Chapter Sixteen
Leaving camp was the right choice for me.
I felt lighter the farther I drove away from it, a weight slowly lifting from my shoulders with the more distance I put between myself and that so-called ‘vacation’.
Nevertheless, I’ve spent the first couple of weeks back home convinced that I’m a misfit among misfits.
That I’m so unlovable that I couldn’t even enjoy my own company.
That I’m not made for the lifestyle, only for short scenes.
Deep down, I know that’s not true. I know that the camp just wasn’t a good fit for me. I also know that the camp not being a good fit for me doesn’t mean I’m completely awful at being Little or Middle, and that it doesn’t mean I won’t find people to click with.
I mean, just look at how well I clicked with Kris! He was a complete stranger and yet everything between us felt good and electric.
Until I ran away.
Pausing in an empty hospital room, I smack my palm down on the bed in frustration at my own thoughts.
I didn’t run away from Kris.
It’s unfortunate that I left without saying goodbye —without getting his number or even leaving a note with mine— but I am angry at the voice in my head for suggesting that I ran from him, because I didn’t.
I ran from the camp. From the awful feeling that I didn’t fit in. From the cloying loneliness.
Not from Kris.
He was —is still— the best thing about the camp for me. A streak of happy memories amongst the discomfort of the rest. But I’m also a realist. We barely spent a few hours together. He probably forgot all about me after the first week, just like I should be trying to forget about him.
Except it’s impossible to forget the Daddy who introduced me to a whole new side of myself.
To kinks I hadn’t realized I would enjoy as much as the wetting itself.
Not to mention how he managed to somehow be simultaneously sweet and patient while remaining firm with his discipline and consequences.
He’s the kind of Daddy who is impossible to forget.
Also, I don’t really want to forget him. I enjoyed our time together, no matter how short it was. I’ll treasure those memories and use what I learned during those couple of days in my future kink exploration.
But I need to stop dwelling on how much I wish I could have experienced more with him. Knowing my luck, he lives on the other side of the country, anyway.
“Benji?” Anson’s voice startles me out of my circling thoughts and I look up to find him leaning against the doorway, his arms folded across his chest, holding a clipboard in place. His eyebrows are drawn together, and his blue eyes are lined with what seems to be genuine concern. “Are you okay?”
Right now, there’s obviously no sign of the Little I know lurks beneath the surface of his doctor facade. Instead, he’s radiating the same kind of warmth and patience that Kris did…and nope. That’s not a healthy segue.
Rolling my neck, I shoot him a smile that probably doesn’t reach my eyes and assure him, “I’m good. I just needed a breather. It’s been a madhouse in the ER today.”
That’s not a lie. It has been super busy. But then, it’s a Friday night, so it’s not exactly out of the ordinary.
His gaze lingers on mine just a touch too long and I half expect him to call me out on my lie. Instead, he nods. “Right. Well, Mrs. Kelly is being brought down from recovery, so this room won’t be that quiet for long.”
We share a smile over that. Mrs. Kelly has a large, loud family waiting for her safe return from her emergency surgery on her broken hip.
“Noted,” I say, straightening my shoulders and taking another steadying breath. “I guess I’ll head back out to where I’m needed.”
If nothing else, the busy night ushering patients from one place to another will keep my spiraling brain occupied.
***
Work proves to be a fantastic distraction over the next few days.
However, I can’t be at work twenty-four/seven.
I have been picking up extra shifts and extending where possible, but there are labor laws and, eventually, after running myself beyond ragged, I’m told that I have to go home to sleep and stay there for a couple of days.
If only I could sleep.
At home, my thoughts spiral. I try to regress on my own, to sink into headspace where I can give the convoluted mess of emotions some kind of outlet, but it doesn’t work. Even allowing myself to feel more Little than Middle only makes me yearn for Daddy.
Not any Daddy, either.
Daddy Daddy. Specifically, Kris.
It’s so stupid.
I am so stupid.
We did like two freaking scenes together. Two! I should be able to forget him just as easily as any of the other guys I scene with at the club.
And maybe that’s the solution: I should go to The Grove.
I like The Grove. The space they have set up for age play is unlike any other club in the area.
It’s huge, bright, and welcoming. It doesn’t have the dingy, underground ‘sex-room’ vibes that some of the other clubs in town do.
In fact, a lot of the age regressors at The Grove often just arrive to hang out with likeminded kinksters, play in a safe environment, then leave. Sex isn’t even an afterthought.
Maybe that’s what I need. A palate cleanser. An evening spent regressing in the company of others, but without any pressure or expectations. I might not have close friends or fit in above surface-level interactions, but it might help me reset if I’m in a better environment than my studio apartment.
And if I do happen to get lucky, a good orgasm (or even a mediocre one) might help with the forgetting Kris thing. If nothing else, it should help relax me enough to sleep.
So it’s this train of thought that sees me grabbing my pre-packed bag for the club and heading out on a Wednesday night.
The Grove exists as a large two-story building on the edge of the industrial area of the city.
The entire building, as far as I can guess, is soundproof.
Downstairs houses a nightclub and locker rooms, while upstairs has a huge age play space and a variety of individually themed rooms available for private hire.
The whole club is high-tech and super well-appointed with no expenses spared.
It’s the kind of place that says the people who own it are heavily involved in the kink scene themselves, but I’ve never met them.
Hell, I don’t even know who they are. But with the focus on the age play space and the themed nights, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they’re Daddies or Mommies or even Littles, considering how much focus has been given to the age play space instead of the usual array of leather couches, wall mounted TVs with constant porn streams, and some basic BDSM props that the other clubs in the city have all gone for.
On top of that, though, it’s the exclusivity and ironclad NDAs that make this place the best club in town. It’s discreet and, above all, safe. I never feel uncomfortable here. It’s got the kind of vibes I had hoped the camp would also have.
Nope. I’m not thinking about the camp anymore. Or anyone I met there.
If only it were that simple.
When I park my car in the large lot behind the club, I’m almost tempted to stop at the near-permanent food truck on site —cutely called B.D.S.M (Burgers, Dino-nuggets, Shakes Little today, please.” I might as well aim to go all the way into headspace to shake off this funk.
Meg pulls out three paper wristbands of varying colors and patterns and attaches them to my wrists.
“What’s the house safe word?” she asks.
“Turmeric,” I answer dutifully.
I’ve never heard anyone here use it, but I know that there’s some kind of fancy alarm system that will shut the whole club down —bringing up the house lights, stopping music, etcetera etcetera— in cases of emergencies.
In standard scenes and play, we’re encouraged to use other safe words or the traffic light system.
Meg grins and nods. “You’re good to go on through. Enjoy your night.”
I thank her and then open the doors that lead to the main club space.
Immediately, I’m hit with the wall of sound coming from the nightclub area.
Pulsing bass and nineties techno vibrates through my veins.
There aren’t a lot of people milling about down here, but it’s not dead, either.
I wave to a couple of familiar faces seated in nearby booths, but I bypass the nightclub, walking down the hallway on the lefthand side of the building until I reach the locker rooms.
Inside, I claim an empty locker and change out of my jeans and t-shirt into a pair of soft, pink cotton play shorts that reach mid-thigh, and a cute cropped purple tee with a picture of a bunny dressed in a pleather getup not unlike Meg’s spandex bodysuit displayed proudly on the front. I am not being subtle today.