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 category “belt”

Repost (I think?): The Editor’s Correction

Well, kids… I’ve really wanted to post something new here. But I’ve got nothing right now. So I thought I’d dig into the archives and repost some fiction.

I don’t remember whether I posted this story or not. I never published it in anything. And as you’ll see, I wrote it several years ago so it’s a little dated in some aspects.

  1. Obviously, everything is digital now. But not too long ago, I was still marking up bulky manuscripts with a red pen and marks like these. And yes, they did fall on the floor and get mixed up, get things spilled on them, etc.proofreadmarks
  2. Craigslist no longer has personal ads.
  3. And finally — does anyone under [insert old age of your choice] wear pantyhose to the office anymore??

But despite these minor issues, I still like this story a lot. Hope you will too. 🙂

And no, I don’t advocate pranks like this. But they’re fun to write about, and make for great spanking scenarios.

The Editor’s Correction

“Aaaaagggh! Damn it!” Maggie Bailey blurted without thinking, as she brushed against her glass of juice and knocked it over, the stain instantly spreading into the piles of manuscripts on her desk. She snatched up the papers, but the liquid had already soaked into several pages. She’d have to print them again. For the umpteenth time, she cursed her tiny desk in her tiny office.

“Maggie? Are you OK?” The voice of Greg Watkins in the corner office next to hers came through the wall. Maggie clenched her fists and took a deep breath. Damned flimsy walls! She made an effort to calm her voice and called back, “I’m fine; I just spilled something.” And it wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for you, she added silently.

Maggie had been working at H&L Publications for ten years. She started as an editorial assistant and worked her way up to being one of the fiction editors, earning her own small office. For a long time, this thrilled her to no end. However, the office was indeed very small, her desk was also small by necessity, and her work area constantly frustrated her. Things piled up all over and she had no room. Manuscripts often got knocked off her desk, papers strewn everywhere. It was difficult to keep things separated and collated with so little surface area. She could have used a long worktable, but there was no place to put it. Her desk, chair, filing cabinets and small couch took up most of the space. She often banged her shin or thigh on the desk corner or on a file drawer sticking out.

She’d borne these inconveniences patiently, working diligently and hard, putting in long hours. Her eye had long been on the Senior Editor position; she knew she was in line and qualified for it, and with the position being vacated soon, she hoped it would soon be hers. Not just for the pay increase, but for the coveted corner office—more room, a bigger desk and a window. Perhaps in some cases, honest effort paid off after all.

So it was much to her chagrin when Joe Hanford—the H of H&L—called her into his office three weeks ago and explained, somewhat uncomfortably, that the position had been given to a new employee, Greg Watkins. Maggie was certainly qualified for it, Joe hastened to add, but Greg had more experience (twenty years to her ten). And he’s male, Maggie thought privately. Although she never voiced it, she suspected that H&L was a bit of a good ol’ boys’ outfit, and if the choice came down between a qualified man or woman, the man was likely to be the winner. And she hated Greg Watkins even before she met him.

To add insult to injury, Greg turned out to be a pleasant, well-liked guy. Not her type, of course; he was the sort she sneeringly referred to as metrosexual. Impeccably dressed in tailored suits, hair perfectly styled, well shined designer shoes. He wore an understated but expensive watch; his fingernails were neatly clipped and very clean. He was smart, funny and knew the publishing industry well, and both the men and women in the company took to him immediately. All except Maggie. She resented his presence and wouldn’t allow herself to be swayed by his friendly overtures, even though he was right next door. She made sure she was never rude to him, but she was coolly polite and nothing more. When he spoke to her, she answered, but never initiated conversation. He often gave her puzzled looks, but she ignored them.

Seething with fresh resentment, Maggie stormed out of her office and into the kitchen, snatching up a sponge and several paper towels and hurrying back to her desk to wipe up the sticky spill. Looking up the numbers of the pages that had been soaked, she tapped them in the Print section to reprint. Finally, order was restored and she settled back down to work. It was lunchtime, but Maggie often ate at her desk.

“Hey, Maggie?” She looked up, and quickly stifled her annoyance at seeing Greg in her doorway, smiling at her. “Yes, Greg?”

He walked in and over to her desk, holding a stack of paper rubber-banded into a neat bundle. “I have a new author effort here; can you give it a look?”

She glanced at the manuscript after he laid it on her desk; the author was female and the story was clearly some sort of romance novel. Before she could stop herself, she looked pointedly at the various stacks of paper on her crowded desk and muttered, “Sure, why not—it’s not like I have anything else to do.”

Greg’s smile faded. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to dump more on you. It’s just that—”

“It’s just that it’s chick lit, and I’m a chick, so you figured it was right up my alley, right?” she interrupted. She felt a slight sense of satisfaction when he had the good grace to look embarrassed.

Greg hesitated, picking up the manuscript. “Maggie…do you have a problem with me? Have I done something to offend you?”

Maggie cursed herself. Dammit, she had tried so hard to remain completely professional and polite, and give him no ammunition. She forced a tight little smile onto her lips and lied through her teeth. “No, nothing like that. I’m just busy, and I’m rattled because I spilled juice all over everything. Put it down; I’ll look at it later.”

“OK,” Greg said, placing it once again at the corner of her desk, but he didn’t move away, just stood there looking at her. Unnerved, Maggie dropped her eyes back to the computer. “If you’ll excuse me…” she murmured. Greg looked at her for another moment, then turned and left her office.

Jerk, she thought, letting her face settle into a disgusted frown. Sighing, she sat back in her chair and stretched, and saw Matt Weiss, the associate publisher, pass her door. Then she heard his voice; obviously he had stopped at Greg’s office. “Hey, Greg, a few of us are going to the corner to grab a sandwich and some brews. You up for taking a break?”

“Sounds good,” she heard Greg answer. “Only I’ll have to skip the brews. I have a meeting with both H and L this afternoon and I need to be on my toes.”

“OK, Nancy,” Matt teased. “We’ll make sure to order some tea for you.”

Maggie heard Greg’s chair squeak as he pushed away from his desk. “Never mind that Nancy crap,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “I can drink your sorry ass under the table any day of the week, and you know it.” The men laughed as their voices faded down the hall.

She rolled her eyes. Stupid macho idiots, she said to herself, her fingers beating an angry staccato on the keyboard. Times like these, she wished she could send an IM or an email to her friend Lynn in the advertising department; Lynn often served as her sounding board and she knew all of Maggie’s secret feelings. She was such a good listener, Maggie forgave her for thinking Greg was cute. But that was out of the question; H&L had a bit of a “big brother” policy where their computers were concerned. Emails were monitored, and any incoming or outgoing messages other than business-oriented ones were forbidden. So she sat and seethed a bit, fantasizing about bringing Greg Watkins down and grabbing the position that was rightly hers.

As she tried to focus on her work, a wicked germ of an idea took hold and began spreading. The more she tried not to think about it, the more it consumed her. Maggie found herself sitting at her desk giggling, and realized she had read the same page three times and still didn’t know what was on it. Her reasonable and professional self battled with her childish urge.

I couldn’t do it.
But I want to.
I can’t.
Damn right I can.

After a few minutes of this, she got up and with her heart pounding, walked out of her office, looked up and down the hall, then slipped into Greg’s office and shut the door quietly. Going over to his desk, she tapped on a key to disrupt the screensaver—yes! He was still logged into the system. She sat down (noticing with disgust that his desk chair was far more comfortable than hers) and since Greg was already online, she went directly to Craigslist, clicked on Personals and then on Create Ad.

She specified that it was to go into the Casual Encounters area, m4m (male for male). For the email, she typed in Greg’s business address. And then there was the content area. Grinning wickedly, she wrote:

My name is Greg, but you can call me Nancy. I’m a very bad boy, because I like to wear my mother’s underwear. I need a big mean daddy to spank me until I’m crying like a little girl.

Oops, Mom is coming, gotta go! No time to post a picture, but I promise you, you won’t be disappointed!

Her hands had been trembling, and she made several typos. After going through and fixing them, Maggie hesitated for a few seconds, then hit Publish. She waited until the confirmation email popped into Greg’s inbox, opened it and clicked on the supplied link to finalize and post the ad. It was done. Giggling nervously, she closed down Craigslist. After making sure she left the desk exactly how she had found it and peeking out the door to make sure no one could see her, she scuttled back to her office and closed the door. Her heart still raced and her hands still shook. She couldn’t believe she’d actually done it.

It took a while for the adrenaline to dissipate, but Maggie finally relaxed, ate a sandwich at her desk and continued with her work. She was so absorbed, she barely registered Greg’s return as he chatted with his coworkers in the hall and then went into his office. A few minutes later, her concentration was broken by a muffled but very loud “What the hell?” She jumped, her heart banging in her chest once again. Now she could hear Greg in the next room muttering to himself. Obviously, he’d checked his email and found a reply or two to his (her) ad. Maggie clamped both hands over her mouth, stifling laughter. Greg was going to have some explaining to do once word of this breach of email etiquette reached HR. Bending her head back down over her papers, she forced herself to focus and stayed in her office the rest of the afternoon, long after she heard Greg’s door slam and his footsteps thunder down the hall.

* * * *

When Maggie arrived at work the next morning, Greg’s door was closed. She went to the kitchen, selected a bagel from the bag on the counter, toasted it, poured a cup of coffee. While she was spreading cream cheese on her bagel, Greg came into the kitchen with his mug. But instead of his usual friendly greeting, he merely nodded at her with a set face, got some coffee and walked back out. She gathered up her plate and cup to head back to her office, hoping her blush hadn’t given her away. Of course he couldn’t know it had been her doing. He could suspect all he wanted, but he couldn’t know for sure.

It was an unusually busy day, and Maggie remained sequestered in her office, keeping a low profile. When Lynn popped by to invite her to lunch, she declined. She did not see Greg again, although she heard him coming and going.

Late in the afternoon, she sat back and stretched, looked at her watch. Five o’clock. It was Friday and she suspected everyone had already gone home. Not her, though, not diligent worker bee Maggie. Sighing, she got up, walked to the door and opened it, cautiously looking out into the hall. Sure enough, all the office doors were open, with no sounds emanating from within. She went into the kitchen, hoping for some coffee, but the machine was shut off and the two pots were soaking in the sink. Instead, Maggie grabbed a Diet Coke from the refrigerator. She planned to stay another couple of hours and thought a jolt of caffeine would help.

Back in her office, she left the door open and settled back at her desk, popping the top of the soda and picking up the manuscript Greg had left with her the day before, making a face. Might as well get this done and out of her hair.

The story turned out to be surprisingly well written and as she scanned it, she found herself getting more absorbed. So absorbed that when a deep voice said, “Working late again, I see,” she nearly jumped out of her skin and let out a little scream.

Greg was standing in her doorway. “Jesus Christ,” Maggie breathed, putting her hand to her chest. “You scared the hell out of me, Greg! I didn’t think anyone was here.”

He slowly walked in. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Maggie, I apologize.” His words were cordial, but something about his stare made her feel very uncomfortable. She was suddenly aware that the two of them were the only ones left in the building. She tried to force a casual tone into her voice. “It’s OK; I’m just not used to seeing you here this late, that’s all.”

Greg leaned up against her desk. “I’m usually not, you’re right. But I had some unusual circumstances today that needed a fair amount of my time.”

“Oh?” Maggie feigned nonchalance, took a sip of her Diet Coke, and discreetly balled up her other hand into a fist in her lap so Greg wouldn’t see it shaking.

“Yeah, you could say I had to do some damage control,” Greg continued, pushing some papers over and sitting casually on the corner of her desk. His eyes never left hers.

“Sorry to hear that,” Maggie murmured, dropping her eyes to her computer screen. “What happened?”

Greg shifted, picked up a manuscript, shuffled the papers in his hands. “Well, it seems that someone hacked into my computer, and placed a, shall we say, inappropriate personal ad on my behalf on Craigslist.”

Maggie opened her eyes wide in shock. “You’re kidding! How? Who? Do you know?”

“I have some ideas, but nothing for sure,” he said calmly, placing the papers back down and continuing to level his unwavering gaze at her. “I had one hell of a day, though. I had to keep erasing answers from a bunch of perverts out there. Fortunately, the ad finally got flagged and removed. And then HR got wind of it through the IT people. That’s where I’ve been for the past hour, trying to explain myself to them, convince them that I had nothing to do with this.”

Maggie shook her head, hoping she looked properly indignant. “That’s terrible! Did you manage to convince them?”

Greg sighed, briefly looking away from her, and ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah, fortunately, I finally did. Joe went to bat for me, saying I’d never pull anything like this, and it had to be an office prank. Of course, now everyone wants to know who did it; if they find out, that person is history here.”

Maggie swallowed hard. “So… did you share your ideas with them?”

“No,” Greg replied, turning back to stare at her. “I thought I’d go straight to the source instead, see what I could figure out on my own.”

His look unnerved her. “Why are you staring at me?” she finally blurted, shifting in her seat.

“Am I?” Greg asked, smiling slightly. “Or is your guilt making you imagine things?”

“Guilt? What guilt? What are you talking about?” Maggie cried, her voice overly shrill. She cleared her throat, took a breath. “What are you implying, Greg?”

Greg stood and slammed his palms down onto her desk, making her jump. “Oh, come on, Maggie. I know it was you. You might as well stop this pretense. I know you’ve disliked me since the minute I came here, but I never thought you’d stoop to something like this.”

She felt her face burn, but she forced herself to meet his angry eyes. “What makes you think I did it?” she said defensively.

“How stupid do you think I am?” Greg snapped. “I don’t know anyone else here who has that big an axe to grind with me. You work right next to me; you know when I’m there and when I’m not. You could hear when I left for lunch. And you no doubt overheard Matt call me Nancy.”

Maggie’s lips twitched. “Yeah, I heard that part. I thought it was pretty damn funny. Your friends know you well, apparently.”

Greg leaned closer, his face stony. “You know, somebody really should spank you until you’re crying like a little girl,” he hissed.

His words sent a lurch through Maggie’s stomach, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he was scaring her. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she sneered, “but it certainly wouldn’t be you, Metro Man. You’d ruin your manicure.”

Greg closed his eyes for a moment, and his fists clenched and unclenched. Maggie looked away, fighting down her butterflies. Manicured or not, Greg had mighty large hands.

“You are a piece of work, you know that?” he said. “What did I ever do to you, anyway? What is your problem?”

Maggie shrugged and made a face, turning back to her work. “Nothing,” she said, her tone snippy. “You’re the one whose mother’s underwear is in knots.” She giggled at her own comment. Then she looked up to see Greg’s triumphant look and instantly felt sick.

A smile slowly crept across Greg’s face. “Well now,” he said, his voice low and silky. “How did you know the bit about my mother’s underwear? I didn’t mention that.”

Maggie’s throat closed and she knew she was blushing scarlet. She was completely busted and there wasn’t a thing she could do to extricate herself. “I… I… um…” she stammered. He continued to smile at her, waiting, and she couldn’t stand it anymore. “OK! Fine! I did it. Are you happy now?”

“No, actually, I’m not,” Greg replied, his smile fading. “Do you have any kind of explanation? Why would you do something so childish? Do you realize that you could have cost me my job?”

She couldn’t look at him; her eyes dropped to her lap, and she fiddled with a thread on her jacket. She opened her mouth several times to speak, and stopped. Finally, she shrugged.

“All right, Maggie, since you won’t answer my questions, I’ll try another one. Do you realize I could cost you your job? All I have to do is tell HR I know who did it, and that’s it. You know that, right?”

Her head jerked up and she looked into his face, which was angry and uncompromising. Suddenly, the full weight of what she had done crashed down on her. All she could think of was her bills and debts—the mortgage on her townhouse, her car payments, her credit cards. If she lost her job, how could she pay for them? And how on earth would she be able to afford her own health insurance? H&L might not have advanced her to her liking, but they paid her a decent salary and provided excellent benefits. She stood to lose all that right now, and all because of her petty attitude. Tears filled her eyes and she bit her lip, willing them away. “Yes,” she said, her voice coming out hoarse and meek. “So… are you going to tell HR?”

Greg sighed. “I should, but I’d rather not. I don’t know if I could live with myself, causing anyone to lose their job in this economy.” His eyes narrowed. “But you do need to be punished for what you did.”

Maggie winced at the childish word, punished. She swallowed around the huge lump in her throat and clasped her shaking hands in her lap. “So what are you going to do?”

He raised an eyebrow at her and folded his arms, his lips curling into a smile that chilled her to the bone. “What do you think I’m going to do?”

Maggie stared at him, speechless. She couldn’t believe she was in this position; she’d read about it so many times in books, seen it in movies, but she didn’t think it actually happened. Cold anger replaced her fear and she slowly stood. “You bastard,” she hissed. “OK, let’s get this over with.” Adrenaline coursing, she took off her jacket and threw it over her chair. Then she reached up and began to unbutton her blouse. Greg’s expression went from smug triumph to confusion.

“Maggie, what the hell are you doing?”

His tone was so honestly bewildered, it made her hands freeze mid-button. “I’m… I… didn’t you…?” she sputtered. To her complete mortification, Greg burst out laughing.

She stamped her foot. “Stop laughing, damn you!” she shrieked.

He didn’t stop, and she wanted to crawl under the desk and curl up into a ball. “Ah, Maggie,” he said, trying to contain his mirth. “Don’t flatter yourself. That’s not what I had in mind.”

Now she was the confused one. “Then what did you have in mind?”

He smiled, clearly relishing her discomfort. “I’m going to do exactly what you suggested in that little ad of yours. I’m going to spank you. Hard.”

Maggie’s stomach lurched once again. This was even worse than she thought. “The hell you are!”

“The hell I’m not!

“You arrogant prick! There is no way I’m letting you do that!” she shouted. “Get out of here!”

Greg took a deep breath and blew it out hard. “OK, Maggie,” he said calmly. “But if I leave this office without giving you a sound spanking first, then I’m going to HR first thing Monday morning. Your choice—pay now, or pay later.”

Maggie put her head in her hands. This couldn’t be happening. She’d never hated anyone so much in all her life.

“Come on, Maggie,” Greg said, his voice gentle. “Take the first choice, and it will hurt for a little while and then be over. Take the second choice, and you’ll have a whole world of hurt that won’t end anytime soon.” As she stood there staring, he took off his jacket, neatly folded it and put it over the arm of the couch. Then he sat down, patted his lap and looked at her expectantly.

Maggie’s head spun. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she whispered.

“Nice try, Maggie,” Greg smiled. “Come here.”

She went to him, her legs leaden. “God, I hate you,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know,” he said, taking her forearm and firmly pulling her down across his lap. She shuffled and squirmed, situating herself. “Comfy?” he said mockingly.

Maggie pounded her fist on the couch. “God damn you, just get on with it.”

Greg laughed, and she felt his hand pull her tweed skirt up to her waist. “Hey!” she hollered. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Please… do you really think you’d feel anything through that heavy skirt?” He snapped the waistband of her pantyhose. “Besides, you have plenty of protection with these… for now.”

“What do you mean, for… ow!” Maggie yelped as his hand firmly cracked onto her right bottom cheek. Before she could catch her breath, he delivered a similar stinging slap to the left. “That hurts!”

“Gee, it does?” Greg said sarcastically. “Maybe I should rethink that ‘big mean daddy’ thing, huh?” He smacked her right cheek again, harder than before.

“Dammit, Greg, stop it!” she howled, struggling against him. “I changed my mind! Do what you want, get me fired, I don’t care! Just let me up!”

Greg pinned her more firmly. “Nah, I don’t think so. I’m enjoying this too much. Might as well settle down, Maggie, you’re here to stay. You’ve got this coming.”

He got into a pattern of solid swats, alternating cheeks, his big hand coming down again and again. Maggie squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to bear it stoically, but it hurt like hell and soon she was thrashing and kicking, screaming in pain.

Finally, he paused and Maggie struggled to catch her breath. “So,” he said, laying his hand on her bottom, making her flinch. “You care to tell me why you hate me so much? Enough to pull such a stupid stunt?” When she didn’t reply, he sighed. “Never mind, I already know. I know you wanted the Senior Editor position, and you were pissed off that I got it. Joe told me when he hired me.”

Maggie buried her face in the couch cushion, feeling her humiliation from head to foot. “If you already knew, why did you ask?” she mumbled.

“Look, Maggie, I know you wanted that job and you worked really hard for it. Joe felt bad; it’s not that you’re not qualified. It’s just that I have more experience than you. It’s not your fault, but it’s not mine, either. Can’t we get along?”

No, Maggie thought. Stubbornly, she remained silent. When Greg spoke again, his voice had hardened once more. “OK, have it your way. I think that, considering the gravity of your crime, your spanking should continue on the bare bottom, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t!” she screamed, rearing up, but he pushed her back down, and she felt his fingers snaking into the waistband of her pantyhose. “Lift your hips,” he said. She balled up her fists and stayed still. Smack! His hand cracked down on the very top of her upper thigh, hard. “Owwwww!

“Lift. Your. Hips.”

She complied this time, and he yanked her pantyhose down below her bottom, then did the same with her panties. Without another word, he began spanking her again. If she thought the pain was bad over layers of underwear, it was nothing compared to this. She tried desperately to squirm away, but he held her fast. She dug her nails into her palms, grit her teeth, but finally the burning pain overtook her and she howled until her throat hurt. Still, he continued. She didn’t know which was stronger—her pain, her humiliation or her rage.

At long last, Greg paused again and Maggie collapsed against him, panting. “Maggie,” he said quietly. “Do you have anything to say to me?”

Tears stung her eyes and the pain was unbearable, but she couldn’t bring herself to apologize to him. She was still too angry and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she bit out, “Yes, I do. Go fuck yourself.”

She felt his entire body tense under her, and she cringed in horror at her own words, terrified of what might come next. He didn’t give her any time to ponder on it. “Get up,” he snapped, roughly grabbing her shoulders and pulling her upright. Her pantyhose were bunched up around her knees and she nearly fell, but he yanked her up, then strode to her desk, dragging her along with him. With one long sweep of his arm, he sent all the papers flying and cleared the desk. She gasped, but didn’t dare comment on the mess he’d just made.

“Get over the desk, Maggie. Now,” he growled, glaring murderously at her.

She looked at his red face, fearfully. But she still couldn’t give in to him. “W-why?” she stammered, with a bravado she didn’t feel. “What—what are you going to do, you pervert?”

Greg put his head in his hand for a moment, then rolled his eyes heavenward. “I repeat, Maggie—don’t flatter yourself.” He then reached down and began to unbuckle his belt.

Maggie nearly fainted, she was so terrified. “Greg, no!” she burst out. “You can’t! Please! I can’t take that!”

“You should have thought of that before you started this whole mess, Maggie,” he said, pulling his belt out of the loops. “And especially before you told me to go fuck myself.” He snapped the belt, then doubled it over. “Over. Belly down on the desk. Now.”

Trembling, Maggie slowly turned toward the desk and put her palms on it. But before she could lower her belly down onto it, Greg said, “Wait!” She froze. Silently, she watched him go retrieve his jacket from the couch arm and bring it over. She gaped in surprise as he patted it into a soft bundle, then placed it on the desk. “OK, now,” he said, his voice marginally gentler.

She leaned down and laid her body onto his jacket, grateful for the comfort, although she knew that wouldn’t last. Once in position, she stretched out her arms and grabbed the edge of the desk, lay her head down and shut her eyes tight. “Please, Greg…”

He didn’t reply. Snap! She felt his belt impart a burning stripe across her behind. She jumped and shrieked, and his hand pressed into the small of her back. “Hold still, Maggie. I don’t want to miss, and you don’t want me to either.”

Gritting her teeth, she did her best to remain in place as the belt struck again and again, all over her bottom. Her feet involuntarily stamped and her fists pounded on the desk, but somehow, she stayed in position. But the pain nearly drove her crazy.

“I know it hurts,” she heard him say. “But it will be over soon, and then we’re done.”

“No, we’re not!” she shouted, her voice breaking. “I won’t be able to work here anymore, regardless! You’ll tell everyone and I won’t be able to look anyone in the face again!”

Greg paused and walked around to her side. “Maggie, look at me,” he commanded. Slowly, she turned her head to look up and meet his eyes.

“I am not, repeat, not going tell anyone about this. I told you I wanted to keep this between you and me, and I meant it. After we leave here today, we won’t speak of this again. I promise.”

Maggie’s eyes searched his face; she saw no trace of malice. “You mean it? You—you won’t make fun of me? You won’t tease me about this?”

“No, I will not.”

She believed him, and her tense body relaxed a fraction. At all once, she felt profoundly ashamed. It was ridiculous that she should be in this position, and she had no one to blame but herself. She turned her face away, blinking back an onrush of tears. It dawned on her once again how close she’d come to losing her job. A job that, she now realized, really wasn’t that bad after all.

Greg stepped back. “OK, Maggie. I’m going to give you one more long set, and you’re going to hold still and take it. After that, we’re even.” Maggie took a deep breath and steeled herself.

Whack! Crack! The belt struck all over her bottom repeatedly as he moved around her, the blows more rapid than before. Finally, Maggie’s pride shattered; she gave in and burst in tears. “Owwwwww,” she sobbed. “Oh God, Greg, please stop, please! I’m sorry!”

He stopped immediately. “That’s all I wanted to hear, Maggie,” he said.

Feeling broken, Maggie remained lying over the desk, crying her eyes out. She wanted to die then and there, rather than stand up and face Greg. He put his hand tentatively on her back. “You OK?”

She gulped and nodded, unable to speak. When she made no move, he hesitated, then gently ran his fingers over her sore behind. His touch mortified her, but she said nothing.

“Maggie, listen,” he said. “This is the last word I’m going to say on this subject, I promise. But it looks like you’re going to have some bruises. When you get home, I would suggest sitting on an icepack for a while; that should reduce some of the swelling. OK?”

Her voice still paralyzed, she nodded her head once more. Then Greg, with his fingers still lightly caressing her bottom, added, “And you’ll probably want to use some lotion as this heals, so your skin won’t get rough.”

It was too much. Lashing out, she blurted, “You sound like you’ve done this before!” Then she cringed. Oh, shit, why did I say that? There was silence behind her for a moment, then Greg cleared his throat. “Well, tell you what—I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine, OK?”

Oh my God. “Yes, OK. Please…” she choked out, “may I have a few minutes by myself?”

“Of course,” he said, and she heard him slip out the door and close it. She clung to the desk and sobbed, releasing all the tension, and then reached back to rub her backside. It felt hot to her touch, and she could feel raised welts. Wincing, she carefully stood. Her legs shook so hard, she could barely stand on them, and she had to brace herself against the desk. Painfully and slowly, she pulled her panties back up, then her pantyhose, and smoothed down her skirt. Grabbing the Diet Coke can on her desk, she took the last swallow of flat soda. Then she got a mirror out of her purse and attempted to wipe away her smeared makeup with a tissue, blowing her nose vigorously.

There was a gentle knock at her door. “Maggie? Can I come in?”

“Yes,” she croaked out, looking away awkwardly as Greg opened the door and walked back in. Her eyes dropped to his jacket on the desk, wrinkled and disheveled from all her squirming. Sheepishly, she picked it up and handed it to him. “Sorry about that,” she mumbled.

“It’s OK,” he said, taking it from her and putting it back on, running his hands over the wrinkles. He smiled at her and somehow, she managed a wobbly smile back.

“Look, Maggie,” he said, his voice kind. “I can’t do anything about getting your position in the company changed. But I know this office sucks. Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but I know a couple of people are leaving soon and there will be vacant offices, bigger ones. I’ll have a talk with Joe about moving you into one of them. All right?”

She felt tears coming on again, but she blinked hard against them. “You’d do that for me? After what I did?”

“I told you, we’re even now. And you do deserve a bigger office.”

Embarrassed, Maggie looked away again, then knelt down and started picking up the strewn papers. “Leave that,” Greg said, touching her arm. “I’ll get them.”

Wordlessly, Maggie went to the couch and gingerly sat, biting back a groan of pain, and watched Greg pick up the papers, put them back in order and place them in neat piles on her desk. Then he stood, turned to her and grinned. “There… friends?”

Despite herself, she grinned back. “Friends,” she replied.

“OK, I guess it’s time I head out of here,” he said, going to the door. “You coming?”

Maggie shook her head. “No…I think I’ll stay a while and get a little more work done.”

Greg made a face at her. “Maggie, you don’t need to work so damn hard. Really, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” she said firmly, pointing to her desk. “Look at all that. If I don’t do it, who will?”

Greg hesitated, then sighed. “Well…maybe I’ll try having a word with Joe about getting you an assistant. Not promising anything, though.”

Maggie’s heart lifted, and she felt the last of the tension melt from her limbs. At last, from a very unexpected place, she might have an ally in this office of good ol’ boys. Despite the burning throb in her backside, she felt better than she had in weeks. “Thank you, Greg,” she said, getting up and walking over to him. “Have a nice weekend.”

“You too,” he said, then stuck out his hand. Smiling, she shook it. “Night, Maggie.”

She had a sudden mischievous urge. As he turned to walk out, she replied, “Night, Nancy.” And then slammed the door on his surprised face.

On the other side of the door, she heard him chuckle. “Just remember, Maggie—I know where you work!”

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.

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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. 🙂

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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.

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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)

Did ya miss me?

I haven’t blogged for a little over a month, so I have a lot of catching up to do. Honestly? What with the insanity around the midterms, mass shootings, displays of antisemitism, and lately, the horrendous fires in my state (still burning), I haven’t really felt the kink mojo. It’s hard to be lighthearted and funny and flippant when it feels like everything around you is devolving into a massive sinkhole of shit. This has been me:

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(OK, my boobs aren’t that big. But whatever.)

However, life goes on and I need to remind myself of that. So here I am.

And I got to play again last week, thank you very much! Much needed stress release! Mr. Woodland paid me another visit, last Thursday (you know, after the Thousand Oaks shooting, but before the Woolsey fire exploded). This time he showed up with his toy bag. Uh-oh.

But never fear, the good Mr. W. started me off with a proper warm-up. At some point, this exchange happened:

Him: Do you prefer your underwear up or down?
Me: That’s up to you.

Although it was more like “That’s up to y—,” because I didn’t even have the word “you” out of my mouth when my panties were unceremoniously yanked to my thighs.

“Well, that was an easy decision,” he said. Humph.

Warm-up passed in the blink of an eye, it seemed. “Time for some implements,” he announced. “Get up, please.”

Well, at least he said please.

We moved to my ottoman, and he said, “Set this up the way you want it.” I protested, “Why me? You set it up last time, so you’d have room to swing.” “Fine,” he said, and nudged it a few inches with his foot — which then sent the cushions askew. “Well, now it’s crooked!” I huffed, leaning down to straighten it.

“I have a belt in my hand,” he said. “Is this really a good time to be a smart-ass?” (What better time is there?)

And so the strapping ensued. At a good breaking point, he went to get his bag. “Let’s see what I’ve got for you in this bag of treats,” he grinned.

I sweetly requested a Snickers bar. He didn’t have any.

I then got to meet several of the items in his bag, including a tawse, some sort of leather thing, and a very thin, light wooden paddle. “This is a sting-y little bastard,” he commented about the latter. “Kind of like you?” I commented in return. He sighed. “That wasn’t smart.”

It was worth it, though. 😀

More chit-chat:

Him: Well, that’s about all I can use for now. The rest [of the bag’s contents] is wood.
Me: (sighing) What’s wrong with you?
Him: I like wood!
Me: That’s what she said.

Damn, did we play hard. I could feel the strength he was putting into it, and I was drinking it in like a freaking desert in a rainstorm. I just wanted more, more, and more. Even the tawse. Normally, I’m leery about those suckers. I have had experiences in the past where one of those skinny little tails snaps into nooks and crannies that I really, really don’t want getting snapped — and I damn near go through the ceiling. But then I took a deep breath and remembered.

He knows what he’s doing.

So much so that when he seemed to be wrapping things up, I blurted, “Are you done??”

“You want more?” he asked.

“Um… maybe?”

He laughed. “Be careful what you wish for…”

Holy crap. That last round pushed my endurance, for sure. I quickly realized my error of not tossing a pillow on the carpet before we started. First, because I was scraping my elbows along the carpet as I leaned over the ottoman. Not my choice of pain. And second, because I didn’t have anything to scream into. And sometimes, you know, I just have to scream. So I ended up clamping both hands over my mouth and screaming into my palms. And all the while, I could feel the stress flowing out my pores, out of my limbs, out of my head. Magic. So lovely when I can just put myself into a man’s hands and know I’m safe. As Mr. W. says on his Fet profile, he might hurt, but he doesn’t harm. Knowing that makes such a difference.

He was impressed. “You can take one hell of a spanking, Erica,” he said. Despite the fact that I was limp as a dishrag and so sub-spacey I could barely think, I managed to croak out, “You know, this is all your fault.”

“Really? How’s that?”

“Because,” I squeaked, “if you hadn’t made me wait three weeks for this, I wouldn’t have been so fucking needy!!

I wish I could have seen the look on his face at that. “Ah… well, I think we’ll have to address that next time.” Yeah, you think?

(I was kidding, of course. I am responsible for my own stress management; no one else. But a helping hand — or strap, paddle, etc. — is most welcome.)

And so we wound down. Then, I heard the two words that always melt me into the final oblivion:

“Good girl.” Of all the sweet phrases we love to hear, I think that’s one of the sweetest. Right up there with “That’s my girl.” 🙂

He hung out with me for a while, but had to get going before the traffic got bad (or worse, really, since L.A. traffic is pretty much always bad now). Have no idea what our schedules will bring over the upcoming holiday weeks… but I hope I get to see him again before 2018 is over.

As soon as he was gone, I thought, “Oh, damn! Pictures!” So, since I was still in living color, I grabbed my phone and tried to take a mirror selfie in the bathroom. I’m embarrassed to admit how many attempts it took to get this:

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I still didn’t like it, but all the physical cogitations were making my back and neck ache worse than my butt. So I broke out the old-school digital camera and timer, and tried a different angle in the living room. Unfortunately, the lighting there didn’t show the red very well. But you get the idea.

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I slept well that night. Sadly, the next day brought all new stress when the damned Woolsey fire blew up and I was worried about my stepmother in Thousand Oaks (all turned out well for her, thank goodness — she was without power for a couple of days, but didn’t have to evacuate). But such is life.

What else is going on… oh, yeah. Did I mention that my Twitter account was frozen for a week? “But, Erica,” I can hear you all crying, “what horrible, egregious, terrible thing did you tweet to earn this extreme penalty??” I called Tomi Lahren a bimbo.

(Never heard of Tomi Lahren? All you need to know about her is that she’s the millennial version of Ann Coulter. And if perchance you don’t know who Ann Coulter is — consider yourself fortunate.)

Let’s review. I’ve been insulted on Twitter over everything from my age (“granny porn”) to my body (“a poor man’s Olive Oyl”) to my face (I was likened to the character “Hatchet-face” from the movie Cry-Baby. Google her) to my background (“stupid @#$%ing Hollywood Jew). I’ve been threatened (“I’d love to watch you getting gang-raped”). But my saying “bimbo” is “hateful conduct”?? Yeah, Twitter. Bite me.

So, when my time in Twitter Jail was up, I put on my prison-stripe panties, brought out the trusty digital camera again, and took this, which I posted the day I came back:

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I hash-tagged it #FuckCensorship. 🙂 Interestingly, I did not get reported and penalized for it. Imagine that.

(whew) Anyway. Work continues to be busy, for which I am grateful, not only for the bill paying but for the distraction. Crazy times, y’all.

Final thought — I wish I could hug every single firefighter in California right now. ♥ ♥ ♥

Play at last! Play at last!

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And it’s about damn time! How long has it been, a year? Okay, okay, just a month and a half. (I’m not counting the double session I had with Alex a couple of weeks ago, because that was so light and playful.) But it feels like forever. Steve used to say that I needed spanking like I need oxygen. A bit of an exaggeration, but you know, sometimes…

I have Mr. Woodland’s permission to link to his FetLife page, so if any of you are members, you can read about him here. Our first time together one on one was fabulous, I thought.

He came by around 2:30. I’d been working since 8:00 on my various projects, so it was a good time to take a break. We slipped easily into conversation and I think close to two hours went by before we even mentioned playing. I like him; we seem to be on the same page about a lot of things, both scene-wise and everything else-wise. Because we’d played before, there wasn’t that first-time awkwardness, that shy dance of wonder and anxiety (Is this going to be great? Or is this gonna suck??). Finally, we began.

I had told him I hadn’t had any sort of intense play since Shadow Lane, so he very kindly and considerately started with a light warm-up. Of course, I appreciated that… but I wasn’t about to let him know that. 😀 So when he paused and asked how I was doing, I said, “I’m sorry… did I give you the impression that I enjoy tickling?”

“What was that? Excuse me?” And there it was, he went right into sputtering incredulous top mode. “I’m trying to be a gentleman, giving you a warm-up because you haven’t played for a while, and you tell me I’m tickling you??”

Yup. Game on, honey. I couldn’t answer him, as I was giggling too hard.

So much for warm-up, and things escalated quickly. But you know what? I soaked it all up like a sponge. A happy, eager, thirsty sponge. My skin, my body, my psyche craved it, couldn’t get enough of it. Gimme gimme gimme. At one point, he paused again, blew out a breath and said, “Wow. I just gave you ten of my hardest and all I’m getting from you is a purr.”

That’s me — happy kitty.

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He said he was going to have to bring some of his toys next time (Next time? YES!), and then I had to open my big stupid yap and say, “I have some toys!”

“Well, go get some!”

(Damn, I missed my opportunity to answer, “Make me.”)

I scrambled up, went into the bedroom, collected two OTK implements — my Lexan paddle and a small leather one — and brought them to him. Aaaaand that’s when I realized that I had been plenty tenderized by his hand and now these damn things hurt like a mother.

“Still tickling?” he taunted. Uh… no. But I was still enjoying it. He said he was going to dub the Lexan paddle the “tickle monster.” Har har har.

I had mentioned earlier that I loved strappings with a man’s belt over my ottoman, and while we were in the middle of hurts-so-good hell, I said “We can do that next time, maybe?”

“Hell, no!” was his answer. “Let’s do it now!”

Oy. Again, me and my big mouth.

I’m always a tad leery when I’m about to be strapped by a top for the first time. I love, love, love a leather belt. I love the feel, I love the sound, I love the imagery. However… a lot of people can’t do it right. They can’t control the strap — they’re too high, they’re too low, they wrap, they hit the right cheek over and over and not the left, etc. And it ends up being rather unpleasant. I get so tense, wondering when the misfires are going to hit, I can’t relax and sink into it.

Not so this time.

Holy crap. This man is magic with a belt. Spot on every single strike. Even knows the trick of switching sides so each cheek gets equal brunt. I forgot about bratting and blurted, “You’re so good at this!!” For a brief while, my whole world shut down and focused on his belt and nothing else. Gone was the stress, the work, the political quagmire, the losses I’ve endured lately, the money worries, all of it. Just the bliss of impact, of endorphins, of pleasureful pain. I seem to recall murmuring at some point, “You are making me so happy right now.” He has joined the ranks, in my mind, of the top strappers I know — Dr. Lectr, Paul Kennedy, InspectHerHide, and a few others.

But of course, my true colors never fully disappear. He had decided I was getting forty more, twenty on each side. When he was finished with the first twenty and switched sides, once again he teased, “How’s that tickling feel now?”

To which I replied, “Oh, fuck off.”

“Oooh, bad idea,” he said. “You just got ten more.” And he delivered; no breaks for an excited utterance. :-Þ  First the original twenty more planned, and then an additional five on each side. Can I take a moment and admit how utterly fucking hot that was?? (sigh)

This picture does not do the redness justice, at all. But y’all get the idea.

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He stayed for a while longer, we talked some more, but then reluctantly I had to get back to work (and he had to get on the freeway at rush hour, which sucked, but he seemed to take it in stride). The rest of my evening, it was hard to focus on work, but I had to force myself to, even though I was feeling blissed out and giddy. Slept like a baby. And sang in the car today on my way to get a hair cut. I haven’t done that for a long-ass time. Funny how kinky people are. Most people get like this after they get laid; I do after an ass-whooping.

Our consensus was, “Why did we wait so long to do this, and let’s not wait too long to do it again!” I hope he had as good a time as I did. 🙂 Thank you, Mr. W.

Shadow Lane 2018

This is late; I’ve always tried to do my post-party blogs as soon as possible after I get home, so everything will be fresh in my mind. Alas, that was not to be, as I had to jump right back into work that kept me chained to my desk for the rest of the week. Plus, I seem to have caught a cold. So reality hit hard and fast without any time to bask in the kinky afterglow, but, oh well. However, we had a great time! And I even managed to get a few pictures. So while I probably won’t remember everything in as great a detail, I can put out a basic timeline with the highlights of our weekend.

Incidentally, it seems I was worried for naught about my condition to play. Over three days, I played twelve times, four each day… and came home with not a mark on me. Not even a speckle.

Friday:

We got on the road on time in the morning, but the rental car (a Volvo! I got a free upgrade when they didn’t have the class of car I’d requested) decided to be problematic, giving us a warning that the tire pressure was low and we needed to “check and recalibrate.” We hadn’t even gone twenty miles. Crap. In a panic, I called the rental car place and the guy told me we needed to go to a Pep Boys or a Firestone, because they have a contract with them. I pleaded with him to please look one up for us, which he did, and gave me a Pep Boys that was out of our way, but not by a whole lot. So we drove to the address… guess what? No Pep Boys! By now, I’m in a state of apoplexy, so John got out of the car, looked at all the tires, then got back in and said, “They look fine to me. I say we just go.” And so we did. We lost about an hour, and I was a wreck imagining that we were going to have a blow-out or something, but that never happened, and we still made it to Vegas by 3:00. Fun start! But all was well once we got checked in and settled into our room.

After sleeping a bit, we changed and went to Joe’s (DrLectr’s) suite (960) for the end of the Vendor Fair. There began the mass of greetings and hugs and introductions. Our timing was a bit off, though, because shortly thereafter, people dispersed and went off to eat dinner, and the room parties weren’t starting until 9:00. So back to our room we went, noshed on some snacks and relaxed. I grabbed the newspaper and was checking out the front page when John said, “Oh, I need to get a picture of that, give me your phone.”

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What, he’s never seen a woman read the paper before? 😉

Later, we went to the Shadow Lane suite for a while, and then back to Joe’s, where I soon did my first scene with Roy (CalNation on Fet), who is always a favorite. There was a gentleman at this party who was new, and I struck up a conversation with him. He confessed that he had been on the receiving end, but he didn’t really know how to give a spanking. I invited him to come watch Roy and me, so he could see how it’s done.

Of course, the room was packed and all the available play space was taken up, but undaunted, we simply headed into the bathroom. Our friend politely watched and asked permission to take pictures, and we said yes.

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^^ I love this guy! Wish I could see him more than twice a year.

And of course, I can’t have a party weekend without a scene with Joe, who never fails to deliver.

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His suite, besides having two bedrooms, has a very large living room area and he gets three or four massage tables to set up for scenes, for anyone who wants to use them — they’re great for strappings, as you can by what’s lying next to me on the table.

Steve Fuller was there! He and I go way back, so it’s always a treat to see him. We had a lively scene in the bedroom, with him fabricating some nonsense or another about how I’d been “mean” to him. Say what? He’s as sharp as always; when he started moving down onto my thighs, I blurted “Hey, what are you doing down there?” To which he answered, “Mind your own business.” (How my own ass and thighs are not my business, I’ll never understand.)

Lots more chats and greetings and hugs — I was worried that our dear friends InspectHerHide and Ellie3 weren’t there, but it turned out they just arrived Friday night. Always soooooo happy to see them! IHH was jet-lagged and tired, but he said if I didn’t mind a lighter Friday-night scene, he’d love to play. Well, of course. Usually I like him to be my first scene of the weekend, but their late arrival made that not work out this time. But better late than not at all.

More hugs, more talk, and finally it was time to head to bed. Of course, things continue in 960 until the wee hours of the morning, but you know, I need to sleep. So off we went for the night.

Saturday:

Club Finn at noon in 960! An event that Joe conceived of a few years back, Club Finn is named after Fineous, our resident flogger. It’s like a spa time for the ladies — massages, sensual flogging, foot rubs, hair-brushing (hair, not backsides), plus champagne and chocolates. Roy had said he wanted to pamper me, but he was a bit late, so I signed up for a turn with a professional masseur who was attending the party and had even brought his own table complete with the face piece at the end. Oh, that was so good — too short, but he had a long list of ladies waiting. When I climbed off the table, I saw Roy sitting and talking with John, so I came over and sat at his feet, and he commenced to massaging my upper back, shoulders and neck for a wonderfully long time. Even after he was done massaging, I didn’t want to get up, so I sat with my head on his leg while we talked with others around us. So I daresay I got a lot of pampering in that hour and three-quarters! Also had a fun chat with Kat (InfamousK on Fet), reminding her of the time she reduced John to a stunned silence when she referred to him as “Erica’s bitch.” 😀 Later, when I was pestering John to stop talking already so we could go eat, he said, “Don’t be a b-witch!” Kat overheard. “B-witch??” “Yeah,” John answered. “I figured it’s nicer than, you know, that other word.”

“So,” Kat replied, deadpan, “does that mean I can call you Erica’s b-witch?”

Aaaaand once again, John was speechless, while Kat and I fell over each other on the couch laughing.

Finally, we went with our friend Mir to grab a bagel, and were joined by Mr. Woodland, a really great guy I’ve played with a couple of times before. He’s local, and we keep saying we should get together and hang out, but we never seem to make it happen. We hung out chatting and munching, and then it was time to head back to our room for a nap.

Later that evening, we went to another Suncoast party tradition, dinner at the steakhouse. We started doing that at 50 Freaks in 2013 and it became an annual thing; we’ve even gotten the same server (Laurence) every time. This time, even though we had the banquet room that can accommodate eighteen, we had a smaller, more intimate group of nine. I wore a new dress (John took a picture before we left):

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It was such fun — we sat across from Mr W and the stunning and statuesque Switch_Delta, and like every year, John made a toast to Joe and picked up his dinner. We figure that’s the very least we can do, after all he does for the parties — the open 24/7 suite, the snacks, the drinks, the events. I didn’t get champagne this time, but I had several sips of John’s “dessert,” a glass of 30-year aged tawny port. Oh, so good.

Later, it was back to 960 for the black-light DJ’ed dance party. At midnight, we had a surprise birthday cake for Ellie3, whose birthday was Monday. After that… I dunno. I’d played a couple of times (including a fantastic first scene with a man who goes by the name TanerHyde, yes, one n), but I was feeling a bit out of sorts. It was just too noisy in the room with the music — no one could have a conversation. It’s a tough call, I know; a lot of folks like the music loud and you can’t please everyone. People were going off to the bedrooms to play, but if you just wanted to talk in the main room, it was pretty difficult. My throat was getting sore and I was starting to feel overwhelmed. When I realized John was feeling the same way, we decided to take a break and go back to our room for a bit.

When we went into the hall, we found IHH, Ellie, Mr. W, Djinn and a few others sitting out there, having their own mini-party. Turns out the music was too much for them as well. When John and I walked by, we got a chorus of “You’re not going to bed, are you??” No, no, we reassured, just taking a break. Mr. W announced that he’d SEE ME shortly, and then everyone started clapping, making spanky sounds, as we walked away. “Erica’s in trouuuuuubllllle!” Ellie sang. (This was the last night they could do that, since everyone on the 9th floor was in our party. The next day, a few vanillas moved into some of the 9th floor rooms after some of our party left, so we had to keep all noise out of the hallway. Booo!)

We took a break in our room, freshened up a bit, and headed back out. People were still sitting in the hall, so we sat with them for a bit, but then I really, really wanted to play. So we went back in.

It was worth it; I ended up having a fabulous scene with Mr. W. He has a very strong hand, and when he started using both hands, I protested. “Hey! That’s cheating! You can’t use both hands!” “No?” he said. “Well, how about if I use NO hands?” When he leaned back on the bed and reached for his waist, I thought, oh shit, me and my big mouth. Sure enough, next thing I knew he had his belt whipped off, doubled over, and whacking me.

“Soooo,” he teased. “Two hands okay, then?” Argh. Fine. So not fair.

At least I liked a lot of the songs Bob the DJ was playing. I even danced a little when he played Aretha. But I was relieved when the music ended at 2:00 a.m. and we could talk again. We hung out chatting for a while longer — at 3:00, the party was still in full swing, everyone playing and talking and laughing. But by then, I was wiped out. Much as I wanted to stay, I knew I was done for the night. Besides, we had to get up for Strict Dave’s Punishment Court the next day at noon. We got to bed between 3:30 and 4:00.

Oh, wait! Almost forgot — a lovely, lovely man from England, whom I met several years ago (he came with the Northern Spanking group back in 2009) approached me and said he had a gift for me. Imagine my delight when he gave me a Beatles coffee mug! Not just any Beatles mug, either; instead of just one image, the entire cup is plastered with Beatles album covers all the way around.

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How cool is this?? I was so touched. Thank you, my thoughtful friend. ♥

Sunday:

John got me out of bed at 11:00 (yeah, we don’t do breakfast in Vegas); I showered, dressed, and went to get us coffee while John went to 960 to help set up for Dave’s Court. It was the usual great fun, with a lot of laughs. I haven’t been taken to court on a case for a few years — so far, I have a perfect record of winning all my cases (although I usually manage to get penalty swats from Dave anyway for dropping the f-bomb, which is considered contempt. Did I mention I do that on purpose?).

After court, John and I went downstairs to eat, peeking in to DuPar’s to see if anyone we knew was there. Turned out Bob the DJ and his wife S were just about to have lunch and asked us to join them, so we got a booth and had a nice late lunch and a great talk. I love how you never know who you’re going to meet up with at these things, the impromptu meals, etc.

At 5:00, there was Judicial Punishment in Joe’s room. That’s where they have “prison guards” and the women sign up to be “prisoners” and take a designated amount of strokes with either a cane, a paddle, or a strap. And all three are big and heavy versions of said implements. The standard amount is eight, although some do six and others do ten. The prisoners get to choose their guard (there are three), the implement, and the level of strokes — Light, Medium, Hard, or Severe. It’s all done sort of tongue-in-cheek melodramatic; the prisoners wear orange shirts and panties, and we’re each called out, one by one, to take our strokes, which Joe announces very emphatically. I’ve done this event a few times; I kind of consider it a personal challenge. The strokes are hard (I always choose the cane), but I figure I can take eight strokes of pretty much anything. Plus, I always pick SanDiegoCorey as the guard, and he knows I like it harder than medium, but not super hard either. Afterward, each woman heads for the “recovery area” (pillows and blankets piled up on the floor) and the next one comes out.

So I took my eight strokes, bent over a table with other guards holding me down. By stroke four, I was hollering. By the last one, I was kicking my feet. But I did it. 😀 What can I say, it’s a head space thing.

After that, people were hanging out talking, and I was approached by a rather handsome man I hadn’t seen before. He introduced himself (I’ll call him J) and said this was his first Shadow Lane party, but he’d been in the scene for over ten years. He was very polite and we talked a bit; he asked if I’d like to play later, and I said yes. More on him shortly.

John and I have a tradition on Sunday nights at these things: since things don’t really get started until 9:30-10:00, we take a long nap, get up and ready, do some preliminary packing, and then head to dinner around 9:00 at the Oyster House, a charming little restaurant in the hotel. It’s a perfect place to get a light bite, the food is good and we usually end up seeing people we know there. After that, we headed for 960 for the final blow-out.

The room was packed, they’d gotten pizza, and people were playing — the massage tables had various scenes going on, as per usual. I started chatting with Djinn and Mir, which went for a while, until one of them said, “Whoa,” with a mildly horrified face. I turned to see what they were looking at. Behind me, a couple was playing on one of the tables. She was kneeling on the floor, her upper body draped across the table… and he was behind her, kicking her in the back. Hard.

Oh, fuck.

Yeah. That again. The “Your Kink is Not My Kink and It’s OK, But You Still Can’t Do That At A Spanking Party” bit. This couple had clearly wandered in from the BDSM community, both dressed in black leather, and didn’t realize this isn’t a @#$%ing dungeon; this is for spanking/flogging/caning, but kicking and beating the shit out of someone is generally not appreciated in the main room. It got worse… she ended up sprawled face down on the carpet beside the table, and he was stomping on her. With his boots on. On her low back, on her butt, interspersed with more kicks. To be fair, she didn’t look like she was objecting to it. But fuck that. You do not play like this at a spanking party. You just don’t.

People started asking “Where’s Joe?”, but he had left the room temporarily. Meanwhile, I couldn’t stand another minute of this. I looked across the room and saw J, the man who had talked with me earlier. I walked straight up to him. “Still want to play?” I asked. “Absolutely,” he said. “Then, please, do me a favor,” I implored, taking his hand. “Take me away from this awful scene and make me forget I ever saw it.” “I can do that,” he grinned, and he took me into one of the bedrooms.

Oh. My. God. What happened after that was one of the most delicious scenes of my weekend.

We talked a bit beforehand; he had a small toy bag, and he checked in with me about what was OK to use (the only thing I said no to was a nasty looking wooden paddle). He said he liked to build things up slowly, keep people guessing, alternate spanking with massage, things like that. Sounded good to me! So we did an OTK warm-up with his hand, and then he had me lie on the bed, with a pillow under my hips. And then he proceeded to use all his different toys, at different levels of intensity, speed, etc, with long pauses, wonderful massage strokes… I never knew what he was going to do next. He’d lull me into a relaxed state with an extended massage, and then WHACK! he’d snap a strap on me. Sneaky devil! And I loved it.

The scene went on for quite a while — I lost track of time — and when we were done, I was just a pile of mush on that bed. “So, did I make you forget?” he asked. Oh, you betcha. I asked him if he was on FetLife or any other social media, but he said no, he’s very private. So, since he isn’t local, I guess I won’t see him again until next year. *sigh*

When I came back out into the main room, I asked what had happened with Mr. Kicky-Stompy. Several people were upset (so no, it’s not just me!), and someone texted Joe and told him to come back ASAP. When Joe came back, the woman was still sprawled on the carpet, and the man was standing over her, taking off his pants. I do not want to think about what he was about to do. Joe stopped him and said, “I’m sorry, but you really can’t do play like this here. If you like, you can come back after 4:00 a.m. — people tend to do the darker scenes then.” And that was that. Good call. By that hour, the mainstream party has gone to bed and just the die-hards are still up.

I know if I were to talk about this on FetLife, I’d get a ration of noise about it, people telling me I’m narrow-minded and judgmental and non-accepting of other people’s kinks and blah blah blah. But you know, IDGAF. I saw plenty of scenes like this when John and I used to go to dungeon parties… and that’s why I stopped going to dungeon parties and started attending spanking parties. Because I don’t want to see a man kicking the shit out of a woman. Sheesh, draw and quarter me.

Anyway… I had one more delicious scene with Roy, harder than the one on Friday, and we both worked up a sweat, as the bedroom for whatever reason had gotten very warm. I had been waiting for him; he’d come up to me earlier, asking if I wanted to play, and of course I said yes. But then he said, “Give me about a half-hour, okay?” Argh. Figures, while I was waiting for him, two people asked me to play, including John Osborne of Triple A Spanking. I felt so lame, saying I was waiting for someone to come back and play, but it was the truth. I told John, “If he doesn’t come back, I’m all yours!” But then he did come back. Sorry, John, if you’re reading this! Next time!

And finally… how do I end my party weekends, kids? With a flogging from Fineous. The perfect relaxing, intense ending. As luck would have it, one of the tables in the main room freed up, so we didn’t have to use the hot bedroom. I stripped everything off but my panties, stretched out on the table with a wedge pillow under my hips, and gave myself over to the magical Fineous and his fabulous floggers. It went on and on… I could hear the noise around me, the talk, the laughing, the smacking, but somehow it all blurred and receded, and all I could do was feel. I was so relaxed, my arms were dangling limply off the table sides. After the flogging, he continued with a full-body massage, neck to toes, and ladies and gentlemen, I was done. I was in LaLaLand, blissed out, happy, blood thrumming and fizzing, feeling great. Perfection.

I was looking for John, but couldn’t find him. Someone said, “I think he’s in the bedroom,” so I walked in, and what did I see? John on the bed, with Joe’s utterly adorable girlfriend AyleeInTheory (Fet name) across his lap. John never plays at these parties… but apparently she asked him. And this girl is tough — she self-identifies as a masochist and she plays hard, even though she’s a little bitty thing. So she could take John’s heavy hand. I was delighted to see this. 🙂 I like to see John having fun, and I knew it tickled him that this cutie-pie approached him for a scene. He’s actually an excellent spanker, but he never shows off his prowess at these events, preferring to talk and let me do the playing.

And then it was time to go. We had to get up at 7:00 a.m., just a few short hours from now. So, reluctantly, we went around saying our goodbyes, collecting hugs, then went back to our room and tumbled into bed around 4:00.

We were checked out and on the road by 8:00. Made one stop in Baker, and then pushed through all the way home. There was traffic, so it took us about five hours, but we made it without any mishap (and no, we didn’t blow a tire). Good news — when I brought the car back the next day, I told the manager about the warning light and the hassle trying to find a Pep Boys to no avail because of incorrect directions, the stress, etc. She was apologetic and very nice, taking 20% off the bill. Good customer relations!

So goes another Shadow Lane. It came and went too quickly. But it was a fun, pretty much drama-free party. I got to play quite a bit. John had a great time too. Neither one of us got sick. There were several people I really missed seeing, but I did my best to focus on who was there, not who wasn’t. I wish I could see these people more than twice a year. Maybe when John or I win the lottery, we’ll travel to every party. 🙂 In the meantime, I appreciate the good times we get to have, and our friends. To everyone who hugged me, talked to me, played with me, made me laugh… Alex Maddy Adriana T&S Jai Scott Jen Michael Kevin Mark Katy Kate Stephen Kelley Loren Pat Samantha Sarah John etc. etc. etc…. I love you guys. Sorry I can’t mention each and every one of you, but you know who you are. See you next time.

(whew) Have a great weekend, y’all.

The more I experience…

…the less I know, it seems. Specifically, about implements.

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The above photo contains but a mere sampling of what’s out there to use on a spanking bottom. I’ve probably felt them all at some point or another. You’d think after 20+ years, I’d be an expert on implements and how they feel. But, aside from some general knowledge, I remain woefully in the dark. Which doesn’t help my ass any.

This post was precipitated by my getting together with an old FetLife friend for coffee last week, someone I haven’t seen in seven years. We chatted it up for a couple of hours and of course the subject of implements came up. He showed me a picture on his phone of his “punishment paddle” and I immediately said that would be a hard limit for me.

I’ve often said I don’t like wood and I prefer leather. However, “wood” is ridiculously general — it doesn’t account for the myriad types, thicknesses, etc. All wooden implements are not created equal. All woods are not created equal. I have heard many times that some are lighter, some are dense, some are quite tolerable and others are practically unbearable. But damned if I know which is which.

I do know that thick, heavy frat-style wooden paddles are a hard limit. When I said nay to my friend’s photo, he asked why. I said it’s just pure pain to me, no pleasure whatsoever, and the pain is BAD. I can’t absorb the impact; it thuds me down to the bone. “Even if it’s lower on the butt? Maybe people are hitting you too high with it,” he suggested. Nope. Even if it’s on the fleshiest part of my sit spots, I feel this horrible, heavy thud deep within my sit bones, and it’s wretched. I’m a tad more willing about other wood, like lighter paddles, hairbrushes and spoons, but even those are hard for me to take. I will take them on video a lot more willingly than in a private scene that’s for mutual pleasure, because they really don’t pleasure me.

So, generally, one would think leather is the ticket for me, right? Not necessarily. Because all leather implements aren’t created equal either, damn them. Thickness comes into play again, as well as wear. A buttery soft, well worn flexible strap feels entirely different from a stiff brand new one. Straps can run the gamut from a sensual snap to sheer agony. And I can’t tell just from looking at them which it’s going to be. I have made godawful mistakes in choosing implements at parties before: sometimes the most innocent looking items can be utter torture. Conversely, sometime the items that look the meanest can be fairly innocuous.

I like leather implements in general. But one of the worst things I ever felt was a double razor strap. Yeah, it was flexible. It was also thick, very heavy and very thuddy. I have made many people laugh by saying it felt like being hit with a side of beef.

And speaking of flexibility — if the give of leather feels so much more acceptable to me, then wouldn’t it stand to reason that other materials with give would also work?

Again, not necessarily.

I recall a scene at a party, many years ago, when I was playing with a top I knew well, and I knew the feel of his implements. He had a strap I loved to hate, and he wielded it with precision and evil intent. After I’d played a prank on him, he put a blindfold on me and then proceeded to strap the bejesus out of me. From the start, it hurt like hell, like nothing I remembered. I screamed and squawked and fussed, and he laughed at me. “What’s wrong?” he taunted. “It’s just my strap! You’ve felt it before! What’s the matter, are you losing your tolerance?” I gritted my teeth and bore it, took all he gave, even though my mind was screaming, “What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I take this? Why is this hurting so much?? Aaaaaaaagh!” Perhaps I was having an off night? A really off night?

It wasn’t until the next day that I found out from his girlfriend that the strap was NOT leather — it was rubber. Hence the blindfold, so I couldn’t see it. Grrrrr. I was marked like crazy, too. Deep bruises.

So now rubber is pretty much a hard limit as well. Although I guess Delrin is a sort of rubber, or similar? I will take a Delrin cane, although they hurt like a bitch.

Even canes don’t all feel the same. If I say in a general statement that canes are OK to use on me, what am I letting myself in for? I’ve never experienced a Singapore-style cane, nor do I want to. But a proper rattan caning, with a thin whippy one, in the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing? Intense, but in the right head space, amazing.

I have felt everything, I think. From canes to belts to brushes to carpet beaters to tawses to crops to paddles to whips. I used to pride myself on what I could take. Nowadays, I find my desires changing. I still like to play hard… but only, ONLY if it’s someone whom I know is going to be measured, even, and careful. I no longer have any tolerance for stray shots–too high, too low, wrapping to the sides. I don’t like unevenness in cheekage. These days, I appreciate accurate and skilled players more than ever. The types I can trust with anything in their hands, no matter what it is, and know I’ll be safe and given just the right amount of pain. It’s a rarity, I’m afraid. Tops can be wonderful and kind and sensitive and skillful and many wonderful things, but still not adept with all the toys.

Perhaps now that I’m older, now that I’ve been doing this for a while, I don’t feel like I have to prove myself? (And to whom… to the scene, or to my own self?) I no longer have to show the world that I can get my ass beat all to hell with everything but the weed whacker. Or maybe I just don’t want that much pain and damage anymore? I really don’t know. But it does make me wish I understood the makings, the physics of implements better, so I could make the best choices for my play. Because, like everything else, I want quality over quantity.

But of course, there’s always hands. 🙂

Speaking of everything but the weed whacker — remember this?

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Anyone else find they have been fooled by implements before? Or that something they used to like is no longer acceptable? Vice versa? Has anyone’s tolerance levels changed?

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