An apartment in London …
Harry sat on a table in just his underwear with his hands tied behind his back and his ankles locked in a set of black leather stocks.
His hair hung over his face, his tattooed chest shimmered with sweat, his nipples pointed out of his body in a hard, erect display.
He winced and huffed as a man going by the name of Miller looped thin pieces of string around each of his toes, where he then tied the string back to individual metal hooks attached to the top of the stocks.
Harry couldn’t stand the feeling of Miller’s fingers around his toes, the string sliding through their silky soft betweens … The entire sensation irritating and highly sensitive …
He had endured a foot tickling session for the best part of twenty minutes.
Harry had practically screamed the place down, his voice croaky and broken, his stomach and abs already tight and structured due to all of the heavy laughter.
After a few minutes of groaning into his chest, Harry sighed as Miller stepped back and admired his work.
Harry’s toes were in position, their plump ends now bound and restricted, his soles pinned into place.
“Why, why do you have to do that?” Harry asked, out of genuine curiosity, “I’m strapped up enough, surely?”
Miller stroked the grey stubble decorating his chin.
“Your feet are moving around too much,” Miller explained, “It’s been exhausting for me to hold them in place. And it’ll be even more difficult once the baby oil is applied … They’ll bel be slippery, hard to catch, you’ll have more wriggle room … This way, they’re going nowhere … ”
Harry jolted, stretching over his knees with wide eyes and an open jaw as Miller dragged a fingernail quickly down his left sole.
The table Harry sat on shifted with the weight of his thrust.
“Alright! Alright …” Harry hissed, “… Under, understood …”
Miller smirked, turning his attention to the living room doors.
They buckled open, allowing the second tickler to enter the space.
“Hello again, Harry …”
The Masked Tickler stood beside Miller with his hands in his jacket pockets.
Once again he wore a black hoodie beneath his coat and a plain white mask over his face.
Harry narrowed his eyes at The Masked Tickler.
“Last time I saw you, you invaded my bloody home …” he spoke through clenched teeth, “… That wasn’t what we agreed.”
The Masked Tickler remained silent, breathing quietly behind the plastic.
Miller stepped forwards.
“Mr. Styles … I can only apologise for that. There was some … Confusion, with the contract …”
Miller placed his index finger under Harry’s right index toe.
“... I promise you, we will abide by what you have signed on for today …” Miller began to scratch the length of Harry’s index toe, patiently awaiting his response and reaction, “… I have so far, wouldn’t you say?”
Harry bounced over the table, his slender, toned frame lit beautifully by the sunlight shining in through the living room windows.
He giggled and bit his lower lip, glaring at the string that had pinned his toes into place, desperate to wiggle them and flex them like his brain wanted him to do.
“Yes! Yes! Alright, alright! Not the toes, not the toes!” Harry cried.
Miller used his other hand to gently toy with Harry’s left foot, his fingers casually dancing over its bottom, trailing the ticklish landscape from arch to heel, heel to arch, arch to heel …
Harry howled into the living room ceiling, his eyebrows lifting in shock, his smile expanding out into a manic, fierce grin.
“Sto-hahaha-ahaha-ahaha-ahaap please, please, alright that’s enough, enough with the feet, enough with the feet, enough with the feeeeeeeeet!”
Miller slid his touch away from Harry’s soles.
“You were right,” Miller spoke to The Masked Tickler, but kept his eyes on Harry, “He really is one of the most ticklish we’ve ever had …”
The Masked Tickler bowed his head.
Harry coughed into his shoulder, licking his lips, sending green eyes over to Miller in focus.
“How … How come you’re not wearing a mask and, and he is?” Harry asked, clearing his throat of hysteria.
Miller walked towards an open suitcase that had been laid out over the bright orange velvet sofa.
The tools displayed within the suitcase had been staring Harry in the eye since he walked into this living room thirty minutes ago.
“I’m not afraid,” Miller said, staring down at an electric toothbrush, a hairbrush, baby oil, a set of feathers, a pinwheel, a glove, amongst many other hand held objects …
“I’m proud of my fetish, my kinks, my interests, my wants and my desires,” Miller shrugged casually, “I love who I am … I love what I do … ”
Miller picked up the baby oil and glove.
Harry gulped, his eyes staying on Miller as Miller returned to the stocks.
Miller looked to be around fifty.
He was handsome, tall, broad shouldered …
He wore a navy polo shirt, smart trousers, Chelsea boots …
His hair was grey, his jaw covered in stubble, his skin tanned yet aged by time.
He looked experienced.
Rich …
But above all else, he seemed to be consumed by all of the things he had just mentioned; his fetish, his kinks …
His interests, his wants, his desires …
From Harry’s perspective, this man looked like he thought about nothing else, he lived nothing else, he breathed nothing else … But tickling.
“Why do you do this to people?” Harry asked, his lips pressing shut as the baby oil landed over the soles of his feet in a generous dribble, “Fuck, you guys always use so much of that stuff!”
Miller coated the boy's size ten’s with a long, gushing drench before capping the bottle and handing it to The Masked Tickler.
“I get asked that a lot,” Miller confessed, “And my answer is always the same …”
Miller pulled the glove over his right hand.
The glove’s palm was decorated with dozens of plastic spikes.
“… ‘Why not’ …”, he said, wiggling his fingers as soon as the glove felt snug enough.
Harry cocked an eyebrow as he eyed this deadly looking new tool.
“That’s gonna drive me fucking nuts,” he warned.
Miller stood ready, rolling his shoulders, tilting his neck so it cracked.
“It’s a good job we don’t have neighbours …”
As Miller began to massage Harry’s right foot with his gloved hand, The Masked Tickler made his way to the suitcase and picked up a hairbrush.
Harry grimaced as the plastic spikes invaded his feet, Miller’s palm and fingers able to cover a large expanse all at once, from his sole to his toes, toes that had no choice but to endure the tickling thanks to their pinned back position.
“Oh,” Harry’s eyes watered, his voice deep with dread, his head reaching forwards as he scowled at the glove, “That is something else,” he declared, before throwing his upper body back against the table, a bellow of hysterical laughter leaving his chest.
The Masked Tickler approached Harry’s left foot, planting the hairbrush over the arch, rubbing the tool from left to right, left to right, left to right …
Harry erupted, his bare soles now tickled by two of the most effective tools available, at the same time, non stop, mercilessly and relentlessly …
Both of his feet tried to cross over themselves, but the toe ties restricted that from fully happening - instead, Harry’s feet could only stretch inwards in a manic pull, the string keeping them in a fixed position, driving the twenty nine year old further in frustrated oblivion.
When Miller or The Masked Tickler would locate an exceptionally ticklish area over Harry’s soles, usually anywhere between the tips of his toes and the end of his heels, Harry would automatically yelp and yank his feet outward, once again, the string keeping them in place, allowing them only an inch or so of movement.
“So, Harry, tell me, are you looking forward to The Brit Awards?” Miller asked, his eyes narrowed in focus as he rubbed and manhandled Harry’s toes with his glove covered hand.
“Ye-ehahahe-ehahahe-ehahehehahssss—“ Harry cried, his eyes squeezed shut, his face boiling red, “—Don’t talk to me while you’re doing the-aheheheheheheheh-hehehehehehissssssss—! I can’t speak, I can’t speak, I can’t speaaaaaaaaa—“
“You’re speaking right now!” Miller yelled over Harry’s high-pitched laughter, “You know, we can make more Brit Awards happen, if you’re willing to endure another day of this?”
Harry shook his head, a tear rolling down his right cheek as he giggled and howled into his shoulder, his jaw and mouth throbbing from all of the pained laughter.
“Just the one, just the one, just the one is FI-AHAHAHAHAHA-NNEEEEEE!”
Harry fell into panic as The Masked Tickler rubbed the hairbrush over the plump shape of his left little toe, an area of Harry’s foot that Harry literally couldn’t handle being tickled.
He thrashed around, the table’s legs lifting off the ground for just a second, his laughter now so long and drawn out that his ticklers worried if he were even able to breathe.
“You’re sure you don’t want more than one?” Miller urged, “This secures a first, but any additions … Well, we’d need to have you naked, tied spread eagle, on your front …” he rubbed his fingers all over both of Harry’s big toes, “… Some attention over the ticklish butt of yours …”
The latter set up sounded horrific to Harry, with this current one already being hell in itself.
Again, the pop star shook his head, declining the offer, waiting till he had gathered enough breath to verbalise his reply, breathing in sharply, shouting out his response.
“I JUST WANT ONE, I JUST WANT ONE, I JUST WANT—“
“—Alright, alright, calm down,” Miller huffed, “One it is …”
The Masked Tickler pointed to Harry’s little toe, nudging Miller’s side.
“He can’t stand it there,” The Masked Tickler advised, “If you want him to say his safe word, then there’s the best spot …”
Miller nodded, smacking The Masked Tickler’s shoulder in thanks.
He then used the bristled fingers of his gloved hand to rub and massage Harry’s right little toe.
Miller and The Masked Tickler noticed a sudden shift in Harry, as they both tickled each of Harry’s little toes at the same time, Miller with his gloved fingers, The Masked Tickler with his brush…
Harry became suddenly very angry, an animalistic tone taking over his voice, his eyes glazed over and possessed with fury.
“NO, NOT THE PINKIES,” Harry warned, his legs and thighs thrusting back and forth, “NOT THE BLOODY PINKIES, FUCK, FUCK—“
Miller laughed in joyous entertainment.
“I don’t think I’ve known anyone to have pinkie’s as ticklish as this!”
As the room began to fill with the scent of Harry’s body odour, Harry sat forwards and confidently delivered his chosen safe word, his favourite colour.
“ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, BLUE, BLUE, BLUE—“ Harry cried, allowing the word to leave his mouth clearly and loudly.
Miller and The Masked Tickler continued, despite Harry’s official request to stop …
Harry’s eyes widened, he leaned forwards, he shot furious glares at each of his ticklers.
“I SAID BLUE,” he demanded, “BLUE, BLUE, BLUE, BLUE, BLUE, BL—“
—Miller and The Masked Tickler stepped away from Harry’s feet, lifting their hands up in surrender.
Harry fell back onto the table, his long, toned stomach lifting and dropping, lifting and dropping, lifting and dropping as he began to catch his breath.
“… Fucking hell …” he muttered, “... I can’t take you touching the pinkies …” he tried to flex his toes, “... It tickles too much …”
Miller wiped some sweat away from his head, “That was incredible,” he declared, offering a look of satisfaction to The Masked Tickler who nodded in agreement.
“He’s the perfect ticklee,” The Masked Tickler announced.
Miller looked over at Harry; his beautiful skin, handsome face, floppy brown hair, muscular legs and smooth, flawless feet …
“You know something,” Miller said, removing the glove from his hand, “I think you might be right.”
Time for surprises …
After giving Harry a pint of water and a well deserved break, granted after Harry had cried out his safe word, Miller and The Masked Tickler carefully pulled his arms above his head and proceeded into the second part of the session.
Harry remained in the stocks, his toes now free of the strings, his ankles still secured.
He lay on his back, allowing his ticklers to attach his wrists into another set of stocks, however this set had been fixed to the top of the table.
Harry felt his sides stretch out, his armpits now fully exposed, his arms secured tightly about his head.
He breathed in through flared nostrils, his eyes glancing from The Masked Tickler to Miller, from Miller to The Masked Tickler.
“This is gonna suck, isn’t it, lads,” Harry mumbled.
Miler nodded, “Of course it is. You’re highly ticklish, Harry. And it’s two at once …”
The Masked Tickler began to stroke the armpit hair gathered in the delves of Harry’s right underarm.
“… And we agreed that you can use your safe word once, but use it again and The Brit Award goes to Stormzy,” Miller joined The Masked Tickler, brushing his own fingertips over the armpit hair gathered around Harry’s left underarm.
“… And believe me, he has stamina.”
Harry closed his eyes and opened his mouth wide, the feeling of five fingers over each of his armpits already too excruciating to handle.
“St, St, Stormzy?” Harry managed to ask, Miller and The Masked Tickler now using both of their hands to infiltrate Harry’s armpits, “You’ve, you’ve done this to him, too?”
Miller smiled, enjoying Harry’s curiosity, careful not to expose or reveal too much.
“I think the question is more, who haven’t we done this to …”
Harry kicked his legs, his feet kept in place thanks to the ankle stocks at the end of the table.
“And, and they just, they get something out of it?” Harry heaved, his back arching, his torso twisting from side to side as his ticklers began to increase the pressure of their touch, “You basically blackmail everyone?”
“He asks a lot of questions,” The Masked Tickler noted, “More than he did the last time I played with him. We need to be careful…”
Miller wiggled all ten fingers into Harry’s left underarm.
“It’s alright, he’s out of his depth, look at him, he can barely focus …”
Harry had begun to giggle so hard the veins in his neck had protruded into thick, bobbing shapes beneath his skin, his cheeks pink, his eyes watering, his grin so wide that Miller could see almost all of Harry’s white Hollywood teeth.
“Why are yoo-oo-oo-oo-hahahaha-ahhh-ahahah doo-oo-oooing this,” Harry managed to say through heavy rolls of laughter, “Why are you doo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hooing the-ehehehehe-eheheheheisssssss—“
Miller continued to toy with Harry’s left armpit as The Masked Tickler continued to toy with his right.
“Blackmail is the wrong word,” Miller corrected, “That would suggest we didn’t give you what we said we would, after your last tickling session. You received two Grammy awards, did you not?”
Harry cried out, “YES, YES YES,” his jaw stretching down to his collarbone, his armpits now filling with a thick layer of sweat, “This isn’t cool, th, th, this isn’t right!” Harry began to bang his head over the table, as if sent into lunacy by the tickling, “This is fucked this is insane this is fucking unbelievable–”
The Masked Tickler mirrored Miller's actions, using all of his ten fingers to infiltrate Harry’s right underarm.
Harry began to babble in disbelief as twenty fingers in total invaded his underarms.
“BahahaanostahahapleanoIcanonlytakesomuchahahnogodpleasstopstophahaha–”
“--We’ll be seeing you again, Harry, mark my words,” Miller decided, “I have quite a set up that I’d love for you to join in with … You may even recognise a few of the people that will be there …”
The Masked Tickler lifted his blank, mask covered head up to face Miller from across the other side of the table.
“… Be careful …” he whispered, “... You’re giving away too much …”
Miller poked his tongue out at The Masked Tickler.
“He’ll forget everything I’ve said after another twenty minutes of this, chill out …”
Harry’s eyes widened, his head still smacking over the surface of the table.
“Twenty minutes?!” He cried, “But the, the, the, the hour is up in ten!”
Miller hushed Harry.
“Oh shhh, kid. You can handle another ten minutes … We’re only touching your armpits …”
Harry fell into a drawl of constant giggling, his arms twisting and wriggling as twenty fingers tickled his underarms all at the same time.
“THIS ISN’T TOUCHING—“ Harry cried, his throat thick with mania, “—THIS IS TICKLING!”
“It is!” Miller took the fingers of his right hand down to Harry’s side whilst his other hand remained inside Harry’s armpit, “And if you can get through this without saying your safe word, that Brit Award will be all yours … Just focus on that …”
The Masked Tickler copied Miller's movements, now ticking Harry’s other side as well as his other armpit in unison with his leader on the other side of the table.
“… Do you think you can do that, Harry?” Miller asked.
Harry nodded frantically, sweat now saturating his chest, neck, face and stomach as he endured twenty fingers at once, dancing up and down his sides, inside the sweltering depths of his underarms …
“Hmmm,” Miller looked towards the door of the living room, “For someone so ticklish, you seem quite sure … Let’s break that confidence …”
The Masked Tickler paused for just a moment as he removed a blindfold from out of his cargo pants pocket.
As Miller continued to tickle Harry, The Masked Tickler attached the blindfold to Harry’s head.
Harry had no choice but to let it happen, no matter how much he shook his head or tried to shout out in protest, his voice and throat too busy expelling laughter.
Now blinded, Harry’s head returned to its frantic bounce over the table as the living room doors buckled open.
A man dressed as a Clown walked into the living room, his tall, leather clad entrance arriving almost in slow motion.
His identity, just like The Masked Ticklers, was concealed for now.
He knelt down by Harry’s feet as the living room doors swung shut.
The Masked Tickler returned to tickling Harry’s side and armpit, whilst Miller gave The Clown the nod of approval.
The Clown lifted his own mask above his nose, exposing his jaw and lips … A part of his face that Harry might be able to recognise, if he weren’t blindfolded.
He then held onto Harry’s right foot and began to kiss his heel.
Harry’s foot jolted, his toes squirming as The Clown began to lick, kiss and suck up the sole of Harry’s right foot.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT—“ Harry cried, his pits, sides and right foot now enduring some form of tickle torture, by either attacking fingers or a long, warm slimy tongue now sliding between all of Harry’s five right toes, “--IS THAT SOMEONE’S MOUTH …?”
The Clown continued to worship Harry’s foot, decorating his sole in saliva as he sucked on the ticklish flesh, his grip tightening on the boy's ankle as Harry’s foot flexed and squirmed away from the unbearably uncomfortable touch of a stranger's lips against his foot.
“Stop, stop, stop, stop—“ Harry begged breathlessly, “—please, please, pleasse, PLEASE—“
The Clown tickled Harry’s left foot with his other hand as he kept one hand on Harry’s right foot, his tongue still coating Harry’s sole in a thick layer of drool as he continued to lick and nibble around the side of the pop star's hyper ticklish skin.
Miller nodded at The Masked Tickler, mouthing the words, “It’s time…”
The Masked Tickler nodded.
He left Harry’s side for now, allowing Miller and The Clown to continue their tickle torture, as he returned to the suitcase.
The Masked Tickler pulled out a roll of silver duct tape and two electric toothbrushes.
He then swapped places with The Clown.
As Harry continued to howl and cry in despair, The Clown sent his fingers into Harry’s left armpit whilst Miller persisted in toying with the armpit hair that made up the groove of Harry’s right underarm.
The Masked Tickler placed the first electric toothbrush over Harry’s right sole, where he then began to tape it to Harry’s foot with the roll of tape.
Harry shot a fierce glance over his chest, down to his feet, able to only look into darkness.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING,” Harry shouted, “TAKE THE BLINDFOLD OFF,” he yelled, “WHAT ARE YOU TAPING TO MY FEET—“
Bzzzzzzzzt!
The Masked Tickler turned the toothbrush on, ensuring its bristled end had been positioned so that it rested perfectly over Harry’s most ticklish toe …
… His pinkie.
Harry thrashed around like a fish out of water, the entire table shifting from side to side in an aggressive thrust.
“NOOAAAHAHAHAH-AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-HAHAHAHAHAHA-HHA-HAHAA—“
The Masked Tickler did the same to Harry’s left foot, struggling to keep it in place as Harry twisted his foot from side to side.
Bzzzzzzzzzzt!
Harry now lay in stocks, wrists above him, ankles secured …
His pinkie toes tickled by two electric toothbrushes taped to his soles …
Miller at his upper body to the left …
The Clown at his upper body to the right …
The Masked Tickler pulled his favourite tool from out of his inside pocket.
He walked towards Harry’s head and began to stroke a white seagull feather across his face, sliding it around his nose, lips, eyes and mouth.
Harry lost his mind, technically now tickled by five different ticklers at once, the toothbrushes included …
He couldn’t stand it any longer.
The focus on each of his little toes, as well as all of the sensitive areas that made up his torso sent him into a world that was so distressing all he could think of doing was give up his Brit award and scream out his safe word.
“BLUE, BLUE, BLUE, BLUE, BLUE!” He yelled, his voice torn and broken, “PLEASE, STOP, BLUE, BLUE, BLUE—“
The ticklers slowed down their onslaught but they did not stop.
Harry threw his head over his chest, looking at his right foot and then his left, unable to physically see the toothbrushes, only able to acknowledge the intensity of their power.
“PLEASE, I CAN’T TAKE IT, SWITCH THOSE FUCKING THINGS OFF—!”
The Clown strolled down to the stocks at the bottom of the table and ripped the electric toothbrushes away from Harry’s soles.
He then hooked his mask back over his lips and jaw.
The tape still hung off of his feet as Miller and The Masked Tickler backed away from their subject.
Miller carefully removed the blindfold from Harry’s face.
His eyes, now bloodshot and filled with tears, blinked a few times and then rolled to the back of his head as he focused on refilling his lungs with oxygen.
“That was … That was … Fucking … Wild …”
Miller ran a hand through his hair, far from disappointed that Harry had said his safe word, therefore meaning the ticking had to stop.
He’d been doing this for many, many years …
There’s always a way to push them further, Miller thought.
Miller knelt down and spoke quietly into Harry’s ear, allowing Harry a moment to catch his breath.
“You know what you’ve just done, Harry?” Miller asked, not needing a response from the boy himself, “You’ve just lost your Brit …”
Harry closed his eyes, swallowing down a dry bubble of regret.
“You can get it back … But you have to endure one more thing …”
Harry kept his eyes closed as Miller shuffled closer towards Harry’s ear.
He then whispered his requirement into Harry’s mind, explaining every detail, every physical necessity and demand …
Once done, he stood back up and looked down at Harry, awaiting the twenty nine year old’s consent.
Harry nodded, just once.
***
As the sun began to set, lighting the bedroom in a soft yellow glow, Harry lay on his front on Miller’s bed, entirely naked, his feet tied to each corner, his legs stretched apart, his hands bound behind his back.
Harry’s waist had been propped up by several pillows that sat squashed under his waist, causing his back to arch and his juicy butt to lift up in an overly exposed display.
Miller, The Clown and The Masked Tickler approached him, all of them holding an electric toothbrush in each hand, meaning that six electric toothbrushes would be working over Harry …
Harry closed his eyes as Miller climbed onto the bed, sitting over his waist.
He looked down at Harry’s ass, switching the electric toothbrush on.
Btzzzzzzz!
Harry jumped, his face pressing down into the mattress, his teeth biting into cotton, his scream being sent into the very depths of the bed.
The Clown and The Masked Tickler knelt at the foot of the bed, reaching across the sheets as they too turned on their electric toothbrushes.
They then pressed them over Harry’s balls and taint, exploring the space between his butt cheeks, rolling the tickle tools and their torturous vibration all over Harry’s butt, a butt now glistening and shimmering as Miller poured baby oil all over its silky expanse …
Harry howled into the nighttime, his butt tickling lasting several hours, way past sunset, way longer than Miller had whispered into his ear …
All to endure more than one Brit award.
“I’m a big One Direction Fan…’ Miller whispered, “… It would make my day if you thanked them in your speech, even if they have nothing to do with … This …”
Harry nodded, desperation leaving his lips in a wet puff.
Later that evening …
Harry stood by the bedroom window once the ordeal had ended and he had been untied.
All of his ticklers, except Miller, had left the building.
Harry remained unclothed, his perfect body lit by a lampshade in the corner of the room.
He folded his arms, avoiding Miller’s gaze.
Miller sat on the corner of the bed, his head tilting in concern.
“How you doing, kiddo?”
Harry shook his head
“This isn’t going to stop, is it. That masked wanker … He filmed me last time. He can do what he wants with that. I’m stuck, aren’t I?”
Miller nodded.
He stood, approaching Harry, placing a comforting hand over his back.
“If it's any consolation …” Miller sighed, “… You’re not alone.”
He then squeezed Harry’s shoulder.
“See you soon, Styles …”
He turned away from Harry and walked towards the bedroom door, opening it up and walking down the corridor where Harry watched him disappear into darkness.
HARRY STYLES WILL RETURN.