From the Top Shelf - The Fortunes of War, part 1

The Fortunes of War is a heartwarming story by Samuel Lovell, set in France during the Second World War. A young RAF officer finds a very pleasant distraction from the war while on leave one day.

The rest of my squadron had made straight for a night club, eager to submerge themselves in the many pleasures this establishment offered. I was less keen, having tired of the smoky atmosphere, the hectic jazz rhythms and the over-priced champagne we consumed so readily. Instead, I opted for a stroll, hoping to calm my anxieties while learning a little about the town of Nancy where we were based. It was, I discovered, a pleasant place with an impressive cathedral and a seventeenth century chestnut avenue leading to the gothic Basilique de St Evre. The streets were tranquil and it was peculiar to remember that not far away Hitler's troops were massing in preparation for his assault on France and the low countries.

The bitter January wind eventually put paid to this bout of wanderlust and I decided to rejoin the rest of the chaps back at the club. One has to assume that I was rushing because I collided with a middle aged lady who was standing at a bus stop. As a result she was sent sprawling across the pavement amid a profusion of baguettes and other groceries. She began shouting at me immediately and her strong patois did little to hide the gist of her angry comments.

Being a gentleman, I took this scolding in good heart and set about helping Madame back to her feet. She was still extremely cross and her expression only softened when I began to apologise in my best public schoolboy French. These efforts amused her greatly and, to my surprise, she kissed both my cheeks. Forgiven, yet still wishing to make amends, I offered to escort her safely home in the side-car of my motorcycle. After some debate and the extensive use of sign language she eventually agreed.

Her name was Madame Brouzet and she resided in a large farmhouse ten miles along the road to Metz. When we arrived she insisted that I followed her into the kitchen, saying something about having a daughter who spoke very good English. My compliance was rewarded by a stout glass of full bodied red wine. My hostess meanwhile disappeared outside leaving me to deliberate on the politest way to make my escape. Having taken a number of holidays in rural France before the war, I knew only too well that its inhabitants loved to wine and dine their guests to the point of stupefaction. That, I told myself firmly, would not be the case tonight. My first reconnaissance flight was at seven o' clock the next morning and I intended to accomplish it with a clear head.

Then Madame Brouzet returned and trailing in her wake came a creature of such sublime beauty that I nearly forgot to rise from my seat. She had long dark auburn hair that came down past her shoulders with attractive ringlets falling over proud cheek bones. Her eyes were slightly too large and preposterously oval, but one could have spent a lifetime simply staring into them.

"Good evening, Sir," she said uneasily, yet with that innate charm possessed by the French. "My name is Margot Brouzet."

"Bonsoir Mademoiselle," I replied, "Je m'appelle Daniel Thorpe."

"Will you stay for the eating?" she asked and I struggled not to grin.

"Thank you," I replied, forgetting in an instant my former good intentions, "it would be my pleasure."

"Good," said Margot with a smile, "you sit now."

I obeyed and then watched as she took off her heavy overcoat revealing a loose fitting woolen skirt that fell down past her knees. This clumsily cut garment however, could do nothing to conceal the girl's sumptuous hips or her calves that were strong and taut. Conversely, her blouse didn't even attempt to enshroud its contents and was, I believe, a size at least too small. It hugged her trim young waist and drove one's eyes upwards to her conspicuously ripe breasts.

After taking a seat we entered into polite conversation which was thankfully conducted in my native tongue. Margot's English vocabulary was remarkably broad for a girl brought up in the country and, despite her many grammatical errors, it left my command of French looking pathetic.

The late Monsieur Brouzet had been responsible for teaching his daughter English, having learnt the basics himself during Jerry's last outing across international frontiers. He had clearly done a fine job because shortly before his death Margot had passed the examinations of a foreign language college in Strasbourg. The war then made an untimely entrance putting paid to her ambitions and ever since she had been working hard at trying to run the family farm, a task which had become practically impossible since her three brothers went to join their countrymen at the front. So now her books stood unopened, gathering dust, and much she once understood had been forgotten.

Madame Brouzet occasionally left her cooking and entered our conversation with a question of her own. Naturally Margot acted as interpreter and it was during one of these that she suddenly began to blush. From what I could gather, which was very little due to the rapidity of the speech, she was refusing to put one of her mother's inquiries to me. The old girl was certainly getting hot under the collar, but her daughter remained unmoved. This carried on for several intriguing minutes until Madame Brouzet pointed at a chest of drawers that stood in one corner of the room while glaring meaningfully at Margot.

The poor girl, clearly cowed by the gesture, submitted to the stronger will and turned towards me, her eyes shyly avoiding my own.

"Ma mere has told me to ask you for English lessons," she stuttered, obviously dying of embarrassment. 'Ma mere' then offered some more intelligible advice which her daughter passed on without emotion. "She will cook you a fine meal in paid for each one."

I had never considered myself a tutor, but looking at Margot with her beautiful features glowing in the orange haze of the oil lamp, it seemed the time had come to take on a new challenge.

"I'd be delighted," I replied.

"Really?" gasped my new pupil, her eyes sparkling.

"Yes, really," I confirmed, hardly able to believe my luck.

So it was settled and within three days I was back at the Brouzet kitchen table, sat next to the lovely Margot. Her mother obligingly left us in peace and, inside the hour, we had formulated a study programme with which to proceed. We split our time between oral and written work, the latter proving to be a troublesome stumbling block. To try and address this imbalance I set extra prep for her to accomplish during my absences. When I returned, two or three days later, we would go over her efforts in detail and, as a rule, they had been completed with great diligence.

This high quality output came to an abrupt end one afternoon when Margot presented me with a dozen lack-lustre answers to questions well within her grasp.

"This is terrible," I said severely, tossing her work aside. My pupil giggled and, looking up, I discerned a most unappealing smirk on her face. This served to add fuel to my irritation, transforming it into hot anger. I suppose one could accuse me of taking my position as tutor far too seriously - after all, though I hated to admit it, my true intentions on Margot were far more carnal than academic. The lessons, in my mind, were merely the vehicle with which to assist the fulfillment of these cravings, yet still I felt insulted.

Perhaps it is an indication of my upbringing, but I was incapable of suppressing a reaction. "If you were a little younger, my girl, "I growled somewhat menacingly, "I'd take you over my knee and give your petite derriere a sound spanking for this pathetic effort."

"I am not that old, Daniel," she laughed coyly, " but I know you are much too kind to smack my little tutu."

"If you continue to be so lazy," I threatened, "you may be in for a shock!"

"Then I will be... 'ow you say... bone addle," she provoked quite blatantly.

I will freely admit that I found this situation quite bewildering and my mind reeled with the possibilities. The sensual aspects of chastisement had never really appealed to me, my only experiences thus far being as a reluctant recipient during my schooldays. Yet the idea of placing a few well aimed slaps across Margot's lovely plump behind had my pulse racing like a runaway train. It will come as no surprise to learn, therefore, that I gave way to this desire and acted accordingly.

"Stand up you naughty girl," I said with great force, "you won't be smiling so happily by the time I've finished with your behind."

"You will have to spank very hard then, Daniel," she teased, leaving me to wonder who exactly was in control here.

"You will address me as 'Sir' until I tell you otherwise!' I countered in an attempt to regain the upper hand.

"Yes Sir," she replied while biting her bottom lip in the most charming manner.

Her contrite and humble expression gave me a much needed boost in confidence. I too now stood, lifting my chair back from the table with casual intent. Then, after sitting down once more, I beckoned Margot to my right hand side. She complied meekly and to my utter amazement proceeded to lift her skirt up to her waist. I had intended to spank her over her skirt, being a man of some propriety, but here, I recognised, was an old hand when it came to the art of receiving discipline. Well if she wanted it across her knickers that was fine by me, and, without further ado, I began to haul her over my lap. She resisted and pulled away most unexpectedly.

"But Sir," she said, her face a picture of concerned horror, "la decullotage. La fessee est toujours sans culottes!"

One does not require a PhD in French erotic literature to know exactly what my mischievous little minx wanted. I sensed once again, however, that she was running the show and if she wanted a spanking with her knickers off then I was going to do the removing. I grabbed Margot's full hips roughly, pulled her towards me and hastily untied the cord that kept the home made woolen knickers in place. With similar determination I then yanked this expansive piece of underwear down to her knees.

"Now get over my lap!" I commanded and she obeyed with a flamboyance that bordered upon the arrogant.

As she squirmed into a comfortable position I became acutely aware of my erection. Every nerve end in my body was prickling with a delightful sense of anticipation and Margot must have felt the hardness pressing against her left thigh. My hand, which was supposed to be belabouring her pale white buttocks, preferred instead to softly trace the contours of those fine rounds of flesh. They rose expectantly to the touch languishing happily in the attention.

This will never do, I reprimanded myself sharply, and I hastily delivered a rather ineffectual slap across the middle of the tasty target. Margot giggled in the manner that had begun to infuriate me and I repaid this outburst with a real cracker over the same spot as the first. No laughter on this occasion, just a slight gasp and a rather becoming wriggle of her rump, upon which a bright red hand print was glowing. Pleased with this response I let fly with another dozen or so resounding smacks up and down Margot's tight cleft. Noticing the virgin flesh on the sides of her buttocks, I changed strategy, spanking one nate and then the other. These edges proved to be rather delicate and my pupil's gasps grew audibly, a phenomenon that brought me a previously unknown pleasure. By this stage her derriere was the colour of scarlet and so after another quick slap or two I decided to bring an end to the punishment.

"There," I said in my most masterful voice, "let that be a lesson to you, Margot!"

Instead of rising promptly to her feet and rubbing the afflicted area as one might expect, she contrived to twist her head around until she stared in to my eyes, a mischievous grin on her face.

"Look, M'sieu," she said softly, "my eyes are not even wet!"

"They soon will be," I promised with calculated ferocity - though how I was to achieve this was as yet a mystery.

My hand was evidently not up to the job, but I had no intention of allowing this little minx to make a mockery of my attempts at dispensing discipline. We British, I think you will agree, have a certain reputation to uphold in the field of corporal punishment and one certainly did not want to let the side down. What I needed was an implement of some kind with which to make a deeper impression. A hairbrush or a wooden spoon would fit the bill, but unfortunately I could see neither. Then, in a flash of inspiration, I reached down and pulled one of Margot's shoes from her foot. It was dainty kind of slipper, quite pliable, but with a solid leather sole. I had my weapon and, after taking a firm grip of the miscreant's supple waist I introduced her chubby cheeks to its bite.

She squealed as the leather sank into the soft muscle and her legs kicked involuntarily, clearly denoting sincere distress. It was a scene that repeated itself with increasing animation as the strokes wore on. My left arm struggled to contain her as she bucked, twisted and ever so slowly began to sob. If the girl thought a few tears would bring an end to her ordeal, she was sadly mistaken. It was my turn to dictate events and with meticulous regard for detail I worked the length and breadth of her already burning rump leaving the skin a dark hue of crimson.

By way of a finale I administered six sharp whacks low down where the inner thighs merge into the buttocks causing the knickers, which had been waving round her ankles, to be kicked clean across the room. When given permission to rise, she did so without complaint and quickly grasped her ravaged bottom in the traditional manner. It was a gratifying spectacle and, naturally, my thoughts turned to ravishing her there and then on the kitchen floor.

Margot's disposition, however, indicated a thoroughly chastised young lady and not an ardent lover. Whatever passions had driven her to bare all were obviously satisfied and I realised, sadly, that my ardent lust would have to be curbed. My observation proved to be accurate and within ten minutes we were back at the table extending Margot's knowledge of English grammar. She worked hard and made significant progress, only stopping when her mother came back to prepare supper.

"Please Sir, say nothing to ma mere," my pupil whispered furtively, her deep brown eyes glistening with emotion. "She would whip me terrible if she know I make you angry."

That was the last reference Margot made to our disciplinary encounter that evening or, I may add, for the next three lessons. She was a model pupil making great strides in the right direction and I could only conclude that the spanking had done her the world of good. This was a pity because I was a mass of raging passions desperate to further my burgeoning interest and experience in the thrashing of feminine rumps.

All of which left me a confused and perplexed wreck. It was almost a relief to be flying missions where the many hazards kept one's mind firmly upon the trivial matter of simply staying alive!

You will have to wait until next week to see what happens when our hero returns to earth.