Tuesday, November 25, 2014

From the Top Shelf - The Fortunes of War, part 2

Today I will share with you the conclusion of The Fortunes of War by Samuel Lovell. Mascara alert - you'll need to have a tissue handy. If you haven't read part 1, or want to refresh your memory, read it here.

Once back on the ground my thoughts soon returned to Margot for I was becoming besotted with her and I wanted to coerce her into another spanking. My mind wrestled with various approaches and excuses which ranged from the direct to the ridiculous, but in the end it was Margot who once again led the way, and the path was a familiar one.

"I do not know...it is too hard...I cannot be bothered," I recited angrily, though inside my heart was leaping, as I read the answers to her written work. "What kind of answers are these?"

"They are bad answers, Sir. I am naughty girl. You must whip me many strokes, Sir," my pupil whispered in that so alluring accent. "I admit that I do bad to annoy you," she continued while rising to her feet, "so you whip me hard, like ma mere, and make me cry plenty."

"What do you mean by that?" I asked, my curiosity roused.

Margot went slowly to the chest of drawers her mother had pointed to on that first evening, and withdrew a wooden handled martinet.

"You use this," she said softly, "and I go across the table."

"Very well," I agreed before adding, in an attempt to regain the mantle of authority, "but take off your skirt and knickers completely first."

Margot obeyed, neatly folding these articles of clothing and placing them upon the seat of a chair. She showed no sign of embarrassment at her nakedness or for that matter trepidation at the agonising fate that waited. Moments later she approached one end of the table, bent forward into position, stretched her arms out at right angles and took a grip of the edges. Unlike her mother, my pupil possessed remarkably long legs and she kept them straight, thus compelling her buttocks to jut out with evocative ease. The thick dark socks that reached up to her knees were hardly haute couture, but they complemented their owner's slim muscular calves to perfection. I allowed my retinas to bathe in this glorious sight absorbing every breathtaking inch until I could stand no more.

Being a novice with this particular Gallic instrument of chastisement I will admit that my initial efforts were rather tame affairs. Margot sensibly refrained from giggling on this occasion knowing all too well that once I mastered my swing she was going to suffer enough. With a little practice I quickly mastered the necessary technique and set about my task with added verve. Her anguished squeals were soon echoing off the high open beamed ceiling and she found it impossible to keep her legs so modestly pressed together. I noticed the whippy tails curled around the flesh, connecting harshly with her right hip and I paused to examine the patchwork of livid red weals now adorning that region. Margot burst into fresh wails of tears when she realised that this respite was only a temporary one, yet her knuckles whitened and her body tensed in anticipation of the next blow.

I am at a loss as to how many strokes I saw fit to bestow across her beautiful moons. The sheer burning heat of the moment and the passage of so many years has left my memory strangely fragmented. I can see her scarlet rump rolling from side to side and I can hear her yelps of pain, but I cannot place them in any sort of chronological order. Nor would I wish to, for surely that would ruin the vivid images which still dance merrily through my mind bringing a bitter sweet comfort. From this fervent haze my first recollection is taking Margot into my arms and drying her tears with a handkerchief. Then, as before, everything returned to normal and we had a very pleasant lesson indeed though Margot repeatedly squirmed in discomfort.

Our affair, if such is the word, continued to develop in this way as the weeks blended into months. I increasingly favoured the martinet, yet still found good use for my hand and her shoe. More decisively, I no longer waited for Margot to take the lead and, in truth, devised new rules with the express purpose of entrapment. She rose to the challenge enduring a sustained barrage of spankings and whippings.

Inevitably our bliss was interrupted by the machinations of Mr. Hitler and, at the beginning of May, my squadron was warned that soon all leave would be cancelled. I travelled to the Brouzet household with a heavy heart that afternoon, knowing it would be my last visit for some time. The strain must have shown on my face because Margot recognised it immediately.

"You are leaving soon," she whispered as we stood in the hallway.

"Yes," I replied barely able to look into her sad brown eyes.

"Come," she said, "there will be no lesson today."

I followed my enchanting princess through the kitchen and up a narrow flight of stairs. Then we entered into an expansive bedroom. The sun's warm rays streamed through the window gleaming off the white walls and spotless hardwood floor. Margot made her way past the large iron framed bed to an elegant oak wardrobe from which she brought forth a long wispy birch rod.

"La verge!" she said distantly while presenting me with this carefully bound bundle of twigs. "I cut it for you this morning and I was full of joy. Now I am miserable because you are leaving and I love you so much."

"Don't worry, my darling," I said in that chirpy, stiff upper lip style that we English tend to adopt in the face of emotional turmoil. "We'll have these Nazis finished off by Christmas and I'll be driving my motorcycle up your lane not a month later."

"Yes and I will be waiting," she said sorrowfully.

"That's the spirit," I replied, though the words left a bitter taste.

"You are a very good man," Margot replied, a few stray tears trickling down her cheeks. "You could have made love to me much earlier, but you waited until I was ready and now I am."

"Don't cry, my love, I'm not so terrible, am I?" I tried to joke.

"Of course not," she smiled, "you are a sweet man but sometimes my bottom argues with me about that."

Then, methodically, she began to remove her clothing until she stood totally naked and resplendent in the bright sun. Without a word she took two pillows, placed them on the edge of the bed and bent across them. Her slender back arched exquisitely as she rested upon her elbows and I sighed with contentment as her rump rose into two heavenly peaks.

Once settled I thrashed the girl I loved with all my strength, stroke after agonising stroke. Margot screamed quite madly from the off, her legs flying as she tried to remain in control of her senses, but whenever I stopped she begged frantically for more. Fearing the skin on her buttocks was near to breaking I changed tack and lashed the tops of her legs until they too were red raw. Her near hysterical whimpering verified my belief that she was sated and I tossed 'la verge' aside.

Tearful yet impassioned, she helped me to pull off my uniform in that frenzied dash that uncontrollable desire demands. Our passionate lovemaking took up the rest of the day and when not in Aphrodite's embrace we just clung to one another as if our lives depended on it.

The war, as we all know, saw fit to last a year or four more than the Christmas I had originally anticipated and even when it finished my superiors refused to grant me the necessary leave. It was May 1946 before I returned to the Brouzet farmhouse and, from a distance, everything looked the same, but as I drew nearer the broken shutters and the bullet holes told a different story.

There was no sign of Margot or her mother and the property had been viciously looted. I made extensive enquiries throughout the area, but it seemed they had disappeared in the violent ebbs and flows created by the war. Undeterred I continued my search for over twenty years placing a thousand adverts in as many newspapers. It was no use, she had gone forever and I slowly accepted that our fleeting yet exceptional joy now existed only within my own memory. And there it stays, reminding a sad old gentleman that a truly broken heart never really mends.
I'm sorry it has such a sad ending, but such are the fortunes of war.
From Hermione's Heart

8 comments:

Cat said...

Thanks for the tissue warning Hermione...I needed it. This was a lovely story but such a sad ending.

Hugs and Blessings...
Cat

Roz said...

I'm with Cat on the tissue warning. This was a great story, such a sad ending. Thank you for sharing Hermoine.

Hugs
Roz

ronnie said...

A sad ending but a lovely story Hermione. Thank you.

Love,
Ronnie
xx

Hermione said...

Cat - Yes, very sad.

Roz - It was a lovely story, though.

Ronnie - I'm sure many people had similar sad endings to their wartime friendships.

Hugs,
Hermione

Enzo said...

A sad, yet realistic ending for the overall scene of the story. Thanks again for sharing.

Katie said...

I enjoyed the story, Hermione! :) I just read both parts. And I agree-a sad ending! But glad that they had such a nice last visit together. Thanks for sharing. Many hugs,

<3 Katie

Hermione said...

Enzo - An oddly realistic ending.

Katie - I'm glad you enjoyed it.

Hugs,
Hermione

Ingen said...

"and I'll be driving my motorcycle up your lane"

I can't say I've heard that euphemism before.