' T i c k l e d S e n s e l e s s ‘
A huff left Harvey’s lips.
And then, a wide eyed stare, his mouth stretching open into a manic smile, his entire torso wriggling violently from left to right as both ticklers discovered an exceptionally sensitive area around each of Harvey’s knees.
Harvey threw his head forwards, laughing so hard, so immediately that the veins in his throat thickened, his face becoming saturated with panic.
All he could do was physically look down at the hands attacking his thighs, his own hands reaching as far as they could around his waist, his fingers flexing as his laughter became deeper and louder.
“Whoa!” Peter almost fell back, Harvey’s squirming and shaking starting so fast that it looked like the boy had been put on fast forward.
“NO, NO WAY!” Harvey cried, astonished by how much it tickled, surprised by an area he had no idea would even be ticklish, “FUCK, FUCK — THIS IS GONNA FUCKING SU—
—Both of his ticklers laughed in amusement, still locating areas between his thighs with one hand, their other hands curling around Harvey’s trainers, where they slowly slid them away from his socked feet.
Harvey didn’t have time to compartmentalise his predicament as his toes flexed and curled once the tightness of his footwear had been casually removed.
One minute they had been making small talk, the next he sat here, tickled so viscerally, sweat already forming above his lip …
… And it had only been forty two seconds.
Peter took Harvey’s right trainer and playfully reached towards the singers face, pressing the inside of the shoe against Harvey’s mouth and nose.
Harvey grimaced, shaking his head, twisting his neck to the left.
“You been wearing these all week?” Peter asked.
Harvey kept quiet, too distressed to reply verbally as Miller began to scribble fingernails over his right sole, causing his feet to twist and twitch, Peter now dropping the trainer and returning to the chunky flesh around the insides of Harvey’s legs.
“BLOODY HELL!” Harvey automatically straightened his back, already breathless, the tickling between his thigh proving to be too much.
As Peter leaned in closer to get a better hold, Harvey stretched out suddenly, like a cobra fresh out of a box, his mouth snapping down at Peter in an attempt to bite his face.
“YOU CHEEKY WANKER—“ Harvey bit, “—YOU CHEEKY BLOODY WANKER, YOU—“
“—Hot damn!” Miller cheered, overwhelmed with relief at just how ticklish Harvey was, maybe one of the most ticklish people he’d managed to get his hands on, since Chalamet.
Peter jolted back, avoiding Harvey’s teeth, laughing in entertainment as Harvey fell back into his seat, laughing also but for very different reasons to Peter.
Finally, Peter left Harvey’s thigh and joined Miller in shedding focus on his socked feet.
Harvey coughed into his chest, his eyes leaving the tingling sensation between his legs where they instead bulged out in worried focus, glaring at attention taking place around his toes.
He began to giggle, his socked feet explored by ten fingernails at once, their tickling touch trailing from toe to heel, heel to toe and then back down again.
Harvey adjusted himself in his position, choosing to sit on his hands instead of having them squashed up at the bottom of his spine, his feet squirming under his tickler's touch, his socks proving to be a useful barrier between their fingertips and the bare soles of his feet.
Keep the socks on, keep the socks on, Harvey thought.
When both men realised they weren’t getting as much of a reaction as they did from Harvey’s thighs, they aligned their thoughts and both reached inside the leather bag at the same time.
They pulled two large seagull feathers out from the inside, flipping them around so that the sharp quill faced the bottom of Harvey’s feet.
Harvey pressed his lips together as soon as the nibs began to scratch and scurry along his thick, white, cotton protected soles.
Keep the socks on, keep the socks on …
He filled his cheeks with air, narrowing his eyes at the feathers, keen to not reveal how ticklish it felt, just like with his thighs.
But a scratch to both arches at the same time sent him into a manic twist, shouts and laughter spilling out of his mouth as his eyes widened, his nostrils flared and his torso shook under the studio’s lights.
“FUCK, OH FUCK—“ Harvey huffed out breath, “THAT’S FUCKING IN, INSANE—“
Both of his ticklers cheered once again, their joy showcasing how brilliant it felt to keep on discovering these little moments that would send Harvey from quiet and stiffly containing his reactions, to a high pitched, writhing shambles that couldn’t handle what was taking place a second longer.
Just when Harvey thought he’d got used to the nibs in one spot, the nibs would travel to another area (this time just beneath each little toe), further transforming him into a heap of heavy giggles and wide eyed mania.
Miller decided to drop his feather momentarily, choosing to explore the sole of Harvey’s left foot with his fingers again, this time grabbing at the socks material around Harvey’s toes, keeping his foot in place, his other hand scratching at the heel.
As Harvey exploded into more hysteric shouts and breathless laughter, unaware that his heel could even be that ticklish, the words ‘no’ and ‘come on’ had started to become just about audible through his expulsion of angst.
“FAH-AHAHAHA-AHAAHAHUCCKK—NOOAOAHAHAHAA-COME OHHAANANANAANA—“
As the camera continued its record, Peter persisted in torturing the sole of Harvey’s right foot with the feather’s nib, keeping it under toes that were clenching down the hardest they’d ever clenched in Harvey’s twenty three years of living, their plump shapes visible beneath Harvey’s socks.
Sweat had now gathered in the depths of Harvey’s armpits, his forehead glimmered, his face had grown swollen …
Peter began to remove his right sock, picking it up over his heel and lifting it to the arch of his foot.
No.
Miller did the same, offering Harvey a break that lasted around four seconds.
Keep the socks on …
Harvey began to speak his thoughts out loud in a thirsty fluster.
“Ke, ke, keep the, the socks …”
*huff*
“… on, fuck!”
As the socks were slowly removed, both men tickled Harvey’s soles with their fingernails as more bare flesh was slowly revealed.
Harvey buried his head into his shoulder, his laughter so strained and so erratic that his throat had started to burn.
If he had known he was this ticklish, he would never have signed up to this.
Suddenly, both socks were off and both feathers were back in play, the sharp nibs returning to each now naked foot.
Harvey’s torso twisted and wriggled violently, his throat stiffening in disarray, the nibs circling the balls of each foot, their glide and movement relentless, merciless, mind-blowingly intense …
… And it went on constantly for eight minutes, non stop.
Whilst Miller continued to draw lines over Harvey’s left foot, Peter acknowledged how stuffy Harvey looked with his vest still on.
He leaned over, grabbing at the material, ripping it apart down the middle.
Harvey, still dealing with the sensations at the bottom of his feet, did nothing but heave in oxygen, not resisting, not fighting back, actually feeling rather pleased to feel the coolness of the studio air press against his sweat-soaked stomach and chest after such a gruelling ordeal.
Peter threw the torn up material to the floor, returning to Harvey’s soles, sending the nib back to the arch of Harvey’s right foot.
Harvey threw his eyes to the ceiling, heaves of mania thrown from the pit of his stomach all the way out of his mouth, the nibs far too ticklish, his ticklers far too sadistic.
Harvey scrunched up his toes and wriggled his feet from side to side when his ticklers suddenly decided to glide the feather between each toe.
Harvey jolted in alarm, his eyebrows lifting so high that they creased his forehead into dozens of lines.
“NO, NO, NO, NO!” He yelled in high pitched shock, the see-saw like motion tickling the super soft, fleshy betweens of his toes in ways he’d never be able to describe, “FUCK, THAT, THAT FUCKING TICKLES!”
Both of his ticklers laughed once again, happy and able to keep infiltrating the betweens of Harvey’s toes even if he did keep on curling and clenching them in an effort to protect the hyper ticklish, individual lengths.
“Get some close up shots!” Miller ordered, “I’ll take it from here…”
Peter nodded, getting to his feet, “Do your worst! He’s one of the most ticklish we’ve had!”
Seeing Peter leave one of his feet made Harvey think that it might tickle less from now on, as Peter started adjusting the tripod and the camcorder, but Miller proved to be just as effective by himself, if not worse.
He grabbed at Harvey’s moving right foot with one hand, snatching hold of his toes, keeping it in place.
Then he’d scribble the feather nib over the sole repeatedly, sending Harvey into a panting, wide eyed distort, his giggles so loud that they echoed throughout the studio.
“AL, ALRIGHT, ENOUGH! ENOUGH, ENOUGH WITH THE FUCKING FEATHER—“ Harvey used all of his energy to scream out his first verbalised beg, breathing back in through flared nostrils as the nib stayed around his arch, “—COME ON, MATE, I CAN BARELY SEE!”
Peter zoomed in on Harvey’s expression, focusing on the strained lunacy decorating his face, the camera capturing a tear of exhaustion leaving Harvey’s left eye where it rolled down his cheek and blended in with the droplets of sweat decorating his jaw.
Harvey fell into disbelief when he realised his pleading did nothing, Miller remaining at his right sole with the feather nib.
These guys aren’t stopping.
How am I this ticklish?!
Suddenly, with all of the foot squirming and toe curling, Harvey unexpectedly caught Miller’s feather between his feet.
“AH! AHA!”
Now Harvey was the one cheering in success, rejoicing loudly, lamping his feet together forcefully, his face ecstatic, his head lifting up high.
“Ohh, tough guy, huh?” Miller taunted, using hardly any strength to simply pull the feather out, where its sharp nib returned immediately to Harvey’s soles.
“AH — WAIT, WAIT, NO, NO, NO!” Harvey’s cries were filled with defeat and dread.
They’re not listening.
He tried to reach out, his hands stretching around his waist, his wrists cuffed together.
The movement did nothing but cramp his sides.
“OH, OH, OH, NO, OK, I’M DONE, I’M DONE, I’M DONE, SERIOUSLY, GUYS, I’M DONE—
They’re still going.
Harvey bent his knees and wobbled his legs, wanting to slide his ankles through the rubber hoops and back towards him.
“COME ON! I’VE GOT TEARS—“
Why aren’t they using something else? They’re so hardcore, man!
“STO-HAHAHAHA-AAAAAHHHP—“
*heave*
“—ENOUGH WITH THE FUCKING FEET!”
After another eight minutes of constant drawing over each sole with the feather nib, Harvey decided to fight back the only way he knew how.
With Peter still zooming in and out at the tripod, Harvey used his free left foot to twist across to his right, his long toes flexing out into a desperate stretch where he tried to block the feather from attacking his right sole.
“FUCKING — BITCH!—” Harvey spat.
Miller clenched his teeth, the squirming foot doing a passionately excellent job at hiding the ticklish expanse of flesh layering Harvey’s right sole, his twitching toes getting in the way of the feather’s nib.
Miller used his hand to grab the foot, forcing it back, much to Harvey’s distress, his giggles filled with despair and dread as Miller continued to scratch the nib over the sole of Harvey’s right foot.
Despite being held back with such a tight grip, Harvey had strong feet.
Using all the muscles in his calves and ankles, Harvey managed to slide his left foot away from Miller’s grasp, where he twisted it across to his right, once again blocking off the feathers constant attacks.
With a face filled with a mixture of smiling achievement and breathless misery, Harvey kept his feet in place until Miller revealed a solution to his problem.
He wiped some sweat away from his own forehead, glancing over to Peter as Harvey heaved in and out, in and out, in and out …
“Get the string,” Miller announced.
‘ W h e r e W e B e g a 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 still strapped behind his back.
“Your feet are moving around too much,” Miller 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 …”
“So, go ahead,” Peter 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 Peter 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,” Miller glanced over to Peter, “Where were we?”
Peter grinned.
“You were pushing the kid mentally and physically further than he’s ever been pushed before.”
“Oh! Yes,” Miller smirked, returning the nib to Harvey’s right sole.
With his big toes now in their own bondage, Harvey couldn’t block off these attacks anymore, his feet too tied together to barely move.
“No, wait, come on, mate, n—n-not again, I can’t even … Fuck!”
With this feeling of restriction, helplessness and vulnerability considered, Harvey could do nothing but verbalise his utter disbelief.
“OK, WOW—“
Harvey burst into frenzied delirium, knowing now that he could only submit to this insane quality of tickle torture, he could only laugh, scream, and cuss into the now humid expanse of air as Miller continued to explore the right sole of his foot with the sharpness of the feather nib.
“I, I CAN’T DEAL WITH THAT—“ Harvey declared, through hoarse laughter and senseless babbling, “—I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU—
Miller chuckled, the nib circling in a torturous draw beneath his toes.
“By the time you’re out of this I’m gonna be looooooong gone …”
Peter stepped away from the tripod.
“It’s so effective,” he smoothed his jaw with his fingertips, “I want in, again…”
He began to approach Harvey’s left foot with his feather.
“NO, NO, NO—“ Harvey cried, threatened by the prospect of two nibs at the same time, once again, this time with his toes secured together, “—NO, STAY AWAY, STAY THE FUCK AWAY—“
A prospect that became a reality.
“—ALRIGHT, COME ON, LET ME OUT, OKAY, OKAY, I’LL FUCKING HAVE YOU—“ Harvey warned, his body sent into a twisting convulsion as Peter and Miller tickled both of his soles with two nibs, his body now glistening, his eight unbound toes flexing and scrunching automatically as the sharpness of the chosen tools ran from arch to heel, heel to arch and then back again.
The toe-tied tickle torment went on for the rest of the session, until the timer in Peter’s pocket began to beep.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
Harvey deflated into a weighty slump, his physical image similar to one who had just sprinted through a marathon in boiling heat, his stomach and abs looking far more toned than they had done prior to him stepping foot inside this studio just over an hour ago.
Miller slid the nib away from Harvey’s foot, happy to ‘end the session’, when in reality he and Peter both knew they were actually just giving Harvey a short yet well deserved break.
“Is it … Is it … Is it …” Harvey sniffed, licking his lips, his lungs on fire, “… Is it …”
“It’s over,” Miller lied, “You did well, kid. That number one single and album are going to make you a huge, huge star. Bigger than you are now.”
He got to his feet, dropping the feather inside the leather bag, reaching in afterwards to instead pick out a bottle of baby oil, “Here, let me give you a massage. It still tingles, right?”
Harvey nodded quietly, still recovering, still catching his breath, still aware of how much sweat drenched his body.
Peter laid the feather down by the floor where he then stood, making his way over to Harvey’s upper body.
“Here, let me untie you …” he knelt down by Harvey’s waist, “… Breath, Mr. Cantwell, take in a breath …” he locked eyes with the younger singer and inhaled through his nose, “… And then out through your mouth, okay?” Peter then exhaled through his lips.
Harvey nodded again, repeating Peter’s advice, breathing in through his nose and then out through his mouth.
He then frowned deeply, his bloodshot eyes scowling down to Miller, who had begun to soak Harvey’s soles in oil.
“Nah, mate, mate!” Harvey’s feet began to squirm, “Honestly, that just tickles … Enough of that,” he tried to pull his feet apart, but the ties around his toes kept them firmly together, “… Can you just, let me out? Mate, I need a drink …”
Miller continued to drench baby oil over Harvey’s toes, allowing the shimmering liquid to soak his feet and drop off the edge of the device Harvey sat bound in.
“You need this, ‘mate’. The bottoms of your feet are pretty soft … They’re silky smooth, in fact. And they’ve just been repeatedly scratched by the tip of a feather for sixty minutes. Enjoy it …”
Harvey clenched his teeth, unable to focus, made to feel further discomfort as Miller’s fingertips slid around his soles, soles now coated in a thick layer of lubrication.
“No, mate, seriously, please, just leave ‘em alone, I can’t stand having them touched anymore,” Harvey pleaded.
Miller ignored Harvey, firmly rubbing his fingers around the sides and balls of the young singers feet.
As Harvey shuffled on the spot, Peter reached behind the twenty three year old and began to un clip the cuffs keeping his wrists together.
Harvey sighed out relief as his arms were freed.
He pulled his hands to his lap, wincing as Miller ‘accidentally’ scratched the length of his index toe, causing him to jolt violently, the chair squeaking beneath his weight.
“Oi! Can you at least untie my, my toes?” Harvey asked, reaching forwards, his long fingers curling around the restraints still containing his ankles, “Mate, it fucking tickles, stop!”
Again, Miller ignored.
Harvey glanced up at Peter, concern filling his eyes.
“Oi, oi, can you tell him?”
Peter picked up Harvey’s left wrist, taking it into the air.
“Come on, stretch with me, you’ve been tied up for the past hour …”
Harvey tried to pull his arm back towards his chest.
“NO—“ He said sternly, “—We’re done! It’s over, just let me out! This isn’t cool, guys—”
His attempts at keeping his hands to himself were knocked off course as soon as Miller began to actively tickle Harvey’s soles.
Harvey reached forwards in a manic extension, clawing at the toe ties and ankle restraints with fierce determination, the oil making the entire ordeal far much worse than Harvey could begin to handle.
“MATE, ALRIGHT, STOP, THAT’S ENOUGH! DON’T TAKE THE MICK—“
With half of his brain concentrating on the highly unmanageable sensations at the bottoms of his feet, created by Miller’s fingernails and the applied baby oil, the second half didn’t have time to consider protecting himself from Peter, who had now successfully grabbed both of Harvey’s wrists.
This time, instead of pulling them back behind him, Peter yanked Harvey’s hands above his head.
Within a matter of seconds, whilst having his feet tickled, Harvey’s wrists had been connected to two dangling straps that Peter had dropped down without Harvey seeing, mid-session.
“NO, FUCK, STOP, WAIT, THIS ISN’T RIGHT—“ Harvey wriggled on the spot, Miller now taking a hairbrush out of the leather bag, where he began to glide the plastic bristles across Harvey’s soles repeatedly, “—NO, WAIT, WHAT ARE YOU DOING – THIS ISN’T FAIR, WE SAID AN HOUR, WE SAID AN HOUR!”
With his armpits exposed and his upper body now stretched out, Peter had the chance to explore more ticklish areas of Harvey’s torso, like his ribcage and underarms.
Harvey shot furious eyes from left to right as Peter stood behind him, his hands reaching around Harvey’s chest, where they slid into the hot, moist depths of Harvey’s armpits.
“NO, NO, NOOOOO-OOAAAAHHAHAHA-AHAHAHAHA—“
Harvey’s one hour session turned into two …
And as the bustling city traffic outside the North London studio muffled the sounds of Harvey’s lunacy-riddled laughter and begging, his tickle torture continued for three hours …
Four hours …
Five hours …
Six hours …
S E V E N W E E K S L A T E R
Harvey lay on his front, on a deck chair, on a sandy beach in Thailand.
The boiling sun and blistering blue sky above had tanned his skin with a vibrant glow, since he had arrived here four days ago.
He wore a pair of orange swim shorts, a backwards cap and sunglasses that were resting on the tip of his nose.
A large smile decorated his face as a nearby beach bar began to play the hit of the summer - his number one single, a single that had been at the top of the charts for over five weeks now.
And the album drops tomorrow, he thought.
That would also land at number one, as promised.
Despite the six and a half hours of tickle torture he had to endure seven weeks ago proving to be the most difficult thing he’d ever had to do in his life, the horrific experience had seemingly paid off.
He had to hand over his instagram account to a newly hired marketing team …
His followers had increased by a dramatic amount.
The DM’s, the voice notes, the comments and the likes were too much to handle.
He had been nominated for a Brit Award, a Grammy, he had been able to sell his house in Essex and purchase a premium apartment in London, New York and Japan.
Just for a little bit of tickling…
Harvey opened his eyes as he felt warm fingers curl around the sole of his left foot.
He sat up quickly, jolting as the fingers tightened their grip, grabbing hold of his ankle.
As he turned around to face the person touching him, his sunglasses fell off of his face and landed on the sand.
“You were wrong about something, the last time we saw each other,” Peter stated, as he knelt down by Harvey’s deck chair, dressed in a silk open shirt and shorts.
Miller’s tall, powerful presence appeared behind Harvey, his shadow blanketing the young pop star.
Harvey felt lost for words, his mouth dry, his heart pounding in his chest.
“It’s not a one off,” Miller declared.
Far above, sea gulls hovered in a slow rotation, all whilst Harvey’s number one single played at the bar only ten feet away.
People danced to it, sipping cocktails and smoking cigarettes …
… Whilst Harvey sat in silence, his face flat, Miller’s hold resting strong over each of his shoulders.
“You’re coming with us,” Peter announced, “And if you refuse, that footage we filmed? It goes to the press.”
Harvey gulped.
Miller rubbed his thumb under Harvey’s left ear.
“Sorry to cut your vacation short, kid. But, it’s time to get excited. Have you ever been to Canada before?”
Harvey shook his head, completely speechless, whilst Peter began to dig a large hole in the sand with a plastic spade beside Harvey’s deck chair.
“It’s going to be one fun trip. And if you thought being tickled by two people at the same time was bad … Imagine how you’ll handle fifteen at once, gosh, even thirty…”
Harvey bit his lower lip, unable to now even hear his number one hit playing in the background, uncaring at this point that it even existed.
“But before we go, we’re going to have a little fun, right here…” Peter threw the spade over his shoulder, patting the two foot body length delve in the sand he had just created.
“Climb in,” Miller ordered.
Harvey folded his arms over his chest.
“Do one, you tosser.”
Miller smirked, nodding once at Peter.
Peter took his iPhone from out of his shirt pocket.
He showed the screen to Harvey.
Harvey reluctantly looked up.
On the iPhone, grainy footage of him breathless, drenched in sweat, his soles tickled by the feather nibs, his laughter loud and relentless, played casually in front of him.
He looked a mess; exhausted, ugly but above all else.
“That’s desperation there, personified,” Peter put the iPhone back into his shirt pocket, “Now get in the sand, or I send that to your Mother.”
Harvey unfolded his arms, slid his palms across his face, took a moment to consider his situation.
Then he did as he was told, leaving the deck chair, carefully climbing down into the mini pit, hesitantly allowing Peter to throw chunks of sand over him, gradually covering him entirely from ankle to head.
“Co, come on, guys,” Harvey spat, some sand entering his mouth, “Pfft! Pfft! I, I gave you what you wanted, you, you gave me what I wanted … The deals over, right?”
Harvey tried to pull himself out of the warm ground he had been buried in, making grunting noises as he did so.
Peter shook his head.
“I had you, Harvey. As soon as you stepped foot inside that elevator.”
Harvey huffed, acknowledging how exposed his feet were, his bare, sandy soles facing out to the ocean.
“Just leave them alone, I, I can’t go through that sort of shit again!”
He squinted in the sun, Peter and Miller kneeling down at the bottom of his legs, a seagull feather from a bird above floating through the air where it conveniently landed on the sand beside Miller.
“Peter, go see if some people at the bar wanna join in,” Miller suggested, picking the feather up, turning it around so that the nib faced Harvey’s right sole, “After all, he’s going to need the practise.”
DO YOUR WORST CONCLUDES IN PART THREE, ‘ROMEO’S TOES’