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 “March, 2013”

Any questions?

Apparently, March is Questions and Answers month among the blogosphere. Mind you, I’ve been yammering at you via blogs, FetLife posts and books for years, so I don’t know if there’s anything left to ask me. But just in case there is, please feel free to pose a question to me in the comments section, and I will answer all to the best of my ability in a future post.

Warning: any anonymous nasty questions will be given an equally nasty answer, ala CHoS.

Hypothetical example:

Anonymous: Why are you such a bitch?
Me: Because I know people like you.

So do be nice, k? 😀  Not that 99% of you won’t be, of course. Just covering my bases here.

Happy Spring! (Meh. I prefer winter.)

On 3/18/2013, Erica Was Flexible

You laugh. But as I’ll be the first to admit, flexibility is not my strong suit. It’s not even my weak suit. Hell, it’s not even in my wardrobe.

I had hoped that Mr. D and I could return to our Monday afternoon/evening routine, now that things have quieted down for him. However, his teenage daughter, who was living with her mother, has now moved in with him. So, until they get a routine established and she is settled, he wants to be home in the evenings for dinner. So he contacted me last night and asked if 10 o’clock was too early for me.

Uh… you mean, a.m.? *gasp*

I am a creature of habit, y’all. I don’t relate to Sheldon Cooper on Big Bang Theory for nothing. Mondays follow a set pattern; I get up around 8:30, have breakfast and coffee, and head for the gym to get the first workout of the week over with. Then I come home, shower, dress and get ready for Mr. D later. And after he leaves, I (then in a blissful stupor) settle in for the night. However, with Mr. D planning to be here from 10 a.m. until 3 p.m., I would have to do things in reverse order. Damn. Who feels like suiting up and heading for the gym after a long spanking session? Not me!

But I did it anyway. Because I wanted to see Mr. D, and I need to work with him and his life, which is wayyyyy fuller than mine. Because it won’t freaking kill me to be a little more fle… fl… flexi… f-word.

So at 10 a.m., I was ready. At least he could stay a while this time — none of that two-hour nonsense. I was fully buzzed on my morning coffee when he arrived and very happy to see him.

We don’t start playing right away; we always talk. Sometimes for as long as an hour. But eventually, he’ll grin at me, pat his lap and say, “C’mere, you.”

Today, I didn’t particularly need stress release. I didn’t need to cry. I just wanted to hunker down and revel in the sensations, and he delivered them with aplomb. (and a peach, too) I am so loving this newer technique he’s got going on, where I can’t tell what he’s going to do next, where the flurries take my breath away. 

Of course, some things never change. You know how tops are; they all have their signature phrases and questions that they ask over and over, thinking they’ll get a different answer at some point. With ST, it was “Oh, does that hurt?” (insert eye-roll) And with Mr. D, it’s “Who’s in charge here?” To which I always calmly give the obvious reply: “I am.” “We’ll see about that!” he blusters. OK, I’m waiting. What is it I’m supposed to see? 🙂

I’m so glad Mr. D likes all styles of panties. I have boy shorts, tangas, bikinis, thongs — he loves them all. Today, I had a very cute, brightly colored thong.




You can’t see from the back, but the front had a bright turquoise bow, the same color as my shirt. Despite the meager protection they offered, they still didn’t stay up.

He alternated between his hand, the leather paddle and a wooden paddle, so swiftly that I could barely tell what was what. It went on until I was just teetering at the edge. Then he leaned down and whispered, “Are you ready to rest for a while?”

To this, I vigorously shook my head. “That’s my girl,” he said. “Finish me,” I whispered back. “Please finish me.” He did.

After that, he sat beside my head on the bed, stroking my hair. Not even opening my eyes, I crawled up against him so that my head rested on top of his thigh. He took some more photos. Honestly, I didn’t like how any of them came out; I didn’t think they were flattering of me. I freaking hate my big ears! But perhaps you guys will like this. It’s a lovely moment.




Doesn’t he have a delicious skin tone? He’s American born, but his heritage is Hispanic (although I think I know more Spanish than he does!).

I was in a sweet, dreamy state after that. I murmured something along the lines of “You’re such a wonderful man,” and he replied, “I want to make you feel like that, too.”

“You want to make me feel like a wonderful man?” 

“No, smart-ass. You know what I meant. I want to make you feel wonderful.”

“You do.”

Guess what I showed him? I dragged the old chestnut “Naughty Secretaries Week Part 2” out of my closet — my first video ever, from 2000. I was thinking he’d laugh at it, but he liked it! “This is 13 years old??” he asked. “You look the same!”

“Oh, get out of here,” I snorted. But he insisted. “Your butt hasn’t changed at all. If I didn’t know when this was from, I’d have thought you shot it a few months ago.”

I’d say his check is in the mail, but I don’t have any money. So my eternal gratitude is in the mail.

He left at 3:30, and I reluctantly scraped myself together, put on workout clothes and got my butt to the gym. Ever do an intense workout right after a spanking? I do not recommend it. But that perverse part of me welcomed the biting sting. I was so mellow and happy, I didn’t even care that it was now prime time and everyone and their uncle was at the gym, so I had to wait for nearly every damn machine. I stood patiently waiting, thought about where I’d just come from and smiled. Ah, if only all these people knew the state of my bottom beneath these leggings.

Mr. D assures me that the time switch is temporary. He, too, likes being able to stay into the evening, go to dinner, etc. But for however long it is, I’ll work with him. I’ll try to be… you know. That damned f-word.

He’s definitely worth it. ♥

Sunday potpourri

While walking through my apartment building on the way to the laundry room, I saw this on a neighbor’s doorstep:




Of course, I would have liked it even better had it said “NICE PANTIES.” You know how certain words inexplicably skeeve you? I feel that way about “underpants,” for whatever reason. It has to be “underwear” for general use, “panties” for women and “shorts” for men. But anyway… made me wonder who lives there. 🙂

Next up, a stray photo from our Vegas weekend a couple of weeks ago. You know, if we spankos ever get our own channel, we simply must have a sitcom called Everybody Loves Alex.




So today is St. Patrick’s Day. In preparation, I brought a green t-shirt to John’s to put on this morning. However, we showered first. And while I was drying off and about to dress, John swooped over, exclaimed that I wasn’t wearing green and started pinching me. My sides, my butt, my boobs. “You’re not either!” I cried, lunging for him. In one fluid move, he ducked out of the way, snatched up his green bath towel and slung it over his shoulder. “There,” he said, continuing to assault me with his pinchy fingers.

Finally, he let up and left the bathroom so I could dress in peace. When I came out, imagine my shock when I saw that, after all that fuss, he was dressed in khaki shorts and a plaid shirt of tan and rust shades — no green!! “Where’s your green??” I hollered. He just gave me a look of disdain. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said loftily. “That’s a child’s game.”

I swear, that man is going to send me to an early grave.

Hope everyone had a nice weekend. 🙂

OT: Things that amuse me

Most of you know what I think of the 21st-century phenomenon of being glued to one’s cell phone. Having gotten my first smart phone last year, I do understand the addiction somewhat. But I think there are times when one needs to detach from the damn thing for an hour or two.

Case in point: the gym. You’re there, presumably, to exercise. Not to sit on the equipment that others are waiting for while you text. Not to conduct a conference call on the treadmill, walking 1.5 miles an hour. Not to stand in the middle of a packed exercise class, shouting into your phone to be heard over the music and the instructor’s count.

I figured the one place where people couldn’t text is in a class. You’re holding weights a lot of the time, so you don’t have free hands. After last week, I can no longer say that.

About halfway through last week’s class, we finished the standing work and then lay on our mats to do floor work (leg lifts, sit-ups, etc.). A young woman next to me started texting while we were doing leg work, busily pumping one leg and then the other while she tapped at her phone, never breaking stride. I marveled at this, since I suck at multi-tasking.

Then the instructor had us go into a forearm plank. Ah, I thought. Surely she can’t text now. For those who aren’t familiar with a plank, it’s when you prop yourself up on your forearms and your toes, with your body in one long, straight line (the plank). It looks like this:

If you think it looks easy, it isn’t. Assuming the position is easy, but holding it for a minute or more requires core strength to keep your body rigid like that. Your butt wants to drop down, or thrust upward.

Anyway, I watched as this woman got into position, and, with her phone lying on the mat in front of her hands, continued tap-tap-tapping onto the screen. I couldn’t help it; I burst out laughing. She looked up and smiled, and I said, “I wish I had a camera right now.”

After class, she told me she texts because it distracts her from the pain of the exercise. Well, whatever works. If I’d tried to text while exercising, I’d end up in traction.

Speaking of planks, I’m reminded of years ago, when I was crushing on my personal trainer, and we were doing planks in one of his classes. I hadn’t quite mastered the form yet, and he called out, “Erica, much as I love looking at it, get your butt out of the air. You’re not a TV aerial.”

LOL — and what a dated reference that is, huh?

Brief encounter

Today, Mr. D and I had only a little over a two-hour window in which to play. His son is home from college for spring break, and they spent Saturday-Monday skiing in Mammoth, and tonight they were having a barbecue. So, not much time. (sigh) Mr. D promised he’ll make it up to me next week. But you know what? We may not have had a large quantity of time today, but we made every minute the highest quality. 🙂

I didn’t want him to have to bother loading pictures and sending them when he got home, because I knew he’d be busy, so we used my camera today. The advantage to that is that mine is much smaller and lighter, so he can use it while I’m OTK.




And yes, I was having a wonderful time.




Although that didn’t stop me from sassing him. At some point, I don’t remember what he did or said, but I said, “Don’t be such a butt.”

“Excuse me?” he said. “You’re saying that to me when I’ve got my hands on your butt?”

I shrugged. “Hey, I could have said ‘Don’t be such an ass.’ ” I swear, I don’t get points for anything.

He also discovered this afternoon just how ticklish I am. Ack. I am @#$%ing toast.

I’m not quite sure what happened today. Maybe he’d read all my descriptions of the varied techniques I experienced over the Vegas weekend. All I know is that I’ve come to recognize his technique and I was quite familiar with it — until today. He completely switched everything up, varying the tempo and intensity, alternating fast flurries with slow whacks, slapping all over both cheeks. I was surprised, breathless and thoroughly loving it, arching my bottom up to his hand and moaning like a damn porn star.

After about five seconds of corner time…




… we moved to the bed and onto implements. Again, I had no idea what to expect or how he was going to do it. Oh my god, I loved that so much. Maybe it’s because I knew our time was limited, but I soaked up all the pain and impact and was eager for more. 

Gawd, how I love what this man does to me.

After that, he massaged my feet and my calves with those magic hands, and then we cuddled a bit before he had to leave. I was so limp and blissful, he wouldn’t even let me see him to the door; he just tucked me under the covers and let himself out. I lay there for about an hour, basking, before reluctantly dragging myself out of bed and to the computer to do some work.

Mr. D tells me that he loves and needs our play every bit as much as I do. I’m so glad. Because I couldn’t imagine keeping all this enjoyment to myself; it’s so much nicer to share it. 🙂

Hope everyone is having a nice week so far. And thank you so much for all the wonderful comments on my last blog. They made me feel so good! ♥ I almost forgot to bitch about how much I hate Daylight Savings Time. Almost.

Somewhat OT: Girlfriends

I’ve been in kind of a strange place ever since we came back from our Vegas party. A lot of it was the typical post-party drop, the return to reality. But underlying that was something else. An observation about others, and mostly about myself. So please pardon me while I go on a long-ass ramble that doesn’t really have a conclusion or a solution, just me being me.

This particular gathering was small, so I got to see people in a more intimate setting. And while I felt such a lovely kinship with my friends there, a peaceful sense of belonging, there was also that old familiar sense of otherness. Because as I watched people interact, I realize that there are some very deep friendships going on here, particularly between the women. No, I’m not talking sexual; I’m talking about that special affection and closeness that women share. Men have their special guy bonds, and women have their ways of bonding too. I saw a lot of this last weekend. And I realized I do not have this depth of girlfriend-ly bond. I love a lot of these women, and I believe they love me too. I believe they enjoy seeing me and it’s definitely mutual. But I am no one’s bestie. No one calls me one of their girls, or their sister. I am not even a third cousin once removed. Not really. 

It wasn’t always like this. In fact, before I met John 16 1/2 years ago, all my dearest friends were women. My first adult best friend was Julie, whom I met when we were both art majors in college. We became fast friends, going through our junior and senior years in college, then getting our first job together in the same office. All through our 20s, we were the best of friends, sharing all our secrets, hours and hours of movies and dinners and laughter and tears. When I finally lost my virginity, she was the first person I told. (She’d lost hers several years before. That slut! 🙂 ) My mother was crazy about her. Her parents called me their third daughter.




I think we were in our mid-20s here. Look at my short hair!

When she got married in 1987, I was one of her bridesmaids. The only reason I wasn’t the maid of honor was because that went to her sister. Her mother liked me so much, she bought my bridesmaid’s dress for me.

Then Julie got pregnant and had her first child. And everything changed. Slowly, but surely. Our girly times were over. Whenever I saw her, she was half of a couple. She had other priorities now, a husband and a baby. My life seemed kind of frivolous next to hers, she lost interest in what was going on with me, and I could no longer relate to her. Eventually, we drifted apart.

She called me once, 15 years ago, when my father died and she read about it in the paper. Five years ago, when we both turned 50, I sent a birthday card to the address I had for her, but it was returned to me. I still think about her, still see bits of her in my apartment in the gifts she gave me over the years. I wonder how she is. Her boys would be grown now.

Then there was Sue, a woman I met at one of my jobs. She was bright, funny, educated, and a Beatlemaniac like me. She worked for the Hollywood Bowl Museum for a while, and we went to Bowl shows together, as well as a couple of Beatlefests and several movies. She also reviewed plays and used to invite me along. We, too, shared a lot, loved each other dearly.

Deja vu. She got married, had kids, faded out of my life. I know this is a common thing with friends in their 20s/early 30s, when one has kids and the other doesn’t. Still sad, though, to have it happen twice in a row.

In my 30s, when I was involved in 12-step, I made two very close girlfriends, Pam and Beth. They had very different personalities — Pam was more introverted like me, while Beth was extroverted. Sometimes I’d hang with one or other, and sometimes both. We were so close, so supportive of each other. I can still remember giving a talk at one of the conventions, and the two of them cheering me on in the audience, waving this goofy stuffed penguin at me. (Yes, the same one you’ve seen perching on my couch.) The three of us celebrated a lot of personal milestones together over the years. But then things changed. First, Beth got angry at me because I let her down one time; I wasn’t there for her the way she’d wanted me to be. I apologized profusely, but she never quite forgave me and things faded with us, even more so after she and Pam had a falling out. Pam and I stayed friends longer, but after a long-term relationship ended for her, she then moved back in with her mother after her father passed away and became rather reclusive. I haven’t spoken with either of them for years.

These days, I guess you could say John is my best friend, and the person with whom I spend the most time. He and I are both loners, he more so than even I. John is the only man I know who doesn’t have “guy pals.” I have some women whom I see now and then, and I have my online friends and party friends whom I love. But am I in touch with any women regularly, doing coffee, visiting, talking, texting, sharing? No.

I realize I have no one to blame but myself for this. Perhaps blame is too strong a word. It’s just the way it is. I realize that the way one cultivates and keeps these special, close friendships is by constant contact. I read the blogs and party reports, I see how the tightly knit women are always traveling to visit one another, spending lots of time. When they’re not together physically, they are bound by texts and Skype. And when they do get to see one another, they spend every possible moment together, savoring each other’s company.

Me? I hate the phone. I rarely text, and I’ve never Skyped in my life. And while I love spending time with beloved spanko people, I burn out quickly. I need down time, quiet time, time without interacting. Last weekend, six of our friends had a suite together. It had two bedrooms, but still, that meant a lot of closeness and being around each other the entire time. I read the accounts with a pang, wishing I had that kind of camaraderie, then realized, who the hell am I kidding? That kind of situation would have driven me up the wall… I would have needed my own room, my own space, my time alone to refresh and decompress. Only then would I have been able to be civil and pleasant and fun to be around.

John and I don’t entertain. Neither one of us has even given a party or a dinner. It’s just not in us. I don’t know why, but it’s just the way we are. At our age, we’re not likely to change. People can change aspects of their behavior when they really want to, but I don’t think they can change their core behavior. I’ve been an introvert and a loner all my life. 

So, I get to have my solitude, my quiet time, my peace. But I sacrifice a degree of closeness along with that. I miss out on being fully treasured, as I would be if I were fully available. And that makes me sad sometimes.

I’m grateful for John, because he gets me. He knows it isn’t that I don’t like people; I just can’t handle too much interaction without getting exhausted. He and I talk about this stuff after a party, after a gathering, when we’re still feeling the afterglow of the unaccustomed camaraderie. We say let’s go to more parties, let’s meet some new people in L.A., let’s think about maybe having a few people to John’s house. But then time passes and it doesn’t happen. We are who we are.

Just today, on my way home from John’s, I stopped to get groceries. I was feeling tired; we’d been out late last night and lost an hour’s sleep due to the time change. As I entered the market, I saw a woman I knew and hadn’t seen for a while. A normal, social person would have gone up to her to say hello, give a hug, shoot the breeze for a few. Me? I ducked in the other direction. My first reaction was, “No, I’m tired, I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

I admire social people, and envy them sometimes. There are times when I wish I were a different type of person. But then I wouldn’t be me. I’ve spent most of my life coming to terms with me, learning to accept Erica with all her quirks and foibles. People still care about me and seem to enjoy my presence. Having our friends last week say, “No, you can’t leave, you’re forbidden to leave,” brought tears to my eyes. Some of the hugs I received were so warm and wonderful. Despite myself, I am loved, and I love. 

I guess it’s up to me to, once again, accept my limitations, and work within them. There will always be things other have that I don’t, and vice versa.

It’s life.

If you’re still reading, thanks for letting me ramble.

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