F I V E M O N T H S L A T E R
S o m e w h e r e i n B u d a p e s t
‘T H E S T R A N G E R’
Peter sleuthed through energetic crowds as bright green lasers flickered over shoulders drenched in sweat.
Techno music and its unrelenting base thumped beneath the vodka stained dance floor, the darkness of the club's ceiling filled with pink smoke and flashing lights.
He wore a leather black cap that sat neatly over his blonde head of hair, his body from the neck down mostly unclothed except for the tight black PVC underwear that covered his toned ass and seemingly large manhood.
He took military booted feet towards the DJ stand, his blue eyes narrowing out into the humid expanse where he searched for someone to play with.
He scoured past men far smaller than him making out in groups squashed into booths, their lust and passion fuelled by the dozens of shots and lines of coke they’d consumed since arriving hours ago.
Some couples walked hand in hand, away from the loudness of the music to a far more intimate setting; maybe one of the many themed rooms upstairs …
There was one woman in nipple tassels and a sailor's hat making the most of the strippers pole …
An elderly man in a gimp costume nursing a cocktail by himself …
A drag queen or two whipping some of the semi naked dancers on the stage …
Peter began to grow bored of people watching until a young man in his early to mid twenties caught his attention.
Peter folded his arms across his chest and leant against a nearby pillar, his focus now entirely on this out-of-place stranger.
It’s not his first time here, Peter thought.
He’s not a regular …
Peter stroked his moustache.
He could do with a cheeseburger.
There’s hardly anything on him.
The Stranger looked majestic, self aware, but also somewhat naive …
Mnn.
Not my usual type …
Peter started at the young man’s feet.
He wore white socks and Chelsea boots with a chunky sole, lifting his height by a few inches.
His bare legs were slim, his knees knobbly, his thighs a little more muscular than expected, on show thanks to navy blue cargo shorts hanging around his waist.
An unbuttoned denim shirt revealed a toned, hairless torso covered by a buckled up, leather harness.
The eye-catching individual had decided to cover their face and head with a pink woollen balaclava, their body swaying from side to side in what appeared to be a semi-drunken attempt at dancing.
Before Peter could nudge himself off of the pillar and approach The Stranger, the young man turned his attention to Peter.
Peter could make out a smirk beneath the balaclava, a twinkle in eyes outlined by thick, dark eyelashes.
The Stranger headed towards the spiral staircase, his leap-ish stride confident and assured, his open shirt billowing behind him as he hopped onto the first step.
He paused, just for a second, to look at Peter with a glance that said,
‘You coming or what?’
For the first time in a long while, Peter felt nervous.
He watched the young man head up the staircase where he disappeared onto the second floor of the club.
Peter adjusted his cap and then began his follow.
He climbed the steps, reaching the top just in time to see The Stranger turn a corner, a corner Peter knew led to some of the fetish booths …
Peter passed a man dressed as a pig, oinking into a bowl of champagne at the feet of an older woman in a leather butcher’s costume.
He politely dodged a couple having an argument, a few splashes of whiskey from their waving hands landing across his face.
Peter wiped his cheek with his thumb and then sucked the whiskey off, turning the same corner as The Stranger.
Down the hall, past dancing crowds and strawberry scented vape smoke, Peter could make out The Stranger’s slender frame arriving at an open door …
Peter continued his chase, passing many doors to his left and to his right…
Doors that each led into their own themed rooms; a spanking room, a dwarf room, a foot fetish room, an erotic asphyxiation room …
Eventually, Peter arrived behind The Stranger, at the knismolagnia room.
The young man turned around to face Peter.
The greens of his eyes were the first thing Peter noticed; they glared at him with a fierce determination, his bushy eyebrows deepening behind his balaclava.
Peter had to raise his voice due to the volume of the music downstairs.
“You must be hot under that thing!” He yelled.
The second thing Peter noticed was the pink plumpness of the individuals lips, their movement pursed and considered as he pressed them shut.
“Cat got your tongue?” Peter asked, his eyebrows lifting in curiosity.
The Stranger stepped closer.
He picked Peter’s leather cap off of his head and then placed it over his own.
He then turned and walked inside the room.
Peter, now cap-less, had no choice but to follow …
This room was often empty.
Most people came to this fetish night to experience something stranger than tickling, something darker, something more sinister than feathers and baby oil …
But this Stranger, in his balaclava, harness and open shirt, clearly wanted to touch …
In the middle of the room stood a large black leather high rise chair with wooden stocks attached to it.
As the stranger climbed into the chair, it became clear to Peter that he didn’t want to touch at all …
He wanted to be touched.
Peter bit his lower lip in excitement, a tug beneath his PVC underwear reminding him that he’d always been a fan of tickling, and now he got to explore this attractive lone explorer’s body without even asking to do so.
There was no trying, no effort, no forced attempt …
It had practically been handed to him on a plate.
Peter lifted the top half of the stocks and allowed The Stranger to place his feet over the grooves.
Peter locked them in.
He then tied The Stranger's wrists to cuffs attached to either side of the chair.
The Stranger stared forwards, blinking quietly, his mouth shut, his stare focused …
Peter took his index finger and gently trailed it over The Stranger’s neck, leaning in close to his balaclava-covered right ear.
“Looks like I caught a thief …” Peter whispered … “You know what the punishment is for stealing?”
The Stranger shook his head slowly, embracing the given role as effortlessly as he did the many dozen other roles he’d played in his lifetime.
Peter’s index finger travelled over the leather harness covering the stranger’s chest, its destination: the young man’s armpit.
“... It’s being made to beg …”
Peter snuck his finger into the hot delves of the stranger’s right underarm, wiggling its long strength into the very centre of the hairy depth.
The Stranger thrashed in his seat, the restraints and stocks keeping his arms and legs in place as he violently jolted from left to right.
Peter stepped back in surprise.
“Oh my … Someone is in for a long, long night …”
The Stranger, already breathless and so far still voiceless, squeezed his eyes shut and readied himself for endurance …
Endurance he had sought out once or twice in this night club …
Three or four times in the night club a few blocks away …
Five or six times in the night club in the city before this one …
His butt lifted off the seat as Peter sent all of his fingers into each armpit at once, a fierce grunt leaving his lips in the form of a heavy spit.
He landed with a bounce, his body bucking on the spot as Peter tickled his underarms relentlessly, the laughter caught in the back of his throat so as not to reveal a voice his chosen tickler might recognise.
Peter’s hands slid across The Stranger’s chest where they travelled up to his shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze.
The Stranger began to twist his head in protest when Peter started to peel away the balaclava …
He caught Peter’s fingers between his chin and collarbone.
“... No … ” The Stranger said his first word of the evening, his tone deep, his words leaving his mouth in a stern order.
“... The mask stays on,” he growled.
Peter held his hands away from the young man in understanding.
He then took careful steps towards the stocks.
The Stranger sat up, adjusting himself in the chair.
Peter began to unlace The Stranger’s left boot.
“You’re pretty damn ticklish …” Peter commented, yanking the boot away from The Stranger’s foot, “... You enjoy putting yourself through this?”
The Stranger lied by providing a simple nod, his toes curling behind the cotton of his white sports sock.
Peter continued to test The Stranger’s level of ticklishness by dragging a fingernail up the sole of his foot.
The Stranger jolted forwards, the entire chair clanking as the force of his weight threw itself toward Peter.
Peter’s eyes widened as he watched The Strangers toes scrunch up tight.
“I’m gonna keep you here all evening …” Peter teased, gathering the material of the sock in his grasp as he began to peel it away from The Stranger’s foot, “... Even after they close … Even after everybody has left … There will be no one here to help you …”
Once Peter had removed the sock, his mouth fell open.
The Stranger’s foot was practically perfect; mark-less, smooth, all toes neatly inline …
A large big toe, followed by an extended index toe that seemed to stand out above the others in terms of its structure and beauty…
Bulbous heels, defined ankles, toenails well kept …
“Size … Ten, ten and a half?” Peter began to stroke the outside of the foot gently.
The Stranger provided his answer once again without speaking, offering Peter a quiet bob of the head as his toes began to curl.
Peter chuckled.
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
He then began to play with the bare sole, his fingertips just about touching the silky smooth landscape that made up the bottom of The Stranger’s foot.
“I wonder if you scream …”
Peter watched The Stranger squirm in his seat, his foot twisting and writhing under Peter’s fingertips, his toes flexing and splaying in a manic stretch as he yanked at his wrist restraints with what appeared to be practised strength.
The Stranger heaved out a breathless huff, as if trying with every fibre of his being to keep the hysteria in his chest, to the point where Peter had noticed that his eyes had begun to water.
“Let it out,” Peter advised, one hand tickling The Stranger's bare foot whilst the other began to unlace his right boot, “What have you got to lose?”
As Peter removed the second boot and second sock, now actioning a tickling to both bare soles at once, The Stranger arched his back and erupted in a violent explosion of kicking and writhing, his limbs restricted in their movements, his need to laugh out into the clubs darkly lit atmosphere more desperate than ever.
Still, he remained quiet, his reactions coming out of him in the form of moans, hisses, winces and lip biting.
Peter didn’t hold back.
He located areas that made The Stranger thrash the hardest; the arch, the space around his index toes, the sides of his feet …
He could see sweat forming over The Stranger’s stomach; the top of his lip, the middle of his chest …
Peter paused, offering The Stranger a moment to catch his breath, massaging the soft size tens firmly.
“It’s okay, it’s alright … You’re doing great, you–”
“--Go harder …” The Stranger ordered.
Peter cocked an eyebrow.
“Seriously? Uh, I’ll … I’ll need to go grab some, some extra help …” he warned.
The Stranger nodded quickly.
As Peter left to gather friends, The Stranger glared blood shot eyes into his lap, his voice grainy and exhausted from the many attempts to fill a void that hadn’t been filled in almost half a year.
“... Do whatever it takes,” he said.
Timothée pulled the balaclava off of his head in one swift yank.
He blinked and wriggled his nose, unbuckling the leather harness, shrugging away the shirt, allowing his false persona to drop around his feet, feet still tingling from dozens of fingernails at his toes and soles all at once …
He stared at his reflection in the hotel bathroom mirror.
His jaw length curls of hair dangled at either side of his face.
His eyes were glazed over, his lips cracked, his stomach tight and aching after containing such high volumes of hysteria …
Intoxicated and tired, he pictured Armie standing beside him in his typical polo shirt and chinos, hands in his pockets, that shining white smile …
You’ve been through the rounds, kid.
Tim ran the tap and then drenched his palms in water, splashing the gathered puddle over his face.
“I blame you,” Tim mumbled to himself, switching off the tap.
He then turned away from the mirror where he stumbled out of the bathroom and into the large, luxurious expanse of his ensuite.
Tim had been filming Dune in Budapest since the end of April.
The city had fallen into an overwhelming heat wave, blanketing its gothic architecture in a sweltering warmth that had arrived a few weeks ago and had stubbornly refused to leave since.
Like most nights, Tim would step out of all of his clothes and just lay on his bed naked; no sheets, no pillows, no underwear …
Just temperamental air con and a half open window to help him sleep before he shot scenes the next day …
… Only to make excuses to his cast mates in the evening.
I can’t make dinner, I’ve got a date …
I can’t go for drinks, gotta learn lines for a movie …
I’ll see you on set in the morning, I’ve got a headache …
Tim sat on the corner of the mattress with nothing but a gold chain around his neck.
Crickets chirped in bushes outside as 3 am arrived.
He yawned, hiccuping into the back of his hand as he took blurred vision over a beaten looking diary in his lap.
He flicked past pages and names, details and locations, thoughts and emotions …
With a pencil he began to scribble down his experience.
Peter.
September 2nd @ Freedom Fetish Party.
35, handsome, athletic.
5 hours.
Unsatisfied.
Untested.
Easy.
Thoughtless, unpractised, irritating.
Tim pressed the end of the pencil against his lower lip as he looked over at the bathroom floor, now littered with the remains of his disguise.
He lifted his right arm and assessed scratch marks leading all the way down his sides.
He tutted.
He thought back to Peter outside of the club, the way his mouth moved as he formulated words that suggested something more.
“There’s a kebab restaurant a few streets down.Take off the balaclava … Dinners on me …”
Tim acknowledged the power he felt when it came to rejecting him.
He also acknowledged the sting in his chest as Peter’s blue eyes, faint tan and blonde hair remained present in his mind.
Tim scratched down four words in capital letters over both pages of the diary, writing over notes from previous experiences …
Tim slammed the diary shut and threw his back over the bed in a frustrated bounce.
He placed the pencil between his teeth as the room began to spin around him …
The ceiling blurred into the walls, the walls blurred into the floor …
He tried to think about something else …
Someone else …
Anything else.
And as he forced himself to picture a time in the future where he might be over this …
… A thought lingered in his mind before falling asleep.
I don’t know if I miss you, or miss how you made me feel.
***
O N E L A S T T I M E
Burning sunrise pierced through the hotel windows, lighting the ensuite in a vibrant yellow glow.
As Tim awoke, the instinctive feeling of being watched was the first thing that landed in his hungover head.
He rolled over and then sat up quickly in alarm.
Seated in an armchair at the corner of the bed was Armie.
He wore a smart cream coloured suit and a tight fitting white shirt, the rolex on his wrist glimmering in the light.
His legs were crossed casually at the knee, his chin resting over the knuckles of his right hand as he quietly watched Tim.
There was no hello.
No gasp.
No sudden grab of blankets to conceal nudity.
Tim sat naked, in silence, his eyes trailing over Armie from the top of his blonde head all the way down to the tips of his brown leather loafers.
He shuffled forward, sliding off the bed where he took careful steps towards the man that used to intentionally torture him on a daily basis, a man that now unintentionally tortured him from a distance.
Armie remained still and statuesque, his blue eyes never leaving Tim’s face.
Tim lifted his right hand and gently extended his index finger, poking Armie’s mouth.
Armie blinked.
Tim then took his touch across Armie’s cheek, pressing harder into his skin.
After a few more seconds of assessment, Armie gave in and provided the first words between them after many months of ignored calls and disregarded text messages.
“I’m real,” he confirmed, “I’m here.”
Tim stepped away, his bare feet making no noise over the many exotic looking tiles that made up his hotel room floor.
As Armie cleared his throat and adjusted the sleeve to his suit jacket, Tim noticed a small scar across the bone of Armie’s left wrist.
Tim opened his mouth, ready to voice his concern, but Armie silenced him by slowly standing up.
“It took me almost the rest of the day to pull myself out of those restraints,” Armie spoke calmly and quietly as he looked around Tim’s lavish living space, “Gathered a few cuts and bruises during the process …”
Tim felt his heart pound beneath his chest.
He stood unclothed, exposed, opposite a person he had left tied to their own bed …
Tim had dealt with Armie and his many personalities; the soft, the kind, the caring …
He had also dealt with the merciless, the single-minded, the infatuated …
He had not dealt with the angry.
Once again, Tim went to speak, but his words were put on pause by Armie’s commanding tone.
“You do realise you showed me far less mercy in one single hour than I ever did to you in three whole weeks?”
Tim lowered his head.
His mouth went to shape out the words, ‘I’m sorry’ …
… But he pressed his lips shut.
I’m not sorry, Tim thought.
You deserved it.
You went too far.
You’re the one in the wrong.
In his head, Tim repeated all of the things he’d been telling himself on a daily basis, non stop, since arriving in Hungary.
“I don’t expect sympathy” Armie explained, as if reading Tim’s mind, “I just wanted to inform you of the power you had …” he swallowed down, the room hot and stuffy already and it wasn’t even mid morning, “... The power you have …”
Tim continued to avoid Armie’s stare.
Part of him still didn’t believe this was really happening, that Armie was really there, just three feet away from him.
Armie gestured to Tim’s hotel room door, left half open with the plastic key card on the floor.
“Anyone could’ve come in and had their way with you,” Armie smirked, “How drunk were you last night?”
Tim ran both hands through his hair.
He sat down on the corner of the mattress in a huff.
He felt shame flush across his cheeks.
Armie stood smartly dressed, asking the questions, appearing as if Tim hadn’t crossed his mind at all since their time in New York.
Tim wasn’t even dressed.
He had a headache, his throat was dry, and his mouth tasted like beer …
He was consumed and confused, unable to even talk …
Armie removed a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
He dabbed some sweat away from his forehead, the humidity of the Budapest weather infiltrating the hotel room almost as casually as he had.
“I take it you’re sleeping naked because of the heat?” Armie asked, in another attempt to start a conversation.
Tim stared into his lap, curls of hair hanging over his face.
No, he thought.
I’ve been waiting for you to find me like that.
Night after night after night …
I knew you eventually would.
He imagined Armie walking through the open doorway, stepping over the key card, his eyes landing on his naked body sprawled out over the bed sheets, ready for the taking …
He wondered if Armie felt excited by the sight, what sort of fantasies would be going through his head …
He wondered if Armie even wanted him anymore.
Armie’s fingertips arriving under Tim’s chin broke him away from his overthinking.
Armie lifted Tim’s head so that he caught his entire face in frame.
“I’ve not come here to say sorry,” Armie spoke in a whisper, “You deserve more than an apology.”
Tim found himself blinking repeatedly, his entire face fixed toward Armie’s, his fingers curling around the edges of the bed tightly as his heart pounded so hard he could feel it in the bottom of his stomach, in his ears, behind his now watering eyes …
“I acted selfishly, my decision was irrational, my thought process unhealthy,” Armie continued, “What we had, the things we did … It turned me into something I never intended to become. Something I no longer am.”
Tim broke Armie’s gaze and shook his head away from Armie’s fingertips.
He then stood, folding his arms across his chest, turning his back to Armie …
Still naked, still quiet …
Until now.
“You … You kept me away from my family,” Tim croaked, “What you did was so wrong …”
Armie’s hands dropped by his sides in a useless dangle.
“I was obsessed with you, Tim,” Armie clenched his teeth, “I thought I had it under control. I do now have it under control.”
Tim gulped down a gut wrenching ball of disappointment.
I was obsessed with you, Tim.
Was … Was … Was …
Please say I still am.
Please.
Please?
Tim turned around to face Armie, his arms still folded across his chest.
Armie didn’t correct himself.
He just stood quietly, waiting for Tim to talk.
Tim had nothing to say.
He knew how he felt.
He knew that he loved Armie.
He knew that he hated him.
He knew that he wanted more …
So, so much more …
He knew that he wanted to be gagged and tied by Armie and sent into a realm made up of only madness and delirium …
He wanted to endure it, survive it, experience that eruption of pleasure that only Armie could provide …
You’re not giving in.
You’re allowing it to happen.
Tim unfolded his arms.
Do it here, with the door open, so the entire hotel can hear the laughter, the screaming, the shouting, the begging and the pleading …
Tim could think emotively about all of this till there were no more emotions left to consider …
But his physical reaction to Armie’s arrival shed light on the reality of his situation.
Without clothes to conceal the truth, his cock began to lift.
The dull ache hardened its length, gathering around its base, working it up to a full standing erection until it swayed mid air, bobbing from side to side.
Months of trying, countless hours of searching, dozens of hands that had explored Tim’s body …
And not one part of him had been made to feel amused or aroused.
Tim now stood trembling and breathless, and Armie had only pressed his fingertips against his chin.
Armie pursed his lips as he took in the sight of Tim’s arousal.
Tim spoke quickly, as if the words leaving his mouth were a one off, never to be said again.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?”
Armie remained still.
He was not hesitant.
Instead he gave Tim the chance to reconsider …
To question what he really wanted.
To make sure that this would be the right thing to do.
Tim took a step closer, his cock now the hardest it had ever been.
That step closer was enough to make Armie take a step forward also …
He removed his suit jacket slowly and carefully, revealing long, muscular arms …
He dropped it over the messy, slept in bed.
The hotel room boiled in the heat.
The air was thick, the atmosphere blurry, a haze buzzing between both young men.
Now inches opposite each other, Armie could place his palms over each of Tim’s arms.
Tim dropped his forehead over Armie’s chest, nudging it gently.
He tried to push him away, whilst using his own hands to pull him back.
Tim’s arms wrapped around Armie’s waist.
Armie smiled, resting his jaw over the top of Tim’s head.
“I’m not taking you back,” Tim mumbled into Armie’s t-shirt, “I’ve spent five months trying to replace you,” he sniffed, “You went looking for me, I didn’t go looking for you…”
Armie glanced at the open diary resting over the pillow on Tim’s bed.
The words ‘reminds me of him’ stared back at him in scratched pencil.
“You did, Tim,” Armie placed his hands over Tim’s back, “You just couldn’t find me …”
Armie closed his eyes as he felt the shapes of Tim’s shoulder blades.
He ran his fingertips gently over the length of Tim’s spine.
Armie’s touch arrived at his hips, just in time for Tim’s sides to be covered in goosebumps.
“... Damn … ” Tim whispered, his teeth clamping down over the material of Armie’s tee.
The time between their last encounter and this very moment had created a longing with a strength they had both hugely underestimated.
It forced them together, their bodies now so closely entwined that sweat had begun to develop around Tim’s waist, under Armie’s collar, over the palms of his hands …
Armie’s fingers curled around Tim’s wrists.
Carefully, he positioned them behind his back, keeping his hands over them.
Tim stood bound by Armie’s grasp, his eyes closed, his knees shaking, his head falling away from Armie’s chest where it now faced the ceiling.
Armie spoke his words as if they were a statement, not a question.
“... You want this, don’t you …”
Tim nodded quickly.
He arched his spine purposefully, reminding Armie of his consent by allowing his erection to brush up against Armie’s thigh.
“Even if it’s for one last time,” Tim moaned.
Armie’s arousal began to stiffen as an excitement bubbled beneath his waist …
The realisation that he’d have Tim again, ‘even if it’s for one last time’, created a surge of happiness deep within himself that he had so desperately missed since Tim walked out of his bedroom …
He looked down at Tim’s hard on, its throbbing twitch, its solid girth …
He wanted to say, ‘this doesn't have to be over …’
‘This could be more …’
‘We were just starting to be more …’
But it was clear that Tim had made a choice.
Now, instead of being restricted by rope and leather in Armie’s apartment, Tim was restricted by his career, his contracts, the many scripts and screenplays, meetings and days spent filming …
He wasn’t in a bedroom next door, his ankle strapped to the corner of the bed.
He wasn’t making small talk with the pizza delivery guy whilst Armie poured the fourth, fifth, sixth glass of wine …
He wouldn’t be downstairs cooking scrambled eggs, or willingly stepping into bondage for days on end …
Those days were over.
That flexibility was removed.
That Tim no longer existed …
And if he did, it was right now, right this second, right in front of him …
Do your worst, Tim thought.
“Do … Your… Worst …” Tim spoke his words out loud through clenched teeth.
Armie felt his chest fill with regret.
He hadn’t expected things to have turned out this way, for Tim to have been so transformed by his absence …
“If I'd known you felt like this,” Armie tightened his grip around Tim’s wrists, keeping them pinned behind his back, his lips kissing down over the left side of Tim’s neck, “I would’ve packed some equipment …”
Tim squirmed in Armie’s hold, his teeth biting down over his lower lip as Armie nibbled across a sensitive area of flesh.
“The, the top drawer,” he managed to say, “I, I have a set …”
Armie felt Tim’s arms tug.
He kept them in place.
“You’ve been having some fun of your own?” Armie successfully held the jealousy away from his tone, even if he had already noticed the fingernail marks over Tim’s hips and waist.
Tim tilted his head, some curls of hair falling over his eyes.
“Anything to feel how you made me feel,” Tim admitted, confident in his delivery.
Armie kissed Tim’s cheek, his intention to respectfully not get too close to his mouth, his aim to keep this intimate but not romantic …
It was then he decided that he would ask this question once and once only.
Tim’s answer would confirm everything he needed to know; the next steps, the truth behind this behaviour, the fact that all of this was really happening …
“... You haven’t come since you were last with me, have you …”
Tim tried to pull his arms free once again, but Armie kept them at the bottom of his spine.
Tim grunted, dropping his shoulders, glancing down at his feet.
He shook his head slowly.
Armie had edged Tim several times.
He had watched the orgasm form in his face, he had felt the hot nudge of breath against his neck; he had witnessed the veins pulsate, the amount of gush, the way he shivered for several minutes after the kind of eruption only Armie could create.
Armie could tell Tim was struggling.
His balls were heavy and large.
The tip of his erection already seeping out his arousal in the form of a singular white drop.
Armie had seemingly edged Tim from the other side of the Atlantic, without even trying to do so, without being aware the distance between them had created such torment.
Finally, Armie let Tim go.
His hands slid away from his wrists, his palms planting over his chest.
Tim’s arms dangled at his sides.
Armie shoved Tim onto the bed where he landed with a bounce.
He removed his t-shirt, unable to take the heat for a second longer.
He threw his t-shirt at Tim.
It landed on his head.
Both men chuckled as Tim yanked the t-shirt away from his face.
And then Armie made his way to the top drawer …
O N E H O U R I N . . .
A puddle of sweat gathered inside Tim’s suprasternal notch …
His Adam’s apple bobbed, perspiration glistening over his neck …
“If someone had been told that you’ve just taken a dip in the pool outside,” Armie joked, “They would believe it.”
Tim lay spread eagle on his back, his wrists and ankles bound to each corner of the bed by cheap bondage found online, his body soaked from head to toe in exhaustion
“You’ve never been tickled like this before …” Armie stated.
Tim stared at the ceiling in disbelief.
A ceiling he had stared at many nights in a row, wondering if he’d ever feel this again.
Here he was.
Feeling more than just ‘this’, feeling the most explored he’d felt since discovering Armie’s fetish over half a year ago …
The bedsheets around and under him were drenched and creased, the room sweltering and moist, the air overwhelmingly challenging to breathe through …
Huff,
Huff,
Huff …
Tim dug his heels into the mattress and slowly slid them down and up, as much as his ankle restraints would allow.
He rolled his hips to the right, his throbbing cock standing tall, its length never touching his stomach due to how fiercely it remained erect.
He was so close to erupting …
It could happen any second …
The twitch between his taint and balls nudging him closer to an explosion of physical release …
After all, Armie had edged him to the point of orgasm for the best part of fifty six minutes …
Tim felt overwhelmed by tickle torture, his entire body ravaged by Armie’s claws; his entire existence filled with dread, excitement, pleasure, fear, endurance and exposed vulnerability.
He had longed for this moment; he had hunted for it, sought it out, lost sleep over it, searched nightly …
And then it arrived at his hotel room door.
Unexpected, uninvited, unbothered by the months that had flown by since …
Only he can make me feel this way.
Tim’s watering eyes peered over his chest where he took in his arousal, his narrowed stare urging his cock to release, whilst also urging it to remain as it was; solid, thick, filled with cum, giving him the most electric buzz he had ever known, and would likely ever know again …
“... Pl, ple … Please …” Tim’s voice was strained and dry.
Armie had devoured his armpits, his sides …
He would then pause to edge him closer …
“ … Le, let … m, me …”
He would continue fulfilling Tim’s desire, his expert movements travelling down to Tim’s soles, his toes …
And again, he would pause, taking the time to work Tim’s cock to that eye bulging moment …
A moment of denial.
Tim’s mouth moved but no words came out.
Armie could see that he had pushed Tim the furthest he had been pushed.
It was as if every knot of rope, every glide of hairbrush …
Every drag of the feather, every droplet of baby oil …
Every slice of pizza, every tear, every glass of wine, every shout and every moan …
Every bad decision, every good decision, every text, every call …
… Had led to this space of time, in this muggy Budapest hotel room.
Armie stood naked at the corner of the bed, his tanned body glistening, the noon sun outlining his frame.
He stroked his cock whilst admiring Tim and his attempts to control the many sensations working like static beneath his skin.
“It doesn’t surprise me that you wanted this so bad,” Armie spoke quietly, unblinking, his right hand massaging his erection, “You submitted for weeks on end and then it suddenly stopped…”
He strolled casually into Tim’s ensuite bathroom as Tim craned his neck, his bloodshot eyes following Armie’s every move.
Without his tools, Armie would have to make the most out of what Tim had packed.
“... You went cold turkey without even realising you were addicted,” Armie picked up Tim’s wash-kit and began to explore the toiletries inside, “The result of that made you behave the way you’ve been behaving since you walked out of my apartment …”
He picked out a plastic shaver, some hand moisturiser, some shaving cream …
“... It made me act strangely too,” Armie put down the wash-kit and picked up Tim’s electric toothbrush, “You know that I tried calling you exactly one hundred and twenty six times? I counted …”
He then picked up Tim’s hairbrush, removing some strands of brown attached to the bristles.
Tim arched his back, stretching out his waist and hips, his eyes landing on Armie as he returned to the bedside.
“... I travelled four hundred and fifty two miles to find you,” Armie whispered, landing the selection of tools across the tiled floor, neatly arranging them in order.
Tim bit his upper lip, his head peeling away from the dampness of the pillow.
“N, now what are you gonna do?” He asked, unsure of just how much more intensity Armie could possibly add to his tickling techniques.
Armie smiled, his fingers curling around the hairbrush.
“Now we’re gonna play a game,” he announced.
After twenty one weeks apart, Armie finally had Tim’s feet back in his hands.
He knelt on the floor at the bottom right corner of the bed, his view perfectly capturing Tim’s right sole and behind that his naked, bound body, his head now propped up by two pillows.
Tim looked apprehensive, concerned, all too aware of the impact Armie could make with a tool as ordinary as a hairbrush.
As he looked over his chest, watching Armie with watering eyes, Armie began to kiss Tim’s toes.
“I’ve missed you …” he spoke into the fleshy lengths, “... I’ve missed these …”
Tim smirked, his erection hardening, his toes curling around Armie’s mouth, his foot pushing forward as much as the ankle restraint would allow …
Armie felt that press, that want from Tim to have his feet devoured.
Armie began to suck on Tim’s big toe, his tongue trailing around its long, structured shape.
Tim closed his eyes, wincing every so often …
“You …”
Hiss!
“... Always have to bite them …” Tim opened his eyes, peering over his chest at Armie, “... Don’t you?”
Armie chuckled, his lips consuming Tim’s index toe where he sucked on it from base to tip.
“How can I not?” Armie said, his mouth full with Tim’s sweaty digit.
Tim gasped in a sharp intake of air as Armie chewed on his index toe.
He threw his head forwards, his face creased in a maddened expression.
“... Fuck … You mother fucker …!” Tim grinned.
Armie had to hold onto Tim’s ankle to keep his foot in place.
“What?” Armie teased, “Don’t like the chewing?”
Tim pressed his lips together, his wrists yanking at their restraints.
“I told you,” Tim repeated, “... Do your worst …”
Armie used one hand to pin Tim’s ankle down whilst his other gently began to scratch over his arch, his teeth nibbling on Tim’s toes.
Tim began to thrash around on the bed, droplets of sweat leaving the tip of his nose as he flicked his head from side to side.
“I remember when you used to hate this,” Armie commented, his mind travelling back to the first time Tim stepped inside his apartment, “You used to be scared by it, intimidated … My God …”
Armie moved onto the next toe, his words muffled by the amount in his mouth, “... The amount of questions you used to ask! Now you need it more than anything …”
Tim threw his body forwards with such strength the bed shifted a few inches across the floor.
Armie stopped.
Even though Tim had pushed him to continue, to test him, to ‘do his worst’, that sudden jolt of body movement was a way of Tim communicating ‘I can’t take it’.
He had already started to crumble.
Armie wouldn’t shed light on that.
He thinks he’s in control, Armie thought.
He always does.
He would allow Tim to portray a sense of power, of being able to endure this, this ferocity he had been searching for …
… For now.
Until he has no choice but to break.
Armie picked up the tub of hand moisturiser and began to rub it into Tim’s right sole.
Tim relaxed, catching his breath, his nose unintentionally catching the whiff of body odour leaving his underarms.
“It’s hot …” Tim mumbled, blowing some dust away from his upper lip with a puff.
“This set up, or the heat?” Armie cocked an eyebrow, gathering some saliva around his tongue.
“Both …” Tim answered, his eyes widening as Armie sent a long line of drool from out of his lips.
The drool landed all over Tim’s toes, it slid down the bottom of his foot, all the way down to his heel.
Without baby oil, Armie had to make up his own form of lubrication.
Armie then massaged the saliva and hand moisturiser together, creating a thick, shining layer over Tim’s sole that would work as a heightened coat of sensitivity.
Tim kicked and twisted his foot as Armie’s fingernails ‘accidentally’ joined in with the massage.
Armie turned to Tim, positioning himself so that he could see Tim’s foot and his face behind it.
“Now, I’m going to implement the hairbrush. The game we’ll play is simple. You must watch me, the entire time … You can’t laugh. You can’t take your eyes off me. You can kick, squirm, wriggle your toes … But you cannot laugh … Understood?”
Tim’s head lifted off the pillow in alarm.
“What if I, what if I fuck up?” He whined.
Armie shrugged casually.
“Then I continue for another fifteen minutes …”
Tim gulped, nodding slowly in understanding.
Armie curled his hand around the cuff attached to Tim’s right ankle.
He then began to slide the hairbrush over Tim’s sole, working the bristles from left to right, the side to side movement always far more effective than up and down.
Tim narrowed his eyes in focus, watching his foot carefully.
He curled his fists into balls and bit his lower lip.
His foot writhed around over the mattress, his toes pointing to the ceiling for a few seconds only to stretch out in a manic curl straight after …
He kicked both legs, his nostrils flaring, his cheeks boiling red …
He had once almost successfully endured a tickling from Miller, his safe word unsaid, until Miller had introduced the string …
Tim watched Armie in shock as he realised that Armie would break him far sooner than Miller ever could …
Simply by using a hairbrush across his sole.
How the fuck does he do this? Tim thought.
Tim burst into laughter, his hysteria leaving his throat in a loud, heavy bellow.
“I can’t, I can’t, alright stop, stop, sssst–!”
Tim deepened his cry into a stern shout, his volume echoing around the ensuite.
“--SSTTTTOP, STOP, STOP, STOP–”
Armie slid the hairbrush to a gradual halt.
“You lose. Now I get fifteen minutes,” Armie declared, “Buckle up, kid. I’m only giving you a thirty second breather …”
Tim lifted his head in worry.
“... And then I’m going back in …”
F I F T E E N M I N U T E S L A T E R . . .
Tim’s chest lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped …
He heaved in air, his vision blurred, the bed sheets beneath him wrinkled and dark with perspiration …
So much so you could practically ring droplets of sweat from them.
Tim’s toes curled, his right sole tingling from fifteen minutes of non stop hairbrush tickle torture …
“Damn, fuck, da, da, damn …” Tim coughed into his shoulder, “... I, I thought I was gonna pass out …”
Armie shuffled over to Tim’s left foot.
“I’ve dreamed about being able to do this again, night after night,” Armie whispered, kissing all five of Tim’s left toes at once, “Such perfect, soft, agonisingly ticklish feet …”
Tim swallowed down a dry bubble of air.
He then peered back over his chest as Armie coated his left sole in the same out of saliva and hand moisturiser.
Tim’s foot squirmed under Armie’s ticklish massage, his head twisting over to his iPhone plugged in at the bedside table.
“I, I …” Tim began to kick his leg, “... I gotta be on set, in, in an hour …”
Armie scratched under Tim’s toes, allowing the boy to panic about his schedule, a schedule that Armie would now happily disregard.
“It’s a good job I locked the door,” Armie smirked, “They’ll no doubt come looking for you when they realise you didn’t show …”
Tim huffed, his ankle once again held into place by Armie’s hand.
“But, my, my call time is one, one –”
“-- The next challenge,” Armie announced, “Watch your foot again, however this time you can’t laugh and you cannot move. Not an inch …”
Tim raised his eyebrows.
“What? That, that’s impossible …”
Armie shook his head.
“It’s not. Now, repeat after me: No moving, no toe curling, no laughing, no kicking … Nothing …”
Tim threw his head over the pillow in a frustrated bounce, his fingers curling around the rope attached to each wrist.
“No moving … No toe curling … No, no laughing … Fuck … No kicking …” he sighed, “... N, nothing.”
Armie nodded just once.
“If you fail, another fifteen minutes on this foot …”
Before Tim could respond verbally, he clenched his teeth together and pressed his chin down over his collarbone, Armie wasting no time in sliding the hairbrush across his saliva coated sole.
Tim chewed on his tongue as he watched his foot endure the brush, Armie’s rub slow at first and then picking up speed.
Tim felt the beginnings of laughter arrive in his chest.
They crept up his throat, teasing him with the threat of escape as they neared his jaw.
Tim blinked, a tear rolling out of his left eye where it joined the sweat of his left cheek.
He breathed in slowly, his toes desperate to curl, clench or stretch out the intensity travelling over the ticklish landscape of flesh between the tips of his toes and the end of his heel.
His little toe twitched, something he hoped Armie wouldn’t note down as movement.
I can’t do this.
I can’t do this.
I can’t do this.
“You’re going great,” Armie commented, “Not long left …”
Tim’s fingers flexed out, their tips pointing into the hot atmosphere as distress filled his eyes.
He continued to watch, taking in the tickle torture as Armie slid the hairbrush slowly from left to right, left to right, left to right, in an excruciating drag …
The room buzzed with electricity, the sun now burning through the middle of the windows as the day reached lunchtime.
Tim had been tied here for hours, his feet enduring their most fierce round of tickling in his twenty three years of living …
One last time.
One last time.
One last time.
Armie acknowledged Tim’s facial expression.
The pinkness over his forehead, the thickness of his veins, the muscles in his jaw as he ground his teeth in focus.
“You’re hating this, aren’t you?” Armie asked with a smile.
Tim nodded quickly.
“I can barely breathe …”
Tim’s index toe and big toe began to part, ready to curl or scrunch but Tim’s determination kept them stiff and rigid.
“You haven’t been able to stop thinking about me, have you?” Armie asked.
Tim shook his head quickly, sweat rolling down his neck.
“You know what it feels like to be obsessed now, don’t you?”
Tim nodded frantically, his entire body remaining as still as it possibly could, hysteria ready to leave the back of his throat as his erection continued to throb, the brush persisting in its repetitive glide.
“No one is able to do this to you like I am, are they Tim?”
Tim shook his head once again, pressing his lips down in determined focus, confident in his answers to Armie’s questions, the entire situation forcing Tim to be the most honest he’d ever been in his life.
Armie took the brush away from Tim’s arch and then started to drag it around his heel.
“Let’s see if these heels are as sensitive as I remember …”
Tim raised his eyebrows, his pained expression swollen and tight, all five toes ready to scrunch up.
Tim kept them flexed out, his chest now full to capacity with delirium.
Keep it in …
Keep it in …
Keep it in …
“It was always the toes,” Armie recalled, “That’s often how I’d get you to snap …”
The brush left Tim’s heel and slid up to Tim’s toes, the bristles now running across their fleshy length from side to side.
Tim kept his eyes on his foot, unable to actually see past his chest as his vision continued to blur.
Tim grunted out the start of a laugh but he forced down the rest.
Every muscle in his body felt strained.
There was a ringing in his ears.
Panic overwhelmed him as he took in Armie’s arrival, the fact that he’d miss today’s shoot without telling anyone, the hairbrush sliding across the bottom of his foot …
Just as he was about to forcefully kick his leg and beg Armie to let him go, Armie stopped.
He slid the hairbrush to a stop when it became clear that Tim would succeed in this challenge, his ability to keep still clearly crushing his soul and mental capacity in more ways than he dared to realise.
“Looks like all the times we played together made for good practice, kid …” Armie placed the hairbrush over the floor, “... There was a time where you couldn’t stand that for more than a second …”
Tim exhaled out air, his chest dropping, another tear rolling out of his eye.
He peered over his chest, his eyes glancing down at his erection.
He then looked up at Armie, his creased face saying the word,
Please …
Armie knelt down between Tim’s parted legs and curled his fingers around his cock.
Tim closed his eyes at the warmth of Armie’s palm.
No additional lubrication was needed - the sweat was enough.
Armie began to stroke Tim, calming him down, carrying him closer to release …
Tricking him into thinking he’d be allowed to erupt.
Tim curled away itchiness covering his toes, his upper body lifting from the bed as Armie began to speed up the movement of his wrist.
Fap fap fap fap fap fap!
Tim’s eyes bulged out of his head as his arms and legs pulled in on themselves, caught in place by rope and leather.
In this heightened state of arousal, Tim’s orgasm had already begun to develop around his hips.
His prostate pulsated, his taint thickened, his balls filled with euphoria …
Fap fap fap fap fap fap!
Tim knew not to inform Armie of how close he was.
He didn’t want to give anything away.
So he just watched Armie’s fist do its work, he endured the travel of the orgasm as it reached the tip of his cock, his helm expanding and shimmering all at once …
Armie stopped rubbing, holding Tim’s cock like the handle of a sword.
He squeezed it tightly.
Tim threw his head forward.
“Mnn!”
Armie flicked Tim’s arousal against his stomach, where it landed against his abs in a playful smack.
He then let go of Tim’s erection.
Tim stared at his cock, perspiration trickling down his sides, his mind coming to terms with the fact he had been denied his orgasm for the third time in a row as it subsided back to the depths of his body …
Armie stood up, this time with shaving cream and shaver in hand.
“Start thinking of excuses, Tim,” he said, “You’re going nowhere.*
Tim’s head writhed over Armie’s lap, desperate, uncontrollable giggles leaving dry lips as Armie continued to shave away Tim’s armpit hair.
“Se, seriously, Armie …”
Armie sat behind Tim, his position allowing him to toy with the boy's underarms as much as he wanted to.
“They’re, they’re gonna won, wonder where I, I, I –”
Tim writhed over the bed, his body swaying from side to side, his wrists and ankles still pinned to the corners of the mattress.
“-- Let them,” Armie held onto Tim’s right arm by catching his elbow, “And keep still, I don’t want to cut you …”
Tim tried his best to remain in place as Armie shaved away the final tuft of armpit hair.
“You, you can’t just, just do this,” Tim ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth, fully aware that he got more than he bargained for, “Co, come on, man, lemme, lemme go…”
Armie licked his fingertips, coating them in dribble and drool.
He then began to brush away the shaving cream by tickling Tim’s underarms.
“You're tied up,” he repeated Tim’s words, words Tim had taunted him with the last time they played out a session, a session where Armie lay bound instead, “You’re going nowhere till I say! I can keep you here for the rest of the week …”
Tim’s head bounced over Armie’s crotch as he laughed breathlessly into the humid expanse of air smothering his face.
“N, n, n, n, no–”
As the sun began to hide below the swimming pool gates outside of Tim’s hotel room, its burning rays decreased in their relentless shine …
Tim twisted his body from side to side, rolling his waist from left to right, heaves of laughter leaving his mouth as his sweat stained body continued to buck across the mattress.
Armie kept the electric toothbrush in reach.
He took hold of it, switching it on, allowing its vibrating buzz to land over Tim’s lips.
Tim spat out furiously, his eyes squeezing shut as Armie tickled his mouth whilst tickling his left armpit in unison.
The bed creaked and shook, the pillows fell over the tiled floor, the bed sheets got caught up under Tim’s heels …
“St, st, st, st –
Heaaaaaaave.
“St, st, st, stop–”
Armie glanced down to Tim’s erection; still solid, still twitching, his body still massively turned on.
“--I don’t think you want it to stop, Tim,” Armie ran the toothbrush down the side of his neck and over his right nipple, “You want this, you asked for this, you’re getting this …”
Tim’s spine curved up, his balls sinking between his thighs, his face saturated in panic as he scrunched his head down towards his nipple.
“Fuck! No, Jesus, I, I can’t take this–”
He had been tickled by Armie many, many times before, but this was the most merciless, most viscerally unbearable session Armie had put him through …
“--Please, you, you gotta stop, I, I need to breathe, just a second–”
Amidst his mind numbing moment of lunacy, Tim wondered if this was punishment.
Punishment for leaving Armie the way he did …
It was then he realised it was a reminder.
A reminder of what they had.
Of what Tim wanted.
Of what he had denied himself, by leaving
Knock knock.
Both Armie and Tim shot wide eyes towards the hotel room door as another two knocks landed against it.
Knock knock.
A man's voice, young and muffled …
“Tim?”
The director’s assistant.
Tim glanced up at Armie, taking in his upside down head, ready for Armie to acknowledge that now would be the best time to end it.
But, to Tim’s shock, Armie didn’t stop tickling him.
Tim yanked his body forwards, he tried to lift himself away from Armie’s lap, a furious grin taking over his mouth in a widened stretch as he attempted escape.
Armie’s arousal grew as he watched Tim try to remain silent, try to control his reactions, try to not give anything away, whilst trying to get away …
All whilst being tickled.
“Tim, are you in there?” The voice repeated.
Tim couldn’t shout out a ‘give me a second!’, nor could he make up an excuse.
His underarms and nipple were too ravished by tickle torture.
He could only buck and bounce, breathlessly pant, his erection smacking against his stomach with every twist and turn.
His eyes widened, his smile distorted by madness, sweat trickling down the side of his head …
Tim couldn’t think.
He couldn’t compartmentalise thoughts.
He couldn’t consider what would happen if the door burst inward and his cast mates saw him like this.
He couldn’t figure out if he cared.
He couldn’t figure out if he cared if the director's assistant wondered what the buzzing noise was, or the shifting of the beds structure, or the cereaking across floor tiles …
The heaving, the groans, the attempts to keep the noise down …
Armie sent the toothbrush down to Tim’s navel.
Knock knock.
“Tim?”
Tim began to hyperventilate.
He couldn’t handle the toothbrush over his belly button, whilst Armie’s hand infiltrated the warm caverns of his underarm …
All as more knocking and ‘Tim? Tim? Tim?’ came from the other side of the door…
He wanted to shout and cry and laugh so badly …
Now more than ever.
But his circumstance prevented him from doing so.
… And Armie loved every moment.
Tim’s head rubbing against his lap only further pushed Armie to orgasm.
He felt it gather around his waist and hips as he sat at the top of the bed, Tim’s writhing body his only view …
Armie reached his arm further over Tim’s torso and began to run the electric toothbrush up the boy's shaft, the vibrating bristles spinning over a tip shining with the promise of release.
Knock knock.
“Tim? You’re late …”
Tim’s face was puffy, his hair soaked with sweat, his hips thrashing from left to right as his naked underarm was exploited by the scratch of Armie’s fingernails.
The buzz of the toothbrush running up the thick, twitching shaft of his cock …
Tim eyed the hotel door as his orgasm began to tighten up his balls.
Knock knock.
He widened his jaw, a few coarse heaves leaving his mouth even though he so desperately wanted to keep the noise contained.
The door handle rattled.
Armie’s erection began to gush.
Tim’s mouth fell open as his cock erupted, the toothbrush bringing out a flow of cum held back for almost four hours …
The hotel door blurred into nothing, Tim’s vision taken over by such intense physical strain.
He arched his back, his arousal spewing out shoots of white that landed over his stomach, his thighs, Armie’s chest and shoulders …
Knock knock.
“Tim?”
Armie bit into his fist, keeping his aggression in the back of his throat, his own cock throbbing out release beneath Tim.
Tim could feel Armie’s strength under his head, the thick coat of warm liquid hitting the back of his neck.
As they both came at the same time, the door handle stopped its rattle and the person behind it stepped away.
Both Tim and Armie remained silent, breathless and panting, Armie sat with Tim’s head in his lap, Tim still bound to the bed …
Sticky droplets covered Tim’s upper body, a puddle of orgasm gathered around Armie’s lap.
Armie looked down at Tim just as Tim looked up at Armie.
Blue eyes connected with green eyes, their stare fixed, unbreakable…
Armie leant down and kissed Tim on the lips, his mouth's arrival forceful and passionate …
As pleasure still seeped from their bodies in the form of further twitching ejaculation and tingling skin, the kiss continued with no care to any distraction or interruption from the director’s assistant outside.
The shuffling and fading away of footsteps informed Tim and Armie that the threat of intrusion had removed itself.
Tim would make his excuses later.
He watched Armie un-cuff his wrists.
Armie slid out from under Tim.
He then crawled down to the foot of the bed, where he began to remove Tim’s ankle restraints.
Once free, Tim pulled his legs towards himself and hugged his calves.
He rested his chin over his knees and looked up at Armie, who now stood with his muscular shadow blanketing the bed Tim sat on.
Armie was still hard, his erection still wanting to take Tim in a way that didn’t involve tickling.
The humidity in the room began to subside as the sun started to fall below the Budapest landscape.
Tim knew what Armie wanted.
He could see it in his eyes.
One last time.
You’re not giving in.
You’re allowing it to happen.
Tim laid on his side, slowly and carefully, his muscles exhausted from the most intense tickle session he’d ever endured.
Armie began to stroke his cock as he watched Tim roll onto his front …
He then slid his legs apart, laid his head out over his arms and arched his back …
Armie took in a sight he thought he might never see again.
Tim felt Armie’s weight return to the bed.
Butterflies occupied his chest and stomach as he felt Armie approach his behind.
He held onto a nearby pillow and held it in a tight hug, his teeth biting down over dry cotton.
As Armie’s tip pressed against Tim and slowly began to enter him …
… Tim woke up.
***
The first thing Tim noticed was the droplets of orgasm over his stomach.
His hard on twitched, expelling the final droplets of his wet dream.
He sat up, confused and tingling, his erection laid out over his right hip.
He quickly checked the empty space of bed beside him, his palm patting over its surface.
He felt warmth created by the heatwave, not by Armie’s body …
Tim turned to face the armchair, an armchair he could’ve swore he had seen Armie sitting in just hours ago …
Tim threw his body back over the bed in a frustrated bounce.
He breathed in a large in-take of hot Budapest air, ready to scream so loud that people in the room opposite might want to call security …
But he closed his mouth and simply exhaled through his nostrils, his eyes filling with tears.
How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?
How much more pride can you swallow down?
You can’t keep going on like this.
Tim lay his hands by his sides and stared up at the ceiling in silence.
He had dreamt about Armie and their experiences together dozens of times since leaving him.
But the dream he had just endured was more than just nostalgia, an obsessive moment taking place in his subconscious, a few memories sewn together as he slept …
It was a vivid infiltration of his senses, a transformation of his psyche, a stark reminder that he couldn't move on without seeing Armie one last time.
Tim sat up.
He reached for his iPhone.
He still had a few more hours till he needed to be on set, even if his dream did narrate the idea that he would be late.
He had deleted Armie’s text messages, their constant arrival on a daily basis for the first few months since he left proving to be more annoying than complimentary.
He had ignored his calls, his voicemails, the attempts to contact him in the night …
For the first time in five months, Tim would make the effort to call him.
Tim pinched his lower lip as he sat on the edge of the bed, wanting to cover his cum stained stomach and semi erect cock with the bed sheets, but the heatwave told him it would be insane to do so.
So he stared at his phone blankly, totally naked, questioning every single thought that landed in his head.
He kept you captive.
He risked your career.
He lied to you.
Tim huffed, his thumb scrolling through his phone, Armie’s number arriving on the screen.
I’ll never find anyone like him.
I hate what he’s turned me into.
I love what he’s turned me into.
Tim blinked as he arrived at a final realisation.
You have the power to make that dream a reality.
Tim tapped his index finger over Armie’s name and then placed the phone beside his ear.
It didn’t ring.
It went straight to voicemail.
Tim frowned.
Nerves filled his throat.
He tried again.
…
No ring …
Straight to voicemail.
Tim stood up, his hands dangling by his sides.
Denying himself so long of the thing he craved so much had been no different to the infliction of tickling he had endured countless times before.
Just like the physical torture, it eventually broke him and instead of screaming out his safe word …
New York!
He would instead be flying back there as soon as Dune had completed filming.
Tim wore a grey hoodie, black leather jacket and sweatpants tucked into socks.
His Reeboks travelled over a familiar looking sidewalk until he arrived outside Armie’s apartment.
He stood on the curb, taking in the building's three story height, his eyes focusing on the window that he used to stare out of all of the time, back when he lived here.
He purposely intended to show up with only thirty minutes until his meeting with Spielberg, just a block away.
A meeting where he would discuss starring in a trilogy of films that would forever cement him as Hollywood's greatest young actor.
With that in mind, he couldn’t linger on conversation with Armie, he couldn’t submit to a session, he couldn’t engage in a heated row or debate on how their last interaction was handled.
He would say hello, he would be polite, he would explain how he felt and then he would gain closure …
And if their time together didn’t go that way, Tim would turn around and leave.
He cleared his throat.
He hadn’t slept for the past two nights.
He had landed only one hour ago.
And now his fingertips were about to press against the buzzer of the entrance door …
Before they could land, Tim watched the door creak inward.
It had seemingly been left open …
Tim nudged it with the toe of his Reebok and then stepped into the hallway.
The apartment smelled like fresh paint and varnished wood.
Tim could make out conversation …
Two women …
A man …
He took quiet and careful steps over floorboards he had once walked naked over many times before …
As he stepped into the living room he was greeted by an estate agent who stood with a clipboard beside a married couple.
“Hello,” The estate agent smiled, “Feel free to look around, I’ll be with you in a moment …”
Tim raised both eyebrows, his glance taken to the left by another couple who both held hands and walked towards the staircase where they began to climb it towards the empty rooms above.
... An open house …
The estate agent took the couple towards the double doors leading out of the living room, “Let me show you the kitchen, it’s huge, perfect for a family of three …”
Tim felt disappointment flood his chest as he moved aside and allowed the people to pass him by.
Before the estate agent could fully enter the kitchen, Tim raised his voice.
“Ma’am,” he tried to hide the concern in his tone, “Is the owner around?”
The estate agent simply shook her head.
Tim nodded, turning to face the open apartment door.
He expected his feet to lift, to take him out of the building …
But he remained in place.
He stepped into the living room with his hands in his jacket pockets, taking in the newly painted ceiling, the fresh linen curtains, the way the space felt bigger with all of Armie’s furniture removed …
He stared into the middle of the room where the coffee table used to be, a coffee table that would have once been littered with pizza boxes and empty bottles of wine …
He turned to the side wall where the couch once was, a couch that had been the host to movie nights, naps and the first time Timothée had ever given a foot job …
He looked down at the floor.
He stood on the same spot Armie had undressed him on, the same spot Armie had kissed him on, the same spot Armie had pulled down his trousers and devoured his–
– a passing police siren broke Tim out of his moment, reminding him of the outside world and the twenty minutes remaining until he had to be seated opposite one of the most successful directors in the world.
He left the living room and began to head upstairs.
Anxiety boiled his cheeks red as he approached Armie’s bedroom.
Part of him still expected to find Armie tied to it, just as he had left him …
Tim walked into an empty space filled with nothing but floorboards and open windows blowing in a New York breeze.
A passing couple peered in behind Tim.
He enjoyed the fact that they had no idea he had been tied up in this room dozens of times before, this very room's ceiling being witness to the begging, the moaning, the hysterical laughing, screaming and shouting …
Now the room existed as an eerily quiet expanse of hollowness.
The estate agent arrived by Tim’s side.
“It’s a beautiful property,” she said.
Tim kept his eyes on the ceiling.
He wondered about the basement, Sub Zero, the thousands of tickle tools that Armie kept hidden …
“Are there any floors underneath?” Tim pretended to be curious.
The estate agent checked her clipboard.
“A basement ... There’s nothing in there but an old broken elevator that leads down to a large storage floor. I can show you, if you’d–”
“--Is it empty?” Tim asked, his eyes shooting from the ceiling to the estate agent.
The estate agent nodded.
“The entire place was cleared out by the previous owner.”
Tim felt his eyes sting as he realised Armie had taken the time to strip away everything …
He had taken himself out of here, with every feather, every length of rope, every pinwheel and tool and leather cuff …
Until there was nothing left.
“Thanks,” Tim croaked, “I’m uh, I’m just gonna look around …”
The estate agent smiled, “Sure. If you need me, I’ll be at the front door making some calls …”
As she began to head downstairs, Tim took slow steps deeper inside Armie’s bedroom.
His foot landed on something small and solid.
Tim lifted his toes.
Underneath the sole of his Reebok, a singular pearl stared back up at him.
Tim crouched down and picked it up.
He stood, walking towards the window where he perched on its ledge.
As the city skyline framed his slouched posture, Tim rolled the pearl between his index thumb and finger.
His nostrils flared as his nose burned …
He closed his eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks as his lips swelled up and his cheeks flushed pink.
He lowered his head, crying gently into his chest as the New York traffic passed by three stories below.
He sat in silence, dealing with his reality …
Once desperate to be away from Armie …
And now so desperate to be with him.
As he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing more tears out of his face, his iPhone began to vibrate in his jacket pocket.
Tim wiped his nose and pocketed the pearl at the same time he retrieved his iPhone.
Caller ID unknown …
Tim wiped his thumb across the screen and placed the phone beside his right ear.
“He, hello?” He sniffed.
…
Static.
“Hello?” Tim repeated.
…
Tim went to hang up, but a voice responded in the form of a grainy crackle.
“... Timothée …” Armie said.
Tim stood away from the window ledge.
He opened his mouth.
He went to speak, his throat clenching, readying his tongue for words …
But nothing came out.
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me …” Armie spoke calmly, quietly, a sense of relief to his voice.
Tim ran a hand through his hair, keeping it on top of his head.
He then sat down in the middle of the room in the cross legged position.
…
“Timmy?”
Tim repeated a sentence Armie would be all too familiar with, a sentence that summed up this very moment all too well.
“I remember everything.”
Tim could hear Armie chuckle on the other side of the phone, understanding the importance of the line and the mirrored value it had to their current situation.
“Where are you?” Armie asked.
Tim sighed, looking around the emptiness surrounding him.
“I’m at your old apartment. I wanted to see you … I, I mi–”
–Tim bit his upper lip, closing his eyes, shaking his head.
I don’t know if I miss you, or miss how you made me feel.
Tim leant into his truth.
“I miss you,” he said confidently.
I want you.
I need you.
Please come back.
More static …
More crackling …
More unbearable silence.
“... I moved out of there, Tim … A few weeks after you left. When I … realised you weren’t going to pick up the phone …”
No ‘I miss you too’ …
I just need one hit.
One hit of reassurance.
Tim clenched his teeth, his eyes boiling into the floorboards as he picked at some loose rubber on the bottom of his Reebok.
“... I couldn’t live there a second longer,” Armie whispered, “Every room reminded me of you …”
There it is.
Tim nodded slowly in understanding, a satisfied smirk lifting his upper lip.
He drew circles over the floorboards with his index finger as he readied himself to say the words he’d practised during the flight home.
“Thank you. For the payment. I know you uh, sent it a while back …” he lifted his shoulders, his mouth staying open for a few moments, “... I, I didn’t think you would.”
Tim could hear Armie breathe in slowly.
“Why wouldn’t I, Tim? I wanted to make it clear that you didn’t waste your time. We had a deal, and even though you didn’t fulfil the full month, your reason for termination was more than valid–”
“--I sent it back,” Tim announced.
A cold draft blew through the apartment as Tim awaited Armie’s response.
A simple, “Oh,” was all Armie had to offer.
Tim chuckled into the phone.
“You’re so rich you didn’t even notice?”
He could practically hear Armie smiling.
He straightened his back, pressing the phone harder against his ear.
He didn’t have to wait long for Armie to ask, “... Why?”
Tim already had his answer.
He delivered it simply, without stumbling.
“I didn’t want it. I don’t think I ever wanted it. You and I both know it’s not why I stayed …”
Tim could hear Armie hold his breath.
He sounded nervous, thankful, concerned, all at the same time …
Tim tried his hardest not to say the next set of words that were already lingering at the back of his throat.
Fate had seemingly kept them separated, even when they had tried to find each other, be it in a dream or like Tim’s attempt this afternoon …
… He only had ten minutes left.
“Where are you?” Tim asked.
…
It fell quiet for so long Tim wondered if Armie was still even there …
…
Bzzt.
Tim’s iPhone vibrated in his hand.
Armie spoke with a sense of relief to his voice.
“That’s my new address,” he said.
Tim glanced at the screen.
He unapologetically allowed a beat of stillness to land, leaning into a silence that shouldn’t feel as comfortable as it did.
After another crackle and more static, Armie spoke in a desperate yet assertive whisper.
“... Come find me … ”
Tim stared at his phone, his hands shaking, the tears on his cheeks drying second by second …
He hovered his index finger over the hang up button.
He tapped it twice, ending the call.
Tim sat by himself for a minute or two, taking the single pearl out from the inside of his jacket.
He held it in his palm, allowing it to sit in the middle of his hand.
He respectfully placed it back down onto the floorboards.
He got to his feet and began to walk towards the bedroom doorway.
He turned around, his eyes taking in the empty space, a space filled with so many memories …
He walked down the stairs, those memories fading away behind him as he headed towards the apartment door.
He pulled it open, the estate agent still present and talking to her boss whilst smoking a cigarette by the lamppost.
Tim hooked his feet over the concrete steps that lead out to the street.
He turned his head left, a breeze blowing curls of hair away from his face.
Heading that way would lead to Spielberg, millions of dollars, a development in his career he could only have dreamed about …
He turned his head right, his green eyes narrowing down a road that would lead him to Armie.
Tim stepped out of the apartment …
He looked left …
And then he turned right.
I wanted to say a huge thanks to everyone who has read Timothée Chalamet’s Ticklish Last Resort; from the readers over at AO3 where this fic originally launched, through to Ash who helped edit the story so it made sense, down to specific Instagram friends and followers who have helped motivate me chapter after chapter (you know who you are).