The Chastening of Loretta Amaro

Photo-story from Janus 87 featuring Luna Winter

Part I

Summer in Suburbia. A young woman in trouble. big trouble. Aloof and leggy, dignified, smart; chilled despite the day’s warmth.

What is he going to do to her?

Perhaps, even now, she could talk her way out. He asked her, told her, to dress ‘revealingly’ when she came to see him today — a jibe at her feminist principles? ‘Espionage,’ he said it was. Clearly he is not as inept as she thought him. My God, a worm like that! Boss or no boss, at every turn she has let him know exactly what she thought of him.

Now this!

Raven hair bobbing, red lips set, she reaches his house door. It stands ajar. She hesitates, remembering with chagrin what has brought her to this point. ‘Miss Amaro!’ he rapped one morning last week. No ‘excuse me, Loretta’. Had the worm turned? ‘The copy you made of that classified investment document when you thought, incorrectly, that I was out of the office. What did you do with it?’

He knew. She looked at him along her nose in that way of hers — a superior being viewing an inferior. But this time her lofty ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean’ had lacked effect.

‘Schilder-Bragg,’ he countered, so casually that she flinched. ‘They’ve just brought out an identical plan. I believe you have a, um, female friend who just happens to be their deputy marketing manager?’

Loretta, for the first time, had been speechless. She did not know what to say. Or what to do. She was frightened, that was obvious. He himself felt a sense of shock, for he had never had to deal with such a matter before. He knew what she had done, but still found it hard to believe. He was only relieved that he had not appointed her, but had had her foisted on to him and had tried to get her transferred. The bitch! Traitress. Yet what a position this placed him in. Irresistible…

‘Come to my house, Saturday afternoon at three sharp,’ he said. ‘I live alone, there’ll be no interruptions. Let’s see if we can find a way of resolving this extremely serious matter.’

Her silence had been golden. Golden. She had not answered. Her assent hardly needed articulating. And he knew he could count on her silence continuing. It had to, for her own sake.

Loretta steps in through his open doorway. Here she is now. Angry, trapped, a little scared. But ready to bargain if he hasn’t the guts to fire her — and he mustn’t, mustn’t do that! She shuts the front door.

‘I’m in the basement.’ His voice reaches her; coldly precise. ‘Use the spiral staircase.’ Loretta hesitates again; approaches the metal steps and starts down.

In the room below, Henry Wenham waits. Thrills ripple through his body. For more than a year, since she was allocated to him as personal secretary, he has watched Loretta Amaro’s every unconsciously provocative movement as she trod the domain of her outer office, bent and straightened, sat and stood, leaned forward in front of him to pick up the post. In fact it is this guilty obsession of his, this passion for secretly watching her, that has led to her undoing. Her arrogance and greed have handed her to him at last.

Impossibly haughty she was, uptilted nose and acid asides. Uncannily like his wife — she who had reviled and belittled him, oppressed his spirit, drained the fight from him. Then she had to come into his life, just when he thought himself free. Seventeen months since the divorce. She looks quite different to his ex-wife, much more attractive and of course younger; but personality-wise almost her clone. Now the fight is back, on the work front instead of in his home. But against the same principle in an uncaring, totally self-centred female.

‘Down here, Miss Amaro,’ Henry stands at the foot of the stairs, looking upwards. A view never seen before, directly up Loretta’s shapely legs to the clinging white panties. Down and down she comes, round and round. His mouth dries as he watches, watches.

When his secretary reaches the basement area he is seated again at the table. ‘Really, Mr Wenham,’ she tries imperiously. ‘What is this all about, for goodness sake?’

‘You know perfectly well what it’s about, Miss Amaro.’

‘Do I?’ Icy, scornful.

He taps a paper. She flinches when she sees what it is. ‘Leaking documents of this importance to a rival company is not only a dismissable offence,’ he purrs, ‘it is actionable in a court of law. Your flat, I understand, is being purchased on a mortgage heavily subsidised by the company scheme.’

‘You know it is,’ she retorts. Yet her venom is already being drawn. Her legs quiver slightly.

‘So dismissal would mean not only the loss of your job, but your home would have to be repossessed. Am I right?’ She is silent, eyes down. He clears his throat. ‘It need not, perhaps, come to that; but it may well have to. If we can find a way of dealing with it, ah, between us it may — I repeat may — be the last anyone need know about the whole disgraceful business.’

‘I see.’ A whisper.

‘Sir!’

The haughty young woman swallows, grits teeth, takes a breath. ‘Sir.’

‘Excellent. So that’s understood. Turn your back to me, Miss Amaro.’ His voice becomes a gloating murmur. ‘I want to look at your arse.’

‘I beg your —?’

‘Turn around, I said!’

The snooty Loretta turns her back. This is appalling! She feels her skirt being lifted, senses his gaze roaming her rear. ‘Oh, yes…’ he sighs. ‘Round and plump as pumpkins. Delicious!’

Loretta flushes, numb with embarrassment. ‘Now, look here, Mr Wenham,’ she grates out, ‘I simply will not stand for this!’

‘Oh? Oh? Then we shall have to find another position for you to adopt, won’t we!’ He is on his feet, patting the table. ‘Bend over here,’ he suddenly shouts. ‘You wicked hoyden! I mean NOW.’

Loretta flinches, goes in a daze to the table. If she walks back up those spiral steps as every instinct tells her to do, she walks out of her job, her home — and possibly into a criminal court. She cannot do it; yet even now she does not accept that her predicament is her own fault, because nothing ever is. Slowly she leans forward until her elbows rest on the table-top, feeling her panties tighten. He flips the skirt up her back. She cringes as his fingers knead and prod. ‘Quite marvellous,’ he gloats. ‘You really do have a magnificent arse, Miss Amaro — it must be the Italian in you.’

For several minutes more his hands roam and fondle. She wants to scream, run, anything but this. Yet the alternative is not to be contemplated. At last he instructs her to stand. ‘Go and open the curtains there.’

Curtains? A window in a basement? She steps across to where he indicates. Pulls the cord. The curtains slide back and she gasps at what she sees. A rack of crook-handled canes — eight of them, her precise mind notes, each marked with a name. ‘Yes, feast your eyes on them,’ purrs Henry Wenham. ‘One of them will very soon be feasting on that glorious bottom of yours.’

‘What?’

‘Manners, Miss Amaro,’ he chides. ‘You mean “pardon”, I think.’ In an ecstatic mental flash Henry sees his thankfully ex-wife, quailing in just such a way as she surveys the canes. Of course it never happened, because he had purchased them for therapeutic purposes after she had left. For the same reason that he had spent so many hours toiling in his workshop, making apparatus with little thought as to whether he would actually be able to put it to use.

His secretary’s knees tremble, her heart starts to hammer as she reads the facetious names: Bamboo Sue… Mr Bumble… Tramline Blazer…

‘Choose which one.’

‘You’re not going to…’ she begins hoarsely.

‘I can assure you I am!’ Henry has dreamed of this moment for a long, long time, never imagining that it could ever really become more than a dream. ‘You have a splendidly robust bottom which will be able to absorb a good deal of punishment. Choose!’

‘I… can’t.’ No crowing now. No withering looks along that pretty nose. Loretta Amaro seems to shrink, eyes wide and scared and wet, lips sagging apart.

‘This one should wrap itself nicely around those jutting nether-curves of yours, young lady,’ he says with succulent relish. He takes down a medium-thick rod called Flexible Friend, lovingly fondles its shaft, places it in her own trembling hands. ‘Feel how wonderfully supple it is. How whippy. Here, feel the tip — that should deliver a few sharp nips, my dear!’ Uncanny, that: for a moment he had imagined he was addressing his wife. ‘And I have just the apparatus to show you, your bottom and that cane off to their very best advantage!’

Henry turns her attention to a piece of equipment close by. Its purpose puzzles her, yet fills her with dread. ‘Allow me to introduce my inverted semi-stocks,’ he says. ‘You may be honoured to know that I designed and made them with you, Miss Amaro, very much in mind. You might call it a hobby of mine, now that my evenings and weekends are entirely free.’ He taps the adjustable platform with the cane. ‘It’s only fitting that you should be its first customer. Sit on here, then lie back.’

Loretta crouches. She simply cannot believe what is happening. ‘Come along,’ he snaps. ‘Skirt up out of the way!’ She sits in dread on the padded base, then stretches back. She feels frozen. The unexpectedly skilful hands which fashioned the stocks now elevate the platform. She gasps as her bottom is forced thus upwards. Her legs swing over her head. He makes final adjustments; then, enjoying the sensuous feel of her stockinged ankles, positions her feet in the broad central groove carved in the crossbeam.

Loretta Amaro’s buttocks, plumply encased in white silk knickers, await his attentions!

Henry Wenham takes up the cane and raptly surveys the target for several moments. Then Flexible Friend swoops with a swish, striking the bumps with a meaty thwack.

Loretta jerks, twitches. Her buttocks burn, tense, release. The cane, avid from its taste of bottom, soars high and flashes down to burrow deeper into the tempting curves with an echoing crack. She has never had the cane, of course; probably never had any discipline in her spoiled young life. She screeches as pain bites brightly; a frantic hand clamps her rear; her knees jerking forward as pain doubles her up.

‘Take that hand away!’ Henry yells. He is in command: the haughty secretary and the phantom wife are upended and helpless before him, their united bottoms ready for more. ‘Feet back in position!’ he snaps. Bitch, bitch, bitch. ‘My God, have you had this coming to you!’

The cane-shaft vibrates as if alive, speeds in with a hiss to crack across the lush rumps. A nerve-drilling shriek hits the air. ‘No-o-o!’ Henry spreads his feet, warming to the wonderful work. He longs to feel with his palm those brazen, knicker-clad buttocks, but allows the cane to do it for him: fondling each peachy mound with the firm tip, then swinging high, swiping down.

The impact is sharp, hard, hideously painful. Loretta jerks, shouts. Henry is panting. It is time to readjust. Stepping behind the apparatus he eases her upturned feet apart, placing each into the outer grooves in the crossbeam. He cannot resist stroking the silk-smooth legs, caressing the ankles with his thumbs.

‘Let’s see a little more of the target, shall we?’ he says. Stepping to the front he tugs the tissue-thin knickers into the crevice of her bottom, boldly baring the blushing buttocks.

Ah, that’s better!’ This, he decides, is how he likes his women — bossy secretaries and carping wives especially! As he focuses on the mouthwatering sight he again sees his ex-wife’s own bottom, upturned and at his mercy, her stridency reduced to whimpers as she awaits the next cane-stroke, each rosy sphere burning and prickling. He takes a fresh stance, square-on. Breathes deep. Flexible Friend to above his shoulder, then rushes down to smite that bottom with a stunning crack.

Loretta’s body convulses, every muscle locks. She gives a savage ‘Uhh!’ The cane leaps back, a pink track seared across the livid mounds. With the stick poised, Henry observes how her hands scrabble to grip the support-struts, knuckles white. He waits, watches her buttocks jump and twitch; then drives in with a wrist-flick so that Flexible Friend makes a sharper, louder impact!

‘Naooww!’ Her bottom ripples as the cane bites, prints its image, springs away. Teeth grate, pretty face twists. Seconds pass, her eyes squeeze shut, tears seep. The burning in her bottom is unbelievable. Again the cane whops, bridging the buttocks’ lower slopes: a supreme stroke, blazing a trail to match the rest. Another suffering screech greets it.

‘Now, you snooty, haughty madam!’ Henry says. ‘We’ll have respect from now on. No more sneers, smart remarks, insolent looks!’ He is panting more as he hoists the cane to shoulder height. ‘Do I make myself understood?’ Silence except for a sob. ‘DO I?’

‘Y-yes! Yes, sir! YES!’ Her shriek soars as the cane sweeps down to measure its pliant length across the crown of Loretta’s exposed bottom-cheeks, burning deep.

That arrogant voice is choked from weeping, the scornful eyes opaque with tears. It is over… for now. Henry Wenham lowers the base of his contraption which has stood its maiden test so well. Closely he peers at the well-caned bottom of Loretta Amaro, imagining with joy how it must smart and burn!

‘Stand up,’ he barks. His sobbing secretary does so, stiffly. As her skirt drops to its normal position he flips it up to survey his handiwork. Henry is pleased, for although he has not struck too hard, the parallel cane-tracks testify to his accuracy. Certainly, as with all things, it could be better, but with Miss Amaro’s frequent co-operation he will surely become as proficient at the art as he has made himself at woodwork!

‘Excellent,’ he now declares through her sobs. ‘But I’m by no means finished with you yet, young woman. I shall expect you here at the same time next week.’

‘You c-can’t!’ she wails, frantically rubbing her bottom. ‘You simply can’t!’

‘Oh yes I can,’ he says curtly, and you know why I can, Miss Amaro. Do I make myself completely understood?’

There is silence but for her sniffles. Then, tiny-voiced, comes, ‘Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’ he roars.

‘Yes, sir,’ she whispers.

Part II

‘Take off your dress, brassiere and stockings, Miss Amaro!’ calls Henry Wenham from below. ‘Panties and shoes only.’

The following Saturday has arrived. A week of phenomenal tension between them at the office, during which she has been subdued as never before. She has come to him, however. Bilingual in Italian and English she may well be, he thinks, but my canes speak all the tongues.

Loretta is almost down the spiral stairs when he turns. The aggravatingly lovely face looks humbled — but that is not what he is gazing at. Her naked breasts are all he dreamed they would be, proud and round and full. Damn it, her nearly nude figure is magnificent.

What a thrill it is for him to order her to wear only what he wants to see her in.

‘Stand here.’ The lady is haughty no more. His eyes roam every inch of her. ‘You have fantastic boobs,’ he murmurs, ‘but it’s that arse of yours, Miss Amaro, that will again be bearing the brunt of my attentions.’ His deliberately sexist goad provokes no feminist rebuke. Just a flash of those dark Italian eyes and a terrible sigh.

‘On to the stocks,’ he says briskly, striding to the cane-rack. For what he has in mind today, none but the thinnest and most pliant will do. He selects Whipper-Snapper Sam. ‘Down, girl!’

In misery, Loretta lowers her bottom on to the platform. She has been ultra-aware of that part of herself all week. The marks from last Saturday have faded, but not the memory. As before, he elevates the base so that her gloriously rounded buttocks are pushed clear and high, panties sinking into the deep divide. This time he at once positions each inverted foot into the outer grooves of the crossbeam, spreading her legs.

‘We’ll have that arse bare,’ he raps.

The snooty one can only whimper as, hands shaking with excitement, Henry drags the panties clear so that her bottom is breathtakingly bared. For a woman as proud as Loretta Amaro the humiliation is acute, the more so because she knows that, with legs spread wide, her most intimate secret parts are fully displayed.

‘Beautiful,’ he taunts. She groans her dismay. ‘Take a good strong grip on the rail above your head,’ he advises. ‘This is going to hurt you a good deal.’ He tests Whipper-Snapper Sam, whop-whop through the air, enjoying her flinches.

Henry keeps his once-insufferable secretary waiting for another full minute, upturned and helpless, watching how she shifts and tenses, clenches, sighs. Then he takes a firm stance, steadies himself with a hand on her leg. Up comes the cane, which whizzes down to strike hard and loud across the centre of that bare, beautiful bottom. A white track shows, and turns rose. Air hisses through clenched teeth as pain flames in. ‘Aaaahhhhhh!’

He makes her wait for the next one, too, while her buttocks cool to tingling. She hears his clothing rustle as his arm swings high. In this position, even through half-closed lids, she can see the cane pause at the peak of its ascent, quiver in readiness, flash down in a blur…

‘Aagghh-oh-oh-oh!’ That one hurt, really hurt! She howls as white heat sears her seat. She sees him vaguely, towering to her right through a prism of tears. Her bottom is afire, her pussy gapes: upended, open-ended, suspended in hell! The cane leaps high again: this time she shuts her eyes, enduring the agonising pause he makes her endure.

A whoosh as Whipper-Snapper Sam descends. Barely has the sound hit her ears when the impact cracks across the lower, fleshier curves of her bottom, burning another track. A choked gasp from Loretta greets it as her bottom-cheeks flush redder, her head slams on its rest, her hands wrench at the rail.

Henry Wenham comes to attention, soldier-like. As Miss Amaro’s shudders subside he re-zeroes the whippy-thin wand on the upthrust buttocks and smiles in sheer contentment. He feels pleasurably pitiless, a poet of punishment: a snooty lass like this needs nippy sticks to whale her naughty nates! Not in hate, but retribution for all the trials she makes a man endure.

He is grunting words, yet knows they are addressed in the main to his divorced wife. ‘Cow! You won’t get away with it, not ever again!’ The stick climbs behind his right shoulder, hovering high before it rushes down to connect with a mighty crack across the summit of Loretta’s bottom-cheeks, precisely where the seat-bones are padded by well-stretched flesh. ‘Yowoooh-oo…’ Her cry dies in a blubbering wail. The silence is a powerful one. Loretta dares to open tight-shut eyes. Tear-blind, she blinks them briefly clear in time to see that cane rising, rising yet again.

Henry waits, exulting. Loretta Amaro’s moans and whimpers are music. This toffee-nosed, feminist, ball-crushing, man-hating young madam squeals and sniffles beneath the whiplash crack of his cane! Sheer heaven. Upended on his apparatus of revenge, his lofty, sneering secretary becomes, too, his harpy of a wife. In his mind both their bottoms, bared and upturned for the cane, are blended into this supreme set of Anglo-Italian nates which shiver and twitch so enticingly beneath him! Over the weeks and months since the venomous divorce and his snooty wife’s outrageous claims he has subjugated all his energies to lovingly craft this equipment for just such moments as these!

Whipper-Snapper Sam swoops with a hiss, strikes home. She uffs, hisses, moans. They are made for each other, this bottom and it, and Henry suddenly knows that this will not be the last time. The long, shapely legs are superbly positioned for some whippy attention to the backs of those thighs! Perhaps on the next occasion, he muses. For he will send for her again, and again, and knows that she will come to him — for Loretta Amaro loves herself far too much to run the risk of making herself a jobless criminal with no home to crawl back to.

‘One more!’

With a final hiss-and-crack he drives the cane to its target, impacting against the naked buttocks with a harder stroke than any she has so far suffered. The soprano shriek of her response hits a crescendo, hangs on the air, then collapses in descending grace-notes to a contralto growl of anguish and relief.

It is over — for now.

Henry Wenham lets down her legs, fondling their curves as raptly as he will fondle each cane after she has gone. For several minutes the soundly chastised girl lies there, rubbing her afflicted rumps until the searing heat begins to ebb. Then at last, slowly and painfully, Loretta Amaro, bilingual secretary to Head of Financial Services, struggles to her feet. As she pulls up the panties over her burning bottom, her boss turns and strides aloofly away.

‘You will stand there and ponder on your misdeeds,’ he calls behind him. ‘Nor will you dress again until I decide to return your clothes. Do I make myself perfectly understood, Miss Amaro?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she manages to say.

‘Oh, and by the way, I shall expect to see you here again at the same time next week!’

Afternoon moves towards evening, but Loretta Amaro continues to stand there. And stand. She has plenty to ponder about…