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I Love You Timmy Turner	By : Wendell Urth Category: +1 through F > Fairly OddParents Views: 10443 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Fairly Odd Parents or any of the characters in this story. I have no financial interest, expect no money, etc. for this story. Not appropriate for underage readers. “see full disclaimer below".

Chapter List
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Definition: Frigid
Adjective, Pronunciation /ˈfrijid/
1. Very cold in temperature. ‘frigid water’
1.1(especially of a woman) unable or unwilling to be sexually aroused and responsive.

There was a room, deep below the basement of Vicky’s house. A room behind a steel door with a state-of-the-art security lock. Soundproofed, mostly… not really effectively.

The room was never left unlocked. But it didn’t need to be, not really.

Vicky’s parents were addicted to shows like CSI Dimmsdale, Investigation Dimmsdale and so on. They were convinced that there was floor to ceiling ‘souvenirs’ of every missing and dismembered corpse that appeared on these shows – specimen jars with murky green bubbling fluid filled with eyeballs and lips and feet (feet?) of their daughter’s victims. When the muffled sounds of moaning came through the kitchen floorboards they moved to the furthest room in the house and scanned the newspaper’s Missing Persons list, convinced that there was a chamber of horrors just below them.

Vicky usually had an airtight alibi. Often her parents were her alibi, still… they were not going to go down to that room that belonged to Vicky.

Tootie knew, knew with all her heart that there were young boys (and maybe girls!?!) chained to the walls of Vicky’s Personal Basement TORTURE CHAMBER! Starving, beaten, degraded victims of the redhead’s personal grudges. (“Everyone knows that gingers are all evil… don’t they?”). Tootie had no doubt that if she ever entered that room while Vickie was alive, she would never be seen or heard of again. Her parents couldn’t protect her. Wouldn’t protect her. Often Tootie dreamed of hanging naked from the ceiling while her sister whipped her with chains and electrical cords and did unimaginable things to her nude virgin body. Well… it wasn’t actually unimaginable to Tootie, she had under her bed a book that described all sorts of BDSM practices and ‘The Children’s Pop-Up Book of Medieval Tortures’. Tootie wished with all her heart that Vicky would die so she could inherit the TORTURE CHAMBER and she could ‘share’ it with Timmy. Her Timmy… Maybe ‘share’ isn’t the right word. (She is Vicky’s sister, after all).

She sometimes heard screaming in the night and shivered… and masturbated with one of her (imagined anatomically correct) Timmy dolls until she came with a mighty shriek. Her parents would hear both sets of muffled screams and would hide under their bed.

Tootie and her parents had overactive imaginations… but it was hard to blame them.

Vicky came home and slammed the door. She slammed several doors, sometimes the same door two or three times.

“How are you dear, did you have a nice…”

Slam. “I’ll be downstairs, don’t bother me!”

Her mother looked at her husband. “No chance of that” they both thought.

Tootie didn’t get out of the way of a slamming door fast enough and was thrown across the room. Vicky smirked and headed for the basement. Tootie tasted the blood on her lip and thought of Timmy. Sisters, right?

What was in the basement room? Few furnishings. Magnifying mirrors on the low ceiling and a few walls. Large screen TV. Pin ups of sweaty trashy boys and muscular oily girls. And a bed. A huge bed. Heart shaped that took up most of the room. Everything in pink. Bright, blindingly pink. Frilly. Ruffles.

On the bed were several (actually anatomically correct) Timmy dolls, most sporting bite marks and gouged out button eyes. “He has beautiful eyes,” she thought as she bit one off and spit it to the floor.

Vicky sighed. Pulling off her favorite green t shirt. Why didn’t the boys, “stupid, stupid boys” notice how nice it looked with her bright red hair and pink eyes? Long eyelashes. “At least the girls…probably all jealous…should notice… Bitches!”

She lay back on her huge heart shaped bed and studied herself critically in the ceiling mirror. Undoing her bra and smiling coyly at herself, teasing herself. “Perfect” she thought.

Many girls hate their bodies or some aspect. One breast is flawed, too large or too small. Mismatched aureole, undersized nipples… Asymmetric faces, fat thighs, skinny arms…. too something or not something enough.

But that’s not Vicky. No Body Dysmorphia here. Nope, that’s not the problem.

She moved her left arm under her perky, perfect breasts and scrunched them up. With a creaking in her neck she is able to lift them to her lips and playfully nuzzle her nipples. A bit painful, but nice. Kissing herself, sucking, teasing while watching herself in the mirror. Dreaming of trashy boys… sweaty muscle girls.

Nice.

Warmth.

Tingling.

She stopped, knowing that she might have a stiff neck in the morning.

She slipped off her black stretch pants, leaving her in pink panties with just a hint of white lace trimming. She was entitled to being a little girly even if she despised it in others. Mr. Turner bought those panties for her. She made him wear them on his head before she would let him fuck her… or try to. They were her favorite now… after they were carefully cleaned. On her left hip a tiny black Captain Harlock Skull tattoo. She had beaten the crap out of her last girlfriend when she said “Oh, The Punisher, right?” Moron.

Yes. At 5 ft 6 inches. 115 lbs. she was something special. Full firm ripe B Cups with pink nipples (she matched her lipstick to the color, Miss Dimmsdale’s Fuck-Me-Pink at $30 a tube on Mrs. Turners Visa). Slightly oval smooth aureola, the color of cream caramel and the size of silver dollars. More than just perky. Ripe. Moist. Perfect.

So why was she so fucked up?

She ran her hands over her breasts, admiring how firm they felt, even laying on her back they looked good to her. No sagging. Perfect. She liked how they responded to her touch, staying in place. Responding to the pressure of her fingers. Warm.

Squeezing gently, nipple between fingers, it plumped up and stiffened as she rubbed. Warmth spread from her tits down her waist to her belly… and beyond. Other hand now reaching towards panties. Then…

Nothing.

Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

She moaned. Snarled. Always the same.

In the room above her father looked at his wife. She shrugged. Maybe it was the house settling?

Vicky turned on a video. One of her best. Two middleweight MMA fighters, a bleach blonde Pollack named Witch vs a Latina named Angel Killer. Round 2.

Vicky began on her breasts again, timing her excitement to the countdown clock on the screen. 1 minute gone. Her excitement rising. Witch had round house kicked Angel Killer in the stomach, you could hear the pain. Vicky’s nipples on fire. 1 minute 10 seconds, Angel Killer delivers 2 then 3 more swift punches to Witches mid-section, Vicky wetting 2 fingers. 1 minute 40 seconds, Vicky’s fingers exploring, panties flying off her feet. 2 minutes gone, suddenly Angel Killer delivers an elbow to Witches nose, instant replay close-up, you can hear the bones crunching, see the blood spraying, Vicky is now pumping 2, no 3 fingers deep in her slit, her limber legs now drawn back nearly over her head. The Witch is stumbling, Vicky is wildly bucking, limbs thrashing… Witch is down, Angel Killer is cheering, Vicky screaming.

Cumming

Cumming?

Panting.

Nothing.

Vicky lets out a blood curdling scream of frustration. Her parents are trembling under their bed. Tootie, under the covers, is dialing Timmy to make sure he is safe and not in her sister’s clutches (secretly wishing he was in her own clutches).

Vickie is now weeping. Too softly to be heard.

“Shit”

“Shit, shit fucking shit”

Always the same, close, but never close enough.

“Why am I so fucked up”

Vicky turns off the light, turns on her absolutely favorite video. Starts with CCTV shot of a young naked boy running down the street pursued by what appear to be rabid ferrets. She smiles through her tears. Different shot, Timmy being beaten by a grey faced bully, the scene ends when the older boy trips over a pink squirrel. Too bad. Other similar scenes, too short in Vicky’s opinion – there always seems to be a pink or green animal or bird of some type spoiling the fun. Then Timmy talking to that stuck up bitch (what was her name? Trixie?). Suddenly a blonde enters the shot and pulls Timmy’s pants and underwear down. Girls are laughing… and now so is Vicky.

Sometime in the last few minutes Vicky has become wet.

She explores. Dipping her fingers into the warm moistness.

Extreme closeup of red-faced crying Timmy on screen. She pauses the video, rubs her fingers together under her nose.

Sniff.

Lick.

“Is this the answer?” she wonders.
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I Love You Timmy Turner