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”

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!)

Mini-adventure up north #3

I am writing this on stolen time; I should be working. However, I’ve been at it all morning, and I really do want to get this down while it’s fairly fresh in my mind. So, whereas a regular worker would take a lunch break, I’m taking a kinky blog-writing break.

(Warning: this is long)

So, another trip to Northern CA to see B. I hadn’t been there since mid-July; August was a blur of work. And truthfully, the latter half of August and the beginning of September sucked. A lot of sadness and dealing with negative feelings, and a crap-ton of stress. And no play to balance it out. So I was more than eager to leave it all behind for a day and go have some fun and stress relief.

Of course, every freaking step of the way to the journey was fraught with unexpected BS. First, the weekend before my trip, when I had a ton of stuff planned to do on Monday and Tuesday in prep for leaving Wednesday morning, my car stranded me at a Whole Foods parking lot on Friday night en route to John’s. Had to call AAA; long story short, the battery was working, so he thought it was the starter, just beginning to fail. Swell! He tapped on the solenoid (whatever the @#$% that is) with one of his tools and got the car to start, so I could get to John’s. We left my car in John’s garage all weekend, and I called my mechanic. He’s not there on Sundays, but he told me where I could leave the car and drop off the keys. On Sunday afternoon, mercifully, my car started, so I drove it straight to my mechanic (thirty-nine miles), dropped it off, and Ubered home. I needed groceries but I couldn’t stop for them, so I walked to a nearby market and picked up the bare necessities.

Monday I had a chiro appointment, and Tuesday morning I had my therapist; I had to cancel both. At least I could stay home and work (well, I kinda had to stay home), but I was nervous about my car. Mech called me Monday — starter, plus the battery was weak and it’s pretty old, so he recommended replacing it before it dies and strands me. Also, my car had just passed 90,000 miles and needed regular servicing. My head spun with dollar signs, but I just said, “Okay, do it all.” Screw it. I also worked out at home, since I couldn’t go to the gym.

Tuesday morning, I Ubered to pick up my car ($850, thank you very much), and decided to treat myself to a pedicure. I was so overdue for one that I had what a friend of mine used to call “ghet-toes,” so what the hell, another $20 on top of $850, who cares? Then I went home, worked out again, worked, got stuff ready, and Wednesday morning, I left for the airport.

Easy breezy. Parked in the Economy lot again, shuttled to the terminal, checked in (the airport was surprisingly empty, then I remembered it was 9/11). Was all ready to go by 12:30… and my flight was at 2:09. Fortunately, I found a seat near one of the rare charging plug-in stations, and I’d brought my charger, so I was able to keep my phone charged. I had a book also, and I had my friend Jay to text while I sat there waiting. Aaaaand… then I got the text from United. My flight was delayed until 4:48.

I cussed very loudly. There had been warnings about possible delays and cancellations, because there was some runway repair going on at SFO during September. But they’d said may be delays, not will be delays, so we took a chance. Now here I was, stuck for hours, and at the end of the flight, I still had a long trip with Uber. When the hell was I going to get to B’s?

But… not a damn thing I could do about it. So I texted B to let him know, and waited it out. My flight got to SFO a little after six, and my Uber picked me up at 6:15, with an ETA of 7:24. (groan) Oh, well. By now, I was tired, my back hurt, I was hungry, and feeling altogether frazzled, but I tried to pull it together before texting B that I’d arrived. It was a relief to finally lay eyes on him. I’d left my place at 11:30 and it was now 7:30. Hell of a trip for a one-hour flight and an overnight visit!

The last two times I’ve visited B, we had our first session before dinner, which worked well, as I don’t like playing with food in my belly. However, it was so late, and I was running on fumes and I think he sensed that. So as soon as I got there and put my stuff upstairs, he started preparing dinner. But not before he showed me his latest delivery, lying on my bed. A long cardboard tube, with mailing stickers and “FRAGILE” and “Please Don’t Bend” all over it, and this label:

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In case you can’t read that, it says “Reproduction old English classroom equipment.” “Equipment,” my ass. It was more canes, like he needs them! I swear, that man has more canes than I have Beatles CDs.

Anyway, dinner. He’d created a soup from reduced beef stock, thickening it with pulverized breadcrumbs (this did not make it taste bready, it just gave it more body) and then adding red wine and onions. We also had mashed potatoes, sliced tomatoes, and bread. Everything tasted wonderful — I was so very hungry, and this all hit the spot. The soup was an experiment, as he’d never made it before, so we both declared it successful. When we finished, he wouldn’t let me help him clear the dishes; instead, he ushered me to the couch so I could listen to an incredibly beautiful recording of Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Scheherazade.” I sat with my eyes closed, relaxing, letting the music fill me and feeling like I was in a concert hall, while B bustled behind me, cleaning up the kitchen. Eventually he joined me on the couch for a while… but toward the end of the record, he got up again, went back into the kitchen, then returned. And laid a long, heavy looking kitchen spoon on the table in front of us, not saying a word.

Uh oh.

The record ended, and everything changed very abruptly. He got up, took the needle off. “Stand up,” he ordered. I did.

The scene happened so quickly, it’s sort of a blur. He was as strict as strict can be, scolding me and snapping orders to either get up or bend over. There was no warm-up. He announced that he was giving me sets of thirty — the first two sets were over my jeans, and then he said, “Get up. Come on, hurry up.” I scrambled to my feet. He took my jeans down, then bent me back over.

That spoon hurt like a son of a bitch. And, as often happens with hard scenes, my brain cracked into two factions; one screaming, “Why is he being so harsh?? I can’t take this!” and the other insisting, “yesyoucan yesyoucan yesyoucan!” I could barely move — his left arm was across my back and wrapped around my waist with his hand on my stomach, and one leg was pinning my ankles in place. “I want you to keep still, and I don’t want to hear your sniveling,” he said. “Just take your punishment. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir,” I managed to gasp out.

After two more sets of thirty, he stood me up yet again… and this time he yanked my panties down. That was a first — this is the fourth time B and I have played, and it’s the first time he’s taken down my underwear. Usually, he just wedges it up to expose my cheeks. Fuck, I thought, he really means business.

That last two sets felt like fire on my ass. I collapsed my rigid body when he finished, but he pulled me up yet again. However, this time, it was different. This time, he took me into his arms. “Now,” he said, his voice gentler, “let it all out.”

And then I understood. This had all been a head space thing. He wanted me to be able to break down and release all my stress. And I did, like a dam crumbling. I cried, I sobbed, I clung to him and gripped his shirt in my fists. It’s a good thing he was holding me up, because my legs were shaking so badly, I thought they’d buckle. All of me was shaking, actually.

After what felt like quite a long while, he sat me back down and handed me some water. “Are you still thinking about your day at the airport?” he asked.

No. I was not.

“No more spanking tonight,” he promised. “No cane tonight. I can’t make the same promise for tomorrow morning.” No matter. The rest of the evening was for relaxing. He opened a bottle of champagne — Moet Chandon again, the good stuff. (I am not worthy!) He noticed me placing the cold glass against my cheeks and forehead, and stepped outside onto his deck, pronouncing it nice and cool out there. So we sat outside in his reclining deck chairs, listening to music, chatting a bit and drinking champagne. Later, when one record ended, I looked over and saw he’d fallen asleep — it was just before midnight. I didn’t want to disturb him, so I took myself upstairs and to bed.

The next morning, I woke up at 6:30 (yes, that’s a.m.). I didn’t think I should go back to sleep. Sure enough, at 6:45, he was knocking at the door. “Okay, I’m up!” I called out, and he called back:

“Be downstairs by 7:15, or there will be punishment.”

Well, good morning to you too. 😛

Fortunately, I’d showered before I went to bed, so all I had to do was dress, wash face/brush teeth/fix rat’s nest hair a bit, make the bed and pack up my things, and I was downstairs by 7:10. B was attempting to grind coffee (the machine was acting up); I could see thick slices of wonderful Trader Joe’s whole-grain bread in his toaster oven. In between bouts of wrangling with the coffee grinder, he also piled a plate with small glazed chocolate crullers and mini chocolate-hazelnut biscotti — my eyes bugged out. B doesn’t have a high opinion of my sweet tooth — and yet here he was indulging it. As he handed me a slice of bread and some boysenberry jam, he said, “Don’t fill up, there’s more.” Somehow, I assumed that by “more,” he meant the plate of sweets. He put that in front of me also, so I ate my slice of toast and jam, one cruller, and one biscotti, while he got the machine to work and was making shots of very strong coffee, of which I drank three. He was appalled that I put Sweet ‘n Low in it, but… what can I say.

So here I was, happily stuffed with sugar and carbs and caffeine, and then B opened the refrigerator, took out a bowl and placed it front of me with a spoon. I looked down and saw a very pretty presentation of what looked like two big poufs of whipped cream, with strawberry sauce drizzled over them. I picked up the spoon and poked at it — it was hard, and then I realized it wasn’t whipped cream, but four small vanilla meringues. I like meringues. But I was full.

“Don’t poke at it; eat it,” he admonished, watching me like a hawk. He knew I couldn’t eat it. He knew. “I told you there was more, didn’t I?” he asked.

I tried. I really did. I managed to eat one of them while he watched me. It was tasty, but very sweet; I looked at the remaining three, and they might as well been a mountain of meringues… I couldn’t do it. I put the spoon down, took a deep breath, and looked at him imploringly. “I’m sorry, sir, but I just can’t,” I said. “I really appreciate it, it’s such a lovely treat, and you’ve been so indulgent of my sweet tooth, and we both hate food waste, but if I eat any more, I’m going to be sick…” And then in the face of his implacable stare, I dwindled off. I knew I’d been set up. And I wasn’t in the least bit surprised. I mean, I can’t have a visit to B’s without a caning.

“Upstairs. Over the side of the bed, pants down, and wait for me.” Without another word, I got up and hustled upstairs, took the position, and he came in a minute later.

I was sore and faintly marked from the spoon . So a cold caning of twelve strokes, and then an additional six after a pause, was not a picnic in the park. It was a challenge; not to mention taking it on a full stomach, much like I had taken the spoon on one the night before. (Note to self: from this point forward, it’s spanking first, food after. Or else I’m going to hurl on his furniture.) “When I give you breakfast, you will finish your breakfast,” he said. “What happens if you don’t eat your breakfast?”

“I get caned, sir,” I mumbled into the bed.

“Do you get caned gently or strictly?”

“I’m thinking strictly, sir.”

I did not have to count them. He did it for me, just letting me focus on absorbing the strokes. He set up his phone on a stand and took a video of the caning; that too was a first. And then took this most excellent picture.

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I posted it to Twitter on the train to SFO. It was well received.

Anyway, two intense scenes, lots of food and laughs and great music and champagne later, my visit was over. B drove me to the train station and I said goodbye once more, thanked him for taking such good care of me. “For spanking you to tears?” he asked. “That’s part of it,” I smiled. It was. Oh, and I took the full container of mini-biscotti with me. 😀

I was so tired, I couldn’t think straight, even though I was caffeinated and on a sugar rush. Mercifully, everything went according to plan and schedule that morning — caught the train, caught the BART, got to SFO, stood in ridiculously long lines at check-in (where the hell were all these people going on a Thursday morning??), and my flight was on time. The plane was about half full and I had no one sitting next to me or around me.

Back in Southern CA, I found my car and yes, it started — it was 102 degrees, but cooled down to a chilly 96 once I got going. Then crawled back up to 101 by the time I got home. It was around 2:30, I think? I straggled in, texted John (I had texted B when my flight landed) and told him I’d talk to him later and I was taking a nap now — he then sent me a barrage of texts, teasing me, asking me for every last detail, tell him, tell him now. Argh. I laughed despite being overheated and having a headache, and I then unpacked my stuff and crawled into bed with a glass of water and some Advil, where I slept for the next two-and-a-half hours. I felt much more human when I finally woke up, and was able to go about my evening, catching up with various things.

I really do need to learn the technique of taking a proper butt selfie. I was trying to capture the results a few hours later, but failed miserably. One shouldn’t have to contort oneself into such ridiculous positions.

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You can sort of see the cane welts and the beginnings of bruises, but it didn’t really show up that well. Believe me, I tried. This was attempt #8, I think, and then I just gave up. #SelfieFail

On top of that nap, I slept eight hours last night, and today has been the usual whirlwind of catching up with work, correspondence, gathering my thoughts for this writing, etc. And through it all, I have felt remarkably relaxed. I didn’t watch the debates last night. I’d had a full day of being blissfully unaware of all the political bullshit, and I was in no hurry to suck all that stress back up. The only thing that pissed me off was that the fucking debates preempted Jeopardy. Today, I’m still not anxious to inform myself of the latest news. It’s all bad these days anyway. For today, and the weekend, I will remain in my bubble. I am sore, spacey, calm. I was in good hands. My car works. I’m about to get ready to head for John’s. Life, for today, is working.

Thank you, B. Again and again. ♥ For everything.

Admitting the need

On Twitter, there is a sort of side site called “Curious Cat,” where people can anonymously ask you questions. I try to answer all the questions I receive, unless they are rude or completely ridiculous. A recent one was quite interesting; I’ve talked about this before, but I think it’s worth revisiting.

Do you consider spanking to be a hobby, an interest, an obsession, a need, or something else?

I have to laugh at “hobby.” No, it’s not a hobby. My doing crossword puzzles every day is a hobby. Books and movies are both an interest and a hobby. I have an interest in various types of trivia. My answer to the person who posed the question was that I’d rate it a need — except for when I’m not getting any. Then it can become an obsession.

But what level of need? This question spilled over onto Twitter, where some others joined in. Thanks to Lily Starr for posting this chart, Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.

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Clearly, it’s not a physiological need. I can continue to exist without spanking. The quality of my life may be somewhat compromised, but it will continue.

Safety, security? Meh… not so much.

But the top three? Each spot on in their ways, for me.

Belonging and love needs: Before I came out as a spanko, I felt like I was completely alone in all these weird thoughts and feelings. We all know the story about how I came to know that I wasn’t. The spanking scene enabled me to make connections like I never would have had. I was able to meet people, in person and online, who felt the way I do, who craved the same sensations and experiences, who got me. I found my life mate through exploring kink. In recent times, I have removed myself from the scene, and while life goes on, there are definitely feelings of bereavement, of floating adrift. So it’s clearly a belonging need, for me.

Esteem needs and accomplishment: Well. As far as accomplishments go, it’s not like I have bragging rights. I didn’t cure cancer. I didn’t go up in space. But I sure as hell made up for lost time, making myself known in the spanking world. I wrote three books, countless blog posts, etc. I went to parties, shot videos, opened myself up to public view, revealed myself physically and emotionally. Some people say I touched them, made them feel like they weren’t alone. This fulfills my craving for acknowledgment, the feeling that I matter. And as far as personal, physical and psychological self-esteem is concerned… I’ve said this before, but it too bears repeating. When I’m fully engaged in spanking, making those special connections, riding those endorphin waves, I feel prettier. Sexier. More desirable. More… alive.

Self-actualization: By embracing my kink/fetish/whatever you choose to call it, I was finally allowed to discover, explore and embrace my fullest self. For years, I was half alive, living under a shadow of depression, eating disorders and a sense of being on the outside of everything. I existed under the fallacy that I had to be “normal” to “fit in.” It wasn’t until I came out that I realized society’s version of normal is highly overrated, and that I don’t want to fit into it. As I have often described myself, I’m a square peg in a round world, and now, I prefer it that way. My mother’s favorite refrain, “People will think you’re weird,” echoes less and less in my ear these days. Fuck ’em. Let them think I’m weird. I’m real. I’m ME. And if spanking led me to that, then hallelujah.

So yes, it’s a need on several levels. And I still struggle with the balance, with trying to get these needs met but not letting myself get consumed by them. I do miss the days when I had dear play partners I saw once a week or every two weeks; where I could get that special connection regularly. I hold out hope that I will find that again.

This is going to be a difficult week for me. I wish I could lose myself in the escape and rush of an intense spanking. But it looks like I will simply bury myself in work instead, and just move through it and past it. I wish I could call/write somebody and say, “I’m feeling needy. I’m craving cathartic touch, some pleasurable pain. Please come deliver this to me — I need you.” There really should be a spanko Uber service. Although that would be pretty impersonal, I suppose. I prefer to connect with a trusted top. Plus, tops are not spanking delivery systems; they are people with lives and their own needs. But I hesitate to come out and ask for what I need. Exposing my vulnerability and neediness carries risks. My inner self is tender and wounds far too easily; thus my outer core must stay tough. For protection.

September will be better.

So, readers, where do you fall on the hierarchy of spanking need? Or would you say it’s not a need, but something else?

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?

 

 

The ephemeral nature of kink intimacy: Can it be real?

And if it can, how do you know when it is?

ephemeral

[ ih-fem-er-uhl ]SHOW IPA

adjective

lasting a very short time; short-lived; transitory:

the ephemeral joys of childhood.

 

lasting but one day:
an ephemeral flower.

 

(Why do you show off so damn much with your million-dollar words, Erica?) I can’t help it. I like them. But you can’t complain if I provide the definition, right?

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Note: I’m aware that many of my readers are married to or monogamously involved with their spankers, and don’t play with others. This post is more for those who do play with others, whether or not they have a primary relationship… a situation that can be a lot more confusing. Leave it to me to choose the more complicated route.

According to general societal patterns (you know, those “normal” people), here’s the blueprint: Couples meet, however they meet. They exchange names. They talk, share basic information. In the course of a few hours, a few phone calls, a few dates, whatever, they learn more about one another. Preferences of all kinds. Music/book/movie tastes. Political leanings. Fears. Hopes. Dreams. Failures. The jigsaw puzzle of personality gets filled in, a piece at a time. In the course of this time, there are physical exchanges, often starting with kisses. Then a little more, and a little more, until we have full-on sexual intimacy.

Now we kinksters, we do everything ass backwards (word play intended). Oftentimes, basic vetting aside, we play first and ask questions later. We have physical intimacy first. Instead of that slow burn of growing attracted to one another as we learn more, we burn hot from the get-go, act on chemistry over personal knowledge, invite others into our homes, our beds, our bodies, our playrooms, etc. before we’ve even begun to invite them into our hearts or our day-to-day lives. Oftentimes, that last part doesn’t happen.

Personally, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. It’s kind of hot. If I wanted to go the traditional route, I would have. I tried it for many years. It’s overrated.

Funny and perfect case in point: When D came over a few weeks ago, we’d met only once, and briefly. Essentially, I brought a strange man into my home, my space. I felt completely okay with that. We played. We had intense and close-up contact. I laid myself out, physically and emotionally. He inflicted both pain and pleasure. He saw me raw and open, exposed.

Afterward, when I was lying on the couch bare-ass naked with him massaging lotion into me, I dreamily turned my head and asked, “What’s your last name?”

He told me. I told him mine. And the massage continued.

I’ve been doing this for so long, this feels perfectly normal. But I know there are tons of people out there who would be shocked at the idea of someone seeing their bare ass (not to mention exposed genitalia) before said someone learns their full, real name.

This is what I call “pseudo-intimacy.” It’s an intimacy quickly forged out of a strong cocktail of physical attraction and a shared desire, a common bond of kink. But is it real intimacy — whatever the hell that is? And if it isn’t, can it become so? When does a play partnership cross over into a real friendship, a relationship of sorts, where people care about one another?

Most of you know the story of how John and I met. I placed an ad; he answered it. We chatted once on the phone. And then we met for coffee. We talked at Starbucks until they closed, then went for a walk. He ended up pulling me over his leg in the alley behind Starbucks and spanking me, until we heard the telltale jingle of a leash and a man appeared, walking his dog (and getting quite the eyeful). We then proceeded to John’s vehicle where he spanked me some more, gave me an orgasm, and he took my panties, claiming I’d have to see him again if I wanted them back.

This is not your typical “first date.” We were both seeing other people at the time.

Cut to the present — on August 30, we’ll be together 23 years. Somehow, that initial pseudo-intimacy became real, blossomed into something much fuller. It can happen.

But it’s complicated. Because of the nature of what we do, it’s easy to confuse pseudo-intimacy for something real. It’s easy to fall for the actions, thinking you’re falling for the person. When in fact you really don’t know them at all.

I remember my very first spanker. Saw him a total of three times, played twice. Paul. I never did learn his last name. But he changed my life. In one afternoon, in the time span of no more than an hour, he put me on a path of no return, opened me to a vast new world to explore and experience. That first spanking meant more to me than losing my virginity did.

At the time, I remember feeling like I’d fallen in love with Paul. But even then, in my haze of hormones and endorphins and wonder, I knew that wasn’t it. Of course I wasn’t in love with him. I was in love with what he gave me. But of course, sometimes, when your emotions get involved, it’s hard to compartmentalize it like that. The boundaries blur. Your mind says one thing, your body says another, and your heart says yet another.

No wonder so many scene relationships go sideways.

I have been thinking back on some of my play partnerships over the years, many of which have been chronicled in my blogs. All the time I’ve been with John, I’ve played with other men, all with his blessing. I am lucky that way. A lot of these partnerships simply faded away, due to various life circumstances. A couple, I really regret losing. Two come to mind that did indeed blossom into real friendship, much more than just the physical act of getting together to play.

Danny Chrighton and I were play partners for over three years. But we were also the best of friends. We didn’t just play. We hung out. We did stuff together. He and John were buddies. Our play chemistry was awesome, but beyond that, our closeness was true. He knew me, and I knew him. There was mutual trust and respect. And the only thing that ended it was distance, when he moved out of state. I loved him. I still do. I miss what we had, to this day, even though I haven’t seen him in years.

Then there was ST. Same deal, we met through an online ad, got together to play. From the beginning, we were consistent; he came over every Monday evening. We hung out and talked after playing. Our play was sometimes edgy, dancing on the boundaries and limits, maybe at times a little scary… because I trusted him. I knew within that he would never really hurt me. And on the flip side, we had our silly times, like when he showed up at my place on Halloween, masked and dressed as “Super Spanko.” I knew all kinds of odds and ends about him; the farming community, population 350, he’d grown up in; the names of all his siblings; how much he adored his dog.

We were friends/play partners for over two years. And… then he met someone. There was a mutual attraction, a couple of dates. He told her about me. She said, “I don’t think I like that.”

And just like that, we were done. The last time we played, I wept. I told him I loved him. He said he loved me too, and he always would. But then I never saw him again.

Does that mean that what we had wasn’t real? Is something real when it can be tossed aside so easily? Or is that simply just another sad fact about the nature of relationships? I don’t know.

I bear him no resentment. I did hear from him briefly once, via email. He’d bought a house. I hope he found happiness. He was a good guy; he deserved it.

I suppose the point of all this rambling is — damn. I’ve been doing this for over twenty-three years, and I still get muddled and mixed up emotionally over what’s real and what’s simply born of the intense, instant intimacy and vulnerability. And if I still get taken in by it, how the hell do scene newbies handle it?? How do they navigate the sea of feelings that can be stirred up when you put yourself into someone else’s hands? When they cut through layers and layers of outer bullshit and go straight to your core? When you gift each other with trust and vulnerability, and then it’s gone as quickly as it came?

In a perfect world, pseudo-intimacy would indeed develop into something more real, and more lasting. We could keep those wonderful feelings and experience them again and again. Where real life wouldn’t take them away. Where no matter what relationships go in and out of each person’s life, the core friendships and caring remain.

Is that too much to ask for? I know some say that I don’t have a right to expect this: that I have a relationship, so I shouldn’t want for this too. Well, guess what. I do anyway. I guess I will never stop yearning for it. Because I know it’s possible. And don’t ask me what the man is getting out of it, if he’s not my primary relationship. I sure hope to hell that all the men who have been my play partners over the years got something out of it.

Because I sure did, and I don’t think we could have connected as deeply if they didn’t.

Anyway. I should be working. But sometimes, I just have to ramble. And hope that it resonates with someone out there. Thoughts, anyone? Your own experiences with this?

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