Kurt, a burly, gray-haired cop with a broad chest and a reputation for old-school discipline, patrols the winding path. His uniform is crisp, his badge gleaming in the low light. The air is calm, but tension simmers as Petey, a skinny teenager with tousled hair and nervous eyes, walks by, hands stuffed in his pockets.
"Hey, kid, what's with those tighty whities? Aren't you a little old for that?"
"I... I dunno, they're just comfortable, I guess." Petey stammers, glancing around for an escape. Kurt cracks his knuckles, a half-smirk tugging at his lips.
With practiced ease, Kurt delivers a wedgie, tugging Petey's underwear high and eliciting a yelp. Not satisfied, he bounces Petey up and down, the fabric stretching uncomfortably. Petey's cheeks flush with embarrassment as he tries to wriggle free, but Kurt's grip is unyielding.
Kurt spins Petey around and shoves him face-first into his broad back, snickering as he lets out a rumbling fart. The scent makes Petey gag, his mortification complete. Petey can barely manage a protest, his voice muffled and weak.
With a grunt, Kurt yanks Petey's underwear over his head in an atomic wedgie, stretching the fabric to its limit. He then removes the tighty whities from Petey's face, only to hook them once more under Petey's arms. With a final heave, Kurt hoists Petey up, hanging him from a low-hanging branch, his legs dangling helplessly.
Kurt dusts off his hands, glancing back at the suspended Petey. Petey, still hanging, finally manages a weak, defiant glare, vowing silently that he won’t forget this day—or the lesson he never asked for.
