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 “October, 2015”

The finger

No, no, not this one…

Erica's Helpful Hints #4

This one.


The oh-so-sexy beckoning, “come here” finger.

(Note: for simplicity’s sake and my own orientation, I’m imagining a man’s finger. Feel free to replace it in your mind with a woman’s finger if you prefer.)

That single curling digit can convey so many messages.

“Come here, I want to kiss you.”

“Come here, I want to [do a hell of a lot more than kiss you].”

But especially, for those of us in the spanko persuasion:

“I want to spank you. Come here. Now.”

Is this a trigger for you? (The good kind, I mean.) It is for me. There are certain physical gestures that will weaken my knees and liquefy my innards without the man having to say a single word. The rolling up of the sleeves. The removing of the belt. Perhaps a raised eyebrow in a stern face. And yes, that beckoning finger. Come to me. Don’t make me come get you, little girl.

Sometimes, just to be perverse (who, meeee?), I resist. Once when Steve was here, he was sitting on the couch and I was in the kitchen. He beckoned me with his finger and patted his lap. I smiled and shrugged, staying where I was. “Come here,” he said. “Don’t wanna,” I answered. Of course, his solution was to get up, come over and pick me up, and then haul me over to the couch. Mind you, that was hot too.

But, contrariness aside, a simple curled finger will call forth my submission. I will melt, and I will go to him.

One of the hottest moments for me at the last Shadow Lane party occurred on Saturday night, as I sat on one of the couches gleefully chatting with girlfriends. I glanced up and across the room, and locked eyes with the handsome gentleman I’d been dying to play with. He sat casually at the bar, surveying the room, and when our eyes met, he smiled. And beckoned me with that single finger.

I startled. I pointed to myself and mouthed, “Me?” He nodded. I got up, heart going into overdrive, and made my way across the room as he watched. It was both the longest and the shortest walk.

The scene that followed was delicious, as I’d detailed in my party report. But it all started, for me, with the curl of a finger.

Anyone relate?

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need a shower.

Closing out the week with more search phrases

Happy Friday, y’all! Ready for the weekend? How about some humor to start it off? Here’s the latest crop of bizarre phrases I found that were used to search for this blog.

old spanking pixie

Huh?? Pixie isn’t old. Also, I’m not Pixie.

lovely unclothed people

I do believe you want the blog

(Oh, come on. You didn’t really click on that, did you?)

spanking my favorite daughter

Um… Ewwwwwww.

tiny model princess spanked

Wha? I am neither tiny nor a princess. Although I guess I prefer that to the following…

spanking blog big butt

I beg your pardon??

And finally:

does erica hill need a spanking

Who the hell is Erica Hill? And how the @#$% should I know what she needs?

Heading out for the weekend with John’s birthday brownies in hand. It was quite the comedy of errors, getting those brownies baked. I left the baking until today, so they’d be extra fresh. I thought I had all the ingredients. I really did think I had a whole bag of chocolate chips in the freezer. But come noon when I started preparing to bake, I discovered I had only half a bag — not enough. Dammit. So I went out (needed gas and cash anyway), gassed up the car, ran to the bank, then dashed into the market to buy chocolate chips. Got home and resumed pulling ingredients together. I needed two eggs; I knew I had a half dozen of those in the fridge. I almost never eat whole eggs (I prefer Egg Beaters), so a carton of eggs lasts a very long time. I pulled two out… but they felt funny. They were too light. It seemed like I was just holding eggshells. With a sinking feeling, I broke one of them. I do not know how the hell this happened — I’ve never seen it before in my life — but the egg was dried out inside. I cracked open the remaining five eggs; every last one of those bastards were dried out. Cussing, I went back out, back to the market, and bought eggs. Finally got the brownies made and in the oven by 1:30. I hope he likes the damn things!!

Have a great weekend, y’all. 🙂

Top logic revisited

So it seems I’m stuck with that damned weak spot, under my right butt cheek in the “sit zone.” Every time I play, it rises to the surface and every now and then it breaks. The last time it broke was a couple of weeks ago and it was a mess, and hurt like hell for a few days. I am trying to work on letting it heal.

Therefore, yesterday before Steve came over, I put a Band-Aid right on the spot, to indicate where it was and to avoid it. I figured, since it’s not really on the butt but just below it, it wouldn’t be too much of a problem. Steve agreed and thought it was a good idea.

Until I was actually OTK and he was in top mode, and he sighed, “Topping from the bottom now?”


“Well,” he continued, “you’re telling me where I can and can’t hit, aren’t you? Blocking me with Band-Aids?”

Oh, please. “Come on,” I said, “You thought it was a good idea a few minutes ago. Besides, it’s just a tiny little place to avoid.”

“Yes, but it’s my favorite,” he insisted. It really is. For whatever reason, Steve is endlessly drawn to the sit spots. Then he added, “I think that if I can’t go there, it’s only fair that I go here.” And he put his hand on the back of my mid-thigh.

“What? Noooo!” I screeched.

“Excuse me? Am I getting attitude here?”

“No, but…”

“No buts, then. Fair is fair.”

Right. Since when is anything to do with a top fair??

So, I received four thigh swats, two on each leg. But were they in succession? Oh, noooo. I had to wait for them. They were paced far apart, sprung on me each time, no rhyme or reason, striking when I least expected them. The first one made me shriek out loud, so I got smart. From that point on, I put my mouth to the pillow, so that if any further reactionary utterances burst forth, they’d be muffled.

The good news is, at least my weak spot was left unsullied. But I did have subtle red streaks on the backs of my thighs, just from those lousy four swats.

Sometimes, tops can be such a-holes. 😉

But wait, there’s more!

And more… and more. This has been the most amazing birthday. I know we attention hogs all talk about milking birthdays and making them last, but this one really did.

First I got to see Steve and my girls on the actual day. Then that following weekend, John fussed over me, taking me to a lovely dinner in Old Town Pasadena on a warm night, so we enjoyed patio seating. Here we are passing a gelato shop, where we posed in front of a giant ice-cream cone:


And then of course I had to do this, because you can’t take me anywhere:


After that, I figured OK, we’re done. But no… John mysteriously insisted that we were going to keep celebrating into the following weekend (which was this past weekend). He would not tell me where we were going, or what we were doing. All he would tell me was that he’d be wearing a suit and tie, and so I should dress accordingly.

What could it be? Where would he need to wear a suit?? Was he taking me to the symphony or to a play or something? I didn’t try cajoling him to tell me, because he was having too good a time torturing me with wondering. So I packed my favorite red dress and my highest heels for Saturday night. Even on Saturday, all he would say was that we had to leave at 6:30.

I was nervous, I admit it. I don’t like not knowing where I’m going. John kept pointing out that I was driving well below the speed limit and I needed to pick it up! It didn’t help that we unexpectedly got caught in Hollywood Bowl traffic; apparently Idina Menzel (or Adele Dazeem, as John Travolta called her) was having a concert and the street was completely jammed. And when we finally got past that, John had me make a wrong turn and we drove way up into the hills before he directed me to turn back around. Argh. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not a show or a play; it’s OK if we’re a few minutes late.” And then he guided me back to the street that I recognized from years ago: the one that takes you up a winding road to Yamashiro, a gorgeous hilltop restaurant and a Los Angeles landmark. He’d taken me there twice before, but not for a long time. It’s definitely a “very special occasion” restaurant.

And once we went in, who was waiting for us in the bar but Alex, Paul and SpankCake? Surprise!!!

Turns out John’s suit was kind of a red herring; he really didn’t have to wear one, but he figured that would throw me off. Plus, Paul was wearing one too. Both men looked wonderfully sharp and Alex and SC were dressed to the nines. I was overjoyed as the hostess led us to our window-side table, with a view of the Hollywood Hills spread out behind it.

The first thing John did was order a bottle of champagne, and we got an edamame appetizer to share. I wasn’t expecting anything else — especially since the girls had already given me presents — but they had packages! We put those aside for the time being to enjoy our champagne and then the fabulous meals, talking and laughing. And of course, we had to have dessert too. They had something they called their “S’Mores Brownie Sundae,” which turned out to be a large warmed brownie, topped with marshmallow that had been toasted under the broiler, with chocolate sauce and graham-cracker ice cream. Yes, it was as amazing as it sounds. Also ordered some ice cream, and then our server brought me another brownie with a candle in it, so we had plenty of sweets! Sooooo good.

I’d already eaten some of the smaller brownie, but wanted to get a picture of the artful “Happy Birthday” drizzled on the plate:


And then, the gifts. First, John gave me a gag gift: he has had the unfortunate habit in the past of giving me gifts that are practical rather than fun. He thought they were great, and I know he meant well, but… ! I mean, for my birthday a few years ago, he actually gave me a Leatherman multi-tool for me to keep in my trunk in case of emergencies. He was rather shocked when I burst into tears after opening it!! When he and SC & Alex were exchanging emails before the gathering and were talking about gifts, SC quipped, “Don’t get her any more tools!” He didn’t… he got me pepper spray instead. This time, I laughed. Ever practical and watching out for me, my beloved.

SC’s gift was actually a gift to the three of us, which made it extra special. I opened the package and found a delicate silver bangle, with cursive writing inscribed on it:


It reads “I get by with a little help from my friends.” She’d gotten identical ones for herself and Alex as well: friendship bracelets. How wonderful is that?? I nearly cried. Then I opened the package from Alex and Paul; it was heavy, and as I tore the paper off I could see it was a framed picture… of what? She’d taken one of the shots from the last 50 Freaks party, of the three of us in the giant bubble bath, blown it up, printed it and framed it! Oh. My. GOD. It was perfect.

So as I was sitting there oohing and ahhing and getting teary, John mused, “Wow… seeing all these thoughtful gifts makes me wish I did something more!” He paused, then added, “Oh wait… I did!” That’s when I looked down near my plate and noticed another wrapped package sitting there. The others were all looking at it expectantly, waiting to see just when the hell I was going to notice it.

I picked it up. It was smallish, but heavy. My heart started to pound as I unwrapped it. “John, what did you do?” I blurted.

What he did was get me a vintage 18-karat gold Rolex watch.

As I sat there with my hands clamped over my mouth, John went on to explain how he’d gotten this a few years ago, after careful searching online, and how he kept it, waiting for a special time. SC then asked what made him choose this occasion.

“Three reasons,” he said. “First, I had open-heart surgery this year, I survived it, Erica took such perfect care of me, and I wanted to celebrate that. Second, we’ve been together 19 years, and we’re not getting married, so I wanted her to have something really special in lieu of an engagement ring. And third, you’re all such wonderful friends to us, I wanted to share this with you.”

By now, I was crying. I was completely, emotionally overwhelmed, but in a good way. I was surrounded with people who love me, and my heart was bursting. Good friends, the love of my life, wonderful food, incredible presents… the night couldn’t have been more perfect.

Aren’t we a happy (and damn good-looking!) bunch?


As usual, we closed the place… we were the last to leave, around 11:15, I think.

Today is John’s birthday. But unlike me, he hates attention and fanfare. He didn’t even tell anyone at work about it. (sigh) Soooo… we’ll celebrate this coming weekend. I’ll take him for a special dinner, and I have presents. It won’t kill him to be fussed over just a little bit. 🙂

Oh! and guess where I hung the bubble bath picture? In my bathroom, of course!

Making peace with my butt

This blog was inspired by a tweet; a young woman I follow commented about how her co-workers call her “Big-Booty Judy.” She didn’t seem bothered by it at all. But, reading about it, I had such a powerful, visceral reaction of indignation on her behalf, I had to stop and think about it. If it didn’t upset her, why was it upsetting me so much?

It was a knee-jerk reaction to my days of body dysmorphia; the years of anorexia. The years of hating my body, of wanting to hide it and not wanting it acknowledged in any way. So bizarre that the exhibitionist you know and (hopefully) love used to be that girl, but I was.

Today’s workplaces are a lot more PC than mine were; sexual harassment charges are rampant and people exist in a climate of watching what they say and being apprehensive of giving any sort of compliment, lest it be misconstrued. Please! I was the recipient of many personal comments (and touches) in my early jobs; if I had initiated lawsuits back then, I’d be a freaking millionaire right now. But of course, I didn’t. I just dealt with it, because that’s what you did.

But I hated it. I especially hated any sort of attention to my butt. Because not only did I have all sorts of issues about my body, but I had all those strange feelings and desires around spanking that frightened me, because I thought I was a freak. So I figured the best thing was to, basically, make my butt go away. As well as any other curves on my body. Curves meant fat. Also, curves meant being a sexy woman, and I didn’t want any part of that.

When I was 19, working at a fast-food place (with a passel of horny boys), I was fully immersed in my eating disorders. I remember being light-headed from hunger a lot of the time I was working; even though I could have free food, I worked there over a year and never ate one meal. I was obsessed with my body and keeping it as shrunken as possible. One day, my supervisor (a ginormous perv) asked me, “Have you been exercising lately?” I didn’t exercise back then; I was too weak and exhausted all the time. So I replied, “No, why?” And he said, “Cause your butt’s finally getting some shape to it.”

That wasn’t exercise; that was two pounds I’d put on. Because, despite all my rigorous starvation, I’d sometimes break down, binge and eat everything in sight. That comment completely freaked me out.

I didn’t eat anything for three days.

When did I change? I’m not sure. Maybe in my 30s, when I finally got on meds for depression and they had the blessed side effect of calming my eating disorders. Maybe when I finally embraced my spanking side, and therefore began to embrace my backside as well. Whatever it is, I’m grateful. Because I finally started enjoying having a woman’s body. I liked having a butt. I liked having muscle and tone and flesh instead of protruding bones.

One of my regular commenters often refers to my “voluptuous bare bottom.” I can remember when a comment like that, meant as a compliment, would send me into a tailspin. Now, I recognize it for what it is.

As I often do, I can’t help but feel a stab of regret for my younger self, all the pain I went through, the terrible lack of self-acceptance, the crap I put my body and mind through. But I couldn’t help it. What’s past is past, and while I wish I could have embraced my body earlier in life, at least I was able to at all.

And how’s this for irony? Now, let’s face it, I’m at that age where women’s butts tend to go flat. I’ve definitely noticed a change in mine, a sort of compressing if you will, a little less shape. Years ago, I would have rejoiced this… and now, I’m doing squats and lunges and working like crazy to round the damn thing back out!!


But never fear. As long as y’all went to keep seeing it, I’ll keep showing it. 😉

To the women out there in the throes of eating disorders, please know there are other ways to live and feel. And to the women who embrace and accept their bodies, all types, especially the younger ones — on behalf of my broken younger self, I admire you more than I can say. ♥

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