F/M Sunday–Camp Roanoke Pt. 1 by Randy


In the F/M genre there were few who equaled the writer known as Randy (sometimes referred to as sarah 3333). Randy wrote prolifically about teenage boys receiving discipline from adult women, usually caretakers such as teachers, landladies, moms, and in the story that follows, a summer camp director. In Randy’s stories the boy, no matter how old, is reduced to juvenile status, humiliated and spanked. Often there are witnesses. Scolding the young man as if he were a young child is a prominent feature of Randy’s story content, sometimes even more so than the action. Randy’s stories have an innocent tone about them — reminiscent of the culture of small town America in the 1950’s in which domestic discipline was common and widely practiced. This story is one of his better efforts, and includes explicit sex, something Randy rarely included. It is too long to post in its entirety so I’ve broken it into parts.
Camp Roanoke Part I
Back in the late 50s, I spent one of my last high school
summers working as a junior counselor at Camp Roanoke in North
Carolina. The camp was run by a pleasant couple in their early
forties, Joseph and Betsy Zemmer. Helping them were five senior
counselors, all college-age or older, and five junior counselors
in their final years of high school. The camp was relatively
small, with about fifty boys between the ages of ten and
fourteen, divided into five cabins of ten. Each cabin had a
senior and junior counselor. I was seventeen at the time and
helped supervise a cabin of twelve year old boys. Camp Roanoke
began in mid-June and offered eight weeks of swimming, sailing,
canoeing, fishing, tennis, basketball, baseball, archery, and
overnight camping trips. There were also bonfires, evening sing
alongs, and games of Capture the Flag.
While Mr. Zemmer handled the day to day running of the
camp, his wife supervised the cooking staff, managed the paper
work, and took care of some of the disciplinary problems which
arose. In general, we counselors dealt with minor infractions by
confining boys to their cabins when everyone else was water
skiing or playing games. Repeat offenders and more serious
trouble makers were sent to Mrs. Zemmer’s house where they
learned a good lesson over her knee. While such methods of
discipline are infrequent today, especially outside the home,
spanking was quite common back then, not just in homes but also
in schools, Sunday schools, and even some summer camps. 
Like most of my friends in North Carolina, I grew up with a
Mommy who was a firm believer in corporal punishment and who
gave babysitters and teachers permission to handle us the same
way when necessary. Since Mommy spanked on Sunday night after
surveying the week’s infractions, I grew up dreading the arrival
of “spanking night” (as we called it). There were many Sundays
when I found myself waiting anxiously with my pants and
underpants at half mast while Mommy spanked one or both of my
younger brothers first. Billy and Johnny were four and two years
younger than me, respectively. When Mommy had to discipline more
than one child, she always began with the youngest first. That
way, as she explained, the juvenile nature of the punishment
would be driven home more effectively for any older boy waiting
his turn.
 As she often told me,
“If you don’t want to be punished like a little boy, David,
all you have to do is start acting your age. If you insist on
behaving like a child, I will continue to punish you like one.
You may feel you’re too big to be spanked but believe me, you’re
not. And who could argue with her, especially when all of their
attention was focused on a red-hot bottom.”
With two younger brothers, there were still plenty of
Sunday spankings at home after I turned sixteen. While I tried
not to appear too interested, I usually found some excuse to
hang around the living room. I suppose watching my brothers’
spankings  allowed me to relive my own past experiences
without having to endure the worst of it. Strangely enough, when
Mommy stopped spanking me, my interest in the whole subject only
increased. In part, it may have been my school situation where
paddlings were a constant threat. Though they were rarely used
after tenth grade, one still had to be careful, especially if
you had a mom like mine. Whenever any of us got a bad grade on a
report card or a big exam, we got two spankings, one at home and
one the next day at school. Mommy always made us write a letter
to our teacher or the assistant principal, Mrs. Rowlands,
explaining why we had done so poorly. With most kids, school
paddlings were given over the clothes during the day with the
student bent over a desk in a teacher’s office. 
Whenever I hadearned a paddling at school, Mommy told Mrs. Rowlands to wait
until after school so she would have more time to deal with me.
With Mommy’s permission, Mrs. Rowlands always spanked me bare
bottom since she knew this was acutely embarrassing for someone
my age. She would leave me waiting in the corner of her office
with my pants down while she took care of some errands. By the
time she returned and took me over her lap, I really did feel
more like a little child than a teenager. I certainly cried like
one when her spanking began. 
Given my personal experiences, I perked up at the
orientation for camp counselors when Mrs. Zemmer told us to send
any really naughty campers to her. Suddenly, it seemed as if I
might hear or see more spankings that summer. And the fact that
Mrs. Zemmer would be doing the spanking made that prospect even
more appealing. To my mind, she was incredibly sexy, plump but
in a sensual way, with hour-glass curves accented by low-cut
sundresses, softly flowing cotton skirts, and perfume which
suggested violets and roses. When she moved, she rustled and
swayed in a way which made my heart jump. As soon as she
mentioned spanking, I began fantasizing about what it might be
like to be a naughty camper sent to her for punishment. 
At the start of the second week, I had my first experience
with Mrs. Zemmer’s methods. I was just finishing up a late
afternoon canoeing lesson with my ten boys, divided into four
canoes. As we headed back across the small lake and neared the
camp dock, Tommy Finley began paddling the canoe in a manner
which splashed the boy seated in front of him. Egged on by his
neighbor’s complaints, Tommy continued splashing him while
pretending to be paddling normally. Soon a shoving match erupted
and before I could do anything, the tippy canoe flipped over and
began sinking in four feet of water just off the dock.
 Since all the boys were wearing life preservers and knew how to swim, no
great harm was done except for an Instamatic camera which got
wet and seemed ruined. (It later recovered once it dried out.)
Since Tommy had already been reprimanded earlier that day for
another incident, I realized he had earned a trip to Mrs.
Zemmer. After righting the canoe, securing all the boats, and
getting the boys back to their cabin for the quiet hour which
preceded dinner, I took Tommy aside and quietly told him to
accompany me to Mrs. Zemmer’s. Since all the campers knew what
that meant, he immediately begged me to ground him for the
soccer game scheduled for that evening. But I shook my head
firmly and reminded him that he had already been warned once
that day.
Most times, naughty boys were sent to Mrs. Zemmer on their
own since counselors had to stay with his charges. Fortunately
for me, Tommy’s misbehavior came just before quiet hour when the
boys were safely confined to their cabin. Though that was
usually the time when the counselors got together, I had better
things in mind as I marched Tommy across the meadow and through
the path in the woods to the other side of camp where the
Zemmer’s lived. It was set at a considerable distance from the
cabins and sports fields to ensure peace and quiet.
As we reached the house, I spotted Mrs. Zemmer seated in a
rocker, knitting on the porch. Reading Tommy’s glum and anxious
expression, she guessed immediately what had happened and
greeted us by saying,
“It looks like we have a naughty little boy on our hands,
doesn’t it, David.”
“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Zemmer. Tommy’s been a handful all day.
I had to warn him this morning about fighting but it seems like
he needs more than a warning. On the way back from our canoe
trip, he tipped over a canoe and probably wrecked Jimmy Larkin’s
camera. Since it happened just as we were heading in for quiet
hour, I thought I’d make sure Tommy came up here myself.”
“Well, you did the right thing, David. Now then, Thomas
Finley, what do you have to say for yourself? Hmmm?”
Tommy’s feeble attempts to justify his behavior was quickly
cut off.
“No, no, I don’t want any excuses, young man. You were
caught rough housing for the second time in one day and because
of your behavior, Jimmy Larkin may need a new camera. Grounding
you for half a day is obviously not going to work in this case.
You need to learn a better lesson and I know just how to teach
it to you. Come inside, Thomas Finley, and let me show you how I
handle naughty boys here.”
With that, Mrs. Zemmer put aside her knitting and rose from
her chair. Taking Tommy firmly by the left ear with her left
hand, she escorted him across the porch and delivered three hard
spanks to his bathing suit, still wet from his spill at the
lake. As an aside to me, she added,
“You might as well come in too David. There’s no harm in
your seeing how I treat boys who misbehave. Don’t you attend
Baptist Christian Academy?”
“Why yes, Mrs. Zemmer, I do.”
“Well then you’re no stranger to paddlings, yourself, are
you? Don’t they use spanking at BCA?” 
With my face flushed, I managed to stammer “Yes” as I
followed Mrs. Zemmer and Tommy into the house.
With some effort, Mrs. Zemmer marched the foot-dragging child to a straight-backed
chair where she seated herself. Holding him now by the wrist,
she continued scolding him.
“Thomas Finley, it’s all too clear that you need some good,
old-fashioned medicine. I’m going to give you a sound, bare-
bottom spanking and I hope you learn a good lesson on how to
behave at this camp. From now on, any misbehavior will earn you
another trip over my knee. I’ll make sure David brings you right
back here if there is any more trouble. Do I make myself clear?”
By this time, Tommy was too upset to reply coherently and
was beginning to cry. Despite his struggles to tug away, he was
no match for Mrs. Zemmer. First she bent to slip off his
sneakers and socks. She then pulled her white cotton skirt up,
commenting,
“We don’t want you to wrinkle this new skirt of mine, do we
Tommy.”
Without waiting for an answer, she yanked him across her
lap and pulled him over further until his head hung down near
the floor and his feet kicked helplessly in the air. Swiftly
pinning his wrists in the small of his back with her left hand,
she peeled his wet bathing suit down and completely off. This
set off an immediate chorus of loud protests which mingled with
a more genuine crying as if Tommy realized the irrevocable
process of his spanking has already begun and there was nothing
 he could do.

“Before I finish with you, young man, your bottom is going
to be bright red and you’re going to be crying real tears. I
always spank long and I spank hard, and your first spanking is
going to be no exception, do you hear me?”
 Then she began to spank. Hard, fast, meaty smacks fell on the boy’s bare fanny as her arm rose and fell with relentless purpose. She kept it up, delivering a steady barrage of spanks for several minutes. The boy wriggled and kicked, but she held him down.   
“Yes, indeed,  Thomas Finley , you are going to be a very well  spanked
little boy( SPANK, SPANK)! before I’m through.”
I watched, mesmerized, as the boy’s bottom went from pink to red and beyond.
She paused, and gestured for me to take a seat on the sofa
directly across from her before continuing. From that position,
I could see every detail of Tommy’s punishment. My heart pounded
even faster when I realized I could also see between Mrs.
Zemmer’s legs all the way to  some very lacey pink panties
nestled deeply between her plump thighs.
 As Tommy wriggled, his little willy danced against her
legs. My own penis got even harder and I continued my discreet
attempts to hide it with my hands.
Mrs. Zemmer spanked vigorously with short swings of the hand
and a lot of wrist motion. She alternated cheeks and moved
around on each cheek as she spanked. The sharp cracking sounds of palm striking bare flesh filled the room.
By now Tommyhad given up protesting and surrendered to a loud crying jag
interspersed with pleas for no more spanking. But Mrs. Zemmer
simply ignored these cries and continued painting a rosy shade
of pink onto his bouncing white fanny. Held firmly over her lap,
with his bare legs kicking furiously, Tommy grew increasingly
desperate in his cries as he realized there was nothing he could
do. As his bottom grew progressively redder, his crying seemed
to take on a more juvenile tone.
Without pausing, Mrs. Zemmer looked up and me and
commented,
“David, I hope you’re paying attention. In my experience,
boys who are Tommy’s age usually look and sound more like second
or third graders once they’re stripped below the waist like
little babies and spanked soundly over my knee. Last summer, I
even had to spank one of the junior counselors after he stole
some money and he was no different. I think he was about your
age but he behaved more like a ten year old once I put him
across my lap.”
As I realized Mrs. Zemmer was hinting I was not too old to be
spanked, blood surged to my genitals, bottom, and face. It was
clear to both of us that her message had hit home. The thought
of being turned over her lap and reduced to a half-naked, crying
little boy was too much for me to imagine. It was all too clear
Mrs. Zemmer knew exactly how to regress naughty youngsters so
they got the full emotional as well as physical measure of their
punishment. For the rest of Tommy’s spanking, I was in a half-
daze, my attention riveted on Tommy’s red bottom and Mrs.
Zemmer’s thighs while my mind raced in fantasies that I was
kicking over her lap.

 Later that night, I masturbated in my cabin bed, tossing and turning as I wondered what it would feel like to be squirming over those plump thighs, and having my own fanny warmed.
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One response to “F/M Sunday–Camp Roanoke Pt. 1 by Randy

  1. As someone who went through the same sort of expereance only in my case my Aunt went through with it and though was 17 put me over lap for my first ever spanking.
    17 or 7 I ended up like Tommy lost all dignity kicked and struggled until I cried real tears pleadng for her to stop though in truth I loved every slap
    Thanks for the memory long time ago but still remember it like it was lastnight

    Like

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