Chapter Four
Lust. The expression, however fleeting, is impossible to misinterpret. I’ve seen that look in many men’s eyes over the years. It’s a surprise that this golden retriever camp counselor is clearly turned on, but I didn’t imagine his heated gaze just now, even if he does blink it away quickly.
Is it because of the bratting? The pee? Both? Is he into all of this?
Whatever, no judgment. It would be hypocritical of me to judge someone else for enjoying the things I get off on, wouldn’t it?
While he continues to stare at me, I finish up and make a show of looking down at my mess in exaggerated horror. “Uh-oh,” I declare loudly, laying on the effect, “I had an accident. I’m all wet and icky, Counselor Kris. Eww.”
The problem with Daddies who are into wetting and watersports? They’re harder to fluster. He just raises a challenging eyebrow back at me, glances at his watch and calmly says, “You’ve still got six minutes of time out.”
Behind me, I can hear the other Middles snickering. My cock twitches as the first tendrils of embarrassment start creeping up the back of my neck and tickling my tummy. My ears burn a little.
I close my eyes and fight off a giddy smile.
I love this.
Not only do I have to give Kris points for being consistent with his punishment, I have to bite back a convoluted whimper as he firmly adds, “Little boys who go potty in their pants should be wearing diapers.” He makes no effort to drop his voice, as if he knows how much I enjoy making a scene like this. Being humiliated.
Some of the others start whispering. The shame burns deliciously now.
Naturally, I get harder and harder the longer I let the feeling wash over me, which only adds to my embarrassment, which makes me squirm, which then makes me even harder.
Especially because Kris just stands there, watching me impassively.
With how clingy my soaked shorts are, there’s no way he can’t tell how this is affecting me.
God, this is so hot.
Does he think it’s hot, too? Is he about to combust from how turned-on he is? His poker face is better than mine, if so. With how long his loose shirt is, I can’t really tell if he’s as hard as I am —or if he is hard at all— and I wish I could.
For all of my resolve to prove how much I can enjoy regression on my own, I suddenly really want to spend some more time with this intriguing Daddy in front of me.
“Alright,” he eventually says to the rest of the group, “time’s up on this activity for the day.
Feel free to take your canvases to your cabins —be careful not to touch the paint before it has dried— and then if you want, you can come back for the next round of activities which are due to start in twenty minutes. ”
The sounds of the group moving around, gathering their things, chatting and laughing makes me shuffle in place, but I stay put, waiting for Kris’s permission to leave time-out.
I know I could just walk away, but at this point not only am I deep in my Middle headspace, I’m also desperate to see out the end of this scene we’ve found ourselves playing out.
Kris steps away, and I can hear him packing things up behind me, and fuck, but I think it’s hot that he’s ignoring me like this, especially when he can see the state I’m in.
Finally, he returns to his easel, taking his canvas off and placing it carefully on the ground a few feet away from me, before closing the frame up and adding it to the neat stack of equipment.
Then he turns to me and says, “Let’s get you cleaned up and changed.” In his hand, he carries a bucket of used art supplies. “I’ll wash these up, too.”
I swallow and look down at my crotch. I’m so hard that I’m aching, and a little part of me is afraid that I’ll come just from the act of walking past other people, partially from the additional humiliation and excitement from that, and partially because the wet fabric is rubbing against me when I move.
“Benji?” Kris’s voice is softer now. “Did you need to safe word?”
I blink. “No!” My cheeks heat up again. “I’m, uh, just…a bit too excited right now.”
This time, he makes no effort to hide the interest and arousal as it sweeps across his handsome face.
His smile turns a bit more wicked. “Well, you have to hold it, Benji.” He looks down at my crotch and the mess I’ve already made of myself.
“I think you need to practice that in a couple of different ways, don’t you? ”
Another bolt of intense pleasure rockets through me. That idea is way too much of a turn on. “I’ve never tried holding before.”
To be fair, most of my scenes have been rushed encounters at The Grove.
There hasn’t been time to experiment with holding or desperation.
But now, urgently fighting off an orgasm, I wonder what it might feel like to push myself to the brink of truly accidentally wetting.
Just the idea of it, of losing control, of letting my body embarrass me without my permission, makes me almost giddy.
“Well, you can start practicing by holding off coming,” he tells me, once again using that firm Daddy tone. “Only good boys get that reward, and you’ve been a bit naughty today, haven’t you?”
In my chest, my heart starts to race. He seems to know exactly which buttons to press to get a reaction out of me, to make my whole body thrum with need. He’s like the brat whisperer or something.
That actually sets me at ease, but I’m not quite sure why.
It’s like a sign that I don’t have to worry about playing a part.
Like I can just let go —so to speak— and be myself.
I pushed his limits and he just rolled with it, almost as though he liked the challenge.
Hell, I wet myself deliberately and his eyes had gleamed with excitement!
But, on top of all that, he seems to have already worked out that I’m a bit different to other regressors. I’m not saccharine sweet, and I don’t thrive on praise. Occasionally, I like being called a good boy, but it’s the attention that really gets me going.
And, right now, I have all of his attention.
I plan on enjoying every second of it.