"Cure for obsession: get another one."

- Mason Cooley

***

Miller stood aside, taking a moment to admire his work and the finished set up before him.

Tied to the Greek-style, cream stone, floor-to-ceiling pillar positioned in the middle of his large hotel room, was Aaron.

Aaron lay on his back, in white briefs only.

His legs lay vertically pressed against the surface of the pillar, his ankles roped tightly together, bound to it’s structure. 

He wiggled his feet, soles facing the roof of the room, his fingers curling around the wrist restraints tying his hands to the base of the pillar.

He clenched white teeth over a saliva-drenched gag as his eyes shot fierce looks from left to right, his floppy blonde hair hanging over his tanned, smooth face. 

“You look ... Magnificent,” Miller commented, wiping some sweat from the top of his lip.

He began to approach Aaron.

In his tied position, Aaron’s feet came up to Miller’s waist - the perfect height for Miller to raise his index finger and to simply …

“—Mmmf! Mmphh!”

Aaron squeezed his eyes shut and groaned into the gag as Miller stroked both of his soles, taking his finger up and down the silky soft expanse of flesh, from heel to toe, heel to toe, heel to toe…

“You have too big a heart, boy …” Miller murmured in a hypnotic gaze as he watched Aaron’s feet and toes writhe around beneath his wiggling fingers.

Knock-knock. 

Aaron huffed through his nostrils in relief as Miller took a few steps away from the pillar, waltzing casually to the bedside table, where he picked up his glass of wine and then downed half of the contents. 

He then approached the hotel room door and yanked it open.

His eyes landed on Armie’s nose first.

“Jesus, I’d forgotten about that …”

He then shot a glance to Tim, who stood a little more reserved than he had done when arriving at the same door, at the party, forty eight hours ago.

“Hey, kid …” Miller offered out his hand.

Miller had, only some hours ago, tickled Tim into submission, so hard and so aggressively, that Tim had become uncontrollably and unintentionally willing to give up his pay for attending Tickle Fest.

Thanks to stocks, a roaring crowd and a delicate length of string between Tim’s toes, Miller had quite simply broken Mr. Chalamet.

Tim slid his hands behind his back and looked down at his feet.

“I get it, it’s, it's cool…” Miller accepted the decline of his offer of a civil welcome and instead stepped back, allowing both young men inside.

Armie walked in first, whilst Tim followed reluctantly.

Tim kept his head lowered, until he heard the sound of gagged grunting and uncomfortable moans.

He peeled his eyes up over to Aaron, who lay shuffling on the carpet, his legs pinned up against the surface of the pillar.

Aaron turned his head to Tim, offering him a polite smile behind the gag.

Tim waved awkwardly, unsure how to greet someone in such a position.

Armie tutted.

“You keeping him there long?” He asked.

Miller headed to his bucket of ice, containing his second bottle of Chardonnay.

He scooped up some watery frozen cubes and then contained them within an expensive silk napkin.

“He’ll be here for the rest of the evening,” Miller said, handing Armie the icy pile.

Armie took a seat on the couch, pressing the cold cotton ball against his nose as Tim perched down on the couch’s arm.

“You’re relentless,” Armie mumbled, allowing the shivery sting to numb the space above his upper lip, "Far more than you used to be. Earlier on proved that…”

Miller placed his hands on his hips and nodded over at Tim.

“I had to break him! It was the whole point, the, the whole damn theme of the show! The crowd went wild … “ Miller cleared his throat, struggling to justify his actions, “… And, besides, he’s getting four million for simply being here…” he shrugged casually, “… You of all people should know that I make people work for their worth.”

Armie closed his eyes, choosing to ignore Miller’s attempt to highlight their past and what seemed to most recently be a still current relationship as Lee and Ler.

“… ‘For simply being here’…? Miller …” Armie shook his head, opening his eyes into a focused narrow, aimed directly at the fifty year old standing beside the pillar, “… I think we both know he’s done more than just show up. And I think we both know that you’ve done more than just action some light tickling …”

Tim watched both Armie and Miller exchange their words, as if watching a tennis match.

“I don’t recall saying it would be easy … In fact, I think I remember actively expressing the fact that it would be intense, an endurance, unlike anything he’d experience …” Miller took a sip of wine, keeping one hand pressed against his hip, “… Besides, you’re not paying attention. If you’d listened to me properly, just then, you would’ve heard me say, ’he’s getting four million …’…”

Tim didn’t want to widen his eyes, but he felt them stretch open naturally.

He finally spoke up, tired of feeling invisible whilst the two Tickler’s before him discussed his time at Tickle Fest as if he weren’t here.

“You’re not taking it away?” Tim asked.

Miller winced as he took another sip of his drink, this time the sharpness of the Chardonnay slicing a little at his throat.

“Well,” Miller gulped down, “It’s… Not as easy as that… You see—“

Armie sat up from the bed slowly, removing the napkin from his nose. He spoke as if with a cold, the ice turning his nostrils numb.

“—You know what Miller? I can finish this damn story for you. This is the part where you talk him into another hardcore session, where he submits and you tie him in another God awful, inventive way, tormenting him till it’s sunrise and he’s just as damn hysterical as he was this afternoon…” 

Tim shuffled on the spot, feeling an odd sense of shame as Armie revealed how destroyed Tim felt after his time with Miller, on stage, in The Tickle Chair.

Armie pointed at Miller’s chest, lifting the volume of his voice as he felt himself grow angrier, “And the only way for it to stop is if he agree’s to another, and another, and another … And before you know it we’ve not left this damn hotel in weeks and that four million still hasn’t left your damn account!”

Tim felt experienced enough in this world to now know Armie was right.

Armie himself had even actioned the same play, the same mental and physical manipulation, on Tim, back in his New York apartment.

Armie seemed, at this moment in time, to not even remember that. He didn’t even seem hypocritical, or aware. 

He simply stood there, speaking for Tim, unapologetically having his back, regardless of Miller’s power over him.

Protecting him at all costs, without question, a gear change up since they landed here.

Tim curled his fists into balls. 

With an intention to not get caught in a torturous rotation, Tim confirmed his lack of interest in an authoritative announcement. 

“I’m not doing it, no way…” he pursed his lips shut, glancing down at Aaron, shuffling awkwardly in his bound position, a position Tim didn’t want to see himself in, “… We'd rather just leave empty handed.”

Miller stood in silence, blinking into his wine as he allowed both Tim and Armie to use up their energy, energy unasked for, energy unneeded.

“You two done?” He asked, finishing his wine in one big swoop.

Armie glanced at Tim whilst Tim glanced at Armie.

Miller placed the glass down at the bedside table where he then took a relaxed stroll towards his bathroom, passing Aaron’s feet at the same time, where he offered them a quick tickle beneath the toes.

Speaking from inside his ensuite, Miller shouted out his words.

“I need the both of you to meet someone …!” Miller rustled around in cupboards, opening cabinets and closing drawers, “… Someone very special to me, someone who might make you change your mind …”

Armie and Tim turned to face Miller as he strolled out of the bathroom, carrying some duct tape and two electric toothbrushes.

Tim glanced at the tools with worried eyes, “I uh, I, I don’t think anything is going to ch—“

“—Someone who is responsible, for all of this…” Miller unapologetically interrupted Tim, approaching Aaron’s feet, as Aaron widened his eyes in panic, “… For Tickle Fest, for making me, me …” Miller nodded at Armie, “… For therefore making you, you …” 

He then shot a glance at Tim, “… Someone who funded you being here, Timothée. Someone who’s been desperate to meet you, since they signed the cheque.” 

Tim scratched the top of his lip with his thumb, whilst looking over at Aaron in concern.

Miller lay an individual electric toothbrush on each of the middle of Aaron’s soles, one on the left and one on the right.

He then began to to wrap the duct tape around the toothbrushes and Aaron’s feet, attaching them to his soles, as Aaron twisted and squirmed his legs around in a desperate attempt to stop Miller from doing something he knew he wouldn't be able to handle.

“Hmm,” Miller licked his lips, shooting a look at Tim’s Reeboks, “These are the perfect length, for your size elevens, actually …”

Tim stepped away, glad that Miller hadn’t asked he or Armie to remove their shoes and socks, unlike the last time they stepped foot in this hotel room.

Armie dropped his hands to his side and moved closer towards Miller, choosing to keep his eyes off Aaron, despite wanting to pull him free from his bondage.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He asked.

Miller smirked, adjusting the electric toothbrush’s necks so that the bright blue bristled end pressed neatly over the gap between Aaron’s big toe and index toe.

Tim winced as Miller turned both toothbrushes on.

Wizzzzzzzz-zzzzzzzzzztttttt!

Aaron’s eyes bulged out of his head as the toothbrushes began their vibrating spin, strapped against his soles, tickling the sensitive gap between Aaron’s toes at a rapid, unbearable and constant rate.

“Let’s go,” said Miller, “They’re only charged to last three hours and, above all else …

... John is waiting.”

***

Miller, Armie and Tim boarded a large black limousine parked outside Atlanta’s Regency Hotel.

As the second day of Tickle Fest bustled to a gradual end within the hotel behind them, the limousine pulled away and began it’s short journey to another hotel - this one far larger, far more premium, with it’s owner waiting inside, twenty stories high. 

Tim hated that they had to do everything Miller asked.

He wished Armie wasn’t tied to Miller this way, he wished whatever bribery Miller had over him would just disappear and erase this strong hold stopping them from leaving Atlanta right now, stopping them from boarding Armie’s jet, stopping them from heading back to New York.

If Tim had it his way, they would’ve gone without saying goodbye.

Miller would be a person they’d never communicate with again.

But with his financial circumstance considered and with Armie and Miller’s past existing as such a strong and unspoken presence amongst the three of them, Tim could do nothing but sit in the corner of the limousine, his hands curled over the edge of the leather seat, his green eyes focusing on Armie.

Before anyone could make small talk, Miller twisted in his seat and glanced up at The Candler Hotel, behind the limo’s window.

“Alright, we’re here. Let me do the talking…”

The limo pulled up by fountains, finely trimmed square bushes and the dusk of a setting Sun that shed orange light against the buildings tall and giant cream surface. 

Miller stepped out first whilst Armie followed, eventually soon by Tim, who rolled up the right sleeve to his tee nervously.

Once inside the hotel, Tim gawped at a spiral staircase leading to the first floor of elevators.

Stone columns and marble walls towered over he and Armie as Miller landed his right foot on the bottom step.

“This way…”

Armie admired a gargoyle statue perched on the bottom of the staircases five foot wide banister. A mixture of Lion and Bird, the creature simply stared forwards quietly, immortally stone, protecting this humongous building and it’s owner deep within it’s floors and walls.

No guests, thought Armie.

No staff...

“This ‘John’ … Does he own the hotel, or does he—“

Armie’s question found it’s answer suddenly as Miller arrived at the top of the staircase, pressing the ^ button.

“—He lives in it.”

Tim scratched the back of his head anxiously as the elevator doors opened.

Within a few minutes, they had walked into the elevator and taken it twenty floors up, where they arrived to a inoffensive ping, doors sliding open and the smell of Chinese takeaway.

They walked out onto rich, mahogany coloured carpets, walls decorated in gold coloured wallpaper, dangling chandeliers hanging two metres apart, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen of them down each hall…

A piano played quietly in the background, it’s sound coming from an area unknown within the floor ‘John’ resided in.

Miller approached a tall, oak wooden set of double doors, framed by carved wood-work and partnered by two giant Chinese vases that were almost as tall as Tim.

He tapped his knuckles on the surface of the doors whilst poking his tongue over the top of his lip.

A few seconds later and the doors clanked, swooping slowly open inward, revealing a young, Asian male model, who stood in nothing but a pair of black briefs and a leather dog collar.

The sub, aware of the meeting and it’s timing, bowed his head to Miller and then looked straight over at Tim, almost immediately.

“Please remove your shoes and socks,” he requested, with a polite smile.

Tim shot his eyes from left to right.

“Just … Just me?”

The sub nodded quietly.

Tim swallowed down apprehension.

He looked at Armie, who lifted his shoulders in confusion.

“The quicker we get this done, kid, the quicker we can leave…”

Miller chuckled.

Tim noticed Miller’s laugh, a laugh that seemed to doubt their speedy exit out of here.

With reluctance, Tim hopped on the spot and removed his Reeboks.

He then yanked off his socks, landing bare feet down on the carpet as the sub took his footwear and nodded to Tim in thanks.

He then brushed past Miller and Armie, disappeared entirely down the depths of the hall.

Miller stepped aside, gesturing for Armie and Tim to enter first.

Both young men walked into a giant room, triple the size of Miller’s expensive ensuite back at The Regency Hotel.

It’s ceiling stood around thirty feet hight, it’s windows towered from the floor, up into darkness where their tops were covered by draped, thick, blood red coloured curtains …

Lining the left side of the room were velvet couches and over-sized pillows, doors leading to God-knows where, tall standing side tables with unique looking artefacts and ornaments littering their surfaces …

Lining the right side - a giant, ten foot wide fire place, home to roaring flames and a comforting, orange glow.

At the end of the carpeted expanse stood a long, wide, narrow desk with three leather armchairs positioned opposite it.

On the desk lay over a dozen plates filled with Chinese food, dishes containing pork ribs, egg fried rice, battered prawns … Duck, roasted chicken, noodles…

Perched in the middle of the desk, sat—

“—John …”

Miller approached John with open arms.

Tim slid his hands casually behind his back and placed both feet around a foot apart, another position Armie had recognised as Tim’s attempt to form confidence within himself. 

John stood carefully, taking Miller in a gentle embrace, where he mumbled something quietly into his ear. 

Miller nodded with a grin, staring forwards, as John broke the hug and then went back to perching at the edge of the desk. 

“Boys, this is John, John, this is Timothée Chalamet, and Armie Hammer …” Miller stepped back.

John looked to be around eighty years old.

He wore a baggy blue short sleeved shirt, a pair of white trainers and stone coloured GAP trousers.

He had freckles all over his face. His skin looked aged and warn, golden in colour and creased around the eyes, lips and neck.

His dark hair, grey around the lining, had started to recede twenty years ago, stopping around the age of seventy five, leaving him with a healthy covering, considering his circumstance.

His elbows looked saggy and dry, his teeth sharp and stained, abused by years of cola, coffee and cigars. 

He looked out of breath, weak, as if every movement, every shift of his eyes, every lick of his tongue, came at great expense, used with a slice of energy he’d never see again.

Tim took in every detail within seconds, whilst Armie continued his stare, more out of interest that out-right rudeness, or inability to pull away his narrowed eyes.

Even just perched at the edge of the expensive looking desk looked difficult for the old man to muster.

Framed by a giant window looking out over Atlanta’s setting Sun, John raised his right hand and offered both Tim and Armie a gentle wave.

“Please, help yourself to a plate of food, it’s all for you.”

He spoke in a croak, his throat sounding as if it were coated in tar.

Tim went to take a step forward, his mouth already watering, but Armie landed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back.

Tim swallowed down, looking up at Armie, who kept his eyes on John.

“We won’t keep you for long,” Armie assured, “We’ve got a flight to catch.”

John lifted his eyebrows, the best he could.

“Oh?” He sent a grey tongue over the roof of his mouth, “Leaving Atlanta so soon … That is a shame … “ he then waved his hands at the armchairs, “… Please, sit down.”

As everyone found their chair, Miller grabbed a handful of chicken balls, placing them in a napkin before taking his seat.

John landed both trembling hands over one knee and stared down at the carpet.

His distant, glazed over look travelled a few metres to the right, where it landed on Tim’s feet.

John took a moment to admire the structure, length and shape of Tim’s toes …

The size of each foot, the soft, pale complexion of each top …

The bulbous chunk that formed each of his heels.

Tim scrunched up his toes, shuffled his feet under the bottom of the chair, folding his arms around his chest as he noticed the elderly mans gaze.

John blinked himself free from the shackles of his fetish and reached his hands down below his left side, where long, boney fingers curled around the handles of desk drawer.

John pulled it open, retrieving a five page document bound in the corner by a single paperclip. 

He threw the pages to Armie, in a frisbee style flick, successfully landing them on the thirty three year olds lap.

He then turned his attention towards Tim.

“Apologies, boy …” John readjusted the collar to his shirt, the fireplace’s heat adding to the humidity within the giant hotel room, a hotel room that existed as this old man’s home, “I’m a little … I, I can’t quite believe …” John’s eyes watered as his throat began to tighten, “… I’m, I'm struggling to put my thoughts into words. I’ve … Not in my decades of life, seen someone quite as beautiful as you.”

Tim clenched his jaw.

He plumped up his chest and closed his mouth shut, physically unable to react to the compliment. 

The setting, the company, the situation at hand - it felt too weird, too unique, too unlike anything Tim had experienced before …

So far removed from his normality, from the simple meeting with Brendan at the Tickle Abuse offices, not that long ago.

Get a grip.

Tim smiled, lowering his head quietly.

“That’s very kind.”

John nodded, grinning a display of jagged, uneven teeth.

Armie browsed the document whilst hooking his right leg over his left knee.

Miller sat in silence, slumped into the armchair, chewing on chicken balls as he watched the meeting take place.

“And you’re quite ticklish, from what I’ve heard. The most ticklish they’ve had…” John rolled tired eyes towards Armie and Miller.

Tim lifted his shoulders as the fire behind him crackled, the windows dimming as the sun began it’s final descent. 

“Yeah. It’s uh, it’s a thing.”

John chuckled, coughing into the back of his hand.

“… It’s more than just a thing.”

Armie closed up the document.

He sighed, burying his head in his hands.

Tim glanced over at his Ler, who seemed troubled by what he had just read.

“No…” Armie slid his palms off his face, “… Quite simply: no. He, he won’t do it. And if he chooses to, well, I won’t allow him.”

Miller rolled his eyes, finishing the last of his chicken balls.

“At leasht let the kid anshwer for himshelf,” he said, with his mouthful.

Tim sat forwards, placing his hands in his lap.

“Can you all do me a favour and, and stop talking about me, like I’m not here?”

Miller and Armie nodded in apology. 

John smirked, tapping a shaking index finger against the oak wood of his desk.

“I like him,” he announced.

Tim laughed once, through his nose.

He sat back against the armchair, directing his question not to Armie, or Miller, but to the aged man perched just two feet opposite him.

“What do you want?”

John kept his head angled directly at Tim.

"My ... What a question.”

He remained still, silent, almost on pause, to the point where Tim felt the need to either repeat himself, or to ask the stranger if he were okay.

Finally, John spoke.

“You … Won’t know this, till it’s too late … But, time and … Life, are so very, very precious…” John grunted as he pushed himself away from the desk, fully standing within bright white running trainers, “… All I want, right now, more than anything … Is more time. More time with the thing I love …”

Tim forced himself to keep still as John took shuffled steps towards him.

“I’ve worked with hundreds and hundreds of men, I’ve filmed more content then you can imagine. I’ve tickled the young, the old, the slim, the fat … I’ve done it all over the world, for over sixty years …” John stopped his shuffle, standing over Tim, casting his shadow amongst his slim frame.

“… You, you famous, handsome, attractive young man. You’ll be my last.”

Tim could smell the man’s breath from here.

A mixture of cappuccino, ash and stale alcohol. 

His silent reply nudged John to further explain himself.

He turned around and began to pace from one end of the desk to the other, his long arms behind his back, his crooked fingers hooked around each of his boney wrists.

“You see, I have a buddy who’s a Scientist. And he works in Washington. He told me, this ‘coronavirus’ will be with us for the next two years, at least …” John returned to Tim’s side, where he looked down at him as if Tim were some obedient, waiting puppy.

And he is, thought John.

A pet, unaware of his fulfilling potential.

“And, that works for me, b-because, that’s how long I have left to live …” John smiled, taking some careful steps away from Tim, so he could eye him entirely, from head to toe, “… And it works for you, too, because, whilst coronavirus is around, your career in acting is pretty much going nowhere, am I right?”

Tim shifted his eyes to the left, resting his chin on his knuckles as he endured the stinging reminder that all of his movie projects were either on hold for the foreseeable future, or had been cancelled entirely.

His crippling debt, the landlord phone calls he chose to ignore everyday, the texts from his Mother about the letters arriving through the door …

… It had all lead him here, beside Armie, his temporary financial solution, a solution that had evolved into this very moment, in this hotel room, with this old man.

“I can see the worry in your eyes…” John spoke quietly, like a Grandfather, however the warm tone delivered itself with a sprinkle of acidity.

Armie sat forwards, offering John a pleasant smile.

“He’s fine. We ... Have an agreement, of our own. Honestly,” Armie held out his hand, “Thank you for the offer, but, we’re alright.”

John glared at the hand with insulted rage.

He clenched his teeth and widened bloodshot eyes.

He remained silent, allowing his facial expression to speak for itself.

Armie dropped his hand over his kneecap, gathering the suggestion that he had no choice but to simply ride this meeting out.

John craned his neck back towards Tim.

“I’ll not leave your friend here out of pocket. I’ll pay you instead, for what you were contracted to be paid, which I believe is the total sum of ten million dollars, alongside the company of Mr. Hammer …” John unhooked his hands from behind his back, sliding them into the depths of his trouser pockets, “… And then I’ll also agree to hand over the four million, for the convention you so kindly took part in …” 

Tim slowly turned his head around, so that he looked up, facing John.

The man sounded genuine, passionate, authoritative …

As if he were making the biggest offer of his life, the final offer, of his life.

Tim shuffled in his seat, knowing this business now all too well.

He waited for the suggestion of a lengthy tickle session, a period of time in some kind of contraption where his worst spots were relentlessly explored, all so this money could be released.

He waited for John to say that Armie and Miller would join in. 

Three at once,

Two at my feet,

One at my pits,

Naked, no doubt …

Tim took in a breath, readying himself for a third proposal, his first with Armie, his second with Miller …

… This one, right now, about to leave the lips of an eighty year old hotel franchise owner.

“All I ask is that you accompany me, in this building," said John, "You be my, my toy, if it were … Until I die.”

The room fell grimly quiet.

Only the crackle from the fireplace sounded through the large expanse of surrounding, a surrounding filled with the scent of grease, desperation and soy sauce.

Tim clenched his teeth again - this time harder, this time partnered with some nervous blinks.

“But …” he shot a look from Armie to Miller, from Miller to John, “… That’s, that’s two years …”

John nodded, matter of factly, “It is … And I’ll pay you one million dollars, for each day.”

Miller clapped his hands, excited by the offers announcement.

“Now that’s what you call a plot twist!”

Armie felt himself sink into the leather confines of his armchair.

He did the math in his head as Tim frowned into his own lap, his face drenched in disbelief.

“That’s…” 

Armie didn’t want to say the number out loud, he didn’t want to suddenly entice Tim towards the idea, he didn’t want Tim to accept, to go, to leave...

“… That’s over seven hundred and thirty million dollars…” Miller declared loudly, with a shake of his shoulders.

Armie winced.

Fuck you, Miller.

Tim took his hand over his mouth.

He laughed into his palm, in utter shock. 

Then, he watched John take a perched seat back at the edge of the desk.

“Initial thoughts?” John folded his arms, triumphantly aware of the size of the offer.

Tim sat forwards, resting his elbows over his knees and curling his fingers between each other.

“How … How do you even have that much money?” He asked.

John stroked the ashy stubble to his wrinkled jaw.

“Well, I’ve lived a very, very long time, boy. I own over four hundred hotels, on this planet. Hell, I live inside one, rent free…” he dropped both hands at his side, almost breathless at the situation at hand, his weakened heart struggling to deal with the exhilaration a moment like this created beneath his dying skin, “I have no family, no friends…” John sighed, as if thinking back a few decades in sadness, “… No children … I just have millions upon millions upon millions of dollars and … I want them to fund what is most important to me, in my final moments. And that is playing with a handsome buck, like yourself.”

Miller sat back in his chair, quiet and still.

“Damn …” he muttered. 

As Miller thought to himself in silence, Armie glanced over at Tim, unaware of how anxious he looked, how wide his eyes had parted.

Tim acknowledged Armie’s panicked expression straight away.

Just as they had both landed in a moment of euphoric understanding, on a ‘next step’ of their friendship, their partnership, their relationship, their whatever the fuck this is …

… Seven hundred and thirty million dollars had landed on the table.

Armie felt himself sink further into his chair as Tim looked away from him, turning his attention completely on John.

“And it’s ... It's just tickling … Nothing, nothing sexual, just… Just bondage, and, and tickling and … And I can see my friends, and and my family, when I want? I can …” Tim wanted to face Armie, but he kept his eyes on John, focusing on the cracked creases around his lips, “… I, I can see Armie, when I like?”

John folded his arms around his chest.

“Yes, on everything. I’d require you naked for some sessions, but my hands will touch everywhere, besides your penis or your behind. And yes, to Mr. Hammer. It seems you both are very close and,” once again, John looked to be staring back into the past, at a harder time in his life, “And I wouldn’t want to ever come between something so special.”

Tim chuckled into his shoulder.

“Fuck, seriously..? All that money, for tickling?” He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

He wanted to say ‘it’s just tickling, it’s just feet, man you guys are crazy’, but he had seen the passion in the audiences eyes, the sheer joy fetishists got from seeing people bound and abused, their senses infiltrated beyond comprehension.

He had eyed the numbers, the amounts of money, the DVD’s, the equipment, the people who had walked through Tickle Fest’s doors.

It wasn’t just tickling.

It wasn’t just feet.

It wasn’t just an obsession.

It was something far more powerful, something ancient and sexual and compelling and true, something unexplained and perverse and blinding...

Something that would make an eighty year old man hand over his fortune, without question, to a ticklish, twenty three year old boy.

Tim thought about what he could do with seven hundred and thirty million dollars.

I'd never have to work again.

But, you love to work.

You love to act...

You were just getting started.

You were big...

People were talking about you.

He huffed.

You could stop the calls from the landlord.

You could pay off the apartment.

Fuck, you could buy a dozen apartments,

In New York, in London, anywhere …

It’s just two years.

Tim felt Armie’s eyes burning through him.

He remained still, focused on the decision at hand.

He thought about those two years.

He pictured himself, strapped naked, to some expensive, giant, velvet bed.

He imagined what it would be like, to be tickled by John, this eighty year old tycoon. 

The old mans tongue running down his stomach, over his hips, down his thigh and towards his feet …

Tim swallowed down an overwhelming sense of discomfort.

Not because of the man’s age, or his presence …

… But because he wasn’t Armie.

He wasn’t the person who’d been doing that for the last two weeks, the person who had tortured him so hard that he thought he might explode.

He wasn’t the person who had given him the most interesting and unique experiences, the biggest pushes to complete and ultimate oblivion.

Experiences that had turned Tim on in ways he didn’t think possible, in ways he genuinely thought he would never feel.

Tim made his decision based on what he wanted to experience himself, not over the next two years, but over the next two weeks.

He opened his mouth, holding back a smile, proud of his knowing, his utter truth, his confident awareness in regards to how he felt.

“I can see the cogs spinning …” John chuckled.

Tim closed his mouth, offering John an accomplished smile.

“Thank you, sir. But, I’m gonna politely decline.”

Armie had been holding his breath for longer than he thought.

He exhaled heavily at Tim’s answer, whilst Miller sat forwards in less surprise than he had anticipated having only fifteen minutes ago.

John allowed his wrinkled eyelids to fall, hiding glazed over orbs of grey.

“You ... Realise that means you won’t get the four million, for the past two days …” he mumbled.

Tim nodded.

“Yes sir.”

John opened his eyes, where his focus landed on Tim’s feet.

He spoke towards Tim’s toes, whilst addressing Armie.

“You’re one lucky sonovabitch, you know that? You have your whole damn life ahead of you …” John peeled his glance away from Tim’s heels and then pierced them through Armie, as if Armie had just received, without even really trying, the greatest prize on Earth, “…  I envy you, young man. I envy you more than anything.”

Armie pressed his lips together, running fingertips over his forehead in an attempt to do something about how awkward he felt, for the elderly man standing before him.

“You’ve had a lifetime, of this, John. Celebrate that, at least.”

Tim blinked slowly at Armie, quietly impressed by how well he had put together such well rounded, closing words. 

John turned back to Tim, allowing his eyes to travel over his body.

“He’s the perfect ticklee. Quite possibly, the most perfect 'lee I’ve ever seen …” John lifted his hand, biting down on his knuckles in frustration, “… Damnit … Are you certain? You’re really going to turn down seven hundr—“

“— I’m one hundred percent certain,” Tim confirmed, with a confident nod. 

John sat, defeated, disappointed, not convinced by the reality taking shape in front of him.

Had the last time he had tickled someone as attractive as Tim been six years ago?

Were his days of being a Ler over?

Would he spend the next two years, in isolation, alone?

He had no more to give.

Nothing else to offer.

What he had written on that document was his everything, his total being, his final amount, not a penny more simply because there was not a penny more …

… If Timothée could turn down an amount that high, John knew he stood in a position where nothing else would work ...

... Except for one final move from Miller, of course.

But that isn't for now, thought John.

That's for a phone call, later.

John felt a dark cloud of upset sweep over the remains of his insides.

If I were thirty years younger, he might’ve accepted.

John built up walls to stop floods of regret from drowning him. 

He forced himself to move on, whilst aiming to do so with one final request.

“Before you go… Can I, at least, just touch them?”

John flicked his teary-eyed pupils down to Tim’s feet.

Armie shook his head at Tim, whilst Miller slowly stood from his armchair, readying the groups departure.

Armie watched Tim carefully.

He knew him better than anyone else did, in this room, in Tickle Fest, in this city...

He knew Tim would be experiencing pangs of pity, sharp chunks of guilt, drops of dread and compassion for the desperate, uncontrollably wealthy soul before him. 

He knew he’d allow it.

Tim sat back in his seat.

He hooked his right foot onto the chairs edge and then nodded, some curls of hair finding their way over his face.

“Sure, man. Go ahead.”

John shuffled away from the desk like an excited Armadillo.

He lifted his hands into a clawed position.

Then, he slowly curled his fingers around Tim’s ankle, lifting his foot carefully above Tim’s head.

John admired the length of Tim’s sole, the silky, soft skin that made up the bottom of his foot.

Tim sat there, quietly, biting his lower lip in impatience.

Get this over with.

Give the bastard one last moment.

Then get the fuck out of here.

John closed his eyes, leaning forwards.

Miller rubbed his right arm awkwardly as he watched the eighty year old kiss Tim’s toes.

Miller grimaced as John sent a trembling, dry tongue over the side of Tim’s foot.

Tim’s foot twisted when he felt the sharp nails of John’s other hand scrape across his sole.

Armie went to step forward but Miller held him back.

John stopped, keeping Tim’s foot in his grasp.

“No, no. It’s alright …” John spoke in a dribble, "He’s alright …” 

Tim bit into the collar of his t-shirt as he endured John’s light tickling.

An index finger under the toes, a press of the thumb at the heel...

Tim held in giggles, squirming in his seat, his big toe now being pinched by the nails of John’s thumb and index finger.

One more drag down the arch, where Tim gasped inward.

And then, for the last time ever, John’s fingers left the sole of a ticklee’s foot.

Tim dropped his feet back down to the carpet.

John dangled his right hand at his side, whilst his left smeared saliva away from wrinkled lips.

“Thank you,” said John, with a shaken delivery in his voice, “Thank you, for everything.”

***

Outside Atlanta Airport, on the private runway, Timothée stood ten feet away from Miller and Armie, his left hand clamped under his right armpit, his right hand pressing a phone against the side of his face.

Miller slid his hands into his pockets as he watched the twenty three year old pace from left to right, enduring the drizzle of rain around him, his face creased into a stressed, frustrated position.

He knew the boy had debts.

That’s the entire reason he were here.

He could be on the phone to anyone.

Tim kicked some stones across the tarmac.

He hung up the phone, lowered his head, he began to furiously type texts and emails...

Miller turned towards Armie as Armie’s private jet began to roll slowly towards them.

“The four million should be in your account by midnight.”

Armie shifted away from their transportation home and slowly took blue eyes over to Miller.

He said nothing.

He feared speaking would risk them losing it all over again.

Instead, he smiled at the man who used to be his Tickler, and offered out his hand.

Miller grabbed Armie’s wrist and pulled him in for a hug.

“I was always going to make sure he got paid,” Miller confessed, smacking Armie powerfully on the back, “It made for a good show though, right?”

Armie chuckled, unable to contain his relief. 

He rested his head on Millers shoulder as he watched Tim make another call, this time hearing Tim say the word ‘landlord’.

Miller broke the embrace, keeping his hands on Armie’s sides.

He looked his lee in the eye as the Atlanta rain began to harden.

“You’re nothing like me, kid,” Miller patted Armie’s shoulders, “And I’m glad about that.”

Armie watched Miller take a few steps back as the private jet doors swung open.

He then watched Miller walk away, with his hands in his pockets.

Armie didn’t want to call out his name.

He wanted this part of his life to finish, like it should do, right this second.

But Armie had one last thing he wanted to wrap up.

“Miller …”

Miller paused, turning to face Armie, as the private jet’s engines began to roar.

He said nothing - he offered Armie only a small, readied smile.

“Miller … Make sure … Make sure Aaron, is alright … Will you? He’s only a kid. He … He doesn’t have the support, the, the people around him, to keep him safe. Not like Tim does. Not like … Not like I used to…” 

Armie then narrowed his eyes, delivering his final words as more of a warning.

“… Go easy on him.”

Miller smirked, nodding into the tarmac.

“That boy has a story of his own, y’know? I hope you get to hear it one day. Because believe me, Hammer. He’s more than fine.”

Armie kept still, silent, tiny waves of rain rolling against his chest in a cold, wet breeze.

Miller glanced down to his pocket as his phone began to vibrate.

He pulled it out as Armie watched on.

The phone buzzed in Miller’s palm, lighting his face a gentle blue.

On the screen, ‘John, calling …’

“I gotta go,” Miller waved the phone in the air, “Like I said, Hammer, he made me, me, and I made you, you.”

The metal staircase rolled onto the tarmac as Miller saluted Armie goodbye and began to walk away from the runway, towards a fire exit guarded by security, and then back into the airport.

Armie smirked, feeling surprisingly content with Miller’s departure.

Tim hung up his phone, returning to Armie’s side.

He noticed Millers absence, whilst wiping some rain away from his face.

“He’s gone already?”

Armie nodded.

“He gave us the money.”

Tim felt his mouth fall open.

Holy shit.

Tim couldn’t verbalise his thoughts.

All he could do was look up at Armie’s jaw, his eyes travelling directly into his exhausted gaze.

And then, “Mother fucker…” came out, in a shocked whisper.

Armie placed a comforting hand on Tim’s back, laughing at his choice of words, leading him towards a private plane readying it's comforting insides for it's two passengers..

“I don’t know,” Armie replied, “Maybe he’s not that bad after all.”

***

Miller opened his hotel room door, where his eyes fell on Aaron, still bound to the pillar, still wide eyed and suffering as the electric toothbrushes continued their buzz against his toes.

Aaron squirmed around on the carpet, breathless and gagged, as Miller pulled the toothbrushes and tape away from his feet.

Aaron arched his back, collapsing his body weight against the floor as he glared teary eyes up into the ceiling, his blonde hair hanging in sweat stained floppy strands over his face.

Miller kept Aaron where he was for now as he strolled over to his MacBook, sitting on charge, plugged in by the desk. 

Miller opened it up, taking a seat, typing in a password that lead him to a hidden folder within the many layered folders nested in the depths of his hard drive.

The tiny white arrow hovered over one file, a file with the title ‘Timothée Tickled’.

As Aaron writhed around in the background, Miller turned down the computers volume and pressed play.

The video popped open, showcasing Tim in ankle stocks, in Miller’s studio apartment.

Tim’s face, clearly visible, screams into the studio’s surroundings, echoing past wine glasses and opera music, as Miller and Armie send hairbrushes over each of his baby oil drenched soles, non stop.

This video had the potential to make back the money he just spent.

It could be on PornHub, in less than fifteen minutes.

Miller felt his arousal grow in his trousers as he watched Tim squirm and shout, his feet violated by tickle torture, his bucking body totally unaware the entire session had been caught on camera.

Eighty years old.

Riddled with cancer.

His last wish, not to spend time with people he loved, or watching his favourite movie, or visiting an important place in the world, special to him for whatever reason …

John simply wanted to perverse, to lust, to blow every last dime on a boy he doesn’t even know, a person, a human, with only one purpose - to be tickled, molested, again and again …

That was his dying wish.

So consumed by his fetish, so controlled by the need to touch, to tease, to torment.

Miller closed his eyes as he thought back to John’s long tongue curling around Timothée’s toes.

His fragile, frail hands holding onto Tim’s ankle, for dear life, as if it were the last time he’d touch youth, beauty, sensitivity as precious as what he’d seen in the celebrity actor.

Do this, and you become him.

Maybe worse.

Miller picked up the file and dragged it to the trash can.

He landed it inside with an almighty thud.

Then he hovered the tiny white arrow over the ‘empty’ button, where the trash can would be emptied and the video would be deleted forever.

Miller swallowed down uncertainty, doubt, regret …

He fought back temptation, a force far stronger than it ever had been.

You can use this, against him.

You could get him, naked, tied to a bed, tickled for hours and hours.

“Do it, Timmy, or I release the video…”

He spoke the bribery out loud, in the form of a whisper.

The words made him feel sick.

But it would be so, so easy.

The things you could experience with him, all that you could achieve, the scenarios, the bondage, the time spent at his soles …

… The ways you could make him beg.

Miller imagined holding a young man against his will, that way, for the rest of his life.

For two years, like John had requested.

Then once the old bastard had died, Tim would be his.

For twenty, thirty, maybe even forty years …

Miller felt ill at the thought.

He recognised self-hatred, disgust, anger. 

He felt physically and literally uncomfortable, within himself.

He took out his phone and began to text John.

He typed the words, ‘video got deleted by mistake. I’m sorry’.

He returned the tiny white arrow to the ‘empty’ button.

He pressed it with all the force of his index finger.

And then, within the time frame of the sound of a simple click, Miller watched the greatest tickle content he’d ever witnessed disappear forever.

TCTLR continues in Chapter Twenty Five - ‘Show Me’ …