The Dreaded Hairbrush

My ass has been smacked by many, many different things.

We have many objects around the house specifically designed to strike an eager or penitent buttock, so it was obviously just a cruel fun and lighthearted whim that led Master to reject all of them in favor of my hairbrush one morning.

“Go get your brush” used to make me think He was going to brush my hair, which is one of my most favorite things ever.  But NOOOOO.  This particular morning it lead to a memorable session of being thrown down and paddled, just because.

And despite whatever experience or general propensity for masochism I may have, the hairbrush hurts.  It is an evil, evil thing full of stingy wrath.

The main thing that’s come of this evil and sadistic  kind and loving exploration of my personal effects as objects of torment is that now every time I brush my hair I think at least briefly about being paddled and that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.

Also, when Master does choose to revisit the old hairbrush, I get this extra layer of humility on top of the surrender a good beating brings out.  It’s not just that He is overwhelming me with physical sensation, orchestrating it to bring out the biggest reaction in me, it’s that fact that I am being turned into a weepy pile of mush by a hairbrush.  It says, this is not about fancy toys or showing off.  It’s a reminder that He doesn’t need any special items, but can break me down in like 5 minutes whenever He feels like it, just for the hell of it.

Everyone sing along! "One of these things is not like the other . . . "

Everyone sing along! “One of these things is not like the other . . . “

Adding the brush as an occasional visitor to our play has given an ordinary object some erotic and loving associations I would not have expected, which feels good when we are apart.

At least, that’s how it feels now.  In the moment that feeling of “Damn, I’ve been bested by a $5 Revlon bristle brush and that is humiliating,” sort of rises to the top.  Every. Time.

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