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 “release”

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?

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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):

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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.

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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?

 

 

My (very brief but action-packed) adventure

Bob Hope Airport Is Dedicated

Yes, I was on a plane for the first time since 2012. The flight was less than an hour, but still. Oh, and I took an Uber for the first time. And BART. For a woman who almost never goes anywhere, this was monumental. Even more monumental — the trip was to Northern CA to play with B. A 24-hour whirlwind, and a comedy of errors regarding the travel portions. But all so very worth it.

Oh, and while the trip was short, this post is long. Buckle up and get a beverage.

It started with him getting a new strap. He had asked for my opinion when ordering a new one, and had sent me some pictures of his possible choices. (They all looked pretty damn terrifying.) A couple of days later, I received this picture from him:

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Oh. My. I commented that it was scary looking, and he replied it was especially scary for me, knowing I was going to receive corporal punishment on my bare bottom with it soon. :-O  Say what, now?

At first B suggested coming to me again, but I told him the Saturday plans weren’t really fair to John. However — how about if I went to him, on a weekday, and played at his place? (This was John’s idea.) He liked that, and said he had a full spare bedroom/bathroom suite I could stay in. He even offered me some of his unused miles. 🙂

B was great; he took care of everything, booking the flight for me, even getting me an aisle seat with extra legroom, which I really appreciated, since the tight confines of planes make me feel claustrophobic. He told me how to set up Uber (I’d never used it before) and told me it would be about an hour ride from the airport to his place. Once there, I was to go to a food court area downtown right near his building and wait for him to get off work, maybe another hour or so. Simple, right? Then I’d fly home the next morning, after he dropped me off at the train station and I took the train to BART and then BART to SFO. All seemed quite doable, even for this nervous person who isn’t travel savvy.

I’d looked up Burbank Airport and saw they had economy lots with cheaper parking (the regular lots were $23 per day; the cheap lots $12). My first glitch? Pulled into the airport, drove round and round and got caught up in the swirl of cars, and the economy lots were nowhere in sight. I stopped to ask, and was told, “Oh, you have to exit the airport and then go to blah blah.” Okay, so I tried to leave, and as I drove around, I came to a split in the road with signage, but neither direction said “Exit.” I had a 50/50 chance, so I took one and of course it was wrong and I ended up in the rental car return lot. I had to ask again, and the guy gave me another set of convoluted directions. By now I was freaking out, and did I mention we were having a heat wave and the temperature was triple digits? So as I drove out of that lot, the first thing I saw was a full-price parking lot and I said screw it, saving a few bucks isn’t worth my sanity. So I parked… and then I had to ask yet another person how to find the United terminal (go up that escalator, take the walkway, go across the street, blah blah). But I made it in plenty of time and was at my gate by 12:40 for a 2:00 flight.

When I got to SFO, I looked for the area B told me about where there are Uber pickups, but couldn’t find it, and when I asked, they said, “Oh, we changed that up completely just last week. You have to go to blah blah blah…” Finally found that place, ordered my Uber, and he showed up within 10 minutes. Really nice guy, good driver — we did hit traffic so it took longer than expected, but he turned up the A/C when I asked him to. (I gave him a 20% cash tip; he was quite effusive with his thanks.) Got to the place where B had told me to go, walked in… and discovered it was fully open, no A/C whatsoever, and apparently Northern CA was no cooler than Southern CA. It was like a blast furnace in there. I didn’t like the idea of B picking me up here after I’d sat in this heat for an hour and was sweaty and grubby, but I figured oh well, just go with it.

B came within an hour and we walked to his building, a ginormous high-rise. His apartment was charming — two levels, roomy, big bedrooms and bathrooms. He showed me my room, and the first thing I wanted was a glass of ice water, which he provided. It was about 6:30, and he mentioned dinner. I noticed he’d bought two bags of groceries. “Do you have any dietary restrictions?” he asked. (Uh… yeah, kids, you know what kind of an eater I am.) I said, “Well, I don’t eat red meat”… and the first thing he pulled out of the bag was a huge steak. Oops. Next to come out? A salami and some cheese. Guess what? I don’t eat those either. At this point I was ready to go crawl into a closet, but then things turned around and everything he took out after that — eggs, a fresh sourdough loaf, tomatoes, raspberries — all appealed. “Fried eggs it is,” he announced, “but after you’ve been thoroughly punished. Not good doing that on a full stomach, is it?” I couldn’t agree more. (A side note: the dude on FetLife who always pushes for his stupid buffet munches when we’re all at the Shadow Lane party at the Suncoast irks the hell out of me. Who on earth wants to play after consuming a Las Vegas buffet?? I forecast a lot of ruined shoes with that gluttonous nonsense.)

B is quite the audiophile, with a great deal of high-end stereo equipment and a large selection of record albums. He knew my favorite band, so he put on “Sgt. Pepper” and we sat on the couch for a snack — salami and cheese for him, while I nibbled on some of the raspberries. The acoustics of his music system were marvelous; I could hear every individual instrument.

As you guys might remember, in my last blog about playing with B, I said something like “What is it with UK men and canes?” After the album concluded, B said, “Speaking of Beatles, where is Abbey Road?”
“Um… England?”
“What city?” I shrugged. I am geographically challenged. (Where is he going with this?)
“London. Which is in England, correct. And is England part of a larger area?”
“The United Kingdom.”
“Yes. And where am I from?”
“Ireland.”
“And is Ireland part of the UK?”
“Uh… some of it is?”
“Am I from that part?” Uh…

Apparently, he isn’t from the UK. And, as he announced when he firmly took hold of my hand, sat down and pulled me across his lap, saying that the Republic of Ireland is part of the UK is like saying Texas is part of Mexico.

“Well, that’s not so far-fetched!” I protested. “Haven’t you heard of Tex-Mex cuisine?”

I thought that was pretty clever, given it was quick thinking under duress. He wasn’t impressed.

Right off the bat with the small strap. He wasn’t using it very hard, but of course, it stung like a bitch as he hadn’t used his hand first. He gave me sets of ten (I forget how many), and then paused while I caught my breath.

“I’ll bet you’re really, really, really surprised how painful this little strap is,” he mused.
“Yeah,” I gasped, “especially without a warm-up!”
He laughed. “That was the warm-up.”

Oh, fuck me.

After a few minutes of that, after which he pronounced me “a redder shade of crimson,” we went upstairs to where I’d be sleeping (which also happened to be his discipline room) and he had me kneel in a chair at the foot of the bed and then lay my torso on the bed. He had three canes, which he informed me had been soaking in linseed oil. Oh, yippee. I guess I wasn’t about to break any of these suckers.

The scene is a blur. At one point he moved me off the chair and fully onto the bed, with pillows under my hips. I seem to recall the final count was seven sets of twelve, which is eighty-four. Every last one of them spot on. Some harder. Some a bit lighter, but faster. All intense. I had to count every one. And call him “sir.”

(Weird how I’ve mellowed about that word. I used to hate it and refuse to say it. I thought it was too subby. Now, with the right person, it slips out a lot more easily.)

We took a break for some pictures. This one is B’s favorite.

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This one is mine. Yes, I’m biting my lip. You would have too.

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Afterward, I came down from my high while B gave me some deep tissue massage. I think that had a lot to do with the fact that I had surprisingly little soreness in the next couple of days.

Vaguely, I wondered what happened to the strap he’d bought. I think I even asked him about it. But it didn’t make an appearance, and I forgot about it.

He made me a perfect over-easy fried egg on sourdough bread, with sliced tomatoes. After dinner, we moved to the couch, where he put out the raspberries and some nougat with roasted almonds and whole berries that was to die for. “Right,” he said, “how about some champagne to go with the raspberries?”

I couldn’t help myself — you guys know how much I love champagne — I clapped my  hands like a little kid. “Yes, please!” After opening a bottle, pouring us some and putting several raspberries into our glasses, he suggested we go outside to his building’s courtyard, since it was much cooler by now. I had two glasses and was rather tipsy by the time we went out there. It was a beautiful night, quiet, and there was an outdoor enclosed fireplace (not needed in this heat, but it was pretty). We relaxed, finished our champagne, talked. He showed me around — there was a gym, a huge pool, barbecues, all sorts of neat stuff.

Earlier he had asked what I liked in classical music. I like a great deal of it, so I shrugged, not knowing what to choose. “Beethoven, for example?” “What, specifically?” I thought about it and said, “Everyone’s favorite Beethoven symphony is the ninth. I’m a contrarian; mine is the seventh.” So when we went back inside, he put on Beethoven’s seventh symphony for me.

I was blissed out. Comfortably full, mildly buzzed, pleasantly sore, and listening to beautiful music that sounded like I was in a concert hall. What more could I want? So while he was doing whatever he was doing in the kitchen (cleaning up, I figured), I curled up on the couch, rested my head on a pillow, and just let the music wash over me. It was getting late, so I figured bedtime was soon.

At the end of the third movement, B came back in, went to the turntable and lifted the needle. “The last movement will have to wait until morning,” he said, then he crossed to the couch and held out his hand to me. I smiled and got up. “Time for bed?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “It’s time for you to be punished… again.”

Um… whaaaat? It didn’t register with my foggy brain at first, but I quickly had to switch gears as he pulled me up the stairs at a brisk clip. He hustled me back into the bedroom. “Back over the bed. Now.” I scurried into position, only to have him tell me I’d neglected to take my pants down. Oh dear.

Yeah, it was strap time.

Standing behind me, he said, “Your cane lines have already disappeared. We can’t have that. Give me a number.” Had this been the beginning of the night, I probably would have answered something like, “Are negative numbers acceptable?” Or perhaps, “One.” But at this late hour, already semi-spacey from the earlier scene, faced with this suddenly stern top, I knew better. “Twenty-four,” I said.

I could feel the pause; I think he was a bit nonplussed by my giving him a legitimate number. “That’s a good number,” he said. “Okay, twenty-four. These are going to hurt.”

Again… had it been earlier, or at a party, I may have come back with, “Really? Funny, I was expecting them to tickle.” But I’m really not that foolish. Besides, I kinda wanted them to hurt. 😉

Holy crap, did they. Somehow, I counted out twenty-four hard strokes. None of them wrapped. None went too high or too low. And when the count was done…

“Would you like twelve more?”
“Yes, please.”

I was in the zone, feeling it down into my bones. Bring it. More. Please, more. No more. Yes more. I don’t know anymore. Please.

After thirty-six, he pulled me up into his arms and held me. I buried my face in his shirt; I was shaking and sniveling, in that sort of pre-cry mode I get into, and he asked if I was crying. I shook my head. “No.”

“You can cry if you want to,” he said, then added, “It’s your party.” Which made me giggle. (Only people past A Certain Age will get that reference.) But I just wasn’t quite there. I joked about not wanting to get makeup on his shirt.

A couple of minutes later, after my breathing had leveled off, he pulled back. “I’m giving you twelve more,” he said. I was surprised, and yet I wasn’t. When I got back into position, he added, “And I want you to let it all go this time. If you don’t, I will keep going.”

Which sounds harsh. But it was exactly the push I needed. There are always tears hovering beneath the surface inside me… I guess he sensed that. I made it through the twelve, broke down and wept. He took me back into his arms, and that was really the end this time. I was done.

After I’d calmed down, he had me go look in the mirror. Damn. I wish we’d taken a picture then — solid red. “Feel it,” he said. I did. Ah, hello, leather butt. I’ve missed you.

“Streaky mascara and a welted bottom — you’re ready for bed,” he smiled. Well, not quite. After he said good night and went to his room, I took a shower. No way was I going to put my sweaty body and my semi-melted face on his clean linens.

Can I just say the bathroom was like a four-star hotel? Separate walk-in shower. Oversize bathtub — oh, would I love to take a bubble bath in that. I mean, what’s it like to soak in a tub where your legs fit without bending them, or your feet sticking out? I either have cold feet or cold knees.

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Everything was clean and sparkling and new looking. Plus, there was soap, toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner, body lotion — everything a guest could want. That shower felt heavenly and I got into bed around midnight feeling refreshed.

I woke up at 7:00 the next morning, got up and dressed, and wandered downstairs where B was in the kitchen, making espresso. He’d put out more sliced tomatoes, was toasting bread, brought out jam and poured some orange juice and espresso for me. We sat and ate while Mozart played. (I never did get my last movement of Beethoven’s seventh. Oh well.)

“If you don’t eat all your tomatoes, I’m going to spank you,” he announced. Now really, was that necessary? Of course I was going to finish them; I love tomatoes. Apparently wasting food is a punishable sin in Ireland. No argument from me, as I’m a plate cleaner and always have been. But I couldn’t help notice that when he left the table to get ready to go, what did he leave on his plate? Tomatoes! I commented on this, to which he said he could always eat them later, as he lives here, but I have to finish mine because I’m leaving.

(Tops have an answer for everything, don’t they?)

B drove me to the CalTrain station, after giving me detailed instructions on getting the train to BART, and then taking that to SFO. We said goodbye… damn, it went by too quickly! (sigh)

And thus began Part Two of my travel hysteria. I did manage to buy the train ticket and get on the right train, and after about an hour, I got off at Millbrae at BART, which I had never been to before. I asked a guy in a booth where to go for the subway to SFO, and he pointed behind me and said, “It’s this one right here, just scan your ticket and the gate will open.” I did, and then stood by the subway train I thought I was supposed to get on. When it came time to board, I don’t know what possessed me, but I’m sure as hell glad it did — I turned back to the guy and said, “So this will take me to the airport?”

He looked shocked. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t hear you say airport! No, you have to go to Platform 2, which is blah blah blah…” Not nearby. I ran to where he told me to go and saw nothing; no train. Just a schedule that read the SFO train runs every half hour. The one I was supposed to catch was at 10:31… and it was 10:33. Oh, crap.

Now what? B had told me that if I missed the train, I should take an Uber to the airport. But when I tried to leave and went the wrong way and tried to exit through an entry, I got so flustered, a guy who worked there came over to ask if I needed help. I said I needed to get to SFO for a noon flight. He said, “The next train is at 11:01, and it will take you three minutes to get to SFO. You’ll be fine.” So, willing myself to stay calm, I waited until the 11:01 train and boarded; I was the only one on it! The guy was right; it took three minutes and I was at SFO. But of course, I had no idea where I was going; where the hell was the United terminal? I ended up asking three different people because I couldn’t find the damn area. I was quite literally running… finally made it to TSA at 11:25. The line was long, and then we all had to move to another line because the conveyor belt jammed. ARRGGHHHH! Got through that, checking my boarding pass for the millionth time… Gate 71A. I quickly bought a very expensive bottle of water and went to 71A.

My pass said boarding was going to start at 11:40, but that time came and there was no boarding announcement. I felt uneasy. I checked the pass yet again; 71A. But still, no boarding. I went to the United website, found my info, and then saw a link: “Check here for flight updates.” So I clicked it. Sure enough… “Flight blah blah to Burbank is on time, boarding at Gate 79.”

Gate 79????????????????? What happened to 71A?

How far could 79 be from 71A, I thought. As it turns out, pretty damn far. More running. More panic. Aaaaaaand I got to Gate 79 at 11:52. Did I mention my flight was at 12:05? I just made it.

Got on the plane, found my seat. Collapsed in it and took a deep breath. I made it. All was well. All disasters averted. And then as the plane started taxiing, a toddler two rows ahead let out a scream that could break glass. Not just on the plane, but in all 50 states.

I heard Mom chatter nervously, “Oh no no no, we’re not doing that!” Kid had other ideas and screamed again. That warm sensation I felt running down the sides of my neck was my eardrums melting. I thought, if I have to listen to an hour of this, I will lose what’s left of my mind. Fortunately, he quieted down and didn’t scream again. Holy Christ, how can such a tiny person have such a set of lungs??

Home at last! Headed out and on my way back to the parking lot, I found an Express Pay machine, so I figured this is where I pay for my parking ticket. Tried to scan it — it wouldn’t scan. Tried again. Still nothing. What now? I went inside a building marked “Cashier” where a very nice woman greeted me with “Hello, sunshine, how are ya?” (Sunshine? ME??) I told her my parking ticket wouldn’t scan, and she looked at it and said, “Well, honey, that’s because you’re in the wrong place.”

Of course I was.

“Go out that door, go down that walkway, walk all the way down to the signal, cross the street, and you’ll be at your lot. You pay on your way out.” She even walked outside with me and pointed me in the right direction. By then, all I could do was laugh. God, I’m such a dork. But you’ll be happy to know I got out of the parking lot (for $36, thank you very much) and made it home in one piece. I texted both B and John to let them know I’d arrived safely. And then I crashed for a nap.

So… are you wondering if, after eighty-four cane strokes and forty-eight strap strokes, I had any marks? Barely. I took this picture on Friday.

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Microscopic. Plenty sore, though, which I always enjoy. However, not quite as sore as the first time B and I played. I have no idea why. Maybe because it had only been a couple of weeks, versus six months before his first visit.

Life felt very mundane on Friday after twenty-four hours of planes, trains and automobiles; canes and straps; and champagne and raspberries. But all good things and fun times must come to an end.

B (’cause I know you’re reading this) — thank you. For being such a wonderful host, and a caring, conscientious top with whom I felt very safe. For welcoming me into your home and making me feel special. For the intensely delicious play experience. You are one of the good ones. ♥

It was really nice to be able to forget about everything for a couple of days. Somehow, I need to make that happen more often.

That ITCH

Who knows what I mean, just from those two words? No, I’m not talking about a yeast infection. I’m talking about that urge that hits us bottoms (no pun intended) sometimes, the one where the craving for a spanking is So. Damn. Powerful, you feel like you’ll jump out of your skin if you don’t get some physical relief.

Many of us have spouses/mates/regular play partners. Some don’t. Some go to a lot of parties; others don’t have access or the funds for them. Some of us don’t play at all, just think about it, and for that, I am so sorry. We all have different spanking schedules. I am lucky enough to have a play partner whom I get to see fairly regularly, but you know, sometimes, life interferes. And most of the time I roll with that. But every now and then, that urge, that ITCH strikes so hard, I really do wish 1-800-SPANK-YOU was a thing. Order up a spanker, just like you order Uber or takeout food or whatever. You want it, you punch in the number, pull up the App, and poof. There he/she is. You even get to choose height, weight, age, hair color, banter style, level of intensity… imagine the possibilities.

It all started yesterday. Before I get into this, I want to make sure I’m being clear — yeah, I have a bit of a spanko-type crush on my chiropractor, because I really do get a toppy vibe from him. No, I don’t expect that anything would ever happen, nor would I want it to. But I’m having one hell of a lot of fun with these fantasies, so you all just get to bear with me and put up with ’em! 😀

When I walked into his office, he greeted me with, “How are we today?” To which I sniped, “I don’t know how you are, but I’m fine!” Without missing a beat, he said, “Thank you for the snark! Much appreciated. Of course, that will directly influence how hard I drive my elbow into your ass.” Right out of the gate, huh? The appointment went as it usually goes, with him working through the various knots of tension and trying to unkink me (physically, of course. No one will ever unkink my twisted little soul). He kept up a regular stream of banter, distracting me from the discomfort. At one point he was leaning his weight onto me while stretching out my hamstring, and he gleefully said, “I just love putting all my weight into pushing on such a tiny little person!” “Sadist,” I grumbled, and he replied, “Maybe a little.” AHA!! At the end of each session, he takes me into another room where they have tables with built-in massagers, and he lays me out on one of those with ice packs under my back, so I get a massage and an icing at the same time. Yesterday, he covered me with a blanket and then said, “Don’t you move for ten minutes.” I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, “What if I do?”

So I come home from this, with my body feeling like overcooked spaghetti but my kinky neurons firing… and then Steve texts me. Poor thing… yet another sinus infection. I swear, that man is the most infection-prone person I know. Sinus infections, pinkeye, bronchitis, that thing that started out like a pimple and then damn near ate off his face… such a drag! Either his immune system is whacked, or he’s taken so many antibiotics, they don’t work for him anymore. So of course, I wouldn’t be seeing him this week.

No biggie, I thought. I had a lot of work to do today. But as I got into it this morning, I was restless. I felt snarky and prickly; I was definitely in Looking For Trouble mode, I could feel it. I wanted to be spanked like nobody’s business. No emotional involvement, nothing complicated, just the pure physicality of a man’s hand smacking my backside hard.

Times like these, it’s a damn shame that I’m not a self-spanker. It would be pretty simple if that were the case, kind of like masturbating for sexual release. But I’m not.

As I squirmed and bounced in my computer chair, eating way too much peanut butter, my mind wandered back to something that happened a long time ago, maybe 13-15 years? It was so long ago, I’d written about it on the old Southern California Spanked Wives Club forum. We were at a Shadow Lane party, sitting in the ballroom at dinner, and a very handsome young man came over to the table and started talking with someone there. My friend at the time and I started whispering among ourselves: “Who’s that?” “Damn, he’s cute!” “I’ve never seen him here before!” “He certainly is easy on the eyes, isn’t he.” We simpered on and on until John, overhearing it all, laughed at us and blurted, “Oh for God’s sake, you two! You’re making me sick! Shut up! Less talking, more action — tell you what. The first one of you who gets Mr. Dreamboat to spank you, I’ll give you $25!”

“You’re on!” we said in unison.

I won. 😀  Yup, I bratted him into it first, which was quite the triumph, considering my friend was a lot younger, had a killer body and was cuter than any one woman should be. Anyway… it turned out he lived in Los Angeles, and before the weekend was over, he gave me his phone number. “Any time you feel like playing, give me a holler,” he said. I didn’t think I’d take him up on it; he was maybe 15-20 years younger than me and I felt weird about it.

However.

There came an afternoon when I was home, back in the days when I didn’t have a regular spanking partner, work was slow, and I was feeling that ITCH. I was craving spanking so hard, it consumed my thoughts. It also overrode my pride, because I actually picked up the phone and dialed G’s number, which I’d saved. It had been a couple of months since the party, and I hoped he’d remember me. When he answered, I told him who it was and why I was calling. He sounded a bit distracted; he was polite, but it was pretty clear he was busy and wasn’t up for an impromptu play time. Feeling myself shrivel with embarrassment, I said, “OK, sorry to bother you, maybe another time,” and hung up the phone, swearing that I would never reach out like that again.

Two minutes later, my phone rang. I picked it up; it was him again.

“How bad do you want it?”

(Yeah, I know he should have said “how badLY.” But at the moment, I didn’t give a happy rat’s ass about his grammar.)

“Really, really, realllllly bad,” I murmured, feeling my heart race. Long story short, he was willing to meet up with me that evening, but I needed to drive to his place.

So. I dressed up, made up, fixed my hair, and drove approximately 35-40 miles. He lived in one of those beach communities that are notorious for having absolutely no parking anywhere. I’m not exaggerating; I drove around and around his apartment complex for twenty minutes before I finally called him in despair. He had to come out, guide me into his building’s garage, and show me where deliveries could park temporarily. What a hassle.

But I got exactly what I needed. 😀  My itch was scratched. I didn’t stay long, we didn’t talk much, it was just a spanking, nothing more. But I drove home relaxed, pleasantly sore and blissfully happy.

Spanker on Call. What a concept. That was the only time I did that with him, and I don’t think I ever saw him again after that. I don’t think I know anyone like that now, someone I can just call out of the blue, and I don’t even think I could pull it off now. I would overthink it, and think myself out of it. But damn, that was hot.

For crying out loud, there’s an App for everything these days. Why isn’t there a Spanko App?

Thanks for listening. Who else but other spankos would understand this??

Back, sort of

So, yeah. Two and a half weeks ago, I went dark. Life’s stresses had piled up and knocked me out of balance, and the final straw was when Steve went for a job interview in Santa Barbara, a hundred miles away. In my fragile mind state, I instantly projected that he was going to take the job (because the man has to work), move away, and that would be the end of our times together. I went deep into my inner bomb shelter and stayed there, only surfacing to function as needed. Because no matter how bad I feel, I still function.

I stopped blogging, and I temporarily deactivated my FetLife profile. I couldn’t stand all the BS there, all the bickering and back-biting, the comparisons of parties, the consent police, the pontificating of the know-it-alls, the insensitivity and unkindness, the misguided worship. I worked. I tweeted some, but not much. I didn’t tell Steve what I was thinking/feeling. The only person I talked to was John, because he wouldn’t let me withdraw from him. He was very sweet, sending me little email messages every day, trying to cheer me up. He was the only one who could make me laugh.

The longer I stayed withdrawn, the more I was convinced that it didn’t matter. People’s lives went on and I was a blip on the radar. In the overall scheme of things, we are all microscopic bits, destined for oblivion and being forgotten. Such is the insidious nature of depression… it fills one’s head with the worst of lies, the cruelest beliefs.

A week ago Tuesday, Steve came over, and we talked about his finding work. He told me he didn’t want to move away, and that somehow, he would find something in the Los Angeles area, even if he had to take a job at Costco. That I was not going to lose him. That I could be sad and depressed and scared about anything else, but this was one thing I did not have to fret over. We’re going on four years, and he’s not going anywhere.

We didn’t play. All I did was cry while he held me.

Another week passed. I functioned.

Then last Tuesday, Steve was here again. We talked for a long time, and then decided to play. It had been three weeks, and I’ve had this ongoing sciatica business, so I was a little concerned. But once we got into it, I felt myself start to shift, to get into it. To feel. He lectured me while he spanked. “Do you know that you have people who love you?” I wanted to say “no,” but 1. I knew that wasn’t true, and 2. I knew he’d spank a whole lot harder if I did. “Yes, you do, and don’t forget it.” My thighs got a little attention too.

I thought I might cry. But no tears came.

We moved into the bedroom and he collected some implements. What followed took me to the very edge of my limits. He deliberately hit the same spots over and over until I thought I’d go through the ceiling. By the end, I was writhing, struggling to stay still, pleading, “Steve, please. Please. Please.”

But I still didn’t cry.

He took some pictures, and then got me some ice packs, which felt wonderful. But I still hadn’t achieved that emotional release. Perhaps I was simply cried out, after the past couple of weeks.

After a while of coming down, Steve asked, “Do you need your toy?” Translation: do I need to get off with my vibrator. At first, I thought no. My libido hibernates during depression. But then I thought, eh, why not. Couldn’t hurt, right? Besides, he likes to watch me do it.

I guess I needed it more than I knew, because the first orgasm happened very quickly. But then I kept going. Steve, watching me, said, “You have another one in you, don’t you.” He can tell, just by looking at me, by reading my body.

Then it happened. The second wave rose, but along with it, I felt a tidal wave of grief. The two sensations crested, peaked and intertwined until I couldn’t tell one from the other. I snatched a nearby pillow, shoved it over my face, and screamed. And as the waves kept crashing, I bawled. I hollered. Tears poured. I guess I wasn’t cried out after all.

Somewhere in the emotional haze, I could hear Steve. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Let it all out, give it to me. I’m here. I’ve got you.” I clung to him like a life raft in churning water next to a sinking ship, my eyes shut, my mouth open. I cried, and cried, and cried. And it wasn’t pretty or sexy. It was red-faced and noisy and drippy and mascara-smeared.

It went on and on. Every time I’d start to wind down, he’d say something like, “Do you know I care for you? Do you know that I want to protect you?” and I’d start up again.

He kept saying “Thank you” to me. I was too far gone to ask, “What for? I didn’t do anything.” He was the one who needed thanking, for being here, for providing a safe haven for my anguished release. But I knew what he meant. He was thanking me for my trust in him. For giving him my deepest vulnerability. Only two people in my life can see me come apart to this degree: Steve and John.

Later, after I’d finally calmed: “How are you feeling?” “Drained,” I replied. I was so tired. My eyes were swollen and scratchy. But I felt cleaner, clearer. I knew I was on my way out of this latest visit to the abyss.

Anyway. It’s Friday. The problems and worries haven’t gone away. I’m still feeling kind of sad and tired. But that awful blackness has receded.

I’m on the fence about reactivating to FetLife. It’s kind of nice taking a break from it. Steve gave me the password to his account, so I logged in under his name to see what was going on. Same old, same old. I did notice that dear, sweet Joe had posted a status about how he missed me and wished I’d come back. He’d also texted me after I disappeared, which did my heart good. At least someone noticed, I thought. I looked to see if anyone had commented to his status… yeah. Two people. (sigh) So no, I’m in no hurry to return.

But of course, despite the emotional excess, there must be pictures. You’ve slogged through all this touchy-feely stuff, so here’s the fun part. I’m posting this one so you can see my most excellent socks (and Steve’s feet):

DCIM100GOPROGOPR9978.

 

And here I am with ice packs “strapped on” by my underwear:

DCIM100GOPROGOPR9992.

 

Again, for all those who commented and dropped me private messages, thank you. I appreciated it, even though I was non-reactive.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Tonight’s scene…

… was very personal. ST did not stop to take pictures during it. His focus was singular — taking care of me.

We talked beforehand. I thought I was all cried out, but dammit, I wasn’t. I guess I never am.

He was concerned, very caring, and asked me what I wanted. I said, “I’ll tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want you to handle me with kid gloves.”

“No?”

“No. I won’t shatter.”

I just wanted to go someplace else for a while. He knew. He took me there.

We did not banter tonight. He did not scold. It wasn’t necessary.

Afterward, I couldn’t move for a long time. He lay on the carpet next to my chair, let me recover. Eventually, I scooted off the chair onto the carpet next to him and put my head on his chest. And there we stayed. I didn’t fix my clothes, I did nothing. Just felt the burn and sting and let my breathing settle back down.

Quite a while later, he got up. I stayed prone on the carpet, and he took a picture then. Of course, I was mostly faded. But I don’t get much more relaxed than this.




I’m not sure how I feel about last night’s blog. Part of me is rather embarrassed by it. Still, I don’t wish to delete it. It was honest.

Thank you for all the supportive comments. Funny how they ran the gamut, with the two polarities ranging from, “Don’t do it, you don’t need it” to “Go for it.” I know cosmetic surgery is a hot button topic, and some people are fiercely against it. Here’s my take: I don’t like it when it’s used as a panacea; when people think it will fix their lives. It won’t. I don’t like it when it’s done to extreme and people are left with freakish frozen masks. I hate the idea of Botox; I just can’t wrap my head around shooting poison into my face.

HOWEVER. Life is not easy, and like it or not, looks do matter. If someone has something or another that is fixable, that would make them feel better, more confident, whatever, if it were addressed, then I’m all for fixing it. If they can afford it, if they are safe about it and do their research, if they had their heads screwed on straight beforehand… more power to them, I say.

But I’m cannot condone paying for things I can’t afford to pay for. No matter how much I want them. I just can’t. So I have to work this out some way, or let it go.

John sent me flowers today. I came home from the gym and found them on my doorstep.

It’s now 24 hours since I wrote my last blog. Nothing has changed in those 24 hours; my situation and my feelings are the same. But thanks to the love of two wonderful men and some supportive friends, I’m at peace with unresolved problems. Those damned nattering negative voices have been stifled.

No matter how sad, scared or crazed I get, I don’t lose sight of what I have. Even through my tears, I’m aware that I’m lucky in so many ways.

So drowsy. I believe I will sleep well tonight.

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