Sweet relief

It had been a while, but last Thursday, I got to have a delicious fix. You know, that special cocktail of pain and pleasure and endorphins and firing synapses and all that hot sweetness that we spankos understand. And damn, did I need it.

I hadn’t seen D since our first play time a month ago, and I wanted to very much, but I’m not the one with two jobs and crappy commutes. I knew I had to wait and be patient. In the meantime, things have been crazy stressful this month. John was dealing with a hearing at work concerning his ongoing issues with them (yes, the saga continues), and I think the stress of it weakened him and he got sick with some sort of intestinal bug. All he wanted to do was sleep, and he’d stopped eating. The last time that happened, he ended up in the hospital with a strep infection that nearly killed him, so of course I was in a state of near-panic for days, until he went to the doctor. Sure enough, he’d contracted a secondary bacterial infection and they put him on antibiotics, which helped right away. But between worrying about him, trying to focus on my work, dealing with my feelings about skipping Shadow Lane and why, and the ongoing bad news every freaking day, I was in a state. And working out only goes so far, you know?

Soooooo… on Thursday morning when I heard from D, asking if I was available later that afternoon, I considered it — for about three and a half seconds. You guys know me; I’m all about plans and schedules and spontaneity makes me break out in hives. But damned if I was going to say no to this! I wanted to see him. I wanted to play. I wanted to forget about everything for a couple of hours.

He said he’d know for sure if he could make it by 2:30. So I swung into action, doing two loads of laundry, working, getting a workout in, showering, done with everything by 2:30. I figured if he could make it, I’d cleared away the immediate responsibilities. And if he couldn’t, then I’d just be freed up to do some more work. Win-win. But of course, it was so much better that he confirmed yes. 🙂

He was at my door by 4:15, looking sharp as ever in his business suit. It was nearly 100 degrees outside, and I had the A/C and ceiling fan going full blast, but I knew he’d still be uncomfortably warm so encouraged him to take off his jacket and tie. He’d requested that I put out the “attitude adjustment tools” again; this time, I very sweetly laid them out on the bar instead of putting them in the trash can. I did say that there’s nothing wrong with my attitude, however. We sat on the couch, and he started unbuttoning his cuffs. This time, I had the presence of mind to stop him and take a picture. Because, really, isn’t this one of the hottest fucking sights there is for us bottoms?

While he was rolling up his sleeves, he was calmly regaling me with some story about why men’s shirts have two buttons side by side on the cuffs. Mind you, normally I enjoy trivia like this, but considering I was glazing over watching those forearms make an appearance, I honestly couldn’t care less at the moment if his cuffs had one button or two, snaps, or freaking safety pins. So I murmured, “Wow, that’s… fascinating.”

“Oooh, condescending! Ohhhkay,” he grinned. I tried to backpedal a bit, saying, “Well, it is interesting… I didn’t know that.” (Pause.) And then I added, “Nor did I care.”

(Just had a memory of Danny from long ago — one of his favorite scold-y phrases. “Oh, Erica. When will you learn??” To which I always answered, “How about never? Does never work for you?” Clearly, I still haven’t learned.)

Our scene was a long one, with multiple parts. We started with me OTK on my couch, with his hand. Moved to me bending over my desk, with his hand and (I think) my leather paddle. Break for a hug with him sitting in my recliner and me on my knees before him, and then he lifted me up and over the arm of the recliner and continued spanking. And finally, just like our first time, he brought me over to the dining room chair and put me back OTK there, picking up my heart-shaped paddle.

He was toppier this time, I noticed. “Come on, stick that butt out. Arch your back, up on those toes.” I may or may not have called him a “fucking taskmaster” at some point. However, whenever I got into the right position, he’d croon, “Just like that. Good girl.” (What is it about the phrases “good girl” and “bad girl” that push so damn many buttons in equal measure?)

Oh, and while we’re on the subject of hot buttons — along with the aforementioned sleeve rolling, is there anything more delicious than a hand that wanders up the back of your neck, fingers slowly crawling, caressing, then swiftly tightening at the base of your skull? Never pulling, just a firm grip that lets you know you’re going nowhere. D has that down as well.

While I was over my desk, he stopped for a moment, saying he wanted to take a picture so that I could see how I was already marking. I appreciated how conscientious he was. He quickly snapped the shot, showed me, and I said, “It’s fine.” “You sure?” “Yes, D. Please don’t stop.” “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not done,” he assured me. Thank goodness.

(Sorry, kids, this picture’s a little rude, even though I’ve doctored it a bit):

The final scene in the dining room chair was what broke through all the crap. I had felt myself softening and transitioning as we moved through each step, feeling like a knot inside was being gently and persistently worked open. As the pain and intensity escalated and I reached my threshold, I remember thinking, “I need this so much. Thank you. Thank you.” There are few things more sublime than when you reach that pinnacle of vulnerability and you feel like you can just fall and strong hands will catch you. Toward the end, my feet were twisting and flying, my groans were coming right up from my gut, and I was out of my head, off the hamster wheel. My voice broke and the tears began. There wasn’t one bit of tension left in my body.

He took me to the couch and held me, soothing me, and I buried my face and wept. As I started to calm, the usual bit of self-consciousness slipped back. Some women look very pretty when they cry. I’m not one of them. And I can’t help remember what Amber “Pixie” Wells used to say about the dilemma of crying after a scene: “Tears are hot, but snot is not.” Oh, and my mascara wasn’t waterproof. So sexy. But, oh well. He didn’t seem to mind.

After I’d recovered a bit, he gave me another wonderful massage with lotion. I could really get used to this, y’all. Then we chatted for a while, heart rates calming, skin cooling, returning to normal. And well, of course, I couldn’t stay well behaved for very long, could I? I swear, I really never do learn. Sooner or later, I’m always going to revert back to mischief and sass. It usually doesn’t take very long, even after the most intense of scenes. Still, I don’t think D is quite used to me, because he was incredulous.

“You’re being naughty!” he exclaimed. “Yup,” I agreed. And just like that, he went from zero to Top in a heartbeat. His body language, voice, everything changed instantly. “Get over my knee, now,” he commanded.

Uh… what? But… we already had aftercare and everything. But… I’m all lotioned and stuff! But… Yeah. Miss Usually Articulate, all I could do was sputter, “But… but…”

“Don’t ‘but’ me,” he said firmly, pulling me into position. The spanking wasn’t super hard or long, but after all that had gone down earlier, it stung fiercely. When he sat me back up, I sulked, “Well… that was mean!”

(No, it really wasn’t. It was fucking hot. But we don’t have to tell him that, right?) 😀

Shortly thereafter, he had to leave. I was kind of sub-spacey, goofy, and I went to get his suit jacket. Of course, when I handed it to him, I managed to hold it upside down, dumping his wallet and keys and everything else out of his pockets. Ugh. Poetry in motion, that’s me. Finally managed to get the coat back on him, and then I sat down and watched with no doubt what was a dorky, dreamy face while he put his tie and his shoes back on. And then he was off.

I forgot to ask him for more pictures after we were done. So a couple of hours later, I took a picture myself. As you can see, I had faded substantially by then.

Interestingly, even though we played much harder this time, I wasn’t marked as when we played the first time. By Friday, there was little more than a mild blush on my skin. I was sore, though. Happily so.

The endorphin cocktail remained fizzing in my system the rest of the evening and all the next day. Funny how all the BS goes away for a while. Or maybe it’s still there and I just don’t care.

Thank you, D. Come around and see me again soon, won’t you?

 

 

A reader’s question & a question for my readers

After my last post, I got a thought-provoking comment regarding the thigh slaps from Steve. Reader Mark commented that it’s clear that Steve doesn’t do anything to me that I don’t really want, so why exactly do I like having my thighs spanked, and why did I want it this time?

It’s not really that I like having my thighs spanked. That is what I’d call a soft limit; it’s not something I crave, and I certainly don’t want every top I play with to do that. But it’s not an absolute NO either. It’s a bit of edge play, a little boundary testing. I do have fun pushing my tops a bit, with teasing and provocative comments. But I like them to push back a little too. If they don’t react, then it isn’t any fun.

While I don’t get into spanking for true punishment, I do get off on a disciplinary side to it — more of a head space than physical discomfort. In the stories I read, tops have all sorts of secondary activity aside from spanking to send the bottom a message — things like butt plugs, ginger, capsaicin cream or mouth-soaping. All of which come under the heading of NO FUCKING WAY for me. So, the smacks to the thighs are Steve’s go-to for when I push him too far. He doesn’t hit that hard, never uses anything but his hand… he doesn’t need to. That area is so very sensitive, it doesn’t take much. But those few strikes will put me in a different head space. I hate the pain, I feel angry at first, then I shift into a more compliant state, my body relaxes, I move into acceptance. I stop fighting. My edginess softens. I give myself over.

What can I say — it’s all part of these oh so fun and twisted games we play.

And while we’re on the subject of soft limits and kink things we’re not all that crazy about, I have an informal poll for my bottom/sub/DD or D/s practicing readers, whatever you choose to call yourselves.

Say there’s something kink-wise that you don’t really care for, but your top/dom/whatever loves it. Say it’s not one of your hard limits, and the next time you’re scening, he says he’d like you to do X. (As I always do, for simplicity’s sake, I’m assuming the M/F orientation. Feel free to switch it up in your mind.) You groan and say, “Oh, do I have to?”

Which of the following two answers would you prefer to hear? (in a calm, deliberate tone, of course)

A: “You know better than to ask me that. Yes, you have to, because I said so.”

B: “No, you don’t have to; this is about consent. Use your safeword if you need to. But it would please me if you did it — do you want to please me?”

Think about it. I would love to hear from my readers on this, before I reveal my own preference and why. I don’t want people to agree with me; I want their real opinion.

It’s Friday. It’s dark and cloudy and raining. I have a clean apartment, clean laundry and freshly shampooed carpets. I’m heading for John’s tonight. For the moment, I am feeling somewhat peaceful.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Well, what do YOU call it?

I love Girls’ Nights Out. Alex, SpankCake and I never fail to have interesting discussions on all sorts of topics. Classy, lofty topics, you understand. We’ll talk about world affairs, then segue seamlessly into classic literature, deconstruct a Shakespearean play or two, and wind up the evening with a scintillating discourse about the pros and cons of stem cell research.

Oh, bullshit. We talk about boys, spanking, and sex. Not necessarily in that order.

So, it’s no secret how much I loathe and detest the “c” word. However, because I copy-edit erotica, I have become somewhat inured to it. Still hate it, still won’t say it, still won’t write it, but I can deal with it. So when Alex occasionally slips, lets it fly and then sheepishly says, “Sorry, Erica,” I just laugh.

But if I don’t use the word, then what do I use?

I think I damn near made both Alex and SC do spit-takes tonight. We were talking about play partners at parties, casual play, etc., and how you often know next to nothing about the people you play with. “I mean, just because a guy’s spanked me a few times and had his fingers in my snatch doesn’t mean I know him,” I quipped.

“Erica said ‘snatch,'”Alex crowed, picking up her phone. “I like the word ‘snatch,'” I retorted. What did she do? Yup. Tweeted this:

“I like the word ‘snatch’!” @EricaLScott

Harrumph. Well, I do! It’s a great word! So descriptive. Plus, it’s never used as a pejorative, unlike the “c” word. When was the last time you heard someone say, “God, she’s such a snatch!” ?

So, another epic night with my girls. 🙂

In other news, I think I may have a crush on my new chiropractor. He’s just a little too gleeful about inflicting pain on my person and damned if that doesn’t make my kinky little self squirm. He’s a big bear of a guy with very strong hands, and when he’s digging his fingers into my low back, my hips, my scapula, and I’m moaning, he’s saying stuff like “Ah, there it is. Happy Monday!” Or, “Come on, I’m barely touching you. I’m dying to go much harder.” He calls me “my dear” frequently, which I always associate with toppy men. And he makes me feel like a very little bitty person — not young little, but size little. “You’re such a waif,” he said.  I protested and said I am not a waif, and he scoffed, “Oh please. I could throw you like a pizza.” Well. Plus, he makes me laugh so much, I forget he’s practically killing me. “Take a deep breath, relax, and pretend you trust me,” he said right before he damn near took my head off.

I used to see my old chiro every six weeks or so. I have a feeling I might see this one more often… Damn. I’m twisted in more ways than one.

I sure hope Steve makes it tomorrow. Between Snatch Chat and having big hands all over me today, I’m a bit hot and bothered.

 

The finger

No, no, not this one…

This one.

The oh-so-sexy beckoning, “come here” finger.

(Note: for simplicity’s sake and my own orientation, I’m imagining a man’s finger. Feel free to replace it in your mind with a woman’s finger if you prefer.)

That single curling digit can convey so many messages.

“Come here, I want to kiss you.”

“Come here, I want to [do a hell of a lot more than kiss you].”

But especially, for those of us in the spanko persuasion:

“I want to spank you. Come here. Now.”

Is this a trigger for you? (The good kind, I mean.) It is for me. There are certain physical gestures that will weaken my knees and liquefy my innards without the man having to say a single word. The rolling up of the sleeves. The removing of the belt. Perhaps a raised eyebrow in a stern face. And yes, that beckoning finger. Come to me. Don’t make me come get you, little girl.

Sometimes, just to be perverse (who, meeee?), I resist. Once when Steve was here, he was sitting on the couch and I was in the kitchen. He beckoned me with his finger and patted his lap. I smiled and shrugged, staying where I was. “Come here,” he said. “Don’t wanna,” I answered. Of course, his solution was to get up, come over and pick me up, and then haul me over to the couch. Mind you, that was hot too.

But, contrariness aside, a simple curled finger will call forth my submission. I will melt, and I will go to him.

One of the hottest moments for me at the last Shadow Lane party occurred on Saturday night, as I sat on one of the couches gleefully chatting with girlfriends. I glanced up and across the room, and locked eyes with the handsome gentleman I’d been dying to play with. He sat casually at the bar, surveying the room, and when our eyes met, he smiled. And beckoned me with that single finger.

I startled. I pointed to myself and mouthed, “Me?” He nodded. I got up, heart going into overdrive, and made my way across the room as he watched. It was both the longest and the shortest walk.

The scene that followed was delicious, as I’d detailed in my party report. But it all started, for me, with the curl of a finger.

Anyone relate?

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need a shower.