Our Acquiescent Pixie

Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.

10 AM Friday, Las Vegas time:

text to kristen: climax Tues?
kristen: no.
to: well we have one waiting for you
re: ;-)


kristen, Cat, and I had made plans to play in Las Vegas back in March and in the intervening weeks she and I e-mailed in an exchange bordering on obsession. I would check my e-mail at early-morning hours and mid-afternoon, partly due to the time difference that put her three hours ahead of us; kristen once ran home from work between meetings to read and respond with words she was unwilling to use on her work computer. And now...


One PM text from kristen – on the plane and on time :-)

She's tied up with work until the last minute and then faces a long flight, she'll be getting in right at 8. And we will definitely pick her up at the airport, because I want to play a game you only get one chance at. kristen hasn't played with us much before and has never been to Vegas, making it perfect for the blindfold game. She has to give up and trust us completely – not really knowing where we're going (though she has a good idea) and no visual assurances of who we are. It's a lot to ask, a lot to give up – and as I said, a disappearing opportunity because once you've gotten to know your Tops well it loses its effectiveness. Another reason for all the e-mails, to establish the trust to play this game. And once we start, I don't want to be trying to react to her – I want to know what we'll be doing and that it'll be okay.

So just after 7 we head for the airport – I've learned that with bars, airports, and most other meeting places the man ought to arrive first, rather than leave the woman standing around waiting. Maybe a too-old-fashioned thought for modern, enlightened women but I'm not anxious to change it.


Eight PM at McCarren - The flight's on time, we're on time.

Cat and I stake out the baggage claim – which, of course, is a long way from the arrival gate but as close as we can get these days. Struck by the irrational fear that we'll miss her, particularly as the minutes drag by – though we have cell phones, nothing can really go wrong and it doesn't. One minute we're impatiently waiting, the next she's there standing before us – a smiling dark-haired pixie, thoroughly intent on enjoying herself. She tells us of all the barbs she withstood from partying workmates as she turned in early most nights all week. Since it's 11 PM her time and we have plans for the next seven hours, I whole-heartedly approve.

Back at the car we load in her luggage and produce a black cap and cloak – though the night's not freezing, it might come in handy. Pulling the cap down over her eyes (that's why we chose it) should shut off her vision until we intend to restore it. I had considered a number of anxiety-provoking scenes, such as removing or changing her clothes in a deserted parking lot somewhere (hence the cloak) but concluded that even the most basic evening would be thrilling enough under the blindfold – and if we ran into trouble entering the hotel, I wanted her to have a respectable amount of clothing on. Cat guides her carefully into the backseat.

These things seldom go perfectly and in hindsight we probably should have chosen the ear-warmer blindfold instead of the cap. kristen, alone in the back seat – hard to distribute three people in a small car - does not behave well in terms of peeking, so she does know we're going up the freeway along the strip and not heading out into the desert. I repeatedly reach back and pull her cap back down but her intention, at least, is obvious. She's never seen the hotel lobby-casino and is extremely anxious about being led through it blindfolded – actually, I had brought a few birthday party props just to allow us to do so – but I've decided we can't go through the casino anyway, due to where we have to park, and have scoped out a route from the back door, through enough lobby to get her heart racing, and to the elevator with little fear of trouble. Still, keeping the blindfold on will be a recurring issue most of the night.

At the hotel we do switch to the band-style blindfold – a little more obvious than a lowered cap but much easier to get kristen to keep over her eyes – and I leave Cat and kristen at the curb before parking and returning to bring her into the hotel. It's easy to forget how difficult and slow it is to walk while blindfolded – we offer her an elbow, like for a blind person, but of course her steps are very tentative. Slowly we make our way along the sidewalk from drop-off to door, door to lobby, along one side and across to the elevators – on a route that makes it unlikely anyone will see us but has enough of the casino sounds to convince our overly-anxious sub that a million people are watching. Just after quickly providing our key to the guard at the elevator I hear someone ask "oh, is it someone's birthday?" Apart from that we actually draw little notice. We get an elevator to ourselves though I've always assumed they're video-monitored so we don't spank or strip her right there, much as we'd like to.

Once on our floor we begin the long, mini-step trek down the hall. I suggest that we step into the ice and vending room, which is out of sight of the video cameras, and strip kristen under the cloak, but Cat thinks we're doing enough – and is probably right. So kristen arrives at our door with her clothes still momentarily intact.

I had considered leaving on talk radio and CNN so that competing voices would greet our arrival but once again put that in the "too much" category – just getting her into the suite, removing the cloak, getting her barefoot on the entry-area marble, and peeling off her tight little jeans is plenty.

As a plaything kristen is the embodiment of perfection – beautiful olive skin, petite yet shapely on a miniature scale, just enough padding to her tiny bottom to make it a delight to spank – and Cat is very anxious to get her hands on her. But first, a few introductions. Though she is extremely submissive when playing – a trait that I've actually found to be rare among the spanking crowd – I want to reassure her a bit. From behind I wrap my arms around her, holding her arms and lifting her clear of the floor. I tell her to try and get away, which she does, meekly and with no success – though she claims she's "being nice" I'm thinking she would not be too successful anyway. With this I explain that she doesn't have to submit, we can do what we want to do even if she resists, that she has no control whatsoever and nothing to worry about.


Nine PM, Hotel Suite coffee table – kristen finds herself standing on a large, square, foot-high platform.

Marble, hard and cold under her bare feet and - soon - knees, we guide her toward the center and she can feel elevated and trapped – unable to wander without risking falling off, blindfolded. Stepping back from the table I watch her try to discover and take in her situation, searching for the edges, trying to find a way to get it back under her control – while she also tilts her head back in a blatant attempt to peek out under the blindfold. In her tiny black g-string – lace over a beige lining – she looks little different than she would nude below the waist.

At my urging Cat helps her kneel and I ask her why she is there. She ducks admitting her own feelings by saying that she doesn't know what to say and then that she'll say what we want – while of course what I want is her own answer. Cat gets a quirt to smack her if she persists in trying to peek which she claims is unsuccessful but even the quirt doesn't deter her. Eventually I guide her into saying that she's in control a lot and wants to not be in control for awhile.

I've heard women say that they don't want to top a wimp and now I know what they mean – because no matter how submissive she becomes, kristen is no wimp. Beautiful, successful, fashionable, she is in control if – or when – she wants. In play she desires a heavy hand but wears her rebellious streaks like racing stripes – wide and blatant. Her submission reflects no real-life need – not a desire for acceptance, admiration, commitment, support or even guidance. It is wholly and purely an innate physical desire surfacing straight from her eros.

Standing at the edge of the table I summon her to me, wrapping her easily in my arm, lifting her down, guiding her to the windows looking out on the Strip, teasing her about her disobedience with "you wanted to see the Strip, there it is" as she scowls in reply. Cat comes over, taking her out of her top and bra, guiding her toward a pane unbroken by cross-supports, nudging her forward – a red blindfold and pseudo-nude g-string, breasts pressed against the cold glass, no certainty of how close to the Strip's thousands of pedestrians we really are – as Cat reminds her, whispering in her ear. From behind, arms at her sides, obedient, a bare bottom no bigger than a salad plate, she is a vision made real.

But this is just corner time, she was very naughty in the car and now – at last – she must be spanked. Or gets to be spanked, depending on your perspective. Cat sits on a long bench – this suite is so ideally furnished for play, it makes you wonder – taking kristen over her knee. She's commented many times on how nice it is to spank a woman's soft, yielding, sensitive bottom rather than a man's muscular, resisting butt – so she enjoys this immensely. Not much punishment but we have plenty of time for that.

From here I carry her over and lay her down on the bed, on her back, drawing her arms above her, displayed in all her perfection. Her breasts in divine proportion could each be covered by one hand, rising straight off her torso with the unacknowledged conceit of youth. Wrapping a forearm in each hand I pin her down as Cat sweeps her with one sensation after another – fur, bristles, feathers, nylon threads – and she squirms, cannot resist resisting under the visceral demands of a light, tickling touch. I grip and position a leg as Cat smacks her, her bottom, her thigh on the back and inside and front. Much as she wants to Cat resists kissing kristen's breasts, taking them in her mouth, stroking, feeling, entering her – uncertain what is "acceptable."

Well teased, it's time for a bit more play – back to the marble-floored entry way, where a small marble ledge projects from the wall, perfect for kristen to grip and bend to. With a handful of canes Cat stings her bottom, with an occasional full stroke for a more definite reaction. kristen's curiosity is amusing as she searches the ledge, trying to discover what it is and where she is, while it is actually an architectural oddity out of place in any location. I have kristen step back, lean forward, rise on her toes, arch inward – a glorious curve of young womanhood tensing to the bite of the rattan.


10 PM, floor of the suite – kristen begs, pleads, demands, insists – that she be allowed to remove the blindfold, which is a bit precarious because her hands aren't tied.

Since she wants to explore her environment I have offered to let her crawl around a bit, setting her on the floor and smacking her with the quirt – but she suddenly decides that she doesn't want to go anywhere, she collapses and curls up on the floor, begging to take the blindfold off. Putting her on her back, opening her legs, I make her an offer – climax and it can come off. She protests that sometimes it's hard – as every woman knows – afraid that she won't get her wish despite my manipulations and her efforts to accept them. The g-string comes off at last, the three of us are on the floor, she is completely, totally available to us. Carefully, lightly, I try to find the touch she'll respond to, but she knows her body well. The excitement, the late hour, the anxiety combine to mute her response. Hoping that more spanking will provide the decisive stimulus, we turn her over and I get a short, heavy strap. Up on your knees, I tell her, back down, I want an arch, I want your bottom out and smack! She gasps and curls a bit – back down, you know what I want, now do it – smack, low, quite firmly. Her reaction is extreme, maybe I've given her a bit too much, I aim higher on her backward-thrust, proffered little bottom and begin a steady strapping, which she takes a little better.

Receiving makes kristen submissive, compliant, docile – she is very good about saying please and thank-you and pleading properly, sincerely, respectfully – but both her bottom and her spirit recover very quickly, naughty and ready for more. Within seconds of the final stroke of her strapping she has rolled over and, with one final complaint, reached up and removed the blindfold. So proud of herself, giggling and beaming with a sparkle in her jade-green eyes.

Naturally such blatant behavior must be dealt with in extremis. I'm up on the bench with her across my lap as Cat plies the black rubber strap – a nicely wicked spanking that won't inhibit our playing later. Even holding her knees with one arm and her torso with the other I have trouble keeping her bent as she fights her discipline – though she escapes none of it, not a single lick. The strap provides a heavy, excessive-feeling swat on every stroke but still manages to have ferocious sting, eliciting pleas, explanations, apologies, rationalizations, and more pleas from our unfortunate felon – all at a disciplinary, record-setting pace. Within a minute or two she's absorbed many dozen withering imprints across – and not only across, top-to-bottom and angled as well – her elfin little bottom. While I don't doubt that she learned absolutely no lesson at all from it, at least we did our best.