I’ve just been given a long and hard hairbrush paddling by my lover. He was very displeased with me. No voices were raised, he expressed himself eloquently with this implement of ass destruction. He knows that I hate receiving attention from my hairbrush. Its wallops are so focused, so hard-edged, so painful! When the initial burn from each wallop fades, a feeling as if the wood had left behind a thousand splinters stuck in my fanny’s flesh remains. I can’t recall a single time when I’ve gotten a hairbrush paddling that I wasn’t reduced to tears. I was just now getting myself under control, quieting the hysterical screaming sting across my buttocks, getting my flow of tears to cease, quieting my sobs. And then, instead of comforting me, holding me in his arms, caressing my wounded backside, telling me consoling words, it becomes clear that he’s not through punishing me. It’s like a shrill alarm sounds in my ears when I realize my bottom is in for more, in for worse treatment.
“Compare these two implements, Jeannie,” my lover softly says. He holds two brushes by their handles in front of my face. One is my Conair brand hairbrush, the one he just used to beat a tattoo into my tush. The other is one I’ve not seen before, I see that it’s an Ecotools brand bathbrush. “Do you see how this one has a handle that’s a foot longer?” I nod. “That handle,” he continues, “gives me a mechanical advantage in punishing you. That’s a third class lever, Jeannie.”
Normally full of bravado, I’m a sniveling, defeated little sub. “Do you have to use it on me right now, sir? My butt is really sore…!”
Unmoved, he says, “Yes, I think you need to feel the difference right here and right now. Get back over my knee, little girl.”
I obey. He taps my tushy with the bathbrush. Just these light pats sting vehemently across a backside that feels worn-out. I grab my lover’s ankle to brace myself for what’s in store, to try to elevate my buttocks as he wishes.
Whap! He gives me a shot with the bathbrush. I thought I had a reliable scale in my mind. On that scale, the hairbrush paddling he just administered was a nine point five on a scale of ten. But this bathbrush blows my scale away. This first shot is a thirteen!
As if explaining simple machines to a fourth grader, my lover elaborates, “You see, the long handle is a fulcrum…”
“The swing of my arm is the effort,” he lectures.
“And the impact from each spank is called the load. Is that all clear?”
I try to answer, “Yes, sir,” but he gives me another shot, the hardest one so far. WHAP!! So what comes out is “Ye-uuummm-boo-hoo…”
He gives me a set of wallops. I dissolve into a blubbering puddle of remorse. The lesson isn’t over, just the lecture portion. Now he wants a question and answer session.
“What is the proper term for the brush’s handle, Jeannie?”
“The fulc…” I sob.
“Good girl,” he pronounces, but instead of mercy, he gives me more wallops. They make me yell in anguish, beg without dignity, sob uncontrollably. “Maybe I’ll give you a refresher with this brush at bedtime tonight… Maybe I’ll put you in the wheelbarrow position, so that you’re on full display and give you another bathbrush paddling… Do you know that a wheelbarrow is just a combination of simple machines?” He goes on and on, asking me terms, paddling me ever harder.
It’s later, I don’t know how much later, time has lost its meaning. My lover has prepared a single layer of frozen peas on a metal baking pan, and I’ve been kneeling of this as I face a corner of the room. I’ve never served cornertime in this painful a fashion before. Although the peas hurt my knees terribly, it is nothing compared to the pain in my bottom. I keep thinking how nice a bag of frozen peas would feel pressed against my throbbing buttocks. I keep wondering if I’m going to receive another bathbrush lesson at bedtime later tonight. I wonder if he’ll put me in the wheelbarrow position, if he’ll elucidate me on other machines like the pulley, the screw, the wedge…
(A clear demonstration of the effectiveness of a well-applied bathbrush.)