(Author Note: This is the second story in a series. The characters and situations were introduced in the story:
Camp Torowa Falls 1: Wet Sheets Lead to Sore Rumps. Read that story first!)
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It was a cloudy morning in the Adirondack Mountains, windy and unseasonably cool for late July. The campers from Fox Cabin walked at a brisk pace to warm themselves up. The ten boys, all clad in khaki shorts and light blue t-shirts, had just finished breakfast and were headed for archery, their first morning activity.

Corey Lane walked next to Jerry Farnham, his best friend in camp, who was walking with a slightly stiff gait this morning. Jerry had one of "those dreams" last night, woken up with soiled sheets, and was still coping with the effects of the bare-bottomed paddling he received at morning inspection about an hour ago. Corey could sympathize with his friend, having received a dose of the paddle for the same "offense" just two days before.

Corey felt a bit confused about a number of things this summer. He did feel sympathy for Jerry, but was embarassed by the fact that his jockey shorts had tented while watching his friend being paddled. He also seemed to be getting erections from seeing the glowing red bottom cheeks of freshly paddled campers in the showers nearly every morning. What did it all mean?

Corey was honest enough with himself to admit that it had always felt kind of neat to see another kid getting whacked, at least if his own backside wasn't waiting for the same treatment. But Corey couldn't remember ever getting stiff while witnessing spankings before this summer.

Of course his wiener had been a purely utilitarian waste dispoal device up until a few months ago. Most times it was soft but sometimes it was hard, with its owner totally unaware of any rhyme or reason as to why such changes took place. Now Corey was aware of a new and rather interesting function it could perform. But that function seemed destined to get him in trouble, perhaps more trouble that a few moments of intense pleasure were worth.

The rains that had been threatening all morning finally arrived during the last activity period before lunch. The campers from Fox Cabin and Bear Cabin were swimming at Little Bear Lake, where the camp had all its watersports activities. Torowa Falls, the geographic feature after which the camp had been named, emptied into the lake.

The campers were called out of the lake early to head back to camp. Corey and Jerry couldn't understand why they weren't allowed to swim in the rain. Not only were they wearing swim suits, but they were up to their necks in water already. There was no lightning, just a plain old rain storm. What was the big deal? Adults often insist on things that make no sense at all.

On the way back to the cabin, Corey noticed that Jerry was walking normally again. The twenty campers moved together for most of the trip since the two cabins were neighbors. Someone started whistling the theme song to The Great Escape, the hit movie that most of the boys had seen before heading off to camp. Others soon joined in. Corey did have to admit that it made pretty good marching music.

As they marched and whistled, Corey heard Roland Bell asking in low tones if anyone else wanted a quick cigarette after lunch. Jerry said he would like to, but didn't want to risk the strap today - he had been paddled first thing this morning.

Corey refused as well, but not really out of fear. He had tried both of the big "dont's" - cigarettes and alcohol - in the past year, and each had left him choking and coughing, wondering what all the fuss was about. His single cigarette experiment had been a complete disaster. His mother had smelled the smoke on his clothes and Corey had wound up bent over a sawhorse in the garage, pants-down while his father wore out two freshly-cut switches on his backside.

As they toweled off back in Fox Cabin, Corey sneaked a peak and noticed that Jerry's butt was only slightly red by this time. The ten boys put on their regular camp outfits and got ready for lunch. Then they all hustled over to the Mess Hall as quickly as possible in the rain.

Lunch was one of Corey's favorites, sloppy joes. Of course he wasn't alone in that opinion. There were few fussy eaters among the campers when sloppy joes made their appearance. Corey noticed Roland and several other older boys casually leave the Mess Hall singly or in pairs before lunch break was over. Ostensibly they had to use the bathroom, of course, but Corey had a pretty shrewd idea that there was another motive involved.

After lunch had been cleared away Boss Lemmon made the entirely expected announcement that outdoor activities were cancelled for the afternoon because of the rain. He and the counselors would retire to his office for a staff meeting while the assistant counselors got the campers started on indoor activities. This last announcement led to widespread snickers throughout the room.

"Asscons," noted Jerry in low tones as the counselors followed Boss Lemon out of the Mess Hall for their meeting. Jerry had to cover his mouth to contain the laughter that threatened to explode from him at this comment. Alan Dunson and a few other campers at their table were less successful at hiding their mirth.

"Quiet down, you little twerps!" ordered Boss Lemmon as he led the procession out of the room. "You'd all better obey the assistant counselors or you'll be in trouble."

Corey struggled to maintain his composure while the senior staff filed out of the hall and the assistant counselors moved to take over. The assistant counselors were a group of 17 and 18 year old boys who were being trained as counselors. They had their own cabin, and trained under the direct supervision of Boss Lemmon.

Most of the counselors, like Jeff Paulsen, their counselor in Fox Cabin, had been campers here at Camp Torowa Falls when they were younger. All those former campers had also gone through the assistant counselor program. Although the assistant counselors were never punished in public, there were persistent rumors that Boss Lemon himself would give assistant counselors the strap in their cabin before lights out if they got out of line.

"Alright, guys, let's simmer down," ordered Peter Linsey, a 17-year-old assistant counselor, in his most authoritarian voice. "Listen to your counselor-in-training, and let's get started on our activities."

This brought fresh gales of laughter from the campers, especially Eric Linsey, Peter's younger brother. "Can't you do something about him?" asked Corey, nudging Eric.

"What am I supposed to do?" replied Eric, rolling his eyes. "Go see my parents, they're the ones who had the idiot."

The assistant counselors were normally refered to as "Asscons" by the campers, at least when members of the senior staff weren't around. The assistant counselors themselves were desperately trying to get Boss Lemmon to change their title to "counselors-in-training". So far they were having no luck in the effort.

Assistant counselors weren't allowed to paddle campers. The most they could manage was to swat a naughty camper on his fully-clothed behind with his open hand. This didn't really impress any of the campers above the age of ten, which explained the general lack of respect shown the Asscons, at least when the "real" staff wasn't around.

Joe Brown, the Asscon assigned to look after Fox Cabin this week (when Jeff was otherwise occupied), arrived at their table and told them that they would be doing crafts for the first afternoon period.

Before Corey and his cabin-mates could react to this news the front doors of the hall burst open and Boss Lemmon stalked inside out of the rain. The big man looked really pissed off, and all laughter in the hall died at the sight.

Corey immediately wondered if Boss Lemmon had heard their audible lack of respect for the Asscons and finally decided to do something about it. He felt his butt cheeks twitch inside his shorts at the very thought of what that "something" might be.

Then a line of five bedraggled boys walked into the hall, most of them flinching under the stern gaze of Boss Lemmon. Each boy had his hands firmly clasped behind his head. Each had been deprived of his khaki shorts and was clad in only a blue t-shirt and white briefs. This was the standard posture, and mode of dress, for campers who had screwed up royally, been caught, and were scheduled for a public thrashing.

As Boss Lemmon led the prisoners past their table Corey realized that Roland Bell was third in line. He knew then that these boys must have been caught smoking after lunch. He was suddenly and profoundly glad that he had hated the first and only cigarette he ever smoked. If not, he might be in that line of boys marching to their doom. He looked over to Jerry, who briefly passed his hand over his forehead and mouthed a "whoo" of relief. Jerry's instincts had been right about not wanting to risk the strap after his morning paddling.

As the line of doomed boys approached to the front of the hall, Corey realized that he knew most of them. There was Roland, of course, and two 14-year-olds from Bear Cabin, Rob Anderson and George Healy. There were also two taller boys who Corey barely knew, Randy Weiler and Travis...something.

All eyes in the room were fixed on the miscreants as Boss Lemmon lined them up facing the assembled campers. Corey couldn't help but notice that Roland and that Travis boy had both pitched rather noticeable tents in the front of their briefs. Travis must be at least fifteen, Corey realized.

"Your attention everyone!" said Boss Lemmon loudly. Corey thought this was a silly and completely unnecessary thing to say. Every camper was already focused on the front of the hall, and you could have heard a pin drop in the usually noisy place.

"The five 'gentlemen' standing before you were caught smoking in the Bath House." announced Boss Lemmon. This news caused a slight murmer around the hall. "They will each receive 10 lashes with the razor strap on the bare. Punishment will be carried out in one hour, after the staff meeting."

Boss Lemmon had few words with Peter Linsey before heading back out of the hall for his meeting. Joe Brown said, "okay, boys, let's go find our craft materials and get to work."

The ten campers from Fox Cabin all got up to retrieve their craft supplies from a storage room near the back of the hall. Craft sessions that didn't involve heavy equipment like kilns were always held in the mess hall. As Corey moved with his friends to retrieve their leather materials (they were making deerskin moccasins at the moment) he noticed Peter Linsey was making the doomed smokers take up positions facing the wall at the front of the hall.

It turns out that schedules had changed and all the cabins were staying in the mess hall to do crafts for their first afternoon period. This would save campers having to walk back through the rain in an hour to witness punishment. Noise levels continued to rise in the hall as boys set about the difficult task of sewing pieces of deerskin into objects at least vaguely resembling human footwear.

Corey couldn't imagine how the glob of leather he held in his hands could ever be mistaken for a moccasin. He wasn't very good at this, and he was constantly in danger of skewering his fingers with the heavy "leather needle" he had to use. The crazy thing looked more like an instrument of torture than a craft tool.

Corey kept sneaking peeks up to the front of the room where Peter Linsey kept a close eye on the miscreants. He could see them occasionally shift nervously. Corey couldn't imagine how shameful and horrifying it must be to be have to wait in public for a thrashing that was also going to be very public.

Corey had just shifted his attention back to his "work", wondering what the leather needle would feel like slipped under the finger nails of a captured spy, when he felt a sharp slap on the back of his head. "Oww!" he yelped in surprise, rising most of the way to his feet and looking behind him for the attacker.

It was Joe Brown, their 18-year-old Asscon, who said "Having a nice daydream, Corey?" in a sarcastic tone. He took advantage of Corey's half-stooping position to plant a couple of hefty hand spanks on the seat of the 12-year-old's khaki shorts. "Sit down, twerp." he ordered.

Corey glared at the older boy as he sat. "You better watch your attitude, kid," threatened Joe, "or we'll just see if Jeff or even Boss Lemmon can teach you some manners. Now get back to work...all of you!"

Corey turned away from Joe, hiding his scowling face, and pretended to get back to work on his moccasin. He exchanged looks of disgust with Jerry and Eric. Corey thought that Joe was the one who needed to be taught some manners.

A couple minutes later a one of the boys at another table emitted a painful yelp of, "Shit!" Glancing over, it was obvious to Corey that the kid had stabbed himself rather badly with his leather needle.

"What did you say, Bill?" asked Jonathan Stanley, the Asscon assigned to Wolf Cabin.

"I said 'schweinhund'...like from The Great Escape...you know?" pleaded 13-year-old Bill Ramsey.

"It didn't sound like German to me...you better watch it." said Jonathan, walking up behind Bill and giving him a quick cuff on the back of the head. He took a peak at Bill's bleeding finger. "You better hustle on over to the nurse's cabin and get that patched up."

"Now?" complained Bill. "But...I don't want to miss..." he gestured meaningfully at the five miscreants waiting impatiently at the front of the room.

"Yeah, that would be a shame, wouldn't it?" Jonathan asked sarcastically. "Tell you what - you have a choice. Either give me your shorts and join the other boys at the front of the room so you can get a really good view before Boss Lemmon gives your butt its own dose of the strap, or get your butt over to the nurse's office now!"

Obviously horrified at the very thought of joining the row of doomed smokers, Bill practically sprinted out of the hall. He was followed out the door by a rather spirited wave of laughter.

As the boys continued struggling with their leatherworking tools and the noise in the room ramped up again, Joe quietly noted, "You know... they never actually said 'schweinhund' in The Great Escape."

"What?" said Jerry, echoing Corey's thoughts on that statement.

"It's true," Joe assured him. "I saw that movie twice before heading up here, and they never said the word 'schweinhund' even once."

"If that's true," wondered Jerry aloud, "then why has everybody here been throwing that line at each other for the past week?" It was a fact, Corey knew. The campers had been refering to each other almost constantly with that word, which Corey was led to believe meant "pig dog" in German.

"Well," said Joe confidently, "the best I can figure is that people are mixing up this new movie with Stalag 17, that William Holden movie from about ten years ago. They used the word 'schweinhund' all the time in that one."

"Yeah, right, Joe." said Jerry, in his most doubtful voice. He and Corey rolled their eyes at each other.

"Yeah, well...get back to work!" said Joe sternly. "Both of you!" he added, glaring at Corey.

Corey choked down some choice words he had for the big twit, and went back to mauling the hunk of deer leather with the big sharp spike. He didn't want to give Joe any further reason to get him in trouble with the real staff.

About a half-hour later the front doors opened and the staff filed back into the hall out of the rain, which was really pouring now. Boss Lemmon signaled the Asscons to join them, and they all huddled inside the front doors (now closed), speaking in low tones. Corey sneaked another peak up to the front of the room and noticed that all five of the miscreants were shifting nervously from foot to foot as they faced the wall. Their moment of execution was close at hand.

After a few minutes Boss Lemmon began the walk to the front of the room, the counselors trailing behind him. The Asscons returned to the tables they were supervising. As Boss Lemmon walked past their table, Corey could see the dreaded razor strap in his right hand. The thing looked to be nearly 3 feet long and at least 3 inches wide, made of what appeared to be heavy brown leather. "Corey!" He became dimly aware that someone was addressing him.

"Corey!" said Jeff again, leaning over the far side of the table.

Corey just stared at him, confused and a little frightened. What had he missed? What did Jeff want? Slowly Corey became of aware of the hand signals Jeff was using. It was finally clear that Jeff wanted him to get up and follow him to the front of the room. In a haze, Corey slowly obeyed him.

As the haze slowly lifted from his stunned mind, Corey became aware the all the campers were now staring at him. He was marching towards the front of the room, where the staff were already preparing for the thrashings to come. Corey realized that for some reason he was to be strapped, too. But what for? Then it hit him. Joe! F---ing Joe Brown!

Joe had squealed on him and now he was gonna get the strap in front of the whole camp. Well, not the whole camp. At least Bill had left for the nurse's office. What...what the hell was he thinking, anyway? This was nuts! Here he was, marching towards his doom, and for what?

All he really wanted to do was to run back to his table and punch Joe Brown as hard as he could, while screaming every obscenity in his vocabulary at him. Yet somehow Corey knew instinctively that such an act wouldn't really help his case. But at least then he would be getting his butt blistered for a reason. A stupid reason perhaps, but a stupid reason is better than no reason at all.

Jeff and Corey had finally reached the front of the room. Corey just stood there, staring at the tight seat of Roland's briefs. He could see the twin globes alternatively clenching and relaxing under the white cloth as their owner contemplated the pain they would soon be experiencing. Corey suddenly realized that his bottom was doing a similar dance within its confines.

Soon he would be ordered to remove his shorts, and then all too quickly his jockey shorts would come off. Corey had never been naked in front of a whole room full of people - nearly a hundred - before. His stomach churned at the very thought, and he suddenly realized his bladder was in urgent need of relief. If he wet himself in front of the whole camp he would just die from embarrassment. Corey rubbed at his eyes, which were threatening to tear up. Mustn't let the other guys see him cry.

Suddenly Jeff had him moving again. They were headed for the side door that led to a store room. Corey dimly remembered that all boys being strapped visited this room first, and came out naked for their trashing. At least they were going to strip him in private. At this point Corey was willing to be thankful for any mercy, no matter how small.

Once they were in the room with the door closed, Jeff turned to look at him. Jeff seemed quite surprised by Corey's expression. "What's the matter, Corey?" he asked, a look of concern on his face. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Well..." Corey began, not really sure what to say.

Jeff started to chuckle, "I get it. You think you're about to be thrashed too, right?" Corey nodded dumbly, a tear running down his cheek. Jeff knelt in front of the boy and dabbed at the tear with his own handkerchief. "Don't worry about it, kid. You're only here to help out."

"Wha..huh?" asked Corey, quite confused.

"You're going to act as the helper and pissboy for this trashing," said Jeff. Corey didn't understand this, but thought he was surely going to be a pissboy unless he could visit the bath house quite soon. He was squeezing his legs together noticeably by now. In fact Jeff noticed, "you need to pee too, I see." Corey nodded enthusiastically.

"All right, step right over here and we'll take care of that," said Jeff. He led Corey over to the large enamelware chamber pot sitting near the wall. Corey looked questioningly at Jeff, who nodded as he picked up the pot and removed the lid. "Go ahead."

Corey didn't need to be told twice. He unzipped, dropped his shorts and briefs, and sighed in relief as he cut loose. As he peed, Corey could hear Boss Lemmon in the main hall telling the campers that what they were about to witness would be nothing compared to what would happen if any other boys were caught smoking.

Corey recognized the chamber pot he was using as just like the ones left on the porches of the cabins on rainy nights (like tonight, probably) so campers wouldn't need to walk to the bath hall in the rain at night if they just needed to pee. Soon Corey finished his task and restored his clothing to proper order.

"You look a little happier now," said Jeff, smiling warmly.

Yeah, thanks," said Corey. "You really had me going there for a while, when I thought I was gonna get it."

"Just out of curiosity," said Jeff, his eyes narrowing slightly "what did you think you were gonna get it for?"

"Oh, nothing...really." stammered Corey, blushing.

"Hmmm.." said Jeff, who was interrupted at that moment by the door opening. "Here, you'll need this," he said, handing the chamber pot to Corey.

"What do I do?" whispered Corey, suddenly realizing he had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to help.

"Do for the other boys what I just did for you." said Jeff quietly as Boss Lemmon marched the five culprits inside the small storeroom.

Corey wasn't entirely sure what this meant, although he supposed Jeff was talking about holding the chamber pot, and not wiping the tears from their eyes. Jeff had mentioned the word "pissboy", and Corey supposed that's what it meant. It sure didn't sound attractive, but he wasn't really in a position to debate the topic at the moment.

"Briefs off," ordered Boss Lemmon once they were all assembled and the door was closed. The sheepish boys all hastened to comply with the order. After they were all stripped below the waist, Boss Lemmon ordered, "Line up to pee."

George Healy walked over to stand in front of Corey, who took the lid off the chamber pot and held it at the appropriate height for George to use. As George started peeing the other four boys lined up behind him. There had been rumors that boys were made to relieve themselves before a strapping, to avoid any embarrassing accidents. But Corey had always imagined that they used the urinal in the bath house like normal.

Corey studiously avoided looking directly at each boy's equipment as they made use of the pot. When it was Roland Bell's turn, Corey couldn't help remembering his joke in the bath house the other day. Roland didn't look in the mood for cracking jokes while he peed this time. Travis was last in line. He was also rigidly erect, and impressive - Corey couldn't help noticing, and had a difficult time getting started. But eventually the thoroughly embarrassed boy started...and finished.

As the culprits were marched out to face the camp completely bare-assed, Jeff told Corey to pick up the discarded briefs and follow behind him. Corey quickly complied with this order. He stood next to Jeff near the front of the hall as Boss Lemmon addressed the assembled campers.

While Boss Lemmon droned on about the evils of tobacco in all forms, Corey glanced over at the culprits, lined up facing the hall, hands back behind their heads. They were completely nude below the waist, and Corey noticed that both Roland and Travis had finally lost their erections. The reality of their fate was upon them and they shifted nervously.

"Healy!" called Boss Lemmon, pointing at the end of "the bench". This was a long bench at the very front of the mess hall which was usually only used for one purpose. This was the place of execution for boys who had earned a public thrashing with the strap.

George Healy reluctantly lowered his 14-year-old frame over the towel strategically placed at the end of the bench and held on for dear life. His long wait for painful justice was at an end as the razor strap flew through the air and "Thwwaacckk!" George grunted as the pain from the first lash lit up the nerves in his backside.

By the fifth lash George was sobbing quietly, and by the seventh lash he started howling in agony as each new "Thwwaacckk!" rent the air, stoking the fires in his agonised posterior. Corey had never seen a razor strapping from point-blank range and it was disturbingly scary. Corey made a solemn vow to himself to never do anything that could put him in the position these five guys were in now.

Rob Anderson at 14-years-old was shorter and thinner than 13-year-old Roland Bell. Anderson was second over the bench and was quite frankly a bit of a pussy about the whole thing. There were already tears in his eyes as he mounted the bench. He was yelping by the time the second "Thwwaacckk!" hit the lower curve of his small backside. He was screaming by the sixth lash and bawling like a five-year-old by the time it ended.

Roland Bell was next. Corey had been wondering since the other morning, the day he and Roland both stained their sheets, how well Roland would take a licking. He was now about to find out in person, and at close range. As Roland mounted the bench, obviously too scared of what was coming his way to be aroused, Corey felt his own wiener begin to stiffen.

"Thwwaacckk!" "Thwwaacckk!" "Thwwaacckk!" "Oww," protested Roland, as the tough leather burned its message of obedience into the boy's hide. "Thwwwaaacckk!" "Oooch!" Roland groaned as he struggled with the pain.

Corey thought that the smooth, regular motion Boss Lemmon employed when wielding the strap made him look like he was chopping wood, rather than inflicting searing pain on the backside of a naughty boy.

"Thwwwaaacckk!" "Thwwwaaacckk!" "Nooo!" Roland finally howled as the agony became more than he could bear stoically. Tears were now running freely down his upper cheeks, which were nearly as red as the lower ones. Roland was bucking and writhing on the bench as the strap struck home again and again. "Thwwwaaacckk!" "Thwwwaaacckk!"

"Thwwwaaaccckk!" "Owwwww! "Thwwwaaaccckk!" "Ooooowwww!" Roland finally found full voice as the final two lashes, the hardest ones yet, struck his cringing, flaming red backside.

As Roland painfully peeled himself off the bench the towel started to come with him. He pulled it off himself where it was stuck to his middle, no doubt by sweat, and placed it gingerly back on the bench before getting back into line.

Roland obviously wanted to rub his blazing backside in the worst way as he danced his way back into line with his fellow sufferers. But he was forced to thread his hands behind his head again.

"Weiler!" called Boss Lemmon next. As Randy reluctantly moved towards the bench, Corey started to wonder if that single stain in the middle of the towel, apparently left by Roland, was really sweat, or something else entirely.

Randy was a tough 15-year-old, and he took his thrashing well. He didn't make a sound through the first five lashes, and only "ohhed" and "owwed" a bit during the last two lashes, which were laid on with a vengeance by Boss Lemmon. Corey did note a few tears in his eyes as he moved unsteadily back into line afterwards.

"Engvall!" called Boss Lemmon, summoning the fifth and final boy to meet his fate. As Travis spread himself over the towel and the end of the bench, Corey noticed how sturdy his entire body was. He wasn't really fat, but could have been the poster boy for "big-boned".

"Thwwwaaacckk!" "Thwwwaaacckk!" "Thwwwaaacckk!" "Thwwwaaacckk!" Boss Lemmon was back into his wood chopping routine. But Travis reacted as though someone was brushing his hair, not roasting his backside with a heavy leather strap. "Thwwwaaacckk!" "Thwwwaaacckk!" "Thwwwaaacckk!" "Thwwwaaacckk!" "Thwwwaaaccckk!" "Thwwwaaaccckkk!" "Oo." a barely audible grunt was finally forced out of Travis after the tenth and hardest lash. Corey could barely hear it from this close range, so he was sure none of the seated campers heard it.

Only as Travis slowly and rather stiffly levered himself off the bench and moved back into line was it clear that the boy was in rather considerable pain.

As the five well-whipped culprits stood in line facing the camp, Boss Lemmon made the following announcement. "All smoking and tobacco materials in this camp will be turned in within the next 24 hours. This means all cigarettes, cigars, pipes, matches, and lighters. This also applies to any chewing tobacco, a particularly filthy habit. A barrel has been placed outside the bath house for this purpose."

"This amnesty is good for only 24 hours." Boss Lemmon continued. "Noone who turns in smoking materials during this time will be punished. You must be carrying the materials openly (but not lit!), and be headed for the bath house for the amnesty to be in effect. If you are found with such materials concealed, you will be punished. Any smoking materials found after 24 hours will result in certain punishment. Such punishment will be much worse than what you have just witnessed."

Corey was then ordered to "hood them". Corey had actually seen this done before and knew what to do. He checked the name labels on the briefs he held, found the pair belonging to each culprit and placed the briefs over the owner's head like a hood. The fly-fronts of the briefs were placed over the culprit's face, so if he didn't practice good toilet habits the boy had the pleasure of sniffing his own pee stains until he was released. The humiliation caused each boy's face to turn even redder than it had been during his whipping.

Boss Lemmon then ordered the five culprits to resume their places facing the wall. As the campers went back to their crafts work, they all stole frequent glances up to the front of the room. The five miserable boys with their swollen, blazing rumps and brief-covered heads served as a perfect example of what happened to boys who smoked at Camp Torowa Falls.