Bottoms and Binoculars
At “Camp Redwood”, in the summer of '89, the sun shines bright, and someone is about to get scorched. Shy sports-coordinator, Tom Burns, finds himself in a sticky situation when two pretty camp-counsellors flirt for his attention by staging a cheeky birthday spanking on their cabin veranda. When Ms Glouwer, the matronly camp director, catches him peering through binoculars, she jumps to the naughtiest of conclusions. Can Tom’s flustered excuses save him from far more than just a scolding, or is he about to land in some serious hot water? Bottoms and Binoculars is a tale where consequences are hotter than a campfire!
from 📚 Contemporary Comeuppance
Tom Burns was the last person who would have imagined himself volunteering for a summer camp on what felt like the opposite end of the Earth. A naturally shy and unassuming young man, his sixth-form tutor persuaded him this would be a positive addition to his university application forms.
“Embracing an opportunity like this will demonstrate there’s more to you than athletics and academia,” the sweetly assertive Miss Henley assured him.
He found himself, as always, unable to resist her guidance and old-fashioned charm. The prospect of a month abroad was daunting but, credit where it was due, this planned overseas trip proved to be a valuable talking point in several of his university interviews.
It was his first aeroplane journey without family and even the drive from the airport proved to be an adventure. Against the magnificent backdrop of the Sierra Nevada, the camp minibus rattled its way along dusty roads, past fields and forests, the sunlight sparkling on glimpses of distant lakes. The lush greenery of the California wilderness swept by, feeling bright and sun-drenched.
At the entrance, the camp’s rustic wooden sign, “Camp Redwood” together with its campfire logo, gave him a brief impression of Friday the 13th.
Thankfully, the camp was a tranquil refuge from the hustle and bustle of the city. The only lurking danger seemed to be, not machete-wielding maniacs, but the risk of sunburn if he were to forget to reapply his sunscreen.
“So, you must be Tom, right? You look younger than I expected, but it’s great to see you,” Ms Glouwer said, as he emerged from the air-conditioned bus into the sticky, pine-scented summer sun. Her gaze was intense. Not exactly unwelcoming, but somehow wary of an outsider.
“Yes Ma’am,” Tom replied, the formality of this unfamiliar form of address feeling awkward as he tried to adjust to his notions of American good-manners. “I’m almost nineteen, but it isn’t my birthday until next week.”
The camp director possessed the same commanding confidence as Miss Henley, though her sheer physical presence couldn’t be more different. Buxom and matronly, the loose folds of her white linen smock cascaded over her broad hips, cinched high at the waist with an ostentatious, colourful plaited belt. Tom followed her from the bus, her sneakers if he remembered the dialect correctly, crunching along the gravel path.
The camp’s wooden cabins faced into an open recreation ground where the grass sloped away, dropping to the beachy edge of a calm lake. Sun-bleached orange kayaks lay in metal racking beside a wooden jetty that extended a few metres into the water.
“Our janitor and the maintenance crew are still tied up preparing the accommodation,” Ms Glouwer told him. “So, for now, you’ll be in the spare room of my bungalow.”
It was his first visit to America, his first experience of a summer camp, and he was about to catch his first glimpse of his fellow camp counsellors, Amber and Tiffany.
They skipped down from their cabin veranda like a couple of sun-kissed sirens, clad in tightly clinging bikinis – one green, one yellow – towels draped over their shoulders. The pastel tones highlighted their golden tans and the audacious triangles of fabric accentuated their arresting curves.
“Girls!” Ms Glouwer’s voice boomed across the lawn. “Dinner is at six. On the dot! So no detours – do you hear?”
Amber turned, flicking a stray wave of golden blonde hair from her cheek, her hand giving a brisk wave of acknowledgement. Tom tried his best not to stare, but they seemed so unlike the girls he knew at home.
“It must be the time of year for birthdays,” the camp director observed. “It’s Tiffany’s twenty-first, so we’re doing cake after dinner. You should join us.”
“Thank you, Ma’am,” Tom replied, unable to ignore the camp counsellors' flirtatious giggles which were already sending warm blushes rising in his cheeks. “That sounds lovely.”
Noticing his curious, surreptitious glances, a prim and more guarded tone crept into Ms Glouwer’s manner. She gave a meaningful, observant nod. “I suppose it’ll be a good way for you guys to get acquainted. And I’ll be there too. You know that, right?”
She showed him around the camp, from rec-room to dining hall. Through the clusters of cabins, past the laundry room, and the prudently separated shower facilities, quaintly labelled for guys and gals.
Within her bungalow, the decor leaned to traditional, the furniture carrying a no-nonsense, rustic charm. In the guest bedroom, sets of camp uniforms were neatly folded at the foot of his bed, informal and relaxed. Red nylon shorts, lightweight with a satin sheen, and white t-shirts with the bold word staff printed across the back.
“Anyway, I guess you’ll want to settle in and freshen up. The bathroom’s down the hall – keep it tidy! And, as you heard, dinner at six.”
With almost a week to go before the summer guests began to arrive, the kitchen was operating on a light staff. Nevertheless, the meal was excellent. A lasagne with salad, fries, and for dessert, the promised birthday cake; a funfetti sponge cake with a single, token candle at the centre.
“Do you make wishes over here when you blow out birthday candles?” Tom asked. During the dinner he’d begun to overcome at least some of his shyness.
He'd perplexed his new friends by wishing Tiffany, “Many happy returns of the day,” and was discovering that American birthday traditions were quite different to back home.
“Everyone makes a birthday wish,” Amber assured him. “What’s yours, Tiff?”
“I can’t tell you that!” her friend retorted. “Like- not if I want it to come true.”
“Yeah- well, if you wished for a birthday spanking, you’re in luck. I can hardly wait!”
Amber’s cheeky reply was hushed, and Tom noted she'd taken a cautious, sideways glance to make certain Ms Glouwer wasn’t eavesdropping.
“You guys do birthday spankings?” he asked, utterly incredulous.
“Sure! Why, do you wanna watch?” Amber clutched a hand to her chest in a pantomime gasp of faux-concern. “I don’t suppose you’d find it all that interesting. I mean- it would only be Tiff squirming across my lap while I deliver red-hot smacks right on her sexy ass. We’d hate for you to feel embarrassed,” she teased.
Tom’s eyes widened, and he almost choked on a mouthful of birthday cake. The sound, coupled with his blushes, was enough to attract Ms Glouwer’s attention. Her eyes flicked between his flushed face and Amber’s ill-concealed smirk.
“What’s up?” the camp director enquired.
Tiffany flashed an innocent smile. “We’re talking birthday traditions, Ms Glouwer. Tom's been telling us that in England they say: Many happy returns of the day. Did you know that?”
“Why- certainly,” the director confirmed, appearing relieved the new friends were engaging in wholesome topics of conversation. “Have you guys never read Winnie the Pooh? AA Milne used that same phrase when Pooh wished Piglet Many happy returns. It’s a lovely old-fashioned way of wishing someone to have lots more birthdays.”
“Awesome!” the younger women observed, almost in unison.
“Anyway- sorry to break up the party, but I need to borrow Tom momentarily. I want to show him our sports activity timetables, and it’ll give me chance to run over the camp rules.”
Tiffany’s wistful gaze followed his departure. When the door closed, she noticed that Amber was watching her intently.
“What's the matter?” Tiffany asked, with the unease of someone who suspected they might have an embarrassing fragment of spinach stuck in their teeth.
“I think you’ve got the hots for our English visitor, Tiff! And don’t deny it.” Amber took her friend’s rising blushes as confirmation.
“Well- you’ve got to admit, he’s kinda sweet. But so shy! Maybe he'll start to chill, after he’s settled in?”
With a sly grin, Amber leaned close, taking her friend’s arm and whispering in conspiratorial tones. “I know exactly what to do. I’ve got a plan that is guaranteed to grab his attention! Here’s what we’ll do...”
As Tiffany listened, her smile broadened. “You really think we should? You’re so bad!”
“Oh- yeah. In fact, I insist,” Amber replied.
Taking advantage of Ms Glouwer’s absence, they slipped away and set their teasing plan in motion.
When Tom returned to his room, he found a note on his bedside table, weighted down with a pair of binoculars. A white label around the top of the lens body announced: Property of Camp Redwood Birdwatching Club.
He picked up the note, feeling a tremble at his fingertips.
Look out of your window at exactly 8pm. You’ll sure be in for a treat!! Amber. xx
Glancing at his watch, still only seven-thirty, Tom suspected the next half-hour would drag like an eternity. Peeking through the curtains, he saw that most of the cabins were shrouded in dusky twilight. But, closest to the lake, lights burned on the porch of one cabin. The brightly lit veranda, surrounded by a low wooden balustrade, was lit like a stage, though it remained empty... for the moment.
He glanced at his watch again. Seven thirty-one.
Tom experienced a pang of guilt when he raised the binoculars, twisting the focus wheel until the image was so sharp that he could almost have been standing on their veranda.
While he waited, counting down the minutes, he thought back to a holiday in Brighton a few years ago. In a shadowy corner of one of the less reputable penny arcades, he remembered a vintage “What the Butler Saw” machine. For the price of your coin, you could turn the handle and take a look through a proverbial keyhole, watching the grainy flickering spectacle of a beautiful young woman taking a bath.
He remembered the guilty thrill, though it now paled beside the prospect of the mischievous spectacle he was about to observe this evening. Like a naughty schoolboy, sneaking a surreptitious peek at the forbidden, he was enjoying that same flustered excitement once again.
When eight o'clock finally ticked around, Tom's heart raced. He re-checked the binoculars' focus, his eyes glued to Amber and Tiffany's well-lit veranda. The anticipation was electrifying, and anxious beads of perspiration tickled his armpits.
Amber was the first to appear. Still wearing her camp uniform, she stepped to one side and, sweeping her arms around in the open-handed flourish of a nightclub compère, she made an extravagant gesture towards the open doorway. Tiffany appeared, elegant and beautiful, in the same pale-yellow bikini that Tom recognised from earlier. She stepped forward, as if into a theatrical spotlight, giving a graceful twirl. It was clear they had equal flair for both teasing and drama.
The rubber coating of the binoculars was starting to feel slick against his moist palms, and he gripped them tighter, not wanting to miss a single moment.
On the veranda, Tiffany maintained her smile but uttered an anxious stage whisper from the corner of her mouth. “Are you sure the bikini is necessary? I mean, my butt is like- almost totally bare!”
Amber giggled. “Trust me. You want to give him something sensational to remember, don't you?”
“Yeah- well, just don't overdo it. I don't want a red behind when we go swimming tomorrow!”
A long wooden patio bench lay at the back of their veranda, and Tiffany watched as Amber seated herself dead-center. Once again she sensed her friend was enjoying this playful scenario a little too much. The way she patted her knees in a mischievous invitation seemed to display far too much enthusiasm.
In his magnified view, Tom watched Tiffany drape herself over her friend's lap, her teeny bikini bottoms pulling taut, revealing the pale shape of a more modest residual tan-line beneath. The curves of her upended rear were delicious – as inviting as the juicy swell of a ripe peach.
Tom held his breath. Amber raised her hand.
Although he heard no sound across the wide lawn, he could imagine the sharp slap as Amber's palm was brought to bear with the delectable bottom that was poised so temptingly across her lap. Tiffany, eyes wide, shot an accusing backward glance towards her ebullient companion, her lips working in an inaudible protest.
Amber smirked, giving the pinkened skin an enthusiastic rub, before delivering a crisp smack to the other cheek!
“Two,” Tom whispered to himself, maintaining a tantalising count while trying to keep the binoculars steady.
With teasing glances cast between Tom's bedroom window and her friend's almost defenceless bottom, Amber continued her cheeky chore with sly, amused relish. As Tiffany wriggled, the fabric of her bikini shifted as well, revealing even more of her pretty, pert posterior. The differentiation between the paler tan-lines and her increasingly rosy cheeks was becoming less distinct with every smack.
“I wonder, do you think I should pull down your bikini bottoms? I bet that would really get Tom feeling hot under the collar,” Amber teased. She might have been joking, but Tiffany wasn't taking any chances.
“Hell- no. You'd better not!” Tiffany gasped. “I'd die of embarrassment, and I think the sight of it would give poor Tom a heart-attack!”
The bikini remained in place, but there was no denying their commitment to tradition and authenticity. Amber's lively right palm dotted firm impacts all over her friend's curvy posterior and Tiffany was evidently game for a giggle because Tom was certain those gorgeous cheeks must be beginning to smart.
As their ritual approached its climax, Amber used her left thumb and forefinger to pinch the seat of Tiffany's bikini-briefs together and up, forming the already insubstantial garment into a scandalous, improvised g-string. Her right hand remained resolute, palm striking bare skin with exquisite finesse.
Tom's quiet count had now reached, “twenty-one”, but he saw that Amber held up her index finger, seeming to represent the digit one. Through the binoculars, it was difficult to read her lips, but she appeared to be mouthing: “One more!“
Apparently, there was to be a single, final encore.
With comic exaggeration, she rehearsed a slow-motion practice swing, before raising her arm and performing another, identical, slow-motion spanking action. Goosebumps accompanied Tom's delightful shiver of anticipation. He could just imagine hearing Amber's teasing voice. “And a one. And a two. And...“
When it came, she did not disappoint!
Amber's hand came crashing down with the full-force of an honest to goodness, real-life spank. Tom saw Tiffany's back arch in a spasm of surprise before she leapt to her feet, skipping from foot to foot, gratefully massaging her visibly reddened behind.
“I should never have trusted you with this Amber!” Tiffany was giggling, in spite of the sting. “You were taking the tradition way too seriously!”
“Oh- hush, Tiff,” Amber replied. “We agreed to make it exciting for Tom. I was only being thorough!”
Their unabashed exhibitionism sent a warm tingle to Tom's core, provoking a pleasantly familiar flutter of twitching tightness at the front of his shorts. He could feel the tension of anticipation growing, but his excitement was about to be curtailed.
“Thomas Burns! Just what the hell do you think you're doing?”
Lost in the swelling heat of the moment, enchanted by the sight of such a gloriously naughty spanking, he hadn't heard the knock or the soft creak of his bedroom door.
Tom found himself so startled that he spun around with the binoculars still clamped to his eyes. With no time to adjust the focus, Ms Glouwer's face loomed large in the lenses, blurred but unmistakably furious. Her rage seemed magnified too, her arms crossed like a judgemental giant.
Tom whisked the binoculars behind his back, though he already knew this was a futile gesture. Ms Glouwer couldn't have failed to notice.
“Well- let's hear it?” she demanded, striding from the doorway to the window just in time to see Tiffany's bikini-clad figure stepping back through the door of her cabin.
“It's not what it looks like,” Tom said, cringing at the cliché as he heard his own voice creaking upwards to an uncomfortable pitch. Ms Glouwer's scowl sent a chilling shudder all the way to his toes.
“Oh, really?” Ms. Glouwer turned slowly, tone sarcastic and her eyebrows arching. “Then why don't you tell me how you think it looks and let me be the judge? Or should we ask Tiffany and Amber how they feel about you spying on them in their swimwear?”
“But- only Tiffany was wearing a bikini, Ma'am,” he began. He realised his error too late, clapping a hand across his mouth in the vain hope of stuffing the words back in.
He knew that in the pocket of his shorts he had the note they'd left for him, and for a moment he wondered if revealing it might get him off the hook? But then he thought of the stern-faced Ms Glouwer. He remembered how Amber had been ever so cautious to not be overheard at dinner time. They must have borrowed the binoculars from somewhere, then sneaked inside her private bungalow, and left a saucy note in his bedroom. Wouldn't they be in even more trouble than him if she were ever to find out?
His mind whirled in confusion. Each new and alternative explanation he thought of, seemed more implausible than the last. With grim certainty, he saw no option but to take the blame himself – whatever the consequences might be.
“So- you don't deny you were spying on the girls? How convenient that your name is part of your job description! Though I must say, Peeping-Tom is a somewhat reckless career move.”
“I wasn't exactly peeping, Ma'am,” he insisted. “It was more, well- just that I couldn't help looking. After all, in a cultural exchange, it's important to learn about local customs and different ways of doing things.”
“You are not making sense, Thomas. Quite honestly, after the glowing references I received from your tutor, Miss Henley, I expected much better from you.”
Tom stared at his feet, his fingers twisting together as though he'd been summoned to stand before a strict headmistress.
He failed to notice Ms Glouwer's gaze flicking to the antique dresser beside the wardrobe. A wooden hairbrush lay beside a silver-framed black and white photograph of Camp Redwood's founding year. She picked it up, bringing it together against her palm with a sharp crack.
“You know what? Since I can't exactly send you home in disgrace, and it's too late for me to find a replacement sports coordinator, I think we'd better employ a more direct, alternative remedy, to remind you of appropriate behaviour.”
Tom's eyes widened. “A remedy? I don't think I understand, Ma'am.”
Ms Glouwer gave a wry chuckle.
“Come now, Thomas. You're the one who has been expressing an interest in American traditions. Well- consider this your first lesson! I'll demonstrate something that would be familiar to anyone from a proper upbringing and trust me, you'll remember it for a very long time!”
She rolled up her sleeves before giving the hairbrush another meaningful slap against her palm. Tom winced at the crisp sound, his knees beginning to tremble. Like every other fixture and fitting of Ms Glouwer's bungalow, he noted that the brush was heavy, sturdy, and built to endure.
“You- you can’t actually be intending to give me a spanking...? Not at my age?”
“Oh- you have a lot to learn about me. I never tolerate poor behaviour from any of my staff,” she declared, taking hold of his left ear in an inescapable, firm pinch. He was days away from his nineteenth birthday and his current predicament felt ridiculous.
With a pained grimace, Tom found himself helpless to resist as she marched him towards the foot of the bed. He was forced to stoop low in a desperate bid to reduce the pressure on his earlobe, before an abrupt change in direction and a downward tug, sent him tumbling across her broad, accommodating thighs.
To his horror, her strong fingers hooked under the waistband at the back of his shorts and – as his body was propelled forward – his shorts and underwear were left behind. He landed squirming upon her lap, his bare bottom thrust upwards and his shorts bunched in a hopeless snarl around his thighs. It was a proficient manoeuvre, and he was getting the uneasy feeling she was no stranger to doling out this particular form of correction.
The broad-backed implement loomed above his exposed, upturned bottom – poised, ready for action.
This is it, he thought to himself, as her left arm entwined securely around his waist. He was pinned, immobilised, and about to be spanked by the camp's formidable director... and with that awful hairbrush.
During his schooldays, he'd become rather too familiar with corporal punishment. The watchful and wiry headmaster, Dr Pangborne, had once delivered six searing strokes of the cane across the seat of his thin grey trousers. On several more occasions, he'd experienced a prescribed dose of the slipper. And yet, Ms Glouwer's transatlantic approach to discipline proved to be as foreign as anything he could imagine.
She did not relent after a formal six of the best, or after a dozen... or even after twenty-one. The sturdy wooden implement pounded his exposed rump in a robust, relentless fashion; accurate, unerring, as if it was never going to stop.
Ms Glouwer's powerful right arm delivered each thwack with a rapid flourish; shoulder turning, elbow dropping, wrist flicking. Tom couldn't stifle his howls of protest as her painful attentions illuminated his behind.
Every smack ignited a bright, piercing sensation. Sharper and more focused than a slipper, the pain sang, reverberating and spreading with sparkles of prickling warmth. Again and again, with a thwack and a thwack, her merciless ministrations sent shuddering ripples through his cheeks. Over and over, the pattern continued, and to blistering effect.
However much he tried to brace against the relentless impacts, each fresh whack seemed to catch him off-guard. The cumulative smarting magnified his misery, the unremitting sting soon becoming unbearable.
“Please- Ms Glouwer- Ma'am! You've made your point!” Tom wailed, his voice cracking into sobs.
There was no need for a reply. Her actions spoke for themselves, in a universal-dialect that was plain and unambiguous. The hairbrush continued to explore his bottom's most sensitive spots, inflicting its devastating toll.
When, finally, it came to a halt, Tom's entire bottom blazed, the pulsating pain seeming to wash over him, back and forth, in wave after fiery wave.
“Now- that is how we deal out a spanking over here in the good ole US of A!” Ms Glouwer declared. There seemed to be an air of patriotic pride in her tone, as though she were basking in the angry scarlet glow of his throbbing rear. “Stand up, this instant. Hands on top of your head.”
Shamefaced and breathless, he obeyed, unable to meet her eye. Couldn't she at least have allowed him to rub his sore bottom, he lamented. But, she appeared determined to prolong the exposure and to maximise his humiliation.
“I really am most awfully sorry, Ma'am,” Tom blubbed. Crestfallen, another tear dribbled down his cheek, dripping from his chin at the precise moment that his shorts collapsed to his ankles. “Nothing like this will ever happen again. I promise.”
“You'd better believe it,” she said, shaking the hairbrush towards him. “I think we'll keep you here in this guest room for the duration. All the better for me to keep a close eye on you and now you understand the consequences.”
She set the dreadful instrument down, striding away, the bedroom door clicking shut with finality as she departed.
Turning and gazing into the dressing-table mirror, Tom assessed the damage. His raw swollen rear was aglow, the consuming redness peppered with darker, patchy bruises. Beside his bottom, the hairbrush lay, reflected too, a stark warning of Ms Glouwer's larger-than-life disciplinary approach.
Wincing in discomfort, he restored his shorts. The sting, as the leg-elastic of his cotton briefs grated against his bruised bottom, reminded him that he'd be feeling this for the next several days.
The return to modesty came not a moment too soon. A curious, light tapping at his window caused him to spin around. Pressed up against the glass, he saw the faces of Amber and Tiffany, abashed and apologetic.
Careful not to make a sound, he unlatched the window and swung it open.
“Oh my god!” Tiffany whispered. “We're so sorry. Are you all right?”
Tom blushed anew, wondering how long they'd been at his window and how much they'd seen; both of the spanking, and of himself. The memory of Ms Glouwer whisking down his shorts flashed through his mind. The thought of their eyes upon him, taking in every detail of his bare bottomed spanking, and his tears, only added to his torment.
“You- you saw that, I suppose?” he asked, his voice shaky.
“Kind of,” Amber replied. “And thanks so much for not ratting us out! I don't know how we can ever repay you. That was one heck of a thorough spanking, even by Ms Glouwer's standards.”
Tom looked surprised. “You mean, this isn't the first time she's done something like this?”
Both girls nodded, in rueful harmony.
“Let's just say, she has a certain reputation,” Tiffany confirmed.
Slowly, in spite of his embarrassment and discomfort, an ironic grin returned to Tom's face. He turned towards Tiffany, an open plaid shirt now partly covering her daring bikini.
He gave her a cheeky, conspiratorial wink.
“You know something? It seems to me that only one of us has managed to retain their, shall we say spanking virginity this evening! And since Amber was the one who started all of this in the first place, it hardly seems fair. Wouldn't you agree, Tiffany?”
With gleeful understanding, Tiffany grinned.
“You're absolutely right, Tom! And I've always found there's no better way to learn something than by trying it out for yourself. Next time – I'll supervise, and Amber can take a turn across your lap! You can try your hand at our fun tradition, and it's high-time Amber got the full birthday girl experience, if you know what I mean. Right, Amber?”
“Okay you guys. I guess that's only fair,” Amber conceded. “But we're gonna have to scarper before Ms Glouwer catches us here. Can you even imagine what she'd do?”
Tom, still feeling as though he were sitting on a pin-cushion, could imagine all too well. He fished the note from his shorts and slipped it into Tiffany's breast pocket.
“Better keep this safe Tiff,” he chuckled. “Hold on to it as evidence, in case Amber changes her mind!”
Tiffany raised her hand for a high-five. Her own derrière was still tingling from Amber's all too enthusiastic birthday spanking, and she had no intention of missing this opportunity to see the tables turned.
“Don't you worry, Tom. It's a date!” she assured him.
He watched the two young women jog back to their cabin across the lawn, all blushes and knowing giggles at the sensational sights they'd just witnessed.
Tom had come to summer camp for the experience and to enhance his university applications. Right now, he couldn't help reflecting that his summer at “Camp Redwood” was already shaping up to be far more educational than he'd bargained for.
This cultural exchange looked like it was about to become even more enlightening... and, he suspected, its most exciting lessons were still to come!
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