Joanne's fingers closed on the bath brush handle, and she clenched them tighter, moaning between clenched teeth. It felt so phallic, that object! Like a young slender cock, strong and hard and long. She raised her head, opened her eyes, stared at the white plastic object where it hung from a little clamp fixed to the wall. Her eyes misted over and then they sparkled knowingly and she wiggled the brush free, brought it to her face.
She stroked herself with the bristles, which were soft and not at all bristly. Like the beard Tom had sported during his second year of grad school. She'd loved his beard, loved to feel it with her hands and her body, but it caused a rash on her upper thighs and he'd finally shaved it off. Bristled bath brushes didn't give you a rash, though, did they? She thought not. Stroking her face and tits with the brush, especially stroking her stiff, aching nipples. "Do it, baby," she giggled, giggled as she hadn't since passing the upper limits of puberty. She worked her finger out of her pussy, used it to cup her tits while she stroked them with the brush, stroked them till her tits burned and yearned.
She turned the bath brush around in her hand, and she pressed the long, tapering handle against her lips. It had a cold, plastic taste, but it was stiff and phallic and she could pretend, couldn't she? What else did she have? And it was Tom's. Maybe she could taste the imprint of his hands on the plastic? She licked friskily at the handle, tasting nothing but plastic. It was the first hard thing she'd been able to lick in a couple of weeks, though, and could she fault it so awfully much for being plastic?