Switch

"Let's go to those places, yes, but first, I see you have more margarita in that blender," Devon suggested.

"My kinda girl!" the instructor exclaimed and they guzzled the rest of the drinks together within the next five minutes. "Now I have to warn you. My bedroom has a lot of gear in it, but don't be scared. We'll be safe. If anything freaks you out we'll use a safe word, so I know you need to stop. Once we enter into the bedroom we'll be in role. I'll be the Dominant and you'll be the submissive."

"Okay. So what's our safe word?" asked Devon, wanting to get on with all this.

"You pick."

"Um. Okay." Devon paused. "Three letter digraph."

"I don't even know what that is. And it's three words. But okay."

"That's funny because my second grade Special Ed students know what that is," Devon shared a laugh with the instructor. They stood up together, both feeling the effects of their drinks as they got up. The instructor made an 'after you' gesture for Devon to walk towards the bedroom and as soon as she passed him he grabbed her wrists and pulled them behind her back much in the same way a police officer would cuff a perpetrator. He pushed Devon forward every few steps they took and Devon even stumbled a bit. Once they reached the bedroom Devon was taken aback. It was well equipped. There was a sling hanging from the ceiling, hooks and loops screwed into the walls and ceiling, chains hanging from some of these hoops, and a giant chest at the foot of the bed. He instructed Devon to remove all her clothes except for her shoes. She did.

The instructor hung short chains from the ceiling above the floor and attached hanging wrist restraints to the chains. He knew the exact length the chains should be; he'd obviously done this before. The restraints hung close to one of the walls covered in hooks and loops. He gestured for Devon to step up to the restraints, she did, and he buckled her in. He then place ankle restraints on Devon and Devon played along with all of this lightheartedly. She was facing with her back to the wall. The instructor positioned the ankle restraints so the D-ring loop was facing forward. He then lifted each foot and hooked it to a loop in the wall. Devon was fully suspended. The feeling of lightheartedness Devon had about the whole situation seemed to melt away and she began to sense how truly powerless she was. But a part of her still wanted to see where this was going, to see what all this would feel like. She saw the reversal, between herself and Mark and now between herself and the instructor. She wanted to feel what Mark felt, or could feel. She did want to loose control completely, because that constant and complete control she exercised over her life was tiring, was running her ragged. She wanted to let go. So she let him clip her ankles up. She let the instructor blindfold her. She let him use his crop on her pussy. She kept the safe word to herself.

"You drove Mark home Friday night," the instructor said. "Did anything happen between you two?"

"N-no. He's married. He's got a kid. No." The crop landed on the side of Devon's breast. It hurt, yes, but it awoke her senses. She felt her nipple harden. She longed to be touched.

"I saw the way he danced with you after you spoke with him. What did you say?"

"Nothing. I don't know what you're talking about." The crop landed on her breast again. Then on her pussy. It lingered there, massaging it. Devon had very full outer labia, very thick, and her inner lips were like two slender rows of foliage in between, wavering, seeming to undulate in unison. You could see the very tops of her inner labia from the front of her, a hint of what was on the inside. The stinging was exciting, but Devon didn't know how much more of it she could take.

The instructor was still fully dressed. He stepped up close to Devon, heaving in her ear. "What did you say to him?"

"I paid him a compliment. I told him it was nice to get to know him," Devon blurted.

"I see. Now we're getting to the heart of the matter. And how is it that you came to get to know him better on Friday night, eh?"

"I just drove him home. He had this new cappuccino machine. We had coffee," Devon said.

"Was his wife home?"

"No."

"Was his son home?"

"No."

"And what did you do after this cappuccino?" asked the instructor.

"We watched some TV but that was it!" The crop landed on the side of Devon's rear. Hard.

"I'm sorry. I must not have heard you. What did you do after coffee?"

"We watched TV," Devon said. Again, the crop landed on her rear again, in the exact same place again. It stung twice as hard.

"What?"

"We had sex." Devon dropped her head down.

"I see. And how were you able to get such an awkward, pathetic case of a man to get up the courage to have sex with a woman such as yourself?"

"He's not pathetic!" Another smack. "I told him what to do."

"I see. I've snared a switch." With that Devon could hear the instructor drop his pants and felt him enter her while she hung from the ceiling. She submitted entirely, letting the chains at her wrists clink in unison with the instructor's thrusts. She hung there languidly, letting her full weight fall on the instructor's cock until he came, set her free, threw her dress over her face and left the room. Devon showed herself out and took a taxi to her car. The instructor was most certainly sleazy in every way, and if she were going to seek out other experiences as a submissive woman it would have to be with another man, but there was definitely something to it for her. There was that release, that relief from that high powered, highly methodical, super precise, intensely micromanaged control she had over all aspects of her life. She could relate to Mark, to the relief she saw in him when she directed him. Then again, she loved being in a position of power, the care that power allowed for, she loved the way she was able to put Mark at ease and then get him to do some of the naughty things she could come up with. Her relationship with Mark was already proscribed. She was to be Dominant. And, by the way she exited the instructor's apartment, the future of her relationship with the instructor seemed pretty proscribed as well.

Devon was one tough bitch. Many women who'd have gone through what she'd gone through that evening, being treated that way after being used, would have been broken over it. But not Devon. Devon had gained some insight into how Mark felt, what it felt like to be relieved of all your obsessions momentarily, and, more importantly, she had gained some insight into herself, into what some of her own needs were.

Devon and Mark danced closely in dance class. They spoke freely during those times, during times when Mark felt more relaxed. It wasn't long before they realized they had both really enjoyed themselves that Friday and wanted to continue on that path. Pretty soon Mark and Devon began attending only the Thursday dance sessions and meeting regularly at Devon's apartment for the Tuesday sessions. The dance instructor of course noticed this but there was nothing he could do. During their Tuesday sessions Devon would instruct Mark to do increasingly more daring things. Fuck her ass. Lick her feet. Devon would wear increasingly more daring outfits. Spike heels. A leather corset. Thigh high boots.

Mark was an insurance actuary. This meant he was paid a decent salary to work in a nice office and crunch numbers. Mark was quite brilliant. But occasionally, his insurance company would send him out to inspect an accident. This was socially devastating for Mark, having to deal with all those people. He liked the comfort and solitude of his office. Having Devon around resolved a lot of this tension. Devon started calling in sick to work, as she had accumulated quite a few sick days, to accommodate this schedule and go with him.

One evening, they were in Seattle in a hotel room. Devon was wearing a leather waist cincher and leather thigh high boots. They had discussed everything in advance. Mark lied on the floor wearing nothing but a collar with a black chain attached to it, the end of which was, of course, in Devon's hand. Devon stood over him. She put one boot tip in his mouth and twisted it like she was putting out a cigarette.

"Lick my boots," she said coldly. Mark licked them desperately. She fed him her spike heel which he licked as well. She dragged her wet heel down the front of his face, down his chin, his neck, his chest. She pressed her heel into his balls and he winced. She tapped him with a crop, "No crying, baby." She pulled her heel out from his balls and walked away. Two seconds later the chain jerked Mark in her direction. She walked up to the balcony swung the curtain open and turned the light on. "I want everyone to see you. I want everyone to see you servicing me." Mark was on all fours. Devon put a foot on one of his shoulders and he knelt up to meet her pussy. He buried his face in it. He stuck his tongue into and out of her, he flicked her clit, he licked her ass. He stuck his fingers into and out of her. Devon dropped her head back, the hand holding the chain resting on Mark's head. Devon was being watched. Devon was being serviced. Devon was cumming in front of who knows how many people. Her legs went limp momentarily, but she caught herself on a chair. Her stomach convulsed. She gasped out.

"Have I done well?" Mark would ask.

"Amazing as usual," Devon would say. And Devon would be rewarded again with a brief time period within which Mark was not awkward, within which Mark was not self-doubting. But Devon enjoyed the self-conscious, ill at ease Mark. She liked it when he babbled on when he was nervous, or when he was suddenly overcome with passion for a certain subject. Mark knew this about Devon because of the closeness required of their sexual relationship. He knew what pleased her about him. It made him feel good to go out to dinners with her and act totally un-cool in every way and know it pleased her to see him like that. He knew she liked the way he followed orders. He knew the rules and followed them. He knew she like the way he acted when he was dancing, when he was fucking. Over the course of the next few months Devon and Mark came to love one another.

They reveled in their roles. They read books about their roles. They understood the psychology behind their roles. They developed their roles out of mutual respect for each other's personalities. Devon admired Mark's intellect. Mark admired Devon's selflessness in her career. Their Dominant/submissive roles were as unique as they were, as any Dominant/submissive couple is. They were as healthy a couple as could be, except for one small problem. Mark was still married. It was a relationship fated not to last by its very nature. Devon was the other woman. She was ultimately going to have to be the wrong choice for Mark. Sooner or later Mark would come to his senses and choose his wife and child over her. Devon knew this of Mark. But Devon had gained monumental knowledge about herself. Who she was, the roles she represented. She knew that about herself now. She knew who she was.

Mark occasionally talked about his wife during their intimate times, during times after sex, during dancing. He mentioned her rising suspicions, how she noticed his calmer demeanor on Tuesdays, after business trips. She was curious about this demeanor. She'd never seen him this way. Sex with Mark's wife was decidedly more relaxed than sex with Devon, and because of that more relaxed atmosphere Mark was far less able to relax during sex with his wife. His wife, Ana, would try to set the mood, to calm Mark, to ease his nervous tensions by lighting candles, wearing nighties, playing music. All these efforts only put the spotlight more onto Mark, it only put more pressure on Mark to perform, to act more cool, calm, and collected. It is for this reason he always failed at this with his wife, he always fumbled, always stuttered, always struggled internally. So when he came home having obtained that presence of mind Ana had always strived at obtaining with him, she was naturally suspicious.

Ana was the kind of woman that found beige and biscuit suitable and pleasing and proper colors for an upper middle class home. She married an insurance actuary because of the job security. Very few job openings for insurance actuaries pop up, only when one retires does a position become available. She thought Mark's interest in Science Fiction flicks and books was stupid. She thought his interest in tango was pointless, it obviously wasn't helping him socialize, she thought. The truth was, he was socializing better than ever. She liked romantic comedies, like any middle aged woman should. Movies about women in their forties falling into desperate love, because she knew no such thing. Movies about mid-life crises being worked out by love, because maybe Mark was just having a social crisis and it could be fixed by a plot twist in their lives. Movies about quirky people falling in love, because deep down, Ana thought she had enough personality to be quirky, to be unique. Even though her favorite color was biscuit. She worked as a personal banker. Not the high powered type, though she liked to wear the attire, but the low end, sell mortgages to people who can't afford them type. And the high powered attire she wore wasn't the kind of tightly tailored jackets and slimming skirted suits one might imagine. Ana liked to shop at Anne Taylor, wore conservatively pleated pant suits, blouses with strategic folds to cover any and all cleavage. She worked on commission and wasn't very aggressive, so most of the money coming into the household was from Mark's occupation, not Ana's. Essentially, it was from Mark's intellect that Ana could afford those suits from Anne Taylor, but Ana didn't appreciate his intellect. Ana played the role of soccer mom, or baseball mom as it was. She wore the right cashmere sweaters. She made the right dishes to cook outs. All her actions were proscribed by was supposed to be, how one was supposed to act, look, dress, talk, be. Her husband's social inadequacies were embarrassing to her. She excluded him from many social events because of this, under the guise of relieving him from his social tensions. She attended parent teacher conferences alone. She attended baseball team cook outs alone with their son Jacob. She even once went to a New Year's Eve party for work alone, leaving her husband behind to watch the big ball drop on TV alone.

When Mark started displaying his cooler side at home and Ana started asking questions Mark's responses to her questions would vary. They would depend upon how shortly after his encounter with Devon the questions were asked. If he had just come home from one of their Tuesday night sessions, Mark would have a quick response, the effects of his meeting with Devon had not yet worn off. He would be able to brush his wife off. This new ability Ana noticed in her husband, this ability to come up with a reasonable response quickly, only made Ana more suspicious. And if Ana asked Mark about the changes she'd noticed in him at another time, say on a random Monday evening, Mark would stutter uncontrollably, shift around in his chair or position, fidget with his clothing, babble on without actually saying anything. All tell tale signs for anyone who knows Mark that he is nervous about something, that he is talking around something, that he has something to hide. It wasn't long before Ana put two and two together but she didn't know how to talk to Mark about it. When he was more collected, he brushed her off. When he was more his usual self, he was incapable of addressing the more uncomfortable issues in life.

Here was the plot twist that was going to put in motion what Ana might call fixing Mark. She decided to follow him. She'd noticed he came home feeling 'not himself' after his Tuesday dance lessons so she left work early that Tuesday. She sat outside Mark's parking garage around 6:30, when she knew he normally left for lessons. She sat out there, parked on the side of the street for an hour. She knew the lesson started at 7:30 and still, Mark's car never left the lot. She dialed his work number from her cell and he didn't pick up. She dialed his cell and he never picked up. She went home and asked Mark how dance was.

"It was great. We learned this new form of Tango called Milonga. Lots of fancy footwork," Mark responded. It was a clear response. No babbling. No stuttering. Ana had obviously missed her opportunity in following him. She needed to catch him sooner. So the following Tuesday she made another excuse for leaving work early, a follow up doctor's appointment, she told her boss, and she left work to station herself outside her husband's parking garage at 5:30 and she waited. The thought crossed her mind that she could invite herself to her husband's tango lessons, but the sheer stupidity of those lessons made that an impossibility for her. Following him was the only option for her. Sure enough, just after 5:30 Mark's car pulled out of the garage. Ana stepped on the gas and followed Mark's car. She followed him with another car in between them so he wouldn't notice her. He took a number of turns and finally, after about twenty minutes he ended up at an apartment building.

"I knew it," she said out loud to herself in the car. She watched Mark walk up the iron staircase up to the second floor and knock. She saw only the top of some blond bimbo open the door and invite Mark in. That's where he'd been going on Tuesday nights. That's probably what had been going on during those business trips, if he'd been going on them at all. Ana sat fuming in her car for about twenty minutes. She was livid. That bimbo. Ana got up the courage and stormed up to the apartment and held her hand up as if to knock on the door but then she heard some voices coming from within the place.

Inside the apartment Devon and Mark were acting out a scene they had arranged over the phone in detail. Devon was wearing a new latex outfit she had purchased from the Stockroom. She wore a latex corset with latex stockings that went very high and seven inch spike heels. Spike heels always came in handy. She had to cover the latex covered body parts in lubricant in order to get all this latex gear on without piercing it with her thumb or the like so she decided to cover the rest of her body in lubricant. Her pussy and ass were freshly waxed and carefully lubed in every fold and curve. Devon was armed with a paddle and of course the short chain which was attached to Mark's precious collar. The collar was in her hands as well. He wasn't wearing it yet. He'd just walked in the door. Devon ran her fingernails down the buttons of his shirt and let a breath exhale over his face.

"How was work? Did you come up with any brilliant algorithms?" Devon asked.

"It was... it was... fine," Mark stuttered. He quickly unloaded the contents of his pockets, eagerly, onto the hallway table. A wallet. A cell phone. Loose change. He loosened his tie. He took off his suit jacket and began to hang it on a hook in the wall, not in a fluid gesture, but in sporadic movements, as if intermittently unsure if that's what he was supposed to be doing.

"You may hang your jacket up," Devon said. And Mark let out a sigh and hung it up. "Got to the kitchen and wait for me there." Mark went. Devon counted to ten and followed him. She walked into the kitchen, stood before him with her legs about two feet apart, still armed, and dropped the collar from her hands, still hanging by the chain. Mark's collar was purchased for him as a gift about six weeks into their affair. They chose the collar together. It had o-rings at regular intervals all around the neck, so that the chain may be hooked by a carabineer from any angle.

"Did you wear your gear all day like you were supposed to do? Were you a good boy?" Devon asked as she un buttoned Mark's shirt and fastened the collar. Mark was now in his usual collar but was wearing a special restraint for his cock and balls under his pants. It was constructed like leather underwear with holes for his cock and balls to go through. Straps were sewn in with buckles to restrain his balls and his cock in an upright position. There were a total of six buckles restraining his cock and one squeezing at the top of his balls.