This chapter is strongly connected to TCTLR Chapter Twenty Four ‘The Godfather’

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Tick …

Timothée stood in the luxury ensuite bathroom clutching ‘his Oscar’ in his right hand.

He analysed the richness of the gold that made up the statue, the sturdiness of its shape, the surprisingly heavy mass of its size …

He held it tightly, as if he did not want to let it go, the pad of his thumb trailing over the engravings of the wording decorating the Oscars base: Timothée Chalamet, Best Actor 2025 for ‘A Complete Unknown’.

Timothée pursed his lips and breathed in the scent of vanilla through flared nostrils, where he went to exhale the word ‘fuck’ in an attempt to clear the complexities and overthinking whirlwinding through his mind.

Instead, he chose to practise his speech.

“Oh boy,” Timothée gushed, “What an honour,” he shook the Oscar gently in the air, as if it were just a trophy and, in some ways that is all it really was, “The uh, the things I’ve done to get my hands on this! …” he winced and pinched the bridge of his nose, chuckling to himself as a purposeful creak from behind informed him of an additional audience member.

Timothée glanced up at his reflection in the mirror opposite as The Man appeared at the entrance to the bathroom suite, where he casually leant against the door frame and folded his arms.

“At least they can say you were honest,” The Man smirked.

Timothée lowered his head and swallowed an entertained grin.

He then shuffled around where he confidently presented himself in all of his semi-naked abundance, mostly as a way to face the reality of his circumstance whilst also striving to break the ice.

The Man’s mouth fell open as he nudged himself away from the door frame and took a careful step back.

Timothée lifted his head, Oscar still in hand, its eight and a half pound weight causing the muscles in his forearm to flex.

Since The Man had laid eyes on Timothée almost half a decade ago, the young actor had aged from twenty five to almost thirty in what felt like the click of a finger.

His once jaw length dangle of innocent curls had been snipped into a neatly styled tassle of quiffed curtain parting.

His upper lip was no longer bare, instead a faint trail of moustache added to his new found maturity; alongside this, his shoulders were broader, his biceps a little bigger, his chest and stomach lined with additional muscular shape …

His shaven manhood, made hairless on request, was wedged into something he had been asked to wear on arrival: a black thong.

He was everything The Man obsessed over, yet he had evolved into something far more attractive than The Man could ever conceive …

The Man cleared his throat and gestured to a bed decorated with bondage.

“I …” he coughed into his fist, “I … Guess we should get the ball rolling …”

Timothée’s lips flattened into a blunt line as he nodded just once, now taking the Oscar in both hands where he carried it out of the ensuite bathroom and back into a giant bedroom lavishly decorated in rich reds, warm browns and vibrant golds.

The Man rested against a floor to ceiling window looking out over a hazy afternoon Atlanta skyline as Timothée reluctantly handed the Oscar back to him.

Timothée perched his bare behind at the edge of the bed, in-between the open leather restraints and tightly bound lengths of rope, where he cocked an eyebrow at The Man and his brazen ability to simply have his hands on the unreachable, to use it to get exactly what he wanted.

“So,” Timothée spoke into his lap, “We’re really doing this?”

The Man chortled in disbelief as he took the Oscar towards an open yellow briefcase resting over a marble side table.

“We’re really doing this,” he quipped, placing the Oscar inside the briefcase, alongside the rest of the tools he had hand picked for an hour that had cost the kind of money some people could only dream of.

Timothée peered forwards and rested his elbows over each knee.

“What else you got in there?” He tongued the inside of his cheek and cocked an eyebrow.

The Man angled the briefcase so that its contents remained hidden from Timothée, “Anyone ever told you you ask a lot of questions?”

Timothée pouted and nodded in understanding, choosing to keep his inquisitiveness to himself, as The Man took a seat in an armchair opposite the bed and picked up a small glass of pre poured iced vodka.

“Today is about taming an obsession,” he announced, whilst taking a sip from his drink.

Timothée leant back on his elbows, his slim, mostly nude form catching some of the grey beams of downcast weather shining into the hotel room.

“Go on,” Timothée urged, his tone soaked in curiosity.

The Man held his glass of vodka beneath his chin and sighed out a resistance to remain mysterious.

“Like the movie you’ll win the Oscar for, I have a desire for, well …” he sniggered, his cheeks blushing pink, “… The complete unknown, I guess. I like to surprise the men I tie down.”

Timothée fell silent as he took in the gravitas of a situation he and his agent had spent the best part of three months putting into place.

The Man watched Timothée’s thick, dark brown eyelashes flutter towards the bedroom door, where he appeared ready to state the obvious - however, before he could do so, The Man decided to do it for him.

“I know your security are waiting,” The Man smiled politely as if reading Timothée’s mind, “I know they have instructions. If this afternoon goes on for longer than the settlement states, or if they hear anything you’ve listed as not what you signed up for, they’re to break the door open and escort you to safety,” he then placed his empty glass of vodka down beside the briefcase and got to his booted feet, “An easy act to follow, considering I left the door unlocked …”

Timothée felt The Man’s shadow blanket him as his tall, muscular shape stood mighty and powerful, whilst Timothée sat on the corner of the bed with no choice but to submit.

“Two hundred and thirty six pages of contractual agreement,” The Man reminded as he curled his right hand into a clenched fist and held it out to Timothée, “Twelve meetings, eight lawyers, two NDA’s and now …” his blue eyes sparkled, his offer to make a start hovering before Timothée’s hesitant stare, “… One city. One afternoon. One chance to change your life …”

Suddenly The Man’s fist unclenched and a pocket watch attached to a sparkling chain dangled from his grasp.

Timothée blinked.

“The clock is ticking, Timothée,” The Man’s voice was smooth, calming, he was just as persistent as he was respectful, an almost perfect balance of willing.

Timothée lifted himself away from the edge of the mattress and held his hands behind his back, his assured stance saying the words, ‘What are you waiting for?’

The Man dropped the watch into his trouser pocket and then led Timothée towards the middle of the king size bed, where he nudged him towards the wide landscape of its middle.

Timothée shuffled onto his back and went to position his hands and feet by the restraints tied to each corner of the bed, however The Man twirled his index finger and kindly said the words:

“Please, on your front.”

Timothée hooked his teeth over his upper lip and stroked his jaw as if working out a difficult math equation, now laying on his side.

The Man allowed Timothée a brief second to ‘take in’ how exposed he would be in such a position as he adjusted strapped belting and fastened black rope - after all, Timothée had never been tied up by another man, much less alone entirely naked with so many private areas on show …

After some brief consideration, Timothée rolled onto his stomach and propped himself up with his elbows, his index finger and thumb toying with the tufts of facial hair decorating the end of his chin - currently, he was mere inches away from total compliance yet The Man could tell there was a lingering uncertainty.

Timothée felt leather buckle around his left ankle, his leg tightly pulled to the left corner of the bed - only when the same was done to his right ankle did Timothée fully understand the extremity of how firmly he would be bound, his thighs now spread tauntly apart, the tops of his feet almost hooking over the corners of the mattress.

The bed wobbled as rope was looped, knotted and pulled - within less than half a minute, The Man had arrived beside Timothée’s right side where he carefully took hold of Timothée’s wrist, lifting it gently towards a third open cuff …

“Hold up,” Timothée faced The Man with one of the deepest frowns The Man had ever seen.

The Man paused.

Timothée felt the air of the room greet his pert behind, the arch of his back, the length of his legs.

So many words, so many ways to express his vulnerability, so many insecurities trickled through his mind and towards his mouth, but the only thing to make its way past his lips was,

“I don’t even know your name.”

The Man smiled and tidied up some of the drapes of curls littering the side of Timothée’s head, where he then continued restraining him into a position he had only been able to dream about, up until now.

“My name is John,” said the man.

Kit threw a black t-shirt over his broad, creamy white torso and walked large bare feet towards the sealed and singular window that shed morning sunrise into he and his fellow captives Living Quarters.

Behind him, Tim shuffled towards the edge of his bed and squinted into the warm yellow beam that shone into a prison he had been forced to see as his home.

“I beat you to it this time,” Kit yawned, his brown eyes taking in the finer details of the surrounding forest as he adjusted his briefs.

Tim glanced to his left, then to his right, unsure if Kit were addressing him - after all, Kit had not moved from the window, nor had he turned to face Tim directly, and everyone else besides Joshua were still asleep.

“Uh,” Tim scratched the back of his head, “I’m uh, I’m not sure what you—”

“—You always look like you’re ready for something,” Kit’s face was so close to the window that the tip of his nose nudged against the glass, “Like your ready for someone …”

Tim had to pretend Maxwell did not exist, an easy act after all he had been taught.

Before he could come up with a replacement answer, he turned over his shoulder as Joshua unintentionally did it for him.

“He has a boyfriend on the other side,” Joshua croaked as he rolled onto his back, stretching his slim body in a stiff sprawl over his single bed, the sheets caught up around his legs, “The Kylie Jenner thing is all smokes and mirrors,” he yawned, stifling a giggle with the back of his hand, “As if anyone would take that seriously anyway …”

Tim cocked an eyebrow and lifted himself into a stand where he offered Joshua a testing yet flirtatious glare, deciding to take himself to the ensuite bathroom instead of allowing himself to remain under further inspection.

Kit turned away from the window as Tim’s socked feet made no noise across the tiles - only the gentle sound of birdsong outside greeted The Living Quarters, giving Kit the opportunity to make his move with the prisoner he felt understood him the most.

Joshua, still mid yawn, jolted in alarm when his eyes landed on Kit who now stood at the edge of his bed.

His lips readied the phrase ‘how can I help you’, but Kit spoke first with words Joshua did not expect him to expel.

“Your … Your body,” Kit pointed at the many small lines of faint pink on Joshua’s sides, the pinch marks decorating his hips, the few scratches beneath each underarm, “Everytime you come back from seeing him you get more bruised,” Kit folded his arms, “It doesn’t make sense. How can you like something that hurts you?”

Joshua covered his torso with the bedding and buried himself into the comfort, only his nose, eyes and curly head of hair exposed - by doing so, he concealed the marks and the scratches of evidence that Peter had driven him wild as punishment for trying to sneak a phone …

Sebastian rolled over in a groan, semi listening to some of his awakening contestants, “Go back to bed,” he grumbled into his pillow, eyes still closed, “Not all of us are in our twenties …”

Joshua’s eyelashes fluttered into an understanding blink as Kit took a seat at the edge of Joshua’s bed.

“Listen,” Kit spoke quietly, as if the words he presented were just for Joshua, “I get it … I like it too.”

Joshua remained still and reserved, a wave of surprise washing over him when he felt the need to lie.

“I, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kit shuffled closer as the sound of tap water hitting the sink and a toothbrush scrubbing teeth took place behind him.

“Maybe when this is all over, you can swap the war wounds for a teachers hat and show me the ropes sometime …” Kit lowered his head and blushed as he accidentally fell into a pun, “… You, you know what I mean …”

Joshua smiled and curled his right fist into a ball.

“I’ll think about it,” he fist pumped Kit, “Although something tells me, once it’s game over … We would’ve all learned enough to last us a lifetime …”

Kit chuckled, honoured to of at least had his knuckles graze against someone he admired.

Bzzzzt …

Suddenly, T.K, in the form of a black glass orb nailed beneath the window ledge, came to life in an awakening flicker …

“… GooooOOOOOod morning, gentlemen!”

As the other contestants were startled in a forced rouse, a well known pop tune pumped out from T.K, its perky and sinthy tones bellowing out into The Living Quarters.

“It is time for Game Three …”

Tick … Tick … Tick … Tick …

Once The Man had finished restraining him in place, Timothée quickly discovered that he could only move his head by twisting it from left to right, finding only a small moment of restful comfort in laying entirely on his front where he would stare into nothing but the crimson of the bed sheet.

He could flex his fingers, he could stretch out his toes, he could blink, raise his eyebrows and just about wobble his hips - but the length of his arms and legs, the width of his shoulders and back … They were more or less bound into an extraordinarily tight splay.

No matter what John had planned, Timothée would not be able to fight whatever was next, all he could do was either enjoy, or consensually endure.

The entire depth of the bed sank; the bonds squeaked, the wood of the furniture creaked - all because John had simply loomed in a menacing kneel between Timothée’s thighs.

Timothée acknowledged the blushing burn across his face as John perched quietly into place - in this position, John would surely be greeted by the sight of Timothée’s widened thighs and the smooth space contained beneath the thin nylon of the provided thong - Timothée had never allowed another man to see him this way and it was beyond likely he would never allow another man to see him like this again.

Timothée felt the softness of John’s palms arrive over each of his butt cheeks in the form of a gentle spank - the impact of each palm was strong enough to cause Timothée to jolt, yet it was playful enough to feel more like a pat.

The hotel room was so quiet that the impatient Atlanta traffic could be heard on the other side of the window.

Thumbs smoothed butt cheeks apart, causing that burn over Timothée’s flame to boil a little harder - he embraced a fierce embarrassment whilst welcoming a satisfying awareness that this part of his body was admired and adored - maybe this was an ass thing, maybe this guy just wanted a taste, maybe he’d enjoy something like that…

Another light spank arrived over his right cheek and then his left —pat! pat!—, and then a further two, these ones harder — smack! smack!—

The impacts arrived at such a swift pace that Timothée had no choice but to turn his head over his shoulder and try to look John in the eye.

His gut reaction was to protest, but after being promised so much and paid in the form of a mother fucking Academy Award, Timothée instead decided to sneer at John and narrow his eyes, as if acting out the role of someone teased and tested.

“… Ouch …” Timothée smirked, the simple delivery of the noise presented in an attempt to please John, whilst also being so very genuine in its whispered expel.

As John slid the warmth of his hands up and around Timothée’s lower back, where he massaged him firmly and kissed each of Timothée’s butt cheeks, Timothée’s smirk transformed into a blissful smile that unintentionally confirmed to John he was optimistically unaware and tricked into a false sense of relaxation, before the real meaning of why he was here was laid out to bare.

Before Timothée could begin to wonder if he could get used to doing this kind of thing with another guy, what felt like an accidental slither of fingertips ventured a little too far down the inside of his left thigh, causing his left leg to naturally jerk.

“… Ss, sorry,” Timothée mumbled into the mattress.

Those fingertips continued with their journey, they delicate trail dancing over his calf and towards the conveniently well laid out position of his left foot, which hung neatly over the corner of the bed.

A violating impression only caused by the past minimal infliction of playful family or frisky friends forced Timothée to naturally attempt to protect the sensitivity of his left foot by forcing it away in the form of a sudden and subconscious kick, however the taunt strength of his bondage refused any allowance.

Timothée swiped his face to the side and screwed his eyes shut, his gritted teeth on vibrant display as an animated grin tore his lips apart - John had now climbed over his left ankle and successfully sat over Tim’s bound, left leg with his foot between his knees, where he subtly introduced all ten of his long, enquiring fingers as they arrived over Tim’s heel in the form of a barely-there flutter.

The unwelcome presence of such intrusive touch did not linger enough for Timothée to worry or verbalise any serious concern; it was so expertly mischievous, it was so very much there and then it was not, but it was enough to cause his shoulders to jump and drop whilst his body spontaneously tugged at the ropework restraining once useful limbs so far apart.

Creak, creak …

Only when those fingers increased pressure, as well as the speed of their stroke, did Timothée begin to feel vandalised beyond comprehension.

Without meaning to, he leapt towards the ceiling as if electrocuted; he thrashed wildly under the poke, prod and constant pry of fingernails that seemed to have a life of their own.

His mind became blown in an instant, a cataclysmic explosion of colours mixed with jet black consumed his sight as a thunderous and unapologetic grunt of distress blew out of his mouth.

He became engulfed by how ticklish it could feel to have the bottom of his foot exploited in such a way, so suddenly, without prior discussion or debate; within seconds he no longer owned his body nor its movements - he wriggled and spasmed across the bed sheets, the rope taunt and firm in its knotting — creak! creak! creak! — his narrow, vulnerable and now conveniently trapped foot ravaged by torment as the stroke from a man now in full possession of the landscape that made up his left sole began to venture towards his toes, so much so that it caused Timothée to growl out the word, “—Hey!—”

The fingers did not stop.

Much to Timothée’s alarmed anguish and dribbled despair, the fingers persisted in their hunt, clawing into long, splayed toes he could not shield, as deep as they possibly could, scratching, scribbling, scrawling into the silky soft betweens of each toe, transforming Timothée into a kicking, punching, writhing stretch that could hardly move an inch.

“—Hey! Hey, stop it!—”

The bed shook as if there were a nearby earthquake, its richter scale at ten, the leather cuffs around Timothée’s ankles and wrists refusing to let Timothée fidget and flounder as much as the vibration in the confines of his mind demanded him to - he roared like an animal, his eyes bulging open in exasperation as he head butted the mattress like a mad man, “—Hey! Stop it! Come on!—”, it was too much, too out of the blue, too consistent, too unlike the things he had expected during the car ride here - it rudely gave him no choice but to collapse into a heap of dumbfounded hysterics where he could only giggle, shriek, shout and bellow out breathless, uncontrollable laughter with a level of vigour he did not think possible—

“—Yo, John!—” he sounded genuinely surprised, “—That’s not cool!—”, he wheezed in disbelief, unable to notice how quickly his verbal cry in stating the obvious would follow the questioning of the deals detail, “—Hey! We, we didn’t talk about!—” he sounded delirious, his voice high pitched, his face the visual of twisted, “—Get offa me!—”

He felt the press of John’s perch transform into a confident lay as John weighed down most of his body across Tim’s left leg, where his captor tightly gathered Tim’s ankle and the leather that made up his cuff into an arm fold, those spiderish fingers fluttering across his sole with an aggressive force, submerging Timothée in a wrap of miserably spectacular bodily tolerance, “—Please please please, for real!—” he wailed, his slender frame now practically consumed by muscles and six foot one brawn, “—That, that tickles man, come on!—” he fiercely proclaimed.

Timothée had never begged or pleaded in his life, not for anyone or anything, nobody had ever seen him like this - yet despite the intensity of his current circumstance, it oddly felt ‘right’ that almost every step he had ever taken since being born on this earth had led him to this very moment, a moment of viscerally mental and physically demanding carnage - every breathless plea was actually for the Oscar, he was being made to work for the award …

The past no longer mattered, neither did what was at stake, all that Timothée wanted was for this man to stop exploring the softness of his foot that made up the surprisingly ultra ticklish landscape of size eleven flesh that had only just ten minutes ago stood on bathroom tiling a metre away …

That claw-like, fast paced scribble then began to whizz and dart up and down the bottom of his foot; it did the tango over his exposed five toes, it waltzed across the chunk of his heel, it frollied into the depths of his arch, all whilst Timothée detonated into a shatter of shrieks and rampant bucking, “—Gimme a break man this isn’t cool!—”, he screamed, “—Stop, stop it tickles man stop!—”

There was no stopping - the tickle torment continued, much to Timothée’s flabbergasted disbelief - this time over areas untouched by women, let alone men …

Before Timothée could even heave in to start to catch his breath, he felt the slit of his thong lift away from his butt hole with such aggressive exertion that the stitches in the fabric ripped but they did not tear, exposing his pert behind and his weighty balls, as well as the silky smooth flesh that made up the betweens of his thighs …

The largest gasp Timothée had ever created blew through his throat as soon as he felt the same persistent fingers that had exploited his left foot now venture across the open and entirely exposed inch or two that made up the tiny yet cataclysmically sensitive space of his taint.

“—Hey, NO!—”, each no sounded louder, “—NO!—”, each no sounded more urgent, “—NO!—”, each no sounded more uncertain, “—NO?—”, each ‘no’ catapulted from the depths of Timothée’s stomach and launched out of his mouth as if it were not allowed inside of him, the more his taint endured the merciless scribble of fingernails, whilst John’s free hand continued to lift up the stretch of thong, leaving Timothée tickled now more or less naked, his writhing, flexing and tauntly bound form now bare-ass up to the ceiling and under full exploration.

Timothée flung his head over his right shoulder, “—You gotta stop!—”, he whined out his laughter, where he then flung his head over his right shoulder, “—Not there come on!—”, he ordered, his hips thrashing from side to side, his butt shaking and bouncing, his cheeks clapping together as his taint became a landscape for exploitation, the bed wobbling with such strength that it may as well have produced steam and taken off towards the moon, “—Stop, man, I’ll do anything!—”, ahh there it is, we’re getting there, not long now …

Unlike others of his kind, John did not pause to give his lee a rest - instead, the only provided ‘break’ was a second or two between movement - one … two … See, it’s not very long, is it? - Timothée’s levels of ticklishness were abused once again, this time by a long, wet tongue, a set of pouty lips and a clean white row of ravenous teeth as those penetrating fingers tickled into the defined shape of Timothée’s hips and waist whilst John feasted on the betweens of his wide open, milky smooth thighs, causing Timothée’s spine to stiffen into a straight line and for his head to fling in various directions, as if wired by the most ferocious charge of power …

“—Gruhahahaha! Uh, uhahahaha, nnn, grr, grruuuuhuhuhahahahahaha oh, ohahahaha, ffff-uck, ffffff-uck, f—uck!—”, the strength of the tongue licked around the width of his taint, “—Sss, sssome, sssomeone! He, he, he’s tickling the sh, shh ohahahahahahatta me!—”, his balls and cock were ignored, however they fell victim to dribble, his endless giggles now causing his own saliva to bubble at each corner of his lips as the thong became caught up around John’s nose, “—Sssecurity, ssss, ssss, sssecurity? Security!—”, he called out to the hotel room door for a safety team that had been paid off to no longer stand there, the fingers at his hips now scritching, scratching and stroking at one hundred and fifty miles per hour across his butt cheeks, an act that led him to fiercely announce, “—Okay I’m out, keep it, keep the fucking Oscar!—”

… Unbeknownst to the Academy Award nominated actor, he had been reduced to pieces many times before, but it always took a while, mostly due to how determined and matured the young lee had grown within a universe he had been tricked to forget …

However, within the heat of this hotel room, in this new reality, just after lunch time, it had taken John a perfectly crafted two minutes and eight seconds to break Timothée Chalamet …

… And he had barely even begun.

Joshua narrowed his eyes at the words that appeared on T.K’s exterior, “The person in the what now?”

As the group gathered around T.K in a flustered hurry, Justin barged past the contestants wearing only red boxer shorts and black socks, where he grabbed hold of T.K with both of his hands.

“Turn it off!” He yelled, grunting as he tried to pull the black orb out from the wall, “—Turn it off!—”

The demand ‘turn it off’ shouted with such volume caused the only remaining sleeping contestant to snap his eyes open as the line worked as a harsh reminder of words he too had once yelled only one day before, not to a computerised piece of A.I software, but to a tiny plastic cock ring nudging him closer and closer to a resented release whilst his hands and feet were tied.

“Mnn,” Logan placed his hands over his ears, “I hate this song …” he mumbled, whilst peeling himself away from the duvet, his frustrated glare landing on everyone else who stood in their underwear surrounding T.K and his now flashing exterior.

“… 🎵 Baby, baby, baby ohhhh, like, baby, baby, nooooo! 🎵 …”

"Stop it!” Justin grew angrier when he realised he could not destruct T.K, “Shut the fuck up, you fucking … Piece of shit!—”,

“… 🎵 I thought you’d always be mine, ohhh, ohhh 🎵 …”

Instead, he chose to express his exasperation by spitting on the black orb, “—Sptth!—”, his drool landing over the glass with a smack, its size and weight drooping over the oval shape, “—Dickhead!—”, where he then went to stomping from side to side and growling at anyone who might look at him in a way he did not approve of, “Get your eyes offa me, Lynch!”

Ross held his hands up in surrender and hid behind Kit, “Jeez, Bieber, chill, man, it’s just a damn robot—”

—Sebastian shoved Ross out of the way and then towered over Kit - despite them being around the same height, Sebastian’s menace and lack of patience still overwhelmed the Heartstopper actor.

“How the fuck have you suddenly got points?” He pointed at Kit’s chest, “One fucking hundred thousand of them?” He asserted his point by applying additional pressure, “You do something behind our backs? Play a game we aren’t aware of? Are you a sneaky mother fucker?”

Kit grunted as Sebastian poked his chest for a third time, before Kit decided to shift the attention back to the person most disliked throughout all eight of them.

“Well he’s got two hundred thousand!—”, Kit shoved Sebastian’s hand out of the way and nodded fiercely at Justin, “Explain that! Like I have a clue who gets points and how! I just woke up, saw The Leaderboard and—”

—Justin leant against the brick wall and folded his arms across his chest, “What happens in The Room, stays in The Room …” he smirked, “And that’s all I gotta say about—”

“—Ticklee 002 …” T.K’s black orb stopped flashing and Tim’s reflection appeared in the Justin Bieber-drool stained glass, “… Timothée. You were chosen to be the next ticklee in Game Three … And guess what! You have Ticklee 006 to thank for that!”

The Living Quarters fell silent as Justin, Ross, Sebastian, Joshua, Kit, Tom and a now standing Logan all looked at Tim, who quickly wiped toothpaste away from his top lip.

Tom took a step forwards and lifted his hand, ready to place it on Tim’s shoulder, “You’re the most experienced out of all of us, mate, you’ll be f—”

—Tim shrugged his shoulder out of the way and moved closer to T.K, his narrowed eyed glare resting on Logan.

He did not ask why, he did not need any reasoning, he could not afford the distraction …

Instead he remained silent like he had done all morning and turned towards the black orb, his controlled quiet simply saying, ‘whatever you have for me, I’m ready’, leaving Tom only able to drop his hand back at his side as an awkward Logan lifted his eyes over to Sebastian, who had been glaring at him since T.K had woken.

Much to Logan’s surprise, Sebastian mouthed the words ‘fuck you’ in total silence, instead of ‘thank you’ like Logan had expected; after all, Logan had chosen the unexpected because he wanted to build bridges with Sebastian, however his attempts seemed to have fallen on deaf ears …

T.K proceeded with his orders, “Please do the following; neatly shave your underarms, neatly shave your pubic hair, neatly trim your toenails and fingernails, take a hot shower and stand at the cell door of The Living Quarters, unclothed.”

Tim clenched his teeth and offered the A.I device opposite him a firm nod.

Before he could fully turn away from T.K, the politely british tones addressed Tim once again.

“And make sure to keep the moustache …”

Tim pursed his lips and then politely moved between the group, ignoring Tom’s concerned gaze, taking himself back to the ensuite bathroom where he switched on the shower and picked up a shaver and cream provided by The House of White Feathers themselves, along with all of their other toiletries.

As the shaving cream squirted onto steady, soft palms and the shower water heated up, Justin walked past Logan and offered him an exceptionally private yet testing wink.

Logan caught Justin’s eye and then, with an expression saturated with shame and guilt, he gulped and looked away.

Tick … Tick … Tick … Tick …

John offered Timothée a sip of vodka by nearing the small glass of alcohol towards his lips.

Timothée spun his head away as if the glass were an insult.

At first, John assumed Timothée no longer trusted him, but the speed in which the boy had twirled his head almost suggested that the move was more of a savage decline, a ‘you don’t get to do that’ instead of a ‘don’t do that’.

Timothée waited briefly until he felt John step back, chortles and chuckles still chiming from his lips …

At least he’s lighthearted about it, John thought.

“—I can’t do that shit, seriously—”, Timothée then turned to face the person who surprised him with a sensory onslaught, a person who held the glass of vodka shyly at his chest and looked down at the carpet, “—The deal’s off, alright, lemme out! …” even his demands were laced with a vibrant yet sneering smile.

“—Those words give me shivers …” John placed the glass of vodka at the bedside table, “… A pure declaration of desperation,” he placed the glass of vodka beside a half empty bottle and waltzed towards the briefcase, “A willingness to give up the one thing you want so badly, just to avoid being tickled …”

Timothée sighed into the bedsheets, frustrated by the fact that he was still tied down, his adamant request to scrap the set up seemingly ignored.

“… I have wanted to do this for so, so long …” John picked up his first tool from inside the briefcase, “… The jealousy I have felt, knowing others get to do it to you, the resentment that has filled my thin, frail bones …” he switched it on, “… Doing this to someone as beautiful as yourself, as ticklish as you are, it makes us both become raw and viscerally unmanufactured versions of ourselves, and the sauce to the main course is yet to be poured …”

Btzzzzzzzzzzz …

Timothée scoffed and yanked at his restraints, his tightly bound X shape refusing to budge, his thong back in position, his more or less naked form still displayed within its taunt splay; his writhes communicated a need to escape, a want for no more, his widened jaw and flustered chuckles presenting authentic stupor as he acknowledged the sound of buzzing.

“Come on, man,” Timothée sounded serious, keen to adapt the theme, “No sauce, for real! It’s cool …” he wanted to reassure John there would be nothing to worry about, “Your secrets safe with me,” that this was already over, “I, I promise—”

“—Oh?” John made his way back to Timothée, “There are far more sinister things I could do to you, green eyes. I’ve packed a spanking paddle, some nipple tweezers, a blindfold I’ll likely not use, heck, why hide such a pretty face …”

Timothée found himself cackling into his shoulder, bewildered by his level of giggling, putting it down to shock more than anything else, “This is Fifty Shades on steroids, John!—”, he sniggered, “Talking straight up,—”, that buzzing sound was getting closer, and closer, and closer, “—There’s gotta be something else you wanna do, man—”

“—No, no. It’s just this,” John confirmed as he climbed back onto the bed and knelt between Timothée’s thighs with his chosen tool in his right hand, his view once again Timothée’s pert behind; the tightness of his thong, his broad, slim back, his pale, markless skin, the width of his shoulders and the tight, wide stretch of his bound arms, “It’s only this,” he then began to faintly press the very tip of his tool against Tim’s left ass cheek…

Timothée’s entire torso jolted into a sudden and constant writhe - his giggles sounded strained, whine-like and hopeless - the breathless bellows now pummelling into the surface of the bed - he was like cattle to a prod, a prod made up of an electric toothbrush and its whizzing bristles, his waist, hips and behind leaping uncontrollably as if it were an olympic sport, his once communicative spirit transformed into a tittering fluster, despite how against it he was just ten seconds ago, “Whaha, wha, whahat the fuck is thahat!—” he whailed.

“—You see,” John lifted the thong once again so that the hyper sensitivity of Timothée’s taint glared back at him, his other hand journeying the electric toothbrush across the silky expanse just above his balls, over the bottom of his spine, in-between the untouched intimacy of his butt cheeks, “Almost half a decade ago I offered you everything … Money to last a lifetime, heck, probably two lifetimes …” he drew the spinning bristles up Timothée’s left side, towards his open left underarm, “… But you declined me. You embarrassed me. And now?—”, the electric toothbrush arrived in the depths of his underarm, whilst John’s free hand entered his right, “I get to embarrass you.”

Timothée had no idea what John was talking about, nor did he recall the moment he had ‘refused’ John’s offer - the chance to even contemplate John’s words were speedily shelved - now, the electric toothbrush pressed and dragged in an endless nudge within his left armpit, whilst John’s fingers combed within the depths of his right, “—O, okay, I’m sorry, alright!—”, he could be apologising for anything, at this point Timothée found the whole ordeal challenging to barely understand, however right now it was his only ammunition, to give John what he wanted so he might stop, “—Fuck, this is wild, man!—” he tried to close up his underarms, he pressed his lips together, he grunted and huffed, panted and shrieked, “—How fucking long are you doing this shit for? Fuck!—”

“—Ooft! So much cursing!—” John shook his head, “—That won’t do,” he lifted himself away from Timothée and toyingly wedged the electric toothbrush under the tightness of the thongs material, where the spinning tip pressed perfectly in a caught nudge against his taint, “Let’s gag you for a bit, teach you a little lesson …” Pah! Now we’re really dialing it up a notch …

Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz, Timothées head thwarted from left to right as his mouth fell open, “You warped son of a bitch!—”, he clenched his teeth and then buried his face into the mattress as that rifling noise within the briefcase returned, and then the weight of John between his thighs, and then the loom of shadow across his torso … “Get that away from my ass!—”, his call was muffled and thunderous, “—No! No! No!—”, bzzz, bzzz, bzzz … “—No! No! No!—”, his head lifted from the mattress and spun uncontrollably …

Timothée could have babbled onward forever, but a plastic ball arrived in front of his lips, and then a leather strap found its way around his cheeks, “Nommph!—”, the force of the gags application was immediate, it consumed his mouth and tightened around his head, “—Mmnnphh!—”, it caused his eyes to expand, to water, his vision to blur, “—Mnph!—” if the Oscar was no longer his prize due to his adamant refusal of its offering, what even was this anymore? Why was he still tied up, when would he be let go?

“—Gahh! Guuh, uhh! Uff, nhh, nhh …!—”, his tongue pressed against the smoothness of the ball, dribble automatically bubbled at the corners of his mouth, “—Guuh, uuuh, uhhh!—”, if anyone had asked him what today would involve, after all the paperwork, the mystery and the excitement, he never would have expected this …

Once again, the time to consider, compartmentalise or attempt to understand his current circumstance was eradicated by the insufferable feeling of ticklishness, this time around his stomach, “—Mnn! Mnnn! Mnn!—”, Timothée’s protests thumped against his gag as John wedged himself up nice and close in an intrusive bear hug - his arms were wrapped around Timothée’s waist, his fingers grabbing, clawing, exploring Timothée’s abs, navel and tummy, whilst he smothered Timothée’s behind with his tongue, saliva, teeth and mouth, transforming Timothée into a chaotic state of unexpected and uncontrollable lunacy whilst the electric toothbrush continued to whizz against his taint …

Bzzzz, bzzz, bzzz …

“For others like you, there is a way out of something like this,” John teased, “A chance, at least,” he closed his eyes as Timothée’s taint and butt glistened and bounced beneath his face, “But I don’t want to play games with you, Timothée …”

“… I just need you to be mine …”

Once Tim had actioned all of T.K’s requests, he stood at the cell door of The Living Quarters completely nude, his balls, taint and cock entirely hairless, his underarms freshly shaved and his skin thoroughly washed.

Since showering, his short head of hair had dried naturally - it now rested over his head in a messy flop, his cropped, damp fringe just about reaching his eyebrows.

He checked out his toe nails by glancing down at his feet, which had never appeared so perfect - once content with their appearance, he checked his fingernails too - they were expertly trimmed, not too long and not too short - he felt happy with what he had achieved in such a short space of time, so much so that he calmly placed his hands behind his back and waited patiently, as if in line for breakfast in his local New York bagel shop back home.

Behind him, the rest of the group gathered in awe; they had not been around someone made to be so naked in front of them so casually, they had nowhere to hide, their awkwardness on full show …

As Tim confidently awaited his trial, Kit found himself checking the Dune actor out, his travelling gaze journeying up his slim legs, his broad back and tall, thick neck, before his perverse assessment could be noticed by Sebastian, who intentionally cleared his throat, breaking Kit from his moment of youthful exploration, exploration that felt seemingly torn between Tim and Joshua.

As Kit’s cheeks flushed red and he stepped away, the cell door opened and two Masked Henchmen entered The Living Quarters, the Masked Henchmen to the left carrying a shining silver plate as if serving a meal.

However, on the surface of the plate was not food - instead, a black nylon thong had been laid out on the silver.

“Ticklee 002," The Masked Henchman to the left held his tray towards Tim, “Put this on …”

Tim tilted his head in curiosity as the group behind him all refrained from looking as befuddled as the chosen contestant; with little to no reluctance, he picked up the thong in a determined pinch and then hooked it past his heels, over his legs and up to his hips.

He snapped the waistband against his flesh and adjusted the backing so that the thin line of fabric sat snug between his ass cheeks.

“My wife loves me in that kinda shit …” Justin whispered to Tom whilst playfully nudging his side.

Tim then stood before The Masked Henchmen, who turned away from the prisoners and quietly escorted Tim out of The Living Quarters, where the cell door behind closed shut into a firm lock, the pat, pat, pat of Tim’s barefeet over marble fading out into the expanse of captured privilege …

The morning beams of sunshine bursting through The Mansions floor to ceiling windows symbolised only freedom, freedom that Tim was not allowed to embrace until he had endured everything that the House of White Feathers would throw his way, their acts of intense infliction landing on him without their knowledge of Tim’s involvement with Maxwell.

In Tim’s mind, Maxwell was not real, they had no friendship, he did not know his face; anytime the leader of The House of Horned Devils arrived in his head, Tim would push it out straight away and focus on the task at hand, whether it be an official game or a contestant to deal with, or a simple conversation with someone challenging like Justin.

There was often only one thought Tim would lock away in his brain, for safekeeping:

The others live through The Games, I survive them.

Eventually, once through several wide halls, down some spiral staircases and a little further into the depths of The Mansion, Tim arrived at a visual far different from the beauty of the properties lavish, rich surroundings; this part of the home was dark, the walls black, the door before him presenting a handle in the shape of an extending hand.

The Masked Henchman stood behind Tim and allowed him to open the door himself.

Tim held onto the doors hand and waited to feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest, his ears, his throat …

He felt odd when all he acknowledged was how snug the thong felt between his ass cheeks, how he had been dressed in a skimpy outfit that made him feel as if he were going somewhere special, his heart rate and levels of anxiety relatively controllable.

Practice, practice, practice …

Tim closed his eyes and thought back to all the times he had skilled the many unique set ups and intense scenarios with Maxwell, his memory going further back to last year and the year before that; how he had felt when first attending Tickle Fest with Armie for the first time, how he had dealt with climbing into The Incubator for Armie for the first time, the way his fingertips felt like jelly as he had signed Armie’s contract for the first time …

Armie, Armie, Armie …

Maxwell, Maxwell, M—

—Tim’s hand met The Doors hand and as they connected, Tim pulled the door open and stepped inside The Room, where the softness of his soles stepped onto the cold harshness of concrete.

The surrounding Room was made up of the same solidness Tim stood on; four tall concrete walls, and a concrete ceiling lined dimly with lights …

Tim had no idea that only yesterday The Room had been decorated to match Logan’s punishment and now, it had been redecorated to be in sync with Tim’s own task at hand - such knowledge was not necessary, all that mattered was one thing:

Winning.

The concrete flooring beneath Tim led to a yellow coloured briefcase sitting in the middle of The Room’s floor, it’s metal latches locked shut.

On the other side of The Room was another door, similar to the one Tim and The Masked Henchmen had just stepped through, except this one was ajar instead of locked shut.

“Stand by the briefcase,” one of The Masked Henchmen ordered.

The Masked Henchmen stepped back and allowed Tim to carry himself towards what he intended to be a set up in which the results included only succeeding - within seconds he stood beside the briefcase, with his shadow blanketing its rigid box shape, the brightness of its yellow perfectly clashing with the fleshy white of Tim’s almost entirely nude attire.

Both Masked Henchmen then stood in the very corners of The Room, their expressionless, masked faces staring towards the ground.

The Room was quiet, a little chilly, only the buzzing hum of The Mansions generator working as the background noise to this assenting circumstance.

As the ceiling lighting blinked and before Tim could ask why he had been made to dress this way or why had he had been made to stand by the briefcase, the door opposite nudged open and a third Masked Henchman in a hooded cloak entered The Room carrying a large gold framed portrait.

Tim focused on the sudden importance of the portrait as The Masked Henchman turned the frame around so that its base rested on the concrete.

Tim was greeted with the painted sight of a handsome, auburn colour haired young man, possibly in his early twenties, muscular and naked, perched at the edge of what appeared to be a luxury bedroom side table.

Tim’s eyes travelled over the details of the painting whilst his mind tried to grapple with why he had been shown this work of art, amongst other things …

Out from the same door arrived a fourth attendee to this session, an individual Tim and the rest of the group had only heard of and had yet to meet …

Tick … Tick … Tick … Tick …

In the reflection that shimmered within the gold that made up Timothée’s Oscar, John took a pair of scissors towards Timothée’s thong and cut the fabric in half.

Snip!

Despite his stunned and startled state, Timothée had not once slouched or ‘rested’, no matter how exhausted he had been forced to feel, his kicking, punching, bouncing and thrashing were determined and constant - the beds wobble represented a state of alarm, the mattresses squeak informed John of Timothée’s will power, the tug and pull of the rope communicating a dire urgency …

Such aggressive writhes helped the thong slip away from Timothée’s ticklish buttocks, exposing his behind entirely, allowing John to gaze down over a squashed cock, weighty balls and a tight, hairless hole.

“—Grrmmphh! Graah! Mnnn, nnn, nmph!—”, Timothée persisted in protesting behind the ball gag, the bed sheets beneath his jaw soaked in saliva as John yanked the remains of the thong out from under his hips, “—Grrr! Mnn! Nnuuugh, nuuu, Mmphh!—”, Timothée had now been completely stripped, his naked sprawl tauntly spread in its wide X shape …

Timothée heard the buzz from the electric toothbrush finally switch off - as he chewed over plastic, he frantically twisted his head over each shoulder as he tried to catch a glimpse of John, his contractual captor seemingly waltzing back towards the briefcase.

“You’re so important, such a high class actor, a global celebrity,” John whispered, his fingers rifling through objects and tools once again, “So off limits to many. Has anyone ever done anything like this to you before?”

Timothée’s response was immediate, “—Lehg meh fuggin guu!—”, he dribbled, that twisting head shaking furiously once again, “—Eaase guu gumfin egh!—” he pleaded.

“Let me effing go? Please do something else?” John chuckled as he picked up his next tool, “I told you, this is all I want to do, this is all I’ve ever wanted to do to you since we first met …” he returned to his spot between Timothée’s thighs and perched comfortably before Timothée’s now perfectly bare, round buttocks, “… Just think, when you take that Oscar home and show it off to all of your famous buddies, it’s all because you laid here and had no choice but to let me do ‘this’ to your helpless body …”

Timothée propelled into an explosive launch that caused all four corners of the bed to groan, the bondage sternly pinning him into his starfish no matter how vigorously he leapt - there were no angry shouts, no seething remarks, no disgruntled comments - all that erupted from Timothée, at a rather uncontrollable speed and volume, were an endless boil of constant, overwhelming giggles as John faintly fluttered the tip of a seagull feather against the delicate, tiny slit that made up Timothée’s butt hole.

“You think you know it all,” John had to raise his voice, so that Timothée could hear his menacing words over the magnitude of high pitched giggling, “You think you can handle my talents,” Timothée’s buttocks shook and wobbled as he kicked his legs non stop, in an attempt to climb up and away from the bed, both cheeks jiggling, his thighs so tightly spread apart that everything making up the exceptionally ticklish flesh between the tip of his cock to the bottom of his spine was entirely on show, “You can’t handle this, can you, Timothée?”

Once again, Timothée’s head shook ardently, his teeth now holding onto the ball gag as if it were an apple, “—Yu mugga fugga!—”, he gushed, “—Gup, gup, yuu mugga fugga!—”, he repeated, the soft flutter of the feather now journeying around each butt cheek, across his taint, down the pale length of his cock then back to the tightness of his hole, “—Gruhh! Huhuhhuhhngh, ughhuhhhuhhuhuhuhuhuh! Guhuhh, grrah, graaa, uhh, uhhahahaagh!—” he started to shout his thoughts out loud, “—Uhm ooging my muuh! Uhm ooging my muuh!—” he proclaimed, seeps of shining dribble now staining his jaw, chin, neck, shoulders …

“—You’re losing your mind …” John translated, “… What an astonishing declaration of vulnerability,” he sighed contently, ”Talking of being tickled to insanity, how about we discuss the idea of what is to come …” John proceeded to wiggle the tip of the feather between Timothée’s butt cheeks, the bed now wobbling so much that John himself wobbled too, “… That would be nice, wouldn’t it, Timothée, to have some kind of awareness of what madness will happen in the next hour or two …” — creak, creak, creak …

Timothée nodded so hard and fast that his face smeared up against the wetness of the bed sheets - he could feel the torturous flitter of the feather working its way past his balls, down his right thigh and towards the behind of his right knee, his leg thrashing into a hot tempered jerk the closer the feather neared the self noted dangerzone that was the bottom of his foot.

Just as the feather reached his heel, it lifted away from the size eleven shape and dropped mid air, where it floated down harmlessly towards the rich red of the carpet.

Timothée heaved out in relief, his eyes almost rolling to the back of his head.

“Your ticklish levels are at an almighty height, young man, I feel like this is news to you,” John noted, his departed weight causing the bed to shake once again as he stood and made his way towards Timothée’s head, “I intend to utterly exploit and perversely abuse that fact, in case you haven’t noticed already …” Timothée’s eyes remained wide open as he felt the buckle unclip and the intensity of the ball of plastic within his mouth lessen.

“—Ss, slow down, man,” Timothée could barely speak as he licked his lips and gulped down a puddle of drool, “Ss, slow down, alright?” He breathlessly watched John return to the briefcase, but witnessing him retrieve whatever he planned to use next was borderline impossible.

“Telling me to slow down basically translates to ‘I’m too ticklish for this’ … Which only tells me to go harder,” John smirked as he picked up his next piece of equipment, “Do you tell a lion not to roar? A tiger not to pounce? A snake not to bite?”

Timothée’s voice was deep, filled with grain, his teeth clenched as he snarled out a genuine threat, “—Slow down, otherwise I’m gonna throw up n’ then I’m gonna pass out!—”, he brutally announced.

“Great!” John sounded gleeful, “If I’m lucky, tickling you the way I have planned will make you do both of those things, whilst pissing yourself …”

Timothée thrashed and leapt, he tugged at his bondage and bounced on the spot, “—Gemme out, lemme out, gemme out, fuck!—” someone had pressed the fast forward button on the remote, his rapid wriggles causing the bed to shift an inch, “—Gemme out, lemme out, lemme out!—” if he kept asking for it, maybe it would happen …

The room fell silent as John knelt down beside Timothée’s right foot, which lay hooked in a tight pin over the corner of the bed.

“—This is your home, now,” John politely announced.

Timothée felt the intimate press of John’s lips arrive over the end of his toes, where they faintly grazed in the form of an affectionate kiss across a part of his body he had no idea could feel so sensitive, “—Uh, list, listen! Wha, what if I pay you to stop—”

John’s tongue tickled, but for now it was enough to handle compared to his previous attacks, allowing Timothée a chance to negotiate, “—Name the amount, I’ll mah, make it happen—”, he wanted to giggle, to gasp, to gush into the pillow, all five of his toes splaying into a worried curl, where they suddenly clenched as soon as Timothée acknowledged the warm, moist presence of John’s tongue between his big toe and index toe, “—Mnn, mnn, ah, oh god, oh shit—”

“—A million a day, for two years,” John spoke with his mouthful as he slurped, sucked and chewed on Timothée’s toes, nibbling their soft, flexing shapes as Timothée’s frantic giggling returned to the hotel rooms interior, “That’s what I offered you. Over seven hundred and thirty million dollars, and you said no …” he purred, using his thumbs to spread the natural lubricant across the bottom of Timothée’s right foot, “… All deals are off the table. Now you have no choice, now you’re all mine, now this foot, belongs to me …”

Timothée tried peering over his shoulder, he tried to assess the horror of his circumstance by glancing beneath his armpit; all he could see was John now standing, calmly making his way to Timothée’s left side, where he then held the simplicity of a hairbrush inches away from Timothée’s face.

“What is this, Timothée?” John asked with a tilt to his head.

Timothée ignored John’s question and continued to produce solutions, “If it’s feet you like, we, we can set somethin’ up, man!” He cocked an eyebrow, a stifled chuckle caught at the back of his throat, “I can send you pictures, film videos n’ shit if you just—”

—John pursed his lips.

“—What is this, Timothée?—”, John repeated, as he pressed the hairbrush against Timothée’s dribble stained chin.

Timothée groaned and twisted his head away from John, shouting his answer into the other side of the bed, “A fucking comb, alright!”

“Well,” John snuck his fingers into Timothée’s left armpit, “It’s more of a hairbrush, but I’ll accept comb,” causing Timothée to leap with such force that he twisted back into a position where he was facing John once again, “How do you think it’ll feel, if I run this against the bottom of your foot, non stop?”

Timothée growled, his eyebrows raised, his eyes shimmering with rage as his feet writhed from side to side at each bottom corner of the bed, his exposed, vulnerable and twitching soles flexing as he hissed, “—Don’t fucking touch them, don’t fucking touch them!—”

John bit his lower lip as Timothée’s vexed reaction started to arouse him, “From now on, you call me ‘Sir’,” he explained, “You will endure the tickling of your life, till my needs are fulfilled. There are no safe words that will make me stop, there is no mercy that will nudge me to be kind, it is just me and my goal: to break you in a way you have never been broken before …”

Timothée could not help but look at John in awe, “—Yo, take it down a level!—”, he gawped, “—I mean it, for real, this is like, outta control, guh!—”

—John placed a fingertip against Timothée’s lips.

…

“Is it ‘this is outta control, man’, or is it ‘this is outta control, sir’ …” John murmured.

Timothée’s green eyes crossed in the middle as he looked down at the fingertip - someone more educated in understanding the relationship between a sub and dom may have mumbled out a deflated, defeated and destroyed, ‘Sir’, so as to enforce the perception of their captors superiority, however all Timothée wanted to do was bite.

He snapped at John’s finger with clenched teeth, once, twice, three times, his face creased in the middle as he snarled like a wolf, all whilst John playfully hovered his finger inches away from Tim’s gnashing and grinned.

“So fiesty! I love it,” John crawled back to the bottom of the bed, “Seeing as you don’t care much for your Oscar win anymore, I’ll make sure it goes to that tall, strapping buck Adrian Brody. But don’t worry, you’ll get a prize too once this is all over …”

He knelt over the carpet and held Timothée’s saliva soaked right sole still by catching hold of his big toe, “… Of course, you won’t know what that is, till I’m done …”

As soon as Timothée felt the unwanted grasp around his big toe, his entire body jumped into a startled jolt, “—Stop!”

From here, John could see everything; the reluctant spread of Timothée’s legs, the wide, forced open-ness of his thighs and the exposure of his behind, not to mention the length of his smooth back and the frantic head twirls from side to side, “… Tell me, Timothée, where do you think you’re most ticklish, mnn?”

Timothée could hardly move his foot at all, “—That’s none of your damn business, man!—”, it was trapped, his ankle secure through leather, his big toe tightly held in a determined hook between a thumb and index finger, “—John, yo!—”, all he could do was flex his other four toes into a tense, twitching stretch, “—Stoppit, get the fuck offa me, stop, stop, stop!—”

The plastic bristles arrived gently, barely there, hardly touching his arch, but it was enough for Timothée’s leg to kick as if the flame from a match had just pressed against his skin, “—Yo, yo, damn! Damn, damn! Yo! Damn, fuck, damnit, man!—”, they slid towards his heel in an effortless glide, giving him no choice but to thrash his leg out once more, “—Oh damn, you damn mother fucking fuck!—” he spat.

John paused before eradication, “Call me by my name, Timothée …”

Within a nano second, Timothée mutated into a reluctant lunging flail of unstable, breathless giggles and frustrated pants, his body refusing to stay still as he bounced and bucked in his starfish, all because of a hairbrush and its lenient nudge against his sole …

“—Mnn ahhahah! Ha, ha, uh, ahahahhaha! Joh, Joh, John! Ahahahaha, en, en, enough, enough! Ffff-ffff-uhuhuck, uhuhuhahaha, dahahahahamn, no! Come on, Joh—Sir! Sir! Sir!—”

He grimaced at John from over his shoulders, his eyes naturally narrowed into a resentful scowl, his cheeks now burning pink as he grinned like someone who was absurdly happy with the situation, when in actuality, the circumstance he endured was beyond dire …

“—En, en, enough, enough, enough, enough, fuck! Grr, grrrahahaha, hahah, mnn, ohh! Mnn, you’re a shithead, dahahahahamn, damn, damn! A damn shithead! Sir, sir, sir!—”

Timothée could not control the giggling as the brush scrubbed ever so faintly towards the base of his toes; once he lost his breath he heaved inwards as if he needed all air in the room, tears now filling his eyes as John increased the pressure of the scrub, producing the first adamant scream from Timothée’s mouth, a scream so loud that John could see Timothée use all the muscles in his back to produce the sound, “—JESUS MAN OKAY IT TICKLES COME ON!—”

As John watched Timothée’s foot fidget on fast paced mode whilst it curled beneath the bristles of the brush, he slowly unhooked his grip from Timothée’s big toe and unzipped the fly of his trousers, revealing the results of what doing something like this, to someone like Timothée, could do to John.

“An outstanding level of sensitivity,Timothée, No wonder he was so utterly obsessed with your feet …” John licked his lips eagerly as he thwapped at his rock solid erection whilst using his other hand to scrub the brush against the middle of Timothée’s sole, “… I get messages about them all the time; your sculpted toes, the shapes of your heels, how ticklish they could be …”

John took in the visual before him; the sight of Timothée’s sole hooked over the corner of the bed, hardly able to twist or move an inch, all five of his toes either splaying or curling as his panicked reactions continued to force his foot into a constant wriggle and writhe …

“—Sttt, stt, stop cahahahahaham on pl, ple, stt, ahahaha, grahahaha, n, n, no, I can’t, ff, fuhuhuhuhahahahah, ahahahah, sst, pl, ple, oh fuhuhuhahah, sss, ssir, sssir!—”

“… To think, only I and I alone get to witness this, this exceptional moment in the history of my long, long life …” John watched Timothée’s bound apart legs kick as his butt and hips springed over the mattress, his cock and balls always caught beneath the rampant thrust of his waist as he squirmed determinedly, “… Mnn, you never knew you were as ticklish as this, did you, green eyes? …” once again, John dialled up the speed of the scrub, but only by an additional ten percent …

“—OH, OH FFFF—” Timothée pressed his lips shut, could he really let it out? “—FFFF, FFFFF!—”, yup, there was no chance at keeping it in, “—FUUUUUUHUHUHUHAHAHAHAHAHACK! FUCK, DAMN, FUCK! NOOOOOOAHAHAHAHAHA, NOAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, NOAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHHAHA SSST, STTTOAAHHAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP SSSTOAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!—”, Timothée’s voice squeaked as he shrieked, his body now pulling at the restraints as if they were arms holding him in his X, “—FUHUHUHUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAUUCK YOU DAH, DAMN WOAH, OHAHAHAHAWOAAAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HOLY SHHHHHIT!—”, he and the mattress became one, the flat surface always taking the pummelling of Timothée’s torso as he threw himself into the softness of the landscape he lay bound over, “—YO, YOUGOTTASTOPYOUGOTTASTOP, NO FOR REAL I’M NOT PLAYING JOHN, JOHN! JOHN? SIR, SIR, SIR!—”

John scrubbed up and down, side to side, at various different angles, Timothée’s foot never once able to divert from the ticklish infliction; it always lay hooked over the corner of the mattress in its tight pin, it was always attainable, much to Timothée’s distress …

“—DAAAAAAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAMN YO,YOAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA FUCK, FFF, FFFFFFUCCK FUAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHACK OH FUCCCCCCK STOOOOAAAAHAHAHAHAHAP YO, YOAAAHAHAHAHAHA SIR, SIR, DAMN, HOLD UP FOR REEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHL! WOOO! WOOO, DAAHAHAHAHAAAAAHHHHM—”

John didn’t really need for Timothée to hear his taunts behind the thunderous shouts and deafening roars that filled the hotel room, so he just whispered into the sight of Timothée’s sole as it flapped, curled and stretched beneath every scrub of the brush …

“No Academy Award, no one to help you, no spot on your body that isn’t exceptionally sensitive …” he also realised that he had to stop touching himself, if he continued he would ejaculate and he did not want to provide himself so much pleasure so soon, especially when there were so many more tools he wanted to use, “… And the best part about it? …” he teased …

“… I know how to really make you speechless …”

Hypno’s tightly laced military boots crushed over the concrete as he stepped inside The Room, the leather of his jacket and his trousers squeaking with every step.

His face covering was built with pure metal, each sharp angle that made up his mask defining the shape of a robotic skull; his narrowed eyes glowed a milky white, his teeth were a square and rigid silver, the person behind the animated face covering, including their age, hair and eye colour, was concealed by a knitted hood that sat snug over Hypno’s head …

Hypno looked as if he had waited forever, as if his time had never come, whilst equally appearing as if nothing like that mattered, like he did not care - he resided in The Mansion for something else, someone else, but that time was not now, it would come later …

During this moment, Hypno had simply been commissioned to cast a spell.

Tim had witnessed The House of White Feathers and their unique force in various ways before, but this situation took the biscuit - when told of The Games, he expected to be seated in a tickle chair and made to endure tickle torment at the hands of the masked fiends he had grown so familiar with, all in the desperately passionate attempt to win a prize and avoid a punishment …

But from what he had seen Tom endure opposite the obsessive T.K within the underground London cell, from how Logan hid himself beneath the covers after a second game hardly anyone knew the details about, after acknowledging the sight of the yellow briefcase, his concrete surroundings and the joining company of characters …

It became all too clear that these trials and tribulations might just be something Tim only thought he would be ready for …

No quick quips or sarcastic remarks left Tim’s mouth, he was unlike some members of the cockier group several floors above - instead, a stern, silent and sincere glare glowed within Tim’s eyes as he watched Hypno walk slowly towards him, where he eventually arrived directly opposite …

Hypno lifted a photograph of Armie out from inside his leather jacket and showed it to Tim.

Tim assessed the picture - black and white, Armie stepping off a private jet, he doesn’t know he’s been photographed …

… He looks good in a suit.

Hypno then lifted an antique pocket watch attached to a chain from inside his other leather jacket pocket, dangling it in front of Tim’s face.

Tim resisted at first, his head shifting back an inch, but the pocket watch was too shiny, the tick, tick, tick of the second hand too loud, its circular shape now moving closer towards Tim’s face, so much so that it nudged against the bridge of Tim’s nose.

Tim felt his eyes cross in the middle like magnets, the tiny muscles at either side of his head twinging slightly - he wanted to look at the picture of Armie, he wanted to look at the profile of the person in the painting, but he was mostly drawn to Hypno’s pocket watch …

Hypno spoke in a mechanical growl; his voice was menacingly deep and functioned by electricity, the real tones of whoever communicated behind the mask hidden on purpose, kept secret not just for fun, but because it was a necessity.

“I am not your lover, your financial support, the person you can beg for mercy …” Hypno declared.

Tim refused to play ball - he remained still, his eyes still crossed, his nostrils flaring as his hands dangled at his sides - he heard Hypno but he did not listen, until he was unable to not listen …

“… He belongs in the photo,” Hypno tore the picture of Armie in two, **“… You belong to me …”**

Tim did not want to confirm his submission, nor did he want to provide it so quickly without any prior thought, however, once the word ‘me’ landed within Tim’s brain, he found himself nodding quickly, his mouth lifting into a satisfied smile, where he then said two important words once sworn to the very person Hypno referenced.

“I’m yours,” he muttered, now fully in a controlled, entranced daze, a complete hypnotic state.

Hypno stepped back, pocketing the remains of the photo, where he then addressed the portrait held before Tim, the pocket watch now swaying gently in front of Tim’s face from side to side …

“… The person in the painting is your stranger, your unknown, your test …”

Hypno knew he had succeeded when Tim’s eyes shot back to the portrait of the nude young man.

“… When you are in your new universe, the person in the painting will come to life …”

“… He will play your dominant counterpart, the talented individual you have agreed to consensually meet …”

Tim had been hypnotised before but this came out of the blue, it was not discussed nor was it expected, instead it happened so fast that Tim did not have even a second to fight back or look away, to protest against this mysterious force now taking over his mind and his body from the top of his scalp to the tips of the toes …

“… You have been provided with what appears to be a simple solution towards gaining something extraordinary …”

“… You are shocked that this is how people like you make their way to the top, aren’t you, Timothée …”

Tim nodded slowly, the repetitive use of the word ‘you’ tricking him further into a role made just for him, his mouth falling open as he slowly mumbled, “… I didn’t think it would be this easy …” Tim sniggered and lifted his shoulders, “… I honestly can’t believe my luck …”

“… You have no memory of our universe, do you, boy …”

Tim felt a thickness catch at the back of his throat - he swallowed it down, his eyes dry and wide, as he continued to take in the sight of the young man in the portrait staring back at him as well as the fierce presence of Hypno’s swaying pocket watch …

… Like a puppet, he found himself shaking his head.

“… You did not sign a contract with Armie …”

“… You do not know who or what The House of White Feathers are …”

“… Your experiences with bondage and sensory exploitation will be abolished into a voidless hole …”

“… You will transform from someone who has done it all, to *someone who has never done it before*** …”

“… You are you, before all you have ever known …”

Not only would his erotic past with Armie soon be forgotten, but the training and preparation with Maxwell would disappear too, as well as his knowledge of level of endurance, what he could and could not handle, leaving Tim awash with a paranoia that his coachings with Maxwell had been discovered by the cult and that is why Tim’s experiences with ‘this world’ were to be removed by mind control …

… Whilst walking to this very point only moments ago he had wanted to forget the people who had made him so ready for what would happen next, so that he could appear as unsuspecting, so that he could allow those who would toy with him to underestimate his abilities …

… As he stood swaying under hypnosis, whatever was left of his own mind now willed for one thing and one thing only …

I won’t forget, I won’t forget, I won’t forget …

… I can’t forget.

“… Nod once if you understand …” Hypno lifted his finger once again, his order a test to see if his magic had been successful.

So far today, Tim had barely said anything - most of the noise he made was for he and he alone, wedged within the private confines of his head - now? That head was held captive just like he and the seven other individual prisoners occupying this giant home …

As soon as he felt all he knew begin to fade away, only to be replaced with a far more innocent, highly ignorant version of himself, Tim lifted his head and offered Hypno a genuine look of momentous importance, his lips pursing together where he tried to whisper out four vital words …

Please, don’t do this …

Hypno’s grin beamed behind his mask as he watched Tim attempt to talk …

… When all he could do was nod once, as ordered.

Hypno swiftly snatched the pocket watch away from Tim, causing him to blink.

“… When I click my fingers, your experience begins …”

Tim watched Hypno’s right hand lift where his thumb and middle finger pressed together.

Experience sounded so very different to ‘game’ …

“… Countdown for me … Five ….”

Tim eyelashes fluttered, “ … Four … “ Three …”

The lighting in The Room buzzed and flickered.

“ … Three …”

All he wanted to do was to stop counting down …

“… Two … “

As soon as the word ‘one’ was spoken, Hypno clicked his fingers and the ground swallowed Tim through the sharpness of its jaws, transporting him to a hotel in Atlanta where he would face the complete unknown …

—Click!

Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick …

John sat naked on the carpet in the cross legged position, with a taunt length of white shoelace from Timothée’s sneakers held in a long entwined line between all five of the curling toes of Timothée’s right foot.

From his seated position, with his back against the sunset, John could still see everything he wanted to see; the broad expanse of Timothée’s back, his spread behind, the tightly bound, wide stretch of each of his legs, his wriggled writhing and bouncing over the mattress, all whilst his besieged facial expressions attempted to twist and pull away from the horror taking place between all five of his curling, flexing, scrunching toes as John effortlessly see-sawed the string between digits far too sensitive to touch.

“—Oh, oh sshh, ssh, mnn, mmm, huhahahahaha, pl, pl pleahaahahahahahuhuhmuhuhuhch, ss, st, pl, pl, huhahahahahah! Mmm, mmm mmm—”, Timothée’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut, then they would expand in an overwhelmed open, showing nothing but a honey thick glaze and pupils darting from side to side - this visual of course was hidden, as John has decided to blindfold Timothée with a gold sleeping mask which sat tightly strapped across the top half of his face, further increasing his levels of sensitivity, “—Nn, n, no, sh, sh, hehahahahahahehahahhuhuhahaha, ple, ple, hahahahaha, ss, ss, ssir, ssir! Mnnn, mm, mm!—”, his cheeks hummed a shade of vibrant beetroot, he fizzed at each corner of the mouth, his grainy laughter was deep, throat-filling and never ending, “—St, st, st, st, I, neheheheehehehedto, to b, b, breathe, Ineeneneneneneeneeeneeedto, br, br, breeeahehe gahaaa, mmm, mm gguh, ghhahahaab, hhh, hhheathe!—”, he looked heartbroken by hysteria, giggling with such volume that his veins had thickened, lunacy now living in his rent free, all whilst John’s tall erection stood triumphantly, “—Stopwiththestring, en, enoughwiththefuckingstringcomeon!—” Timothée’s plea was soaked with furious truth but it arrived ‘laced’ with too many frantic giggles to be taken seriously, “—You evil sonovabitch!—”

John wove the lace between Timothée’s littlest toe and then his second to last, he dragged it through to his middle toe and then wrapped it around his index toe - ahh, there were the shrieks, “—Aaaaaaghahahah! Aaaaaghahahah! Aaaaaaghahahaha!—”, he would then pull it delicately past his big toe with enough of a yank to free the string entirely, just so he could do it all over again …

Timothée’s kicking, punching and thrashing excelled in speed as he started to head butt the mattress, forced to endure more tickle torment by something as unexpected as a shoelace between his toes, John’s presence within the long, meaty lengths refusing to retreat, slowdown or show mercy; the string slid through moist gaps of sensitivity, the dryness of its journey dangled into clenched, defended dactyls just asking to be devoured, all whilst Timothée giggled and begged non stop into the warmth of sunlight, unable to lift his head, blinded by the largeness of John’s aroused determination and the suffocating passion that John inflicted to a part of Timothée’s body that Timothée rarely thought about …

“—Nopleleepleepleeepleeepleease! Pleeasepleaaasepleasepleassplease! Pleaaasepleasepleleeeplee, pleepleeepleeease, stststttopsttttsttttop damn damn damn!—” Timothée heaved in and then continued, “—NoJohnSirpleasethatstoomuch, plee, plee plepleassplease? I, I can, bre, br, brehehe, bre, pleaaaseplease, pleleeepleepleepleee, pleeeasestststttopsttttsttttop jus, jus a damn moment! A second! Justasecondfuckfuckfuck!—” his shoulders rolled, his spine arched, his waist pounded the bedsheets, his ass shimmered with sweat, how long would he get away with this? “—I th, think I’m gunnapassout!—”

As much as John enjoyed tormenting Timothée’s toes, he knew there were other audience members out there dying for that other special spot to be focused on - after all, he knew the time might be up soon anyway because the tick, tick, tick in his head was getting louder and the sun was starting to set in this reality - which meant he really needed to get a move on if this were to be the last time he would experience such a magical moment, under such a special spell …

John slid the string out from the betweens of Timothée’s toes and then stood, allowing the boys face to drop onto the surface of the mattress where he gasped, heaved and spluttered for just a few seconds, before John had no choice but to continue the ordeal in an attempt to make the most of these final, most precious minutes.

John dropped the string, straddled Timothée’s back and bear hugged his torso once more, using his fingers and claw-like grab to dig into every rib cage, every curve of each hip, every pec muscle and defined shape of each side of Timothée’s waist, leaving Timothée only able to frantically hurtle in every which direction as if drowned by ticklishness.

“—I can’t, sssee, you’re going to! Ahaha, ahahaha fas, fas, I, I nee, t, t, bre, yo, uhauhahahahhuhuh, yo, grahuhuhuh pl, please!—”, Timothée wheezed over his shoulder, he snatched hold of the restraints as if they belonged to him, his giggles and shrieks making a comeback at full volume as soon as John, The Person in The Painting, made his way up Timothée’s torso and arrived at his underarms, where John proceeded to lick, tickle, stroke, bite, slurp and scratch at Timothée’s armpits, his neck, his back and his sides, “—I’mgonna, I’mgonna pa, pa, pass out! Sss, sss, SIR!—” Behind the blindfold, Timothée’s eyes rolled to the back of his head a second time, his laughter on pause before his vision blurred, only for it to all crisp back into focus as soon as the nibbling left his flesh and nip, nip, nipped down his spine and towards his left ass cheek, “—Fff, ff, FUCK, Jehehehahahhahasus, no! No, noahahahahaha fuckfuckfuckstop mahahahahahahaaaaahn SIR!—”, it was barbaric, limitless and extravagantly torturous, it was teeth, tongues and talons and as the pocket watch continued to sway, Timothée had absolutely no idea how long would be left, “—SIR, SIR, SIR!—”

John tongued the ends of Timothée’s right elbow as if he were still hungrily cleaning off a plate - this offered Timothée a brief second or two in simple producing noises, such as breathless whimpers, frustrated moans, some mutters and curses whispered in French, “—Tu vah, vas payer po, pour ce pervers!—”, John was highly intelligent and he knew many languages, however Timothée was the only person who was part french that John did not despise …

“—I never cared much to learn ‘ohh la la’ …” John explained as he sat down comfortably over Timothée’s waist, his huge erection creating a snake-like shadow over Timothée’s lower back, “… I was always more into ‘ohh no no!’ …” he chuckled, whipping away Timothée’s blindfold, then picking out his next tools by simply entwining them together and releasing some much needed pressure in the form of a crack.

Timothée’s face lay to the side, his green eyes sparkling at the setting sun as he sent an unblinking and hopeless stare into the hotel windows - his cheeks were swollen, the blood cells now throbbing around the side of his head, the only words he felt able to say whine out now were a simple acknowledgement, “… I, I’ve never been tickled like this before in my life …” and then a question, “… Do you do this to a, everyone who asks for, for …” he could not say it, how could he say it, he heard himself say it, “… Help? …”

“Of course!” John cheered, “But you’re my favourite!” He licked his fingertips, coating them in a warmth wetness, “And bravo to me! ‘Never been tickled like this before in my life’, what a statement. It’s really down to another special someone for making you think that way. Gosh, back in my time pocket watches were just for showing off …” he shaped his hands into claws, “… But today, oh today, a tincy wincy pocket watch has given me something extraordinary—”

“—N, no, no more! N, no more? No, pl, plea, one el, else, no, ss, ss, no more!—”, Timothée’s pleas were doused in an uncertain babble as he tried to present them within a stern command, John’s grip now nearing his sides, “—You ss, sson of a, you, you sssson of a BITCH!—” he would sometimes switch to venomous, depending on how much vengeful energy would surge back through him.

John looked down at the beauty that made up Timothée’s back; the definition beneath each taunt shoulder blade, the long line that made up his spine, his thick, pulsating neck that always twisted from left to right, left to right, left to right, his pulled apart biceps that reached to each top corner of the bed perfectly opening up each underarm with the exact amount of generous space for John to delve into …

“You know, this is all just a glimpse into what life could have been like, every single day, if you had just said yes,” John’s fingertips closed in slowly, gradually, toyingly, “If you had not turned me down …” as soon as John made impact, Timothée naturally tried to fold into himself, creak, creak, creak, but the bondage nor the bed he lay tied to would not allow such pull, “… This could have been you, my boy,” first a flutter, then a stroke, and then a comb, within three seconds Timothée had fingers deep within each underarm, five in his left, five in his right, as John wiggled them deeper and deeper and deeper inside the cavernous depths, boiling Timothée’s fevered frenzy to such a state that he started to shake and vibrate, thrash and flounder, heave and pant, “This could have been your reality—”

“—No, no, not again!—”, Timothée’s voice was broken, it needed oiling, he sounded raspy, “—My armpits! My, my arm, arms! My pits, th, th, they’re too, too sss, sss!—”, his giggles were tight, his laughter now pouring out of him, his head always glancing towards one armpit and then the next, “—Please, please please!—” he spat, sneering in disbelief, John’s weight over his waist pinning him in a far tighter press against the bed, “—Fuh, ff, FUCK, that fucking tickles, fuck! Fuck, that’s the, sss, sst, ss, worst, fucking, too much, ssst!—”, the dribbled laughter, the breathless moans, they were replaced with a dire urgency, an extreme level of alarm that arrived in the form of blunt and stern verbalisation, “—You gotta stss, ssss, pleee, I, I, mnnm ahahahaa, mn, can’t do, woohahahahahahooh, oh no, no, uhahaha gguhnno, no, you gotta stop! Oh, sir, sir, that tic, tick, tikles like crahahah, crah, craaahahahazy, please!—”

John watched Timothée’s shoulders dance, his sides twist, his elbows try to move just an inch to close up the gaps that made up his armpits, but John’s fingertips remained inside, simply brushing, grazing, tenderly poking, all enough to transform Timothée into a growling, gasping, gawping heap of despair.

“We’ll go on all night,” John explained as his hard on rubbed against Timothée’s spine, “Then when it’s morning we’ll go on for the rest of that day,” wriggle wriggle wriggle, scritch, scritch, scritch, “I’ll spend an hour on your taint, and then an hour on your hips, and then an hour on your feet,” John kept his right hand deep within Timothée’s left underarm whilst sucking the fingers of his own free hand, “You’ve never tasted so good—”

“—John …”

“… Your ride back to your room is here, John …”

John glanced into the ceiling as only he heard Hypno’s voice echo into the hotel room.

“… Now listen …”

“… Tell him to pick a number between zero and eight, but he must not pick one …”

“What, now? But … But I have so much I want to do! …” John’s fingertips continued to claw gently into Timothée’s armpits, allowing Timothée the opportunity to still giggle, pant and cackle through his lack of dribbled breath as his waist wiggled non stop, “… I don’t want this to end, I, I can’t have this be over, I—”

“—Over! Yeah, quit it, fuck! Please make it be ohahahahahahahahaver please please please!—”, Timothée bit into the bedsheets and squeezed his eyes shut as an undeniably sensitive intrusion continued to finger into the middle of each armpit, “—Fuck, ohahahah ssss, sstop, too, too ticklish, n, no, please, I, I, I can’t, sss, sss, fucking think straight, ssst, yo, damn! Too, loh, long, damn, damn, damn!—”

“ … Tell him to pick a number between zero and eight, John. But he must not pick one …” Hypno lowered his voice, “… The order will not be repeated again …”

John tutted and forced himself against Timothée’s back, whispering into his left ear as he continued to graze deeper into his armpits.

“… I’ll never forget this, kid,” Timothée grimaced as John’s warm breath pressed against his earlobe, “Even if they make you do so, I sure as hell won’t …” John whispered, “… Now, do me a favour. I’ll stop if you,” he sniffed up some emotion, his eyes filling with tears, “I, if you …” he bear hugged Timothée and went in hard, clawing into his underarms, grabbing into his pits, scratching at ticklish, untouched, sensitive flesh, “… If you pick a number, from zero to eight, but not the number one …” he bit Timothée’s shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut as he felt the bed shake and rattle, as Timothée’s body began to heat up, as his limbs continued to kick and thrash …

Timothée had no times to waste, therefore he did not hesitate in doing whatever John asked of him; he turned his head and yelled out his chosen numbers, numbers that he did not even think about screaming out loud, they were just the first things that came to his mind, his mouth, his lips, the air, and, once they had been called …

… Tim woke up.

Tim whispered his chosen numbers again and again and again under his breath, his glazed over green eyes staring into nothing as he smirked in a daze until Hypno’s clicking fingers caused him to blink.

Click!

Tim sat on a steel chair in the middle of The Room, entirely naked and unrestrained, with his arms hypnotically raised above him, John’s long, grey tongue curling and stretching inside his right armpit …

Tim’s blurred vision sharpened into focus …

It took only a few seconds for him to realise that John no longer resembled the twenty something Person in The Painting …

“Jesus, fuck!—”, Tim yanked his arms down by his chest and accidentally smacked John in the face whilst doing so.

Crack!

Such sudden strength caused John to cup his face and squeal like a pig as Tim tumbled off the chair and landed his bare ass on the concrete.

“—Nuhh!—” he fell onto his back, his levels of exhaustion now just hitting him …

John, beyond elderly and ravaged by illness, reached towards Tim with sharp yellow nails and a desperate growl, “—But you’re mine!—” he snarled, his nose bloody and broken, before collapsing into the arms of Miller, who stood patiently awaiting such an immense downfall, “—I was about to break him, I was going to break him unlike ever before!—”

Tim sat on the concrete with his eyes wide open and his jaw stretched apart.

Huff, huff, huff …

He watched John collapse into Miller’s arms, he watched John become overwhelmed with a need to fight against a frail body that was no longer hypnotised to feel young, he watched John glare at him in a mixture of jealousy and hunger …

Growling, whining, drooling and now craving the semen he had been told would make him ‘stronger’, John had no choice but to give into Miller, who escorted the frail owner of The House of White Feathers out of The Room whilst patting him on the back.

“There, there,” Miller reassured, “You had your moment …” he kissed the sides of John’s scalp before seating him back into his wheelchair, “… Let’s take you to bed, there will be time for more …” the milky aphrodisiac would be denied, for now …

The sight of Miller wheeling John away was replaced by Hypno, who stepped in front of Tim, but just before John could fully disappear, he turned over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes at Tim with a glare that simply said ‘this isn’t over’.

As the door closed behind them, an eerie silence filled the room.

…

Tim’s eyes darted around the unknown yet the strangely familiar; on the floor lay string, some feathers and a plastic academy award from an L.A gift shop …

… There were puddles of saliva, a hairbrush, a ball gag and a yellow suitcase.

Tim glanced down at his underarms, at the soles of his feet; his body was littered in pink marks, the betweens of his thighs tingled.

Slowly, Tim lifted his head into a menacing glare that faced only Hypno.

What had he said? Had he mentioned Maxwell? His plans?

Had he been made to give it all away so soon?

Behind clenched teeth he firmly asked, “What did I do?” Before quickly blinking, parting his lips, and then quietly asking, “Wh, what did … he do? …”

Hypno crouched down before Tim and placed a leather palm over his shoulder.

“You played a role,” Hypno explained, “You gave him what he always wanted, whilst letting him be who he always was.”

Tim thought back to Tickle Fest, to Atlanta, to his first meeting with John back in 2020 …

“He’s … Was that …” Tim looked towards the portrait, as well as the young man painted within the frame.

Hypno nudged Tim’s focus back towards him by knocking at his chin.

“Three hundred thousand points go to you on The Leaderboard, for doing what you did,” Hypno announced, “Or …”

Tim looked into Hypno’s skeleton mask, the glow of the steel, the sharpness of its structure.

Hypno then moved towards Tim’s left ear and whispered his alternative option.

Tim’s eyelashes fluttered into a defeated close as he scoffed and lowered his head.

“Miller,” he trailed his tongue over his top row of teeth, he wished he did not know that name as well as he did, “He’d never allow me to, I, I could never—”

“—Both outcomes were Miller’s idea,” Hypno declared.

Tim gulped and raised his eyebrows as he slumped his shoulders and stared into the concrete.

“So,” Hypno stood and held out his hand to Tim …

“… What will it be?”

Miller opened the door to The Mansion, revealing a rain soaked Armie Hammer who stood on the driveway with two Masked Henchmen guarding him from behind.

“This better be about one thing …” Armie growled, “… Letting him go.”

Miller shuffled aside as Armie unapologetically barged his way into a home he had seen blueprints and designs of decades ago, a home that was now made of bricks and stone, a home that now existed as a prison.

Both Masked Henchmen followed Armie as the doors swung to a near-close, shutting away the torrential downpour outside for now.

Armie placed his hands on his hips and called up into the giant stairway, “—Tim?—”, he then glanced down the hall and yelled Tim’s name for a second time, “—Tim? Timothée?—”, before he could shout for a third time, it became clear to Armie that he would be greeted with nothing but the echo of his own voice as well as the droplets of rain falling from the tip of his nose.

Miller placed his hands inside his pockets and nodded at a readied leather seat beside an antique lamp.

Armie dropped himself into the chair as both Masked Henchmen arrived behind him.

“I’ve called you here tonight because …” Miller pursed his lips and held a ball of emotion at the back of his throat, “… Because of John.”

Armie’s eyebrows flattened into a confused line as he noticed how ‘ajar’ The Mansion’s front doors remained.

"Make it quick,” Armie kept his coat on, the weather from outside now featured within the lobby thanks to his muddy boot prints over the marble flooring, “I’m not here for a family catch up.”

Miller took a seat at the bottom of the stairs and loosened the tightness of his shirts collar.

“He … Doesn’t have long left,” he smirked as he realised how matter of factly he spoke, when addressing such an important subject, “These games, these … Trials, he’s spent so long designing them, planning them, he even took part in one today, and I… I don’t know if he’ll see them end …” Miller dropped his hands into his lap as his eyes glistened with tears, “… I uh, I don’t know what to do.”

Armie sighed into his kneecaps, his blue eyes twinkling with impatience as he sat back in his chair and huffed, his wet clothing squeaking with the leather as he did so; there was no ‘I’m sorry’, no ‘well, he lasted longer than we expected’, instead Armie lifted his head and look Miller directly in the eye.

“If he’s ending …” he hissed, “… This, ends …”

Miller fingered out the knot from his tie and then slid it away from his collar, as if finally releasing a snake from around his neck.

“We took a page outta your book and introduced some hypnosis,” Miller analysed the details of the chandelier hanging high above his head, “We tricked Timmy into thinking John was the John of seventy years ago,” the diamonds twinkled in his eyes, “Can you imagine the lust in a boy like a young John? The energy? The ideas that came from a brain nowhere near ready to create, well,” Miller smiled at the wooden banister by his face “This, all of this.”

He lifted himself back to his feet and tied the tie around his knuckles, pacing quietly towards Armie’s seated slouch as the leather of his loafers click, click, clicked over marble …

“He feathered the betweens of his ass,” Miller closed his eyes as if recalling important details off a list, “Went in on his underarms, used the hair brush on the soles of his feet …” when Miller opened his eyes, they glistened, “… He even took my advice and dragged string between his toes,” he smirked, “You of all people know that is how to break Timotay Chalomay …” he pulled so hard at the tie that the stitching squeaked, “… And there are still so many games left, so many endless ways to play with an individual as exciting as him—”, Miller cackled unexpectedly, “—God, I love my life!—”

Armie curled his fists into balls and began to grapple with Tim’s circumstance.

“You’re pushing people to far,” Armie warned, “You’re pushing him too far …”

Miller shrugged away Armie’s concerns - he was too focused on his own desires.

He wanted to use the tie to bind Armie in place, he wanted to strip him and turn out the lights, allow the gloom from the weather outside to illuminate the things he would do to Armie’s muscular body; his long, slender legs, the blondish wisps of hair in the depths of his underarms, his tanned abs and tanned, manly feet …

He wanted to make him gasp, moan, to arch his back and bite his lower lip, like he used to do years and years ago …

But above all else, as a fatigued and confused John lay floors above attached to plastic wires and oxygen tanks …

… He wanted to hurt him.

As the tie squeaked between Miller’s grasp, Miller’s tall form blanketed Armie in the darkness of shadow.

“I have two slices of bad news for you, Hammer …” Miller quipped, “… John’s circumstance was the first, this is the second …”

Armie watched Miller with narrowed eyes as he pace slowly from side to side, thunder rumbling across the landscape of the surrounding woods on the other side of The Mansion’s doors.

“After giving John one of his ‘final fantasies’, Timothée was told he was deserving of three hundred thousand points on The Leaderboard, or …” he paused his pace and untangled the tie from around his knuckles, “… Or he could spend the night with you.”

Armie slid away from the chair and raised to an eager stand, both Masked Henchmen from behind stepping forwards in readiness.

“Oft,” Miller made his way towards Armie and placed his tie around Armie’s face, “Look at how quickly I can lift you, just by suggesting a night with your Timmy again …” Miller wrapped the tie around Armie’s head once, twice, three times, blinding him entirely, “… Do you wanna know what he decided?”

Armie did not want to nod, he did not want to appear as weak or feeble, he did not want to show the world he came from that this Hollywood actor, this Timothee Chalamet had reduced him to a now blindfolded, tongue wagging follower …

Yet there he stood, with rain drops drying on his jacket shoulders, a suit tie knotted around his eyes, nodding like some discarded puppet.

Miller’s lips arrived at Armie’s left lower earlobe, where he delivered his answer in the form of a barely there whisper.

“… He chose the points …”

Armie’s face dropped as Miller stepped aside, another flash of lightning and a following bellow of thunder greeting The Mansion’s lobby.

Armie felt his back be pushed and shoved by The Masked Henchmen’s gloved hands; his boots slipped over marble, his hands tried to tear at the tightness of the tie blinding him, he felt cold, wet air slam against his face and then after one final shove, he landed in a puddle on the driveway in an almighty—

—SPLASH!

Armie tore the tie away from his face and glared up at Miller, who stood within the warmth of The Mansion’s doorway.

“… He told me to say hello …” Miller sneered, his other hand lifting into a faint wave, “… And then he told me to say goodbye.”

The door slammed shut as Armie scrambled to his feet.

He hurtled towards the door, he punched at its surface, he kicked at the wood and pulled at the handles.

All whilst John, The Person in The Painting, stood hunched by his bedroom window and watched Armie suffer in the rain, where the youth that still remained inside of his heart smiled like a boy that had everything and nothing, all at the same time.

Hello, dear reader! T.K here! Timmy chose three numbers at random. They will be the ticklee’s that will face Game Four!

BUT, who did he choose? Find out in Game Four - ‘Oink’

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