FTU Connection Notes: This story contains characters from CLOWN, How Harry Won His Grammy, The King’s Orders and The Favour
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A n u n d i s c l o s e d l o c a t i o n . . .
The Clown yanked a white satin hood off of Tom’s head.
“—Mmphhh! Mppphhh!”
Tom lay on his stomach, ball gagged and hogtied on the cold surface of a metal trolley.
He wore a tight pair of grey figure hugging briefs and white sport socks.
He wriggled in his restraints, much like he had done since The Clown took him from his Los Angeles home just one hour ago.
Brown curls of hair hung over his face as he twisted his head from left to right, his surroundings blurring into focus.
Stepping away from him: A Clown dressed in a black leather jumpsuit, military boots and black plastic gloves …
Opposite him: A large padded chair device with ankle stocks connected to the bottom.
Tom groaned into his gag, saliva seeping out from behind the red, shining ball stuffed into his mouth.
“Mmmmmph! Mmmn, mmmph!"
Over to the right: A tall man dressed in a green military coat with a plain white mask attached to his face, his posture still and ready.
Seated two feet away from him, legs crossed at the knee and dressed casually in a denim jacket, t-shirt and jeans …
Andrew fucking Garfield, Tom thought.
Tom began to buck and bounce, the wheels of the metal trolly squeaking, his body smacking against the shining surface as he began to shout and scream in protest.
Andrew stood, his sneakers crunching against the dry concrete ground as he did so.
“I did say that ‘the element of surprise’ would be a key theme going forward, Holland …” Andrew lifted his shoulders, approaching Tom carefully, “… You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Tom pulled at his wrist restraints, growling and cursing behind his gag, his attempts to break free only pulling his feet closer towards the bottom of his back.
If he kicked out, his ankle restraints only yanked his arms further away from him …
He dropped his weight in a huff, his nostrils flaring, his cheeks puffy and pink.
That is when it dawned on him …
He had quite literally been laid out on a platter …
… For the surrounding three observers to do as they pleased.
Tom squinted as he twisted to the left, flickering lights causing his eyes to strain …
He seemed to be in some kind of abandoned warehouse …
Crusty leaves and broken glass littered the floor; the walls were grey and industrial, the windows dusty and cracked …
Suddenly …
Fingertips over the sole of his right socked foot …
Tom jolted, a grunt caught behind the ball gag.
And then …
… Andrew’s hand trailing over his spine in a playful dance …
Tom hissed, rolling to the right, The Clown grabbing his ass and spanking it once,
“Mph!”
Twice,
“Mppphhh!”
A third time,
“Mphhh! Mphhh!“
Without warning, Andrew, The Masked Tickler and The Clown began to tickle Tom.
The Clown enjoyed focusing on Tom’s lower waist, the shape of his butt, the betweens of his thighs …
Tom’s eyes bulged open, he squirmed over the trolley’s surface, his smooth abs squeaking over the metal …
Andrew took some time on Tom’s feet, his fingers gathering some of the excess white cotton material around Tom’s toes, catching his feet together, his touch invading their arches unapologetically …
Tom giggled through his gag, his fingers flexing, his left arm cramping up.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! He cried internally.
He began to shout his distress out loud.
“Mpphhh! Pleaaaaa-phhh, pleeaaaa-phhh! Mmmm, mpppphhh!”
All three at once?
The Masked Tickler had placed his index finger on the top of Tom’s head where he began to slide it delicately over Tom’s body.
As Tom wriggled over the metal trolley, The Masked Tickler's finger travelled over his neck, past his shoulder blades, down over his sides …
… Up the plump hill of his left butt cheek, in a swirl over the hairs that made up his right thigh, up his calf and towards the sock of his left foot …
He began to peel the sock away, much to Tom’s distress …
“Mphhh! Mphhh! Mphhh!”
He gathered the sock under the ankle cuff that made up some of the hog tie binding Tom …
He began to pull the sock away, revealing the starts of Tom’s right heel …
So smooth, so creamy, so delicate …
And then—
“—No,” Andrew ordered.
The Masked Tickler let go of Tom’s sock.
Andrew flapped his hand against The Clown’s shoulder.
“Enough, you freak,” he spat.
The Clown and The Masked Tickler took shuffled and respected steps away, their heads lowered.
Tom caught his breath as Andrew pulled Tom’s sock back over his heel.
He then knelt down by his friend, tidying up the boy's messy head of hair.
“How are you doing, buddy?”
Tom didn’t want a length of dribble to leave the corner of his mouth as soon as Andrew asked that question, but it did anyway.
It oozed past his chin and drooped over the surface of the trolley, summing up Tom’s vulnerable and out of control situation almost too perfectly.
Tom rested his chin over the metal, breathing mostly through his nose, glaring Andrew in the eye with a look that said, ‘you mother fucker’.
Andrew sat down in a cross legged position, tucking his feet under his thighs.
“You’ll have to believe me, I … I really didn’t think that they’d actually kidnap you,” Andrew explained, “I I was told you’d be ‘delivered here’. I I guess they’ve got a bigger imagination than I do …”
He sighed, looking into his lap in shame, “I’m sorry, Holland. I’ll make sure next time it’s a little less of a shock.”
Tom spoke through his gag, his tongue pressing against plastic.
“... Neg gime … ?” He said, in an alarmed tone.
Andrew’s moment of reflection ended almost as quickly as it arrived.
He jumped back to his feet in excitement and clapped his hands.
“Alright! Let’s make a start!”
Tom shot a panicked look at Andrew, his body wriggling from left to right as The Clown opened up a rusty door that led into a cleaning storage room.
From inside, The Clown pulled out a suitcase and a camera stand.
“Mph! Mppph!”
Andrew reached towards Tom’s face and squeezed his cheek with his thumb and index finger.
“Let’s get you strapped in …”
As The Clown began to position the camera stand a few feet opposite The Tickle Chair, The Masked Tickler and Andrew began to untie Tom from his hog tie.
As soon as Tom’s hands were disconnected from his feet, his right fist swung for Andrew.
Andrew caught it as effortlessly as if he were catching a baseball mid-air.
The Masked Tickler grabbed Tom by the legs whilst Andrew bear hugged his torso, catching his arms at his sides.
Tom moaned through his gag, kicking and writhing in his captors' grasp as they carried him to The Tickler Chair in a flurry of huffs, growls and challenging grapples.
Andrew tried to calm Tom down through clenched teeth.
“Remember …”
huff
“… Holland …”
huff
“… This is part of …”
huff
“… The deal!”
Tom landed in The Tickle Chair butt first, with a gentle bounce.
He immediately tried to slide off.
Andrew rolled his eyes, grabbing at Tom’s left risk, yanking him back.
The Masked Tickler grabbed at Tom’s right wrist, pinning it against the arm pad attached to the right side of The Tickle Chair.
As The Clown set up the camera and carefully placed the suitcase down over the trolley’s surface, The Masked Tickler strapped Tom’s wrist into place.
Andrew still struggled with the strength of Tom’s left arm.
“If you had just,”
huff
“Picked him up and … t-told him what was happening,”
huff
“Instead of kidnapping him,”
huff
“He wouldn’t be such, damn, hard work!” Andrew yelled frustratedly, “Now he’s panicking!”
The Masked Tickler grabbed Tom’s kicking left leg and yanked it down to the end of The Tickle chair.
Andrew pressed his hand against Tom’s mouth and pushed his palm into the gag, forcing the ball deeper into his throat.
Tom’s eyes bulged open as he faced Andrew, his legs still kicking away from The Masked Tickler trying to lock them into the stocks.
“Mph! Mph! Mph! Mph! Mpppphhhhh–”
“--Listen, Holland, look at me,” Andrew said quickly, “Calm down, alright? Calm down …”
Tom breathed quickly, the saliva from his ball gag now staining his bare chest.
He slowly began to resist, his kicks and punches lessening by the second.
“That’s it, that’s good,” Andrew spoke calmly, quietly, “Alright, alright, okay …”
Tom closed his eyes, allowing The Masked Tickler to place both of his socked feet into the stocks, where he then closed and locked them in entirely, securing Tom’s ankles into place.
“This is your second session,” Andrew confirmed, wondering if The Clown or The Masked Tickler had even communicated any of this to him during his capture, “You’re in safe hands … You’re going to be tickled, you’re going to be made to beg, you’re going to be filmed doing so … We’re not gonna hurt you …”
Andrew strapped Tom’s remaining arm into place, “… And then we let you go. Alright?”
Tom nodded quickly, breathing in some more drool that planned to leave the tiny gaps between his mouth and the plastic ball gag.
Tom now sat in The Tickler Chair, his arms secured either side of him, his socked feet in the stocks, his knees wobbling from side to side nervously as Andrew, The Clown and The Masked Tickler all stepped back to admire their subject.
Tom breathed in …
“Mmphh …”
He then breathed out.
“... Mmmphh … ”
He repeated that inhale and exhale process until his stomach had flattened and his balled fists had curled open into wiggling fingers stretching out in nervous anticipation.
Andrew sighed, removing his denim jacket, dropping it to the floor in a casual heap.
“That was trickier than it should’ve been,” he announced, turning to blame The Clown, “You can go. You don’t get to play anymore.”
The Clown dropped his hands by his sides.
He remained still and silent, unsure whether to take Andrew seriously or not …
Andrew raised his voice, pointing down the damp, long corridor that led to the warehouse's exit.
“What the fuck did I just say?!” He shouted, “Get the fuck out!”
The Clown jolted.
He then stepped away from the camera stand and the iPhone attached to it.
Tom’s lips tightened around his ball gag as he watched Andrew and The Clown, his hopes of this not being as intense as he thought lifting at the sight of three ticklers now becoming two …
The Clown walked past Andrew, hanging his head over his chest where he started his sad and sorry walk towards the darkness.
“Hey, Clown, I’m, I’m just messing with you …” Andrew mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Come back, please …”
The Clown paused.
He turned around and tilted his head, his fixed, manic grin facing Andrew, Tom and The Masked Tickler.
Tom began to squirm in his seat and shout the words ‘no!’ behind his gag as The Clown returned to Andrew’s side.
“N-pphh! N-phhh!”
Andrew took The Clown’s hand in his and caressed the plastic of his glove with the fleshy pad of his thumb.
“You know we can’t do this without you,” Andrew whispered, “You know I don’t want to do it, without you …”
Tom slumped into his seat, giving into the fact that there would indeed be three ticklers in this already unsettling second session.
The Clown brushed his fingertips against Andrew’s cheek and after a few seconds of dire awkwardness, The Clown returned to his position behind the camera.
Tom shot worried glances over to Andrew, then to The Masked Tickler, then to The Clown, his fists curling back into balls, his toes flexing beneath the cotton confines of his socks.
“Mph, mppphh, mph, mm, mm, nnphh—“
Andrew flapped his right hand at The Masked Tickler.
“C’mon … Take that damn thing off will you? I can barely hear a word he’s trying to say.”
The Masked Tickler did as ordered, reaching towards Tom’s head where he carefully removed the ball gag from around Tom’s face.
Tom licked his lips, stretched out his jaw, clearing his throat.
“... Th, thank you …”
Andrew felt his heart ache.
“Aw, man. Jesus … Even in a situation as grim as this,” Andrew planted his hand over his chest, his nostrils flaring with emotion, “You still always find the time to be polite.”
Tom bit his lower lip and offered Andrew a fierce scowl.
“Get this over with, Garfield. I haven’t got all day.”
The Masked Tickler chuckled behind his mask.
Andrew pursed his lips.
“Oh! Far cockier than last time …” Andrew began to pace around The Tickle Chair, his index finger pressing against the sole of Tom’s right foot as it dragged gently up its white cotton covering, “… Then again, a lot of today will be so very, very different, compared to your first round …”
The toes of Tom’s right foot clenched as he endured Andrew’s touch.
He sat up, his eyes shooting to the left and right of him as he checked out the thick, leather buckles strapping his wrists to long, padded arms reaching out either side of the device he sat in.
Tom jolted in his seat, peering over his torso and past his legs to the stocks at the bottom of The Tickle Chair as Andrew began to toy with his left foot.
“What’s … What’s inside the, the suitcase?” Tom asked, his eyes leaving Andrew’s teasing fingers where they narrowed at the suitcase resting over the surface of the trolley he had been hogtied on just minutes ago.
Andrew grinned.
He left Tom’s feet and made his way towards the trolley.
“It’s our little game,” he replied.
He lifted the suitcase's lid, angling it so the contents inside were hidden from Tom.
Andrew, The Clown and The Masked Tickler chuckled to themselves as they observed the many items staring back at them.
Tom stretched forwards, in the hope to get a better look.
“Come, come on,” he urged, “Let me, let me see, you at least owe me th—“
“—Holland, I’ve told you …” Andrew placed his index finger over his own lips, keeping his eyes away from Tom, their gaze focusing at the inside of the suitcase, “… Calm down, just breathe … I’ll explain everything, I promise.”
Tom lifted his chest, sighing out through his nose.
He then began to squirm in fright as The Clown pulled a .9mm handgun from out of the suitcase.
“What! What! No! No! Please! What the fuck!” Tom yanked at his wrist restraints, he kicked his feet, he used his weight to shift The Tickle Chair from side to side, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my g—“
— The Clown aimed the gun at Tom’s face …
“Andrew! Andrew! Fuck! Fuck!” Tom squeezed his eyes shut …
— Click!
Tom opened his right eye.
A ping flag poked out of the barrel of the gun.
On the flag the word ‘Go!’ had been printed in bright yellow.
The Masked Tickler walked towards the iPhone attached to the camera stand and pressed the record button.
… Beep!
l u c k o f t h e d r a w
Tom felt his terror subside as Andrew stood up straight, assuming his position, taking some glasses out of his denim jacket and popping them on the tip of his nose.
He cleared his throat.
“Welcome to ‘Luck of The Draw’, a game designed specifically to torment the ticklee by toying with their own fate. You will laugh, you will scream, you will plead. You might even cry. You will always lose and you will never win. Do you understand?”
Tom finally broke out of his relief that the gun wasn’t loaded, focusing his concentration back at Andrew as he tried to take in his scripted words.
“Er …” he tutted, “… Not really?”
“… We all have roles,” Andrew declared, ignoring Tom’s inability to make sense of the game, “Me,” he pointed at his own chest, “I’m The Quiz Master. I’ll ask you, Tom, a question. If you get it right, you get to choose a number…” Andrew then pointed at The Masked Tickler.
The Masked Tickler cleared his throat and stepped forward, carefully placing his hands behind his back.
“I am The Appointer,” The Masked Tickler explained, “I’ll ask you for a number between one and five. The number you choose will decide which tool I tickle you with during the …”
The Masked Tickler looked towards The Clown, gesturing for him to step forward and reveal his role.
The Clown, still with gun in hand, remained by the camera, his voice sinister, deep and grainy.
“… I’m The Clown …” he giggled, “… I reload my gun,” The Clown reloaded the gun …
-Chi-chak!-
“… And then I shoot, revealing a two minute test you must endure, with the provided tool …”
Andrew turned to Tom, cocking an eyebrow.
“... Do you understand? …” he repeated.
Tom looked at Andrew, then at The Clown, then at The Masked Tickler.
“You’re all bloody insane,” he laughed, shaking his head in disbelief, “Who on earth sees this? Why does this have to be recorded?” He yanked at his wrist restraints, “Why are you wearing masks? Take them off, for god’s sake! I thought I was only doing this with Andrew, this isn’t cool, I don’t care what you say about surpri–”
The Clown sighed, stepping closer to Andrew.
“-- I knew the pretty boy wouldn’t understand …” The Clown mumbled.
Andrew tutted, flapping The Clown away.
“Give him a chance, he’s a load of fun, honestly, you’ve just startled him into a bad mood …”
The Masked Tickler walked towards the suitcase, reaching inside where he picked out a small square card.
“I think the best thing to do is just make a start, see how it goes … Time isn’t on our side, Garfield, he’s only contracted for—“
Andrew blew through his lips, “—Pfftt, sod the contract … ” he spoke quietly, ignoring Tom, who continued to mutter and protest his confusion in the background, “ … He’s ours for as long as we want him …”
The Masked Tickler nodded.
Andrew walked towards Tom and placed a hand over his mouth, silencing him momentarily.
“— And as for this chair, I can break out of this in min– Mmphh!”
Andrew caught Tom’s eyes, fixing them in a trusting stare.
“Holland,” he whispered, “We’re starting. Alright? Concentrate. Okay? The quicker you play ball, the sooner it’ll be over …”
Tom blinked, the second half of his face hidden by Andrew’s hand.
“… Do you understand?... ” Andrew repeated for a third time.
Tom nodded reluctantly.
Andrew’s hand slid away from Tom’s jaw where he then returned to the metal trolley, suitcase, The Clown and The Masked Tickler, now all gathered at the foot of The Tickle Chair.
Tom’s toes curled and his fingers flexed as he bit his upper lip and closed his eyes in an attempt to slow down his heartbeat.
The Masked Tickler handed the small square card to Andrew as the iPhone continued to record the session.
Andrew peered through his glasses, pre-reading the question.
“Ah damn. He’s going to get this one right, I know it,” he said, “So, here we go, question one … What is the cap–”
Tom shuffled in his seat, his eyebrows lifting in concern.
“—Wait, wait, wait!“
All three ticklers paused and looked at Tom.
“How, how long do I have to answer the question?” Tom asked, “What if I get it wrong? You’re not gonna tickle me hard are you? Like, soft, that would be fine,” Tom scoffed, “Well, it wouldn’t be fine it would be awful but, you know what I mean…” he blinked, shaking his head, “I’m, I’m sorry, I’m overthinking everything I, I just need a–”
–Andrew raised his right hand slowly.
Tom closed his mouth, his stiffened body slowly dropping back into The Tickle Chair.
Andrew breathed in calmly.
He spoke his words out in a long exhale.
“… I won’t say it again, Holland …” he lowered his hand, “… The importance of these sessions … “ he then tilted his head, cracking his neck, “… Is the element of surprise … “
A cold draft blew through the warehouse as silence filled the space around all four men.
Tom nodded into his chest.
“Ss, sorry …”
Another piercing ache shot through Andrew’s heart as Tom’s quiet apology left his lips.
He pushed down any remaining empathy and held the card back out in front of him.
“I’ll start again … ” he sniffed, “... Question one …”
1
Andrew allowed a beat of quiet to bounce between all of the warehouse’s attendees before asking;
“... What is the capital of Jamaica?”
Tom stared into his knees as he tried to force his brain into motion.
He had visited Jamaica whilst touring the world promoting Spider-Man: No Way Home …
You spent an entire week there.
It’s the same name as your home town …
“--KINGSTON!” Tom shouted, excited by how quickly he was able to answer.
Andrew raised his eyebrows, folding his arms across his chest as he pocketed the card in the back of his jeans pocket,
“Correct.”
Tom grinned, his fists shaking in their restraints.
“Yes!” He cheered, “Fuck, yes! I’m bloody nuts at this!”
Andrew smirked, his right hand reaching out to Tom’s right foot, his fingers reminding him not to get too cocky.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Tom …”
Tom jolted in the chair, his foot flexing in the opposite direction to Andrew’s touch.
“Hands off, Garfield!” Tom hissed.
Andrew’s fingertips slid away from the cotton of Tom’s socked sole as he turned towards The Masked Tickler, who began to speak behind his mask.
“Mr. Holland, please pick a number between one and five.”
Tom’s eyes shifted from left to right.
Whichever number he picked would decide on the kind of tool used to tickle him …
He had never thoroughly considered individual numbers with such diligence …
“Uh, num, number … Three.”
The Masked Tickler peered inside the suitcase.
“Item number three …” The Masked Tickler revealed the first tool, “... The electric toothbrush.”
Andrew bounced on his toes, clapping his hands, knowing full well the effects the electric toothbrush had on Tom.
“Fantastic! Excellent! God, I love this game!”
Tom felt his chest fill with dread as both Andrew and The Masked Tickler turned to The Clown.
The Clown held out his pistol and aimed it at Tom.
He pulled the trigger.
Tom winced, part of him still believing a bullet might leave the weapon …
Another pink flag popped out of the end of the gun, a few sentences of yellow writing printed on one side.
The Clown began to read out the first challenge.
“ … Armpits … “ The Clown giggled as Tom’s eyes widened, “... And you’re not allowed to laugh!”
Andrew shot his eyes into the warehouse’s ceiling as he patted his right palm with his left fist.
“Oh boy oh boy, you’re screwed, Holland …”
Holland shook his head, pressing his lips together.
“Nah, I, I got this. I, I can take it.”
Andrew chuckled as The Masked Tickler made his way behind The Tickle Chair, electric toothbrush in hand.
“What? You can take it? Come on, Tom,” Andrew placed his hands on his hips, “I reduced you to tears the last time I went for your pits for longer than five minutes. What makes you think you even stand a chance?”
Tom squeezed his eyes shut as The Masked Tickler switched the electric toothbrush on.
Btzzzzzzzzz!
“Fuck you, Andy,” Tom clenched his teeth, “You just watch me win, I won’t even break a sweat–”
Tom thrashed to the right and burst into heaves of laughter as soon as the tip of the electric toothbrush landed over the armpit hairs of his left underarm.
His bellow was so loud that it echoed out into the empty expanse of the warehouse, his physical jolt so strong that The Tickle Chair had shifted a few inches across the concrete.
Andrew cocked an eyebrow as The Masked Tickler switched off the electric toothbrush.
“... Wow … ” he chuckled, “That uh, that might be the quickest defeat I’ve ever witnessed…”
The Clown giggled behind his mask, “Goodness gracious me!” He clapped, “His armpits are …”
“... Another level,” The Masked Tickler finished The Clown’s sentence for him, “They might just be the most sensitive underarms we’ve ever worked with.”
Tom huffed in embarrassment as Andrew smirked, nodding in agreement.
“Now you find out what happens when you lose, kid …” Andrew glared at Tom menacingly, “... Just the feet,” Andrew ordered to his colleagues without looking at them, “Nowhere else …”
Tom squirmed in his seat, both Andrew and The Clown now approaching him whilst The Masked Tickler coiled around The Tickle Chair, towards the stocks …
“No, wait, hang on, please, just a second …” Tom began to raise his voice, “... Just a second! Just a second! Let me try again, say that was a trial run, let me try again! Please, please, please, not my feet, not my feet, not my feet—”
The Masked Tickler switched the electric toothbrush back on, sending its fast moving vibrating bristles towards the toes of Tom’s left foot.
Tom’s entire body convulsed as if prodded with an electric stick.
“No!” He spat, “Not my feet–” he heaved in quick, “--Damn! Stop! No, not my toes, not the toes, anywhere but the toes!”
The Masked Tickler sent the toothbrush over Tom’s left pinkie toe, locating its shape beneath the white cotton of Tom’s sports sock, the electric toothbrush’s powerful touch invading the sensitive digit with relentless brutality, sending the young man into an explosion of fierce, unapologetic hysterics.
As Tom writhed in The Tickle Chair, The Clown made his way to Tom’s right foot, wasting no time in invading its centre with the plastic of his fingers, all ten of them infiltrating the hyper-sensitive spot, sock covered spot aggressively.
Tom’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, his entire face saturated in panic, his socked feet tickled by two people at once …
“Bloody hell!” Tom used all the energy and muscle in his legs to twist his feet from left to right, “You’re both absolute …” Tom struggled to find the words to describe his ticklers, “... Absolute wankers!” He settled on an insult, his mind too angry to be polite.
Andrew stepped closer, his fingers pinching at the sock material gathered around the toes of Tom’s left foot.
“Let’s show my friends what the fuss is all about …”
Tom thrashed in his seat, the entire Tickle Chair creaking and wobbling from side to side as he squirmed with vigour and a passionate need to escape.
“No, Andrew, no, please, don’t you dare!” Tom cried between breathless laughter, “Keep them on, keep them on, please, please, please keep them on! …”
Andrew slowly peeled the sock away, Tom’s squirming foot making the removal of the sock so much easier …
… The more his foot twisted under the tickling, the quicker it pulled itself out of the material …
The Masked Tickler and The Clown admired the creamy, silky smooth sole and long, scrunched up toes that made up the delicacy that was Tom’s now bare, vulnerable and utterly exposed right foot.
“Balls!” Tom hissed, irritated with his lack of control, “Don’t you dare take off the other one, I swear to God I’ll—”
—Andrew chuckled as The Masked Tickler and The Clown continued to tickle both of Tom’s feet, The Clown getting the glory with Tom’s bare right, The Masked Tickler working his electric toothbrush over the squirming toes of Tom’s socked left.
“Balls? I haven’t heard balls as a cuss word in years! You’re so unapologetically British, Tom …”
Andrew decided to keep Tom’s remaining sock on, instead choosing to join The Clown in scribbling his fingernails over the bare sole of Tom’s right foot, sending the boy into a senseless realm of hyperventilating, kicking, punching and shouting that echoed out into the dusty expanse of warehouse atmosphere.
“It’s as if every single centimetre of your body, from the top of your head …” Andrew began to scribble underneath all of Tom’s five flexing toes, “... All the way down to these perfect toes … Is excruciatingly ticklish. I think even your eyelashes might be ticklish, you know …”
The Masked Tickler took the electric toothbrush away from Tom’s socked toes and dragged it up his left leg, over his thigh and past his abs.
“Let’s find out …” The Masked Tickler teased.
Tom widened his eyes and shot his panicked glance down to his stomach as The Masked Tickler hovered a little too long over his navel, tracing his six pack for a few seconds before lifting the electric toothbrush up and through the air, towards Tom’s jaw.
“No! No! No!” Tom panted, “Please! Please! Please!”
Tom shook his head from left to right in a manic twist, the toothbrush running over his chin, up his right cheek and towards his right eye.
“Get that bloody thing off of me!”
Tom giggled and arched his back, The Masked Tickler’s free hand holding Tom’s head against the padding of The Tickle Chair as he journeyed the electric toothbrush over Tom’s eyelashes and eyebrows, his nose and forehead, causing the twenty six year old to cough and splutter in dire distress as he himself, in that very moment, discovered that even his face was ticklish …
“Alright, alright, alright! We get it, we get it, we get it!” Tom shouted, his eyes filling with tears, “--Please, pfft–” he spat as the electric toothbrush ran over his lips, “Pfft! Pfft! Please, enough with the bloody toothbrush, enough with the feet, enough, enough, enough–
–Click!
The Masked Tickler switched off the electric toothbrush and then slowly made his way back to the suitcase with Andrew and The Clown.
Tom slumped into his seat, his arms still pinned up by cuffs, his lips swollen and puffy as he tried to catch his breath …
He wriggled his nose, trying to remove itchiness caused by the electric toothbrushes' sharp, irritating bristles.
“... Jesus …” he huffed, “... Jesus Christ …”
Tom sat up, his eyes worryingly glancing down to his right foot, a foot now bare thanks to Andrew’s inability to keep his hands to himself.
Tom felt relieved that his left foot remained socked …
Andrew kept Tom’s sock in his hand and breathed in its scent by pressing it against his nose.
“I think it’s time for question number two …” he announced, closing his eyes as he took in the scent of Tom’s damp sock, his other hand reaching into the suitcase where he pulled out a second small piece of square card …
2
Tom shuffled in readiness, finding it difficult to focus after having three people tickle him at once, even if it had only been for a few minutes.
“Spell …” Andrew chuckled, biting into Tom’s sock with a grin, “... Onomatopoeia …”
Tom threw himself forwards aggressively, The Tickle Chair keeping him in place.
“You’re taking the mick!” He hissed, “This is fucking nuts! You know full well I have no idea how to sp …” he bit his upper lip as he frowned into his lap, “... Ok, Tom, you can do this, uh, al,alright … O … N …”
He shot disturbed eyes up to Andrew, The Masked Tickler and The Clown as they all stood in silence, waiting for him to fail.
“... Uh …” Tom gulped, taking his eyes from his lap to the ceiling, from the ceiling to his lap, “... O … M … A …”
The Clown took a few careful tip-toe steps forwards, the index finger of his right hand extending out to gently brush across the arch of Tom’s bare foot.
“ … T! T! T!” Tom twisted his foot away from The Clown, growling in frustration as the tickling threw off his concentration, “Oh god, I can’t even think, uh …” The Clown continued to toy with Tom’s right foot, “Stop that, for Christ’s sake, give me a chance!” Tom scrunched up his toes.
“You have ten seconds …” Andrew announced.
Tom’s toes flexed out as The Clown continued to distract him, this time by pinching his big toe playfully.
“Agh! Stop! I, I can’t focus when you …” he narrowed his eyes, “... Alright, okay, uh, T … O … P …”
Andrew looked at his watch-less wrist, making up the time as he went along.
“ … Four … Three … Two … “
Tom lifted his butt off the seat, senselessly shouting out the remaining letters.
“ … E, O, I, A!... ”
He fell back down with a bounce, his fists curled into balls.
The warehouse fell silent as The Clown and The Masked Tickler looked at Andrew.
Andrew tore up the card and threw the pieces over his shoulder.
“ … Incorrect …” he whispered, “... It’s O, E, I, A … “ he pulled a sad face at Tom, “ … Aw, so close …”
Tom started to squirm without being touched as all three ticklers returned to his body.
“No, not again, you, you only just …” Tom began to laugh without a finger even landing on his skin, “... Guys, this, this isn’t funny, you, you know I can’t deal with this …”
Andrew glanced at The Masked Tickler to his left, The Clown to his right …
“Let’s work those beautiful abs …” Andrew ordered.
Tom repeatedly thumped his fists over the padding strapped to his arms.
“No, not my stomach, I haven’t been tickled there in years! I don’t think I’m gonna be able to–”
Tom threw his head back and shouted into the warehouse ceiling as Andrew, The Clown and The Masked Tickler sent their fingers, all thirty of them, into Tom’s abs …
The Masked Tickler focused on the right side, The Clown on the left, Andrew on the middle …
As his stomach muscles, hips and waist were relentlessly tickled, Tom’s desperate shouts transformed into strained heaves of bellowed laughter, the kind of laughter that thickened his neck and made his cheeks boil red.
Despite being told to just focus on the abs, Tom found himself gasping in sudden shock as he felt the sock protecting his left foot be whipped away from his ticklish limb.
“No! What! Wait, what!”
The Clown left Andrew and The Masked Tickler to the abs, whilst he returned a dedicated focus to Tom’s now bare left foot, actioning a fierce tickle to the sleek and soft toes curling and scrunching beneath his fingertips
Tom’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as his left foot and stomach were tickled without mercy, sending him into a mindset that informed him that he had no choice but to beg for the tickle torture to end …
“This is insane!” He cried, “--I, I can’t take this please, come on guys, you gotta stop!”
He started to lose his breath, the focus on his abs and toes too much to handle, “I need a timeout, I need a timeout! I can’t take it,” he admitted, saliva forming at the corners of his mouth, “Damn I can’t take it, I can’t take it, not my stomach, not my toes, come on! Come on! Come on!”
His pleas would stumble into hysterical laughter, lost in a realm of lunacy, their importance fading away, unable to be found thanks to the inability to create words …
Tom thrashed and squirmed so hard that The Tickle Chair lifted off the ground, its many bolts and attachments squeaking and shaking as the rickety structure tried its best to contain the body strapped to it.
He threw his head over his chest, his bloodshot eyes taking in the sight of twenty fingers scratching and tickling over the hairless expanse of skin around his navel …
“You gotta stop! You gotta stop!” Tom began to feel dizzy, his vision blurring, his head feeling tight, “I’m gonna pass out, I’m gonna pass out!” He warned, his toes scrunched up so hard they had started to ache …
He then screamed the loudest he had screamed since the hood had been yanked off his head over thirty minutes ago.
“... I’MGONNAPASSOUT! …”
Andrew and The Masked Tickler stepped away from Tom’s abs, their hands lifting into the air.
The Clown stepped away from Tom’s feet, allowing the boy to drop his weight into the chair …
Tom coughed into his shoulder, droplets of sweat now forming over his forehead, chest and shoulders …
Huff, huff, huff, huff …
“Boy …” The Masked Tickler returned to the suitcase, “... He really can’t take this …”
Andrew chuckled, licking some of Tom’s sweat off the tips of his fingers.
“It’s unlike anything I’ve seen,” Andrew explained, “I love how much he moves. He’s got so much energy … He’s very shouty today, too, which is exciting. I think the reality of his situation is settling in …”
The Clown nodded as he stood beside Andrew, “ … It would be a dream come true to have him strapped to a big, comfy, cost bed, with ten, eleven, twelve of us going at him all at once …”
Tom grimaced at his ticklers commentary, finally catching his breath as he pulled himself back up by yanking down on his wrist restraints.
“... I like his biceps and his feet the most,” The Masked Tickler had to resist the urge to go back in, “I’ve always wanted to see that tattoo in perso–”
“--Shut up …” Tom growled, his sinister glare shooting through The Masked Tickler, “... I’m right here, you know …”
Andrew picked out another card from inside the suitcase, “Yeah, yeah, we see you buddy. Don’t worry, we’ve not forgotten about you,” he smirked.
3
Tom rested his head against the leather padding behind his neck, “Fuck, I’m so thirsty. I, I had no idea my belly button was that ticklish … Can … Can I have a glass of water? Or, or a minute? Just so I can catch my–”
“--Who is the most successful female solo music artist ever?” Andrew asked the third question without warning, catching Tom off guard.
Tom sat forwards in alarm as The Clown began to approach his legs.
“Uh …What! Now? But, I, I need water, I can’t even thi …”
Tom watched The Clown with narrowed eyes, forcing his mind to trail over pop stars and their number one hits, their albums, songs he recognised …
“No!” Tom pressed his knees against each other, “Don’t tickle me when, when I’m trying to …”
Andrew checked his invisible watch, “... Ten seconds, Tom …”
Tom wriggled in his seat as The Clown toyed with his thighs.
“No! That, that’s not fair, you only just asked the—”
Rhianna.
Tom’s mind went to Rhianna, Umbrella, the song he had performed himself on stage years ago …
Is that what they want me to say?
Tom thought logistically.
To be the most successful …
“ … Four, three, two …”
You have to have been around for the longest!
“MADONNA!” Tom shouted so loud that he frightened The Clown, who stumbled away from his ticklish thighs.
Andrew pocketed the card and sighed into his chest.
“Correct.”
Tom began to shake The Tickle Chair from side to side, laughter coming out of his mouth not because of tickle torture but because of pure relief and happiness.
“Come on! Grrrr! Get in! Yes mate!” He cheered.
The Masked Tickler folded his arms.
“Pick a number between one and five, but not number three, as you picked that last time.”
Tom wasted no time in overthinking.
“Two!”
The Masked Tickler reached into the suitcase and this time, he pulled out nothing.
Instead, he simply wiggled his fingers.
“Item number two … Hands …”
The Clown reloaded his gun.
Chi-chak!
He then aimed it into the ceiling and pulled the trigger.
Another flag popped out, five yellow words printed over the pink cotton.
“Armpits,” The Clown giggled, “And the challenge … You’re not allowed to beg …”
Tom moaned in frustration, his head dropping over his right shoulder.
“... My armpits? …” he whined, “... Again? Can’t you do somewhere else, please? I could barely stand having them–”
“--Your feet?” Andrew asked, tilting his head.
“--Well, n, no,” Tom bit his lower lip, “Any, anywhere but my feet or my armpits–”
“--Your abs?” The Clown pressed.
Tom shook his head, “... No, anywhere but my feet, my stomach, or my arm–”
The Masked Tickler began to approach Tom from behind The Tickle Chair.
“I think it’s safe to say, Mr. Holland, no matter where we tickle you, you’re going to struggle …”
Tom’s entire body stiffened as he prepared himself for The Masked Tickler’s touch.
“I, I can laugh and, and do everything else, right?” Tom’s words came out in a squeak, “Right?”
Andrew smiled.
“... Just don’t beg …”
Tom nodded quickly.
He then clenched his fists so hard that his fingernails almost cut into his palms.
He lifted his chest, The Masked Tickler’s fingertips gently brushing over his armpit hair from behind the back of The Tickle Chair …
Tom stared forwards, focusing on a crack in the concrete, a stern and strict, “ … No, no, no …” leaving his mouth as he kept his eyes open, unblinking, determined, strong willed …
The Clown looked at Andrew.
“Do we class ‘no, no, no’ as begging?” He giggled.
Andrew paused in thought.
Tom exhaled air out of his nostrils, his eyes darting from Andrew to The Clown, from The Clown to Andrew as he impatiently awaited confirmation on if he had already begged or not.
“No,” Andrew decided, “That’s not a beg.”
Tom heaved out a sigh, his breathing shortened once again by fingers fluttering over his underarms.
Tom squeezed his eyes shut, grainy giggles leaving his lips as he kicked his legs and threw his head forwards.
All The Masked Tickler did was gently wiggle his fingers over the armpit hair sprouting from each armpit - he didn’t enter the sweaty depths, he didn’t stroke skin, he didn’t apply pressure …
… And Tom was already a breathless, flabbergasted mess, struggling to cope or focus, his fingers and toes flexed out in a manic splay as a layer of perspiration began to form over his upper lip.
He glared into his lap as The Masked Tickler continued to gently wiggle his fingertips over the armpit hair, his touch still only accidentally or occasionally sliding against skin.
Andrew folded his arms across his chest.
“Oh man, you’re such a pro,” he admired, “You’re really teasing him …”
The Masked Tickler grinned beneath his mask as he continued to wiggle his fingertips over Tom’s armpit hair, sending the boy into a stiffened thrash of convulsed squirming and writhing, The Tickle Chair just about containing his muscular, slender physique.
Tom continued to heave out breathless, constant giggles, his chest and lungs burning from the expulsion of hysteria.
“You don’t want me to go harder, do you, Tom?” The Masked Tickler asked.
Tom shook his head from left to right, his eyes squeezed shut, his jaw stretching open.
“What would you do, for me to not go in …?” The Masked Tickler pressed.
Tom kicked his legs so hard the stocks at his ankles had started to clank and creak.
“Anything,” Tom huffed, a tear rolling down his left cheek, “I’d do anything!”
The Masked Tickler wiggled just a little harder, causing Tom to smack his head repeatedly against the padding behind him.
“Would you give up the money?”
Tom surprised himself, and everyone else in the warehouse, when a sudden, “Yes!” blurted out of his mouth.
Andrew cocked an eyebrow.
“It’s not even worth the ten grand!” Tom shot frantic looks at each of his armpits, The Masked Tickler’s fingertips persisting in their constant wiggle and brush over his armpit hair, “You can keep the money, seriously, I don’t want it, just pl–” Tom bit his lower lip, refraining from saying the word ‘please’ …
The Masked Tickler applied a tiny, minuscule amount of pressure to his touch, his fingertips now stroking through the armpit hair and scratching ever so slightly across the sensitive flesh of Tom’s underarms …
“So we don’t have to pay you?” Andrew asked, “You’d rather we just let you go? You’re that desperate for it to stop?”
Tom exploded, his entire upper body twisting into a strained distort and stretch in an attempt to pull away from The Masked Tickker’s unapologetic touch as his fingertips continued to press down over his pits.
“--YES, GOD, keep the money! PLEASE, oh God, stop, stop, stop, stop! I can’t take it, please, please, please!”
Tom had failed, within thirty two seconds of attempting the challenge …
But instead of stopping after acknowledging the fail, The Masked Tickler continued …
“You couldn’t even last a minute,” he snarled.
Tom erupted in a deafening stream of maddened laughter as The Masked Tickler continued to ever so gently stroke and wiggle his fingertips over Tom’s armpit hair, no longer scratching, just tormenting the young man into a hysterical heap by simply teasing him with the possibility of going harder and faster, all whilst Tom’s curls of brown remained combed to perfection by The Masked Tickler.
Tom began to scream and shout amongst all the laughter as The Masked Tickler used his fingertips to mercilessly and gently invade the agonisingly ticklish space between Tom’s elbows and his chest, causing Tom to now panic and protest in a ferocious shout.
“I failed, I failed, you gotta stop! You gotta stop! Please, just tickle somewhere else, for God’s sake!”
The Clown giggled and clapped as he watched Tom thrash around in The Tickle Chair, the contraption shifting from left to right as the twenty six year olds body became so soaked with sweat it looked like he had just taken a hot shower.
“He can barely stand it!” The Clown cheered, turning his plastic covered face towards Andrew, “This level of ticklishness is practically lightning in a bottle!”
Andrew stood still, watching silently, a satisfied smile on his face.
“I agree. He’s full of stamina, I’ll give him that …” he then nudged The Clown, “... Come on, let’s join in …”
Tom scowled at Andrew and began to cry out at him in animalistic anger.
“No! No! No! Don’t you fucking dare, bloody hell, oh my god –”
Andrew went to Tom’s left side, his own fingers actioning their own fluttery dance up and down Tom’s ribcage as The Clown began to explore the betweens of Tom’s five right toes.
“It’s pretty mad, having three people tickle you at once, right?” Andrew teased.
Tom had transformed into a reactive, violent mess, all of his limbs kicking and pulling within The Tickle Chair as he head threw itself from left to right, breathless shouts and mindless laughter leaving his throat in a strained, desperate expulsion.
“--you’re not people–” he managed to say through the hysteria, “--YOU’RE NOT PEOPLE–” he huffed and panted, “--People don’t do this shit to each other!”
“You want it to stop, Holland?” Andrew pushed, ignoring Tom’s insults.
“YES! For the love of God, yes, yes, yes!--” Tom spat.
“What do you want to stop?” Andrew smirked, his fingers going harder at Tom’s sides as The Masked Tickler continued to stroke his armpit hair, The Clown still at his toes …
“STOP TICKLING ME, STOP TOUCHING ME, STOP BEING SO–!” Tom couldn’t think of the word to describe their ways of torture, “Just, just please, please, stop tickling me, bloody hell I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die! This is killing me–”
More insanity riddled laughter, more giggles deep from the pit of Tom’s stomach, more aggressive yanks, kicks, punches and jolts, all contained within the structure of The Tickle Chair.
“Where should we stop tickling you?” Andrew asked quietly.
Tom heaved in a short breath of air, the only amount he possibly could whilst laughing and shouting so much.
“MY ARMPITS, MY, MY FEET–” Tom’s eyes widened as he flexed out his fingers, “--EVERYWHERE! ...”
Andrew continued his push for fulfilling information.
“You have one area to pick. Which is it?”
Tom didn’t hesitate in providing his answer.
“My armpits! My armpits! Please, god, leave them alone!”
Andrew stepped away and clapped his hands twice.
“Alright, okay …” he watched The Masked Tickler and The Clown force themselves to stop, “... Let’s give him a little breather, he’s clearly having a difficult time …”
Tom slid back down into The Tickle Chair, the thick layer of sweat covering his torso causing his body to shimmer under the flickering warehouse lights.
Huff, huff, huff, huff …
“This is …” his chest lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped, “... This is un, unlike anything I’ve experienced in my, my life …”
Andrew reached back into the suitcase and picked out another piece of card.
“You’re getting angry, aren’t you, Holland …”
Tom closed his eyes, his hands dangling from the cuffs attached to his wrists, a bead of sweat rolling down his neck.
“I’m fucking furious …” he hissed.
Andrew chuckled, his eyes trailing over Tom’s toes, all the way up to his tight, throbbing abs.
“I know you are. It’s kinda sexy …”
Tom jolted forward in panic as The Masked Tickler and The Clown returned to his feet.
“Wait! Wait! You, you said you were giving me a breat–”
“-- Calm down …” Andrew reassured, “... They’re just pinning your feet back. You’re squirming too much …”
Tom winced as The Clown and The Masked Tickler began to attach both of Tom’s big toes to loops of string nailed into the top of the stocks.
“No, what the, wait, don’t do that! I want to move, I, I need to move …”
He bounced around on the seat, the string sliding around each of his big toes too ticklish to bare, his remaining eight digits curling and flexing as he bit his lip and glared at the horror taking place below his ankles.
“No, that’s, that’s not alright, stop it, stop it!”
After a few agonising seconds of having his toes toyed with, Tom eyed his harrowing situation - his feet now fixed into position thanks to the ankle stocks and toe ties securing his big toes to the stocks themselves.
Tom tried to shift his feet, but all he could do was twist them a few millimetres in or out, his silky smooth, milky white soles stretched out and forced into an exposed and highly vulnerable position.
“I, I can’t move them at all!” Tom panted, “No, take them off, that isn’t cool, that isn’t fair … No! Stop!”
Tom’s right foot curled the best it could under The Masked Tickler’s index finger, an index finger trailing carefully over the Spider-Man symbol tattooed across his sole.
“Stop it, oi! Oi, mate, leave it!!” Tom pressed his chin into his collarbone, “Get off, bloody hell, you’ve had your fun! You’ve had your fun!”
The Masked Tickler continued to draw over the tattoo, tilting his masked head in curiosity.
“For someone so exceptionally ticklish, it’s a wonder you made the active decision to get a tattoo on one of the most ticklish areas of your body …” The Masked Tickler’s finger left Tom’s right sole, “... Did you suffer?”
Tom huffed, licking his lips, flexing out the toes not pinned back by string.
“Of course it did,” Tom muttered in a strop, his bad mood taking over his entire being, “I screamed the entire parlour down …”
The Masked Tickler stepped back, returning beside The Clown as he spoke behind his mask in a quiet murmur.
“... I wish I could’ve seen that …” he whispered.
Andrew cleared his throat and looked at the small piece of card in his hands, happy with how long Tom had been given to catch his breath, now seated in his toe tied position.
“Alright, question number four …” Andrew couldn’t help but let a smile spread across his face, “... Who is the best Spider-Man; Tom Holland, Andrew Garfield or Toby McGuire …”
4
Tom shook some curls of hair away from his eyes as all ten of his toes scrunched up in focus.
“This is too quick,” he said, “You’re not giving me the chance to recover from the stuff you’ve just–”
“... Who is the best Spider-Man,” Andrew repeated, “Tom Holland, Andrew Garfield or Toby McGuire …”
Tom yanked at his wrist restraints, his face drenched in fury.
“For God's sake!” He shouted, “Isn’t, Isn’t that a matter of opinion?” He croaked.
Andrew glared at Tom as The Masked Tickler and The Clown awaited the answer.
“ … Who is the best …” Andrew pressed.
Tom wiped some sweat away from his jaw by rubbing it against his shoulder.
His heart pounded beneath his chest as he tried to compartmentalise his thoughts and theories.
Do I inflate Andrew’s ego and say him?
What if I’m wrong?
What if Andrew thinks I’m the best Spider-Man, or, or Tobey …
More flickering lights … More droplets of sweat … More tingling at the bottoms of his feet …
Is there a right or wrong answer if it’s an opinion?
Is this a trick question?
Think, Tom, think!
Tom lifted his chest and provided his answer confidently.
“Me,” he said, “I’m the best Spider-Man.”
The Clown and The Masked Tickler stood in silence as Andrew pocketed the card.
He ran a hand through his hair.
And then he began to applaud Tom in a slow and gradual clap.
“... Correct,” he announced, with a proud, brotherly smile.
Tom raised his eyebrows.
“Wait, really? Se, seriously? You’re not winding me up?”
Andrew tucked his hands into his jeans.
“You are the best Spider-Man,” he then turned to The Masked Tickler casually, who stood peering inside the suitcase, “I know it, Tobey knows it, the whole world knows it …”
Tom rested into The Tickle Chair.
Despite all he had endured, all he knew he had yet to endure …
He couldn’t help but blush.
The Masked Tickler stepped forward.
“Pick a number between one and five, but not three or two,” He said.
Tom gave up on thinking he was lucky …
So far he had unintentionally given The Masked Tickler the chance to use his hands on his armpits, whilst allowing him to also tickle the same spot with an electric toothbrush…
He had failed both challenges miserably … And he had scored an incorrect answer in the process.
They’re doing what they want anyway, Tom thought.
You’re in between a rock and a hard place, mate.
“One,” Tom muttered.
The Masked Tickler reached into the suitcase, picking out the next tickle tool.
“Item number one … The feather.”
Tom chuckled, dropping his shoulders in relief.
“A feather? Bring it on, lads! I can take a feather…”
The Clown reloaded his gun.
Ch-chak!
He then aimed it at Tom and pulled the trigger.
Tom winced as another pink flag popped out.
Andrew laughed into the back of his hand, shaking his head.
“He’ll lose this one again, for sure …”
The Clown read out the challenge, his head tilted as he glared at the flag.
“Feet. You can do anything but move …”
Tom tilted his head and wiggled his feet from side to side, their movement still limited thanks to the string tied around each of his big toes.
“Bring it on,” he suggested confidently.
The Masked Tickler handed the feather to The Clown.
“Your time to shine …” he said.
Andrew and The Masked Tickler took a step back as The Clown looked at the feather, its white shape pointed and tall, no doubt from a seagull or similar type of bird …
He then approached Tom’s feet.
Tom closed his eyes and readied himself for the feeling of the feather to start gently stroking over his soles …
Instead, he felt something pin-like, something aggressive and sharp drag down the arch of his right foot.
Tom’s eyes bulged open as he threw himself forwards in a manic splay, his fingers flexing, his toes stretching outward …
He thrashed to the left in a violent jolt, The Tickle Chair shifting across the concrete.
The Masked Tickler, Andrew and The Clown jumped back in surprise as Tom huffed into his chest.
“Don’t do that,” Tom warned, his tone drenched in seriousness, “Please, please don’t do that …”
The Clown kept the quill of the feather pressed gently against Tom’s right arch.
“You failed already,” The Clown giggled, “You moved! You didn’t even last a second …”
Andrew wiped some sweat away from the top of his head, removing his glasses and hooking them over the neck of his t-shirt.
“Alright, okay, let’s give him another chance. Tom, that was a dummy round…” he eyed the boy with a generous glance, “... This time, at least try to stay still …”
Tom nodded quietly, ashamed by how much he had screwed up these tasks, at how much he couldn’t control his reactions …
“I didn’t expect him to use the other end,” Tom admitted, “That’s insane, mate … It feels so ticklish, I don’t think I can–”
“-- Try …” Andrew urged.
Tom glared into the warehouse’s ceiling, its flickering lights blinking back at him.
He remained quiet and still as he readied himself for the return of the feather.
The Clown stepped closer, reaching forwards, holding the feather like a pen …
He then began to draw shapes and lines over the sole of Tom’s left foot, dragging the nib from toe to heel, heel to toe, toe to heel …
Tom kept his face angled upwards, his eyes straining at the flashing lights above him, sweat pouring out of his underarms, the smelly droplets rolling down the sides of his torso …
“I can laugh, right?” Tom quivered, “Just can’t move?”
Andrew nodded just the once.
Tom burst into laughter, his head still facing up, his bellows of hysteria pummelling the warehouse’s ceiling as he kept his entire body as still as he possibly could.
As The Clown reached Tom’s left big toe, Tom couldn’t help but twist his foot inward.
Once again, he threw himself forward, the cuffs at his wrists keeping his arms stretched back behind him.
Unapologetically, he thrashed in the seat and screamed out at The Clown in protest, his eyebrows raised, his bloodshot eyes fierce and determined for this to be over.
The Clown stepped back.
Tom huffed, his toes flexing out in a long curl.
“Christ, Holland. You’re officially the most ticklish person I’ve ever met. And I’ve met some really ticklish people…”
Tom breathed in slowly, his body weight slumping into The Tickle Chair as The Clown pocketed the feather.
“I told you,” Tom warned, “I can’t take this, I’m the, the worst person for this kind of thing …”
Andrew began to approach Tom’s right foot.
“No, you’re the best person for this, actually …”
Tom stretched his foot away from Andrew as Andrew began to touch his toes.
“Alright, Andrew, enough, get me out of this bloody thing right this second…”
“Masked Tickler? Please ready the final question …” Andrew directed his demand at The Masked Tickler but kept his eyes on Tom’s toes as they curled beneath his touch..
The Masked Tickler picked out a small piece of card from the suitcase …
5
“No,” Tom wasn’t sure if it were tears rolling down his face or droplets of sweat, “This, this sucks … Even if I get it right, it just stops three of you doing it instead of one, and, and I can’t even take one, so, so, so–”
“--We’re going to do this last bit a little differently,” Andrew announced, his fingertips leaving Tom’s now scrunched up toes, “... We’re not going to pick a tool, or produce a challenge…” Andrew shook his head, “No, we’re going to go in all together, all three of us, with whatever tools we desire to use …”
Tom lifted his head slowly.
“You’re going to what …?”
He wished he could hide the disbelief in his tone but this barrage on his physical senses was too much to comprehend.
“... The twist?” Andrew placed a hand on his hip, “We either go at it for only five more minutes … Or five more hours … It all depends on our handsome buck here answering the final question correctly …”
Tom began to stretch his neck and upper body towards the right cuff attaching his wrist to the arm of the chair.
He opened his mouth, almost tricking himself into thinking he could bite down on the leather and chew his way out of this.
He pulled his legs towards his waist, grunting as he tried to force his ankles through the stock's holes.
He shook The Tickle Chair with all of his mite until he realised how entirely stuck he was, his body dropping in silence as his ticklers stared at him quietly.
“Are you done?” Andrew asked.
Tom nodded sheepishly.
“Alright,” Andrew nodded at The Masked Tickler, “The last question …”
Tom closed his eyes and breathed in calmly through his nose.
He listened to The Masked Tickler’s muffled voice as it spoke behind the plastic oval shape covering his face.
“What size are Andrew’s feet?” The Masked Tickler asked.
Tom swallowed down a dry bubble of air, sitting up, his eyes opening, his murky sight peering over the stocks and down to Andrew’s sneakers …
“Err …”
He had no idea, his mind too exhausted and strained to think properly, “... A uh … Maybe a …”
Oh shit.
Oh fuck.
You’re done for.
They …
They look big …
Does he want U.S size or U.K size?
Does it matter?
They’re going to destroy you anyway.
But I can’t take five hours …
Surely they wouldn’t do this to me for five hours …?
They didn’t look big enough to be more than an eleven …
They didn’t look small enough to be less than a ten …
To Tom’s surprise, Andrew didn’t check a wrist watch that wasn’t there.
He instead seemed to be allowing Tom enough time to figure it out.
Tom came to the conclusion that it would be between ten and eleven.
“It’s ten or eleven …” Tom mumbled to himself, his eyes glancing over to Andrew, then to The Clown, then to The Masked Tickler.
Andrew lifted his shoulders.
“I’m gonna need an exact size,” he shrugged.
Tom huffed, his feet pointing forwards in a way only a dancer’s would, the toe ties keeping his big toes fixed into position.
“Te …” Tom clenched his teeth, “... Eleven. They’re a size eleven.”
Andrew paused for dramatic effect.
As a cold draft blew through the warehouse, all three ticklers looked at Tom, who sat simply waiting with puppy dog eyes and a quivering lower lip.
“... Am I right? …” Tom started to raise his concern without even knowing if he were right or wrong yet, “... Come on, seriously, this, this tickling thing, it’s … It’s not for me, find someone else, I’m too ticklish for this, I, I can’t do it anymore, it’s the worst thing I’ve ever–”
“--Correct,” Andrew tore up the card and threw the pieces over his shoulder.
Tom blinked.
“... What? …”
Andrew smirked, closing up the suitcase by gently slamming the lid.
“You’re correct. My feet are size eleven.”
The Clown and The Masked Tickler looked at each other in confusion.
“Does …” Tom lit up, excited by the prospect of leaving this damn warehouse, these strange, masked ticklers …
He could go home, see his girlfriend, have a bath … Sleep!
“... Does this mean you can let me go?”
Andrew took careful steps towards The Tickle Chair.
He knelt down by Tom’s right foot and pressed his face gently against his sole.
Tom raised both eyebrows as Andrew breathed in the sweaty skin, licking his tongue against the arch, causing Tom to twist his foot to the left in an aggressive yank.
“Andrew!” Tom shouted, “Does this mean you can let me go?” He repeated.
Andrew chuckled, shaking his head.
“You see, the thing about power is … I get to set the rules …”
Tom began to panic, his torso stretching forward in protest.
“Andrew, no … You mother f–”
“--You’re tied up. We’re on the fifth floor, in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing you can do …” Andrew began to stroke Tom’s left sole whilst licking his right, enjoying how forcefully Tom tried to thrash his feet around whilst doing so, “... There’s nowhere you can go …”
Slowly, The Masked Tickler and The Clown began to prepare themselves.
They reached into pockets, producing tools such as additional toothbrushes …
Feathers of different shapes and sizes …
Another ball gag, a blind fold, more string for the rest of Tom’s unbound toes …
Tom snapped his head from left to right, his eyebrows lifting so high that strong lines presented themselves over his forehead.
“That gorgeous, ticklish, sculpted, smooth body is ours for the taking …” Andrew mumbled into Tom’s sole, “ … For five whole hours …”
Tom jolted as The Clown began to send his electric toothbrush across his stomach.
“No, fuck, what! I, I an, an, answered the question!” Tom whined, The Masked Tickler making his way to his armpits, “You, you said we were done! You said, you five minutes!”
As all three ticklers began to tickle Tom on all areas of his body, with a diverse selection of tools for another five hours, Andrew responded to Tom by saying two simple words …
Two simple words that summed up this new Andrew,
This sadistic Andrew,
This merciless, unforgiving, relentless Andrew …
As he nibbled on Tom’s toes, whilst Tom thrashed around in dire hysterics, Andrew made sure to look Tom in eye when he said,
“... I lied.”
t w o w e e k s l a t e r . . .
Tom nudged open the door of the highway diner with the right toe of his running trainer.
He walked towards the same booth he and Andrew had sat in three times now …
On the table sat a cheeseburger and fries on a plate, with a milkshake beside it.
Beside the food; a black box with a pink ribbon attached to it, a neatly tied bow staring back at Tom.
Tom’s face stared blankly at the box, his eyebrows burrowed into a flat line, like they had been since he had been freed from the warehouse half a month ago.
He had ignored Andrew’s texts, his calls, his Instagram messages …
He had ignored the threats to leak the video of him gang tickled to the press …
He knew how much these people wanted him.
How much they needed him.
Maybe more than he needed them.
Since being unstrapped from The Tickle Chair, Tom quickly realised that his level of ticklishness wasn’t a weakness at all …
It was a power.
Tom had finally agreed to meet with Andrew, for another two sessions, if he were paid five million dollars …
… Another four million on top of Andrew’s previous offer.
Tom had filmed his movie with Spielberg.
Awards were on their way.
Critical acclaim just around the corner.
Now, Tom could work his sensitivity to his advantage and gain large sums of money not only for him to enjoy …
But for the many charities he wanted to support.
Tom picked up the box, ignoring strange looks from the diners waitresses, who perched at the bar chewing gum and flapping their warm faces with plastic menus.
Tom removed the ribbon and lifted the lid.
The top layer of contents consisted of a folded up sheet of paper.
Tom peeled it open and read the handwritten writing looking back at him.
Dear Tom,
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve finally given in and agreed to a third session.
The next person you meet is the man in charge of everything.
The man responsible for manipulating both you and I into our current situation.
From the previous videos we’ve filmed and he has viewed, he has noticed that the two
areas you simply can’t stand being tickled are your underarms and the soles of your feet.
He wants to explore just those two areas, by himself, in the privacy of his own home.
Underneath this letter you’ll find the two objects he wants to use on you - objects you’ve so far not had the pleasure of experiencing.
And believe me, I think these two objects will drive you into a realm of madness you only think you’ve visited.
Take this box and deliver it to the below address next week, at 9 am, not a minute earlier or later.
I’m sorry I couldn’t of presented this information in person.
I’m helping The Clown out in some much overdue unfinished business …
And …
I’m sorry I pushed you further than you could handle …
Those five hours were the best five hours of my life.
A x
Tom screwed up the sheet of paper, his fist scrunching it into a tight ball.
His eyes then trailed down to the two objects inside the box.
Tom cocked an eyebrow.
He felt his throat tighten, his heart pound in his chest …
The idea of his feet or underarms being toyed with, by the objects staring back at him made his toes curl within his running trainers …
As he picked up the box and walked towards the exit door of the diner …
He understood, now more than ever …
That he had no choice, but to OBEY.
‘OBEY’ CONTINUES IN PART THREE, ‘WHAT’S MY SAFE WORD AGAIN?’