Nine months after the destruction of The House of White Feathers …
The world had changed, and not for the better.
The House of White Feathers was no longer a whispered name spoken only in certain circles. It had become a headline, a scandal, a cautionary tale. The Dome, once hidden beneath iron lids and layers of forest fakery now lay in blackened ruins, its bones picked over by investigators, journalists, and the morbidly curious.
What had begun as a private sanctuary for those who craved sensation beyond the ordinary had been dragged into the light, stripped bare, and set ablaze. The cult was gone. The Games were over. The Dome stood empty and the men who had run it - Miller, Peter, John - were a big part of what made up the ash.
Luca had seen the end coming long before the flames.
Shortly after he had offered them Ross, he walked away the moment he learned what they intended. Daily hypnosis. Contestants stripped of consent, their memories of each tickle trial wiped clean so they could be fed back into the machine, again and again, until their bodies and minds belonged entirely to The House. Endless loops of laughter and torment, all for the entertainment of paying voyeurs and the egos of the men in charge. Luca had no interest in breaking people. He had built his reputation on the opposite: on willing bodies, on negotiated surrender, on the exquisite, electric space between too much and not enough. When the line was crossed into outright violation, he had packed his tools, closed his studio, and severed every tie.
It hadn’t been enough to save him from the fallout.
His name had leaked along with the rest. Former clients, curious strangers, and outright trolls had found him. Emails arrived daily - some begging for sessions, others threatening exposure, a few simply demanding to know if the rumours were true. His phone rang at odd hours. People showed up at his door with cameras raised, hoping to film the “tickle cult photographer” for their followers. He wasn’t Brad. He wasn’t Evans. He was just Luca: a man with a camera, a quiet reputation, and a particular set of hands that knew how to draw sound from a body like music from an instrument. He had never courted fame. Now it hunted him anyway.
Pride was the only thing he had left to lose. So he had hidden.
For seven months he kept the studio dark. The heavy black case that held his brushes, his feathers, his restraints, his oils - everything remained locked. He answered no calls. He deleted most emails without reading them. He told himself he was finished. When the pranksters finally grew bored and moved on, he began to breathe again. Perhaps, in time, he could reopen as nothing more than a photographer. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Safe.
Then the email arrived.
It sat in his inbox like any other message at first glance - anonymous sender, no subject line, no attachments. Luca almost deleted it on instinct. But something made him open it …
The tone was different.
It began simply.
‘Hello.’
No demands. No money offered upfront. No threats. No accusations. Just an ordinary greeting. The kind he had missed.
The sender spoke of feeling hollow, of moving through days that no longer held colour or weight. They wanted more. Not pleasure in the shallow sense, not entertainment, but something deeper, something that would crack them open and let them feel alive again. They had heard of Luca in a way that felt different from just hearing gossip. They believed he was the one who could give them something special.
Luca read the message twice, then a third time. The cursor blinked at the end of the final sentence. Outside, rain tapped against the window of his small apartment, steady and indifferent. He sat in the half-light of the laptop screen, the rest of the room swallowed in shadow.
He recognised the hunger in those words because it lived in him too.
After months of silence and retreat, something stirred. Not the old thrill of the studio, not the rush of power that came with drawing helpless laughter from a bound body. Something quieter. A recognition. Two people on opposite sides of a screen, both craving the same thing: more.
His fingers moved before he could talk himself out of it.
He replied.
The message was short, careful, but open. He acknowledged what they had written. He did not promise anything. He simply asked if they would like to meet, to talk, face to face, and see whether he could give them what they were searching for.
He hit send.
The email vanished into the ether with a soft whoosh. Luca closed the laptop halfway, but did not shut it. He sat in the quiet, listening to the rain, feeling the faint, dangerous flicker of anticipation in his chest.
For the first time in seven months, he did not feel entirely alone in his hunger.
And somewhere out there, an anonymous sender - genuine, careful, and quietly desperate - was waiting for his reply …
Sunday arrived grey and wet, rain falling in a steady, relentless curtain over London.
Luca had woken early, though the appointment wasn’t until 3 pm.
He had cleaned the apartment twice, the studio three times, checked the heating, sanitised the stocks, the toe ties, and then told himself to stop fussing. He never used to be this nervous. Back when the studio was busy, he had met strangers and celebrities with nothing more than professional calm and a quiet smile. Today his hands kept finding things to straighten.
At ten minutes to three he stood at the window, watching the street below. The rain drummed against the glass. A black cab hissed past. Then, exactly on time, a long, gleaming Bentley purred into view and drew up at the kerb.
The driver’s door opened.
A man in a dark suit and overcoat stepped out, “… An actual butler?” Luca whispered. The man was complete with the kind of posture that belonged in another century. He moved to the rear passenger door and opened it with practised dedication.
A slender foot emerged first: white tennis shoe, dark dress sock, the cuff of immaculate black trousers.
The foot hovered for a moment, searching for dry ground, then stepped carefully over a puddle onto the wet tarmac.
Luca leaned closer to the glass, trying to see the rest of the figure, but the butler had already opened a large black umbrella and positioned it like a shield. All Luca caught was the impression of a tall, slim silhouette in a black coat, the umbrella bobbing as the pair approached the building.
The buzzer sounded.
Luca’s heart gave an uncharacteristic lurch. He took one steadying breath, wiped his palms on his jeans, and went to the door.
When he opened it, the Bentley was already pulling away, red tail lights glowing in the rain. Standing on the step, half-sheltered by the narrow overhang, was the young man.
He looked even younger than Luca had expected - eighteen, perhaps, no more - and boy, was he tall - so much so that Luca felt short, and Luca was 6ft.
The boy’s black coat was tailored, expensive, the white dress shirt beneath it crisp and open at the collar. Black trousers, those same white tennis shoes. His hair was dark brown and neatly kept, though the rain had already begun to darken the shoulders of his coat. He smiled - small, sheepish, uncertain - and for a second Luca thought there had been some mistake. This couldn’t be the person who had written those emails. This boy looked like he belonged in Eton University, not on the doorstep of a little flat in a quiet east London street.
“You’re … Here for the shoot?” Luca asked, the words automatic, the cover story he had suggested in their emails.
The young man nodded quickly, eyes flicking up and then away, “Yes. I … Yes,” his voice was unmistakably posh, the vowels crisp and rounded in that particular way that spoke of decades of the best schools and centuries of breeding. Even the nerves couldn’t quite smooth it out, “Could I please come in?”
Rain was already darkening the front of his coat. Luca jolted into motion.
“Of course. Of course, sorry,” he stepped back, holding the door wide, “Come in, please.”
The young man slipped inside with a murmured thank-you. Luca closed the door against the rain and the grey mid-afternoon, the sound of the latch clicking into place oddly final in the quiet hallway.
For a moment they simply stood there, the young man dripping slightly onto the mat, Luca suddenly aware of how small and ordinary the apartment entrance looked compared to the Bentley that had delivered him. The boy - no, the young man - shifted his weight, hands buried in his coat pockets, that same small, nervous smile still hovering at the corners of his mouth.
He was exceptionally well-dressed for someone who had just arrived for a “photography shoot.”
Luca cleared his throat softly, “Let’s get you out of the rain.”
The hallway was narrow and softly lit by the purple lighting rigged beneath the frames, the kind of space that felt artistically intimate rather than grand.
The rain had been replaced with a comforting warmth. As they walked, Luca kept half a step behind James, watching him carefully. Thanks to the lighting, he was lit a deep shade of pink, his pale skin glowing. The whites of his tennis shoes practically glowed. Every few paces, James’s eyes caught on the framed photographs lining both walls.
They were Luca’s own work. Not the safe, commercial pieces he showed to ordinary clients. These were the private ones. A series of toned, handsome men caught in states of complete surrender: bodies arched and suspended in intricate rope harnesses that lifted them clear of the floor, hog-tied and hanging like living sculptures. Some were naked, skin gleaming under lilac lights. Others wore nothing but black leather cuffs and the glossy black circles of ball gags, eyes hidden behind silk blindfolds. One photograph had been printed in electric pink monochrome, the ropes standing out like veins of light against the dark. Another was a simple, almost classical line drawing rendered in stark black ink. All of them pulsed with the same quiet, erotic tension: helplessness made beautiful.
James was looking. Really looking. His steps slowed without him seeming to notice. His gaze moved from one image to the next, lips slightly parted, colour rising high on his cheekbones. He looked overwhelmed in the most delicate way - caught between fascination and the sudden, sharp understanding of exactly what kind of studio this was. When he would realise what he was looking at, he’d hurry along.
Luca saw it and felt something in his own chest loosen. The boy was nervous enough already. He didn’t need to walk the rest of the way in silence, as he journeyed through this transitional hall between his normality and Luca’s extraordinary.
“So,” Luca said gently, “Do I get to know your name?”
James startled slightly, as if he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. He tore his eyes from a particularly striking image of a man suspended in a complex chest harness, arms bound behind him, head tipped back in what could have been agony or ecstasy. For a second he looked unsure whether to answer at all.
“James,” he said quietly. The single syllable carried that same crisp, public-school polish, but softer now, “My name’s James.”
They had reached the heavy door at the end of the hallway. Luca could see the way James’s fingers had curled inside his coat pockets, how his posture had tightened. Without thinking, Luca reached out and took the young man’s right hand out from the pocket - warm, a little clammy - and gave it a firm, reassuring shake.
“Nice to meet you, James.” He held the grip a moment longer than strictly necessary, meeting those wide, uncertain eyes, “You’re gonna be okay, okay?”
James blinked. The sheepish smile from the doorstep returned, small and shy. He nodded once, then again, as if the reassurance had actually landed.
Luca felt his own nerves settle a fraction. Comforting someone else had always been easier than managing his own tension. He let go of James’ hand and looked up at him, “Jesus! How tall are you?”
James chuckled and scratched the tip of his nose, “I’m six foot two …” he rolled his eyes, “… Well, Papa says I’m 6 foot three but …”
Luca’s eyebrows danced as he tried to take in the word ‘Papa’. This boy has to be a Tory …
“So …” Luca pried further, “... What do you do for a living, then?” He asked lightly, trying to keep the mood from growing too heavy, “Lemme guess, at your age you’re either pulling shifts at McDonald’s or, if you’re lucky, Starbucks?”
James’s lips pursed. It was such a small, precise movement, almost aristocratic in its restraint. Luca let go of his hand and reached for the apartment door, pushing it open with his shoulder. The space beyond was air-conditioned, softly lit, filled with a coffee table, couch, a rug, a few plants and a large chair with stocks attached to the end - the latter seemed to spike James’ interest further …
“I’m Earl of Wessex, actually.”
The words were delivered with perfect, understated politeness, as though James were simply correcting a minor misunderstanding about the weather.
He slipped past Luca into the little flat without waiting for a reply.
Luca stood frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the frame, mouth open in absolute, uncomprehending shock.
“…Oh.”
The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the rain against the windows and the rising whistle of the kettle. Luca stood at the small kitchen counter just around the corner to the studio door, two plain white mugs waiting with tea bags already inside. His mind was still spinning.
Earl of mother fucking Wessex?
He called out without turning, voice steady even though his pulse wasn’t, “Does that uh, does that make you a prince?”
From the couch behind him came James’ answer, clear and crisp, “Prince of Edinburgh.”
Luca had his phone out before he could stop himself. He typed quickly, thumb tapping across the screen: is James Earl of Wessex a prince?
The images loaded instantly. The same tall, slender young man now sitting on his couch, the same tasselled brown hair, the same sharp, youthful features - only in the photos he was dressed in tailored suits, snug ties, standing beside older royals, shining loafers, smiling politely at state events. It was him. No question.
Then the A.I generated answer arrived above the images: ‘Under the 1917 Letters Patent, as a male-line grandchild of a sovereign, he is automatically entitled to use the title of Prince and the style of His Royal Highness. However, his parents (Prince Edward and Sophie) decided he would be styled as the son of an Earl to avoid the burdens of royal titles …’
The kettle clicked off.
Steam rose in a soft, steady plume.
Luca stared at it for a second, letting the sound and the warmth anchor him. His nerves were still there but the initial shock was settling into something else. Excitement, yes. But also a strange, protective calm. He poured the water, added a splash of milk to both mugs, and called over his shoulder, in a drench of disbelief that he was asking a prince the following question:
“Do you take sugar?”
James fingered some rain water out of his right ear.
“Two, please.”
Luca added two careful spoonfuls to the second mug, stirred, and carried both over. James had already removed his black coat and folded it neatly over the arm of the nearby armchair, as though he were a guest in someone’s drawing room rather than a prince who had just confessed to sneaking out for something unspeakably private. He sat on the edge of the couch, back straight, hands resting in his lap.
Luca handed him the mug. James took it with both hands, blew gently across the surface, and looked up. Their eyes met.
“You’re a … Prince. An actual, real life prince …” Luca said, lowering himself to the floor and crossing his legs. The position felt deliberate - open, non-threatening, giving James the higher ground, “And you’re … Here. Now. Wanting to do … This.”
James sipped, swallowed, and nodded once. The movement was small, almost shy.
Luca tilted his head, still processing, “But … You’re a prince…”
James held back another chuckle, “Reluctantly,” he murmured. The word carried weight. He stared into his tea for a moment, then added, quieter, “If my aides knew I were here, I’d be in so much trouble. I’m getting told off all the time at the moment.”
There was a faint glint in his eye as he said it - like the trouble itself held a certain appeal.
Luca felt the corner of his mouth twitch. He liked that James was talking now, really talking. The coat had come off, the shoulders had relaxed a fraction. Progress.
“You a bit of a rebel prince, then?” Luca asked.
James smirked. It transformed his face, turned the polished, nervous boy into something sharper, more present, “I have to be. Otherwise it's all rather boring.”
“Ah,” Luca sipped his tea, “That’s why you’re here. To experience the non-boring …”
James nodded again, slower this time. He took another sip, then seemed to decide something.
“Two of my aides were … Fans, or, or, followers, you could say, of the House of White …” he frowned, searching for the name.
“… Feathers,” Luca supplied gently.
“Yes. Feathers. I overheard them both talking one evening while they were doing the dishes, after supper. They m, mentioned you. Said they’d seen footage of you once, with s, someone called Ross. I listened in ….” he glanced down, almost apologetic, “I’m quite close with my butler, you see. Alfred. He’s the one who managed to get your email address. And… well. Here we are.”
Luca didn’t push. He didn’t ask for proof or demand more details about the aides or how exactly a royal butler had tracked down a disgraced tickle photographer. Instead he let out a short, genuine laugh, the sound warm in the quiet flat.
“Your butler is actually called Alfred?” He shook his head, still smiling, “You’re like a young Bruce Wayne. But posh and royal.”
James sniggered.
It was a lovely sound - free, unrestrained, the kind of laugh that belonged to someone who didn’t get to use it often. It cracked something open in the room. Luca felt it settle lightly in his chest. That laugh made the decision for him.
He set his mug down on the floor beside him, rested his forearms on his knees, and looked up at the young prince who had risked everything to sit on his couch.
“All right,” he said, “Since we’re both a little more relaxed … Let me tell you how I’d like the next few hours to go.”
The words hung in the air between them for a moment. Luca felt the shift in the room, then he laid out his proposal.
“We’ll start by taking photos,” he said, “I know you wrote about wanting more in the emails, but this is your first time doing anything like this. We go only as far as you feel comfortable, and we stop the second you want to. Okay?”
James nodded once, no hesitation.
Luca continued, laying it out simply, “We’ll start with you exactly as you are. Then I’ll take your shoes off and photograph you in your dress socks. After that, if you’re still comfortable, the socks come off too,” a small, almost teasing smile touched his mouth, “Do you have nice feet? I’m assuming so, being a prince n’ all …”
James didn’t shrug. He didn’t deflect with false modesty. He simply met Luca’s eyes and answered, quiet but clear, “You’ll have to be the judge of that, will you not?”
Luca felt something dizzy and approving uncurl in his chest. Twenty-five minutes ago this young man had been a nervous lamb on a rainy doorstep. Now he was answering like someone who knew exactly what he was walking into.
“All right,” Luca said softly, “Let’s begin.”
He collected their mugs and carried them back to the kitchenette, rinsing them quickly before setting them aside. When he returned he went to the desk in the corner, lifted his professional camera from its case, and checked the settings with practised fingers. The familiar weight of it in his hands steadied him.
He turned back to James, “Feet on the coffee table, please. Just as you are.”
James obeyed without question. He shifted forward on the couch and lifted both legs, placing his white tennis shoes side by side on the low table. The laces were still neatly tied. Luca moved in, camera already rising.
But, despite his ability to do as he was told, James felt a sting in his tummy that made him shuffle forwards.
“Promise me,” he said quietly, voice so british and royal, “Promise me these photos do not go anywhere else but here.”
Luca paused, his face lifting from the camera slowly.
“I promise,” he said genuinely, “There are no masks in this house.”
James sat back and repositioned his feet.
The first clicks were soft, almost gentle. Luca photographed the shoes from different angles - the clean white cotton against the dark wood of the table, the way James’s ankles rested, the slight tension in his calves. As he worked he spoke, voice conversational.
“Even though you’re a prince, you’re kinda out of the spotlight, right? I hadn’t heard of you before today. Maybe that’s a nice way to be,” he lowered the camera a fraction, glancing at James over the top of it, “The Mysterious Prince James.”
“You … Can just call me James,” the young man said quietly.
Luca smiled behind the camera, “Okay, James. So, why this, then? Instead of skiing, or surfing, or something else that’s just as wild but … Less weird?”
James was quiet for a few seconds, watching Luca work. When he answered, his voice was thoughtful, “I like how private this is. How no one knows I’m here.”
Luca understood that answer better than most. He took a few more shots, then lowered the camera again.
“That’s why I joined the House of White Feathers in the first place,” he admitted, “The secrecy. The feeling that I could be someone else for a few hours. I regret a lot of it now … But this—” he lifted the camera slightly, “—Well, this is my first proper shoot in a long time.”
James didn’t reply, but something in his posture eased.
When Luca was satisfied with the shoe photographs he set the camera down on the edge of the table. He moved to kneel in front of James, close enough that he could reach the laces. As his fingers worked at the knots he kept talking, filling the quiet.
“So besides having your feet photographed as a distraction from your royal responsibilities … What else do you like to do?”
James’s answer came easily, almost proud, “I like fishing. With my cousins. I always catch the biggest fish.”
Luca chuckled under his breath as he eased the first shoe off, then the second. The thin black dress socks beneath were a stark contrast to the casual white trainers. He held the right shoe like it was something valuable.
“Man, these are big. What size are your feet?” He enquired, “A guy your height must be a—”
“—Eleven, sometimes twelve,” James said proudly, his cheeks blushing pink.
Luca mouthed the word ‘wow’ as he looked inside the shoe - the view was clammy, at best, but the scent was clear - one question rattled through his mind - what does a prince’s shoe smell like?
He pushed the inside of the shoe against his nose and breathed in.
James swallowed down and shifted his navy blue eyes from left to right.
Luca tore himself away from the tennis shoe and then apologised, “Sorry,” he shook his head, “I couldn’t help it.”
James didn’t look bothered in the slightest. If anything, the corner of his mouth had lifted.
Luca set the shoes beside James’ socked feet and let his gaze travel over the newly revealed size 11-12’s. Even through the fine fabric he could make out the shape of them - long toes, the gentle arch of the soles, the soft plumpness of the heels …
He continued to take photos.
“What’s in store for your future, James?” He asked.
James’s voice was quieter now, “Hm, well … Unfortunately, I never really got the chance to decide what I wanted to do. Before I became a prince. Now I suppose I might have to just … Be a working royal …”
Luca snapped the socked feet from new angles, the way the fabric stretched over the toes when James naturally flexed them, “Aw, sounds like a tough life,” his sarcasm made them both smile. Then he began to direct quietly, “Cross your leg at the ankle for me?” Click. Click. Click.
Then, after a beat, “Maybe unbutton the top of your shirt?”
James’s fingers moved to the collar of his white dress shirt. One button. Then another. The camera caught the small reveal of skin at the base of his throat, the delicate hollow there. More clicks …
Luca set the camera down once more.
“Now for your bare feet.”
He reached for the cuff of the right sock and began to peel it away, slow and deliberate. The fabric whispered over skin. The studio seemed to grow quieter with every inch revealed. When the sock finally came free, Luca simply stared.
James’s feet were perfect.
Long, elegant toes with high arches. Pale, smooth skin that looked almost luminous under the soft studio lights. Neatly trimmed nails. Soft, vulnerable soles and those same plump heels. No calluses, no imperfections. Size eleven to twelve, royal feet in the most literal sense.
This time, Luca resisted the urge to get carried away and asked: “Can I sniff your socks?”
James sniggered and stated the obvious, “No one has ever asked me that before …” he nodded in aprooving grace, “… Be my guest.”
Luca grinned and placed the snocks under his nose, clawing onto them tightly. Like someone who would breathe in fresh linen after it had been left out to dry all day, Luca breathed in the scent of James’ socks: clammy, a little damp from the rain (or sweat?), not stinky in a gross way, but obviously worn often.
“These are your favourite socks, aren’t they?” Luca said knowingly.
James laughed into his palms, “But, how?”
Luca balled up the socks and playfully threw them at James, “I’ve been doing this for a while …”
James dodged them and let them fall onto the couch and then bounce, roll and land somewhere under the coffee table.
Luca took more photographs. Directed James through small movements - curl your toes, wiggle them, scrunch them - James obeyed each time, and Luca praised him without thinking, “You’re like a model. Handsome. Youthful. These feet are beautiful.”
He was mesmerised. The camera felt almost secondary now. The sight of James’s bare feet, the way they moved under his direction, the quiet, trusting way the prince was giving himself over to this … It was doing something to him.
Luca set the camera down one final time. His pulse was loud in his ears.
He looked up at James, still kneeling before the coffee table, one bare foot cradled in his hands, and asked his next question, something far more important than the trivial questions he had asked up until now:
“Can I worship them?”
James blinked. The request clearly meant nothing to him.
“Sss, sorry,” James’ left eyebrow popped up, “Wor, worship th …?”
Luca explained, voice steady even though his heart was racing, “Kissing them. Licking them. Tasting them. Taking my time with them. Letting me show you how perfect they are.”
James was quiet for only a second.
Then he nodded.
“Yes.”
Luca adjusted James’s feet with careful hands, crossing them at the ankle so both soles faced him, presented like an offering. The position was relaxed, almost casual, but it left James’s feet completely at his mercy.
He began slowly.
There was nothing hungry or urgent in the way Luca worshipped. He simply leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to the top of James’s left foot, just above the toes.
Then another, lower.
His lips brushed over each toe in turn, gentle as breath, almost feather-soft, so much so he could’ve swore he felt the slightest tug of resistance.
When Luca took the smallest toe into his mouth, it was only to suckle it with the same tenderness one might use to soothe. His tongue moved in slow, unhurried strokes. He did the same to the next toe, and the next, taking his time, letting his mouth grow warm and wet around each one.
James watched him the entire time.
His expression was quiet, almost wondering. The prince’s toes glistened now, slick with Luca’s saliva, and every so often a tiny droplet would gather and slide down toward the ball of his foot. It should have felt obscene. Instead it felt … Comforting. Like something being confirmed. James’s breathing had evened out. His shoulders, which had been tense since the moment he arrived, had finally dropped fully.
Luca lowered his head and let his tongue drag, slow and warm, across the plump curve of James’s left heel. The skin there was soft, almost velvety, with the faintest trace of salt from being inside his tennis shoes all day. Luca licked again, broader this time, letting the flat of his tongue glide over the entire heel before pressing a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to the same spot.
James’s toes flexed slightly.
Luca moved to the right foot and did the same - long, unhurried licks across both heels, tasting, soothing, mapping the shape of them with his mouth. Only when he was satisfied did he return to the toes. He took the big toe of James’s left foot between his lips and sucked it with the same unhurried tenderness he had shown before, hollowing his cheeks just enough to create a gentle pull. Saliva gathered at the corners of his mouth and slid down the length of the toe. He released it with a soft, wet sound and moved to the next one, sucking it just as carefully, just as slowly.
He worked his way across both feet like that, sucking each toe in turn, sometimes two at once when they fit comfortably between his lips, always gentle, always patient. His tongue traced the milky white skin between them, cleaning away the faint traces of glint until every toe glistened. Droplets of saliva clung to the pads and the undersides, catching the soft apartment light. James’s feet looked thoroughly worshipped now - wet, pink-tinged at the tips, and impossibly vulnerable.
Luca glanced up.
James was still watching him with quiet, open admiration - but there was something else there too. The prince’s mouth then pressed into a thin line, the corners twitching as he fought to hold back a grin. His eyes were bright with it - that barely contained smile threatening to break through at any moment. He looked as though the careful, reverent attention was doing something to him he hadn’t expected and didn’t quite know how to contain.
Luca’s own mouth curved against the sole he was currently licking. He didn’t comment. He simply lowered his head again and dragged his tongue in one long, slow stripe from the base of James’s right heel all the way up to the ball of his foot, letting the warmth and wetness of his mouth linger there for a moment longer than necessary.
James’s toes curled into a tight scrunch, then relaxed.
The grin he was holding back trembled at the edges, but he still didn’t let it free.
Luca kept going - soft sucking, gentle licking, the quiet, rhythmic sounds of his mouth against skin filling the flat. Every so often he would glance up again, just to see that same barely-suppressed smile on James’s face, the way the young prince’s eyes had gone a little hazy, the way his chest rose and fell in slower, deeper breaths.
Luca moved to James’ right foot and repeated the process with the same unhurried care - soft kisses, slow licks, gentle suction on each toe. He was so focused on the task that he didn’t notice how close his nose had drifted to the arch until it brushed, feather-light, against the sensitive skin.
James’s foot jerked hard.
A bright, startled giggle burst out of him before he could stop it.
Luca paused, lips still close to the sole. He looked up, eyes warm with sudden understanding.
“A little ticklish, James?”
James’s cheeks had gone faintly pink. He nodded, almost shy again, “It appears so.”
Luca smiled against the foot and returned to his gentle worship, but the discovery had changed something in the air. He let his nose drift again, deliberately this time, and felt the foot twitch. When he took the middle toe of James’s right foot between his teeth and gave the softest little nibble, the reaction was stronger - another recoil, another helpless giggle. Luca had to steady the foot with both hands to keep it still.
“You’ll soon be telling me you’ve never been tickled in general…” he murmured, half-teasing, half-testing.
To his complete surprise, James answered without hesitation.
“No, I can’t say I have.”
Luca went still. He lifted his head, genuinely taken aback.
“You’ve never been tickled before?”
James shook his head, “Um …” he lowered his head bashfully, “… No, Never. Besides what you’re doing right now, of course,” he looked down at his own wet, glistening feet as if seeing them for the first time, “… I have no idea how ticklish I am.”
The admission landed in the air like a stone in still water.
Luca stared at him for a long moment, the full weight of it settling in. This young man - this prince - had never experienced something so ordinary, so childish, so human. No older siblings pinning him down on the carpet. No friends at school ambushing him on the grass. No playful torment at all. Just the careful, measured existence of royalty.
Something protective and hungry twisted together in Luca’s chest.
He glanced toward the other side of the flat, toward the studio, then he looked back at James, still holding one bare foot in his hands.
“Care to find out?”
Add image of James in the stocks, forward facing, prepped and ready (not toe tied)
In the second part of the apartment sat a single piece of furniture: a sturdy leather chair with a tall backboard and integrated stocks at the foot. The ankle stocks were already open, padded and waiting. Velcro cuffs were fixed to the backboard at head height. It looked almost medical in its simplicity, yet undeniably restricting.
Luca guided James into the seat. The leather was cool against the backs of his thighs. James sat straight-backed at first, then allowed Luca to take his right wrist and guide it into the cuff. The velcro made a soft, definitive ripping sound as it fastened. Luca checked the tension, making sure it wasn’t too tight, then moved to the left side.
He was just finishing securing James’s left wrist when he spoke.
“You can plead,” Luca said quietly, voice calm and steady. “You can shout. You can thrash. You can laugh as loud as you want. Whatever you need to do to get through it, you do it. No judgement here,” he gave the cuff one final press, making sure it was secure but comfortable, “But if it ever gets too much - if you need it to stop - you use a safeword. Any word you choose.”
James’s face changed the moment the word left Luca’s mouth. The same small, uncertain blink he had given when Luca had first asked if he could worship his feet. A flicker of confusion, as though the word itself was from another language.
Luca noticed immediately. He softened his voice further.
“Pick any word,” he explained gently, “Something you wouldn’t normally say during something like this. When you can’t take the tickling anymore, you shout that word and everything stops. No questions. No pressure. That’s your safe word.”
James was quiet for a moment, thinking. His brow furrowed in concentration.
While he thought, Luca moved down to the stocks. He closed the top half over James’s bare ankles, the padded wood settling into place with a soft click. The prince’s feet were now locked in position - soles facing outward, completely exposed and snug tight in place.
As James continued thinking, Luca reached out and let just the very tips of his fingers graze lightly along the left arch.
James’s entire foot spasmed inward with shocking force. The stocks rattled hard against their frame. James eyes widened as he peered forwards in alarm.
“—Oh, wait, please—” James’s lips shaped into a tiny ‘o’.
Luca smiled faintly to himself but said nothing yet.
A few seconds later, James spoke.
“Bentley.”
Luca looked up, “Bentley?”
James nodded once, cheeks faintly pink, “It’s my favourite car,” he lifted his head as if sniffing out the situation, “Will you be gentle? I’m a bit nervous.”
Luca’s smile grew a little warmer. He straightened up, resting one hand lightly on the top of the stocks, just above James’s trapped feet.
“Remember that word,” he said, voice low and serious now, “Because I have a feeling you might be a lot more ticklish than you realise. You’ll probably be wanting to use it sooner than you think.”
James swallowed. His bare feet flexed once against the wood, toes curling and uncurling as if already anticipating what was coming, “Alright, just … This is my first time.”
Luca pulled the low stool across the floor and set it down directly in front of the stocks, “I got you, prince,” the sound of the legs scraping was the only noise in the studio for a moment. He sat, bringing himself level with James’s stocked feet. The position felt deliberate - close enough to touch, close enough to study every tiny reaction, “This isn’t my first rodeo …”
Luca slowly reached out with both hands and let the very tips of his index fingers make contact, the lightest possible brush.
Both of James’ feet twisted inward, with such immediate energy that it even took him by surprise.
“Goodness,” James muttered to himself.
Luca traced the pads of James’s toes first - barely there - then he moved lower, the same faint touch gliding across the tops of the toes and down toward the ball of each foot. Once again, James’ feet twisted inward, then outward, the stocks creaking as he did so.
“Goodness!” James repeated.
After a few seconds Luca shifted his attention to James’ heels, drawing slow, teasing circles with the same barely-there pressure …
Both of James’ soles curled inward, toes clenching hard. His feet twisted in the stocks, trying to pull away from the touch even though there was nowhere to go. James bit down on his lower lip, hard enough that the skin turned white - he couldn’t embarrass himself and say ‘goodness!” again - he kept every sound locked in his throat - no laughter, no breath escaping. His whole body had gone tense in the chair, shoulders pressing back against the leather.
Luca watched it all with quiet focus.
“See?” He said softly, still using only the lightest touch, “I’m barely touching you. Does that tickle?”
James nodded once, sharp and quick. His teeth stayed buried in his lip.
Luca let his fingers continue their feather-light exploration for another moment, committing the details to memory. James’s feet were long and narrow, the arches were high and elegant. The toes were long and well-shaped, still faintly damp from earlier.
He moved his index fingers lower, letting them settle into the centres of both arches at once.
James’s feet suddenly pointed hard toward the floor, toes stretching downward in a long, elegant line. The movement pulled the arches into sharp, beautiful definition - the skin drawn tight, every contour visible. It was an unintentionally graceful pose, almost like something from one of Luca’s own photographs.
Luca kept his fingers resting there, light but present, feeling the tension in the arches beneath his touch. He could feel the way James was still fighting it - the bitten lip, the held breath, the way the feet kept trying to twist even while locked in place.
Luca kept his index fingers resting lightly in the centres of both arches for a few more seconds, feeling the way the skin there had tightened when James pointed his toes. Then he lifted his gaze to the prince’s face.
“I’m going to take it up a notch, alright?”
James released his lower lip from between his teeth. His voice came out smaller than before.
“But it’s really ticklish,” he explained, almost as if Luca might not have noticed.
Luca let out a short, entertained laugh.
“It’s supposed to be! If you weren’t royalty you could make a huge buck off this level of sensitivity,” he tilted his head, eyes still on James, “Ready?”
James chewed on his upper lip this time instead, the gesture nervous and oddly endearing. After a moment he gave a single, small nod.
Luca continued with the same gentle, slow strokes along the arches - barely any pressure, just the soft drag of his fingertips. For roughly seven seconds he kept it exactly like that, allowing James’ toes to uncurl and scrunch repeatedly while he grimaced into the collar of his shirt. Then he increased both the speed and the intent.
What had been light tracing became purposeful scribbling. His fingers moved in quick, buttery patterns across the high arches, the kind of rapid, focused strokes designed to actually tickle rather than soothe, causing James’s feet to explode into motion.
Both soles writhed and squirmed on the other side of the stocks, twisting and jerking as if trying to escape the sensation entirely. His long toes curled down hard, then scrunched up tight, then stretched and flexed again in frantic, constant movement. The stocks rattled with every desperate twist. There was no stillness left in them.
Luca’s eyebrows rose, “Wow…”
A breathless giggle broke free from James’s throat, no matter how hard he chewed on his upper lip. It was high and startled, completely uncontrolled, “—Mnn! Mnn, heheheh, hahahaha, mn, mnn!—”, another roll of giggling followed right after it, then another. James’s eyes were wide with shock; he clearly hadn’t expected his body to react like this. His feet kept moving on their own, twisting and stretching and curling no matter how hard he tried to still them. The giggles kept spilling out between his clenched teeth, “—Mnn, mmnn! Hehehe, heheheh, hahahaha! This, mnn, really tickles mn!—”
Luca kept the scribbling going at the same steady, tickling pace while he spoke.
“There are far more ruthless methods and tools than this,” he said, almost conversationally, “These feet have never been touched, let alone tickled, have they?”
James managed a to shake his head through the helpless giggles, his head jerking with the effort, “—I can’t stand it—” he admitted honestly.
“You can’t? That’s a big admission for someone who hasn’t begged yet …” Luca observed, almost to himself, “Just a lot of posh giggles. We’ll get there …” he let his fingers continue their quick, relentless scribbling across the soft, narrow arches for a few more seconds before adding, “So soft… You’re in trouble. You been walking on pillows in your palace?”
James let out a short, surprised laugh at the joke - a bright, genuine sound that cut through the tension for half a second, “—Gah, ahah!—”
Then everything changed. Luca’s fingers drove in hard and fast, scribbling with intent. He attacked everywhere at once - quick, brutal strokes darting up under James’s long toes, then racing down the sides of both feet, digging into the heels, then shooting back up into the arches with vicious speed. It was relentless. Non-stop. The kind of focused, high-speed tickling that left no room to breathe or adjust. No mercy in the pattern, no pauses, just constant, maddening motion across every sensitive inch.
James broke instantly. The breathy little giggles exploded into high-pitched, frantic cackles, “—OH ahahaaahaha ahahaha! Mmnn, OH ahahaha, ahahahah, goodness, uhhn, ahahahaha!—”, his eyes blew out, almost bulging, as the sensation slammed into him. His head snapped back against the leather chair, then twisted wildly from side to side like he was trying to shake the feeling out of his skull, “—OH ahahaaahaha-ahahaha! Mmnn, OH ahahaha-ahahahah, uhhn, aha, aha, aha, aha, aha, aha hahaha!—”, his cheeks boiled deep red in seconds as the laughter poured out of him in wild, uncontrolled bursts - uncontrolled and loud and completely involuntary …
Luca’s eyes sharpened with interest as he focused on the arches. The moment his fingers really dug in there, James’s reaction seemed to lift. The speed became unbearable on that spot. Luca noted it immediately - a clear weak point.
“—UHghaahaaa, uhuaaahahahahahahaha! Aahahahahahaa! Ahah, ahaha, OH, ahaha, ahaha, sss, ssst-ahaah, ahah, ahahah! My goodness, mmnn, ohh, ahaha, ahah, ahah, ahahaha, ah, ah, ah, oh pal, ahaha, ahahaha, ahahah!—”
“Oops, these arches are your weakness,” he muttered, almost to himself, but loud enough for James to hear over his own laughter, “Should I tell your rugby team? The guys you go fishing with? Your palace staff …?” Luca teased.
James couldn’t answer. He threw his torso forward violently, laughter bursting out of him as he folded over his own knees, straining toward his trapped feet like he could somehow protect them, “—UHghaahaaa, oh, oh, uhuaaahahahahahahaha! Aahahahahahaa! UH-hah, ahaha, OH, ahaha, ahaha, sss, ssst-ahaah, ahah, ahahah!—”, his back arched hard, then he started bouncing on his ass in the chair - frantic little jolts of his hips as his body tried to escape what his mind couldn’t. He couldn’t believe how bad it was. The shock was written all over his face …
“You can’t take it on the arches, can you?” Luca observed, “Or between these lovely, long toes? Maybe I’ll let your butler know …”
He suddenly caught James’s left big toe between his thumb and forefinger, pinning the foot still. With his other hand he attacked the arch beneath it - hard, fast, merciless scribbling right in the centre of that soft, narrow sole. The rest of James’s toes on that foot squirmed like frantic worms, curling and stretching and twisting in every direction. Meanwhile his right foot strained across, desperately trying to bat Luca’s attacking hand away. The long foot actually managed to nudge and push at Luca’s wrist, but Luca didn’t stop. He just kept tickling the trapped left arch with single-minded focus.
James’s laughter turned ragged. High, wild cackles mixed with desperate whines and sharp, out-of-breath huffs. His whole body was shaking now. Sweat was starting to gather at his hairline.
“—UHghaahaaa, uhuaaahahahahahahaha! Aahahahahahaa! Ahah, ahaha, OH, ahaha, n, n, NO ahaha, sss, ssst-ahaah, ahah, ahahah! UHghaahaaa, no, no, wh, wha, huaaahahahahahahaha! Aahahahahahaa! Ahah, leh, leh, let go, ahaha, OH, ahaha, ahaha, sss, ssst-ahaah, let go! Ahah, ahahah!—”
After another long, brutal stretch of that focused attack, Luca finally released the toe and pulled both hands away from James’ feet entirely.
He gave the eighteen year old a break by pressing both palms flat against James’s arches, holding them there - firm, steady pressure rather than movement. James jolted hard at the sudden change, a broken sound catching in his throat. Luca kept his hands still, letting the pressure sink in, then began to rub slow, soothing circles into the hot, flushed skin.
James’s eyes squeezed shut. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, “.. Huff, huff, huff, huff …” the frantic laughter slowly died down into shaky gasps. Luca’s hands kept moving in those gentle, grounding strokes - rubbing the arches, the heels, the tops of the feet with surprising tenderness.
“I’m so hot …” James finally managed, voice hoarse and breathless. His cheeks were burning, a faint sheen of perspiration visible across his forehead and upper lip, “Could you please unbutton my shirt?”
Luca didn’t hesitate. He stood, stepped around the side of the chair, and began carefully undoing the buttons of James’s white dress shirt one by one. The fabric parted slowly, revealing the slim, pale torso underneath. James’s chest rose and fell rapidly. Lower down, his stomach - soft-looking and lightly toned - was exposed to the air. It looked almost unfairly ticklish on its own …
Luca left the shirt open but didn’t pull it off. He simply counted the seconds whilst James’ breath continued to even itself out.
“This isn’t all about your feet, you know,” Luca said.
James turned his head to look at him. There was a flash of something daring in his eyes, but it didn’t quite reach the rest of his face, “Oh,” he sniffed, “Is that so?”
Even as James said it, his body started helping itself out. His torso was already arching and stretching away from the open air, twisting in the chair as far as the wrist cuffs would allow. Regret was written clearly across his features - he clearly wished he had never asked for the shirt to be unbuttoned, he even demanded it be buttoned back up, “Button my shirt up, now!—”
Luca stepped around behind the chair, reached over James’s shoulders, and let his fingers hover just above his bare stomach, “—Therrrrrre is that princely ordering, like you’ve always got what you wanted, never had to ask, always told …” he wiggled them slowly, playfully, the movement visible in James’s peripheral vision, “Cootchie coo,” Luca murmured, “Does Prince James have a ticklish stomach?”
James shook his head quickly, too quickly.
“No. No, I don’t—”
But his body was already moving - hips shifting, torso twisting, trying to pull away from the hovering hands even though there was nowhere to go. The chains on the wrist cuffs rattled softly.
Luca let out a quiet, knowing sound.
“Well, you’re squirming a lot already. Besides … You’ve never had your tummy tickled before. How would you know?”
James let out a short, helpless laugh. His eyes rolled back for a second before he managed to tilt his head up, trying to look at Luca over his shoulder.
“That’s a fair point!”
The moment the words left his mouth, Luca’s fingers descended.
They landed on James’s stomach with purpose - quick, ruthless scribbling across the smooth skin of his abs, then zeroing in on the sensitive dip of his navel.
James folded forward instantly. A high, squeaky wheezing sound burst out of him - not quite laughter at first, more like the air being forced out in frantic bursts, “—Mmnnff, gnnh! Gnnnhh, offftt!—”
Luca’s fingers danced and dug in fast, relentless patterns, one hand focusing on the centre of his belly while the other scratched and scribbled along the sides and lower abs. It was hard, fast, and completely unmerciful.
James’ giggles quickly turned into full, desperate cackling as Luca’s fingers attacked without mercy, “Ohhf, hahahah, ahahaha! Oh, oh no, n, ahahaha, ahahaha! Mnn, oh, haha, ahahah, ahahaha!—”, he tried to curl in on himself, shoulders hunching, stomach muscles twitching violently under the assault, but the cuffs and the angle of the chair kept him mostly exposed, “It tickles so much!” James gasped out between the wild, squeaky bursts of laughter. His eyes were squeezed shut, tears already gathering at the corners. The giggles kept dribbling out of him in an unbroken stream as he faced the hands destroying his stomach, “Oh, please, please stop!—”
Luca didn’t stop.
If anything, he went harder. Faster. His fingers dug in with more intensity, scribbling viciously across the prince’s stomach, focusing on the most sensitive spots - the navel, the lower belly, the sides where the skin was softest. He ignored the begging completely, driving the sensation higher and higher.
“You have your safeword,” Luca reminded him calmly, even as his fingers kept working without pause, “Say it if you have to!”
The words landed in James’s mind like a challenge.
Say it if you have to.
In his head, it translated instantly into something else: Prove to me you’re weak.
Something stubborn and deeply ingrained pushed back hard. All-boys school. The constant pressure to be composed. The quiet, unspoken rules of being royal - you didn’t show weakness. You didn’t break. You endured. You proved you were strong.
Just as James decided not to use his safeword, Luca’s hands left his stomach without warning.
They slid up the open shirt in one smooth, deliberate motion, fingers slipping under the fabric and driving straight into the hollows of James’s armpits. Both hands at once!
James’s torso spun on the spot, with such athletic speed that the chair lifted off the ground and landed with a thud as fingers of each of Luca’s hands burited themselves deep into the warm, slightly damp skin there - the soft, lightly hairy pits of an eighteen-year-old who had clearly never had his armpits touched like this in his life. The hair was sparse and fine, just the right amount for his age, and the heat of them was startling, almost intimate. Luca’s fingertips found the most sensitive spots immediately, pressing in hard and fast.
James’s eyes almost bulged out of his head. A raw, shocked, broken sound tore out of him, “—GRAAAAHHHH!—”, as the foreign sensation hit. His entire body jerked so hard the leather chair groaned beneath him. In pure panic he slid down the seat, trying to escape, but the wrist cuffs kept his arms locked high above him, stretching them into a long, helpless line. It was a classic rookie move. Luca noted it with a quiet, almost sinister satisfaction - the prince had just opened himself up even more. The soft undersides of his arms were now fully exposed, the pits stretched wide and completely vulnerable.
Luca’s fingers wasted no time. He scribbled hard and fast inside both of James’s armpits, digging into the soft, warm hollows with merciless, aggressive speed. The damp skin and light hair made every stroke louder, wetter, more intimate. There was something almost devious in the way he worked them - deliberate, focused, like he was determined to break the boy open completely. He curled his fingers, scratched, scribbled in tight vicious circles, then dragged his nails lightly along the most sensitive ridges. James went completely mental.
He lurched and leapt in the chair, thrashing so violently the whole frame creaked and shuddered. His feet twisted inward hard, all ten toes curling into a tight, white-knuckled clench that refused to release - locked in pure, agonised tension. He became a wet, shaking heap of pure ticklish hysteria. Laughter poured out of him that somehow managed to sound both soaked and dry at the same time, like he was drowning and gasping for air all at once - high, hysterical, unbroken, “—GRAH AHAHA! AHAHAHA! AHAHAHA! GRRAAAHAAHAAAAHAAHAAA!—”, his face turned a deep, pitch-red, tears streamed freely down his cheeks in thick rivers. Snot began to drip from his nose in long, embarrassing strands; he was so far gone he couldn’t even wipe it away. He twisted and writhed in ways his body had never moved before, every muscle fighting the cuffs and the stocks and the relentless fingers buried deep in his pits. His hips bucked. His shoulders rolled. His head thrashed from side to side so hard his dark hair stuck to his wet forehead.
“—This was a stupid idea!—” he spat.
The words dribbled past his lips with perfect clarity even as his body lost all control, “—I should be back at the palace!—”, the regret was sharp and sudden. He had wanted “more.” He had wanted to feel alive. He had never imagined it would feel like this - so overwhelming, so humiliating, so completely beyond anything he could endure with dignity, “—Please, PLEASE, Luca, stop, alright not there!—”, the begging came out posh and beautifully spoken even through the chaos, every word carefully formed despite the wreckage of his composure. He was clearly embarrassed by the mess of himself - the snot, the tears, the complete loss of control. A sudden burp escaped him mid-laugh and he immediately apologised, voice cracking, “—S-sorry! Oh God, please, leave my armpits alone! Rght now, please!—”
Luca didn’t stop. He kept scribbling, deeper, faster, working both of James’s underarms with equal ruthlessness while James thrashed beneath him. There was a quiet, focused intensity in his eyes now. Part of him wondered if he was pushing too hard. This was the boy’s first time. He was a prince. He was clearly already at his limit. But another part of Luca - the part that had been starved of this for seven long months - didn’t want to stop. He cared. He genuinely did. That was why he had the safeword ready. That was why he would stop the second James used it. But until then… he wanted to see just how deep this beautiful, inexperienced sensitivity went.
“If this wasn’t your first time,” Luca said calmly over the wild laughter, “if you were a more experienced lee, we’d keep you like this for hours. Just like this. No breaks. No mercy.”
James’s eyes went wide even through the bloodshot sheen. He managed to force words out between the helpless, soaked cackles, his voice cracking with pure desperation.
“—That’s bonkers! Don’t do that to me, please, I’m begging you!—”
Luca kept going a few more merciless seconds, letting the words sink in, letting James feel exactly how far he could be taken. Then, because this was James’s first time, and because Luca prided himself on being respectful and fair even when the darker part of him wanted to keep going, he finally pulled his hands free.
The moment the fingers left his armpits, James collapsed.
He slouched heavily in the chair, wrists still high in the cuffs, hands completely limp. His toes stayed scrunched tight, trembling with residual tension. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, staring at nothing. His chest heaved in huge, shuddering breaths. Sweat and tears and snot painted his flushed face. He looked thoroughly, beautifully ruined - a prince who had just been broken open by tickle torment, and tickle torment alone.
Luca stepped back around the chair and looked down at him with quiet satisfaction mixed with genuine care. He reached out and gently brushed a damp strand of hair from James’s forehead, checking that the young man was still with him.
“You want some water?” He asked, then, with a small, teasing smile that softened the earlier intensity, “Or… a cup of tea?”
James’s head lolled slightly to the side. His glassy eyes managed to focus on Luca for a second. His voice came out hoarse, cracked, and still impossibly posh - the last scrap of royal composure clinging on for dear life.
“Have you got any gin?”
James sat in the chair with both wrists free for the first time since the stocks had closed, cradling a tall glass of double gin and tonic packed with extra ice.
He suckled at it greedily, the cold liquid sliding down his raw throat, the sharp juniper burn cutting through the fog of exhaustion and residual hysteria.
“Th, thank you,” he said politely.
His ankles remained locked, his open shirt hung loose around his slim torso. Sweat had dried in salty tracks down his chest. His face was still flushed, eyes a little glowing from the gin already taking hold.
Luca left him like that for a moment and crossed to the far wall of the studio. A set of heavy locked drawers sat flush against the brick. He produced a small key from his pocket, fitted it into the top drawer, and turned it with a soft metallic click. The drawer slid open on silent runners.
Inside lay the black leather briefcase he had not opened in over half a year.
He lifted it out carefully and set it on the workbench. The latches sprang open under his thumbs. With his back turned to James, who was already ¾ through his gin, Luca simply stared down into the contents:
Feathers of every size and softness. Several electric toothbrushes fully charged. Compact electric massagers with interchangeable heads. Long-handled scalp itchers with tiny metal claws. A black ball gag, still in its velvet pouch. Silk blindfolds. Soft leather restraints. And other, more devilish apparatus he had not allowed himself to think about since the day he walked away from the House of White Feathers.
It had been too long.
He had told himself he would only open this drawer again when the time was truly right. When someone who needed it as much as he did walked through his door. And the time was right today.
But he would not empty the case. He would only take what he already knew James needed - the one tool that would drive the inexperienced prince absolutely berserk in the final part of this meeting. That was the goal now. Not to break him completely, but to take him right to the edge of what he could endure and leave him trembling on the other side of it.
Luca selected two smooth-backed hairbrushes, both with dozens of plastic bristles and nibs protruding from their surface, and a small capped bottle of massage oil. He closed the briefcase, locked the drawer again, and called back over his shoulder without looking.
“Did you expect to be that ticklish?”
James’s voice floated back, a little tipsy already, the posh vowels softened by the gin. He was cradling the glass against his chest with both hands, peering over the tops of his feet.
“No,” he hiccuped, “Never.”
Luca smiled to himself as he pocketed both hairbrushes discreetly into his back pocket, out of James’s sight. He carried the massage oil with him as he returned to the main studio space and set it carefully at the foot of the stocks.
“How does it feel?” he asked.
James took another long suckle of gin, ice clinking. His free wrists rested loosely on the armrests. He considered the question with that careful, royal seriousness that somehow survived even after being reduced to a snotty, laughing wreck.
“Oddly exhilarating,” he said at last, “And rather … Barbaric at the same time,” a pause. Then, softer, almost curious: “How does it feel for you?”
Luca stopped short, genuinely surprised to be asked. He turned fully to face the prince. James was watching him with those glassy, gin-softened eyes, still somehow looking elegant even while half-destroyed.
“It feels pretty good,” Luca admitted honestly. He stepped closer and took the empty, icy glass from him, placing it on the floor, where he then began to take James’s right wrist again, “But I think it’s about to feel pretty great.”
The second Luca’s fingers touched the boy’s wrist, James’s arm flinched away on instinct. His voice came out small and slightly panicked.
“Are we not we finished?”
Luca met his eyes and held them. His tone was gentle, but absolute.
“Not till you say your safeword.”
James went very still.
That upper-class stiff-upper-lip mentality slammed back into place like a steel door. The only way he would ever say “Bentley” was if Luca truly, completely broke him. Anything less would be weakness. And princes did not show weakness.
He lifted both wrists proudly, almost defiantly, and offered them. Luca re-secured the velcro cuffs one after the other, checking the tension carefully, then stepping back to admire the picture he made - arms stretched high again, torso still bare and marked with the faint red trails of earlier scribbling, gin glass now set carefully set aside.
James grinned, a little tipsy and a little cocky, body going stiff as he clearly prepared himself for another round of armpit torment.
But Luca didn’t go back to his pits.
He returned to the stocks instead, kneeling between James’s locked ankles. With slow, deliberate movements he took a length of soft black string and began to tie James’s big toes down to the base of the stocks - pulling them firmly apart and securing them so that the long, pale feet were forced into a permanently open, stretched position. Soles fully presented. Arches taut.
James watched him work, the grin slowly fading into something more uncertain, “Is that necessary?” Another hiccup.
Luca finished the last knot, “You have strong feet. They move around like crazy when they’re tickled. Haven’t you noticed?”
James gave an approving nod.
Once both big toes were knotted back, Luca pressed both of his index fingers against the balls of James’s feet. Then, he gave the prince’s soles one quick swipe down towards and away from his heel - James thrashed forwards with flexed fingers, a sneer creasing across his handsome features as he naturally tried to twist his feet inward, just as he did at the start, however this time the toe ties around his big toes kept them still.
“Damn you!—” James sniffed in hard, he could not let snot bubble from his nose again.
Luca uncaps the massage lotion, explaining its use and effect. James admits he’s seen it before, on my mybuddiesfeet videos. Luca is shocked, ‘they let you watch that?’ James smirks, ‘I have my own iPhone you know, it’s a palace not a prison’.
Hairbrushes for 5 minutes, safeword.
Interview and ending.