Erotic Transformation Flow

My story began in the worst of nightmares, but ended in my dreams coming true. It was in the trenches, in 1917, that I knew that I could not go on. As a man I was expected to fight, to win victory, or suffer death trying. I could never do any of that, and I did succeed in escaping.

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There was a time that day that Colette said she thought it may be better if she gave up training me as a lady. Perhaps I would be better suited to pose as a servant-girl. This seemed really awful to me. The thought of scrubbing pans and serving her under Marie's supervision, while still wearing women's clothes. It was even worse than wearing women's clothes and a life of leisure. That made me try much harder. I even tried very hard to master the arts of table-manners, so that this would not happen. Colette later said that I was a good pupil. Later I realised one of the reasons why I tried so hard not to be made a servant-girl. The thought of wearing a maid's uniform, similar to the one Marie did, was terrible to me. I felt that I would not like to trade my soft skirts and lacy petticoats for a life like that. Before I had been there a week, I knew the names of every type of female apparel (in French), could put powder and paint on my face well enough, could go about with a walk and movements that were decidedly feminine. I was speaking French all the time, and was learning new words as I went. Even though I was not to be a maid, I still took my turn in household duties. The house was too big for Marie to keep clean on her own, so Colette and I did some light dusting and sweeping. I put an apron over my blouse and skirt, and went around with a feather duster. Of course I resented all this. I was still a man, wasn't I? If my fellow soldiers heard about all this, they would laugh and deride me something awful. Then again, they had treated me with contempt the time, and I had never been able to live up to what a man was supposed to be, or even wanted to. I even went through a phase, in the second week, of considering that I had forfeited my manhood by running away, and that my fate of being changed into a woman was a just punishment. So I was `hiding behind women's skirts' in more senses than one. I had been called to fight for my country, I reasoned. And when the time had come to give my all, or die resisting the Germans, I had shown cowardice. So this was to be my fate: rather than being shot as a deserter, I was condemned to dress and act as a woman. I was to wear dresses, skirts, petticoats and corsets, and to act in a passive manner. The exercises Colette had had me do: this elegant way of walking, sitting down, curtsying. Of course I was to do all this. I was not a man any more, and was only fit to be a woman. It was a just penalty for a coward, for one who had not been a man when his country called him. I had proved to be no man. So now fate had decreed that I should be a woman. Poetic justice. I thought for a while this may be a fate worse than death, and a deserved one. But later I thought again.

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