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From: Molly <molly@deathsdoor.com>
Subject: Hair

Hair

copyright Molly, 1997


I had always loved his hair. Long, thick hair, the shade of bitter
chocolate, smooth and well-kept - the complete opposite of my short,
easy-care mop. As he talked, he looked around the room, and I could
have watched his hair swing from side to side for hours on end. It was
always a struggle to bring my mind back to whatever was under
discussion, as I day-dreamed about running my hands through it, moving
it aside so gently to nuzzle his neck, twining my fingers in the ends
of the hair to pull his head back and kiss his mouth hard enough to
feel teeth... I was lost.

I don't remember the first time we kissed. A sorry statement, but
true; it was probably one of those random goodbye kisses between
friends that only have meaning if you're looking for it. Sometimes,
when he had had a few too many drinks, any woman within reach would be
kept busy removing his hands from her arms, legs... but he never lost
his good humour, and a whispered 'No' would cause him to stop.
Lecherous, but well-intentioned.

Things changed one night at a party. Oh, you've all been there, you
all know the drill; suddenly you find yourself looking at someone in a
whole new light, and the little voice of reason at the back of your
mind is trying to scream "Are you _mad_?" while the rest of your mind
throws caution to the wind and applauds as your lips meet, your hands
explore, and the world shifts a degree or two on its axis. And what I
remember most is my hands buried in his hair, like heavy silk flowing
across my skin.

I tried to forget - I was living with someone, after all, and so was
he - but it never really quite worked. Once in a while it would happen
that I'd be the last to leave, or he would, and we'd steal a few
moments, kissing passionately in the hallway while my boyfriend or his
girlfriend was yawning their way to bed a couple of yards away. I
think they knew, I'm sure they both did, but for whatever reasons they
ignored what was going on. 

A few months later, we had arranged to meet in the city. Both of our
partners were away on business, so a drink with a friend was not that
unusual. I met him in a bar, and we chatted about nothing much for the
first couple of drinks, then decided to move somewhere else to find
some food.

We walked a few hundred yards, then turned down a darker side street,
and he stopped. I started to ask what was wrong, but his lips silenced
me, and once again I grabbed handfuls of his hair, pulling his face
down towards mine. He bent down even further, his teeth grazing my
neck very slightly as he licked the soft skin between my ear and my
jaw; I left a row of light kisses along the parting down the centre of
his scalp, markers on that which I wished to possess.

The street was quiet; even in the centre of the city there are
little-travelled places, and we had found one, by accident or by
design. I felt his fingers running up my back and towards the catch of
my bra, and only then did I realise I was leaning against a wall for
support - I wasn't convinced my legs would support me if I stood up
straight, but I managed to shift forward enough to allow him to unhook
the catch, my breasts thrusting forward slightly as I did so. 

He leaned against me, his hands moving up between us to touch my
breasts, palms stroking across my nipples which stretched towards his
touch like plants reaching for the light. I could feel him hard
against my leg, and freed one hand from its constant exploration of
his hair long enough to caress his ass, smooth under his jeans. My
eyes were closed, and as his hands moved across my flesh he murmured,
"What do you see?" Barely coherent, I settled for the truth. "Stars. I
see stars ..."

We broke apart for a moment. I don't know what he needed, but I was
gasping for air, so turned on that my eyes were refusing to focus. He
took me by the arm and supported me as we walked another hundred yards
or so, to a small alley stretching into the darkness behind the
buildings to our left.

The smell wasn't wonderful, but the chance of nosey passers-by was
less than on the street, and once again I found myself leaning against
a wall. This time he didn't waste a moment; looking up at me for
assent, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of my leggings and
eased them down over my hips, down to my knees so that he could spread
my legs a little wider apart. My panties followed, and the cool night
air on my cunt made me gasp for a moment until the breeze was stifled
by his warm mouth, velvet tongue stroking my clit so gently that I had
to beg for more, I couldn't help myself. And all the time my fingers
stroking his hair, running along the smooth strands, my fingernails
massaging his scalp as I loosed one handful to settle back along his
shoulders and reached for the next.

As I gasped and groaned in the throes of an orgasm, he stood up again,
fingers replacing tongue dipping into me, and his tongue exploring my
mouth instead of my cunt; I could taste myself on his face, his beard,
his lips, and I licked him as though to remove my trace, though of
course it was hopeless. I ran one hand gently down the centre of his
chest and carefully undid the button on his jeans, reaching inside for
his cock and stroking the hair around it with as much joy as my other
hand was getting from the hair on his head.

We're much of a height, so fucking standing up is not as easy as it
might be. But you only ever think about the practicalities before and
afterwards, and he slipped into me so easily you'd think we'd done
this a million times, rehearsed the angles and the position, knew our
marks and our lines -- but it was the first time, and the only time,
and I think I screamed his name into the night as he came, and I came,
and I almost pulled his lovely hair out by the roots.

It's not happened again, and it probably won't; I'm still not sure
whether I'm happy it happened at all. But when we kiss goodnight, I
twine my fingers in his hair, and we smile at the shared memory.

[end]

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