Subject: Repost: Fortunes of War (Sp,M/F,con)
From: Kfry2k@aol.com
Date: 30 Sep 1996 13:49:51 -0400

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction dealing with adult subjects. If you are not of legal age, you might want to discuss it with your parents before reading. Any resemblance between the characters in this story and persons living or dead (except for noted celebrities) is purely coincidental.


Fortunes of War

Crackling static came over the intercom "Two minutes to the IP, skipper." The navigator's voice had a hollow, tinny quality, partially caused by his oxygen mask.

"Roger, Jimmy." Mike answered back, banking the Flying Fortress in a shallow turn to line up with the correct heading for the bomb run. "Okay, guys. We're lead ship, let's show the old man that Madeline's a tough cookie." He added, referring to the B-17 under his control by her nose art name, the "Paddlin' Madeline". The illustration on the plane's nose was of a beautiful blonde, with a caricature of Hitler over her knee, getting a pants-down spanking. This was her 13th mission, a fact which was paramount in each crew member's mind, but which not one of them dared mention aloud. Adding power to maintain altitude, Captain Michael Willis eased the big bomber around gently, his co-pilot ready to assist if necessary.

"Bandits! Ten o'clock high!" came the shout, galvanizing everyone. The plane shuddered as every twin-fifty caliber gun that would bear roared into action, chattering and spitting brass casings everywhere inside the fuselage. Red tracers reached out toward the Messerschmidt BF-109s approaching from high in front, their own guns flashing orange flame from the prop spinners. Dull thuds, accompanied by explosions, shook the bomber as the enemy rounds struck home. "You never get used to this." Mike thought as he concentrated on setting up the bomb run. In about a minute, the bombardier would take over the airplane, guiding it with the aid of a sophisticated bombsight to the bomb release point. During that time, the plane would be a sitting duck, unable to change its course, speed, or heading until the bombs were dropped. Only then could they make a run for it, assuming they survived the vicious gauntlet of ground fire. Their performance was critical. As the lead ship in a swarm of bombers, all the other planes would key on Madeline, dropping their bombs on her cue. Mike settled the aircraft down, reducing power as it came on course, trimming it up for stable, level flight at the prescribed speed and altitude. Keying his microphone, he announced to the bombardier, "Okay, Barney. It's your airplane." Throwing the switch which transferred control of the plane to the bombsight, Mike sat back in his seat, now just a passenger. The B-17s guns were holding off the enemy fighters, but the worst was yet to come. Straight ahead, evil black flowers, centered with orange flame began blossoming in their path. Flak. Lots of it, and almost on altitude. The German gunners were good, and there would be many empty hangers in the Allied airfields tonight. Mike touched a picture of his lovely wife Madeline, stuck to the instrument panel of the plane as a reminder of what he was fighting for. Madeline. Maddy, for short. The inspiration for his plane's name, "The Paddlin' Madeline". Able to do nothing else for the time being, he tried to ignore the approaching flak bursts in an impromptu daydream.

* * *

The last strains of the clarinets lilted as the band finished "Moonlight Serenade." Couples applauded, pausing in their dancing, some going back to their tables, and others kicked up their heels in a bouncy jitterbug as the band swung into another of Glenn Miller's hits "In the Mood". The little road house was fairly crowded, everyone looking for a few hours of fun to forget the pressures of war. Mike nursed his drink, avoiding Maddy's eyes, which looked on the verge of tears. Her glass had been empty for a while now, and her mood was growing more somber by the moment.

"Want to go?" Mike asked gently, touching her hand. "Yes, lets. Do you mind?" Maddy answered softly, lifting her eyes to meet his. "Nah." Mike said, "I've had enough." Rising to his feet, he pulled back his wife's chair and took her elbow as they made their way to the coatroom. As he retrieved his leather jacket and her sweater, he observed Maddy straightening her hair in the mirror nearby. "She's so beautiful." He thought to himself, admiring her figure, slim and well-proportioned. The seams of her stockings were arrow-straight, following the delightful curve of her calves to trim ankles and ladylike feet encased in open-toed pumps. Her blonde hair was full, and surrounded a face of classic beauty, one that showed emotion well, her blue eyes of warm and almost magnetic quality. Sighing at the thought of leaving her, especially with the prospect of never returning, nearly broke his heart. Still, he thought, his love for her made what he was doing even more important. Putting on a bright face, he joined her at the mirror, giving her a slight swat on the seat of her skirt and whispering something in her ear. She blushed a bit and kissed him on the cheek, slipping into the sweater he held for her. A couple of miles down the coast was a scenic overlook, and Mike pulled their `40 Ford convertible into the parking area, shutting it off. Madeline nestled against him, the breeze off the ocean chilling her just a bit. Half a moon hung just above the horizon, about to slip silently into the sea. Its light formed a rippled pathway of silver across the water, right to their feet, it seemed. As if in sympathy, the radio ended a cigarette commercial and Ray Eberle's mellow voice began "Stairway to the Stars". Madeline couldn't contain it any longer. Clutching Mike's leather jacket, she sobbed miserably, her heart about to break. Kissing her hair, Mike lifted her chin, his own heart aching. Mascara was making little dark trails down her lovely face, her eyes flowing freely. Kissing her tenderly on the lips, he reached for his handkerchief to wipe the tears from her cheeks. She clung to him, kissing him harder, with a fierce passion.

"Don't go, Mike. Please. You don't have to." She pleaded, knowing that it was no use, but having to try.

"You know I can't do that, Mad." He answered, in a firm but gentle tone.

As an engineer in a local aircraft company, Mike could have escaped military service. The Army Air Corps needed pilots, though. Good pilots with experience and ability. Mike had both, and as the war dragged on, felt obliged to offer himself on the altar of freedom. There was not much left to say. He would be leaving the next day, ferrying a bomber to England, where he and other young American boys would climb into cramped, fragile aircraft and strike at the heart of Nazi oppression. Many would not return. Starting the car, Mike swung it around and drove slowly toward their home, possibly for the last time.

* * *

A sharp jolt, accompanied by an explosion and the rattling of shell fragments advertised the bursting of a flak round, too close for comfort.

"Jesus! Look at it!" His co-pilot exclaimed. "You could walk on that stuff!" He made reference to the thick layer of black, red-shot bursts stretching out like a carpet in front of the Madeline. The gunners below were starting to get the range, every round coming closer. If one struck a vital area, or the fuel tanks, it would be goodnight, nurse. "Thirty seconds to release!" the bombardier's voice rattled through the intercom. The air, even through the oxygen mask, was cold and tainted with the odors of hot brass, gunpowder, engine oil, and the rubbery smell of the mask and oxygen delivery system. Mike tried breathing a little shallower, his pulse racing, as always. Thirty seconds, he thought. An eternity when someone's trying to kill you. An eyeblink when you're with someone you love.

* * *

Madeline flicked on the light as they entered their bungalow, making sure the curtains were drawn. Mike tossed the keys on the hall table, taking off his jacket and throwing it on top. "Are you going to keep your promise?" Madeline asked slyly, and a little sadly, her hands clasped behind her in the classic little-girl pose. She made reference to what Mike had whispered in her ear, back at the road house, something about her being vain, and needing a trip across his knee for a spanking. Maddy loved having her bottom warmed, held fast in Mike's firm grip, and often teased him into spanking her. Not that she really needed to, as Mike enjoyed it equally. They used it as a prelude to sex, making love more intensely than at other times. For that reason, it had become, if not routine, not uncommon. Mike gave her a wry grin, looking away and remarking,

"I don't know. Do you think that's a good idea, I mean with my leaving, and all?"

"Yes," she whispered throatily, "I do. Especially since you're leaving." Taking off her sweater, she moved saucily over to him, nibbling his ear. "What if I'm a naughty girl while you're away?" She let that sink in for a moment, then continued, "I think you ought to spank me good and proper, to hold me until you get back.., don't you?" Madeline knew how he enjoyed warming her bottom, and she struck where he lived. "I think maybe even the hairbrush is called for, tonight." She said huskily. On the occasions when Mike used more than his hand, his favorite instrument was Maddy's big wooden hairbrush, and he used it well, to their mutual delight. She was getting undressed now, and Mike watched with pleasure, becoming more aroused as she went. His pulse pounded with desire as Maddy slipped out of her skirt and slip, then began unfastening the stockings from her garter belt. As she turned her back to him, slightly bending over, Mike traced the lush contour of her glorious bottom, and couldn't contain himself. Maddy gasped in mock surprise as Mike swept her up, sitting on the couch and dumping her across his lap. With a squeal of delight and excitement, she squirmed as his palm smacked her panty-clad bottom smartly, again and again. With one stocking partly undone, her legs kicked as he spanked her, tossing first one shoe and then the other into the air. His hands found the waistband of her panties, pulling them down to reveal a fast-reddening but awesome backside. Maddy lifted slightly to permit their easy removal, then resumed her squealing as Mike's hand slapped her bare bottom, soundly and briskly. They got hotter and hotter as the spanking progressed, and Mike's hand, a bit tired of its chore, slipped between Maddy's thighs, leading them headlong into a frenzied bout of love-making, right on the living room floor. She had practically ripped the clothes from his body, frantic to get at him. Mike's mouth roamed all over the secret and tender places of her body, pleasuring her at least as much as the spanking had hurt. Coupled, her long beautiful legs wrapped around her husband's torso, enveloping him with desire and love.

* * *

"Bombs Away!" Barney shouted into his mask, thumbing the button that would send tons of high explosive plunging earthward, toward enemy factories that manufactured the tools of war and despotism. The Madeline lurched upward, lighter now by many thousand pounds. Flicking the switch that returned control to him, Mike fire-walled the throttles and pulled the bomber into a climbing left turn, banking off the target. Now it was time to go home. Home to England, for now, until their job was done and he could go home to his beautiful wife, the real Madeline.

* * *

Mike drew on the Lucky Strike, inhaling smoke deep into his lungs before exhaling in a long sigh. Maddy lay next to him, propped against the couch, puffing more gently on her cigarette. Dreamy eyed, they lay side by side, touching, hands caressing each other in the aftermath of their wonderful sexual encounter. "That was fabulous." Maddy said, laying her head on his flat, firm chest. "Mmmm." Mike agreed, taking another drag. Stroking her hair, he had a thought, a brief one, instantly discarded, about not going off to war.

"Mike?" she asked, almost shyly.

"Uh-huh?" he mumbled.

"You still owe me a spanking." She said brazenly. "With the hairbrush." She added, placing her hand on the part of him that got most excited. It didn't disappoint her, and under her smooth touch came to life.

"Naughty girl." He kidded. "Very well then, you shameless hussy, bring it here, right now."

She rose, half trying unsuccessfully to avoid the swat he aimed at her rear as he also got to his feet. The swat sent her prancing into their bedroom, rubbing the swatted cheek, and she returned a minute later in her birthday suit, having discarded her stockings and garter belt. Mike sat waiting on the couch, leaning back on the soft leather, regarding the beautiful creature before him. Feeling very lucky, and yet bereft, he watched as she approached, holding out the hairbrush to him and then kneeling by his feet. He almost choked as he confronted his impending loss. Taking her face in his left hand, he asked softly,

"Are you sure you want this, Maddy?"

"More than anything, Micky." She used her pet name for him, reserved for very special and intimate moments. "Make me proud of you, sweetheart."

Mike looked away, tears beginning to form in spite of himself. Standing, Maddy said,

"Now take me over your knee, and spank me good. Give me something to remember you by that will last me until you get back."

Excited and saddened simultaneously, Mike took her across his knees and got her settled in place. Running his hand over her splendid bottom, he raised the brush and spanked it soundly with the heavy piece of varnished wood. A gasp escaped Maddy's lips, and then a small moan as the second spank landed. As the hairbrush smacked her bare skin, turning it a fiery red, Maddy first yelped, then wailed and cried as Mike gave it to her good. She was gripped in the throes of pleasure/pain that only people like her understand: part of them desperately wanting it to stop, and the other part wanting it to continue forever. Her hand attempted to interfere, but was brushed away and finally grasped in Mike's strong left hand. A veritable barrage of hard, stinging spanks assaulted Maddy's rump, setting it on fire and coloring it a flaming crimson in the process. Several minutes later, she lay weeping across Mike's lap, crying freely and unashamedly as he delicately massaged the worst of the sting from her behind. Taking her on his lap, he cuddled her, stroking her hair and talking quietly of his love. Kissing the tears from her face, his mouth progressed to her lips, throat, shoulders and then to her breasts, lingering there. Rising, he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom for their last night together. It would be a night to remember.

* * *

The fighters were back, swarming over the flight of bombers like hornets. The twin-fifties chattered once more, turrets swiveling madly to follow the attackers, red tracers reaching for them. Several of the B-17s were smoking badly, dropping out of formation. Fully half a dozen had been blown out of the sky by flak bursts, leaving gaps.

"Close it up!" Mike ordered over the radio, "Stay together!" He knew the bombers' only chance was to present a united front of defense.

Part of the windshield shattered suddenly as a round came through, followed by the windblast. Marty Jackson, his co-pilot, scanned the engine gauges, then announced shrilly, "Pressure dropping on two!"

"Feather two." Mike ordered flatly, his voice dull. Without four good engines, they couldn't hope to keep up. Putting the plane in a shallow dive, he said over the radio, "Roundhouse three... you're lead now. Get `em home safe."

As the formation began to pull ahead, the fighters jumped the Madeline, their rounds tearing holes everywhere. Another series of thuds, a scream through the intercom. Mike and Marty sweated, trying to hold the injured bomber on course. "Number three on fire!" Marty announced, then followed it with "Pressure dropping on one!" They were finished. The plane began to nose over, one wing starting to droop. "Bail out! Everybody out now!" Mike yelled, realizing it was over. He never saw, nor felt the round that destroyed the instrument panel and ended his life. The tail gunner on Roundhouse Three watched as the noble Madeline rolled slowly over, on fire, and headed for the ground. Two, three, four chutes blossomed, and then the aircraft dissolved in flames.

* * *

Madeline drove slowly down the coast road, past the deserted remains of the roadhouse, once a favorite spot for her and Mike to go dancing. It had been hard for her, the telegram from the war department, months of hoping against hope, then finally heartbroken acceptance that she would never see him again. She pulled the old convertible into the same scenic overlook that they had visited so frequently. In the daylight, it lost some of its charm, but none of its beauty. Fighting a tear, she got out and walked to the cliff edge, regarding the dark blue sea below. More than once she had come here, intent on throwing herself off, but something had stopped her. Now, the wound at least partially healed, she had no thought of suicide, just a wistful wish to go back in time, back to those happy days before the war intruded so fatefully into their lives. For a long time she stood looking out over the sea, then retraced her steps to the car. As she went to step in, she felt a sudden sharp pain in her right buttock. Startled, she spun around. No one there, as she well knew. Still, it had felt like..., no, don't be silly! She thought silently. Getting into the car, she headed home, feeling a little better. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful summer.

As he watched the car recede down the winding road, Mike still marveled at Madeline's beauty. She had felt his swat, he was certain, though it was supposed to be impossible. The real healing would begin now. Maddy would be okay, he and countless other young men and women had sacrificed themselves to guarantee the world another chance. Whistling "Stairway to the Stars", he walked out into thin air, vanishing in the afternoon sunlight.