The Curious Case of Matthew 9

By YourWetDream

evulmat@gmail.com

Copyright 2025 by YourWetDream, all rights reserved

[10,217 words]´

CHAPTER 9

The heavy pool door hissed shut behind him, sealing off the scene of his latest debacle. The hotel corridor was blessedly cool and silent, the air dry against his damp skin. Each step squelched, leaving faint, evaporating puddles in his wake on the polished floor. One task down. The Spider-Man briefs were on, a cold, wet, second skin. But the cost… the laughter, the stripping, the lifeguard’s final, shamed look… it sat like a stone in his stomach.

He jabbed the ‘up’ button. The fluorescent lights overhead reflected in the small puddles forming around his bare feet. One more. Balcony 305. The blue rockets. The image of them, his mum’s cheerful choice, hanging like a flag of surrender on some stranger’s railing, twisted a fresh knot of dread in his gut. Another impossible, humiliating task.

Ding!

The elevator doors slid open. Matthew held his breath.

"Please be empty, please be empty," he whispered, eyes squeezed shut, a desperate mantra.

The cubicle was empty. A wave of pure, unadulterated relief washed over him so strong his knees felt weak.

"At least in that case I'm lucky..." he mumbled, stepping inside and pressing the button for the third floor. The doors closed, and he was alone.

Alone with the mirrors.

They were everywhere. Front, sides, ceiling. A cold, cruel jury. His reflection was a nightmare. The white briefs were soaked, the thin cotton rendered almost entirely transparent, plastered to his skin, outlining the childish Spider-Man graphic. And beneath the damp fabric, pressed tight against it by the clinging wetness, was… himself. The water, the cold, the unending shame had done their work. It looked… insignificant. So small. A tiny, shrunken peanut, utterly defenseless and on full display. He stared, a fresh wave of heat flooding his cheeks. If even I don’t see a sixteen-year-old, he thought, the realization a cold stone in his gut, how can I expect anyone else to? The lifeguard… ugh, I should have just lied and told him I’m twelve.

Frantic, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband, tugging and adjusting, trying to create some slack, some opacity. He pulled the fabric to the sides, but it just stretched tighter elsewhere. It was useless. He was just rearranging his own humiliation. The elevator slowed. 

Ding! Floor 3.

He looked in the mirror one last time. The adjusting hadn’t helped. He was still a pale, dripping boy in transparent, childish underwear. There was nothing more he could do. He took a deep, shuddering breath that did nothing to calm the frantic beating of his heart.

"Okay, let's go..." he whispered to his terrified reflection.

The doors opened. The third-floor hallway was a mirror of his own, but unknown territory. He stepped out, the carpet feeling different underfoot. He turned left. 303… 305. There it was. A plain, anonymous hotel door, just like his own.

He raised a trembling fist, hesitating. What if it was another Denis? What if it was a group of girls? What if it was a grumpy old man? He squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh god, please," he begged silently, pressing his forehead against the cool wood of the door. "Please, please, save me some embarrassment, just this once." The prayer felt foreign on his lips, a Hail Mary from a confirmed atheist, born of sheer, desperate need.

He couldn’t stall any longer. He knocked. The sound was too loud in the quiet hallway.

A moment passed. Then, the sound of a lock. The door opened, not all the way, but just a crack, stopped by the security chain.

Matthew’s carefully rehearsed explanation evaporated. His brain short-circuited. All he could manage was to point a shaky finger over her shoulder, towards her balcony.

"I… I… my…" he stammered, his voice a humiliating squeak. "They… they fell. From upstairs. My… um… underwear."

The girl’s eyebrows rose in gentle confusion. She followed his pointing finger, her gaze traveling through her room and out to the balcony.

"Oh, you poor dear!" she said, her voice dripping with sympathy. She unchained the door and opened it fully. She had long blonde hair, a wonderful figure, and was wearing a comfortable-looking housecoat. "You're all wet!" She looked down and her eyes went wide. "And you've lost your little pants! Oh, you must be so embarrassed!"

Her kindness was worse than anger. It was condescending. It confirmed everything he feared she saw: a lost, wet child who’d lost his "little pants." And considering how her eyes kept dropping down, she had probably already seen what his wet underwear was so unsuccessfully hiding.

"Uh... yeah... would you... could you just be so kind and give me my underwear? Please... it's on your balcony."

"Of course, sure, come inside!"

"Uh... thank you, I'll just wait here!" he insisted, panic rising.

"Don't be ridiculous, you can't stay out there all wet and almost naked! Chop chop!"

With that, she took his hand and gently-but-firmly pulled him inside. Matthew almost tripped over his own feet, and before he could process a protest, she closed the door behind him.

"Martha! Agatha!" the girl shouted further into the room. "Did you find any little boy's underwear on the balcony?!"

Matthew went pale. “Two more girls? This can't be happening!” he thought, his heart sinking into his stomach.

"What? You mean like boxers?" a voice called from the bathroom.

"Nooo," she answered. "Like for little boys, you know? Briefs or something!" She then looked directly at him. "That's what you're looking for, right?"

He nodded, utterly ashamed.

"What are you talking abo... oh!" A girl emerged from the bathroom, her sentence cutting off as she saw him. She had dark skin, straight, long black hair, and a nice figure. She covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes wide as she looked Matthew up and down. Matthew automatically crossed his hands over his front.

"Oh my god, what is going on in here, Charlotte?!"

With that, a third girl quickly followed from the bathroom. She squealed and also covered her mouth with her hands. She was also dark-skinned, with her hair in braids. Both of them were wearing comfortable but fitted clothes—it was the evening, after all; they were probably getting ready for bed. Matthew couldn't help but notice how well-shaped all three of them were, a stark and painful contrast to his own exposed, childish state.

"This boy here lost a pair of his underwear," Charlotte explained. "He claims they're on our balcony."

The two newcomers were clearly in shock, staring at the nearly-naked, dripping-wet boy in their room.

"Well, uh, I wasn't on the balcony, I don't know," said one.

"Me either," said the other, her voice a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

"Okay, let me check!" said Charlotte. "You wait here, boy." She headed out to the balcony, leaving Matthew standing frozen in the middle of the room with the two other girls, who were now starting to giggle.

Charlotte came back after a few seconds. There they were—the blue briefs with rocket-ships all over them. She held them up with both hands, like a banner, waving his shame for everyone to see.

My rockets. Mum’s stupid, babyish rockets.

"Is this what you are looking for, boy?" she asked, staying firmly in the middle of the room, a few meters away. Boy. She keeps saying boy. She knows. They all know I don’t deserve to be called anything else.

"Uh... yes... can I have them back, please?" Matthew mumbled, his eyes fixed on the underwear, too ashamed to meet her gaze.

Just give them. Please, just give them and let me run. I won’t bother you again. I’ll disappear.

"Sure you can!" Charlotte said, her voice sweet but laced with a venomous suspicion that made his stomach clench. "But first, tell us what happened. Actually? You're standing here without pants, all wet, asking strange girls for your underwear. We're going to need an honest... explanation."

She looked him up and down, raising her eyebrows. The inspection was clinical, demeaning. She’s not just looking; she’s inventorying everything that’s wrong with me. The smoothness. The smallness. The wet Spider-Man briefs that are basically see-through. She’s counting my flaws.

"Well... uh... so... we were doing laundry in our room, upstairs..." he stammered, feeling flimsy and pathetic even to his own ears.  I sound like a lost five-year-old. "...and the wind whipped my underwear off the balcony... so I need to get them back. If you could just hand them over..." Desperation propelled him a step forward.

"Ey, ey! Stay where you are!" she commanded, holding the briefs away like he was a dog trying to snatch a treat. Frozen again. Always frozen. Why can’t I just do something?

"I'm not convinced you're not a little pervert. Okay, I can see the wind blowing your undies off, but I still don't understand why you come here without pants and all wet."

"Oh, please, please... Charlotte, right?" Matthew begged, his voice cracking and splintering under the weight of his utter helplessness. I’m groveling. I’m actually groveling. "Please, it's a very long story. I just want my belongings back. I'm not a pervert, I swear! I'll do anything, please!!" 

"Anything?" the dark-skinned girl with braids asked, a sly, predatory smile spreading across her face. The look in her eyes made his blood run cold. No. No, no, no. What did I just do?

"Oh, that's good, 'cause I'm thirsty. Bring me some iced water from the dispenser."

"Good idea, Martha," said the other girl—must be Agatha. "I'm thirsty too. Bring all of us iced water."

"What?! No, like, seriously, please! Just give them back and I'm gone!" Matthew said, his voice rising into a desperate, broken whine. He took another unconscious step forward, driven by a need to just end this.

"Stay where you are!" Charlotte ordered. The force in her voice rooted him to the spot. He didn't dare protest. I’m a puppet. A naked, dripping puppet.

"What was your name again? You are very rude; I don't even remember you introducing yourself."

"I'm.... Matthew." My name sounds so small in this room.

"Matthew," she said, his name a weapon in her mouth. "You said yourself that in order to get back your..." She held the briefs up again, examining the ridiculous print with theatrical disdain. "...cosmic boy briefs, you would do anything. So, Martha and Agatha have ordered you to go get them some water from the dispenser. So, what are you waiting for? Go!"

"But... but... that means... I'll have to run down the corridor like this! I'm not wearing any pants! Please!" His plea was a shrill, panicked whisper. This isn’t happening. This is a nightmare. I’ll wake up in my bed. Please let me wake up.

"Yes. And you will put your hands at your sides this instant! Or I'll burn them!"

The click-flicker of the lighter was the most terrifying sound he had ever heard. The small, dancing flame appeared in her hand, held menacingly close to the cotton. She’s going to burn them. She’s actually going to burn my only chance of getting back into my room. Ryan will leave me in the hall forever.

The choice was impossible: certain, immediate humiliation now, or total, irrevocable failure later.

Utterly defeated, Matthew looked down at the floor. I lose. I always lose. Slowly, mechanically, he uncrossed his arms. He let his hands fall to his sides, feeling the air against his skin, feeling more exposed and vulnerable than he ever had in his entire life. The act of surrender was its own unique agony.

"Exactly," Charlotte said, her voice dripping with vicious triumph. "Don't you dare cover up again. You came here like that, which means you were running around the hotel like that. Stupid child, if you're so ashamed, you should have put some pants on before coming here."

"He thinks that little Spider-Man covers enough, hahaha!" Martha laughed, the sound harsh and mocking.

It doesn’t cover anything. They can see everything. They’re laughing at everything. The other girls giggled too, their eyes not even bothering to meet his, instead staring directly at the transparent, wet fabric and what it futilely tried to conceal.

"Chop chop!" Charlotte snapped, jabbing the lighter toward the briefs for emphasis. "Or these rocket ships are going to be space dust!"

One foot in front of the other. Just walk. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Matthew turned, a naked automaton, and faced the door. The walk to it felt a million miles long. Each step was a march toward a new, unprecedented tier of public shame. He reached for the handle, a silent scream echoing in his skull.

Why is it always me?

The door clicked shut behind Matthew, sealing him in the brightly lit, air-conditioned hallway. The shock of the cold air on his wet skin was a physical blow.

Just walk. Don’t think. Hands at your sides. Don’t think. It’s just a hallway. It’s empty. It’s fine. It’s—

SCREEEECH.

A metallic clatter echoed from around the corner just ahead. Matthew’s blood ran cold. He froze, every muscle locking.

No. No, no, no. Please, no one. Please be a ghost. Be a ghost or a loose pipe or—

An elderly housekeeper backed out of a room, wrestling a large, overflowing cleaning cart. She turned, and her eyes, sharp and weary behind a pair of spectacles, landed directly on him.

Time stopped.

Her gaze didn’t dart away in shock. It didn’t widen with surprise. It traveled down from his face, over his soaked T-shirt, and came to a full, dead stop on his lower half. Her eyebrows rose slightly. She pushed her glasses up her nose and leaned forward a little, as if examining a strange stain on the carpet.

“Good Lord,” she stated flatly, her voice raspy from years of cigarettes or silence. She didn’t yell. Her quiet disapproval was a thousand times worse. “You get lost on the way to the kiddie pool, sweetheart? It’s downstairs.”

Matthew’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. She thinks I’m a little kid. A lost little kid.

“I… I… know, I’m just…” Matthew stammered, his voice a mouse-like squeak. “I… I’m sixteen,” he whispered, the defense sounding ludicrous even to his own ears.

The cleaning lady let out a short, dry laugh that sounded like crumpling paper. “Sure you are, sugar. And I’m the Queen of England. Now shift.” She shook her head slowly, a gesture of profound disappointment that made him feel two inches tall. “Just watch the cart. Don’t want you knockin’ anything over dressed like that.” She turned and disappeared back into the room, leaving him standing there as a half-naked, human traffic cone. He stood rigid, praying the floor would swallow him whole.

After an eternity, she emerged with a bag of trash, tossed it on the cart, and gave him one last, withering look before pushing her cart down the hall, the wheels squeaking a judgmental rhythm that faded slowly.

Okay. Okay. Survived. Now, ice. Get the ice and run.

He practically sprinted to the ice and water dispenser nestled in an alcove. He jabbed the button. Nothing happened. He pressed it again, harder. A small, pathetic click. A tiny red light glowed beneath the button: ‘OUT OF ICE’.

NO! The silent scream echoed in his skull. No, no, no! You have to be kidding me! He stared at the machine, his hope draining away. He couldn’t go back without it. Charlotte would definitely burn the rockets. He had to wait. But wait where? He couldn’t linger in the open. He shrank back into the alcove, trying to make himself small, pressing himself against the cold wall.

Just make ice faster, come on, you stupid machine…

That’s when he heard them. The high, cheerful voice of a little boy. “...and then I got the chocolate sprinkles and the whipped cream!”

Matthew squeezed his eyes shut. Please don’t come this way. Please turn. Please—

A family rounded the corner: a mom, a dad, a little girl sucking on a lollipop, and a boy of about ten, still chattering about his ice cream. The dad’s smile vanished first. The mom’s hand flew to her mouth. Their steps faltered.

The little boy’s eyes zeroed in on Matthew. He pointed, his small voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

“Daddy,” the boy announced, pointing directly at Matthew’s groin with zero malice, just pure observational joy. “Look! That big boy’s wearing my old underwear! The Spider-Man ones! They’re all see-through!”

The heat that exploded in Matthew’s face could have powered the hotel. The parents were mortified. “Mehmet! Don’t be rude!” the mother hissed, yanking his pointing hand down while simultaneously trying to usher her children past, her eyes averted from the half-naked teenager having an existential crisis by the ice machine.

“But he is!” Mehmet insisted, twisting to look back as his parents hurried him away. “They’re like my old ones!”

But before they could rush past, the dad sighed. “Honey, wait. I need ice for this drink.” He walked right up to the machine, right next to Matthew, and pressed the button. He saw the red light. “Ah, nuts. Empty.” He leaned against the wall opposite Matthew to wait. The mom looked like she wanted to die of second-hand embarrassment, shepherding her children to the other side of the hall, but they were rooted to the spot, fascinated.

The little girl, Lily, tilted her head. She looked from Matthew’s terrified face down to his briefs and then back up, a tiny, devilish smile playing on her lips.

“Mehmet’s right,” she said, her voice sweet and clear. “They are like his old ones.” She paused, then delivered the killing blow with the innocent cruelty only a child can muster: “But why is his pee-pee so much smaller than his?”

For a second, there was dead silence. Then Mehmet absolutely lost it. He didn’t just giggle; he doubled over, howling with unrestrained, tear-streaming laughter, pointing weakly at Matthew. “HAHAHA! LILY SAID PEE-PEE! AND IT’S SMALL! HAHAHA!”

The dad choked, trying and failing to turn his laugh into a cough. The mom looked skyward, as if praying for the rapture.

Matthew just stood there. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He could only stand in the alcove, a living exhibit, as an eight-year-old girl delivered the most brutally accurate and humiliating review of his body possible, and her older brother celebrated it like it was the world’s best joke.

The machine chose that moment to rumble to life with a sound like a jet engine. GRRRRRRR-CLUNK-CLUNK-CLUNK. It wasn't a gentle flow. It was a violent, seismic eruption. The front panel of the machine shuddered.

Then, with a sound of shearing metal, the entire ice chute dislodged.

A tsunami of ice cubes and freezing water exploded from the machine. It hit Matthew like a frozen firehose, knocking him off his feet. He landed flat on his back on the sopping wet floor with a sickening THUD, the three plastic cups flying from his hands. A river of ice and water cascaded over him, flooding the hallway. The force of the water shoved him a few feet, ice cubes scraping his skin, before he came to a stop, dazed and gasping from the shocking, mind-numbing cold.

The icy deluge had an instant, physiological effect. A violent, instinctual contraction. A retreat. By the time he lay still, spreadeagled in the freezing pond, what little had been visible before had now completely vanished, retracted into a tight, smooth, and utterly prepubescent-looking bundle of cold shock. The Spider-Man briefs, now a frozen, transparent film, clung to a landscape that was suddenly, devastatingly flat and childlike.

For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the gurgling of the broken machine and Matthew's ragged, shivering gasps.

Then, the little girl, Lily, leaned forward, her head tilted with innocent, clinical curiosity. She pointed a tiny, precise finger.

“Daddy…” she said, her voice a pure, clear bell of observation. “Look. His pee-pee is doing that disappearing thing like a scared turtle! It’s getting even teenier!”

The description was so absurdly, horrifyingly accurate it seemed to suck the air out of the hallway.

Mehmet’s brain short-circuited. The howling laughter that had stopped now exploded out of him with the force of a bomb. He didn't just double over; he folded in half, collapsing onto the soaked carpet, kicking his legs in the air, screaming with unrestrained, tear-streaming, snot-bubbling ecstasy.

“HAHAHA! IT’S SHRINKING! IT’S AFRAID OF THE COLD! IT’S GONNA DISAPPEAR COMPLETELY!”

He was laughing so hard he could barely breathe, pounding the wet floor with his fist. The dad lost all control, a loud, undignified "PFFFT-HAHA!" bursting out of him before he turned around, shoulders shaking violently. The mom’s hands were clamped over her own mouth, her eyes wide with a mixture of utter horror and the desperate, failing struggle not to join in.

“Mehmet! Lily! For heaven’s sake!” she finally managed to squeak, but her voice had no power. The damage was cosmic.

Lily, pleased to have contributed, nodded seriously, looking at Matthew’s horrified, frozen face.

“Don’t be sad,” she added, with devastating kindness. “It’s just shy. It’s hiding from the cold.”

This sent Mehmet into a new, apoplectic fit. “IT’S JUST SHY, HAHAHAHA OH MY GUTS! IT’S SOOOOOO TINY!! HAHAHAHA!” he shrieked from the floor, rolling in the floodwater.

Matthew’s hands instinctively flew down to cover himself, but the movement was sluggish and clumsy in the freezing water. More importantly, it was a futile admission that the children’s commentary was 100% accurate. He was trying to hide the very thing they were laughing at, confirming its shameful, “tiny” state.

The dad, finally mastering his own laughter into a mask of strained professionalism mixed with profound pity, waded through the ice floe. “Alright, son. Let’s get you up,” he said, his voice tight.

He and the mom each took an arm and hauled the shivering, pathetic boy to his feet. Water streamed off him. The ancient, overworked ice machine gave one last, shuddering CLUNK, and a final handful of ice cubes dislodged. They pelted Matthew squarely in the chest and, with cruel, unerring accuracy, one last cube bounced off the now-noticeably-shrunken and frozen bulge in his transparent briefs.

He yelped, a high-pitched, utterly pathetic sound of shock and pain.

Lily nodded, her hypothesis confirmed. “See?” she stated matter-of-factly. “It doesn’t like that.”

Mehmet was now lying on his back, kicking his legs in the air like a flipped beetle, screaming with laughter. “HE YELPED! THE ICE HIT HIS TINY PENIS! HAHAHA! RIGHT ON THE SHY TURTLE!”

The parents quickly let go of his arms as if he were electrified. There was nothing more they could do. Any attempt to help was now impossible. They just needed to escape this nightmare.

The parents quickly let go of his arms as if he were electrified. There was nothing more they could do. Any attempt to help was now impossible. They just needed to escape this nightmare.

Get the water. Get out. The mantra pulsed through Matthew’s frozen brain, a desperate prayer. The machine was now humming steadily, its bin filling with ice. His ice. “I… I just need to…” Matthew stammered, pulling away from their grip and lurching toward the dispenser. His movements were clumsy, his feet slipping on the ice. “I need to get some… for… the girls…” he whimpered, more to himself than anyone.

“What? No, son, you need to—” the dad began, but Matthew was already fumbling for the stack of plastic cups.

Mehmet, seeing a new game, scrambled to his feet. “He’s getting ice! For GIRLS! While his willy is out! HAHAHA!”

“Come on, kids, let’s go. The machine’s broken,” the dad said, trying to usher his family away.

“But Dad, you wanted ice!” Mehmet protested, his gleeful eyes still locked on Matthew. He wasn't done. “The machine’s working now! He can get it for you! Since he’s already here!” His evil little brain saw a golden opportunity for more entertainment.

The dad paused, looking from the humming machine to the shivering, half-naked disaster of a boy. “Uh, that’s really not necess—”

“YES! GET MY DAD SOME ICE, TURTLE BOY!” Mehmet commanded, his voice dripping with a cruel, gleeful authority that made Matthew flinch. He’s ten. He’s ten years old and he’s torturing me. How does he even know how to do this? Why won’t his parents stop him?

“Mehmet, that’s enough!” the dad said, but it was a weak, token protest. The command had been issued.

The threat of Charlotte’s lighter flared in Matthew’s mind, hotter than any embarrassment. No water, no briefs. No briefs, no room.

“I… I’ll get it,” Matthew mumbled, his voice barely a whisper. The surrender was complete.

“AND GET SOME FOR US TOO! THREE CUPS!” Mehmet added, clapping his hands. “ONE FOR EACH OF US! YOU CAN COUNT, RIGHT, TURTLE BOY?”

He’s enjoying this. He’s actually enjoying having power over someone older. He’s a monster. Matthew felt a tear, hot and shameful, mix with the chlorinated, icy water on his cheek. He was being reduced to a servant by a fourth-grader.

He shoved the first cup under the dispenser and pressed the lever. A chaotic spray of ice chips and water erupted, splattering his arms, his legs, the wall. He flinched as the cold water hit his skin.

“He’s making a bigger mess!” Mehmet crowed, not helping, just narrating the disaster. “He can’t even work the machine! My little sister could do it better!” Shut up. Just shut up. How can a ten-year-old be so cruel? The thought was a hot needle in the cold numbness of his humiliation. Why won’t his parents make him stop? Their silence felt like approval, making him feel even smaller and more powerless.

Finally, the machine settled. He filled the first cup, water dripping everywhere. As he reached to give it to the father, his bare foot slipped on an ice cube.

WHUMP! He crashed down hard onto his side and then onto his back, his legs flying up in the air. The cup flew from his hand, ice water drenching him. The impact and the slippery floor sent him sliding a few feet, his legs splaying.

The fall was so violent it twisted his soaking wet briefs, riding them up viciously into a brutal, self-inflicted wedgie. The thin Spider-Man fabric disappeared into his cleft, exposing the pale, smooth curves of his bare bottom to the freezing air and the family's horrified gaze. A gasp of pain and shock escaped him.

Mehmet’s eyes widened with unholy delight. “WHOAAAA! HE GAVE HIMSELF A WEDGIE! HAHAHA! LOOK AT HIS BUM! IT’S ALL OUT!”

“Mehmet! That’s enough!” the dad finally barked, but it was too little, too late. Mehmet was already surging forward, not to help, but to seize the opportunity.

“I’ll help you, Tiny Pee-Pee Boy!” Mehmet chirped with fake cheer, his voice dripping with malicious intent. Before Matthew could even process the threat, the ten-year-old’s hands darted out. He didn't try to gently fix the wedgie. He grabbed the exposed waistband of the briefs where they were dug in, and with a grunt of effort, he gave one mighty, downward YANK.

The wet, strained elastic gave way. The briefs didn't just come unstuck; they were yanked clean down to his ankles in one brutal motion, propelled by Mehmet’s vicious pull and the slippery ice.

Matthew lay completely exposed on his back, his legs in the air, his most private and underdeveloped areas on full, unobstructed display for the entire family. The cold air felt like a slap.

“WHOAAAA! I FREED THE TURTLE! IT’S OUT! AND IT’S EVEN TEENIER THAN I THOUGHT!”

Mehmet stumbled back, holding the sopping briefs he had just effectively pantsed Matthew with. He stared at them, then at Matthew's nakedness, and then he exploded. This wasn't laughter anymore; it was pure, wheezing, hysterical triumph. He was laughing so hard he couldn't make a sound, just pointing weakly, tears streaming down his face, his body convulsing.

Matthew’s mind went blank. The sheer, catastrophic exposure was too much to process. He just… he just pantsed me. A ten-year-old just pantsed me in front of his whole family. His hands didn't even move to cover himself.

Mehmet, satisfied with his handiwork, skipped back to his parents. “He was stuck. I helped.”

That broke the spell. “MEHMET!” both parents shouted in unison, finally snapping into action. “That’s enough!” The dad grabbed his son by the shoulder, yanking him back. The mom, her face crimson, lunged forward, grabbing Matthew’s abandoned cups.

“I’m so sorry! So sorry!” the mom babbled, frantically filling the cups with ice water under the dispenser, not even looking at him. The dad, without another word, firmly manhandled a still-grinning Mehmet down the hall.

“But… ma’am… your son…. I need my underwear!” Matthew was naked from the waist down. Iced water dripped down his arms onto his bare legs.

Both she and little Lily, who was still grinning, looked deliberately at his exposed genitals. Mom made a surprised facial expression, like she had forgotten he was naked.

“MEHMET!!! BRING HIS BRIEFS BACK RIGHT THIS INSTANT!!” she shouted through the whole corridor, loud enough for the entire hotel to hear.

Matthew stood up. The mom handed him three cups of freshly filled water and fled down the hallway, following her husband and the still-cackling Mehmet.

Matthew stood frozen. The three cold cups were clutched in his numb hands, but his mind was blank. He couldn't move. He could only stare at the empty space where the family had been.

No... NO NO NO.... Not again. Not like this, he thought.

His eyes dropped down. Past the soaked hem of his T-shirt. There was nothing. The "shy turtle" was just… out. Acting as “shy” as it could, as if it wanted to bring even more shame to its owner. Exposed to the cold air, the security cameras, the entire world. He was more naked now than when he’d begun this doomed quest. He had failed. Again. Ryan's ultimatum echoed in his mind. Bring back both pairs. He now had zero.

A small movement snapped him out of his spiral. He wasn't alone.

Lily had stayed behind. She wasn't laughing like her brother. She was studying him with the intense, unnerving focus of a tiny scientist examining a bizarre specimen. Her eyes were fixed below his waist, a small, curious smile playing on her lips.

“Is your turtle always that shy?” she asked, her voice pure, innocent curiosity.

“What?! No, it's not!!” Matthew squeaked, his voice cracking with a humiliating blend of panic and defensiveness.

“It looks like it was trying to hide,” she observed, tilting her head.

“What?! It looks normal!!” he insisted, knowing it was a pathetic, transparent lie. “And stop looking at my pee… ahem… turtle!!” He was trapped, holding the cups, utterly unable to cover himself.

“Normal?” Lily repeated, skepticism in her tiny voice. “Mehmet's penis is not that shy.” She took a step closer. “Come out, little turtle, don't be shy,” she cooed.

Before he could react, her small, quick hand darted out. She didn't just point. She poked it. A precise, clinical little pinch. And a hard pull.

“YEEOWW!” Matthew screamed, his voice hitting a frequency only dogs could hear. She isn't being mean; she's just observant. It's something a child would do to a weird bug or an interesting rock, completely disregarding him as a person. He jumped, a clumsy, constrained hop, desperately trying not to spill the three cups of water. "Stop that!! Leave my pee… TURTLE! Leave my turtle alone!"

“LILY! What are you doing?!” The mom's voice screamed from down the hall. She was storming back, her face a thundercloud of mortification and rage. In her hand, she clutched the sopping white briefs.

She didn't hand them to him. She didn't even look at his face. In a gesture of furious, flustered maternal authority, she bent down and started yanking them back up his legs herself, treating him exactly like a misbehaving toddler who'd thrown his pants off in a supermarket.

“For heaven's sake!” she muttered, wrestling the wet, tangled fabric over his ankles and up his shins. The elastic snapped against his cold skin. She pulled them up with rough, impatient tugs, not caring about the wedgie she was creating, how squeezed his balls felt, or the way the damp cotton was chafing. It was a functional, humiliating redress. Zip. Done.

Wait… why is she mad at me? The thought cut through Matthew's daze, sharp and bewildering. I didn’t do anything! Her son is the monster! Her son pantsed me! Her son is running away with my underwear right now! I’m the victim here! Why is she yanking and sighing like I’m the one causing all the trouble?!

"Why are you mad at me?" he blurted out, his voice trembling. "It was your son! He did it! He's the one who... who stole them! I didn't do anything!"

The mother froze. Her head snapped up. The look of flustered annoyance on her face vanished, replaced by something cold, hard, and terrifying. Her eyes, finally meeting his, were like chips of ice.

"Excuse me?" Her voice was low, dangerously calm. "Are you... blaming my son? For this?" She gestured vaguely at his nakedness, her expression twisting into pure contempt. She was probably comparing Matthew to her son, or rather comparing what they had in their underwear. After Lily's comments, Matthew was probably losing that comparison by a mile.

"I... I'm just saying... he's the one who—"

"He's a child," she hissed, cutting him off, her voice like a whip. "A little boy! And you are a... a half-naked streaker making a scene in a public hallway! My son was probably scared! He was probably just trying to help his sister after you... after you exposed yourself to them!"

The rewriting of history was so audacious, so breathtaking in its dishonesty, that Matthew could only stare, his mouth agape.

"He wasn't trying to help! He was laughing! He called me 'Tiny Pee-Pee Boy'! And took my pants!" Matthew cried, the humiliating nickname making his ears burn.

"Oh, I see," she said, her voice dripping with sarcastic venom. She gave the waistband of the briefs a final, vicious yank that was definitely intentional, snapping it hard against his waist. "So now you're also a tattletale. A naked tattletale. How charming."

"It's not my fault!" he blurted out, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and sudden conviction. "Your son did this! He's the one who—"

The mom stopped dead. Her head snapped up from where she was yanking the briefs. In a flash of fury, she didn't pull them up. She yanked them back down, leaving the sopping briefs tangled around his thighs, effectively exposing him all over again. She straightened up, looming over him.

"Excuse me?" Her voice was a low growl. "Are you blaming my son?"

"Well... yes!" Matthew insisted, the words tumbling out in a desperate, righteous rush. "He pantsed me! He stole my—"

WHAP!

The sound was sharp, shocking, and echoed in the empty hallway. It wasn't a hard slap, but a stinging, dismissive spank on his bare, exposed backside.

"You will not," She hissed, her face inches from his, "speak about my son that way." WHAP! "He's a child. You are… whatever this is." She gestured dismissively at his entire, half-dressed being. WHAP! "He was probably just trying to help after you fell. Now. You will apologize for that accusation." WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! 

Tears of sheer, frustrated injustice welled in his eyes. Apologize? He opened his mouth to protest, but the look on her face promised another stinging slap if he did. He was trapped, hobbled by his own underwear, holding three cups of water, his backside stinging. He glanced at Lily, who was watching the proceedings with wide, fascinated eyes.

"I… I'm…" he choked out, the words ash in his mouth. "I'm sorry."

WHAP! Left cheek. WHAP! Right cheek.

"Sorry for what?" she demanded, not letting him off the hook.

"I'm sorry… for blaming Mehmet," he whispered, the ultimate defeat. "It’s all my fault."

She held his gaze for a long, punishing second, ensuring his submission was complete. Then, with a final, contemptuous huff, she bent down again. She didn't gently fix the situation. She hauled the briefs back up, pulling them unnaturally high, practically to his belly button, creating a brutal, all-encompassing wedgie. She gave the waistband one final, unforgiving yank that made him squeak again.

“There!” she snapped, her expression one of pure, undiluted victory. “Now keep them on! And watch your mouth.”

Lily, watching the entire process, nodded sagely. “Now your turtle is covered,” she said. “You might let him out later.”

The mom didn't acknowledge this. She just grabbed her daughter’s hand, shook her head in disbelief, and fled without another word, leaving Matthew standing alone in the hallway.

He stood there, water cups in hand, his backside stinging, his front now crushed in a painful, soaking wedgie administered by a stranger. The physical discomfort was nothing compared to the profound, soul-crushing injustice. He hadn't just been pantsed by a ten-year-old; he’d been stripped, blamed, spanked, and forced to apologize to his tormentor by the tormentor's mother.

But. He had the water. And he had one pair of briefs.

He walked back to Room 305, a slow, squelching march of shame. Each step was a prayer that the nightmare would finally end. He stopped at the door, shifted the three sloshing cups into a precarious stack in one hand, and knocked with his elbow.

The door opened instantly. Charlotte stood there, her eyes scanning him from head to toe with theatrical impatience. “What took you so long?! Have you been swimming in the hallway?! You’re more soaked than before!” she snapped, stepping aside to let the dripping disaster inside.

All three girls descended on him, plucking their long-awaited iced waters from his numb hands. The weight of the cups was gone, but a heavier weight settled in. His hands, finally free, flew instinctively to cover his front.

The girls retreated to their beds, forming a judgmental tribunal. They left him standing alone in the middle of the room, water pooling around his bare feet.

“Well?” Agatha prompted, taking a sip of her water. “We’re waiting for an explanation. What happened?”

“Ehm... The machine was broken...” Matthew stammered, his voice a polite, trembling whisper. He was a petitioner begging for mercy. “That’s why I’m wet and it took so long... but... I brought you the water.... as you wished... may I please have my underwear back now?” The plea was layered with shame, stress, devastation, and the raw, physical misery of being freezing cold.

“Why are you covering?” Martha’s voice was flat, bored. “We told you before not to do that. If you won’t do as you’re told, you’re not getting them back.”

The command hung in the air. He really didn't want to; he knew everything was visible, a high-definition humiliation under the room's bright lights. But he didn't have a choice. Slowly, miserably, he moved his hands back to his sides, the damp air feeling like a violation.

“Why were you covering in the first place?” Charlotte continued, a sly, knowing smile playing on her lips. She leaned forward. “It’s not like you’re naked. You have your underwear on, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do...” he whispered, his gaze locked on the garish hotel carpet.

“So, why were you covering?”

Matthew’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. It's different with girls, his mind screamed. It's a foreign territory. With guys, it's just insults. With them... it's this. This quiet, analytical dissection. Except for his mom and sister, but that was family. They didn't enjoy it.

“Okay, if you don’t answer, I might just…” Charlotte trailed off, pulling the lighter from her pocket. The click-flicker of the flame was his personal heart attack. “…crispen these very desirable briefs.” She held the fire near the blue cotton.

“Ugh.. it's because.... they are so.... soa... soaked!” he blurted, the lamest of all possible excuses.

“So what if they are soaked?” Charlotte pressed, moving the flame a fraction of an inch closer. The heat was an imaginary brand on his skin. “If you come out of the ocean, you’re soaked too, right? I don’t think you cover your front every time you get out of the sea. What’s the difference?”

“Ugh... Charlotte, come on, please!!” he begged, his voice cracking.

“Please what?” she purred, tilting her head.

“Don't make me!!” he cried out. The girls exchanged amused giggles.

“No problem,” she said with a casual shrug. The flame kissed the air next to the rocket ship pattern. “I’ll just turn them to ash. Look.”

“NO!!! OKAY!!!” The scream was torn from the deepest, most humiliated part of his soul. “It's because they are soaked and white and you can see through them! You can see my turtle!! I mean my peepee!! I mean my PENIS!!”

The room erupted in laughter. It wasn't loud; it was a soft, satisfied, cruel sound.

“See? You can speak. And you can do as you’re told,” Charlotte said, the grin not leaving her face as she finally snapped the lighter shut. “Be polite and compliant, and you get what you want. It’s simple.”

Before he could feel even a second of relief, Agatha’s cool, dominating voice cut through the air.

“Matthew.” He flinched. “Look to your left. There is a mirror.”

His heart, which had just started beating again, froze. Mechanically, he turned his head. There it was. The full-length mirror on the closet door. And in it, the same horrifying image from the elevator. The soaked, transparent white briefs that hid nothing. The childish Spider-Man print, now a mocking joke. The humiliatingly small, defined outline beneath. Everything, and nothing.

“Do you see yourself?” Agatha asked, her voice devoid of all emotion.

Matthew nodded, a tiny, jerky motion. He couldn't speak.

“So, now,” she ordered, her words leaving no room for argument. “Explain to us. Point with your finger and describe, in detail, what exactly we can see through your underwear. And where.”

Matthew’s eyes widened in utter, abject disbelief. His mouth opened to form a silent ‘no’. But his eyes darted to Charlotte. Her hand was already in her pocket, the lighter held loosely, ready. The protest died, strangled in his throat. He had no choice.

Trembling violently, he slowly, slowly raised a shaking hand. He was pointing at his underwear looking in the mirror—a pale, pathetic boy in see-through briefs—and began his final, dictated confession. It forces him to confront himself from an outside perspective, to see what they see, and then narrate it.

How could he possibly start? His mouth was desert-dry, his throat tight. His trembling finger was already pointing at his own member. He saw what they saw, and there was absolutely nothing left to the imagination. Every detail was rendered in high-definition clarity by the soaked, white fabric. Why make me narrate it?! his mind screamed. They can see everything! They’re looking right at it! But the lighter’s ghostly heat felt closer than ever. There was no way out.

This summer camp, the one he’d begged his mother for, had become a factory of horrors. It had made him realize within a few days how far behind his peers he was. That he not only looked but also behaved more like a child than a teenager. Heck, he was being treated like one by everyone—from his mom, to Ryan, to a ten-year-old bully, to these girls. Peter had been absolutely right at the very beginning, but he wouldn't listen. He’d been too stubborn, too hopeful. Now, standing in a puddle of his own making, he understood. The time for childishness was over. If he ever wanted to catch up, he had to start acting mature. Now.

He took a shuddering breath that did nothing to fill his lungs.

“H-here,” he stammered, his voice a thin, reedy thing. “You can see… my…. p-... p-.... my penis.” His finger hovered over the small, defined outline. The girls exchanged amused glances.

“You called it something else before,” Agatha prompted, a grin playing on her lips. “What was that cute little word?”

“Ehm... I called it... a turtle?” The word felt foreign and ridiculous on his tongue, a label bestowed by a little girl that had now become his official designation. He had never used that word for it before, but it had stuck in his head today and he'd said it out loud accidentally.

“Hahaha, how adorable. Why a turtle?” Agatha’s voice was sweetly poisonous.

“Well... because...” he fumbled, grabbing onto the child’s logic because his own had failed. “...it likes to hide inside when it’s cold... or scared. Like a turtle.” He couldn’t tell them about Lily. This was humiliating enough.

“Oh, I see... okay, Matthew,” Agatha’s tone shifted back to its clinical, demanding core. “We told you to describe it in DETAIL.”

“Ehm... What do you mean? I told you what I see.” The protest was weak, pathetic.

“I mean detail,” she repeated, her voice hardening. “You just said ‘a turtle.’ Is it long? Thick? Which way does it point? Give us a full description. Pretend it’s a biology lesson.”

These girls are monsters! he thought, despair curdling in his stomach. They see it! Why do they need me to say it?! But the command was clear. He started to remind himself how others had described his genitals. If he used their words, maybe they’d be satisfied. Maybe it would end.

“Okay, look,” he said, his voice taking on a flat, hollow tone. He pointed again, adopting the persona of a teacher dissecting a pathetic specimen. Himself. “Ladies. Here you can see a penis, which I sometimes call a turtle. When it's cold or when I'm ashamed, it gets smaller than usual and looks like it's trying to hide, that's why the nickname.” The fake clinical language was a flimsy shield. “It is… very small. And thin. It doesn't hang to any side; its current size necessitates a… permanent upward orientation. The reason for its overall… underdevelopment… is that I have not yet entered puberty. Underneath, you can observe two testicles. They are also… diminutive. Their current shrunken state is a combination of the cold water and my… prepubescent physiology.”

The girls’ eyes widened slightly; they hadn’t expected the flood of stark, self-deprecating detail. “Wow, that’s an Oscar-worthy performance,” Martha giggled. “We should take this show on the road! Think you could do this at our school?”

Matthew ignored her, praying it was a joke. The thought was too horrific to entertain.

“Okay, now turn around,” Charlotte ordered, her voice bored, as if moving to the next item on her agenda. Matthew obeyed, turning to face the mirror, grateful to hide his burning face from them. “Start talking. Same as before.”

“Well... you can clearly see my buttocks,” he mumbled to his reflection. “The fabric provides a clear view of the… gluteal cleft.” He saw it then, the final detail he knew they’d seize upon. Better to say it himself. “The… the skin is slightly reddened.”

“Oh?” Agatha’s voice was full of mock concern. “Is that normal, teacher? An allergic reaction to your cute little briefs?”

“No,” he whispered, his cheeks flaming. “It’s from… a spanking.”

“Ohhh,” they cooed in delighted cruelty.

“You still get spanked?” Charlotte asked, her voice laced with faux shock. “I suppose you must be a very naughty boy, then. Leaving your parents no other choice. How old did you say you were?”

The trap was sprung. He knew the reaction his real age would get. The laughter, the disbelief, the comparisons. The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it, a desperate, pathetic lie. “I’m thirteen.”

“Thirteen? And still spanked?” Agatha’s eyebrow arched. “Are you sure you’re not adding a year or two? You know, if we find out you’re lying, we might have to punish you too.”

Panic flared. “Okay, okay! Twelve and a half!”

The room erupted in genuine, unfettered laughter.

“Okay, twelve and a half,” Charlotte said, wiping a mock tear from her eye. “We are sixteen… and a half.”

The relief that washed over him was sickening. He was more than relieved he had lied. The math was devastating. These girls, who looked like women, who held such absolute power over him, were his exact age. They were peers. And the gap between them wasn’t just physical; it was a chasm of experience, confidence, and cruelty that he could never hope to cross. He was not only still prepubescent but also acting like it.

“Okay, you can turn around now,” Martha decided, her voice dripping with false magnanimity. “We don’t need to watch your sore bottom anymore.”

Matthew obeyed mechanically, turning to face the tribunal of girls sipping their iced water. He wasn't sure which position was worse. Now he was forcing them to look at his front again, their eyes raking over the transparent briefs, the defined little outline of his shame. Just give them back. Please, just give them back and let me leave.

“What do you think about spankings?” Martha asked, her tone conversational, as if asking about the weather.

What kind of question is that? “Well.. I don’t like them, I guess?” he answered, his voice small.

“I suppose that, but,” she pressed, her eyes sharp, “do you think you deserve them?”

The question was a trap. He could feel its jaws. “Ekhm... it's not me to decide.”

“Who can decide?”

“My m-... mom, my grandparents, like... adults, I guess... whoever is in charge.” The words felt childish and pathetic even as he said them.

“Aren’t we in charge now?” Martha’s smile was sweet and terrifying.

The air left his lungs. No. No, you’re not. You’re girls. You’re my age. But the lighter, the commands, the sheer power they held over him said otherwise. “Ekhm.... I.... suppose?” he whispered, the admission tasting like ash.

“So that means we have the right to spank you?”

Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him. “Ekhm... Martha, please—”

“Please what?” she cut him off, her voice hardening. “We are older, responsible girls. You are in our room, in your underwear, after causing a scene. So? Is that true? And you are what?”

The walls were closing in. The logic was insane, but it was a logic he’d been conditioned to accept all day from everyone. Ryan, Denis, the lifeguard, the mom in the hall… everyone was in charge but him. He was just a problem to be managed. A little boy.

“Ekhm... Yeah, I guess that's true...” he choked out, his vision blurring. “I'm just a little boy and you are in charge... but PLEASE PLEASE DON'T SPANK ME! I JUST NEED MY UNDERWEAR BACK!”

The dam broke. A sob, raw and ragged, tore from his throat. He openly started crying, his shoulders shaking, tears streaming down his face and dripping onto his chest. He was standing in the middle of a hotel room, half-naked, sobbing in front of three girls who were his own age. No one would ever believe I was sixteen. Because I’m not. I’m not a teenager. I’m a crying child.

“Ohhhh, someone had a very rough day! Isn't it, poor little Matthew?” Charlotte’s voice was suddenly soft, a soothing balm after the torture. He didn’t see her expression; his face was buried in his hands, his world reduced to the heat of his own tears.

He just nodded, hiccupping.

“Oh, come on, I'll get you a towel.”

A moment later, he felt the warm, soft terrycloth of a hotel towel fall over his shoulders. Charlotte started rubbing his back. “It's all good, it's all fine,” she cooed. He clutched the towel around himself, a fragile shield. “Come on, sit with us.”

She guided him, her arm around his shoulders, to one of the beds. As he moved to sit, her hand brushed against his wet buttocks. “They are still all wet,” she said with a gentle, maternal cluck. “You need to put that towel under your po.”

Po. The babyish word, spoken with such casual authority, cemented his status. He did as he was told, arranging the towel on the bedspread before sitting down. He was crying freely now, the stress and humiliation of the entire day pouring out in uncontrollable waves.

Charlotte sat right next to him, her arm still around him, holding him close. A second later, the mattress dipped on his other side. Martha and Agatha sat down, flanking him, creating a warm, cuddling prison of faux sympathy.

“What's wrong, baby boy?” Agatha asked, her voice a low purr. “Why do you care so much about those briefs?”

Baby boy. The term should have been an insult, but wrapped in this false concern, it felt like a lifeline. He was so desperate for kindness he would accept any label.

“I-.. I-... I need them to... ” he tried, his words dissolving into wet sniffles. “The boys told me...” SNIFF “I can't come... ” SNIFF SNIFF “back without them...”

“Oh my god, you are a mess, I don't understand anything. Here.” Agatha didn’t hand him a tissue. She brought it to his nose herself. “Blow,” she commanded softly.

It was the ultimate infantilization. He obeyed, blowing his nose like a toddler while she held the tissue. After she cleaned his nose, she stroked his hair. “Now, calm down and start from the beginning.”

The warmth, the touch, the gentle commands—it unlocked something in him. He was so isolated, so utterly broken, that this manufactured "safe space" felt real. He needed to tell someone.

“The briefs fell from the balcony...” he whimpered, the edited, less-humiliating version of the truth tumbling out. “...and the boys told me.... they won't let me back if I don't bring them... then another boy took my pants... and threw them into the pool...” He left out Denis’s name, the stripping, the begging on his knees. Those horrors were too fresh, too degrading to voice.

“Oh god, such bad luck,” Martha said, her voice full of fake sympathy. She pulled his head onto her shoulder, stroking his hair. “Are you being bullied by the other boys?”

The simple, direct question was his undoing. He nodded against her shoulder, a fresh flood of tears soaking her T-shirt. Yes. Yes, I am. By everyone.

“How old are the boys in your room?” she asked, her voice gentle. “Also twelve, like you?”

The lie he’d told them earlier now became his cage. He couldn’t take it back. He just nodded again, crying into her shirt.

“Are you the last one?” Martha pressed, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Tell me the truth, it is a safe space. Are you the only prepubescent boy left in your group? Is that why they bully you?”

The question struck at the very core of his entire week of misery. She had seen right through him, past the lies, to the raw, humiliating truth. The dam broke completely. He nodded, a silent, shuddering admission. A tiny, broken “yes” escaped his lips, followed by a wave of even heavier sobs. He was shaking, his face pressed hard against Martha’s breast, the physical contact a confusing mix of comfort and utter humiliation.

“Ohh, ohhh... you poor thing...” she crooned, holding him. “Here, let's clean your nose once again.” She repeated the intimate, infantilizing ritual with the tissue. “Look, we are friends now, ok? Anytime they give you a rough time, just come here, and we will show them their place!”

Friends. The word was a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. He clutched at it. “Okay... thank you... I'm sorry.... I'm just calming down!” he said, his voice thick with tears and a desperate need to believe her.

“And don't worry about adolescence,” Agatha added from his other side, her tone reassuring. “You are just twelve, or twelve and a half. It's not the end of the world. It will come. You might start worrying when you are fifteen or sixteen... like us.”

The words were meant to comfort, but they were a final, exquisite twist of the knife. They had him exactly where they wanted him: crying in their arms, believing their lie, thinking they were his saviors when they were his most clever tormentors yet. He was not only broken; he was grateful to them for breaking him.

“Okay,” Charlotte said, her voice a soft, commanding purr that cut through his sobs. “Now you can get your briefs back.” A beat of silence, heavy with implication. “Please. Put them on.”

Matthew’s head lifted slowly from Martha’s shoulder. His eyes, red-rimmed and glazed with tears, were unfocused. Put them on? Why? They’ve seen everything. What’s the point?

“What?” he whispered, the word thick and wet.

“You need to try them on in front of us,” Charlotte explained, her tone dripping with faux reasonableness. “So we can see if you’re telling the truth. That they’re really yours.”

The request was so absurd, so gratuitously cruel, that it should have sparked defiance. But there was nothing left. The well of resistance was dry. He was an empty vessel, ready to be filled with their commands. He just nodded, a dull, mechanical motion. A final, hiccupping sniffle escaped him.

Still encased in their cuddling prison, he didn’t even stand. He just reached down, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the soaked, transparent Spider-Man briefs, and yanked them down to his ankles in one resigned motion. He kicked them off, and they landed with a wet smack in the center of the room.

Now he had nothing. The towel around his shoulders was his only covering. He was sitting, completely naked from the waist down, while three girls his own age held him, their hands stroking his hair and back. The humiliation was so absolute it had looped back into a strange, numb neutrality. He looked down – in that sitting, squeezed position his penis was almost non-existent. He felt their eyes go there as well; he didn’t need proof of that.

“See how easy it is to be a good boy?” Charlotte cooed. She leaned over, picked up the blue rocket-ship briefs, and held them out to him. “Come on, chop chop, put them on!”

He moved like a sleepwalker. Slowly, he stood up, presenting his back to them, just in front of their noses. He heard a soft, collective intake of breath. He knew what they were seeing: the pale, slightly reddened skin of his backside from the mother’s spanking. Let them look. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Then he turned around to face them, giving them a full, unobstructed view. There was no shield, no translucent fabric to hide behind. Everything was on display, small, exposed, and utterly vulnerable. They think I’m twelve. To them, this is just a little boy’s body. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not a big deal. The thought was a lifeline of numb denial.

He bent down, his movements slow and utterly devoid of shame or urgency. He was just completing a task. He guided his feet through the leg holes and yanked the briefs up, the dry cotton a strange sensation against his skin. They settled into place, the rocket ships a familiar, childish brand over his hips. He stood up straight and, in a gesture of pure, broken automatism, put his hands on his hips like a proud little boy who’d dressed himself. Mission accomplished.

“Okay,” Charlotte said, her voice flat, the game now boring to her. “They seem to really be yours. So cute.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “You can collect the other pair from the floor and go back to your room. Unless you want to put those wet ones back on?”

No way. No way I’m putting that wet, see-through humiliation back on. The thought was a flicker of something—a ghost of a preference—in the void of his numbness.

“If you need any more help with those mean boys,” Martha added, her smile sweet and utterly meaningless, “you know where to come!”

Matthew bent down, scooped up the sodden white Spider-Man briefs from the floor, and clutched them in his fist. He walked to the door, his movements robotic.

“Thank you, girls,” he heard his own voice say, the words polite and hollow, programmed into him by a lifetime of being told to be grateful.

He closed the door behind him and stood in the silent, empty hallway. The words echoed in his skull.

Thank you? Thank them for what? For making me cry? For making me get naked? For making me describe my own… my turtle? God, I’m so stupid. I’m the stupidest, most pathetic boy in the entire world.

The numbness began to crack, replaced by a hot wave of fresh, searing shame. He had not only been broken; he had thanked them for it. With a choked sound that was half-sob, half-groan, he turned and began a quick, desperate march back to his room, to whatever fresh hell Ryan had waiting for him.