What A Woman Wants

May 23, 1896
Charles Birchwood

Caroline picked up her hairbrush. She held it in her hands and stared at it as though an old friend betrayed her. I wonder why she does not look in the mirror with those eyes. The hairbrush, of course, has done nothing to her and never will.

I on the other hand certainly enjoy the weight of it in my hand and the energetic slapping of it against her full cheeks. In truth its very appearance in my wife’s hands sends a tingling of excitement down my spine. An inanimate object perhaps but capable of unique tactile stimulation. No doubt, Caroline would fail to share my fascination.

Her own fascination seems more morbid and dark. I wonder how many times her father has raised the same brush against or perhaps even her mother did so. Would they send her unwillingly to her room to fetch it for their use or would she merely wait until it was brought forth and waved menacingly at her? I must ask at the next convenience.

She brought it to me, her head down and yet for a moment I would have sworn I detected a hint of a smile on her lips. My imagination? I do not believe I have one. Her outstretched arm trembles ever so slightly as she waits for me to grasp the proffered brush from her hand. Her feet shift almost imperceptibly on the rug. I sat comfortably on the side edge of our bed and smiled.

She has made tremendous progress. No more does she attempt to avoid her chastisements. If less than willingly, she brings herself to me without argument. I took the brush from her hand and she seemed more relieved than fearful. She knows what will follow and she does not flee. Is it a sign of wanting? I like to believe it is. A little girl stands in place of my wife, but she is no little girl in form.

Every sensual curve screams of womanhood and despite her looks to the contrary there is no innocence amongst them. She pouts though, like a teenager caught in mischief. I pull her down over my lap and she sighs. Is it relief? Perhaps.

She takes a pillow to bury her cries in and I do not forbid it. I am too kind, I know. I wish I could be more forceful and cruel but such is not in my nature. I am truly a kind man and it weighs heavily on me to cause another to suffer. I can only raise the brush against her with the knowledge she desires it be so. She may not say it open words but what woman will say such things? Her smiles and touches say it loudly, the tenderness in her arms and the loving in our bed scream it to the stars. I would have to be deaf not to hear it.

I run the bristles over her buttocks and she wiggles adorably. I cannot help but do it again just to watch her squirm. I turn the brush over and gently polish her white buttocks. She nearly pushes against its light touch as I move it circularly along the curve. I raise it in the air and hold it for a moment. Anticipation tingle between her body and my lap.

I bring it down with a forceful slap and raise it high again in pause. She kicks her feet only slightly but enough to give me pleasure in the viewing. A small spot of pink in the white develops before my eyes. It invigorates me and I bring the brush down again.

I like to begin with the slow, hard, slaps. The pink coloration can be enjoyed in this way as well as the synchronized kicking and squirming. Her cries are brief and it seems in those early moments we connect in a loving way which prepares us both for the seriousness of the onslaught to come.

I hover the brush above her now pinked globes. I can feel her stress and tension pulse between us. I know the anticipation is unbearable for her but I always want to wait just a moment more. Is it sadistic? How can it be when it is love or is that very definition of love? Either way I will not be asking Father McGregory.

At last it is time. I flick my wrist and pepper her backside with fast and light slaps. She moans at first. Is it lustful?

Then she begins to kick her legs. At first it is slow and controlled but as the peppering continues it becomes more and more frantic, eventually desperate. But for what?

The skin begins to glow beneath the brush. Her reddening cheeks bring with them an emanation of heat. I bask in the warmth of them, amazed this can come from my once frigid wife. Her moans become tears and at the pique of the spanking she begins to plead. Does she really want me to stop? I think not.

I listen to her heart not her words. I can feel it through our connection and it beats faster and faster as the warmth and glow builds behind her. Only when it begins to slow and her body no longer writhes under my unforgiving onslaught do I know she has had enough. Is it always so with women? No doubt it is.

When her body claims it is enough, I stop. I massage her buttocks with the smooth side of her brush and she no longer pushes against it. I allow her a moment to rest on my lap, a moment to calm her tears and she does.

I lift her gently and help her to stand. She takes the brush from me like it is an old friend. She sets it back in its special place and returns to me. I wonder if I am her special place? She is certainly mine.

I take her in my arms and kiss her softly. The tasted of tears on her lips is an aphrodisiac to us both. I throw her none to gently down on our bed. She gasps but there is a smile on her face. I lay atop her and love her. I am not gentle in lust but I think she does not mind.


Paul said...

Excellent post, very descriptive, thank you.
Warm hugs,

Jen said...

I'm just going to say WOW! I loved every moment of that and echo Paul's comment.


Paul said...

'What a woman wants' I always knew it was something like this. lol.