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Go on.... shoo!

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Goodbye, 2014

So, let's review, shall we?

In the past two weeks, we had two family deaths, two days apart. John and I are now both sick, so that's two colds. We've had to deal with his two sisters behaving like animals. And, due to the stress of it all, we've had two arguments.

Is it safe to say that the end of 2014 has been a great big pile of Number Two???


I am going to his house tonight, where we'll have a quiet night in. He's sick as hell right now (I'm getting over mine), so no festivities, except for some champagne. But it's OK. We'll be together. 

I was able to see Steve for a bit of stress relief yesterday, but only for a short while, because he had work obligations. We didn't play long, but we played hard. I didn't weep while he was here, but I broke down after he left. I wish he could have stayed longer. I needed his strength.

We didn't take any photos, and we didn't last week, either. I miss that. When this whole mess is over, we want to get back to fun scenes and lots of pictures. But yesterday, I was in a melancholy yet hopeful mood, and I wanted to try to capture that in a picture by myself.

So, here I am at the end of 2014. Things seem very bleak and colorless right now, and I feel beaten down and vulnerable. But I keep telling myself this all will pass, and some vibrancy and color will come back into my days soon. I am curled up and have gone within, withdrawn into shadow... but with the cheeriness of the flowers Steve brought for me providing a small, bright beacon.

Readers, friends, wishing you all the best for 2015. Be safe tonight, whatever you're doing. 

Monday, December 29, 2014

The good, the bad, and the @#$%ing insane

I've been quiet for a few days; haven't had much to say, really. Christmas came and went, I had a cold, things were quiet. I'm feeling a bit better and am heading back to the gym this morning for the first time in a week. Planning on seeing Steve tomorrow. All good stuff.

I could write for the next hour about what went down in the past four days, but I'll encapsulate the "bad and the @#$%ing insane" into two words: John's sisters.

The madness that I predicted over the tangible goods in John's mother's estate erupted in a big way this week, with a series of events and fights that were ugly and melodramatic. I can't go into the details, because once I do, it will spiral into a bigger and bigger mess of details, and I really don't want to do that here. Suffice it to say that it's come down to a sharp and deep chasm, with John's sisters, his brother-in-law, and his niece and her husband on one side, and John, his brother and sister-in-law on the other. 

It's as if removing the mother from the picture, took away the last bastion of pseudo-civility with this family; specifically, the sisters. Now it's become a free-for-all and all the hostilities are out in the open. As well as the greed and the selfishness. True colors were seen, and cannot be unseen.

"Family" should be a four-letter word.

Who knows... maybe this will all blow over, and they'll go back to pretending. But I think John's eyes have been forever forced open. And if anything good can come of this mess, it will be that we can finally be rid of his sisters, and he will grow closer with his brother and sis-in-law, who have turned out to be the only other sane ones in the bunch. After 18 1/2 years of my putting up with the whole effed-up bunch, it would be sweet relief to finally have it pared down to one manageable couple.

Poor John. However, don't feel too bad. Underneath all the stress and pain, I do believe he's feeling a sense of relief. He told me at one point this weekend: "I feel like I'm just starting to wake up from a nightmare." And on Saturday night, for the first time in I don't know how long, he slept straight through the night. 

And last night on the phone, in the midst of the insanity, his brother told me that when it comes time for John's surgery, he and his wife will be there for us for support and whatever else we need. Far cry from John's eldest sister, who said, "I don't believe Johnny has a heart condition. He's making it up."

Fucking bitch.

Anyway. I hope to get back to some fun soon, kids. It's been a really messed-up couple of weeks. I hope to have some fun on-topic stuff soon. But in the meantime, thanks for sticking around. For everyone whose holiday season wasn't all sugarplums, hang in there. And for those who did have fun, who were with loved ones who treated you well, awesome. Because life really is too short to waste even a minute with people who suck the very marrow out of your bones.

Thursday, December 25, 2014

So, this is Christmas...

... and what have I done? Not a blessed thing. I have been felled with a cold. It started on Tuesday night and was in full bloom by yesterday. So today, as I did yesterday, I'm going to burrow in blankets, cough and sneeze, watch a lot of TV and be very quiet. Which is exactly what I wanted to do anyway (minus the coughing and sneezing part). I will probably push myself out the door to make a quick run to the pharmacy; last night when I dug through the bathroom drawer to find nasal spray, I discovered that mine had expired in 2012.

And guess what? Sure enough, John did receive a last-minute invitation (yesterday) for Xmas dinner with his family tonight. Big of them. Too bad, so sad, I'm too sick to join him. :-)

Things have settled down a bit after all the upheaval last week. My stepsister was driving me nuts, calling me once or twice every day, but now she hasn't called for the past two and I'm relieved. My stepdad had a will, and she said that I'm in it (which surprises me, considering I'm not his child, but that's the kind of guy he was) but I doubt he had much of anything left after all the years of my mother's care and then his own. It's OK. As for John's mother, that will be a lot more complicated, what with all her stuff and the money and so forth. I guess there will be a memorial sometime soon, but we'll deal with that when it happens. 

Before I got sick, I got to see Steve for some much-needed stress release. Even though I'd apologetically told him that I wasn't doing gifts this year, he still showed up with some chocolate cake and a gift card for Target. On the card, he'd written "To: TBBITW  From: YLT." Can you figure out what that means? It took me less than a minute. We had a wonderful session and he held me for a long time afterward. I crave the nurturing as much as the spanking, maybe even more so now. Then again, for me, spanking is part of the nurturing. Perverse creature that I am.

Oh, and another gift this week. After nine weeks of my right eyebrow being completely frozen, I have movement!! Not a whole lot, and nowhere near as much mobility as the left one, but it's coming back. What a relief! My doctor had told me repeatedly that it would come back eventually, that nerves take a long time to regenerate, and I believed him... but it was still unnerving, having a part of my face that didn't move. So now I really do feel like I'm on the road to recovery. The sides of my face and my ears are still semi-numb, but they also hurt, if that makes any sense. There's still a lot of healing going on. But I am so, so much better, my smile is fully back, and I no longer feel like the bride of Frankenstein. :-) Last night, John sang to me on the phone: "On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Two working eyebrows!" Hey, I'll take those over the freaking turtledoves. What the hell is a turtledove, anyway? A dove that flies really, really slowly?

This year, Spank Chief John Osbourne took over the annual spanking awards that The Spanking Spot used to do. I had been nominated for best Creative Blogger, but because of everything that was going on with me, I didn't bother posting about it. I never win these things, nor do I expect to. Being nominated feels nice, though. Yesterday, he put up the first results with three of the categories. In Creative Blog, Alex won first place! :-) Second place was Pandora, another great choice. And third place? Yours truly. I couldn't be happier, honestly. It's lovely to be in such good company.

I don't know how long I will be cooped up here, because I don't want to expose John to my cold, so I may have to forego heading there tomorrow night. He is in such a weakened condition right now, and any illness, even a cold, would knock him down hard. But hopefully, we can have some fun soon. Meanwhile, I'm reflecting on friends and loved ones, and hoping everyone is enjoying their holiday, whatever they may be doing.

I don't have a current photo for you, so here's a festive one from last year. :-)

Thank you to everyone who reached out to me this past week. I wish you happy times and peace. Be good to one another. ♥

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Just when I thought I couldn't hate the upcoming "Fifty Shades" film more...

... I read an article about Jamie Dornan (Christian Grey) on

(Yes, this is a rant. But that's a good thing. If I'm pissed off, that means I'm feeling something again. I'll take righteous indignation over the depths of depression any day.)

According to this article, Dornan did an interview for Elle UK magazine, for the upcoming February issue. In it, he talked about how he "researched" for his role by visiting a BDSM dungeon. The way he talked about the experience made it sound like he had done something extremely distasteful. And he topped it off by saying that afterward, he went home to his wife and baby, and that he had to take a long shower before he would touch either one of them.

So, our culture made you feel unclean, Jamie? Fuck. You.

I wonder if, now that the piece of dreck's release is imminent, this is a last-ditch attempt to distance himself from the role. ("I'm not one of those people, really!") Interesting. He's too good to hang out in a dungeon without having to go home and de-louse himself, but he can still play the sickest of sick fucks and take a heap of money for it. What a hypocrite.

Twitter buzzed a bit about this today. I tweeted, "HE NEEDED A SHOWER??" Yeah, all caps shout-speak. And Jillian Keenan herself tweeted back to me, "We have cooties, Erica. COOTIES." Then she tweeted directly to Dornan himself: "You've hurt our feelings, @JamieDornan."

Oooh, Mr. Big Shot himself is on Twitter? I couldn't resist my own tweet to him. He'd mentioned in the article that when he got there, they offered him a beer. So I tweeted: "'They offered me a beer.' Sure it was beer, Jamie? You know how twisted and disgusting we are. :-)"

What a little piss-ant. Please, people. If you have any regard for our community whatsoever, boycott this film. Granted, it's going to make gazillions of dollars anyway. But it shouldn't make any money from us -- The Great Unwashed Sickies. The real people behind the exploitation books and movies.

Wanna read the Jezebel piece? Here you go.

Blech. Now I need a shower.

EDIT: By the way, since I've been kind of out of it for the past week, this may very well be old news that people already wrote about. If so, my apologies for the redundancy.

Sunday, December 21, 2014

Not the best of weeks

Last Wednesday afternoon, my stepfather passed away. That same night, John's mother went into the hospital with a pulmonary embolism. In layman's terms, that's a blood clot in the lung. She died Friday morning. The two of them, less than 48 hours apart. The week before Christmas.

Ho ho ho.

It's difficult enough dealing with this sort of thing any other time of the year. But during the holidays, it's almost grotesque. The grief, juxtaposed with endless streams of Christmas carols, decorations, holiday ads and specials and Madison-Avenue cheer, seems to have nowhere to go; it doesn't belong. So you bury it within, because you don't want to rain on everyone's parade, put a damper on their festivities. And because everyone seems to have their own brand of holiday stress, so you don't want to add to it.

John and I took care of each other this weekend. Aside from his sister on Saturday, when we went to her little restaurant for lunch, we didn't see any of his family. I suppose some sort of memorial will be ahead, along with the inevitable battles over inheritances and what to do with his mother's antiques, her Waterford crystal, her old-fashioned grandfather clock. I really don't care about any of this, other than that I don't want it to be stressful for John. And I hope he gets his just share and proper acknowledgment. He was the only one of his siblings who gave money and things to his parents after he was grown, instead of taking them. He went to visit his mother and take her to lunch nearly every single weekend for the past 9 1/2 years, since she was widowed. I went with him for seven of those years, until my own mother died and I couldn't take it anymore.

My stepfather will be cremated and scattered at sea, as fishing was one of his life's loves. There will be no memorial, as far as I know. 

I just want to sleep for a while. Like two weeks. I have no work, and probably won't until after the holidays. I wish I could go away somewhere, with a laptop, a TV and a ton of books, and be left alone, except to be brought meals and maybe get a few massages. And sleep. 

And while I'm in wishing mode, I'd like to wave my hand and have John's heart valve replaced, his sleep apnea cured, and his energy and vitality restored. Then we could face anything together. 

But for now, all I can do is my best, one day at a time. It could be a lot worse, in so many ways. I just have to move through.

I don't like thinking about a world without my stepdad in it. He was a very good man, one I didn't always appreciate. I didn't want any part of him for a long time when I was a kid, because he wasn't my father. But he was the best thing that ever happened to my mother, all the way to the end, through all her terrible years of dementia, when a lesser man would have walked away. He was funny, good-natured, smart, and well liked by everyone. Unfortunately, he outlived his wife and all his friends, and ended up mostly alone. 

Still, he had good times. He had hobbies he loved; he adored his fishing, his music, travel, sports. He saw much of the world, had many adventures. He had a career that paid him a good pension and took care of him in his later years. He laughed a lot, and made others laugh, with his dry wit and his spot-on delivery of jokes and one-liners. I will miss his twinkling look at me and his deadpan, "So, do you think you'll ever amount to anything, Erica?"

I did amount to something, M. Just not exactly what you and Mom had in mind. :-) It's best that you never found out.

Anyway. Onward. Watching The Sound of Music, which I've always loved. Although I could have done without reading about how much Christopher Plummer (Captain Von Trapp) actually hated the movie, called it "The Sound of Mucus" and said working with Julie Andrews was like being hit over the head with a Valentine's Day card every day. (sigh)

Hope everyone had a good weekend. 

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Once bitten, twice... bitten

What is it about spankers who like to bite their bottom's bottoms?

Apparently, this is a thing. At least with the men in my life. 

John has always liked biting me on the butt. He says it's irresistible. When he helps dry me off after a shower (not that I can't dry myself off, you understand, but it's more fun his way), he'll suddenly lean in and bite one of my cheeks. And then, because he's OCD, he has to do the other one. He calls these "bun bites." Clearly he has me confused with a Big Mac. (Or a McVeggie burger, in his case.)

Steve is also fond of biting on my butt during a spanking. He says the bright red cheeks are just too inviting. I wouldn't know, since I can't see them. But I was wondering how many bun-biters there are out there.

I'm normally not a fan of being bitten. Light nibbling, yes. Hard sucking that raises hickeys, yes. However, the sensation of teeth sinking in me hard enough to leave bite marks doesn't turn me on.

Except when I'm in that zone, when my bottom is aflame, when all the nerve endings are hypersensitive, when pain commingles with pleasure. Then, that slow, slow bite, increasing the pressure incrementally until it's almost unbearable, is delicious.

Here I am in anticipatory mode, with an almost pristine canvas:

And of course, the "I am @#$%ing DONE" mode:

However, in the above shot, you can't see Steve's dental artwork.

Of course, he chose the more tender spots closer to the center. Beast.

As usual, these pictures don't do the redness justice. But trust me, it was there.

I needed intensity yesterday, after last weekend. So much pent-up tension had to be released, and it was. And yes, afterward, I had a mini-session with my little purple rocket while he quietly watched. Damn near screamed the walls down, as it went on and on. 

I wish people wouldn't drink and use drugs as escape. There are much healthier and lovelier ways to escape from life's trials for a little while.

So, bottoms, a word of caution: Be careful about to whom you say "Bite me." They just might.

Monday, December 15, 2014

Christmas carol parody 2014

OK, so I changed my mind. The parody muse made an appearance after all, and I really needed a humorous distraction.

So this year's selection is based on "Do You Hear What I Hear?" Here is the real song, with the real lyrics, for reference:

And now, my version, which takes place at a spanking party.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Said the spanko to the little brat,
Do you see what I see?
Way across the room, little brat,
Do you see what I see?
Some tears, a rear, gathering some heat
With a tail as red as a beet,
With a tail as red as a beet

Said the little brat to the Toppy Boy,
Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing in our ears, Toppy Boy
Do you hear what I hear?
A groan, a moan, as the paddles fall
With a thud we hear down the hall,
With a thud we hear down the hall

Said the Toppy Boy to the Mighty Dom,
Do you know what I know?
In your living room, Mighty Dom,
Do you know what I know?
Your guests, your guests, wait to have their turn
Let us spank their bums till they burn,
Let us spank their bums till they burn

Said the Dom to bottoms everywhere,
Listen to what I say!
Panties down, bottoms everywhere!
Listen to what I say!
The cane, the cane, swishing through the air
It will sting, so sass if you dare,
It will sting, so sass if you daaaaaare!

Thank you, thank you very much. You may now resume your shopping and your other holiday aggravations. 

Sunday, December 14, 2014

OT: Sad times

Last week, I heard from my stepsister (my stepfather M's daughter). I have not seen her or talked with her in over 20 years -- we never got along all that well. She told me that M had fallen at his assisted-living facility and broken his hip, and he was in a rehab center. That he was probably near the end.

He's 96, and has been deteriorating steadily for the past couple of years. The news did not surprise me, but it's still sad.

I think M had a purpose in his life when my mother was still alive and suffering from dementia. He went to see her every day and was so completely devoted to her. After she died in 2012, he began to slowly decline.

His eyesight started failing, and he was no longer able to drive, which completely removed his independence. He couldn't do any of his hobbies anymore, like fishing and golfing. He couldn't even read, which he loved to do. Even the littlest pleasures were taken from him: he used to love soaking in a hot bath, but when he could no longer get himself out of the tub, the baths had to stop. Most of his friends had passed and his life narrowed into the hours between sleep spent sitting in his room watching TV.

He had to remind himself to eat, because he had no appetite. His once tall and robust body shrunk into bones, his flesh hanging from them.

Why do people have to go on this way? What kind of life is this? When I called him and asked how he was, his answer was always a sigh and "Well, I'm still here." But he never complained. He was miserable, but he still made his usual jokes and faces and tried to be brave. 

After I heard from his daughter, John and I went to the rehab center yesterday to see him. The drive was horrible; we were in traffic all the way, the setting sun glaring in my eyes, and when we finally got off the freeway, I discovered that the Mapquest directions had been incorrect and we got lost. My phone, which is older, kept screwing up when I tried the Navigation, giving me directions to go to "2445 2nd Street" when I asked for "24452 Xxxxxx Drive." John's phone finally got us there, but nothing prepared me for how bad M would look.

He lay in the bed, his feet sticking out the bottom, his hair wild around his head. We greeted him, and he just stared at us. His arms twitched and trembled. The nurse was feeding him his dinner, wiping his mouth when he slobbered the food. She asked me if I'd like to feed him. I said no. There's no way I could handle that.

We sat by his bed, and I tried not to look at his toenails, which I'll have nightmares about for the rest of my life, I think. He didn't interact with us for about 45 minutes, but then he started mumbling things, trying to talk to us, but we couldn't understand a lot of what he was trying to say. One thing we did comprehend was when he kept grabbing at the bars on the bed and muttering, "Wanna get out of here." He kept thrusting his legs to the side of the bed, like he was trying to swing them off. Poor thing. John moved his legs back and we both kept telling him, "No, you can't go home now. You have to rest, and get better, and then you can leave, OK?" But he won't be leaving. He's 96, for Christ's sake. He is stubborn, but his body is saying enough already.

The doctor wouldn't tell me anything, because I'm not blood family. So we hung out for an hour and a half, just being with him. Even got a tiny smile out of him toward the end. He still kept grabbing at the bars, so I gently disengaged his fingers and held his hand, which still had a pretty decent grip. Then I kissed the top of his head, said I loved him, and we left. I managed to get out of the hospital before I started to cry.

Fortunately, there was no traffic on the drive back. It was after eight, and we both needed to eat. I was glad John came with me. I don't think I could have stood it by myself. I'm so done with all this... first my dad, then my mother, and now my stepfather. John is still dealing with it, with his mother, whom he visits every single week without fail, but I no longer go with him. I still will have to deal with my stepmother's passing eventually, but I know she will not allow herself to linger for years with illness or dementia. She has already told me that she has plans and orders in place, if her health starts to deteriorate, to move her to Oregon or Washington, where euthanasia is allowed. "I will not be a burden to my loved ones," she said flatly and emphatically. I get it. I will feel the same way.

What a backward country we live in, one in which only five states out of fifty allow a person to legally die with dignity. Where we kindly put our pets out of their pain, but force our humans to go on and on and on, suffering with the indignities and illnesses of age, of existence without a shred of quality. And please, please don't tell me that it's God's will. It's OK if you believe that, but I do not, and I really don't want to hear it.

Anyway. Now we wait. I spoke to his daughter again tonight, and she promised to keep me posted. All of a sudden she's acting like I'm her best friend, which I don't trust at all. She's always been kind of crazy. But I will be civil.

Enough. All this crying is making my face hurt. Sorry for the unloading.

Friday, December 12, 2014

Gibberish and a bit of rehash

Last week, Pandora had posted a link to where we could lodge a complaint to the ATVOD about the new UK restrictions on what can and can't be filmed. I would link you to that blog, but unfortunately, it seems to be down right now. Anyway, I am hoping lots of people bombed them with complaints. I did, and earlier this week, I received this reply. I'm sure you'll agree with me that it's a bunch of buck-passing gibberish.

Thank you for sharing your concerns about the AVMS Regulations 2014 which amend the Communications Act 2013.

As a regulator, ATVOD’s role is to enforce rules set by Parliament. ATVOD has no power to repeal legislation, and concerns regarding legislation are best raised with the relevant Government department (the Department for Culture Media and Sport) or with your MP.

In the meantime, I should point out that the new regulations prohibit on a UK VOD service material which would be prohibited on a UK DVD, and require ATVOD to have regard to BBFC guidelines when considering whether that test has been met.  Some of the acts you describe feature in guidance issued by the Crown Prosecution Service in a list of material most commonly prosecuted under the Obscene Publications Act and were therefore likely to be unlawful to distribute on a UK VOD service even before the new regulations came into force. Again, the test set out in the Obscene Publications Act is a matter for Parliament rather than ATVOD, and its application is a matter for law enforcement agencies, including the Crown Prosecution Service.  As material which is in breach of the Obscene Publications Act (or any other criminal law) would be refused a classification by the BBFC, providing such material on a UK VOD service is now also a breach of the Communications Act. We have worked with providers of UK VOD services to ensure that they understand the new rules and how they are likely to be applied.

I can assure you that when applying those rules for UK VOD services, ATVOD takes an even handed approach. For example, potentially harmful acts of breath restriction are treated the same regardless of the gender or sexuality of participants. We apply the statutory tests in an objective manner and do not make moral judgements about the nature of any consensual sexual activity between adults.

Kind regards,

Xxxxx Xxxxx
Policy & Investigations Officer

No moral judgments? Puh-lease. So what does this mean, exactly? Who are we supposed to contact, then? Freaking Parliament? In case you were wondering, BBFC stands for British Board of Film Classification. Glad I looked that up. I thought it meant Big Bad Fucking Censorship.

I forwarded this to Pandora, who said she received something similar, and she was going to craft a no-nonsense reply. I hope she'll post her follow-up.

So much for the gibberish, now the rehash. Usually at this time of year, I like to craft a spanking parody of a Christmas carol. However, this year, due to various distractions, the creative muse has been elusive. Therefore, for those who haven't seen the previous parodies (or those who have, but would enjoy seeing them again), here are the links to the past three:

2013: Let It Snow

2012: Jingle Bell Rock

2011: O Christmas Tree

And since I haven't been keeping up with my usual holiday bitching, may I just say that if I see any of those damned Target commercials again, I just might throw a brick through my TV screen? To make it even worse, they show them in pairs: one will air, then a couple of other commercials, and then another Target ad airs. And always with some sort of riff on "It's a Marshmallow World." I think someone in their advertising department has a marshmallow brain. I've taken to grabbing the remote and hitting "Mute" whenever they come on.

Just 13 more days of this crap. Bah humbug.

Have a great weekend, y'all.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Much better, thank you

Steve was recovered enough to visit yesterday. I was feeling that need -- you know the one I mean. Craving attention, affection, good pain, a shakeup of my emotions. Feeling kind of blech lately... a combination of holiday blech, worries over John, the ongoing recovery, and it doesn't help that work is slow either. Too much time to think, which is not good for the Negative Nellies among us (raising hand).

So my body was practically thrumming to assume the position so near and dear yesterday. Finally, I can do it, if I rest my head on a big cushy pillow. It's a little uncomfortable on my face, but in a couple of minutes, I wasn't thinking about my face anyway.

That spanking was like nourishment yesterday -- my body and soul drank it in, absorbing, greedily wanting more, limbs twitching and spasming. It didn't take long before the tears came. The good kind, the kind that wash away all the tension and the nattering and the emotional clutter. 

But of course, we weren't done. There was still Round Two. We moved to the ottoman, but first, he wanted to take some pictures. I was impatient to get on with it, as you can see by my face here:

He used the heart-shaped paddle for a while, which was challenging, as I'm still not up to par with my tolerance. At one point, I forgot that we were on the floor, not on the bed, and I pounded my fist, hard. @#$%&!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Damn near broke my hand! Didn't get any sympathy from him, of course.

Steve takes some very bizarre pictures sometimes. I'm not sure what his motivation is. For example, what's this one about? Perhaps he was trying to show me I needn't have worried during those first three weeks when my hair was falling out like crazy. I certainly seem to have plenty left.

And then there was the moment when I accidentally rolled off the ottoman into a heap on the floor, and lay there laughing. He took several shots of that, which I deleted because I thought they looked goofy. However, this one is interesting in that you can't tell whether or not I'm wearing underwear. Can you?

Anyway, a good time was had by all. And afterward (Steve no doubt due to his lingering illness aftereffects, and me due to emotional release), we both fell sound asleep.

I ♥ this hand. I ♥ my top.

Friday, December 5, 2014


Here's the latest: me after six weeks. Again, a poor quality selfie, but you get the idea.

My smile seems to have returned. Reality check: This was just two weeks ago. What a difference! 

Still have a frozen right eyebrow and the red marks on my neck. However, am learning more and more about just how long it takes for complete healing. Nerves are tricky things. Still lots of numbness and discomfort, but I'm out and about now and back to the gym. Now, if Steve would just get well (poor thing has a horrible bacterial infection that has him sicker than a dog), I can get my spank on! Damn, do I need it.

OK, outta here for real now.

UK: It certainly doesn't stand for "unlimited kink"

So I would imagine pretty much everyone in the spanko world heard about this week's new laws in the UK regarding restrictions in filming porn. Spanking and other related acts? No longer allowed. Which of course has a devastating effect on our friends producing video in the UK.

There is a ton of information about this situation out there, and also a whole lot of misinformation. For some thoroughly educational reads, I urge you to check out Alex's post here, and also three posts from Pandora Blake, herehere and here. In Pandora's posts, you'll find a petition that UK residents can sign, and a place where all other regions can file a complaint. 

It's disheartening, really. A huge step backwards, and a reminder of how much ignorance and narrow-mindedness we're up against. 

Yesterday, I was tweeting back and forth briefly with Pandora, protesting the new laws, and then some guy chimed in out of nowhere: "Its [sic] a great law. You broads should get decent honourable [sic] jobs."

I know better, kids. I really do. I know not to engage with fucktards like this. But I was in a mood. And you know how I am when I'm a mood.

So I tweeted back: "And you assholes can keep your opinions to yourselves."

Which then thrust me headlong into a cyber cesspool. He started bombarding us with tweets about "web cam tramps" who "spend half the day sucking cock" and how we have no morals, etc. Then it got personal. He pulled up one of my pictures (my face) and started insulting it.

As if that weren't enough, one of his cronies joined in. Reposted my face and tweeted: "Jesus Christ, is there really a market for granny porn?" The two of them proceeded to have a bit of back and forth, saying how pathetic and sad I am, trying to break into the "whore trade" at 60, and how I should be playing with my grandkids instead of trying to fuck them.

After I had a good cry, because I was just so fucking hurt and disgusted, I blocked and reported them both to Twitter. But it's my own fault. I never, ever should have replied to that first idiot. However, I have to admit that I'm proud of this tweet:

"You broads should get decent honourable jobs." Perhaps I should have been a scientist, studying how to ensure that jackasses don't breed.

Soooo... this is the kind of shit we're up against, kids. Some people really suck. However, I know the UK producers are not going to roll over for this. They will fight back. And they will have our support all the way.

(sigh) Think it's time to step back and go be with my love. Have a great weekend, y'all.

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Spanking History Rewritten

Last night, I was out with my girls Alex and SpankCake, and we had our usual five-hour extravaganza of food, chat and laughs. Later in the evening, after the banana split and the strawberry shortcake (Alex: "We're having fruit desserts! We're healthy!"), we got to talking about past spanko crushes, the occasional spanking threats we'd received in younger years, etc. and I talked about my most memorable missed opportunity with a co-worker, many years ago. In fact, I wrote a story about that incident. I called it "Spanking History Rewritten," and in the first portion, I described what actually happened. Then in the second, I went into great detail about an alternate ending I imagined.

I published this in my "Naughty Girls" anthology back in 2007. However, for those who haven't read that, I thought it would be fun to share here. Especially for Alex and SC, since both their eyes went wide when I described it. :-D

I wonder whatever became of Mike. 

Spanking History Rewritten

When I was in college, I had a part-time job in a discount hardware store, mostly cashiering and some paperwork and stocking. I was there for about three years, and worked with a lot of high-school and college-age kids—mostly male. So there was a fair share of banter and teasing and flirting, and yes, there were even a few spanking threats. Of course, back then, I was so completely closeted, I didn’t have a clue as to how to react to them.
There was Armand, who, on a busy Sunday, was beleaguered by a customer I sent his way because I didn’t know the answers to her many questions, and I had said, “Oh, uh, let me get a floor person for you.  Armand?” When he was finally done with her, he stormed up to the counter, stuck his finger in my face, dropped his voice low and said, “If you ever stick me with someone like that again, I’ll paddle that pretty behind of yours.” As I recall, I was quite speechless, and probably blushing and grinning like an idiot. Fortunately, he was too aggravated to notice and comment, and he stomped off in a huff.
Then there was Bobby. Blond, burly and handsome Bobby, who flirted with all the girls. One night, one of the other cashiers (female) and I were play-bickering with each other, and Bobby, as he passed the counter, yelled out, “Hey, cut it out, you two, or I’ll spank you both.” Then he looked back over his shoulder, caught me staring at him, grinned at me and threw back, “You’d love it.” I was mortified. The look on my face must have been a dead giveaway.
Oh, and let’s not forget Loren. Loren, our daytime manager, older than the rest of us—twenty-five. Very chauvinistic, bossy, and yet kind of sexy. One afternoon, he was sitting at one of the desks behind the counter, and I was taking inventory. I had to get to some shelves behind his desk to count up the contents, so I squatted down on my heels right behind his chair and busied myself counting boxes of nuts and bolts. Without a word, he swung his hand back and gave me a hard, very loud whack square on the bottom. I jumped, almost went face first into the shelves, and gasped. Without even looking up from his papers, he said, “You needed that.” “Oh?  I did?” I sputtered. Before he could answer, our supervisor, sitting at another desk, called out, “Erica, are you abusing Loren again?” “Me??” I blurted. “Who hit whom?” And then Loren broke in with, “And who loved it?” Good grief—was I that obvious? Did I have “spank me, I’d love it” emblazoned on my forehead? And this was years and years before I ever experienced the real thing.
But the biggest standout in my memories is Mike. Mike…one of the youngest guys there, sixteen years old. Cute, cocky, playful, with a mop of tousled hair, faded jeans and ripped t-shirts, bulging biceps and a crooked smile. I thought he was kind of cute, but I didn’t want anyone to know that, since he was sixteen to my nineteen, so I teased him relentlessly, calling him Boy. He called me Girl, but it didn’t have the same insult value.
One very busy afternoon, with a store full of customers and a long, long line stretching out from the counter, I was busy ringing up orders, and Mike was one of the floor workers, so he was harried. Behind the counter, we had shelves with a lot of odds and ends, and I guess he needed something from one of the boxes of paraphernalia. He came storming behind the counter, obviously irritated, and ducked down by the shelves, shuffling around, making a lot of noise. I said, “Hey, hold it down, Boy, we’re trying to work here.” He just grumbled at me to shut up or something and went on scrambling. Then he did it…he knocked over an open box of nails, and they all went clattering to the floor. I burst out laughing, and said, “Way to go, Ace!” The customers and the other cashier laughed too. Mike then sat back on his heels, looked straight at me and snapped, “HEY!! Do you want me to take you over my knee?”
I felt like someone had punched me right in the stomach. I was rendered completely speechless, and in that moment, as he glared at me, I felt the heat flood up from my chest, up over my neck and into my face. Before I could stammer out any kind of answer, one of the customers snickered, “Hey, look at her—you got her all excited!” Then, of course, everyone laughed at me. I thought I was going to die, right there. I ducked my head and busied myself with taking money and making change, but my heart was pounding. Mike cleaned up the nails without another word, and stomped off to do his work. I didn’t see him for the rest of the afternoon, but I sure as hell thought about him.
At 8:00, we closed. The other cashier left, and I was alone at the counter, putting things away and straightening up. Steve, our supervisor, went out into the back of the store to lock things up, and Mike sauntered over and came behind the counter, watching me. He sat on the edge of my desk, and as I started to pass him, he grabbed my arm. “What are you doing, Boy?” I snapped. “It’s after 8:00,” he said, pulling at me, “and you’re going over my knee, Girl.”  Oh God…no way. Not here. No. This couldn’t happen to me. Sure, it was exciting, sure, I would have loved it, but my fear and embarrassment overcame my excitement, and instinctively, I yanked my arm away and said, “No!” In the stories, he would have insisted. In the stories, he would have overridden my protests, and over I’d go. But this wasn’t a story, and despite his youth, he was smart enough to know better than to push things. So he just laughed, shook his head and went about his business. Nothing ever happened between us after that. He didn’t work there much longer…the turnover in that store was high.
All of the above is true, and I had to wait another nineteen years to get my first spanking.
But what if he hadn’t let me go…

* * *

“Come on, guys, hurry up,” Steve said. “I have to lock up and get out of here; I have a date.”
“Hey, man,” Mike said to him. “Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll close up.” Steve looked at him doubtfully. “Can’t do that, Mike, but thanks…you don’t know the procedure, and I can’t leave you the keys.”
“Come on,” Mike insisted. “I closed two weeks ago, remember? When you went home sick? Just leave me the keys and I’ll give ‘em back to you tomorrow—I’m coming in same time as you.”
Steve thought for a minute, then said, “OK, you’re right. Thanks, man.” He tossed Mike the keys and left. Probably wasn’t the most responsible thing to do, but he had other things on his mind.
As I took care of things at the register, Mike sauntered behind the counter and sat at the edge of the desk, watching me. I ignored him, and then turned away from the register to go put the money away. As I tried to pass him, he grabbed my arm. “What are you doing, Boy?” I snapped.
“It’s after 8:00,” he said, pulling my arm, “and you’re going over my knee, Girl.”
“Are you out of your mind?” I cried, trying to pull out of his grasp. He was strong, and tightened his grip on my forearm. “Yeah, I guess I am, Girl,” he drawled. “But you have this coming and you know it. Get over here.” He grabbed my other arm, pulled me closer, then down across his legs. I tried to get up, but he pinned me in place with one arm. I felt the blood rush to my head as it dangled toward the floor. “Let me up, dammit!” I shrieked. “OW!  Hey!”  He was spanking me, over my tight jeans. “Stop it! That hurts!”
“Good!” he said calmly, continuing with the smacks, alternating cheeks. “You deserve it. Making fun of me in front of customers. Calling me Boy. Think you’re funny, don’t you?” “YES!” I yelled, thrashing around to no avail. “As a matter of fact, I do!”
“Well, I’ll agree with you there, darlin’,” he replied, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. “Because you’re looking mighty funny right about now!” Arrrgghhh!! In helpless anger, I punched his leg with my right fist, but soon regretted that, as the blows got much harder and faster. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. But it was about to get worse.
The spanking stopped, and I heard him say, “Stand up.” OK, that wasn’t so bad, I guess. Flustered and red-faced, I stood up, glared at him and said, “Is that it? Feel like a big man now?” “Nope, not yet,” he said, not getting up. “Take those jeans down.”
Whaaaaaaaaaat??” I blurted, not believing what I just heard. “You heard me, Girl,” he answered. I tried to move away from him, but he grabbed my arm again. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you. You just might forget to put the money away, and Steve will see that tomorrow morning.”
“Oh…” I spluttered, furious and frightened at the same time. “You wouldn’t!” “Yup, I sure would,” he said, smiling at me. I wanted to slap him silly and then run, and yet, I couldn’t move. My feet stayed planted where they were. And as he continued to stare at me with a half-smile on his face, I slowly unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans, and pushed them down, my face burning with humiliation. At least I had decent panties on—plain light blue cotton bikinis. “Nice,” he said, and pulled me back down. “Very, very nice.”
If I thought his hand hurt before, it was nothing compared to this. In all the years I’d imagined being spanked like this, I had no idea it could hurt so much. His hand cracked over and over against the thin cotton, and then he yanked the panties up to wedge into my cheeks and began spanking my bare flesh. I yelled, threatened, struggled, but he wouldn’t stop. How did this kid get to be so damned strong?
Finally, after what seemed like an hour, he stopped, and told me once again to stand up. This time, I was much shakier, and a lot quieter…somehow, somewhere along the way, the pain had changed, the lines of pain and pleasure had blurred, and my anger had given way to an entirely different emotion that I couldn’t define. But I didn’t get much of a chance to ponder on it.
“Panties down too,” he said. Oh no, oh no…surely he didn’t mean that. I shook my head, biting my lip and looking at him pleadingly, but he just looked at me, folded his arms and said, “What did I say, Girl?”  I wanted the earth to swallow me up then and there. Wordlessly, I pushed my panties down to my knees, to meet my jeans. “Now,” he said, “get on all fours.”
Now I was really scared. “What—what are you going to do to me?” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes. He just smiled, but it was a smile that somehow reassured me, that said he meant me no harm. “You’ll see,” he said. “Down you go.”
The warehouse floor felt cold and hard under my hands and knees as I knelt down, trembling from head to foot. He didn’t do anything at first, but I heard him moving, so I tentatively looked up over my shoulder—oh God. He was unbuckling his belt. “No!” I blurted. “No, no, Mike, please don’t!” “Hush,” he said, removing the belt from the loops and doubling it in his hand. Then, to my complete horror, I saw him reach for the box of nails—the very same one he’d knocked over earlier. In disbelief, I watched as he deliberately upturned the box and spilled the nails all over the floor around me. “Way to go, Ace,” he mimicked, then, “Pick them up,” he commanded.
OK, this was going too far. I snapped, “Go to hell! I will not,” and started to scramble to my feet. Crack!!!  I both felt and heard his belt as it came down hard across both cheeks. I shrieked, and dropped back onto all fours. “Yeah, you will,” he said. “Now.” I stayed in position, but somehow, I couldn’t move. He swung down again, and I felt searing pain once more, slightly below the first stroke. “Now.”
Tentatively, I reached out, picked up one nail and put it back in the box. I reached for another, and whaaaack! The belt snapped hard on my right cheek. “Faster!” Fearfully, I grabbed three more and tried to put them in the box, but my hand was shaking so much, I missed the box and they fell on the floor again. Whack! My left cheek this time. “Get a move on!”
I began desperately snatching at the nails, grabbing them up in handfuls, pricking my palms and fingers, slamming them back into the box, but he kept smacking me with the belt, relentlessly. “Hurry up!” he taunted. “The cash register is open! You have customers waiting! The line is piling up! Get those damned nails off the floor, now!” When I leaned forward to gather some that had rolled away, the belt caught me right below the curve of my bottom, on the upper thighs, and I had to stifle a scream. Tears blurred my vision, my hands grew filthy from the floor, but I couldn’t stop what I was doing for a second. “Make him stop, make him stop,” I prayed to myself, but my body betrayed my mind. Involuntarily, my back arched deeply, thrusting my backside up high to meet his blows. I felt wetness between my legs; I wondered if he could see it. He hit me again and again with the belt, until at long last, I had every last one of those goddamn miserable nails back in the box. “OK!” I gasped out. “That’s it! No more nails! Please, please…”
Wordlessly, he knelt down next to me and offered me his hand. I hesitated, then put my hand in his, and he helped me to my feet. I braced myself briefly against the counter, because my legs were trembling violently. He just stood there watching me, but I couldn’t look him in the eye. I brushed off my hands and my knees. My face burned with embarrassment as I reached down and slid my panties back up, and I winced as I pulled my jeans back on over them. No one could have ever prepared me for this kind of pain. And yet, despite the intensity of the discomfort, I was still aroused. I felt the dampness soak into my clothes, and I squirmed. My thumb stung, and I looked down at it. It was bleeding from a nail scratch.
He stepped up close to me, reaching out to push my hair off my face. “OK,” he said. “No more giving me a hard time?” I shook my head. “No more calling me Boy?” Again, I shook my head, scrubbing under my eyes with my fingers. “Not going to insult me in front of customers anymore?” “No,” I managed to croak out. He smirked.  “Good girl.” Pompous ass! I started to protest, but he put his hand over my mouth. “Hush up, Girl,” he said softly. “You talk too much.” Still with his hand in place, he reached out with his other hand and took mine, lifting it to his lips. Gently, he sucked my afflicted thumb. Then he took his hand off my mouth and gave me a hard, bruising, passionate kiss. My already shaky legs threatened to buckle, and I backed up against the counter. He pressed into me, hard, unyielding. I kissed back just as hard. Then he pulled away, and looked into my face. “What’re you thinking?” he asked. His voice was low, soft and sweet.
My voice barely above a whisper, I answered, “Um… I was thinking that…uhhh…our break room has a very comfortable couch.”
He grinned, that cute cocky half-smile.  “I like the way you think, Girl.”

Monday, December 1, 2014

Warning: Controversy ahead

Well, I did tell you that this was coming, right? After a couple of really frustrating weeks on FetLife, where the term "consent violation" was being hurled left and right and sideways, I couldn't stand it anymore. I tried posting my thoughts on some of the writings that I felt overused the term, but I just got flamed. So I figured, what the hell. I'll write my own rebuttal, and damn the torpedoes.

My point, in case I don't make that abundantly clear, is NOT to tell people they shouldn't be offended or upset by something. That is their feelings, and it would be invalidating to say otherwise. But there is one hell of a span of territory between simple offenses and what constitutes a violation of consent in our scene, and I feel like people are losing sight of that, to the detriment of those who suffer the real violations. So...

Cross posting this here for my readers as well. What do you guys think? (Sorry, I know the line spacing is very tight and it's hard to read. I couldn't seem to fix that when I copied it over from FL.)

Some Straight Talk on "Consent Violation"
I've been seeing that phrase a whole lot on here in the past couple of weeks. This will probably get me flamed, blamed, and shamed, but I felt the need to review just exactly what constitutes consent violation.
To the best of my knowledge and experience, there are three basic types of CV:
1. Stating a hard limit to a play partner and having said limit ignored. Example: A bottom specifies "no wood" before a spanking, but then the top picks up a wooden paddle midway through the scene.
2. Ignoring a safe word. There are a lot of gray areas in the kink scene, but one thing is crystal clear: You hear "red," "mercy," or any other designated safe word, and you stop what you're doing. Period. Continuing a scene after a safe word is uttered is a violation.
3. This last one is murkier than the other two, and it has a lot of variables and "it depends" and so forth, but basically: Agreeing on one type of play, and then seguing into something completely different within the scene without clearing it first. I'm not talking about a slight variance, like switching implements up during an impact play scene (unless a particular implement is a stated hard limit). I mean something like you're in the middle of a spanking scene, and the top suddenly whips out a plug of ginger. Not a good idea to assume that is OK, just because you're doing one sort of bottom play. Or, the ever-famous wandering fingers. Just because she's over your knee and you see a bit of dampness, doesn't mean you can take your hand off her bottom and stick it between her legs.
If I'm missing any more obvious and clear-cut types of violations, please let me know. However, riddle me this: Say, at a party, in a session, at a dungeon, or whatever your choice of kink hangout is, someone says or does something you don't care for. I'm not talking about a deliberately ignored limit or anything that egregious -- I'm talking about preferences, and how some people can be kind of rude, thoughtless, clueless, or presumptuous. Does it piss you off, offend you, annoy you? You bet, and that's your right.
However, is it a consent violation? Sorry. No, it is not. And it's really inappropriate to call it one. Because overusing that phrase minimizes/invalidates the real violations.
For example: say I'm at a spanking party, and I'm playing with someone I haven't played with before. We discuss basic limits and then proceed. All goes well until my panties come down and he says something like, "Ah, here's that naughty little tushy!"
It's a very common way to speak in the spanko world. It's innocuous. However, I hate, hate, hate being spoken to like I'm a small child. It skeeves me. So, while I fight the urge to hurl on his shoes, I would do one of two things. If I were fairly comfortable, I might blurt, "Ew! What am I, five? Please don't talk to me like that." Or I might simply make a mental note that I don't want to play with this person again. But am I going to holler consent violation? No! How the hell was he supposed to know that I hate that kind of talk? Unless I said so specifically, of course.
A lot of bottoms/subs like a bit of verbal degradation. Words like "slut," "whore" and the c-word turn them on. I don't like being called names like that. However, I've been called them a time or two (or three) during scenes with men who don't know that about me. Was it presumptuous of them to assume those kinds of words were OK? Yes. Was it a consent violation? No. Not if I didn't specifically say beforehand, "Don't call me [whatever]."
Recently, the topic of "brats" and how obnoxious we are (I say we, even though I don't like the term, because I do enjoy the banter and playfulness of a bit of bratting) came up on here. It was said that bratting is a consent violation. Say what???
Come on. OK, if it's really outrageous behavior, physical stuff like hitting, pinching, throwing messy food in a top's face, spraying Silly String all over his clothes, etc., then yes, that's a violation, especially if a brat does it to someone they don't know just to get a reaction or some attention. But that's not so much about brats, per se... that's more about people who are just plain fucking rude and have no sense of boundaries.
You don't like banter? You don't like a bit of sass, a little clever power exchange, some spice in your sub? Then don't play with people who do that. If a brat challenges you at a party and you don't like it, walk away. But don't go hollering consent violation.
Please don't get me wrong: I am not excusing or condoning any sort of inappropriate behavior. I'm saying call it what it is, and know what it isn't.
Wherever people are gathered, there will be those you don't like, or whose scene behavior doesn't mesh with your own. They will engage in acts that don't flip your switch, or use terms that are like nails on a blackboard for you. That Does. Not. Make. Them. Consent. Violators. Learn the difference.
Why is this important? Say I go to the Emergency Room, and when asked what my emergency was, I say, "I have a hangnail." They'd tell me that's not an emergency. I then say, "But it hurts!" "Yes, we know, but you can take care of it yourself."
Next week, I go to the ER again. This time it's for an ingrown bikini line hair. Same spiel -- yes, it's uncomfortable, but it's not an emergency. I go home, only to return the following week with a paper cut.
By the time I go in for the fourth time, the ER nurses see me, say, "Oh, it's HER again," and look right past me to the next patient.
Too bad that this time I've got double pneumonia.
Kind of a ridiculous analogy, but you get my point. When people make a stink about so many different interactions that are not violations, we lose sight of what's real, what calls for attention and action. We don't take the people who bring up the violations seriously anymore. And that's a damn shame.
Please stop overuse of the term "consent violation." Pick your battles, and know when something really is a violation, and when it's simply something/someone you don't like.