Switching at KinkCon

"Time to visit the playroom. Your prescribed pain awaits." I took his hand. "Actually, take your vest off, first." He obeyed, looking down and not meeting my eyes. It made his collar more obvious and the undressed look came across as more submissive. Of course, there was an easy way to show even more clearly who the sub was right now. I pulled out two sets of clamps, one small but with jingling bells on them, one larger, linked by a thick chain.

"Which would you prefer?" I squeezed one nipple. His nipples really were cute.

"Oof. The ones with the chain look heavy. The bells, please."

I tossed the ones with the bells back in his bag and pulled his nipples so as to attach the others - mine. I'm contrary like that. He was right, they were heavy. But they created a pleasurable pain like nothing else.

The chain hung down nearly to his navel, highlighting his chest beautifully. I grinned at him. "Playtime, pretty boy!"

Back along the balcony and to the entrance of the playroom, holding the chain to lead him. It was quite crowded, but some questioning confirmed that only two groups were actually queuing themselves to play. The rest of the bystanders were happily watching or recovering.

Four people moved to a queening chair that had just been vacated. Fine by me - it wouldn't be much use to us.

John remained silent by my side. I held his hand, with the occasional squeeze of his arse or swinging of his nipple chain. A few times I reached up and ruffled his hair. I knew he hated it, but he managed to keep his face composed. The wait was building his nerves and anticipation, which was good, but I was starting to get impatient.

A couple moved away from a bench. The man in front of us turned and said, "Do you want that? We're holding out for one of those frames on the wall."

Yes. Yes, I did...

I took John with me. I sat down on it. It had a lower step for someone's knees, then the main part was for their upper body to rest on. There were hand and foot cuffs already attached. Perfect for my purposes.

I smiled up at him. "Take off your boots and legwear." I reasoned he'd feel particularly naked without them, underpants notwithstanding. He sat next to me to unbuckle the boots, silently, then put them next to where I'd put our bags, by the wall. He continued to look down, not into my eyes, as he pulled down his jodhpurs and inched them over his feet, removing his socks with them.

He seemed suddenly much smaller.

"Stand up straight. Show off that body. Give us a twirl." He obeyed, the chain coming to rest after he did, a faint smile coming to his face.

"Naked except for your knickers. It's like those nightmares people have about finding themselves in school Assembly in nothing but their pants, isn't it? Everybody watching, and staring, at you... Only here," I gestured around the room, "with that fetishy collar and all, they know you're a filthy slut who needs his corporal punishment. Don't you?"

His honorific for me was well chosen. "Yes, ma'am!"

"Do you like being looked at? Not when you're all dressed up, we all know you like that, you vain sod. But practically naked, in a room full of people?"

He considered, shrugged, and put his palms out to indicate he really was trying to answer. I waited. After a moment, he replied, "I don't like it. But I get off on it because of knowing you like it."

It made sense. Then I was nearly punching the air. He wouldn't have said that if he weren't really feeling it. Which meant I'd gone from merely topping him to succeeding as a domme. Not that there's anything wrong with topping people without a d/s dynamic, but it's satisfying to have more skills in one's box.

"Good. Hop up here, then. Pull those knickers up so I can reach as much of your arse as I'm allowed." They were made of a stretchy material, so, like a thong, he managed to leave a mere line up his crack and pull the waistband high, out of the way. Kneeling down, arse in the air, it was hard to tell he wasn't nude. They should make more statues with poses like that...

I fastened him into the restraints; left wrist, left ankle, right ankle, right wrist. The ankle end was easy: chains on the cuffs could loop over hooks down between his feet. There were choices for his arms - by his sides or hanging down? But first - "Hup a moment - I don't want that chain under you."

He winced as I removed one clamp, then the other, from his nipples, and I rubbed circulation back into them, because it was fun to see him jump and try to be silent while cursing me! I did a bit of mental measuring and came to a decision.

His posture collar had metal rings on each side. Rather than risk him bashing hands on the bench's metal frame, I clipped his wrists to the collar. He could wriggle and squirm, but not escape. To prevent him from standing up or lifting his chest would be simple. I replaced one of the nipple clamps, making him exclaim, but he managed to choke back any words. The chain was long enough to pass under the bench and attach back to him on the other side, just. If he lifted his chest more than an inch off the bench, the clamps would be pulled hard, eventually popping off him. I wouldn't object at all if that happened...

I walked around the bench, admiring my new toy, stroking his legs, his back, playing with his hair and fondling his ears. I started to massage his shoulders. I loved the feeling of his skin under my hands, faint white ridges and all. But it would be antisocial to hog the equipment for longer than necessary, and besides, he was keyed up to fever pitch, waiting for me to inflict pain on him. How could I disappoint him?

I rummaged through his holdall to see what was in there, but in the end pulled out my own favourite flogger. About fifty fronds of the softest suede, surprisingly heavy, the strips of leather folded over to fit better in the polished wooden handle. Perfect for sensation play, and I started stroking the falls over his back. He began to work at getting into the zone, slowing his breathing down. I added a little more force so the leather landed more heavily. John accepted this mild pain happily, and purred, careful to keep his chest touching on the bench. A bit more. I'm not into being beaten on my back myself, but here I could control it, watch his reaction, and ensure I didn't stray into what I deemed actual torture. He was loving it.

Which meant time to dial it up. I ran the leather falls through my hand, bunching them together with a slight twist, and swung. It makes all the fronds land together, feeling much heavier. This time, the flogger made a solid thud. I got into a rhythm, landing the bunch of falls left, right, left again, as I started putting more force into it.

Thump, thump. I saw his jaw clench as he concentrated on not moving. He could take more, though. Something with more impact than this flogger. He had one that would do nicely. Heavier than mine, with rough leather thongs. I made some experimental figures-of-eight in the air with it, landed some gentle blows on his back, then set to beating up his shoulders.

Thud, thud. He was exhaling hard and his shoulder blades were reddening nicely. I reached out to massage some of the tension in his trapezius - from where he'd been hanging by his arms earlier, I guessed. A little moment of pleasure, then back to more flogging. The rough edges of the leather were catching on sensitised pink skin now, and an occasional moan escaped his lips. An extra hard stroke, and he started to arch his back, felt the clamps pull on his nipples, and forced himself to lie flat again. Nearly there, I thought.

A brutal half-dozen strokes with all my weight behind them, and he was emitting high-pitched wails as the chain pulled on his tits despite all his efforts at control. I scratched my nails over his abused back, where red lines were starting to appear on a pink background, and he shuddered, trying to grip the bench between his elbows. Time to move elsewhere on his body soon, but first, I wanted to inflict blows up to my limit on his back. A dozen more, I could do. That wouldn't cause unreasonable damage, in my book.

I twirled the falls in my left hand and raised my right above my shoulder.

The bang as the leather landed coincided with a sudden silence in the room. John was panting hard but managing to remain still. So far.

Two.

Three. He moaned.

Four.

Five.

Six. A wail, and a struggle to stay still.

Seven.

Eight. He'd clenched his mouth shut but was screaming through it.

Nine. High-pitched scream as he arched and nearly pulled the clamps off.

Ten.

John shrieked swear words as his upper body rose from the bench, one clamp tumbling to the floor. Everyone around was watching him, checking things were under control; I dropped the flogger and stroked his neck to calm him. Reassured I was acting consensually, many of the audience were simply enjoying his groans. Or wincing in sympathy. Or both, like I was!

"Let's get this other one off, too." He inhaled deeply, but still screamed out when blood suddenly rushed into the other nipple. I massaged both tits firmly, his pleading moaning relaxing into sighs of pleasure as the pain surged then subsided. The perils and perks of playing with someone who knows how such things feel!

I squatted down next to him and put my fingers in his. "How are you feeling?"

He squeezed my fingers and held them. Amber warning.

"Tell me. What's up?"

"No more clamps... please..."

"No, don't worry. Your nipples are safe now. No more clamps. Not tonight."

"OK," he whispered. A double squeeze of my fingers. Good to go.

I massaged his back firmly, pushing on all the scratches and welts, then stood up straight. My corset was doing a grand job of ensuring my posture, so I wouldn't get backache from bending over him. Now, time to play with that beautiful arse...

His bum was fading pink, with five raised red lines across it. Another along the crease at the top of his thighs. I'd have to mind the marks from Cathy's cane, but there was plenty of flesh available to hurt here.

And I was really going to enjoy it. Seeing John wriggling and flinching, in pain but also aroused, was a lot of fun. As was watching him being embarrassed, but now I had an attentive audience watching us. Getting him to that point of pain just beyond pleasure, successfully, had boosted my confidence, and now I just had to decide what to do with his bottom and thighs.

Apart from simply shoving my face into them and nuzzling, which was a damn good start. Warm skin, and his masculine smell, and the odd area that was extra warm...

I stood up again, then crouched by his ear. "What a fun toy you are. All mine to hurt."

Just in case he thought we'd finished. I'd hardly started.

Flogging might be too much on damaged skin, though. A crop, however, could land safely between those welts... But first I'd test his reactions. A gentle punch to his arse, and another. That was clearly going down well. Pleasurably sore. I became less gentle, added some stinging slaps. And kept going. He wasn't finding it exactly enjoyable now, but steady breathing enabled him to take it well, with little difficulty.

If I were to take him out of himself, to his limits, I'd need more force. I'm not strong. Luckily, leverage can help. This is why you study physics, kids. A swing of my long crop would have a lot of force at the tip. Also, its handle is covered in diamanté and the crop itself is rainbow-coloured with a golden leather tip. It's tacky as hell. John would be horribly embarrassed simply to be seen with the thing!

So I reached to gently tap his cheek with it. He lifted his head and rolled his eyes. Cheeky boy. Couldn't have that. Time for discipline.

Again, I started gently, confirming I could land the crop tip between his cane marks. Then harder. Some on his thighs and between them. More on his bottom. He lifted his bum and wriggled, as if he were fucking the bench. And then I hit him all over his arse, including over the welts Cathy had inflicted.

God, I loved the noises he was making there. A high-pitched wail. But he was still reasonably composed. I wanted him to lose it. Be out of control, totally.

I slapped his arse while I thought. His police baton might be effective, but having never wielded it before, I didn't want to start now. A cane, from a low controlled height? That might be good, but probably not extreme enough to push him where he was begging to go. A larger swing wouldn't be controllable enough, given the injuries I needed to avoid. I pulled my shorter, heavier cane out anyway. With it came the small case I kept my pin-wheel in. It gave me an idea.

He'd winced more than I expected under Cathy's clawed hand and the hairbrush bristles. Like me, he could take a lot of heavy impact, but whereas I wuss out with stingy weapons like crops, he really did struggle with the scratchy sensations, as he'd admitted to me. I tested my theory, dragging my nails across his sore arse.

He whimpered, and bent himself to the side, trying to get his bottom away from it. And back the other way when I reversed my motion. Bingo. I stepped up and gripped handfuls of his tight buttocks, digging my nails in as much as I could. His sounds changed from low pitched to desperate squeals. I went to check in with him.

"You're wriggling beautifully. How are you doing, my boy?"

He could only make acute squeaks.

"It's a hard life, being such an arse slut who needs discipline, isn't it?"

He didn't make a smart retort, merely panted.

"You haven't hit your limit yet, have you?" I took his hand again. He might be able to take more, but he had left the land of being able to speak. He squeezed my fingers once. And then again.

Time to apply the cane to those wonderful male thighs, tight firm muscle with pale soft smooth skin on the inside. I kissed them first - yes, I have a thigh fetish, in case you hadn't guessed - then a warning stroke, then half a dozen hard ones.

John started to scream around the fourth one, then collapsed into silence, gasping. I let him catch his breath. I'd go less hard on his arse. But slower.

A yell of 'aah' came from every stroke. Six. Eight. I pressed his red skin. Oh, that groan was wonderful! No skin actually broken. So I dared to swing harder, crossing the existing lines.

He bounced from the bench in between each hit, twisting and turning fruitlessly. Two strokes didn't harm him, so I gave him another two. And another. And, wanting to finish this, push him over the edge, a final two, along marks already there.

I saw a tear forming in one eye, and his rapid panting as he failed to control himself, but he had been swept away by the pain and was in a world of his own. I placed my hand on his bum, to sooth him with the weight. And gripped the scarlet flesh with my nails digging in.

He screamed. And god forgive me, it went straight to my cunt and I was getting off on it. I picked up my pin-wheel to keep him at this point. A slow, steady run of steel points along his arse, and another, and he clenched his cheeks to pull away from it. I laid my left hand on his neck to help hold him on the bench, and ran the wheel over his bum again, faster, harder, and he was lifting his knees as well as his chest as he desperately tried to escape.

Some rapid slashes with the pointed wheel and he clearly wasn't caring about falling off the bench. It started to rock. Some people rushed up to stand on each side, just in case. I pressed the spikes into his thigh, pushing firmly enough to make dents, and ran the wheel in a line upwards. He sobbed. Another line of firm pressure on that thigh, and a third, and he was crying properly, not just from the extreme sensations, but because he knew all too well that three lines up one leg would have to be matched by inflicting the same torture on the other...

I paused then, for a good minute. Despite my stroking him and murmuring sweet nothings, it took him most of that time to stop panicking and sobbing and return to our aimed-for state of bliss, where John was totally away with the fairies, sniffling, but accepting whatever might be done to him.

And then I pushed the pins into his right thigh.

His sob collapsed and so did he. He lay almost motionless, but his torso pulsated. A rhythmic movement of his groin, pathetically humping the flat bench. Dry orgasm? Possibly. Release, certainly. I did the last two lines of pins, gave him one slash with the pin-wheel across his arse for luck, and knelt down at his side with my arm over his trembling back. He gulped again as I hugged him, then finally went still.

"All done, my boy. You were ever so good! You suffered, just like I wanted you to. Let me wipe your tears."

His cheeks really were wet. He shuddered, and then shivered again. I brought his sports bottle of water over and helped him to drink. Then I unfastened his ankles so he could stretch his legs out, still lying prone.

I made to undo his wrists, but he shook his head.

"Like it," he managed to rasp out.

"OK. Just be careful getting up, then. I'll help you, when you're ready. No rush."

"There's a sofa just there," someone pointed out helpfully.

We stayed in place for a couple minutes, me kneeling on the floor, him lying on the padded bench, my face against his burning back, until John suddenly forced himself to his knees, then, with my arm round him, stood up. He stumbled slightly, as if forgetting he wasn't in his heels, and stood, hunched over, blinking.

I pulled out my fleece blanket to put round him. As he turned, the light caught him from behind and the crowd could see what had been done to him.

"'Kin'ell!" exclaimed one.

"Bloody hell! Who's that?"

"Looks like John from Manchester, but can't be."

"It is," I retorted to that one. "He's lovely to play with."

I ignored the continued muttering. "But John's only a top!"

"No, he submits to Cathy. Didn't you know?"

"Yeah, but only in private! Never seen him be done in a play space, in all my years at these events."

I bit down my urge to reply, "then you've learnt something new today, haven't you?" It was John who needed my care and attention, now.

I helped him stagger to the sofa and collapse onto it, gave him more water, offered chocolate. He ate two chunks gratefully, remaining silent. I snuggled next to him, and he leaned his head on my shoulder, a faint grin just visible on his exhausted face, the most relaxed I'd ever seen him.

We remained still and quiet for about five minutes. Another couple stepped up to the bench we'd been using. I fed John more chocolate and had some water myself. I felt like I'd done an hour's aerobic workout. Probably because I had, or at least, had been using lots of energy, whilst unable to breathe in deeply. Roughly the same thing.

"Would you like your clothes back?"

He made a small nod, and whispered, "Leggings, please."

I pulled them up his legs. Then I knelt on the floor to add his socks, and then pushed his feet into his boots and fastened them. His leggings were still only half-way up his thighs, but as far as John was concerned, this was practically dressed.

"All right, Karen? John been at you, then?"

It was Gareth. I caught John's eye from my position on the floor. He made the tiniest of smiles, and stood up, discarding the blanket.

"No. She's been at me." He turned round and Gareth gasped.

"Woah! That's... Heavy, man... I didn't know you could top, Karen!"

I was getting really fed up of that assumption.

"Evidently, she can and does." John was back to his usual acerbic self. "Come on, sweetie. I need some tea." Somehow he managed to order me to follow him by gesturing with an elbow, no matter that his wrists were still chained to his neck.

We took ourselves back to the social space. This time, I settled John into a large armchair and fetched us both a mug. Sugar, in his. I unclipped his hands so he could take it.