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”

Okay, okay, here’s the real parody

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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.

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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. 🙂

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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.

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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)

Song parody (happy 50th to Abbey Road)

This year marks the fiftieth anniversary of the Beatles’ final album together, Abbey Road. Those who know me, know I’m much more of a fan of their earlier work and I can take or leave this album, even though it’s considered a masterpiece and I do acknowledge that. So which song did I choose for a parody? George’s poignant and multi-covered “Something”? John’s bizarre “Come Together”? Nah. I picked Paul’s “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.”

For anyone who doesn’t know the story of this song, Paul pushed hard for it, thinking it would make a great single. The other Beatles hated it, thought it was one of Paul’s cutesy, “granny” songs. (Think “When I’m 64,” or his solo “Silly Love Songs,” the latter of which I can’t stomach.) However, the bouncy tempo, the lively “Bang-Bang” sounds, and John and George hiding their disgust while providing a cheerful “Doo-doo doo doo” backup during the chorus tends to make people forget that the song is pretty damn dark, about an unassuming young man named Maxwell Edison who goes around bashing people’s heads in with a silver hammer.

Many years ago, a play partner who was a fellow Beatles freak came over one night bringing a bag of implements and the Abbey Road CD. He had a different implement for nearly every song (he claimed that we were skipping “Octopus’s Garden” because he thought it sucked). And for “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer,” he introduced me to “Max” — a large, heavy aluminum paddle with holes in it. Holy shit.

But I digress. Here’s the real song, in case you don’t remember it.


And here is my parody, “Maxwell’s Leather Paddle.” Enjoy!

Joan had attitude,
Suffering with bratitude,
Sighing in her home
Late nights all alone, no one liked her,
Oh, oh-oh-oh,
Maxwell Edison,
Knew he had the medicine,
Called her on the phone
“Can I help you out with your problem,
Jo-oh-oh-oan?”

But as she’s just about to refuse
He charges through the door…

Whack! Whack! Maxwell’s leather paddle
Came down upon her ass
Smack! Smack! Maxwell’s leather paddle
Got rid of all her sass.

Back at work again, secretary’s late again
Maxwell gets annoyed
Wishing she would learn how to tell the ti-i-i-ime
He tells her to stay
Says that she’ll be spanked today
On her bare behind
She protests and cries
“You will not do so-o-o-o!”

But as she turns away from the man
He throws her OTK…

Whack! Whack! Maxwell’s wooden paddle
Came down upon her bum
Smack! Smack! Maxwell’s wooden paddle
Turned white into dark plum!

CeeCee, thirty-one
Said “You’re such a flirty one!”
Maxwell stands accused,
Feinting shock, but he gets the picture,
Now, ow ow ow
“No more Valerie,
Jennifer or Mallory,
Prove you love just me!”
Max says, “Yes, indeed,
Let me show you how, ow ow ow”

And as the words are leaving his lips
He pulls her panties down…

Whack! Whack! Maxwell’s heavy paddle
Came down upon her cheeks
Smack! Smack! After Max’s paddle
She stood for one whole week,
Whoa whoa whoa ohhh!

Final note: In a completely unrelated story (but pertaining to Abbey Road songs and spanking), the aforementioned Beatles fan play partner was once coming to the end of a very hard scene with me, and my brain was fried (along with my butt). He then selected a nasty strap and announced he wasn’t going to stop using it until I sang a Beatles song all the way through. (Fortunately, no one else was around; it was at Shadow Lane, but in his hotel room.)

Say what???

But then, my brain kicked in. “Any Beatles song?” I asked. “Yup,” he said.

Well, all rightie then.

I proceeded to sing “Her Majesty” — which is all of twenty-six seconds long. 😀

 

Another Curious Cat question (plus some Spanking 101)

I enjoy the Curious Cat app where people can anonymously ask others questions. Sometimes, I get some really interesting, thought-provoking stuff. (Other times, not so much. But I digress.) Last week, I received this question:

When my husband paddles my bottom, he likes to constantly change the speed, location, and hardness of the whacks. He says he does that to hold my attention. I say no fair. What do you think?

Wellllllllll… you’re gonna hate me for this, honey. And I’ll agree, it’s not fair. But count your blessings with this one. At least your husband is trying to keep it stimulating and varied. Do you really need to know everything that’s coming, down to every last swat? (Honestly, I don’t. I like the element of surprise in my play — keeps it interesting.) I mean, would you really want what I call a “metronome spanking”?

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For those who never had endless music lessons, a metronome is a device that keeps time and tempo. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Therefore, a metronome spanking is repetitive. Back and forth. Back and forth. Right. Left. Right. Left. Over and over and over. Same spot. Same tempo. Same intensity. Same…. Zzzzzzz.

If you ever find yourself on the receiving end of one of these, I suggest you grab the nearest reading material. Perhaps mentally plan your grocery list. Or find a patch of wet paint and watch it dry. Because a metronome spanking is a total. Fucking. BORE.

And there’s really no excuse for a spanking to be boring. All it takes is a little imagination. Change it up a bit. It’s not that difficult. Use different speeds and strengths. Maybe a flurry on one side, then the other, instead of the usual back and forth. And for heaven’s sake, don’t hit the same central spot on each cheek over and over. Move it around.

Yeah, I know — that part gets a bit scary. There are many spots to avoid. You don’t want to hit too high, and you don’t want to wrap out to the sides. But the butt has plenty of real estate, even ones on the smaller side like mine. You can vary the coverage greatly and keep your bottom guessing.

And yes, there is the territory directly under the butt — the sweet spot, AKA the sit spot. The place you feel when you sit the next day. How far down that goes is up to the individual players. Some people keep it to just an inch or so, the juncture where ass connects to thigh. Others wander down a bit, covering upper thighs. This is where it gets tricky. Generally, this hurts a lot more, and you can probably use a lighter smack there. And the lower you go, the more painful it tends to be. I daresay that if you strike someone’s mid-thigh as hard as you strike their bottom, you might get your eardrums blown out with their scream. So do use some common sense.

I would say this picture represents good full bottom coverage. Notice it doesn’t go too far out to the sides, no wrapping around the hip. And how even it is.

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And if it goes a bit further below the butt, that’s acceptable too. Again, know your play partner.

I’m not going to get into hitting other places. Because — to me — that isn’t spanking. Slapping breasts and genitals? Not spanking. Caning calves? Not spanking. I don’t like being struck anywhere but on the butt and upper-upper thighs, but to each their own. Many years ago, I was in the middle of a scene with a partner who usually could read my body like a book. But for whatever reason that night, he had a brain freeze and decided to strike the soles of my bare feet with something or another. Yeah… I came this close to ending the scene. I also came this close to kicking backward and launching his sinuses out the back of his head. Don’t hit stuff that usually isn’t hit unless you have a partner’s consent! I’m not saying “No edge play.” I’m just saying don’t spring it on someone unless you know they welcome that sort of thing. Or are at least open to it.

I have a love/hate thing with upper thigh spanking. Being spanked on the sweet spot is intense and I do like the feeling of it when I’m sitting later. But going further down can mark like hell and I am ambivalent about it. Sometimes I think it’s hot and other times the marks horrify me. I suppose, for me, a little of it goes a long way.

Perhaps it’s summed up best to say I don’t always want to look like this. Maybe once in a while, from someone I trust. And with a lot of aftercare.

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(The second picture was taken two days after a thigh-intensive spanking. Note that my bottom is completely pristine, while my thighs retained the impression a lot longer.)

So to my anonymous Curious Cat friend, forgive me. But please do go give your husband a hug and a kiss. Because as dastardly as he is, trust me — a spanking that keeps you guessing is much better than one that puts you to sleep. 😉

Dare I say…

…it’s ABOUT FUCKING TIME???

Yup… eleven days past the actual event, finally got my birthday spanking. 😀

Wednesday I got email from D. He was trying to move some things around at work, and he could come over the next morning — was I available?

Was I available? Is Donald Trump orange?? I mean, yeah, I had work and stuff, but everything was flexible. So I answered, very simply, “Yes, please.” Especially to the part where he mentioned “bare-assed punishment.”

I’ve come to realize something: my views on the word “ass” have definitely changed. Years ago in my book, I wrote that I didn’t care for it, I thought it was crass, and that I preferred “bottom.” But now, it seems that my feelings about the word are dependent upon who is saying it. From a stranger on Alt.com, it’s still kind of overly familiar and icky. But from someone I know and like, in the right context? It’s pretty damned hot.

Anyway — we set it up for 10:30. I got up at 8:00, made some coffee, but declined to eat breakfast for obvious reasons. Once I was ready, I worked until he arrived, looking handsome as always in his suit. This time, he had a backpack with him and had brought a pair of board shorts, so he could change out of the hot and heavy suit. Good idea (although I missed watching him roll up his sleeves). He went into my bathroom to change, and came out wearing the shorts and an undershirt. Fortunately, it was much cooler here than it had been the last time he visited.

Oh, and he came with some chocolate. 🙂 I don’t remember this, but I guess at some point I’d mentioned that I love peanut M&M’s, and he brought me some of those. Happy me! But that was for later. We had other things to attend to.

(I didn’t put out any implements this time. Hey, he didn’t tell me to. Yeah… bad idea, Erica. It’s a hell of a lot easier to just put the damn things out beforehand, than to have to stagger into the bedroom half-dressed mid-scene — TWICE — to retrieve them.)

As before, we made use of nearly every area in my living/dining room area — the couch, the recliner, the dining room chair, my desk. On the latter, I tried to move everything aside, but as we progressed, I could hear things crashing onto the floor — my WiFi modem, a small framed picture, my mouse. Oh well. Wreck the place, I didn’t care at the moment. I’d deal with it later.

Our play gets a little bit better each time, I think. He is more familiar with me, has more confidence in knowing what I like. And I am more relaxed, letting go immediately and feeling the endorphins soar. Every time I feel his fingers snaking up the back of my neck, I know that fist is going to tighten in my hair and mmmmmmmmmpphhhh… He has incredible hands. Way, way back when I wrote my very first spanking ad, I included the question: “Do you have hands that can both caress and chastise?” D definitely does.

I wanted to play hard yesterday. It had been six weeks since I’d seen him, I didn’t know how long it would be until I see him again, and I wanted to make our time count. I felt very connected to him and trusting. When we’d been at it for a while, I noticed he wasn’t ramping it up quite as much as he had before. I waited, hoping he would, but it wasn’t happening. I really hate topping from the bottom — I know it seems like that’s something I do a lot, with bratting, but truth be told, I’d rather not once the scene is to the point where I just want to shut up and feel. But I couldn’t help it; at one point, during a flurry with my wooden paddle, I blurted, “Oh, please, harder!” He obliged readily, and that did it — I felt that push, that challenge, dancing on the line between pleasure and pain, between just enough and too much. “Thank you,” I breathed.

He must have heard the change in my voice, the wavering, the sounds more pained. “Almost done,” he murmured. The last bout was back over my desk with my leather paddle, fast and hard, my back bowed, my hand over my mouth to stifle the reactions. I did not cry this time, but I shook all over. My legs would barely hold me up. He dropped the paddle with a decisive thud and gathered me into his arms, where I trembled and clung. So good. So. Damn. Good.

He hung out a while, gave me a nice massage with lotion, we chatted a bit, but unfortunately, he had a 1:15 conference call waiting for him back at work and had to get going. (sigh) I’m grateful he was able to carve out some time. It sounds like all he’s been doing lately is working, and working some more. I reluctantly said goodbye to him. Thank you, D. ♥

After he left, I thought, oh, damn. We forgot pictures again. Since I still had plenty of color, I once again tried the bathroom mirror selfie thing. My first try was somewhat decent, but not great:

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So I tried again. And again. And a few more times. Until I finally got this one and said okay, good enough.

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I realized I was ravenously hungry, so I inhaled a bowl of cereal and then attempted to settle down into work, but I was feeling so spacey and blissful, it was hard to concentrate. How many times have I expressed that I wish I could capture that bliss, that euphoria, and keep it a while? I need to remember how it feels. So, putting work aside once again, I attempted to capture my mood in another selfie. I think I did pretty well.

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This is pure joy. This is peace. This is a fulfilled and happy woman. When my old buddy depression stomps into the picture again, I can look at this and remember — yes, I can feel good too. No matter how weepy/droppy/utterly blech I get, to the point where I can’t remember feeling any other way, I can look at this.

I suppose some people out there would feel sorry for me, thinking, “Sheesh — she needs pain to feel like this??” Ah, they’ll never understand. It’s not about pain. It’s about the connection. It’s about the trust, the chemistry, the mutual attraction, the endorphins. (Okay, and about the pain, too. But that’s just part of it.)

Later in the afternoon, I felt peckish again and was going to have a protein drink. But then I looked at the package of peanut M&M’s. I noticed the calorie count was the same as a bottle of Boost. And hey, there is protein in peanuts, so… Yeah, don’t judge me. They were delicious. 🙂 And besides, D told me later that he had indulged in a chocolate whoopie pie and even sent me a picture of it. So there.

(And you’ll all be glad to know that despite the distractions, I got all my work done.)

Today, I am tired and sore and still feeling the afterglow. Taking my good mood into the weekend, and looking forward to celebrating John’s birthday (tomorrow!). I have presents and treats for my sweetheart and will take him to dinner tomorrow night.

Oh, and speaking of birthdays, here’s a Flashback Friday for ya: Today is my beloved Danny Chrighton’s birthday! Those of you who have been with me since my MySpace blog days, remember this little incident we had with his birthday cake? 😀

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Ah, memories.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Correspondence Hall of Shame, 9/20

Yup, I’m still getting this crap, kids. I guess some things never change. And I suppose, in a perverse way, I should be grateful. After all, there will more than likely come a day when I’m bawling, “Why isn’t anyone perving me anymoooooore??” (eye roll)

MMMMMMM you like black cock you like to get your pussy pound deep and hard and fuck hard….. you like taboo

MMMMMMM… I like my butt spank. Bye now.

hi you looking to meet and get knotted let me know if your interested i have a trained pet

WTAF is getting knotted? Never mind, I don’t want to know. Buzz off, Junior. (Did I mention this one is 25?)

This one is in response to my never-ending lament about how I hate the “compliment” of someone saying I look good “for my age.”

I think your ass looks very nice for any age,,,,, I do think it would look nicer with a good spanking and a dick shoved up in it tight

(looking around) I’m sorry. I’m trying to discover who asked you what you think. Tight? You wish, honey. I get the feeling your tiny little member wouldn’t be tight in a thimble.

And finally, while we’re on the “of a certain age” BS…

Ready to start your cougar training?
ever thought about you being a live in full time?

You ready for me to claw your fucking face off?? And to answer your question… well, let’s review. I love my boyfriend of twenty-three years, and I still have no desire to live with him. So why in nonexistent deity’s name would I think about living with the likes of you?

I will say this for the twenty millionth time: Calling a woman a cougar is not a compliment. Knock. It. OFF.

Moving on, but speaking of age, I have another birthday this Sunday. Christ, didn’t I just have one? 😛 This week, feeling droppy after my intense experience with B last week and also feeling the birthday blues, I was so hoping I could play with D. Alas, it was not meant to be. He’s still around… but inaccessible. Working insane hours all week, and the only free time he has is on weekends… and I’m not around then. (sigh) Color me frustrated. (What color is frustration, anyway?)

Yesterday afternoon, speak of the devil, D texts me out of nowhere from work. He’s never done that before; he always emails. For about a split second, I wondered if maybe he was going to say, “Hey, if I take the afternoon off, you wanna play?” but I knew that was ridiculous. Responsible adults don’t do stuff like that. No, he was just saying hi. And then he segued into how he’s been “reminiscing” about our last scene. (Five weeks ago already!! Where the hell does time go??)

Oh, yeah?

Then he typed out a few of those memories. Nothing graphic, just… well. Yeah, I remembered them too.

And then he had to go on a conference call. Bye bye.

Well, hell. In a lather, I texted Jay and asked how the hell I’m supposed to work now after getting texts like those. She wrote back that I should tell him to stop reminiscing and start reenacting.

Oh, I liked that. I liked that so much, I emailed it to him later. I told him he had distracted me from work, that I’d been so flustered that I had to stop and do a workout. That he really should stop that. No, really. Stop it some more.

He wrote back, laughing. “Sorry about that.” Oh, sure. Sorry, my unspanked ass. Then he added that as soon as this work crush eased, “reenacting” was a top priority for him.

Of course, I have no idea when that might be. It could be next week. Or next month. Or next year.

Sigh again. So no birthday spanking session for this girl. Sucks.

But I will be with John my whole birthday weekend, and I’m sure he’s got something or another up his sleeve. So I’m going to head over there later and immerse myself in birthday attention. ♥ Fun stuff.

Have a great weekend, y’all. (I would say “happy start of fall,” but here in Southern CA, we don’t have fall, just extended summer!)

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