I’d never done anything like this before, not outside of my head.

But Dan said it would be easy, said the timing was perfect, said Cruz had been asking for this, maybe not in words, but in the way he flaunted what we wanted.

The paparazzi photos on his Dad’s yacht, the Instagram stories, the Optics single cover …

… Dan called it teasing, I called it bait.

The lift opened on the sixth floor.

Room 525 was down a long, hushed corridor; black lacquered doors and a tray of room service left on the blood red carpet.

Three slow knocks, like we rehearsed.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Dan opened instantly.

Calm, controlled, barely looked at me - despite suffering what appears to be a nose bleed, he just stepped back and let me in, quick and fast.

The door clicked shut.

The room was dim, curtains drawn, the atmosphere cold from the aircon being dialled down to 18 - the desk chair lay on the floor, like there had been a struggle.

When I saw him, everything became warmer.

Cruz Beckham. face down, stretched out on the bed in a brutal X.

His wrists were tied to the top corners with thick black rope, arms pulled tight.

His ankles were roped to the bottom corners, legs taut apart, helpless, thighs perfectly exposed.

He was wearing the vintage red jumper, the same one he had just been snapped in by the hoards of press that once surrounded this hotel - however, instead of being neatly tucked in as he had styled, it has now ridden up, bunching at his mid-back, his belt glinting faintly at the waistband of his black baggy trousers.

His feet, though…

Both socks, the same red as his jumper, were visible at each ankle, behind the rope.

The beauty we had captured remained hidden behind expensive leather Prada loafers, no doubt a gift from his parents during an innocent time far removed from this insanity.

He was gagged, blindfolded, but acutely aware, his body thrashing with every step I take.

“—Mpnnn! Mmnnph! Mnn!—”

Dan saw me staring.

“This wasn’t easy for us,” he murmured. “So we won’t make it easy for him.”

I knelt at the foot of the bed.

I didn’t move, I didn’t speak, and neither did Dan - we just watched.

Watched as Cruz squirmed, trying to keep his movements small, I could tell his toes were flexing inside the shoes, the left loafer tilted, barely, then settled again, the red socks creased faintly, catching with every anxious flex.

He didn’t know we were staring, or maybe he did.

His breathing was louder now, a soft rasp through his nose, his fists clenched once against the bedsheets, then relaxed, then clenched again.

The bed creaked, the ropes held, the loafers shimmered as Dan angled the desk lamp so that it lit Cruz like the star he was.

The blindfold still covered his eyes, but the tension in his body told its own story.

“—Mnp … Mnnph? Mnnph …”

I turn to Dan.

“What’s he trying to say?” I ask.

Dan shrugs.

“He’s probably a little tired. He was screaming for a full thirty minutes before you arrived …” he gestures to the knocked over chair, and then points to the blood from his nose, “… Like I said, it wasn’t easy.”

What felt like a countdown suddenly loomed.

I look back at Cruz’s feet.

Dan says what I’m thinking.

“We don’t have long …”

I nod, I gulp, I begin.

To act out my dream, my fascination, the thing I have masturbated over in the bathtub, in the shower, in my bed in the morning in the afternoon in the evening in the toilet at work …

I reach out carefully.

As my fingertips curled beneath the arch of the left loafer, it gave a faint creak, the kind that felt louder than it was.

Cruz reacted instantly, a small sound escaped his throat, something muffled and involuntary, “—Mnpph!—”

His body arched an inch, his stomach lifting from the mattress - that single motion was enough to shift his jumper even higher, bunching at the mid-back and exposing the soft, untouched sweep of his ribcage - his skin was flawless, barely a freckle, and milky white with a nervous sheen.

The loafer resisted at first, snug, still clinging to him - his foot curled inside, the leather flexing faintly under my grip.

It took time, a slow, rocking motion to ease it off.

Another groan from the ropes as Cruz pulled reflexively at the restraints, “—Mnn!—”. the headboard knocked against the wall once, a dull wooden note, “—Mmphh!—”, his hips thrusted again, bucking faintly, but the tension across the bed held him tight.

He couldn’t get away from it, the loafer gave way.

It slipped off with a low sound, soft as breath, and dropped into the space beside me with a muted thud.

The sock remained.

Burgundy, elegant, and now clinging even tighter, the outline of his foot was clearer here; dampened, slightly stretched - I could see the curve of his arch beneath the weave, the angle of his toes tightening in anticipation - he was holding himself so still, like if he didn’t move, the moment might pass him by.

I waited as Dan smirked, typically he had begun to touch himself as he watched me.

Cruz flexed again, this time harder, “—Mnn!—”, the top of his foot rose slightly off the bed before the rope yanked it back down, “—Mnnnph!—”, his right foot, still fully covered, kicked once in panic.

The room responded with nothing but the creak of strain, the faint rustle of fabric across the mattress - the sweater had bunched almost to the middle of his back now - the exposed skin glowed faintly in the amber light.

Every breath Cruz took seemed to drag that sweater higher.

“Okay,” I whisper to myself, as if ready to jump into cold water.

I slid my fingers under the rim of the sock, the fabric clung as I peeled it back.

He didn’t like that.

There was resistance, not just from the tension of the knit, but from the shape of the foot itself - the way his ankle flexed as if trying to shake me off - the sock drew slowly over his heel, then up and across the arch, he was trying to do something about it even thought there was nothing he could do about it …

And then the foot was bare.

Exquisite.

Vulnerable.

His skin gleamed with an anxious shine, already flushed a soft, fragile pink.

The sole was smooth and pale, the arch impossibly defined, his toes curled tightly on instinct, shifting against nothing.

Behind me, Dan remained still, watching, massaging his own girth behind the denim.

“So hot …” he whispered.

Those words were enough to send Cruz into an uncontrollable attempt at escape.

His whole body surged upward in one sudden motion, like something had lit beneath him, “—Mmmphh! Grrmpph!—”, the ropes squeaked against the frame of the bed, straining hard at all four corners, “—Nmmphh, mnnnph!—”, the headboard cracked against the wall with a deep, hollow knock, his back arched violently, jerking the bunched sweater up to the midpoint of his spine, unintentionally exposing more skin.

“The Foot Prince, all ours, and there’s nothing he can do about it …” Dan knew what he was doing.

Such sinister threats were enough to thrust Cruz’s hips left then right, trying to throw the movement off his legs, but there was no give, the knots held, his knees couldn’t bend, his ankles couldn’t twist, the tension across his frame only tightened, pulling his body flatter the more he fought, “—Nmmphhh! Nmpphhh!—”, his left bare foot flexed in the open air, toes flaring wide as he yanked against the ankle rope - it didn’t matter, he couldn’t reach anything, couldn’t twist away, he had nothing to use, no leverage, no strength, not even fabric anymore, “—Mmpphh! Mmnnohpphhh!—”, the leather loafer was gone, the sock was gone, his foot was out in the open, and all those teasing comments, all those jokes about being a foot model, the choice to have his feet as the main focus of his single cover, I bet it all felt so fucking wrong and so fucking stupid …

Then … He sagged.

Then … He spoke …

Or at least he tried to.

A sound pushed out from behind the gag; low, desperate, and wet with breath - at first it was just a groan, a deep, “—Grrnnnnph!—”, then a string of rapid syllables, jumbled and strangled, like a plea trying to form through a wall of cotton and saliva, “—Mnn plluuhh mnnphh guuh grrmphh, nnnmphh? Nnnmhh mnnph!—”, his jaw worked against the gag, he turned his face to the side, straining toward us, trying to be understood.

WeIt came out rough, caught behind the gag like a trapped animal, a grunt at first, “—Grrrnph!—”, then a string of muffled sounds - syllables? - spat out too fast, too broken to make out, “—Mnn pluuhh mnnphh guhh grrmpp nmmph? Mnnphh nmpph pluhhghhmph!—”, his voice was wet with heat and spit and panic - I couldn’t understand a word.

But I didn’t need to, because I saw his face …

His cheek pressed hard into the mattress, turning just enough for me to see the colour in his skin: red, burning.

His hair was sticking to his forehead, soaked and curling, and the sweat was beading along the line of his jaw.

The blindfold hid what I can only imagine were two wide eyes, those pretty eyelashes squashed by fabric.

He said something again, or maybe it was the same thing, a string of muffled vowels, panicked, urgent, his whole body shook with it.

“—Pff-mm! Nn-ff-nnff—Pffmmpph!—”

Dan unbuckled his own jeans and allowed his cock to spring into view - my eyes widened too, mostly at the sight, the size, the simple shape of how hard he had grown - whilst I knelt in awe at the whole thing, Dan was making the most of it, reminding me that the clock was ticking …

“Hurry,” Dan’s whispers were like promises to beings higher above us, “I love watching you, but if we don’t do this soon his team will start looking …”

I can feel Cruz’s glare follow me as I move, his grunts and muffled cries, his desperate moans pound my ears as I shakily reach for my iPhone and open up video mode.

I have to check twice to make sure I’ve hit the record button.

Boop.

Cruz obviously couldn’t see it, he was a) completely blindfolded and b) he was too busy thrashing, yelling through the gag, trying to force meaning into sound, but I wanted it, the noise, the motion, I needed this, we needed this, to be our ultimate moment that we could rewatch again and again and never forget …

I picked up his Prada loafer I’d removed minutes earlier and walked across the room to the desk.

It felt heavier now, still warm in my hand - I angled it carefully and propped my iPhone against it, the leather curved just right, the camera held.

The screen showed him from the back: stretched wide, his right foot showing the sole of his remaining loafer, his left foot bare, toes clenched, his sweater pushed up to his shoulders now, rucked and clinging to his ribs - his whole frame was alive with tension.

Dan was kneeling now, expression determined, fully masturbating over the sight of Cruz bound and helpless.

I turned back to the bed, and this time, I didn’t wait.

I reached straight for Cruz’s right loafer and gripped the heel.

He felt it immediately.

He screamed …

The sound that burst from behind the gag wasn’t language anymore, it was too fast, too high, torn from his lungs like a reflex, “—Mnnpnnnmnnphhpleeemmnnpphhmmnnph!—”, his body went into full panic, hips twisting, knees trying to bend even though they couldn’t, “—Grrmphh, grr, grrmmph!—”, his head thrashed side to side, I could see his fingers clenched into fists at the top of the bed, knuckles white.

I pulled firmly and the shoe came off with a sudden pop of air and dropped over the carpet.

Cruz kicked downward once, hard, a last-ditch attempt to keep the sock on, but I had it already, pinched between two fingers, sliding off quick and smooth - the fabric clung to the sweat on his foot, resisting just enough to drag the reveal out by seconds - Cruz gasped into the gag, moaning something long and panicked as he turned his head to the side, trying to locate me from behind the blindfold.

“—Mnn? Mnn! Mpph …”

The sock dropped beside the others, he, his feet, had been dominated …

Continue with ChatGPT: perhaps they leave Cruz to wonder, then they remove his blindfold, they need to see the look in his eyes. Cruz pleas with them, using his eyes and expression.