you had. Wedgie stories were still stories and thus they had the capability to delight, to thrill, to arouse, and to educate. Just like wedgies did. To ignore that would be foolish. But Julie still didn’t know how to give Alicia the validation she seeked.
She would often read wedgie stories other people wrote and many times she would be aroused and delighted by the prose. But more and more she had been getting jealous of the other writers. She had read their works and thought that perhaps they were all more talented than she was. And if this was the case, if they were all better, then why would she keep on writing? Why bother? It was like continuing to give yourself wedgies when you had someone else who was willing and able to do it for you. It just didn’t make any sense. You turned around and let the other person give you a wedgie, you were pretty it would feel a lot better. And you knew it would be a whole lot easier than doing it yourself.
Every time she went online there was someone asking a question like, “How do I get rid of my fetish” or “how do I accept myself.” And she would wallow in her own feelings of constant inadequacy. And she would look to Julie and say, "how can they still be asking these for questions? I gave them the answers, just look at my stories and you'll understand these things. You'll know what you need to know." And she wanted to tell him that just because he thinks he answered a question didn't mean people would stop asking. And just because he wanted to have an impact didn't mean he would have one on every wedgie fetishist who ever lived. Too many of them hadn't ever heard of him let alone knew even about half of what he had done. And he could keep writing the same things over and over again and that wouldn't change the fact that those who didn't know him would go on asking the questions, and who was he to say they shouldn't just because he had offered his own answer. Was life that simple a thing that anyone could give their thoughts and that would close the question entirely? How did he know they hadn't read his work and still wanted answers, or other answers, or better answers. And she wanted to tell him that life wasn't just a thing he could explain to people and then everyone died knowledgeable. If people were involved in the community then chances were they knew about your writings (because at the core of whatever concerns he had around people knowing different things that he felt like he laid out was the fact that he just wanted people to read his works. He equated the number of views with validation and acceptance) but even if they didn't what was the point of going up to everyone who ever asked a question in such a way that you knew about it and you rant to them about how you've already provided the answer? You're wasting your time, time that could be spent writing for those who have read your answer and writing for yourself, the person who needs the answers most of all.
Julie just wanted to remember the wedgie. How come there had to be all of this extra stuff? Why couldn’t she just have an erotic dream where there were no memories but the pleasant ones of wedgies?
Catapulted out of a dram, as if she had fallen asleep in a catapult and then someone had cut the rope holding it to the ground. She was rudely released into awakening as she saw...
But there was probably a story in there somewhere, a person who considers their wedgie fetish the trump card to end relationships. You could probably even make a bad rom-com out of it. Start it off with a scene where the guy wants to end the relationship and the girl is saying gives me one good reason, he says because I have a wedgie fetish, and she leaves. But then, of course, in the inevitable way that rom-coms have of showing the exception to every rule they create, the man would pull this stunt on another girl, and what else, she wouldn’t leave him, rejects him or turn him away. But what an odd thing too, to use his fetish as something to get people to reject him. A part of Julie has always believed that one of the greatest fears of wedgie fetishist is being rejected.
But a simpler idea was simply the idea that the wedgie fetish was a paradox. It maybe could be the one thing that makes other reject you, they one thing the man could say that would turn women effectively away, other than something ridiculous like telling them he was a murderer, but at the same time, he can never really have a true relationship with another woman, he can never really make them his, and have himself made theirs if he never does tell them. But what sort of living was that where you had to take such a chance. You couldn’t just be. To potentially be happy you had to risk your happiness. It was enough to drive you crazy.
Julie was surprised she couldn’t just google wedgie fetishists and get a lot of results of famous celebrities. She felt like nowadays if a wedgie fetishist did something elaborate, like announcing who they are in the middle of some big event. Making some big spectacle, then they would become pretty famous. Get some T.V. appearances, maybe even get to write a book. But maybe wedgie fetishists were above all that. They weren’t in to becoming celebrities. Maybe it didn’t take that much to pleasure them, they didn’t need or even want much to keep themselves satisfied. Give them wedgies and they`ll be fine.
And in a way that was sort of what this whole dream was about. She had a choice now, one that hid right beneath the surface of her mid like something just out of the range of a myopic persons eye sight, any closer and she would be able to make it out, but all it was now, was a vague shape without any real detail. But it had to do with wedgies. She felt, at the heart of this dream was a twisted binary. A greedy ultimatum that was like a bully who would either give you a wedgie that was hard, or one that was soft. The best, at least in Julie’s mind, was always going to be one that was in between. But she couldn’t choose a third option. She remembered people often joking about how on multiple choice tests, when in doubt pick “C” but what if you were in doubt and there was no C? What then? Could choose them, and only them, she could close herself off from the rest of the world and never open again. Her gates to the outside world would rust shut through her own lack of maintenance on them, and she would be alone. But, (and this was the ever-tempting reason which explained why so many people did so many things) she wouldn’t have to worry about getting hurt.
She hated how this boiled down to the cliché, love and lose, or never love at all. Her and Alicia were so supposed to be different.. Above all that. Not just because they were wedgie fetishists, which in itself should exempt them from the clichés of this world. But also because they had been so deeply in love.
Love to them was a huge pair of underwear that they could both fit into. And they weren’t just in it together, but they were both getting a giant wedgie from it. Maybe they would both be pulling on the same pair of underwear, driving forward their own pleasure while they drive forth their partners, bodies pressing together as the underwear touches them both with its ineffable embrace. Or maybe the underwear would just rise up on its own. Alive with its own energy, or perhaps brought to life by the desire of the two girls who willed it as if ribbing their bodies against the underwear would be like rubbing their hands against the lamps of legend; summoning an ancient genie who would only grant the wishes of those longed for the secret pleasures that only wedgies could give.
It must be every wedgie fetishists dream, Julie thought, to have underwear that was alive. That gave you wedgies without you having to do anything.
Every wedgie fetishists except for herself. Her only want, wish and desire was Alicia. And that was something she would never get back. But she would take Alicia over a thousand pairs of living underwear any day.
And why was that? Well after the innumerable pleasure they would surely give her, and there was no denying that they would indeed give her great pleasure, what would she feel afterwards? If was a lot like if she gave herself a wedgie except maybe a little bit better. But still, after it was done, it was done. They couldn’t make her smile and laugh after telling funny jokes. They couldn’t tell haikus that made you shiver and them want to repeat them late into the night until you fell asleep. They couldn’t push you to do things you had never done before like write about a wedgie while you’re getting it, or put ice and water in your underwear, or any of the underwear of things she would never have done with Alicia pushing he to do them. And even if by some magic, the underwear could do all of this. It couldn’t make her feel the same way she felt about Alicia. That was something special, unique. Not just one of a kind, but one of any kind.
Her last thought before she left the room was of how the two of them would hip to hip on a chair, squished together but not complaining. Just enjoying the others warmth and the closeness they were experiencing. And they would look at pictures of wedgies.
Sometimes, when they saw one of a girl who was obviously drunk, and was in a wedgie that they would never be in if they weren’t, Alicia would say, “That’s what happens when a wedgie fetishist gets drunk."
Alicia was a teetotaler. When Julie last asked her about why she chose not to drink Alicia shook her head.
“It’s not the alcohol so much as it is me. When I'm drunk I'm myself but easier. It’s known to lower inhibitions, it makes you do things you otherwise wouldn’t do if you were sober. I can’t afford the chance that I get drunk and then tell someone I have a wedgie fetish. And what if I tried to give someone a fetish?”
Her idea was that the wedgie fetish was a dark tumour, a lesion of invading blackness. It wants to overtake us, to be fully in control. It is a dire need, and we need to control it.
She didn’t want that darkness coming out when I cant stop it. That means never drinking. That need to wedgie is hypnotic. If it is in control then I fear what would happen.
The infinite nature of the dream made itself clear once more. But she had to move on. Time was wasting. [[There were more wedgies to see]].
Or does [[the dream ends->The Dream Ends]]There is anger that she can never have this again. Why can’t she have it? Why did Alicia have to die?
She can clench her fists. Angry, watching her squirm, her hands running up and down her body, and Julie doing the same thing, as if mirroring her. She tugged on the front of her own panties as Alicia dangled there, her eyes not sure where to focus on. Did they look at her feet that could barely touch the ground, and wouldn’t stop flopping about, trying to find either a spot where they could at least tickle the ground, her feet, clad in white socks, toes pointing desperately to try to get some footing so her body wouldn’t swing so wildly. Or did she look at her hands? They ran along her body like Alicia had some itch that moved from one spot to another without pausing. Her eyes were close and her head was titled up, but her hands were the most active part of her. They moved like the hands of a conductor orchestrating the symphony of her own divine pleasure. The wedgie violin concerto in e minor perhaps.
Watching her hands move, her long fingers, that felt at the front of her, pressing against where the panties were pressing, and the other that was hidden behind her. If it was anyone else getting the wedgie Julie would suspect they were trying to pick the wedgie, no matter how futile doing that obviously was. But since it was Alicia, Julie knew she was using her hand to feel the underwear. Just to feel it. To touch it and run her hand along the material that stretched from her butt all the way up to the hook. Probably using just her index finger, bringing it along and feeling the threads, knowing the underwear was up and yearning to be inside her, not because she was seeing it, because she couldn’t really get a good look at it. And besides, for a wedgie fetishist, belief had nothing to do with seeing. For them, feeling was believing.
Or she could watch the most obvious and important thing. She could focus completely on the panties, staring at the underwear that was hidden partly behind Alicia’s suspended body. But the sides of the fabric peeked out on either side of her, and she could hear the sounds of it straining. Imagine walking in on this now, Julie thought. What would people see?
Someone doing an odd dance maybe. How could something so important be hidden? A person could hang themselves up by their underwear and no one would ever even notice. That sounded familiar…maybe there was a story where that exact same thing happened. And a parallel was drawn for the first time in her mind. Wedgie stories, the vast majority of them went unfinished. Just like Alicia’s life. There was more that others wanted from it. They expected more. They had come to care about the story and the characters in it. Bad stories could be forgotten and go unfinished, the ones that don’t do anything for others, don’t try to do anything new or special, people wouldn’t remember those ones years later. It would be pushed aside in the space of the wedgie fetishists’ collective memory that wanted to hold onto the literature of others like them. But the stories that really mean something to someone…those were just like the lives of people. Abstract and hard to identify the significance of at the time, but those sorts of things are the most important. Just like wedgies, just like watching Alicia struggle as her panties stretch up her butt, pressing against the sweet and sensitive parts that were tickled by the underwear that bunched up and moved on her like walls that were slowly closing in on her.
Anger came from her like a first word from a child, pure and without real purpose or meaning behind it. It filled her so completely that she felt like a pair of underwear that someone had gotten to excited with during a messy wedgie, and had overloaded with all sorts of things and now the underwear was being weighted down. So much so that it was actually slipping down her legs, all manner of foods and drinks sloshing around and lots of it sloshing out. And it couldn’t be handled because it was too slippery, or sticky, or whatever it felt like in any given spot.
Why couldn’t this be what happened every day? How come Alicia had to die? It wasn’t…acceptable. It just wasn’t. It made her want to pound her fists against the wall until there was a dent that showed her pain. That made it clear how real it was and brought to life her frustration. She wanted to hit something until it broke, or until she did.
Things like this weren’t supposed to happen! How could they? Someone had to be able to explain to her how something g like this could happen. Julie could picture their whole lives together. She could see the hours spent talking. See them smiling, laughing at unheard jokes. Aging.
Growing. Late nights and early mornings. She could see them watching the sun go down, and then watch it come up. Feel the morning dew touch the grass that they’re sitting on. Driving down hidden roads, writing love letters, poems that express what the spoken word just wasn’t able to. She could see their lips pressing together. Over and over again. See their bodies against each other. Hugging. Cuddling late at night. Crying together. Giving each other wedgies until they were as gray as the old panties they wouldn’t have worn in years. But they would keep them as reminders.
She could see all of that. Could see their life. Not two separate lives. But one. Joined like the giver and receiver while sharing a wedgie. And she could feel Alicia too. Not just in these dream-memories, but in the future she didn’t just think was possible, but knew could, and should be happening. She could feel her arms around her. Feel her as if she was beside her and behind her. Could feel her hand in her own.
Is [[there more->There were more wedgies to see]] or does the [[the dream end->The Dream Ends]]
She knew that Alicia wasn’t just her girlfriend but her best friend.
The greatest friend she had ever had. Closer to her than anyone had ever been before. And their relationship went deep because it wasn’t just their bodies that got connected, or their underwear during the wedgies, but through their relationship and because of it their very hearts had linked and united. Maybe that was why her passing was so extremely difficult. Maybe that was what she was lacking; a part of Alicia’s heart that had been grafted by the hand of love, onto her own. And now it had been painfully ripped away, like a cheap pair of underwear pulled one too many times. And Julie felt like the hole that had been left when the heart was taken out was still leaking. Alicia’s heart had been attached to her own, she knew this with a sick certainty that made her pain all the more authentic because now at least she sort of understood it. Like a pair of Siamese twins their hearts had beat in her chest, and now one was gone. She didn’t think the other could survive alone for long. She needed it. She needed Alicia.
She once wished that she was a foot ferishist. It would be so much easier if she were. Tmthe object of her arousal would be literally everywhere. All she had to was look down. In the summertime when people wore sandals and flip flops they'd all be on display. And even when they weren't you could imagine what they looked like inside the shoes. But Wedgies? It was Like an animal that so rare people had begun to think it extinct. More of an abstract fable like the lochness monster or the Yeti than some actually tangible think which people could look to when they wanted to get aroused. And yet like those legends of the beasts the stories had to get started somehow and somewhere. Something must have been seen. Enough at least, that people keep telling the stories. That people keep the hope alive. Hope in magic.
But there really is more than one side to things. Sure feet would be everywhere and she would like feet. But that wasn't all good. Feet would be everywhere and she would like feet. How did she deal with that. How would she even function if everywhere she looked there was something to arouse her? She wouldn't be able to leave the house after a few minutes shed be too excited. And worse yet, no one else would understand. It was what would happen if the whole world just started giving and getting wedgies. At first it would be incredible. The amount of content that would be produced. Full length movies created by an industry finally adopting something others have accepted for so long. But then, when the novelty of it all wore off, which it would, because it always did, then what?
Everywhere would be Wedgies. Wedgies would be everywhere. Hot girls at the corner of your street, hot actresses in feature length films. Guys giving each other wedgies constantly. Julie had dreamed it once. But then she realized it was a nightmare. In a world obsessed with wedgies it was the truly obsessed who suffered. In a world obsessed, it was those who love which suffered.
Julie couldn't leave her house knowing she would hardly be able to do anything with wedgies all around her. What had before provided her hours of pleasure, a genuine fort Knox of her own dark ecstasy's which allowed for endless withdrawals, was now overwhelming her with stimulus. Wedgies were everywhere. Everywhere she looked. Her body was constantly agitated.
Her mind ready to go. But she had responsibilities and duties that she couldn't focus on with all the wedgies. She couldn't focus and think at all. It was like starving, being forced to solve a complicated math problem and then someone puts a steak dinner right under your nose. The smell too the starving person is too much. It's all they can think of. The mathematics are forgotten. That was her life in this new world.
Except here she could always eat and so never had to do the mathematics.
Her will wasn't strong enough to resist and do the math. She needed to eat.
The hardest thing she ever had to do was tell Alicia about her fetish. Keeping a secret for so long. It starts to think of itself as something that can’t leave the quiet room in the house of your heart. She frowned.
Telling Alicia wasn't the hardest thing she had ever done. No. If telling her about her fetish was what it took to get her, to win her over and make Alicia hers just as it made her Alicia's then going through this dream was more difficult. Getting her had been hard, but it was nothing compared to the difficulty she was faced with now. Letting go of her was proving to be a lot harder. Letting go of her was the hardest thing she ever had to do. But she had to. She couldn't carry Alicia around with her, couldn't wear her like an old pair of underwear. Sure you could keep a trophy but the true value of that trophy, for example the ripped pair of underwear she kept after getting her first wedgie from Alicia, wasn't determined by how carefully you kept it. How few people you let touch it or even see it.
Its real value was determined by how easily you could just let it go. How easily you could throw it away. Because the cloth at the end of the day was just a piece of cloth, meaningless to anyone but her and Alicia. The true thing worth keeping was the memory. Something for her and her alone.
Getting her had been the hardest thing she thought she would ever do. It turned out letting go was even harder.
Alicia would often talk about what she wanted from the community. She loved it as it was but she had once heard that a community wasn't a community unless it was constantly moving forward, pushing itself to be more, and so she had a short of list of things she wanted. They went something like,
"I love the wedgie fetish community but we need more poetry. Where are all our poets? Doesn't anybody want to rhyme, or write sonnets, ballads or odes to wedgies?"
The wedgie fetish writers are awesome. What we should all do next is put together an anthology of entirely original work. Someone should contact a bunch of wedgie writers and get them to write short stories around a certain theme or idea. Like... "Wedgies of the Zombie Apocalypse" or something like that. "Or just have all of them do something like George R. R. Martin's "Wild Cards" series where we all write different stories that can maybe be in some way connected. Either way give everyone involved like two months to write a story and then post them all at once. Hell, you could self-publish the book on Amazon after someone edits the stories and you can put it on sale. Although..." She would pause throughout her monologue and Julie would always stay silent. She cared about the wedgie fetish community but she cared more about wedgies. She would often bite her lower lip at just hearing Alicia say the word wedgie over and over again. Her small hands would open and close in tight fists while her nails bit into her palms.
"Although I don't want other wedgie fetishists to have to pay for what I write...others might be OK with it, but I don't know if am."
But she could do without any of these things if she couldn't get them. There was one thing though that she wanted more than anything else. It was like Roland Deschain and Captain Ahab, they still needed to eat and drink but they would both toss all their other wants aside if they thought it could help them get to the Dark Tower and the White Whale. And this thing was what she wanted above everything else. And when she talked about it she would do it slowly, almost reverently as if it wasn't something you could just say, but something you had to feel.
"The one thing the wedgie fetish community really needs is...is to get together. For as many as we can get to all be in one place at the same time. I'm not talking online, I mean in the physical world. We need to rent a hall, have it catered. Start simple for our first real gathering. It will be monumental. Never before have wedgie fetishists got together in such a number for something like this. It won’t be an orgy. That will have to be made abundantly clear. It will be a...I don't even know what you'd call it. Not a reunion since we've never been together like this before… But a...union. Of course, we'd just call it a union, a coming together. To talk, to meet, to be with others like us. And for the first time, to truly see, and since everyone says that seeing is believing we will all know that we're not alone. To be able to touch another wedgie fetishist, even if it's just to shake their hand or give them a hug.
“From there we can build it out. Have our own little convention. The writers can host a panel on some topic having to do with wedgies and writing. Poets can read some of their stuff live. Whatever happens at conventions can happen at this one. People will get to meet other wedgie fetishists, and maybe a few of them will even fall in love. Think about it Julie isn't it just the most wonderful thing you've ever thought of? Music, maybe some dancing...what happens at conventions. Prominent members of the community can make speeches. Do you think AntiCherry would come? Do you?”
--
At ending she can talk about how she knows how it ends now, this dream, with her acceptance. But this isn’t the end of things for her. She will go on with her life, and Alicia will always be a part of her, there isn’t a hole in her heart, she just thought there was. No surgeon, no matter how skilled, could ever take the two hearts apart. Just as she thought that no wedgie, no matter how bad it was, could make her stop loving them. There was a space for both things in her life. And she was sad that Alicia was gone. A part of her knew that she would be sad or the rest of her life, but it was the type of sadness you could live with, and in this case the sort of sadness that she thought she couldn’t live without.
Because without it she wouldn’t truly know what happiness was. Something needs to be bad for other things to be good. There were probably whole libraries filled with books just on how you should be happy with what you’ve got and having something for a time and then losing it is better than never having it at all. But those old clichés wouldn’t have made a dent in her iron wall of grief. She needed to relive it, she needed to see the truth to know it and to know that she already knew it. She could always come back here and relive the time she spent with Alicia, maybe not as an observer next time around but as a participant.
That feeling of being misunderstood. It was such an odd feeling. As if a neglected balloon were being filled up with some vaporous substance that lived to roam within its confines. Maybe it was like a hundred wild scorpions all scrabbling along, their pincers and tails poking at the edges of what you know, making you doubt, making you regret. It was nothing like a wedgie, none of the physical pain, except for maybe the slightest tightening of the heart. And maybe that was how Julie knew it was bad. Because it wasn’t at all like a wedgie. It never made her feel this way.
Sometimes it pulled one along with it, dragging them along like a giver who kept a firm hand on a receiver’s underwear and dragged them along, the receiver unable to escape until [[the underwear broke]], or the giver chose to [[let them go->The Dream Ends]]. This secret dream has you. This story you're imaginging. Or did you hear this from one of your victims? Is this a story you forced them to tell you while you pleasured yourself?
There's a different sort of darkness now. You know there's someone at the door, ringing to come in. But this isn't AnimePantie's door, this is a real one. And it demands an answer.
But why then does the dream persist? Isn't it true that you're totally in control of dreams? If so, what does that make this reality?
You can hear someone singing, or is that you? You feel no need to control your impulses, and that involves answering the door, so you stay and listen for a while as you hear wedgie haikus.
In the darkness
one can find wedgies galore;
but no light to see.
Of all the wedgies
I have gotten in my life
the best ones are yours
What if love is a wedgie
Fetish
Love is a wedgie
fetish always pulling you
toward something new
Julie hadn’t understood that one at the time. Even now she wasn’t so sure she did. Would she ever? How did a wedgie or a wedgie fetish pull you toward new things? But she already knew that didn’t she? It brought her to new wedgies, to new experiences, to being open to new stimulus, to new feelings. It pulled her toward new underwear, new thoughts, and fantasies. And there was something more important than all of that the wedgies, and the wedgie fetish helped her get. They might not have brought the two of them together (then again, maybe they did) but wedgies, and her wedgie fetish, had allowed her to be open to Alicia, to not only want her, but to need her. To be open to opening herself up, to allowing herself to get hurt, because that is the only way anyone can ever feel good. You have to at least be willing to feel bad. But that willingness came with a guarantee that sooner or later you would feel bad. And that bad is so scary that people spend their whole lives avoiding it just like scared nerds avoid the big bad bullies because they fear what will happen to their underwear if the bully catches them.
But if you like wedgies, like Julie does, then what the bully does may not be all bad. No…if you like wedgies, if you’re willing to take pain, then what you end up feeling, underneath all that hurt, will be a pleasure that springs from the center of your heart, gushing out like panties from the pants of a wedgie fetishist when at a wedgie orgy. And that [pleasure can never truly be destroyed, pain might dam the flow of it, but its currents will run deep under the surface of the land, travelling at high speeds in the centre of ones being. Like a fetish for wedgies it never really goes anywhere, and maybe, if you’re hurting so bad you don’t know what to do, those good feelings might try to do something for you. They might send you a dream, a reminder, a message that they know you need. And if you listen, if you follow the signs and are willing to go through a bit more pain, because pleasure is inextricably linked to pain, without one the other quickly withers and dies, falling limp like a stretched pair of underwear that settles back into place atop a person’s back after being pulled until it has been ruined. It’s nothing then but a clump of fabric, it’s recognizable, but its original purpose can never be served in the same way again. It can’t do what it was made for once it’s pushed beyond a certain point. In that way underwear was just like humans.
Two hands together
on your waistband. I will pull.
I love you Julie.
Beautiful. Very nice. Very nice. She wasn’t too sure about the wording of the second line but it was her favourite haiku. Without a doubt... it was her favourite, and there was a week when Alicia went away with her family camping, and late at night, so late it would actually have been early morning had Julie bothered to keep track, she had felt lonely in a way she had never really felt before. Sure she had known loneliness, all wedgie fetishists do. But this was more. This was deeper, a new feeling, one that hurt more. If all loneliness before this had been a normal wedgie, then this new feeling would have to be a Melvin, punching her most sensitive areas with no concern for how it might make her feel.
Rubbing and grinding against her, her pain a cotton flossing that left her feeling empty, as if every pull of the fabric was not just scraping at her skin, but scraping something away. And it was in those later hours, when the rest of the world slept unawares to the pain of this girl, feeling their own pains that neither would be able to understand, Julie spoke this haiku to herself. She did it once, feeling the words on her lips, listening carefully as they passed through her mouth and out into the world. She thought carefully about the way her mouth moved, the shapes it made. And then she said it again. And again. She liked it more with every enunciation. She spoke it to herself until she fell asleep, her mind finally relaxed by what had become a mantra, the words giving her a surprising, and yet not unwelcome peace. For here was a piece of Alicia that Julie could keep with her, that she could hold, even if just in her heart, and mind, and in the place between her lips as they moved to make the words “I love you.” She felt something deep within her stir, not the wedgie fetish, but something else. Something that liked the words “I love you” and in her dreams that night she thought about her and Alicia, together. And she thought maybe when Alicia got back she might have to tell her that she loved her. It wasn’t going to be easy. Once you said it then it was said. Even Julie (who hadn’t ever said it to anyone before, who thought herself more aware of the power of those words than most people her age, and who had never even been in any kind of relationship before) knew that once she said it things would change. And she so disliked change. She feared it. She was afraid in the irrational way of the lonely who don’t understand that some things really never change. If you have people with you then you don’t have to fear things not being the same, because your family, your friends, and the people you love will be there to make it easier. Not everything will change.
Something’s will, they always do, but other things will remain. So maybe she could tell Alicia, and trust that her feelings will stay the same.
Because her feelings for Alicia seemed pure and real in a way that could only make them true, and if she kept that in her heart, no matter what changes might come, she would know things were all right. In her dream she thought too of a girl who had her underwear sticking out of her pants. This girl wasn’t afraid of someone coming up behind her and pulling on her underwear. There would be no point in being afraid, after all, she had intentionally set her underwear up in that way. If someone pulled on it, that would be a change. But she didn’t fear that happening. She wanted it to. She wanted a wedgie so she made it more likely that it would happen. She wanted this change, this shift from having her underwear sitting outside of her pants to being pulled up her butt, and she wasn’t the least bit worried about what that change might bring because she had an anchor, something to keep her in place, something that was mired deep in the depths of her being, stuck so deep in the rocky bottoms of her soul that no wind or strong waves could ever push the ship from where it was sitting. Her wedgie fetish was something that could never change. The whole world could fall apart around her after getting a wedgie, but in the end this girl didn’t care, somehow Julie knew all of this in her dream, in the way all the important things are known in dreams, and Julie also understood that this girl wasn’t scared of getting wedgie, because her wedgie fetish would be there for her, making sense of thins and being there for her, something that would always stay the same.
Something she could count on. The girl in the dream began to transform and change, her body blurring into another’s, until the face of Alicia was as clear in the eyes of her dream as it had ever been in real life, and Julie, for the first time thought that maybe Alicia was sort of like her wedgie fetish in a way because she was something that could be counted upon. Something that could be trusted and believed in. Just like a pair of stretchy and durable underwear. You could trust those not to rip when you hung yourself up or tried to pull them over your head for an atomic. The dream changed once more until it was her trying to pull her underwear over her head. This was a more common dream, one she was more familiar with, she didn’t often dream it, so it had become quite precious to her; its value increased by the fact it was so rare. Just like wedgies for her, since she had gotten so few of them in her life.
This was probably her favourite dream, and before she slept she often tried to think about wedgies so that she might get the dream, but she hardly ever did. She didn’t think the dream could get much better, She felt everything she wanted to, everything she should feel, there was this amazing experience of feeling overwhelmed. Not like being under water, which is one way Alicia had once described it, but it was more like floating up in space, not being pulled in any one direction, not having to fight any current or undertow, not being tossed around by waves as you would be underwater, but you just floated. Floated in no particular direction with not thoughts on your mind but the limitless nature of all there is around you. The underwear brushed her in the gentle way she believes she should be touched, the stretchy white panties that she now wore in the dream extended its slender body to cover Julie’s back from sight, she was naked except for underwear in the dream, an ideal positon for wedgies, the cold air moved along her body like thorough fingertips that wanted to feel her. All Julie felt now was the underwear, her hair hung down in front of her face, but she couldn’t see it. Her breath came in tired pants from the effort of having to stretch her own underwear out, holding her hands under and behind her arm pits as she struggled to adjust her grip and keep a tight hold on her panties at the same time.
There was a spear of fabric pointing to her butt like an arrow, with its haft being the elongated material of the rest of her underwear. The material was bunched up tight between her butt cheeks, she tried to force more of it in, trying to shove all the cotton she could into her waiting buttocks. She wanted all of it in there, she wanted to pull it until she couldn’t anymore, she jammed it up with quick pulls, trying to stretch the underwear, trying to push the fabric into her, but also to try to get it to move against her front, to get it to rub her, to move inside of her and then wiggle around like prying fingers, the underwear so soft, so willing and wielding to her touch, and yet she needed it, she tried to do what it demanded of her, if it wasn’t touching her fast enough, she had to keep pulling it, she wanted to move a hand to the front, but she also wanted to pull it over her head. It was iconic, the atomic wedgie, she wanted to be trapped in her own underwear. A slave to it just like she was a slave to her fetish, let it bind her in its cotton grip. So she kept pulling, more and more she pulled, wishing it wasn’t just touching her but doing more, that she didn’t have to do everything herself. She was moving up and down on her feet now, from her tip-toes back down to being on her flat feet, her body going up and down in tandem with her pulls to her underwear stretchy white underwear. Her eyes were shut tight her whole body starting to move, her arms jerking up and down as well, bring the underwear up into an even tighter wedgie.
“Wedgie,” she whispered in the dream. She just needed to hear the word.
It wasn’t said enough in videos and not nearly enough in real life. Here in dreams she tried to make up for it. “Wedgie” she cried out, trying to fill the very air around her with wedgies, even if it was just the word that would float away and vanish in seconds, a microcosmic version of what would happen to all wedgies at one point or another, they would end and e like they never happened.
“WEDGIE!”
“Let me help you,” a voice said, and Julie was so shocked that she opened her eyes a crack, enough that a stream of light could pour in and she saw Alicia standing in front of her, her hands took the front of her panties and without saying more than her offer to help, she began to pull the panties that were sinking into the front of Julie’s body, disappearing as more and more it was sucked up in to her behind because of the tractor-beam like force of Julie’s hands that demanded the fabric all go up and into her butt. Julie was too deep into her pleasure to question why Alicia had appeared for the first time in her dream, nor did she care when Alicia pulled the panties up, cranking the fabric directly into Julie who moaned in satisfaction, that was exactly how she wanted it. How she needed it. The underwear not just pushing against her, but entering her. She didn’t need to keep pulling and jumping hoping the underwear would move into positon and stay there. Her knees buckled but she stayed upright, holding tight to the underwear behind her, her body hunching up as if she were becoming a hunchback and wasn’t able to stand properly anymore because the pleasure was taking all her strength away.
But that was OK for her as well, because as she sank down her underwear rose up and now for the first time in her life Julie was getting both the front of her underwear and the back pulled up with a savage amount of strength with the objective of pleasuring her. Never before had the feeling of a wedgie ever been this complete before. She had never thought she could get both the feeling of the wedgie as if often is, with her underwear ravaging her butt with its hurtful movements, while it invaded the front of her body, prodding and digging around as if it were looking for something it knew was just beneath the surface of where it was looking. She collapsed into her underwear, unable to hold the back of it any longer, her head and back arching away from Alicia, who continued to hold her panties at a sharp angle that lead straight to her, there was the thinnest line of fabric that touched Julie where it mattered, since the rest of it was either stretched out in the back or in Alicia’s hands.
Her groin was jutting out toward Alicia, while the rest of her body leaned back, at such a steep angle it seemed like if Alicia let go Julie would surely fall backwards. But Alicia wouldn’t let that happen. In this dream she cared too much about Julie to let her fall, she kept a tight grip on the underwear not just to make sure it continued to touch her in the ways it needed to until Julie was finished, but also to make sure she could stay standing. And when Julie was done, Alicia gave the underwear a hand yank with both of her hands. Julie was launched toward her and she held out her arms so the two didn’t crash together as she was forced back to standing upright once again. Alicia let go of the underwear when their bodies met and both of them wrapped their arms around the other as they collided together with nothing more than a light “oompf” from Alicia. Their faces were now side to side. They were so close that their ears touched. They held tight to each other, pressing and flattening the front of Julie’s panties between the two of them. Alicia feeling the now wet parts of Julie. In dreams, where time works differently than it does anywhere else, it’s impossible to know how long they stood like this.
Just reveling in the fact they had each other to hold. Julie pulled her head back, and looked Alicia in the eye. Even though it was a dream there were some things that were still hard to do, and she was somewhat surprised that she had no trouble letting Alicia wedgie her, but when she wanted to give her a kiss she found she couldn’t. Alicia seemed to read her mind though and opened her lips for Julie. Julie, a little unsure what to do, never having kissed anyone before moved in to meet Alicia’s lips. Julie reminded herself that this was a dream, so even if she embarrassed herself with a terrible kiss it wouldn’t really matter. And with that all her worry was gone. They kissed with the underwear still stretched between them and Julie thought of how wedgies and kissing just seemed like such an arousing combination.
Before waking up she hoped that Alicia would come back from her trip soon. She was already anxious to try this combination out in real life.
And then she [[woke up]]. You're by the stairwell, and you realize no time has passed. It seems like too long, like forever. Like you were trapped in someone else's mind or reality.
The doorbell is ringing, or is that still the first ring?
You shake your head and mount the stairs, your body wet, hot and your mind eager to return to your lovers who are craving your wedgies and probably wishing you would hurry up so you could get back to them sooner.
You walk through your kitchen and reach the door.
It's not too late to turn around and go back stairs, you think.
You've been away from your women for so long. They're probably talking to each other about how great your wedgies are. How much they need your hands on them. They're probably talking, (in-between those cute sort of giggles that college girls fall back on when they sort of joke about kissing each other just because they've never done it before, just because they want to try it) about maybe giving each other a wedgie. And they're probably tentatively reaching out to one another, unsure, uncertain, but so aroused.
And you're up here, staring at a piece of wood because some stupid bell started ringing. You should be down stairs with them, watching, teaching them.
But still...someone is still ringing the bell. Has it been a long time since they started? You feel like it has been. What if it doesn't stop? How are you supposed to enjoy your own personal Wedgie Babes giving each other wedgies and asking you if their efforts to yank their own underwear look good, while that bell is chiming off over and over again?
You stand by the door.
Do you put on your best fake smile and open the door for these unwanted visitors and let them in?
[[Open the door]]
[[Go back downstairs]]You reach the stairs with your mind full of visions of the wedgies you can give your willing slaves.
You don't know if you have enough energy to fulfill their desires, they're needy and can't stand to be away from you.
But maybe you don't need to go up the stairs. If you ignore them they'll go away eventually.
You're a genius though, and geniuses know you have to act normally to blend into this world of idiots.
But still you feel a...
<span class="hidden"> [[Secret Dream]]</span>
calling to you...
[[Head upstairs to answer the door->woke up]]You're suddenly reminded of the guy who hid his name in his paintings. The great irony was that that secret was what took off, and he became known not for his work but just for putting the name into it.
People went crazy over finding the name in his paintings.
That was such a fascinating thing for Alicia, she would all of a sudden just start talking about it. Imagine being that guy, maybe not super popular, you put the name in, not for anyone else but you do it for you, and then all the work that you do In the future isn’t judge don how good it is, but by if the name is in it. He would have become a slave to that name. It was the most important thing, a gimmick, a insignificant piece of something that was supposed to mean something. Alicia was afraid her work would end up like that, she would be known for a gimmick, some mistake, but mostly she just felt for that man who probably hated that name and putting it in his work, far more than he did the fame that probably came with it. Fame should come on a person’s own terms. Not because of a name in a painting.
Is it wrong I can't even remember how the old site looked like, Alicia would say after a night of drinking. Julie never drank, and wouldn’t know how to respond.
I just don't remember what it looked like. I saw it so often, I think, how could I forget? But I can't see it. I can barely see the new one, but at least I can after thinking hard about it for a minute or two.
Julie imagine a person who dedicated themselves completely to the wedgie fetish community a rich billionaire who built an archive for all the wedgie works that were written. And organized, and paid for get together of wedgie fetishists pitting together a convention of wedgie fetishists. Creating a scientific institution for the demographic study of wedgie fetishists for example. To fund psychological examinations into the cause of the fetish. Maybe even the creation of a commune of wedgie fetishists.
Julie could see this person that Alicia hoped for. And wondered what sort of life that person would have if they were married to a non-wedgie fetishist, to someone who was vanilla, as Alicia had said. A person without flavor and who was bland and ordinary. Even if they had kids Julie didn't see them spending much time with them.
She saw this billionaire wedgie fetishist living for the community and neglecting his other family. Choosing to live and be with his family of wedgie fetishists. And what was the right thing to do? Did he balance the two lives together even if that meant he couldn't make as deep and lasting a contribution to either family if he had to split himself between both evenly. He had a responsibility to his fellow wedgie fetishists didn't he? There wouldn't be another billionaire with a wedgie fetish, no one who could what he could. So shouldn't he spend his time and money with these people who needed him? These thousands of people, some just joining the family, unaware there are people they have never met, but who still love them because they are like them. Hundreds and hundreds, scared, ashamed. Living in secret. And he could do something to change that. He could make their lives better. Shouldn't he?
But what about his wife and kids. They would be better with him in their life. Or would they? He could throw money at them.in the same way he could the wedgie fetishists but it wouldn't be the same. With the fetishists he'd be building a community. What good could he really do in his own house that compared to building lives and a future for the wedgie fetishists yet to be.
But they were still his blood. And he loved them. He wanted to be there to take care of them to support them. They also needed him. The problem was that the needs of both groups were different. And he didn't know how he could help one without placing it as more important than another.
Maybe at the end of it all, when he was on the road that was strewn with the torn pairs of stretched underwear which stood for regretted choices, before the door that led to whatever came next, he would feel bad about not being as big a part of his wife's life and that of his kids. But weren't the wedgie fetishists his wife as well, and his children?
He had the chance to fund a community, to make sure the writers of the wedgie fetish community were able to write without fear and were funded like the poets of Shakespeare's times who had sponsors. And he would maybe even build a museum that displayed the best wedgie art. Compared to that what did it matter if he was there for a kids birthday? Or missed an anniversary?
Maybe it was because the wedgie fetish community wouldn't appreciate it all if it came at such a price. If they ever found out that their gifts came at the expense of another they'd turn him down. They'd lived with little for so long that they could do it if they had to. But a man only got the love of a family once in his life, and being a wedgie fetishist was ultimately about making things easier for other wedgie fetishists. And just because they weren't all millionaires, it didn't mean that most of them couldn't remind the billionaire of what he was sacrificing. Some wedgie fetishists would never find love and they weren't going to let the billionaire lose it because of them. They would help him and show him that you don't need the money to make a difference in the community you just need to try hard to make a person’s life better.
(but what did that mean. A better life could mean anything to any number of people. Do some it might mean creating a totalitarian world where wedgie fetishists are taught to hate anyone unlike them. Where children are conditioned at birth to like wedgies. But even less extreme a person could think a better world was one where people had to pay for the writings of wedgie fetishists. Or any number of things which just made it all so complicated. But that plethora of opinions, thoughts and ideas made the wedgie fetishists a community.
No wedgie fetishist would want to know their good came at the expense of another. They've lived with hardship and known unhappiness. And none of them are cruel enough to wish that on another. They'd reject the billionaire and his money if it means that he was rejecting his family. Because his free money was worthless if the other wedgie fetishists realized they were paying for it with another's love.
Drawing her in like some kind of poorly functioning tractor beam. Stopping and starting. She wished it would just pull her down all the way. All the way up into the UFO which was her writing. But it didn't work they way. At the very least you had to put yourself in the position. You had to help yourself up into the ship, if there even was one. Drag yourself into it. It wasn't going to pull you up by itself.
Like wedgies. Everything Julie thought was like wedgies in one way or another. How crazy was that when you thought about it.
But in this case it really was true. . You didn't just get one. Maybe a natural one ok. But that would be small. Nothing that could satisfy you. Only an irritant. To common to be valuable the real valuable stuff was rare. That was always the way.
Didn't think of the consequences much. It wasn't an original thought. At least not in her own mind. But who else but a child could like wedgies so much that it turned her on. Turned her on, what was she, a light switch?
Flick it up and the light goes on. Turn it off and all you get is darkness? Was that all she was, only able to work when a certain kind of hand, a special cotton sort of hand touched her in just the right way. Not one simple flick but a whole set of movements. A whole circus of them.
And for a moment she saw before her how limitless this dream could be. It's endless potential and room for possibility. She could spend lifetimes moving from room to room in the deepest crevices of her grief-ridden mind and still nor have thought everything she could think. Not tackle every question with whatever communicable answer she could try to give.
Memory was episodic in the same way this dream was. Her mind knew (just as everyone's minds know in a way their hearts can’t understand) that she couldn't spend every second thinking and reliving the past, going through years of a relationship in real time. Julie sort of thought that such an experience would drive you crazy anyway, even if you could do it. Life wasn't mean to be lived like that. Backwards always thinking and going over what was.
What does it profit a woman if she has wedgies but no one to love? What does it profit her?
Why... it profits her wedgies doesn't it? Lots and lots of wedgies. The wedgies might not love her as Alicia did, but at least they couldn't die and leave her alone as Alicia did. There was always that benefit. That wonderful part of them that made them, in a way, better than Alicia. But were they really better? Why couldn't she just think something and be done with, why did there have to be all these caveats and exceptions and questions. Wedgies are good and that's it. But that wasn't it. There was always more to everything and she couldn't forget that.
Like a maze that kept on going with long passageways and twists turns dead ends and in the end, when you got to the exit. You ended up being brought right back to rejection. That's where it all led you in the end. This maze that wasn't so much a maze but seemed like one. It was complicated in its design but for all its subtlety it might as well be a straight line. A one way street. Because you could work your way through it all your life and when you got out in the end you'd realize that rejection was what it all came back to.
“Everything comes back to rejection. At least, for us it does.”
She worried what would happen. That she would get rejected. She wanted to google "scared of getting rejected" because getting the answer given to you was so much easier than having to puzzle it our for yourself. But the internet wouldn't be able to tell her anything new. She conceded if would tell her one of the most important things it could tell her, something that only the internet could really tell her, because it spoke in a language far more compelling than the one that told so much. It spoke in the language of showing.
And it would show her that she wasn't alone.
That was the thing about climaxing. Once it happened it was all downhill from there. Everything just stopped being as exciting. As good.
Alicia can mention story ideas like a woman who wishes away her wedgie fetish. Lives for exactly one year without. Day of her birthday (same day she wishes it away a year earlier) she wishes to have it back. It doesn't come back when she wakes up the next morning and she kills herself.
She wanted there to be an incredibly rich member of the wedgie fetish community who could finance a gathering of wedgie fetishists together in one place. Or an orgy sort of event, but a get together, a gala, or a ball, something like that people could put faces to user names, meet not just in the phantom coded rooms of the online world, but in a place where they could, for once, breathe the same air as people like them. Maybe even shake their hands, touching them in a talismanic way of one who pinches themselves to prove they're not dreaming.
Julie was prepared to point out the many flaws behind her plan, and the utter impossibility of it all, but she was pretty sure Alicia knew all the reasons it might never happen, and all the reasons why communicating online was better than nothing at all. Wedgie fetishists from two generations back probably would have scolded Alicia (if any even existed back then) with the immortal comments of how back in their day if wedgie fetishists wanted to talk to each other that was just to stinking bad, 'cause they didn't have none of dem high-falutin gadgets that allowed them to know they weren't alone. Back then you were by yourself and that was that.
At the very least Alicia would be reminded of the fact that she had it easier than a lot of people and there were better uses of her time than thinking about getting others like her together. Even if just once. There could be speeches. Awards given out maybe...who would Emcee?
Julie also didn't say anything because she would be lying if she didn't say she wanted to get wedgie fetishists together as well. What a night that would be. meeting the people who were your second family. No, not second, but your family. Who know you better than many others ever would. Julie sometimes thought that walking into such a place, where all the wedgie fetishists were gathered, would be a lot like coming home.
Alicia talked a bit about awards and the emcee telling wedgie jokes...what wedgie jokes were there anyway? Maybe something about prominent members, like how Mysterious Stranger still has the picture from DragonFable as his profile picture. Talk about old fashioned.
They needed more wedgie jokes. Just like Alicia thought the community could use more of every sort of writing. Where were the sci-fi stories? Where?
And we talked about death a lot. She told me she wasn't scared of death because of the stories she had written. She felt she had done some good with her life. She could have a heart attack at almost any moment and she would be OK with that.
Sure she was a little scared. The old folks had it wrong though. It wasn't about young people not being afraid of death, it was them not having so much to live for as the old ones.
But Alicia admitted she was a little scared. Only because she had ideas for stories and if she died those ideas would never be written. The stories she would write if she kept living wouldn't be the best, nor the ones that stuck in the memory the longest, but they would be hers, and in the end that is all that mattered to her. Having something that was hers.
Alicia's main problem was that she thought she sucked. That she was undeserving of love and worthless.
But at the same time she wanted all those things so much that she came to think she deserved them.
She saw so many others who had what she wanted. What she needed. And she felt entitled to them.
She lived in a world of cognitive dissonance. And sometimes she really felt that inner struggle. As if she could sometimes hear the sounds of fighting troops over a nearby hill, and once in a while she would peek over to see what all the noise was. And she would see all the chaos. All the death. Humankind stripped down to its essence of swords and blood and she would remember that she had seen it all before. And she would try to run and for a while the sound might grow quieter. But the hill never moved. And in the end neither did she. Maybe if she grew older she would have gotten used to things. Come to accept them. But now she couldn't. That's why Julie was here.
Well she had me Julie thinks. And I had her.
That's how you know you're in love. When you're willing to listen to them talk about things that have nothing to do with wedgies. Listen to them for hours as they read their prose poem "On the Lookout Trail" and you think maybe wedgies could be added in or how you could turn it into a wedgie story. But then you think, no you don't have to. Them telling me this story is enough. It's all I need. That's how toy know you're in love with a person. When the thing you care about more that. Anything else is suddenly, and even magically, supplanted by them. When you realize there is something more important than the wedgies. That's when you realize you're in love.
Julie is asking the question to herself, how does she know she was ever in love as she walks out of house into real world once more, this thought dawns on her. And with drying tears streaking her face she walks out into the light of the world, the light that is always there, waiting.
The dream house. But it’s really enough to convince her of what she needs to know. Real enough to tell a girl who had been thinking about suicide just so she could maybe be with her girlfriend in the afterlife that maybe she ought to give living a try. Live not in hope she will die, but because of it. Live because Alicia didn't get the chance to. Live, she told herself, because maybe when you do die and join her you ought to have more stories to tell her.
More wedgies to show.
And a bigger heart to share with her.
But what's that...[[a doorbell ringing->The Dream Ends]]? This is another dream. Someone else's maybe? From some other time. Are you lost in your mind, or is this the only reality you know: a cacophonic layered mess of different fantasies. Is any of it real? If so, what isn't?
Even after all these years she could still see him standing there among the crowd. As soon as she came up the escalator to Yonge and Dundas entrance of the Eaton Centre she knew who it was she had come to see.
It was like he glowed. A small comet that had landed among the darkness of this empty world. And she couldn't stop looking at him. Here was her idol. The person she admired more than anyone else. Years ago she had said that nobody who knew her real name knew about her fetish, and nobody who knew she had a fetish knew her real name. In short, no one really knew her. But here was someone who would permeate the space between her two lives. Here was someone like her.
She approached the man who she would have known even if he hadn't given her a explicit description of himself. He might have been worried that she might not find him. He had nothing to worry about. She felt, in the moments that she walked toward him, passing by invisible people who might as well have been ghosts, that she could have closed her eyes and still would have seen him. She didn't know how others didn't see his light. She saw a rare beauty that spoke to something within her, and echoed like a cave that kept throwing back the same sound over and over again; but instead of fading over time, it kept growing louder.
This was probably the busiest mall in all of Canada and yet it seemed empty now.
She had thought about nothing but these moments. She was bringing all that she was to this young man. He looked like what she expected. She had seen other wedgie fetishists before. Some had taken pictures of themselves before and posted them online. And one had even done a live-stream before. She remembered seeing the wedgie fetishist who did that. And she had just stared at him. She quickly left the chat room, feeling strange, as if she had seen something she couldn't understand and thus couldn't continue to view. And yet, moments later she felt herself being drawn back. She had eventually typed a question and that wedgie fetishist had answered it. She had asked how to write a wedgie scene. He had said that you had to write a scene and think about what works, fit the wedgies to the scene. Does it make sense to have the wedgie?
The man she had come to see looked like that fetishist. But she couldn't compare the two. The most important fact was that the wedgie fetishist who had done the live stream could be seen, but could not see. The connection, brokered by a computer, had been like the tinted windows of a new car. She had been able to look out at him as he passed by in her life. But he couldn't see her. There was an integral separation. But here, now, there was no distance.
For the first time in her life she was going to be with another wedgie fetishist. And this man would not be like anyone else. He would be unforgettable because of the fact she looked like him, not just in body, and not just in mind because they both shared a passion for writing, but in their very souls.
She felt like if she thought something he would hear it because they shared a connection that none of the millions people who had ever been in this mall could ever understand.
He stood in the light of the glass windows that looked out onto Yonge and Dundas. The Canadian equivalent of Times Square. And she briefly thought of how so many Canadian things were viewed in comparison to America. But she didn't know of anything like this ever happening ever in America. Or anywhere in the world.
She had dozens of things she wanted to say. She wanted to say everything she needed to tell him all at once. She had wanted to send him a dozen times to try and explain all her fears, and tell him everything about her so that he wouldn't be disappointed when he met her. But the same impulse that told her to meet this man, despite the fact that she didn't know him and for all she knew he might be like the antagonist in Play Misty for Me.
She thought about saying the first thing that came to her mind. She wanted to quote his story to him.
" 'Excuse me, is anybody sitting here?' " That's what she wanted to say. The starting words of his second story. His magnum opus. She wanted to tell him how he had changed her life. How the work he did truly made her happy to be alive. It made her proud to have a wedgie fetish. Every word that he ever put down in any of the wedgie fetish communities sites allowed her to believe that who she was, and what she loved, was OK.
She wanted to tell him that he was amazing. She wondered if he already knew it. She wanted to tell him everything she had never told anyone. Would they talk about wedgies? Would they even say the word. He was uncomfortable saying it out loud. She thought she'd probably be able to say it, but only if she could whisper it to him. She felt like she didn't have to say it. He would hear it in her every breath. In every beat of her heart.
"I love you," she wanted to say. But was afraid he would misunderstand. There were two kinds of love. Would he know which one she felt for him? She felt for him the love that she felt for all wedgie fetishists. The love she wanted to tell all wedgie fetishists she had for them. The love of being like them. The love that came from being part of an exclusive club that you never asked to be a part of. Love that came from being appointed to your destiny and having your identity made without your input. The love that came from understanding.
She wanted to write a story with him. She had brought a pad of paper and a number of pencils so that they could start brainstorming ideas and put together a short story. Maybe it would be about two wedgie fetishist writers who met at the Eaton Centre.
What if she creeped him out? She was the one who first brought up the idea of meeting? What if he thought she was really strange?
She didn't know what she would do if she was rejected by him. Rejection was her greatest fear. If he rejected her there was no coming back from it. She would be getting rejected by the one person who could ever fully know what it was like to be like her.
"Joanna had made the necessary preparations, but even still her heart beat through her chest and down each hallway and corridor."
Another quote from his greatest work. How was he so great? She needed to know. Needed to ask him. Needed to ask him the integral question of what it was like for him to be a wedgie fetishist. His quotes always seemed to be reverberate with her and follow her like the highly intelligent young woman who was learning that she needed to be dominated. She smiled at how naturally allusions to his work came to her. She wanted to keep comparing everything to his stories while they talked, but she was afraid that might upset him.
She wanted to write a story with him about two adventurers who went around the globe and dealt with wedgie giving monsters and villains. Alone, the two of them would have each other.
How could she tell him all she felt he needed to know?
She didn't know anything about anime and yet, his username was literally AnimePanties. She thought about binge watching everything she could find just so she could impress him with her knowledge. But she knew she couldn't do that. If she was going to do this, for the first time she had to do it by putting down that shield she carried around. This man was going to know her as no one did. He had to know the real her. If he didn't then nobody ever would.
What if this was like the ending of Two Worlds? Which one, she instantly thought, her mind becoming filled with a sudden dread.
"What was now something, is now nothing, and what was once together, was now separate, forever."
What if it ended like that and the friendship they had would be ruined by their meeting?
She didn't know how their conversations would go. Would he mention wedgies? Would he want to exchange wedgies? She really didn't want to. She just wanted to talk. To learn more about who he is. And that ending, she remembered, that conclusion which transcended depression, was an alternate ending. It wasn't how things really went.
"Their worlds, wouldn’t be two different worlds anymore. They would be one. They would merge. They would be together for the rest of their lives."
Now that was what she wanted. What she needed. That sort of connection. Even if she never saw him again after this meeting. She wanted to know that the two of them, although so inevitably different, would also be the same.
She imagined the two of them writing a story where their characters met each other. What would happen if all the members of the Friend Sessions met Tracy? Or if Lucy and Daniela met Lisa and Julia. Friends brought together by wedgies. Coming from two different worlds, but all sharing the same love.
She could see all their characters together in a massive space, like a banquet hall of sorts. The get together looked what she imagined it would look like if all the wedgie fetishists of the world got together. There would be smiles, laughter, and love.
She could see a story of two young woman wedgie fetishists trapped together in a cell that was completely black. There was no light anywhere. They get to know each other by feeling. And when they find each others underwear in the darkness, and when they pull up together, as if they were moved by one mind, their pleasure lit up their prison and they were freed. They could feel the underwear digging, pressing, pressuring, all the cliché words that she relied on which he somehow didn't need. They would cry out into the darkness, yelling the word wedgie to the blackness that swallowed them. The panties would squeeze them and they would push themselves together. Wanting to feel eaxhother as much as they could. Wanting to be seen. Their bodies would begin to bounce up and down in the warm rhythms of pleasure nobody could see. Because the darkness that hid then from each other also hid them from the rest of the world. Wedgie me, they would say. They would beg for harder pulls, and they would deliver. Pulling, faster, stronger. Their bodies starting to warm, to burn with the heat of their excitement and they would glow with the fact that for the first fine they were getting exactly what they needed. Give me a wedgie, they would say. I want a wedgie. I need a wedgie. And, unable to see each other they would guess what the other looked like, trying to see what they couldn't see with their eyes, forgetting to look with their hearts. And they would both be beautiful to each other, attractive models who pulled on one one another's thick and stretchy panties as their two bodies squished together and ad their lips met in their attempt to liberate one another. And they would jerk the underwear up with the desperate movements of someone who needed to arouse. Take the wedgie. Like the wedgie. Love it. And they would shake, their bodies were one. And in the darkness, unseen and unseeing who could say it wasn't? They vibrated with the pleasure of their underwear sliding unto them as they slid their tongues into each other. And when they wailed into eachothers mouths, screaming the word wedgie over and over again, imagining dozens of different arousing wedgie scenarios simultaneously, all of which included their partner in blindness. And when their shaking stopped, when they rested their heads on each others shoulders and panted together, their heart beats as perfectly timed as Lucy's entrance into the Friend Sessions.
There he was, only a few feet in front of her. A total mystery, someone she had never met. And yet in one way he was someone she had always known. He might not be what she imagined, but that was only because he would be more than she had imagined. There was only one thing she wouldn't quote verbatim to him from his stories.
" 'Four and a half years…' she spoke to herself, keeping the panties taught. Lisa spoke into Julia’s ear, explaining her choice of garment."
It has been 530 days since he had first entered into her life. That was when the first part of Two Worlds was first posted. And her world, all that she had felt and known had gone from being a chaotic spill of feeling of division between wanting to be something different than what she was, transposed to, because of him, an acceptance of who she was, and who she was going to be; her life became one world of self-love. And how did you meet the person who made that happen for you?
And in their story of adventurers the two of them would encounter an evil witch who would only be evil because her lover who had loved wedgies as much as he had loved her had died. And she would have to be reminded of how good it felt to love again. And as all three of them shared in a wedgie trying as hard as they can to pull the underwear, (moaning as Lisa did when she wore the nerdy underwear and got Julia to give her a wedgie) the evil witch would try to make things as good as she could because she was nervous, she would be outgoing and optimistic, excited, because she didn't know how the others would be and didn't want them to be settled into a quiet awkwardness after where they didn't know what to say until someone said they were ready to go.
But these stories didn't seem like what either of them would write. And maybe that was the point. Maybe they would create something totally new because of their fusion. Or perhaps in her attempts to guess what they might write she took away the freedom that was necessary to create something like what either of them have made before.
Maybe they would tell the story of their different characters meeting. Lucy meets Lucy. Or they would of write about the two people who wrote a story together. But no matter what they wrote she was sure there would be a great many wedgies. Underwear would get pulled in amounts that no one had ever seen before. And there would be such powerful writing, such evocative language that people would be brought to tears. And they would be so pleased by what they read that they would always say that the greatest story was simply their getting together in the first place. He wanted to ask him how to not be so focused on the numbers. He wanted to tell him how great his work was. Over and over again he wanted to praise him in more elaborate ways. And now she also had to pick a place to eat since he didn't really know Toronto. This was an added pressure. But there were so many places to eat on the bottom floor of the Eaton Centre. They would find something. There were so many things she wanted him to know. After, she knew, she would come up with things she should have said. After they had met she'd go over their meeting again and again. How quickly her heart had beat as she approached him. How she had thought many times about backing out. Everything she had said. And everything he had said. And she wouldn't tell anyone any of it. She had thought a lot about how they would talk about something he couldn't say. The problem with downtown was the fact there were so many people around. But they've said so much, the both of them. They'd be able to figure it out.
And then she was in front of him. He smiled at her and said nothing. And in that smile, and in his eyes, she knew that he knew what she knew. That he understood and that all her worry and fear was for nothing. He had been waiting for her. And in the silence of their meeting they shared all that needed to be said.
"Hi," she could have said. And everything would be alright.
There was enough fear between the two of them. Enough concern and precautions to fill up the holes wedgie fetishists had caused within them. She was open about who she was but understood that others might not be. She had lost her fear about a lot of life. But people were different. She had better things to do than try to betray the trust he was putting in her. Besides, she values trust, and was the sort to be incredibly loyal to those she valued. She wanted to assure him that he didn't need to say anything. He didn't need do anything. She just wanted to talk. To learn more about this man. And that was fine. He had set conditions and that had made it all the more real for her. It was still frightening, even with him right in front of her. This was the unknown made real. He didn't want her to bring anyone else. What he didn't yet know was that anyone else would sully this moment. She didn't want anyone else to ruin this. He wanted to protect himself with conditions and rules. She wanted to tell him that that was fine. She didn't want to protect herself, not anymore. But she never wanted to force her choices on anyone else. She didn't have much of a code of being, but if there was one rule she wanted to follow it was the acronym that came from her favorite story of hers.
"YWNR." And it didn't just mean what it used to for her. Maybe that's the first thing she could say to him. She realized she didn't even know what to call him. It might seem strange if anyone nearby heard her call him AnimePanties. Maybe AP. He had a name on his DA page. Jeff Baker. Maybe that was the name he wanted to be used.
And even after decades of not seeing him, years of growing older and seeing him write story after story, each one somehow managing to be better than the ones that came before, thinking that it was like with every word he was somehow tapping into some magical force of wedgie fetishists. And it was OK that she lost her popularity as a writer as he gained more. She had once said that she was proud to be kept in his shadow, because the breezes were cool there and she never had to worry about being burnt by the sun. And she could always, even in the moments when she died, and that which made her a wedgie fetishist, which made her AnimePanties' biggest fan, and that which gave her a glow of her own, floated up like the ripped threads of well used underwear, see his glow like the worlds most powerful after image that had imprinted and burned itself not just on her eyes but on her very soul. And that light was how he managed to cast such a powerful shadow. And getting to see that light. Realizing it was real, was worth having to spend the rest of her life in the dark. Because some people never got to know the light. The truly sad never even knew it existed.
"Thank you," she had said in the last seconds of her dying. Just as it was when she first met him. For those were the only words that could express what he meant to her. And could tell him everything he ever needed to know about her. For although a person died many times in their life, they could only be made to live because of someone very special.
And for her, that was, and always would be, him.
[[The Dream Ends]]A beautiful women stares at you smiling.
Tall, green eyes that remind you of lime panties, and dirty blonde hair. She's wearing tight black skinny jeans and a red crop-top.
She's smiling at you. So much of her midriff is exposed and you wonder when the one's downstairs had told this new, hot one, about your wedgies.
She introduces herself as Alicia Blake. She tells you she's here because she's...
But you've stopped listening. What's beneath her jeans? Is it a thong? Granny panties? Boyshorts? You could picture her standing behind any of the women you have kept downstairs and giving them wedgies. Pulling the material up while you offer some advice on how she can improve her stance, move her arms, and give harder wedgies.
She's asking if she can come in. Here's another hot butt to wedgie. It seems tight, the perky sort that will rise up and remain hard when you wedgie it. The sort that will absorb the panties and rock the look that comes from underwear sliding between the cheeks.
You welcome her in and ask her to take a seat. You ask if she'd like a drink? Coffee? Tea? Coca-Cola?
She asks for a bit of tea and as she sits down you move into the kitchen. The door to the basement is closed and you spare it a glance.
In one drawer you have some triazolam (a powerful drug that will put your new friend to sleep), which you took from one of your recent victims. If you use it now, you can help Alicia get more comfortable sooner. It can be a scary process putting yourself out there, especially if you're afraid of being rejected.
Sometimes it helps if you can ease them into it all, because going to sleep gets rid of the anxiety. It lets them enjoy the wedgies without ay of the fear that they won't impress you. It's a very real concern that many of them have, and you try to tell them you're not going to judge them if they're no good at taking. But the truth is, you will.
Or maybe she's different, and you can talk to her and the wedgies will follow.
It wouldn't be the first time you've charmed a beautiful into the wedgies.
So, do you [[drug her]] or [[talk to her]]?Your girlfriends are waiting for you.
You don't want any visitors right now. They will go away for a while, and sure you left to just come back, but you've always said that absence makes the wedgies grow stronger.
Besides, there's no point in letting anyone close until you've watched them, followed them, been in their home and watched them while they slept.
It’s the fundamental truth that you’ve long understood, and actually felt and lived by for a very long time. Being separate from people is better, being alone is best.
You can’t get hurt if you’re alone. And you can’t hurt anyone.
Every relationship you’ve had you’ve eventually ruined or lost. And why won’t all future ones be the same? It’s not like you’ve changed. If you’re being honest with yourself you know you haven’t, you’re too focused on coming out on top of every interaction and being better than everyone else that you’re not actually thinking of how to improve.
All you know is wedgies, and that’s not the recipe for a good and sociable person. Other people are better off without you.
But getting drunk is good. When you’re drunk you’re yourself but easier.
It’s the same as being drunk. The impulse control, what little of it you have, is gone. And you know the need to give wedgies is going to overwhelm the most powerful fear you know: the fear of consequences, and punishment.
But in those rare moments, you can convince yourself that you’ve never had any friends. That they were just acquaintances and relationships you’ve ruined or let die.
But with these women come with none of those things. Most people spend all their lives wanting someone they're happy with. And you have three of them. You've been so careful, and it's paid off.
These women are yours and you don't have to be like one of those creeps who has to pay for other people to please them. Or even worse, you mentally shudder just thinking about it, to pay for videos to bring their pleasure. At your lowest of times you have a love-hate relationship with paid content. You love to pleasure off to it, but you hate paying for it.
You head back downstairs and you can hear the jangling chains and muffled whimpers of your wives calling out to you.
"Don't worry, I'm coming!" You say.
There's silence for a moment but then the shaking and whining begins up again, with more energy.
"I'm sorry I left, I'll be there in a few moments."
There's a lot of noise coming from down the hall, the handcuffs jingling and cries. They must be really excited to see you again.
You're walking down the hall toward their room but then you hear a loud crash.
You hurry down the hall, and you hear the sound of things hitting the ground and metal clanging.
You reach the doorway to your women and you see the three of them side by side. But the pipe holding them up is lying broken on the hardwood floor and and they're looking back at you as they rush to slide their handcuffs off of either end.
You open your arms and shake your head.
"Oh no, no, no," you say. "This isn't right. My dream can't end yet."
The first one to get free is the one in the thong, and she turns and charges toward you. You're no fighter, you're a lover. So when she bowls into you, heading for the door and just trying to knock you out of her way and through the entryway that you're blocking, she pushes you back and stumble back into hallway.
You reach out, stretching toward her thong to try and grab it but she speeds by and just gets out of your reach.
You turn back to the other two, step back into the doorway and boyshorts is looking at you, and you can see the fear in her face, the wild craziness in the way her hunched up body.
The one in granny panties is crouched down jerking the handcuffs off the end of the pole and when it comes loose she tumbles back and lands on her butt with an "oof."
If you go after either of them the other one might escape.
And there's already one of them heading to the exit that you should go after.
Which one do you go after?
[[Boyshorts->boyshorts escape]]
[[Thong->thong escapes]]
[[Granny Panties->granny panties escape]]
This section still needs to be written! Let me know what you think and I will be adding to this soon :)
Back to [[Start Menu]] This section still needs to be written! Let me know what you think and I will be adding to this soon :)
Back to [[Start Menu]] You step through the doorway toward the one in granny panties.
There's something special about the women who wears such big and stretchy underwear. Everyone here wants your wedgies, but there's also a name on the waistband of her underwear.
And while the others are playing hard to get, and pretending that they don't want the wedgies to make you put more into giving them wedgies, you can tell that this one just wants to make your pleasure easy.
You stand over her, and she scurries back.
She wants to make your pleasure easy, but she also knows you enjoy the hunt. She backs herself into the wall, and looks up at you.
She's Payton in Bloom's stories. She's every nerd who's powerless behind the bullies. She's beyond any unnecesarily named points that describe her state (terms like meek resistance or wedgie-broken).
She's yours and that's the way it should be, because there's no purer wedgies than the kind given when the reciever is wearing granny panties.
You're the giver who caught Nuncy, the one who killed wedgie fetishists, the one who ran a cult of other wedgie fetishists. You're every giver who lost control in stories, you're every nightmare that wedgie lovers have that they might snap (like a piece of underwear that's pulled too much) and there will be only wedgies.
Or maybe you're just pulling stuff out of your ass...
And you realize maybe something is a little off, because you can't tell if that's a wedgie fetishist pun or just a common expression.
But you can't let yourself be distracted, you will have to get out of here. There's nothing wrong with what you're doing here with these women, you know that.
But the more time you spend explaining yourself to the idiots of the world (which is everyone who doesn't understand wedgies) that's less time that you could be finding others to wedgie.
Besides, there's an abandoned and burnt out house blocks away that you can squat in until you can find a new place. It wouldn't be the first time, and it won't be the last.
There's no reason to ever stop, you're not doing anything wrong.
"Please," she whispers. "Let...me go?"
"Of course," you whisper back. "[[After one last wedgie]]."
You reach down, grab her arms and begin flipping her around.
She's sniffling and you're giggling, asking if she's actually crying. How big of a nerd does she have to be. Is this her first wedgie? Is she embarrased to get a really hard wedgie that splits her cheeks, and is she really a wedgie virgin? Well, that's about to change.
Keeping them handcuffed and powerless always gives you a thrill and power, but the more realistic wedgies, struggle and resistance included, drive their own more unique desires.
You grip her already stretched out undies.
"Oh, you bad nerd," you say. "You've been giving yourself wedgies without me."
She's whimpering, trying to pull away, but you didn't let the others go so that this one could escape, and you're holding on the fabric with such a tight grip that its red hearts are crumpling beneath your white knuckles.
You're bent over her and you haul back on the panties lifting the material up until you're lifting her body off the ground and she's almost dangling. Her knees, toes and hands are scraping the floor as you pull back hard enough to hold her against the groun and the panties sink between her cheeks and you can picture them diving into the front of her.
You never pick their wedgies while they're tied up so this one has probably had her underwear wedged between her cheeks since the last time you wedgied her. And if she had liked that, you know she'll love this.
You haul her panties up hard enough that she squeals and smacks against the taut underwear, falling into it and whining as the material stretches and you watch the white material and its red hearts move closer to you.
You want to tell her that you appreciate her offering you the only heart that matters. But you're sure that she understands that those hearts are the ones on her underwear.
She's telling you how she's yours. How she'll always be yours.
Which one is this? 12? 13? 9967? No...she's the first, the only one. And her wedgie has to reflect that.
You pull up until she's entirely dangling off the ground, begging for you to rip her underwear. To wedgie her until her waistband is biting into your hands and leaving a mark on you, like you're leaving a mark on her. Those red marks, they're the equivalent of exchanging rings.
Her grannys are stretching up toward your stomach, and your muscles are aching from the strain of holding her up and pulling her undies. This material that used to sit so tight against her, is now filling your eyes. The pale fabric is a growing sign of your strength and her embarrasment and humilation.
She is hurting and that is good. She's in pain because of you and your wedgies and that's the way it should be. There is no pleasure without pain.
Every wedgie fetishist understands that.
You're bouncing her up and down over and over and over again. She's the nerds who the jocks gang up on and pull on the undies until they rip. She's you, the one whose mother taught you all about wedgies. The mother you just wanted to pleasure. And you did whatever she told you to.
Now you're here and this slave, girlfriend, wife is yelping as her granny panties reach higher. The material is starting to rip. Every wedgie you've ever given has been leading to this. The infamous self-wedgie phase. And before that, seeing them in cartoons and having that fetishistic connection made.
If it's that easy to become conditioned to like it, then maybe everyone does. And you just need to bring it out of them.
You lean back crying out, the stretching underwear and the victim's cries getting you more aroused than you've been in so long. The panties break. There's red everywhere and it's not just from the hearts on the underwear. You stumble back, exhausted and satisfied.
You're holding a piece of her underwear in your hands and you squeeze it between your hands.
Your victim is crawling along the ground, trying to get to her knees, but as she as she moves her lower body she moans. What's left of the underwear is splitting her cheeks and you wonder if she'll be good for any more wedgies, or if after popping her wedgie cherry she just won't be the same.
You let her crawl away.
You can't hear any noise upstairs anymore. But that probably means the others got away and if so, there will be others here soon.
Your victim is hobbling out of the room, and you see the remains of her panties still up her butt and you wonder if you might as well rip the rest of it off to keep as the ultimate trophy. It isn't really fair to let her keep a reminder of your hard work...besides, what if she leaves with that chunk of material and tells people she did that to herself. And the other women would giggle and say that's hot, and maybe she could give them all wedgies to show how strong she is.
You close your fist on the panties. She'll take all your hard work and say she did it. She'll probably claim she wedgied the others, and that's not right. Wedgie credit where wedgie credit is due.
You follow her out to [[confront her->Confront her]] This section still needs to be written! Let me know what you think and I will be adding to this soon :)
Back to [[Start Menu]] This section still needs to be written! Let me know what you think and I will be adding to this soon :)
Back to [[Start Menu]]