We’ve finished a bottle of wine each.
I sink my weight into the sofa.
He’s taking off his clothes.
He strips for me, quicker than I would like, but with each piece of leather, denim and cotton that is pulled away from his body, I find myself no longer caring about his choice of speed.
He’s now naked.
Cleverly, he’s kept his boots and socks on.
He knows I’ll want to take those off myself, a little later on, when his heels are hooked over each of my shoulders and I’m deep inside of him.
He always stretches, just before we start.
He holds onto his wrists and tugs at each arm, flexing those taunt muscles that make up that slim body adored by millions across this earth.
I wonder if he had to stretch, before me.
Before our times together.
I wonder if he had to stretch before he did this with girls.
Before he does it with Kylie.
I remind myself that ‘this’, what we do, is unlike anything he does with anyone.
Seeing him physically prepare himself turns me on more than the sight of his beautiful, glowing frame.
It’s evidence of a mind set still not used to the actions I inflict, even after three whole years.
He’s walking towards me.
He kneels between my thighs.
He unzips my jeans.
And then, we begin.
Between eight in the morning and four in the afternoon, New York City existed as a concrete jungle blanketed in a constant, daily, thick layer of snow.
The sky felt like a dome of blue grey, the air crisp and always containing tiny specs of frost that never seemed to land over the dry sidewalks and wet tarmac.
If they were lucky, the specs would float forever until Christmas was over … If they were unlucky, they would find themselves twirling down to the rolls of steam from the sewer grates where the heat would cause them to melt within seconds, removing them from the hostile atmosphere altogether.
Timothée woke first.
His eyes stung as he peeled open lashes reluctant to break apart, thanks to the dry crust binding them together.
He faced a window half covered by curtain, the snowy expanse of Manhattan’s glowing skyline causing his vision to blur.
The expected dread and anxiety that came with such a hangover became immediately extinguished by the acknowledgement of Armie’s arms tightly wrapped around his torso.
Tim sank his weight into Armie, his back pressed against the fur of his ticklers chest, their legs and feet entwined at the bottom of the mattress.
Armie seemed to be twitching.
His right knee jolted, he took in a breath, he whimpered out an attempt to formulate words before he suddenly woke up …
Tim felt Armie’s embrace tighten around him.
“Bad dream?” Tim whispered.
Armie’s silence was his reply.
Dream?
More like a nightmare, were Armie’s first thoughts of the morning.
A nightmare …
Man, what a nightmare.
A nightmare involving a gut wrenchingly awful dimension where he and Tim’s private lives were splattered all over newspapers across the world.
A terrifying realm he would do anything to avoid becoming a reality.
Tim felt Armie’s hold weaken as he began to relax.
“Man, it feels so good to wake up in your bed again,” Tim tried to distract him, from whatever hell his brain had put him through in the nighttime, a smile lifting his lips as he felt Armie’s erection nudge against the bottom of his spine, proof that the distraction had seemingly worked.
Armie spoke with a deep croak - the wine consumed last night had turned his throat to sandpaper whilst he had slept.
“Does that mean I’m forgiven?”
Armie refused to open his eyes; doing so would make him face the fact that these days, he was the one asking for mercy.
Tim felt his own arousal stiffen beneath the bedsheets as Armie’s embrace began a journey, moving down from his chest and around his waist instead.
“I told you we shouldn’t of gone,” Tim’s smile remained, “They’re nothing but trouble,” he bit his lower lip when Armie curled his right hand around the rigid shape of Tim’s cock, “I can still taste the damn apple,” Tim shuddered.
Armie kissed the back of Tim’s neck with the very tips of his lips, his mouth moving with the flutter of a butterfly towards the smooth skin that made up Tim’s right shoulder; he kept his hand around Tim’s cock whilst his left hand travelled carefully towards the betweens of his ticklee’s thighs.
“Was the time spent here …” Armie’s index finger pressed gently against the hairless, tight dot between Tim’s ass cheeks, “ … For almost all of last night … Not a big enough apology?”
Tim widened his jaw into a fierce grin as he arched his back and nodded slowly.
“Oh, we’re good,” Tim confirmed, turning himself to the other side so that he now faced Armie, his nose inches away from Armie’s jaw, “We’re always good,” he smirked, kissing Armie on the chin.
Armie had become so used to feeling relieved.
In this stage of their relationship, Tim texting back on time or picking up the phone filled Armie with relief.
Tim arriving when he said he would, or putting Armie before a press interview filled Armie with relief.
Tim saying the words he had just said, after what he had been through at The House of White Feathers Christmas Event filled Armie with relief.
The fact that Tim still had so much energy, so much compassion, so much understanding to the depth of darkness that made up a world that was practically a one hundred plus year old cult filled Armie with relief.
Tim did not have to involve himself with Armie’s past, nor did he have to put himself on the line by trying to shape Armie’s future.
Attaching secret cameras to his jewellery, his clothes or his underwear became standard practise anytime Tim had involved himself with The House.
Twice, now, Tim had risked everything.
A third time, just two nights ago, and he has risked everything once again, without informing Armie of the ideas that landed them both in hot water.
As the snow floated past Armie’s apartment window, Armie and Tim lay in bed, defeated and ashamed, with only one of them aware of Millers requirements.
Armie spoke quietly into the top of Tim’s spine.
“I have something I want to give you.”
Tim watched Armie slide away, where his green eyes followed the thirty seven year olds tanned, muscular frame as it walked in all of its naked glory towards the walk in wardrobe located at the other side of Armie’s bedroom.
Tim had witnessed Armie rifling through this part of his home dozens of times before; he would come back with rope or handcuffs, a butt plug or a blindfold, a hairbrush or a bottle of lotion …
This time, he returned with a mask.
Tim sat up and rubbed the dryness away from his eyes.
He ran a hand through his hair, removing curls away from this forehead as Armie stood at the end of the bed with the mask held at his stomach.
“This is my founders mask,” Armie announced.
He handed it to Tim.
Tim shuffled forwards, seating himself in the cross legged position with the bedsheets and pillows surrounding his naked body.
He took the mask and laid it out in his lap.
Tim blinked as he observed the same details that made up John’s mask.
The mask itself was pearl coloured. It was cracked and chipped in places. The lower half of the mask contained all the expected shapes of an ordinary face; a nose, closed lips, a strong jaw …
The top half of the mask consisted of gold linen embroidery stitched together by gems, diamonds and priceless jewels.
Tim ran his fingertips over the expressionless oval shape staring back at him, a shape that represented blackmail, bribery and the brutal desire of touch in the form of tickling.
Armie recognised the silence within the bedroom.
He reminded himself that Tim did not have to react verbally - his quiet moment with the mask as his thumbs ran across each tiny diamond was a response in itself - instead, he decided to fill the void with another sprinkle of his own vulnerability.
“I’ve had dreams of you,” Armie cleared his throat and placed his hands behind his back, “In that mask, wearing it whilst you do the things to me that I do to you.”
Armie acknowledged another beat of silence, this one a little harder to endure, mostly because it lasted longer than the first.
He watched Tim’s eyes shift from left to right, not in the way that suggested he was trying to figure things out, but in a way that seemed as if he were reluctant to figure them out at all …
Such a sight made Armie feel the need to justify himself.
“I’ve … Never been able to throw it away. Even if it does symbolise a thing I … Think … I’m no longer part of …”
Armie’s words trailed into a useless mumble, his mouth remaining open, his eyes witnessing Tim carefully place the mask over his own face.
Tim’s handsome features were hidden by the mask, a mask he held in place with all five of his right fingertips.
Tim’s voice became muffled behind the marble, “Why?” He asked, his head tilting, his eyelashes brushing against the inside of the mask, almost playfully, almost as if he already knew the answer to the question he readied himself to ask, but he wanted to see Armie say it, he wanted to hear the words leave Armie’s mouth, “Why are you giving this to me?”
Armie pressed his lips together and swallowed down yet another bubble of relief.
He lifted his right knee and placed his right foot firmly on the corner of the bed.
“I’m not just giving you the mask,” Armie declared, climbing back onto the mattress, “I’m giving you all of me …” he crouched down behind Tim and curled his left hand around Tim’s left wrist, lifting it carefully above his head, “The mask is every fibre of my being. It’s the reason I reached out to you in the first place,” Armie felt Tim’s body stiffen as his left underarm stretched open, “It’s the reason why we started this three years ago, the reason why we tried to stop them this past year, the reason we’re in the same bed together, right now …” before Armie’s right hand could invade the warm depths of Tim’s left armpit, Tim dropped the mask away from his face and snatched Armie’s hand within his own tight grasp.
Armie kept Tim’s left arm high above his head.
Tim twisted around, his eyes narrowing up at Armie, his right hand holding Armie’s right wrist, his back against Armie’s chest, a few huffs and puffs suggesting both young men were resilient in how they grappled with each other.
“You’re submitting yourself to me,” Tim grunted, his teeth clenching as he tried to pull Armie’s splayed fingers away from his armpit, “You’re giving yourself over …”
Tim’s slim arms were no match for Armie’s strength - Armie invaded Tim’s armpit, causing the young actor to scrunch up into a ball where Armie then consumed his body with his own tall structure, like a python pouncing a gazelle, his relentless and desperate coil pinning Tim to the surface of the bed where he then devoured his prey with expert fingered infiltration, Tim’s left armpit now ravaged by the strength and force of all of Armie’s five right fingers.
The attack was so sudden that Tim did not have the time to laugh; instead he heaved out a grainy howl, his eyeballs pressing against the bedsheets as they widened in alarm, his legs and feet kicking out madly as Armie sent his fingers in harder, deeper, further without any warning.
Tim found himself spinning into such a speedy writhe that his mouth ended up by Armie’s neck, his teeth pinching over the flesh around Armie’s jaw, causing his tickler to wince and release him within two to three seconds.
Both Armie and Tim rolled onto their backs as they caught their breath.
They laid side by side, erect and aroused; Tim’s armpit sore from the onslaught, Armie’s neck stinging from the nip.
Armie’s need to send his fingers into Tim’s armpit was his need to remind Tim of who was in control, of who was in charge, of who held the real power.
Tim’s defensive bite was punishment; it told Armie that although he had said he had made peace with being forced into the role of a ticklish, festive hog on a plate, he would not let Armie get away with ignoring the simple fact that if they had decided not to go to the event, the situation would never have happened in the first place.
“We never do gifts,” Tim kept his eyes towards the ceiling, his voice breathless and light, “I, I haven’t got you anything …”
Armie tucked his hands behind his head, crossing his legs at the ankle, his erection laid out and throbbing over his navel.
“I’d agree,” he chuckled, “The cock ring only felt like a present when you had control over the remote …”
Tim sat up.
“I’m sorry,” he looked down at Armie, “I mean it. You’re here, giving me all you have …” he picked up the mask and with a toying smirk he gently placed it over Armie’s face, “And I’m giving you sex toys … “ Tim shook his head as he watched Armie allow the mask to conceal his features, “ … I need to do better. I, I need to figure out my priorities,” he sighed.
Armie plucked the mask away from his face and sat up.
He shuffled towards Tim and took both of his hands within his own gentle hold.
If Millers detailed brief was not at the forefront of his mind, Armie would use this opportunity to reassure Tim that he did not need to do any better; after all, he had lay strapped, only forty eight hours ago, face down to a spinning table, his mouth gagged with an apple, his body tormented by not one tickler, not two, nor three but four devious ticklers … His soles had been drenched in Christmas dinner, the bottoms of his feet devoured by Andrew’s lips and tongue, his entire ticklish sensitivity exploited and feasted upon, for nothing but simple entertainment.
Tim had not only proven himself to be a good sport within The House of White Feathers, but he had more than proven himself to be ‘better’ than anything Armie had ever expected, not only in a career that threatened to constantly overshadow the unique set up that he and Armie had, but within the core of their relationship and bond also.
Instead, Armie manipulated this moment to his advantage - he had a mission to accomplish, and Tim had unintentionally positioned himself in a state of opportunistic debt.
“You know what the ultimate gift from you would be?” Armie brushed some curls of hair away from Tim’s face, “A gift from you, would be you allowing it to be just us, for today,” his thumb trailed over Tim’s left cheek and down to his jaw as Tim’s green eyes stared into the blue of Armie’s, “No events, no spotlights, no masked guests …” his other hand left Tim’s and rested in a casual dangle over Tim’s right shoulder, “No strangers. No stocks. No contraptions, no toe ties, no tickle chairs, slings, boxes or incubators …” Armie glanced down to the pillows squashed beneath them, “… Just you tied to this bed …” Armie shuffled in closer, his lips arriving at Tim’s left earlobe, “… Made to beg me the hardest you’ve ever begged me before …” he whispered.
Tim felt goosebumps erupt over the sides of his neck as he looked over Armie’s shoulder, out towards the window, where the snow continued its tumble.
He had recovered since the Christmas party, he had recharged his energy levels and he had readjusted the concept of tickle torture within his mind.
After his time with John, Andrew, Miller and Peter, Tim had seen knislomagnia as something he thought he once understood, something he thought he was once open too, something he thought he enjoyed … Something he felt hesitant to involve himself in again, after such a disconcerting moment; tickled in public, strung up like meat, gagged with fruit …
Hearing Armie’s words as they fluttered against his ear; the way he delivered them, the promise within his tone, the intensity of the connection it once again formed between him and a man he had grown to love, it all reassured Tim that torment so extraordinary could be pleasurable, especially when actioned by someone you could trust.
Tim rested his forehead against Armie’s chest as they both sat opposite each other, hand in hand, inches apart, in the cross legged position.
“Like old times …” Tim had positioned his head this way so that Armie could not see the excited smile lifting his lips, “… How could I possibly turn that down?”
Armie felt a need of urgency overwhelm him.
Say yes, he thought.
Say yes,
Say yes,
Please, please, god, you have to say yes …
Armie pressed his lips against the top of Tim’s head of curls.
“… Say yes … ” he muttered the urgency out loud.
Tim acknowledged the warmth of Armie’s palms as he buried his face into Armie’s right shoulder, his lips brushing against his skin as he whispered out the word,
“… No.”
Armie blinked once, twice, three times …
He felt his throat stiffen, his heart race, the sides of his head tighten …
Tim grinned like a cheshire cat.
He could practically feel Armie squirming internally.
He allowed Armie to compartmentalise his thoughts, to gather his feelings, to shape his mouth in readiness, to try to ask why not, to try to understand the word ‘no’ …
All Armie could do was come to the conclusion that this was Tim’s way of once again balancing out the power.
“Tomorrow,” Tim confirmed, his lips still brushing against Armie’s shoulder as he spoke, “I’ve got that press call today, remember?”
Armie winced, shuffling back a little so he could see Tim entirely.
“ … Wonka …” he almost growled out the name, with so much resentment filling his throat, “ … Alright … Tomorrow it is …”
Tim shuffled forwards and kissed Armie on the lips.
“Tomorrow it is,” he said.
As Tim slid off the mattress and made his way to the bathroom, Armie held onto his chest and narrowed his eyes into the bedsheets.
Relief, oh relief, he thought,
There you are again, my sweet friend.
t h e n e x t d a y
“Everything we’ve ever done …”
I place my founders mask against the window ledge.
“… Everything we’ve ever learned about each other …”
I make sure its facing the bed.
“… It’s all led to this.”
Damn.
I stroke my hard on and I trail my fingertips over the selection of tickle tools laid out over my desk.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get over the site of him preparing himself for what he’s about to endure.
That faint smile, that glisten in his eyes, the way he removes and reapplies the rings on each finger …
I’ve kept him in the same clothes he wore to the press call;
A black leather blazer, a black crew neck t-shirt, black leather pants and black chelsea boots.
His curls of hair are styled and tamed, tinted moisturiser still present on his face.
He was a celebrity, fifteen minutes ago.
Now, he belongs to me.
It’s funny.
None of his fans, none of the photographers who had just yelled his name, none of Wonka’s cast that had just gathered around him on the red carpet have any fucking clue that the clothes he wore fifteen minutes ago, the clothes he wears right now, will be removed by my hands, in the warmth of my apartment bedroom, all so I can touch every single inch of his naked body with my fingertips.
He sits in the middle of my bed, his feet stretched out in front of him side by side, his hands in his lap.
The snow falls quietly, the room is brightly lit, the curtains pulled open.
I dare the world outside, the New York skyline, the billions of eyes that might catch a glimpse of what goes on behind the window, to witness what I’m about to do, to witness how breathless he will become, to witness a level of ticklishness so utterly mesmerising that they’ll wish - no, they’ll beg - to have a go after me.
I acknowledge the contrast of our appearance.
I’m absolutely naked.
The most naked I have ever been.
Not just physically but metaphorically and mentally.
I am giving him my everything.
After this, there won’t be much more to give.
His expensive leather garments, his designer boots, the hairspray neatening each dark brown tassel … That will all be gone soon, too.
Together we will be transfixed.
Lost in the moment.
Engaged in the sweat, the tears, the inability to speak.
The bed sheets are crisp and flat.
They’ll be soaked and creased by the end of the day.
I pat the edge of the mattress.
This far into us, into what we do, I no longer need to instruct verbally.
He shuffles closer to my pat, his heels now hanging off the end of the bed.
I kneel down and begin to take off his left boot.
Usually, he watches me.
Usually, he can’t take his eyes off my hands.
He likes to keep tabs on my fingers.
He knows I like to sneak in a scratch or sudden swipe.
Right now, he is looking out the window; the snowfall reflects off his green eyed stare.
I blame the beauty of the weather. It’s quite the distraction.
I pull him back into the moment by quickly running my index finger up the sole of his left foot, once the boot is removed.
His left leg kicks, his sheer socked foot twists.
He immediately, without hesitation, turns his attention back to me.
We smile at each other.
The smile says so much.
From me, it says, "I love how ticklish you are.”
From him, it says, “How can you still have this effect on me?”
I take off his right boot.
I do it slowly, like I’m unwrapping something special.
I take in the sight of his feet like a teenager realising they’ve got the toy they so desperately wanted on Christmas Day.
I keep the sheer socks on, for now.
I place both boots side by side over the floorboards.
I stand and make my way towards him.
I crawl onto the bed and then I sit behind him, on my knees.
He’s smirking.
He’s nervous.
He didn’t seem this shy in front of all of those photographers twenty minutes ago.
The confident grin has gone.
The fierce wave, the peace sign as he took selfies with adoring girls, the wide legged stride from one journalist to the next …
Its all fizzled away.
Now his shoulders are stiff, his head turning from side to side, his toes curling beneath the sheer …
He purses his lips as I reach across his torso.
I curl my fingers around the leather collar of his blazer and I peel it apart.
He helps me.
He shrugs off the blazer as it slides away from his arms.
The blazer gets carefully folded up and dropped to the side; I know how much he values his wardrobe.
Before he can place his hands back in his lap, I gently curl my grasp around each of his wrists.
“Oh,” he says, a little caught off guard.
I lift his arms above his head, gradually, never too fast, always allowing him to come to terms with his positioning.
He’s cautious, alert.
I think he thought he’d be tied up by now.
That’s not how we’re doing it.
Not just yet.
This new approach has taken him by surprise.
So far, I’ve said nothing.
He mirrors my silence.
Its his way of taking my hand and being led into whatever this session entails.
He trusts me.
He shouldn’t.
He sits still, his t-shirt still working as a form of armour, his nostrils flaring as he continues to present a self assured smirk.
I let go of his wrists.
I speak, for the first time since he sat on my bed.
“Keep your arms up,” I whisper.
He nods quickly.
His feet twitching from side to side suggest he is not as poised as he is making out.
My hard on pressing into his back suggests I’m already having the time of my life, and we’ve barely even started.
I feel his spine straighten when my fingertips arrive at his underarms; five in his left armpit, five in his right.
Their arrival is subtle, kind and tender.
His knees bend a little when I start to stroke each armpit.
I can only feel the armpit hair beneath the thin material of cotton currently protecting each underarm.
However, the space I stroke begins to warm up within seconds and already, he’s providing his first giggle.
I continue, his shoulders now lifting and dropping.
He wants to pull down his arms but, after all he has learned, he keeps them above his head.
He knows to submit, he knows to do as he his told, he has worked up an endurance after all our time spent with each other.
He can take this, for now.
Until he can’t.
He knows that if he drops his arms, I’ll only pull them back up again.
So he stays in position, his heels sliding from left to right across the edge of the bed, his hands curling into balls.
He huffs as my fingers travel away from his underarms and instead journey towards the hem of his t-shirt.
I pick at the fabric and peel it upward.
Inch by inch, and rather suddenly, his stomach, nipples, chest and upper body are revealed.
His skin glows in the winter light.
I play with him.
I roll the t-shit up far enough that it begins to cover his face, ready to exit his body.
I leave the t-shirt in place.
His arms are still above his head.
His head twists behind the cotton.
He wonders when the t-shirt will continue with its departure.
It doesn’t.
I can hear him giggling behind the tee, which is now working as a make shift blindfold, before I’ve even gone back to touching him.
He can’t see anything, his laughter now gawkish and spluttered.
“C’mon, man—” he says, “—Don’t do it …”
I love how easily he gets lost.
So quickly, too.
His deep toned ‘c’mon, man’ is an urge to get going.
His almost whine-like ‘don’t do it …’ is a request to stop.
“Which is it, Timmy?” I ask.
His armpits are exposed.
Their thick curls of brown on show, the deepness of their delves ready to explore.
The tee is snug around his head, face and elbows.
I reapply my touch.
Five fingers in his left armpit, five in his right.
I comb through the armpit hair, my fingers gliding past warm fur adored by fetishists around the world.
Only last summer did we both find joy in discovering a male celebrity armpit blog, where pictures of Timothée’s armpits were uploaded to a gallery browsed by many wishing to be in the position I’m in now.
Cannes Film Festival, 2022.
The red jumpsuit.
Every wave, every hello, every reach up exposed the very armpits I tickle right now.
That event reminds me of Andrew’s words and his admiration for that moment on the red carpet.
We think alike, and that makes me sink.
I feel the drop in mood.
I don’t let it ruin this moment.
I push Andrew’s face away.
I tickle harder, my fingers now nudging deeper into the crevasses of Tim’s armpits.
He grunts behind the t-shirt, his legs begin to kick, his heels now scraping over the bed sheets as his torso wriggles against my chest, his movement rubbing against my erection.
“Agh! Agh! Agh!”
He sounds like he’s under attack.
He is.
I whip the t-shirt away.
It lands somewhere on the floor.
His grunt becomes a heartfelt chuckle, a genuine chortle taken from the pit of his stomach, due to how ticklish it feels to have me run my fingers suddenly away from his armpits and down to his sides.
He gives in.
He hunches over, he drops his arms, he tries to protect his ribs with his elbows.
He chuckled so hard that some dribble left his lower lip.
I reassure him there is now a brief pause by sliding my hands up to his bare shoulders, squeezing them firmly.
He hisses up the dribble.
He’s ashamed; he wipes his mouth, he can’t stop smiling, he sighs and tidies up his hair.
“Oh man,” he pants.
No matter how many times I push him, disbelief still remains as the main emotion, the forefront feeling that he can never shed.
He jolts in surprise when he finds my hands at his waist.
He glances down to his lap as I begin to unbutton his leather trousers.
He relaxes as he watches me pull down his zip fly.
A snug bulge beneath his, no surprise here, black underwear, presents itself.
I slide away from his back and I leave the bed.
I grab the waist band of his trousers and I take them with me.
As I make my way to the foot of the mattress, the trousers leave his thighs.
They hook over his knees and then they travel down his calves.
They get stuck at the ankle.
Once again, he helps me out.
He kicks his feet a little, he bites his lower lip, I tug whilst he pulls …
The trousers leave his body.
His heels drop back to the surface of the bed with a bounce.
He now sits in a pair of briefs and his sheer socks.
He places his hands behind him, leaning back, his teeth still clamped down over his lower lip as he watches me curiously.
It’s interesting.
We’ve done this hundreds of times.
But this feels different.
He feels it too.
I want to attach the pearl choker to his neck.
To remind him of his role in all this.
He had to take it off, being out in public n’ all …
Its now I realise the choker isn’t needed.
It might never have been needed in the first place.
Spending so much time looking at his neck makes me acknowledge just how much of a beautiful neck Timmy has.
It’s thick, wide and long. His adam’s apple is big but not too big. It bobs and lifts, drops and submerges almost every time he laughs, talks or smiles.
Later, that neck will be mine.
My bare feet make no noise at all as I walk back to the top half of the bed.
I avoid looking at him, mostly because I love feeling his eyes on me as I do what I need to do.
This is where he usually checks his phone or asks me about my day.
He gets hungry easily, he knows how starved he feels once the restraints are removed.
Normally I get, “McDonalds, after?”
A box of twenty nuggets, fries and a coke.
Believe it or not, the twenty nuggets are all for him.
He annihilates them, within a matter of minutes.
I don’t know where he puts it all.
He’s so slim, so slender, so in shape.
I always go for a Big Mac and fries, chocolate shake.
That probably explains why I’m bigger than him.
Instead, there is no request for food, no suggestion of doing something after. We are past that, past the planning, past the need to secure moments together after the electric toothbrush has been switched off, once the ball gag has been placed back into the wardrobe.
I kneel at the top left corner of the bed and pull pre tied rope and a leather cuff out from under the mattress.
I pat the bed sheets.
He lays down on his back.
He extends his left arm upward without me asking.
I begin to restrain him to the bed.
I make my way over to the top right corner, where I reveal the same kind of pre-positioned bondage.
He offers his right arm.
I struggle with attaching the cuff to his right wrist.
The buckle won’t close, the clip won’t fasten …
I appear nervous, not ready, a little fumbled.
“Go on—” he says, as if talking to a pet dog, “—You’ve almost got it …” he teases.
I successfully fasten the restraint as I look at him with a ‘watch yourself’ to my glare.
He grins.
Man, he needs to be careful.
Mocking me like that is such a silly thing to do, when someone as ticklish as he is, is about to be tied down.
Those green eyes are on me again as I walk to the bottom of the bed.
I kneel at his feet and pull his ankles together.
I reveal rope and leather cuffs, tucked expertly beneath the mattress.
I cuff his feet together, so they sit snug side by side.
The cuffs are fastened to the rope, the rope tied tightly to the bottom of the bed.
He lays in the crucifix position, like some modern day, twink-like Jesus.
It is Christmas, after all.
He peers over his chest as I sit on the floor in the cross legged position.
He’s noted that I’ve planted myself here, I’ve made base, he knows where I’m about to touch, what I’m about to do.
He’s already trying to protect himself; the top of his right foot blocks his left sole, only for the top of his left foot to twist across and try to block his right sole.
He’s clenching his teeth, his body has become rigid, it’s an incredible thing to watch - someone so sensitive handling slight panic, at the mere suggestion of their feet tickled whilst restrained.
I waste no time in devouring the size elevens before me.
Most of the time, they are bound apart. Quite often, stocked and toe tied.
For once, they rest toes pointing up, with just enough room between each cuff for him to fight back.
I want him to fight back, I want him to squirm. I want to fight myself, to grapple with them, to handle them, to break a sweat.
I start by stroking his left, sheer sock covered sole.
He kicks and throws his head back.
I use my other hand to tickle his right sole.
My fingertips are like butterfly wings; they only just about scrape the sheer surface of each sole, never lingering for long enough, only to return gently, constantly, non stop, from heel to toe, causing enough of a ticklish sensation at the bottom of Tim’s feet to make Tim move them the way he is currently moving them.
They writhe and flex, his toes curling and scrunching, each foot either always trying to protect the other in the form of blocking the bottom of the one currently under attack, or by trying to kick my hands away.
He grimaces as his chin plants across his chest, his eyes scowling down at me as he squeaks out a giggle or two.
His cheeks have already begun to boil pink, his once perfectly styled hair already starting to get messy.
I pause as I gather the material of his sheer sock around his right heel.
He drops his head over the pillow; his eye roll suggesting a ‘here we go …’ mind set.
I peel away the sheer sock, up to his arch.
I leave it there.
He throws his head over his pecs in alarm as I tickle the bare heel of his right foot.
He squeezes his eyes shut and continues with his giggling.
It’s high pitched, taken from him suddenly, his right foot twisting from side to side with such strength and speed that he has, unintentionally, began to remove the sheer sock from his foot himself.
I tickle harder, my fingernails journeying up the bare flesh of his sole the more his foot kicks.
The momentum is causing the sock to flap; the more material leaving his foot gives the sheer sock additional weight - it’s now gathered at his toes.
Once I reach the ball of his foot, he has started to giggle so hard, to twist his foot with such vigour, that the sheer sock flies off his foot and lands somewhere by my desk.
He is grinning at me, almost in defeat, but with some extremely honest knowing.
He knew what I was trying to do, and he had no choice but to let it happen.
I gather the material of the sheer sock covering his left foot and quickly whip this off; the movement is unexpected, it isn’t teasing or anything like I just did with his right foot. It’s fast and it’s actioned in a way that makes him question what might be next.
All ten of his toes flex into a sensational curl as the cold air greets their betweens.
I sometimes feel unsure if he’s aware that one of those toes he has just curled is one of the most sensitive parts of his entire body.
All ten silky smooth lengths curl so casually, that it suggests he forgets one of his biggest weaknesses is an extension of the foot I have just made bare.
I feel him watching me once again as I walk to my desk and pick up my first tool, a tool that he has never been victim of, up until this very moment.
That grin of his isn’t fading; he looks excited but worried, thrilled yet concerned, coaxing me on whilst willing me to stop with narrowed eyes.
I slide a rubber glove over my right hand.
The glove’s palm consists of a surface made up entirely of small plastic spikes.
I wiggle my fingers and turn to Timmy, offering him a cheeky wave with my gloved hand.
“Say hello to your new best friend.”
Now I’m the one who is grinning.
I pick up a bottle of lotion.
Tim looks at me with pressed together lips, his eyebrows lifting as his head follows my dance-like stroll.
I kneel back down at his feet and I uncap the bottle of lotion, tipping the shimmering oil all over the sole of his right foot, then his left.
Those long toes curl again as they take the lotions drench; Tim is always peering over his chest, always watching, always observant in how much I apply.
Sometimes he protests, “No, that’s too much …” he would say out loud, as if telling me off, but this time he doesn’t verbalise his agitation, his burrowed frown and flared nostrils do it for him instead.
I kill two birds with one stone and start to rub the lotion into Timmy’s feet by massaging it firmly into his left foot with my ungloved hand, whilst using my gloved hand to tickle the lotion into his right foot.
Tim arches his back as if the middle of his spine has been poked with a cattle prod.
He twists his torso from side to side and straight away, uncontrollably, he begins to laugh.
His foot has never been touched by such a tool.
The rubber bristles of the gloves palm glide firmly across the now oily expanse of his right sole; my gloved fingers, also coated in plastic bristles, worm their way between and over his toes. I grab at his pinkie and then at his big toe, I scratch down to his arch and then I rub at his heel - he can just about take the touch on his left foot, with my bare hand, but the touch to his right with this new glove of mine is something he literally cannot stand.
I haven’t seen a reaction in Tim like this since the first time I placed a brush over the bottom of his bare feet.
He is yelping through the laughter, shouting out his giggles, his body from the ankle up thrusting and thrashing, his weight bouncing over bed sheets I always knew would become creased and messed up, after once being so flat and neatly spread.
He bites his upper lip and clenches his teeth into a tight grin, squeezing his eyes shut as he kicks his legs once, twice, three times, but his writhing feet remain pinned to the bottom of the bed, both of his soles now victim to my gloved hand.
I find myself not regretting gloving both hands. This morning it felt like something I should have done, but I learn quickly that having one hand ungloved helps me hold onto Tim’s feet with better grip. It acts like a claw, securing one foot in place whilst the gloved hand - a hand that tends to slide and slip thanks to the plastic meeting the oil - inflicts the tickle torment over whichever sole is easiest to reach.
And if I’m honest with you, no sole is easy to reach!
Tim is kicking and twisting his feet with the robustness and resistance of someone that has to squirm and battle back, his movements limited thanks to how tightly his ankles are pinned together, how well tied each cuff is secured to the bottom of the bed. All he can do is flex each foot in whichever direction possible, his soles and toes never for a second out of my grasp, the gloves bristles now pinching at his left index toe - a spot I know will drive him utterly insane.
Tim thinks he is clever.
If he were, I would not be able to see through his attempts, for he would have presented them in a far more skilled way.
However, thanks to my history, the people I’ve worked with, my mentors and my time with those lacking more mercy than I, I understand Tim’s words as a deploy, a way to stop me from touching that index toe.
“My feet!” He yelps, “My ankles, they’re aching!”
His feet twist over each other as I keep the gloves palm down over his left sole.
I’m not surprised the young man is experiencing a throb from the shin down; he hasn’t stopped moving his feet since I knelt down at his heels. Unfortunately for Tim, I have no intention on giving him or his ankles a break.
Instead, I gather them in an armlock.
The buckle of the leather cuffs and the dryness of the rope rub against my forearm a little, but it’s a discomfort I’m more than happy to deal with.
“No!” He huffs, frustrated that I’ve chosen not to listen to his complaint, “No, wait, hold up!” Is that the first beg of the session? I think it is …
I contain his feet with a tight clasp of my underarm, my ungloved fingers now able to scratch at the silky smooth sides of Tim’s right foot, whilst my gloved hand focuses on just his left index toe, where my plastic bristle covered fingers scratch, stroke, pinch and grab at the fleshy length with a brutal mentality considered at all times.
“No!” He has said that word three times in less than five seconds, “No!” Ah, a fourth time, “Not the toes!” He sounds like he is about to cry, “—Not that toe!—” He specifies.
There is now a grainy-ness to his call, a desperation that just about makes its way through clenched teeth. I begin to sweat as I try my damned hardest to keep his ankles in my armlock, the buckle now rubbing and rubbing and rubbing against my underarm the harder he kicks and, quite frankly, I haven’t felt him kick this hard in quite some time …
Maybe with the brush he might be table take it. Maybe the feathers nib against his index toe would be something he could just about handle. Maybe the electric toothbrush running around its base could be a manageable sensation. But this? This glove, attached to my right hand? The plastic bristles that make up my fingers? Fingers that I refuse to remove from his left index toe? No. He can’t stand it. He does not understand it. He does not know what to do. I know Tim reaches that level of absurd mental dubiety when he begins to state the obvious.
“That fucking tickles, man!” He yells, no shit, I think, “The glove sucks, man!” He grunts, no shit, I think, “Tickle someplace else, man!” He requests, no way in hell, I think.
“You’re a little trapped, huh, Timmy?” I remind myself to be verbal, to get him to react more with his voice, after all, they’re gonna wanna hear the pressure in his tone, “How does it feel, Tim?”
Tim is twisting and flexing and writhing those trapped feet I refer to with such determination the veins over the tops of his feet have started to protrude, his index toe now a little red from how much attention I’ve given it, “—It’s fucking horrible!—” He declares, his head throwing itself over his chest once again, as if getting a better look at the horror taking place across the bottoms of his feet, his index toe especially, would make the ordeal a little easier.
I persist, Timothée’s feet now entirely at my mercy, mercy I will not showcase until the session is over. His heels, his toes, the balls of his feet and his arches are gorged upon by either my fingernails or the plastic bristles that make up the palm and fingers of my gloved hand, with his index toe always falling into the category of ‘main focus’.
To give them what they want, I have to ensure all of his worst spots are touched upon. It’s simple logistics - doing so will secure the strongest reactions.
When Tim makes peace with the fact I have him in a position he can no longer fight against, or if he becomes aware that this is where and how he will be tickled until I decide to stop, this is when he really showcases the ‘good sport’ part of his enthusiastic personality; he scrunches his face up so that his expression creases at his nose, his eyes close so tightly that they become little slits where his eyelashes are no longer visible, his grin is fierce, his head always bouncing over the pillow, therefore causing his curls of hair to splay and become messy, tasselled and just as out of control as the kicks, arm thrashes, spine arches and non stop bucking he portrays when giving into the sensation.
It is reflective of finding something so hilariously funny that you become overwhelmed with laughter; you feel it in your chest, the tightness in your gut, you have to hold your hands up and surrender, drop to your knees, shake your head and just deal with what is coming out of you. That is how Timmy feels right now, the only difference is, this is bound and relentless, physically invasive, unforgiving and hysterical, an attack not caused by someone telling a joke, an attack caused by professional touch.
It never suggests an end, it feels like it can go on forever.
Tim is riding the wave well. The only reason I stop is because the buckle is rubbing too firmly against my bicep, my gloved fingers are throbbing, Tim’s kicks are becoming difficult to contain within my armlock.
I catch my own breath whilst he catches his.
The tip of his tongue presses against his top lip as he looks into the ceiling, his chest lifting and dropping, lifting and dropping, lifting and dropping.
I can read his mind. I have always been able to, ever since the day I met him.
That’s why we were cast together. That’s why our chemistry was so fierce back then, why our chemistry is so fierce now.
He’s thinking, ‘That was a lot’.
‘It’s okay.’
‘I can do this.’
‘I can take this.’
‘For him’.
Oh, Timothée.
I have so much more planned.
I love that he has no words. Just expressions and thoughts he thinks he is keeping to himself.
I see them all.
I see all of him.
I have already rendered him speechless.
My room has gone from quiet and chilly to wet and warm.
The air is thick, opaque, vibrating with an energy that hums from our bodies.
I yank off the glove.
I kneel down at his feet and remove the rope tied to his ankle cuffs.
I then carefully pull his legs apart.
He peers over his chest as he, just for a second, thinks that maybe I’m cutting this short, maybe I’m calling quits, maybe I’ve changed my mind.
He looks confused, cautious, hopeful, disappointed, his face always telling me everything I need to be told.
I pull some pre tied rope out from the right corner of the bed. I tie this to his still attached ankle cuff.
He is still watching me, never once pulling his leg towards himself, never once snatching away my chance to enjoy myself.
I do the same with his left ankle.
I step back and admire the sight of Timothée now bound spread eagle, a large space of nothing between his thighs, his semi erect cock still squashed up within his tiny black briefs.
I turn back to my desk and assess my choice of tickle tools.
As I stroke my stubbled chin in thought, I hear Tim finally regain his breath, which works as confirmation that he has refuelled himself. I decide not to push him so hard again so soon, he needs to be played expertly and not worn out too quickly so, with that in mind, I pick up a seagull feather.
With Tim’s legs now tied so wide apart, I can gain access to his crotch.
He flinches as I stroke the feather across the inside of his right thigh.
He flinches again when I take the feather to the inside of his left thigh.
He really starts to squirm when I begin to glide the feather across the outline of his underwear.
The soft edges of my tickle tool scrape against the delicately smooth, pale flesh that makes up the very tops of his thighs; a highly sensitive area that is mostly concealed by black elastic.
This isn’t like the glove over his index toe; this sort of tickling arouses Tim, it makes his cock thicken, it transforms the grainy, demanding laughter that filled the room only minutes ago into high pitched, playful chuckles.
He doesn’t say the word ‘no’, nor does he beg for it to stop; sure, he twists and rolls his body from side to side - sometimes, the feather over one place for too long will cause him to do that, but I never keep it there for more than three seconds (and yes, three seconds, for Tim, is often too long).
The feather jumps to his stomach, where I trail it across his navel, an act that causes him to hiss and leap upward.
I then take the feather over his chest, past nipples that have hardened since I peeled his t-shirt away from his body.
He rolls to the left when I drag the feather across his right underarm, his bondage always keeping him in place no matter how hard he tugs at his restraints.
A deep chortle leaves his throat as the feather glides across that neck, his head snapping to the side in an attempt to catch it between his shoulder.
I note this sudden reaction, this alarming need to pin my tool in place so that it cannot travel any further; such a visceral and unexpected response causes me to park it in my mind where I promise to return to it later.
The feather continues its dance.
He is now giggling, rather heartily, when I bring it back to his thighs.
He digs his heels into the corner of the mattress, the feather stroking over one thigh only to jump across to the next, the bulge in his briefs expanding, the outline and shape of his arousal now fully visible beneath the elastic.
He keeps looking at me, I can feel it.
He seems to be wondering why I haven’t engaged in conversation, why I haven’t stopped, why I only offered brief pause between the glove and the feather, why I have been careful yet aggressive, merciless yet cautious, gentle yet intense, a strange mixture of gradual and brutal all mixed together, and the session is barely a quarter way through.
I have not hesitated.
I have continued, one step at a time, leaving him filled with doubt and a constant need to examine.
His inspections are discarded when I trail the feather down his left leg, over his right foot and towards his right sole.
His toes scrunch and his leg kicks, a wince taking air into his mouth, where he holds it behind bulging cheeks.
He watches the feather leave the tip of his big toe where it remains pinched between my big thumb and index finger.
I turn back to my selection of tools.
Tim’s eyes widen when I pick up my next choice:
A pair of scissors.
Snip.
I slice apart the material of Tim’s underwear, just above his left thigh.
The blades cut through the waistband of his briefs like butter.
The elastic flings apart, the flesh of his waist and hip exposed, his cock and balls still covered by the remainder of the brief itself.
In case you hadn’t noticed, Ive developed a thing for leaving stuff on.
It toys with his mind, I can see it in those eyes, eyes now glistening at the sight of his underwear cut, but not removed.
He’s asking, ‘why?’
The psychology of it contains layers and layers.
You see, that’s what todays session is all about.
I’m tormenting him mentally and physically.
I practically tickled him out of his clothing to start with.
Then he squirmed his own sheer sock away from his foot.
Now he’ll remove his own underwear, without using his hands.
It’ll happen easily. He’ll have to use his brain to make it not happen.
But he’ll be too ticklish to flex that muscle.
The only muscles that will flex, without his control, will be the ones that make up his hips.
I glide the feather in a fluttered motion around the newly revealed expanse of skin that joins the top of his thigh to his waist.
His body scrunches up, his left foot lifting, his fists tugging towards his head the best his wrist restraints will allow.
He huffs and thrashes forward as the feather runs across his navel and then back to his waist, another heavy chuckle leaving his mouth as he begins to do exactly as I predicted.
He wriggles his hips, digs his heels into the mattress, his grin is so fiercely aimed at me that his eyes may as well shoot lasers into my face.
The material covering his cock and balls begins to fall away, the more he squirms.
And the more material that falls away, the more flesh my feather can consume.
He arches his back and bounces over the bed as soon as my feather is able to glide around the base of his cock. Such a writhe is enough force to shake off the remaining brief material, which now hangs gathered around his balls.
“Why thank you, Timmy,” I tease, showcasing camp gratitude for his ability to squirm off his underwear simply due to excessive movement.
He hates that he has become so exposed.
“Put it back!” He whines, his upper torso stretching forwards in alarm.
I decline his blunt request.
Instead, I hold onto the material and use my scissors to cut the other side.
Snip.
I then pull the underwear out from under Tim, discarding the final piece of clothing by throwing it over my shoulder.
Tim’s weight sinks into the mattress, as he is made nude.
He can’t explain how it feels, to be so stripped, so bare, so exposed, so bound … I’m tickling him already, my feather now fluttering against a spot just as sensitive as his index toe …
… His taint.
Doing so renders him unable to speak.
He splutters out a giggle and then a grunt, his grunt turns into a grainy chortle and then a disheartened moan. He throws his head back over the pillow and begins to hiss and wince, the feather now ever so gently gliding up and down, up and down, up and down the exceptionally soft and hairless few inches of skin that make up the flesh between the base of his balls and his hole.
“No, Armie, wait—”
He hasn’t been tickled here in a while.
I know how much he hates it when I explore this area.
I only do it when I really want to push him, when I really want his cheeks to boil, when I really want his face to transition from joyously agitated to furiously angry.
And they’ll need to see him angry.
He delivers me ‘that look’ within seconds.
I’ll do my best to describe it.
His face is now entirely red.
“Armie, please—”
The change of colour happens in less than ten seconds.
“Armie, please!—”
His forehead and cheeks are now swollen.
“Armie, please?—”
His eyes are glazed over with rage, the eyeballs themselves almost twice the size.
His nostrils flare, he goes to say the word ‘shit’, but all he can do is ‘shhhhhhh’ at me.
His chest heaves in hard, it expands and lifts, he’s getting as much air inside of him, whilst so much air is making its way out in the form of growls and a forced removal of hysteria.
He wants to close his legs, his knees doing their best at pushing their way together, but unfortunately for Tim, they never meet.
Now it’s my turn to state the obvious.
“One minute, you’re sitting here, all comfortable in your snazzy outfit,” I wiggle the feather so that the softness of its tip just about presses against the middle of his taint, he’s now losing his mind, “The one seen by millions earlier today …” I take the feather to the base of his hairless balls, balls that wobble and shake with every thrust of his hips, “… And now look at you. Completely naked, tied to my bed, unable to even think straight …"
Tim proves he hasn’t been destroyed by providing words, even if the words are rushed, even if they are said all at once.
“—Andnowlook—” he is so fucked with me, “—Andnowfuckinglook!—” he joins in on how insane this is, on how wild it is to have been so clothed and free moments ago, to now be so naked and bound, so infiltrated and out of control.
I remind myself to balance it all out.
The feather across his taint is sharp and invasive, it takes him to a place where large amounts of his energy are burnt out quickly.
I need gradual amounts of energy burnt out over a healthy length of time.
This session is like a candle. The flame has to flicker, it needs to melt the wax down little by little, bit by bit.
If it burns too hard, he’ll struggle to give any more and it’ll be over before I know it.
He heaves out a sigh of relief when I take the feather away from his taint.
His lips are soaked with saliva, his eyes puffy, his breath short.
“Armie, listen—” he knows when to sound aggressive, when to break me out of my daze, “—I, I need you to, to scratch, my, my—” he uses the index finger of his right hand to point to his face.
I place the feather back at my desk and walk towards his head.
I scratch at his nose, a nose he wriggles under my fingernail, his eyes closing as he smiles and nods upward.
“Up a little, up a little,” he directs, obviously unable to scratch his nose himself, something I action by taking his orders and removing the problem for him, knowing I’ve done a good job when he relaxes his face and stops wriggling his nose, “Thanks,” he says, still polite considering what I’ve done to him already, what I plan to do next.
I return to my tools.
My back is now facing Tim.
Once again, I feel his eyes on me.
I know he’s developed a liking to my ass, so I give him a few moments to catch his breath whilst taking in the view.
I ready myself as I pick up not one, but two fully charged electric toothbrushes.
This is where he goes wild.
This is where I take it to the next level.
This is where the flame of the candle burns just how I want it to.
I promise myself to not hold back, to be relentless, to show no mercy.
I promise myself to give into the monster that resides under my skin, the monster I always keep at bay.
I promise myself to reassure myself that this is for the greater good.
That this is for the best.
I can’t believe they chant that to themselves nightly.
I can’t believe I used to.
I try to use a less cult-ish form of reassurance.
I remind myself of what I said to him two nights ago.
‘I’d do fucking anything to have you to myself.’
Well, here we go, kid.
This is my anything.
And my everything.
So far, he has definitely contested.
He’s declared, he’s raised his voice, I’ve seen ‘that look’.
He’s kicked and ached, raised concern and expressed alarm since the cuffs were attached.
But he has not broken, not just yet.
I turn around.
My cock is fully erect.
I’m excited, madly aroused at the level of tickle torment I am about to inflict.
He narrows his eyes at me, then at the electric toothbrushes.
A scowl. A warning. A look that says, ‘be careful’.
I disagree with him, as I switch on my tickle tools.
Click!
Btzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz …
Being careful will not get the job done.
I need to be reckless.
I hold the electric toothbrushes like they’re pistols; one in each hand, pointing them directly at his right foot.
Like strolling through the saloon doors of a western bar, I clomp my way confidently to the corner of the bed and kneel down.
He presses his lips shut, he points his toes.
I slowly, ever so slowly, aim both toothbrushes towards the bottom of his right foot.
One is going for the base of his toes, the other his heel.
His foot rubs against the bed.
It stretches as far away from the buzzing bristles as much as it possibly can.
His toes are flexed out into a manic splay, his face saturated with determination, as if he is climbing a mountain, escaping a roaring tiger below, his arm reaching up to that next ledge, his fingertips unable to grab at it …
His foot twists; he is using all of the muscles in his calves to almost extend his foot away from his own body, as if it will magically keep stretching onward.
I love how desperate he has become, how much he will trick himself into believing such an act of defence is possible, such an attempt at moving his foot away from me will actually work.
Of course, the electric toothbrushes land exactly where I want them.
He screams out his laughter.
His shriek is loud and high pitched, “—AGHHHHH AGHAHAHAH!—” it is filled with pleasure and distain, his foot flapping from side to side so quickly that my eyes see it as a fleshy blur, “—AGHHHHHH AGAHAHAHAHAHAHA!—” he screams again, his leg kicking and thrashing, my toothbrushes expertly buzzing, vibrating, whizzing across the still oily bottom of his right foot, “—AGGHHHHHHHHH! AGHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! AGAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAH!—” that scream was louder, it has made my ears ring, he has never had two electric toothbrushes on him at once before, so this sensation is new, it’s highly ticklish, its making him exchange giggles and laughter with yelps and girlish cries, “—AGHHHHHHHH! AAAAAGHAAAAAHHHHH! AGAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!—” he has started to throw himself across the bedsheets, his bonds keeping him in place, his spread eagle shape bouncing over the mattress, until I take the electric toothbrushes up his shin and towards his knee, where they devour the chunk of the flesh that makes up the behind of his right thigh.
The screams stop.
He huffs and gasps as I draw across his right leg with both toothbrushes, “—Oh! Ah! Oh! Aghh! Agh! Agh!—”, the bristles whizzing to the front of his thigh and back around again, “—Ah! Oh, Armie, fuck, shhhhit, damnit!—”, Tim’s leg now pressing down against the mattress in an attempt to catch my hands in place, “—Mnn!”
I chuckle at him trying, it’s cute to see he even thinks he stands a chance.
The thing is, he is too ticklish to keep himself in one spot at any given time. All I have to do is land the other electric toothbrush at his taint for him to suddenly splay both legs and leap up uncontrollably, releasing the electric toothbrush once caught under his knee.
“—Ah come on, man, this is unreal!—” He spits.
I can tell he’s noticed things have levelled up.
He’s used to being strung upside down, being strapped to our new sling in Sub Zero, being toe tied in the tickle chair, being wrapped in a blanket or hog tied to the couch.
This is intimate, it is bare, it is comfortably savage … Above all else, it is focused.
Focused entirely on the tickling, not so much on the set up.
Tim is purely victim to my touch, my tools and how I use them.
He does not need to think about the bondage or how the blood rushes to his head when he’s suspended from the ceiling. His mind isn’t intruded by considerations to other aspects of the session.
He is forced to simply acknowledge how ticklish he is, how ticklish he feels, all whilst being given that tiny bit of hope in the form of less restraints.
He can kick and roll, he can tug his hands towards his shoulders, he can spin and twist, arch his back and try to escape me …
But he never escapes, the rope keeps him here, it reminds him in a smug whisper.
You’re going nowhere.
His jaw widens and his eyes bulge out of his head when I, rather effortlessly, suck my index finger and then plant it over the base of his balls.
I’m now holding both electric toothbrushes with my left hand.
I run them across his stomach.
He is forced to writhe and squirm, his hips twisting from left to right as my index finger slips down his taint and enters him.
“—Yahh!—”
Another gasp, this one sharper, this one expressing an overwhelming sense of satisfying pleasure, all whilst handling the tickling across his stomach.
My index finger goes in deeper.
“—Ohmygod—”
Another sharp intake of breath, he is looking at me in shock, his body never not thrashing, the inside of him moving around my index finger as he tries to fight back.
I slip it out.
I take both tools back into both hands.
I travel them over his navel and up towards his abs.
“—Armieyou’rekillingmeman—”
He’s using his limbs more, his thrashes are harder, more aggressive, he spins and twists as both electric toothbrushes dance over his ribcage where they near his underarms.
He did not expect them to arrive at his pits so quickly - he growls out his laughter as he flaps his arms, leaping his body to the left and then to the right as my tickle tools arrive with an intense buzz over each underarm, where they refuse to depart.
I use the word ‘leap’ often because that is the only word to describe how far his body propels itself from the bed; it’s not quite a jump, not does he take off, but his frame does hurtle up to quite some height that I begin to feel thankful for the bondage keeping each wrist and ankle at each corner of the bed.
His jaw is wide open as he begins to panic, his hysteria drenched in agony and mind numbing delight, his laughter delivered all at once with a deep and grainy heave between that allows him to do it all again.
“—GRAHAHAHAHA! GGRRAGHHAHAHAHA! GRAAAAAHAHAHAHA!—”
>heave<
“—stop—”
“—GRAHAHAHAHA! GGRRAGHHAHAHAHA! GRAAAAAHAHAHAHA!—”
>heave<
“—comeonstop—”
“—GRAHAHAHAHA! GGRRAGHHAHAHAHA! GRAAAAAHAHAHAHA!—”
“—c’monarmieIcan’tfuckingtakethis!—”
He is throwing his torso away from me, into me, against me, over me, he is doing whatever he can to stop the electric toothbrushes from staying deep within each underarm; his elbows bend, his fingers splay, his arms shake, his shoulders lift and drop, his waist writhes, his hips buck, his slim, pale, naked frame bounces over the bedsheets as I journey the tools away from his underarms and towards his collarbones, where he cries out a sandy toned and extremely stern, “—NOOO! PLEASE, ARMIE, NO!—” his head snapping from left to right as I begin to devour the hyper sensitive flesh of his neck.
There.
“—NOOOO!—”
There it is.
“—NOOO, NOO, NOOO!—”
I knew it.
“—NO, NO, NOOOO!—”
I saw it briefly, at the Christmas party.
Yup, despite how tormented I was myself that night, I somehow still had the ability to catch how quickly Tim snapped his neck when Miller ran a feather across his jaw.
That man is always sharing his talents even when he has no idea he’s doing it.
After all this time, I did not think I could discover a new spot on Timmy’s body.
After all the sessions, after all the tools, after all the hours, I thought I had covered everything.
I thought I had located all of his weaknesses.
His underarms, his taint, his index toe …
And now, his neck.
I climb onto the bed.
He looks at me in disbelief, as if he can’t quite come to terms with what I’m about to do.
He shakes his head, a whispered, “—yougottabkiddingme—” leaving his lips as I position myself behind his head.
He is already trying to escape, already rolling his body from one side of the bed to the other, his arms stretched out above him, the tug of his wrist restraints keeping him in place.
I sit cross legged, Tim’s head eventually lands over my lap.
He hides the part of his neck he thinks is the worst by clamping the side of his face down over his right collarbone.
He is breathless, giggling, confused and no longer aroused.
“No! Come on, man! Don’t do it, no!” He has been driven to such a state of delirium that the giggles are now part of his language, “Mnn, mnnn, mnn! Mnnn! Mnnn! Plee, plee, pleee-eee-eee-heee — Mnn, mnnn, mn, ple, pleee, eee, mnn!—”
His dick now hangs in a limp swell - there is no time to be turned on, his mind isn’t there, it’s too focused on dealing with what I’m about to do.
The buzz of the electric toothbrushes fills the room.
As the snow continues to fall outside, I bring my tools to the left side of his neck, a side he has no choice but to expose if he is going to so fiercely defend the right side.
This causes his head to automatically snap over to the left, his curls of hair wild due to the force of his movement.
I thought I’d get a ‘no, seriously, Armie, stop’, but it appears he doesn’t want to use words anymore - maybe he can’t - maybe he is too intent on trying to protect himself, maybe he knows I won’t stop, maybe he thinks there is no point …
His neck has nowhere to go, and he knows it.
I bring one electric toothbrush to the right side of his neck and one electric toothbrush to the left side.
Both sides are mercilessly attacked, the bristles whizzing over each side of Tim’s neck with brutal force, causing his giggles to transform rather suddenly into desolate, eager screams.
I’ll have to use that word again.
His upper torso practically leaps away from my lap, his palms planting over the mattress, his legs kicking out into the air.
“—AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAAHAHAH!—”
The bed wobbles and creaks, his body would be pressing against the ceiling if his wrists and ankles were not so secure.
“—AAAAAAAAAGAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! AAAAAAAAGGGGGGHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!—”
I take the electric toothbrush in my right hand over his throat and jaw.
I take the electric toothbrush in my left hand over his collarbone and across the back of his neck.
His head is constantly snapping from left to right, his hair now a knotted mess, his shoulders always squeezing up towards his head in an attempt to catch the tools, even if just for a second.
“—OH MY GOD—” he manages to say, his body thrashing against mine, “—OH MY GOD—” he can’t quite believe this is happening, “—STOP!—” I finally hear, “—PLEASE—” ahhh, there we go, “—ENOUGH!—” hmmm, not quite enough yet, my beautiful Timmy.
I stick to my guns, like I promised in my chant.
The Armie three days ago would have paused.
The Armie of today, knowing what I know, understanding what is at stake, persists.
I continue to enhance the hysteria.
Gear one was playful, intimate and clothed.
Gear two was the introduction to the glove, something that now felt tame compared to this third gear …
My next gear up? A ruthless blend of armpit and neck tickling, considering both areas are so accessible in my current position.
I barely give him the chance to catch his breath before I move the right electric toothbrush down to his right armpit.
He tries to look up at me, the realisation that this is different, that we have evolved, that this is intentionally more intense than last time and the time before that and the time before that once again soaking his handsome and destroyed features; he tries to give ‘puppy dog’ but he doesn’t have the time to act, his right underarm is now suffering thanks to the circles I’m drawing across his armpit hair with the buzz of my tool.
His head snaps back against his shoulder when the other electric toothbrush invades the left side of his neck, his heels digging into the bed so he can nudge himself up closer into my lap - I guess he thinks he can bury his head deep within my thighs but if anything, this attempt to get away just makes things worse for him.
Now, Timmy has unintentionally trapped his head under my balls.
I uncross my legs and stretch them out, over Tim’s arms.
I squeeze Tim’s head between my thighs.
His arms now can no longer wriggle, his head can now no longer snap.
He is trying to say ‘please’, and sometimes I hear ‘no’, but the words never make their way out of his mouth. He is giggling too hard, he is too out of breath, his is too overwhelmed with how this makes him feel.
“—Mnn, plee, pleeee! Ohmygod—mnn! Mnn! Plee, pleeehee-hee-hee-hee! Oh, Armie, no, plea—ffffffffff—ffffff—shhhhh, shhhhh!—”
I showcase that recklessness by discarding my plan.
I leave the ‘neck and pit’ focus and take both of my electric toothbrushes back to just his neck; one on the right side, one on the left.
I must infiltrate this spot, I must make the most of it, I must gather every ounce of energy from him, especially as his head is now so perfectly trapped between my thighs.
Tim’s feet kick at a rampant speed, his tongue pokes out of his mouth and his eyes widen.
To my surprise he is trying not to laugh, but I think this is more of an attempt to control the sensation, to shape the horror into something he can handle.
He provides this babbled, insanity riddled giggle as his feet continue to kick, his cock flapping over his stomach as its fleshy shape continues to flop around with every drag of his heel.
I am literally driving him mad, his mind blown by how much he cannot move, how forced he is to endure something so undeniably ticklish.
He doesn’t even beg me to stop - he knows me, more than anyone else in my life - he understands that darkness I have in me that makes me do things like this to him; he knows it cannot be tamed, it cannot be discussed, it can not be talked into being something kinder.
It has been released, and it is at his neck like a vampire, draining him of energy by running vibrating, spinning, whizzing pieces of plastic around the base of his collarbones.
The babbled giggling continues, until he has to breath in; the heave is short and quick, enough for him to produce the same amount of babbled giggling again as his feet continue to kick and kick and kick and kick …
He is like some Warner Bros cartoon, his eyes may as well be lines that swirl into dots, his tongue may as well be flapping down by his neck, birds may as well be tweeting around his head …
I can his damp curls of hair rubbing and writhing between the hold of my thighs.
Man, it feels incredible.
I am going so hard, with such intensity, that I begin to hear whimpers and whines within the giggling, the grunts and groans amongst the babbled lunacy tell me his is really struggling to handle this.
There is a grain in his expel, a dryness to his throat.
I peer over my lap to look at his face; his cheeks are pink, the crows feet around his eyes defined, his eyeballs wide and present, watery and unblinking.
He expects to handle this for however long I have planned, but like I decided as soon as I knew I had to do this, I lean into my reckless method and choose to keep him on those gorgeous toes of his, by doing the unexpected.
I turn both electric toothbrushes off.
He jolts in surprise, the giggles still leaving his swollen lips in that senseless babble, a cry of joy leaving his throat as I begin to climb away from behind his head.
I crawl around his side.
He watches me, as breathless as someone who had just ran a marathon, wondering when this will end, wondering how it got so excessive so soon …
One minute I’m lifting his t-shirt over his head and stroking his underarms, the next he’s here, perspiration shimmering over his chest, his 5’10 body naked, his skin warm, his flesh vibrating …
I slide off the bed.
I walk back to the desk.
I take a swipe at his right sole as I journey towards my tools, an offended gasp leaving his throat as his right leg kicks at me, like a cobra pouncing out of a basket.
I stand so he can see what I select next.
He has struggled in his bondage with such strength the ropes have stretched.
He can now prop himself up on his elbows.
Still panting, he peers over his chest and sniffs up some emotion, curiosity and dread filling his eyes as he tries to blink away the blurred vision so he can make out my next choice.
His eye lashes flutter shut in dismay …
… as I pick up a thin length of string.
As I look down at Timothée, in his new circumstance, I gain a sudden perspective of how stark a contrast this very moment is, compared to the start of our friendship.
When I scraped my fingernails under his toes whilst filming ‘the nose bleed scene’ in Call Me By Your Name, I was pushing my luck.
The way he bit the tissue, how hard his leg jerked towards his chest, the ferocity in his grin and the sharp intake of breath made taking the risk worthwhile.
When I grabbed at his sides, in front of the fucking press, on the red carpet back in 2017, I was pushing my luck.
The way he scrunched into himself, the firm grip his hands took to my arms, the way he had no choice but to portray a desperate sense of laughter and writhe in front of dozens of photographers made taking the risk worthwhile.
They did not know what I held in my mind.
He did not know what I held in my mind.
And now, almost seven years later, here I stand, with the sight before me presenting clear evidence of what can happen when a fantasy becomes a reality.
I’ve tied the ropes tighter.
Tim’s arms are now pinned to each corner of the bed with such strength that there is no budge.
The dark brown fur of his armpits reek with power; they tempt me, they urge me to infiltrate, to stroke, poke, comb and jab but I force my hands behind my back, restraining my own wrists together with imaginary bondage.
He is still on his back.
His eyes are wide open, the bushy-ness of his eyebrows lifting high so that creases line his forehead.
He is trembling.
Placed by me, between his teeth, is one end of the string.
My eyes follow the string, a taunt, white line, down his chest and over his stomach.
It is looped expertly around the base of his cock.
Whilst I tied it here, only moments ago, my fingertips grazing, moving past and handling Tim’s arousal caused the flesh to stiffen.
Now he is fully erect, the blood of his desires caught in his shaft, thanks to the tightness of the strings knot.
The string continues.
It wraps around his balls and then, still expertly taunt, it travels in a long line over his legs.
His ankles are back together, the cuffs secured to the end of the bed.
The last part of the string is tied around each of his big toes, with a several inches left dangling over the soles of his feet.
“I haven’t used the string on you, since Miller …”
I don’t want to remind him of that day. I do not finish my sentence. However, I do want him to respond.
“Isn’t that right, Timmy? Nod for me …”
He resists. He is reluctant to move an inch.
My tone suggests a warning.
“… Timmy …”
Tim squeezes his eyes shut and nods slowly, lifting and dropping his head carefully.
Doing so means he pulls the string with him, after all, it is contained between clenched teeth.
The string tugs at his erection.
He winces.
I walk slowly towards the foot of the bed.
I kneel at his recently oiled soles.
I pinch at the remaining inches of string - there is enough here to work with, maybe a rulers worth.
“The rules are simple. You have five minutes,” I explain, “Keep the string in your teeth within those five minutes, we go grab a McDonalds. Drop the string, and you remain tied till midnight. Got it?”
Tim, once again, refuses to nod.
He knows what any form of movement will do to his cock.
I can tell his jaw is already starting to ache. Veins have began to protrude at either side of his head. He is urging me to get going, to start, so that this can be over. His face suggests a snarl.
I present the same warning tone in my voice.
“ … Got it ...? …”
He huffs and nods again, slower than before, the string between his teeth tugging at his erection, tightening the knot, containing more of his arousal much to his distain.
I catch a shimmer of pre cum at the tip of his helm.
“Good,” I comfort myself by sitting in the cross legged position, “Okay, kid …” I use both thumbs and index fingers to hold my end of the string, “… Brace yourself … ”
I take the string and loop it around Tim’s left index toe.
His knees immediately bend.
I then take the string around his left middle toe.
All ten of his toes scrunch.
His big toes tug the string towards me, this yanks on the base of his cock, this causes him to hiss through the teeth containing the tip of the length of string.
Already, the risk of it leaving the betweens of his teeth is increasing and it has only been three seconds.
I begin to see saw the string between the toes I have looped it around.
He is now giggling with such intensity that his eyes have begun to water.
I drape the last bit of string through his second to last toe. I drag it through the three toes it currently torments. The drag is slow, the dryness of the string gliding between the hyper ticklish, silky smooth lengths of Tim’s toes. Now matter how hard he scrunches them up, the string always makes its way back to me.
Once it leaves his toes, the giggling stops as the toes flex into a rolling curl.
He is gasping, panting, whining …
I take the string to the toes of his right foot.
I loop it around his index toe,
He pulls.
Then I loop it around his middle toe,
He pulls again, this time, it is more of a kick.
The string tugs at his erection, the jolt was so strong that Tim feels the string almost leave his teeth.
He has to focus, he has to try.
I stretch the string past his second to last toe, where I decide to loop it around his pinkie.
I see saw once again.
He throws his head forwards and glares at me.
He is screaming behind those clenched teeth.
“—MNNEEEEEEEEEEEEE! MNNNEEEEEEEEEEEEE! MNEEEEEEEEEEEE!—”
A tear leaves his left eye.
His cheeks are puffy and punk, his fists now shaking balls filled with wrath.
I see saw, I see saw, I see saw …
His toes scrunch again, the string tugging at his cock.
I use one hand to simply pull and drag the string between the toes I have journeyed it through, whilst my other hand works Tim’s left sole.
My index finger arrives at the arch.
He kicks again, his erection now bulging, the tip wet and expanding.
He arches his back, his head slamming against the pillow - this pulls the string towards him, it increases the tightness of the knot around the base of his cock.
I take my index finger to his left index toe.
I scribble at its pad.
He throws his head up, his hair tossing about like the wild mane of a lion.
He looks at me with an expression I’ll never forget.
For a second, just a split second, I see hatred.
I of course know that Timothée does not hate me.
He hates the string, how it makes him feel, the way it pulls through flesh so smooth it would be impossible for it not to be ticklish.
As I continue to watch the string tug on his cock, the more he thrashes his head and scrunches up his toes, I dare to be honest with myself.
Maybe he does hate me sometimes.
Or, at least, that monster, that part of me that inflicts this sort of elated agony on his body that he wishes could stop but urges to last forever.
I realise that if that is the case, I am happy with that.
As the string leaves the toes of his right foot, he groans out a loud, “—Shhhhhhhhheeeeeeeet!—” the word ‘shit’ difficult for him to verbalise, thanks to how tightly he is containing the string between his teeth.
He is now looking at me with pleading glare; he is even willing to shake his head, which causes the string around his cock to tug his erection tighter, which suggests he is keen to do anything to make me stop reaching up towards my desk for my final tool.
“—Nnn! Nnn! Glee! Gleee! Gleee naaa, na na naaairgushh!—” he tries to say.
“Oh yes, Tim, the hair brush …” I smirk, hairbrush now held in my left hand, string held in my right.
“Nnn …” he shakes his head again, the string tugs at his cock, his big toes inch back, “… I gaann goo gaat, I’ll giee …” he explains.
“You can’t do it?” I translate for you, “You’ll die?” I grin, placing the string between the toes of his right foot, his feet now squirming beneath the strings application, more giggles leaving his mouth, “I know you’re an actor, Timothée, but there really is no need to be so over dramatic …”
I begin to glide the hairbrush over the sole of his left foot.
He throws his head forwards with such gusto that his curls of hair fly over the top half of his face, blinding him.
If he shakes the curls away, if he tries to throw his head back to remove them, the string will tug the hardest it has tugged on his cock, risking the exit of the string from between his teeth.
He is stuck, unable to now move his head, unable to see thanks to the thickness of the curls littering his eyes.
I proceed, his giggling now so strained, so grainy that he is becoming direly breathless.
He begins to scream as the string works its way around his middle toe, see saw, see saw, see saw … The hairbrush now rubbing from side to side, left to right, over the arch of his right foot.
His toes are splayed, his grin ferocious, a little bit of snot bubbling out of his left nostril …
I want to see him do it.
I take my eyes off the glory that is his hyper sensitive toes and I look at his mouth.
I smile at him, reassuringly, my warm glance informing him that it will be okay.
Whatever happens, I’ll make it worth your while.
We talk like this often, with looks and stares, blinks and nods.
He can’t take it for a second longer.
“Ny feet are goo gigilish …” he admits, the ache in his jaw now borderline overwhelming.
“They are, Timmy. They always have been,” my smile continues to express how much I understand, “It’s alright …”
Tim squeezes his eyes shut.
His giggling is enough force to make his head bob, the string always tugging at his cock, the knot around his big toes always tightening …
It has to happen.
It will secure so much.
He’s tired, exhausted, ready to give up which would mean submitting for the rest of the day.
He has no choice.
I have no choice.
I drop the string and the hair brush.
I walk towards him, my foot steps thudding over the floorboards.
His wide eyes follow me, they cross at his nose as my palm lands gently over the tip of his cock.
That is all that is needed.
The touch, simplistic and gentle, is enough for my love to gasp, causing the string to fall from his teeth.
Armie stepped out of his leather loafer - the final part of clothing he needed to remove.
He stood entirely naked, once again, before Miller, John, Andrew and Peter, who all wore black robes and founders masks over their faces.
The floor was marble, the large room dark, the walls lit only by the flicker of candle light.
Armie’s tanned skin glistened, his flesh warming up thanks to the burning trash can placed before him and The Founders.
Lining the room located in a secret building within a building on the outskirts of New York were dozens of other founders; they too were dressed in black robes, they too wore gold embroidered masks, they too had helped fund this system, a system that had requested Armie do what had been forced to do over the past twenty four hours.
Armie’s founders mask, which also worked as a camera, sat in the hands of Peter.
Placed on a stone waist high pillar was a laptop.
Peter plugged the mask into the laptop and uploaded the content Armie had filmed, content consisting of he and Tim’s most intense session with each other, a session acted out just yesterday, without Tim knowing it had been recorded.
Armie felt relief, most of all, however he could not hide his concern at the sight of the tickle chair presented beside Andrew.
“That better not be for me, Miller …” Armie’s hands dangled by his side as he took a step back.
Miller smirked behind his mask, his voice muffled, his tone playful, the burning trash can flickering quietly as dots of amber floated into thin air.
“Climb on in, Hammer. If you refuse …” Miller picked out the USB from the inside of his cloak, “… I share this with the word. And the content you just filmed for us.”
Armie lowered his head.
It had been over three years since he had been tickled by Miller, in a hotel room in Atlanta, where he was made to reveal Tim’s weaknesses, so Miller could break him in front of a roaring crowd at Tickle Fest.
Armie had not let anyone but Tim lay a hand on him since.
Here he stood, nude and exposed, in front of four of The House of White Feathers most dedicated, most skilled, most passionate ticklers.
“No,” he pressed his lips together, “We’re not doing this, like this … I’m not letting you just—”
Miller threw the USB over to Peter, who snatched it out of the air.
“Start with twitter,” Miller ordered, “Use the hashtag, #ticklemechalamet, it’ll be trending within minutes …”
Peter inserted the USB into the laptop.
Before he could nudge it in entirely, Armie reached forwards into thin air.
“Wait!” He wished he could hide the urgency in his voice.
Miller, Peter, Andrew and John slowly turned their masked faces towards Armie.
Armie ran his palm over his eyes and swallowed down a thick bubble of hesitation.
He began to walk towards the chair as the masked founders standing against the stone walls looked on.
Before he took a seat, he paused and faced Miller, his frown deep, his scowl menacing.
“If anyone is going to do it, I want it to be Peter … ” Armie intentionally punished Miller the only way he currently knew how, “ … Not you.”
Miller lifted his shoulders, his smug expression hidden by cracked pearl and shimmering diamonds.
“Chill, Hammer. We’re just gonna talk …”
Armie clenched his teeth, almost as tightly as Tim had clenched his, whilst the string remained in his grasp.
He huffed, climbing onto the tickle chair, where Andrew and Peter began to restrain him in place while the data contained within Armie’s founders mask continued to upload to the laptop.
Miller secured the stocks down over Armie’s ankles, where he briefly turned towards the dozen or so masked robed audience.
“Wolf,” he whistled, “Reveal yourself.”
As Armie’s wrists were secured either side of him, his eyes narrowed out into the darkness.
“Wolf?”
John could not help but dribble behind his mask as Peter curled his hands around the wheelchair he sat in.
“You can be many things in life, son. But in control is not one of them.”
A masked individual, dressed as all of the other founders, stepped into the spotlight.
He removed his hood, and then his mask, showing his face to Armie.
Armie’s mouth fell open.
“Well I’ll be god damned,” said Tim.
