Hairbrush Hangover

She loved his cock. She loved it out of all proportion to its length, its thickness, both of which were considerable but in her mind had bloated it to superhuman dimensions. His was a cock that deserved its own fanfare, a set of curtains that would swish apart to reveal it in all its semi-erect glory.

Um no, let's start again.

She adored his cock, just as she adored everything about him. To her, his cock was a symbol of his masculinity, his raw sexuality, a focus of animal, almost primeval power and lust. His cock was king of the jungle, untempered and wild, physical and utterly lacking in logic, a metaphor for life itself.

No, no, too much. It's just a cock, not the opening of The Jungle Book.

She adored his cock. Other men had penises, or willies. His was a cock, and what a cock. To her, it was a massive battering ram, the sort of mighty organ worthy of Homer's verse, and she was the walls of Troy, a decadent symbol of Arcadia, both resisting its entry and waiting, oh waiting to be entered, torn, split, rent asunder, pillaged and raped, fucked into the annals of history and myth, remembered only in tales passed down from generation to generation, the ruins of her existence left in mere fragments of a bygone and more innocent age, in short no place at all.

It was her cock, and it always would be.

But not tonight. Tonight he was away, visiting friends, and she was left alone, missing him, missing more than anything his cock. She remembered with a tinge of regret the moments when he was with her and she'd done nothing to remind him that most of what she wanted from life was swinging betwixt his legs. What a waste. Now she wanted it and it wasn't here. Very alone in her house, just the cat keeping her company, and she was as horny as hell, her cunt aching for the presence of his cock. Without it, she felt very empty and unfulfilled.

She'd tried masturbating, as she often did on nights like these, but her fumblings felt poor and uncoordinated, and her fingers, normally so deft and perfectly aligned with her senses, did little to satisfy. She knew what she needed - a good filling. Images of his cock filled her mind. It seemed to her she could recall everything about it - the way it tasted, the unblemished head, the ridges and veins along its shaft, its length, which appeared impossible to her though she managed to accommodate it and could take much of it in her mouth to their mutual happiness. She regretted that she hadn't taken the plunge and ordered a dildo for moments just like these. On the web, she'd seen the one she wanted, the one that seemed closest to his size, but she hadn't sorted it yet. Fuck.

Images of potential cock substitutes lying around the house filled her mind -- each she had to dismiss. Toothbrush -- far from adequate. 500ml Pepsi Max bottle -- more like it, but the plastic ridge just below the cap looked like it might be painful. TV remote -- how would she explain the fact it didn't work anymore? Sorry, it got covered in pussy juices. I don't know how.

Getting desperate, she staggered into the bathroom. Two objects sprung to mind -- a tin of deodorant, and her hairbrush. The former looked the more likely candidate -- it was kind of cock shaped, after all, good and thick with a bulbous head that seemed like a challenge to fit inside her. She was dimly aware of how crazy an idea this was, but her physical needs held sway. She grabbed the can, and took the brush as a substitute, and rushed back into bed.

Remembering to lock the spray -- thoughts of setting it off whilst it was inside her filled her with horror, leaving her a frozen albeit sweet smelling (with hints of vanilla) love hole -- she sat up, her back propped against the headboard, legs apart, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her chest! She didn't dare go near her pussy for the time being, but the party in her tits was bad enough. Her nipples were hard and sore, buds reforged as bullets, angry pulses of erotic need pulsing through her body when she touched them. She played with a nipple, squeezed it, kneaded it between her fingers, squeezed it harder, lifted her entire tit up so she could lick it, attempting to take the entire areola into her mouth.

In the meantime, she gripped the deodorant with her right hand and tried introducing it to her hole -- fuck, cold! The top of the can, which felt like such a good cock substitute, now seemed ridiculously big. Her pussy just wouldn't accept it, no matter what she tried. She slid it along her swollen lips, as though to coax it open. Not a chance. She nudged it against her clitoris, slipped it along the length of her gash, feeling the lid as it was coated in juices. Nope. The way was shut. A sign had been erected at her entrance -- Verboten! -- and nothing she could do to could change its mind. As a last resort, she thought of teasing it with a finger, but by now she was so wound up that it just made her start physically, emerging with nothing more splendid than a soaking digit and an enraged, dissatisfied set of genitalia.

After some minutes of trying and failing to get anywhere, she realised the deodorant simply wasn't going to work; her efforts were just leading to further frustration and that was the last thing she needed. Her body felt as though it was wrapped within a fine film of lusty sweat, her cunt so hot and angry that she imagined needing to call emergency services to put out the fire. And wet, so wet, like her pussy was establishing the source of a new river. Juices trickled from her, flooding across her taint and covering her arsehole, which just stimulated her more.

Then she remembered the brush, lying on her bed, a poor substitute with its thin shaft but suddenly far, far better than nothing. It wasn't the same brush, but she remembered using a very similar object to tease herself back during her earliest memories of exploration. Since first fucking herself with a brush, she'd had cocks of varying shapes and sizes, even the disappointingly small ones doing more than the rigid plastic, yet it would do. Fuck would it do. She was close to tears by now, thinking she would happily fuck a house brick if it meant bringing her a little satisfaction. She held the brush by its bristles and inspected it briefly. The handle was maybe five inches long, perhaps an inch in thickness. Not worthy of taking the place of his cock, not at all, but he was gone, which meant his cock was mocking her from miles away too. A moment of shame crossed her mind. Was she really about to do this? Had her sexual needs taken over so fully that she was honestly about to shove the handle of a hairbrush up her twat?

And it slid inside her so easily too. Her cunt let out a sigh, either of sorrow or bruised satisfaction, as it finally had something around which to wrap itself, the walls of her pussy closing in happily on the object. She exhaled. How long had it been since she last breathed? The movement seemed to relax her entire body, as though it had dropped an inch, sated. She sensed everything around her -- the silence of her room, the cool January air playing with the wet heat of her undersides, the smell, god the smell of her own sex filling her nostrils. It wasn't a hateful aroma, but it brought home the desperate indignity of what she was doing.

She'd always prided herself on having a tight little cunt, indeed she had medical proof of this after going for a smear test once and listening to the shocked admission from her nurse. His cock was possibly too big for her; it made for a snug fit, and now her cavity yielded only enough for the brush handle to get inside. Steadily, she shoved it in so that it was buried to the hilt, then she experimented, pulling it out, then back in, out, in, out in. With each thrust, as she fucked herself, she marveled at the way the muscles of her pussy contracted and then tightened, accepting then sealing off the handle. All shame gone, she worked faster, pounding her hole, savaging it with hard jerks of the brush, using her free hand to play with her tits and then her clit, flicking the button to bewildering distraction.

After a time, she realised she could let go of the brush; her pussy worked on its own, its internal rhythm pushing and pulling on the foreign object. Greedily, she tried to get control back only to find herself wrestling with her own cunt. Unaware of the noises she was making or the pool of juice seeping into her bedclothes, she managed to angle the brush so that the bristles teased her clit once it was fully inserted. By now lost in ecstasy, she brought herself to a dizzying climax, her hands clamped over her breasts, breaths coming out in thick, heavy rasps... As she came, she found herself lubing her anus with pussy juice and slipping a finger inside, doubly penetrating herself with the brush and her own finger.

How many times she came, how hard and how long the process lasted, she didn't know. At some point, she slipped from consciousness, a sweaty sack of heightened senses...

The phone was ringing. It was morning. Light flooded through the gap in her curtains and she discovered she'd roused herself to such heights that sleep had come as a release. There was something hard and uncomfortable between her legs -- shit, the brush! It lay innocently by her thighs, the handle still smeared in her juice, whilst beneath it the sheets of her bed were soaked. Her cat sat there, sniffing the sodden material and then licking it. She raised a hand to push some stray hair from her face, and took in the stench on her fingers, but it wasn't just there. The smell of sex filled the room. No way! It was 9.24 and she was already late for work; no doubt, her boss was on the line demanding she get her arse in gear and into the office. But how could she before she had a shower, and how could she have a shower without thinking naughty thoughts?

No more of that, she promised herself, ignoring the phone, leaping out of bed and starting the shower. I'm a grown woman and I can get ready without thinking about it.

But she loved his cock...