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”

Mini travel adventure #2

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

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

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

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

Remember this. We’ll return to it later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was mistaken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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:

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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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