Tim woke to a dry mouth and the taste of whiskey and cigarettes.
The need for water felt other-worldly.
“Ugh …”
During their drunken stumble back into the hotel room, they had forgotten to close the room's curtains.
This mishap lead to the beaming rays of morning Atlanta sunshine currently flooding over creased bedsheets and Tim’s slim, awakening frame.
Tim squinted his eyes, shielding his face with his arm as he sat up momentarily, his hungover brain starting up for the day like a tired engine.
As thoughts and memories from the night before trickled back into his mind, a singular nudge landed in the middle of his head.
Armie.
Tim spun round in the bed, a pillow or two falling off the mattress in his speedy twist.
There, laying on his front, like some blonde, sleeping adonis, was Armie Hammer.
Tim dropped his shoulders in sudden relief, laying on his side calmly soon after.
He trailed curious eyes over Armie’s naked body, a body with it’s lower half covered by bed sheets.
Over Armie’s sides and back were red marks, marks not actioned by the gentle tickling from Aaron during spin the bottle …
… Marks that looked fresher, more violent, more aggressively implemented.
… Marks that Timothée lay intelligent enough to know were staining Armie’s body, because of Miller.
Tim expected to feel jealous, like he had during his restless nights sleep, now that it had been confirmed Armie had left so suddenly, to endure a tickling.
He expected to dislike the idea of Miller being so intimate with his best friend …
… Someone who had grown into Something More.
Instead, whilst the envy still existed, Tim also acknowledged the growing form of excited arousal.
He pictured Armie, naked, tied to a bed, molested in the midnight, because he had no other choice.
Because Miller had text him and ordered him there.
The idea felt, to Tim's surprise ... Pretty hot.
How do you know it was Miller?
What if it were The Dominatrix?
Or someone else from the party?
Tim tutted to himself.
Of course it was him.
Tim lifted his hand and hovered it over Armie’s side, as they both lay there in bed, only one of them still sleeping.
He trailed fingertips gently over Armie’s tanned skin, their butterfly touch barely drifting over the pinches and the pokes, the jibs and jabs decorating Armie’s upper body.
Tim’s fingertips neared Armie’s waist.
They travelled closer to the bedsheets, teasing the idea of sliding underneath.
Tim’s hungover horniness got snatched away, mid air, physically by Armie’s hand.
He grabbed at Tim’s wrist with the speed and agility of a ninja.
Tim blinked, literally caught in the act.
Armie rolled over to his back, his assertive hold on Tim softening.
His fingers curled around his wrist and then held onto his hand gently.
Armie opened his eyes, licked his lips and then said,
“Fuck … I’m so thirsty…”
Tim’s hand slid out of Armie’s as he left the mattress.
Armie watched Tim walk in boxer shorts, into the bathroom, disappointed that he weren’t more naked.
He then lay his head on the pillow as he listened to Tim turn on the tap.
The sound of running water, the knowing that hydration would soon arrive, provided Armie with relief he didn’t expect to feel so strongly at this hour of the morning.
Tim returned to the bed with two glasses of water.
He handed Armie his drink.
Both he and Tim downed the contents, together, all at once.
They glug, glug, glugged down the crispy cold liquid, sighing afterwards in unison.
Tim wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wasting no time in asking the question he’d wanted to ask as soon as Armie left the hotel room several hours ago.
“Where’d you go?”
Armie looked into his glass, wishing there were more water inside.
“You know where I went.”
Tim lowered his head.
He picked the buttons to his boxer shorts, toying with the blue cotton material around his thighs.
“Why’d you go?” He asked, with a whiskey scented croak.
Armie sat up, resting his back against the headboard of the bed.
“Go to my pants … Back left pocket.”
Armie nodded to his chinos, draped over the single couch.
Tim swung his feet off the mattress and walked towards the couch, stepping over his own Reeboks and Armie’s drunkingly kicked off loafers.
Tim picked up Armie’s chinos and then pulled out three polaroid snaps from the back left pocket, snaps taken by The Dominatrix at the party the night before.
Tim glanced down at pictures of himself, pinned to a carpet, t-shirt pulled up, stomach and chest exposed…
… The two, three, four, however many Ticklers from the party, tickling him into hysterics …
… He took note of his own face, expressing a wide, manic moment of pained, hysteric laughter …
… A torturous instant, caught in time …
… Evidence, that not only had he been gang tickled, unexpectedly ...
… But that he had attended Tickle Fest 2020.
Tim held the pictures in both hands as he turned to face Armie.
“Why’d you get these?”
Armie lifted his shoulders, tilting his head at his Ticklee.
“Because I know how much you’d worry about them existing,” he patted the space beside him, requesting Tim’s return, “I only agreed to stay with Miller so long last night, if he asked the person who took those photos to give them up.”
Tim kept the photos in his hands as he climbed back onto the bed.
He sat on his knees, staring down at the pictures.
“You, you went through … A session, with Miller … For these?”
Armie nodded slowly.
“Don’t over think it, kid…” he shuffled deeper into the bed, laying back on his front, “… I told you, I’ve got you.”
Tim eyed Armie, laying with pillows squashed under his head, his blue eyes staring back at him.
“Armie, I uh … I, really appreciate—“
Armie readjusted his shoulders, moving some of the pillow down so he could fully view Tim.
“—You feeling ready, for the day ahead?”
Tim’s mumbled appreciation drawled to a stop.
He took in a breath, laying the polaroids face down on the mattress, “Ask me that after a shower and a coffee …” Tim yawned, the cobwebs of the hangover refusing to budge, “… Lot’s of coffee…”
Armie smirked.
“We drank a lot … Like, a lot a lot.”
Tim nodded into his fist.
“We sure fucking did.”
Armie continued his gaze, admiring the beauty of a hungover, morning-Tim, outlined by sunlight from the window.
He wandered eyes over his shoulders, his long neck, his soft, delicate sides …
… His smooth, sensitive, ticklish skin.
“… God,” Armie whispered, his mouth unable to contain words he might've kept to himself, if he weren't still a little drunk, “The things I could do to you, right now.”
Armie pressed his waist gently into the mattress, momentarily offering his hardened arousal a few seconds of pleasure as the muscle rubbed against the landscape Armie lay over.
“You uh ... You had your chance, last night …” Tim spoke quietly, into his lap, avoiding Armie’s gaze.
Armie felt the need for clarification as a developing yet different attraction to what they’d been used to continued to flutter between them both.
“My chance to tie you to this bed … Or my chance to, to do something else?”
Tim picked at the hem of his boxer shorts, his head still lowered, his eyes still away from his Tickler.
“Something else,” he clarified, in another croak, with the scent of stale cigarettes leaving his lips.
Armie lifted his hand and reached it out, slowly, carefully, towards Tim.
His fingertips curled around Tim’s thigh, smoothing over the flesh of his leg.
Tim felt goosebumps dance over his skin, up around his waist and towards his stiffening growth.
“Is … Is this a good idea?” Tim asked, swallowing down gathering bats.
Armie rested his palm over Tim’s gradual throb, squashed beneath his boxers.
“What … Spending the next two days around hundreds of perverted Ticklers?” Armie squeezed the bulge under his hand, “… Or this?”
Tim closed his eyes, biting his lower lip.
“Ss-something has uh… Has ch-changed … Things are…” Tim opened his eyes, glancing down at Armie’s touch, “… Different,” he whispered, breathlessly, “And, and that’s cool. That’s fine. I’m, I’m here for it … But I don’t know if I can, uh …” Tim frowned, lifting his gaze to Armie’s face, “… I’m not, y’know …”
Armie slid his hand away from Tim’s solid arousal.
“You’re not gay?”
Tim nodded slowly, keeping quiet as he waited for Armie to reassure him with something wise and wonderful, something that would make him feel a little less muddled.
Armie patted Tim’s leg, casually.
“You gotta learn to go with the flow, kid…”
He kicked bedsheets away from his body, revealing toned, bare legs and a fully erect penis.
Tim eyes widened.
“If there were a picture of someone who embodied over-thinking in the dictionary, it would be you,” Armie winked at Tim, before strolling towards the bathroom, “Come on, let’s get going. You’re on at twelve.”
As Armie turned on the shower, disappearing under the sound of water and the sight of rolling steam, Tim slumped his shoulders in an ashamed display of embarrassment.
He had put himself out there, with Armie, in more ways than one.
Not only by allowing himself, his body, to be consensually abused by him …
… But by also allowing it to go further, out-of-contract, in the form of edging, in the form of erotic and uncontrollable behavioural testing that Tim had no idea even existed, no idea if he’d even be able to handle something like that.
And it all lead to Tim feeling a different way towards his friend, a way that made Tim want to verbalise it, a way that made Tim want to kiss him, last night, at the height of their drunken state.
A kiss that didn’t happen.
And now, he sat here, stinking of booze, his hard on pressed between his thighs, his want to relieve himself stronger than ever …
… A want that constantly felt controlled, denied, refused.
… Feelings that constantly felt dismissed, this time by a casual pat on the leg.
Does he not feel the same?
Is this just a tickle thing, for him?
Is it even more for me?
What the fuck am I thinking?
Stop.
Stop it, now.
Tim balled his fists and bit into his knuckles.
As Armie washed himself, humming one of the Madonna tracks played on repeat at the party last night, Tim lay back down on his back, with a defeated bounce.
It was then he realised that, no matter how much he did or didn’t over think …
… None of this sat on his terms.
The chance to kiss, the opportunity to touch ...
… Even his own ability to provide his own orgasm.
Armie made a choice, right then, to not discuss Tim’s sexuality, or any confusion he might behold.
The scene had been set, time and time again, and not by Tim.
No matter what happened …
… Armie would always be in control.
***
TICKLE FEST DAY ONE:
SESSION TWO, ‘TIMOTHÉE & THE WHEEL’, 12 PM
-
Past the hotel lobby and through large glass double doors, one of the main hotel conference halls had been cleared and opened out, becoming the space for a giant Tickle Fest-style convention.
Hundreds and hundreds of Ticklers and Ticklee’s strolled through the space, a space lined with stands and huts, stages and performers, flash lights and six foot speakers.
As Tim and Armie stepped into the hall, Tim moved his mouth into an O shape and simply said,
“Damn.”
Music played from one corner, whilst a few TV’s played out filmed tickle scenes from another.
Assistants wearing headsets and red coloured polo shirts with Tickle Fest logo's on the break spoke on megaphones, announcing Sessions ending soon, and starting shortly also.
Every person within the convention, including Tim and Armie, had name badges stickered to their chest.
To Tim’s left, a small stage hosted a show where a young woman sat restrained in stocks, her feet tickled by several beefy men.
A man dressed in an flamboyant outfit made of giant, pink feathers passed Tim and Armie, where he offered them both a polite smile and a gentle nod.
Armie glanced at Tim’s name badge, “Come on, ‘Timmy’ … Let’s have a browse, you’ve still got about twenty minutes till you’re on …” he placed his hand over Tim’s back as they began to walk through the crowds.
They approached a hut with a ‘MyFriendsFeet’ logo decorating it’s roof.
Inside, a handsome looking sixty year old guy in a Hawaiian t-shirt made small talk with customers interested in buying self-made DVD’s, with titles such as ‘Young, Handsome & Ticklish’ and ‘Lucas Tickle Bribed’ …
… Tim picked up one of the DVD’s, eyeing the plastic cover: a picture of an attractive, athletic looking man laying strapped to a table, with several guys tickling him on his armpits, feet and sides.
“I … I had no idea this was so huge…” Tim mumbled, as Armie picked up another DVD from the stand.
“There’s hundreds of websites, blogs, clip sites … All selling this kinda stuff,” Armie nodded towards the guy hosting the MyFriendsFeet hut, “… I believe he makes a living off of it all now. This is his job…”
Tim put the DVD back within the selection, joining Armie in another slow walk through crowds to the next stand.
“It’s like comic-con,” Armie explained, “But for ticklers.”
Session One, taking place on stage three, had started to wrap up.
The gathered audience cheered, clapped and whooped as the Ticklee’s bonds were removed from their wrists and ankles.
The Ticklee seemed to be a man in his early thirties.
He had been tied to a ladder, acting out the role of a 'burglar who had been caught by the two owners of the home he had attempted to raid'.
The burglar's punishment was tickling.
The cast wrapped up the performance, surrounded by hand-painted, make-shift apartment walls, borrowed couches and plants bought from Walmart, all props to make up a believable living space.
The quality of the set reminded Tim of his old stage shows at college, as a budding teen actor.
“This is … This is fucking … Insane …” Tim looked at Armie with wide eyes.
Armie placed his index finger over his lips, “Be careful with how you describe it, Tim. These people think they’re anything but mad.”
Tim nodded in understanding as a few drag queens dressed in colourful, sequinned catsuits tottered past in six inch heels.
“This way,” Armie applied pressure to Tim’s back as they neared the middle of the convention.
They passed a stand called ‘Footfriends’, another labelled ‘Boynapped’ …
… They paused to watch a guy on one of the stages locked in medieval style stocks, his feet tickled by two goats licking cream cheese off the bottoms of his feet.
They smiled and waved at some of the people they had seen at the party.
Tim stopped to watch The Dominatrix tickle a leather-masked, overweight man, chained to the conference halls ceiling …
… Tim understood Armie’s point, and the need to showcase respect, but …
… This *is* fucking insane!
This is unlike anything he’d seen, unlike anything he’ll see again.
A literal and physical world, dimension, universe that he never, in his wildest dreams, thought he’d be a part of.
As they got closer to the stage Tim would soon be positioned on, they passed a metal, cylinder shaped contraption with someone positioned inside it.
Their head and feet poked out at either end.
Armie nudged Tim.
“Ring some bells?”
Tim clenched his teeth at the memory of he and Armie’s first tickle session, in the first week of their Agreement, where he had been held inside ‘The Incubator’, his exposed head blindfolded, his vulnerable feet toe-tied and tickled relentlessly.
Tim recognised the sub inside the cylinder.
Aaron’s blonde, floppy hair hung over his bushy eyebrows as he twisted his head from side to side.
His cheeks burned red … He looked flustered, exhausted.
At the other end of the device, several men tickled Aaron’s feet.
Tim watched with an open mouth, his hands dangling by his side.
He then found himself taking a step closer, away from Armie.
Armie folded his arms as he witnessed Tim approach Aaron’s feet, his toes pinned back by black string, his soles decorated in baby oil.
The Ticklers continued their torture, as Tim lifted his hand.
Some moved aside, allowing Tim the ability to move in closer.
Tim took an index finger and trailed it up and down Aaron’s left sole.
He watched the foot flex and squirm, shifting from left to right the more he tickled the centre of Aaron’s foot.
Tim could hear the begging, the screaming, the laughing, from the other end of the cylinder.
What the fuck are you --
-- A megaphone announcement broke Tim from his moment.
He stepped away from the set up, returning to Armie’s side.
Armie placed his hand back on Tim’s shoulder.
The crackled voice booming from the megaphone travelled over the crowd of one hundred and fifty plus.
“Ticklee for Session Two, to door number five, please … That’s Ticklee for Session Two, to door number five …”
Armie squeezed Tim’s neck.
“That’s you, kid…”
Tim had acted on stage, stood on red carpets, sobbed in front of the camera …
… He had accepted awards, been interviewed countless times, mastered public speaking, exposing the core to his vulnerability.
But, right this second, right now, within the middle of this bustling convention …
… Tim felt more nervous than he had ever felt in his entire life.
***
Tim stood in a carpeted hallway, behind door number five, by himself.
He had been told by one of Miller’s Assistants to wear only his underwear.
So, Tim kicked the ground with his heel, wearing just a pair of white briefs.
Organisers of Tickle Fest hurried past him, readying Sessions Three and Four …
… A man with a walkie talkie addressed a problem with one of light stands, something to do with a broken bulb or two …
Tim breathed in, and out, slowly, but surely … In a shaking attempt to control his anxiety.
He constantly felt on the look out for iPhones or secret cameras …
… He kept telling himself, repeatedly, that there would be nothing to worry about.
You’ll be able to handle the spinning.
Just close your eyes.
It can’t be anywhere near as bad as when Armie—
“—Timothée!”
Miller’s voice boomed from down the hall.
Wearing a white t-shirt with the Tickle Fest 2020 logo printed on the chest, Miller jogged towards Tim and offered him a reassuring hug.
Tim wrapped his arms around Miller’s waist, resting his chin on the main Organiser’s shoulder.
Despite not trusting Miller fully, simply having someone here he somewhat knew, with him, just as he were about to go on, made the build up a little easier.
“Where’s Hammer?” Miller asked, as he broke the hug.
Tim stepped back, running a hand through his hair.
“Uh, w-we were told he couldn’t come through. I, I was just told to get undressed, a-and wait by the door …”
Miller frowned, shaking his head.
“Someone is getting fired …” he held onto Tim’s left arm, moving him closer towards the halls wall, “… I’d never make you stand here, waiting alone. You must be shitting yourself.”
Tim laughed into the ceiling.
“You, you could say that …”
As Tim bobbed his head and squeezed his mouth shut, Miller took a step closer towards him.
“Now, you remember I don’t do safe words, right? This will be something you’ll need to just… Endure?”
Tim nodded quickly.
The concept of the session, from the description he had read in the pamphlet during the journey here, gave Tim more concern about being sick, over concern about being able to handle the tickling …
… Especially after all the whiskey and beer from the night before.
“And you’re glad Armie got the polaroids to you?” Miller squeezed Tim’s arm, “I promise, that won’t happen again. She’s been given a stern warning, if she violates the terms and conditions again, she’s out …”
Tim held onto his neck, his heart beat pulsating into his throat.
“Y-yeah, it’s, it’s cool. Just a, a shame he had to get them at a cost …”
Miller smirked, leaning in over Tim’s shoulder.
His lips whispered into Tim’s left ear.
“He enjoyed every fucking minute…”
Tim glared into Miller’s neck as the delivered words pierced skin Tim had left too exposed.
Anxiety over the session became overshadowed by confusion and jealousy.
Tim curled his fists into balls as Miller took two steps away from him.
“See you on stage, kid …”
Miller then slid past Tim, walking off down the hall, whilst Tim stared down into the carpet, battling with nothing but uncertainty.
***
Miller attached a microphone to the collar of his t-shirt as he stood in the middle of Session Two’s stage.
Most of the full attendance of Tickle Fest had left their stands and other separate sessions taking place, to make their way to Session Two, where they would witness one of Hollywood’s hottest celebrities get tickled in one of the most unique, entertaining ways Tickle Fest had ever invented.
Miller looked out to hundreds of people within the audience, all facing him in an excited murmur, all applauding his arrival, his presence.
“Wow,” Miller mumbled under his breath, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a turn out like this…”
Armie stood at the front, squashed up against some metal, waist-high railings, his blue-eyed stare watching Miller carefully.
“Okay…” Miller cleared his throat, and then he lifted his head, “This is it,” he announced, taking a step towards the edge of the stage, “The moment you’ve all been waiting for. The moment you get to see Timothée fucking Chalamet, tickle tortured, before your very eyes!”
Miller grinned in delight as the audience erupted in an explosion of cheers, applause and whooping.
Miller turned to face the stages set up.
To the right - five Ticklers, each with their own individual personalities and style, all lined up in a row.
To the left - a giant structure around eight feet tall, blanketed by a huge, black sheet.
“Now, as you all know, earlier last week I sent every attendee a digital lottery email. You all selected an available singular, random number between one and two hundred … And then, earlier this morning, myself and my team selected five individual numbers, out of the blue,” Miller gestured to the five Ticklers, standing excited and patient, at the right side of the stage.
“These five lucky participants matched the numbers we chose … These five, lucky participants will therefore get to tickle Timothée ...” Miller smirked, allowing the audience to cheer once again, before lifting his hand into the air, in an attempt to silence them, “… Hey, shall we get him on stage?”
The audience screamed, in unison, a loud, “YEAHHHHH!”
Miller shrugged, shaking his head.
“Hmm, I, I don’t think he can hear you …”
The audience cried out, once again, this time louder.
“YEEEEEAAHHHHHHHHHH!”
Suddenly, they began to chant.
“TIM-O-THEE! TIM-O-THEE! TIM-O-THEE!”
Miller nodded to one of his assistants, who stood by door number five, ready to speak into a headset.
She mumbled something into the mic by her mouth and then pushed the door open, revealing Tim, in white briefs, his head lowered, standing in the hall.
Armie winced as the audience’s cheer and applause almost deafened him.
Tim lifted his head in confidence and then took a step onto the stage.
He found Armie in the crowd, immediately locating him at the front, amongst the huge expanse of people within the conference hall.
Armie nodded at Tim, offering him a reassuring smile.
Tim waved at the audience, adopting the same mentality he had in Miller’s studio, at Miller’s party …
… He fell into a role.
He provided a Hollywood grin, raising his wave into a over-dramatic, hands up to the ceiling moment of self-celebration.
He absorbed the attention, like he did on red carpets.
He allowed the flood of joy, the cheering, the fanatic mania to fill him with courage.
Before he knew it, he stood at Millers side with his hands behind his back.
“Alright, I can’t believe I’m about to say this … But, everyone, it’s Timothée fucking Chalamet! At Tickle Fest 2020 …!”
Tim waved again as the audience cheered and applauded their celebrity guest.
“Alright,” Miller clapped his hands loudly, just the once, “Let’s waste no more time!” He turned to another one of his assistants, standing at the left of the stage, “Reveal The Wheel!”
Tim turned to face the large, black-sheet-covered shape.
The assistant grabbed the corners of the sheet and pulled it downwards.
The sheet bellowed through the air, landing on the stage, revealing a 'wheel of fortune' style device.
Once again, the audience erupted in manic applause.
“Now, would you look at that …” Miller held onto Tim’s back as he slowly lead him towards The Wheel.
Tim hid his face with his hands, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mumbled, into his palms.
The Wheel stood around two foot taller than Tim.
Made entirely of thick wood and attached to a steel pillar that protruded from out of the stage, The Wheel also presented wrist, arm, chest, thigh and ankle restraints in the form of leather straps.
Tim placed fingertips over The Wheel’s surface, flattening out his palm against the varnished, smoothness of the structure.
His hand slid over to a wooden word, finely and expertly cut out, protruding from part of The Wheels edge.
‘Thighs’.
Tim looked up to the rest of The Wheels outline.
Evenly spaced out over it’s circular rim and just as professionally crafted, more words stared down at him.
‘Neck’, ‘waist', ‘toes’ …
… ‘Feet’, ‘sides’, ‘pits’ …
Tim slid his fingers through his hair, slicking back curls as he allowed an overwhelming sense of dread to wash over him.
“Now, it all looks pretty standard, right?” Miller addressed his question to Tim, whilst looking out into the crowd … “Pretty harmless, right…?”
The audience cheered and chanted, whooped and applauded.
Armie watched on in silent reservation.
“Let’s spice it up …” Miller nodded to his third assistant.
The young girl rolled a serving trolley out onto the stage.
On the trolley sat a tray, with a selection of five boxes in different shapes and sizes neatly laid out on it’s surface.
On each box, a number ranging from 1-5.
Tim looked over his nose at the tray and the boxes with narrowed eyes.
Armie overheard a member of the audience behind him say to a friend, “He must be cold up there, his nipples are hard as fuck …”
Visuals of Tim strapped to a wooden X, in the depths of Armie’s basement, flashed through Armie’s mind.
The cock ring, the vibration, the humidity, the baby oil rolling down his chest …
… His nipples, stiff and sensitive to touch.
Armie felt important, better than the people surrounding him in the audience …
… Because, even if what they witness over the next hour or so might be the best moment of their lives …
… Armie had experienced the unimaginable, the most intimate, private moments that only existed in his mind, and within the mind of the twenty three year old celebrity standing on the stage.
Armie smiled, finding comfort in his own self reassurance.
Miller patted The Wheels surface.
“On you get …”
The audience began to applaud as Tim took one step onto one of the wooden rungs located underneath the left ankle strap.
Two of Miller’s assistants helped him up, where they then began to attach the straps to his wrists.
Tim felt the cold press of The Wheels surface against his bare back as his arms were strapped down, far apart, either side of him.
He curled his hands around steel bars located at each side of The Wheel.
You better hold on fucking tight.
“Alright!” Miller stepped away from The Wheel and turned his focus back to the audience, “The Tickler’s to my right will each take a turn at spinning Timothée … The body part on The Wheel his head lands closest to, that’s where he will be tickled…” Miller gestured at the protruding individual wooden wording lining The Wheels edge, “… Then, they have to pick a number between one and five …”
Tim looked down at his chest as a strap made it’s way over his stomach, just above his navel, tightening him closer against The Wheel.
One of the female assistants bent down by Tim’s right foot, attaching a leather strap to his right ankle.
She looked up at him and smiled.
At a time where Tim might’ve smouldered a returning, more flirtatious smile back, considering his current situation and bubbling anxiety, all he could do was flatten his lips.
Tim now hung strapped to The Wheel, with only his heels as support, standing over wooden rungs under his feet.
“Whichever number they pick,” Miller continued, “That is the tool they get to use on Timothée, for however long I allow …” he turned away from the audience and faced Tim with folded arms, “… You cosy there, kid?”
Tim pulled his arms and tried to bend his knees, replying in a deep, restricted growl.
“I’m … I’m going nowhere.”
Miller laughed, turning to the audience.
“He’s right about that, huh guys!”
The audience cheered and applauded once again.
“Alright!” Miller clapped his palms together, “Tickler Number One, you’re up!”
Tickler Number One stood away from the row of now four chosen Ticklers and excitedly approached The Wheel.
He stood at around six foot, wore a bright blue blazer, white tee, denim jeans and had tortoiseshell glasses on his face.
Tim liked how ordinary he seemed.
“H-hey, Timothée,” Tickler no.1 said nervously, with a little wave.
Tim wiggled both hands the best he could, offering the guy a polite smile.
“Hey, man.”
Armie watched on, smiling himself.
So far, so good.
“I loved you in 'The King' …” Tickler no.1 held onto The Wheel’s edges, “… You’re great in everything you do.”
Tim watched Miller clap his palms together, once again.
“Come on, Tickler no.1, the clock is ticking!” He reminded.
Tickler no.1 nodded in apology, bent down on his knees and then, with all his strength, spun The Wheel downwards.
Tim squeezed his eyes shut as he endured a sickening spin, where his entire body twirled around the full rotation of The Wheel.
The audience drummed up excitement by starting a ‘Whoooooooaaaaaaaaaahhhhh…” that lasted as long as it took for The Wheel to spin several times, to an eventual stop.
Tim hung upside down, his curls of hair dangling away from his face.
His cheeks began to grow red as his blood travelled towards his head.
He opened his eyes, twisting his face from left to right.
Now, more than ever, did he regret drinking so much the night before.
“NECK!” Miller announced, pointing to Tim’s head, hanging above the word Miller had just shouted out into the applauding audience.
Tickler no.1 stomped down his left foot in frustration, hoping for The Wheel to land on ‘feet’ or ‘pits'.
“And your number, sir …” Miller presented his hands towards the tray of boxes.
With all boxes closed, therefore hiding the tickle tools themselves, Tickler no.1 had no clue which tool he’d be using.
He went with size, announcing, “Number three …” as it looked to be the biggest box out of the five.
Tim winced as gravity naturally pulled him downward, his ankles caught tightly in the straps pinning him in place.
Miller picked up box number three and opened it’s lid.
Inside, an electric tooth brush.
The audience cheered as Tickler no.1 took the tool, switching it on with a press of his thumb.
Tim angled his head in various directions as he heard the sound of speeded up whizzing.
He jolted as soon as the electric toothbrush landed on his throat.
It glided over his skin, around his jaw, towards his suprasternal notch.
Armie grinned as he watched Tim squeeze his eyes shut and shake his head from left to right, widening his jaw and opening his mouth in an attempt to catch the toothbrush with his chin.
He clenched his fists and let out sporadic giggles into the stage floor, inches below his face.
The audience cheered and applauded as Tim endured his first few minutes of tickle torture, at the hands of Tickler no.1, with his electric toothbrush.
Tickle no.1 knelt down on both knees, decreasing the space between he and Tim.
He sent the toothbrush over Tim’s cheeks, past his nose, towards his lips …
… Lips only Armie knew were so sensitive.
Tickler no.1 laughed in rejoice as he watched Tim groan and swear, thrash his head from side to side.
“Ticklish lips!” Miller shouted into the audience, “Who would’ve thought!”
Armie winced.
“That’s gonna kill him…” he muttered to himself.
Tickler no.1 cackled in delight as he acknowledged a spot on Tim he felt too keen to explore.
Tim spluttered and spat, shaking his legs in frustration, as the toothbrush whizzed over and around his soft, plump mouth.
Tim’s eyes bulged white, his cheeks burned red.
“Fuck!” *spit* “Alright!” *spat* “It says!” *pfft* “Neck! Not lips!”
The audience cheered in excitement as they watched Miller stand on tip toes, reaching up to Tim’s left foot, where he actioned a sneaky, unsolicited tickle, despite not being a contestant in the game.
Tim’s foot twisted as he pressed his lips together, sucking them in, trying to conceal their ticklishness.
“MMmmn! Mnnnn!”
With his mouth intentionally clamped shut, Tim couldn’t protest properly towards Miller’s foot tickling at the top of The Wheel.
“Guys, I wish you could feel how soft Timmy’s feet are!” Miller sent his index finger up and down Tim’s left sole as he shot overjoyed eyes at a panting audience filling the entire space of the convention hall.
Tim coughed out annoyance, unable to keep his mouth shut anymore.
“Fuck!” He twisted his jaw into his shoulder as the toothbrush whizzed down towards his collar bone, “Stop, stop with the feet!” He glared past his chest, trying to force a stern look at Miller, his brain feeling tight and swollen, “That’s not fucking fair, man!”
Miller chuckled, continuing his tickle.
“Hey, I run the place kid - I do what I like!”
Tim curled the toes of his left foot as Miller began to explore them with wiggling fingers, whilst Tickler no.1 sent the toothbrush around Tim’s neck, into his ears, over the gentle stubble of his chin.
“Fuck -- damnit--” Tim wriggled and writhed against The Wheel as the audience cheered and applauded, at a ear-numbing volume.
Despite not being the one tickling Tim, Armie stood throughout the first Tickler’s attacks entirely hard and fully aroused.
Seeing Tim pinned, against The Wheel, upside down, to an audience, tickled by strangers …
Damn, this is something else…
Tim’s neck began to ache, from the constant twisting and turning.
He hissed and spat, his eyes now watering thanks to all the body fluid that had made it’s way to the top of his head.
Suddenly, the electric toothbrush clicked off and Tim found himself being wheeled back to an upright position.
His body weight fell back to his feet, his heels pressing into the rungs he part-stood on.
His curls of hair were now displayed in messy, shaken tassels.
Tickler no.1 handed Miller the toothbrush before he left the stage, his exit applauded by the hundreds watching the session take place.
Miller returned the toothbrush to box number three, glancing up at Tim as he did so.
“So, in one single word, describe how that was, Timmy… ”
People in the audience hushed louder attendee’s, in the hope to clearly hear Tim’s answer.
“Un-fucking-bearable,” Tim mumbled breathlessly.
The audience laughed in unison, whistling and whooping at the same time.
Miller tidied up some of Tim’s hair with one hand, whilst pointing at Tickler no.2 with the other.
“Okay, second Tickler, you’re up ...”
This time, a female Tickler left the row, strolling across the stage in knee high, red leather boots.
She wore a red jumpsuit. Her orange hair had been tied in a high ponytail. Glitter decorated her face, and the first thing she did whilst standing before Tim was blow him a kiss.
Tim chuckled, finding light relief in her flirt.
“Bonjour, Timothée …”
She spoke in a French accent.
Tim, fluent in French, provided his reply also in the same tongue.
“Bonjour …” this time, he smouldered.
“Ohhhh!” Miller jeered on the audience, “I think he’s gonna like getting tickled by this one!”
Armie smirked as Tim looked down at him with a mischievous grin.
Miller stepped back, “Whenever you’re ready, honey!”
The red head took hold of the edge of The Wheel and spun it with all her might.
Tim squeezed his eyes shut once again as The Wheel spun around and around and around …
… The whiskey, the beers, the lack of food …
… They started to bubble up in Tim’s stomach, to the point where he had to think of something entirely different to what he currently endured.
Bambi …
… The Lion King …
… What is the best Disney film of all t—
--The Wheel rolled to a gradual stop.
Tim now hung at a ninety degree, horizontal angle.
In this position, he could make more sense of the audience and his surroundings because - unlike a few moments ago, nothing looked upside down.
Tim had no idea which 'body party' word his head had landed on.
The audience cheered triumphantly, whooping loudly across the stage.
“Oh my, something tells me she’ll be happy with this…” Miller glared at Tickler no.2, who stood now glancing down at the four remaining boxes on the tray.
“Hmmm…” she trailed a red nailed index finger over her choices, “… Number one.”
Tim wished he knew where he’d be tickled next.
Something told him that the audience, Miller, the Ticklers, they’d be keeping that information to themselves from now on.
Fuck!
Tim wriggled in his bonds.
Tickler no.2 opened up box number one, revealing a cut out piece of pink paper.
She held the paper out to the audience, who once again fell into manic applause and cheering.
“What? What the, what the fuck is h-happening?” Tim shot worried looks to Miller, to Armie, to the assistants.
Tickler no.2 returned the slip of paper to box number one and then, with wiggling fingers, she approached Tim’s upper body.
Tim put two and two together, as the woman’s fingernails approached both of his armpits at the same time.
“No, fuck, uhhh, no, w-wait …” Tim tried to close up his pits by pulling his hands through the straps around his wrists, but they had pinned his arms to The Wheel too forcefully.
Miller turned to the audience.
“That’s right, folks! Her tool … Are her fingers!”
On the piece of paper in box number one, ‘hands’ had been written in black marker pen.
Tim arched his back as Tickler no. 2 sent her fingers directly into the centre of Tim’s armpits, wiggling them furiously through the depths of his armpit hair.
Armie lifted his shoulders as the audience deafened him once again.
Tim thrashed around against The Wheel, hanging to the side, curls of hair once again thrown messily about in the air.
“Fuck, fu-huhuhahahahahcckkk, oh da-ahahahahahamnnnn, fuck, damn, fuck stop!”
Tim heaved out hysteria as Tickler no.2 continued her torment.
In his current position, he hung at the perfect height, his upper body horizontally facing the woman’s chest.
She stood still, her fingers remaining in Tim’s pits, still tickling the very centre of them, the very core of one of his most ticklish areas.
Tim’s eyes widened as he realised she would be more than relentless, “OH, OH, OH,” he once again shaped his mouth in a ‘O’ shape, rolling his shoulders in circles, “OH SHIT, SHIT, f-fuck, come on! Fuck, go somewhere else! Damn, da-hahahahaha-haha-hahahamn!”
Tim bucked his waist, his throat expelling gravelly growls and moans as Tickler no.2 mercilessly actioned a constant, non stop tickling, with both hands, at each of Tim’s pits, at exactly the same time.
“Are they sweaty yet?” Miller asked Tickler no.2.
Tickler no.2 grinned sadistically, “They’re so sweaty!”
The audience cheered and applauded as Tim threw his head against the surface of The Wheel, his face showcasing pure, undeniable, mind numbing mania.
Miller walked around Tickler no.2 as she continued her attacks.
He returned to Tim’s feet, this time actioning his own tickle to the right sole.
“FFFF—“ Tim held back from swearing again, shooting fierce eyes over his chest, to Miller, who toyed with Tim’s foot, “MAN, come on! COME ON, JUST ONE PLACE…” he screamed, “… JUST ONE PLA-HAAHAHAHAHAAAAAAACE!”
Miller poked his tongue out at Tim, sending fingers between toes and up and down the sides of his Tim’s right foot.
Tim bucked, wheezed, coughed, spluttered and begged as Tickler no.2 tickled both pits constantly, whilst Miller actioned vigorous, unexpected tickles to his right foot, for a full ten minutes.
“Okay, time’s up!” Miller looked down at his Rolex whilst holding his hand into the air.
Tickler no.2 stepped away, her fingers sliding off of Tim’s chest.
Tim smeared sweat away from the side of his face by rubbing his head against his shoulder.
He panted into Tickle Fest’s electric air, his stomach tight, lifting up and down, rapidly.
Tim licked dry lips, darting bloodshot eyes to Armie, at the front of the audience.
Armie could do nothing but offer Tim reassurance by mouthing the words, ‘you've got this’.
Suddenly, Armie’s face rolled away as Miller returned Tim to an upright position by gently spinning The Wheel to the left.
Tim watched his view return to normal as he coughed into his chest.
“F-fuck … J-Jesus …”
Miller grinned, “Bet your pits feel itchy, huh, Tim?”
Tim nodded quickly, hair falling over the sides of his face, his pits buzzing from Tickler no.2’s sharp nails, a constant prickly sensation still present within their depths.
“Want me to sort that out for you?” Miller approached Tim’s left armpit with his left hand.
The audience cheered as Miller reached up.
Tim jolted to the left, his eyes narrowing down at Miller.
“NO, don’t you fucking dare!”
Miller retracted his hand, planting his palm gently down on Tim’s left thigh, acknowledging Tim’s angry, almost threatening tone.
“Okay, okay, it’s okay …”
He turned to the row of Ticklers.
“Now, Tickler number three … You’re up next …”
From the decreasing row, a small blonde lady with a plastic visor strapped to her head, wearing a black ‘Little Women’ t-shirt and a blue bum bag around her waist, galloped gleefully towards The Wheel.
Tim watched her approach with wide eyes.
She could been someone’s Mom…
The ordinariness of Tickler no.3 stood with her hands behind her back as she grinned at Tim and Miller, awaiting instruction.
“Tickler no.3, another lovely lady! You’re a lucky guy, Tim…!” Miller sent fingers into Tim’s sides, where Tim shifted his upper body violently to the right, “… Where are you from, Tickler no.3?”
“Florida!” Tickler no.3 announced, her smile beaming.
“Florida!” Miller turned to the audience, “We got any one else from Florida here today?”
Huge cheers from various areas of the crowd erupted as Tickler no.3 waved and bounced around on her bright white Adidas trainers and pink pop socks.
“Okay, Tickler no.3, spin The Wheel!”
Tickler no.3, not with as much strength as the previous Ticklers, held onto the edges of The Wheel and spun Tim as hard as she could, with an almighty grunt.
Her effort shifted The Wheel around once, but Miller and his assistants helped the spin gain further momentum by pushing it’s edges as they passed.
Tim watched the audience rotate at a speedy rate, their faces blurring into one, their cheers echoing into nothing.
Fuck.
Fuck, I’m gonna hurl.
Tim’s need to throw up subsided as his gut-wrenching rotation rolled to a gradual stop.
Another almighty cheer from the audience.
This time, Tim lay slightly upside down, but not completely.
Once again, he endured the sudden fill of blood within his cheeks, forehead and jaw.
“D-Damn,” Tim glared down at the stage floor, “H-how long does this shit go on for?!” He cried.
Miller ignored Tim, facing Tickler no.3, “What a fantastic body part you’ve spun to, this should be entertaining! Okay, now for your box of choice …”
Tickler no.3 hovered hesitant hands over the three remaining boxes, nervous that if she were to pick a tool not fit for the body part Tim’s head pointed towards, then the tickling actioned might not be as effective …
Tickler no.3 snatched box number two from the tray, pulling open it’s lid.
She raised her tool in the air as if were some special, magic wand.
The audience exploded into cheers and applause.
Tim tutted, flexing his fingers in frustration, “Hey, can, can you just t-tell me what the mmf—“ Tim felt a hand go over his mouth as Miller knelt down and cupped Tim’s lips with his palm.
“It’s funner you not knowing, kid…”
Millers palm slid away from Tim’s face as he stood back up, “Okay, we’re gonna need a stool so she can reach …” he nodded at his assistants.
Already assuming Tickler’s heights and Tim’s body locations might be an issue, the assistants had readied a small ladder before the session had began.
They placed it by The Wheel, so that Tickler no.3 could climb up and reach Tim’s feet.
“Okay, your time starts…” Miller tapped his index finger over the surface of his Rolex, “… Now!”
Tim angled his head so that he could watch the embodiment of Florida clamber up the steps …
… With a feather in her hand …
No.
Towards Tim’s left foot.
Fuck!
Tim’s left foot twitched as he felt the sharp edges of the feather glide between his left small toe, and the toe beside it.
Tim gritted his teeth as he expected the feather to travel down the sole of his foot.
However, it continued to linger between the lengths of his toes, driving him into a shaking state of unbearable convulsion.
Tim’s foot writhed from side to side as he arched his back and squeezed his fists into strained, angry balls.
A minute went by and the damn woman wouldn’t leave his toes …
She stayed there, tickling all five of them, with the feather, constantly, repeatedly, in a saw-like motion.
Tim’s vision started to blur as his toes were molested by the feathers edge.
“Agh, fuck this, c’mon! Move someplace else, it’s …” Tim growled into his shoulder, “… It’s fucking intense, man! Not there, c’mon!”
The feather moved in and out, in and out, up and down, side to side, around Tim’s big toe.
“Not there?” Miller teased, “Apologies, Timmy, but that’s where The Wheel landed … On ‘Toes’…!”
Tim shook his head, curling his toes, flexing them like juicy worms fresh out of morning soil, in a desperate attempt to move them away from the feather, “No, no, no!” He cried.
“Is one feather enough?” Miller asked the audience.
The crowd replied with a joined together, extremely loud, “NO!”
Tim could’ve swore he even heard Armie’s voice in that cheer.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Tim felt like his mind might pop.
Tickler no.3 giggled mischievously as she continued to twirl the feather around Tim’s toes.
Suddenly, another feather, this time through the toes of Tim’s left foot.
Tim wriggled his feet and clenched his toes shut tight, as he screamed into the stage floor.
Two feathers, at once, on all ten toes.
“He can’t take it, audience!”
The audience laughed, cheered, clapped …
… All whilst Tim kicked his legs and bellowed out manic laughter, blinded by curls of hair hanging over his face.
The toe tickling continued for a further six minutes, despite Tim’s begs and pleas, shouts and moans.
Tickler no.3 took huge enjoyment at seeing Tim’s toes curl and flex beneath the movement of the tool she had chosen, between her fingertips.
Miller, of course, held the second feather.
A little less merciless than Tickler no.3, he also actioned some tickles with his fingers.
Tim screamed in anguish as he felt an attack on his right sole, whilst the feather infiltrated the betweens of his toes, non stop.
“FUCK, NO, COME ON! COME OOOO-OHAHAHAHAAAAAN!”
Tim felt himself near that 'wall', that ‘moment’, that space in his mind that told him he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Go between the big toe and The Index Toe!” Armie shouted, from the front row, “That’s his weak spot!”
Tim shot a surprised, fierce glare towards Armie.
“WHAT. What the fuck, man! Why the fuck would you—“
Armie grinned like a cheeky, naughty school boy, clapping with the rest of the audience as they cheered behind him.
Asshole! Thought Tim.
Miller chuckled, glancing over at Tickler no.3.
“You heard the man, he’s the expert!”
Both Miller and Tickler no.3 took their feathers in-between Tim’s big toe and Index Toe, on each foot.
“Ahh, the famous Index Toe …” Miller almost salivated, “…Let’s see how ticklish this bad boy is!”
Tim groaned into the stage floor, kicking his legs violently within their straps, as the feather made it’s way repeatedly through one of the most ultra sensitive parts of his body.
“IT’S FUCKING TICKLISH, OKAY? IT’S FUCKING TICKLISH! STOP ALREADY! WE KNOW, WE KNOW, WE KNOW!”
Miller felt his arousal stiffen as he watched Tim’s smooth, soft right sole writhe around within it’s strap, his toes fiercely clenching in an attempt to close up the space currently enduring intense invasion.
“Imagine if I got between, with an electric toothbrush …” Miller spoke into the audience, “… That would really drive him nuts, wouldn’t it?”
The audience, including a now hypnotised Armie, cheered with a loud ‘YESSSS!’
“Thankfully, we don’t need to imagine …” Miller dropped the feather into the air as he turned to one of his assistants.
Tim watched the feather float past his head, where it landed limply on the stage floor.
So light, so delicate, so deadly.
“No, man, come on, fuck, that’s not the rules, that’s not fair!” Tim groaned.
“I make the rules, kid …” Miller took the same toothbrush used by Tickler no.1, from his assistant.
Tim jolted as he heard the whzzzzzzzzzzzz sound once again.
“FUCK!” Tim threw his head about as the toothbrush whizzed into the silky smooth space between his right big toe and index toe, “NO, NO. THAT’S ENOUGH, THAT’S ENOUGH!”
Tickler no.3 continued the left toe torture with her feather.
Miller sent the electric toothbrush around the length of Tim’s index toe, over it’s tip, down its side, through the gap connecting it to the big toe, then over the big toe, around it’s plump, wriggling twitch, and then back round to the index …
… He repeated the process dozens and dozens and dozens of times.
Tim cussed and shook, his face now expressing angered, boiling frustration.
“Okay,” Miller pulled Tim’s toes apart with his hands, tired of Tim’s relentless energy and attempts to clench them shut, “Count to ten, Timmy… And at ten, we’ll stop!”
Miller sent the toothbrush through the rest of Tim’s toes as Tickler no.3 continued to torture his index.
Tim took in a huge breath, not considering for one moment to count to ten like a non-toe-tickle-tortured person.
“ONE-TWO-THREE-FOR-FIVE-SIX-SEVENEIGHTNINE-TEEEENNNNNNNNN!”
The audience burst into laughter as Miller switched off the electric toothbrush.
Tim relaxed his right leg, glaring up at The Wheel to the woman still sending a feather between his toes.
“No! Stop! He said you’d stop! Come on!”
Tickler no.3 reluctantly took her feather away, whilst the audience erupted into applause.
Tim now hung his entire weight off the straps connecting him to The Wheel.
He no longer held the rungs for support, he just dangled there breathlessly, pinned to it like a bug trapped in a web.
As Tickler no.3 bowed to the clapping audience, Miller returned the tools to the tray.
He watched his assistants take away the step ladder, whilst returning to Tim, who he wheeled back to a vertical, up right position.
“Can we get some water, please?” Miller clapped his hands at Tim.
Tim stared into the bright lights of the conference halls ceiling.
His ears rang, his toes felt numb, his stomach strained.
An assistant in the form of an eighteen year old boy arrived at Miller’s side, with a large bottle of water.
Miller took the water, approached Tim and then uncapped the bottle.
“All of this is making me so thirsty, I don’t know about you!”
The audience laughed as Miller took several large glugs from the bottle.
Tim watched on in envy as Armie narrowed his eyes at Miller.
“Don’t be a dick!” Armie called, out from the hundreds of watching Ticklers and Ticklee’s.
Miller rolled his eyes, taking the bottle from his mouth, “It’s a joke, it’s a joke!”
He then reached up to Tim, aiming the bottle towards his lips.
Tim sucked on the hydration with closed eyes, allowing the water to spill down his chin, neck and chest where, if anything, it cooled his sweaty, hot form to a more comfortable temperature.
Tim gasped, spluttering relief as Miller gently took the bottle away.
“C-can we, we stop this? Th… The motion is making me feel kinda si—“
“— There’s only two more left,” Miller winked, “Be a sport …”
Miller gave the bottle back to the assistant, before turning his back to Tim and his attention to the final two Ticklers.
“Okay, number four, make your way over!”
The audience applauded Tickler no.4, who strolled towards The Wheel.
Tim shuffled awkwardly against The Wheel as he acknowledged how handsome the tickler appeared.
He stood around six foot tall, wearing a tight black t-shirt and leather pants.
He had short brown hair, bright blue eyes and a smooth, tanned face.
He looked muscular, but not too lean.
Miller smiled flirtatiously, “Well, hello handsome!”
The audience sent out a loud, ‘Wooooo-OOOooooooooooOoooo!’
Tickler no.4 laughed with a confidence that suggested he knew how good-looking he might be.
“He’s all yours …” Miller stepped back.
Tim dropped his head back over his chest.
“Wait, wait a sec, c-can we just …” Tim’s eyes fell over Tickler no.4’s grip, curling around the edge of The Wheel, “… Can’t we just take a, a break, for, for a moment…?”
Tickler no.4, the strongest of the chosen Tickler’s yet, pulled muscular arms downward, spinning The Wheel in the fastest rotation it had been spun since the start of this session.
Tim felt his body pin against The Wheel’s surface as the momentum forced him back.
He buried his face into his shoulder as Tickle Fest’s surrounding visuals spun into a smeared blend of faces, colours, lights and laughter.
He rolled to a stop, just when he thought he might finally throw up the beers and whiskey from the night before.
“H-Holy sh-shit,” Tim gulped, the dizziness getting the better of him, “I, I, I think I’m gonna …”
Miller revelled in the audiences combined, “OoOooOOOOOooooooh!” as Tim’s head pointed at an upward ninety degree angle, to the penultimate body part label.
Tickler no.4 didn’t hesitate in choosing his box, pointing to the one he’d like to select.
The audience fell silent as Tickler no.4 pulled out his tool from box number five, a little disappointed by the result.
“Hmmm…” Miller stroked his jaw, “… Give it a go…”
Tim felt panic overwhelm him as he endured the feeling of intense nausea, whilst eyeing a hairbrush in Tickler no.4’s hands.
“No, fuck, come on, not that, that’s fucking pushing it, man …”
He shook his arms and pulled at his wrist restraints as Tickler no.4 approached him.
“No more feet …” Tim laughed nervously, “… Come on, seriously, let me go, just let me go…”
Miller ignored Tim’s requests as Tickler no.4 walked slowly towards Tim’s stomach.
“… I’m, I’m done,” Tim announced, “This is ridiculous, I, I can’t take this, alright? Is that what you wanna hear? I can’t fucking take it …”
Tickler no.4 started to rub the brush against Tim’s stomach, with lacklustre effort.
Tim winced whilst feeling relieved that The Wheel hadn’t landed on ‘feet’.
He stretched his neck up to where his head hand landed, mumbling the word “… Stomach …” to himself, with a pained frown, as Tickler no.4 continued to try and tickle him in the selected area, with the chosen tool.
“It’s not working, is it …” Miller huffed, eyeing both Tim and the handsome tickler.
Tim shook his head, “… That just fucking hurts, man …”
Tickler no.4 stepped back, lowering his head, “… Ss-sorry …”
Tim widened his eyes, “No! No, i-it’s not your fault, I was speaking t—“
Miller flapped his arms up in the air, “Tickle him however you wish …! But it has to be the same spot he landed on…”
Tim shot a worried look at Miller, “What? No … He chose the brush! The brush doesn’t fucking work …!”
Tickler no.4 handed the brush back to the assistant, spinning on his heels, where he darted back towards Tim, throwing tickling fingers straight into the sides of Tim’s stomach.
“FUCK NO, FUCK WAIT, FU-HUHUHUH-AHAHAHAHAHHHUUUUUCKKKKK!”
Tim thrashed his hips from side to side as Tickler no.4’s fingers grabbed all over his waist.
The audience applauded in delight as they watched Tim writhe around against The Wheel, his body in a more upright position than earlier, his manic face and desperate attempts to escape his bonds now on full, clear display.
Armie began to feel sorry for Tim, in his current position.
Neither he, or Tim, thought it would be this intense …
… Armie glanced over at Miller who, amongst Tim’s cries and begging, whispered something into an assistants ear.
Armie tried to make out what Miller’s lips were saying, but he couldn’t gather enough focus to pull together any of Miller’s silent sentences.
The assistant nodded, leaving the stage by sliding through door number 5, where she disappeared entirely.
Armie, shoved from side to side by the excited audience, held onto the railings tightly as he watched Tim endure an intense, non-stop stomach tickling for another six or seven minutes.
Miller checked his Rolex, “Come on, go to town, Tickler no.4!”
Tim wheezed into the air, his hips full of ache, his fists clenched tightly.
“What, no! I can’t fucking take it, that’s enough, that’s enough!”
Tickler no.4 played Tim’s stomach like a piano, leaning all of his energy into his fingertips as they danced around Tim’s ticklish flesh.
Tim fell into silent, lip biting agony, his stomach twisting from side to side, his upper body scrunching up like a wet cloth ringing itself dry of sink water.
Tickler no.4 stepped back, acknowledging Tim’s exasperated, too-out-of-breath reactions.
He shook his hands in the air, “My fingers hurt,” he declared, “A-and I think he’s done…” Tickler no.4 eyed Tim, hanging off The Wheel, with saliva drooping from his lips.
Miller laughed, patting Tickler no.4 on the back, “You’re too kind, young man. You’re too kind…”
The audience applauded Tickler no.4 as he waved Tim goodbye and left the stage.
Tim, always polite despite his current situation, attempted a wave with his left hand, but he could barely lift his head.
The final tickler stepped forwards.
“So,” Miller turned to the audience as Tickler no.5 stood beside The Wheel, “We’ve had neck tickling, armpit tickling …” the audience cheered, “… Toe tickling and ten, excruciating minutes of stomach tickling …”
Miller eyed Tim, who coughed into his shoulder, his body decorated in red marks, his throat muscles tight and throbbing.
“… I think we’ve destroyed Mr. Chalamet, what do you guys think?”
The audience exploded in applause and loud cheering.
Armie readied himself to go backstage, as soon as Tim would be released from The Wheel…
… He’s not looking so good.
Tim felt his stomach gurgle as Tickler no.5 held onto the edges of The Wheel.
Tim gave up trying to get this to stop, to get this to finish.
One more fucking spin, he thought.
You can handle this.
“I can’t handle this …”
You’ve got this.
“Please,” Tim muttered impatiently, “This, this fucking sucks…”
Tickler no.5, a man dressed in a casual t-shirt and jeans, but with a leather gimp mask covering his entire head, spun The Wheel for a final time.
Tim endured another speedy rotation, another swirl of movement, another blur of vision, another loss of sight and sound …
… And then it rolled to a stop.
The audience sent out a loud “OooooOooooooooh!”
Their reaction lifted louder as Miller held onto The Wheel and intentionally positioned it into the body location he knew the audience were all after.
The audience laughed as Miller cheekily positioned Tim’s head, and The Wheel, by the word ‘feet’.
“Ahhhh!” Miller applauded himself, “Finally!”
Tickler no.5 clapped in joy.
Tim hung at a horizontal angle, hair hanging over his eyes.
Tickler no.5 picked up the only box remaining, removing it’s lid.
From inside, he pulled out a pair of black gloves.
On the palms of the gloves were hundreds of bristles, decorating the lengthy material of the glove, as well as up each ten finger stretch.
Tim hadn’t seen a tickle tool like that.
He glanced at Armie, who had disappeared from the crowd.
He shot panicked eyes over unknown faces, trying to locate his best friend, who seemed to of disappeared.
Suddenly, the gloves landed over Tim’s soles.
Tim felt his mind get torn away from his attempt at locating Armie in the audience.
Instead, he fell into a hysteric, angered jolt as the gloves tickled all over his soles, heels, ankles and toes.
Like a brush, but mixed with the movement of finger tickling.
Tim thrashed his body from left to right as his feet endured an intense tickling, whilst Miller clicked his fingers at one of his nearby assistants.
A few seconds later, a bottle of baby oil had made it’s way to Miller’s hands.
Miller drizzled baby oil over Tim’s feet, decorating his soles in shimmering liquid, as Tickler no.5 continued rubbing and running his bristle palmed gloves all over Tim’s feet.
“FUCK. STOP, NO. ALRIGHT! ENOUGH WITH THE OIL, FUCK, C’MON, MAN, NO!”
The audience fell into hysteric, over-joyed applauding.
They watched with wide eyes, wishing they could film this moment, wishing they were allowed to record this memory, to watch it again, and again, and again and …
Miller handed the baby oil bottle back to his assistant, joining Tickler no.5 in tickling Tim’s feet.
Two people at once, one with bare hands, the other with brush like gloves.
Tim’s body looked like it had been strapped to an electrocution device.
It jolted around fiercely, his legs kicked repeatedly, his arms shook violently, his head twisting around as if his mind were possessed.
Once again, he neared that ‘moment’, that crushing, inconceivable thought process that told him,
You can’t handle this.
This is too much.
You’re not going to make it.
Let me out!
PLEASE GOD, LET ME OUT.
“LET ME THE FUCK OUT, I’M DONE, STOP, PLEASE FUCK, STOP!”
The audience cheered louder.
“Beg harder, Timmy, and we might consider it!”
Fuck, where the fuck is Armie.
“FUCKING STOP, PLEASE, I’M BEGGING YOU, C’MON I’M LITERALLY BEGGING YOU, STOP!”
Miller and Tickler no.5 attacked Tim’s toes, all ten of them, at the same time.
“Stop doing what, Tim?” Miller asked.
Tim took in a strained, dry heave of breath.
“STOP TICKLING ME! PLEASE, GOD, STOP TICKLING ME!”
Miller grinned as Tickler no.5 sent bristled palms up and down Tim’s soft, smooth soles.
“Stop tickling you where?”
Tim spluttered out his response.
“My ph-let-heheet!” He coughed, hacking out desperate air, sucking up dribble.
Miller frowned, focusing now on Tim’s heels.
“Your what?”
Tim, with bright white eyes and a face full of sweat, inhaled deeply, screaming out, “MY FEEEEEEEEET, STOP TICKLING MY FEET! FUCK, EVERYWHERE, FUCKING STOP TICKLING ME EVERYWHERE!”
Miller glanced down at Ticklers 1-4, standing at the bottom of the stage, happy with their previous attempts.
“You want to be tickled everywhere?” The audience cheered loudly, “Is that what you said?”
Tim glared down at Miller, his eyes ferocious, maddening.
“NO! NO! NO! NO!”
Miller invited the previous Ticklers back on the stage.
“Come on guys, you heard what he said! Tickle him everywhere, wherever you like!”
Tim pulled at his wrist restraints, whilst enduring ten fingers between all ten toes, “NO, WAIT, WHAT, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU—“
All four previously ticklers climbed back on the stage and approached Tim.
Tickler no.1 attacked Tim’s sides and hips, with his fingers.
Tickler no.2 joined Miller and Tickler no.3 at Tim’s feet, using an electric tooth brush over The left Index Toe
Tickler no.3 went for the thighs, going straight between the legs, with the delicate twirl of a feather.
Tickler no.4 sent both hands into Tim’s pits, invading the sweaty depths of Tim’s underarms.
Tim writhed and bucked, squirmed and scrunched, pinned against The Wheel, tickled non stop, by six people at once.
The audience went wild.
Tim fell into an uncontrollable space filled with excruciating, overwhelming, blinding sensory suffocation, feeling ticklish exposure in areas he hadn’t thought possible, at the same time, constantly, repeatedly, without mercy.
He could do nothing but allow this to happen, within his tied position.
He could do nothing but endure it, to feel it, to not know when it would end.
The toes were the worst … The gloves, rubbing each one, over oil drenched skin, it sent Tim into dribbling, head thrashing madness.
And then there were the pits … Whoever invaded them nearly sent Tim into the same areas of Oblivion Armie once had, time and time again.
Miller, with his strong foot tickling fetish, wasted no time in running his sharp fingernails up the entire expanse of Tim’s hyper sensitive soles.
The feather between the thighs blew Tim’s mind - an area he felt grateful hadn’t been explored, up until now.
Tim could only take comfort in the fact no one had gone back to …
No!
Tim screamed out an almighty, “FUCK YOUUUUU!” when one of the Tickler’s knelt down, with an electric toothbrush, right by Tim’s face.
The Tickler held Tim’s head into position as he sent the electric toothbrush over Tim’s lips.
That was it.
There was the wall-hitting moment.
For ten minutes, non stop, Tim allowed the insanity to overwhelm him, to flood his sense.
What do you do when you want to survive?
You fight back.
What happens when you can’t fight back?
You beg for your life.
Tim expelled uncontrollable, grainy cries for help.
“THAT’S ENOUGH, PLEASE, I’LL DO ANYTHING, I CAN’T TAKE THIS, FUCK, I’LL DO ANYTHING PLEASE, FUCK, FUCKING STOP, GOD, GOD THIS IS TOO MUCH, I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE!”
Tim’s pained, desperate cries for the tickle torture to end transformed suddenly into submissive, compromising attempts at at least making this whole thing more durable.
“AT LEAST STOP WITH THE TOES, COME ON, ENOUGH WITH THE TOES, GO SOMEWHERE ELSE, PLEASE GOD TICKLE SOMEWHERE ELSE!”
It was soon that Miller noticed how Tim’s agonising cries were starting to make the audience uncomfortable.
He had been pushed past his limits, exposed, torn and ripped into a thousand pieces …
… This was, at it’s finest, pure torture, on a young man physically and mentally at his wits end.
“Alright, alright, I think he’s hand enough …” Miller stepped away from The Wheel.
Some of the assistants had to grab the other Ticklers, pulling them away from the destroyed areas of Tim’s body.
As they stumbled off the stage, sweating from efforts made themselves, Tim’s body dangled from The Wheel in a lifeless, exhausted slump.
Dribble fell off his lower lip, curls of wet hair pressed against his forehead, his throat bobbed up and down as his stomach heaved in and out.
“Timothée fucking Chalamet, everyone!”
The audience burst into an energetic, satisfied and entertained applause, with some members of the crowd jumping up and down as others began a heavy, solid chant.
“TI-MO-THÉE! TI-MO-THÉE! TI-MO-THÉE!”
Whilst one assistant untied Tim’s left wrist, another forced a bottle of water towards his lips.
Tim sucked down the liquid as another assistant untied his right wrist.
Tim fell onto the assistants, his upper body numb and shaking.
As Tim’s legs and ankles were untied, Miller applauded Tim with a strong, loud, slow clap.
“An absolute star, what a champ, my God!”
Tim took oil covered, bare feet over the stage as Miller grabbed his right hand and lifted it up, like a winning boxer after a gruelling round with an opponent too strong for him.
The audience gave their loudest cheer yet.
“Okay, Session Three begins in around half hour, grab yourself a beer, I think this time the ‘lee is Ian, from Toegasms…!” Miller watched Tim stumble away, towards the door he entered the stage from, “… But something tells me he won’t be anywhere near as amazing as what we’ve just witnessed…”
Tim slid through door number 5, returning to the hall he stood in, over an hour or so before.
The sound of still cheering crowds and a clapping audience faded away, until the door closed, silencing them entirely.
Armie ran towards Tim.
He caught Tim, just as he fell forwards.
“I got you, kid, I got you…”
Tim held onto Armie’s back as he collapsed into his chest.
Armie dropped Tim’s body to the carpet, kneeling down as he did so.
“You did amazing, Tim, you did amazing …” He tidied Tim’s hair, kissing the top of his head, “… Come on … Let’s go back to the room, let’s get you some food …”
Tim held his breath.
He moved his head away from Armie.
His cheeks filled with vomit.
And then, he threw up all over himself.
TCTLR continues in Chapter Twenty - ‘OMORASHI, Part One’