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I. England
Of course. The two had known one another since they were children—or since England had been a child and France well into her teens; ahh, the curse of being everyone’s big sister!—and had hated each other for just as long. The foul-mouthed little Nation to the northwest was forever meddling in her business, and insisting that she actually owned her, of all the ridiculous things. It had stopped being charming long before her Henry V had tromped through Agincourt. Above all, she was conniving, fiercely intelligent, short-tempered, and, well, just short.
Inevitably, they had been lovers for centuries. Small, shrill, and irritating though England was, France found her strength and iron resolve irresistible, and while England was less than forthcoming about her feelings, France suspected that she admired her for her culture and her cathedrals, and overlooked France’s lack of military fortitude in favor of licking her heavy breasts.
When they had exhausted themselves after hours of rough sex and even coarser insults, England would lie in her arms, her long, strawberry-blond hair disheveled, her small tits swollen and bruised with bites and kisses. “I am still going to take back Calais eventually, when you least expect it,” she would whisper.
“And I have always told you, my dear little rabbit. I would sooner die a thousand little deaths than become Frangleterre,” France would reply.
II. America
From the moment she, England, and Finland had spotted the little girl-Nation chasing rabbits in the part of the New World Sweden had named for herself, France had been captivated by the child who looked so much like the three of them. As America grew up and out, that captivation became adoration, and then full-blown lust. Although America shared many of her imperial guardian’s tastes and opinions—and her lamentable culinary skills—she was possessed of a strength, vibrancy, and idealism that the stodgier, older Nation lacked. Also, she could swing fully grown cows around as if they weighed no more than rag dolls.
She had been all too eager to lose her virginity to France on the night Gilbert du Motier joined her Continental Army. Not wanting to take advantage, France had tried to dismiss as youthful rebellion the enthusiasm with which the younger Nation dragged her into her bedroom, or at least as an attempt to further provoke England, whose own relations with France had been more hostile than usual of late.
“Amerique,” she explained as the girl straddled her lap and pressed awkward, virginal kisses against her neck. “Chere, I would hate for you to look back upon this day with regret when you should remember it with joy.”
And America had only laughed as she trailed a dirty finger down France’s décolletage. “I know, France. And I will.” She had smelled of smoke, saltpeter, and damp earth. France had rolled her onto her back and frigged her twice on the floor before helping her into bed and out of her clothes, after which they had explored each other’s bare bodies tenderly, as lovers should.
At times, the politics of human beings had, of course, played them both for fools. Shortly after that wonderful night, France had failed to understand why America’s boss would not help her when her own citizens turned upon one another; at the dawn of the twenty-first century, America would scold France for not coming to her boss’s aid during a war that only her people seemed to want. But Nations were nothing if not resilient, and both found each other’s charms too powerful to resist even in the middle of a heated argument.
France knew very well that choosing favorites was unkind when you enjoyed the pleasures of as many Nations as she did. And while she would have denied it if America had ever asked, the younger Nation thankfully had sense enough not to.
III. Canada
Canada was such a sweet and unassuming Nation: polite, soft-spoken, and demure—and very, very good at eating pussy. France couldn’t have said exactly why so few Nations paid her any mind, though she suspected America’s considerably louder and more demanding personality just overshadowed that of her twin even when the two weren’t in the same room together. Whatever the reason, she commended their poor taste. It left more for her.
Unlike America, for whom she began harboring lustful thoughts during her revolution, France’s desire for Canada had sprouted, grown, and blossomed slowly like a rare orchid. And slowly was how Canada preferred to make love. After a day of skiing or strolling through cafés and art galleries (depending just as much on the weather as on the country in which they chose to meet), the two would retire to house or hotel room for hot chocolate or wine, and then a long, slow fuck in silk sheets or in front of a crackling fireplace. France would spread her thighs and beckon Canada into the circle of her legs as one finger teased and tugged at the wild little curl that always reminded her of one of England’s nursery rhymes.
“There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead,” she’d whisper as she licked and tugged at it. “And when she was good, she was very, very good. And when she was bad…” Here she’d pause to kiss and lick Canada’s heavy breasts as her younger lover moaned and arched beneath her.
“Mhhh, she was better.”
Of course, it was never right or fun to take from the curvy Nation without giving in return. So, France made a point of burying her face in Canada’s cunt as often as she could—when Canada was pleasuring her, when she stepped into the shower to wash away the evidence of their exertions, even at the breakfast table, forcing the maple syrup to spill like cum across her pancakes.
“F-France!” the younger Nation always did her best to sound offended at these exuberant intrusions, and always failed spectacularly. “I know you enjoy my—well, playing with me. But can’t you let me rest a little when I’m eating?”
“I cannot,” France would insist. “You are just irresistible, my dear.” And with that, she would plunge her tongue in again. It was more or less the truth. Canada tasted like maples, yes, but pine and fresh air and something cold and crisp that reminded her of snow.
And in the end, Canada would sigh and reach down to pet her lover’s hair. “It’s nice being irresistible sometimes.”
And when France’s tongue finally tired, Canada would lean down and offer her some pancakes.
IV–V. Austria and Hungary
Bella gerant alii, tu, felix Austria, nube. ” Let others wage war, you, happy Austria, marry.” One of the Habsburgs had said that about Austria nearly seven hundred years ago, and the joke still hadn’t gotten old—at least if you were Prussia, who had taken it as yet more evidence of Austria’s cowardice and weakness for just as long. Of course, France knew better; Austria may not have been able to fight a battle without at least four bassoon players, but she was not weak. A weakling could not have played Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No.3 without missing a single beat while having her nipples and breasts mashed, caressed and teased. Even her moans were in time, giving the impossible piece an added beauty.
Halfway across the room, Hungary folded his arms across his chest, rolling pin still clutched firmly in his right hand. “I’m not sure I approve,” he said, regarding France with a sour expression. “You’re a libertine and a pervert with no respect for the sanctity of women’s bodies, and you treat men even worse.”
France winked and reached between Austria’s curvaceous thighs to pinch at her pearl.
He took a shuddering breath. “On the other hand, it’s just so, so hot.”
“Of course, cher.” France sculpted herself against Austria’s backside as the shorter woman parted her legs and leaned back against her, long fingers still striking the keys effortlessly. “And that is why you are going to put that kitchen implement aside and put your other implement inside me—unless”—she batted her eyelashes—“unless, of course, God has told you to put it to a better use than threatening suitors away from your very talented wife. Ohohohoho!”
Austria moaned as France rubbed her pussy against her ass. “Hungary, for goodness’ sake!”
The pin clattered indecorously to the floor as a pair of strong, tanned arms slid around France’s bare waist. “Fine,” Hungary whispered before nipping their lover’s ear. “But that doesn’t change the fact that your nipples are sacred things, my dear. She can’t leave without being punished for violating them.” And to demonstrate, he cupped France’s rear and squeezed before slapping it firmly.
Austria played on without a hitch, even as France’s moans soared above her own in a shrill and breathless descant.
VI–VII. Prussia and Spain
When anybody asked, France always insisted that, for once, Prussia was to blame. One night, during their campaign against Austria and Maria Theresa, she had simply rolled over and jabbed France in the ribs.
“Hey. Hey, loser.”
She had wanted to ignore her, but the tent was far too small for that, especially with Spain’s thick, lanky body smashed against her other side. France had been tired that night, sore in body and mind and, for once, in no mood for anything beyond sleep. But Prussia had been persistent, jabbing, poking, and eventually swearing until France had sighed and rolled over. “What is it, Prussia? Because if you aren’t in the middle of dying, I’m going to make you wish that you—”
But the only thing that died was the rest of her threat. Prussia was lying stretched out on her blankets, long and lithe and completely naked. The moonlight peeking through the tent flap tangled in her mane of silver hair and in the tangle of it between her legs and beneath each arm.
“Fuck me,” she whispered. Her red eyes were like hot coals.
And France forgot all about sleep. When her best attempts at an answer all dilated into “ummmh,” Prussia had rolled her eyes and pulled the blanket from her ally.
“Shit, England really was right when she said you keep your brain in your tits. Look, loser. It’s us three against that jerk aristocrat and her pathetic army, right? Well, us and half of Europe, I guess, but half of Europe isn’t here, and we’re the awesomest.”
France had swallowed as Prussia trailed her fingers down her shirt, opening buttons as she went. “Prussia…”
“What, you have cold feet or something? Please! You’re the sluttiest Nation in the world! When don’t you want to do it?”
“No. It’s not that.” France tilted her chin to the right, indicating the large Nation at her back.
Prussia made an irritated noise. “Hey, Spain. Will your Catholic sensibilities be traumatized if I screw le petite cum hole here?”
“Prussia!” Very little made France blush, but somehow the foulmouthed Germanic Nation always managed.
“Pfft! You’ve heard worse. And you love it, so stop acting so scandalized. Spain! You’re not fooling anyone by pretending to be asleep. Are you going to stick your hand up your cunt all night, or are you going to stick it in one of us?”
“I was just getting my trousers off, Prussia. There’s no need to be vulgar,” Spain had drawled as she pushed her blankets aside. Like Prussia, she was completely naked. France’s breath quickened at the sight of her dark skin and her soft curves.
“You both planned this,” she said as Spain wriggled closer.
“Duh,” Prussia snorted.
“We thought it would help us be unified in battle against Austria.” Spain grinned as she tugged France’s own trousers and underwear down to her knees.
“Yeah, even though her little pansy soldiers won’t stand a chance against us.” Prussia licked her lips and laughed. “Can’t you just imagine the look on her face when I grab her stupid, ugly hips and pull her up against me, and run my hands through her hair, and k—”
“Prussia,” Spain prompted gently.
The pale Nation blinked and licked her lips. “Right. Anyway, we just wanted to fuck.”
And so they had.
VIII. Liechtenstein
If Switzerland had her way, Liechtenstein would remain a virgin for millennia after the sun exploded and burned the Earth down into radioactive ash. And given that her store of weapons rivaled those of America’s more extreme citizens, she would have her way for a very, very long time after it did.
Unfortunately for her, he had other ideas—which included showing up on France’s doorstep in a tank top and a pair of tight jeans that accentuated both his bird-boned frame and his small package.
“Will you fuck me?” He asked so hesitantly and so sweetly that France hadn’t been able to conceal a chuckle. But not wanting to be cruel—or to be sniped by a small nuclear missile—she invited the young Nation inside.
“Big sister thinks I don’t have any interests,” he told her over café au lait and meringue tarts. “She thinks I just want to sit at home being quiet and sweet and maybe dusting the china or watching cartoons if I’m feeling particularly daring.” He pouted as only the young can, looking both comical and earnest at once.
“You want more.”
Liechtenstein blushed as she trailed her bare toes down his calf. “Yes, Mademoiselle France.”
“And you have come to the first Nation your trigger-happy sister will suspect if she discovers that you have, in fact, gotten your lovely little cock wet.”
Liechtenstein reddened from forehead to shoulder. “I can’t help it if I’m smaller than the other Nations you’re used to.”
France chuckled. “You misunderstand,” she purred as she folded his hands into her own. “It isn’t the size of a man that I care about; it’s his enthusiasm.” Liechtenstein gulped as she trailed her knuckles down his cheek. “But I can’t help you. Size does matter when it comes to your sister’s guns, and the hole she will blow in my face if she suspects that I even smiled at you.”
“Yes, but that’s the brilliant thing!” The young Nation’s smile was sweet, guileless, and disarming; France suspected Switzerland regularly fell victim to it.
“How so?”
“Well, if she ever found out what I’d done, she’d suspect you first. It would be obvious—so obvious that she wouldn’t think it was you, because she’d know that you’d know she’d know if you did anything with me. And you’re not stupid enough to want to get shot, right?”
France tapped two fingernails against her bottom lip, considering. “What a byzantine scheme! How fortunate that it will probably work.” Grinning, she laced her fingers through his. “And how fortunate that you are sweet enough to take a bullet for, cher—though hopefully a small one.”
And he was. Shy and anxious, yes, but seductive in his own innocent way. With shaking fingers he opened her blouse and tugged down her skirt. His lips trailed a line of wet, awkward kisses down her breastbone as France gently lowered him into her bed. His length needed little work to become fully enlarged, and even less encouragement to slide into her folds. His rutting was just as clumsy, but all the more erotic for his grunts and apologies. He came long before she did, leaving France to demonstrate (with no lack of pleasure) the mechanics of an ecstatic female orgasm.
After they had showered (together of course, resulting in a second session, wet and wonderful against the tiled walls), France slipped on a sheer nightgown and fed him crepes before sending him on his way.
“That is just the beginning,” she told him after their last, lingering kiss. “But, alas, a further demonstration would definitely arouse Switzerland’s suspicions—no matter how arousing it would be. I’m afraid you’ll have to find another Nation or a wiling human to further your erotic education, my dear. For what it’s worth, I highly recommend Greece. She is just as willing and discrete and her breasts are mountainous.”
“I’ll do that,” Liechtenstein agreed, giving her a mischievous wink.
France smiled and patted his cheek. “I’m quite fond of you, little Liechtenstein. With the right training you will become a proper Lothario in spite of your sister.”
And though the two had yet to speak about the matter again, France would sometimes catch a look pass between Liechtenstein and Greece, or Prussia, or even Hong Kong that would prove her point. For her part, Switzerland had yet to aim a missile launcher at any of them. Such was ever the power of self-delusion.
IX. Italy Veneziana
Seducing the innocent had long been one of France’s favorite hobbies, and no nation was more innocent than North Italy. Fortunately, God had blessed her not only with huge tits that never lost their perkiness, but a sense of curiosity that never lost its edge. France was fond of taking advantage of both during the girl’s weekly visits, when Italy would shamelessly clamber into her lap for story time as she had during her childhood. Naturally, the only stories she heard were those by Pierre Louÿs, Charles Baudelaire, and the Marquis de Sade’s tamer passages (she didn’t, after all, want to traumatize the poor thing). France was regularly amused by her “little sister’s” appreciation for The Songs of Bilitis.
“Ne, Big Sister France? What’s a Sapphist?”
Long ago, it had truly been a question asked in ignorance. Now, however, it was a game between them.
“A sapphist is a woman who does things with women she likes.”
“What kinds of things?” Italy wriggled closer until her back pressed against France’s breasts. Once again, she had neglected to wear a brassiere. France felt her vulva tighten. The little minx knew exactly how to play her.
“Adult things,” she said as she walked her fingers up Italy’s bare thigh. Sure enough, she was also lacking panties.
“Ve, like intercourse?”
“That’s a very good example.” France circled her index finger around her lover’s hole, delighting as the other Nation burrowed further into her breasts. “So, Italy. Would you like to have intercourse with me?”
Italy giggled and France barely suppressed a moan as she shifted around to face her. “Ve, of course! But only if Big Sister France reads to me. Just so I know what to do for her!”
It was a fetish that few shared with her, and thus one that France was eager to accommodate. In tones of honey and velvet she recited poems of woman’s love for woman as Italy explored her sex with her fingers, with her nose, with her tongue. And only when France stumbled over the words of “The Moon with Blue Eyes” did she put the book aside long enough to strap on her lover’s favorite dildo: an enthusiastic creation the color of Italy’s rosy nipples.
“Veee,” Italy purred as France caressed her folds. “Ne, ne, Big Sister France, don’t stop reading!”
France chuckled and gave Italy’s vulva a playful pinch. “I’ll start again when I’ve filled you with to the hilt, pretty thing.”
“But France knows them all by heart, right?” Italy’s eyelashes fluttered over her large brown eyes. That was also part of the game, and one that made France’s clit ache.
“Well, since you demand so prettily…” and France recited as she thrust into her lover. Despite her willingness to “play” in bed with Nations other than her “big sister,” Italy was tight and supple; France often wondered how it felt for a male human to be enveloped by her and often wished she could be gifted a prick of flesh and blood just for an hour to know firsthand. Still, the ecstatic expression on Italy’s face was more than enough to arouse her, and this combined with Louÿs’ words and the younger Nation’s breathless moans soon sent her over the edge.
“Reading’s so fun!” Italy bubbled as the older Nation wrapped her in a warm embrace.
“Yes,” France said as she gave the little curl on the Nation’s head a firm tug. “It is definitely one of those activities that is best done with another. Perhaps, when you are rested, you would delight me with a recitation from your Boccaccio’s Decameron? I quite enjoy the tale of Albiech and Rustico.”
Italy smiled and moaned as her lover gave her curl another pull. “V-ve, all right! And maybe I can use the thingy on Big Sister France this time?”
“I insist.”
X. Russia
As a teenager, Russia was as tall as she was lovely. But though she towered even above Denmark’s impressive height, she was still a teenager—gawky, gangly, and eager to prove herself as a Nation despite the centuries that had passed since her time in Mongolia’s house. And oh, how desperately she wanted to appear cultured and refined when France had first visited her in the 1700s! She had patched her shoes carefully and just as carefully tried to engage France in a discussion about Rousseau practically the moment she arrived at Catherine the Great’s palace.
“Please,” France had said, pressing a finger to those unearthly cold lips. “There is no need to impress me, chere. Your beauty is impressive enough.” And Russia’s hand had warmed considerably beneath France’s lips.
Russia hung upon her every word after that. Some Nations, perhaps, would have found her questions irritating and her penchant for falling asleep outside France’s door disturbing. France, however, found her behavior charming. In the years that followed, she taught the girl all the knowledge of her Enlightenment, the beauty of her classical architecture—and, of course, the grace and power of her ballet. As she corrected Russia’s pirouettes and assisted her at the barre, her hands sliding down that long waist and onto narrow hips, France wondered why she had not screwed the girl into her mattress five minutes after their first meeting. The thought vaguely troubled her for a few weeks, until one morning when Russia placed a plate of thin pancakes before her.
“They are called blini,” she said in unhalting French that bore only the barest vestige of an accent. “They reminded me of Gospazitza France’s crepes. Look.” She set a silver dish next to the plate. “You put sour cream on them. And sometimes fruit. You do the same, yes?” When France did not respond immediately, Russia pursed her lips and wrung her hands. “I am sorry. I know I have much to learn about your culture and your food, but I—I thought…”
“Mhh,” France said through a mouthful. “You are right, Russia! These are very like my crepes!”
“Oh, I am so glad!” And as the younger Nation beamed, France realized what had held her back. She could not push herself on such a hesitant and uncertain girl; no, if Russia wanted her, she would have to make the first move.
From that point on, France concentrated solely—or, at least, as solely as a Nation like her could—on educating Russia. The ballet lessons continued, as did Russia’s education in philosophy and art. Every morning, the two would visit monsieur Diderot to enquire about his encyclopedia. Every evening, Russia would compose a letter to Voltaire in which she echoed her tsarina’s praises while asking dozens of questions—all of which, to France’s surprise, the philosopher answered; she suspected he was every bit as taken with the Nation as he was with her boss.
And when are you going to seduce her, my dear? He would write to his own Nation.
When you finish your satire for her, France would reply, unable to keep from chuckling. After all, my dear, how can I possibly fuck a girl who has not listened to you mock this best of all possible worlds? She did not tell him, of course, that she would not be the seductress this time; he would only have laughed or put her next on his list of subjects to ridicule.
But as it turned out, Russia did not wait for Candide and Cunegonde’s misadventures before making her first move. One snowy night as France lay in bed reading, she heard a tentative rapping against her door.
“I thought you might want some tea.” Russia placed a small service on the room’s low table.
“Thank you.” France marked her place in her novel with a finger and gave the young Nation her friendliest smile. “I could use something warm before bed.”
“Oh, is France cold?”
“Well, a little.” France turned her head to regard the snow driving past her wide window. “My climate is much warmer than yours, my dear. We do have our snow storms, but nothing quite like this.”
“Oh…I see.” The mattress dipped and France looked up.
“Russia?”
The girl was lying right beside her, so close they could easily have kissed. “Da. Yes. It is very cold. I was thinking—well, when I am cold, sometimes I sleep with one of the ladies, or with my tsarina if her lover is away. I could sleep with France, if she is cold.”
France feigned a shiver and pulled the blanket aside, revealing her long nightdress. “How kind of you, my dear! Thank you. I would love for you to warm me up.”
The cold outside and the cold that coursed perpetually through her veins did nothing to quell Russia’s blush. “Oh,” she said as, still fully dressed, she shimmied in beside France and snuggled up against her like a cat. “Mhh. It is comfortable, yes?”
“Yes, I—”
Russia cut her off with a kiss. It was as passionate as it was tentative, and when Russia trailed clumsy hands down her back and over her breasts, she moaned encouragingly. And when the girl hesitated while lifting the hem of her nightgown, she leaned back against the pillows and smiled like an odalisque.
“It isn’t like a lesson,” France told her, trailing her fingers down a lock of silvery-brown hair. “You can’t do anything wrong, and believe me, my dear, even if you could, I would enjoy it. I’ve wanted you for weeks. Since the hour we first met.”
Russia’s uncertain expression melted into a smile as she raised the hem to France’s waist. As her fingers stroked her sex for the first time, France leaned back against the cushions, closed her eyes and exhaled softly. As much fun as seduction could be, sometimes being seduced was the greatest pleasure of all.