At around two thirty in the morning, the rain showering Atlanta subsided as Timothée and Armie were moved into a new room within Atlanta’s Regency Hotel.
The Steward rolled in both of their suitcases, took Armie’s three one hundred dollar bill’s in her gloved hand and then disappeared as quickly as she had gathered up the sweat stained, urine drenched bedsheets from their previous room.
The three hundred dollars would keep The Stewards knowledge of Tim’s accident contained between she, Armie and Timothée.
‘Mr. Vaughn can’t know’ were words Tim had heard Armie sternly request, when on the phone to the hotel.
As The Steward left the room, Armie perched down on the edge of the double bed as Tim folded his arms and stared out of the window.
The room was a carbon copy of the one they had just left - only now, it existed as a fresh, clean space for Tim and Armie to reset in.
Tim kept tired eyes on rain-stained glass, where they glared seven stories down at a still sleeping Atlanta.
He no longer smelt of his bladders release.
Showered and now humming with the scent of hotel shampoo and body wash, he stood in black Nike socks, cargo shorts and an oversized navy sweater, with still-damp curls hanging over a strained, defeated face.
Armie wore an Adidas tracksuit.
All in black, he leaned back on his palms and quietly crossed his leg at the knee.
He watched Tim in silence, waiting for him to talk, knowing him all too well - knowing the need to express his feelings couldn’t be contained any longer, like it had been for the past hour … It would burst, eventually, just like Tim had done himself, strapped up and tickled two floors above.
Tim huffed.
“I pissed myself,” he grumbled.
Armie unhooked his leg and carefully planted both plimsoled feet down on the hotel rooms carpet.
He entwined his hands together by their fingers, rested his elbows on his knees and then leant forwards a little.
“Yes. You did.”
Tim stepped towards the window, where he pressed his forehead against the glass.
Acknowledging Armie’s declaration of honesty, spoken in an intense, breathless whisper whilst they hugged amongst soaked bedsheets, Tim decided to not hold back, to no longer conceal.
“I’m a mess.”
Armie took an uncertain glance to the floor, surprised by Tim’s words and their gravelled delivery.
“Timothée …” Armie wanted to stand, wanted to approach his ‘lee, wanted to take him in a hug, but he remained in his position, on the edge of the mattress, “… I’m … Sorry. It was never my intention to push you to the point where you …” he cleared his throat, “ … I’ve always made it clear that the sessions would be intense, that they would be an endurance. My contract states that throughout. ‘There would be some surprises’, rememb—“
Tim closed his eyes.
“—You let it happen.”
Armie blinked.
A sinking feeling pulled down the weight of his stomach.
And then, a reminder in the pit of his brain, to be truthful, to no longer beat around the bush.
“Yes. That’s correct.”
Tim pushed his forehead away from the window, leaving a circular grease mark on the glass.
He then turned to face Armie, where he unfolded his arms, allowing his hands to dangle at his sides.
“Why? Is that a turn on for you? To, to go so hard that I wet the bed?”
Armie frowned.
“No …” he said flatly, “… Like I just said, it was never my intention to push you that far.”
Tim stood in silence, confused by his own feelings, his own lack of anger, his own reluctance to hide his shame.
“You, you could’ve stopped it, you, you could’ve untied me. You, you even said ‘do it, see if I care’ …” Tim sniffed up some emotion, “… That sounds to me li—“
Armie stood in such an abrupt speed that Tim found himself jolting back.
“I don’t care!” Armie snapped.
Tim lifted his shoulders, his eyes wide open, his hands clawed in fright.
Armie took a confident step forward.
“It’s you, Tim. I have seen you out of breath and naked. I’ve watched dribble roll out of your damn mouth…”
Armie started to approach Tim, overshadowing him with his dominance.
“… You have begged and pleaded, I’ve heard you use the final ounces of energy in your lungs … I have witnessed the very core of you break under the constant, repetitive touch of a single, mother fucking feather …”
Tim swallowed down, looking up at Armie’s tall, powerful structure, his eyes suddenly taken to Armie’s chest as Armie held his right index finger up, in a pointed position, by Tim’s face.
Tim’s eyes crossed in focus as they blinked at the length of the finger.
“… This has been inside you, Timothée. It stayed inside you when you came. I have felt -you-, the very essence of you, wrapped around this finger.”
Tim glared at the finger, it’s long, tanned strength existing as a blunt reminder of what he and Armie had experienced together, the exploration, the curiosity Tim had devoured willingly.
“… If you piss yourself, fine. That’s why I let it happen, because I don’t give a shit," Armie shook his head in frustration, returning his hand to his side, “I mean, for God’s sake, I still have some of your vomit on my loafers! If anything, it satisfies me to know you’re so out of control that you can’t even hol—“
Tim dropped his shoulders, clenched his fists and shouted in a growl, his voice deep and dark, to the point where Armie widened his eyes in surprise.
“—Well I give a damn!”
Tim smacked his own chest, his face fierce, his eyes narrowed, his point reasserted.
“I give a damn…” he repeated, this time in a quiet but still self-assured tone, “… I’m allowed to fucking care. To not want that to happen, to feel disgusted at myself…” his hands relaxed, he looked down at his feet, his face hidden by curls, “… I … I give a damn.”
Armie stepped back, closing his eyes, taking in a breath, in an attempt to bring the heated moment back down to a calmer level.
“I have never once said that you’re not allowed to feel the way you feel. I’m just explaining to you that we’re past the point where you should feel sensitive, about … Specific things. Like, pissing yourse—“
—Tim pressed his thumbs over the bridge of his nose.
He slumped down on the hotel desk chair, hooking one leg over it’s arm.
“—Why? Because you’re the one in control? You’re the ‘ler, or whatever the fuck it is? Because I’m your, your ‘sub’, your little bitch …?” Tim shook his head, “… Pfft, this is bullshit.”
Armie remained where he stood.
Despite experiencing what appeared to be their first argument, Armie found himself looking down at Tim in awe.
If anything, this moment didn’t worry Armie.
It made him feel more attracted to Tim.
The boy's got balls.
“No. Because I’ve seen you already reveal yourself. You’ve already been beyond vulnerable with me, when you’ve cried for it to stop, when you’ve used your safe word …” Armie licked dry lips, taking a seat back down on the edge of the mattress, “What I’m trying to say, is … What happened earlier, it’s no different, to any of that.”
Tim avoided Armie’s gaze, pinching his lower lip with his thumb and index finger as he stared back out of the hotel window.
Armie was right.
Being in a position where he could no longer hold his bladder, whilst tickled to such extreme lengths, existed as a scenario only similar to the many times Tim had screamed into Armie’s apartment ceiling, strapped to his king sized bed, whilst a hairbrush glided over each of his soles.
Only this time, the release of vulnerability was more physical.
It was borderline disturbing.
Something Tim hadn’t experienced before, as an adult.
A passing police siren filled the quiet resonating within the hotel room.
Tim still didn’t agree with Armie on his point.
Just because Armie doesn’t care, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.
“You … You get to do what you want, when you want …” Tim spoke in a dazed mumble, still pinching his lip, not blinking as he delivered his words, “… Because you’re in charge, because of your role. You get to push the boundaries, to stop when you feel it’s right,” Tim chuckled, his eyes drying up because they’d been peeled open for so long, “… You even get to jerk off, when you like. It’s so one sided…”
Tim gulped down realisation, finally blinking out of his still-shocked state, “… I get nothing out of this.”
Armie felt the start of his patience beginning to lessen.
He spoke firmly, in a strong attempt to hide the insulted feeling within his voice.
“You get over ten million dollars, Timothée.”
Tim looked down into his lap, his leg bobbing casually.
“Yeah,” he shrugged, “Well, maybe fuck the money.”
Armie raised his eyebrows.
He hadn’t realised, until Tim had said it out loud, how much he hadn’t wanted to hear those words.
Tim sat in silence.
For the first time in their Agreement, the millions and millions soon to be transferred into Tim’s bank account didn’t matter at all.
Last night, it hadn’t even been considered.
All Tim wanted was reassurance, knowledge that he was still favourite, and above all else, for Armie to come back to the hotel room, after leaving so suddenly for the second time since they’d arrived here.
This entire situation had transcended bargaining, or transaction, or contracts.
Armie sat forwards.
“Tim…” he spoke softly at first, but when Tim didn’t turn to face him, he repeated his name in a stronger demand, “… Timothée …”
Tim shuffled in the chair, where his bloodshot eyes finally swiped over to Armie.
“I think we’re both a little... Overwhelmed, by what we signed up for,” Armie held Tim’s gaze, willing for it to stay, “I ... I didn’t expect to … To want you, this way. To … Push you, this far. I never expected to be able to live out the things I’ve only dreamed about, to do the things I've wanted so long, to do, to you … And you, you …”
Tim spoke over Armie, finishing his sentence for him in his own perspective.
“… I never expected to feel like this either. I thought it would be, y’know … You playing with my feet, a handcuff or two, maybe a brush, at the worst … But the things we’ve done, the stuff I’ve experienced, with you … ”
Tim glanced up at the hotel rooms cream ceiling, his eyes darting over commercially clinical walls and crisp, white bed sheets, “… We’re in Atlanta, for Gods sake. And I’ve been tickled so damn hard that I’ve pissed myself and thrown up over myself... In less than twelve hours.”
Tim’s lighthearted reality check sent both young men into soft, relaxing laughter.
Suddenly, Armie found himself unable to contain his giggling.
Tim, laughing just as hard as he had been during Armie’s many sessions, began to feel his eyes water as he too tumbled into hysterics.
For a few minutes, both Tim and Armie laughed madly at the situation, with wide eyes, tight stomachs and disbelief overwhelming their faces, as well as their current circumstance.
Tim had to hide under his sweater, in an effort to control his laughter.
Armie caught his breath, capturing quick-to-escape bellows behind both hands as he hunched over his knees.
After some struggled wheezing, Tim and Armie coughed out the last dregs of unexpected joy.
Armie’s eyes twinkled as he offered his friend a reassuring smile.
“It's honestly, quite the achievement,” he wiped tears from his cheeks, “It must be said…”
Tim smirked, nodding in agreeance, as he sniffed up some of the sudden frenzy, "It's fucking insane, man."
Armie’s smile flattened as he readied himself to suggest something he didn’t want to suggest, something he knew one day within the four weeks, he might end up suggesting, only if it got to a point like this.
He spoke with a deepness to his tone, a tone that sounded so serious compared to the lighthearted giggling experienced only seconds ago.
“We can stop everything, if you want. We don’t have to go on.”
To Armie’s surprise, Tim looked at him with an expression that only a young boy would offer his Father, when they announce they’re leaving and not coming back.
“What? No? No…” Tim swung his leg off the chair’s arm and planted both feet down over the carpet, “I don’t want this to be over. You’re … Wild as fuck, but … No. I, I can’t not do this with you. I’m … “ Tim placed both hands together as he took a moment to conclude his feelings, “… Despite everything, I’m in this, to the end.”
Armie felt relief wash over him.
Although, still, it wasn’t quite enough of a confirmation that Tim would stay, that Tim would still be his.
“Even after what happened earlier?” He asked.
Tim ran the nail of his left thumb over his philtrum.
“Can we forget, that … That it even happened?” Tim clenched his teeth, lifting his head to catch Armie’s eyes, “And, can I ask that, if it gets to that point again, and I say I’m gonna piss myself … You, you just let me go, just untie me? Because, because I get that you don't care, about that kinda stuff, but … But I do.”
Armie shuffled across the edge of the mattress, patting the space beside him.
“I hear you, Timmy. Come on, sit next to me.”
Tim did his best at trying to appear as if making his way over to Armie would be a slog.
He dropped his head over his chest, lifted his body to a standing position as if it weighed a tonne and then took slow steps towards the double bed.
He plonked himself beside Armie with a gentle bounce.
“It won’t happen again,” Armie confirmed, “If I’m honest, I’m surprised it happened at all - the amount of sessions we’ve done together and you’ve not once expressed that situation as a concern. Maybe I shouldn’t of pressed you into finishing all of the champagne …”
Tim felt Armie’s shoulder brush up against his as he squeezed both hands between his thighs.
He stayed true to their agreement earlier, to be honest and to not reserve detail, after such an intimate, physically exposing moment between them both.
“I heard you, coming back, f-from Miller’s. I uhh, I was in the bathroom, at the time. About to, to go…” Tim felt Armie’s eyes on him, but he kept his head still, his face pointing at the desk opposite the bed, “I, I ran back into bed before I could uh …” Tim bit his upper lip, “… That’s why I uh, that’s the reason I …”
Armie wrapped his arm around Tim’s shoulder, pulling him closer to his side.
“You didn’t want me to think you’d been waiting up?” He asked.
Tim nodded sheepishly.
“I told you, I’m a mess.”
Armie kept his arm hooked around Tim as he laid his back over the mattress, pulling Tim down with him.
They stared at the ceiling, Armie’s arm trapped under Tim’s neck.
“We’re both a mess,” Armie announced.
Tim shuffled closer into Armie as a lengthy expanse of quiet landed between them.
He then decided to state the obvious.
“I’ve never done anything like this before.”
Armie chuckled, placing his palm over the flatness of his stomach.
“Kid, you and me both.”
Tim’s eyebrows creased as he angled his neck towards Armie.
“You’re more used to it than I am…”
Armie shook his head.
“No. This … This is unlike anything I’ve experienced. It’s the most intense, most exciting, most interesting relationship I’ve had with a ‘lee, in all my life…” Armie angled his head so he faced Tim, squashed up below his shoulder, “… And I’ve tickled hundreds of men, hundreds of women. But this is something I’ll never forget.”
There.
He had it.
Full, entire confirmation that despite Miller’s control, despite the chaos and the distraction of Tickle Fest, despite his inability to keep himself contained …
… Armie still wanted him and him only.
Without speaking, without verbalising the need to, without informing each other that they were both ready for the next step, Tim and Armie both shuffled into a natural position where they lay opposite each other, tightly bound by their own arms, inches away from each others lips.
Armie stared down at Tim’s mouth whilst Tim analysed Armie’s jaw.
No interruptions, no texts or buzzing phones, no knocks on the door …
… Just an honest request to take this moment to a time where it could be more valued.
“I really want to kiss you,” Tim declared, in the form of a quiet whisper, “I have no fucking idea why. But, fuck, man … I really want to kiss you.”
Armie’s hands slid around Tim’s waist.
He pulled him inward.
“What are you waiting for?” He whispered back.
Tim’s throat shifted up as he took down nerves.
“I, I know where it’ll lead. I, I know I’ll want to explore more,” he tucked some curls of hair behind his ear, “I, I also know it’s nearly four in the morning, and that I’m fucking exhausted.”
Armie breathed in Tim’s presence, allowing the warm smell of hotel body wash to fill his nostrils.
“And … You have your second and final session, in the morning…” Armie spoke in disappointment.
Tim sighed.
“It’s first thing.”
Armie took a moment to consider the last twenty four hours.
They had flown from New York to Atlanta, they had been dropped feet first into a party, into spin the bottle, into gang tickling, beers, shots and champagne …
… Then Tim had endured The Wheel.
He had been spun dozens of times, tickled in-between, to the point where he had no choice but to throw up over Armie’s loafers soon after.
In the midst of all that, Miller had toyed with them.
He had bribed Armie into private sessions of their own, sessions in which specific details might never see the light of day.
He had taken Tim’s support away from him, in the nighttime, leaving Tim abandoned and alone.
Emotionally and physically, everything felt heightened, dialled up a notch, volume at it’s loudest.
They had both fallen into an intimate black hole, where planned sessions and thought and a specific goal all spiralled into nothing, and were simply replaced by madness, Tim’s first ever oral act on a man, unexpected bondage, relentless tickling and then an explosion of liquid in two forms, one form not the explosion Tim had intended...
Kissing, now, taking this from comfortable silence on the bed to further erotic stages of sexual development between them both … It felt right, but oh so wrong at the same time.
Circumstance stood in their way.
Another intense tickle session, at the hands of Miller, in the depths of Tickle Fest, loomed over Tim.
And from the pamphlet’s description, it looked like Armie would be joining in too.
Tim took in Armie’s warmth by hugging him tightly.
This session tomorrow could be one of the most intense yet.
… And after that, we go back to New York.
Back to Armie’s apartment, a place Tim could feel comfortable calling home.
So, both young men started to undress.
Both friends peeled off each others clothes, kicked off plimsoles and yanked off socks.
Tracksuits and cargo shorts were dropped to the floor.
They clambered under hotel bed sheets and covers, they tucked pillows under their head.
The rain returned outside.
It showered Atlanta’s four am skyline, still blanketed in darkness.
Armie flicked the bedside lamp’s switch...
The hotel room turned black.
And then, for five long hours, both Armie and Tim lay together and simply slept.
-
The next morning ...
-
Tim woke feeling too nervous about his next upcoming session.
He lay on his back, twitching both feet from side to side in a rapid attempt to calm the sharp shoots of anxiety pin-balling throughout his body.
Morning sunlight beamed through the tiny gap between the heavy, beige curtains blanketing the hotel room window.
He wondered if, after the session ends, it wouldn’t be too much to ask Miller if he and Armie could leave tonight.
Fuck it, we’re not his prisoners.
Tim reached out to his iPhone, plugged in at the bed side.
As Armie continued to sleep beside him, Tim googled how long it would take to get back to New York, from Atlanta, by car.
Tim’s mouth fell open.
Thirteen hours?
He’d much rather take the two hour flight in Miller’s private jet …
… But that meant being metaphorically tied to Miller’s allowance of when they could leave.
Tim had only signed up for two days...
And this was the second day.
Worst case scenario, we go in the morning.
I wish we could go tonight…
He popped his phone back on the bedside and then laid back down, his back facing Armie.
Before he could close his eyes, in an attempt to gain another fifteen minutes or so of sleep, Armie’s long arms curled around him.
Another move of intimacy, another behavioural moment not often seen between two young men, two young men who were simply ‘best friends’.
Tim pinned a cork in another trickled moment of overthinking.
He took a moment to enjoy the warmth of Armie’s fingertips sliding around his hips and waist, where they travelled down towards a growing strength lifting just below his stomach.
Tim hooked his teeth over his lower lip as Armie, with both arms wrapped around Tim’s waist, curled his large hands around Tim’s now full, thickened arousal.
He held it like a joy stick, like the handle of a magical sword, claiming it as his, and his only.
Tim could do nothing but lay there and allow Armie to tighten his hold on the throbbing girth clasped between his palms.
Armie moved in closer, his lips brushing up against the softness of Tim’s left shoulder blade.
Armie opened his mouth and slid out his tongue, where it pressed agains the back of Tim’s neck.
Armie licked Tim’s skin, taking in the salty taste, the moisture of the muscle gliding over the smoothness of a small, delicate area of Timothée’s body.
Holy fuck, thought Tim.
He swallowed down genuine excitement - a bubble of pure happiness, a throat stiffening moment of joy, of understanding that this, this interaction, with a man, with his best friend, with Armie … It was, it felt …
… It’s fucking incredible.
Tim rolled his hips, ever so gently.
This slid his hard on between the skin of Armie’s palms, still tightly wrapped around it.
A thin layer of sweat had developed between the flesh of Armie’s hands and the skin of Tim’s erection.
It worked as the perfect lubrication for Tim to repeat the movement,
Not once,
Not twice,
But three times.
“Mnn …” Tim felt his eyelids fall shut.
Could this be his second release? After being denied now for a few days?
Can I ask?
Should I keep going?
Fuck, his hands are so soft.
Tim flinched as Armie’s tongue arrived at a ticklish expanse of flesh, just below his jaw.
He squeezed his already closed eyes shut even tighter.
The tongue made it’s way back to Tim’s neck, where it then began to travel over his spine, down to the bottom of his back.
Timothée arched, further invading the space between Armie’s hands as his girth pushed forwards.
Armie, tightening his grip on Tim’s joy stick, found himself arriving at Tim’s waist.
His eyes landed on the delve just above his behind - an exceptionally flawless area of Tim’s body.
No pimples, no moles, no hairs …
… Just miles and miles of pale, soft skin.
Armie took overwhelmed, blue orbs down to Tim’s surprisingly peachy behind.
He wanted to grab it, to cup each cheek - but his hands were full,
And a move like that might take some time to allow.
For now, Armie stayed put, admiring the bottom of Tim’s back and the curve of his hips, as Tim continued to try his luck at rolling his waist forwards and backwards, in an attempt to build up that pleasure currently growing within the shaft of his erection.
Tim shuffled around.
Armie shuffled upward.
After some more shuffling, both men peeled down bedsheets, just past their necks, where they looked at each other in the eye.
Armie maintained his hold, his arms stretching down past Tim’s hips.
“Can... Can I?” Tim asked.
Armie considered his answer.
The kid is horny, that’s certain.
Only five hours ago did he decline the opportunity to kiss.
Because he was ‘too tired’.
And now, all he wants is this.
My nod.
My yes, go ahead.
Not my lips or my touch or my embrace.
The chance to jerk off.
Armie reminded himself of his position, of The Agreement, the contracts, the signatures …
… The time they had left.
He also took the moment to remind himself of how much had changed between he and Tim.
How this was more than much-needed masturbation.
How this, now, was more about discovery, change, emotional attachment …
I want to give this to him.
I will give this to him …
“Soon…” Armie spoke in a whisper.
Tim closed his eyes, burying his head gently under Armie’s jaw, as if hiding in shame at his desperate request.
Tim felt like an orphan holding up an empty bowl.
Please sir, may I have some more?
“Please…?” Tim buried the shame as deeply as he buried his curls of hair, now squashed under Armie’s chin.
Armie’s hands slid away from around Tim’s arousal.
His palms brushed over the tip, intentionally, where they took a small droplet of pre cum with them.
Tim clenched his teeth as his stiffened rejection now lay out on the mattress, between he and his ‘best friend’.
“You’ll thank me, when I eventually allow it…” Armie rested his hand on Tim’s waist, “We’ve been through this before. It feels difficult to accept now, but you’ve experienced how it’ll feel later. You have that to look forward to.”
Tim fought hard not to think about his comments earlier, before they went to sleep.
How it was one sided, how Armie always got his way, how this often infuriated him.
He contemplated bringing his ‘fuck the money’ comment back, to use within this moment.
To break the rules, to no longer be a Dom and Sub, to instead exist as two best friends experimenting … Involved in situations where both young men were allowed to explode naturally, in the heat of moment, without any restrictions.
But Tim was sensible enough to remind himself that this is what he signed up for.
This is what would officialise such financial security.
This is what he needed.
Even if ‘this’ was becoming … ‘Something More’.
So, he rolled away from Armie in a speedy twist and flung himself out of bed, his sudden exit startling Armie.
Tim’s ler sat up with squinted eyes as Tim pulled apart the curtains, shifting the hotel room from shades of grey to beams of yellow.
Tim stood naked, his erection wobbling beneath his stomach, his back facing the window, his derrière on display for the Atlantic traffic snailing around the hotel thirty feet below.
Armie shielded his face with the back of his right arm.
“Have I pissed you off again?” He croaked.
Tim walked towards the bathroom, picking up one of the Tickle Fest 2020 pamphlets laid out by the TV...
He spun it like a frisbee over to Armie, who snatched it from the air.
“Read out the session,” Tim requested, turning on the shower, “Remind me what I’m in for.”
Armie scratched away some sleep as he cleared his throat.
“Right, yes, okay …”
He sat up, pressed his back against the headboard of the bed and then he opened up the pamphlet to page three.
He sent once aroused eyes over the timetable, flicking the pages until he arrived at ‘Day Two’, with Tim’s session, ‘Session Four’, starting at twelve noon …
“… ‘How To Break Your Ticklee’ …” Armie read out loud.
“How to break your knee?!” Tim called from the bathroom.
Armie tutted, “Come back to bed, there’s no point asking me to read it out loud if you can’t hear me...”
Tim, still naked, with hands wet from testing the showers running temperature, returned to the centre of the hotel room, where he stood at the foot of the bed Armie lay on.
Armie felt his cheeks burn red as he momentarily took in Tim’s naked beauty, from head to toe.
“Uhm,” Armie swallowed down the need to grab Tim and pull him under the sheets, deciding to just clear his throat and reassert his focus instead, “It uh, it says here,” Armie straightened out the pamphlet, as well as his priorities, “Session Four, ‘How To Break Your Ticklee’, a showcase of how to turn your ‘lee into a defeated mess, as demonstrated by Mr. Vaughn and Mr. Hammer, two life-long friends, professional ticklers and merciless in their attempt to ruin Mr. Chalamet’ …”
Armie flickered his eyes up at Tim’s face, a face painted with worry.
“You alright, kid?” He asked.
Tim slumped his posture.
“Defeated mess? Fuck …”
Armie folded up the pamphlet.
“Look - at least there’s no wheel of fortune, or spinning, or five-people-on-you-at-once type scenario,” Armie unfolded the information and flicked the pages, "And, that Aaron guy you met, I think he’s starring in a session where he’s trapped in a spider’s web, of some kind, and tickled by six or seven people so, it uh, it could be worse…”
Armie tried his best to lessen the intensity the sessions description had created.
Tim knelt down, unzipping his suitcase, pulling clothes from it’s inside.
“What’s the set up?” He asked.
Armie went back to Tim’s page, flicking through until he found Session Four again.
“Stocks,” Armie revealed, “Well, it’s sort of like a chair, like the one I had you in, back at the start.”
Tim paused in taking out underwear and socks.
He thought back to the red leather padded chair, with wooden arms stretched out at either sides, and ankle stocks secured at the bottom.
A device made to contain the subject, but to still offer them enough room to thrash around, to arch their back …
… No twirling, no stuck in a metal tube, no armpits pulled above my head …
“I … I think I can handle that,” Tim announced.
Armie dropped the pamphlet back over his lap.
“You sound pretty sure of yourself, kid.”
Tim stood, now with clothes cradled at his chest.
“Well, we’ve done something like that before … If anything, I think you’ve put me through worse.”
As Tim went into the bathroom to start getting showered and dressed, Armie winced internally.
“That’s true …” Armie entertained Tim’s ignorance for now.
But, deep down, he knew that Tim had only experienced a small percentage of what Miller was capable of.
Deep down he knew that, with Miller involved, in a session like this …
… It could just be the most intense session Tim might ever experience.
“It’s not how your tied,” Armie mumbled quietly to himself, “It’s how your tickled…”
Words, spoken, over twenty years ago, by Miller himself.
The need to protect Tim felt stronger than ever.
Their new level of communication, their recent removal of boundaries and walls, it all gave Armie the energy to jump out of bed and head into the bathroom, where he stopped Tim from stepping into the shower.
“Timmy …”
Tim stiffened, his toes just about to land on the hot water running over the showers marble floor.
“Yeah?”
Armie, also naked, stood in the light of the hotel bathroom, with his arms folded around the hairs of his chest.
“This is ... This is going to be hard, for you. Miller he, he won’t stop. You don’t have a safe word. You have no way of gaining a break. He’s … He’s the strongest, most agile, most relentless ‘ler I’ve ever known. I uh … I wanted you to know that, to ready yourself.”
Tim leant his shoulder blades against the shower doors glass edge.
He smiled at Armie, still not taking the warning as seriously as he should.
“I can handle him,” Tim smirked.
He then disappeared into he steam, squeaking the shower door shut behind him.
Armie sighed.
“No,” he whispered, heading out of the bathroom, “No, you can’t…”
***
TICKLE FEST DAY TWO:
SESSION FOUR - ‘HOW TO BREAK YOUR LEE’
12PM
-
Armie watched ketchup dribble down over his hotdog, before the owner of the stand handed the food to his awaiting hand.
Armie gave the owner a ten dollar bill and then told him to keep the change.
By the time he had turned to face Tim, Tim had finished almost half of his own hotdog.
“Christ, Tim, slow down… We don’t want you throwing up again …” Armie winked at Tim as Tim bit into a large chunk of sausage.
“Oh fug’you,” he said, with his mouthful.
Both young men walked away from the hot dog stand and back into the two, three hundred plus crowd at Tickle Fest.
“Or, god forbid, wetting yourself …” Armie pressed with a too-soon tease.
Tim kicked his Converse’d foot into Armie’s shin.
Armie hissed, accepting his punishment expectedly as he hopped away, whilst Tim continued to chow down on his hotdog.
Back in the hotel’s main conference hall, Tickle Fest 2020 continued it’s second day.
The speakers persisted in their expel of pop music, DVD stands proceeded in selling tickle films to the cash-heavy attendee’s, sessions took place on various stages, all whilst the crowds walked about, taking in their experience, just like Armie and Tim.
A man with a parrot on his shoulder passed by.
Behind him, a gay couple made their way towards one of six platforms which seemed to be gathering almost as much attention as Tim’s session on The Wheel.
Armie held onto Tim’s hand, whilst he bit into his hotdog.
He took Tim along with his own curiosity, to the stage where people seemed to be constantly erupting into explosive applause.
Tim and Armie stood by railings as they watched Aaron, tied in his underwear, in a star fish position, to a web-like structure, get tickled by several Tickler’s all at once.
The Tickler’s, dressed in black spider costumes with plastic arms taped to their backs and insect antenna strapped to their heads, tickled Aaron on the soles of his feet, under his arms, over his sides and up into his armpits.
The young model must’ve been enduring the session for quite some time …
He looked exhausted, his face red, his forehead drenched in sweat.
He squirmed and writhed, his energy levels low, his sandy blonde hair dangling over either sides of his face.
He practically hung off the structure, his weight pulling the white ropes strapped around his wrists, arms, waist, thighs and ankles away from the make-shift web.
His head hung over his chest, his blue eyes glaring up, where they caught Tim’s gaze.
Aaron offered Tim a look that said ‘good luck’.
Tim nodded over a gentle smile to Aaron.
Armie nudged a woman, standing beside him with her wife.
“How long has this one been going on for?” He asked.
The woman, wearing a Tickle Fest 2014 t-shirt, stepped on tiptoes as she replied with a shout into Armie’s left ear.
“Almost two hours! He can barely stand it!”
Armie turned back to Aaron, who flung himself into strained hysterics as all seven ‘Spiders’ knelt down at his feet, tickling them with a total of seventy fingers at once.
Tim, now holding only a napkin after devouring his hotdog so quickly, tugged on the hem of Armie’s t-shirt.
“Yo, it’s nearly noon. Where do we go?”
Armie looked around, searching for some kind of signage or direction.
His answer came in the form of a familiar announcement via a megaphone.
“… Session Four, Ticklee, please make your way to door number three …”
Armie squeezed Tim’s shoulder.
“You’re up, kid …”
Together, they left the outskirts of the stage and wormed their way through a large expanse of crowd, sliding between hundreds of individual personalities until they reached Session Four’s stage and behind that, door number three.
On the stage sat a large black leather chair, with arms stretched out either side and ankle stocks attached to it’s end.
Beside the Tickle Chair stood a four foot hight square plinth, with a feather, an electric toothbrush, a hair brush and a bottle of baby oil laid out on it’s surface.
Tim gulped, nerves reaching up through his throat.
To think, he’d soon be sitting in that, staring out to hundreds of people in the audience, like he had done during The Wheel session only yesterday.
Armie placed his right hand on the back of Tim’s neck.
His thumb brushed over the soft space of flesh, licked by Armie’s tongue earlier that morning.
Armie didn’t have to say words to calm Tim down.
That touch in itself was enough to make Tim’s nerves retreat.
As they walked through door number three, Tim laughed, “Here we go again …”
The bustle, shuffling, music and overall chaotic energy from Tickle Fest drowned away completely as door number three closed shut behind them.
An assistant stood ready to greet Tim, in the back corridor area of the conference hall, with a headset strapped to her head.
In her arms she held a plastic basket and when she spoke, she spoke with a French twang to her voice.
“Afternoon, Mr. Chalamet. If you could put all of your clothes in this basket - we’ll need you in just your underwear, like before… “
Tim raised an eyebrow as he screwed up his napkin and then tucked it into the back of his jeans pocket, whilst Armie gave up on his own hotdog.
He now felt too nervous to eat.
Whilst Armie went to throw the hotdog into a nearby trash can, Tim turned to face the assistant, addressing her in fluent French.
“Je me déshabille ici … Dans le hall?”
Tim felt conscious of the many other assistants, sound engineers, production teams, all darting about, readying the sets for Session Five and Session Six, taking place with other models and ticklers later on during the day.
“Oui,” answered the assistant, “Comme la dernière fois.”
Tim chuckled at the assistants need to get things going, pushing his gears up a little as he began to throw his t-shirt over his head and then pull down his jeans, all within seven seconds of themselves.
He dumped them into the basket, where he then used Armie’s shoulder as support whilst he hopped on the spot, yanking off his Converse and socks.
These landed in the basket also.
Tim pressed bare feet down onto the hallway carpet as he stood, in his underwear, between a fully clothed assistant and a fully clothed Armie.
He tucked his hands under his armpits, offering the assistant a sheepish smile as his nipples began to reluctantly harden.
The assistant held her fingertips over her headset.
“Yes …” she narrowed her eyes in focus, “Yes, okay,” she confirmed, glancing up at Tim, “He’s ready for you now …”
Tim nodded, dropping his hands to his sides.
“Oh, o-okay.”
The assistant cradled the basket of clothes whilst gesturing towards Armie, “Mr. Hammer, you’re required for this session also. You both must walk through the door when I say, and then head straight to the chair …” she shot her eyes back at Tim, “… Don’t sit in it until told so.”
Tim nodded as Armie offered another reassuring squeeze to Tim’s shoulder.
The assistant pressed her fingertips back over her head set.
“Go.”
As the assistant pushed open the door, Miller’s booming voice called through a microphone, his announcement landing at the perfect, exact time the audiences eyes landed on Tim and Armie.
“…. IT’S MISTER CHALAMEEEETTTT AND MISTER HAMMMEEERRRR!”
Tim felt that familiar touch, over that spot on the back of his neck.
He closed his eyes, taking in Armie’s words, spoken in a feathered whisper.
“Remember, it’s a performance. We just need to play the part …”
Armie’s fingertips left Tim’s neck.
His knuckles nudged into the middle of Tim’s spine, urging him on stage.
Tim painted his face with a Hollywood smile, waving to the hundreds that had gathered around the stage.
Armie did the same, clapping Timmy also as they walked towards Miller, who stood by the Tickle Chair.
Fuck.
Tim acknowledged a far greater reaction from the audience.
He noticed their excited smiles, their ferocious applause, their whooping and screaming and chanting.
After The Wheel, they now knew what sort of show would be in store, what sort of reactions Tim would give.
Some members of the audience had even created banners.
One large, square pink piece of cardboard had a photograph of a male body trapped in a tickle chair, with Tim’s head cut out and stuck over the models.
The words ‘coochie coo’ had been written in bright green marker underneath.
He looked out at the entire attendance of Tickle Fest 2020, all filling every single inch of the hotels conference area, all standing, all cheering, all looking at him...
“Wow!” Miller cheered, “Can you hear that? That is some reaction! They love you, Timmy!”
He patted Tim’s back, as Tim lifted his hand again in a this time shaky wave.
“Alright, alright … Settle down everyone, settle down!” Miller raised his hands in an attempt to lower the crowds volume.
Once applause had been silenced to mumbles and chatter, Miller pressed his microphone closer to his lips and approached the edge of the stage.
“So, Timmy, your second session with us, here at Tickle Fest… How you feeling?”
He turned towards Tim and took a step forward, holding his microphone under Tim’s mouth.
“Uhh …” Tim’s voice echoed out over the hundreds and hundreds of heads angled his way.
Miller widened his eyes, urging Timmy to gel into the moment.
Tim clenched his fists and lifted them into the air.
“I feel mother fucking ready, Tickle Fest 2020!” He cheered.
The audience exploded into manic applause.
Miller smiled, taking the microphone back to his own mouth.
“You hear that, everyone? He’s ready…!”
Armie stood, surprised at Tim’s efforts, watching his lee shake his fists triumphantly in the air, like some skinny, inexperienced boxer in a ring far too large for him.
“Alright Timmy, climb in …” Miller tapped his fingertips against the head rest of The Tickle Chair.
Tim waved once more at the crowds, turning around to face his back towards them, where his enthusiastic smile dropped.
Armie reached out his hand.
Tim clutched onto Armie’s palm as Armie helped Tim into the device.
Tim sat down on plump, shining, black leather.
“TIM-O-THEE! TIM-O-THEE! TIM-O-THEE!”
The crowd continued their chants.
Armie held onto Tim’s left ankle, placing it into the left rung of the stock attached to the end of the chair.
“Alright, alright! Everyone, please, if I can have some quiet…” Miller raised his hands once again, “Let me explain what we’re about to do here…” Miller watched Tim’s right ankle land on the right rung, “This session is called ‘How To Break Your Ticklee’, as you’ve probably seen in the pamphlet's you were given on arrival …”
Tim shuffled in his seat, ensuring he felt comfortable, as Armie began to strap Tim’s wrists to leather cuffs attached to the arms stretching out, either side of the chair.
“That means,” Miller continued, “Myself and Mr. Hammer here will aim to provide the perfect demonstration of how to tickle your lee, how to ruin them, how to take them to the next level … Using tools that Mr. Hammer here has informed me work best on Mr. Chalamet, on specific spots only …”
The crowd sent ‘ohhhhhs’ and ‘ahhhhhhs’ up out into the atmosphere as Miller turned around to face Armie and Tim, with a sadistic, toying grin.
Tim angled his head towards Armie, who stood over his shoulders.
Armie looked concerned, insulted, confused by Miller’s words, words he thought Miller would of kept private.
“You told him that?” Tim frowned at Armie, speaking quietly, and only to him.
Armie nodded slowly, stepping away from the chair.
“That’s right!” Miller shouted into the microphone, “I got it out of him eventually … Took me a good few hours and a little help, but I got the information I needed …”
Tim stared into the crowds, his body confined within The Tickle Chair, his bare soles facing the audience.
Is that where Armie went?
Is that what Miller had asked of him?
Armie stood tall and straight, his face twitching out an attempt to smile.
Every time he blinked, he witnessed flashbacks of scenes taking place in Miller’s hotel room, in the middle of the night, after Miller had text Armie and asked him to sneak away ...
-
Armie lay tied to Miller’s king sized, double bed, naked, spread eagle …
… Tickled for hours, exhausted, sweating …
… The Dominatrix at his soles, The Texan Couple at his pits, Miller going to town on his sides.
“The number one spot, on Tim!” Miller urged, “Tell me, where is it, what will make him snap, and I’ll stop!”
It had been hours.
He had to get back to his own hotel room.
He felt worried what the paranoia and anxiety might be doing to Timothée …
He had to tell the truth.
Miller would know he'd be lying.
But he couldn't provide the number one spot.
Tim's taint belonged to Armie, and no one else.
So, Armie gave Miller the second - which practically matched the first ...
Anything to make this stop!
“--His toes!" Armie growled, in burning defeat, "His toes, it's his damn toes!"
Armie had screamed so loud he thought his throat might rip.
Miller revelled in success, his gained information, his now ultimate play of power.
His one slice of knowledge that would ensure Tim would break, harder than he ever had done.
-
Tim glared at the tools laid out on the plinths surface…
… Tools Armie had been tickled with, into telling Miller where would work the best on Tim.
“He, he made me, kid…” Armie mumbled into the stage floor.
Tim laid his head against the head rest, sighing in frustration.
He sat, wrists pinned back, armpits exposed, bare torso available for Miller’s attacks …
… His feet, locked in stocks, trapped and ready …
“And believe me, audience… “ Miller breathed into the microphone with startling authority, “… I will do more than just break Mr. Chalamet …”
Miller turned to Tim, approaching him slowly, as the audience revved up their cheers and excitement, “You ready, kid, to be broken, by me and your boyfriend here?”
Armie turned around, watching Miller carefully drag his index finger over the sole of Tim’s left foot.
Tim winced, his toes snapping shut, almost violently.
Armie expected Tim to be pissed off, by his betrayal, by his unwilling reveal of Tim’s exceptionally ticklish area.
He expected Tim to say ‘he’s not my boyfriend’.
He expected him to acknowledge that, to deny the description, to shrug it off.
But instead, Tim simply stared Miller in the eye, enduring another finger under the toes …
And then, he simply said,
“Do your worst.”
TCTLR continues in Chapter Twenty Three - ‘Broken’ …