Timothée sat strapped to a teal blue, wooden tickle chair, which had been positioned in the middle of one of the many mammoth-sized living rooms that made up Maxwell’s mansion.

His feet hung out the other side of tightly locked stocks, their size eleven shape contained in a pair of white New Balance.

They wiggled from side to side in an impatient twitch, his teeth clamped around a black ball gag that had been wedged back into his mouth as soon as whispers of Maxwells arrival fluttered down the empty halls.

Tim had mostly been admiring the lavish decor surrounding him, but the boom of the the living room doors bursting open tore his attention away from the piano, the wall to ceiling curtains, the expensive china, where his curious gaze watched two Horned Devils enter the room, only for them to step aside immediately.

Through the doors walked Maxwell; he wore nothing on his upper body, besides a gold chain around his neck with a small diamond goat attached to it.

Tim felt his cheeks flush pink as he sucked up some drool that oozed out the bottom of his gag; he expected chinos, a suit, the standard smart attire his masked ticklers often tickled him in - instead, Maxwell displayed a furry layer of brown across his chest, toned abs and bulging biceps, his narrow waist sinking into tight denim jeans.

He wore cowboy boots that clomped across marble, his stride filled with a confidence Tim felt unsure was fuelled by being naturally self assured, or from the bottle of vodka Maxwell carried in his right hand.

Maxwell had ensured his Horned Devils had positioned a stool and his two chosen tools at the base of the tickle chair, out of Tim’s sight.

Maxwell placed his bottle of vodka by the tools and then took a breath; he made his way towards Tim’s face and decided to unapologetically assess him from head to toe.

Tim’s eyes automatically flinched shut as Maxwell slid his right hand through Tim’s head of hair, his fingers combing through the curls, his touch surprisingly comforting, if a little blunt.

“Beautiful doesn’t cover it,” Maxwell declared.

“Mmphh …” Tim tilted his head to the left as Maxwell’s fingertips slid past his jaw, where they hooked around the inside of his roll neck.

“An odd choice of top, considering how warm it is outside … ” Maxwell stroked over Tim’s shoulder and towards his right cuffed wrist, “… Considering how hot I’m about to make you …”

Tim swallowed down a puddle of dribble gathering at the back of his throat, thanks to the ball gag’s presence.

“Soft hands, like touching clouds … Long fingers, I bet you’re a skilled tickler yourself …” Maxwell drew a faint line over Tim’s right palm, causing Tim to curl his fist into a sudden ball, “You pay respectful attention to your fingernails, don’t you …” He did not ask, he stated.

Tim nodded quickly.

Maxwell made his way towards Tim’s knees.

“Cargo pants with a roll neck,” Maxwell chuckled, “Typical Chalamet style …” he put on a feminine tone, impersonating a camp, dramatic fashion stylist he had made up in his head, “… Mixing urban and class to create a modern dress code unlike any other male star in Hollywood! …”

Maxwell’s touch arrived at Tim’s feet.

Tim shuffled forwards.

Maxwell began to pick the lace of Tim’s left New Balance.

“Now for the part the whole audience has been talking about …” Maxwell tugged away the trainer, “… The money makers …” he admired Tim’s socked foot, the shapes of his toes clearly visible from behind the thick, white cotton, “… The pièce de résistance …”

The two Horned Devils at the living room doors bowed their heads, turning away, closing the doors behind them once they had departed.

Tim narrowed his eyes at the doors as a clicking noise suggested they had been locked.

“—Mnnph …”

His attention was snatched back to his feet, when Maxwell did something unlike most of the ticklers Tim had grown used to - instead of peeling the sock away, inch by inch, instead of taking his time and making the most of the reveal, Maxwell pulled the sock off of Tim’s foot in less than three seconds, all at once, in a quick and speedy yank.

“Mmph!”

Tim’s toes curled into a tight clench.

Maxwell draped the sock over his own left shoulder, wearing it like a prize.

“Hello, Timothée …” Maxwell did not look Tim in the face when he addressed him, instead he spoke into the sole of Tim’s left foot, his index finger pointing faintly over his arch, “… I am going to annihilate you …”

Tim’s foot twisted inward automatically, with such sudden strength that the tickle chair creaked.

Maxwell grinned and stood; he left Tim’s right New Balance and sock on for now, whilst making his way back to Tim’s shoulders.

“Are you comfortable?” Maxwell asked, his fingers working the clip connecting the ball gags strap to the back of Tim’s head.

Tim’s mouth fell open as the ball gag was released from the clench of his teeth.

He licked his lips, blinking quietly, as he cleared his throat and looked up at Maxwell.

“I’ve been sitting here for an hour …”

Maxwell chuckled, astonished by Tim’s brazen impatience at having to wait to be tormented.

“I said …” Maxwell dropped the ball gag to the floor, like a child drops its teddybear when uninterested with its lack of use, “… Are you comfortable?…”

Tim pressed his head against the squashy, cotton pillow that had been wedged behind his neck and the back of the tickle chair, appreciating the plumpness of its shape, “… Surprisingly … “, he rested his weight into his seat, “… You people don’t usually make this kind of effort.”

Maxwell sat down on the stool and began to unpick the lace to Tim’s right New Balance.

“I remind you, good-lookin’…” Maxwell purred, “… We aren’t those people …”

Tim watched Maxwell cautiously as he returned to his right foot.

“Yeah, I wanna get more into … That …” Tim commanded Maxwell’s attention, as he noticed him fall into a daydream whilst removing his footwear, “ … Yo!”

Maxwell looked up at Tim the way a small boy does when realising his parent had caught him with his hands in the cookie jar, his fingertips remaining in a gentle curl around Tim’s New Balance.

“Heads up, man,” Tim warned, “I ask a lot of questions …”

Maxwell began to unlace Tim’s right New Balance, his sneer saying the words ‘I like that, and I like that you think this is what this weekend is all about’, yet he allowed his silence to leave Tim unsure, uncertain, in regards to the events ahead.

“Do you want something to drink, or eat?” Maxwell tugged at Tim’s trainer, “I know you like bagels. I have fresh ones, from the bakers in town at the bottom of the hill …” he pursed his lips as he removed Tim’s trainer, revealing another perfectly shaped socked foot, “… I’ve been doing my research. I know your favourite fillings, if you prefer them toasted, un-toasted … I’ve memorised your preferred spread …”

Tim curled all ten of his toes and then splayed them outward, stretching them into the air behind the cotton of his sock, now his feet were no longer contained within the footwear Armie had purchased for him only two weeks ago.

He acknowledged a grumble in his stomach, at the sound of the word ‘bagels’, but in fear of appearing too weak or needy, with an intention to not allow Maxwell to feel too much like a dominant host, and he the ‘hungry guest’, Tim politely declined.

“I ate on the way here,” he begrudgingly mumbled his lie.

Maxwell pinched the tip of Tim’s sock and yanked it off his foot, even quicker than he did with his left.

Tim held back a grin; if anything, he felt a little entertained by Maxwell’s unique and ballsy methods so far.

Maxwell took a sniff of Tim’s sock, his eyelashes butterflying shut, his ability to read Tim far more powerful than Miller’s ability, far more powerful than Armie’s …

He could tell Tim was lying. He could tell Tim regretted choosing a roll neck to wear. He could tell Tim was curious, desperate to learn, willing to know more.

I can tell he’s fucking enjoying this.

“I like you, Tim,” Maxwell declared casually, dropping both socks to the floor, “I respect you, for how you’re handling everything they’ve put you through, all the shit they’re putting you through now,” he perched back on the stool and carefully held onto Tim’s left foot, as if it were an expensive and delicate piece of art, “I’ve heard so much about you …” Maxwell began to loop soft, multicoloured and elasticated string around Tim’s big toe, “… I’d love for us to get to know each other, like, really get to know each other …” another loop of string, this time around his index toe, the wince through Tim’s lips causing Maxwell to smile, “… I absolutely loved you and the statistics rap, man, you know, the YouTube video? Ha! … You’re so white! …”

Tim cringed and lowered his head, another grin teasing a sudden arrival - he had to force it back down by clenching his teeth, his nostrils flaring as Maxwell began to tie back the big toe and index toe of his right foot.

“Another life,” Tim managed to say, his eyes watering as his toes were fixed into place.

Maxwell paused and admired Tim’s soles; their fleshy, almost too soft shape, their firmly pinned back position, their generous size, the creamy white that made up the landscape between the tips of his toes, all the way down to the chunks of each heel …

Maxwell had created a bare canvas to toy with, an exposed instrument that could only twitch and nudge when touched, a touch now being actioned by both of Maxwell’s index fingers, prodding gently against the pads of both of Tim’s feet, in unison.

Tim looked up into the ceiling, his feet automatically attempting to create an X with their shape, but the toe ties kept them rigid, still and far apart, the tickle chair rattling as his knees bent inward.

Maxwell’s fingers left Tim’s soles as soon as they arrived.

He then rested one hand over his own thigh, his other hand stroking the stubble of his jaw.

He delivered his enquiry as if it were exactly that; a carefully produced singular lined investigation, between someone in control and someone not, between someone unbound and someone bound, between a officer and a prisoner, a host and a guest.

The words were spoken in a silky smooth, almost aroused manner - they were a priority, above the tickling …

“… Do you know who I am?” He asked, as if it were the most important question that Tim would ever hear.

Instead of being blown away by Maxwell’s caramel tones, instead of being intimidated or alarmed, confused or made to feel nervous, like Maxwell had expected, Tim simply smirked.

“You’re him,” Tim informed, “You’re his brother.”

Maxwell cleared his throat and blinked.

He shuffled closer to Tim’s right foot.

“That’s a pretty confident response …” with his pinkie finger, he drew a faint line down Tim’s right sole, from the base of his toes all the way down to his heel.

Tim’s foot nudged forwards, his toes trying to point towards the floor, the string keeping it stiffly under Maxwell’s fingertip.

“I’m uh …” Tim’s jaw widened as Maxwell’s finger travelled back towards his toes, “… I’m pretty good at putting two and two together …” his left foot jolted as Maxwell unexpectedly made his way towards the arch of Tim’s left sole.

With every second that went by, Maxwell learned more information about Tim; the first two chunks of data logged within his mind were, one) Tim is highly intelligent and not afraid of being himself, no matter the cost … and two) his left foot might be more ticklish than his right, a fact some of Tim’s most intimate past ticklers may have yet to notice …

“I’ll be honest with you, Timothée,” Maxwell watched Tim cock an eyebrow, maybe he had started to notice that Maxwell only referred to him by his full name, unlike all the others, “It would’ve been dynamite to of caught you before he did …”, Maxwell adjusted himself over the surface of the stool and now, rather unapologetically, began to scribble his fingernails across both of Tim’s soles at the same time, “… Back when you hadn’t evolved such a steely exterior, like you have now …”

Tim became embarrassed as soon as he chortled out through his nose, “—Fuck!—”, some snot gathering at the top of his lip, “Ah, man!—”, he immediately wiped his face against his elbow, staining his roll neck, as his feet continued to twitch and nudge beneath Maxwell’s scribble, “ …What are the chances, both of you having a thing for this shit!—”, Tim huffed, his knees kicking, his fists tugging at the restraints, the need to giggle and expel contained at the very bottom of his throat, not ready just yet to bare itself to the stranger two metres opposite him.

“Leo tells me your session with The Clown got you the Bleu du Chanel advert,” Miller’s scribble increased in pressure, his fingernails now exploring the base of each of Tim’s second to last toes, “Seeing as we’re in France, seeing as your heritage is french, howsabout your safe word is ‘blue’ …” Maxwell’s expression gleamed as he watched Tim struggle within the tickle chair, his feet always twisting and writhing beneath his infliction, “… But I’ll only listen to it if it’s pronounced ‘bleu’, in the French accent …” Maxwell fingered the edges of both of Tim’s heels, their tips scratching across the softness of each chunk, “… Understood?”

Tim leapt forwards as the hyper sensitive ends of his heels were devoured by Maxwell’s claw like invasion, “Alright, I get it!—”, he yelped, his butt lifting from the seat as both of his feet did their best to stretch inward, “Come on, man,” Tim whined, his body now bouncing non stop within its seat, “What’s the point of all this! Why am I here!—”, he lunged forwards, his bondage containing him, his leap towards Maxwell similar to a cat pouncing over a mouse, as soon as Maxwell began to rub the lengths of each of his index toes, “Graghh! Come on, man, you gonna leave me in the dark all day?—”

Maxwell persisted in toying with Tim’s index toes, an ultra ticklish extension of the young man’s soles that had become archived and valued information within the tickle community, so much so that it had spread out into those not part of any tickle cult at all, “I told you, we’re here, together, to get to know each other … You can ask Maxwell anything, Maxwell can ask you anything …” Maxwell had never seen a ticklee’s face boil with such intensity, just because his index toes were being rubbed by a thumb and index finger, “… How does that sound?”

Tim threw his torso to the left, his chin forcing itself into the delve of his right shoulder, all ten of his toes now scrunched up tight, “Sssss, so-ah-ho! You’re trying to date me, huh, Maxwell!” Tim joked, laughter tumbling out of his mouth in a strained groan, his back arching high as a bridge, “—Is, is that was this is?—”

Tim’s jesting lifted Maxwells mouth into a cheshire grin, “Yes, yes, we’re officially dating,” he presented his banter back as firmly as he presented the tips of his fingers, as they clawed up and down Tim’s bare soles with ruthless effect, “And what do people do when they date, Timothée?” Tim was now squirming his feet so hard and fast that Maxwell no longer had to make effort in moving his fingers, Tim’s soles writhed over their tips with every curl and stretch of each ankle, “Come on, Timothée, focus, what do people do when they date?”

Tim grunted and hurtled upwards, the tickle chair shuffling across marble with a grainy creak, “They, they ask each other shit!” He ate out of Maxwell’s palm without even realising it, “They get to know each other!” Tim gasped as Maxwell ended his brief introduction to his tickling methods, by pinching both of Tim’s big toes, the pinch remaining in place …

“You go first,” Maxwell decided.

Tim sank into the tickle chair and caught his breath through his nose, his feet held still by Maxwell’s pinch over each big toe.

He asked his first question without really needing to think about it; it had been on his mind since he stepped foot on the property.

“I, I wanna …” Tim huffed, sitting upward, shaking some curls of hair away from his face, “… I wanna know why you wanted out …” He asked.

____

Armie threw pages of bank statements at Maxwell’s face.

They exploded against his chest, flapping through the air where they eventually landed at his feet.

“Millions of dollars!” Armie growled, “They’re forcing me into ruin, all for some fucking perverse agenda!”

Armie turned away and downed his glass of whiskey as thunder rumbled in the distance.

Maxwell picked up some of the pages, his eyes darting from left to right as he took in online transfers from:

MR. A. HAMMER, ACC NO. 730923877 > CRAWFORD FOUNDATION, ACC NO 873345900 …

Hammer > $6,000,000 > Crawford Foundation, July 2012 …

Hammer > $8,000,000 > Crawford Foundation, September 2015 …

Hammer > $3,500,000 > Crawford Foundation, December 2017 …

Hammer > $1,000,000 > Crawford Foundation, January 2018 …

“Shit, Arm …” Maxwell scrunched the sheets into his fists, “… They’ve got a hold on you.”

Armie shook his head.

“They’re posing as a fucking charity, max. They’re sick!” He wiped liquor from his mouth, “I refuse to be a part of this a second longer,” he grabbed Maxwell’s shoulders, shaking him urgently as lightning pierced the stormy sky behind the apartment window, “I refuse to obey! I know you hate them as much as I do! I know you hate him, as much as I do!” Armie’s grasp on Maxwell softened, “Damnit, Max! … Please …” he took Maxwell in for an embrace, “… You can’t agree with what they want to do, you just can’t …”

Maxwell placed both palms over Armie’s back as he felt Armie’s emotion stain through his shirt.

Another rumble of thunder, another flash of lightning, a narrowed eyed stare forwards into the future, an unsettling plan that could become a reality in a year, five years time, ten years time, whenever enough financial funding had finally been gained …

“Do you … Obey …?” Armie sniffed.

Maxwell stared into the floor, a floor littered by pages of blackmail and manipulation.

His reply was deeply toned, filled with menace, as he growled at the word,

“No.”

____

Tim clamped the entire row of his top teeth over his bottom lip, now expertly containing his typically Timmy style ‘GUH HUH HUH!’ bellows against the roof of his mouth, “I already know this crap!—”, he hissed, proudly reminding Maxwell that he too had a close relationship with Armie in which Armie would have divulged snippets from his past, as Maxwell sat calmly on the stool, his ten fingers working Tim’s soles as if he were sitting at a piano; five scribbled across his left arch, five scribbled across his right, “Armie already told me they’re damn deranged! Sss, so—”, Tim began to pant, his feet flapping from side to side, the toe ties never allowing each of his big toes to press against each other, even if he did think doing something like that would make this better, “—So you chose to follow him out! But what’s the difference—”, Tim slammed his back into the tickle chair, as soon as Maxwell’s scribble arrived at the insides of each foot, “—Damnit, man! Both sides seem bat-shit to me!—”, Tim aimed his shrieked opinion towards the door, which had only recently been closed by two seven foot high men dressed in black cloaks, masks, with tall curved horns on their heads … If anything, they put masked suited strangers to shame when it came to levels of weirdness …

Maxwell stifled a chortle, his scribble now taking place around the base of each of Tim’s littlest toes, toes that were trying their hardest to twitch and squirm away from Maxwell’s fingernails …

“We’re ancient …” Maxwell announced, “… My ‘people’ have been around since before Jesus fucking Christ …”

Maxwell kept his watch on Tim from the chest up; his wide eyes, his lifting and dropping shoulders, his panicked grin, the way his hair had a mind of his own with every thrash of his head, “We’re considerate. We’re more than a secret …” Maxwell informed, his fingers now massaging the shapes of each of Tim’s second to last toes, causing the twenty eight year old to leap from left to right, “… If the House of White Feathers are ‘underground’ …”, Maxwell whispered, “… Then we’re at the core of the fucking earth …”

Tim gasped as Maxwell made a determined effort to snatch that laughter out from the roof of his mouth; suddenly, all ten fingers were scraping, scribbling and scratching at the bottoms of his feet, transforming him into a fast moving and violently thrashing force that had only moments ago sat here still and waiting, admiring the chandelier above.

“Oh, okay! Stop! Man, hold up!” Tim boiled a open eyed glare at the bottoms of the stocks, “Oh shit, oh shit!” His wrist restraints creaked as he naturally tried to tear his arms towards his chest, his legs always kicking, his feet always squirming, “Alright, I get it, you’re awesome, you’re ancient and shit!—”, Tim crumpled into a whine, his eyebrows creasing his forehead, “—Awww come on, man! Merci, merci, merci!—”, Tim lunged forwards, his bondage taking him back with a fierce yank, Tim’s scowl wild and almost flirtatious in its delivery, “—Why you gotta go so damn hard on me, Max!—”, he grinned.

Maxwell’s scratch slithered into a smooth grope, “Lucky for you …” he began to massage both of Tim’s feet as Tim sank back into his seat, “… We recognise the difference between right and wrong …” Maxwell’s fingers rubbed at Tim’s insteps, the tops of his feet just as smooth as the bottoms, “… Their inability to behave with the same respect has caused a … Disturbance … within what, I personally feel, should ultimately be a fun kink within the fetish community …” Maxwell took pleasure in seeing Tim’s eyes close, his shoulders relax, the toes of his feet unclench, “… We’re ready to even everything out,” he decided.

Tim, still breathing heavily through his nose, peeled his eyes open as soon as he felt the thumb nails of Maxwell’s thumbs nudge at the base of each of his index toes.

“You’re using me to make them jealous?” Tim cocked an eyebrow, his lips angled into a suggestive smirk.

Maxwell felt Tim’s index toes curl over his thumbs.

He wanted to say, ‘words like that will get you punished’, but no, that was too much of a Miller thing to say …

Instead, he ignored Tim’s charm and decided to change what had been a gentle hand-hold through history into a more complex change of narrative, a circumstance unlike anything the well worked over ticklee had ever come across - the hand holding would be swapped for a fierce shove into the deep end.

“As well as being Ancient Masters of Touch …”, Maxwell took his index finger and drew lines up and down Tim’s soles, never pausing, never stopping, always actioning each line speedily, the journey from toe to heel, heel to toe, lasting around one second at a time, “… We’re also a long line of teachers, Timothée …”

Tim peered over the stocks as if what Maxwell were doing to his feet was some kind of rude, atrocious act, “Mnn! Mnn!—”, he bit his lower lip again, his feet always jolting and twitching under each fierce swipe, “—Sss, mnn! So you’re, you’re mnn! Teaching me a, a mnn! Lesson?” Tim jumped up each time Maxwells index finger hit each arch.

Maxwell stood away from his stool and sucked the taste of Tim’s soles off of his index fingers, “… You could say that,” he stepped towards Tim’s waist and legs, crouching down at his left side, “… Unlike more aggressive organisations, we like to pass on our knowledge,” he reached into the betweens of Tim’s thighs with his right hand, as if trying to grab at a big fish under water, “We like to watch, Timothée … ” Maxwell snatched and pinched at Tim’s legs, grasping his knees, his calves, the muscles beneath each hip, causing Tim to leap, shuffle, bounce and lunge up and away from the strong, claw like snatching …

“Damn! Shhhh-it!—”, Tim tried to stretch his legs as far away from Maxwell as he could, but it was impossible to escape, “—Get offa my damn legs, man!”

“… We’ve been watching you, Timothée …” Maxwell wrapped both arms around Tim’s knees and held them still, causing both men to suddenly stiffen into a flustered pause, “… You’ve been chosen …” he declared, “… Chosen to win …”