This story contains characters from Timothée Chalamet’s Ticklish Last Resort, OBEY and CLOWN.
Saturday Night, Beverly Hills …
“Haven’t you already got a Grammy?” The Masked Tickler asked Harry.
Harry lay on his back on a king sized bed, topless and in the same pair of cotton boxer shorts, white sport socks and running trainers he had been wearing during his five mile run this morning.
“I do,” Harry confirmed, his green eyes trailing up to the ceiling, “But I want another one,” he admitted with a smirk.
Harry’s hands were cuffed with leather restraints to the top corners of the mattress, his ankles cuffed to the raised panel connected to the bed’s bottom.
His long, tanned legs were lifted a little off the linen sheets beneath him, his feet wiggling from side to side nervously.
The Masked Tickler stood tall and still, his identity concealed for now by a plain white oval shaped plastic mask, its features consisting of thin slits for eyes and an open circle for a mouth.
He wore a hooded jacket, cargo trousers and military boots.
In his right hand, between his index finger and thumb, he held a calling card.
On the card an illustration of a house surrounded by white feathers looked back at The Masked Tickler.
“You’re one of the most talented artists in the industry,” The Masked Tickler declared, “What makes you think you won’t win on the night, down to just simply being good at what you do?”
Harry lifted his shoulders, the warmth of the room already creating a thin layer of sweat over his tattooed chest.
“I can’t handle the anxiety,” Harry blew some fluff out of his left armpit, “Pfft … I’d rather just know, know that it’s set in stone,” he shuffled a little over the mattress, curling his fingers around the bonds that tied his arms apart, “I, I was told you … You could help secure th—“
“—I can,” The Masked Tickler spoke deeply, his voice muffled behind the mask strapped to his face, “And I will. But you’ll have to work for it. The next few hours won’t be easy …”
Harry swallowed down, his eyebrows arching upward.
“Hours?” He tried to bend his knees but his ankles were too tightly attached to the end of the bed, “I, I was told one hour, max …”
The Masked Tickler pocketed the calling card Harry had arrived with.
“Then you’ve been misled,” The Masked Tickler climbed carefully onto the bed, “It happens often, with these people. They like to keep the likes of you on your toes … And if my wikifeet research has served me well, you have some very long, exceptionally beautiful looking toes … “
Harry chuckled nervously, too aware of how tied up he was to consider either escaping or requesting that this weirdo stick to one hour instead of any more …
“O, okay … Just …” Harry twisted his head, where he watched The Masked Tickler lay down beside him, “… Just go slow, al, alright?”
The Masked Tickler rolled his eyes, his reaction hidden.
“Let me get this straight. You think my thought process, when the Harry Styles is restrained to my bed, is to ‘go slow’ …?”
The Masked Tickler positioned himself so that he lay on his side, right next to Harry, his head propped up with his left hand, “I’m in charge now, pop boy. And believe me, slow is not on the menu …”
Harry flinched as The Masked Tickler began to stroke the inside of his right armpit.
“Oh …” Harry whispered under his breath, his mouth stretching out into a fierce grin, “… I, I didn’t expect it to uh, to—”
—The Masked Tickler allowed his fingertips to brush over Harry’s armpit hair, their touch barely making contact with the silky smooth skin that made up the depths of his underarm.
“Boy oh boy,” The Masked Tickler could feel Harry’s heartbeat pounding through the mattress, “You’re hating this already, aren’t you?”
Harry nodded quickly, pressing his lips together.
“They’re, they’re very sss-sensitive,” Harry announced, unable to bring himself to say the word ‘ticklish’ … “It took me a lot of th-thinkin’ to even consider doing something like this …”
The Masked Tickler combed through the mousy brown wisps of Harry’s armpit hair, his fingertips stroking over the top of his underarm, all the way down to the line that made up the start of his pec.
“I’ll be brutally honest,” The Masked Tickler began to increase the pressure of his touch, “I’ve tickled hundreds of guys like you. But … I don’t think I’ve ever touched armpits as soft as yours …”
Suddenly, Harry thrashed to the left, in an attempt to stretch away from his tickler.
His fierce and sudden jolt shifted the bed.
The Masked Tickler paused, acknowledging Harry’s stiff position, his breathless panting …
“It’s too much already, isn’t it?” The Masked Tickler asked.
Harry nodded, his pearl necklace hanging over the bottom of his lip after his immediate attempt to writhe away.
“You seem … Angry …” The Masked Tickler continued his slow, teasing stroke.
Harry thrashed to the right, this time his body throwing itself into The Masked Tickler, in an attempt to press his armpit down over the mattress, to hide its sensitivity.
“I am angry …” Harry confessed, his voice filled with concern, “… This is fucking killing me …”
The Masked Tickler licked his fingertips.
“You’re sweating already …” he then sucked his index finger, breathing in the scent of perspiration humming from Harry’s underarms, “… And we’ve only just started …”
Harry had curled his fists into balls so tightly that his knuckles glowed white.
“I know,” Harry huffed, “I bloody want it to be over already…” he mumbled quietly, spitting his pearl necklace away from his lip, “…Pfftt For crying out loud …”
The Masked Tickler pressed his saliva soaked index finger into the centre of Harry’s right armpit.
“… ‘For crying out loud’ …? I do love you British boys …”
Harry thrashed from left to right in a manic twist, knocking two pillows off the bed at once, the squeak of leather around his ankles being the only noise, besides the sharp intake of air flowing up his flared nostrils.
“St, stop,” Harry broke, only a minute into his session, “Al, alright, I’ve changed my mind, I, I don’t need the Grammy …”
The Masked Tickler continued to wiggle his index finger over the middle of Harry’s right underarm, its tip taking in how warm and moist Harry’s armpit felt.
“I’d invite some of my friends round to join in …” The Masked Tickler curled his free arm behind Harry’s neck, allowing the twenty nine year old to rest his head over his bicep.
“… But I don’t want my neighbours to call the cops … I assume there’d be a lot of … Shouting …”
The Masked Ticklers left hand poked out the other side of Harry’s shoulder, his fingertips now able to infiltrate Harry’s other armpit.
“… A lot of screaming …” The Masked Tickler spoke with a tone drenched in warning.
Harry arched his back, thrusting his entire body further up the bed in one singular, aggressive jolt.
The restraints around his ankles kept his body more or less in place.
“… Please … ” Harry glanced down at each of his armpits, The Masked Tickler’s hands now able to invade both at the same time, “Just you, no, no one else, I can barely handle this—“
Harry squeezed his eyes shut as The Masked Tickler sighed, his face pressed close up to Harry’s cheek, his breath hitting the skin of his neck.
“Don’t worry, handsome …” The Masked Tickler began to wiggle all ten fingers, “… I made it very clear how important it was that I got you all to myself …”
Harry fell into a breathless panic, all of his limbs pulling, punching and kicking at once as his armpits were tickled non stop, with a gentle yet tortuous pressure.
He shot furious looks at each violating hand, his chin stubble rubbing against his chest as he twisted his head from left to right.
He thought that taking in the sight might help him believe this was happening - it might help him understand the intensity running through every fibre of his being.
It did nothing.
“Okay! Okay! Alright! Please, alright, stop, that’s, that’s enough, break, break, break—“
The Masked Tickler continued to edge the laughter out of Harry’s mouth.
He increased pressure …
“I follow a fan account on Instagram that’s practically dedicated to how ticklish you are … It’s called ‘ticklxsh’ , you should check it out some time. You see, the evidence has been available for almost a decade … “ The Masked Tickler wobbled on the bed, the more Harry squirmed, shaking the bed's structure from side to side.
“… Those One Direction boys were always making the most out of your weakness, right there on the stage, for people like me to see … Weren’t they, Harry?”
Harry’s toned torso stretched out to the right, and then to the left, a grainy giggle leaving his lips as he fell further into realms of disbelief.
“Yes, yes, ye-hess,” he wheezed, “Come on, come on, sssstop, stop, st—“
The Masked Tickler deepened his fingertips' presence, their touch now actioning a repetitive scratch over the sweat soaked landscape that made up Harry’s pits.
“Is that because you were the most ticklish, out of all of them, Harry?” The Masked Tickler asked, “Is that why they were always tucking into your sides, your underarms, your belly …?”
Harry nodded frantically, his eyes widening, his jaw falling open …
Even though he had tried so hard to contain his laughter, the hysteria held at the back of his throat was too strong, too powerful to keep to himself.
It flooded out of him in an epic, heavy roll of laughter, his floppy brown hair now littering the top half of his face as he bucked and bounced around over the mattress.
He didn’t answer The Masked Tickler, mostly because he physically couldn’t.
Instead, he simply thrashed around on the spot, bellowing out uncontrollable giggles whilst breathing in quick in-takes of air, the more The Masked Tickler spent time on his underarms.
Harry’s armpit hair, once soft and fluffy, had been transformed into wet curls of brown.
His sweat helped lube up the skin of his pits, making the tickling all the more worse, The Masked Tickler’s scrape now gliding over the hyper-sensitive flesh effortlessly.
When Harry landed on a moment where he could shape out his laughter into words, he hesitated for no longer than a few seconds to jump at the opportunity.
“Seriously, listen, I mean it, I’ve, I’ve changed my, my, mind,” Harry heaved, “I, I, I don’t want the, the grammy—“
He exploded into more laughter, his teeth clenching together in an insanity-splayed grin, his hips lifting from the mattress as The Masked Tickler began to grab continuously around his pits.
“—I don’t want the Grammy, I don’t want the Grammy, I don’t want the Grammy!“ He whined.
The Masked Tickler slid his arm out from behind Harry’s head, keeping one hand in Harry’s right armpit.
“You’re not going to want to hear this, tickle toy, but it’s too late to change your mind … You signed the contract …”
The Masked Tickler tilted his head, sitting up where he then began to straddle Harry’s waist, “This is all of you now, this is what you have to endure, it will consume you till I decide it doesn’t … It is your present, your future …”
Harry shot an alarmed look up at The Masked Tickler, who now sat his weight comfortably over Harry’s hips.
“No, pl, please …” Harry shook his head, narrowing his eyes in focus, “… It’s, it’s worse than I thou— ah! Wait, wait—”
—The Masked Tickler began to stroke his fingertips over Harry’s abs, drawing lines around the butterfly tattoo that took up most of the skin covering Harry’s stomach.
“Why the sudden shift in goals?” The Masked Tickler poked his index finger into Harry’s navel, “You were so keen to get your accolade only moments ago…”
Harry gasped in shock, throwing his head over his chest as The Masked Tickler slid his fingers around his tummy.
“I, I didn’t realise I was, I was this, this ti, ti,—“ Harry gulped, “—This sensitive …”
The Masked Tickler began to pinch and poke around Harry’s sides.
“Say it,” The Masked Tickler ordered, “I want to hear you say it …”
Harry had never had his torso tickled like this before.
Like his tickler had already pointed out - Harry had been victim to tickle play dozens and dozens of times, mostly from his band mates all those times on tour.
But what the iPhones hadn’t captured were the situations on the tour bus …
The moments where Louis or Zayn would pin Harry down in his bunk bed and go for his underarms and sides for sometimes several minutes, non stop …
Or the time where Niall caught his left foot in an arm lock and tickled it till Harry practically screamed the tour bus windows out.
All of those times were tame to say the least, compared to this moment right now …
“I want to hear you say it!” The Masked Tickler repeated.
Harry peeled his body away from the bed, his muscular arms still pinned behind him, his stomach scrunching up beneath The Masked Tickler’s wiggling fingers.
“TICKLISH—“ Harry shouted into The Masked Tickler’s chest, “I’M TICKLISH—“
Harry thought admitting his achilles heel would make his tickler stop.
But this masked pervert proved to be far more merciless than Harry could ever have imagined.
His fingers shot straight back up to Harry’s armpits, where they burrowed into their ticklish depths with relentless strength.
“You’re furious, aren’t you?” The Masked Tickler noted, “I can practically feel your rage vibrating off of your skin …”
Harry’s growl was animalistic, his eyes now bulging out of his head as The Masked Tickler actioned a destructive attack on his underarms, tickling them in a way they had never been tickled in his twenty nine years of living.
“You really can’t take it, can you?” The Masked Tickler rode Harry like a bucking bronco, “You’ve never laughed like this before, have you?”
He could barely formulate words, his head scrunched up by his collar bone as it shook from left to right, his hair blinding him, the muscles of his arms shining with sweat, their shape defined and present due to how much he yanked and pulled at his restraints.
Harry’s laughter filled the room, it didn’t pause for breath, it created saliva at the corners of his mouth and it thickened the length of his neck.
Such a sight made The Masked Tickler realise something.
He had the perfect ticklee between his thighs;
Insanely good looking, youthful, athletic, globally famous …
… And now restrained, hyper ticklish, unbearably sensitive and resentful to his current circumstance …
… With a laugh so attractive, desperate and full of energy that it just made The Masked Tickler want to torment Harry longer, harder and stronger than he had tickled his many previous famous captures …
The Masked Tickler’s thoughts were interrupted by Harry’s muffled attempts at saying words.
“Pl, ple, plea—“ Harry panted, his entire torso shimmering with perspiration, his shoulders wriggling as if being electrified, “—go sl, sl, sl—“
“—Go slow?” The Masked Tickler took his aggression away from Harry’s underarms and then slid his fingertips over Harry’s stomach, where he scratched them all the way towards Harry’s chest, “Remind me, who is in control?”
Harry hissed, his scowl determined and frustrated as his tickler's fingernails made marks over his skin.
Harry spoke through clenched teeth, his voice tainted with dread.
“… You are …”
Harry’s head landed over the pillow in a defeated bounce as The Masked Tickler transformed his violating touch into a firm massage, his fingers pressing down over Harry’s neck and jaw.
“That’s correct.”
The Masked Tickler slid one hand into his pocket, removing a singular white seagull feather from inside.
“And being in control means I take note of your stamina … For such an in-shape young man, you sure do get out of breath …”
Harry closed his eyes, oxygen shooting up his nose, the burn in his lungs decreasing by the second.
“I’ve, I’ve never been tickled like this before,” Harry huffed, “This is the workout from hell …”
The Masked Tickler pressed the feather against Harry’s lips.
“What were you expecting?” He asked, trailing the feather around Harry’s chin, up his right cheek, across the long length of eyelashes that outlined his right eye.
Harry wriggled his nose, he twisted his head in a frenzied shake, his hair flicking out in a messy splay.
“St, stop it! Stop that, bloody hell—” He spat at the feather as it returned to his mouth, “—That’s bloody infuriating, that—“
The Masked Tickler took the feather across Harry’s throat, over his collar bone, past his left shoulder and all the way up his arm.
“Did you think I’d say things like cootchie coo…?” The Masked Tickler asked, as Harry shook his arm, his eyes burning through the feather, “… Did you think it would be fun, playful, an afternoon full of chuckles and giggles?”
Harry flexed his fingers as the feather arrived over his palm.
“There’s not one inch of you that is going to go untouched …” The Masked Tickler informed, “… Goodness, even your hands are ticklish …”
Harry curled his fingers around the feather, catching it in a tight grasp.
“Ah ha!” Harry faced his tickler with a playful grin, “Now who’s in control?”
The Masked Tickler dug his free hand into Harry’s right armpit.
Harry’s fingers flexed out as his entire body squashed into itself, a ferocious shout leaving his body in the form of a loud, “… OI! …”
The Masked Tickler snatched the feather back.
“In situations like these,” The Masked Tickler advised, “It’s worth reminding yourself that you are never in control …”
Harry winced as the feather travelled over his stomach, and then around and inside his belly button.
“No, stop, come on, not, not there,” Harry twisted his hips from side to side, “Get that bloody thing away from me!”
The Masked Tickler kept the feather inside Harry’s navel.
“Wouldn’t it be incredible if I kept you here all day …” He teased, the feather gliding in and out, in and out, in and out …
Harry’s face creased up into a dishevelled version of its former self.
The once pretty, glowing profile had now transformed into a wrinkled, blotchy head showcasing nothing but despair towards the feather running rings around his belly button.
Harry’s giggles were pained and relentless, taking most of his breath away within seconds.
“Sto-hahaha-heheheh-ahahaha-hahaha-ahahaa-heheheheheppp—nohahahaha-ahahaha-eheheheh-theh-eheeheheheh-eheheheh-hahahaha-ehehehehere—“
The Masked Tickler loved a lot about Harry;
His latest album, his big hit As It Was …
The way his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down the deeper his giggling arrived …
The way he sweated so quickly, the perspiration now coating him so much it had begun to stain the thighs of his boxer shorts …
The way he didn’t care that so much of his hair hung over his face …
The fact that he truly thought he could take this, that he could handle this level of tickle torture.
The Masked Tickler loved how clueless Harry was.
He loved how he looked like he was enjoying himself, laughing at a joke that had reduced him to hysterics …
When really, his maddened expression came from the simple stroke of a feather across his belly button.
“Ple, plea, pleaa—“ Harry had become so breathless that shaping out sentences were no longer an option, “— go, go, go somewh— somehwere— el, el, el—“
The Masked Tickler translated Harry’s words for him as he slid the feather away from his navel.
“Be careful what you wish for, Harry …”
The Masked Tickler pocketed the feather for now, his hands shaping out into claws.
He then began to scratch the top of Harry’s head, his fingernails scraping over his scalp, further messing up his brown chunks of pop star hair.
Harry yanked forcefully at his restraints, his hope lifting momentarily when he thought he felt some give between his left wrist and the leather cuff strapped around it.
Another strong yank, but his arm remained in place.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut and threw his head over the pillow as his tickler explored areas around his face; his ears, his neck, even his nose.
When Harry would acknowledge an invasive and unexpected touch over one area of his body, another area would be infiltrated just as unapologetically.
Harry bounced over the bed sheets as The Masked Tickler began to grab at his knees and the muscles that made up the betweens of his thighs.
“What! What are you— What are you doing?!” Harry cried.
The Masked Tickler squeezed and grabbed at Harry’s calves.
“You have stunning legs, Mr. Styles, has anyone ever told you that before?”
Harry thrashed into the mattress, his mouth biting down on a pillow that had made its way towards his chest during all the squirming.
“What are you—“ Harry spoke in a muffle, the pillow caught between his teeth, “—do, doing?”
The Masked Tickler took his explorative fingertips back up to Harry’s pits where he sank his weight in a heavier perch over the boy's hips.
“I told you,” The Masked Tickler reminded Harry, “There is not one inch of you that is going to go untouched …”
He began to stroke Harry’s armpit hair once again, sending his ticklee into another round of violent twisting and grunting.
“… I’m going to be tickling everywhere …”
Harry gasped in and out, his pearl necklace once again landing between his lips as he thrashed about mindlessly.
“—Not, not everywhere—“ Harry managed to say, “—That’s not what, what I, what I—“
“—Oh … ” The Masked Tickler took his fingers away from Harry’s armpits, where they dragged tortuously across his chest, towards his nipples, “… Absolutely everywhere …”
Harry’s eyes widened as his tickler began to tickle each nipple, his entire body thrusting into a stiffened jerk, his head clamping down over his chest as he glared at The Masked Tickler’s fingers.
“No!” Harry kicked his legs so hard the bed began to creak, “Not the nips!” He felt panic take over his mind, “I’ve only got little nips!”
Harry stretched his neck forward, in an attempt to knock The Masked Tickler’s fingers away from his chest, however his attempts failed miserably, his ticklers fingers remaining over each nipple where they actioned a constant and torturous scrape.
“There we are …” The Masked Tickler drooled, “… Nice and hard …”
Harry cried out as The Masked Tickler began to stiffen up his nipples without his consent, their once soft shape now standing out as two plump, juicy, ticklish points for The Masked Tickler to devour.
“Fuck—“ Harry growled, unable to take his eyes off of his nipples, confused and overwhelmed by how ticklish it felt to have them handled in such a way, “—I wish you’d take that bloody mask off—“ Harry glared up at his tickler in irritation.
The Masked Tickler chuckled behind the plastic covering his face, his hood pulled up behind his head, concealing his identity entirely.
“But then you’d see who I am …”
Harry gyrated his shoulders as The Masked Tickler remained at his nipples, his fingernails circling them in a repetitive draw that took Harry to a place where he thought he might lose his mind.
“Are you, are you some, someone I, I know?” Harry spoke in alarm, his paranoid brain leading him to consider that this tickler could literally be anyone …
It was then he started to wonder who he had harmed, who he had offended, who he had let down …
All thoughts challenging to compartmentalise, when his nipples were being tickled so mercilessly.
Harry shot focused looks at The Masked Ticklers hands, his jaw and chin squashed up over his collarbone.
He could recognise Liam or Niall’s hands anywhere …
Zayn was too kind to do something like this …
They were too pale to be Louis’ hands, and besides, these hands were tattoo-less …
Harry wriggled in desperation as he stared up into the mask, trying to catch a glimpse of the eyes behind the plastic.
“Many people wear this mask, Harry,” The Masked Tickler explained, “One day, you might find out who I am … But not today …”
Harry sighed out relief as The Masked Tickler hoisted himself away from his waist.
He caught his breath, his nipples tingling, his underarms still slightly tickled by the ever present feeling of his tickler’s fingertips …
The Masked Tickler then begun to shuffle down to the foot of the bed.
Just when Harry thought he’d been granted at least a five minute break, he jumped out of his skin as he felt his tickler begin to unlace his right trainer.
“No—”
Harry tried to sit up, his eyes watching The Masked Tickler peel the trainer away from his socked foot.
“No, come back, go back to the, the nipple stuff, mate, listen, listen to me—“
The Masked Tickler ignored Harry.
He moved his face into Harry’s foot, breathing in the scent of sweat contained between Harry’s sock and the sole of his foot through the tiny gaps in the nose of his mask.
“Sensational…” The Masked Tickler whispered.
Harry’s right socked foot twisted from side to side, his toes scrunching up tightly.
“Alright, that’s enough, we’re done, you don’t need to do the feet …” Harry cried, “… I won’t be able to take that,” he warned, his voice now spoken in a growl, “… I’m telling you now, once I’m out of this I’ll be giving you a, a bloody black eye if you even—”
—The Masked Tickler leaned across Harry’s shins where he began to peel off Harry’s left running trainer.
“You were told this would just be an upper body session, weren’t you?”
Harry nodded, his eyes unblinking, his socked feet now free of protection as both trainers landed on the carpet with a thud.
“This, this isn’t right, this, this isn’t what I signed up for, I’m gonna bloody … scream the whole place down if you do this, I mean it! I swear to God …”
The Masked Tickler began to peel Harry’s right sock off, slowly revealing the fleshy expanse of his right sole.
“You were tricked, my friend,” The Masked Tickler explained, “They always trick them …”
Harry ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth as The Masked Tickler pulled the sock off of his right foot.
Harry’s long toes stretched out in a worried curl as the hot apartment air greeted their in-betweens.
“Please, don’t touch them,” Harry’s bit his lower lip, “I’m begging you, seriously. Don’t…”
The Masked Tickler reached over to Harry’s left foot where he pinched the cotton gathered around his toes.
He then paused, his fingers leaving Harry’s foot where he sat down in silence.
Harry lay panting nervously, one foot socked, the other bare.
“Thank, thank you, fuck, thank you, really, mate I—“
“—Why?” The Masked Tickler interrupted Harry’s babbled gratitude.
Harry adjusted himself, shifting his shoulders, curling his fingers around the ropes attached to his wrists.
“Why what?” Harry was an alright actor, but he couldn’t play dumb.
The Masked Tickler reached back into his trouser pocket.
He then held the seagull feather back out in the open, between his thumb and index finger.
“Why shouldn’t I touch them?” The Masked Tickler asked.
Harry began to writhe over the bed, his barefoot twisting and flexing without even being touched.
“My, my feet …” Harry grunted in frustration, hating how much he had been forced to verbalise his levels of sensitivity, “… They’re, they’re really fucking ticklish, alright? It’s not a joke. I’ve given a fair few people a bloody nose because of it, like, seriously, I clearly stated when I signed up to this …”
Harry bit his upper lip, his eyes watering as The Masked Tickler slid the feather between his big toe and index toe.
“ … No … Touching … My … Feet …” Harry managed to say, his toes curling out where they suddenly clenched together, catching the feather successfully in a tight hold.
Harry pressed his lips together, using all the muscles and strength in his toes to keep the feather in place, a tear rolling down his left cheek.
“That part of the contract appears to have been disregarded,” The Masked Tickler decided, “Boy, you have some strong toes …”
Harry held his breath.
The Masked Tickler took his index finger and began to brush it, ever so gently, across Harry’s right sole.
Harry thrashed up in a sudden jump, the toes of his right foot stretching out, the feather sliding out in a dire release.
The bed shook as Harry’s weight fell back onto the mattress in a heavy bounce.
“You’re not wrong,” The Masked Tickler agreed, “You have some extremely ticklish feet … More ticklish than your armpits, would you say?”
Harry’s toes curled again as the feather returned to their long, fleshy lengths, his head nodding quickly in an attempt to answer The Masked Tickler’s question.
“Of course they are,” The Masked Tickler continued to brush the feather across Harry’s toes, its sharp yet soft edge now working its way down the sole of his foot, “They look like they’re made of silk … They’re narrow, long but wide … An expansive landscape for me to explore for as long as I want … And your toes!”
The Masked Tickler gasped, “So long, so well kept, almost like mini fingers … Have you been walking on clouds all your life?”
Harry jolted once again, this time with more vigour in his thrust, his entire face boiling red.
“… Please …” Harry tried once again, “… Anything but this …”
The toes of his right foot had now scrunched up so hard they had all individually fallen into a cramp, a cramp Harry had no choice but to endure - he couldn’t risk wriggling them and exposing their betweens for a second longer…
“Imagine if they were toe tied, stretched out, soaked in baby oil, tickled by dozens of effective tools …”
The Masked Tickler slid the feather across his heel, back and forth, back and forth, causing Harry to shove his right leg in and out in a rampant kick.
“… What am I thinking?” The Masked Tickler asked himself, the feather leaving Harry’s foot, “That’s how I have to have you …”
Harry heaved out the air he had held in the back of his throat, his toes finally able to flex out, the cramp lessening with every stretch.
The Masked Tickler stood, his shadow blanketing Harry’s exhausted body.
“Harry … Would you like a second Grammy?” The Masked Tickler asked.
Harry shifted his blood shot eyes from left to right.
He wondered what he’d have to endure to receive such an accolade …
Deep down, he knew it would have something to do with his feet …
Harry pictured himself with two Grammy awards at the end of the show.
All three of them on the glass shelf in his awards room in his L.A mansion …
Harry spoke with a grainy tone, his voice tarnished by the hysteria that had flooded this room for the best part of two hours.
“I want Album of the Year …” Harry demanded.
The Masked Tickler smiled behind the plastic.
“Consider it done ...
… Now, here’s what you have to do …”
‘HOW HARRY WON HIS GRAMMY’ CONTINUES IN PART TWO