“So where do you see yourself going with your creative work?” I inquired, placing the printed pages beside me on the bench.
He yawned, stretched and shook out his mane. Then he leaned purposefully toward me, steepling his long fingers, pale rosy wisps triggering an aureola of light around his head as the gas lamp caught the movement.
Luckily he had right of reply, my mouth dried at the sight, and I lost the first few words in the blaze of commingled lust, wonder and impossible memory that shot through my belly. The experience confirmed that I was drawing, moth-like, closer to a flame I both feared and desired. I knew him, knew him on deeper level than was possible from such a short acquaintance. And in the knowing was a remembrance of disaster. Of flames licking a pyre to which I was bound and he, he standing impassively before, brand in a reddened muscular hand.
That brand was in a much younger paler hand now, though still lightly muscled, but as the evening progressed the flames marched inexorably on. Eventually I made a suggestion – he demurred. I made a second suggestion and acceptance was given. Seated before me on the floor, his long legs folded, hair spread across his shoulders, he waited as I took up the brush.
At this point, my one opportunity to handle the soft erotic mass that I craved – now granted me for a small duration; I paused on the edge of the precipice looking down at him, “Are you sure?”
“Yes” The voice, low, breathy, emphatic.
I drew a long breath in, then began stroking from crown to tip. Slowly, firmly, savouring the slight resistance as strand after strand of heavy pale red-gold beauty was selected and given attention.
Seduced over and over with every movement I lifted the weight of each hank from underneath, working filaments into place, smoothing fine flyaway strands into the greater mass. Our sporadic conversation dwindled, died, deepened into energised silence, punctuated by faint sounds. The hissing murmur of the gaslight, the dull swishing rhythm of the brush, the liquid clench as one or both of us swallowed. Time and space narrowed as the bristles passed repeatedly across his head, and the faint perfume of his scalp and my arousal gradually intermingled with the smell of wood smoke.
I could not see his face, but I felt the slight press of his long back muscles against my knees as he relaxed under my hand. Were his eyes closed? Open?
Eventually I placed the brush on the seat beside me and rested first one then the other hand firmly but gently on his shoulders. Leaning down and slightly to the right, I murmured my appreciation in his ear. “Thank you Ryan.” My right hand and arm travelled across his collar-bone with the movement. His left hand reached up urgently to pull me closer and we rested, momentarily locked into a hard embrace, knowing it had, after all, begun…
I know what I use my hair brush for (and not everything is revealed about that in this story!) I wonder what other kinky folk use it for? Maybe you’ll find out on:
Authors Notes: The past life experience hinted at here was actually revealed during an hypnotic regression a few months after this night. But the mingled fear and desire was present from very early on, revealed during a conversation that involved mention of fire…
I always knew that Ryan’s long hair had been a powerful force of attraction for me. The shift from friendship to sexual relationship which is invoked here (joyously, the first of many and not the one off encounter I assumed it would be) was the outcome of an episode which actually took place, but what I hadn’t realised (duh!) was that it was a “thing”.
A recent interaction followed by a conversation with a relatively new friend enabled me to make a connection between hair and my erotic desires. I saw this man for the first time with his hair out and during our welcome hug instinctively reached out to touch. Later I felt compelled to apologize via email for violating boundaries because I realised that my movement was erotically motivated.
I asked for permission to brush his hair – permission has not been granted, (which is probably a good thing. I can feel an old pattern wanting to assert itself here.) However, in our ensuing conversation I went back over a list of sexual partners and realised how often and how strongly the hair attraction had been present. I also think there is a strong auto-eroticism in my own long hair. I may see an opportunity to expand on these insights over the next little while…