Please be advised: This blog contains adult subjects and content. If you are underage, or adult consensual kink disturbs you, might I suggest something more wholesome and educational?

Or how about this?

Go on.... shoo!

Friday, July 25, 2014

Friday hodgepodge

Two years ago today, I met this man for coffee...

And y'all know where that went. :-) Today, I have a top, a protector, a friend who takes care of me. Sometimes, we all just need to be taken care of, no? Well, I know I do, anyway.

I got to see him briefly yesterday -- I had driven 40 miles to meet with my finance guy for lunch, and Steve's house was between that locale and my place, so I stopped by on my way home and saw his house for the first time. No play, though... he had to rush out and I needed to get home and work. But we will celebrate our two-year anniversary this coming Tuesday.

And next month, I will be celebrating 18 years with this character:

I've had a lot of ups and downs lately; more downs, unfortunately. But despite that, today, I am feeling grateful. I have good people in my life, and I am loved.

In other news... Unless you've been under a rock the past couple of days, you've noticed the mini-tsunami rolling through the spanko blogosphere -- the trailer for the "Fifty Shades of Dreck" movie! No, I'm not going to link it here; it's already been linked ad nauseam. It was even on the Tonight show. I did watch it, though. As predicted, even the trailer is cliché-riddled. The two leads are predictably and perfectly gorgeous (because God forbid we should pay $13 to watch two average-looking schnooks engage in wannabe BDSM). Although Dakota Johnson (Anastasia) is doing her best "I'm-really-pretty-but-I'm-dressed-down-to-look-frumpy-and-insecure" bit. You can see that her hair is in a nondescript ponytail in the beginning, but you know that hair will come down and fly erotically around her ecstatic face sooner or later. Meh. What crap.

But of course, the Missionary Mommies who devoured the books will flock to the theater like demented sheep to sit and squirm in their seats, shoveling popcorn in their faces while dampening their panties over Jamie Dornan (Christian Grey). heavy sigh

Oh, well. Guess I'd better brace myself -- if there's this much buzz over a freaking trailer, I don't even want to think about when the movie actually opens.

And finally... I knew I forgot something when I wrote about fantasies gone bust the other day. I knew it, and yet I couldn't come up with it. However, it came back to me this morning, and it's too good not to share, albeit a little late.

Anyone remember Shadow Lane's classic oldie, Spoiled Rotten, with Keith Jones and Tanya Foxx? Still one of my favorites, rich with fantasy fodder. For me, one of the hottest scenes was when Keith chases Tanya around a pool table, then finally traps her and bends her over the table for a spanking/strapping. From the first time I saw that scene (and I've lost count of how many times total I've seen it), I fantasized about being spanked over a pool table.

Guess what? It happened, about 10 years ago. I was visiting my play partner at the time, and he was spanking me in every room in the house. When we got to the den, I saw the pool table and my eyes lit up. Yes! Yes, please! 


It was uncomfortable as @#$%. The side of the table dug into my hipbones; a pillow would have helped, but really, in the movies, who stops to get a pillow or whatever to make those steamy scenes more comfortable? The table, despite the felt covering, was very hard under my face. And the worst part? It was like an echo chamber -- every blow he imparted reverberated through the table and went right into my ear. So much for that fantasy!

Have a great weekend, y'all. Oh, and welcome back to our beloved Bonnie!

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Fantasy vs. reality

I just finished proofreading a very hot book, which was kind of a take-off on the old Fantasy Island series, but with kinky fantasies. It followed the exploits of four couples, intertwined throughout the story, and of course, because this is fiction, everyone's fantasy was realized with utter perfection. Which got me thinking (always a dangerous thing) about fantasies that were far better than their real counterparts.

I was extremely lucky in the spanking department. One of my biggest fears, when I was about to be spanked for the first time, was that the actual experience wouldn't come anywhere near what I'd built up in my head after years and years of thinking about it. But that first time, as many of you know, was mind-blowing. However, I've had a couple of other sexually related "flops" that I thought it would be fun to share, and hopefully encourage others to share theirs.

Remember, I didn't lose my virginity until I was 26. But in the years prior, I'd read a ton of romance novels, which made the simplest actions sound like four-star interludes. Like showering together.

The morning after I finally had sex for the first time, my partner asked if I'd like to take a shower with him. Would I!! Oh, the imagery. I'd read plenty of scenes about steamy showers and baths with a lover, kissing under the stream of water, soaping each other up intimately, being slammed up against a shower wall... bring it on, baby.

However, I didn't realize that this particular gentleman, once he exited the bed, reverted back to a buddy and nothing more. No morning-after snuggles or cuddles, no lingering looks or touches, nothing. When I got into the shower with him, that's exactly what we did: shower. He went about the business of washing his hair and so forth, and left me on my own. The only encounter we had was when he took the washcloth and scrubbed my back for me. Not sensually, but in a very brisk, impersonal manner. Well, crap. 

You can imagine how I felt -- newly de-virginized, my head spinning, my body aching, disoriented from lack of sleep and new stimuli, and now, this same man who engaged in all manner of intimate activity with me just a few hours ago would barely acknowledge me. What the @#$% was wrong with this picture? More important, what the @#$% was wrong with me??

Meh. Fortunately, I learned later (from the man himself), that he wasn't the touchy-feely type, or the romantic type. Whatever. Y'all will be happy to know that since then, I've had my share of sexy showers. Much, much better.

But wait, there's more.

How many movies and TV shows have we watched with this familiar scene: The lovers, near a table, or a desk, or a counter, or pretty much any flat surface, shove everything aside with a rustle and a clatter in the heat of passion, and make mad love right on top of said surface? Hot stuff, yes? Yes, please. I really wanted to experience that.

About 20 years ago, I was "dating" (I put it in quotes, because really, it was little more than screwing) a younger man, who had a libido that wouldn't quit and loved to do it anywhere, anytime. One night, we were making out in my kitchen -- items of clothing had been removed and he had me backed up against the counter. Suddenly, in one of those delicious rom-com moves, he grabbed me and hoisted me up onto the counter.

And after that, it went spectacularly wrong.

As he did so, I crashed into a small turntable of items (salt and pepper shakers, kitchen timer, can of cooking spray, etc.) and sent them rolling around behind me with a ruckus. I leaned back, clunked my head on the bar behind me, then struggled back up, partially sitting, but leaning back on my elbows. Very uncomfortable. Meanwhile, he was trying to angle himself properly, but the counter was just a little bit too high and, well, let's just say it wasn't quite working. Trying to get situated, he grabbed my hips and shifted me forward toward the counter's edge, which made my coccyx (tailbone) bang against the hard surface (not a good pain). And finally, we, er, connected, but the angle was still so awkward, my tailbone hurt, I could feel an errant salt shaker grinding into my vertebrae, and it was about as sexy as a pelvic exam. 

After a few thrusts, he paused, looked at me and said, "You know, this kinda sucks." I burst out laughing and replied, "It always looks so hot in the movies!" He laughed too, and then he lifted me off the counter and carried me to my bedroom, where we finished things properly. 

So, do tell. Any fantasy-gone-wrong stories out there? Spanking or purely sex? Would love to hear. :-)

(And no, I'm not seeing Steve this week. But we will make up for it next Tuesday. As it happens, it's good timing that he can't make it, because I'm swamped with work. Break time is over -- must get back to it.)

Monday, July 21, 2014

Things I'd love to see

You guys have heard me bitch about annoying people at the gym before, so this is nothing new. The beefy grunters who, every time they hoist a weight the size of a small car, let out a roar that sounds like they're giving birth. The chatters who yammer on the phone while they're working out, and don't have indoor voices. And one of my favorites: the texters who use gym equipment as if it were their living room furniture.

Last week, I waited for 20 -- that's twenty -- minutes for the quad machine while a woman sat on it and texted. I was this close to going to get a manager to haul her ass off of there, when she finally picked herself up and moved to another machine, where she continued her texting. Must have been some conversation. Jeez, lady. Why don't you save the money you spend on your gym membership and go park your butt at Starbucks instead?

But today took the cake. A young woman was draped over the hamstring curl machine. For those of you unfamiliar with gym equipment, the hamstring apparatus looks like something you could find at a spanking party or in a dungeon.

You lie on this doohickey, put your feet under the platform, then curl your feet up toward your butt -- this exercises the muscle that runs down the back of your legs. It also makes your bottom look really, really nice.

However, this woman was not curling anything. She had herself in position, with her perky little butt, clad in tight shorts that barely cleared her sit spots, but she wasn't gripping those handles you see up front. No, she was propped up on her elbows (which arched her back, making that perky butt stick up even more), and she was busily texting.

I did my circuit, and every time I finished one machine and moved to the next, I glanced back over. Yup, she was still there. If anyone wanted to use that machine, they were SOL. She had claimed it, and was completely oblivious to anyone who might have been waiting for it. Several minutes passed; I thought, "She has to get up sooner or later." Turned out, it was much later.

If she had any thought process at all, I'm sure it went something like this: "Look at meeeee... I'm so cute, and my butt is so perfectly perky, that I can get away with hogging this equipment while I exercise my manicured li'l fingers, and y'all can just wait for me, K?" But I doubt she was thinking anything at all. She was just clueless.

Here's what I would have enjoyed: If one of the hunky trainers sauntered over, positioned himself behind her, and gave that perky butt a mighty, resounding SMACK, loud enough to make everyone stop what they're doing and look. She'd jerk upward, her phone would go flying, and she'd turn her big indignant eyes on her perpetrator, who would calmly smile and say, "Use it or get off it, princess." And the entire gym would cheer.

Well, I can dream, can't I?

Friday, July 18, 2014

OT, but it cracked me up

After such a somber week, I figured it was time for some humor.

I have a friend on Facebook, whom I won't identify because it's a vanilla account with his real name. But he is freaking hilarious. One of his "things" is to Photoshop himself and his little pug dog into everything you could imagine -- old movie stills, works of art, etc. He even put his face into the Mona Lisa. Sometimes it's really irreverent -- I won't tell you what he did on Easter, but I almost peed myself looking at it.

He also has a blog he calls his "enemies list." Every week, he creates a tongue-in-cheek list of people who have annoyed him. A lot of the time, it's just humorous digs at his friends. Other times, it's people in the media.

A week or so ago on FB, he claimed it was "Fresh Spinach Day," and he posted a cartoon of Popeye with his ever-present can of spinach (and with his own face cartoonized, replacing Popeye's), with his pug in a sailor cap with a pipe in his mouth. It was very cute, but I couldn't resist: I commented, "If it's Fresh Spinach Day, what's up with the canned spinach?"

Today, lo and behold, for the first time ever, I made the enemies list. Here is the entry, in all its glory:

Erica Scott. Wednesday was officially Fresh Spinach Day so to comemorate it I cranked out an illustration that was kind of cute, with me as Popeye and my beloved pug Winston as Popeye’s dog getting ready to chow down on some colon-healthy greenery. Ms. Scott is a proofreader by profession, which means that she gets paid to condescendingly point out other people’s mistakes. So it was a matter of professional ethics that she felt compelled to respond “So if it’s fresh spinach day, what’s with the canned spinach?” There’s nothing more enjoyable for me than doing something artistically creative simply for the fun of anyone who wants to take a peek at it and be immediately slapped down for making a minor miscue in my labors. But Ms. Scott made a fair point; the holiday is explicitly celebrates “fresh” spinach whereas the raspy-voiced mariner with the deformed forearms favors the preserved variety. To make it up to her, I’m going to propose that her birthday of September 22 be recognized as National Hemorrhoid Day. It seems the perfect time to recognize a throbbing pain in the ass.

(The throbbing pain in the ass is a double entendre, since he knows I'm a spanko. Well played, my friend.)

I've never so thoroughly enjoyed being flamed. But just so you know, I had the last word. My comment? "It's 'commemorate,' not 'comemorate.' :-Þ "

It feels good to laugh. Have a great weekend, y'all. :-)

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

"Come back to me"

Depression is an ugly and destructive force. It lies, it manipulates, and it undermines all good things. I have had it in me for as long as I can remember, so I know. I also know that, no matter how godawful I feel when it's happening, that it's been much worse.

Over the past week, dealing with the latest go-round, I still did everything I needed to do, showed up everywhere I needed to be. In the past, when I was much younger, feeling like I did over the past week would send me to bed, remaining there for days, not dressing, not answering the phone, not doing anything but rotting my brain with hours of anything on television, no matter how crappy it was. I did laundry when I ran out of clothes, and then, being too down to fold it all, simply plucked what I needed out of the wrinkled heap in the basket. I either starved myself, or ate everything in sight.

So yes, I'm much better. I can function with a bout of depression. But it really, really sucks. And only those who share this chemical dysfunction truly know how it feels. It's like having a relentless bully living inside your head, sitting on your chest, tormenting you every damn waking minute.

I am normally a fairly animated person -- my face is expressive, my voice rises and falls, I talk with my hands, etc. But when I'm depressed, everything has a flat affect. John has described it this way: "It's like the light's gone out of your eyes." True, because the light goes out of my world, along with the color. John, somehow, is able to make me laugh like no other. So when I was with him on the weekend, I was distracted. But as soon as I left and came home, the shroud settled back around me. As Steve has said, I go into a dark place. I walk, I talk, I dress, I show up. But my essence is elsewhere.

"Come back to me," he says, when it happens.

Yesterday, I was pretty numb when he came over. Tears dribbled out of my eyes as we talked, but I didn't actively cry or sob. He was sad because he knew his lack of response to my spontaneous selfie had upset me, but he was also hurt that he had to find out about it by reading my blog, instead of my telling him directly. I told him it wasn't just the damn picture; it was a lot of other stuff, a culmination of several things (including a week without work) that had put me into my pit.

We talked for a long time, and he held me. I curled into him, but I wasn't very responsive. He asked what I wanted, what I needed. I answered, "I want you to decide. Take charge. I don't want to think."

So he did.

It took a while to push through the wall of malaise, solid as brick, behind which I was hidden. His hand slowly but surely built up speed and power, and it had been two weeks, so it stung. But I barely registered it. I lay still. 

He'd thoroughly covered my bottom and sit spots, and I was absorbing it with barely a whimper. Then, unexpectedly, he slapped my mid-thigh. Completely unprepared, I jerked up and screamed, before I clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle it. It was the first real reaction he'd gotten.

"Maybe I need to do a little more of this," he said, slapping the other thigh. "Maybe then you'll remember who I am, who we are, and you'll come back to me."

No implements this time; he just used his hand. It was all he needed. He struck my thighs repeatedly; nowhere near as hard as on my bottom, of course, but enough to make me thrash around and moan. I twisted my feet together so roughly, my left foot seized up in a horrible cramp and I couldn't straighten it. "Cramp," I gasped. "Where?" "Left foot." He stopped immediately, took my foot into his hands and massaged the arch until I was able to straighten my foot and relax. And then he started up again.

"Grit your teeth, honey," he said softly, just before assailing my thighs again. I screamed into my pillow. "I know that really hurts. I'm sorry. But it has to be done."

I knew it did. He was breaking down the wall. He alternated the slaps between the extra hard ones on my bottom and the medium ones on my legs, and I started to cry, really cry this time, with passion and pain and feeling. "Do you remember now, Erica? Are you back with me?" 

I was.

He held me close for a long time afterward, while I covered his t-shirt with tears. Now, instead of passively accepting his embrace, I gripped him as tightly as I could. 

We did not take any pictures or video. However, about three hours after he'd gone, I took a couple. First, I was amazed at how much color had remained, long after the scene:

And second, I wanted to capture my face, right at that moment. No makeup, eyes swollen, expression tired... but soft. At peace. My head was quiet, my insides felt clean and clear. I altered it to black and white, to signify the simplicity. I hope you can see what I meant for you to see... this photo may look sad, but I was actually in a good place.

To everyone who commented, who sent PMs, thank you. It's risky, sharing this personal pain publicly. But it's how I reach out. And to those who suffer from depression, I want them to know that it does pass. It's difficult to work through when it's happening, but it passes, and you come out of the tunnel and see light again.

Friends help. Partners help. And for those of us with that particular proclivity, tops help. ♥ ♥ ♥

Oh, and the famine has become feast. I'm currently working on one project with three others waiting for me. So yay. :-)