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 “May, 2012”

Spinning my wheels, figuratively

Certainly not literally, since my @#$%ing car is in the shop. And racking up major $$$ in servicing as we speak.

I knew there was something wrong; whenever I would brake, the steering wheel vibrated like a Hitachi wand on High in my hands. Turns out the right front brake rotor is damaged. So both front rotors have to be replaced (you can’t just replace one), and since you can’t put new rotors on old pads, the pads have to be replaced too.

But wait, there’s more! I need new tires. And to top it all off, the rubber thingamajig that holds the axle in place (it’s called a boot, but I like my terminology better) is leaking. Mechanic says everything is normal wear and tear. I know I have a bad habit of misjudging distance (I have terrible depth perception) and crashing the right front of the car into curbs, so that certainly explains the rotor. Whatever. All I know is it’s going to cost a lot of money, which I’m not making.

Today, I was going to post another installment of “Uncommon Sense,” but I’m too scattered to give it proper justice. My next subject will be the ever-popular bratting/teasing/pranks, and how far is too far, etc. Does anyone have a topic you’d like me to cover? Anything that has to do with scene etiquettes and behaviors, and what one would assume would be common sense (but often isn’t). Y’all seemed to like the first installment last week, so I’d like to continue.

So, in a frenzy fueled with panic over money, I spent yesterday afternoon job searching. Through one of my freelance sites, I found a company I hadn’t seen before; one that hires proofreaders, editors and transcribers worldwide. There was a recruitment site where one could apply, so I went there, thinking it would be the usual “post your resume and references” bit, where one does so and then ends up in a great big cyberpile with all the other desperate applicants. However, this one took me directly to a test. Rather, the first part of a multi-part test. I had to pass this before I could progress any further.

Talk about intimidating! They state up front that these tests are challenging, and only 2-5% of applicants pass. That is not a typo; there are no zeroes missing. Two to five percent?? Ugh! As I plowed into Part 1, I could see why. It was freaking HARD, and demanded a lot more than simple proofreading. The first portion was a bit simpler, with multiple choice. But then they had 25 long and complex sentences. I had to indicate whether or not they were correct, and if they were incorrect (most of them were), I had to state why and then rewrite them properly.

A friend asked me yesterday what the difference is between proofreading and copy-editing. The simple answer is that the latter is more extensive than the former. A proofreader fixes typos, incorrect spelling and grammar, the obvious stuff. However, some writing can be grammatically correct and spelled properly — but still be lousy writing. Too many words when a few will suffice, words that are just a bit off, redundant, overwrought. A copy-editor has to know how to fix that and more.

For a tiny example, in one of the test sentences was the phrase “logical coherency.” The more obvious error is that the word is coherence, not coherency. But in addition, one of the definitions of coherence is “logical interconnection.” Therefore, “logical coherence” is redundant.

I worked long and hard on that test portion, second-guessing my answers and worrying that I’d missed some obvious gaffes. Finally, I said screw it and submitted it.

I passed!! 🙂  So now they sent me a link for Part 2. I know this is nuts, but I’ve been putting off going there; I’m wondering just how difficult Part 2 is going to be, since Part 1 was such a bitch. And get this: even if I pass Part 2, they still put me through a bunch more assessment tests to determine my skill level before they offer me a contract. They have four skill levels and pay accordingly with each. I’ve never seen such thorough testing in all my career.

No excuses. I can’t go anywhere, I’ve blogged, I’ve done all the odds and ends of chores, I’ve answered email. I’m going to go check out Part 2 of that freaking test now. Wish me luck.

My "sweet 16" celebration

Yeah, yeah. Chronologically, I’m a whole lot older than 16. But today, in spanko years, I am 16. On Memorial Day 1996, a handsome, dominant man came into my apartment and introduced me to spanking, and my world was never the same again.

I wanted to forget about all the stress and heartache and just have fun. I fleetingly thought about buying some champagne, but ran out of time. On Friday, we’d had a brief power outage, not much longer than an hour. When it came back on, one of my cable boxes had blown out. So today, the cable guy was coming over between 3 and 5. Fortunately, he was here by 3:40 and out of here by 4:05. So I had plenty enough time to get ready for ST, but not enough to nip back out to get champagne. Oh well.

When he showed up bearing his toy bag as usual, I thought nothing of it. Until he sat on my couch, unzipped it and pulled out a greeting card. I was so tickled! It was a “blank inside” card with SWEET! written on the front, and he’d filled in a “Happy Sweet 16” message inside. That alone would have delighted me, but then he reached into his bag again, and pulled out… you guessed it. A bottle of ice-cold champagne. 😀  How wonderful is this man!!

I practically danced into the kitchen, getting the glasses while he opened it. We decided that we’d have one glass now, and then another after playing. And then HE decided we were going to combine some of my implements with his to total 16, and he’d give me 16 swats with each one. Of course, his hand wouldn’t count.

I had barely eaten anything all day — I don’t usually like to eat before scenes, so my stomach was empty. And that first glass of champagne slammed into me, full force. Delightfully so. It wasn’t more than a few minutes before I was giggling and talking funny and acting like a, well, a 16-year-old.

I know the spanking with 16 implements + hand must have hurt. But damned if I remember any of it.

I do recall that I obliterated another cane…

OK, so maybe it did hurt a little.

But hey! It was time for more champagne!

Uh oh! My glass foameth over!

We got a bit rambunctious in the kitchen, with ST determined to find every single pervertable I had in my kitchen drawers. I took smacks from wooden spoons, spatulas, a frosting spreader, a frying pan he plucked out of the dish drainer, a pair of chopsticks, a cake slicer (NOT serrated, no worries). And of course, one of my spoons bit the dust.

That second glass took me from tipsy to slightly woozy (yes, really — that’s all it takes with me), so I drank about 2/3 of it and then lay on the couch with my head in ST’s lap. I felt blissfully content, singing along with the iTunes radio playing on my computer, and we stayed there for a long time, chatting and relaxing. My head cleared, and when I told him the effects had worn off, he took that as a green light for us to play again. No complaints here! ST seemed unaffected by the champagne; I guess it’s a guy thing (they’re bigger and they can absorb more??). I’ve never seen John so much as tipsy either.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, after Round #3, I finished that second glass of champagne.

So… 16 years of spanking. Millions of swats, maybe? Well, thousands, anyway. What was the difference between Memorial Day 1996 and Memorial Day 2012?

Hmmm… well, in 1996, I marked like crazy. In 1996, it was just his hand, not 16 implements plus a drawerful of kitchen utensils. In 1996, I was a clean canvas, feeling myriad new emotions and sensations, and certain that I’d fallen in love with my spanker.

But in truth, I barely knew him. I never even found out his last name. I didn’t know where he lived. He did incredible things to me and I’ll always be grateful to him, but he was a stranger nonetheless. And what I fell in love with was what he gave me.

So I suppose that’s the biggest difference, between 1996 and 2012. Today, it wasn’t a stranger. Today, it was the bestest top ever, and — even better — a great friend. And this man, I love to bits.

My chronological 16th birthday sucked, as I recall. But this 16th was indeed sweet. I’m going to treat myself to some chocolate and a few episodes of Dark Shadows, and then slip off to sleep.

Hope everyone had a good three-day weekend.

If I may be serious for a moment…

I fully intend to write my usual light-hearted Monday post. But for the moment, I must to get something off my chest.

I heard from my stepdad on Friday. My mother is now in what they call “end-stage hospice,” where she’s being watched 24/7. He said she doesn’t even respond to him anymore. She doesn’t make eye contact, and if she makes any sound, it’s a grunt. All she does now is lie there and cough. She won’t eat. She reacts to nothing.

It could be days. It could be weeks. Or longer. Because despite the fact that her mind is completely blasted and her body is deteriorating, her heart beats on and on, strongly.

I can’t do anything about this. But I can say that I am furious. This is an absolute disgrace. No one should have to end a productive and vibrant life in such a degrading state. In this country, we treat our animals with more dignity and respect than we do our humans.

John and I don’t see eye to eye on this. He gets squeamish when I say I wish it would end. “You can’t wish people dead; that’s not right,” he says. I’m not doing anything of the sort. My mother died a long time ago. What exists now is a shell. I wish for that shell to rest, to join her spirit. I wish for the indignity to end.

My stepmother and I have been emailing about this a bit. She is a staunch advocate of end-of-life choices, and she has told me that her wish, should she have a terminal illness or lose her mind (and her dignity), is to be relocated to one of the pitiful few states in this country (what is it now, four out of fifty?) where euthanasia is legal. Fortunately, her husband and family are on board with this. She also told me about an organization called Compassion and Choices, and I intend to join it. I can’t afford to be a benefactor, but I will involve myself in it nonetheless, and fully educate myself now, while I still have my brain. Because I will not end up like my mother. I_Will_Not. There is no fucking way that I will end my life that way. I’ve spent the good years of my life living on my own terms, and I’m going to exit on my own terms as well, dammit. Quality over quantity. When life ceases to have quality, it’s time to say adios.

Sorry. Rant over. You may now return to your barbecues and whatever else you’re doing to enjoy your Memorial Day weekend. I intend to celebrate my 16-year spankiversary tomorrow, and forget about this crap for a while.

Uncommon sense

This coming Monday (Memorial Day) will be the 16th anniversary of my first spanking and official “for real” entry into the scene. A lot has happened in 16 years, including a whole lot of learning. These days, I find myself in the position of watching new people enter, filled with questions and uncertainties. They are lucky — they have online forums in which they can pose their questions. I did not. Still, I was fortunate enough to meet good people and get a lot of valuable guidance, in those early days.

A lot of the questions I see on FetLife and other forums have to do with etiquette, and most of these queries have a wide variety of subjective answers. However, one theme I see in the replies, over and over, is that much of “the ‘right’ thing to do” is rooted in common sense.

The word “common” implies that most of us have this sense to some degree. And yes, as I noted last week on a FetLife topic, common sense seems to be damned uncommon sometimes.

So I thought it might be interesting to discuss certain areas where it seems common sense would prevail, but often doesn’t. If people like this, I’ll keep it up, with a different topic each time. Today’s scene phenomenon will be what I call the “Monkey See, Monkey Do” syndrome.

In my BBW blogs, I mentioned a quickie scene I had with Joe (DrLectr on Fet), where I went to say hello to him and his greeting to me was yanking me down across his lap. I was careful to add, “This is something only friends can do. Don’t try this with someone you don’t know.”

Really — should I have to say this? Wouldn’t you think common sense would dictate that if you see this kind of spontaneous activity, it’s between people who know one another?

Yeah, you’d think. Well, it isn’t.

Case in point: Several years ago, at a Shadow Lane party, John was hanging out with a friend of ours. She was a sweetie, kind of shy, and played little in public. But because she felt completely comfortable with John, she was relaxed enough to banter and brat with him a bit. He liked her a lot, and she was one of the very few people whom he topped at these parties.

So she was doing her thing with him, and he took the bait. “OK, that’s IT,” he said, grabbing her forearm and pulling her across his lap. She protested vigorously, but it was all show, and the two of them put on a fun little scene for those watching.

All was well until he let her up, and a spectator stepped in. “My turn!” he said gleefully, grabbing her forearm, just as John had done. Big difference, though. She barely knew this man, and did NOT want to play with him. So she pulled away, saying no. But alas, that was just what she had done with John, and “no” meant “yes” with him. So the guy grabbed her again and pulled more forcefully. She finally screamed for her boyfriend, who came over and said, “Hey, man, she doesn’t want to.” How embarrassing and uncomfortable for all involved, and how completely avoidable.

Another case in point: During another party, at the vendor table, Ralph Marvell playfully snatched up a hairbrush and did an impromptu “demo” with me, bending me over the back of a chair. People gathered to watch and we had some raucous fun. When we were done, I started to stand back up, and a strange man slipped up beside me. “Nope, you’re not done it,” he said, putting his hand between my shoulder blades and trying to push me back down.

I didn’t know this guy from a hole in the wall. I stood up, giving him a “WTF??” look, but he still didn’t get it. He said, “Back down,” and grabbed my wrist, giving it a downward yank. Incredible! How clueless can you get? I just glared at him and bit out a very cold NO. Finally, he backed off, after giving me a bewildered and annoyed look. I could tell he honestly didn’t comprehend what he’d done wrong and why I was being such an uptight bitch.

What goes through people’s minds? “He did it, so I can too”? Where is that common-sense voice that whispers, “But they know each other”?

Oh, and it’s not just men who do this, BTW. I’ve seen women do it too, particularly with bratting and teasing. News flash, ladies. If you overhear a woman playfully insulting a top, there’s a good chance that she knows him well enough to know he’s OK with that, and he knows HER well enough to know she doesn’t mean it. You can’t just step up and chime in.

I know, I know. It can be confusing for the new people, seeing some outrageous behaviors that they’ve been told time and again are inappropriate. I do understand and empathize with this confusion. But again, for any newbies — always stop and factor in the “they know each other” part of the equation. When you see Danny Chrighton stride across the room, grab me and throw me over his shoulder, you can pretty much assume we’re good friends. I’m not in the habit of letting strangers do that. (Although there have been some hotties over whom I’ve fantasized of such things. But I digress.)

Or, if you see me hug and kiss a male friend hello at a party, chances are I won’t appreciate it if you blunder over and shove your face into mine, expecting that I’m going to kiss you too. (Yes, this has happened.)

When in doubt, err on the side of caution: don’t assume any sort of familiarity until you’ve actually achieved it.

Thoughts? Questions? Feel free, please.

Have a great holiday weekend, y’all.

Post #400!

I can’t believe I’m up to 400 posts in less than two years. What a jabberpuss! To everyone who reads me, from the newbies to those who followed me back in the MySpace blog days — thank you! I hope to keep you entertained for a long time to come.

So what am I posting for #400 — something enlightening, earth-shattering and profound? Nah. Shameless self-promotion. 😀

First up, Lily Starr has released the second of the three clips I shot with her and Robert in April, called Erica Scott, the Online Menace. Yes, this is the video based on that infamous incident on FetLife. Robert takes me to task for engaging with “idiots on the Internet,” first with an OTK spanking (until his hand blisters!), then a long session with a cocobolo paddle and a Cane-iac Attitude Adjustment strap. For those who wonder if the rumors about cocobolo paddles are true (are they really that painful?), the answer is YES. They SUCK!!! And that strap doesn’t tickle, either.

This video has something for everyone, I think. It has plenty of my signature sass and sarcasm, and some clever banter between Robert and me (he is definitely no slouch in the repartee department!). But it also has a hell of a lot of hard spanking, and my shrieking and kicking is real. I hope you’ll check it out.

And second — remember this, from August of last year? The SpankingTube trailer embedded in this post still exists, but alas, the full video hasn’t been available for many months now. The Villain retired, and his blog, videos and FetLife account no longer exist.

Because this is how those pesky rumors get started, let me hasten to assure you — the person behind The Villain is very much alive and well. It’s the character that has gone away. Perhaps he reformed. Or perhaps too many people figured out that behind that menacing, steely-eyed exterior was actually a helluva nice guy. 🙂 Anyway… I miss him. He was sexy and great fun. But now the video we shot together is in my hot little hands (with his and Dana’s blessing) and I’m selling it in my Spanking Library, here.

For those who didn’t see it last year, the scenario is basically as follows: I answer the door in the middle of the night (don’t try this at home, kids) to a creepy stranger, who forces his way into my apartment. It seems I’m going to get robbed, raped or worse… but then I find out he came for something else entirely (and guess what that is!). V plays the maniacal intruder to perfection and this is an action-packed 14 minutes.

I look scared to death here:

But my face tells another story here, I think.
I really do love this piece. I hope you will too.
Happy Hump Day, y’all. Hope everyone’s having a good week so far.

Next time, look under the bed, dumbass

Last time ST was here, we played in the bedroom and he had me get the Cane-iac Spanking Buddy out of my vanity drawer. Even though I had given it to him as a gift, he likes me to keep it here. So after he left, I looked on the bed and on the floor, but couldn’t find it. I figured he’d accidentally picked it up with all his other toys and put it in his bag.

Tonight when we were ready to play, I mentioned that he might have the SB in his bag, because I thought he took it by accident. He rummaged through everything — “Nope, I don’t have it.” Hmmmm… Oh, wait! Maybe it had traveled under the bed somehow (no, I didn’t put it there).

Off I went to the bedroom to look, and sure enough, it was way under the bed. You wouldn’t believe the noise I got from ST when I came back.

“Aha! You had it all along, and you accused me of stealing it!”

“I did not!” I protested. “I said you might have taken it by accident!”

“You were still blaming me, and all the while it was just your lousy housekeeping!”

I beg your pardon??

“You really shouldn’t accuse me of stealing,” he scolded, pulling me OTK.

“Dammit! There was nothing accusatory about what I said!” I hollered.

“Yeah, well, I’m about to get abuse-atory on your bottom.” (groan) Oh, clever man.

We were both chatty at first, him blathering some nonsense about “poor Erica” and how I get blamed for doing things I didn’t do, because I’m a perfect angel all the time. (Well, at least he’s finally seeing that.) He said we should shoot a series caled “Poor Erica,” and with each installment, I’d get some sort of unfair punishment. Sounds like Monday nights to me! (snort)

“So what scenarios should we use?” he asked.

“I dunno,” I muttered. “Some of your lame-ass flimsy reasons, I guess.”


“You’re really not in a position to be making comments like that, are you?” (Well, no. But when has that ever stopped me?) I insisted that it was true, that he came up with the damndest reasons.

“That’s just superior top logic in operation,” he claimed. I said that was an oxymoron. He didn’t like that either.

“NO, I’m not calling you a moron!” I screeched. “Don’t you know what an oxymoron is??”

“Yes, I know what it is,” he said. “But it still sounds like it should be the name of an infomercial or something. Doing Laundry with OxyClean for Dummies.”

Jesus. Who put a quarter in him tonight?

By the way, here I am, playing the cheerful hostess and offering up the Spanking Buddy.

He liked how my panties tangled up on my feet and legs when I kicked. Said it was a good leg toner, using my panties like an exercise band. He should start his own gym and teach his own exercises.

Yeah, right.

All this jocularity was very well and good, but when he moved me to the ottoman, things began to transition. We got quieter and more focused, and he ramped things up.

No tears tonight. I wasn’t feeling the need for emotional release. But I went so deeply into subspace, I couldn’t speak any more. I heard incoherent noises… moans, groans, sighs, whimpers. Dreamily, I wondered where they came from, and realized they were my own.

It was an all-leather night, except for the final 10, much later, with the wooden paddle. He didn’t ask me to count them, as he usually does. He knew I wouldn’t be able to. I could barely take them, they hurt so much, and I shrieked into my pillow. And when they were over, I melted bonelessly into the cushions.

I didn’t say anything for a long time. I didn’t think about anything, either. My head felt refreshingly clean and clear, the usual nattering at bay. I could have shut my eyes and drifted to sleep, as he curled up next to me and stroked my back, my hair. When I finally spoke, my first slurred words were, “Can I slip into something more comfortable…like a coma?”

Ever want to freeze a moment in time? A moment when you feel so utterly right, so blissful and and at peace, you want to capture it and lose yourself in it?

Eventually, I know I have to raise my head, open my eyes, push my hair out of my face. But I put it off as long as possible. Fortunately, ST is patient. He waits. He soothes, and he waits.

We ended the evening by watching some SNL skits on Hulu. He’d never seen their parodies of the Lawrence Welk show, which are hysterical. You can’t fully appreciate them unless you grew up with that stupid show, which we both did.

I am particularly sore tonight, squirming in my computer chair. Not complaining, however. It’s the good pain. 🙂 I’m in my happy place.

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