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, 2019”

Catch and release

I’m in a reflective place, thinking back on certain encounters in my life. Warning: this is really long. And probably boring. You may want your beverage to be alcoholic for this one.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I was a late bloomer in every way, including with men. I didn’t date in high school. I had a couple of crushes, but nothing came of them. I went through most of college in a haze of depression and eating disorders and had no social life to speak of. I never learned how to relate to boys, and I found myself as an adult completely in the dark on how to relate to men. I was naive, took people at their word, and took any attention I got far too seriously. In my early 20s, I was still a virgin, didn’t know anything about orgasm, and had barely kissed a man. I knew I was supposed to be feeling something, but I was damned if I knew what it was or how I was supposed to go about it. And of course, the spanking fantasies were well closeted and wouldn’t come out for years.

When I was 22, just before my last year of college, I was in school full time and working part time at the hardware store where I’d been for several years. Mostly boys/men worked there and there had been plenty of banter and flirting over my time there… again, nothing came of any of it. But then there was Barry. Tall, dark and handsome, 19, had a girlfriend. And flirted like crazy with me. I remember coming in one day and overhearing him say to another coworker, “Is Erica here?” When they said yes, he blurted, “All right!!” My stomach jolted. I became aware that I had been looking forward to seeing him, too.

I ended up quitting the job at the beginning of summer. My friends there suggested we all go out for drinks and dinner as a goodbye thing. Several of the guys went, including Barry. He did not bring his girlfriend. Instead, he sat next to me at dinner, drinking daiquiris and flirting blatantly with me. At one point, in front of everyone, he picked up my hand and started sucking on my fingers.

Four of us went back to my apartment after dinner, played some music, talked. When it was time to go, I walked the three of them down to the front gate. Two of them hugged me goodbye and left, but Barry hung back. So I turned to him and started to say, “Well, I guess this is—”

I didn’t get to finish that sentence, because he grabbed me and kissed me so hard, I damn near saw stars. Kissing me all the way, he walked me back to my apartment and back inside.

No, I didn’t lose my virginity to him. But we made out until 3:30 in the morning. He took my phone number. He told me how long he’d had a crush on me and how hot I was. When he finally left, I shut the door and leaned against it. A minute later, there was a knock. I opened it, and there he still was. “I didn’t hear you lock the door. Lock it.”

I was in love.

For the next week, I floated on Cloud Nine. I had hickeys all over my neck and chest. I couldn’t wait until next Friday, when I was going to go back to the hardware store to visit my friends, and see Barry again. He hadn’t called that week, but that was okay. Figured he was busy and knew I’d be coming in.

Friday came. I dressed up, went in to the store, greeted my old supervisor and everyone else on shift. No Barry. I went looking for him, and found him.

And he looked right through me. There was no warmth or recognition or attraction on his face. He was clearly uncomfortable. And my stomach dropped into the soles of my feet.

He felt guilty about his girlfriend. Said he was sorry that had happened.

Remember, I was naive. My brain and heart could not accept that he’d been so attentive, so passionate, so INTO me, and within a week it was completely shut off. I figured he must have feelings for me and was just denying them. And I’m horribly embarrassed to admit I spent the rest of the summer pining over him, going into the hardware store ostensibly to visit friends, scoping him out, trying to talk to him. I finally went as low as I could go when I invited him over one weekday, saying I wanted to talk to him, and then when he cautiously but graciously showed up, I did everything I could to seduce him. It almost worked. We were actually in my bed together, I was down to underwear, and that was just about to come off… and then he stopped. Said he shouldn’t be doing this, that he couldn’t do this, that he was with me and thinking of his girlfriend, and he couldn’t do this with me, ever.

Somehow, I got over that. I’m not sure how, as I had no coping mechanisms, no experience to help me make sense of it.

But I didn’t lose my virginity until four years later.

Then when I was 33, it happened again. The sexy waiter at my favorite restaurant, the one where my girlfriends and I would hang out for hours talking. The one who flirted with me, who wrote provocative notes to me on napkins, and who ultimately left me his phone number on a napkin. The one who became my lover, showered me with attention, told me I was “special.” Until I wasn’t. Until about six weeks later, when he drifted away and eventually disappeared.

Again, besides being devastated, I was baffled. How? How could he be that into me and then just shut it off? Where did all those feelings go? That lust? That attraction? That interest? I’ll never forget telling an older guy pal about some of this, and after hugging me hard, he said, “Oh, honey. You fell for the ‘you’re special’ line? Everyone uses that line. I’VE used that line.”

Stupid, naive me.

At 37, I befriended a coworker. When he had a birthday dinner he invited me, and I met his roommate, who was 11 years my junior. Who lavished attention on me, sweetly and adorably. Called me. Sent flowers to me at work (unbeknownst to him, that was the first time I’d ever gotten flowers from a man). Invited me over to watch his favorite movie, and then thoroughly seduced me.

It was hot and heavy and sweet and fun and so damn delicious. Until, two months into it, I made the grave mistake of saying “I love you.” We were in bed. He didn’t answer, just hugged me. And everything went downhill after that, until he broke things off a couple of months later.

By now, I’d gotten a clear message: For whatever reason, men only like me until I like them back.

Until John, of course. The man who stayed. The man who got to know me better than anyone else, who not only saw sexy and funny me but sick me, sad me, cranky me, insecure me… and stayed. Why did he stay? I still don’t know. But I’m glad he did.

But of course, all the aforementioned experiences happened before I came out as a spanko. And then, over the years while I met and experienced various play partners, I discovered the “catch and release” phenomenon doesn’t just happen with lovers; it happens with play partners too.

I know a lot of people don’t get what I have with John and how I compartmentalize play partners. It’s a sort of poly thing, but it isn’t. I made up the term “polyspankerous,” which works as well as anything. The love I have for John is in its own space, untouchable. No one is a threat to him, and he knows it. The test of time has proven that. But do I love my play partners? I have, yes. Not like I love John. But when you have that degree of vulnerability, of closeness, of trust with someone, you can’t help developing feelings. In my case, they have varied. Sometimes, it was deep friendship, like with Danny. Sometimes, it was flat-out lust. Many times, it was a mix of the two and more. Play partnerships are complex. Each one is different.

Why don’t I play with John? I certainly used to. That too is complicated. But I discovered a long time ago that, once we became a serious couple, I felt differently about playing with him. For whatever the reason, he seemed to get it, and so we’ve spent most of our years playing with other people — me with male tops, him with fem-dommes. Until his health issues arose, and he had open heart surgery. He has not played in years. But my desire to play is as strong as ever.

It’s a lot more challenging now. I’m older. I’m not involved in the public scene anymore. I’m in decent shape, but there’s no denying that I’ve aged. And, sadly for me, I am not drawn to most men my own age (John being the one exception). So I play with younger men. Which can be lovely, but it also sets me up for insecurity and self-consciousness.

And then there is that ethereal quality of play partnership. It’s a nether region — it’s not quite a relationship; it should be a friendship but many times it isn’t quite that either. It’s intense, but also easily discarded, it seems. It’s a “until something else comes along” relationship, a lot of the time. I’ve never understood why. I’m able to compartmentalize; why can’t others? A brief memory from about 15 years ago; a play partner with whom I had fabulous chemistry, but who abruptly cut off all communications when he got a girlfriend who was insanely jealous of me. That really, really hurt — I mean, again, I wondered where all those feelings went, how they could simply turn off like a faucet. Interestingly, when that relationship imploded, he contacted me and blithely suggested we “take up where we left off.” I told him I couldn’t.

And now… it seems the “catch and release” has happened again.

When we first got in contact, the messages flowed. He asked a gazillion questions. We met for coffee, sparks flew, and he sent a lovely follow-up message. When we played for the first time, that same night he sent a beautiful email, asking about how I felt and expressing his own feelings about our play.

When we met, he was very busy. He had two jobs and almost no free time. But when I said I didn’t see how we could play with his hectic schedule, he said he didn’t think there would be any problem making time for play; we were local to one another, and there would be a way. I continued to get emails and texts, unprovoked. Compliments. So many sweet compliments. Being 13 years older than he, I had my usual qualms about that, but his messages made me feel sexy and desirable.

And then they slowly dwindled. They got shorter. And then they stopped, unless I initiated contact first. He said he was slammed with work.

We played two more times. As with the first time, the chemistry and attraction were off the charts. I was able to be vulnerable with him very quickly. I wept in his arms. I trusted and I let go.

But after the play, nothing. Always a polite response when I would write, but if I didn’t write, weeks went by with nothing. Again, slammed with work.

I didn’t want to bother him. I didn’t want to be that needy, annoying person. I would wait it out. I would… oh, fuck it. I wrote and said I missed him.

The note I got back was sweet and kind, but impersonal. He enjoys playing with me. But he’s just too busy. Work. Life. Balance. Etc.

I get that. I do. But… he was busy before. It’s not like when I met him, he didn’t have two jobs; he did. And yet he had plenty of time to communicate then. When I was a mystery. When I was still interesting and attractive and compelling. Before he got close and then backed off. Before I got into him.

Catch and release. Yeah, it would be easy for me to say it’s a guy thing, that men are capable of turning feelings and attractions on and off at the drop of pair of panties and it’s just the way they are, it isn’t personal, it isn’t me. But it sure as fuck feels like me. Because it keeps happening. And every time it does, I feel a little older. A little less attractive. A little less confident. And a lot more sad.

From afar, I am intriguing and attractive, it seems. Up close is another story.

Do I want too much? I don’t think I do. I don’t need reassurance every damn minute of every damn day, truly I don’t. I don’t need to hear from someone constantly. I just need to know they’re still there. If they can’t see me, if life is interfering, I get it. I just like knowing that they want to see me. And that eventually, they will. When I have that confidence in a friendship, relationship, play partnership, what have you, my needy side recedes into the background. But this business of lavishing attention on me and then fading out is fucking wrecking me from the inside out.

Especially when I know, no matter how many people say “It’s not you, Erica,” that somehow, it has to be me.

Anyway. I don’t know where I’m going with this, only that I had to get it out. We are as sick as our secrets, as they say. I have prided myself on my honesty over the years, and I’m not going to stop now. I wish I had answers, but I don’t. And I just have to deal with this pain and emptiness, as I have on and off throughout my life. Because the only way out is through, and all those other fucking clichés. Because no matter what, I function. Because responsibilities don’t stop. Because life goes on, even when it doesn’t feel like much more than an existence.

Because no matter how much I want to be lovingly beaten into subspace and then crawl into a strong pair of arms and just disappear and be taken care of for a while, that is not an option right now.

For those who are still reading, thank you. ♥

P.S. — This blog is coming at the tail end of a really intense work week and then a weekend that was fraught with stress over a flat tire and worries about John, who had a violent reaction to a shingles vaccine. So I’m a bit raw, an exposed nerve. Still haven’t decided whether or not I’m going to leave this up. But thanks for bearing with me.

Song parody (happy 50th to Abbey Road)

This year marks the fiftieth anniversary of the Beatles’ final album together, Abbey Road. Those who know me, know I’m much more of a fan of their earlier work and I can take or leave this album, even though it’s considered a masterpiece and I do acknowledge that. So which song did I choose for a parody? George’s poignant and multi-covered “Something”? John’s bizarre “Come Together”? Nah. I picked Paul’s “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.”

For anyone who doesn’t know the story of this song, Paul pushed hard for it, thinking it would make a great single. The other Beatles hated it, thought it was one of Paul’s cutesy, “granny” songs. (Think “When I’m 64,” or his solo “Silly Love Songs,” the latter of which I can’t stomach.) However, the bouncy tempo, the lively “Bang-Bang” sounds, and John and George hiding their disgust while providing a cheerful “Doo-doo doo doo” backup during the chorus tends to make people forget that the song is pretty damn dark, about an unassuming young man named Maxwell Edison who goes around bashing people’s heads in with a silver hammer.

Many years ago, a play partner who was a fellow Beatles freak came over one night bringing a bag of implements and the Abbey Road CD. He had a different implement for nearly every song (he claimed that we were skipping “Octopus’s Garden” because he thought it sucked). And for “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer,” he introduced me to “Max” — a large, heavy aluminum paddle with holes in it. Holy shit.

But I digress. Here’s the real song, in case you don’t remember it.

And here is my parody, “Maxwell’s Leather Paddle.” Enjoy!

Joan had attitude,
Suffering with bratitude,
Sighing in her home
Late nights all alone, no one liked her,
Oh, oh-oh-oh,
Maxwell Edison,
Knew he had the medicine,
Called her on the phone
“Can I help you out with your problem,

But as she’s just about to refuse
He charges through the door…

Whack! Whack! Maxwell’s leather paddle
Came down upon her ass
Smack! Smack! Maxwell’s leather paddle
Got rid of all her sass.

Back at work again, secretary’s late again
Maxwell gets annoyed
Wishing she would learn how to tell the ti-i-i-ime
He tells her to stay
Says that she’ll be spanked today
On her bare behind
She protests and cries
“You will not do so-o-o-o!”

But as she turns away from the man
He throws her OTK…

Whack! Whack! Maxwell’s wooden paddle
Came down upon her bum
Smack! Smack! Maxwell’s wooden paddle
Turned white into dark plum!

CeeCee, thirty-one
Said “You’re such a flirty one!”
Maxwell stands accused,
Feinting shock, but he gets the picture,
Now, ow ow ow
“No more Valerie,
Jennifer or Mallory,
Prove you love just me!”
Max says, “Yes, indeed,
Let me show you how, ow ow ow”

And as the words are leaving his lips
He pulls her panties down…

Whack! Whack! Maxwell’s heavy paddle
Came down upon her cheeks
Smack! Smack! After Max’s paddle
She stood for one whole week,
Whoa whoa whoa ohhh!

Final note: In a completely unrelated story (but pertaining to Abbey Road songs and spanking), the aforementioned Beatles fan play partner was once coming to the end of a very hard scene with me, and my brain was fried (along with my butt). He then selected a nasty strap and announced he wasn’t going to stop using it until I sang a Beatles song all the way through. (Fortunately, no one else was around; it was at Shadow Lane, but in his hotel room.)

Say what???

But then, my brain kicked in. “Any Beatles song?” I asked. “Yup,” he said.

Well, all rightie then.

I proceeded to sing “Her Majesty” — which is all of twenty-six seconds long. 😀


Another Curious Cat question (plus some Spanking 101)

I enjoy the Curious Cat app where people can anonymously ask others questions. Sometimes, I get some really interesting, thought-provoking stuff. (Other times, not so much. But I digress.) Last week, I received this question:

When my husband paddles my bottom, he likes to constantly change the speed, location, and hardness of the whacks. He says he does that to hold my attention. I say no fair. What do you think?

Wellllllllll… you’re gonna hate me for this, honey. And I’ll agree, it’s not fair. But count your blessings with this one. At least your husband is trying to keep it stimulating and varied. Do you really need to know everything that’s coming, down to every last swat? (Honestly, I don’t. I like the element of surprise in my play — keeps it interesting.) I mean, would you really want what I call a “metronome spanking”?


For those who never had endless music lessons, a metronome is a device that keeps time and tempo. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Therefore, a metronome spanking is repetitive. Back and forth. Back and forth. Right. Left. Right. Left. Over and over and over. Same spot. Same tempo. Same intensity. Same…. Zzzzzzz.

If you ever find yourself on the receiving end of one of these, I suggest you grab the nearest reading material. Perhaps mentally plan your grocery list. Or find a patch of wet paint and watch it dry. Because a metronome spanking is a total. Fucking. BORE.

And there’s really no excuse for a spanking to be boring. All it takes is a little imagination. Change it up a bit. It’s not that difficult. Use different speeds and strengths. Maybe a flurry on one side, then the other, instead of the usual back and forth. And for heaven’s sake, don’t hit the same central spot on each cheek over and over. Move it around.

Yeah, I know — that part gets a bit scary. There are many spots to avoid. You don’t want to hit too high, and you don’t want to wrap out to the sides. But the butt has plenty of real estate, even ones on the smaller side like mine. You can vary the coverage greatly and keep your bottom guessing.

And yes, there is the territory directly under the butt — the sweet spot, AKA the sit spot. The place you feel when you sit the next day. How far down that goes is up to the individual players. Some people keep it to just an inch or so, the juncture where ass connects to thigh. Others wander down a bit, covering upper thighs. This is where it gets tricky. Generally, this hurts a lot more, and you can probably use a lighter smack there. And the lower you go, the more painful it tends to be. I daresay that if you strike someone’s mid-thigh as hard as you strike their bottom, you might get your eardrums blown out with their scream. So do use some common sense.

I would say this picture represents good full bottom coverage. Notice it doesn’t go too far out to the sides, no wrapping around the hip. And how even it is.


And if it goes a bit further below the butt, that’s acceptable too. Again, know your play partner.

I’m not going to get into hitting other places. Because — to me — that isn’t spanking. Slapping breasts and genitals? Not spanking. Caning calves? Not spanking. I don’t like being struck anywhere but on the butt and upper-upper thighs, but to each their own. Many years ago, I was in the middle of a scene with a partner who usually could read my body like a book. But for whatever reason that night, he had a brain freeze and decided to strike the soles of my bare feet with something or another. Yeah… I came this close to ending the scene. I also came this close to kicking backward and launching his sinuses out the back of his head. Don’t hit stuff that usually isn’t hit unless you have a partner’s consent! I’m not saying “No edge play.” I’m just saying don’t spring it on someone unless you know they welcome that sort of thing. Or are at least open to it.

I have a love/hate thing with upper thigh spanking. Being spanked on the sweet spot is intense and I do like the feeling of it when I’m sitting later. But going further down can mark like hell and I am ambivalent about it. Sometimes I think it’s hot and other times the marks horrify me. I suppose, for me, a little of it goes a long way.

Perhaps it’s summed up best to say I don’t always want to look like this. Maybe once in a while, from someone I trust. And with a lot of aftercare.



(The second picture was taken two days after a thigh-intensive spanking. Note that my bottom is completely pristine, while my thighs retained the impression a lot longer.)

So to my anonymous Curious Cat friend, forgive me. But please do go give your husband a hug and a kiss. Because as dastardly as he is, trust me — a spanking that keeps you guessing is much better than one that puts you to sleep. 😉

Dare I say…


Yup… eleven days past the actual event, finally got my birthday spanking. 😀

Wednesday I got email from D. He was trying to move some things around at work, and he could come over the next morning — was I available?

Was I available? Is Donald Trump orange?? I mean, yeah, I had work and stuff, but everything was flexible. So I answered, very simply, “Yes, please.” Especially to the part where he mentioned “bare-assed punishment.”

I’ve come to realize something: my views on the word “ass” have definitely changed. Years ago in my book, I wrote that I didn’t care for it, I thought it was crass, and that I preferred “bottom.” But now, it seems that my feelings about the word are dependent upon who is saying it. From a stranger on, it’s still kind of overly familiar and icky. But from someone I know and like, in the right context? It’s pretty damned hot.

Anyway — we set it up for 10:30. I got up at 8:00, made some coffee, but declined to eat breakfast for obvious reasons. Once I was ready, I worked until he arrived, looking handsome as always in his suit. This time, he had a backpack with him and had brought a pair of board shorts, so he could change out of the hot and heavy suit. Good idea (although I missed watching him roll up his sleeves). He went into my bathroom to change, and came out wearing the shorts and an undershirt. Fortunately, it was much cooler here than it had been the last time he visited.

Oh, and he came with some chocolate. 🙂 I don’t remember this, but I guess at some point I’d mentioned that I love peanut M&M’s, and he brought me some of those. Happy me! But that was for later. We had other things to attend to.

(I didn’t put out any implements this time. Hey, he didn’t tell me to. Yeah… bad idea, Erica. It’s a hell of a lot easier to just put the damn things out beforehand, than to have to stagger into the bedroom half-dressed mid-scene — TWICE — to retrieve them.)

As before, we made use of nearly every area in my living/dining room area — the couch, the recliner, the dining room chair, my desk. On the latter, I tried to move everything aside, but as we progressed, I could hear things crashing onto the floor — my WiFi modem, a small framed picture, my mouse. Oh well. Wreck the place, I didn’t care at the moment. I’d deal with it later.

Our play gets a little bit better each time, I think. He is more familiar with me, has more confidence in knowing what I like. And I am more relaxed, letting go immediately and feeling the endorphins soar. Every time I feel his fingers snaking up the back of my neck, I know that fist is going to tighten in my hair and mmmmmmmmmpphhhh… He has incredible hands. Way, way back when I wrote my very first spanking ad, I included the question: “Do you have hands that can both caress and chastise?” D definitely does.

I wanted to play hard yesterday. It had been six weeks since I’d seen him, I didn’t know how long it would be until I see him again, and I wanted to make our time count. I felt very connected to him and trusting. When we’d been at it for a while, I noticed he wasn’t ramping it up quite as much as he had before. I waited, hoping he would, but it wasn’t happening. I really hate topping from the bottom — I know it seems like that’s something I do a lot, with bratting, but truth be told, I’d rather not once the scene is to the point where I just want to shut up and feel. But I couldn’t help it; at one point, during a flurry with my wooden paddle, I blurted, “Oh, please, harder!” He obliged readily, and that did it — I felt that push, that challenge, dancing on the line between pleasure and pain, between just enough and too much. “Thank you,” I breathed.

He must have heard the change in my voice, the wavering, the sounds more pained. “Almost done,” he murmured. The last bout was back over my desk with my leather paddle, fast and hard, my back bowed, my hand over my mouth to stifle the reactions. I did not cry this time, but I shook all over. My legs would barely hold me up. He dropped the paddle with a decisive thud and gathered me into his arms, where I trembled and clung. So good. So. Damn. Good.

He hung out a while, gave me a nice massage with lotion, we chatted a bit, but unfortunately, he had a 1:15 conference call waiting for him back at work and had to get going. (sigh) I’m grateful he was able to carve out some time. It sounds like all he’s been doing lately is working, and working some more. I reluctantly said goodbye to him. Thank you, D. ♥

After he left, I thought, oh, damn. We forgot pictures again. Since I still had plenty of color, I once again tried the bathroom mirror selfie thing. My first try was somewhat decent, but not great:


So I tried again. And again. And a few more times. Until I finally got this one and said okay, good enough.


I realized I was ravenously hungry, so I inhaled a bowl of cereal and then attempted to settle down into work, but I was feeling so spacey and blissful, it was hard to concentrate. How many times have I expressed that I wish I could capture that bliss, that euphoria, and keep it a while? I need to remember how it feels. So, putting work aside once again, I attempted to capture my mood in another selfie. I think I did pretty well.


This is pure joy. This is peace. This is a fulfilled and happy woman. When my old buddy depression stomps into the picture again, I can look at this and remember — yes, I can feel good too. No matter how weepy/droppy/utterly blech I get, to the point where I can’t remember feeling any other way, I can look at this.

I suppose some people out there would feel sorry for me, thinking, “Sheesh — she needs pain to feel like this??” Ah, they’ll never understand. It’s not about pain. It’s about the connection. It’s about the trust, the chemistry, the mutual attraction, the endorphins. (Okay, and about the pain, too. But that’s just part of it.)

Later in the afternoon, I felt peckish again and was going to have a protein drink. But then I looked at the package of peanut M&M’s. I noticed the calorie count was the same as a bottle of Boost. And hey, there is protein in peanuts, so… Yeah, don’t judge me. They were delicious. 🙂 And besides, D told me later that he had indulged in a chocolate whoopie pie and even sent me a picture of it. So there.

(And you’ll all be glad to know that despite the distractions, I got all my work done.)

Today, I am tired and sore and still feeling the afterglow. Taking my good mood into the weekend, and looking forward to celebrating John’s birthday (tomorrow!). I have presents and treats for my sweetheart and will take him to dinner tomorrow night.

Oh, and speaking of birthdays, here’s a Flashback Friday for ya: Today is my beloved Danny Chrighton’s birthday! Those of you who have been with me since my MySpace blog days, remember this little incident we had with his birthday cake? 😀


Ah, memories.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

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