**an old post from one of my other sites – my storytelling site – because I’m going to close the site and don’t want to lose the post**
She sat down at the computer, simultaneously twisting her hair into a tousled bun and tucking a leg up onto the seat of her chair, curling up as usual. The feel of the strands in her fingers started the thoughts…
Thoughts about hair…
Her hair had run the gamut in the past twenty years. It had been shorter than most boys cuts, been bobbed, layered, feathered and Jennifer Aniston’ed. It’d been curly, wavy and pin straight. It had been blonde, highlighted, frosted and streaked, red head red, plum, auburn, light brown, dark brown, medium brown, crayola red, fuschia, and black with cupcake pink chunks. Right now it’s a slightly layered very dark brown, the longest bits nudging at her bra strap in back, the shortest tickling her chin at the bangs.
No matter the color or length her hair has always been a weakness for her.
Touching it in all manner of ways will soothe her, excite her, make her instantly alert or suddenly drowsy.
Powerful magic could be wrought upon her with no tools other than her hair.
Someone brushing it’s length for her was a slice of heaven, a way of relaxing that was really like no other.
A male hand tucking loose strands behind her ear could melt her heart.
Fingers spreading in it’s mass, running down it’s length during a kiss could wrench a moan from her throat.
But most of all…
More powerful than any of those other things…
Was a fist, tangled and clenched deep in her hair, gripping tight enough to spring tears to her eyes, to lead her head, her gaze or her mouth to wherever the owner of that fist wished.
The feel of fingers slipping to the base of her skull, the tensing of those fingers, the clenching of that hand, hard and tight, around the soft tresses….
It never failed to send a spasm down her spine, to form a hot, tight ball of desire and need in her belly, to stop her breath for a few seconds, to make her eyelids drift closed in ecstasy…
It made her hungry, hot, wet, breathless, eager to be forced and coerced into dirty, whorish things…
It was a form of bondage.
With a hand in her hair there was nothing she wouldn’t do. With a hand in her hair she was bound by the person holding her, bound and unable to do anything but what he desired.
Forever she would keep her hair gripable, a mane to be led around by.
Never again a boy cut…
Though maybe, someday, pink again. :)
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2 comments to “Rapunzel”
I know exactly what you mean, but you said it prettier than I ever could have.
You just put into words the reason why I refuse to cut my hair short ever again. I mean, I knew why I didn’t want to cut it, but I won’t express that to a hair dresser who suggests going shorter, or that really, at 42 I’m a little old to have hair beyond my shoulders. I fuss and stress the entire time it’s being trimmed, “just the tips! Don’t trim too much! I still have another 5 inches to grow!” When I get home I bend my head back and my hair skims my pants and I’m happy. Just another 5 inches and it will be perfect. Perfect for touching, stroking, grabbing, yanking and pulling me down.