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 “paddles”

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.

Guess what’s on my brain?

It’s been a while, kids. Two weeks ago when Steve and I had our outdoor adventure, the focus was more on exhibitionism and very little on spanking. Last week, Steve was away on a ski trip. And this week, he has a cold.

In times like these, I find that pretty much anything and everything makes me think of spanking. Can any of you relate? I’m sure you can.

Yesterday, I had my first appointment with a new chiropractor. I have lifelong back issues and I have been seeing one chiro or another since I was twelve. Recently my regular guy closed his practice, and I’ve been searching for a new one. Finding a good chiropractor can be quite the needle search, as many of them want to claim your body and soul and have you lying on their tables in perpetuity.

But I liked this new guy. He was quite jovial, but clearly knew his stuff, and he’d gotten several five-star Yelp reviews. He kept marveling at how “little” I was, which is ridiculous, but I guess he does get to wrestle some rather sizable bodies. Plus, he’s a big bear of a man at about 6′ 3″. “What do you weigh, about forty pounds?” he joked as he manipulated my spine.

At one point he left me for a minute or two while he checked on another patient, and then popped his head back in the door.

“You doing OK there, little girl?”

I am embarrassed to admit the ridiculously intense jolt of arousal I felt when he said that. Of course, because it’s a phrase a grown woman might hear during spanking play. Even though I’m not into age-play, the phrases “young lady” and “little girl” have always pushed my buttons. I covered up my embarrassment by answering, “Wow, it’s been a while since anyone has called me that.” (Actually, it hasn’t.)

It was pretty amusing when he was checking out my sciatica and commented that I had a lot of tightness in my butt muscles. Gee, I wonder why. I wanted to ask if twenty years of regular ass pummeling affects the surrounding muscles and tissues, but refrained.

Then last night, Jimmy Fallon had one of his “Tight Pants” skits. For those of you who are unfamiliar, it’s one of those comedy bit that is so dumb, it’s funny. Basically, Jimmy lives in a small town where he’s the only one who wears tight pants, and so he dances around in tight white jeans, a brightly colored shirt and a bowl haircut, bragging about his tight pants. Then someone else — a guest star — will challenge him, also wearing tight white jeans and a bowl haircut. Challengers have included Will Ferrell, Christina Aguilera, and of course, the greatest ass in tight pants, Jennifer Lopez. Jimmy always ends up getting threatened and chased out of town.

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In case you’d like to see the short sketch, go here (it’s worth it just to hear Lopez call Fallon “a little bitch”). But be forewarned: the inane “Tight Pants” song will worm its way into your brain and never leave.

So of course, all this business of tight pants and butt wriggling makes me think of next week’s spanko extravaganza in Vegas, where I will get to wear my own tight pants (and have them taken down). I want and need this party so badly, I’m jumping out of my skin.

And finally, a blast from the recent past — remember my Spanking Court clips? I had mentioned a while back that although the studio was out of business, their entire clip library was being re-edited and re-released, little by little. Last week, I saw on Twitter that they released one of mine — the one where the judge ordered the court disciplinarian to give me 200 strokes with a heavy wooden paddle for mouthing off. Holy crap. I think that was the hardest scene I’ve ever done on video, and it was the first one where I cried on camera. You can read about it here. Aptly, the clip has been named “For Crying Out Loud.” So of course, memories of past shoots have flooded my brain.

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So there will be no pre-party warm-up for me. But it’s OK. Just have to get through this week and next, and my massive itch will be scratched repeatedly.

Hurry hurry hurry February 25!

Implement Aversion

The other night, Poppy posted a poignant blog about losing an implement she loved. Not literally misplacing it, but having it taken from her, because a miserable excuse for a man ruined it for her with an abusive scene. She asked us if we’ve ever had our feelings change drastically about an implement because of a bad experience.

It got me thinking. Most of us have our “hard limits” when it comes to certain implements. But why? Because they scare us? Because they simply hurt too much? Or is it because we have a negative association with them?

I have to say, I’ve never had the misfortune of having some asshat ruin a beloved implement for me. But I did have someone turn a soft limit into a hard one.

You all know I prefer leather over wood, but all wooden implements are not created equal. Thicknesses, types of wood, etc. all make for a variety of sensations. But I’ve never liked those heavy, rectangular paddles, the “frat” style. They thud me down to the bone and they feel horrible to me, with or without holes in them. They don’t even make a satisfying sound — instead of a hearty smack, they land with a dull thunk. When I thought of those paddles, one word came to mind: brutal. And brutality was never something I enjoyed in my spankings. But still, I played with them now and then, at parties and so forth.

About four or five years ago, I met a man from the old SIN board. We did the usual coffee thing, talked, etc., and then he came back to my place to play. I liked his style and his scolding, but toward the end, he was way too touchy-feely and I had to tell him to stop. When we spoke afterward and he wanted to know if I’d like to get together again, I said yes, but he needed to keep the sexual touching out of it. He said he would.

The next time he came over, he had a bag with him, which he handed to me. “I got you a present,” he said. The bag was from a local adult toy store. When I looked inside, my heart sank.

He’d bought one of those frat paddles — it was huge and thick, exactly what I hate. The price tag was still on it, and it wasn’t cheap. But wait, there’s more. Also in the bag was a Pocket Rocket vibrator. WTF? I barely knew this guy — what the hell was he doing buying me something that personal?

OK, kids. Here’s where I ‘fess up and say yes, even with years of experience, we can still screw up. I should have followed my instincts and told him sorry, but I’ve changed my mind. Take the gifts back, I don’t want them, and I don’t care to play after all. But I didn’t. I felt bad because he’d spent all that money, and I figured the least I could do was to have another scene with him.

It was dreadful. No, he didn’t try the wandering fingers thing again. Instead, he just beat the hell out of me with that @#$%ing paddle — too fast, too hard, too everything. He did stop when I cried. But they weren’t the good tears. They were tears of pain and frustration with myself and that sense of betrayal and violation we feel when someone hurts us.

The guy was utterly freaking clueless. After I calmed down a bit and we were talking, he asked, “So, did I give you what you needed?” Wha…?? Needless to say, I was a bit shocked by the question, and I replied, “Well… maybe a little too much.”

I didn’t say it in a snotty way. But he then reached over, grabbed my hair and snapped, “Are you being smart? Because I’ll beat your ass all over again if you are.”

(shudder)

Another one of my red flags — when the spanking is over, it’s over. You don’t get to be harsh during aftercare. That’s the time when you’re supposed to be nice.

“No,” I said meekly.

The cherry on the sundae was his suggesting that I use the Pocket Rocket he’d given me… in front of him. I declined. “Perhaps I should spank you until you do,” he threatened. That did it. “NO,” I said, very firmly. “Perhaps you shouldn’t.”

After he left, I felt sick. I hurt. I was marked. I looked at that effing plank of wood he’d left behind and I wanted it out of my sight. Without overthinking it, I took it down to the Dumpster and chucked it. I suppose I could have given it away… but I didn’t want anyone else to suffer from it either. If I’d had a fireplace, I would have burned it.

Oh, and I tossed the Pocket Rocket too. I know, I know. Wasteful. I didn’t care. It was all tainted with his ickiness.

After that, frat paddles became a hard limit. Not that it’s a great loss, though, because I never really liked them.

I have every confidence that Poppy will move past her aversion, with time and patience and proper treatment from her current, most excellent top. What about others? Do you have a story behind your implement aversion? Do you want to get over it, or does it not matter?

Lights, camera…

…sore bottom! Guess who brought a video camera along with his toy bag tonight?

Since it had been two weeks (and I was in big trouble for my “helpful hints”), I decided to welcome him sweetly and got all dressed up — black dress (one I can’t wear in public, but it’s great for play), garters, stockings, the whole bit. How timely, as it turned out I was going to be on camera. He’d asked me a couple of visits ago if I’d like to shoot one of our sessions sometime; I said sure and then forgot all about it.

You know, for an amateur, first-time thing, we got something fairly decent, I think. I should have turned off the stereo in the background; you can barely hear our dialogue as it is. But live and learn. We turned on every light in the room, and it seems the brightness was sufficient. And ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first: New Guy is a ham!! He was totally playing to the camera, ramping things up, making clever comebacks to my sassy comments.

Him: I think it’s time to bring out the paddle.
Me: No-o-o-o-o….
Him: No? Who are you to tell me yes or no?
Me: Hey, I still have a voice!
Him: You may have a voice, but you don’t have a choice.

Argggghhhhh.

The final 20 with the paddle reallllllly pushed my limits. Ow, ow, ow. Had to count them, too. He cut me a little break — earlier in the scene, with 20 of the big strap, I had to count them and say “thank you” after each one. But for the finale, I just had to count, nothing else. Whatta guy, huh? (I didn’t help my case any by saying “fuck you” instead of “thank you” at first. We had a few do-overs.)

He did the last four strokes in rapid succession, and #20 made me thrash around so hard, I rolled off the side of the ottoman and tumbled onto the floor. No, I did not do that on purpose. Came out looking pretty funny, though.

Nothing funny about this, though:

Yikes. Yes, it’s as sore as it looks. But amazingly, despite this outrageous manhandling, I’m feeling quite relaxed and in my happy place. 🙂

See, don’t I look blissful?
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Night night…

Erica has the last word on wood

Me again! You know, with the Shadow Lane party coming up in three weeks, I thought it was time for a friendly little PSA (Public Spanking Announcement, that is). 🙂

These weekends are quite the extravaganza, and people attend for different reasons. Some enjoy socializing with their friends from around the country and beyond. Others are shameless spank hos (raising hand sheepishly) who love to play as much as possible, along with the aforementioned socializing. However, despite my reputation for being Little Miss Hard-Ass From Hell (as Razor Ryan once called me), I have learned from painful experience that pacing is absolutely essential. I need to last for three days. And while the spirit is willing, the flesh is sometimes rather uncooperative, especially if it’s been pounded on with heavy artillery.

So, regarding those frat paddles and other heavy wooden slabs some of y’all call toys?

(Thanks to my buddy Zelle, who created this graphic just for me!)

That’s right, folks. On these weekends, my bottom is a no-wood zone. OK, canes are an exception, as long as the wielder knows what he’s doing. Or even some lighter, thinner wooden implements, like a lightweight hairbrush, that sting but don’t feel like you’re hitting me with a table leg. But leave those frat paddles et. al. in your toy bag.

Mind you, I’m not speaking for all spankees, just myself. However, you may want to take heed: Many of us bottoms endeavor to enter the weekend on a lighter note and then build up. These heavy implements tend to mark and bruise, and even if they don’t, they impart a whole lot of pain. And it is usually considered very poor form to mark a bottom at the onset of a three (or four, or five, for some) day spanking weekend. Oh, you can do it, if you’re absolutely determined to do so. But you might find that everyone but the most diehard masochists will treat you like you had garlic and onions with limburger cheese sauce for dinner: they will stay away. Many other tops don’t like to spank a bottom that is already all bruised up, so these poor prematurely marked spankees will be deprived. Not nice.

I don’t care how finely crafted the implement is. Some of you actually make these things yourselves — I don’t care. I don’t care how long you sanded, polished and smoothed it. I don’t care if you even cut the fucking tree down yourself. The answer is still NO.

Yeah, I know your hands hurt. Our butts hurt more. Boo hoo. If your hands give out, then go for some leather. Or, here’s a concept… (gasp) Don’t spank so @#$%ing hard, maybe? 😀  Just a thought. Could work. Or not.

So, what’s our mantra for the Shadow Lane weekend? Pace ourselves! Happy hands, happy bottoms. Win-win.

Oh, and that last word I mentioned in the blog title? Here ya go; any questions?

Think you’re pretty tough, huh?
Not so tough now! Say bye-BYE….

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