In the ensuing silence, Andrew hears breathing. A slow intake of air through the nose, and a rush of air out through the mouth. Whoever is on the other end of the table sounds as if they're trying to relax. 

       "Hello?! Hello! You bloody fuck! Answer me!" Andrew shouts and growls and hisses as he pulls against the table. All of his limbs simply shake in place, his back arching, his ass rocking--it's all he can do.

        There comes another sound--a rustling of something...a rummaging.

        *rustlerustlerustlerustle*

        Then---POP!

        "What are you doing?" Andrew says. His anger is dissipating. His tone is shifting to something more desperate now. The realization is setting in that he is truly trapped, unable to move--practically paralyzed--and some sort of stranger is clearly preparing to do something to him without his consent.

       There comes the crackling sounds of a lid being unscrewed.

        And then--

        "OI!" Andrew yelps. He feels a cold, viscous liquid drizzle down onto his upturned feet. "What the fuck is that?! Hey! What are you doing?!" His feet attempt to shake away the aqueous assault--it feels like some sort of oil. The oil navigates the various grooves and wrinkles of each of Andrew's soles, descending downward through the crevices of his toes.

        *drip* *drip* ...like rainfall--it splatters onto the cold ground below.

        Andrew feels two strong hands--bare--press their way onto the bottoms of his feet. 

        "Don't fucking touch me!" he shouts.

        The person to whom the hands belong doesn't listen. Andrew feels strong, broad thumbs--warm to the touch--press softly into his insteps, massaging gently, but with determination. The pads of the thumbs rotate, working the oil into the skin. It comes sleek, shiny, and warm. The nerve endings begin to awaken. Andrew realizes his feet had been cold. As much as he detests being touched against his will, he hates to admit that he finds the sensations soothing. Still, he protests:

       "I. Said. Get. Off!" His ankles rattle against the padding of the stocks, but his feet remain secure, held in place by the strong cords around his big toes.

        After a few moments, the massaging subsides. Andrew hears the distinct *glugglugglug* of a bottle again, followed by a single CLAP! Two hands rub together. A shifting follows--the person has risen from their chair--and they are in motion again--*STEP STEP STEP STEP*--still slow and methodical. The person is beside the table now and then with a swift WHOOSH! and the scuffle of clothing against concrete, Andrew realizes, to his horror, that the person is beneath the table now.

        Beneath him.

        Beneath his exposed...

        "YOU SICK FUCK! DON'T TOUCH ME!" he yelps. He feels those same hands gently enshroud his penis. Slick and warm and strong. A set of fingers gently caresses his ball sack, then they work their way to the base of his cock. 

        "You...bastard! You...dirty fucker! Th-this is assault! You b-better stop!" Andrew feels a wave of shame and terror boil through him. The feeling of a stranger's hands on his cock and balls is so violating, but also--

        No, he dare not think it.

        The hands begin to stroke his enlarging shaft. Gently pumping with a firm grip.

         "Y-you s-sick... You cunt! Stop it! Get off!" The heat of shame burning beneath Andrew's cheeks is turning quickly into something else as the sensations gather in his groin. He tries to call out: "HELP! SOMEBODY! HELLO!!! HELP!!"

        But there is still no response.

        Just the strong, warm hands on his cock.

        *Pump....pump....pump....*

        "Stop it! Please, mate! Stop this!" Andrew whimpers. "Ennnnngh! Errrrgh!" He struggles again, but as he pulls and shakes against his bonds, he notices that his dick has only hardened further. He's ashamed at how quickly his body has betrayed his mind.

        *Stroooooke*

        *Stroooooooke*

        The slick, secure grip slides up and down Andrew's shaft.

        Up...

        Down...

        Uuuuuuup....

        Down....

        The other hand lightly kneads away at his balls, occasionally tickling them.

        "Y-you d-dirty c-cunt!" Andrew hisses. "Uuuuuuhhhhh....." A quick moan escapes him, but he shouts "No!" immediately, as if to withdraw it from the air. "Stop!" The power in his voice, the anger, is losing steam.

        *Stroke    stroke    stroke*

        The movement of the stranger's grip is speeding up a bit. Pumping with more fervor, more precision. There comes the slightest of squeezes every time the fingers near the head of Andrew's penis. They slide smoothly and quickly around the thick of his shaft.

        Andrew' feels his ass clench. His hips yearn to thrust as the primal rhythm of sex begins to drum in his veins. He desperately tries to voice his non-consent. "St-stop!" he moans. "Stop this! You dirty bastard! Y-you won't g-get away with this." He clenches his teeth. "Ennnnnnggggghhhh." 

        Over the next thirty seconds--between ongoing threats and insults from a helpless Andrew--the hand continues to pump harder, faster, with more finesse. A stretch of quick beats, then a lull, a quick break. The penis throbs at attention when left alone. Every time the hand resumes, it picks up the pace, livening Andrew's dick further. 

       "F-fuckerrrrrrr." Andrew's clencing his teeth, but no longer out of rage. His brow is relaxing. He can't believe this. He won't believe this. He's been with a few men and plenty of women in his past and this, is, by far, the best hand job he's ever received.

        "Sh-shiiiiiit," gasps Andrew. He tries to curl his toes, but the cords keep his shiny soles taut. His continues to clench his ass cheeks, subtly gyrating against the table. 

        The pumping gets faster still.

        "Strokestrokestrokestroke"

        *pump-pump-pump-pump-pump*

        Base to head, base to head, base to head. Smooth and slick and warm and fast, and with the perfect touch and rhythm.  

        "O-oh! Ohhhhhhhh! Ahhh! D-dirty f-fuck! Eeennnghghh! Ohhhhhhhh!" moans Andrew. His whole body his gyrating now. He feels the spark of something explosive deep in his groin. His captor is an artist, working away the instrument in his crotch with such precision that Andrew feels like he's going to lose his mind. He feels the flush percolating beneath his cheeks, the sweat gathering at his brow. His heartbeat is rocketing away in his chest. He digs his fingertips into his clammy palms.

        Faster, faster, faster...

        Andrew feels it. The telltale warning signs that he will soon pass the point of no return. He will not allow himself to be played like this. Whoever this is--however he got here--Andrew will not submit.

        Though the forbidden thoughts surrounding his current circumstance titillate his brain in ways that frighten him. 

        No---NO! Andrew belts out a furious, frenzied shout from his belly: "Ohhhhhhhh f-fuck! Ohhhhhh! OH!" On his next exhale, another moan shakes its way out of him. "Oh, fuck! Stop, mate! Stop! Please! Ohhhhhhh sh-shiiiiiit."

        The hands do not stop.

        "Ohhhhhhhh...... W-why are you doing this to me?"

         The hands keep pumping his vascular shaft. The throbbing head, slowly coloring with red, is starting to leak. Andrew rocks violently on the table, trying to fight that primal, fiery rhythm deep in his loins.

        "Please stop! I c-can't take it!" Andrew's voice shakes almost as violently as his body. He can hear rapid breaths from beneath the table--a mixture of exhaustion and unfettered arousal. His captor is on the verge of something explosive too, it seems.

        "Ohhhh h-holy sh-shiiiiiiit! UUUUUHHHHHH! I-I c-can't stand it! I can't sssssssstand it!" Andrew squeaks.

        The threshold is upon him. Andrew's fighting a losing battle. It's...coming. The intense, glorious feeling from deep within. It's electric and tickly and fiery and grounding... 

        "N-no!" he whimpers. "Ohhhhh! Ohhhhhhhhhhh! S-stop now o-or else! I'm f-fucking warning you, man!"

        The stroking of his shaft is so fast now, it's practically an otherworldly vibration. Andrew arches his back, raises his head, face drenched in sweat.

         "Ohhhhhhh! Ohhhhh! OHHHHHH!" Andrew's voice starts to escalate in pitch. It's inevitable. He feels his cock stiffening as it prepares itself for the climax. The head of his penis, red and a little raw, swells. The pulse of life gathering in his engorged, spongy balls is working its way upward. Andrew sinks his teeth into his lower lip. His palms and soles are damp and hot. "M-MATE! Th-this is it! STOP! STOP!!!!!!"

        The hands don't stop.

        And Andrew Garfield--naked body strapped down on a table, with his beautiful bare feet locked in stocks, and a full-blown erection jutting downward beneath him--cums.

​        "OHHHHHHHH F-FUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKK!!!!!!!" Andrew's roar is almost triumphant. His voice ricochets around the room. With every ejaculatory blast, his body violently recoils.

        Boom.

        Boom.

        Boom.

        Andrew's essence fires from the swollen, red head of his penis in creamy, pearly ropes. 

        "Ahhhhhhh-- Uhhhhhhhh-- ohhhhhhh...... f-fuuuuuuuck......!" Andrew's pulse is hammering away in his ears. He can't think. He can barely breathe. Even though his eyes closed behind his blindfold, he swears he's seeing stars. 

        He takes a moment to gather himself, allowing his body to slowly come down from the high, to slowly reset, but...

        But....

        No.

        Oh. Fuck. No.

        It dawns on Andrew that the hands beneath the table--the hands that had just jerked him off against his will--are still going.

       "W-wait! W-what are you d-doing?" Andrew yelps.

       He suddenly feels fingers pull back his foreskin, exposing the exhausted head of his cock. And then, the palm of his captor's other hand pressing down on the sensitive skin.

        "N-no! W-wait! NO! No more!"

        But, of course, his captor doesn't listen to him. The palm begins to polish away, in swirling motions, sliding around the head with ease due to the amount of residual cum and the oily substance still present on his hand.

       "AHHHH! F-FUCK!! UHHHH!! HOOOOOHEHEHEHEEEHEE!"

       Andrew's shocked that it tickles. The sensations are excruciating. The most sensitive part of his body is being sent into overdrive.

        "AAUUGGH!" He shouts. "PLEEHEEHEEHEEASE! HEEHEEHEE!!!"

        He tries to lift himself from the table, but he is quickly reminded of the strap around his waist. All he can do his raise his head in agony, crazed smile cracking across his face. He twists his hips, but to no avail. The polishing on his raw penis persists.

       "EEEEEEEK!!!! HEEHEEHEEHAWHAWHAW!" This is torture, complete and utter and unyielding. He bucks wildly, screaming. "IT'S TOOHOOHOO MUCH! IT'S T-TOO S-SENSITIVE! UUUUGGHEEHEEHEE!" His giggles are boyish and desperate and wild. He tries to kick his feet about, but the stocks merely raddle and the cords around his toes hold him steady. 

       The polishing palm slides downwards and rubs vigorously at the seam of skin beneath the slit of his penis. Andrew screams again. "MATE! MATEMATEMATE! ENOUGH! Y-YOU'RE KILLING MEEHEEHEEHEE!" He whips his head around violently--his neck starts to hurt. His laughs become maniacal screams and just when he feels as if his brain is going to short circuit, a crack through his consciousness as he wills himself to black out...

        The hands finally release him again.

        Andrew collapses, taking in powerful, grateful gulps of air. His whole body is damp with sweat. Head rocking at the end of the table like a wayward pendulum, he coughs out a few words of thanks.

        "U-uh- ugh... F-f-fuuuuuu...."

        Through his heavy breathing, he hears his captor slide out from underneath him and stand. And then, among his desperate inhalations, he hears the footfalls again...

        *STEP*

        *STEP*

        *step*

        *...step...*

        Fainter, fainter....back at the other end of the table now.

        "W-we're done, right?" Andrew murmurs. "W-whatever sick fantasy this is for you--we're done." Andrew tries to say it with some finality, as if he's the one calling the shots.

       Unsurprisingly, there comes no verbal response. Just another form of contact.

       Fingertips touch down on the velvety flesh of Andrew's upturned soles and they start to scribble away.

        *scritch* *scritch* *scritch* 

        Andrew gasps. His body tightens up instantly as he feels the sensations spark to life on his soles, which somehow feel way more sensitive now than usual. His eyes widen beneath the blindfold. "Hey! Hey! What are you d-doing? N-No! N-not tickling!" he shouts from the other end of the table. "I c-can't take any more."

        The fingertips keep scribbling and scratching away. 

        *scritch* *scritch* *scritch* 

        *tickle* *tickle* *tickle*

                --gently, gently...

        Andrew's feet are so, so soft, like the caress of warm, powdery sand, and they writhe under this new assault on his nerve-endings.

        "M-mate! P-pleeeeeeease! HAHA!" Andrew begs. Those damned sensations scrambling through him--like little nagging nibbles against his soles--are driving him to the realm of madness from which he had just returned. His foot continues to twitch under the subtle assault. He grits his teeth in protest, but he's far too weak to fight now.

        The fingers keep tickling. Spidering, up then down, then up again. Heel down to toes then back up to heel.

        Over and over.

        Over and over.

        Andrew shakes his head, pulls against his bonds. His feet flex against their tight restraints, but he can't move them, can't get them away from the curious, delicate touch of his tormentor. He starts to moan again: "Uhhhhhngh. Ermmmmmm...."

        *scritch* *scritch* *scritch* 

        *tickle* *tickle* *tickle*

        Another hand comes forward and introduces itself to the silky sole of Andrew's other foot. Ten fingers now delicately dancing along sensitive flesh. Andrew's big toes curl over the cords of the rope around them, but his feet are still held in place--canvases, taut and trapped.

        "O-ohh-hh!" Andrew hisses, back arching. The scribbling on his oily, sweaty arches intensify. His captor gives attention to the areas that seem to yield more of a physical response--a spasm of the foot, a shake of a breath, another violent tremble of the body.

        "Heeeehhhhhh... Hmmmhmmmhmmm...." Andrew releases a few whimpers. Scared laughter. He tries to temper the mirth squeezing its way out of him. He pulls his lips tight. But it's coming.... it's coming...

        The sensations won't stop...

        *tickle* *tickle* *tickle* along his insteps, around his heels, and the balls of his feet. 

        "P-please!" begs Andrew. "S-stahap!"

        And for a moment, the stranger actually does as commanded. Both hands lift from Andrew's feet and he shudders in relief. He releases his breath, allows his muscles to loosen.

        But as soon as he does--

        ...BAM!

        With sharp pressure and sheer intention, all ten fingers return to the instep of Andrew's right foot, nails scratching and nibbling at the soft, pale arch. 

        A depleted and Andrew explodes into laughter:

        "EEEHEEHEEHEEHAHAHA!" Andrew's burst of sound devolves into streams of frantic boyish giggles. "Ohohoheeheehee stahp! Pleeheehahaha!" He can't even manage to get the word 'please' out -- the laughter overtakes him so.

        His captor brings one of his hands over to Andrew's other foot and strikes down with the same force, the same frantic, intentional movements. 

        "OIIIII!! HAHAHAHEEHEEHEE!!!!" Andrew screams, body lurching, then the belly laughs overtake him again. He has a habit of thrusting his head back when this happens; because of his current position, however, he can only pull his head up, face forward, mouth broken in a mad smile, the saturated black mask over his eyes.

        He whips his head about.

        His body shudders and writhes.

        He can't believe that the delicate little pin-pointy dance of fingers on the bottoms of his feet could throw him into such utter and complete madness.

        "HEEHEEHEEHAAHAA!!!"

        After what seems like an eternity, the fingers lift away for a second time. Long seconds stretch on, and Andrew slowly returns to sanity. His breathing slows. "Ugggh..." he moans. "I c-can't take anymore..." he mutters again, shaking his dangling head. "I can't, I can't, I can't."

        Rustling noises answer him. Then--a beat--and Andrew feels his captor wrap his fingers around the top of his foot, holding it steady. 

        "No more," Andrew begs. "N-no...."

        What feels like dozes of little pointy plastic teeth suddenly slam down onto his skin and begin scrubbing away. 

        "ARRRRGGHHAHAHAHAHAW!!!!" Andrew bucks on the table again, his restraints rattling violently. What could only be a hairbrush assaults his soles now, its bulbous bristles dragging across his tender, upturned sole, around the heel, and then down to the wrinkly ball of his foot, before descending onto his trapped toes.

        Andrew's laughter increases with every frantic swipe. "OHOHOHAHA! STAWHAWP! PLEHEEHAHAHEESE! STOP IT! I SAIHEYHEYHEYD STOP!"

        The brush moves over the other foot...

        *scrub* *scrub* *scrub*

        Andrew squeals and yelps and laughs and shakes. His iconic laugh--a symphony of wheezes and helpless, endless giggling--musical and sharp and bold--plays on and on and on....