The Twist in the Life of Mathias 3

By YourWetDream

evulmat@gmail.com

Copyright 2025 by YourWetDream, all rights reserved

[6,352 words]´

The Twist in the Life of Mathias

Chapter 3


It’s been a few days since everything turned on its head. Since my three-years-younger brother found out he’s bigger than me and I easily fit into his too-small underwear. A trivial thing, cotton and elastic, yet it unraveled the fragile tapestry of my pride. It was the opportunity Mom and Dad gave him, allowing him to hand me his outgrown underwear to wear. It was the moment he got proof—right in front of our parents—that he’s surpassed me. That day, he was crowned the "bigger brother." They all discovered he’d outgrown me. He was an early bloomer; I was a late bloomer. His penis was big. Mine was fucking small. My brother, Thomas, three years my junior, has become a mirror reflecting my inadequacies, and I cannot look away. The worst thing they could’ve possibly found out. Though, to be honest, he probably knew earlier. He just never weaponized it against me until now.

You see, I was never a shy person. I had no reason to be. Like most families, we spent school holidays by the beach—lake, sea, ocean, wherever our parents decided. We’d always changed openly, no towels or covers. It was normal, something we did without thinking. When Thomas was around 10 and I was 13, he started protesting. He said he was too old to "parade nude" on the beach. Mom and Dad argued it was ridiculous—after all, I was older and unashamed, so why should he care? Eventually, they let him cover up, but Dad insisted I keep changing openly. "Set a good example," he said. "Younger brothers look up to their elders." I agreed, doubling down to prove how "mature" I was. “Little boys have nothing to hide,” he’d say, clapping my shoulder. I wore that approval like a crown. Sometimes I’d even stretch it out: stripping off my swimsuit, drying off, and lingering naked for ten extra minutes—chatting with Mom or scrolling my iPhone—before slipping into underwear. People of all ages and genders were around, but I didn’t care. I wanted Thomas to see there was nothing childish about it.

At 15, I started shortening my changing time, but still refused a towel. Thomas would smirk but never say much. Once, while I stood there bare, I teased him: "Be braver! We’re both boys—we’ve got the same parts." His reply? "If I did that, girls would run from the size of my dick." I laughed it off, assuming genetics meant we’d look the same.

How could I be so stupid?

His penis - swollen with premature adulthood, a grotesque parody of manhood I couldn’t match. Now I get why he covered up. Now I see why he smirked. Now I know why he let me parade my naivety. The beach memories curdle now. All those years, I’d been flaunting a child’s body, oblivious to the snickers Thomas must have swallowed.

This year, at sixteen, I changed nude in the open for the last time—I swear to god. Even if I don’t believe in Him.

So, I’m analyzing it all now, lying on my bed, , dissecting the wreckage of my life, staring at the ceiling—because, believe it or not, I got punished again.

You see, Thomas reminds me daily that the tables have turned. Even calling me “little bro” drips with mockery. Every smirk twists the knife deeper. He’s been sucking up to our parents more than ever, and I can’t stand it. He’s perfected the art of parental seduction—laughing at Dad’s stale jokes, volunteering to fold laundry, morphing into the son they’d always wanted. To escape, I’ve been staying out as late as possible.

Yesterday, I pushed it too far.

When I stumbled in at 10 p.m., Mom’s voice sliced through the hallway before I’d toed off my sneakers. “Mathias! You know the rule—home by 9 on school nights!” Her voice sharpened. “And this morning, you couldn’t even wake up!”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’ll get up on time tomorrow, swear! I’ll set three alarms!” I blurted, palms raised.

“No. You keep saying that,” she snapped. “How is it your younger brother manages to come home on time, go to bed, and wake up without issues?!”

I stared at the floor, cheeks burning. Ashamed. Irritated. Always compared.

Dad chimed in, colder: “He’s setting an example. Maybe instead of fighting him, you should learn from him.”

That shattered me. “You’re kidding, right? I’m not taking lessons from a child!”

Dad’s voice boomed: “A child acting more mature than you! Shower. Bed. Now. If you’re not up on time tomorrow, I’ll drag you out myself.”

So, I went to take a quick shower. I was all sweaty; it’s still very warm in Bavaria during October. While I was enjoying the warm water hitting my body, I heard the door open. After the last incidents, I locked the bathroom door. I never did that before, but, you know, now that I know I have a little… ekhm… that my brother is bigger than me, I don’t want him (or anyone else!) to see me naked. No more changing in the open at the beach, no more coming into the bathroom while I am inside.

So, I looked over to check who it was, and obviously, it was him: “Hi there, little bro, I’ll just brush my teeth quickly.”

No, no, he needs to stop that!

“Get the hell out of here, you fucking faggot—I’m taking a shower!” I shouted.

“Whoa, chill! What’s wrong with you?! Calm down!” he answered. He didn’t expect that.

“I just don’t want you to be a faggot around me, right?! Get the fuck out now and wait for your turn!” I ordered.

“Okay, Christ, like I ever wanted to look at that little pee-pee of yours.” Then laughter—low, venomous. “Careful, Mathias. You sound jealous.”

That’s when I threw a shampoo bottle at him. That’s when Dad came in and almost got hit by that bottle. He stepped into the doorway just as the bottle struck the tiles. It exploded at his feet, a burst of floral-scented shrapnel. It didn’t last long after that. He came to me, before I could gasp, he ripped the showerhead from its mount. He turned the water ice-cold, and started rinsing me off.

“You want to act like an animal?!” he roared, hosing me down. “I’ll treat you like one!”

Oh boy, it was way too cold even for Bavarian weather. He didn’t take long, but I was freezing.

His hand clamped my wrist, wet and vise-like, dragging me dripping from the shower. No towel. No dignity. Just the slap of bare feet on hardwood as he marched me down the hall, his palm cracking against my naked backside with every step.

I saw how my brother raised one eyebrow, smirked at me, how he looked me all up and down. The shame and cold shriveled my genitals to even more embarrassing size. I’d fought with him over coming into the bathroom because I didn’t want him to see me nude even for one second. Now he was staring at a wet, naked me, at my shrunken genitals jumping in rhythm of Dad’s wrath tattooing my ass red. spanking, right in front of his eyes. Again.

My dad is a soldier—believe me, his spanking hurts. It hurts so much that even at sixteen, I can't hold back my tears and just start crying uncontrollably. I play soccer and all that; I'm a tough guy, but I swear to God, you wouldn't want to experience it.

So once again, I got corner time—this time in the living room—just to calm down. The curtains are open. Frau Schneider from next door walks her poodle past our window. I press my forehead to the wallpaper. After a few minutes, I stopped crying and was basically dry by then, so Dad told me to go straight to bed. I don’t bother covering myself. What’s the point? Thomas lounges on the couch, PlayStation controller in hand, eyes raking over me. I was also informed I'm grounded now since I'm always late.

“Grounding starts tonight,” Dad says. “You’re done with friends. Done with soccer. Until you think.”

"How long am I grounded for?" I asked.

"Until you've really thought your behavior through. I want you to think deeply about it, then come to me when you're ready and tell me your conclusions. When I see you understand your problems, I'll end your punishment."

So I did as I was told. I don’t plead. Soldiers don’t negotiate. Now it's the second day I'm stuck here. I'm already bored and sick of seeing my brother and parents. I want to go out, play soccer, meet my friends, and forget about all these problems.

But what should I tell my dad? That I got better? It’s just a second day. Oh, but, today, I was up on time. Probably because yesterday I was so bored I felt asleep around 9 pm. But the day before, huh…

The morning’s reckoning comes not with sunlight but with Thomas’s voice—a serrated blade slicing through the fragile veil of sleep. “Mathias, wake up! It’s 7:20—you’re gonna be late again!” My eyes snap open. The alarm clock’s blank face mocks me. Forgot. Again.

“Get the fuck out of my room,” I snarl into the pillow, my voice graveled with sleep and spite.

He lingers in the doorway, a shadow crowned with smugness. “Dad’s gonna be pissed. Just sayin’.”

I let the threat dissolve into the stale air. Dad’s gone by six, swallowed by the predawn dark of his military routine. Mom’s no threat—her wake-up calls are gentle, her knuckles soft against the door. But as I sink back into the mattress, the room tilts. Time blurs.

Then—violence.

The sheets vanish, ripped away in a single merciless motion. Cold air licks my skin. I blink up, disoriented, my body coiled in black boxer briefs. Dad. He looms like a monolith, his uniform crisp, eyes twin shards of flint.

“Warned you yesterday,” he says, voice low and tectonic. “If you’re not up, I drag you out myself.”

Before I can protest, his arms—thick as bridge cables—hook under my knees and shoulders. He hoists me like a carcass. My limbs flail, betrayal scalding my throat. “Hey—what the hell?!”

“Morning bath, you are late” he growls, already marching down the hall. Thomas trails behind, a jackal in sweatpants, grin slicing his face.

“Told you,” Thomas chirps, bouncing a soccer ball against his palm.

The bathroom stinks of bleach and dread. The bathtub glows like a porcelain coffin, water sloshing ominously against its edges.

“Thomas—strip him,” Dad commands.

Panic ignites. “Wait—NO! I can bathe myself!”

But Thomas’s fingers are already at my waistband, yanking with gleeful malice. “Stop! STOP!” I buck and kick, but Dad’s grip is iron. The boxers slither down my thighs. Cold air claws my bare skin.

Five seconds. That’s all it takes. Five seconds to hang suspended in Dad’s arms—naked, exposed, my ass still throbbing from yesterday’s belt—before he lowers me toward the water.

The first touch is agony.

The tub's contents are so they don’t feel like water—they're liquid nitrogen, a thousand needle-sharp teeth sinking into my raw, welted flesh. “NO! DAD! PLEASE!” I scream as the cold climbs my hips, my ribs, my collarbones. My voice shatters. "I'M SORRY! SORRY, SORRY—"

“Scream or kick again,” Dad hisses, “and I’ll double your time.”

I bite my tongue until copper floods my mouth.

“Thomas, count to ten”

Above me, Thomas leans in, his breath hot and sour. “One… Two…” He counts like a torturer savoring the rack, each number a twisted melody. “…Eight and a half… Nine and three-quarters…”

When the count hits ten, Dad hauls me up. Water cascades off my shivering frame, pooling at my feet. They both looked me up and down, and so did I. Hard nipples, gooseflesh everywhere, my penis… my penis was really, really thin and short. It was so short it was actually pointing up. My balls had retreated into my body like two walnut shells.

Dad gave me a towel. Now I was told to get myself dry and put clothes on within 30 seconds. In case I was not quick enough, they’ve got each one extra rolled towel to hit me until I’m ready. Dad started his stopwatch.

The towel hit the floor in front of me, like some kind of sick dare. Thirty seconds. That’s all I had to dry off and get dressed before they’d start swinging those rolled-up towels. I scrubbed my skin raw, the towel scratching like sandpaper over the parts of me still burning from that ice-water hell.

I had no idea how fast I was. As I tossed the towel aside, I looked left and right for my clothes—nowhere in sight. Dad smacked my bottom with his rolled-up towel.

“Time’s up!” Dad barked, like he was addressing some useless recruit. Another lash—this one to my hip—sent me stumbling sideways.

“I don’t know where my clothes are! Owwww!” I shouted, voice cracking as Thomas struck from behind, his laugh slicing through me.

“Should’ve gotten them ready. They’re still in your wardrobe,” Dad snapped. “Move! Time’s up!” Another lash to my backside.

I ran to my room, Dad and Thomas chasing me, their towels whipping my rear as I yelped, “Aaaahhh, stop it!”

I yanked open the underwear drawer. As I struggled to pull one pair on, Thomas aimed directly at my balls and struck faultlessly.

“Ooooooowwwww!!!!!!” The sound ripped out of me, raw and pathetic.

The pain dropped me to the floor, clean underwear tangled at my ankles. My poor balls throbbed like swollen grapes. Desperate to end this, I rolled onto my back, legs raised, and grabbed the waistband of my boxer briefs. Thomas struck again—bullseye. Tears welled as my grapes shriveled into raisins. I clamped my legs together and finally yanked the boxer briefs up, though my shriveled privates barely filled them.

After that I quickly put some soccer shorts and a t-shirt, the ones that I grabbed first, just to quickly finish it.

“That’s the drill young recruits get when they don’t wake up on time. No oversleeping in the army—every man learns that fast. I’m shifting my work hours for the next two weeks to ensure you catch on.” Dad’s voice was iron, the kind that bends but never breaks. “You’re sixteen. Time to act like a man, not some mama’s boy needing coddling. Enough! Your brother’s younger, yet he’s got more discipline in his pinky than you do. Need this drill to learn responsibility? I’ll drill it into you. Now grab the sandwich your mom made and run. Today, you won’t be late.”

So I obeyed. Today was “okay”—if you call robotic routines and clenched jaws okay. But yesterday? Humiliation curdled in my gut all day. Why treat me like a kid? Sixteen means choices. If I want to be late, let me crash and burn! I’ll tell Dad that. Soon. This grounding’s gotta end—last time I was trapped like this, I was doodling Pokémon in primary school. It’s beyond unfair. It’s suffocating. Sixteen. The number feels like a taunt. Old enough to drive, to work, to bleed, but here I am, reduced to a child’s punishment

Enough of this. I had to talk to Dad. My stomach churned as I shuffled to the living room, where he sat alone, bathed in the blue glow of the TV. His eyes flicked to me, then back to the screen.

“Dad… got a minute?” My voice cracked.
“Sure.” He muted the TV. “What’s up?”

I sank onto the couch, the leather cold through my jeans. “Just… wanted to talk. About everything.” The words felt sticky, half-formed.

“Go on.”

“So, you know dad, I really am sorry for everything. For hitting Thomas. Also, I think you were right about punishing me. It gave me some time to think, to reflect. I have learned a lesson and I’ll try to do better.” Liar, hissed a voice in my head.

Dad leaned back, arms crossed. “That’s what I expected you’d say. Told you to think, didn’t I?”

“Ekhm… I thought about that, really, and I’m serious!” – My cheeks burned. Why wasn’t this working?

“Sure. Always sorry, aren’t you?” His tone sharpened. “What’s this about being thankful I punished you?”

“Dad, come on— that’s embarrassing! I said I’m sorry!!”

““If you need more time to reflect, you can stay grounded in your room.”

“No, no! Not that… Okay, fine.” I stared at my feet, my throat tightening. “I guess… sending me to bed early was… okay.”

“Why?”

“Because… at first, I was mad you treated me like a kid. But I had time to think about everything. Dad, can we please end this?” I begged, cheeks burning.

“You’re right. I did that so you’d reflect. That’s how you handle a child, and it works. So, you’re admitting that treating you like a kid helped?”

“Daaaaad!!! I didn’t say that!!!” My voice cracked, betraying me.

“Your exact words: ‘It was good to send me to bed like a little kid.’”

“Dad, you know I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I just meant having time to think helped! Otherwise, I’d get distracted!” I snapped, frustration boiling over.

“So, punishing kids by sending them to bed works? So they can reflect without distractions?”

“Y… yeah. Kinda.”

“Say it in your own words. Prove you understand.”

Fine. I’ll say it to end this. “After you… spanked me… sending me to bed like a kid was… okay. Because it gave me time to think… like you’d do with little kids. Since I act like one sometimes, I guess… it’s fair.” My voice trembled; my face burned.

“Good. Honesty matters.” Dad leaned back, calm as ever. “I just want peace. No patience for fights. No joy in punishing you.”

“Okay…” I muttered, praying this was over.

“You mentioned the spanking. How do you feel about it?”

“Dad, seriously?!”

“Yes.”

“Of course I hate it! Who likes being spanked?!”

“You should hate it. But do you think it was right?”

“I… I don’t know. I’m not a parent. But… I guess I deserved it?” I eyed him warily.

“You did. Did it help?”

“Daaaaad, stop! This is so embarrassing!!” My voice squeaked. Again.

“I just want you to be honest with me, nothing more, if you need more time, then go back to your room, we can try on some other day” – dad took his TV remote controller and started switching channels.

“Okay, okay!” I rolled my eyes. “So… yes, it’s like—whenever you spank me, or Mom, or whoever for that matter—yeah… Whenever I… Jesus… get spanked, I calm down afterward. And then I feel braver for at least a few days. I get that I did something really bad, something that shouldn’t happen again… and I don’t want it to, so I try to behave. Yeah… that’s it.” I covered my eyes with my hands, utterly embarrassed in that moment.

Dad stood up, slowly pried my hands away from my face, and said, “Be brave and look me in the eyes when we talk.”


I nodded, my eyes brimming with tears. He settled back comfortably onto the couch.
“So you’re saying you need to be spanked sometimes to stay on your best behavior?”


I couldn’t speak, so I nodded again.


“Look, you just admitted you still act like a little boy—and that’s exactly how I see your behavior too. That’s why I discipline you the way I do. But don’t you think it’s time to grow past this? If you need it, I can still spank you once or twice a week to keep you on track. It doesn’t matter that you’re sixteen; what matters is how you behave. Still, I want you to seriously reflect on your actions. Learn discipline—act responsibly all the time, not just for a few days. Your brother’s outgrown this, but you haven’t. And now… it’s causing tension in this house.”

“Okay, okay, Dad! You’re right, but—it’s not like that!”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s the one provoking me, but you never see it!”

“How is he provoking you?”

“Oh, you know, he just—” I rolled my eyes, not wanting to get into details.

“Just what?” he pressed, curiosity sharpening his tone.

“Oh, you knooooow… the stupid talk and stuff,” I mumbled.

“What stupid talk? From what I’ve seen, I have no idea what could’ve provoked you to act like that.” He spoke in disbelief.

“Dad, you know exactly what!”

“No, I’m serious! If you’re accusing your brother of something, claiming I’m not treating you fairly, I need details!” His voice rose.

“Oh, Dad, please don’t act clueless! You know exactly what we’ve been fighting about lately!” I raised my voice too. How could he be this blind?

“I thought I knew, but now, after you’ve accused me of unfairness, I want to hear your side!” His patience was fraying.

“Okay, okay, Dad! You know he’s been talking about… about… you know!” I stared at him, shocked he’d make me say it aloud. When he stayed silent, glaring impatiently, I choked out, “About… ugh… that…” My throat tightened. “About my… my penis being small.” Tears blurred my vision.

“Oh yeah, I’ve heard that. But how does that provoke you?”

“Dad, he’s my younger brother!”

“I know that. He’s also my son, just like you.”

“So he shouldn’t be saying that kind of stuff!” Resentment crept into my voice.

“Why not?”

“Because… because he’s younger?” My voice faltered, a brittle whisper that seemed to dissolve in the stifling air of the living room. The question hung between us, fragile and accusatory.

Dad leaned forward, his gaze unrelenting. “He is. And what—are you saying your pee-pee isn’t small?”

The word struck like a slap. My face burned, the heat crawling down my neck as I stared at the floorboards, their grooves blurring under the weight of my shame. How could he say it so casually? My throat tightened, trapping the scream lodged there. “Dad…,” I managed, the syllable cracking like dried clay. “It’s not that…”

“Then what?!” His chair creaked as he shifted, the sound sharp in the silence.

“You know it’s just… him talking about it! He shouldn’t be doing it!” My fingers clawed at the hem of my shirt, twisting fabric into damp knots.

“Well, does he lie? Or is the problem simply that he speaks?” Dad’s voice softened, but the edge remained. “You’re brothers, for God’s sake. This isn’t war.”

“No, it’s just… Dad, it’s embarrassing!” The admission tore free, raw and shrill, as if dragged from some hidden, festering place.

His brow furrowed. “You’re talking like something’s changed. Did it… shrink?”

“What?! No!” My voice pitched higher, fraying at the edges. The absurdity of it coiled in my chest—a laugh, a sob, I couldn’t tell. Why was he doing this?

“Then why now?” He spread his hands, a gesture of maddening calm. “If your pee-pee hasn’t shrunk or grown, why’s it suddenly a crisis?”

“Dad, please—” Tears breached their dam, hot and humiliating, streaking my cheeks. I swiped at them roughly, my sleeve growing sodden.

“Stop this.” His tone hardened, though not unkindly. “Crying won’t fix it. Speak plainly.”

“He’s bigger than me!” The words erupted, jagged and desperate. I hunched forward, shoulders shaking, as if the confession might fracture me.

A beat. Then, quietly: “Yes, he might be. So?” Dad leaned back, his expression inscrutable. “Thomas may have a larger penis. Does that justify bullying him? Does your little pee-pee give you the right to lash out?”

I crumpled further, my breath hitching in ragged gulps. Little pee-pee. The phrase echoed, cruel and childish, a taunt from the playground. Yet here it was, wielded by him.

“No,” I whispered.

“Then why?”

“Because… I don’t want him to see!” The admission spilled out, frantic. “To walk in, to notice… You know how he is!” The words clawed their way out, raw and jagged. “Oh… okay, Dad. Please—his penis is bigger than mine, and he’s younger. He shouldn’t know that, shouldn’t talk about it—” My throat tightened, the confession sour on my tongue. I forced my fists to unclench, knuckles pale as bone. “So… yeah. I don’t want him seeing me naked. Don’t want to wear his underwear. He… compares. Comments.”

Dad’s sigh was a slow, weary thing. He leaned back into the couch, sunlight slicing through the blinds to stripe his face. “Mathias, this is what it’s about? I’m asking you to act like a man, not cling to childish shame. You’re staging a tragedy over—” His hand flicked dismissively. “—a small pee-pee?”

The word hung in the air, absurd and humiliating. My cheeks burned. “Ekh… I… guess?” I whispered, staring at the carpet’s frayed edge. Guess? Of course I guessed.

“Absurd,” Dad muttered, rubbing his temple. “It’s like girls and breasts. One’s bigger, one’s smaller. Should the smaller one stuff her bra? Hmm?”

“No, of course not, that would be stupid!”

“Exactly. So why wear underwear too big? Same logic.” His voice softened, a blade sheathed in velvet. “Your brother can’t squeeze into small sizes, even if he wanted, — too uncomfortable. You? Your pee-pee is small, so you wear small sizes. Nature’s not a debate, son.”

I swallowed, the truth lodging itself in my throat—a pill too jagged to dissolve. My cheeks burned, the shame pooling hot behind my ribs. Small. The word echoed, a taunt in the hollow of my skull. “Yeah,” I managed, my voice fraying at the edges. “Makes sense.”

“Good.” He reclined, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth, as if my humiliation were a puzzle he’d solved. “Now—what’ll you wear?”

“Small.” The syllable tasted like ash. “If they fit.”

He sighed, a dry rasp that scraped the air. “Mathias.” My name hung like a blade. “Two months ago, we spent two weeks at the Baltic Sea. You stripped on the beach daily. Took your time. No modesty. No hurry. Your brother saw you then—we all did. So tell me: what’s changed?”

Everything. Nothing. My gaze clung to the rug’s frayed edge, its unraveling threads mirroring my composure. “I didn’t… realize he’d outgrown me.” The admission tasted bitter, a truth I’d gnawed on in sleepless hours. Not just taller. Not just louder. Better.

“Your body hasn’t changed. Why the sudden modesty?” His tone sharpened, dissecting. “He’s known since forever. But back then, you didn’t care—so he didn’t care. Now?” A dismissive wave. “You flinch. You blush. You hand him the knife, Mathias, and act shocked when he twists it.”

Is that what I’m doing? My lungs burned. Pathetic.

“You used to lead by example. When he started covering up, you didn’t. Showed him there was no shame in being brothers, in being boys.” His voice softened, almost nostalgic. “I admired that.”

Admired. Past tense. The word throbbed.

“Thomas wouldn’t hurt you. Not truly.” A pause, weighted. “He teases because you let him. Because you’ve forgotten how to stand tall.”

Stand tall. I swallowed a hysterical laugh. How could I, when every glance between us now felt like a verdict?

“Yesterday—he warned you about waking on time. He worried for you.” Disappointment lined his words. “That’s your role, Mathias. Not his. You are the older brother.”

“Yeah.” The syllable crumbled. “I’m… sorry.”

“Good. You should be.” He leaned back, the couch creaking beneath him. “If you want the jokes to stop? Reclaim your pride. The Baltic Sea was freezing, and your—” A smirk flickered. “—pee-pee shriveled to a peanut. Did he laugh then?”

“Daaaaad!” I choked, laughter tangling with humiliation. He’s not wrong. The memory surfaced unbidden: goosebumped skin, salt-stung eyes, and yes—the cold’s cruel shrinkage.

“Exactly. He didn’t care. Because you didn’t.”

“Okay, you’re right,” I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper. The shame burned my cheeks, and I stared at the frayed edge of my t-shirt, twisting the fabric between my fingers. God, why am I even saying this? “But maybe… being sixteen means it’s time to stop acting like a kid. To be more… modest.” The word felt sticky on my tongue. “Maybe I act out ’cause deep down, I know I need to put an end to all this?”

Dad leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “Of course not,” he said, too loudly, like he was lecturing the room itself. “Boys—men, even—change around each other all the time. It’s got nothing to do with age.”

I swallowed hard. My throat felt lined with sand. “Dad, c’mon,” I mumbled, forcing a laugh that came out brittle. “You don’t strip down at the beach like I do. Not in front of strangers.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, well, women don’t need to see my cock flopping around.” The crude word made me flinch. “But for you — it’s natural. Normal. You still are a boy, so just enjoy it while you can.”

Normal. Just a boy. The words echoed in my skull, sharp and hollow. I dug my nails into my palms, fighting the urge to vanish into the couch cushions. “Oh… right,” I managed, my voice cracking. Please, just stop talking.

Dad’s gaze lingered on my stained t-shirt, crusted with dried tears and snot. His lips tightened. “Look at you,” he said, softer now, almost pitying. “You’re a mess. C’mon.” He stood, the floorboards creaking under his weight. “Let’s go to the bathroom. I’ll show you there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Not around me.”

My stomach lurched. No, no, no. The air thickened, pressing against my lungs. His hand clamped onto my shoulder, steering me forward. I stumbled, my legs numb, my mind screaming.

“Dad, I’m good, really!” his voice cracked, thin and unconvincing against the solid wall of paternal certainty.

“In the Army, son,” Dad’s voice boomed, cheerful oblivion grating on Mathias’s raw nerves, “we all shower together. Builds camaraderie. No one complains. C’mon, water’s wasting.” The dismissal was absolute. No discussion. Just the relentless pressure steering him towards the cavernous family bathroom. The door clicked shut behind them, the sound final, sealing his fate. Dad’s grip didn’t loosen.

With a grunt, Dad peeled off his sweat-stained t-shirt, revealing the dense, sculpted musculature Mathias could only envy. “Our big shower’s perfect for two,” he announced, already unzipping faded work pants. “What are you waiting for? Efficiency!” Paralyzed, Mathias mechanically pulled his own shirt over his head, the fabric catching on his ears, a minor agony swallowed by the looming horror. Dad stood now, a colossus clad only in worn boxer shorts. Mathias remained frozen in his shorts, a fragile barrier against exposure.

Then, with the casual indifference of dropping dirty laundry, Dad hooked his thumbs into the elastic and pushed the boxers down, stepping out. Naked. Utterly, unselfconsciously naked. He planted his hands on his hips, chest thrust out, a monument of mature masculinity. “See?” he declared, beaming. “Nothing to be ashamed of! Just two fellas.” His gaze, warm and utterly clueless, rested on Mathias. Look away. Don't look.

But Mathias couldn’t. His eyes, traitors, flicked downward. He’d never imagined his father naked, but the reality was a brutal, obscene confirmation of everything he feared. It wasn't just developed; it was… monstrous. Thick, heavy, resting against powerful thighs like some primal weapon. A grotesque contrast to his own pale, insignificant… nothing. The comparison slammed into him, vicious and unfair: a dried pea beside a ripe zucchini. A chickpea beside a grapefruit. Humiliation, hot and sour, flooded his mouth. His thirteen-year-old brother outmatched him, but this… this was evolutionary mockery. Will Thomas get like that? Will I ever… ever even come close? The question was a knife twisting in his gut.

“Earth to Mathias!” Dad’s chuckle felt like sandpaper on sunburn. “Clothes off! Hop in!”

Mathias felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him icy cold despite the room’s warmth. His hands trembled. “Dad, please… I’ll just… shower after you? Okay?” The plea was barely a whisper.

“What?! Nonsense! We’re doing this togeth—” Dad’s patience evaporated. In one swift, devastating motion, he hooked his fingers into Mathias’s shorts and underwear and yanked them down to his ankles. “Step out.” Mortification seared through Mathias. Sixteen. Treated like a toddler caught mid-accident. Instinctively, both hands flew down, cupping himself, a desperate, pathetic shield.

Dad sighed, the sound heavy with exasperated amusement. “We just talked about shame, kiddo. Why the cover-up?” He reached down, his grip firm and impossible to resist, and peeled Mathias’s hands away. The exposure was absolute, violent. “See? Same as always. Nothing I haven’t seen since you were in diapers. Let’s go.” He clasped Mathias’s wrist, pulling him towards the steaming shower stall. The tiles felt like ice under his bare feet.

The water roared, a warm cascade that felt like judgment. Dad stepped under it, sighing contentedly, grabbing soap. Mathias stood rigid just outside the spray, naked, exposed, his mind a hurricane of horrified realizations. Sixteen years old. How could I have been so blind? Visions flashed: changing carelessly in his room, door ajar; strutting on the beach last summer, thinking he looked… normal. They all saw. Everyone. My friends. Thomas’s friends. Girls. Oh God, girls. The truth detonated: he wasn't just a late bloomer. He was a joke. A pitiful, underdeveloped spectacle everyone had politely ignored while he paraded his inadequacy. Hot tears welled, blurring the tiles, mingling with the spray he couldn’t bring himself to enter. He was frozen in a spotlight of his own humiliation.

Dad noticed. His brow furrowed with misplaced concern. “Oh, son,” he murmured, reaching for the shampoo. “Please, relax.” His strong fingers began massaging Mathias’s scalp, an intimacy that felt suffocating, not soothing. Then the soapy hands moved down, slow and deliberate, washing his shoulders. The touch, objectively pleasant, was torture. Stop touching me.

“Remember Grandma’s? That hot summer?” Dad’s voice was soft, trying to bridge the gap with nostalgia. “You and Thomas in the sandpit? Running around in just your little briefs?” His hands slid lower, slick with lather, over Mathias’s chest, his stomach. Mathias flinched internally. “Thomas buried you, claimed you lost your undies…”

“Daaad, I remember!” Mathias forced a laugh, brittle and high. Anything to deflect from the present horror, from the soap circling his navel.

“Thomas found ‘em,” Dad chuckled, the rumble vibrating through his hands still moving on Mathias’s torso. “But you refused. Said the sand was your clothes.” He laughed properly now. “Covered head to toe, insisting you weren’t naked! You were the Sandman!”

“Yeah, haha! So dumb!” Mathias agreed desperately, the forced mirth scraping his throat. Dad’s hands were moving lower, towards the waistband of his non-existent shorts.

“Then Thomas hosed you down in the garden – remember the screeching?”

“Haha, yeah! I was freezing!” Mathias said, the memory vivid and genuinely funny despite himself. “Ancient history! Stop digging!”

“Not that long ago – three years!” Dad corrected, his gaze meeting Mathias’s, oblivious to the terror there. “Then you realized you were naked and chased Thomas for those sandy briefs!” His hands dipped lower, soaping Mathias’s thighs.

“Daad, stop!” Mathias pleaded, managing a weak smile that felt like a rictus grin. The story’s childhood embarrassment was a pale ghost compared to the raw, present shame.

“He wouldn’t give ‘em back! You two tearing around the garden, laughing…” Dad’s narrative continued as his hands moved with terrifying inevitability.

“I know! I got them back!” Mathias’s voice was tight.

“Sure did. Rinsed ‘em right under the hose before putting them on, sand and all!” Dad’s tone was fond. “See? You didn’t care who saw your little pee-pee then. No one cared. You just had fun.” And then it happened. Dad’s hand, large and soapy, closed around him. Not roughly, but with a casual, devastating thoroughness. Two thick fingers completely encircled Mathias’s flaccid penis, engulfing it, emphasizing its insignificance. The skin was pushed back, the glans exposed and cleaned with a terrifying intimacy. Mathias stopped breathing. The world shrunk to the unbearable heat of that soapy grip, the roaring water, the suffocating steam. Humiliation burned through him, hotter than the spray. God. Make it stop.

“I want that Mathias back,” Dad murmured, his voice suddenly thick with an emotion Mathias couldn't bear to interpret. “Like you were just weeks ago. Just… act your age.” Act your age. The bitter irony choked him. Held naked, washed like an infant, his most private, shameful inadequacy literally in his father’s hand.

“Okay, you’re done.” The hand mercifully withdrew. But relief was short-lived. Dad’s hands, slick and strong, slid instantly under his ribs. “Wah-ha!” Dad tickled, hard and relentless. Mathias gasped, then shrieked with involuntary, hysterical laughter, writhing against the tile wall, trying to escape the unbearable sensation. “Will you do as I say?” Dad asked, his voice warm, nice, a cruel counterpoint to the violation. “Stop hiding? Stop being ashamed?”

“I will!!! I will!!!! STOP!!!” Mathias shrieked, tears of humiliation mixing with the water and forced laughter.

“Sure?!” Dad tickled harder, pinning him.

“YES!! YES!!!! I WILL!!!” The words were ripped from him, a surrender screamed into the steam.

“All right, good boy.” The tickling ceased instantly. Dad gave his backside a sharp, stinging slap that echoed like a gunshot in the tiled stall. “Then dry yourself quickly,” he commanded, stepping out and reaching for a towel, utterly relaxed, mission accomplished, “and run to your room.”

Mathias didn’t need telling twice. He scrambled out, grabbing a towel, fumbling, desperate to cover himself, to escape the steam, the scent of soap, the lingering ghost of his father’s touch, the crushing weight of his own smallness. The run to his room wasn't escape; it was a frantic retreat into a solitude now poisoned with the inescapable knowledge of his own humiliating lack. The world hadn't ended. It had just shrunk to the size of a dried pea.