2022 …
“Where’s Brooklyn?”
Victoria rolled her eyes.
“Don’t tell me he’s having second thoughts,” she scoffed.
Romeo looked over his shoulder.
“I’m serious. He only said he’d be five minutes …”
Victoria, Cruz and Romeo Beckham sat in a line of front row seating as the groomsmen, David Beckham and the Registra made nervous small talk at the alter.
A warm coastline breeze greeted the many guests who had all sat down to witness the celebrity wedding of the year.
They whispered and gossiped about the fact the groom was nowhere to be seen as a helicopter hovered above, where prying paparazzi tried to catch a glimpse of the event taking place below.
Romeo stood slowly and adjusted his bow tie.
“I’m going to check the hotel.”
Cruz faked a comfortable grin as he felt guests eye him with concern.
“Tell him to get a move on,” the eighteen year old said through gritted teeth, “This is starting to get awkward …”
Victoria pulled her son back down to his chair.
“Don’t be daft!” She batted her eyelashes and smiled at those looking at her in worry, “And stop making a fuss,” she hardly moved her mouth as she continued to nod and wave at the final numbers of people arriving at the ceremony, “He’ll be here any second …”
Romeo frowned as he lifted his head and searched through the rows of guests, noting another empty seat located beside Tana Ramsay.
“Someone else is late …” he tutted.
Cruz huffed.
“Christ, who?”
Romeo narrowed his eyes.
“… Gordon …”
I had to stop the little wanker screaming for help somehow.
He’s still trying his best, even with the tape over his mouth.
I’m impressed.
They manhandled him away from his own wedding expertly.
I’ve never seen anything quite like it.
My only complaint is his hair.
It’s is a little messed up, but it’s nothing I can’t tidy.
He’s even been kept in his wedding outfit, just how they requested …
… Tuxedo jacket, waistcoat, buttoned up shirt, white bow tie, tight trousers, the lot.
His shoes and socks were torn away as soon as the ropes were thrown on him.
He seems a little confused as to why his feet have been stripped bare.
Milky white soles snug together, thanks to the bondage around his ankles, the black string binding each big toe together …
I’m not into this stuff, but I must admit, the sight before does get me a little flustered.
He put up a good fight, I’ll give him that.
They’ve got him in a sensational position.
He’s wedged into the corner of the couch.
Arms tied above his head, the rope binding his wrists attached to a hook nailed to the wall …
His feet are in the air, almost over his head, the rope securing his ankles together also knotted to the same hook.
He swings his legs and tries to bend his elbows; his eyes are glazed with fury and frustration, he is already begging me for an answer.
I decide to give it to him.
I was, at one point, meant to be his Godfather after all …
I approach.
I dodge a kick as both feet swipe past my face.
I kneel beside the couch, dressed in my own suit and tie.
I pick at the tape and rip it away from his face.
His lips are puffy and red, he wastes no time in growling out his distain, speaking in a surprisingly calm yet stern manner - this surprises me - I was expecting shouting, swearing, demanding cries … Instead, I get controlled assertion.
“… Gordon …” he is glaring at me, as if trying to hypnotise me into doing the right thing, “… Untie me …” his tone suggests there is no other way, what he is asking is simple math and deciding against it would be madness, “… It’s my wedding day …”
I blink, I listen, I remain silent.
“… Gordon …” there’s that steely, sobering growl again, “… If you don’t untie me, I’ll—”
I tilt my head.
“—You’ll do what?” I smile.
He presses his lips shut.
He tugs at the rope, “Come on,” he breaks, there is a tremble of uncertainty now saturating his voice - maybe he thought I would let him go as soon as he requested it, “The stag do is over, mate,” that poker-faced, serious approach has started to sound like a whine, “No more pranks! It’s happening literally, right now! I need to be down there, this is bloody insane!”
I grin.
During his stag go, or, bachelor party, for the Americans out there … We tied Brooklyn up twice.
Once to a deck chair by the pool, after he’d had one too many beers; it took him almost a week to scrub off the dicks we drew on his forehead with marker pen.
The second time was to a pole, where we had a drag queen perform a, uh, questionable act, on the young, soon to be wed stud.
It’s no surprise he thinks this is another silly attempt at making fun of him … In a few moments time, he’ll wish it was.
I get to my feet.
“I’ll cut to the fucking chase,” I remove my iPhone from my jacket pocket, “You owe your wedding planners a fuck load of money, son—”
“—What? We, we settled that!—” He doesn’t even give me the chance to explain, “We’re suing them, they screwed us over!” He shakes his head and looks towards the locked door of my hotel room, he is now raising his voice, his snarl-ish commands lasted only a minute or so, “I don’t bloody care anyway! Just untie me, Gordon! Let me go, it’s my —” Brooklyn hates to swear, I know I’ve pissed him off when he starts talking like me, “—It’s my fucking wedding day, I won’t ask again!” He spits.
I turn on my iPhone’s video camera, ignoring his pleas, “… There’s good news and bad news. Alright? The good news … ” I place the phone on the coffee table, screen facing Brooklyn, “… Is that they’ve agreed on another method of payment … You’re one lucky bastard, you know that?” I hit record.
Beep!
“… The bad news …” I turn to face the groom, “… Well, what’s about to happen right fucking now? That’s the bad news …”
His legs stop swinging.
“What do you mean?” He mumbles, both eyebrows raised.
I pick up the roll of tape.
“What do you mean …” He repeats, his tone a little higher.
I tear off another chunk.
“—What do you mean!—” He cries.
His feet kick.
He tries to shuffle deeper into the corner of the couch, his tux and his bow tie gathering up around his jaw.
“No, Gordon, seriously, mate, come on, it’s my fucking wedding day—” he heaves in as I slap the tape over his mouth, “—Mppph! Mphhh! Mphhhh!”
I take a seat on the arm of the couch.
I dodge his heels as they propel past my face.
For a second, just a second, I feel a little sorry for him.
He’s right!
It’s his wedding day, for fucks sake!
If anyone did this to me on my wedding day, god alive, I’d be more than furious!
Then again, I’m a lot angrier than Brooklyn, far stronger …
… I would have broken out of these restraints by now and booted me in the balls.
His feet are inches away from my face.
I hold onto the ropes binding his ankles with my left hand as he continues to glare and scowl at me, screaming behind his gag.
I stroke the soles of his buttery soft feet with the fingers of my right hand, acknowledging how quickly his feet curl up whilst I ask …
“… Are you ticklish, Brooklyn?”
He does not hesitate in answering.
“—Nu I aghhh naghh!—”
‘No I am not’ I hear, his tone panicked yet furious, crumbled yet determined, his knees bending hard.
“You sure about that?” I stroke again.
His feet curl into themselves, like snails retreating into their shell when poked.
“—Nu I aghhh naghh!—” he repeats, this time with a strained giggle to his expel.
I, of course, know Brooklyn is ticklish.
I’ve seen him fall victim to his boisterous brothers and their attacking fingers dozens of times, they know his weakness better than anyone.
They have rolled him up in carpets and tickled his feet till he was almost crying.
They have straddled him and sat on his wrists, they have danced their relentless force all over his stomach, his sides, his underarms until he was calling out for his parents support.
But his level of sensitivity, the one I discover for myself, right now, does not hold back from blowing my mind.
“—GUPPP!—” he screams.
I’m pretty sure that was ‘stop’.
Such a howl is caused simply by me stroking his left sole, with three of my fingernails, their glide crossing his arch.
He kicks hard, shaking his head, his eyes widening in terror, another visceral chunk of giggling forced out of his throat.
He is looking at me with a boil that says, ‘Are you seriously going to do this?’
Oh, Brooklyn, you’re fucked, mate, I scowl back.
We don’t have long.
Soon, the bubbling concern for his whereabouts down by the alter will trickle out into the gardens, the hotel, the rooms …
I have to do this, and quick.
I use the toe tie as a way to keep his feet as still as possible - a challenge in itself, considering how hard he is thrusting his legs through the air - by hooking my index finger between the tightness of the loop.
It’s incredible, to see such alarm saturate his face so suddenly; already his cheeks are pink, his forehead red, his eyes watering …
He is heaving in and out, bewildered and breathless, squirming and writhing over the pillows tucked behind him; the fact he cannot escape, the fact that he is stuck like this, the fact that his feet are so bare, so ticklish, so trapped … I witness it, in the look he is giving me - he knows he’s screwed and there’s nothing he can do about it.
Without warning, I scribble all five of my fingers across both of his soles, darting from the left to the right, never staying on one for too long, always inflicting the same level of ticklish intensity over each sole, with just one hand.
He is consumed by hysteria, within seconds.
The immediate need to expel high pitched, relentless laughter is not a choice for Brooklyn - it is taken from him, deep within the pit of his stomach - it is astonishing to hear, it is laughter unlike anything I have ever heard from a person - it informs me, quite suddenly, that not only is Brooklyn insanely ticklish, he is, without a doubt, the most ticklish person I now know.
The laughter is a mixture of uncontrollable giggles and deep, shout-like bellows.
Its deafening pitch is contained, only just, by the slab of tape across his mouth.
It sounds muffled and caught, the middle of the tape bulging out and then sucking back in with every sharp intake of breath he tries to inhale, something that takes place every five or six seconds between the maddened laughter.
How can simply scribbling across the bottoms of ones feet cause such a delirious reaction?
His heels are swiping forwards and backwards, left and right, his knees bending then stretching out, his kicks rampant and strong, his feet wriggling and writhing in an attempt to at least break free from the tight loop caught around both of his juicy big toes.
His jaw-wide expression has started to grow out of the tape, his laughter so non stop I fear for his ability to breathe.
I must persist.
My fingers explore his toes - I scribble at their bases as they curl and scrunch throughout every vigorous kick, his laughter now screaming out of his lungs as he continues to watch me with a fierce rage in his eyes.
I see it, a moment of realisation.
He thought this was a joke, that the tickle would be a playful tease, that after the second stroke he would be untied, or, maybe something else would happen …
But no, the tickling is ruthless. It is merciless. It is constant and it has only been thirty seconds …
Disbelief washes over his face as he continues to twist, to howl, to heave and to shout, the laughter bursting out behind the seams of the tape with such force that the tape itself is almost blown away from his jaw.
His tuxedo, shirt collar and bow tie are now mostly gathered around his shoulders and jaw; he is thrashing with such angst that the shirt has become untucked and half of his lower torso has unintentionally exposed itself.
I unhook my index finger from the toe tie and use that hand to scratch at his heels, whilst my right hand darts between his legs and goes for his belly.
This is where the screams become a real concern.
“—GUHUHHHHHHHHHUHUHUHUHF—GUPP!—GUHHHUHUHUHHHHHHHUHUHUHUHUHHHHUHUHUH—LEGMEGO—HUHUHHHHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUH—GLEEEASE—!”
He throws his head back, offering me a sight of his neck; his throat looks like it has been stuffed with something, his adams apple bulging, the skin that makes up his neck red and throbbing.
Deep within his throat is nothing but hysteria, hysteria that he cannot control as it is forced out of his core the more I wriggle my fingers into his tummy.
He pulls so hard on the wrist restraints that his fists are now by his face - he is tugging, tugging, tugging whilst he screams, screams, screams, my fingers now shooting up where they infiltrate his left underarm.
Just when I thought the screams could not get any louder, just when I thought they could not get any more intense, the volume and grain within their pitch is taken up a notch.
My fingers press forcefully into the warmth of material gathered under his armpit.
He squeezes his eyes shut and falls into a moment of simple ‘endurance’.
The laughter is so genuinely related to what I am doing to him that he has no chance to speak, only to scream and shout through the bellows; it happens with such unapologetic and natural exertion that I have no choice but to take my other hand away from his feet, where I clasp it over his taped mouth.
I cup his jaw and press my palm over his lips; his eyes snap open, his pupils cross in the middle as he takes in the view of my hand muffling his cries - he has never been handled like this, not once before in his twenty two years of living - but, just like his time as a photographer, just like his time as a fucking chef, just like his time as a stylist … There is a first time, for everything.
I can now physically feel the intensity of his laughter and screaming as it pounds against my palm; it is wet, thick and mighty, it is delivered like fire out of a dragons chest, with just the same level of heat - the screams are so warm that the space between the tape and my palm becomes humid and clammy within seconds, my body weight now resting over his torso as he continues to thrash and boot, my other hand still deep within the depths of his pit whilst he persists in propelling his legs and feet in and out of the air.
I think he is now so utterly tickled, so pushed past his limit (and its only been a few minutes), that he has forgotten all about the wedding he is the main star of, taking place six floors below this hotel room, outside by the sunset of the Spanish coast.
I provide a few seconds pause, only because it takes time for me to move away from his torso and back to his feet …
Within those few seconds, I see him breath in and out, in and out, in and out, his nostrils flaring, his face almost unrecognisable; his cheeks are puffy, his eyes glazed over, his once slicked back and slightly out of place hair now a total mess of strands and flustered lumps.
He whines a grainy, “—Nuuu—” through the tape as he watches me return to his soles, “—NUUUU!—” he yells, his legs kicking rampantly once again, “—NUUUUU!—” he cries, as I re-use my ever so effective method by hooking my finger around the loop of string tightly attaching his big toes together, whilst my right hand journeys back to the bottoms of his feet.
I toy with him, a bit, just for my own sadistic pleasure … Yes, I’m aware the brief was to tickle hard, non stop, to make him scream and beg, but if I go at the same speed as I have done so far, I fear the young man will eventually pass out …
So I flick a finger up his right sole,
He kicks.
I flick a finger up his left sole.
He grunts.
I scratch at his heels.
He arches his back and throws his head forwards.
“—GORGON NUU!—” he protests behind the tape.
Seeing such luscious, silky smooth, unmarked soles before me ignites a ravenous need to try something I have never tried before, not once with a partner, or a stranger, let alone someone I know as well as my best friends son …
I take both of Brooklyn’s big toes into my mouth.
I feel his feet shift as my tongue glides around the fleshy digits, caught so neatly together; there it is again, that visceral screaming - how must he be feeling, watching me, Gordon Ramsay, suck on his big toes as I tickle his soles with my fingers? What must he be thinking! I bet there are a plethora of thoughts and emotions, some of which no doubt containing disgust and shock at seeing someone my age slurp, lick and nibble on toes as ticklish as his.
I realise almost immediately that I cannot act out this method of tickling for much longer; Brooklyn is kicking so rampantly and with such stamina and effort that his toes keep popping out of my mouth - his heels keep kicking into my face, my neck, my shoulders - he is too much of a fighter! If he struggles hard enough he might boot me with such a kick that I gain a black eye, or a bruised cheek, something I must avoid, considering I’m about to take a seat at his wedding in the next ten minutes or so.
Instead, I try something more tactful.
I turn my back to him.
I armlock his ankles and go to town on both soles at the same time.
An explosion of screams, shouts and high pitched laughter fill the room; he now cannot breath, his heaves and mighty splutters between each eruption of grainy, uncontrollable giggling tell me that. Maybe I do what him to pass out, maybe I want to push him to a point of absolute oblivion. Maybe I want that disbelief and shock to transform into something else, something more sinister. I sound unsatisfied. Which is bonkers! Brooklyn is screaming for his life, laughing so hard that he can barely speak, the tape still successfully containing the thunderous volume within his throat. I should feel glad that I created such incredible content for these people, who will no doubt be blown away by Brooklyn’s sensational reaction to simply having his feet tickled, but part of me wants just that little bit extra, just that little bit more …
I have gone past the allocated time.
It’s official, Brooklyn has never been tickled like this before.
I glance over my shoulder and catch a look at his face.
He is begging me with his eyes, throwing in desperate words between the expel of hysteria to make me stop.
“—GUHUHHHHHHHHHUHUHUHUHF—GUPP!—GUHHHUHUHUHHHHHHHUHUHUHUHUHHHHUHUHUH—LEGMEGO—HUHUHHHHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUH—GLEEEASE—!”
I like to think, even when he realised this wasn’t a joke half a minute in, that four or five minutes into this there may have still been an ounce of his psyche that thought I’d suddenly stop and pat him on the side of the face, whisper a ‘well done’, untie him and send him down to his soon to be wife who stands alone and confused with the Spanish breeze blowing through the blondes of her hair.
But I am not stopping.
I continue.
I do not even pause.
I devour every inch of his hyper ticklish feet; his chunky heels, his glossy soles, his sleek pads and long, curling toes … He is now writhing his feet and kicking with such energy that his left big toe has teased the suggestion of escape as it nudges a little out of the string, however I rectify that immediately and wedge it back into place, his grunts, huffs, pants and shrieks informing me that such an act has angered him further.
Maybe there is relief in him, somewhere. After all, being dragged away from your wedding, gagged with tape, pinned down by several masked men, your shoes and socks torn from your feet, your wrists and ankles bound, your body forced into such a position, it would no doubt instill a dire sense of a dread, the suggestion of an ugly end, a torture that isn’t inflicted by tickling, but pain instead.
Anyone would be overjoyed to understand they would not have to face such horrendous consequences - or, does Brooklyn see what I am doing to him as a form of a horrendous consequence? - a scenario where he would do anything to make it end? - I remain uncertain. All I know for now is that this is absolute agony for the young chef, photographer, stylist, whatever the fuck he thinks he is these days, as his screams and shrieks are propelled from his throat the loudest way they have done so far, as I scribble, scribble, scribble across the hyper ticklish landscape that makes up the ultra sensitive expanse of his perfectly edible size eights.
He is starting to burn out.
He has never been forced to expel this amount of colossus energy before, without having any control as to how it is expelled.
His throat is grainy and dry, the veins either side of his head are twitching, his fists are red and swollen, all of the blood pumping around his muscles is caught behind the tightness of the rope.
Despite looking so destroyed, he is still giving it everything he has; he is still kicking and kicking and kicking, he is still screaming and screaming and screaming, he is still giggling and laughing and heaving and shouting and shrieking, he is still so undeniably desperate to get his feet away from my scribbling fingers, but they are too tightly locked under my arm, his soles too professionally bound together, the string looped around his big toes too tightly looped …!
The torment is unexpected, it is surprising, it is unforeseen and instantaneous. He knows his level of ticklishness has always been high, I know it too. He has kicked when a toe has been pinched, he has dodged when fingers have been jabbed at his sides, he has snapped his head into his shoulder when a bug has flown too close to his ear. I have seen it, dozens of times, with my own eyes, and now? Here he is, bound like this and made to withstand an intense level of tickling on the soles of his feet, gagged and suited up in his wedding gear as two tiny sparrows land on the window ledge where they watch on peacefully, Brooklyn’s howls not causing them to flutter away in the slightest.
“You can’t stand it, can you Brooklyn?” I want to hear his frenzy, “You can’t stand it at all, can you?”
He shakes his head so fast his hair litters the top half of his face, one, two, three hard kicks actioned as my fingernails scribble over the arches of his soles, more shrieks from the depths of his stomach causing his throat to bulge.
“—GUHUHHHHHHHHHUHUHUHUHF—GUPP!—GUHHHUHUHUHHHHHHHUHUHUHUHUHHUHUHH—EEEGGGGAAAHHHHAAAAGHHH!—PLEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEEEHEHEEEHEEEHEEE—”
“Do you want it to stop, Brooklyn?” I take my scribble to the fleshy lengths of his long toes, “Do you want it to stop?” I speak to him as if he is stupid.
He nods frantically, the white of his bow tie such a contrast of colour, compared to the deep beetroot of his face.
“—GUHUHHHHHHHHHUHUHUHUHF—GUPP!—GUHHHUHUHUHHHHHHHUHUHUHUHUHHUHUHH—EEEGGGGAAAHHHHAAAAGHHH!—ICAG-TAG-IG-AGYMOREEEEEEE!—”
“—You can’t take it anymore?” I raise my eyebrows, “You know something, Brooklyn, I believe you! These soles of yours really are outstandingly ticklish, how about I keep going at them for the rest of the day?” I am being thrown forwards and backwards due to his level of intense kicking, “Forget the wedding!” I declare, “Let’s just stay here all day long, my fingers, your soft, ticklish, meaty soles, maybe my tongue again, if you can stand it …”
I say all of the things they asked me to say, all of the words they requested …
… They were right, being verbal is almost as torturous as the tickling itself.
My suggestion causes his eyes to widen, his head to thrash fiercely from left to right, his knee bend before the kick so determined that his knee caps press firmly against his chest before he tries for the umpteen time to propel his feet out of my grasp.
This must be so hard, for someone as ticklish as Brooklyn! To have a person scrape their fingernails across soles as soft as his, soles as sensitive as the ones in my arm lock, it really must be absolute hell - especially when I’m the tickler - I do not hold back, I do not stay in one spot for more than a few seconds, I am always leaving him stunned, I am always travelling from heel to arch to toe to pad to the sides of his feet to the tops of his feet and all the delicate inches in-between.
He is flabbergasted, lost, fumbled, perplexed, sweating, breathless, infiltrated, confused, curious, worried and desperate - he so madly wants this to stop, his shrieks now so high pitched and strained that I begin to wonder if the wedding guests outside can hear him - they obviously can’t, we’re thirty feet up and the band have started to play to fill the awkward void of silence that started when his arrival at the alter did not happen …
Suddenly, he is able to cry out his despair with a voice I thought was still covered by tape.
“—HEEEEEEEELP! SOMEONE HEEEEEELP! GORDON IS TICKLING THE SHIT OUT OF MEEEEE!—”
I twist my head over my shoulder and see that he has rubbed his jaw against the collar of his tuxedo - the tape has been smeared away, it lays over the white of his bowtie, his mouth is stretched open and his eyes are unblinking as he goes to scream for help for a second time, before I spin around and clamp my palm over his lips, his cries for support muffled immediately, the strength of his call once again feeling warm, wet and forceful beneath my hand.
“—MPHHHHH! MPHHH! MPHH! MNN, MNN, MNN! MMMNNPPHH! MNN! MNNN! MNNN, MNN, MNN!—”
“—Listen to me, you little shit!” My voice is sharp, I hiss like I do to the idiotic contestants on my TV shows, “Oi, stop it, you little fuck! Calm down, alright? Calm down!—”
He stops screaming as my hand applies pressure.
I grab at his sides.
He squeaks, his body jolting into himself, his elbows knocking down past his head as he yanks on the ropework.
“Promise me you won’t scream—” I urge, “—Promise me you won’t shout for help—” I narrow my eyes.
He nods quickly.
I sneak in another pinch at his side, this time lower down by his waist.
He giggles into my palm, his toes curling into a fierce scrunch as his legs swing mid air.
I slide my hand away from his mouth.
As soon as his lips are freed, he begins begging.
“—Gordon, pl, please, please, please, please, please sss, stop—” he is practically panting, “—I’m, I’m begging you! I, I can’t do this, I, I can’t take anymore—” he admits, “—I’m, I’m so, so, so fucking ticklish, this is unreal, you’re gonna make me piss myself and I can’t return this suit—” he is still giggling between words, even though I am no longer tickling him, I assume this is part of his maddened disbelief, “—It’s Dior!—” he whines.
“Yeah?” I finger his hip, “Where are you ticklish, Brooklyn?” He squirms beneath my touch, his body curling deeper into the corner of the couch, “Come on, tell me, and I’ll let you go!”
We speak in a hurried whisper, my words are pressing, his voice is broken and coarse.
“—Everywhere!—”, he tugs on the rope keeping his armpits exposed, “—I’m ticklish everywhere!—”, he thinks he is being honest.
I jab both hands into his underarms, his eyes squeeze shut suddenly as if he has been stung by a giant wasp, his mouth stretching open as he lets out another high pitched squeal.
“—GORDON, STOP, PLEASE!—” he moans.
“—I asked you where you were ticklish, you dumb twit! Tell me, before I go back to sucking on your toes … Where are you ticklish?” My fingers wiggle through his tuxedo, they arrive at a warm delve protected by his wedding suit, I wonder how insane he could be driven if I had him naked, spread eagle to a bed, face down …
“—My feet!—” his eyebrows burrow into a defeated frown, “—The bottoms of my feet! I can’t stand it!—” he admits, “—It’s too much, you’re gonna make me piss myself if you keep—”
I smirk.
I leave his torso and return to his ankles.
“… Say it again …” I eye my iPhone with a knowing grin, I realise rather quickly how good I am at this …
He gasps.
“—Okayokayokayokay!—” he kicks once, twice, three times as I take hold of his big toes, “—My feet! My feet are so fucking ticklish, you’re driving me fucking nuts, please, Gordon, please stop, I’m begging you, I’m gonna piss myself!—” He begins to giggle again, even though my fingertips are only just about grazing past the buttery soft expanse of his soles, “—Gordon, please, it’s my fucking wedding day!—” he whines, his feet flexing and stretching over each other, the rope around his ankles squeaking as he tries to protect himself, “—Not on my wedding day!—” he repeats, his back arching, his lips pressing together as he winces through the ache in his stomach, “—Please, why are you doing this! What the fuck are you doing! Please, not my feet, please, stop tickling me!—”, he is kicking up a fuss like he always does, the spoilt little brat, “—This isn’t right, this, this isn’t fair, you can’t do this to me, please, please, I’m begging you Gordon!—”
I gather his ankles around my chest and I watch him face the inventible.
I ever so gently stroke the soles of his feet with my fingernails, his eyes now so wide open they look like they’re about to bulge out of his head.
“—Oh god, oh my god, please, Gordon, stop—” he whispers quickly, his nostrils flaring, all ten of his toes curling into a panicked splay as I focus on the softness of each arch, “—Why, why are you doing this! Mnn! Mnn, mnn, mnn—” his jaw widens in alarm as he accidentally releases himself, just a small dribble at first, “—Mnn, mnn, no—” his feet are now scrunching into the rope work around his ankles as I invade the base of his toes, “—Mnn, fuck, stop, Gordon, no, stop, stop, stop tick, tickling my, my fee, fee, fee—”, he is trying to pull it back in, I can see his stomach sink inward, however his self control is no longer existent, thanks to how much I have tickled him, how much I have destroyed him, “—Why, why, why—” he whines, a dark patch now arriving around his crotch as his feet twist and grasp in my hold, a strange sense of relief drenching his face as quickly as his urine drenches his expensive designer trousers, “—Why why why …”
Despite actioning such a shameful deliverance, he is still squirming his feet as my fingers stroke away from his heels where I eventually let him go.
“Because I can,” I say.
