Hair

She came to me. I didn’t know her; I still don’t. I remember her hair. As I sit here, I can feel it spilling about my face as her back arched with each thrust, my hands gripping her small ass. It was that hair, the angry wild curls of Medusa falling across her back and tender shoulders, that made my guts spill into her. I envisioned my thick juice flowing through those curls, wrapping into them in a helical swirling ecstatic dance. I wanted her body like I wanted her hair, free and willing and uninhibited, and she gave all of that to me. She left me breathless, my fingers gripping the sheets, the feathers of her thick mane brushing forever through my thoughts.