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 “July, 2014”

OT, but it cracked me up

After such a somber week, I figured it was time for some humor.

I have a friend on Facebook, whom I won’t identify because it’s a vanilla account with his real name. But he is freaking hilarious. One of his “things” is to Photoshop himself and his little pug dog into everything you could imagine — old movie stills, works of art, etc. He even put his face into the Mona Lisa. Sometimes it’s really irreverent — I won’t tell you what he did on Easter, but I almost peed myself looking at it.

He also has a blog he calls his “enemies list.” Every week, he creates a tongue-in-cheek list of people who have annoyed him. A lot of the time, it’s just humorous digs at his friends. Other times, it’s people in the media.

A week or so ago on FB, he claimed it was “Fresh Spinach Day,” and he posted a cartoon of Popeye with his ever-present can of spinach (and with his own face cartoonized, replacing Popeye’s), with his pug in a sailor cap with a pipe in his mouth. It was very cute, but I couldn’t resist: I commented, “If it’s Fresh Spinach Day, what’s up with the canned spinach?”

Today, lo and behold, for the first time ever, I made the enemies list. Here is the entry, in all its glory:

Erica Scott. Wednesday was officially Fresh Spinach Day so to comemorate it I cranked out an illustration that was kind of cute, with me as Popeye and my beloved pug Winston as Popeye’s dog getting ready to chow down on some colon-healthy greenery. Ms. Scott is a proofreader by profession, which means that she gets paid to condescendingly point out other people’s mistakes. So it was a matter of professional ethics that she felt compelled to respond “So if it’s fresh spinach day, what’s with the canned spinach?” There’s nothing more enjoyable for me than doing something artistically creative simply for the fun of anyone who wants to take a peek at it and be immediately slapped down for making a minor miscue in my labors. But Ms. Scott made a fair point; the holiday is explicitly celebrates “fresh” spinach whereas the raspy-voiced mariner with the deformed forearms favors the preserved variety. To make it up to her, I’m going to propose that her birthday of September 22 be recognized as National Hemorrhoid Day. It seems the perfect time to recognize a throbbing pain in the ass.

(The throbbing pain in the ass is a double entendre, since he knows I’m a spanko. Well played, my friend.)

I’ve never so thoroughly enjoyed being flamed. But just so you know, I had the last word. My comment? “It’s ‘commemorate,’ not ‘comemorate.’ :-Þ “

It feels good to laugh. Have a great weekend, y’all. 🙂

"Come back to me"

Depression is an ugly and destructive force. It lies, it manipulates, and it undermines all good things. I have had it in me for as long as I can remember, so I know. I also know that, no matter how godawful I feel when it’s happening, that it’s been much worse.

Over the past week, dealing with the latest go-round, I still did everything I needed to do, showed up everywhere I needed to be. In the past, when I was much younger, feeling like I did over the past week would send me to bed, remaining there for days, not dressing, not answering the phone, not doing anything but rotting my brain with hours of anything on television, no matter how crappy it was. I did laundry when I ran out of clothes, and then, being too down to fold it all, simply plucked what I needed out of the wrinkled heap in the basket. I either starved myself, or ate everything in sight.

So yes, I’m much better. I can function with a bout of depression. But it really, really sucks. And only those who share this chemical dysfunction truly know how it feels. It’s like having a relentless bully living inside your head, sitting on your chest, tormenting you every damn waking minute.

I am normally a fairly animated person — my face is expressive, my voice rises and falls, I talk with my hands, etc. But when I’m depressed, everything has a flat affect. John has described it this way: “It’s like the light’s gone out of your eyes.” True, because the light goes out of my world, along with the color. John, somehow, is able to make me laugh like no other. So when I was with him on the weekend, I was distracted. But as soon as I left and came home, the shroud settled back around me. As Steve has said, I go into a dark place. I walk, I talk, I dress, I show up. But my essence is elsewhere.

“Come back to me,” he says, when it happens.

Yesterday, I was pretty numb when he came over. Tears dribbled out of my eyes as we talked, but I didn’t actively cry or sob. He was sad because he knew his lack of response to my spontaneous selfie had upset me, but he was also hurt that he had to find out about it by reading my blog, instead of my telling him directly. I told him it wasn’t just the damn picture; it was a lot of other stuff, a culmination of several things (including a week without work) that had put me into my pit.

We talked for a long time, and he held me. I curled into him, but I wasn’t very responsive. He asked what I wanted, what I needed. I answered, “I want you to decide. Take charge. I don’t want to think.”

So he did.

It took a while to push through the wall of malaise, solid as brick, behind which I was hidden. His hand slowly but surely built up speed and power, and it had been two weeks, so it stung. But I barely registered it. I lay still. 

He’d thoroughly covered my bottom and sit spots, and I was absorbing it with barely a whimper. Then, unexpectedly, he slapped my mid-thigh. Completely unprepared, I jerked up and screamed, before I clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle it. It was the first real reaction he’d gotten.

“Maybe I need to do a little more of this,” he said, slapping the other thigh. “Maybe then you’ll remember who I am, who we are, and you’ll come back to me.”

No implements this time; he just used his hand. It was all he needed. He struck my thighs repeatedly; nowhere near as hard as on my bottom, of course, but enough to make me thrash around and moan. I twisted my feet together so roughly, my left foot seized up in a horrible cramp and I couldn’t straighten it. “Cramp,” I gasped. “Where?” “Left foot.” He stopped immediately, took my foot into his hands and massaged the arch until I was able to straighten my foot and relax. And then he started up again.

“Grit your teeth, honey,” he said softly, just before assailing my thighs again. I screamed into my pillow. “I know that really hurts. I’m sorry. But it has to be done.”

I knew it did. He was breaking down the wall. He alternated the slaps between the extra hard ones on my bottom and the medium ones on my legs, and I started to cry, really cry this time, with passion and pain and feeling. “Do you remember now, Erica? Are you back with me?” 

I was.

He held me close for a long time afterward, while I covered his t-shirt with tears. Now, instead of passively accepting his embrace, I gripped him as tightly as I could. 

We did not take any pictures or video. However, about three hours after he’d gone, I took a couple. First, I was amazed at how much color had remained, long after the scene:

And second, I wanted to capture my face, right at that moment. No makeup, eyes swollen, expression tired… but soft. At peace. My head was quiet, my insides felt clean and clear. I altered it to black and white, to signify the simplicity. I hope you can see what I meant for you to see… this photo may look sad, but I was actually in a good place.

To everyone who commented, who sent PMs, thank you. It’s risky, sharing this personal pain publicly. But it’s how I reach out. And to those who suffer from depression, I want them to know that it does pass. It’s difficult to work through when it’s happening, but it passes, and you come out of the tunnel and see light again.

Friends help. Partners help. And for those of us with that particular proclivity, tops help. ♥ ♥ ♥

Oh, and the famine has become feast. I’m currently working on one project with three others waiting for me. So yay. 🙂


You know, I’ve always endeavored to be honest here, to be my whole self, not just my scene self. The good, the bad and the ugly. I don’t expect my blog readers to fix me. I don’t want anyone to fix me. I just need to vent here sometimes, because things get overwhelming. And honestly, because I’m such a loner, I don’t know how to reach out any other way. I don’t text, I don’t call. Because I feel like I’d be bothering people. So I post, I put myself out there, and figure, well, people will read and respond if they choose to. I’m not entrapping them.

Just having a rough time lately. It started last week, when I sent that stupid, stupid selfie to Steve. That tacky bid for attention, that got exactly what it deserved: nothing. He didn’t respond to it at all. Didn’t even notice it until the next day, when I texted him to ask about it. That fell flatter than a lead pancake, as did my ego and my spirits. And I felt incredibly foolish. I’ve never sent a text like that to anyone, and I doubt I ever will again. 

I talked about it with a couple of friends, laughed about it, figured I’d get over it. But I’m not. I still feel foolish and embarrassed. Nothing like doing something you think is cute and sexy and spontaneous and fun, and getting zero reaction to it. 

Then last Wednesday, I ran out of work, and didn’t get any more. It happens. It’s summer. But the timing is really bad. When I am not doing well emotionally, the best thing I can do for myself is keep busy with work and feel productive. So as the days passed, my mood darkened.

The health struggle with John continues. He is still battling with his HMO, and time just keeps passing and passing. They are not helpful, but he is not helping himself either. At this point, he needs to take off some of the mass quantities of vacation he’s accumulated and bombard the various doctors with visits and follow-ups. But because he won’t take any time off, the only day that he can have a doctor’s appointment is every other Friday, when he’s off. Yeah, I know. Please don’t tell me how counterproductive this is. I already know it. But I am powerless over what he does. I am powerless over what anyone does. Please don’t suggest ultimatums or trying to take charge. John does not accept either one, not from anyone. It’s just who he is, and I need to work with that. Because I love him.

The spanking community, just a couple of weeks ago, was a very kind place, pulling together to collect money for a friend in need who was ill. Now, there is a situation brewing that is combative, ugly, and will polarize people. No, I’m not going into detail about it; it doesn’t matter for the purposes of this blog. It’s very much in bloom on FetLife, but many of my readers aren’t on there. Suffice it to say that I feel like we’ll all be forced to take a side. I don’t want to take a side. I care about the people on both sides. All I want to do is go bury myself in a hole until it all blows over. 

The damned depression is lying to me again, whispering its ugliness in my head. “You’re out of sight, out of mind.” “You’re irrelevant.” “You are lousy at your job and that’s why you’re not getting work.” “That guy on Fet was right; you are too long in the tooth to still be involved in videos, or posting pictures of your body.” “Go ahead, disappear, stop blogging, stop posting. No one will notice.” Last week, there was some controversy on Fet about suicide, and how some people think those who kill themselves are selfish cowards. To these people, I said “lucky you.” Because you’ve clearly never known depression. You’ve never had the relentlessly nattering voices inside, telling you how utterly worthless you are. You haven’t struggled against them, fighting not to believe, not to succumb.

This too shall pass. I know this. But I just fucking hate going through it. I hate how I feel. However, fighting and kicking and screaming against it doesn’t work. Surrendering to it does. If I stop fighting, the demon sitting on my chest gets bored and wanders away. All I have to do, all I can do, is breathe, and take a minute at a time.

There will be fun spanky stuff on here again. Just not right now.

Correspondence Hall of Shame, 7/11

Finally! I checked; it’s been three months since my last CHoS. I’ve built up a nice little collection for your Friday amusement.

Do you want me to come fuck you really hard?

No. (gazing at the accompanying photo) You’re really proud of that thing, aren’t you. Shame that it’s all you’ve got going for you.

This one isn’t rude, but it does win the stupid prize:

hey was that you in the videos i saw?

Um… can you be a little more specific, please? I really don’t know which videos you saw. No, I wasn’t in the Sound of Music. Or in Boobs on Broadway.

How are you?

Would you like me to eat out your pussy?
Its my fantasy and fetish to do this, because I like the taste and smell

Well, good for you. I’ll pass, however. My fetish is another kind of licking.

Aaaand this one wins the Supreme Arrogance prize:

real beauty and femininity comes from the inside and sometimes a slave/sub needs an experienced mistress like me to train, guide, nurture, use and bring out the best in them.. You can read my profile and get in touch.

And you can read my profile, especially the parts where I say I am neither sub nor slave, and that I bottom to men only. Then you can take your training and guidance and… well, figure it out, Mistress. 🙂

As always, I saved the best for last:

Hi sweetness, 

Im Xxx a Dom. I am looking for a cute submissive like you to train. You have pretty face. It is in your nature to serve and service and I will train you well and give you a snapping pussy. I enjoy Domming you and giving you pleasure too as you gleefully submissively serve and service me. In private I do like to control with dirty talk to you and treating you like the down n dirty,in constant need of cock use slut behind closed doors we both know you are. I know we will have lots of hot fun together. I do luv to spank you with lots of ass swats making your ass nice and red! You have a cute face nice legs and a pretty ass. I luv to bring out the hot naughty inner slut inside you behind closed doors as your juices run out down your legs. I do find you sexy. You are about a hour drive for me. Call me or txt me at xxx-xxx-xxxx or send me your number and I will call or txt you. Send me more pics at And I will send you some of mine. I look forward to talking to you. You are cute and just what I am looking for a in a good sub. 

(sigh) Where do I begin?

I have no idea what a “snapping pussy” is, sweetness, but I really don’t know why any man would want a woman to have genitalia that could bite their dick off. Of course, in your case, you have nothing to worry about. I doubt you can get anywhere near pussy, snapping or otherwise.

You’re an hour away? Good. Please stay there.

To these charmers, I present today’s Grumpy Cat:

It’s been a crap week and I’m grateful it’s over. One lovely bright spot was having lunch with Alex and SpankCake yesterday. Otherwise, it’s been fairly blecchhh, with too little work and too much time on my hands. Post-holiday slow-down, perhaps. On a positive note, I did have the time to completely clean out my closet, and filled two giant Hefty bags with clothes for Good Will. Looks like it’s time to shop! Hoping that next week will be better. 

Have a great weekend, y’all.

More Fetfuckery for your amusement

This is sort of like a CHoS, but with a couple of differences. First, the writing wasn’t sent directly to me; it was posted to a group on FetLife. And second, I didn’t just conjure up a fantasy reply; I actually posted it. It had to be done.

So I’m viewing the Fet feed last night, and a post from the group “Arizona 50+” catches my eye. I click on it and read:

Women 50+ Lose Their Sex Drives

Personally I like older women, but reality gets in the way of having sexual relationships with women over the age of 50.

These are just some of the problems why men start looking at the young gals:

1) Young women look better. Most women start going downhill after the age of 30. Having kids exacerbates this. Most older ladies dress matronly which makes them look even worse.

2) Almost all post-menopausal women lose their sex drive. They also get dry and they can’t have orgasms.

3) Older women are cynical. Young ladies are sweet.

4) Women over the age of 50 have been brought up to think that ladies who enjoy sex are sluts. They may talk like they have broken the shackles but when push comes to shove they have a very tough time enjoying recreational sex.

5) Women over 50 don’t use the internet to find sex, partly because of the reasons stated above.

6) Women over 50 are focused on getting married, not in having casual dates and/or sex.

So, I’m not surprised this part of fet gets little activity. Men are looking for young ladies and older women aren’t looking.

* * *

After a brief pause to clean my brain explosion off the computer screen, I checked this dude’s profile. He’s 56 (my age), and his profile photo is a closeup of his tighty-whities, with a big ol’ gut hanging over them. Charming. Yeah, I think I understand why women aren’t having sex with you, cookie.

I don’t belong to the Arizona 50+ group (duh, I live in CA). And you can’t post to a group unless you belong to it. So guess what I did? Yup, I joined. What the hell, so the moderator can kick me off, I don’t care. I just wanted to have my say and head off. I then posted this reply:

“Wow. Just wow. I do not live in Arizona, but this… masterpiece came across my feed and I just had to respond.

1. I don’t look like a matron, I look just fine, thank you, and I’m in way better shape than you are, OP [original poster], even though we’re the same age.

2. My sex drive is very much present, and I have orgasms that would wake my neighbors if I didn’t put my hand over my mouth. Perhaps these women of which you speak are dry only around you.

3. Yup, I’m cynical. Because I’ve spent more time on this earth dealing with asshats like you.

4. I love sex. My mother raised me to believe that sex is a wonderful thing and that it should be fun and fulfilling. So much for your cliché.

5. I am as Internet savvy as any 20-something, and I have found countless play partners online.

6. I’ve never been married, I’ve never wanted to be married, and I doubt that I will ever want to be married. I’ve been with the same man for 18 years and we don’t even live together. So that debunks your final cliché.

Don’t worry, I’m not going to remain here, since I don’t fit the group’s locale criteria. And you’ll no doubt delete this. So I might as well go for it — good god, you’re an idiot.”

* * *

Shortly thereafter, the group moderator came on and posted: “I am not removing these comments — they are spot on!” LOL!

No response from the moron yet. I wonder if he’ll have the stones to come back, especially after the group mod approved his shaming. 😀

I present as pictorial evidence, this shot from Shadow Lane 2013. I am a good 30 years older than all three of these women (L to R: Maddy Marks, Christy Cutie, and Kelley May). Do I look like a @#$%ing matron to you??

By the way, after a three-month hiatus, I will have a brand-new CHoS for you this Friday.

Topless Tuesday

You know how, on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, they have Throwback Thursday, where you post your “blast from the past” photos? FetLife, not to be undone, has their unofficial “Topless Tuesday.” (They also have No-Pants Friday, but that one isn’t as alliteratively pleasing.) So, some women post their boobies, and the occasional man will post a ripped chest.

But for me, Topless Tuesday has a completely different meaning. It is a Tuesday without Steve. And it sucks.

I am busy today. I have work to do. It’s in the 90s outside and I am blissfully comfortable inside in the AC. But I am restless and sad and feeling needy. I am missing my weekly fix.

About a half-hour ago, I was struck with a mischievous impulse. He’s out in the middle of nowhere somewhere in Utah or Nevada or wherever the hell his Harley has taken him today, and I don’t know what kind of reception he has, but I figured sooner or later he’d be in a place where texts would come through. So, I texted him this:

“Since I’m having a Topless Tuesday, I figured I might as well dress the part.”

And I attached this:

What? I figured that was fitting — I’m Topless, and I’m topless. Makes sense to me.

If he doesn’t like it, he can always spank me for it. Oh wait, he can’t. Because he’s TOO DAMN FAR AWAY! 😉

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