The Corset of Dara O'Shay (Complete)

[missile]

My take on the Portrait Of Dorian Gray. A slow-shrink SW story. Graphic sex scenes included. Hope you enjoy.

"But you don't look Irish, Miss," the girl said questioningly.

"Dark Irish," Dara replied automatically. Growing up in the States or visiting family in Dublin, no one questioned her hair. But every third person in London, it seemed, didn't believe that anyone from the green Isle could have anything but red hair.

"An' you don't sound Irish," the girl continued, gathering up the laces at the back of the corset. Dara braced herself for the tightening.

"I was raised in Philadelphia," she replied. "Father was a trades rep, selling armorclads to the Union during their recent civil war." And spent quite a tidy sum on tutors to get any trace of brogue out of his daughters' voices.

Londoners might be amused at her American accent, but the only thing worse than appearing as an uppity Irish lass being introduced to society would have been to try to adopt a fake English accent.

The air wheezed out at the end of her sentence as the lass took a double handful of ribbon and yanked. The effort of donning a corset resembled torture, she thought, but my, how her mirror image improved. She admired the result for a second while the girl tied it off.

"Make sure it's comfortable," Aunt Sally advised, from her own spot where three girls tried to tighten her own foundation garment. "After a few parties, it'll be the only thing keeping you in your girlish figure."

Aunt Sally knew what she was on about, Dara thought. The woman was famous for drinking, eating and roistering men under the table. Her fetes were the scandal of the upper class, but no one refused an invitation. Dara watched the waves cross her aunt's generous flesh as the girls tugged, tugged, tugged. Dara was reminded of the sailors on her recent Crossing, trying to make a small boat fast in rising winds.

"Too bad it works that way," she replied. "I could wish vice would only make the corset fit better."

"Oh, you don't want to be saying that," her attendant lectured, moving to stand in the young woman's view. "Especially not in front of a mirror. Mirrors are windows to the devil, don't you know. 'At's why there's so much vanity and vice done with them."

Dara moved the girl back with a single figure. If anything, her reflection looked even better than it had. "I can see vanity, perhaps. But what sort of vice could be associated with reflecting glass?"

"I can think of a few," Sally rejoined. Dara raised an eyebrow, but the older woman shook her head. "Not yet. We'll introduce you to the right people, before you get to know the wrong ones."

"Well, whatever they might be, I still think it would be divine if the consequences such behavior could be directed to the corset, not my belly or hips. If only vice worked to make the corset bigger, or me smaller, i'd consider my soul a worthwhile payment."

As usual, one might understand the desires of a young person unwittingly offering an open contract to whatever agencies inhabit the universe. But more importantly, one should remember that the powers that be are not human. While her import may be clear to a human observer, the actual wording is what guides the response of 'the wee gifties.' A contract is based on the language used, not the ideas behind it. However we may regret such miscommunication later, it's often too late to effect worthwhile change.