“That’s one of your many flaws.”
I laugh, already well on my way to feeling relaxed. The sky is blue, with big, fluffy white clouds floating overhead. The grass on either side of the path is a lush green, and the large trees surrounding the camp’s perimeter remind me just how beautiful and peaceful nature can be.
“So, you’re really not looking to hook up here?” Connor asks me when we reach my cabin, his brown eyes narrowed a little as he leans against the wall, folding his arms while I fight to get the key into the lock. “Other way around, dude.”
I huff. “Yeah, I got that,” I reply to the latter, then push the door open, scrunching my nose at the way it creaks. “And, yeah, I’m really not looking to hook up right now.”
We step inside and I drop my bag beside the doorway, taking in the rustic interior with a smile. It’s a small cabin with basic amenities all in one room, with a single door on the far side of the space leading to what appears to be a small bathroom. The décor has splashes of bright color, though, and there is a small toy box at the foot of the queen-sized bed, which makes this feel less like a generic summer camp and more Age Play coded, but without being over the top.
It’s cozy and welcoming. I already like it here.
Connor whistles appreciatively at my side. “Nice, dude. I’m bunking with my Littles in a shared cabin. I think there are, like, six bunk beds, so we’re sharing with one other couple.” He strides across to peek into the bathroom. “Your ensuite’s nice, but you don’t have a tub like we do in ours. And we’ve got a change table and stuff, too.”
“Yeah, but you’re sharing your space with multiple people. I’m just me, and I don’t need a tub.” If I had a Boy, I might have requested one of the Little-friendly cabins with all theregression-related bells and whistles, but that obviously wasn’t a necessity for me.
“Fair point,” he concedes, poking around the tiny ‘kitchenette’ area against the wall that backs onto the bathroom. It’s basically just a sink with a coffee machine and a bar fridge. Again, it’s all I need, especially when meals are being served in the mess hall. “Oooh, they gave you cocoa sachets.”
“It’s, like, a million degrees outside. Hot cocoa might actually kill me.”
“I think it still gets a bit cool at night around these parts. Cool enough that the cocoa might come in handy.”
“I suppose we are on a lake here.” I don’t fully grasp the science, but my parents always said summer evenings spent on a lake are chillier than summer nights spent somewhere completely landlocked. I don’t really remember feeling chillier as a kid on our vacations, but kids are notorious for not feeling the cold like adults do. “If not, I could probably turn them into chocolate milk.” Not that I have a Little to spoil with such a thing. And I don’t need one.
Connor smirks at me as if he’s reading my mind. He confirms it a moment later, “But I thought you weren’t going to find a Boy of your own this trip.”
“Shut up.”
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 gettinglittleLittle, 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.
