Authors note: this story is a work of fiction. With the exception of Cruz Beckham’s Instagram response, all scenarios and imagery have been creatively constructed to enhance the realism of the narrative.
The circumstance is ridiculous, so much so that it nudges me to remind myself: ‘you’re one lucky little bitch’.
Surrounding the absurdity is the normality of open brick walls, plants from Columbia Road flower market, and mid-morning sunlight that pours in like it’s been personally invited.
And then, in the middle of it all … the ‘approved setup’.
Wooden ankle stocks from Esty tightly roped to the bottom edge of an IKEA mattress, cheap Ann Summers bondage gear in the form of pleather cuffs all peering out of my Nike bag that I usually stuff with my gym kit, but no, not today.
I stand there for a second longer than I should, a third glass of Chardonnay I definitely didn’t pay for still in my hand, just taking it in. So much for wanting a clear head.
Cruz is leaning against the wall, completely unfazed, big sunglasses covering his eyes like this is just another Tuesday. He wears a navy blue adidas tracksuit zip up, red shorts that show a little of his Calvin Klein underwear waistband, white socks and smart black suede loafers. I’ve seen him in similar outfits when he’s been papped by The Daily Mail, hands in pockets, head lowered with a smirk as he takes his girlfriend by the hand and rushes into a local record store.
However, in this very moment his hands are not in their pockets. Instead, a third bottle of Carlsberg dangles in his right loose grip, his brown hair still a little wind wrecked from the beer garden and the typical April London weather we’re both accustomed to. A few small gold chains hang around his neck, his body is slim, his small hands decorated in random tattoos, gold and silver rings on various fingers, his thighs pale, his calves hairy and also tattooed in sporadic patches. The thing that stood out most to be when meeting him in person is how long those legs are, compared to his waist and overall torso. He’s all limbs, this boy. And he’s far cleverer than he makes out to be.
He speaks in a drawl, a mumble, very British and kinda cool, like I’m on his level - monotone and deep, like a lad.
“Havin’ second thoughts?” He asks, his right eyebrow lifting.
When I first sat in the beer garden I was far from myself, I couldn’t even take off my own sunglasses, couldn’t string a sentence together without apologising. The difference between us was extreme. My shades were from ASOS, his were RayBan’s, my home is a loft apartment, his is a giant yacht. I only have my ear pierced, he has rings of different shapes and sizes on his fingers. I have two tattoos, he has twenty. I’m single, he is in love with a girl called Jackie. And now, now I’m more than honest: “I’m having a bit of an outer body experience,” I admit, trying to play it cool by clearing my throat after, as if it would erase what I just said.
He grins at that. A real proper grin, wide and showing all of his teeth.
“Well,” he shrugs, taking a sip from his beer, smirking playfully afterward, “Sometimes dreams do come true …” cheeky sod …
I scoff, “—You’re Cruz …” I really announce the ‘f’ in fucking, “… fffffucking Beckham …” I shake my head and sip from my wine, not because I like the taste but because I know it’s calming me down. I wonder if we’re both using our drinks to make us more confident? After all that’s the first thing he offered me when I arrived at the pub. He seems fine, I’m getting there, even if I do put my wine glass down, “Be honest,” I say, nodding toward the setup, “How much of this is genuine curiosity … and how much is you fully committing to the joke?”
Cruz shapes his mouth into an O and widens his eyes, “I told you! I’m not mucking about, mate. I do really want to know what it’s like,” he pushes himself off the wall and walks further into the room, he’s completely relaxed, like he’s about to try a new food or go see a new movie, rather than step into some intense, unique situation, “You said you’ve been writing the FTU stuff for, what, five years?” He adds, glancing back at me, “You never actually done this with a celebrity before?”
The assumption causes me to laugh under my breath, shaking my head, “Of course not …”
Cruz smirks, gesturing vaguely around the room, “Go big or go home, aye?”
There’s a beat where we both just stand there again, looking at the setup, then at each other. It’s not tense. It’s not serious. If anything, it feels like I’m dreaming and I’m going to wake up any second. I can’t keep pinching myself like I did in the shower, in the uber to the pub, during the few seconds it took for me to walk into the beer garden …
Cruz sets his beer down, claps his hands once, firm, decisive, “Right,” he says, removing a few rings from his fingers, “Talk me through it.”
I shoot my eyes towards the ceiling as the sun outside becomes hidden by grey cloud and some sparrows tweet by the window, “Just like that?” I’m in disbelief, I know I have to shake it off but, can you blame me?
“Yeah,” he nods, “No overthinking. I said try me, I meant it,” he gestures toward the equipment as he pops the rings on the side table, like he’s ready to box.
I gawp, “Christ, you are bold …”
And then, I lift the top half of the stocks and invite him into my world.
I click the stocks shut over his ankles with a small yet satisfying metallic snap, flicking the latch into place to ensure they’re tightly locked.
Cruz is now seated upright on the clean, bare mattress, his arms and hands resting behind his back, causing his torso to lean backward. He’s grinning - that cocky, knowing sneer that says he can see how much I’ve been been anticipating this moment.
I let the memory wash over me for a second, grounding myself in the sheer improbability of this moment. Months ago, Cruz had posted a casual Instagram story: ask me anything. I hadn’t hesitated and simply asked: are your feet ticklish? His reply came in seconds:
What started as a reckless message had spiraled into me DMing him with further reckless questions: ‘When?’ which led to radio silence, then ‘think you can take it?’, which I regretted as it sounded too creepy …
I fell to my knees when I saw a DM three days later, in which he explained he had observed my website, the one you are currently reading, and expressed some, if I’m honest, unbelievable interest. Over the next two weeks we went back and forth, then signed NDAs (hence why this part is a little hush hush), briefed out arrangements, and now … This: the two of us in my East London loft apartment, alone in the open plan living room, the gentle pat of the midday rain against the window the only sound besides our breathing.
“Okay,” I say, voice low and steady, surprising even myself with how confident it sounds, “Take off your top.”
Cruz’s smirk deepens, equal parts amused and defiant. With a fluid lift of his hands, he takes the sunglasses off. He folds them up, even blowing a bit of fluff off the lense. He unzips the tracksuit top, revealing a bare torso underneath, which surprises me as I would’ve worn a t-shirt too if it were me. Once it’s unzipped, he shrugs it away, now topless and wearing a few gold chain necklaces, his red shorts, socked and loafer clad feet locked in the stocks. He is slim, almost skinny but never thin, naturally athletic without, from what I could tell from getting to know him so far, being interested in any sports, unlike his brothers. Those delicate tattoos decorate random areas of his ribs like ink kissed onto sun-warmed skin. His stomach is flat and a faint happy trail disappears beneath the waistband of those vintage-looking red shorts - he even burps a little, swallowing down the fizz of beer, wincing a little and offering me a: “Oops, sorry.”
I go to the top of the mattress and take Cruz’s right wrist, “You will be,” I say, clenching my teeth afterwards. He doesn’t really respond to that, I try not to overthink it. I guide his wrist up toward the top middle of the mattress. He follows me, now laying on his back. My fingers tremble only slightly as I buckle the pre-tied, thick pleather restraint around it, cinching it tight to the hidden anchor points beneath the mattress. The strap holds firm, stretching his right arm high and taut. His deep, surprisingly hairy armpit is now completely exposed - soft-looking, vulnerable, the mousy brown hair contrasting against his smooth, pale skin. His slim torso is pulled tight, ribs fanning out, every inch of his right side stretched open.
I circle to the other side of the mattress slowly, letting him feel my gaze on him. His brown eyes follow me as his free hand scratches away an itch on his tummy.
“What if I need a piss?” He asks (for the non-english readers out there, ‘piss’ is english for toilet, or restroom).
I take his left wrist next, pulling it up and buckling it into the matching pleather cuff at the top of the mattress, “You just wet yourself,” I joke, as the final click echoes softly. He’s stretched out now in a perfect, helpless Y; arms high, chest broad, ribs prominent, those long legs together in a straight line, his feet trapped in the stocks, albeit still perfectly protected in his footwear. He glances down at his own immobilized body, lips pursing in a mix of disbelief and anticipation.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” he sneers, looking a little unsure as to why I haven’t removed his loafers or socks, considering this whole situation started with me asking how ticklish his feet were.
I lay down at his right side, joining in with the banter he produces, “Not my kind of fetish,” I announce, as I present my right index finger and hover it above his face. Then I ask him, “You ready?”
He looks down at his feet, thinking I was always going to start there and there only, “Err …” he responds, not fully able to answer, mostly because of my fingertip dragging slowly through the soft, thick hair of his left armpit.
Cruz lets out a breathy snigger, his entire body thrashes away from my sudden touch, hips twisting, legs straining uselessly against the stocks.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
I let my finger linger just a moment longer, tracing lazy circles through the warm, silky hair, watching every huff and pant leave his mouth.
“This actually gets you going?” He manages to choke out between breathless sniggers, eyes wide with disbelief.
The gentle, almost shy guy who had nervously asked for a glass of ‘ch, ch, chardonnay’ in the beer garden earlier is fading fast. Something hungrier is taking over, “What do you mean?” I whisper, my voice low and dark as I hover my fingers just above his exposed underarms, “I’m just picking some fluff out of your armpits,” I say, playing dumb.
Both of my hands drift lower, slowly into the warm, exposed hollows between his pecs and biceps. My fingertips barely make contact, just ghosting, curling, playing through the soft, thick hair that lines each deep pit. No pressure. No scratching. Only the lightest, most delicate stroking of those vulnerable strands, ‘picking out fluff’, like I said.
His torso twists violently left, then right, slamming against the mattress with every pull. The pleather restraints bite hard into his wrists, the mattress squeaking and groaning under the easy going assault as he yanks and surges from side to side, “Wait,” he grins, as his slim, tattooed body arches like a bow, ribs standing out in sharp relief, every muscle firing at once, “—Wait!—” he repeats - the entire room seems to feel his surprise, the stocks rattle as he tries to bend his knees, writhing with unexpected strength, “Fuck, come on—” he grins, biting down on his lower lip …
“—Come on?” I tease, as I continue just the faintest caress of my fingertips through his armpit hair. A whisper. A tease. Yet he is losing absolute control after mere seconds. His breathing comes in ragged, desperate bursts, fast, shallow, almost panicked. He hurtles upward again and again, hips lifting clear off the mattress, body wriggling, as though trying to crawl out of his own skin, all from the gentlest possible touch, “—You didn’t expect me to go up here, did you?” I tease.
He shakes his head quickly, but I keep going, slowly weaving my fingers deeper into the warm armpit hair, watching in awe as this impossibly ticklish body responds in a way it’s never responded before. Every tiny movement of my fingertips sends fresh shockwaves through him. His abs clench, his head buries itself into his shoulders, I can smell the beer from his breath.
After a long, unexpected minute, I finally pull my hands away.
Cruz collapses instantly, still grinning, then, in the sudden silence, a broken little snigger slips out of him, “Whoa …” he breathes, voice hoarse. He looks stunned, his necklaces tangled around his neck.
“Are you okay to keep going?” I ask, my voice low but serious, tidying the necklaces for him, “We can stop anytime. I mean it.”
Cruz looks up at me and nods, a little hesitant, “Yeh. We can keep going,” he confirms, “But only on my feet! …”
The Instagram dare, the endless paperwork, the restraints, none of it could have prepared him for how overwhelming submissive and out of control it actually feels once the ropes are knotted and the stocks are locked. I give him a moment, stroking a slow, soothing line down his side, letting him jump a little …
… Allowing him to realise it’s not just his feet that I’ll be tickling …
I settle my weight fully onto his narrow hips without apology, pinning his slim torso firmly to the mattress beneath me. At six-foot-one and carrying the solid years that followed my thirties, I am heavy on him - deliberately so. His squint and the faint eyebrow pop tell me two things: he feels every pound of it, this inescapable pressure anchoring him in place, and that my focus has shifted from his feet to his upper body, without prior discussion.
I let my gaze drift slowly over his tattoos: a delicate religious piece on his right side, elegant slanted script flowing like poetry across his ribs; and, of course, the proud England crest on his bicep - a quiet nod to his father.
I trace them lightly with my fingertips, following the ink like a cartographer mapping sacred ground. His elbows try to flap inward, trying to shield his sensitivity, a movement so raw and automatic it clearly surprises even him as the wrist restraints pinning his arms apart squeak. His body is no longer entirely his own, my touch has begun rewriting its instincts.
He tries to reclaim some casual ground, voice slightly strained but aiming for nonchalance, “Do my pits stink?” He asks, “I’m not sorry if they do…” his grin sparkles - for someone who has been tricked and deceived, he’s taking it rather well.
I answer by sliding all five fingers of each hand deep into the warm, waiting hollows of his armpits. I dig in, curling and stroking and exploring every sensitive inch with unhurried focus.
His back arches high into a tight, upward bend and stays there, he is grinning like a crazy person, refusing to break eye contact.
To his clear surprise, my attention has not drifted to those untouched feet still locked in the stocks. They remain in their socks and loafers, tightly protected, probably a little warm, a little moist, almost forgotten for the moment. Instead, I stay right here, weight heavy on his hips, ten fingers buried deep in his armpits, drawing out every exquisite reaction with luxurious patience. His head twirls like he’s trying to shake the feeling out of it.
My left hand sinks deeper into the warm, now-damp hollow of his left armpit, fingers pressing through the slick, heated skin with slow, insistent confidence. At the same moment, my right hand drifts to his right side, nails and fingertips gently scribbling and poking along the sensitive ridges of his ribs.
Cruz’s face becomes a living masterpiece of ticklish torment. That high back arch he has kept for a stiff ten to fifteen seconds drops, and he twists as far away from me as he physically can, those wrist restraints snug, keeping his arms in a stretch. His cheeks flush a deeper, richer crimson, spreading like wine across his freckled skin. His eyes close for a second, as if he’s trying to adjust his vision, then fly open wide - bright, glassy, totally in awe, before squeezing shut again in helpless sneers. His lips lift apart into a grin as a torrent of bright, uncontrollable cackles pour out of him.
He tries to fight it. His head lifts off the pillow, neck straining as he attempts to curl upward, desperate to shield that vulnerable left pit. His torso twists and folds instinctively toward my right hand, but there is nowhere to go. My weight keeps him pinned. My fingers stay buried - one hand deep in the wet heat of his armpit, the other dancing mercilessly along his side. He makes random noises; grunts, air pops out of his nose, he runs his tongue over his teeth, but the cackles are the real delight. They’re total perfection! Not the loud screams and shrieks I’ve written of other celebrities - something just as devastating but in a different way: a steady, nonstop cascade of light, silvery, breathless, uncontrollable laughter that seems to pour endlessly from his core. His head bounces and rolls against the mattress in frantic little thuds, dark hair sticking to his damp forehead. Every few seconds his eyes flutter open, locking onto mine for a split second with raw, overwhelmed vulnerability, before another wave pulls them shut again. His chest heaves beneath me. Tiny, desperate wheezes slip between the giggles as he begins to truly struggle for air.
“You, you’re—!” he gasps out, voice cracking with breathless wonder, “—You’re hahahahahahahahahahardcore!—”
The words have barely left his lips before the sensations swallow him again. A fresh chokehold of giggles seizes him completely, turning the declaration into a broken, cackling mess. His entire body writhes and jolts beneath my weight - not violent thrashing, but a constant, helpless squirming that speaks of total surrender to the feeling, a feeling he can only endure beneath my straddle.
I am utterly entranced, “You’ve got so much fluff in your armpits, Cruz,” I state, “It’s going to be a real challenge getting it all out …”
The dual assault draws a fresh, broken symphony from him, high, breathless cackles fracturing into something sharper, more desperate, he even notes: “—There’s no ffffuckin’ ffffluh —” And then I notice that he bites his lower lip for a second time - it seems to happen when he gives in, like he’d holding back the need to beg me to stop or verbally express this weakness - I wonder how long that will last …
Still tickling, I shift my weight backward, sliding down his body until I am seated firmly over his thighs. The new position pins his hips in place even more effectively, my knees pressing into the mattress on either side of him, locking him open and helpless. From here I have the perfect vantage: his entire stretched torso laid out like an altar before me, armpits deep and glistening, ribs flaring with every frantic breath, stomach dipped, tattoos shining under a fresh sheen of sweat …
To think, our Instagram encounter began with talk of feet and here he is, experiencing total tickle torment from the waist up, with absolutely no clue what to expect.
I descend without mercy. One hand dances inside his left armpit, my five fingers rapid in their drilling, deep into his warm, wet skin and underarm hair. The second hand mercilessly along his right ribs, then up into the opposite pit, then down across his stomach, circling his navel before sweeping back up to torment his sides. I move them constantly, unpredictable, relentless, letting the twin invasion explore every inch of his devastatingly sensitive upper body.
“—You’re SAVAGE!—”, Cruz blasts out, voice cracking with alarm, “—This is—”, the giggles take over his throat for almost ten seconds before he continues, “—thisissavage!—”, his words are obliterated instantly. The giggles turn into raw, wheezing gasps as he fights for air. His head pounds madly against the pillow, damp strands of hair whipping across his now sweaty forehead. His eyes roll back for a moment before snapping wide again, glassy and unfocused, as though he is struggling to remain conscious beneath the overwhelming storm of sensation.
As I wonder if he’ll ever stop giggling, I use my index fingers to draw circles around his nipples, causing him to truly catapult.
His entire body reacts beneath me in powerful, frantic leaps, back arching high off the mattress, hips bucking uselessly against my weight, again and again and again and again, the mattress wobbling beneath us, his shoulders straining so hard the restraints creak ominously, “—Nnn! NNnn!—” he gawps breathlessly as his knees try to bend, sweat now rolls freely down his temples, tracing glistening paths along his neck and across the ink on his chest. His mouth stays open in a constant, silent scream between desperate gulps of air, face contorted in exquisite, almost pained ecstasy …
“Got ticklish nipples, Cruz?” I remind myself to be verbal, to taunt, “Can’t speak, can you?”
He is no longer just ticklish, he is lost inside the feeling, drowning in it, his body moving on pure animal instinct as it tries and fails to escape the merciless, quick circles created by my fingernails, that orbit his nipples constantly. He glares down at them, I can see it in his face, he almost wishes he never had nipples in the first place.
I begin to rotate my exploration in slow, deliberate symmetry, mirroring every stroke across both sides of his body. One set of fingers traces long, spidering lines down the sensitive crease where his hip meets his torso, then they glide upward along the outer edge of his ribs before plunging deep into the slick heat of his right armpit. At the exact same moment, the other hand mirrors the path on the left: hips, ribs, pit. I sweep my hands higher still, letting my fingertips dance across the delicate skin of his neck, just beneath his jaw, then back down again in an endless, reflective torment.
I sit beside his waist. Now I scribble both sets of fingers within each warm pit, “—You’re enjoying this, aren’t you!—” he wheezes, his legs clap together constantly as he peers over his chest and watches me.
“Oh, I am …” I say, almost sinisterly, taking him by surprise once again, leaping my fingers up and then down, going for his ribs with speedy fingers, digging deep into the grooves between each bone before sweeping down to his hips and back up into the waiting heat of his armpits.
Cruz erupts into a storm of uncontrollable laughter. It makes my ears ring. His body flails beneath me, leaping and bouncing off the mattress as if trying to launch himself toward the ceiling. I persist, pulling every ounce of ticklishness out of him, ripping out his honesty between cackles, “—I thought you—” a pause, “—I thought my fee—” he admits, “—whataboutmy—” he hurtles towards me, stays there, looks at me directly whilst my fingers poke into his armpits: silence, but his mouth is wide apart.
A dark, proud thrill blooms in my chest. I keep going, fingers scribbling into wet armpit hair, “Oh don’t worry we’ll get to your feet, no harm in mucking you about up here, is there?” I murmur, delighted.
“—You piss taker!—”, he announces, bouncing, twisting, bouncing some more, twisting some more, his armpits and just how ticklish they are now owned by me, I can even see a shimmer in his expression that expresses rage, some anger, a little bit of fury, as soon as I question if I’ve gone to far a shine of delirious madness blows that frenzy away.
I know I’m now tickling him beyond his limit, thanks the guttural, pure and real response, the noises I hear. The giggling goes up a level and the cackles seem to become him, outweighing his overall presence, his existence, causing his veins to bulge within his neck and forehead, his throat thickening with every need to breathe in. His entire torso writhes in powerful, uncontrollable twists beneath me, arms locked uselessly above him. He sounds like he might actually pass out …
He is trying to buck me off, repeatedly lifting his waist, always throwing his head forwards, he’s trying to bite my stomach but his teeth only manages to nip at the material of my vest, tugging it forward, only for him to fall back and giggle and cackle and wheeze uncontrollably as he spins from left to right, the necklaces around his neck getting caught in his mouth, over his nose, dropping back across his wet chest.
I ease off, sliding down to lie beside him on his left. My fingers slow to a gentle, teasing crawl. He gasps for air, long, heavy, as if he has just broke the surface of the sea water after being under it for too long, “—Gaaaaaaaahhh-hhhhhhsssspppppp!—” he gulps, eyes rolling to the back of his head, he looks like he is about to black out but has found himself just in time, “—Facccckin’ hell!—” another gulp, “—I was seeing stars …” he admits, whispering hoarsely, “I’ve never been tickled like that …”
I reach up with deliberate, toying slowness and begin tracing the lightest possible scribbles around the tender point of his left elbow.
His arm jerks, the limb leaping like a live creature trying to escape. His eyes snap wide with raw dread and lock onto my fingers, unable to look away as they begin their torturous journey downward. He already knows exactly where this path is leading.
I smile, never stopping the slow, spidering descent of my fingertips, “I can tell,” I murmur softly, voice thick with mock sympathy, “You really don’t want these fingers to reach that armpit, do you, Beckham?”
He shakes his head frantically, eyes still glued to my moving hand, he is laughing, at the elbow tickling as well as the game I’m playing - his eyes shift to mine once more with a knowing scowl that says ‘give it a bloody rest!’, but he resists in telling me that he can’t take it, he’s confident for sure and damn, its working.
Another inch. Another slow, torturous scribble. Cruz’s breathing turns into sharp, panicked hiccups as he giggles as if entertained, but the laughter is coarse, wet, caught around clenched teeth and a wagging tongue. His stomach droops in then out. A fresh rush of cackles bursts out of him, high and broken, he is always trying to twist either away from me or into me, in these giant, passionate lunges, but his armpit is open, my fingers are nearing …
I chuckle low, letting my fingertips glide even slower, savoring every millimeter of his descent into panic, “You’re shitting yourself, aren’t you?” I observe, delighted, his head lifts off the pillow again, neck straining as he stares helplessly at my hand, he is giggling so hard that a small bubble of dribble arrives out of the corners of his mouth. I pause my fingers for a heartbeat, hovering just above the upper curve of his bicep, letting the threat hang in the air, “Ready?”
I find it surprising to see him nod, hard and fast, biting his upper lip this time, almost as if he is bracing for impact, knowing he has no choice, he even sneers, is excitement driving him, joy that the tease down his arm is almost over? I’ll never know.
My fingers arrive in his underarm and begin to jab in deeply, firmly. The endless, high pitched scream-like cackle that pummels out of him is from the depths of his toned, tattooed tummy, brutally animalistic, so much so it turns his face purple. Extreme giggles and gasping, choking laughter erupts from his throat as his torso snaps upward, slamming back down only to launch again and again. His eyes never shut, they remain open and unblinking …
In all the countless tickle stories I’ve written over the years - the carefully crafted scenes, the exaggerated reactions, the perfect fantasy breaks - none of them ever came close to this. This is real. The way he heaves between cackling, the way his giggles go on and on and on and on without pause for breath, the humiliated flush on his face, the quiet, gritted-teeth desperation … it’s more intense than anything I’ve ever imagined on paper.
I slowly withdraw my fingers from his armpits and rest my hand gently on his heaving chest, feeling the frantic hammer of his heart against my palm.
Cruz lets out a shaky, broken exhale, still staring at me with those wide, glassy eyes, cheeks glistening with perspiration. It feels weird to see him so still. For the first time since we started, I see something like surrender finally settle over him.
This version of me, the one kneeling beside his waist with dark hunger in his eyes and ten relentless fingers, is not the polite stranger who arranged this meeting.
This is the purest, most unfiltered incarnation of who I am. Stripped of pretense. Stripped of shame.
And now, he has seen it.
He has seen me.
I bring my fingers to my nose, giving them a whiff.
“In answer to your question …” I confirm, “… Yeah, your pits do stink …”
I reach for the bottle of Carlsberg resting on the side table and bring the cool rim gently to his lips. Cruz lifts his head like a man dying of thirst and drinks with urgent, greedy swallows; deep, puppy-like gulps that make his throat bob visibly. Beer spills from the corners of his mouth almost immediately, tracing glistening paths down his chin and along the line of his neck before slipping over the ink on his chest. At the same time, with my other hand, I drink from a large glass of white white, fuelling my confidence, adding an additional buzz to the set up.
He suddenly twists his face away, gasping for air, a breathless, self assured grin breaking across his flushed features. Foam drips from his jaw as he laughs, “You know,” he says, voice warm with teasing mischief, “If you untie me … I can do it myself.”
The words land with a quiet sting. For a fleeting second, the insecure corner of my mind whispers that maybe this is his polite way of asking to be released completely, that the session has finally tipped too far. I’ve been merciless with him. Perhaps too merciless. He deserves to remember that I’m still human beneath the hunger. I manage to swallow down the wine, finding comfort in the numbness it creates beneath my skin.
“Alright,” I murmur, setting the half full bottle of beer on the floor and my glass of chardonnay on the side table, “That’s fair.”
I kneel behind his head and untie the rope connecting the leather restraints to the mattress, but keep the restraints on his wrists. Cruz exhales deeply and sits up slowly, rolling his shoulders with a low groan. For a moment he simply sits there on the mattress, feet still locked in stocks, stretching the tension from his slim, tattooed torso like someone waking from a long dream.
I pick up the bottle of beer and hand it to him. He takes it and continues to glug from it, handing it back to me with his right hand, his other hand wiping foam away from his jaw, “Cheers,” he manages to say, as I pop the ¼ full beer bottle back on the floor.
Before he can fully settle, I capture his wrists again, guiding them firmly behind his back. His eyes widen in surprise.
What follows is a sudden, light hearted tangle of limbs and laughter. He twists and squirms, giggling as he tries to pull away, his sweat-slick skin sliding against mine. I laugh too as we wrestle across the sheets. He’s quick, slippery, surprisingly strong for his build, but I’m heavier, taller, and far more determined. I overpower him with ease, pressing my chest against his back, using my weight to pin him until I can click the cuffs securely into place behind him.
The metallic snap echoes softly.
Cruz gives one final, half-hearted tug against the restraints, then lets out a defeated but still-amused huff, shoulders pulled back, chest arched. His hands are now locked firmly behind him.
He glances over his shoulder at me, cheeks still glowing, brown eyes shining with a complicated mixture of amused indignation and something that looks almost like reluctant thrill. Beer still glistens on his chin and throat. His breathing is quick, but that original spark, the one that answered my Instagram message all those weeks ago, still flickers there behind the exhaustion.
I rest a hand gently on his shoulder, thumb brushing slowly over his warm, damp skin, “Not what you expected?” I asked, like I’m reading his mind.
Both of his eyebrows lift a she looks into his lap, where he finds the answer straight away, “It’s mad,” he admits bluntly, face following me as I settle into a cross legged position at the foot of the mattress, right in front of the stocks, “But I can take it,” he sneers, tongue caught between his teeth, as if he is either testing me, challenging me, daring me all over again - it constantly translates to ‘try me’, the two words that led us here.
I glance up at him as soon as I hear those words, I can’t quite believe that a) he is this cocky and b) that this is even fucking happening. Cruz is looking back at me with the widest, most knowing smile I’ve ever seen - bright, mischievous, almost glowing with anticipation. It’s the kind of smile that says he understands exactly why we’re both here, despite all the delicious detours I took across his upper body earlier. This moment, right now, is the real reason our paths crossed.
I reach forward and tug his right loafer off slowly, letting it drop to the floor with a soft thud.
“Be honest with me,” I ask, voice low and curious, “Do you …” go on, ask it, “… Have a thing for feet?” Gulp, brace yourself …
I expect his expression to falter, maybe even cloud with embarrassment. Instead, his face lights up even more, eyes sparkling with something close to delight, “Why do you ask?” he replies.
My eyes take in the sight of his right socked foot; narrow, a decent size nine and a half. The fabric clings to every toe, hinting at the softness beneath.
“Well,” I explain, and you guys reading this can agree, “I’m not the only one who thinks it, or is at least aware of what you’re up to,” I tell him, letting my fingers rest lightly on his ankle, “That Optics album cover? Your feet are literally front and centre,” I continue speaking as I reach for his left loafer, sliding it off with careful slowness, “And that Instagram caption … ‘I’m not a model unless it’s for feet’ …? Come on! …” I scoff.
Cruz lets out a soft, breathy laugh, “Nah, mate … I just know what I’m doing,” the tone in his voice is unmistakable - he’s filled with confidence, and good for him.
I hook my fingers onto the cotton slowly and begin peeling both socks away inch by inch, at the same time, deliberately dragging the moment out because I can’t bear for it to happen too quickly. The white cotton fabric rolls over the curves of his heels. His toes curl tightly in a deliberate, teasing clench, trying to catch the fabric, to delay the moment, as if he wants to make me work for the prize I came here for. The socks glide upward inch by inch, unveiling the gentle curve of his heels, the soft balls of his feet, his pale arches …
As the fabric finally slips past all ten of his toes and falls to the floor, I note the red string anklet around his ankle, the same one I’ve spotted on the many images on his Wikifeet page. Now, it is here, inches away from me, as snug around his ankle as the stocks are. I even readjust it so that it sits behind the stocks, I don’t want it breaking, labelling it as special by saying: “That’s nice …”
Cruz’s bare feet droop perfectly displayed in the stocks before me, pillow-soft, unblemished, “It’s for good luck,” he replies,“Think I’ll need it?” He asks.
“Oh,” I scoff, “Without a doubt …”
Cruz glances at the top of the stocks curiously, “What’s the string for?” he asks, nodding toward the ten neat loops attached to the top of the stocks, each connected to small adjustable dials.
I go to tell him and then the devil on my shoulder says not to. Instead, I reply with: “You’ll see …”
He purses his lips, then breaks into that devastating lip-curl again, acknowledging my reservations is shedding too much clarity on his circumstance, “That’s a bit saucy ...” he says, “So what,” he continues, testing the waters, “You’re just going to tickle my feet now? Do I just sit here and take it?” He’s still trying to understand the ritual, still half-convinced this can’t possibly be that interesting to me.
“Well, there are tools,” I tell him, “Some really, really devious ones,” I want to delve into my Nike bag, show off what he’ll be dealing with, but that devil on my shoulder is whispering to me again, so I decide to keep it a mystery for a little while longer, his 🤨 face telling me I’ve made the right decision, “But first … Let’s just try you out,” I flex my fingers slowly, cracking them theatrically, then lower both hands toward the bottoms of his feet.
Here we go, I think to myself. What’s so incredible is that he even says my thoughts out loud, mumbling a, “Here we go …” which only reinforces my ‘stitches’ theory - that this moment is meant to happen, I thought it and then he immediately said it, fate has stitched us together. It’s a sign.
Don't fuck this up.
This is the moment that started with two words: Try me. If his feet are as ticklish as I think they are, he's about to regret saying them.
I place the pad of my index fingers against the warm, velvety heels of both of his feet and begin tracing slow, hypnotic circles.
I have to swallow down my heart beat to focus, one hundred percent, to forget he is who he is and that this is actually happening, to simply ‘be’ in the moment.
The skin of his heels is impossibly smooth, like warm silk stretched over doughy flesh. Cruz stays perfectly motionless. I can feel his eyes on me, his gaze never leaves my face; steady, challenging, as if he believes that intense stare might unsettle me.
It does the opposite. In britain, we call it ‘egging me on’.
I glide upward with agonizing patience, barely grazing the delicate curve of his arches. The touch is so feather-light it feels more like breath than contact. Yet the effect is electric. When my fingertips finally reach the balls of his feet, both soles erupt at once.
They snap inward with explosive power, a reflexive crash that makes the heavy wooden stocks clatter. His toes curl into tight, desperate fists, the tendons standing out sharply along the tops of his feet. The motion is so extreme that his big toes actually meet in the middle, pressing together as if trying to shield the hypersensitive centers from any further invasion.
His feet stay like that for two seconds, three seconds, four seconds, as he grins and I grin.
“Well then,” I murmur, letting my fingers hover just above his smooth soles, “That answers the question that started all of this…”, I decide to stop speaking for a while, concluding the beginning of this moment with:
“… You’re absolutely screwed …”
Cruz’s bare feet twist, twirl, stretch, clench and point anytime I touch them. The stocks are rattling, he is grinning hard, he is enjoying how easy it is to flap his feet away from my touch, so much so that it becomes clear what I need to do next.
I dance the edges of my fingernails slowly across the tender base of his left sole, feather-light but relentless, while my other hand begins the ritual of toe-restraint …
His laughter returns instantly - that bright, musical giggling from fifteen minutes ago, laced with just as much surprise as earlier, but this time not from the shock that I decided to start with his armpits, instead it’s with a surprise that tells me he might not of realised his feet were either a) this ticklish, or that b) they could be tickled like this.
“—Aight—,” he admits, as if he has to to say it out loud, “—How about you come sit here instead, aye? …” no chance, Cruz!
His mouth stretches wide as the giggles sharpen into constant, ceaseless cackles. He watches, eyes bulging white, head snapping into his left shoulder as I loop the first soft cord around his tiny pinky toe and pull it back, securing it to the dial at the top of the stocks. That seems to of really tickled him, like I’m the first person in his life to do something like that to his little toe and he can’t quite contain or believe it, “—So that’s what they’re for!—” the realisation hits him hard, he hurtles forwards, his hands even try to reach towards the stocks but the wrist restraints behind his back make it awkward.
I continue with the next toe. Then the next, his shocked expression suggesting its too much too soon - I can tell he’s biting down on verbal release again, his eyes always bulging, his mouth always wide and glistening, his head always snapping from side to side.
Every time his left foot tries to twist, flex, or jerk away from my scratching nails, the growing web of string limits its movement more and more. By the third toe, his foot can no longer pull away properly - it can only strain and curl in place, totally trapped. His right foot flexes out in a desperate attempt to bat my hands away, but it’s futile. I simply continue my work.
When I finally capture his big toe and cinch the string tight, his left foot is utterly immobilised - stretched, spread, and neatly presented. Every inch of that pale sole is now entirely exposed.
I twist the small dials one by one, slowly ratcheting the strings tighter. I acknowledge a tongue wagging, wince-like gasp from him, I think to pause and ask if it hurts, but I continue, I put it down to his toes being sensitive. The soft cords pull his toes back further and further until the entire foot is drawn taut, the arch subtly deepened, the skin stretched smooth and gleaming.
I then use my index finger to suddenly scribble over his left arch.
Cruz’s face flushes a glowing pink. His eyes turn glassy, shining with an overwhelmed shimmer that hasn’t quite fallen yet. His whole body twists to the right and stays there, chest pulsing, shoulders pulling, wrists tightly cuffed behind his back, yet his left foot remains almost perfectly still now, only able to twitch and pull by millimeters under the tiny scribble. His laughter is loud, endless and completely consumed. It keeps jumping out of his tummy then going back down his throat, back behind pressed lips, only to be too strong to keep behind closed doors where it then blasts back out.
“I’ll repeat the question that started all this… ” I say, as I work on tying back his right row of toes, “… Are your feet ticklish?…”
The foot that once tried to protect the left is now being methodically betrayed, each toe pulled back and secured with slow, deliberate focus. He clenches his teeth, growling through them, a low, frustrated grunt vibrating in his throat as he bends his knees and shuffles forwards. He looks at me with a grin so tight that all his teeth align, “—Just a bit!—” he answers, he knows he is leaving me crumbs and not the full meal …
Both of his feet are now toe tied within the stocks.
Cruz’s eyes track my every movement as I reach both hands back into the Nike bag. He breathes in slowly through his lips, trying to calm himself down. He could complain, change his mind, break and plea like I want him to, but he doesn’t, he gulps, narrows his eyes and involves himself, fuck it’s so genuinely amazing and real, I love how its so much more than either I, or he, thought it would be.
From my Nike bag I draw out the small, clear bottle of massage oil. The moment he sees it, his expression shifts into open caution, eyebrows lifting, throat bobbing.
“I think it’s more than ‘a bit’ …” I push.
Cruz’s bound hands twist behind his back, trying to scratch at his elbow or chin … Oh Cruz, those tiny itches will be the least of your problems in a bit …
I uncap the bottle of massage oil. For anyone else, I would simply pour some into my palm and slap it on. But these are Cruz Beckham’s feet. These deserve a show.
I tilt the bottle slowly over the tops of his left toes and let a thick, glistening ribbon of oil pour out. It slides across his foot like liquid glass over polished marble, tracing long, shining paths down the tight length of his sole before dripping in slow, golden beads onto the dark floorboards below. I do the same to the right foot, watching in quiet awe as the oil coats every perfect curve.
Cruz observes with wide-eyed fascination, clearing his throat and asking: “Where did you learn all this?” There is a genuine curiosity threading through his voice.
I set the bottle aside and bring both hands to his left sole, pressing my palms firmly against the warm, oil-slick skin. I begin to massage it in, deep, deliberate strokes that spread the oil everywhere, working it into every crease and contour.
“Footfriends. MyFriendsFeet. Ticklishlads. There are dozens of sites,” I tell him. “I’ve been studying tickle porn for over twenty five years …” I speak almost proudly.
As I massage, I let my fingernails drag lightly across his oiled arch in ‘accidental’ scratches, causing both of his feet to instinctively twist inward, but the toe ties hold them mercilessly in place. His mouth forms a perfect, shocked “O”, eyebrows shooting upward in genuine surprise at how much the oil enhances the sensation.
The fact that he even responds, that he proves to me he can still speak, still ‘take it’ like he said earlier, adds to the layers of realism and confidence bubbling through this moment, “Bro’s a pro …” he manages to mumble with a smirk - I’ve noticed that he smirks a lot, a Cruz Beckham trademark expression, even in a situation as unique as this.
Once both soles and every single toe are thoroughly soaked and gleaming, I begin, “Yes,” my fingers turn wicked, “Much to your despair …” I scribble five over his left heel, five over his right.
Cruz explodes on the spot, no hesitation, no resistance, like flicking a switch. He cackles furiously, the sound sudden and frantic, he throws himself backward, landing on the mattress with a heavy bounce, squirming and writhing like an eel picked from a bucket and dropped on the deck, his bound hands twist uselessly behind him, his torso arching and rolling as he glares desperately at the ceiling.
I tell him off straight away, “No, no—” I say, strict and teacher-like, “Sit up. I want to see your face.”
He obeys almost immediately, pushing himself upright again and even shuffling forward a little on the bed, presenting himself more fully to me. His eyes are huge, wet, locked onto my hands as my scribble goes up into his glistening arches. The oil makes my fingers dance faster, slicker, finding every hypersensitive spot with cruel ease. I repeat myself, “… Cruz …” I say, “… Are your feet ticklish?”
I reach back into the Nike bag and pull out two black plastic paddle hair brushes. I hold one in each hand, letting Cruz see them clearly. His eyes go bigger, locked on the instruments like they’re the worst things he’s ever seen …
He sort of answers my question without a minor moment of uncertainty in his tone: “O, that’s gonna do me in!—”
I press both brushes firmly against the bottoms of his feet, “Ah well!” I say, “You said ‘try me’ …!”
The moment the stiff bristles make contact with Cruz’s soles, he shoots up like a rocket. An anguished, from-the-belly roar for life rips out of him, shattering into an explosion of frenzied laughter so intense it makes his eyes roll to the back of his head - he slams his spine into the mattress, his entire body goes rigid for half a second, then convulses as if electrocuted, back arching so sharply off the mattress that only his shoulders and bound hands remain touching the bed.
The noise that comes out of him is momentous, a high pitched crescendo of unmanageable laughter that owns him unapologetically, transforming his face into a creased, crushed, crumbling squash of fury mixed with bliss, “—Ahaaahoahaaahah!-haaagaaahhaahahahagaaah!-ahaahahaaagaaaahaaagaahah!-aahhaaaaahahaahahaaaa!—”
I scrub the brushes up and down his ticklish soles with ruthless, rapid strokes; long, brutal scrubs from heel to toes, then vicious little circles into the centers of his arches, “—Sit forwards, Cruz!—”, I remind him, as the bristles glide and catch at the same time, dragging across his smooth soles with devastating friction. His feet, stretched taut by the toe ties, can barely move, forced to endure every single vicious plastic nib as they scrub across his soles again and again and again and again and again …
He goes absolutely bonkers.
His throws himself forward, his head wobbles from side to side, strands of dark hair stick to his sweat-streaked face. His mouth is frozen open in a wide, agonised oval, emitting a nonstop torrent of insane, shrieking cackles that rise and fall like sirens. His torso twists and bucks, hips pumping, shoulders slamming back against the mattress. Sweat flies from his skin with every convulsion. His eyes are squeezed shut so tightly that the sides of his head crease, his cheeks go puffy, yet every few seconds those big brown eyes fly open again, lost in absolute hysteria.
“Oh wow,” I laugh softly, never slowing the ruthless scrubbing, “You’ve never felt anything like this before, huh!” I switch to fast, fluttering strokes right under his toes, and his whole body jolts like his blood has turned into cement. A fresh, piercing shriek rips out of him as his toes strain desperately against the strings, “So, Cruz, tell me …” I tease again, “… Are your feet ticklish?…”
He can’t answer. He can only cackle in loud, broken shrieks that come in high pitch bursts - his face is soaked, thick veins standing out along his neck, his necklaces dangling for dear life. Drool bubbles freely at the corners of his mouth now as this epic eruption continues to escalate when I scrub at the balls of his feet and the balls of his feet only.
This area appears to be a hot spot - Cruz’s torso suddenly flies towards me with astonishing speed and strength, especially for a little guy, straining over the top of the stocks as if magnetised by the sensation I’ve created, glaring down at the devastation unfolding below, mouth stretched in a silent scream between shattering bursts of laughter. I can feel the scorching heat steaming off his body. His rapid, desperate breaths blast hot against my face - he is so close I catch a whiff of the sweat on his skin.
“Don’t like it there, do you!” I tease. He can only answer by shaking his head, and, every few seconds, between the shattering tsunami of laughter, his eyes fly open wide and lock onto mine with a look of pure, pleading devastation. Those glassy, tear-filled eyes beg with heartbreaking clarity - wide and shining, pupils blown huge, the corners of his brows pull upward in that universal expression of overwhelmed surrender, creating deep creases of desperation across his forehead.
Even his laughter changes shape when the brushes stay at the balls of his soles. The loud, thunderous cackles fracture into high-pitched, wheezing, almost sobbing bursts - sharp and frantic, like he’s trying to laugh the overwhelming sensation out of his body. His head pushes forward with each one, as though he’s physically reaching toward me with his desperation.
It’s the most intimate, unique form of begging I’ve ever experienced. No words. Just his damp face, his shining eyes, and that endless, beautiful storm of laughter - all of it silently crying out for relief while his perfect, oil-slick feet remain trapped and mercilessly tickle tormented beneath the hair brushes.
But I want to hear him say it.
After around five minutes, I lift the two hair brushes away from the bottoms of his feet and place them gently on the floor beside me.
Cruz collapses backward onto the mattress like a puppet whose strings have been cut. His body lands with a heavy, exhausted bounce, chest lifting and dropping as he fights to pull air back into his lungs. His mouth stays open, lips weirdly dry but wet, swollen and pink, drawing in sharp, ragged gasps that sound like he has asthma. Every inhale is deep and frantic, his ribs expanding dramatically before collapsing again. Sweat rolls down his neck, his face is a portrait of beautiful ruin.
I had scolded him a few times already for falling back - but this time I let him off. After what I just put him through, he’s earned this moment of collapse.
I sit quietly, watching his chest rise and fall, giving him time to come back to earth. After nearly half a minute, when his breathing has slowed just enough, I speak carefully, “So… “ I’ll give it one last try, “… Are your feet ticklish?”
Cruz lets out a long, shaky exhale, then peers over his chest, barely able to lift his head. Even wrecked and exhausted, that signature cheeky spark returns to his eyes. He gives me a crooked, tired grin, still breathing hard.
“Fucking hell, mate…” he says bluntly, voice hoarse and raw, “I’m not even joking… that was next-level,” he lets out a breathless little laugh and shakes his head, eyes wide with genuine disbelief, “You’re proper going for it, aren’t you …” There’s no anger in his tone, just honest, slightly awed amusement, like he’s still processing how thoroughly I just dismantled him.
Almost. I’ll get him to say it. Just watch me.
I leave the hair brushes resting on the floor and reach back into the Nike bag, pulling out something far more delicate - two pristine white seagull feathers. They’re long, elegant shaft ends in a soft, wispy tip that makes them look harmless but believe me, they’re not, “Ever laughed like that before?” I ask.
Cruz has just managed to shuffle himself back into a seated position, awkwardly using his bound hands behind him to rub sweat from his upper lip. He shakes his head, but, when his eyes land on the feathers, his expression shifts into something almost dismissive. Another faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, as if to say, ‘after those brushes, you’re coming at me with those?’
He has no idea how lethal feathers can be on feet as sensitive as his own, its cocky for sure, but it’s also borderline arrogant and I love that. He is clueless to the upcoming contrast. It’s delicious. After the brutal, aggressive assault of the hairbrushes, these delicate feathers look almost tame, but I know better.
I begin slowly. The soft, whispering tips of both feathers dance across his glistening soles at the same time, light, faint, impossibly gentle. One feather drifts up his left arch while the other flutters across the ball of his right foot.
In less than a second, Cruz’s entire body tenses. A deep, surprised huff pops out of his mouth, quickly melting into breathless, uncontrollable giggles. His eyes widen in genuine disbelief as he leaps towards me and glares down at what I’m doing to him.
His toe tied displayed feet fight desperately against the sensations. They nudge inward and strain, trying to curl away, trying to pull back, trying to tug to the side, the tight string containing each toe squeaks, the stocks creak, the limited movement making every tiny shift look like he’s trying his damned hardest. The soft feathers glide mercilessly over both oil-soaked soles, finding every hidden nerve ending with a specific focus only I know. His little toes, especially, seem to drive him nuts - every time a feather tip brushes beneath or between them, his whole body jolts and a sharp, manic cackle bursts from his throat.
Within minutes, a fresh sheen of sweat breaks across his chest, neck, and forehead. It rolls down his temples as he blinks rapidly, trying to clear the moisture from his eyes. His breathing grows heavier, more labored, chest heaving in deep, humid thrusts. My loft apartment feels hotter now, thicker, the air heavy with the scent of his exertion and the faint trace of massage oil.
I remain perfectly calm - kneeling comfortably, breathing slow and steady, my hands moving with patient, deliberate grace. Meanwhile, Cruz is falling apart in front of me.
He grunts again, clearly frustrated, compartmentalising his response to the feathers with a simple: “—Fuck …!—” His voice is full of shocked wonder, eyes big, damp and desperate as he watches the feathers flutter across both of his soles. His awareness of his underestimation of the feathers causes us to both laugh. But, where I stop laughing naturally, once again, the giggles claim Cruz’s throat, surging out of him in a constant, never ending cackle that causes him to wheeze inward and uncontrollably produce the same constant noise over and over.
Then I flip the feathers.
I turn them around and begin dragging the hard, pointed quills across the pads of his little toes. The change in his reaction is so utterly incredible that I wish I’d pushed more for him to allow me to film it.
An atmosphere changing, brutal explosion of cackling laughter shatters out of him - boisterous, limitless, and vicious. His little toes have nowhere to go, knotted in my string, sharp quills scribbling beneath and between his little toes and his little toes only, sending him into absolute hysterics. His feet flex urgently against the toe ties, every muscle corded and trembling with the effort to escape. He bounces in his seated position, looks at me, then at the feathers, then at me again, then again at the feathers, as if he can’t quite believe it, “—Now THAT’S naughty!—” he almost has to express it, before more thunderous eruptions of laughter swell his throat, his head snapping from side to side.
The contrast is intoxicating. I sit there perfectly composed, breathing steady, movements controlled, almost meditative, while Cruz is drenched in sweat, gasping, groaning, and cackling like a man being driven to the edge of sanity. His skin glows with heat and moisture. His hair sticks to his forehead. His eyes are absolutely ablaze, blinking furiously through the sweat dripping into them, yet he can’t stop watching what I’m doing to his little toes, “—I’m running out of air!—” he chokes out between throat-holding giggles, voice dry and cracking. “—I’m cryingmateCOMEON…” was that a first beg? I contemplate if so, as the shimmer caught in his eyelashes rolls down his cheeks.
I can see in his face, that boiling rage masked by a lunacy-themed joy - such sharp nibs over something as soft and sensitive as his little toes would turn raw after another minute, so I scribble them slowly down to both arches, circling the ultra ticklish balls of his feet. That seems to prove just as bad, his feet are now in an constant tug and pull, flexing all the time, the toe ties keeping them still. His laughter becomes an always present, brutal storm. His body is a live wire of motion and heat, every muscle engaged in a losing battle against two delicate feather quills and my calm, unrelenting focus.
His eyes roll to the back of his head for a second time - he drops to the mattress, bouncing once, twice, heaving in hard and then coughing out another choke of cackles, to the point where I wonder if I’ve fucked up monitoring his breathing - so, I stop, lift the quills away and peer over the stocks.
He is panting, eyes open and wet, his view my ceiling, he is astonished, also a little angry, summing up what I’ve just done to his little toes and how he feels about it with a simple yet raspy: “… You cheeky little fuck …”
‘I’ve never been tickled like that’, ‘you cheeky little fuck’, I’m ticking all the boxes, getting him to realise and admit things he has never realised or admitted before - this is unforgettable, for me and for him, to think, no one has ever done that to his little toes before, and likely will never do something like that to them again.
He’s starting to understand. This was never just about his feet. It was about breaking him completely - stripping away every layer of control until he is nothing but pure sensation and dominated helplessness. The more the session continues, the more clearly he sees it.
“You learn something new every day, eh?” I say, as I place the feathers beside the hair brushes and grab his bottle of Carlsberg, moving towards his top half where I offer him a swing, “Sit up, come on, drink,” I urge him.
He shakes his head, “Nah, I’m aight,” he’s so fucking british, “I’ll wet myself if I have anymore," he admits. I nod and place the beer back on the floor. I then kneel beside his feet and pick up the bottle of massage oil, tipping puddles of it into my palms and then reapplying gushes of it to his soles. His whole body pulses, his feet try to recoil. I can hear a change in his voice as he says, “‘Ang on,” his tone rough but demanding, “Give me a minute to catch my breath,” he isn’t asking, he’s sending me an order, a type that feels like I should obey because he’s famous, a celebrity, a Beckham … And I am not.
I ignore his soft plea completely.
Allowing the massage oil to soak in, I wipe my hands on my thighs and then allow them to disappear into the Nike bag one final time and emerge holding the two twin cordless electric massagers.
They are substantial, almost weapon-like; long cream-colored shafts with heavy, bulbous blue heads bristling with short, stiff bristles.
“Now, these are just like the hairbrushes,” I explain, “Only they vibrate and, of course, they are fully fucking charged …”
Oh boy can I be a menace! 😈
I switch both massagers on. A deep, ominous hum floods my apartment, low and resonant, vibrating through my palms and into the wooden floor. Without a word, I lean forward and begin the slow, torturous approach.
Btzzzzzzzz …
Cruz sits up and leans urgently forward, eyes locked on the descending instruments with raw dread. He tilts his head as if trying to nudge them away through sheer force of will - there’s that smirk again, however this time he’s even more keen to conceal it, I can tell by how hard he bites down on his lower lip.
“Wait,” he rasps, I can see some kind of attempt, “Don’t you dare come near me with them …” an attempt at intimidating me?
Bttttttzzzzzzzz …
“Or what?” I jab back.
I take my sweet, fucking time. The glowing blue heads hover inches above his glistening, freshly oiled soles for what must feel like an eternity to him - Btzzzzzzzz … - I let the powerful hum wash over his skin first - a promise of what’s coming. All ten of his toes, still lashed back by the black loops of string, attempt to curl and flex with frantic little clenches. The cords bite deep into the soft flesh beneath each digit as his feet desperately try to stretch away, the limited movement making every tiny struggle look heartbreakingly futile.
“You sod…” he laughs nervously, voice cracking, “… Get me that beer instead!”
“Oh,” if he wants to cocky, I will be so, “I’m not your slave, Cruz. If anything, you’re MY slave …”
I press both of the electric massager bulbs into the middle of his soles, hardly applying pressure, but as soon as they land, a catastrophic, guttural sound ruptures out of him - a dumbfounded, primal bark that collapses instantly into the most savage, breathless production of face-altering hysterics I have heard from him yet. His upper body surges towards me, spine curving in like a bow, as if he could somehow reach his own feet and push the massagers away with his face - his head even reaches over the stocks, his knees bending to his chest, his bound hands twist and yank madly behind his back, every atom in his torso fighting for freedom that will never come unless I allow it.
“—Ohhahaaaahahahahahaaa-oaaaahahahaaha!-Gaaahahaaaahahaahagaaaahahahaahoaaah!-gaahahahahaaaahhh!—”
I glide the massagers in wide, unhurried circles across his soft arches, then drag them down to the shining balls of his soles, pressing firmly now, letting the stiff bristles dig and vibrate deep into the oiled flesh - Btzzzzzzzz … - his feet, proving how strong and powerful they can be under attack, fight back with alarming intensity. The toe ties begin to lose their battle. The strings creak and stretch as his toes curl and wrench with ferocious strength, trying to claw away from the relentless buzzing. His soles flex and bunch, the ticklish landscape totally devourable as the massagers grind mercilessly into every hypersensitive inch.
The noise pounding from Cruz’s neck has become something almost out of this dimension; deep, colliding dry cackles, crashing into high, broken shrieks, then dissolving into desperate, wheezing gasps, then its grainy grunts and a desperate huffs, where it then all starts again, “—Cahahahahaha-ahahahah-ahahahan’t youahah, yoh, youahahahahaha- ahahahaaahahahaha!—” he manages to choke out between shattering bursts of laughter, the insult soaked in breathless, cocky fury rather than real malice, “—You nahahahahaa-ahahahaa-aaahahahasty ssss, baaah, wwaah!—”, we’ll never know what he was about to call me; sod again? A bastard, a wanker, something else typically british? It doesn’t matter, what I am doing to him is rendering him speechless.
The electric massagers pressing into the bottoms of his feet tickle so much that the black strings around his smaller toes begin to stretch and strain under the persistent flexing of his feet. Cruz’s eyes bulge with sudden awareness as he feels a shift - ping! - the cord around his left pinky toe breaks first, then the second to last toe, then the middle toe … then the fourth! One by one, the strings pinning back the toes of his left foot give in to his strength - all except the thicker cord binding his big toe back, which remains stubbornly tight, like the 5 loops of string still successfully containing his right foot.
“—Yes! YEH, YES, yes!—” he cheers breathlessly, a wild, half-delirious laugh bursting out of him - this is how I imagine he’d react if he scored a goal - there’s a flash of genuine triumph on his face, a cheeky, victorious little grin breaking through the exhaustion. But the victory is cruelly short-lived …
I immediately bring both massagers over to his left foot alone - Btzzzzzzzz … - one heavy, buzzing head presses firmly down across the center of his left sole, grinding slow and deep - Btzzzzzzzz … - the second massager I use more viciously attacking the now-freed toes directly, scrubbing the stiff bristles rapidly between them, under them, and across the sensitive lengths.
“—NOhhahaaaahahahahahaaa-NOAAAAHAHAHAAHA!-NOhaahahaaaah!-ahaahagaaaah! ahahaahoaaah!-AAAHAHAH! AH! AAAHHH! NOhhahaaaahahahahahaaa-FAaaAaaaAHKIN’HELL!-NOAAAAHAHAHAAHA!-NOhaahahaaaah!—”
His four left toes go completely wild - curling, spreading, flexing, and scrunching in frantic, desperate spasms, trying to escape the dual assault while his left big toe stays snug in its loop. But I keep both massagers locked on, one grinding heavily into his sole, the other ruthlessly scrubbing between and beneath his toes - the contrast is exquisite: his right foot remains perfectly immobilised by the strings, while his left foot manages to thrash and fight with everything it has, held only a little still thanks to the big toe tie …
Cruz leans so far forward over the stocks that his torso is almost horizontal, eyes glued to the tickle torment with horrified fascination. His face is a hurricane of emotions - panic, betrayal, exhausted awe, and a strange, helpless thrill - all while his laughter gushes out of his mouth in deep, guttural, breathless roars of hysteria, a suffocating storm. The noise becomes thin, ragged, and frantic, like he’s fighting for every molecule of air. His face shifts into a strange, feverish palette - not simply red, but a chaotic blend of deep crimson, sickly pink, and bruised purple blooming across his cheeks and forehead …
And what’s so amazing? Fate strikes once again …
His necklace has caught itself around one of the steel loops nailed to the surface of the stocks, connecting his neck to the stocks, so he can’t throw himself back, like some kind of unexpected, convenient collar. He is now forced to watch the massagers dance across his soles.
He starts punching the mattress beside him with bound fists, helpless thuds in rhythm with his hysteria. His mouth boils at the corners, white flecks mixing with drool as shimmering pools gather at his eyelashes and once again, tears stream freely down his face. He is no longer just laughing - he is sobbing with laughter, a full unhinged breakdown where joy, torment, and panic have become completely indistinguishable - and he can’t move his torso, can’t throw himself back, otherwise those expensive necklaces his Mum gave him will break …
“—Ohmygodohmygoahahahahahaaaahahahaaadohmygoaaahahahaaaaadohmygoaaaahaaha!—” he keeps repeating between heaving, hiccuping gasps, the words barely audible through the endless cackling, “—Ohmygoahahahaha ohahaha mygoaaahahahahaohgodohmygod!—”, then he admits the worst, “—HELP I’M STUCK!—”, then shouts something completely incoherent - a raw, mangled cry that dissolves into more desperate laughter, “—Justaahhnotthe-can’tevenWHATareyoudo!—”
“I can’t hear what you’re saying, Cruz!” I murmur. He is foaming at the mouth now, actual white foam gathering at the corners of his lips as he babbles through uncontrollable laughter, “You’re foaming at the mouth!” I tell him, totally entertained by this chaos.
The gold necklaces keep knotting around the hook, the more he squirms in his forced forwards position, god this is fantastic, what luck! Total tickle torment is now his only meaning, knowledge, understanding, “—I’m foamingplease, I’m foaming!—” He repeats back at me, voice cracking with humiliated, delirious horror, “—I’mfoamingPLEASEI’mfoahahahahahaamin’!—”, the necklaces clank, I can see in his eyes he is contemplating pulling back so they snap …
In that exact moment of total breakdown, the remaining strings on his right foot finally snap all at once with a sharp series of pops - even his left big toe pushes out from the string. Both of his feet are now technically free… and yet it changes nothing. I simply follow their desperate movements, keeping the massagers glued to his soles and toes, refusing to grant even a second of mercy.
Cruz’s eyes roll back for a third time, acknowledging his sudden freedom for half a heartbeat. His laughter, cackles, wheezes and hiccups blend into one forever expel that, once its done, causes him to try to suck in air, “—Ididn’tthink itwouldbethisintense!—” he admits, voice shredded and honest, the words suffocated by more endless laughter, taking over his chance to speak any further.
I say nothing. I just keep tickling his feet with the electric massagers, the constant bzzz bzzzzzz. bzzzzz vibrating into both of his arches at the same time. The laughter inside him finally becomes too much. The walls don’t just crumble - they fall apart in chunks, shattering to the ground in a dusty explosion. I have him, I have achieved my goal …
“—Breakbreakbreak!—” he panics, eyes huge and terrified, “—Givemetenseconds!—” and then, at last, the final surrender comes, “—I’m not joking!—” he screams, voice cracking completely. “—mylungsareburningSTOP!—”
Of course, I don’t stop - I persist, driving the electric massagers around the sides of his feet, up the soft flesh of both soles, across his toes, toes that either splay or scrunch, feet that twist and stretch, free from the toe ties but not free from my ability to tickle them at the same time - he goes back to punching the mattress, knees wedged up by his chest, neck still tangled with the necklace chains caught around the steel loop nailed into the top of the stocks, his spine arched like a bridge, “—Fiveseconds! Justfiveseconds!—” is on repeat, as if the car radio is broken, “—MARK!—” he screams, voice hoarse and as dry as sand, “—MARK Jusss, letmeBRE-I’m, I’m dizzy, fuck! Can’t bre, you ssssod, sod! Sss, seeing DOTS!—”
The way he cries my name hits differently. It’s not just a plea anymore. It’s personal. Urgent. Like he’s trying to reach through the fog of my focus, trying to remind me that he’s a real person - not just this handsome, hypersensitive plaything I’ve become lost in. His eyes are huge, soaked, bloodshot, un-blinking, begging me to snap out of the trance his reactions have put me in.
Seeing my silence, Cruz throws himself backward with all his remaining strength. There’s a sharp series of snaps as the thin chains around his neck finally give way under the violence of his thrashing, scattering across his lap and the mattress in a way he has tried for them not to.
I keep both massagers pressed hard into his soles, arms burning with effort as I fight to keep them locked in place while his feet thrash and curl wildly. I’m snarling now, teeth bared, a thin line of my own drool slipping from the corner of my own mouth without me realising.
Cruz is really struggling to breathe, his entire body glistens now, I can smell his body odour.
Suddenly, a wicked idea cuts through the haze. This happens to me sometimes, when I’m deep in a session like this - “How old are you?” I ask calmly, still grinding the massagers into his feet.
Cruz looks completely baffled as he rolls around on the mattress, all ten of his toes twisted into a scrunch as his soles try to fight the massager heads, “—UH?—” he huffs out, barely able to form the sound through his desperate cackles.
I repeat the question, slower this time, “How old are you, Cruz?”
“—Twenty-one!—” he shouts quickly, voice growling like he’s pissed, then he screams it with all his might, “—TWENTYONE!—”
I switch both massagers off.
The sudden silence is deafening.
Cruz slumps in a heap, heaving in long, greedy, desperate gulps of air. His eyes are open, unblinking, as if he is looking at unconsciousness again directly in the face, like he did earlier. I have made Cruz Beckham almost pass out twice from tickling him, “—Ohmygod—” he is shock, “—Theroomsspinning—” he warns me.
I let him breathe for a long moment, watching him with calm intensity, his brown eyes are rolling in circles, as if he is trying to stop the room from twirling. I have never seen someone so out of breath before, all of the heat is in his eyes and face, his torso is like a machine, re-pumping itself with oxygen, oxygen I have taken from him by simply pressing electric massagers against the bottoms of his feet.
I nod, “Alright. Here’s the deal,” I say, “I dare you to sit forward, look me dead in the eyes, and not laugh once for twenty-one seconds. If you can do that… I’ll let you out. Understand?” Twenty one seconds, he’s 21 years old, get it?
Cruz stares at the massagers in my hands, then back at me, eyes wide with disbelief, “With those things?” he asks, struggling to sit up.
I nod.
He shakes his head rapidly, saying the following with a bite that suggests he and only he have ever experienced what he had just experienced: “No chance … I don’t think you realise how ticklish that feels …”
I smirk, “You think I’ve never been in your position before?”
Something clicks in his eyes. He understands the challenge. The dare. The same energy that started all of this.
I reach forward and carefully begin to re-tie his left big toe back to the same metal loop that unintentionally became the necklace tangler. He shoots forwards, knees now at his chin.
“No, come on, mate,” he sniffs, blinking away tears, “Not again,” he tries to twist his feet inward, away from me, so that his big toes touch again, but he’s helpless in a situation like this. Within moments, both of his big toes are tied back, leaving the rest of his toes free.
I switch both massagers back on. The deep, menacing hum fills my loft apartment once more, “Right,” I say, hovering the bristled heads half an inch above his soles. “Here we go. Twenty-one seconds. Look at me. Don’t laugh.”
Cruz leans forward as far as he can, eyes locked onto mine with exhausted determination. His face is flushed, hair plastered to his forehead, neck now bare. He looks like he’s already fighting a losing battle.
The second the vibrating bristles make full contact, his entire body locks up. His eyes widen in pure panic as he tries desperately to hold it together. I start at his heels.
“One …” I say slowly.
Cruz’s jaw is clenched so tightly the muscles stand out. He presses his hands down on the mattress, behind his back, and lifts his butt up high, his legs are now a stiff line as he leaps back. The stocks shake.
“Two…”
His nostrils flare. An aggressive flex runs through his left foot as the bristles rake across his arch. He shakes his head and looks at me for mercy, so much uncontrollable energy is trapped in his throat.
“Threeeeeeeeee …”
His lips press together so hard they burn white.
“Foooooooour…” I arrive at both arches at once.
His chest starts heaving faster. The cords in his neck stand out as he fights with everything he has. His big toes pull desperately against the strings.
“Fiiiiiiiiiiiiive…”
A sharp, broken hiss slips from his throat - half-gasp, half-whine. His shoulders are by his jaw now, as I near the balls of his feet.
“Six…”
His face is turning that strange, feverish mix of colours again. His eyes begin to water. He’s losing the battle.
“Seven—”
He breaks.
A wild, insane explosion of cackling laughter bursts out of him like a dam finally giving way. His head snaps back, mouth wide open as an avalanche of deep, breathless, sob-like laughter tears through his body, “—I CAN’T DO IT, I CAN’T DO IT!—”, he pushes forward, face inches away from mine, for a second I can see in his eyes that he considers biting me …
“You lasted seven seconds?” I taunt, voice low and mocking, a dark grin spreading across my face, “Seven? That’s pathetic, Cruz! I gave you twenty-one and you couldn’t even make it to double digits!”
He cackles even harder at my words, eyes squeezed shut as he shakes his head frantically. I run the massagers to the pads of his big toes and it’s like I’ve struck a bolt through him - he goes stiff and falls back, bouncing madly on the mattress, rolling from side to side like a crazy person, like some cartoon character brought to life.
I switch off the massagers with a click. The deep hum dies instantly. Without giving him even a second to recover, I drop them heavily onto the floor and snatch up both black paddle hair brushes.
Then I go to town.
As soon as I land the brushes over his soles, a once lying down Cruz explodes upward in one passionate surge, his torso snaps forward like a man possessed, eyes flying open with pure demonic intensity. His face is no longer his own - it’s twisted into something feral, pupils blown wide and black, teeth bared in a snarl of absolute hysteria. A belly twisting, high pitched scream tears out of him as he lunges toward my hands, trying desperately to bite at them, snapping like a cornered animal.
I keep dodging him, but he keeps coming - throwing himself forward again and again, spine twisting as the brushes scrub across his soles from left to right, up and down, they rub over his toes without pause. His laughter is no longer laughter. It’s a roaring, broken, demonic racket of noise; deep growling howls that fracture into piercing, shrieking cackles, then collapse into wet, choking sobs - all whilst he is too keen to bite my hand off.
But the brushes are too much - they save my hands, because the sensation keeps causing him to throw himself back onto the bed, where he then hurtles himself up towards me, then back to the bed, then up towards me, in a constant repetitive, leap like bounce! Christ, the boy has some strong stomach muscles, his abs pulse with every hurtle.
Through the chaos, I slow down the scrub so that I’m tickling his feet at 40%, but I keep it firm, lean in and ask him one final time, the question that stitched us together in this moment:
“Are your feet ticklish, Cruz?”
For a few long seconds, he goes strangely quiet. Even as the bristles continue dragging from heel to toe, arch to heel, his wild thrashing subsides into something more focused, which he can just about manage with the intensity of the brushes speed dialled back by a few notches. He leans forward across the top of the stocks, shoulders hunched, sweat (or is it dribble?) dripping from his chin onto the wood below. His big toes remain stiff in the tight strings, yet his soles squirm and flex naturally beneath the brushes.
Then he lifts his head and looks me dead in the eyes. With every ounce of strength he has left, he says quietly, almost solemnly: “—I think they’re too ticklish.—” He blinks through fresh tears, voice hoarse and low, almost concerned, his tone changing into something that suggests genuine worry, “I need a timeout or somethin’ …” his eye brows lift as if its a genuine discovery, one that excites him and terrifies him equally. I slow the brushes to even fainter, whispering strokes, still gliding them gently over his writhing soles. He stays hunched over the stocks, breathing hard, trying desperately to compose himself. His cheeks are burning, eyes wet, but he forces out: “… my feet can’t handle it! …”
I hold his gaze.
“Beg me to stop,” I command.
He lets out a tired, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head slightly - even now, getting him to do such a thing still causes him to blush through the heat, but as I pick up the pace with the brushes again, the lever is pulled.
“—Yeah, ok—” he huffs urgently, “—Please stop,” he says flatly, no hesitation, “I’m begging you, please …”
I keep scrubbing, this time across his toes.
He tries again, putting more strain into his voice this time, “Please… anywhere but the toes!” His toes try to clench into fists, he watches me like I’m now doing something very wrong, back arching.
I continue.
A breathless, incredulous chuckle slips out of him, “Please…” he warns, voice wheezing like a dusty toy, “… I’m dizzy, mate! ...”
I pause the brushes for a moment.
“Can you breathe?” I ask.
He shakes his head quickly, eyes desperate.
“Will you remember this forever?” I ask.
He nods without hesitation, still hunched forward, cheeks puffy. When he feels the sensation stop, the room goes totally quiet. I place the hairbrushes down and only his heavy breathing and a desperate need to reclaim oxygen fills my apartment. He is completely spent, chest heaving like he’d just sprinted for his life through a burning building. His lungs pull in wheezy, greedy gulps of air, each one catching slightly in his throat. The bottoms of his feet and the pads of his toes are shining with sweat and slightly pink. For a long moment, he sits there looking forwards, he just tries to exist.
I stand, step over half full beer bottles, oily electric massagers and wet feathers.
I kneel beside him. I unclip his wrist restraints from behind his back …
But instead of stepping away, I quickly guide them back up toward the top corners of the mattress. The moment he realises what I’m doing, he begins to spin.
Even exhausted and drained, he puts up a serious struggle. His shoulders twist, trying to yank his arms away from my grip. His torso bucks and rolls beneath me as he silently fights with everything he has left. Perplexed laughter and pissed off huffs mixes with genuine resistance - breathless, angry giggles spilling out between gritted teeth.
I have to work for it. I move to face him, lean my full weight onto him, pinning his chest down to the mattress with my torso while I wrestle his right arm upward. He resists fiercely, muscles straining, trying to pull it back down. There is no, ‘NO’, no growls, no swearing, but there is a grunt as I force his right wrist into position and clipping the restraint in place at the top right corner of the mattress.
I move to his left arm. This one is even harder. He thrashes wildly, back arching powerfully as he tries to deny me the angle, making noises through pressed together lips, like he is climbing a wall that keeps getting higher. I have to pin his bicep down with my knee, using my greater size and strength to slowly overpower him. Sweat flies from both of us as we grapple. His laughter is mixed with real strain now - hissing, frustrated sounds breaking through the cackles as I finally wrench his left wrist up and lock the cuff into the second clip.
By the time both wrists are secured high and wide again, we’re both breathing hard. Cruz is stretched out once more in that perfect, helpless Y-position, glaring up at me with a mixture of exhaustion, betrayal, and lingering fire.
“Am I gonna ‘af to start screaming for help? …” he smirks at me as I walk to the stocks. Do I sense some real caution?
I sit back behind his head, like where this started, taking the experience full circle. I allow his head to rest back in my lap, wedging up behind his neck, his arms are now very much taut around my thighs, armpits open more so than before. I slide my fingers gently into their depths.
“I think I’m going to tire you out too much for you to scream, but you can try,” I grin, as I start the beginning of the sessions end, which I plan to last exactly thirty minutes.
At first, Cruz jolts with a sharp, surprised giggle, his upper body thrashing sideways as if startled awake. For the first few minutes, he still has some fight left in him. He squirms and twists, letting out bright, breathless bursts of laughter as my fingertips wiggle in slow, whispering scribbles within his damp, warm underarms. His little head turns from side to side, trying to escape, but there is nowhere to go.
Six minutes in, the giggles have become constant, a high-pitched, barely breathing gust that never fully stops. His swollen cheeks are shining and dark, his eyes squeezed shut so tightly the skin around them wrinkles. I count the beads of sweat that start to arrive on his chest, a few at first, then seven or eight, then twelve or fourteen, till his chest is practically wet. His breathing grows heavier, each inhale a sharp heave, each exhale collapsing into another broken cackle, a whine and a moan as he throws his head forwards and kicks his legs, big toes still keeping his once tormented feet in the stocks.
Fifteen minutes pass and the real exhaustion begins to claim him.
His laughter changes - it becomes deeper, more desperate, laced with exhausted whimpers and sob-esque splutters. His body, once thrashing with energy, now moves in slow, back arching writhes, like a man drowning in thick syrup. His bound arms pull weakly against the cuffs above him, fingers clawing uselessly at the air. His torso curls inward as much as it can, trying in vain to protect the vulnerable skin beneath my fingers - his is warm, moist, his body leaving a print of sweat on the mattress, I notice it everytime he tries to leap.
By the twentieth minute, he is truly broken …
“… Ineedabreather… Ineedabreather!…” he babbles, top half of his face looking like he’s the most furious person on earth, lower half looking like he’s the most happiest person alive, “… I’mgettingtired… sotired! …” his cheeks are now chubby and shining with sweat, eyes sealed shut as if he can no longer face the world, no longer face me. Every breath is a despondent, hiccuping wheeze. His head lolls weakly from side to side, trying to block my hands, but the restraints hold him open. His fingers claw desperately at my t-shirt behind him, twisting the fabric as though it might anchor him to reality, “—Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleeeasepleasepleasepleaseplease! …” the word spills out in an endless, delirious chant, no longer prompted by me, just a raw, instinctive plea pouring from his lips, “—Stopstopstopstopsssstopstopstopstop, okokokokokokokokokokokokay!, waitwaitwaitwaitwaitwaitwaitwait!—”
By the twenty-fifth minute, I have utterly broken Cruz Beckham via tickle torment.This is proven when, through the endless giggling, I barely make out the sentence, “—I can’t take it anymore—”, but it comes out as ‘—I caaaahahaha aahaahaha, hahaa, ahahahahahaha,aahahahahahahaha,ahahahahahahahaha,ahahahahahahaha,ahahahahahan’t taaaahaaaahahahaha, ahahahahahaha, ahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaanym—aaahahahahahaaahahaha,aaahaahaha—”
For a moment, everything comes out through his nose in wet, desperate snorts, as if his mouth can no longer form proper speech, or laughter, or giggling, or cackling, or noise, or can handle any kind of pressure, so, it just has to come out of his nostrils or his eyes. As I scribble into the very middles of his armpits, he starts to smack my lap with his head, either because he is truly going insane or he is trying to hurt me - “It’s right there, isn’t it?” I ask. He can’t speak, so he just nods.
Thirty minutes …
I slide my hands down from his armpits to his sides, fingers digging into the slick, overheated skin just above his hips, and that’s when Cruz finds one final, desperate reserve of strength.
His body suddenly reignites with a sudden and outrageous energy. He kicks and wriggles, thighs slamming against the mattress with an unexpected force. His big toes slip free from the toe ties. The heavy wooden stocks actually shift across the edge of the mattress, creaking and buckling loudly before one corner tips over the edge.
In the chaos, one of the half-empty beer bottles topples and falls onto the floor - golden liquid spills across the wood and straight onto my iPhone, which I had carelessly left lying there earlier.
The sight hits me like ice water.
That phone wasn’t just a phone. It was the bridge! The silent witness that had carried every DM, every risky conversation, every careful arrangement that led to this exact moment. Seeing beer flooding across the screen, seeping into the ports, felt like watching the entire fantasy short-circuit in real time.
“Fuck—!” I curse sharply, pulling my hands away and scrambling off the bed. I drop to my knees on the floor, snatching up the soaked device. Beer drips from it as I frantically try to dry it with the nearest thing I can grab, my own t-shirt clinging to my body, already heavy and damp with Cruz Beckham’s sweat. The fabric smears the liquid across the screen in sticky streaks.
Behind me, Cruz simply lies there.
No apology. No cheeky remark. Just heavy, much needed gasping. His body has been utterly tickled, his armpits are pink, his sides decorated in pinch parks, his soles looking back at me, bare, soft, toes clenched. He stares up at the ceiling with glassy, unfocused eyes, lips parted, still letting out tiny, broken aftershocks of breathless giggles between each desperate inhale.
The contrast is almost poetic.
I kneel there on the floor, frantically wiping beer off the most important object in my life with a shirt soaked in the sweat of the young man I had just spent hours systematically breaking… while he lies bound and wrecked on the bed behind me, too exhausted to even speak.
The session had messily come to an end.
Wrist restraints unbuckled, stocks lifted open, Cruz stands with wobbly knees as I try to turn my iPhone on, but nothing happens.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he says, voice gone like he has the flu - then he flashes me that trademark wink and smirk, half-dangerous, half-gorgeous, “After all… I know where you live.”
I know where you live.
The words are laced with something sharper than teasing. A sly threat. A quiet warning. After today, you’ll get what’s coming to you. It wasn’t an apology, and somehow that felt right. Why should he apologise? He had only reacted like any person would when pushed beyond their limits. The frantic kicking. The stocks reacting to the force. The spilled beer, the ruined phone - it was a domino effect. My own carelessness.
He gets dressed slowly, pulling on his socks and loafers, his zip up tracksuit, then sliding his sunglasses back onto his face. The transformation is almost jarring - from the sweat-drenched, broken 21 year old I had spent hours breaking via tickle torment, back into the polished, untouchable famous person I’ll now only see on Daily Mail Online, or Instagram, if I ever get my phone working.
“Cruz is returning to Planet Beckham,” I declare.
For a moment I wondered if we would hug. Instead, he steps forward and offers me his hand. It’s veiny, because the blood has been pumping through him non stop - his rings are back on, his fingernails neatly trimmed, just like his toenails, which are now gone from my sight, snug back in his footwear. I blink myself out of my daze as his car beeps him from below.
We shake hands like we mean it; firm, strangely formal. In that simple gesture, I felt the finality of it. This would never happen again. I had prepared myself for that, or so I thought.
“Can we get a selfie?” he asks, as I wonder, shouldn’t I be asking that?
My cheeks burn almost as pink as his did, when the electric massagers were at his soles. I’m a bit embarrassed by his tone - has he always thought I’m just a fan? Has this entire session been about that?
I can’t believe I’m about to say what I’m about to say:
“No you’re alright, I’m incognito, remember?” Actually, it sounded cooler than I thought it would.
Suddenly, he wraps his right arm around me and pulls me in for a hug. I sigh into his shoulder and hug back. He’s a nice guy. His palm pats my shoulders and he says to me, “Mystery is cool.”
The hug breaks and I tuck my hands into my pockets.
“Think of me the next time you post a foot pic,” I say - now I’m the one smirking.
He grins, gives me one last look, then turns and walks down the stairs, out the door, and back into his life, just like all the ticklees before him, just like all the ticklees after.
The sound of his footsteps fades. The heavy door clicks shut behind him.
Silence swallows my loft apartment.
I sit down slowly on the mattress where he had just been lying. The sheets are still warm. The air still carries his scent - sweat, massage oil, and something uniquely him, it’s hard to describe.
With my iPhone broken and all our history erased, there was no way to reach out. No proof this had ever taken place except what existed in my own mind.
I sat there for a long time, staring at nothing.
And then I wondered if it had ever really happened at all.
