Maxwell stormed into his quarters like a man possessed, the heavy door slamming shut behind him with a thunderous boom that echoed through the corridor.
Michael was right on his heels, slipping inside just in time as the several Horned Devils behind were shut out with a decisive click of the lock.
Without a word, Maxwell snatched up the elegant vase perched on the side table, its delicate Japanese flowers - pale cherry blossoms and stark white lilies - still fresh and fragrant from the morning.
In one savage motion, he hurled it across the room.
SMASH!
The vase exploded against the far wall in a sharp, crystalline shatter, shards of porcelain scattering like shrapnel while the flowers tumbled through the air in a slow, mocking cascade, landing in disarray across the floor.
“Max! Calm down …” Michael urged as he took a cautious step forward, hands raised in a placating gesture.
Maxwell spun on his heel, eyes blazing with a feral intensity that made the room feel smaller.
He cradled his broken wrist against his chest, the unnatural angle of it sending fresh jolts of pain through his arm with every movement.
“You know the worst thing about it all?” He snarled, voice raw and venomous, “Despite everything that just happened … I can’t even drink.”
Michael’s jaw tightened.
He watched Maxwell closely, the man’s face twisted in agony that went far deeper than bone.
“Without your new sobriety, you wouldn’t be on the right path right now,” Michael reminded him quietly, “You’ve come too far to throw it away over this.”
Maxwell let out a bitter, jagged laugh that cracked in the middle, “You think this is the right path?” He gestured sharply with his good hand, wincing as the motion jarred his injured wrist, “Having some twenty-two-year-old ginger boy break my wrist because I did the very thing he asked me to do?” Maxwell went to say, ‘that kid owes me his life after me getting them out of that hell. They owe me everything …’, but as soon as the voice arrived in his head, he saw his brother.
The person he has tried so hard not to become.
The person that he isn’t.
He closed his eyes, drawing in a ragged breath through clenched teeth, trying to force the storm inside him back into its cage.
The silence stretched, heavy with the scent of crushed flowers and the faint metallic tang of suppressed rage.
When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a calm, controlled whisper.
“… He is learning. I am learning. He is understanding. I am understanding …”
Michael stood motionless for a moment, the mask of composure he’d worn for years slipping just enough to reveal the darker undercurrent he had spent so long trying to bury.
His eyes hardened, a cold glint surfacing as he leaned in slightly, “You could always terminate the deal,” he said, the words sliding out like a blade unsheathed, “We turn on Kit. Show him what we’re really made of. No more games, remember?”
Maxwell’s eyes snapped open.
For a heartbeat, something ancient and vicious flickered across his face - then it was gone, replaced by a resolute peace that felt almost holy in its conviction.
He shook his head slowly, deliberately, the motion heavy with moral weight.
“Me wanting a drink, and you wanting to betray, are two of the same thing,” he said, his voice firm, “You almost chose the darker path, Michael. That’s not what we do. That’s not who we are,” he straightened, cradling the broken wrist closer, as if the pain itself was a reminder of the line he refused to cross, “We’re not a house made of feathers. We’re not them …”
Michael exhaled slowly, the shadow retreating from his gaze as he nodded once, accepting the rebuke, “You’re right, master. I … Apologise. I won’t slip again.”
Maxwell’s expression settled into something colder, more calculated, “We’ll continue with the second lesson, as planned. But first … I’ll need to talk with him.”
The words hung in the air like a promise - or a threat - while the scattered flowers lay wilting on the floor between them, silent witnesses to a master slowly losing his grip.
Steam curled lazily from the surface of the deep bubble bath, carrying the faint scent of lavender and warm salt.
Joe lay submerged to the bridge of his nose, the heat wrapping around him like a second skin, coaxing the tension from muscles that had long since given up resisting.
This was a different kind of restraint now - not plastic and pressure, but water and warmth - yet it held him all the same, anchoring him in the aftermath.
His feet still tingled. A restless echo lingered over his soles, the pads of his long toes, a quiet, electric hum threading through every nerve. The memory of it refused to dissolve, clinging instead, as though his body had chosen to remember long after the moment itself had passed.
A soft knock sounded at the bathroom door.
Joe didn’t answer at first. He let the silence stretch, listening to the quiet drip of water from the tap.
Another knock, gentler this time …
“Joe … Please,” Kit’s voice came through the wood, small and uncertain.
Joe lifted his head from the surface of the water, exhaled slowly, then he tutted.
“What.”
Another beat of silence as Joe cupped some bubbles in his palms and blew them outward.
“Let’s have a chat,” Kit said.
Joe smirked - he could hear the regret in Kit’s voice.
“Come in then,” he said.
The door creaked open.
Kit stepped inside hesitantly, the warm, humid air brushing against his skin.
He wore a dressing gown, the robe’s waist belt knotted tightly in the middle.
His eyes found Joe immediately, searching his face with quiet worry. He looked younger in that moment, shoulders slightly hunched, the usual sharp confidence softened by regret.
“Are you okay?” Kit asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Joe managed a tired, crooked smile, “I’m absolutely fucking shattered.”
The bluntness of Joe’s answer landed softly between them. Kit’s expression melted, the tension in his brow easing as a small, relieved laugh escaped him. He moved closer, lowering himself to sit on the edge of the wide tub, careful not to crowd Joe.
“You’re not mad at me?” He asked, almost afraid of the answer.
To Kit’s surprise, Joe shook his head slowly, genuinely. His gaze was steady, warm, even a little awed, “I always wondered what it would be like to go through something as intense as you have in the past,” Joe said quietly, “Now I know.”
Kit swallowed, eyes glistening, “I didn’t think Maxwell would take things that far. Maybe the House of Horned Devils is no different from the House of White Feathers after all …”
Joe smirked, the expression soft rather than mocking, “You broke his bloody wrist, Kit.”
Kit winced, but the flicker of guilt was quickly overtaken by something fiercer. He sat up a little straighter, a quiet pride blooming in his chest, “I know … I did,” his voice gained strength, warm with conviction, “Hell yeah, I did!”
Joe watched him for a long moment, affection clear in his eyes, “You’re the boss,” he said gently, “You call the shots. He’s seen what you mean. He’s seen you …”
Kit’s breath caught.
He looked down at the water, then back at Joe, gratitude and uncertainty tangled together on his face.
“Do you even want to do the second lesson?” He asked, almost pleading, “It’s just one more. We go home after tomorrow. That’s if … Maxwell hasn’t packed my bags for me.”
Joe’s feet slid out from beneath the bubbles - he rested them on the edge of the bath and crossed his legs at the ankle, “If you’d asked me before I went to bed, I’d say no …” he ran his hands through his hair and continued, “… But now I’m intrigued. So, yes.”
Kit’s shoulders sagged with relief, “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Joe flicked water at Kit, “Why? You weren’t the one holding the hairbrushes! …”
Kit flinched as bubbles slapped at his face, “Well, you wouldn’t have heard it with the headphones on … When Maxwell asked me if he should go slow, I told him to break you,” Kit’s voice cracked slightly, “I couldn’t help it. I just, I had to see it.”
Joe gulped, the words sinking in, but he didn’t pull away.
Instead, he leaned back against the tub, letting the confession settle between them like warm water.
“You’re still learning,” he said softly, unaware that he was mirroring what Maxwell was saying to Michael a few rooms below, “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To understand your fetish. To understand you,” he paused, then asked with quiet curiosity, “Are you going to be as mean next time?”
Kit shook his head immediately, the motion sincere and vulnerable.
“No. I’ve learned that I don’t like being like that. I don’t want to,” he hesitated, then added more honestly, “At least … That’s what I think in my head. But seeing you … When you couldn’t take the tickling anymore … It still made me—”, he gestured vaguely toward his lap, the memory alone sending a visible shiver through him, goosebumps rising along his arms, “It still turned me on. I can’t lie about that.”
Joe studied him for a moment, then slowly lifted his tingling feet towards Kit.
He placed them carefully, trustingly, into Kit’s lap, the warm, damp skin resting against him like an offering.
“Stop overthinking things,” Joe murmured, his voice turning cheeky, “And give me a massage.”
Kit cocked an eyebrow, a small, surprised smile tugging at his lips, “You can be a right flirt sometimes, Locke …”
Before Joe could respond, a soft knock came from the main door of the quarters.
A maid’s polite voice floated through: “Mr. Connor, we need Mr. Locke now, to prepare for second lesson …”
Joe lifted his feet and sank them back beneath the bubbles as Kit stood carefully.
“It’s … “ Kit turned to look at the maid, his face squashed with surprise, “… He’s letting it go ahead? After I …”
The maid nodded gently.
Kit pursed his lips.
“Oh …” he looked back at Joe, who lay in the bath still, waiting for Kit to leave.
“Privacy please?” Joe quipped, his palms concealing his nudity as the bubbles began to fade.
Kit stepped back, “Thanks, Joe. For being …” he placed his hands behind his head, he couldn’t find the words.
“Sod off,” Joe grinned, flicking more water at Kit.
The bubbles barely hid his own growing arousal, cock twitching traitorously in the warm water.
Knowing Kit was getting off on how ticklish he was …
… it wasn’t such a bad thought after all.
The next day, the world felt entirely different.
Sunlight filtered through the delicate pink canopy of cherry blossoms in the gardens of the traditional Japanese home.
A gentle breeze carried the petals in lazy spirals, drifting down like soft pink snow across the manicured lawns and stone pathways.
The sky was a perfect, cloudless blue, and the air carried a calm serenity that seemed at odds with the intensity of everything Kit had experienced so far. This was no longer something locked away underground in shadow. This was open, exposed, almost peaceful.
Kit stood at the edge of the garden path, barefoot, dressed only in a loose black silk robe that brushed against his muscular calves. Beneath it he wore nothing, as Maxwell had specifically requested.
The smooth fabric felt cool against his skin, but it did little to hide the growing nervousness in his chest. What the hell had he been thinking? Breaking Maxwell’s wrist like that … Or was he simply so used to dealing with people who would punish any act of defiance that his body had reacted on pure instinct?
He took a slow breath, embracing the anxiety instead of fighting it, and stepped forward into the garden.
There, in the centre of a sunlit clearing, lay Joe, restrained face-up on the surface of a low, narrow, sturdy wooden table.
His slim body was stretched out in a long line; his arms bound above his head and together by tight knots of rope at his elbows, forearms and wrists, which were all looped around the table’s square shape.
His knees, calves and ankles were also bound together by additional lengths of rope - his heels just about hung off the edge of the wooden table, his bare soles connected together by a steel cuff that had been locked around both of his big toes.
Just like yesterday, the red satin blindfold and noise cancelling headphones rested over his face and ears, entirely removing his ability to see or hear.
Displayed like this allowed almost every single ticklish spot on his body to expose itself, from the deep, sensitive depths of his underarms to the taut rows of his ribcage - whereas in Lesson One only his feet were on display, Lesson Two offered up everything.
He wore nothing but the underwear he had packed - a pair of black briefs, costing nothing more than seven quid from Tesco. The contrast of Joe’s soft, pale skin against the dark wood and falling cherry blossoms was striking.
Maxwell’s voice drifted through the air, calm and resonant, though the man himself remained hidden for now.
“… The trust this young man has for you, Kit, is overwhelming …”
The breeze blew a few stray leaves across the grass as Maxwell’s whispers continued.
“… His own curiosity is your undoing …”
The moment the words reached him, Kit felt his cock thicken heavily beneath the silk robe. There was no underwear to contain it, no layer to hide the growing bulge that now pressed noticeably against the smooth fabric. He was completely exposed in his arousal, exactly as Maxwell requested him to be.
Kit walked closer until he stood at the head of the table. Joe lifted his head as much as his position allowed, peering up at what he thought was Kit, but actually it was just a blank space. Joe could sense him, or something, but it wasn’t enough to make Joe question it verbally.
Only then did Maxwell step out from the shade of a cluster of blooming bushes.
He wore the same black silk robe as Kit, but his right arm rested in a neat black sling against his chest.
The sight made Kit instinctively straighten his posture, shoulders squaring, jaw tightening. He refused to apologise. He would not show weakness for what he had done.
Maxwell regarded him for a long moment, then smiled faintly, as if reading every thought crossing Kit’s mind.
“I like that you’re not apologising,” he said quietly, “You shouldn’t be sorry for reacting the way you did. Lesson One went exactly the way it was meant to. You learned what you can and cannot control right now. Anger … Is perhaps an emotion you cannot control yet. Give it time …”
Kit frowned, confusion clear on his face, “You’re not pissed off?”
Maxwell tilted his head, “Why should I be?”
“… Because …” Kit blinked, “… I broke your wrist.”
Maxwell asked again, patient and calm, “Why should I be?”
Kit swallowed, thinking harder, “Because … I didn’t do what you expected me to do?”
Maxwell tried again, “… Why should I be?”
Another pause. Kit’s voice dropped as he searched the floor for an answer.
It arrived, causing him to smile.
“Because I fought back,” he said.
Maxwell nodded slowly, satisfied, “There we are,” he took another step closer, the silk of his robe shifting gently in the breeze. “Unlike my brother’s system, this one does not bite back against resistance or rebellion. Your urge to protect yourself and your friend from a situation you believed was wrong … That is something my team and I only respect …” he winked, the gesture surprisingly light given the sling on his arm, “… Even if it did hurt a little.”
Kit winced and lowered his head.
Maxwell then straightened, shifting back into his instructional tone, “Lesson One was about you maintaining control while Joe lost all of his. Lesson Two is the same principle, but in a very different way. Only by the end will you understand your learnings …”
Maxwell gestured with his good hand toward the same doors Kit walked through minutes ago, “However, because you broke my wrist, I cannot assist hands-on today. So I have called upon one of the newest members of the House of Horned Devils …”
From the sliding doors of the traditional house, a figure emerged and walked calmly into the garden.
He wore the same black silk robe as Kit and Maxwell, the fabric flowing elegantly over a lean yet athletic frame.
His dark hair was tousled by the breeze, sharp cheekbones and intelligent eyes catching the sunlight as cherry blossoms drifted around him.
Joe continued to silently gaze through the blindfold, unable to hear Kit’s gasp or to see how far his jaw had fallen.
“Bash?” Kit gawped.
Sebastian Croft didn’t immediately respond. His focus remained locked on Maxwell. He gave a small, respectful nod, then closed his eyes for a moment, voice quiet.
“Hello, Master.”
Maxwell returned the nod with quiet approval.
“Sebastian joined the House of Horned Devils last year,” Maxwell explained, his tone carrying the weight of genuine respect, “He was integral in helping me extract everyone from The Games. Without his planning, his intelligence, and his ability to see connections no one else could, a lot of critical pieces simply wouldn’t have fallen into place. He’s quite the remarkable individual.”
Kit stood frozen, speechless, his large frame towering in the black silk robe. The sight of one of his closest friends, someone he had known as a creative, music-obsessed guy chasing dreams in Japan, now standing here in the same ritualistic silk, aligned with Maxwell … It left him in complete awe. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
Bash’s cool, composed exterior finally cracked. A warm grin spread across his face as he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Kit in a tight hug.
Kit, being significantly larger and more muscular, immediately reciprocated with crushing affection.
He scooped Bash clean off his toes, lifting the slimmer young man effortlessly into the air and planting several loud, enthusiastic kisses across his forehead and cheek.
“When you said you were moving to Japan to try and make music,” Kit laughed, “I didn’t think this is what you meant! How did you, why did you—”
—Bash chuckled against Kit’s broad chest as the hug finally broke and his feet touched the grass again.
“We’ll talk about it over some wine, yeah?” He replied, eyes sparkling with familiar mischief.
At that moment, Michael emerged from the house carrying a small wooden tray.
He moved with silent efficiency, setting the tray down on the surface of a large, nearby rock.
Bash nodded at Michael, and then turned to look down at Joe, a playful sneer lifting his lips.
On the tray rested the same ornate blade from yesterday, its handle and guard shaped like a stylized horned devil, along with four red feathers of varying sizes and textures: one long and soft, one shorter and stiffer, one almost downy, and one with a sharper, more pointed quill.
Beside the feathers were two hairbrushes.
Maxwell’s voice cut through the light atmosphere, shifting it back toward purpose.
“Joe has agreed to be handled intimately. He has no idea that there are three of you.”
Michael stood at the right side of the table, where Joe’s waist lay. Kit positioned himself on the other side, whilst Bash stood at the foot of the table.
Maxwell continued, “Kit, after you reached climax during Lesson One, did you feel more or less sensitive?”
Kit didn’t need to think about his answer, “More,” he said, confidently.
Maxwell looked towards Joe, “Lesson Two …” he declared, “… Learn how to hand Joe the same slice of knowledge …” he stepped back, the shadows of the swaying cherry blossom trees above blanketing him in a dim shadow, “… Begin whenever you are ready, gentlemen.”
Lesson Two had officially begun.
Kit stared down at Joe, his heart hammering.
The idea of what they were about to do - edging Joe to the brink of absolute pleasure and holding him there - felt overwhelming to say the least.
His mouth had gone dry, and beneath his own silk robe his thick cock strained with a confusing mix of nerves and arousal.
Bash noticed immediately. He stepped closer and placed a gentle hand on Kit’s broad shoulder.
“It sounds like a lot,” Bash said softly, “and in some ways it is. But this … This is really opening up. Truly embracing who you are and what you have. And it’s the same for Joe too. He wants this. He literally signed the paperwork.”
Kit swallowed hard, still uncertain, “I’m … Worried he’ll find it … Violating.”
Michael, who had been quietly listening, spoke up.
“I was watching the two of you talking in this very garden yesterday,” he spoke matter of factly, “Joe looked you right in the eye and said, ‘No matter what happens, no matter what you do … Promise it’ll be no different after …’, and what did you say, brother?”
Kit looked down at the grass and nodded carefully, “I said I promise.”
Michael’s gaze held Kit’s, “So I’ll ask you again. Will it be different?”
Kit hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face.
Before he could answer, Bash decided to prove the point by kneeling down at the foot of the table, his face inches away from Joe’s soles.
He leaned forward and cupped Joe’s right foot with both hands …
That simple cup caused Joe’s waist to hurtle upwards in shock as a giggle burst out of his lips.
Bash smirked and kept Joe’s foot in his gentle hold - then, he slowly dragged the tip of his warm tongue from the base of the Joe’s big toe, all the way to its top.
Joe’s spine slowly arched off the table, all ten of his fingers stretching into an expanded flex.
Bash took the big toe entirely in his mouth and sucked on it, whilst looking up at Kit.
Joe’s mouth stretched open - he threw his head across his chest, eyes beaming from behind the blindfold, “—Kit, my god!—”, it was unexpected, a surprise, but it was also welcome.
Then, slowly, a wide, delighted smile spread across Joe’s face. He bit down on his lower lip, cheeks flushing.
“Now who’s being the flirt?” Joe said, voice already breathy with amusement and something far more heated. He clearly assumed it was Kit doing the sucking - the assumption carried no fear, only playful challenge.
The sound of Joe’s voice - relaxed, teasing, even aroused - washed over Kit like relief. Some of the tension in his shoulders melted away.
Michael leaned in slightly and nodded toward Joe’s groin.
The front of the black briefs was already beginning to tent noticeably. The thickening outline of Joe’s cock was swelling, pushing against the fabric as it hardened from nothing more than some simple sucks over his big toe.
“See?” Michael murmured, “He’s not just okay with it. Brothers into it …”
Kit stared at the growing bulge, watching the way the black fabric barely contained the thickening wedge. A fresh wave of heat flooded through him. Beneath his own robe, his heavy cock throbbed harder, the thick head now visibly tenting the silk.
Bash smiled, warm and encouraging, as Joe’s big toe popped out of his mouth, “He trusts you, Kit. This is safe. This is wanted.”
Joe’s smile lingered, his chest rising and falling a little faster now, blindfolded face turned slightly toward where he guessed Kit was kneeling.
Kit exhaled slowly, the last of his hesitation fading. He glanced up at Bash and Michael, then back down at Joe’s helplessly stretched body and the obvious erection straining inside those black briefs.
The warm spring breeze carried another swirl of cherry blossoms across the sunlit garden as Kit reached for the ornate dagger on the tray. The horned-devil-shaped blade felt heavy and cool in his large hand. He stepped closer to the table where Joe lay stretched out in a straight, helpless line, blindfolded and deafened, completely unaware of exactly how many hands were about to touch him.
Kit slid the sharp tip of the dagger carefully under the waistband of Joe’s black briefs, right at the hip. With a slow, deliberate slice, the fabric parted.
Joe gasped sharply - a startled, excited sound - as the cool metal kissed his skin for the briefest second. The silk material gave way easily.
Kit continued the cut across the front, then down the other side, until the briefs fell open like wrapping paper.
Joe’s cock sprang free, thick and heavy, already half-hard from the earlier toe sucking. It rested against his lower abdomen, flushed and growing in the open air, not yet fully erect but clearly responding.
At the same moment, Bash remained kneeling at Joe’s feet, playfully sucking and kissing the long, sensitive toes that made up Joe’s right foot. His warm mouth closed around Joe’s right big toe, tongue swirling gently over the pad while his lips pressed soft, wet kisses along the sides. Joe’s toes flexed and curled against Bash’s tongue, the sensation making his cock give a visible throb.
Joe’s head twisted sharply from side to side, blindfolded face burning deeper. He could clearly tell now that more than one person was touching him, yet he said nothing. Instead, a wide, excited grin spread across his lips. Behind the red silk, his eyes were undoubtedly wide with anticipation and arousal.
Michael reached down and gently peeled the ruined briefs completely away, tossing the scraps aside. Joe was now entirely naked - slim, pale, toned body fully exposed and stretched out under the open sky, while the three Horned Devils surrounding him remained robed in flowing black silk.
Kit placed the dagger back on the tray. For the first time ever in their friendship, he wrapped one large, warm hand around the base of Joe’s thick cock. The touch was gentle at first, simply holding it, feeling it pulse and grow heavier in his palm. Joe let out a low, shaky moan, hips twitching upward as much as the ropes allowed.
Slowly, Kit began to stroke.
His grip was firm but smooth, sliding up the thickening shaft from base to head, then back down in long, deliberate strokes. He twisted his wrist slightly on the upstroke, thumb brushing over the sensitive underside and swirling gently around the flushed head each time he reached the top.
Joe’s cock responded instantly, swelling rapidly to full, rock-hard thickness in Kit’s hand …
Joe’s breathing turned ragged, his chest rising and falling as soft, needy sounds spilled from his open mouth between breathless giggles whenever Bash’s tongue flicked between a specifically sensitive spot between his toes, “There’s, there’s two of you …” he gulped, “… Th, three? Mnn—”
—Maxwell watched silently from a few paces away, arm still in its sling, dark eyes drinking in every detail with quiet satisfaction.
Kit kept the pace steady, stroking Joe closer and closer to the edge.
He could feel Joe’s erection throbbing harder in his fist, the shaft now growing slick with pre-cum.
Joe’s hips started to roll, chasing the pleasure, toes curling hard against Bash’s worshipping mouth.
Just as Joe’s breathing caught at the back of his throat and his balls began to draw up tight, Kit stopped.
He held still, hand wrapped firmly around the base, denying the orgasm.
Joe let out a desperate, frustrated noise, not a gasp or a moan, just air, out from his lips.
Michael praised Kit, “You landed on the exact moment he was about to give in. And now, you’ve taken that from him. From now on, the power is forever yours.”
Kit nodded in understanding.
Michael placed his own index finger inside his mouth and coated it in a generous layer of saliva.
He then gently pressed it against Joe’s tight entrance.
There was no fight back from Joe, no visible resistance, no thrashing or fear - just pure willing.
Joe’s mouth widened as his cheeks shimmered, he laughed in shock, yes, but the surprise bewildered him as much as it urged him to continue, “—This is un, unbelievable, this is …” he was now the one lost for words, “… “ was all he could manage.
Whilst Kit continued to hold Joe’s rock hard erection, and Bash continued to kiss and lick Joe’s now fully scrunched toes, Michael’s finger slid inside of Joe slowly, inch by inch, until it was buried deep inside the warm, clenching heat.
Joe winced sharply, body arching, a broken moan escaping him as Michael began to curl his finger, stroking that sensitive spot inside with slow, deliberate pressure.
“—Jesus—”, Joe’s face seemed wet, his throat throbbing, open armpits pulsing, “—Th, wha … I c, can’t …” he wasn’t making sense.
At the same time, Kit resumed stroking - long, firm, relentless strokes that brought Joe right back to the edge within seconds …
Bash never stopped worshipping Joe’s toes, sucking harder now on the second to last toe of Joe’s left foot, tongue sliding wetly over its sensitive length, lips kissing and nibbling the tip while his own hard cock strained visibly against his robe.
Joe was completely overwhelmed - a sensitive, submissive bottom utterly dominated by the Horned Devils.
His naked body trembled and writhed in the ropes, cock throbbing steadily within Kit’s fist, hairless hole clenching rhythmically around Michael’s probing finger; breathless, desperate moans and whimpers poured from his lips, mixing with helpless little giggles every time Bash’s teeth nibbled on his toes.
Kit stroked faster now, twisting at the head, thumb pressing firmly against the frenulum. Michael kept his finger deep, massaging Joe’s prostate with steady, maddening circles. Bash sucked and licked with devoted intensity, practically making love to Joe’s ultra ticklish feet.
Joe was right there - teetering on the brink of a shattering orgasm, body glistening with a thin layer of warm sweat, cock expanding violently in Kit’s grip, hole fluttering around Michael’s finger …
Maxwell’s voice drifted softly through the garden, calm and approving.
“Beautiful … Keep him right there, gentlemen,” Maxwell advised, “Let him feel how complete he is being here, with us.”
The garden felt heavier now, charged with raw, intimate heat despite the gentle breeze and drifting cherry blossoms.
Kit did as he was told, learning, understanding, moment by moment, his large hand holding Joe right on the razor’s edge.
Joe’s shaft pulsed in his grip, once, twice, three times, the head slick and swollen, leaking out not one but two drops of pre cum as goosebumps erupted over Joe’s neck.
“—Mnn …” Joe could barely gulp, “… You bah, bastards …” he whispered, grinning.
Michael had gone still too, his index finger buried deep inside Joe’s tight heat, pressing firmly against his prostate but no longer moving. Only Bash continued, slow, wet sucks and kisses along Joe’s long, sensitive toes, tongue swirling lovingly between them.
Joe’s chest heaved, his whole body trembling with the desperate need to give in.
Kit’s hand began stroking again - steady, relentless, perfectly controlled strokes from base to helm, twisting slightly at the top, thumb gliding over the sensitive underside. Michael matched him, slowly pumping his finger in and out of Joe’s clenching hole, curling it deliberately against that swollen prostate with every thrust.
Joe started grunting and moaning openly, the sounds deep and guttural. His teeth sank into his upper lip as he fought with everything he had to obey.
Bash stood up, eyes dark with lust. He untied the belt of his black silk robe and let it fall open. His own erection sprang free - long, hard, and narrow, already leaking at the tip. He positioned himself at the foot of the table, took Joe’s narrow feet in both hands, pressed the soft, warm soles together around his cock, and began to thrust.
The sight was obscene and beautiful. Bash’s rigid shaft glided smoothly between Joe’s saliva-slick soles, the sensitive skin hugging him perfectly as he fucked the arches and balls of Joe’s feet with slow, deliberate strokes. Every thrust made Joe’s toes flex and curl around the head of Bash’s cock.
Joe was losing the battle …
His grunts grew louder, more desperate. His head thrashed from side to side, blindfolded face contorted in exquisite agony. He was biting his lip so hard it was turning white - the combination was too much.
Kit’s strong hand stroking him with perfect rhythm.
Michael’s finger relentlessly massaging him from the inside.
Bash’s cock sliding hot and heavy between his hyper-sensitive soles.
Joe broke.
A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat as his orgasm crashed over him against his will.
His cock erupted violently in Kit’s hand - thick, powerful ropes of cum shooting hard across his own abs and chest in heavy, pulsing spurts.
The orgasm was intense, almost violent; each contraction made his hole clench rhythmically around Michael’s buried finger, milking it tightly.
Kit felt every throb, every powerful surge as Joe’s cock pulsed and spat in his fist, the hot, slick cum coating his fingers and dripping down over his knuckles.
The sheer force and volume of it was breathtaking - Joe’s body shuddering, muscles locked tight, a long, broken moan spilling from his open mouth as he came and came and came and came and …
Michael felt it all from the inside - the sudden, rhythmic spasms of Joe’s prostate and inner walls squeezing desperately around his finger with every spurt, the heat and tightness gripping him like a vice as Joe rode out the overwhelming release.
At the same moment, Bash groaned deeply, hips stuttering. He pressed Joe’s soles tightly together around his cock and came hard, thick white ropes of cum erupting across the tops of Joe’s feet, painting the arches and toes in glossy streaks. Some of it dripped down between Joe’s long toes as Bash continued to thrust through his own orgasm, using Joe’s feet to milk every last drop.
Joe’s body finally began to relax, trembling with aftershocks, chest heaving, cum splattered across his abs, chest, and now his feet. A soft, dazed whimper escaped him, half embarrassed, half blissed-out.
“… Oh m, my g, god …” he tried to find who was responsible, eyes staring from behind the blindfold, still unable to hear anything, “… That was, a, amazing!—”
Kit kept his hand wrapped gently around Joe’s spent cock, feeling the last weak twitches as it slowly began to soften. He looked down at the mess - his own hand glistening with Joe’s release, the thick streaks painting Joe’s torso, and Bash’s cum shining wetly on those narrow, sensitive soles.
Maxwell watched the entire scene from the edge of the garden, silent, eyes gleaming with dark approval as cherry blossoms continued to fall softly onto sweat-slick skin and cum-streaked bodies.
“Joe’s sensitivity levels are already exceptionally high,” Maxwell explained, “Now that he’s just been edged to orgasm by not one, but three individuals … Those levels will be through the roof. This is the perfect moment to explore exactly how sensitive he can be …”
Kit kept his hand wrapped loosely around Joe’s spent cock for a moment longer, then began to move.
He focused solely on the ultra-sensitive head, using his palm to gently polish and rub slow, deliberate circles over the slick, flushed tip …
Joe’s entire body jolted into a fixed, stiff arch, with such force his spine bone clicked. A sharp, broken cry tore from his throat - half moan, half desperate giggle - as the overstimulation hit him like lightning, “Ah!—FUCK—Kit—okokokokok—hah—hah?—please!—”, his hips bucked weakly against the ropes, cock twitching and trying to pull away from the relentless, gentle rubbing, but there was nowhere to go. Every slow swirl of Kit’s palm sent electric shocks of overwhelming sensitivity racing through him, turning the post-orgasm glow into pure, torturous fire.
Michael slowly withdrew his finger from Joe’s clenching hole, earning another shaky whimper. Bash stood, his own cock still half-hard, and calmly retied his black silk robe, hiding his spent length once more.
Joe was struggling hard now - teeth gritted, head tossing from side to side, soft, desperate giggles already bubbling up as Kit continued polishing the hypersensitive head of his cock with slow, merciless circles.
“—Kkk, Kit, MEANY!—”
Kit finally released him.
Joe’s mouth remained open as he heaved in and drooped his weight over the surface of the table - he needed a moment to compartmentalise his thoughts, something he felt the need to express out loud, “… Le, let me th, think for a second! …”
The three Horned Devils exchanged a quick, heated glance over Joe’s wheezing, cum-streaked body.
Bash looked at Kit and with a generous nod, he said: “It’s your call.”
Kit nodded at the areas he wanted Bash and Michael to focus on. In unison, the three of them began to move.
Kit positioned himself at the head of the table, towering over Joe’s blindfolded face, looking down at the unexpectant, handsome features beneath him. His hands hovered just above Joe’s exposed underarms, his fingers shaping out into claws, not that Joe could see them …
Michael collected two red feathers from the tray of tools and stood beside the table at Joe’s mid-section. His eyes were fixed on the soft, cum-streaked cock resting against Joe’s lower abdomen and the vulnerable stretch of skin below it.
Bash collected two red feathers from the tray of tools also, settling at the foot of the table once again, his gaze locked on Joe’s long, perfect toes and the steel toe-cuffs that kept both feet locked tightly together.
For a long, delicious moment, no one touched him.
Joe lay perfectly still in his straight-line bondage, chest rising and falling in shallow, anticipatory breaths. He could just about feel the presence of all three Horned Devils around him - the weight of their bodies, the faint rustle of silk, the way leaves crunched under footsteps - but nothing more. The pause stretched, cruel and teasing, letting the tension coil tighter inside him.
Then, all three began at once.
Kit’s fingernails descended first - gentle strokes that traced slow, lazy circles through the soft hair of Joe’s left armpit, then the right, at the same time. The touch was barely there, yet devastatingly precise, teasing every tiny hair and the sensitive skin beneath.
Joe’s face shot upward, his shoulders pressing into the sides of his head as he had no choice but to acknowledge the touch within each armpit, a sharp, “—no!—” wincing through his mouth.
At the same moment, Michael dragged both red feathers in whisper-soft patterns across Joe’s taint and over his smooth, cum-slick balls - delicate, slow swirling strokes, and teasing flicks that made the loose skin dance.
Joe’s hips lifting and dropped, lifted and dropped, his head thrown forwards over his chest as he acknowledged a secondary focus, “—Not both of you!—”
Bash continued with Joe’s toes, this time not using his tongue, but the feathers in his hands instead. He used the tips of the soft yet deadly tools to stroke and flick gently between each long digit, tracing the sensitive webs and the tender pads underneath, starting mostly with Joe’s littlest toes.
A flood of frantic, breathless giggles burst out of Joe, nonstop and airy, tumbling over one another in a helpless, endless stream as he endured his first ever gang tickling, “—Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee—oh god—hah-hah-hah—please?—hee-hee-hee-hee! Not three of you! Sss, stop, stop it, stt, sstop!—”, the laughter was light, but it never paused for breath, each giggle spilled straight into the next, wet and broken, his open mouth slack and glistening as the triple assault overwhelmed him.
His armpits pulsed and shifted desperately under Kit’s fingernails - the stretched hollows twitching and clenching, tiny goosebumps rising across the skin - but the ropes kept his arms locked above his head in that unforgiving line, giving him no room to pull away or protect himself. The gentle scratching through the hair felt maddeningly intimate, like a thousand tiny electric kisses he couldn’t escape.
“—Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee—oh god, no, no, oh god—hah-hah-hah—please?—hee-hee-hee-hee! Sss, stop, stop it, stt, sstop!—”
At the same time, Joe’s weight began to bounce non stop, shaking the table. Every teasing stroke of Michael’s feathers across his taint and balls made his pelvis twitch upward, causing his soft, heavy cock to slap wetly against his navel with soft, rhythmic thwaps. The overstimulation on his spent genitals turned even the lightest touch into pure fire; his cock jiggled and bounced with each involuntary hip roll, thwap thwap thwap, still too sensitive to harden again but far too responsive to ignore.
“—Hee-hee-waitwaitwait-hee-hee-hee—oh god, no, no, oh god, waitwaitno—hah-hah-hah—please?—hee-hee-hee-hee! Sss, stop, stop it, stt, sstop! Not all three of you! I can’t do that, it’s not f, f, ff—waitwaitwait!—”
Down at his feet, Joe’s long toes curled and clenched frantically around the invading feathers. The steel toe-cuffs held his feet rigidly together, soles pressed tight, preventing any separation or escape. Bash’s feathers slipped mercilessly between each toe, stroking the ultra-sensitive lengths and the tender sides. Joe’s toes flexed and scrunched, trying desperately to close or pull away, but the big toe cuffs kept them perfectly trapped and displayed …
Joe’s frantic laughter suddenly spiked when Bash flipped both red feathers in his hands, turning them around so that the sharp, stiff quills faced outward instead of the soft vanes. Without warning, he pressed the pointed tips firmly against the space between each of Joe’s big toes and index toes - the most unexpectedly sensitive weak spot on his already ultra ticklish feet.
Joe went absolutely wild, his laughter leaping into a new, ear-splitting register; a raw, desperate, screaming hysteria that tore from his throat as the sensation became new knowledge to him, “—NO, NOT THEREDON’T DOHOO THAT DON’T AHAHAHA AHAHAHA COME ON ALRIGHT NO THAT’S NOT OKAY!—”, his focus narrowed entirely to that one devastating spot, his chin pressing against his chest as he faced down towards his feet, “—HEEEEEE—HAHAHAHAHA—NO—PLEASE—AGHAHAAAHAHA—DON’T DO THAT—AAAAAHAHAHAHA—I CAN’T—CAN’T DO THAT—HAHAHAHAHA!—”
Michael glanced over at Bash, a proud, sincere smile spreading across his face as he watched the younger man work.
“You found a weak spot,” Michael said, voice warm with genuine admiration, “You continue to prove yourself as a skilled Horned Devil, young Croft.”
Bash didn’t look up or stop the circles for even a second. His fingers moved with precise, practiced control, the sharp quills never breaking contact as they drew endless, tight spirals between Joe’s big and index toes. A small, satisfied smirk played on his lips.
Joe’s screams climbed even higher, turning into hoarse, sobbing howls of laughter, “—PLEASE—HAHAHAHAHA—MAKE IT STOP—NOT THREE OF YOU!—IT’S TOO MUCH—AAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!—”
Hearing what just two quills between Joe’s toes could do to him, Kit’s eyes darkened with lust and focus.
He abandoned the light fingernail strokes entirely. Both of his hands plunged deep into Joe’s stretched open armpits, fingers digging firmly into the deep curves of his underarms. He began to ravage them aggressively, strong, relentless scribbling and digging that pressed deep into the muscle and skin, no longer teasing but truly attacking. At the same time, his hands roamed hungrily across Joe’s upper body: raking down his sides with broad, firm strokes, squeezing and spidering along his hips and waist, then clawing rapidly up and down his ribcage with all ten thick fingers.
Maxwell cradled his broken wrist and watched in awe - Kit was no longer gentle - he was tearing into Joe’s ticklish form with raw, dominant energy …
Joe began to practically launch from the table, his entire form leaping, bouncing, shaking and squirming as his mouth widened into an O and heaps of silent but weighty energy began to pulse from his throat in the form of shock, disbelief, hysteria …
At the exact same moment, Michael tossed both red feathers aside onto the grass. He licked his fingers thoroughly, coating them with saliva, then attacked Joe’s lower body with vicious intent. One hand went straight to the sensitive taint, fingers digging and scribbling firmly into the soft skin just beneath Joe’s balls. The other hand slid between Joe’s tightly bound thighs, fingertips pressing and raking relentlessly along the ultra-ticklish inner thighs and the crease where leg met groin.
Joe’s reaction was the biggest yet …
An other worldly, guttural scream exploded out of him - louder and more broken than anything before. It shattered into pure, hysterical, lung-bursting laughter that echoed through the peaceful garden like thunder, “—AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH—NOOOOOOOOOOO—HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—OH GOAHAH AHAHAHA HAHHA GOAAAHAHAHAHA GOAAAHAHA HAHAHAHAHD STOAAHAAHAHA AHAHAHAHAAH AHAAHAHAHAHAHAHA STOAAAHAHAHAHAHA—PLEASE—HAHAHAHAHA!—”
His entire body went utterly berserk within its bondage, his torso twisted, spun and bucked violently, shoulders rolling, hips slamming up and down as much as the straight-line position allowed. The steel toe-cuffs kept his feet locked together, but his legs shook uncontrollably as Michael’s saliva-slick fingers ravaged the tender skin between his thighs and dug mercilessly into his taint.
“—HEEEEEE—HAHAHAHAHA—KIT—WHOEVER—STOP—STOP—Oh I’m ss ssserious—gggrr, grrr, what is HAPPENING—AAAAAHAHAHAHAHA! I, I’M, UH, N, PLE,—”, his blindfold began to dampen as he admitted freely, “—I’M FUCKING CRYING COME ON!—”
Joe’s laughter had become a raw, sobbing, screaming torrent - hoarse, wet, and completely unhinged. Drool poured freely from his open mouth, running down his chin in thick strings. His ribcage heaved and contracted wildly under Kit’s ruthless assault, every rib clearly outlined as Kit’s strong fingers dug and scratched deep into the spaces between them. His sides and waist thrusted helplessly, the sensitive skin turning bright pink under the firm attack. His hips bucked and rolled in frantic spasms, making his soft, floppy cock twirl in the air.
“—PLEASE—HAHAHAHAHA—STOAHAHAHA STOAHAAHAAHAHA STOAHAHAHA STTTOAAHAHAH—I’M BEGGING YOU, KIT, KIT? KIT! KIT? KIT? KIT. KIT. KIT. KIT. NO, KIT, COME ON—AAAAAHAHAHAHAHA—MERCEEEEEEY MERCYMERCYMERCY?—”
The Japanese garden had become a theatre of exquisite tickle torment.
While Kit and Michael continued their ruthless assault without pause, Bash paused for only a single heartbeat. He reached over to the tray, picked up the two stiff-bristled hairbrushes, and returned to Joe’s glistening, sweat-slick feet.
The moment those plastic bristles descended, it was as if another switch had been thrown, catapulting everything into a storm of pure, ungovernable madness.
Bash began scrubbing Joe’s soles with ferocious, rapid strokes - back and forth, heel to toe, digging the bristles deep into the sweaty, cum-streaked flesh of Joe’s soles. The brushes moved with mechanical intensity, gliding across the arches, scrubbing the balls of the feet, and rubbing viciously between and under both big toes that were still locked together by the steel cuffs.
Joe shattered completely, his mind splintering to the point where he almost sent himself, and the table, six feet into the air.
A guttural, from-the-belly shriek ripped out of him - hoarse, deep, and furious - before exploding into the most hysterical, frenzied laughter he had ever produced. It was a wild, guttural cacophony: deep stomach-roars that collapsed into piercing, squealing shrieks, then dissolved into wet, wheezing, hiccupping howls that sounded like they were being torn from the very core of his soul - it was an unwritten sound that said ‘you can’t do this to someone as ticklish as me’.
His slim body went into absolute convulsions, every muscle seized and released in violent spasms, his spine arching so hard that the ropes creaked dangerously. Kit’s penetrating fingers continued to claw and dig mercilessly into his ribcage and underarms, digging into the sensitive, now very wet flesh with brutal enthusiasm. Michael’s saliva-slick hands ravaged the tender valley between Joe’s thighs and the soft, overheated skin of his taint, fingers scribbling and pressing with relentless pressure. And now Bash was destroying his soles with the hairbrushes - the dozens and dozens of bristles rasping harshly over the bases of Joe’s ten toes, turning every inch of them into a mind-blowing inferno of hyper-sensation.
Joe’s laughter became a continuous, broken storm. There were no more words, only raw, animalistic sounds - strangled yelps, desperate, endless cackles without the chance to breathe, and long, sobbing wails that rose and fell like waves crashing against rocks. His face was a ruin of tears, sweat, and drool. His mouth hung wide open, tongue lolling slightly as he fought for air that never quite came, his wide open eyes concealed by a satin blindfold now soaked, his hearing removed by noise cancelling headphones that remained tight over each ear.
“Michael!” Kit gestured upward, “You get his sides, I’ll carry on with his armpits!”
Michael nodded quickly - the feathers fell to the ground, he jumped up on the table and straddled Joe’s waist - then he danced his fingers over Joe’s ribcage, his slim waist, erect nipples, narrow hips …
Joe’s chest heaved in short, frantic bursts, but the laughter kept punching the breath out of him faster than he could draw it back in. His lungs burned. Black spots began dancing at the edges of his vision behind the blindfold. His hips jerked and bucked wildly, his wet, floppy cock flapping uselessly against his stomach with every convulsion - the brushes over his soles, and now sudden digging into his torso, on top of the constant scribbling within each underarm was all he could feel, no sound, no sight, just the feeling of relentless tickle torment, non stop …
Much to the three Horned Devils surprise, Joe began to piss himself.
Streaks of urine dribbled out of his cock, soaking his tummy, the surface of the table, Michael’s hands - Joe still laughed, even if behind the blindfold his watering eyes had begun to shed tears for a different reason - it was embarrassing! Totally shameful. He had been gang tickled so hard that he had literally wet himself, the gushes of piss flowing freely, totally showcasing his complete lack of control.
Bash looked at Kit in astonishment, “No one this early in their training has made a ticklee piss himself, Kit!—”
Michael had to shout over Joe’s cries, “—Bravo, man!—”, he used the new gush of liquid as lube and continued to tickle it into Joe’s sides and ribs, causing his torso to glisten and shimmer.
Kit wasn’t sure whether to feel proud or concerned … Although the fact he continued said so much for everyone.
Joe’s laughter climbed into a terrifying new register - thin, wheezing, almost silent shrieks interrupted by sudden explosive barks of sound. His body began to shake uncontrollably. His breathing grew shallower, more desperate, more broken, as his cock continued to flap from side to side, the piss now dribbling out in its final, dripping moments.
Joe couldn’t breathe …
Kit noticed the shift - he glanced up at Maxwell, for advice, for words, for someone in charge to tell him what to do, how to handle this …
Maxwell looked back from beneath the shade of cherry blossoms with a look that simply said, ‘you are in charge’.
Joe’s laughter had become a suffocating force, wringing every last molecule of air from his lungs. His chest locked. His vision swam. A final, strangled, high-pitched wail tore from his throat - long, thin, and fading …
He was about to go limp, when all three Horned Devils lifted their attack away, allowing Joe the chance to catch his breath - it happened without a pause, a huge heeeeeeeave wheezed in through Joe’s throat as he huffed, panted, coughed, spluttered, his chest bobbing up and down, up and down, up and down …
Joe’s head lolled to the side, mouth still open, “—I, I couldn’t breathe? I c, couldn’t breathe!—” he explained, almost as a necessity, the hysterical laughter finally cut off, leaving only the sound of his shallow, exhausted breathing and the soft rustle of cherry blossoms falling onto his sweat-drenched, trembling form.
Kit, Michael, and Bash slowly eased their hands away, the sudden silence ringing in their ears.
Maxwell stepped closer, his voice low and richly satisfied.
“Well done, gentlemen. He has been truly broken. And you knew when to pause, before blackout.”
He looked down at Joe’s long body, stained by cum, piss and pinch marks, then glanced at the three ticklers still breathing heavily in their black silk robes.
“Give him a moment to recover… Then we’ll see just how sensitive he is after a short break.”
The garden was quiet once more, save for the gentle fall of pink petals and the soft, ragged breathing of the young man who had just been driven beyond all limits by three relentless Horned Devils.
The Japanese home, all clean lines and soft light, felt different in daylight. Less theatrical, more honest. Sunlight spilled across the wooden floors in quiet rectangles, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily, indifferent to whatever rites were about to take place. It should have felt serene. Instead, to Kit, it felt like standing in a room where something irreversible had already happened.
Bash and Michael were already there when he entered, no longer dressed in black silk gowns, instead wearing denim, t-shirts, sandals and sunglasses hooked over collars, movements casual in a way that suggested familiarity rather than ceremony.
Both bore the same mark at their wrists, faintly raised, unmistakable.
Maxwell sat further back, composed as ever. Watching. Not participating, not intervening. Just … Present. Like a judge who had already reached a verdict.
Michael’s voice was warm, almost celebratory, but it landed strangely, “Welcome to the family, brother.”
Kit nodded, offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The process itself was quick. Clinical, almost. The needle’s hum was soft, persistent, like an insect hovering just beneath the skin. Kit watched it happen more than he felt it, his attention drifting somewhere just out of reach. He had expected something - relief, excitement, pride - but what settled in its place was something quieter. Unease, perhaps. Or the faint, persistent sense that he had arrived somewhere without fully understanding how.
When it was done, Bash stepped back, studying the mark with a kind of pragmatic satisfaction.
Kit flexed his wrist slightly, watching the skin move around the fresh ink, “I thought I’d feel … Different,” he admitted, “Better, maybe,” the two black devils horns looked up at him, silent, small, forever.
Bash let out a short breath through his nose, “That’s because you’re thinking about it wrong.”
Kit glanced up.
Bash leaned casually against the table, folding his arms, “Kit. You’re very, very ticklish.”
There was no softness in the statement. No attempt to cushion it.
Kit blinked, caught off guard, his cheeks glistening pink, “S, so?” He managed.
“Max won’t mind me saying,” Bash continued, glancing briefly toward Maxwell, who didn’t react, “but Logan mentioned it. Said you were so sensitive you’d sometimes … lose it. Proooooooooperly lose it …”
Kit’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.
“What happened in there,” Bash went on, gesturing vaguely as if the memory of The Dome didn’t need naming, “That didn’t just create a kink. It created a reflex.”
Kit straightened a little, rolling his shoulders slightly.
“You learned, very quickly, what it feels like to have no control,” Bash explained, “So now you don’t ever want to be the one without it again. You don’t want to be the one tied down. So you make sure you do the opposite.”
Kit frowned, but something in his expression shifted. Recognition, flickering into place.
“It’s a defence,” Bash said simply, “You becoming one of us? That’s you putting up a shield. Making sure you’re never the one on the other side of it again.”
There was a pause.
“It would be strange,” he added, quieter now, “if you didn’t feel conflicted about that. You’re not supposed to feel … Happy. Not yet.”
Kit looked back down at his wrist.
Michael popped his sunglasses back on the bridge of his nose and grinned, “White boy’s gotta point.”
When Bash said it out loud, it did make sense. Not in a comforting way, but in a way that aligned things he hadn’t yet dared to connect. The unease wasn’t a mistake. It was part of the process.
Before he could sit with it for too long, Michael clapped his hands lightly.
“Right,” he said, easy again, “Dinner. That’s if Locke’s done with his, what? Third bath of the day?”
Bash pushed off the table, “Fifth, actually …” and the two of them moved toward the door with the kind of effortless synchronicity that comes from shared experience.
Kit lingered.
Maxwell hadn’t moved.
Still seated. Still watching. Just the two of them now.
There was something about it - about him - that made leaving feel incomplete.
Kit turned back.
“Your wrist,” he said, gesturing faintly, “Is it … Alright?”
Maxwell didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t even look at it, his arm still in a sling.
Instead, his gaze lifted to meet Kit’s, cool and unwavering.
“What haven’t I done?” He asked quietly.
Kit had been wondering when this would come about, “You haven’t punished me, for, for breaking your—”
Maxwell clicked the fingers of his free hand - Kit was now catching the ball often, “Bingo. Because I didn’t need to.”
The words landed cleanly. No anger, no raised voice. Just fact.
Kit stilled.
Maxwell continued.
“I let you punish yourself,” he declared, “Because I knew exactly what you would do.”
A flicker of something - discomfort, maybe - passed through Kit’s expression.
“How you handled Joe yesterday,” Maxwell said, his tone tightening just slightly, “That wasn’t hesitation. That wasn’t uncertainty. You went somewhere I haven’t seen before. Not in someone learning. Not that quickly.”
Kit swallowed, his earlier composure beginning to thin.
“There’s a cost to that,” Maxwell went on, “To acting in a way that … Crosses lines. Breaks things. Breaks people, even if only for a moment.”
Kit shook his head slightly, too quickly, “Joe’s fine. We’ve talked. We even laughed about it.”
Maxwell stood then gently closed the distance between them in a few quiet steps.
He placed his uninjured hand flat against Kit’s chest.
“Is it the same?” Maxwell asked, “After the second lesson?”
Kit opened his mouth, ready with the same reassurance - but it didn’t come.
Because the answer wasn’t there anymore.
His shoulders dropped, just slightly.
“…No,” he admitted.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Maxwell’s lips.
“The interesting thing …” he said softly, “… Is that I didn’t have to do anything …”
His hand remained where it was.
“… You did it all yourself.”
The words didn’t accuse. They settled. Heavy, unavoidable.
Maxwell’s gaze held his.
“What have you learned?” he asked.
Kit hesitated, searching for something that felt true enough to say aloud.
“That no one’s in control,” he said eventually, “Not really. Doesn’t matter which side you’re on.”
Maxwell nodded, once.
“Exactly.”
His hand fell away.
“No matter how much you convince yourself otherwise,” he said, “You’re still just a big puppet in the little thing that is life …”
The room felt quieter after that.
Kit stepped back, the distance between them re-establishing itself. He turned to join Michael and Bash, who were in the process of talking Joe into getting out of his bubble bath.
At the doorway, Maxwell’s voice followed him once more.
“Have you thought about my offer?” He asked.
Kit paused, just for a second.
Then he nodded.
No words. Just acknowledgment.
And with that, he turned, stepping out into the fading light where dinner, and whatever came next, was unfolding as if nothing had shifted at all.
But something had, and Kit knew it.
Kenji’s car arrived with the same quiet purr as before, gliding up to the house as if it had been summoned rather than driven.
The morning had a softness to it, pale sunlight filtering through the trees, the air still carrying the faint aftertaste of the previous night.
Joe sat just outside the entrance, looking like he’d been assembled in a hurry and then regretted it halfway through; Madonna t-shirt, pinstripe trousers, white socks and polished brogues that felt a touch too formal for how he felt. His sunglasses were oversized, doing most of the work his expression couldn’t quite manage.
Hungover, but trying to pretend he wasn’t …
Bash clocked it immediately.
“Jesus,” he muttered, stepping in close and giving Joe’s shoulder a firm squeeze, “You look like you’ve been exorcised!”
Joe huffed a weak laugh.
“Try not to piss yourself on the flight back, yeah?” Bash added, grin sharpening just enough to sting.
Joe winced, “You guys are never letting that go, are you?”
“Not a chance,” Bash reassured.
Michael, already lifting one of Joe’s bags, shot him a more sympathetic look, “You’ll survive. Hydrate. But not too much …” he removed his own sunglasses and flashed Joe a wink.
“Okay, okay! Enough, enough …” Joe muttered, hiding a smirk.
Between them, Bash and Michael made quick work of the luggage, loading it into the back of Kenji’s car with an efficiency that suggested they’d done this kind of departure before. People coming. People leaving. The House of Horned Devils remaining.
Joe lingered by the open door, one hand resting on the frame, the other adjusting his sunglasses as if they might anchor him in place a little longer.
That’s when he noticed.
Kit.
Standing a few steps back.
Empty-handed.
No bag. No jacket slung over his shoulder. Nothing that suggested he was going anywhere.
He wore a flannel shirt, his hands were tucked into his trousers, Nike sliders just about held onto his feet.
Joe frowned slightly, pushing the sunglasses up just enough to properly see him.
“…You’re not coming?” He didn’t have to ask to know, “You’re … Not coming,” he repeated, stating it this time.
Kit took a second before answering, as if the question deserved more than a quick reply.
“I’m not coming.”
Joe blinked, the words not quite landing at first.
“With them?” He asked, glancing briefly toward Bash and Michael, then back again, “Not with … Not with me.”
Kit nodded.
Joe shifted his weight, a flicker of uncertainty breaking through the hangover haze.
“Is … Is this because I pissed myself?” He said suddenly, the words tumbling out with a kind of frantic humour, “Because I couldn’t help that, alright? You did n, nothing wrong. I had too much tea for breakfast, that’s all that was.”
Kit let out a soft breath, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
“It’s not that, coffee boy,” he said, shaking his head.
Joe searched his face anyway, just to be sure.
Kit stepped a little closer, closing the space between them as cherry blossom continued to fall around them.
“I just … I’ve got more to figure out,” he said, “About myself. About all of … This.”
He gestured faintly to the tattoo on his wrist, not needing to define it.
Joe’s expression softened.
Kit continued, his voice steady but thoughtful, like he was hearing it properly for the first time as he said it.
“You helped me get started,” he said, “You got me a few rungs up the ladder.”
Joe let out a small breath through his nose, eyes dropping briefly before lifting again.
“And now?” he asked.
Kit gave a small, almost apologetic shrug.
“Now .. I’ve got to climb the rest of it on my own.”
There was something quietly final about the way he said it. He had never sounded more certain in his life.
Joe nodded slowly.
“Yeah,” he said, “That … Annoying … Makes sense,” he smiled.
And it did. Even if a part of him wished it didn’t.
The goodbye wasn’t dramatic. No grand declarations, no lingering speeches. Maxwell didn’t even wave, he just turned away and walked back inside.
Joe stepped forward and pulled Kit into a quick hug, the kind that lasted a second longer than expected.
“Don’t become evil,” Joe murmured, half-teasing.
Kit huffed a quiet laugh, “No promises.”
They pulled apart, and for a moment, neither of them quite knew what to do with their hands, their expressions, the space that had suddenly widened between them.
Then Bash clapped his hands once, breaking it cleanly.
“Alright, sentimental hour’s over. Flight’s not going to wait for you.”
Joe rolled his eyes, grateful for the interruption.
“Right. Yeah …”
He slid into the back of the car, the leather cool against his skin. Kenji gave him a small nod through the rear-view mirror, already pulling away before the door had quite settled.
Joe glanced back once.
Kit was still standing there, exactly where he’d left him.
Then The House of Horned Devils slipped out of view.
—
The flight blurred.
Somewhere between sleep, a few episodes of The Traitors and a lingering headache, Joe found himself staring at his phone, the quiet hum of the cabin wrapping around him.
A new email.
From his agent.
He opened it, squinting slightly as the screen adjusted to the dim light.
Hi Joe,
Hope the trip to Japan was fun!
We’ve had an offer come through for you to appear on a YouTube series ‘Last Nerve’, hosted by ‘Hot Ones’ producer Sean Evans. He tells me you’re highly requested.
It’s … Exactly what it sounds like. Interview format, small studio audience of 15, very current given everything happening online with TickleGate.
Let me know your thoughts.
Safe journey home,
Beth
Joe stared at it for a moment.
Then let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
Of course.
Of course this was the thing that would follow him home.
He hovered over the reply, thumb still for just a second longer than necessary.
Then, simply:
Thanks for sending this through, Beth. I’m going to pass, but really appreciate you thinking of me.
He hit send before he could overthink it.
Locked the phone.
And leaned his head back against the seat.
Almost thirteen hours later, London greeted him with its usual indifference.
Grey skies, familiar noise, the quiet, constant movement of a city that didn’t pause for anyone’s internal shifts.
Joe stepped out of the taxi alone this time, the weight of his luggage far more noticeable than it had been on the way out.
The door shut behind him with a soft thud.
No Bash. No Kit.
Just him.
He stood there for a second, taking it in. The air felt different. Sharper. Less forgiving.
But also… clearer.
Joe adjusted his sunglasses, even though the sun was nowhere to be found.
Then, with a small breath, he picked up his bag and headed into the arrivals section of the airport …
… Completely unaware he had some cherry blossom stuck to the heel of his left shoe.
