The Big Four-O

Photo-story by Stephen Sims from Janus 109 featuring Luna Winter reprising the character of Loretta Amaro.

‘What’s it like to be an old man, Rob? Bloody hell — forty!’

Rob Scott grinned grimly. Some birthday party this was turning out to be — three mates from a pop group and bottled beer. Forty! He should’ve been prime minister by now, or an astronaut. Oh for a woman, especially one whose arse he could smack. Good at that, Rob was. Sometimes he thought it was all he was good at.

‘What’s happened to this girl then, Justin?’ said Wayne, bass guitarist of the group, relubricating his tonsils with another swig.

‘Prat!’ roared Norman the drummer. ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise.’

‘Girl?’ Rob’s interest quickened. ‘What girl?’

Justin, lead singer and lyrics, sighed. ‘Okay, since blabber-mouth here’s coughed it out, I’ve ordered a strip-o-gram for you, tits and all, you lucky bastard.’ He stood up and looked at his watch. ‘And the bitch is late. Sharon, that’s what they said.’

‘What, Sharon Stone?’ gurgled Wayne. ‘Maybe she missed her Concorde flight.’

‘The agency said she might be coming by train,’ said Justin. ‘I’d better nip down and see if she’s on the two-fifteen or we’ll be sitting here all afternoon.’

‘Without a hard-on between us,’ put in Norman. ‘How’ll you recognise her?’

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult, she’ll be dressed as a French maid.’

‘It’s all right for you, Justin — you’re engaged to be marred, or is that married?’ Norman rolled bloodshot eyeballs. ‘Keep your hands off the goods on the way back or Rob’ll tell your fiancée…’

‘I don’t know his fiancée,’ said Rob.

But Justin was gone.

‘He worries too much,’ said Wayne, gulping more ale.

‘Good job somebody does or we’d never get paid on the gigs,’ said Norman.

Time passed, more beer and banter flowed. There was a knock at the door. Three heads swung round. ‘Knock-knock, who’s there?’ called Wayne. The door opened, and the answer to a young man’s dreams put her face round the door. On her head sat a frilly white cap made from the corner of a pillow case. This, with a saucy white apron over a short tight black dress created the image of a French maid, and an extremely naughty one at that.

‘Hi, I’m Sharon from the strip-o-gram agency,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for Rob Scott’s flat.’

‘You’ve found it,’ Rob told her, eyes goggling. ‘That’s me!’ The other two whistled and yelped.

‘Well,’ she said, making beautiful eyes at Rob and switching to a Continental accent. ‘I am your French maid, ‘oo is “maid” to please!’

‘Made to be laid,’ muttered Norman, sitting eagerly upright and drooling slightly. ‘One of the blokes has gone out looking for you.’

Wayne gazed, dazed, at the girl. ‘Sod ‘im,’ he exclaimed. ‘Serves ‘im right for fussing. Come on in and do yer stuff, you little darlin’! This is birthday boy, ere — the big four-O. Forget the other gink!’

In Sharon shimmied, supremely sexy as she sashayed, spun and weaved her feminine spell over the three guys goggling from the settee. ‘Appee buthdayy tu vous, appee buthdayy tu vous…’ she sang with a husky French lilt, swallowing Rob up with dark darling eyes. Laughing, she whipped off her frilly apron and tossed it at him, then wiggled and jiggled some more.

She made to unfasten her dress at the back, pouted, then pleaded alluringly: ‘S’il vous plait, M’sieur Rob — voulez vous unzippez moi?’

Rob was there, mouth dry, palms sweating. A sight of that deliciously wiggling arse was now imminent, and he didn’t want to delay the moment. Down came the zip as she cooed and swayed, then moved away with a kiss at the air and continued her dance, working that tight skirt down over her hips, over her thighs and down her legs; while inside three sets of trousers there was standing room only.

Ah! Rob nearly cried out at the beauty of the sight. Her breasts were round and melon-ripe, inciting groans from the watchers, but when she leaned over, turned and pushed out her hips, flimsy French knickers clung to fantastic feminine buttocks, womanly rounded, girlishly curved.

‘Bloody ‘ell — yow!’ For members of a rock band not entirely unused to the attentions of young women, the reactions of Wayne and Norman eloquently expressed the beauty of the gyrating lovely putting on such a show for them, eyes glowing and flirting with them, kissy lips parted in smiles as the three watchers gasped and gaped and groaned and cheered her on. Sharon swung the dress around in her hand as she danced, round and round. faster and faster, scattering wafts of pulse-racing perfume…

The door opened and Justin stood there. He stared, astounded, at the girl — who froze in her cavortings, staring too.

‘Loretta! What the hell are you doing?’ he said.

‘Justin! What are you doing here?’

‘And dressed like that! Jesus, what the fuck’s going on?’

‘Leave off,’ groaned Wayne. ‘She was doin’ great. Don’t know this lovely creature, do yer? This is Sharon from the strip-o-gram agency.’

‘What?’

‘Now, Justin,’ said the girl anxiously, ‘I can explain.’

‘Her name is Loretta!’ shouted Justin. ‘I ought to bloody know — I’m sodding well engaged to be married to her.’ The other three were, for the moment silenced. ‘Here I go, traipsing like a wally around the station, and meanwhile here you are stripping off in front of my mates! Well sod you, you little tart! — I’m off.’

‘Please, Justin!’ she cried. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. We need the money if we’re going to get married. I’m only doing it for us.’

‘Let me worry about that!’ he shouted furiously.

‘I worry about it! I’m only trying to help. I mean, what with you being made redundant…’

‘Oh, thanks for telling everyone!’

‘We have to be practical, Justin. This is a good way to make a bit of extra cash. I’ve got a nice body, why shouldn’t I use it?’

‘Don’t mind us,’ said Rob while Wayne and Norman smothered grins.

Justin struggled for words. ‘You know what you need!’ he said at last. ‘You need a bloody good smacked bum, that’s what!’

A chorus of approval greeted this. Rob perked up, secretly lusting for a crack at that peachy-soft backside himself. Now that would be a birthday present!

‘You wouldn’t!’ Loretta flinched away from Justin as he grabbed her arm.

‘Wouldn’t I?’ Still in a fury he cleared the nearest armchair and pointed a quivering finger at it. ‘Kneel up on there, and let’s have your arse nice and high.’

If the four men could have read Loretta’s mind they would probably have been almost as confused as she was. A few years ago she had undergone a humiliating and painful initiation into corporal punishment [see The Chastening of Loretta Amaro]. It had hurt like hell, of course, but the mark it left continued to confound her. It returned time and again, chilling her memory but somehow thrilling her mind. Head spinning she obeyed Justin’s command.

Rob gazed, Norman goggled and Wayne stared as Loretta, aka Sharon, obediently knelt up on the chair-seat, rested her arms on the back and stuck out a sumptuous behind, ready for whatever punishment her outraged fiancé was prepared to unleash upon its tender surfaces. Rob’s mouth went even drier at the superb sight. Justin stepped up beside her, paused a moment, swung back his arm and brought it swiftly down. His palm smacked loudly across his fiancée’s knickered bottom, and she jerked and wriggled at the smart.

Smack, smack, smack. As Justin proceeded to spank the alluringly out-thrust globes, his hand striking firmly against the curves which flattened and wobbled, pinkened and twitched at every slap, he seemed mesmerised by the beauty of that bottom and the weirdness of what was happening, and hardly seemed aware that Loretta had turned her face towards the ogling audience and was laughing her way through her ‘chastening’ experience, as though this was simply an extra performance that she and Justin had decided to provide for their entertainment.

As Justin’s palm swung repeatedly in, smacking tingling stings into her bottom-cheeks, the pain to Loretta was not only tolerable but almost pleasant, and her smile grew broader at the expressions of the watching, lads and Justin’s earnest but inadequate endeavours to punish her.

Smack, smack, smack, smack, smack! As Justin started to sweat and his palm got increasingly sore, Loretta began to laugh out loud — for the feelings his spanks were stimulating in her bottom were really quite sexy and she was slowly starting to get damp.

Smack! ‘Right, that’s it,’ Justin said sourly, blowing on his stinging palm. ‘You obviously find this bloody funny, and my hand’s hurting more than your arse seems to be.’ He turned to Rob. ‘Got anything else I can use?’

Loretta stifled another giggle, and was still laughing as Rob, with a strange light in his eye, went from the room. Justin hauled his fiancée to her feet and shook her — which only made her laugh more.

It wasn’t until Rob returned a minute later with a riding crop that Loretta’s laughter stopped. She gazed at the wicked-looking implement, and suddenly things didn’t seem so funny any more.

‘You’re not going to use that on me?’ she queried anxiously.

‘Aren’t I?’ said Justin.

‘But that’s for a horse,’ she protested. ‘I’m not a horse. Horse’s have thicker skins than me.’

‘And they ain’t so pretty and they’ve got bigger teeth,’ agreed Wayne. ‘But you ain’t half got lovely flanks, love!’

‘Right, young lady,’ growled Justin, taking the crop. ‘You wanted to give the lads here a show for Rob’s fortieth. Well, now you can bloody well do so. Let’s have that bra off, for starters…’

‘No!’

‘Oh? Why so shy all of a sudden? You must’ve shown those tits of yours to all kinds of blokes already — isn’t that what strip-o-gram girls do?’

‘But this is only my first job!’

‘But you were loving it, weren’t you! Come on, get it off! May as well start as you were meaning to continue.’

For Loretta, it wasn’t a joke any more. Miserably, she unclipped her bra and peeled it off, and when her large, round, perfectly-shaped breasts spilled free and she heard their collective gasp, she wanted to cry rather than laugh.

‘No, Justin, please — this isn’t a joke any more.’

‘It never was,’ he grunted. ‘Bend over. Now. Hands on the chair-arms, feet on the floor.’

Submissively, Loretta turned. She felt wretched, humiliated and very small as she leaned forward and took her weight on her hands on the arms of the chair. But what could she do? She didn’t want to lose Justin.

‘Perk your arse up. Up! Come on, let’s all have a good look!’

Loretta’s unfettered breasts hung down as the lads goggled and held their breath. When Justin gripped the waistband of her French knickers and yanked them down, baring her bottom, she shrieked in protest.

‘C’mon, you like showing the goods, don’t you?’ Justin snapped bitterly. ‘Well let’s see what that arse of yours thinks of this!’

He swung the whippy crop. It thwopped through the air and wrapped itself across the meat of Loretta’s bared buttocks. She felt it as a searing line of pain, hot and spreading, a shock which made her yelp.

‘Stay down!’ Justin was still angry. She could feel it, and it thrilled her darkly. The second stroke made her gasp, printing another line of fire across her bottom.

Thwack!

‘Ahh-ah-owww!’ She shook her hips as if shaking sparks of pain from her rear.

Thwack-thwack-thwack! The springy crop hissed and struck, hissed and struck, indenting the padding of flesh which covered her rumps with blaze after blaze of hurt, till Loretta gave a shriek and half stood up.

‘How dare you try to move before I’ve finished with you! Get over that chair!’ Justin seized Loretta’s shoulders and pulled her forward to lie face-down across both arms of the chair. Her buttocks pricked and throbbed, hot and fiery, but what amazed Loretta most was the melty thrillings she was experiencing at being so mastered and controlled. She had not been aware that Justin could be like this, nor that she would have responded in this way, and felt sure that their discovery was mutual.

In this new position, prone instead of tightly bending, Loretta’s bottom-cheeks were slacker and fleshier. Justin brought the crop down correspondingly harder, feeling its shaft embed itself briefly in the satin-soft flesh and spring back. Loretta yowled and kicked.

Whack-whack-whack! Justine set up a lively dance with the slender rod upon the bouncing globes, feeling himself harden as he did so. Certainly he loved Loretta, but there was something about her demeanour under punishment that was frankly, well, arousing. Rob had once tried to tell him something about the unique pleasures of wielding a rod with a complaisant female, but he had hardly listened at the time because it seemed to make no sense. Well, now it did.

Loretta was squirming, gasping. Justin laid the crop on harder, hearing it swish and strike, swish and strike across her bottom. She had earned this, deserved this, he told himself. Loretta’s little shrieks and pleas were strangely exciting, made him love her more somehow. He knew it was crazy, but he had the weirdest feeling that what he was doing was making her love him a little more.

Whack-whack-whack-whack-whack! His arm was as weary as his anger was spent. To Loretta, her bottom felt scorched and tormented, yet bearably so. Another couple of searing strokes across her reddened rear, and the punishment ceased.

Phew! She continued to lie across the chair-arms, not wanting to move. She liked this chastened feeling of awaiting a command to rise and get dressed. And yet, hot and punished though her bottom felt, some errant part of her wanted to laugh again, to turn to his friends and wink and grin and show how brave and bold she was.

‘Rob,’ she heard Justin say. ‘My arm’s knackered —you have a go, seeing as it’s your birthday.’

Loretta tensed. Although she’d never met Rob Scott before, she sensed that this man knew things, had done things.

Rob took the riding crop and stepped up behind Loretta. He eyed the luscious womanly bottom, and raised the crop. Loretta squeezed her eyes shut, murmured a prayer and gritted her teeth. Yes, this one knew what he was doing.

‘How many shall I give her?’ he quietly queried.

‘Well it’s your birthday, isn’t it?’ said Justin. ‘I reckon about four-O should just about do it.’

Loretta gave a moan as Rob, smiling raptly, raised the crop. This was, without any doubt, his best birthday present ever…