This fic is strongly connected to The Joshua’s Worship Trilogy.
____________________________
Johnny knelt on the corner of the bed, his hands shaped into claws, his feet bare, his teeth clenched into a determined grin.
Knelt at the opposite corner of the bed was Johnny’s counterpart, his ‘enemy’, the person he had to beat in this tickle wrestle match …
The referee declared the start of the test by counting down …
“Three …”
“ … Two …”
“ … One …”
T H E M Y B U D D I E ‘ S F E E T S T U D I O
‘T H E A U D I T I O N’
When I started doing this over fifteen years ago, I never thought I’d get the chance to tickle a celebrity.
Especially someone as incredible as—
—Okay, hold up.
I guess, before we get started, I should tell you a little bit about myself …
My name is Peter.
I’m thirty five years old.
I’m recently divorced and I live in Florida …
… I’ll be honest with you …
… I love absolutely everything about tickling.
I even run a website dedicated to it.
It’s called MyBuddiesFeet.
It’s been online since 2008.
It’s membership only and currently it has around ten thousand subscribers.
I gave up my job just over five years ago.
The site now funds my life …
It’s incredible, really.
I dedicate every minute of my day to creating high quality content; involving handsome men of all ages, shapes, sizes and ethnicities getting tickled till they can’t stand it any longer.
There’s pictures, live chats, videos, clips …
There’s foot worship content, too.
Armpits, toes, butts and cocks …
Beards, bellies, muscles and jocks …
Twinks, smooth, pretty and camp …
The list goes on and on and on and on and—
—You see where I’m going with this?
I’m a big player, in the world of tickling.
I sell DVD’s, posters, jock straps and models socks at events like Tickle Fest …
I tickle guys in private, on camera, in public, at events, in my own studio, my own apartment, hotels and motels around the world …
I watch tickle porn every single day.
I can’t live without it.
Okay, so,
Onto the divorced part …
I used to be married to a man who has more wealth than he does sense.
Wealth that doesn’t always mean money …
Wealth that instead, sometimes, means opportunity.
Wealth that can catch a famous persons attention, far quicker than you’d think.
The latest celebrity stud he’s swindled into getting tickled is the tiny Canadian currently walking into my studio, whilst I stand here with my arms folded, talking to you …
Man, he really is something else.
Far more attractive in person …
If that’s even possible!
He’s already super cute, on the other side of the iPhone screen, when I’ve watched him tease us all with those beautiful armpits of his, during some Instagram story or post where, let’s be honest, he’s always shirtless, mumbling about himself or a new single or something dumb that happened to him that day …
God, he’s adorable.
How can someone so short have legs so long?
Those arms.
His biceps are an incredible shape; he has broad shoulders, a strong looking back …
And of course he’s wearing a vest.
Work out shorts, kinda baggy, slipping at the waist … He keeps tugging them up.
Oh shit,
I just caught a glimpse of his Calvin Klein underwear …
Now down to those feet.
White socks … They look thick, fresh, recently purchased …
… Nike sneakers, laced up tight, boy is on brand. Is he sponsored by them or something?
Hmm.
He’s gotta be a size nine, nine and a half …
… He looks like he hasn’t showered.
Maybe he rolled out of bed, got dressed and made his way over here …
I’m surprisingly okay with that?
Means his pits are gonna smell fruity.
Alright, I’m losing my train of thought.
Someone as hot as him will do that to you.
So, let me paint you this picture …
I’m currently leaning against the wall of my studio, a studio I’ve tickled maybe two hundred, three hundred guys in, maybe?
There’s open white brick work, a camera on a tripod, some tall standing spotlights illuminating the space …
The open door has just swung shut.
Johnny is making small talk with my assistant …
I like to call him ‘Bulk’.
No.
Let me rephrase that.
His name is Bulk.
Why, you may ask?
Well, he’s fucking huge.
The size of a house.
Arms like tree trunks.
He’s so tall that he has to physically look down at Orlando, who is looking up with raised eyebrows …
Bulk has a shark-like grin; he’s loud and ballsy, he isn’t into tickling and he only does it because I pay him well …
He’s fucking good at it.
He’s playful but not too rough, sadistic but not nasty, and I can tell he has the hots for Johnny as soon as the twenty year old steps foot inside my studio.
Christ …
… They just high five’d about something …
They’re getting along, which is …
Great, it’s, it’s great …
Most of the time Bulk just intimidates people.
Currently, he’s making Johnny laugh, and he hasn’t even touched him yet.
This is going well.
So.
Between me, Johnny and Bulk is …
Drum roll …
… The Tickle Chair.
Insert thunder and lightning!
Johnny looks at it before he looks at me.
I watch his Adam’s apple bob.
He then smiles this wide eyed smile that I’m pretty sure is the kind of smile that breaks all the girls hearts on a daily basis.
He walks around The Tickle Chair and holds his right hand out to me, before I get the chance to even welcome him.
“Hey, man. I’m Johnny,” he says, “It’s great to meet you.”
My heart breaks too.
His skin is flawless; his eyebrows bushy and thick, his cheeks rosey, his lips pink, un-cracked, and glossy …
And when I hold onto his hand?
Heck.
His palms are soft, his hand shake firm …
His is so full of confidence and charm that I almost blush.
… Almost.
I let go of his hand and fold my arms back across my chest as Bulk starts setting up the camera, like the helpful assistant he is.
“Hey, Johnny. I’m Peter. Did you uh, did you drive here, or…?”
I immediately regret asking someone so attractive such an unattractive question.
“Yeah, I drove,” Johnny replies, that smile still present across his handsome face, “I parked on the front, if that’s okay? I, I mean I can move if it—”
So mother fucking polite.
“—It’s okay,” I nod.
Johnny seems eager …
Dare I say … Excited?
He turns away from me and looks back at The Tickle Chair.
He even extends his arm and strokes the stocks …
“Whoa, this is so cool …” Johnny crouches down and begins to play around with the straps and the leather hanging off of the device.
It’s then I realise I’ve never dealt with a ticklee as unique as this one …
One that seems genuinely interested and intrigued … Happy to be here, not just because of the financial gain they will receive, but because of the experience ahead of them …
“You’ll be locked up in that, in just a few minutes,” I try and sound flirty, but it comes off as threatening.
I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for Johnny to respond.
“I can’t wait,” he smirks.
I open my eyes and feel my heart race.
The House aren’t even giving him that much …
Paying for half of his tour, I think? There have been far more generous offerings, to ticklee’s less interesting than Johnny …
Yet, here he is, the calling card probably still in his back pocket, a large grin stretching across his jaw as he stands back up at looks at me, and then at Bulk.
“So, like, this is my audition, right? Like, I come back another time … If I’m, like, good enough?”
Like.
He says that a lot, I’ve noticed it in interviews, Instagram lives, YouTube videos …
Like this,
Like that,
Like, man, wouldn’t you believe …
I like it.
“That’s correct,” I say, “Today is pretty informal, we’re gonna see what makes you squirm, find your weak spots …” I explain.
Johnny delivers the most sexy laugh.
It’s squeaky, it comes from the back of his throat, he sucks it in as soon as it leaves his lips …
He runs a hand through his hair, his thick eyelashes closing his eyes shut.
His right armpit exposes itself.
Holy shit.
I think to myself how amazing it will be, to slide all five of my fingertips deep inside, right into the very middle, to the point where I feel the warmth, the sweat …
I wonder how he’ll react …
Will he shout, scream, cry?
Giggle, writhe, buck?
Will he just sit there?
No way, armpits like that can’t be not ticklish …
“Weak spots?” He drops his hands by his side, “I think I’m one whole entire weak spot,” his words make me feel giddy, “I’m so freakin’ ticklish!”
I almost pass out.
Bulk drops a gym bag by The Tickle Chair.
It’s zipped up for now, but we know what’s inside …
I clear my throat and adjust the collar of my shirt.
“That’s great to hear! This should uh, this should be a lot of fun …” My mouth is so dry, I kick myself for not bringing more water, the only bottle here is for Johnny, if he gets too out of breath, “… Okay,” I say, “Let’s get you locked in …”
Johnny bounces on his toes, he readies himself as if he’s about to dive into a freezing pool of water …
And in a way, he is …
Jumping in, head first, into a whole new world … A world he’s never experienced before.
I watch Johnny take a seat in The Tickle Chair …
I approach him from one side as Bulk approaches him from the other …
We begin to strap his wrists above his head, those armpits inches away from my hands …
And yes, guys.
They do smell fruity.
It’s right now I remember all the countless times I’ve asked if he’s ticklish, during his many instagram live sessions …
He’s always dodged the question, or never answered …
And it’s not just been me that has asked …
There are thousands of people out there that want to tickle Johnny Orlando.
And now I get to do it.
You haven’t witnessed pure beauty until you’ve seen someone like Johnny Orlando tied to The Tickle Chair.
The velcro wrist straps pinning his arms above his head are fixed in such a way that he wouldn’t be able to pull his arms down, even if he really tried.
Not only does this guarantee that he’s one hundred percent secured into place, it also provides a constant and perfect view of his armpits …
… Totally one of Johnny’s most attractive features.
As I stand here admiring every single detail of his underarms; from the curve around his peck to the thick amount of pit hair sprouting out from the depths of each silky smooth cavern, I remind myself that there’s more of him to devour, more for my eyes to explore …
Johnny continues to talk.
His mouth is moving, he’s blinking fast, as if explaining something to Bulk, who stands there listening with an entertained smile.
I hear the name Harry Styles a few times, but besides that I don’t really listen …
Johnny’s Canadian accent fades away as I take in the rest of the display before me …
His legs are not only longer than I thought they’d be, they’re hairier too …
In fact, they’re almost monkey-ish thick; heavy curls make up a generous layer that sprouts out from his white socks and travels all the way up his calves, over his thighs where it disappears into his workout shorts.
The stocks are secured over his ankles; from here I can see the soles of his sneakers, his feet now wobbling from side to side … Maybe the nerves have arrived, he’s getting twitchy …
I swallow down some anxiety of my own …
For some reason, even though I’ve toyed with pop stars and actors almost as much as my ex husband, Johnny has made me feel a different type of excitement, one that I’m, as you can tell, are struggling to describe.
I breath in slowly.
Johnny and Bulk’s conversation lands back in my ears as I shake my head, breaking myself out of my daze.
I remind myself to get a grip; to enjoy this moment, to savour every single second, to not over think it, to not over plan it, to not over sensationalise a situation that really is, at its core, just utterly sensational.
My heart is now in my throat.
I question if I can do this, if I can touch him, if I’ll be able to cope when I start to hear him beg …
It’s Johnny Fucking Orlando—
“—You ready, boss?”
Bulk has a smirk over his face.
He knows how thrilled I am to be given this opportunity.
He nods at me just once, almost reassuring me that it’ll be okay; live in the moment, be present, don’t get distracted …
Joshua lands in my mind unexpectedly.
It happens sometimes, without warning, when I least expect it.
My heart sinks.
I’ve been ignoring him for weeks now.
I’ve lost count on how many times he’s text me …
I push aside that beautiful, wholesome, brown eyed face …
I pat my right fist into my left palm and turn my full attention to Johnny, who is looking up at me with a smile, his long chunks of hair framing either side of his face magnificently.
I decide to start with a compliment.
“I gotta say, Johnny. Your armpits are… Incredible,” I don’t regret a single word that comes out of my mouth, “I can’t count the times I’ve tickled pits in my time as a professional tickler … And I can safely say, I don’t think I’ve seen armpits as hot as yours.”
I force the mirage of Joshua, standing disappointed and upset in the corner of the studio, arms folded, glaring at me with jealousy in his eyes …
His form fades away, it blurs into nothing until he is gone …
Johnny blushes so hard his eyes almost water.
He acts like nobody has said anything like that to him before, but I’m pretty sure he gets told it all the time.
“Thanks, man,” he’s cute as he blows some fluff out of his left underarm, “I have to shave them, sometimes. They uh, they get outta control.”
Bulk says what I’m thinking.
“You know they’re hot, Orlando,” he points at Johnny, “You get them out any chance you can!”
Johnny chuckles into his chest, his fingers curl around his wrist restraints, he’s been caught out.
“Yeah,” he admits, avoiding both of our testing stares, “Okay, you got me,” he smirks, “I do have pretty hot pits.”
“And you know it … ” I wanna hear him say it out loud.
Johnny doesn’t hesitate, but he still does his best at not looking at me in the eye, his embarrassed stare still looking into his lap.
“I know it,” he whispers, a large smile making that handsome face even prettier.
Bulk giggles to himself and shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts.
I grin in success, my next set of words officially starting the audition.
“Now,” I say, “Like I mentioned earlier, this is gonna be a search, a try out, an evaluation. We’re gonna begin with those pits you love so much, and then we’ll work our way down, alright?”
Johnny bobs his head quickly, his green eyes shooting down to either of his underarms as he clenches his teeth.
“Yup,” he then pokes his tongue out a little, where he rubs it against his top lip, as if his mind is finally coming to terms with his circumstance, “Crystal clear,” his voice croaks.
Bulk stays where he is for now as I take a step forward.
“You can scream, shout, beg, curse, do what you need…” I want to make him understand what he’s allowed to do, I want to make him feel comfortable, “… The studio is sound proofed, so the neighbours won’t hear …” I also want him to feel on edge, not too relaxed, and I think saying something like the latter has definitely increased his fidgety-ness …
His feet are now bouncing from left to right at a speedy rate.
He lifts his chest, he stares forwards, his eyebrows have flattened.
“Sure, oh, oh kay …”
His posture and facial expression remind me of the look people give when they’re at a fairground, in one of those fling-y ball rides that catapults you hundreds of feet into the air …
“Cool, so, first, I need you to face the camera and tell everyone who you are,” I feel silly saying that, because he’s famous, he’s Johnny Orlando, but it’s what has been asked of me, it’s what I’ve been instructed to do, “Who you are, what you do, why you’re here,” I say.
Johnny presses his lips together and then holds back some giggles, “Oh man, okay. I feel silly. Alright, sure,” his fists clench tightly, “I’m Johnny Orlando, I’m twenty years old and I’m a singer, songwriter …” he rests his head over the back of The Tickle Chair and looks into the ceiling, “I’m here because,” he shrugs his shoulders, “Because I wanna be, I guess. I got handed a calling card yesterday and today here I am. I dunno, it seems like it would be fun …”
“Perfect,” I smile, turning to Bulk, “Okay. So, we’re gonna hit record, and then we’re getting started …”
Johnny chuckles into his chest, whispering the words, “Oh shit,” to himself …
I want to tell him there’s nothing to be concerned about; he’ll be okay, I’ll go slow, you can handle it …
But I don’t want to create any false hope.
As soon as I hear the beep, I begin.
***
My eyes are now on both of his underarms as I take another step forward.
Some more giggles leave his mouth; quietly and with closed lips, as if trying to contain the hysteria already, when, damn, I haven’t even touched him yet …
He tries to avoid looking at my hands, which I’ve now shaped into claws, but as they get closer to his pits he can’t help but take his stare towards my fingers, where his eyes begin to widen and a large grin lifts the corners of his mouth upward.
He bends his knees, but the stocks keep him from pulling his legs any closer towards his waist …
I love teasing him like this; allowing him to dread my touch, whilst also willing it on, urging it to happen, a ‘get it over with’ expression saturating his face as I torturously take my time in nearing his armpits …
I take an unexpected and sudden step forwards.
I go to invade his underarms with all ten of my fingers …
…
…
…
… But I pause …
… My clawed hands are now mere inches away from his pits …
… He arches his back and laughs out loud, his head scrunching down over his collarbone, both of his hands now spreading out their fingers in panic.
“Come on, man!” He growls, “Go for it — fuck — you’re killing me!” He admits.
I feel a pinch of excitement in my chest, did he really just say that?
He has no idea when I’ll allow it to happen.
The wait is driving him nuts.
His fingers are now wiggling, his back still arched, his grin so clenched I can see all of his pearly white teeth …
He may as well be screaming at me; ‘Do it! Do it, you bastard! What are you waiting for?’
But he remains quiet, on the cusp of reacting, as if a thin layer of electricity has been caught under his skin …
And then I take him by surprise …
I don’t force my way in, or infiltrate with aggression like he expects …
I just gently slide all four fingers of my left hand into his right underarm …
Oh my god.
You’re in.
I don’t tickle or stroke, I just press …
I increase the pressure of the press …
And then I decrease it …
Then I increase it once again …
It’s enough to cause him to slam his shoulders against the back of The Tickle Chair, hard enough for the entire length of furniture to jolt on the spot.
I watch Bulk raise both eyebrows.
I feel that satisfaction hit the middle of my mind, that feeling of relief mixed with excitement when you gain the evidence that, yes, this ticklee is fucking ticklish as hell and whatever I do to him is going to transform him into a breathless mess soon enough …
Johnny’s fists are now balls.
They’re shaking …
I can feel the sweat developing beneath my fingertips, amongst his armpit hair and the muscular, fleshy shapes that make up his underarms.
I dig in a little harder, this time scratching at the very depth of his right pit …
He kicks his feet, the stocks shaking, his butt lifting from the seat where it bounces his body away from me…
God, I feel like my mind is gonna explode and we have only just started …
I step behind The Tickle Chair.
“No, wait—” he mutters.
I look down at the top of Johnny’s head.
I reach over his shoulders and begin to tickle both of his armpits with both of my hands, my fingers stroking and scratching unapologetically and without warning …
“Hold on a minute!” He yelps.
I went in slow, now I’m picking up pace …
“Hold on a minute?” I tease.
He seems to be unsure on how to handle this.
He knocks my arms with his head a few times, as if trying to push me away.
His knees are smacking together, his shoulders lifting and dropping …
He begins to giggle hard, a long draw of breathless splutters leaving his throat as I speed up my attack.
He throws his face up at me, a loud bellow of laughter greeting my eyes …
He looks incredible; like someone who is having the best time and the worst time of their life, all at once …
“Oh!” He manages, through the laughter, “You bitch!” He shouts.
My jaw drops.
I laugh at his cursing, so does Bulk.
Johnny squirms in The Tickle Chair, his short body causing it to creak and rattle as all four of his limbs push and pull within their bondage.
I watch him drop his head where he twists it left and right, taking in the sight of my hands exploring the very middle of his underarms.
He’s trying to compartmentalise his thoughts; he’s trying to figure out how to handle this, how to not come across like a pussy so soon, how to make it stop …
I start to tickle his underarms harder, faster, all whilst standing behind The Tickle Chair …
I can see him in the camera, I witness his frenzied expression erupt into one filled with alarm.
He now can’t control his laughter; it fills the small studio within seconds, it’s full of glee and hysteria, it’s non stop and it doesn’t pause for breath, it’s brilliant and arousing and it’s coming out of Johnny Orlando’s chest … I’m making it happen, I’m tickling the fuck out of Johnny Orlando and he can’t take it, he’s struggling to breathe, his armpits are sweating so much that my fingers are now wet!
I feel my sadistic side take control, as if it often does when presented with such a ticklish pair of underarms.
I acknowledge it take over; I won’t be stopping any time soon, I’ll be pushing this young man to the edge and beyond, he’ll never forget this moment, this point in his life where he was tickled harder than he’s ever been tickled in his twenty years of living …
So, I further my exploration …
I take all ten of my wiggling fingers under his vest …
He gasps, shocked by the invasion, my touch now dancing over his chest, his stomach and his ribcage …
I brush past erect nipples, I tweak them as I go, he arches his back and winces sharply in the form of a hiss, his head twisting to look at me with an expression that says, ‘oh really? you did that?!’
You can tell he wants to verbalise his expression but laughter has taken over his words, the hysteria not allowing him to say much more even if the mumbles and stutters suggest he wants to …
I begin to verbally taunt him as Bulk crouches down by the gym bag.
“Oh boy, this is really ticklish for you, huh?” I tease, “You can barely breathe …”
Without providing any warning, I take a momentary break from tickling Orlando’s torso to pinch the hem of his vest, where I yank it above his head.
I leave it there for a second, allowing the stretchy grey fabric to cling to his face, blinding him momentarily.
He sucks in the cotton as he heaves air inward, overwhelmed by shock as I go back to tickling both underarms at the same time, his laughter now contained in the vest wrapped around his head.
“What are you doing!” It’s not a question, more of a realisation in the form of a question, “Oh man! What are you doing?!” He repeats through the giggling.
Bulk cackles at my playful methods as he pulls out an electric toothbrush from the gym bag.
He then crawls towards Johnny’s left side, switching the electric toothbrush on.
Did he think we’d go easy?
That we would pinch and poke?
That we’d run a feather around his sides and that would be that?
I know he doesn’t exactly glow with common sense or intelligence, but come on, Johnny!
The young pop star is now a mixture of writhing and panting, unable to produce words whilst howling out the madness caught in his throat, all the while shaking his head and twisting his body away from the sound of whizzing, vibrations and buzzing.
I revel in his noise of lunacy.
It gives me life, meaning, a reason to wake up in the morning.
It’s youthful, desperate, out of his control …
He begins to scream out the word, “WHOA!” as soon as Bulk lands the electric toothbrush over the hairs of his left armpit, his shouts muffled behind the vest over his head, the reaction capturing how it feels for someone like Johnny to have an electric toothbrush placed over their underarm for the first time in their life, “WHOA! WHOA! WHOA!” He cries.
I focus on the right armpit, using all ten of my fingers to stroke the delicate, now perspiration-filled depths …
Johnny persists in producing the word “WHOA,” as loudly as he can behind the cotton, until I decide to pull the vest away from his face and tuck it behind his neck, giving him back his sight, turning his torso bare, where he replaces the word ‘whoa’ with, “SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!” I guess it’s really getting to him, by this point …
I want to see his face.
So I slide away from behind The Tickle Chair and join Bulk in the crouched position; me at Johnny’s right side, Bulk at his left.
Together, we tickle Johnny’s armpits to the point where the twenty year old starts to present a layer of shine over his chest and stomach, the sweat now developing far quicker than I anticipated it would, considering this is just an audition …
As Bulk runs the electric toothbrush around Johnny’s chest, causing his back to arch and his head to throw itself from left to right, I shuffle quickly towards the gym bag and reach in for a feather.
I then return to Johnny’s side and begin to flutter the tool over Johnny’s stomach, focusing on his navel.
Johnny throws his head over his chest and scowls at the feather, his eyes bulging out of his head, his grin fierce and wide, the laughter now leaving his mouth in the form of deafening shouts.
“A FEATHER? A FEATHER! OH, MAN, SERIOUSLY? COME ON!”
I flutter the feather across his abs, my other hand reaching between his thighs where I start to grab at the muscles around his legs.
He yelps, a grainy, “NO!” leaving his lips as he tries to bend both of his knees inward; to catch my hand, to stop me from exploring that area, an area he had no idea was this ticklish …
I remain in situ, the feather sliding over his stomach, my hand tickling the inside of his right thigh, Bulk drawing circles in Johnny’s left armpit with the electric toothbrush …
All three places, non stop and all at once causing Johnny to beg, even if we have only been going for ten or fifteen minutes …
"Okay, stop—” he spits, his nostrils flaring, almost as if he doesn’t want to give in, but he reluctantly has to, because he has no choice, “—Stop—” he repeats, this time more sterner, this time with a demand to his tone, “—Okay! Please stop?” He’s now whining! So many changes in character over such a short space of time, “Please? Please! Please—” he’s so breathless he can barely speak.
“You a little ticklish, kid?” Bulk teases, the electric toothbrush now whizzing down Johnny’s left side where it hops over his bulge and lands over the same thigh I’m currently exploiting, “You want us to give you a break?”
Bulk looks sinister; excitement and joy are creased all over his face, his grin is in that shark-like shape I mentioned to you earlier …
All Johnny can do is nod, his arms now attempting to pull at the wrist restrains as his juicy, hairy legs continue to kick and pull apart, desperately attempting to move away from the fingers and toothbrush tickling his thighs.
“I, I didn’t realise I was th, this—” My eyes widen as Johnny produces a long, steady, loud and breathless stretch of laughter that doesn’t let up; it’s constant, it makes his throat thicken, the veins around his head protrude, his eyes watering, until he finally musters up the energy to explain, “I didn’t realise I was this ticklish, man! I didn’t realise I was this ticklish! Fuck, oh man, what am I gonna do! What, what, what am I gonna—”
—My mind explodes.
Lightning in a bottle …
A situation, a circumstance; one so unique that it has to be contained, kept in place, handled very carefully.
Sometimes it’s a spot they can’t stand, sometimes it’s their disbelief, but right now, with Johnny Orlando, it’s the visceral recognition of his own level of ticklishness, a level he seemed to think was at a strong eight, but actually sits somewhere past ten …
He wheezes as he giggles, the space between his thighs so astonishingly ticklish that he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.
I watch him bite into his left bicep, his teeth pinching over the skin of his muscle.
I’m in awe, wanting to push this further, to see just how far Johnny can go …
I leave Bulk with his toothbrush between the thighs, where I take my tickling hands back to Johnny’s pits.
“—No, no, please—” he mutters between overwhelmed giggles, “—I had no idea, like, NO IDEA I was this ticklish!—” he repeats, surprise drenching his voice as he informs us as well as himself of this new knowledge, “This is crazy, man!” He admits, his head thrashing around so much now that his once styled-in-the-middle hair has become a mess of strands and tasselled clumps, “No, not my arms, dude! Not my pits! Man, you’re, like, so merciless it’s unreal!” He shrieks out laughter as I return to his underarms, once again taking my place behind The Tickle Chair.
His banter is brilliant.
He is so genuinely aware of how screwed he is; how ticklish he is, how bound and restricted he is, that he has no choice but to make light of the situation - a great example of his carefree, open minded personality.
“When I’m outta here I’m gonna, like, totally whoop your ass!” He yells at me, a determined ferocity in his eyes, his laughter now coming deep from within the bottom of his stomach, “You wipe that fucking smirk off your face, dude!” He giggles so much I wonder where he’s finding the breath, “Come on, man! Get the hell outta there!” He glances down at his armpits, his panicked pupils darting from between his thighs to his right underarm, back to his thighs and then up to his left underarm, and so on, “Okay, okay, okay! We get it, I’m ticklish, can we, like, go to the next spot! Go to the next spot! Fuck, come on!”
I bring my taunting back as five of my fingers work his left pit, and five of my fingers work his right.
“You got this, Johnny!” I cheer, “You’re a boss, you can do it!” I’m aware how patronising I sound - that’s the idea, guys.
Johnny turns his head to watch my fingers in his pits, as if seeing it take place will help him cope, “No,” he says, "You’re the boss, man! That’s the damn problem!”
Bulk has his eyes narrowed in focus, “It’s that bit right there…” he drools, electric toothbrush pressing down over the larger muscle on the inside of Johnny’s right thigh, the tool creeping a little up his work out shorts, “… That’s where it drives you bananas …”
Johnny thumps the back of the chair with his fists and squeezes his eyes shut as something that sounds like laughter leaves his throat; but it’s more of a shout, a cry, a groan and a giggle, all mixed together.
I locate an area within each pit that gets Johnny extra breathless.
“What if we don’t stop, Orlando?” I ask.
Johnny doesn’t respond … All I hear as I stand looking down at his head is a lot of huffing, puffing, panting and grunting …
“What if this was all a trick?” I tease, “What if this wasn’t an audition at all? What if we’re just gonna keep you here, and just keep going for as long as we like? Tickling your armpits and your legs till midnight,” I look at Bulk, who I already know is in just as much as a ‘Clown’ mind set as I am, “What do you say, Bulk? Sound like a good idea?”
Bulk has now taken the electric toothbrush behind Johnny’s knees, where the young man has started to kick his legs so hard I wonder if he’ll break the stocks …
“Sounds like a great idea!” Bulk uses the electric toothbrush expertly, running it back up the inside of Johnny’s left thigh where it hops past his bulge and lands around his waist, buzzing over the soft line of flesh that makes up Johnny’s left hip.
Our ticklee has managed to gain enough breath to verbalise his distress, “Oh, oh, god guys, come on!” He has started to buck around on the seat so hard that The Tickle Chair is now wobbling from side to side, “Don’t be evil! Man, enough with the damn toothbrush, come on, dude!” Johnny attempts to bite at my right wrist, but I snatch my hand away, only to see him try to bite at my left wrist, meaning I have to keep watch on Johnny’s mouth every time I work his underarms with the force of all ten of my fingers, “Alright, enough, enough already! Lemme out! Lemme out!” Johnny delivers another long, steady explosion of manic laughter, his cheeks boiling red as he twists and turns within The Tickle Chair, able to shout out three words that often raise alarm bells in my mind when taking a lee to this point:
“—I can’t breathe!”
Bulk and I stop, at the same time.
Johnny’s entire body weight drops into The Tickle Chair, a long sigh leaving his dribble stained lips as his head falls over his chest, chunks of brown hair littering the top half of his face.
I sit back, watching his stomach lift and drop, lift and drop, lift and drop …
I pat his knee, allowing the handsome stud to fill his lungs with oxygen.
“You’re amazing,” I declare, not caring how cheesy that sounds, “One of the most ticklish guys we’ve worked with, in a while …”
Johnny drop his head, rolling his neck, his right hand forming a thumbs up as he clears his throat.
“Poor kids lungs are on fire …” Bulk comments.
There’s a bit of silence at first as Johnny catches his breath …
And then—
“—That was wild,” Johnny announces, to my surprise, some additional giggles leaving his lips, “Like, so damn wild, holy shit …” he looks around the studio, as if coming to terms that this isn’t a dream, this is real, that just happened to him, “… Like, I, I knew I was ticklish but, hell, my thighs? My, my arms? Whoa, like, shit, man. You guys are pro’s, that’s f’sure …”
I chuckle as I get to my feet, my eyes leaving Johnny’s torso where they travel past his newly discovered ticklish thighs, only to land at his size nine and a half sneakers.
As I picture how it will feel in a few moments time to remove them, Johnny delivers the line of the day …
“… I haven’t had that much fun in ages.”
I feel sick.
My nerves and anxiety shouldn’t be this high.
I’ve tickled so many men before …
Why can’t you control your—
—You know why.
Like I keep saying to myself, over and over and over …
It’s Johnny Fucking Orlando.
I force myself to enjoy this, to ignore the nausea, to block out what can only be described as painful excitement.
I try and enjoy the moment, a moment where myself and Bulk are on our knees at the stocks of The Tickle Chair, our fingers curling around the heels of Johnny’s sneakers.
Johnny has a big grin on his face.
His chunks of hair are still messy and gathered around the sides of his face, after all the head thrashing and bucking around.
His vest is gathered behind his neck, the cotton straps tight around his shoulders, his chest and nipples exposed and shimmering with sweat.
I admire his stomach; he doesn’t have rock solid abs like I thought. However, there is still definition, a shape, a slim waist and impressive ‘V’ line either side of his navel.
He’s fucking sexy, and he knows it.
Slowly, myself and Bulk remove Johnny’s sneakers in unison.
Immediately, Johnny curls all ten of his toes within the thick, white Nike socks.
Bulk leans in and takes a whiff of Johnny’s left foot.
Johnny’s foot twitches as Bulk explores his socked sole, hoping to take in a stinky scent …
“Musky,” Bulk declares.
I raise my eyebrows.
I lean in too, breathing in the space beneath Johnny’s right toes.
He leans forwards, interested in what I have to say, his wrists still strapped above him.
“Musky,” I agree, smiling at Johnny, who sits back in The Tickle Chair and offers me a frown.
“Is musky bad?” He asks.
I love how genuinely invested he is, in all this.
“I don’t think there are any ‘bad’ things about you, Johnny Orlando…” I realise I’m flirting.
Johnny blushes, his eyelashes fluttering as he watches Bulk and I begin to gather his socks at the heel, where we start to peel them up the soles of his feet.
My pupils begin to dilate when I see what is offered to me.
Johnny’s soles are creamy white; buttery soft, mark-less, not a scratch on them …
With every roll back of the sock, more and more flawless landscape is revealed, until we finally reach his toes.
I pull the sock away slowly, ever so slowly …
My hearts racing.
Bulk does the same, he mirrors me perfectly.
We take our time, allowing his toes, one by one, to pop free as the sock makes its exit.
First the little toe.
Bulbous, round, cute.
Then the next one, surprisingly large …
Then the middle, long and inline with the current two …
Johnny’s index toe is gorgeous … This is when his toes start to scrunch.
Finally, the socks are removed and we get a view of Johnny’s big toes … Big toes that are perfect in shape, silky, chunky, nails expertly trimmed, did he get a pedicure before meeting us?
With all ten toes clenched, his feet look astonishing to say the least.
He stretches his toes out into a curled flex, allowing the air con to greet their betweens.
He can see how much Bulk and I are admiring his feet…
And Bulk doesn’t even have a foot fetish!
Johnny smiles, his eyes darting between myself and Bulk as we neatly lay his socks and sneakers down over the studio floor.
“I’m pretty happy with my feet,” he announces.
I cock an eyebrow.
“Oh?” I take my index finger and place it against the sole of his right foot, “What are you so happy about?”
Bulk takes his index finger and does the same to Johnny’s left foot.
Johnny jolts so hard in The Tickle Chair that its entire structure creaks.
Those stretched out toes scrunch up tightly once again as he shuffles forward in alarm.
“I think they’re nice!” He shouts, a little bit of spit leaving his lips, “I’ve got nice feet …” he says, this time in a whisper.
Bulk and I begin to scratch Johnny’s soles with just our index finger.
“I remember seeing a video of you,” I have to follow Johnny’s foot with my finger, the boy is twisting it around too much, “Where you said something about selling feet pics, if your career doesn’t work out …”
Bulk laughs.
“He said that?”
Johnny throws his torso forward.
The Tickle Chair shakes.
He begins to giggle, his eyes wide open, his feet squirming from side to side in an attempt to avoid our index fingers …
“I, I said that!” He grins, “Easy money!” He hisses.
He begins to wriggle in The Tickle Chair, a huff and a pant leaving his lips as we explore the bottoms of his feet with just a fingernail.
“You know what we like about your feet, Johnny?” I ask.
He looks at me in distress, I can see the thought in his eyes, he’s wondering if he needs to actually answer my question or if I’m going to answer it for him.
My silence nudges him to go for it.
“You like h-how ticklish they are?” His toes splay out and then scrunch up again as he twists his feet inward, his ankles caught in the stocks, restricting too much movement.
We should’ve tied his toes back.
The big ones, at least.
God, he’s gorgeous.
I have so many thoughts.
I love how breathless he is.
“That’s correct,” I slow down my scratch, so does Bulk, “So much so … I actually have to ask you something …”
Bulk takes his index finger away from Johnny’s left foot at the same time I take my index finger away from his right.
Johnny licks his lips, his feet reaching in towards each other in an attempt to scratch away the tingle left from our touch. “What do you wanna know?” He sounds concerned.
I bite my upper lip.
“It isn’t something that’s in the contract …” here comes that painful excitement again, the inability to focus, my god what am I saying! “… So please feel free to be honest and say no …” just do it, just do it, just do it, “… But, what are your thoughts on foot worship?”
Johnny winces.
My heart sinks.
Bulk looks at me in surprise.
I wonder if I’ve embarrassed myself.
I lower my head.
Fuck.
I look at Johnny’s socks on the floor.
My eyes glance up at the soles of his perfect feet; feet that I can touch, play with, tickle and tease …
And you went and pushed it too far by suggesting something so damn —
“—Sure,” Johnny shrugs.
I keep my eyes off Johnny as I focus on calming myself down.
Sure?
I wait for him to say, ‘for an extra ten grand’, or something along those lines …
But he doesn’t say anything.
He’s just smiling at me, curling his toes, his fists till clenched.
Bulk stands.
“I’m gonna leave you to it,” he pats my back, “The kid’s got gorgeous feet, but I’m sorry, man, I can’t be sucking on any damn toes …”
Both Johnny and I chuckle.
I nod slowly.
“Understood, Bulk.”
As Bulk takes a seat at the back of the studio, I turn my attention to the famous pop star strapped to The Tickle Chair.
“Have you ever had your feet worshipped before?” I ask.
Please say no.
Please say no.
Please say no.
“Never,” he says.
I smile.
“Do you know what it entails?” I ask.
Johnny sniffs, his eyes narrowing in thought.
He giggles, catching Bulk’s eye from six metres away.
“Sucking on my damn toes?” He quips.
I hear Bulk laughing behind me.
I curl my hand around Johnny’s left foot.
I shuffle closer.
I close my eyes.
“Something like that …” I murmur, my mouth opening slowly, my lips taking Johnny’s left big toe entirely.
I don’t see it for myself, but Johnny’s jaw drops.
I start sucking on his big toe.
I’m sucking.
On Johnny Orlando’s.
Big.
Toe.
It tastes insane.
Clean but tangy … It’s hard to describe.
His toe is so soft that my tongue glides around it effortlessly.
I apply pressure with my teeth.
I feel his toe squirm within my mouth.
I open my eyes, just in time to watch him clench his teeth.
I then start sucking on his index toe as well.
I now have two of Johnny Orlando’s toes in my mouth at once.
Not one.
But two.
He rests his head against the back of The Tickle Chair.
His eyelids fall shut.
Is he enjoying this?
I take my mouth around more of Johnny’s toes.
I trail my tongue down his sole, where I nip my teeth at his heel.
That wakes him up!
He jolts forwards, as if suddenly electrocuted, his face almost offended by a feeling he’s never felt before.
I hold his foot still and consume all five of his left toes in my mouth, all at once.
He’s shocked, surprised, panicking.
He’s never had his feet handled this way, “Dude, wait—” he starts, as my tongue curls around his second to last toe …
I begin to tickle his left foot with my fingers, whilst his toes remain in my mouth.
He throws his torso back.
The Tickle Chair rattles once again.
“Damn!” He declares.
I feel his toes writhe in my mouth as I tickle his sole with all ten of my fingernails.
He glares up at the ceiling, pressing his lips shut, trying to contain his laughter, but the giggles come out regardless; they’re breathless, uncontrollable, constant …
He leans forward, as far as his wrist restraints will allow him.
“This isn’t worship!” He screams, “This is tickling!”
I speak with my mouth full.
“I know.”
Bulk can’t not join in.
He leaves his chair and strolls towards Johnny’s right foot, as I slide my tongue away from Johnny’s left toes.
“Oh, guys, seriously—” Johnny needs a moment, that shift in character showing itself again “—Not two at once,” he demands, “Not two at once?” He whines, “Not two at once!” He yelps.
I shrug as Bulk grins.
I pull out a bottle of baby oil from the gym bag and Bulk pulls out two hairbrushes.
Johnny adjusts himself in the seat, his mouth falling open, his brain trying to make sense of the sight in front of him.
I look at Johnny with a mischievous sparkle in my eye.
“Now,” I say, “Let’s see how ticklish these feet really are …”
***
I pull open the fire exit door and catch Johnny before he leaves.
He’s shirtless, his vest tucked into the back of his work out shorts, his sneakers and socks back on, the bottle of water we gave him in his right hand.
“Hey, Johnny!” I call, contract papers in hand.
He stops mid stair-well and turns up to look at me.
“Hey, Peter,” he flashes a grin, his face looking a little tired - no shock there, after two hairbrushes over both of his soles at once, for five minutes non stop …
I need my mind settled.
I remain at the top of the steps, the studio light shining behind me; it illuminates Johnny’s body, he practically glows within the grey decor of this modern building.
“Are you … Are you okay?” I ask, sincerely, “Was all of that … Okay?” I roll up the contact, patting it against my palm.
Johnny throws his bottle of water between each hand, nodding just the once.
“I’m cool, man. I’m like, damn exhausted …” he laughs, glancing down at his feet, “… But … I’m cool. It’s cool.”
I need more.
“You enjoyed yourself?” I press, “You’re … You’re not freaked out?”
Johnny frowns and shakes his head.
“Freaked out? No way, man. I had a blast! I had no idea I was that freakin’ ticklish, dude. It was like a rollercoaster ride.”
I smile …
He seems genuinely content with his experience.
I fold my arms, intrigued to find out more.
“So,” I lean my shoulder against the wall, “What was the most intense part?” I ask.
Johnny doesn’t even have to think about it - in fact, he gives me a list.
“Oh, hell … The toothbrushes, man! What the f—” he pinches his lips shut, refraining from cursing, “—And the bit between my thighs? And my pits, dude! At some points I could barely breathe!” He tucks his right hand under his left pit, squeezing his eyes shut, “… I’ve, I’ve never been tickled like that in my whole life.”
I feel pride flush my cheeks pink.
I’m the one who’s given Johnny that memory, something he’ll never forget.
When he’s asked in ten years time - ‘what’s the most intense tickling you’ve had?’ my face will pop up in his brain.
“You’re made for this, Johnny,” I nudge myself away from the wall, “Armpits and feet as amazing as yours? You were put on this earth to be tickle tortured,” I unfold my arms, “Question is, now that the audition is out of the way, can you handle a full session?” I wave the contract in the air, dangling it like a carrot hanging from a stick.
Johnny’s eyes light up.
“You want me for a session?” He squeezes the water bottle in his hands, his tone enthusiastic, high pitched.
“Of course!” I scrunch up my face, confused as to why Johnny might even think he didn’t stand a chance at being tickled again, “But, a word of warning, a session is far more intense; it’s longer, we’ll be coming at you in all different angles, we’ll be using a tonne of different tools, we won’t be as friendly, you’re probably gonna hate us, at the end …”
Johnny tucks the bottle of water under his left armpit and covers his face with the palms of his hands.
He says nothing, he’s just shaking his head slowly, to the point where I wonder if my words have made him change his mind.
I scratch the back of my head.
“Uh …” I apply a gentle tone to my voice, “… That okay with you?” I take a pen from my jeans pocket and offer it to Johnny.
There’s a beat of silence.
Is he gonna do this?
Johnny’s hands slide away from his face, revealing a white toothed grin.
His next set of words not only reassure me that he’s comfortable with all this, that he trusts me, Bulk, the studio we filmed in …
… They show his dedication, his commitment to be one hundred and fifty percent in, willing to be present, at his best for the financial gain he’ll receive.
He snatches the pen out of my hand as I had him the contract.
I bounce down the steps, turn my back, offering it as a flat space for him to lay the paper out so he can sign properly.
He doesn’t even read the damn thing.
I feel the pen over my t-shirt as Johnny scribbles his signature.
I turn around and take the contact from Johnny.
Before he heads down the steps and back to his car, he winks at me, tucking my pen behind his ear, taking it without asking.
I nearly die.
“Bring it on,” he says.
‘ORLANDO’S AWAKENING’ CONTINUES IN PART TWO, ‘THE AWAKENING’