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, 2023”

This should be interesting

Talk about polar opposites. Tomorrow afternoon, John and I are invited to his neighbors’ three-year-old’s birthday party. It will be in a public park. Lots of noisy toddlers and harried parents. And hopefully dogs. There really needs to be dogs to get me through this.

After a couple of hours of that, we’ll come home, rest up a bit, then change and head out again in the evening. This time, we’ll be heading to spanking party in a dungeon. 😀

From kiddies to kink! Some switching of gears will definitely be in order.

I really am glad there are a couple of hours in between. I’m picturing having to go straight from one to the other, and showing up at the first event in my evening wear. laughing

I am hoping the second event will be fun. I haven’t played for a while, so I’m looking forward to a couple of scenes. And I’m in a celebratory mood. 😉

What am I celebrating? Hmmm…

Oh yeah, that’s right. I had my annual eye checkup this week. No change in my eyes, perfectly healthy, don’t need new glasses. Awesome! Also, John had a badly infected finger, which always freaks me out because of his heart condition (infections spread to his heart very easily; it’s happened before). But he went to the doctor, got it treated and got antibiotics, so he will be fine.

(What did you think I was celebrating?)

Have a great weekend, y’all. ♥

The power of words

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, ever since what happened last Friday, and how an afternoon and potential play partnership was ruined with a single word. I know I’ve talked about this before; I believe words have a lot of power. That whole “sticks and stones” thing is BS. Granted, words can’t physically wound you. But what they can do to your heart, soul and psyche is as painful and lasting as any gun or knife.

We spankos are big on words. We all have our buzz phrases, our trigger words, the words we love, the words we hate. What is a massive button-pushing turn-on for one might be vomit-inducing for another. Since I spent so much time last week focusing on words I hate, I thought this week I’d counteract that with one of my all-time favorite phrases in our realm. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but I’d like to delve into it more in detail today.

It’s a simple phrase. Three words, and sometimes four.

“That’s my girl.”
Or “That’s my good girl.”

Hearing those words makes me melt. I don’t know why. I have said many times that I’m not a submissive, but that I can be submissive when someone taps into my headspace. And when a top says that to me, in the right context, I want to hang the moon for him.

I am not sure when I first realized that this particular phrase was such a turn-on for me, but I can remember an earlier awareness. Those of you who go wayyyyy back with me, back to the days of the MSN board Southern California Spanked Wives and Girlfriends, may recall that I had an ongoing crush on a gym instructor (who I ended up hiring as a personal trainer), P. For those who don’t know this story — essentially, P was a very popular instructor/trainer. His classes were always packed. He was enthusiastic and fun, encouraging, pushed us, but knew what he was doing and was very skilled at it. He made a point of learning everyone’s name, and addressing us in class, calling out praise. And yes, he was very, very toppy… and it was sexy AF. I think, back then, every heterosexual female gym member with a pulse had a thing for P. And probably some of the males too. He was that charismatic.

I remember he’d call out names, sometimes mine, saying, “That’s it! Good! Come on, [name]. That’s my girl.” And I’d feel a jolt. Suddenly, I had more energy. More willingness. I could push harder, do more. Just from those three words and what they did to me.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that P looked like this, but I digress…

Once I became aware of how that phrase affects me, I noticed it more within scenes. It’s not all that common a phrase to hear — not like “Good girl,” for example. Which makes it all the more special when it does happen. One of my favorite Vegas party playmates, Roy, who I’ve discussed here before, uses it, and I adore it. When we’re in scene, in the zone, and the energy and connection are at their peak, he’ll lean down to me and say, “More?” In my blissful stupor, I will murmur, “Yes, please,” and then I can feel him smiling as he says, “That’s my girl.” Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff…

What made me think of this? Something that happened recently; in fact, on the same day as that wretched coffee date.

I have a friend, A. He lives up north. We’ve never met in person, but we’ve been corresponding for about a year. We talk often on kik. We both love word games and do the daily Wordle faithfully. We both love Jeopardy! And of course, we’re both spankos. A has an extra fetish that I don’t happen to share — along with bottoms, he loves women’s feet. I’ve known a lot of foot fetishists over the years (they give damn good foot massages), so this is nothing new to me. After we’d gotten to know each other a bit better, he would ask me to send him pictures of my feet now and then. Sure, why not. He always asks politely, and he’s so appreciative and complimentary when I do. And it’s just feet.

Cut to last Friday, when I was reeling from my unpleasant encounter. I got a kik from A, asking about my day and how I did on the Wordle. I didn’t tell him about what had happened; I didn’t really feel like it. And then he said he felt like he hadn’t seen my soles in forever, and he’d love a new picture.

My first thought was “Oh, crap. I’m not in the mood for this. I’m feeling so unsexy and icky right now.” So I messaged back that I’d been super busy and preoccupied, but I’d send him something soon, I promise. And then he replied:

“That’s my good girl.”

There it was. That jolt. He has no idea how I feel about that phrase; he said it organically, not to be manipulative. And just like that, my mood shifted. My deeply hidden soft center melted like a Lindt truffle. I became willing. I set up my phone’s timer, and took not one but three pictures for him. He was his usual effusively appreciative self, and I enjoyed making him happy with such a simple thing. But what he doesn’t know is that he made me feel good too. And it helped me get past the ugliness.

While we’re on the subject of buzz words, here is another one of mine: Punish. Or punishment. Again, I have no idea why. But damned if hearing that word doesn’t do things to me. Yummy things

Funny story about that word, and as it happens, it has to do with the aforementioned P. One day in class, he had pushed us particularly hard, and when we were lying on our mats and stretching, I felt a twinge in my lower back, which tends to act up anyway. So, as we stretched, I idly reached down with one hand and massaged that spot. P, with his eagle eye, noticed that from across the room and called out, “Erica, is your back hurting?” I said, “Yeah, it’s okay, just a little.” And then he teasingly said… wait for it…

“Aw, I’m sorry, honey! I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to punish you a little.”

Oh. My. Freaking. GOD. I felt that blush all the way into my hair follicles. I thought he was going to have to scrape me off that mat. Of course, he had no idea what he’d said and what it had done to me. That was around the time that I became convinced that he was one of us, and I was determined to find out for sure. But that’s another story, a very long one.

Any of you want to share your button pushers? This is always a fun subject. I know that just writing this out has gotten me rather… flustered. And on that note, guess I should re-route my mind and get back to work.

Have a great weekend, y’all. ♥

Never assume; you know what happens when you do

So, in the sea of poor correspondence, I actually got a reply that sounded interesting earlier this week. He sounded like he knew what TTWD is all about and stated it articulately. He attached a head shot and he looked nice. He was local. He didn’t push to talk on the phone or text. All good signs, so I agreed to meet for coffee.

He wrote yesterday to check in and verify we were still on. Also good. But then later, he included a little poem that really had nothing to do with anything, and it was in questionable taste to say the least. Red flag? Yeah, probably. But everything else had been good so far, so I ignored it and figured if he asked about it, why I hadn’t reacted, I’d tell him.

I arrived at noon; he was already there. He was tall and attractive… but right away, something felt off. I can’t tell you what it was; it was just a vibe I got. This is why I always, always meet people publicly first. Because I have no idea what someone is really like until I see them and talk to them face to face.

We sat down. He said I looked great; I said thank you. Then he asked me how long I’ve been into spanking. I started with the general story of discovering Shadow Lane nearly 27 years ago, finding out I wasn’t alone, that there were lots of others like me, blah blah blah. He smiled and said something softly. I thought I heard him, but no… he couldn’t have said that. I must have heard wrong. So I said, “I’m sorry, what?”

And he repeated, “I know what c***s like you want.”

I felt like a freaking bus had slammed into my gut. I grabbed my purse and got up from the table, started to leave. He seemed genuinely shocked. “Where are you going? What happened?” I said, “You. Do. NOT. Call me that. Ever.” He asked me repeatedly to please sit back down, and I was so flummoxed, I did. I could tell from his rambling and justifying that somehow, he had gotten the idea that I would like that kind of talk. I took a deep breath. “I don’t like degradation. I don’t like humiliation. I don’t like being called names. And I don’t like men who use that word.”

I stayed for a few more minutes, trying to get past it, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I felt creeped out and uncomfortable and no matter how he tried, he couldn’t undo that. He brought up that poem he’d written to me the night before. I said, “Why did you send me that?” He said he was just “testing things.” Good grief. Yeah, I get it… some people like that kind of talk. But then I said, “You might want to get some preliminaries out of the way before you assume to go in that direction.” He had the grace to look sheepish.

Then he asked, “Do you think you could ever be comfortable with me?” I said no. He sighed. “Then I won’t keep you.” And we got up and left. I walked out ahead of him, and heard him call out, “Take care, Erica.” I couldn’t wait to jump into my car and peel out of there. I was shaking all the way home, and when I finally got back here. I burst into tears.


Again… I get it. Not everyone feels like I do about this sort of thing. But you start out respectful. You start out polite, and you reveal your needs, wants, preferences. And if you like anything sort of edgy, that’s to be negotiated and clarified — not thrown in your face five minutes within meeting. Never. Assume. Err on the side of caution first. And as you get to know a play partner better, then you can experiment, take some chances, try things. But for sweet fuck’s sake, don’t come right out of the gate with that kind of talk. Just because I like to be spanked doesn’t mean I don’t have a healthy self-esteem. I want to be treated with respect and kindness. Yeah, yeah, I know, that’s a weird-ass dichotomy to say that when I’m also saying I want you to slap my butt. But it seems to me that anyone with a modicum of common sense would understand the difference. Why is common sense so goddamned uncommon?

Ugh. You know, before I left, I took a couple of selfies. I liked how I looked with my makeup on, my hair freshly blown out, and wearing a green sweater for St. Paddy’s Day. I felt pretty for about five minutes, before he made me feel like I needed to be steam cleaned. But screw it. He’s not taking that away from me.

So… maybe next time, the guy will be worth this. 😉 For now, I can’t concentrate on work to save my life, so I’m going to do some cleaning. Have a great weekend, y’all. ♥

For my friend

About a week ago, someone on FetLife posted that she’d love to see some shout-outs from others about the good tops they know. In the past few years, there has been so much upheaval and acrimony on FL, many accusations of assault, consent violations, etc., and I thought her suggestion was a great idea. The good guys deserve to be acknowledged! So I wrote something about one of my favorite tops, one I’ve known for years, who is no longer on FetLife, but is known by many.

Circumstances beyond his control have taken him from our circles, and I miss him. So I thought, why stop at FetLife. Why not give him his own tribute here? I will not use his real name here. His public scene name was InspectHerHide. I will simply use his initial M.

I’ve lost track of how many years I’ve known him. We first connected via email. He was newly divorced, and was just beginning to explore his spanking side, something he’d buried for years. He’d found my email address online and contacted me. We began a correspondence; he asked lots of questions, and I answered them to the best of my ability. Eventually, he decided to attend his first spanking party — Shadow Lane, of course. I encouraged him to find me there. I felt like I already knew him.

So we met in person, and had instant chemistry. A single man at these things is sometimes received with suspicion (which is a damn shame), but he did well for himself at this first party, making friends. And then it came time for us to play for the first time. It was Saturday night after the ballroom dinner/dance, so we were all dressed up. In the party suite, he approached me, and we went into one of the bedrooms to do our scene. He was in a suit, so he took off his jacket, folded it and laid it on the bed. Then he said, “Don’t touch my jacket.”

Of course, I reached out and poked it.

“I said, don’t touch my jacket.” I poked it again. Spanking commenced. But he kept stopping, turning to look, and repeating, “I told you not to touch my jacket! Stop touching my jacket!” Which, of course, I kept doing.

Until I got tired of that. “Fine!” I snapped. “Let’s remove the temptation, shall we?” Then I snatched up his jacket and flung it across the room, where it landed in a heap on the floor.

That did it. With lightning speed, he pushed me off, went to retrieve his jacket, came back, pinned me down and really lit into me. Other people were watching and I heard one guy say, “Daaaaaaamn!” And I was laughing through the entire thing. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

He kept coming to parties, and we played every time. After a while, we developed a pattern where, whenever possible, we were each other’s first scene of the weekend, and sometimes each other’s last. I loved playing with him. He was creative, funny, conscientious, knew just when to push and when to lighten up, and his techniques were flawless.

He could always make me laugh. I recall one Sunday night, end of the weekend, when we’d done our final scene and he was giving me aftercare. I was already starting to feel a bit droppy and I was in tears. He leaned close and said, “Wanna see something?” I nodded. He then sheepishly showed me his right palm. It was mottled and red, with spots that were beginning to bruise and other spots that looked like the skin was close to breaking. Clearly, he’d overused his hand this weekend. And then he quipped, “For once, someone can say this and it’s true — this hurt me more than it hurt you.” I started cracking up and the tears were forgotten.

I certainly returned the favor. What do I love, kids? Making tops laugh when they’re trying their damnedest to be all serious and stern. During one scene, he was really trying to be toppy, keep a straight face. I said something or another, and he scolded, “I don’t like your inflection!” I snapped back, “I don’t have an inflection! I did once, but I took penicillin.” And he lost it. Heehee.

A few years ago, we all met a lovely young woman named B who came to her first party. She reminds me of the Shakespearean line: “Though she be little she is fierce.” She couldn’t have been more than 100 pounds soaking wet, but she was strong, feisty, spunky, and smart. Everyone fell a little bit in love with her at that party… including M. He ended up marrying her.

I was friends with both of them on FetLife and Facebook. It was great fun following all their adventures, both kink and vanilla. They both loved travel and the outdoors, and they’d post lots of pictures and mini-videos on FB. I still crack up, remembering one where they were traveling somewhere in the South and they were trying a Southern specialty, boiled peanuts. They didn’t like them in the least. I can still see B’s face and hear her voice blurting, “They taste like feet!” (For the record, I agree with her. I love roasted peanuts, peanut butter, etc. But boiled peanuts are disgusting.)

The last time I saw them was February 2020, at a Vegas party. They came late, and I felt bad because my first scene wasn’t with M this time. I was anxious to see them, wondering when they’d arrive. When someone told me, “Erica, M is looking for you,” I was overjoyed. I found him, got one of his massive enveloping bear hugs, and all was right with the world.

And then Covid hit.

B was a nurse. She got Covid early on, before there were any treatments, vaccines, when people barely knew what the hell it was. But she was young, healthy, strong… she’d be okay, right?

She never got better. She developed what’s now known as long Covid, as well as POTS. Life became an odyssey of doctor visits, tests, constant probing, and of course, people giving advice. Months went by, then a year, then two. A vital young woman ended up in a wheelchair, with no strength to do much of anything. She had to be carried everywhere. Her nursing career, for which she worked so hard, was over. And M became her full-time caregiver, along with working full-time himself.

For a while, I could still keep up with them on social media. M posted updates. He’d still come on FetLife sometimes and comment on pictures. John and I sent them little presents now and then. I felt like if I could still read about them, they were still somewhat in my life. But then they both removed their FL and FB accounts.

Last week, I got to thinking about them after the FetLife tribute, so I texted M, just to check in and say hello. He texted back. The news was not good. Long story short… not only is B continuing to deteriorate, but now, what with all this never-ending stress and grief, M’s health is suffering too. He said he was tired. And what could I say? There were no magic words, nothing that would help. I miss you. I love you. I’m sorry. He said he loved me, and then went silent. There was nothing else to say. And I wept.

Sometimes, life just fucking stinks.

I will most likely never see either of them again. They are in another state; it’s not like I can just pop by with some soup and some hugs. And he will not see this. But I hope that somewhere within, he knows he made a difference. He brought a lot of people joy, including me. He mattered. They both did. They still do.

Over the years, several pictures were taken of M and me at the parties. Here’s the very first one, from (I think?) 2012, in the ballroom on Saturday night. I wish I could show his face, as he had such a joyous smile on it.

A couple of years later, we were playing in one of the suites, and afterward, I stayed in position, both of us so relaxed, we didn’t want to move. I’d bent one leg and put my foot up in the air, and he’d ended up resting his face on it. We were surrounded by others and one person thought it was so cute, he took pictures. (That’s John’s arm off to the side.)

I treasure these pictures and others, and so many memories.

I love you, M. Thanks for being one of the good ones.

Have a good weekend, y’all. ♥

Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: