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 “work”

Repost (I think?): The Editor’s Correction

Well, kids… I’ve really wanted to post something new here. But I’ve got nothing right now. So I thought I’d dig into the archives and repost some fiction.

I don’t remember whether I posted this story or not. I never published it in anything. And as you’ll see, I wrote it several years ago so it’s a little dated in some aspects.

  1. Obviously, everything is digital now. But not too long ago, I was still marking up bulky manuscripts with a red pen and marks like these. And yes, they did fall on the floor and get mixed up, get things spilled on them, etc.proofreadmarks
  2. Craigslist no longer has personal ads.
  3. And finally — does anyone under [insert old age of your choice] wear pantyhose to the office anymore??

But despite these minor issues, I still like this story a lot. Hope you will too. 🙂

And no, I don’t advocate pranks like this. But they’re fun to write about, and make for great spanking scenarios.

The Editor’s Correction

“Aaaaagggh! Damn it!” Maggie Bailey blurted without thinking, as she brushed against her glass of juice and knocked it over, the stain instantly spreading into the piles of manuscripts on her desk. She snatched up the papers, but the liquid had already soaked into several pages. She’d have to print them again. For the umpteenth time, she cursed her tiny desk in her tiny office.

“Maggie? Are you OK?” The voice of Greg Watkins in the corner office next to hers came through the wall. Maggie clenched her fists and took a deep breath. Damned flimsy walls! She made an effort to calm her voice and called back, “I’m fine; I just spilled something.” And it wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for you, she added silently.

Maggie had been working at H&L Publications for ten years. She started as an editorial assistant and worked her way up to being one of the fiction editors, earning her own small office. For a long time, this thrilled her to no end. However, the office was indeed very small, her desk was also small by necessity, and her work area constantly frustrated her. Things piled up all over and she had no room. Manuscripts often got knocked off her desk, papers strewn everywhere. It was difficult to keep things separated and collated with so little surface area. She could have used a long worktable, but there was no place to put it. Her desk, chair, filing cabinets and small couch took up most of the space. She often banged her shin or thigh on the desk corner or on a file drawer sticking out.

She’d borne these inconveniences patiently, working diligently and hard, putting in long hours. Her eye had long been on the Senior Editor position; she knew she was in line and qualified for it, and with the position being vacated soon, she hoped it would soon be hers. Not just for the pay increase, but for the coveted corner office—more room, a bigger desk and a window. Perhaps in some cases, honest effort paid off after all.

So it was much to her chagrin when Joe Hanford—the H of H&L—called her into his office three weeks ago and explained, somewhat uncomfortably, that the position had been given to a new employee, Greg Watkins. Maggie was certainly qualified for it, Joe hastened to add, but Greg had more experience (twenty years to her ten). And he’s male, Maggie thought privately. Although she never voiced it, she suspected that H&L was a bit of a good ol’ boys’ outfit, and if the choice came down between a qualified man or woman, the man was likely to be the winner. And she hated Greg Watkins even before she met him.

To add insult to injury, Greg turned out to be a pleasant, well-liked guy. Not her type, of course; he was the sort she sneeringly referred to as metrosexual. Impeccably dressed in tailored suits, hair perfectly styled, well shined designer shoes. He wore an understated but expensive watch; his fingernails were neatly clipped and very clean. He was smart, funny and knew the publishing industry well, and both the men and women in the company took to him immediately. All except Maggie. She resented his presence and wouldn’t allow herself to be swayed by his friendly overtures, even though he was right next door. She made sure she was never rude to him, but she was coolly polite and nothing more. When he spoke to her, she answered, but never initiated conversation. He often gave her puzzled looks, but she ignored them.

Seething with fresh resentment, Maggie stormed out of her office and into the kitchen, snatching up a sponge and several paper towels and hurrying back to her desk to wipe up the sticky spill. Looking up the numbers of the pages that had been soaked, she tapped them in the Print section to reprint. Finally, order was restored and she settled back down to work. It was lunchtime, but Maggie often ate at her desk.

“Hey, Maggie?” She looked up, and quickly stifled her annoyance at seeing Greg in her doorway, smiling at her. “Yes, Greg?”

He walked in and over to her desk, holding a stack of paper rubber-banded into a neat bundle. “I have a new author effort here; can you give it a look?”

She glanced at the manuscript after he laid it on her desk; the author was female and the story was clearly some sort of romance novel. Before she could stop herself, she looked pointedly at the various stacks of paper on her crowded desk and muttered, “Sure, why not—it’s not like I have anything else to do.”

Greg’s smile faded. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to dump more on you. It’s just that—”

“It’s just that it’s chick lit, and I’m a chick, so you figured it was right up my alley, right?” she interrupted. She felt a slight sense of satisfaction when he had the good grace to look embarrassed.

Greg hesitated, picking up the manuscript. “Maggie…do you have a problem with me? Have I done something to offend you?”

Maggie cursed herself. Dammit, she had tried so hard to remain completely professional and polite, and give him no ammunition. She forced a tight little smile onto her lips and lied through her teeth. “No, nothing like that. I’m just busy, and I’m rattled because I spilled juice all over everything. Put it down; I’ll look at it later.”

“OK,” Greg said, placing it once again at the corner of her desk, but he didn’t move away, just stood there looking at her. Unnerved, Maggie dropped her eyes back to the computer. “If you’ll excuse me…” she murmured. Greg looked at her for another moment, then turned and left her office.

Jerk, she thought, letting her face settle into a disgusted frown. Sighing, she sat back in her chair and stretched, and saw Matt Weiss, the associate publisher, pass her door. Then she heard his voice; obviously he had stopped at Greg’s office. “Hey, Greg, a few of us are going to the corner to grab a sandwich and some brews. You up for taking a break?”

“Sounds good,” she heard Greg answer. “Only I’ll have to skip the brews. I have a meeting with both H and L this afternoon and I need to be on my toes.”

“OK, Nancy,” Matt teased. “We’ll make sure to order some tea for you.”

Maggie heard Greg’s chair squeak as he pushed away from his desk. “Never mind that Nancy crap,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “I can drink your sorry ass under the table any day of the week, and you know it.” The men laughed as their voices faded down the hall.

She rolled her eyes. Stupid macho idiots, she said to herself, her fingers beating an angry staccato on the keyboard. Times like these, she wished she could send an IM or an email to her friend Lynn in the advertising department; Lynn often served as her sounding board and she knew all of Maggie’s secret feelings. She was such a good listener, Maggie forgave her for thinking Greg was cute. But that was out of the question; H&L had a bit of a “big brother” policy where their computers were concerned. Emails were monitored, and any incoming or outgoing messages other than business-oriented ones were forbidden. So she sat and seethed a bit, fantasizing about bringing Greg Watkins down and grabbing the position that was rightly hers.

As she tried to focus on her work, a wicked germ of an idea took hold and began spreading. The more she tried not to think about it, the more it consumed her. Maggie found herself sitting at her desk giggling, and realized she had read the same page three times and still didn’t know what was on it. Her reasonable and professional self battled with her childish urge.

I couldn’t do it.
But I want to.
I can’t.
Damn right I can.

After a few minutes of this, she got up and with her heart pounding, walked out of her office, looked up and down the hall, then slipped into Greg’s office and shut the door quietly. Going over to his desk, she tapped on a key to disrupt the screensaver—yes! He was still logged into the system. She sat down (noticing with disgust that his desk chair was far more comfortable than hers) and since Greg was already online, she went directly to Craigslist, clicked on Personals and then on Create Ad.

She specified that it was to go into the Casual Encounters area, m4m (male for male). For the email, she typed in Greg’s business address. And then there was the content area. Grinning wickedly, she wrote:

My name is Greg, but you can call me Nancy. I’m a very bad boy, because I like to wear my mother’s underwear. I need a big mean daddy to spank me until I’m crying like a little girl.

Oops, Mom is coming, gotta go! No time to post a picture, but I promise you, you won’t be disappointed!

Her hands had been trembling, and she made several typos. After going through and fixing them, Maggie hesitated for a few seconds, then hit Publish. She waited until the confirmation email popped into Greg’s inbox, opened it and clicked on the supplied link to finalize and post the ad. It was done. Giggling nervously, she closed down Craigslist. After making sure she left the desk exactly how she had found it and peeking out the door to make sure no one could see her, she scuttled back to her office and closed the door. Her heart still raced and her hands still shook. She couldn’t believe she’d actually done it.

It took a while for the adrenaline to dissipate, but Maggie finally relaxed, ate a sandwich at her desk and continued with her work. She was so absorbed, she barely registered Greg’s return as he chatted with his coworkers in the hall and then went into his office. A few minutes later, her concentration was broken by a muffled but very loud “What the hell?” She jumped, her heart banging in her chest once again. Now she could hear Greg in the next room muttering to himself. Obviously, he’d checked his email and found a reply or two to his (her) ad. Maggie clamped both hands over her mouth, stifling laughter. Greg was going to have some explaining to do once word of this breach of email etiquette reached HR. Bending her head back down over her papers, she forced herself to focus and stayed in her office the rest of the afternoon, long after she heard Greg’s door slam and his footsteps thunder down the hall.

* * * *

When Maggie arrived at work the next morning, Greg’s door was closed. She went to the kitchen, selected a bagel from the bag on the counter, toasted it, poured a cup of coffee. While she was spreading cream cheese on her bagel, Greg came into the kitchen with his mug. But instead of his usual friendly greeting, he merely nodded at her with a set face, got some coffee and walked back out. She gathered up her plate and cup to head back to her office, hoping her blush hadn’t given her away. Of course he couldn’t know it had been her doing. He could suspect all he wanted, but he couldn’t know for sure.

It was an unusually busy day, and Maggie remained sequestered in her office, keeping a low profile. When Lynn popped by to invite her to lunch, she declined. She did not see Greg again, although she heard him coming and going.

Late in the afternoon, she sat back and stretched, looked at her watch. Five o’clock. It was Friday and she suspected everyone had already gone home. Not her, though, not diligent worker bee Maggie. Sighing, she got up, walked to the door and opened it, cautiously looking out into the hall. Sure enough, all the office doors were open, with no sounds emanating from within. She went into the kitchen, hoping for some coffee, but the machine was shut off and the two pots were soaking in the sink. Instead, Maggie grabbed a Diet Coke from the refrigerator. She planned to stay another couple of hours and thought a jolt of caffeine would help.

Back in her office, she left the door open and settled back at her desk, popping the top of the soda and picking up the manuscript Greg had left with her the day before, making a face. Might as well get this done and out of her hair.

The story turned out to be surprisingly well written and as she scanned it, she found herself getting more absorbed. So absorbed that when a deep voice said, “Working late again, I see,” she nearly jumped out of her skin and let out a little scream.

Greg was standing in her doorway. “Jesus Christ,” Maggie breathed, putting her hand to her chest. “You scared the hell out of me, Greg! I didn’t think anyone was here.”

He slowly walked in. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Maggie, I apologize.” His words were cordial, but something about his stare made her feel very uncomfortable. She was suddenly aware that the two of them were the only ones left in the building. She tried to force a casual tone into her voice. “It’s OK; I’m just not used to seeing you here this late, that’s all.”

Greg leaned up against her desk. “I’m usually not, you’re right. But I had some unusual circumstances today that needed a fair amount of my time.”

“Oh?” Maggie feigned nonchalance, took a sip of her Diet Coke, and discreetly balled up her other hand into a fist in her lap so Greg wouldn’t see it shaking.

“Yeah, you could say I had to do some damage control,” Greg continued, pushing some papers over and sitting casually on the corner of her desk. His eyes never left hers.

“Sorry to hear that,” Maggie murmured, dropping her eyes to her computer screen. “What happened?”

Greg shifted, picked up a manuscript, shuffled the papers in his hands. “Well, it seems that someone hacked into my computer, and placed a, shall we say, inappropriate personal ad on my behalf on Craigslist.”

Maggie opened her eyes wide in shock. “You’re kidding! How? Who? Do you know?”

“I have some ideas, but nothing for sure,” he said calmly, placing the papers back down and continuing to level his unwavering gaze at her. “I had one hell of a day, though. I had to keep erasing answers from a bunch of perverts out there. Fortunately, the ad finally got flagged and removed. And then HR got wind of it through the IT people. That’s where I’ve been for the past hour, trying to explain myself to them, convince them that I had nothing to do with this.”

Maggie shook her head, hoping she looked properly indignant. “That’s terrible! Did you manage to convince them?”

Greg sighed, briefly looking away from her, and ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah, fortunately, I finally did. Joe went to bat for me, saying I’d never pull anything like this, and it had to be an office prank. Of course, now everyone wants to know who did it; if they find out, that person is history here.”

Maggie swallowed hard. “So… did you share your ideas with them?”

“No,” Greg replied, turning back to stare at her. “I thought I’d go straight to the source instead, see what I could figure out on my own.”

His look unnerved her. “Why are you staring at me?” she finally blurted, shifting in her seat.

“Am I?” Greg asked, smiling slightly. “Or is your guilt making you imagine things?”

“Guilt? What guilt? What are you talking about?” Maggie cried, her voice overly shrill. She cleared her throat, took a breath. “What are you implying, Greg?”

Greg stood and slammed his palms down onto her desk, making her jump. “Oh, come on, Maggie. I know it was you. You might as well stop this pretense. I know you’ve disliked me since the minute I came here, but I never thought you’d stoop to something like this.”

She felt her face burn, but she forced herself to meet his angry eyes. “What makes you think I did it?” she said defensively.

“How stupid do you think I am?” Greg snapped. “I don’t know anyone else here who has that big an axe to grind with me. You work right next to me; you know when I’m there and when I’m not. You could hear when I left for lunch. And you no doubt overheard Matt call me Nancy.”

Maggie’s lips twitched. “Yeah, I heard that part. I thought it was pretty damn funny. Your friends know you well, apparently.”

Greg leaned closer, his face stony. “You know, somebody really should spank you until you’re crying like a little girl,” he hissed.

His words sent a lurch through Maggie’s stomach, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he was scaring her. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she sneered, “but it certainly wouldn’t be you, Metro Man. You’d ruin your manicure.”

Greg closed his eyes for a moment, and his fists clenched and unclenched. Maggie looked away, fighting down her butterflies. Manicured or not, Greg had mighty large hands.

“You are a piece of work, you know that?” he said. “What did I ever do to you, anyway? What is your problem?”

Maggie shrugged and made a face, turning back to her work. “Nothing,” she said, her tone snippy. “You’re the one whose mother’s underwear is in knots.” She giggled at her own comment. Then she looked up to see Greg’s triumphant look and instantly felt sick.

A smile slowly crept across Greg’s face. “Well now,” he said, his voice low and silky. “How did you know the bit about my mother’s underwear? I didn’t mention that.”

Maggie’s throat closed and she knew she was blushing scarlet. She was completely busted and there wasn’t a thing she could do to extricate herself. “I… I… um…” she stammered. He continued to smile at her, waiting, and she couldn’t stand it anymore. “OK! Fine! I did it. Are you happy now?”

“No, actually, I’m not,” Greg replied, his smile fading. “Do you have any kind of explanation? Why would you do something so childish? Do you realize that you could have cost me my job?”

She couldn’t look at him; her eyes dropped to her lap, and she fiddled with a thread on her jacket. She opened her mouth several times to speak, and stopped. Finally, she shrugged.

“All right, Maggie, since you won’t answer my questions, I’ll try another one. Do you realize I could cost you your job? All I have to do is tell HR I know who did it, and that’s it. You know that, right?”

Her head jerked up and she looked into his face, which was angry and uncompromising. Suddenly, the full weight of what she had done crashed down on her. All she could think of was her bills and debts—the mortgage on her townhouse, her car payments, her credit cards. If she lost her job, how could she pay for them? And how on earth would she be able to afford her own health insurance? H&L might not have advanced her to her liking, but they paid her a decent salary and provided excellent benefits. She stood to lose all that right now, and all because of her petty attitude. Tears filled her eyes and she bit her lip, willing them away. “Yes,” she said, her voice coming out hoarse and meek. “So… are you going to tell HR?”

Greg sighed. “I should, but I’d rather not. I don’t know if I could live with myself, causing anyone to lose their job in this economy.” His eyes narrowed. “But you do need to be punished for what you did.”

Maggie winced at the childish word, punished. She swallowed around the huge lump in her throat and clasped her shaking hands in her lap. “So what are you going to do?”

He raised an eyebrow at her and folded his arms, his lips curling into a smile that chilled her to the bone. “What do you think I’m going to do?”

Maggie stared at him, speechless. She couldn’t believe she was in this position; she’d read about it so many times in books, seen it in movies, but she didn’t think it actually happened. Cold anger replaced her fear and she slowly stood. “You bastard,” she hissed. “OK, let’s get this over with.” Adrenaline coursing, she took off her jacket and threw it over her chair. Then she reached up and began to unbutton her blouse. Greg’s expression went from smug triumph to confusion.

“Maggie, what the hell are you doing?”

His tone was so honestly bewildered, it made her hands freeze mid-button. “I’m… I… didn’t you…?” she sputtered. To her complete mortification, Greg burst out laughing.

She stamped her foot. “Stop laughing, damn you!” she shrieked.

He didn’t stop, and she wanted to crawl under the desk and curl up into a ball. “Ah, Maggie,” he said, trying to contain his mirth. “Don’t flatter yourself. That’s not what I had in mind.”

Now she was the confused one. “Then what did you have in mind?”

He smiled, clearly relishing her discomfort. “I’m going to do exactly what you suggested in that little ad of yours. I’m going to spank you. Hard.”

Maggie’s stomach lurched once again. This was even worse than she thought. “The hell you are!”

“The hell I’m not!

“You arrogant prick! There is no way I’m letting you do that!” she shouted. “Get out of here!”

Greg took a deep breath and blew it out hard. “OK, Maggie,” he said calmly. “But if I leave this office without giving you a sound spanking first, then I’m going to HR first thing Monday morning. Your choice—pay now, or pay later.”

Maggie put her head in her hands. This couldn’t be happening. She’d never hated anyone so much in all her life.

“Come on, Maggie,” Greg said, his voice gentle. “Take the first choice, and it will hurt for a little while and then be over. Take the second choice, and you’ll have a whole world of hurt that won’t end anytime soon.” As she stood there staring, he took off his jacket, neatly folded it and put it over the arm of the couch. Then he sat down, patted his lap and looked at her expectantly.

Maggie’s head spun. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she whispered.

“Nice try, Maggie,” Greg smiled. “Come here.”

She went to him, her legs leaden. “God, I hate you,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know,” he said, taking her forearm and firmly pulling her down across his lap. She shuffled and squirmed, situating herself. “Comfy?” he said mockingly.

Maggie pounded her fist on the couch. “God damn you, just get on with it.”

Greg laughed, and she felt his hand pull her tweed skirt up to her waist. “Hey!” she hollered. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Please… do you really think you’d feel anything through that heavy skirt?” He snapped the waistband of her pantyhose. “Besides, you have plenty of protection with these… for now.”

“What do you mean, for… ow!” Maggie yelped as his hand firmly cracked onto her right bottom cheek. Before she could catch her breath, he delivered a similar stinging slap to the left. “That hurts!”

“Gee, it does?” Greg said sarcastically. “Maybe I should rethink that ‘big mean daddy’ thing, huh?” He smacked her right cheek again, harder than before.

“Dammit, Greg, stop it!” she howled, struggling against him. “I changed my mind! Do what you want, get me fired, I don’t care! Just let me up!”

Greg pinned her more firmly. “Nah, I don’t think so. I’m enjoying this too much. Might as well settle down, Maggie, you’re here to stay. You’ve got this coming.”

He got into a pattern of solid swats, alternating cheeks, his big hand coming down again and again. Maggie squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to bear it stoically, but it hurt like hell and soon she was thrashing and kicking, screaming in pain.

Finally, he paused and Maggie struggled to catch her breath. “So,” he said, laying his hand on her bottom, making her flinch. “You care to tell me why you hate me so much? Enough to pull such a stupid stunt?” When she didn’t reply, he sighed. “Never mind, I already know. I know you wanted the Senior Editor position, and you were pissed off that I got it. Joe told me when he hired me.”

Maggie buried her face in the couch cushion, feeling her humiliation from head to foot. “If you already knew, why did you ask?” she mumbled.

“Look, Maggie, I know you wanted that job and you worked really hard for it. Joe felt bad; it’s not that you’re not qualified. It’s just that I have more experience than you. It’s not your fault, but it’s not mine, either. Can’t we get along?”

No, Maggie thought. Stubbornly, she remained silent. When Greg spoke again, his voice had hardened once more. “OK, have it your way. I think that, considering the gravity of your crime, your spanking should continue on the bare bottom, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t!” she screamed, rearing up, but he pushed her back down, and she felt his fingers snaking into the waistband of her pantyhose. “Lift your hips,” he said. She balled up her fists and stayed still. Smack! His hand cracked down on the very top of her upper thigh, hard. “Owwwww!

“Lift. Your. Hips.”

She complied this time, and he yanked her pantyhose down below her bottom, then did the same with her panties. Without another word, he began spanking her again. If she thought the pain was bad over layers of underwear, it was nothing compared to this. She tried desperately to squirm away, but he held her fast. She dug her nails into her palms, grit her teeth, but finally the burning pain overtook her and she howled until her throat hurt. Still, he continued. She didn’t know which was stronger—her pain, her humiliation or her rage.

At long last, Greg paused again and Maggie collapsed against him, panting. “Maggie,” he said quietly. “Do you have anything to say to me?”

Tears stung her eyes and the pain was unbearable, but she couldn’t bring herself to apologize to him. She was still too angry and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she bit out, “Yes, I do. Go fuck yourself.”

She felt his entire body tense under her, and she cringed in horror at her own words, terrified of what might come next. He didn’t give her any time to ponder on it. “Get up,” he snapped, roughly grabbing her shoulders and pulling her upright. Her pantyhose were bunched up around her knees and she nearly fell, but he yanked her up, then strode to her desk, dragging her along with him. With one long sweep of his arm, he sent all the papers flying and cleared the desk. She gasped, but didn’t dare comment on the mess he’d just made.

“Get over the desk, Maggie. Now,” he growled, glaring murderously at her.

She looked at his red face, fearfully. But she still couldn’t give in to him. “W-why?” she stammered, with a bravado she didn’t feel. “What—what are you going to do, you pervert?”

Greg put his head in his hand for a moment, then rolled his eyes heavenward. “I repeat, Maggie—don’t flatter yourself.” He then reached down and began to unbuckle his belt.

Maggie nearly fainted, she was so terrified. “Greg, no!” she burst out. “You can’t! Please! I can’t take that!”

“You should have thought of that before you started this whole mess, Maggie,” he said, pulling his belt out of the loops. “And especially before you told me to go fuck myself.” He snapped the belt, then doubled it over. “Over. Belly down on the desk. Now.”

Trembling, Maggie slowly turned toward the desk and put her palms on it. But before she could lower her belly down onto it, Greg said, “Wait!” She froze. Silently, she watched him go retrieve his jacket from the couch arm and bring it over. She gaped in surprise as he patted it into a soft bundle, then placed it on the desk. “OK, now,” he said, his voice marginally gentler.

She leaned down and laid her body onto his jacket, grateful for the comfort, although she knew that wouldn’t last. Once in position, she stretched out her arms and grabbed the edge of the desk, lay her head down and shut her eyes tight. “Please, Greg…”

He didn’t reply. Snap! She felt his belt impart a burning stripe across her behind. She jumped and shrieked, and his hand pressed into the small of her back. “Hold still, Maggie. I don’t want to miss, and you don’t want me to either.”

Gritting her teeth, she did her best to remain in place as the belt struck again and again, all over her bottom. Her feet involuntarily stamped and her fists pounded on the desk, but somehow, she stayed in position. But the pain nearly drove her crazy.

“I know it hurts,” she heard him say. “But it will be over soon, and then we’re done.”

“No, we’re not!” she shouted, her voice breaking. “I won’t be able to work here anymore, regardless! You’ll tell everyone and I won’t be able to look anyone in the face again!”

Greg paused and walked around to her side. “Maggie, look at me,” he commanded. Slowly, she turned her head to look up and meet his eyes.

“I am not, repeat, not going tell anyone about this. I told you I wanted to keep this between you and me, and I meant it. After we leave here today, we won’t speak of this again. I promise.”

Maggie’s eyes searched his face; she saw no trace of malice. “You mean it? You—you won’t make fun of me? You won’t tease me about this?”

“No, I will not.”

She believed him, and her tense body relaxed a fraction. At all once, she felt profoundly ashamed. It was ridiculous that she should be in this position, and she had no one to blame but herself. She turned her face away, blinking back an onrush of tears. It dawned on her once again how close she’d come to losing her job. A job that, she now realized, really wasn’t that bad after all.

Greg stepped back. “OK, Maggie. I’m going to give you one more long set, and you’re going to hold still and take it. After that, we’re even.” Maggie took a deep breath and steeled herself.

Whack! Crack! The belt struck all over her bottom repeatedly as he moved around her, the blows more rapid than before. Finally, Maggie’s pride shattered; she gave in and burst in tears. “Owwwwww,” she sobbed. “Oh God, Greg, please stop, please! I’m sorry!”

He stopped immediately. “That’s all I wanted to hear, Maggie,” he said.

Feeling broken, Maggie remained lying over the desk, crying her eyes out. She wanted to die then and there, rather than stand up and face Greg. He put his hand tentatively on her back. “You OK?”

She gulped and nodded, unable to speak. When she made no move, he hesitated, then gently ran his fingers over her sore behind. His touch mortified her, but she said nothing.

“Maggie, listen,” he said. “This is the last word I’m going to say on this subject, I promise. But it looks like you’re going to have some bruises. When you get home, I would suggest sitting on an icepack for a while; that should reduce some of the swelling. OK?”

Her voice still paralyzed, she nodded her head once more. Then Greg, with his fingers still lightly caressing her bottom, added, “And you’ll probably want to use some lotion as this heals, so your skin won’t get rough.”

It was too much. Lashing out, she blurted, “You sound like you’ve done this before!” Then she cringed. Oh, shit, why did I say that? There was silence behind her for a moment, then Greg cleared his throat. “Well, tell you what—I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine, OK?”

Oh my God. “Yes, OK. Please…” she choked out, “may I have a few minutes by myself?”

“Of course,” he said, and she heard him slip out the door and close it. She clung to the desk and sobbed, releasing all the tension, and then reached back to rub her backside. It felt hot to her touch, and she could feel raised welts. Wincing, she carefully stood. Her legs shook so hard, she could barely stand on them, and she had to brace herself against the desk. Painfully and slowly, she pulled her panties back up, then her pantyhose, and smoothed down her skirt. Grabbing the Diet Coke can on her desk, she took the last swallow of flat soda. Then she got a mirror out of her purse and attempted to wipe away her smeared makeup with a tissue, blowing her nose vigorously.

There was a gentle knock at her door. “Maggie? Can I come in?”

“Yes,” she croaked out, looking away awkwardly as Greg opened the door and walked back in. Her eyes dropped to his jacket on the desk, wrinkled and disheveled from all her squirming. Sheepishly, she picked it up and handed it to him. “Sorry about that,” she mumbled.

“It’s OK,” he said, taking it from her and putting it back on, running his hands over the wrinkles. He smiled at her and somehow, she managed a wobbly smile back.

“Look, Maggie,” he said, his voice kind. “I can’t do anything about getting your position in the company changed. But I know this office sucks. Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but I know a couple of people are leaving soon and there will be vacant offices, bigger ones. I’ll have a talk with Joe about moving you into one of them. All right?”

She felt tears coming on again, but she blinked hard against them. “You’d do that for me? After what I did?”

“I told you, we’re even now. And you do deserve a bigger office.”

Embarrassed, Maggie looked away again, then knelt down and started picking up the strewn papers. “Leave that,” Greg said, touching her arm. “I’ll get them.”

Wordlessly, Maggie went to the couch and gingerly sat, biting back a groan of pain, and watched Greg pick up the papers, put them back in order and place them in neat piles on her desk. Then he stood, turned to her and grinned. “There… friends?”

Despite herself, she grinned back. “Friends,” she replied.

“OK, I guess it’s time I head out of here,” he said, going to the door. “You coming?”

Maggie shook her head. “No…I think I’ll stay a while and get a little more work done.”

Greg made a face at her. “Maggie, you don’t need to work so damn hard. Really, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” she said firmly, pointing to her desk. “Look at all that. If I don’t do it, who will?”

Greg hesitated, then sighed. “Well…maybe I’ll try having a word with Joe about getting you an assistant. Not promising anything, though.”

Maggie’s heart lifted, and she felt the last of the tension melt from her limbs. At last, from a very unexpected place, she might have an ally in this office of good ol’ boys. Despite the burning throb in her backside, she felt better than she had in weeks. “Thank you, Greg,” she said, getting up and walking over to him. “Have a nice weekend.”

“You too,” he said, then stuck out his hand. Smiling, she shook it. “Night, Maggie.”

She had a sudden mischievous urge. As he turned to walk out, she replied, “Night, Nancy.” And then slammed the door on his surprised face.

On the other side of the door, she heard him chuckle. “Just remember, Maggie—I know where you work!”

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.

Catching up a bit

Aside from the op-ed post that I copied and pasted last week, I haven’t written for a while. Couple of reasons: one, I’ve been too freaking busy with work. And two: what with all the godawful stuff going on in reality, it felt somewhat disingenuous and forced to post about happy spanky stuff. But life goes on. So I figured it was time to update just a little.

In the past couple of weeks, we’ve had two birthdays — John’s and mine. I had a bit of a struggle with mine, as just a few days before, my play partner and I had officially ended things and I was dealing with residual sadness. But John went all out to make it a happy time for me, starting with flowers a week early and then taking me to Walt Disney Concert Hall for the L.A. Philharmonic on the actual birth date. I’d never been there before, so it was quite the adventure. The architecture of the place is pretty bizarre (oh hell, it’s just plain ugly), but the auditorium itself is breathtaking and the acoustics are perfect.

My birthday flowers:

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Full house at the Concert Hall:

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We got all dressed up, and later went out for a nice dinner. It was a lovely birthday.

I got some cool presents too — lots of Beatles stuff! A Beatles clock from Lily Starr, a HELP! placard from Alex and Paul, and coffee table books and a poster from another friend (I’m not sure which name to use for her, so I’ll leave that blank).

Last week, I got to have a fun little adventure. Alex contacted me and said one of her clients wanted to do a double session with her and me. I’ve shot custom videos for her, but had never participated in one of her sessions before, so I was game. Her client was from out of town and had booked up a bunch of sessions with several of her friends, so mine was in the middle of three last Wednesday. I hadn’t seen Alex since Shadow Lane, and Paul since a couple of months before that, so it was great to see them again, even though I didn’t get to talk with them too long. Alex’s client was into role-play and we did two half-hour scenes; he turned out to be a lot of fun and I enjoyed myself a great deal.

Even better? Catching up with Alex, I finally got pictures from her birthday party last July!

Before this photo was taken, I had been trying to launch myself onto a floating pool swan… and fell over off the side of it, getting thoroughly dunked. I blame my innate clumsiness, and the vodka-spiked lemonade might have had something to do with it also. Anyway, I was hanging in the background while Alex was taking pictures, and she called out, “Erica, get in the picture. I don’t care if your hair is wet!” So here we are: Alex, me, Ulf, Lizzy McAllister, and Maddy Marks. Happy bunch!

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And here’s a really nice shot of John and me, with downtown L.A. behind us:

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Fun times. Anyway, work-wise, I dealt with famine for the first half of this year and now I am feasting to the point of gluttony. I get stressed when I feel like I can’t control my workload, but I’d rather be busy than not. Other stuff keeps coming up, appointments need to be made, but I’ll take care of them one at a time in the order of importance. One friend has been asking to meet me for coffee for the past several weeks, and I’ve put him off so many times, apologetically, that I finally decided I’m never going to find time, so I just have to make time. We’re meeting up tomorrow afternoon and catching up. Oh, and I have to break away on occasion to work out.

I miss playing. A lot. But I suppose the other advantage of being busy with work (other than the money) is that I don’t have much time to dwell on it. Even if I did have a play partner right now, I don’t think I’d have time to play with him! (sigh) So, that’s all on hold for now. Life feels a bit unbalanced, but things have a way of righting themselves. I am just going to plow on and hope for the best.

And hey, it’s almost the holidays! (Oh, fuck…)

Friday odds and ends

MIA again — busy! All work and no play is making Erica very dull. I haven’t seen Steve in two weeks, but I’ve been so work-crazed, I really didn’t have proper time for him anyway. In fact, I actually had to turn down a girls’ night out with Alex and SpankCake last week, which sucked! But life interferes with one’s fun. But fun is coming next week! Shadow Lane, here we come (leaving next Friday morning). I’ve already arranged for a work break, so my plate will be cleared.

Meanwhile, how about some weird search phrases for your Friday amusement?

First — folks, my name isn’t that complicated. Really, it isn’t. So why did I find these in my search phrases?

earica scott

euricka scott

jane erika scott

EAR-ica? Really?? I know I have big ears, but that’s just mean. :-Þ

For those who like it rough:

belt spanking video not for the squeamish brutal

dress down brutal girl belt spanking stories!

That last one especially confuses me. Is the belt spanking brutal, or is the girl brutal? And is her dress down, or does she get dressed down? And why the ! ?

I can’t resist spanking my gf

What do you want, my permission?

my boyfriend spanking to red ass desi story

WTF is a desi story? Lucyyyyy! You got some spankin’ coming!

And while we’re on weirdness, I got a bizarre tweet last night. Some guy I don’t know, has a really creepy profile, clicks “like” on a bunch of my tweets. OK, fine. But then he tweets to me:

I love you erica. Thought u wuz dead.

The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated. I’m not THAT old, for Christ’s sake!

Anyway… so last Friday, I had a bit of a meltdown. I was overwhelmed with work, John was having major problems with his own work, I’ve been having computer issues, and I was so stressed out, one side of my face had broken out in hives. (Either that or something or things bit me — I never did figure out what it was. It went away after a few days.) I seriously considered cancelling Shadow Lane — it seemed like too much work and hassle to prepare for, I didn’t have time, I wasn’t in the right head space, blah blah blah. Fortunately, when I went to John’s that night, he convinced me that we’d be OK, everything would work out, and we really do need the getaway. “When am I going to get stuff done for the party?” I asked. “I’ve been so slammed with work, I haven’t even had a chance to go shopping.”

“Let’s go to the mall tomorrow!” he suggested. “I need pants, and we can shop for a dress for you.” And so we did; we made an afternoon/evening of it. And what did John do? He picked the perfect dress for me, straightaway. We walked into H&M, and there were some dresses at the front of the store. He plucked one off the rack and said, “This is it.” I demurred, saying we should look at everything else, so we wandered through the store and selected a few more items. But in the dressing room, it was clear… the dress he’d chosen was THE dress. He zipped me into it and it fit perfectly, looked fabulous. “Who knows you better than you know yourself?” he teased. “Who’s the perfect boyfriend who picked the perfect dress?” I also managed to slip into a store this week and buy some new panties, so I am set.

My enthusiasm for the party has been restored. And so, I am looking forward to next week. Monday, something special is happening, but I don’t want to jinx it so I’m not going to talk about it until after the fact. Tuesday, John and I will have been together for twenty years (the Shadow Lane trip is our celebration). And then we head off early Friday morning for three days of spanko debauchery with our friends. I need to play. I need to laugh. I need this so, so much.

But for now, I still have work to do, including some more of that nasty medical stuff. However, thanks to my most excellent computer tech friend Jesse, I now know how to set placeholders for the photos, so instead of those disgusting images, all I see are plain white boxes. 😀  And unfortunately, it does seem that my computer needs a new hard drive, but that can wait until I come back. It’s still working, and every time it’s crashed so far, I’ve been able to fix it with Disk Check, so fingers crossed.

Life is good today. Have a great weekend, y’all.

Still here…

…but frazzled.

stressedwoman

No, this graphic is not really intended to represent me. I don’t have her boobage. But this is how I’m feeling lately. It’s good stuff — lots of work — but it’s stressful.

I was already busy with work, but last week, a client I hadn’t heard from in at least a year burst out of the woodwork and slammed me with projects. And informed me that there are many more to come. Meanwhile, they sent six documents and wanted the first two ASAP.

(groan)

Two things I’d forgotten about this particular client. One, they want everything yesterday. And two, they produce online medical courses… complete with graphic and gross photos. You guys know how horribly squeamish I am. Do you know how hard it is to focus on dry medical copy when it’s surrounding a closeup of an ulcerated foot??

But it’s work. Still, I find all my craziness kicking in. “No, you don’t have time to work out!” “No, you don’t have time to blog!” “No, you don’t have time to run errands/do chores/socialize with anyone!” “No, you don’t have time to breathe! Gotta work, gotta work, gotta work work work…” Ugh.

However, I know this is nuts, so Tuesday I did take a break to see Steve for a couple of hours. He was stressed out over his own work situation, and I was tense and preoccupied — we thought perhaps we might skip playing. But of course, after a few minutes of relaxing and talking, our natural instincts kicked in and we got down to pleasure.

I so welcomed the stress release; it was like blowing steam out of a pressure cooker. Yeah, I know, a lot of you don’t know what those are. Do they even make pressure cookers anymore? I remember my mother having one. I never understood how they work or why they were used; I just know that you had to watch them carefully, because if you left them unattended, they might explode, and then whatever you were cooking in there decorated the entire kitchen.

Of course, since time was of the essence, Steve decided he needed to choose an implement with the most bang for the buck. I rolled my eyes when I saw what he went for: the dreaded Lickin’ Stick. Have I mentioned lately how much I hate that @#$%ing thing??

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There it is, peeking out in the right corner of the photo. I swear, if I had a fireplace, I’d reduce that thing to ashes.

Ah… but you all see through me, don’t you. You know I’m just bitching and moaning. When all was said and done, I was a happy girl.

My Gorgeous Girl

Well, for a little while anyway. The stress came back. But the respite was nice while it lasted.

Anyway, kids, I don’t know how much posting I’ll be doing in the next couple of weeks. The Shadow Lane party is coming over Labor Day, so once August is over I’ll have a couple of new adventures, but until then, posts will probably be brief. My readership is way down, and I’ve come to accept it. Things just aren’t the way they used to be, especially since Chross has stopped doing Spankings of the Week. I used to average between 1000-1500 views per days, skyrocketing to nearly 3000 if I was Chrossed. Now I’m lucky if I break 500. Such is life.

Oh, and in case anyone is wondering, no, I’m not watching the Olympics. John is. Me? I couldn’t care less. We were watching last weekend at John’s — he was doing excited running commentary on the biking, while I struggled to stay awake. I know, I’m awful. What else is new. (I do like gymnastics. But swimming? Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and… YAWN!!)

And now I must get back to work, so I can head out to John’s with a (relatively) cleared deck. Have a great weekend, y’all. 🙂

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