First things first…

Some of you might have noticed I posted a blog a week or so ago and then deleted it. I decided I didn’t like it; it was too negative and there really wasn’t anything anyone could say to it. Essentially, I did a social thing and felt like a misfit, and it set me back a ways, missing John and feeling like I don’t know where I belong now. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, nothing anyone said; it was about me, trying to recapture what once was. But I came to realize that the “get yourself out there” and “you have to move on” messages I’m seeing are nothing more than societal dictates, the rules that “they” put forth in order to have a proper life. According to whom?? After I reminded myself that I’ve never given a flying fuck about societal dictates and I’m not going to start now, I realized that I have to go about this grieving business in my own way, in my own time. And do whatever I need to do. If staying at home a lot and watching old movies is soothing to me, then that’s what I’ll do. And let’s face it — with the exception, of course, of the beloved individuals in our lives, people can be so overrated.

Enough of that. On to the good stuff — I played with B again last Friday. 🙂

I went to his house in the afternoon. This time, his wife P was there. I had met her once before, but this was the first time she and I got to talk a bit and get to know one another. She had to run an errand, and I guess it was the plan that B and I would be playing when she came back and she’d join in, but it didn’t go that way. B and I got to talking, and we were still yapping away when P came home. So she came in and joined the conversation, and we ended up sitting there on the couch (with the dog, of course) talking until it got dark. I went to use the restroom, and when I came back, it was just B, saying that P had begged off, needing a nap.

I didn’t get to see this last time, but they have a separate playroom outside of the house! B called it a woodshed, but it certainly doesn’t look like one. Very comfortable, with carpeting, a desk, a chair, a bed, and heating/AC. He closed the door (nope, no dog hanging around kissing me this time), and we got down to playing. Like the first time, I enjoyed myself so much. We started with OTK and his hand, and then moved on with me on the bed, pillow under my hips, being strapped with his belt and then caned. Just to switch things up, he had me stand and bend over a chair, putting my palms on the seat, for the final cane strokes. A couple of them went low, and he apologized, but I assured him that does not bother me. What I don’t like is when they’re too high, or all on one side. Gotta be even! Or somewhat, anyway. And the belt was delicious. Always my favorite. And he didn’t wrap at all.

I cried this time. Not because it was too much, or too painful. It pushed me, but I could take it. No… the tears came later, when he was holding me close afterwards. He said, “You’re beautiful, Erica Scott,” and I said, “Don’t… you’ll make me cry.” He said that was very much allowed, and that I was safe in this space and he was here. And so I clung to him for dear life and wept. Couldn’t help it. It’s been a while since a man said I was beautiful. ♥ And my emotions are very close to the surface these days (not that they were ever very far below).

We went back into the main house, B woke P up, and then I said goodnight to them and took off; it was after 8:00 and starting to rain. He will be out of town all this week, but we agreed to get together again after he comes back. Also, one of their favorite cafés happens to be a long-time favorite of mine as well, so we’ll probably go there at some point. I really like both of them.

I’d promised I’d send him pictures, so I took a couple when I got home.

I’ve been getting professional deep-tissue massages lately; they help with my chronic tension. I found a local massage studio and a favorite masseur there (the owner, no less), and I had an appointment with him yesterday. I usually keep panties on during the hour, but everything else is off.

However… even though I put on my most full coverage boy shorts, there was no hiding those lower cane stripes. Ooops. Well, I wasn’t about to cancel the massage; I needed it. And I figured this guy is a professional; if he sees anything, he will be too discreet to mention it. So I went.

Sure enough, he didn’t say a word. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t vary in his technique at all. It was my fourth time there and I think this was the best massage yet; I was in la-la-land when I left and very glad I didn’t have to drive far. When I got home, I wondered… maybe he didn’t notice? I mean, the lighting is sorta dim. So I took another picture.

Oh yeah. He noticed. *blushing* Those boxers covered my butt, but nothing below it. Oh well…

All jokes aside, I’m glad he was professional and discreet about it. If he’s said anything, I would have felt a little skeevy about it. But I’ll confess that when he was working on those areas, I had a powerful urge to giggle. (I didn’t, though.)

Between Friday’s scene and Saturday’s massage, I was truly out of it. In a good way. So relaxed. I tried to watch TV last night and kept falling asleep, so I finally gave up and went to bed. And slept until nearly noon today.

I miss John every day. I probably always will. But my life goes on. And damn, it feels good to feel good for a while. ♥

Dazed and contused

And blissful. Don’t forget blissful.

(Yes, this is a long read. You know the drill. Get a beverage.)

You know, I got the green light from him to mention him by name. But you know me; I tend to err on the side of discretion. And he has an unusual name. So, just in case, for now, I shall refer to him as B. If he chooses to comment on here and reveal his name, then that’s okay too.

B is someone I’ve known for a few years, seen at parties, bantered with a bit on FetLife, but we’ve never played. Which is kind of a shame, considering we live near one another. But it’s just one of those things that didn’t happen. Plus, he has a very busy life, works a lot of hours. And he’s a newlywed with a beautiful bride. (Yes, she is kinky too. Yes, she knew we played. All is copacetic.)

We’d met for coffee a couple of weeks ago to talk, and agreed we both wanted to play. He said I was welcome to come to his house, and since parking on my street is such a nightmare, I thought yes, that would be perfect. We had set it up for last Friday, but he’d gotten called in to work that day, so we switched it to Saturday at 1:00.

I have not been playing, obviously. I haven’t doing much of anything, besides working, going through the motions of functioning, and mourning John. It’s only been recently that I had felt the stirrings of need to play again. But of course, along with that came the bombardment of insecurity and self-consciousness.

I haven’t wanted to be seen lately. I’ve felt drab, deflated, colorless, sad. When I took a selfie, I’d smile, but my smiles never reached my eyes. And I certainly didn’t feel attractive or sexy. Grief takes a toll on one’s psyche for sure. John was so very affectionate with me — always touching me in some way, holding my hand, putting his arm around me, cuddling with me, nuzzling me with his nose, which always made me giggle. I’d gone from that to no touch at all for a very long time. Skin hunger is real.

I also wondered what kind of tolerance I’d have… if I’d have any. If it would feel the same. If I’d be able to handle it without breaking down into a million blubbering pieces.

Oh… and this shouldn’t matter, but dammit, it does. He’s a lot younger than I am. I mean, a lot. And he’s a very tall and attractive man. I was texting with my dear friend and sis Lily Starr before the event, and I confessed that I couldn’t believe he wanted to play with me. (sigh) And she said:

“Of course he wants to play with you. You’re Erica Fucking Scott.”

I laughed out loud. And then thought, goddammit, she’s right. I’m still here. I’m still me. Down but not out. And I’m going to have fun. Because I damn well deserve to.

I showed up at 1:00, and when B opened the door, I was greeted by his behemoth of a dog, a big friendly bundle of part pit bull, part Rottweiler and part something else that’s huge, I forget. And who thinks he’s a lap dog. You know me and dogs… I was in instant heaven. There was a cat, too, but I didn’t get to give him any attention. I tried once; held out my hand to him, and he approached to sniff. But before he could even come close, the dog came barreling over and plowed his way between us. “No! You will not pay attention to anything but ME!”

We chatted a little, and searched for his phone, which he had misplaced, but we couldn’t find it. I even tried calling his phone with mine, but he must have had it silenced. So, of course, it became my fault that he couldn’t find his phone. And then we got down to it.

It was a lovely, multi-part scene, in various rooms and even outside in the back yard. Nice long warmup, strap, and cane — I can’t remember the last time I was caned. Oh, yes, I can — New Year’s Eve, 2022. Long time. But I took it well, I think. And I needn’t have worried about my tolerance. It kicked in immediately, and I found myself craving more and more. In fact, when he said something about wrapping it up, I protested. “What, that’s it?” I blurted. “We’re just getting started!” Okay then. He was happy to oblige.

Ever try to do a serious spanking scene with a giant galoot of a dog hanging around and kissing you? It can’t be done. I spent roughly half our scene laughing my head off. The dog kept coming over, licking my face, my arm, my shoulder. Or he’d park himself on the couch behind us and lick my feet. B was laughing and saying “Leave Erica Scott alone!” (He refers to me as Erica Scott, the whole name. It’s cute. I like it.)

I felt so comfortable, it was easy to let my playful side come back out. B kept moving me around, switching positions, and finally I snapped, “Would you make up your fucking mind??” Oh my. That immediately pushed us into the “That’s it, now you’re really gonna get it” zone. Which, of course, I love.

He finished me with a hard strapping, and that was the first time I found myself struggling a little. At one point I asked him please to slow down a bit, which he did right away, and then I was able to continue. Funny how, even in my peak days, I could take it hard, I could take it fast, but hard and fast at the same time overwhelmed me and still does.

Aftercare was lovely. He held me, rubbed lotion on me, let me come back down to Earth. I was a bit dazed and spacey, to say the least. But amazingly, I didn’t cry. I thought for sure when I played again, I would break down and bawl. But the urge never came. I just felt giddy and blissful. And alive.

I left around 4:00; he had someplace he needed to be, so I had to pull myself together and be on my way. Since we never did find his phone, I promised I’d take pictures when I got home. Which I did.

Ouch. So delightfully sore. I was in a happy, ditzy space for the rest of the evening. Oh, and I was starving, so I stuffed myself at dinner, and had chocolate cake for dessert. Everything tasted sublime.

Oh, and here I am in all my disheveled glory that evening. Hair still rumpled, makeup gone… and miracle of miracles, my smile reaches my eyes this time.

It’s been two days, and I’ve faded somewhat, but I still have marks. Which is fine with me.

Thank you, B. For bringing Erica Scott back out to play. For making me feel safe and comfortable. And for being so lovely and toppy and taking such delicious control. 🙂

In other news… I got through my first Valentine’s Day without John. It was not easy; very emotional day. Friends wrote and texted me, and were very supportive. My grief group met that night, and we all brought pictures of our loved ones to pass around. Many of us cried. My dear SIS Jay, who knew I’d be missing John’s flowers and chocolate, made sure I got some anyway.

And look! A week later, and they’re still gorgeous — even prettier now that the lilies opened.

This past weekend was the Oasis party in Vegas. I admit I felt FOMO, especially looking at all the posts and pictures on FetLife. There are some people I would have liked to see. But I have to stay grounded in reality. And the reality would have been that I’d be utterly miserable and sad there, missing John. It was one thing to go by myself, knowing that he was waiting for me when I came home. And even that was tough. But now? Ugh, I’d feel so apart, so alone. It’s just not something I can do anymore. So, that part of my life is done.

But I will not deny myself pleasure. I need this in my life. And hopefully, it will continue. There will be more sadness, because I lost the love of my life and nothing will change that. But I’m still here. And I must find my joy again too.

Thanks for reading. ♥

Sometimes, life’s timing is perverse

Thanks to everyone who dropped in to say hello during LOL Days. I know this event isn’t as well attended as it used to be, but it’s still fun to see the people who stop by.

So, about last week. I need to back up a bit to last Tuesday.

You know how you can know in your gut that something bad is coming, but in your head and heart, you still hang on to a bit of hope that it won’t? Therefore, when the inevitable happens, even though you knew it was coming, it still knocks you sideways and hurts like hell? Yeah, that was my last Tuesday. I really don’t want to go into any more detail than that. It doesn’t matter.

I bawled, on and off, all day long and into the evening. I felt like hell, my eyes swelled nearly shut, my face burned from the constant tears. But I had to keep going, keep working. First, I had a lot of work to do and several things committed. And second, the next day, I’d be on my way up north for another visit with B. So I quite literally didn’t have time for pain or emotional fallout.

I finally finished the work I’d promised before taking off Wednesday/Thursday, and went to bed. I didn’t sleep well. When I woke up Wednesday morning, I wondered how I was going to switch gears. I looked awful. And while I was no longer sobbing, my eyes still kept dripping like a broken faucet. In the car on the way to the airport. At the airport. In the plane. In the Uber. Blech. When I arrived at our meeting place, I had an hour before B got off work, so I went into the bathroom and put on some makeup. Time to put all this crap on hold and be in the moment. I was here to have some fun. It was a brief escape and distraction. I could continue to hurt after I got home. But for now, I was going to shelve it and enjoy myself — and be a guest who was a pleasure, not a drag.

After B came to get me and we went back to his place, he put on some music and we chatted a bit. Despite the mood I’d been in for the past day and a half, I felt my spirits perk up and knew my emotions were under control. Whew. I can do this. I can forget about all this crap for a while and be present.

A couple of weeks ago, B had emailed me and asked if we could speak on the phone later, regarding our plans for my visit. As it happened, I was on a deadline that night and I was all stressed out about it, and so I asked if this could be handled by email. You guys know I have a thing about the phone; email and voicemail and texts are my friend. About the only person I talk to on the phone these days is John. So I truly wasn’t trying to be offensive… but I guess I should have been more flexible and agreed to a brief call. We did settle things by email — he wanted to know my choice between November 6 and November 13. I chose November 13 and all was well; he booked it for me and sent me the confirmation. And then told me I was going to be punished for not taking his phone call. Oh, dear.

Soooooo… not long after I arrived, it was time to address that. Upstairs we went. The scene that followed had a lighter tone; B was a bit more playful, and he used his belt for the first time, which I loved. There was the requisite cane, but just twelve this time. And then he did something new; he put a small digital clock (one that counts off seconds) in front of my face on the bed and said he was going to use the tawse very quickly in flurries all over for three minutes. Which sounded like a lot, but I was actually a bit disappointed when it was over — I liked it!

“Was that like I said it would be?” he asked. “Very fast and spread out over a large area?”

“Hey,” I blurted. “Watch it with that ‘large area’ business!”

“Excuse me?”

Oh, crap. “I mean, uh, please refrain from saying ‘large area’ when you’re talking to a woman’s butt… sir!” I think he just replied with “ExCUSE me??” again, so I just broke down and started giggling hysterically, and buried my face in the spread, preparing for an onslaught. But he let it pass. 🙂

“I think you need two more minutes.” Well, okay then. I think two minutes turned into another three and then some more after that — I lost track.

“You enjoyed that too much,” he observed. Guilty.

This scene left me pleasantly warm and stinging, and relaxed. We then meandered back downstairs and he prepared an omelet for dinner, which was delicious. And then, more music, plus a selection of artisan truffles and Moet Chandon. It’s not all pain and strictness, y’all. B is the consummate host. 🙂

The picture doesn’t do them justice — his champagne flutes are gorgeous. Can you see the gold rim at the top? And the chocolates were insanely good. The silver ones were my favorite.

It was a cool evening, so we went out to his building’s courtyard and he lit the gas fireplace there, and we sat outside talking for a while. I told him stories about some of my shoots and the people I worked with — he thought Sierra Salem was lovely, and I had spent lots of time with her. I also mentioned about how Keith Jones had nicknamed me “Bionic Bottom” way back when. It’s fun to reminisce; I really have had some amazing times.

Back inside, somehow we got on the subject of the Marx Brothers (!?), and B actually had the temerity to say that “the one who didn’t talk was useless.” Sacrilege! Harpo was brilliant! But what does he know — he’d never even heard of Zeppo, the fourth brother! So one minute we were bickering about this, and the next minute I was OTK, feeling this nasty little strap he has. It’s leather, but it’s very stiff and narrow and it has rivets on both sides, so it really bites.

“Bragging about your video exploits?” he huffed.

“You enjoyed that!” I protested.

“And your, what… your bipolar butt?”

I damn near lost it, laughing so hard. (Yes, it is possible to laugh hysterically and shriek in pain at the same time.) “Bionic! Not bipolar!”

On that note, it was near midnight, so we said good night and I went to the guest suite. By the time I showered, caught up on my phone and settled down, it was about 12:30. I think I was somewhere past exhausted. Nearly three glasses of champagne had taken its effects as well.

And so, 6:45 a.m. arrived swiftly and rudely. I dragged myself out of bed, dressed, sent the requisite “Hi sweetie, I’m okay” text to John, and wandered downstairs, where B was in the kitchen making coffee. He gave me a shot of espresso first, then made a beautiful latte with the swirls on top and everything. And he had multi-grain toast with black cherry jam. It’s the little things in life — give me some caffeine, some carbs and a bit of sugar, and I’m a happy woman.

I was already packed up, and we had about an hour before we had to leave. After he cleaned up, he came and took my hand, saying it was time to go upstairs once more. Okay, I thought, I know the drill — we always play once in the morning. But once there, instead of having me immediately assume the position over the foot of the bed, he kept me standing and looked into my eyes.

“You’ve been very self-reflective lately,” he said without preamble.

Oh, crap. He knew. I’m not sure how; perhaps he read that damned “Catch and Release” post from a couple of weeks ago (one I probably should have taken down). Or perhaps he saw my tweet on Wednesday, talking about the perverse dichotomy of crying all day one day and then flying up north to play the next.

I said yes, I have. And he added, “You’re falling into yourself.”

Never heard it put quite that way, but it works. I often refer to depression as the abyss. Perhaps the abyss is me. I nodded, feeling my throat start to close. He said I needed some therapy; well, that’s for damn sure, so I agreed.

“What do you think would be the proper therapy?” he asked. I looked away. “Pain?” I replied.

“Strapping. To tears,” he answered. My heart started to pound. “You look nervous; are you nervous?” I said yes, I am. “Why?” he asked. “You’ve been spanked by lots of men before.”

Strange question. Kind of a non-sequitur, really. I mean, the nerves and anticipation beforehand are all part of it. If I didn’t feel any butterflies, wouldn’t that mean I’d become jaded and blasé about all this? And what fun would that be? I answered something lame about how toppy he is.

I settled into the bed, and he told me he’d be using two tawses, twelve with a lighter one and then twelve with a heavy one, and we’d go from there. No warm-up, I was already sore from the night before, so I was really going to feel this. Of that I had no doubt.

It didn’t take long. He’d already gotten into my head before giving me a single stroke. The first twelve with the lighter tawse felt like hell. During the next twelve with the heavier one, I broke. After a pause, he gave me six more. The fucking dam cracked yet again; the walls I’d put up the day before crumbled.

He let me cry, gave me a hug. Said he wanted me to be a good girl, to get outside of myself. Yeah. I want that too.

I lay back down and he sat in front of me, and we talked a few minutes. He asked how I was feeling. I said, quite honestly, that I wanted to sleep for a week. Shortly after that, it was time to pull myself together and get ready to go.

I asked him how he’d known what I needed. He declined to answer.

He drove me to the train station, and we said goodbye once again. “Thank you” seemed inadequate, but it was all I had.

I was so tired, I damn near felt delirious. Just physically and emotionally wiped out. I made my first train, no problem. But then at BART, trying to catch the shuttle to the airport, I hit a snag. First ticket machine I came to had a long line, and when I finally got to the front, two women were struggling with it. I tried to help them, and then we gave up and went to the guy in the booth. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, “that machine is malfunctioning and will only take Clipper cards.” [whatever the fuck those are] “Walk to your right, take the elevator up one floor and there are more ticket dispensers there.”

So we went to an antique elevator that looked like it had been in operation since 1922, that took forever to open and then forever again to go up one freaking floor. Once there, I dashed out, saw the nearest ticket machine — and the “out of order” sign. Arrrggh! I ran around and found another — but directly in front of it were two security guards in some sort of altercation with a guy who was arguing with them, and they wouldn’t move. So I rushed over to a third machine, finally got my damn ticket… and by then I’d missed the train. However, I got the next one in a half hour, made it to SFO and got checked in with a half hour to spare. All was well. All I wanted now was to go home and collapse, and I finally arrived at around 2:30. Sent a few “I made it home” texts, unpacked, and went straight to bed for a 2 1/2-hour nap.

No rest for the wicked; I had a huge deadline for the next day and I didn’t have time to think, let alone blog or reminisce or talk to friends about my visit. I just swung right into work mode and hit it hard. When I finally sent the finished document to my client at 5:00 Friday, I was so relieved and so pleased with myself, I was beaming. And now it really was time to relax. Time to head for John’s, have a quiet weekend, catch up with sleep, come back to earth. Between work, emotional insanity and the brief whirlwind of travel and adventure, I was toast.

Strange how we get what we need, no matter how fucked up things can feel. Thank you, B. I hope you know how much I appreciate your care.

Just a word to people who have expressed that they’re concerned about me — here’s the deal. Yeah, I’m depressed. This has been a crap year for many reasons and I’m looking forward to kissing it goodbye. There have been losses, hurts, uncomfortable transitions and painful things to accept. Plus for several months I had shoulder impingement syndrome, so I had physical pain thrown into the mix. (Fortunately, that has mostly resolved.) But, to paraphrase the old Kinks’ song “Destroyer,” I’m not going crazy, I’m just a little sad. I don’t need to be avoided or treated with kid gloves. Support means the world to me. Disappearances break my heart. I need little, as I’m a loner by nature. I don’t need constant reassurance. But knowing people are out there caring makes a huge difference and brings bright spots to the darkest days. So for those who are still with me, thank you. ♥

Okay, time for me to adult and get work done. And get back to working out after taking most of last week off. Hopefully, I will be too busy to overthink things. I really didn’t have the time to be writing this blog, but you know, sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do. Now I can work with a clear head. (Well… as clear as my head gets, which isn’t ever that clear, but you get my drift. Later, kids)

Mini-adventure up north #3

I am writing this on stolen time; I should be working. However, I’ve been at it all morning, and I really do want to get this down while it’s fairly fresh in my mind. So, whereas a regular worker would take a lunch break, I’m taking a kinky blog-writing break.

(Warning: this is long)

So, another trip to Northern CA to see B. I hadn’t been there since mid-July; August was a blur of work. And truthfully, the latter half of August and the beginning of September sucked. A lot of sadness and dealing with negative feelings, and a crap-ton of stress. And no play to balance it out. So I was more than eager to leave it all behind for a day and go have some fun and stress relief.

Of course, every freaking step of the way to the journey was fraught with unexpected BS. First, the weekend before my trip, when I had a ton of stuff planned to do on Monday and Tuesday in prep for leaving Wednesday morning, my car stranded me at a Whole Foods parking lot on Friday night en route to John’s. Had to call AAA; long story short, the battery was working, so he thought it was the starter, just beginning to fail. Swell! He tapped on the solenoid (whatever the @#$% that is) with one of his tools and got the car to start, so I could get to John’s. We left my car in John’s garage all weekend, and I called my mechanic. He’s not there on Sundays, but he told me where I could leave the car and drop off the keys. On Sunday afternoon, mercifully, my car started, so I drove it straight to my mechanic (thirty-nine miles), dropped it off, and Ubered home. I needed groceries but I couldn’t stop for them, so I walked to a nearby market and picked up the bare necessities.

Monday I had a chiro appointment, and Tuesday morning I had my therapist; I had to cancel both. At least I could stay home and work (well, I kinda had to stay home), but I was nervous about my car. Mech called me Monday — starter, plus the battery was weak and it’s pretty old, so he recommended replacing it before it dies and strands me. Also, my car had just passed 90,000 miles and needed regular servicing. My head spun with dollar signs, but I just said, “Okay, do it all.” Screw it. I also worked out at home, since I couldn’t go to the gym.

Tuesday morning, I Ubered to pick up my car ($850, thank you very much), and decided to treat myself to a pedicure. I was so overdue for one that I had what a friend of mine used to call “ghet-toes,” so what the hell, another $20 on top of $850, who cares? Then I went home, worked out again, worked, got stuff ready, and Wednesday morning, I left for the airport.

Easy breezy. Parked in the Economy lot again, shuttled to the terminal, checked in (the airport was surprisingly empty, then I remembered it was 9/11). Was all ready to go by 12:30… and my flight was at 2:09. Fortunately, I found a seat near one of the rare charging plug-in stations, and I’d brought my charger, so I was able to keep my phone charged. I had a book also, and I had my friend Jay to text while I sat there waiting. Aaaaand… then I got the text from United. My flight was delayed until 4:48.

I cussed very loudly. There had been warnings about possible delays and cancellations, because there was some runway repair going on at SFO during September. But they’d said may be delays, not will be delays, so we took a chance. Now here I was, stuck for hours, and at the end of the flight, I still had a long trip with Uber. When the hell was I going to get to B’s?

But… not a damn thing I could do about it. So I texted B to let him know, and waited it out. My flight got to SFO a little after six, and my Uber picked me up at 6:15, with an ETA of 7:24. (groan) Oh, well. By now, I was tired, my back hurt, I was hungry, and feeling altogether frazzled, but I tried to pull it together before texting B that I’d arrived. It was a relief to finally lay eyes on him. I’d left my place at 11:30 and it was now 7:30. Hell of a trip for a one-hour flight and an overnight visit!

The last two times I’ve visited B, we had our first session before dinner, which worked well, as I don’t like playing with food in my belly. However, it was so late, and I was running on fumes and I think he sensed that. So as soon as I got there and put my stuff upstairs, he started preparing dinner. But not before he showed me his latest delivery, lying on my bed. A long cardboard tube, with mailing stickers and “FRAGILE” and “Please Don’t Bend” all over it, and this label:

In case you can’t read that, it says “Reproduction old English classroom equipment.” “Equipment,” my ass. It was more canes, like he needs them! I swear, that man has more canes than I have Beatles CDs.

Anyway, dinner. He’d created a soup from reduced beef stock, thickening it with pulverized breadcrumbs (this did not make it taste bready, it just gave it more body) and then adding red wine and onions. We also had mashed potatoes, sliced tomatoes, and bread. Everything tasted wonderful — I was so very hungry, and this all hit the spot. The soup was an experiment, as he’d never made it before, so we both declared it successful. When we finished, he wouldn’t let me help him clear the dishes; instead, he ushered me to the couch so I could listen to an incredibly beautiful recording of Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Scheherazade.” I sat with my eyes closed, relaxing, letting the music fill me and feeling like I was in a concert hall, while B bustled behind me, cleaning up the kitchen. Eventually he joined me on the couch for a while… but toward the end of the record, he got up again, went back into the kitchen, then returned. And laid a long, heavy looking kitchen spoon on the table in front of us, not saying a word.

Uh oh.

The record ended, and everything changed very abruptly. He got up, took the needle off. “Stand up,” he ordered. I did.

The scene happened so quickly, it’s sort of a blur. He was as strict as strict can be, scolding me and snapping orders to either get up or bend over. There was no warm-up. He announced that he was giving me sets of thirty — the first two sets were over my jeans, and then he said, “Get up. Come on, hurry up.” I scrambled to my feet. He took my jeans down, then bent me back over.

That spoon hurt like a son of a bitch. And, as often happens with hard scenes, my brain cracked into two factions; one screaming, “Why is he being so harsh?? I can’t take this!” and the other insisting, “yesyoucan yesyoucan yesyoucan!” I could barely move — his left arm was across my back and wrapped around my waist with his hand on my stomach, and one leg was pinning my ankles in place. “I want you to keep still, and I don’t want to hear your sniveling,” he said. “Just take your punishment. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir,” I managed to gasp out.

After two more sets of thirty, he stood me up yet again… and this time he yanked my panties down. That was a first — this is the fourth time B and I have played, and it’s the first time he’s taken down my underwear. Usually, he just wedges it up to expose my cheeks. Fuck, I thought, he really means business.

That last two sets felt like fire on my ass. I collapsed my rigid body when he finished, but he pulled me up yet again. However, this time, it was different. This time, he took me into his arms. “Now,” he said, his voice gentler, “let it all out.”

And then I understood. This had all been a head space thing. He wanted me to be able to break down and release all my stress. And I did, like a dam crumbling. I cried, I sobbed, I clung to him and gripped his shirt in my fists. It’s a good thing he was holding me up, because my legs were shaking so badly, I thought they’d buckle. All of me was shaking, actually.

After what felt like quite a long while, he sat me back down and handed me some water. “Are you still thinking about your day at the airport?” he asked.

No. I was not.

“No more spanking tonight,” he promised. “No cane tonight. I can’t make the same promise for tomorrow morning.” No matter. The rest of the evening was for relaxing. He opened a bottle of champagne — Moet Chandon again, the good stuff. (I am not worthy!) He noticed me placing the cold glass against my cheeks and forehead, and stepped outside onto his deck, pronouncing it nice and cool out there. So we sat outside in his reclining deck chairs, listening to music, chatting a bit and drinking champagne. Later, when one record ended, I looked over and saw he’d fallen asleep — it was just before midnight. I didn’t want to disturb him, so I took myself upstairs and to bed.

The next morning, I woke up at 6:30 (yes, that’s a.m.). I didn’t think I should go back to sleep. Sure enough, at 6:45, he was knocking at the door. “Okay, I’m up!” I called out, and he called back:

“Be downstairs by 7:15, or there will be punishment.”

Well, good morning to you too. 😛

Fortunately, I’d showered before I went to bed, so all I had to do was dress, wash face/brush teeth/fix rat’s nest hair a bit, make the bed and pack up my things, and I was downstairs by 7:10. B was attempting to grind coffee (the machine was acting up); I could see thick slices of wonderful Trader Joe’s whole-grain bread in his toaster oven. In between bouts of wrangling with the coffee grinder, he also piled a plate with small glazed chocolate crullers and mini chocolate-hazelnut biscotti — my eyes bugged out. B doesn’t have a high opinion of my sweet tooth — and yet here he was indulging it. As he handed me a slice of bread and some boysenberry jam, he said, “Don’t fill up, there’s more.” Somehow, I assumed that by “more,” he meant the plate of sweets. He put that in front of me also, so I ate my slice of toast and jam, one cruller, and one biscotti, while he got the machine to work and was making shots of very strong coffee, of which I drank three. He was appalled that I put Sweet ‘n Low in it, but… what can I say.

So here I was, happily stuffed with sugar and carbs and caffeine, and then B opened the refrigerator, took out a bowl and placed it front of me with a spoon. I looked down and saw a very pretty presentation of what looked like two big poufs of whipped cream, with strawberry sauce drizzled over them. I picked up the spoon and poked at it — it was hard, and then I realized it wasn’t whipped cream, but four small vanilla meringues. I like meringues. But I was full.

“Don’t poke at it; eat it,” he admonished, watching me like a hawk. He knew I couldn’t eat it. He knew. “I told you there was more, didn’t I?” he asked.

I tried. I really did. I managed to eat one of them while he watched me. It was tasty, but very sweet; I looked at the remaining three, and they might as well been a mountain of meringues… I couldn’t do it. I put the spoon down, took a deep breath, and looked at him imploringly. “I’m sorry, sir, but I just can’t,” I said. “I really appreciate it, it’s such a lovely treat, and you’ve been so indulgent of my sweet tooth, and we both hate food waste, but if I eat any more, I’m going to be sick…” And then in the face of his implacable stare, I dwindled off. I knew I’d been set up. And I wasn’t in the least bit surprised. I mean, I can’t have a visit to B’s without a caning.

“Upstairs. Over the side of the bed, pants down, and wait for me.” Without another word, I got up and hustled upstairs, took the position, and he came in a minute later.

I was sore and faintly marked from the spoon . So a cold caning of twelve strokes, and then an additional six after a pause, was not a picnic in the park. It was a challenge; not to mention taking it on a full stomach, much like I had taken the spoon on one the night before. (Note to self: from this point forward, it’s spanking first, food after. Or else I’m going to hurl on his furniture.) “When I give you breakfast, you will finish your breakfast,” he said. “What happens if you don’t eat your breakfast?”

“I get caned, sir,” I mumbled into the bed.

“Do you get caned gently or strictly?”

“I’m thinking strictly, sir.”

I did not have to count them. He did it for me, just letting me focus on absorbing the strokes. He set up his phone on a stand and took a video of the caning; that too was a first. And then took this most excellent picture.

I posted it to Twitter on the train to SFO. It was well received.

Anyway, two intense scenes, lots of food and laughs and great music and champagne later, my visit was over. B drove me to the train station and I said goodbye once more, thanked him for taking such good care of me. “For spanking you to tears?” he asked. “That’s part of it,” I smiled. It was. Oh, and I took the full container of mini-biscotti with me. 😀

I was so tired, I couldn’t think straight, even though I was caffeinated and on a sugar rush. Mercifully, everything went according to plan and schedule that morning — caught the train, caught the BART, got to SFO, stood in ridiculously long lines at check-in (where the hell were all these people going on a Thursday morning??), and my flight was on time. The plane was about half full and I had no one sitting next to me or around me.

Back in Southern CA, I found my car and yes, it started — it was 102 degrees, but cooled down to a chilly 96 once I got going. Then crawled back up to 101 by the time I got home. It was around 2:30, I think? I straggled in, texted John (I had texted B when my flight landed) and told him I’d talk to him later and I was taking a nap now — he then sent me a barrage of texts, teasing me, asking me for every last detail, tell him, tell him now. Argh. I laughed despite being overheated and having a headache, and I then unpacked my stuff and crawled into bed with a glass of water and some Advil, where I slept for the next two-and-a-half hours. I felt much more human when I finally woke up, and was able to go about my evening, catching up with various things.

I really do need to learn the technique of taking a proper butt selfie. I was trying to capture the results a few hours later, but failed miserably. One shouldn’t have to contort oneself into such ridiculous positions.

You can sort of see the cane welts and the beginnings of bruises, but it didn’t really show up that well. Believe me, I tried. This was attempt #8, I think, and then I just gave up. #SelfieFail

On top of that nap, I slept eight hours last night, and today has been the usual whirlwind of catching up with work, correspondence, gathering my thoughts for this writing, etc. And through it all, I have felt remarkably relaxed. I didn’t watch the debates last night. I’d had a full day of being blissfully unaware of all the political bullshit, and I was in no hurry to suck all that stress back up. The only thing that pissed me off was that the fucking debates preempted Jeopardy. Today, I’m still not anxious to inform myself of the latest news. It’s all bad these days anyway. For today, and the weekend, I will remain in my bubble. I am sore, spacey, calm. I was in good hands. My car works. I’m about to get ready to head for John’s. Life, for today, is working.

Thank you, B. Again and again. ♥ For everything.

Mini travel adventure #2

Yes, another trip up north is behind me (play on words intended). B was once again the consummate host. Oh, and the travel portions went much more smoothly this time.

That morning, B texted me to ask if I was all set, and said I mustn’t forget these important items. He then went on to list everything from bug spray to area maps to chocolate to bandages to spare batteries. I laughed and said I wasn’t going into a war zone. After he added camouflage jacket, I joked, “Why, so I can hide from you? That would defeat the purpose of this visit, silly silly man.”

To which I received, “Did you just call me a silly man, you naughty young lady?”

Very honestly, I replied, “No, sir. I called you a silly silly man.”

Remember this. We’ll return to it later.

Anyway… guess what? I found the freaking Economy lot! Well, reasonably economy — $12 max per day instead of $23. You have to take a shuttle to the terminals from there, but they run every few minutes. Once I arrived at the United terminal, I knew the drill. Had a brief moment of “WTF??” when going through TSA — I heard one of the agents call out, “Take the woman in black next, and pat her down.” I was in a black top — the woman ahead of me was in white. Me?? What the hell for? But it turned out to be nothing — all the agent did after I passed through was feel around on the top of my head, because I had a portion of my hair clipped up. Whew.

I had an hour and a half to spare, so I bought a four-dollar bottle of water and settled down in a corner to read and catch up online. Everything else from that point on in the trip went without a hitch — flight, getting the Uber, waiting for B at the coffee place. One thing that baffled me — I took the Uber at nearly the exact same time, within about fifteen minutes, that I did last month. So why did it cost $75 this time instead of $63? The driver was very nice, but he was a lousy driver, really herky-jerky on the gas pedal and brake. I wanted to give him four stars instead of five, but when you do that, instead of a place to comment, you get this popup that reads “OK, but there was a problem” and then a list of things to check off. I didn’t have the heart to do that, so I gave him five stars anyway. What the hell. It’s a crap job.

After B came to get me and we went to his apartment, we went straight upstairs so I could drop off my bag. Once in the room, he told me that he’d been soaking all his canes so they’d be nice and flexible. He then proceeded to pluck every one of them (he has several) out of the holder near the dresser, flexing and swishing each one, announcing their differences, then laying each one out on the bed. (Where is he going with this, I wondered.) He continued to muse about how painful these canes would be, and how a person who found themselves traveling to experience them might be in for some really harsh corporal punishment. And how said person surely wouldn’t be foolish enough to provoke the owner of the canes, should this event come to pass. That wouldn’t be very smart, would it? “You might even say,” he added, looking me in the eye, “that it would be very silly of them.”

Oh, fuck me. Now I knew where he was going with this. I’d barely been there five minutes and I received a brief introduction to, I forget, all of them? over my jeans. Oh, and a carpet beater and a cane bundle. Welcome, Erica. But that was just a taste.

There was a brief break to go back downstairs, have something to drink, chat about dinner, etc., but soon it was time for my real caning.

Check this out — merely a part of his arsenal of implements. Or as B called it, his “arse-anal.” And no, he didn’t hit me with those @#$%ing brushes. Or the lint roller.

The full caning took place sans jeans. He cheerfully announced each different cane, telling me how it was going to feel, and said he was giving me twelve of each. Indeed, they all had a slightly different feel — some were whippier, others thuddier. But they all hurt. I didn’t have to count this time, thank whatever non-religious guardian watches over atheists. It was all I could do to keep absorbing the strokes. Especially since he finished with all eight implements, and repeated the cycle with three of them. So yes, kids, that’s eleven sets of twelve. One hundred thirty two strokes. Ow.

He kept a smooth running commentary throughout, alternately teasing and then being a bit scold-y (“None of your attitude. Do you hear me?”). Best quote of the entire visit? At one point after an especially hard cane stroke, I mumbled into the pillow, “Oh, fuuuuuck.” To which he snapped, “Don’t fucking say ‘fuck‘ when you’re being punished!” I think I was too busy laughing after that to cuss. When I was fussing a bit, he said, “Come now. You’re not going to be caned again for about another month. We have to make this count.” (Ooooh… does that mean there will be an August visit? Wouldn’t that be a lovely way to take my mind off not going to Shadow Lane…)

He insisted I smile big for the camera. (groan) Heaven forbid I look pained! No, I am SuperAss, tough as nails, impervious to pain! Will you look at all those? And yes, one of them is a stick from a tree. Carefully stripped down, but yeah, it’s a piece of a tree. He said that’s what a switching in the woods would feel like. No wonder I hate the damned outdoors.

We then went downstairs and he invited me to pull out a stool near the kitchen so I could watch him cook dinner. He was preparing an omelet for us, and I have to say it was most impressive, watching him methodically chopping tomatoes, onions and mushrooms, blending eggs and milk, sauteing the vegetables in one pan and cooking the eggs in another, going back and forth between the two. When he was done, he had a beautiful golden brown omelet folded over the vegetable filling, which he cut in two and plated, along with toasted sourdough bread. Perfection. There were other treats — smoked salmon sushi rolls, and for dessert, these lovely little cakes with creamy raspberry filling from Trader Joe’s, fresh blackberries… and chocolate bark with almonds. Later, there was champagne. Moet Chandon, no less. I felt extremely pampered and happily full.

Nice setup, yes? Too bad he had to stick one of the canes in this otherwise beautiful image.

B kept records playing — first Springsteen, then U2, and then onto classical with Bach cello concertos. For the next portion of our story, I need to digress for a bit.

B is, by his own admission, shall we say, blunt? He says what he’s thinking and doesn’t sugarcoat it. If he thinks you’re wrong, he’ll tell you straight out. If you try any sort of BS on him, he calls you on it immediately. However, he’s also very tongue-in-cheek about it. Last time I was there, I remember him remarking, “I’ve finally reached the age where I’m allowed to be a cranky old man.” I laughed and said, “But I bet you were a cranky old man in your thirties, right?” to which he admitted yes. Hey, I can relate. I was already a cranky old lady when I was a child, for Christ’s sake.

Cut to the present. We were kind of in a post-meal haze, sitting on the couch and listening to beautiful music, and I had my back to his side, lying in the crook of his arm. When the album side ended, he didn’t move, so I think he had dozed off. I started to sit up, and his arm tightened and he said, “What?” “The record’s over,” I said, “and I’m just getting a drink of water.” I sat up, he got up to put something else on, then came back and sat on my right. I was still feeling a bit lazy, so I picked up a cushion and placed it on his left thigh, planning to stretch out and put my head on it. But before I could, he snatched it away and tossed the cushion to his right. Well! I huffed at him, and then opened up my big yap and blurted, “You are a cranky old man!”

I figured since he’d called himself that first, it was okay. I figured that since I’m several years older than he is, that kind of makes a mockery of my calling him old and it wasn’t to be taken seriously.

I was mistaken.

He got up. Moved to the blinds and lowered them. “What did you say?” He then retrieved a small rectangular package from somewhere, I didn’t see where, and started opening it — I could see he was unwrapping a formidable-looking hairbrush. Oh, shit.

He sat back down and no time was wasted. “Stand up. Take down your pants.”

Can I interject something here? Y’all know how I feel about hairbrushes. They feel awful in the best of circumstances. But a hard hair-brushing after 132 cane strokes? You feel like your ass is being torched. I squirmed and thrashed my feet around, but he held fast.

Stopping briefly, he said, “Who’s a cranky old man?”
“Not you!” I hollered, but he still started up again.

“Who’s a cranky old man?” he asked again at the next pause. Again, I yelled, “Not you! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

It was a quick, intense, unexpected scene, one that left me breathless and shaky, but in a good way. I’d pushed. He pushed back. That’s how it works… and it’s damned hot when it does. He told me to sit on the couch, but didn’t let me pull my jeans back up, so they pooled around my feet.

“You deserved that, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re not going to call me that again, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“What happens to bad girls when they’re sassy and bratty?”
“They get punished, sir.”

Wow. I was rather floaty and dazed after that, and feeling amazingly relaxed. Then he opened the champagne, put on Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony, and we settled down to listen. As it was getting later, and I was drifting along quietly on my second glass of champagne, B shifted, stretched out and put his head in my lap, and closed his eyes, going to sleep. We sat there like that until the record was over.

Remember I mentioned that B has incredibly gorgeous blue eyes? He also has the softest, loveliest head of hair. 🙂

And then it was 11:30 and time for bed. We said good night, I took a shower and got into bed, reading for a while and then going to sleep. I had to be up at 7:00, and I guess my internal clock was working, because I woke up at 6:58. After washing up and getting dressed, making the bed and packing up my things, I wandered downstairs, where B was puttering in the kitchen, making coffee. Again, I sat at the bar to watch and talk to him.

“Did you sleep?”
“I did!”
“How’s your bottom?”
“It’s a bit tender this morning.”
“Is it marked?”
“I don’t know, I couldn’t tell.”
“What color is it?”
“Pink. There are two pink bullseyes.”
“What shade of pink?”

You guys may have heard me mention a hundred or so times that I’m not a morning person, and I simply couldn’t come up with all these details with morning brain. So I laughed, and sweetly said, “Would you like to take a look and see for yourself?” He then gave me The Look and said it sounded like I still had some sass in me, and handed me a shot of espresso, which was most welcome. He made a second one for me, and while I was drinking it, we talked about breakfast and when we had to leave, which was by 8:50. He then asked me what time it was. I looked at my watch. “It’s 7:30.”

“Right,” he said, stepping out of the kitchen and crooking a finger at me. Uh oh. Taking my wrist, he pulled me back up the stairs, and had me assume the position on the bed, announcing that I was going to be tawsed.

It was a different tawse this time, not the one that he’d brought to my place that first time. It looked well aged and thick. Ominous.

“These are going to be painful,” he informed me. (Really??) “I’m giving you twelve. After that, I will ask if you want twelve more. Are you ready?” I was. Well, as ready as I could ever be.

Oh my god, those tawse strokes hurt, especially after all the percussive activity from the night before. After the twelfth stroke, he paused. “Would you like twelve more?” he asked.

I could not answer, just went, “Ah… uh…” Part of my brain was screaming, “OMFG, no!” But another part was prodding, “Don’t be a wimp, Erica. You’re so tough, remember?” Ugh ugh ugh. “I need an answer from you,” he reminded me. I took a deep breath and blathered out, “Yespleasesir.”

Twelve more. I was hollering and pounding the bed with these. Afterward, he told me to get up and go look in the mirror, which I did. Then, a minute or two later, “Back down. I’m going to give you six more.”

That final push. That edge. Dancing right up to the limit of what I could take. And I took them. Sweet. Good teamwork.

I did not cry this time around, but I trembled and breathed hard, and he held me close, letting me calm. After I did, I realized something. Well, besides the fact that I was well caned and brushed and tawsed and thoroughly taken care of — I was hungry. So we went back downstairs and he made us some toast, which he put out with jam (he remembered I don’t care for butter), some more berries and some orange juice. He asked if I’d like more coffee, but I noticed my foot was already tapping a bit after two shots of strong espresso, so I declined.

And then it was time to go. All good things must come to an end. He drove me to the train station, and we had a lively discussion on the way about his theory that everyone should be into spanking, because what else was the bottom created for, really, and if people would just get over their preconceived notions about it and try it, they’d realize what they’re missing. Unlike me, B is remarkably energetic in the morning — I feebly tried to counter with how I thought people had to be wired for it, that not everyone likes pain and so forth, but I quickly gave that up. Besides, we’d arrived, and I had to leave. (sigh)

The trip home went like clockwork. Caught the train, got the BART on time, knew where to go once I reached SFO, and had a half hour to spare. We got back to Burbank just before 1:30, I got the shuttle back to my car, and was home by 2:00. I unpacked and then tried to do some work — I managed about one hour before I said “forget this” and went to take a nap. After that, I was refreshed and was able to crank out a fair amount, in between tweeting about my trip and answering texts.

Today, I’m pleasantly sore, lightly marked, and still a bit tired, but I was able to finish all my work for the week and even had time left over to write this — I didn’t think I’d be able to do so until Sunday, but I always prefer to do it as soon as possible while things are fresh in my mind. So… adventures done for now. Back to reality. I will most likely be droppy, but that will be postponed until I come home from John’s, where I’m headed shortly. On Wednesday morning, having some quiet time before I left, I found myself a bit teary. I tweeted about it, about how I am caught between trying to look ahead and looking back at what I no longer have. I’m trying to look at the open windows, not the closed doors. It’s… challenging. I have no doubt that I will still have down days and tears. But hopefully, the new riches will continue. Because you know what? I damn well deserve them.

Have a great weekend, y’all. And B, sir, thank you so very much, once again, for everything. ♥

Good things DO come to those who wait

And thank you to a dear friend who just told me that and gave me my blog title. ♥

The waiting ended up delivering; I heard from both B and D on Tuesday morning. First, I am in possession of a flight reservation up north next Wednesday to see B. Now that all the travel unknowns are knowns (yeah, I know that’s not a word, too bad), I know I will still have butterflies, but more of the good kind, as opposed to the “how many different ways can I eff this up” kind.

But that will be a story for next week. Yesterday, I played with D for the first time.

He emailed me on Tuesday morning and asked if I could play Thursday at around five. I had some things planned, but I was able to shift stuff around and I told him yes. We exchanged some more emails — he said maybe you can pick out some implements you like and put them out on the side for me to use after I warm you up. I replied that I could, but maybe I could just leave them where they are and if he wanted them, he could get them himself. 😛 Testing the waters, you know. I still wasn’t quite sure how he feels about playful bratting; I thought perhaps he liked it, but you never know until you actually do play. He also mentioned that he’d seen some of my video pictures where I was wearing garters and stocking, and if I was comfortable doing so, would I wear some for him. That was an easy enough request, one I was happy to do. My final note to him on Tuesday evening was “*sigh* Is it Thursday yet?”

The next day (Wednesday) I was climbing the freaking walls. I had set aside the whole day to just stay home and get stuff done; laundry, some cleaning, and lots of work. But the whole damn time I was squirming in my computer chair, with this endless litany in my head… Why isn’t it Thursday. Why isn’t it Thursday. And in the midst of this, an email popped in from him, one line:

Don’t worry, Thursday is approaching fast. I shall see you soon.

OMFG. What timing. How did he know??

Yesterday arrived. I got up early, had breakfast and did a couple of hours of work. Or I tried to, at least. He was torturing me, sending me a picture of a ruler from his desk. He said that rules — and wills — are meant to be broken. I sent back that so are ruleRs, and I was notorious for breaking things, sending a pic of me with a snapped cane.

Around noon, I gave up on work and took a break to do a workout, which I would have done anyway, but I really needed it now. By the time I was done with that and had showered, it was 2:00, so I still had time to do some work before I got ready.

My friend J was texting me to tease me a bit; at 4:00, I get “Only one hour to go!” I texted back: “Do you know how hard it is to put on makeup when your hands are shaking??” It’s true. I thought I was going to put my damn eye out.

By 4:30, I was nearly ready, and I was too wound up to work, so I went to catch up with Words With Friends. When I pulled up my move, I saw my letters were E B E T H R A. I don’t believe in messages, but if I did, this surely was one. My mind instantly rearranged the letters, and I got this:

A good reminder, no? (I was able to play the word, too, tacking the second E onto the T in TALE.)

And speaking of shaking hands, I had forgotten how incredibly difficult it is to hook garters onto stockings. It occurred to me I never do this by myself — I don’t wear garters unless I’m on a shoot or all dressed up at a party, and in those cases, there’s always John or someone else around to hook them for me. So I wrestled and fumbled and cussed mightily, but finally got the damn things situated in ten minutes. Just in time, too. Once again, he was on time, texting me. My apartment is security and rather than have him fussing with the intercom, I told him I’d come down and let him in.

He brought me chocolate. Two kinds. Both milk, my favorite. I don’t know how he knew; I hadn’t told him which kind, only that I loved chocolate. ♥ I know a lot of bottoms get gifts from tops, but I never expect them, and I’m always so tickled when I get a surprise like that, much like when B showed up with that espresso pot for me.

He was still in a coat and tie from work, so I took his jacket and went to hang it up, but he stopped me for a second, and then pulled that same ruler out of the pocket. Uh oh. By the way, I had kinda sorta done what he requested. I did select four implements — but I didn’t lay them out on a table. I put them where they belonged — in the trash can by my desk. 🙂

We didn’t spend too much time with preliminaries. He stood up, taking off his tie, and proceeded to unbutton his cuffs and roll up his sleeves. Slowly. Deliberately. I damn near died right there. “I hear you’re having a problem focusing,” he said. He sat down, and over his lap I went.

First times are always a little strange, in that we don’t know each other, he doesn’t know how much I can take, I don’t know what will spur him, he doesn’t know my body language and my various “tells,” etc. As one would expect, he started out very lightly. I have no issue with that; erring on the side of caution is better than jumping right in and tearing someone’s ass apart from the get-go. He picked up the ruler after a while with his hand — and after a few swats, the thing broke. No lie. The metal guide thingie running along the edge flew out, he said. “I told you I break stuff!” I cried, laughing hysterically. Time to get serious here.

Next, he had me lean over my desk so he’d have more swinging range, and explored the trash can’s implement contents. At first he was light with them, but then I put my hand on my mouse like I was going to open something and said, “Do you mind if I do some work while you’re busy back there?” Yeahhh… I think that did it.

He moved me around a bit, had me on all fours on my couch, kneeling at his feet while he sat in my recliner — and then he settled into a dining room chair, picked up my heart-shaped wooden paddle, the one that had been made for me years ago, and said, “Come over my knee.” The remainder of the scene took place there, and things ramped up exponentially.

You guys know when I am really starting to feel it, I can’t keep my feet still. Both my shoes flew off. He was a little concerned with how red I was turning. We took a brief time-out and he asked if I was sure I shouldn’t go look at it. No, I said. I’m okay. I get really red, and then it fades. I appreciated that he cared, and I took a chance then. I know some would say this is topping from the bottom (I hate that expression), but I thought it was more like giving someone new to me a bit of guidance. So I quietly said, “You can go harder and faster if you want to.”

He did.

His hand wandered up my neck and his fingers went into my hair… and then his fist tightened. The paddle was coming down faster. And then it slipped out of his hand and landed on the floor out of his reach, but within mine. “Would you hand that to me, please?” he asked.

Taking the chance to catch my breath, I gasped out, “Give me one good reason why I should do that.” He laughed, and answered, “So I can continue your spanking.” In reply to that, I picked up the paddle… and tossed it a few feet away.

Again, I was taking a chance. Some tops don’t like that kind of playfulness. But he responded well, powering down again with his hand. Next break, he said, “I guess I’m going to have to go get that paddle.” I was already in transition, so I murmured, “I’ll get it for you.” And I did.

We were nearing the end. My legs were trembling, my feet were twisting together, I had my hand clamped over my mouth to muffle my reactions. I suddenly reached a point of breaking, and I blurted, “Oh my God, D, please, please, PLEASE!”

He stopped. Right in time. More would have been too much. He went exactly where I needed him to go.

I slumped to the floor, and he gathered me up into his arms, where I clung to him and trembled all over until he pulled me up and guided me to the couch. There, he soothed me, caressed me, whispered to me. “You let go of all the bad stuff, didn’t you,” he murmured. Oh, yes.

After I’d calmed down a bit, he asked for some lotion, and had me stretch out on the couch so he could massage my butt and lower back. I felt very comfortable stripping off my dress, and that massage was heaven, so comforting.

“Would you like some pictures, so people can see how red your butt is?” he asked. My first thought was, “It’ll be faded by now,” but I said sure. Yeahhhhh… turns out I was quite mistaken.

I was really surprised. And very pleased. “Remember — you asked for it!” he reminded me. I assured him I most certainly did, and I don’t regret a single swat of it. I needed that. I needed that so, so badly.

I put my dress back on, and we relaxed for a bit, eating some of the chocolate he’d brought, talking, and then he had to go. It was 7:15. I sent him off with warm hugs and thank you’s, texted John to let him know I was okay, straightened up the living room and took a shower. The rest of the night was floaty, spacey, in that surreal place. I did a little more work, answered email, and crashed in front of the TV. I was ravenously hungry and food tasted so good. And more chocolate.

This morning, I woke up to find a very sweet follow-up email, checking in on me, sharing his thoughts about our scene. I especially liked the sentence, “I thought this was a nice start.” The word “start” implies that there is going to be more, yes?

I don’t know what will happen and how we’ll work it. He lives close, but works far. He works two jobs. And I’m unavailable on weekends. So it might be challenging. But I am hoping he wants to play more as much as I do.

In a strange place today, emotionally. Still kind of floaty, but more focused. Very, very sore, but happily so. And feeling a bit of disbelief and unfamiliarity with the sense of well-being. I feel like I’ve been waiting for it for so long. What with the issues from last year, plus my shoulder and my back giving me trouble, I didn’t think I could ever feel really happy, really blissful again. I thought the two times with B were a fluke. Even yesterday, there was a niggling little part of my brain telling me that D might cancel. There’s always going to be that glass-half-empty side to my psyche, I’m afraid. I get something good and then wonder when it will go away, and how.  Enough of that for now, dammit. At this moment in time, I feel good. Some doors have closed, but finally, it seems windows are opening. John always says, “Stay in the day.” Hard to do sometimes, but he’s right. This day is all we have.

Have a great weekend, y’all.