This is a fresh start. I can be whoever I want to be right now. Not only was I in a brand new country, but I had only slept with three people before coming to Australia. In the few weeks I had been here. Australia was treating me well—I was able to get on PrEP, something that had felt out of reach before in the US.
But there was an internal tension in me: I stood at 6’1, broad, bearded, and undeniably handsome. I always turned heads—whether at the gym, on the street, or in the apps. I had the kind of body people wanted to sexualize, the kind that made them assume I was dominant, a top. A man like me—tall, built, hairy—was supposed to take charge. But my dick, a hair shy of five inches hard, never quite fit the fantasy others had of me. And in the back of my mind, a part of me quietly knew what I really felt free to do now: to be sexualized in a new way - to find someone to take control. Someone to put me on display, to make it clear to everyone that I was just a sub with a nub—a toy for a real man. This is the story of how I became just that.
I made a profile on Recon, finally explaining what I was into: "being controlled and exposed in skimpy underwear, someone with the remote control to my prostate massager while in public, curious about chastity." I had a few chats with people, but they were either into different things or not attractive to me.
Until I found "athletic dom": 6’4, broad, and confident. His profile wasn’t just a list of kinks; it had personality. CMNM, chastity, skimpy underwear, "emasculation—but not feminization." And if his profile was real, he was stunning—blond, built like a tank, the kind of man who looked effortlessly dominant. He wanted a cute boy he could keep in skimpy underwear and chastity... It was too good to be true, I thought, but I took a chance. I shared my small album of faceless pics—my broad chest, my hard "five"-inch dick, a shot of me in a thong. "Handsome guy," I wrote. I waited, heart pounding.
His response was quick. "Cute guy! How’s it going?" "Your ass in that thong is A+++."
From there we chatted casually. Conversation flowed effortlessly, the kind where you forget you're talking to a stranger. At some point, our conversation drifted to comics. At one point we discussed how we loved how ridiculously tight superhero outfits were, the way they sculpted every muscle, leaving nothing to the imagination. "The women, though, I was jealous of how they were clothed but might as well be naked.". Yeah some of their costumes are basically painted on." Brent chuckled. "but that’s what makes it hot, right? Power and exposure all at once. Imagine if the guys had to wear outfits that revealing." I felt a jolt at that thought—at the idea of men in costumes that barely covered them, sculpted pecs and abs on full display. Maybe that was why I always found certain characters so sexy. The skintight gear, the way their bodies were presented—it had been turning me on for years before I even realized it.
I explained that my distance on the app looked far because I was visiting Sydney. I had just decided during this trip that Melbourne was where I wanted to be. He didn’t hesitate: "You should definitely choose Melbourne."
He had an ease about him, a confidence that made me feel like he already knew who I was, maybe even better than I did. We covered everything—our favorite games, what we did for work, Australian culture. I also mentioned that I had lined up my first swim training with the Melbourne water polo team tomorrow. "Perfect," he said. "Good chance to make an impression."
I still had a last afternoon on my little trip to Sydney before I flew back to Melbourne. A part of me wanted to play out a little fantasy, just to see how it felt. "What are you up to in half an hour?" I asked. "Want to tell me what to buy from some of the gay underwear stores in Sydney’s gay village?"
"Good boy. Tell whoever works there to find you their skimpiest stuff. Fluro colours. I’m a fan of the G."
"By the way, I’m Brent," he added.
"Shawn," I replied, feeling a little thrill at sharing my name with him.
I was already walking toward the shops as I continued to chat with him, my heart pounding with anticipation. This wasn’t just about shopping; it was about opening myself up to something deeper. My thumbs hovered over my phone, hesitating for just a second. But I wanted more. I wanted to name it, to put my fantasy into words. "I have a fantasy of a guy looking through my clothes and my underwear drawer, taking anything conservative, and leaving me with nothing but slutty little scraps." Brent responded fast.
"So you want me to emasculate you, eh? 😈 Don’t worry, I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re just a sex object for a real man." A shiver ran down my spine. He got it. He wasn’t just indulging me—he was into this. Into me, the way I wanted to be seen. My fingers tightening around my phone. This wasn’t just a fantasy anymore. It was becoming real.
The storefronts along Oxford Street were lined with mannequins in jockstraps and tight briefs, rainbow flags hanging in the windows. Inside, racks of skimpy underwear stretched before me—thongs, sheer pouches, strappy numbers that barely counted as fabric. I approached the clerk, a friendly-looking brown guy with a nose piercing and an oversized tank top that showed off his toned arms. "Hey, I’m looking for a new underwear wardrobe, ideally some fluro thongs," I said, my voice steadier than I expected.
He grinned knowingly. "Nice. Something for a party or just for fun?"
I hesitated for only a moment. "Just… trying something new."
"Love that. Let me show you some of our best ones." He stepped out from behind the counter, and for the first time, I took in his full presence. He was handsome, with dark skin, a neatly trimmed beard, and an easy confidence. His clothes were loose and relaxed—an oversized tank and soft grey sweatpants—the opposite of what I was looking for in the store. He pulled a few from the rack—bright pink, neon green, and a sleek electric blue. "These are super flattering, especially if you’re feeling bold."
In the dressing room, I snapped a few photos in the mirror and sent them to Brent. My stomach twisted as I looked at the images—my body looked good: big legs, a broad, hairy chest that I kept trimmed, except around my nipples, where I kept it shorter so they were more sensitive and easier to play with. I ran my fingers over them now, using a light pinch so they are hard for the picture. They were sensitive, always had been. But then my eyes dropped lower. The thong’s pouch barely had anything to fill it. The contrast was undeniable—strong, powerful frame, small, underwhelming bulge. I hesitated before typing: "Not filling these out too well."
Brent’s response was immediate. "Perfect. You’re exactly what I want—big, strong, and with a tiny, useless nub . That contrast? 😛". I stared at the message, heat flooding through me. He didn’t just accept it—he valued it. No one had ever reacted so openly before, so unapologetically. Then another message: "You’d look even better 🔒, don’t you think?" I felt humiliated yet excited; the way he so casually mentioned locking me up, like it was obvious, natural.
The clerk’s voice came from over the curtain, "How you going in there?"
I felt something shift inside me from Brent's message—more empowered to show off. At the same time, I could feel that for me, owning that I was small didn’t just feel like acceptance—it felt submissive. Like I was offering up a truth that had always been there, just waiting to be acknowledged.
Heart pounding, I reached for the curtain and pulled it open. The air outside the stall felt cooler against my exposed skin, a sharp contrast to the heat curling low in my stomach. I was standing there, barely dressed, waiting to be seen.
"Actually… do you have anything a little snugger? Something with a smaller pouch? I’m not exactly filling these out well." The words felt like a quiet confession, almost like a plea.
His eyes flicked down briefly before he gave me an easy smile. But before he spoke, I caught him glancing behind me—at the mirror. From there, he had a perfect view of my ass, barely covered by the thong. His gaze lingered, assessing, before he finally looked back at my small package.
"Yeah, I see what you mean—but don’t stress. You look great. With thongs, sizing is a little different. Even if you’ve got big glutes like yourself," he said, giving me a quick wink, "they don’t really matter—thongs skip them entirely. So we can size you down to something that fits better in the front."
What did that wink mean? Being in front of him like this in a thong as he casually commented on my body, made me feel exposed—small. But it wasn’t just the exposure; it was the way his gaze lingered, the way his smirk made it clear I wasn’t just on display—I was being enjoyed. My stomach fluttered, the strange mix of humiliation and excitement settling deep inside me.
He disappeared and returned with a few new options—neon, sheer, strappy. "Try these. Should hug you better. And trust me, confidence makes anything look good."
Feeling a rush of boldness, I left the curtain slightly open as I stepped into another thong, letting him watch. The pouch was tighter, forcing everything snug against me, and because I had sized down to get a snugger fit, the strap underneath created a very gentle pressure. The sensation sent a low thrum through me—erotic, teasing. My pulse quickened as I ran my fingers over the delicate material, aware of his eyes on me. The thin fabrics clung to me, leaving little to the imagination.
Then, he tilted his head slightly, considering. "I wonder what you’d look like in these." He gestured toward a rack displaying semi-sheer bright thongs. The fabrics were delicate, silky, and in eye-catching fluro colors. From the dressing stall, I couldn’t quite see them. If I wanted a better look, I had to step out into the store—exposed. What if someone walked in? The thought sent a nervous thrill through me, but the clerk didn’t seem to care.
As I browsed the options, he began handing me thongs, one after another, before nodding toward another section. "These singlets match the thongs from the same brand. You should try them together—makes the whole look complete."
I hesitated. "Singlets?" In the U.S., that word meant wrestling gear, the kind of skin-tight uniforms that left little to the imagination. I had always wanted to join my high school wrestling team, but I never worked up the nerve. The boys on the team looked incredible in those singlets, their bodies outlined in a way that had always made my stomach flutter. But the thought of putting myself out there like that—my small dick that exposed—had been too much back then.
I walked to the shirts and grabbed one to match the sheer baby blue gstring he just gave me. As my arms were full of the clothes he had handed me, he asked casually, "What size did you end up with? Maybe we want to downsize again a little more for the pouch." Before I could answer, his hand slid to my waistband, tugging it up slightly, making my small bulge bounce. My breath hitched as I realized he was looking right at it—inspecting me. His expression stayed neutral, but there was no mistaking his judgment. Then, without a word, he placed a firm hand on the small of my back, right where it met the top of my ass, and rotated me so I was facing away from him. I felt manhandled, stripped of agency.
Then, his fingers hooked the waistband again but at the back, pulling it up firmly as he checked the tag. The stretch fabric pressed between me, sending a strange, teasing sensation through my body. "Yeah," he said, as if he hadn’t just put me in my place with a single motion. "I know you're a big boy but let's try a size small for the pouch." Heat rushed to my face. The movement was so casual, so matter-of-fact, as he wedgied me. There was no ignoring the way it left me feeling even more exposed humiliated.
As he handed me a smaller size of the matching baby blue thong and "singlet" he called it, and that’s when I noticed it—the thick outline in his grey sweatpants. He wasn’t wearing underwear and his bulge was impossible to ignore. My throat went dry, my own body reacting instantly. Was he hard, or was he just that big? The thought sent a shiver down my spine, heat curling low in my stomach. I quickly glanced back up before he could catch me staring, but the image was burned into my mind.
I didn’t bother closing the curtain at all this time. As I stepped into the thong then pulled the tank over my head, I knew I had one more thing to do. Brent would want a picture.
I hesitated for a moment, then turned to the clerk. "A guy I’m seeing wants to pick the outfits himself. Mind if I take a quick pic?"
He smirked, arms crossed as he leaned back against the wall. "Here, let me take it for you." He reached out his hand and took my phone, stepped back, and took a picture. Then he gestured for me to turn around. "Let’s make sure he sees everything he’s got to look forward to." I swallowed hard and did as he said, feeling the exposure settle deep in my gut. "Let me see you arch your back a bit more," he added, his voice smooth but firm.
I could feel my heart beat quicken as I obeyed, shifting my stance, pushing out slightly. He snapped the picture, letting the moment stretch before finally handing my phone back with a smirk. "Yeah, that’s a good one."
I sent a pic to Brent. His response came quickly. "Get the light blue matching thong and tank for sure. Then find some clothes I can show you off in—something painted on, something that leaves nothing to the imagination."
I hesitated, then relayed it aloud. "The guy I’m seeing wants me to get some clothes as well but stuff that really... shows me off."
He lit up, clearly enjoying the request. "You're in the right place." As he rummaged through the racks, I stood there, wearing nothing but the baby blue semi-sheer thong. I shifted on my feet, hyper-aware of how exposed I was in the middle of the store. My skin prickled under his gaze.
I sent a quick message to Brent: "The clerk’s been taking the photos for me. I feel so exposed in front of him."
Brent’s response came fast. "I was wondering... Good. You should be exposed. He’s seeing you exactly the way you’re meant to be seen. By the way... you owe him for all his help, don’t you?"
The clerk returned with a variety of options—some were outright tacky, covered in loud patterns or unnecessary zippers, while others had a sleek, masculine edge: fitted, with pockets and belt loops, but made of thin, clinging fabric that reminded me of the sexy leggings women wore to the gym. I tried on everything he handed me, from the tightest thongs to sheer tanks and barely-there shorts. The clothes barely made me feel any more clothed—if anything, they made me feel even more naked because in the back of my mind I knew these were what I'd be stuck wearing in public... Brent wanted me as naked as legally possible which terrified me... And the truth was, I wanted it too. He knew I wanted it.
Between each outfit change, the clerk watched me strip down—exposed. "Try these," he said, handing me a pair of crisp grey short shorts and another in military green. "They’ll hug you in all the right places." The shorts especially played with a boundary. They cosplayed as men's shorts with their belt loops, zipper flies, and pockets... but the fabrics were thin and clung too tightly, molding to my body, outlining everything. The thin material hugged my glutes so well they started to disappear between them. Good thing i was also buying thongs because any other underwear would show through. I already grew nervous and excited at the attention I knew I’d be getting in them.
The clerk took pictures, and I sent them to Brent, waiting for his feedback. Each time, my stomach twisted with anticipation. Would he like it? Would he approve. Brent’s responses came quickly, each one pushing me further. "Get the shorts—I want you in those. They’re perfect for showing you off. "Also, get that cropped shirt... only get shirts that don’t go past the waistband by more than an inch. Let's make sure you won’t be able to hide your cage's bulge."
As I stripped down between outfits, the clerk’s gaze stayed on me. I wondered what he thought of me, of my body, of the small dick barely pressing against the tight pouches of the thongs he had handed me. Did he find it amusing? Disappointing? Or was there something else in his gaze—something knowing, something that saw exactly what I was and what I wanted to be? Of my obvious desire to dress like a slut for another man.
The outfits felt like a statement, a commitment to what I was becoming. Brent had made it clear which ones were his top choices. A baby blue silky semi-sheer thong with a matching tank top, two pairs of spandexy mid-length shorts in military green and one in grey--revealing everything, a black cropped gym tank, and two other snug thongs in yellow and pink. I wanted to buy more, but I was able to get Brent's top choices. The thought of wearing exactly what he wanted, of showing off for him, sent a nervous thrill through me.
As I started to gather Brent's final choices up, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. The delicate fabric of the thong leaving almost nothing to the imagination. My broad chest, my toned legs—everything looked right, except for the barely-there bulge at the front. It was impossible not to focus on the contrast, the way my body exuded strength while my tiny thong and bulge revealed my secret.
Then, in the reflection, I noticed movement behind me. The clerk. His hand dipped to his waistband, and at first, I thought he was just adjusting himself. But then I saw it—the way his outline shifted, thickening, barely contained by his grey sweatpants. My breath caught. He wasn’t fully hard, but there was no mistaking it. He ran his fingers over himself, slow and deliberate, almost like an absent-minded gesture. But I knew better. Then his eyes flicked up, catching me staring. A slow smirk tugged at his lips, like he knew exactly what I was thinking.
My pulse quickened again, embarrassment creeping up my neck, but I couldn’t look away. Then, in a quiet moment in the empty store, he pulled his waistband down just enough for me to see. My breath hitched. Thick, long, at least nine inches, with a broad, uncut head that looked heavy, pierced through with a Prince Albert that glinted under the store’s soft lighting. His body was just as striking—lean, toned abs with a moderate amount of short black fur over his dark brown skin leading down to a nice mess of bush that blended seamlessly into his hairy stomach. He lazily stroked himself, his fingers sliding over the length with a slow, deliberate rhythm, exuding a confidence that made my stomach clench with jealousy and hunger.
My stomach clenched, a mix of jealousy and hunger tightening inside me. The sheer confidence in the way he touched himself, the way he let me watch—it was like he was offering it to me, silently testing how far I was willing to go. His strokes remained unhurried, controlled, just enough movement to keep himself at a heavy, throbbing semi. My mouth went dry. It was the kind of cock that demanded attention without even trying, and he knew it.
"Bet you’d love this, huh?" he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear, gripping himself at the base, lifting his length to show off every inch. Then, with a lazy confidence, he slapped it against his palm a few times, the weight of it making a thick, heavy sound. The impact sent a thrill through me—reminding me just how big he was, how much power he held in his grip.
I stepped closer, drawn in, and before I even realized what I was doing, I reached out, brushing against the thick shaft, feeling its weight, the heat of it against my palm. "Fuck yeah," he murmured, his voice rough with approval, his grip tightening as he began to stroke himself. I gave it a slow stroke too, marveling at the sheer size, how it filled my hand completely. It was intoxicating to hold something that big, something so effortlessly dominant. My own cock strained uselessly in the tight pouch of my thong, a sharp contrast that made my stomach flutter with humiliation and arousal.
I sank to my knees. My hands rested lightly on his hips as I tilted my head up, watching him stroke, slow and deliberate. He was in control, fully at ease, like he already knew exactly how this would end. My lips parted as he stepped forward, my breath now falling on his dick, shallow with anticipation—
Then the bell at the front of the store chimed. A group of customers walked in.
He exhaled sharply, adjusting himself in one smooth motion, practiced and effortless, like nothing had happened. My pulse pounded as I scrambled back into the dressing room, still just in a thong, my mind racing. My body was hot, my breath uneven. Had that really just happened? If the bell had chimed even a minute later... how far would I have gone?
By the time I was ready to check out, I was still dazed. I had torn the tag off the thong I was wearing so I could keep it on, but I handed him the tag to pay for it. The store was now busy with a group of gay men in their early 20's—someone called for help from across the room. He glanced over, then back at me, giving a small smirk. "One sec," he said, ringing me up quickly before heading off to assist another customer. As he handed me the bag, he leaned in just slightly. "Enjoy," he said, slipping an extra two thongs inside. "On the house." His fingers brushed mine for just a second, his smirk lingering. Was this just casual flirtation? Or had he enjoyed the little power play as much as I had? The question sent a nervous thrill through me as I turned to leave.
As I walked back to my hostel I messaged Brent. "The clerk threw in two extra thongs," I messaged Brent, then hesitated before adding, "Also... he showed himself off to me. Huge." Brent’s reply came fast. "Of course he did. A real man knows when he’s the alpha. And you? You should be in service to men like him. That’s what you really want, isn’t it?"
I hesitated for a split second, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. The words felt like a confession, a final step I couldn't take back. But I already knew the truth. I wanted this—needed this. My breath was unsteady as I typed back, "Yes, sir."
"Good boy 😈. Get some rest. Tomorrow, you start proving it. Wear a g-string under your gear at water polo tomorrow. You’re the new guy—everyone’s going to be watching you 👀."
My stomach twisted at the thought. This wasn’t like the store. This wasn’t just one man seeing me—this was a whole team, my future teammates and a whole potential social network. The thought was terrifying. And exhilarating. Was I really about to switch over to such a slutty wardrobe? Would they say something? I imagined some might cringe at it, some might not want anything to do with me if I was in a cage and skimpy clothing all the time. But others... others might like it.
I typed back: "Not as swimwear, though. Just underwear, right?"
"Not that exposed," he replied. "Not yet. But you better get used to it."
