Tim cranked the fire exit door open, where he stumbled out into blinding daylight.

His bare soles, still stained with baby oil, scratched over concrete stairs as his hands clawed onto rusty railings.

He landed on the bottom step, his ferocious expression facing the open carpark attached to the behind of Atlanta’s Regency Hotel.

His face dropped slowly as he stared at into the tarmac, his eyes increasingly filling with tears.

Behind him, through the newly opened fire edit door and down the hall, Tim could still hear the chanting.

“… MIL-LER! MIL-LER! MI-LER…!… ”

Tim clamped each palm over each ear, squeezing his eyes shut.

Suddenly, a hand landed on his right shoulder.

Tim spun around so quickly that he almost fell off the steps.

Armie held onto both of Tim’s arms, in an effort to keep him still.

Both young men stood breathless, distressed, troubled...

“Fuck, Tim, you, you ran away so fast I co—“

“—I wanna get the fuck out of here,” Tim spat out his announcement, his glare noticing the thick line of blood connecting Armie’s nostrils and lips, “I, I wanna get as far the fuck away f-from him …”

Armie sent worried eyes out to the edge of the full car park, a car park outlined with tall palm trees and an open, bustling Atlanta city-scape.

He then shot his glance down at Tim, standing in just his underwear. 

“You, you can’t go anywhere like that, kid … We, we need to get you dressed if you’re gonna—“

Tim rolled his shoulders away from Armie’s hold, pushing past him, where he began to stride back up the concrete steps, through the fire exit door and back into the hotel...

“Jesus fucking Christ …” Armie pressed his top lip, checking to see if he were still bleeding.

He licked up the taste of copper and then followed Tim down the hall.

Tim now jogged towards the closest elevator.

He pressed the ^ button with his thumb.

He did it again.

And again.

And again.

--Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap--

The hotels corridors were empty.

Everyone attending Tickle Fest still stood around the stage, applauding Miller, who lay triumphant with his hands in the air, euphoric in his success, beside an empty Tickle Chair, a Tickle Chair that had just contained Tim during one of his most vigorously ticklish experiences yet. 

Ping!

The elevator doors opened just as Armie arrived behind his lee.

Tim stepped inside.

Armie hopped through closing steel doors.

Up they went, in silence.

Armie stood in the corner of the elevator, his eyes on Tim’s sides and stomach, his skin decorated in pinch parks and tiny pink fingernail scratches.

His hair still hung drenched in sweat, the curls refusing to reveal themselves.

Tim chewed his lower lip in impatience, desperate to get within a space where he felt comfortable to explode.

Armie acknowledged everything. 

Every foot tap, every finger wiggle, every gulp, every lack of blink.

He received the frustration vibrating off of Tim, as if he were standing beside an unnaturally giant speaker resonating a volume so loud that it could only be felt, not heard. 

Ding!

Tim slid out of the elevator before the doors had a chance to fully open.

Armie followed.

“God, Timothée, slow the fuck down, it … It doesn’t matter--”

Tim arrived at their hotel room.

Without the key card, all he could do was curl his fists into balls and glare at the lock, his entire stance communicating to Armie that he should hurry, above anything else.

Armie sent panicked fingers into chino pockets until he located the square piece of plastic.

He slid it into the lock, watched the little light go green, and then went to open th—

—Tim pulled the door handle down and swung the door inwards.

Armie jumped inside.

Tim then slammed the door behind them, throwing his head into his hands.

Armie winced, taking a few careful steps back.

Tim pressed the bottoms of his palms into his eyes, until he saw blurs of colour amongst the black.

When he dropped his hands and stared at Armie, he could only see electric fuzz.

“I hate him … ” he said, in a destroyed mumble, “… I fucked it …”

Armie shook his head.

“No, Tim … You … It’s honestly n—“

“—The whole reason we’re here,” Tim continued his expressionless mutter, “The reason why we came … And, I gave it up…”

Armie slouched his shoulders.

He allowed Tim to fully aware himself of his defeat.

“I lost our fucking money,” said Tim.

-

Tim sat in The Tickle Chair, his arms pinned either side of him, his bare feet locked in stocks attached to the end of the device.

He panted, sucking up saliva as he allowed his head to hang over his chest.

“… Only ten minutes in, everyone … And Timmy’s armpits seem to be one of his weak spots…” Miller held his microphone to his lips as he addressed the cheering audience.

Armie wiped sweat from his brow, his hands resting on the edges of The Tickle Chair.

Miller turned to Armie, “Fancy demonstrating that one last time?”

Tim clenched his teeth, readying himself with wide, open eyes.

So far, he hadn’t begged, or pleaded, or yelled.

So far, he hadn’t been broken.

Armie took wiggling fingers back over Tim’s shoulders, sending them directly into the centre of his underarms.

He invaded the very muscle that Armie had known, for quite some time now, existed as one of Tim’s most unbearably ticklish areas.

Tim lifted his butt off the seat.

He took air into his cheeks, flexing his fingers out into a pained stretch.

He dropped his body back down as Armie slid his fingers into the fleshy space between Tim’s bicep and pit.

He wriggled around, as if on fire, until Armie stopped, far quicker than Miller would’ve liked.

The crowd went wild, just as Tim began to form the first layers of sweat against his upper lip and collarbone.

“Okay, okay, alright, alright …” Miller twirled the microphone like a baton, “I think it’s time we inspect these beautiful feet…”

-

“We’ve … We’ve done all this and, and we’re leaving empty handed…!” Tim dropped his tired frame onto the corner of the bed, with a slump-ish bounce.

He lowered his shoulders and looked down at his feet.

His toes still had marks around each of them, from being pinned back tightly by string, to The Tickle Chair’s stocks only ten minutes ago.

They still itched, from the horrific movements by a toy Miller had introduced, something Tim hadn’t really experienced with Armie …

… Something he didn’t intend to ever experience again.

Tim hooked his left foot over his right knee, massaging his aching toes, rubbing the itchy-ness away with his fingers.

“Tim, you … You still have my money, on it’s way. You’re not getting nothing out of all this …” Armie wanted to sit down beside Tim, but for now it felt right to just stand on the carpet until Tim had gathered his temper.

Tim wobbled his head in a disheartened shake.

“That’s not what I meant …” he wiped some emotion away from his nose, “… This payment, f-from Miller, for this fucking c-convention … It was meant for you. That, that was the whole idea … ” 

Tim dropped his hands between his thighs as he sighed heavily into the air-conned hotel room atmosphere, “… How can he take away something …” Tim gritted his teeth, finishing his question in a growled statement, “ … So damn easily …”

Now’s the time.

Go, sit by him.

Do it, you bastard.

Armie approached Tim slowly, perching down on the edge of the bed, so close next to him that their shoulders rubbed together.

He curled his arm around his ‘lee and then kissed the side of his head.

“I appreciate that, Tim. I like that you gave him my bank details. I can see you’re upset. But, when we started this, just you and I … Miller’s payment was never part of the picture. Hell, Miller himself was never part of the picture …” Armie squeezed Tim towards him, “…You can’t expect me to be let down over something I ... We ... Never had?”

Armie’s own words sent waves through his mind. 

He blinked quickly as thoughts flickered behind his eyes. 

Would he be upset when all of this is over?

Because, this situation with Tim, it’s not forever.

Soon, it too will literally be ‘something he never had’.

Armie gulped.

Tim leant forwards, resting his elbows on each knee.

“I know, I, I get that …” he covered his face with his palms, “… Fuck, he’s right. I’m a pussy.”

Armie placed his hand gently over the middle of Tim’s back, his skin still damp with sweat.

Tim closed his eyes, the warmth of Armie’s palm comforting him more than he dared to admit.

He really didn’t expect to say those things...

To get pushed that far...

For the session to escalate the way it did...

That damn string.

I really thought I could wing it.

“Listen, Tim,” Armie adjusted the collar to his polo shirt, “Please, don’t beat yourself up. If anything, I’m the one to blame for losing the four mil. It was Miller and I who stood as ler’s during that session … I helped steer it to this result. I’m …”

Armie went to say ‘I’m sorry’, but as he opened his mouth, he realised how pathetic he sounded.

This situation warranted more than just an apology.

More than a band aid over a wound that might not heal for some time.

“… I’m a fucking asshole,” he concluded.

Tim chuckled out a croaked laugh, his body exhausted from expelling hysteria for the day.

He sat back, faced Armie and then smiled at his ler.

“You’re a boss, at tickling. I know that, f'sure. But, Miller …” Tim grimaced at the memory, placing both hands under his jaw in thought, “… I wouldn’t wish a session with him on my worst enemy…”

Armie coughed out a laugh, patting Tim’s shoulder with his hand.

“I wish I could say I didn’t warn you, kid.”

-

Forty minutes in and Tim’s toes had been pinned back to the stocks by black string, his soles now drenched in baby oil.

He rolled his head from side to side as Miller used a specific tool on a specific spot, a weakness given away by Armie during their own private session.

Tim’s eyes bulged open as his cheeks burst red.

“FUCK, alright-- Alright, alright, alright, enough, enough, enough, enough--”

He yanked at his wrist restraints.

The Tickle Chair jolted forwards.

Armie knelt at one foot, whilst Miller knelt at the other.

In Armie’s hand, a feather, it’s quill drawing lines over the silky flesh of Tim’s left sole.

In Miller’s hand, another feather, it’s quill also drawing shapes over the silky flesh of Tim’s right sole.

The nib slid and dragged over pads and heels, under and between toes, and then into each of Tim’s arches.

It was one of  Tim's worst 'spots’, along with one of Tim’s most detested tools … And it scratched and rubbed and slid and drew, for a full fifteen minutes.

Tim collapsed into feverish giggles, panting and shouts, his face strained, heavy droplets of sweat now falling from his chin.

The crowed erupted in gigantic applause, the audience cheered and chanted, egging on Miller and Armie whilst also building up Tim’s attempt to not break.

“TIM-O-THEE! TIM-O-THEE! TIM-O-THEE!”

Miller used his free hand to tickle the side of Tim’s right foot, whilst continuing the constant feather torture. 

“You give? Already? But we haven’t even used the hair brush yet …”

Tim threw his body forward, his arms still pinned back behind him thanks to the leather restraints strapped around his wrists.

“Fuck you! Fuck the brush. This, this is way too much--” Tim hissed. 

Miller glanced to Armie.

“There’s no such thing as 'too much' - you’d know, right Hammer?”

Armie tried his best to smirk, intentionally going a little easier on Tim’s sole, pressing down a little less with the feather’s quill than he usually would.

“It’s funny,” Miller declared, sending the quill up and down the fleshy length of Tim’s Index Toe, “He says ‘enough, enough’, ‘please stop’, yada yada … But that’s not becoming broken…” Miller tucked the feather between Tim’s little toe, and the one beside it, offering the boy some light relief for a minute or two at least.

As he stood, Tim now clenching the feather between his toes, Miller turned towards the audience, raising both of his hands, “ … That’s just giving up! Am I right?”

The crowd exploded into applause, whooping and cheers.

Miller turned back to Tim, a sadistic grin decorating a face full of devilish excitement.

“I know exactly how to make sure he truly breaks.”

-

Armie stood perched against the sink basin with folded arms as he watched the hotel shower water land on the marble floor.

He waited for the steam to roll up - a moment that would inform him the shower's temperature would've reached boiling hot.

He thought about Tim, not as a friend, or lover, or colleague … But simply as a person.

An individual who had thrown themselves head first into this strange world, a world he had only tampered with alongside Armie within the last two weeks, in a New York apartment … 

A world now additionally explored in Atlanta, in far more viscerally intense ways that either of them had anticipated.

Tim had been gang tickled, he'd been repeatedly spun, he’d thrown up, he'd pissed himself…

And today, he’d been victim to Miller’s style of tickling.

Armie had no choice to give Tim a break when they got back to the city.

He had no other intention, no other motive - just a natural decision to ensure his friend felt relaxed, recharged, right again.

He pushed away the horned creature on his shoulder that reminded him Timothée wasn’t receiving a few hundred dollars for his time with Armie …

… But ten million.

He needs to work for it.

When you get back, explore his lower spine.

Make the most of that Index Toe … His armpit hair, the bottom of his throat …

Take him into the basement again.

Or, deeper underground.

Show him the--

— No.

Armie cleared his throat, clearing intrusive thoughts away from his mind at the same time. 

Run him this shower.

Get him out of here.

Organise a spa day.

Give him a massage yourself.

Hammer.

You gotta fucking kiss him.

It’s been on your mind since the first night he—

“—You hate me, don’t you …” Tim stood at the bathroom door way, his Calvin Klein underwear hanging a little below his hips, pulled about during his recent struggle.

Armie blinked, Tim’s accusation distracting him from his plans.

He unfolded his arms, took in a tired breath and then turned to face his sub.

“I literally couldn’t hate anyone less.”

Tim’s nostrils flared with stinging relief as steam started to fill the bathroom.

Armie stepped aside, offering his hand out towards the shower.

“Go on, jump in. And I don’t want you out for twenty minutes, at least.”

Tim rubbed his forearms with his fingertips, sheepishly, unsure on saying the things he wanted to say.

He leant his right shoulder against the door frame, a move Armie took as a hint to leave so Tim could undress.

Armie nodded just the once and started his exit.

As he passed Tim, Tim caught Armie’s wrist. 

Armie paused.

Both young men locked eyes.

They stood still, staring at each other, as if someone with a remote had made them do so.

Tim spoke quietly, his tone deep, keen to hide uncertainty within his voice.

“You sure you don’t hate me?”

Armie wanted to look at Tim’s lips, his jaw, his neck …

… But his gaze felt transfixed - entirely stuck, hypnotically focused on the thickness of Tim’s dark eyelashes.

Armie delivered his answer in a trembled whisper, the shake to his reply surprising him more than he could currently understand.

“It’s just money, Tim. I, I don’t hate you.”

Tim slid his fingertips away from Armie’s wrist.

He took careful steps towards the shower, pulling down his underwear.

As the soft, black, cotton material fell over once stock-locked ankles, Tim walked out of his Calvin Kleins and gestured to the open shower door, currently spewing thick rolls of steam around Tim’s now fully naked form.

“Prove it,” said Tim.

-

Miller finished drizzling baby oil over each of Tim’s soles for the third time.

This far into the session and he had endured upper body tickling from Armie, as well as the feather-quill’s running up and down each of his pinned-back-by-the-toes soles.

Tim sat breathless, blinded by hair, his chest and stomach heaving in and out, in and out, in and out...

As he curled his fingers around his wrist restraints, he felt sweat leave his armpits and trickle down his sides.

“Pl-lease, come, come on, that’s e-enough with, with the feet …” Tim winced as Miller pressed an index finger into his arch, “… NO, man, come o-o-o—“ Miller began to scribble, “—O-O-OOONN, COME ON--”

Miller got down on both knees, where he began to tickle both of Tim’s feet with both hands.

He spoke quickly, each word formulated perfectly, his delivery intelligent and filled with passion.

“You see, everyone, the thing is, Timothée’s feet are, dare I say, practically perfect. They’re long, narrow, a well rounded size eleven ... He has in-line toes, bulbous heels and above all else … The bottoms of them are silky smooth …”

Miller chatted into Tim’s writhing soles as the audience drowned out his hysteria with cheering and applause.

“… The latter point means that it makes them very easy to tickle. To put it bluntly, every millimetre of Timothée’s feet are sensitive… And, that’s why we won’t stop with the feet. That’s why, no matter how much he asks, we’ll stay right here, with these hyper sensitive, glorious creations …”

Tim’s manic grin faced the ceiling as sweat rolled down his neck.

Armie swallowed down discomfort.

He watched Tim’s face crease up, his skin wrinkle with tightened desperation, his throat and neck expand …

I warned him.

I told him he couldn’t take it.

“I can handle him…” Tim’s voice echoed through Armie’s mind.

No, you can’t.

“… This is one of my favourite areas …” Miller grunted in hunger, “… Just beneath the toes …”

Tim’s body bucked up and down, The Tickle Chair shaking from left to right.

The audience’s reaction made lights flicker, it made the windows wobble, the hairs on arms stand up…

“Want me to stop, Timmy?” Miller asked, politely.

Tim arched his back as Miller invaded each of his big toes at the same time with a scribble of his sharp, manicured fingernails.

“GO SOMEPLACE ELSE, ANYWHERE ELSE, FUCK--”

Miller grinned - still not satisfied by Tim’s ‘giving up’.

He wanted to feel the snap, the moment.

The break. 

“Hmm …” Miller scratched the entirety of the length of Tim’s ten toes, with all ten of his fingernails, “… How about, I’ll stop … If you tell me you’re a pussy …?”

Tim didn’t hesitate, screaming his answer into the convention halls ceiling.

“I’M A PUSSY, I’M A GOD DAMN PUSSY!--"

Miller took his relentless scratch away from the toes, to the sides of Tim’s feet.

“WHOA, FUCK, SHIT!”

Miller grinned.

"Ahh! A suddenly explosive ticklish expanse of flesh, revealed by myself, unknown to Tim, just to the lower side of each heel... Fantastic!"

Miller violated this new discovery, pushing Tim further into madness.

“Okay, how about, I stop if you tell me, to stop tickling your feet…”

Tim growled in frustrated distress, his head repeatedly humping back against The Tickle Chair’s head rest.

“STOP!”

*THUMP*

“TICKLING!”

*THUMP*

“MY!"

*THUMP*

"FEET!”

*THUMP*

“STOP TICKLING MY F—“

“—How about I stop, if you tell me you’ll give up your payment?” Miller shot testing eyes to Armie.

Armie, standing behind The Tickle Chair, folded his arms and narrowed his eyes.

He can do it.

He has to.

Tim pressed his mouth shut.

He clenched his fists and closed his eyes as Miller sent fingers up and down his soles.

Armie raised his eyebrows.

Maybe he can see this out.

I need him to see this out.

Miller laughed into the audience.

“As you can see, everyone, we've got our way in ... Booza!" 

Tim slumped his drenched body weight into the leather confines he sat attached to as Miller’s fingers slid away from his heels, leaving his feet in a flutter.

Armie knelt down beside Tim, tidying up some of his hair, wiping beads of sweat away from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Now, audience, you will witness me break Mr. Chalamet, here, with the help of Mr. Hammer…”

Armie allowed Miller to address the audience as he shuffled around, turning his back to the crowd.

He glanced up at Tim, who heaved in oxygen as quickly as he could, taking in the few minutes of Miller’s talking as some form of momentary relief.

“You need some water, kid? I promise, I’ll go slow, I won—“

Tim shook his head.


“… I t-told you, I c-can handle h-him …”

Tim’s entire face exploded into manic rage as his back arched and his head swung outwards.

He smacked Armie in the nose with his forehead.

Crack!

Armie stumbled back as a ringing sound pierced his ears.

Suddenly, darkness.

Armie squeezed his eyes shut, in an attempt to regain focus.

He tasted blood, as the cheers and applause continued throughout the crowd.

Miller stood at Tim’s feet, where he ran two large hairbrushes up and down Tim’s soles.

Armie felt a trickle of blood roll over his top lip.

“Get off! I don’t want you bleeding on the stage!” Miller cried, his motives and actions consumed by perverse intent, “I can do this myself, just me, just me and Timmy …”


“NO, NO, NO!” Tim growled his shout in a deep, gravelly moan.

Armie wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

He looked down at olive skin stained red.

The taste of copper flooded his mouth.

“I’ll ask you one more time, Timmy Tim Tim!” Miller sent the hair brushes from side to side, over each of Tim’s bare arches, over and over, “Will you give up the money, if I stop?”

With reluctance, Armie stepped backwards off the stage, some assistants running to his side with tissues for his nose.

Tim buried his head into the leather headrest of The Tickle Chair, enduring the brushes torment.

“Alright …” Miller kept the hairbrushes over Tim’s arches as he bucked around wildly, “… You’re more than proving yourself, kid 

… But I’ve got one last trick up my sleeve…”

-

“No.”

Armie stayed on the spot, keeping his eyes away from Tim’s naked torso, fixing them on his lips and eyes.

Tim’s shoulders dropped as he lowered his head.

He remained silent and ashamed, naked and still recovering from a different kind of defeat compared to the type he felt now.

Armie spoke through steam as the shower’s hot water continued to flow and the white rolls and heavy clouds grew in their thicken, between both young men. 

“You only want it because you feel like shit, Tim,” Armie spoke into mist, his ticklee’s body from the waist down now concealed by moist fog, “Because you want validation. I told you, I don’t hate you. I don’t care about the money, or—“

Tim raised his voice above the sound of the shower water booming down over marble. 

“—Yeah! And so what?” Tim lifted his head, “Maybe you’re right … Maybe that is the reason.”

Armie pursed his lips.

Honesty looked good on Tim.

After all, they had promised each other to drop all barriers, to no longer hold back, to say it how it is.

Reassert yourself.

No.

It can’t happen, like this.

Not here, in this hotel.

Not after loosing so much.

Not after Miller wins.

Not because Tim —

“—I …” Tim placed his right palm over his chest, his voice torn, “… I need this,” he spoke so quietly that the air from his lips barely moved the mist surrounding him.

Armie swallowed down his previous thoughts.

Before he could even discuss the next step with Tim, his lee opened himself up once again.

“Please?” Tim took a careful step forward.

He then said something so simple, so understandable, so raw …

… Something that summed up why he had signed the contract to start with.

… Something that summed up why he stood here, naked, surrounded by fog from the shower.

… Something that summed up why things had changed so much between them both.

“… You’re all I’ve got.”

Those four words worked as an index finger, a digit that had been curled around the trigger of a overly-loaded gun for some days now …

Fuck, since he stepped foot in my apartment.

Every feather, every drizzle of baby oil, every orgasm, power play, push, shove, press, slide, bite and nibble …

… Every please stop, every no not there, every hand on the shoulder, every ankle strap, touch of the nipple, drop of sweat lick of lust palm against face blood shot eye scream into the mattress glide agains the taint —

BANG.

The trigger had been pulled,

The development, ignited.

And now, those four words lead to Armie walking towards Tim.

He grabbed him by his shoulders.

He lifted him off his feet.

He carried him into the shower, planted him down on the soles he felt so obsessed by.

Shower water fell over Tim’s hair and back.

Tim bit his lip at it’s overwhelming boil burned his back.

He endured the heat as Armie allowed the waters force to cover the cotton of his polo shirt, the stretch of his chinos, the leather of his loafers.

He stood, tall and powerful, fully clothed, his arms around Tim.

Tim fell into Armie’s chest, his naked form squashed against Armie’s drenched figure.

Armie’s fingers curled around each of Tim’s arms.

They trailed down to his wrists, recently bound to The Tickle Chair only thirty minutes ago…

… Armie forced Tim up, against the tiled wall of the shower.

Steam rolled around them, puddles formed at their feet.

Armie pinned Tim’s hands high above his head.

His armpits, showcasing pinch parks and red scratch shapes, lay exposed with all of their ticklish vulnerability now facing Armie.

However, unlike during his session on the stage, Armie would not invade such an area.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes at Tim’s chest and neck, over his jaw and towards his open mouth.

Armie acknowledged Tim’s sudden arousal pressing against his hip.

He wanted to look down at it, breathless and in awe, but the rock solid shape told him clearly enough that Tim wanted this, that this was right, the time was now…

“Do it…” Tim spoke into Armie’s mouth, confirming his desired intentions, “… You’re fucking killing me. Just do it.”

Armie moved into Tim, engulfing him with all of his mite.

He pinned his arms above him and took his mouth in his own.

Air, hot and overwhelming, became trapped between each of their lips.

The shower burned over them as steam boiled past their skin.

They swallowed the air down, choking on it’s force, enduring it’s heat as they began to kiss each other with the bottled up strength of all the lightning and electric and static moments that had built up over the past forty eight hours, over the past week, over the past half a month …

… And as Armie dropped Tim’s hands down so he could devour his lee’s waist, Armie’s iPhone vibrated on the hotel sofa, the showers sound fading out it’s buzz …

… Where ‘Miller Calling…’ went unnoticed.

-

“--STOP, ALRIGHT, COME ON, ALRIGHT--!” 

Tim shot a menacing stare at the hairbrushes as they continued their aggressive torture over each of his shimmering soles, from left to right, left to right, two and once, both at the same time.

“Alright you’ll give up the money?” Miller teased.

The audience cheered.

“--FUCK, NO, NOT THAT, NOT THERE, use, use, USE SOMETHING ELSE--”

Miller cackled.

“You don't wanna ask that!”

Tim thrashed around in the chair, his ability to control his movements, his reactions, completely removed from his mindset, after over twenty minutes of hairbrush tickling against his feet.

The longest he’d ever endured...

Miller slowed down the torment, still ensuring the bristles travelled firmly over the length of Tim’s toes as he looked Tim directly in the eye.

“Okay, okay,” Miller sniffed up some sweat, “Now … I’m only stopping because, well, my arms ache…” he glanced flirtatiously at the crowds who all whooped and applauded, “… Speaking of arms,” he shot directive looks at his assistants lining the stage.

They climbed up and marched to The Tickle Chair, where they began to unstrap Tim’s wrists, whilst Miller removed his own t-shirt, soaked in sweat.

“Fuck… Th-thank, thank fuck, thank fuck …” Tim felt his arms fall down beside him, embracing the relief that came along with knowledge that the session seemed to be ov— 

--The assistants began to pull his hands behind his back. 

“Wait, w-what -- hang, hang on, I thought …”

Before Tim could muster up the strength to yank his arms forwards, his wrists were suddenly connected together by two leather cuffs.

The assistants stepped away as Tim pulled at his new bonds, now attaching his hands behind his back.

“Fuck, shit, come on, man, enough already--”

Miller chuckled, folding up his t-shirt neatly, placing it and the hairbrushes on the silver tray with a gentle clank.

He then walked his topless body over to Tim, where he combed fingers through his wet, knotted hair.

"It's good, it's all good ... Just breathe, okay? Just breathe..." Miller smiled.

Tim took air in through his nostrils, his fingers curling around the cuffs at the bottom of his spine, his eyes closing in an attempt to calm himself.

"Do me a favour, take in a big breath, alright?" Miller kept his fingers through Tim's hair.

Tim inhaled, holding the oxygen at the back of his throat, before exhaling out into a now quiet audience.

"Good boy," Miller returned his hands to his sides, where he turned away from Tim and then walked casually back to the metal tray, laid out over the surface of the trolly. 

He then picked up a long length of thin, black string.

“Now, as you know, your dear friend Mr. Hammer gave in and told me a little secret ..." Miller dangled the string in front of the audience, “… That you have exceptionally ticklish toes—”

Tim watched Miller approach his feet, still locked in stocks.

“—No, come on, fuck this, man, you’ve had your fun, c-come on…” Tim laughed along playfully as he tilted his head, eyeing Miller with cautious eyes, trying some charm instead of shout, in an attempt to get Miller to stop, “… This, this has been fun, and all, b-but, I’m done, I, I honestly don't think I can’t take anymore…”

Miller closed his eyes

"I can’t take it anymore."

It sent pangs of arousal down the middle of his torso, like a bolt sent from the heavens. 

He knew he was close.

The cracks had started to form.

Tim sat so drenched in sweat, it looked like he had been swimming.

His hair lay soaked to his face.

His skin practically shined under the stage lights.

His face looked gaunt, tired, pained, confused …

… His eyes were wide, filled with the saltiness of struggled tears, his green orbs following Miller as his strength, his presence, grew larger and larger, the closer he got to his feet.

“It’s just string, Timothée…” Miller positioned the length of string between Tim’s big toe and Index Toe.

Tim tried to clench his toes but they were pinned back too tightly.

“Ahhh, man … It’s not just string …” Tim leant forwards, his eyes almost exploding out of his head, as the string slid between his toes, “IT’S NOT JUST STRING - NO, fuck that, man! Fuck that! FUCK THAT!”

The audience exploded as Miller dragged the string between the fleshy, struggling-to-stretch digits, looping it around each of them and then pulling it gently through another few, the strings friction and general presence tickling the sensitive flesh of Tim’s toes beyond comprehension. 

Tim’s face displayed a manic expression of mind-numbing insanity, his head squashed into his shoulder, his eyes bulging white, his abs defined into sharp, formulated chunks. 

He bellowed out hysteric, gravelly laughter, begging and screaming in disbelief as Miller pulled the string through the various betweens and tops and sides and bases of Tim’s ten toes.

“I’ll ask you once again,” Miller had to lift the volume of his voice, over Tim’s cries, over the audiences reaction, “If I stop, will you give up the money?”

-

Tim threw his head back, droplets of shower water flickering against the glass.

“Ffffffff-u--“ 

He clenched his teeth.

Armie had made his way down Tim’s stomach, over his waist, past his hips and towards the throbbing girth now pressed between his lips.

The shower continued it’s fall over both young men.

The steam persisted in further heating up an already sweltering situation. 

Was this just physical?

Was this romantic?

Both questions arrived in each of their minds, at exactly the same time.

Two best friends decided to ignore what might or might not be, in subconscious, unknowing unison. 

Armie gave Tim what he wanted.

What he had planned to give him.

Sure, sooner than I thought.

But Tim had made it clear that this is what he needed, because he ‘had nothing else’.

The words pained Armie.

They transformed the reasons, the movement, the energy behind all of this.

They pulled him to his knees, before and below Tim, with his lee’s arousal now in his mouth.

As Tim’s throat tightened, his jaw clamped shut, skin burning from the heat of the water …

… His fingers curled around Armie’s hair, forcing his head away from his hips.

Armie swallowed down the starts of a much needed discharge.

He held onto Tim’s thighs, glancing up at his sub through falling streams of steaming water.

He didn’t have to speak or verbalise his words.

His face said, ‘what’s wrong?’

Tim shook his head.

“Not here. Not like this…”

Armie stood slowly, now standing toe to toe with Tim, still fully clothed, his polo shirt clinging to his chest and back.

“You, you just said you—“

Tim kissed Armie, flat on the lips, like he had done hundreds of times before, behind a camera, Somewhere In Italy …

Except this time he wasn’t acting, this time he did it because he needed to silence Armie’s doubt.

“I want you to edge me,” Tim announced.

Armie blinked, licking the taste of Tim’s lips off of his mouth.

Once again, no words were needed to explain how he felt.

Tim swallowed down shower water.

“I, I want to get that again, that feeling. I, I want you to be in control. No one else…” Tim shook water from his curls of hair, “And I, I don’t want it to happen here…”

Armie nodded, closing his eyes in reassured satisfaction.

He wrapped his arms around Tim, still submerged under water, both still so aroused they practically trembled.

One of them completely naked, the other completely clothed.

“I wanna get the fuck out of here …” Tim mumbled quietly into the soaked cotton of Armie’s polo shirt, “… I miss just being ... With you.”

Armie nodded, resting his chin over the top of Tim’s head.

“Then let’s go home,” he said, just as they had both began to get used to the showers heat.

-

Tim leaned forward, towards the stocks, the best he could - straining his back, scrunching his stomach, holding onto the straps attached around his wrists, now pinned behind his back.

He tried to bite at Miller’s hands, snapping his jaw manically behind soaked strands of dark, messy hair.

His face - bubbling red, his eyes - bulging white, his toes - tormented constantly, non stop, by the repetitive drag of the string.

Snap! Snap!

The audience cheered.

Miller snatched his hand away from Tim’s third attempt to chomp off his finger.

“He’s feisty!”

The string slid between five toes at once, dragging between the delicate, soft, lengthy betweens, driving Tim into a state of complete and utter lunacy.

“Come on, man-- Enough, enough with the toes--” Tim’s voice sounded strained, torn, bruised.

Miller entwined the string between and around each of the toes protruding from Tim’s left foot.

Each toe touched made Tim yelp and jolt.

Once fully entwined, Miller slowly, ever so slowly, dragged the string back, returning it via Tim’s toes, causing an excruciatingly ticklish sensation as he did so.

Tim widened his jaw, watching the string with bloodshot eyes and an upset, mumbled groan, as it torturously made it’s way through the squirming digits and, finally, out and away from Tim’s left little toe, over a time frame that felt like eternity. 

“Say it, Tim … You’ll give up the money…”

Tim bit down on the tip of his tongue, chuckling out a gritty laugh that suggested he might just have to own up to being owned. 

Fuck.

That mother-fucking string.

Miller looped one half over Tim’s second to last left toe.

Then he looped the other half around Tim’s big right toe.

Then he dragged and pulled, dragged and pulled, dragged and pulled.
..

“FUCK-- HOW, HOW LONG DOES THIS SHIT-- " Tim shot his swollen glance from his left foot to his right foot, his toes under an attack unlike anything he’d ever felt before, “… WHEN THE FUCK IS THIS OVER?"

Miller raised his eyebrows, directing his answer towards the audience.

“Well we’ve cancelled all future sessions for the day! This is too fun!”

Tim hunched over, narrowing his stare at Miller in incredulity.

Amongst the audiences energetic roar, Aaron stood above hundreds of heads.

“Hey! Leave him the fuck alone!”

A few dozen in the crowd turned to face the floppy haired blonde boy, who lowered himself within the numbers after such sudden attention.

Miller pointed at Aaron whilst looping the string around Tim’s left Index Toe.

“You want some too, kid?”

Aaron’s face flattened as he lifted his presence once again.

“He’s had enough! He’s a fucking person, give him a break!”

Some of the audience mumbled in agreeance. 

This didn’t stop Miller from continuing his relentless attack.

An attack so gentle, in the form of simply dragging string between toes …

… But it’s result, it’s effects, tittering towards violent.

Tim’s heart filled with dread as thick as tar, when Miller decided to keep the string around his Index Toe …

… He then looped the other end around Tim’s right Index Toe …

Tim’s head snapped from left to right, as if watching a Tennis match, his eyes on the string the entire time.

Miller then pulled the string from side to side in a saw-like motion, infiltrating and tickling a spot Tim just couldn’t handle, not for more than a minute.

I can’t take this.

Fuck, I …

… I really can’t take this.

It’s just string... 

“FUCK-FUCK-FUCKK-FUCKK-FUCK-STOP-STOP-STOP-STOP-STOP-STOP--”

The audience cheered.

The doubters in the crowds regained their excitement.

They witnessed the celebrity guest crack, under the tickle torture. 

What if he keeps going for hours?

Where the fuck is Armie?

I fucking smacked him in the face!

God -- this is mind blowing.

“HOW IS THIS HAPPENING?!”

When will it stop?

“PLEASE, JUST, JUST, ENOUGH WITH THE DAMN TOES!” Tim cried, snapping his teeth out once again in manic clamp, missing Miller’s hands by a mile, his efforts strained and desperate. 

In and out, left and right, side to side …

If Armie ever suggests using string, like this.

Imma fuckin' walk.

This is the worst.

“ENOUGH WITH THE DAMN TOES-- FUCK THE STRING-- FUCK THE STRING!”

Miller licked his lips, kneeling down for a better view.

He spewed saliva into his fingers and thumb, tickling Tim’s sole as the string wandered between his toes.

The spit worked as extra lubrication, along with the already applied baby oil.

Miller’s fingers, as well as the string, were the additional element ...

That broke Timothée Chalamet.

“ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT--"

Miller’s eyes widened, his fingernails still sliding up and down Tim’s left foot.

“ALRIGHT-- KEEP THE DAMN MONEY--"

Miller collapsed onto the floor, taking the string with him. 

He curled his fists into balls and punched the air in success as the audience erupted into an almighty applause, celebrating Miller’s ability to break Tim, whilst also celebrating Tim’s ability to last this long.

Tim endured pained disappointment, relief and anger as it suffocated him, all at once, in the form of different colours, shapes, textures and speeds.

He felt like throwing up all over again.

He shot agonised, exhausted looks at the assistants as Miller rolled around on the floor, lapping up the ‘MIL-LER! MIL-LER! MIL-LER!’ chants that echoed out into the convention and over the bobbing heads that created this ocean of audience.

“Get me the fuck out,” Tim croaked, his tongue running up the roof of his mouth, “Now, please, fuck--”

The assistants scrambled to un-loop the string pinning Tim’s toes back.

They struggled to untie his wrists from behind his back.

They panicked when trying to unlock the stocks still containing Tim’s ankles.

Once Tim’s hands were free, he smacked assistants out of the way and un-looped his toes himself.

Then he flicked open the latch and lifted the top half of the stocks, freeing his feet.

He had no time to be charming, no want to be polite …

He stumbled away from The Tickle Chair, jumping over Miller, who tried to grab at his legs...

He staggered off the stage, the chanting too loud, his thighs burning too hard, his mouth too desperate for water...

He burst through door number three, where Armie stood, tissue against his nose.

“Tim …”

Armie’s eyes widened at Tim’s strained face, his toned arms and stomach, his taunt body - worked out beyond comprehension, stained with defeat, sweat and dismay...

Tim said no words.

He just barged past Armie and began to run down the hotel corridor. 

-

Armie stood in his black Adidas tracksuit whilst he screwed up a showered-on polo shirt and soaked chinos, throwing them into the corner of the hotel room.

Tim knelt down by his suitcase, wearing an oversized grey hoodie and Nike shorts.

He folded up some socks and then smirked over at Armie who, since leaving the bathroom, hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Tim.

Both young men remained silent as they packed.

They acknowledged the chunk of reality, resting within the distance over the hotel carpet between them.

This had been fucking tough.

Far harder, far more gruelling than either of them had expected.

Not just two sessions …

… But two of the most intense sessions, far worse than the pamphlet’s descriptions made out.

And then there was Armie’s experiences with Miller.

The secrets, the bribery, the swift exits from one hotel room to another. 

The fact Armie himself couldn’t survive one session with Miller, to the point where he too became broken, persuaded, pushed into revealing Tim’s weaknesses.

Weaknesses Miller abused to the point where now, both Armie and Tim, would be leaving Atlanta empty handed.

And then there were the moments between them both.

The intimacy, the reliance, the levelling up…

… The fact Tim had shown such vulnerability, such huge, visceral open-ness in the form of unintentional, accidental physical release, the type of physical release only those so close to each other would be able to shrug off as ‘just something that happens’.

Tim watched Armie comb his hair in the mirror.

He didn’t care that Tim had thrown up over him.

He didn’t care that he’d pissed the bed.

He didn’t care about anything.

He just cares about me.

Or he just wants me.

Or, my feet.

Or, he needs me.

Or, my f—

—Tim sat on the floor in a slump as he realised all of the above were things he still needed to figure out.

Tim felt a grumble in his stomach.

“It’s late afternoon and we’ve only eaten a hotdog all day…” 

Armie dropped his comb into his toiletry bag.

“And you’ve had the work out of your life. Let’s get something to eat at the airport.”

Tim rubbed some cramp away from his big toe, now sitting in the cross legged position.

“We’re taking Miller’s jet?”

Armie tidied up some of his hair, brushing damp blonde tufts above his ears into position.

“No. We’re taking mine.”

Tim’s mouth fell open.

“Holy shit …”

Armie chuckled.

“I told you, kid. There’d be surprises.”

Tim got to his feet, almost too excitedly.

We’re leaving.

Finally, we’re going back to New York.

Tim pulled down on the draw strings of his hoodie.

He watched Armie group together the black straps he’d tied Tim to, last night, in their previous room.

He wrapped them around each other and placed them respectfully into a small compartment within his suitcase.

Tim couldn’t help but feel enlightened by the sight of Armie, in his tracksuit, with his bondage equipment …

His hair a little wet, his skin strong with the smell of freshly applied cologne, his posture, his movements whilst balling up the straps and cuffs so assured, his private jet, their white horse, their escape, on it’s way …

The person who had actioned relentless torture on him, for the past two weeks, the best friend who had been the one to question, to feel intimidated by, the man who Tim would take two steps away from, instead of two steps towards … 

… Had now become his hero.

Armie heard the distant buzz of his iPhone, laid face down on the surface of the bed.

As Tim snapped out of his moment of admiration to zip up his own suitcase, Armie realised he’d been so wrapped up in his lee, the shower, and making things right, that he hadn’t checked his phone since returning back to the hotel room.

His heart sank when he saw the amount of missed calls from Miller.

Tim practically felt the temperature in the room go from optimistically warm, to sharp, and cold. 

Tim stood away from his suitcase, eyeing Armie with a cautious stare.

“Does he …” Tim swallowed down, blinking once, “… Does want to see you, again?”

Armie peeled his blue orbs away from his phone.

He turned to face Tim, opening his mouth, licking his lips to ready his words …

“… No,” Armie said, “He wants to see us both …”

TCTLR continues in Chapter Twenty Four - ‘The Godfather’ …