I Brush Her Teeth for Her

She stands in front of the sink with her back against my chest. She laughs when I first tell her to get her toothbrush. I laugh too, although I try to keep a lid on it. We grin at one another in the water-speckled mirror. The toothbrushes stand like breadsticks in a Hello Kitty mug on the shelf. Hers is white and mint-green plastic, the bristles a little flared. She hands it to me over her shoulder.

“Toothpaste?” I say.

She fetches it. An almost-empty tube, compressed into a tight roll at one end. We are making eye contact in the mirror, she and I. She is, quite reasonably, trying not to grin. When I told her I was going to brush her teeth for her she burst out laughing. “You’re not serious?” she said, which of course lead to my insistence that I was serious, which of course lead to here.

I turn the tap on to a trickle, reaching around her body to do so. She is in pyjamas, I in my underwear. We were getting ready for bed a few minutes ago. I squeeze a pea-sized quantity of paste onto the brush, wet it, and raise it to her mouth. I don’t need to tell her to open wide.

Before she parts her lips, though, she swallows audibly. There is a moment of reluctance. Her warm weight leaning back against me. She’s nervous. I put my free arm around her, and take her chin in my fingers, thumb on one cheek, two fingers pressing into the other. I press just enough that she opens her mouth, and then I hold her tight against me. She isn’t wriggling yet, but I suspect she will. I want her to.

I guide the head of the brush to the back of her mouth. The wet, muscular, complex place where cheek and gum and throat all meet. I know her mouth. I’ve stuck my fingers in there dozens of times before; felt the ridges on the roof, the wet tongue, the sharp/not-sharp corners of her molars, the strength in her jaw, the padded, sloppy muscle underneath her tongue. Navigating it with the brush is different. Familiar, but less precise.

I start with the tops of her molars. Easy. She keeps her mouth open very wide, almost cross-eyed trying to watch exactly what I’m doing. After a few seconds of scrubbing a wash of spit tinged with toothpaste dribbles over her lower lip.

I finish scrubbing the flats of her teeth and fold the head of the brush in between her teeth and her cheek. Small, circular motions. There is a little tightness here, a little give. She makes one very small sound, barely a grunt, a whine. Then she’s silent, breathing through her nose. Her arms tense up by her sides but she doesn’t resist. It’s a gesture I recognise; she does the same thing when I fuck her mouth and tell her to keep her hands down by her sides.

Both sides of her mouth, top and bottom. And then the inner planes of her teeth, her tongue white with frothed toothpaste, slick wet. I watch the tip of it, pinkly muscular, follow the tip of the brush, as though it’s curious about the intruder. As though when something is in her mouth, invading her mouth, she cannot help but tongue it.

I reaffirm my grip on her. Her narrow body clad only in pyjamas. I am violating her mouth, but carefully. The white froth of paste is all over her lips now, dripping down her chin, landing with faint plips in the bowl of the sink.

“Teeth together,” I say, briefly removing the brush. She complies. A grimaced grin, her lips pulled back. Small white teeth; I know exactly how they feel when they graze against my cock. I press the frayed bristles against the front of her teeth and scrub until I’m satisfied. There are no sounds in the small bathroom except the trickle of the tap, her breathing, the rustle of our clothes. “Spit.”

I drop my hand from her chin to the well of her throat so that she can lean forward and spit a long gobbet of white into the sink. As full and thick as mouthful of come. She moves to wipe her mouth, but catches herself and drops her hand back to her side. Blinks at me, wide-eyed, as I use my own hand to swipe away the mint foam from her lips and chin.

I rinse her toothbrush and put it back with the others. We stand, staring at each other in the mirror. I am as hard as if it had been my cock in her mouth and not a stick of plastic. She can feel this. I am quite sure, any minute now, one or other of us will start giggling. Break the spell.

But we don’t.

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