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 “January, 2016”

This made me giggle

So I thought I’d share it with all of you for your own Friday giggle.

You all know by now that I have an ongoing love-hate relationship with FetLife. I have backed off from the site a great deal in recent times, not reading or posting as much as I used to. But I still check it out, because I know there are good things to be found there if I keep my eyes open.

The other day, I was taking a work break and perusing the FetLife feed, in hopes that among the dick pics and twat shots, the endless accusations of consent violation, the arguing and sniping, and the same topics being discussed over and over and over, I might find a fun nugget or two. Then I noticed that friends were loving a piece of writing called “Why I Am A Bad Sub.”

I groaned inwardly at the title. My first thought was that if I clicked on it, I’d see a long and rambling tale of woe and remorse (and most likely total fiction) about how a submissive had egregiously failed her Master/Daddy and how she needed to be punished, followed by a string of comments making suggestions on how to carry out said punishment.  But since so many people seemed to be loving it, I was curious. So I opened the page.

There was the title, “Why I Am A Bad Sub.” Followed by:

“Because fuck you, that’s why. #sorrynotsorry”

I couldn’t help it; I laughed and laughed and laughed. It was so unexpected. I don’t know who this woman is, but I like her. She reminds me of someone, but I can’t quite come up with who it is. 😀

Apparently others liked it too; she got 746 loves on it.

That’s all. Just stopping by to pass that on. Have a great weekend, y’all.

Yesterday’s play, and my strange paradox

Well, one of them, anyway. I have many, I guess.

Steve and I had a lovely visit. If you were to see us together at first, you’d think we were just a couple of old pals getting together to catch up. We sit side by side on my couch and we take turns talking about the past week, about our relationships and life situations. Sometimes we’re quite serious. And then, after a while, something shifts, Steve gets that look on his face, and I know it’s time. Seamlessly, we transition into play mode.

As we begin to play, more transitions happen. Before my endorphins kick in, I struggle with the pain as it explodes into my senses, despite the slow buildup. I squirm and twist my feet together and mash my face into the pillow, reminding myself to breathe. “Squirm all you want,” he’ll say. Then it changes — the overwhelming burn morphs into a glow, and instead of wanting to shy away from the impact, I raise my body to meet it. Steve, ever reading my body language, knows when it happens and that he can ramp things up.

Yesterday’s round two was simple, just three implements. Three distinct sensations (crop, wooden paddle, Lexan paddle). I didn’t need to do or say anything; we had no roles or fake issues we were acting out. I didn’t sass. It was all about sensation and connection this time. Maybe not as amusing to read about, but intense just the same.

Then there’s the picture-taking. And that’s when the paradox comes in. My exhibitionism vs. my discomfort with graphic shots.

It’s no secret that I like having sexy pictures taken of me. But when they veer into the graphically sexUAL, I shut down. I wonder why that is. I’m not a prude. I don’t have issues about bodies, male or female. But for me, photos are sexier and more attractive when things are left to the imagination. I am not comfortable with displays of graphic nudity from people I don’t know. And I’m not comfortable with my own display of them, either. When it comes to professional videos, and the photos/screen shots taken from them, I have to accept that the “money shots” will be plentiful. But with my own stuff? I don’t reveal. I tease, I provoke, but I don’t stick it in your face. Why? I don’t know. As I’d mentioned in a previous blog, I’ve appeared fully naked on video only once in sixteen years. And the purpose of that was not to be sexy per se, but to say “fuck you; this is what fifty looks like” to the world of ageists.

Yesterday, at the peak of our scene as I lay over the pillows on my bed, Steve opened the nightstand drawer, retrieved my vibrator and handed it to me. Face down, oblivious to everything around me, I then proceeded to give myself three orgasms while he watched. And took pictures.

Steve takes two kinds of pictures; the ones for me, that I’ll use for my blog, for FetLife, etc. And then the ones he says are “just for him.” The last thing he does before he leaves is copy the day’s photos from his camera onto my computer. And after he’s gone, the first thing I do is go through them — and immediately delete the graphic ones. I don’t like them. He thinks they’re beautiful. But they make me squirm. Why would I want to look at a close-up shot of myself masturbating? (Rhetorical question, folks. You don’t have to answer.) I think naked bodies can be beautiful… but I don’t think genitalia are in and of themselves all that attractive, especially close up. Who knows… it’s a strange paradox, and a weird disconnect. I suppose it’s along the same lines of how I love to be spanked in front of other people, but I don’t want to have sex in front of other people.

Yeah, I know. I’ve talked about this before. But every now and then, I feel the need to explain myself. Maybe because some may think I’m a hypocrite, because I post provocative photos, but don’t care for theirs. I guess, for me, it’s about the level of provocation, and how much intimacy is revealed to strangers.

Am I making any @#$%ing sense, or does it all sound like a big confused rationale? Meh.

Anyway… true to form, here are non-graphic shots from yesterday.

Flash on:


And flash off:


And as usual, the camera didn’t pick up the redness very well. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

Back to work for me. Happy Hump Day. And, according to Twitter, Happy #NationalChocolateCakeDay. (Of course, for me, every day is #NationalChocolateCakeDay.)

Both sides of a protocol

Recently on FetLife, a friend posted about her scene protocol, and how much it annoys and baffles her when people disregard it or complain about it. She is part of a couple, and while she can play with anyone she chooses, she has one request: If anyone contacts her for play, she’d like them to drop a brief note to her dominant as well. It doesn’t have to be a multi-page epic; it doesn’t have to be a massive form providing his blood type and his mother’s maiden name. Just a little note of introduction, out of respect for her top, to acknowledge his existence.

Seems pretty simple, doesn’t it? And yet, according to her writing earlier, people give her grief about this. They don’t want to bother with that step; it’s too much of a hassle. And then they have the nerve to get bent out of shape when she says she’s sorry, but if they aren’t willing to do this little thing, then she isn’t willing to play with them.

You know, this thing we do is (or should be) about consent and respect. Everyone has limits. Everyone has personal rules. And it doesn’t matter a damn if their protocols aren’t your protocols. You don’t have to agree with them, or subscribe to them. You simply have to respect them, per the individual. If they aren’t to your liking, then you don’t have to play with that person.

Why is that so @#$%ing hard for some people to comprehend? Especially a request like this, which is so very common in the D/s world. Subs/bottoms often have potential play partners contact their doms/tops. Or ask them first at a party, before asking the bottom to play. Why would anyone resent that or bitch about it?

Today, I posted a comment on this lovely woman’s writing: “I’m not sure what the debate is about. My ass, my rules. Does that make it simpler?” She appreciated that; she commented after me: “So. Much. That.” 🙂

Me? I deal with the flip side of that protocol, and for me, it’s equally as frustrating and annoying.

See, I do not require anyone to check in with John before I play with them. That is simply not my dynamic. So it kind of tweaks me when some tops assume I do have that sort of dynamic, because, well, don’t all bottoms?? (sigh) Or the ones who assume that John speaks for me, because he does not. Just because I identify as a bottom does not mean I identify as a submissive or a slave. Stop putting us all in the same box.

Frequently at parties, John has had men approach him and ask if it’s OK if they play with me. John will smile, shrug and reply, “I dunno… ask her?” OK, so they’re being cautious. I get that. But my rebellious and sassy spirit kind of resents the assumption nonetheless. I do not need John’s permission for anything. Still, when it comes to a simple matter of play, I guess it’s innocuous.

But here’s an example of protocol assumption that really pissed me off. Many years ago, a gentleman who is quite well known in the BDSM world came to his first Shadow Lane party. At spanking party weekends, there’s a sort of unspoken etiquette about Friday nights, the first of three or four days of play: Don’t play too hard with a bottom that night. She has a lot more spanking ahead of her, so it’s better to err on the side of caution, go a little lighter, save the heavier stuff for later in the weekend. In other words, don’t trash a bottom’s backside all to hell right out of the gate.

This guy clearly wasn’t aware of this… and he whaled the hell out of me with a wooden hairbrush, on Friday night at the vendor fair. I had immediate white spots, which morphed into purple splotches. Not good. People around us watching looked shocked. John immediately ran to get an ice pack and was following me around the ballroom, pressing it to my butt. By the next day, I had bruises.

I guess the guy must have heard from others that what he had done was a bit of a faux pas. Because the next day, he offered a sincere and contrite apology.

To John.

That’s right. He sought John out specifically, and said, “I’m sorry I marked your sub so early in a spanking party weekend. I didn’t realize that wasn’t OK, and I didn’t mean to.” Um, what? He hit me. He bruised me. And he apologizes to my boyfriend?? WTF?

Yeah, I know. D/s protocol. But use a little common sense, for God’s sake. Give a direct apology to the wounded party! John, bless his heart, calmly told him, “I appreciate that, man, but don’t tell me. Tell her.”

To his credit, he came to me next and apologized. Multiple times. And again after the party weekend in an email. I did appreciate it, and I never revealed who he was or what had happened in any blog or party report. (And I still won’t.) But I still think about it and shake my head. What kind of weird-ass protocol is it that you injure a bottom and you apologize to her top by proxy? It’s not his butt! (sigh again)

So, I guess it comes down to this once again: Everyone is different; all players aren’t formed from the same cookie cutter. We all have different protocols, preferences, priorities. Different parties have different rules. When negotiating the playing field (which can often be a minefield), get a feel for who you’re dealing with, and what kind of gathering you’re attending. Ask questions, pay attention, and Be. Respectful.

Oh, and despite the fact that it seems to be so damned uncommon these days, do try that common sense thing. 😉

A few more search phrases


Yeah, that’s my reaction too, when I see some of these wild and weird phrases that somehow lead people to my blog.

erica scott naked

Ah, so you want that, do you? Hmm. Come to think of it, in all these years of shooting, I’ve appeared on video fully naked only one time, and that was eight years ago. I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for it to happen again.

how much do spanking models get paid

Oh, fortunes. We all have secret stashes in Swiss bank accounts and we could buy Donald Trump. (eye roll) But seriously… really, it depends on what you’re doing and for whom you’re shooting. And any more than that is none of your beeswax. :-Þ

OK, those two at least made some sense. Now…

older clothed unclothed women nude blogs

First of all, make up your mind: you want clothed or unclothed? Second, what’s with people wanting to see me nude all of a sudden? And third, older? Fuck you.

spanko 70

Huh??? Is this another age crack? I am nowhere near 70, dammit.

And finally:

dead or alive spanking

Ewwwwww! Who’d want to spank a dead person? OK, I know about necrophilia, but that’s taking it too far. Spanking a zombie wouldn’t work either — one swat and you’d have a semi-rotting ass flying across the room. It’s disgusting. Don’t do it.

Now that I’ve thoroughly grossed you out, have a great weekend, y’all. 😀

You know what’s weird?

(Can you be more specific, Erica? A lot of things are weird, including you.)

OK… I’ve made no secret of the fact that I don’t cook. About the only time I’ll use a pot or a pan is to scramble some Egg Beaters or heat up soup. The rest of the time when I’m home, it’s cans, packages, and the microwave.

So why do I have a drawer filled with kitchen utensils?? I mean, what’s the point? Especially when Steve knows where that drawer is and uses it to nefarious intent.

Last Tuesday, two of those utensils came out of hiding. And the only thing they cooked was my butt.


You can tell that metal one has seen better days, no? Look at that 70s floral pattern. And the end is chipped off. I don’t think it’s been used since the Nixon administration. The white one comes out periodically when I’m baking brownies for John.

Anyway… after we caught up with our weekends and latest doings, it was play time. I went to shut the windows, and Steve was sitting on the couch, beckoning to me. I ignored him and went to check the thermostat (it was a bit chilly and I wanted to see if I should turn the heater on). “Excuse me?” he said. “I’m waiting over here.”

To which I replied, “You can wait a little longer.” Then I wandered into the kitchen to pour a glass of water.

“WHAT did you say?”

“I said, you can wait a little longer. Patience is a virtue.” (A virtue I don’t possess, but I digress.) I sipped my water, smiling sweetly.

He got up. “OK, I think I need something from the kitchen too.” Uh oh. As I walked back into the living room, I saw him shuffling around in the drawer, but he wouldn’t let me see what he was retrieving.

Usually for Round One, he uses just his hand, which is formidable enough as it is. But this time, he alternated it with the white rubber spatula. (I’m quite familiar with the feel of that thing; it’s unmistakable.) He kept me guessing, back and forth, ramping up, slowing down, doing that rapid-fire thing he does that gets me squirming and gritting my teeth. Oh, and because of my keeping him waiting, I also got one mighty slap on each mid-thigh, when I least expected it. The pink from those two slaps lasted for hours, long after the rest of it had faded away.

Round Two, I didn’t know what he was using, because he wouldn’t let me see. He added in some other toys as well, to keep me guessing. It wasn’t until we were done that he grinned and held up the metal spatula. Really interesting feel to that! Stinging, biting, but not too heavy. Of course, after a while, my mind goes to mush and everything blurs into an indecipherable sensation. (Except for the cane. That one, I can still discern. :-/)

Poor Steve; I think I wore him out. Shortly after we wound down, he fell asleep. I had work to do, so I covered him up and went back to work. He slept for nearly two hours! “Did you get any sleep during the holiday weekend?” I asked. “Um… no,” was his sheepish answer.

We’ve gotten out of the habit of taking pictures recently, but you know, it all gets kinda redundant after a while. Hopefully, we will have another fun outdoor adventure soon, and then we’ll take lots of shots. Meanwhile, wanna see bruises??


Hey, I just asked if you wanted to see them; I didn’t specify where they were. 🙂 Last Sunday, stepping into John’s shower, my one foot slid inside the tub, and the other leg slammed into the metal shower track. Yes, I am a klutz. This was bad pain.

But the good pain was on Tuesday night, as I sat at the computer working. That warm, tingly, slightly scratchy, squirmy pain. So good. So centering for me. Because I’m just sorta wired that way.

Still… it might be time to clean out those kitchen drawers.

Oh, John…

I think John is feeling better. He’s up to his old mischief.

On Saturday, we were at a two-level strip mall near his house, where we like to eat lunch. There are several shops on the top level, and then to go to the bottom level, you can walk down a narrow corridor/alley between Whole Foods (or Whole Paycheck, as my cousin calls it) and a bookstore.

We had walked down to WF after lunch, and were on our way back up the alleyway. I was slightly ahead of John (side note: it’s so nice to see him walking up this thing without puffing and panting like he used to), and he was in goofy mode, so I was pretending to distance myself from him. Next thing I knew, his hand was on the waistband of my leggings, and… yank. Lightning fast, before I could struggle or stop him, he’d pulled my leggings and underwear down to expose my butt. Screeching, I ran away from him, up the hill, yanking my clothes back into place. (There was no one behind us; I checked. As did he, I’m sure. But still!)

At the top, he was laughing his head off while I pretend-yelled at him. “What the hell is wrong with you?” “Your whole butt was showing!” he chortled. “You damn fool,” I sputtered.

And then, of course, there was this conversation:

“You really shouldn’t expose yourself in public like that.”

“I didn’t! You did it!”

“I didn’t expose myself!”

“No, you exposed me!!”

“Oh, that’s crazy talk. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re an idiot.”

The man is incorrigible. And I love him so, so much. I’m glad he’s back… hope he stays for a long time. ♥

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