He’s never really spanked me with a hairbrush. Hasn’t even picked it up from my dressing table while I’m peering into the mirror to do eyeliner, then delivered a playful, thudding whack onto my jeans-clad bum before we leave on a night out. But that doesn’t mean a girl can’t dream.
This post contains corporal punishment and elements of consensual non-consent.
Sometimes when I brush my hair I imagine him snatching the brush out of my hand. I give a brief squeak of surprise but that’s all I have time for before he uses his big hands to steer my shoulders down, bending me over and exposing my bum for him to whack.
Getting spanked with a hairbrush feels old-fashioned and traditional. It reminds me not of myself but of the persona I used to take on when I did school role play: a naughty girl. Someone sillier and gigglier than real life me. A girl in need of a firm hand and proper discipline.
That’s not really how things work with him.
With him I am me, always me. Greedy for his cock – demanding of his cock – less in need of authoritative discipline than a decent, grown-up fucking.
When we fuck I don’t giggle or squirm or bat my eyelashes. I don’t play the brat. When I whimper it’s not because I’m avoiding some kind of pain, it’s because I’m desperate for pleasure.
But I miss playing like this. Pretending that I am not me, but someone else: someone more innocent and trusting, who does things that require correcting via punishment.
This week I had a daydream in which he disciplined me. Properly disciplined: not indulging my love of being hurt in order to get me wet for sex, but punishing me for some perceived slight. He came home from a night out to find I’d messed up the kitchen. Pans everywhere, vegetable peelings all over the counters, sauce dripping onto worktops and crusting solid on the hob.
In my daydream he dragged me to the kitchen by my wrist, and told me to look at what I’d done. I giggled. I giggled because I knew that this dream-him would respond with a frown and a tut.
You’re not even sorry, are you?
I didn’t want to apologise straight away, I wanted him to make me.
In my daydream he held both my wrists together in one hand, and with the other stripped down my jeans and knickers, giving me three or four good, hard whacks right there in the middle of the kitchen.
Are you sorry yet?
Not yet – we’re just getting started.
I giggle some more, and squirm in his grip – just enough that he knows I’m resisting, but not so much that I actually escape.
Go and get the hairbrush.
And I pull my jeans up, race upstairs to find it, and by the time I’m down he’s sitting on the edge of the sofa ready to take me over his knee. I pout, and then grin, and then die of happiness.
When he spanks me with the hairbrush, he begins gently. This isn’t to warm me up, but to give me enough room to brat and squirm and enjoy resisting some more. He smacks me over and over again, until my bottom’s bright red and it feels like that’s where my heartbeat has always been. Then he tells me that I still don’t seem sorry enough.
I giggle and tell him I’m not, so he says Right, then. I’ll make you. I’d forgotten just what a little bitch you can be.
And with one hand firmly in the small of my back to keep me still, he spanks me with the hairbrush. Hard.
Are you sorry now?
Hard enough to leave square marks the shape of the paddle on my bum.
And now? You thought I was joking but I’m fucking serious. Say sorry.
Hard enough that I squeal for real this time – no playing or bratting. Just a squeak of pain and a wriggle that for a second feels like I genuinely want to escape.
Are. You. Going. To. Apologise.
No. Not yet.
In my head I can picture the exact curve of his arm – the muscles at his bicep and shoulder tensing as he gets ready for the next smack. And in my head I see him building from a few hard whacks to a flurry of them – beating me so hard that tears stream down my face and my mouth hangs open at the stinging, harsh shock of it.
Hard enough that my screams of ‘ow’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘stop’ eventually melt into ‘sorry!’
I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry I won’t do it again please just stop I’m sorry!
There’s a good girl, he says, as he pushes me off his lap. Now… he continues, unbuttoning his jeans.
Are you sorry enough to suck my cock?
As I say, it’s a daydream. When I tell him this fantasy later that evening, he gets hard but smiles indulgently, explaining that it could never come true. Not because of the hairbrush, but because he’d no more tell me off for messing up the kitchen than he’d sprout wings and fucking fly. But if I can find something more realistic for him to find fault with, maybe he’ll do this one day.
Then again, maybe he won’t, because the hairbrush itself nudges him into a role that doesn’t fit: authoritative disciplinarian rather than enthusiastic pervert. He’s never felt truly comfortable in this place – certainly not as comfortable as me when I slip into giggles and squirms and bratty submission. It’s hard for him to tell me off when he knows that’s not his right. Even harder to play-act the calm authority of someone who thinks it is.
My hairbrush broke the other day, and when I went looking for a replacement I found myself picking the one with the biggest paddle.
Just in case.