This story is loosely connected to SQUEAL and CLOWN
________________________________________
SOMEWHERE IN LOS ANGELES …
Henry stood blindfolded with his hands behind his back.
He wore a tight grey work out vest, black sweatpants, white ankle socks and running trainers.
He had practically been taken fresh off the street.
Opera music could be heard in the distance.
The hall he stood in felt muggy and humid.
After being manhandled out of a van, Henry had been led by two henchmen through glass double doors.
Concrete turned into carpet.
Flat floors transformed into steps.
He did not resist.
There was too much at stake.
After all, he thought.
It’s only tickling.
After three minutes of journeying through corridors, in through one room and out of the other, his eyes staring into nothing but cottoned darkness … The leather gloved hands holding onto each of Henry’s bulging biceps soon slid away from him, positioning him here, where he stood right now.
Henry prided himself on his ability to keep calm.
He had always been a laid back, relaxed person.
Even in a situation like this; faced with a once in a lifetime offering - forced to engage in such a strange act, his sight removed, his location unknown …
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel nervous.
But panicked? Worried? Afraid?
No, Henry smirked.
No matter what happens.
I’m in control.
Henry flinched as a warm palm pressed against the middle of his back.
He cleared his throat, readying himself for what had been described to him as,
‘A fun and enjoyable process in getting what you want’.
The hand shoved Henry forwards.
He stumbled unknowingly towards a tall set of wooden oak doors that creaked open inward, just before he’d make impact with them.
The opera music got louder.
Henry could sense people around him.
There we gasp’s at first, then a gentle applause, then the sound of polite murmuring.
Henry could smell food; fish, cooked meats, lemon zest …
His mouth watered.
He hadn’t eaten since breakfast this morning.
This room seemed hot, like someone had purposefully wanted to make the space feel humid and thick.
The scent of champagne invaded his nose.
He blinked behind his blindfold, the palm still against his back, steering him in the right direction.
More applause, more cheers, more discussion …
And then came the laughter.
Manic, heavy, out of control laughter.
From someone American sounding … Younger than him, judging by the high pitched giggles.
Suddenly, Henry’s blindfold was yanked off of his head.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds, scrunching up his face.
And then he opened them to face his current scenario.
Surrounding him were dozens of smartly dressed people.
Most men were in tuxedos, most women in expensive looking dresses and jewellery.
There were waiters strolling around the giant room, a room with a ceiling full of chandeliers.
They offered out canapés to the people occupying this space, walking over the red carpet with their right hand facing forward, a silver tray on the palm, their left hand placed gently behind their waist.
They seemed uncaring and unbothered by the glaringly obvious, laid out in the middle of the room …
A hooded man, around twenty something years of age, topless and dressed in black trousers only, his head covered by a sack; his ankles and wrists tied to restraints that seemed to be nailed to the floor, his position fixed into a restricted starfish shape.
His toned torso bounced around a leather mat, a mat now containing most of his sweat.
He howled into the sack as a man dressed like a Clown knelt down by his left foot, where he currently dragged a long pink feather between the captives' toes.
Henry raised his eyebrows.
He took in the young man's chest and abs, fully decorated in tattoos, just like his neck and arms.
He swallowed down, gulping away apprehension.
Had they got him too?
A frail looking elderly man rolled towards Henry in an electric wheelchair.
Beside him stood two Asian bodyguards.
The elderly man was attached to a drip and an oxygen tank.
He held a walking stick in his right hand.
He wobbled his index finger upward, towards Henry, aiming it at his chest.
“Hmmm …” he said, “… He’s not my usual type,” the elderly man spoke with bile hanging from his bottom lip, “But he’ll more than do.”
From behind the bodyguards, a handsome looking guy in his late forties/early fifties stepped in front of Henry.
He wore a floral short sleeved shirt that hugged his chest, a pair of stone coloured chinos and some white Reeboks.
He held his hand out to Henry, flashing a bright pearly smile, his head of hair a shade of grey, his jaw speckled with light facial hair.
“Wow. Henry Cavill. Here, in one piece … Welcome. I’m … So glad you agreed to join us this evening. My name is Miller.”
Henry nodded just once, refusing to shake the man's hand, instead just offering him a flat smile, speaking in his usual deep, British tones.
“I’d say thank you for having me but … It doesn’t feel like I have much choice.”
Miller held his hands up in surrender.
“Oh, no. You see, that’s where you’re wrong. You have all the choice …” he then flashed his eyes at the tall set of doors Henry had just been escorted through, “… There’s the way out, if you really want to go. The same van that took you here can take you back. It’s not a problem.”
Henry lifted his chest, taking in a breath.
He turned around to face the open doors.
He stood still, his mind grappling with all of the thoughts in his head.
His eyes then trailed to the corners of the ceiling, where he noticed cameras had been wired.
Henry turned back around to face Miller.
“I … Wasn’t informed of any recording. This … Isn’t going ahead, if those are on…”
The elderly man chuckled, coughing his illness into the back of a veiny, wobbling hand.
Miller laughed too, shaking his head.
“I get it. You’re … Used to being the macho guy on set, the lead actor … The one who calls the shots …”
Miller stepped closer to Henry as the many other dozens of men and women continued in their conversation, persisting in the sipping of their champagne, the hooded young man bound to the floor now enduring a second feather to his other foot, his loud laughter filling the room.
“… But right here, right now? I’m the boss. And if you really want what the thing you agreed to come here for, you’ll do as we say … You’ll put on a performance … You’ll do as you’re told … Because the person watching this, watching you - he’s a very, very important man. And he will make your dream a reality, mark my words.”
Henry lowered his head, clenching his teeth, staring down at the carpet.
Has it really come to this?
Had he really been that fucked by the studio that his ways of getting what he wanted had led him to this moment, this bizarre, unlike anything he’d seen before moment —
“—He doesn’t like having his time wasted,” the elderly man grumbled, lifting his walking stick with all remaining energy in his body, poking it towards Henry’s crotch.
Henry jolted back before the stick could jab him in the co—
“—Come on, John,” Miller turned to face the elderly man, “He can be patient, for someone like Henry. He waited for years for Chalamet. He got Bieber, I mean …”
Miller looked over at the young tattooed man restrained to the floor, now being tickled by two people dressed as Clowns, one at his feet, another at his armpits.
“He’s right there! This man gets what he damn wants …” Miller glanced back at Henry with a grin, “… And he gives people what they want, too.”
Henry lifted his shoulders, shooting a curious look from left to right, aware of some of the attention he garnered from the surrounding guests.
“How, how have you done this? What, what power do you ha—“ Henry frowned, struggling to compartmentalise his theories and speculation, “—Who is ‘He’? How about I meet with him first? Sit down, with a few beers and explain the sit—“
“—You’re acting like we’re about to peel your toe nails off, boy,” John interrupted once again, this time sighing out the disease riddling his body, “Now, take off your damn vest and let us get on with it.”
Miller looked at Henry with a shrug.
“See, the old guy is my boss. And ‘He’ is his boss. It’s an intricate, archaic, centuries old situation that is a little … Above, you Hollywood actors. You’re dealing with important people, Cavill. Best do as he says. Get on with it … And don’t piss us off.”
Henry pressed his lips together.
He leant into his situation and grabbed the bottom of his vest.
He lifted it above his head, throwing it away from his body where it landed on the carpet with a plop.
The surrounding crowd cheered and whooped, their eyes widening at Henry's muscular body; his beefy, hairy chest, his toned abs, structured arms, broad shoulders and glistening skin.
Henry went to remove his trainers.
“—No,” John ordered, “Keep those on.”
Henry stood still, nodding slowly, his hands by his sides.
As The Clowns continued to tickle what had been suggested to be Justin Bieber, Miller approached Henry carefully, reassuring him with a calm yet assertive tone.
“Now listen. I’ve done this … Gosh, hundreds of thousands of times, buddy. You’re in safe hands. No one is going to get hurt…” he nodded down to the carpet, “Get on your knees.”
Henry ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth.
At such a tall height compared to Miller, and at such a different size, it felt strange to have a short, average looking guy boss him around.
“What’s the magic word?” Henry asked, a playful grin decorating his face.
Some members of the crowd sent out some dramatic ‘ohhhhhhs’, surprised by Henry’s confidence.
Miller clapped, chuckling to himself.
“Damn! Superman’s got guts!” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, eyeing Henry from top to bottom, “I’m, I’m impressed, really, I am!”
He then cleared his throat, tilting his head to the left, “… Please.”
Henry felt satisfied by how in control he felt, by getting his captors to plead for him before Henry even had the chance to plead himself.
But Henry wouldn’t plead.
He wouldn’t beg, or scream, or cry.
And they’ll get used to that, fast, Henry thought.
I’ll be out of here in the next half hour.
Henry got down to his knees, where he then looked up at Miller with a straight face.
John wheeled himself back into the corner of the room where a waiter handed him a glass of champagne and a ham and cucumber sandwich.
He took a bite, chewing down with sharp, yellow teeth, sipping his champagne, watching the situation take place.
Another waiter arrived at Miller’s side with a silver tray.
Instead of crab sticks and macaroons, there lay four leather cuffs and two lengths of black rope.
“Alright, British Boy,” Miller picked the items off of the tray, the waiter returning to the depths of the surrounding crowd, “Lay down on your front …” he winked at Henry, “… Please.”
Henry smirked.
He shuffled down across the carpet, laying his broad chest down over the floor, his head turning to the side where he watched Bieber, who still lay on his back, still tickled by Clowns just three feet away from him.
Bieber’s laughter sounded hoarse, strained and dry …
Henry noticed the layer of sweat covering his chest, how tightly the young man's toes were scrunched, how suffocating it must feel to expel such hysteria behind the hood.
He wondered how long he’d been there, shackled to the floor that way …
Why Clowns?
Why isn’t anyone else dressed like them?
Henry turned his head the other way.
He began to understand that these people, this organisation … They had their hold on Justin too.
How?
Maybe it’s best if you don’t find out.
Get this over with.
Give Justin a call after.
You don’t have his number.
Find it, somehow.
Find it, and —
—Henry’s thoughts were interrupted by the touch of Miller's hand holding onto his left wrist, pulling it gently behind his back.
As he did so, another nearby guest knelt down and did the same to Henry’s right wrist.
“I have a question for you, Henry,” Miller announced.
Henry huffed as he felt his wrists be pinned over the bottom of his spine.
“Shoot,” he said.
Miller began to cuff Henry’s wrists together.
“What’s your kryptonite?” He asked, “Where’s your worst spot?”
Henry spoke into the ground, a curl of dark hair falling over his forehead.
“Well,” Henry continued with his own teasing banter, “That’s for me to know, and for you to find out.”
Miller patted Henry’s shoulder.
“I absolutely love your humour. I honestly think … You might just be my favourite yet. And that’s saying something. I’ve tickled a hell a lot of famous people, kid.”
Henry rolled his eyes, the feeling of fingers curling around his calves.
His big, chunky legs were lifted towards him, his feet positioned so they were crossed at the ankle.
“A hogtie?” Henry scoffed, “Come on, mate. I’ve broken out of a few of these before.”
Miller began to cuff Henry’s ankles, connecting rope to the restraints around his wrists.
“Oh! So you’re a kinky superhero?” He then began to knot the rope, “I think it’s safe to say: you won’t be breaking out of this one.”
Miler got to his feet, stepping back, admiring a hog tied Henry Cavill on the floor, his shoulders and back muscles practically glimmering in the dim meeting room light.
Henry struggled, wriggling over the carpet, his teeth clamped, his eyes fierce.
He pulled at his wrist restraints, but this only yanked his feet closer towards the bottom of his spine.
And if he forced his feet away from himself, his long arms were stretched too far back.
He panted, giving into the leather.
“It’s going to be one long, entertaining night …” Miller decided, stepping away as other guests dropped their drinks and bite sized snacks, nearing Henry with fingers desperate to explore.
“Wait,” Henry twisted his head from side to side, “Night? What do you mean, night? I only agreed to thirty minutes, thirty, thirty minutes ma—“
Henry jolted as someone began to use both of their hands to traverse the bottom of his waist, an area he didn’t even know was ticklish up until now.
“Hold, hold on a second—“
Henry bit his lower lip, keen to contain his laughter for now, not wanting to give the perverts what they wanted so soon.
“—No, hang on a bit—“
He flinched as another set of hands began to journey over his left rib cage.
“Alright, can I, can I just ask, is, is it all of you?” Henry writhed on the spot, panic saturating his voice, “All, all, all at once?”
Miller faded away behind the numbers of people, waving at Henry before he disappeared completely, the individuals working as a gang, a gang ready to tickle Henry non stop, until he couldn’t take it anymore.
This isn’t what Henry had signed up for.
This isn’t what he had in mind.
He felt a brief chunk of laughter leave his mouth without him even realising it, as soon as a well manicured fingernail slid up the length of his right thigh …
And then another, this one toying with the inside of his left ear.
“Come on, guys, one at a time,” Henry pressed the side of his head into his shoulder, bouncing over the carpet as hands from either side began to reach around his abs, “Guys! Al, alright! I said, I said one at a time!”
As two Clowns tickled Bieber, around thirteen men and another seven or eight women gathered around Henry, whilst the rest of the room's audience stood on and continued to observe.
The cameras in the corner of the room continued to record.
John sat in his wheelchair, continuing with his ham sandwich, his eyes never leaving Henry’s feet, feet that only he could give the order on stripping.
Henry squirmed in his hogtie, his robustness and vigour unable to break his bonds like he thought they would.
John nodded at two of the guests who had already curled their hands around Henry’s running trainers.
Henry began to sweat.
He coughed and spluttered, the room feeling warmer and warmer by the second.
He felt his left trainer slide away from his socked foot.
These perverts!
His toes curled in their moist cotton confines as his trainer pulled away from his right foot.
Fuck this!
“Stop!” Henry cried, unsure if he could take this sort of tickling, his feet now only dressed in white ankle socks, “I mean it, I’m being bloody serious, this, this isn’t right–”
Hands reached around his hips, they dug between his arms and tried to infiltrate the hairy depths of his pits …
Henry clamped his arms around his sides.
But the attackers held onto his elbows and forearms.
Henry was strong, very strong indeed …
But with three men pulling each arm away from each side - he became too outnumbered.
The fingers wriggled into his underarms, their force infiltrating through the moist, hot curls of hair that protected the very centre of his armpits.
He had wanted to remain quiet.
To shout instead of scream.
To bite his tongue instead of giggle.
He thought he could do it, he thought he could get through this, like that.
But with this amount of people on him at the same time…
Henry had no choice but to give in, to surrender, to collapse into heaves of hysteria.
He had never been tickled quite like this.
Not in his thirty nine years of living.
He had been tied up by girlfriends, sure.
He had endured a feather duster between his balls.
He’d flinched during foot massages, wrestled with friends when drunk, tickled others to the point where they shouted Uncle.
But this?
Hogtied, tickled by dozens and dozens of complete, total strangers?
All so I can be him again?
This is madness.
It’s insane.
It’s complex and overwhelming and odd and hilarious and exhausting and physically hard …
And it needs to end.
“Al, alright!” Henry breathed in through flared nostrils, his chest now burning, “Just, just a few of you, fuck, damnit–”
He couldn’t take this many all at the same time, “Come on, guys, it’s too much, I, I wouldn’t of agreed to this crap if I didn’t know I was this—“
His butt wriggled from left to right as a hand began to explore the socked soles of his feet.
“I mean, I’m, I’m happy to, to let you do this but, honestly, seriously? One, one at a time!”
Fingertips danced around his neck, they reached up the leg of his sweatpants and devoured his thighs …
At one point, Henry could feel the sharp end of a feather scratch along the arch of his right foot.
“No! What, what the—“ that felt too much to endure, “—Don’t do that! Stop that, now!”
The scratch felt relentless, irritating, an ordeal challenging to consider.
A sudden dread landed in the pit of his stomach as he felt fingers pinch at the toe of his right sock.
The silky, smoothness of his sole revealed itself as the sock peeled away, thrown to the side, discarded effortlessly.
“No, bloody, fuck! Keep them on, shit, shit, shit–”
The crowds cheered as they heard Henry giggle.
He giggled and giggled and giggled …
Unaware and inexperienced with just how much giggling could make its way past his throat without him breathing properly.
The other sock, peeling away, slowly, carefully, fingers not hesitating to invade the ticklish, naked flesh that presented itself the more the sock rolled back.
Perspiration now soaked most of his back and face.
How long has it been?
Why has Bieber stopped laughing?
Henry began to shout his thoughts out loud.
“How long does this shit go on for?!”
As the bodies surrounding him continued to shuffle in closer, their arms reaching out to various areas of his body constantly at a repetitive, ever changing rate, Henry noticed the space beside him once occupied by Bieber was now empty.
The Clowns and Bieber were gone.
He had completed his session.
For Henry, this meant there was an end - they wouldn’t keep him here forever.
But little did Henry know - Bieber had just been transported to another area of the building … For another lengthy round, this time not with two Clowns, but ten …
Henry moaned in discomfort as he suddenly felt the sensation of cold, wet oil landing over the bottoms of his feet, feet now entirely stripped bare of damp ankle socks and stinky running trainers.
It trickled down his legs, it stained his sweatpants, it rolled through the betweens of his long, fleshy toes.
It continued to soak his soles as he grimaced into the carpet.
“Wait, is, is that, is that oil? What on Earth—“ Henry gasped, bucking on the spot as someone discovered a highly sensitive area around his pecs, “—No, al, alright, stop! Jesus, enough, this is bloody nuts!“
Out of the blue, his many ticklers got back to their feet and politely stumbled away.
Miller stepped forwards, kneeling down at Henry’s feet.
He wrapped his left arm around them triumphantly, owning them, pressing them closely against his chest.
Miller peered down at Henry’s momentous, now shining size elevens.
“All I can say is … Wow … So … Polished, so … Pretty, for someone your age …” Miller commented, dribble forming at either corner of his mouth, “Okay, tell me, Mr. Kent … Does this tickle?”
In his right hand, Miller held a hairbrush.
Without warning, he began to glide it over Henry’s soles, the plastic bristles running over both oil drenched feet at the same time.
Up and down, left to right, side to side.
Henry’s eyes bulged.
“WHAT IS THAT? STOP, STOP THAT IMMEDIATELY –”
He had never had his feet tickled like this before.
He had never experienced the feeling of a brush against such a sensitive area of his body …
And now, such an exposed, restricted, captured part of him …
He couldn’t handle this, even if his feet weren’t coated in lubrication.
But unfortunately, for Henry - that was not the case.
He arched his back, took in a breath and howled out loud unexpected, uncontrollable rolls of laughter into the carpet.
His muscular body violently convulsed, the onlookers watching the event taking place cupped their mouths in disbelief.
To witness someone of this size, this muscular stature, someone so unaware of how it feels to be restrained and tickled; someone so strong and powerful, now forced to endure such torture …
Someone so almighty, reduced to a sweaty, babbling mess within seconds:
It was a sight the room's occupants would never forget.
“Oh hahahahah-hohohohohoho-hahahahaha—“ Henry’s hysteria was deep and coarse, his biceps bulging and strained, his fists clenched, his strength dire in its attempt to break free from his bondage …
“Oh hahahaha-hoooo-hoohohohohohahahahaha—“
His begging, despite him telling himself he wouldn’t, started immediately …
“Oh stop, stop, stop, okay, okay, okay, that’s enough, enough, enough—“
He heaved in more air, expelling his desperation out in one long breath, “—Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please—“
His giant, beefy form made the ground shake as he flapped around like a whale out of water, his mental and physical capacity unable to handle such a ticklish sensation constantly gliding over the sensitive expanse of flesh that made up the bottoms of his feet.
“Supes, you didn’t answer me,” Miller said sternly, cocking an eyebrow, now running the hairbrush over Henry’s toes again and again and again, “… Does this tickle …?”
Henry didn’t hesitate in answering.
“YES, YES, YES, YES, YES—“ he cried through breathless lunacy, “—IT TICKLES, IT TICKLES, IT TICKLES, IT BLOODY WELL TICKLES—“
Miller smirked as the audience erupted in cheers and applause.
“On a scale of one to ten?” Miller asked, the brush now gliding over each of Henry’s heels, “Come on, give me details!”
Henry pressed his face into the floor, his eyes watering, his toes scrunched up tight.
“ELEVEN, TWELVE, A BASTARD THIRTEEN!”
Miller pulled Henry’s feet in closer, his smile and stare sadistic and merciless.
“Music to my ears,” he declared, his glistening blue eyes taking in the way Henry’s toes curled and scrunched the more the hairbrush was applied, “Would you say it’s your kryptonite, Henry?”
Henry pressed the side of his head into the carpet, his cheek squishing up against his nose.
“YES, YES, YES! IT FUCKING TICKLES FOR GODS SAKE, PLEASE–”
Miller’s glance darted over to the eager party guests surrounding him, “What are you waiting for, guys? Grab yourself a glass of champagne and join in!”
Henry reached out his arms, his fingers flexing, his hands attempting to knock away the brush from his soles.
“What? No! NO – No!”
Henry sent alarmed looks to the surrounding men and women, who began to unbutton their suit jackets, remove their bow ties, and take their own tickle tools from their trouser pockets or purses …
He saw some holding onto feathers, others switching on electric toothbrushes, some sporting elastic gloves with palms covered in plastic bristles.
He felt baby oil land over his back, where it coated his shoulders, neck and sides, drenching his skin and transforming it into a shimmering glisten.
“Come on! That’s enough! I’ve got tears in my eyes, come on! What more do you need!”
Henry tried to roll over, but the men forced him onto his front.
The damn hair br—
Miller forced it over his heels, his arches, the pads of his toes.
It tickles like crazy!
Henry could no longer form words.
He was forced into oblivion, gang tickled beyond comprehension, his mind full with hysteria.
He howled and screamed, he coughed and spluttered - he wanted to shout out his distress, ask for this to end, beg for his bondage to be broken, but the sentences never made their way out of his mouth.
They were trapped, held back by his laughter, and when they did escape, they arrived in the form of mumbles and slurs, breathlessness and coarse heaving.
Through all of the cheering, the opera music, the applause, the spilling of Champagne, the dribble of oil, the sensations over all areas of his body, Henry could just about hear Miller’s question.
“How much do you want it?”
Overwhelmed by this tickle torture, Henry felt confused as to if Miller was asking ‘how much do you want it to stop’, or, ‘how much do you want the role’ …
Too exhausted and too tickled to decide properly, he hastily chose the latter option.
“Bad!” Henry cried, his toes now infiltrated by the fast whizzing end of an electric toothbrush, “I want it so, so bad!” Henry panted.
John smiled, swallowing down his sandwich, wheeling himself closer toward the ordeal so he could hear the desperation in Henry’s voice.
“How bad?” John asked.
Henry’s grin was tight and manic, his eyes squeezed shut, his back arched, the arms in his muscles bulging, his hogtie just about containing his weight.
“REALLY BAD—“ Henry’s eyes snapped open as his sweatpants were yanked down to his thighs, his bare ass now on show, “—NO, PLEASE, THAT’S NOT WHAT I—“
Henry fell into senseless mania as the electric toothbrushes made their way over each juicy butt cheek, cheeks that wobbled and bounced with every shift of Henry’s waist.
“You can’t do anything else, can you? Your roles are always so limited, so un-varied,” Miller taunted, “Always the hot beefy guy with the straight face…”
Miller tutted, shaking his head, working the hairbrush over Henry’s soles whilst catching his big toes together with his free thumb and index finger, “I can see why you want this role back, so badly. It’s all you can do…”
Henry now felt not only physically violated, but mentally too, the more Miller exposed and devoured his vulnerability.
“Go on, say it, say it and we stop,” Miller declared, “Say ‘I’m a shit actor’ …”
The Henry an hour ago, standing in his blindfold sure and self aware behind the double doors, would have laughed if someone had told him, the people in this room will transform you into a doubtful, begging shambles.
He consensually allowed himself to be bound this way, knowing at that time that he could handle this, that he would breeze through it all.
The Henry right now had one care and one care only.
For this to finish; to be untied, to have these strangers stop tickling him in places he’d never been touched or tickled before … Places he never even know could be ticklish …
They were experts, professionals, masters at this …
Henry was out of his league, and he knew it.
He shook away his pride and growled into the carpet, his eyes furious and bloodshot, the electric toothbrushes still travelling over each butt cheek, cheeks now coated in additional baby oil, a feather gliding between his ass, his toes being sucked on by guests without tools of their own …
“I’M A SHIT ACTOR—“ Henry yelled, “I’M A SHIT ACTOR! There, I said it, alright? Now, s-stop, please, please sto—“
Henry felt an iPhone press against this mouth.
It squashed up against his lips, a waiter kneeling beside him, forcing the device closer against his face.
“Is it recording?” John asked.
The waiter nodded.
“Will you do this again?” John asked Henry.
Henry sent a scowling look to John as his ticklers continued their torment.
“DO WHAT AGAIN?” He glared, “THIS SHIT? FUCK, NO, BLOODY HELL NO!”
John lifted his shoulders casually.
“Then we keep you here all night …” he sipped his champagne, swallowing down the fizz, “… And believe me when I say - this number of people? It’s only half of who we’ve invited over later …”
Henry hissed, the electric toothbrushes gliding up his spine, over his ribcage, closer towards his pits.
He clamped his arms to his sides once again, but the strength and numbers of his surrounding ticklers pulled them apart just like they did forty minutes ago.
“ALRIGHT!” Henry yelled, his voice caught by the iPhones recorder, “I’LL DO IT AGAIN, I’LL DO IT AGAIN!”
Miller pressed his lips together, dropping the hairbrush, now deciding to explore Henry’s soles with his fingernails.
“Say … ‘I’ll be tickle tortured again’ …”
Henry thumped his forehead repeatedly into the ground in an attempt to handle this insanity.
“I’LL —“
THUMP.
“—BE—“
THUMP.
“—TICKLE—“
THUMP.
“—TORTURED—“
THUMP.
“—AGAIN!”
John finished his champagne in celebration.
“But it’ll be worse,” he announced, “Far worse than this …”
Henry wriggled and squirmed, he bounced and bucked, his large body landing over the floor so hard that the chandeliers above wobbled, their diamond droplets twinkling as they shook.
“Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay!” Henry cried.
Suddenly, everything stopped.
The fingertips slid away.
The electric toothbrushes and their constant whizz clicked into silence.
The feathers were removed, the rope snipped in two …
“Careful, careful …” Miller warned, aware that such a muscular specimen might be more than angry after such a physically gruelling ordeal, “… Keep his wrist and ankle restraints on …”
Henry was then lifted by the same security team that had escorted him here.
His hands still bound behind his waist, his ankles still attached together.
Henry’s sweatpants were yanked back up above his waist.
He stood there, head over chest, his torso shimmering with a mixture of baby oil and sweat.
His hair, soaked.
His eyes half open.
His stomach tight and structured, his lungs focusing on refilling their space with oxygen…
The last thing Henry saw was Miller and his sadistic, teasing smirk.
A smirk that said,
‘I won’.
Suddenly, a sack over his head.
His vest thrown to his stomach.
He caught it with both hands, his fingers curling around the material, clutching it with fury.
Darkness - just like how this had all started.
The only difference being - Henry now had what he came here for.
T H E N E X T D A Y . . .
Henry sat in the driver’s seat of his Jeep, a black Nike cap over his head, back in a vest and sweatpants, this time with underwear on.
His body still showcased pinch and grab marks, mostly up his sides and around his back.
His soles still tingled within the confines of his running trainers.
In his right hand, he held a calling card between his thumb and index finger.
On its front - a logo.
A house, with feathers floating around it - feathers that could be leaves, if one was stupid enough to think so.
Ping!
Henry lifted his butt off the seat, reaching behind him where he picked his iPhone out of his sweat pant pocket.
He smiled, staring down at the screen.
A notification, from MovieWeb.
‘Henry Cavill to reprise his role as Superman, DC confirms.’
Henry started his vehicle and rolled down his window.
He threw the calling card out of his car where it landed on the tarmac and blew away in the wind, just as Henry drove away into the distance.
