AN: ...A word of explanation is probably needed here. There is a wonderful book by Tony Perrottet called Napoleon's Privates. In that book there is a chapter on Catherine the Great, in which she is described as a 'connoisseur of Russian manhood.' Of those four words, this fic was born.
I'm so sorry for existing.

Catherine delicately dipped her pen into the ink well before jotting down notes in an impressively large book laid out on her desk.

"Uncircumcised," she said slowly, glancing over at her country as though to reconfirm that fact before putting it down in print. Russia squirmed from his perch on the edge of her bed and made a valiant effort to not cover his groin with a pillow. "I prefer men that way, personally. Now if you will please hold still, I'd like to take some measurements."

Russia's legs came together on their own accord. "What for?" he asked, wishing he didn't sound so petulant and wishing even more that she would let him put his breeches back on.

"Just to satisfy my own curiosity," she said easily, pulling her chair closer to him and taking a seat. "When you've been with as many men as I have, you acquire...how shall I put this? Refined tastes for this sort of thing."

That was no kind of answer, in Russia's humble opinion, but he kept his mouth shut and instead snuck a look past her shoulder to the book, with its pages of names, measurements and detailed notes. It was almost enough to make a man shrivel, and he tried to think about sunflowers and kittens and beating up Prussia and other happy things when he felt Catherine stretching a cloth tape measure across his vital regions.

"You aren't quite as long as Potemkin," Catherine murmured, moving away to scribble down her latest notes. "Though your girth is greater than his. Hm, I wonder..."

"Wonder?" Russia echoed lamely, too busy focusing on keeping his body from having any embarrassing reactions to the attention to string together thoughts.

Catherine tapped a finger to her chin thoughtfully. "Are you capable of writing your name in the snow? When you pass water. I've seen a number of men engage in that strange activity, and I imagine it requires a certain amount of skill."

"Um," Russia said intelligently. "I can write 'Ivan.' I don't, um, think I could do 'Braginski' too."

"Really! You must give me a demonstration. Just 'Ivan' would be satisfactory."

The most convincing argument Russia could come up with spur of the moment against this plan was, "But I don't have to go right now!"

"I didn't mean right this moment, dear. I still need to take more measurements. I've finished with my notes on you flaccid, but I still need some measurements with you erect."

Russia made an unintelligible sound that could best be described as, "Adbshkjfrbjfb."

Catherine's eyebrow quirked up. "Do you need my assistance for that end?"

Catherine gave him no time to brace himself before her hands began a very thorough exploration of his southern territories. She clearly had experience with this...activity, and Russia had no choice but to snatch one of the pillows off the bed to stifle the lewd noises that kept coming out of his mouth.

"Remind me later to make a note on your hair. You have quite a bit more down here than the average man. Even more than Grigory Orlov. Most impressive. Oh, you're fully hard already? Faster than I expected. That was...35 seconds, let us say? Remind me to record that later too, in addition to the notes on your hair."

There was no response, other than a low keening from behind the pillow.

"Now, before we take any more measurements, a few questions. Do try to answer as accurately as possible. As a man of the Enlightenment, you should be devoted to these sorts of scientific endeavors."

Russia was quite sure this was the most unscientific thing he had ever done, but his tongue wasn't cooperating enough for him to voice that thought. He was very nearly disappointed when Catherine's hands moved away, and he reluctantly peeked over the top of the pillow. Catherine had grabbed her book and returned to her chair between Russia's knees, propping the next up in her lap and readying her pen.

"I apologize, dear. This part of the examination won't be very hands-on. Do try not to let yourself go soft while we chat. Now, roughly how many times a month do you engage in fornication?"

It really should have been physically impossible for Russia's face to get any redder than it already was, but somehow it managed to do just that. "N-none."

"Really? Very well, how many times a year?"

"..."

"Come now, darling. Nothing to be embarrassed about."

"...None."

Catherine looked mildly horrified at the thought of no sex for a year. "And how many times...ah, in a decade?"

Russia ducked behind his pillow again. Why couldn't he ever have a normal boss? This was even worse than the time Peter the Great declared war against beards...

Catherine slammed her book shut audibly. "My dear, are you a virgin? Oh, I wish you had told me sooner! How old are you now?"

"I-I think...roughly nine centuries?"

"You poor thing!" she cried, petting his head sympathetically. "It's a wonder you haven't just exploded. Not to worry, I'll help you now. Never mind the measurements, they can wait until after."

"After what?" Russia said faintly, instinctively dropping the pillow to his lap.

Catherine sighed impatiently. "You're perfectly intelligent, no matter what those fools in Europe might say. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. I have always said, it is my deepest pleasure to serve my beloved country. I admit I didn't expect that service to include deflowering you, but you know well that I don't step down from a challenge. And this is a most enjoyable challenge, I assure you. Why, I haven't taken a virgin to my bed since Poniatowski... Such a pleasure. Now be a dear and help me out of my corset."