Sitting at the kitchen table, Tim and Bill cross referenced the applications with their calendars. They’d shopped at Home Depot in Lewiston, picking up hooks, chain, rope, supplies to finish off the floor in Barn Two. This barn was smaller, located at the edge of Pasture 6 and the woods break between that field and Pasture 8. The woods weren’t terribly dense here, but there were several small streams that flowed through from the wetlands 20 miles north at the base of Katahdin, eventually flowing into the small pond near the main house. Here was where they had set up a their secondary camping area. Their campers were of two types-open air and woods, just like ‘normal’ people- some preferred to camp in the trees. Not that they’d be hiding from anything– there was nothing for miles, just woods, water, and of course, the ubiquitous Maine blackflies. There would be neighbors, of course, but they had designed each campsite to give maximum room to each site. Fire pits had been dug in and lined with river rock, picnic tables, and a tree harness for hanging pesky subs who were not helping to set up camp–or were just there for decoration. Bill was hoping to see a few of those type of women hanging out in his woods.
Tim had refinished the flooring in Barn Two-it was one thing to have rustic and another to have liability- and now it was smooth as glass. The windows had been caulked, and a variety of those new hooks had been placed strategically around the walls. He’d constructed several crosses which were popular with this crowd, spanking benches, and trusses. If someone had told him that he’d be taking his woodworking/boat building knowledge and using it to create a BDSM playground? He’d have laughed until he pissed his pants. Coils of rope, from rough hemp to fine silk hung on the walls, as well as an assortment of paddles, floggers, whips, and canes. A case on the far side of the barn contained a large variety of handcuffs, collars, and similar restraint devices. Items could be purchased or rented, and would be signed out to users to try to avoid too much loss. And many would come with their own “fun kits”, or so they had been assured.
Five weeks of work had made the place safe, as well as kinky. And the applications had begun to roll in. People would pay a lot of cash to have the opportunity to get away from it all, and have sex in public. Seemed kinda strange to him, but whatever. This was going to do more than pay the bills, to be sure.
All the permits were in for the private campground. And soon, very soon, the place would be filled with Masters and Mistresses dressed in all sorts of “Power clothing” from leathers to corsets, and lots and lots of naked “subs”.
“Whatta you call a sub sandwich?”
“Well, in the midwest they call it a hero. But I call it a sub.”
“Irene and Mary.” Bill slapped his thigh, laughing.
“Buddy? You’ve been reading too many porn stories.” But Tim laughed. ‘Irene and Mary’, indeed. “We’re ready. Hard to believe, but we did it.”
“Security will be onsite starting tomorrow night. Police Doms or somesuch. They’ll keep things under control. Whatever that means.”
“Just in case something goes down. We don’t want the reputation of an abuse thing.”
“Nope. These people are seriously kinky. Can’t hardly wait to see what – you know I can’t imagine some gal just moving around setting up camp all nekkid. It’s fucking May. In Maine. Don’t these people know about blackfly season?”
“Whip welts and blackfly bites. Who knows why. But I’m glad we’ve pulled it off! Jezuz, we’ve booked solid already through June. That’s eight weeks!”
The two men walked out to the dock, looking out at the sunset painting the sky, the looming hulk of the mountain to the north etched in gold. Two less likely candidates for a porn camp, but two cagey businessmen nonetheless, they stood watching the sun go down, and their last night of tranquility before campers began to descend upon their new venture. A loon broke the purple silence with its haunting call, the ripples dancing across the water, and letting the last light of day dance upon the surface.
Bill handed the sheaf of paperwork to the check -in guy. The man was a “freelance Dom” with impeccable references. Whatever. As long as people were paid up, and knew the rules, he was going to be happy enough to sit on the porch and watch nekkid gals roaming around the farm. Who would’ve thought?
“You had cows here?”
“yup. Years n years.”
“Milking machines or by hand?”
“machine. Got too tedious once the kids grew. Not too many kids wanted to come up from the village at 330 to start milking, so I had the system put in.”
Marc smiled. “There are some subs who are into being milked.”
“No shit?!” Bill could not keep the amazement out of his voice. “You’re shittin’ me!”
“Truth. Some Doms are into making them do it, like the taste of tit milk. You can do it by tying the tits nice and tight, but a milking machine is the top of the line as far as a D/s experience goes.”
“Well, I can accommodate a dozen heifers, and each of them has 4 milk teats.”
“Definitely should be in your advertising–you’ll be amazed.”
“I’m already amazed. Gals who wanna put their tits into milking machines? Course, the tubes for the cow udders are different.”
“There’s a few websites that have human udder attachments…I’ll email them to you.”
Email. Websites. Bill rolled his eyes. He was a dairy farmer, not some techie geek. That shit was for kids like his son, whooping it up in Simi Valley. Shaking his head, and trying to ignore the hard throb of his cock, he ambled back up to the farmhouse to tell Tim of this latest information.
Gals getting milked.
Damned if the idea of that didn’t make his cock rock-hard.