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.

Baron Fleming greeted them as Charlotte descended from the coach. He was a man of medium height and build. This surprised her, as he had been a captain in Louis's army at one time and she remembered him as being much taller and more robust when he reviewed her unit. That seemed a lifetime ago and Charlotte had met him at court several times since then and was nervous, but he seemed oblivious to her true identity as he bowed stiffly.

"Greetings, milady de Toberville."

She and Madame Deveraou both curtsied, while Ivan bowed.

"I am sure you are all tired from your journey. Rooms have been prepared for you along with food. Tonight we will have a banquet in your honor, but until then I hope you will find the accommodations to your liking."

Charlotte was shown to a large, airy room, painted in the Italian style. Madame Deveraou helped her out of her dress and left her to adjourn to the servant's wing. She had a light snack of pastries and wine before curling up in the big bed. Her very bones ached from the jostling of the coach and sleep took her almost instantly.

Madame Deveraou returned in the evening and dressed her for dinner. She had barely finished with her hair when a knock came at her door. Charlotte answered to find herself facing a tall, thin lad. He was young, perhaps just out of his teens, and seemed terribly nervous.

"G...G...Good evening, mademoiselle. I am Philippe Fleming, the baron's son. and I would be honored if you would be my dinner partner for tonight," he stammered.

He looked so nervous and so frightened that Charlotte's heart went out to him in an instant. How many times had her own father insisted she make this same request of older guests? She remembered how many times she had been forced to do this and how mean some of her father's friends had been. Not intentionally; they simply did not appreciate how he had felt. She resolved at once to do this young man better than had been done to her.

"I'd be delighted," she said, smiling as brightly as she could.

He smiled back tentatively and offered his arm. Charlotte took her fan from her maid and then took his arm. She was very careful to let him lead her down the long corridor and to the grand staircase.

He was obviously at a loss for words, so she initiated a conversation.

"You have a very lovely home. Do you stay here often?"

"Not often. I am usually at my uncle's estate. He raises grapes and father has instructed me to study his methods so we can try them here."

"You have vineyards here?"

"Yes. We are not so far from the champagne region."

"You sound very knowledgeable already," she said.

He blushed and muttered something she didn't catch. As she suspected, everyone was waiting for them and she was careful to allow him every opportunity to show off his courtly skills. Most of all, she made sure she never injured his pride by taking the lead.

Ivan was seated with a young woman, so much in body shape like the lady of the house that she assumed her to be the daughter. The big man winked at her before turning to his dinner partner and saying something that made her blush and giggle.

Dinner was excellent, consisting of various kinds of fowl, pastries of all descriptions and a thick, hearty soup that she couldn't place. The wine was delicious and Philippe proudly told her it was from their own vineyards.

Through the course of the evening, she drew him out, asking questions about the estates and vineyards. She allowed him to stay on ground he knew well and never laughed or pushed him. He proved to be an intelligent lad, but terribly shy, and in his careful replies and hesitant explanations she saw herself. She glanced up once to find the baron staring at her. His eyes were dancing and she couldn't help but think that his smile showed gratitude.

When dinner came to an end, they all rose and the various visiting gentry retired to the gardens for moonlit strolls. Charlotte gave Ivan a disapproving stare as he rose and escorted the Flemings' daughter out to the gardens. She started to say something to him, but before she could Philippe spoke up.

"Would milady care to see the gardens?" he stammered.

He looked like a rabbit caught in a snare, and she again felt for him. Perhaps no one there appreciated how much courage the young man had mustered just to ask.

"Please," she responded, taking his proffered arm and allowing him to lead her out into the cool darkness.

The gardens were lush and green, filled with the smell of honeysuckle. They passed several shaded nooks with lovers engaged in passionate embrace. The young man colored and lowered his eyes whenever they happened upon another couple. He was hesitant, but seemed to be heading somewhere specific, and eventually, she found herself alone with him in a small cul-de-sac within the hedge maze. A marble bench was placed in the middle of the space and they both sat down.

There was an awkward silence and Charlotte realized that he was about to try and steal a kiss. She remembered her first try and the none to gentle rebuff. His father had been outraged at his behavior when Mam'zelle Louvere complained. He had never been so mortified in his life, not even when attending to the king. She realized she was about to be in the same position and swore she would not embarrass the young man.

He turned to her suddenly, but his resolve faded when their eyes met. Charlotte leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, waiting patiently for him to take over. The kiss was awkward and sweet, nothing like the passionate kiss of Ivan Daggeroff.

When he hesitantly thrust his tongue against her lips, she parted them and coaxed his tongue into her mouth. Philippe was obviously a novice and it took him a long time before he gained the courage to caress her breast.

What happened next, she would always wonder about. Her hand slipped to the crotch of his pantaloons and gently fondled the bulge she found there. He started and then groaned, squeezing her breast so tightly that she almost cried out. While he tried to get her skirts up, she quickly opened his trousers. She was almost sorry she wasn't a woman, so she could give him what he was after.

Charlotte grasped his cock and began to stroke it, causing him to breathe in deeply. His hands still were trying unsuccessfully to defeat her many petticoats, but she was counting on his inexperience. When he finally reached the satin sheath he seemed at a loss and so merely cupped what should have been her mound and began to massage her.

She could see his confusion and laughed inwardly, remembering how she had been similarly unsure of what she would find under a woman's dress. She had been going on what others told her and assumed he was as well.

As she expected, he came quickly, moaning and stiffening as he did so. When he opened his eyes, she saw immediately that he was about to apologize. She quickly kissed him deeply while gently removing his hand from her crotch. When she broke the kiss she smiled again.

"Was it good for you, my lord?" she asked, in a breathless whisper.

"Yes..I mean.. I ..I'm sorry..I..."

"Shhh," she replied putting a finger over his lips.

"Perhaps when I return, we can do this properly, in a bedroom."

"What? Yes...Of course!" he replied, smiling jubilantly.

He escorted her back to her room and she gave him another goodnight kiss before calling for her maid. Once undressed she went to sleep, feeling very good about herself for the first time since she had donned a dress.

Charlotte strolled along the drive with the baron while the horses were hitched. It was a beautiful day, if slightly chilly.

"I've taken the liberty of having baskets packed with food and wine for your journey."

"You are most kind," she replied.

"No kinder than you, milady," he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

"I'm sure I don't know what I could have done to deserve such a compliment," she said.

"I may be old, but I know the look of a boy who has gotten his first taste of a woman's charms. Nay, you need not deny it. Philippe's face betrays you, and I am deeply thankful to you. He's a good boy, but I had begun to worry he would never overcome his shyness. He's just short of his twentieth birthday and has yet to bring a woman home."

He removed a stunning necklace from his pocket and fastened it around her neck.

"My lord, I cannot..."

"Please. I do not mean to imply you are a courtesan, but I have no time to show you how much your kindness to him means to both my wife and I. We both grow old and the old dear is dying for grandchildren. And I have begun to fear my line will die out. You have given him some confidence and it is to be hoped he will now be able to find a woman. We are in your debt," he said earnestly.

Charlotte could think of no way to refuse the gift, and so she just kissed his cheek as he helped her into the coach. She waved to the young man as they rolled down the drive and onto the rough road.

"I hear from the young lord you enjoyed yourself," Ivan observed with a smirk.

"I see by the daughter's gait you were forgetful of your promise to Duke De Fleury," she said archly.

"Now now, no need to be jealous. Your hand is quite nice, but there is nothing like a warm, virgin quim."

Charlotte didn't reply, glad to have turned the conversation away from her own activities. Ivan seemed indolent and was soon asleep.

By noon she was hungry and dipped into the basket where she found roast fowl and several meat pastries that were delicious. The wine was especially good and the Baron had provided several bottles. Despite her hunger, Charlotte ate sparingly. She had discovered her sister's long training regimen has caused her to be unable to eat as much at a sitting as she had once been able to.

She was therefore awake when the coach slammed to a halt and a voice called out in French for them to halt. A quick glance out the window showed several men with grain sacks tied over their heads rushing the stopped coach. Charlotte quickly reached under her seat and retrieved the short, stout flintlock pistol hidden there, concealing it within her skirts as the door was torn open and she was dragged from the coach.

It took three of them to pull Ivan from the coach, and even then one was buffeted terribly, blood soaking through his mask. The others were taken easily and soon they were all lined up outside the coaches. The men were bound, while she and Madame Deveraou were not.

There were six of them and from their bearing and clothes, they were aristocrats. That boded ill, since ordinary highwaymen were a hazard of the road. Aristocratic highwaymen smelled of court intrigue. Only two were armed with firearms. One had a fowling piece, the other a musket.

She noticed that they had not taken Ivan's saber and she maneuvered herself next to the big man. He was cursing them in Russian, Austrian, French and some English. Had the situation not been so dire, she would have been embarrassed at his words.

"Now," the leader said, "You will hand over the missive you are carrying. Do so, and we will release you all. Fail to do so, and you will simply disappear."

"What missive? What are you talking about?" Charlotte asked.

"Do not play dumb with me, mademoiselle. I know you carry a letter from King Louis to Elizabeth's court. Don't bother to deny it. Turn it over and you will suffer nothing worse than failing in your mission. Resist, and we will all enjoy your charms before you are allowed to expire."

Charlotte slipped her hand into the cleverly concealed slit in her skirts, wrapping her fingers around the butt of the pistol she carried. The pistol she had snatched before the coach was opened was still in her other hand, also concealed by her skirts, cocked and ready for action.

"If her ladyship will not cooperate, perhaps some of you will?" he said, turning his attention to the servants.

"Come now, surely you do not wish to die for a king who doesn't even care if you live or die?"

Charlotte withdrew her pistol as the attention of the agent's men turned towards the others. When no one spoke the man sighed theatrically.

"Very well. Kill them all and burn the coaches."

When they moved towards them Charlotte acted. She whipped the long pistol up and shot the man with the musket in the chest. She wasn't a crack shot, but at less than ten paces, she could hardly miss.

The others froze, caught completely off guard, expecting no attack from that quarter. Taking advantage of their momentary confusion, she hastily cocked her holdout pistol and shot the man with the fowling piece. Dropping the stubby pistol, she ripped Ivan's saber from its scabbard and assumed a classic dueling stance.

The remaining three advanced on her while their captain just watched.

"What should we do?" one asked the leader.

"Disarm her, fool, or kill her, as you will. I would assume you would prefer her charms to those of the maid, but I care not, so long as my mission is successful."

Charlotte watched as they fanned out and advanced upon her. Three versus one was long odds and she had never tried fencing in her skirts, but she could tell by the way they held their blades that they weren't used to them. They were all so smug and none had a proper guard up. She decided to act quickly, before they realized their mistake.

Charlotte feinted towards the man on her left. He fell back a step, raising his blade as if to ward off a blow. The others moved quickly to close on her, but she pirouetted and sank her steel deep into the biggest one's breast. Withdrawing her blade, she blocked a timid stab by the other and scored a deep wound in his neck with her riposte.

In the meanwhile, the first one had recovered and lunged towards her. Charlotte pushed his blade wide of her body with her own and for just a moment they were face to face, their blades locked. She shoved him hard and fell back a step, her steel whistling in an arc that left his neck a ghastly second smile.

It was over in seconds and she turned to face the leader.

"Impressive. But let us see how you fare against a real swordsman," he said, while drawing his sword.

He held his blade lightly and stood on the balls of his feet. She moved carefully, noting that his rapier would be faster to the cut than her saber, but taking comfort in the fact that he could only thrust. If he had taken out his dagger, her danger would have been grave, but he did not. She heard again her sister's words about men underestimating her because she was a woman. Most men would have taken no chances with a swordsman who downed three opponents as she had. His overconfidence was inexcusable, save only for the fact that she wore skirts rather than breeches.

He closed, using the classic Italian technique. How many times had she accepted this gambit and downed her opponent? Far too many. The style was taught in conjunction with a dagger or poniard. Without the defensive capability of the second blade, it was almost mad to try it. She waited patiently for the first thrust.

It came suddenly, like a striking snake, but she easily danced to the left, taking the blade harmlessly through her pannier. She set and drove her own blade in. Normally, her opponent would simply turn the thrust, but without his dagger, he could only try to dodge and the heavy blade scored deeply along his hip. He staggered back, clawing the dagger from its sheath with an oath.

Charlotte was angry with herself. That should have ended him, but she too had been over confident. She had been too casual with the thrust, not counting on his reflexes. It might turn out to be a fatal mistake, as he now had the advantage.

Charlotte circled warily, giving ground and deflecting his rapier's thrusts. She wished to close, but his dagger would end up in her belly if she did. His weapon's length and his height advantage allowed him to attack again and again without serious danger of a counter thrust. Had he been smart, he could have worn her down, but her casual parries of his best moves seemed to enrage him, and she saw this.

"You are almost good enough to fence with a woman," she taunted.

He yanked off his mask and threw it to the ground. Ivan cursed when he saw the man's face, causing him to laugh. Charlotte merely smiled.

"Surprised to see me, Daggeroff? You shouldn't be. Surely you have suspected?"

"I warned the duke you were false," the big Russian said.

"Of course you did, but he never listened. And why should he? You are, after all, just a useful tool, while I, I am a man of substance."

"And a traitor," Ivan spat.

"Yes. Too bad you won't be able to tell him he was wrong," the man laughed.

"Be careful, Charlotte. That is Aubrey De Fuy, the duke's nephew and one of the deadliest swordsmen on the continent."

It was Charlotte's turn to laugh. Both men and all the servants stared at her as if she were insane, while the gales of laughter continued.

"I thought I recognized your style," she said when she had mastered her mirth.

"What would a woman know of my skills?"

"More than you would wish," she replied, still mocking him.

He started to advance, but she spoke again.

"Has the scar on your thigh healed? Or does it still pain you?"

He froze again and stared at her. His perplexity was evident. Charlotte's taunts held a purpose. He was bleeding from the heavy gash in his hip and she knew that each moment he was getting a little weaker, a little slower, a little less formidable. He was a dangerous opponent and she again regretted taking him lightly and not making that first thrust the last.

Still, she had never been bested by him before and his lowered mobility in some respects compensated for her unfamiliarity with fencing in skirts.

She waited tensely as he scrutinized her face, but recognition never dawned upon him. Eventually he became aware of his leg and possibly his growing disadvantage and launched himself into a flurry of attacks. Charlotte grimly parried, ignoring the false openings he left. Should she try a counter stroke he would use the dagger to telling effect.