Five months after the destruction of The House of White Feathers…
For weeks, the live-streaming event that took over Times Square, social media, and every single news channel on Earth dominated the world.
The Games, The Dome, and the cult behind it all became an infamous story that spread across the internet faster than anyone could control it. Recovered footage from each game, interviews with the celebrities involved, speculation about why they had been there … Everyone wanted to understand what had happened inside those walls.
Eight celebrities had entered The Dome.
Eight celebrities had left it.
After being held there for months on end, they had been tricked into believing they had only been there for a week.
Their lives would never be the same.
The world would never be the same.
Late-night talk shows joked about it. Streaming platforms rushed out documentaries. Social media filled with challenges and reaction videos. Some of the contestants even wrote books about their ordeal. Timothée Chalamet’s The House of White Feathers: My Time in the Dome was a New York Times bestseller for sixteen weeks running.
Almost everyone found it fascinating.
Some found it strange.
The rest simply accepted that the world had changed a little.
The eight contestants became household names overnight, if they weren’t already. Not just actors or musicians anymore, but survivors of something the public couldn’t stop talking about. ‘Ticklegate’ was now a global phenomenon …
And while the world watched them with curiosity, the former contestants themselves were still figuring out what The Games had left behind, and how their careers, their lives, could adapt to a landscape that now knew what they had been through.
Each of them had no choice but to navigate through this brave new world …
Somewhere over The North Sea …
The cabin lights were low and warm, reflecting off polished wood and chrome fittings. Everything about the aircraft spoke of wealth and comfort; soft, beige leather seats, folded linen napkins, crystal glasses that trembled slightly whenever the plane shifted in the air …
Kit sat by the window, the hood to his black Nike hoodie over his head.
A tray rested on the table in front of him. The kind of meal he would once have stared at in disbelief: seared fillet, golden fries stacked neatly beside it, a tiny dish of sauce he hadn't touched. A flute of champagne stood beside the plate, the bubbles long since fading.
None of it had been eaten.
His knee bounced restlessly beneath the table.
Outside the window the world was black and endless. Just a faint scattering of distant lights far below, the curve of cloud illuminated by moonlight: a real sky, compared to the false studio ceiling he had been trapped under for months, without even realising it …
Kit stared at the expanse of nighttime, trying not to think.
It had been sixteen weeks and three days since Miller, John and every masked bastard had lost their life to flame …
Sixteen weeks and three days since The Dome burned …
Sixteen weeks and three days since the world had learned what happened inside it.
Sixteen weeks and three days since the word ‘Ticklegate’ had appeared on every news channel and social feed on Earth.
And still it followed him everywhere.
Kit shifted in his seat, exhaling slowly through his nose. He hated thinking about it. Hated the way people spoke about it like it was entertainment. Like it was a cheap story they had watched unfold instead of something he had lived through.
For some of the others, the attention had become something they could use; interviews, books, speaking tours.
For Kit, it was different.
The thing the world joked about now had not stayed behind in The Dome.
It lived rent free in his head.
Something The Games had awakened. Something he couldn't turn off no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.
He had experimented with Joshua, his now long term partner. They had purchased cheap velcro cuffs from Amazon, a far cry from the steel walls, racks and cybernetic tickle tentacles that made up elements of each game they had both been through …
He perved over what remained of MyBuddiesFeet, tied up Joshua as often as he could, laughed hard and made Joshua laugh harder. Whatever made The Games tick, made him tick too, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Joshua went from being a relatively known singer with albums that barely made it to the top 200, to a world wide famous pop star with three consecutive number one singles and a global tour. He was booked, busy and above all else, barely available anymore.
Kit … Well, Kit was—
—A quiet movement nearby caught his eye.
A few seats down the aisle, Kit’s bodyguard sat with a newspaper folded open across his lap. Another addition to Kit's life that hadn't existed before The Dome: security, privacy guards, people paid to keep cameras away …
The man turned a page.
For a moment the front cover faced outward.
Kit's gaze landed on it.
The headline was impossible to miss.
TICKLEGATE SURVIVOR BREAKS DOWN!
BIEBER TAKEN FOR PSYCHIATRIC CARE AFTER STALKERS PERSIST.
Beneath it, a photo filled most of the page.
Justin Bieber, pale and unshaven, strapped to a hospital stretcher outside the gates of one of his Los Angeles mansion’s. Medical staff wheeled him through a crowd of photographers while he shielded his face by trying to bury it into his chest.
Another image sat beside it. Hayley Bieber, his now ex-wife, sunglasses on, avoiding paparazzi as they hounded her on the streets of New York.
Kit felt his stomach twist.
I hope he's okay, he thought.
The bodyguard noticed him looking.
Without hesitation the man folded the paper shut and tucked it beside his seat.
"Sorry, Mr Connor," he muttered quietly.
Kit gave a small nod.
He appreciated the effort, even if it didn't change anything.
Because the story never really went away …
Something else caught his attention.
A quiet electronic bleep.
Kit turned.
A few seats across the cabin, Joe sat in a blue fuzzy sweater, curled comfortably into one of the private jets leather seats. A small grey Game Boy rested in his hands, thumbs tapping the buttons with intense focus.
Mario jumped across the screen.
Joe leaned forward slightly as if the movement might help.
Unlike everyone else in Kit's world now, Joe didn't seem remotely interested in the circus surrounding The Dome, The Games or Ticklegate …
He had finished his entire dinner already, sank two glasses of champagne, even scoffed a desert …
Kit watched him for a moment.
Then he asked casually,
"Passed that level yet?"
Joe didn't look up.
Mario ran forward on screen.
Then dropped straight through a gap in the floor.
The familiar defeat music chimed.
Joe groaned.
"Almost … No thanks to you,” he smirked.
Kit laughed softly.
He patted the seat beside him.
"Come here for a second."
Joe slid out of his chair, Game Boy still in one hand, and collapsed beside him in a loose slouch.
His eyes dropped immediately to the untouched meal.
"You haven't eaten any of this,” he tutted.
Kit shrugged.
"Wasn't hungry."
Joe raised an eyebrow.
Kit gestured lazily to the tray, “It’s all yours.”
Joe didn't wait for further permission.
He grabbed a handful of fries and immediately stole the champagne glass, taking an enthusiastic swig before crunching happily on the food.
Kit watched him for a moment. He then rested a hand on Joe's shoulder and gave it a small squeeze.
"Thank you, Joe. For doing this with me."
Joe had a fry hanging from the corner of his mouth. He looked over, completely unfazed.
"I don't mind," he said through a mouthful of food, "Free trip away and a bit of a laugh. As long as they don’t touch my feet …"
Kit smirked faintly.
"They’re probably going to want to," he murmured, "Or at least, he will …"
Before he could attempt to ease Joe round the idea again, the jet suddenly shuddered and the cabin dropped slightly.
A few glasses rattled on their trays.
The seatbelt sign lit up above them with a soft chime.
Bing.
The captain's calm voice came over the speakers.
"… Ladies and gentlemen, we're passing through a small patch of turbulence. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened …”
Kit gripped the armrests instinctively, breathing in slowly.
Joe nudged him suddenly in the side, causing Kit to flinch.
"It's just a bit bumpy, you girl,” Joe teased.
Kit shook his head, "It's not the turbulence that's fucking me off …” he nodded toward the rear of the cabin.
One of the flight attendants sat strapped into his seat, iPhone tilted toward his face.
From the speaker came loud, uncontrollable laughter.
Joe glanced over.
"Another episode of Ticklish Ones," he said, "I think Cruz Beckham's on it this time."
Kit turned his head away, trying not to listen.
Thankfully the bodyguard stood up immediately, walked over, and calmly removed the phone from the attendant's hand.
The flight attendant blinked in surprise.
"Hey!—"
The bodyguard simply pocketed the device and returned to his seat.
The laughter stopped.
A moment later the aircraft steadied. The trembling eased as the jet climbed back into smoother air.
Joe leaned back comfortably.
"See?" he said, "Nothing to worry about."
Kit looked out the window again, at the quiet black sky stretching endlessly around them.
He wished things worked that way.
He wished stopping the thoughts was that simple.
He wished it were that easy.
The jet landed just after sunrise.
Tokyo was already awake.
By the time Kit and Joe stepped out of the terminal, the city was moving at full speed. People passed in steady streams, voices overlapping, traffic humming constantly beyond the glass doors.
It should have been overwhelming, but Kit found it calming.
Noise helped. Movement helped. There was no space for his thoughts to sit still.
Joe took a few steps forward, looking around with a grin.
“Right,” he said, “Should I be looking for a guy with horns?”
Kit gave a faint smile, “I don’t think it’ll be as obvious as that, Joe.”
Joe shook his head, amused, “…One can wish!”
They didn’t have to look far.
A Japanese man in a black suit stood near the curb, holding a small sign that read Connor / Locke. He straightened as they approached, bowing quickly, a little too fast, like he’d practised it.
“Hello,” he said carefully, “Welcome. I take you.”
He reached for their luggage, fumbling slightly with one of the handles before catching it again.
“Sorry. Sorry.”
Joe laughed under his breath, “You’re good. What’s your name? I’m Joe.”
The man bowed again and led them toward the car, “Kenji. Pleasure to meet you, Joe …”
Joe pointed at his taller, beefier counterpart, “The one with the face fuzz is Kit.”
The car waited just ahead; a black Lexus, polished enough to reflect the world around it. Clean, shiny, expensive without trying to be.
Their bags were loaded into the boot with quick, slightly clumsy movements as Kit smiled at Kenji and then slid into the back seat. Joe followed, stretching out comfortably as the door shut behind them.
The outside noise dulled instantly.
And then they were moving …
Tokyo didn’t slow down for them.
Buildings rose on either side of the road, glass and steel catching the morning light. Screens flickered with adverts. All smiles, with wording and sounds Kit and Joe didn’t understand. Traffic moved in tight, controlled lines.
There were people everywhere.
Walking. Waiting. Living, in perfect sync.
Joe leaned forward slightly, glancing out of the window, “This is mad,” he said, “When did he move to somewhere like Japan?”
Kit’s eyes shimmered at the sight of somewhere he never thought he’d ever go to in his life, “I don’t know. I only found out a few days ago …”
He watched the city pass by.
It should have made him tense.
It didn’t.
After everything, it felt … Real.
The change came gradually.
Less glass. Fewer people. More space between buildings.
Then, suddenly, the city was behind them.
Green replaced it.
Trees lined the road. Fields opened out in quiet stretches. The air looked clearer somehow, even through the window.
Kit’s gaze lingered.
Something about it felt familiar.
Not in a comforting way.
In a controlled way.
The last time he had seen woodland like this, it had been on fire and he was on a bus driving through it, with the others.
Cameras and spotlights fell from the sky, plastic leaves burned, he can still hear the screaming.
Joe noticed the shift before Kit did.
He reached over, resting a hand on Kit’s knee.
“I can tell you’re shitting yourself,” he said lightly, “Calm down. If anything, I’m the one who should be nervous …”
Kit turned to him.
“You’re not nervous?”
Joe opened his mouth.
He paused, blinked, his nostrils flared.
Kit sounded … Serious.
He just kept looking at Joe with an expression that seemed surprised, an expression that held the knowledge of what it was really like to go through what Joe was about to go through.
Joe swallowed, forcing a smile as he turned back to the window.
“I’m … Excited.”
It didn’t come out quite right …
But he left it there.
The car turned off the main road.
Pebbles replaced tarmac beneath the tyres.
The property came into view without warning.
No gates. No masked guards. No Miller or John or Peter or chandeliers …
Just a modern structure set back from the road. Clean lines. Dark wood. Wide glass panels that reflected the trees and blossom around it.
Wind chimes moved gently in the breeze.
The front door was already open.
He was waiting.
The car stopped.
Kenji stepped out quickly, opening their doors, bowing again as he gathered the luggage with the same slightly awkward care.
Kit handed him a tip.
“Cheers, Kenji.”
Kenji bowed deeper this time.
Joe grabbed one of the cases, adjusting his grip as they headed up the steps, “Ooft, your case is always so heavy!”
It was quiet, not empty, just … Still, perfectly still.
They reached the top.
And then—
A figure stepped into view.
Barefoot.
A black gown falling loosely around him.
He wasn’t what Kit had expected, wasn’t the person he had been told would be meeting him.
It wasn’t Leo …
“… Watashitachi no ie e yōkoso,” said Michael.
Kit looked at Joe, Joe looked at Kit, Michael grinned.
“It translates to … “ he stepped aside, “ … Welcome to our home …”
Kit and Joe stepped inside into the property in their socks, the change in atmosphere immediate and almost disarming.
The air felt softer within the house, cooler, untouched by the movement and noise they had left behind outside.
Joe paused just past the threshold, glancing back at the neat row of shoes lined up beside the entrance, his own pair of white Converse placed a little less precisely than how neatly Kit had positioned his Adidas.
Michael noticed the hesitation and turned slightly, his tone calm, almost instructive without feeling forced.
“In Japan,” he explained, “Shoes are left at the door. They carry everything in with them otherwise, the dirt of the outside world, the noise, the pace of it. This way,” he added, “the home stays clean.”
Joe accepted it with an uneasy nod, stepping further in without question. Kit followed, quieter, his gaze briefly dropping to the pale wood beneath his white socked feet before lifting again, taking in the space around him.
The property did not feel empty, but it was undeniably still. Their footsteps softened against the floor as they moved through a wide, open hallway that seemed to stretch further than expected, light spilling in through long panes of glass and settling gently across every surface.
There was very little in the way of decoration. No clutter, no excess. Everything that had been placed there felt deliberate, considered, as if nothing had been left to chance.
Michael moved ahead of them with ease, tiny sunglasses always resting on the bridge of his nose, guiding them through the space with a quiet confidence, explaining that they would have time to settle first, that there was no rush. His voice carried easily in the silence, never breaking it, only moving through it.
He stopped outside the first room and slid the door open with a smooth, controlled motion, stepping aside slightly.
Kit’s room revealed itself in clean lines and open space, larger than he had anticipated, though nothing about it felt indulgent in the usual sense. A low double bed sat against the far wall, dressed in crisp white sheets that looked almost untouched. The wooden floor stretched uninterrupted from one end of the room to the other, cool and even beneath the light. A gentle breeze moved through the open window, bringing with it the faint scent of greenery from outside, something natural and grounding.
Beyond, a set of glass doors framed the garden, trees shifting lightly in the mid-morning air. The ensuite sat partially hidden behind a simple partition, modern and minimal, everything within it clean and precise.
Michael stepped just inside, gesturing calmly as he spoke, “It’s a far cry from the conditions you were kept in when you were ...”
Kit’s eyes moved slowly across the room, taking it all in without reacting immediately. When he did respond, it was only a small nod, a quiet acknowledgment that didn’t quite match what he was thinking.
They moved on quickly, back into the hallway, Michael already guiding them toward the next room. Kit followed, but something had settled in his mind now, a quiet expectation shaped by everything he thought he understood. Joe wasn’t here in the same way he was. There would be a difference, surely? A giant room for the dom, a cell for the sub?
The second door slid open just as smoothly as the first, and Michael stepped aside again, this time addressing Joe.
The room was identical.
Kit stopped just inside the doorway, his eyes scanning it once, then again, as if something might change on the second look. The same space, the same layout, the same light pouring in from the garden beyond. A double bed, just as large, just as carefully made. The same clean surfaces, the same sense of quiet control. Even the air felt the same.
Joe took it in more simply, letting out a small, impressed laugh as he stepped further inside, already at ease in a way Kit couldn’t quite match.
“You’re spoiling us!” Joe sounded too gleeful.
Two women moved quietly through the room, already halfway through unpacking their cases, folding clothes with practiced dedication, placing items neatly where they belonged. They worked without interruption, without drawing attention to themselves, as if this was simply how things were done.
Kit remained still.
There was nothing outwardly wrong, nothing that didn’t make sense on the surface, and yet something about it unsettled him. It didn’t match the version of events he had built in his head. It wasn’t a place built on blackmail, manipulation and bribery.
Michael turned back to him, noticing the pause, “Is everything okay, brother?” He knew how Kit felt, but he asked out of politeness.
Kit didn’t answer straight away.
Joe, still holding onto the chilled tone that had carried him this far, filled the silence instead, “He probably expected things to feel a little bit more … Sinister.”
Michael’s expression softened into a small, composed smile, “There’s nothing sinister here,” he said, “Just a home … Not a house …” The distinction hung in the air for a moment longer than it needed to, and Kit found himself holding it there, turning it over quietly before letting it go.
They moved downstairs together, the temperature shifting slightly as they descended, the air cooler, quieter still. The space opened out at the back of the propety into a large room that felt almost empty at first glance: a wide meditation mat covered most of the floor, pale and soft against the wood, the grain of the walls running clean and uninterrupted around them.
At the far end, a floor-to-ceiling glass door stood open, letting in the mid-morning sun. Light spilled across the mat in long, gentle lines, and beyond it the garden moved softly, blossoms drifting in the breeze, catching the light as they fell. It was peaceful in a way that felt intentional, carefully maintained rather than accidental.
Joe stepped forward slightly, taking it in, his voice quieter now as he commented on how nice it was, “This is so lovely …”
Kit didn’t move.
His attention had already settled elsewhere.
In the centre of the room, placed neatly and without decoration, sat a low tray.
It was simple, almost understated, but its presence drew the eye immediately.
On it lay a folded red cloth, its colour striking against the neutral tones around it.
Beside it, some burning incense and a pair of headphones, positioned carefully as if they had been arranged for Kit and Joe only.
Michael stepped forward first, lowering himself onto the mat with an ease that made the movement look practised rather than performed.
He sat cross-legged, hands resting lightly in his lap, his posture straight but relaxed.
The tray remained exactly where it was, untouched between them.
“Please,” he said, gesturing calmly, “Sit.”
Joe turned away from the window, his eyes landing on the tray at the centre of the room.
He looked at Kit and raised both eyebrows, as Kit urged him to do as he was told by a quick twitch of his head.
Joe quickly lowered himself onto the mat beside Kit, folding his legs beneath him. Kit followed, settling into the same position, their shoulders almost level, close enough to feel the familiarity of each other’s presence.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Michael didn’t look at the tray. He didn’t acknowledge it at all - his attention rested entirely on Kit.
“Kit,” he said, his voice steady, “You have come here to learn. Tell me … What is it you’re looking for?”
Kit shifted slightly where he sat. His hands rested awkwardly against his knees, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of his shorts as he searched for the words.
“It’s just—”, he started, then stopped, exhaling quietly, “—During The Games … I … Something changed. Something changed … In me.”
Joe glanced sideways at him, listening, even if he had heard the revelation hundreds of times before, over bottles of cheap wine, over takeaways, on the phone, through texts …
Kit swallowed, then tried again.
“I developed an interest in …” he hesitated, the word sitting uncomfortably on his tongue, “… Knismolagnia.”
Joe snorted softly.
“You can just say tickling, you know …”
Kit shot him a quick look, half embarrassed, half irritated, but then Joe’s words quietly reminded him to be himself, something that made him smile and relax somewhat, “I know, I know,” he muttered, before turning back to Michael, “It’s just … I take things like this maybe too seriously,” he paused again, trying to steady himself, “I’ve tried … Exploring it. With Joshua,” he added, quieter now, “But he’s … Everywhere. Touring. Working. I can’t just—”, he let out a small breath, frustrated with how it sounded, “—I can’t experiment properly. Not with him, at the moment.”
There was a brief silence.
Kit glanced at his side, “That’s why I brought Joe,” he said, “I trust him, more than anyone. And he … He gets it. Or at least, he’s open to it …”
Joe gave a small shrug, trying to keep things light, “I’ve also always wanted to go to Japan,” he said, “Hard to say no …” he added sheepishly.
Michael watched them both, his expression unchanged, though there was something more attentive in his eyes now.
“You’ve been through a lot,” he said after a moment, “The Games, The Dome, the fire … The world watching since, dissecting every detail, making up elements that might not be there. Believe me, I get it, since I won my Oscar …” his whistled through his lips, poked his sunglasses further up his nose and then settled back on Kit, “… People have been prying, man, but still, no one knows that simple yet special detail about me, the one thing they now know you’ve been involved with …”
Kit held his gaze.
Michael said the one word that summed everything up, the one word that bought Kit here, the one word that made Miller, John and Peter create The Games in the first place.
“ … Control …” he said.
The word landed quietly between all three of them.
Michael tilted his head slightly, studying Kit, “Some people would say The Games got into your head,” he continued, “That this is something imposed. Something unnatural.”
A faint pause as Joe listened quietly, blinking his thick eyelashes every so often in awe.
Michael held up his index finger gently, “But that isn’t what I see.”
Kit didn’t move.
“They didn’t infect you. They changed you …” Michael said, “… It revealed something. And now, you want to understand it.”
His attention shifted, slowly, to Joe.
“And you, brother,” he added, softer now, “You’re willing to help him.”
Joe shifted slightly under the focus, the earlier ease not quite as steady.
“I er,” he cleared his throat, “Yeah, I er, I said I would,” he replied, the nerves now creeping up his throat, “Think it could it be fun, right?”
Michael stared at Joe quietly. Joe was totally unable to read any expression behind his sunglasses.
“… Right?” Joe needed reassurance.
Instead, Michael nodded, “That takes a certain kind of person,” he said, “Kindness, above all else. To place yourself in a position as unique and as intense as this, for someone else.”
Joe didn’t answer that - he just lifted his shoulders and pursed his lips.
Michael held his gaze for a moment longer, then ordered, simply:
“Take off your sweater.”
Joe let out a small, awkward breath, glancing briefly at Kit before answering, “N, now? You want me to …”
There was a flicker of something in Michael’s expression. Not quite amusement. Recognition, perhaps.
“A little resistance,” he said, “That’s good.”
Joe frowned slightly, “I didn’t mean to be—”
—Michael continued smoothly, not giving him the space to finish, “This is not the first time I have guided two people through this,” he said, “Learning. Experience. Understanding …” he shifted his posture slightly, still composed, still calm, “I have learned,” he added, “The best way to begin … Is gently.”
The word sat in contrast to the objects resting between them.
Joe didn’t need to acknowledge Kit to realise Kit was looking at him with a slight sense of urgency.
Joe began to remove his fuzzy blue sweater.
He did so awkwardly, his arms getting tangled in the baggy sleeves, his head caught somewhere within the material until he finally popped out the other side, slim, pale and shirtless.
He folded the sweater up neatly and placed it beside him, scrunching his nose and blinking as he picked away some stray fuzz from his right eyelash.
For the first time, Michael’s gaze dropped with enough weight to acknowledge the tray.
“Joe,” he said, his tone unchanged, almost casual, “Please take the headphones. Place them over your ears.”
This time, Joe had to glance at Kit, a half-smile tugging at his lips, as if waiting for the punchline.
Kit didn’t give him one.
There was a brief look between them. Not long. Just enough for Joe to receive a message from Kit:
You have to do it.
Joe exhaled softly through his nose, then looked back at Michael.
“I’m nervous,” he admitted.
Michael reached up and removed his sunglasses.
It was a small movement, but it shifted something in the room. His eyes met Joe’s directly now. Clear. Present. Intimate …
“Don’t hide your nerves. Embrace them …”
Joe hesitated, but the smile didn’t fully leave his face. There was still a part of him treating it lightly, like this was all just part of the experience he’d agreed to …
“O, okay,” he muttered.
He leaned forward slowly, reaching toward the tray. His fingers hovered for a second before picking up the headphones.
There was a second, just before he lifted them, where he glanced at Kit again.
Then he pulled them over his ears.
Silence.
Immediate. Total. The ability to hear anything now entirely removed.
Joe sat back into position, cross-legged, his world reduced in an instant.
Michael let the situation settle.
Then his attention shifted to Kit.
“Kit,” he said calmly, “blindfold your sub.”
The words landed heavier than the rest.
Kit swallowed, his throat tightening slightly, but he didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, picking up the red cloth from the tray. It felt soft between his fingers. Smooth. Almost out of place against everything else.
Joe watched him, his eyes following the movement carefully, his breathing already just a touch deeper.
Kit moved closer.
Joe flinched slightly as the cloth came toward him, instinct kicking in for a second before he stilled again.
“It’s alright,” Kit murmured, though Joe couldn’t hear it.
He wrapped the cloth gently around Joe’s eyes, pulling it snug but not harsh, tying it into a knot at the back of his head.
When he pulled his hands away, Joe was gone from the room in every way that mattered.
No sight.
No sound.
Only physical presence.
Kit sat back, his eyes lingering on him.
He could see the change immediately. The rise and fall of Joe’s chest, just a little quicker now. The tension in his bare shoulders, subtle but there.
Michael spoke again, his tone steady, measured.
“He can’t hear you,” he said, “He can’t see you. Can you, Joe?” He pocketed his sunglasses inside his robe, as he watched Joe not respond, a clear sign that he hadn’t heard Michael, “And he’s chosen to allow that.”
Kit didn’t look away.
“In a place he doesn’t know,” Michael continued, “With someone he doesn’t know,” he pointed at his own chest.
He let the thought hang for a moment.
Then, without finishing it himself, he turned it back.
“What do you think that means?” Michael asked.
Kit took a second.
Then, quietly:
“That he trusts me.”
A small smile touched Michael’s face, “Hole in one …” he leaned back slightly, his hands resting again on his knees, “… Trust …” he said, “… Is everything. It’s what makes this work. Without it, none of it does …”
Kit had heard the stories from Logan.
There was a lot of time between The Games where the contestants had chatted about how they were there, and why.
Technically, Michael was a villain. A few years ago he had betrayed Logan and was the main reason Logan and Sebastian were ever really in The Games in the first place.
Such a moment of clarity dared Kit to ask:
“And I can trust you?”
Michael answered Kit’s concern with a single sentence that made perfect sense.
“If you can change, so can I.”
His gaze flicked briefly to Joe, sitting still in the centre of the room, then back to Kit.
“This,” Michael added, “Is just a starting point. A way of understanding. What works. What doesn’t. Where his reactions are … How we’ll shape things over the next few days …”
He let the calm settle again, letting Kit sit in it.
Then, simply, he reached into his black robe and pulled out a single red feather.
“… Go on …”
A beat, as he handed the feather towards Kit.
“… Show me how weak he is.”
Joe sat in the centre of the mat, cross-legged, unaware of everything now.
The red cloth sat snug across his eyes, the headphones sealed over his ears.
His chest continued to rise and fall steadily, though a little quicker than before, the movement more visible now without anything covering him. His hands rested loosely on his knees, fingers twitching slightly, as if his body was already trying to anticipate something it couldn’t sense.
Kit watched him.
Then he leaned forward.
He took the feather gently from Michael’s fingertips and then sat back down.
It was lighter than he expected, almost weightless between his fingers.
He turned it once, watching the way it shifted in the air, then looked back at Joe.
Joe didn’t move.
Didn’t know.
Kit hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then he began.
The first touch was careful.
A light brush across Joe’s left side, just above his waist.
Barely there …
But it was enough.
A sharp inhale broke through Joe’s chest, his shoulders tensing as his torso jerked slightly to the side. A short, surprised laugh escaped him before he could catch it, his hands curling briefly against his knees.
Kit pulled the feather back.
Joe shifted where he sat, his breathing already uneven now, a quiet smile tugging at the edges of his mouth despite himself.
He didn’t know where it had come from.
Didn’t know if it would happen again …
Kit’s grip on the feather adjusted slightly.
There was something in his expression now - not hesitation.
Recognition.
He moved again.
This time slower.
Dragging the tip of the feather lightly along Joe’s left side again, following the line of his ribs.
Joe flinched harder.
A laugh slipped out more fully now, his body twisting instinctively away from the touch, shoulders lifting, stomach tightening.
“Ff—” he started, the sound cut short as another reaction broke through him, his head tilting back slightly beneath the blindfold.
Kit didn’t stop immediately.
He let the feather linger for a second longer, tracing just enough to see what happened.
Joe’s reactions came quickly, too quickly.
Sharp. Immediate. Uncontrolled.
Kit leaned back slightly, studying him.
Michael hadn’t moved.
He watched quietly from across the mat, his posture unchanged.
“Don’t rush it,” he said calmly.
Kit nodded once.
He shifted position, lifting into a crawl, shuffling slightly to Joe’s other side.
Joe adjusted instinctively, unaware of where Kit had gone but reacting to the absence, his body turning just enough to try and track something he couldn’t feel anymore.
Kit waited a second.
Let the silence sit.
Then …
The feather brushed lightly across Joe’s lower back.
Joe jolted.
A louder laugh broke from him this time, his body folding forward slightly before he caught himself, his hands gripping at his knees now.
“Shit!—” he breathed, the word breaking into another laugh as he tried to steady himself.
Kit could feel it.
The shift in his own confidence.
He leaned in again, this time letting the feather trail a little longer, testing the same spot, watching how Joe’s body responded before moving slightly higher, then lower down Joe’s back.
Joe’s reactions built quickly.
His breathing uneven now, laughter slipping out in bursts he couldn’t control. His body moved constantly, small adjustments, flinches, twists, trying to anticipate something that gave him no warning.
He was trying to stay still, trying to hold himself together, but it wasn’t working.
“Watch him,” Michael said quietly, “Don’t just touch him. Watch what it does.”
Kit’s eyes didn’t leave Joe.
He could see it clearly now.
The way Joe’s body reacted before he even understood what was happening. The way the laughter came out of him without permission. The way he tried to brace for it, even when he had no idea where it would come from next.
Kit didn’t realise he was grinning until he fully understood the strength he had, the power.
He held onto Joe’s right wrist and carefully lifted it above his head, exposing the furry depths of Joe’s right armpit.
Joe, a little breathless, tried to pull his arm down - he knew what Kit wanted to do …
Kit took the red feather to the edges of Joe’s armpit, stroking across the tips of his underarm hair, gently, slowly, barely grazing.
A full laugh spilled out of Joe now, his body folding forward, shoulders shaking as he tried to pull away from something he couldn’t escape.
“—Stop!—” he managed, though there was no real resistance in it, just instinct, just reaction.
Kit pulled the feather away.
Joe sucked in a breath, his chest rising quickly as he tried to recover, a faint smile still lingering across his face, one he felt keen to contain by biting his lower lip.
Kit sat back slightly, still watching him, still learning.
Then he looked at Michael.
There was something different in his expression now.
Not uncertainty.
Understanding.
Michael gave a small nod.
“Good,” he said, then as calm as before, “Again.”
Kit placed the feather on the floor and crawled around Joe.
Then he reached forward.
His hand closed around Joe’s left ankle, firm but controlled, and before Joe could properly react, Kit drew the leg out, tucking it in close against his side, securing it in a loose armlock.
Joe’s head tipped back instantly.
“Oh no,” he breathed, the words carrying a mix of dread and recognition.
Even without sight or sound, he knew.
Kit adjusted his grip slightly, steadying the leg, his thumb pressing lightly against the fabric of the sock. His other hand moved down, fingers hooking just beneath the edge of it, beginning to peel it back from Joe’s heel.
Across from them, Michael didn’t move.
But his focus had shifted.
Not to Kit.
To Joe.
He watched the change happen in real time.
The way Joe’s breathing altered. The way his mouth parted slightly, the tension building not from what was happening, but from what he knew was about to happen.
There was a flicker of something else there too.
Decision.
Joe’s hands moved suddenly.
He leaned forward, quick and deliberate, grabbing hold of Kit’s shoulders, using his weight to pull himself inward, twisting just enough to break the hold.
The movement worked.
His foot slipped free.
Kit let it go …
Joe pulled back immediately, drawing his leg in, then folding both legs tightly beneath him again, resetting himself into position. His hands came down protectively, pressing against the bottoms of his feet, covering them instinctively.
“Not those,” he said, a breathless laugh breaking through.
Even blindfolded, even cut off from everything around him, there was a confidence in it, a line drawn.
Kit sat back slightly, watching him.
He hadn’t expected that …
Across the mat, Michael exhaled softly through his nose, something close to approval passing across his face.
“I think,” he said calmly, “that tells us everything we need to know …”
A small pause.
His gaze moved briefly to Joe’s guarded posture, then back to Kit.
“… We know where the first focus is.”
Kit stepped out onto the wooden decking, the quiet of the house giving way to the gentle sounds of the garden.
Water moved somewhere nearby, a steady, natural trickle that blended with the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional chime catching in the breeze.
Joe stood a few steps ahead of him.
Shirtless, still, facing out toward the garden.
The blindfold and headphones rested neatly on a small wooden stool beside him, placed there with the same quiet care as everything else in the house. Without them, Joe looked more like himself again.
He didn’t turn when Kit approached, just stood there, taking it in.
Cherry blossom drifted slowly through the air, catching the light before settling along the edges of the stream. The whole place felt too perfect, too balanced.
Kit stopped a few feet behind him, watching.
He could see it.
Not fear, not quite.
But something close.
“Come on,” Kit said after a moment, “Fess up.”
Joe let out a small breath through his nose, the hint of a smile flickering and fading just as quickly. He turned slightly, though not fully, his eyes still drawn to the view beyond.
Kit stepped closer, folding his arms, waiting.
Joe glanced at him properly now - there was something tighter in his expression.
“I haven’t … Done anything like this,” he admitted.
Kit said nothing.
Joe shrugged lightly, trying to keep it casual, though it didn’t quite land.
“I mean, yeah, I’ve mucked about with Bash,” he said. “And that night a few Halloween’s ago was…” he let out a quiet, awkward laugh, “… Weird …”
A small pause.
“… But I’ve never done anything like what you’ve been through,” Joe looked back out at the garden again, “I thought I could,” he added, “And now …” a hesitation, “… Now I’m not so sure.”
The honesty of it hung there.
Kit nodded slowly.
“I get that,” he said.
Joe glanced at him again.
Kit shifted his weight slightly, looking past him for a second before speaking.
“When we were in there,” Kit said, quieter now, “when we’d talk about how we got there … A lot of the guys said the same thing.”
Joe listened.
“Someone would tell them, ‘it’s just tickling’,” Kit continued, “Miller. Peter. Whoever got to them first,” he let out a faint breath, “And it worked. Worked on me …”
Joe frowned slightly.
“It made it sound …” Kit searched for the word, “… Harmless. Playful. Like there was nothing to worry about,” he looked back at Joe, “Of course it’s fine. It’s just tickling. No pain. No blood. Nothing agonising …” a small pause, “… That’s not true.”
Joe held his gaze.
“It’s more than that,” Kit said simply, “A lot more. I don’t need a robe-clad Michael B Jordan or incense to tell me.”
The breeze shifted slightly between them, carrying the scent of the blossom - Kit’s expression didn’t change, but there was something heavier behind it now.
“I’ve seen what he’s planning,” he added, “What you’ll have to deal with for the next few days.”
Joe didn’t speak.
“It’s a lot,” Kit raised his eyebrows, “If you don’t want to do it … We don’t do it.”
Joe blinked slightly.
“That’s it,” Kit said, “No pressure. We leave. First flight back to London,” he held Joe’s gaze, steady, “I mean that.”
Something in Joe’s shoulders eased.
He let out a slow breath, looking down for a second before stepping closer.
They stood face to face now.
“Kit,” Joe said, quieter, “I am really, really ticklish.”
Kit laughed softly.
“I know you are,” he said. “That’s why I brought you.”
Joe shook his head slightly, a faint smile returning.
Kit’s tone stayed even.
“Last chance,” he said. “We go home… or we do this. And I owe you. Big time. You’ll never pay for a McDonalds again in your life.”
Joe looked at him for a moment longer.
Then …
The sliding door opened gently.
One of the house staff stepped out, bowing her head slightly.
“Mr Locke,” she said politely, “We need you now,” she pointed at the headphones and blindfold, “Please, bring.”
Joe glanced past Kit toward her, then back again.
Kit didn’t speak, just looked Joe directly in the eye.
Joe nodded.
A small movement, but certain.
Consent.
He picked up the headphones and blindfold, his arm brushing Kit’s elblow before stepping past him toward the door.
He stopped and turned back.
“Whatever happens,” he said, quieter now, “Whatever you do to me…” a pause, “Just promise me nothing changes.”
Kit didn’t hesitate.
He reached forward, placing a hand on Joe’s shoulder.
“I promise, coffee boy.”
Joe held his gaze for a second longer.
Then nodded once, satisfied, and turned, heading back inside.
The door slid shut behind him.
The garden returned to stillness.
Kit remained where he stood.
For a moment, nothing changed.
Then the faint smile faded, replaced by something quieter.
More uncertain …
He looked toward the door and realised …
… He might have just lied to his best friend’s face.
Michael stood sentinel before the door, back pressed lightly to the wood, arms and hands loose behind his back in deliberate nonchalance.
He lowered his gaze to Kit.
“When you cross this threshold,” he said, voice low and measured, each syllable placed with care, “You cease to be Kit Connor.”
Kit met his eyes without blinking.
“Inside that room,” Michael continued, “You become only a key. Nothing more. Your only purpose is to unlock his sanity by increasing his hysteria.”
No theatrical flourish. No edge of cruelty. Just calm, surgical clarity.
“You have the rest of the day,” Michael said, “Everything required waits within. If you find yourself in need of anything at all …”, a fractional tilt of the head, “… Speak my name,” a breath of silence, “Understood?”
Kit’s nod came too fast, betraying the pulse that hammered beneath his jaw.
“Yeah.”
Michael regarded him another long moment, reading something in the flicker of Kit’s pupils, the quick rise of his chest.
“Joe is already in position,” he said, “What you must attend to … Will announce itself.”
Kit pressed his lips into a thin line; anticipation sliced through him like a thin wire pulled taut.
“Learn,” Michael added softly, “Do not restrain yourself,” another measured pause, heavy as damp air, “You are fortunate your friend consented to this. Not all are so lucky …”
A short, quiet exhale escaped Kit’s nose, half laugh, half dread, “Let’s hope he still likes me when it’s over.”
Michael’s face remained as still as water.
“If you do this as it must be done,” he said, “He almost certainly will not.”
The statement fell plain and pitiless between them.
Then Michael stepped aside.
The door waited, unassuming dark wood, brass handle cool and faintly worn.
Kit paused, only half a heartbeat.
Then he pushed.
Kit stepped into the room …
… and stopped.
At first, it didn’t make sense.
The centre of the space was dominated by a large shape, completely obscured beneath a white cloth that draped all the way to the floor. It rose and fell slightly, subtle but undeniable.
There’s someone under it.
Kit’s eyes narrowed, adjusting, taking it in properly now. The faint movement of breath beneath the fabric. The slight turn of a head. The smallest shift of weight.
Joe.
It has to be …
But he said nothing. No reaction. No sound.
Just … Presence.
Kit took a step forward, instinct pulling him closer, but something else caught his attention before he could reach it.
To his right.
He turned.
And saw it.
The chair stood a few metres away, towering in the otherwise minimal space. Metal. Sleek, clean and polished. It was easily seven feet tall, built with a purpose that didn’t need explaining.
Steel cuffs were fixed at the top, wide enough for wrists. More restraints at the base, positioned for ankles. Everything about it was unforgiving and unapologetic.
Set into the backrest, etched deep into the metal itself, was the face of a Horned Devil. Its expression fixed. Watching. Waiting.
Kit stared at it.
This wasn’t part of what he’d been shown.
This wasn’t—
Movement.
From behind the chair.
Kit’s attention snapped toward it just as a figure stepped into view.
Smart, expensive black suit.
Still.
Controlled.
A mask covered their face, shaped into something sharp and unnatural, horns curving upward, the features of a devil staring back at him.
No hesitation.
No introduction.
The voice that followed was calm. Measured. Familiar yet slightly muffled.
“Mr Connor.”
Kit didn’t respond, didn’t move, couldn’t.
“Strip to your underwear,” the figure said, as if it were the most normal instruction in the world, “and sit in the chair.”
The dim, shadowed room held its breath as Kit stood frozen for a moment, his glance turning on the motionless figure draped beneath the heavy cloth.
No twitch, no sound, only silence in response to the Horned Devil’s earlier words.
Kit turned back, his voice uncertain, “This … Wasn’t in the brief.”
The Horned Devil tilted it’s head, “Do you want to learn, or not?”
Kit hesitated only a second before nodding, the decision settling heavily in his chest.
Without another word, he bent down and peeled off his black socks, tossing them aside.
His fingers hooked under the hem of his fitted black vest, sliding it up and over his head to reveal the powerful contours of his torso.
Next came his shorts, which he slipped down his thick legs and bundled together with the rest of his clothes into a careless pile at his feet.
He stood now in nothing but a pair of snug black briefs that clung to his hips, every inch of his body on display.
He was an imposing sight; bulky, muscular, and undeniably beefy, the kind of build that spoke of disciplined hours in the gym and raw, natural strength.
The room’s low, ambient lighting played across him perfectly, highlighting the best parts in all the right places: the dense thickness of his thighs, the broad swell of his pecs, the sharp taper of a surprisingly small waist, and the wide, powerful span of his shoulders.
Most striking of all was the very juicy, rounded curve of his ass, firm yet plush, the black fabric of his briefs stretched taut over it.
“Impressive,” The Horned Devil murmured, the single word laced with genuine appreciation.
He gestured toward the heavy steel chair bolted to the floor in the center of the room. Kit swallowed once, then walked over, the cool air brushing against his mostly bare skin.
As he lowered himself onto the seat, he winced - the metal was ice-cold against the backs of his thighs and the exposed curve of his ass.
The Horned Devil moved with deliberate calm.
He knelt first at Kit’s feet, locking cold steel cuffs around each ankle. With a firm click, Kit’s legs were forced apart, spread wide and immobilized.
Next, The Horned Devil took Kit’s left arm, lifting it high overhead and securing the wrist to a cuff mounted at the top of the chair’s tall backrest. He repeated the motion with the right arm, stretching Kit’s powerful torso upward, elongating his body and exposing the vulnerable hollows of his underarms.
The position pulled his chest taut, ribs subtly outlined beneath smooth skin, every muscle now on helpless display.
As he worked, The Horned Devil spoke in a steady, instructional tone, “You must observe a master at work, Mr. Connor. Only then will you truly understand how to break someone as sensitive as Mr. Locke. You have to watch. You have to learn. You have to see what something like this can do to a man like him … And what seeing it will do to you …”
The door to the room creaked open once more.
Michael wheeled in a small metal trolley, its surface neatly arranged with tools: a clear bottle of lotion, a small knife, two stiff-bristled plastic hairbrushes, and a simple plastic cock ring.
The Horned Devil gave a curt nod. Michael returned the gesture silently, then turned and left, the door closing behind him with a heavy thud before the lock clicked into place.
Only then did The Horned Devil reach up and remove his mask.
“Welcome, my student,” the voice was clear now, crisp as silk, “Your lesson in witnessing lunacy … Begins,” said Maxwell.
Kit had been told, explicitly, that Maxwell would not be present during these learnings.
Yet here he was, mask removed, standing before him with that familiar, commanding presence.
A slow, involuntary smile spread across Kit’s face, bright and genuine.
Maxwell had always symbolised something deeper than the ritual: freedom, escape. He was the one who had pulled Kit and the others out of The Games, the one who had shown that this world of intense fetish could be about more than raw domination.
There was intensity here, yes, and careful ritual, but also the deliberate passing on of power rather than its theft. It felt … Right. Not wrong. Safe, even in its madness.
Maxwell’s eyes softened for a moment as he caught Kit’s smile, but the hunger in them never fully faded.
“The urge to take your breath, right now, is almost overwhelming,” he admitted, voice low and rough with honesty, “You were one of their favourites …” without warning, he reached out and dragged a single fingertip slowly down the stretched hollow of Kit’s right armpit.
Kit hised sharply and thrashed hard against the steel cuffs, powerful muscles flexing and straining as he watched the finger lift from his underarm.
Maxwell withdrew his hand at once, stepping back with a calm, almost gentle expression, “All of this is about control,” he said quietly, “Learning to pull yourself away when every instinct screams at you to dive in. That’s the real lesson.”
He turned then toward the shrouded figure and, with a dramatic sweep, yanked the heavy cloth away.
Beneath it lay Joe, completely mummified from neck to ankles in tight, glossy black plastic wrap that hugged every contour of his body like a second skin.
He was secured by dozens of leather belts to a slim, narrow bed angled upward in the middle, the surface slanted like a dentist’s chair to present his upper half at the perfect height.
No wonder he had barely responded to anything; the red silk blindfold from earlier covered his eyes, and the same heavy sound-cancelling headphones sealed away his hearing just like they had thirty minutes ago. The sudden removal of the cloth made him startle violently, limbs twitching beneath the plastic.
Joe’s voice came out small and hopeful:
“… K, Kit? …”
Maxwell glanced at Kit with a knowing smirk, “Already he shows his vulnerability. The first name out of his mouth is yours. He trusts that - with his sight and hearing gone - he will be touched only by you. That will not be the case tonight …”
Joe’s ankles were locked firmly in a pair of sleek wooden stocks.
His big toes had been tied tightly together with thin cord, while his pinkie toes were pulled back and secured to the stocks with delicate wire, leaving the six smaller toes in between free to flex and curl just a little.
No part of him from the ankles down was concealed. Besides his head, his bare soles - smooth, high-arched, and achingly sensitive - were the only part of him left fully, mercilessly exposed. The very part he had tried to protect, the part he had quietly urged Kit to leave untouched, now lay completely accessible.
Kit could only imagine the resistance that must have come before this moment. Perhaps there had been a struggle. Perhaps Joe had yielded reluctantly, offering himself up with a knowing tension - aware of how much Kit wanted this, even as he dreaded it.
There was no way to know for certain. All Kit could see was the outcome.
And despite everything, despite the earlier hesitation, despite the way Joe had tried to stop him even from removing his sock, there they were, impossibly vulnerable, impossibly exposed.
For Kit, that was more than enough.
Maxwell’s gaze flicked downward and noticed the unmistakable thickening in the front of Kit’s black briefs. The fabric was beginning to strain, outlining the growing shape of Kit’s arousal as he stared at Joe’s helpless form.
With deliberate slowness, Maxwell extended his pinkie finger and brushed it once, feather-light, across the centre of Joe’s right arch.
Joe exploded in surprise - a high, frantic squeal tore out of him even though the touch lasted barely a second, “—NO! Kit! Go slow, please! Please!—”
Maxwell turned to Kit, one eyebrow raised in mock innocence, “Should I go slow?”
Kit’s chest was already heaving, his own body straining against the cuffs, voice breathless and thick with need, “No …” he rasped, “… Break him.”
A dark, satisfied smile curved Maxwell’s lips.
He reached for the bottle of lotion, uncapped it, and began to pour a generous stream of cool, slick liquid directly onto Joe’s waiting soles.
The moment the lotion touched skin, Joe lost it completely.
He bucked uselessly against the plastic wrap and stocks, toes flexing and curling in desperate little spasms.
Maxwell didn’t stop. He coated both soles thoroughly, spreading the lotion with slow, deliberate strokes of his palms until the skin glistened under the low light. Joe’s squirming increased - he could barely stand having his feet touched on an ordinary day and now, not one, but two of his senses were removed.
Only when Joe’s bare soles were shining and dripping did Maxwell set the bottle aside. He picked up the two stiff-bristled hairbrushes, one in each hand, and turned to face Kit, holding them up like sacred instruments.
“Lesson one,” he said, voice calm and commanding, eyes locked on his student, “Present lunacy with physical proof. The proof? Dribble …”
The brushes hovered just above Joe’s twitching, lotion-slick soles as Maxwell waited for Kit to truly understand what he was about to witness.
Maxwell didn’t tease or build any anticipation.
There was no slow approach, no gentle circles. With ruthless efficiency, he pressed both brushes firmly against the balls of Joe’s feet and began scrubbing them in fast, merciless strokes, with relentless intensity.
A piercing, high-pitched scream of uncontrollable laughter tore from Joe’s throat the moment the bristles made contact. His entire body convulsed violently within the tight black plastic wrap, the material creaking and stretching as he bucked and thrashed against his bonds. His voice cracked instantly, turning into pure, frantic shrieks that echoed off the walls. There were no words, just raw, desperate, hysterical laughter pouring out of him in an unbroken torrent. His head snapped back against the angled bed, blindfolded face contorted in absolute agony-ecstasy, mouth wide open as helpless cackles ripped through him, nothing but sheer volume causing his throat to swell.
The brushes never slowed. Maxwell worked them with expert focus, one brush attacking the left sole in rapid vertical strokes that scrubbed relentlessly across Joe’s arch, while the other swirled horizontally over the right foot, digging into the tender hollow beneath Joe’s toes. The lotion made every bristle glide with slippery, devastating efficiency, turning the already unbearable sensation into pure tickle torture. Joe’s six smaller toes on each foot flexed and splayed wildly, curling desperately against the wire restraints, but they could do nothing to escape the constant, on-going assault.
Kit watched, transfixed, his beefy body stretched taut in the steel chair. His thick thighs flexed uselessly against the ankle cuffs, broad chest heaving with each ragged breath. The sight of Joe completely breaking apart - mummified, blind, deaf, and utterly at Maxwell’s mercy - sent a hot, overwhelming rush through him. His black briefs were now straining, the thick outline of his hardening cock clearly visible as it throbbed and grew with every new shriek from Joe.
Maxwell showed no mercy whatsoever. He increased the pace, switching techniques fluidly, scrubbing the brushes sideways across both of Joe’s soles at once, then dragging them slowly from heels to toes only to immediately reverse and attack again with vicious speed. Joe’s laughter climbed into a new, frantic register; squealing, wheezing, broken howls that left him gasping for air between screams, only for more unmanageable laughter to burst out the moment he tried to breathe.
“—STOP, OH STOP, KIT, KIT PLEASE—” he managed to shout, but he was gagged once more with hysteria, forced to do nothing but laugh as tears streamed freely from beneath the red silk blindfold. His mummified torso jerked and twisted as much as the plastic allowed. Every muscle in his bound body was locked in helpless spasms, soles scrunching and stretching in a futile attempt to escape the brushes that never, ever stopped as the toe ties kept his feet in place.
Kit’s breathing had grown shallow and heavy. His muscular frame trembled slightly in the restraints, eyes glued to the devastating scene. The contrast between Joe’s total, screaming breakdown and his own helpless, aroused observation made the air feel thick, charged with raw intensity. He couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to. The sight of Maxwell ruthlessly destroying Joe with those two simple hairbrushes, turning the young man into a frantic, laughing, hysterical mess … It was overwhelming in the most intoxicating way.
Maxwell glanced over at Kit for a brief moment, a wicked, knowing smile on his lips as he continued the merciless dual assault without missing a single stroke.
“Watch closely, student,” he said calmly over Joe’s endless, now rather frantic screams, “This is what true surrender looks like.”
Joe’s laughter had become one long, unbroken wail of pure frenzy, his body shaking so violently that the singular bed wobbled and the wooden stocks rattled. He was lost, utterly, completely lost to the relentless tickling, and the lesson had only just begun …
Maxwell’s hands moved with predatory grace, shifting the two stiff-bristled hairbrushes from the lotion-slick arches of Joe’s soles straight to the hypersensitive pads of his toes. He pressed the bristles firmly against the tender skin beneath the six smaller toes on each foot - the ones left deliberately free to flex and curl - and began scrubbing them with ruthless, rapid circles, first clockwise, then counterclockwise, never letting the pressure ease for even a heartbeat.
“—NO! NO! NO!—” Joe’s head threw forward.
The laughter that erupted from him was no longer manageable - it was an all too manic, animalistic explosion of pure madness. Deafening, high-pitched shrieks tore out of his throat, one after the other, so loud it seemed to shake the very walls of the room. It was endless, a relentless cascade of cackling screams that rolled over one another without pause, each wave crashing higher and louder than the last. His voice cracked and splintered, turning into wet, wheezing howls that dissolved into frantic, hiccupping squeals, only to surge back into full-throated, lung-bursting roars of laughter that echoed like thunder. There was no rhythm, no mercy, no chance to breathe; it was one constant, earsplitting torrent of insanity, the kind of laughter that sounded like it was being ripped from the deepest core of his soul.
And just like Maxwell wanted, that madness seeped out of Joe’s mouth in the form of dribble; saliva, thick and wet, bubbled at the corners of his mouth and seeped down his chin, wetting the plastic wrapping at his neck - the perfect symbol that Joe’s feet were far too ticklish for this.
Kit watched Joe’s lips soak, he watched him laugh so hard he could barely contain the dribble for a second longer - Kit’s eyes darted to the only other thing exposed besides Joe’s face; his feet.
The wooden stocks held them perfectly trapped, ankles locked, big toes bound tight together, pinkie toes wired back so the six middle toes on each foot could only be victim to Maxwell’s attacks. Those soles glistened under the low light, lotion making the silky soft expanse shine, every frantic curl of the toes utterly futile against the merciless brushes. They were so exposed, so ticklish, so completely unable to escape the scrubbing, swirling bristles that dug between them, under them, around them. The sight burned into Kit’s brain: those trapped, hyper-sensitive feet writhing uselessly, toes flexing in desperate, tiny dances that only invited more torture. It was intoxicating. Knowing how Joe had wished his feet not be the centre of attention, only to have them displayed like this within an hour or so of arrival. Kit’s own thick cock surged harder than he could control, straining violently against the black briefs until the swollen, leaking tip forced its way out from under the waistband, the flushed, pink head now fully exposed, glistening with pre-cum in the cool air.
Maxwell noticed immediately. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face.
He lifted the brushes away from Joe’s toes at once.
The laughter cut off mid-scream, leaving Joe a broken, drooping wreck; head slumped forward over his chest, blindfolded face flushed crimson, chest heaving in great, ragged gasps as he fought to drag air into his exhausted lungs.
Only soft, whimpering sobs and desperate panting filled the room.
Maxwell set the brushes down and turned toward the trolley. He picked up the small, sharp knife, its blade catching the light, and walked slowly over to Kit. The Horned Devil’s student sat there, arms stretched high, body displayed, massive erection now blatantly obvious.
“Control,” Maxwell murmured, eyes locked on Kit’s throbbing cock, “That’s the real power, Kit. Not forcing it … But owning it. Watching someone else lose every ounce of theirs while you learn to hold onto your own …”
He aimed the knife at Kit’s crotch, the cold steel hovering just above the straining fabric …
For a moment, Kit had to really trust Maxwell, the process, almost everything within that very moment …
With two quick, precise snips at each thigh, the black briefs fell apart like tissue paper, sliding down and away.
Kit’s erection sprang free, thick, heavy, and rock-hard, bobbing heavily in the open air, the flushed head already slick and pulsing.
Kit gulped, clenched his teeth, his fists curling into balls.
Maxwell reached back to the trolley and retrieved the plastic cock ring.
He slid it down Kit’s shaft with deliberate care, nestling it snugly at the base, trapping every drop of blood and arousal in the swollen length and helmet.
“It’s tight,” Kit noted, licking his lips, “Too tight …”
With a soft click of the tiny button embedded in the ring, it hummed to life, low, insistent vibrations pulsing through Kit’s trapped cock.
“Are you referring to your ass hole?” Maxwell stepped back, “Or the cock ring?” He chuckled.
Kit’s breath caught sharply in his throat. A helpless groan tore out of him as the sensation flooded his system - too much, too sudden, too perfect. His muscular body arched hard against the steel cuffs, thick thighs trembling, juicy ass clenching on the cold seat, “—F, fuck … Maxwell …” he gasped, voice breathless and wrecked, eyes half-lidded with overwhelming pleasure.
Maxwell leaned in close, lips brushing Kit’s ear as the vibrations continued their relentless tease, “Feel that, student? That’s what lack of control feels like when it’s handed to you. You can’t stop it. You can’t slow it. You can only take it … And watch what it does to someone else …” he straightened, eyes dark with promise, “Power isn’t in the torment. It’s in the denial. In making them break while you stay right on the edge, learning how to crave the loss without ever fully surrendering yours.”
He turned away from Kit and returned to Joe, who was still panting, barely recovered, not even thinking to suck up the dribble dangling from his chin.
Maxwell picked up both of the hairbrushes again, holding it up for Kit to see.
“And now …” he said, voice rich with erotic command, “… You will dribble, Kit. And not in the way you expect …”
The black plastic mummification wrapped Joe from neck to ankles like a glossy, airtight cocoon, rendering his entire body almost completely immobile.
Only the faintest tremors and microscopic twitches beneath the shiny material betrayed the storm raging inside him. Every ounce of his frantic energy had nowhere to go but straight out of his mouth.
He could not thrash, squirm, writhe, kick, buck, or twist. He was nothing but a long, helpless line of bondage, stretched out on the angled bed, soles presented perfectly, bare and glistening with lotion as two stiff hairbrushes tickled them without pause.
The laughter pouring from Joe was a constant, deafening torrent; raw, hoarse, and utterly broken. High-pitched squeals melted into deep, belly-shaking roars, interrupted only by desperate, wheezing gasps when his lungs finally forced a breath. Drool continued to slip from the corner of his open mouth, trailing down his chin as the hysterical screams continued without end.
Kit persisted in his staring, transfixed, his own thick, veined cock standing straight up from his lap, trapped at the base by the tight plastic cock ring. The device hummed steadily, sending relentless vibrations through his swollen shaft and pulsing, leaking head. He looked down at himself, aching with need. He wanted so badly to wrap his hand around it, to stroke himself in time with Joe’s screams, to feel the pleasure spike while he watched those helpless, lubed soles get destroyed. But his arms were still stretched high overhead, wrists locked in the steel cuffs …
Until they suddenly were not …
With two soft metallic clicks, the wrist cuffs suddenly released.
Kit’s powerful arms dropped instantly. Without thinking, his right hand shot straight toward his throbbing erection, fingers already curling in anticipation, when—
“—Touch yourself …” Maxwell warned calmly, never slowing the twin brushes on Joe’s feet, “… And what I’m doing to Joe right now, happens to you …” Maxwell had to raise his voice over Joe’s shrieks, “… Control, Kit! It’s all about control!—”
Kit froze, hand hovering just inches from his leaking cock.
The mental image hit him hard; himself in Joe’s place, mummified, blindfolded, soles relentlessly brushed while he screamed himself into a crazed state.
With a low, frustrated grunt, he forced both hands underneath his thick, muscular thighs, sitting firmly on them. His broad shoulders tensed, chest heaving, nipples pointed erect, as he denied himself the relief he craved.
His legs remained forced wide apart by the ankle cuffs. His cock stood proud and untouched, pulsing angrily with every vibration from the cock ring, the head glistening with more pre-cum that slowly dripped down the shaft.
Maxwell’s smile deepened with approval. He shifted the brushes downward, focusing now on Joe’s heels with firm, scrubbing circles. The sensation here was entirely different, deeper, more maddening in a way Joe had never experienced. No one had ever tickled his heels like this before. The bristles raked across the smooth, sensitive skin with relentless pressure, turning the usually ignored area into pure ticklish overdrive. Combined with the unbearable assault on his toes, it pushed Joe over a new edge …
“—HAHAHAHAHA!—AAAAAHHH! KIT, KIT PLEASE! AHAHAHAHA! AAHAHAHAHA! KIT, KIT! I, CAN’T, CAN’T BREATHE!—” Joe’s laughter transformed again, becoming even more frantic and breathless. The screams were louder, wetter, more broken, each one ending in a desperate wheeze as his lungs struggled for air. Drool continued to spill freely from his lips, running down his chin and onto the black plastic wrap. His bound toes curled and splayed wildly in their limited range, heels scrunching uselessly against the wooden stocks, but there was no escape, “—I CAN’T STAND IT! I MEAN IT, I’M SCARED FOR MY LIFE!—”, the brushes never stopped; scrubbing, circling, sawing, turning his feet into two centers of unrelenting ticklish torment while the rest of his body remained perfectly, cruelly still …
Kit sat there, hands trapped beneath his own heavy thighs, cock throbbing violently in its vibrating prison - ‘I can’t stand it, I mean it, I’m scared for my life’ - those words made him shiver, Joe’s feet were so utterly ticklish that he worried for his own safety …
Kit’s eyes remained locked on Joe’s glistening, trapped soles and the way his long, helpless toes danced under the brushes. Every new scream sent another hot pulse through Kit’s denied erection. He wanted to touch. He needed to touch. But the warning - and the terrifying thrill of what “losing control” would mean - kept his hands firmly pinned.
Maxwell glanced over at his student, “Good boy,” he murmured, “Feel how challenging it it is to hold back? That ache … That edge … That’s power. Learn it. Own it. Because the moment you let go … You become exactly like him.”
Joe’s laughter spiraled higher, turning into one long, sobbing, dribbling wail of pure hysteria as the brushes continued their ruthless work on his heels and toes, showing no sign of slowing …
After an agonising fifteen minutes of non stop tickle torment, Joe’s laughter had long since passed the point of hysteria and entered something purer - absolute absurdity.
It was no longer recognisable as human sound. It came out in violent, guttural bursts that cracked and splintered, rising into ear-splitting shrieks before collapsing into soaked, wheezing sobs that immediately exploded back into howling cackles.
Inside the tight cocoon of bondage, Joe felt like he was drowning in sensation. His feet, his only moving part, were so undeniably ticklish, every nerve ending screaming in tandem. The heels, once ordinary ends of his legs, had become a new kind of hell: deep, throbbing, electric ticklishness that radiated up his legs and into his spine. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t form words. All he could do was laugh, laugh, laugh until his throat felt raw and his lungs burned. Time had lost all meaning. There was only the endless, ticklish torment and the terrifying knowledge that he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t escape it, couldn’t even move his body an inch to protect himself, and to top it all off, he thought Kit was doing it, when in actuality it was Maxwell.
Then Maxwell shifted the brushes upward …
The moment the stiff bristles landed on the centres of Joe’s arches, his most devastatingly ticklish spot, the reaction was cataclysmic.
Joe’s entire world detonated.
A scream unlike anything before tore out of him, so loud and so broken it sounded like it might shatter glass: “—AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH—NOOOOOOOOOO!—HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!—”, it was higher, sharper, more frantic, laced with something close to panic …
His laughter doubled in volume and speed, turning into a relentless, machine-gun torrent of squealing cackles that overlapped so quickly they blurred into one continuous, deafening wail. His mummified body bucked violently within its plastic prison, the wrap creaking and stretching as every muscle locked and released in helpless spasms. Inside his mind there was only white-hot terror and ecstasy, “—TOO MUCH, TOO MUCH, TOO MUCH!—”, the arches were pure lightning, every bristle stroke sending jolts of unbearable ticklish chaos straight to his brain. He felt like he was going to die. His lungs were burning, each desperate gulp of air stolen between screams only to be punched out again by another wave of laughter, “—I CAN’T BREATHE, I’M GOING TO DIE, I CAN’T BREATHE!—” all he could do was shout his thoughts out of him.
His feet now squirmed with a violence that the stocks could barely contain. Joe’s big toes, tied together with cord, thrashed so wildly that the thin string snapped with an audible ping.
Both big toes sprang free, immediately curling and uncurling in frantic, desperate spasms. The pinkie toes remained wired back to the stocks, still stretched taut, forcing the six smaller toes between them to flex and splay in tiny, futile dances while the brushes continued their merciless assault on the arches. Joe’s feet tugged and yanked against their remaining restraints, heels scrunching, toes clawing at nothing, soles wrinkling and stretching in a constant, hypnotic ballet of torment, still completely trapped, still completely helpless.
Maxwell watched Joe’s breakdown with calm satisfaction, brushes never slowing. Kit sat rigid on his own hands, thighs trembling, his leaking cock throbbing violently in the vibrating cock ring. The sight of Joe’s soles, now glistening with fresh sweat, big toes free but still utterly defeated, arches scrunching helplessly under the bristles, made Kit’s mouth go dry. He could feel his own pulse hammering in his trapped shaft, pre-cum dripping steadily onto his abs, but he didn’t move. He didn’t dare.
Joe’s laughter had become one long, sobbing, screaming wail, tears and drool soaking his chin. His mind was fracturing, “—KIT, GOD, I’M GOING TO PASS OUT, KIT, I MEAN IT!—”, he was still totally clueless that it wasn’t Kit tickling his feet …
Maxwell finally lifted the brushes.
The sudden absence of the bristles left Joe gasping, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon. His laughter stuttered into broken, whimpering sobs, head lolling forward, drool stringing from his lips, “—K, Kit, you, you wanker!—”
But Maxwell wasn’t done.
He set the brushes aside, leaned down, and took Joe’s left big toe straight into his warm, wet mouth …
“—KIT! KIT, WHAT, WHAHAHAT ARE YOU DOING!—”
He sucked gently at first, then harder, tongue swirling around the sensitive pad while his teeth nibbled with light, precise bites along the underside. He moved to the next toe, then the next, sucking and nibbling on every freed digit with slow, deliberate hunger.
The sensation was still absurdly ticklish; electric, wet, intimate torture that made Joe howl all over again, but it was different. Softer. More breathable. The laughter that burst out now was wild and frantic, yet between the squeals he could actually drag in full, desperate lungfuls of air. His body stayed locked in the mummification, but his mind clawed back from the edge of panic, the oral tickling keeping him right on the razor’s edge of insanity without quite pushing him over, “—KIT, NO BITING! OW, ARGH, OH MY GOD!—”
Maxwell lifted his mouth just long enough to speak, still nibbling on Joe’s right pinkie toe. His eyes flicked to Kit, who was still sitting on his hands, cock pulsing angrily in its vibrating prison, chest rising and falling in time with Joe’s broken gasps.
“You’re close, I can see it, feel it,” Maxwell murmured, “What will get you there? I know, but I want you to say it yourself …”
Kit’s voice cut through the Joe’s growls and Maxwell’s slurps, “Take them off,” his eyes watered as his cock twitched not once, but twice, three times, “The hh, headphones. The b, blindfold. I want him to sss, see that it isn’t me. I want him to see you using the b, brushes on him …”
Maxwell rose smoothly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and moved behind the angled bed - he took a few steps before pausing, Kit’s continuation taking him by surprise …
“… Gag him with the blindfold …” Kit sneered, another droplet of pre-cum drooping from the glistening tip of his arousal.
Maxwell cocked an eyebrow, “… That’s the devil in you …” he confirmed.
Joe bit his lower lip and forced his feet forwards as hard as he could, freeing both of his little toes from the string, “Mnn!” He found himself grinning now as the feeling of some form of freedom gave him a sense of relief, unknowing that in a few seconds he would soon be able to hear and see.
With deliberate, almost genuine care, Maxwell first lifted the heavy sound-cancelling headphones from Joe’s ears, then untied and peeled away the red silk blindfold.
Joe blinked rapidly, eyes wide and glassy with exhaustion, pupils blown.
The moment his vision cleared and he registered the scene before him - Kit stretched and restrained in the steel chair, arms now free but hands pinned beneath his ass, cock standing brutally hard and leaking in its vibrating prison - his expression fractured - confusion, betrayal, and dawning horror flooded his face …
“What …” Joe rasped, voice hoarse, “… You …” he looked up at Maxwell, who stood towering over him, but before he could even start to verbally figure things out, Maxwell wrapped the blindfold around Joe’s head tightly, causing the red fabric to wedge between his teeth and lips, gagging him suddenly, “—Mmpphhh!—”
Maxwell didn’t answer with words. He simply returned to the trolley, picked up both stiff hairbrushes once more, and positioned them directly over Joe’s glistening, lotion-slick soles.
Joe’s eyes were furociously wide, his eyebrows burrowed deeply, his ten toes curling into a defensive scrunch as he twisted his feet and shook his head, “—Nppmh! Ssstommpph! Whah aghh you mphh! Whamphh guhhing uhhmp!—”
Maxwell locked eyes with Kit for one long, charged moment.
“Lose control, Kit …” he whispered …
… Then he struck.
Both brushes slammed down onto Joe’s arches at once, fast, ruthless, scrubbing strokes that dug deep into the hypersensitive skin with vicious intensity. The reaction was cataclysmic.
Joe’s eyes flew wide in pure, animal terror. A blood-curdling, gagged scream ripped from his throat, raw and deafening: “—MPPHH HAHAHAHAHAMPHH MNNAHAAHAHAAAAMPHHH!—”, the laughter that followed was apocalyptic, louder, higher, more unhinged than anything before. It exploded out of him in one endless, soul-shattering wail, a frantic, hysterical storm of cackling shrieks that echoed through the room like thunder, gagged by the simplicity of red satin, “—MPPHH HAHAHAHAHAMPHH MNNAHAAHAHAAAAMPHHH!—” …
His mummified body convulsed violently inside the plastic wrap, the material stretching and creaking as every muscle seized. Tears streamed down his face in fresh rivers. Drool stained the gag. His freed toes curled and splayed in wild, desperate spasms while his feet tried their best to protect themselves by blocking each other with a twist and curl movement that never seemed to end, “—MPPHH HAHAHAHAHAMPHH MNNAHAAHAHAAAAMPHHH!—”, the soles wrinkled and stretched frantically, heels scrunching, arches scrunching tighter and tighter under the relentless dual assault of the brushes, yet they could not escape even an inch, “—MPPHH HAHAHAHAHAMPHH MNNAHAAHAHAAAAMPHHH!—” …
The sight hit Kit like a lightning bolt.
Joe’s wide, horrified eyes staring straight at him. The betrayal carved into Joe’s face, mixed with the expression of ticklish hysteria. The way his trapped, glistening feet danced and squirmed in total helplessness while Maxwell destroyed them with merciless focus. The raw, endless, screaming laughter pouring out of Joe’s throat. The sheer, overwhelming vulnerability of it all, combined with the relentless vibration of the cock ring squeezing the base of his throbbing shaft …
… It pushed Kit straight over the edge.
Kit’s beefy body locked rigid.
“—GAH!—”
A deep, guttural groan tore from his chest as his cock erupted.
Thick, heavy ropes of cum shot violently from the swollen head, splattering across his tensed abs and chest in hot, pulsing bursts.
His wide apart thighs trembled, ass cheeks clenching hard against the cold steel seat, every muscle in his weighty frame straining as the orgasm ripped through him with brutal intensity.
He didn’t touch himself. He didn’t need to. The denial, the control, the devastating visual of Joe’s complete mental and physical breakdown, all of it converged into one mind-melting release.
Maxwell watched Kit’s climax with a dark, satisfied gleam in his eyes, never once slowing the brushes on Joe’s arches. Joe’s laughter had become something almost otherworldly; pure, unbroken lunacy, a continuous, sobbing, screaming cascade that filled the entire room.
Only when Kit’s orgasm finally ebbed, leaving him panting and spent, did Maxwell lift the brushes away …
The sudden silence was deafening.
Joe slumped in his bonds, chest heaving, face a ruined, tear-streaked mess, soft giggles and splutters and curse words escaping his lips as he tried to process what had just happened, “—Pr, pricks, th, the both of, of you …”
Maxwell set the brushes down with slow, deliberate finality.
He walked over to Kit, towering above the restrained, cum-splattered muscle man. His voice was low, rich, and laced with sinister authority.
“Lesson two,” Maxwell noted, “Good control warrants a reward,” he reached down to click off the vibrating cock ring, but snatched hold of Kit’s cock instead, his thumb pressing against the tip.
Kit’s spine bent inward, his eyes squeezed shut and his right hand, fast and quick, grabbed Maxwell’s wrist with such strength that he made the bone snap.
Maxwell fell to his knees, “—GRAGH!—”, he became defenseless in a nanosecond, Kit’s grasp still clutching the now broken bone.
Kit, cock ring still buzzing, erection still firm, used his other hand to grab Maxwell’s jaw, lifting his head so they looked at each other directly in the face.
“… Release us …” Kit demanded.
The doors to the room burst open as Joe watched on with a hanging jaw.
Several Masked Horned Devils stumbled in, ready to help their master, their cloaks flowing behind, the black masks and sharp horns glistening - they were followed slowly by Michael who waited behind, hands behind his back.
“—Release them, quickly!—” Maxwell urged.
Two Horned Devils swiftly uncuffed Kit’s ankles, whilst the other two unlocked the stocks and tore away the wrapping encasing Joe.
Kit stood from the metal chair and lifted Maxwell to his toes, still by simply holding onto his jaw.
He appeared as mighty, nude, totally in control and beyond powerful, literally dangling a fully clothed Maxwell in the air as if he were now the toy.
Maxwell’s eyes watered, he had never broken a bone before in his life, he had never been treated like a villain, “—I’m the g, good guy, remember?—” Maxwell managed to speak, wincing as his feet kicked and his wrist throbbed painfully.
Kit’s eyes narrowed as he looked into Maxwell’s face, “No …” he growled, “… I’m the good guy, so treat me like one …”
With that, he dropped Maxwell to the floor.
Maxwell landed with a heavy thud, slumping to the side, gasping into his broken wrist as he coughed and spluttered in shock.
Joe pulled the red chunk of silk out of his mouth, slid off the table, his knees weak, his bare feet pressing onto the floor silently. He wore the same shorts he had arrived in, so seeing Kit so naked made his eyebrows lift.
Kit took the blindfold away from Joe and threw it over to Maxwell - it landed over his back, the damp fabric drooping across his shoulder.
Kit held Joe’s hand and took him towards the door as The Horned Devils and Michael watched on in sheer awe.
Kit paused to look at Michael.
“Here endeth the lesson,” he said, before taking Joe back to his bedroom.
Add ‘lesson two available on __’ below.
