by Erica Napier
(2/16/00)

The hairbrush glinted from beneath a pile of yellowing laces and faded quilts. I still don't know why I bought it. It was a frivolous purchase and not something I would normally do. However, as I felt the weight of the deeply carved silver in my palms, I knew I had to have it.

It was an almost guilty pleasure as I unwrapped it and set it on the bathroom counter. Immediately, the old plastic brush I had had for years seemed an insult to my hair. What was it my grandmother had always said? A woman's mystery was unveiled as her hair tumbled down her shoulders. It was her crowning glory. The brush shone against the fake marble as if in agreement and suddenly, my bathroom became a place of beauty.

I tossed the old brush unceremoniously, and with a bit of shame, into the wastebasket. I could hardly wait through the time it took me to shower before taking up the antique brush and drawing it through my hair. But, gratification is best delayed and so, I took my time. I carefully washed my hair, letting myself enjoy the herbal fragrance and the feel of the silken suds sliding down my neck and over my body. My nipples tightened at the whisper soft caress.

My sigh mingled with the spray as I rinsed myself beneath the pounding water.

As I stepped from the steamy solitude of my shower, a fine sheen of condensation filmed the silver backing of my new brush and I could see the faint outlines of fingerprints on it. A flight of fancy, perhaps? But I imagined the women who owned the brush before me. This was a gift from lover to lover. One that would be used in moment of greatest intimacy.

A smile lifted my lips as I considered what they might have been like. She probably would have been sitting at an elaborately carved vanity, crystal bottles arrayed before her. Her eyes would have been shut as she drew the brush through her long hair, soothing away the cares from the day. His hands would come suddenly to rest on her shoulders, warm and strong, and she would lean back against him, the brush slowing. He would loosen it from her grasp and resume the brushing for her.

His fingers would follow every brush stroke, but would continue past the ends of her hair. They would trail lightly over her silk clad back, causing her to arch like a pampered cat. Her smile would grow as she began to catch his hidden agenda in his actions. Soon, his lips would follow the brush's path, stopping to explore the scented hollow of her neck. And soon, the brush would be laid aside and the lights would be dimmed.

My usual evening attire of faded sweats no longer seemed appropriate, not if that brush was going to grace my hair and not in light of the scenes I was imagining. The silk of the robe, yet another frivolous purchase done in case I should ever need to dress for bed, slid with sensual ease over my skin. If I tried, I could imagine that it was the hands of a shadowy lover. Perhaps, the very same lover who had once held that brush and so carefully guided it through the crowning glory of his beloved.

Had I ever taken this kind of time to get ready before? I could think of no occasion, not even my own botch of a wedding so long ago. I was brought from my sensual musings on the lovers that had possibly used my new brush in their flights of intimate delights. Why was I troubling myself just for the brushing out of my kind of brown, kind of curly mane? And yet, as I peeked through the bathroom door, bedecked in a feminine concoction of lace and silk, I could not contain the shiver of anticipation that danced along my spine. I was finally ready.

My fingers trembled as I reached for the brush. I cradled it against my chest as I scurried to settle on the edge of my bed. My mouth was dry as I raised the heavy silver brush, with its soft bristles to my hair. It was like the feeling one would get as two faces move in for that first, fleeting kiss. An inhalation as I paused, the bristles just touching my hair.

I deepened the caress, as one would deepen a kiss, by plunging the brush into my hair. It slid smoothly through the tangles, soothing me and yet, I felt a feeling of restlessness begin in the pit of my stomach. How I yearned for the hands of that mysterious lover to be wielding this brush. The bristles parted my hair smoothly, sometimes drawing across my skin. It feeling caused me to shiver and I was surprised to see my nipples erect through the lace of my robe.

Hesitantly, almost embarrassed even in the sanctity of my own bedroom, I untied the belt of my robe and let it slip from my shoulders. I had grown aroused just from feeling this magical brush caress my skin as an afterthought. How would it feel if it were caressing my skin in earnest? Before I could lose my courage, I was never one for such odd explorations, I leaned back against my pillows, the brush held ready.

At the first touch of the bristles against the tightened skin of my areole I gasped. They were so soft though there was the faintest undercurrent of prickles as they scraped over my flesh. As I swallowed, I forced myself to lift the brush and focus on my other nipple. The sensations intensified and, to my surprise, I could feel myself growing moist.

I smoothed the brush over my heated skin, feeling my hips arch with longing. Such daring I felt as it moved lower and lower, circling over my belly, and lower still. The bristles caught and tangled in my pubic hair, the small catches and pulls making my back arch in pleasure and surprise. So this is what the books had meant when they said pain could be a facet of pleasure! Mundane thoughts were quickly chased from my mind as the brush dipped lower, just barely grazing my clitoris.

The bristles scraped and tugged at my sensitive clit causing me to moan. Any thoughts were forgotten as the sensations overwhelmed me. My other fingers caught and rolled my nipple in time to the frenzied movements of the brush against my mons.

I was so wet! Had any man ever made me this crazy, this ready for orgasm? I could feel the slow building of sensation that heralded the approach of my release. It was too soon! I wanted... No! I needed more! Instinctively, I reversed the brush and nearly wept with delight as the heavy handle, ridged with designs of ivy and flowers, touched my swollen lips.

How I longed simply to thrust the handle deep inside of myself like an impatient lover! But no, it would be my undoing and I did not want this to end so soon. With a teasing slowness that made me grit my teeth against a scream, I slipped the handle just inside my lips. Every ridge and every flourish of design seemed placed deliberately to enflame my nerves. Sweat beaded my forehead as my hips arched, eager to feel more of the handle. My hand on my breast moved quicker, tugging at my nipple until it became a tiny knot of feeling. And still, the handle continued it's slow exploration of my wetness.

My hand brushed the insides of my thighs and I realized with a start of surprise that the handle was fully within, sheathed in my heat. A shudder rippled through me as I began to move it in and out, slowly at first, and then more and more insistently. Moans tore from my throat as I finally gave in. I used both hands to slam the handle into myself with a ferocity that would, had I been capable of thought, astonished me. I had never been fucked, for that was the only word to describe the actions, as hard or as thoroughly as I was fucking myself with the hairbrush.

Crashing over the edge. That is the only way that I can describe the sensations that washed over me as my entire body clenched and released in the throes of orgasm. My world tilted as my hands slowly stilled in their ravishment. The brush slipped of its own accord from my body, a second shiver following its movements. My breathing was harsh and sweat plastered my silk robe to my body. And yet, I felt as though I were floating. For the first time in my life, I was totally sated. Sleep claimed me as the afterglow faded.

My dreams, that night, were full of shadowy lovers and it did not surprise me, the next morning, to see the hairbrush on the pillow beside me.