Clench

Everyone should have a partner in mischief

“Let’s play,” he whispers, as he slowly combs the ebony hairbrush through my lustrous hair.

And then I feel my clothes falling off my body, as if every one of their seams were never really stitched together at all.

He plucks my panties from the floor, gathering my hands behind my back. I feel the damp fabric being passed over my fingers, as he uses my sodden underwear to bind my wrists. Then he pinches one of my nipples, and tugs me towards the living room.

I’m led towards the ottoman in the centre of the room, with an encouraging smack ushering me to step onto it. I widen my stance to preserve my balance, acquiescing as he slowly slides the brush’s smooth handle deep into my slit. It slips in so easily. I clench almost instinctively, squeezing it tight, like he’s given me his hand, and I never want to let go.

I stand on my podium with my breasts level with his face. He playfully suckles my nipples whilst gently pushing the brush upwards, until he’s convinced the handle is as deep as it will go. Only then does he pluck his phone from his pocket. He shows me the screen. A 15 minute countdown has already started. How strange, the numbers appear to change much slower than I expected.

If my tight cunt can keep the hairbrush clenched for the full 15 minutes, I shall win. I’ll be allowed to sit and straddle his big hard cock, nestling my face in his wide warm chest as he sensually strokes the hairbrush through my hair. I will get to come as I clench him, as he brushes my tresses in long slow swooshes, feeling like fizzing stardust is being sprinkled into my tingling scalp.

But if I let the brush fall, I shall get a smacked bum, and no chance to cum.

Failure will mean kneeling on the ottoman with my nose on the floor and my bum in the air. He’ll use the hairbrush in its other way: to make me all hot and stingy. Afterwards, he’ll put his stiff cock in the valley between my smarting cheeks, and thrust up and down until I feel his warm mess spurting onto the small of my back. Then he’d rub his sticky cream into my sore cheeks, teasingly commiserating on what I’d missed out on.

These are the stakes we play for in our Clenching Game. This is what’s running through my mind as I grasp the handle of the brush tight with the muscles of my cunt. 

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What’s inside me is no ordinary hairbrush. It’s a work of art. A unique erotic artefact.

Several years ago he discovered an artisan woodworker who specialised in creating beautiful handmade hairbrushes to the client’s specifications. He had thought carefully about precisely what he wanted, there would have to be a round flat back for bottom smacking, but it shouldn’t be too large, as he intended it to be discreet and portable. 

The wood is a deep dungeon black, with a beautiful red-orange swirling grain, a species of sustainably sourced Brazilian ironwood called Blackheart. It is dense and heavy, and inflicts a forceful thuddy smack and a narrow concentrated sting.

The handle was just as important as the bottom smacking surface. He had specified a smooth varnished shaft, with a slight bulge at the far end, supplying dimensions that just so happened to be precisely the same length and girth as his own big stiff penis.

He gave me the hairbrush as a birthday present, in a box along with a handwritten note containing five rules.

The first rule was Permission. 

I was not to spank myself, or masturbate, or even dreamily suck the handle, without asking for approval first. This rule was easy to obey, if I ever used the brush to pleasure myself, I certainly wanted him to know precisely what I was doing. How much it stretched me, how I was imagining him pushing deep inside me.

The second rule was Usage.

When I brushed, he asked me to imagine his fingers combing through my hair. I loved taking the brush out in public, gripping its thick round shaft and imagining I was holding his penis in my hand. I loved how the knobbly-tipped bristles soothed my scalp and massaged my mind.

The third rule was Reverence.

He asked me to treat his hairbrush with the utmost respect. When I was at home, it occupied pride of place on my dressing table. When I was away on business, or on holiday, I’d keep it in a little velvet travel pouch. When I slept alone, I’d place the brush under the covers, level with my own waist, pointing towards the foot of the bed, just where his cock would be had he been sleeping beside me, so at any time I could reach across and hold him.

The fourth rule was Stroking.

Whenever I brushed my hair in private, I was to be naked. I was to stroke its flat back across the curves of my own smooth skin, around my breasts and all the way down to my bare shaved mound, before skirting around my hips to rub my bottom cheeks. Of course, without his permission I wasn’t allowed to spank myself, or stroke it up and down my throbby slit, but I soon began to value this little ritual of mindfulness enormously.

The fifth and final rule was Everywhere.

His hairbrush was to become my permanent companion, accompanying me wherever I went. It would lurk unseen in boardrooms during important meetings, and be right beside me on every adventure and excursion. 

When we were apart, and flirting, each new incoming message would make my heart flutter. Especially as our naughty conversations escalated, and I knew the next might be an instruction to go somewhere private and deliver a few quick discreet smacks. 

When we were together, it was even more thrilling to know that at any time he might ask me to hand over my hairbrush, and lead me somewhere out of sight to spank me. Or he might reach beneath my dress and tug my panties down, and slip the brush deep inside me to play The Clenching Game.

How exciting it is to stand behind a copse of trees at the fringe of a garden party, with my wrists bound with my own underwear, and his heavy black hairbrush deep in my cunt. Like we’re playing our own furtive game of Hide and Seek, feeling our hearts thump in our chests as nearby voices giggle and chuckle, quite unaware of our scandalous misbehaviour.

It was no coincidence the letters of my rules spelt out PURSE, as that’s where I kept my precious new brush. It was as inseparable from me as my phone, when one went in my little clutch bag, its partner did too. Two everyday essentials for coping with modern life.

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He interrupts my reverie by tilting his phone screen towards me, and now I can see the number 10. He congratulates me on my self-control, and begins to unbutton his trousers, and I feel myself squeeze the handle even tighter.

Despite my desperate grip, I’m so wet, and can sense the brush almost imperceptibly slipping. 

The brush is jutting from between my legs, with some of its rounded bristles gently tickling the insides of my bum cheeks. And now these sensations are moving appreciably downwards, like the tiny footsteps of a procession of marching ants.

I’m trying to establish why. Is it slipping with each breath I take? I’m already barely daring to breathe, an act of self-restraint that’s beginning to make me feel rather light-headed.

What I’m feeling is the hairbrush slowly succumbing to gravity’s cruel tug. At this very moment, every atom on the planet is conspiring against me, bending the space of reality by a miniscule amount, collectively creating an invisible slope down which my brush is relentlessly slipping. 

I doubt he’s thinking about the warped geometry of spacetime right now. He’s reclining on the couch in front of me, smirking as he frees his erection from his briefs. I clench as soon as I see it, immediately envisioning what’s inside me is his thick shaft.

I feel the muscles of my cunt quiver, and the intrusion slipping further. I so want to reach between my legs and push the brush back inside, but my hands are hovering tantalisingly just above it, snarled in the panties he wrapped around my wrists.

The muscles of my legs are beginning to ache, but I don’t dare stretch or shuffle.

He lifts his phone again, only 5 minutes more to endure, then I can finally straddle his lap and impale myself properly.

But I am trapped in a quandary. The wetter I become, the more I feel it slip, and the tighter I must clench. But this prompts my cunt to twitch and quiver, and that just makes me wetter. Each successive little spasm loosens my grip further. The hairbrush now feels heavier than ever, a hefty weight dangling between my legs. 

I have had to close my eyes, I can no longer bear to watch him teasing me by stroking his big stiff cock. 

What a delicious agony we have invented for ourselves. Countless visitors have sat where I am right now, quite unaware that when they’re gone, I'll be standing naked with my hands bound behind my back, trying to keep a hairbrush clenched in my slit.

The brush feels unnaturally heavy. Where I used to be filled, now there’s a gap, like the hungry sensation of an empty stomach, but felt deep in my cunt.

Anyone looking closely between my legs right now would see a little message slowly emerging as the handle slipped gradually from my lips. Etched into it, in letters small enough to be a whisper, are the words: With You Everywhere.

This is our own little motto, our mutual pledge that wherever we are, whatever we’re doing, we’ll always be thinking about each other. Together we are partners in mischief. We embark on naughty conspiracies, and exchange outrageous secret messages. We make each other tingle, we share covert knowing glances, that in an instant, can convey a thousand filthy words.

Why linger on bad thoughts, when we can share naughty ones instead?

When we play The Clenching Game, the end comes slowly, then thrillingly quick. Just like any other fucking. There’s the long leisurely build-up, where I surf the pleasure of being stretched and filled for as long as I can. Until I reach the point of no return, when everything changes, all at once.

“Two minutes to go!” he announces cheerily. 

I clench myself as tight as I possibly can, as if trying desperately to avoid wetting myself. But the heavy brush is still inexorably slipping, my only chance is that the round bulge at the end of the handle is caught by the last-gasp grip of my entrance.

Clenching the brush is like being fucked in excruciatingly slow motion. One rapid thrust to fill me, followed by fifteen minutes as it languidly withdraws.

Could I come from just a single thrust? I think I could. All it would take would be to suddenly relax, to let the brush fall, and surrender to the inevitable. I know I’d come so hard just before getting my bare bottom whacked.

“90 seconds!”

But I want to hold on. My pride wants me to win. I want to be looking into his eyes as I ride him, as he fills me deep and runs my brush through my hair. Not staring at the floor with stinging cheeks and an empty unsatisfied cunt.

“One more minute to hold on, little one! Or I’ll be wanking over your poor spanked bum!”

The bulge of the handle is teetering at the very rim of my entrance. The sensation summons such a powerfully intimate memory, it feels like the very first time he put his hand in my panties. That time his finger slid down my bare mound, as our mouths merged and our tongues touched. I was already so wet, and his probing fingertip entered easily, but then stopped. The shallowest intrusion, just barely inside me. Just like now.

“30 seconds…”

I remember how he held his finger there, as I ached for something deeper. I remember exactly what he whispered, how his hot breath poured into my burning ear. I’ll never forget the extraordinary moment when he repeatedly circled his fingertip around the rim of my vagina, and first declared his intention to spank my bare bottom, hard.

Fuck. That first time. When he picked up my old hairbrush and turned it into a magic wand.

“10… 9… 8…”

Oh my. 

This is going to be so, so close…

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@spankingtheatre 2023