Dorothy's Story

prestidigits said:

I wrote this for Dorothy Gail (If you haven't made her acquaintance, you owe yourself! She may be the hottest woman in the world! http://ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=133051) She said she thought it should be published, so, I hope you enjoy:

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I'm not one hundred percent sure I'm fit to drive! Derek thought after his third near-collision of the morning. Problem is, his thought continued, at these speeds I'm not likely to die in a collision, just wreck my car and lose a lot of money fixing somebody else's!

If I miss my 10:00, he began, then stopped. He was scared to finish that thought.

Dorothy, the girl of his dreams, was expecting him at 10:00. Who knows? He might even finally tell her she's the girl of his dreams!

This is it! His thought was jumping up and down like a five-year-old by the Christmas tree. This is her street! He started diligently looking for numbers on mailboxes.

It was the former neighborhood of the former gentry, the place where fairly well-to-do Baltimoreans used to live, now slightly gone to seed; but somebody with a little money and a lot of foresight had bought these staid old houses, refurbished them, and now made a serious income renting them out to aspiring young models like Dorothy.

Dorothy.

Her name brought back images to his mind, the type of image that made it impossible for him to pay full attention to his driving. Nothing overdone about Dorothy, everything exactly right, even a little understated. The red of her hair just a shade or two under flaming. Her beautiful face, those full red lips, cute little button nose. And those eyes, eyes alive with mischief and fun and, well, life! But you had to look close to see the slow undercurrent of wisdom beneath all the splashing joie d'vivre on the surface.

Well, maybe one thing was over the top--her body! Is it possible for a woman to be built like that? The memory of her profile sent him across the center line almost into another car. The blaring outraged horn brought him back to present. For a moment.

Then he was lusting over her profile again--her pretty feet, those perfect legs, the curve of her bottom juxtaposed against her flat belly! And then those impossibly mountainous breasts! How can a human woman be built like that? And how can any human man expect to pay any attention to his driving when he's about to see a girl that beautiful? For that matter, how had he ever learned a thing in high school when she was in most of his classes, in the hall, on the bus. Ah, the bus, six years ago...

He kept his grades up, though. She was President of the high school Literary Guild. She was beautiful AND brilliant! He couldn't arrange to be beautiful to attract her attention, but he could work his butt off not to appear stupid to her when he saw her, in class, in the hall, in Literary Guild,...on the bus....Ah, the bus, six years...

Damn! The house numbers! He had passed her house!

---

Dorothy momentarily chewed her lower lip in pleasure, as her foot eased into the nearly-too hot bath water. She put her other foot in, and luxuriated her body slowly into the hedonistic pleasure. Steam had filled the room, fogged the windows and the mirror, made the old bathroom blurry and dream-like. She sank, savoring, into the water, but not too slowly; she couldn't bring herself to put off that total immersion in pleasure. Disciplined she was, aware of her talents and able to harness them to her will; but some things were just too good to put off.

Derek was coming at 11:00. This should be very, ah, mmmm, interesting! Overwhelming sensations of the hot bath water, like a thousand tiny massaging fingers, almost blocked out her memory of that magic moment, six years ago, almost...

She closed her eyes, let herself sink until the water covered her lower lip. Mmmmmmm. Six years ago....

---

The District Literary meet. Dorothy Gale, Literary Guild president, beautiful, articulate, brilliant. Universally desired, but available strictly by invitation only! She could send a high school boy to heaven with a smile, or to hell with a frosty glance. Derek Mann had never felt this way about anyone! Of course, he never told her! His adolescent ego would shrivel to dust if she said no! Is it worth the risk to try? Judging his chances to be so close to zero, no!

But that day, coming back from the District Literary Meet! Dorothy had taken top honors in Oral Interpretation, and he had taken top honors in Extemporaneous Speaking. The rest of the team had done well, well enough that, for the first time, their school had won the meet! Under her leadership!

It was the only time Derek ever remembered Dorothy smiling at everyone, even him! She walked up and down the bus, receiving praise and giving praise, shaking hands and giving hugs.

Then the bus hit a bump as she passed him, and she fell, unceremoniously, into his lap, the back of her head thoroughly thumping his face. Without thought, without planning, he wrapped his arms around her narrow waist and dug his fingers into her sides.

She whooped! Regal and dignified, yet she whooped! In the time it would have taken her to regain her composure, composure was completely beyond her grasp! She tried to splutter, she tried to say stop, she tried to turn around and see who was tickling her! Finally, she descended into a whole-hearted, deep, throaty laugh that had been the music of his dreams ever since. She put her hands on his, trying to pry them off, but no way! He would be damned before he let this moment end one second too soon! She wiggled, she wriggled, she writhed! Oh! how she writhed! He had never been so grateful to have a penis as he was that day, with the beautiful Dorothy writhing frantically up against his ever-mounting erection.

Finally, with a superhuman effort born wholly of adrenaline, she broke his grip (and damned near broke his arm!) and flopped away, fortunately (for him) not into the aisle. She was trapped between the wall and window, and the Mad Tickler!

The look on his face haunted her dreams ever after. Here was a young man sunk beneath any human reason, a modern man become primitive, a human being become simian, devolved into (How else could she say it?) a Tickle Monster! If he had suddenly sprouted fur and fangs she wouldn't have been surprised. It seemed as if he had a dozen hands, and they were everywhere. He couldn't tickle any one spot for very long, but he learned, and she realized for the first time, that she was ticklish basically everywhere he touched. Finally, she lost power, lost resistance, and he was free to tickle her, gloriously unhindered. Her laughter rang like a symphony orchestra in his ears, fortissimo and full, until her body seized for a moment, and relaxed, and her laughter subsided into helpless giggling. He didn't have the brainpower anymore to consider that he ought to stop. And he didn't stop until he felt a significant impact with his shoulder.

"Huh?" (Later he would think that was the most intelligent thing anyone could have thought to say at the moment)

"Derek?" It was his friend Lance, tapping him on the shoulder, grinning. Derek came to himself, and realized they were alone on the bus. "Derek, do you want to get off of Dorothy? We've been here for about ten minutes!" Lance walked off, smirking.

Dorothy's exhausted panting replaced her laughter, a fitful breeze replacing a crashing symphony. Derek looked into her face.

Her peaches-and-cream complexion was an angry red, her always-immaculate makeup was black rivers running down each side of her face, her stunning red hair was thick strands, sweat-soaked. And the rage in her eyes would have made Derek wet himself, only, he realized, there was already a gooey moisture in his shorts. (Hmm! He wouldn't have guessed that would happen!) She glared, blinking, into his eyes, until he stood, backed away, and let her stomp off the bus. He sat back down, realized he, too, was panting, and tried to collect himself. He started to get up and walk off, but Dorothy came striding back. He tried to back away from the heat she projected, but succeeded only in stumbling backwards and flopping back down into the seat.

"I thought you were never going to stop," she hissed, her furious face an inch from his.

His befogged brain seemed unable to frame words.

When it became clear he wasn't going to say anything, she turned to stalk away again. But, only halfway down the aisle again, she turned and came back.

"You just couldn't keep your hands off my breasts, could you?"

Brainless, he stared at her breasts. Convulsively, she covered them with her arms, and said, cold as arctic ice, "Don't look down there!"

He looked back into the eyes of her anger.

"I...I..." (Something in him was laughing at him: "Brilliant repartee, Romeo!")

Finally, he found words. "I couldn't help it!"

Couldn't help it? she mouthed, soundlessly.

"No!" He flailed up a word. "They're ubiquitous!"

He flinched, thinking she was about to slap him, but her hand only caressed his cheek. Then she bent over and kissed his chees. She turned and walked away, she shook her head and mumbled, "Ubiquitous!"

They graduated a month later, he went to school, she moved to Baltimore. Too afraid to speak to each other about what had happened, they avoided the subject, and basically avoided each other. They didn't see each other again for six years.

---

"Ubiquitous," she smiled to herself in the tub. "'Everywhere at once.'" She opened her eyes and cast her smile down toward her breasts, floating in the still-steaming water. "Hear that, Girls?" she asked them. "Was that a compliment?" Her nipples crinkled. Apparently they thought so.

For six years that moment informed her dreams and fired her fantasies. A beautiful young woman, she had no shortage of offers for dates; but no one tickled her fancy, so to speak. They wanted her smile, they wanted her attention, they wanted her in bed! But no one knew the combination to that safe, apparently. The few she had let in left her feeling as empty as Derek had left her overflowing (in more ways than one) on the bus that day. And now he was coming over. It was nearly 10:00, and she wanted to look really good when he got here at 11:00. She needed to wash her hair and get going.

---

Derek had finished college and moved to Baltimore two years ago. He didn't know Dorothy was there. Last week his mother bumped into her mother at the supermarket and they swapped notes on their children. Mrs. Gale gave Mrs. Mann Dorothy's number and suggested, with the nudges and winks of matriarchs, that their children would enjoy each other's company. Mrs. Mann all but ordered Derek to call Dorothy. As if he needed much provocation.

Well, he did need a lot of provocation. He had never known exactly how to gauge her response to his unexpected insanity. She seemed enraged. But she kissed his cheek before she left. Incomprehensible. He was frankly more scared of her than ever.

But she didn't seem totally un-pleased when he identified himself on the phone three nights ago. She said she had a photo shoot Wednesday night, she'd probably sleep a little late, why don't you come over about ten, we'll have a late breakfast together and catch up.

It was 9:53 when he found her building, 9:56 before he had found a parking space. He was on her front porch at 9:58, waiting to knock. He stood, still as a statue, until his cell phone turned from 9:59 to 10:00; he gulped down his Adam's apple and knocked on the door.

Nothing. No sound, no movement, nothing.

"You don't think she..." he said, almost aloud. "She wouldn't..."

On a whim, he tried the door. Unlocked! There was a jingling as he opened. Her entire key ring was in the lock on the inside of the door. She put the door key in, and, apparently, forgot to turn the key, forgot to pull the key out of the lock. She must have been exhausted when she got home last night! He went in, locked the door behind him, pulled the keys out and put them on a table by the door.

Her keys are here, he began to think, she must be here. He heard movement, and called, not too loudly, "Dorothy?" The sounds seemed to be coming from up the stairs, right in front of him. He began walking slowly up. "Dorothy? It's Derek!" he called, a little bit louder.

Up he climbed, sixteen wooden steps painted dark brown, with black rubber glued to each for footing. The old house was pretty dark at the top of the stairs, so dark that the light from the door standing slightly ajar shone brightly on the floor. He walked to the door, peeked in.

It was a bathroom, an old bathroom, with a metal chest for a medicine cabinet serving as a mirror over a white round sink on a white round porcelain pedestal. The white walls, the white ceiling, the checkered floor of one inch black tiles and white tiles spoke of decades before either of them were born, a bathroom their grandparents would have been proud of.

He didn't notice any of that. His brain shut down the moment he saw Dorothy. With no functioning brain to control them, his body walked, zombie-like, to the side of the tub, his eyes stared, unblinking, and his mouth dropped open in a manner that would do credit to any anencephalic child.

But sometimes idiocy is the only proper response! No normal man could maintain his reserve before that scene. Greek sculptors would have given their lives to make statues of her. Aphrodite, Venus would bestow Olympian favor on the artist who would portray them with that form, that face.

She lay down in a huge, claw-foot tub, only her face, her breasts, and her knees above water. Her angelic face merited a perfect halo, and a perfect halo of fiery red hair adorned it. He had never seen her without makeup before, and his eyes grew wet for love at the sight of her naked face, and at her expression of soft, perfect contentment. His eyes worshipped her body, the ivory skin, looking untouched by sun and unsullied by man. He avoided looking at her breasts at first. He knew if he did, he would never stop staring, and he wanted to take it all in. Her arms, her flat belly, her navel, deep and round (They should make wine glasses that look like that, he thought). Her torso, coming to a point of perfection in the small punctuation mark that was her womanhood. Those legs, perfectly formed, with freckles on them to remind him he wasn't looking at a goddess, but a human woman, a woman who could make a goddess jealous!

Lazily, she raised her left leg, and lazily she opened her eyes. There was the man she had just been dreaming of.

"Derek," she said, bemused, "you're here!"

With no brain to refrain it, his mouth went into business for itself: "I'm supposed to be here. It's 10:00."

"You're not supposed to be here until 11:00!"

A part of his brain awoke, but was too stunned to take command. It could only wonder, "Why in hell am I arguing with a beautiful naked woman?" His mouth, flying free, said, "No, you said 10:00!"

Dorothy closed her eyes and smiled sleepily, and splashed a bathtub that soaked Derek from the navel up.

That did it.

Without thought, without planning, he dipped his hands into the hot bath water and began to tickle her waist.

"Nu.....wha.....sto...." she spluttered, trying, uselessly, to pry his arms off. She had no time to erect an effective cage around her laughter. It escaped, shrill and frantic for a moment. Then it modulated into that deep, throaty music that had been his favorite song of memory for six years.

Water flew all over the room. Derek couldn't see for the water splashing in his face. He had never studied Braille, but his hands were more than adequate to read what he wanted to read. He couldn't tickle any one spot for very long, but he remembered, and she realized, that she was still ticklish basically everywhere he touched. Finally, she lost power, lost resistance, and he was free to tickle her, gloriously unhindered. Her laughter rang like a symphony in his ears, fortissimo and full.

Suddenly, he stopped. She gasped, expectant, a little disappointed. He has never remembered getting in the bathtub with her, but there he was, kneeling, shoes, clothes, and all, between her legs, the bathspout nagging him to sit up straight.

She lay back, in the tub, watching, waiting, hoping? His hazel eyes mated with her hazel eyes, her face, freckled with bathwater, twin to the bathwather freckles he was wearing, if he had known it. His right hand moved on its own to her left breast, and he began tenderly fingering her nipple. She gave a little writhe. He bent over and kissed water off her breast, then off the other one, then her face. She sighed and gave a little moan. He opened his eyes and she was smiling. Locking his gaze to hers again, he began to move his hands moved down her body. She giggled and wiggled softly with the tickling movement, until he reached his goal. Her pupils expanded and her eyelids narrowed as she expected his touch.

And she screamed! She didn't expect that: he began firmly massaging the tendons right beside her sex with both hands, both sides at once. The intense tickle, so close to her clitoris, pushed her mind completely off track. The Tickle Monster he was met the Tickled Monster she now became. She couldn't stand the intensity of the feeling, and she couldn't stand it if he stopped. She grabbed his upper arms as if panicked that he might move away, her head flailed, whipping his face with her flaming wet hair. Suddenly, she was wracked with the most volcanic earthquake of an orgasm she had ever felt, even greater than the one he had given her six years ago. And her laughter died, and she giggled like a little girl, as his tickling slowly died in intensity.

He reached down and pulled the plug from the drain. Almost unconsciously, his eyes never leaving hers, he stepped from the tub, and pulled off his soaked shirt. She felt herself returning to sanity, and she could see his return to his eyes, but with some new element there. He stood up, slipped off his shoes, and awkwardly peeled the rest of his clinging clothes off. He looked for a second until he found a towel. Then he laughed. It was soaked, as was every surface in the room. Water was dripping off the ceiling! She spoke for the first time, a hoarse croak after all her vocal exertions, "The closet across the hall." He stepped out of the room.

In a moment, he came in, drying his face. He took her hand, helped her stand, and received her tingling body into a warm, fluffy, dry towel. He rubbed his hands over her body, through the towel. He pulled it over her hair and toweled it. Then he picked her up, swaddled in the towel, and carried her away from the tub.

"Bedroom?" he asked.

Her left hand peeked almost shyly out of the towel, pointed to the door to his right, and whispered, "That one." He lifted his knee to support her, so his right hand could turn the glass doorknob. He carried her through, and closed the door behind them with a soft, final click.

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