Kayla DIRT #1

It happens while you’re at the spa. You’ve been at camp long enough that you’re feeling more relaxed about things. Rather than being stressed out about receiving a massage, you’re quietly looking forward to the gently, oily happy ending that you’ll get from Amy’s incredibly skillful hand that you’ll get in a few minutes.

One of the uniformed FUTA workers uses her backside to bump through the door into the massage room carrying a stack of freshly-washed, still-warm, perfectly-rolled towels. There’s nothing unusual about this. What gets your attention is who it is. Or who it might be; you only get a glimpse because you’re lying stationary on the table, but the face, body type, and hair color are too much to ignore. Is that your sister?

You lift your head for a second look, but she’s already gone.

“Was that Kayla?” you ask Amy.

“Hmm?” Amy asks, drumming her hands on your back.

You gaze at the door for a second, then settle back down. Maybe you imagined it. But you’re able to think more clearly a few minutes later, after you’ve blown a sticky load over your shiny, oiled-up stomach.

Amy’s pale fingers milk a few more drops out, then she gets a towel to mop you up. As you see her carrying the towel over, you can’t stay relaxed. This is driving you crazy.

Outside the spa, you type rapidly with your thumbs and send a text to Lisa.

• Send me a list of all the FUTA employees

Your demand is a bit blunt, but this is serious.

• Why?

Lisa’s reply is understandable and predictable.

• Just do it!!

You hit send.

• Or you’ll what?

You groan and roll your eyes, then less walk than stomp along the walkway, keeping a careful eye out. You didn’t pay attention to the workers before. Now you do, but you don’t see Kayla anywhere. You have to be wrong about this. Kayla’s not the only busty redhead in Florida. But that body language was so familiar.

You don’t exactly storm into the admin building, where Lisa sits at her desk in the reception area outside Annette’s office.

“Oh shit,” she says as you walk straight up to the desk and plant both hands on it.

“Get me my damn list,” you snap.

“Or you’ll what?” she asks right back, giving no ground.

“Or I’ll do things to you,” you threaten.

She makes the face of someone deciding between two photos on social media.

“OK,” she says.

Lisa broke up with her boyfriend three weeks ago. She’s been friendly lately because she isn’t getting any anymore.

“Get me my list or I won’t do things to you,” you say, revising your threat.

“Fine, jeez.”