Happy Friday, everyone. Hope you have some fun plans for your weekend. John and I will be busy; some of it, I'm really looking forward to. Other parts -- notsomuch. As usual, you guys get to be my sounding board while I steel myself for the not-so-good parts.
Tonight, there is a big 30th birthday party for John's nephew. Given at the same house where they have the annual holiday drunken bacchanal you've read about in the past (and you know how much I love those). (sigh) Tons of people, tons of noise, copious quantities of alcohol and pot, food I usually don't like (not to mention people I don't like all that much either) -- all the components that make for a delightful evening for this curmudgeon. The good news is, John is going straight from work, so I am meeting him there. He will get there around 5:30. Me? I plan to show up around 7:00-7:30. :-) Ah, the luxury of two vehicles. So I plan to suit up, show up, paste a cheerful smile on my face and get through a few hours. Considering how drop-dead exhausted poor John is on Friday evenings, I figure I can convince him to leave at a decent hour. (Is 9:00 too decent? Yes, I know, I'm bad.)
Tomorrow is good stuff. A colleague of John's is playing in an afternoon classical concert, and he invited us to come. We both love Beethoven and live music is always fun, so I'm excited. Plus, we'll be near Old Town Pasadena, so we'll go to one of our favorite restaurants afterward. I get to dress up and have a nice date with my sweetie. :-)
And then there's Sunday.
John's niece (the one who got married last year) is having a baby. A few weeks ago when we were at John's sister's restaurant, she asked me if I'd gotten an invitation to the baby shower. This was the first I was hearing about it, so I said no. Frankly, I would have been surprised if I DID get an invitation. I'm not at close with John's niece M, and she didn't invite me to the bridal shower either. So I told John that I was relieved to not get an invite, since I don't want to go to a freaking baby shower anyway. He asked, "If you were invited, would you go?" I skirted that by answering, "That's a moot question, since I'm not invited." Figured that was the end of that.
Then a week or two ago, John hears from his other sister (M's mother). She only contacts him when she wants something from him -- this time was no different, because she wanted him to go halfsies on some elaborate gift she's getting for M, and since John is M's godfather, she can shake him down for that. (She also roped him into paying for all the champagne at the wedding.) During that conversation, she asked, "So is Erica coming to the shower?" "She didn't get an invitation," John replied. "Oh, I'm sure that was an oversight! Of course she's invited," she insisted. She wouldn't hear of anything else. So now, John wants me to go. (groan)
I told him, I was not invited. Period. Oversight, my ass. His sister just wants M to get another gift. So now I'm supposed to show up at a gathering to which I wasn't invited -- how awkward is that?? There's no damn communication with this family -- sure, the reasonable thing would be to directly ask M if she'd meant to invite me, but no one is doing that. I'm just supposed to show up, assuming it was intended that I be there.
Can I tell you just how much I don't want to do this? But it's important to John that I show up. He said if I don't, it will cause further tension between him and his sister, as he'll have to explain to her why I didn't go. If I were closer to these people, I'd step up and ask, "So what's the story here?" But I'm not, and I don't want to.
John made it as easy as possible. The damn thing is at 1:00, which means I would have to miss brunch with him, but he said I can drop by later, after brunch. It's on my way home from his house, so it's not out of my way. And he even gave me money to pick up a gift. I just have to do it and get it over with.
But it really annoys the hell out of me. Yeah, I know. It's one of those relationship things; you do things you don't want to, sometimes. This is fairly minor. Still, there's that inner rebel screaming, "But I don't WANT to, goddammit!! Why should I? I wasn't invited! It's going to be ridiculously awkward!" I just have to tell her to shut up, suck it up, get it done, keep the peace. Do this little thing for the man I love, even though that love does not extend to his kin.
There is a gift registry, but nuts to that. I just went to the nearest Babies R Us and bought a gift card.
So it will be a few days of polar opposites. Tonight, blech. Tomorrow, awesome. Sunday, blech. And Monday... ah, Monday. Steve, recovering and rarin' to go, and some sweet stress release.
Thanks for listening, and wish me luck. Have a great weekend, y'all.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Colorful afflictions
So, as we established yesterday, poor Steve is suffering from conjunctivitis, AKA pinkeye. He is on antibiotic eye-drops 4x daily and should improve soon.
Meanwhile, I am suffering from TooDamnWhite-itis!! AKA WASP syndrome (White And Sulky Posterior).
Characterized by sickly pallor, attention deficit, feverish longings and cranky demeanor.
Sadly, while others have offered medication, only Steve has the proper antidote. So I must wait for relief next Monday.
Attempts at distraction will be much appreciated!
Meanwhile, I am suffering from TooDamnWhite-itis!! AKA WASP syndrome (White And Sulky Posterior).
Characterized by sickly pallor, attention deficit, feverish longings and cranky demeanor.
Sadly, while others have offered medication, only Steve has the proper antidote. So I must wait for relief next Monday.
Attempts at distraction will be much appreciated!
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Suckage and nostalgia
That's a rather incongruent pairing, isn't it? Typical me, full of contradictions.
It was a nice weekend with my sweetie, and I came home full of plans and energy. He had a lot of stuff to do around his house, and I wanted to go to the gym and so forth, so I came home Sunday evening. Yesterday, I was a busy bee, clearing everything off my schedule. I went to the gym, got my car washed, proofread a small novel, did some writing, folded laundry, tidied up around here. This morning, I was due to drop off my car for servicing, and the mechanic would drive me home. After that, the day was free and clear, all ready for Steve (the top formerly known as Mr. D).
Aaaaaaaand last night he called and told me he had pinkeye again. Apparently it's not a good idea to go surfing in one's contacts and then leave them in for the rest of the day. He seems to have a predisposition for this damned affliction; it's the second time he's had it since I've known him, which is still not quite a year. He went to the doc right away this time, so it won't be as bad as it was the last time he had it.
(sigh) The best laid plans, etc. So here I am, work done, chores done, no car so I can't go anywhere, and steeped in disappointment and frustration. If he had a cold or something like that, I'd say by all means, if you're up for it, come over anyway. I'd risk it. But there's no way he's coming near me with pinkeye; he doesn't want me to catch that. He offered to come take me to lunch, but you know what? Being in close proximity with him, and not being able to play, being forbidden to come in contact with him even for a hug, would be torture.
It sucks not being able to play this week, especially. Because I don't get to celebrate my 17th "spankiversary."
You guys remember (well, some of you do) -- my first spanking was on Memorial Day, 1996. It feels like a lifetime ago. It was my baby step onto a completely new path, one that twisted and twined and took me in so many unexpected directions. And the first of many firsts, including my initial spanking-related personal ad, which led me to the first real love of my life, John. Then parties, then videos, and so many more adventures. It's been amazing, exhilarating, fulfilling, heartbreaking, validating, and a million other descriptives.
Has it really been a whole year since my "sweet 16" celebration? Last year at this time, ST came over, surprising me with champagne. I had two glasses, got thoroughly plastered (what a lightweight!), and broke two implements. Good times. The time speeds by so quickly. This August, John and I will be together 17 years. Last weekend, someone asked us what our secret is. I didn't have to think about it; I just smiled and answered, "Don't get married and don't live together." Yeah, I know -- that flies in the face of what people are supposed to want. But it works for us.
And in July, I will have known Steve for a year already. I still can't believe how he came along when he did, how he slipped in so quickly and quietly and made his presence invaluable in my life.
I have a lot to be grateful for. I just have to postpone celebrating it, I guess.
I was going through some photo archives and found a real oldie. You might remember my writing about our friend C, the fetish photographer. One night when we were out with her and her boyfriend, she took us to her studio, which was a loft in downtown L.A. Just for fun, she dressed me up in elegant, fetish-y clothes and took pictures. I have no idea what happened to all those shots, but I do have one. Check this out, from about, oh, 16 years ago:
I don't like the glare of the wall, but I don't know how to tone that down. Will you look at those shoes! Glad she had me sitting; if I tried to walk, I'd pitch forward right on my face.
I also found the first ever photo of John and me, but there is no way I'm scanning that. When he and I met, I had short hair with a terrible perm. It is best forgotten. He says he fell in love with me despite my hair. Gee, thanks, bunny. :-Þ
As I do each year, sending out a heartfelt thank you to Paul, my premier spanker, wherever he may be. And thanks to all who have made, and continue to make, my journey so joyous.
It was a nice weekend with my sweetie, and I came home full of plans and energy. He had a lot of stuff to do around his house, and I wanted to go to the gym and so forth, so I came home Sunday evening. Yesterday, I was a busy bee, clearing everything off my schedule. I went to the gym, got my car washed, proofread a small novel, did some writing, folded laundry, tidied up around here. This morning, I was due to drop off my car for servicing, and the mechanic would drive me home. After that, the day was free and clear, all ready for Steve (the top formerly known as Mr. D).
Aaaaaaaand last night he called and told me he had pinkeye again. Apparently it's not a good idea to go surfing in one's contacts and then leave them in for the rest of the day. He seems to have a predisposition for this damned affliction; it's the second time he's had it since I've known him, which is still not quite a year. He went to the doc right away this time, so it won't be as bad as it was the last time he had it.
(sigh) The best laid plans, etc. So here I am, work done, chores done, no car so I can't go anywhere, and steeped in disappointment and frustration. If he had a cold or something like that, I'd say by all means, if you're up for it, come over anyway. I'd risk it. But there's no way he's coming near me with pinkeye; he doesn't want me to catch that. He offered to come take me to lunch, but you know what? Being in close proximity with him, and not being able to play, being forbidden to come in contact with him even for a hug, would be torture.
It sucks not being able to play this week, especially. Because I don't get to celebrate my 17th "spankiversary."
You guys remember (well, some of you do) -- my first spanking was on Memorial Day, 1996. It feels like a lifetime ago. It was my baby step onto a completely new path, one that twisted and twined and took me in so many unexpected directions. And the first of many firsts, including my initial spanking-related personal ad, which led me to the first real love of my life, John. Then parties, then videos, and so many more adventures. It's been amazing, exhilarating, fulfilling, heartbreaking, validating, and a million other descriptives.
Has it really been a whole year since my "sweet 16" celebration? Last year at this time, ST came over, surprising me with champagne. I had two glasses, got thoroughly plastered (what a lightweight!), and broke two implements. Good times. The time speeds by so quickly. This August, John and I will be together 17 years. Last weekend, someone asked us what our secret is. I didn't have to think about it; I just smiled and answered, "Don't get married and don't live together." Yeah, I know -- that flies in the face of what people are supposed to want. But it works for us.
And in July, I will have known Steve for a year already. I still can't believe how he came along when he did, how he slipped in so quickly and quietly and made his presence invaluable in my life.
I have a lot to be grateful for. I just have to postpone celebrating it, I guess.
I was going through some photo archives and found a real oldie. You might remember my writing about our friend C, the fetish photographer. One night when we were out with her and her boyfriend, she took us to her studio, which was a loft in downtown L.A. Just for fun, she dressed me up in elegant, fetish-y clothes and took pictures. I have no idea what happened to all those shots, but I do have one. Check this out, from about, oh, 16 years ago:
I don't like the glare of the wall, but I don't know how to tone that down. Will you look at those shoes! Glad she had me sitting; if I tried to walk, I'd pitch forward right on my face.
I also found the first ever photo of John and me, but there is no way I'm scanning that. When he and I met, I had short hair with a terrible perm. It is best forgotten. He says he fell in love with me despite my hair. Gee, thanks, bunny. :-Þ
As I do each year, sending out a heartfelt thank you to Paul, my premier spanker, wherever he may be. And thanks to all who have made, and continue to make, my journey so joyous.
Friday, May 24, 2013
A new endeavor
Happy Friday, everyone. And happy Chross day! :-) I was especially happy to see I got on the list this week. I thought my entries were far too depressing to be considered.
I have a bit of news I'd like to share. I'm a little nervous about doing so, since that will really force me to follow through with my commitment. But I think I'm ready.
For years, people have been telling me I should write a book about the Correspondence Hall of Shame. I've been doing it since 2007, and although it's dwindled quite a bit over the past couple of years, I still have a lot of material recorded. Just for kicks, I went through the past six years of blogs, found all the old CHoS entries, and copied and pasted them into a Word document. I ended up with 70 pages. I figured once it's formatted and I add all the explanatory copy, I'll have several more pages. Enough for a nice little book.
So I'm doing it. When I don't have work to do, this will be my filler project.
In a way, most of it is already written, as I'm collecting past material. But there's a lot of work to be done. For one thing, I can't just have an endless stream of entries and replies in no particular order. So I've been reading through my 70 pages, separating the entries into various chapter themes, color-coding them and then pasting them into the book document according to chapter. Then there is formatting, which is a daunting task in itself. Finally, I do need to write an introduction, plus a fair amount of copy to go with each chapter. And once I get it all pulled together into one cohesive document, then the editing and rewriting and tweaking begins.
I'm excited. I worked on it for hours yesterday, and had to wrench myself away to go to the gym. As soon as I got back home, I started up with it again. I do hope I get some work so I won't have this much free time, but at the moment, things are at a lull and I'm going to take full advantage.
I have no idea what I'll do with it when I'm done; where I'll publish it, who will want it, etc. But I'll deal with that later. I've been wanting to write something new for a while, and I'd toyed with the idea of writing some more spanking fiction. However, since the success of That Trilogy Whose Name Has Been Erased, spanking erotica is being mass produced like crazy, by a lot of very good authors (and some not-so-good ones, but we won't go there). There's really nothing I could write, in that genre, that would be a stand-out. But a book about the CHoS? That would be uniquely mine. I'm not even sure what I'm going to title it. I've considered "How NOT to Communicate on the Internet," but that's so long and generic. I'll give it some more thought.
I will certainly keep you all posted as I progress!
In other news, John is feeling better, and I think we will have a very nice weekend. I am not seeing Mr. D on Monday, but will see him Tuesday. And speaking of Mr. D -- don't know if any of you saw the comment he left on my Monday blog, but he has officially sanctioned the use of his real name: Steve. So he will henceforth be referred to as Steve, not Mr. D. He still gets to keep his anonymity, since there are a quazillion men named Steve out there. But I love being able to use his name. :-)
Finally, this has nothing to do with anything; I just feel like posting a cute picture. I saw this little guy outside the gym; we stared each other down for a few minutes until he decided to scuttle off under a car.
Have a great holiday weekend, y'all.
I have a bit of news I'd like to share. I'm a little nervous about doing so, since that will really force me to follow through with my commitment. But I think I'm ready.
For years, people have been telling me I should write a book about the Correspondence Hall of Shame. I've been doing it since 2007, and although it's dwindled quite a bit over the past couple of years, I still have a lot of material recorded. Just for kicks, I went through the past six years of blogs, found all the old CHoS entries, and copied and pasted them into a Word document. I ended up with 70 pages. I figured once it's formatted and I add all the explanatory copy, I'll have several more pages. Enough for a nice little book.
So I'm doing it. When I don't have work to do, this will be my filler project.
In a way, most of it is already written, as I'm collecting past material. But there's a lot of work to be done. For one thing, I can't just have an endless stream of entries and replies in no particular order. So I've been reading through my 70 pages, separating the entries into various chapter themes, color-coding them and then pasting them into the book document according to chapter. Then there is formatting, which is a daunting task in itself. Finally, I do need to write an introduction, plus a fair amount of copy to go with each chapter. And once I get it all pulled together into one cohesive document, then the editing and rewriting and tweaking begins.
I'm excited. I worked on it for hours yesterday, and had to wrench myself away to go to the gym. As soon as I got back home, I started up with it again. I do hope I get some work so I won't have this much free time, but at the moment, things are at a lull and I'm going to take full advantage.
I have no idea what I'll do with it when I'm done; where I'll publish it, who will want it, etc. But I'll deal with that later. I've been wanting to write something new for a while, and I'd toyed with the idea of writing some more spanking fiction. However, since the success of That Trilogy Whose Name Has Been Erased, spanking erotica is being mass produced like crazy, by a lot of very good authors (and some not-so-good ones, but we won't go there). There's really nothing I could write, in that genre, that would be a stand-out. But a book about the CHoS? That would be uniquely mine. I'm not even sure what I'm going to title it. I've considered "How NOT to Communicate on the Internet," but that's so long and generic. I'll give it some more thought.
I will certainly keep you all posted as I progress!
In other news, John is feeling better, and I think we will have a very nice weekend. I am not seeing Mr. D on Monday, but will see him Tuesday. And speaking of Mr. D -- don't know if any of you saw the comment he left on my Monday blog, but he has officially sanctioned the use of his real name: Steve. So he will henceforth be referred to as Steve, not Mr. D. He still gets to keep his anonymity, since there are a quazillion men named Steve out there. But I love being able to use his name. :-)
Finally, this has nothing to do with anything; I just feel like posting a cute picture. I saw this little guy outside the gym; we stared each other down for a few minutes until he decided to scuttle off under a car.
Have a great holiday weekend, y'all.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Time for some fun
Monday's scene wasn't all about intensity and sadness, after all. I noticed I got relatively few comments on my last blog; perhaps it was too heavy for most. So I thought it might be time to lighten things up a bit.
As I'd mentioned, Mr. D was trying to get me to say what "T. A. A. R." stands for. For him, it was "Tops Are Always Right." However, I didn't quite see it that way. This is in two parts, as the damn temperamental camera shut off a couple of minutes into the first clip. Fortunately, it cooperated and stayed on for the entirety of part 2.
NOTE: The picture/sound quality on these is lousy, unless you look to the bottom right corner of the screen and click on that little "HD." Start the video and click on HD, and after you do so, it will turn yellow, and the video will restart and be much better.
Hope you guys enjoy these. :-)
Part 1:
And Part 2:
As I'd mentioned, Mr. D was trying to get me to say what "T. A. A. R." stands for. For him, it was "Tops Are Always Right." However, I didn't quite see it that way. This is in two parts, as the damn temperamental camera shut off a couple of minutes into the first clip. Fortunately, it cooperated and stayed on for the entirety of part 2.
NOTE: The picture/sound quality on these is lousy, unless you look to the bottom right corner of the screen and click on that little "HD." Start the video and click on HD, and after you do so, it will turn yellow, and the video will restart and be much better.
Hope you guys enjoy these. :-)
Part 1:
And Part 2:
Monday, May 20, 2013
From despondence to deliverance
It was not a happy weekend. John was exhausted and stressed out, I was fretful and worried, and things didn't go well. It wasn't one big thing, but a lot of little ones. On Saturday night, we rallied a bit and went out for a nice dinner. The server even called us an adorable couple. But on Sunday, we were at each other in the morning and I ended up in tears. My mood came crashing down and stayed there. We talked a while before I left and were back on good terms, but I felt godawful. I was more than ready to see Mr. D for some stress release.
This morning, I tried to perk up, but I didn't do a great job of it. My face looked tired and my eyes were still puffy. When Mr. D arrived, he asked, "Are you tired? Action-packed weekend?" "Lousy weekend," I replied. He took me to the couch and sat me down, insisting that I tell him all about it. Which I did. And of course, there went the damn waterworks again.
So we didn't play right away. He let me cry, talked with me, reassured me. When I calmed down and felt a little better, he asked if I just wanted to relax today and talk. I said no, I was OK, let's play.
Everything went fine for a long time, all through the OTK warm-up and well into the continuation of the scene over the ottoman. He brought up the "Tops Are Always Right" business from last week, this time calling it "T. A. A. R." and asking me what that stood for. We shot some funny footage of him doing his damndest to convince me to give the right answer, with me giving everything but. "Tops Are Always Ridiculous" "Tops Are Always Repetitive." "Tops Are Always Righteous." "Tops Are Always Rude." I do have the clips prepared and I've already posted them on Spanking Tube, but I'm not going to post them here just now. I will wait a day or two.
Because after that, things went south.
I'm not sure exactly where, or how. But after he got into the implements, my tolerance suddenly took a dive. Everything hurt, and I struggled. A few minutes ago I'd been laughing and joking and playfully wriggling, so he thought this was more of the same. "Hold still," he scolded, ramping things up. Which made me struggle more. I couldn't seem to absorb it, and I was starting to panic.
This is where I should have called a time-out or something. I didn't want him to stop; just maybe to slow down a tad, know I was struggling and cut a little slack about the moving around. But I didn't. I wanted him to read my mind, read my body. I wanted him to just know. Not fair.
We have been ending with the cane for the past several sessions, and it's hard to take when I'm nearly toast, but I do. I hunker down and accept it, melt into it. Not this time. I thought I'd go shooting through the ceiling. And when one strike hit a little on the low side, I screamed and thrashed away from him. Then I got back into position, but I was sobbing. I thought he'd stop, but he continued for a few more.
Then he paused. "Do you need a little more?" he asked. I couldn't believe my ears. Didn't he know? Why didn't he know? Why wasn't he reading me like he usually does? Rudely, I blurted, "What do YOU think?" Bless his heart, he didn't snap back or get annoyed with me; he answered, very calmly, "I want to hear it from you." So I shrieked, "NO!"
He stopped immediately. I stayed where I was, bawling into the pillow. "Come on, sweetie, let's go to the bedroom; I'll get some ice for you," he said. I started to push myself back up, slowly and painfully.
"Wait," I heard him say gently behind me. "Do you want a very pretty picture?"
I appreciated that he asked first. I nodded and kept still.
He led me into the bedroom and laid me face down, then went into the kitchen to get my ice packs. I wept and wept and wept; I just couldn't stop. He iced me down, all the while saying soothing, loving things, but I was unresponsive. All I could do was cry; my brain would not form coherent thoughts. I don't know why. I just knew I was a mess, and I couldn't help it.
My breath was coming in short gasps and I was shaking all over. He reminded me several times to breathe, told me I was going to be OK, he'd take care of me, he was sorry things got out of hand. I still couldn't speak, and I couldn't look at him. After a while, he stopped talking and tried to gather me into his arms. But I curled into a ball on my side, my arms wrapped around myself, my head ducked, and I kept on crying. I don't know where it all came from.
He didn't push. He just put his arms around me and waited. Eventually, the weeping subsided, the trembling stopped, my body relaxed and lost its rigidity. Finally, my arms loosened and unwound, and I wrapped one across his chest. It had been about a half hour to 45 minutes since our scene ended.
"I missed you," he said. I know what he meant. I went into a dark place, one where he couldn't reach me, couldn't connect with me. But instead of trying to drag me out, he patiently let me crawl out on my own, when I was ready. I know I scared him. He thought he'd blown it. That I wouldn't want to do this with him anymore.
Not a chance, dearest top. I need you.
We talked it out. He said the mis-read was all his fault, but it takes two to miscommunicate. I needed to let him know, properly, that things weren't working and we could have regrouped. It happened so fast and my mind went into such a mush, I guess I just couldn't. But it's not fair to expect him to know everything. Tops have a hell of a lot of responsibility, a lot is placed into their hands, and they can't be expected to be perfect all the time.
"I will be a lot more careful," he promised. "No, no, you don't have to," I said. "I don't want you to hold back. Maybe just be..."--I struggled for the right word--"...mindful." He admitted that he got a bit wound up with the scene and wasn't paying as much attention as he usually does. Wow. He's human.
"Are you OK?" he asked me. "I can't leave until I know you're OK." I told him I was, and I meant it. Then I snuggled close and put my head on his chest.
Something was different. His chest was still and quiet, with just the faintest of heartbeat detectable. What was so weird about that? Then it hit me. This was the first time, in a very long while, that I'd put my head on a man's chest and not felt his heart hammering and banging in my ear. Even when he is resting, John's heart laboriously pounds and struggles to function, so hard that I can actually see it as well as feel it. My poor baby. No wonder he's so exhausted all the time.
This awareness hurt my own heart, and I started crying yet again. Jesus Christ. I'm going to dry up and blow away one of these days.
I told Mr. D what I was thinking about, and he said, "It's OK. You love him. You're worried about him." He then told me that his quiet chest was mine to lean on whenever I needed it. Whenever things got too overwhelming and scary. Because they will be. John has a ticking time bomb in his chest and something will need to be done. Probably soon.
I will need to be John's rock. But I have a rock of my own. I must remember that.
Mr. D left. I knew I wasn't going to make it to the gym. There was no way I could deal with crowds and noise and waiting for equipment, and I didn't feel well anyway; all that crying had nauseated me. After about an hour or so, however, I felt better, so I went to the mini-gym in our laundry room and worked out for nearly two hours.
My head is quiet, my heart is full. My body is relaxed. The crash of pure exhaustion has not hit yet, but I'm sure it will soon, and hard. So I think I will wrap this up.
Next post, fun videos. For tonight, I needed to keep it raw and real.
Thank you, Mr. D. ♥
This morning, I tried to perk up, but I didn't do a great job of it. My face looked tired and my eyes were still puffy. When Mr. D arrived, he asked, "Are you tired? Action-packed weekend?" "Lousy weekend," I replied. He took me to the couch and sat me down, insisting that I tell him all about it. Which I did. And of course, there went the damn waterworks again.
So we didn't play right away. He let me cry, talked with me, reassured me. When I calmed down and felt a little better, he asked if I just wanted to relax today and talk. I said no, I was OK, let's play.
Everything went fine for a long time, all through the OTK warm-up and well into the continuation of the scene over the ottoman. He brought up the "Tops Are Always Right" business from last week, this time calling it "T. A. A. R." and asking me what that stood for. We shot some funny footage of him doing his damndest to convince me to give the right answer, with me giving everything but. "Tops Are Always Ridiculous" "Tops Are Always Repetitive." "Tops Are Always Righteous." "Tops Are Always Rude." I do have the clips prepared and I've already posted them on Spanking Tube, but I'm not going to post them here just now. I will wait a day or two.
Because after that, things went south.
I'm not sure exactly where, or how. But after he got into the implements, my tolerance suddenly took a dive. Everything hurt, and I struggled. A few minutes ago I'd been laughing and joking and playfully wriggling, so he thought this was more of the same. "Hold still," he scolded, ramping things up. Which made me struggle more. I couldn't seem to absorb it, and I was starting to panic.
This is where I should have called a time-out or something. I didn't want him to stop; just maybe to slow down a tad, know I was struggling and cut a little slack about the moving around. But I didn't. I wanted him to read my mind, read my body. I wanted him to just know. Not fair.
We have been ending with the cane for the past several sessions, and it's hard to take when I'm nearly toast, but I do. I hunker down and accept it, melt into it. Not this time. I thought I'd go shooting through the ceiling. And when one strike hit a little on the low side, I screamed and thrashed away from him. Then I got back into position, but I was sobbing. I thought he'd stop, but he continued for a few more.
Then he paused. "Do you need a little more?" he asked. I couldn't believe my ears. Didn't he know? Why didn't he know? Why wasn't he reading me like he usually does? Rudely, I blurted, "What do YOU think?" Bless his heart, he didn't snap back or get annoyed with me; he answered, very calmly, "I want to hear it from you." So I shrieked, "NO!"
He stopped immediately. I stayed where I was, bawling into the pillow. "Come on, sweetie, let's go to the bedroom; I'll get some ice for you," he said. I started to push myself back up, slowly and painfully.
"Wait," I heard him say gently behind me. "Do you want a very pretty picture?"
I appreciated that he asked first. I nodded and kept still.
He led me into the bedroom and laid me face down, then went into the kitchen to get my ice packs. I wept and wept and wept; I just couldn't stop. He iced me down, all the while saying soothing, loving things, but I was unresponsive. All I could do was cry; my brain would not form coherent thoughts. I don't know why. I just knew I was a mess, and I couldn't help it.
My breath was coming in short gasps and I was shaking all over. He reminded me several times to breathe, told me I was going to be OK, he'd take care of me, he was sorry things got out of hand. I still couldn't speak, and I couldn't look at him. After a while, he stopped talking and tried to gather me into his arms. But I curled into a ball on my side, my arms wrapped around myself, my head ducked, and I kept on crying. I don't know where it all came from.
He didn't push. He just put his arms around me and waited. Eventually, the weeping subsided, the trembling stopped, my body relaxed and lost its rigidity. Finally, my arms loosened and unwound, and I wrapped one across his chest. It had been about a half hour to 45 minutes since our scene ended.
"I missed you," he said. I know what he meant. I went into a dark place, one where he couldn't reach me, couldn't connect with me. But instead of trying to drag me out, he patiently let me crawl out on my own, when I was ready. I know I scared him. He thought he'd blown it. That I wouldn't want to do this with him anymore.
Not a chance, dearest top. I need you.
We talked it out. He said the mis-read was all his fault, but it takes two to miscommunicate. I needed to let him know, properly, that things weren't working and we could have regrouped. It happened so fast and my mind went into such a mush, I guess I just couldn't. But it's not fair to expect him to know everything. Tops have a hell of a lot of responsibility, a lot is placed into their hands, and they can't be expected to be perfect all the time.
"I will be a lot more careful," he promised. "No, no, you don't have to," I said. "I don't want you to hold back. Maybe just be..."--I struggled for the right word--"...mindful." He admitted that he got a bit wound up with the scene and wasn't paying as much attention as he usually does. Wow. He's human.
"Are you OK?" he asked me. "I can't leave until I know you're OK." I told him I was, and I meant it. Then I snuggled close and put my head on his chest.
Something was different. His chest was still and quiet, with just the faintest of heartbeat detectable. What was so weird about that? Then it hit me. This was the first time, in a very long while, that I'd put my head on a man's chest and not felt his heart hammering and banging in my ear. Even when he is resting, John's heart laboriously pounds and struggles to function, so hard that I can actually see it as well as feel it. My poor baby. No wonder he's so exhausted all the time.
This awareness hurt my own heart, and I started crying yet again. Jesus Christ. I'm going to dry up and blow away one of these days.
I told Mr. D what I was thinking about, and he said, "It's OK. You love him. You're worried about him." He then told me that his quiet chest was mine to lean on whenever I needed it. Whenever things got too overwhelming and scary. Because they will be. John has a ticking time bomb in his chest and something will need to be done. Probably soon.
I will need to be John's rock. But I have a rock of my own. I must remember that.
Mr. D left. I knew I wasn't going to make it to the gym. There was no way I could deal with crowds and noise and waiting for equipment, and I didn't feel well anyway; all that crying had nauseated me. After about an hour or so, however, I felt better, so I went to the mini-gym in our laundry room and worked out for nearly two hours.
My head is quiet, my heart is full. My body is relaxed. The crash of pure exhaustion has not hit yet, but I'm sure it will soon, and hard. So I think I will wrap this up.
Next post, fun videos. For tonight, I needed to keep it raw and real.
Thank you, Mr. D. ♥
Friday, May 17, 2013
OT: Yes, I know I'm weird
I've made no secret of the fact that I'm, to use a popular euphemism, quirky. I am a person of odd rituals and comforting routines, bordering on OCD. A lot of these habits revolve around food, because I have a history of eating disorders. It's not always easy, but I've learned to live with it, and a lot of the time, I forget just how odd I might seem to others. Until someone points it out.
On Wednesdays, I take a class at a branch of my gym that is right near a mall. So every couple of Wednesdays or so, I stop by this mall, which has a Sweet Factory, and get a supply of chocolate malt balls. Now, when most people go into a self-serve candy shop, they go to their chosen bin, stick the scoop into the gumballs or chocolate-covered gummy bears or what have you, and fill their bag. Not me. I take one bag, open the bin of dark chocolate malt balls, and carefully count out 20 of them. I shuffle through and make sure I choose the biggest ones. Then I take another bag, open the bin of milk chocolate malt balls, and do the exact same thing. Twenty each.
I've been doing this for a long time, and didn't think much of it. Until last Wednesday, when the perky young thing behind the counter recognized me. "You're always here on Wednesdays, aren't you!" she chirped. OK, she remembered me; no biggie there. But after I got my candy and came to the counter, she cocked her head and asked, "Do you always count them?"
I was so taken aback, all I could do was stammer, "Um, yeah." She added, "I see you doing that and I was just wondering!" I mumbled something about portion control and she burbled, "Well, that's great, you're keeping your weight down!" No, Miss Bubbles, it's not about that. It's about control, period. It's about knowing exactly how much I'm eating, because I have to keep track of it. When I left, I felt like I never wanted to go back, I was so embarrassed at being caught at my ritualizing by a stranger.
It's not just about the food, though. I've always been this way, as far back as I can remember. My mother said when I was very small, I'd get upset and cry if she changed the furniture or the knick-knacks around. "It doesn't go there," I'd sob. Where does that come from? Also when I was little, the housekeeper/nanny used to bring me a cup of warm milk every night just before I went to sleep. Except when she had the night off; then my mother would bring it. And inevitably, she'd put the milk in a glass. Warm milk is warm milk, right? Tastes the same, despite its vessel? Not for me. I was thrown by this. After all, everyone knows that only cold beverages go in drinking glasses, and hot ones go in cups. Why couldn't she see that?
I love The Big Bang Theory. Talk about quirkiness! And yes, I relate to Sheldon. Certain foods that go with the days of the week? Check. Scheduling everything? Check. Hating change? Check. Fortunately, I don't share his disdain for all things affectionate and intimate. And I don't schedule my bowel movements like he does. Although I probably would, if I were physically capable of doing so.
I have annoyed and baffled people most of my life. Referring to any one of my "quirks," my mother would say, "Don't do that. People will think you're weird." Guess what, Ma? I am.
Friends/family/co-workers didn't get me at all. I gave up on being understood long ago, because I didn't even understand myself. One man, many years ago, said something so unkind, I never forgot it. "People say you're difficult, but they're wrong. You're not difficult; you're impossible."
Then I met John.
John, too, is quirky in his own way. But one oddball doesn't always necessarily accept another. Accept. That was a word I didn't become familiar with until the past 20 years or so. I wanted so badly to be understood. Screw understanding. You don't have to understand me; just accept me. John was the first man in my life to give me this.
Not quite at first. I remember the first time, very early in the relationship, that we went for Chinese food. This restaurant provided calorie info, and I ordered deliberately, choosing a half-order of a main dish and a half-order of broccoli and mushrooms, knowing the total calorie count of both. When the food arrived, John did what people do at Chinese restaurants: he picked up my dish of vegetables and started spooning them onto his plate. Then he looked at me and his hand froze.
He said I had a stricken look on my face; I'd literally gone white. "Is this not OK?" he asked.
I was mortified. "Well," I stammered, feeling like an idiot, "it's just that I know exactly how many calories I'm eating, and if you take some of it, then I won't know..." My voice trailed off as I realized how insane I sounded.
The look on his face was puzzled, to say the least. But all he did was scrape the vegetables off his plate and back onto the serving dish, and hand it over to me. That was the beginning of acceptance.
We get each other. We share some of the same quirks; in others, we differ. He doesn't have all my food weirdness. But he, too, is highly ritualized, has his own routines and must-dos. And while he can tease me affectionately about my oddities, he will not allow others to do so. If someone in his family, for example, makes a comment about my food issues, he will firmly say, "You don't get to give her a hard time about that. That's just the way she is."
Same thing goes for him. He'll be doing something or another in his routine fashion and ask, "Am I OCD, sweetie?" I'll answer, "Yes, honey. You are. But it's OK, so am I." There is affection and acceptance in our teasing, not ridicule.
We go for the same brunch every Sunday. We always request the same server, and she never brings us menus. In fact, she puts in our order as soon as she sees us come in. Because it never changes. And we both have our oddities around it. I cannot stand to have my pancakes on the same plate as my eggs and other stuff, because I don't like the syrup getting into the other food. Our server knows this. But a couple of weeks ago, another server brought the food, and there were my pancakes, crammed onto the same plate. I managed to take a breath and then quietly say, "May I have another plate, please?" When she walked away, John said my face was, once again, horror-struck. But he wasn't judging. He has his own shtick. Sometimes, the server will bring his omelet and say, "English muffin's coming, John." He_will_not start eating his other food until the muffin arrives. He just won't. And I get it.
Sometimes I wonder -- how many people are like me? Somewhat, at least. Are there others out there with routines and rituals, with the need for sameness? Is spontaneity, which is anathema to me, something that everyone else is capable of embracing?
I never thought I'd meet someone who would so thoroughly get me, like John does. And sometimes, I think he's the only one who does, because he's just as much an oddball as I am. But that's ridiculous. Still, after nearly 17 years, he's seen a whole hell of a lot of oddball behavior from me, more than any other person has. And he's still here.
He is not well. I know this. He hasn't been well for some time now; ever since that incident a couple of years ago, his malfunctioning heart valve has weakened further. The time is approaching when he's going to have to seriously consider surgery. Ironically, he's in the best physical condition he's been in since I've known him. He works out every day and is fit and strong; his blood pressure, pulse and cholesterol are low. But he is tired all the time. His heart has to work so much harder to compensate for the defective valve, and it's exhausting.
Next month, he's going for an angiogram. It's a lengthy test and he won't be able to drive himself home, so he's going to take a cab to the hospital early in the morning and I will pick him up sometime that afternoon. Last night, we were discussing it on the phone, and he started talking about advance directives and power of attorney, and what I should do in case there's some sort of emergency, and asked me if I'd research about documents regarding this stuff. And I burst into tears. I don't want to have to think about this. I don't. I don't. But sooner or later, I will have to. More changes and disruptions, and more things to fear.
John, bless his heart, even apologized to me, saying he knows that having to pick him up at the hospital next month will "disrupt my routine." Who else would do that, but someone who completely accepts me and knows I can't help the way I am? Does anyone else like this exist, really?
I'm not sure where I'm going with this, kids. Maybe I'm just trying to figure out if I'm as alone in my oddness as I think, or if others get it too. Because sometimes, I am so very afraid. Especially when I consider that I will, more than likely, outlive the person who knows me better than I know myself.
Thanks for reading, if you managed to get this far. On a positive note, I got Chrossed today. It's the weekend and I'm heading for John's later. And Monday, I get to see Mr. D, who feeds my soul in special and needed ways, too.
Have a great weekend, y'all.
On Wednesdays, I take a class at a branch of my gym that is right near a mall. So every couple of Wednesdays or so, I stop by this mall, which has a Sweet Factory, and get a supply of chocolate malt balls. Now, when most people go into a self-serve candy shop, they go to their chosen bin, stick the scoop into the gumballs or chocolate-covered gummy bears or what have you, and fill their bag. Not me. I take one bag, open the bin of dark chocolate malt balls, and carefully count out 20 of them. I shuffle through and make sure I choose the biggest ones. Then I take another bag, open the bin of milk chocolate malt balls, and do the exact same thing. Twenty each.
I've been doing this for a long time, and didn't think much of it. Until last Wednesday, when the perky young thing behind the counter recognized me. "You're always here on Wednesdays, aren't you!" she chirped. OK, she remembered me; no biggie there. But after I got my candy and came to the counter, she cocked her head and asked, "Do you always count them?"
I was so taken aback, all I could do was stammer, "Um, yeah." She added, "I see you doing that and I was just wondering!" I mumbled something about portion control and she burbled, "Well, that's great, you're keeping your weight down!" No, Miss Bubbles, it's not about that. It's about control, period. It's about knowing exactly how much I'm eating, because I have to keep track of it. When I left, I felt like I never wanted to go back, I was so embarrassed at being caught at my ritualizing by a stranger.
It's not just about the food, though. I've always been this way, as far back as I can remember. My mother said when I was very small, I'd get upset and cry if she changed the furniture or the knick-knacks around. "It doesn't go there," I'd sob. Where does that come from? Also when I was little, the housekeeper/nanny used to bring me a cup of warm milk every night just before I went to sleep. Except when she had the night off; then my mother would bring it. And inevitably, she'd put the milk in a glass. Warm milk is warm milk, right? Tastes the same, despite its vessel? Not for me. I was thrown by this. After all, everyone knows that only cold beverages go in drinking glasses, and hot ones go in cups. Why couldn't she see that?
I love The Big Bang Theory. Talk about quirkiness! And yes, I relate to Sheldon. Certain foods that go with the days of the week? Check. Scheduling everything? Check. Hating change? Check. Fortunately, I don't share his disdain for all things affectionate and intimate. And I don't schedule my bowel movements like he does. Although I probably would, if I were physically capable of doing so.
I have annoyed and baffled people most of my life. Referring to any one of my "quirks," my mother would say, "Don't do that. People will think you're weird." Guess what, Ma? I am.
Friends/family/co-workers didn't get me at all. I gave up on being understood long ago, because I didn't even understand myself. One man, many years ago, said something so unkind, I never forgot it. "People say you're difficult, but they're wrong. You're not difficult; you're impossible."
Then I met John.
John, too, is quirky in his own way. But one oddball doesn't always necessarily accept another. Accept. That was a word I didn't become familiar with until the past 20 years or so. I wanted so badly to be understood. Screw understanding. You don't have to understand me; just accept me. John was the first man in my life to give me this.
Not quite at first. I remember the first time, very early in the relationship, that we went for Chinese food. This restaurant provided calorie info, and I ordered deliberately, choosing a half-order of a main dish and a half-order of broccoli and mushrooms, knowing the total calorie count of both. When the food arrived, John did what people do at Chinese restaurants: he picked up my dish of vegetables and started spooning them onto his plate. Then he looked at me and his hand froze.
He said I had a stricken look on my face; I'd literally gone white. "Is this not OK?" he asked.
I was mortified. "Well," I stammered, feeling like an idiot, "it's just that I know exactly how many calories I'm eating, and if you take some of it, then I won't know..." My voice trailed off as I realized how insane I sounded.
The look on his face was puzzled, to say the least. But all he did was scrape the vegetables off his plate and back onto the serving dish, and hand it over to me. That was the beginning of acceptance.
We get each other. We share some of the same quirks; in others, we differ. He doesn't have all my food weirdness. But he, too, is highly ritualized, has his own routines and must-dos. And while he can tease me affectionately about my oddities, he will not allow others to do so. If someone in his family, for example, makes a comment about my food issues, he will firmly say, "You don't get to give her a hard time about that. That's just the way she is."
Same thing goes for him. He'll be doing something or another in his routine fashion and ask, "Am I OCD, sweetie?" I'll answer, "Yes, honey. You are. But it's OK, so am I." There is affection and acceptance in our teasing, not ridicule.
We go for the same brunch every Sunday. We always request the same server, and she never brings us menus. In fact, she puts in our order as soon as she sees us come in. Because it never changes. And we both have our oddities around it. I cannot stand to have my pancakes on the same plate as my eggs and other stuff, because I don't like the syrup getting into the other food. Our server knows this. But a couple of weeks ago, another server brought the food, and there were my pancakes, crammed onto the same plate. I managed to take a breath and then quietly say, "May I have another plate, please?" When she walked away, John said my face was, once again, horror-struck. But he wasn't judging. He has his own shtick. Sometimes, the server will bring his omelet and say, "English muffin's coming, John." He_will_not start eating his other food until the muffin arrives. He just won't. And I get it.
Sometimes I wonder -- how many people are like me? Somewhat, at least. Are there others out there with routines and rituals, with the need for sameness? Is spontaneity, which is anathema to me, something that everyone else is capable of embracing?
I never thought I'd meet someone who would so thoroughly get me, like John does. And sometimes, I think he's the only one who does, because he's just as much an oddball as I am. But that's ridiculous. Still, after nearly 17 years, he's seen a whole hell of a lot of oddball behavior from me, more than any other person has. And he's still here.
He is not well. I know this. He hasn't been well for some time now; ever since that incident a couple of years ago, his malfunctioning heart valve has weakened further. The time is approaching when he's going to have to seriously consider surgery. Ironically, he's in the best physical condition he's been in since I've known him. He works out every day and is fit and strong; his blood pressure, pulse and cholesterol are low. But he is tired all the time. His heart has to work so much harder to compensate for the defective valve, and it's exhausting.
Next month, he's going for an angiogram. It's a lengthy test and he won't be able to drive himself home, so he's going to take a cab to the hospital early in the morning and I will pick him up sometime that afternoon. Last night, we were discussing it on the phone, and he started talking about advance directives and power of attorney, and what I should do in case there's some sort of emergency, and asked me if I'd research about documents regarding this stuff. And I burst into tears. I don't want to have to think about this. I don't. I don't. But sooner or later, I will have to. More changes and disruptions, and more things to fear.
John, bless his heart, even apologized to me, saying he knows that having to pick him up at the hospital next month will "disrupt my routine." Who else would do that, but someone who completely accepts me and knows I can't help the way I am? Does anyone else like this exist, really?
I'm not sure where I'm going with this, kids. Maybe I'm just trying to figure out if I'm as alone in my oddness as I think, or if others get it too. Because sometimes, I am so very afraid. Especially when I consider that I will, more than likely, outlive the person who knows me better than I know myself.
Thanks for reading, if you managed to get this far. On a positive note, I got Chrossed today. It's the weekend and I'm heading for John's later. And Monday, I get to see Mr. D, who feeds my soul in special and needed ways, too.
Have a great weekend, y'all.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Mini-vid from Monday
OK, so Monday wasn't our lucky day with clip capturing. I'm not all that crazy about this one, to be honest; the lighting is too bright and harsh on my face, and we're not centered well in the frame. One good thing, though -- the damn thing cut out before capturing for posterity the point where I admit everything is my fault! LOL Divine intervention, if you ask me. :-) And of course, everyone knows that such confessions obtained under such extreme coercion are null and void.
I'm kinda bummed that none of the other clips came out. Mr. D had one of his finest moments in one of them. I was kneeling at his feet, about to go back OTK for another round, and he said, "Are you ready for dessert?" I perked up and said, "Oooh... ice cream?" And he quickly quipped, "Oh, you will."
(groan)
Misgivings aside, however, this is still pretty funny, I think. Hope you guys get a kick out of it!
TopReasoning1 from Erica Scott on Vimeo.
I'm kinda bummed that none of the other clips came out. Mr. D had one of his finest moments in one of them. I was kneeling at his feet, about to go back OTK for another round, and he said, "Are you ready for dessert?" I perked up and said, "Oooh... ice cream?" And he quickly quipped, "Oh, you will."
(groan)
Misgivings aside, however, this is still pretty funny, I think. Hope you guys get a kick out of it!
TopReasoning1 from Erica Scott on Vimeo.
Monday, May 13, 2013
The Top is always right
Or so Mr. D would have me believe. Today, he did his toppy best to convince me that whenever any issue, large or small, is in question, the top is right and the bottom is wrong.
Actually, this is all John's fault. He told me that I needed to present the argument to Mr. D: Is it the right thing to blame me for everything and pretty much make everything I do a spankable offense, or not? John then added, "Oh, and you might want to tell him that if he says it's not the right thing, he's never playing with you again!"
Thanks a lot, honey. :-Þ
Naturally, upon hearing this proviso, Mr. D was quick to say, "Of course, John's right." He then said we should make our session today all about encouraging me to see things his and John's way. (massive eye-roll)
Despite this treachery, I really was overjoyed to see him. Two weeks had felt like two months, honestly. We didn't even play for the first two hours; we just caught up, talked and talked and talked. But then it was time to catch up in another way.
Today was camera malfunction day. He'd brought his usual camera -- however, he'd been loading some photos at home and had left the card sitting in his computer. (sigh) He did have a smaller camera with him as well, and he tried loading the card from that one into the larger one. However, the damned camera kept shutting down every time we tried to film a clip! We tried about six times and it kept stopping. Fortunately, we did manage to get one good, lengthy clip, and I will put that up tomorrow or Wednesday.
In a nutshell: After a long warm-up with his hand, Mr. D gathered a host of implements, took me OTK on the side of my bed, and proceeded to persuade me to his way of thinking. Top reasoning, he called it. I didn't find it reasonable in the least, and told him so. Repeatedly. Emphatically. His response to my defiance would be a smack. To my thighs.
Not super-hard. He didn't need to do it hard there. If my bottom is made of titanium, then my thighs are made of tin foil. It takes very little attention there to send me shooting through the ceiling. Still, I argued. And I even tried to use his own logic. "If I'm always wrong about everything," I mused, "then I guess I was wrong when I chose you for a play partner, huh?"
He didn't approve of that. What a surprise.
After a while, we gave up on the camera and both just hunkered down into the scene. By then, I was nearly toast and I wasn't contradicting him any longer. I gave in; I submitted. But he knew I wasn't done. "Not yet," he said. "Almost. I know you need a little more."
I don't know how he tells when I'm done. Is it my body language, my sounds, my color? But he knows.
There weren't really that many swats to the thighs. But like I said, it didn't take much. I mark there like I used to mark on my behind, all those years ago.
I wouldn't want just anyone marking me like this. I don't trust others to strike below the spank zone. But I trust him. You'll see in the video -- the thigh strikes were relatively light.
I did not cry during the spanking, not even toward the end. But when he transitioned from tough to tender, when he held me close and crooned, "My Erica... my bottom... my baby," I lost it. He's so good to me. He says I please him... I really don't know how I do. But I'm glad. I want to.
It was so hard to get up and suit up for the gym. Since it was over 100 degrees outside, there's no way I was going to wear long pants, so shorts it was. And when I put them on, I realized they didn't even come close to covering up the marks.
Oh well. Yes, I'm just twisted enough to get a kick out of the thought of people peeking at my thighs and wondering just what the hell happened. :-)
Here I am in the shorts I wore to the gym. Think anyone noticed?
And tomorrow, I get to do it again. Yes, I got to the gym so freaking late, it was impossible to do my full workout; it was just too crowded and all the machines and weights were being used. So I did half of it, and I'll do the other half tomorrow morning.
Thank you, dearest top. I was just kidding with that business about being wrong when I chose you. My choice won me the spanko lottery. ♥
Actually, this is all John's fault. He told me that I needed to present the argument to Mr. D: Is it the right thing to blame me for everything and pretty much make everything I do a spankable offense, or not? John then added, "Oh, and you might want to tell him that if he says it's not the right thing, he's never playing with you again!"
Thanks a lot, honey. :-Þ
Naturally, upon hearing this proviso, Mr. D was quick to say, "Of course, John's right." He then said we should make our session today all about encouraging me to see things his and John's way. (massive eye-roll)
Despite this treachery, I really was overjoyed to see him. Two weeks had felt like two months, honestly. We didn't even play for the first two hours; we just caught up, talked and talked and talked. But then it was time to catch up in another way.
Today was camera malfunction day. He'd brought his usual camera -- however, he'd been loading some photos at home and had left the card sitting in his computer. (sigh) He did have a smaller camera with him as well, and he tried loading the card from that one into the larger one. However, the damned camera kept shutting down every time we tried to film a clip! We tried about six times and it kept stopping. Fortunately, we did manage to get one good, lengthy clip, and I will put that up tomorrow or Wednesday.
In a nutshell: After a long warm-up with his hand, Mr. D gathered a host of implements, took me OTK on the side of my bed, and proceeded to persuade me to his way of thinking. Top reasoning, he called it. I didn't find it reasonable in the least, and told him so. Repeatedly. Emphatically. His response to my defiance would be a smack. To my thighs.
Not super-hard. He didn't need to do it hard there. If my bottom is made of titanium, then my thighs are made of tin foil. It takes very little attention there to send me shooting through the ceiling. Still, I argued. And I even tried to use his own logic. "If I'm always wrong about everything," I mused, "then I guess I was wrong when I chose you for a play partner, huh?"
He didn't approve of that. What a surprise.
After a while, we gave up on the camera and both just hunkered down into the scene. By then, I was nearly toast and I wasn't contradicting him any longer. I gave in; I submitted. But he knew I wasn't done. "Not yet," he said. "Almost. I know you need a little more."
I don't know how he tells when I'm done. Is it my body language, my sounds, my color? But he knows.
There weren't really that many swats to the thighs. But like I said, it didn't take much. I mark there like I used to mark on my behind, all those years ago.
I wouldn't want just anyone marking me like this. I don't trust others to strike below the spank zone. But I trust him. You'll see in the video -- the thigh strikes were relatively light.
I did not cry during the spanking, not even toward the end. But when he transitioned from tough to tender, when he held me close and crooned, "My Erica... my bottom... my baby," I lost it. He's so good to me. He says I please him... I really don't know how I do. But I'm glad. I want to.
It was so hard to get up and suit up for the gym. Since it was over 100 degrees outside, there's no way I was going to wear long pants, so shorts it was. And when I put them on, I realized they didn't even come close to covering up the marks.
Oh well. Yes, I'm just twisted enough to get a kick out of the thought of people peeking at my thighs and wondering just what the hell happened. :-)
Here I am in the shorts I wore to the gym. Think anyone noticed?
And tomorrow, I get to do it again. Yes, I got to the gym so freaking late, it was impossible to do my full workout; it was just too crowded and all the machines and weights were being used. So I did half of it, and I'll do the other half tomorrow morning.
Thank you, dearest top. I was just kidding with that business about being wrong when I chose you. My choice won me the spanko lottery. ♥
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Damned heat
Record-breaking. Currently, at 11:20 PM, it's 83 degrees outside. Earlier today, it was 103. Tomorrow, 105 degrees possible. Somebody please tell May that it's freaking May, and not August, for God's sake.
I am an idiot. When I left on Friday, it was comfortable and cool in here. I knew it was going to heat up while I was gone. I knew this. So why didn't I turn my AC on low and just leave it? Nah, I forgot. So when I got home late this afternoon, my apartment was 78 degrees.
I'm well aware that the "save energy" commercials advise us to set our AC thermostats to 78 degrees anyway, during the hot weather times. To this advice, I say go @#$% yourself. John is the most environmental person I know, and even he cranks the AC down to 70. His place was deliciously cool all weekend; I hated to leave.
Of course I turned my AC on right away, but the damage was done; the heat was baked in. It's been running for six hours now, and it's only cooled the place down to 75.
I'm going to leave it running all night. It is quite crucial for it to cool off in here. Because tomorrow morning, Mr. D will arrive at 10 (well, 10 on Mr. D time, which means anywhere from 10 to 10:30). And then things will really heat up. :-D
I can't wait. Hope everyone had a nice weekend.
I am an idiot. When I left on Friday, it was comfortable and cool in here. I knew it was going to heat up while I was gone. I knew this. So why didn't I turn my AC on low and just leave it? Nah, I forgot. So when I got home late this afternoon, my apartment was 78 degrees.
I'm well aware that the "save energy" commercials advise us to set our AC thermostats to 78 degrees anyway, during the hot weather times. To this advice, I say go @#$% yourself. John is the most environmental person I know, and even he cranks the AC down to 70. His place was deliciously cool all weekend; I hated to leave.
Of course I turned my AC on right away, but the damage was done; the heat was baked in. It's been running for six hours now, and it's only cooled the place down to 75.
I'm going to leave it running all night. It is quite crucial for it to cool off in here. Because tomorrow morning, Mr. D will arrive at 10 (well, 10 on Mr. D time, which means anywhere from 10 to 10:30). And then things will really heat up. :-D
I can't wait. Hope everyone had a nice weekend.
Friday, May 10, 2013
Mother's Day thoughts
Another Mother's Day is upon us, this weekend.
Hard to believe these feet ever fit into those little shoes, huh? Yes, those were mine. My mother had them bronzed. Do people still do that -- bronze their kids' shoes? I don't hear about it anymore.
I suppose that, technically, this is my first Mother's Day without my mom. Can't believe it's been almost a year since she passed away last June. But you all know that I lost her a long time before that.
They say the worst thing that can happen to a parent is outliving their child. I don't think my mother ever fully got over the death of my brother. Sometimes I wonder; would she have been as critical of me, so desperate for me to live up to her hopes and expectations, if Ken had lived? Or would she have simply imposed the same expectations on both of us? I'll never know. My mother had a hunger that perhaps no one could fully satisfy.
After Ken died, on Mother's Day, Mom started giving me presents. When I asked her why, she answered, "Because if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be a mother." That made me so uncomfortable. I was glad when she stopped doing that.
I had mentioned on here a couple of years ago that, in a moment of truth, my stepfather said to me, "I really can't blame you for not wanting to be involved with your mom's issues now. She wasn't much of a mother to you to begin with." But after she passed, the typical canonizing of the deceased commenced, and he back-pedaled. Recently he said, "You took her far too seriously. She didn't mean any of the things she said." (sigh)
When my dad died, I had closure. I had a sense of resolution, and I was at peace with him and he with me. But with my mother, I guess I will always feel a sense of conflict and confusion, never knowing where I stood. I know she loved me. But I know she wanted a lot more from me, in so many ways.
Anyway... I sent an e-card to my stepmother (the nice one). It will be delivered to her on Sunday. Simple and sweet; a mother duck in a pond with her babies. I signed it with "Much love from your step-duckling." :-)
I wonder if she has any idea of how much I wish she were my mother. If she can sense the rush of pride and joy I feel when I wear the necklace she gave me. Beautiful S. She just turned 82; I hope she sticks around for a while.
All the knots and tension and irritability of this week are dissolving into tears. I guess that's a good thing. Just in time to go to John. And on Monday, I get to see Mr. D. He is feeling better and is ready to make up for a lost week. I'm certainly ready too.
Have a great weekend, y'all.
Hard to believe these feet ever fit into those little shoes, huh? Yes, those were mine. My mother had them bronzed. Do people still do that -- bronze their kids' shoes? I don't hear about it anymore.
I suppose that, technically, this is my first Mother's Day without my mom. Can't believe it's been almost a year since she passed away last June. But you all know that I lost her a long time before that.
They say the worst thing that can happen to a parent is outliving their child. I don't think my mother ever fully got over the death of my brother. Sometimes I wonder; would she have been as critical of me, so desperate for me to live up to her hopes and expectations, if Ken had lived? Or would she have simply imposed the same expectations on both of us? I'll never know. My mother had a hunger that perhaps no one could fully satisfy.
After Ken died, on Mother's Day, Mom started giving me presents. When I asked her why, she answered, "Because if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be a mother." That made me so uncomfortable. I was glad when she stopped doing that.
I had mentioned on here a couple of years ago that, in a moment of truth, my stepfather said to me, "I really can't blame you for not wanting to be involved with your mom's issues now. She wasn't much of a mother to you to begin with." But after she passed, the typical canonizing of the deceased commenced, and he back-pedaled. Recently he said, "You took her far too seriously. She didn't mean any of the things she said." (sigh)
When my dad died, I had closure. I had a sense of resolution, and I was at peace with him and he with me. But with my mother, I guess I will always feel a sense of conflict and confusion, never knowing where I stood. I know she loved me. But I know she wanted a lot more from me, in so many ways.
Anyway... I sent an e-card to my stepmother (the nice one). It will be delivered to her on Sunday. Simple and sweet; a mother duck in a pond with her babies. I signed it with "Much love from your step-duckling." :-)
I wonder if she has any idea of how much I wish she were my mother. If she can sense the rush of pride and joy I feel when I wear the necklace she gave me. Beautiful S. She just turned 82; I hope she sticks around for a while.
All the knots and tension and irritability of this week are dissolving into tears. I guess that's a good thing. Just in time to go to John. And on Monday, I get to see Mr. D. He is feeling better and is ready to make up for a lost week. I'm certainly ready too.
Have a great weekend, y'all.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
A little ditty for your hump day
Yesterday,
when I was in such a crap mood, I pulled up this little guy for my FetLife main
photo:
I
confess, I didn't like Grumpy Cat at first, but now he's completely grown on
me. After all, disliking him would be akin to disliking myself, no?
But
then, when that infernal song wormed its way into my head, I found myself
pondering alternate lyrics. So, for your midweek entertainment, sing along with
me! Y'all know the melody.
If you're naughty and you know it
Drop your pants (smack smack)
If you're naughty and you know it
Drop your pants (smack smack)
If you're naughty and you know it
And you're not afraid to show it
If you're naughty and you know it
Drop your pants (smack smack)!
If you're sassy and you love it
Kick your feet (stamp stamp)
If you're sassy and you love it
Kick your feet (stamp stamp)
If you're sassy and you love it
Go and tell your top to shove it
If you're sassy and you love it
Kick your feet (stamp stamp)!
If it's spanking that you're craving
Pound your fists (bam bam)
If it's spanking that you're craving
Pound your fists (bam bam)
If it's spanking that you're craving
Start that middle finger waving
If it's spanking that you're craving
Pound your fists (bam bam)!
If your bottom needs a whacking
Roll your eyes (blink blink)
If your bottom needs a whacking
Roll your eyes (blink blink)
If your bottom needs a whacking
Tell your top to get a-cracking
If your bottom needs a whacking
Roll your eyes (blink blink)!
If you gotta feel the stinging
Throw your toys (toss toss)
If you gotta feel the stinging
Throw your toys (toss toss)
If you gotta feel the stinging
Then the implements be flinging
If you gotta feel the stinging
Throw your toys (toss toss)!
If your top is getting lazy
Show your tongue (nyah nyah)
If your top is getting lazy
Show your tongue (nyah nyah)
If your top is getting lazy
And withdrawal's made you crazy
If your top is getting lazy
Show your tongue (nyah nyah)!
Feel free to add on, if you're so inclined! :-D
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Oh, shut up
Forget Nervous Nellie; she's gone. She has been replaced by Cranky Cathy. Or, as John would call me, Cranky the Cat.
Mr. D couldn't make it today. He's much better, but he lost a lot of time yesterday while at the doctor and had too much going on today to shuffle it around. And he can't make it tomorrow, either. So, it's going to have to be next week.
First-world problem, I know. But I want a spanking NOW, goddammit. And I want hugs, I want attention, I want a balm to my ragged nerves. So I'm feeling rather irritable and unfulfilled. I have a project to do, which is good. But as it happens today, there's some work being done on the baseboards in the hallway outside my apartment. So I get to make a feeble attempt to concentrate on work to the sounds of drilling and hammering and workmen chattering. @#$%&!!!!!
Therefore, I'm in one of those moods where everyone and everything is pissing me off. Look out.
Today, on my goofy little video with Mr. D, where I'm answering his questions and we're laughing and having fun, someone commented: "Get the gag!" Oh, fuck you. Yeah, that would be a really fun and interesting scene, with me gagged and completely silent. You want quiet? Go back to your mama's basement and spank your blow-up doll.
People are still posting pictures and comments about BBW, more than two weeks after the fact, and now the talk is starting up about upcoming parties (FMS, for example). I hate feeling left out. Hate it hate it HATE IT. Kelley used an acronym I've never heard before at our gathering in Vegas: FOMO. She was laughing at all of us, late at night on Saturday, all looking like we were about to drop dead, but none of us wanted to be the first to go to bed. Why? Fear Of Missing Out. As soon as we're not there, the best stuff happens and we miss it. That's how I'm feeling lately, with all these parties and the reports. Sour grapes, of course. I don't begrudge anyone anything. But dammit, I wish I had more money and didn't stress out so much about travel. I wish, I want, bitch bitch bitch. I read all the camaraderie on FetLife and Twitter and I swear, I'm back in high school, floating on the fringes.
Yeah, yeah, I know. SHUT UP, Erica. Enough with this already. But hey, it's my blog and I'll whine if I want to.
Oh, and on the subject of people and their unsolicited opinions, the never-ending controversy of "Professional spanking/BDSM providers are whores" has been re-ignited lately. I've written about it before, so I won't belabor it once again. But I encourage all of you to please read this brilliant post by Dana Kane, here. I can't tell you how tired I am of this crap. I know it's not going away anytime soon and people will believe what they want to believe, but sometimes (especially when I'm in Cranky Cathy mood), it gets to me. I may no longer be "in the biz," but I used to be. And these women who are being vilified are my friends.
All right, enough. On the bright side, it's my kind of day outside: cloudy. Must go do some work. In the meantime, since I won't have a scene report this week, here's another quickie clip from last week.
MVI 9816 from Erica Scott on Vimeo.
Monday, May 6, 2013
Nervous Nellie
Yes, that's been me the past few days. It's so much fun being neurotic, I'm telling you.
Last week, we had three separates wildfires blazing, and they worsened as the temperatures climbed into the 90s and the winds picked up. None of them was near me or near John, but still. When it's fire season, I get this general, free-floating anxiety. I am so utterly terrified of fire, it's ridiculous. By Friday, I was jumping out of my skin. Add to that some worry over a scary drama that's going on with FetLife and some of my friends, and I was juggling a few jobs and fretting over which one I should do first, and I was a basket case by the time I left for John's Friday evening. I have two ginormous bruises on my left leg from two separate instances of walking into things.
It didn't help that when I walked out of my apartment and into the hallway, there was a strong smell of smoke. Be reasonable, Erica. It's a barbecue. There are no smoke alarms going off anywhere. Still, I walked all around the courtyard and up and down the alley, looking for a barbecue and saw none. So what did I do? I called and left a message with the building manager, just as a fail-safe. Because in my state, I was convinced that if I left for the weekend, I'd come home to smoldering ruins. Yes, I am certifiable.
Aggghhh. Fortunately, John knows how I get, and he did his best to calm and distract me. We had a nice weekend and he made me laugh a lot. I swear, I cannot take that man anywhere. We went to Whole Foods, and the cashier checking out our groceries had black, white-blond and green hair. John nonchalantly asked her, "So, is that your real hair color?" !!! "JOHN!" I screeched, mortified, but she just laughed, shrugged and said she doesn't remember what her real color is! He gets away with everything. Must be that boyish twinkle of mischief he has.
Miraculously, the weather did a 180-degree turn with the temps dropping about 25 degrees and clouds/rain coming in, so that helped with the fires. I came home and finished one work project last night, so I'd have the day a little more freed up for Mr. D.
But then he called and canceled. (sigh) He had been to the ER over the weekend and was going to his doctor for a battery of tests; some weird and scary symptoms came on. (Fortunately, all the worst-case scenarios were ruled out immediately by the ER.) We spoke this afternoon, and he's feeling better; he'll get all his test results tomorrow. I feel relieved now, but was anxious about him all morning. Working out helped.
Then I bought myself a new bookcase. Yes, I know -- an entire generation is out there saying, "What's a bookcase?" None of that e-reader business for this dinosaur -- I like real books, with real pages and covers. But they take up a lot of space. I currently have three large shelves on the wall, plus a large and a small bookcase, and they are overflowing, so it was time for another. I managed to wrangle a 36H x 24W x 13D solid oak case upstairs into my apartment from the garage without injuring myself or the bookcase, so I'm quite pleased with myself. After that, I settled in to work.
Mr. D might be able to come tomorrow; he doesn't know yet, but will let me know tonight. I hope so. I need my fix. Today when we were chatting on the phone, I was saying I'm glad he's not one of these macho guys who refuses to go to the doctor until he's at death's door (like John used to be, until he damn near died!). Mr. D said, "I do have a brain," and I replied, "Yes, you do. You managed to conceal it fairly well a lot of the time, but you do have one." I think he has extra incentive to show up tomorrow, now. :-)
Here's to calm. I've had enough crazy for a while.
Last week, we had three separates wildfires blazing, and they worsened as the temperatures climbed into the 90s and the winds picked up. None of them was near me or near John, but still. When it's fire season, I get this general, free-floating anxiety. I am so utterly terrified of fire, it's ridiculous. By Friday, I was jumping out of my skin. Add to that some worry over a scary drama that's going on with FetLife and some of my friends, and I was juggling a few jobs and fretting over which one I should do first, and I was a basket case by the time I left for John's Friday evening. I have two ginormous bruises on my left leg from two separate instances of walking into things.
It didn't help that when I walked out of my apartment and into the hallway, there was a strong smell of smoke. Be reasonable, Erica. It's a barbecue. There are no smoke alarms going off anywhere. Still, I walked all around the courtyard and up and down the alley, looking for a barbecue and saw none. So what did I do? I called and left a message with the building manager, just as a fail-safe. Because in my state, I was convinced that if I left for the weekend, I'd come home to smoldering ruins. Yes, I am certifiable.
Aggghhh. Fortunately, John knows how I get, and he did his best to calm and distract me. We had a nice weekend and he made me laugh a lot. I swear, I cannot take that man anywhere. We went to Whole Foods, and the cashier checking out our groceries had black, white-blond and green hair. John nonchalantly asked her, "So, is that your real hair color?" !!! "JOHN!" I screeched, mortified, but she just laughed, shrugged and said she doesn't remember what her real color is! He gets away with everything. Must be that boyish twinkle of mischief he has.
Miraculously, the weather did a 180-degree turn with the temps dropping about 25 degrees and clouds/rain coming in, so that helped with the fires. I came home and finished one work project last night, so I'd have the day a little more freed up for Mr. D.
But then he called and canceled. (sigh) He had been to the ER over the weekend and was going to his doctor for a battery of tests; some weird and scary symptoms came on. (Fortunately, all the worst-case scenarios were ruled out immediately by the ER.) We spoke this afternoon, and he's feeling better; he'll get all his test results tomorrow. I feel relieved now, but was anxious about him all morning. Working out helped.
Then I bought myself a new bookcase. Yes, I know -- an entire generation is out there saying, "What's a bookcase?" None of that e-reader business for this dinosaur -- I like real books, with real pages and covers. But they take up a lot of space. I currently have three large shelves on the wall, plus a large and a small bookcase, and they are overflowing, so it was time for another. I managed to wrangle a 36H x 24W x 13D solid oak case upstairs into my apartment from the garage without injuring myself or the bookcase, so I'm quite pleased with myself. After that, I settled in to work.
Mr. D might be able to come tomorrow; he doesn't know yet, but will let me know tonight. I hope so. I need my fix. Today when we were chatting on the phone, I was saying I'm glad he's not one of these macho guys who refuses to go to the doctor until he's at death's door (like John used to be, until he damn near died!). Mr. D said, "I do have a brain," and I replied, "Yes, you do. You managed to conceal it fairly well a lot of the time, but you do have one." I think he has extra incentive to show up tomorrow, now. :-)
Here's to calm. I've had enough crazy for a while.
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