The Curious Case of Matthew 8

By YourWetDream

evulmat@gmail.com

Copyright 2025 by YourWetDream, all rights reserved

[13,068 words]´

CHAPTER 8



The hotel room door clicked shut behind them, a feeble barrier against the world that had spent the day conspiring to strip Matthew bare. Sand gritted between his toes, a physical echo of the humiliation ground into his skin. He clutched the clean clothes and thin towel like armor. At least the strangers didn’t guess my age, he thought, the irony a bitter pill. Small mercies. Or maybe just smaller targets.

Philip showered first, the steam carrying the scent of generic hotel soap. Ryan followed, the rhythmic drumming of water a countdown to Matthew’s own ordeal. When the bathroom finally fell silent, Matthew moved like a condemned man. He gathered his meager defenses – faded shorts, a t-shirt too bright, the ridiculously small towel – and stepped into the humid tiled cell. The click of the lock was a fleeting promise of sanctuary.

"Matthew, open the door!" Ryan’s command sliced through the steam, sharp and immediate.

Matthew flinched, still fully clothed. He cracked the door, meeting Ryan’s unsmiling gaze. "What do you need?"

"Door stays open. Supervision."

"What? Are you kidding me? You're not supervising anyone, kiddo!" The protest was weak, automatic. Calling Ryan 'kiddo' tasted like ash in his mouth, a pathetic attempt to reclaim footing he’d never had.

Ryan’s laugh was short, humorless. "Kiddo? Hah! Ring a bell, Matthew? This morning? The agreement? ‘Supervise, inspect, control’? Permission for everything?"

"Not for showers!" Matthew’s voice rose, a thin edge of panic fraying it. The memory of the morning’s reluctant ‘yes’, worn down by their insistence and his own perceived failings, was a cold weight in his stomach.

"Get serious," Ryan snapped. "Or do you need another reminder spanking?" The threat hung in the air, visceral and shaming. Matthew remembered the sharp, childish smacks earlier – less painful, more devastating.

"Ryaaaaaan, stop that!" Matthew moaned, the sound embarrassingly plaintive even to his own ears. He sounded exactly like the child they treated him as.

"You proved it today!" Ryan’s voice was relentless. "Irresponsible. Immature. Forgetful. Still wearing kids' clothes. Your mum’s choice, right? We agreed. Final word." He leaned into the doorway, blocking escape. "Philip! Tell your brother Matthews needs a–"

"No! Don’t!" Matthew’s hand shot out, stopping the call. The thought of Peter joining this… it was unthinkable. Defeated, shoulders slumping, he whispered, "Fine. Door stays open." The words tasted like surrender.

He pushed the door wide, exposing the small, stark bathroom. The shower stall yawned, conspicuously curtainless, its tile expanse offering zero cover. Why? Matthew’s mind screamed. Why this open fishbowl? His reflection in the mirror looked pale, eyes wide with dread. He fumbled with his shirt buttons, fingers clumsy. Each discarded piece of clothing felt like shedding a layer of dignity. Down to his briefs – white, adorned with cartoonish red spiderman , size unmistakably small – he hesitated. The thin cotton was the last fragile shield.

"Matthew! I'm counting to three!" Ryan barked from the doorway. "One…"

Panic seized him. Not the spanking. Not again. The memory of the sharp, degrading smacks burned hotter than any sunburn.

"Two…"

No thought. Pure instinct. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the spiderman briefs and yanked them down in one frantic motion, kicking them aside. He practically vaulted into the shower stall, the sudden spray icy cold against his skin, making him gasp. He pressed his back against the far wall, as if the tiles could absorb him.

The water pounded, but it couldn’t drown out their voices. Philip and Ryan lounged on the nearest bed, angled perfectly for a view. It wasn't a glance; it was a viewing gallery.

"Don't forget behind the ears, little boy!" Philip called, his voice dripping with mock-nursery sweetness. Their laughter, loud and cruel, bounced off the tiles.

"Now scrub that baby-smooth bottom!" Ryan added, a leer in his tone. "Extra soap! Wouldn't want sand in your nappy area!" More laughter. Matthew scrubbed furiously, trying to create a shield of suds, trying to hide, but every movement felt scrutinized.

"Your bald armpits! Yeah, exactly there!" Philip pointed, as if Matthew was a specimen. "Scrub real good. Wouldn't want stubble, would we?" The absurdity of it – the hairless hollows under his arms – was another knife twist.

"How long are you taking?!" Ryan snapped, the faux-concern gone. "Chop chop! Water's expensive, and you're not paying the bills, little man!"

Matthew moved faster, the soap stinging his eyes. He rinsed with frantic haste, desperate for the water to stop, for the curtainless exposure to end. He turned off the tap, the sudden silence amplifying his own ragged breathing and the boys’ low chuckles. Water streamed down his body, pooling at his feet on the cold tiles. He stood there, shivering, exposed, waiting for permission to reach for the towel.

It didn't come.

Ryan stood, strolling to the bathroom doorway, blocking the exit. Philip followed, leaning against the frame, arms crossed. "Alright, inspection time," Ryan announced, his voice chillingly matter-of-fact. "Can't have you dripping everywhere. Might catch a chill. Hands up."

The command was so absurd, so utterly dehumanizing, Matthew froze. Hands up? Like a criminal?

"Now," Ryan said, steel in his voice.

Slowly, trembling, Matthew raised his arms above his head. It felt like crucifixion. Water ran freely down his ribs, his flat stomach, his hairless thighs. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn't block out the feeling of their eyes crawling over him.

"Turn around," Philip ordered.

Matthew turned, presenting his back, the cool air raising goosebumps on his wet skin. He felt their gaze like a physical touch – on the nape of his neck, the knobs of his spine, the small, hairless curve of his backside. The inspection was slow, deliberate, punctuated by low murmurs he couldn't quite hear but knew were mocking.

"Alright, turn back," Ryan finally said.

Matthew turned, keeping his arms raised, his gaze fixed on a damp spot on the floor tiles. He couldn't look at them. He felt their eyes descend lower. The cold air, the dread, the sheer vulnerability – his body betrayed him completely. His penis, already small and undeveloped, shrunk further, retreating into the soft, hairless mound of pubic skin, looking impossibly childlike.

Philip snorted. "Well, Ryan. Might need a magnifying glass for that section of the inspection."

Ryan leaned closer, peering with exaggerated scrutiny. A cold finger, Ryan's, flicked back his foreskin with clinical detachment, exposing the glans. Matthew gasped, a sound of pure shock and violation, his whole body tensing.

"Yep," Ryan declared, straightening up, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Definitely kindergarten level. Maybe even nursery. Good thing we're here to babysit, huh Phil?" Philip’s answering laugh was a harsh bark.

The cold was seeping into Matthew's bones, his teeth starting to chatter faintly. The humiliation was a living thing, twisting inside him, hot and cold at once.

"Okay," Ryan sighed, as if granting a monumental favor. He picked up Matthew’s thin towel. "Can't have our little charge catching cold. Hands down. Turn around again." Matthew obeyed, mechanically. Ryan draped the towel roughly over his back. "Dry off. Properly. We'll check."

Ryan didn't leave. Neither did Philip. They watched as Matthew rubbed the thin towel over his shivering skin, every pass feeling like a performance under spotlights. The towel caught on his narrow hips, snagged on his protruding ribs. He dried his arms, his chest, his legs, painfully aware of their eyes following the path of the fabric, ensuring no inch of his childish, undeveloped body escaped their scrutiny. The "care" was a suffocating blanket, woven from control and contempt, far colder than the air on his wet skin.

The door hissed open. Matthew flinched, the thin hotel towel snapping taut against his damp skin as he clamped it desperately over his hips. Not now. Please, not now. Monica stood framed in the doorway, phone pressed to her ear, oblivious. The scent of saltwater and sunscreen still clung to her.

"Mom? Hang on, I’ll put you on speaker!" Monica chirped, her finger jabbing the screen.

A voice, sharp as shattered coral, erupted into the room: "MATTHEW! What happened today?!"

His stomach dropped like a stone. The towel suddenly felt flimsy, inadequate. He could feel the eyes of Philip and Ryan burning into his back, their smirks practically audible. Heat flooded his neck, creeping up to his ears.

"W-well… I don’t know… what do you mean?" His voice cracked, thin and unconvincing. Play dumb. Maybe she doesn’t know. He risked a glance at the boys. Philip mimed wiping away tears of laughter, while Ryan gave a slow, mocking clap, mouthing ‘Dead meat’.

"You know EXACTLY what I mean!" Mom’s voice was a whip crack. "Have you been swimming in those brand-new Adidas shorts? The expensive ones I warned you about?"

He swallowed, his throat dry as the beach sand grinding under his bare feet. "Well… yes… I have… they were very comfy…" Stupid! Why say comfy? Sounds like a kid! "…why do you ask?" The lie tasted sour.

"Turn your camera on RIGHT NOW! Show me how they look after a day in that saltwater!"

Panic, cold and slick, washed over him. Camera? NO. "Erm… Mum… they’re… in the washing machine! Right now!" He blurted, the words tumbling out too fast.

Monica rolled her eyes skyward, pressing her palm to her forehead. Philip doubled over silently, shoulders shaking. Ryan just grinned, a predator enjoying the cornered prey. Matthew’s knuckles turned white gripping the towel. They know. They all know it’s a lie.

"Matthew, if you LIE to me ONE MORE TIME…" Mom’s voice dropped, low and terrifyingly calm. "...I will personally ensure you spend EVERY SINGLE SUMMER HOLIDAY until you're FORTY with Grandpa! Do you UNDERSTAND? Obviously, I know EVERYTHING already!"

The threat of Grandpa’s musty, regimented world was the nuclear option. Defeat slumped his shoulders. The towel felt like lead. "Okay, okay, Mom! Yeah… there was… a big wave. They just… vanished. Poof! I swear I didn’t do it on purpose!" Please believe me. Please just this once…

"You say that ALL THE TIME!" Her fury exploded again. "That’s WHY I told you to get the sturdy, cheap ones! But NO! You needed the 'cool' Adidas! Irresponsible! AGAIN!"

Shame prickled his skin, hotter than the fading sunburn. He was sixteen, trapped in a twelve-year-old’s body, being scolded like a toddler in front of his smirking roommates. "Mom, whatever! I got new shorts! Nike’s! From another kid!" He injected a false note of triumph, a desperate grasp at dignity.

"You took SOMEONE ELSE'S CLOTHES?!" Horror dripped from her voice. "That is someone else's mother’s hard-earned money! You will wash them THIS INSTANT and return them! IMMEDIATELY!"

"But Mom!" Desperation pitched his voice higher. "I don’t have anything else to wear!" The vulnerability of the admission hung in the air. He felt utterly exposed, far beyond the towel. Philip snorted. Ryan elbowed him.

"Then you should stay NAKED until the end of camp!" Her words were ice shards. "Maybe THEN you’ll learn responsibility! Maybe THEN you’ll think before you lose things!"

A gale of laughter erupted from Philip and Ryan, raw and merciless. It echoed in the suddenly tiny room, amplifying his humiliation. Naked? At camp? In front of everyone? The image – his small, undeveloped frame, the subject of endless jokes – made him want to sink through the floor. "MOM! PLEASE!" His voice broke, raw with panic. "I’m begging you! I’m SIXTEEN!" The age sounded ludicrous even to his own ears.

"Tomorrow morning, Monica will give you money!" Mom’s voice was a controlled scream. "You will buy ONE new swimsuit. And I SWEAR TO GOD, MATTHEW, if it doesn’t FIT, or if you lose it AGAIN…" She paused, letting the dread build. "...you will run naked. As the day you were born. Not just this summer. EVERY time you go to a beach or pool until you get a JOB and pay for your OWN things! DO! YOU! UNDERSTAND! ME?!"

The threat wasn't just about nudity; it was a life sentence of humiliation. His future self, a grown man, forced bare onto beaches because sixteen-year-old him lost some stupid shorts. Terror, cold and absolute, locked his muscles. He could barely breathe. "Yes! Yes, Mom! I swear! I’ll buy something that fits! I’ll make sure! I promise!" The words tumbled out, choked and frantic.

A smooth, confident voice cut through the tension. "Don’t worry, ma’am! It’s Philip, Peter’s brother?" Philip stepped slightly forward, oozing fake reassurance. "We’ll supervise him tomorrow. Make sure he gets the RIGHT kind." He shot Matthew a look that promised anything but help.

"Thank you, Philip," Mom’s voice instantly softened, dripping with gratitude. "I’m so glad responsible boys are there with him. Talk tomorrow!"

The line went dead. The silence in the room was thick, heavy with Matthew’s utter defeat. The laughter had died, replaced by Philip’s satisfied smirk and Ryan’s amused curiosity. Monica just shook her head, muttering about "drama." Matthew stood frozen, the rough hotel towel the only shield against a world that saw him as a perpetual, incompetent child. The promise of tomorrow, under the "supervision" of his grinning jailers, felt like the first step into a deeper circle of hell. His cheeks burned. His eyes stung. He stared at the garish hotel carpet, wishing it would swallow him whole.

The silence after the phone call hung thick and suffocating. Before Matthew could even draw a shuddering breath, Ryan moved. It wasn’t playful; it was a predator stripping prey.

"Alright, what’re you gawking at?" Ryan’s voice cut through the tension, falsely bright. In one swift motion, he yanked the towel from Matthew’s desperate grip. The sudden exposure was a physical blow. Cool air prickled his bare skin, raising goosebumps on his arms and legs. He instinctively hunched, shoulders rounding forward, trying to shrink into nothingness.

Ryan rolled the towel into a tight cylinder. Thwack! The rough terry cloth stung Matthew’s bare backside. "Chop chop, laundry boy! Heard your mum. Those Nikes need returning, pronto!" The command was laced with mocking glee.

Matthew flinched, but didn’t move to cover himself. What was the point? They’d seen it all. His small, smooth chest, his narrow hips, the childish penis. Monica’s presence barely registered anymore. She’d seen him vulnerable since diapers. Her sharp, disappointed gaze was just another layer of frost settling on his humiliation. His body felt like public property, a source of weary resignation rather than privacy.

He shuffled towards the bathroom, the plush hotel carpet rough against his bare soles. His borrowed Nike shorts – slight muggy – lay crumpled on the floor where he’d dropped them. He scooped them up, adding them to the overflowing laundry basket containing his own flimsy pajamas and a few of the roommates' items. The weight of the basket felt absurd against his nakedness.

Philip followed, leaning casually against the doorframe as Matthew dumped the clothes into the small washing machine tucked beside the shower stall. "Here," Philip said, his tone devoid of warmth, merely efficient. He leaned over, punched buttons with a decisive click. "Cold wash. Delicates." The label on Matthew’s pajamas flashed in his mind. Delicates. Like a child’s clothes. Philip’s help wasn’t kindness; it was supervision, ensuring the incompetent child didn’t ruin things. The low hum of the machine starting felt like the sealing of his shame.

He turned, hoping for reprieve, for the simple dignity of underwear. Instead, Ryan blocked the doorway, arms crossed, a calculating smile playing on his lips. Philip lingered behind him, a silent sentinel.

"Not so fast, sunshine," Ryan chirped, the nickname dripping with false affection. "Sunburn check. Gotta prevent peeling, you know? Can’t have our charge looking like a molting lobster."

Matthew’s heart plummeted. "Oh, come on, Ryan!" The plea was weak, already defeated. "Let me at least put on some underwear! Please?"

Ryan’s smile vanished, replaced by a parody of stern authority. He planted his hands on his hips, feet apart, dominating the space. "Obviously not!" he boomed, echoing his mother’s earlier fury but twisting it into cruel theatre. "Did you or did you not lose your swimming shorts today?" He took a step closer, forcing Matthew back slightly into the humid bathroom air.

"Y-yes, but—"

"But what?" Ryan cut him off, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. He leaned in slightly, his eyes raking up and down Matthew’s exposed body, lingering deliberately. "Have you not been parading around naked on the beach… again?" He raised a single, mocking eyebrow.

The heat in Matthew’s face was scalding. He couldn’t meet Ryan’s eyes. His gaze dropped to the damp tiles between his bare feet. "Ehm… Yes… I have…" The admission was a whisper, scraped raw.

"So!" Ryan clapped his hands together once, the sound sharp in the small space. "New rule! Part of our supervisory duties. Sunburn prevention is paramount. You agreed to listen to us, remember? Chop chop!" He gestured impatiently towards the main room. "Bring the aloe vera. We’ll make sure you don’t miss a single… spot."

Ryan’s tone was layered with faux concern, but Matthew saw the glint in his eye – pure, unadulterated enjoyment of the power trip. Dominating the older boy, reducing the sixteen-year-old to a compliant, naked child, was Ryan’s sport. He wasn’t maliciously cruel, not like a classic bully; he revelled in the role, the authority, the absurdity of "babysitting" someone chronologically older but perpetually smaller, weaker, less developed. It was a game, and Matthew was the hapless pawn. Philip watched, his expression unreadable, perhaps faintly uncomfortable, but complicit in his silence.

Monica stood near the window, arms tightly crossed. Disappointment radiated from her in waves. This wasn’t the older brother she’d imagined – someone strong, protective, a role model. This was… this. Naked, shivering slightly, being ordered around by boys her own age, his body embarrassingly smooth and boyish next to Ryan’s emerging definition. He was a problem to be managed, a source of constant second-hand embarrassment. Her gaze flickered from Matthew’s hunched form to Ryan. There was the contrast. Ryan, already filling out his t-shirt across the shoulders, his… pants… a hint of stubble shadowing his jaw, exuding a confidence that bordered on swagger. He stood tall, relaxed, in control. A flush, different from anger or shame, crept up Monica’s neck as she watched Ryan take charge. He seemed capable, decisive… manly. Everything Matthew wasn’t.

"Ryan…" Matthew started, one last, feeble protest dying on his lips as Ryan pointed imperiously to the tube of aloe vera on the dresser.

"Aloe. Now. And stand in the light, where we can see properly." Ryan’s command brooked no argument. Matthew shuffled forward, the distance feeling like miles. He stopped in a patch of harsh afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, utterly exposed. He closed his eyes, bracing himself, the cool gel and Ryan’s scrutinizing touch imminent, another layer of violation painted with the brush of fake care. The aloe would soothe the potential burn, but it would do nothing for the deep, searing humiliation branding his soul.

Matthew stood frozen in the sunlight, every freckle and pale patch of skin exposed. Ryan snatched the aloe tube with a grin. "Arms out. Turn slowly. Professional inspection only." His tone dripped mock-seriousness.

Ryan squirted cold gel onto his fingers, making Matthew flinch as he smeared it thickly over his shoulders. "Hmm, slight pinkness here... gotta be thorough!" His hands slid down Matthew’s ribcage, lingering on his hairless chest. "Wow, not one chest hair? Smooth as a baby seal." Monica, standing near the window, turned her face sharply towards the ocean view, her cheeks flaming with a potent mix of secondhand shame and acute embarrassment for the brother who should be her protector, not the family joke.

As Ryan moved lower, his descent a slow, deliberate torment. He paused theatrically just above Matthew’s groin, his shadow falling across the boy’s most vulnerable area. "Whoa, check out the prepubescent specimen!” Ryan crowed, his voice loud enough to echo off the tiled bathroom doorway behind them. He pointed, his finger hovering inches away “Not a single sprout down here either. You sure you’re sixteen, not six, bald eagle?" Philip snorted. Matthew squeezed his eyes shut, wishing the floor would swallow him. Monica muttered, "Gross, Ryan," but didn’t intervene.

Ryan tossed the tube to Philip. "Your turn, doc. Check his backside – wouldn’t want peeling there." Philip applied gel mechanically, avoiding eye contact, but Ryan heckled: "Don’t miss the crack! Sunburn loves crevices!" Matthew trembled, humiliation complete.

Ryan finally stepped back. "Alright, now: clothing privileges." He yanked open Matthew’s suticase, scattering childish underwear like trophies. "Let’s find something age-appropriate."

Ryan held up faded blue briefs with peeling rocket ships. "A classic! These scream mature and responsible." Monica laughed, obviously enjoying Ryan’s comments. Ryan saw it – the flicker of approval in Monica’s eyes. His grin widened, fueled by her reaction. His dominance wasn't just over Matthew; it was impressing her. She seemed to like him a bit more Perfect. "Rockets it is!" he decreed, his voice booming with finality. He tossed the briefs towards Matthew. "Get dressed, space cadet. Try not to lose those before breakfast." Ryan turned back to Monica, his posture radiating triumph. She was smiling wider than ever.

The cool cotton of the rocket-ship briefs and soft, worn t-shirt offered a fragile shield, a semblance of normalcy after the aloe-slicked inspection. Monica slipped out without a word. The evening bled orange and gold across the ocean, the air warm and thick with the scent of brine and distant grills. Peace, however, was a foreign concept.

An hour later, the washing machine’s final spin shuddered to silence. No electric dryer meant balcony duty. Matthew gathered the damp bundle – the borrowed, white Nike shorts he’d have to return, Ryan’s expensive hoodie, a few faded tees, and the underwear. His stomach clenched as he separated them. There they were: his bright, primary-colored briefs. And beside them, laid out with casual superiority on the railing: Philip’s charcoal grey boxer-briefs, clean-cut and anonymous, and Ryan’s stark black Calvin Kleins, the stark white logo screaming luxury and maturity. His own looked like discarded toys beside them. Pathetic.

Ryan materialized on the balcony, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He wasn’t helping; he was auditing. "Make sure my hoodie’s straight," he commanded, his eyes critically scanning Matthew’s fumbling attempts to peg the heavy fabric. "Don’t want it looking like your stuff." His gaze lingered on the underwear line, a smirk playing on his lips. He reached out, not for his own, but plucked one of Matthew’s colorful briefs from the basket with two fingers, holding it aloft like contaminated evidence.

"Oh, God," Ryan snorted, shaking his head with theatrical disgust. "Seriously hope no one down there thinks these tragic things belong to me or Phil. Looks like something from the lost-and-found at a kindergarten." He let it dangle, the tiny briefs looking absurd in his grip.

Humiliation, hot and familiar, surged. "Give them back!" Matthew snapped, lunging forward with a aggression born of sheer frustration. He snatched the briefs, his fingers brushing Ryan’s, a contact that felt violating. He jammed the peg onto the line with unnecessary force, the dinos now glaringly visible next to the sleek black Calvins. The visual contrast was brutal: innocence versus experience, boy versus… whatever Ryan was becoming.

"Yeah," Ryan drawled, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial sneer. "There it is. Crystal clear. See the difference, Matt? Right there. Tells you everything. Who’s the man," he gestured loosely towards his own Calvins, "and who’s still waiting for the damn stork to bring his adolescence!" He chuckled, low and mean.

The sheer, breathtaking stupidity of the insult – the stork brought babies, not puberty – hit Matthew like a rogue wave. It was so illogical, so dumb, that for a split second, his humiliation was eclipsed by incredulous frustration. The words tumbled out before his brain could slam the brakes.

"Stork brings babies, Ryan, not adolesc–" he started, his tone laced with involuntary, weary correction.

He saw the change instantly. Ryan’s smug grin vanished, replaced by a flash of startled anger, then cold, hard fury. Matthew’s blood ran cold. Oh no. Mistake. Huge mistake.

"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?" Ryan’s voice wasn't loud; it was dangerously quiet, a hiss of pure outrage. He took a step forward, invading Matthew’s space. The playful bully was gone, replaced by someone whose authority had been questioned. Disobedience, however small, however logical, was intolerable.

"Ryan, I just meant–" Matthew stammered, shrinking back, the briefs forgotten.

Ryan didn’t let him finish. His hand shot out, not for the briefs, but for the waistband of Matthew’s shorts. Matthew gasped, instinctively grabbing Ryan’s wrist, but Ryan was stronger, fueled by indignation.

"You think you're SMART?!" Ryan snarled, his fingers digging into the fabric. "You think you get to CORRECT ME?!" With a brutal, practiced yank, Ryan hauled upwards. The waistband of Matthew’s shorts and the rocket-ship briefs beneath them bit viciously into his flesh.

"YEEEOOWW!" Matthew screeched, lifted nearly onto his toes by the force of the atomic wedgie. Pain lanced through him, sharp and deep. He scrabbled helplessly at Ryan’s iron grip, tears springing to his eyes. Next to them, the colorful briefs hang forgotten. His current underwear was now the problem.

"Apologize!" Ryan demanded, giving another excruciating upward jerk. Matthew’s feet danced uselessly on the balcony tiles. "Apologize for being a smart-mouthed, ungrateful little BRAT who can't even keep his pants on!"

"Sorry! Sorry, Ryan! I'm sorry!" Matthew gasped, the words ripped out of him by pain and terror. "Stork brings adolescence! Stork brings... whatever you say it brings! Just please... stop!"

Ryan held him there for a second longer, suspended in agony and utter degradation, a visible testament to the cost of defiance. Then, with a final, contemptuous shove, he released the waistband. Matthew crashed down, stumbling backward, frantically yanking his clothes back into place, his backside screaming. He hunched over, breathing raggedly, avoiding Ryan’s icy glare.

Ryan straightened his own shirt, his fury cooling into icy control. "Good. Remember your place," he spat.

WHOOSH!

A massive, unexpected gust funneled between the hotel towers, hitting the balcony like a wall. It snatched breath, stung eyes, and sent laundry billowing wildly. Matthew and Ryan both instinctively turned their heads away, bracing against the railing.

As quickly as it came, the wind died. Matthew blinked, turning back to the washing line, automatically checking Ryan’s precious hoodie. Secure. Philip’s boxer-briefs? Fine. Ryan’s Calvins? Unmoved. His eyes scanned down the line. The borrowed Nike shorts. The tees. His own pajama bottoms…

His heart stopped. One peg hung empty, swinging gently. The space where he’d just violently pegged his other pair of briefs… was bare.

"Hey," he breathed, panic rising like bile. "Where…? It was just here!" He patted the empty space on the line, as if it might have vanished into the fabric.

Ryan followed his gaze, then looked down. A beat. Then, a bark of laughter ripped from him. "HAH! Look! Down there!" He pointed, leaning over the railing, amusement rich in his voice. "The wind whipped your baby pants right off! Brilliant!"

Matthew peered over, dread coiling tight. Two balconies below, stark against the pale concrete, lay a small, brightly colored scrap. His briefs. Right there. In full view of whoever occupied Room 407. They looked impossibly small, impossibly childish, beached on a stranger's territory.

"No," Matthew whispered.

"Yes!" Ryan crowed, slapping Matthew hard on the back, the blow jarring. "So, laundry boy, bonus chore! Once you’re done playing clotheshorse here," he gestured dismissively at the remaining laundry, "you get to go downstairs and collect your lost treasure." His grin was feral.

"Ryan!" Matthew protested, desperation cracking his voice. "Who even lives there?! I don’t know them! What if… what if they answer the door?"

"Not my problem!" Ryan chirped, already stepping back towards the sliding door. "You’ll find out when you knock! And listen closely, Matt," his voice hardened, losing its mocking edge for chilling authority. "Don’t even think about coming back without them. Cause if you do?" He paused for effect, hand on the door handle. "This door stays locked. You can spend the night contemplating your irresponsible underwear choices on the hallway floor. Got it? Now finish hanging that laundry. And then," he pointed down, "you go get those baby pants. And if I hear one more word out of you that isn't 'Yes, Ryan' or 'Sorry, Ryan', you'll spend the night on this balcony. Naked. Got it?"
Matthew nodded mutely, humiliation burning hotter than the wedgie’s aftermath. "Yes, Ryan," he whispered, the fight utterly extinguished.

Matthew stood frozen outside Room 407. He raised a trembling fist and knocked, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet corridor.

Click. The door opened.

Denis, the bully from today morning, stood there, shirtless, damp hair tousled, holding a half-eaten protein bar. He looked bored, then surprised, then… slowly, a predatory grin spread across his face. Recognition dawned, sharp and cruel.

"Well, well," Denis drawled, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes raking over Matthew with deliberate slowness. "If it isn't Captain Underoos himself. Heard you were giving the seagulls a free show earlier." He took a loud bite of the bar. "What do you want? Lose another pair? Need to borrow some of my little brother's diapers?"

Matthew’s face flamed. He couldn’t speak. His gaze darted past Denis’s shoulder, desperately scanning the small balcony visible through the sliding glass door. There! A flash of cheap white fabric with clumsy red webbing – the Spider-Man briefs – lay crumpled near a potted plant, blatantly visible.

"Uh…" Matthew stammered, pointing weakly. "S-something… fell. Off our balcony. Up there." He gestured vaguely upwards. "It… it landed on yours."

Denis followed his finger, his eyes landing on the briefs. His grin widened into something feral. He took another slow bite of the bar, chewing deliberately, letting the silence stretch. Matthew could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"Fell, huh?" Denis finally said, stepping fully onto his balcony. He nudged the briefs with his bare foot, flipping them over to reveal the cartoonish Spider-Man face. "Oh, look at that! Spidey took a tumble!" He bent down, picking them up by pinching the tiny waistband between his thumb and forefinger, holding them aloft like something contaminated. "These yours, Matthew? From earlier today?" His voice dripped with mock innocence. "Bit… small, aren't they? And juvenile. Didn't peg you for the superhero undies type. More like… teddy bears."

"J-just… can I have them back?" Matthew whispered, his voice barely audible. He took a half-step forward.

Denis held them just out of reach. "Hold your horses, Streak. Why should I just hand over your lost loot? Seems like finders keepers to me. Maybe I’ll frame ’em. Souvenir of the kid who can’t keep his pants on or his pants up."

Panic clawed at Matthew’s throat. Ryan won’t let me back in without them. "Please, Denis," he begged, the word tasting like ash. "I just… I need them back."

Denis’s eyes gleamed with malicious delight. He loved this. Loved it. "Please, Denis?" he mimicked in a high-pitched whine. "Please, Denis? Oh, okay then! Since you asked so nicely…" He dangled the briefs tantalizingly close, then snatched them back as Matthew instinctively reached for them. "...nah. Not that easy." He turned and yelled back into the room, "HEY, JAKE! MIKE! GET OUT HERE! YOU GOTTA SEE THIS!"

Matthew’s blood ran cold. No. No, no, no. Two more boys, also shirtless and damp from showers, appeared behind Denis, crowding the doorway, their expressions shifting from curiosity to gleeful malice as they saw Matthew and the tiny briefs in Denis’s hand.

"Look what blew onto our balcony!" Denis announced, waving the Spider-Man briefs like a trophy. "Seems Captain Underoos here lost his lucky charm!"

Jake snorted. "Seriously? Those look like they belong to a five-year-old!"
Mike grinned. "Maybe he is five. Explains why he keeps ending up naked."

Denis turned back to Matthew, enjoying the audience. "Alright, Matthew. You want your precious Spider-pants back?" He held them out over the balcony railing. The ocean breeze caught them, making the cheap fabric flutter. "Beg."

Matthew stared, horrified. "W-what?"

"You heard me. Beg. Like a dog. On your knees. Tell everyone on this floor how sorry you are for littering our balcony with your baby clothes." Denis’s voice was hard, unforgiving. "Do it, or Spidey takes a swim." He loosened his grip slightly, letting the briefs slip a fraction.

The image of returning to Ryan empty-handed – facing a locked door, a night in the hall, and whatever worse punishment awaited – crashed over Matthew. The humiliation in front of Denis and his cronies was unbearable… but failing Ryan was unthinkable. Tears pricked his eyes again, hot and shameful. He looked down at the garish hallway carpet.

"Please, Denis," he whispered, his voice thick. "Please give them back."

"LOUDER!" Denis barked. "And ON YOUR KNEES! Let the neighbors hear how much you want your little boy undies!"

Matthew flinched. He could feel the eyes of Jake and Mike boring into him. He imagined other doors cracking open. Slowly, trembling violently, his knees buckled. He sank onto the rough carpet, the position making him feel smaller than ever. He stared at Denis’s bare feet.

"P-please, Denis," he choked out, louder this time, the words scraping his throat raw. "Please give me back my underwear. I'm sorry… I'm sorry they landed on your balcony. Please."

Denis watched him kneel, a slow, cruel smile spreading as Matthew choked out the apology. He let the silence hang, then scoffed. "Pathetic. That wasn't begging, that was a whiny whisper. Boring." He dangled the Spider-Man briefs over the railing. "Try again. Louder. More... desperate."

Matthew's stomach clenched. "P-PLEASE, Denis! I NEED THEM! PLEASE!" His voice cracked, echoing slightly in the hallway.

Denis just smirked. "Nah. Still weak. Sounds like you don't really want them back." He pulled the briefs back, tucking them into the waistband of his own shorts. "Tell you what, Henderson. Since you clearly struggle with clothes... let's make it easier for you."

Before Matthew could react, Denis lunged. Not for the briefs, but for him. Strong hands grabbed the waistband of Matthew’s shorts and the rocket-ship briefs beneath them.

"NO! DENIS, STOP!" Matthew shrieked, scrambling backwards, but Denis was faster and far stronger. With a brutal, practiced yank downwards, Denis ripped both layers clean off Matthew’s hips and legs in one vicious motion. The shorts and briefs pooled around Matthew’s ankles on the hallway carpet.

There he stood. In nothing but his oversized t-shirt, which barely reached mid-thigh. Utterly exposed from the waist down. His small, hairless body, his undeveloped genitals – everything he dreaded being seen – was on blatant display for Denis, Jake, and Mike.

A roar of laughter exploded from the doorway.

"WHOAAAA!" Jake howled, pointing. "Look at that! Smooth as a baby's bottom!"
Mike doubled over. "Holy crap! Is that even real? Looks like a little kid! That is smooth as a peeled egg! Bet he still gets carded for the kiddie pool!"
Denis grinned savagely, holding up the tangled shorts and rocket-ship briefs like trophies. "Told ya we'd get his pants eventually! Took all day, but worth it! And look – he is a little boy down there! Sixteen? Yeah, right! More like six!" He tossed the shorts and briefs contemptuously onto the floor at Matthew’s bare feet. Denis added the final, cutting blow, his voice dripping with faux concern: "Careful, Matthew! Better cover up before a stiff breeze gives you hypothermia! Wouldn't want your... little soldier... to catch a chill! Though, hard to tell if it's even standing at attention or just permanently at ease!" More roaring laughter.

Matthew stood frozen, paralyzed by shock and utter shame. He instinctively tried to cover himself with his hands, but it was futile. Their laughter felt like physical blows. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing the earth would swallow him.

Denis wasn't done. He scooped up the discarded rocket-ship briefs and the Spider-Man briefs he'd taken from the balcony. "You want your crap back, Matthew?” Denis snarled, his voice thick with disgust. “Fine, catch!”

With a powerful, overarm throw, Denis launched the Spider-Man briefs high into the air. They sailed in a wide arc and landed with a soft plop right in the center of the hotel's illuminated swimming pool far below, floating like a tiny, humiliating flag.

Before Matthew could even process that, Denis hurled the rocket-ship briefs with equal force in the air. They fluttered pathetically, caught a gust of wind, and disappeared over the railing of a balcony three floors down and several rooms over.

"Oops," Denis said flatly, breathing slightly harder, turning back to the trembling, half-naked Matthew. "There. Now get your bare ass out of my hallway before I call security" He slammed the hotel room door shut, the sound final and mocking.

Matthew stood alone in the brightly lit hallway, wearing only a t-shirt. His Spider-Man pair was slowly sinking in the pool. His other pair and shorts were god-knows-where on some stranger's balcony. He was exposed, vulnerable, and utterly, completely defeated.

Why? The silent scream tore through his mind, raw and desperate. Why is it ALWAYS me?! He stared down the empty corridor, the laughter still ringing in his ears, the cool air chilling his bare legs and backside.



Desperation overrode Ryan’s threat. Just get back to the room. Hide. Deal with Ryan later. Maybe Philip would be reasonable?

He hammered on the door, breathless. "Guys! Open up! It’s me! Open up!"

The peephole darkened. A beat. Then, the door opened just a crack, secured by the chain.

Ryan’s eye appeared, then widened in pure, unadulterated delight. He slid the deadbolt back and swung the door wide, leaning casually against the frame, blocking the entrance. "Well, well, well," Ryan drawled, his voice dripping with mock surprise. "Look what the cat dragged in! Or should I say… what the cat didn’t drag in!” He let out a low whistle, taking in Matthew’s state: pale legs, bare feet, arms desperately trying to cover himself, the hem of his t-shirt doing a pathetic, inadequate dance just below his hips. "Where are your pants, Matt? And more importantly... where are my Spidey-briefs?"

"Ryan, please, just let me in!" Matthew begged, pressing himself against the doorframe, trying to shrink from the corridor. "Denis... he... he took everything! He threw them! It was horrible! I couldn't–"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Ryan interrupted, his voice hardening. He rattled the chain for emphasis. "Hold your horses, Streak." He chuckled at his own nickname. "Let's revisit the rules, shall we? The very clear, you-agreed-to-them rules?" He leaned closer to the crack. "I said: 'Don’t even think about coming back without them.' And what," he paused dramatically, letting his gaze sweep pointedly down Matthew’s exposed legs and back up, "do I see? No Spidey-briefs. Not a single thread of evidence you even tried to complete your simple little chore. Just you... looking remarkably drafty."

"Ryan, he stripped me! He threw them off the balcony! Into the pool and onto another balcony! It's impossible!" Matthew’s voice cracked.

"Impossible?" Ryan scoffed. "Sounds like irresponsible to me. And excuses. Classic Matthew." He adopted a mock-thoughtful pose. "Hmm, let's see... Task: Retrieve one pair of pants. Result: Lost another pair of pants." He shook his head sadly, then his eyes lit up with cruel inspiration. "But hey! Look on the bright side! At least you kept the shirt! Mum would be proud you didn't lose everything... though, gotta say," he peered down again, "it's riding pretty high back there. Giving everyone a free moonlit show? Classy."

Matthew instinctively tried to yank the t-shirt down further, realizing with fresh horror that it was riding up in the back, exposing the curve of his bare buttocks to the hallway. He twisted, trying to cover front and back simultaneously, a futile, humiliating dance.



“But Ryan! He threw them! I couldn’t–”


“Couldn’t?” Ryan’s voice sharpened, the amusement replaced by icy authority. “Or wouldn’t? Because it looks to me like you just gave up. Came running back here expecting a free pass. Like a little kid who scrapes his knee and wants his mummy.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr.



"Ryan, PLEASE!" Matthew whispered, tears welling. "Just let me in! I'll explain! Philip! PHILIP!"

Philip’s face appeared briefly behind Ryan, looking uncomfortable but resigned. "Matt, you heard the rule..." he started, but Ryan cut him off.

"Rules are rules, Phil! For his own good!" Ryan declared loudly for the hallway to hear. "We can't reward failure! Or public indecency! What message would that send?" He turned his full attention back to Matthew, his grin turning feral. "Alright, Matthew. Here’s the deal. You want back into our Club? You fulfill the mission. You go down there," he pointed emphatically down the hallway towards the elevators, "and you retrieve both pairs of those lost little boy panties."

"But Ryan... I'm... like this!" Matthew gestured desperately at his near-nakedness.

"And whose fault is that?" Ryan countered smoothly. "Shoulda held onto your drawers tighter, champ. Consider it... motivation. Maybe running around with your cheeks flapping in the breeze will help you focus! Clock's ticking. Security does rounds... wouldn't want them to find a naked streaker loitering on the 6th floor, would we?" He made a show of checking a non-existent watch. "Better hustle! And Matt?" He leaned in, lowering his voice to a menacing whisper. "Fail this time? You really will be sleeping on this hallway floor. Naked. And I might just 'accidentally' post a pic to the camp group chat. Understood?"

Ryan didn't wait for an answer. He tapped Matthew on the bare bottom, saying, “Go.” He stepped back and slammed the door shut. The bolt slid with a final, resonant click.

Matthew stood frozen. The cold air from the hallway AC vent prickled his exposed backside. He was trapped. Half-naked in a hotel corridor.

Locked out. He actually locked me out. I’m… I’m standing here. In the hallway. In a T-shirt and… and air. His arms tightened convulsively over his groin, fingers digging into his hips hard enough to bruise. Anyone could walk out. Mrs. Henderson. That group of girls from the beach. SECURITY. Oh god, security. Ryan’ll take a picture. He’ll send it to the whole camp. To MUM. “Look what your irresponsible baby did now!”

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, viciously bright. They felt like interrogation lamps. Think. THINK, you idiot! He risked a glance down the long, empty corridor. The elevator glowed at the end. Miles away. Knock on another door? The thought sent a fresh wave of ice through his veins. Who’s in that room? What if it’s another Denis? Or worse… someone’s grandma? Or a family with little kids pointing and laughing? “Mummy, why’s that big boy naked?” He shuddered violently. No. Absolutely not. Never again. Not after Denis. Not half-naked on my knees begging for underwear. That’s… that’s rock bottom. Can’t go lower.

Eyes snapped back to the elevator. Down. Gotta go down. The thought of moving, exposed, made his stomach revolt. But the pool… A desperate lifeline. Dark. Empty. Late! Who swims? He pictured it: water, dark turquoise, swallowing him whole. Cover. Invisibility. Just jump in, grab the Spideys, boom. He clung to the image: a quick dive near the ladder, fingers closing on wet white cotton with that stupid red scribble. Easy. Then… His mind stuttered. Then I’ve got… underwear. Actual underwear. A shaky breath. Not naked below the waist. Covered. Sort of.

The balcony briefs – the rocket ships snagged down there – loomed like a specter. Still need those. Ryan wants BOTH. Dread curdled. Knock on another stranger’s door? Ask for my undies back? The sheer, skin-crawling horror of it. But… A sliver of grim logic emerged. Knocking on a door wearing just this T-shirt? Suicide. Pure nightmare fuel. But knocking… he swallowed hard, …knocking wearing Spiderman briefs? Under the T-shirt? Still humiliating. Still terrifying. But… He pictured himself standing there, covered, however childishly. Not naked. Not exposed. Just… a weirdo in kiddie undies asking for his other pair. It was still hell. But it was a different circle of hell. A circle with fabric. A circle where he wasn’t completely bare.

Pool first. The decision slammed into place, driven by a primal need for any scrap of cover. Get the Spideys from the water. Put them ON. Then… He shuddered. Then figure out another Balcony. But at least I won’t be… His gaze dropped to his pale, bare legs. …like this. Water equals cover. Cover equals… pants. Sort-of-pants. Then… maybe… courage. Or at least less screaming terror.

Swimming pool. It’s the only start. The plan felt flimsy, terrifying, but it offered a sliver of dignity – the dignity of not being stark naked below the waist. Get wet. Get the white briefs. Get covered. Then face the next disaster. 

He peeled himself off the door, his bare soles flinching from the slightly rough carpet. Just walk. Fast. But not too fast. Running looks guilty. Running looks like you know you shouldn’t be half-naked in a hotel hallway. He focused on the glowing elevator button, a tiny beacon in the fluorescent wasteland. Don’t think about doors opening. Don’t think about cameras. Don’t think about the back of this stupid t-shirt riding up. Just… walk.

One step. The air felt unnaturally cold on his legs. Another step. What if the elevator’s full? What if it opens and there’s a crowd? His breath hitched. Jump back? Fake a cough? Pretend you’re sleepwalking? “Oh, sorry folks, just my nightly constitutional in my undies… oh wait, NO UNDIES!” A hysterical giggle threatened to bubble up. He choked it down, swallowing bile.

He reached the elevator bank, jamming the down button with a trembling finger. Come on. Come ON! He pressed himself into the corner, arms locked, eyes glued to the floor indicator above the door. 6… The light taunted him. Please be empty. Please be empty. Please be—

Ding!

The doors slid open. Empty. Pure, blessed emptiness. He stumbled inside, frantically mashing the ‘G’ button. Ground. Pool. Escape. The doors began their agonizingly slow close. He watched the crack of the hallway narrow, half-expecting Ryan’s grinning face to appear, or Denis, or a security guard with a flashlight. The gap vanished. The elevator hummed, descending.

Mirrors. Everywhere. Front, sides. A kaleidoscope of humiliation reflecting infinity versions of himself: T-shirt hanging limp, face blotchy and terrified… and below the hem, nothing. Just pale, skinny legs, knobby knees, bare feet looking absurdly vulnerable on the polished floor. And between them…

His gaze snagged. Dragged downward. Against his will.

Oh god. Oh god, no.

The mirrors offered no mercy. They showed it all. The smooth, hairless triangle. The pathetic, flaccid thing nestled there. Small. So small. Unchanged since he was maybe eight. Like a child’s.

The elevator hummed, descending. 5… The light blinked, indifferent. He couldn’t look away from the mirrors. The countless Matthews stared back, each one amplifying the naked truth. It’s not just that I lose my clothes. It’s… this. This is why it’s funny. Because underneath, I’m still… this. He felt a hysterical urge to laugh. Sixteen. And I look like I belong in the blue rocket briefs Mum bought. Because I do belong in them. Because I haven’t changed.

The elevator dinged. G. Ground. Pool. The doors slid open onto the humid, chlorine-scented air. The pool was ahead. Salvation, however humiliating, however temporary, was a wet, white pair of Spider-Man briefs away.

The pool wasn’t a dark, empty sanctuary. It was lit. Underwater lights cast turquoise beams through the water. And it was occupied.

Near the shallow end, three kids – two boys, one girl, all around ten or eleven – shrieked and splashed, playing some chaotic game involving a fluorescent green ball. On the deckchairs nearby, a man and woman lounged, sipping drinks, half-watching the chaos. And perched high in the lifeguard chair, looking profoundly bored as he scrolled on his phone, sat a guy about Matthew’s age. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. A summer job lifeguard.

No. NO! It’s DINNER TIME! Who does this?! Panic, cold and sharp, seized Matthew’s throat. His plan – his fragile, desperate plan – shattered like glass. The white Spider-Man briefs were a dark, sodden lump near the deep end ladder. Right there. But miles away.

He ducked behind the same tall potted palm, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard he felt sick. Think! New plan! Wait them out? He peered through the fronds. The parents looked settled. The kids were full of energy. The lifeguard yawned. They could be here for hours! Ryan won’t wait. Security will find me hiding behind a plant!

The Spidey briefs seemed to mock him from the water. Cover. I need COVER. The thought of being trapped out here, exposed below the waist, was unbearable. There was only one path. It was terrible. It was insane. It was his only option.

Water. Get in the water. NOW. Deep end. Fast. Grab them. Get out. He didn’t let himself think about the audience. He focused on the mechanics: Run. Jump. Grab. Hide underwater if needed.

Gritting his teeth, Matthew burst from behind the palm. He didn’t run casually. He sprinted, bare feet slapping the wet concrete, heading straight for the deep end ladder near his briefs. He yanked desperately at the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it down as far as it would go in the front. It meant the back rode up horrendously high, exposing the full, pale curve of his bare buttocks to the entire pool area – the kids, the parents, the bored lifeguard.

He was halfway there when the sharp, piercing shriek of a whistle cut through the humid air.

"HEY!"

Matthew flinched but kept running. The lifeguard was on his feet now, leaning over the rail of his chair, pointing directly at him.

"NO JUMPING!" the lifeguard bellowed, his voice amplified by the pool acoustics and sudden authority. "AND NO SHIRTS IN THE POOL! TAKE IT OFF OR GET OUT!"

Take it OFF? The command was ludicrous, horrifying. I’d be COMPLETELY naked!

The whistle blast and the shout acted like a freeze ray. The kids stopped splashing, mouths open. The parents sat up, startled, their relaxed expressions vanishing. The dad squinted. The mum’s hand flew to her mouth. Four pairs of young eyes, wide with curiosity and confusion, locked onto the half-naked teenager sprinting across the deck, his T-shirt stretched awkwardly over his front, his bare backside gleaming under the lights.

"Look! That boy’s got no pants!" one of the young boys piped up, pointing directly at Matthew’s retreating backside.
"Why's his bum out?" the girl asked, giggling.
"Is he allowed to do that?" the other boy asked his parents, his voice carrying clearly.

Matthew heard it all. The pointing. The giggling. The questions. The weight of their stares burned into his exposed skin. The lifeguard’s furious gaze felt like a physical push. But stopping meant explaining. Explaining meant standing there. Exposed.

He reached the edge of the deep end. He didn’t pause. He didn’t jump gracefully. He launched himself forward in a desperate, clumsy dive, aiming straight for the spot where his briefs were slowly sinking.

SPLASH!

The cool water enveloped him, a momentary relief from the burning stares. But it was fleeting. Silence above meant everyone was watching the spot where he’d disappeared. He kicked downwards, eyes stinging from chlorine, hands flailing in the lit water. Where are they? WHERE? Panic threatened to choke him. Then, his fingers brushed wet cotton. He grabbed the sodden briefs.

Got them! He kicked back towards the surface, clutching his prize. He burst through, gasping for air, treading water. He immediately looked towards the deck.

The lifeguard was storming down from his chair, his expression a mix of anger and bewildered indignation. The parents were standing now, the dad looking stern, the mum concerned. The kids were clustered together, whispering and pointing at him in the water. He was the center of attention. A half-naked, rule-breaking spectacle clutching a pair of wet, childish briefs.

"You!" the lifeguard yelled, reaching the pool edge above him, hands on his hips. "Out! NOW! What the hell do you think you're doing? No jumping! No shirts! And what are those?" He gestured contemptuously at the white briefs. "Get OUT!"

Matthew treaded water, paralyzed. He had the briefs. But getting out meant climbing the ladder. In front of everyone. Or… could he put the Spideys on underwater? Easy peasy? Nothing in my life is easy peasy.

Treading water felt like treading air. The lifeguard’s furious command – "OUT! NOW!" – echoed off the water. The parents stared, stern and confused. The kids pointed and whispered. Put them on. Underwater. NOW. He fumbled desperately beneath the surface, fingers numb with panic and chlorine. The wet fabric tangled, resisted, refused to unroll properly over his legs. It was like trying to thread a needle in a hurricane.

"I said OUT!" The lifeguard’s voice boomed, closer now. He’d reached the pool edge directly above Matthew, his shadow falling across the water.

Matthew yanked harder, twisting underwater. One leg… almost… the waistband snagged around his ankle. Come ON!

He never saw the hand. It plunged into the water with surprising speed and force, clamping onto his upper arm like a steel vise. Whoa! How is he so strong?! Matthew gasped, swallowing a mouthful of chlorinated water. Before he could react, the lifeguard yanked.

Matthew was hauled bodily out of the pool. Water streamed off him as he was dragged, flailing and coughing, over the lip of the pool and dumped unceremoniously onto the rough, wet concrete deck. He landed hard on his side, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. The Spider-Man briefs, still clutched in his left hand, slapped wetly against the deck.

For a horrifying second, he lay there, stunned, gasping. He was out. Exposed. Utterly.

Left: The parents. Inches away. The dad’s face was a mask of bewildered outrage. The mum’s eyes were wide, darting nervously from his face… downwards… then quickly away, her cheeks flushing crimson. "Oh my…" she breathed.
Right: The three kids. They’d scurried closer, dripping, eyes huge with fascinated horror. They stared openly, unabashedly, at the naked boy sprawled on the deck. "Ewww, he’s all naked under there!" one boy whispered loudly. "Why’s his… thing… so small?" the girl asked, pointing directly with a wet finger. "Like my little brother’s!"
Front: The lifeguard. Towering over him, dripping from the arm he’d used to fish him out. He was breathing heavily, face flushed with anger and exertion. He looked Matthew’s age, maybe younger, but radiated an authority Matthew could never muster. His eyes, blazing with indignation, swept over Matthew’s supine form – the wet T-shirt plastered transparently to his chest, offering zero coverage below the waist, revealing everything in stark, humiliating detail. The cold water had done Matthew’s undeveloped body no favors; everything was small, smooth, and utterly vulnerable.
Down: Nothing. Just bare skin, wet concrete, and the sodden white Spidey briefs still clutched in his fist like a pathetic trophy.

"On your feet!" the lifeguard barked, his voice tight. He didn’t offer a hand; it was an order. Still gasping, Matthew scrambled to obey, pushing himself up on shaky limbs. He instinctively tried to cover himself with his free hand, but it was futile. The lifeguard’s gaze was like a physical weight.

Then, the ultimate insult. The lifeguard reached down and snatched the Spider-Man briefs from Matthew’s grasp. He held them up, pinching the wet waistband between his thumb and forefinger like contaminated evidence. Disgust twisted his features.

"Now," the lifeguard demanded, his voice dripping with contempt as he waved the childish underwear like a flag of shame, "explain yourself, young man!"

Young man?! The phrase screamed in Matthew’s head. He’s my age! Maybe younger! And he’s calling me "young man" like I’m some misbehaving kid! The irony was brutal, crushing. Here stood the lifeguard – probably a high school junior saving for a car, radiating competence and authority in his red trunks and whistle. And here stood Matthew: dripping, naked below the waist, clutching himself, his only possession confiscated – a pair of soaking wet, embarrassingly juvenile briefs held aloft for the world to see. The contrast couldn't be starker. The lifeguard was a young man. Matthew felt like a lost, naked child caught stealing cookies.

The parents stared, waiting for an answer. The kids giggled, pointing at the briefs and then at him. The lifeguard’s eyes bored into him, demanding an explanation for the inexplicable. Matthew opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Just a choked gasp. His face burned hotter than the sun. His small, exposed body trembled violently under the combined weight of their stares and the cold night air. He had no words. Young man? The universe, it seemed, had a sick sense of humor.

The lifeguard’s contemptuous "explain yourself, young man!" hung in the humid air like a challenge. The parents stared. The kids giggled. The wet Spider-Man briefs dangled from the lifeguard’s fingers, a neon sign screaming CHILD.

Something in Matthew snapped. The weeks of humiliation, the locked door, Denis’s cruelty, Ryan’s dominion, the cold water, the stares, the "young man" from someone his own age – it erupted. Shame morphed into white-hot, irrational rage. He forgot the cold. He forgot his nakedness. He forgot everything except the fury boiling over.

"DON’T YOU TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!" Matthew shrieked, his voice cracking hysterically. He took a wobbly step towards the lifeguard, jabbing a finger in the air. "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? GIVE ME BACK MY UNDERWEAR!"

As he yelled, his arms flailed wildly. The desperate hand that had been covering his groin flew up to emphasize his point, leaving him completely, utterly exposed below the waist. He didn’t even notice. Adrenaline and outrage consumed him. He gestured violently at the briefs in the lifeguard’s hand, then swept his arm back towards the pool, his small, flaccid penis bouncing slightly with the movement. The kids gasped, then burst into renewed, louder giggles. The dad’s jaw tightened. The mum made a small, distressed noise.

"I’M SIXTEEN!" Matthew roared, puffing out his chest under the soaked T-shirt, his face purple with rage and humiliation. "DON’T TALK TO ME LIKE I’M SOME STUPID KID! GIVE. THEM. BACK!" He punctuated each word with another wild gesture, his body twisting, offering the horrified onlookers a full, unobstructed view of his smooth, undeveloped groin from every angle.

The lifeguard didn’t flinch. He just… looked. His furious expression morphed into something colder, more calculating. His gaze traveled slowly, deliberately, down Matthew’s dripping, heaving body: the T-shirt, the trembling legs… and lingered pointedly on the smooth, hairless expanse and the small, exposed genitalia Matthew was wildly gesticulating around. A slow, incredulous smirk spread across the lifeguard’s face. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. The look – the slow, dismissive up-and-down – said it all: Sixteen? Yeah, right. Prove it.

Before Matthew could draw breath for another tirade, the mum stepped forward. Her face was a mask of maternal distress mixed with profound embarrassment. She didn’t look at Matthew’s face; her eyes were fixed firmly on the middle distance above his head, her own cheeks flaming.

"Young man!" she said, her voice sharp with a mix of command and acute discomfort, cutting through Matthew’s rage. "That is QUITE enough! Cover yourself up this instant! Good heavens, have you no shame? There are children present!" She gestured protectively towards her kids, who were now watching Matthew with fascinated horror, their giggles momentarily silenced by their mother’s tone. "Put some clothes on! And you," she turned her distressed gaze onto the lifeguard, "please, just… give him back his… his things and make him leave! This is unacceptable! Decent people shouldn’t have to see… see…" She trailed off, unable to articulate the sight before her, her eyes flickering downwards for a microsecond before snapping back up, radiating profound disapproval. "Cover that… little thing… up immediately!"

Her words hit Matthew like a bucket of ice water. The rage evaporated, replaced by a fresh, suffocating wave of shame so profound it stole his breath. He looked down. Really looked down. His hands were up in the air, mid-gesture. He was completely exposed. To the furious lifeguard. To the stern dad. To the mortified mum. To the wide-eyed, giggling kids. To the whole damn world. The mum hadn't just called him indecent; she’d called his body, his most private, underdeveloped self, a "little thing" that offended decency.

A strangled whimper escaped him. His flying hands snapped down, cupping himself frantically, but the damage was irreparable. He’d just thrown a naked tantrum in front of a family, screamed his age while showcasing the physical proof of his childishness, and been told his very presence was an affront to decency. The lifeguard’s smirk widened. He deliberately dropped the wet Spider-Man briefs onto the deck at Matthew’s bare feet. "There," the lifeguard said, his voice dripping with sarcastic satisfaction. "Your ‘things’. Now get your ‘sixteen’-year-old self decent.”

Matthew’s trembling hand hovered over the sodden Spider-Man briefs on the deck. Just grab them. Cover up. Escape. But before his fingers could close on the wet fabric—

"Spiderman!!" shrieked the youngest boy. With the lightning speed of a sugar-fueled gremlin, he darted forward, snatched the briefs off the concrete, and held them aloft like a slimy trophy. "Look! I saved Spidey from the floor monster!"

"Eww, Timmy, that’s his UNDERWEAR!" the girl yelled, equal parts disgusted and fascinated.
"So?" Timmy grinned, waving the dripping briefs like a flag. "It’s got webs! Cool! Catch, Mikey!" He hurled the wet wad of cotton towards his brother.

"NO!" Matthew roared, lurching forward instinctively. He forgot the lifeguard, the parents, his nakedness – he just saw his pathetic scrap of cover becoming a soggy football. He took one desperate step towards the pool edge where Mikey had caught the briefs and was now dangling them over the water, tauntingly.

"STOP RIGHT THERE!" The lifeguard’s arm shot out, a barricade of sunburned muscle blocking Matthew’s path. His other hand pointed accusingly at Matthew’s soaked cotton T-shirt. "NO SWIMMING WITH COTTON SHIRTS! POOL RULE 7B! IT’S A SAFETY HAZARD! YOU’RE NOT GETTING BACK IN!"

"BUT THEY HAVE MY—!" Matthew sputtered, pointing frantically at Mikey, who was now whirling the briefs around his head like a lasso before letting them fly with a wet SPLAT into the middle of the shallow end. The kids whooped and immediately splashed towards them, initiating a chaotic game of "Keep Away the Undie."

"I don’t care if they have your grandmother’s dentures!" the lifeguard snapped, his voice laced with righteous rule-enforcement fury. "Cotton absorbs water, weighs you down, increases drowning risk! NO SHIRT, NO SWIMMING! Take it OFF if you want to go in!"

Take it OFF? Matthew stared at him, aghast. The choice was unthinkable: stand here fully exposed trying to reason with Captain Rulebook, or strip completely naked to dive into a pool full of children fighting over his underwear. The kids were already shrieking with laughter.

"Got it!" Timmy yelled triumphantly, holding the retrieved briefs above his head. They dripped chlorinated water onto his face. "Soggy Spidey wins!"
"My turn!" the girl yelled, making a grab for them. "I wanna see if they fit Mr. Bubbles!" (Mr. Bubbles being a large, inflatable pool unicorn).

The mum finally found her voice, shrill with maternal panic and profound distaste. "TIMOTHY! MICHELLE! PUT THAT DOWN IMMEDIATELY! THAT IS SOME STRANGER’S… SOME STRANGER’S UNMENTIONABLES! IT’S FILTHY! GET OUT OF THE POOL THIS INSTANT! She turned blazing eyes on Matthew. "And YOU! What kind of degenerate lets children play with his… his… garments?! Control your belongings, young man! This is unsanitary! Disgusting!"

He watched, numb with horror, as Timmy, dodging his sister, attempted to wear the stretched-out, sopping briefs over his own swim trunks, giggling maniacally. "Look! I’m Underwear Man! Fear my… wetness!"

The lifeguard lowered his blocking arm slightly, a cruel smirk playing on his lips as he took in Matthew’s frozen, naked-from-the-waist-down paralysis. "Well?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcastic helpfulness. "Gonna take the shirt off and dive in? Save Spidey from the toddlers? Clock's ticking. Rule 7B awaits your decision, Underwear Man."

The lifeguard’s patience evaporated. He rolled his eyes, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Oh, for cryin’ out loud, it’s just kids! Go get your stupid underwear!" he snapped, his voice thick with exasperation. Before Matthew could process the command, the lifeguard lunged.

Not to help him into the pool. To help him out of his shirt.

Strong hands grabbed the soaked hem of Matthew’s T-shirt and yanked upwards with brutal efficiency. "WHA—?!" Matthew gasped, instinctively raising his arms as the sodden cotton scraped over his ribs and chest. The shirt, heavy with water and twisted, immediately tangled around his head and shoulders, blinding him, muffling his protests into a strangled "Mmmphh!"

"Hold still, kiddo! Jeez!" the lifeguard grunted, wrestling the stubborn, clinging fabric. "Gotta get this cotton deathtrap off you before you drown tripping over your own feet!" He gave another savage tug. Matthew, panicked and sightless, flailed his arms wildly, trying to help free himself. This meant both hands were now high in the air, clawing at the wet prison over his head, leaving his entire body – completely, utterly naked – on full, unobstructed display for the pool deck audience.

"Almost… got it… you’re free, kid!" the lifeguard complained, giving a final, wrenching pull. The T-shirt ripped free with a damp schlorp sound. The lifeguard stumbled back, holding the crumpled, dripping garment. Matthew stood gasping, blinking in the sudden light, his arms still half-raised, realizing with dawning, numb horror that he was now stark naked. No shirt. No briefs. Nothing. Just pale, wet skin and undeniable, prepubescent smoothness under the harsh pool lights.

"There!" the lifeguard announced, tossing the shirt onto a nearby deckchair like dirty laundry. "Rule 7B satisfied! Now go get your precious underwear before it dissolves!" He gestured dismissively towards the pool where the white Spidey briefs now floated forlornly near the unicorn.

The kids, recovering from the shock, saw their chance. "CANNONBALL!" Timmy yelled, leaping into the pool near the briefs, sending a wave that pushed them further away. "Get ’em, Mikey!"

Matthew didn’t think. There was no point in covering up. No scrap of dignity left to salvage. Only the primal need to reclaim the pathetic scrap of fabric that represented… something. Anything. He took two running steps and leapt towards the floating briefs near the shallow end.

SPLASH!

He landed awkwardly, waist-deep. The kids shrieked with delight. "He jumped naked! Awesome!" Michelle scooped up the briefs before he could reach them. "Catch, Timmy!" She threw them high over Matthew’s head.

Matthew whirled, water sloshing. He saw the briefs arcing through the air. He jumped, stretching upwards, fingers straining.
Key Physics of Naked Jumping: When you jump vertically in water, your lower body surges upwards, breaching the surface.
As Matthew jumped, reaching for the briefs, his hips rose out of the water. Everything below his navel cleared the surface for a split second – pale thighs, smooth groin, small genitals – completely exposed mid-air, glistening under the pool lights, before he splashed back down.

"HAHAHA! HIS WEE WILLY WINKER WENT FLYING!" Timmy howled, pointing.
"Like a little pink dolphin!" Mikey added, collapsing into giggles.

Matthew landed, flushing crimson, but driven by sheer, naked desperation. He lunged for the briefs Michelle had thrown, now bobbing near Timmy. Timmy grabbed them first and hurled them back towards Michelle with a wet smack. Matthew jumped again, reaching. Up he went. Hips out. Everything exposed. Splash down. The kids screamed with laughter. It was a grotesque, bobbing game of naked keep-away.

"AGAIN! MAKE HIM JUMP AGAIN!" Michelle begged, scrambling away with the briefs.

Matthew jumped. Exposure. Splash. He jumped again. Exposure. Splash. His private parts performing involuntary aerial displays with every desperate leap for the underwear dancing just out of reach.

And then… a sound cut through the kids' shrieks and the splashing. Laughter. Rich, slightly shocked, but undeniably amused laughter. Matthew froze mid-reach, water dripping from his nose, and looked towards the deckchairs.

The Mum was laughing. Actually laughing. Her hand was still partly covering her mouth, but her shoulders shook. She met Matthew’s horrified gaze for a split second, her eyes crinkling with mirth before she looked away, trying to stifle it, but failing. "Oh… oh dear…" she managed between chuckles, shaking her head at the sheer, ridiculous spectacle of this frantic, naked teenager leaping like a deranged salmon after his cartoon underwear while her kids orchestrated the debacle. "It’s just… so absurd!"

The Dad cracked a reluctant smile, shaking his head. Even the lifeguard leaned against his chair, arms crossed, a wide, incredulous grin spreading across his face as he watched Matthew’s futile, bobbing pursuit. "Go on, kiddo," he called, his voice thick with mocking encouragement. "Higher this time! Really show that Spidey who's boss!"

Matthew surfaced, gasping, the sodden Spider-Man briefs finally clenched in his fist. Got them! Relief warred with the crushing awareness that he was naked, waist-deep in water, surrounded by an audience howling with laughter. The mum was still wiping tears, the lifeguard grinned like a shark, and the kids pointed.

Get out. Get covered. Escape. He slogged towards the pool ladder, clutching the briefs like a lifeline. He hauled himself up onto the deck, water sluicing off him, the cool air hitting his bare skin anew. He didn’t look at anyone. He focused on the briefs. Just put them on. Now.

He shook them out – a limp, dripping mess of white cotton. He bent forward, trying to step into one leg hole. The wet fabric instantly clung to his ankle, twisting and tangling. Come on! He hopped awkwardly on one foot, yanking hard. The briefs resisted, tightening like a clammy shackle. He lost his balance, windmilling his free arm wildly. "Whoa there, Underwear Man!" the lifeguard chuckled nearby.

"ARGH!" Matthew growled, frustration boiling over. He planted his foot firmly and yanked with all his might on the tangled leg hole. RRRIP! A small tear appeared near the seam, but worse, the force pulled the entire briefs up… only to immediately snag violently around his knees, the waistband twisting, the damp fabric binding his legs together like a wet, embarrassing hobble.

"HAHAHA! Look! He’s tying himself up!" Timmy screeched.
"Like a spider web!" Michelle added, giggling.
Even the dad let out a low chuckle. The mum snorted again, trying to stifle it behind her hand. "Oh dear…"

Matthew was bent almost double, one hand clawing at the twisted mess around his knees, the other desperately trying to shield his groin – an impossible contortion. His smooth backside was fully exposed to the deck, his small, flaccid penis utterly visible between his splayed, struggling legs. He wobbled precariously.

"Whoa, easy there, kiddo!" The lifeguard’s hand shot out, grabbing Matthew’s upper arm to steady him as he teetered. His grip was firm, patronizing. "Don’t faceplant on the concrete! Wouldn’t want to damage the merchandise!" He gestured vaguely downwards with his free hand.

"STOP CALLING ME KID!" Matthew exploded, wrenching his arm away, his face crimson. He straightened slightly, momentarily forgetting his tangled state and his exposure in his rage. "I’M FUCKING SIXTEEN YEARS OLD, YOU JERK!"

The lifeguard didn’t flinch. He just looked Matthew up and down – the flushed face, the furious eyes, the body bent awkwardly, the childish briefs tangled around his knees, and the small, completely hairless, utterly exposed genitalia right at eye level. A slow, incredulous smirk spread across his face, wider than before.

"Sixteen?" he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcastic wonder. "Seriously? Dude. Look at yourself. LOOK. DOWN." He gave Matthew a little shake for emphasis. "You are literally throwing a naked tantrum because you can't put on your little kid Spider-Man undies that are currently lassoing your ankle. You’re hopping around like a pissed-off flamingo while your junk’s waving hello to the whole pool deck. And you want me to believe you’re sixteen? He barked a short, harsh laugh. "You look ridiculous. Like, award-winningly, pants-optional-ly ridiculous. ‘Sixteen’? Buddy, right now? You look about twelve.“ He barked a sharp laugh. "Hell, my cousin’s twelve, and he’s got more going on down there than you do! Looking like a plucked baby bird!"

The kids shrieked with renewed laughter, immediately picking up the chant:
"BALD PEEPEE! BALD PEEPEE!" Timmy yelled, pointing.
"Plucked baby bird! HA!" Mikey echoed.
The mum finally lost her battle, dissolving into fresh, loud guffaws, leaning on her husband for support. "Oh stop… haha… it’s awful… but… plucked baby bird! HAHA!"

Matthew stood frozen. Not with rage. Not with shame. With numb, hollow horror. The briefs were a cold, twisted mess around his knees. His body was a joke. His age was a punchline. His very existence was a public farce. The lifeguard’s crude, pinpoint-accurate description – "little bald peepee" – echoed in the laughter, bouncing off the water, amplified by the chanting children. He looked down. The evidence was undeniable, displayed for the whole pool deck. Small. Smooth. Utterly defenseless against the ridicule.

The lifeguard sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. A flicker of something – pity? Guilt? – crossed his face, quickly buried under his usual bravado. "Alright, alright, hold up!" he called, his voice losing its edge, adopting a tone of exaggerated, almost theatrical calm. "Look… I’m a lifeguard. Job’s to help, right? Even… unconventional situations." He gestured vaguely at Matthew’s nakedness. "Everyone’s had their laugh. Let’s just… get you decent, yeah? Get your little pee pee tucked away. Sound good?"

Matthew didn't trust it. But the tears blurring his vision weren't just from rage anymore; they were exhaustion, utter defeat. He gave a tiny, jerky nod, still facing away.

Okay. Okay, good." The lifeguard walked over, his flip-flops slapping on the wet concrete. He stopped directly in front of Matthew, then, to Matthew’s utter shock, knelt down on the deck.

"Right," the lifeguard said, his voice unnervingly gentle now. "Gimme those." He held out his hand for the sodden Spider-Man briefs. "These things are a mess when wet. Gotta start over." With brisk, impersonal movements, he pulled the tangled briefs completely off Matthew’s feet and shook them out, unfolding the wet, misshapen fabric. The cartoon spider looked like it was melting.

The lifeguard shook them out. His large, tanned hands startlingly competent. Matthew stood frozen, unable to look away from the lifeguard’s powerful shoulders, the defined muscles of his forearms flexing as he shook out the briefs. He meticulously unfolded them, smoothing out the twisted legs with slow, deliberate movements. "Step in," he instructed, holding the briefs open near Matthew’s left foot. "Left foot first. There you go. Good lad. Now the right. That’s it. Atta boy."

Matthew obeyed mechanically, stepping into the leg holes, his body rigid with shame. The lifeguard, still kneeling, began slowly, carefully pulling the wet briefs upwards. They clung stubbornly, requiring him to tug gently at the fabric around Matthew’s thighs. The lifeguard’s face was level with Matthew’s hips, his gaze unavoidably fixed on the smooth skin, the small, flaccid penis, the complete lack of development mere inches from his eyes as he worked the elastic waistband upwards.

"So," the lifeguard said conversationally, his voice still calm, still kind, as he paused with the briefs mid-thigh. He looked up, his eyes meeting Matthew’s tear-filled ones. "Fun’s over. Just us now. Tell me straight. How old are you really, sport? Twelve? Thirteen? No judgment. Just… truth time."

Matthew flinched. The question, delivered with such false benevolence from this kneeling position, felt like a scalpel. He swallowed hard, his voice a raw scrape. "Ekhm... I... I really am sixteen..."

The lifeguard’s eyes widened. Not in disbelief, exactly, but in pure, unvarnished surprise. His gaze flickered downwards – a slow, deliberate dip – taking in the undeniable physical reality just inches from his face: the small, hairless penis, the prepubescent smoothness. He held that look for a long, excruciating second, the silence thick and suffocating. Then his eyes snapped back up to Matthew’s, a strange mix of confusion and dawning, uncomfortable realization in them.

"Ekhm..." The lifeguard cleared his throat, a faint pink tinge rising on his own cheeks. His carefully constructed calm cracking slightly. "Well... Okay. Good." He gave a jerky nod, his gaze quickly dropping back to the briefs. "That’s good, I'm sixteen too!" he added, too brightly, the statement sounding utterly bizarre in the context. He resumed pulling the briefs upwards with renewed, almost frantic focus, yanking the waistband the final few inches into place, finally providing a thin, wet layer of cotton coverage over Matthew’s exposed vulnerability. "There! Covered!"

He stood up quickly, brushing imaginary water off his knees. "Shirt next," he mumbled, avoiding Matthew’s eyes. He grabbed the sopping T-shirt from the deck. "Arms up. Come on." He helped Matthew wrestle the clammy, clinging cotton over his head and down his torso, the process awkward and silent. The shirt stuck to his wet skin and the damp briefs underneath, plastering the cartoonish Spider-Man graphic obscenely against his crotch, but at least he was clothed.

"Alright," the lifeguard said, stepping back, finally meeting Matthew’s gaze again. His expression was unreadable – a mix of residual embarrassment, forced professionalism, and lingering disbelief. "Kiddo... ehkm... I mean... boy... whatever." He waved a hand vaguely towards the exit. "You got your clothes. Mostly. You can go.” Dismissed by a boy who looked like a man.

Matthew didn’t need telling twice. He didn’t look at the family (the mum was watching with fascinated curiosity, the dad looked deeply uncomfortable). He didn’t look back at the water. He just turned and walked. Not ran. Walked. A slow, stiff, mechanical march. The wet briefs clung coldly. The wet shirt felt like a shroud. The lifeguard’s final words – "I'm sixteen too!" – echoed in his head, a mocking counterpoint to the prolonged, intimate examination of his body that had just screamed otherwise.

He pushed through the door to the hotel corridor. The cool, dry air hit him. He walked towards the elevators, the fluorescent lights reflecting dully in the puddles forming around his bare feet. One task down. One pair retrieved. But the cost…

He jabbed the elevator button. One more. Balcony 305. The blue rocket briefs. Hanging like a flag. One more impossible, humiliating task. The elevator doors opened.