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 “spanking”

Someone needs to vent…

screaming

So look out! (warning: fluent cussing to follow)

Before I get into this, I should say I am not sick. I’m not depressed. John is well. My apartment is fine and I have plenty of work. I still have the lovely memories of the party from a couple of weeks ago. So at this moment in time, I am all right.

I’m just overwhelmed with a feeling of unease and powerlessness, and like the whole damn world around me is in free-fall. We have a global pandemic that’s spreading every day. The stock market is crashing. People are freaking out and social media is a disaster area. The anger is off the charts. I feel like I’m not going to get through 2020 without losing my mind. And while I am well, I have several friends who are in various stages of illness and despair, and there’s not a damn thing I can do for them.

Finally, being a recluse and a misanthrope is going to be a huge plus. I’m not scared that I’m going to get COVID-19. I live alone, I work alone. I hate travel. I hate large crowds, for the most part. And I’m healthy with a strong immune system. However… John has a heart condition. And his immune system is compromised. And this is not the fucking flu.

The stock market plummeting on a daily basis scares the bejesus out of me. People hoarding stuff and acting crazy scare me. My finances worry me, especially since I just spent the last of my emergency cash on a hefty car repair. My computer is old AF, so are my TVs. My car is twelve years old. But I can’t afford to replace anything.

So what do I want to do in the midst of all this insanity? I want to play. I want to escape and forget all this crap for a while. I want an endorphin rush and a stress release. And I’m fucking frustrated with that situation as well.

This is party season — there’s a huge national spanking party next month, then in May, and then in June. Personally? I think going to airports and being among mass throngs of people from all over is insane right now, so I’m quite worried about all my friends going to these things, even though I envy them as well. I’m so very grateful we managed to get to our own party before this all blew up. But the local situation continues to suck, and sometimes it gets damn tiresome.

In particular, I am frustrated with the tops on Alt.com. Yeah, lots of them look at me. I can tell who’s looking at my profile, and it’s often the same guys over and over. But they don’t contact me, and I can’t contact them, because I’m not a paying member. What’s up with that? About once a week, I see that the man who ended things last November still looks at my profile. Why??? Every time I see that he’s looked at me, I want to write to him and say, “FFS, come on over and look at me up close and personal, why don’t you?” Argh. But I don’t. I say nothing. Because if he wanted to be in touch, he would be. Still, I really can’t comprehend why he’s still checking me out. What a useless exercise that is if you don’t follow up with anything.

Another one has been dancing around me for months. We met once for coffee and things went splendidly, but then the holidays happened, he had a family emergency and he went back East for a few months. I waited patiently, and now he’s back… and he’s dancing around me again. Writing brief emails, dropping hints, asking questions, commenting how he saw one of my clips… but not suggesting a concrete get-together. Dude! Life is short and neither one of us is getting any younger here. If we’re all gonna die, I want to go with a sore butt and a big smile on my face. Stop tiptoeing… if you want to play, then fucking tell me you want to play and tell me when!

And yet another one texts me every now and then and says let’s reconnect. I enthusiastically agree and say just tell me when. And then he disappears again until the next time.

I wish they’d freaking man up, turn my ass up and spank the hell out of me already, dammit!

(I know. I sound so fucking submissive. I’d laugh at that if I didn’t feel like screaming.)

But then I calm down, I work out, I sigh, and I pick up my work again. And hope for things to get better. But I can’t help feeling they’re going to get a whole lot worse first.

One of my old bosses, whenever people complained about stuff, had the weirdest saying: “Yeah, well, people in hell want lemonade.” I never quite understood what that meant. But I suppose the kinky version of that is “People in hell want spanking.” Because right now, besides the basics of shelter and food and good health, that’s what I want most.

I. Am. Scared. I know why people drink. I know why people smoke. I know why people do geographics. Escape. Of course, there is no escape, not really. There is postponement, though. There is temporary distraction. And sometimes, that sounds pretty damn sublime.

(sigh) Rant over. I will get back to work now.

Friends — be safe. Be careful. And if you have a chance to have some fun, do it. Because we simply don’t know what the fuck is going to happen.

Happy “birthday” to Erica Scott

No, technically, it is not my birthday, which is why I put it in quotes. January is nearly over, and I’ve been so busy with work that I completely forgot to acknowledge a passage of time. Twenty years ago, in January 2000, I shot my first video. Twenty years ago in January, “Erica Scott” was born. I had come out as a spanko in 1996, but 2000 was the beginning of my online presence, my video presence. When I decided I wanted to keep my first name, but change my last, for simplicity.

I will never forget that day… the unbelievable excitement, the nerves, the joy, the exhilaration. The huge script to memorize for what turned out to be a 90-minute video. All the costume changes. Actually working with Keith Jones, who had been my first spanko crush from afar. Shooting for 9 1/2 hours, then going out to a late dinner, then playing some more, then coming home after midnight… and being so wound up, I still couldn’t go to sleep.

So very many experiences since then. Erica Scott may only be twenty, but she’s crammed a lifetime into those years. My alter ego has served me well.

Still my favorite picture from the “Naughty Secretaries Week Part 2” shoot, although I can’t recall what the hell we were laughing at. (Apologies for the poor picture quality.)

standingduo

I never would have thought I was launching something so monumental in my life, back on that day in January 2000. The birth of my alter ego changed my life. Broadened it. Freed it. Freed me.

And now Erica [real name] must get back to work.

Yes, we’re strong, but…

Earlier this morning, a conversation on Twitter got my mind going. A friend was saying how hard it is to let go, to admit that she needs/wants to be taken care of, that her strong, independent and take-charge personality won’t allow it. How many bottoms — women and men — have struggled with this? We work. We function. We struggle and juggle. We make decisions. We pay bills and take care of others. We are responsible. And yet… for many of us, there’s that tiny inner vulnerable person who just wants to give up the control and hand it over to someone stronger.

Me too.

(For the sake of simplicity and my own viewpoint, I’m going to assume the strong female/stronger male dynamic, but please feel free to substitute whatever works for you.)

strongwoman

How do women reconcile their strength, their feminism and independence with that inner need to be taken down, spanked, held and comforted? I’ve heard that question for years and years, and I still don’t know the answer to it. I only know the need is real.

I am fiercely independent to a fault. I am a loner. I have lived alone since I was seventeen years old. And I hate needing people. That is one hell of a clash with the part of me who wants to lie over a man’s lap, feel his strong hand spanking me, and then disappear into his arms. Who wants to hear his voice in my ear, softly crooning, “Shhh. Good girl. That’s my girl. I’ve got you.” Who wants to sob until his shirt is soaked with my tears… knowing he won’t think my crying is ugly.

An old (and honestly, really sexist) song from the movie “Funny Girl” comes to mind, in particular the lyric, “You are woman, I am man. You are smaller, so I can be taller than.” I’m not a small woman; I’m 5′ 7″ flat-footed. I accepted years ago that a lot of men (and play partners) aren’t going to be taller/bigger than I am, and that’s fine. But guess what… yup. There’s still that part of me that yearns to be tiny, that loves the fact that John is 6′ 2″. When I’m barefooted and he’s hugging me, he likes to say, “What are you doing down there?” My answer is always the same: “Looking up at you.”

Does that make me weak? A traitor to the feminist cause? I don’t think so. I’m not looking for a caretaker or a protector. I don’t want to be absolved of all responsibility, to be permanently removed from adulthood. I just want the chance now and then to be vulnerable, to let go and know I have a safety net. To know that if I crack my hard exterior and let the softer, inner me show, that side will be cherished, not crushed.

This is an old picture of a former play partner. Sadly, he showed himself to be someone with whom I can no longer share my vulnerability.  But I still love this picture. And I want this — not him, but this — back in my life again regularly, in my home, in my moments of softness. So, so, so damn much.

vulnerable1

I hope I find it again.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

A little holiday fantasy

I’m a couple of days late with this, but it’s still December, soooo… I was doing some file cleanup on my computer and ran across this story I wrote several years ago and never publicized — not sure why. I thought some of you might get a kick out of it. Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday! 🙂

MY Kind of Christmas

It was Christmas Day; actually, to me, it was December twenty-fifth, a day like any other. Christmas meant nothing to me and I was spending it alone, which didn’t bother me in the least. I didn’t believe in all that sugarplum crap anyway. I was bundled up in comfy sweats with the heater on, had plenty of chocolate, and the TV, books or internet if I got bored. I was content in my grumpiness.

I was watching the TV Land marathon of classic Christmas shows. Oh, crap. They were just starting that insipid Brady Bunch episode where Carol loses her voice before she has to sing in the Christmas choir. Picking up the remote, I was poised to change channels when the doorbell rang. Who could that be? Had to be a mistake. I ignored it, but the bell rang again, more insistently. I lowered the volume, got up and shuffled to the door, looking out the peephole. Whoever it was, he/she was standing outside of view. Irritably, I yanked open the door.

WTF? There stood a tall, handsome man, dressed in a Santa suit. Who was playing tricks on me? I squinted at him. “Uh… can I help you?” He smiled at me, although it was more like a smirk. “Nope. I’m here to help you.”

I stared at him. “Ohhhhkay. Who are you?” “Silly woman,” he replied. “I’m Santa Claus, who else?”

Oh, good grief. Apparently, the local nuthouse had an escapee. I started to slam the door, but strangely, it wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard I pushed on it. “Don’t believe me, huh?” he taunted.

I was getting nervous now. “No, I don’t,” I snapped, looking him up and down. “You don’t look anything like Santa Claus, except for that stupid suit. You’re not fat.”

He made a face. “Ever hear of Jenny Craig? I needed to lighten the load on the reindeer. Blitzen was getting a hernia and Rudolph’s face was as red as his nose. My cholesterol was off the charts. I figured it was time to ditch the fruitcake and pick up the celery sticks.”

This was ridiculous. “Okay, where’s your beard?” I challenged.

“Oh, that,” he said, sticking his hand in his pocket and then withdrawing it, something white and fluffy in his fist. He slipped a fake beard over his face and then hooked it behind his ears. “Happy now?”

“It’s fake?” I blurted. “Of course it is,” he replied impatiently, pulling it off. “I could never grow a real beard like this. Besides, this damn thing itches; I take it off whenever I can. Are you going to let me in, or what?”

“No! I have no idea who you are, but you’re creeping me out. Who do you think you’re kidding? If you were Santa, you’d come down the chimney. And why are you here, instead of delivering presents to all the boys and girls in the world?”

He rolled his eyes and leaned against the doorjamb. “Uh… you live in an apartment. No chimney.  And it’s Christmas Day. I delivered all the presents last night. Don’t you know anything?”

That did it; I tried once again to slam the door, but it still wouldn’t move. He shook his head at me. “You know, you’re trying my patience. I suggest you let me in. And turn that TV off; it’s rude to have it on when you have company.” Then he waved his hand, and the TV went black. I stared at the blank screen in shock. Numbly, I moved aside, and he stepped into my apartment, closing the now-unstuck door behind him.

“That’s better,” he said, walking over to my recliner and settling into it. “Got any eggnog?”

I stood in the middle of my living room, gawking at him. Clearly, I was dreaming. “No, I do not have any eggnog,” I said rudely. “That’s not on Jenny Craig, anyway.”

“You’re right, it’s not. Okay, how about a Diet Coke?”

What the hell was going on here? “Sorry, fresh out of that too,” I answered, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “But I guess you could whip some up yourself if you want it, no?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he smiled, and once again waved his hand. Within a second, he was sipping from a tall, frosty glass of bubbling soda. Bobbing at the top, instead of a slice of lemon, was a bright red maraschino cherry. My legs suddenly felt weak and I sat down abruptly. “What—what are you doing here?”

He started to put his drink down on the coffee table, hesitated, then snapped his fingers. Once a coaster appeared, he placed the glass on it and sat back. “Simple, my dear. You don’t believe in me, and I can’t have you going around implying to anyone who will listen to you that I’m not real. You’re such a Grinch, you don’t deserve any presents, but I thought I’d pop by and grant you one wish. Then perhaps you’ll get a little Christmas spirit infused into that cranky system of yours, finally.”

Oh yeah, right. Some sleight-of-hand tricks were one thing, but if he expected me to buy this, he’d been dipping into the rum balls once too often. Before I could say a word, though, he scowled at me. “I did not have any rum balls, young lady. They’re not on Jenny Craig either. Don’t be so disrespectful.”

My heart pounded; I was getting truly scared now. Apparently he could read that as well, because his face softened. “There’s no reason to be scared; I’m not here for any other reason except to give you something you want. Now come on, spit it out. I want to go home; I was up all night and I’m dead tired. What do you want? A few million dollars? A fully furnished and soundproofed townhouse, mortgage free? A portrait that ages while you don’t? What?”

I shrugged and looked away. “I don’t want any of that,” I muttered.

“You really are hard to please,” he grumbled. “Dammit, it’s warm in here.” He unbuttoned his suit jacket, opening it to reveal a rather chiseled torso. I couldn’t help staring; I was beginning to feel a bit warm myself. After all, I couldn’t remember the last time someone came down—or up—my chimney, if you get my drift. Suddenly I wished I was wearing something a little less… unsexy. He caught me ogling. “Don’t even think about it, little girl. Let’s have it—tell me something you want. The reindeer are double-parked on this insanely crowded street of yours.”

I looked him straight in the eye. “Okay, if you’re really Santa Claus, this is what I want. It’s not for me; it’s for my friend Bill. I want him to not have lost his job. I want it to all be a bad dream, and he’ll wake up from it and everything will be as it was, and he’ll have a wonderful holiday with his family.”

He stared at me. “That’s what you want? That’s it? You can have anything, and that’s what you’re gonna wish for?” Squirming under his gaze, I nodded my head and looked down. I’d been very worried about my friend, and wanted things to be better for him. He had a wife and three children.

He continued to watch me for a long beat, his eyes searching. Then he spoke.

“Well. I can see I’m going to have to adjust my assessment of you, Erica.” (He knew my name?) “That’s a remarkably unselfish and generous wish. You sure?” Once again, I nodded, and he shrugged. “Okay, then.” He closed his eyes for a moment, waved his hands around a bit, then clapped them together. “It’s done.”

“It is?” I said skeptically. “How do I know?”

He stood and buttoned his jacket, his face impatient once again. “Well, you’ll just have to take my word for it, won’t you? Trust me, it’s done. Your friend is home celebrating Christmas with his family without a care in the world. His job has been reinstated and he got a promotion. Good thing, since that highfalutin private school his kids go to is expensive. And I’ll tell you what else—I wasn’t going to do this, but you know, I’m feeling extra generous today. I’m giving you another wish, just for you. What would you like?”

Oh, my. I didn’t see that coming. From his body language, I could tell I didn’t have much time to think about it. As I stood there watching this hunk in my living room, I realized just how long it had been since, well, pretty much everything. Underneath my sloppy clothes, I felt some long-forgotten sensations stirring. Lust. Desire. A craving to be anywhere else but here, be anyone else but me, just for a little while. Anything I wanted, huh? Right then, I knew exactly what I wanted.

“Hmmm… okay, but I don’t know if you can do this. I want to suspend time for twenty-four hours. I want everyone out there to just freeze, for everything to stand still. And during those twenty-four hours, I want to be with you in a luxury five-star hotel, where we can do whatever we want, no distractions, no one calling or needing us. That’s my wish.”

He stared at me once again. “That’s it? You flatter me, my dear. All right, are you ready?”

“Really?” I stammered. “You can, just like that? You’ll do it? But you’re married… no judgments?”

“Oh, please,” he scoffed. “I’ve been around for hundreds of years and been in millions of homes. You think Mrs. Claus has been my one-and-only, all this time? Some of those grateful moms rewarded me with more than milk and cookies, you know.” I clapped my hand over my mouth, stifling giggles. “Hey!” he added, giving me a stern look. “You keep that to yourself, now. I have a reputation to maintain. Now shut your eyes.”

“Wait a minute!” I pled. “How is this going to work? How will I get back into my life when the time is up?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he said irritably, with a dismissive gesture. “You think you’re dealing with some amateur here? Don’t worry about it. When the twenty-four hours are up, you’ll end up back here. Simple as that, with no one the wiser but you. It will be the same day and time as it is now.”

“But—” I said, but he cut me off. “Enough with the questions, or I’ll leave you with a lump of coal. Shut. Your. Eyes.” I obeyed him. I felt a sensation of being airborne, with a whooshing sound in my ears. Fighting the temptation to see what was going on, I kept my eyes closed tightly until I felt myself settle. A delicate scent filled my nostrils, and slowly, I opened my eyes. And gasped.

I was lying on a beautiful four-poster bed, made up with satin sheets and strewn with red rose petals. Looking around, I could see that I was indeed in a luxuriously appointed hotel room. There were flowers, fruit, chocolates and a bottle of champagne sitting next to a bucket. I looked down at myself, then jumped up and ran to a full-length mirror. My sweats were gone, replaced by a sexy, lacy black nightie with a matching lace thong. My face was flawlessly made up and my hair was perfect. I had high heels on, but my legs were bare. Oh, God! I reached down and swept my hand up one leg, then sighed in relief. Good old Santa had taken care of everything—even my legs were shaved. I peeked underneath the nightie. Well, now. He’d seen to the landscaping too.

The door opened and Santa walked in, carrying a small bag of ice. His red suit was gone; he wore dress slacks and a crisp shirt and tie, no jacket, and looked impeccable and delicious. Jolly old fat man, my ass. “There you are,” he smiled, going over to place the champagne in the bucket and dumping the ice around it, and then crossing over to me. “Mmmmm… look at you. You clean up well. Or should I say, I cleaned you up well.” Immediately we were enveloped in each other’s arms, and his mouth sought mine. For a guy who was centuries old, he was a damn good kisser.

“Well, hello to you too,” I murmured against his lips. “Merry Christmas.” He pulled back a bit and looked at me in amusement.

“What was that? Did I just hear ‘Merry Christmas’ from you, Miss Grinch?” he laughed. I squirmed a little. Okay, so I’d been a wee bit cranky the past month or so, cursing the holiday and wishing it would be over and done with. “Why the change in attitude?”

Of course, he knew damn well why, so I didn’t bother explaining. I was going to enjoy every minute of this fantasy. “I dunno—does it matter? I’m here, aren’t I?”

His eyes swept me from head to foot, hungrily. “Indeed you are.” He crossed his arms. “But don’t you think we should address your behavior over the past few weeks before we move on to fully enjoying our stay here?” Nervously, my eyes skittered away from him and fell on his toy bag, on the floor by the dresser. I got the feeling there weren’t any Legos or Barbie dolls in there.

Still unable to look at him, I shifted from foot to foot, knowing I was getting excited despite myself. “Ahh, come on, Santa…” I mumbled.

“Come on, what?” he said, his tone taunting me. “Don’t you think you deserve to be punished, at least a little bit?” I was silent, and he added, “I didn’t hear an answer from you. Answer me when I ask you a question, please.” “Okay, okay,” I snapped, suddenly feeling very… unclothed. “Maybe a little…”

“Yeah, maybe a little.” He stared at me a while longer, then turned toward his toy bag. As I stood and watched, he pulled out a strap, a small paddle and a flogger. And then, to my shock, several lengths of rope. “What—what is that for?” I sputtered.

He didn’t answer me, just glanced toward the four-poster bed, and then I understood. Oh, my. I bit my lip, speechless, and shivered, even though it was comfortably warm in the room. He gestured to the bed. “Take off your clothes, please, and then lie on the bed, face-down and spread-eagled.” With my hands trembling, I pulled the nightie over my head, then took off the thong. “You can leave the shoes on,” he said. “They look hot.”

I assumed the position on the bed, my arms and legs stretching toward the four corners. Deftly, Santa tied my wrists and my ankles to the posts, snug but not too tight. The ropes felt soft and did not chafe my skin. I continued to shiver, half with trepidation and half with arousal. I was completely vulnerable, open to him. I heard him moving around, and shifted my head to the side to look at him. He was unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves, and he caught my eye and held it. My face burned and I looked away.

The message was clear: my Scrooge-ish demeanor had been inappropriate. After a brief warm-up spanking with his hand, he used the paddle on my bottom and upper thighs, covering them thoroughly, increasing the intensity and tempo subtly but surely. I squirmed and writhed, jerked against the ropes, but they held me fast. “Stop wriggling,” he chided. “I can’t help it! It hurts!” came my muffled whine from the pillow. He paused, and I heard him snicker. “So what’s my line now?” I groaned and thumped my head against the soft bed in frustration. “Yeah, yeah… it’s supposed to hurt,” I mumbled. Freaking know-it-all.

Then I felt him place the paddle between my widespread legs, up against my crotch. It was startling at first, but then I realized why it was there—for protection. It was to shield my genitalia from the strap he had just picked up, to avoid stray shots. Despite my pain, I smiled. Once again, I knew I was safe and cared for.

The strapping was intense, precise and stung fiercely. He didn’t make me count, just told me to keep still. (Like I could move, anyway?) Then he finished me off with a flogging all over my back, bottom and legs. My blood thrummed under the strikes and I felt my body tingle and respond, heard moans escape from my throat. I closed my eyes and buried my face into the satiny comforter, knowing I was staining it with my arousal, and not caring in the least. This was so fucking hot. Who knew Santa Claus was so kinky?

At last, he stopped, and I heard him say, “All right. Do you have something you want to say to me?”

“Yes,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry I was such a Grinch. I’m sorry I didn’t believe in Christmas. I didn’t deserve my wish to come true, but I’m really glad it did. I’m going to look at the holidays differently from now on.”

“Good girl,” he said softly, caressing my heated flesh with gentle hands, his hand dipping teasingly between my legs, then kneading my back, caressing my hair. Slowly he untied me, and as I lay there, rotating my ankles and wrists, I watched him strip. (Guess what? Santa Claus has a tattoo of a mistletoe sprig on his right butt cheek.)

The next few hours were a blur of sex, kissing until our mouths were raw, employing every position known to Santa-kind. We played again, more sensually this time, until I was deliciously sensitized and sore. Screw sugarplums, whatever those are. Santa’s candy cane was far more satisfying.

And then speaking of sweets, we feasted on grapes, wonderfully sweet strawberries, rich chocolate truffles and champagne, with nary a doorstop fruitcake in sight. Even better, Santa proclaimed that since it was Christmas, none of the calories counted. Works for me.

As we settled down under the covers, spent, sleepy, sated with alcohol and sugar and sex, I glanced at the nightstand clock. Only six hours had gone by; still so much more time left. I sighed with contentment.

But alas, time passed, or it seemed to, anyway. “I have to get going home for Christmas dinner,” Santa said, yawning and stretching. “Mrs. Claus said that if she saw roast goose and yams once more time, she’d throw them against the wall, so I promised to bring home a pizza.” Once again, after we said our goodbyes, I was commanded to close my eyes. Again with the whooshing and swirling. I opened them and saw I was back in my living room and in my sweats. I turned on the TV, just in time to see Cindy Brady lisping to the department store Santa about how her mommy had “larry gitis.” Taken aback, I looked at the time stamp on my phone. It was still the afternoon of Christmas Day; Santa had spoken the truth. No time had passed.

Mystified, I wandered into the bathroom and glanced in the mirror. My hair was its usual disheveled mop, and there wasn’t a speck of makeup on my face. But what was different? Ah, yes… the tingling, tenderness and somewhat pleasant soreness in my nether regions. Pulling down my sweatpants, I took a peek at my butt. Wow. It certainly looked a lot like Christmas back there. You would even say it glowed. And there was no mistaking my stiff walk of (non)shame; Santa had filled a whole hell of a lot more than my stocking. Repeatedly. Still in a state of disbelief, I went back into my living room, and then did a double take. There, on my coffee table, still fizzing merrily, was the glass of Diet Coke.

Thanks, Santa. I believe in you now, albeit my image of you is far removed from your public one. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about your true being. Who would believe me, anyway? But from this Christmas forward, whenever I see one of your chubby impostors and hear them bellow “Ho, ho, ho!” I will smile enigmatically and think to myself, “Why yes, I certainly am.”

Okay, okay, here’s the real parody

hohocat

You didn’t think I was going to skip the annual carol parody, did you? The one from last week was simply a bonus, because… well, because I felt like it. But ’tis an Erica Scott tradition to create a spanko parody of a Christmas carol every year, and I wasn’t about to slack off on it. Besides, work is slow this week, I have a wretched cold, so I have plenty of time on my hands and could use the distraction.

I’ve done several of these already (like this one from last year, for example), but as we all know, there is no shortage of carols to work with. The one from last year was complex with multiple verses, but this year, with my brain muddled with mucus, I needed to keep it simple. And what’s more simple and classic than “A Christmas Song”? Besides, to this day, I can’t think about that song without remembering my dad warbling “Jack Frost roasting on an open fire…”

So, with all apologies to Mel Tormé (co-writer) and Nat King Cole, here you go:

Bottoms roasting under open palms
Teardrops dripping off their nose
Misbehavior being handled by doms
And brats dressed up like Santa’s hos

Everybody knows a paddle and a strap or two
Help to keep the backsides bright
Whiny imps and the miscreants too
Will find it hard to sit tonight

They know a spanking’s on its way
They’ve got it coming and there’s nothing they can say
And all the good girls are gonna spy
To see what happens when you scheme and lie

And so the tops are rolling back their cuffs
To give the little brats their due
All Grinches out there, say goodbye to your duffs
Many spankings to you!

And yes, before anyone comments on it, it doesn’t escape me that I’m the biggest Grinch out there and should be the recipient of this holiday fare. To that I say, “Yes, please, bring it!” My mojo is definitely still very much alive. Yesterday, while in the throes of fever and boredom, I engaged in a brat war on Twitter — two other women and me against one male top. It was immature, it was silly… and it was so damn much fun. I haven’t done anything like that in years. And I’ve still got it, if I do say so myself. The top involved actually admitted, “Wow, you’re good. You’re really good.” 😀 So… once I get rid of this damn cold and get past the annual ho-ho shit, I will try to get back into the game and redouble my efforts to find a local play partner. Because I need this.

A final note… despite the heartache and disappointment and other bullshit that life tosses in our direction on a daily basis, I get by with a little help from my friends. For the special friend who had my back this week, thank you. ♥

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Sometimes, life’s timing is perverse

Thanks to everyone who dropped in to say hello during LOL Days. I know this event isn’t as well attended as it used to be, but it’s still fun to see the people who stop by.

So, about last week. I need to back up a bit to last Tuesday.

You know how you can know in your gut that something bad is coming, but in your head and heart, you still hang on to a bit of hope that it won’t? Therefore, when the inevitable happens, even though you knew it was coming, it still knocks you sideways and hurts like hell? Yeah, that was my last Tuesday. I really don’t want to go into any more detail than that. It doesn’t matter.

I bawled, on and off, all day long and into the evening. I felt like hell, my eyes swelled nearly shut, my face burned from the constant tears. But I had to keep going, keep working. First, I had a lot of work to do and several things committed. And second, the next day, I’d be on my way up north for another visit with B. So I quite literally didn’t have time for pain or emotional fallout.

I finally finished the work I’d promised before taking off Wednesday/Thursday, and went to bed. I didn’t sleep well. When I woke up Wednesday morning, I wondered how I was going to switch gears. I looked awful. And while I was no longer sobbing, my eyes still kept dripping like a broken faucet. In the car on the way to the airport. At the airport. In the plane. In the Uber. Blech. When I arrived at our meeting place, I had an hour before B got off work, so I went into the bathroom and put on some makeup. Time to put all this crap on hold and be in the moment. I was here to have some fun. It was a brief escape and distraction. I could continue to hurt after I got home. But for now, I was going to shelve it and enjoy myself — and be a guest who was a pleasure, not a drag.

After B came to get me and we went back to his place, he put on some music and we chatted a bit. Despite the mood I’d been in for the past day and a half, I felt my spirits perk up and knew my emotions were under control. Whew. I can do this. I can forget about all this crap for a while and be present.

A couple of weeks ago, B had emailed me and asked if we could speak on the phone later, regarding our plans for my visit. As it happened, I was on a deadline that night and I was all stressed out about it, and so I asked if this could be handled by email. You guys know I have a thing about the phone; email and voicemail and texts are my friend. About the only person I talk to on the phone these days is John. So I truly wasn’t trying to be offensive… but I guess I should have been more flexible and agreed to a brief call. We did settle things by email — he wanted to know my choice between November 6 and November 13. I chose November 13 and all was well; he booked it for me and sent me the confirmation. And then told me I was going to be punished for not taking his phone call. Oh, dear.

Soooooo… not long after I arrived, it was time to address that. Upstairs we went. The scene that followed had a lighter tone; B was a bit more playful, and he used his belt for the first time, which I loved. There was the requisite cane, but just twelve this time. And then he did something new; he put a small digital clock (one that counts off seconds) in front of my face on the bed and said he was going to use the tawse very quickly in flurries all over for three minutes. Which sounded like a lot, but I was actually a bit disappointed when it was over — I liked it!

“Was that like I said it would be?” he asked. “Very fast and spread out over a large area?”

“Hey,” I blurted. “Watch it with that ‘large area’ business!”

“Excuse me?”

Oh, crap. “I mean, uh, please refrain from saying ‘large area’ when you’re talking to a woman’s butt… sir!” I think he just replied with “ExCUSE me??” again, so I just broke down and started giggling hysterically, and buried my face in the spread, preparing for an onslaught. But he let it pass. 🙂

“I think you need two more minutes.” Well, okay then. I think two minutes turned into another three and then some more after that — I lost track.

“You enjoyed that too much,” he observed. Guilty.

20191113_190439

This scene left me pleasantly warm and stinging, and relaxed. We then meandered back downstairs and he prepared an omelet for dinner, which was delicious. And then, more music, plus a selection of artisan truffles and Moet Chandon. It’s not all pain and strictness, y’all. B is the consummate host. 🙂

20191113_203552

The picture doesn’t do them justice — his champagne flutes are gorgeous. Can you see the gold rim at the top? And the chocolates were insanely good. The silver ones were my favorite.

It was a cool evening, so we went out to his building’s courtyard and he lit the gas fireplace there, and we sat outside talking for a while. I told him stories about some of my shoots and the people I worked with — he thought Sierra Salem was lovely, and I had spent lots of time with her. I also mentioned about how Keith Jones had nicknamed me “Bionic Bottom” way back when. It’s fun to reminisce; I really have had some amazing times.

Back inside, somehow we got on the subject of the Marx Brothers (!?), and B actually had the temerity to say that “the one who didn’t talk was useless.” Sacrilege! Harpo was brilliant! But what does he know — he’d never even heard of Zeppo, the fourth brother! So one minute we were bickering about this, and the next minute I was OTK, feeling this nasty little strap he has. It’s leather, but it’s very stiff and narrow and it has rivets on both sides, so it really bites.

“Bragging about your video exploits?” he huffed.

“You enjoyed that!” I protested.

“And your, what… your bipolar butt?”

I damn near lost it, laughing so hard. (Yes, it is possible to laugh hysterically and shriek in pain at the same time.) “Bionic! Not bipolar!”

On that note, it was near midnight, so we said good night and I went to the guest suite. By the time I showered, caught up on my phone and settled down, it was about 12:30. I think I was somewhere past exhausted. Nearly three glasses of champagne had taken its effects as well.

And so, 6:45 a.m. arrived swiftly and rudely. I dragged myself out of bed, dressed, sent the requisite “Hi sweetie, I’m okay” text to John, and wandered downstairs, where B was in the kitchen making coffee. He gave me a shot of espresso first, then made a beautiful latte with the swirls on top and everything. And he had multi-grain toast with black cherry jam. It’s the little things in life — give me some caffeine, some carbs and a bit of sugar, and I’m a happy woman.

I was already packed up, and we had about an hour before we had to leave. After he cleaned up, he came and took my hand, saying it was time to go upstairs once more. Okay, I thought, I know the drill — we always play once in the morning. But once there, instead of having me immediately assume the position over the foot of the bed, he kept me standing and looked into my eyes.

“You’ve been very self-reflective lately,” he said without preamble.

Oh, crap. He knew. I’m not sure how; perhaps he read that damned “Catch and Release” post from a couple of weeks ago (one I probably should have taken down). Or perhaps he saw my tweet on Wednesday, talking about the perverse dichotomy of crying all day one day and then flying up north to play the next.

I said yes, I have. And he added, “You’re falling into yourself.”

Never heard it put quite that way, but it works. I often refer to depression as the abyss. Perhaps the abyss is me. I nodded, feeling my throat start to close. He said I needed some therapy; well, that’s for damn sure, so I agreed.

“What do you think would be the proper therapy?” he asked. I looked away. “Pain?” I replied.

“Strapping. To tears,” he answered. My heart started to pound. “You look nervous; are you nervous?” I said yes, I am. “Why?” he asked. “You’ve been spanked by lots of men before.”

Strange question. Kind of a non-sequitur, really. I mean, the nerves and anticipation beforehand are all part of it. If I didn’t feel any butterflies, wouldn’t that mean I’d become jaded and blasé about all this? And what fun would that be? I answered something lame about how toppy he is.

I settled into the bed, and he told me he’d be using two tawses, twelve with a lighter one and then twelve with a heavy one, and we’d go from there. No warm-up, I was already sore from the night before, so I was really going to feel this. Of that I had no doubt.

It didn’t take long. He’d already gotten into my head before giving me a single stroke. The first twelve with the lighter tawse felt like hell. During the next twelve with the heavier one, I broke. After a pause, he gave me six more. The fucking dam cracked yet again; the walls I’d put up the day before crumbled.

He let me cry, gave me a hug. Said he wanted me to be a good girl, to get outside of myself. Yeah. I want that too.

I lay back down and he sat in front of me, and we talked a few minutes. He asked how I was feeling. I said, quite honestly, that I wanted to sleep for a week. Shortly after that, it was time to pull myself together and get ready to go.

I asked him how he’d known what I needed. He declined to answer.

20191114_085844

He drove me to the train station, and we said goodbye once again. “Thank you” seemed inadequate, but it was all I had.

I was so tired, I damn near felt delirious. Just physically and emotionally wiped out. I made my first train, no problem. But then at BART, trying to catch the shuttle to the airport, I hit a snag. First ticket machine I came to had a long line, and when I finally got to the front, two women were struggling with it. I tried to help them, and then we gave up and went to the guy in the booth. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, “that machine is malfunctioning and will only take Clipper cards.” [whatever the fuck those are] “Walk to your right, take the elevator up one floor and there are more ticket dispensers there.”

So we went to an antique elevator that looked like it had been in operation since 1922, that took forever to open and then forever again to go up one freaking floor. Once there, I dashed out, saw the nearest ticket machine — and the “out of order” sign. Arrrggh! I ran around and found another — but directly in front of it were two security guards in some sort of altercation with a guy who was arguing with them, and they wouldn’t move. So I rushed over to a third machine, finally got my damn ticket… and by then I’d missed the train. However, I got the next one in a half hour, made it to SFO and got checked in with a half hour to spare. All was well. All I wanted now was to go home and collapse, and I finally arrived at around 2:30. Sent a few “I made it home” texts, unpacked, and went straight to bed for a 2 1/2-hour nap.

No rest for the wicked; I had a huge deadline for the next day and I didn’t have time to think, let alone blog or reminisce or talk to friends about my visit. I just swung right into work mode and hit it hard. When I finally sent the finished document to my client at 5:00 Friday, I was so relieved and so pleased with myself, I was beaming. And now it really was time to relax. Time to head for John’s, have a quiet weekend, catch up with sleep, come back to earth. Between work, emotional insanity and the brief whirlwind of travel and adventure, I was toast.

Strange how we get what we need, no matter how fucked up things can feel. Thank you, B. I hope you know how much I appreciate your care.

Just a word to people who have expressed that they’re concerned about me — here’s the deal. Yeah, I’m depressed. This has been a crap year for many reasons and I’m looking forward to kissing it goodbye. There have been losses, hurts, uncomfortable transitions and painful things to accept. Plus for several months I had shoulder impingement syndrome, so I had physical pain thrown into the mix. (Fortunately, that has mostly resolved.) But, to paraphrase the old Kinks’ song “Destroyer,” I’m not going crazy, I’m just a little sad. I don’t need to be avoided or treated with kid gloves. Support means the world to me. Disappearances break my heart. I need little, as I’m a loner by nature. I don’t need constant reassurance. But knowing people are out there caring makes a huge difference and brings bright spots to the darkest days. So for those who are still with me, thank you. ♥

Okay, time for me to adult and get work done. And get back to working out after taking most of last week off. Hopefully, I will be too busy to overthink things. I really didn’t have the time to be writing this blog, but you know, sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do. Now I can work with a clear head. (Well… as clear as my head gets, which isn’t ever that clear, but you get my drift. Later, kids)

Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: