C A L I F O R N I A
H A L L O W E E N E V E
1 0 . 3 8 P M
Justin walked through the tall double doors of his Los Angeles mansion, sighing into the darkness as he adjusted the collar and tie to his Balenciaga suit.
“Hey baby, I’m home!” Justin called, flicking on the standing lamp and dumping his house keys into the small wooden bowl sitting on the side table, “Damn, that was one long ass night … Baby?”
Only silence greeted Justin as he slowly walked down the hall and into the giant, dimly lit kitchen, still decorated in fairy lights, with clusters of pumpkins gathered in the middle of the central dining table.
Justin untucked his shirt, ran a hand over his shaved head and then turned his attention to the refrigerator.
Stuck to its surface with a plastic skeleton face magnet was a note.
Justin picked it off whilst slipping his white socked feet out of his chunky Drew trainers, kicking them to the side in a huff as he sat down on one of the tables chairs.
“... 'Hey baby' ... ” Justin read the note in a whisper, “... 'Kendall and Kyle surprised me with a …' blah blah blah … 'It was last minute …' whatever whatever …” Justin frowned, sitting back in the chair, “… 'We won’t be back till early morning, love you, Hayley' …”
Justin screwed up the note and threw it over his shoulder, resting his elbows on his knees.
“… Fuck.”
The only thing getting him through the red carpet, the constant questions, the dull interviews and microphones and journalists and posing and peace signs and small talk was the fact that he’d come home to his wife, some rest, a chance to switch off … With her.
She’d rather get drunk with a Kardashian then spend Halloween with you.
Justin stood, taking his smarty dressed self back to the refrigerator where he pulled open the doors and retrieved a cold beer.
He twisted the cap open with his right hand and then took a big glug, cooling away any anxiety he had regarding his wife’s absence.
“Yo,” Justin raised his voice into the ceiling, “Play ‘I Don’t Care’ by Justin Bieber …”
Justin’s home installed instruction based technology answered in a monotone reply.
“... Hey J.B … Sure. Playing ‘I Don’t Care’ by Justin Bieber, featuring Ed Sheeran …”
Beep.
As Justin smirked at the sound of his own voice now travelling through his home, he strolled casually into the living room, landing himself down on an oversized sofa.
Outside, a shadow passed the glass double doors leading out into Justin’s half acre garden.
Justin paused before taking another sip of beer, the movement distracting him before he had the chance to pick up the remote and turn on the television.
Justin’s thumb hovered over the ‘on’ button, his eyes narrowing out into the nighttime.
After a few seconds of nothing, Justin relaxed back into the sofa and switched on the TV.
Hocus Pocus 2 started to play on a screen that was almost the same size as a small cinema.
Justin kicked his feet onto the footstool, crossing his legs at the ankle, burping into the beer bottle before taking another sip.
To his annoyance, ‘I Don’t Care’ paused and the home phone began to ring.
Justin rolled his eyes, swinging his feet off the footstool, his beer dangling at his side as he left the living room and then walked over marble floors towards the spiral staircase leading to the second floor of his mansion.
At the bottom of the stairs, by an unopened bottle of whiskey and a small vase containing white roses sat Justin and Hayley’s home phone.
Who the fuck is calling at this hour?
This home phone had rung once, maybe twice since they moved into the property two years ago.
And even then it had only either been grandparents or telesales calls …
Justin picked up the phone, clamping it between the side of his face and his right shoulder as he took another swing of his beer.
“Hello—”
> … kktsssshhh … ktzzzzz … <
Just raised both eyebrows, moving the phone away from his ear, the static shooting right into his eardrum.
“… Hello?”
> … kktzzzt … zzzztt …<
Justin went to put the phone back down but before he could do so, a voice nailed down his attention.
> … Justin … <
Justin felt his throat tighten.
> … What makes you laugh, Justin … <
The voice sounded sinister.
It crackled through the line in a grainy, nasty tone that made Justin immediately want to hang up.
So, he did.
He threw the phone down hard, stepping away, taking his bottle of beer to his lips where he took another hesitant sip.
“Freak,” he mumbled.
Justin turned around and headed back towards the living room, ‘I Don’t Care’ coming back on, his own comforting, caramel-style singing soothing him back into a calming state.
Justin spun on his heels, lifting his hands towards his shoulders as he sang along to his track, doing a rhythmic dance along the hall until he arrived back into the living room.
Justin sat back down just as the phone started to ring again.
He clenched his teeth, ignoring the call, focusing his attention on Hocus Pocus 2 playing just three feet away from him.
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiing, riiiiiiiiiiiing, riiiiiiiiiiig …
The phone rang and rang and rang …
And then it stopped.
Justin sighed, slouching into the sofa, finishing his beer.
He jolted as another brisk shadow slid past the window.
Justin shot up to a standing position.
He mouthed the words ‘holy shit’ in silence, his heart beating behind his white shirt.
“Hay … Hayley …?” Justin called, frustrated that he’d unintentionally allowed nerves to cripple his voice, “ … Is that you, baby?”
Justin swallowed down.
He stepped quietly and carefully out of the living room, back into the kitchen, his socked feet making no noise over the tiled floor.
He placed down his bottle of beer, turning to face the staircase as the phone began to ring for a third time.
Justin loosened his tie.
He approached the phone with a fierce stride, picking it up, placing it against his ear, answering it with a viscous, “What the fuck do you want?”
> … ktzzz … zzztzzzz … <
More static, more crackling …
And then, that voice.
> … Justin … <
Justin blinked.
> … I’m going to make you really … Really … Laugh … <
Justin’s thick eyebrows burrowed into a flat frown.
> … Don’t you want to laugh, Justin …? Ha… Ha… Ha… <
Justin shook his head.
“Listen, man. Stop calling this fucking phone … ” He spoke with stern warning, pointing at the floor with all the strength of his index finger.
> … ktzzz … ktssshhhhhhhhh … <
> … I know what will make you really … Really … Laugh, Justin … <
Justin grimaced at the sound of such a disturbing voice, a voice that spoke as if it enjoyed calling strangers, making them feel uncomfortable in their own home on a Sunday night …
“Call again, and I call the cops,” Justin announced.
He then hung up.
He stepped away, he placed both hands over the side of his head and then he made a decision.
He picked his iPhone out from his suit trouser pocket and dialled a quick number.
He paced around impatiently with his iPhone on speaker, holding it by his lips with one hand whilst his other hand tapped nervously against his thigh.
“Yo, Dan, put security on, now … I’ve got some, some damn freak calling the house phone …” Justin grinned in relief, “… Thanks …” he waited for a moment, keeping his eyes on the glass doors at the back of the house, narrowing his stare into an expansive garden blanketed by nighttime.
“Hey!” Justin fist pumped the air, “Thank fuck, look, get, get here as soon as you can,” he demanded, “I’ve uh, I’m … Getting some calls and uh … They’re weirding me out, man, the, they’ve called like, twice in the past ten minutes … No, that’s too long, look … Just do your job and get here as soon as you fucking c—”
Justin nodded slowly, attempting to calm himself, as the security personnel at the head of the phone confirmed their arrival time.
Without saying thank you or goodbye, Justin tapped his thumb over the red phone symbol, terminating the call.
Phone in hand, he walked back towards the kitchen, returning to the refrigerator.
Before he could retrieve another beer, his iPhone began to vibrate in his palm.
He answered it, leaning against the refrigerator in frustration.
“I said as soon as possible! If that’s not gonna work then get someone who—“
> … Ktshhh … <
Justin squeezed his eyes shut.
> … Have you ever been tied up before, Justin …? <
This time Justin decided to play the prank caller at his own game.
“Yes,” Justin spat, “I have. My wife does it all the time! She can't get enough! You hear me? Now listen the fuck up, there’s security surrounding this entire property, so you might as well fucking drop this shit, or they’ll—“
> … Ktzzz … zzzttttt … <
> … From where I’m standing, I can see no security at all … <
Justin bit his upper lip, his eyes widening, his heart sinking.
His mouth went to shape out the word ‘what?’ but he didn’t want to provide the caller with any sense of his own personal alarm, so he kept his verbalised panic to himself.
> … ktzzzz … tzzzz … <
> … Oh, Justin. You really are going to laugh … And laugh … And laugh … And laugh … And laugh … Ha ... Ha ... Ha! <
Justin shot angered eyes up to his mansion's ceiling.
> … You're going to laugh and laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and— <
“—Man! Fucking get a damn life, stop calling me or I’ll—“
> … ktzzzz … <
> — Go to the garden, Justin … I’ve left a … Message … For you, at the patio … <
Justin scrunched up his face.
“Jesus, man … Like fuck I’m gonna do what you say, you mother—“
> — Naughty boy … Save the swearing for later, for when you’re sweating, lacking energy, unable to breathe … <
The voice deepened, a threatening tone drenching it’s delivery
> … Now, be a good little spoilt millionaire and do as I say … Go to the patio …”
Justin held his iPhone against his chest.
He lowered his head, staring down at the whites of his socked feet.
This is bad.
This is fucking bad.
He stepped around the corner of the living room wall, his eyes trailing past carpet and through two closed glass doors.
On the patio sat a small wooden antique box.
Justin checked the time on his phone.
Security would be here in less than twenty minutes.
Can I keep talking to this fucker until then?
“What's uh, what’s inside …?” Justin asked, in an attempt to prolong the conversation with the prank caller at the other end of the line.
> “ … Well, Justin … You’ll just have to open it up and find out, won’t you, my delicious looking pop boy …” <
Justin cringed at the given title, the sound of the guys voice, the perverse threat …
He’d had strange DM’s, weird letters sent through the door, fans suggesting some unique stuff …
But nothing quite like this phone call.
Justin could literally feel the power sliding through his fingertips.
He felt helpless, alone, and watched …
Damn.
You’re Justin fucking Bieber.
Nobody messes with you.
“No,” Justin declared, “You can keep your fucking box, you fucking freak.”
He could hear his wife’s voice in his head.
Don’t anger them, baby.
Do as they say.
Justin ignored the sensible thoughts running through his mind, instead choosing to listen to the static coming through the phone instead.
> … ktszzz … ktshhhh … <
> … Oh … Oh kay … <
Suddenly, through the home’s speakers, a gentle giggling started to sound out into Justin’s mansion.
The giggles turned to laughter, the laughter turned into hysterical bellows.
Justin shot looks from left to right as he stumbled across the hall, his back pressing into the wall.
“What the fuck!”
The laughter grew louder and louder, to the point where it reached deafening levels.
> … HAHAHAHAHAHAHA-HAHAHAHAHAHA-HAHAHAHAHAHHA-AHHAAAHAHAHAHAH … <
Justin clamped one hand over his right ear, using his phone to clamp down on his left.
The laughter turned into desperate begging.
> … NO, PLEASE STOP, HAHAHAHAHA, I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE, PLE-EE-HEE-HEEASE … <
The begging became so loud that Justin could feel it vibrate through the soles of his feet.
“Alright alright!” Justin broke, “Stop, damn, turn it off!”
The distressing sounds cut off immediately.
Only Justin’s startled breathing filled the mansion's many walls.
iPhone in hand, he began to approach the living room.
Once at the glass doors, he used his fingertips to slide them apart, allowing the cool rush of evening breeze to press against his face.
Los Angeles’ twinkling lights sparkled hundreds of feet below the other end of his garden, outlined by Greek stone waist high walls, neatly trimmed bushes and palm trees.
At his feet: the antique box.
> … ktzzz … <
> … That laughter was pretty loud, wasn’t it, Justin … <
Justin ignored the person on the other side of the phone and picked up the box.
He then took gentle steps backward, his socked feet stepping over the patio and then returning to soft carpet.
> … Have you ever laughed like that before, Justin … <
Justin had to tighten his hold on his iPhone instead of giving into the urge to throw it across the living room in anger.
He spoke into it calmly, his voice reserved and controlled.
“… Shut the fuck up, man …”
Justin placed the box down over the footstool and then flicked open its lid with his free hand, his right hand still holding his iPhone close to his mouth.
Justin stood quietly, about to read out the scribbled wording on a small crumpled sheet of paper that lay inside the box, but before he could do so, the voice did it for him.
However, the voice didn’t come from the phone, it came from behind Justin.
“… Cootchie coo!”
Justin spun around in a frantic twirl, dropping his phone in panic.
He faced a tall, broad shouldered person dressed from head to toe in leather, a plastic clown mask strapped to their face.
The mask, littered in aged details, wrinkles, sharp yellow teeth and with bright red hair sprouting from its skull, slowly tilted to the left, its blank stare fixed and horrifying.
Before Justin could make a run for it, The Clown lifted a gun up to Justin’s face.
Justin held up his hands in surrender, his eyes squeezing shut, flinching in fear for his life.
“No, man, fuck, please, God—“
The Clown pulled the trigger.
Click!
Justin winced.
Instead of a bullet firing from the other side, a metal stick popped out, it’s end reaching just inches away from Justin’s nose.
From the stick … A tiny black flag unravelled ...
On the flag the words ‘HA, HA, HA’ had been scribbled in red ink.
Justin opened his eyes.
From the barrel of the gun a cloud of red smoke puffed outward.
The Clown kept the weapon in position, the terrifying mask now tilting to the right.
“ … Tim to play …” The Clown declared, with a gentle giggle.
Justin coughed, the red smoke invading his mouth and nostrils almost too suddenly.
“… No, f-fuck …”
He felt his knees grow weak, his vision blur, his footing becoming unsteady …
“ … You … You mother fu-uhh …”
… The person behind the clown mask grinned in success as they watched the twenty eight year old pass out, where he landed on his living room floor with a thud.
SOME TIME LATER
AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
Justin peeled his eyes open, the bright surroundings immediately causing him to wince.
A ringing in his ears …
An ache in his head …
Holy … Holy shit …
What hap—
—Justin went to rub his eyes, but his hands were restrained above him by fastened leather cuffs, at either side of his head.
He shook his arms, his nostrils flaring, his face frantically twisting from left to right.
As he woke, he gradually took in his current situation.
The leather theme continued.
His head pressed into the panel behind him - this too seemed to be made of leather.
As he moved in what appeared to be a chair, his butt and legs felt the softness of leather underneath them.
His legs were hooked up in front of him, the lower end of the chair lifted somewhat.
Justin eyed his white socked feet, poking out the other end of a set of wooden stocks secured to the end of this leather device.
Leather, leather, leather …
Justin tried to pull his feet through the holes of the stocks but they wouldn’t fit.
He yanked at the wrist restraints, his forehead burning red, the chains connecting the cuffs clanking and clinking as he attempted his first try at an escape.
Still in his suit, with his loosened collar and tie ruffled up around his neck, Justin could do nothing but sit and sweat out his concern, his head turning to the side as he explored his setting with a disturbed gaze.
Justin sat locked into this contraption, in a small square white room, its ceiling full of bright lights with no windows…
And only one rich oak wooden door in the middle of the opposite wall.
Justin inhaled a deep, stuffy breath of air.
He closed his eyes, acknowledged his fast beating heart, pressed his lips together.
He wouldn’t let the panic get the better of him.
You can get out of this.
When he opened his eyes, his worried stare landed on a tiny camera fixed into the top left corner of this tiny, clinically baron room.
The camera aimed directly at him.
Justin stared into the lens of the camera, his fingers flexing out, his feet wiggling from side to side.
“Yo, uh, who, whoever’s there …” Justin ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth, “… Just, just let me out, alright? If it’s money you want, uh … Cars, uh, stuff, anything, I… I can figure it out …”
Justin watched the camera in silence as it looked back at him quietly.
He then twisted his head to the right, stretching his body upward as much as his bonds would allow, his mouth opening wide, his neck craning out towards the cuff attached to his right wrist.
He tried to bite at the restraint, pulling his arm towards his head, veins bulging around his throat in desperation.
He even sent out his tongue, but the tip of the pink fleshy muscle did nothing but brush against the metal buckle, meaning biting or chewing his way out of this would be a useless act.
Justin slumped into his seat suddenly as the door opposite cranked open.
The Clown presented themselves.
Dressed in the same head to toe leather suiting, with the same hideous mask placed over their head, The Clown stepped into the room.
For a brief second, Justin could hear the sound of people talking, movement, bustling outside.
That murmur of sounds sound disappeared as soon as The Clown shut the door.
Justin adjusted himself in the chair as The Clown stood two feet away, hands by their side, their husky breathing puffing against the inside of their mask.
Justin chuckled into his chest.
“This is ... This fucking ridiculous, man …” his eyes left The Clown and shot back up to the ceiling camera, “… Alright, Ellen … Hayley, Corden … Whoever the fuck is messing with me? You got me, we’re done, alright?"
The Clown took their index finger and slowly placed it over the sharp plastic of their rotten yellow teeth.
Justin closed his mouth, his eyes darting back down from the camera to The Clown.
The Clown then approached Justin’s feet.
Justin smirked, shaking his head in disbelief.
The Clown, still with their hands by their side, cleared their throat and began to speak in the same sinister tone that they had presented via the phone line.
“Do you know what I’m going to do with you, Justin?”
Justin maintained his smirk, lifting his shoulders, raising both eyebrows.
“Pfft, yeah. I’m uh, I'm not a dumbass …”
The Clown tilted its head to the left.
“Oh? Please … Do elaborate …”
Justin gestured to the restraints attached to his wrists, then nodded down to the stocks, “Be, being strung up, like this, the … The sounds you played through my home … A damn clown, at halloween?” Justin tutted, “You said you wanted to make me laugh …”
The Clown tilted their head again, this time to the right.
“And? Your conclusion?”
Justin lowered his head, glaring up at The Clown.
“You’re gonna try to tickle me.”
The Clown remained still.
Justin embraced the silence, smiling in accomplishment, finding confidence in the fact that he had showcased how much of a step ahead he was in this current scenario.
Justin shot a playful glare back at the camera.
“See! Do your damn worst, I don't care! I hope you get this shit on camera!”
The Clown placed both hands slowly on their hips, their leather gloved palms squeaking against the material covering their body.
“You … You really do think this is all a prank, don’t you … Justin?”
Justin turned away from the camera, laughing out into the stale air in entertainment.
“Man, give it up, I’ve got you, bro. Take off the mask. I bet five hundred bucks you’re James Corden …”
The Clown remained in their position.
“You’ve been scared by celebrity interviewers before, made to … Endure … Gunge dunks and activities on television where you embarrass yourself for fun, for a laugh … Am I correct?” The Clown asked.
Justin frowned, nodding a few times before shrugging.
“Yeah, so, just take off the ma—“
“— Hayley was always leaving fake turds in the kitchen,” The Clown interrupted, “Or boo-ing you out of the blue once you’d taken that fine ass out of the shower…”
Justin’s panicked heart rate began to return.
How do they know …
“You think you’ve figured this out,” The Clown cackled, “You think you’re ahead of the game … Believe me, the people who’ve organised this … We’re not people you know … We’re not your friends …”
The Clown pinched the cotton toe of Justin’s right sock.
“… And you're going to regret asking that we 'do our worst' ..."
Justin clenched his teeth, keeping his feet still, his eyes narrowing down towards The Clown’s fingers, fingers that had started to gather up the material of Justin’s sock.
The Clown gently pulled the sock upward, it’s stretch reaching high up as the white cotton began to expose Justin’s right heel.
Justin smirked, sitting up, his nostrils flaring.
I can take it.
It’s, it's just tickling.
Man, I thought the freak was gonna stab me up or something …
The Clown let go of the sock, half of it now hanging over Justin’s foot, his sole bare up to his arch.
The Clown began to remove their leather gloves.
Justin watched manly, long hairy hands reveal themselves.
That’s when he started to feel even more uncomfortable.
For a second, he really did think it might be Ellen, or James, or, damn, despite the build being so muscular, potentially even Khloe Kardashian?
No, fuck, this, this freaks a dude…
A dude is gonna tickle me?
“Man, al-alright,” Justin cleared his throat, containing his keen interest for this to finish, “That’s, that's enough, we’re cool. Take off the mask ...”
The Clown ignored Justin, dropping his gloves to the floor, then pinching the tip of his left sock, where he began to tug it off also.
Justin wriggled his left foot, in an attempt to pull it away, but this movement only helped The Clown yank the sock further away from Justin’s foot, leaving it in the same position as his right.
Justin now sat with both socks only half removed from his feet, their cotton ends dangling off his still-covered toes.
Justin kept his cool.
He maintained a calm exterior, confident and cocky, willing to deal with this as if it didn’t effect him.
He’d give The Clown nothing, he’d disappoint the freak, make him want to untie him due to boredom.
He watched The Clown draw circles in the air with his index fingers.
Those circling fingers then made their way closer to Justin’s heels.
Justin shuffled forwards, his eyes watching The Clown’s hands the entire time.
Justin kept his eyes open as The Clown’s index fingers landed on the bottoms of his feet.
They began to scratch gently over his smooth, bulbous heels, making their way further up his soles and towards the area still covered by sock.
Justin felt sweat form beneath his pits, at the sides of his head.
He pressed his lips together and offered The Clown a satisfied, comfortable smile.
Justin shook his head.
“It’s n-not gonna work, man …” Justin shrugged, “… I’m not ticklish.”
The Clown continued his circular draw over each lower half of Justin’s soles.
Justin sat quietly, his face growing a little red, but his reactions otherwise minimal.
The Clown questioned if this was the right way to punish Justin after all.
The Clown let go of Justin’s feet and stepped back in disappointment.
Justin relaxed into his seat, knowing all too well that in around five minutes time this fucker would be releasing him.
“You picked the wrong guy,” Justin declared smugly, “I haven’t been ticklish since I was a kid.”
The Clown stood still and silent.
Justin opened his mouth, ready to announce more puffed up declarations, but The Clown raised both hands and began to wiggle their fingers towards Justin’s upper body.
“ … Cootchie, cootchie coo …” The Clown began to tip toe closer to Justin, “… I don’t believe yoooouuuu-hooooo …”
Justin grinned, shaking his head once again, watching the fingers approach his torso.
“You’re wa, wasting your time, man …”
Justin’s confidence began to crumble as The Clown’s wiggling fingers got closer and closer to his ribcage.
“ … I think it’s time we made you laugh, Justin …”
Justin couldn’t help but let dread saturate his face as he watched The Clown’s fingers travel up his sides without touching them, past his black tie and the buttons of his shirt where they then hovered around each of his armpits.
Justin began to giggle nervously, still semi convinced that the person under the mask was a friend or someone he knew.
“Al, alright, man, you’ve, you've got me, come on, take off the mask—”
—Suddenly, The Clown threw their fingers into Justin’s pits, digging into their sweaty, hairy centre with aggressive force.
Justin threw his head backward.
He screamed into the ceiling, his legs kicking so wildly that his socks flicked off his feet, exposing them entirely.
The Clown slid quickly behind the chair, taking Justin by surprise, the sinister plastic mask staring down at Justin’s alarmed face as strong, violently invasive fingers buried themselves into the middle of Justin’s underarms.
Without wanting to and without any choice, Justin heaved out hysterical laughter, bellowing madness and breathless agony into his lap as The Clown positioned himself directly behind the chair, in the perfect spot to relentlessly tickle both of Justin’s armpits at the same time.
“… Cootchie cootchie coo! You were lying, weren’t yooooou?”
Justin bucked up and down, his toes flexing outward in a desperate stretch, his fists balled up tightly, his face scrunched into an expression showcasing complete and utter despair.
“ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT STOP, FUCK STOP, FUCK--”
The Clown continued their attack, not leaving each pit and, if anything, going deeper, harder, faster …
Justin had been tickled hundreds of times in his life, by friends, family, girlfriends …
But not like this.
This thirteen seconds so far of tickling had already been the most tickled he’d been in his twenty eight years of living.
And they’d only just started.
“… So cocky, so sure, all for a few minutes!” The Clown took on a deep, growling tone as his fingers pressed into the sensitive flesh that made up the curve of Justin’s pecs, “Tell me you were lying, you fucker!”
Justin arched his back, squeezed his eyes shut, his mind almost imploding at just how ticklish this felt.
“ALRIGHT ALRIGHT I LIED I’M TICKLISH ALRIGHT DAMN FUCK STOP--”
The Clown giggled like some sort of menacing demon, burrowing their fingers further into the sweaty delves.
“Do you want me to stop making you laugh, Justin?”
Justin screamed out his reply.
“YES, FUCK, PLEASE, FUCK, YES--”
The Clown sent their fingers up to Justin’s neck.
“Cootchie coooo,” said The Clown, “I’ll stop if you tell me to tickle your feetie-poooo’s!”
Justin squashed his jaw and chin into his collarbone as the fingers made their way around the ticklish muscles around his throat.
“Ack! Fuck, stop! Fuck, acckk—”
The Clown returned to Justin’s pits, circling their index fingers into the warm, soaked depths, causing the young pop star to further writhe around in anguished despair.
The Clown’s voice shifted to animalistic and angry, once more.
“… Do it, Justin! … Tell me to tickle your feet and I’ll stop, you damn pussy!”
Justin felt his lungs burn, his stomach grow tight, his arms and shoulders throb with a sharp ache.
Damnit!
There’s no way I can take this, not on my feet.
No.
Keep going, he’ll get tired soon …
Fuck!
The Clown persisted in his dig, such strong digits forcing their way into the fleshy caverns existing underneath the sweat soaked cotton that made up Justin’s shirt, a shirt he had calmly worn on the red carpet just hours ago, a shirt that now clung drenched to every shape of his upper torso.
This.
This ...
This fucking sucks!
Justin had no choice but to make this stop …
Even if it were just for a moment …
Even if it did mean taking the focus from one ticklish area to an area far more ticklish than anywhere else on his body.
With miserable reluctance he breathed in hard and then shouted out The Clown’s request.
“ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT -- TICKLE MY DAMN FEET, TICKLE MY GODDAMN FEET, FUCK—”
—The Clown’s fingers left Justin’s underarms.
Justin’s weight fell into the seat with an almighty thud.
He sucked up dribble, rubbed his forehead over his shoulder, coughed into his chest.
He lifted his head, veins bulging around his temple, bloodshot eyes staring at The Clown’s mask, a slow realisation settling in that this was indeed stranger, not a friend or someone playing a practical prank …
“Fuck … Fuck …” Justin licked dry lips, “… You’re … This is … This isn’t a, a joke, is … Is …”
Justin glared up at the camera in the corner of the ceiling, a camera he had convinced had been wired there by some TV show, a camera he now felt too aware would be capturing every second of his demise into tormented oblivion.
The Clown giggled, tiptoeing towards the stocks at the bottom of the chair.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful, if I removed my mask and I were someone you knew, someone you trusted, someone who would fill you with relief! Unfortunately, dear tickle toy, I'm none of those things …” The Clown’s voice deepened, “… I’m your worst nightmare.”
Justin’s hands dangled limply from their bonds.
The Clown then stepped back, folding his arms, his leather suit squeaking as he did so.
Justin tried to catch his breath, he tried to compartmentalise his thoughts, still in shock that he’d just been tickled, like that, in that way, so forcefully, so against his will …
Justin looked into his lap, worry blanketing his face.
“Are you--" *cough* "--Are you gonna do this all, all d—“
The Clown stepped towards the stocks, hunching over Justin’s legs, his voice transforming from playful and fun to dark and evil within a second.
“--All day! All week, heck, maybe even till Christmas! I’m gonna make you laugh so hard you’re gonna wish you were never born!”
Justin swallowed down a dry stiffness, turning his head away in despair.
The Clown clapped his hands in excitement, his voice returning to pleasant and teasing.
“Oh my! Such pretty, pretty feet …” he admired, pacing back, “… You kicked your socks off all by yourself… How clever! And, how … Silly of you … To tell me to tickle them …!”
Justin glared at The Clown, speaking through gritted teeth.
“You made me ask, asshole …”
The Clown unfolded his arms and then pressed them against his sides.
He stood still and silent, for five seconds, ten, fifteen …
To the point where Justin sat up in concern.
“Uh, hello? Dickhead? What the fuck is—“
—Suddenly, all the lights went out.
Pewwwww.
Justin gasped, his sight now blinded by darkness.
“Fuck, shit — fuck …” he whispered under his breath.
Had a power cut saved him?
Are the cops here?
Hayley must’ve noticed I was …
My security must've ...
Justin panted, his toes curling in anticipation, the quiet becoming almost as teasing as the tickling.
“Yo! Where, where’d you go, what, what are you—“
Abruptly, from the corners of the small, humid rooms ceiling, that same audio laughter that had been played in his mansion started to play out via hidden speakers.
It started quiet at first and then built up in volume.
Justin pulled at his wrists restraints, he yanked his knees towards his chest, he cussed under his breath.
> “… AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH-HAHAHAHAHAHA-HAHHAHAHA-HAHAHHAAHAA …” <
The laughter grew louder.
And louder.
And louder.
Justin jolted in his seat as he felt fingertips press against each of his soles.
“Fuck, no, shit, wait—“
Those fingers then began to scratch under the toes of his left foot, over the arch of his right.
Justin curled his fingers around his cuffs, lifting his butt off the seat in a wild frenzy, the tickling at his feet too sudden, too out of the blue, too constant and repetitive.
He dropped back down into the chair with a bounce, giving into the tickling, fumbling into a free-fall of heavy, deep, grainy laughter, laughter mixed up and blended with the loud static laughter currently filling the room from speakers unseen.
He thrashed around as The Clown tickled his soles, in darkness, the noise overwhelming him just as much as the tickling taking place at the bottom of his feet.
Justin begged and screamed, but no noise came out of his mouth - any vocalisation, any sound was just muted by the extra volume of laughter vibrating through the tiny room.
> “ … AHAHAHAHAHAH-HAHAHAHAH-AHAHAHAHAHAHAH-HAHAHAHAHA …”<
Justin felt dribble fall out of the side of his mouth as The Clown violated the betweens of his toes with sharp fingernails, their fleshy lengths tickled non stop, sweat from his feet producing a natural lubricant that made the whole thing that much worse.
The Clown was right.
This was a nightmare.
His worst nightmare.
A nightmare he had tried to trick his captor into thinking wouldn’t be a big deal.
One minute he stood on the red carpet, talking about his latest album, and then a few hours later, he sat, tied here, tickled beyond comprehension …
Without any given consent …
Without the ability to hear …
And, without his sight.
Damn this!
He couldn’t see which part of his feet were being tickled next, he needed visuals to at least prepare himself for the next invasive stroke of the arch or scratch of the heel, poke of the toe or grab of the pinkie …
All he could do was react to touch; one second it would be around both big toes at once and then it would be over the sides of his feet, then the tops, then the bottoms …
No.
There’s, there’s more than one.
In his delirium, Justin acknowledged more than ten fingers.
“--Please, please, please—" heave — "Fuck, fuck, fuck —" heave — "Damn, fuck, how, how, how many of you fu-fuckers are there--”
Justin winced as teeth chewed down over his right little toe.
He then gasped as what felt like thick oil drizzling down over the sole of his left foot.
In the pure darkness, he had no choice but to endure and allow, to scream and beg, to laugh and giggle incessantly …
A tongue made its way into his right ear …
Someone grabbed at his left knee …
Five, ten, fifteen additional fingers travelled up and down the soles of his feet.
Justin became frantic and disturbed, his feet taken by what felt like hundreds of hands, his body bucking and bouncing around on a chair now shifting across the room due to the force of his muscular weight.
He had always been an extremely ticklish person.
That’s the reason why The Clown had found him, the reason The Clown had made this happen …
The Clown had ensured they’d get him this way.
For The Clown, this was a dream come true.
And for Justin, this would be something he’d never forget.
And that had always been The Clown’s aim.
Wait, what—
—My, my toes —
—Fuck!
Justin hissed as he felt his toes be pulled back.
What felt like string started to loop around each toe…
“NO, NO, NO--” Justin cried.
His little toe first, then the one beside that, then the one next to that …
Justin took a moment to pull so hard at the wrist restraints that his eyes bulged out of his head and his teeth clenched so hard together he didn’t care if they cracked.
The string looping through each toe caused Justin to give into an escape, arch his back and bellow out uncontrollable laughter, through a throat now bulging against the collar and tie of his shirt.
“FUCK, SHIT, NO, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE FUCK, LE-LEAVE THE, THE DAMN TOES AL—“
Suddenly the lights came back on.
Justin winced, his eyes narrowing, the tickling stopping.
He fell into the seat, the return of brightness showcasing just how sweat-drenched Justin now appeared.
His white shirt sat clung to his abs, chest and shoulders, his tie hung loosely at his side.
His feet were now toe tied, pinned back to the top of the stocks his ankles were secured in.
His soles shimmered, covered in a thick, wet layer of baby oil.
Justin spluttered out disbelief, his position, his situation, so far removed from how he thought he’d be spending his Halloween.
He had been captured, tormented, abused … And he had no idea when, or if, this would ever end.
The Clown stood with their hands behind their back, alone, without any additional clowns that a paranoid Justin now considered he may of made up...
The Clown tilted his head to the left, once again, slowly.
Justin blinked his vision clearer, his feet tingling, his toes now fixed back in a way they had never been fixed before …
He thrived on normality.
Sure, he was one of the world's most famous people …
But he lived a quiet life, with his wife and their dogs.
He had spent so long trying to stay out of the spotlight, only doing things on his terms, when he wanted, how he wanted.
I’d been good.
And now, he sat here, like this …
Justin glared up at The Clown.
“You … You fucking freak …” Justin spat his anger out, unable to keep it down after being pushed in such an abnormal way, by something he thought would ‘just be tickling’, something he thought would be harmless, achievable, completely doable … “… You fucking, get, get the fuck off with this kinda shit, you mother fucking weirdo! I’ll fucking, I’ll, I’ll, I’ll—“
The Clown sniggered behind his plastic mask.
Instead of saying, ‘or you’ll do what?’, The Clown calmly and casually asked:
“— Do you know what tickle torture is, Justin?”
The Clown tiptoed from side to side.
Justin took in a deep breath, sighing out frustration, rage and irritation.
He pointed at The Clown with both index fingers, his wrists still pinned up and above, either side of him.
“ … This …” he answered in a breathless croak, playing ball, for now, mostly to buy time, mostly to fill his air with lungs, to do anything but be tickled, “ … The shit you’re doing t-to me now …”
The Clown revealed from behind his back a pink leather gag.
Attached to the end of the gag - a paper, multicoloured party horn.
Justin eyed the gag with immediate concern.
For him, this was the ‘serious point’.
He understood clowns and audio laughter, tickles and kink …
So far, he hadn’t been hurt.
However, the gag …
That symbolised a whole other world of worry.
The Clown dangled the gag in the air, hanging it from his index finger and thumb.
“… Have you ever been tickled like this before, Justin?”
Justin shifted in his seat, confused as to why The Clown would ask such a question.
Has anyone been tickled this way before?
Justin shook his head in defeat, a droplet of sweat rolling down the bridge of his nose.
“ … Will you remember this, for the rest of your life, Justin?” The Clown asked.
Justin felt his eyes water.
He slowly nodded his head.
“… Tickle torture!” The Clown danced around Justin, dangling the gag around his face, “It’s a wonderful thing! It’s tickling your victim, so damn much, until they just can’t take it any longer!”
The Clown maintained his high pitched, playful tone, spinning and twirling around the back of Justin’s chair, “Until they’ve had enough, until they’re begging, crying, pleading …” The Clown bounced around in excitement, “… Until they give in, entirely!”
Justin huffed, flexing out fingers that had been clenched for too long, his eyes staring down at the stocks, taking in just how bound his feet felt, how restricted his toes were.
“Listen, man, alright, you win. I give, o-okay? We’re done, we’re over, I’ll give you anything you want, anything, any—“
The Clown cackled, arriving at dancing gradually towards the stocks, taking a few dancing steps closer to Justin’s baby oil drenched soles.
The Clown’s voice returned to that heavy growl, that demonic tone, that ‘other side’ to it’s already twisted personality.
"... I have everything I want right here ... "
He approached Justin’s head, the gag nearing his mouth.
Getting closer…
And closer …
And closer …
“… Now, open wide, Justin … We’ve only just begun …”
‘CLOWN’ CONTINUES IN CHAPTER TWO, ‘ESCAPE’