The Brush Off

The Brush Off
Mistress Morrigan

One of my closest friends, a woman who knows of my private lifestyle but has never been involved in it herself, came to me the other day with a request.  She had been watching a movie and in one of the scenes the heroine was taken over the knee of another character and given a spanking with the back of a hairbrush.  My friend couldn’t even remember the context of the spanking in the movie, what transgression had led to this form of corporal punishment of an adult woman.  All she could remember from that scene on was the sound of the brush connecting with bare skin…and the way it had made her feel as she watched.

It started out as an innocent seeming question, but I know enough about people in general and her in particular that I knew there was something more behind it.  As we sat at my kitchen table having coffee and catching up on our lives she was having trouble maintaining eye contact.  She fiddled with her cup and she toyed with the plate of cookies I had set out for us to nibble on.  Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and I asked what was on her mind.  I had never seen her turn such a lovely shade of red.  It took her several tries but she was eventually able to get it out.  She told me about the movie scene, she told me that she had been dreaming about it and thinking about it constantly for nearly two weeks and then she asked for my help.  My friend, who had never really been interested in my lifestyle as more than a curious bystander, wanted me to spank her.

Not much in my life surprises me anymore, but this did.  I won’t say that the idea didn’t appeal to me, or that I hadn’t actually thought about it before.  She has a very spankable ass.  But I had to weigh the consequences of saying yes.  On one hand I was flattered that she trusted me with this; on the other I knew that it would change the dynamics of our relationship.  Then she looked at me with her big blue eyes so full of confusion and trust and I couldn’t refuse her.  She was my friend after all.

I knew that if I took her to my playroom it would scare the curiosity right out of her.  I gave her a safe word to use in case she changed her mind at any time and then I took her to my bedroom.

She stood just inside the door, eyes on her feet, looking shy and a bit guilty and I knew exactly how to handle her.  I went to my dressing table and picked up my favorite hairbrush.  It is sturdy and has some weight to it.  It also has a long enough handle to get a firm grip on, which makes it excellent for spanking.

At the foot of my bed is a padded bench.  This is where I sat.  I didn’t say a word, I just lightly smacked the brush against the palm of my hand and watched her.  Each time the wooden brush came in contact with my skin she twitched, just a little. When I finally told her to come to me she nearly jumped out of her shoes at the sound of my voice.  I could feel the energy vibrating off of her when she stood in front of me.

I asked her if she deserved what was about to happen and when she just nodded I made her say it aloud.  I made her tell me that she had been bad and that she needed to be punished, she needed to be spanked.  I made her say please. Then I took her over my knee.

I don’t know if she had chosen to wear a skirt that day in the hopes that this would happen or if it was something unconscious, but it was a good choice.  As she lay there across my knees I flipped the back of her skirt up and exposed her panty covered bottom; cotton in the palest pink.  I think my heart actually did a flip-flop in my chest and I had to remind myself this was my friend and I was helping her.  To warm her up I left her panties in place and smacked her bottom with the back of the brush six times, three on each butt cheek.  I made her count each one.  I could feel her heart beat against my thighs and her breath was already coming in short gasps.

I asked her how bad she had been and she stammered when she replied that she had been very bad.  At that I jerked her panties down over the curve of her ass and, telling her to count out loud, began to apply the wooden hairbrush to her bare skin with a little more force.  First one cheek and then the other until her skin began to turn a perfect rosy hue.  By the time she reached the count of twelve she was crying softly, by twenty she was sobbing and barely able to speak.  I knew it was time to stop.

I gently tugged her panties back into place and helped her to stand up.  Her hair hung around her face in messy curls and tears dripped from her chin.  I took tissues from my dressing table and led her over to the bed.  Fully dressed, shoes and all, we curled up together on top of the covers and I dried her tears.  I held her until her breathing slowed and I held her as she fell into an exhausted sleep.