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, 2013”

Mixed bag of a weekend ahead

Happy Friday, everyone. Hope you have some fun plans for your weekend. John and I will be busy; some of it, I’m really looking forward to. Other parts — notsomuch. As usual, you guys get to be my sounding board while I steel myself for the not-so-good parts.

Tonight, there is a big 30th birthday party for John’s nephew. Given at the same house where they have the annual holiday drunken bacchanal you’ve read about in the past (and you know how much I love those). (sigh) Tons of people, tons of noise, copious quantities of alcohol and pot, food I usually don’t like (not to mention people I don’t like all that much either) — all the components that make for a delightful evening for this curmudgeon. The good news is, John is going straight from work, so I am meeting him there. He will get there around 5:30. Me? I plan to show up around 7:00-7:30. 🙂 Ah, the luxury of two vehicles. So I plan to suit up, show up, paste a cheerful smile on my face and get through a few hours. Considering how drop-dead exhausted poor John is on Friday evenings, I figure I can convince him to leave at a decent hour. (Is 9:00 too decent? Yes, I know, I’m bad.)

Tomorrow is good stuff. A colleague of John’s is playing in an afternoon classical concert, and he invited us to come. We both love Beethoven and live music is always fun, so I’m excited. Plus, we’ll be near Old Town Pasadena, so we’ll go to one of our favorite restaurants afterward. I get to dress up and have a nice date with my sweetie. 🙂

And then there’s Sunday.

John’s niece (the one who got married last year) is having a baby. A few weeks ago when we were at John’s sister’s restaurant, she asked me if I’d gotten an invitation to the baby shower. This was the first I was hearing about it, so I said no. Frankly, I would have been surprised if I DID get an invitation. I’m not at close with John’s niece M, and she didn’t invite me to the bridal shower either. So I told John that I was relieved to not get an invite, since I don’t want to go to a freaking baby shower anyway. He asked, “If you were invited, would you go?” I skirted that by answering, “That’s a moot question, since I’m not invited.” Figured that was the end of that.

Then a week or two ago, John hears from his other sister (M’s mother). She only contacts him when she wants something from him — this time was no different, because she wanted him to go halfsies on some elaborate gift she’s getting for M, and since John is M’s godfather, she can shake him down for that. (She also roped him into paying for all the champagne at the wedding.) During that conversation, she asked, “So is Erica coming to the shower?” “She didn’t get an invitation,” John replied. “Oh, I’m sure that was an oversight! Of course she’s invited,” she insisted. She wouldn’t hear of anything else. So now, John wants me to go. (groan)

I told him, I was not invited. Period. Oversight, my ass. His sister just wants M to get another gift. So now I’m supposed to show up at a gathering to which I wasn’t invited — how awkward is that?? There’s no damn communication with this family — sure, the reasonable thing would be to directly ask M if she’d meant to invite me, but no one is doing that. I’m just supposed to show up, assuming it was intended that I be there.

Can I tell you just how much I don’t want to do this? But it’s important to John that I show up. He said if I don’t, it will cause further tension between him and his sister, as he’ll have to explain to her why I didn’t go. If I were closer to these people, I’d step up and ask, “So what’s the story here?” But I’m not, and I don’t want to.

John made it as easy as possible. The damn thing is at 1:00, which means I would have to miss brunch with him, but he said I can drop by later, after brunch. It’s on my way home from his house, so it’s not out of my way. And he even gave me money to pick up a gift. I just have to do it and get it over with.

But it really annoys the hell out of me. Yeah, I know. It’s one of those relationship things; you do things you don’t want to, sometimes. This is fairly minor. Still, there’s that inner rebel screaming, “But I don’t WANT to, goddammit!! Why should I? I wasn’t invited! It’s going to be ridiculously awkward!” I just have to tell her to shut up, suck it up, get it done, keep the peace. Do this little thing for the man I love, even though that love does not extend to his kin.

There is a gift registry, but nuts to that. I just went to the nearest Babies R Us and bought a gift card. 

So it will be a few days of polar opposites. Tonight, blech. Tomorrow, awesome. Sunday, blech. And Monday… ah, Monday. Steve, recovering and rarin’ to go, and some sweet stress release.

Thanks for listening, and wish me luck. Have a great weekend, y’all.

Colorful afflictions

So, as we established yesterday, poor Steve is suffering from conjunctivitis, AKA pinkeye. He is on antibiotic eye-drops 4x daily and should improve soon.

Meanwhile, I am suffering from TooDamnWhite-itis!! AKA WASP syndrome (White And Sulky Posterior).

Characterized by sickly pallor, attention deficit, feverish longings and cranky demeanor.

Sadly, while others have offered medication, only Steve has the proper antidote. So I must wait for relief next Monday.

Attempts at distraction will be much appreciated!

Suckage and nostalgia

That’s a rather incongruent pairing, isn’t it? Typical me, full of contradictions.

It was a nice weekend with my sweetie, and I came home full of plans and energy. He had a lot of stuff to do around his house, and I wanted to go to the gym and so forth, so I came home Sunday evening. Yesterday, I was a busy bee, clearing everything off my schedule. I went to the gym, got my car washed, proofread a small novel, did some writing, folded laundry, tidied up around here. This morning, I was due to drop off my car for servicing, and the mechanic would drive me home. After that, the day was free and clear, all ready for Steve (the top formerly known as Mr. D).

Aaaaaaaand last night he called and told me he had pinkeye again. Apparently it’s not a good idea to go surfing in one’s contacts and then leave them in for the rest of the day. He seems to have a predisposition for this damned affliction; it’s the second time he’s had it since I’ve known him, which is still not quite a year. He went to the doc right away this time, so it won’t be as bad as it was the last time he had it. 

(sigh) The best laid plans, etc. So here I am, work done, chores done, no car so I can’t go anywhere, and steeped in disappointment and frustration. If he had a cold or something like that, I’d say by all means, if you’re up for it, come over anyway. I’d risk it. But there’s no way he’s coming near me with pinkeye; he doesn’t want me to catch that. He offered to come take me to lunch, but you know what? Being in close proximity with him, and not being able to play, being forbidden to come in contact with him even for a hug, would be torture. 

It sucks not being able to play this week, especially. Because I don’t get to celebrate my 17th “spankiversary.”

You guys remember (well, some of you do) — my first spanking was on Memorial Day, 1996. It feels like a lifetime ago. It was my baby step onto a completely new path, one that twisted and twined and took me in so many unexpected directions. And the first of many firsts, including my initial spanking-related personal ad, which led me to the first real love of my life, John. Then parties, then videos, and so many more adventures. It’s been amazing, exhilarating, fulfilling, heartbreaking, validating, and a million other descriptives.

Has it really been a whole year since my “sweet 16” celebration? Last year at this time, ST came over, surprising me with champagne. I had two glasses, got thoroughly plastered (what a lightweight!), and broke two implements. Good times. The time speeds by so quickly. This August, John and I will be together 17 years. Last weekend, someone asked us what our secret is. I didn’t have to think about it; I just smiled and answered, “Don’t get married and don’t live together.” Yeah, I know — that flies in the face of what people are supposed to want. But it works for us.

And in July, I will have known Steve for a year already. I still can’t believe how he came along when he did, how he slipped in so quickly and quietly and made his presence invaluable in my life. 

I have a lot to be grateful for. I just have to postpone celebrating it, I guess.

I was going through some photo archives and found a real oldie. You might remember my writing about our friend C, the fetish photographer. One night when we were out with her and her boyfriend, she took us to her studio, which was a loft in downtown L.A. Just for fun, she dressed me up in elegant, fetish-y clothes and took pictures. I have no idea what happened to all those shots, but I do have one. Check this out, from about, oh, 16 years ago:

I don’t like the glare of the wall, but I don’t know how to tone that down. Will you look at those shoes! Glad she had me sitting; if I tried to walk, I’d pitch forward right on my face.

I also found the first ever photo of John and me, but there is no way I’m scanning that. When he and I met, I had short hair with a terrible perm. It is best forgotten. He says he fell in love with me despite my hair. Gee, thanks, bunny. :-Þ

As I do each year, sending out a heartfelt thank you to Paul, my premier spanker, wherever he may be. And thanks to all who have made, and continue to make, my journey so joyous.

A new endeavor

Happy Friday, everyone. And happy Chross day! 🙂 I was especially happy to see I got on the list this week. I thought my entries were far too depressing to be considered.

I have a bit of news I’d like to share. I’m a little nervous about doing so, since that will really force me to follow through with my commitment. But I think I’m ready.

For years, people have been telling me I should write a book about the Correspondence Hall of Shame. I’ve been doing it since 2007, and although it’s dwindled quite a bit over the past couple of years, I still have a lot of material recorded. Just for kicks, I went through the past six years of blogs, found all the old CHoS entries, and copied and pasted them into a Word document. I ended up with 70 pages. I figured once it’s formatted and I add all the explanatory copy, I’ll have several more pages. Enough for a nice little book.

So I’m doing it. When I don’t have work to do, this will be my filler project. 

In a way, most of it is already written, as I’m collecting past material. But there’s a lot of work to be done. For one thing, I can’t just have an endless stream of entries and replies in no particular order. So I’ve been reading through my 70 pages, separating the entries into various chapter themes, color-coding them and then pasting them into the book document according to chapter. Then there is formatting, which is a daunting task in itself. Finally, I do need to write an introduction, plus a fair amount of copy to go with each chapter. And once I get it all pulled together into one cohesive document, then the editing and rewriting and tweaking begins. 

I’m excited. I worked on it for hours yesterday, and had to wrench myself away to go to the gym. As soon as I got back home, I started up with it again. I do hope I get some work so I won’t have this much free time, but at the moment, things are at a lull and I’m going to take full advantage.

I have no idea what I’ll do with it when I’m done; where I’ll publish it, who will want it, etc. But I’ll deal with that later. I’ve been wanting to write something new for a while, and I’d toyed with the idea of writing some more spanking fiction. However, since the success of That Trilogy Whose Name Has Been Erased, spanking erotica is being mass produced like crazy, by a lot of very good authors (and some not-so-good ones, but we won’t go there). There’s really nothing I could write, in that genre, that would be a stand-out. But a book about the CHoS? That would be uniquely mine. I’m not even sure what I’m going to title it. I’ve considered “How NOT to Communicate on the Internet,” but that’s so long and generic. I’ll give it some more thought.

I will certainly keep you all posted as I progress!

In other news, John is feeling better, and I think we will have a very nice weekend. I am not seeing Mr. D on Monday, but will see him Tuesday. And speaking of Mr. D — don’t know if any of you saw the comment he left on my Monday blog, but he has officially sanctioned the use of his real name: Steve. So he will henceforth be referred to as Steve, not Mr. D. He still gets to keep his anonymity, since there are a quazillion men named Steve out there. But I love being able to use his name. 🙂

Finally, this has nothing to do with anything; I just feel like posting a cute picture. I saw this little guy outside the gym; we stared each other down for a few minutes until he decided to scuttle off under a car.

Have a great holiday weekend, y’all.

Time for some fun

Monday’s scene wasn’t all about intensity and sadness, after all. I noticed I got relatively few comments on my last blog; perhaps it was too heavy for most. So I thought it might be time to lighten things up a bit.

As I’d mentioned, Mr. D was trying to get me to say what “T. A. A. R.” stands for. For him, it was “Tops Are Always Right.” However, I didn’t quite see it that way. This is in two parts, as the damn temperamental camera shut off a couple of minutes into the first clip. Fortunately, it cooperated and stayed on for the entirety of part 2.

NOTE: The picture/sound quality on these is lousy, unless you look to the bottom right corner of the screen and click on that little “HD.” Start the video and click on HD, and after you do so, it will turn yellow, and the video will restart and be much better.

Hope you guys enjoy these. 🙂

Part 1:

And Part 2:

From despondence to deliverance

It was not a happy weekend. John was exhausted and stressed out, I was fretful and worried, and things didn’t go well. It wasn’t one big thing, but a lot of little ones. On Saturday night, we rallied a bit and went out for a nice dinner. The server even called us an adorable couple. But on Sunday, we were at each other in the morning and I ended up in tears. My mood came crashing down and stayed there. We talked a while before I left and were back on good terms, but I felt godawful. I was more than ready to see Mr. D for some stress release.

This morning, I tried to perk up, but I didn’t do a great job of it. My face looked tired and my eyes were still puffy. When Mr. D arrived, he asked, “Are you tired? Action-packed weekend?” “Lousy weekend,” I replied. He took me to the couch and sat me down, insisting that I tell him all about it. Which I did. And of course, there went the damn waterworks again.

So we didn’t play right away. He let me cry, talked with me, reassured me. When I calmed down and felt a little better, he asked if I just wanted to relax today and talk. I said no, I was OK, let’s play.

Everything went fine for a long time, all through the OTK warm-up and well into the continuation of the scene over the ottoman. He brought up the “Tops Are Always Right” business from last week, this time calling it “T. A. A. R.” and asking me what that stood for. We shot some funny footage of him doing his damndest to convince me to give the right answer, with me giving everything but. “Tops Are Always Ridiculous” “Tops Are Always Repetitive.” “Tops Are Always Righteous.” “Tops Are Always Rude.” I do have the clips prepared and I’ve already posted them on Spanking Tube, but I’m not going to post them here just now. I will wait a day or two.

Because after that, things went south.

I’m not sure exactly where, or how. But after he got into the implements, my tolerance suddenly took a dive. Everything hurt, and I struggled. A few minutes ago I’d been laughing and joking and playfully wriggling, so he thought this was more of the same. “Hold still,” he scolded, ramping things up. Which made me struggle more. I couldn’t seem to absorb it, and I was starting to panic.

This is where I should have called a time-out or something. I didn’t want him to stop; just maybe to slow down a tad, know I was struggling and cut a little slack about the moving around. But I didn’t. I wanted him to read my mind, read my body. I wanted him to just know. Not fair.

We have been ending with the cane for the past several sessions, and it’s hard to take when I’m nearly toast, but I do. I hunker down and accept it, melt into it. Not this time. I thought I’d go shooting through the ceiling. And when one strike hit a little on the low side, I screamed and thrashed away from him. Then I got back into position, but I was sobbing. I thought he’d stop, but he continued for a few more.

Then he paused. “Do you need a little more?” he asked. I couldn’t believe my ears. Didn’t he know? Why didn’t he know? Why wasn’t he reading me like he usually does? Rudely, I blurted, “What do YOU think?” Bless his heart, he didn’t snap back or get annoyed with me; he answered, very calmly, “I want to hear it from you.” So I shrieked, “NO!”

He stopped immediately. I stayed where I was, bawling into the pillow. “Come on, sweetie, let’s go to the bedroom; I’ll get some ice for you,” he said. I started to push myself back up, slowly and painfully.

“Wait,” I heard him say gently behind me. “Do you want a very pretty picture?”

I appreciated that he asked first. I nodded and kept still.

He led me into the bedroom and laid me face down, then went into the kitchen to get my ice packs. I wept and wept and wept; I just couldn’t stop. He iced me down, all the while saying soothing, loving things, but I was unresponsive. All I could do was cry; my brain would not form coherent thoughts. I don’t know why. I just knew I was a mess, and I couldn’t help it.

My breath was coming in short gasps and I was shaking all over. He reminded me several times to breathe, told me I was going to be OK, he’d take care of me, he was sorry things got out of hand. I still couldn’t speak, and I couldn’t look at him. After a while, he stopped talking and tried to gather me into his arms. But I curled into a ball on my side, my arms wrapped around myself, my head ducked, and I kept on crying. I don’t know where it all came from.

He didn’t push. He just put his arms around me and waited. Eventually, the weeping subsided, the trembling stopped, my body relaxed and lost its rigidity. Finally, my arms loosened and unwound, and I wrapped one across his chest. It had been about a half hour to 45 minutes since our scene ended.

“I missed you,” he said. I know what he meant. I went into a dark place, one where he couldn’t reach me, couldn’t connect with me. But instead of trying to drag me out, he patiently let me crawl out on my own, when I was ready. I know I scared him. He thought he’d blown it. That I wouldn’t want to do this with him anymore.

Not a chance, dearest top. I need you.

We talked it out. He said the mis-read was all his fault, but it takes two to miscommunicate. I needed to let him know, properly, that things weren’t working and we could have regrouped. It happened so fast and my mind went into such a mush, I guess I just couldn’t. But it’s not fair to expect him to know everything. Tops have a hell of a lot of responsibility, a lot is placed into their hands, and they can’t be expected to be perfect all the time.

“I will be a lot more careful,” he promised. “No, no, you don’t have to,” I said. “I don’t want you to hold back. Maybe just be…”–I struggled for the right word–“…mindful.” He admitted that he got a bit wound up with the scene and wasn’t paying as much attention as he usually does. Wow. He’s human. 

“Are you OK?” he asked me. “I can’t leave until I know you’re OK.” I told him I was, and I meant it. Then I snuggled close and put my head on his chest.

Something was different. His chest was still and quiet, with just the faintest of heartbeat detectable. What was so weird about that? Then it hit me. This was the first time, in a very long while, that I’d put my head on a man’s chest and not felt his heart hammering and banging in my ear. Even when he is resting, John’s heart laboriously pounds and struggles to function, so hard that I can actually see it as well as feel it. My poor baby. No wonder he’s so exhausted all the time. 

This awareness hurt my own heart, and I started crying yet again. Jesus Christ. I’m going to dry up and blow away one of these days.

I told Mr. D what I was thinking about, and he said, “It’s OK. You love him. You’re worried about him.” He then told me that his quiet chest was mine to lean on whenever I needed it. Whenever things got too overwhelming and scary. Because they will be. John has a ticking time bomb in his chest and something will need to be done. Probably soon.

I will need to be John’s rock. But I have a rock of my own. I must remember that.

Mr. D left. I knew I wasn’t going to make it to the gym. There was no way I could deal with crowds and noise and waiting for equipment, and I didn’t feel well anyway; all that crying had nauseated me. After about an hour or so, however, I felt better, so I went to the mini-gym in our laundry room and worked out for nearly two hours.

My head is quiet, my heart is full. My body is relaxed. The crash of pure exhaustion has not hit yet, but I’m sure it will soon, and hard. So I think I will wrap this up.

Next post, fun videos. For tonight, I needed to keep it raw and real.

Thank you, Mr. D. ♥

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