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 “April, 2015”

All About That Red: Part parody, part rant

I promised y’all a spanko parody, didn’t I? I was going to wait until I was in a lighter mood, but you know what? Life sucks all to hell right now, and I don’t see that changing any time soon. So I’m going to counter my tears with a little comedy.

So OK. One thing I need to make clear before I say anything else: This is not, not, not about anyone’s consensual hard spanking play. I know some people like to play really intensely, and some bottoms relish being the recipient of that. So if you’re mutually into that, more power to you, and carry on.

No, I’m talking about an attitude I’ve see pervading FetLife and other sites lately — how “it isn’t a proper spanking” until you see blood, and bottoms that resemble a barbecued steak, rare.

Beat them more, harder, faster. Hand and leather? Forget about those; use wood. Heavier, thicker, bigger paddles. Still not enough? Move on to rubber and braided cat ‘o nine tails. Tear that ass up good. And if those still don’t do the trick, have you considered a circular saw, or a nail gun?

OK, I’m being facetious with that last part. But you get my point.

I’m also talking about the comments my fellow bottoms know and love so dearly — the peanut gallery, the armchair (or basement, as it were) critics. “You call that a spanking?” “Needs a lot more red.” “OK, now that the warm-up is over, time for the real punishment.” And our favorite: “I could do a better job than that.”

Because, you see, pink and red just aren’t enough for these bloodthirsty barbarians.

I really resent the implication that if you don’t suffer lasting damage, you’re some sort of wimp, or that a “real” punishment has to be all about agony. What about head space? What about interaction, taking the time to learn and push your bottom’s emotional buttons? Nahhhhh… just beat them more viciously.

Hence my parody. And for those who have been frustrated with my earlier efforts because I so often riff on oldies that a lot of people don’t know or remember, this one is from 2014 and was played so far past death, you’d have to have been living in an underground cave to have not heard it. It’s Meghan Trainor’s “All About That Bass,” her anthem for women with curves. Here it is as a reminder:

Personally, I think countering fat-shaming with skinny-shaming is obnoxious. But whatever. The song is undeniably catchy. So without further ado, here is my version, “All About That Red.” This goes out to all the Uber-Doms who think that a bottom is just a piece of meat to pound, whether it’s wanted or not.

Because you know, I’m all about that red,
‘Bout that red,
No purple

I’m all about that red,
’Bout that red,
No purple

I’m all about that red,
’Bout that red,
No purple

I’m all about that red,
’Bout that red,
‘Bout that red

Yeah, it’s pretty clear, I ain’t no pain ho
But I can take it, take it,
Like I’m supposed to
‘Cause I’m yellin’ ow ow, the tops are keepin’ pace
All the right sass and all the right faces

I see the FetLife pics, those bloody photos pop
I know those tops are mean,
Come on now, make ’em stop
If someone’s beating beating, say your goodbyes
‘Cause every inch of you is precious
From your bottom to your thighs!

Yeah, my spanker, he told me,
Don’t worry about your bum
He said, “I love your booty, so
Trashing it would be dumb
So all you sadists with your big ol’ axe
You think you need to grind,
Do it on someone else, ‘cause
You won’t be touchin’ this behind!

Because you know, I’m all about that smack,
‘Bout that smack
No thudding

I’m all about that burn,
‘Bout that burn,
No bleeding

I’m all about the marks,
‘Bout the marks,
Not carnage

I’m all about the strict,
‘Bout the strict,
Not brutal

I’m bringing mercy back!
Go ahead and tell them Uber-Dommies Bye
No, I’m just saying, I know you think you’re tough
But I’m here to tell you
Every inch of you’ll be broken on your bottom from your top!

Yeah, my spanker, he told me,
Don’t worry about your bum
He said, “I love your booty, so
Trashing it would be dumb
You know I won’t be no whipping girl, willin’ to take your wrath,
So if that’s what you’re into
Then go ahead and kiss my ass

Because I’m all about that red
‘Bout that red,
No purple

I’m all about that sting,
‘Bout that sting,
No blisters

I’m all about that belt
‘Bout that belt,
No rubber

I’ll all about good tops
‘Bout good tops,
‘Bout good tops!

Boneless Erica

This was me, last Tuesday…


…after a hard spanking and paddling, and shoulder-to-toe massage. Steve came over and took good care of me, just in time to launch into what became Hell Week… getting John out of the hospital, settled back at home, dealing with his mail and laundry and groceries, and getting him to four different appointments. I am currently up at the godforsaken hour of 6:05 a.m., mainlining coffee and preparing to go for another 100-mile round trip today, picking him up and getting him to the urologist. The good news is, his foot has settled down (we saw the podiatrist) and his eyes are OK (we saw the ophthalmologist and optometrist); he will need reading glasses, but so do most people our age. Bad news… the UTI (and the subsequent catheterization) so traumatized his prostate and urethra, he is now on home catheters for the time being, which means we have to drag those effing cath kits everywhere we go and the poor man has to use them. We’re hoping the urologist will be able to fix him up today.

Oh, and yeah, he’s still healing from open-heart surgery. Ye gods. As he said yesterday morning, “I didn’t sign up for this.”

He has extended his six-week work leave to eight. We’re hoping it won’t be more than that.

Work is also busy, which is good, but the timing is a bit tricky. I’ve barely been online all week, save to check email and tweet on occasion. I just don’t have the time or the energy for it. So again, bear with me. I shall return. And I’ll even have another spanko song parody for you. Meanwhile, have a great weekend, y’all.

My day of kinky support

As of today, Tuesday, John is still in the hospital, but he may be released tonight. Since tonight and the next couple of days will be a whirlwind of getting him settled and running errands and taking him to three different doctor appointments, I won’t have any time for updating this. So today, while I have a bit of me time, I’m going to catch up with last Tuesday, which really was a great day. I honestly believe it helped prepare me for having my life thrown back into a blender the following day.

Last Tuesday, Steve showed up with open arms and open heart, ready to listen and support. I was feeling edgy and impatient, and even when the spanking I so desperately craved had started, I sniped at his phraseology. When he said “You need this” too often for my liking, I snapped, “Yes, you mentioned that a few dozen times.” That got me thigh slaps. OK, I deserved them. “Got anything else to say?” he asked. “No, no,” I hastily assured him, trying to clear the stars of pain floating around my eyes. “I didn’t think so,” he said. “If you need this, then it doesn’t matter how many times I say it, does it?” (Uh… well, it’s still redundant, but I didn’t say so at that moment!)

After a while, the impatience gave way to what I was really feeling — extreme frustration, coupled with guilt over being snappish and tense with John. Granted, in my defense, he’s a godawful patient and so OCD about everything being done just so in his house that it gives me fits. But still… I was at my wits’ end several times over the past weekend, and I couldn’t wait to go home. So when Steve said, “Take this like a good girl,” I blurted, “There is NOTHING good about me!” “Excuse me?” “I said, there is nothing good about me. I’m sick of all this, I’m sick of him, I just want to run away from all of this and have my life back. I’m a terrible, selfish person.”

“You are wrong,” he replied calmly, not stopping. “You have no idea what kind of person you are, how much you’ve done, how much you continue to do. He’s lucky to have you. You’re not a terrible person, you are exhausted and stressed out and that’s why I’m here.”

And of course, I cried.

He held me in his lap for a long time until I calmed down, pulling in the first deep breaths I may have taken in about a week. “Ready for the ottoman?” he asked. I knew I needed a little more, so I bravely assumed the position while he went to fetch a couple of implements. Only two this time: the Lexan paddle and the crop. Just enough to give me a couple of intense sensations and coax out that last bit of stress.


Afterward, I actually dozed off for a little bit in his arms. That is a rarity for me, so it speaks to how very tired I was. And how safe I felt.

Thank you, Steve. ♥

But wait, there’s more! I still had my dinner date with Alex and SpankCake later. Alex was running a little late (traffic), but SC and I got to the restaurant early, so we caught up for a half-hour until Alex joined us, and then we were off into another marathon of catching up, airing stress, laughing, talking kink, and just enjoying each other as we always do. We beat our record this time: six hours. We met at 5:30, intending to make it an “early evening,” and ended up leaving at 11:30.

And of course, there had to be dessert. We wanted a brownie sundae, but they were out of brownies. Booo! So we chose a regular ice-cream sundae instead, and made short work of it. Now you see it…


…Now you don’t. (Alex ate all the cherries, BTW)


Thank you, my sweet friends. ♥

I feel so out of the loop with everyone and everything, but I guess that’s to be expected. This week, the lion’s share of the spanking scene is convening in Atlantic City for the Boardwalk Badness Weekend (which ends up being more like five days or so), and usually I feel horribly sad not being there, but right now, I just can’t think about it. So I hope all my friends there will have a blast and hold a good thought for John and his recovery.

And hopefully I can get some readership back for this blog! Sorry to have been so silent lately.

Very quick update

I’ve been MIA all week, sorry. I actually have a lovely post to write about Tuesday, where I got to have a day of concentrated nurturing from Steve and my girls, but that will have to wait.

Yesterday, I took John to the ER — he had shortness of breath, extreme fatigue, was shivering uncontrollably and was peeing about twice an hour. We were there all afternoon and into the evening, where they did a battery of tests on him. His brother came about 8:30, and I went home at 9:00, because I was running on fumes.

Diagnosis — because of the enforced inactivity, due to that damn plantar fasciitis, John developed two blood clots in his lungs. Unrelated to that, he also has a UTI. He is now in a regular room and they have him on massive blood thinners, antibiotics, and oxygen. The good news is that the repaired heart valve seems to be doing well. He will be in the hospital until tomorrow or Saturday, and on Tuesday, he has a podiatry appointment. I am going to make damn sure he’s better monitored this time, after he goes home. Basically, the first three weeks he was home, he didn’t improve, just stayed the same. It nearly sent me to the funny farm.

More later.

OT Rant: Yet MORE food insanity

Happy Friday, kids. Since I don’t have anything on-topic to discuss today, and frankly, I’m sick of writing about how life has been lately, I thought it was time for one of my infamous Gross Food Rants.

For those who haven’t been with me that long, I’ve posted quite a few of these over the years. Any time something I consider over-the-top disgusting joins the culinary choices out there, I feel motivated to write a PSA that warns: “Eat this at your own peril.” Here, for reminders, are three of my past writings: Bacon Sundae, Mac ‘N Cheese Big Daddy Patty Melt, and This is NOT Pizza/Sweet-Savory Nightmares.

Today, we reach into the Erica Scott Barf Bag and what do we come up with: Little Caesar’s Deep! Deep! Dish Bacon-Wrapped Pizza.


Really, Little Caesar’s? Really??

The deep-deep-dish pizza on its own was bad enough. Super thick dough, mountains of cheese, a glut of grease, fat and salt. But wait! Let’s make it even worse! Let’s wrap 3.5 feet of BACON around it! Yes, that is 3.5 feet, kiddies. That’s more than a yard. To be precise, that is 42 inches of bacon.

But wait again, there’s more! It’s topped with lots of pepperoni and — guess what? — even more bacon.

Jesus Christ, y’all. Why stop there? Why don’t they just dump the entire fucking monstrosity into a vat of bacon grease, deep-fry it, and then serve it with cheese dipping sauce??

A single slice of this thing contains 450 calories, 23 grams of fat, 830 milligrams of sodium and 40 milligrams of cholesterol. I think of poor John, who is currently on a heart-healthy diet regimen including fish, vegetables and greens, fruit and unsalted nuts. One piece of this would kill him.

But wait, there’s a thought. (NO… not killing John! What the hell is the matter with you people…) I mean, without going all political on you, most of you know my stance on capital punishment: For the worst-of-the-worst criminals, proven without a shadow of a doubt to be guilty of murder, torture, etc., I am a firm believer in it. So here’s a new method for the death penalty: Force-feed the perpetrators with this crap until their hearts explode. I guarantee, after consuming enough of it, they’ll be begging for the electric chair.

I would not be surprised if I heard that Little Caesar’s gets a kickback from the companies that produce Rolaids, Prilosec, Pepto Bismol and the like. Because this gastronomic catastrophe is destroying people’s innards, one slice at a time.

When I was a kid, eating in the school cafeteria, there was pizza every Friday. I can still remember how it was so laden with grease, you could hold the slice up over the plate and watch it drip off. Little Caesar’s fat bomb is so full of oil and grease, you could probably squeeze a slice over a pan and use the drippings to fry a whole chicken.

Please, people. Don’t eat this. Don’t even look at it. That high-pitched whine you hear is your arteries shrieking in terror. Yes, have a slice or two of pizza that isn’t an obscenity. Have a couple of pieces of bacon on occasion, if you wish. But Do. Not. Eat. This.

(P.S. I deleted the photo I’d originally posted here, because someone told me they found it offensive. Sorry about that.)

Have a great weekend, y’all.

“Give it to me”

Two weeks ago today was John’s surgery. It feels like two months.

I really don’t feel like giving much of an update. Suffice it to say, it’s been a rough time. John’s recovery has been sidelined with some unexpected complications — nothing life-threatening, but definitely impeding and disheartening. The stress has been huge, as well as the amount of work I have to do when I’m with him. I love the man (obviously), but he is not an easy person to take care of. So when I’m there, I’m stretched paper-thin, physically and emotionally, and when I’m home, I’m beside myself with worry and frustration. It’s exhausting.

Today, Steve came over.

Hugging me close at the door, he observed, “You’ve lost weight.” I’m not quite sure how; I have been making sure to eat and drink. I haven’t gotten to the gym as often as usual, but I have exercised. Maybe the constant stress is burning more calories. Whatever.

I caught him up with everything. We talked. He said, “You need to be over my knee, don’t you.”

God, yes.

I have cried countless times since this all started, particularly the past week. Yesterday at the gym, for example, I spontaneously welled up three times while on machines. These tears seemed to come from a bottomless pit and I felt no better after I shed them. Today’s tears were different. They came on immediately — I don’t think he’d given me more than half a dozen slaps. From the start, it felt like I was being drained of poison.

It hurt a lot at the outset, as it had been three weeks. Like a mantra, Steve’s voice behind me intoned, “You need this. You need this.”

And as the tears became sobbing, I heard him say, “You’ve been carrying all this around for way too damn long. Give it to me. Let me take it. Let me carry you for a while.”

Afterward, he pulled me into his arms and I continued to weep. I was mortified to see that I’d left large wet blotches on the shoulder and chest of his t-shirt. But he didn’t care.

He gave me a little extra with the riding crop and the Lexan paddle, just to finish me off. And when he had to go, he put me to bed like a child, as I was limp with tiredness. Wouldn’t even let me walk him to the door.

I slept for an hour.

The problems are still there. Tomorrow, I have a long day ahead, taking John to two doctor appointments. But for this moment, I feel boneless, melted. He took my tension away.


Just for today, I think I may not lose my mind after all.

Thank you. ♥

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