This story features characters that are also in Timothée Chalamet’s Ticklish Last Resort and Joshua’s Worship
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L O N D O N
Harvey sat in the photography studio drenched in sweat, droplets of perspiration falling off the tip of his nose as he squinted at the camera light, its blinding shine illuminating his topless body, highlighting the glow of exhaustion around his stomach and chest.
… Huff, huff, huff …
“What’s the string for?” Harvey asked breathlessly, his hands strapped behind his back.
“Your feet are moving around too much,” one of his ticklers replied, “I’m going to have to tie your toes together.”
Harvey’s eyes widened.
“You what? Tie my toes together… ?” He shook his head, licking his lips, “Nah, no way. Don’t even try it, mate …”
Harvey had been consensually restrained onto a raised chair-like structure, wooden panels outlining his waist and back, his legs stretched out in front of him, his ankles secured together by individual chunky rubber cuffs that had been nailed into the chairs surface, his bare feet poking out the other side.
A metal hook pointed out of the top of each cuff, their purpose a mystery up until now.
“So, go ahead,” his other tickler taunted, “Try and stop us.”
Harvey chuckled, shuffling forwards, his eyebrows lifting, his jaw dropping, his blue eyes twinkling in concern …
“Nah, ha, hang on a sec, don’t, don’t be piss takers,” he began to twist his feet from left to right, the closer his tickler approached his toes, the severity of his bound, unable-to-escape reality settling in more than ever, “Come on, put the, put the string away, you bloody bast—“
Harvey bit his lower lip, giggling and cursing into his chest as his tickler began to tie his big toes together, the string itself tickling Harvey thanks to its delicate glide and sharp loop around such a sensitive, fleshy part of his feet.
Harvey’s soles had been tickled relentlessly for the best part of forty minutes, mostly by the sharp nibs of two feathers on each foot at the same time, something his tickler’s hadn’t expected to be so effective but had otherwise proved extremely powerful in transforming Harvey from cheeky, enthusiastic pop star to an exhausted, panting heap.
At least he only had twenty minutes left …
… Or so he thought.
Harvey hissed and winced, narrowing his eyes as his big toes were restrained tightly together, his ankles bound side by side, his legs fixed into position.
“Ahhh fuck,” Harvey huffed defeatedly, “I, I fuckin’ … I, I can’t move at all,” he tutted, shifting his feet apart by millimetres only, rolling his eyes up to the studio's concrete ceiling, “This is taking the mick …”
Harvey’s ticklers chuckled, picking up a feather each, turning them around so that the sharpness of their quills faced Harvey’s soles once again.
“Alright,” the tickler to the left said, “Where were we?”
T W O W E E K S E A R L I E R
‘ T h e M a n ’
Harvey stepped out of the white limousine, his high-topped right foot landing on the London sidewalk curb, camera flashes greeting him from all angles.
He popped on oversized sunglasses, smiled at the press and then shaped his fingers into the peace sign, his bodyguards arriving at his side where they helped escort him through the crowds of fans shouting his name until he safely made it into the hotel lobby.
Models, Influencers and other celebrities had already headed to the top floor where the after party to a movie premiere had already started.
“It’s alright from here, lads. Go on, have a good night, neck some beers for me,” Harvey patted one of his bodyguards shoulder.
They both nodded with a smile, leaving Harvey by himself as he headed towards the elevator.
The metal doors slid open, revealing a smartly dressed man in his mid thirties.
He wore a black suit, had blonde slicked back hair, a faint tan and a moustache.
“Going up?” The Man asked.
Harvey jumped into the elevator, the doors sliding shut, The Man stepping aside to give Harvey some room.
As the elevator began its climb, The Man turned towards Harvey, who stood in a denim jacket, white t-shirt, black skinny jeans and sneakers - a lot more casual than The Man’s expensive attire.
“Are you going to the party?” The Man asked.
Harvey flashed a smile, “Yeah, I just came out of the film.”
The Man cocked an eyebrow.
“I’ve heard terrible reviews …”
Harvey shrugged, the elevator reaching the top floor with a ping.
“I’ll be honest, I fell asleep through half of it,” Harvey chuckled, leaving the elevator, where he turned to The Man with a polite wave, “Have a good night, mate.”
The Man smiled, the elevator doors closing, however he remained still.
“Oh, I’m sure I will,” he said to himself, as the doors closed with a gentle clank.
Later in the evening, after too many shots, a few glasses of wine, a beer and a dance with some of the female models, Harvey found himself sat by himself at the bar, with many of the guests already intending to head home.
The Man from the elevator placed a hand on Harvey’s shoulder.
“Last one standing?”
Harvey smirked, his eyes glazed over, his body swaying from left to right.
“Ss… Story of my life, mate,” he replied, in a tipsy tone.
The Man gestured to the barman, who walked over to him and Harvey.
“Can I get two vodkas with lemonade and ice … No lime.”
As the barman went to make the requested drinks, Harvey protested in a slur.
“No, I’ve … I’ve had too much, honestly, a glass —“
*hiccup*
“—a glass of water would be—“
“—You’re the HRVY,” The Man interrupted, nudging the singer’s side, “You can take one more drink.”
Harvey’s smirk splayed out into a playful grin as he consented to another bout of alcohol, just as the DJ began to wind down the evening with some chilled dance music.
“Sorry to uh,” Harvey hid a burp with the back of his hand, “Sorry to be rude, but, I, I don’t recognise you, mate …” he frowned, his drunken eyes analysing The Man’s face, “… What have you been in? Love at First Sight … No, Love is Blind … No! Love Island?”
The Man couldn’t help but laugh.
“I know what you’re thinking: Tall, attractive, muscular - but this may shock you - I’d never step foot on shows like that…”
Harvey held his hands up in surrender.
“Alright, alright—“
*hiccup*
“—Ss, sorry, mister too cool for sch—“
“—I’m an agent,” The Man announced, “I make things happen, for people. At a cost.”
Harvey leaned on the edge of the bar as the barman returned with two vodkas and lemonade, without the lime.
“Oh?” Harvey picked up his drink, taking a sip, wincing at the strength of the alcohol, “So you’re a powerful Love Island contestant …”
*hiccup*
The Man acknowledged how drunk Harvey seemed.
This will be easier than I thought.
“Yes, that’s right,” The Man spoke into the surface of his vodka, “A very powerful Love Island contestant indeed,” he rolled his eyes and took a sip of his drink.
“Alright big shot,” Harvey felt his curiosity lift, “What would you make happen for me?”
The Man chewed on some ice, pressing his lips together in thought.
He then delivered his words calmly, with clear authority, not stuttering or mumbling once, almost as if he had planned the answer to Harvey’s question before Harvey had even asked it.
“I would give you a number one album and a number one single, consecutively, and make it last for well over a month.”
Harvey’s eyes widened.
“You … You can do that?” He swallowed down another hiccup, holding his drink under his chin, “Prove it,” he narrowed his eyes.
The Man turned around, resting both elbows behind him on the bar's surface.
He eyed some of the remaining guests at the event; other young pop stars, a boy band, a male model kissing one of the servers in the darkest corner of the space…
“Most young men here have got what they want, because of me. Feel free to go up to them. Ask any of them, they’ll tell you …”
Harvey felt his cheeks boil red.
He blew his lips together, “Pfft … You expect me to go over to one of them and, and ask if they got their, their success because of what? Some blonde bloke with a tash? You’re having a laugh, mate.”
The Man lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug.
He slid his hand inside his suit jacket, pulling out his iPhone, showing his photo album to Harvey.
Harvey shed a blurred focus over pictures of The Man standing side by side with Rupert Murdoch at press events and posh looking dinners.
He swiped his thumb over images of The Man on vacation with Simon Cowell, DJ Shadow, Michael Jackson, Linda Perry and many other famous music producers …
He ended his brief and voiceless presentation on a picture of him side by side with The UK’s Prime Minister.
“Feel free to ask all of them, instead,” said The Man.
Harvey hadn’t realised how far his jaw had dropped.
He closed his mouth, wiped vodka away from his lips and then turned his focus back to The Man.
“What do I have to do?” He asked.
Harvey expected to hear The Man explain that he would have to spend more time in the studio, in an effort to create this ‘number one single’, this already declared ‘number one album’ …
He waited for The Man to put him in touch with one of the producers he’d drunk cocktails on beaches with, or to introduce him to someone helpful at the party …
But instead, The Man delivered a proposal unlike anything Harvey could expect.
“Do you have a backlog of music? Unreleased songs, an archive of work, like most artists?” The Man asked.
Harvey nodded quickly.
“Yeah, got tons, mate.”
*hiccup*
“Good. Now, what you will need to do is rather simple; You must endure one hour of tickle torture, actioned by me and a friend,” The Man finished his drink, flaring his nostrils as the vodka landed in his stomach.
Harvey blinked.
“The session would be held in a private studio in North London,” The Man continued, “You will be loosely restrained, for safety purposes, with the entire thing being filmed for personal and private use. We’ll all sign NDA’s to ensure the footage is never seen by the press or public. Then, you go home, you send me your archive, your management team details, and within two weeks I’ll deliver my promise. It’s as easy as that.”
Harvey remained silent.
He carefully and slowly placed his half drank vodka down at the bar.
He cleared his throat, stepping away, his eyes trailing up and down The Man from his slicked back blonde hair to his shining leather loafers.
The Man sensed Harvey’s concern.
“If you do it tonight, it’ll all happen sooner,” The Man pressed.
Harvey felt comfortable with the new amount of distance he had created between him and this stranger.
“Wait, ok, so, let me … Let me get this straight,” Harvey pinched the bridge of his nose, The Man’s serious delivery sobering him up quicker than he realised, “You, you actually expect me to let you tickle me, whilst tied up … And it gets filmed? And, and, and …” Harvey clapped his hands together three times, “… Bish, bash, bosh, that’s it, all done and dusted? I mean, come on mate that’s pretty weird to say the—”
“—Are you ticklish, Mr. Cantwell?” The Man asked, tilting his head a little to the left.
Harvey scoffed, “This, this is a joke, right? You’re gonna make me agree to this shit and then you’re gonna reveal that it’s a, a prank or something and, and then everyones going to see how fuckin’ …” Harvey looked down at the floor, speaking under his breath, “… How, how desperate I am …”
Harvey began to shift eyes around the area, scouting out for concealed cameras or any TV presenters in hiding.
The Man delivered his next question with just the same calm authority as his first.
“Are you desperate, Harvey?”
Harvey laughed into his chest, shaking his head.
The wine, the vodka, the beers inside him wanted him to say:
‘Yes! Yes I’m bloody desperate.’
‘I’ll do anything to have a top 10 hit, let alone a number one single and album in the same week!’
‘Tickle the shit out of me for as long as you want!’
‘Tickle my fucking balls if it gets me a number one!’
But the return of his clear headed-ness made him say one word and one word only.
“No.”
The Man adjusted his suit jacket, standing away from the bar.
“No to the desperation, or no to everything?”
Harvey decided to end this strange encounter by delivering a final set of words as he headed towards the elevator, his shoulder brushing past The Man in an intentional knock that felt like a warning.
“No to everything,” he said sternly.
As Harvey squeezed past people at the event still partying on the dance floor, he turned around to make sure The Man had not followed.
Once in the elevator, he checked back again, standing on tiptoes, peering over the remaining crowds …
Once his eyes had landed at the bar, he realised The Man had disappeared entirely.
‘D e c i s i o n s ‘
Once back at his house in Essex, Harvey slipped off his high top sneakers and walked socked feet over carpet towards his bedroom.
He yanked off his denim jacket, stepped out of his jeans and pulled off his t-shirt.
A small calling card landing on the mattress caught his attention.
Harvey frowned, picking it up, assessing its front.
A logo stared back at Harvey - a house surrounded by leaves, or maybe they were feathers …
Harvey assessed the other side.
Inscribed into the card was a North London address and a single line of wording beneath it -
‘It’s as easy as that’.
Harvey hiccuped into the back of his hand, opening up his MacBook, taking it into bed with him.
He propped the laptop over his stomach, rested his head on the pillow and began to type into Google’s search bar.
‘Tickling kink’.
Up came thousands of websites and images where men and women were tied into stocks or other bondage devices, tickled by others with a variation of tools.
Harvey typed again.
‘Male Tickling Fetish’.
He browsed endlessly, past blogs, instagram pages, subscriptions, videos for sale, image after image after image …
“What the f …”
He assumed he’d soon see the same logo as the one on the calling card, a calling card The Man had seemingly slipped into Harvey’s denim jacket whilst he wasn’t looking …
But the logo never came up.
Harvey pictured himself tied up like the many other people in all of the pictures he’d just scrolled through … Tickled for an hour, like The Man described.
His toes curled within the confines of his white sports socks.
Filmed too, don’t forget.
He imagined such content leaking out online - the response to such footage.
It would make me more famous, for sure.
But not in a good way …
Harvey closed the laptop, squeezed his eyes shut, placed both palms over his face in thought.
Every single he had ever released failed to even make top 10.
He had resulted to taking part in Strictly Come Dancing, in an effort to raise his profile, to shift more albums.
Sure, it had gained him a larger fan base but his management team were still unimpressed by his music sales afterwards, despite giving him more budget for videos and photoshoots …
Harvey looked at the calling card, reading out the singular line that summed up the effortlessness of this one of a kind transaction.
“It’s as easy as that …” he whispered, repeating the words in a tired murmur, “… It’s as easy as that …”
Harvey yawned.
He rolled over and went to sleep, dropping the calling card to his bedroom floor, knowing full well that sooner or later he’d be making his way to the provided address.
‘A S t u d i o I n N o r t h L o n d o n’
“You’ll have to forgive my jet lag,” the tall man in his fifties said, “I just got back from Los Angeles. It’s been a hectic twenty four hours …” he sipped an espresso in a plastic cup, nodding over to Harvey with a smile, “You’d know, right? With all your touring and stuff?”
Harvey took a seat on the bench-like device he’d soon be restrained to.
“Yeah, I’ve been there, mate. Don’t worry about it.”
The Man from the event stood before Harvey, the outline of his body outlined by the studios ceiling lights.
This time, instead of a suit and expensive footwear, he wore a black t-shirt, jeans and white running shoes.
His slicked back blonde hair had this time been loosely styled, with a parting down the middle.
He gestured to the older man beside him, nodding with a smile.
“This is Miller. He’s a pro at this kind of stuff. He’ll be joining me in tickling the living crap out of you,” The Man grinned as Miller laughed in excitement.
Harvey shuffled on the spot awkwardly, scratching the back of his head.
He had turned up in a white vest, grey sweatpants, sports socks and the same sneakers he had worn the last time The Man had seen him.
“And what’s your name?” Harvey pressed, eyeing The Man with caution, “You got one, or am I gonna have to keep referring to you as ‘The Man’ or ‘The Bloke’, in my head?”
The Man smirked, admiring Harvey’s attempts at being so cocky, when he could actually tell the young singer was clearly quite nervous.
“My name is Peter. I did uh, I did actually tell you my name the last time we met, but … You might’ve been a little too … Drunk … To remember,” Peter lied.
Harvey lowered his head, embarrassment flushing his cheeks pink.
“Shit, ss … Sorry, mate. I, I didn’t re—“
—“Alright!” Miller smacked his palms together just once once, “Enough chat! Let’s get you set up. We’ve only got an hour, and I have to be making my way out of London by the afternoon…”
Harvey got to his feet, stepping to the side as Peter began to unpack a tall standing tripod and camcorder.
“Where are you off to?” Harvey asked, out of genuine, kind interest, “Got another guy to tickle?”
Miller unbuttoned the collar to his polo shirt, positioning a leather bag beside the wooden set up built to hold a guy Harvey’s size.
“Well, as a matter of fact, yes, yes I do. Several, actually. It’s … An event that I have to be at, and I’m co-hosting.”
Miller kept some of the contents inside the bag hidden for now, choosing to instead pull out rope and leather cuffs, “You know, it’s worth knowing, there are … People, like you, who get paid to do the sort of … Stuff … That you’re taking part in this afternoon. If you’re interested I could always put you in touch with my b—“
“—Nah,” Harvey held a hand up in thanks, “This is a one off.”
Peter turned on the camcorder.
“Yeah. We’ll see about that…” he winked at Harvey, flashing green eyes down to the bench, “Go on, take a seat.”
Harvey bit his lower lip, his heart pounding in his chest, the reality of his situation dawning on him second by second.
“How… How do you even know I’m ticklish?” Harvey began to climb into the device, placing his butt down on the wooden surface, “I haven't been properly tickled, fuck, can’t even remember when …” he ran a hand through his sandy blonde tuft of hair, “… This could majorly flop.”
Of course, Peter and Miller didn’t reveal that they had hired experienced individuals to watch Harvey over the past three months, to gather information on his levels of sensitivity, to spy on him whilst he showered or shopped, met friends for lunch or hung out barefoot in the park, for long enough to see a friend drag a blade of grass up Harvey’s left foot, to see him kick, to acknowledge how much he disliked such a thing …
Instead, they continued their performance, Peter picking up one set of cuffs whilst Miller began to stretch out additional lengths of rope.
“Have you seen you?” Peter asked, positioning Harvey’s hands behind his back, “I’ve been doing this for years, Miller decades. We know what ticklish looks like, kid.”
Harvey leant forwards, Peter cuffing his wrists together with leather restraints.
“Blimey, ‘loosely restrained’, eh …” Harvey laughed nervously, his eyes staring into the camera standing three feet opposite him, “… The, uh, the paperwork I signed didn’t mention a safe word, but I think I’d like one, if that’s alright—“
“—You’re giving too much away already, Harvey,” Miller tutted, “Asking for a safe word suggests you’re gonna need a break, which suggests you’re very, very ticklish … Which suggests we’re going to be having more fun than we thought …” he held onto Harvey’s ankles, gently pulling them through rubber loops attached to the end of the chair.
Harvey ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth as Miller twisted a metal hook at the side of both rubber hoops, tightening them around each of his legs.
“Should I just stop speaking?” Harvey asked, more nervous laughter leaving his lips.
Peter knelt down to the left of Harvey’s feet, taking some rope from Miller, tying Harvey’s legs together at the shins, “We don’t really believe in safe words,” he explained, “I’m surprised you’re even aware what a safe word is …” he began to knot the rope, “… You been doing some research?”
Harvey rested his back into the chair, his spine pressing into the thick wooden panels surrounding him.
“‘Course,” he raised both eyebrows as Miller knelt down to the right of his feet, “Just, no licking or sucking my toes, alright? I had an ex girlfriend do that, it felt a bit gross, if I’m honest.”
Peter and Miller both chuckled at the same time.
“Alright,” Peter nodded, “No sucking Harvey’s toes,” he glanced playfully at Miller, “Got that, Mil?”
Miller gave Peter the thumbs up, “I’ll try and contain myself. It’s a shame, I checked out his wikifeet page last night - his feet are gorgeous!”
Peter could see Miller filling Harvey with chunks of confidence, confidence Peter knew that Miller would enjoy slowly destroying as the hour ticked by.
“Okay, cameras are rolling, timer is set …” Peter reached over Harvey’s feet and, without warning, grabbed at his left thigh, “… Let’s see if we’ve caught lightning in a bottle.”
Harvey, now fully bound and restrained in position, tried his hardest to not give in as soon as Peter’s touch landed around his legs …
He shook his head, smirking confidently, glancing down at Miller’s hand, a hand now also deciding to explore, this time around Harvey’s right thigh.
“No?” Miller asked, disappointment threatening to taint a scenario he’d spent so long manipulating into position.
The harder they grabbed, the sooner Harvey’s levels of ticklish would be revealed …
… The more Harvey would realise how much of a stupid idea this was.
‘DO YOUR WORST’ CONTINUES IN PART TWO