A Study in Satin

by Tigger

 

Part II: Veni, Veni, Vici.

Chapter 5. Afterglow Aftermath

 

Despite her nigh-to-ravenous hunger, Sherla pulled up abruptly when she saw her reflection in a mirror as she finally made her way to breakfast.

Katrina had insisted on brushing out the tangled mass of midnight that now draped nearly to her waist. It had crackled like black lightning, sending visible sparks from the maid's talented fingers as she had patiently worked out the snarls from a very memorable if not very restful night. Pale pink roses floated at the neckline, wrists, and hem of the gray silk nightgown that surrounded Sherla's slender form like a fine cloud of smoke, hinting all too frequently at the shape underneath.

"I thought you were hungry," Katrina observed wryly, smiling despite her tone at the surprised pleasure the young woman found in her reflection.

Sherla jerked from her staring self-examination and blushed enough to show through the so-carefully-applied cosmetics that had, with her hair, turned the simple act of pulling on a peignoir and high-heeled slippers into a 45 minute ordeal. Time well spent, she realized, despite the disagreement of her growling stomach. When she finally arrived in Irene's sun-warmed Morning Room though, her appreciation of her own appearance had faded before the enticing aromas of fresh-brewed coffee and warm, buttery croissants.

"Slow down, Sherla, this is not a timed event," Irene laughed as the young girl started to tear apart a delicate pastry.

It was not the only time Sherla had to be reminded, either by herself or by Irene, to remember to eat and drink delicately as befit a gentlewoman of good breeding. But her sense of manners warred continually with the call of the rich coffee brewed in the dark French way and those lovely croissants. All too often, the food and drink won.

"Well, besides having the appetite and table manners of a dock worker, how do you feel this morning?"

Sherla set down her coffee cup, swallowed hard and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened her eyes, there was a softly quizzical look in their dark depths. "It is very hard to describe," she said softly. "Different."

"That's an incredibly vivid and definitive statement," Irene chuckled, "Just what I need to know precisely what you mean. Come now, girl, you claim that you were, at one time in your life, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Surely you can give me a more complete picture than that."

"That is just the problem, Irene, nothing in my experience as Sherlock Holmes has prepared me for any of this. It is akin to a dog asking a fish to explain how breathing water is different than breathing air. And when I said 'different', I meant it was different than how it has been since I first realized what I had done to myself that night I attempted to end my life."

"Tell me how it is different in that context, then," Irene ordered, deciding to come to the issue of Sherla's attempted suicide later.

A rosy blush colored the girl's face and she looked away from Irene. "All of it?" she asked in an odd voice.

"Sherla, I spent the night watching over you as you dealt with the very basic physical needs of your very feminine body. I think I can handle most any revelation after that."

"True," the word sounded a bit forced to Irene, but she decided to let her visitor get this out on her own. "Well, first, my morning trip to the facilities was quite different than recent experience. Although urgent, it was nothing like what I have experienced in the past two weeks. Less. . . volume, and I was more in control even as I rushed off to the WC."

Irene nodded. "Might be related to the fact that this is the first day you have not taken that drug."

The embarrassment left Sherla's face instantly as she began to consider that idea. *Lord,* Irene thought, *the moment her mind became engaged her entire demeanor changed. Instantaneous and total change. And I have seen that response before.*

"Yes," Sherla said quietly, "I had hypothesized that the very violent eliminations were the means of removing the excess bodily materials left over from the reconstruction and resizing of my body and now without the drug. . . "

Caught up in the mental exercise, Sherla launched herself from the chair and nearly fell flat as she landed off balance on the relatively tall heeled slippers. She only barely saved herself from a painful spill by catching hold of her chair, and then she began to pace without giving the near disaster another thought.

"DAMN," she exclaimed, "I wish I had been able to keep my measurements up since I left Baker Street. If I am correct, my shrinkage will have stopped, or at least, significantly slowed now that I have ceased taking the drug."

"Young *LADIES*, Sherla, do not say 'damn'," Irene said severely before chuckling again. "You'll need to work on those little feminine strictures, dear, if you are to fit into the circles I suspect you will need to move about in the course of your investigations."

"Hmmmm," Sherla murmured in assent, "You are correct, of course, but I believe I shall need other roles to play as well. Young ladies of a certain station cannot go into all the places I may need to be able to enter in the course of this investigation."

"Recall, if you will, that I was an actress - an operatic actress to be sure, but an actress nonetheless. We will find suitable disguises for you, and I will, naturally, help you perfect the roles as needs be." Sherla nodded her agreement with that plan and Irene decided to press on. The girl had just given her an opening she'd been waiting for. "As to your measurements, that is no trouble. We will need a full set, in any case, for your new clothes. . . " a twinkle shown in Irene's gray-green eyes, "and your new corsets."

"Unfortunately, for the past four days or so, I only have had the most subjective indications of my body's changes," Sherla said disgustedly, then looked up sharply. "And who said anything about any new damned corsets?!"

"I did," Irene said with calm amusement, "As I am sure you well remember from yesterday. As to your measurements, we will make do, dear. Now, please, do continue telling me what feels different."

Not certain she was at all happy with that pronouncement, Sherla stared at Irene for several moments. Finally, she realized that Irene would not back down, returned to her seat and took a measured sip from her coffee while considering her next words. "I am . . . somehow more attuned to my body. Less than when I was in the throes of . . . well, like last night, but much more than I can ever recall feeling at anytime before." Idly, Sherla ran a finger down the sleeve of the gossamer-thin peignoir. "I can feel this move against me, and it almost sends chills through my entire body. It is as if all of my senses are somehow more acute. Food began tasting better to me while I was still with Jenny, but this coffee and these croissants are like ambrosia."

"Katrina is a remarkable cook, dear, but I take your point. You are far more sensually aware than you have ever been before."

"Yessss," Sherla said with a soft exhalation, her finger still teasing at the arm of her robe.

Irene took in the newly dreamy look in the girl's eyes, and the suddenly languid movements of her hand upon her body. "Sherla?" she asked, and then had to repeat herself more sharply, "SHERLA!" Irene smiled as the girl jumped and looked up at her, startled confusion in her eyes. "I think you need to go back to your room for a while, dear. I fear you have not finished dealing with the aftermath of your withdrawal from that drug. After you have . . .taken that matter properly in hand, we will see about getting a set of measurements for your records and deciding what to do next."

Poised to deny Irene's assertion of her needs, Sherla started to speak when her breath started becoming short in a now all-too-familiar pattern. Deliberately, she rose to her feet and walked from the room.

Unfortunately for Sherla's dignity, Irene was well able to hear the distinctive "click click click" of rapidly moving high heels on the marble floor as the girl ran to her room.

~---------------~

"OUCH, dam . .bless it, Katrina, that was ME you just stuck that pin into!" Sherla snapped from her perch atop the large ottoman that had been put to use as a fitting stand.

It was all too much, Sherla fumed. First that corset maker who had brought along this rather imposing lady with a German accent to help measure her for the new ones Irene had ordered. Irene had directed Sherla, the measuring woman and Katrina into Sherla's room. "Normally, dear," Irene said in a tone that Sherla was beginning to dread, "corsets are measured with a properly-fitted chemise and pantalons already in place. Unfortunately, we don't have a suitable chemise in a size that would fit your dainty self. Any that we could use would be too large and would bunch uncomfortably and ruin the measurement. Therefore, Fraulein Braun has agreed to take your measurements without that extra material getting in the way. Isn't that wonderful of her?"

And so Sherla was, for the most part, nude during her corset fitting, but there was nothing remotely wonderful about Fraulein Braun. Having that ham-handed German bitch touch her that way had been bad enough, but the damned woman had refused to listen to her at all. In fact, aided and abetted by Katrina, Fraulein Braun had always pulled the tape yet tighter each and every time Sherla had voiced any comment or complaint at all.

Now, she was being fitted by a modiste for two or three "ready to wear" dresses while her real fashions were being made by hand. Unfortunately, that required putting sharp implements, like pins, in the hands of Katrina who kept finding new and inventive ways to stick the blasted things into . . well. . . into Sherla.

If Sherla had been able to move enough to catch her reflection in the mirror, she'd have seen a most intriguing expression on Katrina's face. The dark-haired maid's eyes twinkled with a suspicious glint as she eased yet another pin into the already quite-snug dress.

"Damnit, Katrina, be more careful!"

"Oh, Mademoiselle, I am sooo sorry," Katrina answered, the contrition in her voice not reflected at all in her expression.

Another pin slid home, just a bit too deeply.

"Ouch. You did that on purpose!"

"But Mademoiselle, why would I *do* such a thing? It must have been because you moved."

"Me? Don't blame me for your clumsiness!" Sherla said, but she tried to stand even more rigidly.

Katrina let her alone for a long moment, then she began to brush a bit of frothy lace against the fine hairs below Sherla's pinned-up coiffure. In her other hand was yet another pin. After a few seconds of this teasing, Katrina was rewarded by a start from Sherla, but not in the direction she expected.

Sherla whirled around to see the grinning maid armed with lace and pin. "I *knew* you were doing it deliberately," she crowed.

"Oops," Katrina said, blushing, but still grinning.

"Just wait till I get my hands on you!" threatened Sherla. But as she moved to reach for the unrepentant maid, a pin that was already installed stuck her in a most . . . fundamental place. Sherla winced, triggering a snicker from Katrina.

"I'll get you yet," Sherla promised, but the smile on the maid's face was too cute for Sherla's many decades of embedded chivalry, and she broke off her threats with her own snicker.

"Girls," said the modiste as she returned with some additional material samples. "Quit wasting time. Now, Mademoiselle, let us see which of these reds works best against that lovely hair."

All Sherla could do was shake a threatening finger at the angelically innocent-appearing maid. That, and plot her revenge. Something she could do with Irene watching her. It would take some thinking, but Sherla was determined to repay the pretty little maid for her tricks. . . . with interest.

"Oh, drat, I forgot the dark cream lace," growled the modiste, leaving yet again.

"Why were you sticking me?" Sherla demanded to know as soon as she and Katrina were alone again.

The mischievous glint left Katrina's eyes as she saw, for the first time, that Sherla was upset and really did not understand or appreciate the game. "Mademoiselle," she offered in a gentler, more placating tone, "please calm down. I was only teasing you. Every girl is supposed to have stories about pins at fittings. Please relax and let us finish. We are almost done."

Sherla stared at Katrina for several moments and concluded that

she was being honest. She looked almost surprised that Sherla would complain so about the pin pricks. "You know the truth about me?" Sherla asked in whispered English, "What I told Madame Adler?"

Katrina gave her an odd look, but finally nodded. "One of the other effects is that I seem to be. . . unusually sensitive. . .I feel things more strongly than I should."

"Ahhhhh. . ." Katrina breathed. "My apologies, Mademoiselle. I won't do it anymore and as I said, this is the last dress. Just a few more moments."

"All right," Sherla said, "But please hurry. I think I will need to be. . private again very soon."

Katrina's own eyes went wide, for she understood from Irene that the girl was to be allowed such privacy whenever she said she needed it. Quickly, she returned to her work and even hurried the modiste's otherwise deliberate pace.

Sherla almost felt guilty for lying to the maid.

Almost.

~---------------~

Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 20, 1911

Location: Irene Adler's Home outside of Paris France.

Time: 12:14 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson:

I have arrived at Irene Adler's house, and while she is still not convinced that I am Holmes, she is intrigued and apparently willing to concede that I might be my own daughter.

I have just been measured by a modiste that Irene has called in and before that by the corsetierre. I cannot say I look forward to any further exploration into the joys of having my inner organs rearranged and deformed for the sake of fashion. That accounts for the greater part of my ambivalence towards this particular purchase; moreover the woman who measures for this merchant bears an uncanny resemblance to my governess. Fraulein Braun even sounds like the unspeakable bitch. And, she enjoys her work far too much for my tastes. I am not looking forward to a long association with this female and her employer.

Perhaps after Moriarty has been dealt with, I shall go someplace where I can live in splendid isolation while I enjoy being young again, but where my being female will not impose such ridiculous physical and social strictures on me. Curse it all, Watson, merely because I am now female does not mean I have somehow become a mindless idiot at the same time! I do not need to be protected and I strongly object to being treated as if I have no brain in my head.

Sorry, John, but I had to let that out before I had a seizure.

Since France has adopted the metric system of measurement (something England should do but in all likelihood will not because it isn't 'English'), I have decided I will hereafter report my measurements using those so-very logical dimensions. In any case, I currently stand 155 centimeters tall (five feet one inch) , mass out at forty eight kilograms (a bit over 105.5 lbs) and have an uncorseted waist measurement of just under fifty centimeters (nineteen and five eighths inches), although I have reason to question that measurement. Katrina and the German female from the corsetierre pulled the measuring tape very tight on every blasted measurement, and I suspect their purpose is to ensure my new "properly fitted" corset will be tighter than *I* think necessary. Besides, having just taken that infernal "poorly fitted" corset off, my waist had no time to fill out into a more normal size.

I am not certain if my next bit of news is on the bright or dark side, John. The withdrawal symptom I have been so afraid of is actually intense sexual arousal. Very intense. Relief from those symptoms can be had in any number of time-honored ways, but for the nonce, I have been "taking things in hand," if you will. Such manipulation effectively deals with the overt physical symptoms of the withdrawal, at least temporarily, which is what I have been doing for at least a quarter hour out of every two since rising this morning. Irene had Katrina attired me this morning without drawers so that I would "be less impeded when the need is upon you, dear."

John, this is incredibly humiliating! I have absolutely no control over anything when the need is upon me. I cannot even think clearly until I have relieved myself. Just this morning, I was having a perfectly reasonable, rational discussion with Irene one moment and the next minute, I am practically a bitch in heat with no thought in my head except to relieve that burning, aching demand. I am practically a slave to my sexual needs. It is very lowering.

On a separate but related issue, the feeling of the stiffly starched petticoats upon my bared and sensitive bottom and thighs is, all things considered, a decidedly odd and uncomfortable sensation. I find that I quite miss my drawers, particularly the ones made of silk. I find I have come to enjoy the sensation of that fabric gliding across my skin.

Back the issue of my . . . physical needs, Irene does not view the experience in so negative a light. She advises me to simply enjoy the undoubted physical pleasure of the "therapy" and see what comes of it. She tells me that, in her experience, no one can be this excitable all the time. I can only hope she is correct in that assertion.

Only. . . I am not at all certain about the enjoyment part. Enjoy it?? Perhaps I do at that. I will admit that buildup and culmination are overwhelming and that afterwards, once the climax has spent itself? The lethargy and relaxation is far more pleasant than I ever experienced in my life - even when I was regularly using the cocaine. Are other young women. . . or rather, young women who have been female from birth, told such things these days? Is that the old, stodgy Victorian *male* Sherlock asking? Perhaps.

So, I am not going insane and apparently, I am not going to die from the withdrawal from my addiction to Moriarty's potion. That is to the good. On the opposite side of the ledger, however, is that these needs are irresistible. Lord, John, Irene had to remind me to go off and find privacy today. I was practically fondling myself in her Morning Room, for god's sake.

Is this any better than being addicted? I don't know. I must think on it some more.

After I deal with the latest onset of my needs.

End of Journal Entry.

 

 

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