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Corset House

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by Kella Z Driel




  SAPPHIC SCORCHERS

  Corset House

  A Lesbian Mystery

  by Kella Z. Driel

  “Me, a Lesbian? What evidence do you have for such a shocking claim, sir?”

  “Rational deduction,” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and he explained...

  Miss Quick arrives in London, where the famous detective puts her to work solving a mystery tailor-made for a Lesbian:

  A young woman of quality has vanished into a mysterious mansion known as Corset House—where only women are admitted and where the most shocking vices are explored. Behind each door is a forbidden delight, each naughtier and raunchier than the last, a veritable tour-de-force of Lesbian kink.

  Can Miss Quick penetrate to the core of the case? Can she solve The Corset House Mystery?

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  Published internationally by Rhodopax Press.

  © Kella Z. Driel and Rhodopax Press 2016-7. All rights reserved.

  Terms and Conditions: The purchaser of this book is subject to the condition that he or she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, nor make copies of it to distribute freely.

  Fictitious Persons Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction. Individuals pictured on the cover are models and used for illustrative purposes only. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

  Erotica Disclaimer: This work of contains erotic situations, including lesbianism, domination, group sex, fetish play, undinism, and more. If such situations offend you, please don’t read this story. All characters are 18 years of age or older.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Miss Quick

  Chapter 2: Corset House

  Chapter 3: Beyond the Black Door

  More Erotica

  Corset House

  A Lesbian Mystery

  by Kella Z. Driel

  Chapter 1: Miss Quick

  London, 1884.

  Being a young woman of good name but limited means, it was only natural that I should present myself to Mr. Sherlock Holmes upon my arrival in London.

  The hansom dropped me on the corner of Baker and Marylebone. There, I stopped to chat with a charming Scottish woman at a trinket kiosk. I bought a box of matches but in truth it was her fiery red hair and full-breasted figure that gave me sparks.

  Bidding her a reluctant adieu, I rang at 221B Baker Street. The landlady greeted me and ushered me into Holmes’ parlor. His companion Watson wasn’t about, but I had no fear of being alone with the renowned Mr. Holmes, given his sterling reputation as a gentleman. His parlor reeked of tobacco and embodied the characteristic slovenliness of bachelors.

  He stood in the window, but turned his head to regard me. Rakishly thin, with a strong, angular face, he wasn’t unhandsome—and his eyes shone with a particularly fierce intelligence.

  “Good day sir, I am—” I began.

  He raised a hand. “I know precisely who you are and why you are here.”

  “Do you, sir?”

  “Indeed, you are none other than my third cousin Miss Minerva Quick, twenty years old and just arrived from America this morning. You need my assistance getting situated in London, and I would further venture that you sent no letter in advance because of my reputation for shirking familial obligations. Hence this ambush.”

  A hand went to my throat, so taken aback was I, because every word was true. “Sir, you astound me! The papers have not exaggerated your mediumistic talents.”

  “There isn’t anything supernatural about it,” he huffed.

  “Then would you care to explain how you arrived at these remarkable insights?”

  He shrugged with nonchalance. “Your first few words revealed the country of your birth. The fresh mud on your boots and valise has the peculiar texture of mire found only in the Docklands, suggesting a disembarkation no earlier than this morning. At this point I suspected a familial relation, since your fair hair and close-set eyes bear a marked resemblance to Sir Cyrus Quick, my father’s cousin and good friend, a man I recall with great fondness from my youth, before his abrupt emigration to New Hampshire. Like him, you too have emigrated, possibly also one step ahead of a scandal.”

  “When you put it just so, it makes sense,” I said, coloring. I did not care to discuss the ‘scandal’ that had driven me from Vassar and required me to leave the East Coast entirely. Naturally I’d chosen Victorian London over any other destination. “I did hope you might—”

  He waved an impatient hand. “I need no secretary, being quite capable of managing my own correspondence. For your lodgings, we shall speak to Mrs. Hudson. She has a small room under the stairs, cramped but suitable. I shall pay your rent, of course—I am not so remiss on familial duties as reported—until you are situated. When Watson returns from his recuperative jaunt, he can assist in finding you a suitable position as a typist or clerk. But since you are an adventurous young woman, you might help me solve a mystery right away—this very morning in fact—if you are game.”

  “I certainly am ‘game,’ sir,” I said, startled by his Gatling-quick yet generous settling of my affairs. “It seems the least I could do after such kindness. What would you have me do?”

  “I am skilled in the art of disguise,” he said. “I can appear young or old, rich or poor, even as a woman, but there remains one thing even I cannot accomplish.”

  “A young woman,” I said.

  “Precisely! And given your Lesbian tendencies, you are eminently suited for unraveling this particular mystery.”

  I flushed. “Me, a Lesbian? What evidence do you have for such a shocking claim, sir?”

  “Simplicity itself,” he said. “I happened to be standing by the window, considering a more important problem, when the hansom deposited you at the corner. Never having seen you before and noting the valise, I took a keener interest in someone who might be a new neighbor.

  “Apart from the driver, you neither spoke to or even glanced at any of the half dozen men you passed on your way despite their obvious interest, yet you exchanged words with several women, and stopped to chat with the pretty Scot who sells trinkets on our corner, a woman whose proclivities are known to me.

  “Did she not write something on a slip of paper and hand it to you? Was it possibly her address, an invitation for a future assignation?”

  I flushed deeper. Indeed I did have a box of unnecessary matches in my pocket—and Mrs. Jenny MacDougal’s address. After I whispered something silly about sparks, she’d told me that a sailor’s wife gets lonely.

  “One morning ashore, and I am discovered and undone.” I could have died. “I shall have to go to Australia after all.”

  He waved a hand. “It is a trifle. The vagaries of human eroticism interest me only in the clinical sense—although let’s keep your proclivities secret, shall we? Neither Watson nor Mrs. Hudson are as scientific-minded as I.”

  “That is appreciated. I shall be—discreet.”

  “Excellent,” he said, placing his long, narrow fingers together in a steeple. “That’s settled. Now, if you can help with this mystery, I will consider my investment repaid and will make good use of you in the future. I already employ an army of informants across the city, including the celebrated Baker Street Irregulars, but a young woman is always welcome.”

  “Is that so?” I asked, fidgeting uncertainly with my gloves.

  “Indeed. A fetching woman is like an elite regiment of light horse, adroit at scouting and creating diversions,” he said. “But they are quick to marry and soon leave the ranks, called away to the domestic front. Since you likely aspire to a different fate, your value increases significantly. We shall
, of course, reduce that New England drawl to something more manageable in the future, or your use as a spy shall be limited.”

  I closed my jaw, which had fallen rather open at such an astonishing assessment of my utility to his endeavors. “Very well, sir. What do you require of your Yankee cavalry?”

  ***

  So it was that several hours later—after settling into my new room under the stairs and soaking in a much-needed bath after my Transatlantic passage—I found myself in the fashionable district of Hanover Square, eyeing a narrow, four-storey brick building.

  Mr. Holmes’ instructions had been terse to the point of comedy: reconnoiter the building, observe keenly without attracting notice, and attempt no entry.

  I walked up and down the street several times, lingered on the corner, circled the block and observed the house from every possible angle. I spoke to local shopkeepers and a constable, inquiring if the house might be suitable place for lodging or employment, but they knew little.

  The house’s lilac shutters and trimming suggested a certain dedication to appearances, but the curtains remained firmly drawn. Only once did anyone enter—a lovely chambermaid lugging a valise and lingering on the corner at the hansom stand. I followed her casually to the corner.

  I approached, smiling. “Good day. Waiting for a hack?”

  She nodded with polite disinterest. A fat silver ring on her finger flashed in the sunlight, largely unadorned but with the monogram: A. A. L. etched in large enough letters for me to read even a foot away. Probably her initials.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s that building? I’m from America and need lodging.”

  She only smiled and shook her head, obviously ill at ease. A hansom came trundling up the cobblestone street and she climbed aboard and left without giving me so much as a word.

  I sighed, then walked back in front of the house once again. This time, one curtain on the bottom floor lay open a crack. A flower box sat before it, so I went up and admired the splendid arrangement of purple and white petunias while peeking through the curtain.

  My vantage point gave only a sliver of visibility into a shadowy parlor, the lighting terrible due to the glare off the window, but what little I saw shocked me. At first I could only make out a portion of couch and fireplace, then a woman walked past the window, clad in only an apron and a maid’s cap, her ample derrière quite nude and a little feather-duster in her hand. Another woman approached her from behind, similarly naked save for a corset, and holding a wooden paddle. She crept up behind the faux maid and swatted her, causing her to flinch and grab her bottom. Then an unseen person drew the curtain taut, and I saw no more.

  Oh how delectable! My mind went wild, imagining what went on inside the house. What significance did the spanking and saucy outfits have? Did I by chance catch a rare erotic interlude, or did liaisons occur frequently in there? Did the women come to this house so that they could discipline each other? Did they spank each other on their bare bottoms, so hard that their hands numbed and their asses turned bright red? Did all of them walk about in corsets and aprons, the rest of their bodies scandalously exposed?

  As I circled the block again, I worked this problem over in my mind and kept returning to the same conclusion: a discreet, private club for women to engage in Lesbian activity with the utmost discretion. One didn’t dress up as a half-naked chambermaid just to dust the parlor.

  I came back around the block and crossed the street to the small café opposite the mysterious house. I pretended to study the menu in the window, though in truth I used the reflection in the glass to spy on the house. A waiter inside the café gave me a disapproving frown, apparently noticing my loitering. I turned to go.

  A dour, tallish woman in a severe black frock and wearing an even more severe frown came and tugged my sleeve.

  “Pardon me, milady,” she said, her thick Cockney accent almost incomprehensible to my inexperienced ears. “What can you tell me about that house over there?”

  I glanced at the red brick mystery and its lilac shutters, its boxes of petunias set in front of the windows. “I’m sorry, but I know nothing about it.”

  “I might know a thing or two,” she winked, then tugged me towards the cast iron tables of the outdoor portion of the café. “Come dearie, sit and have a chat.”

  “Why, I hardly think—”

  “Why, what’s wrong cousin?” she—or rather he—said, after another wink. He slipped back into his natural speaking voice and it was then I recognized Mr. Holmes, disguised as a governess. He made a convincing female, but not an attractive one, it is only fair to say.

  We sat at a table. “What have you learned?” he asked, without preamble and after waving aside my astounded compliments on his masterful camouflage.

  “That the locals call it Corset House, since only attractive young women in fashionable dress ever enter the place. All others are turned away. The constable believes it to be a bluestocking literary parlor but is otherwise unconcerned, as there are never any complaints. The newspaper peddler believes it to be a brothel, but admits it’s unlikely without any men ever coming and going. There’s no rear entrance, the buildings on this street and the next over are built back-to-back.”

  “Excellent,” he said. “Anything else?”

  I hesitated about mentioning what I’d glimpsed through the window. But he’d entrusted this task to me and proved so generous already. Tastefully, I explained what I'd seen and my suspicions regarding a private rendezvous den for my Sapphic sisters.

  He nodded, not the least bit startled, shocked or scandalized. “Here is the mystery, what brought this house to my attention and why I knew, from the moment you opened your mouth in my parlor, that you would prove the solution to this conundrum:

  “Two nights ago, a certain Miss Regina Waxe vanished and her alarmed family sought my services. I tracked her to this house but have been unable to enter and ascertain her safety.”

  “Why haven’t you alerted the constables and searched the place?”

  “To avoid a scandal. I don’t believe Miss Waxe to be in any imminent danger.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Rumors reaching my ears confirm your suspicion that this mysterious house is indeed a den of Sapphic delights, nothing more dangerous than that.” He tapped his long fingers together, an odd gesture given his current attire. “I’d like you to infiltrate the club, ensure Miss Waxe is indeed safe. She’s said to be very fair, auburn-haired, twenty-one years old and with a slight mole on the right side of her nose, almost imperceptible as it is close to her skin tone. When you recognize her, inform her discreetly that if she doesn’t emerge from her love-nest soon, her concerned family might turn to the constables. The resulting scandal would be unfortunate for all. Are you still game?”

  “I am,” I said quickly, hoping to conceal my eagerness to undertake this particular mission, but I don’t think he missed anything. Not Holmes. “But how do I get in? By its very nature, it must be exclusive and secretive.”

  He smiled, rising from the table, tossing a coin purse on the table. “The work of detectives is not as glamorous as Watson makes out. The waiting and watching requires patience. But you are resourceful, you’ll manage. Now I must depart—a far more urgent matter involving a stolen diplomatic pouch and the French Republic commands my attention. Good day.”

  I opened the purse, finding a mix of coins that might prove useful, useful indeed. And as I watched Holmes mince off, mimicking a straitlaced, middle-aged English governess with a sour disposition, I hatched a plan.

  ***

  Only a mile separated Baker Street from Hanover Square. On the street corner I found my redheaded Scot at her kiosk, still offering blooms and matches to passer-bys. Her gracious curves were concealed in a modest russet dress that fell below the knee, her legs covered by tied bloomers, but the sight of her sent a warm flush through me, stoking the spark kindled this morning and already fanned by that naughty glimpse through the window—and t
he knowledge that I would be infiltrating that society, perhaps also stripped to my corset, invited to their Lesbian games, however salacious might be.

  “Mrs. MacDougal,” I smiled, placing a hand gently on her upper arm. “Jenny.”

  “Miss Quick, weren’t it? Good to see you again so soon, love.” She smiled with such genuine delight her blue eyes sparkled. “Here for more matches?”

  “Actually no,” I said. I explained my proposition.

  Her eyes widened and a lovely flush crept down her neck. “Oh lassie, you needn’t such a wild tale to get into my knickers.”

  My turn to blush, but I quickly shook my head. “I’d like that too, but I’m engaged on a case with my cousin, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and really do need to rent a disguise. I thought of you at once.”

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes! Say no more, love.”

  We shook on it—after she bargained me up on the price. We filled one of her wooden walking trays with a selection of matches, cough suppressants, elixirs, chocolates and other sundries. The tray would hang off my belly from a leather strap around my neck. She used it for vending at fairs and other crowded venues away from her kiosk.

  She locked up her stand without further ado and we headed into 221B Baker Street to trade garments. The house was quiet with Holmes out on his case, Watson on holiday, and Mrs. Hudson at market—according to Jenny, who knew the comings and goings of everyone on the street.

  We went into my tiny room under the stairs, helping each other out of our skirts and dresses, then sat side-by-side on the bed, in just our under-garments and stockings, as there wasn’t room to sit anywhere else save at the vanity. The underside of the staircase to the upper storey made half of my roof so low one needed to stoop.

  “So,” she said, making no move to redress. “You weren’t teasing, were you, love? You’d fancy a swive with old, fat Jenny?”

 

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