Chapter Two
“Just confirming that you’ve elected to not be paired with a caregiver during your stay?” The cheerful camp counselor who is signing me in asks, tilting their head with obvious concern. “I know it was an option on the sign-up forms, but it’s unusual for single Littles to—”
“I’m a Middle,” I correct them, trying not to sound irritated. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?” This time the head tilt is full of curiosity.
“Yep.” I don’t give them any more information than that. I don’t have to. Except… “Am I allowed to join different activity groups depending on where my headspace is on any given day? Or do I have to stick with the Middles if I’m predominantly a Middle?”
“Oh. Um, well, Theo —they’re the brains behind this camp— wants everyone to enjoy themselves here. So, the activities aren’t mandatory, obviously, considering how fluid headspaces can be, and switching groups is totally fine.”
My shoulders sag with relief. I’m not prone to getting little Little, but sometimes I do regress further than any of the other Middles I’ve met, and in those situations, I prefer hanging out in Little-themed spaces more than Middle ones.
“And it says here you’ve booked a private cabin.”
I nod. “Yep.”
“And you’re sure you don’t want—”
“No, I do not need a caregiver to do bedtimes or anything.”
I can see the ‘why would you book a week at this camp if you don’t want to take advantage of as much open regression as possible?
’ in their eyes, but they don’t ask it out loud.
Instead, they type away at their computer, then glance up again, “There’s a note here that says you’re prone to accidents in headspace but don’t wear diapers. ”
Are they really classed as accidents if I do it on purpose because I like it?
I don’t ask that, though. Instead, I just nod. “Yep.”
I’m almost daring them to ask me if I’m really, truly sure that I don’t want a caregiver for the week.
They do not.
“Okay,” they drag the word out, tapping out a few more things on their device, “well, then you’re all checked in.
” They turn to grab a key from the wooden board behind them, rows of keys on brightly colored numbered keyrings hanging from hooks, then pass it across the desk to me.
“Your cabin is number eight. It has a small kitchenette with the facilities to make coffee, tea, and hot chocolate, and you can always buy extra creamer or milk here in our little general store, as well as a selection of snacks, and an assortment of Little items —like diapers and wipes— if you need extra during your stay. Dialing number one on the phone beside the bed will get you through to someone at reception twenty-four-seven in case of any emergency needs.” Sliding a paper map in front of me, they circle my cabin, and then another building off a connecting path, adding, “Breakfast is served in the mess hall from seven until nine, and the list of activities and sign-up sheets for groups will be on the bulletin board right outside the mess hall. Other mealtimes will be posted up daily on the same board.”
“Cool, thanks.” It seems simple and well-planned.
“We also have a behavioral code of conduct for all of our guests and staff, regardless of headspace. Obviously, tantrums and bratting happen in headspace, but willful destruction of property or any kind of hate speech will not be tolerated. We’re a fully inclusive venue.
Oh, speaking of” —they reach down under the desk and then pop back up, handing over a canvas tote bag emblazoned with the camp’s logo— “inside you will find sticker sheets, wristbands, and bandanas. The stickers are so you can let people know when you’re in headspace, and the wristbands and bandanas are color-coded for your regression type.
Counselor caregivers all wear the same uniform,” they gestured down their body at their polo shirt and shorts combination, “and will be flagging with their own wristbands for whether they are working with Littles or Middles, or both. As with all kink play, safe words are mandatory here, and we rely on the traffic-light system. If anyone says red light during an interaction, we expect the interaction to stop.”
A bit like The Grove, then.
I’ve spent a fair amount of time at my home city’s premiere kink club, but I got a bit bored of repeating the same scenes over and over again with a parade of Daddies who wanted to play with a brat for a night or two, or those who either wanted a Little or a Middle, not someone who vacillates between both headspaces.
I have found that Daddies who like playing or scene-ing with Littles don’t mind me being Middle, but Daddies who prefer Middles aren’t quite as comfortable with me being Little occasionally.
I wonder if the counselors here are going to be the same way, disappointed that I’m not fitting the mold of their usual choice in scene partner.
I hope not. Despite being known for my attitude back home, I’m here to have fun.
***
I’m bored. So fucking bored. I attended the mandatory information session yesterday afternoon, got my welcome pack, went to dinner in the mess hall, then decided to skip the bonfire to get a full night’s sleep so I could sign up for a bunch of fun stuff today.
Only, according to my itinerary, the day doesn’t really start until after lunch.
Which, okay, fine. I get it. This place is supposed to be for relaxation, and most people here are paired up so they can entertain themselves just fine.
But I thought there might be some kind of basic activities planned for those of us attending on our own.
Like, in my Big headspace, I can entertain myself just fine, but when I’m regressed, I need structure.
I need Caregivers to tell me what fun things we’re going to do for the day.
More fool me for not reading the information packet properly last night, I guess.
Nevertheless, I’m adding this to my suggestions for the suggestions box. This camp did not see Benjamin Slater coming.
Not that any of the above fixes the crux of the matter. I’m on the edge of headspace and I am frustrated and bored off my perky, lily-white ass.
Spoiler alert: a bored Benji is a brattier-than-usual Benji.
I’m pouty by the time I make my way to the hall for lunch.
I grab my tray and pick through the buffet options, being sure to grab veggies and salads along with my dino nuggets.
I take the end spot on a long bench table and sigh as I poke around at my plate, ignoring a Little who takes one look at my selection and scoffs about it looking “yucky”.
I work in a damn hospital back home, so excuse me for trying to stay healthy. Plus, you think I can keep this cute, boyish figure by chowing down on deep fried treats and carbs, no matter how tasty they are?
“Hi,” a cheerful voice greets me while I’m silently grumbling about the Little who has long since disappeared to sit at another table.
I look up to find a tray sliding into the space across from me.
It’s accompanied by a brightly dressed woman who, at a guess, is close to my own age.
She has dark pigtails and a smattering of freckles across her nose and rounded cheeks.
“I’m Tess. I’m here on my own and saw you alone, too, and thought maybe we could be alone together. ”
Her plate is also piled high with green things and a few of the veggie ‘meatballs’ I’d eyed off during my trip around the buffet tables. It makes me smile a little.
“Hi,” I reply, reminding myself that part of my choice to come to this camp was to make some real friends, “I’m Benji. And, yeah, I’m here on my own.”
Her smile, already wide, seems to get even wider.
I wonder if it’s hurting her face. “That’s such a cute name,” she tells me.
“Perfect for a Little.” Then her big, brown eyes go super wide.
“Not to just assume. That’s rude of me. You might be a Daddy.
Or” —she winces— “I’ve also totally just assumed your pronouns, too. Sorry. I’m screwing this up.”
Okay, so where I struggle to make friends because I’m too bitchy and bratty, I feel like Tess might have issues on the other end of the spectrum.
She confirms my suspicion half a second later by looking down at her plate and pushing her fork around, muttering, “Reel it in. This is why nobody likes you.”
“If people don’t like you, it’s because they’re pathetic.
” The words are out of my mouth, angry and firm, before I’ve even had a chance to think them.
I clear my throat when she looks up at me with blatant surprise and possibly a little bit of awe.
“You’re a Little, right?” She nods. I offer her one of my practiced ‘soft’ smiles, the kind I give to anxious patients at the hospital.
“Lots of Littles I’ve met are full of energy and babbling.
In fact, I’d even say most Littles I’ve met are like you in that way. ”
“Really?” Her fingers reach up to twirl one of her pigtails. “Everyone back home says I’m too much.”
“Everyone back home, wherever that is, is an idiot, then. You’re not too much.”
I don’t know how I managed to find myself in this position, comforting a completely random stranger, but it has definitely distracted me from my boredom. “And you were right. I’m a Little. Well, Middle. But sometimes I’m Little. I’m a bit too much in that way, I guess.”
She scrunches her nose. “How?”
I pop a forkful of salad into my mouth and chew thoughtfully before answering, “Well, Daddies who prefer Middles get a bit…eh when I slip into Littlespace, and Daddies who like Little play get frustrated when I’m mostly Middle.”
I have some other kinks that Daddies find a bit intense with how often I like to indulge, but I don’t tell her that. That is not an appropriate first-meeting conversation.
Tess pouts. “That seems stupid, too.” Then her eyes get comically round. “I’ve never called any Daddies stupid before. Even hypothetical ones. It feels naughty.”