Postcards from Sex Camp #1: You Should Come (to Sex Camp)

IT’S A DARK THURSDAY NIGHT in northern Maryland, around 8 o’clock. I’m standing next to my car, and a man with a slight build has put me on a collar and leash, and he is telling me to take off my clothes.

This is our first meeting, and he looks like he does in his picture. Bald. Menacing.

A few weeks earlier, I had made contact with the bald man, whose name is Jefferson, through a dating site. He’s a blogger, sex educator, and orgy organizer. I asked him about the orgies and told him about my blog, Welfare MILF.

You should come to sex camp, he said.

What’s sex camp? I asked. Oh baby, was his reply.

When I looked at Dark Odyssey’s website the first time, I closed it, thinking, That looks interesting, but it’s not for me. The second time…well, maybe. Someday.

And the third time I signed up for camp.

~

I do not want to take my clothes off. I want to relax, vent, explore, have a smoke. I’m annoyed he’s asking me to do this straight away, before I’ve had a chance to get my bearings. It’s probably more fun for him this way, I’m sure.

In one of his blog posts, Jefferson had mentioned seeing a girl on a leash at camp and that this appealed to him. Intrigued, I offered to report to leash duty. Did you know that Bret Michaels designs a line for PetSmart? Bet you didn’t. Bret Michaels is looking for love on a leash, Jefferson quips.

I do not want to take my clothes off. But this is the game we’re playing, and Jefferson is not wavering. I take a deep breath and strip, throwing my discarded clothes into my car. I’m pissed, I’m uneasy, but I’m not scared.

“Good. I don’t want to see those clothes for the rest of the week. Give me your keys.”

Keys now too? I don’t know anyone here except for Jefferson, and this is the first time we’ve met. But I hand him my keys and he’s leading me by the leash through the parking lot. It’s clear and calm save for the screams from the nearby dungeon.

“You can talk,” he says. I shrug.

“Or not,” he says. “Suit yourself.”

We enter a warehouse-style building “This is the dungeon,” he says. The dungeon is busy. A blindfolded woman on a St. Andrew’s cross is being beaten about the chest by another woman holding five-pound weights. It’s her screams I’ve been hearing. We walk past a couple fucking in a low black bondage cage with a padded top. Another pair of women are wrestling in a dog kennel. There’s a man working on a woman’s back with great focus.

“That’s Pyro Sadist,” Jefferson whispers. “He doesn’t make dates. If you want to play with him, you come here and you wait.” He gestures towards a menacing looking chair.

We tramp down the grassy hillside. People regard us curiously but no one seems surprised to see a nude woman on a leash. Jefferson leads me up a short set of stairs to a series of attached cabins.

“This is the Make Out Room,” he says, pointing to the sign. Soft techno music plays. One woman with star-spangled briefs is energetically fisting the other, who is wailing her orgasm. The room is littered with various Liberator shapes, the famous foam wedges made for fucking. “Technically, there’s no sex in here. But people do sometimes get carried away.”

Next to the Make Out Room is the Brothel, a room full of beds, separated into stalls by chintz curtains. In the center of the room is a shelving unit stocked with clean fitted sheets, chux (those hospital paper drapes), gloves, condoms, and lube.

“Suck my cock,” he says, pushing me to the floor. I’m relieved to be doing something familiar. I take him in my mouth aggressively. Take that, fucker, I think as I gulp him down. I hear him moan and feel a surge of satisfaction.

“You are a decent cocksucker,” he grunts. “At least that’s something. Get up and spread your legs.”

I scoot back on the bed; I see him take a condom from the cubbies dividing the room. I lay back on the bed with my legs spread and he mounts me without ceremony. After a few moments he pulls out and begins to force the head of his cock into my asshole.

“This is easier with lube,” he admits, “but I like a dry hole.” He strokes in and out a few times before he pulls out. “That’s enough of that,” he says as he rips off the condom. “Change the sheets.”

We walk past the dining hall, pool. I recognize that we’re almost back to our cabin and he throws me onto the ground. He’s advancing with his cock out of his shorts and I’m scrambling up to meet him. He fucks my face under the stars until the drool runs down my chin onto my chest; I have no time to swallow or wipe my face clean. I focus on keeping my teeth covered and breathing; finally I do push him away and collapse into the grass, wheezing.

I think you’ll like camp, he says cheerfully. I’m glad you’re here.

He helps me to my feet and we enter the cabin, where Josh and two women are standing and talking.

Sex camp really is at a camp, and we perverts are sleeping in cabins. Our two cabins are connected by a bathroom. On our side are Jefferson, Jane, Kate, Josh, and me. On the other, larger side are Meredith, a short hypercurvy brunette, a couple yet to arrive named Fluffy and Nasty, and “the Manraft,” an assortment of gay men assembled by Kevin Allison of the RISK! podcasts.

“Oh Christ, already?” Josh is in disbelief. The two women say nothing—but again, they don’t look shocked.

Now go get me a drink, Jefferson says. I like a tall pour. Then make your bed and if I were you I’d relax and enjoy the evening.

I go inside, fetch the bottle of bourbon I’ve been instructed to bring. Knob Creek, because I don’t trade in cheap shit.

Josh is demanding attention. Not right now, I tell him. I’m on the leash.

He rolls his eyes. Are you serious?

I’m serious! I hiss. Let me take care of this and I’ll be right with you.

I bring Jefferson his drink and kneel in front of him. Was I a good girl?

He strokes my cheek, removes the leash. You’re a very good girl.

I put some clothes on, make my bed, chat with my cabinmates. Josh is anxious to get laid, something on both of our minds since we met a few hours ago. The two women on either side of Jefferson’s bunk are with him; Kate, vivacious and busty with miles of curly hair, and Jane, a dead ringer for Candice Bergen. I am apparently joining a harem and I’m surprised by how little I care.

Because I’m going to get some of Josh’s big dick, and I’ve been looking forward to it since I picked him up in New Jersey.

Josh is a “burner,” a Burning Man devotee, and his wardrobe is that of a Solid Gold dancer. He’s wiry and compact, which makes his big dick look enormous. He’s left some stuff in my car, so I fetch my keys from Jefferson and I’m looking for my shoes when Josh turns me around.

You said you’d do it right away, he says, grinning, pulling down his purple velvet shorts.

I sink to my knees and suck my second cock that hour. He groans and cups my head with his hands. I disengage after a few moments. Come on, I say. Let’s find somewhere with some privacy.

Jefferson appears from the porch, personable and expansive, pulls me close. “You’re gorgeous fresh meat,” he says. “You’re going to have the best time. I probably won’t see you until Monday.” His voice gets quiet. “If you have any trouble at all, come to me first.”

“I will,” I say. “I promise.” He smiles and kisses my cheek.

Josh is nattering on to Kate and Jane about something, who are listening in a bemused fashion.

“Josh,” I say. “C’mon. Are we going to fuck or what?”

We walk across camp to the Brothel.

“Oh, sweet, the VIP room is open,” Josh says. I follow him to a room at the back of the brothel; the room is nearly filled by two twin beds pushed together, elevated to make a king-size play platform. Finally, we kiss.

We have easy perfunctory sex. His cock is long and we fill the Brothel with the sounds of good old-fashioned heterosexual meatslapping. After, he wants to look for a friend and I head to the dining hall to see if they need help with midnight snack. Horny people who are fucking and beating each other get hungry and require late-night sustenance.

There is a man with bright blue eyes and a sweet wide mouth sitting in front of a laptop. He looks at me. Jolt.

“Hi,” I say as I saunter past.

“Hi,” he says, smiling broadly.

I love sex camp.

Click here for Postcard #2.

Vintage postcard. Image courtesy Vintage Venus.