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 “tears”

Back, sort of

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

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

The longer I stayed withdrawn, the more I was convinced that it didn’t matter.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

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

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

Another week passed. I functioned.

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

I thought I might cry. But no tears came.

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

But I still didn’t cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Fun with Steve

Two weeks in a row feels like a luxury now, after our month off! I am going to fully enjoy every time we have, as I don’t know what the future holds as far as his schedule is concerned. Hopefully he will find work with flex hours; I don’t see him fitting into the 8 to 5 rut very well. We’ll see.

Anyway… he was very much into getting pictures this time, even during our warm-up time. While I was over his lap on the couch, he kept pausing and reaching forward to futz with the camera set up on the coffee table. He took so long at one point that I foolishly snapped, “What are you doing?” “Excuse me, did you say something?” he asked. And then he let his hand do the talking for a while, eventually adding, “Wanna repeat that? Wanna ask that question again? Go ahead, ask it again.” Uh… no, once was enough, thank you!

But he did get some nice pictures. ๐Ÿ™‚ I love this man’s hands. And I love the skin contrast, like coffee and cream. (Or in my case, I guess it’s more like nonfat milk.)


Just before we moved into the bedroom for Round Two, I was sprawled on the couch and he said, “Oh, don’t move, I have to get a picture of that.” I couldn’t imagine why, until I saw it later.


I’m so ladylike, aren’t I?

He chose four implements in the bedroom — two that I love, and two that are a bit nasty. So it was quite the contrast of sensations and impact, and at the end when he had me bent over the side of the bed, I was losing it. I was so close to the edge, and he knew it. “Stay with me, sweetheart,” he urged. “Hang on with me.” He took me right to the edge… and then stopped before I could fall.


And then my knees buckled a bit. We were done.


I shook and trembled and wept for a very long time, while he held me close. I don’t know where that all came from, but I get it needed to come out. I love Steve’s aftercare so much — he just wraps me up and makes me feel so safe, re-grounds me when I’m flying off the walls.

Poor guy hasn’t been sleeping well lately. After I had been fully taken care of, he lay back onย my bed, and promptly fell asleep. I covered him up and left to go do some work, and he slept for over an hour. Wearing me out wore him out, apparently. ๐Ÿ™‚

Happy hump day. And for rabid fans like me, happy SVU day!

Just call me Rush

No, I’m not a big fat malevolent blowhard. But, like Mr. Limburger, I do have a big mouth that gets me in hot water sometimes. ๐Ÿ™‚

As I’d mentioned, I was overdue. And I think ST was overdue to top as well; he’d had a crappy week dealing with the trouble and expense of his truck. So there was an edgy sense of anticipation between us when he first walked in, and we wasted little time with preliminary chit-chat.

Once we were in the bedroom and I was over his lap, he asked what kind of mischief I’d been up to in the past week. I insisted I hadn’t been up to any. “Yeah,” he said, “because you’ve got restraining orders against you!”

Well, I like that! Just a couple of weeks ago, he was on MY side. “You said that it was OK to defend myself,” I protested.

“It is — but it’s not OK to engage with douchebags!”

I don’t know what possessed me. I opened my mouth and heard this come out: “But I engage with you!”

Oh, Christ. Did I really say that? There was a split second while those words hung in the air, and then he practically tore off my shorts and panties. “Warm-up is over,” he growled, grabbing for his bag.

The next several minutes are a blur of pain and scolding. “You think that was a good idea, talking to me like that?” “You going to say something like that again?” Normally, I keep position fairly well, save for my one errant foot flipping up. But this time, I kicked and squirmed and struggled so hard, he put me in a leg-lock. I think that’s the first time he’s ever done that.

“You need this, don’t you! Spanking cures everything. It even cures amnesia.” Huh? Amnesia? As if he could read my mind, ST added, “It seems you’ve forgotten how to be nice to people. Haven’t you!”


Yeah, I know I was just kidding with him. But I felt ashamed anyway. Of all the people to insult, even teasingly — this wonderful, dependable guy. This suddenly felt very real, both physically and emotionally.

“I’m sorry!” I wept. “You’d better be,” he said, not stopping. “And I’m not done making you sorry, either. Am I?”


I didn’t want him to stop. I wanted to cry and hurt and gasp for breath. I wanted to be pushed. He knew it.

We’d barely started here. You can see I’m fisting the bedclothes already.

I was actually marking a little. What does Dana call these, strawberries?

I don’t know how long the spanking lasted; probably not as long as it seemed. But he packed a whole lot into a short time.

I continued crying after he finished, long after he soothed me with lotion and pressed tissues into my hand. I was embarrassed to raise my head, knowing I looked runny and drippy and smeary-eyed, so I kept my face buried.

He never pushes me to look at him, thank goodness. He just waits patiently, rubbing my back and smoothing my wild hair.

I snuggled closer to him, but didn’t speak for quite a while. When I finally did, the first thing I whispered was, “You know I wouldn’t insult you for real, don’t you?”

I felt him chuckle; he said yes. I know he knew. But I needed to hear it anyway. Then he added, “If you did, you’d never sit again.”

I laughed. That felt delicious, after all the tears.

Later, we played some more, in our usual lighter vein (lighter in mood, that is, not in intensity!). I really need to come up with a better way of storing my own implements. I loop a bunch of them onto a hanger, and then when I try to pull one off, they all come off and fall on the floor. Then, of course, he says we have to use them all!

No wonder I was pouting.

And no, he didn’t beat me with the wire hanger! It just ended up on the bed. Along with nearly my entire Cane-iac collection. (groan) Even though it was just five strokes with each toy, I was well tenderized at that point.

I believe I will sleep peacefully and dreamlessly tonight.

Did I mention that he spanked me a third time when we were downloading the pictures from his camera? Good lord. I hope we don’t skip a week again anytime soon. ๐Ÿ™‚

Thank you, sweetheart.

Are you ready for this?

You may want to sit down. I don’t think y’all have ever seen me quite like this. And you probably won’t again, so you’d better memorize it. I may come to my senses tomorrow and take it down. ๐Ÿ™‚

OK, so the naked thing is nothing new. The collar? That’s another story.

Allow me to backtrack to the beginning of this evening, if I may.

When ST first arrived, he asked me how I was doing. He already knew, having read my blog. And I’m sure he knew I needed to blow off some details. I can talk to him about this stuff. He is as discreet as the day is long. And he’s a switch himself, so he understands.

He sat quietly and let me vent a bit about my frustrations with the domme/slave thing. When he sensed I was finished, he did an assessment — perhaps it was subconscious on his part, or maybe it was deliberate. He knew I wanted and needed to be edgy tonight. I craved to be pushed, challenged, unnerved a bit. I needed to let go.

“I could use a beck-and-call girl, myself,” he mused, winding his hand into my hair and tightening his fist. “I think I should make you MY little spank slave.”

“Right,” I scoffed.

“I have a collar and leash right here in my bag,” he said, watching my face closely. “I think I should put it on you, what do you think?”

He was checking with me. I knew it. I blustered, “Oh my god! You’ve GOT to be @#$%ing kidding me!”

But I didn’t say no. And so the collar went around my neck.

Only with someone I trust this much, would I go there. I constantly amaze myself with the things I’m willing to do with him, things that are so out of my little play box. And tonight, that was just what I needed.

He made me crawl into my bedroom on my hands and knees, and once I was on the bed, I had to take off all my clothes. But not before I had one last moment of defiance.

After that, I was subdued rather quickly. Especially when the clothes came off and the ropes came out. Collared and tied, I was helpless.

“Now I can do anything I want, can’t I,” he taunted. “And you can’t do a thing about it.”

No, I couldn’t.

And oh, it hurt.

“You’re not going to scream, are you?” he growled in my ear. I shook my head vigorously. “Perhaps I should MAKE you scream.”

But somehow, I didn’t. I cried, I smashed my face into the bedspread. But I did not scream. I did say please, please… “Please what? Please show you some mercy?” “Yes, please,” I sobbed. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

After the tears began, he softened a bit. He untied the rope and took off the collar. But the spanking went on for quite a while after that.

He paused, hovering over me. “Are you getting what you need?”


“Do you need some more?”

“Yes, please.”

He obliged.

“Go on, let it out,” he murmured as I wept. I did. It felt so, so damned intensely good. The knots in my stomach and chest dissolved. All the tension flowed out with my tears.

I don’t know how he always knows just what to do, where to take me. He asked me if I liked it. I answered as honestly as I could: “I liked it with you.” I don’t believe I’ll ever fetishize that degree of D/s. It’s not me. But freefalling a bit, knowing he’s there to catch me, is damned hot.

Reluctantly, he finally let me put some clothes back on.

But just for the record, we did do another scene. This time with canes. Dammit, canes really hurt when you’re already sore. I had some choice utterances.
“You’ve invoked both God and Jesus — want to try for the Holy Ghost?” he teased.
“I wish you were a ghost,” I snapped. “Then you could disappear.”
I never learn. Fortunately, he’s willing to come back, again and again, to try to teach me. ๐Ÿ™‚
Thank you for being here for me.๏ปฟ

See Me, Feel Me, Spank Me, Heal Me

(with all apologies to The Who)

I’m definitely in a strange place as of late. Offhand, I can’t remember when I last had a day that didn’t include shedding tears. Why? Doesn’t matter. It just is. I ride these peaks and valleys and accept them. They pass.

It’s annoying, though. In this place, it takes very little to start the waterworks. A kind gesture or some sweet words will set them off. Today, I got email from Cali, thanking me for the “wonderful grand finale.” And there they went again.

Still, I pulled myself together, ran errands, straightened up the place, changed my clothes. ST was coming over, after all. And by the time he arrived, I was in quite the good and chipper humor.

We bantered a little as the scene started. I told him about the particularly dastardly move from V on Saturday — 50 paddle swats in a row on the right cheek only. So of course, ST thought it was only proper to give the left cheek a lot of focus. Said he wanted me to be well-balanced. (Me? Not in this lifetime, toots.)

But then we settled into a rhythm and fell silent. I wasn’t sure whether or not my new neighbor was home, and I wanted to be cautious. So I clamped my hands over my mouth, buried my face. Still, I arched my back and thrust up for more. He couldn’t see my face or hear my voice. But he read my body language, sensed my need. He laid into me harder and faster. My feet flailed, but I held my position.

The tears came early, and they came fast. Good tears. Cleansing and sweet. And the harder I cried, the harder he spanked, strapped and paddled. How does one explain the bizarre dichotomy of feeling pain and relishing it so thoroughly?

His voice, normally so gentle, took on that rough edge. He grabbed my hair. “You need this, don’t you,” he growled. Oh yes. Yes, I certainly do. More, please. More.

He had me count the final 20 with the strap, 10 with his belt and 10 with the paddle. I barely whispered the numbers, but he heard me. Then held me close as I sobbed and sobbed for a long time afterward. It took quite a while before I was able to raise my face and look at him.

No face pictures tonight. He didn’t even try to take any. I was grateful for that.

The first thing I said, when I could speak, was, “So, what’s it like playing with a basket case?” “You’re not a basket case,” he said, stroking my hair. “What makes you say that?”

“Because,” I sighed, “it’s always something with me. I’m either angry about something or sad about something else.”

“Well… so are a lot of people.”

Sadly, I guess that’s true. But not all of them have the magical pressure valve that we do.

He’d come over earlier than usual, and asked me if I’d like to go to dinner. I had to decline. All I wanted to do was lie in a boneless heap on the bed… the thought of getting up and going out sounded as impossible as flying to the moon. So we talked about odds and ends.

He said there should be an Erica Scott doll, one with a string you could pull and she’d say bratty things. I could dress up like a doll for Halloween next year! “I’m too old to dress like a doll,” I muttered, and he said, “You look like a doll to me.” Goddammit. Nearly set me off again.

Time for a shower and then perhaps a little something to eat. I believe I will sleep like the dead tonight.

And guess what? I have a small mark — on my left cheek. ๐Ÿ™‚

Thank you, ST. โ™ฅ


He left a little earlier than usual tonight, but he’d arrived earlier as well. I guess some of you are waiting, huh?

No sass tonight. Sassy Erica has left the building (well, temporarily). Don’t worry; she’ll be back. Tonight, I’m in a quieter place. A very, very good, quieter place. I feel like curling up into a ball in my bed, letting the dark and quiet envelop me. But first, I need to write.

New Guy usually sends me email on Monday mornings, in a teasing “oh are you gonna get it” mode. So imagine how I felt this morning when I received this:

I expect you to meet me at your door wearing a short skirt or dress, no stockings and no panties, you won’t be needing them. After letting me in you will turn and march directly into the bedroom. You will have the heart shaped paddle, and I believe you have a cane, lying on the bed.

You know what you did was wrong and you deserve to be punished. You can expect to be severely disciplined.

I’d already eaten breakfast, and felt my cereal lurching around in my stomach. Ohhhh my.

He’d forgotten that my cane had gotten broken the last time he used it. I wrote back and reminded him of this, suggesting he may want to bring one. I offered no argument or plea otherwise.

When he arrived and I opened the door, I was so taken aback, I started giggling from sheer nerves. First of all, his usual attire is jeans and a t-shirt — tonight, he was all GQed out in dress slacks, collared shirt and a jacket, plus he had very attractive new frames on his glasses. And second, he was pointing a videocamera at me. Holy crap… my discipline was going to be filmed.

So… I will not give away what happened. Because you will all see it, as soon as he edits and sends it to me. I will tell you that it was the most intense scene he and I have ever had. Certainly not the longest or the hardest, but definitely the strictest. No warmup. And I cried. On camera. I have never shed tears on camera before. And they were quite real.

Not from the spanking. From the things he said. He scolded me so thoroughly and effectively, I would have cried without any spanking at all. He wasn’t mean, he didn’t berate me. But he let me know how he felt. 

I do not feel diminished or broken. I didn’t have to be beaten into a grotesque pulp for it to be effective. What I feel is deeply cared for.

After it was over, he was gentle and kind, as he always is. All was normal once again, after just a few minutes.

He took a couple of pictures after the fact; I’d faded some by then, but you can see that I’m marked. What a difference a warmup makes.

He’d used only his belt and the paddle. But just before he left and was packing everything up, he picked up his strap and said, “I never got to this one!” Uh oh. Yes, of course, he had to give me five licks with it, for the road.

Big meanie.

OK, not really. ๐Ÿ™‚  He is wonderful, and I am a very lucky woman.

I need to eat something. Here’s hoping in my semi-stunned and soporific state, I don’t burn the building down.

Video to come soon — stay tuned.

Thank you, my dear, sweet not-so-New-Guy.

EDIT: You can watch the video clips here (part 1) and here (part 2).

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