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 “pain”

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?

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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