Chapter Seven
“Well, that was a day,” Becky, one of the Mommy volunteers, huffs with a hint of a laugh as she drops down on the bench seat diagonally to my right.
Beside me, Connor chuckles, “Did you have Littles or Middles this afternoon?”
I twirl my spaghetti around my fork, barely paying attention as she replies, “It was supposed to be Middles, but one of the campers should probably have been with the Littles instead.”
“Oh?” Connor asks. “You don't think they know their own headspace? That's...weird.”
It's my buddy's tone that has me focusing on what is actually being said.
He's a sweet guy. Placid, usually. A total soft Dom like me.
The hint of snark in his voice is concerning.
As I chew my mouthful, I turn my head to look at him.
He arches an eyebrow, a silent ‘Are you hearing this?’ projected in his eyes.
“He was brattier than any other Middle I’ve come across,” Becky says, and I don’t need to be told that she’s talking about Benji. “Really childish.”
“This is an age regression camp, Bec,” I sound condescending to my own ears and I scramble to reel my attitude back in. “All the regressors are going to be some form of childish.”
“I get that,” she’s snappish, waving her fork around as she complains, “but this one was pouty and ignored my warnings and, worse still, disrupted the activity for everyone else.”
“So…a brat,” Connor fills in helpfully. “How does that make them more Middle than Little?”
I glance across the table in time to watch her lips thinning as she purses them. “It was the way he was bratting. It seemed like a younger headspace than any of the others.”
Connor scoffs before I can. “Okay, so you’ve never seen a Middle throw a full-blown tantrum, then?
Because I have. It doesn't mean they’re in a younger headspace.
Hell, I’ve seen adults who aren’t age regressors having complete meltdowns, and I certainly wouldn’t call them childish. Just overwhelmed.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that Becky looks like she is on the verge of her own temper tantrum, but I keep that to myself. It’s a cruel thought, for one thing. And for another…well, I can admit that I’m being biased and feeling weirdly defensive of Benji.
“It’s not…ugh. I can’t describe it, okay? But I just got more Little vibes than Middle ones.” Becky stabs at her plate of steamed vegetables. “And I guess I wasn’t really prepared for that. I was all mentally set for an easy Middle activity.”
“So…what happened?” I ask, glancing around the dining hall, looking for Benji’s familiar blond head. I can’t see it.
“He got into a verbal argument with one of the other Middles and their Daddy was also frustrated, so I asked him to leave the activity.”
“You didn’t try to de-escalate, or calm him down?
” Benji’s words from yesterday afternoon are playing at the back of my mind; his insistence that most Daddies he plays with ‘get over’ his bratting quickly.
My heart sinks a little as I realize that Becky has fed into that same loop. “Maybe move him to a different group?”
“And reward his disruptive behavior?” She arches an eyebrow at me. “I’m not some pushover.”
“It’s not about—” Cutting myself off, I sigh. It’s not my place to tell someone else how to live their kink. Needing confirmation, though, I ask, “Was the Middle’s name Benji? Cute, blond twink?”
She nods.
I hum thoughtfully.
As much as his display yesterday was about getting attention and getting off on embarrassment (under his own controlled circumstances), I’m starting to form a whole different theory on his attitude.
What if he brats as a means of self-preservation?
To test whether someone is safe to be his genuine self with?
Because I saw how he mellowed when I surprised him by not only remaining calm, but also with the praise I offered him when he was good and when I requested cuddles despite his earlier bratting.
Whereas Becky got frustrated and sent him away.
She failed the test, whether he knows he was setting one for her or not.
Beside me, Connor gives my shoulder a nudge with his own. “You know him?”
“He was in my activity yesterday,” I answer, not bothering to smother the smile that curls my lips at the still-so-recent memories. With a shrug and an apologetic grimace towards Becky, I add, “I had fun with his bratting.”
She rolls her eyes.
Con, on the other hand, snorts. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“He was funny,” I tell him, “and a little disruptive, yes, but he just wanted attention. He’s here on his own, and that’s gotta be daunting when you’re in headspace.”
“Softie.” Connor accuses between fake coughs.
“You’re one to talk.” Suddenly remembering that he was actually paired up for this whole event, I look around, as if his Littles are going to suddenly manifest. “Where are your Littles, anyway? Is that going okay?”
His smile turns all gooey, proving that, yes, he is just as soft as I am. “Ace and Freya are napping in the cabin right now. I’ll take some dinner back with me. We’re going to go stargazing later, so they’re conserving energy…though I’ll probably walk in on them having sex again.”
“Again?”
“I told you they were a couple looking for a Daddy, right?” He shrugs. “They’re really into each other. And they like it when I walk in on them and sit down to watch. It’s all pre-negotiated.”
“You lucky bastard.”
Connor nods and scratches as his beard. “Even if it’s only for this week, I’ll admit I’ve lucked out with my assigned pairing. Maybe next time you should volunteer to be paired up.”
“Still not looking for a relationship, dude.”
“It doesn’t have to lead to a relationship,” he says, his lips quirking up teasingly. “But it is interesting that that’s where your mind went.”
“Shut up. We both know how fast these things can develop. It’s all part of the lifestyle.
That’s how Dan and Soph ended up in a throuple — one minute they’re ‘just playing’ with a Little, the next minute, Parker has moved in with them.
” It’s no secret that attachments form quickly with kink.
It’s not difficult to fall hard and fast when you’re being so vulnerable and trusting with someone.
I waggle my finger at my friend. “Mark my words, Con. You’ll be getting serious with your Littles soon enough.
Especially if they’ve been actively looking for a Daddy to join them. ”
He doesn’t refute any of that, except to shrug and say, “Well, I’m not counting my chickens until they’ve hatched. I really like Ace and Freya, though, so I won’t lie and say I’m not hoping they’ll want to keep seeing me even after camp is over.”
“Well, I hope they do, too, then, bud.”
I think about how happy he would probably be, settling down with two Littles to dote on. Then I realize that, outside of phone calls and very rare cross-country visits, I likely won’t ever get to see him living the dream. Melancholy washes over me sluggishly and it’s hard to shake off after that.
***
“All right, Littles,” I clap my hands together and grin at the assembled group on the small stretch of sand that leads to the lake’s edge, “today we’re building sandcastles.”
It’s hard to hold onto the funk from yesterday when today’s weather is so perfect and the people I’m with are so cheerful and adorable, which is kind of exactly what I was hoping for when I volunteered to switch to running the Litttles’ activity for the afternoon.
Sun, sand, and cute, enthusiastic Littles is a formula for an instant mood-boost.
“Now, there are no rules for today’s activity,” I tell them, “but we are going to have a competition for the most creative castles, which I will judge at the end.” And everyone is going to win a prize, because I am not a monster.
There are cheers and excited babbles at my declaration, and I gesture to the pile of buckets, spades, and plastic molds in the middle of the loose semi-circle formed by the group of seven Littles and their accompanying caregivers.
“There are plenty of toys to share…and that is the operative word, okay? Share. We are all sharing today.”
This gets a round of slightly less enthusiastic agreement, and then the chaos of seven Littles in headspace diving for castle-building supplies ensues.
Everyone babbles as they scoop sand and ferry water from the edge of the lake to their castle sites, with caregivers helping fill molds and pack sand into a range of shapes.
There are squeals and giggles and calls across the group, and it makes my heart sing.
I wander around, complimenting towers and sprawling castle foundations, oohing and ahhing at decorations formed from stones, grass, and the occasional broken shell.
I chat with Littles and caregivers about the camp and what they’ve enjoyed most so far, and as our hour begins to come to a close, I realize I’m sad that it’s ending so quickly.
Still, I force additional cheer into my voice when I complete my final inspection of all their castles. Some are leaning over, some have half-crumbled (causing tears until I say that I love the historic vibes), and a couple are actually really impressive — tall, detailed and immaculate.
“I honestly can’t choose a single winner,” I declare, grabbing my backpack which is filled with candy.
“They’re all way too good. You tricked me!
You’re all professional sandcastle architects, aren’t you?
” There are giggles and ‘no, silly’s from the Littles, all seven sets of eyes focused on the backpack in my hands.
I sigh dramatically. “Well, I guess everyone wins today. So you can reach in and choose a candy each — one for yourselves, and one for your Mommies and Daddies, too.”
I didn’t think this part through all that well, I realize when sand-covered hands reach into my backpack. But oh well; I’ll just clean it out properly when I get back to my cabin.
“Hey,” Connor, who attended with his two ridiculously cute assigned Littles, squeezes my shoulder as I gather all the sandy castle-building equipment. He bends to help me, waving his Littles towards the water and assuring them he’ll swim with them in a minute. “You okay?”
“Yeah, of course,” I answer, then I sigh at his raised eyebrow as I drop an armful of the used toys into a plastic crate for washing them later. “I just really enjoyed that.”
He smiles back at me. “That was a fun activity. Could have done without plying my Littles with sugar, though.”
“Ah, but that’s the best part of my role in all this. I get to have fun, be the cool camp counselor with the toys and the candy, and not have to deal with any of the sugar crashes.”
“Asshole,” he snorts. “If you ever get a Boy of your own, I’m mailing him five pounds of candy, courtesy of his Uncle Connor.”
For some bizarre reason, I can’t shake the thought of how wired Benji would be if given a pound or two of pure sugar and food dye.
I haven’t even seen him since our painting activity and the fun which followed, so I have no idea why that’s the path my brain has chosen to prance down.
And, no, I wasn’t disappointed to realize that he wasn’t going to be in my group today, thanks very much. I wasn’t. Because that would be weird. Plus, he said it himself: he’s not really Little very often, so there wouldn’t be any reason for him to turn up to a Littles activity.
Clearing my throat, I reply, “That seems a little extreme — I only gave your Littles a sucker each.”
“Yeah, but I have two Littles to wind down from a sugar high, so there’s inflation to consider.”
“Dude, none of what you just said makes any sense,” I chuckle.
Connor’s smirk turns into a wide grin. “But it got you to laugh.”
I’m really going to miss this guy, I think as I shake my head. But at least this time, the melancholy isn’t quite as sharp. Giving him a playful nudge, I gesture towards his Littles, who are now making out in waist-deep lake water. “Go entertain your Littles, you lucky asshole.”
He salutes me and jogs away to do just that.