Shelly's First Holoku

Chapter 6


Shelly drove her mom's car to the club, leaving early to give herself lots of time. In the two days that had lapsed since she had worn Auntie Marge's holoku she had begun to question her recollection. If it had not been for her talk with Barbara she might have dismissed the entire thing as some kind of hallucination, triggered perhaps by the stress of doing the show. As it was, the drive into Waikiki was consumed by a relentless tug of war between the side of her that believed what had happened was true and wanted more, and another side that could not accept the possibility that a dress could feel so ticklish and be such a turn-on.

When she got to the club she almost ran to the dressing room. To her great relief, the ice blue dress was hanging there, covered by a thin blue dry cleaner's bag. She forced herself to sit and do her makeup first, then finally allowed herself to put on the dress. This time there was nobody to help with the zipper, and she thought she would die from the tickling she got as she struggled to zip it herself.

As soon as she had it on she was overcome with a strange set of emotions. All day she had been thinking about it, longing for it, craving the return of the inexplicable pleasure it gave her. The instant she stepped into the cold satin sheath she felt a sense of relief, despite the agony she felt as the cold fabric titillated her bare skin. During that first minute in which she struggled to get it properly zipped up her thoughts were too fragmented for her to make any sense of, the churning of her mind a perfect reflection of the confused mixture of torment and pleasure she felt on her skin.

The feeling of relief that began as she stepped into her holoku grew in strength and clarity once she had it zipped up and stood admiring her appearance in one of the big mirrors. Sudden at first, the sense of relief continued to grow like the glowing light preceding sunrise until she seemed to be basking in it. Seeing herself encased once more in the ice-blue cocoon of satin, reassured that the fabulous pleasure it had given her previously was not some sort of fluke, a new feeling came over her. It was as if something inside her had been unlocked, as if a door that was normally shut tight had now swung aside.

The act of putting on her holoku made her feel like a woman in a way she had never experienced. Totally feminine, but not the femininity of innocent youth and definitely not the surging sexuality caused by clothes that looked alluring. It felt as though her sexual persona had leapt through the just opened door and settled over her, claiming the territory of her mind and body as its own. There was a wildness about it that almost frightened her.

The only time she ever got this close to such a feeling was when she was alone in bed. Now she was alone, but the wild animal she had let loose was not content to remain that way. It longed for her to go out and mingle, to walk around in the presence of people while remaining uncaged and practically unleashed.

As if powerless to resist she went out and walked around the deserted stage area, going nowhere in particular, just walking around and immersing herself in the wonderful pleasure of the satin tickling her naked body.

In the short time she had worn this dress before she had not paid much attention to how it was made. After fifteen minutes had passed and she had gotten over the initial thrill of feeling the satin tickling every inch of her body she began to notice how the design contributed to the tickling she felt.

The front was one long, seamless panel from the shoulders to the hem that just brushed the tops of her feet. Although long, this panel was only about eight inches wide. The sides of the panel wear sewn to long, narrow strips in a way that allowed the three pieces to mold themselves to her figure. The seams ran along the center of her thighs, up across her belly, and right up over her nipples. Here the satin was tight, but not too tight, so that as she walked the selvage flicked just a bit across her nipples. It was a small thing, yet it added significantly to the pleasure and torment she loved so much.

The long sleeves made their own contribution. Where they joined the shoulder they were big and puffy, tapering down to a snug fit midway between the elbow and wrist. Even the tiniest arm movement made the lose satin covering most of her arm to shift and slide over her skin, which tickled as much as if someone where running a feather over her there.

From the shoulders to the knees the back of the dress was quite normal, a left and right panel with a long zipper down to the small of the back. Like the front it molded itself to her curves, emphasizing the hollow at her waist and the perfect swimsuit-body shape of her ass. Unlike every skirt she owned the fabric did not just hang from her ass, but instead was sculpted to tuck in under the cheeks of her ass and remain close to her thighs. There was just enough room to umi, to execute the slow, graceful, hip grinding motion that permeated modern hula. When she just walked, any attempt at a long stride was brought up short by the tube of satin around her thighs, which had no stretch to it whatsoever.

Although snug through the ass, at the knees a separate piece of fabric sewn to the bottom edge of the rear panels carried the back of the dress out into a long, wide train. Not nearly as big as the blue holoku Auntie Marge had showed her, but still remarkably elegant looking. If the fabric had been stiff netting it might have looked like an over-styled evening gown from the fifties, but the satin was just limp enough to make the transition flow like a cascade of water. Like the selvage that ran over her nipples, this seam added significantly to the ticklish feel of the dress because of the way it rubbed against the back of her knees. With every step the weight of the train made this part of the dress pull away, then fall back, while sliding from side to side. The effect was no different than if someone were stroking the hollows of the backs of her knees with a feather.

It was not as if the only place she felt anything was her nipples and knees. Her entire body was drenched in continuous bath of cold, ticklish sensations while the places touched by the seams got an extra dose. The seams that ran over her breasts went all the way down the front of her thighs, and the narrow panels that connected the front to the back formed another long seam down the sides of her legs. She could feel every inch of every seam, some parts continuously and others on and off. What made the area around her nipples and knees so special was that she was extra sensitive there.

After this brief but thorough examination of her holoku Shelly's initial reaction was that whoever had designed it had only had one thing in mind, which was to drive a girl wild with sexual desire. As soon as this idea took form in her mind she rejected it as silly, but the thought refused to go away. There was something irresistibly naughty about it. Nothing dirty or perverse, the feeling was more like when the girls did a hula ma'e that praised some royal penis.

There was a bit more to it, in that the notion of somebody working meticulously and purposefully on a design that titillated the woman wearing it tiptoed along the boundary of her own strange fantasies. She had never heard of anyone designing clothes that aroused the wearer, but somebody had gone to all the trouble to invent a vibrator that a woman could wear under her clothes, and since she now knew that she was not the only girl for whom this type of dress felt excruciatingly ticklish she could not help thinking that it was not an accident.

These thoughts lead her to examine more closely the fabric her holoku was made of. When she had first tried it on she had only noticed that it was satin, but had not paid any special attention to it beyond that fact. Now, searching for an explanation as to why it tickled her so much, she noticed that the fabric was unlike anything she had seen before.

The outer surface was certainly shiny, yet it was not as smooth as the satin she had seen so much of in the stores lately. It was by no means rough, but she could see clearly the tight weave pattern whereas the stuff in the stores looked as smooth as glass. She tried running a fingernail across the fabric, and while it slid effortlessly across the shiny surface in the same way it did when she teased her clit through her nylon panties, it gave off a surprisingly loud whispering sound.

The inside was almost the same, only less shiny. This was quite different than what she had seen in the stores. Recently she had tried on a few pair of black satin pants, and while the outside had been to varying degrees slick and glossy the inside of every pair had been dull and rough. At the same time she had tried on some long skirts, all of which were black with a bright floral print. These were made of a thinner fabric and smoother on the inside, but even then she had not noticed anything special about how they felt. There was one other type of satin she had tried on, the very thin kind used to make blouses. Now that she thought about it she did recall that it felt nice against her skin, but that was all. Nice, but not at all ticklish.

As she explored the fabric it triggered a memory. It was one of those rare moments when she knew she was remembering something but she could not actually put her finger on it. It seemed to have something to do with her childhood. Something about a doll, or perhaps a dress she had worn when she was very young. She could see the fabric, which was white. Shiny white satin, very close to her, practically touching her face. There was a seam, and where the two pieces met one side was gathered, just like how the fabric of her holoku's train was gathered were it attached to the back. The gathers seemed very important, as did the fact that she could see the minute ripples of the weave. Just the fact that it was so shiny seemed significant. The memory was infused with a sense of mystery and magic, something very special. There was an odor there too, something heavy, musky yet tinged with the sweetness of flowers. She tried to follow the memory but it eluded her, floating quickly away. All that was left was the fresh memory of the memory. In an attempt to bring it back she lifted the train of her dress to her face and inhaled deeply. The unique smell of satin filled her nostrils, partly the fabric and partly the pungent odor of her own body scent. A sense of mystery again swept over her, but the fragile memory was gone.

Having recalled so vividly her explorations of the satin garments on display in every store she frequented Shelly now admitted to herself for the first time that she had considered them to be very sexy. She had passed them by on several occasions, ignoring the vague attraction she experienced when she saw them. Why on that one Saturday afternoon she had pushed aside her uneasiness and tried them on she could not say. First it had been a pair of pants, and after that it had become a small scale frenzy. She had gone to a half dozen stores, trying on things that ranged from ridiculously cheap to outrageously expensive, stopping only at trying on the long satin prom gowns several of the stores had on display.

The difference between what held her attention then and now was that she had only been concerned with her outward appearance. When she found something on the rack that made her heart beat faster it was because she pictured herself wearing it. When she tried something on she judged her reflection in the mirror on the basis of how much attention it would get from the boys. She had seen lots of magazines touting satin as the new sexy look, and those big, bold headlines paraded through her head as she looked at herself in the mirror.

The reason she had not bought anything was because she was confused about what "sexy" really meant. If all it meant was desirable then it felt acceptable, but she feared that it might really mean that she was hot for sex. Some girls might like the idea that they could wear something that meant they were eager for a fuck, but she wanted nothing to do with anything that might label her a slut. She found it hard to believe that so many women's magazines would promote slutty clothes, but she was not at all sure about it.

Even though it was how the boys might react that formed the basis of her approval for the clothes she tried on that day, it was the disapproval she risked from her girlfriends that kept her from buying any. As tempting as being noticed by boys was, the possibility of being labeled a slut by other girls was too great a risk to take. She had no doubts about how swift and cruel their judgment could be, for she had witnessed it on countless occasions and even participated in the judging herself. In fact, one of their favorite pastimes was to hang around at the mall and critique other girls, searching for those who crossed the border between fashionably cute and trashy slut and roasting them with whispered spears and arrows.

As she examined her holoku none of these ideas came to her in clear and concise terms, but the experiences they represented formed the basis for some of her feelings, which were again very confused. Her holoku did not seem at all slutty. It was far too regal to ever be thought of in so base a manner. Yet it looked much sexier than anything she had tried on in the stores. More significant was the fact that it was so outlandishly sexy feeling. However much she thought the satin clothes in the stores had looked sexy, this dress felt much sexier, so good it was practically like having sex. Still, she did feel a tiny pang of doubt about what other girls would think when they saw her in it. If they ever did. And what about the audience? The other people back stage?

She stood there for several minutes, lost in this whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Gradually a resolution emerged. She decided that nobody could possibly know what she was feeling. All they would see was a dancer wearing a beautiful, elegant, very traditional holoku. Hundreds if not thousands of island girls had worn just such a dress. All she had to do was keep a straight face and everything would be fine. It would be her little secret. The more she imagined herself parading around other people the more enticing the idea became.

Shelly prowled around the cramped backstage area for half an hour, until she was so excited she could barely stand it. The little voice in her head kept telling her to go back and take off the dress before she went insane, but her reaction was to grin, set her jaw in determination and keep moving. It was not as though she were hobbling about in a tight pair of shoes or a scratchy wool sweater. As much as she sought an end to her suffering, the very nature of her suffering drew her in the most seductive manner imaginable to want it to continue.

At last fed up by the limited space, still feeling like a caged animal, Shelly decided to venture out into the hotel lobby. A back stage door exited into a narrow paved lane, and from there it was a short distance to the sidewalk that ran past the lobby entrance. When she stepped outside the late afternoon sun hurt her eyes. Making certain that her train was hoisted safely out of harm's way she pranced quickly down the lane towards the sidewalk. The hot asphalt hurt her bare feet, but she hardly noticed because of the big rush of tickling she got from her brisk, bouncing steps.

When she got to the wide open expanse of the lobby she saw that the floor was carpeted and decided it was safe to let go of her train. She slowed her pace, stopping to look in the shop windows, looking but not seeing, her attention riveted only on the exasperating feel of the satin tickling every inch of her body. Walking around with the train dragging behind her produced a new variation on the pleasure that enveloped her. With every step the train pulled the front of her dress tight, from her belly all the way down her legs. It was most noticeable along her thighs, where the heightened level of tickling fed directly into her crotch. A moment later, midway through her stride, the train caught up to her. As the pressure against her front diminished the satin seemed to slide downwards, sending another wave of cool titillation coursing through her.

After a few minutes of this she was convinced that she might at any moment burst into wild fits of uncontrollable laughter. She looking around, searching for a shorter route back to the club. Her eyes met those of a passing man and she flinched at the way he stared at her. Another man, this one in the typically gaudy aloha shirt that only a tourist would wear, passed by leering at her. Suddenly the lobby seemed full of men, and every one of them was staring hungrily at her.

Shelly had grown up blessed with natural beauty. She had always been cute, and ever since the sixth grade that cuteness had been evolving and expanding to include an unusually large dose of what her mother liked to describe as feminine mystique. To Shelly it seemed beyond her control, as natural a part of her as the rich, dark brown color of her eyes. She was entirely used to men staring at her. She thought she was careful not to flirt, and liked to think that men just naturally found her attractive.

Recently she had become much more attuned to what she wore and how she acted, fearful that there was something she did that brought her so much attention. Several times she had been surfing the mall and upon feeling the hungry stares of male passers-by had questioned her reasons for dressing the way she had. Was it her fault that ultra-short skirts and tight crop tops were in? Was it her fault that her friends liked to wear their short skirts with long black stockings that came up over the knee? Was her mother right when she said that covering up so much of her legs while leaving a few inches of bare skin visible just below the hem of her little flared skirt made that band of skin much more interesting to the boys? It was the cool, hip thing, the hot look. Why shouldn't she dress that way? She certainly was not about to go around in baggy denim overalls or hide herself in an oversized plaid flannel shirt, or that newest of hiding-out looks, the extra large nylon wind breaker. She was cute, and wanted to look nice. That did not mean that she was looking for sex.

Or did it? When guys her age watched in silence as she sauntered past she found their slack-jawed expressions of awe rather thrilling. It wasn't that they wanted her that she liked. If anything she found that prospect, even from guys her own age, a bit disturbing. What gave her a kick was the feeling of power she felt. She saw lots of girls who tried a lot harder, who flirted openly with the boys, even going so far as to sit on their laps and squirm around or let their hand fall absentmindedly to the guy's thigh, doing everything they could to give a thrill to Mr. Happy short of pulling down the guy's pants and giving him a blow job right in front of the drug store. She did not see herself as one of those girls, yet the power she held over these same guys was definitely enjoyable. She had begun to wonder if she liked to look sexy while remaining aloof, presenting herself as desirable yet unattainable, the prize no guy could take home.

It was the older men that really confused her. She found it impossible to imagine why a forty year old man would stare at her with so much desire painted on his face, yet it happened all the time. It could only mean that they longed to have sex with her. This stripped away the facade of getting to know a person, of discovering their likes and dislikes, of finding a large enough overlap in their interests to form a bond of mutual appreciation and affection. None of these men could possibly like the music she liked, or anything else she liked. All of that was swept aside, leaving only sex. Pure, raw, unencumbered by the graces of socialization.

The truth was that it was the older men whom she brought home. Not in the flesh, but in the safety of her fantasies. She was especially drawn to lean, hard-bodied men who looked rough. Construction workers in worn leather work boots and paint splattered shirts. Then there were the well dressed but still harsh looking men, the ones who looked like gangsters, the kind of men who drove Corvettes or Monte Carlos. It was men like these who brought her to their hideaway, tied her up and tortured her all through the night.

When she looked around the hotel lobby it seemed as though all the men there were from these two groups. There was one cluster of military types, a coupe of hunky construction worker types, and a handful of well dressed, slick looking Japanese who could have been yakuza. They were all staring at her, every one of them frozen in astonishment.

Shelly bolted. She did not know how to get to the front door of the club from where she was, but she was pretty sure which direction to go in. In spite of the heart pounding, clammy skin panic that swept over her she reeled under the onslaught of ticklish teasing her dress unleashed upon her body. So intense was the sensation that she had to slow down considerably.

The too-real encounter safely behind her, Shelly's thoughts sprang instantly into the torrid wake left behind. The unbearable quality of the ticklish feel of her dress, linked to the image of all those men gloating at her, transformed the experience into a variation of her ritual fantasy. She pictured herself as their captive, locked in a hotel room and bound in some indistinct manner, only instead of being naked she was wearing her dress. Forced to wear it, for hour after hour, while her captives entertained themselves by tickling her. So instantaneous was the image that she did not dwell on how they tickled her. She had a vague notion that they stroked and prodded her, perhaps scratching their fingers over her breasts and up and down her thighs. The most significant thing was that she was forced to wear her dress, and that alone would be enough to drive her insane.

She found herself passing an elevator lobby. Waiting there was a group of four young Japanese women, fresh from the beach, obviously on their way up to their rooms. None of them were especially pretty, yet they were all cute in their own way. When they spotted her they all turned to stare at her. To Shelly the look in their eyes was not simply surprise, or admiration, or even contempt. It seemed crystal clear that they knew exactly what she was feeling, that she was naked under her dress and secretly enjoying the intensely erotic experience of continuous tickling it provided. To some degree the look they gave her expressed admiration, but tempered with empathy and curiosity. She had just come abreast of them and was still looking at them as she recast her fantasy, imagining them inviting her up to their room, taking turns putting on her dress and being tied up while the others went to town running their fingers over the glistening satin, each of them thrashing and screaming until the tickling torment brought forth the deepest, most satisfying orgasm imaginable. After an hour or two all five of them would be sprawled on the beds, totally exhausted and quite pleased with this unexpected addition to their vacation.

As she left the foursome chatting excitedly behind, Shelly felt much more at ease. Her panic was gone, and she was convinced that she could in fact walk around for as long as she wanted to. Her only problem was that the continuous tickling was really driving her crazy. Knowing that she had the show to do in less than an hour she decided to head back to the dressing room and sit for awhile on the big old sofa she had seen in there, certain that if she kept walking around she would be too exhausted to dance.

As she approached the club she was struck by a disturbing thought. According to the plan, this was to be her only show with her brother. Richard had convinced the club's manager to let Nathan do one show as a test. An audition of sorts. If it was well received he might get a run in a few months, when the current show was scheduled to end. If that happened he was planning to get a professional dancer. When they had agreed to this arrangement she had only been thinking about the demands performing would place on her time. Now that she had discovered the pure, unequivocal joy of wearing this strange satin dress she could not imagine a life without it.

Although the future suddenly appeared bleak, Shelly forced herself to shake off the depression that had settled over her, vowing to do everything she could to enjoy what little time remained. As she walked slowly to the club she focused all of her attention on the cold, sensuous, mind blowing sensation of the satin tickling her body, letting herself go with the feeling until she was right on the edge of loosing control and bursting into a fit of laughter, paying no attention to the dozens of staring eyes that tracked her path through the cavernous lobby.