Switching at KinkCon

"He wears this most of the time," Cathy explained briskly and cheerfully. "The extra attachment is special for tonight - it's not really practical for all day. Well, half days are fine, helpful sometimes to keep his mind on the job at work... Turn round again, poppet."

John screwed his eyes shut, as if pretending this wasn't happening. Perhaps he was considering bowing out of the whole scene, pushed to his hard limit. Cathy made a small cough, the kind that means 'hurry up'. He took a deep breath, and began to tiptoe round so I could admire his arse.

This time I pretty much knew what to expect - there's only so many attachments you could add to a chastity device, especially that would be impractical for long-term wear. And there it was - the round flat external face of a steel butt plug, with a metal loop linking it to the other device, pushing his bum cheeks apart.

It drew attention to his stretched arsehole like nothing I'd ever seen before. It was beautiful. I wanted to play with it, but actually, I was quite happy watching him wear all that metal and to see how it affected him. Especially now Cathy could reach all of his arse.

"You like? You, Karen - I know he does!" She rubbed his back and bum affectionately. "My little butt slut, I call him."

"It's stunning!" I added, "Lovely to know what's happening there - or not - when we're together."

"I thought you'd like to see it. He gets all embarrassed, silly boy. Even though he's got an incredibly popular arsehole."

If anything, John's head hung even lower, despite his arms being held above him, and possibly even more red.

"He just loves to be fucked, you see. Or fuck, even. Gets obsessed by it. If he didn't have the metal restraint on his cock, he'd be wanting to fuck all the time, all and sundry, never get any work done, doesn't sleep... Or wanting to be fucked, anyone, anytime, anywhere... This way, he can concentrate, and really appreciate it when I let him out." She giggled and flicked his chin. "Tell Karen about that swingers' club I took you to, a couple months ago."

John sighed, swaying side to side on his toes. I passed a sports bottle of water up to his lips, and he sucked on it, gratefully.

"It was in the middle of nowhere. Off the A34. An old farmhouse."

Cathy's swipe on his arse made clear that wasn't the kind of detail she was thinking of. He managed a weak version of his usual grin, then decided to co-operate.

"There's always lots of guys at swinging things who are bi-curious - you know, happy in their relationships, but if they can get a no-strings-attached go at a bloke's arse, they leap at it. Often with their happy girlfriends watching..."

"Of course." Cathy agreed, sarcastically. "Getting fucked themselves would be a bit too queer. Way too gay. Which is where John comes in."

Resigned to the story being told one way or another, John stood up straighter and rocked onto his high heels, swinging himself around by his arms. "Basically, Cathy takes me along, puts me on all fours leaning onto a sofa, everyone can see the steel round the cock, no threat to anyone's masculinity, nice welcoming arsehole, and she opens a six-pack of Durex. Anyone wanders near, she says, put one of these on and you can fuck him. Worked out very nicely, all round..."

"Gave out the whole box and had to use some of the club's ones," Cathy confirmed with satisfaction. "Eight blokes, I think it was, and John here just loving every minute of it!"

"Which was the point," he reminded her.

"Exactly. My insatiable slut-boy. So sometimes,"

"Quite a lot, actually,"

"... he needs his arse filled for some hours, just to help calm him down."

"Guilty as charged," John agreed, starting to look more like his usual confident self.

"But of course that doesn't always work, so it's good every now and then to string him up and remind him who's boss. And because he's so much fun."

You could call it a twinkle in her eye.

"That's me, the guaranteed fun toy," John retorted, clearly thinking he might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.

"Exactly. Now, where was I?"

"Reminding him who's boss," I replied obligingly.

"How could I forget... Ah, here's that nice hairbrush..."

She applied the stiff bristles to his arse and thighs, which he clearly didn't like much as they scrubbed his skin sore. Once his bum was a rosy pink, she switched to whacking him with the wooden side. He gasped, but the satisfied, glazed look was returning - clearly painful but in a good way. He began to moan on every stroke, as Cathy hit him slowly but hard.

I was still watching John's out-of-it expression, and watching him struggling to stay on his feet, forcing himself to ensure the pain, resigning himself to no escape no matter how he swayed. His sweat glistened on his gorgeous body, a drip of drool hung from his lip, and god help me, I was getting off on seeing him being tormented. I wanted to see him suffer more. And then Cathy picked up a cane.

"Don't want to spend much longer - who knows what you might be doing later! So just cutting to some final strokes, dear."

I thought I heard a squeak - a suppressed whimper. I almost did the same, at the thought of cane strokes without a warm-up. Well, she might have been going to merely warm him up, but we all knew it was going to be more like a classic 'six of the best'.

She turned sideways, standing closer to me. An experimental swish through the air - John and I both winced, involuntarily - and then a whack.

My eyes had closed upon the impact, and when I opened them I saw John hanging forwards, jaw clenched with the effort not to cry out. Cathy put her hand on his bottom to gently rub the new welt, and he moaned. That amazing mixture of pleasure and pain, I figured, knowing it well. Another swing and smack.

"Aaah!" He then went silent again. His breathing was coming more quickly. A third whack, and he was losing control, panting. His eyes were unfocused, his spiky hair damp from sweat, and veins in his raised arms rose up as he tensed all over. His legs were being shown to perfection. A beautiful toy; I could gaze at him all night. Watching him in pain was getting my cunt wet more than I'd ever imagined.

Another smack and a cry, and he stumbled to keep his footing when another landed, letting out a wailing howl. This wasn't fun pretend discipline; it was harsh and cruel, delivering profoundly startling sensations unavailable anywhere else. Technically he might have a safeword, but I doubted he was in a state to say anything.

Cathy must have had the same impression. She paused, caressed his hand, and whispered, "Anything you want to say?"

He shook his head a tiny amount. She put her finger in his, and confirmed, "Sure you can keep going?"

John must have squeezed her finger the correct number of times, as she took a deep breath. "Here we go, then."

She swung the cane, one, two, three, four times. John was breathless and initially silent, but then a noise started. It was sobbing. From the shock, most likely - while a couple tears ran from his eyes, it was dry crying, mostly his body shaking, overcome with emotion.

Cathy dropped the cane on the floor and stood next to him with her arms round his torso, her cheek resting on his shoulder. "All done, my love."

After a long pause, he whispered, "Thank you, my lady."

It was a tender, intimate moment. Erotic as it was, I felt I should leave them alone, and made to leave.

Cathy looked up. "Save us some supper, would you? We'll be along in a bit."

I imagined her lifting John's arms from the ceiling hook, rubbing them, removing his bonds. He'd put clothes back on like protective armour, and probably be back to his usual cocky self when I next saw him.

Indeed, he strutted in twenty minutes later, while I was still queuing for the buffet, a slightly quieter version of normal, Cathy with his leash wrapped around her arm. They both smiled at me, Cathy with extreme satisfaction, John a bit more self-deprecating.

I updated them on the essentials. "Food took forever to set up. It looks good, though. Are you guys hungry?"

"Wonderful. I'm starving." That was the last John said, as we filled our plates. We found seats, sat down - John rather carefully, and just thinking about how his arse must be feeling made my cunt wet again - and ate. There was much more greeting of other friends. Unusually, it was Cathy who did most of the talking.

"Great to see you! Mary! Alice! Mikey! Where are you staying? Which sessions did you go to?"

By the time I'd finished my plateful and was considering seconds, I'd agreed to give Mary and Alice a lift back to our hotel, as well as Cathy and John. It was a squeeze, but John was not unhappy squashed into the back middle seat of my hatchback. Apparently most convention-goers were in the same hotel - a national chain priding itself on large, comfortable beds, good showers, and, possibly most importantly for the kink community, excellent sound insulation. Though not scaring the neighbours hadn't actually been my priority when I'd booked it - I'd been attracted by the 'good night guarantee' because I'd recently failed to get any sleep in a city centre Travelodge, thanks to hen and stag parties rampaging around all night!

The receptionist carefully didn't blink at our combination of outfits. Mary and Alice had a room on the top floor; I was on the one below, down the corridor from John and Cathy.

"We'll get washed and changed, then come help you with your corset," Cathy said.

So finally I got to shed my work clothes, had a long, hot shower, combed my wet long hair, trimmed my pubic hair after an extra careful wash round there - a girl always lives in hope - and got out the various parts of my outfit. I was wondering whether to put my knickers on, for some semblance of decency, and deal later with threading suspenders for my stockings underneath, but then there was a knock at the door.

"Oi. It's us." John's voice.

I wrapped the fluffy white bath towel back round me and let them in. With another white towel turbanned on my head, it felt like a scene in a movie.

Cathy dumped her coat onto the bed, revealing a slinky long black dress, which proved she really did have a desirable body despite her curves normally being hidden. Not that there was any point my considering it too much - the woman was irredeemably straight.

But my eyes were caught by John. He hadn't bothered with a coat - I supposed getting cabs directly to and from the venue meant he wouldn't get cold. And typically, he couldn't care less what cabbies or hotel guests thought of him. He wore the same five-inch posture collar as previously, though Cathy had let him off the leash. A black mesh T-shirt, to better show off his arms and chest. Black jodhpurs, clinging to his arse and thighs, and showing off cushioning around his cock. A low-slung belt with shiny buckle helped draw attention to that region. And perfectly-polished black boots with a dozen buckles running up his calves, a small platform under the pointed toes, and fabulous six-inch heels. He was striding as confidently as if born wearing them. A bit of glitter and gel made his hair more spiky than usual, and he was a delectable vision towering over me, especially with the curves of his inner thighs at my eye level...

"Nice boots," I said, using the abbreviated version of the classic goth chat-up line.

"I'm sure something satisfactory along those lines could be arranged," he agreed, recognising the original form, 'Nice boots; wanna fuck?'

"Good. Here's the offending corset."

"Lose the towel, then. I've seen you naked before, and she's not interested." He picked up the corset and continued to loosen its strings to make it easier to fit round me. I obeyed. "Nice steel boning. Quality. You'll look gorgeous in this - that red and black, pale skin... Arms up, you."

The metal clasps clunked easily down my front, with his strength pushing them together. I leant forward over the bed as he shifted the corset to the right height and started to tighten the laces, pulling first in the middle, then the top and bottom, then the middle again. It started to feel snug, but not tight.

"I'm doing it a bit tighter at the top, so your breasts wobble above it." He tugged the lacing, so while my nipples were hidden, a lot of pale cleavage was on show. "Hang onto the bed - I'll just do a little more now, then I'll tighten it properly when we get there, let it ease round you. Lovely. Great tits. Pass us those stockings and sit down."

I sat on the bed and let John kneel to roll my stockings up my legs. Small-holed fishnet, classy rather than tacky, I hoped. Cathy was lounging by the headboard, playing on her phone, ignoring us.

"It's nice to have someone else faff with the suspenders," I commented. I always found it difficult to attach stockings to the ones at the back.

"My pleasure," he grinned. Fondling my thighs was a perk. "I suppose you're wanting a few more clothes than this, at least for the cab?"

"'Fraid so. Knickers - any preference between these? And this skirt, I was thinking."

"Ooh, is that real silk? Has to be those, then, really. Lift that foot." He pulled the silk French knickers, edged with soft lace, up over my bottom and to rest just below the corset. I stepped into the pencil skirt next, and he repeated the action, tucking the stretchy black skirt just under where the corset flared out.

I stood up. My skirt just covered my stocking tops. It wouldn't, if I bent over at all. Exactly what I was aiming for.

"And your shoes. These ones?"

I nodded. They looked boring next to John's footwear, little ankle boots with only an inch of heel, but I'd never mastered anything higher.

He knelt again to put them on my feet, seeing as we'd ignored the fetishists' mantra, 'boots before corset'.

"Nice. I like being taller than you." It was true we were about the same height, though his vertical hair made people think he was over five-nine rather than under, and with his heels, he became a good six foot.

"I'll call a cab now, if that's OK?" Cathy interrupted. "Yes, the city centre one. Ten minutes? Yes, that's fine. Cathy. We'll be downstairs."

I touched up my lipstick, put on my coat - I'm right nesh with the cold, and wasn't too keen on showing all my legs to minicab drivers, either - and grabbed my toy bag. Toys, bottle of water, warm jumper, contribution to the bar given the event was unlicensed, snacks to keep our strength up, all in a long sports bag.

I double-checked wallet and keys, Cathy put her phone away, and we went back to the lift. We made an odd trio, two of us merely dressy, John clearly a fetish object, all with holdalls slung over our shoulders. On the ground floor, we emerged at the back of the hotel and turned to walk down the beige corridor to reception.

Two heavy-set townie chaps approached. I recognised the aggressive look and considered what weaponry might be best to pull out that couldn't be easily used against me, should it be needed. A flogger, I decided.

"Whoa! It's a fucking gimp queer boy! Where do you think you're going?" The guys stood side by side, blocking the corridor with their porky bodies. I sighed. Such people were always tedious. John was marginally in front of us; Cathy motioned to me to stop. We put our bags down, unzipped, ready to grab something if needed. John's right hand reached over his shoulder into his bag, as he slowed down. I'd seen John confusing and distracting bullies enough times - fighting, even, if necessary - not to be seriously concerned.

John pulled out a chunky piece of black plastic; at least that's what it looked like. He tossed his holdall behind him and shook the thing. An extendible baton. He whistled as he hooked it across his belt.

The thugs in their ironed checked shirts paused, clearly recognising the baton from its usual context - hanging from the belts of police.

John spoke, his voice as deep as he could make it. "I'm going clubbing. Undercover. I suggest you both get out of my way and don't obstruct me in my duty."

Both men gulped and stood to the side as we all strode past. Luckily, we made it to the lobby before releasing any laughter.

"Nice one. You didn't even lie, really!" Cathy was approving, but also clearly relieved. She knew John sometimes - usually - stirred trouble up, rather than dial it down.

"Is that a real police baton?" I asked, curious. It certainly looked real, not that I'd ever studied one close-up.

"'Course not. That would be illegal." He clarified, "It might just be a very accurate replica from Amsterdam, though. Look - there's a bit of small print, saying 'For novelty use only.'"

"Like they put on sex toy packaging in America," I laughed.

"Funny you should say that..." John made his thumb and forefinger into a circle, and slid it over the end of the baton, meaningfully.

"You haven't! Seriously, man!"

He grinned at me. I shook my head. The guy was irrepressible.

"There's the cab! Put that thing away, would you?" Cathy ushered us along.

The cab driver looked up at us, and hardly blinked. Taxi drivers have seen it all. He shared his opinions on the new one-way system and we commented on the freezing February weather, until twenty minutes later the taxi stopped on an out-of-town industrial estate, outside a lone brick building surrounded by prefabs and metal sheds. Unit 9, aka The Fortress to its friends, was the only unit with lights on.

"Have a good night, you lot. Looks like you will!" The driver tilted an eyebrow meaningfully, clearly guessing or knowing what sort of establishment this was. Cathy passed him a generous tip and took his card. "One o'clock, you say? Give us a good twenty minutes notice, best make it half an hour. No worries. Us drivers like this place, everyone's friendly and sober come chuckin'-out time, not like some local clubs I could mention, ahem, Razzles, Prism... Take weird clothes over puke and fighting any day, me. Nowt so queer as folks, right?" He waved as he sped off.

The bouncers nodded as we waved our convention passes and stepped inside. The ground floor was covered in paving slabs and didn't feel like it was inside a building; more like a warehouse yard. The walls were bare red brick, with various partitioned-off areas and rooms, some possibly the original stalls for horses. There were metal cages, a pillory, and other wrought-iron structures for medieval-type scenes. One cage was occupied by a crouching man in a harness. It wasn't just the temperature that was leaving me cold.

"You want to go upstairs - that's where the main play areas and social space are," someone in a sash denoting authority informed us. We headed into the stairwell.

The historic vibe was immediately replaced with lashings of peeling white paint, cheap wooden banisters and mismatched office carpet tiles. It could have been any sort of low-rent building. But after four turns of stairs, we reached the main floor, above the space we'd seen. Passing through an office-type fire door, the atmosphere improved immediately. To our left, a large room with dance floor and a DJ blasting 90s choons. Already the dancers included several people indulging in acts that would get them thrown out of your average nightclub. If the staff didn't like the look of you, anyway. Lots of alcoves with seats or restraints, for those who didn't mind playing with background noise. To the right of the large landing was the main social space, a lounge that aimed for gentlemen's club but hadn't quite had the budget. Splashes of gilt paint substituted for brass fittings, but otherwise the dark walls, heavy curtains, and lots of comfortable seats was a reasonable facsimile. There was even an aspidistra growing in the corner. Many unmatched sofas ran down each side of the huge room, and at the far end, a door led to the kitchen, which felt more like a church hall, fluorescent lights over trestle tables bearing drink and snacks, supervised by one member of staff.