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, 2014”

Introducing Frosty

No, not the snowman. Please. It’s in the 80s here.

I’m talking about this Frosty — “Frosty the Paddle,” aka “Frosty the Naughty Stick,” a holiday special from Cane-iac.



As you can see, it’s Lexan, but it has a sort of frosted, snowy looking texture to it. And yes, there are three jingle bells at the end. Very festive.

The good folks at Cane-iac asked if I would like to try this little holiday treat, and I said I’d be honored. (I didn’t ask what it was made of, but I assumed that they wouldn’t make a holiday implement out of rubber — that would be just so wrong — so I figured it would be OK.) 

It arrived on Monday, just in time for my visit with Steve yesterday. It had been two weeks, so I was more than ready to play, even though my healing self is still putting some restrictions up. We did some OTK for the first time since before my surgery; I propped my head up onto pillows and folded my arms under my head so my face wasn’t smooshed. Not ideal, but it sure felt good. At one point, I sucked in an extra deep breath and gasped, “Damn, I’m so sensitive!” Steve paused and asked, “Do you want me to go lighter?” While I pondered that, he added, “Too bad! and continued at the same intensity. Hummpph. 

After that, we moved to the ottoman, where I once again propped onto my elbows over the side, keeping my head raised. I’m getting good at this, as you can see from the confident smirk.




I wasn’t smirking for long. OW.

The Frosty Paddle/Stick sorta looks like the Strictly Licking Spanking Stick that I hate with all my heart and soul, but it feels very different. It has a bit of flex to it, and while the wooden stick is thuddy, Frosty has a bit more of a bite and a sting to it. But it’s powerful. Steve wasn’t going that hard on me and we didn’t play super long with it, since I’m still erring on the side of caution. But it made a statement! (and a whole lot of jingling)



Here it is, in all its glory:



I searched the Cane-iac site, but could not find a page for Frosty. But it’s a very new item, so hopefully there will be an order page for it soon. 

So for the rest of the holiday season, whenever you hear the song “Frosty the Snowman,” replace the lyrics with these:

Frosty the Paddle, is an evil wicked thing,
With a Lexan stick and a strap of black
And three bells a-jingling
Frosty the Paddle, is a harmless toy, they say,
But it isn’t so, ‘cause this bottom knows
How it beat her butt one day
There must be quite a bit of mass in this painful thing I found,
‘Cause when it landed on my a$%, I began to dance around!
Oh, Frosty the Paddle, is as stinging as can be,
Now my top will say, “Who would like to play?”

And I’ll say “Don’t look at ME!”

Happy Thanksgiving, y’all.

"Ripped from the headlines…"

Many of you know that one of my favorite TV shows is “Law and Order: SVU.” They specialize in shows that are almost direct lifts from current headlines and issues. For example, when the Fifty Shades travesty was at its peak, they had an episode about a writer of a kinky sex book who got raped. Her book was called Twenty-Five Acts.

Last week in “Spousal Privilege,” they took on the Ray Rice spousal abuse case. For those who are unfamiliar, Rice is a football player who was caught on video earlier this year dragging his unconscious then-fiancee out of an elevator. He had knocked her unconscious with his fist.

So on SVU, they did something similar, showing the big strong menacing football player dragging his girlfriend out of a building and into a parking lot to a waiting car. Later, security footage was dug up and showed what had happened. They were arguing in a stairwell, and he punched her in the face, knocking her down.

But before that punch? They were stumbling up the stairs, with her ahead of him, and he gave her a massive, full-arm slap on the bottom. She then turned and screamed at him, and that led to the punch.

The footage was uncovered in bits. At first, the punch was not shown, just the arguing and the slap. And as the SVU detectives reviewed it, Benson pointed to the slap and said, “There — sexual abuse.”

Ugh.

It was a jolt. Part of me had the knee-jerk reaction I always get when I see a bottom slap, but another part was repulsed and angry. Because I knew this was meant to look abusive, and it reminded me of what the average Joe and Jane Vanilla think of what we do.

Granted, what we do is consensual, and what was shown on the screen was violent and non-consensual. But I really hate that a smack on the backside was placed in the same context as a punch in the face. This sort of portrayal doesn’t help us in the least. That slap was shown over and over during the episode, nearly always accompanied by the face punch. It was meant to be seen as equally demeaning, equally harsh.

The spanko in me yelled “Nooooooooooo! It’s not sexual abuse when we do it!”

If I’d had my druthers, that scene would have been rewritten. Instead of whacking her on the behind, he would have pushed her, and she would have stumbled. Then righted herself, turned and yelled at him. Leave spanking out of it, dammit! You want to portray violence? You have (sadly) myriad ways to do so. Don’t add fuel to the existing fire that spankos are abusers. 

I know I’m preaching to the choir here, and I’m not going to change mainstream television. But that scene really disturbed me, and I figured what better place to talk about it than here. Any other fans of the show? Normally, I love it, but there does seem to be a pattern where people who engage in kink are punished. The aforementioned rape of the kinky author. In a recent episode, a couple were having very noisy sex while the man was handcuffed to the bed. Unfortunately, they just happened to live next door to a psycho, who then came over and killed them both because they wouldn’t quiet down when he pounded on the wall. In yet another episode, an asphyxiation scene resulted in death. 

Come on, writers. Get with the program. Don’t lump spanking and other kinky activities in with spousal/sexual abuse, please. We are struggling to be understood and accepted, and that doesn’t help in the least!

One month in

You know, I was thinking about writing a Very Important Scene Post about consent, and what constitutes consent violation. However, I really don’t feel like putting up a controversial post and then going away for the weekend, so it will have to wait. Or maybe I’ll change my mind and not post it at all. Depends on how nervy I’m feeling.

So it’s been a month. As I’ve mentioned before, I really didn’t have any idea how just how lengthy and complex this healing process was going to be. Now I’m a bit more realistic and know that, although I am functional now, it’s going to take at least three months, and probably more like six months to a year, before I feel and look fully normal. So I’ve had to come to a new level of acceptance, and I think I’m finally starting to achieve it. It helped seeing my doctor AND my therapist this week. Especially since the latter had a facelift herself, so she could give me the lowdown about healing and what to expect. It certainly didn’t hurt that she thought I looked fabulous. She’s known me for 22 years, and one thing she kept saying over and over was, “You still look like Erica.” In other words, I don’t look fake or drastically altered. That was good to hear.

I’ll get the requisite gripes out of the way — my right eyebrow is still frozen, and I have no timeline of when it will come back. But my doctor told me that in over 25 years, he’s never heard of this sort of thing NOT reversing, so I just have to be patient. Ditto with the hair shedding, which still freaks me out. I have been taking lots of biotin, a vitamin that is supposed to be good for the hair. And I’m not exactly going bald. 

I am still a scabby mess behind my ears and into the hairline. ‘Nuff said on that. But that will pass. My ears hurt a lot and I can’t talk on the phone for more than a few minutes, since holding the phone to my ear is painful. But I hate the phone anyway.

My neck looks like a ligature scene gone bad. But that will pass as well. It’s only been a month, Erica!!

The GOOD news? My smile is returning, bit by bit. The sides of my face, particularly the right side, are still a bit like a brick wall, but it’s slowly softening and my smile is widening a bit. Today when I went to get gas, I smiled at the cashier, and a man standing off to the side said to me, “It always impresses me when people come into a room with a nice smile, and you’re the winner for today!” That random and unsolicited compliment cheered me immensely.

I can exercise again! I mean, I can’t run a marathon, but I never could anyway. But I can sweat and puff and work a bit, slowly. I have to build back up to it, but I’ve already been doing some light workouts the past two weeks, so it won’t be a complete shock. Maybe I’ll even go to the gym on Monday.

Yesterday was the first day in a month that I didn’t take any kind of pain medication all day. 🙂  So far today, I haven’t either.

Tonight, for the first time since the surgery, I put on a bit of makeup and blow-dried my hair. It felt a bit weird on my scalp, because of all the healing going on, so I used the diffuser and a warm, not hot, setting. It’s nice to see my hair again; it’s been hidden under a bandanna this whole time.

My therapist says I’m going to feel very confident and empowered when this is over. I want to believe her. In the meantime, I will act as if I do, fake it till I make it. Patience.

So, here I am, one month in:




Off to John’s with me. Have a great weekend, y’all.

My favorite spanking story

Last week during LOL9, one of my commenters asked what my favorite spanking story is. I gave a quick answer in my reply, but I thought it deserved its own entry.

Like many of us, I’ve read a ton of spanking-themed stories and books over the years. And I should preface this by saying I’m extremely picky about them. Not even talking about the professionally published books now — I mean all the stories online that people have put up on forums far and wide.

Let’s put aside the glaring fact that many of them are, to be blunt, poorly written, grammatically, stylistically, every which way. Say we’re only talking about stories where the spelling is correct, the structure is clean and readable, and the dialogue rings somewhat true. Even then, I don’t care for most of what I read. Or I’ll like parts of it, but not others. Why? Because the author’s particular interpretation of our kink doesn’t resonate with me. Not their fault; just me knowing what I like, and what strikes a chord in my kinky little brain and heart. A book can be flawlessly executed, but if it has orientations other than M/F, or anal play, or age-play, it’s not going to flip my particular switches.

That being said…

Back in the late 90s when I was first online, there was what they used to call a newsgroup, named Soc.Sexuality.Spanking. It was very popular and had a great deal of traffic. A lot of people posted stories. Oftentimes, I’d start reading them, but wouldn’t finish.

Until I came across The Toughest Boyfriend. Written by someone who used the name “DLynn,” it struck just about every chord I had. Classic good girl/bad boy story. Romantic. Hot. Sexy, without being super graphic (y’all know I tend to prefer leaving things to the imagination). Poignant. Clever. Dialogue and descriptions that pushed my buttons.

I loved the story so much, I copied it to my hard drive and have kept it all these years. I wish I knew more about who DLynn was. I Googled the story, the name, in every possible combination, but found nothing, except for a vague reference in the old CF Publications that used to run short stories and amassed a humongous collection.

Anyway, I would like to share it, with all my thanks to DLynn, whoever he/she (I’m suspecting she) is. Hope you enjoy it as much, or at least half as much, as I did. 

The Toughest Boyfriend
     He was the toughest boyfriend I ever had.
     You remember tough. Tough was cool, was boys in tight jeans with a pack of Luckies rolled into the sleeves of their white tee shirts, leather at their waist, leather boots on their feet.
     There were tough girls, too, in tight black skirts, teased hair piled on top of their heads and their lips as scarlet as the lights on the marquee of the single movie theater we had in our factory town.
     But I wasn’t one of the tough girls. Lord, no. I was the doctor’s daughter and wore my hair straight and shiny, clasped in a demure barrette, my skirts loose and below my knee. I kept my lips pale, my posture straight.
     And fell in love with the tough boy from the day he walked into honors math and took his seat. This tough boy was smart, and we shared almost every class that senior year. But I was smart, too, and knew that doctor’s daughters didn’t go with tough guys. They dated safe guys, fell in love with safe guys or simply married the safe guys without bothering to fall in love at all.
     This morning, I look at my husband, hugging our six-year-old as she gets down the breakfast cereal. Smart girls marry men like this: men who will make a safe and loving home for them and their children. I married smart.
     But all that senior year, I sat two rows behind this tough guy and kept my eyes on him every chance that I had. I could never get enough of looking at him: long legs, dark rough hair, dark gray eyes, lean, sinewy arms.
     Smart girl that I was, I only looked. Otherwise, I stuck to my studies that year. Got my straight A’s. Got into college. Turned eighteen years old, and got my high school degree.
     And then summer came, and I didn’t need to be smart anymore. I could never be a tough girl, but I traded in the demure skirts for a thin cotton sundress, took the barrette out of my hair and walked into the store where he worked time-and-a-half, saving money for his own college education. One week later, we were the gossip of the town.
     The memories still make me smile as I watch my husband get the milk for our daughter. The first time my tough boyfriend kissed me, trapping me between his hands braced on the wall behind us. Nice and tough, but his kiss was gentle on my lips, and he whispered my name like honey in my mouth. Gentle, too, the first time I gave myself to him, clinging to him as he eased himself within me.
     Sweetest of lovers.
     But I wanted tough.
     I had watched the tough girls with their tough boyfriends, watched the way their boyfriends would fling their arms around them, haul them close for a kiss, boss them around a little, slap them on their behinds in occasional warning.
     Every guy I had ever dated had treated the doctor’s daughter as if she were made from glass, and I was tired of tentative, or even tender. I wanted tough.
     And then a memory that makes me stop smiling. Makes me close my eyes for a moment and struggle to control my breathing. The first time I pushed him too far.
     I was restless that day. From the early July heat? From my own heat inside me? I don’t know. All I know was that everything irritated me that day, my parents’ loving smiles, the chirpy voice of our mailman, and even the cheerful smile my boyfriend gave me when he knocked on our door to pick me up for the Fourth of July fireworks.
     “I’ll have her home by midnight,” he reassured my mom.
     Why the hell was he reassuring Mom? I was tired of Mom. Tired of everything. My irritation mounted.
     In the car, I slung my chin into my hand, leaning on the car door, drumming my fingers loudly on the handle.
     “You okay, baby?” he asked gently.
     I was tired of gentle.
     “I’m fine,” I snapped back. Then turned up the radio three notches, just loud enough to make it impossible to talk.
     Each burst of the fireworks over the lake seemed to explode inside me, an echo of heat, ache, longing. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I knew damned well that I wasn’t getting it. My boyfriend kissed me, and the ache and irritation grew sharper, not gentler. I did not return his smile and his face grew quiet. We drove in silence to the hill overlooking the town. There was a small park at the crest, where kids came to play during the day. No one came there at night, except us.
     A sweet place to come, but I was tired of sweet, too. I got out of the car, but didn’t say a word to my boyfriend. Just slammed the door behind me and stalked to the playground. I shimmied up to the top of the monkey bars and fixed my stare on the town lights below. I waited for my boyfriend to get irritated in return that I didn’t play with him, laugh with him, melt into his kiss, draw him down into the darkness to take him deep inside me.
     But he just leaned against the bars, and waited. He said nothing at all.
     I kicked my legs against the bar, feeling the ache inside me grow. What did I want? And why, why, why couldn’t I get it?
     I was lost in my misery, so lost that I almost lost my balance when my boyfriend finally spoke. “Well. Listen, baby, it’s almost twelve. We gotta go.”
     I didn’t answer. I didn’t move.
     He turned his face up to me, and I could see, even in the dim shadows cast by the moonlight, surprise. “Time to go, kiddo.”
     Kiddo? Did I take this as some final insult that I almost snorted in reply? I didn’t budge from my seat, and there was real venom in my voice as I said, “Make me.”
     The shadows hid nothing of his annoyance now.
     “What do you mean ‘Make you’? What’s wrong with you tonight? You’re eighteen. Act your age.”
     Calm. Rational.
     I wanted to slap his face.
     But I was set in my patterns, too, and now I slid down from the bars, my sandals slapping against the soles of my feet as I landed on the sand.
     I thought maybe I’d see a hint of what I was looking for in his face, but he still looked rational. Calm.
     No. Not what I was looking for. In my frustration, I blurted it out. “Why are you always acting like such a wimp?”
     I can still see his face, see how taken aback he was by my outburst. But his surprise changed to something else as he came closer to me, took my chin in his hand and tilted my face close to his. He was looking right into my eyes, his own eyes dark, the lighter gray glints in them almost extinguished in the summer night.
     “Yeah, baby, you’re right. I’ve been acting like a wimp,” he said softly, but there was no trace of regret in the softness. More like warning.
     I felt suddenly uneasy and took a step back. He let his hand drop from my face, hooked a thumb in his belt and said, still softly, “Only a wimp would try to reason with his girl when she was acting like a brat, right? A tough guy would put a stop to it. A hard stop to it.”
     “Look, forget it,” I said, stepping back again, but this time he pushed himself away from the bars and followed me. And all my irritation and bitchiness deserted me. I turned and ran a few steps, but he didn’t do more than lengthen his stride to catch me by the arm, near one of the park benches where, on other nights, he had pulled me down to kiss him.
     The toughest boyfriend I ever had, and when he pulled me to him now, my heart stumbled harder than my feet. “No, lover, I didn’t mean it,” I whispered. I lied.
     He pulled my body right up against his, still standing as he kissed me, roughly. I felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. But as I raised my hands to embrace him in return, he took my wrists and held them away. “Not this time, baby. Not yet.”
     For a moment, he just stood there, holding my hands locked in his, and I felt a thrill of danger. There’s nothing to be afraid of, I told myself silently. I was wrong.
     Suddenly he moved to take me off my feet. One moment I was standing, kissing him, and the next moment, I was crying out as I fell, as I landed with a thump across his knees.
     “You can’t do this!” But there was more incredulity in my voice than resistance.
     He didn’t answer. He shifted himself further back on the bench he had chosen, and though I wriggled hard, he dragged me with him, easily.
     My heart was pulsing in my throat now, hard, as I struggled on his lap, but he didn’t let go, didn’t loosen his grip one bit.
     “No. No, stop it,” I said suddenly as filled with panic as excitement. His large hand pushed the thin cotton of my sundress up to my waist, and all I had underneath was one pair of thin cotton panties. No slip. No stockings.
     He rested his hand on my behind, and I moaned aloud. My heart was thumping within me, my senses charged in the hot, dark night. I clenched my bottom against his hand and waited, torn between fear and another sensation I didn’t dare identify: a deep, dark certainty that this was what I really wanted.
     He raised his hand and I clenched harder. And then, unbelievably, he asked me, “Well? Are you sure, baby?”
     I knew what he was asking. I knew all I had to do was apologize or ask him to stop or simply say, I don’t want this, and he would let me go at once.
     But I was sure. I was. And without a word, I twisted my face toward his, where his raised hand waited by his shoulder, his face stern and his eyes on mine. I nodded once. Yes. I’m sure.
     His hand came down hard. I gasped and flinched away from the blow, hot and strong against my skin. The heat had not begun to cool, the blow begun to wane, when his hand came down again. I bit my lip, determined to take what was coming with silence and strength.
     But his blows fell steadily, first on my right cheek and then on my left, side to side, my skin smarting and cracking in the silent night. I heard myself whimper as I squirmed on his lap. I bit my lip harder, sure my whimpers would make him stop.
     He didn’t. His palm smacked down harder on my bottom, across the curve of my left cheek. The sting in my skin turned to fire. I squirmed harder, but his palm caught me again, now on my right cheek. “Please,” I began to moan, but the crack of his palm, again and again, turned my moan to begging. I writhed now, on his lap, his hard thighs underneath me not offering any escape, his arm wrapped around my waist pinning me in place.
     “Well, sweetheart? Still think I’m a wimp?” he asked as I pleaded with him to stop, stop, please, stop.
     I could not evade his hand. He was slapping my bottom harder now, and faster. I flailed helplessly as I begged. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t spank me anymore. I’m sorry, lover. Please.”
     Tears stung at my eyes and my voice caught on my words. He rested his hand across the center of my thin panties and I groaned at even this weight on my aching, burning skin. I was breathing hard, gulping at breath, still flailing in a desperate, futile effort to relieve the pain in my bottom, no matter how slightly.
     My mind flailed, too, in confusion at my emotions. There was pain, yes, but something else, too. Remorse? No.
     Regret?
     I blinked back the tears and took a deep shuddering breath, telling myself that at least my punishment was over.
     And that was when he said, “Well. Let’s finish what you started, sweetheart.”
     I convulsed at the feel of his finger hooked in the waistband of my panties. Slowly, he pulled them down, first one side, then the other. I cried out at the feel of the cotton and
elastic scraping over my hot and stinging behind.
     My pleading became frantic. “No, no, no, you can’t. You can’t! Please, I hurt so much, baby…”
     “Spankings are supposed to hurt, sweetheart. You’re supposed to remember this. For a long time.” By now he had pulled my panties to my knees. My tears swam at my fear and humiliation. I could imagine him seeing my bare behind all red and marked with his fingers and palm.
     I wrapped my arm around his leg and buried my face in it, still moaning, still pleading, “Please, no more. No more. No more.”
     But even as I pleaded, I waited, hopelessly, for the fall of his palm.
     I was wrong again.
     At first I didn’t understand when his hand slipped off one of my leather sandals. Just one. Then he rubbed the stiff sole over my naked bottom and I suddenly understood.
     “No!” I cried out, in horror, but he had already lifted the sandal, high.
     “Just so you remember, sweetheart.”
     The leather slapped down, hard, right across the highest curve of both cheeks at once. I screamed and flailed again, but he only tightened his arm around my waist and brought the sandal down again. This time where my right cheek met my thigh.
     Again and again. In the creases of my cheek and thigh. On the curves of my bottom. On my thighs, halfway to my knees. On the top of my bottom, and the sides of my hips.
     And as he brought it down again, where my thighs already burned with pain, I burst into tears and stopped my flailing. I couldn’t even resist, anymore. I lay, limp across his lap, sobbing and sobbing as he brought the sandal down again, twice, four times, six times, each stroke reaching not just my skin, but deep inside me.
     I didn’t even notice when he stopped. Just lay there and cried, the tears soaking my face and falling freely to the grass below. Not until he lifted and turned me, raising me up to lean against his chest did I realize that the awful punishment was over. I flung my arms around his neck and wept.
     He held me, stroking my hair, my back, whispering soothing words in my ear. At first, I couldn’t be comforted, couldn’t even find a way to sit with comfort on his lap, my bottom sore no matter what position I tried, no matter how I squirmed this way and that.
     Until I finally accepted the hot sting there and simply leaned closer to my love, weeping and weeping as he held me.
     And suddenly everything felt right.
     Finally I stopped crying. His hand was still stroking me, cherishing me. I lifted my face to his for a kiss, and he kissed me gently on my lips. Oh, God. Had I complained about gentle? Never again.
     But our kiss didn’t stay gentle. At the first opening of our lips, desire ran through me like a shock. I clasped the back of his neck and moaned again.
     His voice was tender, but not indulgent. “You want me, sweetheart?”
     “Yes. Yes, I want you. Now, lover.”
     He kissed me harder, and I began to melt in his arms. But he swung me off his lap and onto my feet. “Sorry, sweetheart, no can do. Your little tantrum has already made us late. Promised your mom I’d get you home by midnight, remember?”
     It was on my tongue to say, explicitly, what my mom could do with herself, but the ache in my behind was far, far too sharp to forget even for a moment. And the look in his eyes was clearly a challenge. I knew better than to provoke him again. At least for now.
     But I couldn’t help asking, in a voice as plaintive as a child’s, “Don’t you want to fuck me?”
     His laugh rang out through the deserted playground. He kissed me again, quickly, on the top of the head, then bent his lips to my ear. “Don’t be so greedy, sweetheart. Tomorrow night. I promise.”
     I was greedy—but so was he. The next night, we did indeed take our pleasure, but our pleasures grew more urgent with each week. Harder. Rougher.
     We might spend hours in conversation, share, shyly, our hopes and dreams, listen to one another’s stories with love and laughter.
     But when we sought out a deserted park, a secluded beach, a private loft, we were not gentle. I was more ready to use teeth and nails, he was more ready to slap my bare behind until I would squirm and sob, and then throw myself at him from the heat and desire he had ignited.
     It was hot, it was wild, and, I told myself, it would be over at summer’s end. Can’t let it go too far. So I didn’t. Except once. Lord. Just once.
     My husband squeezes my daughter’s hand, gently, and tears sting at my eyes. I remember.
     Summer’s end. I looked down, tears stinging at my eyes, then, too, to see my hand wrapped in his larger one. I had just told him goodbye.
     “I thought we had something better than goodbye between us,” he said. His voice was tighter than his grasp on my fingers.
     “We do,” I began, then stopped myself. My voice dropped to a whisper. “We did.”
     I looked up into his eyes, dark as smoke, warm as fire. Sweetest of lovers. I chose my words with care.
     Chose the words that would hurt.
     I wanted to hurt him. Wanted to make sure he would not regret me for a moment. And so I did not tell him how much I wanted him in my life forever. Instead I said, “You were only for fun.”
     “Fun?” I cringed at the incredulity and pain in his voice, but kept my own voice as impassive as my face.
     “Fun. I had fun with you, lover. But I have my real life to live now.”
     College, I said. Career, I explained. Marriage. Children.
     “What makes you think I don’t want all that?” His fingers tightened harder. I welcomed the discomfort. Distraction from my misery. “Jesus. I’ve worked my ass off to make enough money for college.”
     “I know,” I said. “You’re smart. You’re hard working.”
     “Then why not give us a chance?” He raised my hand to his lips. “Together?”
     His lips opened an ache inside me, but I fought against it. “No. I can’t marry you. I can’t.”
     I kept my voice cold, cold, cold as I explained more.  Doctor’s daughter. Marriage for always. A safe man. A gentle man.
     “That’s not fair,” he said, his own voice dropping in volume. He was sitting in front of me, in the middle of the old rose-tapestry sofa in our family room. I sat in front of him, in the armchair with one busted leg, no farther away than a couple of feet. But I had to lean forward to hear him. “Those games we played. You wanted them. And they were just that—games.”
     “Dangerous games,” I whispered. I cleared my voice and made myself speak aloud. “And you’re right. Dangerous is what I wanted. But I won’t marry dangerous.”
     I hated the hurt I could see in his eyes, the death of his dreams. The dreams I was killing with every word.
     I was almost relieved to see anger begin to replace hurt. “So let me get this straight. I was good enough to fuck. Good enough to play games. But not good enough for you?”
     Well. Can’t get much worse than that, can it? I looked him straight in the eyes and nodded yes. Cold. Cold, cold, cold.
     “Too dangerous,” he said, his voice barely a whisper now.
     Another nod.
     I wasn’t really that surprised when he grabbed my arms suddenly and pulled me off the chair onto my knees in front of him. I cried out, and my fear was real, but I was not surprised. Why wouldn’t he want to frighten me? Even hurt me?
     “Maybe not dangerous enough,” he said, still barely audible.
     I wanted to cry, wanted to tell him again and again how sorry I was, wanted to hold him close and love him. Wipe out every trace of hurt in his face, his eyes, his voice.
     But that would only break his heart all over. I tilted my face up to his, and kept my expression stony. “Maybe not,” I said.
     His eyes grew angrier. Oh, love. Better you should hate me than suffer yourself. “Is that all you want from me, baby? One last walk on the wild side?”
     “That’s all,” I said.
     God. I hated myself by now.
     He kept his eyes on me as he let go of my arms and moved his hands to his belt. My heart skipped a beat as he slowly unbuckled it and drew it out of his jeans.
     Except for that first time, he had used only his hand on me to play or playfully punish. But now he slowly doubled the belt in one hand, his eyes unblinking on my face.
     I flinched when he snapped it, twice, between his hands. “Still sure, sweetheart?” he said softly.
     I was torn between my feelings. Afraid of the thick brown strap in his hands, afraid of the anger in his eyes, yet ashamed of the coldness, the calculation in me. I was hurting him, and I was miserable at the pain I was causing. And I wanted to pay. In fear, in pain, in tears.
     I wanted him to punish me.
     I tore my eyes away from the threatening belt, and looked up directly into his own eyes. Made myself say: “Yes. I’m sure.”
     We looked at one another, still for a moment. Then he reached out a hand to me, as politely as if he were inviting me into a dance.
     But when I laid my tentative hand in his, he pulled, hard, and I stumbled to my feet, then stumbled again as he yanked me across his lap, my legs and arms on the sofa, my bottom across his thighs.
     I was terrified. I buried my face in my arms. I crossed my feet at the ankles, nervously rubbing one foot against the other as he pushed the cotton of my dress up onto my waist and back. I moaned into the cushion as he hooked his fingers into the elastic of my panties and pulled. The cotton caressed my skin like gentle fingertips, but fear ran in every trail it traced.
     When my panties were around my knees, he stroked his left hand across the skin of my behind. Gentle. Tender. But all I could think of was the belt waiting in his right hand.
     He moved his left hand around my waist, holding me down, but I never would have tried to break free at this point, no matter how afraid I was. I wanted to hurt. I pressed my forehead harder against my arm curled on the cushion.
     The belt came down like fire, driving every bit of breath away. I had sworn that I would not cry out, but the pain was audible in the sounds that flew from my throat, half-grunt, half-cry.
     I couldn’t keep myself from shrinking away from the belt he was already raising again, but his hand on my waist was firm. The belt came down again, across both cheeks, overlapping the first stroke that still ached and burned.
     No. I hadn’t wanted this. I was already moaning, “I’m sorry,” but the belt was already coming down again. He caught me across the tender skin of my thighs, and all pretense of dignity deserted me as I yelled and convulsed on his lap.
     “Oh, God, don’t. Don’t.”
     But the belt was already lifting again.
     There was no time to recover from the fire of each blow, as he brought the belt down again and again, strokes across the swell of my bottom, the underside of my cheeks, the backs of my thighs. He hadn’t given me even a dozen blows when sobs began to mix with my pleading.
     This, lover, is where you would always take me into your arms, soothe me, hold me, kiss me.
     Not this time. If anything, the belt only whipped harder into my ass. “I’m sorry,” I sobbed. But I stopped begging him to stop. Stopped, even, wanting him to stop, in some strange way. I turned and twisted on his lap, but kept myself there, as surely as his hand did, even as I wept out my sorries, over and over again.
     And again. There was not an inch of my behind or thighs that did not rage with the heat and pain of his punishment, but still the strap came down. And still I wanted it.
     And when he finally stopped, finally dropped the belt to the floor and pulled me up into his arms, I still could not stop my sorries, my sobbing. My bottom throbbed with pain, and throbbed even worse at the touch of his hand. He was trying to soothe me now, but I was unsoothable.
     He caught one of my sorries with a kiss, and I finally stopped babbling. Buried my face in his shoulder and wept, while he ran his hand firmly down my back, then softly around my bottom.
     I wanted to love him, one last time, but when I tried to open his jeans, he caught my hands in his. “No,” he said. And that was the real moment of goodbye for me. Not even the pain of seeing him walk out the door for the last time was worse.
     I went up to my room. I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, rinsed out my underwear. Made sure everything was packed for the next day.
     I threw the cotton sundress into the trash.
     The next morning I took my suitcase, myself, down to the train station and waited for the early morning train that would take me to my carefully chosen women’s college. I did not want any more good-byes, from anyone. Did not want distraction from the ache in my bottom that lingered like a good-bye kiss.
     Goodbye.
     Goodbye, boyfriend, goodbye.
     I did not change my mind. The doctor’s daughter knew all the right things to do. Go to college. Earn my degree. Establish my career. Find the right man—the safe man—to be my husband and father my children.
     Children don’t need a dangerous boyfriend. They don’t care if their mother is fierce with passion at her lover’s touch. They need safety. Tenderness. Gentleness.
     “There’s the car pool, kiddo,” my husband says. He hands our daughter her lunch box. I watch him wave good-bye to her as she scoots out the door, and I know I chose well. My daughter will never fear this man’s temper. Never worry that her father is dangerous.
     My husband closes the door. Tender with memory, I smile at him and he smiles back. He walks to me and tilts my face up to his for a kiss, then murmurs, “What are you staring at?”
     “You.” I kiss him again.
     He shakes his head. “Staring at people like that. Didn’t your mom teach you it was rude to stare?”
     “My mom taught me nothing,” I whisper back. “Nothing.”
     His hand trapping mine is sudden, strong. I draw in my breath and toss my hair back, looking right into those gray eyes. Dark as smoke. Warm as fire. Sweetest of lovers still.
     “Maybe I should take care of what your mom forgot,” he says.

     And then, like that wild Fourth of July, like that long-ago night at summer’s end, like the day he visited my college to propose again, like the night of our wedding, like a thousand other playful, painful times, my husband, the safe and gentle father of my child, the sweetest of lovers, becomes the toughest boyfriend I ever had as he pulls me across his lap, bares my bottom, and brings his hand down hard, hard, oh, hard across my behind.

Couple of crappy selfies…

How come on cell phones, the camera option facing inward is so inferior to the option facing outward? Or is that just on older cameras, and they’ve gotten better? Whatever. A little progress report…

My smile still has not returned to normal, because my cheeks are semi-frozen with numbness. However, it’s peeking out. 



However, my smirk seems to be fully intact. 🙂




As frustrated as I am with the snail-like pace of the healing process (I’ve never wanted to move my right eyebrow more in my entire life), I have to say I’m marveling at my jawline. 

Time for some light exercise, and then some light play tomorrow. 

A meme, because I feel like it.

Borrowing this from Dana Kane. Back in the MySpace days, these silly questionnaires were all the rage. Some were more stupid than others. Me? I had a weakness for them, I admit. They were a fun way to learn stuff about people.

Anyway, tonight I’m bored and irritable and wanting a distraction, so here goes.

What’s your favorite kind of pie?

My favorite pie is actually the only kind of pie I like — pumpkin. I’d much rather have cake.

Who’s your favorite band/singer?

I daresay everyone knows this by now, but The Beatles.

Favorite fruit?

Cantaloupe, bananas, apples.

Favorite sport?

I can’t stand sports.

Favorite color?

Red. (yes, really)

Favorite accessories?

My vintage watches and my tear-drop pearl necklace.


Oh, look — there’s the clever neck cover-up again.





Do you collect anything?

Much to the chagrin of clown haters, I collect clown figurines. Refrigerator magnets (countrywide/worldwide locations). Books.

Do you read?

Every day.

Are you sad about Michael Jackson’s death?

Every one of these questionnaires has at least one incredibly inane question, and this one is it. Um… what am I supposed to say, no? It was a sad thing. Did I lose sleep over it? No.

Have you ever been to a concert?

Several classical, and two rock. Love music, but hate crowds.

Do you go on YouTube?

Often. 

Can you apply mascara with your mouth closed?

Ha! I actually can, but I have to think about it.

Have you ever broken a bone? If so, how many?

Nope.

Do you text people often?

Not often. But I’d much rather text than talk on the phone.

Are you a runner?

No, never have been.

Would you ever get a tattoo?

No. Nothing against them, just not for me.

What’s the song that describes your life most?

I can’t think of any particular song lyrics that describe my life, but a couple of song titles come to mind: “Complicated” and “19th Nervous Breakdown.”

Have you ever been heartbroken?

Yes. And it really sucks.

What do you wish to accomplish before you die?

Nothing lofty, just want to continue living the best and most true-to-myself life I can.

Are you afraid of death?

No. I’m afraid of living with old age-related illnesses and conditions.

Are you having a good year?

It’s had its ups and downs, like all years. But there were some wonderful times.

Do you forget things easily?

Only when I’m stressed out and distracted. I normally have a very good memory.

Are you overly truthful?

Hmmm. On my blog, yes. 🙂 But with others, I try not to be when it’s to the point of being tactless and hurting feelings. Sometimes white lies are the kind thing to do.

Do you like the heat?

HATE it! But I don’t like the cold, either. I would love to live in 50-60 degrees year round. With lots of rain.

Have you ever met a celebrity?

I have met a whole lot of celebrities.


Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: