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 “March, 2016”

Gotta love technology

Oh, happy day. Steve was here yesterday, first time in three weeks. Damn, did I miss that man. But we settled right back into our routine as if there had been no time lapse. I didn’t have a whole lot of time, as I had a lot of work to do and I was meeting SpankCake for dinner last night; still, we managed to make up for lost time in a couple of hours.

Always in the quest for good pictures, Steve brought his GoPro camera this time, which he had on this extended pole thingamajig. It’s actually kind of neat — he could sync his phone with the GoPro, so while he was holding the camera up over us, he could see the image the camera would take on his phone screen. However, this also made things a bit cumbersome. He spent so much timing wrestling and futzing with the pole and the phone, I spent half my time just lying there and huffing sighs of exasperation. Sometime today, maybe?

“Your butt got firmer in the past three weeks!” he exclaimed. “No, it didn’t,” I scoffed. “Your hand got softer.”

(Uh, not really. His hand was just fine, thank you.)

So here are a couple of semi-action shots, two forms of media. Aren’t we techies! First is good old-fashioned cell phone (yes, the irony in that description is not lost on me), not the greatest quality, but I like it anyway:


And now here’s the whole rigmarole with the GoPro. You can see how he’s checking out the image on the phone and holding the camera, while I lie there oh-so patiently (stop laughing!) waiting.


At least this camera shows the red better.

Oh, and for those who wanna see me smile? I aim to please!


(I tried to get the overlay to match Steve’s shirt. I failed.)

My final word on the bare-breast photo from last week: As an experiment, I emailed it to John. No preamble, no explanation, just told him it was a selfie I’d taken and I wanted his opinion on it. He emailed back: “Young lady, we’re going to have to talk about such improprieties. And where did you Photoshop that perfect rack from??” HA! So far, so good. Later, when we got together, I brought up the picture, and then said that people had commented that I should smile. He actually burst out laughing, then said, “They kinda missed the point, didn’t they?”

Thank you, sweetheart. I knew you’d get it!

Dinner with SC was a lovely ending to an action-packed day. Oh, and when Steve said earlier, “You’re going to feel this when you’re sitting at dinner tonight!”?

He was right. 😀

Did I hear someone say…

… Happy Keister?


Well, it was something like that, anyway. Best wishes from your Easter bun(ny).

Where was I…

…oh, yeah. Having a really boring week. The only fun and exciting thing that happened this past week is fully vanilla and involves my family in a roundabout way, so I am not going to discuss it here. No Steve, due to him having his kids with him for spring break. So, rather than contrive something or another just for the sake of posting, I kept quiet. However, now I have something to say.

A couple of years ago, Alex Reynolds posted a brilliant piece about commenting on kinky photos. It’s worth a read, or a reread. After an experience I had this week, I’d like to add another point to it, if I may.

I’m going to state this up front, so I don’t get a bunch of defensive heat. I realize a lot of commenters mean well. Not all inappropriate comments come from dicks and wankers. In the following instance, I know that no one meant anything bad. This is merely a reminder to think very carefully about what you post to someone’s photo. Sometimes, even the most well-meaning remarks will come off as a critique.

I was feeling crappy last week, I admit it. It was yet another Steve-less week, I didn’t have anything interesting or fun to say, I felt lonely and frustrated. I wanted attention. Which is a recipe for trouble, because every time I deliberately seek attention, I end up getting the kind I don’t want.

It’s no secret that I have no compunction about posting pictures of my butt. Once in a while, I will post a naked picture. But overall, I’m self-conscious about showing my breasts. Not sure why, I just am. So I keep that to a minimum. Last Tuesday, on a whim, I took a few pictures in the bathroom after a shower. In one of them, I was looking intently into the camera, not smiling, and I thought the effect was kinda sexy/sultry. Plus I had my arms up, so my boobs looked perky and pretty. I messed around with the exposure, created a kind of arty effect, and I was actually quite pleased with the result. So I posted it on FetLife. Something different, I thought.

I got some “Loves” and a few nice comments. Then three different people expressed their thoughts… about my face. Apparently, I should have smiled.


A woman puts herself out there, bares her breasts, and you critique her facial expression??

The first comment didn’t bother me. The second one gave me pause. By the time the third one was posted, I was in tears. And completely down on myself.

“Yeah, Erica, see? This is what happens when you go attention-seeking. Give it up. Your day is over. You show your boobs and no one even looks — they just see your imperfect facial expression. You’re too damned old to pull off the sultry look. You just look tired and pissed off.” Yes, this is where my mind goes.

It didn’t help that at the same time, a lovely young woman, a friend of mine, posted a vanilla shot of her face. She looked beautiful… and she too was not smiling. She got several comments, all positive. Not one person said that she should smile.

Suddenly, the picture I had liked looked bad to me. My face looked angry and/or sad, not sexy. I felt foolish. And I took the photo down.

Yes, I’m hypersensitive. Yes, I probably overreacted. But come on. Again, and again and again and again, the point is: If you see a picture and want to say something nice, go right ahead. But if you don’t have something positive or uplifting or complimentary to say, then please don’t say anything. Just move on, and find a picture you do like. And when a woman makes herself vulnerable to you, takes a step out of her comfort zone, don’t tread on her ego. You have no idea how much your words can affect another person.

I’m embarrassed to admit how many tears I shed over this. I shared the photo with a couple of trusted friends who told me I shouldn’t pay attention to what anyone says, that I looked great and I should post for myself, not others. One friend commented that telling a woman she should smile is sexist. I don’t know if I necessarily agree with that, but he has a point. I mean, I don’t recall anyone ever commenting on a man’s picture that he’d look better if he smiled. Especially if he’s baring his chest at the time. Another person said I should put the picture back up. But I will not.

So, kids, that’s where I’m at this week. Hopefully next week will be better. I will see Steve again, get my head screwed back on straight, and life goes on. Meanwhile, I’m going to go hang out with the man who always thinks I’m beautiful and sexy. ♄

Have a great weekend, y’all.

OT: My family

A comment was made to me recently. I don’t think it was intended to bother me, but it did anyway. Something along the lines of how I’m trying to drive you all nuts with my tease about who my family is.

Not my intention, and I’m sorry if it comes off that way.

Here’s the deal, for those who haven’t been following me for a while: I have three family members who are/were in show business. My father and cousin — TV writers/producers. My stepmother (the nice one, not the evil one) — an actress/dancer. I spoke of all three of them at length in my book, and have mentioned them many times in my blog. But I’ve never given their names. Why?

First, although I’m fairly open about who I am and what I do, I still don’t feel like being outed to the world. My father passed away in 1998 and most people under a certain age don’t remember who he was anyway. But to tell his name would give away my real name. My cousin and stepmother are very much alive, and mentioning either of their names would tie back to my father.

Second, while I’m not ashamed of what I do, I know it’s not widely accepted. And if I were to mention my family members’ names on here, that would mean that if anyone Googled them, my blog would come up in the search. “Whoa! Look at the kinky skeleton in so-and-so’s family closet!” Think of the embarrassment and awkwardness this could incur, for everyone involved. The consequences could be far-reaching. It’s not worth it.

Am I dying to share more information, stories, names? You bet. I’m very proud of these people. Even though their era is bygone and their names would mean nothing to most of my younger friends, I still wish I could reveal more. My father and cousin won nine Emmys between them. My stepmother was a stunningly beautiful and talented woman, one I often wished was my real mother.

So yeah. I tell the stories that I can, when I can. I love wearing the necklace my stepmother wore for 50 years, that was given to her by Jerry Lewis in 1962. I love that my dad co-wrote a sketch that is considered one of the funniest in TV history. I love that my cousin created indelible TV characters. But that’s all I can and will say. It is not my intent to tease or be obnoxious. It is my expression of pride, and my yearning to tell more. Because every time someone compliments my writing or tells me that I’m funny, I give a silent thank you to my DNA, the genetic talent passed on to me. Because there is a lot more to me than the spanky stuff. Mind you, I’m proud of that too. But it’s not all there is.

Who knows. Maybe when I’m older, everyone in question has passed on, and none of it matters anymore, I’ll say “screw it” and reveal it all. And then most people will say “Who??” and it will be rather anticlimactic. 🙂

Have a great weekend, y’all.

RIP, Robert Horton

When I was brand new to spanking, nearly 20 years ago, and first learning about the wealth of material out there, a man I met from the ad I’d placed (the same one that John answered) loaned me a bunch of VHS tapes. One was one of the old Cinema Swats compilations, a series of spanking scenes from mainstream movies and TV.

Personally, I thought a lot of the scenes were silly and contrived, the spankings looked fake, etc. Until one particular scene came on. From a western I’d heard of but never seen, Wagon Train, starring an actress I knew of (Susan Oliver) and an actor I’d never heard of (Robert Horton). The episode was called “The Maggie Hamilton Story.”

I sat mesmerized as this handsome, hunky, dark-haired cowboy with the calm voice and the steely eyes faced down the impertinent runaway who had pulled a gun on him. Unbeknownst to her, he’d already removed all the bullets. And then he spoke one of the yummiest, toppiest lines in the history of spankdom: “You’re going to grow up. All the way. Right now.”

The spanking looked real. You actually saw contact, and he lifted her dress and spanked on her pantaloons — pretty risquĂ© for 1960. But what really did it for me was what he did after the spanking, when she apologized and began to cry. He took her in his arms and comforted her. My heart melted like butter on a skillet and other parts got kinda warm and squishy too. So. Damn. Hot.

I watched that scene again, and again, and again. I even searched the Internet for an old VHS tape of the full episode, which I bought.

I didn’t develop an affinity for Wagon Train — westerns weren’t my thing. With one exception, I never watched another episode. But I never stopped loving that one scene.

I just read that Robert Horton has passed away at age 91. I know, I know. He had a good long life. But I always liked knowing that this sexy man who was such a small and yet important part of my spanko awakening was still around, still with us. It makes me cry that he isn’t anymore.

If there’s anyone left in the spankosphere who hasn’t seen the scene I’m referencing, you can see it here. (thanks, Chross)

RIP, you beautiful sexy man.

maggie-15 (1)




Well, what do YOU call it?

I love Girls’ Nights Out. Alex, SpankCake and I never fail to have interesting discussions on all sorts of topics. Classy, lofty topics, you understand. We’ll talk about world affairs, then segue seamlessly into classic literature, deconstruct a Shakespearean play or two, and wind up the evening with a scintillating discourse about the pros and cons of stem cell research.

Oh, bullshit. We talk about boys, spanking, and sex. Not necessarily in that order.

So, it’s no secret how much I loathe and detest the “c” word. However, because I copy-edit erotica, I have become somewhat inured to it. Still hate it, still won’t say it, still won’t write it, but I can deal with it. So when Alex occasionally slips, lets it fly and then sheepishly says, “Sorry, Erica,” I just laugh.

But if I don’t use the word, then what do I use?

I think I damn near made both Alex and SC do spit-takes tonight. We were talking about play partners at parties, casual play, etc., and how you often know next to nothing about the people you play with. “I mean, just because a guy’s spanked me a few times and had his fingers in my snatch doesn’t mean I know him,” I quipped.

“Erica said ‘snatch,'”Alex crowed, picking up her phone. “I like the word ‘snatch,'” I retorted. What did she do? Yup. Tweeted this:

“I like the word ‘snatch’!” @EricaLScott

Harrumph. Well, I do! It’s a great word! So descriptive. Plus, it’s never used as a pejorative, unlike the “c” word. When was the last time you heard someone say, “God, she’s such a snatch!” ?

So, another epic night with my girls. 🙂

In other news, I think I may have a crush on my new chiropractor. He’s just a little too gleeful about inflicting pain on my person and damned if that doesn’t make my kinky little self squirm. He’s a big bear of a guy with very strong hands, and when he’s digging his fingers into my low back, my hips, my scapula, and I’m moaning, he’s saying stuff like “Ah, there it is. Happy Monday!” Or, “Come on, I’m barely touching you. I’m dying to go much harder.” He calls me “my dear” frequently, which I always associate with toppy men. And he makes me feel like a very little bitty person — not young little, but size little. “You’re such a waif,” he said.  I protested and said I am not a waif, and he scoffed, “Oh please. I could throw you like a pizza.” Well. Plus, he makes me laugh so much, I forget he’s practically killing me. “Take a deep breath, relax, and pretend you trust me,” he said right before he damn near took my head off.

I used to see my old chiro every six weeks or so. I have a feeling I might see this one more often… Damn. I’m twisted in more ways than one.

I sure hope Steve makes it tomorrow. Between Snatch Chat and having big hands all over me today, I’m a bit hot and bothered.


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