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 “trust”

Consider me reset

And so it’s 2022. Sadly, 2021 ended with tears. But what goes down must come up. Eventually. And yesterday, this picture captured my moment of spacey, giddy serenity.

Spending New Year’s Day with John lightened my spirits. Then yesterday, I got to see Chris, who braved snow and a rental car and a long-ass drive to come see me.

It was a perfect visit, start to finish. Just so comfortable. It was chilly outside, but his hotel room was warm and cozy, and we sat and talked for about an hour when I first arrived. And then, of course, we began our play.

What a sheer joy it was to settle in, rest my head on the bed, and know with every fiber of my being that I was in the best of hands. No worries about being injured, of too high/too low/too whatever strikes yanking me out of the zone. You simply don’t know how crappy and unfulfilling it can be until you experience a bad player. And then, a good one is like the sweetest of treats.

I felt a little concerned about him, as he’d taken a bad slip on an escalator and pretty much tore his knee open (it shredded the jeans he was wearing). As I was going across his lap, I was afraid of hitting that area, and I said, “I don’t want to hurt you.” He answered, “Well… I can’t say the same!” Okay then. And we were off.

Nice, long, slow warm-up with his hand. He varied it so much that I never knew what he was going to do, which added that extra edge. And he didn’t spare my upper thighs at all. When he announced that it was time to move on to implements, I blurted, “What for? Your hand is a fucking meat mallet!” But I really didn’t mind at all. I enjoy implements, if I can trust the hand wielding them. I know they will hurt, but not harm. Such an important differentiation.

We played hard. He knew I needed it, and so did he. We’d both had a crummy time of it recently, so this was really a reset for both of us. He pushed me right to the edge, even using a few wooden implements, which I normally say NO to but with him, I knew I’d be okay. I went from clenching my fists and groaning to burying my face in the bedspread and screaming. And then I dissolved into tears. Cleansing, healing tears.

(Warning: some might find my marks a bit extreme. It’s all relative. There was no broken skin whatsoever, and much of this had faded already.)

We took a break. For me to calm down (and cool down), and for him to go take care of his poor knee, which had broken open again and bled right through the bandage and onto his jeans. For a long time, I didn’t want to talk, just wanted to float, and he held me in his arms and let me be. I felt… safe.

After a long rest, with cuddlings, talking, and almond oil, we had a brief Round Two, but it was just with his hand this time. I knew he’d stop when it was time. And sure enough, he announced, “Well, it looks like this bottom has taken all that it can for today.” “Sorry to disappoint you,” I quipped. “Not in the least!” he assured me.

He was annoyed with himself that I was uneven. But didn’t want to do what he’d need to do to make the right cheek match the left. For this, I said a most heartfelt thank you.

I said goodbye and left around 3:45. The floatiness remained with me for the rest of the afternoon and evening. I’m surprised I was able to get some work done, but even in my mush-mind state, I had focus.

He checked in with me a couple of hours later, and first thing this morning. Of course he did. Because that’s who he is.

Today, a lot of this faded, but daaaaaaamn, I’m sore. And tired. But calm. I’m even going to attempt a workout, although my butt might protest. And I lost a half-day of work yesterday, so I need to get back into it full speed.

So. Friends are good things. And good tops are worth their weight in gold. Appreciate yours always. I do. Last night, I said thank you to John for being so supportive of my needs, And thank you, Chris, for making the long trip to see me. And thank you for loving it as much I did… that’s half my joy. ♥

Finally!!!!

No, it isn’t July 4th. And no, it’s not raining. California is in another damn drought. Still, this wonderful caricature Dave Wolfe did of me years ago suits the mood.

After over a year of pandemic isolation, I finally got to play on Monday. And it was glorious.

As many of you know, I had been corresponding for months with a friend I knew from way back, whom I hadn’t seen in many years. He came to a couple of Shadow Lane parties and we’d played, and then he dropped out of the scene to move out of state and start a family. When he first suggested driving here to visit me and play, my first thought was, “Why would you want to do that? It’s one hell of a long drive!” Personally, I detest road trips and even the 4-5 hour drive to Vegas makes me nuts.

Luckily for me, C doesn’t share my distaste for long drives. He figured what with the pandemic still going on, it was safer than flying. And he enjoys books on tape. So… this was going to happen. He was already fully vaxed, so he asked me to let him know when I was. When that finally happened and I told him, we made a date. He booked a hotel. And we were on.

Holy crap.

As I’d mentioned earlier, I was really, really nervous. Not about him. Even not having seen him for, what, 15 years, I knew I would be in very good hands. I knew he was a heavy player, but also a kind and caring one. No, my worry was about myself. I mean, aside from quickie impromptu scenes with John, and one really godawful attempt at self-spanking, I hadn’t been spanked since February 2020. I felt like my tolerance was shot to hell.

Also, let’s be real. Aside from going to John’s on the weekend, and the occasional necessary errands, I’d basically been sitting around my apartment in sloppy clothes and no makeup for over a year. I didn’t feel presentable, let alone sexy or spankable. I felt… unattractive.

So, the fact that someone was willing to go to all that effort in order to spend some time with me was a good antidote to all those damn negative voices in my head. ♥ I jumped in, said let’s do this, and didn’t look back.

He teased me with emails: “Two weeks and counting!” “Almost here!” “Getting nervous?” Each message got the intended result; I squirmed and grinned and felt all the butterflies. On FetLife, I had said something or another to a top and he’d replied that he thought I “needed a reminder.” C saw this and posted, “I believe Erica will be getting a reminder very soon.” Oh, gawd…

Finally, Monday arrived. I got up early, and for the first time in I’ve forgotten how long, I put makeup on. I’d thrown out a lot of the old stuff since it had been sitting for over a year and bought fresh. I had asked him if he had any particular requests for what he’d like me to wear. He suggested I dress comfortably and lightly. I could do that.

Our meeting time was noon and I showed up at his hotel at 11:53. I had to call him from the lobby, since their elevators were key card operated. He came down to get me and enveloped me in a huge bear hug. I have missed soooo many hugs the past year! We went to his room and fell into chatting and catching up immediately. But after about 45 minutes, it was time to play.

I had plugged my phone in to charge and I checked it one last time before we started. And of course, John had sent me a text:

So, what kind of slutty trouble are you getting into — or are going to get into — today? Names, places, and what you did wrong. Now, young lady. … Have a nice day. Hi C!

Knowing that was John-speak for “I give you my blessing,” I laughed and we began. I assumed the position across his lap on the bed.

This is hard to describe, but I’ll try… from the first moment, the first smack, the feel of it, the sound of it, I felt a burst of euphoria. I’m home. I’m in the right place. This is where I belong. And as the sensations slowly built up and intensified, those feelings escalated until I wanted to laugh with sheer joy.

My yoga pants didn’t stay up for more than a minute. My panties soon followed. And I remembered just how spot on and amazing C’s hand was. How he switched things up and kept me guessing. How he knew exactly when was the point to stop for a second and when to continue. He checked in with me just enough. At one point he asked if I wanted water, but I said no thank you.

He took this picture after warm-up. (!)

After that, we changed positions and I laid over pillows on the bed. He had brought a backpack filled with implements, but he let me choose. I said nix to the wooden paddles and yes to a couple of different leather straps and a hairbrush. Honestly, he doesn’t need implements. His hand is a mighty force, and it never seems to tire or get sore. I told him about the times I’d made men’s hands blister and bleed, and he just chuckled. I don’t think he’ll experience that in his lifetime.

I felt so connected to him. At one point, my hand was flexing on the bed near my face, my fist opening and closing. Then I felt him reach over and squeeze my hand, holding onto it. I see you. I care about you.

So we kept going, and going, and going. I lost track of time. It was starting to hurt, but the pain intertwined with the pleasure and joy and I just wanted more more more. I could feel the power and energy behind his swats and I rejoiced. I can still do this. I’ll still got it! Oh my god, he’s amazing… Can I stop time and just stay here?

By the time we’d come to the end, I was drumming my feet on the bed and hollering into a pillow. My carefully applied makeup was smeared down my face and on the linens (sorry, Marriott) and my breath was coming in deep gasps. And I couldn’t. Be. Happier.

Ow. Been a while since I’ve looked like this. I missed it.

He asked how I feel about lotion, and I said it was very welcome. So he went to get some… and it turned out he didn’t have any. Oops! I giggled and gave him a hard time about it, but it was fine — I had some in my purse. I’m sure my skin must have sucked it right up.

We both had a drink and came back down, lying on the bed, snuggling, talking. So much to talk about, so many things to catch up on. I asked him how long the drive was — he said 10 hours. He was going to stay overnight and then drive back the next day. I didn’t want to go, and yet I figured after a while I should get on back home, let him relax. I had people waiting for check-in texts from me. ♥

I had parked in the hotel parking garage, but when we went down to the front desk and I asked about validation, the man said that lot was for guests, not guests of guests. Oh, dear. He took the card I’d gotten, checked how long I’d been there (4 1/2 hours), futzed at his computer for a minute, then said, “You know what, forget it. You got free parking. When you drive up to the gate, just press the call button and I’ll let you out.” Thank you, kind sir!

So C walked me to my car, we exchanged another warm hug, and I was off.

I felt kind of loopy and wound up for the rest of the evening. He’d sent me the pictures he’d taken, so I posted a couple of them on FetLife. Been a long time since I’ve had any pictures to put up there. The reactions were gratifying.

So, remember when I was crowing “I’ve still got it!”?? Yeah. I woke up yesterday morning and groaned, “The hell I don’t.” Wow. Sitting hurt. Walking hurt. I felt like I’d been playing for four straight days at a party instead of doing just one scene. When I attempted to do a workout, my body was yelling and swearing at me through the whole thing, especially during the lower body exercises.

And I enjoyed all that, too. Although it was very hard to focus on work, I admit. I finally had to take a break, because of course I needed a “day after” picture.

C checked in Monday evening, then let me know when he’d gotten home yesterday. He checked in this morning as well. So important. I wish more tops knew that.

And in anticipation that I might get droppy, my sweet SIS Jay sent me a box of See’s chocolate. ♥ Chocolate and depression are mutually incompatible, you know.

So… when the euphoria fades, when the marks and soreness disappear, I suppose I am in for some drop. A sense of, okay, now what? Where do I go from here? How do I bring regular play back into my life, and with whom? But for now, I’m not going to think about that. I’m just going to bask in the feels and smile. And be grateful.

Thank you, C. You gave me more of a gift than you know.

Yes, we’re strong, but…

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

Me too.

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

strongwoman

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

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

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

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

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

vulnerable1

I hope I find it again.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

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.

maslow-5

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?

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?

37k83l

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?

The more I experience…

…the less I know, it seems. Specifically, about implements.

implements

The above photo contains but a mere sampling of what’s out there to use on a spanking bottom. I’ve probably felt them all at some point or another. You’d think after 20+ years, I’d be an expert on implements and how they feel. But, aside from some general knowledge, I remain woefully in the dark. Which doesn’t help my ass any.

This post was precipitated by my getting together with an old FetLife friend for coffee last week, someone I haven’t seen in seven years. We chatted it up for a couple of hours and of course the subject of implements came up. He showed me a picture on his phone of his “punishment paddle” and I immediately said that would be a hard limit for me.

I’ve often said I don’t like wood and I prefer leather. However, “wood” is ridiculously general — it doesn’t account for the myriad types, thicknesses, etc. All wooden implements are not created equal. All woods are not created equal. I have heard many times that some are lighter, some are dense, some are quite tolerable and others are practically unbearable. But damned if I know which is which.

I do know that thick, heavy frat-style wooden paddles are a hard limit. When I said nay to my friend’s photo, he asked why. I said it’s just pure pain to me, no pleasure whatsoever, and the pain is BAD. I can’t absorb the impact; it thuds me down to the bone. “Even if it’s lower on the butt? Maybe people are hitting you too high with it,” he suggested. Nope. Even if it’s on the fleshiest part of my sit spots, I feel this horrible, heavy thud deep within my sit bones, and it’s wretched. I’m a tad more willing about other wood, like lighter paddles, hairbrushes and spoons, but even those are hard for me to take. I will take them on video a lot more willingly than in a private scene that’s for mutual pleasure, because they really don’t pleasure me.

So, generally, one would think leather is the ticket for me, right? Not necessarily. Because all leather implements aren’t created equal either, damn them. Thickness comes into play again, as well as wear. A buttery soft, well worn flexible strap feels entirely different from a stiff brand new one. Straps can run the gamut from a sensual snap to sheer agony. And I can’t tell just from looking at them which it’s going to be. I have made godawful mistakes in choosing implements at parties before: sometimes the most innocent looking items can be utter torture. Conversely, sometime the items that look the meanest can be fairly innocuous.

I like leather implements in general. But one of the worst things I ever felt was a double razor strap. Yeah, it was flexible. It was also thick, very heavy and very thuddy. I have made many people laugh by saying it felt like being hit with a side of beef.

And speaking of flexibility — if the give of leather feels so much more acceptable to me, then wouldn’t it stand to reason that other materials with give would also work?

Again, not necessarily.

I recall a scene at a party, many years ago, when I was playing with a top I knew well, and I knew the feel of his implements. He had a strap I loved to hate, and he wielded it with precision and evil intent. After I’d played a prank on him, he put a blindfold on me and then proceeded to strap the bejesus out of me. From the start, it hurt like hell, like nothing I remembered. I screamed and squawked and fussed, and he laughed at me. “What’s wrong?” he taunted. “It’s just my strap! You’ve felt it before! What’s the matter, are you losing your tolerance?” I gritted my teeth and bore it, took all he gave, even though my mind was screaming, “What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I take this? Why is this hurting so much?? Aaaaaaaagh!” Perhaps I was having an off night? A really off night?

It wasn’t until the next day that I found out from his girlfriend that the strap was NOT leather — it was rubber. Hence the blindfold, so I couldn’t see it. Grrrrr. I was marked like crazy, too. Deep bruises.

So now rubber is pretty much a hard limit as well. Although I guess Delrin is a sort of rubber, or similar? I will take a Delrin cane, although they hurt like a bitch.

Even canes don’t all feel the same. If I say in a general statement that canes are OK to use on me, what am I letting myself in for? I’ve never experienced a Singapore-style cane, nor do I want to. But a proper rattan caning, with a thin whippy one, in the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing? Intense, but in the right head space, amazing.

I have felt everything, I think. From canes to belts to brushes to carpet beaters to tawses to crops to paddles to whips. I used to pride myself on what I could take. Nowadays, I find my desires changing. I still like to play hard… but only, ONLY if it’s someone whom I know is going to be measured, even, and careful. I no longer have any tolerance for stray shots–too high, too low, wrapping to the sides. I don’t like unevenness in cheekage. These days, I appreciate accurate and skilled players more than ever. The types I can trust with anything in their hands, no matter what it is, and know I’ll be safe and given just the right amount of pain. It’s a rarity, I’m afraid. Tops can be wonderful and kind and sensitive and skillful and many wonderful things, but still not adept with all the toys.

Perhaps now that I’m older, now that I’ve been doing this for a while, I don’t feel like I have to prove myself? (And to whom… to the scene, or to my own self?) I no longer have to show the world that I can get my ass beat all to hell with everything but the weed whacker. Or maybe I just don’t want that much pain and damage anymore? I really don’t know. But it does make me wish I understood the makings, the physics of implements better, so I could make the best choices for my play. Because, like everything else, I want quality over quantity.

But of course, there’s always hands. 🙂

Speaking of everything but the weed whacker — remember this?

dscf4121

Anyone else find they have been fooled by implements before? Or that something they used to like is no longer acceptable? Vice versa? Has anyone’s tolerance levels changed?

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