Mojo?

Did you know that the slang word "mojo" originated in the deep south, and was first used to mean "a snapping turtle in a whiskey bottle?" Now, it has a wide range of meanings, but generally it implies a quality of personal charm, charisma, or energy -- especially if used to describe the more sexual aspects of a person or their sexual performance.

I was all set to take off on a post about "getting my mojo back..." taking a page from kaya's book, but I thought I better check out exactly what that might mean first. After all, "mojo" is not a word that my generation used much -- make that AT ALL, and as I thought about it, I wasn't entirely sure I had my slang-ology down.

Now, as it turns out, I am sort of taken with that "snapping turtle in a whiskey bottle" imagery, but that may have to wait for another post... Hold that thought.

No. I'm up to talking about spanking right now. Because I've been thinking about spanking. A lot. A lot more. All the time. Well OK. Maybe not all the time, but way more than I have been for a very long time, and not in the same sort of negative, live through it, because I promised, have to do it or lose my place, kind of way that I have been. I've been thinking about spanking in ways that make my insides twist and my gut churn and my pussy get hot. Yeah. Me. Hot. Wow!

And nobody is more surprised by that development than me. Because I have come to believe that those days were long gone. Vanished in the mists of another life and another time.

Except that just lately, there have been these sort of fleeting thoughts about paddles and the way it would feel if He would just bend me over or roll me over or flip me over or... Well, yeah... Paddles. And, sometimes, the thoughts aren't all that fleeting either. Sometimes there is yearning, longing, hunger. I remember. Being hungry.

And there have been months and months and months where the spankings have been something that I've endured, and something that He has measured carefully so as not to cross whatever boundary there was that neither of us could see or define or understand. So that hunger is a familiar, but long-absent and oh-so-welcome visitor in our lives.

But, Saturday, I showed up ill. Not just kind of puny, but really ill. I woke up feeling like I had a bit of a cold. That was not an issue. We played just the same. But by afternoon, I was really feeling achy and crummy. Then He left to drag the accumulated trash to the dumpster, and I went to get a shower. I stood under the hot water and suddenly the world spun and turned gray and fuzzy. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, I went to the floor of the shower, and simply let myself lay limp on the floor rather than fall. T found me there, and the alarms were sounded. He went immediately from sadistic Master to concerned and worried lover and I was on my way to the urgent care center before I could muster a counter-argument. It turned out to be nothing very serious, probably some sort of virus, or perhaps a "hydration" issue, but whatever, I was clearly limp and pale and not up for much in the way of "play." Sunday was better but He was having none of it. By dinner time, I was to the point of "asking" for the spanking that I was longing for -- but, of course, we needed to visit Grandma and eat dinner and watch the Sunday night football game (Eagles at Patriots)...

Spanking does not happen when I am sick and it does NOT happen when there is football on TV. Nothing happens when there is football on TV! Get real! I tried to stay awake until the end of the game, but I never did see the last plays. I fell asleep still wishing for that spanking.

He was awake early. Stressing over the seemingly never-ending CRAP that is His working life these days. By 4:30, He was tired of lying awake and decided to get up and go organize His day. When He moved to get out of the bed, I woke up. We talked some, and I gradually came up out of the deep sleep I'd been in when He first moved. I rubbed His back and He became less and less inclined to leave. I finally worked up the courage to suggest that He might give me the spanking that we'd talked about the night before. He didn't need me to ask twice. All thoughts of organizing His day seemed to vanish. He did ask if I needed the rock, and I told Him it didn't matter. I really just wanted His hands on me. So, over the pillows I went and we were off.

He began with a hand spanking and then moved on to a strap. Then He began fussing -- looking for some of His Hanson Paddles. Clearly, He wasn't finding what He was wanting. I always find that situation difficult -- I never know whether to get up and offer to help Him find whatever He's looking for, or stay put and let Him deal with it. This time, I was in a mind space that felt "there," and I opted to just try and keep calm and stay right where I was. He eventually made some choice of paddles (there must be a couple dozen at least) and came back t0 me. I felt my mind "buck" at the start of the paddling, but then there was a flip over place and I shifted to a sense of the powerful burn of the strokes and suddenly the whole thing was on a different level.

And then He was done. Ready to fuck. Except He really wasn't. The nonsense with the paddles had stolen the magic hard on. It ain't all that easy, children. And I was knowing that we were up against the Monday morning clock thing. Talk about pressure! We didn't start all that smoothly or well. It took a couple of tries before we got the rhythm and pattern down and fell into sync with one another. And... then... we were there! Together, in perfect time with each other, sensing one another's rising energies, following the lead, one after the other, up and up -- until we hit the summit together. And not only the climax, but gushing and flooding and flowing with an absolute shattering orgasm... an event that has not happened once in the last two years.

What a way to start the work week... Makes waking up early a glad event. Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy!

swan