Erotic Transformation Flow
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`But you must realise that your life depends on how well you can do all this. You may not see very many people, but I am sure that your soldiers will be looking for you. And they will hear if anyone notices anything strange about the new young woman at Chateau Mallarmes. You must work very hard indeed at everything I teach you.' I was still horrified at being changed into a woman. But I found the idea of flower-arranging and playing music pleasant. Far more than acting like a soldier and being shot at. Still I had to bring up one important issue. `Colette, how long will I need to go about dressed as...like this?' Colette looked very serious indeed. `I do not know, Antoinette. I have no idea at all. I do not think we can do much while your army is so close. I feel it may not be until after the war is over, and then a little longer.' I was mortified. `But that might not be for years!' I remembered when everyone said in 1914 that it would be over by Christmas. Now that was three years ago. `I could not go on living like this all that time.' `Do you think there is any other way?' I clutched onto straws. `Yes, if I wore my uniform, or if you lent me some farm-worker's clothes, I could take my chances on slipping past the MPs and getting back to England.' `Oh, Antoinette, you are mad!' (she said `Tu es folle' and not `tu es fou:' Another feminine form in French.)`You must have already been reported as having deserted. You cannot hope to get any farther than the railway station. If that far. They are looking for anyone with your description. And they would want to see your papers, which you have not got. They will be looking for you at the Channel ports, and almost everywhere from here to Boulogne.' `And worse still, you no longer have any male clothes. We just had to burn your uniform, remember. The only men's clothes we have in this house is the old nightshirt you were using earlier. Even that will have to be burned this very night, to avoid any suspicion. Of course you are free to leave as you wish, but you have no alternative but to stay. And you must stay on my terms.' It was true. My skirts and petticoats whispered around my legs as in silent mockery. In running from the war I had doomed myself to an indefinite period of dressing and masquerading as a woman. Still, it was better than death - or was it? After talking for a few hours more about dresses and feminine behaviour Colette ushered me up to bed. After undressing me, cleaning off my face-paint and helping me wash, she tucked me up, in a long night dress and cap, between the soft sheets.
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