"Ten million dollars. And all I ask, is that you stay here."

Actor Timothée Chalamet finds himself scrambling to uphold the lifestyle in which he has grown accustomed - long time friend and colleague, Armie Hammer, has the generational wealth in which to provide him what he’s been used to living. But it comes at a cost.

Timothée soon finds himself at odds that he never expected to confront in his young life.

Shocked and intrigued by Armie's unique erotic tastes, Timothée hesitates. His boundaries tested, he endures the relentlessness of a man consumed by the need for control. And yet, he finds himself craving more - when the pair embark on a consuming, passionate physical affair, Timothée soon discovers Armie's secrets - all whilst spiralling further and further into the strange and unique world of Knismolagnia.

***

‘… The author creates a world where anything is possible. The mundane is exciting - the exciting is titillating - even if the average reader has not heard of these interests they want to know more. They are as intrigued as much as Timothée is - eager, curious and hesitantly optimistic. ‘TCTLR’, at its core, is an exploration and celebration of sexual liberation. It’s a commanding tour de force that draws the reader in, ties them up and drives them mad - much as the young protagonist finds himself, chapter after chapter …’ - @demonickalfun

***

CHAPTER ONE - ‘TICKLE ABUSE’

‘Timothée Chalamet’s Ticklish Last Resort’ takes place in April 2020, years before all of the current FTU fics…

_____________________________________________________

The tickle chair was made of expensive, deep red leather.

It had a back that offered a comfortable looking head rest and was the size of the average sun-lounger.

At the end of the chair were a pair of wooden stocks. These were connected with steel bolting.

Either side of the head rest were two panels - leather cuffs dangled from them lifelessly.

It was there… It was waiting for him.

It existed.

And it would be the thing holding him into place.

Timothée raised his eyebrows as he stared at the device.

Shit…

He swallowed down a bubble of anxiety as he ran a hand through his hair.

Is it too late to back out?

“Strip off to your underwear, and take a seat,” said Tim’s Tickler.

Two million dollars… 

Tim closed his eyes and imagined seeing that kind of money back in his account.

The thought itself was enough to remind him that he had to do this. 

It's just tickling.

No more movie roles due to the collapse of the film industry had effected him financially.

Post Corona Tim couldn’t afford Pre Corona Tim’s car, or New York apartment.

This is it.

I can take it.

It won't even hurt.

Tim took a breath and pulled off his t-shirt.

He then unbuckled his belt.

The Tickler folded his arms and turned away from Tim, allowing him some privacy.

Tim yanked down his cargo pants and kicked them off of his legs.

He folded everything into a neat pile, placing it on a nearby couch.

He then knelt down and began to untie the laces of his sneakers.

“No," The Tickler bellowed his order in a deep, authoritative tone, "Leave your shoes and socks on."

Tim paused, acknowledging the request.

He slowly stood back up and let his hands dangle by his sides as he awaited further instruction.

The Tickler walked towards the tickle chair and began to unbuckle the wrist restraints.

Tim let some curls of hair hang over his eyes as he adjusted the elastic waist band of his white Calvin Klein underwear.

“Take a seat,” said The Tickler.

Tim sheepishly walked towards the tickle chair.

He lifted one leg over the base and straddled the device. As he did so, The Tickler unlocked the stocks.

To Tim’s surprise, the stocks opened up in half. This allowed Tim to neatly place his ankles into the ridges of the stocks. Once the top half was closed down, Tim’s ankles were securely locked into place.

His Adidas dressed feet dangled nervously out of the other side.

Tim bounced his knees together anxiously. He bit his lower lip as he watched The Tickler approach him.

The Tickler gently took Tim’s left wrist in his hand.

He lifted it upward to the side panel and strapped Tim’s wrist into the leather restraint.

He then did the same with Tim’s right wrist.

Tim’s hands were now at the same height at his head, his arms pulled aside by bondage.

He tested the strength of the restraints by trying to pull his now clenched fists towards him.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself, the situation now revealing itself as all too real.

He suddenly felt so exposed, so vulnerable. 

The tickle chair sat in the middle of The Tickler’s living room.

Behind Tim, there was a tall, orange-bricked fireplace. All of the couches had been pushed aside to allow space for the device.

The home felt stuffy and warm. Tim wasn’t sure if that was the general temperature or if he was just nervous and hot.

The Tickler walked into the kitchen and disappeared through the next door.

Tim sat in the tickle chair silently.

He angled his head a little, in an attempt to peer past the kitchen.

What the fuck is he doing?

After a minute or two, The Tickler returned with a small leather briefcase.

He crouched down and placed this on his side of the stocks, out of Tim’s sight.

Tim heard the ‘click, click’ of the suitcases locks, flicked open expertly.

He tried to peer over the stocks, but couldn’t see anything other than The Tickler in the crouched position.

After The Tickler had scrambled through the contents of the suitcase, he knelt on both knees and looked Tim in the eye.

“Ready?”

Tim felt his heart pound in his throat.

He closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He exhaled the weight of dread within him.

“I’m, I'm ready,” Tim announced.

The Tickler smirked and began to unlace Tim’s sneakers.

Tim clenched his teeth.

Fuck.

No, seriously.

Fuck.

The Tickler did it slowly. He wanted to enjoy this moment.

Tim couldn’t believe this was happening.

And as his trainer left his left foot, Tim glanced at his Tickler, looking him in the eye.

Glad that at least, this torture would be implemented by someone he knew...

***

Two days earlier…

Timothée adjusted his black face mask as he stepped back into the middle of the empty New York sidewalk.

He stared at his own reflection in the glass door opposite him.

Butterflies danced around the centre of his stomach.

He wore a pair of black sweat pants that were tucked into thick white socks. His white running trainers glimmered in the sunlight. He tucked his hands into his vintage pink and mint-green sports jacket.

Dark brown curls of hair flicked around his face as the Manhattan breeze blew past him - they were just about controlled by the large black cap he wore tightly over his head.

He looked from left to right - so far, he hadn’t been spotted.

He took a quick breath and looked down at his feet. 

Get a grip.

Even if someone did notice him, even if someone did approach him - it wouldn’t matter.

To any witnesses, he was simply entering a large office building.

Once he were past these glass doors, they would never know the real reason he was here.

He wiggled his fingers at rapid speed, willing the doors to open quickly.

CLICK-BZZZZZZZ.

> Hello? <

The intercom expelled a male voice - gravelly, crackled. 

“Hey! Hey… Uhm, I’m, I'm here … I’m here to… To see Brendan…? It’s Timothée…”

> Mr. Chalamet? Wow. You’re… Specifically on time… <

Tim chuckled and removed his cap, quickly running a hand through his hair.

“Uh, yeah… Could you uhh, could you let me in?”

> Sure, come to the fourth floor. It’s door number seven… <

After the click, Tim pressed his fingertips against the glass doors and pushed them open.

He stepped into the office building and ran up the wooden staircase.

Once on the fourth floor he coughed out some nerves and approached the seventh door in the hall.

In the centre of the door’s glass window, the number seven and the company name displayed itself in the form of a plastic vinyl.

“... 'Tickle Abuse'  …” whispered Tim.

He lowered his head in brief thought.

Now would be the time to turn around.

What if you piss him off by not showing?

What if tells someone.

Holy shit.

With another intake of breath, he curled his fist into a ball and gently knocked on the door.

***

Brendan was a fifty year old man with a red blotchy face and bright, grey hair.

He sat behind a wooden desk and was dressed in a navy t-shirt and boot leg denim jeans.

It was 1.30pm and he was on his fourth glass of red wine.

In front of him sat a MacBook, and on the laptop screen was a picture of Timothée’s face and all of his physical stats.

Height, hair colour, eye colour, waist size, chest size, shoe size etc…

On the opposite side of the desk sat Tim.

“Well, the only thing that comes to mind," Brendan slurred, "Is the simply saying, 'how the mighty have fallen…'...” 

He sat back in his seat and folded his arms as he looked over at the once hireable celebrity actor.

Tim looked down at his lap and smirked, shaking his head, “It’s uh, it's just extra income. Honestly… I’m fine, everything’s fine, actually…”

Brendan chuckled as he sat forwards, “You reassuring me, or yourself?”

Tim’s smirk faded as he blinked into his lap.

“So,” Brendan started, “Like we discussed on the phone, today I’m taking some additional information and I then get you to sign the paperwork … Once that’s done, I ship out your data to our client base and I’ll be in touch when someone wants to turn you into a dribbling mess. You got it?”

Tim shuffled awkwardly in his seat.

Dribbling mess?

He nodded just the once, "I got it."

“And then, once said client had expressed interest, you simply do the session and then you get wired in full. You’re up for whatever time frame, right… I mean, maximum pay is two million dollars…” Brendan pulled the MacBook closer to him as he dusted off the screen with his fingertips, “…That means the client can have you for up to three hours.”

“Yeah," Tim swallowed down uncertainty, "I uh, I can do that."

You can't do that.

You haven't been tickled since you were a kid.

You might disappoint. 

Act it up, it's what you do.

Or, what you did.

Brendan smiled, allowing his eyes to travel over the landscape of Tim’s face.

“You’re a handsome young man …”

Tim laughed and looked down into his lap, "Uh, th-thanks."

Brendan let his fingertips rest on the keyboard as he stared into the MacBook screen, “And, going by what I'm seeing online, there's a lot of people out there who have a thing for your dogs. Your wikifeet page has a lotta hits, who knows, some pervert out there might be a big time payer. I'm sure there's someone out there who's willing to pay big bucks to tickle Mr. Chalamet.”

Tim curled his toes within the confines of his sneakers.

"Fingers crossed, I, I guess."

Brendan took the glass of wine in his hand and slurped it through cracked lips, “Now, for the additional stats…” Brendan stood up from his desk and walked to a leather sofa which sat against the wall of his office, “…Come, take a seat.”

Tim fidgeted in his spot for a few seconds before readying himself to stand.

Once on his feet, he walked over to the sofa and sat on the left side, around a meter and a half away from Brendan.

Brendan patted his lap. “Feet here, please.”

Tim slowly rubbed his palms over his knees.

"You're uh, you're testing me out?"

Brendan tried his best to hide his impatience - he had other potential clients to see.

“It's stats, kid. I’m an expert, don’t worry.”

Tim placed his feet on Brendan's lap in reluctance. 

Brendan held onto Tim’s ankles, with a surprisingly gentle touch.

He pinched the thick, white cotton material of Tim’s tube socks.

His fingers slid over Tim’s bright white, immaculately clean running shoes.

“These new?” He asked Tim, tightening his grip on the trainer.

Tim nodded quietly as he bit the nail of his right thumb, “Yeah. First time I’ve worn them is today.”

Brendan tapped his fingers on the lace of the running shoe and nodded slowly, “So they’re nice and fresh. Music to my ears…”

Tim smiled awkwardly.

Brendan's hand left Tim’s feet and reached over unexpectedly to Tim’s side, where his fingers jabbed into Tim’s ribs.

Tim clamped his elbows to his sides, at visceral speed.

“--Fuck!" He hissed.

Brendan grinned, showcasing panels of wine stained teeth.

He hovered his hand over Tim’s clenched sides and then, after a few seconds pause, he continued to jab his fingers into Tim’s ribs.

Tim jolted from left to right.

He twisted his upper body and then, without thought, he reactively grabbed at Brendan's hands in an attempt to block the attacks.

Brendan and Tim sat in a frozen position, Tim's face tightened in a panicked wince.

After a rigid moment, Tim let go of Brendan's hands, but kept them up and ready, just in case Brendan's tickling would return.

Brendan's hands rested on Tim’s thighs, where they slid of the material of his sweat pants and then rested on his knee caps.

He gave them a quick squeeze, causing Tim to jerk his legs.

Without warning, Brendan suddenly returned to Tim's upper body, taking him by surprise.

Tim squirmed into a ball as Brendan's fingers made their way into the depths of Tim's left armpit.

Tim bounced around on the sofa, his face showcasing hysterical terror.

Holy shit!

I'm more ticklish than I--

--Brendan sent his fingers up and down Tim's sides, and then back into his armpits, until Tim had no choice but to shout the word, "STOP!"

Brendan held up his hands.

"Fuck," Tim wiped the top of his head, "I'm, I'm so hot..."

His vintage mint green and pink jacket seemed to be trapping all of the heat between the material and his now sweat soaked upper body.

Brendan liked that Tim felt uncomfortable - that's why he didn’t suggest taking off the jacket.

He wanted Tim to feel hot and bothered, stuffy and disturbed.

Because, ultimately, this was child's play.

It was tame, compared to what he knew Tim would endure once introduced to the client.

"You needed to get used to it," Brendan spoke his thoughts out loud.

He then began to untie the laces to Tim’s running shoes.

Tim closed his eyes and slid both palms over his face.

Here we go.

He slid his hands off the tip of his jaw and landed them on the edge of the couch.

He watched Brendan pull off each sneaker, revealing Tim’s bright white, socked size 11 feet.

Tim’s toes automatically flexed and curled within his socks as they were released from the tightness of his running trainer.

Brendan dropped the trainers onto the floorboards with a thud.

He took his index finger and pressed it gently against Tim’s left sole.

Tim’s toes clenched up tightly.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Brendan slowly dragged his index finger up and down...

Tim allowed his feet to slide around in Brendan's lap.

Within seconds, Brendan gathered Tim’s feet together in his arms and had started to tickle both of them with full force.

Tim clawed into the leather of the couch and kicked his feet outwards, just as hard as he would attempt to pull them in. 

"Jesus!" Tim cried.

Brendan's fingers discovered spots on Tim’s feet that he himself never knew were ticklish.

Brendan explored his heels, his arches, the sides of his feet ...

Just as Brendan landed on an exceptionally sensitive area between Tim's toes, Tim had no choice but to reach forwards, pull Brendan's arms apart and then yank his feet back towards him.

Tim slumped back, wiping his upper lip clear of sweat.

"I'm sorry, I, I can't," He huffed, "It's too much."

Brendan rolled his eyes and patted his lap, “Back here, please.”

Tim paused, “No, man, that's, that's enough. You've got enough.”

Brendan glared at Tim in silence.

Tim chewed his lower lip.

He then reluctantly returned his feet to Brendan's lap.

Brendan positioned Tim so that his legs were crossed at the ankle.

He pinched the top of Tim’s left sock and then, ever so slowly, began to peel the sock upward.

"Okay, man, seriously," Tim clenched his teeth, "Go slow, just, just go slow, okay?"

Brendan let out a gentle gasp as he pulled Tim's sock away from his foot.

Tim’s feet were practically flawless.

His toes perfectly aligned, his toenails healthy and well kept, the tops of his feet smooth, his soles milky white and soft...

“Christ, kid. You been walking on clouds all your life?” Brendan continued to take in details from Tim's feet, where he used his fingers to pull apart Tim's toes, assessing their fleshy length with curiosity.  

Tim thumped both fists over the surface of the couch as he endured Brendan's fingers, sliding between a delicately ticklish area unknown to Tim, until now.

“Ahh… Ahh, uh, I uh…” Tim let out an automatic chuckle, grunting as Brendan found an especially ticklish area around Tim’s left index toe, “... Clouds?"

Tim’s toes would attempt to clamp shut, but Brendan would just pull them apart in an attempt to admire them further.

For Tim, this was ticklish agony.

Brendan licked his lips, "Yeah, clouds," he pulled off Tim's right sock, without hesitation, "You have ... The softest soles I think I've ever seen. Like you've been walking on air."

Tim yelped as Brendan held onto each of his big toes with his index finger and thumb, ensuring that Tim’s bare feet were now trapped together.

Brendan shot a serious look at Tim.

"You're grabby. This is gonna suck. So, keep your hands to yourself."

Tim lifted his shoulders, "Man, I'll, I'll try!"

Brendan took his free hand and began to dance fingers over each of Tim's bare feet.

Tim immediately jolted about on the couch like a fish out of water.

He wanted to reach over and grab at Brendan, it felt like the automatic physical response, something he had to do - but he had been ordered not to.

So he curled his fists into balls and bit into his left forearm as he endured nearly five minutes of constant foot tickling.

I can't handle this.

This is too much!

The sensitivity on his bare soles felt too overwhelming.

At risk of sounding like a pussy, he'd have to ask for this to finish.

"Okay man, stop."

Tim tried to pull his feet back.

Brendan persisted, this time with a returned focus to Tim's index toes.

"No - NO! Come on! Okay we get it, they're ticklish!"

All Tim's begging did was fuel Brendan to go harder and faster.

“Man, I, I mean it, STOP!”

Tim began to kick so hard that he began to lose his breath.

He went against Brendan's request and reached forward, grabbing at Brendan's t-shirt.

He pulled at his arms and shoulders, clawed at his skin.

"Fuck man, come on, enough!"

Brendan ignored Tim's scratches and pleas.

Tim threw his hands over his face and began to roll about on the sofa like a wriggling worm.

He buried his face into a nearby pillow and screamed into the cotton.

Brendan took nothing but pure joy in watching Tim’s feet writhe around in his grip.

The twenty three year old's reactions were so perfect, so arousing, that Brendan lost all control.

Taking Tim's feet into an arm lock, Brendan lifted them close to his own mouth.

Tim shot up, with pillow in hand, as he felt the warmth moisture of a wet tongue and wine-stained lips engulf his toes.

What the --?

Tim grabbed at Brendan's hands, he pulled at the fifty year old's wrists.

But Brendan kept his focus on the squirming digits gliding around his own tongue, deep within his mouth.

"Yo! Man! We, we didn't ... " Tim craned his neck and glared up into the ceiling, " ... We didn't discuss this!"

Brendan chewed on Tim's big toes.

Tim began to repeatedly smack Brendan's back with the pillow. 

"Fuck you! Fuck that! Fuck this!"

Brendan, aware to not over step the line any further, took one more suck out of Tim's right, big toe and then dropped the boy's feet back into his lap.

Tim's soles landed on Brendan's hard on, beneath his jeans.

Tim glared at the Tickle Abuse owner.

He sat breathless, destroyed, flustered, annoyed ...

Brendan licked his lips, and then looked over at Tim.

“Yeah, you’ll do,” he said, with a smile.

***

Back in the tickle chair…

The Tickler removed Tim’s left sneaker and dropped it to the floor.

He glared over at Tim and offered him a friendly smirk.

“Ready?”

Tim curled his fingers around his wrist restraints.

"I'm ready, Armie."

TCTLR continues in Chapter Two - ‘The Claws’ …