Quel’s Homework – “On the Effects of the Hairbrush”
The inimitable Keith Jones in a Shadow Lane photo from a while ago. I apologize to the young lady whose name I cannot recall, but it isn't Quel.
An Essay on the Effects of the Hairbrush
I don’t usually like to think about the hairbrush. The one I am talking about is small, made of glossy oak and about eight or ten inches tall with boar’s bristles. It is also deceptively innocent. You see, this hairbrush has never been used on my hair. That’s because the hairbrush is His tool for “getting my attention.” And His idea of getting my attention is to use the flat side of the brush on my bottom until He feels I’m repentant enough to stop. This is usually long after my bottom has darkened several shades of red and it feels as if I will never be able to sit again. I never get the brush for good girl spankings. I only get the hairbrush if I’ve done something very bad.
Before He uses the hairbrush is the worst part. There is a moment when I realize that I have done something naughty enough to warrant a spanking, and in that moment I desperately hope that He will forget I even own a hairbrush. The flying creatures in my stomach try to escape through my throat. My brain scrambles wildly to come up with a plausible reason for avoiding my meeting with the hairbrush. For a moment I feel like I am shrinking but I don’t escape His notice. His brown eyes scold, He raises an eyebrow and in a calm voice He tells me to get the hairbrush. My heart skips a beat or two and I begin evasive tactics. I tease, I dance about and finally I out and out beg. I offer to take any other implement, even the leather paddle, but He is a rock against my pleading. He never lets me complain for long, and soon enough I am digging the hairbrush out of its drawer and handing it over to Him with trembling hands.
My man is not one to scold long. He knows I know what I have done. The bright color in my cheeks and the stumbled apologies that spill from my mouth are louder against the backdrop of His silence. He asks me if I am ready, to which the answer is always no, and then He tumbles me over His lap like a doll and with as little resistance. Sometimes, if I forget to remember how much the hairbrush is going to hurt I will pout and make faces or try to tickle His ankles. He is never amused at my attempts to lighten His mood and hopefully save my bottom. Slowly, and with a steady hand He pulls my sweatpants and panties to my knees. It is then, with my naked backside exposed to His gaze, that I finally realize I am no longer in charge, if I ever was.
Punishment spankings are fast paced and go on much, much too long. I am utterly helpless as the hairbrush smacks over and over. I don’t know if He scolds because I am deaf to anything but my own whimpers. There are a few minutes at the beginning when I think I can handle the burn building in my behind and I resolve to remain silent just to show Him that I don’t care. But every time I forget my sense of shame and lady-like decoroum and beg Him to stop. As the spanking goes on, I think my backside is going to burn up. Sometimes I am pretty sure you could roast an egg with the heat my man can instill. The worst part about the hairbrush is that it doesn’t bend. It is an unrelenting slab of wood against my naughty behind.
I am always sorry when He uses the hairbrush on me. I wish I were anywhere but across His lap, even though in retrospect that is often where I feel most secure and loved. I know He spanks me because He loves me, and because He wants to help me be a better girl. While I am being spanked I am sure that I will never misbehave or tease ever again. I kick and squirm and say sorry until there is no fight left in me, and only then does He stop using the hairbrush. But while I am being spanked it feels like that moment will never come.
The true scolding comes after the hairbrush, when He knows He has my attention. With the dreaded implement lain casually at His side, and still within easy reach, He lectures me on my misdeeds while I sob across His lap. My hair clings to my salty tears and I choke out responses at the appropriate times, even though I am mostly praying that He is finished with the evil implement. My bottom aches but I don’t have the courage to ask Him if I can have something to make it feel better. Part of my punishment is to “appreciate” the after burn of the hairbrush, one of the reasons He prefers this implement to almost any other. After He has scolded me sufficiently He sets me to thinking.
As I stand in the corner or kneel at the side of the bed, I bite my tongue to distract myself from the sting in my red bottom. I am never, ever allowed to rub away the burn until He says so, and often He does not. He wants the spanking to have a lasting impression so that when I sit down for the next few days I will know that I am His and He is in charge. Sometimes, while I am supposed to be pondering my misdeed, I imagine throwing the hairbrush to the woodchipper, or rehabilitating it as an art piece. I think He knows what I am thinking because He will sometimes give me a look with a reprimand in it, and I will blush to match my nether cheeks and remember that I am loved and a very lucky girl. The after effects of a hairbrush spanking last for a long time, or at least it seems that way to me.
The best part of the spanking is when it is all over and He pulls me onto His lap to cuddle and kiss. The reproaches and scoldings are over and He has nothing but words of love and affirmation to give me. He calls me His kitten and I smile shyly and thank Him for loving me, and taking care of me.