“Yeah?”
She eyes him, her smirk deepening.
Curiosity wins out. “What’s he doing?”
“Just watching you. Surprised you can’t feel that stare.”
“Now that you mention it, I do feel a little irritation between my shoulder blades.”
They snicker. “He your Dom?”
I snort. “He wishes.”
“Oooooooh.” They look up at him with a delighted grin now. I’ll bet he hates it.
I get the sudden urge to blow him a raspberry or something equally childish and, you know what? Fuck it. I twist, look up at him, and stick out my tongue.
Around us, a murmur goes up.
“Oh, you’ve riled him now,” my neighbor tells me with a wink.
A burst of satisfaction runs through me.
“Here.” They pull out a sheaf of papers and hand me the top one. “You might be into this.”
I look down and read.
Kidnapping, Hostage Party, Big Hunt, oh my!
Hunting season is officially open!
Want to be taken? Mauled? Made to do things you’ve only ever imagined in the darkest recesses of your kinky little brain? Our kidnappers have been hard at work plotting, planning, and preparing absolute mayhem for your pleasure. Sign up now to experience Camp Haven’s very own fantasy kidnapping experience.
Orientation* 3pm. Clubhouse.
*MANDATORY FOR KIDNAPPINGS / HOSTAGE PARTY / BIG HUNT
Every word smacks me like the implements the teacher’s talking us through at the front of the tent. Kidnapping? My body’s response is visceral. Taken? Mauled?Madeto do things?
What things? I’m dying to know.
The teacher’s voice goes on, people yell reactions that I’m sure are funny or sexy or any number of things, but I hear none of it. I’ve got this rushing in my ears, my brain.
After a few minutes, I notice the prickling at the back of my neck and straighten up, concentrate, stop reading the words over and over. He’s still back there, still watching me. I don’t need to turn to be sure.
That attention feels right, somehow, infuriating but…satisfying. What’s that about? Does pissing him off feel good? Is that what this is? Like the more riled up he gets, the more pleased it makes me?
We get more spankings and I barely hear a word, though I focus back in whenever I catch myself wandering. Somehow, not paying attention to Zion seems like just the thing to rankle him.
And, god, I want to do that. I want to poke him, provoke him, piss him off, and wait with baited breath to see what he’ll do next. He’s like a lion in a cage—prickly and dangerous and close to blowing up—and I want to see it when it happens.
Never mind the consequences.
Maybe half an hour goes by like this, with discussion of spanking methods and tools and experiences. I’m itching to move, to turn, to poke the lion again. I don’t, though. I practice patience and wait, through interruptions, with questions and comments. Ifheweren’t back there, glowering, I’d actually enjoy the easy, open, frank talk amongst this remarkably heterogeneous cross-selection of the population. It’s not at all what I expected. There’s none of the taboo, overly-sexualized element I’d imagined coming in. Instead, it’s a thoughtful, friendly discussion of a subject that some of these people clearly know a lot about.
Too bad I can’t relax and just enjoy it.
Although, this squirmy, giddy feeling? It’s good. Like really, really good. I could get addicted to being this naughty and gleeful and ripe for… I don’t know what, but it’s there, here, hanging over me, inside me.This, this,thisis what I feel right now. Like I’ve landed right on some target, but I don’t yet see the big picture.
