“Good. The worst thing you can do is try to repress stuff like this. It’s who you are.” Her eyes go wide as they focus behind me. “Morning, boss.” I turn to see a guy who’s as out of place at kink camp as I am. We’re both wearing worn T-shirts and jeans, for one thing—definitely not the typical uniform.
Everyone I’ve seen here is primped and waxed and dyed and either close to naked or absolutely dressed to the nines and beyond. This guy, though, has messy hair that’s so dusty, I can’t make out the color. His T-shirt’s threadbare in places, his hands stained, his boots more suited to a work site than a sex camp.
He nods in reply to Lamé’s greeting and gives me a cursory glance before walking up to grab the steaming coffee she’s already placed on the counter.
“Boss.” He’s got his face in his cup when she starts talking. “I want you to meet—”
His hand goes up to stop her.
Lamé rolls her eyes and shrugs my way, with a big, theatrical sigh. “Anyway, honey. I’m glad you’re feeling good after what you did last night.” She winks and waves goodbye, grabs a towel and wipes at the counter. I guess this conversation is done.
I’m close to the door when she says something that almost makes me stumble. “We all deserve a chance at happiness. Right, boss?”
I don’t stick around to hear the dude’s grumbled answer. I’ve got a late-night assignation to rehash in my head.
6
Grace
Kink Camp’san easy place to get distracted. It’s an easy place to lose yourself or, hell, I guess find yourself for some of us. My first day here was nothing but distractions. I mean, the first thing I saw after passing through the camp’s imposing front gate was a naked, muscular male ass, framed by chaps and cowboy boots, traipsing down the gravel drive.
And that was before check-in.
I got lost in the ambiance that first day, surprised at how sunny and happy everybody seemed, despite the whips and collars and outdoor sex. Or maybe because of it. I’ve honestly never seen such a carefree group, ready for pleasure, open to anything, non-judgmental, communicative.
It’s good. Beautiful, actually.
Too bad I don’t notice any of that right now. The minute I leave the coffee shop, I’m lost in my head, barely aware of the woman who greets me as she leads her yawning human pet to grab a morning drink from Lamé.
As I walk past the pool toward the little village of campsites, where people are just starting to emerge, my mind’s completely lost in the dark of last night. The rich aroma of coffee wafting from my cup brings back the earthy scent of dirt and bark, mixed with my predator’s smell—the one I’ll never be able to describe. God, it was good. Skin, heat, sex.
I’m nearly panting by the time I arrive at the Thunderdome, where Max is just emerging from our big, fancy tent. Her hair’s poking out in all directions, her eyes at half-mast behind her glasses. She’s wearing a tank top and men’s boxers, her face sleep-lined and soft, and I’m so full of affection that I just want to hug her.
I’m not much of a hugger, though, so I smile and wave, laughing at the comical double-take she gives me. “What?”
“Did you just go back into the woods and do it all over again?”
My insides clench up at the thought. “No.” Why do I sound almost guilty?
“You look all dreamy-eyed.” She wipes a smudge off my neck. “And filthy.”
I want to go back. Not just to revisit the scene like I intend, but to repeat the entire adventure. With my stranger. And that’s not part of the plan.
One and done. That was it. For him, obviously, but for me, too, despite what Lamé said. I don’t need complications in my life. I’ve got responsibilities and getting hunted down and fucked on the regular doesn’t fit in anywhere. At all.
“It was a one-time thing. You know that.” I throw Max a look and hand her Lamé’s special coffee.
“Oh, bless you, Rosebud.”
I roll my eyes at the old nickname. Dad gave it to me when I was a kid. Mom still uses it sometimes, but mostly it’s just Max when she’s condescending.
“Andblessyou, Father, for I have sinned.”
I snort. “I’ll bet.”
I turn and watch a pale-haired white man crawl by, a tiny Black woman who’s probably someone’s grandma sitting astride him, smacking his fleshy flank with a riding crop. He’s entirely naked, while she’s wearing some kind of beauty queen gown, or maybe a prom dress, sequins, tiara, long gloves, and all. She turns to give us a regal smile with a cupped-handed parade wave. We wave back. It’s eight in the fucking morning.
Max takes a long, luxurious pull at her coffee that makes me wish I was working on my first sip, too, and sinks into a lawn chair. “Oh, yeah. I sinned last night in the Dungeon. You remember Halo and Flow?”
