A Study In Satin

Part 2 - Veni, Veni, Vici


by Tigger



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.