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”

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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