32 comments/ 100183 views/ 26 favorites The Spy Wore Petticoats By: Colleen Thomas Authors Note: This story was inspired by a character sketch of the Chevalier de Eron. It is not an attempt to portray his life or even a fictionalized version of his life. This story is just where my imagination took me. The erotic themes in the story are predominantly transgendered, so if this kind of story isn't your cup of tea, you have been warned. This story owes many people for it's coming to life. I wish to thank Belegon, for his superlative knowledge of swords and techniques and his generous advice on many of the action sequences. I would also like to thank CarsonSheppard for his review of the erotic sequences, his help was invaluable. Rob, Cloudy, Mats, Goosey, Abs, Rumple and Dran all deserve my thanks for reading snippets and providing feedback and impressions. More than anyone, though, this work and its author are indebted to Blackshanglan. From editing to advice to inspiration and perhaps more than anything, for encouraging me to try in a genre I always felt was beyond me. Thanks to you all. France, at the end of the War of Austrian Succession, found herself in a precarious position. She had secretly funded many of the claimants and found herself with little left in the treasury. In addition, the Anglo-Dutch Alliance, along with Fredrick of Prussia, left her nearly surrounded by hostile powers. Austria, though still suspicious of her, was not openly hostile, but the guarded neutrality offered the threat of total encirclement should Maria-Theresa join with the others. It was therefore imperative for France to find another ally besides Spain, and she turned her eyes towards the distant steppes of Russia. Our story opens with England and the Dutch threatening war with France while Fredrick plans a campaign against the Austrians in Silesia. "It will never work," the fat king declared melodramatically. He stood and paced back and forth, ignoring the sumptuous appointments of the duke's private rooms. "Your majesty, we must have an accord with the Russians," his Foreign Minister smoothly interjected. "But how? The Prussians will never allow a diplomat across their territory, nor will the Hapsburgs, they are too suspicious. The English will deny us a sea route. Russia would make a fine counterbalance, but how to approach them?" "We'll find a way, but for the evening, just enjoy the ball and let us worry about it," his chief advisor, the Duke De Fleury, said. Once the hapless monarch nodded and waddled off with the rest of his retainers, the powers behind the throne waited for a signal that his majesty had left the small building. When it came, the Duke D'Orleans immediately poured himself a stiff drink from a crystal decanter. "Must we put up with that idiot?" the foreign minister, Clemenceau, asked rhetorically. "If only he would father a child so we could do away with him. A regency would be so much more useful," the Count De Raven observed. "Peace, gentlemen," Grand Marshal Bell-Isle said. Although he was the lowest born of the council, his voice was strong and commanding, and the various noblemen all ceased their complaining. "He's corpulent, perverse, cowardly and stupid. What better ruler could we ask for? Anyone with a hint of the greatness of his forebears in his blood would have hanged us all for conspiracy long ago." "The worst of it is the fat bastard is right this time. I don't see any way to get a diplomatic mission to Elizabeth's court," the Duke of Normandy said. "Nor do I, and the military situation is grave. Perhaps we could use a courier who would attract no notice?" "Unlikely. Any nobleman could of course travel to Russia, but our last emissary didn't make it across the frontier before he was assassinated. We have at least one, if not many spies in our midst," De Fleury said. "That's likely. Perhaps we could send word by sea?" "No. If the English find out, it would be far worse than no help at all, and if they could prove to Fredrick we were plotting against him it would be disastrous. He would surely see any overture to Russia as proof or our ill intent..." The Spy Wore Petticoats "But I am not a girl!' "For this evening you are," she said imperturbably, "and thus you must get along as we do. Now gather yourself, I see a gentleman approaching and I am sure he is going to ask you to dance," "God help me," Charles moaned. "God and your hand," she added with amusement. Dance after dance, the men kept Charles on the floor. He never even managed to join the small group of women clustered around his beloved Mary or to slip her the note he had so carefully penned and concealed in his corset. She and her husband departed long before he was even able to pass up a dance and rest his sore feet. The Spy Wore Petticoats Julia laughed and rose, crossing to where Charlotte sat. "Very good. At least you are gaining an appreciation of which young men are handsome and which aren't. I feared I would never teach you that in time." "You are a very good teacher, sister dear," he spat. "Temper, temper. Smile prettily now," she ordered. He did so, his face going blank save for the slightly vacant expression he had been taught to adopt. "Very good. I'll be ready soon and we'll be off," she said as she exited the room. Her first inclination was to stand and pace, as she had been wont to do before her training had started. This impulse she fought down with the ease of long practice. Having nothing to do with her hands was the worst part, but she managed to sooth that itch by taking up a book. Strangely, the duke had provided several books for her to read, all in Russian. She assumed that they had something to do with her mysterious mission, but so far neither the Duke who visited frequently, nor Julia had deigned to enlighten him as to what it actually entailed. As she began to read, she thought back to that first day and how overwhelming it had all been. "Now, Now, mademoiselle, you must learn to let me help you undress. A lady never removes her own clothing when her maid is at hand," the older woman said, rushing to the side of the tub and helping Charles out of his night shirt. He quickly got into the hot water, using his hands to cover himself. She smiled and poured several small colored bottles of aromatic oils into the steaming water. He recognized sandalwood, and roses. "Very expensive dainties those are, from the duke himself," she said as she busied herself with a long handled brush. Charles resigned himself to the indignity of letting her wash him. Strangely, after a few minutes, it actually became rather nice to be so pampered, and by the time the water was cold he was feeling very serene inside. Madame Deveraou helped him out of the tub and dried him off. She spent a long time fussing over his hair and generally making sure he enjoyed the experience. Despite himself, he had, but nothing she could do would ever make dressing enjoyable and he detested the strange feel of his heavy makeup. Charles wondered about his new maid. She seemed matronly and while fluent in French, she occasionally talked to herself in English. One thing she never did during that whole first horrible day was to address him as anything but mam'zelle. "Come, sister, or we'll be late," Julia said. Charles nodded, carefully put down his book, and rose, following her out to the coach. Claude, the new coachman, sat atop the coach, decked out in the family's sable livery. Henri acted as footman, opening the door and offering his hand. The old man seemed to be taking Charles's transformation in stride. He evidenced no sneer or any other emotion as Charlotte entered the coach. Without thought, she dipped her hips and turned, sliding her left pannier through the door, then executing a swish of her hips, which brought the left side way up while dipping the right and swiveling her hips. Standing behind her and watching carefully, Julia nodded to herself. She watched as her brother reached down and secured his skirt before he sat. He kept his back slightly arched and allowed his skirts to ride up only suggestively. Julia quickly mounted up to the coach and sat opposite him. Claude called to the team and with a snap of the traces, they were off. Charlotte turned to the window, watching the estate slip by. Coach rides, how he hated them. Every night they would ride through the city, sometimes to some event Julia forced him to attend, but often just to ride. She refused him the comfort of the satin cod piece, explaining he needed to learn exactly how vulnerable a woman felt, even when fully dressed. The first time he sat, he flashed her as his skirt shot up into his face. He tore dresses, petticoats, and stockings and ruined one of his best panniers before he mastered the swiveling of his hips upon entering a coach. Julia made them ride long hours after making him drink large quantities of wine. Often he felt as if his bladder were about to burst, and the cobbled streets only made it worse. Yet she was relentless, explaining patiently as he whined that a lady had to be able to endure long stretches between stops. He suspected this had something to do with his mission, whatever it was, but she remained vague. Now he rode in his own little world, feeling neither the need to urinate, the tight corset biting into his sides or the itch of his hair on his neck. He sipped air rather than breathing deeply, using the upper part of his lungs, which were not as constricted by his clothing. The coach slid to a smooth stop in the brilliantly lit drive of the Momfort house and liveried footmen quickly opened the door. Charlotte rose and reached out, taking the footman's strong hand and daintily alighting. From the small pouch she wore beneath her skirts, she took out and handed him a silver penny. Once Julia had gotten out, Claude took the coach around to the servants' quarters. The house steward, in his outrageously powdered wig, was waiting for them on the front steps and escorted them into the foyer. Claude Momfort was waiting to greet them. He was an older man who had made his fortune at sea. While in his eighties, he was still hale. And still a lecherous old goat, Charlotte reminded herself as he seized both her hands and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. As she expected, when he leaned forward his hands rose, and he took the liberty of caressing her breasts though her dress. "Lady De Toberville, so glad you came," he declared in a booming voice that still invoked images of a ship's master. She exchanged kisses with Madame De Momfort, a kindly old woman who, like herself, was still new to the role of society lady. This was one of the reasons Julia had so often accepted invitations from the Momforts. They were just recently wealthy and Claude had only been elevated to the nobility some five years previous. It was rumored that a highly successful buccaneering venture had so increased Louis's treasury that it had prompted the honor. Whatever the reason, the Momforts were perfect for Julia's needs. Charlotte's social faux pas passed all but unnoticed among them. Reginald Momfort, the old man's foppish, dilettante of a son breezed in, tossing his riding gloves to a servant. He was tall but had a large paunch already and wore a scraggly black beard to hide the scars from the pox. He looked ridiculous in his riding boots and Charlotte doubted he even knew how to mount a horse, much less ride one. Still, she envied him the freedom to do so. His entrance was so contrived as to be comical and she deftly avoided his clumsy attempt to fondle her breasts during their brief embrace. "Why?" "It would be rude not to," Julia said imperturbably. "But every time we go there, Reginald...touches me." "I know, isn't it delicious?" "It's nothing of the sort!" "Well, dear sister, you must learn to cope. No matter where you go, men will be at you, like hounds to the bitch. A lady simply learns to avoid those she doesn't have any interest in." "How do you avoid him? He's always near and his hands... No matter where I turn, they are upon me!" Julia had left him in the room, nearly weeping in frustration, but she had returned some time later wearing one of his old riding outfits. What followed was an awkward but instructive four hour lesson in avoidance without seeming to be avoiding. That was, of course, the key. It was impolitic for a young lady to seem to be spurning the advances of a nobleman. As Julia told him time and again, she could not afford to earn the enmity of any one, least of all a man of power and influence. Charles learned to use his fan like a rapier, jabbing it into a man's breastbone when they kissed. He learned to make deft moves with his body, placing the more attractive bits in awkward places and forcing a man to behave least he seem a cad. He even learned the hardest lesson; there were some men you simply did not deny. Exactly whom you allowed to get away with indiscretions and whom you could tactfully rebuff was another hard lesson, mostly because Julia stressed that there were men you simply didn't want to rebuff. He assumed because she found them attractive, which he certainly did not. And there were some you could not afford to. Yet he had ceased to try and deny Claude the minor pleasure, while consistently rebuffing his aggressive son. He had realized that Claude was a sweet if gruff man and he meant nothing by it. He wasn't a man Charlotte couldn't afford to rebuff, but one he chose not to. The first night Charles allowed him his minor pleasure he lay awake till the wee hours of the morning, wondering why. None of the answers he found pleased him. "You look absolutely divine." "Thank you, monsieur," Charlotte responded automatically. They moved to the dining room, where dinner was served. As they ate, Claude regaled them with his sea stories, the same stories he had told over and over again. They grew with each telling, but Charlotte politely listened and laughed on cue. In some ways he was so much like her father. "Tell me, son, what do you think of the political situation?" Claude asked. Charlotte groaned inwardly. She did like the old man, but it had become obvious he really liked her and was trying to help his son make inroads. She managed a socially acceptable vapid expression and tuned out as he began his obviously rehearsed "musings." "I don't care if he tells you that the army must march across the ocean and help the Colonials. Ladies do not argue military matters with men!" "He's so insufferably stupid. Even you know we cannot defeat Prussia and Austria at the same time!" Charles exclaimed. "Yes dear sister, I know it," she said, her anger abating like a summer storm. "Then why?" he whined. "Because you cannot show you know it. Your pretty little head should be filled with only a few matters. The latest fashions, the next ball, finding a husband so you can raise a family," she said, pinching his cheek playfully. "You aren't stupid, dear sister. Why do you pretend to be so? You knew I was right." "Because you aren't supposed to let them know you know, silly. One of your greatest weapons is that men will underestimate your ability. Even perceptive men will always assume a woman is inferior unless you let them know differently. This you must never do." "But why?" "Because you are a woman, Charlotte, and women don't profess to understand politics or anything else that is a man's province. With certain men, in certain situations, showing you have a mind will gain you much, but in general, showing such knowledge will arouse suspicion. It isn't done and you must not do it. I never want to hear you again showing you have a thought in your head more complicated than learning the latest dance steps from Italy or acquiring a new dress. Do you understand me?" "That's all so terribly interesting, Reginald," Julia said. Charlotte had learned to bite her tongue, but had never managed the affected interest his sister seemed to be able to muster so naturally. Still, she had learned her lessons well, and as soon as Reginald launched into his dissertation on the court in Russia, she saw her chance. "I heard the women in Elizabeth's court no longer wear corsets. Do you know if that's true?" she asked, innocently batting her eyelashes at Claude. The old man colored slightly and smiled. "I've never been my dear. The only Russian lady I met was in Hanover and she..erm..she seemed to be wearing a corset at the time." "Oh," Charlotte replied, seeming suitably dejected that her attempt at conversation had failed. It so galled her to play dumb, but the effect she wanted was achieved as the conversation turned to things closer to home and she was spared one of Reginald's long winded, self important lectures. It was late when the servants cleared the table, and Charlotte was looking forward to going home. "Julia dear, would you mind joining me in the parlor a moment? I've been thinking of purchasing a new settee and I have heard you are knowledgeable about such things," Madame De Momfort asked. "Of course," Julia replied, and they both retired. "Well, you young folks enjoy yourselves. It's late and I must retire. Thank you for coming, Lady De Toberville," Claude said, with a theatrical yawn. He rose as did she and he kissed her goodnight, again gently stroking her bust. She watched him leave and took another sip of wine when it hit her. Too late, Charlotte realized her danger. It infuriated her when she realized that this had to have been set up before hand. The parents were obviously in on it and now she was left alone in the dining room with Reginald. "Well, since Mother and Lady De Locke are busy, what say we take a stroll?" he said. He was sweating and nervous. His little beady eyes glittered with lust and his skin was splotchy and livid. He was, without doubt, the most repulsive man she had ever seen, and she had to fight back the urge to retch. Julia had to be in on it too, she decided. This was another of her tests. Biting back a sarcastic retort, she smiled and rose, making very sure to grab her fan. "I'd love to," she said, forcing the words out and despairing at their failure to sound sweet. Luckily, Reginald was too anxious or just too dense to hear anything in the words. He rose and came around the table. Charlotte was thinking fast now, remembering her lessons. She waited patiently for him to remember to offer his arm. When he did, she took it and they walked out into the cool refreshing night air. Charlotte held onto his arm with a strong grip but allowed him to guide her down the walk, making sure to keep right next to him. Her skirts offered her a good deal of protection as long as they were side by side, which was why she waited for his arm. "It's a beautiful night, isn't it? Simply made for love," he said. She wanted to gag. He wasn't even going to wait until they were out of sight of the house to press himself upon her. She had to think of something quickly; there was no way she would permit herself to be lead into the dark corner of the estate he was angling for. Her mind was working fast when she hit upon a plan. "Actually, it's a lovely night for riding, or so I have heard. Reginald dear, would you show me the stables?" she asked in her sweetest tone. "The stables? But of course!" he said, nearly stumbling in his eagerness to get her there. The inside smelled of hay and earth, horses, leather and sweat. As she had expected, the coachmen were there and the stable boys, drinking from a jug. They all rose when the couple entered. He was going to dismiss them, she could see it in his eyes, but she was ahead of him. "Oh dear! How wonderful. The servants are here. You can show me how well you ride now!" she exclaimed. "Ride? Oh yes, of course. You there, boy, saddle my horse, at once do you hear!" Charlotte smiled behind her fan and watched as the men quickly saddled up a large black stallion. The stable boy led it out to the open heath and Reginald clumsily mounted up. "It's really very easy my dear, you should consider learning to ride," he boasted as he sat unsteadily in the saddle. "He's such a magnificent creature, and you look so dashing," she fawned, getting closer to the animal. When Reginald preened at the praise, he looked forward and that was all she needed. Charlotte jabbed the big horse in his flank with her fan. He was a good animal, but the unsteady hand on the reins and being roused from his warm stall so late in the evening had him a little spooked. The sudden jolt caused him to rear and bolt. Both horse and rider careened down the track and out of sight before Reginald could do more than yell imprecations at his mount. Charlotte smiled and looked over her shoulder at the grinning servants. She winked saucily and sauntered back to the main house. The Spy Wore Petticoats "I had my reservations, but I'll be damned if I wasn't tempted to bed the wench myself," he said, unsteadily filling another tumbler of brandy. "Clemenceau?" "Words fail me," he said grudgingly. "D'Orleans?" "I'd bed her. She's more comely than most of the hags in Louis's court," he said simply. "It was more than looks. I've seen men playing maid before. It was the way she spoke, moved, carried herself. The difference between her and the camp followers is indescribable," Bell-Isle added. "Are we in agreement then?" De Fleury asked. "Quite. Call them back in, Simon," the Duke D'Orleans said to his manservant. The two women returned to the small chamber and curtsied. "Mademoiselle, if you will excuse us, we wish to speak privately to your sister," De Fleury said to Julia. She curtsied again and hesitantly left the room. Once the door closed, the tension became almost unbearable. "We are convinced, mademoiselle, that you are exactly what we need. Therefore, I ask that you reaffirm your intention to aide us, before we continue," De Fleury said. "I do," she said simply. "Very well. The war in the English colonies in the Americas threatens to break out into a general conflict here in Europe. We have worked to make peace with our old enemy, the Austrians, against the common threat of Prussia. There is still deep distrust there and Empress Maria Theresa suspects our motives. What we need is to open diplomatic channels with Elizabeth's court in Russia." "As you are no doubt aware, both the English and Prussians do not wish this," Bell-Isle interjected. "We have sent emissaries, but they never arrive. The Prussian spy network is strong and their assassins ruthless. On the high seas, the English stop any ship bound for any port from Archangel to the Baltic coast," De Fleury continued. "How many?" Charlotte asked in a soft voice. "Some twenty emissaries and half again that many spies. It's a very dangerous undertaking. Even at the Russian court there are spies; one of our men was poisoned the very day he arrived in the Muscovite capital," the duke added. "So here is our proposition. You will travel with a maid and one companion to Elizabeth's court in Russia. There you will work your way into her confidence and, when the time is appropriate, present King Louis's offer. If she accepts, you will return with the treaty by the most expedient means possible. If she refuses, you will remain and act as our spy until such time as war breaks out." "We do not expect them to suspect a woman. You should be relatively safe. When you return, you will be handsomely rewarded. Are you with us?" "Yes, I will do my duty to France," Charlotte said. "Very well," De Fleury said, "You will be temporarily brevetted a captain of Dragoons. This will allow you to make your introduction in an official capacity." The Spy Wore Petticoats Charlotte began to stroke him more confidently, using her wrist to add to the motion and twisting her hand slightly, as she knew that afforded the most pleasure. He broke the kiss and smiled at her before grunting in appreciation of her more energetic participation. "Very nice, ma cherie," he whispered, before returning his mouth to hers. This time she sucked on his probing tongue, and a small, soft moan escaped into his mouth when his hand covered her breast. Soon his hips began to jog and she could tell by his groaning that his release was fast approaching. She tightened her grasp and quickened her pace, matching his humping, and brought her other hand to his now magnificently swollen head. Charlotte ran her palm gently over the sensitive crown and in moments she felt the hot eruption of his seed on her palm. He came powerfully, with several thick spurts before his prick ceased quivering. Charlotte used the thick liquid to lubricate the rest of his cock and continued to stroke until the monster finally began to get soft in her small hands. Ivan sat back at last and sighed contentedly. Charlotte, her mind suddenly freed of whatever spell had held her, released his prick and wiped her sticky hands upon his breeches. A welter of emotions gripped her, shame, fear, humiliation and arousal beyond any she had known before. She quickly darted back to her side of the coach and tried to make sense of all she was feeling. "Not bad at all," he commented, breaking into her concentration. Charlotte felt the heat of her blush rising across her chest and into her cheeks. "Thank you," she murmured, lowering her eyes. "So shy, but fear not, it's a long journey and we shall be much in each other's company. By the time we reach St. Petersburg, you will be able to jerk a man off while carrying on a conversation, mark my words." Charlotte could think of nothing to say and so remained silent. The Spy Wore Petticoats Around and around they went, his attacks coming very close, but forever the saber's blade deflected the rapier's point at the last instant. Charlotte found her skirts were a severe impediment to her ability. Not that they had to be; she just wasn't used to them. The constant swish and sway of them, as well as the added weight at his hips and the corset's tight grip were distractions he could overcome, but only if he lived long enough to practice. Seconds ground away to minutes, and the nobleman's attacks began to grow less swift and come less often. His breathing was labored and the entire leg of his pantaloons was soaked in a deep crimson stain. She took a chance after a thrust went wide without her help and flicked a backhanded slash that scored his arm below the shoulder. The dagger flashed, ripping upward into the space her stomach should have occupied, but Charlotte had expected it and carried through with her body behind the blade. A quick spin and her saber caught the rapier's blade and again pushed it away from her breast. She waited again, not attacking but simply standing, her blade at the ready. The color had drained from her opponent's face and his lips were turning blue. His blade faltered and drooped, leaving a perfect opening on his right side, but she declined to take the opening. When he realized she wasn't going to move, he finally spoke. "Bitch," he spat. "If that is so, then you have been bested by a bitch. Drop your weapons," Charlotte replied. "I think not. My esteemed uncle will no doubt make me wish I were dead and with this leg, I have no chance of making the frontier before his agents are after me. Besides, my patron will not offer me protection for failing him. Better to die now, although there is little honor in my parting." With desperate bravado he lunged at her, his blade extended. There was no chance in such a thrust. She was set and had her guard up. She parried easily and her riposte passed cleanly through his chest. "You had little honor left," she responded, wrenching her blade free. "Oh my goodness, you're wounded mam'zelle," Madame Deveraou called, rushing forward to inspect a scratch on Charlotte's arm. "Help me untie the men, we must be away from here quickly." In a few minutes the attackers' bodies were stripped of weapons and the coaches were rolling again. The Spy Wore Petticoats Charlotte was too sick to point out she wasn't a woman or to catch the innuendo. She wished only that the sun wasn't so bright, the coach would stop lurching and her poor stomach would cease its roiling. *** For the next several days they rode along roads that got progressively worse. Ivan was leading them down back roads, and in some places what seemed to be no more than garden tracks and game trails. Often the men would have to get out and push the coaches through deep mud as the rain continued to fall. Once, when Ivan returned to the coach covered in thick, unpleasant smelling mud, with his clothes torn and a bloody scratch on his arm from one of the coach wheels, Charlotte experienced something she had never thought to. She was actually glad to be a woman. She was dry and cozy, having just eaten a bite, and as the coach began to move, she had to admit that there were advantages to this she had never imagined. She passed Ivan a bottle of wine, which he pulled at, and a mince pie, which he almost savagely devoured. He was in a bad temper and she chose to remain quiet while he seethed. Eventually, though, the quiet became unnerving and she wished for some conversation. In the old days, she would have made a comment on the rain or mud, but she found her mind working along new paths now, looking for the least confrontational thing while at the same time considering his personality and what might flatter him enough to forestall an outburst. "Have we come as far today as you had hoped?" she finally asked. "Nyet," he replied, sourly. "The rain? Or the roads?" "Both." "It's a good thing then, that you had the foresight to get extra food and wine in Rouey." "Hmmm? Yes, well, I was afraid this weather would slow us," he replied, obviously pleased at the compliment, which was as she had intended. "I did not realize rain was such an impediment to coach travel," she added, choosing her words carefully. "It isn't so much the rain as the mud. I have serious doubts that we will be able to ford the Aisne," he said. Taking another drink of wine and appearing to lose at least some of his ill humor, he sat back, but his body remained tense, the great muscles in his arms standing out. "What shall we do if we can't?" "I do not think we are followed. We will just have to wait. I see no point in turning east again." The coach shuddered to a halt again and Ivan cursed as he went back out into the rain. Soon she heard the men pushing, grunting and cursing. She took a sip of the wine, enjoying the warm, dry coach. Yes, she decided, being a woman did have its advantages after all. The Aisne turned out not to be as swollen as Ivan had feared and they managed to ford in the late evening. The rain continued as Laon, Crepy and Guise came and went. Ivan's humor remained ill and they spoke almost not at all. She found him increasingly taciturn and soon began to actively try to draw him into conversation. She told herself it was good practice, but knew in truth she was lonely and missing home. Despite her best devices, he became simply unbearable, sitting and staring forward with a scowl and radiating anger. He ignored her polite queries and snapped if she pushed him, until he became so unpleasant that the silence seemed more welcoming. As often as she could, she went to the following coach and chatted with Madame Deveraou. They rarely stopped, however, and so she often went many hours without saying a word to anyone. Left to her own devices, Charlotte found herself more and more often drawn into a fantasy world of day dreams and reminisces. More and more often, her daydreams turned to sex. This wasn't so strange, she reasoned. Since this whole wretched episode had begun, she hadn't gotten off herself. And she had been thrust into several sexually tense situations. It only stood to reason that she would feel the need for release. What bothered her was the form her dreams were taking. She no longer found herself dreaming of the delights hidden under Mary's skirts, but more and more often she found herself with men. Her imaginings became ever more explicit and she herself became ever more bold, until she awoke to find herself desperately massaging herself. She broke down then, shuddering and sobbing. In her dream, she had been sucking Ivan's huge manhood. *** By the time the rain broke, Charlotte had rationalized that her strange dreams were simply a reflection of having to constantly remember to act like a lady. She was sure they did not represent a subconscious desire to have sex with men, but rather reflected her single minded pursuit of keeping up the part she was forced to play. Rather than fret over them, she decided to embrace them. Yet she continued to feel a nagging sense of guilt at the arousal they brought. It was late evening when they crossed the frontier and finally put France behind them. Ivan's mood lightened perceptibly as each hour found them farther from the conspiracy he saw behind every rock and tree. Charlotte, on the other hand, began to fret. They were now leaving the bounds of her homeland and the protection of the duke. From now on, her ability to keep up her disguise would take on an ever more paramount importance. Not only that, but she would soon be forced to use her wiles to secure them passage, lodging and whatever support the local nobility would afford them. It was a daunting prospect and for a while, worrying about it banished even her sexual fantasies. They returned with sleep, more vivid and demanding than ever, and she awoke the next morning with an aching in her body that was breathtaking. She resolved to take care of it at the first opportunity, but had not even moved to slide her hand into her skirts before Ivan stirred. He was still asleep, but Charlotte couldn't help but notice the bulge at his crotch. She wanted to turn away; she wanted to touch it; she was torn between the two. Charlotte bit her lower lip and tried to turn her head away, but she was having little luck. As she watched it seemed to swell even more, threatening to burst out of the confines of his breeches. At least, in her imagination it seemed capable of such a feat. She was still staring when he spoke. "Go ahead, it won't bite," he said in an amused voice. Charlotte gasped in surprise and quickly turned her head. Outside a large river sparkled in the distance. There were acres of green pastureland and vineyards as well as a small village near the river. "What river is that?" she asked, to cover her embarrassment. She was still looking when she felt the coach sway and then Ivan was next to her, leaning across her body to look out the window with her. His body was hard and she could smell him. She could feel the heat of his body on her arm. "That is the Meuse. That village in the distance is Charleroi. Farther up at Liege, we will ford the river and make for Aix-la-Chapelle. There we will beg the hospitality of Count Hige." His arm slipped around her slim shoulders and pulled her tightly to his body. "But come, this is not the time for geography lessons. We have more pleasurable pastimes to pursue this morning." Charlotte found herself held fast to his body, unable to move away even if she had been so inclined. Ivan took her hand and guided it to his crotch. For a moment, she rebelled, trying to snatch her hand back, but the impulse to preserve her masculinity was fleeting. She could feel his strong arms upon her and smell his arousal, and it combined with her own need and curiosity. She slowly undid his pants, her eyes fixed to the thick bulge. Ivan's prick sprang free, bouncing up to smack his stomach. Charlotte stared, fascinated by it. Ivan scooted to the far end, pulling her along with him until she was lying on the bench with her head against his chest. He relaxed then, seemingly willing to let her investigate as he removed his shirt. She wrapped her hand around the shaft and began to gently stroke it, feeling the warm skin on her palm. As she stroked, Ivan leaned down her body and pulled her skirts up past her stocking tops. Charlotte was unsure of what he was doing until she felt his large hand demanding entrance between her thighs. To her shame, her legs parted without a thought from her or even a trace of protest. Ivan cupped the satin sheath, with two fingers pressed down, between her legs and along her trapped shaft. When he began to massage her, as a man would a woman, she moaned. It felt indescribably delicious and a warm tightness shot though her loins and tummy. Soon their hands found a matched rhythm and for a while, they just massaged each other. Charlotte noticed a thin, clear liquid gathered on the head of his prick that had not been there earlier. Ivan's free hand moved across his body and settled on the back of her head, firmly pressing her head down. Mutual masturbation was one thing, but when she divined his intent she rebelled, fighting against his hand. Even so, her face was pressed inexorably downward, until her firmly compressed lips bumped against his cock head. "Suck it," he encouraged. Charlotte shook her head. "Open!" he commanded. Despite her wishes, she felt helpless to disobey him and hesitantly parted her lips. His hips lunged upward, again bumping her lips. "Lick it," he said in a softer tone. Charlotte closed her eyes and darted her pink tongue out and over the silky head. It felt strange, like a skinned berry, velvety soft and nice on her tongue. The taste was not as bad as she expected, a kind of strong musk with a very strong salty overtone. "You see, ma cherie, it isn't so bad, now is it?" "Non," she whispered. "Of course not. Why else would women love it so? Soon you will find yourself craving it," he said confidently. "Oooh!" she exclaimed as his fingers moved further into the cleft between her legs, a thick finger settling on her anus. "Now, open your mouth wide and take the whole thing." Charlotte obeyed, opening her mouth wide and feeling Ivan's head press between her lips. She just held it there, unsure of what to do next. "Ahhhh, don't just sit there, suck it. That's right, suck it hard. Now use your tongue. All around the head. Very good." Charlotte clamped her lips around the shaft, just beneath the head, and sucked. She rolled her tongue over it and around but settled near the bottom, where she knew her own prick was most sensitive. Ivan groaned. "I think, my dear, you're a natural cock sucker!" he enthused. The praise made her feel good for some reason and she redoubled her efforts, using one hand to stroke the massive shaft and the other to gently play with his heavy balls. Ivan's hips began to jog, but Charlotte let her head ride with them, preventing him from driving more of his cock into her already stuffed mouth. Her jaw was sore, but she barely noticed. Ivan's finger had gently pressed against her anus, now rubbing, now pressing in, then circling. It felt so good, but it also itched, making her want more contact. Ivan removed his hand suddenly and she whined around his cock. She heard him spit and wondered what he was doing, when his finger returned and pressed firmly against her opening. Charlotte started, losing her rhythm and gagged when his thick cock drove deeper into her mouth, the head bumping against her tonsils. She was unable to close her legs and his other hand on the back of her head, plus his jogging hips, forced her to concentrate on what she was doing. His finger forced its way into her, up to the first knuckle. She groaned around his cock and the added vibration seemed to take him over the edge. His cock swelled in her mouth and exploded, sending a hot splash of his cum against the back of her mouth. She tried frantically to pull her head away, but Ivan's hand was like iron. "Swallow it!" he demanded. Charlotte had little choice. Where the earlier liquid had tasted mild, this was strong, not exactly bitter, but very salty and strong. She swallowed several times, as Ivan refused to allow her to raise her head until his cock shriveled in her mouth and ceased to ooze his seed. Only then did he remove his finger from her abused anus and allow her to sit back up. "Not bad for a first timer," he said after she had arranged herself. "I...I do not know what to say," she said, blushing in confusion. "Say nothing then. You are doing well, learning what it is to be a woman rather than just what it takes to act a woman. The difference is subtle, but very real. Your dear sister could not bring herself to teach you this part of your masquerade, but I, Ivan Daggeroff, will make a woman of you before we reach mother Russia!" Charlotte turned to the window, too stunned at this turn of events to even respond. *** By noon they had arrived at Charleori and Ivan procured food and drink for them at a small tavern. The food was good and so was the wine. Charlotte had a little more than was good for her, but it proved to be fortuitous. Ivan demanded she service him again and she found it went easier when she was tipsy. She spent over an hour before the big man gave her "dessert." After dinner, he insisted again, and Charlotte found herself more than willing to please. She found she enjoyed the human contact, and Ivan's praise flattered her more than she would have imagined. She was surprised he was able to get it up again. This time he had her try new things, like licking the shaft while looking up at him and laving his hairy balls. Charlotte took a practical approach to it. It was indeed a part of her training Julia couldn't have prepared her for. Ivan was obviously an experienced man, and while he didn't always know how to tell her what he wanted, he was sure of what he liked. Charlotte learned and refined her technique. Still, his next demand caught her off guard. "Surely you jest?" she asked incredulously. Charlotte was on her knees between Ivan's legs. It was dark and the coachers were stopped for the night. Her lips were wet and she licked them unconsciously. "Swallow it all," Ivan said. "It's impossible," she declared. "For some maybe, but you are a natural and it's something a man will not get often. A woman who can do it can greatly influence a man," he said reasonably. "But..." "No buts, do it." Charlotte opened her mouth and sucked the head of his cock into her mouth. She had been sucking him off for a long time, so it was wet and slick. The first time it bumped her tonsils she gagged and sat up. "It's impossible," she declared. "Nonsense, you must learn to suppress your desire to gag." Ivan took her head in his hands and guided her lips to his straining prick. She again opened her mouth and sucked his head in. This time she managed not to gag when it pressed against her tonsils, but the shock of it forcing its way past them was too much. She tried to rise up, but Ivan wouldn't let her. He applied firm pressure to her head, driving it down on his girth. Charlotte panicked, trying to get her hands into a position where she could push herself away, but Ivan caught both wrists. She rose off it and coughed. "Again," he demanded. "Please," she whined. "We will stay at it until you succeed or I fall asleep," he said coldly. Charlotte knew she couldn't fight free of him, and she had no wish to sit there until he fell asleep. So she took a deep breath and tried again. This time it was easier to suppress the gag reflex, but as the head expanded her throat it hit something and she started coughing. Again and again she tried, each time failing. Her jaw ached, her knees ached, her hands were numb and she was more sure than ever it was impossible, yet she tried again. This time she went very slowly, and was encouraged when the head slipped past her tonsils with almost no desire on her part to choke. She closed her eyes and turned her head slightly as more sank into her tight throat, pushing deeper. She was having trouble breathing and her eyes had begun to water when her nose bumped into the prickly curls of Ivan's pubes. Ivan laughed and released her hands while Charlotte rose off his thick shaft. "You see? You can do it," he chuckled. Disbelieving, Charlotte grabbed his shaft and tried again. She failed, but realized she was going too fast. The next time, she took it slowly and again managed to take it all. She couldn't every time, but at least on some attempts she could. She felt exhilarated, proud of herself and happy with her improving skills as a fellatrix. It was only after Ivan had come and was asleep that it dawned upon her what she had been so happy about. *** "I am sorry mam'zelle, monsieur, but we must let them rest," Henri said. "We are so close to Liege; surely they can make it that far?" Charlotte asked. "I do not know, but I do know if we run one to death we will be hard pressed to replace it. The long run through the mud was cruel. They need a day to rest." "Very well, back the coaches under the trees off the road and picket them close by. Issue muskets to your men. One on guard at all times at least. We will get no farther if they are stolen than we will if they are dead," Ivan ordered. The sun was out and soon the men all went down to the river. There, they stripped and swam, removing the mud and sweat. Charlotte sat upon a blanket spread on the ground while Madame Deveraou worked on her hair. Ivan joined the men and Charlotte found herself watching them as they joked and took turns dunking each other. "Nice specimens of manhood, are they not?" Madame Deveraou said. "Yes, they all are very fit, save for Ivan's manservant." "Do not let his looks deceive, mam'zelle. Gustav is the best lover among them, including that barbarian you ride with." "Is he really? She asked, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of his shriveled manhood and smooth body. "Indeed." "And you know this how?" Charlotte asked, arching her eyebrow. "I've tried em all," she replied simply. "He doesn't seem to be...very well endowed?" "Size is only part of it. A man has to know what to do with what he has and how to compensate for his...shortcomings." Charlotte smiled and turned back to the river. Suddenly, a thought struck her and she turned back to her maid. "What does it feel like?" she blurted after she could find no polite way to ask. "What does what feel like? Getting fucked?" "Yes, getting fucked," Charlotte repeated, lowering her eyes. "It feels wonderful, mam'zelle, simply wonderful. A woman never feels so complete as she does when she has a man's weight upon her and his prick buried in her. You feel full, hungry for more and...complete." "Thank you," Charlotte said when it became obvious words were failing her maid. "You're very welcome, mam'zelle, but if you please, it's much better to experience it than hear about it." "Dear Madame Deveraou, you have been so discreet, but you know as well as I, that it is something I cannot experience." "If it please, you certainly can. Granted, you haven't a quim, but you do have another opening and it's quite nice there as well." "You can't mean?" "I certainly do. I've seen the men, they all watch you. They would all love to take you. It's only your station that keeps em from pressing. You have to do what you think is right of course, but if you'll listen to your old maid, it's well worth it." Charlotte remained silent and Madame Deveraou went back to her hair. She found herself debating the merits of her maid's suggestion. *** It was night again and the river was far behind them. The crossing had been uneventful and they had dined well at an inn before resuming their trip. Ivan had drunk a good deal of the local wine, as had Charlotte. They were both full, and while he seemed to show no ill effects, she was lightheaded and giddy. She was more than giddy, however; apprehension was growing in her breast. Each hour took them further from France and deeper into danger. She would soon have to convince men to offer them shelter and protection, and she would have to do so with no letter from the Duke. Their safety, as well as the success of their mission, now was resting entirely upon her shoulders, and the weight of it was beginning to crush her.