The first time she saw him, it was the hair.

He sat alone at the edge of the open terrace, backlit by late afternoon sun and a mess of shimmering mahogany waves. It wasn’t just long, it was catching the wind like it had a personality all its own. His jaw was sharp, his frame lean but taut beneath a black linen shirt, but it was the hair that made her thighs press together under the café table.

She hadn’t meant to stare. But something about the way he tucked that wild, windblown mass behind his ears and leaned over his sketchpad like the world had melted away. God, it made her restless.

Her name was Skye, and she had a thing for hair. Not just a passing appreciation, not a cutesy "I like long hair on guys" comment. No, Skye had a hunger for it. The weight, the texture, the smell. She could spot a split end from ten feet and had once orgasmed just from brushing out an ex’s freshly blow-dried mane.

And this stranger? He was walking temptation in soft chestnut curtains. She needed to know what shampoo he used. She needed to know what it felt like to bury her face in the back of his neck and breathe him in while wrapping those strands around her fingers until her knuckles went white.
So she stood. Her heels clicked across the cobblestones, the summer air catching the hem of her skirt and teasing the smooth line of her thighs. She paused a few feet away, waiting to be noticed. He didn’t look up.

"That’s a lot of hair for one man to be sitting on all by himself," she said, voice coy, lips curled just enough to suggest wicked intentions.
He glanced up. His eyes were green, like moss. He blinked slowly, pen hovering above the page.

"Sorry?" he asked.

"You heard me."

He looked at her like she was a glitch in his otherwise peaceful afternoon. But he didn’t look away.

"You an art critic or a shampoo rep?"

Skye smiled. "Neither. Just someone with good taste."

There was a silence. She liked that he didn’t fill it. That he just watched her with those calm, unreadable eyes. Finally, he said, “You wanna sit?”

She did.

He introduced himself as Rowan. And she learned, over the next thirty minutes and two iced Americanos, that he was a freelance illustrator, recently relocated, introverted to a fault and had absolutely no idea how devastatingly fuckable he looked when he swept that loose braid off his shoulder with a flick of practiced fingers.

She asked what he was drawing. He flipped the sketchpad toward her. It was a woman, head tilted back, hair like ribbons of black smoke wrapping around her arms, mouth parted like she was sighing or moaning or both.

“You draw from imagination?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Mostly.”

“It’s very… expressive.”

Rowan snorted softly. “You mean filthy.”

She raised a brow. “Do you want it to be?”

He met her eyes, held them.

"Sometimes."

Skye’s heart drummed in her ears.

Her hand moved before her mind caught up, fingertips tracing a stray strand that had come loose and curled at the edge of his temple.

“This one’s trying to run away,” she murmured.

He froze. His breath held. His body tense. Like someone unaccustomed to being touched was deciding whether to allow it.

She tucked the strand gently behind his ear, nails grazing the lobe. His jaw tightened, his eyes didn’t leave hers.

"Do you always walk up to strangers and play with their hair?" he asked, low.

"Only the ones who need it," she replied.

Another silence.

He closed the sketchpad.

“You free tonight?”

Her thighs clenched. “Yes.”

“Good,” he said, standing slowly. “Because I want you to do that again. But this time, from behind. While I’m on my knees.”
_____

She didn’t expect his place to look like that.

The building was old brick, the kind that radiated warmth from the inside out. His apartment was up two narrow flights of stairs, no elevator, which only gave her more time to admire how the fall of his hair swayed with each step. His braid was loose again, barely holding the waves together, and with every bounce her imagination filled with fingers pulling it free, strands falling like silk ribbons over her chest.

Inside, the air smelled like bergamot and cedarwood. Sketchbooks were stacked high on one side of the room, a desk covered in art supplies on the other. A plain bed in the corner, sheets in soft greys, pillows with the faintest indent of someone who slept on their side. He shut the door behind them without speaking.

He turned to her.

“You want to touch it, don’t you,” he said. No question in his voice. Just quiet certainty.

Skye stepped forward.

“You have no idea.”

He moved to the center of the room, slowly undoing the braid without looking at her. Strand by strand came free. The crisscrossed ropes unraveled until a waterfall of warm chestnut spilled down his back in heavy waves, framing his shoulders, brushing his ribs. It was thick. It was real. It was perfect.

She circled him like prey. Her heels clicked on the hardwood. She stopped behind him, just inches from his body.

“Down,” she whispered.

He sank to his knees without hesitation.

Skye exhaled through parted lips, heat blooming low in her belly. She reached for the strands, gathering them with both hands and lifting the weight of his mane off his back. It was smooth and dense, like running her fingers through satin soaked in heat. He tilted his head slightly, inviting her.

She bent, letting it fall around his shoulders again, watching how it pooled against his collarbones. Then she threaded her fingers in deep, close to the scalp, and pulled.

Rowan made a noise… quiet, low. Not pain. Something deeper. Need, maybe. Or surrender.

“Tell me what you want,” she said.

“I want to feel it,” he murmured. “All of it. The brushing, the pulling. I want you to play with it like you own it.”

Skye’s breath caught. She moved around to face him, standing tall while he remained kneeling.

“You’re sure?”

His breath was soft. Unsteady. But his eyes stayed locked on hers.

“I am.”

“Then don’t move.”

She stepped behind him. Her heels silent now.

Rowan stayed kneeling, spine straight, his bare chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths. His hair hung down around his shoulders, unbound now, wild, thick, freshly shaken free of its braid. It spilled across his back like poured silk, the ends curling just slightly from humidity.

She wanted to bury her face in it. She wanted every inch of it.

But not yet.

First, she would prepare him.

She ran her fingers through the heavy mass at his crown. The strands parted like water around her hand. The texture, warm, smooth, alive, made her throat tighten. Her other hand followed, tracing down from the base of his neck, between his shoulder blades, until her fingertips met the
trailing ends of his hair. There was so much of it.

“It’s thicker than I expected,” she murmured.

Rowan said nothing. But his breathing deepened.

She gathered it in one hand, lifted it away from his body, and let it spill over her wrist, wrapping itself there like a ribbon. Then she brought it forward over his shoulder and stood in front of him again.

“You ever had someone style it properly?” she asked, brushing a few strands away from his jaw.

He shook his head. Her fingers trailed the line of his throat.

“That’s a shame.”

She turned to the chair, collected what she needed, just a wide-tooth comb, a bottle of serum, and a thin black elastic.

When she returned, Rowan hadn't moved. His hands rested on his thighs, palms up, eyes down.

Skye knelt again. She set the comb aside, then uncapped the bottle and poured serum into her palms. The scent bloomed between them, citrus and amber, warm and clean.

She reached forward and began working it in.

The moment her hands slid into his hair, he gasped.

She took her time. Raking her fingers from scalp to ends, massaging the gloss into every strand, soaking the thick lengths until they glistened.
Her hands sank in deeper with each pass, dragging the heavy locks over his shoulders, across his chest, then back again.

“You feel this?”

He nodded.

The comb came next.

She started at the bottom. Careful. She detangled slow, methodical strokes, sectioning his hair with her fingers, watching as the texture softened under her touch. The sound of it—the faint drag of the comb through dense strands—made her press her thighs together without meaning to.

“God, this is so hot” she murmured.

She reached around, pulled all his hair into a high ponytail at his crown, and slowly secured it. Tight, neat. Every strand under control.

Then she took a long section and began to braid it. Just one side, for now, an asymmetric rope of gleaming chestnut that curved over his shoulder like an ornament.

“You’re going to kneel like this until I’m ready,” she said softly, brushing her fingers against his scalp one more time.

“And when I say the word, you’re going to bury your face between my legs—and not stop until I’m soaked in your hair.”

His eyes lifted. Steady. Intense.

“Take me.”

She slipped off her jacket. Let it fall. Then she reached for a nearby chair and sat, legs spread just slightly, lifting his hair as she guided him between her thighs. His face hovered inches from her inner thigh. She wrapped his hair around her wrist like a leash and held it tight.

She didn’t even need to press. He leaned forward on his own, lips parting, mouth brushing against her pussy. She gasped as he exhaled against her, the heat of his breath blooming between her legs.

“I could come just from this,” she whispered.

“I want to make you,” he replied.

She twisted the mass of his hair around her hand again, pulling it taut.

“Then start licking.”

He obeyed.

Slowly, deliberately, tongue flattening against her. The drag was slow and filthy, a lazy stroke that made her moan and arch into the chair. She tugged harder on his hair, using it to guide him, to control the pressure and pace.

It wasn’t just the way he licked—it was the way his hair kept falling forward, veiling his cheeks, brushing her thighs. Each movement was sensual overload. Each wet stroke of his tongue was paired with the tickle of hair against her skin.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” she breathed. “Such a good little toy.”

He groaned into her, and she felt it—vibration against clit, tongue working faster now, more insistent. Her head fell back as her hips began to roll,
grinding against his mouth.

She didn’t ask if he liked it.

She knew he did. She could hear it in the wet sounds between them. Feel it in the tension of his shoulders. She looked down and saw the outline of his cock straining against his pants.

“Touch yourself,” she said.

He reached for his waistband without hesitation, pulling his cock free with one hand as the other held himself steady between her legs.

She watched him stroke it, slow and desperate, as he kept licking her like it was his only purpose.

And when she came, shaking, moaning, clutching his hair tight and crying out his name, he whimpered and came with her, spurting onto the floor as her thighs squeezed his head.

She kept holding his hair. Kept his face buried in her, even as she rode out the last waves.

Only when her thighs relaxed did she loosen her grip.

Rowan pulled back, breathless, face flushed, lips wet.

“Next time,” she said, smiling darkly, “I want you bent over the desk.”

He nodded.

“You can do anything you want. Just don’t cut my hair.”

She smirked.

“Baby,” she purred, “I’d sooner cut off my own fingers.”
_____

By the time the sky turned violet the next evening, she was already letting herself in with the key he’d placed under the mat. He didn’t greet her at the door. He didn’t need to. Skye could hear the music low from his bedroom, an ambient thrum of bass and soft synth. The scent of sandalwood lingered thick in the air, heady and warm.

He was waiting in the center of the room, naked except for a loose towel slung dangerously low around his hips. But it wasn’t his body that made her stop breathing for a second.

It was the hair.

He’d washed it for her.

It hung around him like a curtain of silk, still damp, glistening in the low light. Each strand caught the shadows differently, some chestnut, some almost black. His hair was thicker than she remembered, denser, like it had absorbed every ounce of her hunger from the night before and decided to grow for her.

He turned.

Her breath caught.

That wet mane clung to the muscles of his chest, trailed between his pecs, curled around his nipples. One lock stuck to the slope of his lower back, curling slightly above the towel, teasing her with the promise of more.
“Sit,” she commanded.

He did, wordless.

She brought the chair from his art table and placed it under the spotlight. The room had been cleaned, except the floor, where the dried stain of his release still lingered. She liked that. She liked it a lot.

She approached him from behind, letting her hands trail over his damp shoulders. She didn’t touch the hair yet. Not yet. She let it tease her, dripping cold onto her collarbone as she leaned down and whispered into his ear.

“I’m going to play with it until you cry.”

He whimpered.

She ran her fingers slowly through the strands, starting at the crown and parting them like secrets. Her nails scratched his scalp gently as she massaged oil into his roots—lavender, cedar, rosemary. His breath hitched. She did it again, slower, pressing in with her thumbs until he groaned.

“You like that?”

He nodded.

She moved to brush it. The strokes were slow at first, methodical. The bristles caught on the knots left by damp air and friction. Each snag made him tense, made him gasp softly as she dragged the brush through with force.

“Such a pretty mess,” she purred. “All tangled up for me.”

She pulled harder.

The brush jerked through a thick clump of strands, and he moaned. Not from pain. From pleasure. She saw it, his cock was hardening again, pushing against the towel with every rough drag.

Skye reached forward and yanked the brush through a particularly stubborn section near the nape. He hissed and rocked his hips involuntarily.

“You’re such a little hairslut,” she growled. “Getting off on being groomed. What would people think if they saw you like this?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She reached around him and tugged the towel off. His cock sprang free, thick and twitching, already leaking.

“Mmm,” she smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

She wrapped a handful of hair around her fist and used it to jerk his head back.

His throat was exposed now, mouth parted in silent desperation, eyes closed.

“You’re going to bend over for me like a dog,” she whispered.

He trembled.

She guided him forward until he was on all fours. His cock bobbed between his thighs. His hair spilled down like a velvet curtain, half of it veiling his face, the rest cascading over his back and arms.

She put on her strap-on, 7 inches of ribbed pleasure, and got on top of him. She stood behind, gripping that gorgeous mane with both hands, winding it around her fists until she could control him by it. She twisted and pulled.

He gasped.

“I’m going to fuck you until you come again. And I’m going to pull your hair until you cry.”

He did exactly as told.

She began thrusting her hips against him, grinding the plastic cock in short, frantic strokes, and she used his hair like reins. She rode his scalp
with her hands, yanking back each time his rhythm slowed, slapping his ass with the loose ends when she needed him to move faster.

His moans became sobs.

Yes.

That’s what she wanted. Wild, feral, messy. His tears mixed with sweat and strands as they clung to his face. His hair tangled around his neck, stuck to his chest, became a part of his suffering. His pleasure.

He whined like a bitch in heat when she leaned over him and bit his shoulder, hair clutched so tight in her fists she could feel his scalp pull under her fingers.

“Come for me,” she hissed.
And he did.

All over the floor again. His body shook, spasmed, then collapsed.

She didn’t let go of his hair.

She kept him there, kneeling, breathing hard, completely spent.

Finally, when his trembling calmed, she unwound her hands and kissed the crown of his head.

“I’m not done,” she whispered.

And he smiled, face pressed to the hardwood.

“Good.”
_____

The bathroom steamed with heat.

Skye stood naked behind him, watching him kneel in the clawfoot tub like some wild thing brought in from the woods. His long hair hung limp down his back, heavy with sweat, oil, and need. It was an erotic ruin—matted in places, tangled from where she had gripped too hard, clumped in dried streaks from where his release had splattered and dried.

She turned on the hand shower and let the water run warm. Not too hot. She wanted him sensitive.

“Down,” she said.

He bent forward on all fours again, elbows resting on the cool porcelain, head hanging. His hair followed, cascading into the basin like a waterfall of stained silk. It clung to the sides of the tub, dark and saturated, strands twisting around the drain like they didn’t want to leave.

Skye knelt over him, still flushed with the afterglow of watching him come untouched while she held his hair like a leash. She reached for the shampoo, flipped the cap, and let a thick dollop land in her palm with a heavy slap.

The moment she touched his scalp, he moaned.

She worked the shampoo in roughly, no gentleness now. Her fingers dug into his roots, clawing and massaging in messy, aggressive circles. The lather built fast, thick and creamy, oozing between her knuckles as she scrubbed like she was trying to erase everything but need.

Rowan whimpered.

His hips rocked subtly, even though nothing touched his cock. Just her nails, scraping behind his ears. Just her fists gripping handfuls of foamy hair and pulling until his neck bent just how she liked.

“You love this,” she growled. “You love being bathed like a filthy pet.”

“I do,” he gasped. “I love it—God, I love it.”

She grabbed the showerhead and blasted hot water through the froth, rinsing harshly, watching white rivulets run down the slope of his back and into the curve of his ass. The hair clung to him like a second skin, then slowly, under the pressure, released and fell back again—sleek, shining,
dripping.

Skye didn’t even dry her hands. She reached for the conditioner next, letting a fat stream pour directly into his hair this time, and she slapped it down with her palm.

The sound made him flinch—and moan.

She coated him in it. Drenched every inch of those chestnut waves with slippery, creamy slickness until they looked painted in lust. Then she reached for the wide-tooth comb.

“I’m not brushing gently this time,” she warned.

He said nothing.

She dragged the comb from root to tip with no hesitation. The snags were violent, sharp. His shoulders jerked each time the comb caught and ripped through a knot, and with each yelp, her pussy clenched harder.

Her own thighs were soaked. Her nipples tight. She hadn’t even touched herself yet and she was already on the edge just from this—just from the sound of his gasps, the feel of conditioner-slicked strands sliding over her palms like ropes made for binding.

The tangles got worse near the ends. She twisted them around her fingers and pulled until his neck arched back, his whole body tense and trembling.

“Please,” he groaned.

“You don’t want me to stop.”

“I don’t—I don’t—I want to be used.”

She reached under his belly and grabbed his cock.

It was fully hard again. Twitching. The tip glossy with new precum.

“Oh, you’re disgusting,” she whispered in awe. “You’re so fucking ruined by this, aren’t you?”

He nodded, eyes squeezed shut.

She reached with her other hand, gripping the base of his ponytail. The whole mass of hair, now soaked and softened, was wound tight around her fist.

She jerked him by it. Roughly. Like reins on a stallion.

“Then come for me again. Like this.”

She began stroking him in rhythm—slow at first, deliberate—and each stroke was matched by a yank on his hair, a raw tug that made him cry out. Her hand pumped him mercilessly, faster and faster, the slick sound of skin on skin echoing against the porcelain, the smell of conditioner thick in the air, floral and obscene.

He was sobbing when he came.

Hot, shuddering bursts splashed against the inner curve of the tub. She didn’t stop pulling his hair. She tightened her grip, dragging his head back, forcing him to hold still while he collapsed against the tile in a puddle of water, cum, and lather.

Skye leaned forward and licked his nape, tasting soap and sweat and raw submission.

The air was still warm when she pulled him from the tub, dripping and dazed. His hair clung to him in heavy ropes, sleek from conditioner, almost too wet to manage. Skye let him shiver against her for a moment, chest to chest, arms slack around her waist.

Then she kissed his temple and tugged gently on the roots at his nape.

“Up. We're not done.”

He followed, pliant.

She led him, dripping, back to the bedroom. The sheets were already pulled down. A towel lay across the chair. And beside it: a blow dryer, a
round brush, a silk scarf, and—resting like a serpent among grooming tools—a pair of sharp, silver shears.

Rowan saw them and inhaled hard. She caught it.

“Relax,” she murmured as she pushed him into the chair. “I’m not cutting it.”

“Promise?”

Skye bent low until her lips brushed his ear.

“No. But I like your fear.”

He shivered again. She straddled the back of the chair and leaned in, fingers combing through the damp length of his hair with practiced reverence. The strands dripped over her thighs, still warm from the rinse. The weight of it was absurd. Obscene. Beautiful.

She started the blow dryer.

Heat bloomed.

She sectioned it slowly, twisting thick pieces up with clips, letting only the bottom layers fall free. Then she picked up the round brush and began.

The first stroke was slow, deliberate.

She pulled the brush through a long, damp lock, wrapping it taut around the barrel, then dragged the hot air over it, slowly. The strands steamed slightly, smoothing under the heat, softening like silk unraveling from a bolt.

Rowan groaned.

Skye smiled.

“You’re getting hard again, aren’t you?”

He nodded.

She ran the brush through again. Slower. Pulling with tension until his head tipped back, exposing the soft arch of his throat. She followed the movement of his hair with her free hand, letting it slither across her wrist, catching in her fingers like the leash it was always meant to be.

The scent of his hair filled the room—rich, warm, a blend of lavender and heat, with a faint trace of her own slick still buried somewhere near the ends.

“You don’t know what this does to me,” she whispered. “All this hair. The weight of it. The way it obeys.”

Another section fell. She blow-dried it tighter this time, the brush rotating slowly as she lifted and curled, turning thick strands into glossy waves.

The length reached just below his nipples now. Each pass of heat made the hair swell, shine, beg to be used.

She stepped in front of him, dragging the blow dryer down the center part, watching steam rise in little curls around his face. The strands clung to
his cheeks, framing them like wet ribbons. She brushed them back again and again, only to let them fall forward.

He was trembling.

“You want me to tie you down again?”

“Please,” he breathed.

She wrapped a long, freshly dried section around her hand and gave it a tug.

“Get on the bed.”

He obeyed. On his back. Arms splayed.

She took her time.

One silk scarf for each wrist. Looped through the headboard, tied tight. His chest rose and fell with sharp, frantic breaths.

Then she picked up the shears.

She let them click open and shut, slowly, while straddling his hips.

His cock twitched, helpless and aching.

She lowered the scissors to his chest, the cool steel flat against his nipple.

“You know,” she said, brushing a perfect, dry wave off his shoulder, “I could take all this. Just one snip at the nape. You’d cry.”

“I would.”

She leaned down, dangling her breasts just over his face. Her hair fell around them both now, mingling with his.

“You’d come.”

“Yes,” he gasped.

“You’d beg me to stop.”

“I would. But I’d still come.”

She dropped the scissors to the floor.

“I know,” she whispered.

Then she grabbed both sides of her own hair and dragged it across his chest like a blanket of pleasure. She rubbed it against his nipples, over his belly, then down, slowly wrapping it around his cock like a silken sheath.

He arched off the bed.

“Oh fuck—”

She stroked him like that. Using nothing but her hair. Coiling it around his shaft, dragging it up, then letting it slide down again in smooth, liquid motions. His moans broke into gasps. His body strained against the scarves, but he didn’t try to escape.

He was lost.

A man undone by hair.

And she hadn’t even put her mouth on him yet.

She leaned down and licked the underside of his cock once, slow, while his hair brushed against her cheek. Then she wrapped it tighter and stroked faster.

“Come in my hair,” she growled. “Make a mess. Make me clean it up.”

He did. Violently. Desperately.

Cum shot into the strands like hot paint, thick and creamy, soaking the chestnut silk as she dragged it over the head again and again, milking him, ruining him.

Skye smiled and raised the damp, sticky ends to her nose. Inhaled.

And moaned.

“You taste better when it’s tangled.”

He was still panting, wrists limp in the silk restraint. Skye hovered over him, the scent of his release and the musky sweetness of his shampoo
turning her thoughts wild and sharp.

She leaned in and kissed him. Not sweetly. Possessively.

Then she whispered against his lips.

“Up. Now.”

His eyes fluttered open, dazed, submissive.

“I… can’t…”

She grabbed his hair at the base, where it was thickest, where the silky mass still clung together like a river of heat.

“Yes you can.”

He obeyed.

She untied him, slowly. Each wrist released with a deliberate tug of the silk. His fingers trembled. His legs barely worked. But she guided him by
the hair, pulling until he was standing, wobbly and exposed, his cock still flushed and leaking.

Then she shoved him into the chair.

The same one she’d blow-dried him in. Except this time, the energy was different.

This time, he was about to lose something.

She tied him again, tight. Arms bound to the armrests with fresh scarves. Ankles spread and knotted to the chair legs. He sat upright, helpless, hard again already from the sheer electricity in the air.

And then she stood behind him and gathered the hair.

All of it.

She ran her fingers through it slowly first, as if savoring a final meal. It was still warm from the dryer, still thick with conditioner and the faintest slick residue of sex. She combed it down his back, sectioning it with practiced precision, then swept it all into a single, fat ponytail at the base of his neck.

Six inches above the tips she tied a second elastic, the chestnut waves glistened like spun bronze.

She picked up the scissors.

He saw them in the mirror.

“No…”

“Oh, yes,” she purred. “This is what you get for making such a mess.”

He whimpered.

She kissed the nape of his neck. “Six inches. Just enough to make you feel it.”

Then she cut.

The blades met resistance, thick resistance. The sound was brutal. Soft crunching, thick strands resisting the shears as they split through the dense column of hair. His whole body tensed. His moan cracked in his throat. When the last of it gave way, she held it up like a trophy.

A six-inch tail of his hair, bound tight at the top, still hot from his skin.

He looked ruined in the mirror.

Skye smiled and brought the severed ponytail around, holding it in front of his face.

“You're going to suck it.”

His eyes widened.

“You heard me.”

She held the cut end to his lips. He hesitated.

So she slapped his cock once. Just enough to make him flinch.

Then he opened his mouth.

She shoved the damp, heavy tail in past his lips, forcing him to taste his own hair, to feel the blunt, cut end against his tongue. She watched his
eyes roll back as the flavor of conditioner and sweat.

“Good boy.”

She leaned down, whispering into his ear as he suckled the thick ponytail like a soaked gag.

“Now I’m going to fuck you with the brush handle while you gag on your hair.”

He moaned through the hair, eyes tearing.

She retrieved the round brush, the same one she used to blow him out earlier, and coated the handle with lube from her drawer. Slowly, she traced it between his cheeks, dragging the cold plastic across the sensitive skin.

“Do you want this?”

He nodded furiously, hair still stuffed in his mouth.

She pushed the handle inside.

He bucked.

She drove it deeper.

Each stroke in was matched with a pull on the hair in his mouth, making him gag just slightly, drool slipping down his chin, the musky, floral scent of his own mane flooding his senses while she used him.

Hard.

Rough.

Dirty.

She took the severed tail and wrapped it around his cock. It didn’t take much, maybe two strokes. He came again.

Exploded, saturating his own ponytail with cum.

The brush still inside him.

She pulled the brush free, slow. Let him gasp, and grabbed the prized tail.

She licked it.

Then she spread the ponytail, brought it around his neck like a scarf and smeared it along his neck.

“Now you’ll remember what I took from you.”

Skye kissed his temple, combing the remaining length of his hair with fingers slick from cum and conditioner.

“I think next time, we cut more.”

His cock twitched at the word cut.

She grinned.
_____

The morning after was quiet.

Not awkward. Not distant. Just full—like their bodies had finally caught up to the hunger that had consumed them.

Skye lay beneath the rumpled sheets, naked, her thighs still sticky with the memory of the night before. Her hair was a tousled halo around her flushed face, her breathing slow and deep. She stirred when she felt fingers on her hip.

Rowan.

Still bare, still flushed, still wearing the ponytail around his neck like a silk choker. But the scissors were gone. The ropes were gone. All that
remained now was heat. Reverence.

And his hair. Still long. Still perfect.

He climbed back into bed behind her, resting one arm around her waist, the other sweeping her hair gently to the side. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling. Then, he pressed his lips to the base of her spine and whispered.

“My turn.”

She rolled over slowly, eyes half-lidded, lips curling into a smile.

“You want to be used again?”

He shook his head.

“No. I want to use this for you.”

He grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged it across her belly, then lower, letting the ends brush against the crease of her thigh, teasing,
tickling, waking every nerve under her skin.

She exhaled sharply.

“Oh, fuck…”

He grinned, and kissed her stomach again. Then he moved downward.

His hair followed him like a living thing, sweeping across her chest, across her nipples, the strands hot and wet from his tongue. She arched into it instinctively, her hands in his hair before she even realized, threading deep, yanking.

“Not yet,” he whispered, pulling free.

“I want to make you feel what you did to me.”

He knelt between her legs. His hair trailed over her like liquid fire.

It tickled her inner thighs. Brushed against her navel. Draped across her breasts. And then—finally—he wrapped the length around his hand and lowered his face between her legs.

He didn’t touch her with his fingers. Not yet.

Only his tongue. And his hair.

The first stroke of his mouth was torturous. Long. Slow. Just the tip of his tongue dragging through her folds like he was savoring a taste he’d
been dreaming about for years.

Then came the strands.

He wrapped the length of his ponytail around his fingers and pressed the ends against her clit—soft, teasing. She gasped as the fine hairs tickled
the most sensitive part of her, then moaned when he flicked his tongue at the same time.

He did it again.

Long, slow lick. Silky hair. Hot breath.

“Fuck, Rowan—fuck—”

He didn't stop. He began stroking her with his hair in slow, rhythmic flicks, sweeping it back and forth while his tongue worked her deeper, faster,
wetter. The sensation was insane—like being fucked by silk and heat and memory all at once.

She bucked against him, hands clawing the sheets.

But he held her in place, his arms wrapped under her thighs now, his face buried in her cunt, his hair matted and soaked between her legs.

He pulled back, only once, to look up at her.

“You taste better than I dreamed.”

Then he dove back in.

And when she came—screaming, arching, grabbing fistfuls of that thick, ruined mane—he moaned into her like he was cumming too. Maybe he
did. She didn’t care. She just shook. Trembled. Cried out as wave after wave broke through her, her body convulsing under the erotic luxury of being adored.

She didn’t want it to end.

But when it did, when she collapsed back into the mattress and his head came to rest on her stomach, his hair a tangled blanket between them, she laughed softly.

“Okay,” she said breathlessly. “You win.”

Rowan looked up, smile lazy, lips slick with her.

“I wasn’t playing.”

They lay like that for a long time.

Just skin and sweat and shared breath.

And hair everywhere.

. . . . . . . .

This is my first erotica, focused on the sexual nature of hair. Let me know if you like it, I have more great things in the works!