Subject: New Story: Into the Fray - 1
(Sp,M/F,c)kfr
From: kfr965@aol.com
Date: 13 Nov 1996 22:51:42 GMT
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction containing adult themes. If you are not of legal age stop reading now. Any similarity between characters depicted in this story and persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
"Eighteen..., nineteen. That's all, sir. All back safe." The Group Adjutant reported on the telephone, talking to the Group Commander. "Yes, sir." He continued, "Thank you, sir. Yes, you can expect a full report by twenty-one hundred hours."
He couldn't help noticing the ambulances rendezvousing with some of the aircraft that had taxied onto their hardstands, unloading wounded airmen. "Hell of a job for a grown man." He grumbled to himself, heading for the de-briefing hut, where aircrews would be questioned about the day's mission while it was still fresh in their minds.
Mike breathed a huge sigh of relief as the B-17's gear chirped on the runway, bouncing just a bit before settling down. Engine number three was smoking slightly, having taken a round from an enemy fighter over the Dutch coast.
"Unlock tail wheel." He instructed the co-pilot, receiving a terse "Unlocked." in reply from Marty Jackson, his second in command.
Taxiing onto the perforated steel plate that served as hardstands for the bombers at this particular English airfield, he shut down the engines, going through the post-flight checklist before vacating his seat, making sure all the other crewmen had exited first. He touched the photograph of his darling Maddy, which was stuck to the instrument panel, leaving his hand there for a moment as he tried to mentally bridge the gap of space that stood between them. She was beautiful, even in a picture, he thought to himself. The lovely blonde stared back at him; smiling, enigmatic, timeless in her beauty and love for him. "The games they played;" he remembered. How she loved being spanked as a prelude to sex, and how he had come to love spanking her, laying the lovely blonde across his lap, smacking the delightfully rounded contours of her bare bottom until she squirmed and writhed with rapture from his stinging palm or her wooden hairbrush. It was a very special kind of love between them that built such trust; the surrender and dominance. She offered herself; he carefully took her to a place that only submissives can appreciate, with firmness and love. Others might think it odd; almost certainly would, but for them it was natural, exciting, fulfilling. Breathing another long sigh, this time at the thought of how much he missed her, Mike pulled off his earphones, feeling glad about being alive. Dropping down through the crew hatch, Mike confronted an anxious maintenance crew chief. Unzipping his flight jacket, he pointed at the still-smoking engine.
"Took a round in number three;" he remarked, "she's running hot." With a thoughtful look at the ground, he added "Manifold pressure seems high on two; check it, will you Tommy?"
The grizzled mechanic nodded, noting the new holes in the fuselage of the "Paddlin' Madeline", mute testimony to the travails experienced by her crew just hours before. An olive-drab canvas-backed truck waited for the Madeline's captain as he looked her over one last time. The image of a shapely blonde with a caricature of Hitler over her knee stared down at him from the bomber's nose. She was turning the cartoon character's bare fanny red, a turnabout joke that Mike could not resist when he had been asked to name the B-17 he would command. All the colors were still fresh and bright, as were the spirits of her crew, still relatively new to the meat grinder that was daylight precision bombing.
"Mission number three." he thought, reaching for a cigarette. His hand shook slightly as his lighter ignited the Lucky, partly from the after-effects of high-altitude cold, partly from nervous reaction. A gust of wind off the moor took the smoke away, swirling it around his face, making his eyes crinkle. Now would come de-briefing; a chance to experience it all again, in vivid detail. The arrowing enemy fighters, slashing through their formation, death leaping towards the bombers from their chattering guns. Black, blossoming flowers of deadly flak; their explosions poking holes in the planes as they tried to knock them out of the sky, permanently. Today, they had failed. Mike's squadron had escaped whole, with only five wounded crew members, none of them from the Madeline. In turn, they had pasted the target: a railroad marshaling yard in Belgium. It would be a while before that particular facility was back in operation, supplying the tools of war to the front lines.
The truck rumbled off as Mike climbed aboard, one of his crewmen giving him a hand. It was starting to rain; one of those drippy, sodden English rains that Brits accepted as routine, but which dampened the bodies and spirits of American soldiers. Mike leaned back against the clammy canvas, with its characteristic musty smell, dragging deep on the cigarette as he longed for his sunny California and the adorable Madeline.
* * *
"Well?" Maddy was saying, hands on her hips. "Which do you like best?"
"Huh?" Mike replied, startled out of a daydream, his head in the clouds.
"Which color do you like?" Maddy repeated, exasperated, holding up the two color panels.
"Oh, yeah. I'm sorry, hon." Mike apologized, looking sheepish.
Using the age-old dodge of husbands eternal, he answered a question with a question. Giving his pretty blonde wife an earnest and innocent look, he asked solicitously,
"Which one do you like, sweetheart?"
Maddy wasn't fooled for an instant. Her feminine intuition saw right through his little game, and she made a face, annoyed.
"Oh, no you don't!" she said, pouting at him. "You can't get away with that, Mr. Willis. Which one do you like?"
She had two color plates in her hands, one on either side of her face. One of them was an off-white, and the other a pale yellow. They were paint samples, selected from many color possibilities they had looked at to paint their newly remodeled kitchen. They had worked together, Maddy proving to be pretty good with hand tools. She and Mike had turned a frumpy old bungalow cooking area into a respectable kitchen/dinette. Now, at the eleventh hour, Mike was trying to avoid an argument about the color. His warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners as he wise-cracked,
"I'll take the one in the middle."
She looked confused for a moment, then blushed in irritation and chagrin at his witticism, stamping one loafer-clad foot as if to tell him to be serious.
"I like that one even better," he quipped, grinning from ear to ear, "it reminds me of your naughty bottom after I got through with it last night."
The pretty blonde blushed even harder, but her eyes betrayed the excitement she felt, just remembering her handsome husband's hand on her bare bottom, spanking and spanking until she bawled from the stinging slaps. She felt so fortunate to have a man whose hand could sting like leather when spanking her, yet was so soft and gentle in caressing the intimate areas of her womanhood. The love they made after he spanked her took them both to incredible heights of passion and excitement; she flushed more deeply, tingling all over at the thought of it. Now she was becoming lost in her own daydream, recalling the little act of mischief which had led, as usual, to her bottom-warming.
They had just finished the last touches on the kitchen, and were cleaning up the tools and debris. The only remaining job was painting, which they would do the following week. Lingering odors of glue, putty, and sawdust hung in the air, mixed with fine dust particles that would settle out in time. Kilroy, their resident black and white feline, was busily exploring now that the hammering, sawing, and banging was at an end. He finally settled comfortably on the new, wide window shelf above the sink, seeming to know instinctively that it had been created just for him. Sniffing tentatively, he settled down to catch the last rays of the afternoon sun. Maddy opened two bottles of beer, handing one to Mike as they stood back to admire their handiwork.
"Not bad, not bad." She remarked, pleased with her efforts.
Mike nodded, doubly proud; proud of his own work, but very proud of how good with tools Maddy had been. Taking a long swig, he put his arm around the love of his life, her hair sticking out here and there from under the scarf she'd tied around it. Turning her face up to be kissed, she leaned against him, receiving his mouth on hers in a warm, beer-flavored smooch.
"Mmmmmmmm." She murmured, reaching up to stroke the back of Mike's dark hair, holding his face to hers as she prolonged the kiss. He set his bottle down, kissing her with more passion. After a lengthy embrace, they separated, and Maddy pointed out,
"Oops. Forgot to put your hammer away.", gesturing at a tool left lying on an old wooden kitchen chair. It was standing on its head, an unusual position, but one that Mike sometimes used when putting his hammer down. It made it easier to pick up again, he often said. He strode over to it, intending to carry it right to the tool box on the back porch, and wound up with the hammer and chair in his hand, gaping in surprise. Grinning like an elf, Maddy giggled as she beheld Mike's amazement and exasperation at her prank; gluing the hammer-head to the chair seat. Mike held the now-fused objects in his right hand, glowering wryly at his playful spouse, seeing the glitter in her eyes and knowing her desire. She wanted a spanking, and he'd see that she got one.
"Ah-hem." He cleared his throat, feigning real irritation, scowling at the impish figure before him. Actually, it was taking all his self-control to keep from busting out laughing. He knew he must have presented a ludicrous sight standing there with the hammer-chair dangling from his hand. Maddy lost it. She doubled over with laughter, sneaking a peek at her husband, who was beginning to smile, the corners of his mouth unable to obey his intent to keep a straight face.
"We'll deal with this item tomorrow." He said, setting the chair down.
Taking the still laughing Madeline by the arm, he announced,
"You, we'll take care of right now." And began to lead her towards the old leather sofa in the living room.
Trying not to laugh, Maddy reasoned with him, feigning fear;
"But Micky, I was only trying to keep it from falling over! Honest!"
Mike played the stern hubby role, as Maddy liked, saying,
"Well, my love, you've got a lot to learn about tools, and I guess I'll have to teach you. Maybe a sound spanking on your naughty little bare bottom will help you to learn."
She attempted to look afraid, making a downcast face, but her shining eyes revealed the desire within. As Mike sat and began to take down her jeans, Maddy thrilled inside, anticipating his firm palm against her tender bottom. Her panties followed, and as the cool air caressed her hips, already tingling with excitement, she shivered slightly. As Mike turned her bottom-up across his knees, he announced,
"After I've warmed your devilish little rump, young lady, you can take a nice hot bath. While you're soothing your tender behind, just think about how much it's going to sting when I spank it so very soundly with your hairbrush, before bedtime."
A small whimper of delicious dread escaped her throat, and was quickly followed by a surprised gasp as Mike's right hand smacked her bare behind crisply. In no time at all she was kicking and squirming in time to the sharp slapping sounds of firm palm against tender skin.
"Owwww, ohh Micky, oww!" "Oww!" "Ouuhh!" she wailed, twisting in his grasp.
Spank after hard, stinging spank landed on target, the creamy white of her magnificent bottom changing to rosy pink, then angrier red as Mike's palm slapped away. Every inch of her poor bare bottom felt the smarting impact of her handsome husband's large hand, until she professed her repentance and regret.
"Ohhh - ahhh! Ow! Micky, please, I'm sorry! I won't do it again!, please stop! Ohhh, it hurts! Owww! Owww!"
The hand that could caress so sweetly was now in spanking mode, however, and Mike knew she didn't really want him to stop, not yet. Despite her struggles and cries, the spanking continued until her right hand was gripped firmly in Mike's left and she was bawling like a teenager, her entire backside ablaze with crimson brilliance.
When he finally stopped, he stood the weeping girl up, and stood himself. Usually, they made love right afterward, but Mike was deliberately prolonging the moment, to excite them both more fully. He stroked back her hair as she stood before him, rubbing her smarting bottom with both hands, and softly kissed the tears from her face.
"Now, my naughty girl, go take your bath, and remember what you`ve got coming to you later on."
Maddy flung an arm around his neck, kissing him passionately through her tears and almost derailing his plan. Incredibly excited and filled with desire for her, he gritted his teeth a bit as he turned her toward the bathroom, launching her on her way with a sharp smack on the behind.
Washed, perfumed, and encased in a light lavender robe, Maddy came to Mike as he sat on the edge of their bed. Mike had also bathed away the dirt and sweat of the day's labors, and was wearing the red dragon-print silk robe purchased in Hawaii. They were like two un-minted coins; ready for the die to strike, to give them form and substance.
"Are you ready to have your naughty bare bottom warmed?" Mike asked, playing the part.
"Mmmm-hmmm." She replied, coming sinuously toward him.
The radio was softly playing a slinky something, creating a silky atmosphere as the gorgeous blonde approached her husband, presenting him with the object of her impending discomfort; the large and heavy wooden hairbrush from her dressing table. It was no stranger to Mike's hand, and he took it with a familiarity that bespoke their comradeship. Maddy let her robe fall to the floor around her trim ankles, a move that never failed to elicit a gasp of appreciation and a pelvic salute from her darling Micky. Their eyes locked just for an instant, conveying the love and trust within both of them, and then Maddy turned across his lap, her stunning bottom bared for his attention. She felt herself getting moist even before the hairbrush fell, and was even pleasantly surprised when the radio moved on to a lively number; Glenn Miller's "Little Brown Jug", which provided a perfect tempo for spanking. Glenn had plenty of accompaniment during the performance, with Maddy hitting most of the high notes, and Mike providing assistance on percussion. Kilroy, who was comfortably ensconced in the bedroom easy chair, was used to the scene by now, and merely lifted an eye now and again in curiosity.
Maddy's splendid rear quickly turned a remarkable shade of red under the kiss of the varnished wooden hairbrush, the raging fire in her behind spreading to the center of her being. "Little Brown Jug" was just long enough to provide a sound and thorough tanning, a fact which Mike filed away in his memory for future reference. Discarding the hairbrush, he turned his attention to the soft furred and now thoroughly moistened place between his lovely Maddy's thighs. Turning her face up, he covered her with kisses and soft caresses, taking her breath away with his ardor. Kilroy considerately turned to face in the other direction, either from disinterest or tact, as the two lovers began to explore each other from head to toe, doing what they knew the other liked most. The melding was perfect; for a time, two became one, or more than one, the whole exceeding the sum of the parts.
* * *
"Cap?" Someone was shaking his shoulder. He smiled, remembering.
"Cap?" the voice came again, insistently.
Mike opened his eyes to the slightly concerned face of his ball turret gunner, Vinny.
"Gosh, Cap. You were really out, for a minute." The boy said, then added, "We're here, Cap'n Willis. Debriefing."
With a sickly smile, Mike rolled out of the truck, dragging his flight case with him. It was going to be a long afternoon.
In 1943, Daylight Precision Bombing was used as a tactic against the Axis forces in Europe. Some say it was ineffectual, but it showed our commitment and tenacity to the enemy in an unmistakable way. At bases in England, Italy, and other Allied locations, young men climbed into aircraft loaded with heavy explosives and incendiaries; monkey wrenches to be thrown into the machinery of despotism and oppression. Despite staggering casualties and horrible losses, they kept going up, mission after mission. On the Marine Memorial in Arlington, VA the inscription reads "Uncommon Valor was a Common Virtue". The same could well be said for those brave men who flew, and fought, and died in the skies over Europe. The free world owes them a debt that can never be repaid.