It all started out as a mild sexual tease.

John's birthday was coming up and I wanted to give him something special. I had told him plenty of erotic tales of my childhood, but I figured I could add a little visual detail, something that would add flavor for him.

I like to lie in bed next to him and stroke him off while I tell him the details of things that happened long ago. The more realism I can give him, the more it feels like he is a fly on the wall, watching it happen.

There was one picture in particular that I wanted him to see. I had tried several times to describe it to him, but it was difficult to do justice to it with words alone. My thought was that if I printed out a picture - or at least a picture that was close enough - I would be able to create an image in his mind and let him have a more direct experience of several of my childhood memories.

I hoped I could find it on the Internet. God only knew if it even existed anymore, but I figured I could find something close enough. If I found the right picture, my intent was to print it on our color printer and put it in an envelope with a birthday card. He would see it and some of my stories would be more erotic as a result.

Somehow, the brand name stuck in my brain, so I typed it along with the words "white hairbrush", into Google - or maybe it was Yahoo back then. Up came a bunch of EBay links and sites for several "sell from home" businesses. A dozen or so links down the page, there was a site that was probably the real home page, so I clicked on it. It took a moment to load, but when it did, the picture hit me like a hard slap to the face.

In fact, I recoiled in fear, needing some physical distance from that image. It felt as if my mother was inside the screen, about to grab me by the arm. I crossed my arms over my chest and turned away from it. I had no idea how powerful that image would be - or how easy it would be to find it.

On the first shot, I had hit the exact, precise hairbrush that had sat on my dressing table, threatening me every day of my life, until it was broken in half when I was twelve or thirteen. It was the hairbrush that my mother had routinely used to spank me when I was growing up.

It was impossible. Somehow, that - thing - had been out there, waiting for me for what? Eleven, maybe twelve years? And it was just as powerful, just as terrifying as ever.

Usually, I saw it in my mother's hand as she held it, back side toward me, ready to hit. From my perspective, the white bristles looked like an old woman's hair. The brush had this persona for me of a cruel old woman - or a ghost of an old woman.

I looked at the screen and tried to sit back down in the chair. I couldn't, so I turned away again and started to cry, again holding my arms across myself.

John wasn't home.

Good God, I thought, I shouldn't have done this when I was alone. But who could have known how easy it would be to find or what effect it would have on me?

It was so real... staring at me, accusing me, threatening me... "Turn over, young lady! I'll show you who's in charge around here!" I tried to force the thought out of my mind, but it wouldn't leave. Even the physical memory was still fresh. I could feel the damn thing hitting me.

It took a while to try to deal with the emotional impact. I sat down on the couch and let myself cry, hugging a throw-pillow, biting the edge to keep from making too much noise, not that anyone would hear me.

I didn't want her to hear me scream. If she could hear me scream, or cry or sob, she would know how thoroughly she had gotten to me.

Of course, Mom lives half a continent away. There was no way she would know. But I still had this feeling that she was watching me with some self-satisfied smirk on her face.

Eventually, I couldn't help it. I cried out loud, sobbing and wailing for the little girl inside me who was still hurting - still nursing the stripes on her little bottom.

After maybe ten minutes - maybe an hour or two - I finally had cried myself out. It was terrible to be alone in an empty house, without my husband there to hold me and take the pain away.

Somehow, I was able to return to the computer desk. Immediately, I went to close the window so I wouldn't have to look at it anymore. But then I remembered why I had searched for it.

John needed to see it. I needed him to see it. If it still had that kind of effect on me, it was truly an important piece of my childhood. I needed to explain it to John so he would know and understand.

The only way I could do that would be to show it to him.

My hand shook as I guided the mouse over to print the picture. Then the price caught my eye. It was only ten or twelve dollars. Why not just buy one for him?

What the Hell was I thinking! For God's sake, why would I want one of those things IN MY HOUSE?!

I started crying again. The terrible truth was unavoidable. I needed it. More than that, I needed to give it to John. I needed him to own it. It's almost as if I needed him to strangle that old white-haired bitch - or maybe beat the crap out of her the way she - and my mother - had beaten the crap out of me.

I put the throw-pillow down - only then realizing that I still had it clutched to my chest - and clicked on the picture. Along the way, I saw in a description that it "... gently massages your scalp." Yeah, sure, that's what it does, "gentle massage." That wasn't the way I remembered it.

More crying...

Actually, I had to admit, it really was a good hairbrush. But that was hardly the point.

I added it to my order. Of course, it was the only item on the order.

The website then took me to a category list of hairbrushes. I was about to complete the order when I noticed another picture right next to the picture of "my" hairbrush. It was the very next brush in the array of pictures.

It was an absurd picture - a picture that absolutely, positively could not be appearing on my screen at that exact moment.

Yet, I could see that the new picture was simply the next product in their catalog. "My" hairbrush was something-or-other-01 and this other one was something-or-other-02.

How in the Hell... ? What twisted, demented, cruel, BASTARD would do such a thing?

What kind of a sick joke was this?

Then I remembered what web site I was surfing, and had to accept the obvious truth. The second hairbrush really was my husband's hairbrush. The company was huge and sold stuff through "the lady down the street" all over the country, so it wasn't all that surprising.

There really wasn't any magic cosmic convergence - no hidden conspiracy. It was just that our parents had each bought us a hair brush from - well - one of the biggest companies in the world. Hairbrushes number 1 and 2: one for women, one for men.

They were probably a standard item in the "kit" that every home-party host got when they signed up.

Still, it was a cruel joke on the part of some divine marketing genius. I go looking for a picture of an implement of torture and end up buying two hairbrushes.

"Gentle massage" my ass!

It was a frightening notion, John's hairbrush "keeping company" with mine. Someone should warn that men's hairbrush that his lady friend is a child abuser. Of course, maybe he's an abuser too - in someone else's hand.

Hairbrushes are like that, and you can even use them to brush hair.

The cosmic conspiracy forced the issue. I had to buy it for him. John's own hairbrush was so worn out - so many of the bristles were gone - that it was practically a comb. It was only a dollar more than mine, and it was his birthday.

Why the Hell not?

I added it to the order and finished it out, choosing express shipping so it would arrive in time. They even had gift boxes.

By the time John arrived home - hours later - I had stopped crying and my face wasn't puffy anymore. My eyes weren't bloodshot. He would be none the wiser.

A few days passed and the package arrived. I wrapped the two boxes. It was obvious which was which without having to open them. "Lady Ellen" printed on the lid was sort of a giveaway. In a way, it was funny. I felt like each box was a coffin with a vampire inside.

The lady's box had an evil white old woman vampire and the man's box had a young, virile dark handsome vampire. Both vampires had to be freed. You couldn't have one without the other.

We went out with friends for John's birthday and he had a good time. We had a good time. I gave him his real presents, some in front of our friends and one or two at home before we left.

The following day, we were both scheduled to be off work, so I planned to give him the two boxes after we came home from the dinner party. But instead of just giving them to him, I had decided to add some texture to the experience.

Of course, as soon as we walked in the door, he was ready to claim another kind of birthday present from me, but I held him off, telling him that I had something special planned.

It wasn't easy for him, but he agreed to wait.

Going directly upstairs, I freshened up and changed into something that he absolutely was not expecting. Instead of a frilly nightie or a satin gown or something incredibly sexy, I put on a pair of cotton-flannel pajamas. They were white with a circus print.

To add to the effect, I gathered my hair into a ponytail, using a blue scrunchie to hold it. Just for good measure, I added some strawberry lip gloss and dabbed on some old perfume that I used to wear long before there was any real need to wear perfume. I had dug it all out of the back of the closet ahead of time - childish stuff that I didn't wear anymore but had saved for sentiment.

Actually, the PJs were new. I had to go to several stores to find something in my size with a suitable look and feel. They were fluffy-soft and a little snug.

Looking into the mirror, I saw a girl - not a woman - looking back at me, something I hadn't seen in years. I was reminded of the mid-1980s, a time when I was crossing the boundary from child to teen. I couldn't go back much further without doing some serious body-modification.

I had developed curves quite early and there was a moment in time when I had been a girl in a woman's body. The vision in the mirror was from that time.

Besides, if I made myself too child-like in my appearance, it might not be erotic for him. In fact, I was afraid I might already have gone too far. If so, I could make some adjustments.

A quick call down to John was all he needed. He took the stairs two at a time and was already wearing a robe and some silk boxers. There was no need to wait for him to get ready for bed. I barely had enough time to slip inside the bedroom and get in position.

When he entered the room, he saw me sitting on the edge of the bed and stopped. It was not at all what he had been hoping for - not even close - but after a second or two a smile came to his face.

He studied me, not yet sure what to think, but some very naughty ideas were forming in his dirty little mind.

I was more than a little embarrassed and still wasn't entirely sure if my outfit would excite him or produce another effect. The whole thing might have backfired if he'd thought I was too much of a pervert.