‘… Things like this don’t happen to people like me …’
Harry clenched his fists and bit into his knuckles as the sharp nib of the seagull feather landed under all five of his right toes.
The Masked Tickler then dragged it up the sole of Harry’s right foot, slowly and in one long, agonising straight line until it reached the tip of his heel.
Harry grabbed a nearby pillow and shoved it under his chest, screaming into it with all of his mite.
His instinctive reaction was to use his left foot to block away the feather, but his feet were bound in such a way that any potential movement was now borderline impossible.
Harry lay naked, on his front, on a different double bed.
This room was darker, the curtains drawn, the TV switched on, an episode of Friends playing quietly in the background.
Harry’s ankles were secured into stocks tied to the bottom of the mattress.
His soles were on full display, their ticklish landscape soaked in a thick drenching of baby oil.
All ten of his toes had been pinned to the stocks by pink string that had been expertly woven and looped around each toe, in a way that meant his big toes were attached together.
The process of ensuring the string had successfully made its way around each toe was torture in itself …
The Masked Tickler had at one point wondered if he had to gag Harry, due to his volume of protest.
Since stepping back and admiring Harry in such a position, The Masked Tickler had applied the correct amount of lubrication on Harry’s soles and had begun to work them over from heel to toe with the sharp nib of the feather’s quill.
Harry could barely stand the soft edge of the feather gliding between his toes earlier this afternoon, so this overly intense sensation right now was enough to tip him over the edge.
Harry threw the pillow out from under him, his hands untied, his ability to twist around to face his tickler something he could easily achieve.
“No, stop, I can’t,” Harry announced, his voice filled with terror, “That’s not right, why, why have you got to do this?”
Harry endured the discomfort of stretching his arms over his legs, his fingertips just about scratching over the edge of the stocks, his mind tricking him into thinking he could actually stop this.
He fell back to his front in a dire groan.
Harry’s nude body glistened in the dim light, only one lampshade switched on, the sweat soaking his body causing his back muscles, butt and thighs to shimmer.
The Masked Tickler continued to draw circles around Harry’s soles, the feather’s nib tracing out letters as Harry threw his body from the ankle up into a frenzied state of squirming and writhing.
He chewed into the bed sheets, grabbing at them with his fists, his laughter heaving out of him in one long, uncontrollable expulsion of hysteria.
“When was the last time your feet were tickled like this, Harry?” The Masked Tickler asked.
Harry’s tears began to stain the mattress, the emotion mixing with the dampness of sweat as he bellowed a grainy heave of giggles into the cotton beneath him.
He spoke through gritted teeth, his throat thick with madness - if he let the madness out, the sound that would leave his mouth would be so loud it would likely incur concern from residents either side of this apartment …
“They’ve never been touched th … This way b, before—“
The Masked Tickler watched Harry’s foot twitch and flex, its toe-tied squirm unable to move even an inch as the nib scratched over the arch of Harry’s baby oil soaked right foot.
“Tell me,” The Masked Tickler urged, “How it feels …”
Harry’s entire face was now dripping with sweat, his curls of brown hair soaked against the side of his head.
He rested on his elbows, his fists curled into balls, his spine arched into a deep delve, his butt cheeks clenched as his toes fell victim to the feathers quill.
“I can barely see,” Harry croaked, laughing in disbelief, “Barely think, b, b, barely … Speak …”
The Masked Tickler dragged the nib away from Harry’s toes, up to his arch again, hopping from his right foot to his left.
“Let’s play a game …” The Masked Tickler picked up the bottle of baby oil and this time he poured a generous helping over Harry’s body, starting with his back and finishing at his calves, “… Guess the word I’m going to spell out on the soles of your feet, and I tell you some very valuable information …”
Harry gasped, the liquid landing over his shoulders, sides, ass and thighs …
It trickled over his skin, landed over the bed, it filled the room with its chemical scent …
“Jesus Christ …” Harry growled into another pillow, “… Come on then, get to it, I’ve got some Gra, Grammy’s to c, collect …”
The Masked Tickler knelt back down in front of Harry’s feet, admiring the young man's gumption and attempt at being cocky.
“Very well,” he took the feather’s nib and began to draw a straight line down the sole of Harry’s left foot, the pop stars toes flexing within their stringed up confines, his ankle squeaking in the padded cuff of the stock, “What letter is this…?”
Harry tried to focus, his stomach tight with tension, his hips bouncing over the mattress in a frantic buck as his balls and cock squashed up around his tummy each time he landed.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Harry’s vision was blurred, his painted fingernails pressing down into his palms with such strength that they nearly pierced flesh, “I can’t, I can’t take this,” he admitted in defeat.
Another line, this time across …
“H!” Harry cried, his body twisting around in a fierce scrunch so that his eyes burned through the plastic mask attached to his ticker’s face, “H, H, H — that’s a H …”
The Masked Tickler nodded, removing the nib momentarily, “… Well done …”
Harry slumped back on his front, his arms splayed out either side of him.
“Harry,” Harry groaned, his lips squashed up by his cheek, “You’re sp, spelling … Harry …”
The Masked Tickler shook his head.
“Incorrect …”
Harry jolted at the sound of buzzing.
He tried to twist back around to catch a glance at what was approaching the toes of his right foot, but the stocks blocked off his view.
Harry exploded into mind numbing lunacy as The Masked Tickler tapped the fast moving bristles of an electric toothbrush over the pad that made up the bulk of Harry’s left big toe.
With the feather nib, The Masked Tickler began to shape out the next letter over Harry’s right foot.
Another line, this one diagonal, over his arch, slowly, carefully …
“Stop! Stop! Please! Please!” Harry cried, the toothbrushes spinning tip now exploring the betweens of each toe mercilessly, “Not two at once, not two at once, come on, come on, come o—“
“—What’s the letter, Harry?” The Masked Tickler asked.
Harry shot frantic looks from side to side, his mind trying to cope with working out the letter, whilst dealing with the tickle torture over the soles of his feet, as well as trying to understand why it was so damn hot inside this room, a room that felt like all radiators were on simply to add to the feeling of dire and utter discomfort.
“Y!” Harry shouted, “Y, Y, Y—“
The Masked Tickler worked the toothbrush around Harry’s left pinkie toe, a toe that appeared to be a sweet spot.
“... Why, why, why?...” The Masked Tickler teased, “Because, why not? You’re one of the most ticklish people I’ve ever met! I’d be insane not to…!”
Harry tried to wiggle his little toe as much as the string would allow, but the toothbrush pressed down harder.
“The letter Y–” Harry growled, “--THE LETTER Y, THE LETTER Y, THE LETTER Y!” He screamed.
The Masked Tickler removed the feather, standing once again, this time taking the electric toothbrush towards Harry’s calves.
“Excellent job, Mr. Styles …”
Harry sank onto his front again, unaware that the electric toothbrush would soon be arriving behind his left knee.
He yelped as it pressed against the glossy flesh, causing him to thrust his legs repeatedly, his body kept in place thanks to the stocks and toe ties binding his feet and ankles.
Harry reached behind himself, his hands flapping away the toothbrush as it made a tortuous journey between his thighs, travelling over the peachy landscape that made up his buttocks.
Harry giggled into the mattress as he tried to grab at the tickle tool, his long arms stretching across the bottom of his back as he failed at snatching away the toothbrush.
The Masked Tickler had purposefully kept Harry’s wrists unbound.
Seeing him attempt to stop the tickling excited him more than he’d care to admit.
Harry groaned in a mixture of aroused despair, the electric toothbrush invading the middle of his ass cheeks, its vibrating bristles pressing down over an area of his body untouched by a stranger until now.
Harry wriggled his waist, his fleshy butt jiggling and wobbling in a juicy shimmer as he squirmed under the toothbrushes touch.
He then began to shout, mostly in dire surprise, as the electric toothbrush began to whizz over his balls, circling the base of his cock, attacking a highly sensitive, hairless area that had only been touched by Harry himself, a few other men, but mostly women …
“OI, OI, OUT OF THERE YOU—“ Harry clawed out over his back, desperate to claim the toothbrush as his own, wishing that his ankles and toes were free so he could at least kick his tickler away from him.
As the toothbrush arrived at the bottom of his spine and went to go up his sides and towards his left armpit, Harry decided enough was enough.
He took in a breath and then twisted around in a fit of fury, where he successfully smacked the electric toothbrush out of The Masked Tickler’s hand.
The plastic tool landed on the bedroom floor with a bounce, its capped end busting open, two batteries flying out from inside.
Bzzzzt—!
…
The room fell silent, with only Harry’s breathless panting filling the humid atmosphere.
“Fascinating. Just the idea of anyone merely touching your armpits or your feet sends you into disarray, doesn’t it, Harry?”
The Masked Tickler stepped slowly back towards the stocks, returning to the knelt down position “It is astonishing to witness …”
Harry folded his arms under his head, resting his chin on his wrists as he flared his nostrils and focused on catching his breath.
“I’m glad s, s, someone’s having fun …” Harry jabbed, “… And by the way, the bloody word your spelling is ‘hysteria’ …”
The Masked Tickler tilted his head.
Just when he was about to land the feather nib back over Harry’s left sole, he paused, respecting the rules of the game he had made up in his mind.
“Not just a pretty face …” The Masked Singer smirked behind his mask, “… Are you ready for your valuable information?”
Harry nodded into his arms, the scent of his own body odour wafting up his nose.
“Let me guess, you’re go, gonna announce you’re using a hairbrush next?” Harry closed his eyes, “Yeah, I researched this sort of bollocks before I even got here. I’m surprised you didn’t start with it sooner, if I’m honest, knowing how ticklish my feet are, you mother f—“
“—There are no plans to give you a grammy,” The Masked Tickler interrupted Harry’s over confident quips, “There are no plans to give you a second Grammy, either …”
The Masked Tickler stood as Harry slowly turned his head over his shoulder.
His green eyes trailed over The Masked Tickler’s form, from his masked face down to his military boots.
“Is, is that a joke?” Harry asked, his face flooding with disgust.
The Masked Tickler stood, raising both of his hands slowly, this time a hairbrush in each.
He shook his head slowly, menacingly wiggling the hairbrushes.
“The real plan is to keep you here until the Grammys air on television,” The Masked Tickler explained, his words put on pause by Harry’s panic.
“What?” Harry tried to reach down the bottom of the bed, his fingers grabbing at the edges of the stocks, but they were padlocked shut, “Fuck, get me out of here, right this second, I mean it, you—“
“—Tickled, non stop, all over your beautiful soles, up that perky derrière, inside those soft, fluffy armpits …”
The Masked Tickler stood tall and confident, still and calm, “… That’s why the TV is on, so that you can watch The Grammys in the background …”
The Masked Tickler knelt back down by Harry’s soles.
Harry grabbed the top of the bed, pulling his body further up its structure, desperate to slide his feet from out of the stocks, but the toe ties alone were enough to keep them pinned in place.
“No, no, no,” Harry winced as he felt the first hairbrush land over his right arch, “This is fucked, I’m fucked, oh fuck—“
“— People will wonder where you are … You’ll see your own empty seat around the table … Your phone will be filled with missed calls and text messages …”
The Masked Tickler then sent the second brush over Harry’s left arch, “… But your phone will be down the toilet, and believe me, if there’s one thing I love to do as well as tickling, it’s flushing …”
Harry yelled a visceral, “NO, NO, NO—“ into the pillow as the brushes began their slide, from side to side, left to right, over the silky baby oil soaked expanse of each of his soles, “—PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE—“ he began to spit out his rage, “—I NEVER WOULD’VE DONE THIS IF I’D KNOWN, YOU BASTARD—“
“—I think it’s fair that you at least get a taste of what you might’ve received …” The Masked Tickler continued to tickle Harry’s soles with the hairbrushes as the bedroom door swung open.
A man dressed in a black leather jumpsuit and heavy work boots strolled inside.
He wore a Clown mask and in each of his hands he held a sparkling, golden Grammy award.
The Clown placed the awards at each corner of the bed, where he then politely excused himself and then shut the bedroom door.
Harry’s green eyes glared at each Grammy as his feet were tickled non stop by the hairbrushes, his hands reaching up to grab at the award, his fingers flexing out in a manic stretch.
This is a nightmare, Harry thought.
It can’t be real.
His fingertips brushed over their gold surface, unable to fully take hold of them.
I’ll wake up any second.
How could you have been so foolish?
I can’t take this anymore.
The damn hairbrush!
“Please—“ Harry began his bargaining, “—I’ll do anything, anything, anything!”
The Masked Tickler ran the hairbrushes over all of Harry’s ten toes, sending him into a thrashing frenzy, his laughter now at a deafening level.
“Anything for the Grammys, or anything to make this stop?” The Masked Tickler enquired.
Harry landed at a crossroads as he screamed into the mattress, the hairbrush locating an exceptionally ticklish expanse of flesh around the sides of his feet.
“BOTH, BOTH, BLOODY BOTH—“
The Masked Tickler sped up the rate of each brush's glide.
“You must pick, Harry …”
Harry wanted to elevate his career, more than anything …
But that was before he had discovered just how truly ticklish he was …
Not the kind of ticklish caused by friends, lovers or family …
The sort of ticklish that ruins all inability to think straight, to make the right decisions, to compartmentalise your priorities.
Harry’s feet, his armpits, his entire body …
They were all too sensitive to endure this for a second longer.
“MAKE IT STOP—“ Harry cried, his violent buck and bounce over the mattress knocking the awards off the bed and onto the floor with a clank, “—I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE GRAMMY’S JUST MAKE IT STOP—” he growled.
Suddenly, the hairbrushes left Harry’s soles.
He defeated into the bed, a long and heavy moan leaving his lips as The Masked Tickler returned to the standing position.
“Well, that’s a shame,” he declared, “I was about to suggest going on for another three hours, and the awards would’ve been yours …”
The Masked Tickler tilted his head, his eyes observing Harry’s butt, “… But I guess you’re too much of a pussy …”
Harry nodded, shrugging to himself, his entire back saturated in perspiration.
“I’m too ticklish,” he coughed, “I’d rather go home and have a bloody bath than win a stupid trophy …”
The Masked Tickler pocketed his tickle tools and then began to walk towards the top of the bed.
“I understand …”
He then curled his hand around Harry’s left wrist, “… Here, let me stretch you out …”
Harry tried to tug his arm back towards him, but The Masked Tickler had yanked it to the top corner of the bed.
“No, wait, hang on—“
The Masked Tickler looped a length of rope around Harry’s wrist that had been pre tied to the corner of the bed.
“--NO!”
He yanked at the restraint, his free arm reaching across the bed to try and pull it off.
Harry winced as The Masked Tickler spanked his butt.
Suddenly, his free arm was snatched away, pulled to the other corner of the bed, looped through another piece of rope ...
Harry pulled and swore, spat and shouted, wriggled and pushed, but his arms were too expertly positioned into place.
“Please, don’t do this, I can’t take anymore …”
Harry buried his face into the pillow, his tanned, naked body the most restricted it had ever been, his ankles still stocked, his toes still tied apart.
“I’ll do anything, anything you want, I’m, I’m knackered, mate, just, just stop with the feet, at least, fuck—“
The Masked Tickler picked up the electric toothbrush, switching it back on.
“--How many seconds is in three hours?” The Masked Tickler asked.
Bzzzzzzzzz …
Harry thrashed around, his arms pulling at the fresh rope around his wrists.
“NO, NO, NO, I CAN’T TAKE IT, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT ARE YOU–”
The Masked Tickler began to approach Harry’s right armpit, aiming the toothbrush for its centre.
“It’s ten thousand, eight hundred seconds, to be precise,” The Masked Tickler said, “Don’t worry, you’ll be laughing too hard to count down …”
Harry erupted as the toothbrush pressed into the crevasse of his underarm.
“... I’ll do it for you …”
Btzzzzzzzzzzzzz …
“... Apologies if I have to restart, my memory is terrible these days …” The Masked Tickler said.
One week after The Grammys …
Harry sat on the end of his bed.
He wore a pair of yellow pants with shapes and glittered patterns stitched all over them.
His feet were bare, his body from the waist up undressed, his hair uncombed and unwashed, his fingernails in need of a manicure.
He held a grammy award in each of his hands, the one on the left for best album.
His mouth still ached from all the fake smiling he had to put on during the show.
He had to pretend he was happy, shocked by his double win, overwhelmed with joy …
But deep down he spent most of the evening wondering if these were earned thanks to his hard work and talent …
Or because of the seven hours of tickle torture he had endured the day before the event.
He remembered The Masked Tickler's words just before he started to remove the string from his toes.
“Make sure you wear something on the red carpet that shows off those ticklish pits …”
Harry swallowed down a bubble of anxiety.
“Otherwise I’ll be making a surprise appearance in your bedroom, when you least expect it …”
Harry had done as the pervert had asked.
He had chosen a sparkly catsuit, his armpits and sides purposefully on display …
Not because he had wanted them to be, or because his stylist had suggested it.
Because he had no choice.
Harry couldn’t bear to be tickled again.
It was a life changing moment, something he’d never forget, a physically gruelling experience that he still felt surprised he’d even survived without passing out …
Creeeeeak …
Harry turned his attention to his ensuite bathroom.
A foot step?
He stood up, Grammy’s still in his hand.
Carefully, he approached the bathroom door, ready to hurl one of the well earned awards at The Masked Tickler’s head.
When he arrived outside his ensuite, only an empty bathroom stared back at him.
Harry narrowed his eyes at the sink.
Beside the tap a calling card had been left.
On the front of the card: a drawing of a house surrounded by white feathers.
Harry cradled both awards with one arm, as his other hand reached out and picked the calling card away from the glistening marble.
He turned it around so the other side faced him, where he read the words he saw on the card out loud in a whisper.
“… Well deserved.”
Harry dropped the calling card over the tiles that made up his bathroom door and slowly stepped backwards, out of his ensuite bedroom.
They, whoever they were, had made his dreams come true … But at a cost.
Harry stood still, his face turning towards the floor to ceiling bedroom windows that looked out over a sunny Los Angeles.
Harry wondered how many other famous men were out there …
Blackmailed …
Manipulated …
All just to fulfil their desires …
He assumed he himself was one of many …
Harry jolted in alarm as another creak sounded through his bedroom, this time from the entry door.
Harry spun round and dropped his grammy’s in shock.
The Masked Tickler stepped into the room, a long length of black rope pulled tight in each hand.
Two Clowns appeared at either of his side, one Clown holding a ball gag and electric toothbrush, the other Clown holding a blind fold and a feather.
Harry stumbled back, his Grammy’s discarded on the floor, unimportant, useless, not needed in his new, dire predicament …
… As the three intruders began to approach him …
FIVE MINUTES LATER …
Harry lay in his underwear, hogtied, blinded and ball gagged, his plump lips squashed over red plastic.
“Mppphh! Mph! Mppph!”
He wriggled in his bonds, his arms, wrists and ankles secured together tightly by rope.
He screamed into his gag as The Clowns began to toy with his soles, tickling his toes on purpose as the ran string between around each of his big ones, tying them beside each other snugly.
Harry’s eyes widened as The Masked Tickler closed the bedroom door, locking it for the foreseeable future.
He stepped over the Grammys and approached Harry, a camcorder held in his right hand.
“Now,” he said, “Where were we?”
’HOW HARRY WON HIS GRAMMY’ CONCLUDES IN ‘HOW HARRY WON HIS BRIT’