Other Elements (labels)

A Short Trip at the Mall

by Matt Anglen

T'was the night before Christmas and all through the mall,
Not a store was left open, not one store at all.

The gates are down and some of the stores have their lights off; here and there I can hear a vacuum cleaner from the poor souls who still can't head home to their families on Christmas Eve – souls I would beg to open back up and let me buy something, by now anything, before I give up and face having to explain this Christmas as an unmitigated failure. I would beg them, but I only speak English and none of them seem to and they can't hear me anyway though their headphones. If I could just reach through the bars and unplug a vacuum or two...

Not truly unmitigated, of course – that was most likely my downfall. For once my husband expressed an interest in a specific gift between the months of October and December that wasn't crotchless (for me, not him), and once I had his rechargeable screwdriver (yes, honestly, a power screwdriver) in the bag I was lured into a false sense of completeness, since every year finally choosing something to give him has marked my seasonal shopping surrender. Oh, I was the grasshopper in summer, playing and partying, relaxed and laughing – possibly laughing at my friends as much as with them as I bragged, "Oh me? I've already bought Kevin's present." Meanwhile they scurried about like ants, heads down, frantically hoarding gift after gift for the coming winter. They settled for Wii's while I waited for the second wave of PS3 shipments, only to have the now-sold-out Wii's be revealed as the hot gift. They had aunts who camped out or nephews with hi-speed internet connections to jump on fads you couldn't find at the counter. They ordered at Thanksgiving to get super-saver shipping and still have it arrive in time. And me? I've spent my Christmas Eve racing from one end of this place to the other, chasing a rumor of a Tickle-Me-Elmo (didn't we do that one already?) mis-shelved in Macy's small appliances or comparing one scarf for my sister against a dozen others until all of them mysteriously disappeared. After twelve straight hours I stopped for a McMeal and when I came out of the Ladies Room the whole place was empty, locked and bolted. What was I going to do? I clumped over to the now-empty Santa chair and plopped myself down, burying my face in my hands.

When I looked up a large man was standing not two feet in front of me. "Aaahhhh!" I screamed, and I believe I set a new record for the sitting high jump. When my heart started again I felt pretty foolish. It was the mall Santa, some wino trying to winterize himself with the Christmas gig, being photographed with a parade of cranky, crying children while wearing a bad wig and beard. And I thought I hated my job. The thought of sitting here day after day in a red suit that makes me look fat, actually encouraging already spoiled kids to indulge their wildest fantasies of Nero-esque excesses... and now he wants to go home and some psycho-lady is sitting on the display he needs to pack up.

"Sorry," I tell him. "I'll get out of your way. I'm sure you're in a hurry."

"Well, I do have a lot to do tonight," he allows, "but there's always time enough at Christmas." Where he gets that idea, I would really like to know. "Maybe I should be sitting there."

As Santas go, this guy's a pretty good one. The Galleria must've sprung for a really high-quality costume, because it's velvet and faux-fur, not cotton, and those boots and belt are pretty well-worn but nicely polished black leather. And it fits, possibly because Mr. Santa has not been doing too many crunches up there at the North Pole, if you know what I mean. In fact, he's surprisingly light on his feet for a big man and settles into the chair practically before I'm out of it, I nearly end up in his lap.

"That's what it's here for," he reminds me, and while I'm thinking well there's a line if I ever heard one, I'm really no more ready to face the world than I was when I first sat down. So I take him up on his offer, albeit a little gingerly. "I won't break," he says, encouraging me to actually sit down, and somehow I believe he's right. He smells of leather and pipe tobacco like my grandfather and this suit is really soft. He's got an arm around my waist and a hand on my knee but it doesn't bother me at all. His hands are big, fingers strong, callused in places but soft palms, skin so pale you can almost see through it. So okay, I notice a guy's hands, yes, I do.

"You're probably wondering what I'm doing here," I tell him.

"No, I'm not wondering at all," he says with the voice of a man who's seen this every Christmas since the Nativity. A deep voice, a cold-clear-air voice. "Young ladies sit on my lap to tell me what they want for Christmas," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Why don't you do the same?"

"All I want... ha! All I want – is a trunkful of presents for my family, my family's families, everyone I work with, and oh! a little something for anyone else I've encountered all year. Think you can whip that up for me?" I half-snarl at him.

"That doesn't sound like the Christmas spirit," he rebukes gently. "What about you? There must be something you want for yourself."

Myself. Myself, I can't complain. I have a wonderful family and a loving husband who can take a hint if I'm obvious enough and this year I was plenty obvious. A loving husband who is getting me...

"A pair of earring," I inform him with a little smile. "Champagne diamonds with little diamond accents all around them."

"Santa" looks into my face. "Yes," he says, "I see." He looks me then focuses on my light brown eyes. "They would be lovely."

"They certainly will be," I giggle.

"Oh? You sound very sure of yourself."

"Well," I think I'm actually blushing, "I might have peeked. Just a little." Giggle.

"Careful," he warns, "It's a short trip from Santa's lap to over Santa's knee. I just hope you're not on the naughty list."

My heart does about a dozen flips and winds up in my throat. "I'm nice," I protest a bit too much.

"Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?"

"No, I don't," I tell him a bit defensively, "I told you, I've already seen them."

"Christmas has a way of making things happen that you don't expect," he professes, "You never thought you'd get them, did you?"

"Well, no, not really..." I admit. They were awfully expensive, and we did say we'd go easy on presents this year. "What do you mean?"

"It just proves that good girls get what they want after all."

"Good. Because I'm good. One little peek doesn't make me naughty."

"No, no, not at all. So tell me, what are you doing here at this hour?"

Okay, fair enough. Not a good place for this question in this conversation. "What are you?" I challenge back. "Doesn't 'Santa' have places to be?" I try to sound brave but my heart is pounding and butterflies are doing advanced aerial acrobatics in my stomach.

"Santa will be there, don't you worry about that."

Okay, so I fell a little behind in my shopping. Okay, I've been rushing around snapping at people, edging them out at counters, challenging overworked clerks who claim they don't have any more in the back without even checking. Maybe for one day not exactly nice. "You probably think I need a spanking," I whisper into his trimmed white beard.

"Santa knows these things. He keeps an eye on all good little boys and girls." He motions for me to get up. "Perhaps you should see my workshop."

I look around and behind the chair stands a "workshop" about the size of a phone booth. He climbs down the steps and takes my hand, swallowed in his grasp, leading me that way. For my trip to his wintertime woodshed. I think I'll pull back, I think I'll stumble, but I don't.

I duck through the low door and it's much bigger inside than it looks. There's a big wooden table with a bridle being mended and a large pewter tankard of what better be O'Doul's. It's chilly by the door but there's actually a fireplace with a fire burning, a hearthrug and an oversized leather chair with a footstool. Santa comes in behind me and closes the door and the ubiquitous sound of vacuum cleaners disappears into a hush.

"I need to be getting home," I suddenly remember.

"This won't take very long at all," he promises, "and everyone at home is already asleep." He crosses past me and seats himself on the footstool, waiting. I know what to do and for some reason I am drawn through the motions of doing it, soon enough I am standing next to him.

Then he reaches for the waist of my black wool slacks and I jump backward, slapping at his hands. I nearly end up in the fire and jump forward again, counterbalancing over his lap. But his hand on my shoulder stops me.

"Here," I stammer, reaching for the buttons myself, "Let me. Please?" A short nod allows me to continue. These slacks have gotten tighter since last winter and I have to shimmy them down very carefully to avoid taking my panties with them. As Santa takes his hand off of my shoulder I lean forward across his waiting thighs, which are surprisingly not-soft. His hand rests on my hip.

"Kathleen," he begins, and I jump at the sound of my name. "Why are you here?" For a split second I seriously think about explaining but I just can't.

"Because I've been naughty," I confess, "and I want to be good." My mouth flies open again to protest his movement to lower my panties but no words come to mind. "Please," is all I can think to say. My panties are already down and my bottom is warming up fast, I'm not that far from the fire in more ways than one.

"Please what, young lady?" he asks in my grandfather's voice.

"Please not too hard. I'm mostly good – really I am!"

Despite this very reasonable and well-supported request, the first smack sort of takes my breath away. Low and – well, firm. Not angry, but hard anyway. A big hand with a big man behind it, a hand alternatingly smooth and rough with a lifetime of experience. A hand that is making my bottom hot and hurt with low solid spanks. He's holding me so I don't squirm much though I kick a little – the fireplace isn't dangerously close, it just feels that way. I sort of gasp and hiss and try to get through this until I realize that this spanking hasn't even started. He has the rhythm and the pace of a man who has all night at his disposal. And I also realize that it's okay to cry – first over my blazing bottom, then over my disappointment in myself, then just as a release of all the pressure and frustration that isn't supposed to be Christmas but is.

Okay maybe fourth is for my bottom again, because I am really getting spanked. Not a "naughty little girl" spanking but a woman-who-needs-it spanking. I mean, they hurt when they land – every single one, quite definitely – and they hurt afterward and they hurt when another one lands on them and other ones do, frequently, repeatedly, and with a sting all their own. I know I'll feel the lowest ones longest but the higher spanks have a sting that makes my ears ring. Okay I don't have the smallest bottom in the world and I'm not exactly a Stairmaster junkie so I just know that it's shaking like a bowlful of jelly. Strawberry jelly, maybe, but Santa wants cherry. In the firelight his red pantleg looks all the brighter and that's where I figure I'm headed.

"You want a good Christmas, don't you, Kathleen?" he asks.

"Yes, Santa," I sob.

"And you'll be good for Christmas?" Again I agree. "Are you going to help me?" he asks as I nod uselessly. "Do you promise to help me?"

"I promise," I promise sincerely.

"No more naughtiness?"

"No..." I wail.

"No more rudeness?"

"I'm sorry!" I tell him, and his lecture stops for awhile while he deals with that. Owwww.

"No barging, no snapping, no 'my hurry is more important than your hurry?'"

"I'm sorry," I repeat, despite knowing what that leads to. When he's done with all that, he pauses.

"And..." he says ominously, "not just for a pair of earrings, Kathleen. Not even diamond ones."

"No," I swear. "No. I want to be good," I avow with all sincerity. And then, with a bottom blazing like a Yule log and tears that have grown from streams to rivers, I am hit by an inexplicable insanity and beg, "Please make me good." So he does.

Afterward I trickle from his lap, slither my panties back into place and compose my attire a bit, soon finding myself back on his lap. No, really, by perching on one of his thighs with the backs of my own I can sort-of sit though I know driving home is going to be a little adventure. He's not embarrassed for either one of us, he doesn't smirk, if he had any judgment or disapproval it's gone. And 95% of me feels much better and I am determined to be good.

I woke from this dream Saturday morning and I'm proud to report that now, on Sunday night, my Christmas shopping is maybe two-thirds finished.

The Air That You Breathe

You're on your back, hands raised and together, your right thumb held in your left palm. I've tied you down across your forearms and biceps and am kneeling next to the bed on which you lie along the edge. My left hand slides into your hair, across your scalp, grasping you at the crown of your head. I ask quietly for you to open your eyes and look into mine... and keep looking into mine, a slightly upward angle as I have positioned myself just above your eye level.

My young, capable assistant stands behind me, her tan arms shown off to good advantage by her orange tank top and long, lacy white skirt. Not a big woman, nor frail, nor athletic, but... focused... deliberate. Her left calf is against my back, I know just where she is without looking or even thinking. She's holding a heavy strap, thick, lands well - eminently bearable, even somehow pleasurable under normal use. The small handle suits her hand well.

Your legs are bound together above the knees and as we begin I take my hand out of your hair and pass my arm behind your head, cradling your neck in the crook of my elbow. Folding your thighs to your chest I grasp the lead from the rope in my left hand, holding it there, your exposed bottom showing some marks from past play and pink from more recent spanking, at least slightly warmed up.

I reach over and put my right hand over your mouth, lightly closing your nostrils with my thumb and the side of my first finger. It’s not a grip on your face, just almost floating – and moving easily with you if you move your head. My fingers are open and you can breathe through them easily, though shutting off your nostrils gets a bit of a reaction just from the strangeness of it, making you switch to breathing through your mouth. If I have to I can bend my elbow and hold your head a little steadier, but I don’t really need to – if you shake your head my hand goes with it, staying there cupped over your mouth, not uncomfortably except for your trepidation.

As I close your nostrils, your breathing changes, I take you through the first deep breath, ten seconds in, ten seconds out, through my open fingers. Inhale again for five seconds and I close my fingers. You hold for a moment, then try to exhale - or inhale further. Yes, with a great effort you can get a tiny whisper of air, it's not a vacuum, there's no suction, but at the same time it provides nothing of significance. Maybe you could shake your head, maybe I wouldn't stop you, though I can, easily; you don't try. You try to relax and wait. After twenty seconds I open my fingers and you exhale quickly. Deep breath and out, in and hold again. Thirty seconds this time. Easy if you relax, and it relaxes you to breathe this way... the more you breathe slowly like this, the more you relax...

I shut off your breath, still looking in your eyes, counting the seconds... one two three four five six seven eight (nod) nine ten... at my nod my YCA raises the strap, bringing it down around ten, a firm stroke, six on a scale of ten. Your eyes open wide as she raises it and wider still as she connects. Your hips rock as you try to absorb it, your lungs fight, overmatched, against the seal of my hand. Your eyelids flutter, turning downward on the outsides, imploring... then scowling - your nostrils would flare if they could open at all. Twenty seconds after the stroke, I open my fingers, allowing you to exhale. And inhale. Briefly. Eight seconds later, I nod again.

You have no responsibility right now, I remind you calmly, not even for your own breathing. You cannot move, you cannot affect it. You can only look into my eyes and breathe when I allow you to... you can only obey and wait, I tell you quietly.

Soon a third stroke falls and you start to panic, the restricted breathing failing to calm you. The pain is frightening, your body's reaction mitigating it very little - and you know that the strokes are about to get harder. You try to wriggle and find how securely you're held. You breathe greedily before the fourth stroke.

I allow you an extra breath, a second long slow exhale before you inhale again, before beginning my count. My YCA increases her delivery, now about an eight, careful, considered, impassive. Her left hand rests on the upturned back of your thigh, fingertips between them barely above the bonds. I continue to watch your eyes and count, opening and closing my fingers on schedule. After the second harder stroke I whisper to you that it's okay to cry, we all recognize that it hurts, my statement serving to strengthen your resolve and consume it more quickly. On the third you want to scream, or maybe you do - it's so hard to tell.

For the eighth stroke I wait, counting higher before giving the signal, confusing you, causing your panic to return. As I delay your next breath you want to protest, to make me stop, but you don't dare waste your chance to take in the air that you need.

Once again I give you an extra breath, knowing that you won't make me deny you by complaining, but twenty seconds later you are holding your breath again - or I am. I feel my YCA dip her knees as she strives to deliver a perfect stroke with plenty of follow-through - even through my hand I can recognize your howl, my mind's eye picturing her self-satisfied smile. The cycle reaches the top once again, close, count to eight, nod... this time, ten seconds later, instead of being halfway to breathing again, you watch with dismay as I nod a second time...

Only two more, I promise... you try to give up, an alien feeling... I have to nudge you, verbally, gently, to open your eyes once more... the stroke is hard, your tears run over once more, feeling cold on your ears, your mind blanking, your eyes closing or, open, unseeing... just one more, by now it doesn't matter, you think... wrongly...

I count out the last twenty seconds and open my fingers for the last time, allowing you to breathe freely... then letting you breathe, once again finally, through your nose... though my hand doesn't leave your face, stroking your face, your hair and head, producing a tissue to dry your tears and wipe you nose, putting my lips by your ear, asking if you'll be good, asking if you can obey...

A Caning In Waiting - Fiction by Matt

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


It comes to mind - my seat, thrice-lined.
Instead of done, we’ve just begun.


Divorce is hard. Not just emotional isolation - physical, too. It’s not even him I want. But want, need - something, someone. Someone right. And dating. Again. Being wanted, in a way - but not in a way I want.

Then, friends. Friends for support. Friends who play games. Us. Going back to who knows when. No secrets any more. Such comfort.

Protect yourself, they say. Respect yourself. So, a proposal. In light of our games. I give it up, we agree, and I go over for twelve with the cane. Him striping, her holding - me flailing.

Yes. Twelve. With the cane. Hard to believe, even harder to imagine, hardest still to take. I’ve had three - once - so I know. Know I can’t. Can’t take it, can’t do it. And it’s been a good idea - saved me a lot of grief. Stopped me from taking that one last drink that might’ve made this one seem like a good idea himself. Helped me shoo that one out of the house when maybe it would have been easier to just let him stay. Made me wait to say yes, until I found out another guy wasn’t the type who would stick around to wait. But even so. Hard.

And then now. This is different. We have waited. He has stuck around. A different us. And tonight, tonight things will be different. Nothing’s been said, or needed to be. We know. His slight smile of anticipation.

But tomorrow, oh, tomorrow. An admission, to the two of them. Friends. Acceptance. Lowered gaze, lips pressed. A short robe. A straight-backed chair, pillow over the edge. No discomfort - how ironic. Bottom rising like a pale harvest moon. The momentary modesty of panties. And then, down. Off, removed, bare, bared. Nothing else. That explosion, that disbelief of pain - only a cane. A cane in firm, enthusiastic, talented hands. Twelve. No regrets. None?

I need to be held. Tonight, by his arms, tomorrow, by my wrists. Words whispered in my ear - his words of seduction; hers of consolation. My face hidden under a cascade of hair. My knees before my eyes, tears pressing before we even begin.

I can not push the thought from my mind, my stomach tightening at his lightest touch. His kisses, our kisses - so deep. His arms make a place for me. We know, we know, and yet still we approach it slowly, still it is gingerly that he eases my buttons undone, smoothes the flat of his palm against my bare side. In our minds, each fastening surrenders with a pistol crack - one, two, three, no more. An upward movement inside and I crush myself to him, rushing, trying to hold back, to linger just a little, finding myself unable to do so. His hand moves up my back for my bra clasp. I do not dissuade him. My back, my neck arching; each place I pull away creates another place I offer him.

Upward, cupping, under my unfastened bra. I pant and squirm, my breath comes in gulps, my legs press together, uselessly, helpless in resistance. I need it, must, will have it - all of it. His shirt glides off his shoulders for me and I bury my face in his neck. My hand dips in behind his belt buckle to find him as excited as I am. Nearly.

I could lay him down and mount him, ride him to one wave of satisfaction and then another and another still. Waves of sensation, sensation on top of sensation, sensation between sensations. Too much. Unbearable. My jaw stretches as I try to take in so much in so short a time.

But I allow myself to be seduced. Trails of kisses. Thumbs across my nipples. His hand daggers into the back of my skirt, in the middle where it is loosest. Straight down, under my panties, inside. But not too far. His wrist doesn’t find enough room.

I open my blouse for him, for his eyes, for his kisses. He makes me feel deserving of his admiration. No judgment - acceptance. My bra passes my wrists and all I can imagine is fetters. It gets closer.

The mundane details. No way to do these things subtly. I kneel before him, worshipful, removing his shoes, one by one. I could save myself, use my mouth. Put it off. Do I want to? I release him, inches from my face. He wants me, long and stiff. I need him, need it. Long and oh so flexible. The man you love always tastes so good. Now he pants for me. Breath drawn sharply through clenched teeth.

I rise, recline, unbutton my skirt. As he eases the zipper down, the cane draws nearer. I wriggle. Wriggle my seat. For him. Does he find that attractive? Does it excite him? Oh, how I’ll wriggle. With three, I screamed. Without effect. I can not bear it. The rushing in my ears - the pounding of my heart? The whoosh of the cane, made huge by the silence?

No hose in this heat. A thin, cool, satiny shield is all that separates me from thirty-six inches of rattan. Without it, I am quivering, defenseless. My best. For him. His best, for me. Because we know. When than shield lowers, there will be no turning back. No waiting, no excuses, bargaining, or pleading. Once we begin, it must go on without stopping to its conclusion. This for that. That for this. Twelve.

His touch. Fingertips inside, underneath, at the edge, just at the edge of my thigh, the edge of my wanting. I could climax at this very touch - but I must wait another moment, not now, not yet, it is too soon, it is too much. Still I must wait. The lightest touch, telling me where. My grip will tighten, my knuckles will whiten but it shall not stop.

The lightest touch. He waits for a sign, permission, a request. From me. I raise my hips. For him. It begins.

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.