A Brush with Trouble

It’s just a hairbrush. Purchased from target for $10. It has a large flat ceramic back made to look like varnished wood. It looks sturdy, heavy, but when you pick it up it is surprising light. Despite its value for money it is actually a rather lovely looking thing and if you had a lot of long hair I am fairly sure this hairbrush would be ideal. Its life in our house is nothing to do with brushing hair though.

The first time he used it on me I cried, bitter painful tears as its shiny flat surface bit into my flesh. Its rigid properties mean this tool is utterly unforgiving. The only place for the force of the impact to go is into the flesh, burnings its imprint onto the skin in the process but because there is no weight to it the hairbrush is never going to bruise, instead it delivers a sting that cuts through my skin like fire and I hate it.

I don’t enjoy the sensation of sting in the same way I do thud but there are some toys we have that deliver sting in a way that I can embrace but the hairbrush is not one of those. The hairbrush is for punishment. It has no other use. My body cannot process the pain it delivers into anything close to erotic. In fact as time has gone on my body seems to have grown to hate it more or maybe that is because it is rarely used and when it is it is a reflection of my behaviour and his disappointment. I know what the hairbrush means and I don’t like it one little bit… or do I?

I am writing this laying on our bed, the hairbrush is sitting next to me, looking innocently like a hairbrush. I find myself wanting to reach out for it and run its shiny smooth surface over my skin before flipping it over and rubbing the bristles between my legs, letting them graze and poke at the folds of my cunt before bringing it back to my face and breathing in. I know if I did this the scent of my own arousal would fill my nostrils, carried from between my legs to my face by the hairbrush I hate so.

Sometimes hate is complicated. I will go out of my way to avoid the hairbrush and yet I love that we have it. There is something deliciously old-fashioned and domestic about it. This innocuous household object represents discipline, rules, authority, expectations and maybe most of all love. When it is used for correction a flourish of bitter resentful hatred for it existence swirls around inside my brain and yet the moment it is cast aside, its message delivered, and I am curled sobbing and repentant in his arms there blossoms a little glimmer of love and lust for what it represents in my life.