This story is set shortly after Timothée Chalamet’s Ticklish Last Resort and just before Joshua Bassett’s Holiday Hysterics Part One.
Huge thanks to two people; @tarantinofootboy on Instagram who helped inspire this one of a kind story and @obuntbondage2nd on Instagram who created the central edit you see above.
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One sunny Saturday morning, on the outskirts of California …
8.30 am
Tarantino stood at his upstairs bedroom window in a loosely tied silk dressing gown and slippers, his hands placed behind his back.
He looked through the glass, his face blank as he peered down at a large black Humvee as it rolled into a parked position outside of his California mansion.
The director watched the driver's door of the vehicle pop open, a young curly haired male stepping out of the car with confidence and swagger.
Tarantino sniffed, wriggling his nose as he continued to simply watch the celebrity actor move, taking in details of his appearance with narrowed eyes.
The boy wore oversized sunglasses, a leather jacket, a white t-shirt, straight cut denim jeans and unlaced military boots.
He was naturally incredibly attractive; his jaw, cheekbones and overall facial structure had only been seen in the likes of Leonardo DiCaprio, Brad Pitt and James Dean before him - the sort of face that had been made to be famous, made to be adored by millions of girls, made to cement him with the ‘heartthrob’ status he had been knighted with since late 2018.
“He has fucking everything,” Tarantino murmured quietly, “The look, the growing career, the fame …” Tarantino grinned to himself, “... They always come to me, eventually …
The Masked Tickler stepped behind Tarantino.
He was far taller than the infamous director, and instead of being dressed in something similar to Tarantino’s morning attire, The Masked Tickler instead stood in black boots, black trousers, a black roll neck and a plain white mask over his face.
He spoke with a muffled voice, the person behind the plastic oval concealed for now.
“He isn’t like the others,” The Masked Tickler warned, his arms stiff by his side, his presence inches away from Tarantino’s back, “He isn’t new to our world. He’s experienced, skilled as a lee, he has endured a lot … He’ll be hard to break.”
Tarantino cocked an eyebrow, not turning around to face The Masked Tickler but instead choosing to keep his eyes on the boy, a boy who had gathered a large rucksack from the Humvee, closed the boot of the car and had now begun to stroll with a large stride towards the front door of Tarantino’s home.
“Armie,” Tarantino huffed, “Their … Relationship … Is the best kept secret in fucking Hollywood. I hear Hammer’s quite the tickler …”
The Masked Tickler nodded just once.
“He and Miller are the only two who have put Chalamet through hell.”
Tarantino smirked, folding his arms across his chest as the doorbell rang.
Ding donnnnnnnnng …
“Let’s add me to that fucking list,” he said.
***
Timothée, allowed into Tarantino’s mansion by his housemaid, picked up the directors Academy Award as if he were grabbing a beer from the guys fridge.
He ran his thumb over the engraved wording on the award’s base, wording that read ‘best original screenplay, 1995’.
Timothée lifted his head and eyed the many other awards neatly placed over a length of two shelves in Tarantino’s office, an office his housemaid had politely shuffled Tim into whilst Quentin readied himself for their meeting.
There were BAFTA’s, Palme d’Or’s, Critic Choice Awards …
They were golden, silver, tall and statuesque - a stark reminder of Tarantino’s acclaimed career, a career responsible for producing iconic movies such as Pulp Fiction, Jackie Brown, Kill Bill and many more …
Tim felt nerves pierce through his stomach.
If he performed well, if he said the right thing, if he did as he was told …
He might get to star in Tarantino’s first ever Apple TV movie …
“Finally …” Tim mumbled quietly to himself, his eyes glistening at the Oscar held in his right hand, its solid shape teasing Tim with the idea that he might, one day, be standing in front of that audience with his own Academy Award in his hand.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Tarantino asked.
Tim jumped, startled by the director's sudden arrival, his approach stealthy and silent.
“Holy shit! Man, I’m, I’m sorry … I was just …”
Tim pressed his lips shut to contain his mumbling, where he carefully placed the dusty Oscar back on its spot on the shelf.
Tarantino chuckled, stepping into his office with an extended hand, his silk gown swapped for a baggy denim shirt, sweatpants and Nike running shoes.
“I’m messin’ with you, dumbass. You can take it. I should’ve won best director that year anyway.”
Tim’s mouth splayed into a grin as he reached out and shook Tarantino’s hand.
“... Quentin Tarantino … Man, it is such an honour …”
Quentin’s eyebrows flashed up as he acknowledged just how soft Tim’s hand was as he took hold of it.
His mind began to race.
If his hands are as soft as that, his feet are gonna be …
“Listen, Tim … Wait, do you mind if I call you Tim? Or do you prefer Timothée? All I fucking hear is Timmy Timmy Timmy these days so I wasn’t sure if you–”
“--Tim’s fine,” Timothée took back his hand, tucking both of them into his jeans pockets and curls of brown dangled around the sides of his face, “You can call me whatever you want, man. You’re Quentin Tarantino … ! You’re the boss,” he laughed.
Tarantino smirked internally.
This is already going very well …
“Okay, alright, Tim …” he waved his left hand over at his desk, a desk littered with sheets of paper with scribbled down notes over them, a few empty coffee cups and two chairs either side, “... Take a seat, fucking make yourself at home … Hey, you wanna fucking drink?”
As Tarantino made his way to his drinks cabinet, between his shelf of awards and a long wall filled with books and old DVDs, Tim shot his eyes down at his watch.
This guys says the word ‘fucking’, a lot, Tim thought.
A drink?
Jesus.
It’s 9 am!
Come on.
It’s Quentin Tarantino, you idiot.
“Sure, man, throw me anything,” Tim dropped down on a large leather chair on wheels, where he spun around in a single rotation.
Tarantino concentrated on dropping ice into two glass tumblers, pouring a generous lashing of whiskey into each glass after.
“Great answer,” Tarantino made his way to the seat opposite Tim, “I fucking like you already …”
Tarantino sat down, lifted his drink over the desk and looked Tim directly in the eye.
“... Cheers to a flourishing and professional working relationship,” he said.
Tim’s eyes widened as he slowly lifted his drink and clinked it against Tarantino’s.
“You mean … You’re giving me the role? …”
Quentin took a sip from his drink, sighing contently as he slumped into his chair.
“Your screen test was, well, I hate to say it … Fucking incredible,” Quentin announced, “You’re one of the finest actors of your generation. You’re talented, handsome, the ‘it boy’ of the moment. You lucky asshole. I’d be fucking stupid to cast anyone else. And believe me, a lot of well known actors have fucking auditioned for this role.”
Tim sat in silence, his mouth open, his stare fixed on Quentin.
Tarantino gestured to the drink in Tim’s hand.
“Down that in one, you’re gonna need it, you son of a bitch …”
Tim blinked out his shock, his green eyes falling down to his glass where he swallowed down disbelief and licked his lips.
“Holy shit,” he whispered, throwing the entire contents of whiskey down his throat all at once.
He winced as the alcohol burned his chest, grateful that the booze had numbed his stunned reaction.
“When do we start?” Tim thumped his chest and winced as the burn increased, his choice of drink more wine than whiskey, “I can speak to my agent, shuffle some stuff around, be ready for you as soon as you–”
“--Wait, kid … There’s a catch …” Tarantino declared, “ … Yes, the role is yours but I, I just gotta do two more screen tests on you, to see if a specific part of you on camera matches what I have in my fucking head …” Tarantino tapped the side of his face as he smiled at Tim.
Tim sat back in his seat, placing his empty glass over his right kneecap.
“Oh?”
Tarantino stood up and slowly walked around the desk, taking Tim’s empty glass from him gently.
“If you know my movies, Chalamet, if you’re as committed to cinema as you say you are,” Tarantino began to refill Tim’s glass, this time with an even more generous helping of whiskey, “Then you’ll know I have a, let’s say, fascination with a certain body part. You get what I’m saying?”
Tim twirled slowly around in the chair so that he faced Quentin, where he bit his lip in thought.
He knew the body part Tarantino was referring to, just like the rest of the world …
… You would only need to see a handful of Quentin’s movies to guess right …
… But verbalising it out loud felt strange, especially as they had only just met in person.
What if he were wrong? What if he embarrassed himself? Worse, what if he embarrassed Quentin?
Tarantino could see the overthinking taking place behind Tim’s eyes.
“It’s alright, kid,” Tarantino urged, “You can say it.”
Tim chuckled nervously, Quentin handing him his second glass of whiskey.
“It’s the feet, right?”
Tarantino nodded, playfully messing up Tim’s head of hair with his right hand as he walked back around the desk, returning to his seat.
“You got it, dumbass,” Quentin sat back down, taking his glass, lifting it to his lips, “The thing is, it’s always been womens feet. Since I was eighteen years old. They’ve occupied my mind, my psyche, they always have to make it into my movies. It’s like a, a, a–” Quentin clicked his fingers.
Tim finished Taratino’s sentence for him as he tidied up his hair.
“--An obsession … ” He said.
Tarantino took a quiet sip of his drink.
“Yeah,” he said, swallowing down the amber liquid, “A fucking obsession. Female feet were my thing …” he paused, his nostrils flaring as he kept his eyes on Tim, “... And then you fucking came along …” he bit his upper lip in focus, “ … Word on the street is you have the best feet in Hollywood …”
Tim’s eyes twinkled as he took a sip from his glass, smirking smugly as he sat back in his chair with a squeak.
He wasn’t sure if it were his open mindedness, the whiskey bubbling in his chest or a mixture of both that made him say …
“... You got a thing for my feet, Quentin?”
Quentin didn’t hesitate in providing his answer, swirling the ice around his glass as he shot back with the same amount of blunt dialogue.
“ … I think it’s safe to say I’m not the only one,” Tarantino wiped some booze away from his chin.
Tim felt his cheeks blush as he decided to play coy.
“I’ve seen the wikiFeet page rating …” Tim shrugged, “... I think it’s safe to say you’re right …”
Quentin smiled, placing his glass down carefully on the desk, appreciating Tim’s confidence in how he handled this conversation.
“Well, like I said, you’re the first man that’s made me fucking feel this way,” Tarantino entwined his fingers as his eyes travelled from Tim’s face down to his unlaced boots, “Your feet would be the first pair of male feet I’ve ever filmed, specifically, in one of my movies …”
Quentin’s stare remained at Tim’s footwear, “... How does that make you feel?”
Tim curled his toes within his boots, their shape visibly moving behind the leather, all to aware of what kind of excitement such a visual would create.
He thought to take the boots off, to prop his bare feet on the desk, cross his legs at the ankle so that his size eleven soles stared Tarantino in the face …
But he wanted to make the director wait, to further lust for them on this Saturday morning, in this musky old office …
“It makes me feel wanted, desired …” Tim took another sip of his whiskey, his voice leaving his lips with a more smoother, velvety tone than before, “ … In control …”
Tarantino picked some ice from out of his glass and popped it into his mouth.
He could brag about his awards, the financial success of his films, the useful contacts he had in his phone book … All of the things Timothée could make some good of at this exciting stage in his career.
But he was old and wise enough to understand that Tim was right.
He’s in control.
Tim could leave this office without the role in Tarantino’s new Apple TV movie and he’d gain a further two movie roles by the end of next week anyway.
He’s the world's biggest movie star.
Would Quentin ever have the opportunity to touch …
… To lick, to sniff, to purely lay eyes on feet as beautiful as Timothée’s ever again?
To explore male feet, at the same quality as Chalamet’s, for the first time in all his experienced years of living?
No.
Quentin pulled one of the top left drawers of his desk open.
He grabbed his car keys and abruptly stood up, finishing the rest of his whiskey in one large gulp.
He then gestured to the office door.
“Let’s go fucking shoot,” he declared, crunching the ice within the depths of his teeth, “And keep your mother fucking laces untied …”
Somewhere outside Yucca Valley
A dry yet surprisingly cool desert was the setting for Tarantino & Timothée’s first of two final screen tests.
Tarantino stood outside of his 1998 silver Ford Mustang with a digital camera, whilst Tim sat in the passenger seat of the car, the passenger door open, its window wound down, his unlaced booted feet propped through it where they rested casually crossed at the ankle.
Tim rested his head on the leather head rest behind him, smiling at Tarantino as the director pressed the camera against his face and began to take photos.
Click!
Click!
A breeze blew some curls of hair away from Tim’s face as the draft blew through the open window and throughout the inside of the car.
“Don’t you want my boots off …?” Tim enquired.
Tarantino knelt down over the rocky ground, changing up his angle every few seconds as he continued to photograph Tim’s feet.
“Someone’s eager,” Quentin smirked, one eye open, the other closed as he sharpened the camera’s focus, “You know damn well how hot they are, don’t you?”
Tim wanted to chuckle, but he kept his jaw clenched and his eyes in ‘smoulder mode’, something he had learned to do whilst spending so much time on the red carpet, photographed by thousands of press.
“You could just use my iPhone to take these, by the way,” Tim blinked, “It’ll give better quality than your camera.”
Tarantino knelt on the other knee, shuffling closer towards Tim’s booted feet as he began to photograph the leather of his soles.
“Did you see a computer in my office? A MacBook, an Alexa?”
Click!
Click!
“A mother fucking iPhone?” Tarantino asked.
Tim shook his head quickly.
“No, I uh, I didn’t,” he chose not to conceal any regret in forcing Quentin into a box the director actively chose not to fit in and decided to press further, “It does make me wonder why you’ve agreed to create an Apple TV movie, though …”
Tarantino huffed, equally frustrated and aroused by Timothée’s ability to stand up to him, something many actors and actresses in his past had always been too scared to do.
“Do me a favour,” Tarantino returned the camera to his face, “Remove your fucking boots. But you’re not allowed to use your hands …”
Tim raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, an expression that said ‘challenge accepted’.
He tucked his hands behind his head and uncrossed his ankles.
He then pressed the toe of his left boot against the heel of his right.
With a gentle nudge he began to push the boot away from his heel as Quentin watched on quietly.
A nearby eagle and its echoed squawk was the only noise that could be heard, along with the growing breeze, in the middle of this desert setting.
Tarantino felt dizzy as Tim’s right socked heel began to expose itself.
Tim kept his eyes on Quentin, proving to the director that he didn’t even need to look at his feet to ensure the boot removal would be successful.
Quentin had to remind himself to take photos.
He crept in closer and knelt back down on the ground, his camera snapping images of Tim’s right sole as the boot continued to slide upward until it hung off of the top half of his foot.
Click!
Click!
Click!
Tim wiggled his right foot hard enough so that the boot fell off of it, landing on the ground with a thud.
Tim flexed his toes within the white cotton confines of his sports sock.
Without any further hesitation, Tim used his toes to nudge at the heel of his left boot, where he pushed the boot up to the middle of his foot.
Another wiggle and the boot fell off, landing beside the right on the ground below.
Tim crossed his legs at the ankle and smirked at Quentin as the director starred on in awe.
“Take off my socks,” Tim ordered, his voice leaving his lips in a deep growl.
For a split second, Quentin’s eyes left Tim’s feet where they glared up into the twenty seven year olds handsome face.
“... Kid … ” Tarantino kept his eyes on the star, “ … You realise that’s the first time someone has told me what to do in over thirty years?”
Tim contained his glee, forcing his dominant performance further into the scenario without reservation.
“You gonna do it, or what?” He gestured to his still socked feet.
Quentin placed his camera carefully down on the ground.
“You’re damn right I am,” he grinned.
Tim hooked his teeth over his lower lip as the director took both hands and curled them around the material gathered around Tim’s right ankle.
Slowly, he began to peel the sock away, revealing the creaminess of Tim’s right heel to start …
No scratches, marks or dry skin … Just silky smooth flesh.
Tarantino swallowed down a bubble of excitement as he continued to take the sock away from Tim’s foot, the arch now presenting itself, then the base of his toes …
Quentin narrowed his eyes in focus as he removed the sock from the tip of Tim’s foot, each toe popping free one by one in a gradual curl as Tarantino peeled the sock away entirely.
Tarantino knelt down in admiration.
With his mouth hanging open, he took in the sight that was Tim’s right foot, now entirely bare.
His sole was sleek and soft, the shape of his foot long and narrow, all five of his toes perfectly inline …
His toenails weren’t unkept, too short or discoloured …
His arch, high enough to present definition, didn’t stand out as too raised or out of place …
His index toe appeared in a plumper shape than the others …
A faint trail of hair travelled out of the cuff of Tim’s denim jeans and down the middle of the top of his foot where it finished perfectly above Tim’s big toe.
Tim stretched all five toes in a sensual flex as he acknowledged how intently Tarantino stared at his sole.
Tim twitched his left foot.
“Now the other one …” he murmured.
Slowly, without wanting to rush the procedure, Tarantino gradually pulled the sock off of Tim’s left foot, revealing his bare sole second by second, inch by inch, until the sock finally left Tim’s now curling, lengthy toes, toes that stretched out to greet the cool breeze currently blowing between them.
“It’s all about the reveal …” the director whispered.
Quentin kept his eyes on the foot as he slowly got to his feet, both of Tim’s boots and socks held by his thumb and index finger where he placed it all neatly in a pile on the roof of the car.
Tim crossed his legs at the ankle, his bare feet now positioned perfectly through the open window of the passenger door.
“You can touch them, if you want,” Tim smirked.
Quentin got back down on his knees where he slowly stroked the stubble of his chin.
“Oh, I know I can,” Tarantino squinted, his right hand lifting where his fingertips readied their way towards the sole of Tim’s right foot, “I can do as I fucking please.”
Tim rolled his eyes, removing his hands from behind his head where he folded them tightly across his chest.
He closed his eyes and scrunched up his nose as he felt Quentin brush his fingertips gently across his right sole.
Tim’s foot jolted, his toes curling up tightly as Tarantino took those fingertips slowly from heel to toe, toe to heel, heel to toe …
Tim reached forwards, quite suddenly, his eyes snapping open, his hands sliding across his soles where all ten fingers protected them from Quentin.
“No tickling,” Tim snapped, a playful smile pulling his lips upward, “You can do anything, but tickle …”
Quentin lifted his hand away from Tim’s foot in surrender, his movement suggesting he understood Tim’s request, the words leaving his lips claiming otherwise.
“You heard the bit where I said, ‘I can do as I fucking please’, right?”
Tim’s hands slipped away from the bottoms of his feet as he slumped back into the passenger seat with a sigh.
“Just go easy …” Tim warned, “ … I don’t wanna kick you in the face.”
Quentin licked his lips as he took both hands to Tim’s feet, standing up so that he had easier access to them.
“With feet as beautiful as yours I’d fucking allow you to kick me in the face with them all fucking day,” the director blurted, “I wouldn’t fucking care.”
Tim winced as Tarantino began to stroke both soles of his feet with all ten of his fingertips.
“You …” Tim went to sit up, to smack Quentin’s hands away, but he forced himself to endure the delicate, fluttering touch currently taking place under all of his toes and tucked his hands under his thighs, “ … You do this with all the actresses feet who’ve auditioned for your movies?”
Tarantino shook his head, his touch becoming firmer, much to Tim’s relief, as he began to massage Tim’s feet instead of tickling them.
“I know women’s feet very, very well. Before they take off their fucking stilettos I know if they’re worth having behind my camera …” Quentin got back down on his knees as he moved his face closer to Tim’s right sole, his hands still massaging their sleek, hairless shape, “ … With you, it’s, it’s … “
Tarantino struggled to describe the beauty of Tim’s feet, the fact he was male, the fact that he had never done anything like this before with another man …
Tarantino decided to leave his admiration with words that he would usually attach to other-worldly attractiveness and allure.
“ … It’s something else … “
Tim wanted to lower his head, to allow the breeze to blow some curls of hair over his face so that they could hide his bashful expression.
However, he confidently chose to keep his head facing Tarantino as the director continued to massage his feet.
“Happy?” Tim asked.
Tarantino moved his nose closer to Tim’s left heel, breathing in the scent of the young man’s bare skin, skin that smelt like leather after being squashed up in his military boots since he had slid his feet into them this morning.
To Tim’s surprise, Quentin shook his head.
“No.”
Tim went to sit up, after slouching into such a relaxed position.
He went to pull his feet back towards him, but Quentin pinned them in place with the force of both hands.
Tim’s bushy eyebrows burrowed into a deep frown as he looked at the director in concern.
“Why? What can I do to–”
“--I wanna taste them,” Tarantino declared, “I wanna fucking taste them, Chalamet.”
Tim’s raised shoulders dropped.
His frown lifted.
His flat lips arched into a smirk.
He tucked his hands back behind his head and wiggled his feet from side to side, in their crossed-at-the-ankle position.
“They’re all yours,” the actor announced.
Quentin felt his heartbeat quicken.
His throat dried up, his eyes began to water, the reality of his situation began to dawn on him.
He looked past Tim’s feet, towards the boy's sparkling green eyes.
“This will be the first and only time I’ll do this with a man. You realise how special this moment is for me?”
Tim remained silent as he took in Tarantino’s words …
Words that weren’t partnered with the word ‘fucking’, since they had started their meeting earlier this morning.
Tim wasn’t getting the arrogance, the ballsy exterior, the brash, false, almost character-of-himself Quentin Tarantino that Quentin Tarantino presented to the world.
In this very moment, Tim was getting the real Quentin Tarantino, a person who seemed overwhelmingly grateful to explore his fetish, in the privacy of this isolated moment in the middle of a Californian desert.
“I understand,” Tim murmured, his tone quiet and gentle.
With that remarkable fact considered and acknowledged by the both of them, Tim sat back and allowed Quentin to begin to kiss his feet.
He started with gentle pecks across his right heel, slowly taking his lips further up to his right arch where he then introduced his tongue, a tongue that slid all the way up to Tim’s right big toe.
Tim hissed quietly as Quentin took his big toe entirely within his mouth, consuming its shape unapologetically in one large, saliva riddled suck.
Tim closed his eyes, focusing on keeping his feet still as Quentin began to stroke the sole of his left, enjoying the slight writhe that Tim produced due to his high levels of sensitivity.
Tarantino took his sucking mouth over to Tim’s index toe, where his tongue curled around it, gliding up and down its long, fleshy length for a good ten to fifteen seconds, the taste of the digit blowing Quentin’s mind with every single absorb of his lips.
“Mnn,” Tim felt surprised by the noise that left his closed mouth, his eyes still closed, the breeze still blowing curls of hair gently away from his face, “Man, that feels so good …”
Tarantino began to lick and suck the next toe in line as his fingers curled around the heel of his right foot, massaging it firmly, much to Tim’s relief.
“I’ve never seen feet like yours before,” Quentin mumbled, his words pressing against the arch of Tim’s foot as he moved his face down his sole and away from his toes, “They’re fucking incredible, man, no wonder everybody goes wild for them … Damn … “
Tim felt his own arousal stiffen beneath his jeans.
He curled his right hand around its shape and began to rub it quietly, his eyes still closed.
“Go on …” he urged.
Tarantino had now been told what to do not just once, but twice, in over thirty years …
He’s gonna pay for that, Quentin thought.
Tim ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth as he felt Tarantino nibble over the side of his left foot, the director's lips kissing and sucking up towards his little toe.
“They’re made of silk, they taste like butter,” Quentin began to suck on Tim’s little toe, speaking with his mouthful, “They’re so soft. Like you’ve been walking on clouds all your life, kid …”
Tim chuckled, his eyes now refusing to open thanks to how calm and serene such worship had made him feel.
“I never go anywhere bare foot,” he explained, “I’m always wearing socks, slippers, boots …”
Quentin allowed Tim’s little toe to pop out of his mouth, where he then took his tongue and slid its entire shape up the expanse of Tim’s left sole from his heel to his toes, as if he were licking up melting ice cream from an ice cream cone.
“You protect them,” Quentin continued to lick, “That’s good, they’re too damn special to harm …”
Tim opened his eyes and watched Tarantino lick his feet, like some kind of cartoon dog.
“... Damn …” Tim watched Quentin with unblinking eyes, “ … You’re good at this …”
Quentin’s mouth left Tim’s foot in one last generous suck to his right heel, before he got up from his knees, picked up his camera and returned to taking photos.
Click!
Click!
Click!
“Place your feet side by side,” Tarantino ordered.
Tim unhooked his feet from their crossed rest and positioned them beside each other, still through the open car window.
“Flex your toes …” Quentin continued to snap images.
Click!
Click!
Click!
Tim flexed all ten of his toes out, his hands still tucked behind his head.
“Beautiful,” Tarantino curled his right fist into a ball, “Now scrunch up your toes …”
Tim did as he was asked, his toes curling up into a tight clench.
Click!
Click!
Click!
“Fucking insane,” Quentin wiped some access drool from the corner of his mouth, “Okay, we’re good …”
Tim’s toes un-scrunched as he slid his feet back into the car quietly, almost disappointed that the shoot was over, his toes still wet with Tarantino’s saliva.
Tarantino kept his camera by his side as he took Tim’s boots and socks off the roof of the car where he handed them to the actor through the open window.
“Put these back on,” Quentin snapped.
In an attempt to keep the electricity going, Tim decided to ignite the spark with genuine enthusiasm in his curiosity.
“You uh …” Tim tucked some curls of hair behind his ears, “... You said there were two screen tests you wanted to do …” Tim did as he had been told and began to yank on his right sock, “If this is the first …” Tim pulled on his left sock and then began to shove his feet back into his boots, laces remaining untied, “ … What’s the second?”
Quentin flashed that iconic, animated grin as he retrieved the car keys from his sweat pants pocket.
He offered no verbal reply as the desert breeze continued to blow around the vehicle, some sandy, dusty clouds rolling past its structure.
Tim felt confused by Tarantino’s silence.
“Quentin?”
The director turned away from Tim and squinted into the distance, down the long, humidity rippled road they had driven up thirty minutes ago.
A bright pink Cadillac drove speedily towards them, a large cloud of yellow gathering behind it.
Tim turned his head and narrowed his eyes at the car as it gradually approached them.
Tim twisted his head back to Tarantino, his face saturated in uncertainty.
“Quentin.”
This time not a query, a demand.
The Cadillac pulled up, its driver door opening, a tall masked man dressed in black leaving the vehicle.
He threw the Cadillac’s keys to Quentin as Quentin threw the Mustang keys to the masked man, both men catching them effortlessly as they landed in their palms.
“Quen, Quentin, what the fuck …?” Tim looked at the masked man, his face concealed by a plastic oval shape, his attire smart, the fit of his cashmere roll-neck, his tailored trousers tight against his frame …
Tim went to open the passenger door, but it had been locked.
“Fuck, Jesus–”
He then climbed over to the driver's door, a door politely opened by the masked man …
For a split second, Tim thought this might just be one big practical joke …
But the masked man shoved Tim back into the passenger seat.
He climbed into the driver's seat and shut the door.
“Quentin! Quentin!” Tim rattled the door handle repeatedly, “You bastard! You mother fucking bas—”
–Tim’s shouts were silenced by the electric window slowly winding back up, a bzzzzzzzzzzz noise muffling his protests, as The Masked Tickler drove Tim back to Tarantino’s mansion.
Quentin made his way to the new vehicle, a sandy cloud blowing across his body from his Ford Mustang now screeching away as he smirked and shook his head.
“Cocky little shit,” he muttered to himself.
***
Once back at his mansion, Quentin parked the pink Cadillac on the front drive and then pocketed the keys, ready to hand them back to The Masked Tickler once he was done with Timothée.
He strolled back into his home, returned to his office and picked up Tim’s empty whiskey glass, carrying it to the drinks cabinet where he refilled it with the amber liquid and then took a quick shot.
He wiped the booze from his upper lip and then rolled his neck, allowing it to crack and click, readying himself for the next however many minutes he had with the now kidnapped twenty seven year old heartthrob.
Tarantino headed to the large spiral staircase in the middle of his home, where he excitedly danced up the marble steps until he reached the first floor of his mansion.
He walked towards his bedroom, the door closed, the sound of muffled shouting clearly heard from behind it …
Quentin opened the door slowly, his eyes landing on Timothée, who had been tied to Quentin’s double bed in the starfish position, white rope binding his wrists and ankles to each corner of the mattress.
To say he looked pissed off would be an understatement.
Tim’s thick head of curls were messy and unkempt, littering the top half of his face, covering two wide eyes filled with fury.
A ball gag sat wedged in his mouth, the dribble and saliva seeping out from behind it telling Quentin that he had probably been gagged as soon as he had been manhandled into this position over thirty minutes ago.
He groaned and grunted, cussed and cursed, his words inaudible thanks to the red plastic ball stuffed between his lips.
His fists remained permanently clenched, his legs kicking, his booted heels digging into the sheets.
He still wore a white tee, black leather jacket, jeans and boots - he looked the same as Quentin had left him, just a whole lot angrier.
“Mmmpphhh! Mphhhh! Mnnnphhh! Mphhhhhhh!”
Quentin smiled, offering his captive a polite wave.
As requested, to the side of Tarantino’s bedroom door stood a camera attached to a tripod and metal trolley with a silver tray laid out over its surface.
On the tray, neatly placed beside each other, were a pair of scissors, a hairbrush and a bottle of baby oil.
Quentin hit the record button on the camera and made his way to the bottom left corner of the bed, wheeling the tray along with him, where he knelt down and slowly began to tug away at Tim’s left boot.
Tim’s gagged screams began to increase in volume as Tarantino removed the boot with less care and consideration than before, this time yanking it away from Tim’s socked foot with an eager force.
“Mppphhh! Mpph! Mphhhh! Mphhhh! Mphhhhh!”
The director then crawled to the other corner of the bed where he began to remove Tim’s right boot.
“Mphhhh! Mphhhh! Mphh!”
Tim’s head bounced over the pillow as he kicked his legs, alarm saturating his face as Tarantino began to pull Tim’s right sock out from under the rope tied around his ankle.
He slowly peeled the sock away from Tim’s sole, his eyes taking in the silky smooth flesh he had admired earlier less than an hour ago in the desert.
Tim’s toes scrunched up as soon as his foot was fully exposed - they protected themselves, clamping up tightly as his foot twisted from left to right.
Quentin pocketed the sock, something he’d now be keeping forever, and then crawled back to Tim’s left foot.
He bit at the tip of the sock, catching the ends of Tim’s toes between his teeth as he did so.
“Mphhhh! Mphhhh! Mphhhhhh!”
Using his hands also, Tarantino pulled at the sock, the dry, white material caught in a grinning bite as the sock peeled away from Tim’s left foot.
Tim threw his head forwards, both of his feet now non-consensually forced bare.
He thrashed his upper body from side to side, a thin layer of sweat developing over his forehead, the clothes he lay in keeping him warm within this stuffy bedroom.
“Mpppph! Mpphh! Mph! Mph! Mpphhh!”
Quentin began to gently kiss Tim’s left foot, starting with his curling toes, as he used both hands to gently tickle over his left sole.
Tim bounced over the mattress, glaring over the ceiling as his foot was tickled by Quentin’s fingernails and his lips at the same time.
“Mphhhhh! Mpphhh! Mphhh! Mphhh! Mphhh!”
Tarantino closed his eyes and continued to kiss around Tim’s toes, allowing them to flex and stretch under his mouth as his foot twisted underneath the director's face, Quentin’s fingers now exploring the sleek expanse of skin that made up Tim’s left sole …
… Skin that was about to be made far more sensitive than it already was.
Quentin kept kissing and tickling, sensually and gently, whilst using his right hand to reach up to the trolley’s surface where he clambered around for the baby oil.
Once he had it in his grasp, he took it down to the corner of the bed and uncapped the lid.
Tim’s gagged moans turned into shouts.
“MPHHH! MPHHH! MPHHH!”
He shook his head, desperately crying out to Quentin to not use the baby oil.
Quentin poured a generous amount into his palm, tipping his hand against Tim’s left sole, massaging and tickling the liquid into the young man's foot with a taunting, teasing touch.
He kissed Tim’s foot, reaching across to his right where he rubbed and tickled the remaining puddle of lotion over Tim’s right sole.
Tim scowled at his left foot and then at his right, his soles now soaked in shimmering lotion as he growled into his gag, Quentin returning to Tim’s left foot where he continued to kiss it gently whilst keeping his hand over at his right, his fingernails exploring the sole from toe to heel, heel to toe, toe to heel …
“Mpppphhh! Mphhh! Mphh! Mphhhhh! Mphhhhh!”
Tarantino kept his eyes closed the entire time, taking in the taste of Tim’s feet mixed in with the scent of the lotion, his lips brushing and pecking over Tim’s toes, treating them with respect whilst also exploiting them both at the same time.
Suddenly, Tim felt Quentin’s entire mouth consume his left big toe.
He began to scream.
He threw his head over his chest, widened his eyes and flexed out all five toes, the biggest one stretching out into Tarantino’s mouth, its shape violated by the curl of the director's tongue as he continued to tickle Tim’s left sole with his fingernails.
“MPHHHHHH! MPHHHHHH! MPHHHHHH! MPHHHHHH!”
Tim thrashed around over the mattress, the sheets creasing under his squirming, the bedroom filled with his gagged shouts and cries, grunts and moaning.
“MPHHHHH! MPHH! MPHHH! MNNPHHHH!”
Quentin continued to suck on Tim’s big toe as he reached up to the trolley’s surface and curled his fingers around the hairbrush handle.
Tim watched Tarantino bring the hairbrush down to the sole of Tim’s right foot where his gagged screams, once again, increased in volume - this time the loudest they had been since the director had removed the young actor's boots and socks.
“MPHHHHHHHHHHHHH! MMMMMMMPPPPHHHHHHH! MPHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
He urged Tarantino to not use the brush, to put it back, his protests and disagreeing tones completely hidden by the simplicity of a red plastic ball wedged between his now swollen lips.
“MPPPPPHHHH! MPHHHHHH! MPHHHHHHH!”
He began to heave into the gag as Quentin sucked on his big toe and then began to rub the plastic bristles of the hairbrush from side to side across his left arch.
Tim’s head threw itself back against the pillow in a fierce bounce where he repeatedly smacked it against the cushion in a manic motion, disbelief now taking over his entire mindset.
He had been bound so tightly that no matter how hard he pulled his wrists and legs towards him, they wouldn’t slip from between the rope, nor would the rope break from the corners of the bed it had been connected to.
Tim shot concerned looks to each tied limb, resenting his bondage from keeping him here in this position; gagged, tickled and worshipped without any prior agreement or discussion.
“MPHH! Mphhh … Mpphhh … Mphhh!”
Tim had begun to grow breathless, his nostrils flaring, his entire face now drenched in sweat as Tarantino continued to suck on his big toe and tickle his sole non stop with the hairbrush.
Thankfully, after constant focus on his left foot, Tarantino’s lips slipped away and he placed the hairbrush back over the surface of the trolley.
He then took hold of the scissors.
Tim shot angry eyes towards Quentin as the director began to approach his upper body with the cutting tool.
That angry stare began to soften into a pleading gaze, the words ‘please, no’ making their way out in a strained muffle from behind the gag.
Instead of cold metal against skin, Tim felt his white t-shirt lift.
Tarantino began to cut at the material, slicing through the cotton carefully, allowing it to pull apart and reveal Tim’s toned abs, his slim waist and narrow hips.
He sliced all the way to the neck of the t-shirt until the tee pinged open entirely, draping past either of Timothée’s nipples.
Tim continued to breath behind the gag, cautious not to squirm or writhe in fear of making contact with the scissors.
He simply had no choice but to allow Quentin to cut him out of his clothing.
Tarantino narrowed his eyes in focus as he began to slice through the leather of Tim’s jacket.
Tim groaned in despair as the scissors cut through the thousand dollar coat, all the way down the arms until they divided the sleeves and cuffs.
Quentin was then able to pull away the t-shirt and jacket, discarding the torn fabric over the carpet as Tim wriggled over the bed sheets, his torso and arms now bare.
“Mphhhh, mphhh! Mph, mphh! Mnnphhh? Mphhh? Mphhh!”
Tim tried to verbalise his frustration but Tarantino couldn’t make out the wording, nor did he care to try.
Instead, he began to cut away at Tim’s jeans, starting at the waist where he made his way down the stitching of the right leg.
After a few minutes of steady snipping, Tim now lay tied in just his underwear, his ball gag still stuffed between his mouth.
He panted and huffed, his feet tingling, the room filling with the scent of baby oil and sweat mixed together.
He lifted his head and eyed the camera filming the ordeal beside Quentin’s closed bedroom door.
A door that slowly began to open …
Timothée began to scream behind his gag as The Masked Tickler entered the room.
In each of his hands, wielded like pistols, were two electric toothbrushes, switched on, their vibrating bristles whizzing at an intensely speedy rate.
Behind The Masked Tickler, and trailing in a long line outside of Quentin’s bedroom, were dozens of smartly dressed guests, some wearing tuxedos and ball gowns, some in masks, some not.
They all waited in a queue, for their chance with Tim, as the door slowly closed shut behind The Masked Tickler.
“Mppph! Mphhhh! MPHHHH! MPHHHHH!”
Quentin returned to Tim’s feet where his tongue, fingernails and hairbrush continued to torment the twenty seven year olds soles …
… Whilst The Masked Tickler climbed onto the bed and perched behind Tim’s shoulders, his buzzing tools now nearing Tim’s underarms …
… Where Tim’s muffled screams would echo out through Tarantino’s mansion, a mansion that had become the perfect setting for the first of many House of White Feather events …
AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION …
Tarantino stood in a smart white, untucked shirt, an oversized black blazer, black trousers and cowboy boots.
The oval mask strapped to his face was the same shape and style as The Masked Ticklers, however instead of being white, his was red.
Wearing a red mask amongst these people meant you were a Founder - someone to respect, acknowledge and understand as a person responsible for creating this world, finding these subjects, making these guests and their dreams a reality …
Quentin clapped and cheered along with the rest of the audience as they all stood drinking champagne, gathered around a situation taking place within this large, dark conference hall, its high ceiling held up by stone pillars, several bright spotlights shining down at a muscular man in his late thirties, hogtied and blindfolded, his strong Superman-esque looking frame drenched in sweat as he writhed and bounced over the carpet, his feet and sides tickled by three members of the crowd.
Tarantino felt overwhelmed by how hard The House had worked to get to this point, a point where the A list celebrities from around the world were now frequent toys found contained in some form of bondage or contraption within this large building, for he and other members of this exclusive society to play with.
Quentin thought back to the 1990’s when The House had started out.
Back in the days where Will Smith, Bruce Willis and Tom Cruise’s screams of laughter echoed down the halls, halls filled with memories of tickle torment taking place decades ago …
Tarantino moved through the cheering crowds until their applause began to fade.
He left the conference room and walked up a large spiral staircase where he arrived at a second floor corridor.
Knowing it was only he and his favourite ticklee on this floor, Tarantino felt comfortable enough to remove his mask.
He dropped it on the floor, stepped over it and then walked towards a locked door at the end of the corridor.
Before arriving there he passed several doors either side of him, doors with individual silver metal name tags attached to their handles.
Tags that read;
Justin Bieber
Tom Holland
HRVY
The Beckhams
Henry Cavill
Sebastian Stan
Once at the door at the end of the corridor, Quentin removed a key from the inside of his jacket and slid it into the lock.
The tag attached to the doors handle read ‘Timothée Chalamet’.
Click!
He slowly opened the door, revealing a room that had been padded sound proof.
In the middle of the room, Timothée dangled from the ceiling, his wrists attached to leather restraints, his arms pulled above him by chains.
Gagged and blindfolded, all he could do was shout and moan behind the ball of plastic as he felt Tarantino’s presence enter the room.
“Mphhhh! Mphhh! Mphhhhh! Mmph! Mph!”
Taped to each of Tim’s sides were two electric toothbrushes, their spinning bristles positioned perfectly so that they sat pressed over each of Tim’s armpits.
Tim’s toes slid across the floor as he kicked and squirmed, writhing like he had been for the last two hours in this hung position.
His bare chest had been stained with his own drool, his thrashing about accidentally allowing his underwear to slip a little below his waist.
He was saturated with sweat, unaware of the briefcase that had been delivered to the room shortly after his arrival.
Quentin lifted the boys underwear back up his waist and then removed the blindfold, revealing Tim’s viscous glare and uncontrollable hysteria.
“They still haven’t run out of battery, huh?” Tarantino tutted at the electric toothbrushes, “That’s tickle hell, to say the least, right kid? Bet your beloved Armie didn’t treat you as harshly as this … Amateur …”
Tarantino jumped back as Tim began to kick at the director, his bare feet swiping at his body in an attempt to fight his captor.
“MPHHHH! MPHHHH! MPHHHH! MPHHHHH!”
“Don’t worry,” Quentin reassured, “We’ll let you go when I start filming my new movie …” he grinned as he picked up the suitcase, “... In a couple of weeks … After I’ve made you tell me every single one of your ticklish spots, from the not so bad to the I can barely stand it …”
Tim swung around, the chain and rope connecting him to the ceiling dangling above his head as his tip toed position continued to dance across the floor, his armpits still at the mercy of the electric toothbrushes taped to his body.
“MPH! MPH! MPH! MPHHHH!”
Tarantino opened the briefcase.
“I’m messin’ with you, kid,” he repeated the same thing he had said to Tim almost immediately as he had met him, taking their circumstance comfortably full circle, even if Tim no longer stood in the director's office, unbound, not tickled, free and naive to what future events would soon be taking place …
“MPPPHH! MPHHH! MPHHHH!”
“We’re letting you go tonight,” Quentin revealed, “Because we want you to do something for us … Something special …”
From out of the briefcase Tarantino produced a sheet of paper contained in a plastic sheet.
He held it in his right hand, lifting it so it faced Tim.
On the paper, the typed out wording read;
Tickler - Timothée Chalamet
Ticklee - Joshua Bassett
Location: Winter Wonderland, L.A
Date: December 2022
“Make him suffer, Chalamet, and the Apple TV movie is all yours …”
In Quentin’s other hand, he held a plastic Elf mask.
Tim eyed the toothbrushes buzzing in his pits.
He then slowly turned his head towards Tarantino, his muffled screams pausing for now …
Where he simply agreed to the role with a gentle nod.
