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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Carruthers was liaison officer with the civilian population. This was a joke, as he could not manage twenty words of French, and his haughty behaviour always soon got the French annoyed. I often had to change the wording as I interpreted what he said, but they understood his attitude well enough. A fortnight after we arrived I was told to drive Carruthers out of the village to the home of a Madamoiselle de Mallarmes, who wanted to organise a canteen and entertainment service for the troops. He complained all the way to the chateau about having to give sweet talk to some old French spinster, without any real point to it. He was really sick of the war too.

But when we arrived at this modest mansion a few miles out, the story was different. Colette de Mallarmes was a young woman, about twenty-eight and fairly pretty. She had taken over the keeping of the house, she told Carruthers through me, after her father had died on the Marne, and as her brother was a prisoner of war in Germany. She was very pleasant, and businesslike too. I could see that she had little regard for Carruthers' attitude. But she took a liking to me. I had to be there to interpret, and at one point she broke off the conversation with the officer began asking me about myself, in French. We had a pleasant conversation, and Carruthers hung about listlessly. She was definitely interested in me. But when she began to ask me if I really wanted to be in the war, Carruthers butted in again, even though he understood nothing of what we said. Carruthers was constantly trying to use his scanty French to ask her to go out to dinner with him. She kept acting as if she did not understand. Later I was sent to the kitchen with the maid Marie to be given something to eat, while Carruthers lunched with Madamoiselle. I got to like Marie too; she was in her late thirties, and with a sharp tongue. Soon after Madamoiselle joined us, having somehow given Carruthers the slip. She seemed to take pleasure in talking to me. I did not know why, but perhaps she saw me as one who needed protection from the horrors of this war. In that she was right. Our pleasant conversation was shattered by Carruthers bellowing `Harris! Private Harris!' through the house. (That was me: 1246745 Private Harris, Anthony.) Sir wanted to go straight away, and took his leave in as gallant a manner he could manage. Madamoiselle bid him farewell politely, and warmly added when speaking to me in French that I would be welcome if I were to call. Carruthers said nothing on the journey home, and was beastly to me for the rest of the day.

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