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 “hairbrush”

Slow news week

Happy Hump Day. Not a whole lot going on this week; I am busy with work, but otherwise, little to report. I did manage to have a brief visit with Steve yesterday, but it had to be quick, because I had a dental appointment at 1:30. One of my back teeth is bothering me. Not horrible, just annoying. The weird part is that it’s a tooth that’s had a root canal, so how the hell can it be hurting?? The nerves are removed! It’s just sort of a dull ache, and most of the time I’m not even aware of it, but I can’t help wondering what it might be. John, bless his heart, damn near gave me a heart attack by suggesting that maybe I had a cracked root and needed to have the tooth pulled. Auggghhhh! Fortunately, when the dentist took an X-ray, he didn’t see any cracks or infection. He said the gum was healthy too. What gives? Stupid teeth. He said I should monitor it and let him know if it gets worse. Swell. Well, at least I don’t have to have any sort of oral surgery any time soon.

Steve, of course, loved the story of Saturday night and the bath brush. He declared that he wanted to use hairbrushes yesterday (I have two of them) as well as my wooden spoon. All wood! Ugh! But because we had so little time, I guess he was trying to get the most bang for his buck. At least this pain was the good kind. I was so tense and nervous about the dentist, and Steve helped me let go a bit and relax. Of course, once I got there at 1:30, my nerves kicked back into high gear. (sigh) Did I mention that John actually sleeps through dental work? I consider myself lucky if I don’t have a coronary during a filling.

Anyway, no pictures, again. I’m hoping we’ll take some fun ones when we have our fourth anniversary in a couple of weeks. Meanwhile, I am trying to get the hang of taking decent mirror selfies, but I don’t seem to have the knack. I twist and turn and position the phone in one hand, but then I’m not dexterous enough to maneuver my thumb over the shoot area. I get weird angles and blurry photos and all kinds of nonsense. This was the best I could do:


Sorry, kids. Guess I’m just not going to be doing too many butt selfies (or belfies or buttfies or whatever the hell they’re called).

In the news: Seems like the GOP is going after porn in America, calling it a “public health crisis” as well as a “public menace.” Really? Health crisis? Funny… I did fetish porn for fifteen years and my health is just fine. Everyone I know in this industry is also quite well. But thanks for your concern, guys. Go do something useful.

And finally — in August 2010, I finally got off MySpace (MyWhat??) and started blogging on a designated blog site (first Blogspot, then WordPress). Since then, I’ve amassed quite a few posts. This one is #994, so I am closing in on Post #1000. So, readers… what shall I write about for that milestone? Thoughts?

Off to the showers with me.

Ups and downs

Hard to believe the Shadow Lane party was just a week ago. It feels so much longer than that.

Around midweek last week, I started feeling small waves of post-party drop in between the bouts of writing, commenting, laughing and feeling lingering euphoria over all the fun memories. I shook the blues off Wednesday and then again Thursday. Little things were bothering me, but I chalked them up to the usual post-party letdown and refused to take them seriously.

Friday, I was happy that my party blog got “Chross’d.” But then later, the drop returned, and the inevitable crash I’d been fending off hit late Friday night. J had fallen asleep on the couch and awoke to the sound of my sniffling beside him. Stupid.

It didn’t help that yesterday we had to drive to see my mom and stepdad. Note to self: Do NOT plan anything depressing on the weekend following a wonderful spanking party. What usually feels unpleasant to me felt particularly unbearable yesterday. It takes about an hour-and-a-half to get to my folks’ place from J’s, but yesterday afternoon there was a surprising dearth of traffic and we got there in an hour-and-a-quarter. I told J, let’s sit in the car and talk for a few minutes; I don’t want to go in early. I know, I’m awful! (sigh)

Anyway, the visit was the usual. My mother’s child-like joy to see me wrung my heart. Both she and my stepdad looked feeble and doddering and I was struck once again with the cruelty of life that goes on much longer in quantity than it does in quality. We went to dinner and then back to their place, which was stuffy and hot and the walls were closing in on me, so we dashed out of there at 9:00. The visit had only been 3 1/2 hours, but I couldn’t help it. I’d run out of things to say and I couldn’t look at either one of them any longer. My mother had asked for my address and phone number, so she could give them to her mother. Uhhhhh… Mom? Your mother passed away in 1981. “Really? She did? That long ago?” I can’t stand it. I just can’t.

When we got home, I felt profound fatigue and all I wanted to do was curl up into a ball in bed and go to sleep for about 12 hours. Fortunately, J knew what I needed better than I did. We were watching 48 Hours; the alleged murderers of four young girls had been interrogated for hours and hours by the police until they cracked and confessed, and then later recanted the confession. After the show, J took me by the hand and escorted me into the bedroom, saying he had some questions to ask me. “Nooooooooo,” I groaned, knowing what was coming. “I’m too tired.”

Thank goodness, he didn’t listen.

We had an “interrogation” scene with the hairbrush. He kept trying to get me to confess to something or another (made up, of course), but I was too stubborn to do so. After a while, I guess he realized this couldn’t go on forever, so he said we’d have to continue the interrogation with “a deeper probe.” (blushing) Sorry if this is TMI, but I guess I really, really needed some wild sexual release, to feel attractive and wanted and exciting. I screamed and hollered the walls down.

Today I felt better, but tonight, back home, I’m feeling sad again. Oh, screw it. It is what it is. I’m reading notes and comments from others who are also going through post-party withdrawal, so this is nothing freakish. And it will pass. Soon, my interview with Richard will be up on his site; that will make me smile.

My job is to not think too much. It’s not good for me when I’m feeling fragile.

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