His frowns and his Adam’s apple pops like he’s swallowed something big and I swear he looks like he’s about to pass out when he rasps out, “Why?”
It’s my turn to snort. “Because I’m interested. Obviously.”
“Oh, look at that! I’m late for my shift,” Lamé says giddily. “Would you mind walking her to the learning tent, Zed? Behind Sex-o-rama?” I glare at them, the traitor, as they take off skipping, roller skates tied over their shoulder, hair flying out behind them.
Why do I feel like I’ve been set up here?
“I’ll find it myself,” I tell Zion.
“Nah, it’s okay.” He puts out a hand to indicate the way. “Madame.” As soon as I set off, he falls in beside and slightly behind me, not touching, but sort of surrounding me. He’s big and imposing and definitely sending some kind of signal to the other campers, most of whom have dispersed. “Maybe I’ll learn somethin’ new.”
Yeah, right. I’ll bet he could teach the damn class.
I pick up the pace, wishing I’d closed the robe now that it’s just the two of us. Although it’s not just the two of us, is it? There are people everywhere. And either I’m imagining it, or they’re paying us special attention. All the wide-eyed looks and whispering can’t possibly be the way they do things here normally.
“Is everyone looking at us strangely?”
“What?” I swear people straighten up and act casual the second Zion turns toward them. “Course not.”
“Hm.” Skeptical, I glance around. All the whispering’s stopped, all the looks quelled. I guess I imagined it. With a deep inhale, I gather that strong, ice queen character again, throw back my shoulders, and do my best to glide down the slight slope beside the clubhouse, past the pool where kinksters are splashing and playing and probably having all kinds of sex. I don’t look. I can’t. This character wouldn’t notice things like other people. She’d forge straight through to her objective, single-minded and driven, and she absolutely wouldn’t let some muscular, six-foot-five Adonis keep her from it.
I keep it up past the sign I floundered beside last night, up into a forest, by a fenced-in area filled with an assortment of people playing together as animals, and then a large, white, airy-looking tent, divided into rooms with sofas and benches and—
Whoa.Okay, a very sensual blow job happening right now. I can’t help the way that tightens my core. Especially with Zion hovering over me, so big and angry and hard.
My character would get off on it anyway, I decide. The way she’d get off on Zion’s irritation or frustration or whatever the hell it is he’s doing.
I round the corner of the big tent and come to a stop at another, smaller tent. This one’s got maybe two dozen people seated on the grass or folding chairs. At the front, a thin white person is laid out, face down over a leather bench, their limbs on adjustable arm and leg rests, while their naked ass is in the air. Behind them is the woman—according to her pronoun bracelet—who I’m assuming is the instructor, holding up a little leather riding crop thing, with cute sparkly tassels at one end. They thwack it lightly against the other person’s ass.
Their only reaction is to blink.
“Okay. Next we have the cane.”
I look around and find an empty spot on a big poof, close to the front, but off to one side. Head low, I scoot in, smiling at the people who make way for me, and sit.
Good. Maybe Zion will leave. Or not. Maybe he won’t.
Why does that idea appeal so much?
“Welcome,” says the instructor, with a smile toward me. She’s holding what is apparently a synthetic cane. “Come on in, Zed. We can make room for you.”
“I’m good here,” he says from right behind and above me, voice solid, final. Great. Now, he’s acting like my bodyguard. Or prison guard.
The presenter—a beautiful, tall, fat, pink-haired Black woman in a matching, skin-tight minidress—looks briefly at me, her brows high, then back to Zion. “Okay, then.” She looks down at the person on the bench. “All right, Bentley. Now, a birch.” She lifts a tied bundle of fine twigs, tickles the other person’s ass with it and then gives it a thwack. “We’re lucky here at camp to have an endless supply of these,” she says with an evil grin, going on to tell us that she’s holding back because she doesn’t want Bentley bleeding at this point.” She talks about the advantages of each implement—including a hairbrush, which is apparently perfect for a nice lap spanking. People titter.
She picks up what looks like a big, black night stick. “The club.”
“Good forsomany things,” says someone from the audience, which gets everyone laughing.
The teacher makes a ring with her fingers and thumb and grasps the club in a much more suggestive way, running her hand up and down the length. “That’s right. There’s potential everywhere.”
Another easy laugh from the group.
“You okay?” asks the woman beside me. “Got enough room?”
“I’m good,” I say with a smile, noting how the woman glances over her shoulder, I’m guessing at Zion, then smirks at me.
“Your bodyguard’s intense.”
