The Mermaid's Treasure -8- (Patreon)

“Hmm,” said Johnny, looking over the garments on the bed. He picked up something that looked like a vest or some kind of undergarment. He took his measuring tape and checked the dimensions of the thing. “This should work,” he announced. 

“What is it?” I asked. 

“’Tis a set of stays that will fit you, well enough. If I have enough time, I’ll remake a pair better to your measure. Now, put this shift on.” He handed me another garment that looked a bit like a frilly t-shirt with a very wide neck and long sleeves.

I stared at it a little distastefully. I had come to the realization that I would have to resign myself to dressing as a girl but doing it was something else. At least, it wasn’t pink, but an inoffensive creamy yellow.

“It goes over your head and you put your arms through the sleeves,” Johnny said helpfully.

The shift, weird word, settled on my shoulders with the three-quarter length sleeves reaching just past my elbows, but the neck opening was huge and left my bust exposed even though it was long enough to reach halfway to my knees. “I’ve got it on backwards,” I said. 

“Nay, you don’t,” said Johnny. “It fits just like that.” He opened the stays and motioned me to put my arms through the straps.

It reached my waist and little extensions went over my hips like wide fingers but it still wasn’t high enough in front to cover important things—like nipples. “Are you sure you don’t have this one backwards?” I asked. I had to hope this was some sort of undergarment.

He snorted. “This one is the most expensive one, silk lining. It opens and laces up the back, so it must have belonged to a lady of wealth who could afford a maid. It fits very well, are you sure it isn’t yours?”

I ignored the question to ask one of my own. “Laces? Like a corset?”

“Aye,” he said. “But stays have heavier boning than a corset bodice. Actual whalebone in this one, it’s going to be quite stiff, but I will mind your comfort. No need to lace it too tightly, you have a small waist compared to your other endowments already.”

I blushed. The thing fitted under my boobs, compressing them upward. 

“Why don’t you place your girls yourself, dear,” he suggested. “I don’t want to seem overly familiar.”

It took me a moment to realize he meant that I should move my breasts rather than have him do it. Well, yeah. But what was I supposed to do with them? Even touching them sort of freaked me out.

“You’re not familiar at all,” I said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

He laughed. “Just lift the dainties up so they make two nice roundnesses at the top,” he directed. “You don’t want to get pinched.”

Dainties? I tried to be ginger and delicate and nudge them into place but that didn’t work. They were as soft as whipped cream and easily avoided gentle pokes. I had to grab them like I meant it. They are just lumps of fatty tissue, I told myself.

When I had my twin bags of lard placed to Johnny’s satisfaction they bulged out of the top of the garment alarmingly. “I’m not going to get arrested for showing them off?” I asked.

“Arrested?” he asked while he tugged and pulled at the waist and the cords in the back.

“You said I didn’t want to get pinched,” I explained.

He laughed hard at that. “We’ll try to keep you out of the brig,” he said. “But now you have a proper treasure chest,” he waggled his eyebrows, “like a mermaid is supposed to have.”

I sniffed at the mermaid joke while he adjusted the fit and the position of the shift and shoulder straps several times as he laced the stays up in back. I looked down into a crevass of cleavage, and the shift still did not quite cover some essential bits. I hoped now that some other garment would keep people from seeing something they ought not.

“Are you sure I’m not going to get arrested?” I asked.

He waved a hand. “Oh, la! We’ll pin a fee-shoo over the evidence and the magistrates won’t be able to prove a thing.”

What the heck was a fee-shoo? But already the strain of supporting my accessories was being taken by the stays. My back stopped hurting and I felt my shoulders being pulled into a very upright posture. The stays seemed to be designed to push the breasts up and out while the back was positioned to thrust the butt back.

It wasn’t at all uncomfortable, though, just stiff. I felt a bit awkward. I would have to bend and turn at the hips since the stays fit rigidly above the waist. How did ladies function like this? 

“Do you want it tighter?” he asked. “From where the strings have been tied, you seem to have been wearing it much tighter. I doubt not we could get your waist down to nineteen inches easily. It’s just the fashion for the young and beautiful in London nowadays.”

“I wouldn’t be able to breathe! And I’ve never worn stays before at all!” I protested.

He quirked an eyebrow. “I could believe that only if you admit to being a mermaid. These clothes are quite obviously yours, the more I look at them. Even the colors are chosen to flatter you, Miss, uh…?” He finally looked embarrassed. “I’ve forgotten your name, dear—do forgive me?”

“I’m Francis Pennwarden,” I said truthfully. Or maybe not? If the clothes did fit me, who the heck was I?

“Miss Frances Pennwarden,” he said, and I knew he was misspelling the first name. “May I call you Frannie when I’m helping you dress?”

I nodded a little doubtfully. Would no one ever call me Frank again?

He clapped his hands. “Very good then, dear Frannie. And I will endeavor to ensure the men do not call you Fannie when I’m around to protest.”

I frowned at that. Was that another joke about my butt?

He had me sit then and pulled what he called ‘hose’ up my legs and fastened them in place with garters that went up to the lower edge of the stays. Shoes, or rather, half-boots went on my feet, with heavy, ornate buckles and clunky-looking heels that must have been three inches high.

“I’m not sure I can walk in these,” I said.

“You were complaining about being short and these are the tallest I could find in this chest,” he said.

“No, I meant I’m afraid I’ll fall off them. I’m not used to wearing heels.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry, the buckles will keep them on. You should see the height of the shoes some of the men in Italy wear.”

“Men?” I said. But he seemed serious. 

He let me walk back and forth a bit to show me that they really were not hard to manage and I got a bit distracted by the two bowls of flesh-colored jello right in front of my eyes. The soft curves were not the only thing disturbing about the view, the darker flesh around my nipples showed clearly and even the little caramel candies themselves peeked out of the shift.

“I’m going to die of embarrassment,” I said.

Johnny scoffed. “It’s not the latest fashion, I know, but we’re in the New World. We’re lucky if your costume will be only five years out of date.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I protested again.

Johnny had me step into a petticoat before showing me the mirror. “Here, see? That’s not too bad.”

“Good lord,” I said, staring at my chest. Naughty bits were definitely showing even without the advantage of a view from above. And at my height, everyone would be looking down into my cleavage. “Nobody better call the law on me.”

Johnny laughed. “The constables would be too busy drooling to pinch you. But there’s lace to cover your bosom when we have you dressed.”

Oh, a fee-shoo must be a piece of lace—a doily for my dainties?

“Now, we have these small hoops on this belt for your hips and a roll for your bum.” Johnny quickly tied the belt with the hoops on the side and another belt that held —I swear!— a pillow balanced on my butt.

Unbelievably, these were to make my hips and ass look even wider and fatter. When I had another petticoat on over them I looked in the mirror and protested. “You have got to be kidding!” My hips really did look a yard wide now, and my butt stuck out behind me more than a foot.

“No, no, dearest. I know it isn’t the latest fashion in Paris but it will do. And you don’t want to wear a full hoop skirt on shipboard.”

I rolled my eyes. He kept misunderstanding me and I began to think he was doing it on purpose.

Another petticoat over everything, this one with ruffles that made it seem inches thick then another lace-covered shift tucked into the skirts at the waist. The addition of the shift almost concealed the advertisement of my chest.

The dress—gown, whatever—was a rich burgundy color with blue and gold lace that went over everything and again, failed to hide the scene of the crime.

“Johnny!” I let him know this was not going to do.

He produced a bit of lacy cloth, tucked it inside the shift and gown and pinned it in place. “There,” he said pleased with himself and me.

We looked in the mirror and I was astonished. I looked like someone a young George Washington might ask to go to the prom. Did they have proms in the eighteenth century? My bust was decently, if only barely and if that was the word, covered though still oh-so-prominent.

“Your hair,” said Johnny, “but we can do that in the wardroom while they rebuild in here.”

And just then, Chips came knocking again.

“Who is it?” Johnny called out in falsetto, winking at me.

“It’s Solange,” came the reply. “Open the door, ye bentstick!”

“Wait,” I said. “Johnny, I’m not wearing any shorts.” I whispered.

“Shorts?” He looked blank.

“Underwear,” I tried.

“Ye want another petticoat?”

“No, no,” I said. “Uh? P-p-panties?” Still blank. “Knickers?” Bewildered instead of blank. I made motions, pointing. “Underpants?” I said, my voice squeaking.

“Oh!” he said. “Ye need a clout? Are ye expecting your flow?”

“Well, no,” I stammered. I had not even thought of such a thing and it took me a moment now to understand what he meant. I seriously considered fainting at the thought. And a clout? Wasn’t that what Tarzan wore?

Johnny waved the question away. “We’ll deal with it when it happens. Your undershift will do for now.” 

But my undershift didn’t cover the relevant parts, I wanted to protest. Did eighteenth century girls not wear underpants, at all? Truly? I felt my face go hot.

Johnny opened the door with a theatrical flourish and in came a fuming and growling carpenter.

Mr. Solange, Chips, was a man who might be forty or seventy and looked a bit like some cartoon character’s grandfather with a bald head, a short fuzzy white beard, and bright hazel eyes under ferocious caterpillar eyebrows. He wore an apron and carried a leather satchel, both of them full of tools.

He barely got inside before he stopped to stare in my direction and his assistant following him walked right into his back while looking over him at me. They did a bit of physical comedy then Chips recovered enough to yell at us to “Get oat! And take yer boggy flindermass with ye!”

At least, that’s what I thought he said.