Squeak, squeak, squeak …
With his straitjacket locked to a wheeled loading trolley, Henry Cavill snarled in utter despair as two Masked Henchmen wheeled him toward the barred entrance of the Living Quarters.
Clenched between his teeth was a white envelope, sealed with a wax stamp bearing the unmistakable insignia of a feather.
The upper half of Henry’s body was completely restrained, his muscular, hairy torso engulfed in leather straps and buckles - from the waist down, his manhood was locked in a chastity device, while his thick, powerful thighs, calves, ankles, and bare feet were bound tightly to the trolley with rope.
Dressed in the comfort of grey tracksuits with their ticklee numbers stitched onto the breast, Timothée, Justin, Logan, Tom, Sebastian, Joshua, Ross and Kit all watched in stunned silence as Henry was wheeled before them like some perverse, leather-bound homage to Silence of the Lambs …
Henry growled, crossing his eyes to gesture toward the envelope gritted between his teeth.
“—Mnn, mnnn!—”
The row of Ticklees knew only one person needed to take the invite, and, as always, only one person moved …
Tim stepped forward.
He plucked the envelope gently from Henry’s mouth and peeled it open.
“It’s an invite,” he announced, the others quickly huddling around to read over his shoulder - a single cream-coloured sheet of paper fluttered slightly in his hands.
Henry licked his lips, exhaled, and muttered, “Game Nine and Game Ten…” he sounded flat, as though reciting a line fed to him moments earlier, “… Will determine who the losers of The Games are …” he blinked, then smirked, pausing for maximum dramatic effect, “… And who is the winner …”
Around the room, reactions varied; some paced away from Tim in disbelief that the end was near, others stood frozen, dread etched across their faces, calculating whether they had earned enough points - a few remained calm, confident, ready.
“The winner will be revealed at The Event, a star studded evening filled with intrigue, surprises and mystery, of which you are all formally invited to …” Henry rolled his eyes and glanced over at The Masked Henchmen, jerking his chin toward the chastity device, “Can we sort this out now?” He asked.
Tim’s green eyes scanned the envelope again, reading aloud the exact wording as silence fell across The Living Quarters ...
Re-lit, recharged, and once again glowing within his jet-black glass orb, the world’s first A.I tickler had been reinstalled and was ready to narrate the next phase of The Games …
“Good morning, Ticklees! Please direct your attention to The Leaderboard …”
Sebastian punched the nearest wall, “—Christmas fucking Day?—”, he snapped, immediately regretting it as he hissed and shook out his knuckles, “—Do none of these freaks have a damn family?—”
“As you may recall, after Game Eight I asked you to step into a room and use a phone to vote for who you’d like to see star in Game Nine … Well, here are the results!”
Tom took the envelope from Tim and reread it under his breath, “… ‘Event’ … Is this the end?”
As Henry was wheeled out of the Living Quarters by the Masked Henchmen, the TV screen mounted high in the corner flickered to life, revealing CCTV footage from the end of Game Eight - the moment each contestant made their private call to vote on who should face the next challenge …
“Let’s watch you all embarrass each other, shall we? …”
Justin rubbed his palms together and perched at the edge of his bed, “Oh shit …”
Ross flapped his hand at him to be quiet as he shuffled closer to the screen.
Everyone looked up as the first contestant - shown alphabetically - came on screen: Joshua.
Joshua groaned and covered his face with both hands as the grainy footage showed a naked version of himself picking up the phone.
‘I vote for Kit …’ Joshua’s voice boomed from the TV’s speakers.
Kit raised an eyebrow and shot Joshua a confused sneer, “Oh … Alright.”
‘Something tells me that once this is all over, he’s going to be the new favourite. He best get to practise …’
Joshua slid his hands from his face, his expression silently apologetic.
“And here I was thinking you two were becoming close pals! Perhaps not …”
Next up: Justin.
‘I vote for Ross.’
Justin avoided Ross’s gaze.
’I want him ruined …’
Ross held up his hands in surrender, “I’ll take that over a punch in the mouth …”
The screen cut to Kit, now taking the call.
Tim, arms folded and empty envelope still in hand, simply waited - Kit had to say his name, after all, Tim had gone hard on him in Game Eight - vengeance was inevitable …
‘I want to vote for anyone else but Ross … But that means I’m just doing the expected …’ Kit explained from within the TV, ‘And to play the game, I need to do the unexpected. So … Ross it is.’
“Quite the surprise!”
Ross winced, “Yikes. What did I do to you?—”, he muttered.
Kit lowered his head and said nothing.
Logan came next, cheeks flushed as he picked up the phone.
‘I vote for Justin.’
Logan turned toward Justin, cautious, “Sorry, man. I uh, I don’t think I’m ever gonna like you …”
“… Ouch …”
Justin, unfazed, fluttered his eyelashes in mock innocence — the worst kind of dismissal, “Did you say something?”
Logan pressed his lips together and looked away.
Ross was next on screen.
‘I vote for Kit.’
Justin frowned, “For real?”
On screen, Ross’s tanned, lean figure stood at the plinth, “Damn, I look good …” Ross tongued the inside of his cheek.
‘He picked me in Game Four …’ TV Ross explained, ‘… Now it’s his turn to oink like a pig.’
Kit paced beneath the screen, running his hands through his hair, “Ross, you cheeky little …”
Sebastian appeared next.
‘I vote for Ross,’ he said firmly, ‘I would’ve gone with Logan … But things are different now.’
Logan and Sebastian’s eyes met - finally, a truce.
Tim watched Kit pacing and placed a finger to his lower lip, green eyes sharp beneath thick lashes.
On screen, a nude Tim stepped into the room and picked up the phone, ‘I vote for Kit,’ the post Game Eight Tim declared, ‘He’s out of his depth. He needs to realise that.’
Kit yanked off his t-shirt, scrunched it into a ball, and hurled it at Tim, “Bloody fuck—!”
Tim caught it in mid-air, unfazed.
Tom held the invitation against his chest, “Don’t hate me, mate,” he muttered at Kit.
On screen, Tom spoke into the phone, ‘I vote for Kit,’ he said, ‘I think everyone wants to see the cute boy get ruined.’
Kit’s brow furrowed tightly, “That’s probably the gayest reason of them all!”
The screen abruptly powered off.
Booooooop
T.K.'s black orb shimmered as his crisp British voice confirmed:
“… Justin has one vote. Ross has three. Kit has four. Which means Ross, Justin, and Kit will face Game Nine …”
Justin stared into his lap, a crooked smile creeping across his face.
Ross clapped his hands once, already embracing the unknown.
Kit clenched his fists, nodding to himself in silent resolve - he refused to say ‘I’ve got this’ again because, deep down … He knew he really didn’t.
“Tom … Mr Tasty Toes …”
Tom’s toes instinctively curled on the concrete floor as he backed away from the orb, “I told you, mate, stop calling me th—”
“—Back to the garden. Those weeds won’t pull themselves forever,” T.K. interrupted, voice pleasant but mocking, “Logan and Sebastian, you're on kitchen duty. Tim and Joshua …”
Tim and Joshua braced for mundane cleaning instructions; chandeliers, silverware, windows …
Instead, T.K. purred with anticipation …
“… You both have visitors.”
Justin, Kit, and Ross stood opposite The Door.
Kit and Ross were proudly naked; Kit, pale and beefy, blinked toward The Masked Henchmen guarding each side of the entrance - his hands were held patiently behind his back, his exceptionally round, juicy ass cheeks trembling with every fierce beat of his heart.
Ross stood beside him, in the center of the three; his hands were planted on his hips, his neck twisting in a slow head roll as he cracked out the tension from yet another bad night's sleep on that uncomfortable single bed - he too, was naked, his cock plump and long, dangling over two hairy balls.
Justin, arms folded across his tattooed chest, refused to remove his clothing; he stood barefoot and shirtless, still wearing the same sweatpants he had slipped on that morning.
But now, he would be made to slip them off …
One of the Masked Henchmen stepped toward Justin.
“Undress, Ticklee 003.”
Justin smirked and stepped forward.
“—Make me …”
Suddenly, The Door to The Room creaked open.
The scent of ragged earth, dust, and intense warmth greeted Kit, Ross, and Justin ...
Unlike previous trials - those filled with steel walls, metal slabs, robotic coils, and glitches of information - this felt more raw, more primal, far less futuristic …
“Leave him alone,” Peter said, from inside The Room, “Let me be the one to make Bieber understand his orders …”
The Masked Henchmen stepped aside and allowed the contestants to walk towards Game Nine …
The Spectator’s Chamber
One of two hundred and fifty lottery-winning Masked Ticklers took his seat among others who shared his rare fortune, and, his peculiar interest.
Neatly embedded into the back of the seat before him was a compact computer screen paired with a small keyboard.
On the screen: a white feather and the words ‘type your question here …’
A Masked Henchman approached and silently handed the Tickler his pre-ordered drink: a perfectly chilled martini.
“Who do you choose to test?” The Masked Henchman asked, while other Masked Henchmen moved through the aisles, delivering drinks and posing the same question to the remaining Masked Ticklers seated in The Spectator’s Chamber.
Without pause, the Tickler responded, “Mr. Lynch.”
The Henchman bowed respectfully, “Ticklee 001 is your subject. On behalf of The House of White Feathers, congratulations - and please, enjoy your evening.”
As The Masked Henchman moved on, the Tickler reclined slightly, smiling behind his mask as he unzipped the fly of his trousers.
The grand screen of glass at the front - towering above the rows of masked spectators - flickered, then glitched to life.
Before Game Nine began, The Masked Tickler paused - he turned to the figure beside him, and casually asked:
“Hey … Are we allowed to jerk off to this?”
Armie’s fingertips pressed against the varnished wood of the intricately carved office door.
Finally, he’d been granted access to see him.
Not by The House of White Feathers.
Not by Miller.
Not by John …
… But by Timothée himself.
Until now, Tim had chosen points over seeing Armie.
Armie had told himself, again and again and again, that it was just Tim’s fierce determination to win The Games, his relentless drive.
Don’t take it personally.
A long time ago, Armie had been the one in control …
Emotionless, focused, untouchable …
Now, he stood behind the door like a submissive statue, his heart pounding beneath his shirt, his hair unwashed for days …
Tim’s situation had flipped the balance of power and all Armie could do was obey.
Behind him, the Masked Henchman jabbed the barrel of a dart gun into the centre of his back.
“Are you going in or what, Hammer?” Came the muffled, impatient voice from behind the mask.
Armie turned slowly to face him.
He stepped forward silently, the polished leather of his loafer making no sound against the red carpet.
Now face to face, his height dwarfed the Henchman’s.
“This will go down in history,” Armie whispered, voice steady, “As one of the greatest crimes ever committed against a group of young men,” he glanced down at the weapon, “And all you did was wield a dart gun?—”
Behind the plastic mask, the Henchman blinked furiously and looked away.
Dominance, Armie thought, regained.
He turned and pushed open the door, stepping confidently into the office.
In an ornate armchair, refusing to look up, sat Tim.
He wore the same grey tracksuit he had been in all morning, ticklee 002 stitched discreetly on the left breast.
His hands were cuffed behind the chair, his ankles were shackled to the legs, his bare feet rested flat against the deep red carpet.
Two more Masked Henchmen stood silently behind him.
The door clicked shut behind Armie.
Armie could do anything; make small talk like advised, or perhaps brush away the eyelash he’d already noticed on Tim’s cheek …
Or he could stand there, frozen, as the Swedish sunlight poured in through the tall windows in the corner of the room.
Instead, Armie sank to his knees.
Tim finally looked up.
Armie shuffled closer and placed his hands gently on Tim’s thighs.
Tim’s body stiffened, his skin seemed to hum with tension, his lips were pressed into a line as Armie raised his hands and cradled Tim’s face.
Tim’s restraint crumbled the moment Armie leaned in and softly kissed him.
The kiss lasted the perfect amount of time and for that moment, the world blurred; the Henchmen, the shackles, the room, it all faded, replaced by warmth, care, and the brief return of something long lost …
For the first time in what felt like forever … Tim wasn’t being punished.
Suddenly, winning didn’t seem so important anymore …
Armie’s lips left his as Tim lowered his head once more.
A silence fell between them.
Then—
“—You have no idea what they’re doing to you …” Armie whispered.
Before Tim could respond, the Henchmen lunged.
They grabbed Armie’s arms, yanking him away from the chair.
“—DON’T DO THIS, TIM! WAKE THE FUCK UP!—” Armie screamed, his face flushed, eyes wild with panic—
—Thuck!
The Henchman by the door raised the dart gun Armie had mocked moments earlier and fired directly into his neck.
Armie tried to resist, but the drug took his voice first, then his limbs, then his balance—
—Tim watched helplessly as Armie slumped, limp and defenceless, into the arms of the Henchmen.
They dragged him out of the office, across the hall, down the staircase …
… Gone, as if he’d never been there at all.
And yet …
Tim could still taste him.
His eyes drifted toward the dart gun, now calmly reloaded by The Masked Henchman.
“Lemme guess,” The Masked Henchman muttered, sliding the weapon back into his holster, “You think you’ve been here before?”
Tim frowned, the crease between his brows deepening …
… He gave a single nod.
The Masked Henchman gestured toward the office door.
“You better come in.”
Tim turned as Hypno entered.
Dressed head to toe in black leather, the glinting skull mask fused to his face, Hypno strode silently toward the chair.
From the inside of his jacket, he retrieved a silver pocket watch on a chain, letting it dangle from his fingertips.
He knelt in the same spot where Armie had just knelt moments before.
Raising the pocket watch to Tim’s eye line, Hypno lifted his other hand, index finger extended.
“Let’s do this again …”
The room’s flooring consisted of nothing but fine sand.
In a precise line stood three bondage devices: a wooden rack with a lie detector monitor attached at the top, a wooden X-frame, and a second wooden rack with an identical monitor fixed above it.
Strapped to the first rack was Ross; he lay on his back, wrists secured in leather restraints that were connected to chains running up to the rack’s pulling mechanism above his head - his armpits were fully exposed, their furry depths laid bare …
At the base of the rack, his feet were locked into a sturdy set of stocks - all ten toes were tied back with string.
Beside him was Kit, bound face-down on the wooden X - both soles, as well as his bare ass, faced upward - his arms and legs stretched to each corner of the frame in a long, helpless splay.
On the third rack lay Justin; like Ross, he was on his back, a furious frown carved across his face - his ankles were locked into stocks at the bottom of the rack, though his toes were not tied - hat detail was the result of a negotiation: “I’ll take off my sweatpants if you don’t tie back my damn toes…” The House of White Feathers had agreed to the terms … For now.
A black plastic ring was looped around Ross and Justin’s index fingers, each one connected to the monitor above their heads.
Flanking each rack and the X-frame was a steel tray on wheels, each meticulously arranged with a set of identical tools: a hairbrush, a pinwheel, several makeup brushes, and a few feathers - every item was laid in a precise, straight line, the presentation, of the racks, the trays, and the monitors, was immaculate, borderline obsessive and only possible thanks to the absurd level of detail demanded by one of the Founders of The House of White Feathers …
… Peter.
Unlike the circus themed theatrics of The Ringmaster’s style, or the intensity of Hypno’s futuristic skull mask, Peter stood simply in laced boots, jeans and a crew neck knitted sweater - the only thing that suggested he was part of the chaos was the white plastic oval mask fastened to his face, a mask he chose to carefully peel away to reveal his handsome features and curly head of blonde hair, hair that, unbeknownst to Kit, Justin and Ross, Joshua’s fingers had slid through time and time again …
A grin stretched across his face as he surveyed the scene before him, his blue eyes twinkling as they passed over the helpless ticklees: from the vulnerable arches of their exposed feet, to the high curves and plump flesh of Kit’s bare behind, “Say, ‘Hello, Peter’…” Peter instructed as he approached Justin’s left side, gently placing the fingertips of his right hand into the furry hollow of Justin’s right underarm …
Justin couldn’t move his arms at all - they twitched, just barely, before he snarled up at Peter and spat, “Fuck you, faggot …”
Peter chuckled and moved on to Kit, his index finger trailing slowly up Kit’s left thigh toward his surprisingly full, perky behind; toned, round, completely bare and hairless, now flexing beneath Peter’s teasing touch.
“H–Hello, Peter …” Kit muttered quickly, eager to follow the rules.
Peter smirked, “Good boy.”
He arrived at Ross’s right sole, letting his pinkie graze slowly across the base of Ross’s heel.
Ross grunted, his head thrashing against his chest as he tried to flex his foot away, the toe-ties creaking with the effort.
“Hey, man …” Ross gritted out, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration as the pinkie lingered. “… I mean—hello, Peter …” he corrected, doing as instructed.
Peter placed his mask over the tray closest to Ross and then looked upward, to a thick black velvet curtain, hiding something in the wall.
“Please …” Peter commanded, “… Reveal our audience …”
Slowly, the curtain peeled back, revealing a tall pane of glass overlooking The Room below.
Behind it sat rows upon rows of smartly dressed Masked Ticklers - the lucky lottery winners - each with fingertips poised above the small keyboard wedged into the seatback before them, ready to type their questions …
Peter moved to Ross’s feet and gently pressed his pinkie finger against the soft center of his left arch.
Ross grunted, licked his lips and tried to twitch his foot, his wide eyes peeking over his chest to glare at Peter …
“Before we begin,” Peter said smoothly, “Let’s introduce our special ticklees to the lottery winners … aka, the ones controlling all the fun …”
Within the Spectators’ Chamber, each screen and keypad assigned to the seated Masked Ticklers flickered to life, displaying detailed visuals and statistics of the ticklee currently restrained on the other side of the glass—within The Room below.
“Ross Lynch, Ticklee 001 …” Peter took the honour of addressing the audience in a gravelly, hungover tone, “... Age: twenty-nine, weak spots: underarms - from elbow to pec - and soles of feet, from heel to toe … Sensory sensitivity in both regions: one hundred and forty-six percent …”
Gasps were heard behind masks as Peter continued.
“… Current leaderboard points following participation in Game Four and Game Eight: 350,000 … A surprising amount, considering he’s second to Timothée …”
Ross panted, his chest rising sharply as he glanced from side to side, his armpits wedged tightly at either side of his head, his feet twitching beneath the sudden sensation of something oily and wet being drizzled over both soles.
Down in The Room, Peter generously coated Ross’s feet in massage lotion as he proceeded to go on, unbothered.
“Ticklee 001: I will now ask you a series of questions submitted by the audience. If your answer is truthful, you will receive a tickle torment of my choosing.”
Ross twisted his head sharply toward Peter, his voice cracking with confusion - his reaction broadcasted live across all the audience screens, “—What? That makes no sense! What the fuck happens if I lie? How do we earn points!—”
Peter purred in response, “Funny you asked that…”
The screens then shifted to live footage of Kit, bound face-down in his prone position atop the wooden X.
“Take note, Ticklee 004 is not connected to a lie detector monitor …” Peter said calmly, capping the massage lotion and setting it aside on the tray.
He then selected a seagull feather with deliberate care, “... That’s because, if Ross lies while answering a question, the tickle torment will be redirected onto Kit …”
Peter gently placed the very tip of the feather between the top of Kit’s thighs, beginning at the base of his taint - the sharpened point barely grazed the silky-soft flesh between his buttocks.
The X almost broke away from the floor, due to Kit’s sudden and fierce jolt.
“… Ross’s rack will then tighten, stretching his arms further toward the top of the table, inch by inch …” Peter continued, his voice low and matter-of-fact, “… He can either tell the truth and suffer tickle torment with no stretching, or lie and give the tickle torment to Kit, but the rack will tighten …”
Kit exploded with unrestrained laughter, his waist jerking violently atop the wooden X - his ass cheeks bounced, jiggled, and quivered uncontrollably, while the feather barely skimmed across the most sensitive skin …
“—Why me! This is so unfair!—” Kit whined.
The ropes around his calves and thighs groaned beneath the pressure of his muscular form thrashing and leaping - with each involuntary buck, his ass clapped audibly, and the cameras tucked in the corners of The Room zoomed in, capturing the feather’s slow, maddening dance along the base of his balls …
“That’s one ticklish bubble butt …” Peter murmured, his eyes now drifting toward Justin...
Justin met Peter’s approach with open disdain.
“What up, prick,” he sneered.
Peter tucked the feather behind his ear and climbed onto the rack, straddling Justin’s hips with theatrical ease.
“Ahhh, Bieber - the kindest, most polite of the bunch,” Peter said dryly, his sarcasm biting, “Fourth place on The Leaderboard, that’s gotta suck. At one point you were so close to winning, now you’re so far …”
Justin snarled, his torso twisting side to side in protest, “—Get the fuck off me, you damn freak!—”
Peter remained unbothered - he watched with amusement as Justin’s mouth snapped shut and his teeth clenched - slowly, Peter hovered his fingers over the soft, furry hollows of Justin’s exposed underarms.
“The rules that apply to Ross apply to you as well,” Peter explained, lowering his voice, “Tell the truth … And you’ll be tickled.”
He slipped his fingertips into Justin’s underarms, their worm-like motion weaving through damp curls of hair and into the sticky warmth of sensitive skin, “Lie … And Kit suffers instead. But your rack will still stretch …”
Justin erupted, his body bucking repeatedly in wild, involuntary bursts, his back arching high off the wood, his nose scrunched, his cackles tearing through The Room; raw, wild, utterly helpless beneath another man’s touch …
“—Get the fuhuhuhuhuhuck ofahahahahahaha me!—”
Peter’s fingers glistened with Justin’s sweat; with a wicked grin, he dragged them out of Justin’s hollows, up his neck, and into his mouth, forcing the pop star to taste his own perspiration …
“—Mmph!—”, gagging with disgust, Justin squeezed his eyes shut, then forced out the question he and Ross both desperately needed answered, despite Peter’s fingers still pressed against his lips, “—How the fuhg do we geh points!—” he demanded, breathless, muffled.
Peter slid off Justin’s hips and turned casually back toward Ross.
“Let’s perform an example, shall we?”
The afternoon sun pooled through the tall windows of Peter’s master bedroom, diffused in golden warmth and the scent of drying rain - the walls were draped in sheer white fabric, swaying gently, like breath.
Joshua was bound in a tight starfish, face-down, wrists and ankles tied by thick, white rope to the four corners of Peter’s king-sized bed - the sheets beneath him were drenched with sweat, his back gleamed in the sunlight, rising and falling in stuttering gasps.
Peter, largely erect and completely naked besides the expensive watch on his wrist, calmly knelt beside him in dedicated focus - held between the index finger and thumb of his right hand was a single seagull feather - he let it drift, barely touching, across the curve of Joshua’s smooth, round buttocks …
Joshua had spent the best part of fifty minutes leaping up high and then thrashing from side to side, non stop, on repeat, his lips launching away from the bed and then slamming back down in a furious bounce, “—Peter! Please, I, I can’t anymore!—” he gasped, his head always twisting and turning over each shoulder, as if he had the power to burn the feather into dust with his own ferocious glare …
The bed shook and rattled beneath him, the rope creaked and stretched, his long toes curled violently, gripping the linen like claws …
Peter tilted his head, serene, in total control, “Your body is begging me to stop,” he said softly, “But we both know that’s not the part of you that really wants this to end …”
Joshua blinked through perspiration, his teeth biting down over his lower lip; he told himself he didn’t understand, but something inside him thought otherwise.
“—Say it—”, Peter murmured, “Do you want it to stop—physically? Or mentally? …”
Joshua cackled as if driven mad, his grin stretched wide, his brown orbs glowing in the sunlight, “—Both!—” he yelled, his hips shaking his ass away from a feather that only stroked, up and down, left to right, again and again and a—
—”Wrong answer,” Peter exhaled.
He climbed atop Joshua’s back, straddling his waist, the feather now disappearing between Joshua’s butt cheeks, teasingly left to rest there.
Joshua took those simple seconds to catch his breath, before Peter suddenly pounced, his fingers diving into Joshua’s underarms, feasting, writhing, devouring the thick tufts of hair with a hunger that was part reverence, part possession.
Joshua screams tore from his throat, taken without small talk, high and primal, his body thrashing beneath Peter's grip, “—PETER! PETER, MAN! OHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA! OHAHAHAHA!—” the sheets bunched and twisted under his own solid length of intimacy, the bedframe groaning in protest, his toes and feet pressing against the mattress as if he could climb away from it, “—ST, STOP, ST, STOP, PLEASE, I’M BEGGING YOU!—”
Peter leaned in close, plucked the feather from between his cheeks, and dragged it along the underside of Joshua’s jaw.
Joshua’s entire body seized. “—NO! No, n, not there—” his head snapped to the left, “—COME ON, MAN!—”
“Say it,” Peter whispered again, the feather now dragging past Joshua’s neck, “Say what you want …”
Joshua’s head rolled in lunacy, a seep of dribble bubbling from the corner of his lips, his cheeks boiling pink - having a feather anywhere near his neck was enough for him to break, his voice exploding from his throat in a high pitched shriek, “—OKAY I WANT THIS FOREVER!—”
Peter paused as silence filled the bedroom.
Huff, huff, huff …
Peter leaned back, breathless and unfulfilled, “You only said that as a coping mechanism … Believe me, after how long I’ve been doing this, I know …” he said coolly, “Besides, The Games will find out if you really meant it …”
Peter began to untie the rope from Joshua’s wrists and ankles as Joshua shook away the feather from his neck.
Joshua slid to the edge of the bed as is his leg muscles were weighing him down as Peter stood and walked across floorboards soaked in sunlight, his rock solid erection swaying and bobbing with every step.
Peter then picked up his iPhone from the side table, thumbing the screen, sweat glistening over his hairy chest …
Joshua, still breathless, eyed the phone like it was salvation.
“It’s uh, it’s nice they let us meet up like this n’ all,” Joshua muttered, voice cracking, “But I uh, I could really do with speaking to someone. Let them know I’m alright? I thought this whole games thing was like, a day or two … Not all …” he looked up at the chandelier and then glanced out at The Forest on the other side of the bedroom window, “… This …”
Peter froze as his voice turned to ice, “Is that why you agreed to see me?”
He turned to face Joshua, his erection still standing tall, iPhone clutching tightly in his right hand.
Joshua couldn’t help but eye Peter’s arousal with a flirtacious smirk, his eyebrows lifting playfully in an attempt to make the moment feel less serious, “Well, I think it’s safe to say one of the reasons I agreed to see you is that huge boner between your—”
Peter interrupted, “—You think you can manipulate me into giving you my phone? So you could call the cops?”
Joshua’s throat tightened.
“No …” he whispered - he meant it, sort of …
They pushed me to do this. It felt like the right thing to do.
So many thoughts were wedged within Joshua’s mind, none of them could become words no matter how hard he tried.
I want this. I want him.
Peter extended the iPhone, “Go for it,” he said, “Call for help … I dare you.”
Joshua stared at the phone.
Plastic, wires, glass, $999.99 a one off payment, $41.99 a month … A few taps of his thumb and all this could be over.
Joshua shook his head.
He slid away from the bed, legs trembling, voice hoarse …
He knocked on the bedroom door.
It opened, revealing a Masked Henchman holding a set of handcuffs.
“The only person here who needs help is you,” Joshua said, before allowing the cuffs to click over wrists raw with rope burn …
As Joshua was taken back to The Living Quarters, Peter’s stern expression, an act, not truth, deflated into his genuine feeling …
Severe uncertainty.
He glanced down at his iPhone; lifeless, plastic, another prop … Where he then said:
“Loyalty test number forty eight … Success.”
Inside The Room, the lights above dimmed to a theatrical low, save for the spotlights fixed on the three bound contestants.
The racks were now angled just slightly for audience viewing; wood dry beneath ticklish flesh, chains taut, bodies helpless, sandy floor decorated in the booted footsteps Peter had created as he paced and paced and paced …
Ross's soles glistened; Peter had worked the massage lotion in with care, rubbing it into every curve of Ross’s arches, over the balls of his feet, beneath his toes - simply doing so had already caused two of the audience members behind the screen to ejaculate, unable to control themselves at the sight of Ross’s toe tied, writhing feet and the sound of his flustered giggles as Peter applied the oil.
The bottoms of Ross’s feet now shimmered with slickness, droplets clinging to his heels before dripping onto the sandy floor below.
Ross flexed his soles, rolling his ankles with restless anticipation, the toe-ties squeaking under the tension, “Bet you’ve never seen feet this pretty, huh?” His way of feeling some form of control was to flirt, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears as Peter turned and lifted his first tool - a hairbrush.
“Onto our demonstration …” Peter raised his free hand, “ …T.K?”
T.K’s british, polite tones boomed down from hidden speakers above - at this point, he was more or less wired into every fibre of The Mansion …
“Ticklee 001. Ross Lynch. Question submitted anonymously by lottery winner, audience member and Masked Tickler No. 398 …
… Have you ever masturbated to gay porn?”
Ross didn’t flinch.
“Yeah,” he answered immediately, loud and clear, “And, ss, so what?”
He then paused.
The moment the words left his lips, realisation dawned across his face.
Truth = torment.
Above his head, the lie detector’s screen blinked green.
BEEP —“Truth detected,” T.K. confirmed, “One thousand points given to Ross Lynch.”
Ding! Ding! Ding!
Peter grinned, already moving.
He dropped to a crouch by Ross’s feet, hairbrush in hand.
“On behalf of The House of White Feathers, we thank you for your honesty.”
And then he scrubbed.
Ross’s feet began to automatically squirm as soon as the bristles arrived over each sole - with his size nine’s stocked and toe tied so closely together, only one brush was needed to rake across both soles with ruthless pressure - side to side, left to right, heel to toe, over and over …
“—YAAHHH! OH, OH FUCK! WOO!— he bellowed, somewhere between laughter and a battle cry, “—FUCK THAT TICKLES!—” his chin planted across his collarbone, the view of what was taking place behind the stocks blocked by a wooden slab, “—ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, STOP!—, his chest heaved, his arms strained at the leather cuffs above his head, he laughed with wild, unfiltered joy, muscles rippling across his chest, stomach and thighs, his nudity jolting and bouncing with each convulsion, “—You, you bastard! MORE! I can take it, fuck, stop! WHOO!—” the rack rattled under his writhing weight as his entire body kicked and flexed, raw, confused energy leaking from every inch of him …
The camera zoomed in on Ross’s cock as it flapped around in its chunky, long, flaccid state, slapping against his navel and then whacking over his hips, twirling and flipping with every thrust of his waist and hips, his laughter now wheezing, his teeth tightly clenched, the rack constantly thud thud thudding as Ross’s buttocks slammed against the wood, “—Damn! I hate you man! I HATE YOU!—”
Peter paused, brush still in hand, “So keen to fight it, too ticklish to endure …” sweat trickled down Ross’s ribs in rivulets, caught in the folds of his abdomen, gleaming under the lights as Peter stood, “Now … Let’s raise the stakes.”
Peter turned toward the mirrored glass behind which the masked audience sat silently, their eyes hidden but their curiosity palpable, “You see, it’s not just about telling the truth,” he said, “Ross has a choice now. He can choose to lie. He knows what happens when he does the right thing …”
He stepped toward Ross’s side and leaned in, “So tell me … Want me to go back to your feet with the brush?”
Ross arched his back and yelled out a breathless, thoughtless, “—NO!—”
Peter circled Ross’s rack, “We’ll see about that. T.K, next question …”
T.K. obliged, “Ticklee 001. Do you like Peter tickling your feet?”
Peter didn’t speak, he just watched Ross hesitate for far too long and then eventually, and shamefully, nod one.
“… Yeah?” Ross tried.
The lie detector beeped sharply - red this time.
BEEP—“Lie detected.”
And then … An unannounced twist …
“One thousand points to Kit …”
Peter's grin returned, but this time it had teeth.
He turned away from Ross and approached Kit.
Bound face-down on the wooden X, Kit was already squirming in anticipation, “Wait, wait, please—”, his broad back arched subtly, his butt muscles clenching as he felt the shift in energy, “Please, don’t be horrible to me, please—”
“—Kit, man! Fuck!—” Justin yelled from his rack, “—You damn pussy mother fucker!—”
Peter placed the hairbrush over the tray and stepped beside Kit’s head, slowly lowering himself to a crouch.
“This is what happens when they lie …” he whispered, “… You get points, and I do this …”
And with that, Peter ever so gently slid his fingers under Kit’s arms, into the thick hollows just below his shoulders … Where all he did, was simply comb …
The touch was too light, overly delicate, exceptionally teasing but surgical in its cruelty.
Kit’s round, shimmering ass bounced with every jerk of his torso, jiggling wildly with the involuntary rhythm of laughter, “—Oh, oh ss, stop, oh, oh sstop, stop, please, please, sto, sstop, mnn ohh, ohh!—”, the curves of his behind clapped softly with each lurch, sweat began to form between his thighs, his feet, also exposed, kicked uselessly as Peter’s fingers gently parted the dense tufts of hair in his underarms, dragging slowly through them with a maddening consistency, “—Get, get out! Geh, gehehe, gehehehet out of there! Stop, stop please, I can’t breathe, I can’t br, breathe!—”
Ross’s rack began to tighten …
CRANK … CRANK … CRANK …
The crank above his head twisted slowly, tugging his arms higher toward the top of the frame, “—Nnn, hold up—”, his back flattened further, biceps stretching, abs flexing, “—Grrr, grrrr, holy sshhhhhit!—”, he groaned, the unyielding madness giving way to gritted teeth, “Fuhhh—fuckkkk—I’m gonna snap!—” Ross growled as he watched Kit writhe.
Peter continued to stroke Kit’s armpit hair, gradually, slowly, the strawberry blonde tufts now a little damp as he watched Kit and observed every tremor of his bouncy glutes, every ripple of muscle, every twist of his spine beneath the brightness of the lights overhead - seeing such a glorious moment with his bare eyes stiffened the strength beneath his underwear, it even made him drool, “—What a sight,” Peter admired, “—What a job I have …”
Kit was breathing harder now - for a brief second, as his laughter cracked into pleading whimpers, Peter’s eyes glazed as a name landed in his mind.
Joshua.
He’d looked just like this, if less muscular - his body twisted, throat raw from begging, toes curled into the mattress, that same helpless surrender, that same beauty …
Peter’s fingers outstayed their presence; Kit thrashed beneath him, endless giggles always leaving his lips, his eyes squeezed shut as the wooden X held his weight, “—Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!—”, his butt bounced with every intake of breath, trembling, shimmering, begging to be spared …
Justin watched in wide-eyed horror as Peter effortlessly exposed Kit’s extreme level of ticklishness - his mouth had gone dry, his turn was coming and everyone in The Room, on the other side of the glass, they knew it …
The laughter hadn’t even faded from Kit’s throat when Peter finally stepped away, dragging a slick hand through his own hair, tongue flicking across his fingertips - he licked them slowly, one at a time, as though savoring the remnants of Kit’s underarms.
His eyes rolled back slightly, eyelids fluttering with quiet ecstasy, “God,” he murmured, glancing toward the mirrored wall as he arrived at Justin’s feet, “You’ve got some of the most obsessed-over feet on the planet, Justin…” his eyes shot from the softness of Justin’s soles where they then unapologetically arrived at his upper body, “But I’m in an armpit kinda mood …”
Every muscle in Justin’s body braced; he lay strapped to the rack, shirtless, arms yanked tight above his head, pits fully exposed - the dark thatch of hair beneath each arm matted slightly with sweat from The Room’s humidity - his jaw was locked, neck taut, eyes narrow as he followed Peter’s every move like a lion would a zookeeper.
Peter didn’t wait for T.K to ask his next question - instead, he pounced …
His fingers sank into Justin’s underarms like claws into velvet; hard, deep, unforgiving - they didn’t flutter or dance, they dug and dug and dug, vibrating and violating against the very tendons that ran beneath the skin, zeroing in on nerves like a predator …
Justin thrashed violently, spine contorting, his torso trying to pull away from the wood, “—FUCK! STOP YOU DERANGED PIECE OF SHIT!—”, his hips bucked into the air, his back arching like a bow, his laughter arriving as broken and hoarse, uncontrollable and filled with shame, laced with fury, roaring between swears, “—FREAK!—FUCKING PERVERT!—” his voice cracked as Peter dug in harder, fingers swirling with precise cruelty inside each hairy pit, occasionally dragging a fingernail slowly through the center just to watch Justin seize up like a man electrocuted, “—I haven’t even been asked a question yet, you sick bastard!—”, Justin shouted …
T.K.’s voice suddenly sliced through the room:
“—PETER! Please abide by the rules …”
The floating voice pulsed into The Room with authority, hovering above the carnage like a disappointed god …
Peter scoffed, hands lifting, stepping back with an eye-roll, “What have they done to your programming?—”, he muttered, “—Don’t tell me they wired you to be more like—”
“—Next question!” T.K. interrupted coldly, “Submitted by Masked Tickler 93: Justin, Ticklee 003 …”
“… Do your feet smell?”
Justin blinked.
Of all the questions that could be asked, he did not expect one to take him this off guard - he opened his mouth, paused, shifted against the rack, his armpits still tingling from Peter’s attack, “Uuh ...” his eyes darted down toward his feet, still restrained, toes free to flex and stretch, curl and scrunch, a blush now flickering across his cheeks, “Like … Right now?”
T.K. remained silent, his voice waiting …
Justin took a breath, “I mean… I don’t think so? Nobody’s ever said anything. Not ever. Not once …” he frowned, his voice softer, more thoughtful than before,“But like… After a show? After dancing? Yeah, they probably do. But r, right now? I don’t know …”
T.K. spoke again, “Please answer definitively. Yes or no.”
Justin stared at the ceiling, weighing his options as Kit and Ross watched him quietly.
If he said yes, and it was true, he’d get tickled and earn points …
If he said no, and it was false, no points, and Kit would suffer instead … But his own rack would tighten.
Justin exhaled through his nose, “When I’m on tour, for sure,” he admitted, “But like… now? Or today?” He gulped, “No.”
The room froze for a beat.
BEEP — “Lie detected.”
“One thousand points to Kit …”
Justin groaned as the rack cranked with a mechanical CRANK, CRANK, CRANK, pulling his arms tighter above him, stretching his tattooed chest and stomach flatter, “—Yo, bro! Bro! What the fuck!—”, he clenched his jaw, his armpits now looking even more vulnerable; glistening, hairy, spread taut at either side of his face.
As the rules stated, Peter did not go for those underarms - he went straight for Kit.
Kit had just about caught his breath, still bound face-down, his arms stretched tight into the wooden X, his chest pressed flat, his toes scrunched, his ass the star of the show, “—No! This isn’t fair! Keep the points! Just, just don’t!—”
Peter crouched beside him, then slid his hands beneath Kit’s chest, his thumbs hovering just above the curve of Kit’s ribs, “I’ve tickled thousands of men in my years,” he whispered, “But none have been as pretty as you …”
Peter’s fingers tore into Kit’s sides with sudden, rhythmic aggression, his fingers scribbling against his ribs, thumbs digging just above his waist, dragging and jabbing, scratching and exploring.
Kit went berserk, “OAHAHA! OAAHAH! STOP! OAHAHA! STOP! OAHAHAHA! STOP! OAHAHA, SS, STOP!—” much to the lottery winners pleasure, Kit’s ass bounced wildly with every scream and leap, cheeks jiggling, flexing, wobbling, the ropes at his ankles squeaking with tension as his legs kicked across the wood, his hips gyrating into the X, his hips grinding and thrusting with no rhythm, just desperate panic, “—SOMEBODY JUST STOP HIM, I CAN’T TAKE IT!—”
Above it all, T.K. spoke again, its voice calm and factual, “Note: Ticklee 004’s gluteal region is displaying extreme muscular tension: jiggle factor at forty-three percent. Recommending additional monitoring …”
Ross, from his rack, was wide-eyed, his jaw clenched, but not in defiance this time. “Holy shit,” he muttered, watching Kit’s behind wobble as he squirmed, “That’s … One hell of an ass …”
T.K. chimed in again, “Confirmed: Kit’s gluteal circumference currently ranks 1st among contestants. Viewer engagement increased.”
Ross let out a short, hoarse laugh. Even he wasn’t sure if it was nerves, amusement, or awe.
T.K. wasn’t finished, “And for clarification: Ticklee 003’s feet do emit mild odour consistent with post-exertion sweat. Statement ‘no’ was therefore inaccurate.”
Justin groaned, eyes shutting tightly, clearly humiliated.
Peter, still tormenting Kit, licked his lips and smiled, “You boys need to understand …”
Kit screamed again as Peter raked his thumbs beneath his armpits from below, his body convulsing in waves, “—NOAAAAHHHH! STOAHAHAHAAHAHA STTTOAAAAAAHAHAHAHA!—”, the sweat that drenched his back ran down into the cleft of his ass, which began to develop into a tiny puddle at the base of his spine, “—STOOAAAAHAHAHAHA STTOOOAAAAAHAHAHA I CAN’T BREEEEAAHAHAHAAHAHTHE!—”
“—This game doesn’t care what you think is true,” Peter explained, “It only cares about truth itself …”
It had just rained.
The London pavement glistened beneath golden streetlights, reflecting the slow trudge of evening traffic; leaves blew in soft spirals, amber and gold - somewhere down the block, a bus sighed to a stop, and the distant sound of jazz trickled out from a wine bar.
Tom and Andrew arrived at Andrew’s flat with takeout boxes full of leftover roast potatoes, their jackets smelling faintly of roast beef and red wine.
Andrew tossed his scarf over the back of the sofa and turned up the heating as Tom flopped onto the couch, groaning in pleasure, his legs stretched out, his hands tucking themselves behind his head.
“Christ, that hit,” he murmured, his stomach contently full.
“You ate like a Victorian,” Andrew teased, sitting down next to Tom where he pointed down at Tom’s feet, “C’mon. Trainers off …”
Tom raised a brow.
Andrew narrowed his eyes in a flirtatious glare, “I want what’s mine …”
Tom shuffled into the corner of the mattress and carefully gave Andrew his feet, the rubber of his trainers heels resting in Andrew’s lap, side by side.
“Bossy old fart, aren’t you …” Tom quipped as he picked up the remote and switched on the TV.
Andrew began to pick the laces as Tom placed both arms behind his head with a grin, his figure dressed in a white tee, jeans and now, no shoes …
Andrew peeled both of Tom’s navy blue socks off slowly, each toe popping free with a soft sound …
Tom rolled his eyes but didn’t resist, his soles flushed pink from the cold, still slightly clammy, toes curling reflexively, “Even when I haven’t showered?” Andrew’s obsession always made him curious.
Andrew grinned as he drew both of Tom’s feet into his lap, cradling Tom’s left foot with both hands, “Even better,” hs thumbs pressing into the arches first, massaging slowly, expertly, drawing little moans from Tom’s throat, “You missed this,” Andrew whispered, not a question, “Haven’t you …”
Tom smiled, eyes fluttering shut, “You’re skilled at foot massages, mate, I’ll give you that …”
The living room was bathed in warm yellow lamplight, rain drummed gently against the windows, the flat smelled of rosemary, garlic, and aftershave …
Andrew lifted Tom’s foot up and away from his lap, closing to his face, his lips brushing against Tom’s arch - Tom twitched, his leg jolting like someone had hit a nerve.
“… Careful …” Tom warned, eyes still closed, a knowing smirk lifting his lips.
Andrew bit his big toe.
Tom’s eyes snapped open, his foot twisted in Andrew’s grasp, his hands leaping forwards - the physical reaction said ‘OI!’, but the word didn’t leave his mouth.
A pause, a beat, Tom’s hands pressed over the couch, his knee bent, Andrew’s teeth attached to Tom’s left big toe as the newsreader on the TV continued to talk about Donald Trumps visit to the U.K …
“What?” Andrew didn’t blink.
Tom tutted, “You know what …”
Andrew went in, lips dragging along Tom’s sole, tongue flicking between his toes, his hands holding Tom’s ankle steady, even as Tom kicked wildly, gasping between thrusts of cackles …
“—You bloody menace!—”, Tom thrashed against the cushions, his arms uselessly swatting at air - every time he caught his breath, Andrew dipped his head lower, nibbling his way along the soft flesh beneath Tom’s toes, then planting maddening kisses to his instep …
… Eventually, Andrew slowed, returning to a gentle rub of Tom’s heel, watching his chest rise and fall.
Tom wiped a tear from his eye and caught Andrew’s gaze.
“You can’t help yourself, can you?” Tom sat back in a relax as Andrew went back to massaging his feet.
"I’d be lying if I said I could,” Andrew said.
The warm yellow fizzled into cold grey as the past became the present …
Inside the very same, Andrew sat alone.
He scrolled through his messages, lines of blue and grey bubbles from Tom:
“Nowhere near as bad as I thought! Having the best time x”
“It’s insane in here, everyone is so nice.”
“Looking forward to seeing you when I’m back, mate x”
They felt strange, too perfectly worded - the cadence wasn’t right, not Tom, not really …
Andrew opened the thread’s info: the last message had been received at 3:02 a.m, that was when the responses had stopped changing; they just looped, variations of the same phrases, recycled.
He didn’t want to wait like he had been told to, he didn’t want to risk this getting any worse.
Maxwell’s stern shout echoed through his mind as Andrew looked at the hole in the wall, from his own fist.
You don’t have a choice!
Andrew turned away from the light and climbed into bed, naked, alone, his body laying flat on his stomach as his eye lashes fluttered shut …
Suddenly, gloved hands gagged him - his eyes bulged open, he was peeled away from the bed, his hands bound behind his back as Masked Henchmen began to force him into a hog tie …
Across the world, T.K.’s consciousness pulsed inside an iPhone hijacked by T.K’s wires.
It continued generating responses, mimicking Tom’s voice via false texts …
“Miss you already, mate! x”
“Miller says hello, lol”
“This is the best thing I’ve ever done.”
Ross was stretched tight, taut like a ticklish canvas, the rack creaking with every attempt to bend a knee or elbow, the chains no longer clanking, their metal length raised in lines above the wood.
His armpits glistened with sweat, his shining abs twitching, his wrists ached from their high placement, ankles locked into the stocks, all ten toes bound back by the tightness of string; every inch of him was exposed, and he knew it - his breathing was shallow, lips parted, his eyes flicking toward the mirrored glass as the next question echoed.
T.K.'s voice, calm and synthetic, “Ticklee 001. Ross Lynch. Question submitted by lottery winner and Masked Tickler 104: Do you experience any levels of attraction toward your fellow contestants? If so, whom? …”
A hush fell.
Justin rolled his eyes with an anticipatory scoff.
Kit, still recovering from his latest torment, lay face-down in silence, chest heaving, his back slick with perspiration.
Ross didn’t hesitate long, “Yeah,” he said, voice rough but clear, “Justin.”
A small ripple went through the masked audience behind the mirror.
Ross lifted his head just enough to glance toward Justin, “What? I think he’s hot,” he added, his taunt stretch unabling him to shrug, “The whole rebellious asshole thing works for me. There, I said it!”
A mix of tension and smirks fluttered across The Spectator’s Chamber.
Everyone waited.
But Justin surprised them all.
His voice was low, uncharacteristically quiet, “Thanks, bro,” he muttered, not quite meeting Ross’s eyes, “I … guess.”
T.K. blinked green.
BEEP!—“Truth detected.”
“One thousand points awarded to Ross Lynch.”
Peter clapped once, slow and theatrical, “Oh, that was sweet,” he cooed sarcastically, “We love honesty …” he turned to the tray of tools beside him, fingers hovering over a line of wicked implements until he selected something small and delicate - a soft, domed makeup brush …
He held it up between two fingers, twirling it lazily in the light, “But as you’ve all learned, truth comes at a price.”
Ross’s face tensed as Peter journeyed the makeup brush towards his balls, “No. Come on—”, he started, but the makeup brush was already arriving between his legs …
The makeup brush hovered just below Ross’s balls, then made contact - a whisper of touch, circular, teasing strokes that barely pressed against the delicate skin nestled between his inner thighs.
Ross automatically went to fold into himself, as if a soccer ball had just made impact with his stomach, “—Fuh! Jesus …” he couldn’t help it, his hips bucked, his abs bulged, the muscles in his neck tightened like ropes as his head twisted back, then forward, straining to watch the makeup brush’s cruel progress, “—Oh man, okay, that’s, thaha, that’s kinda UNREAL!—”
Peter’s movements were mastered, measured, magical; the makeup brush bristles swept through the space between Ross’s thighs, up behind his ball sack, into that maddening, untouchable fold where the skin was softest, where nerves screamed without warning, “… Cootchie fucking cool, Ross Lynch …”
Ross’s mouth slammed shut, jaw clenched tight as his eyes followed the makeup brush, staring down his own torso, glaring at the way it glided just under him, making him squirm, pulsate and throb within the narrow, tight line he had been stretched in, “—Jesus fucking christ!—” he spat, the rack creaking beneath him, “—I can barely m, move!—” …
Peter smiled, “You’ve told the truth more than once,” he said, voice silken, toying, “Something tells me you like me doing this to you.”
Ross didn’t answer, he couldn’t, his breathing had turned into sharp gasps, but not the laughing kind, not yet, these were trembling, restrained breaths, like a man trying to stay in control of his body while it betrayed him unapologetically …
“No?” Peter taunted, “Cat got your tongue?” He glanced up at T.K, “T.K., turn that into a formal question …”
T.K’s voice echoed through the speakers, “Ticklee 001. Are you telling the truth in order to be tickled? Do you find this experience arousing? Enjoyable?”
Ross’s legs tensed, his fists clenched and still, that makeup brush continued - it circled now in lazy, spiraling motions between his thighs, gliding along the underside of his balls - just enough pressure to stimulate, never enough to push over the edge, “—oh, oh man!—”, the sensation was like fire and silk combined, Ross was thickening now, visibly turned on, “—Alright, stop it, that’s enough!—” his cock, half-limp minutes ago, swelled between his thighs, a trail of sweat sliding down its side; he shook his head, eyes wide, still grimacing downward as if that would change anything, “Come on!—” he grunted, “—I just want the points!—”
BEEP —“Lie detected.”
“One thousand points to Kit …”
Peter grinned, “Ever felt something like this before?” he asked, tone softer now, curious, almost admiring.
Ross’s lips parted, his eyes were wild and bulging, he tried to answer, but no sound came out as the rack CRANK, CRANK, CRANKED again, stretching him out even tighter …
All he could do was shake his head once, the only part of him he could now move …
Peter stood slowly, placing the brush delicately back on the tray like it was sacred.
“That’s one hell of a cock, Ross,” he picked up Ross’s cock and laid it out over his stomach; thick, tanned, smooth, semi erect, Ross’s own worst enemy as he looked at it by peering down his torso, almost willing it to go flaccid again, but it didn’t …
Peter turned toward Kit.
Kit, already whimpering, flinched as Peter approached - he was still bound face-down, arms stretched above him, ass exposed in all its trembling, wobbling glory.
Ross turned to Kit and kindly apologised, “I’m ssss, sorry, man! They’re fucking with my head!—” Ross now existed as one straight line of muscle and sweat, ankles locked in stocks, arms stretched above his head and towards the edge of the rack in a way unlike ever before …
The soft clink of metal against metal echoed through the chamber as Peter selected his next instrument.
A head scratcher.
Thin, flexible wires fanned outward from a central grip, each tipped with a dull metal ball, designed for soothing relaxation …
… But in the right hands, it could be a weapon - one of Peter’s favourites …
He held it before Kit and allowed him to take in its shape and size; Kit’s eyes widened, his mouth fell open as Justin spoke quietly from his rack, almost playfully:
“You’re not gonna enjoy that, bro …”
Kit twisted his head frantically, his cheek pressing against the wood, “Wait, wait, wait, put that down, right now,” Peter didn’t seem to be listening, “Hi, hello? I, I don’t need the points, alright?” He blurted, his voice cracked, “—Give them to one of the other boys! Please, just, don’t use that thing! …”
Peter said nothing, he simply held the tool up for the masked audience behind the glass to see, letting the head scratcher gleam in the spotlight as he stepped forward, “This? This thing was designed for an ass like yours …”
Kit’s ass was already wobbling, “—What! What’s the fascination with my arse!—”, Kit groaned, his voice raw and fast, “—It’s just an arse! It’s, it’s JUST an arse!—”
“—Oh …” Peter said, his tone light, feigning surprise, “… It’s unlike any ass I’ve ever seen …”
He reached for the massage lotion; thick, glossy, golden in the dim light, and squeezed a generous amount across both of Kit’s ass cheeks.
The oil spilled over the firm round curves, mixing instantly with the sweat that had already pooled between the dimples of his back, “—Mnn! That’s COLD!—”, Kit whined as Peter used both hands, spreading it slowly, intimately, massaging it into the muscle with methodical care, “—Warn me before you do that!—”, the result was a slick, shining display; two glowing orbs trembling with anticipation, flushed pink, taut and twitching.
Peter placed the lotion back over the tray and then hovered his hand in the air for a moment - palm open, fingers slightly curled, the light catching on the fine creases of his knuckles.
“Consider yourself warned,” Peter snarled, as he swung his palm down …
SMACK!
A sharp bloom of heat exploded across Kit’s left ass cheek, radiating outward, sinking deep into muscle and nerve, “—YOW!—” his ass bounced traitorously, cheeks clapping with each jolt, the oil amplifying every shameful wobble, “—You PRICK!—” he spat, twisting his head toward Peter with fire in his eyes, “—Do that again and I’ll—” he bit his lip, he was far too nice to finish with what his brain had planned for that sentence …
Peter lowered the head scratcher, the wires spreading softly across both of Kit’s ass cheeks, dozens of thin metal tips grazing the slick skin, gliding over the sensitive curves, slipping between the cheeks with a pressure too light to prepare for - it was exquisite cruelty - random, impossible to predict, a tangle of fine-tuned ticklish stimulation …
Kit’s large, muscular legs kicked wildly against the wooden X, the shape beneath his writhing form groaning and creaking, “—WHAT! Whahaha, whahaha, WHAHAHAA, why, why, why!—”, his ass bounced with feral energy, cheeks clapping softly with every lurch of his hips, “—STOAAAAHAHAHA! STOAAAAHHAHAHA! STTOAAAAHHHAHAHA!—”, the oil amplified every movement, his behind glistened, catching the light in rippling waves as it jiggled, flexed, tensed, quivered, he jerked against the restraints, toes flaring, body drenched in sweat, “—WHY MY ARSE!—
Peter twirled the head scratcher slowly, lifting and pressing again, letting the wires snake down into the crevice, curling against the inside of each cheek before spreading back up toward the small of his back.
Kit was howling now, pure hysteria, consumed entirely by how ticklish it felt …
Justin’s face was pale, his jaw hung open.
Ross … Couldn’t look away.
“Holy cow …” Ross whispered, “—Dat ass ...”
T.K. confirmed, “Gluteal tremor now at seventy-one percent. Visual response: extremely stimulating. Two masked ticklers have reached climax …”
“… Clean-up required in rows seven and nine.”
Behind the mirrored wall, quiet gasps and movement stirred.
Kit slammed his forehead against the rack, crying with laughter, saliva dripping from his open mouth, “—OKAYOKAYOKAYOKAY!—”, he shrieked, “—Stop! Stop? STOP! I don’t need the points, I DON’T NEED THE POINTS!—”
Peter twirled the head scratcher over one ass cheek whilst gently spanking the other, “Is that possible, T.K? Point reduction for the tickling to stop?—” he did not raise his voice, no matter how hard Kit screamed.
“It can be done, sir,” T.K confirmed, “Would you like me to go ahead?”
Kit answered first, “—Yes! Yes! Yes!—” as Peter pursed his lips and respected genuine surrender …
“… Proceed,” he declared, finally withdrawing the head scratcher, placing it back on the tray with reverent care.
T.K.’s voice rang out, clear and final, “Ticklee 003, Kit Connor. Point total reduced by 50,000 …”
A wave of stunned silence followed, even the audience behind the mirrored wall stilled.
Peter stood over Kit’s wrecked body; trembling, glistening, utterly undone, and gave one final, soft pat to the now-twitching curves of his ass, “Honesty,” he said gently, “Comes at a cost too.”
With no intention of slowing down, Peter than moved towards Justin as Kit struggled to control his breathing, his ass still trembling from Peter’s pat.
Justin’s arms were drawn far above his head but not as tight as Ross’s; his biceps were taut, armpits exposed in damp tufts of hair, his chest rose in short, clipped breaths … But, unlike last time, it wasn’t his arms Peter went for first …
… It was his feet.
Peter crouched low at the bottom of the rack, hands moving with quiet, deliberate elegance.
Justin tensed, both feet twisting towards each other, big toes touching, “… Don’t,” he growled.
Peter reached for the coils of black string connected to the top of the stocks and, with force, grabbed Justin’s right foot, “—Strong little fella, aren’t you!—” Peter huffed.
Justin jerked against the restraints, “Hey, hey, hey! Get off my fucking feet, you freak!—”
Peter smirked, calm as ever; he looped the string around Justin’s big toe, then his index toe, tying each back in neat tension, toes splayed wide and helpless - the loops held firm, forcing Justin’s soles into full exposure.
“I swear to God, I will break your fucking neck—”, Justin hissed, voice vibrating with fury.
“Temper, temper,” Peter said cooly, repeating the same toe-tying process on the other foot, “I see what Ross means, that rebellious fury in you is quite the attraction, Justin …”
Justin bit his lip, jaw clenched; his toes curled instinctively against the restraints, but they couldn’t move - now stretched back with utter dedication from Peter, leaving his soles tight and smooth, skin milky white and totally vulnerable.
Peter reached for the same bottle of massage lotion he had used to douse Kit’s behind; thicker than oil, golden, with a faint scent of mint, he poured a line of the sparkling liquid down Justin’s left sole, then the right, and began to rub it in with both hands.
“Are you—” Justin shouted, his eyebrows scrunched into a tight burrow, “—What the fuck is wrong with you!—”
Peter said nothing, simply spreading the lotion in slow, deliberate circles, gliding across the arches, under the toes, even between them …
“… Ejaculation in row three,” T.K confirmed, “Clean up team, where are you?”
Justin’s toes flexed violently against the string, his soles stretched hard, “You’re all sick bastards,” he snarled, voice strained, “I’ve said it before, I’m gonna sue the fuck outta you all!—”
Peter tutted, “You’ve got beautiful feet, Justin,” he murmured, almost absent-minded as he slicked the lotion in across the heel, “Strong… Sensitive… Responsive.”
Justin’s chest heaved, “Keep touching them and I’ll—”
“—You’ll what?” Peter interrupted, finally meeting his eyes, “Beg?”
He stood and turned his attention back to the floating orb above them.
“T.K.?”
The software responded instantly: “Question submitted by lottery winner and Masked Tickler 201. Ticklee 003: If you weren’t here, which contestant would you most want to be watching in your place? Who would you want to see racked, tickled, and exposed? …”
Justin froze.
The silence was sudden and sharp, his glare faltered for a second, teeth grinding, “What kind of question is that?” he spat, clearly rattled.
Peter stepped close, his hand hovering once again near Justin’s glistening, furiously stretched feet, his fingers flexed idly, they were ready, “Answer honestly, get your points,” Peter said, “Or Kit gets it. Again …”
Justin’s eyes flicked briefly to Kit, still face down, still wheezing, his ass glistening with sweat and shame.
Justin grinned - he acknowledged his own ferocious need to survive, to win, no matter the punishment - besides, the answer would only be a joy to say out loud …
“… Logan …” he said confidently, “… Logan Fucking Lerman …”
T.K. responded without hesitation, matching Peter’s speed:
—BEEP! “Truth detected.”
“One thousand points awarded to Ticklee 003, Justin Bieber.”
Peter paused mid-step, brows lifting with mild surprise, “I’m not surprised,” he said, referring to moment earlier in the day, “After all, he not only voted for you to be in this position, he stated that he’d never like you … Ouch …” he placed himself opposite Justin’s soles in a crouch and faced them; glistening, tied taut, toes splayed apart by string that now dug slightly each toes base - the massage lotion shimmered, still coating every inch of Justin’s feet, catching the overhead lights like wet marble.
Justin’s toes tried to curl, his calve muscles twitching, “You think I give a shit who likes me here and who doesn’t?”
Peter reached to the tray and selected two tools: a pinwheel, cold and silver, and a detangling brush—wide-toothed, plastic, see-through, designed to tear gently through knots but now turned to a more sinister purpose, “Oh, I don’t think you give a shit about that. But I do think you give a shit about how ticklish your heels are …”
Justin’s grin faltered, “Bro,” he snapped, “Don’t even think about it—”
—Peter placed the detangler against Justin’s left heel and pressed the pinwheel into the right; the detangler scrubbed upward, sawing across the slick flesh in short, gentle strokes, while the pinwheel rolled with eerie silence, its sharp tips leaving dozens of ghostly imprints along the heel, arch, and tendon …
If string did not pin Justin’s feet back, they would have flexed outward in a fierce stretch, “—FUCK. FUCK YOU!—” he roared, back arching violently off the rack, “—Fucking psychopath!—sick little faggot freak!—”, his laughter broke free without consent—barking, furious, twisted into shouts and snarls, “—NAH! AHAA! GRR! HAHAHA, SS, SICK! GRAHAHA! GRRR, FUCKING SICK!—”, his entire body jerked as though he were being charged by electrics, veins stood out in his neck, split flew from his mouth, he fought the rack like it had personally wronged him, “—YOU LIKE THIS, DON’T YOU!—” he aimed his head to the glass window, at the masked audience he could not see, “—I HOPE YOU ALL ROT IN HEHAHA, AHAHA, HEHAHAHELL!—”
Peter observed the way Justin’s soles quaked, toes yanking hard against their bindings, feet slipping slightly with every vicious pass of the detangler; the plastic sharp thick nibs dragged lines of lotion across his arches, while the pinwheel traced upward, slow, unrelenting, whispering across nerves that had no way to defend themselves.
Peter’s eyes narrowed as he watched tiny droplets of lotion bead down the bridge of Justin’s heels, pooling in the gap between his toes and the footplate, he watched the way Justin’s calves bunched and trembled, he watched the slight reddening of the arch, his own breath started to hitch, quietly, subtly, his fingers moving with the kind of rhythm that only obsession could teach.
Suddenly - a snap!
Justin’s right foot yanked free of the toe tie, the string breaking with a clean flick of tension.
Then the left.
He roared with victory, manic laughter crashing into triumphant adrenaline, “—YES! HAH! You see that, dickhea! You SEE THAT! SUCK IT!—”, he flexed both feet wildly, kicking and curling his toes, his face bright red, wet with sweat, glowing with chaotic, defiant joy …
… But Peter did not stop, Justin’s feet were still locked in stocks, still vulnerable - the detangler scraped up into the balls of his feet, the pinwheel circled the tender pads just under the toes …
Justin collapsed into renewed howling laughter, “—NO—NO—FUCK!—” as Peter witnessed him unravel with cold, clinical fascination, his own chest rising a little faster now, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple, the sight of Justin’s soles, flushed, forever flexing, helpless, the broken rhythm of his laughter, his writhing, his spitting, his complete lack of control …
There was that name again, echoing through his mind … Joshua, Joshua, Joshua …
Peter stopped.
He placed the tools gently back on the tray and stood slowly.
Justin was breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth, his head thrown back, his tattooed chest lifting and dropping, his feet curled into a protective scrunch …
Peter arrived beside him and leaned in, close to his ear.
“Why Logan?—” he asked, to mostly distract himself from the thought of Joshua.
Justin opened one eye, breathing hard - his voice was hoarse, but the smirk returned …
“… There’s just something about that pretty boy I don’t trust,” he said.
The clink of dishware echoed gently through the quiet kitchen, soft and domestic - a rare moment of normalcy in The Mansion.
A cracked window let in a breeze of pine-sweet air from The Forest - outside the back door, the sound of boots on gravel and murmured orders told them The Masked Henchmen were busy.
A black jeep was parked just beyond the threshold, its boot open, stacked with remnants of old trials: clown masks, red rubber gloves, The Ringmaster’s velvet coat, newly washed and steamed, now folded and ready to be reused …
Inside, Logan stood at the sink, awkwardly rinsing a dinner plate with cold water, clearly unsure how clean was clean enough - he scrubbed a spot with his thumb, then passed it across the counter.
“Here,” he said, with a flick of soap suds, “One perfectly mediocre dish.”
Sebastian, drying with a towel, smirked—but stopped short.
He turned the plate in his hand.
“Still has gravy on it,” he said flatly.
“Oh,” Logan arched an eyebrow, “You’re not eating off it?” He muttered, half-grinning.
Sebastian contained his smile, “Did your mother ever show you discipline?” He tossed the plate back into the sink where it splashed loudly, causing Logan to chuckle, shake his head and grab another dirty dish …
SMASH!
Logan’s plate slipped from his hands and shattered on the tile - he winced.
“Sorry, everyone ...” his shoulders lifted towards his ears.
From outside, a pair of Masked Henchmen turned sharply at the sound - one of them peeled off from the group and strode toward the open door, his boots hitting the stone steps with brutal clarity.
He stepped inside and pressed a dart gun against Sebastian’s back—low, just above the curve of his ass.
“Pick it up,” he said, his voice muffled behind the mask.
Sebastian didn’t move.
“Do I look like Cinderella to you, fuck-bag?” He said, jaw set.
Another Masked Henchman came to the door, glancing in—drawn by the delay.
Logan stood frozen, fingertips still dripping, his heart slamming against his ribs.
The first Masked Henchman pressed the barrel harder.
Sebastian slowly crouched down, his spine tight - he picked up the biggest shard and set it in the bin - the rest followed, his gaze steady, his body strong, but Logan could see the shake in his fingers.
The Masked Henchmen backed off and returned to the jeep.
Sebastian stood, his voice dropping to the faintest whisper.
“This’ll be easy. I’d do it, but I’m too big. We need someone slight … ” he walked past Logan to the hooks near the pantry, pulled down a tea towel, and handed it over, “Wrap this around your waist,” he murmured, voice urgent, close, “Get under the jeep. This is our only chance …”
Logan stared at him, “Are you fucking for real?—”
Sebastian didn’t explain further - he took another plate and slammed it onto the tiles at his feet, shattering it deliberately - he then peeled off his t-shirt in one smooth motion - he move was aggressive, disarming - he flung it to the floor, stepping over the broken pieces.
“—HEY!—” he shouted at the door, stepping forwards, facing The Masked Henchmen, his torso muscular, his chest broad, “You want obedience? COME TAKE IT!—”
The Masked Henchmen turned instantly, one raised his dart gun, the others lunged.
Logan slipped out of the kitchen door, tea towel in hand, heart pounding, as The Masked Henchmen gathered around Sebastian in a circle …
The jeep sat humming, back doors open, the engine still idling - Logan e dropped to the gravel, rolling underneath it, wrapping the tea towel around his waist and tying it quickly to a low pipe near the undercarriage, “—Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!—” he whined.
From beneath the chassis, he could only hear muffled chaos: grunts, punches, scuffling, Sebastian’s voice, swearing, then—phhht!—the soft whisper of a dart gun firing …
Silence and then a heavy thud.
Logan closed his eyes, clutched the pipe, and lifted his feet - he now hovered over the gravel, sweat forming at either side of his head
> Ktssh <
One of The Masked Henchmen’s walkie talkie crackled.
> Unit 5, you’re late. Again. If you don’t get a move on, we’re revoking your access to Ticklee 000’s foot files …<
The Masked Henchmen left Sebastian to doze on the floor, the tranquilizer snug in his left butt cheek.
“Let’s get a move on,” their haste blinded them as they scurried into the jeep, slamming the doors shut.
The jeep growled to life.
And as it pulled away, its wheels bumped over the gravel path toward The Forest, Logan clinging to the pipe beneath, the toes of his plimsoll shoes digging into grooves somewhere near the back of the jeeps bottom …
His heart was in his throat …
His t-shirt stained by dirt and engine fumes …
His lips transforming from a strained twist into a smile of utter joy.
Am I getting out?
Huff, huff, huff …
“Mnn, nnn, ooo, okay …”
Ross was now glistening with sweat, every muscle in his body pulled tight, arms wrenched high above his head, wrists bound, his back beginning to ache from the constant tension …
His chest rose and fell in shallow, shaky breaths, his pits were open and slick, sparkling in the lights - inviting, exposed, waiting …
Peter approached slowly.
He climbed atop the rack, straddling Ross’s hips, the weight of him sinking Ross even deeper into the wood - he didn’t speak right away, instead, he just looked down at the spread of Ross’s torso, the sheen of perspiration, the sharp rise and fall of his ribs, the curves of hair under each arm like ink in a bath …
Peter leaned in and took a quick breath; a long, slow inhale into Ross’s left armpit, his nose brushing the slick curls of hair, his lips gently parting.
Ross tensed and let out a high, shocked yelp, “—What the fuck, man!—”
Peter moaned, low in his throat, full of satisfaction, “These pits,” he whispered, “are better than I imagined …” he buried his face in deeper, sniffing, nuzzling, licking, dragging his tongue up the inner wall of Ross’s left armpit in one long, wet stripe.
Ross bucked beneath him, screaming in confusion, outrage, and something far more involuntary, “—Stop! STOP it, MAN! This is, mnn, so gross!—”
Peter didn’t stop, his voice muffled by flesh, lost in the heat and sweat, “Do you know how many times I’ve seen photos of you on stage? Shirtless. Arms behind your head. Singing. You don’t know what you were doing … But I do. I’ve jacked off to those pictures hundreds of times. You were giving this to the world …”
Peter pulled back just an inch to speak clearly, then he bit, gently, into Ross’s pit hair, chewing softly, tasting salt and musk and vulnerability, “But now?” He breathed, “Now you’re giving it to me …”
Ross wanted to twist his body but the rack wouldn’t let him, he went to arch his back but it had been stretched into too much of a tight line, his forehead now dripping with sweat, “—FUCK! Sss, STOP!—” his cock was twitching from the friction of movement, the humiliation of Peter’s touch mixed with the raw wrongness of what was happening, “—FUCK YOU! I’m gonna, this is, Jesus FUCKING Christ!—”
Peter moved to the other armpit and began the whole worship again, licking, breathing, murmuring filth between each slow, soaking swipe.
Above them, T.K. chimed in, “Ticklee 001. Question submitted by lottery winner and Masked Tickler 433. Did you ever fake an orgasm with a woman because you were fantasising about a man?”
Ross froze, eyes wide, heart pounding … Even Peter lifted his head.
“Answer, please,” T.K. instructed.
Ross gawped, “Okay! I, I’m a little gay! But, but no I’ve, I’ve never done that, for real!—”
BEEP! “Lie detected.”
“One thousand points given to Kit, Ticklee 004 …”
Silence.
Peter climbed off Ross, grinning.
“It would appear you’re what your fellow contestant Justin Bieber would describe as a …” he paused on purpose “… Faggot …”
Peter turned toward Kit as the rack tightened Ross once more, CRANK, CRANK, CRANK! — Ross couldn’t take it, the inside of his body felt ready to rip through his skin.
“—Oh my g, g, god—” Ross wheezed, “—Sstop! Lemme out, lemme go! This is CRAZY!—”
Kit lay face-down, his body always on high alert over the wooden X; his back was glossy with sweat, his ass still quivering with every pound of his heart.
“Please,” Kit tried to find Peter, his head always twisting, always turning, “Leave my arse alone …”
Peter crouched by Kit’s feet - he exhaled slowly, just once, and stared each sole; they were milky white, soft, pillowy, the landscape a perfect tone of peach and cream, “Ass-tonishing,” Peter purred, his eyes trailing over Kit’s long, plump, hairless toes, taking in every detail, so much so that he had no choice but to lick his lips, “They remind me of my wedding cake,” he whispered, “So pure. So stupidly pretty I want to devour them forever.”
Kit let out a panicked whimper, “You’re freaking me out!…”
Peter dragged his tongue between Kit’s left big and second toe, slowly, letting his saliva coat the skin …
Kit’s foot spasmed, jerking within over the surface of the wooden X, his lips pressing shut, “—Ugh! Mnn!—”
Peter began to suck - wet, greedy, smacking sounded within The Room as he coated each toe with spit, “—Fucking delicious,—”, he nibbled at the pads, licked the arches, letting his fingers press into the balls of Kit’s feet as his mouth feasted the rest.
Kit’s ass bounced with every jerk of his hips, “—No! No, please! Don, don’t bite!—” the massage lotion from earlier making it worse, “—Don’t bite them, please!—”, each twist of his body caused his glutes to slide and jiggle, slapping softly in a perverse rhythm.
Peter had tasted hundreds of men’s feet in his time, all shapes, all skin tones, all textures, but Kit’s? “Your feet are fucking devine …” Peter spoke his thoughts out loud.
Kit’s middle toe slid past Peter’s lips with no resistance, soft and slippery from the sheen of lotion and sweat, “—Th, thahahaa, thank you!—” Kit yelped all too politely as Peter sucked on the toe gently at first, just enough to pull the toe in, to feel its smooth pad press against his tongue before deepening, lips sealing around the digit with slow, hungry precision, “I, I’ve never hahaha, had my, my toes sucked be, before!—”
The toe tasted clean, but not clinical - sweet, like skin warmed by sunlight, and faintly salty from the sweat that had trickled into the natural shape of the toe - there was a creaminess to the flavour, something delicate and personal, like softened butter with a whisper of citrus.
Peter began to nibble his teeth around the toe, letting it naturally pulse and curl against his tongue as, from the other side of the wooden X, Kit started to shriek, the sound broken, high-pitched, echoing off the rafters of The Room.
“—AAARGHHHHH! DON’T BITE THEM! NOT MY TOES—NO—NO—NOT LIKE THAT!—”
Peter’s right hand was already at work, fingers dancing furiously across Kit’s right sole - the contrast was devastating - while his teeth nipped, nibbled and chewed on Kit’s left middle toe, his fingers scratched lightly across the ball of the right foot, dipping down to the arch, then ran circles under his heel …
Kit’s ass bounced helplessly, cheeks clapping softly with each violent jerk of his hips - the slickness from earlier made everything more visible: the quiver, the wobble, the way his glutes tightened, then relaxed, then clenched again as the sensations devoured him, “—NOAHAHAHA! STOOOAAHAHAHAH! NOT BOAHAHAHAHOTH AHAHAHAT THAHAHAHA SAHAHAHAAME TIME!—”
Peter grinned against Kit’s toe, letting his teeth just graze the side of it - light, deliberate, “You taste…” he murmured, pulling back to speak, his lips glistening, “Like sugar and sweat …” then he dove back in, producing a high pitched shrill from the depths of Kit’s throat.
“—NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!—”
Kit could feel it, Peter’s tongue coiling around the toe, pulling it deeper, and worse, the hand on the other foot never lost rhythm, never slowed; it slid between toes, it scratched under the ridge of his arch, it teased and trailed and played him like the mindless fool tickling like this had transformed him into …
“—PLEASE STOP I’M, I CAN’T, I CAN’T TAKE IT!—” Kit’s feet kicked, useless against the restraints, his toes curled and flailed, pulling Peter in deeper, his buttocks trembled, the movement hypnotic; cheeks shaking, thighs trembling, his whole lower half alive with involuntary rhythm, “—PLEASE—PLEASE—ANYTHING BUT THIS!—” Kit gasped.
But Peter was lost in it now, this wasn’t just torment, it was aroused devotion, devotion T.K needed to break …
“—Bonus round initiated,” T.K announced, “Peter, stop touching Kit’s feet …”
Peter forced his hand and tongue away from Kit’s sole and his toe, stubbornly wiping his mouth clear of drool - he knew if you went against what T.K asked, there would be a price to pay …
Kit lay wheezing, his left toe soaked with saliva, his gratitude directed up to T.K, “… Th, th, th, thank you …”
“Ticklee 001, Ticklee 003 and Ticklee 004, please listen carefully …”
Ross was now soaked, his muscular strain working too hard to handle how tense his body had been pulled.
“… If Kit tells the truth to this next question, he will receive tickle torment and ten thousand points …”
“… If Kit lies, Game Nine resets completely, any points earned are dismissed and we start again …”
Justin shot his rage towards the ceiling in the form of a furious spit, “—BRO! What the FUCK!—”
Ross, whimpering and shaking in his tight line could only gasp and shudder, “—Nn, no …”
Kit swallowed down, the need to tell the truth now more important that ever.
“Ticklee 004, Kit Connor,” T.K addressed, “Question submitted by Masked Tickler 182: Have you ever inserted something into yourself while thinking about Joe Locke?”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Peter placed his hands on his hips and waited as both Ross and Justin watched on, eager for Kit’s answer themselves.
Kit’s cheeks boiled pink, his voice high and hoarse, “… No …” he gulped.
BEEP! “Lie detected.”
Kit’s mouth fell open, but he made no sound.
T.K. continued, cold and mechanical, “Incorrect answer. Game reset initiated. All point progress will be deleted.”
A mechanical hiss sounded above them.
Justin sent his venom towards Kit, “—You fucking DICK, bro! What have you done!—”
From a hidden compartment in the ceiling, T.K. descended, now no longer just a voice, but in his true form: two long, metallic coils tipped with precision claws, unfolding like serpents …
The coils scanned Kit’s body, one claw pausing just above his flushed ass.
Boop, boop, boop … “Lie confirmed. Recalibration required.”
The coils split; one darted toward Ross, the other to Justin.
Without pause, each claw extended a small, vibrating tickle wand, which then began to jab them both in the armpits.
“—AGHHH! AGHAHAHAHAHA!—FUCK, FUCK! FUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAUCK!—” Ross screamed.
“—YOU PIECE OF—HAHA—SHIT—AGHAAHAH! GRRRAHAAHAHA! GRRRAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!—” Justin roared.
Their laughter was explosive, involuntary, cruelly forced whilst Peter picked up his favourite tools; the hairbrush and the head scratcher …
“—I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!—” Kit wriggled across his X, “—I didn’t, I didn’t me, mean to!—”
Peter pressed the hairbrush into Kit’s left sole, hard, slow, letting the bristles sink into the soft arch, at the same time, he dragged the scratcher across the right, delicate tendrils tickling from heel to toe in a spreading web.
Kit’s feet spasmed, toes flaring, curling, scrunching as his soles flexed across the edges of wood, “—NOAAAHAHAHAHA! NOAAAAHAHAHAHA! NOOOOOAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!—” his left foot tried to pull away, heel jerking against the scrub of the bristles, but the wooden X and its dry surface gave no room, “—SSSS, SSSTOAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA PLEEEAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA SSSTOOOAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!—”, the brush bit deeper, sending shocks through his nervous system whilst on the right, the scratcher ghosted along his toes, teasing the sensitive flesh beneath each one.
Peter worked both tools in tandem, scrubbing, teasing, dancing over the skin like a symphony of torment whilst taking in the physical visuals he felt so lucky to observe and admire; the way Kit’s feet writhed under the tools, the way his toes curled, knuckles whitening, the tremble that started in his arches and rippled all the way up his thighs to his glutes …
And that ass, the thing that had made several Masked Ticklers behind the glass jizz into their own trousers, it shook with every movement - each time Kit screamed and tried to lift himself off the rack, his glutes tensed and released like waves, his cheeks slapped softly together, then parted again, gliding wetly with each surge of laughter, his tight hole twitched, sweat gathered in the small of his back and slid downward, “—NOT THE BRUSH—NOT THAT BRUHUHUHUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA PLEEEAAAAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!—”
Peter pressed the brush harder into the ball of Kit’s left foot, raking the bristles up to the toes, while the scratcher now danced under the pads of the right, dual agony, one blunt and punishing, the other surgical and maddening.
Kit’s body couldn’t take it, his ass cheeks slapped against the humidity as he bucked, hips lifting, his legs tried to thrash but were tied tightly apart, the motion had nowhere to go but up — so his ass jiggled, clapped, bounced and slapped ...
Peter’s breathing was heavier now, each stroke of the brush and sweep of the scratcher stroking his focus … And his arousal, “Look at you,” he whispered, “All of this noise … Just from your feet,” Peter dropped the brush, letting it fall with a gentle thud against the sandy ground, “But I can’t stop thinking about that ass …” he leaned forward slowly, deliberately, and placed his hand atop Kit’s shaking ass cheeks, the heat radiating from the boy’s flushed skin was tangible — a fever born of overstimulation …
Kit’s laughter subsided as he began to whine, “—You’re ob, obsessed …” he declared breathlessly.
With a firm but unhurried pressure, Peter spread Kit’s ass cheeks apart …
He didn’t need to speak, he just stared, unable to have Joshua, filling his lust with what he could have …
The boy’s body was vibrating beneath him — the gentle thrum of helpless laughter still buzzing through every joint, every nerven - Kit was twitching involuntarily, breathless and wordless, a haze of shock and laughter and heat taking hold; his back was damp, his thighs trembling - his feet, still tingling, clenched reflexively with each pulse of sensation that hadn’t yet left his soles as Ross and Justin continued to howl hysterically, the vibrating wands venturing deeper into an armpit each …
Peter’s eyes never left the view in front of him, “You don’t know what you’re giving me,” he whispered, “Not just this body. Not just these reactions. This is the kind of surrender I thought I’d never see in real life …” his voice dropped lower, “… You said so yourself, ‘anything but this’, and here you are, laid bare, so fucking breakable …”
With his other hand, he extended two fingers and began to lightly scratch at the inner line of Kit’s thighs, where the skin was tender and rarely touched - it wasn’t a full attack, not even a true tickle, just a brush, a flick, a tease, enough to make the muscle beneath flex.
Kit’s ass jolted, cheeks clenching and spreading again with every burst of panic through his system - the noise he made was an evolved form of a giggle - broken , growl-like, “—When I’m out of this I’m going to kick you in the balls!—” he warned, the restraints offering no give, his only release was to shake, thrash, writhe …
Peter didn’t blink, he couldn’t, the view before him was too intoxicating: the way Kit’s whole body moved from a single flick of his finger, the way his thighs spasmed, the way his cheeks quivered, glistening, flush and glowing under the lights, “Such a perfect, ticklish, round ass,” Peter murmured, more to himself than to Kit, “Better than I imagined. Like watching an erotic masterpiece before my very eyes,” he used both hands to part Kit’s ass cheeks again, “Let’s see it bounce one last time …”
He plunged his fingers in, not deep, not invasive, but quick, spider-like, all ten fingernails dancing across the inner cheeks, just above the crease, over the tightest, most sensitive flesh of Kit’s backside.
Kit kicked, he bucked, he screamed, “—NOOOOAAAAHAHAHHAHA NOOOOOAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA NOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAHAHHAAH!—” his ass naturally bounced, jiggled uncontrollably, cheeks slapping back into Peter’s palms with each hopeless kick, “—I’M ASKING YOU NICELY—” Kit sobbed, “—STOP TICKLING MY ARSE, PLEASE!—”
“Say you love it,” Peter hissed, fingertips dancing like fire over every sensitive millimetre. “Say you need it,” Peter was drunk on the power, one hand scribbling over Kit’s ass cheeks, the other shoving down the waist band of his own chinos where he grabbed hold of his own erection and began to rub it, at the sound of Ross and Justin’s manic laughter, at the sight of Kit’s shaking ass below him …
It jerked, it twitched, it pulsed like a living creature of its own — a rebellion made of flesh. Every pass of Peter’s fingernails across the underside of his cheeks sent a shockwave up through Kit’s thighs, forcing his glutes to contract violently, then release in a wobble that echoed with every breathless scream.
The cheeks never stayed still.
One moment they were clenched tight — taut and trembling like coiled springs — the next they were jiggling, loosened by the convulsions of forced laughter. The oil coating them made every motion more visible, every flex and bounce glistening, like a spotlight had been fixed on Kit’s humiliation.
Peter’s hands never stopped moving, and so Kit’s ass never stopped responding - now, Peter was close, thwapping harder, faster …
Sometimes the movement of Kit’s ass was subtle, a soft tremble, a fluttering clench - other times, it was all-out chaos: his cheeks rebounding like drum skins, slick with sweat, too sensitive to control; before he knew it, Peter could feel the jolt of pure joy shoot through him; breath was taken from his mouth, his eyes widened and forced his trousers down …
Cum landed all over Kit’s ass, soaking each cheek with creamy white droplets, soaking his taint and his hole, causing him to jump and flinch …
Peter fell to his knees, between the rack, his orgasm soaking his thighs in a wet, warm and relentless pound, the sand surrounding him a contrasting landscape of pure dry earth …
T.K withdrew his talons from Ross and Justin’s underarms as Kit lay breathless, grunting, his buttocks soaked with sweat, massage lotion and now, cum …
Peter’s had snatched hold of the wooden X as he used it to help himself up, both of T.K’s claws floating back to the ceiling compartment above.
“Are you okay, sir?” T.K asked, “Blood pressure levels at 140/90, heart rate increasing by forty nine percent …”
Peter dusted himself off, “It’s just something you’ll never understand, T.K …” he picked up the hairbrush and simply announced:
“Now, let’s start again …”
The jeep slowed to a halt.
Logan didn’t move, his body wedged in a flat line against the underneath of the jeep.
Above, the doors opened one by one — click, slam, slam — boots hitting gravel, the muffled exchange of commands between The Masked Henchmen.
Then came the unexpected.
Footsteps, not on gravel, but on metal … A creak, a clunk, as if someone was climbing—not up a hill, but onto something.
Stairs?
And then the sharp echo of a heavy door - it opened, briefly letting in a low mechanical hum, a strange vacuum of air …
… Then it shut.
And everything fell silent, besides the birds on top of the trees surrounding Logan and the jeep.
Logan waited - ten seconds, twenty, a full minute - he counted …
Fifty seven, fifty eight, fifty nine …
His lungs ached, the fumes had coated his mouth and throat with diesel and metal and heat - his forehead was damp, his arms scraped with rust and grime.
He coughed, softly at first, then un-tugged the teal towel, gasped and rolled out from under the jeep …
The fresh air hit him like ice water; he collapsed to the ground, coughing harder now, hunched over on all fours - dirt clung to his palms, his knees, his cheeks - his body was trembling, not from fear, but from the sheer shock of breathing again.
And then he looked up.
At first, he thought it was sky …
But the blue didn’t shift.
There were no birds, just speakers.
There was no breeze, just shafts blowing out cool air.
There was no motion, just a painted illusion.
Clouds rendered in expert brushstrokes, mountains that didn’t move, sunlight that stayed frozen …
A wall.
A giant, seamless wall that stretched left and right into forever … And up! — impossibly up — into a ceiling of studio lights, cold and industrial, mounted miles above his head like gods watching from Olympus …
Logan cupped his mouth with both hands, trying to make sense of it.
He turned.
Behind him, The Forest … The crooked line of trees he had walked under before, so real, so very much there …
Far off in the distance, like a dream wrapped in marble and red, stood The Mansion, remote, silent, unchanged, home to people who had become his friends, yes, even Justin …
People who have no idea all of this is a lie.
He looked forward again, at the painted world, and for the first time in weeks — maybe longer — his breath hitched for a different reason.
None of this is real.
Logan stepped forward, slowly, as if pulled by something ancient in his bones.
He reached out, shaking, and placed his fingertips against the wall.
It was cold, smooth, like steel beneath paint; no breeze, no sound, just him, the wall, and the faint vibration of distant generators humming from somewhere unseen.
His fingertips lingered, he didn’t even realise he had stopped breathing.
This was it, the end of a world he’d known, a sudden truth made solid.
They built this.
All of it.
The Forest.
The fucking sky …
“What in the fucking Truman Show is going on?” Logan whispered.
He eyed the steps.
His fingertips slid off the wall.
He walked up each step, quickly, desperate to know, so close to getting out.
The door handle was within reach quicker than he could believe.
He grabbed it.
He pulled.
And then he stepped out.
‘The House of White Feathers’ continues in the The Final Game, arriving 9th of November …