The Senior Counselors had just left with Lisa, the camp's director, to head into town for some much-needed R&R after two weeks of teaching, singing and entertaining their young charges, the campers of Camp Minnetonka. Camp was in between sessions, but Jack had to remain behind to take in the food delivery for next week's session.

Someone had to do it and Jack drew the short straw since he had been to town earlier that week. And besides, the Senior Counselors were going to a bar. They were all 18, the drinking age in Wisconsin. Jack was only 17, and Lisa, the camp owner, wasn't going to risk him being caught underage drinking. Not while he was working at her camp! 

Alone at last, Jack kicked at a loose stone. The counselors' laughter echoed faintly in his memory—George's booming voice promising pitchers of cheap beer at The Lumberjack Tavern. A familiar pang hit: exclusion.

Yet relief washed over him too, thick and immediate. Two weeks of scraped knees needing bandages, homesick tears dampening his shirt, and hyper campers bouncing off cabin walls after midnight sugar rushes had left him craving solitude like dry land.

He walked past the silent dining hall toward Tatanka Circle. Pine needles muffled his footsteps. His tent stood apart, mosquito netting zipped tight against the afternoon swarm. Inside smelled of canvas and boy-sweat. He knelt before his footlocker, heart thudding against his ribs as he lifted the lid.

Beneath neatly folded camp t-shirts lay his contraband: the glossy Penthouse Magazine, its cover promising paradise, and beneath it, the unopened Penthouse Variations. His fingers trembled slightly pulling it out. The cover headline screamed: "Streaking Fever Sweeps the Nation! PLUS: Readers Share Their Wildest Spanking Confessions!" Just seeing the word "spanking" sent a jolt straight to his groin.

He dug deeper, past socks smelling faintly of mildew. There it was: the small, unassuming tube of lubricant, sample-sized and stolen. The memory burned fresh—the Eagle River drugstore's fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the middle-aged pharmacist raising an eyebrow as he scanned the rectal thermometer and the KY jelly. "Camp nurse," Jack had mumbled, cheeks flaming.

The young female clerk bagging his purchases had swapped the square-handled hairbrush he'd grabbed for one with a smooth, rounded handle.

Her knowing smirk as she handed him the bag — "This one's better for... tangles" — had haunted his dreams for a week. He clutched the cool tube and the brush now, their potential humming in his palms. Finally, Jack placed his brand-new Polaroid camera in his knapsack, a present from his parents, for photographing wildlife.

Back home, muffled sounds drifted through thin apartment walls. Sharp cracks, rhythmic, followed by choked sobs—Mrs. Henderson disciplining her teenage son, Derek. Jack, frozen against his own bedroom door, felt a confusing heat flood him. He pictured Derek bent over, bare skin reddening, the humiliation mixing strangely with something else… something electric.

Later, alone in the dark, Jack replayed those sounds, his own hand mimicking the imagined blows on his thigh, building pressure until release washed over him in shuddering waves. Guilt always followed, thick and cloying, a familiar shame. Yet, within hours, the memory of Derek's stifled cries would resurface, tangled with the phantom sting on his own skin, and the heat would coil low in his belly once more. The guilt was the spark.

He unwrapped the Variations magazine carefully and turned to the page titled "Readers' Spanking Confessions." His pulse hammered in his ears. Finally, uninterrupted. No camper needing water, no Senior Counselor stumbling back drunk. Just the thick summer silence pressing against the tent walls and the rustle of paper.

He scanned the first letter: "My girlfriend caught me sneaking a peek at her sister..." Jack snorted softly. Too corny. He flipped pages. Another: "...streaked across the quad during finals week..." His breath hitched. He imagined the cool air on bare skin, the shocked gasps, the thrilling terror of exposure—followed, inevitably, by the firm grip of campus security, the sting of a paddle in a dean's office... The fantasy bloomed, vivid and urgent.

The plan snapped into focus. He’d streak. Right from the dining hall porch, down the dusty path through the pines, all the way to the forbidden Senior Cabin. He’d streak to his spanking spot. He’d stand naked beneath Cheryl Tiegs' impossibly perfect smile plastered on the cabin wall. He’d use his new Polaroid camera—the wildlife photographer—to capture the moment. A picture of his own flushed backside, maybe mid-spank with the brush, proof of his daring defiance. He pictured the Polaroid developing, the image swimming into view: his own reddened skin, the cabin’s lewd backdrop. Proof.

Guilt coiled, cold and familiar, low in his gut. He shoved the Penthouse Variations into his knapsack. The Polaroid camera felt heavy in his knapsack. Too much. The fantasy felt suddenly hollow, exposed. He needed something… grounding. Real. He remembered the industrial-sized jar of peanut butter sitting forgotten on the counter in the dining hall kitchen. Thick, salty, familiar. Comfort food. A spoonful would anchor him, push back the frantic edge of his plan, and make it feel less like plummeting off a cliff.

He pushed open the heavy wooden door of the dining hall. The sudden coolness inside was a shock after the humid afternoon. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light slanting through the high windows.

His eyes scanned the long countertops, searching for the peanut butter jar. Then he saw them. Hanging high on the knotty pine walls, row upon row, were the canoe paddles. Not sleek, professional ones, but miniatures. Camp Minnetonka tradition. Each one belonged to a camp circle—a group of campers who’d bonded over the summer. They were rough-hewn pine, painted clumsily in bright blues, greens, and yellows. Names were carved deep: Jake '78, Sarah '69, Mike '67. Flowers bloomed awkwardly around the edges, and symbols—zigzags that might be mountains, circles that could be suns, crude feathers—vaguely echoed Native American designs. They were tokens of belonging, of shared summers, of belonging. Innocent. Permanent.

The sharp crunch of tires on gravel shattered the silence. Jack flinched, heart hammering against his ribs. Jo. She was early. Panic surged—but the Penthouse Variations was safely stashed in his knapsack back, the lubricant tucked beside it. He bolted for the door, the peanut butter forgotten.

Outside, Jo’s battered Ford Econoline van idled roughly, dust swirling around its faded green paint. The side door slid open with a rusty screech, and Tammy hopped out, stretching her arms overhead. Her faded Eagles t-shirt rode up, revealing a sliver of tanned stomach above cutoff jean shorts. She flashed Jack a quick, easy grin. "Hey, Junior Counselor. Saved you from boredom?"

Jack forced a smile, trying to ignore the phantom sting on his backside he’d been imagining moments before. "Wasn’t that bored," he lied, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide his fledgling erection.

Jo climbed down from the driver’s seat, wiping her hands on her fruit-stained overalls. "Sorry ‘bout the early drop, Jack," she called, popping the van’s rear doors open. "Camp Willow’s freezer crapped out last night. Whole shipment’s gotta stay here ‘til they fix it later today. Lisa okayed it." Crates of lettuce, peaches, milk cartons, and wrapped lunch meat filled the van’s interior.

Jack nodded, relieved for a distraction. "Need help unloading?" He grabbed the nearest crate, the weight solid and grounding.

Tammy joined him, her shoulder brushing his as they maneuvered a heavy box of frozen hamburger patties toward the walk-in freezer. Her skin was warm where it touched his, smelling faintly of sunscreen and peaches loaded in the van. "Careful," she murmured, her breath tickling his ear. "Wouldn’t want you dropping Lisa’s precious cargo." Jack felt his cheeks flush, grateful for the dim freezer light.

The work went quickly with three pairs of hands. Soon, the van was empty, and Jo pulled three frosty cans of Sprecher root beer from a cooler, a rare treat at camp, which usually featured “bug juice.” They sat on the dining hall steps, the afternoon sun warming their backs.

Tammy took a long swig, condensation dripping onto her shorts. "So," she said, nudging Jack’s knee with hers. "All alone in the woods tonight? Sounds... adventurous."

Jack choked slightly on his root beer. "Just... inventory," he managed, avoiding her knowing gaze. "Lots of Band-Aids to count."

Tammy laughed, low and throaty. "Right. Band-aids. I heard you had to stock up at the pharmacy" Her foot tapped his ankle lightly, lingering a beat too long.

Jo stood abruptly, crushing her empty can. "Alright, kiddo. Places to be, Willow’s crisis ain’t fixing itself." She ruffled Tammy’s hair. "You coming?" Tammy sighed dramatically, stretching her arms wide. "Come on, Tammy, we have things to do, places to be."

Tammy’s smile faltered. She shot Jack a quick, disappointed glance. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered, kicking a loose stone. It skittered across the gravel. "Work waits for no one." She didn’t move immediately, lingering as Jo climbed into the driver’s seat.

The van’s engine coughed to life, belching exhaust into the still air. Jack watched Tammy’s shoulders slump almost imperceptibly as she turned away from him, the unspoken invitation to stay hanging heavy between them. But Tammy climbed into the truck giving Jack a great view of her cheeks delightfully hanging out of her short-shorts.

Jack’s disappointment at Jo and Tammy's departure was short-lived while he decided to implement his plan to streak to the Senior Counselor’s cabin to see the lewd posters hanging on the wall of their cabin.

Jack watched the van's taillights vanish down the dusty camp road, the silence rushing back in like a wave.

Guilt prickled hot beneath his skin—guilt for the vivid images already forming: Tammy’s tanned stomach, the curve of her hip beneath frayed denim, Jo’s knowing smirk. He couldn't let himself fantasize about them. Not without consequence.

His gaze snapped back to the dining hall wall, landing on the miniature Tatanka Circle paddle—rough pine painted a clumsy blue, Ben '78 carved deep. It was small, almost childish. Perfect. He snatched it off its hook, the wood cool and surprisingly heavy in his hand. He shoved it into his knapsack beside the Polaroid, magazines and the lubricant. This will cleanse it, he thought fiercely. The paddle first, then the brush. Earn the release.

He didn't run. He walked, bare feet silent on the pine needle path toward the Senior Cabin, the forbidden heart of camp. Each step felt deliberate, a shedding. At the edge of the clearing, he stopped. The cabin sat silent, blinds drawn.

He unzipped his shorts, kicked them off, then peeled his t-shirt over his head. The cool air in the shade hit his bare skin like a shock, raising goosebumps. He was exposed, utterly naked, facing the weathered logs. Through the large front window, he saw them: Cheryl Tiegs’ impossibly perfect smile beaming down from her poster, next to Farrah Fawcett’s iconic red swimsuit pose. Lewd, glorious, forbidden.

He fumbled the Penthouse open to Miss July; her flawless body sprawled across the glossy page. Then the Variations, fingers trembling as he found the spanking confessions. The page wouldn't stay open, so he folded a corner to mark his spot to read later.

Guilt surged, hot and sharp—Cheryl's perfection, Tammy’s knowing grin, Jo’s fruit-stained hands. He needed purification. Now.

He pulled the Tatanka paddle from his knapsack, its childish blue paint stark against the weathered wood. Kneeling sideways over the cabin’s rough-hewn front porch bench, he arched his back, presenting his bare ass to the empty clearing. The first swing was clumsy, the paddle glancing off his hipbone. He choked up on the grip and tightened his fingers. Thwack. A sharp sting bloomed on his left cheek. Thwack. Right cheek this time, harder. The sound cracked through the quiet woods. He gasped, the pain sharpening into a familiar, welcome burn. Five more times he swung, each impact landing true, painting twin crescents of angry pink across his skin.

Proof. He needed proof. He fumbled the Polaroid camera from his knapsack, its plastic casing cool against his sweating palm. Balancing it precariously on the bench edge, he angled it backward, pointing roughly where his stinging flesh met the cabin logs. He hit the timer button. Ten seconds. Heart pounding, he scrambled back into position, bending low, spreading his cheeks slightly to expose the vivid marks. The camera whirred softly. He held his breath, the sting pulsing. The flash popped, blindingly bright in the dim porch shade.

The camera spat out the square photo. He snatched it, shielding it from the fading afternoon light filtering through the pines. Already, a ghostly image swam beneath the milky surface—pale skin, blurred logs, the unmistakable flush of pink. But the sun was still too strong; the details would wash out before it fully developed. Cursing under his breath, he shoved the developing picture deep into the Penthouse burying both deep in his knapsack.

The Econovan rattled down the camp road, kicking up dust. Jo glanced sideways at Tammy slumped against the passenger window, tracing patterns in the grime. "Y'know," Jo said, her voice rough but kind, cutting through the engine's drone, "that freezer fiasco at Willow bought you some time. Seems a shame hauling you away when Jack's stuck out here counting Band-Aids." Tammy straightened, hope flickering in her eyes. "He looked pretty bummed missing the tavern trip," Jo added, slowing the van near a wide spot in the pines. "Friends are scarce 'round these parts mid-summer. Figured you could use the company... both of you. Consider it hazard pay for unloading spoiled chicken."

A grin spread across Tammy's face. "Really?"

Jo jerked her thumb towards the woods. "Go on. Keep him outta trouble. I'll swing back 'round six-ish, after Willow's sorted."

Before Jo could fully stop, Tammy flung the door open. "Thanks, Jo!" she yelled, already hopping out onto the soft shoulder. The van rolled forward as Tammy hit the ground running, her sneakers pounding back up the dusty track towards the dining hall.

Jack froze mid-swing, the Tatanka paddle hovering inches above his stinging skin. The sharp crackle of pine needles underfoot echoed through the unnerving quiet. Then, faint but unmistakable, cutting through the buzzing insects: "Jack?" Tammy's voice, hesitant at first, drifted from the direction of the dining hall.

He scrambled frantically, snatching his shorts and t-shirt from the porch floorboards. He jammed his legs into the shorts, hopping wildly, the fabric catching on his ankles. "Jack?" Her call came again, louder now, closer. Panic choked him. He yanked the shirt over his head and jammed the paddle into the knapsack just as her footsteps crunched onto the clearing's edge. He spun around, heart hammering against his ribs, shirt askew, knapsack kicked hastily behind the bench.

Tammy stood silhouetted against the late sun filtering through the pines, head tilted. "Hi," she said, a curious smile playing on her lips. "Jo says we could hang out. Hope you don't mind?"

Her gaze swept past him, taking in the weathered porch, the silent cabin, and the blinds drawn tight over the large front window. "What are you doing all the way up here?" Her eyes narrowed slightly, sharpening. She took a step closer, peering intently through the dusty windowpane.

A slow, knowing grin spread across her face as she spotted Cheryl Tiegs' dazzling smile beaming back from inside. "Well, well," Tammy murmured, turning back to Jack, her voice dropping to a teasing purr. "Naughty boy. Were you up here looking at dirty pictures?" Her grin widened, sharp and playful, as she gestured towards the cabin window. "Looks like someone got caught sneaking a peek."

Jack felt the heat explode across his face, a crimson wave flooding from his neck to his hairline. "No!" he blurted, the denial too loud, too sharp in the quiet clearing. He shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot, the rough porch boards scraping against his bare soles. "Just... checking the cabin! For tears in the screens! Before the new session!"

His frantic movement knocked his knapsack, tucked behind the bench. It tipped over with a soft thud, spilling the Penthouse Variations onto the dusty porch floorboards, the glossy cover gleaming in the sunlight, Miss July’s provocative pose impossible to miss, and the headline, "Streaking Fever Sweeps the Nation! PLUS: Readers Share Their Wildest Spanking Confessions!"

Tammy’s eyes darted from the magazine to Jack. Her playful grin froze, then transformed into something sharper, more intrigued.

"Oh, Jack," she breathed, her voice low and husky. "You naughty boy. You were looking at dirty pictures." Her gaze lingered pointedly lower. "And look... the front of your shorts..."

A dark, damp patch bloomed unmistakably against the faded denim. Jack gasped, instinctively clamping his hands over the wet spot, desperate to hide the evidence of his arousal.

The sudden movement jostled the spilled knapsack again. His underwear—the white briefs he’d hastily stuffed inside after streaking—tumbled out onto the porch beside the Penthouse. They landed with a soft plop, the fabric clinging together, soaked through with a sticky sheen of pre-cum.

Tammy’s gaze flickered from the underwear to Jack’s mortified face. A slow, predatory smile spread across her lips. "You were doing more than just looking, weren't you?" she murmured, stepping closer.

The scent of sunscreen and bruised peaches clung to her skin, mingling with the pine sap and Jack’s own sharp tang of sweat and panic. She didn’t touch him, just leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Caught you red-handed... or wet-handed." Her eyes held his, dark and knowing. "Don't bother stammering. It's sexy." Her hand brushed lightly against his hip, making him flinch. "Really sexy. And I want to see." Her gaze slid pointedly down again. "I want to see you, close up! I know you want to show me!"

Jack’s throat tightened. "Here?" he choked out, glancing wildly at the open clearing. The woods felt suddenly full of invisible eyes. "It's... exposed." The thought of being seen—by a returning counselor, a park ranger, anyone—sent a fresh wave of panic through him, warring violently with the insistent throb between his legs.

Tammy’s grin widened. "Too open?" She tilted her head, considering the cabin, the path. "Fine. We’ll go somewhere... cozier." Her eyes gleamed.

Jack blurted out, "The new circle. The Pottawatomie circle. It has one new tent up."

Tammy smiled in agreement, "But I want you to "streak" there like you were, apparently, when I interrupted. Naked."

She pointed to the magazine and her finger traced a slow line down his chest. She grabbed the magazine, the underwear and slung Jack's pack over her shoulder and said, "Strip and let's go!" 

Almost a request, but almost a command. Jack swallowed hard, the damp patch on his shorts cold against his skin. He nodded, a jerky, terrified movement. He had no choice and didn't want one.

He fumbled with the button of his shorts, fingers trembling. The zipper rasped loudly in the stillness. He pushed them down, stepping awkwardly out of the tangled fabric. The cool air hit his bare skin again, making him gasp. He peeled off his t-shirt next, dropping it onto the pile.

He stood completely exposed before her, the fading sunlight dappling his flushed skin. Tammy’s gaze traveled over him, lingering on his hardening erection. A soft, appreciative hum escaped her lips. She bent, scooping up his discarded clothes to stuff in the pack, and noticed the paddle.

“What’s this for?” she asked.

Jack stammered that he was going to etch his initials into it with his pocketknife to commemorate the last session. Tammy nodded, accepting this at face value, and then turned and ordered, "Hands behind your back, streaker!" her voice thick with anticipation. Jack obeyed, clasping his wrists together. "Walk," she whispered, nudging him forward onto the pine needle path leading deeper into the woods, towards the isolated Pottawatomie circle. "I want to see what made that wet spot on your shorts!"

The pine needles pricked Jack’s bare soles as he stumbled forward, hands clasped behind his back. Tammy walked beside him, the scent of pine needles and sunscreen sharp in his nostrils. Every rustle in the underbrush felt like a thousand eyes watching, amplifying the sting on his buttocks and the insistent ache between his legs. He kept his gaze fixed on the narrow path winding toward the secluded Pottawatomie circle, its single khaki tent barely visible through the dense trees ahead.

Tammy nudged him with the tip of the Tatanka paddle she carried, her voice a low murmur. "Faster, Jack," her own need throbbing in her voice while Jack's erection bobbed with each step.

Inside the tent, the air hung thick with dust motes dancing in shafts of late sun filtering through the canvas. Jack lay back awkwardly on the thin mattress. Tammy dropped his knapsack onto the other mattress. Shadows clung to the corners. Tammy stood over him, silhouetted against the tent flap she’d left slightly ajar, her expression unreadable.

"Show me what you were doing to make that wet spot," she commanded softly.

Jack’s hand trembled as he reached down, fingers wrapping around his aching erection. He began stroking, slow at first, eyes squeezed shut, chasing the phantom images of Cheryl Tiegs’ flawless curves, the glossy Penthouse spread, Tammy's exposed belly, Jo's firm bust, the promise of release. But he was self-conscious and filled with guilt, especially at the thought of Tammy and Jo, even the camp nurse. His rhythm faltered; he gritted his teeth, frustration mounting.

"I can’t," he gasped, hand falling away. "It’s... I need to see them. The posters."

Tammy tilted her head, considering. Slowly, deliberately, she reached behind her neck. The knot of her halter top came undone with a soft snick. The fabric slithered down her torso, pooling around her waist. Her breasts, small and firm, tipped with dusky pink nipples, were fully exposed. The late sunlight caught their curve, casting soft shadows beneath.

"Better?" she murmured, her voice husky. She didn't move closer, just stood there, letting him look. "Is this sufficient inspiration, Jack?" Her gaze locked onto his, challenging, utterly confident. The scent of peaches intensified.

Jack gasped. His hand flew back to his cock, fingers tightening almost painfully. The sight of her bare skin, the directness of her stare, obliterated the guilt, the fear, and the need for posters. He began to stroke, hard and fast, his hips bucking off the thin mattress. His breath came in ragged gasps, eyes fixed on her breasts, then her face, then the triangle of denim still covering her hips. He was lost in the frantic rhythm, the building pressure, and the sheer audacity of her standing half-naked before him while he jerked off. A low groan escaped his lips.

Tammy watched him for a moment, a slow, satisfied smile spreading as his movements grew more desperate. Then, she turned her attention to the knapsack dumped on the other mattress.

What other secrets did it hold? She knelt beside it, her movements unhurried, deliberate. She pulled out the Penthouse Variations first. The magazine fell open naturally to the folded-down corner. Her eyes scanned the page title – "Confessions of a Spanko" – and the first few lurid paragraphs. A thoughtful hum vibrated in her throat.

Next came the miniature Tatanka paddle, its childish blue paint bright in the dim tent. She turned it over, her thumb tracing the carved flower.

She reached deeper into the knapsack, pulling out the Penthouse magazine. As she lifted it, a small, square Polaroid fluttered loose from between the glossy pages. It landed face-up on the dusty tent floor.

Tammy froze. The image had fully developed now, sharp and undeniable in the filtered light. It showed Jack bent low over the Senior Cabin porch bench, his bare backside thrust towards the camera, cheeks spread slightly. The angry pink stripes from the paddle were vividly clear against his pale skin. The weathered logs of the cabin formed the backdrop, and in the corner, just visible, was the edge of the Farrah Fawcett poster.

Jack, lost in his frantic rhythm, hadn't noticed the picture fall. Tammy picked it up slowly, her eyes wide. She stared at the image, then at Jack, then at the paddle

Her breath hitched. "Oh, Jack," she whispered, her voice thick with a new kind of intensity. "You took a picture?" She held it up towards him, the evidence gleaming. "Of your spanked ass? While you were looking at dirty pictures?" The sheer audacity of it, the proof of his secret ritual, seemed to ignite something in her.

"Stop," Tammy commanded, her voice suddenly sharp, cutting through Jack’s ragged gasps. Her eyes were locked on the Polaroid, then snapped up to meet his frantic gaze. "Stop jerking off. Right now."

Jack froze mid-stroke, his hand trembling around his slick erection, confusion warring with the desperate need pulsing through him. Tammy tossed the Polaroid onto the mattress beside him. "Look at this," she hissed, pointing at the damning image. "Look at what you did. Stand up," she commanded.

Tammy circled behind Jack, finally realizing how pink his cheeks are. She leaned closer, squinting at the vivid marks blooming across his skin. A soft chuckle escaped her.

"Well, look at that," she murmured, almost to herself, holding the paddle beside his right cheek. The distinct, clumsy imprint of the carved flower on the paddle's blade matched perfectly with a flower-shaped bruise blooming on Jack's skin. "You really did use this little thing."

She leaned closer, her bare breasts inches from his face, the scent of sunscreen overwhelming. "You're a very naughty boy, Jack, aren't you?" Her voice dropped to a low purr, laced with dangerous promise. "Don't you think a naughty boy like you... deserves a proper spanking?"

Jack whimpered, his erection twitching violently, causing it to bounce in the air. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the Polaroid—his own humiliated pose, the vivid stripes, the forbidden cabin corner. Shame flooded him, hot and thick, but beneath it surged a terrifying, electric thrill. "Y-yes," he choked out, the word escaping before he could stop it. His voice was raw, desperate. "I... I do." He squeezed his eyes shut.

Tammy snatched the miniature Tatanka paddle from the mattress. The childish flower etching stood out absurdly in the dim tent. "You lied to me. You weren't carving this; you were spanking yourself!

Jack was silent, head hung in embarrassment.

"Look at me, why?" Tammy demanded.

Jack, face flaming red, could only nod mutely.

"Tell me why, Jack." Her gaze was unrelenting, demanding complete submission. "Why does a naughty boy who sneaks into forbidden cabins, looks at dirty pictures, takes Polaroids of his own spanked ass... why does he need this?" She pressed the cool wood of the paddle firmly against his hottest welt. "Say it."

Jack squeezed his eyes shut, shame burning hotter than the sting on his backside. The words choked him, thick and ragged.

"Because... because I want it," he gasped, the confession ripped from deep inside. "Always... wanted it. To be caught... to be punished." He shuddered violently beneath her weight. "And..." His voice dropped to a desperate whisper, barely audible over his pounding heart. "When you... interrupted... I wasn't thinking about Cheryl... or Farrah..." He forced his eyes open, meeting hers with terrified honesty. "I was... picturing you spanking me."

Tammy’s breath caught. Her eyes widened slightly, then darkened with a fierce, possessive gleam. She leaned closer, her scent enveloping him. "Me?" she murmured, her voice dangerously soft. The paddle tapped his welt again, harder. Her gaze held his, probing, demanding the deepest secret.

Jack’s face burned crimson. He couldn’t lie, not pinned beneath her, not with the Polaroid staring up at him. "Y-yes," he choked out, trembling. "You and Jo too. Sometimes." The admission felt like a physical blow. "She’s... strong. Firm." His voice dropped to a shame-filled whisper. "I imagine her catching me... spanking me hard... making it hurt." He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for her anger.

Tammy didn’t move. The paddle rested heavily against his welt. Silence stretched, thick with dust and Jack’s ragged breathing. Then, a soft sigh escaped her lips.

"Oh, Jack," she murmured, her voice unexpectedly gentle. Her fingers traced the edge of the Polaroid, avoiding his skin. "I get it." She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "You think I haven’t watched her?" Her voice was barely audible, confessional. "Seen the way she lifts those crates? The sweat on her neck?" A shaky laugh escaped her. "I’ve imagined her pinning me down... her hands rough... telling me I’ve been bad." She lifted the paddle slightly. "So yeah. I understand. and I'll give you what you, want, need."

Before Jack could react, she grabbed his wrist, hauling him to the center of the tent. "Hands on the tent pole," she commanded, her voice regaining its sharp edge. "Now." Dazed, Jack obeyed, stumbling towards the center pole, gripping the wooden pole. He heard the rustle of canvas behind him. Tammy threw open the tent flaps wide, flooding the interior with harsh afternoon light. The woods beyond were suddenly visible—the trees, the path, the distant glint of the lake. Exposure prickled his skin.

The first blow landed with a sharp crack. The miniature Tatanka paddle struck his left cheek, precisely overlapping a fading welt. Pain flared, bright and shocking. Jack gasped, fingers tightening on the pole. A heartbeat later, the paddle struck his right cheek with equal force – crack.

Tammy delivered the blows slowly, deliberately, letting the sting build fully before the next. Crack left. Crack right, her breast swaying heavily with each swing. Each impact echoed slightly in the clearing, a rhythmic punctuation mark against the chirping crickets. Sweat beaded on Jack’s forehead. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself not to cry out, focusing on the rough texture of the metal beneath his palms.

Tammy paused, running her fingertips lightly over the fresh, angry red stripes blooming across his skin. The heat radiating from them was intense. "Count," she ordered, her voice low and firm. The paddle tapped his hottest welt. "Tell me how many strokes you deserve."

Jack swallowed hard, humiliation warring with the throbbing ache in his cock. "Ten?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Ten?" Tammy scoffed. The paddle landed again—harder. CRACK. "Try again."

Jack flinched. "Fifteen!" The paddle cracked down once more. "Twenty!" he gasped.

Tammy hummed approval. "Better." She resumed the measured punishment, each stroke precise and biting. Jack counted aloud through gritted teeth, his voice trembling: "One... two... three..."

The miniature paddle felt clumsy in her hand. After the tenth stroke, Tammy tossed it aside onto the mattress with a dismissive flick. Her eyes scanned the scattered contents of Jack’s knapsack. The hairbrush gleamed dully in the afternoon light.

She snatched it up, the cool, smooth wood heavy and purposeful. Her fingers brushed against the small plastic tub of lubricant nestled beside it. She froze. Her gaze snapped from the tub to Jack’s trembling form, hands still gripping the tent pole. The picture, Jack holding his cheeks spread. The implication hit her instantly—the lubricant wasn't just for the rectal thermometer he'd bought for the nurse. A slow, dangerous smile curved her lips.

"Jack," she purred, stepping closer. The cool brush handle traced a deliberate line down his spine, making him shudder. "You lied, again." Her voice was ice. "You haven't told me everything. "What," she tapped the tub of lubricant sharply against his welted cheek, "is this really for?"

Jack flinched at the cold touch of the tub. Shame burned hotter than the sting on his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to face her.

"For... for the brush," he choked out, the confession ripped from him. He couldn't say it. He didn't need to. The image was clear: the rounded wooden handle, slicked with lubricant, probing where the paddle punished.

Tammy inhaled sharply. Her free hand slid down his flank, fingers digging possessively into his hip.

"Inside?" she breathed, her voice thick with disbelief and a sudden, fierce curiosity. "You wanted... that?" She pressed the cool tub harder against his heated skin. "While you looked at your dirty pictures? While you spanked yourself?"

"Where did you even get that?" Tammy demanded, her voice sharp, cutting through the humid air. Her thumb flicked the lid of the lubricant tub open with a decisive pop. The faint, sterile scent mingled with dust and sweat. "Where did you buy this... and that brush?"

Jack trembled, his knuckles white on the tent pole. "Eagle River Pharmacy," he gasped. "Last Saturday. For the camp nurse... the thermometer..." His voice trailed off weakly.

Tammy froze. Her grip on the hairbrush tightened. "Eagle River Pharmacy?" she echoed, disbelief warring with dawning amusement. "Old Man Henderson's place?" A low chuckle escaped her. "You didn't." She leaned close, her breath hot on his ear. "Did Eva serve you?" 

Jack replied, “I think that was her name. And I fantasized about her using it on me."  Now that he had been caught, again, Jack wasn’t leaving out any details. He knew Tammy would catch him.

Tammy knew Eva, an old high school friend, and filed that connection away for later consideration.

Tammy suddenly showered a flurry of spanks, left, the right on Jack's inflamed bottom, causing his erection to bounce wildly and then stopped, just as Jack movements became desperate.

Tammy dipped two fingers into the cool, slick gel. The scent intensified. She coated the smooth, rounded end of the hairbrush handle thoroughly, the viscous lubricant gleaming in the harsh light flooding the open tent. Her other hand pressed firmly against the small of Jack’s back, holding him steady against the pole.

"Deep breath," she commanded, her voice low and devoid of mercy.

Jack gasped, sucking in air just as she pressed the slicked wood firmly against him. There was a moment of resistance, tight and burning, then a sudden, shocking yielding. The rounded tip slid inside with a slick, wet sound.

Jack cried out, a strangled gasp of pain and overwhelming intrusion.

Tammy pushed steadily, relentlessly, burying the entire handle deep within him. She held it there, motionless, letting him feel the impossible fullness. "There," she murmured, almost soothingly. "Now you have what you fantasized about with Eva."

Slowly, deliberately, she began to withdraw the handle. It slid out smoothly, coated in a sheen of lubricant. Then, just as slowly, she pushed it back in.

Jack whimpered, his knuckles bone-white on the tent pole, his body trembling violently. The sensation was unbearable—a deep, stretching pressure that scraped nerves he didn't know existed, mingled with a shameful, undeniable spark of forbidden pleasure radiating outwards.

Tammy established a slow, rhythmic pace: in, out. In, out. Each deliberate thrust drew another choked gasp from Jack. Sweat dripped down his temples, mingling with tears of humiliation and overwhelming sensation. His erection, impossibly, remained painfully hard, bobbing against his stomach with each inward push, dribbling pre-cum.

"Go on," Tammy commanded, her voice breathless but firm. Her own arousal was palpable in the heat radiating from her body pressed close behind him. "Touch yourself. Finish what you started."

Her free hand slid around his hip, fingers brushing against his straining cock. "Show me how much you need this."

Jack needed no further urging. His hand flew to his erection, fingers slick with sweat and pre-come. He began to stroke furiously, frantically, matching the brutal rhythm Tammy set with the brush handle. His hips bucked wildly, trying to meet her thrusts while chasing his own release. The dual assault—the deep, violating penetration and the frantic friction on his cock—pushed him towards the edge faster than he'd ever thought possible.

CRACK! The miniature Tatanka paddle struck his right buttock with shocking force, a bright bloom of pain erupting over the existing welts along with a new flower-shaped welt.

"Slow down!" Tammy hissed, her voice tight with exertion and her own building tension. She wanted to draw this out, savor his unraveling. But the sharp sting only electrified Jack's desperation.

He cried out, a ragged gasp torn from his throat, but his hand moved faster, slick strokes blurring. His hips slammed back harder onto the invading brush handle, impaling himself deeper, seeking more sensation, more friction, more everything. The pain fused with the overwhelming fullness and the frantic pleasure, becoming indistinguishable, inseparable fuel.

Tammy watched him writhe, her own breath coming in sharp pants. The sight of him—his flushed skin gleaming with sweat, the vivid stripes she’d painted, the rhythmic clench of his muscles around the brush handle—was unbearable.

A deep, aching throb pulsed between her own legs, insistent and undeniable. With a frustrated groan, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her denim shorts. She shoved them down her hips in one rough motion, kicking them aside onto the dusty tent floor. Her damp underwear followed instantly, discarded without ceremony. She didn't hesitate. Two fingers plunged deep into her slick heat, finding her swollen clit instantly. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as she circled it roughly, her gaze locked on Jack’s frenzied movements. The rhythm of her fingers matched his frantic strokes, her hips rocking against her own hand.

Jack’s world narrowed to sensation: the brutal thrust of the brush handle deep inside him, the frantic friction of his own hand on his cock, the sharp sting radiating from his freshly paddled skin. It was too much, overwhelming, unbearable—and perfect.

A strangled cry tore from his throat, raw and ragged. His back arched violently, muscles locking as his hips slammed back onto the brush handle one final time. His cock jerked violently in his hand. Thick ropes of cum erupted, splattering hot and white against the tent pole, dripping down onto the dusty wooden floor. Wave after wave crashed through him, leaving him trembling, gasping, utterly spent. He slumped forward, forehead pressed against the warm pole, the brush handle still buried deep within him.

Tammy watched Jack’s climax unfold, her own fingers working furiously against her clit. The sight of his surrender, the sounds he made, the sheer carnality of it pushed her own need to a fever pitch. Her hips bucked against her hand, desperate for release. Just as the first flutter of her own orgasm began to build deep within her belly, Jack collapsed.

The sudden cessation of his frantic movement, his slack form sagging against the pole, broke her rhythm. Her climax stalled, hovering agonizingly close but frustratingly out of reach. A frustrated whimper escaped her lips.

"No," she breathed, her voice thick with need. "Not yet." With a rough tug, she pulled the slick hairbrush handle free from Jack’s body, letting it clatter onto the mattress. She grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. His eyes were glazed, dazed.

"Bed. Now," she commanded, pushing him backwards. Jack stumbled, legs weak, and collapsed onto the thin mattress, lying on his back, still trembling.

Tammy stood over him, breathing hard, her shorts and underwear discarded around her ankles. The ache between her legs was unbearable, urgent. She kicked the denim aside, stepping free. Her gaze locked onto Jack’s face. His eyes were clearing, focusing on her nakedness, on the glistening wetness at her core.

"Get up," she ordered, her voice trembling slightly. "On your knees." Jack obeyed slowly, pushing himself off the mattress onto the dusty tent floor. He knelt before her, his head level with her thighs. The scent of her arousal, musky and primal, filled his nostrils. He hesitated, overwhelmed.

Her hand was still moving between her legs, fingers thrusting shallowly, desperately. "Lick," Tammy commanded, her hips rocking forward.

Jack leaned in, tentatively pressing his tongue against her slick folds. The taste was unfamiliar, salty-sweet, intoxicating. He flinched slightly, then pressed closer, his tongue exploring tentatively. Tammy gasped, her fingers stilling.

"Yes," she breathed, tangling her free hand in his hair, guiding him. "Like that. But more!"

Encouraged, Jack grew bolder. His tentative licks became long, deliberate strokes, tracing her slit from bottom to top. He found the swollen bud at her apex and circled it experimentally.

Tammy cried out, her thighs clamping around his head. "There! Oh god, there!" Her hips bucked against his face.

Jack focused entirely on her clit now, lapping at it eagerly, swirling his tongue, mimicking the frantic rhythm she’d demanded moments before. He could feel her trembling, hear the desperate hitch in her breath.

Driven by instinct, Jack slid lower. He kissed her taint, the sensitive skin damp with sweat and arousal. Then, as Tammy rocked back, desperately trying to maximize friction, hesitantly, his tongue ventured further back. He traced a slow, wet circle around the tight furl of her anus.

Tammy froze. A sharp gasp tore from her lips. "Jack!" It wasn't a protest. It was shock, mixed with something raw and undiscovered. Her hand tightened painfully in his hair, pulling him closer. "Don't stop," she breathed, her voice thick and strained. "Oh god, don't you dare stop."

Her free hand scrabbled blindly beside her discarded shorts. Her fingers closed around the smooth wood of the hairbrush handle, still slick with lubricant. She thrust it towards Jack’s face, pressing it against his cheek.

"Use it," she commanded, her hips grinding against his mouth. "Here. Now. While you lick." Her breath hitched as his tongue pressed firmly against her opening. "Make it wet... then push."

Jack took the brush, his fingers trembling. He coated the rounded end thoroughly with his tongue, tasting the faint sterile tang mixed with his own musk. Keeping his mouth pressed firmly against her, his tongue circling and probing, he angled the brush. He pressed the slicked tip against her entrance, right beside his working tongue.

Tammy gasped, her thighs tightening around his head. "Yes!" she hissed. "Push it in. Slow." Jack applied gentle pressure. He felt the yielding resistance, then the sudden, slick glide as the rounded wood slipped inside her. He pushed steadily, burying the handle deep, mirroring what she had done to him moments before. Tammy cried out, a sound of pure, shocked pleasure, her body arching against the intrusion.

Tammy’s control shattered. With a guttural cry, she grabbed Jack’s head with both hands, fingers digging into his scalp. She slammed his face hard against her mound, grinding herself against his mouth. Her hips bucked wildly, riding his tongue and the invading brush handle simultaneously.

"Faster!" she choked out, her voice ragged. Jack obeyed, his tongue working furiously on her clit while his hand pumped the brush handle in and out of her depths with increasing speed. The wet, rhythmic sounds filled the tent—the slap of skin, the slick slide of wood, Tammy’s desperate gasps.

As the pressure built, a vivid image exploded behind Tammy’s closed eyelids: herself, naked and trembling, bent over the worn porch railing of the Senior Cabin. Jack, standing behind her, not pleading, but commanding. The miniature Tatanka paddle cracked down hard on her bare ass, Jo and Eva looking on—once, twice—the sharp sting igniting a wildfire inside her.

The fantasy fused with the brutal reality of Jack’s mouth and the brush handle pistoning inside her. Her thighs clamped like a vice around his head.

"Harder!" she screamed, the word tearing from her throat as she shoved his face deeper, grinding against his relentless tongue. The imagined sting of the paddle on her own skin merged perfectly with the deep, rhythmic thrust of the wood inside her and the exquisite friction on her clit. She saw Jack’s determined face in her mind’s eye, saw her own reddened cheeks exposed to the empty camp grounds, and felt the delicious humiliation of being punished there, where he’d been caught.

The fantasy crystallized: Jack’s strong hand gripping her hip, the sharp crack echoing off the cabin walls as the miniature paddle landed again, the searing bloom of pain that instantly transformed into molten pleasure radiating deep into her core. Her muscles clenched violently around the invading brush handle, her hips jerking uncontrollably against Jack’s mouth.

"Yes! Spank me!" she gasped, lost entirely to the vision, her command echoing both the fantasy and her desperate need.

Her climax detonated. A guttural cry ripped from her throat as her body arched violently backwards. Her thighs trembled, then locked rigidly around Jack’s head. Hot liquid gushed against his face, soaking his cheeks, chin, and nose in a sudden flood. Wave after wave of intense, shuddering release pulsed through her, each spasm forcing another surge onto him.

Jack kept working, his tongue relentless on her clit, his hand still pumping the brush handle deep inside her, prolonging the ecstasy until her cries dissolved into ragged gasps.

Slowly, the tremors subsided. Tammy’s grip on Jack’s hair loosened, her body going slack. She slumped backwards onto the mattress, legs splayed, breathing in deep, shuddering gulps. Jack pulled back slowly, wiping his slick face with the back of his hand. He looked down at her, dazed, the hairbrush handle still clutched loosely in his other hand.

The tent smelled thickly of sex, sweat, and the faint sterile tang of lubricant. Tammy stared at the canvas ceiling, a slow, utterly sated smile spreading across her flushed face. "Holy shit," she breathed, her voice hoarse.

Jack sank down beside her on the thin mattress, his own exhaustion hitting him like a wave. He dropped the brush onto the floorboards with a soft thud. Tammy rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. Her eyes, dark and still heavy-lidded, fixed on him with predatory amusement.

"So," she purred, tracing a lazy finger down his sweaty chest. "I'm guessing you won't be going to town between the next camp sessions."

Jack smiled in agreement. He couldn't wait.