Ravished By Rapunzel

It's a bit of a librarian look, the way I wear my hair at work. All coiled up on my head, and stuck through with several of those Japanese-looking hair spikes. Not a strand is out of place, and the hair is wound and wrapped tightly into a bun roughly the size of one of those Kaiser rolls the bun it makes is easily the size of one of those Kaiser rolls. It's about the color of fresh bread, too: either a very light brown (which is how I like to think of it), or the dirtiest blonde you've ever seen.

You're about to find out just how dirty.

Lie down on the bed, and take off your clothes. Make sure you get a good view of me.

I look you straight in the eyes. Slowly, deliberately, I twist each hair pin and draw it out of the tightly wound hair. The last one, I ease in and out, as though it were a narrow, pointy dildo penetrating the mass of hair still coiled on top of my head. Finally, I pull it all the way out, and notice that you've got a raging hard-on. Poor lad, you've seen nothing yet.

Now, I haven't cut my hair in more than seven years. I do trim the ends, and I keep the tip in a blunt cut, but for the most part the hair stays healthy because I air-dry it. No blow dryer or curling iron ever violates the pin-straight sanctity of my tresses. In fact, I air-dry my whole body after showering. There's nothing like strutting around my home naked for half an hour to dry and cool off. Yes, you're permitted to imagine me naked, because I'm in fairly good shape and it will probably be worth the effort. At the moment I'm wearing... what the hell does it matter what I'm wearing? You're not looking at anything but my scalp right now.

My hair takes about four hours to dry completely. But I washed and dried it last night. This means it's clean, smooth, and the texture of silk. Leaning my head to one side, so that you can see the lines of my neck, I langorously tip the bun over, so that it uncoils in a series of jerking motions like a tumbling rope. It reaches all the way down to my knees. As it falls, the coil loosens, but it's not quite loose enough for my purposes.

The brush I use is a Mason Pearson "Popular" model. It has two kinds of bristles: nylon and boar's bristle. The nylon is to comb out any tangles, and the boar's bristle is to make my hair soft and shiny. I pick up my brush and, holding my hair in my fist about a foot from the end, I make short, slow strokes along the last ten or twelve inches, from my hand all the way to the end.

Watch how the bristles spread my the individual strands apart, piercing through them like tiny spears through a mystic veil, revealing the subtle blonde highlights and the brunet lowlights. Over and over I brush this section, until it is soft and completely smooth. Then I shift my gripping hand about a foot higher on the hair, and brush through two feet of hair. Every time, the brush goes all the way to the end.

I have a way of dealing with tangles: I tease them out with my fingers. A lot of the time, all I have to do is gently spread the strands of hair apart, and they will unravel by themselves. My hair has a small amount of natural wave to it, noticeable only when it's humid, but the individual strands are extremely fine. They straighten under their own weight, and cannot support themselves. This is why it makes no sense for a woman like me to perm or curl her hair: the curl pulls out except for along the bottom four inches, where there's no weight.

Now I grasp my hair above the nape of my neck, and turn my back to you for the long strokes, and to brush my scalp. These are long strokes that are impossible to continue through the entire length of my hair, so I do a couple scalp strokes, then shift my grip and continue brushing toward the ends. This repeats a few time. Behind me, I hear the slow, rhythmic stroking sound. Are you playing with yourself? Go for it. I am not jealous of your hand: look at what MY hands get to touch.

Is there a hint of gray around my temples? Yes. Yes, there is. Rapunzel was a literary fiction. But I'm real, I'm alive, and I'm right here letting you look at me.

The brush has finished my work, and I lift my hair for your viewing pleasure. It falls, obscuring my back, buttocks, and upper legs.

I once posed as Lady Godiva for a costume party. I had one of those skin colored, all-over body suits. It turned out to be the hottest, most uncomfortable costume I ever wore in my life, because unlike every other woman at the party whose arms were bare or who was showing a bit of skin, I was covered neck to toe. Even my feet were sweating. But my hair, over top of all that, supposedly preserved my modesty.

With the tips of my fingers, I massage my own scalp. My neck gets tired sometimes, holding up all that extra weight. It's as though I wear a crown all day long. This, I think, explains my excellent posture.

Show's over. I turn around to face you, ready for the next act.

*

I begin with a technique I call the Rope. Although my knee-length hair is cut blunt across the bottom, nature causes individual strands of hair to be less than this length as they grow. So it tapers slightly. With my hands, I twist a length of hair a couple times, into a strong, smooth cable the color of hemp. This I slide through your outstretched palm, letting you feel it.

No, you do not get to pull me down on top of you. Pulling my hair actually isn't a wise thing to do. It'll lead to a surprise you don't like. I promise.

I draw the Rope out of your hands, and coil it up again like a cowgirl. Using the smooth, silken loop, I drag it gently along the top of your forearm, brushing against the coarse hair that grows there. Is it touching you, or not quite touching you? Like a ghost's whispered promise, it glides over the surface of your skin. I return along the inside of your biceps, where the skin is paler, softer, and far more sensitive.

I've got a theory about men's skin. The softer the skin, the more sensitive it is to the touch. So I make sure to find each of your most sensitive places. Ears. Eyelids. Neck. The insides of your arms. The arches of your feet. And, all this time, I never touch you once except with this coil of hair.

What I do not touch is the rising pillar of your penis. It stands there like a beaconing lighthouse, impossible to miss as I let my rope of hair snake across your belly. I ignore it deliberately, even when you spread your legs slightly to allow me better access. Oh, don't get me wrong, I look at it. You can see me looking at it, with a contemplative expression on my face, biting gently at my full lips as though I'm wondering what it might taste like. But your little Rapunzel is a polite and cultured princess. One may look, but one does not touch.

Next is a technique I call the Wave. After I've covered your entire body with gentle caresses, I fling the entire mass of hair up over your head. It falls in a cascading curtain, like a river of silk. You and I are together briefly under its tent, looking at each other like children playing together under a blanket. I back up carefully, not touching you at all. My hair follows, draping over you and sliding like a wave receding from the shoreline, and making a similar soft, hissing sound. All down your body it goes. Your face, of course, is the first to break free. Like a swimmer rising from the depths, you feel your forehead break through into the open air first, and you remember to breathe.

The weight of the hair curtain continues down your neck, your chest- and here, I pause. With my palms, I feel for your nipples beneath the curtain of hair. They are warm, and erect, attempting to peek upward through the curtain. I cannot see this, because my face is turned down so as to create a curtain of hair. I press down with both palms, rubbing in circles so that your nipples feel texture, pressure, and for the first time the warmth of my hand.

Is that a nipple bursting through, briefly seared by the heat of my palm? Yes, yes it is. But only for a moment, as the pressure moves on. And, it was an accident. If you like, you can feel as though you got away with something. With my hands, I use my hair to massage your upper arms, your chest, and your sides. I do not touch you directly with my skin.

Beneath my hands, where you perhaps also feel the warmth of my breath on your torso, I hear your breathing quicken. You moan slightly, and I give a few more slow, pressing circular rubs, then move down a few inches. I can see your navel, and I begin to gently rub your upper abdomen on the other side of this hair curtain.

A person can't use a lot of pressure when massaging the belly, but with slow, gentle circular strokes it's possible to follow the outline of each muscle as I work gradually downward. Another moan of satisfaction, and I ease a hair-wrapped finger into your navel, thrusting deep and pressing only as much as you will allow. Your lower belly comes next, with smooth strokes that continue out to your flanks and from there down to your upper thighs.

For the first time, the erect tip of your penis touches the veil. You gasp with either surprise or relief, and a thin, wet trail of pre-cum streaks onto the hair as it trails over you. The massage continues down to your upper thighs, and then your inner thighs.

You're almost ready. I stand at the edge of the bed, between your splayed knees. Shaking my hair out of my face, I collect any wandering strands. Then, as an Impressionist master might prepare to put his final touches on his masterpiece, so I likewise make a paintbrush out of the tip of my hair. These bristles are silky smooth when I draw them along the canvas of your body, but when I dab, the sharp ends poke noticeably.

I begin to dab, and paint, and swirl my way up the inside of your thigh. I run the brush up the underside of your penis, all the way to the top, giving an extra dab right below the head where there's another of those sensitive places. Your entire penis is brushed, and teased, and worshipped until you are straining with the need to release. Then I swoop down, and begin to caress your testicles with the brush.

I dab against the tight, closed opening of your anus, and up toward your taint, then make special trips around each testicle. Here your skin is the softest of all, and the coarse strands of your pubic hair catch against the brushing motion, intensifying the sensation.

It's time for a sensation you have never experienced before. Continuing with the paintbrush, I wrap the length of my hair around the shaft of your penis and grip firmly. You moan with satisfaction, and I begin to pleasure you, gripping and squeezing, driving your penis through a sensation you have never been given before. The oozing tip of your penis gets dabbed with the paintbrush end of my hair every time I see it. Rhythmically, you thrust upward against each downward stroke.

Faster and faster, harder and harder you thrust, until with a final, reaching effort you moan, and a rope of semen squirts out the end of your penis. It lands, of course, in my hair. You see it up near my forehead. The second shot goes over the paintbrush end, and the rest gets all over the coiled hair around your turgid shaft. Over and over you release, with the whitish mixture making a delightful mess.

As you finish your climax, moaning, you close your eyes for a moment as I unwind my hair from around your manhood. You open your eyes to see me deliberately combing your essence into my hair. I massage it into my scalp like an expensive European shampoo. Maybe that's the real reason my hair is this long and healthy, yes?

Is this not the best game in the world? If anybody asks, you can tell them the truth. You never cheated with me. It's because your Little Rapunzel is a proper lady. She kept her clothes on the whole time, and she never even actually touched you. But you know from experience that she's a very, VERY dirty blonde.