On Kinky Camping

Ask and ye shall receive. :)

“…if you will, tell us about camp. Perhaps you’ve already done so and I missed it somewhere, but what is it like, how does it work, etc.”

It begins with payment and registration. Once you’re registered, you gain access to the website’s supah sekrit member’s section, along with the address of the Batcave (campground). You also get to browse-n-perv the profiles of the other campers. There is a message board and chat room wherein you can chit chat about camp activities, make plans with other campers, set up play dates or parties, introduce yourself to the nervous newbies while also reassuring the fresh meat newbies that they won’t be attacked (unless they want to be).

Camp runs Thursday through Sunday, with the option of arriving at the campground up to almost 24 hours early if you can arrange it. It makes things so much better for the first full day of camp because you’re set up and settled in, well-rested and ready to jump in to Day One! You can also stay one extra night (at a cost for both extra days, of course).

Upon arriving at the campground, you first have to check in. They man the gates pretty stringently to make sure that the people coming in are all registered, and not nutjobs walking in off the street. Camper safety and privacy is of extreme importance. At the desk, you receive your name badge and a wrist band, both of which must be worn and visible at all times. If they aren’t visible, expect one of the staff to question you and make you produce them or else I suppose you would be escorted off the grounds. The name badge and wrist bands are one of the ways they keep this private event private.

The wristbands come in two colors: red and green. Red means you are not open to having your photo published or shared. Green means you are. There are a couple of camp photogs who do an amazing job of covering as much as they can, taking hundreds (I imagine) of pictures. When camp is over, the staff carefully sorts through the photos and any photo that contains a person with a red wrist band is trashed. The only photos anyone will see are ones that contain all green bands. So you needn’t worry that you’ll be splashed across the net if you attend. It’s very strictly monitored.

On the subject of photos, your own camera is not welcome. At all. If you’re planning a scene that you desperately want recorded, you can hire one of the camp photographers for a very reasonable fee to come and photograph your scene for you.

Once through the gate, you find your assigned campsite (you get a choice of electric/water/primitive sites) and set up.

Okay so- picture your average, all-american campground minus the little kiddie playground and minus the hellaciously overpriced general store. (There might actually be a store, but if there is, I’ve not been in it and don’t know where it is.) Otherwise, it’s a typical campground with picnic tables and fire rings at the campsites. There are showers and toilets, real flushable ones even. You’ll find an array of tents, rv’s, campers and pop-ups. Campfires, grills, coolers, screen tents. If you did a drive-through, and it weren’t for the copious amounts of nudity and bondage furniture, it would look like a summer vacation commercial spot for happy campers.

If you aren’t much for campfire cooking, you have other options. Not only is there a town complete with stores and restaurants nearby, there is also a food vendor on site. You could, conceivably, buy all three meals. They are reasonably priced and pretty damn tasty. (Even though Master and I bring enough food to eat at our campsite, we’re always pulled into at least a meal or two by the delicious smells wafting across the campground.) And truth be told, once you immerse yourself into camp’s activities, the idea of having to go back to your site and busy yourself with cooking/eating/clean-up and possibly miss something exciting is very unattractive. So bring cash.

Also, bring cash for the kinky vendors! Someone is always selling something perverted. And you will want one. I promise. We bought a pretty, pretty flogger this last camp. I should post pictures of it!

And if you are also not adept at tent assembly, you have two other options. You can arrange to have a tent set up for you by the staff before you arrive. Or you can rent campers already set on site. They really go out of their way to make camp be as pleasant and wonderful as they can possibly get it.

People travel from all over to get to camp. In the days/weeks leading up to camp time, people will start posting travel times with rides needed. Something like “my bus arrives/plane lands at 10am thursday morning, need a ride from airport to camp, will pitch in for gas!” I have never seen any post like that where someone hasn’t replied with an offer to swing by and grab them. Perfect strangers, most of them.

The minute you drive through the gates, you know you’re not in Kansas anymore. Maybe it’s the outdoor group shower with the sex swing set up nearby. Maybe it’s the St. Andrews cross in the pavilion or the naked guy on a leash or the cage or the bondage frames down on the beach–the ambiance just screams ‘get your freak on’. Except, suddenly “freaky” feels…. normal. You aren’t different there, whether you’re in a diaper and an over-sized onesie sucking on a pacifier, clomping around in beautifully crafted pony gear, butt-ass naked- or in jeans and a t-shirt.

Throughout the days of camp, there are volunteers zipping around in “taxis”, ready and willing to haul your ass anywhere it wants to go. You don’t have to worry about scuffing your new shiny heels on the gravel on the way to the dungeon because the nearest taxi will give you a lift. Forgot your name badge back at the tent? Taxi! (I only did that once or seven times.)

Beginning with Thursday orientation, all through Friday and Saturday, ending with closing ceremonies on Sunday, there is something going on somewhere All The Time. There are classes and demos and discussions scheduled every hour or two for the bulk of the afternoon, with not a single bit of pressure to attend or even to stay once you’ve arrived. You can volunteer to experience something you’ve been curious about but haven’t had the fortune to try. Whether it’s needles, flesh hooks, flogging, caning.. just about anything. Some of my best friends are demo bunnies!

Aside from the classes and demos set up by the staff, you’ll find campers having gotten together to plan their own activities. If you are bored at camp, then you’re freakin’ doing it wrong! If anything, I get overstimulated and Master pulls me back to our campsite for food, a fuck and a nap. Otherwise, I’d probably burn out sometime mid-afternoon and miss the best part of the day. Which is–

Open Dungeon, baby.

The dungeon is…. amazing. Picture a large empty warehouse. And then start inserting almost every piece of bondage furniture you can imagine. Suspension rigs, horses, cages, crosses, a chain spiderweb bondage thingie, tables, medical play area, bondage chairs– I can’t even remember everything. It’s huge. It’s open. It’s airy. It’s full of people who let their freak flag fly as high, or higher or lower, than yours.

In this dungeon you’ll will see everything imaginable. Everything. Sex. Pain. Blood. Hanging. Whipping. Humiliation. More things than I can even think of right now. Pretty much anything goes and if you think you’re going to be seen as “too extreme”, you won’t be. If you think you’re going to look like a wimp, you won’t. If you aren’t sure how to set up for a wanted scene, talk to the staff. They’ll move mountains to make it happen.

At one end of the dungeon is a lounge area, complete with a bar that sells real alcohol (cuz we’re adult like that) and tables and chairs if you want to sit and chat rather than play. The dungeon has lots of benches sitting around if you just want to watch or are waiting for a piece of equipment to open up. There are a couple of big bay doors in the dungeon that open up onto another gathering area with more benches where they light up a big bonfire.

I have to tell you there is nothing better than sitting at the bonfire, still high and hurting from playing, the DJ’s music playing in the background, listening to screams, yelps, swats and cracks drifting through the open bay doors, someone giving (and someone else getting!) a blowjob across the way, talking, easy laughter, cracking jokes with people who are just. like. you.

In practically every direction you look, someone is being taken down, or beat on, tied up, or getting fucked or- or- something! At any moment of the day or night, you’ll hear a scream or two, a moan, a cry, begging and pleading, and the evil laugh of a sadist (or group of!) in reply.

Over and over again throughout the course of the weekend you’ll hear people repeating things like “It’s like coming home.” or “This is my chosen family.” and it is. It is exactly that. This is where you get to be yourself, this is where you will be accepted with a smile and hug. It’s really an amazing experience. One I’ve been privileged to be a part of. One I hope to experience again and again.

One I hope to see some of you at next Twisted Tryst.

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Cheese with my whine, please.

I figured I was an old pro at keeping it together when he’s out of town.

I suppose I am keeping it together- mostly. I’m functioning, going through the motions. The house is clean, the laundry gets done, meals get cooked.

But I’m just sad. Everything is colorless when he’s gone. :(

That’s mostly due to the (possible) length of this trip, I suppose. It’s been a couple of years since he’s been gone for more than a few days, a week at most. This time could be a few months. Although neither of us expect it’ll actually be as long as a few months, we do expect that it’ll be a good 3 to 4 weeks though. And we’re prepared for longer than that.

On a trip that lasts just few days I can usually appreciate the time apart. We both do. But weeks and weeks just stretches endlessly in front of me. Blah.

Plus, coming so soon on the heels of such an amazing camp– double blah.

Anyway.

His absence, aside from making me feel as limp and blah as overcooked pasta, has the added effect of giving me little to blog about.

The kids started school. Jes is still working. Babygirl is a brat.

Actually Babygirl looks like she went a round with Tyson right now. Yesterday she face-planted out in the driveway and has a bruise on the apple of her cheek plus a scrape under her chin. She has a scratch under her eye from the cat, and a little bit of rug burn on the tip of her nose/upper lip due to a rambunctious round of tickling with mommy.

I refuse to take her in public. I hate when people give you that look. That sideways suspicious look followed by a pitiful look at the kid.

~crickets~

I need a nap.

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Paradox

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Aftercare, shmaftercare.

It was after that exhilaratingly painful scene wherein I’d been bombarded with paintballs that I sought him out for some aftercare.

A blanket, some chocolate, a cuddle, a pat on the head and a concerned “are you okay?”, maybe even an “I’m so proud of you!” glowing bit of praise.

Visions of my muchly deserved aftercare danced in my head.

I found him and I stood before him, grinning, expectant, giddy, waiting.

He said:

“Bitch, go get me the bug spray. I’m getting bit.”

o.0

I luffs him. The fucker.

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Floor? Swallow, please.

There was a somewhat humiliating moment that happened at camp that, each time it loops through my head, I get that scritchy feeling that you get when you know that someone has looked at you and judged you as stupid or incompetent or weird or… well you know what I mean.

You’d think I’d be used to that, huh? ;)

Nobody likes to leave the impression that they are incapable. Or dumb. Whether I left THAT impression on these people or not, I can’t say. This may all be living in my head and probably didn’t even blip their radar.

It happened the day of the paintball firing squad; was related to the whole POW roleplaying scene.

All of the details of the capture and interrogation, right down to the execution, were supposed to be hammered out with the “torturers” and the “prisoners” sometime prior to the beginning of the scene. Because I was not a volunteer but was volunteered (big difference, if’n you ask me!), I wasn’t present nor privy to the details that Master worked out with the people in charge.

(Plus, I think there was a timing snafu and some of what should have been communicated amongst the key players prior to starting didn’t get done. Which wasn’t a big deal because it was all done in good fun and nobody really counts on a strict schedule or is unable to flow with a sudden change in plans at camp. Camp is a very fluid and relaxed place.)

Anyway.

So I was captured and marched up to the holding cell. At that point, Master and I were separated and I was dragged up to the table where the interrogator’s assistant was checking the POWs in.

First just let me point out that I SUCK at roleplaying. Which is why we don’t do it. I’m just not a good pretender, and can’t lose myself into a fictional character. I was probably the worst choice for POW evar. I’m sure Master just wanted to get me in front of the paintball gun.

The check-in process was the beginning of the roleplay. The assistant was quite strict in her demeanor, and demanding of answers. We were to be given numbers, recite limits and move on to the holding cell. No joking, no conversation about the weather, no heckling the crowd. Check in, sit down, and stfu.

So, she gruffly assigns me my prisoner number and then fires the question at me. “What are your limits!?”

*blink blink blink*

*pause*

She’s staring at me and I stare back. Total deer-in-headlights.

*silence*

“I don’t know.”

For a minute she just looked at me, then she must have decided I was roleplaying being difficult and refusing to answer so she asked again, louder, gruffer, more demanding.

I seriously had no idea what to say. I have never, ever, ever been given the option of setting my own limits, even during play with other people. I had no idea what he had already set up and wasn’t even about to offer something contrary to his wishes. I was completely stuck.

“I can’t answer that.” was the most intelligent reply I could come up with. It was then that she picked up on that I wasn’t pretending and that I was really actually standing there like a dumbfuck with no ability to list my own limits.

In that disbelieving, condescending way that people have of replying when they find out that you don’t know something that you should, she dropped out of character and, very baffled, said “You don’t know your own limits??”

Then the interrogator guy comes up to see what the hold-up and delay is all about, probably set to tear into his assistant for not expediting the prisoner-check-in process (because I’m sure she had HER orders from him) and she says to him “She doesn’t know her own limits.”

And then HE asks me and I have to admit to being a tool and say “I don’t know. I can’t answer. I can’t tell you.” and he gives me that same incredulous, god-yer-dumb look (or so I perceived)-

At that point, I started looking around for mah Man. I needed rescued, ffs. Neck-craning, looking for someone, ANYONE, to help. They also started peering around, probably not looking for my man but likely looking for someone to dump me on, lol.

Off to the side I spotted a girl who was involved in the whole scene and the planning of the scene and who would later be one of the executioners, but more importantly, she was a friend and she’d understand my dilemma because she knows us. So I waved her over and explained and without even batting an eyelash, she just nodded and took off to find the man. Which she did in just seconds, and he came over and he, also without batting an eyelash, when asked what MY limits were, turned to the people in charge, completely dismissing me and talked to them.

After that, it was fine.

Very likely I imagined the disdain. They were all perfectly nice people. I’m still embarrassed about it though.

When I was in the 5th grade we moved to a new town. We’d not been there long when school started. On the first day of class, we were all to line up at the teacher’s desk so she could record our home information in her little student log book. When she got to me, I absolutely blanked on my new phone number. She responded in that same way, “You don’t know your own phone number?” in front of the whole class who all looked at me like I was a total retard and I’ve never ever forgotten how embarrassing that day was, or how stupid I felt.

That whole limit-exchange was a repeat of that day. I was immediately taken back to being a nerdy little 5th grader, the new-kid, nervous, and all of my peers sniggering at my stupidity behind their hands.

On the other hand, the fact that I did blank out and couldn’t answer even to save face says something good about my enslavement, yes?

If not, tell me it does anyway, lol.

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Fading Fast

In more ways than one.

The last couple of days I’ve been all itchy and picking scabs off various parts of my body. I think I’m mostly healed now.

Most of the bruises have faded. Quite a few of them had faded before we’d even gotten home to take pictures at all. In fact, the vast majority of the whip welts, except the ones that broke skin, were completely gone. Which, considering that he whipped me on Thursday and we didn’t try and get pics until the following Tuesday isn’t too surprising.

I posted some of these on Fet already. They ain’t nothing spectacular.

One of the new collar. The rings we picked up at Micheal’s of all places. Master picked out the ones that said what he felt summed up our relationship and I set about memorizing them. Passion, Honesty, Faith, Focus, Discipline, Integrity, Respect and Strength.

It doesn’t show in the picture but the Discipline ring is tarnished. Heh. That amuses me to no end. :D

Or we could skip the pictures and you can watch Master’s bruise ID clip. He’s such a goofball.

So, busy day today and then Master is (hopefully) off for the 3 day weekend, though he’s on call so that sucks. And then next week he goes out of town. Which is something I’ve put out of my head ever since he mentioned it because I don’t want to think about it and I prefer to believe that something else will come along to muck up the plans and he won’t have to go. He’s looking at a possible couple of months with not much time off to come home. I can go there, and I likely will, but I’ve also got kids starting school and a baby to take care of.

I’m already beginning the meltdown sequence. This may not be pretty. My apologies in advance for the extreme amount of angst I’ll be dumping here. :-(

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Red!

It was the first day of camp when he led me down to the small sandy beach area where a couple of bondage frames had been set up for our kinky convenience.

Blindfolded, led by a rope tied to my collar, he walked me down while a silent war waged on inside.

It’s been a long, long, LONG time since he’s had the opportunity for indulging in sadism. I think there’s an opposite effect on masochists than on sadists when those opportunities are few and far between. For me, the masochist, the desire for and tolerance of pain settles into an all-time low. For him, the sadist, the desire for and toleration of my pleas, climbs to an all-time high.

He was flying up at the top of the spectrum. I was swimming somewhere at the bottom.

I understood that we needed to meet somewhere in the middle. I also understood that finding that middle ground was going to be exponentially more painful for me than for him.

I was glad it was being done right away though. You wouldn’t believe the amount of angst and worry I was carrying over it.

Well, actually you probably would believe the amount. I happen to do angst quite well. ;)

So it was, sometime mid-day on Thursday, he was walking me down the road, with nothing but a singletail looped over his shoulder.

It’s surreal actually. You’re walking past people who see you, cuffed, blindfolded, being led on a rope by a big guy carrying a whip, and they’re casually carrying on everyday conversations as you pass. Not a single hiccup in their goings on. As if it’s perfectly normal to be discussing what’s for dinner while your neighbor is about to get whipped.

And it is. There. For that weekend. Hell, I did it myself numerous times. My camp neighbor to the right screaming through orgasms on the picnic table. My neighbor to the left using some guy’s balls as a foot stool while flipping through a magazine. What was I doing? Making coffee. Fixing dinner. Getting dressed.

That’s normal. Camp normalcy.

Anyway. To the bondage frames we marched. To the bondage frames I was attached.

He didn’t start light. He never does. The concept of warm up is lost on him, honestly. I suspect that he *thinks* he’s doing warm up. But… no. Not so much. At least not from my perspective, which is the only one that matters since I’m on the receiving end of the non-warm-up warm-up.

He likes to target the nipples with the singletail. It amuses him I think. Actually I think he takes pride in being able to concentrate on such a small target with such accuracy.

I? Am not amused.

On the rest of the body I don’t think he even tries to aim. He has no reason to. It’s an open and large canvas and he can randomly and messily throw the whip, letting it land where it may. No part is really off limits, except for the face, and even then if a snap catches me on the lip (which it did) then it’s likely because I made the mistake of dropping my head in a futile attempt to shield my nipples with my tongue or something (which I did).

There’s no apology for a misplaced stroke because there ARE no misplaced strokes. That’s the beauty of nothing being off-limits, see.

The thing that gets me about how he uses the singletail is the speed and the circling. I’d bet he gets a stroke in at least one per second. Maybe more. It’s FAST. Or feels that way on my end anyway. And he circles me. Snapping. Over and over and over. Until I think I’m going to die.

At least until I scream. And beg. And kick.

I pulled out of one of the cuffs in a desperate attempt to cover my nipples after several minutes of targeting them.

I really just think I’m going to go crazy, you know? It’s not even that each stroke by itself is so painful that I can’t stand it. It’s the repetitive, fast barrage of them that drives me over the edge. I think I must cry out to “Slow down!” a million times during a whipping scene.

Which he finds amusing.

In fact, he’ll go faster if he can.

Fucker.

Sir.

But here is where the internal war starts. A war that is specific to camp. (I’ve been there all of two times so, you know, I’m an expert on it now.)

As most of you know, we don’t play with a safeword. I don’t get to dictate the direction of, or the end of, whatever is going on. He’s the boss, yadda yadda yadda.

Camp has a safeword. It’s a camp-wide, everyone gets to use it safeword. I can certainly understand the reasoning behind it, nobody balks or bitches about it. It’s just one of the rules of camp. If you call out the camp safeword, your scene stops or someone listening WILL stop it.

Imagine, if you will, how fucking TEMPTING that knowledge is when you’re in the middle of dying.

Melodramatic, I know, but that’s my middle name.

Seriously though. I’ve said I’m not a painslut. Pain hurts.

One of the reasons I don’t have a safeword is because I would use it before he even touched me. I’d scream it out as soon as he pulled the implement out of the closet. I’d holler it everytime he wanted to stick his dick up my ass. I’d abuse the fuck out of it.

So to be given this POWER the minute we cross through the gates of camp is fucking fucked up.

He tells me, in no uncertain terms, that I’m not allowed to use it. But, at camp? He’s not teh boss of THAT.

It’s a tool that is within my grasp to use.

So when I’m standing there, naked, halfway to escaping the cuffs in a desperate attempt to protect my body from the barrage of stings, sweating, panting, in pain… and he’s standing behind me holding the empty cuff, whip in hand, and ordering, quietly, calmly, that I voluntarily put my hand back into the cuff because he is NOT done with me?

Fucking WAR.

In my head I’m screaming the safeword. My lips are wrapped around it, it’s in my throat, it’s right. fucking. there. I can taste it on my tongue.

You know there is nothing that turns him on MORE than to watch me battle the fight or flight instinct. To watch the desire to submit and to please war against my dislike of pain. To see the tears streaking down my face, to hear the whimpers. To make me choose who I love more, him or myself. To make me choose honor over shame. To make me stuff down every instinct inside of me for the simple sake of putting a smile on his face.

And then I put my hand back into the cuff. He locks it tighter. He ties it back up. And he whips me more. Harder. Until I break, sob, and hang limp.

He leans in and tells me my sobs and tears turn him on. “4 more, cunt. 4 more hard ones. Then we’re done.”

Except it wasn’t 4. It was 7 or 10 or 15 more. It was losing-count more. It was me screaming that he can’t fucking count more.

It was him laughing. The laughing touches something mean deep inside doesn’t it?

Some of them didn’t count, you see. Because they weren’t hard enough to qualify as “hard ones”. So says he from his pain-free perspective.

In the end, after he’d led me still blindfolded and cuffed back to our campsite and fucked me silly, running his hands over the welts and cuts, slapping in the sting, that gap that existed had been bridged. I don’t know that we met in the middle so much as he yanked me over to his side of the spectrum, but either way, we were on the same page again. For the rest of the weekend, the temptation of camp safeword never again reared its ugly head.

He won that war. Even being given the power on a silver platter to use at will I can’t do it. I don’t think I could stomach wiping that smile off his face.

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Thievery

To whoever it was who broke into my daughter’s car at the beach over the weekend and stole her purse containing her very first, freshly cashed paycheck from her first full-time, hard-working job:

Fuck off and die, you useless waste of oxygen.

Seriously. I mean that with every ounce of sincerity in my body.

You’ve got an 18 year old teenage mom doing her damndest to get her shit together, *trying* to save up for an apartment, wanting to take care of her kid, and some fucked-up loser with no fucking morals or scruples or honor or integrity comes along and kicks her down.

Now she doesn’t even have the gas money to get to work and back until her next paycheck.

Karma’s a bitch, baby. You enjoy that money that she worked her fucking ass off to EARN, a concept lost on you apparently. I hope you fucking choke on it.

At first I was kind of mad at her for leaving it in her car in the first place. But you know, she’s 18, she’s got a rose-colored view of the world. She locked her doors and thought that was enough. She counted on people having the same moral code that she does.

It’s a tough fucking lesson to learn. That it was her FIRST check that she’s been so excited to get, had plans on what she was buying babygirl, had budgeted out a gas allowance and a savings fund- and then to lose it all during one 20 minute walk on the beach with her new boyfriend-

I’m rapidly getting more pissed off at the world. Just- jesus christ, cut the girl a break already.

Injustices committed against my children piss me the fuck off. This is the shit that will turn them into the cynical bitch that I am. And that sucks.

Fuckin’ people. Assholes.

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