Vicky The Pervert Pt 4 - Mrs Turner Awoke

BY : Wendell Urth
Category: +1 through F > Fairly OddParents
Dragon prints: 516
Disclaimer: The Fairy OddParents and all associated characters belong to their respective creators and owners, not me. I receive no compensation whatsoever for this story. Same for any other property I may mention. This is all a paraody

Disclaimer: The Fairy OddParents and all associated characters belong to their respective creators and owners, not me. I receive no compensation whatsoever for this story. Same for any other property I may mention. This is all paraody


Vicky The Pervert Part 4

Mrs. Turner Awoke…

… in a tangle of sheets and pantyhose. She was relieved to find that she was in her familiar bedroom, though she had no memory of how she had gotten there… or when.

“Last night? This morning?” “But, what the fuck, I’m home and that’s all that matters.”

One half opened bleary eye told her with was 2:45 but whether that was AM or PM would require opening the eye all the way which was more work than it was worth. She hoped it the next day.

“That must have been some party!” came the shrill voice from across the room.

Mrs. Turner moaned into the sweat-soaked pillow, “Go-go way… Vi-Vi-icky.”

“Am I the only one who doesn’t stutter, around here?” Then, “Get up, the cleaners will be here in a little while. We gotta get ready for that surprise inspection this week.”

“Nooo, tell ‘em to stay away. Can’t take the noise right now,” the hungover Mrs. Turner moaned.

The sheets were dragged away. “You know that asshole Social Worker Crocker will stick his nose into every room. He’ll bust us for sure if we don’t pass inspection.”

Mrs. Turner grunted at hearing Mr. Crocker’s name and spit at the word “inspection.” “Don’t we pay that skinny moron enough?” she mumbled as she tried to sit up and nearly fell over out of the bed. Evidently there was a left high heeled shoe on the pillow next to her. She didn’t think it was one of hers. She tried to toe off the panty hose but became more entangled. She looked at Vicky, hoping for some help.

“We pay him to warn us, but he won’t alter the actual reports… or at least, not very much.” Vicky sighed theatrically at the drunken middle-aged women. Seeing that it had no effect she knelt down and ripped the hose from her legs.

“Hey, that was an expensive pair… my last good ones… I think…”

“So, buy some new ones. Allowance will be here in a couple of days.” Both women shared the same nasty opinion about having to wait for the allowance to be deposited, even after all this time. “Come on, time to get into the shower.”

Mrs. Turner looked down. The party clothes she had worn last night (memory was coming back in bits and pieces) were half on and half… someplace else? One exposed fat tit hung part way down to her chest. She wondered for a moment if she had come home in the cab like that… then remembered that she had driven. Driving drunk wasn’t OK… but after all, this was Dimmsdale. As long as you didn’t actually hit anyone, DUI stood for “Driving Undeterred…” she forgot what the “I” stood for.

The “I” stood for “Intoxicated”, a word Mrs. Turner couldn’t remember… or even spell anymore.

Mrs. Turner had been forgetting a lot lately. It didn’t bother her… much.

Maybe it was the booze.

Maybe it was the death of her husband.

Maybe it was whatever Vicky was slipping into her snacks & booze without her knowing.


Vicky eyed her suspiciously, licked her thumb and began to rub at the older woman’s exposed nipple. “And who’s lipstick is that?” she demanded after examining her thumb.

Mrs. Turner screwed up her face, “Yours?” she asked tentatively.

Vicky pinched down hard on the nip drawing a squeak from the older woman and laughed. “Wrong shade!”

Mrs. Turner freed her other breast and said, “At least this one’s clean!” They shared a laugh.

Vicky smiled and thought some evil thoughts about clamps and pliers… and red-hot needles… but only said, “We need to get ready.”

Mrs. Turner pulled a pillow over her face. Vicky thought about smothering the older woman. Thought about it a lot in fact. It was one of her top five favorite fantasies. But she had worked too hard and too long on her plans to give into the urge to murder, not just yet.

Not again.

There was already one suspicious death in their little “family” and there was no way they could get away with another. At least not for several more years.

There was too much money involved. Nasty lawyers and mildly suspicious cops. Plus, the insurance co. was delaying payment on Mr. Turner’s “disappearance” at sea.

Vicky pulled the pillow away and threw it on the floor, slapped the woman on a thigh with a sound like a gun shot.

“Bwe nice to baby, Mwiss Vicky” Timmy’s mom said in cutesy baby talk. Vicky now really wanted to strangle the middle-aged bitch. “Bwe schweet to me, pwease?” and spread her legs suggestively. “I pwomise I’ll be a good widdle girl if you’re schweet to me…”

Vicky smoothed the tangle of thick brown pubic hair aside. The thick dark lips of the older woman’s labia appeared… among some cracker crumbs and unidentifiable canapes remains. “That really must have been some party!” Vicky thought. “No way I’m kissing that mess!” and moved her fingers to Mrs. T’s snatch.

Mrs. Turner closed eyes and began to sigh contentedly as Vicky began to work over her cunt. Vicky wasn’t gentle, soon burying three fingers deep into the writhing woman. Mrs. Turner began to grunt. That pleased the red head who had taken over the grieving woman’s life after the death of her mostly useless husband. Useless, but well insured.

Vicky liked hearing the older woman grunt. “You fucking pig!” she laughed, finding the woman’s clit with her other hand. Turning her into a grunting sex pig was almost as satisfying to the former babysitter as hearing her scream in pain. Almost.

But not as satisfying as eliciting suffering from the boy. Nothing was as satisfying as that.

It was getting harder to do that. The boy spent so much time in his own world these days that it was hard to get him to cry or whimper like he used to.

When younger, Vicky had dreamt of having a catatonic little brother or sister that she could torture, who couldn’t tell their parents or the police. She had volunteered for a while at a children’s hospital, but found it unsatisfying. Catatonics don’t respond.

Then Mom & Dad had Tootie… definitely not catatonic. “Fucking parents never did anything right,” Vicky cursed.

At least her parents had the good sense to move away. Far away. Dad had a vasectomy; Mom had her tubes tied. They still practiced safe sex. After producing Vicky and then Tootie… Well, you couldn’t be too careful.

Vicky continued, now thrusting four fingers into Mrs. Turner, faster and faster. Vicky was surprised that she didn’t get friction burns on that saggy old cunt, but the old slag was so wet that flames didn’t have a chance of starting.

“How did she get so loose?” Vicky wondered. “It’s not like she ever had kids…” the thought trailed off as a soft moan was heard from behind. And speaking of kids…

“Well, look who crawled out of the woodwork,” Vicky laughed.

Mrs. Turner’s eyes flew open. “Get out of here!” she screamed. She found the stolen shoe that was still in her bed and tried to toss it at Timmy’s head. It was a bad throw, it mostly missed Timmy, mostly. He didn’t duck, he didn’t flinch. Part of his training with Vicky.

Vicky withdrew the cum soaked hand and backhanded the older woman across the face. “You don’t tell him what to do! EVER!”

A drop of blood appeared at the corner of Mrs. Turners mouth. Vicky resisted the urge to lick it up.

Mrs. Turner began to weep. “Please Vicky, get that “murderer” out of here!”

Vicky’s eyes went wide and cold. Very cold. A look came over her features that made Mrs. Turner cower in fear. “I…I’m sorr..”

Vicky punched the woman in the stomach. She pulled her punch at the last moment. She didn’t want to leave any bruises. Any visible bruises. Mrs. Turner choked and tried to draw in a breath.

Softly, Vicky said “You don’t ever, ever, EVER use that word again! “You understand?!?” Vicky had grabbed the terrified woman by the shoulders and began shaking her. Mrs. Turner’s head wobbled. “Unnershantd shtupid?!?” Spittle began to fly from Vicky’s mouth. “I’ve worked too hard to let a dumb cunt like you ruin everything because she can’t keep her stupid mouth shut!”

“Ya-Ya-Yah… Yes-Yes Vicky! I’ll be good, I promise,” said Mrs. Turner.

Vicky turned back to the boy. “Come here, Timmy… and take your hand out of your pants.”

Timmy obeyed. He came over to the bed where his coughing, half naked “mother,” lay in a puddle of her own cunt juice. His face was blank.

Vicky gently cupped the side of his face with the hand she had used to finger fuck the woman who had called herself “Timmy’s Mom,” as if it was someone else she was talking about. “Dumb cunt,” Vicky thought. The hand was damp, cold and he could feel the tips of her sharpened nails on his cheek.

Vicky slowly rubbed his face. As her moist fingers reached his lips, he stuck out his tongue… and waited.


Waited for permission.

Then when Vicky nodded, he began to lick her fingers, lick the remnants of “his mother’s” pussy juices off the former babysitter’s fingers. He smiled, but his eyes remained dead. He was far away helping his pal, The Crimson Chin on another adventure.

Turning to Mrs. Turner, Vicky hissed, “Apologize to my Timmy!”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, then seeing Vicky’s expression, “Sorry Tim… Timmy. I’m sorry I used that word. I’ll never use it again. Pro-promise.” She even sounded sincere.

Vicky smiled her most loving smile. It was painful to look at. “Get washed and dressed, Mrs. Turner. Timmy, go clean your room. I want to see your lessons and make sure you’re ready for Mr. Crocker’s surprise visit. The house cleaners will be here soon.”

Timmy didn’t get to go to his room very often so other than some dust, it was relatively clean and neat. He lived somewhere else in the house most of the time. Someplace dark. He liked the darkness; it was easier to slip into his world and play with Cosmo & Wanda.

But bad things could happen in the dark.


And worse things.

He opened the “Dimmsdale Home School Workbook for Wayward Children” and began to go over the notes and looked at the carefully filled out math, spelling, geography and other exercises that had been finished for him. He memorized each question and supplied answer. He’d only have to remember for a day or so until Mr. Crocker’s “surprise” visit was over.

He made sure his signature appeared on the bottom of every page, next to where his mom had signed, which (somehow) proved she had reviewed it with him.

“Get that killer out of here.” The words hung in his memory. He didn’t know why the words upset Miss Vicky so much.

After all, he was a killer! Wasn’t he?

He thought so… most of the time.


“Funny, Mr. Crocker never notices that my signature looks different than the rest of the writing,” Timmy thought. Tootie had filled out the workbook in her tiny, perfect handwriting while Timmy was barely able to scrawl his name on the page. But Crocker never noticed. Or if he did… well, there was always a fat envelope waiting for him.

Timmy was back from Chincinnati, the never-ending battle with crime had ended for the moment. Timmy put down his workbook and looked out the window. The kids were getting out of school. He knew all their names… or knew the names he had given them. Truth, was he had only been allowed to go to public school a few times before being pulled out as being too emotionally unstable.

He knew Tootie of course. And Trixie… And the blonde girl he named “Ronnie” for “Veronica Star” … so that must be her name, “Right?”

“And ‘Veronica Star’ is a pretty cool sounding name,” the boy mused. “Too bad she’s an evil airhead cheerleader!” Timmy decided that any blonde that cute & athletic must be an evil airhead… and a cheerleader.”


And “AJ” and “Sanjay” and all the others he ‘saw and played with’ every day… in his mind.

Most would have been surprised to hear the names he had given them. Most of the kids barely remembered he existed.

Except Tootie.

Tootie was obsessed with the boy her sister was raising. Someday, he would be hers, Tootie knew. In the meantime, she did his Home School work for him, she didn’t mind! She prepped him before Crocker’s visits so it would appear he was being properly educated and raised. Tootie didn’t mind because if she did a good job, Vicky would reward her.

After a pretty damn good finger fucking (if she does say so, herself), Mrs. Turner had been told to “Wash & Get Dressed”. It hadn’t been said as a threat. But with Vicky’s volatile (and some might say “psychotic”**) temper… Well, you never knew what might set her off. Not when she used that tone of voice.

**  Editor’s Note: I wasn’t the one who said “psychotic”. Never crossed my mind. I think saying “volatile” is fair, but I would never call Vicky a psycho and I’m insulted you thought that. Uh, you won’t say anything to Vickie, will you?”    Wendell Urth

Mrs. T immediately got out of bed, headed for the bathroom until a sharp word from the red head stopped her in her tracks, reminding her to take her robe. Timmy’s Mom turned sheepishly around and picked up the bathrobe off the floor.

She had gotten out of the habit of wearing a bathrobe at home. Casual nudity? Well, not that casual but it happens… happened. With the imminent inspection and Mr. Crockers attitudes about women… “Well, wear a robe mom!”

At least Mrs. Turner remembered to close the bathroom door this time. Another bad habit that came from the booze… (and the pills Vicky provided).

Mrs. Turner hung the robe on a hook and removed the rest of her clothes from the night before. Or possibly the night before that. She absolutely refused to look at herself in a mirror. Not until after a long hot shower, anyway.

She stepped into the tub. The water was already steaming. She’d use up all the hot water. “Too fucking bad,” she thought. She did not pull the shower curtain closed, she was a little claustrophobic and had seen the movie with the 'Bath Tub' as a little girl. She didn’t want to be surprised… just in case there was a "rapist" lurking in the house.

She meant “murderer”. It was murder in the infamous "Blonde in a Bath Tub" scene. “Why did I think…?” She tried to concentrate, but the hot water felt too good… streaming down her shoulders, her breasts. Holding the bar of soap in her right hand, she began making lazy soapy circles across her stomach. Belly. Her belly. She had a little a pouch. Not fat, definitely not fat considering how curvy she was. Men still found her attractive. There had been two or three at that party last night… or was that the night before?

Round and up under the folds of her heavy breasts went her soapy hand. “Tits. My tits”. Maybe they sag… a little. Well, no maybe about it. She was near 40 (“Ugh, how did that happen?”). Her pussy was a sticky mess, but nothing a hand full of soap suds couldn’t make sweet again.

She hadn’t locked the door.

No one locked the doors anymore… Vicky didn’t like it when you locked your door. She didn’t like closed doors either. Vickie would have had all the inside doors removed, but it would be too much trouble explaining to Crocker if he showed up to inspect early. So closed doors were OK… for the next few days, anyway.

So, Mrs. T wasn’t that surprised when the bathroom door opened and a set of buck teeth preceded the arrival of rest of that little “murderer” into the bathroom.

His face was expressionless. His eyes were dull. Like he was off into his own little world. He barely looked at her. Subconsciously, that pissed her off.

Well, maybe consciously too. Yeah, he was ignoring her and it pissed her the fuck off.

Timmy turned, facing the wall by the sink… and the toilet.

He lifted the toilet seat.

Mrs. Turner turned away. She didn’t want to see ‘It’. Much.

“Sorry mom, couldn’t wait.” Then a low moan and a splash…

He sounded sincere. He was practicing that for the inspection. In a few days he could go back to not talking much again… outside of his own world. Fairy World, Chincinatti and the entire Timmyverse that Cosmo & Wanda gave him were better places than the world of this house.

“Just gotta’ figure how to get there permanently.” Timmy had very strong feelings about “permanently”.

Meanwhile, he raised his defenses.

Put up the walls.

Closed the doors.

And locked away his feelings

 In a little black box in the dark.

And tried to remember the night his father died. But it was hard to separate what he remembered from what he was told had happened. Everything was going round and round in his head.

What had he seen? What had he heard? What had he done?

Memory, dad tumbling through the open railing into the darkness of the sea.

“Was I really there?”

“Are those… my hands?”

Vicky’s voice, over and over, “Pushed” “You pushed” ‘You pushed him.” Pushed” “You pushed”…

Mom’s voice, shrill and sharp, “Killer”, “Murderer”, “Animal!” Mom could go on for quite a while. Drink had not yet dulled her basic vocabulary for hurtful things to say.

After all, “Not really my son, thank God.”

“Not mine. Thank you, God.”


In his steadily decreasing moments of clarity, Timmy thought he was going crazy.

And maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing.


Mrs. Turner finally couldn’t resist peeking at her son’s ‘stuff’ while he was doing his ‘number one’ business. She had gotten to see ‘It’ pretty often lately. You would have thought she had gotten over looking at ‘It’ by now. ‘It’ was very smooth and pink.

‘It’ made her angry.

‘It’ made her hungry.

Once upon a time during a wild drug induced orgy on a boat, she had been fucked by a slightly younger version of ‘It’ pretty damn much, pretty damn hard.

‘It’ was pretty damn good.

Then the boy ‘It’ was attached to, killed her husband.



Mrs. Turner hated the boy she had once called her son. Well, step son. He was distantly related to her husband and when the abusive treatment his original foster family became known, the lawyers for Timmy’s real father’s estate approached the last of the boy’s distant relatives with a generous offer.

“All aboard the gravy train!” Toot, toot – “Next stop a shit pile of money for taking care of the little turd.”

The Turners were given a generous allowance to take care of the boy. All they had to do was provide a loving homelife. They could do that. Mr. & Mrs. Turner had met in acting class in high school. They could provide the scared & scarred orphan boy with real love… or something close to it.

Well, an illusion could be as good as the real thing. Right?

When the boy was diagnosed with a series of conditions related to malnutrition, the lawyers nearly yanked the boy from their care.

Editor’s Note: Imaginary scene: The gravy train pulling out the station in a cloud of burning dollar bills, leaving the forlorn Mr. & Mrs. T. crying by the tracks. W.U.

That’s when the Turners brought Vickie (and later her sister) into their home to care for the boy. The lawyers who oversaw the estate didn’t really want to be bothered. As long as the boy was healthy, they retained overall day-to-day control of his estate. At least until he was 21. And after that, he would still be dependent on lawyers to advise and manage the fortune. Right?

Well, not so “Right” if Vicky had anything to say about it.


Timmy shook the last few drops of piss off the tip of his dick. Mrs. Turner heard the drops hit the bowl “Tink-Tink-Tink”. Timmy zipped up and turned on the water in the sink. The water remained cold, true to her word, Timmy’s Mom had used up all the hot water and had turned the shower off.

She stood there dripping in the tub as Timmy wiped his hands on the only clean towel in the bathroom.

Timmy’s Mom looked at him. There was still that burning anger in her.

“What do I do now?” she wondered.

From somewhere, another thought surfaced, “Why did he have to zip up so soon?”

Coming Next:

Vicky The Pervert Part 5

The Social Worker & The Blonde

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