Erica Scott: Life, Love and Spanking

Ruminations, opinionated observations, darkly humorous blathering and the occasional rant from an outspoken spanko and unapologetic attention wh–, um, hog.

Archive for the month “October, 2011”

An All Hallow’s Eve Visit From Super Spanko!!

It started out like a normal Monday night. I put out a bowl of candy and greeted ST when he arrived. He was a little late, saying the traffic was bad. Before he even put his stuff down, he said he needed to use my bathroom.

I did think it was a little strange that he took his toy bag in there with him, but I figured he was in such a hurry to go, he didn’t even think about putting it down.

Several minutes passed, and I wondered what was going on. Finally, the door opened, but there was no sign of ST. Instead, a masked stranger leaped into my living room.

(gasp!) Super Spanko! Who the hell was that?? As you might imagine, he didn’t give me any time to think about it. I’ve never been spanked by a superhero before. It’s quite surreal, let me tell you. And for whatever reason, I couldn’t stop laughing.

“You think this is funny?” he thundered. “You won’t laugh for long!”

“Wanna bet?” I snickered, giggling so hard I could hardly catch my breath.

First I was over his knee for a while. Oh, the horror!

“Are you learning anything?” he scolded in his gravelly superhero tones.

“Yeah,” I gasped. “I’m learning that I really, REALLY need to be more careful about who I open my door to!”

“That’s right. I thought that issue had already been addressed, by that wonderful man, Mr. [ST’s last name].”

“Who??” I said.

“You know…I believe he goes by the name Spanko Tango. Great guy. Great spanker!”

“Oh, him,” I yawned. “He’s not so great. I’m still opening my door to strangers, so obviously I didn’t learn anything.”

Wrong thing to say. Over the ottoman I went. Still couldn’t stop laughing, though. Here’s me, laughing my head off at Super Spanko.

He blustered that he wasn’t going to stop until I confessed that I was a Naughty Girl, and that naughtiness doesn’t pay.

“It does TOO pay!” I jeered. “I’ve gotten paid for naughtiness lots of times! I’m getting paid for it this Saturday!”

Unacceptable. He broke out the heavy artillery.

“Does it pay?” “Yes!” “Does it pay?” “Yes!” “Does it pay?” “Yes!” “Does it pay?” “NO, goddamn it!”

What can I say. Wood works wonders.

“My work here is not quite done,” he said. “You need 15 more of these. And you will have to count them!”

“Why… because you can’t?” I quipped. Damn, I’m a fool sometimes. But it’s so worth it. πŸ™‚

Afterward, he dramatically announced that at last, his work here WAS done, and he left… but he didn’t go out the front door, he went into the bathroom. Weird. But I guess even superheroes have to pee.

Once again the bathroom door opened, and this time, ST emerged. “Sorry I took so long in there,” he apologized. “I wasn’t feeling very well.” TMI, honey. Really. I don’t know what you were up to, but I had one hell of an adventure while you were gone. Who was that masked man?

We relaxed for a while, chatting away and eating chocolate. Perfectly hysterical end to a hilarious night? Weird Al Yankovic was on the radio, and they played something of his I’d never heard before. What is it about polka music that’s so damn funny? And his polka parodies of rock songs absolutely slay me. I was laughing myself sick with this, so I hope y’all like it too — Bohemian Polka. Happy Halloween!

Sunday blather

Hope everyone had a nice weekend.

John had his own theory about my Jekyll/Hyde correspondent last week. He said the reason why the guy was nice at first, and then changed so drastically, was because he had no intention of meeting with me. That first photo he sent me, of Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome with the shampoo-commercial hair? Fake. He’s really a 300-pound toad. (that probably wasn’t his real dick, either, but that’s beside the point.) Apparently he gets his jollies by engaging with women and messing with their heads, without having to actually meet them.

OK, that makes as much sense as anything else, I guess. “Why would he suggest you come right to his house to play, rather than meeting for coffee first?” he asked. “Because he knows most women won’t go for that. And if they do, he’ll give them a fake address.”

Takes all kinds, doesn’t it. Yeeeeesh.

So here’s a thought; someone suggested this a while back, but I can’t remember who it was. I have enough CHoS material accumulated from the past few years; what if I pull it all together, organize it and make a book out of it? I could have different chapters, like one just for the age comments, one for those special form letters that go on and on, one for entries from women (yes, I do have them), and so on. Could be fun. Perhaps I could have a chapter of contributions from friends, of their own charming missives.

Something to think about. I can’t seem to find any work, so perhaps that project could keep me from completely losing my mind.

Speaking of losing one’s mind… today at brunch, we were seated near one of the dreaded “large party” tables. Toward the back of the restaurant, there are booths on one side and then across from them are tables pushed together for big families and groups. Sometimes we get lucky and the groups are all adults, but not today. This time, it was a large group of mostly kids, chattering and blasting some game with music pumping on their iPad, laughing, kicking the chairs and making a racket. The two adults at the table ignored them, of course.

They left when we were halfway through our meal, and I realized I hadn’t taken a proper breath since we sat down. Heaving a sigh of relief, I settled down to enjoy the latter half of my brunch. Five minutes later, another (even bigger) party was seated… with even younger children. And a baby. Which was plunked in a high chair at the end of the table closest to us, naturally. He wasted no time in emitting those delightful ear-splitting shrieks that only babies can do, and throwing things on the floor.

“Finish up, honey, and let’s get out of here,” I hissed to John. Our server was so frazzled, she forgot to bring us our check and we had to sit there for several minutes listening to the cacophony.

By the time we got out of there, I was so thoroughly rattled, I walked down the wrong aisle in the parking lot. Got to the end of it where I knew I’d left my car, and… nothing. “John, oh my God, where’s my car??” I cried.

“Sweetie,” he said gently, turning me slightly to look over to the next aisle, where my car was exactly where I’d left it.

I swear, I just wanted to sit down in the middle of the asphalt and scream my head off.

Earlier this week, I was taking an online Myer-Briggs personality test, and one of the items was “Agree/Disagree: I am disturbed and distracted by outside noises.” There needed to be a third option for an answer: “That’s the understatement of the fucking universe.”

It’s not easy being me sometimes, folks. Especially the me who goes crazy with stress over noisy children/babies, loud neighbors, people who talk in movie theaters, music/TV blasters, barking dogs… Considering we live in a world that just hit a population of 7 billion, peace and quiet is getting to be a rare commodity that is attainable only by the very wealthy. (sigh)

Enough of that. It’s very quiet in my apartment tonight. I have a new neighbor moving in next door and I’m all freaked out about that as well, but for tonight, they aren’t here yet.

Tomorrow is Halloween. What’s everyone doing? Or did some of you have parties this weekend? I’m not really into it, myself — i think it’s for kids. But I do love the candy.

Apropos of nothing, if anyone else is feeling down or stressed, take a look at the little clip below. This commercial never fails to make me giggle. I love Jimmy Fallon, and it seems he’s met his match here! Where on earth did they get that kid??

I love how she says one of my favorite words. πŸ˜‰  Night, y’all.

Correspondence Hall of Shame, 10/28

Another one so soon? Sort of. I have a few funnies, and then one that’s really bugging me and I want to get it out of my head.

let be friend ples

Well, at least he said ples. But I’m still going to pass.

Hi..there.I’m bored & just checkin things out.I cant take my eyes off your profile pics.I wana say,”u got a very gorgeous spankable firm Bottom.I’m very turned-on by your already stinged redden cheeks.

Stinged? Did he mean singed? Stung?
I’m sorry you’re bored. Try reading a book. There are some really cute pop-up ones available on Amazon.

all i want to do is give u a good spnking every time i come to town i visit my kids there in fresno and i pass thru ur town once a month so get back too me and maybe u will be dropping ur drawers for me sometime soon

Dropping ur drawers??
Sure, come on over. I’ll drop a fully loaded dresser drawer on your foot.

Last week, I got a reply on my Alt.com profile from a man who lives four miles from me. His note was brief, but respectful, and he attached a photo, a face shot, just as I requested in my profile. Nice. He also included his phone number and said “let’s talk.”

(groan) I hate the phone, as you know. And I especially hate talking to strangers on it. But his profile was very clear — he said he hated endless emails and he needed to hear a voice in order to make a connection. OK, fine. It won’t kill me. So I called.

We had a nice conversation. He asked me a lot of questions, wanted to know about limits and tolerance, preferences, etc. Among other things, I told him that I love scolding, but I do not like verbal degradation and rough talk. “I totally get it,” he said. Then he said that because he wasn’t a top tier member on Alt, he couldn’t see my pictures, only a thumbnail of the profile shot. Could I send him a few photos? Sure, I said, and he gave me his email.

I selected a couple of shots and sent them to him. And then I got this in return:

Very nice. I’ll enjoy brutalizing your ass.

I felt like I’d been socked in the gut. Did he not hear a word I’d said? Brutalize? I don’t want to be freaking brutalized.

I didn’t reply. Then, last Monday, I got another email from him. This time, a close-up shot of his hand clutching his erect member. This is what’s in my pants. Call me.

My Alt profile clearly states, in bold: “I want to see your face, not your dick. Please don’t send me X-rated pictures.”

I felt violated, like I’d experienced some sort of bait-and-switch. He was a gentleman at first, then as soon as he got me to nibble the bait, he became someone else. I thought I had better instincts than this; why was I so fooled? Was it because he was good looking? Am I that shallow? (yeah, I am, somewhat. Who am I kidding?)

I wrote back: “(sigh) If I wanted to see that, I would have stayed at my boyfriend’s house.” He wrote back: “I am not your boyfriend.” Well, duh.

The next day, he wrote once more, asking if I was ready to come over for a spanking. I didn’t reply. I was done. When he didn’t hear from me, he sent me this: Clearly u r not ready to be spanked by a man like me. I thought we had a very clear and connected chat.

We did. And then you morphed into Dick Boy.

I don’t know why this one is bothering me so much. Maybe it’s because I’m disgusted with myself. You’re so greedy, Erica. You have a wonderful play partner; why even experiment with anyone else? Or I’m pissed off that I was fooled by a pretty face. Maybe part of me was flattered because he’s 39 years old and he could get any cute young thing he wants, but he was writing to me.

You know what? I DO have the best possible play partner in ST. But that doesn’t mean I never want to play with anyone else. When The Villain was local, I played with him too. And let’s be real. I don’t have all that many spankable years left. I want to enjoy as much as I can for as long as I can, while men still want to play with me.

I dunno… this left me feeling both foolish and angry. Maybe now that I’ve put it out there, I can let it go. It’s so not worth the time and space in my head.

Move on, Erica. It’s another weekend. And next Saturday, I go back to Spanking Court one last time, to wrap up my story arc. I can’t wait.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Odds & Ends not in my book, Part 3

Today’s offering: a favorite Danny Chrighton story.

Most of you know by now that Danny was my play partner for a few years, when he lived here in L.A. He’s still a dear friend, even though he lives in CO now. I wrote about him at length in my book, but here’s a little tidbit that didn’t make it.

We shared an appreciation for Rat Pack-style music, especially Dean Martin. He knew my favorite Dino song is “Memories Are Made Of This” — when Shadow Lane had their “Brat Pack” party a few years ago, I’d requested that song. (I believe Danny’s favorite was “Sway,” if I’m remembering correctly.)

Anyway, cut to a private house spanking party we attended one Saturday night. It was a fun, lively gathering, back in the day when L.A. had a great party scene. Our host was in a band, and he and his bandmates were playing for us in the garage.

After the band stopped and most of the people had meandered back inside to eat, play, etc., Danny wandered over and picked up one of the guitars. I knew he could play and sing — he’d brought a guitar to his first SL party and played on the stage with Bob the DJ. Still, I couldn’t resist teasing him. “Hey, put that down. It’s not a toy.”

He just smiled at me, then began to play. I recognized the song immediately — “Memories Are Made Of This.”

He sang the entire song, start to finish. Knew all the chords, all the lyrics. Some others came back in and a small crowd gathered. But he was playing to me.

I don’t know if he always knew the song, or if he learned it after he found out it was my favorite. Doesn’t matter. No man had ever sung to me before. Let me tell you, it’s a really lovely experience.

When the song was over, people clapped, and there was a chorus of “Danny, I didn’t know you could play!” “Wow, that was great!” etc. I stood back, waiting for the group to disperse once again. Then I walked over to Danny and whispered three words:

“Play with me.”

More than anything at that moment, I wanted to be over his lap, feeling the intensity of that same hand that had just strummed out a song I loved. He took my hand and led me back into the house, and we found a private area to have an intense spanking scene. Lovely.

“Sweet sweet, the memories you gave to me…”

In case y’all don’t know the song, here it is: (click on the arrow, then on the link “Watch This on YouTube”)

Tension Be-Gone

If spanking’s stress-release properties could be bottled as a drug, that could be its commercial name. I almost always want spanking, but sometimes, I really, really, really freaking NEED it. Crave it soul-deep. Tonight was one of those times.

I love John, truly I do. His family? Notsomuch, as most of you know by now. Are they rude to me? No, they’re perfectly pleasant to me, most of the time. It’s John they aren’t so nice to. He’s always been the picked-on one in the family — first because he was the youngest, and then later simply because he’s different from them. (and thank God for that)

But oh, when they need something? An able body to help move things? Or, more often, money? Then he’s Johnny the Cash Cow! And what drives me absolutely spitting insane is that no matter what they ask of him, he does it. He has this blind familial loyalty, and they don’t deserve it.

So when he told me that his eldest sister wanted to meet with him Sunday morning, my first thought was, “What does she want?” And sure enough… “We need to talk about Mom.” Their 84-year-old mother still lives in her own apartment, with the siblings taking turns visiting, taking her out, etc., and some hired help coming during the week to do things for her. But she’s getting too addled to live on her own.

One plan was for John’s brother, sister-in-law and nephew to take her in. However, they’d need a bigger house. And that’s where John comes in, of course. To chip in his healthy share of the down payment, because he makes more money than the other three. Mom has a good chunk of liquid cash, but not enough.

“I’ll have equity in the house,” he said. “You already have a house,” I pointed out. “You don’t need their damn equity.” Yeah, he makes good money. But he’s going to need that money, for when he has to retire early and have open heart surgery. And I guaran-damn-tee none of his family will be around when HE’s in need.

So, I was pissed, I admit it. I get so frustrated at his willingness to always help people who aren’t particularly nice to him. Blood, shmud. I hate seeing him taken advantage of. Whenever one of his sisters says something snarky about him to me, I silently grit my teeth. “We think you’re a saint for putting up with him.” Well, I think he’s the saint for living with you guys all those years and not putting arsenic in your Wheaties.

And where exactly will this new house be? If John’s sister has her way, it will be right near HER, for her convenience. However, John’s mom now lives five minutes from John, and it’s easy for us to pick her up each Saturday for lunch. When she’s farther away, are we still going to have to take her out every damn week? I’m not all that crazy about it now. I don’t see my own mother, for God’s sake. And when I did, it was once every couple of months, not every week. Yeah, I know. Stop borrowing trouble.

But I was tense about it yesterday, and to my chagrin, found I was still angry about it today. By the time ST got here, I was ready to ask him, “Please, be extra dominant tonight. I need it.” But instead, I just came right out and told him I was in a MOOD, and why. And I spared no expletives or unpleasant rhetoric. Yes, I can be a right bitch sometimes.

Did I get a sympathetic ear?? Noooooooooooooooo! OK, OK, maybe at first. But then he said I needed a damn good spanking for being so crabby and saying those things. “That’s not fair!” I snapped. “I didn’t say this stuff to John! I’m saying it to you! Aren’t I allowed to have a confidante?”

“Yes,” he said, “and I’m confidante that you’re getting a spanking!”

Oh, grooooaaaaan.

Again with the heavy artillery again tonight, not much hand. But it’s fine; I wanted it. I kicked and squirmed, but still raised upward for more.

Candid shot he snuck in of my face; what was I doing, biting my knuckle?

He was laying it on me so hard tonight, he actually let me rub. He usually doesn’t, the big meanie-face.

The anger flew out of my pores. I made furious sounds, I pounded the bed and glared ferociously at him. He responded by firmly pushing down on the small of my back or gripping my hair. He wasn’t going to let me get away with any of my crap, and I wouldn’t have wanted him to.

He was giving me exactly what I needed, and he knew it.

See the fist?

He prevailed, of course. As it should be. I calmed down, stopped fighting, absorbed it with deep breaths and focus.

“You need this, don’t you? You need it hard and fast, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I groaned. “Yes, yes, YES!” If anyone had been listening in, they might have thought we were filming porn. But nope… this was therapy. This was sweet relief, in an unorthodox but most effective manner.

A non-candid face shot — yow. Good thing he’s thick-skinned, huh? One might think I hate his guts or something. πŸ™‚

Afterward? Wonderfully, blissfully relaxed. I could have fallen asleep snuggled in his arms. Peacefully happy, smiling, practically purring. He came in to a porcupine and left a kitten.

John and I are OK, by the way. He was even joking with me during brunch yesterday. “So, let me make sure we’re clear, sweetie,” he said, cutting a forkful of his omelet. “The idea of moving you and Mom into my house, so you could take care of her during the week while I’m at work, isn’t an option?” I smiled at him and didn’t reply. Instead, I picked up my knife and pretended to cut my wrist.

ST, you are the absolute best. Thank you, my confidante. πŸ™‚

Correspondence Hall of Shame, 10/21 / Twitter

Happy Friday! Today’s CHoS is brief, so I thought I’d combine it with some of my observations about Twitter, so far.

i would like to seeyou
i am very healthy not bad looking love oral sex and well off financially

Apparently, he doesn’t love punctuation.

This was from a man wearing a Day-Glo purple wig:

how about foot TICKLING???
or role playing ???
I am nearby in SFV
like translesbians in thigh boots like me ???
call me

Umm… if I liked foot TICKLING, I would have said so in my profile. And really, are the triple question marks necessary???

And this, from a man with a nice close-up shot of his erect member:

surrender your mind and body then fuck luke rabbits. Let’s talk and make it happened.

I don’t know who Luke is, but I don’t want to fuck him or his rabbits.

When I didn’t reply, he wrote to me three more times. Some people really don’t get it.

Some of you saw me ranting on FetLife earlier this week about how I started a new topic in a group and the moderator deleted it. I sent him a message, no hostility, just a simple question, and I quote:

Why was the topic I just posted a few minutes ago removed?

He wrote back, very snarky and combative, saying my topic was redundant (please! Topics are repeated on FL every damn day), and he didn’t appreciate my complaining and questioning him. He ended his missive with this:

Shrugs ..yeah that is right, were all control freaks asshole meanie mods .

No, not all. Just you, stupid.

So I’ve been on Twitter a couple of months now, long enough to notice some generalities.

1. It has its fun moments. I like to see what my friends are up to, and sometimes people post some really funny comments and pictures.

2. The occasional intelligent conversation between several tweeters does pop up on occasion, but is severely limited due to the character limits.

3. About three-quarters of the time, posting on Twitter is the cyber-equivalent of talking to yourself, because you get no response.

4. People tweet about food, a lot.

5. Some people tweet deeply personal and heartbreaking things. I have been known to blog some pretty heavy stuff, but I think one’s personal agony, if it’s going to be made public, deserves more than 140 characters.

6. People tweet WAYYYYYYYYYYYY too damn much information sometimes, and I think they forget they’re talking to thousands of people, not just IMing with their friends. For example, there has been an ongoing conversation since last night about butt plugs. Please, make it stop! I like these people. I just don’t want to read about what’s going up their butts.

7. I have 170 followers at this time. Many are scene people, but then I get the occasional Christian fundamentalist or right-wing conservative. And they’re following me because….?

8. Twitter is a good place to quickly pass on some information to a whole lot of people. It’s also a place where you can waste a great deal of time if you’re not careful.

Guess what got Chrossed today? My off-topic Jerry Lewis post! Now that makes me smile.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

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