With his soles glistening in lubrication and his big toes snugly side by side, I waste no time in driving him crazy - after all, I only have forty minutes left …

I use both hands to scratch at his soles, my fingernails glide over the soaked flesh, his feet now unable to twist, stretch or block each other.

He is wheezing, containing his laughter, his dumbfounded mind nudging him that the room next door might hear if he is too loud, “—bastard!—”, he whispers the curse in a form of a hiss, he smacks his back against the armchair, the entire structure of the seat creaks and bends beneath each determined tug of his arms or frustrated kick of his legs - he states the obvious with a giant amount of energy, but it is spoken from the back of his throat, it barely makes it’s way out, like a thought perfectly blended with the need to verbally expel, “—I can’t move my feet!—”, he says it by using one chunk of air, before heaving in again …

“Oh?” I play dumb, my scribble now taking place over the arch of his right foot as I hold the toe tie, pinning his squirming soles in place, “Why’s that?”

His entire face creases into an animated expression that suggests a rebellious shout, his eyes squeezing shut, his fists curled into tightly clenched balls, his chin down by his collarbone - however no noise leaves his mouth.

“Because they’re fucking—”, he leaps forwards, he acknowledges the intensity at the bottoms of his feet, “ —stuck together!—”, he whines out his dismay, as if saying so would make the toe tie snap, his torso thrashing with such a leap to each side I worry that the armchair might break.

I go to town on each sole, my scribble aggressive and intense; he lunges at me, he slams back into the seat, he lunges at me, he slams back into the seat, his cackles now sternly present, high pitched and breathless.

“—Woo! Ya know, I don’t think I can do this!—”, he admits, between inhales, “—I’ve never laughed like this before!—”, he blows air out through his lips, he’s getting warm, he’s trying to calm himself down, “—Damn, I’m outta breath!—”

“—You have to do this,” I remind, “You’ve been paid—”, Jesus, his feet are like silk, his soles plump, highly sensitive, god only knows how he’s coping, “—Shall I stop with the fingers? Shall I use something else?”

He nods frantically, his back arching as if he has something sharp stuck down his pants - it is his way of stretching out a stitch in his stomach as I give his feet a break and pick out a blindfold and ball gag from my bag.

He whoops, sniffing up some air, blonde chunks littering the top half of his face.

“Damn!—”, he glares at the objects in my head, “—Are you for real?”

I stand.

“You’re in deep now, my friend …”

I approach.

He does not protest, he does not try to move away from me, he remains seated, catching his breath through his nostrils, his head always facing me.

I take his lack of verbal disgust towards what I’m about to do as the green light.

He even opens his mouth, ready to take the gag, as I near it close towards his lips.

The round ball of plastic fits perfectly - his well structured jaw takes the shape - I see him biting down.

I clip it at the back and then place the blindfold over his eyes.

He sits quietly, unable to see, unable to speak.

I toy with him, “How does that feel?” I take out another tool from my bag, its my secret for now.

He tugs at his restraints and tries to say something.

“Mnn, mmph! Mnpph? Mnn …”

All ten of his toes are scrunched, he protects them, he thinks I’m going to return to his feet.

Instead, I pick the hem of his t-shirt up again - I peel it over his stomach.

“Mmnph—”, he grunts, my arrival at his torso unexpected.

I claw the t-shirts material, keeping it around his neck - his chest and stomach look incredible, bare, smooth, exposed, ready to be devoured.

He flinches as soon as he hears the sound of buzzing.

I leave him to figure out what is in my hand, he might have come to terms with it already, I cannot understand the words he is trying to get past the gag.

“Mnn! Mnph? Gah, gah-mphh, mnn?—”

He begins to squeal when I press the fast spinning, whizzing, vibrating bristles across the left side of his neck.

He is thrashing, beyond belief.

The armchair lifts, it shakes and creaks, he is doing all he possibly can to twist, stretch, leap away from the buzz of the bristles as I draw them across his chest and down his abs, towards his belly button.

“—Mmpph! Sghhuuup! Sghhuppp!—”

He is screaming, panting, dribbling … He has no idea where this sensation will take place next, he can only see black.

He tries to press his biceps into his sides when I near his right underarm - I go in, forcing the tool directly towards his armpit, he is giggling with such strength that I begin to consider the fact he might pass out.

The shrieks are visceral, from the gut, his entire body convulsing into itself or out of itself, either scrunching or splaying - quite simply, he doesn’t know what to do with limbs forced out of his own control.

“—Mmpphh! Aye ugging guu sghuppp mnnn mmnnn! Mnnn!—”, I think that was, ‘I’m begging you, stop’ … I don’t quite care, if I’m honest.

My cock throbs beneath my jeans, my mouth is dry with excitement, I watch his head thrash beneath me as I stand behind the armchair and tickle his sides with my hand, whilst pressing the electric toothbrush against his left nipple.

He goes berserk - his jolts are fierce, his gagged screams suggesting shock and disbelief.

“—Nuuuu, nuuuu, nuuu nug my nmnnnggles!—”, I think that was ‘no, no, no, not my nipples!’ … Again, I’m too focused in levelling up his hysterics, I have no time to translate.

The toothbrush against his nipple is too much to take - he does not stop attempting to twist his upper body away from it - he faces the situation with blinded eyes, almost like there is a second sight in his forehead that is drawn to the tickling - he has never experienced a sensory overload like this, my hand still grabbing at his ribs - let’s hear him say it, shall we?

“Is this the most intense tickling you’ve ever had?” I love asking them this.

He nods and nods and nods and nods and nods, giving me what I want, his ‘YES, YES, YES’ muffled behind the ball of plastic wedged deep inside his mouth.

I unclip the ball gag, I think he’s ready to shout it out.

“You know what to do, to make it stop,” I remind.

As the ball gag falls into his lap, he shouts out, “—London!—”, his body throwing itself away from the whizz of the electric toothbrush, the armchair shifting across the carpet as I switch off my tool.

The hotel room is suddenly silent, his breathless panting being the only noise that fills the four walls, I start a thirty second count in my head …

He sits still blindfolded, I let go of his t-shirt but leave it gathered around his pecs in a creased heap, his stomach lifts and drops, lifts and drops, lifts and drops.

Twenty three, twenty two, twenty one …

“I didn’t like that—”, he seemingly confirms, his tongue trailing over his upper lip …

Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen …

I feel a sting of anxiety - have I gone too far?

Thirteen, twelve, eleven …

He tries to locate me, “—No one touches my nipples,” he smirks.

I huff out relief as I take out my final tool from the bag, the thirty seconds ticking down to an end.

I go silent on purpose.

He glances from side to side, his mouth falling open.

His sneer suggests thrilled, exhilarated, curious to see where I’ll take this next …

Thanks to the carpet, he doesn’t hear my footsteps, he can’t make out where I am.

He gasps so hard he almost sucks the interior of the hotel into his mouth, as soon as I scrub a hairbrush across his right sole.

He erupts, shaking his head hard and fast, the hairbrush effortlessly able to decorate the bottom of his foot with dozens and dozens of plastic bristles, covering the landscape of his sole from heel to toe in a repetitive rub.

“—I’m not gonna be able to do it!—”, he is adamant, he won’t stop shaking his head, “—Fuck!—”, he has pulled on his restraints with such force the rope has loosened, “—Fucking hell!—”, he can now plant his palms over the arms of the chair and lift his butt upward, a breathless bellow of distressed and uncontrollable laughter spilling from his lips as I scrub, scrub, scrub …

He rubs his face against the shoulder, he nudges the blindfold up to his eyebrows, his glare is ruined and furious, “Take that off!—” he pulls his big toes apart, the string keeps them together, I sense he is highly uncomfortable having them bound - I abide.

Whilst scrubbing at both feet, I tear away the toe tie, giving his feet the ability to flap, clap, stretch and squirm once again - this provides him some relief, even if he does look like he’s about to turn into flames.

“—Ssstop! Ssssst—-”, he tries to catch my hands with his feet, he tries to press his soles over my hands to pin them to the foot stool, he tries to kick me away, he tries to smack me with the limbs he no longer wants under attack, “—Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—”, I scrub hard and fast over the arch of his left foot, he grunts like a troll, “—Please! Stop it!—”, his beg arrived in the form of a snarl - it was grainy and deep, it comes from a part of him he is only made familiar with thanks to me, “—I, I can’t breath?—” is he asking me, or telling me, or questioning it all himself, “-—I need a break?—” he hasn’t sat back down yet, his butt still lifted from the seat, his feet still writhing beneath the hairbrush, “—I need a drink! I need a drink!—”, he exclaims breathlessly, his left foot clamping down over the brush and my hand where he successfully catches me with his strength.

I try to pull my hand free, I cannot.

We are both reduced to giddy laughter - with each pull of my hand, the bristles glide half an inch across his sole - the sensation causes him to splutter, I laugh because I am entertained.

“You don’t like that either?” I stare into him.

He is utterly careless in how he yells his reply, “—I hate it!—”, he can’t control his pained giggling, his poor feet have now shaped into an X, both flawless soles pressing down over my hand, the hair brush, the dire extension of me he dislikes the most, “—Go, go get me a drink,” I can tell he’s lying, why is he speaking to me like I’m his slave, isn’t it the other way round? “—Go, go!—”, he just wants me to do anything but this, “—I’m thirsty!—”

I yank myself free, he drops to his seat in a bounce, he rolls his eyes to the back of his head when he realises I have decided not to get him a drink, but to instead continue scrubbing the brush across the bottoms of his feet.

His cackles are tremendous, they are thunderous and loud, almighty and non stop - he holds onto the armchair with his cuffed wrists as if it is a sinking lifeboat, he is drowning in his own laughter, handling the ache in each ankle as he twists and curls his feet at a speedy rate - the brush never stops, it doesn’t give in like he does, it has no brain or muscles, it is just plastic, actioned by my relentless force - it is when I scrub at the base of his splayed toes that he shouts out, “—LONDON!—”, for the second time.

“It’s going to be a quick thirty seconds …” I notice how we’re almost out of time, why does the hour go by so fast?

He is utterly destroyed, never tickled like this before, likely to never be tickled like this again, unless he meets me for another session - by the look on his face, the boil in each cheek, the obvious lingering vibration across each curling toe, something tells me a second date isn’t going to happen …

“Yeah,” he is rigid, stiff, blinking away blurred vision, “You know what? I’ve had enough. Lemme go …” he sounds serious.

The thirty seconds are up. I kneel back down by his soles.

His feet X up again, he glares at me with a scowl that I literally feel penetrate through my chest.

“I mean it, Mark. Let me out—”, he shakes his head, “—I’ve had enough,” he repeats.

I begin to nudge the brush in a light, teasing press against the bottom of his left foot, the bristles comb faintly over the chunk of his heel, he kicks out at me, shocked by how fast his knee snaps, “How about if I use the brush and the electric toothbrush …” I retrieve my former tool and switch it on, the buzz sound is deafening, the battery fully charged …

He leaps forwards, his feet twisting apart, “Oh, come on!—”, he whines, his legs and knees bending and kicking as his soles endure the scrub of a hairbrush and the buzzing whizz of an electric toothbrush, “—Isn’t your arm tired? This is hard to take!—”, he juggles different needs and requirements, his announcement that he ‘can’t take it’ screams an undeniable truth to his declaration, however his, “—Tickle someplace else!—”, suggests he can handle this, just not on his feet.

As I scrub, I notice that the brush seems to be aggravating him - there are more snarls and grunts than panicked cackles - personally, I don’t always enjoy the pained expression, so I drop that tool and focus on using just the electric toothbrush - when tapped against his soles, his feet jump back and he gasps and giggles each time - it is quite literally music to my ears and makes me feel like I’m more tormenting him than torturing him (there is a difference, you know …)

“Beg for me to stop, and I’ll consider it,” I announce, “Come on, beg me hard, you pussy …”

He is angry - his handsome, confident act obliterated by my techniques and his level of ticklishness - he actually holds off on the begging, clearly too ‘above it’ to give me what I’ve ordered, however the sudden discovery of an insanely ticklish spot around the base of his right middle toe changes all that in less than a second.

He catapults himself towards the footstool, “—AH HA!—”, his left foot stretching over manically, desperate to push the electric toothbrush away from this insanely sensitive inch of flesh, however I keep it pressed against that toe …

His eyes are so wide open I fear they may pop out of his head, his entire being aimed directly at what I am doing, his jaw so stretched apart I’m tempted to fit my fist inside his mouth …

His expression is a exquisite blend between overwhelmed hysterical glee and complete distress - he looks like how I’d imagine he’d look if he were singing out a high tune at the top of his lungs, however the melody isn’t a song it is something far more beautiful, it is the sound of tickled-beyond-belief desperation.

“—Alright, please, please, I’m begging you, stop!—”

“—Wow—”, I continue to press, he is rendered unable to speak, “—You really can’t take it there, can you, pussy?”

He throws himself back into the armchair, with such force that the furniture pulls away from me - he shakes his head furiously, mouth still wide open, his arms now yanking at his bondage like a convicted criminal strapped to the electric chair.

I persist, he can’t gather his thoughts, he catapults towards me once again.

“—STOP!—”, there is a stern grain to his shout, “—Alright, champ, that’s enough now!—”, one second he is aggressive, violated and harsh, the next he is giggling frantically, his eyes glistening blue, his mouth forever smiling, “—I’m begging you, alright?—”, I love that, the way he says it, like he’s negotiating his levels of embarrassment, ‘alright?’, as in, ‘see, you got me, I’m yours, I’m fucked’ …

“Why? Why should I stop?” I lick my lips.

He lunges at me - if he were not tied down, he would have punched me in the face a fair few times by now.

“—I don’t think you realise how ticklish my feet are!—” He is exasperated, talking to me like I’m stupid.

“Oh?” Now I’m the one cackling, “—I think it’s more a case of you not realising how ticklish your feet are …”

Suddenly, I jump up - I am keen to remind him that his soles and toes are equally as sensitive as the rest of him.

He cowers below me like a weaponless prince, me the almighty swooping dragon, as I hop back behind the armchair - in no time at all I am at his torso once more, pressing the electric toothbrush over his nipples - he is given no chance to make sense of the departure from his toe to his chest - he is salivating, beyond breathless, his body entirely owned by my power - thanks to my tool now buzzing across his right nipple, I have him shrieking and screaming once again, his jaw and chin grazing against my arm - he is now trying to bite me through the laughter, his attempts to yell ‘stop’ and ‘please’ never completing - all he manages is ‘st’ and ‘pl’ …

He wheezes and whines, his laughter consuming his throat and chest, I can feel his body heat from where I hunch - he nips at me with his teeth a few times, but I take it, I am always pushing forward, always taking it a step further, always making him bust beyond his physical limits.

“—St, st, st! Pl, pl, pl!—”

I tickle one nipple with my electric toothbrush, his shoulders wiggling non stop, my other hand now digging into his left armpit - my fingers feel wet curls of armpit hair, it is so very warm deep inside, his entire body is thrashing, thrashing, thrashing, until he shouts out, “—LONDON!—”, for a third time.

He collapses into himself, his chortles and giggling firmly present as I comb my fingers through his hair and tidy up blonde chunks shaken into a tasselled mess.

“Pussy …” I whisper.

He flaps both hands at me, the wrist cuffs somewhere up his forearms, “—Ah, whatever—”, he has lost all shame …

I look at the clock.

“Ten minutes left,” I make my way back to that toe …

He shuffles forwards, “—Wait, no—”, he whines, “No, screw the ten minutes, let me out!”

I kneel down by his soles, the whizz of my electric toothbrush still buzzing.

“You’ve used your safe word three times …” I look at him with an expression I only give to those I promise to annihilate, “… Three times was all you’re allowed …” I near the electric toothbrush towards the spot that drove him wild, “… Now you have to deal with this toe being tickled for ten minutes non stop …”

His eyes widen as the electric toothbrush makes impact, my question arriving like I am challenging him, testing to see if there is any of that superior swagger left - or have I taken it all?

“… Can you handle it?”

_____

Oliver could most certainly not handle it.

Once the hour was up, his bondage was removed and he downed a total of five small glasses of water, from the small tumblers located in the hotel room ensuite bathroom.

We are both soaked in sweat, I remind him that it is sometimes as physically demanding for me as it is for him.

“Pfft,” he scoffs, “Yeah right …” there is a twinkle in his eye as he switches on the shower.

I perch on the end of the bed.

“What was the worst part?” I always have to ask, I always have to know.

He unbuttons his jeans and drops them down to his ankle. He poses in the mirror, checking himself out, scratching away fluff or any excess clinging pieces of saran wrap.

He steps into the bathroom, in just his underwear. I didn’t realise how perky his ass was till he turns around and switches on the shower.

“The brush,” he purses his lips, “The bottoms of my feet are still tingling …” he chuckles, he is awash with disbelief.

This next part of the meet is always rather odd - I over compensate with politeness - I make sure they, Oliver in this case, has enough time to wash away the sweat and baby oil - I pack away my things whilst he cleans, I shove cuffs and rope and torn apart saran wrap into my bag, I put the hotel room back to how it was when I first arrived, I just let him do what he needs to do, whilst I do what I need to do.

It’s actually an interesting point of the session - it shows me how someone copes after something so strange, something so odd - after all, it isn’t every day Oliver is strapped to an armchair and tickled in a way he has just been tickled - his face looks drawn, he is always frowning, he seems distant - I’ve been there myself - it’s like walking out injury free from a car crash, the only difference being the crash isn’t horrific, despite the screams and cries for help - it is instead fun … You leave with an overriding sense of fulfilment, like you just endured something amazingly exhilarating.

“Would you do this again?” I see him to the entrance of the hotel.

He runs a hand through his hair, he clenches his teeth and searches the stars for an answer.

I allow him to pause, to think, I feel the void with suggestions.

“I have stocks. Other tools. I’d pay more. Think nude, tied to a bed, maybe two hours next time …” I press my lips shut, I sound needy.

He tucks his hands in his jean pockets and looks down at his Rebook clad feet, feet that were only just squirming for their life fifteen minutes ago - now, here he stands, on those very feet, calmly, normally, inches opposite me.

To my surprise, he chooses to ignore my proposal.

“I’m sorry if I seemed like a dick,” he avoids my confused gaze, “I’m a nice person, I promise.”

I feel honoured that someone so haughty is able to share their willingness to be honest with themselves, to me - he isn’t my friend, he doesn’t owe me an explanation, he hasn’t even been bad company - arrogant at times, cocky for sure, but if anything it added to the whole set up, it made me want to—

“—You broke me,” he laughs.

I want to kiss him, I want to hug him, I want to take him back inside and lay next to him, watch a film with him, order a pizza with him, strip him, tie him apart, run my tongue across his taint.

Instead, we say goodbye.