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 “November, 2012”

No rants tonight :-)

It’s late. I’m so sleepy. But I must blog before I crawl into bed. My night won’t be complete without it.

I had a lovely, peaceful, rainy weekend with John, with lot of cloudy-weather snuggling and relaxing. And today, I was so looking forward to seeing Mr. D. Not because I needed stress release — not this time. Simply because I wanted to see him. Because I wanted those wonderful hands on me.

Of course, he’d read Friday’s rant, including what I’d said about the critiques regarding his techniques, the panties staying up, etc. This guy doesn’t seem to be fazed by anything; he just laughed. I’m glad this nonsense doesn’t bug him — one of us getting freaked out is enough! “Is there a rulebook I don’t know about?” he asked. “Who said the panties always need to be down?” I shrugged. “It’s not a rule; it’s just sorta traditional, I guess.”

“OK then, tonight, they’re coming down,” he said. “We have to keep the masses happy, after all.”

Then he snickered. “I ought to take a Sharpie and write something on your butt when we’re done.” I sat upright, giggling my head off. “Do it! Go for it!”

“Really??” “Yes!”

“All right, then. Come here, you.”

I have grown very fond of the phrase “Come here, you.” 🙂

Warmup was long and thorough and lovely. I didn’t feel like being a smartass tonight; I just melted into it from the get-go. I was already zoned out when we moved to the bedroom (and to the implements). Tonight’s selection was his riding crop, my Cane-iac strap and lexan paddle.

Everything is a blur, as I try to recall the special moments. I guess I just loved it all, even at the end when I was struggling.

Oh, I do remember one moment: I kicked him in the head.

It was an accident! He was leaning over me on the bed, and my errant left foot, the one that always kicks the hardest, shot up and I felt my heel clunk his head. Aagggh! Good thing I was barefoot, or I would have concussed him!

He took it in stride, though. Didn’t miss a beat. Not a single one of many, many beats. Until I was whimpering “please.” Then he stopped, and sat by my head, stroking my hair and neck. I crawled closer and put my head on his thigh.

I wasn’t crying, and didn’t think I was going to this time. But then he started saying the words I never tire of hearing, the ones that reach right inside and tug on my heart. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you; you’re safe, I’ll take care of you.” Then my tears flowed and dampened the leg of his jeans. I so need that reassurance. I wish I didn’t, but I do.

I told him I feel, before I see him, like I’m all sharp corners and brittle exterior, shot through with tension. Then he breaks me… breaks me down, breaks apart all the hardness. And then his aftercare puts me back together again. Softer, more pliant, calmer, blissful.

It’s a good kind of breaking. Exquisitely painful and pleasurable breaking.

Oh! Almost forgot about the Sharpie.


Well, are you? 😀
I know I am.

It’s now 1:40. I’m practically comatose. But, like an excited child, I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t want the evening to end.

I can practically feel the warm hand smoothing back my hair, and the calm voice whispering, “Sleep, honey. There will be so many more wonderful evenings.”

And so I will listen. Good night…

RANT: OK, I have @#$%ing had it

Look out, blogosphere. Erica is pissed off.

Earlier this week, Alex wrote a brilliant post about obnoxious comments (click to read). Yes, it’s a topic that comes up again and again, but you know what? Sometimes, we get fed up. Sometimes, the cluelessness, cruelty and stupidity of random strangers gets to us. One of her commenters said that she needed to develop a thicker skin. That’s not the issue. It’s not about hurt feelings, although they certainly do get hurt. It’s about anger. It’s about utter bewilderment that people seem to think we need to hear/read this crap. That they don’t stop to consider there’s a real person, not a video character, reading these critiques and insults.

On FetLife, a young woman posted a photo from a spanking party, of herself and another woman kissing. It’s a closeup of their faces, an exquisite and tasteful shot, with perfect lighting and angles. Hell, I’m not into F/F in any way, and even I thought it was stunning. It got a stream of compliments and loves. Then some asshat stepped in and said to the poster:

You could find/get a hotter girl. Just saying.

What. The. FUCK.

Of course, this elicited a string of angry rebuttals, including from yours truly. I looked at his profile and saw that he had a slew of cock shots. So I commented:

(looking at [his name’s] dick pics) Yep, we could find/get a bigger guy.

Mean? Oh yeah, you bet. And I don’t care. Random unkindness like this unleashes my inner bitch like nothing else.

Did he have any clue about how he just ruined a woman’s day, peed on her ego? Or did he know, and simply not care?

Yeah, I know. I’m not going to change the world. Freedom of speech still exists in this country and people are going to say/write stupid crap, no matter how much I rant or anyone else rants. Most of the time, I can focus on the overwhelming majority of kind, complimentary and beautiful messages/comments I receive. But sometimes, I just have to get the anger off my chest.

And while I’m on a roll: You know what? It’s my damn blog and my damn pictures, and my choice about with whom I play. I’m sick to death of unsolicited critiques from people who don’t know me OR my tops. First I got noise about ST’s caning techniques — that the only reason he kept breaking them was because he was doing it wrong and he needed to practice more on pillows. Or that he shouldn’t have filmed the punishment spanking he did last year, because that was too personal. Now I’m getting noise about Mr. D and how he’s not measured/caring enough and how badly he’s marking me. Or how he leaves my panties up instead of taking them down. Good Christ — can anyone do anything right, with some of you? Are YOU playing regularly? Do YOU know how to use every implement with perfect aplomb? Do YOU leave your bottoms in absolute euphoria each time?

EDIT: Please note — the above paragraph is not intended for any of my regular commenters. Don’t want my friends reading this and thinking, “Is she talking about me?”

If I want your opinions and critiques, I will request them. If you don’t like what you see, go look at something/someone else. God knows there’s plenty of material out there for your viewing/wanking pleasure. Knock yourself out, and please, please, for me, for my fellow spankettes who post pictures, videos and blogs: Think twice before you hit Send. And if you’re incapable of thinking, then just STFU.

(deep breath) OK. I feel better now. Sorry, guys. Happy Friday, happy Chross Day. Go be nice to each other. And have a great weekend, y’all.

Lassitude

noun

1. weariness of body or mind; lack of energy, listlessness.

2. a condition of indolent indifference.

3. the state of Erica the day after an intense spanking session.

I’m not telling you anything new here. For about 24 hours after I have a typical session, one where I run the gamut of emotions and end up drained and blissful, I am practically useless. Sleepy, addle-brained, limbs heavy, wanting quiet and solitude. This is why Monday sessions work so well for me; on Tuesday, I know to plan little. I do my work if I have any (although it taxes my mushy mind), maybe run a few errands or do some simple chores around my place, but little else. So I can bask in the heightened state of relaxation and let my body and mind return to normal at their pace.

But sometimes, we have to switch the sessions to Tuesday, like this week. And then the next day is Wednesday: a gym day. With one of my favorite classes to boot.

Ugh.

Yesterday, I scraped myself out of bed, went through all the proper motions (dressed, brushed my teeth, had breakfast and coffee), all the while wanting to crawl back into the warmth and darkness of my bedroom and keep the outside world at bay a bit longer. No, it’s not like depression — just the opposite. It’s a bubble of dreaminess I know will break and dissipate soon enough, and I wish to stay within it a while longer. But alas, I am above all a responsible adult.

So I fire up the computer and, after checking email and blog comments and FetLife posts and so forth (priorities, you know?), I get to work. But everything confuses me. One file in particular is riddled with so many technical issues, I give up and email a list of questions to the client, and move on to something else. My mind drifts; I read the same paragraph over and over. Focus, Erica.

Before I know it, it’s 3:00. I need to leave for the gym at 4:15. And all I want to do is drop my head onto the keyboard and go to sleep. So the bargaining begins. Come on, Erica. Wake up. You can do this. You know you have to get going. Find that energy.

Perhaps an extra jolt of caffeine will help. So I brew a large mug of strong coffee and down it quickly, only to remember after the fact that extra caffeine doesn’t usually perk me up, it just makes me feel nauseated, and now I’m sleepy and queasy. Swell. Fake it till you make it, Erica. Go suit up.

I put the workout clothes on, eat an orange, splash some water on my face, put a bit of concealer on the dark shadows under my eyes. Out the door I go. Come on, energy. You can kick in any time. But it doesn’t.

Arrive at the gym. Hey, most of the battle is getting there, right? I can do this now! Yeah, right. Drag myself into the locker room, sit down to change my shoes. Uh oh. I put my socked foot on the floor and discover it’s wet from mopping. Oh no. I can’t work out with a wet sock, can I? Perhaps I should just go home.

Nice try, Erica. Put your damn shoe on and get moving.

On the night of a spanking, my skin stings and burns for hours afterward. But by the next day, the surface pain has given way to a deeper one, settled within the gluteal muscles; a feeling like someone has pummelled my backside with boxing gloves. On Tuesdays, I have an awareness of this pain, but it doesn’t really invade my consciousness.

But Wednesday, on the elliptical trainer, it comes screeching to the forefront. Every single revolution (all 5,216 of them) on that damn thing over the course of 35 minutes delivers a sharp shock through that area. My mind explodes with curses as my body struggles to get into a rhythm, into a workout zone, get those pain-masking endorphins going.

At long last, the torture is over. Sweaty, I step off the elliptical, drink some water, test my shaky legs. Part 1 is done. Now for Part 2: A one-hour muscle conditioning class. Including… guess what? Lots and lots of squats and lunges.

@#$%&*!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Most of the time, by now, my energy and endorphins have fully kicked in and I zip through the class, enjoying the feeling of my muscles working and knowing it’s nearly over and I can go home and enjoy Modern Family and Suburgatory. But last night, the languor never left. It was like the blissful, boneless state didn’t want to relinquish its dominance before its time.

And then there was that damned muscular soreness again. We do a lot of squats in these classes, folks. This instructor doesn’t put up with half-assed squats, either. “Get down low! Sit your butt back!” She even walks around the class, checking form, and gently chides those of us who aren’t going deep enough. I normally love this woman and the way she teaches. Last night, I wanted to kick her perky ass.

But finally, after about five dozen glances at the clock that doesn’t seem to move, the class is over. The workout is over. I did it, Yay, me. Still, if my workouts were this much of a struggle every time, I don’t know how I could do them. Then again, I suppose my everpresent vanity would get me through somehow.

Yes, I know. I’m a woman of schedules and rituals. But they work. Throw them off and my world goes askew. Who knew that postponing a spanking for a mere day could cause such cataclysm?

I also know all of the above is what’s known as “first-world problems” and this was very much tongue-in-cheek. 🙂

Spare the bare and spoil the spanking?

OK, you all know I’m all about spanko purism and following all the lovely little rituals involved with classic spanking. And of course, to a great many of us, tradition dictates that a spanking may start over clothes, or over panties, but eventually, those babies have got to come down. I get that, truly I do. And there is a certain thrill associated with the ceremony of peeling (or yanking) the panties down/off, even though I grumble and protest when it happens.

But is it really that much of a deal if the panties stay up? Particularly when they are thong style and pretty much everything is bare anyway? Or what if the panties are wedged between the cheeks, baring most of the flesh? Is that a deal-breaker?

You see, Mr. D is a bit different. Along with enjoying spanking, he also happens to have a thing for panties, as many do. Sooooo… he likes mine to stay on for the entire time, to absorb my… reactions. Because, you see, he takes them home with him afterward. TMI? No, TMI would be detailing what he does with them. 😉 However, suffice it to say, that’s part of the experience for him. And personally, I’m just as happy leaving them on, especially when we’re taking pictures. Then I don’t have to worry about my bits hanging out all over the place.

We have fun with it. He likes to tease me about how, er, damp my underwear gets. “Is that for me?” he’ll say. Depending on my mood, I may give him a sarcastic answer. “Do you see anyone else here?” or “No, I’m fantasizing about someone else.” But other times, I’ll just nod, speechless in my subspace.

John is totally OK with this; I told him all about it. Of course, he made jokes. (“He’s got a panty fetish? What kind of sick fuck is he??”)

However, since I’ve been posting some of the photos on FetLife, I’ve been getting comments like: “Why are those panties still up?” “What’s with the panties still being on?” “Why weren’t your panties pulled down?” The gist being, it’s not a REAL spanking unless the bottom is completely bare.

Oh, good grief.

OK, folks. I aim to please, after all. So tonight’s blog has something for everyone. For those who like panties, behold:

Gotta be bare? Here you go:

Let it not be said that Erica Scott is inflexible. (I am, but don’t say it.) 🙂

First scene tonight was quite intense, with a lot of his hand, plus some leather (my strap and his belt). I went through many emotions, most of them deeply pleasurable. But at the very end, one final snap of the strap shocked me with the sharpness and pain, and I went to a dark place for a while. Mr. D tried to find out what was going on, but I retreated, curling into a ball and shaking as I cried. So he waited patiently, holding me close and soothing me. Eventually, I calmed down enough to be able to talk, and we discussed what had happened, how I’d gone within. My body loosened and unfolded, my fists uncurled. He was so kind to me, so completely understanding. He listened. He reassured. He cared.

The closeness of a top/bottom relationship is not necessarily measured in the perfection of the scenes. It’s often measured in the imperfections and how you handle them, together. How you communicate. I love what’s happening here.

Later, another round broke out, this one much more playful. I guess I may have called him a name. (shrugging) Really, he can’t prove it. But whatever he thinks he heard me say, he took exception to it, and I was rolled back onto my belly.

“Go ahead, call me that again.” I was only too happy to oblige. Several times. I even spelled it for him.

“That’s it,” he said, getting up and going to my vanity drawer. Oh, crap. The wooden stuff is in there. I looked over to see what he was getting. “You turn around!” he ordered. “Look the other way.” I didn’t.

He came back, and a wooden paddle cracked down on one cheek. “That’s for looking,” he said. Another crack, the other cheek. “So is that.” Two more whacks. “And those also.”

I turned and gave him my most plaintive look. “Can I help it if I like looking at you?”

CRACK! again. “And that’s for B.S.ing me.” Sheesh. Can’t pull anything over on this guy.

Ah well. It was certainly worth it. 😀

I had another treat in store; he’d brought his guitar. It had been in his car and he didn’t want to leave it there. “Do you want me to play?” he asked. Oh, yes, please! I put my PJs on and curled up on my living room carpet, while he played and sang me a song. “White Shadows” by Coldplay. I’d never heard it before. It’s beautiful.

He left me there, dreamily content on the carpet, and let himself out.

I am sleepy and sore. I cried myself out and giggled like a child. For another week, I am sated.

He says he is a lucky man. But I’m the lucky one.

Various thanks

In no particular order:

1. Thanks to everyone who participated in Bonnie’s Love Our Lurker Day #7, and especially to those who came by here and said hello. I appreciate you all, both familiar commenters and my new ones. Without readers and commenters, we all might as well be keeping an old-fashioned paper journal that we stick in a drawer after writing.

2. I’d like to extend a heartfelt thanks to Jillian Keenan. Her name may not ring a bell, but if you’ve been online at all since Friday, you’ve no doubt read (or heard about) her brilliant article in the New York Times online about “coming out” as a spanko to a loved one, effectively outing herself to all her readers. She is on Twitter (@jilliankeenan), and on Friday, several of us (including me) tweeted to her to say thank you for her pitch-perfect representation of who we are. She retweeted us all, and wrote a response to each individual. Class act! When I first looked her up on Friday, I noticed she had 70 followers. As of tonight, she’s up to 185. I hope she gets many more!

If by some chance you haven’t read it yet, please check it out here. In my not-so-humble opinion, Ms. Keenan has done more to represent our community in a single article than you-know-who did with that ridiculous trilogy. The article also appeared in the paper version of the NY Times today.

3. Finally, to all our military veterans, thank you for your service to us and to our country. We honor you today.

No blog tomorrow evening, as Mr. D is coming by on Tuesday instead. So please look for my weekly session blog on Tuesday night. 🙂

Hope everyone had a nice weekend.

Time for Love Our Lurkers #7!

(Sorry for any confusion — I put this up this morning, then realized I had the wrong day and took it down! If you tried to comment earlier, please try again.)

Welcome to LOL7! (Not to be confused with “L7,” which is a very old term for someone considered “square.” Geeez, I’m dating myself here.) Started in 2006 by our brilliant blogster Bonnie, Love Our Lurkers Day sends a special greeting to the shy readers, the ones who follow our blatherings faithfully but prefer not to comment.

We appreciate you! You keep our stats up and give us incentive to keep writing, because we know you’re out there reading, and hopefully enjoying what you read. On this day we invite you to take a deep breath, click on Post Comment and introduce yourselves.

Like I’ve said in previous LOLs, it doesn’t have to be an epic posting. It can be a simple hello, or whatever your comfort level dictates. You can give your name or remain anonymous. But I’d love to know who some of you are.

Of course, all non-lurkers are welcome to comment too. 🙂

Let’s make this the best LOL Day yet — all my fellow bloggers, please join in! See how many lurkers you can get to come out of the shadows.

Blowing my readers a kiss!

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