Switching at Incon

This story is from a woman's point of view. It isn't your typical sub-made-to-gag-on-cock story; there's lots of BDSM and sexual activity but no cock-sucking or actual fucking; it's more about what's going on in her mind. If you don't like reading about switches or bisexual men, you won't like it.

But if you're interested in what goes through someone's head as they move from one role to another, or you like detailed, realistic scenes with people who actually like each other, I hope you enjoy it.

It features the same characters as in my story 'Tell Me What You Want' - reading that one first will make this make more sense. 'Mummy Porn' also takes place before this but you don't need to have read it.

Disclaimers: contains British English and switches - both a man and a woman playing both dom and sub roles. Plus bisexuals, blasphemy and swearing, along with anal play and toys, sarcasm, leather fetishes, and happy polyamorous people being kinky as fuck. Don't say you weren't warned.

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I drove into the car park with some relief. I'd driven two hours and checked into my hotel just fine, but then I'd needed to look up the postcode for my final destination. Away from my home Wi-Fi, my phone company had suddenly decided I wasn't to be allowed knowledge of locations of fetish clubs. Literotica and Lovehoney's sites were fine and dandy, it seemed, but the address I needed was being held hostage until I got through to Customer Services - suffering their terrible hold music - and supplied enough credit card details to prove beyond any doubt at all that I was over 18. Twice that, more like.

It took twenty minutes on hold before my account was updated, before a mere five-minute drive from the Premier Inn got me carefully inching into an underground car park. Time to register for the city's inaugural BDSM convention, only a couple hours late.

Some friends and acquaintances called out to me, which made the chaps guarding the door much more friendly as they checked my ticket and ID. Most people dressed in black for fetish events, but I'd come straight from work so I was still wearing my smart navy skirt suit, though I'd left the jacket in the car and grabbed a pullover instead. I supposed my conservative business-smart attire, complete with pearl earrings and long dark hair pulled into a chignon, wasn't what security expected from KinkCon attendees.

"Sorry about the Spanish Inquisition, love - you wouldn't believe how busy we've been, turning away loads of hen parties!"

"And random gawpers. Dozens! Mouths hanging open, some of them. Go on in!"

The third and final session of the day was just starting. I ended up in a room of people sharing stories of miscommunication in a BDSM or sexual environment; some funny, a few tragic, but all gave food for thought. It was a good way to shake off my work self and think about kink instead.

When the discussion session ended, I wandered back into the main social space. This venue was more of a swingers' club than a fetish club, so equipment was scarce but small rooms plentiful. We'd be moving, after dinner, to a three-floor paradise of kink, all ours for the night. The bouncers hoped to be less busy there, the second place being on an industrial estate rather than the High Street.

I'd had a couple offers of people to play with in the evening, but wandered around the lounge areas looking for other people I knew. In particular, I was looking for John. His partner Cathy had confirmed the pair of them would be there.

"Would you be OK if I borrowed him for some of the evening?" It had seemed only polite to ask.

"If I'm not using him at the time. I will be, quite a bit, though."

I wasn't sure if that meant he would be submitting to her, or if it was just a figure of speech. I knew she did top him occasionally, and he frequently alluded to her calling the shots in their relationship, but I didn't know much about what that might mean in practice - call me self-centred, but given they'd both made clear I was most welcome to play with John, he and I had mostly discussed how him topping me could work. Along with many of our other enthusiasms that we could and did spend hours chatting about, from local politics to cooking to motor racing, but as long as he and she were both happy, that was all I needed to know about their relationship! He was brilliant at topping me, getting into my mind as well as drawing out all sorts of responses from my body, and I was looking forward to some time for us to do more of that.

A rope demo began. Stuff I knew already, though watching someone being tied into a harness is always fun. The young lass was clearly enjoying sixty or more people watching her stripping off and her boyfriend looping rope around her, showing off her small neat breasts to perfection and pushing her buttocks apart. I kept her decorative body in the corner of my eye as I moved to the edge of the room, where the merchandise stalls were set up.

I considered some silver earrings, possibly ones in the shape of floggers, adorable tiny chains hanging down, but I decided against. They didn't have quite enough plausible deniability to be worn out and about by a respectable professional woman approaching middle-age, and at events like this they'd be superfluous. I moved to the next stall, and in case I was kidding myself that I looked anything other than a conventional woman, the stallholder started schooling me on the various items I picked up.

"That's called a tawse, love. You want to be careful with that. Oh, watch for the falls on that flogger - they're heavy. You'll hurt your hand if you keep doing that."

I swung it onto my left forearm a few times, mainly to see if the guy would twig that I knew what I was doing. He didn't look. I put it down and examined his shelves of more niche items. A set of linked chains, two clamps branching off one end, four at the other, caught my eye, and I picked them up to assess the quality. You don't want sharp edges on metal when it's squeezing delicate parts of your anatomy...

"That's nasty, that. Some weirdos put those clips on their genitals - nasty bite, they have."

I tried to decide if I could be bothered to give the patronising git an earful; figured I'd leave it. Then I heard a familiar, amused, man's voice behind my shoulder.

"So much for selling your wares. I don't think my weirdo friend is going to want your shoddy gear, now. Gizza hug, love."

I turned to grin up at John, dropping the chains back on the table. He gave me a long, very firm squeeze, as he always did. Climber arms and wiry muscle all over me, bending to nuzzle my neck and bristle my face with his short dark hair. A few grey hairs had appeared since I'd last seen him to play with, but they simply made him look experienced rather than older. He was in his usual faded black jeans, with a black T-shirt as usual - some goth band I'd vaguely heard of, and, as usual for anywhere he could get away with it, black high heels; chunky-heeled boots, today, or at least I assumed they were boots rather than shoes, but his jeans covered much of them. I admired his ability to walk so easily in the heels, as ever. Also not unusual for him was his tall leather posture collar, though the lead attached to it, other end resting in Cathy's hand, was something I'd not seen before.

I escaped his embrace without hitting myself on the leash, and said hello to Cathy - another, more sedate, hug. She was her usual relaxed self, hair pulled back into a low plait, flower print dress and leggings. If she dropped John's lead, she'd be assumed to be a lost primary school teacher - not that one should make any assumptions about what teachers do in their spare time! And the devilish grin on her face should have clued people in that she hadn't actually wandered in by mistake. She'd never seen the point in dressing up for kink events, and I suspected she liked messing with people's expectations. It was something the pair of them had in common.

She picked up a studded cock ring from the stall. It had studs on the inside, too, and I winced despite not even having a cock! Cathy raised an eyebrow at John and grinned; he kept his expression studiously neutral. The stallholder clearly hadn't been listening when John had spoken earlier, as he looked down at Cathy. "Amazing, what some weirdos will buy."

John spun me away from the stall, calling back to the stallholder, "Us weirdos are gonna gossip about weird stuff. Best you don't listen." I wasn't sure the guy understood his point, but as John was going to be much better company than Mr Patronising, I wasn't going to stay to explain.

Cathy, however, retorted in her best ladylike voice, "Isn't it just. I'm wearing one just like it, right now."

John and I did our best to suppress our giggles - Cathy's a cis woman, for starters - as the guy started to splutter and turn somewhat purple.

We all left him to it - he wasn't booked again to run any stalls at such events - and found ourselves a congenial corner with sofas. I looked John up and down, because in that sort of environment you can, and John was always a feast for the eyes. And he knew it, the cocky sod. Those thigh-hugging jeans had been carefully chosen. He grinned at me and parted his knees further.

I sat next to him and accepted the tacit invitation to grope his thighs. Soft denim, taut over solid muscle... Temptation satisfied, we sat back and nattered a bit, catching up on the six months since we'd last talked. Cathy spoke more than usual. "I know John's looking forward to seeing you dressed up later. What sort of outfit do you have in mind?"

I do enjoy dressing up for admiration. In the conventional world, I'm nearly invisible nowadays, so it's nice to make an effort and have it appreciated. "I've got two options with me. There's a slinky dress with rings down the side - can't really wear anything underneath - or I've got a crimson corset, to go with a short skirt and stockings..."

They replied in unison, "Corset!"

"OK, if you like! I'm not sure I can drive in it though - I'd need assistance to change once we get to the Fortress."

"We're getting a cab. You're in the Premier Inn too, aren't you? We'll help you get ready and you can come with us." John spoke firmly, but then looked at Cathy for confirmation.

She agreed. "Come back with us after the dinner here. That's at six, right. In the meantime..." She looked mischievously at me. "I'm going to take him to one of the private rooms down that corridor there. Give us ten minutes, then come along and watch."

She leant over and clipped the leash back onto John's collar. His body language changed, from him sprawling over the sofa and flirting with me, to more hunched, quiet, responsive only to Cathy. I was suddenly hugely curious as to how they would play together. Snippets of conversation came back to me: "Cathy gives me what I deserve, regularly," he'd said dryly. At the time, I hadn't been sure whether it was a joke or not.

I stood up. "Will do. See you in a bit, pretty boy." As I went to greet some other friends, I saw Cathy yank John to his feet via the leash, then hold it close to his collar and steer him down towards the private rooms.

I checked my watch. Time to seek out John and Cathy. Down the narrow wooden-walled corridor were six plywood doors, with small windows set into them. The first four doors were ajar, three rooms empty, one with a couple I didn't know reclining on the wipe-clean bed. The next had what sounded like a woman squealing - peeping through the spyglass confirmed it - she was bent over a seated man's lap and being spanked soundly. The last door was locked and the window panel closed. I knocked, three times.

"Cathy? It's me, Karen."

"Come in!"

The door opened a crack. I squeezed in and adjusted to the dimmer light as Cathy locked the door again behind me. The room was about eight foot by six, a bed filling half of it. But in the middle stood John.

He was still wearing his black jeans, but had swapped to patent knee-high stiletto boots worn on the outside. The boots forced him onto tiptoes and were enhancing the length of his legs and the shape of his muscular thighs. His arms were raised above his head, wrists cuffed, and the loop of chain linking the cuffs was hooked over a hook in the ceiling. Being stretched tall and balancing in his heels meant his hairless chest was arched forwards, showing off subtle but firm pecs and adorable small nipples. His T-shirt had been pulled up over and above his head and rested above his spiky hair, partially obscuring the muscles of his upper arms.

Despite the deep posture collar round his neck, he was looking down at the floor, to the side of us. He didn't look up when I came in.

He was stunning. I'd heard it said of poetry and painting that the more limits and restrictions are observed, the more beautiful the art. I always thought it very appropriate to bondage.

"Turn around."

Wordlessly, John took tiny steps on his tiptoes to rotate anticlockwise, his bare back coming into view. A topless fit man is always a pleasure to look at, but this was a real feast for the eyes. He reminded me of the ballerina on top of a musical box, pirouetting slowly when obliged to, for the pleasure of the owner. A gothic dancer and musical box. The sort of thing Wednesday Addams might have owned.

Cathy couldn't have looked less like Wednesday nor even Morticia, despite beaming with pride at her beautiful creation. With her fair wavy hair tied back and a flowery dress, she looked more like a pleased Bake Off contestant showing off her vertical tiered Showstopper structure. Prue would surely appreciate the perfect textures and contrasts, plus a hint of alcohol. Paul would probably complain that the concept didn't work for him, in his desperation to avoid any suggestion that he might like it.

Her innocent appearance made John's rare vulnerability look even more salacious. "And face the wooden wall again," she commanded quietly. He started to turn in the same direction, but she stopped him with the tap of a riding crop. "No, back the other way. Unless you really want to find yourself hanging by your arms when that chain gets twisted." He made a small nod and made clockwise fairy steps instead.

As the light caught his skin, various raised lines and scratches became visible on his back, in a scribbly sort of pattern. He'd been scratched or flogged across the shoulders, fairly gently but for a while, I guessed. Probably very pink, but hard to tell under the shadows from spotlights.

Cathy looked over at me, and grinned. "Isn't he pretty?"

"He really is." I pulled over a cubic stool and sat down to watch.

Despite the light, I could see John's cheeks darkening as he blushed. I'd never seen John look at all embarrassed or uncomfortable before, but now I did, I wanted to see more of it. And just gaze at his body...

I was in the right place.

Cathy picked up a leather flogger off the bed, ran the strands together through a practised hand, and held it up in front of John's face. He didn't move, but raised his eyes to it. I couldn't decode the expression in them - possibly becoming more comfortable with the situation? Acceptance, I decided, as he made a kiss towards it. Cathy nodded, and moved round to his back, while I stayed put, the better to watch his face.

She started gently on him, and I watched him consciously controlling his breathing, out and in, to handle it. It was clearly reasonably comfortable, his weight on his toes but his heels and bound hands helping him to balance, the pleasant sensations so far compensating for pain. The swings of the flogger grew larger, with more force behind him, and I saw John forcing himself to exhale on each stroke as the weight landed across his shoulders. Soon, he couldn't close his mouth at all, and panted as he concentrated on both keeping on his feet and on accepting the blows.

He was in a world of his own, dealing with the impacts on his back, nothing else registering at all, as he devoted his mind entirely to coping with the force and pain, shifting weight from one foot to the other, gasping occasionally, and finally making small whimpering noises.

I was transfixed. This writhing man, ignoring me totally, was more beautiful than ever. But it wasn't just that. Seeing his usual cheerful grin, and his air of being in total control, both vanish without a trace, replaced by single-minded concentration, was miraculous. The silent focus on the invisible reminded me of devout Christians in church, and certainly the image of the penitent, suffering for his sins, was familiar from my intermittent Catholic upbringing. Cathy stopped to come round to his face, and stroked his cheek with one finger. He hung forward, slack in his bonds, and the expression he raised to her was pure worship.

His words were a whisper. "Thank you, m..." I couldn't make out the honorific. Not Mistress - that didn't seem right for the level of intimacy between them.

She looked round to me. "Enjoying him?"

"Yes." It had surprised me, how much I really was enjoying watching his submission, as opposed to imagining myself in the same situation.

"Good." Back to John, "Time to show off your legs, sweetie."

She pulled down his jeans in one sharp yank, and pushed the denim so it bunched up below his knees. Suddenly seeing John's bare thighs - and the perfect musculature on them - stepped up the intensity of the scene a notch. Cathy fiddled with his black briefs, tucking material in round the edges, resulting in his genitals still hidden but his tight bum on show, only the crack covered.

Trousers down, arse out - suddenly his position came across as far more humiliating. He stared down at the floor, suggesting he felt it too. Cathy returned to facing John, her face close to his, and she smiled wickedly as she informed him, "Brace yourself, slut boy."

Her body was touching his as she reached round to clutch his arse in both hands, clawing him with her nails. A small groan came from him as he tried to get back into his trance-like state. She moved behind him again and continued to dig into his flesh with her fingernails, moving to his thighs and in between his legs to the soft skin there. I'd have been purring, if it had been me, but clearly this was something John endured rather than craved. He panted in relief when she removed her hand from him, then started to slow his breathing again so as to cope with whatever might come next.

Though what did come next appeared to be a surprise to both me and him. Cathy called across to me, "I bet you've wondered what's inside his pants, haven't you!"

It was well-known that only Cathy had the privilege of going there. I'd startled my partner when we'd been discussing contraception - the excitement of polyamorous relationships - and he'd referred to me getting John's cock.

I'd retorted indignantly, "I've never even seen John's cock!" and mused, "I assume he's got one..."

Until then, I'd never really thought about it - in bed he'd firmly removed my hand when it approached the front of his briefs, and growled, "Don't touch. Not allowed." - but

given the distractions of his hands and mouth and his legs over me, I'd truly never considered I was missing out on anything. Though now Cathy asked...

I shrugged. "If you want to show me...?"

"Same rules as the other con sessions. What happens in here, stays in here, understood?"

"Complete confidentiality. You have my word."

I'd got the impression John's lips were mouthing, 'no, no, no', but with my promise he seemed to ease slightly.

Cathy pulled down his pants. John's face flushed beetroot, my word notwithstanding.

If I'd had to guess, I'd have guessed a cock ring, or perhaps a Prince Albert and other piercings. I was in the right ballpark - heh, balls... His cock was encased in metal. It seemed to be metal plates fastened together rather like armour, made of stainless steel rather than brash chrome, suggesting function rather than fashion. I peered closer, assuming the no-touch rule still applied. The device locked around his balls, with a small padlock holding it together. Its purpose was pretty obvious - that dick was not going to be getting much of an erection! If any. I didn't know how much that would inhibit orgasm, but certainly him fucking would be right out. His tip poked out of the end of the tube, with a droplet on the end. Cathy bent down and licked it off, then lifted his chin and kissed him. His cheeks were still as red as I'd ever seen them.