Two days before opening night Shelly and her brother had been rehearsing at the club, mostly for the tech crew. When it was time to block Shelly's dance she had worn the dress she had picked out, just to be sure the lighting crew did not mess up the colors. It was a cute, long mu'u mu'u made of cotton in a red and white paniolo pattern.
As soon as Shelly had come off stage a familiar looking woman came up to her.
"Excuse me, dear, but, you know, I think your beautiful dance deserves a nicer dress. Something a bit more elegant."
Shelly tried to smile warmly but must have let escape the fact that she did not recognize the woman.
"I'm sorry. I'm Marge. Richard's sister."
As they exchanged pleasantries Shelly kicked herself for not recognizing who it was. Auntie Marge, the most famous kumu hula in Hawaii. The only teacher, some people claimed, who had successfully bridged the gap between hula as entertainment and hula as traditional art form. Her dancers were legendary for keeping in top physical form, while her choreography was famous for creative use of modern staging and drama.
"Like I was saying, your lovely, simple, country style mu'u mu'u doesn't go with the romantic quality of Nathan's song. Come, I'll show some of ours you can use."
She led Shelly through a labyrinth of corridors. Scary looking places, the bowels of the hotel that guests never saw. To Shelly, though, the experience prompted a pang of desire. It looked like it came right out of her deepest, darkest, most secret sexual fantasy.
At last Auntie Marge came to a stop in front of a big steel door. She fiddled with a jingling ring of keys, slid back the lock, and the heavy door creaked open.
Shelly's heart was pounding. She watched herself playing out her fantasy, aware the whole time that what she was imagining could not possibly happen. Even though she felt afraid, the effect was quite entertaining, although the fear made her feel a little silly.
She peered into the room, half-heartedly hoping to see the pipes overhead with the chains hanging from them and the little table along the wall upon which was laid out a selection of dildos.
The room was quite large, clear in the center but with lots of old props and rolling racks of clothes all along the walls. She looked up at the ceiling and her heart really started to pound. What she saw looked just like her fantasy, rows of pipes in every imaginable size passing from one wall to the opposite. Right in the middle was a large, rectangular air conditioning duct, and protruding from it was an oddly large vent. Cool air poured out of the concentric circles, making the room almost frigid.
In genuine fear she glanced around, expecting to see a couple of tough looking men approaching her. Cruel, cold-hearted men who would strip her naked, shackle her wrists to a chain hanging from the pipes, and torture her all night with the dildos on the table. They had been told that she knew something, some secret that their gang needed to know, only the truth was that she did not. All night long they would keep her cunt stuffed with a dildo, twisting it, shoving it in, drawing it out, on and on and on. She would scream and beg and plead with them to stop, while the pleasure washing over her like the winter surf at Waimea Bay drove her almost insane.
Shelly blinked, then looked around one more time. Nobody else was there. The old woman was looking at her rather peculiarly.
"Anything wrong, dear?"
"Ah, no. I'm fine."
"Well, I hope so. Like I was saying, we have so many beautiful holokus down here. You know, from the show. We been here so long, and nobody like wear the same thing every night, yeah? So we get plenty enough for you to borrow one."
Auntie Marge went to a rolling rack and plucked the muslin sheet off the top. The entire rack was nothing but satin gowns, in every imaginable hue, each carefully stored in a thin plastic cover.
All but one, a black one, hanging at the end of the rack.
"Oh, that Russell!" Auntie Marge exclaimed angrily. He always getting in here and making mess. Ho, that guy!"
Auntie Marge grasped the sides of the shiny black holoku and lifted it, scrutinizing the front, then lifted the hem and looked at the inside.
"And just look at that! He left one stain, too. Ho, he going get it this time!"
"Ah, excuse me, but who is Russell, and how did he stain it there?" Shelly asked, not at all sure if Auntie Marge was talking about what she thought she was, and wildly curious to learn more if she was.
Auntie Marge let the hem of the dress drop, but not before Shelly saw a feint trail of sparkling white, right in the center of the front of the dress. It reminded her of garden slug tracks.
"Well, actually, the truth is I don't know. I just think it's Russell, this panty waiter who works here. Whoever it is, it's some guy who sneaks in here and dresses up in our holokus, and, well, you know."
Eager to hear as much as possible, Shelly tried to keep her face a mixture of pure innocence and mild curiosity.
"Why would a man want to do that?" she asked.
"You, know, dear," Auntie Marge began matter-of-factly, "I can't really blame him. Some guys, they just can't get enough of a woman. It's like they have an itch that they just can't scratch. It's not just sex, it's a lot more than that. Even if they have a girlfriend, it just isn't enough. It isn't that they want to be a woman. That's not the kind of guy I'm talking about. These guys, it's like they want to surround themselves with female things, and a woman just isn't enough. These are the guys who dress themselves in clothes like this, the silky, nice feeling stuff. Even that doesn't cure their itch, but it does relieve it a little. I know for one fact that nothing feels as good as the satin these dresses are made of, so whoever he is I'm sure he gets the thrill of his life every time he's down here."
Shelly's mind was racing with thoughts and a million questions, only she was not sure how to ask them.
"You mean he's done it before?" was all she could manage.
"Oh goodness! This has been going on for weeks now. Two or three times a week at least."
"Who else has a key to this room?" Shelly asked.
"Just me and the hotel security guards are supposed to have keys."
"So it could be one of the security guards?"
Auntie Marge burst out laughing.
"You gotta be kidding. You seen those guys? Not a one under 250. No, I thought about that, but no way in creation one of them going get into one of those dresses. They couldn't even get one leg inside that dress, dear."
"Why don't you change the lock?" Shelly asked.
"We have. Lasted maybe one week at the most, then right back to the same story."
"Why don't you stake the place out and have him arrested?" Shelly asked.
Auntie Marge looked taken aback by the question.
"Because, my dear, he hasn't done anything much wrong. Actually, it kind of makes me happy to know that some guy comes down here and dresses up and gets all excited about it. I would just prefer that he use the dresses in the pile going to the cleaners, that's all."
"Well, what not leave him a note, and say that?"
Auntie Marge looked thoughtful, then said, "Because that might scare him away, and I guess I really don't want to do that. Satisfaction is so hard to find, and certainly worth a little extra on the cleaning bill. Besides, the hotel pays for that, so who cares?"
Auntie Marge laughed, an oddly hearty laugh, and began rummaging through the long rack of satin gowns. Shelly saw that there were some in every imaginable color. Some had little cap sleeves while others had long sleeves. Some had high necks, others a low necks. A few were trimmed with ruffles, but most were plain and smooth as a peach.
Every dress had a swooping curve of satin draped down one side. It took Shelly a few seconds to realize that those were the trains, each neatly hung buy its hand loop to the neck of the hanger. She had a vague memory of seeing women dancing in such dresses and marveling at how elegant the train looked dragging behind them as they moved gracefully across the stage. She had no idea where she had seen that, but she knew she had.
"You know, Shelly, you lucky I was here just now. My girls only wear the best. Look at all these! So many colors. See, got all the colors for the island princesses, plus all kine fashionable colors. Not too many sizes, though. Auntie stay very strict about that. Hard to make a big girl look good in a holoku. These days, you see all kind of satin used. Most is just cheap, thin stuff that looks shiny but doesn't help the body. These here cost big money, but they make you look so ono. Kind'a reminds me of the chrome hood ornament my father had on top his car."
Auntie Marge pulled out a dark blue dress, unhooked the train and tossed in out. The fabric made a feint rustling sound as it swirled into a wide, smooth wave flowing over the carpet.
"See, look this one, like liquid metal or something. Fantastic, yeah? But cost plenty money."
When Shelly saw the satin waterfall glistening before her she felt something tug at her heart. It was a twinge of desire, almost sexual desire, so strong that "twinge" was perhaps inadequate to describe it.
"Beautiful, yeah? But I think maybe the train stay too long for you. Only an experienced dancer can manage that much train and not trip over it."
Auntie Marge began to put the dress away carefully.
"Most halau no have the money to afford this kind. Even if they did they cannot just buy like this. You gotta know someone special. That's Auntie's secret, you know. It's a family thing. You no more the family, the ohana, you got nothing."
"Here, this should do nicely!" she exclaimed, holding out a lovely pale blue dress. She carefully pulled down the long zipper in back and removed it from its hanger.
"This is over three hundred dollars worth of the finest satin money can buy. Fortunately it cleans rather well, but it snags easily, so be very careful where you walk, and always hold your train until you're ready to go on stage!"
Shelly took it from her, shocked at how heavy it was, but was not sure what to do next.
"Go ahead, dear. Try it on."
Shelly looked around nervously, swallowing hard.
"Oh, silly girl! This isn't a department store! You're a dancer. By now you should be used to dressing with other woman."
Shelly laughed at her uneasiness. Of course she had changed with other girls, but never alone with a grown-up woman in a place like this.
She slid off her cotton mu'u mu'u and started to step into the holoku.
"No, no, no, dear! You mustn't wear that bra. Or those panties. They'll both show, real ugly."
Shelly glared at her, not entirely willing to go along. Never in her life had she worn a dress without underwear. It was the kind of thing she associated with cheap girls and whores.
"Dear," Auntie Marge began, her voice now kind and full of encouragement, "very few women are blessed with the skill and figure to dance solo in a satin holoku. It covers the body like a stocking. Everything underneath shows."
Auntie Marge took a metal folding chair from against the wall, flipped it open and sat down.
"Remember, Shelly, when you do your dance, you want every man in the house to fall in love with you. It's only a dream, only for a few fleeting minutes, but in that time every man watching you should experience all the love that he could possibly feel. People, especially men, bury these feelings. A dancer's job, a beautiful dancer such you, is to let people get in touch with those feelings.
"Everything you do in a dance like this is intended to be ultra feminine. Your graceful hand movements, the way your hips slowly sway, your encouraging smile, your alluring eyes, your long hair, the flowers you wear. The holoku is skin tight, shiny satin not just because it looks fancy. It's because it looks sexy! It reveals everything about you that identifies you as a woman, while concealing everything personal and private. You become a sculpture, a goddess of feminine beauty, an idealized model that unlocks the door to a man's love and desire.
"I have seen far too many dancers who had no business being in a satin holoku. A little too fat and she looks like a knockwurst. Too skinny and either the dress hangs like a sack or you see every bone in her body. Sure, I tell my Japanese girls, the ones with the cute faces and lucky enough to have a waist, I tell them go ahead and wear one padded bra. The trouble is, it shows. You, on the other hand, you have a perfect body. Your tits still stand up high. No need for one bra. And, believe me, the men can tell, and they react. They might not know what they reacting to, but they know just the same.
"Let me put it this way," she said, starting to chuckle. "I know this sounds rude and crude, but what the heck. When you go out and dance, by the time you pau, I want to see every tablecloth lifting off the table. You got that?"
Auntie Marge was really laughing now, but she still wasn't finished.
"I want, like, if you hand one phone to one guy, one married guy, he going call his lawyer, right then and there, and tell him start divorce proceedings the next morning!"
Auntie Marge was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down her cheeks. Shelly handed her the dress, then slipped off her bra and panties.
Shelly held her hand out for the dress, but Auntie Marge just sat there, sniffling and staring at her.
"My goodness, child! Is all that real?"
"Are they that big?" Shelly said looking down at her tits.
"No, no, they're lovely. Perfect. They just look, so, beautiful. A lot of girls these days pay big bucks for a figure like that, and even then it isn't as lovely."
Auntie Marge realized Shelly was waiting for the dress and sheepishly handed it back. Shelly stepped carefully down into the large opening made by the long zipper in the back of the dress, slipped her arms through the armholes, and in one quick movement raised her arms and hoisted the heavy satin dress into place.
Shelly was shocked at the effect. It was already tight around her thighs, it was damn cold, and it made her start to giggle.
"Here, dear, I'll zip you up," said Auntie Marge, getting up from her chair.
Too surprised to say or do anything else, Shelly just stood there shivering as the old woman stepped around behind her and swooshed up the long zipper. As it worked its way up Shelly felt the dress drawing tight around her, first her hips, then her waist, then her chest. When it was all the way up she could hardly breath, not because the dress was tight but because she was struggling so hard to hold back the laughter.
Shelly looked at herself in a full length mirror that covered half of one wall, and she had to admit she looked terrific. Her stomach was nice and flat, her waist pulled in like an hourglass, and her tits looked better than Barbie's.
"Well, dear, what do you think? Isn't that a whole lot better than paniolo plaid? You see? It's a perfect fit. A holoku can't be too tight or you can't dance, but it should mold itself to your figure just the same. I like to say it just hovers over the skin."
Shelly tried to talk, but as soon as she did she burst into giggles. She was out of control, like someone who can't stop thinking about something funny, only in her case it wasn't just in her mind.
"Oh, my goodness. It's the satin, isn't it?" said Auntie Marge, her voice full of understanding and sympathy.
"Y-yes," Shelly managed to bleat before being shaken by another round of fits and giggles.
"Don't worry. I've seen this before. I forgot your age, that's the problem. Girls your age have especially sensitive skin, and sometimes the feel of this kind of satin is just more than they can bear. Don't worry. In a day or two you won't even notice anything. You just have to get used to it."
"Act--tually," Shelly stammered, her voice more under control, "it, it feels, really g-g-good. Oh wow. I can barely t-t-talk! This is so weird. Oh, it feels so good!"
Auntie Marge looked rather bemused.
"I know just how you feel. The same thing happened to me at your age. Why don't you just take the dress off and catch your breath."
"Ooooo. Ahhh. No. Really. I'm fine. I think it just needs to be warmed up a little."
Shelly took a step towards the mirror.
"Ahh! Oh that tickles! Oh that tickles so much. Maybe, maybe if I just stand here and don't move..."
After five minutes Shelly got to a point where she could walk around without bursting into laughter. After another ten she could move around and not feel as though she was on the brink of laughing, but that was as good as it got.
"My clothes are back in the dressing room," Shelly managed to say.
"That's fine, dear," Auntie Marge told her. "Just bring your other dress and we'll go back. The walk will do you good, give you one chance to get used to it. After you change, hang this dress in the dressing room so you'll have it tomorrow."