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 “paddle”

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?

Birthday love for John!

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I wish we didn’t have to work and could be together today, but Friday will be here soon enough. ♥  I am so far behind on everything — I haven’t baked his birthday brownies yet, nor have I bought a card… ack! And it doesn’t help that he’s impossible to buy presents for, because he never wants anything. (So give him a gift card, right? Wrong. He hates gift cards. Sigh.) Oh well. Happiest of birthdays, sweetie! Love you!

In other news, I saw Steve yesterday, first time in a couple of weeks, and he wanted to make sure the spanking was heartfelt. So he used the heart-shaped paddle. (insert massive eye roll here)

And of course, because there is a frustrated artist somewhere in him, he was obsessed with getting a heart-shaped red mark on my butt. Do you think he succeeded? He certainly tried hard enough.

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But really, I’m not complaining. I was happy. See?

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Must get work done — going to dinner with my girls tonight! Happy Hump Day.

A rock feels no pain…

…and an island never cries.

For those unfamiliar, that is the last line of a Simon and Garfunkel classic, “I Am A Rock.” If you don’t know it, Google it, play it. it’s a great song, albeit depressing.

It used to be my anthem. And sometimes, it still returns to me.

Sometimes, I simply get so damn sick of feeling so much. The past few weeks have been fraught with feeling: loss, insecurity, and that old “I’m not enough” tape playing yet again. I have not talked about it here. As the Green Day song “Paranoid” goes: “Do you have the time, to listen to me whine?” No, you don’t. I don’t blame you. I’m sick of hearing me whine too.

Just read this on Twitter today, of all places:

Stop telling people about your problems. 20% don’t care and the other 80% are glad you have them.

Ouch. Even I can’t bring myself to be that cynical. But there is some truth there. In the world of social media where oversharing is all too easy, one can get carried away and talk way too damn much.

Which, of course, is born of feeling too damn much.

Then, in the midst of all this emotional whirlwind (and getting sick on top of it), Steve did something that (these are his own words, not mine) was stupid and bone-headed. In the overall scheme of things, it wasn’t that big of a deal. But it was the final impetus I needed to send me into another frame of mind, one that is shut down. Where I retreat, where I push my feelings down so deep, I lose them temporarily.

It’s a relief. Kind of like I imagine the relief addicts feel when they take that pill, gulp that drink. Oblivion. No more neediness, no more hurt.

I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain…

When Steve arrived yesterday, I was cordial and welcoming, as always. I hugged him, sat on the couch with him, asked him all about his vacation. And we did talk about his faux pas. He fully acknowledged it, he apologized. One thing I’ve always liked about this man: he never says, “I’m sorry you feel that way.” He will come right out and say, “I’m sorry I did that. I was an ass.” We even joked about it. But I was edgy.

In my bubble, I was reserved. Somewhere deep within, my subconscious was telling me to remain stoic, to not feel. To keep myself safe and protected. I had to keep my guard up, or else I’d be vulnerable.

I build walls… a fortress deep and mighty…

Steve knew I wasn’t there. “I want you back,” he said. “I want you to come back to me.”

Silly man. I’m sitting right here. But I knew that wasn’t what he meant.

“I think we both need for you to get over my knee, right now.”

Sure. Whatever. Mechanically, I assumed the position. Without preamble, he pulled my leggings and panties down and began.

I experienced pain differently yesterday. I was aware of it, but I was somehow removed from it. My body processed and absorbed it, but in my mind, it was almost as if it was happening to someone else. I did not have my usual reactions and movements; I was relatively still, and I made little sound.

Don’t feel. Don’t feel.

He asked me questions, making me stay engaged. I answered with monosyllables.

His hand was powerful and painful. But my sole acknowledgments of the pain were my feet twisting together, and my left hand clutching the afghan on the couch. He noticed, and gently untangled my fingers. I then thrust both hands under me, hunkering down.

He spanked hard. He knew he was spanking hard. I knew why. I knew what he wanted; he wanted me to feel. But I couldn’t give him that. He’d stop now and then, to caress, to assess the heat and redness. But then he’d start again. My upper thighs were getting a great deal of attention today, along with my backside.

“My hand hasn’t even begun to get tired,” he remarked after a long while. “I could do this for another hour if I have to.”

Go ahead. Knock yourself out.

But I knew he wouldn’t do that. He’s not a brute.

When he finally stopped and pulled me up into his lap, I was limp. I was sniffling, but not outright weeping. Normally, I will curl into him and wrap my arm around his neck. Today, my arm flopped against his chest.

“I love you, you know,” he said.

This was the part where I say it back. But I didn’t want to, couldn’t bring myself to. No. Don’t feel.

If I never loved, I never would have cried…

He took me into the bedroom, where I put myself over the pillows as he gathered a few implements. I still felt like I was behind a stone wall of sorts, but despite that, the pain was beginning to break through. I am only flesh and blood, not brick.

I touch no one, and no one touches me…

This time, I reacted more, with moans. I felt them coming up from my gut. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

He still asked questions. But now, all I could do was either nod or shake my head. Even the monosyllables were too much effort.

“We’re almost done,” he assured, picking up the heart-shaped paddle. Figured that’s the one that hurts so damn much. I guess anything to do with hearts has a way of doing that.

And wouldn’t you know it, that @#$%ing heart broke through.

My reserve crumbled; I felt it go. And then, without any forethought, I whispered one sentence:

“Please stop hurting me.”

I don’t think I was talking about the paddle at that point. And I really have no idea if I was talking to Steve, or to the universe in general. Please stop hurting me. I’m so tired of hurting.

It didn’t matter. Immediately, I heard the thud of the paddle as it hit my bed. And then he gathered me in his arms once more.

“Please,” he murmured. “Do something. Hold onto me, grab my shirt, anything.”

I did. Once again, as I’ve done so many, many times, I clung to him as if he were a lifeboat in a storm. I balled up his t-shirt in my fists. I wept.

“You’re marked,” he told me. “Don’t be upset when you look and see.”

Nah, I thought. It’ll fade away. It always does.

I was half right. Within a few hours, my bottom was just faintly pink, nothing more. My upper thighs were another story.

I will feel this for the rest of the week. There it is, that damned feeling again.

Sometimes, I really do wish I were a rock, or an island. Life would be so much more manageable.

Hiding in my room, safe within my womb…

But emptier, no doubt. Most of the time, I know the trade-off isn’t worth it.

Most of the time. That small amount of other time, I wish I could shut it all off. Just like my hearing-impaired friend turns off her hearing aids when the noise around her gets to be too much.

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My day of kinky support

As of today, Tuesday, John is still in the hospital, but he may be released tonight. Since tonight and the next couple of days will be a whirlwind of getting him settled and running errands and taking him to three different doctor appointments, I won’t have any time for updating this. So today, while I have a bit of me time, I’m going to catch up with last Tuesday, which really was a great day. I honestly believe it helped prepare me for having my life thrown back into a blender the following day.

Last Tuesday, Steve showed up with open arms and open heart, ready to listen and support. I was feeling edgy and impatient, and even when the spanking I so desperately craved had started, I sniped at his phraseology. When he said “You need this” too often for my liking, I snapped, “Yes, you mentioned that a few dozen times.” That got me thigh slaps. OK, I deserved them. “Got anything else to say?” he asked. “No, no,” I hastily assured him, trying to clear the stars of pain floating around my eyes. “I didn’t think so,” he said. “If you need this, then it doesn’t matter how many times I say it, does it?” (Uh… well, it’s still redundant, but I didn’t say so at that moment!)

After a while, the impatience gave way to what I was really feeling — extreme frustration, coupled with guilt over being snappish and tense with John. Granted, in my defense, he’s a godawful patient and so OCD about everything being done just so in his house that it gives me fits. But still… I was at my wits’ end several times over the past weekend, and I couldn’t wait to go home. So when Steve said, “Take this like a good girl,” I blurted, “There is NOTHING good about me!” “Excuse me?” “I said, there is nothing good about me. I’m sick of all this, I’m sick of him, I just want to run away from all of this and have my life back. I’m a terrible, selfish person.”

“You are wrong,” he replied calmly, not stopping. “You have no idea what kind of person you are, how much you’ve done, how much you continue to do. He’s lucky to have you. You’re not a terrible person, you are exhausted and stressed out and that’s why I’m here.”

And of course, I cried.

He held me in his lap for a long time until I calmed down, pulling in the first deep breaths I may have taken in about a week. “Ready for the ottoman?” he asked. I knew I needed a little more, so I bravely assumed the position while he went to fetch a couple of implements. Only two this time: the Lexan paddle and the crop. Just enough to give me a couple of intense sensations and coax out that last bit of stress.

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Afterward, I actually dozed off for a little bit in his arms. That is a rarity for me, so it speaks to how very tired I was. And how safe I felt.

Thank you, Steve. ♥

But wait, there’s more! I still had my dinner date with Alex and SpankCake later. Alex was running a little late (traffic), but SC and I got to the restaurant early, so we caught up for a half-hour until Alex joined us, and then we were off into another marathon of catching up, airing stress, laughing, talking kink, and just enjoying each other as we always do. We beat our record this time: six hours. We met at 5:30, intending to make it an “early evening,” and ended up leaving at 11:30.

And of course, there had to be dessert. We wanted a brownie sundae, but they were out of brownies. Booo! So we chose a regular ice-cream sundae instead, and made short work of it. Now you see it…

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…Now you don’t. (Alex ate all the cherries, BTW)

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Thank you, my sweet friends. ♥

I feel so out of the loop with everyone and everything, but I guess that’s to be expected. This week, the lion’s share of the spanking scene is convening in Atlantic City for the Boardwalk Badness Weekend (which ends up being more like five days or so), and usually I feel horribly sad not being there, but right now, I just can’t think about it. So I hope all my friends there will have a blast and hold a good thought for John and his recovery.

And hopefully I can get some readership back for this blog! Sorry to have been so silent lately.

Well now… what have we here?

Yesterday in my bedroom, I caught sight of something peeking out from underneath the bed. I knelt down to take a look.

Well, looky here. Recognize this?

Not familiar? Hmmm.

Recognize it now?

Thought you might. It’s ST’s paddle, one he made with his own two hands. Not super-thick/thuddy like the frat style I hate, but it packs a wallop nonetheless.
So. Let’s ponder upon how angelic I am. I could have kept quiet about this and let him wonder. Let him discover it’s missing but not say a word. Perhaps he dropped it out of his bag somewhere. Perhaps there’s been a rash of theft in Encino, a kinky burglary ring stealing spanking implements. Or perhaps I accidentally mistook it for a piece of scrap lumber (you know, those turn up in my bedroom all the time) and tossed it into John’s fireplace.
But noooo. I am here admitting to the world that I found it, that I’m keeping it safe for him next Monday. I think I should be rewarded for my honesty. Don’t you?
On another topic…
Feeling a bit blech today. Fallout from yesterday, I guess. On the plus side, I had a lovely lunch with Mija at Canter’s Deli — we sat for three hours and yakked away. But on the minus side, I feel like I lost a friend yesterday, due to circumstances completely beyond my control. Scene drama, one I’m not involved in, but a friend is, and I got unintentionally and unwillingly sucked into the vortex.
John said I did nothing wrong. I know, intellectually, that I didn’t, but it feels like I did. I hate it when people are angry at me, won’t talk to me. It kicks in all those old rejection/abandonment issues that have dogged me since the early days when my mother would punish me by ignoring me and refusing to speak to me. I’d chase after her and cry, begging her to talk to me. Stupid, stupid old crap. But it’s real.
The down side of being involved in any community. Wherever there are people, there is drama. This is why I choose solitude so often.
Plus, John had a horrendous day at work yesterday and vented to me. Naturally, I wish I could fix things and make it all better for him, and I can’t. I hate that he’s so stressed out. But I remembered this morning that this time last year, he was deathly ill, and now, at least he is healthy and robust, albeit exhausted. Perspective. Could be worse.
Days like this, I really do wish I had some work to do. Occupy my nattering brain on something productive.
Sorry for meandering. I will feel better after I go kick some butt at the gym. It’s about 100 degrees outside… at least my A/C is working.

Oh my… you SHOULDN’T have…

Being that today was Valentine’s Day and I was getting my Valentine spanking, I dressed up for New Guy, with stockings and red garter belt, and another red dress (I have three of them. Just like LBDs, you can’t have too many LRDs, either.) He showed up on at my door, all smiles, bearing a sweet bouquet of white daisies and red carnations.

And a heart-shaped paddle. A wooden heart-shaped paddle. Which he made himself, just for me.

Talk about confusing. On the one hand, I was quite tickled and touched at his efforts on my behalf. But on the other hand, the phrase, “Oh my, you shouldn’t have” was quite apropos!

Guaranteed not to break, he crowed. Oh, joy. Wouldn’t want that little @#$%er breaking, would we?

So here’s the “before” picture, happy me with my flowers and my, er, special gift:

He was hoping he could get a perfect red heart on one of my butt cheeks. But alas, the paddle was too large (or my butt is too small) to get that imprint. He tried his best, though. Oh, did he try. But he settled for overall RED. Big of him. 🙂

He used his other old faithful paddle too, and two straps. I was in feisty mode tonight and I couldn’t seem to stop giggling or being snide. When he referred to himself as an evil genius, I said he was half-right.

Ouch.

When he stopped, I tried to catch my breath, and he knelt down and smiled into my face. Or was it a smirk? I couldn’t tell. I glared back at him, then, very quietly and deliberately, said, “You bastard.”

That was good for another round, until I said I was sorry. Then he piled all four implements onto the coffee table, saying he’d leave them within reach in case I needed a refresher later.

After we relaxed and chatted for a while, he left to use the restroom. I immediately whisked the implements off the table and shoved them under the couch.

Hey, I thought it was funny. But my glee was short-lived, as he put me back over the ottoman and fished another weapon of a#$ destruction out of his bag. “Where are they?” he asked.

“They got bored and left!” I hollered.

“You better get ’em back, then,” he said, and laid into me with whatever the hell that thing was, until I gave up and crawled over to the couch, retrieving the four hidden toys.

I got ten hard ones with all four, rapidly, no break in between each one. Holy moly.

“You going to hide my implements ever again?” “NO!” “I guess that wasn’t the best idea, huh?”

Guess not.

OK, so I sorta kinda maybe asked for that. But really. Tops can be so damned mean, giving us consequences for our actions. Humpph.

I did get some sweet aftercare with lotion and snuggles, though.

And remember the “before” picture? Usually when you see a “before” picture, you know an “after” picture is coming, right?

Here ya go.

Did I have a happy Valentine’s Day? You be the judge. 🙂

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