And with that, you chain his hands to the wall in a secluded part of the room you had designed just for this purpose, and plug his ears back up before walking to the next boy. Your eyes roam his tanned, tattooed torso, his hair up in the usual quaff, his scientifically perfect face. Interesting choice on Liam’s part- you would have thought a brother meant more to him. Shrugging, you pull the plugs out of Zayn’s ears, and his head tips up. “How are you feeling,” you ask.
“Whoever the hell you are, you’re going to jail,” he spits out, but you can hear the fear behind the venom. You shrug.
“You can’t see me, you don’t know if this is my real voice, and by the time I let you go, you’ll be sworn to secrecy. I’ve thought of it all, Zayn, and now, you’re just going to have to si- stand there and take whatever I’ve got for you.” You see him shudder and roll your eyes. “What is it with you boys thinking that every fan just wants to shove something up your ass or shove mini you inside of ourselves? I’d try to calm you down, but something tells me I’ll lose my hand if I do.” The faintest of smiles appears on his lips, and you smirk.
“So if you don’t want to, eh, well, fuck us, or the other way around, what did you want?”
“Not did, Zayn,” you reply, jabbing at his hips. He jolts back with a squeak, and you grin. “Laugh and I might come back to you. Don’t pick a boy to move onto, and I will come back for you.” You set the timer as he makes a sound of protest.
“Don’t touch me,” he hisses, and you smirk, pulling a paintbrush out of your pocket.
“Fine then, I won’t.” He fails to hide his confusion. “What? I listen when you talk. Maybe this will work to my advantage,” you add, dragging the bristles down his side. Zayn’s eyes widen and he jerks away, so you wrap your arm around his waist to hold him steady. “You’re pretty squirmy, aren’t you,” you ask, twirling the brush in his bellybutton.
“NA,” he yelps.
“Will you boys stop pulling yourselves off the ground,” you groan. “If you don’t come down, I’ll chain your feet to the ground.” His arms go slack and his feet hit the ground with a smack. Your eyes widen at the sound, and suddenly his upper body loses your interest. You grab his left ankle in a headlock and slowly stroke his arch with the brush and feel his leg jerk as he tries to pull away.
“Sh-shtap,” he whimpers, sounding much less threatening, and you send him a questioning glance. Shrugging, you begin trailing over the tops of his feet, and he squeaks, probably never having been tickled there before. A spark of excitement surges through you as you realize that any discovery is one for both of you, so you investigate, brushing over every ticklish nerve around his heels and toes. “Pwease,” he murmurs. Despite the lisp, he can still talk, and that is unacceptable. You move to the ball of his foot and he jerks his leg again, a quiet gasp of ticklishness slipping from his lips. You after a bit, you move up and twirl the paint brush beneath his toes, which clench down tightly at the feeling. Smirking, you pry them back and lightly dust around each, making sure no skin is left untouched. You hear him gasping, feel him tensing. You swap legs and repeat the process on his right foot, but he pulls back before you can make it to his toes.
“Honestly, I love your bodies, but why can’t you just be weaklings sometimes,” you complain, chaining his feet to the ground; there’s so much more of him to discover anyway. “Iron over muscles,” you say, nails spidering over his underarms. “And yeah, I’m touching you.” His mouth twists and you know he won’t be responding any time soon as your nails spider over his sensitive underarms. “So you are the quiet one,” you mock, dragging your nails from his elbows to his hips, watching him try to twist and turn. Smirking, you focus on his underarms again, practicing for a certain blonde who had been eerily silent since you started. You take your time in finding his sensitive spots as you hadn’t done a full body examination like before. His feet make it slightly off the ground as your nails move into points and dig into the centers of his hollows.
Zayn’s head jerks down as you move to his neck, brushing your fingertips over every inch and behind his ears. His head jerks back in defense when you find your way to the back of his neck, and you grin, lightly tickling just below where he can’t defend himself, his black hair brushing against your hand. Your other hand brushes down his throat, and he jerks back forward. Teasing him like this is tempting, but you don’t for fear of hurting him, so you simply work your way down his back instead, finding a sensitive spot at the small of his back. He squirms, trying to fight the feeling of your nails traveling back up his spine to his neck, but they soon trail down to his defined chest. He bites his lip as you move over his chest, either a moan or a giggle getting caught in his throat when you move over his nipples. Either one is preferable, really, so you tease him for a bit, and the concentration in his face begins to look painful as he tries to keep quiet. You twirl the paintbrush over his right nipple, and he yelps with surprise, trying to pull his chest away from you. But only a mild reaction won’t keep you here for long.
You slowly trail down to his sides, tickling and digging into the curves to make him squirm. He’s clearly sensitive here, but his hips attract you more than his sides, and they soon shift side to side as you press your fingers into them and rub. His breath hitches and he tries to fight his body’s need to move and assist your tickling, but you know he won’t be able to resist, and you tell him so, making him squirm more. You stop moving your fingers, feeling him squirm anyway, and fight back a laugh of your own as he essentially tickles himself.
Wondering if you lost a valuable asset in torturing your first victim, you press your fingers into his ribs, and he squirms, only amplifying the tickling. You narrow your eyes in annoyance, but decide to let it go and move to his stomach. “I’ll stop touching you now,” you smirk, flicking the paintbrush across his stomach. His breath hitches as you trail his waist, but breaking him would be too easy here, so you begin tracing his abs instead. “Much sexier in person,” you murmur, trailing down the middle of his abs to his navel and swirling inside the shallow innie. He jerks back as the bristles toy with his nerves, and you wait for him to crack, but surprisingly his willpower outlasts your interest in this tickle spot.
You tug his boxers dangerously low on his body, and he makes a sound of protest. “They’re not coming off,” you say, and you can feel the glare through his blindfold. “I just knew your waist was ticklish, so I figured I’d go somewhere you’re more sensitive.” You bring the paintbrush slowly across his waist, and he jerks back. You sigh and uncuff his left foot. “I was trying to save this for later, but you really seem to want to fight me.” He tries to avoid your hands, but you grab his foot roughly and pull it over to Liam’s foot cuff and chain him in. He grunts in protest as his legs are now spread borderline to his comfort zone, but this would have happened sooner or later. “Now then, let’s finish this.” Now, with his body stretched, he can only shake his hips side to side or thrust, neither of which working to his advantage as you flutter below his happy trail. His lips quiver as you begin slowly painting from his boxers to his hips and back down, repeating the short strokes up and down all the way across his waist. The temptation of touching the sex god’s body again wins out as you press your lips below his happy trail and blow. He yelps, chains jerk.
“No more,” he whimpers when you pull back. “Pwease, no more.” You chuckle and check the timer. He had a bit of time left for you to torture him. “Pwease?” The hope in his voice brings you back and kneel in front of him, ignoring the temptation directly in front of you.
“You’re not done yet,” you reply, rolling up his boxers and giving you access to his perfectly muscled thighs. You reach around his legs and run your fingertips down the backs of his thighs. He giggles through his lips, but you let it go, because when you break him, the reaction should be glorious. “But you’ve lasted so long,” you purr, sliding your fingers around the backs of his knees. “What’s the difference? Are you too ticklish here?” He snickers again, so you move between his legs, because breaking him now would ruin the fun. You lightly scribble your nails dangerously close to his crotch, and he jumps with a squeak. You opt for the paintbrush here so that he doesn’t worry about you touching him, and he yelps each time the bristles brush over his overly sensitive skin. But after a minute of his yelps and childish protests of “Shtap” and “Pwease”, you decide to move to his weak point.
You let your fingers rest against the backs of his knees, which are coated in a thin sheen of sweat. You squeeze the pressure points above his kneecaps to make him yelp, but stop before he can laugh. You quickly slip underneath his legs to his back and stand up. You toss the brush aside and rest your hands on his shoulders. “Are you ready for this to end,” you whisper in his ear, and he nods eagerly. “All you have to do is laugh,” you whisper, your nails gliding down his sides and hips, across his bum, down his thighs, and settling on the backs of his knees, where they speed into a torturous dance over his sensitive skin. He yelps, his head falls back, and thunderous laughter shakes his exhausted body.
Why stop now? You’ve got some time left anyway. You move a hand to his thigh and continue to tickle him there, moving your lips to blow a raspberry against his now untouched knee. An earsplitting shriek shoots out of him as he laughs and pulls at the restraints. Despite the ringing, you blow again and again until you become light headed and he becomes silent. You hadn’t heard the timer go off while he was screaming, but now that he’s quiet and gasping, you hear it beeping. You give one last blow to make him shriek before unchaining him. You grab onto his sides and he laughs, but you weren’t trying to tickle him- he would have hit his bum pretty hard if you hadn’t helped him down.
He babbles incoherently for a bit, and you give him his space as he recovers. “P-pwease don’t t-tickle me a-anymore,” he whimpers, and you sigh at the childish sound of his voice. “Nohoho,” he giggles as you place your hand on his back to steady him.
“It’s okay, you’re done,” you assure him. “Do you need any water?” He shakes his head no. “Well you’re not entirely done; I need a decision.”
“N-no more,” he repeats.
“That’s right- unless you don’t chose.” His head perks up, and you smirk. “Curly, blondie, or Louis?” The name slips out, and you nod. “Stand up, I’ll take you over to Liam.” He whimpers but slowly stands, and you keep your hand on his back, grabbing a pair of night vision goggles with the other, because the room is bitch black. You take him inside and chain him to the wall next to Liam, who holds the older boy protectively.
“What did you do to him,” he hisses upon hearing how Zayn’s rs and ls have been replaced with ws.
“It’s natural, and I didn’t do anything,” you reply, walking out and taking off the goggles and pulling the feather out of your pocket, because any real touching would shatter this lad instantly, and what’s the fun in that?