Seventeen days into The Agreement.
Thirteen days left …
Timothée lay in a heavy sleep until a passing police siren thirty feet below woke him from his slumber.
Awakening eyes glanced around his surroundings, taking in the familiarity of the giant ensuite bedroom he’d been sleeping in for the better part of two whole weeks.
Tim planted his palms over his face as he tried to pull both feet towards himself.
The cuff around his right ankle reminded him that such a move wouldn’t be possible.
Tim dropped one hand down to his lap, whilst the other reached forwards, his fingers pressing gently over the leather connecting his leg to the corner of the bed.
Tim fell flat on his back, his land bouncing over the mattress, as he lay in silence, fingering his lower lip in thought.
The return to routine had resumed, so suddenly, despite ongoing developments.
Only last night had they got back from Tickle Fest.
Only last night had they kissed, again and again, surrounded by pizza and beers and Rachel and Ross and Monica …
Only last night had he stripped him and led him downstairs, past the basement, into an even deeper secret …
A Sub Zero, clinical, white-lit space where the average millionaire would keep a large collection of expensive sports cars, or their superhero gadgets, or a Batmobile …
But no, not him.
Instead, Tim had stood entirely naked, introduced to an expansive, neatly displayed range of tickle torture instruments, tools and bondage.
Despite such a revelation and after such a change in their relationship, Tim still found himself back where he started - ankle cuffed to his bed, staring up at the same ceiling, contemplating thoughts and feelings connected to him and Goddamn Armie Hammer.
Almost as if everything and nothing had changed, all at once.
Tim closed his eyes, his fingertips trailing over his stomach and down past his hips.
They slid under grey boxer shorts, where they toyed with a hardening girth, a girth that grew stronger the more he thought about his current circumstance.
He’d be lying if he said Armie’s Sub-Zero level didn’t intimidate him.
Regardless of his confident ‘bring it on’ answer, when Armie asked if the varied and diverse collection of items worried him, Tim still felt a sense of dread and apprehension when it came to considering physically being in devices like the ones he had viewed, whilst standing in what could only be described as a cold, lifeless, bondage museum.
He had taken so much, so far.
He had been pushed beyond limits he had no idea he’d even set, tickled in ways he never thought possible.
In stocks, in chairs, on spinning wheels …
At tickle parties, by strangers, by Armie …
… By Miller.
He had gained money, lost money, and then gained it all again.
His ticklish-ness, his feet alone … They had brought him close to potentially signing up to contracts that had offered to pay him wealth that some of the richest actors in Hollywood could only dream to receive.
The entire experience in itself had been life changing already.
And now, it would continue for a second half, one last stretch to a finalised, secured and contracted ten million dollars.
But on top of feathers, blindfolds and ball gags, there would now also be —
— Tim felt surprise as his arousal twitched, his memory forming the mould of a silver, bullet shaped vibrator, one that sat in Armie’s palm, one that Armie had asked if this would be something Tim could allow, something he could endure … Something he could take.
Tim wondered if it would hurt.
He wondered when something like that might happen.
He wondered, when it did happen, if he’d even want it, if he’d let it.
‘Yes, because it’s you,’ he had said.
Tim didn’t want to be tied and tickled relentlessly.
He didn’t want to endure the challenge of receiving something of that shape, within an area of his body so untouched, so unviolated, so special - an area so far only explored by Armie’s index finger.
But this is what he had signed up for.
This is what would secure those millions.
And just because he felt unsure if he really wanted something like that to happen, it didn’t mean that when it eventually took place, he wouldn’t enjoy it.
Tim took the tiny silver necklace hanging around his neck and hooked it over his thumb.
He then chewed his thumbnail, staring at the bed sheets covering him from the waist down, his eyes glancing over his chest, at his ten toes poking out the other end of the covers.
He chuckled to himself.
The fact that someone even wanted him like this; in such a unique, strange way, still blew his mind.
He felt confused that a person would even develop a level of attraction towards him.
He flexed his toes, his focus on the one between his big and third - a toe that Armie had described as his favourite.
Tim urged himself to understand its beauty, to realise why Armie, and others, had expressed such a keen interest in something so simple, so normal, so ordinary.
They’re just feet.
It’s just a toe.
Tim popped the chain into his mouth, where it dangled between his lips.
He rolled over to his stomach, and then he propped himself up, positioning himself over the mattress on all fours.
As his necklace continued to hang from his mouth, Tim placed both palms over the surface of the bed and then slid them forwards, stretching them outward, curling fingers into thin air as he pressed his face against the pillow, burying his head into the cotton.
He arched his back, parted his legs, the sheets falling from his hips.
The soles of his feet faced the closed bedroom door.
The space between the cheeks of his buttocks, currently covered by the material of his boxers, remained hidden for now.
Instead of using a pillow to mount, in an effort to grind over a body he’d be on top of, Timothée chewed his necklace and experimented with a position that would mean fully exposing himself into the realms of complete and utter vulnerability - a different kind to the sort he’d experienced, whilst bound and toyed with - a vulnerability that he’d still only allow one specific person to explore.
In this position, Tim realised he wanted to have sex with Armie.
Not a man, but Armie, Armie Hammer, his friend, his person in all of this - the person responsible for introducing him to this world, this cosmos, these experiences, this torture.
The person in charge, the person in control, the person who had conducted this change within himself.
Tim wanted to pull off his boxer shorts, he wanted to touch himself, he wanted to bring himself to pleasure, to feel it in his throat, to hide the noise by clasping his hand over his mouth, whilst that necklace hung from his lower lip …
But he was not allowed.
Tim dropped his body in a slump, face planting against the bed with a bounce.
Huff.
He rolled over, onto his back, and then returned his gaze to the ceiling, his tongue pushing the necklace out of his mouth, where his index finger and thumb held onto it, in consideration.
He swallowed down unease as he thought back to thirteen hours ago, when Armie had knelt behind him and kissed each of his cheeks in the middle of the living room - his hands slowly sliding up around his hips and waist, his lips brushing against areas untouched by a man, up until now.
The licks at the bottom of his spine, the breath felt against the betweens of his thighs …
Tim couldn’t help but smile.
After all the doubt, after the uncertainty, after not fully being able to conceive the growth happening between them both, Tim laid here wanting something he had no idea he wanted before stepping foot in this apartment.
Somewhere in Italy, this had all been make believe.
But now in Manhattan, in the warmth of Armie’s sun-filled apartment, fiction had become reality.
Knock knock.
Tim sat up quickly, his eyes shooting over at his bedroom door.
He’s here?
Right now?
Tim cleared his throat, in an attempt to fill his chest with confidence.
He spoke deeply, straightening his brow, tightening his lips.
“Come in.”
— click —
Tim’s bedroom door creaked open.
Armie stepped inside, dressed in the expected: a crisp, white figure hugging polo shirt, tucked into stone coloured chinos, with tanned loafers on his feet.
His hair had been slicked back, his skin practically glowed, and as he stood there in his crisp, fresh attire, he remained surprisingly silent.
Tim gathered some of the bed sheets around himself, shuffling to the left, where he expected Armie to climb in with him.
Armie stood still, with his hands behind his back.
Tim waited for a hug.
A peck on the cheek …
A high five, at least?
Tim dropped his shoulders, suddenly aware that the Armie he’d be dealing with today might not be the same Armie he dealt with last night.
“Morning,” Tim mumbled, picking at stray cotton poking out of the bed sheets, adjusting himself so he sat in the middle of the mattress, one of his feet tucked under himself, the other still cuffed to the corner of the bed.
Armie leant against the door frame, keeping his eyes on Tim.
“It’s the afternoon,” he stated.
Tim felt his jaw drop.
He twisted around, reaching out for his iPhone.
“Damn,” Tim’s eyes widened at the unexpected digits, “I’m, I’m sorry, I uh, I must’ve—“
Armie smiled, his white teeth almost blinding.
“Don’t apologise. I left you to it. It’s no surprise you needed the rest after Atlanta.”
Armie began his slow approach to the bed.
Tim stiffened his spine, sitting up straight, readying himself for Armie’s touch.
Instead, Armie reached olive hands over to Tim’s right ankle, lifting it by the rope attached to the strap.
He then carefully placed Tim’s foot on his lap.
“Meet me downstairs in thirty minutes,” Armie spoke politely, despite his request sounding more like an order, “Brush your teeth, but don’t shower. You’ll need to wash yourself after,” he then un-cuffed Tim’s ankle, dropping the restraint over the corner of the bed.
Armie returned Tim’s foot, standing quietly, folding his arms as he looked down at his ‘lee.
“This session is going to make you … Sweat,” he announced.
Tim pulled both feet towards himself, sitting in a cross legged position, his eyes shooting from left to right, before landing on Armie’s chest.
“But we, we haven’t even …”
Tim pressed his lips shut.
He nodded, just once, reminding himself that despite everything that had happened over the past few days - this set up, this agreement … Knismophillia … Would be at the core of everything.
Tickle Fest was over.
Miller’s gone.
Mr. Hammer’s back in control.
“Where, whereabouts downstairs?” Tim asked assuredly, leaning back on his hands casually.
Armie turned away from Tim, where he strolled silently across the carpet, back towards Tim’s bedroom door.
“The basement. I’m introducing you to your first Sub Zero session.”
Tim blinked.
His concerns, his reservations, his worries about all of the tools and devices and bondage he’d viewed last night were not given the chance to subside.
He would now be faced with an endurance test, within the very clinically white expanse of area four floors below that he’d just spent the past twenty minutes in bed thinking about.
Fuck, so soon.
Tim opened his mouth, his nerves getting the better of him, his dry, anxious voice about to ask,
‘Right now?’
But before he could speak, Armie turned around to face him.
“I want you naked, Timothée —”
Tim raised his eyebrows, his head dropping in an understanding nod.
“—And keep on the necklace,” Armie smirked, before leaving the room entirely.
***
Tim lifted his head away from the sink basin, swirling a mixture of water and toothpaste around the insides of his mouth before spitting it out.
He wiped his jaw, catching his reflection in the mirror inches opposite him.
For a moment he barely recognised himself.
Tim buried self doubt, squeezing his eyes shut as he slid his fingers through thick curls of hair, brushing back annoying spirals that refused to move from his eyesight.
Once suitably combed back, Tim bounced on his toes, on the spot, wiggling his fingers, preparing himself for the unknown…
… Just like he had done before stepping foot on stage at Tickle Fest, just like he had done every single time Armie had lead him into a session, just like he used to do before acting auditions…
Tim planted both feet firmly over tiles and then grabbed the waistband of his boxer shorts.
He yanked down his underwear, kicking it away from his body, standing straight and tall, eyeing his naked form in the mirror.
He tapped the screen of his iPhone, laid out beside a wet toothbrush.
It had been twenty seven minutes since Armie had asked for him to be in the basement, in thirty minutes time.
Tim pinched the bridge of his nose.
Why are you so nervous?
You’ve literally been strapped to a damn wheel and tickled …
Tormented ...
By several strangers, at once.
He can’t top that.
He won’t top the string.
What else can he physically come up with?
Tim felt his anxiety subside the more he reassured himself.
He left the bathroom, walked out of his bedroom and began to stride towards the staircase.
He paused before descending.
Standing so nude, he felt strange just galloping down with everything hanging between his thighs so casually.
So he took careful steps, hands confidently holding onto the banister.
Huffing and conscious of time he soon arrived at the lower floor, where he nudged open the basement door with his right big toe; and then he took careful steps over familiar feeling wooden stairs, until he felt the warmth of the basement.
Surrounding candle light lit his skin a faint yellow.
He tiptoed over stone and rope until he arrived behind Armie, who stood with his back facing Timothée.
He remained this way, whilst Tim stood still with his arms dangling by his sides.
Tim went to tap him on the shoulder but Armie turned around slowly before he could.
Tim awkwardly shuffled his hands behind his back.
Armie smirked, his eyes dropping down to Tim’s feet.
His gaze trailed up Tim’s legs.
Tim watched self consciously as Armie paused at his arousal,
Armie slid around Tim like a python, his movements gradual, his stare still focused on Tim’s collar bone, his Adams’ apple, his suprasternal notch…
As he stopped behind Tim, Tim closed his eyes.
He could smell his own sweat, a scent created by the thick humidity of the underground.
Armie’s right hand trailed around Tim’s chest, his fingers hooked Tim’s necklace over their length.
The silver chain dangled, glimmering in the candle light, as Armie’s breath pressed against the back of Tim’s shoulders.
Tim peered below, acknowledging the stiffening feeling between his hips.
Armie let the necklace drop back against Tim’s chest.
Tim clenched his teeth as Armie began to toy with his right nipple.
His thumb and index finger tweaked it, gently, before massaging it, softly.
As Tim’s nipple began to harden from Armie’s touch, Armie spoke into the skin of Tim’s neck in a caramel whisper.
“You’re breathing …” Armie paused, for dramatic effect, “… Heavily …”
Tim swallowed down a dry bubble, the muscles in his neck flexing as he did so.
He felt Armie move behind him, arriving at his other shoulder with the stealth of a snake, Armie’s slither invisible to the eye but very much present.
His coils wrapped around Tim’s body, tightening him into a restrictive hold, keeping him pinned to this space of ground, unable to budge or to consider escape.
“You’re probably nervous,” Armie commented, placing an index finger over Tim’s left nipple, a gentle rub hardening it from a fleshy pulp to a stiff pin.
Tim opened his eyes, his nipples now fully erect, his penis lifting in a gradual throb.
He tried not to breathe so hard, he tried to maintain a sense of control, he tried not to give away his vulnerability, his lack of knowing, his complete and utter uncertainty—
“— You should be,” Armie warned, his words leaving his mouth as slickly as a serpent's tongue.
Finally, Armie arrived back in front of Tim.
He held out his palm.
Tim lifted his hand, placing it comfortably in Armie’s.
Armie then took Tim back to the same gated lift they had walked through the night before.
He pressed the same button, shut the doors the same way and stood in the same corner.
He kept his hand around Tim’s as the elevator began its descent.
Armie shot curious eyes down to Tim’s erection.
Two weeks ago, the boy wouldn’t have even taken his clothes off around me.
Oh, how things have changed.
You have him.
Every single inch of him.
Armie’s eyes trailed away from Tim’s manhood where they arrived at his feet.
But today, I just want those.
Clank!
The elevator arrived at Sub Zero, the bright white lights of the underground level beaming through the gated doors.
Armie yanked them apart, allowing Tim to step out first.
Tim’s right foot returned to pristine clean, reflective floors, his naked body staring back at him from below.
The walls, once open and displaying Armie’s diverse collection of tickle toys and bondage apparatus, now presented themselves as plain white padded interiors.
The many devices and structures placed evenly throughout the giant room's space had been removed or stored elsewhere.
The intense square ceiling lights illuminated their bodies entirely, revealing all details of Tim’s skin, of Armie’s polo shirt … Every hair, mole, mark, every fibre under the brilliant spotlight of Sub-Zero’s clinical vault.
Tim’s eyes fell onto a large object in the middle of the room, mostly because it existed as one of the only objects in the middle of the room…
A shape, square in its form, around three foot high, hidden by a bright white sheet.
Beside it, a small metal stool.
Tim watched Armie make his way slowly towards the sheet, where he gathered up some of the material in his hands.
He then yanked the sheet away in one swift woooooshhhh!
Tim now stood before a large black wooden box.
On its top surface lay an open hole around eight inches wide.
At its front were four more holes; two around a metre apart from each other and then another two some inches below, around thirty centimetres apart from each other - divided by a steel square securing.
At its front edge, ten aluminium hoops had been nailed down.
A tiny metal crank had been nailed to the side.
Tim parted his legs, placing his right hand over his left wrist, asserting his posture.
All that went through Tim’s mind was;
… Whatthefuck-whatthefuck-whatthefuck-whatthefuck …
Armie slid his palms over the surface of the contraption, where his fingers reached a latch attached to the back.
He flicked it down, using both hands to then lift the surface of the wooden square, seemingly a lid in itself, off of the device, revealing a hollow inside.
Armie held the lid against his chest as he glanced over to Tim.
“Say hello to The Box,” he said, “Please, climb in.”
Tim felt his eyes blink one, twice, three times, four times …
He took a step forward, peering over the edge of The Box, where his eyes gazed inside.
The scent of dry wood invaded Tim’s nose.
Tim looked over at Armie.
“You, you want …” He thumbed his chest, “… Me, to get in this thing?”
Armie nodded.
“Sooner, rather than later, Lil’ Timmy-Tim. We’ve only got thirteen days left.”
Tim offered Armie a flat look, not appreciating his sarcasm.
He turned his attention back to The Box.
Get in.
You can do this.
You can do anything.
It’s just tickling.
It’s just tickling …
It’s just tickling, right?
Tim lifted his left leg over the left edge of the container, the sole of his foot planting down over the varnished-floored inside of The Box.
He then used his hands to hold onto the rim, pulling his right foot in also.
He then crouched down, his head resting at the same height as the top edges of The Box.
Armie laid the lid of The Box down on the shiny white floor.
He then curled his fingers around the metal crank.
“Place your hands and feet through the holes.”
Tim sat down on his behind, laying each wrist through the upper set of holes and each ankle through the lower set.
Armie twisted the crank once, twice, three times.
Tim felt his wrists and ankles be fastened in place, by an increasing pressure of leather.
Now his hands and feet, poking out of the front of The Box, could do nothing but simply be displayed, exposed to the Sub-Zero synthetic atmosphere, his fists clenching, his toes curling.
Armie took the lid and with the strength of his hands, he disconnected it in the middle with a click.
Tim jolted, the movement sudden, the click louder than he expected.
“Containment is the theme of this session,” Armie declared, “As you’re contained in The Box, that means you’ll have to contain some things of your own,” Armie placed the first half of the lid down over the front of Tim’s face, laying it flat.
Tim swallowed as the edges of the hole pressed against his throat.
Armie continued, laying down the second half of the lid behind Tim’s head.
“You will not be allowed to laugh, or beg, or shout - and, if you do, a further five minutes gets added onto the hour-long session.”
Tim’s mouth fell open as Armie slid the second half towards the first, where it connected together in a satisfying clack.
An hour?
Tim’s head twisted around, curls of hair resting on the lid, a lid now trapping Tim’s head in position as it poked out of the surface of The Box.
From Armie’s point of view, he had a tantalising sight - a large black box, with Tim’s head frantically turning out of its top, whilst both of his hands and feet poked out of the front.
“Ho, holy sh-shit …” Tim bit his upper lip in frustration, the inside of The Box getting warmer by the minute, his back already starting to ache …
He stretched out fingers and toes.
His exposed limbs felt scrutinised, on show, exhibited all for Armie to do as he pleased.
Armie folded his arms in delight.
“You are allowed to use your safe word. But only once. Choose not to use it, and you can use it twice during your next session. Don’t use it at all next time, and you can use it three times aft—“
“—I, I remember the rules,” Tim confirmed, his ankles twisting within the holes, a grunt escaping his mouth.
“Excellent,” Armie smiled, “Now, if you need a glass of water, please, just ask.”
Tim nodded, his chin bumping against the lid of The Box squashed up beneath his jaw.
“So, uh, just, just checking, this is, this is where you give me a head massage, right?”
Tim’s eyes followed Armie as he walked towards the right side wall, where his fingers brushed against a sensor.
A small width of wall slid upward, disappearing effortlessly into the ceiling, revealing a long square red velvet panel with an array of tools displayed on its surface.
Tim could make out feathers, string, an assortment of brushes, lubrication, a ball gag …
Armie’s body hid the rest as he turned to face Tim with a sadistic grin.
“No, Timothée. I’m going to make you lose your mind.”
Tim felt alarmed by Armie’s use of words.
There was no ‘I’m going to tickle you’, no ‘I’m going to push you over the edge’ …
But instead a ‘I’m going to make you lose your mind’ …
A threat; a sharp, penetrating warning that came from the same mouth that had kissed Tim so tenderly only fifteen hours ago.
Tim tried to pull his feet through the holes.
He shuffled within the confines of The Box, his head twisting from left to right.
As The Box creaked, containing ninety percent of Tim’s body within its insides, Armie took his first tool from the display.
He turned around and began to walk towards The Box, electric toothbrush in hand.
Tim’s eyes widened as he wiggled his feet in dire anticipation.
“No, not, not that, wait, we're starting? Yo, I can’t, can’t you, you begin with something less—“
Tim squeezed his eyes shut as Armie turned the electric toothbrush on.
Btzzzzzzz!
But, to his surprise, the spinning bristles didn’t arrive at the soles of his feet.
Instead, they arrived at his mouth.
“Phfftt!” Tim’s eyes snapped open as Armie began to run the toothbrush over his lips, “Fuck, no, s-seriously?”
Armie placed his other hand over the top of Tim’s head, keeping it in place, an easy task, considering Tim’s neck had been trapped within a small circular hole.
“We learned a lot about each other at Tickle Fest, didn’t we, Tim?” Armie dragged the toothbrush ever so lightly over Tim’s mouth and chin, up over his teeth, under his nose, “One of the things I learned is how ticklish your lips are…”
Tim sucked his lips in, he pressed them together, he blew raspberries and he pulled strange faces in an attempt to dodge the toothbrushes vibrating attacks.
He shook his head, tilting it as much as his Box bondage would allow, unable to escape the toothbrush Armie so expertly travelled over each of his lips in a constantly slow, repetitive motion.
Tim felt the hysteria begin.
It bubbled within him, as if cooked up by magic, and within seconds it had started to exit his body, via his throat, in the form of deep, heavy laughter.
“This is fucking —“ Tim took in a breath, his fingers scrunched up into claws, “—Insane! Fuck, this tickles so much, holy shit!” He stared into darkness, his eyes still squeezed shut, his face now growing red, bellows leaving his mouth.
Armie checked his watch whilst allowing the toothbrush to roll over Tim’s top lip.
“That’s five minutes added on already, and we’ve barely begun …” He smiled in satisfaction, “… Remember, no laughing, begging or shouting …”
Tim clenched his teeth, his head snapping from side to side, his face now littered by curls of hair.
“Can I … At least … Talk…?”
Armie considered Tim’s request, his hand taking the toothbrush away from Tim’s lips and down towards his neck.
Tim gasped, his eyes bulging white, his jaw stretching open, his head unable to move, unable to escape the fast spinning bristles.
“Yes, I’ll allow you to talk. I like chatting anyway,” Armie decided, as he ran the toothbrush up the side of Tim’s face where it invaded the insides of his left ear.
“Damnit, fuck!” Tim clamped his mouth shut, twisting his head to the left so quickly that his jaw against the surface of The Box, “Ow - shit!”
Armie chuckled, taking the toothbrush across Tim’s nose, towards his right ear.
“You’re not very good at this, are you, Timothée? That’s another five minutes…”
Tim curled his fists into balls.
“What? Fuck! You, you said, you said I could talk, th-that was talking!”
Armie lifted his shoulders in thought.
“Hmm,” he sent the toothbrush back down over Tim’s lips, “I’ll take that. Alright, five minutes removed.”
Btzzzzzzztzzzzzz …
Tim’s head wriggled in various directions, his hair now covering the majority of his face, as the toothbrush continued its tickle torture over his mouth, covering the hyper sensitive, swollen pink flesh that made up Tim’s lips.
He so desperately wanted to laugh, to expel the madness in his stomach, to beg Armie to stop, but this session’s rules wouldn’t allow it.
He could do nothing but thrash his head around and squeeze his eyes shut, his fingers wiggling, his feet flapping about, his legs and waist behind The Box’s walls bending and squirming.
A thin layer of sweat began to form under Tim’s nose.
Just when he thought he’d have to scream out a loud “STOP”, Armie switched off the electric toothbrush.
—click!
Tim exhaled a giant sigh.
His nostrils flared as he opened his eyes.
He rubbed his lips together, removing all remaining itchiness as Armie made his way back to the wall.
He glanced around, taking in the void of clinical nothing-ness around him, whilst also taking a moment to realise the restriction of his bondage.
“Uh, can, can you …” Tim blew upwards, in an attempt to remove curls from his face, “… Can you tidy this shit up?”
Armie ignored Tim for a moment, laying the toothbrush down over the surface of The Box, whilst getting up and heading back to the wall, where he browsed through his selection of tools, in the same manner he’d look through a smart selection of suits at a tailors.
“The next few weeks are going to be … Rather different, Timothée…”
Tim blew up again, his sight now blinded by hair.
“Oh?” … Pfft, pfft … “This is where you introduce your fetish for bugs?”
Tim gave up in a huff, the curls remaining over his face.
Armie turned away from the wall with a ball of black string in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other.
He approached The Box, throwing the ball lightly into the air, catching it just as casually.
“Formicophilia,” Armie announced, throwing the ball up once again, “A fetish for all insects,” he said, catching the ball in a firm grasp, “Best not to mention insects, when your body is contained within an empty box like that one, Tim …”
Tim narrowed his eyes at Armie as Armie sat down on the stool, pocketing the scissors.
“You wouldn’t…” Tim twisted his neck around as he eyed his surroundings, awaiting the arrival of thousands of bugs that Armie would no doubt pour through the gap around his neck, flooding the inside of the container he sat in with hundreds of thousands of ants, centipedes and crickets…
Armie sat staring at Tim with a smile, in silence.
“I wouldn’t…” keeping the ball of string in one hand, Armie reached towards Tim’s head and began to lift curls of hair away from his face, “… Bear with me, for a second, as I ‘tidy this shit up’…”
Tim scrunched up his face as Armie pulled an elastic band from out of his trouser pocket, tying Tim’s hair into a tiny ponytail at the back of his head.
Armie then actioned a sudden finger tickle under Tim’s jaw.
Tim jolted within The Box, opening his mouth, catching Armie’s finger with his chin, fully aware of the repercussions that would come by making a noise, by breaking the rules …
Armie chuckled, both hands now returning to the ball of string as he started to untwine it.
“You look cute, with your hair like that…”
Tim lifted his head upward as he watched Armie lengthen out the string.
“Man, come on, string? Really? After Miller and, and that fu—“
“— You’re being … Sassy, today, Timothée,” Armie interrupted, pausing with the string, his index finger pressing against the middle of the bottom of Tim’s right foot.
Tim tilted his head, keeping his eyes on Armie, the toes of his right foot curling into a tight scrunch.
“I’m …” Tim endured Armie’s finger, now dragging downward, “… I’m not, not allowed t-to be sassy?” Tim’s entire right foot jolted inward as Armie’s fingernail reached an exceptionally sensitive part of his heel.
Armie licked his lips, a twitch beneath his chinos reminding him of how utterly incredible it felt to treat Tim in this way.
“Fuck, I’ve missed this…” he sniffed in his demon, the creature that wanted to just jump right in and tickle both of Tim’s feet at the same time, with all ten fingers, non stop …
Armie wanted to answer Tim.
To say,
No, be as sassy as you want.
I like watching you get into trouble …
But that demon slipped out.
It took over Armie, possessing every cell of his skin.
Without warning, Armie dropped the ball of string and sent all ten fingers into Tim’s soles, scratching them over the silky soft ticklish expanse of both of Tim’s size 11’s.
Tim burst into uncontrollable hysterics, unable to contain his laughter, his face creasing into a distorted, blushed squash as his fingers flexed outwards, his hands trying to reach out to Armie’s hands in a desperate attempt to grab a hold of them.
Armie focused on the toes of Tim’s right foot whilst focusing on the arch of his left, keeping the tips of his fingers in their tickling position as Tim’s feet writhed under his touch.
In this epically large room, Tim’s howls echoed out into clinical nothingness, his bellows buckling into mad pleas.
“—Armie! Man, fuck! Okay, alright, alright, alr—“
Tim took in a breath, his shout booming out into Sub Zero, “— FUCK, STOP, MAN, STOP!”
Armie lifted his hands away from Tim’s feet, wiping some drool away from the corner of his mouth.
He picked up the ball of string whilst Tim caught his breath.
Armie assessed his watch.
“That was some strong laughter … And an even stronger beg…” he continued to unravel the ball of string, “… Fifteen minutes added on.”
Tim’s head dropped, only one curl of hair falling over his face, much to his relief.
“Wait, what,” he coughed into the surface of The Box, “S-Seriously? How, how d-do you expect me not to laugh, or, or react, when you do shit like that?”
Armie, with caution, pressed his fingertips against the toes of Tim’s left foot, knowing how ticklish they are.
“That’s the whole idea of the challenge … Keep up, kid.”
Tim strained his head upwards, wanting to gain a better view of what was taking place on the other side of The Box.
“Now who’s being sassy …” Tim commented, with a grainy croak to his voice.
Armie then began to tie Tim’s toes back to the metal loops nailed to The Box’s edge.
As the string slid around his big toe, Tim winced, the hypersensitivity of the betweens invaded once again by a thin length that Miller had used to break him only a few days ago.
“Ff-ffffffff —“ Tim closed his mouth, wanting to groan the word ‘fuck’, giggles only inches close from leaving his lips.
Instead, he grinned, eyeing Armie playfully, as Armie looped string around Tim’s index toe.
“Do you mind …” Tim widened his eyes, clenching his teeth, “… Being careful a-a-as you do that?”
Keep talking, thought Tim.
It’s my release, it’s how I’m gonna get through this.
Armie took the string towards the toes of Tim’s left foot, now that all of Tim’s right toes were pinned back successfully.
“You look insane, Tim. You sound nuts.”
Tim wanted to shout.
He readied the volume, but the bulging veins in the sides of his neck and head kept it contained.
“Well it fucking tickles, man —“ Tim growled, his toes curling around the string that Armie used to bind the squirming, fleshy lengths back, his body jolting in The Box so hard that the entire thing shifted an inch to the right, his mind unable to cope with the feeling of the string gliding between each ticklish digit, “Get, get the fuck outta there, man, come on!"
Armie pulled the scissors out of his back pocket, cutting the string once the last of Tim’s toes had been knotted.
“Another five minutes,” Armie said.
Tim cursed under his breath, muttering, “… This is gonna fucking suck …” as he tried to shift his feet, but now, thanks to Armie and his techniques, they poked out of each ankle hole of The Box, completely and utterly restricted, Tim’s long toes splayed out, stiff and tethered.
Armie stood from the stool, testing the toe-ties strength by fingering both of Tim’s heels at the same time.
“You’re struggling to contain your reactions, Tim. Because of that, you now have well over an hour to go. All I can say is, get used to it … You’re going to be in there for quite some time.”
Tim’s feet twisted and writhed, the string keeping them in a rigid position.
He held air in his cheeks, forming them into giant balls, as he crossed his eyes down to the tip of his nose in focus.
As Armie walked back to the wall, Tim released the air out in a long, flustered blow.
“Pffffftttttttttt…!”
He congratulated himself internally as he endured a foot tickling without laughing or pleading for it to end.
Armie browsed over the rest of his tools with a smirk over his face.
He chuckled, thinking back to Tim’s remark.
“Insect fetish …” his eyes landed on a large hair brush and an unopened bottle of baby oil, “… Now, that would be amusing.”
Tim’s toes wiggled within their bonds, stretching and flexing in an attempt to gain more comfort.
He clawed out his fingers, reaching each one out to see if he could touch his feet.
His limbs had been perfectly secured in place so that, no matter how hard he tried, he could not protect himself.
Armie turned away from the wall with the hairbrush and baby oil in hand.
“Now, this is where everything levels up. This is where the next two weeks will be, yes, different, like I mentioned, but, more importantly than that, this is where the surprises come in…”
Tim’s eyes widened at the sight of the tools in Armie’s hands.
He held the baby oil in the right, the hairbrush in the left.
Like some laid back cowboy, Armie approached The Box, holding the tools like they were revolvers.
There might as well have been a clink to his boots, a wooden door squeaking shut behind him in a dusty swing.
Tim watched the hairbrush as if it were lethal.
He shook his head, whispering “… Ahh man …” to himself as Armie sat back down on the stool.
The hairbrush had, on countless occasions, sent Tim over the edge.
It existed as one of three individual tools that he just couldn’t handle - and to his bewilderment, he felt concerned that Armie had bought it out so soon.
Armie laid the brush over the surface of The Box, so that it faced Tim, mere inches away from his head.
He then uncapped the bottle of baby oil and began to drizzle it over the palm of his own right hand.
“In the remaining days of our agreement, you’ll find yourself in situations you might not expect to find yourself in,” Armie began to apply the baby oil to the sole of Tim’s right foot, his palm landing on Tim’s skin, his fingers scratching the liquid into Tim’s arch.
Tim sucked in air through the betweens of his teeth, glaring at Armie’s application with an angered ferocity.
“Man, fuck — st—“
He made sure not to say the word ‘stop’ - he couldn’t afford another five minutes to be added on to an already gruelling hour and a half …
Armie smiled, admiring Tim’s efforts, as he tickled the liquid into the lengths of Tim’s five toes.
Tim faced the brightness of the ceiling, his face bulging beetroot, sweat now forming at the sides of his head.
He held his breath, he allowed the white lights to burn his eyes, he focused on the dryness — anything to distract him from Armie’s fingers, now sliding down the sole of his left foot, where he continued to apply the slippery, oily liquid.
“I’ll be experimenting with you in ways you never thought possible …” Armie spoke quietly, slowly, enjoying every second of his explanation, whilst eyeing Tim’s writhing left foot, “I’ll be pushing you further than you’ve ever been pushed before. Like I said…”
Armie took his glance away from Tim’s now baby oil drenched feet, over to his face, a face now tainted with droplets of sweat, a face trying its hardest not to explode, not to scream, or laugh, or beg.
“… I have some very special things planned for you, Tim ...” Armie whispered, leaning down, his lips brushing against the tips of Tim’s left toes, “… Some of it's gonna hurt …” he then began to suck on Tim’s Index Toe, whilst tickling his left sole with the fingers of his right hand.
Tim focused on Armie’s mouth, the way his lips took the toe in all at once, the way his jaw moved as he rolled his tongue around the plump end of his toe …
Focusing on something specific helped him move past the viscerally unreal ticklish sensation taking place at the other side of The Box.
“Ffff-fffff…” Tim felt like his cheeks, his forehead, his eyes were all on fire.
Containing this amount of hysteria, without releasing it in the form of pleas or cries - it felt unnaturally testing, borderline deranged - only something that Armie would think up.
Talking helped the most.
Fuck, it’s the only thing I’m allowed!
“Why … Do y-you want …” Tim heaved out relief, as soon as Armie’s fingers left his foot, as soon as Armie’s mouth slipped away from his Index Toe, “… Why do you want to h-hurt me?”
Armie licked his lips clean of baby oil.
He looked down at the hairbrush, taking in its shape, it’s innocent existence - made to comb hair for everyone else, but for Armie - its use was far more different.
“That’s a good question,” Armie closed his eyes, acknowledging the thoughts that flowed through his calm mind, taking them in and then releasing them when he didn’t agree with ones that didn’t feel right to verbalise.
He straightened his back, his hand returning to Tim’s body, this time not to his feet, but instead his right hand.
Armie had to force Tim’s fingers out of a balled-fist position, where he then held onto both of Tim’s hands, massaging them firmly.
“It’s not about making you suffer, Timothée,” Armie pursed his lips, his eyes on Tim’s left palm as he rubbed it’s middle with his fingers, “It’s … It’s just another way to, to witness you hitting that, that moment, that point of no return, that … Oblivion.”
His hands slid away from Tim’s, leaving them stuck within their holes, dangling helplessly.
“I … I don’t remember pain being in the contract,” Tim spoke carefully, aware of the fact that no matter how much he didn’t agree with something, he still sat trapped inside a wooden box, helpless and at someone's mercy, “I’m, I’m not sure if that’s something I …”
Armie swiftly placed an index finger over Tim’s lips.
Tim blinked, silenced, whilst trapped.
“The contract stated ‘there will be some surprises’ …” Armie warned, “… That’s one of them.”
His index finger left Tim’s lips as Tim lowered his head.
He had gotten too used to the taste of baby oil just as much as he had gotten used to the taste of defeat.
He nodded, mostly to himself, agreeing with his inner identity that he would take on the challenge, the ‘pain’ Armie described - he would lean into it, just like he did with the stocks and with Miller and with Tickle Fest and with the party and everything else that had been thrown his way…
Just like he would with this session, and the hairbrush laying inches away from his face.
A hairbrush that now lifted away, landing in Armie’s right hand.
Armie could see the fear in Tim’s eyes, the dread that saturated his face.
He grinned, white teeth matching the brightness of the room around him.
“What is it, about this piece of … Plastic … That makes you look as worried as you do right now, Timothée?”
Tim shuffled his body within the insides of The Box.
He knew that his answer would turn Armie on, he knew that anything he said would satisfy him in ways that Tim didn’t quite understand.
Before replying, Tim needed to consider if Armie deserved a well structured, detailed answer.
The Armie last night one hundred and fifty percent does, Tim thought.
But this Armie, this torturer, this version …
This creep …
Does he deserve anything from me?
Tim wondered if adding fuel to the fire would make Armie push him further.
He wondered if he could take that, like this, bound this way, not allowed to react, forced to hold in such large amounts of energy…
“It’s the worst,” Tim said, in a deep growl, “It fucking drives me … Wild … Is that what you wanna hear?”
Armie wasn’t stupid.
He smiled flatly, running his fingers over the handle of the hairbrush, stroking it as if it were a pet.
“You can do better than that, Timmy.”
Tim lifted his head in alarm as Armie angled the hairbrush so that it faced the sole of Tim’s right foot.
“No, wait, okay, alright, alright!” Tim cleared his throat, shaking curls of hair away from his eyes, “I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you, I’ll tell —“
—Armie still pressed the brush over Tim’s sole, despite Tim’s panic, however he didn’t move it any further.
Tim tried to clench his toes shut but —
— That damn string!
“Go on…” Armie growled.
Tim spat his answer out quickly, speaking fast, revealing his reply all in one maddened breath.
“It’s, it’s the bristles, the, the individual plastic … Things … The, the way you glide it over, over my, my feet, non fucking stop with the damn oil which, which makes it slippery and fucking, god damn awful alright?” He breathed in air, flaring his nostrils, looking up at Armie for reassurance, his facial expression asking—
—Will that do?
“Hm. Now, that’s tempted me to use two at once … ” Armie considered, his eyes darting from left to right, “But, I don’t want to piss you off … After all, I can’t imagine, in a situation like that, you being unable to not beg, which means … We might end up being here all day…”
Armie stood up.
“No—” Disbelief flooded Tim, “—Come, come on, man, Armie, fuck, d—“ He closed his mouth, holding himself off from saying ‘don’t, please don’t’, like his brain wanted him to do.
Armie strolled back to the wall where he picked up his second favourite hair brush.
“You’re lucky I don’t count ‘no’ and ‘come on’ as a form of begging. Otherwise I would’ve just added another five or ten minutes on…”
Tim cursed a whispered, “Damnit …” into the wooden surface of The Box, his explanation of how much he hated the brush turning on Armie so much that he had felt the overwhelming need to grab a second.
Armie returned to the stool, sitting down casually.
“You only have yourself to blame, kid.”
Without hesitating, he pressed both brushes against each foot, creating a violent jolt from Tim.
Then, he began their glide.
By now, Armie knew that the best way to break Tim was to slide the brushes from left to right, instead of up and down - and always over either the arches of his feet, or the pads of his toes - both spots would end up driving him berserk.
So, to ensure Tim would be transformed from flustered, sweaty mess - into dribbling, uncertain insanity - Armie used the left brush to focus on the arch of Tim’s left foot, and the right brush to focus on the toes of Tim’s right foot.
Left to right, left to right, left to right …
Tim heaved out a single laugh, physically unable to keep it in - it left his throat in a thick, heavy huff, his neck bulging, his eyes ready to burst out of his skull.
Armie kept all of Tim’s ‘moments’ to himself - he’d count them up and reveal how much he’d failed once the brushes moment in the spotlight were over.
Tim pressed his chin down on the surface of The Box, forcing its weight into the wood - he flexed his fingers out into thin air, his eyes watering so much that his vision had now become blurred.
His feet twisted and scrunched, they pulled in and they pulled back, the string connecting his toes to The Box stretching with the strength of Tim’s writhing soles.
In Tim’s mind, all he could hear was his own voice, a voice that screamed —
“—NO, FUCK THIS, FUCKING STOP, PLEASE, PLEASE STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP—“
But on the exterior, Tim’s head shook and vibrated, his face presented a thick layer of sweat, his cheeks burned red, his mouth remained tightly shut, his curls of hair dangled over his wide open eyes …
“Do it, Timmy,” Armie teased, “Go on … Beg, beg me to stop. I know you want to…”
Left to right, left to right, left to right …
Delusion blanketed Tim’s decision making.
He thought, if he could reach his fingers out far enough, he’d be able to grab the brush and stop all of this.
But they didn’t even make it to his own ankles.
“Maybe I'll stop,” Armie pressed, “If you ask me to…”
Tim didn’t fall for it.
He glared up at the ceiling, enduring the hyper explosive ticklishness, his breath leaving his mouth in steady, aggressive puffs.
He couldn’t afford to risk pleading, even if it did make Armie stop, for just a second - because Armie might add another five minutes on…
So he kept his mouth shut.
He endured the tickling, the boiling heat inside The Box, a heat that had now made his pits release so much sweat that Tim had to also deal with the trickle of body fluids non-stop down his sides.
His thighs, his legs, his strained stomach, his arms, all of his body parts inside the wooden container were soaked with humidity, a feeling that felt torturous in itself, on top of the torment taking place repeatedly, from left to right, left to right, over the soles of his feet.
Tim started to make attempted conversation, a way that he had discovered helped him get through this entire ordeal.
“When d-did you …” Tim asked his question through gritted teeth, “… Discover y-you were…” He took in a breath, so very close to expelling a large bellow of laughter, “… You w-were like this?”
Armie wanted to stop the brush's glide to take time to think about his answer, but that would provide Tim with some relief, something he didn’t want to do now that he had created so much sweat over the top of Tim’s lip.
So he continued, taking huge pleasure in just how smoothly the brushes bristles travelled over the silky soft expanse of each of Tim’s soles, soles that were practically made to be tickled this way.
Armie smiled at Tim’s question.
A question that felt like it had to be asked, not only because talking was the only way Tim could release the mania bubbling internally but because Tim simply had to know why.
Why was this happening to him, why had he been made to feel this way, why feet, why tickling, why torture, a justification, a reason, anything to explain it —
In the core moment of Tim’s tickle torment, his own mind had reached a point where it just needed to know —
— Why are you like this?
Armie didn’t need to think too much about his answer.
The logic behind his behaviour, his personality, his entire being in this present space of time was actually quite simple.
“I saw a video online of a young man being tortured by tickling when I was thirteen years old,” Armie spoke calmly, confident in himself, assured in his own psyche, “I’ve never been the same since.”
And that was that.
Tim had his answer.
He also had no release.
No break.
No relief.
He couldn’t ask much more - Armie had covered everything in less than thirty words.
Tim knew he’d have to start shouting soon.
He’d have to explode into hysterics at any moment.
The ‘STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP’ running circles in his mind would soon make its way out of his brain, through the muscles of his jaw, and out of his mouth.
He didn’t want to do it.
He wanted, so badly, to store them up, like he used to, when all of this started.
You were getting so good at this.
You haven’t got a choice.
Fuck, this is so fucking ticklish—
— Those damn brushes, man!
Fuck, anything but this —
—Man, he needs to fucking stop!
How can it feel this bad?
Fuck, I’m gonna pass out.
I can’t breathe.
“I can’t breathe—“
Armie continued.
“Arm, Armie … I, I,” … pant, pant … “I can, can’t br—-“
Armie continued, “You can breathe, Tim. If you’re talking, you’re breathing.”
Tim sucked in air, stretching his neck out of the lid’s hole, his face glaring up at Sub Zero’s ceiling.
“NEW YORK, NEW YORK, NEW YORK, NEW--”
--Armie slid the brushes off of Tim’s heels and held them up in the air, his arms buzzing in a throbbing ache.
Both young men sat breathless in their own unique positions.
Tim’s body dropped within the interior of The Box, his limbs so used to stiffening up in a fixed focus.
He coughed and spluttered, beyond happy that the brush had now left his soles, but still uncomfortable and teasingly tormented by the rolls of sweat still tickling down each of his sides as droplets left his armpits.
“I… I… “ Tim tried to compartmentalise his thoughts so that he could form words to speak, “… I’m so, so hot … It’s so h-hot, in this damn, this damn th … th …”
Armie stood, placing both brushes down on the surface of The Box, besides the electric toothbrush, where he took his hands in an almighty clap, applauding Tim’s endurance.
“Not one bellow of laughter, not one giggle, not one beg … And, therefore, no additional time added on…”
He turned away from Tim and made his way back to the wall, checking his watch, “… One hour and six minutes to go.”
Tim twisted his head in confusion, his fingers wiggling, his toes squirming.
“What, no, wait — it’s, it’s been forty, forty five minutes at least, man, Armie, wait—“
Armie returned to the stool with two large seagull feathers.
“Your mind has lost track of time, Timmy - it happens …”
Tim eyed the feathers with a frown, “No, no, fuck … Armie, it’s, it’s been so long, too long, you’re, you’re joking …”
Armie shook his head, dragging the feather between his own fingers.
“You think I’m the sort of person who’d lose track of time, Tim?”
Tim caught his breath, the safe word allowing him time to gather himself.
“It’s been way longer than you’re making out, I, I just know it …”
Armie arched his eyebrows.
“I wouldn’t do that to you, Tim. You really are losing your mind…” he then began to draw circles over each of Tim’s arches, with the nib of each feather, “… Just like I’d planned.”
Tim winced - now forced to endure the second of three unbearable methods he just couldn’t handle.
Round and round, round and round, round and round …
“Fuck, damnit,” Tim couldn’t help but let spit foam at the corners of his mouth, “It’s been forty minutes, I swear to God!”
Armie tutted, continuing the nibs torture.
“Okay —“ Armie chuckled as Tim began to jump around, inside The Box, clearly unable to take the force of the nib being dragged, repeatedly, over such a soft, sensitive part of his body, “—How long were you in the Tickle Chair, with Miller, when he broke you?”
Tim’s face scrunched into a creased display of agony.
“Wh-what? Why, why are you—“ He bit his lip, a loud ‘PLEASE STOP’ held successfully in the depths of his throat, “Like, two, two hours, maybe, maybe m-more?”
Armie flashed a smile, shaking his head in amusement.
“Two hours? Tim, you were there for forty five minutes … Fifteen minutes shorter than he booked you in for …”
Tim curled his fists into balls.
“No, no way — this isn’t cool, man! This isn’t right!”
Don’t beg, don’t beg, don’t beg, don’t beg, don’t beg, don’t beg …
— STOP, FUCKING STOP, COME ON, PLEASE, IT’S TOO MUCH, USE SOMETHING ELSE —
“Mnn-nnn…” Tim bit his upper lip, his eyes watching the feathers in supreme, contained rage.
“This will kill you, Tim. Just beg, honestly. I’ll stop, if you beg me … Go on, I want to hear you say it … ‘Stop tickling my feet’ … And, and I’ll consider …”
Tim’s eyes flickered up at Armie, where they punished him with a vexing stare.
This wasn’t just physical torture, it was mental too.
It was heavy and weighing, manipulative and crushing, distracting and overwhelming, all at once.
And then there was the tickling, the nibs, the constant draw of lines over the silky expanse of his soles.
Why did you have to be this damn ticklish?
Sweat now covered Tim’s entire body.
His skin inside The Box lay soaked - puddles had started to form around him.
Droplets tickled his sides and ribs, constantly leaving the warm centre of his pits.
His head looked like someone had thrown a bucket of water over it.
His skin had grown blotchy and red, his knuckles burned white from his fists curling so tightly together, his soles felt so sensitive and raw, his toes bound so tightly that he thought they might break—
“—Can you,” … pant, pant … “Can you at, a-at least untie my, my d-damn to-toes …” Tim grumbled, his face wrenching into an expression of complete distress, “… It’s s-starting to h-hurt …”
Armie continued, unapologetically disallowing Tim relief by removing his toe attachments.
He wanted Tim in that moment of stupor, that moment of maddened hysteria, and he had him close - minutes, if not seconds from breaking - but not there just yet.
“Ho-ow do y-you …” Tim endured the trickle of sweat now hanging over his eyelashes, “… Ch-ch-change so … “ … pant, pant … “… Fast…?”
Armie sent the nibs down to Tim’s heels causing Tim to shape his mouth in an ‘O’, his feet twitching from left to right.
“You … Seem to think I’m two people, kid. The one who is kind and affectionate, and the one who does things like this to you …” the nibs dragged and dragged and circled and circled, “… I’m the same person, always.”
Tim shook his head, almost letting out a loud burst of laughter.
“You’re not!” He cried, “You’re, you’re TWO fucking different, god damn people!”
Armie sent the nibs suddenly up where they travelled over Tim’s arches.
“DAMMIT—“ Tim shouted.
Armie smirked.
“Five more minutes …”
Tim bit his lower lip.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This isn’t going to end.
I can’t keep my mouth shut.
I’m gonna explode.
“Are y-y-y-you …” Tim displayed a manic grin, teeth clamped together, his eyes now entirely bloodshot, “… Are you g-g-gonna keep me here all d-day?”
Armie tilted his head in thought, “Well, judging by how things are going so far, all night too, it seems.”
Tim couldn’t hold back a pained, “NO, NO, NO!” As it left his throat in a grainy roar.
Armie took the nibs to Tim’s toes, exploring their lengths with the sharpness of the feather’s end.
“Huh… Another five more minutes …”
Tim swore under his breath, “… Bastard …” before looking at Armie in complete desolation.
Armie acknowledged Tim’s expression, his agonising display.
In an effort to prove that he was one person, that he didn’t have two personalities, that there wasn’t an Angel or a Devil residing beneath his skin at any given time, Armie decided to help Timothée out.
“Breathe through it, kid … Calm down and breathe through it …”
Tim sucked his lips inwards, his nose expelling a tuft of air, bringing mucus out along with it.
“— I c-can’t …”
Armie continued to drag the nibs, this time focusing on the base of each of Tim’s Index Toe’s…
Tim’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, his fingers mangled into distorted, crooked lengths.
“… Yes you can …” Armie urged, “… Look at me, kid. Look at my mouth …”
Tim shot glazed over eyes to Armie’s lips.
“… Breathe in …” Armie spoke slowly, so Tim could understand him.
Tim gasped in a breath as the nibs made their way towards each arch.
“… Hold it …” Armie directed.
Tim kept his breath in the boiling, muscular flesh of his neck.
“… And then, breathe out …” Armie smiled.
Tim exhaled, expelling a long, startled chuckle that he contained by biting his lips, as soon as the chuckle neared its exit.
Armie wanted to add on another five minutes, but he held off.
Tim watched Armie make his decision, acknowledging relief despite the gruelling rotation of sharp feather quills now tormenting the pads of each of his big toes.
Tim hissed inwards, as if being stung by a bee.
“No, w-wait …” He narrowed his eyes in exasperated wrath, a fury bubbling out of his mouth as Armie discovered a brand new ticklish spot on Tim’s body, “… That, that’s fucking … F-fucking intense man, f-fuck …”
Armie continued to draw circles over the fleshy bottoms of Tim’s big toes.
“Another area for me to explore, another part of you for me to use, to get you where I want you …”
As Tim boiled alive inside The Box, he couldn’t help but keep his eyes on the feather nibs pressing in a dragged, exhausting rotation, over each of his big toes - if he looked at it, if he urged it to end, maybe, just maybe it would stop.
“That, that’s too fucking ticklish, man, fuck, my, my toes, damn …”
Armie took in another breath.
“Remember to breathe, Timmy … Stay calm …”
Tim snapped, his impatient exterior all caught within the flustered head poking out of the lid of The Box.
“I fucking can’t! It’s too fucking much!”
Armie explored the sides of each of Tim’s big toes, violating their overly sensitive landscape, driving Tim further into madness.
“Why can’t you, Tim…?” Armie knew he’d be pushing it, by asking that question.
Tim burst into a panting mess, expelling what were technically laughs hidden by breathless blows, gasps and puffs.
“Bec, Because you’re …” Tim’s hair now hung drenched over his face, “… Becauseyourticklingmyfuckingtoesyoufuckingasshole!” He cried, all in one breath.
Armie continued his focus on each of Tim’s big toes.
He could see, once again, the word ‘New York’ forming in the middle of Tim’s lips.
He wanted him to use his safe word, to scream it for a second time, out into the clinical abyss of Sub Zero …
… But, he also wanted to make him say it, by using a more unexpected form of torture.
So Armie stopped.
He took the nibs away from Tim’s big toes, where the feathers joined the hairbrushes and the toothbrush and the baby oil, all laid out neatly around Tim’s head, surrounding him in an intimidating circle.
Armie stood, approaching Tim’s face, tightening the hair band at the back of his head.
Tim heaved out held in breath, filling his lungs with oxygen, twisting his body inside The Box as more sweat tickled down his sides, over his stomach, down the lengthy line of his spine.
“Arm, Armie … It’s, it’s too, too hot, in here, I, I can’t, I can’t …”
Armie turned away from Tim, approaching the wall for one last time.
“Heat isn’t the only thing in there, Tim …”
Tim’s mouth fell open as panic masked his drained expression.
“W-What…?”
Armie took a tiny black remote from a little metal stand, at the bottom of the open display.
He walked back to his stool and took a seat once again.
Tim eyed the remote with frantic, twitching eyes.
“Arm, Armie, what, wait, what are you—“
Armie picked the hairbrush back up.
“No, wait, Armie …”
He pressed it against the sole of Tim’s right foot …
“… Armie, no, NO!”
He began to rub, whilst pressing a button in the middle of the remote.
Tim gasped in warm air as his foot endured another attack from the brushes bristles, all whilst his body, trapped inside The Box, felt the beginnings of twirling feathers.
They spun at a rapid rate, an unknown number of them, from inside The Box …
Tim felt them first around each of his underarms … A spinning feather, constantly brushing against his sweat stained pits …
Then he felt several twirling around his chest and stomach …
“Fuck, Armie, no! No! What the fuck, what the fuck—”
And then a constant, fast paced twirl of feathers around his balls, between his thighs …
… Exploring the delicate area that made up his taint.
Tim began to jolt around in The Box, his feet now tortured by two brushes, as Armie laid the remote on the container’s lid and used both hands to hold his tools, whilst his body endured tickle torture within the four walls that made up this Hellish contraption.
How is this possible?
Is this a nightmare?
I need to wake the fuck up!
Tim gave in all or any remaining attempt to keep his laughter, his cries, the begging contained within his throat.
He expelled it with joy and pure, uncontrollable allowance.
First came the insane laughter.
It bellowed out of him like music, deep and tuned, gravelled and rough, squeaky and sharp, heavy and long - joined in each breath by an intake of air or a delirious giggle.
And between each roll of lunacy, the pleading.
“—PLEASE, PLEASE, ARMIE, GOD, MAN, FUCK—“ pant, pant, heave, heave — “FUCK STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP—“ pant, pant, heave, heave — “I CAN’T TAKE THIS IT’S TOO MUCH FUCK, FUCK, STOP, STOP—“
Tim’s cries echoed throughout Sub Zero.
They travelled up the elevator shaft, through the basement, into Armie’s apartment…
Tickled, by over a dozen feathers, on all areas of his body, within the warm confines of a claustrophobic, wooden vessel, his soles infiltrated by two brushes, at the same time.
The laughter, the shouting, the begs, they added on five, ten, fifteen, thirty, forty, forty five, fifty, sixty, seventy minutes …
Tim didn’t give a damn.
He couldn’t keep this in.
He’s only human, thought Armie.
Tim’s left little toe broke free from its tie, due to Tim’s feet squirming around so much - this at least allowed Tim more wriggle room, even if it were only some inches.
The whizzing noises of the feathers, Tim’s released mania, Armie’s grunts and groans as he rubbed the brushes from left to right, it all became a constant static of sound that existed as their atmosphere within this brightly lit, modern dungeon.
Armie persisted in his push, his force towards oblivion, until he witnessed Tim finally arrive at its centre.
“—THAT’S ENOUGH THAT’S ENOUGH—“ Tim cried, “—IT’S NOT FUNNY ANYMORE, MAN, FUCK! YOU CAN’T JUST, JUST FUCKING DO THIS TO ME OH GA-AHAHAHAAAAD—“
He had refused to play ball - he had no interest in keeping his delirium to himself, in the hope it would no longer add five more minutes onto this already mind blowing session.
The erratic frenzy had consumed Tim like a python taking a mouse, like a demon possessing a young body …
He just endured, existing as a sweat drenched shape with only one meaning - to survive this.
‘This’, this moment that went on for a further fifteen minutes…
Tim now moved so violently within The Box that the tools once laid out on its surface had been shaken off, where they landed on Sub Zero's shining floor.
The baby oil spilled, the brushes landed with a clank, the toothbrush’s end popped out batteries …
… And then Tim spluttered in a way that caught Armie’s attention.
“—FUCK, FUCK ARMIE STOP, I’M, I’M HYPERVENTILATING—“
Armie shot eyes to Tim’s throat, which now looked swollen and caught.
He began to cough inwards, which was never a good sign.
He had lost his breath, unable to catch it for more than a second.
Armie had driven Tim so far into tickled irrationality that he had nothing else to give - even his own oxygen levels had run short.
Tim’s face blew purple, his fingers flexed in panic—
— Armie reached for the remote, switching off the feathers.
They spun to a gradual stop, still brushing slowly against some of the most sensitive areas of Tim’s body, causing him to squirm and writhe within the container’s insides.
Armie took the brushes away from Tim’s soles, wiping sweat from his own forehead.
He dropped them to the shimmering, baby oil soaked reflective floor and then knelt down in front of The Box, facing Tim directly.
He placed both of his hands around the sides of Tim’s head, fixing his eyes into Tim’s maddened glare.
“Timmy, breathe in—“ Armie took in a gasp, nodding Tim into understanding, “— Listen to me, breathe in …”
Tim inhaled, his widened gaze watching Armie’s mouth move.
“… Breathe out,” Armie blew a cool breath over Tim’s boiling face.
Tim closed his eyes, taking light relief over the soft air landing against his wet cheeks.
Armie cleared Tim’s vision of hair and then used his thumbs to wipe sweat away from Tim’s eyelashes, the top of his lip, his forehead …
“Is … Is it… O… Over…?” Tim managed.
Armie smiled, smoothing his palms over the top of Tim’s head, bringing them down around his jaw.
“No,” Armie replied.
Tim’s entire expression collapsed into overwhelming shock.
“Wha, wha, what …— wait, I, I, I …”
Armie kept his hands on Tim’s head.
“You begged, and laughed, repeatedly. I counted over thirty times you said the word ‘stop’, at least …” Armie caught a tear on the side of his hand as it left Tim’s right eye, “… What is thirty times five, Tim?”
Tim stared blankly at Armie, his fists clenching into an angered shake.
“One … One hundred … And fifty …” Tim moaned.
Armie nodded.
“One hundred and fifty minutes … So that’s another two hours, minimum …”
Tim began to shake his head.
Soon, it shook so hard that Armie became aware that Tim was now just trying to pull his face away from Armie’s grasp.
Armie stood, his small smile splaying into a grin, his light giggle transforming into a whole hearted chuckle.
Tim looked up at Armie in distress.
“No ... No ... This, this isn’t funny, man, come … Come on, let me, let me go, man, this isn’t cool, this isn’t right …”
Armie held back laughter with the back of his hand.
“… Of course I’m letting you go. What do you think I am? A psychopath?”
He knelt down and began to untie the string binding Tim’s toes.
Tim sighed heavily, still not buying Armie’s mercy.
“Se-seriously …? It’s, it’s over? Even though I, I, I broke the …”
Tim curled his right toes as all five were released.
“Don’t tempt me, kid …” Armie began to untie the toes of Tim’s left foot, “… You’ve had enough. I’m a monster, but … I also care about you.”
Tim rested his chin over the lid of The Box as Armie began to move away the baby oil, the hair brushes, the feathers …
He placed them neatly back inside the wall, waving his hand over the sensor, where Tim then watched the torture apparatus disappear as the white wall covering slid back over the display.
It closed with a gentle click, announcing the end of the session.
Armie sat back down on the stool, taking Tim’s right foot in his hand, where he began to massage it firmly.
“Better?” He asked.
Tim flexed the toes of his left foot, stretching out their ache.
“If, if I’m honest, I don’t need the, th-the massage … I just need to get the fuck out of this thing.”
Armie nodded with an understanding smile.
He let go of Tim’s foot, stood and began to detach the areas of The Box that connected together.
First, the lid - this came off smoothly, leaving Tim’s hands and feet still attached to the holes at the front.
Tim immediately looked down, assessing the insides of The Box, where he clocked several tiny silver sticks that had protruded mechanically from various areas of its interior.
Attached to each stick were eight feathers, feathers that, thanks to Armie’s remote, had spun viciously against ticklish areas of Tim’s body.
Armie acknowledged the amount of sweat coating Tim’s frame.
He may as well have been sitting in a tank of water.
“Let’s get you showered,” Armie then pulled at the crank, loosening the holes containing Tim's wrists and ankles.
Tim pulled them back towards himself as Armie held onto his hands and helped him get to his feet.
Tim, wobbly at first, found strength in his calves as he stepped away from the container that had held him for the best part of an hour.
Tim went to stagger towards the elevator, but Armie spun him back.
He held onto both of his arms, in a tight, passionate grip.
Tim, startled and now lifted to his tip toes, felt his eyes be drawn directly towards Armie’s.
Armie looked into Tim with a lusting glare, a glare that said, ‘I’ve been waiting all day to do this, to say this, to mean this’ …
“You could ruin my life, Timothée. And I’d let you.”
Armie pressed his lips against Tim’s, taking him in an aggressively salacious embrace.
Tim collapsed into Armie’s chest, his mouth attached to Armie’s jaw, his breath, his air, his soul reinvigorated by the reminder that Armie cared for him, that he wanted him in ways that transcended torture or torment or tickling …
Unlike this morning, where stubbornness took centre stage, Armie and Tim now devoured each other in sensuality, in the middle of this neutral, unsympathetic Sub Zero.
Armie wanted to shower Tim with affection, he wanted to prove to him that there wasn’t a Jekyll and Hyde, whilst at the same time hypocritically disproving that by unapologetically being so very different from the person who had circled feather nibs over Tim’s soles for minutes on end …
Tim no longer cared if Armie had one, two, three …
Fucking five hundred personalities!
I just want this.
I need… This.
Armie’s lips, mouth and tongue trailed over Tim’s jaw, his chin, his neck.
They ate him up, like a vampire hungry for blood.
Tim’s hands clawed over the polo shirts cotton covering Armie’s back.
He climbed Armie, like a tree, sending his toes up Armie’s chinos, lifting his legs up past Armie’s waist.
Armie hooked his arms under Tim’s thighs.
Tim wrapped himself around his ‘ler, yanking away the tie that held back his hair, curls now falling free around his face.
They kissed and kissed and kissed and kissed, both growing stronger, harder, the throbs evenly arriving.
Armie curled his arms around the bottom of Tim’s spine, squashing him closer into him.
Tim arched his back, his erection pressing flatly against Armie’s stomach.
Armie looked down at it.
He spat on it.
He watched the saliva drench the tip.
And then he began to rub it.
Tim began to moan.
And then, a realisation.
No.
Tim looked down at Armie, shaking his head.
“You can’t just do this,” he croaked, “You can’t just go from one person to another.”
Armie carried his ‘lee towards the elevator.
“Yes, Tim,” Armie sent his tongue into Tim’s mouth, finally admitting to himself that he owned two behaviours, speaking into Tim’s throat, “Yes I fucking can."
Carrying Tim with one arm, Armie used his other to yank the gates open with force.
They stumbled in, Armie now using his feet to clamp the gates shut.
Tim sent a desperate hand behind himself, his fingers pressing against the insides of the elevator until they found the thing they were after - a small, silver circular button.
Press, press, press, press …
The elevator dipped gently before travelling up to the basement.
This is it, thought Tim.
This is when it happens.
Tim turned anger into joy, he transformed nerves into excitement …
Another stumble out of the elevator, another spin in the right direction, Armie’s loafers carefully traipsing past rope on the basement floor, over candles now burnt out …
Up the steps, careful not to scratch Tim’s back against the open brick work.
Towards the apartment stairs, past the kitchen and the living room, stumbling closer and closer to Armie’s bedroom, where he’d throw Tim onto his back, bring his feet over each of his own shoulders and then —
--Armie dropped Tim gently onto his feet.
Tim’s soles planted over wooden floorboards, his quivering jaw hanging open, his neck craned up; a desperate stare penetrating the tall blonde thirty three year old who now had his hands around his hips.
Tim took in the details of Armie’s face; his straight mouth, his frown, his narrowed stare.
Tim gasped as Armie’s right hand curled around his erection.
He held it tight, as if taking a firm grip over the handle of a sword.
“Wha-what are you doing?” Tim asked breathlessly.
Armie squeezed hard, his other hand now curling around Tim’s throat.
“I’m edging you,” Armie replied in a hoarse whisper.
Tim winced, biting his lower lip.
“Man …” he growled, “… Just, just let it happen tonight…”
Armie moved Tim against the wall of the hallway.
Tim’s back pressed up against the surface.
Armie lifted Tim by keeping a firm hold around his neck and arousal.
The tips of Tim’s toes brushed across the floor.
Tim’s eyes bulged, his hands began to claw at Armie’s arms and back, they pulled at his polo shirt, they scratched at his sides.
“I want to make you beg for it,” Armie spoke quietly, a tiny smile decorating a still, now sweating face, “I want you to make you cry for it, to ask for it, to demand it, to not be able to live without it …”
Tim managed a gargled, “P-Ple-ease …” from his tightened throat.
Armie pressed Tim harder against the wall.
“Please what?”
Tim now held onto Armie’s wrist with both hands, his stiff erection still in Armie’s grasp.
“Pl-lease … Let m-me … C-Come …”
Armie grinned, readying his suggestion.
“I’ll let you come, if you finish your time in The Box…”
Tim’s heart sank, his hands clutching the collar to Armie’s polo.
“No … Please, I, I can’t…”
Armie tilted his head.
“You can’t get everything you want, Tim. No matter how cute you are when you beg like this…”
Armie kissed Tim forcefully on the left side of his neck.
He chewed at his skin, his teeth rolling over the thin layer of flesh covering the salty space of body between Tim’s collarbone and jaw.
Tim kicked his legs, he squeezed his eyes shut, he roared a loud, panicked, desperate groan into the ceiling of Armie’s apartment.
Armie dropped Tim back to his feet.
He then let go of him, taking a few steady steps back, wiping his mouth clear of dribble.
Tim held onto his neck, a painful sting now throbbing repeatedly, Armie’s passion presenting itself as a dark red bruise.
“Tomorrow,” Armie announced.
Tim hunched over, his other hand soothing his hard on, his breath quick and sharp…
His submissive form denied, dominated and destroyed once again, by a man now walking into the darkness of nighttime.
TCTLR continues in Chapter Twenty Seven - ‘DOLL’ …