An undisclosed location.
_________
“Who did you pay for?”
I turn to my right.
It’s like staring into a mirror.
A stranger, same height as I am, dressed in a cheap black suit and tie waits for my reply.
I have no idea what they look like.
Just like me, they wear a mask.
“Uh … “ Christ, I sound nervous, “ … I wasn’t sure if, if we were allowed to—”
“—I got Joe Keery,” the guy seems smug, “Not as famous as some of the others in the catalogue,” he’s a little jittery, I don’t blame him, “So I got a good price,” he takes a small bottle of vodka out of his jacket pocket, unscrews the lid, lifts the bottom of his mask and takes a swig, “Hey, I think we’re leaving …”
We stand surrounded by other people just as keen, all dressed smartly, all wearing masks …
There are men, women, couples, groups and partners …
There are others like me …
The ones who have come alone.
Small talk hushes suddenly.
The warehouse we’ve been gathered in is dark and wet.
Bright spotlights pierce through the nighttime.
I squint behind the mask.
The doors rattle open.
There is a large coach and several masked men dressed in leather boiler suits.
They usher us out of the warehouse, the guy with the vodka has gone missing when I turn around to see if he’s following.
It’s weird, the ordinary things you notice, when placed in such an extraordinary situation;
The sparkle that comes from the woman’s ballgown, just a few people ahead of me.
The amount of heat contained between the plastic and my jaw.
The pinch across my right heel with each step I take, my mind informing me that when tonight is over, I gotta return these new shoes tomorrow, they’re way too small …
We climb inside the coach, I take the first empty seat I find, I search around aimlessly - man, it’s full.
The coach wobbles as the engine starts, we begin to make our way to The House.
A group in the back are drunk.
They’ve broken protocol and have removed their masks.
They’re cheering, drinking from bottles of champagne, it’s spilling everywhere.
I don’t blame them for being excited.
I thought I’d feel the same.
Instead, I’m anxious; I feel a little sick, I wish I’d eaten, I try hard not to will the evening away.
I just want to get inside the room.
I focus on the face of the ticklee I have purchased.
I remind myself how hot it’ll be, once my tie is loosened, once I see him on the bed.
I look out the window.
I watch the Los Angeles landscape pass by.
It’s so dark out there, but so bright inside this coach.
I focus my eyes.
My mask in the reflection stares back at me.
At first I find the visual startling; that emotionless expression, that clinically white presentation, the cheapness of the plastic.
My eyelashes hook perfectly through the eye holes.
I am consumed by this identity I have been given.
It owns me and I own it.
Tonight, I am not me.
I do not work as a Marketing Director.
I do not have a cat called Stuart or an apartment in Greenwich Village.
I am not my age, my taste in music or my recent sobriety.
I did not sell my home to secure this bid.
I am a Masked Tickler, a member of The House of White Feathers, my goal is to simply make him beg …
And in fifteen minutes time, it begins for him, for us, for those inside this coach …
… It begins for me.
Arrival time: 20:29
_______
The people who removed their masks and got a little too champagne happy have been bound, gagged and escorted away.
The rest of us bundle out of the coach and spend the first thirty seconds of our arrival gawping at the size of this place.
Three floors, stone pillars beside the giant doorway, a fountain in the middle of a circular gravel path …
Even though it’s one of hundreds, it still feels special.
It’s like I’m on a school trip, surrounded by classmates who are here for the same reason as me.
The only difference is, I don’t know these students.
We’re strangers, with only one thing in common.
Walking into The House feels like we’re entering The Chocolate Factory, or if I stick to my school trip analogy, an exhibition of sorts.
There are chandeliers, marble heads on plinths, flickering candelabras, oak framed portraits and rich, red carpets.
The walls are embroidered with cream and gold paper, the ceilings are high above our heads.
We’re handed a glass of something fizzy, I politely decline.
As we’re walking up a giant spiral staircase, I trail my fingertips over bullet holes that are yet to be plastered in.
I think of the rumours we’ve heard, the time Logan was almost rescued by a gun wielding Hemsworth.
I didn’t think it was true. My own eyes behind the mask now confirm it did actually happen.
I smile.
This isn’t an exhibition. It’s a museum.
It presents history, artefacts, relics from events that have taken place under this rooftop over however long ago.
I can hear the laughter, the screaming, the breathless pleading coming from all the individual rooms and suites at the top of the staircase.
My heart begins to race.
Who are behind the locked doors?
My throat thickens, I feel more thirsty than ever.
I regret turning down the booze.
I shuffle to a stop.
I’m now in a patient line of people.
Slowly, the line decreases and gradually, step by step, I find myself arriving at the second floor.
A masked man greets me; I feel my mouth fall open behind the oval as I take in his appearance.
To say he is ‘different than the others’ would be an understatement.
He is dressed all in black; black suede shoes, a black suit, black gloves, a black shirt and tie …
He is masked, like all of us, but his face isn’t hidden by cheap plastic. Instead, his identity is concealed by black cloth wrapped so tightly around the entirety of his head and neck that I wonder how he can see, how he can speak, how he can breathe …
The role he plays tonight has swallowed him up like a python taking a deer. Whoever he is when on the outside of these walls is somewhere beneath all the black but, tonight, the people behind me, me myself, the ticklee’s paid to entertain us this evening … None of us will get the chance to see him, he has made that abundantly clear just by standing there.
He speaks bluntly, his voice monotone and muffled.
“Your pass.”
My hands pat my jacket.
I adjust my mask and calm myself down by taking a quick breath.
I reach inside and pull out my paperwork, printed within the secret confines of my home basement.
The surface of my pass presents The House’s logo and an image and name of the person I’ve paid to experience.
My pass is folded crisply - as I present it, I find myself feeling proud at how clean it has been kept.
The Man in Black unfolds it like he has done so thousands of times before.
He lifts an iPhone shaped device to my face and scans my mask.
The device beeps.
He nods to the left hallway.
“Welcome Member Number Nine Thousand and Forty Six … Your ticklee awaits you, in Room No. Fourteen.”
He folds up the pass and gives it back to me.
I snatch it eagerly.
I pocket it.
Before I move forwards, he places a hand on my shoulder and fastens me to a halt.
“Make sure you never forget this,” he whispers in my ear.
He steps aside and I brush past him.
The person behind me has their pass ready, as I stroll down the hall.
The carpet is thick and soft beneath my feet, my fast pace makes no noise at all.
I hear hysterical laughter, followed by a breathless, “Blue! Blue! Blue!” from behind one of the closed doors.
Someone has broken, someone has yelled their safe word.
That someone could be famous, maybe he’s a model, an actor, a singer … I can’t see through walls, I don’t know what to tell you.
I arrive at Room No. Fourteen.
My face is inches from the wooden surface of the door.
I check my watch.
The confirmation email said my session starts at nine … I’m only allowed to enter at nine on the dot, not a minute before, not a minute after.
I have sixty seconds.
Another person like me passes behind; it’s the same woman in the sparkly gown, who caught my eye earlier.
She arrives at her door, her hand lands over the door handle, she lifts her masks and looks at me.
It’s Jaya, I haven’t seen her in months!
She grins and winks, she knows how I feel, she feels it too, soon she’ll have her hands on what she’s paid for, just like I will.
I grin back.
We’re like children, ready to be let loose in a candy shop.
However, what is on the other side of this door is not made up of sugar or sweeteners, honey or syrup.
It is made up of flesh, a brain, eyes and a mind; feet, toes, hands, fingers, underarms, legs, a neck and nipples.
It is sensitive, a ticklish scale of 8.5 out of 10, according to his profile.
And in less than five seconds, he’ll be mine.
He grunts through his gag as soon as I close the door.
My throat tightens at the sight before me.
He is already writhing the best he can, bound in an exceptionally tight starfish shape to the giant four poster bed.
He is blindfolded, wearing only a tight black thong - I have no idea how long he’s been like this, how long they have had him ‘prepared’.
He is slender and pale, his skin as white as milk.
He looks so captured, so taken, so here against his will.
I remind myself he signed a contract.
The third season of his Netflix show only happened because I allow it, because I’ve funded it, because I’ve asked for this to happen.
Jesus, the soles of his feet look so, so soft.
“Mphh…”
He has acknowledged my presence.
It’s five minutes past, I’m wasting my time.
I thought I’d jump in.
I thought I’d just go at it.
I can barely move.
You’ve sacrificed so much to be in this room.
What are you waiting for?
I step forwards.
“Mphh?”
He faces me, his teeth clenching onto the ball gag.
He growls like an animal, his well trimmed eyebrows burrowing into a deep frown.
Yeah, he’s been here for a while, maybe longer than he agreed …
Hm.
He knows he’s here to be used, that is all.
He signed for, ‘anything but sex’.
That opens a gateway to so much …
How about I shed some clarity …
I approach.
He digs his bare heels into the corner of the bed as if his life depends on it.
He thrashes from left to right at a speed that surprises me.
Is he acting? Pretending to be distressed? Has he changed his mind?
I arrive by his face.
He’s too handsome to gag.
I remove the plastic chunk between his teeth and unbuckle the straps.
He licks his lips and tries to look at me from behind the blindfold.
I whip that off his head, messing up his hair as I do so.
He blinks, taking in the sight of my mask. His eyes are such a dark brown colour that they almost appear as orbs of black.
“H … Hello,” he says quietly and politely, his Swedish accent is borderline stunning.
—I place my index finger over the lips of my mask.
“Shhh.”
I don’t want to gage in conversation. I don’t want to make him feel better. I don’t want to make me feel better.
He has no idea.
I run my fingertips over his neck and down his chest.
He does as he has been contracted to.
“Wel, welcome to an hour with me, uh, Edvin Ryding …”
I feel him lose his breath as my delicate touch floats over his stomach.
“Th, thank you for submitting your funds and for—” he gasps, chewing on his lower lip as I toy with his belly button, “—And for,” he’s forgetting his lines, my touch is distracting him, “Securing the third season of—”, he presses his lips together, “—Mnn—”, he can’t take me touching his waist, “—That—” he wants to admit something.
Of course he does.
That’s why we’re here.
I have to know, I have to see.
I journey the fingers of my right hand gently into his armpit, my graze is soft and kind, I barely touch him.
From where I now kneel, I see his body arch into the mattress; he does not laugh, he does not protest, I think he sees my fondle as an accident.
I wonder what it will be like to straddle him, to see his reactions from a birds eye view.
Step by step, I tell myself.
I take off my jacket and roll up my sleeves.
He notices my tattoo, the festival bands I still have on my wrist from the summer.
His curiosity lifts. He realises that I’m real, I’m a person, I have a life and a past and a future.
I also have a present.
I go into his armpits again, this time with a firmer stroke, it’s obvious he thought the first time was a mistake, or at least a tease at what I could do whilst he’s so tightly bound.
He reluctantly thrashes into himself; the bed creaks, the bondage tugs and his heels lift, he whispers a flustered, “—Hey—” into his armpit as he watches my fingers curl - he holds in a startled chuckle, he is uncontrollably coming to terms with my intentions …
I reach into his other underarm with my other hand - this time I dig a little.
“Hey! Don’t do that!”
Pleading already? And in a whine. I like him.
His desperate fluster, his alarmed gasps, the way he sinks into the bed, it’s all enough already for me to want to take it up a notch.
I dig, I dig, I dig.
I thought he would arch his back or twist a little.
He leaps upward and tries to throw himself across the mattress, the restraints hurtle him back with a bounce.
“No!—” He shouts, “No, I can’t take that!” He reveals.
I persist.
He wriggles with intense determination.
He is panting.
He heaves, he tugs, he pulls and he cackles.
I see it, in how high he raises his eyebrows, that look that suggests this is the best and worst thing to ever happen to him.
“Really?” He whines, “Enough of this!” I want him to ask the question, I want to hear him grapple with his disbelief, I want to hear him try to understand.
He does so, within seconds.
“Are you going to tickle me, like this?”
After wanting to hear those words so desperately, I find myself not giving him an answer, as I continue to dig into his underarms.
He is looking into my mask for salvation, his fists are clenched with such might his knuckles look like they might burst through his skin.
I stop.
I crawl onto the bed and then I straddle him.
He looks overwhelmed by my height, my weight, my sudden presence over his waist.
He blinks, awaiting a response, I can see it in his face, he needs to know what the next fifty minutes will be like …
I nod slowly.
He sinks his weight into the bed once more and shakes his head.
“Damn,” he tugs at his restraints, “I, I give in, okay?” He sounds adamant, his reality is dawning on him, “I’m not going to be able to stand it, I, I—”
—I dance my fingertips across his ribcage.
He can’t talk anymore, you can see he wants to, but he’s forced to hold his breath.
“Oh! Mnn—”
I pinch and grope across his stomach, my fingers reach his nipples - I tweak them, causing him to try and thrust me off his waist.
“Ow!”
I remain firmly in place.
“Please! Please!” He is starting to shriek, “Please! Please!—”
I caress his neck and his jaw, his head thrashes from left to right.
The leather squeaks, I can feel his legs kicking behind me, he really does not like the fact that he’s so tightly bound as I do the thing he probably does to his closest people, the thing he sees as friendly and playful, but in a situation like this, it’s fucking torture …
“Oh! Really? Come on!—” he looks at me as if I’m stupid, as if what I’m doing is the worst thing ever, as if I should have the common sense to of course not inflict this kind of hell on him, “Are you listening? Come on, hear me!”
He leaps forwards, he tries to bite at my chest, his teeth nip on the material of my shirt.
Now I’m laughing.
I dig my fingers into his underarms.
Such force propels him back down, his shoulders slamming over the mattress.
“Agh! Agahahaha! Agaha!”
I wobble as the bed shakes.
He looks at me, bewildered and concerned.
I want regret to fill his mind.
I want him to wish his wrists were never pinned so far apart, that his underarms were never so exposed, like they are now.
I stroke through his armpit hair with an intention not to stop. I feel that merciless creature take hold of me. I test his limits, I see what he can take.
The laughter is snatched from him - I can hear the startle in his giggle, when he feels it leave his mouth without his control.
I have five fingers in the left, five fingers in the right. I balance the infliction; sometimes I comb, I like how breathless it makes him, how hard he kicks, how high pitched his giggles sound.
Sometimes I dig - this causes him to beg.
“Okay, please, stop, oh, give me a rest!”
A rest?
He’s in good shape, athletic and slim! He should be able to handle—”I can’t handle this! Oh, my armpits!” He is looking into them as if he’s truly pissed off with how ticklish they are, “They’re too, mnn! You can’t do this to me!”
“They’re too what?” I snarl.
He growls and pants as I take my invasion down to his waist; I pinch and I poke, he jolts and he jumps, and then he shouts something dire, something that sums up how ticklish he is, how much he hates this …
“Anything but tickling, whatever you want!—”
I stop again.
I feel surprised by the guilt that lands over my chest.
I acknowledge it, I accept it, I remind myself that I am kind.
I flatten each of my palms either side of his face.
I apply pressure to his cheeks, his lips squash up.
“Pleash—” he says with those pressed together lips.
I take my hands away and draw circles around his navel.
He can just about stand that, his giggles spluttered mostly out through his nostrils.
I need him to enjoy this too, in some way. I need him to chill.
I search the corners of the ceiling for cameras - usually they film the sessions to sell exclusively to other members.
There’s one by the entrance door, facing my back.
I turn to him and do the unthinkable.
I lift my mask away from my face.
From the camera’s perspective, my mask is still on, the strap is still behind my head, they can’t see how high I’ve lifted it.
I won’t get into trouble.
The first thing he does is look at my mouth.
“You’re definitely more than an 8.5,” I smirk.
I watch him analyse my features; he’s taking in my plain looking face, my green eyes, the tiny scar I have on the bridge of my nose from a drunk who tried to teach me a lesson with a beer bottle in New York fifteen years ago.
"Is …” his mouth remains open as he does his best to negotiate, “… Is there anything else you’d, uh, like to do?” He is being way too polite, “I’d rather do anything else than be tickled for the next—”
“—Forty minutes,” I check my watch, the clock is ticking, “—You’re aware of how much I paid for this, right?”
He nods quickly, the back of his head rubbing against the pillow.
“I, I know! I’m grateful, but, I, I’ve never been tied up and, and tickled before I …” he huffs, he knows there is no way out, as each second goes by he is trying his best to get out of this, “I, I can’t stop you! I can’t move, I, my armpits are too, I …” jeez he’s dealing with a lot of thoughts, “… Could you at least take it easy?”
I chuckle. I shake my head immediately. I watch him deflate.
You can tell, deep down, he knew that was a stupid question to ask.
“Forty minutes,” I urge, “The most intense tickling of your life. And then you’ll never see me again.”
He turns his head and glares at the window, which looks out into a giant garden lit with spotlights.
“Do I get breaks?” He asks.
I shake my head.
He frowns.
“None at all?”
I shake my head again.
“Are you going to tickle me e, everywhere?” God, he’s adorable.
I pull my mask back over my face.
I climb away from his waist and slide off the bed.
I walk towards the wardrobe and pull apart the doors.
I can feel him watching me.
“What, what are you doing?” He asks.
I reach inside.
“I’m picking out my tool of choice,” I explain.
He lifts his head from the pillow.
“T, tool?”
He might be the most naive I’ve ever had.
I turn to face him, hairbrush in hand.
He chuckles, his body relaxing.
Wow.
He actually thinks I’m going to comb his hair or my own.
I can see the relief in his eyes. That’s how ignorant he is.
That look of calm begins to crease within the centre of his face as I approach his right foot …
“No, don’t do that.”
The ideas and theories in his brain are connecting - the sight of the brush, with its dozens and dozens of sharp, plastic bristles nearing his right sole causes him to panic and predict what it might feel like.
“I said don’t do that!” He speaks like I owe him the respect to stop, to not move along, to not continue …
I remind him …
“… Over one hundred thousand dollars,” I gather his right foot in an arm lock, securing it along with the ankle cuff and rope that already keep it nicely pinned to the corner of the mattress, he is doing all he can to keep his foot away from me - he fails, “You’re not cheap, Edvin …” I hope by calling him by his name that it helps make him warm to me a little, “… Have you ever had your foot scrubbed by a hairbrush before?” I know the answer, but boy oh boy is it fantastic when they squeal it out loud!
He tugs his leg, his foot perfectly placed between my pec and bicep, much to his despair - I like that he tried.
“No!” His toes are flexing, “Listen, I, I’m not sure if my feet are even tic—”
—Pfft, don’t even try it.
I scrub the brush across his arch whilst dribbling saliva down over his sole … the thick ooze leaves the gap between my face and my mask where it drip, drip, drips over his big toe.
His leg pulls with such force I almost lose hold of his ankle.
“Mnn, okay, yes, enough!” Enough? It was less than a second? “May, maybe too much?” What does he think I’m going to do? Listen to his reservations, let him go and make us both a cup of tea?
My drool seeps over the rest of his toes and then down towards his heel. I rub it into his flesh by scrubbing the brush some more.
He leaps away from the bed, his body splaying mid air inches above the mattress as he gasps.
“No!” He shrieks, “That’s horrible!” He admits.
I struggle to contain him in my grasp but I grunt and grapple.
“Is that your spit!” He grimaces..
I ignore him.
“Please, don’t ignore me!” He whines.
His foot is now fully lubricated.
“You’re no prince now, Edvin …”
I clench my teeth and watch his foot squirm beneath me, I take in the sight I paid for as I run the brush from side to side over his sole - his foot moves with strength, it flexes and stretches, his toes scrunching up tight, his foot has never experienced a sensation like this before, it’s beyond clear …
I am so utterly aroused by what I witness inches below my mask.
My cock is rock solid, the pleasure I feel from tormenting this young man by tickling causes my eyes to water - my girth is thick and throbbing beneath my trousers, behind my underwear …
“O, okay, stop now!” His laughter is like a roar; its deep and thunderous, his face soaked with fury, “RAGH-ahahahaah! RAGH-ahahahahaha! Oh, oh stop, I said! Sluta, sluta, sluta!—”, he’s shouting out in Swedish now, the foreign cries confirm to me that his mind is too challenged to even translate one simple word …
I want more.
What many of us refer to as ‘the noise’.
I start to worry.
I worry how hard it is to locate a specific spot on his sole that is more ticklish than the rest of the slippery, silky soft expanse held beneath my chest … And I only have thirty five minutes left.
I’ll catch it, I know I will, I always do.
I try his heel - it sends him into a wild thrash, the entire bed shaking behind me, his laughter just as grainy as before.
“Ohahahahahaha! Oahahahahaha! Oahahahahaha! Please, stop! It’s too much, it’s too much!—”
I try the base of his toes - I physically watch the bristles invade the fleshy betweens - he is now bucking non stop.
“You’re a mad man!” He declares, “A mahahahahad man! Oh, ohahahaha! Oh, oahahahaha, this is torture!” He proclaims.
I try his arch, I want that shout, that alarm in his voice, that shock that I’ve discovered a place far worse than he could ever had imagine.
He winces, he hisses, he huffs and for the first time, he swears, “—fan, fan!—” from the brief research I did on the Swedish language before I declined my invite to The Games, that translates to ‘fuck’ which informs me that this spot might be painful for him …
I slide the brush to the inside of his foot, the side arch between his heel and big toe - ah, bingo! It is then I hear a scream.
“—NOOAAAGHHH!—” I bite my upper lip as I struggle to keep his foot still, “AAAHHHH NO!—” just a little more, “AAAAAHHHH!—”, he begins to shriek out a no, the delivery is croaky and wild, it is presented with a fierce and genuine urge for me to stop tickling him here, “—NOO, NOO, NOO, NOOOOOO!—”, bingo, I have it.
I’m surprised in myself, I should’ve tried this spot first - as I look down at the side of his foot, whilst the brush scrubs across the exceptionally ticklish area, I notice how soft it looks, how there are no marks, no imperfections, just sleek, ticklish flesh.
“—NOOOOO! NOOOO! NOOOO! NOOOO!—”, he is now howling out his laughter, he is struggling to breathe, the bed is always shaking.
He is constantly leaping away from the bed, his bondage keeping him in place, his bounces violent and messy as if his limbs are controlled by strings.
“Oh, oh please! Not there!”
I love it.
I have provided him knowledge.
He has walked with these feet for decades.
He has worn smart shoes, sandals, socks, running trainers and boots.
He has swam with these feet, kicked with these feet, bathed with these feet..
But he has never known that this spot right here, on the side of these feet, is astonishingly ticklish.
Not until I came along.
“Okay, I quit, I quit!” He shouts, “You can take back the money, enough!” He declares.
I continue to scrub the brush.
He has broken so quickly, far sooner than many of the others I’ve toyed with.
“I’m keeping you here,” I tease, I’m now scrubbing the bush across the base of his toes, “Forget the contract. You’ve been tricked,” I lie, “What you signed was a dud, we’re not letting you go…”
“No! No!” He believes me, the idea of being tied and tickled for the foreseeable future causing him to whimper, “You can’t, you wouldn’t!”
The room is warm, the muscles in his foot have started to swell, he’s moving it around so much that he would surely begin to feel an ache in his ankle.
“Oh, I would …”
His cackles are dry, his calls for this to end strained, his kicking has started to bruise my forearm.
Let’s give the other foot a try …
I release him and stand, turning to face the mattress straight away, I want to see his expression.
His cheeks are red, his body splayed into a slump, his hair a mess.
He is panting, he lifts his head from the pillow, he narrows his eyes at me.
His next set of words take me by surprise.
“That all you got?” He grins.
I tilt my head, my own exhausted panting puffing behind the plastic.
“You’ve changed your tune,” I note, moving towards his left foot, “I’m warning you, don’t be cocky …”
He is giggling, I can see that he has decided to play, his left foot already stretching down into a protective point.
“What!” He cheers, his shoulders lifting, “It’s fun! I haven’t laughed this much since—” his pause suggests he can’t remember, “—But I do need you to not tickle there—” he grunts as I take his left foot in another tight armlock, “—No, not the sides, it’s too ticklish!—” he tries to explain through clenched teeth, “—You’re killing me!”
I run the brush across the inside of his foot, which had started to sweat thirty seconds ago - now I don’t need my saliva, his sole is already moist - I avoid his toes and his heels, sure the brush across those areas tickles him like crazy - but it’s this spot right here that blows his mind.
“OH! OH! OHAHAHAHHA! OH! OAHAHAHAHA! OH! OH! OHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! OAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! OAHAHAHAHAHAHA! OH OH OH! OHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! OAHAHAHAHAHAHA!—”
The ticking clock in my mind nudges me to go harder, to always take it a level up, to make this the wildest encounter with a stranger in his twenty one years of living.
As I scrub at the side of his foot, as I feel the pull of his leg and the volume of his shouts, I peer down at the five toes squirming across my chest - they’re all so pretty!
As I watch them curl into a tight scrunch, I wonder which one to take.
I yank the mask away from my face, fully aware that the camera can see what I’ve just done.
I have to have it.
I open my mouth and consume his middle toe with my tongue.
“OH! OH! OH! OH!”
The feeling of something warm and wet around his middle toe causes him to shriek, I once again transform him into a perplexed shambles.
“—OH! Who are you!—”, he whines.
I suck and slurp, I nibble and I bite, I take the entire length of his toe within my mouth from its chunky tip to its solid base - his foot is always moving, always trying to escape my tongue and the brush, I focus my mind in concentrating, eager to get him to a breathless state where he can’t take it anymore.
“I can’t take it anymore!” His timing is perfect, “You, you must stop!”
Why? You asked me if that was all I got, this, this, this is what I’ve got, “This is mindless! I cannot breathe!” He declares.
There we are.
I slid my tongue and the brush away.
I slouch over his leg and pick up my mask.
I place it back over my face as Edvin lays there panting.
The door does not open, I am not escorted away, whoever is watching this allowed me to do what I needed to go.
I get to my feet and throw the brush over my shoulder, discarding it entirely.
I walk to the bedside table.
He squirms and gasps, kicking his heels, keen to clamber away from me - he is trapped.
I reach forwards, I extend my index finger …
He squeezes his eyes shut.
I do not tickle him.
I do not touch him.
Instead, I pick up the blindfold and I reattach it to his face.
His mouth is always open, his fists always clenched, I have successfully made him feel like he has no idea what to expect next.
I then reach under the bedside table, where I locate something only a Member of my level knows about.
I press the button.
