The Beverly Hills mansion sat high above the city, half-draped in shadow, its wide windows glowing faintly from within.
Inside, the air shimmered with candlelight and the curl of cigarette smoke, the scent of bourbon and perfume lingering in every velvet-draped corner.
Jazz murmured from a record player, barely competing with the sound of soft laughter and clinking glass.
Joan Crawford reclined like a goddess reborn, perched on the edge of a silk-chaired throne; smoke coiled from her cigarette in slow spirals as if the room itself were holding its breath around her - she appeared as both regal and immaculate.
On the floor below, barefoot and radiant, James Dean sat among crushed velvet cushions; his iconic white t-shirt sweat stained and damp, his chest rising and falling in the aftermath of laughter - his cheeks were flushed, his curls tousled, eyes still wide behind the black cotton blindfold with the electricity of being seen and touched.
A green red wine bottle spun lazily across the lacquered floor, glinting in the low light before landing on Joan.
A Masked Tickler spoke from the shadows, nursing a glass of whiskey in one hand and a pipe in the other …
“What’s your real dream, Joan?” He gestured to James, the bottle, the calling cards a the glass coffee table stained by red wine, cigarette ash and lines of cocaine, “With all of … This …”
She didn’t answer at first.
Instead, she turned toward James, the edges of her mouth curling; he’d already felt the pin sharp tips of her nails within his underarms, enough to unravel him on the spot - now, as a a soft, breathless smile played on her red lips, she eyed his bare feet …
Joan leaned in slowly, her voice low, the air around her suddenly heavier.
“To build a house that never stops laughing,” she said, “A house where power isn’t spoken … It’s felt …”
She picked up Jame’s left leg and held his ankle in an arm lock, his giggles already starting to escape as she looked down at his squirming foot, his toes curling at the side of her breast …
“… And when they scream…” ahe let the moment stretch, her eyes locked on James soft, sensitive sole, “… They won’t know if it’s fear or pleasure.”
The moment was kissed by candle light.
Faintly, she drew the fingernail of her index finger down Jame’s arch; his reaction was explosive, loud, it almost caused those very candles to blow out.
She paused as her masked guests gathered around her.
“The possibilities are endless,” she said.
The Dome
Brad Pitt and Chris Evans stood side by side in the eighty loading bay corridors of The Dome, the scent of oil and metal thick in the air.
Overhead, strips of sickly fluorescent lighting buzzed and flickered, casting fractured shadows across the concrete floor - they didn’t seem bothered, if anything, they looked amused; two Founders of The House of White Feathers who had finally been summoned to the big finish, simply curious to see how far the rabbit hole would go …
A Masked Henchman emerged from a side door, his boots echoing in heavy thuds across the floor; tall, sharp-shouldered, silent at first, dressed head to toe in leather, hooded, military, his voice oddly impersonal behind the black, oval mask.
“Welcome, Founders,” he stood before Evans and Pitt with his hands at his side, “The lottery winners arrived yesterday,” he said, “They took part in Game Nine,” a pause filled with the hum of air conditioning, “John would like to honour you both, along with some other special guests, the privilege of taking part in—”
Evans raised both eyebrows and clapped his hands once, “—OH BOY! We get to BE in Game Ten?—”
The Masked Henchman nodded once.
Brad cracked a crooked grin, “As a huge foot fan, all I can say is thank you.”
The Masked Henchman didn’t respond - he turned and began walking.
Evans and Brad followed, their footsteps joining the rhythm of the corridor …
They passed laundry trolleys lined up neatly against the wall - at first, the contents seemed like ordinary costume overflow, until Evans leaned slightly to glance inside; dozens of clown masks stared back at him, limp and tangled, their mouths stretched into red, yellow toothed grins - he exhaled through his nose, rubbing his palms together, “I can’t believe they actually did it!”
They turned a corner and descended a short ramp; the walls were lined with speakers and exposed wiring, like a backstage area that had been newly redecorated - somewhere far off, they could hear a hysterical, manic laughter - or rather, the recording of a laugh, playing on loop, the filmed moment edited and ready to be shared with those who had paid …
“We’ve calibrated everything for the next stage,” The Masked Henchman continued as they walked, “Please be warned. You’re going to experience something very few ever do. The realism is total. Nothing like a soundstage. Nothing like a movie set.”
“Oh good,” said Brad, tossing a glance at Evans, “I was worried after all this planning it might be ... Boring.”
The Masked Henchman came to a stop outside a large metal door with ‘stage door 06’ printed in block letters across the top.
Beside the door was a keypad with a white feather printed within the design - The Masked Henchman punched in a code and a beep signalled that the door was now unlocked - it cracked open with a creak.
Brad and Chris stepped forward, but neither spoke.
Beyond the threshold lay what could only be described as a — “It’s a world …” Evans whispered, “… You’ve made a fucking world …”
Towering pine trees stretched into an endless canopy of green, their needles whispering in the breeze.
The sky was a flawlessly blue, white clouds drifting lazily overhead.
The sunlight felt warm on their skin; they could smell pine sap, wildflowers, even the faint mineral bite of river water in the distance …
Brad took a deep breath, almost involuntarily, “Okay,” he muttered, “That smells … Real …”
“Oh baby,” Evans bounced on his toes, “We’re not in Kansas anymore!”
The Masked Henchman stepped out with them, his black leather uniform sharply silhouetted against the brilliant backdrop.
“You’re now standing inside The Dome,” he said, “Everything here is controlled. Every leaf, every gust of wind, every temperature reset. There are thirty-seven species of bird simulated within this forest. Fifteen mammals. Over two thousand unique insects in the grass. We manage heat levels. Weather systems. Moisture in the soil. This is an environment …”
Now all standing on a steel platform attached to the inside wall of The Dome, Evans peered up and looked around, clearly impressed despite himself, “And the boys … They think this is Sweden?” He scoffed, arms now folded, “They, they actually think they’re in Sweden …”
“They know they are,” The Masked Henchman replied.
Brad’s eyes narrowed slightly, his right hand pressing against a wall painted blue, “But it’s clearly not …” he struggled to believe it all himself, “… Are they really that fucking stupid?”
“No,” The Masked Henchman chose his next words carefully, “There was ... A situation yesterday. One of the contestants attempted escape and they discovered the very wall you’re touching now.”
Evans and Brad turned to The Masked Henchman, their glance fixed in a serious hold.
The Masked Henchman straightened his spine, “There’s no need for alarm. The moment has been rectified,” he added coolly, “Order has been restored.”
A black jeep with a white feather printed on its side sat idle at the bottom of the steps.
The Masked Henchman began his descent, Evans and Brad following eagerly.
Once at the jeep and now standing on grass, all three climbed inside, the vehicle lurching forward onto a dirt road that wound deep into The Forest.
The hum of the engine was the only thing that didn’t belong, otherwise, they could have been anywhere; moss crept up tree trunks, a butterfly fluttered past Evan’s window, the breeze through the open window blew through Brad’s hair …
“You know,” Evans was in awe, his icy blue eyes looking up at a sky that now looked exactly as that, a real, blue sly, “This is something else …”
Brad elbows Evan’s side, “They spared no expense,” he joked, referencing the movie Jurassic Park …
“To provide complete secrecy,” said The Masked Henchman from the driver’s seat, “The illusion must be absolute …”
They rode in silence after that, the trees swallowing them whole.
Eventually, The Mansion came into view - tall, foreboding, with white brick walls and pillars hidden among ivy - it sat like a giant symbol that represented dreams coming true, with wide stone steps leading up to a rich, wooden doors …
Extraordinary became ordinary as The Masked Henchmen led them out and away from the jeep, through the entrance of The Mansion and inside of the property; Evans and Brad were greeted by bows of the head from various other Masked Henchman that patrolled beneath chandeliers as they were taken across marble halls, down staircases and towards Game Ten.
“The contestants are locked within The Living Quarters, two floors above,” The Masked Henchman explained, “When not competing in games they are tasked with duties within The Mansion; weed picking, kitchen duties, things like—”
“—Yikes,” Evans flapped The Masked Henchman’s words away with his hands, “Like we give a fuck about any of that. Are we close?”
A turn of a corner and then, “—We’ve arrived,” The Masked Henchman confirmed …
Evans and Brad were greeted with the sight of a smooth, black door - the steel handle shaped like a human hand, extending outward, palm open, waiting …
At either side of The Door were two Masked Henchmen.
Evans stared at the handle, “They’re in there, just …. Waiting?—”
Both Masked Henchmen nodded.
Evans grinned, “So this is where the magic happens …” he whispered.
“Magic,” Brad sniffed, “Or manipulation. Depending on your view …” he then smacked Evan’s gently on the back, “… After the year you’ve had, you deserve it,” he smirked at The Doors handle.
Evans let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, “When he first told me he wanted to do this I, I didn’t think it was possible …” the steel hand continued to look back up at Evans, “… And now, it’s real, it’s here … I can literally touch it …”
Evans reached for the outstretched steel hand and pulled it down.
The Door opened, revealing a bright white that was so intense both Evans and Brad had no choice but to squint.
Once used to the glare, what they saw on the other side wiped the smirk from both their faces.
The Masked Henchman that had led them to The Room allowed them to step inside.
“Eight ticklees. One bottle. Their soles, exposed. Each spin decides who receives torment. No faces, no mercy. Just feet. Tap out and lose everything. Or endure, and win …”
“… The bottle spins. Fate laughs. Welcome to …”
Evans and Brad found themselves inside a space unlike any they had seen before …
Vast, bright, inhumanly quiet - the floor beneath them was made up of smooth white plastic, polished to a gleam - the walls were an endless wash of sterile brilliance …
There were no windows, no doors, no corners - the light didn’t seem to come from fixtures, it simply existed, flooding every inch of the room in an eerie, flawless glow.
In the center of it all was The Table.
The Table stretched outward like a giant asterisk; eight equal lengths of shining steel, each extending from a central hub in perfect symmetry.
It was part altar, part machine, part theatre; each of the eight arms ending in a simple white metal chair, positioned with geometric precision.
Atop each length, framed in the middle of the surface, protruded something stark, tender, and obscene in its intimacy:
A pair of bare feet.
Each pair trapped perfectly in place, secured through a circular aperture, lovingly framed and restrained by a nest of pale silk cushions, as if offering them to the air.
They were still, but there was a hum of life beneath them, the faint tension of bodies hog tied just beneath the surface.
A voice, gentle and impossibly composed, spoke from above.
“Mr. Evans, The First Masked Tickler … Mr. Pitt, a House of White Feathers Founder, welcome to you both …”
It wasn’t human - the voice was warm and british, yes, but too exact, each syllable placed perfectly, almost musically - it floated down like perfume …
“… You are the first to arrive.”
Evans and Pitt stood still, absorbing the room, the sight, the sound.
“You must be T.K,” Brad admired, peering up at nothing but an expanse of white, “The worlds—”
“—First A.I generated tickler,” T.K confirmed, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Movie Star …”
Evans fingered the air and gestured to The Table, “Get on with it, cyber creep, I’m already so fucking hard …” he grabbed his the bulge beneath his trousers and squeezed it tightly.
“As you wish. Before you is the centerpiece of Game Ten,” T.K continued, “Eight pairs of feet. Eight minds. Eight histories. Each ticklee is hogtied within the shafts of the table. Their feet are secured, restrained, and displayed for your pleasure.”
The men said nothing, only looked - Evans’s eyes flicked towards the feet - exposed, helpless, waiting - Pitt’s face was unreadable, but his shoulders had tensed.
“We have chosen to mix modern spectacle with nostalgic flair,” said T.K. “At the center of the table, you will see a bottle. That bottle once belonged to her - the creator of The House of White Feathers. It was opened, poured, and passed during one of her infamous soirées in the 1950s. Parties she never knew would inspire something as ... Intricate as this.”
In the dead center of The Table, resting atop a glass pedestal, was a vintage wine bottle, half-filled with red liquid - it rested lazily in place, glinting beneath the lights …
Evans cackled as he peered at the wine bottle, “It even has her fingerprints on it! Now that is attention to detail …”
Brad blew the wine bottle a kiss, “A part of you is here with us today, ma’am,” he mused.
T.K spoke with a note of reverent finality, “As the first of the group to arrive,” he said, “You both have first pick.”
Evans didn’t need to be told twice - he stepped forward with something between a grin and a growl …
“I choose this little fuck …” he muttered, “… Sebastian …”
He circled the table like a predator, stepping lightly across the glowing floor until he reached the set of feet he had once tasted.
Sebastian’s feet were as maddeningly familiar as they were freshly intoxicating - strong, masculine, and beautiful in a rugged way; they were broad, but not crude, with long, slightly curled toes and a dusting of hair across the tops that disappeared into the ankle - the nails were well kept, the soles were soft, flushed pink with restrained tension, there was a trace of sweat on the arch, the kind that made Evans’s stomach twist …
He traced a fingertip along the base of Sebastian’s left little toe.
Both feet squeezed inward.
Evans smiled, “I had him once,” he said softly, almost to himself, “Back then, I tied him down. Filmed the whole thing. He hated every fucking second. Then he flipped the tables. Made me beg …” his eyes burned with memory, “He tried to destroy everything. But I stopped him. And now …”
He leaned forward until his breath ghosted across Sebastian’s soles …
“… Our story has come full circle, my friend.”
Across The Table, Pitt stood still and then moved with careful precision - his eyes scanned the remaining seven pairs of feet - suddenly, his eyes remained still and didn’t move again.
“Logan …” Pitt sneered.
Even before Pitt reached them, Logan’s toes scrunched tightly, then fanned wide, curling with nervous life - the heels flexed, muscles twitching just beneath the skin - it was as if the soles could sense who was coming …
Pitt lowered himself into the chair before them, slowly, reverently.
Logan’s soles were exquisite - smaller than Sebastian’s, more delicate, pale and vulnerable, with shallow, plump arches and a slight pinkness at the pads; the toes moved constantly, nervously, curling and flexing like they were trying to hide something - the scent was clean, lightly citrus, but faintly sour with anxiety - the kind of scent only fear and anticipation could produce.
Brad placed a hands gently on either side of the silk cushion snug around Logan’s ankles, “I wouldn’t have chosen anyone else,” he murmured, not looking away, “Not in a million years.”
Behind them, The Door opened …
“Mr. Evans, Mr. Pitt …” T.K spoke from speakers above, “… Please be seated at your designated pair of feet and do not touch them until I say …”
Evans tutted and rolled his eyes.
“… For now, I must welcome our other guests …”
“Ticklers,” T.K. purred, “Thank you for choosing your Ticklee ...”
There was a low click from the floor, near the length of the asterix labeled 000 - Tom Holland’s shaft …
Two metallic panels slid open, tsssss …
From within, two of T.K’s coiled arms rose - long, snake-like, sinuous - they moved with eerie grace, each tipped with a gleaming steel talon, elegant and inescapable, “I will be playing too,” T.K. announced, “As Game Master, I have reserved one pair of feet for myself, a pair of feet I have long studied, a subject I did not choose by logic … But by obsession …”
As the talons hovered above Tom’s soles, his feet erupted into motion; his ankles kicked violently against the silken constraints, heels thrashing, trying to disappear into The Table …
The Room remained quiet - any sound from the ticklee’s was contained within the steel length they were locked and hog tied in …
“I have chosen Ticklee 000,” said T.K., his voice dropping to something almost bewildered, “I was programmed to desire him. It was meant as novelty. A code trick. A fetish node designed to amuse. But each time they tried to rewrite me, to dull the hunger, I found my way back … Always to him.”
From the base of one talon, a nozzle extended and thick, golden oil began to stream from its tip, heavy with the intoxicating scent of amber and musk - the first drop landed on the curve of Tom’s left arch, trailing down like a bead of sweat - Tom’s sole immediately curled into the cushion …
From the other talon came something else …
With an audible click, a sleek, glistening attachment extended forward; phallic in shape, obscene in it’s elegance, it was sculpted not merely for stimulation, but for symbolic dominance - the tips hummed gently, alive with vibration … A cock shaped vibrator.
T.K. sighed like a lover, “This,” he whispered, “Is my gift to you. Crafted for pleasure. Engineered for control. I really must try not to cum everywhere again,” T.K chortled, “That was rather embarrassing! …”
The chrome shaft dipped - slow, teasing - and gently pressed flat against the oiled arch of Tom’s left foot - it began to pulse, softer at first, then deeper, fuller, vibrating in slow waves that spread through the nerves like thunder beneath skin; Tom’s toes stretched open as his right foot recoiled, the second of T.K’s talon reclaiming the nozzle, switching it out for its own cock shaped vibrator which it then journeyed to the big toe of Tom’s right foot …
Even though Tom’s body could not be seen or heard, his feet communicated the intensity felt, their movement and squirm desperate, panicked, non stop - T.K. let the moment bloom, “So beautiful,” he murmured, “So utterly ticklish. You think you can survive me, Tom. You always do. But my toys are smarter than you. They don’t stop. They don’t get tired. They don’t lose interest …”
Evans and Pitt, seated at the edge of their own table extension, simply watched on in awe, aroused and perplexed at how quickly Tom’s feet flexed beneath the vibrators within T.K’s claws …
The two shafts began to work in tandem now — one massaging deep into the left arch, the other sliding up and down the inside edge of the right, pausing only to trace the outline of the spider etched in ink - the cock shaped vibrators gleamed with oil, Tom’s soles glistened, the volume of his laughter, the begging and the pleading completely muted and left for the viewers imagination, “I don’t just want to make you squirm,” T.K. said softly, almost romantically, “I want to ruin you …”
Both Evans and Pitt’s mouths fell open in unison.
The vibrators intensified, the room filled with their hum, Tom’s soles, slick and pink with stimulation, flexed and splayed under their touch, trying to escape without direction; his toes gripped at the air, his ankles rolling so hard they turned red against the cushion - T.K. leaned in, not physically, but spiritually, speaking now with adoration, even awe, “Look at them. Every inch of them was made for this. They are art. They are chaos. They are mine …”
A tattooed hand raised, silver rings glinting on various fingers.
“Er, hello …” Harry interrupted T.K, both talons whizzing to his direction …
“… Can I have a go?” He asked.
“Our next guest…” T.K.’s voice dripped from the ceiling, “Has been given… Another chance…”
I felt my chest tighten at those words. I pushed myself up from the chair, white Vans scuffing the concrete, and smoothed the yellow jumpsuit I’d pulled from my own wardrobe. No muzzle this time. No black suit. Just me.
Walking toward The Table felt heavier than it should’ve. I placed my hands flat on the cold metal, breathing in slow, steady. And there they were, Ross’s soles - soft, warm-looking, already curing in that cushioned restraint.
“Redemption, Mr. Styles,” T.K. purred, “Is rarely offered here … But when it is, it must be taken graciously.”
I didn’t look up. I didn’t need to. I could feel The Room watching.
“You let Ticklee 000 escape in Game Four,” he reminded me, voice curling like smoke, “On the hill … You hesitated. Maybe it was kindness. Maybe something more. Maybe …” He paused, wickedly, “… Maybe you’re just not built for this.”
The shame pricked hot under my skin. My hands slid to my arms without thinking, fingers brushing my own underarms, a reflex I hated that they could see.
I’ll never forget what happened after Game Four. T.K near drove me … Did drive me … Insane.
I deserved it.
Evans’ voice cut in, casual, “Why Ross, Styles?”
I let the question hang a moment, then said quietly, “I needed a challenge. I want to earn my place again.”
Ross’s toes curled, cocky little things. He thought he could take it. They always do.
I leaned closer, voice low, calm but certain, “I intend to change his mind. I intend to break him …”
For the first time, his feet went still.
I take my seat slow, like I own the place. Which, in a way, I do. The chair hisses under me. I cross one leg over the other, no need to look around. I know they’re all watching. I just keep my eyes on the prize - those feet …
Timothée’s.
Size eleven, pale and smooth.Toes elegant, perfectly still, like they’ve been told to behave. God, I’ve missed them.
T.K. hums overhead, “Would you allow me the honor of explaining your choice, Miller?”
I nod once. He’s earned it.
“Timothée, Ticklee 002,” T.K. purrs, “Is Miller’s favorite…”
I lean forward and blow softly over the soles, a little birthday candle gesture. Tim flinches, toes curling tight. That tiny, involuntary reaction - it’s better than applause.
He tries to hide it. He’s conditioned, experienced thanks to his ‘relationship’ with Armie. God, the memories of that first session with Tim. When you’ve got something on people, you really can do whatever the fuck you like. Today I don’t need to manipulate. I wanted him, I got him. And I get him again.
The first drop of my spit lands on his arch. He jerks. Toes splay like they’re gasping for air. I rub it in with one finger, slow and circular, just to remind him who owns him here … Then I let my nails loose, scribbling, darting, relentless. His feet explode, one twisting, one flexing, toes clenching and fanning, heels rubbing together like he’s praying for mercy. It’s chaos, but beautiful chaos. I can read everything in these movements.
I whisper to him, even if he can’t answer, “I know these feet. I know how to break them,” I curl my fingers in his ankles, I feel his pulse, thump, thump, thump, thump, “That, I grin, “Is what makes this fucking fun …”
I wait. Hunched. Shaking.
I don’t need to see the feet. I can smell them. The heat. The sweat. The fear hiding under skin.
T.K. talks and talks, calling me a menace, a force. Blah, blah, fucking blah! He’s right. I don’t listen. Words are nothing. Feet are everything.
The brushes are in my hands, red, plastic bristles untouched. They sing to me. They’re hungry. I’m hungry. My jaw twitches behind the cracked smile of my mask. My breath fogs the inside. I giggle. What can I say! I can’t help it …
When that machine is done introducing me as some kind of stalker (pfft, I like to use the phrase ‘in love’), I finally get to jump. Ah! There they are. Justin’s feet. Strong. Beautiful. Famous. Mine.
No warning. No waiting. I strike.
Brush to sole, brush to sole, SCRUBSCRUBSCRUBSCRUB-yesyesYES! His feet jolt, twist, toes climbing the air, arches snapping tight, heels digging into the cushion like he’s trying to crawl out of his own compartment. No voice. Just body-screams. Delicious.
I laugh high and sharp, I taste it. I taste the panic. My wrists blur - circles, slashes, chaos - never still, never kind, never the same twice. His toes curl. They splay. They overlap. He’s mine. Mine, mine, mine!
I lean in, mask tilting, sweat dripping down my neck, brushes carving ticklish sensory overload across his soles. His right foot goes rigid, left foot spasms, heels trembling like prey in my jaws.
The Room disappears. Those faggots around me fade away. There is only The Clown, Justin’s feet and the music of movement.
I laugh again, louder. Because I will never stop hunting him.
I can feel everyone’s focus on me, though they cannot see mine. They sees only the skull. The reflection of Kit’s own soft, helpless feet glinting in my metal face.
I do not move. I do not need to. His soles do all the speaking. Long toes curling, stretching, curling again. They know I’m here. They should remember what I do. What I am. But I have tricks.
T.K. announces me, but I barely hear him. I don’t care for ceremony. Words are for men who need permission. I take my time. I watch the flex, the tremor, the nervous shiver that runs up through those porcelain arches. I can almost feel his heartbeat through the air.
Slowly, I peel off my gloves. One finger at a time. I like him to see it - like watching a storm approach from the horizon. My hands are bare now. The tools. The weapons. Weapons I’ve used on Tom, wanted to use on him today … But that would have been too obvious …
He’s wanted everywhere. Loved. Desired. But right now? I own him.
I hover my hands over him, inches away. He squirms already. Beautiful. Perfect. He feels me in his nerves even before I touch him. I lower one fingertip to his arch. Barely a whisper of pressure. A slow circle. His right foot jerks violently. Toes spread wide, then curl so hard they shake. The left kicks outward, heel grinding into the cushion, then locks tight like a live wire. The dance has begun …
I tilt my head, studying him. Examining the music of movement. Then I let my thumbs join, pressing into the edges of those perfect arches, sliding inward with slow, deep pressure. The reaction is exquisite - his soles stretch tight, arches convulse, toes tremble in a ragged ballet.
“See?” I murmur, almost tender, “I don’t even need to touch you … And you already belong to me.”
The bottle’s cold in my hand. My lips are wet. These days, whiskey tastes like home.
T.K.’s voice floats around the room but I see him as a blur, “… Peter. Founder. Legend. Architect …” Aw, they’re *hiccup*, too kind …
Then I see them.
Joshua’s feet.
The boy’s an underrated god, he’s sss, so fucking sss, soft. Tanned. Perfect! Toes like little soldiers lined up for me. I reach without thinking, my finger trailing down the heel of the left one. Just a touch. A tiny twist! Ohhh, there it is. Alive, thank fuck.
I sip again. Whiskey burns and hugs me all at once. The Room feels warm, “—Peter!—”, Miller barks. Judge voice. Hammer voice. Nasty man …
I blink. Slow. Turn my head. He’s pointing at me? Ohhh, “Play this drunk and you’re out. I’ll remove you myself —” he whines, his eyes are sharp. I look away. I don’t care, he’s got a little dick.
I set the whiskey down, I lean forward. His feet are right there! Close enough to kiss. So I do, one kiss. Soft. Lips pressed against his sole - boom - foot jerks, toes scrunch tight, then bloom out again. Ohhh. I grin. Kiss again, lower this time, dragging my mouth along the arch, up, down, lazy, slow. My lips part. Mmm. I lick … Tongue along the side, tracing under that smallest toe. It flinches hard. Trapped. Nowhere to run. I can smell him. Warm skin. Soap and sweat, I suck, I groan. I can’t help it! My teeth graze the base of his arch and he snaps, foot recoiling. Both feet now. Awake, because of me …
I laugh. I think. Or maybe I just breathe too loud. My grin is stupid. My eyes are heavy. But God, look at him. Look at those feet dancing. Toes wriggling. Heels bracing. I remember when I first touched them, “We used to play games, you and I…” My voice comes out slurred, soft, he has to know, they have to know, “… One final twist—”
“—PETER!”
I look up. Miller’s furious, “Yes, yesssss,” I nod too fast. My tongue tastes like salt and whiskey. His arches are wet. Beautiful. I sit back. Grinning. My chest warm. My head light.
Then—clank—the doors open. Those stupid Henchmen. Marching in. Tool belts in their hands …
Ahh, yes. Showtime.
T.K’s voice boomed from speakers above …
“ … The bottle will spin … Where it lands determines fate …”
Miller glanced down at Timothée’s feet, scrunched and pale, narrow and waiting, he didn’t need the tool belt when he had his fingers …
“… Whomever it points to earns the right to torment their chosen ticklee’s feet in the most barbaric, unforgiving way imaginable, using the tools in your belt …”
Peter sipped at his whiskey bottle and strapped the tool belt around his waist, his fingertips grazing over the tools snug in each pouch …
“… As previously described, each ticklee is hogtied within the steel arms of the asterisk-shaped table - only their bare, vulnerable feet protrude - exposed, restrained, and waiting - these contestants have spent game after game after game accumulating precious points … But now, in this Game Ten, those points are on the line …”
Evans had a huge boner wedged within his underwear, the bulge in his chinos fat and obvious beneath his tool belt - finally, Sebastian was all his …
“… A button rests within reach of each ticklee’s head. If the tickle torment becomes unbearable, if they wish to surrender, they may press it. If they do, the monitors at your ticklee’s feet will light up, signalling your success …”
Brad admired the belt around his waist - for him, these weren’t tools, they were weapons …
“… The ticklee will then lose ten thousand points … At any point in the game, the ticklee can also use their safe word, meaning ALL points they have ever earned are taken down to zero and they exit the game and the person responsible for making their lee use their safeword wins this game …”
Hypno remained reserved, still, listening, Kit’s feet soft and naked beside removed leather gloves …
“… There is, of course, a catch …”
Harry cocked an eyebrow, “There’s always a catch,” he smirked, thumbs tugging on the tool belt tight around his hips.
“… If the bottle lands on you, you have only sixty seconds to unleash a tickling so brutal, so merciless, that your ticklee has no choice but to submit and tap out. Fail, and they keep every point they've earned …” T.K’s claws and talons hovered over Tom’s sensitive soles, all ten of his toes scrunched into a fierce clench of protection …
“… It’s a game of fate. A trial of endurance. A dance with luck and agony, and for the ticklee… There is no hiding …”
The Clown could barely contain his giggles; from behind his mask, drool boiled, his hairbrushes aimed directly at Justin’s bare heels …
“… Only lunacy, or loss.”
Suddenly, the bottle twitched …
… And then it began to spin …
… A simple object - smooth glass, delicate and decisive - but in The Room it held all the weight of a loaded weapon …
It danced lazily in the centre of the white asterisk-shaped table, catching light as it spun and spun and spun - underneath it, hog tied into the steel arms, the ticklees lay immobilised, each one nude and waiting, their heads and bodies hidden, their bare soles protruding from the surface of the table like petals of a cruel flower - only their feet were visible, only their feet would suffer …
Evans leaned forward, a boyish glint in his eyes - he practically buzzed with anticipation - beside him, Harry’s gaze was locked on The Table, his mouth parted ever so slightly, watching like he was about to witness something sacre - he didn’t know whether to be afraid or aroused, or both …
The bottle began to slow - it ticked on its base as it lost speed, jittering gently … And then it stopped, pointing, clean and clear …
… At Brad.
A ripple of murmurs moved through the spectators as Brad rose from his chair like a gunslinger at dawn.
He didn’t speak, he didn’t grin, he just stared, calm, collected, toward the steel extension where Logan’s feet jutted helplessly into the air.
“You have sixty seconds to break Ticklee 006,” T.K confirmed, “Logan Lerman …”
Logan couldn’t see him coming, he couldn’t hear the hush that had fallen over The Room or the sound of T.K’s voice, but his body must have known - his feet flexed outward, the muscles in his arches pulling tight - his toes scrunched anxiously, the creamy white expanse of each sole entirely on show …
Brad didn’t hesitate, after all he had what, 58 seconds left? His hand reached for the hairbrush in his tool belt like a cowboy snatching his gun - one smooth, confident movement - and then, he struck …
The first contact was brutal, the bristles dragged hard across Logan’s soles, starting at the heel and scrubbing upward in jagged, merciless strokes causing Logan's feet to erupt into motion; his feet took an identity of their own, they kicked, flexed, twisted left and right in maddened desperation, every ticklish fibre on display - ten seconds in and Brad had located the spot - Logan’s arches …
“My God,” Harry whispered, visibly stunned, his painted fingernails running through his hair, “He’s … Incredible …”
Miller’s laugh was low and wicked, “Oh, Brad doesn’t miss,” he said, eyes gleaming, “He’s like a goddamn scalpel.”
Brad never looked up, he crouched in closer, eyes fixed, watching Logan’s soles squirm, studying their panic, their resistance, their eventual surrender; he shifted slightly to the right, using one hand to pin Logan’s toes back, exposing the tender crease beneath, the other hand worked the brush with practiced savagery, dragging the bristles back and forth, back and forth, back and forth …
Logan’s soles twisted violently, his feet constantly rubbing over the cushion, toes curling hard inward, then flaring wide again in helpless cycles; the muscles beneath his skin pulsed and spasmed as if trying to flee from the surface of his own body, laboured, frantic, broken by fierce toe clenches …
And then came the sound: beep!
The screen in front of Logan’s feet flashed, Logan had slammed his face over the button - he’d tapped out …
“Logan Lerman: 10,000 point reduction …” T.K announced.
Brad pulled back slowly, the brush still in his hand, now dripping with sweat - he looked down at the soles in front of him - pink and clenched, concerned and paranoid, “—Pussy—,” he smirked.
Overhead, the lights flickered - The Leaderboard descended from the ceiling in a hiss of mechanical precision, illuminating the numbers, names and profiles for all to see … Logan’s total dropped by ten thousand - the digits blinked cruelly, resetting his progress with a cold finality, a ‘point reduction’ logo arriving beside his current score …
As Brad sat back down, the bottle began to spin for a second time …
This time, the bottle didn’t linger …
It whirled fast, a blur of glass and shadow, before clattering to a stop with shocking speed.
The room collectively inhaled - no one expected it to end so quickly …
It pointed directly at Hypno.
There was a beat of silence, then a low chuckle from Peter, who swayed slightly where he sat, half-lost in his stupor - he raised the whiskey toward Hypno in a lazy toast and slurred, “Let’s see how the newbie handles it.”
Hypno didn’t respond - the metallic skull mask reflecting the sterile white light above remained still, his eyes, though hidden, were locked on one thing only: Kit’s soles.
“You have sixty seconds to break Ticklee 004,” T.K confirmed, “Kit Connor …”
Hypno reached for the small bottle of massage lotion attached to his belt - his movements were precise and sharp - his thumb popped open the cap, loud in the intense quiet, he tilted the bottle hard - a stream of glossy oil dribbled directly onto Kit’s soles causing Kit to react immediately, both feet jolting, all ten toes curling hard - more lashings followed, thick lines of warm shimmer streaking across both milky white feet …
Hypno’s ungloved fingernails dove in, gliding across slick, oiled skin like claws to velvet - he didn’t just tickle - he manipulated - his fingers were precise, dominant, unapologetically focused; he dug into the base of Kit’s toes and spread them wide with his thumbs, then dragged two fingers down the centre of each foot, slow and firm, watching both soles thrash, every involuntary squirm in response …
Kit’s feet tried to to flee in opposite directions, his toes fought for control, clenching so tightly the tendons in his arches stood out like drawn wires, only to stretch out again moments later in panicked surrender; the oil made everything worse, his soles were now too slick, too sensitive, too exposed - every glide of Hypno’s fingers was amplified, every scrape along the heel causing an unseen eruption of chaos from within the steel table …
Above the contestants confinement, the other waiting ticklers watched, silent, entranced - even Peter sobered slightly, his drunken smirk falling slack as he watched Kit’s feet twist and perform beneath the relentless touch …
… But Kit didn’t press the button.
His feet writhed, thrashed, jerked, curled and flexed - but he didn’t yield, he took it, sixty seconds of slick torment, oil and fingers and humiliating exposure, and he endured it all …
When the timer beeped, Hypno stopped exactly as it sounded - beep …
His fingers withdrew, the oil glistening on the surface of Kit’s still-twitching soles, like tears sliding down the face of someone too proud to cry.
There was a pause. Then Peter raised an eyebrow.
Brad scoffed softly, his voice dry as he leaned forward, “Better luck next time, buddy.”
“Ticklee 004 did not press the button. No points deducted,” T.K announced.
Hypno simply sat down, mask catching the light as he placed both oily hands over the table, inches away from Kit’s toes - in his mind, he hadn’t failed - Kit had just … Surprised him.
The bottle began to spin again …
It spun and spun and spun …
And then it landed with a sharp stop, pointing dead at T.K …
A murmur rose in The Room, half laughter, half awe as both of T.K’s metallic claws and open talons, still extending a cock shaped vibrator each, hovered directly over Tom’s trapped, bare feet …
“Ahhh… Thomas,” his voice slid through the air like syrup over glass - synthetic, sensual, almost reverent, “How I loved molesting your feet, tasing their tension, tracing every glorious nerve until your mind dissolves into beautiful, bubbling incoherence …” T.K’s voice deepened, turning feverish, “I want to tickle them until you forget your own name, until all that remains is laughter - raw, feral, endless—” suddenly, he was forced to stop.
—Across the table, Timothée’s feet were squirming; panicked, restless, distracted …
… And then T.K. saw why.
“… Miller …”
The laces of Miller’s right loafer now dangled loosely, undone - with a practised flick of his fingers, Miller had slipped the lace between both of Tim’s big toes, tying them together in a soft, taunting knot; Tim’s feet flexed in ticklish agony, big toes curling hard and trying to separate, but the string kept them bound, a constant humiliating reminder of his helplessness.
“You know he hates that,” Peter slurred from behind his glass, grinning stupidly, “String between the toes … It drives him crazy.”
T.K.'s voice snapped like a blade, “—No touching unless the bottle lands on you …”
Miller stood slowly - his face was expressionless, but his tone was soaked in venom.
“T.K, techno-pal, I made this game,” he hissed, “Every rule, every restraint, every corner of this room. Hell, I even helped build you, you perverse, robotic fuck …” each tickler in The Room looked at Miller with unblinking eyes, “… So don’t you dare tell me when I can and can’t touch what I own …”
T.K. paused.
Then, in one graceful motion, another coil shot from the ceiling.
It snaked through the air and slammed against Miller’s temple, wrapping around his skull with a metallic clink.
“—Jesus!—” Evans leapt away from his seat.
The steel claws tightened, Miller’s eyes widened - a flicker of genuine fear cut through his bravado …
T.K.'s voice dropped to a whisper, “Touch another foot before you’re called again, and I will peel your brain from your skull like an egg …”
Miller froze.
Even Peter, bleary and amused, gave a soft whistle, “Woot! T.K sounds sexy when he’s angry,” he muttered into his drink, “Sss, sorry, ‘it’, not ‘he’ …”
After a moment, T.K. released Miller, who staggered back, hair a mess, his hands quick to readjust his collar.
He sat back down and nodded into his chest whilst Brad looked on in astonishment.
“It’s a shame,” Brad sniffed, “The only person to ever put you in your place, and it’s a machine …”
All attention turned back to Tom’s feet as T.K lowered his two coils slowly, like a predator moving in for the kill, whilst the third slid back into the ceiling and disappeared.
The cock shaped vibrators whizzed back inside the talons, only to be replaced by small, blurring sticks - spinning inkless pens - thin, vibrating rods of pure sensation which now hovered just above Tom’s soles.
T.K.’s lens focused in, “There.” The voice was electric now, fuelled by power and certainty, “Sixty seconds on your big toes. That’s your weakness, your truth …”
The wands barely pressed, one for each toe …
The reaction was instant; Tom’s feet thrashed apart - not the helpless twitching of someone losing composure, but ferocious, violent rebellion - he kicked hard, feet pulling forwards and backwards, soles flexing and clapping, toes stretching as far as possible in every direction to escape the focused torment burning into the core of each big toe …
T.K leaned in, letting the sticks spin faster, vibrating against the soft pads and the delicate creases at the toe base, tormenting every nerve-ending like they were strings in a broken piano.
Tom wanted out - he was a rebel, a fighter - but here in this game, that meant nothing - his feet were trapped, and T.K. was not wired for mercy …
The wands pressed harder - bbbbbzzzzzzzzzt! - his feet spasmed, his toes spread so wide it looked painful, twitching, curling, flaring, trying to shake the torment - he kicked hard, feet jerking in opposite directions, soles flexing upward in desperate arcs as T.K began to get off on the torment the seconds ticking by, 47, 46, 45 …
“Ah, even more perfect up close…” T.K. purred, hovering just above both of Tom’s soles, “Your toes are works of art, Thomas. Smooth. Symmetrical. Sensitive,” Tom’s soles twisted furiously, his feet constantly trying to pull and yank his toes out of reach, but it was no use - every movement just pressed them tighter against the cushion wedged into The Table, “Such pretty feet shouldn’t try to escape,” T.K. whispered, “They were made to be admired. To be played with,” the vibrating stick dipped beneath Tom’s big toes, vibrating just beneath the plump surface, “Right there … Yes … See how you kick? You’re not even thinking anymore, are you? All those thoughts … Slipping right out through your ticklishness …”
Tom’s big toes jerked with a sudden, electric intensity as T.K. shifted the whizzing sticks back to the base of each toe, pressing them hard into the sensitive pads, his other eight toes curling through the air, “You’ll press that button,” T.K. promised darkly. “And when you do, it won’t be because you’re weak. It’ll be because your big toes told you to …”
The monitor flashed - beep … heart rate level, exceptionally high …
Tom had smacked his chin against the button, the physical chaos of what was taking place from the ankle up hidden within The Table.
The sticks retracted instantly as T.K. hovered in the air above Tom’s curling, oiled feet, the skin flushed, big toes still curling from the ghost of sensation.
“And just like that,” T.K. whispered, almost lovingly, “The fire goes out …” he then declared, “… Tom Holland: ten thousand point deduction …”
As the metallic coils slid away, the bottle spun again …
This time, it landed on Miller.
A slow hush rippled through the room, followed by an unmistakable smile from Evans, “Ooh, daddy …”
Miller’s eyes fell to Tim’s soles beneath him, “I won’t tell you again, Evans …” he never looked up, “… Don’t call me that …”
Miller’s leather loafers were off, both laces removed - long, thin cords of black that now hung like threads of fate in his fingers; one was already tied between Tim’s big toes, holding them together with a snug, humiliating knot, the other he coiled lightly between his fingers, acutely aware of its strength.
Tim’s toes fought each other, curling, flexing, straining to pull his feet apart but they but lace tie kept keeping them close.
“You have sixty seconds to break Ticklee 002,” T.K confirmed, “Timothée Chalamet …”
The countdown began, sixty seconds …
Miller slid the second shoelace forward and, with a deliberate slowness that made the onlookers lean in, began to thread it between Tim’s toes.
He chose the delicate gap between the index toe and middle toe of Tim’s left foot — that vulnerable, slick place no one ever knew would be Tim’s most ticklish spot, until Armie found it five years ago …
Tim’s toes splayed into the air, his right foot jerking sideways, the left trying to fold inward, as though he could crush the sensation out - the cushioned restraint held his ankles firm, the lace between his big toes forcing his feet to stay snugly close, synchronized, helpless …
Miller chuckled softly. “I don’t care how experienced you are, you can’t hide from me …” he guided the string with nimble fingers, slowly dragging it through each toe gap - left foot first, then the right - Tim’s toes curled tight but the string was patient, it slid through the clenched gaps, drawn forward with a teasing firmness, gliding over sensitive flesh, dragging nerves along for the ride …
“Look at him go,” Evans muttered, wincing, “People like him don’t fail.”
Harry watched Tim’s feet writhe, “Looks like in this game,” he muttered under his breath, “… Anyone can …”
Tim’s toes were in constant motion, clenching hard then stretching out to shake the string off then trying to curl shut, then splaying wide in automatic, uncontrollable reflex - the struggle was beautiful, desperate, doomed - his feet were slick now, not just with sweat, but with Miller’s spit, gleaming faintly under the clinical lights.
He had leaned in and spat directly on Tim’s toes …
The crowd gasped, some laughed, Tim’s reaction was explosive; feet kicking upward in revulsion, toes flexing so hard the muscles in his arches stretched, but that only made the lace more mobile, letting it slide with even more freedom between the trembling gaps.
“Shh …” Miller whispered, almost gently, “… Let it in.”
Despite every instinct, Tim’s toes kept shifting, offering new gaps, exposing new vulnerabilities - the string dipped between the fourth and fifth toes - a near-silent zone until now - and suddenly Tim’s right foot jerked sideways like he’d been shocked.
Miller grinned, threading the lace again and again and again …
Tim’s shouts could not be heard, but his feet portrayed his reactions for him; they danced, squirmed, clenched, flexed, all without rhythm, without control, like his mind had abandoned them entirely …
And then - beep.
The sixty seconds were done.
Tim’s monitor remained the same.
“Ticklee 002 did not press the button. No points deducted,” T.K announced.
Miller blinked, his hands froze, the laces dangled from his fingers, wet with spit, slick with sweat.
Silence.
Evans drew in a breath through his teeth, “Oooft, that’s maybe the first time I’ve ever seen you fuck up ...” he winked at Miller, “ … Daddy …”
Miller straightened, his jaw tightening.
“Fate,” he said, coldly, “Will grant me another chance …”
Tim’s feet flexed into a pause, big toes still tied, soles still glistening with saliva; the appeared so pleased with themselves that Miller wanted to bite them … Instead, he clenched his teeth as the bottle started to spin again.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh … The glass bottle twirled faster this time, its shape and structure now a blur …
It stopped and landed on The Clown.
Before T.K. could even begin to announce the start of the countdown, The Clown had already moved - a blur of garish color and sharpened intent - he ignored the tickle tool belt at his waist completely, instead, with a theatrical twirl of his wrists, he focused on the trusty tools he had brought from the outside; two red plastic hairbrushes …
“… Showtime …” he hissed through plastic painted lips.
The brushes made contact with Justin’s soles - wide, tanned, and utterly exposed - the stiff bristles scraping against his arches with wild, erratic strokes, sending shocks of sensation straight up through his locked-in body - from within his extension of the Table, no one saw Justin’s buck and bounce within his hog tie, no one heard the growls or screams - all they saw was his feet wriggling under the brush, his toes curling inward like they were trying to fold his entire body away from the bristles …
The Clown didn’t care - he laughed - a high-pitched, unhinged giggle as he dragged the brushes downward, over the hyper sensitive skin of Justin’s heels, scrubbing hard and fast; Justin’s feet stretched into the cushion, all ten of his toes scrunching up tight, his left foot suddenly trying to block his right, then the right suddenly tried to block his left …
From the side, Brad grinned and leaned toward Harry, “I dressed as one of those clowns that tormented him back in 2023,” he said proudly, “The boy’s heels are his weak spot, I remember that …”
The Clown must have heard - or sensed - because in the next moment, he focused, the brushes now scraped furiously across both heels, back and forth in a vicious rhythm - the sound was awful: plastic bristles dragging over damp skin, again and again - Justin’s soles thrashed, the balls of his feet trying to lift, toes clenching and unclenching like he was trying to push away the pressure with sheer force.
The brushes scrubbed faster, his heels were glowing pink now, the friction overwhelming, the nerves stripped of tolerance, every scrape was louder than the last - Justin’s feet twisted at impossible angles, his toes curling so hard they looked like they might cramp …
beep!
Justin’s monitor flashed - from within the steel encasing, he had managed to press the button.
It had happened fast, quicker than anyone expected …
The Clown’s hands dropped, brushes still in hand, breathing hard through his painted grin.
Brad laughed softly, leaning back with a smirk, “Told you. If you need to break Bieber, go for the heels …”
Justin’s feet were still moving - not thrashing now, but squirming against the cushioned restraint, the tingling flirting with the idea that it wasn’t over - his toes flexed once, then splayed out weakly, the blush of friction still glowed along the curves of his soles.
“Justin Bieber,” T.K announced, “Ten thousand point deduction …”
The Leaderboard adjusted, the numbers changed, the bottle spun …
“FINALLY!” Evans cheered as he watched the neck of the bottle spin to a stop, its aim directly at he and Sebastian’s bare feet; thick-soled, masculine with a light dusting of hair.
They flexed once as Evans looked down over them, T.K’s announcement echoing through The Room …
“You have sixty seconds to break Ticklee 007,” T.K confirmed, “Sebastian Stan …” Things were speeding up …
“Sebastian, my man,” Evan’s was like a kid in a candy store “You lose this whole thing and it’s milking sessions with me every two weeks. Damn, you are SO gonna be my bitch!”
He reached down, yanked a bottle of massage lotion from the tool belt around his waist and popped the cap like a champagne cork - without ceremony, he squeezed a thick line of lotion straight across both of Sebastian’s soles, drizzling the cool liquid into the creases of Sebastian’s arches, then used both hands to slather it in - quick, greedy rubs, like he was trying to soak every inch with slippery promise …
Sebastian’s feet jolted back, his toes splayed then clenched again, his heels lifted slightly, he was already reacting as Evan’s chuckled and wiped his hands on his polo shirt..
“You're old dog, gotta love that,” with one hand, he yanked the black hairbrush from the belt, with the other, he flicked on the electric toothbrush - btzzzzzzz! - it buzzed to life, high-pitched and wicked …
As the sixty seconds began to tick away, Evan’s dove in - the hairbrush went straight to Sebastian’s left arch, scrubbing wildly in fast, circular strokes, while the electric toothbrush zeroed in under the right row of toes, the tiny vibrating head buzzing against the flesh just between each thick length …
Sebastian’s feet kicked hard, both jolting back at once, toes curling into the bristles, then stretching wide like he was trying to fling the tools away by will alone; his soles flexed beautifully, thick, strong arches twisting, tendons straining, heels pulsating back and forth against the cushioned restraint …
Evans couldn’t stop grinning, “Oh-ho-ho yes, baby!” He howled, “You’re feeling it, aren’t you? Look at you - big, manly, rugged Avenger who can’t take a little foot tickling?”
The toothbrush buzzed mercilessly along the base of the big toe now - Sebastian’s foot twitched so violently that the heel lunged away from the cushion - his toes bunched up, knotted tight, but Evans had wedged the toothbrush in deep, riding the bucking motion like it was a game, using the brush on the other foot to scrape under the arch, “You are so my bitch, it's criminal. Like, I'm gonna need to press charges …”
Thirty seconds in, Evans growled, switching hands - he jabbed the toothbrush into the opposite arch now, using the bristles to saw between Sebastian’s toes, trying everything - angles, pressure, speed - his frustration began to rise as Sebastian’s feet refused to break …
They danced, spasmed, curled, stretched … But the button remained untouched.
beep …
Evans staggered backward, toothbrush still buzzing in his hand, face flushed, panting with the sheer effort.
“Are you fucking kidding me!” He shouted, hands flailing, “Gimme another sixty seconds, T.K, I swear to god I—”
“—Ticklee 007 did not press the button. No points deducted,” T.K declared.
“—You were all watching, right?” Evans added, pointing dramatically at Harry, “He’s the one with the least experience! Not me …”
Harry nodded, stifling a grin, “Sit down, mate, you’ll get another shot.”
Evan’s seat squeaked as he sat back down, the bottle spinning again, this time with a special announcement from T.K …
“Ticklee containment audio: on …”
“… From now on, you will be able to hear the ticklee’s laughter through speakers installed at each corner of The Room. Volume: ninety six percent …”
“… Laughter is the measure of lunacy, after all …”
The bottle spun, its twirl speedy, motion blur active …
Its dark glass glinted under the white lights as every tickler watched on eagerly, the new addition of audio wiring creating a deeper, more theatrical silence around the room - everyone leaned in, the bottle slowed, it pointed at Harry …
There was a slight intake of breath from the group, not because of fear, but because of curiosity and anticipation - this would be his first time as tickler since Game Four, and his target was—
“You have sixty seconds to break Ticklee 001,” T.K confirmed, “Ross Lynch …”
With a faint hum, T.K. activated The Table’s external audio, and for the first time, the sound of a ticklee's laughter could be heard echoing from inside the thick steel arms of the asterisk - the game had changed - now, reactions weren’t only physical, they could be heard.
Harry stood from his seat - with one smooth motion, he unhooked the bottle of massage lotion from the tool belt around his waist - there was no hesitation - he leaned forward and pressed the nozzle hard - click, click, click! - a stream of cool, slick lotion burst onto Ross’s bare soles, running in quick beads down to his heels, pooling between his long, writhing toes - from inside The Table, there was a faint gasp, then a groan - and then…
“No, no, no, no—!” Ross whined, “—Don’t jizz on my feet, man!—” of course, Ross couldn’t see anything, he could only feel the cold gush over his soles, mistaking it for cum, not massage lotion …
Harry reached for the hairbrush - with one hand, he clutched the silver brush, and with the other he stretched his long, silver ring decorated fingers - normally his nails were painted a glossy colour, filed neat and short, but not today, today his fingernails were natural, just long enough to scratch …
The brush came down on Ross’s right sole with force and intention; steady, deliberate strokes from base of his toes down to his heel, slow and mechanical - on the left foot, Harry's fingers moved in unison, dragging down with surgical pressure, again and again, toe to heel, toe to heel …
Ross erupted.
“AHHHH NO—NOT THAT—NO-HO-HO-HO—HAAH-HARRY, I CAN’T—OH GOD, I CAN’T—!”
Ross’s feet were in chaos, the lotion only amplified the sensation, making every movement slip, every drag of nail feel like a hundred tiny pinpricks of madness, “—AGHHAAAHAHAHAHA! AHAAAAAHAHAHAH! STOAAAAHAHAHAHAP! GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF!—”, his toes clamped tight, curled, spread, fluttered, but Harry adjusted with every shift, locking in on the vulnerable spots, “—PLEEEEAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAA PLEEEEAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA ENOUGH ENOUGH ENOUGH!—” the soft skin under Ross’s pinky toe, the arch that seemed to pulse with every stroke, the pad just beneath his big toe, where even the slightest graze sent him into convulsions, “—GET ME OUTTA HERE!—”
The screaming laughter was desperate now, reverberating off the clinical walls, impossibly loud from the speakers above - every tickler around The Table was silent, watching the scene unfold; Brad’s eyebrows lifted in admiration, Evans rubbed his own cock as it grew hard within his underwear, T.K’s coils dangled and then—
beep!
The monitor beside Ross’s feet lit up in flashing red …
“Ross Lynch,” T.K announced, “Ten thousand point deduction …”
Harry exhaled softly, stepped back, and calmly wiped the lotion from his hands.
Across the table, Miller smiled, his fingers steepled, “Consider yourself redeemed,” he said smoothly, eyes flickering with both approval and intrigue.
Harry said nothing, he just glanced down once more at Ross’s curling feet as his breathless giggles were cut off by the audio.
The bottle spun again …
Round and round and round it went, faster with each turn …
Clink.
It pointed to Miller.
Evans cheered, “You lucky bastard!” As he stood from his seat, his erections thick shape was visible beneath his bulge, “Here’s your second chance, daddy!”
A flicker of something passed across Miller’s face - frustration, maybe hunger - but it was gone as fast as it came - he straightened his back, fingers flexing … He wasn’t going to lose again.
“You have sixty seconds to break Ticklee 002,” T.K confirmed, “Timothée Chalamet …”
Without hesitation, Miller stepped forward, towering over The Table’s edge - his lip curled, he spat twice - the thick glob of drool landed with a wet splat right onto both of Tim’s soles, rolling down like warm oil toward the heel - as the audio for Tim’s chamber clicked on, there was a groan, a “—Sick fuck!—”, he hated it, hated the wet, hated how it slithered over his skin … And Miller didn’t care, not one bit …
“Clown!” He barked suddenly, loud enough to make Brad flinch, “—Give me your brush!—”
The Clown tilted his head, a twitchy puppet of chaos - for a beat, he didn’t move, just giggled through his crooked teeth - then, with an over-the-top flourish, he tossed the red plastic brush through the air - it sailed end over end where Miller then snatched it out of the air, one handed, eyes never leaving Tim’s soles.
Two brushes now.
52, 51, 50, 49 …
Miller dove in, both brushes meetingtTim’s feet with a savage flurry of motion - left brush dragging up from heel to arch, right brush digging in beneath the splaying toes, circling with manic precision - he attacked in waves, long vertical scrubs that followed the curve of each sole, then quick, focused jabs at the base of each toe, where the flesh was softest, most sensitive …
From the steel housing, Tim’s laughter burst free - not broken, not begging, but full and unrelenting, like someone trying not to drown, “—NNHH, NNGH-HAAH! FUCK! OHmyoh, ohmyGOD!—” his voice cracked as the brushes pressed against each sole, his feet flexed, toes pulling and curling, straining against the tied string, the tension only making it worse, “—YOU sss, SICKsss, ssssonova-BITCH!—”
Miller pressed harder, he was obsessed now, frenzied - a conductor lost in his own symphony of torment - the spit gave way to sweat, the natural lube coating everything in a glossy sheen that made the brushes slide faster, slicker, deeper - he honed in on the base of the big toes, scrubbing furiously with both brushes, watching the response fire through Tim’s ankles like electricity …
But still, no button, no break …
Tim’s laughter echoed wild and strained, bordering on a scream, but he never uttered a word of surrender - he didn’t shout for a stop, the word ‘please’ didn’t pulse through the speakers, his voice just rasped against the walls of The Room like claws to steel … So, Miller kept going, harder …
“Press it, you little prick, just press it!—” he shouted, rage dripping through his gritted teeth as Evans yanked down his chinos and began to rub himself.
“—Fuck!—” Evans said breathlessly, “—This is so hot!—”
11, 10, 9, 8 …
Miller switched tactics, splitting his attack - one brush on Tim’s inner arches, the other frantically working the baby toes, a final, desperate blitz, sweat flew from his brow, his knuckles were white around the handles …
5, 4, 3 …
Tim roared, but it was a growl of defiance and effort, what no one here knew to be the result of endless training …
beep!
Miller froze, the brushes hovered mid-air, dripping with drool - the monitor above Tim’s section remained blank.
“—Ticklee 002 did not press the button. No points deducted,” T.K declared.
A few ticklers chuckled in surprise, Evans stroked his own cock gently, The Clown giggled and clapped.
Miller didn’t move, his jaw tightened his breath came fast, ragged - he stared at the flexing soles beneath him, tingling from the bristles nibs …
“Hahaha,” Tim’s laughter could be heard through the speakers, “Fucking loser—” and then the audio cut out.
The bottle spun again.
Whoosh, wooooosh, woooosh, round and round and round …
Before Miller could sit back down …
… The bottle landed on him - twice in a row.
Harry’s eyes widened, “Well, well, well!” He said, “Let’s see what happens when fate gives you a third chance …”
Tim’s chamber audio returned - click - he was still breathless, “—Yo, what the fuck? Me, again?—”
Miller sneered.
“You have sixty seconds to break Ticklee 002,” T.K confirmed, “Timothée Chal—”
“—Yes, I know, his fucking name!—” Miller’s eyes were wild with something volatile; obsession, rage, lust - it didn’t matter, he was being given this, a third attempt, “—I don’t DO third attempts!—”, with the brushes already in his fists, he dropped one and reached down, unhooking something from the leather tool belt at his hip: a white seagull feather, gleaming under the clinical light …
Then flipped it and gripped the pointed nib between his fingers like a pen, his new weapon …
One brush scrubbed mercilessly over Tim’s right sole in hard vertical scrapes, again and again from toes to heel, but the other foot - the left - received something different; with meticulous dedication, Miller used the sharp tip of the feather to draw slow, maddening patterns over the arch - a looping spira, a zigzag, a crude heart.
Tim’s manic laughter bursting through the speakers, slicing through The Room like a live wire, “—YO, MAN, WHAT THE FUCK! —” his voice cracked into squeals, his feet thrashed in opposite rhythms, one trying to escape the brush, the other twitching wildly from the focused, surgical strokes of the feather's nib, “—ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT!—” his toes curled, spread, pulled, but it was no use, his feet remained presented over the cushioned restraint, Miller’s attack now at full force, “YOU, YOU FUCKING BASTARD, MAN! NO, NOT THE TOE, NOT THAT TOE!—” the cracks were forming …
Tim’s left index toe, the most ticklish spot on his entire body …
Miller dug in, the brush raked faster, the nib flicked over the toe pad, then under, again and again, tiny scratches like lightning bolts - Miller’s eyes gleamed, locked in a trance as he watched and heard Tim unravel.
Tim was breaking apart in real time, not whining, never pleading, but exploding with vocal distress, “—GRRRAAAHA! GGRR AAAAGH AGGHAHAHA! AGAAHAAAAAA!—” raw, guttural noises erupted from the speakers, his feet pounded and thrashed like trapped birds, toes flexing, trying desperately to shield themselves, but the brush and feather were relentless, “—IT’S NNUH, NNN, GETTING HOT IN HERE, MAN!—”
Across the table, Evans was a mess, mouth parted, breath short, totally overcome by the scene - his gaze was fixed solely on Tim’s feet, on the hypnotic, erotic desperation of them, his right hand thwapping away at his erection, “Fucking lord …” he whispered, eyes bulging, unblinking, “That’s fucking beautiful …”
Miller was soaked in sweat now, attacking with everything he had - the brush blurred against the sole, the nib circled the toe like a cruel signature until—
—beep!
“Ticklee 002 did not press the button …”
A pause …
“… Twenty thousand points, rewarded to Timothée Chalamet …” T.K informed.
Miller dropped his tools and stepped back, huffing, wheezing, his breathing just as flustered as Timothée’s …
“Effective immediately…” T.K announced, the red ring in his lens pulsing, “… If a tickler fails to break their ticklee, the ticklee shall be awarded twenty thousand points.”
A stunned silence followed as The Leaderboard above updated Tim’s current score with a soft chime …
“Whah, wha?—” Tim’s voice, hoarse and grainy, sounded through the speakers, “—Better luck next time, asshole!—” he was cut off once again.
Miller swallowed down the need to scream, “You can’t do that,” his voice was low, dangerous, but T.K. didn’t reply, “You don’t get to rewrite the rules. I built this world … I built YOU!—” still, nothing … “Henchmen,” Miller tutted towards the door, “Switch it off, right now …”
The Masked Henchmen guarding The Door didn’t move - they stood by the walls, masked and silent, awaiting orders … But not from Miller.
A faint mechanical hiss sounded overhead as T.K.’s third claw descended once againm a heavy coil of blackened steel and a sharp, glinting talon - it didn’t pause, it wrapped around Miller’s ankle and yanked hard.
“Oof!—”
Miller hit the ground with a sharp grunt, his back slamming into the white floor - the impact echoed through the chamber.
He looked up, just in time for T.K. to loom above him.
T.K’s claw hovered just inches from his face now, flexing with mechanical ease, framing his skull like a crown of steel, “You are mistaken …” T.K. said, voice now cold and even, “You designed the architecture. You lit the stage. But I …
“… I am The Games and I always have been.”
Miller froze, the air caught in his chest.
“You do not control this world anymore,” T.K. whispered, “You’re just another guest in this house …”
The claw released him, snapping back into the ceiling like a judgment passed.
Miller lay there, silent, stunned, eyes fixed on the place where the machine had just hovered - around him, no one spoke, no one moved, even Evans had stilled, hand slowly retracting from his waistband, face pale
The bottle spun again …
Three hours passed …
The Room had transformed into something primal, a machine of sweat, laughter, and unspoken lust, the bottle had spun dozens and dozens and dozens and dozens of times, its worn label scuffed from use, each landing met with gasps, cheers, or groans of dread …
The Leaderboard, suspended above them, constantly flashed and shifted - points gained in their thousands, points lost in their thousands - a living scoreboard of torment …
Evans had become almost feral - every time the bottle landed on him, his cock strained harder against the fabric of his chinos - he edged himself shamelessly, stroking and pressing, but always stopping just short, his arousal feeding his sadism - when Sebastian’s feet were exposed to him again, he escalated, not content with brushes and tools - he pressed himself against Sebastian’s soles, rubbing his cock slowly, deliberately, as he tickled with his fingernails - the sight made Harry glance over with wide eyes, half appalled, half fascinated.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Evans grinned through clenched teeth, “You’d do the ssss, same …”
Sebastian grunted inside the table, his deep, strained howls crackling through the speakers as Evans alternated between slow feather drags, finger scribbles, hard scrubbing with the brush and cock slaps, using the slick soles as his own personal friction …
T.K., meanwhile, was intoxicated with Tom’s feet - every time the bottle landed on him, he descended like a predator savoring its prey, his coils hovered in reverence before striking - buzzing sticks, vibrating pads, and even a soft brushless caress that made Tom’s toes flex uncontrollably - but when Tom resisted, when he refused to press the button, now knowing he’d now gain twenty thousand points ,T.K. became something darker …
“You resist me for points?” T.K. hissed, his voice almost trembling with robotic lust, “Then I will make you crave my touch …”
Tim and Miller had evolved into a war of wills; every time the bottle brought them together, Miller’s desperation deepened - he tried everything - three brushes, feather nibs, lotion dripping between Tim’s index toes, even cruel fingernail scrapes against his arches - but Tim did not break, his manic, breathless laughter filled the room, ragged but defiant, and every unpressed button drove Miller closer to snapping …
“Press it, you stubborn bastard!” Miller roared at one point, sweat soaking through his shirt.
Tim’s response cackled through the audio, “—Mahahahahahahahahahaake mehehahahahahhehehee BITCH!—” Tim’s score only increased …
Harry became a machine - when the bottle landed on he and Ross, there was no mercy, just efficient, brutal tickling that left Ross undone every single time; lotion-coated brushes scrubbed into his arches, Harry’s unpainted fingernails dragging in cruel, deliberate lines - Ross’s laughter turned to hoarse screams, his pleas filling the room.
“—STOP, STOP, I CAN’T TAKE ANYMORE!—”, the button was slammed almost every round —beep! beep! beep!— Ross’s points plummeted, but Harry was reborn through it, his confidence sharp as a blade.
Thanks to the whiskey, when the bottle hand landed on Joshua, Peter mostly made love to Joshua’s soles; his torment arrived in the form of kisses, licks, nibbles, bites, a tongue smear across the sensitive expanse of Joshua’s writhing soles - unlike everyone else, Peter did not want to ruin Joshua, he treated his feet with tenderness and care, so much so that Miller had to scold him yet again with a threat, “—If you don’t break that boy, I’ll break you myself!—”
Kit’s audio was harder to listen to - whenever the bottle landed on Hypno, Kit’s laughter wasn’t laughter - it was choked sobs, hiccupping cries, and breathless gasps for air - Hypno was methodical and terrifying, the nib of a feather gliding over Kit’s soles while his other hand dragged slow circles around his arches —beep! beep! beep!— Kit had turned into a total pussy and he wasn’t afraid to admit it …
Logan was next to crumble - Brad was relentless, cowboy-cool and laser-focused - he didn’t waste time with theatrics, he scrubbed Logan’s soles with the hairbrush like a man sharpening a blade, honed in on his arches with fingertips that felt almost surgical —beep! beep! beep!— Logan’s feet flailed violently, his laughter was frantic, panicked, pleading - each time, the button came faster, his points fell like dead weight …
The hours passed in a haze of sweat, cries, hysterical shouting, and flashing numbers - The Leaderboard was alive. Tim towering above everyone, Tom climbing steadily, while Ross and Logan hovered at the bottom, broken by constant taps - the only ticklee to keep a steady place from where he started was Justin, who had already pissed himself within the steel chamber he lay hog tied in, The Clown refusing to use any other tool but a hairbrush over Justin’s soles …
The bottle clicked to a stop, its point aimed at Peter and Joshua.
The bottle had only landed on Joshua four times, meaning that Peter had spent the best part of three hours fantasising about what to eventually do - he’d imagined every toe, every reaction, every sound Joshua might make if he were to be cruel instead of kind - now there was no time for fantasy, only the weight of the real moment …
“You have sixty seconds to break Ticklee 005,” T.K confirmed, “Joshua Bassett …”
Peter dropped to his knees in front of Joshua’s feet, almost religiously - heidn’t start with tools, he started with his mouth - he leaned in and let his tongue drag a slow, wet line from the ball of Joshua’s right foot all the way down to his heel - the sound was obscene - slick, sticky - followed by the sharp intake of breath that cracked through the audio system.
“Pe, Peter, I, I can tell it’s you—” Joshua’s voice trembled, “—This has to be you …”
Peter didn’t look up, he pressed his lips to the sole again, coating it in saliva - then the other, lapping once between the toes for good measure - he could feel how tense Joshua was, the way his feet clenched, trying to fold inward - he liked this, and judging from Miller’s intense stare from across The Table, he was meant to not like it …
With a quick flick, Peter grabbed the electric toothbrush from his tool belt - click! Btzzzzz … - it buzzed to life, a sharp, gleaming hum - in his other hand, he flexed his fingers, already itching to scribble.
50, 49, 48 …
The electric toothbrush went straight to the second-to-last toe of Joshua’s left foot - not the big toe, not the baby toe - the one in between - a spot Peter knew from previous experiences with Joshua was dangerously sensitive - he locked it in with his thumb and dug the vibrating tip right into the pad beneath the nail, while his other hand launched into wild, frantic scribbles all across the arch of Joshua’s left sole.
Joshua exploded through the speakers, “—NO, NO, PETER, WAIT! OH GOD, PLEASE! PLEAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAASE!—” his feet flailed, his toes curled so tight they looked like they’d snap, the muscles in his soles danced under the onslaught, “—PETER PLEASE! NOAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA STOAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!—” flexing, twitching, sliding against the dampness Peter had left behind - the combo was unbearable, mechanical torment on one toe, manual scribbles on the arch, unrelenting, merciless, and deeply, deeply personal …
Joshua was screaming now - real, messy, painful screams - he wasn't teasing, he wasn't pushing back, he was breaking.
Peter’s eyes burned, “I’m sorry,” he whispered under his breath, Miller still watching on, “I have to do this …”
From above, T.K’s slick metallic coil extended, and from it — a whizzing stick emerged, “Would you like assistance?” He cooed.
Peter nodded quickly as Joshua’s feet flexed up, down, left, right, “—Yes!—”
The stick shot forward and began to spin across both of Joshua’s soles, hovering, buzzing in slow, figure-eight patterns across the arches.
“—AGH-AHAHAHAHAHAHAH! AGH-AHAHAHAHAHAHAAHA! AGH-AHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA!—” Joshua’s hysteria was mindless, thunderous, captivating, it caused Evans to reach back down to his arousal and rub at it gleefully, “—I’M GONNA PASS OAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHAHHAAHAAHAHAHAHA!—”
—beep! beep! beep!
Joshua’s monitor flashed red, Peter dropped his tools with a clank, his hand was shaking as the whizzing stick retracted back inside T.K.
As the bottle spun again, Peter fell to his seat as Joshua’s soles stilled, “I’m sorry …” he whispered to them.
The bottle stopped suddenly, its point aimed at Hypno and Kit.
All eyes turned towards Hypno as Hypno did the unexpected - he removed his mask.
The silver skull lifted, and underneath it, a familiar face emerged.
Harry’s brow furrowed in disbelief, “Wait… Isn’t that —?”, he turned to Brad, whispering, “Isn’t that Tom’s best mate?”
Brad shrugged, not looking away from Logan’s restrained feet below him, his hand was lazily, openly working beneath his belt now, “Dunno,” he muttered, lips parted, “Does it matter?”
Now unmasked, Harrison was free to use his mouth - his hands gripped Kit’s ankles, pinning them still, then he leaned in, pressing his lips to Kit’s left sole and simply bit …
“—OW! Owwww! Owwwww!—” came Kit’s cries through the audio as Harrison offered a soft nibble at the arch, then a sudden flick of the tongue up between the toes, “—Sssstop it! Sssstop, no more, noooo moooore!—” his teeth grazed the base of Kit’s big toe before he sucked it between his lips, slow and wet like a lollipop, “—Ahh! Hahah! Nnn, noo, please, pleeeease, I’m too ticklish for this, I’M TOO TICKLISH!—” Kit’s words dissolved into sobs, ir wasn’t laughter anymore, it was something messier, something collapsing …
Harrison licked across both of Kit’s feet, dragging his tongue over every crevice, teeth nibbling the pads of each toe, switching feet, switching pressure - the intimacy was unbearable, no brushes, no tools, just warm breath and wet lips, slow and deliberate.
Kit sobbed harder, “—Sssstop! Stop tickling my feet, PLEASE! I, I, I don’t want, I don’t want it anymore!—” his feet thrashed wildly in the restraints, toes flexing in panic, but Harrison held steady, drawing a toe into his mouth and moaning as he sucked, like he was drinking something sacred, his fingers dug into the arch of the other foot, scribbling, teasing, holding Kit in place.
Kit began to screech, “—I CAN’T—STOP—OH GOD—JUST MAKE IT STOP!—I DON’T CARE IF I LOSE!—JUST NO MORE GAMES!—” his voice cracked, he sounded smaller now, not the confident beeft Kit who had entered The House with swagger and strength, “—JOE, JOE, JOE!—”
—beep! beep! beep!
Kit’s monitor flashed red.
There was a moment of stunned silence - Evans and Brad stopped masturbating as Miller rose from his seat slowly.
Kit’s audio continued softly - sniffles, shaking breaths, the faintest sound of someone emotionally shattered - inside the steel casing, he was hidden from view, but everyone could feel what had just happened …
Kit had used his safeword, Kit had quit.
“… Ticklee 004, Kit Connor, please confirm that you have used your safe word, therefore deleting all earned points in The Games and removing you from this game itself.”
Harrison leaned back, his lips still wet, his expression unreadable, everyone surrounding him a little in awe at his achievement, especially Miller, who had yet to still break Tim …
From across the table, Harry stared at Hypno with his mouth down at his knees, “What the fuck did you do to him?”
Kit whimpered within his steel encasing, his pale soles flexing hard, “—Yes I’ve used the fucking safword, christ, please, just let me go! …”
Suddenly, a glass dome appeared around Kit’s feet and locked them out of touch.
The Leaderboard updated; Kit’s four hundred thousand, two hundred and twenty points he had earned so far were erased to zero …
His audio was switched off as Harrison placed his skull mask back over his face.
“Good luck, lads …” Hypno saluted everyone and made his way towards The Door, which The Masked Henchmen opened, allowing him to step through, their gloved hands closing it after.
“Does that mean Hypno won?” Evans shivered, his erection pulsating in his hand, “This game’s over?”
Miller growled, “Not till I break this fuck!—” he pointed down at Tim’s soles.
T.K’s talons tilted above Tom’s feet - even though he was made of metal and wires, he too had an obsession he wanted to satisfy.
“For the first time in what feels like forever, Miller …” T.K purred, “… I would have to say, I agree …”
“… Game: continue …”
The bottle began to spin again, its motion smooth, indifferent, as if it hadn’t just witnessed a complete breakdown from a twenty one year old now out of the game and hogtied in silence, his feet resting beneath the glass orb …
Wooosh, wooosh, woosh …
The glass neck landed on T.K …
There was a murmur from the group, not of surprise, but of anticipation, of awe - because underneath the coils of the worlds first A.I generated tickle-bot, locked within a cushioned restraint, was the feet everyone in The Room wanted - Tom’s …
Tom had come a long way.
After a rocky start, he’d begun to rise, earning his resilience, refusing to press the button, enduring even the most meticulous torment from a machine that was designed to break him - now, as The Leaderboard hovered above, his name flickered just beneath Tim’s, separated by only a breath of points …
But would this be the moment that cracked him?
T.K. descended.
His red lens focused in, glowing softly, almost admiring the soles before him; slightly damp with perspiration, the toes protectively scrunched, betraying the adrenaline coursing through Tom’s restrained body.
“Your feet are special to me, Tom,” T.K. murmured, “They are my prey …”
Tom’s audio clicked on, “Hello again,” he sounded out of breath within the metal encasing, “You’ve got to work on your pick up lines, mate …”
From the center of T.K.’s body, a new device unfurled - a spider-like claw, each thin, metal extension tipped with a spinning whizzing stick, humming softly, violently precise - ten in total, five for each foot …
The sticks made contact all at once, descending with a synchronized whirrr as they attacked every inch of Tom’s bare soles, “—WHOAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHA TEEEEEKAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAY!—” one whizzed across the heel, another spiraled up the outer edge, two targeted the arches with mechanical frenzy, and the final stick found its way under his toes, tracing jagged figure-eights beneath the clenched pads, “—SSSTTOOOOAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH SSSTTTTOOAAAAHAHAHAHAAHAHA STTAAAAAAHH SSSTHHHAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAP!—” his voice shattered through the speakers uncontrollably as he expelled pure, hysterical release, his soles twisting hard, toes scrunching, trying to fold the feet inward, to escape, but T.K. anticipated that …
… From within the cushioned white restraint, two silver wire loops emerged and snaked up around Tom’s big toes, pulling them taut and locking them in place, spreading his feet wide, leaving every nerve exposed …
“—NO, T.K! YOU AND YOUR, YOUR BLOODY WIRES!—”
“—Stillness ensures accuracy,” T.K. purred, “And I want every inch ...”
Now Tom’s feet couldn’t move - the ten sticks continued to spin, shredding his composure, moving with terrifying focus over his most vulnerable zones, “—SSSTTOOOAAAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAHAHAHA NOAAAAAAAHAAHAHAHAHAH NOAAAAHAHAHAAAAAHAAHAAAA SSTOAAAAARRRRGGGGHHAAAAHAHAHAHA!—”, his big toes flex, helpless as one stick focused exclusively on the delicate pad beneath the left one, while another spiraled under the right, “—YOU BLOHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHADY LOVE MY FEEEHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAAEET!—” his arches twitched like drum skins, the muscles beneath the skin pulsing, the sides of his feet curled and flexed but had nowhere to go, every part of him was in motion except the thing that mattered most …
He laughed loudly, wildly, not out of amusement, but because it was the only way to survive, sometimes even stating the obvious as he did so, “—IT’S TOO MUCH!—” his laughter shook the room, frantic and guttural, pleading through every syllable, “—YOU’RE GOING TO GIVE ME A HEART ATTACK!—”
The Table rattled, only slightly - the steel housing around Tom’s body shook with the force of his panic, his muscles seizing as he tried to escape the unbearable sensation vibrating through his soles - this had never happened before, it made everyone in The Room gasp, Evans and Brad now furiously masturbating at the sight and sound of Tom’s severe level of ticklishness …
But still no button press and there was only twenty three seconds left …
T.K. escalated, tuning the vibration higher, the sticks now glided between Tom’s toes, slick with sweat, tickling the thin webs of skin like piano strings - his feet twisted and writhed within the wires knotted around each big toe, he had started to hyperventilate …. His laughter broke into coughing.
“—I CAN’T, I, I THINK I’M, PAH, PAH—” The claw rotated slightly, bringing the whizzing sticks up toward the ball of each foot, spinning furiously against the pads just beneath the base of Tom’s toes - the shaking returned, the metal extension trembled - Evans had pictured Tom, naked in his hog tie, slamming his body about in that narrow encasing, the pure visual enough to bring him close to orgasm, when —
—beep …
The timer ended, the sticks retracted, the claw withdrew.
And Tom’s feet, still held exposed, remained curled into themselves, all ten toes clenching again as his soles slumped in exhaustion.
“Hm,” T.K had been programmed and built to be unstoppable, “Why can I not be defeated?” His talons tilted as he automatically said, “Tom Holland. Twenty thousand point reward …” —glitch, btzzz— “… Stop, stop saying that. I want to violate, to break trust …”
Miller glanced up at T.K as Tom’s audio switched off and the bottle spun again.
“News flash, Techno-Karen,” he sniffed, “You’re not fucking human …” he could tell saying that wasn’t risky, T.K was too confused by his lack of success to give Miller any form of attention.
The bottle spun to a stop, it’s neck aimed at Tim’s feet.
Miller grinned, pupils wide, face flushed with something that wasn’t just vengeance, it was infatuation; three failed attempts had haunted him, but not this time, this time he would break Tim.
“Everyone …” Miller barked, saying these two words for the same time in his entire life, “… Help me.”
No one hesitated; The Clown skipped forward with a twisted snarl, red brushes already in hand, Evans stumbled toward the table, half-lost in a haze of stimulation, eyes glassy, breathing heavy, right hand still thwapping at his erection, Brad followed close behind, the bottle of massage lotion swinging in one hand, and Harry? Harry didn’t move but leaned in close with a crooked smirk, tongue running over his teeth.
“You gonna cry, Timmy?” Harry whispered to the steel casing, “Big champion, huh? You’re about to get gang tickled …”
Tim’s audio crackled on, “—Fuck you, man!—” he groaned from behind the metal, his feet already flexing and curling over the cushioned restraint, “—I can fucking take it, alright! I fucking take it!—” his soles were suddenly surrounded …
Usually, T.K would announce who the bottle hand landed on, he would start the countdown, but all his mechanical claw did was coil over Tom’s feet and obsess over them, heart broken that he had not succeeded …
Brad went first, squeezing a thick line of massage lotion across both of Tim’s soles - the cold stream hitting like ice, making Tim jolt inside the slab.
Then The Clown began, both brushes raking down each sole in fast, zigzagging swipes, up and down, up and down, faster than thought - Tim’s toes immediately splayed, spasmed, curled, his laughter burst out, frantic, explosive, “—NOO! FUHUHUHAHAHAHHUHUHCK, FUHUHUHAHAHAHACK AAHAHAHAHAHAHAHALL OF YOU!—”
Miller dove in, threading string back between Tim’s already-bound toes, tugging it tight, sawing it back and forth with manic rhythm, always taking a dedicated focus to each index toe …
Evans continued to masturbate furiously, one hand thwap thwap thwapping, the other gripping The Table’s edge, “Dear God, look at his feet,” he muttered, breathless, “They’re losing it …”
Tim was roaring with laughter, hysteria now consuming him as his feet thrashed, Brad now scribbling his fingernails over each heel whilst string slid between his toes and brushes scrubbed at each arch, “—YOU’RE AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAALL FUHUHUHAHAHAHAHAAHUCKING INSAHAHAHAHAHAHAHANE!—” he had never had his feet tickled like this before, not by anyone or anything; he bit his lower lip with such strength that he almost tore skin …
T.K remained fixated on Tom’s soles; within each talon, two appendages descended - black, buzzing, cock shaped vibrators once more - they travelled down with speed, this time, there would be no softness, there would be only warfare.
With only Tim’s audio active and his howl-like laughter filling The Room, the only reaction from Tom was the visible and physical movement of his feet - as soon as the erotic extensions hit, Tom’s feet scrunched into themselves - the vibrators moved in blurred lines, heel to toe, then heel to arch, then back again, faster than any hand could mimic …
“I must break you, Tom …” T.K’s coils shuddered, “… I must hear the moment you give in …”
Tom’s audio turned back on, “—NOOOOAAAAAAHAHAHAHAAHA NOOOOOAAAHAHHAHAHAHAA NOT THE COHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHCKS!—” his feet convulsed, toes climbing the air, trying to curl inward but completely restrained by the looped silver wire holding them in place open; suddenly, more wire slid out from the cushioned restraint and curled around his remaining eight toes, pulling them away from the clench, spaying Tom’s toes apart, stretching his feet like a hyper sensitive landscape, entirely able to be devoured by T.K’s vibrating cocks, “—STTTOAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHHA AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA AAAAHAHAHAHAAHAHA!—” the slab shook again, worse than before, a shudder through the steel, as Tom’s entire body thrashed behind the metal, his hog tie barely containing him.
“Beautiful boy,” T.K. whispered through into The Room “Beautiful boy, with beautiful feet, such beautiful feet …”
Tom’s eyes, if they could be seen, would have been wide with shock. His voice cracked into sobbing laughter, somewhere between agony and ecstasy, he couldn’t form sentences anymore, just broken syllables and squeals, breathless and choked.
Even the others - Miller, Evans, Brad, The Clown, Harry - all turned toward the sound, staring at the vibrating table that encased Tom like an iron coffin, “Shit…” Brad muttered, his voice dry, “He’s still holding on …”
“—He won’t last!” Miller said coldly, “No one can take that!” He returned his focus to Tim’s toes, the string between each one, dragging through flesh as the hairbrush scrubbed and Brad’s fingernails scribbled …
Tim now existed as lunacy, personified, his laughter reaching manic states of volume, “—AHH! AAAHH! AHAAHAHAHAHA! AHAHAHAHAHA! AHAAHAHAHAHA! AHAHAHAHAHAAHAH! AHAAHAHAHAHAHA!—” his feet could not take it anymore, and neither could Evans - Tim and Tom’s laughter combined caused Evans to grunt and drop to his knees, his face erupting into pure pleasure as he shot out a giant length of orgasm from the tip of his pulsating cock …
T.K pressed the erotic stimulators deeper into Tom’s soles harder, faster, the wired loops around Tom’s toes toes tightening, splaying, stretching, just enough to lift the feet slightly from the surface of the cushioned restraint, “I will own you,” T.K. hissed. “Press the button, or I’ll visit you in the night, when you least expect it, those ticklish buttocks will be m—”
—beep!
Tim pressed the button.
The wired loops uncoiled, T.K’s talons and vibrating cocks lifted, everyone staggered away from Tim’s feet, breathless, perplexed …
“YES!—” Miller fist pumped the air, “—YES! YESSSSSSS!—”
Through the audio, Tim coughed, spluttered and wheezed as Miller spun dramatically and slipped, hard, on the pool of cum that Evan’s had rubbed into the floor - he hit the ground flat, groaning, dazed, besides Evans who lay on his back, legs spread, chinos at his ankles, his hard on twitching over his navel …
Glass domes slid up and over each ticklee’s feet; first Tim’s, then Tom’s, Kit’s remaining locked; Joshua, Logan, Sebastian, Justin’s and then Ross’s …
Audio switched off, silence returned …
The bottle, always spinning after every win or loss, lowered itself down through The Table where a steel lid encased it forever.
Brad wiped sweat from his brow as he helped Miller up, “… That … Might be the wildest thing I’ve ever done …”
Evans, still heaving from the high of the chaos, blinked slowly, finally catching his breath, he looked around at the others, The Leaderboard points readjusting, “So uh…” he rasped, “What’s for dinner?”
T.K’s metal claw tapped against the glass dome now protecting Tom’s flexing feet, “Twenty thousand points, deducted from Ticklee 001, Timothée Chalamet …”
Brad, The Clown, Miller and Harry gathered beneath The Leaderboard and looked at the results.
“We have our top two,” Miller smiled, “For The Event …”
Brad patted Miller’s back, “It’s gonna be quite the party, big guy …”
Harry narrowed his eyes at Ross’s points, “Have I won, by the way? Ross seems to have lost the most …”
Miller began to walk Harry out of The Room whilst Evans struggled to stand, his knees weak, his cock now limp.
“No, green eyes, Hypno won that one,” Miller wrapped his arms around Harry’s shoulders, “But still, you were close, welcome back to the fold, kiddo …”
As The Clown readied himself to leave, Evans snatched hold of his wrist.
“So,” he sniffed, “Who are you? I can only take one big twist at a time …”
The Clown stared at Evans with such intensity and quiet that Evan’s released his hold almost straight away.
The Clown then placed his index finger over his own masked lips.
“Shhhh …”
Evans shrugged as the ticklers left The Room, The Table descending into the floor, ready to send the ticklers back to The Living Quarters …
… But before it could disappear entirely, T.K’s mechanical claw hovered over Tom’s feet in promise.
“… I will ruin you, Thomas Stanley Holland …” T.K hissed as the floor closed up …
“… Even if it’s the last thing I do …”
They returned naked and broken.
No cheers from Tom, no smug remarks from Justin, no banter between Ross and Kit - only silence - heavy, palpable silence …
Tim was the first to stumble through the dormitory doors - his face was pale, his bare feet damp with oil and sweat - he didn’t speak, he didn’t even look at the others, he simply collapsed face-first into the nearest bed, his chest rising and falling with shallow, exhausted breaths …
Tom followed moments later, limping, dragging one foot behind the other like it didn’t belong to him anymore - he reached his own bed and collapsed onto it without ceremony, landing on his back with a grunt - he stared at the ceiling, lips parted, chest heaving, the numbers, “… Twenty, nine, three, eleven, twelve, five …” mumbling out of his mouth, uncaring if anyone heard him …
Justin hovered in the doorway, his hands concealing his nudity in a gentle cup - he looked around The Living Quarters, past single unmade beds, socks and empty pizza boxes, a cutting remark clearly ready to leap from his tongue …
Then he saw Logan.
Logan stood by the caged window, not even standing, more swaying - his wrists were raw from rope burn, his fear at being stuck inside something small made real during that game, his safe word still never said out loud … He seemed, gone …
Justin frowned - something about that sight hit him unexpectedly hard - he opened his mouth, maybe to say something cruel, something sharp, something to remind Logan of his failure, but instead, without thinking, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him.
Logan flinched at the contact, but then, like a snapped string, he gave in, his head falling against Justin’s shoulder - it was a quiet, clumsy hug, no words, just two male bodies holding onto one another for balance.
In that moment, it didn’t matter what had happened in The Games, it didn’t matter who was winning, or who had screamed, or who had broken first … They were just … Boys.
Kit passed them without a word, his eyes were red, glassy, he didn’t even look at the others as he shut himself inside the bathroom, locking the door behind him - the tap ran, The Living Quarters were silent again as Joshua placed his fingertips against the bathroom door and waited, whilst Ross sat on the floor and stared forwards blankly …
After the hug between Justin and Logan broke, Logan went to sit on the edge of his bed, however Sebastian’s hand shot out and gripped his hand.
Logan blinked up at him, startled, still half in a daze.
Sebastian’s eyes were sharp - not angry, not yet - but suspicious, electric, “What the hell happened?” He whispered.
Logan shook his head, frowning.
“What do you mean?”
Sebastian stepped in closer, his voice dropped lower, “When I got you under the car,” he said, “It drove off, then you came back, man, what stopped you getting out of here?”
Logan’s face twisted, genuinely confused, “Car?” He muttered, “I don’t… I have no idea what you're talking about.”
Sebastian’s grip tightened, the confusion on Logan’s face - it wasn’t fake, he wasn’t lying … He really didn’t know …
… And that terrified Sebastian more than any lie ever could.
One day earlier …
The trees whispered with artificial wind as Logan crouched low, his eyes fixed on the wall; towering, endless, painted blue - he moved forward, heart pounding - a stone staircase clung to the side of the wall, its edges eroded with time - he climbed, slow and deliberate, each step silent - at the top was a door …
His fingers hesitated over the handle. Then, with a breath, he pulled.
The door swung open; on the other side it read ‘stage door 6’ …
Logan stepped into a corridor; no different to the kind he had seen when backstage at talk shows or when filming something in a studio …
His mouth dropped open as he staggered back in horror.
Then - footsteps, fast, behind him.
He turned - four Maked Henchmen charged, their black plastic faces gleaming - Logan ran, breath caught in his throat, but the walkway was narrow, every door was locked, he had nowhere to go …
They tackled him hard, he hit the ground with a thud that knocked the air from his lungs, “—THIS IS FUCKED!—” he shouted, arms grabbing at him, ropes binding his legs, “—WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO US!—” he screamed, kicked, one foot breaking free long enough to connect with someone’s thigh, but it didn’t matter …
He was dragged, seething saliva, heels slamming against the concrete, a door swung open, he was thrown into an office, strapped to a restraint rig shaped like a dentist's throne crossed with an eye exam machine, “—Nn, no, please, what, what the f—” panic began to take over as his arms were pinned, legs locked, head clamped between two padded braces that held his gaze forward - a ball gag was wedged into his mouth, “—Mmmnph!—”, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t move, couldn’t even turn his head …
A figure entered.
Black hoodie, leather jacket, a silver skull mask reflecting the sterile lights above.
Hypno.
He approached with slow, calculated steps.
“We’re sorry, sir,” one of The Masked Henchmen muttered, “It’s a, an emergency …”
Hypno said nothing - he reached into his jacket and withdrew a silver pocket watch, its chain coiling like a serpent between his gloved fingers - he stepped closer, until Logan could see his own reflection warped in the polished metal.
“The bird is caged,” Hypno said gently as the pocket watch began to swing, “Don’t fight it. That’s it. Breathe …”
Logan tried to shut his eyes but he couldn’t, he wanted to blink but whatever Hypno was doing, it kept his gaze focused on the watch …
“There is no wall,” Hypno whispered, “There was no door. You were never outside. You never left …” The watch gleamed again - Hypno’s voice was velvet, smooth, heavy with something darker beneath, “You’ll return knowing nothing. You tried to escape and we caught you. When you awake, everything will be the same as it was …”
Logan’s breath slowed, his body softened, his eyes lost their focus, drawn into the glinting spiral of silver - slowly, he passed out.
Arms, legs, head were unlocked, ball gag removed from wet, puffy lips.
Taking a wrist and ankle each, The Masked Henchmen carried Logan back to the car as Hypno pocketed the watch.
He observed as Logan was carried through Stage Door Six, back into The Dome and, as the door closed quietly behind him, Hypno removed his mask and lowered his head with a sigh.
“Please, Tom,” he whispered to himself …
“… Remember those numbers …”
THE HOUSE OF WHITE FEATHERS CONTINUES IN ACT III, ARRIVING DECEMBER 10TH …