2 comments/ 5618 views/ 3 favorites Hair By: TheGreyKnight Her hair is damp enough that even in this pale light it's two shades darker than normal. Its sweat-soaked strands cling to her back, weighed down upon her pale skin. She breaths heavily, but with a kind of composure. Even in this state of fatigue she keeps her wits about her. Never letting down her guard, not truly. She just trades the full mask for a smaller one and tells me it's the real her. There's not point in arguing. If the only time you can have a woman, truly have a woman, is when she lets you see her then that's all you'll see. It's better not to dwell on things we'll never have. My hand slides up and down the curvature on the small of her back, riding up and down. I stroke with one finger, two, three. I tickle a little until she gives out a small moan—my cue to resume stroking her. And I do. I try and show her that I adore her with the back of my knuckles as I drag them up and down her spine. With my finger tips as they press into her shoulders. With the whole of my hands as they cup the sides of her neck, or glide along her thighs, or swim though that matted, dark forest she calls hair. She shifts, and turns to face me, curling up on her side and placing her elbow into the mattress and the side of her face onto her hand. She has beautiful eyes, not that I can see them now. All I see is the dim light reflecting off them. I stare into them, wondering if she can see mine, or if we're just looking at one another. I can hear her smile, the little crack that her lips make when her lips lift so high they part her lips a little is the only sound besides our breathing. She shifts a little, and makes her way to base of my feet in the same position. And then I'm just the man with his feet planted on the bed and back against a headboard in her room. I wouldn't rather be anyone else. I can see her face more clearly now, or the outline of it. It's enough to fill in the blanks. Of course, I don't have to be looking at her face to see it. Sometimes, I can't get rid of it. Sometimes I spend the whole day trying to chase it away. To focus on something else that matters more in the moment, but it always comes back. I think about her face and I smile and I hum to myself. And even now, trying to be so in control, I look at the soft edges of her features and I smile. She taps my foot playfully with her free hand, drumming a little beat on it, then the other. I try and dodge her next switch with a pivot of my ankle, but she's too quick. She taps it harder and laughs. We repeat the new game a few times before she stops. A somber mood descends as she swings her body to the edge of the bed. "I'm really glad you came back." She says it with a tone that I've come to recognize as difficult for her to muster. "I'm glad, too." I don't know how I sound when I say it, though. I'm just trying to sound strong. I'm always trying to sound strong. She takes my ankles in her hands and she pushes them apart with a slow, easy force. When parted she slides on her stomach between them and places a kiss on my left ankle, then turns her head and kisses the same sport on my right side. She kisses her way in a tennis-match fashion, her lips pressing harder the more muscle and skin she encounters. By the time she's climb to my knees, her arms buckling under her from lack of strength, she stops to grin. She looks so different when she does. Girlish and playful. She presses against my knees to open them up and pouts when I fight to hold my position. But it doesn't take her long to rise to her knees and grunt, to force them apart a few more inches before placing her hands on my chest and leaning in to kiss me. We kiss for ages. We kiss for an entire day and night cycle to get right back to this moment in the darkness. Or at least that's how it feels. Then she pushes herself off me and puts a hand atop each knee. She kisses her way down my thighs, nibbling and biting and pressing the whole of her face against them as she goes. She stops, and giggles, and starts kissing her way back up to my knees before moving back down. When there is little room left to negotiate, she brushes the tip of her nose against my cock and she swings from one side to another. Each bounce makes more and more of her face brush up against me, until the whole of her face is pressing against me and her lips are kissing my balls. She is gentle and not at all playful. Her hands come up to grab my hips and her kisses are exquisite and passionate. Each one makes me feel like there is nothing else she'd rather be doing. Her tongue flickers around the outline of my ball-sac before she inhales the left side into her mouth and sucks. I moan. She moans in return, sending vibrations though me, making my already spent cock shoot up as hard and tall as it can. She climbs my cock with kisses, her thumbs and finger tips digging into my waist as she takes the tip into her mouth. But she's done teasing, and she only sucks on the tip for a moment before she starts rocking back and forth, taking more of me into her with every thrust. Her hair, shifts like waves in the ocean at night. I can see nothing of her It doesn't last long. She moves back up to take half of me and continues that pace. Tip to half, tip to half, faster and harder. I moan and, once again, she does so in return. She goes faster and faster, the sensation too much to bear. "Stop," I say it with some authority, but she continues. So I grab her by her hair and pull. She whimpers, but continues to to bob up and down., so I weave my fingers between the strands and peel her off until she is looking up at me. Now I can see her face clearly, eyes wide in some mixture of want and fright. "Tell me you're mine," I say with a low roar in my throat. She says nothing, so I pull her hair back further and lean in. "Tell me you're mine." "I'm yours." She whispers it from the back of her throat. I take her by her shoulders and spin her onto her back so hard she emits a little yelp. I press her down into the mattress and push my lips against hers. I kiss her, hard. Then harder. I try and drink her through her lips as her hands come up to the back of my head, then to the side of my face. I stroke the front of her neck with my thumb as I move in between her legs, my knees getting between hers. Then I release her shoulders and move hand right hand down to her pussy. From the outside she is already slick, wanting and ready. I circle around her clit all the same before pushing a single finger in and out of her. I mimic her earlier place with my thighs and stroke in and out, in and out, just to tease her a little. She doesn't beg, or plead. She just looks up at me like I'm the only man she's ever known. I guide myself into her, and her expression softens, eyes closing. Before I am even a little bit inside her she is spreading her legs and moving her hands above her head. "Hold me down," she says before I am even halfway in. I brace myself with my hands on her hips and push in enough to feel comfortable. Then I take my hands push them against her wrists until they are constrained against the sheets. That push makes it easy, natural, to slide into her little by little. She is moaning openly beneath me, her pussy stroking and releasing with every push. She is like no other I have ever been with, and I imagine, like none I ever will. Every inch I put into her reminds me that this is the best I have ever had. And it's natural from her, too. She isn't even trying. She's lost in her own pleasure, head writhing arms rising to push back against mine. And I can't wait to lose myself in her. So I push, a little harder with every thrust. And it builds. First a little pressure, then a little speed. I want to feel the whole of her, everything she has to offer, all she can take. The build up begins. My cock, already as stiff as can be, feels more rigid as it is stroked by her and propelled by me. I lean down fully now, my body entirely over hers, a kind of domination as my weight begins to help with every downward thrust. She's fully bound beneath my hands and she's stopped pushing up to meet me as I slide and out of her. I can feel now that it's just the attention being paid to my cock, that she's using on herself. Impulses begin to run wild. I kiss her hard and fully on the mouth growling as I do. My cock makes its way as far down as it can go. Each time I reach the depth of her I can explore she lets out a little whimper, a little moan. They're coming faster now. My cock aches, heats up. My ass tightens. My eyes close. I become nothing more than this moment. Just the feeling of being inside her, the want to pull out and the pleasure to slam back in. And that's the word for it now, slamming. Fasting, harder, at my limit and then beyond it. She says something but I don't hear it over the sounds that we're making, the wetness I'm pushing into, the bed itself making rhythmic thuds. Her legs arch up and wrap around me and I'm constrained, so I use it. I stop fighting. I push myself into her with shorter, more rapid bursts. It doesn't last long. She starts moaning and the last bit of control is lost. He pussy spasms around me as her hot breath hits me in the face. She is screaming, wailing, moaning and I am am growling into her. A few seconds longer and I feel the build up release from my ankles up. I cum inside her like a drowning man reaching for shore. I hold myself up with a trembling, shaking grip at the expense of her poor, little wrists. The cum moves into her in waves, and when the last of it is spent, I move the flats of my hands to the mattress to push in and out of her a little bit more. She says to stop, but it's only a feint whimper, and I pretend not to hear. These slow strokes continue until a kind of fog envelops me. I pull out, roll onto my side and look at her face as she draws deep, heavy breaths back in. We stay there for a few moments, I can't say how long, before she slides her body towards me devoid of the grace she just possessed. When her face is under mind I kiss her and she giggles, she makes a kind of pucker noise against the air, so we kiss again. And again. Some time later she is awake enough to look at me. She always gets so embarrassed if she finds me looking at her, but she doesn't look away. She holds my gaze for a few moments and then rolls onto her side and presses her back against me. We conform with one another, my arm draped over her, and we spoon. "We can't keep doing this," she says. "I know." And so I stroke her hair as she drifts off. Hair Acceptance It was casual Friday at the office. While I wore my usual shorts and T-shirt, the very attractive young black woman who works with me wore a sleeveless dress. We work together every day, so she knows some of my quirks and said she hoped I wouldn't be too distracted by her attire. Sleeveless dresses on women aren't distracting, but when the woman sports a nice bush of hair in her armpits, that gets my attention. Unfortunately, in America it gets most peoples' attention, but not in the admiring way that I see it. There is such great social pressure for women to shave their armpits in this country that seeing a woman as nature intended can get reactions of snickers, whispers or outright derision. In fact, the young woman who was comfortable enough around me to display her hairy underarms, became quite self-conscious when the boss came into the office, and she was sure not to raise her arms. I understand these tendencies to bend your personal grooming choices and acquiesce to opposing social demands, but I don't like it and I suppose I've been advocating for personal freedom since the '70s when I had shoulder length hair and a beard in a clean shaven and crew-cut world. That was a time when our subculture of young people threw out a lot of established social concepts and explored things on their own merit. We tried everything that was not mainstream American, and along with casual mixed-gender nudity and sexuality we explored Eastern philosophy, Astrology, yoga, meditation, vegetarianism, herbalism, Wicca, healing crystals, and many other alternative or "New Age" lifestyles. Many of us were also into the natural, as seen by our abundance of hair on both men and women. Those of us who have an appreciation of natural body hair on women are considered strange in the mainstream American culture. Outside the "mainstream" American culture, there is a subcultural appreciation of the unshaven woman's armpits among black Americans. I don't know the percentage, but by observation among the black women that I know, there is a considerable number who don't shave their underarms. My wife, who was black, didn't shave and most of her sisters don't. At my workplace in Miami, there are numerous black women besides my immediate coworker, who occasionally wear sleeveless dresses and reveal unshaved pits. My stepdaughter didn't shave her pits when she was in high school until she became a cheerleader and it was required. I offered to fight that rule with her, but teenagers, it seems, would rather give up individuality and go along with the crowd. Come to think of it, that trait doesn't appear to end with the teen years for most people. Not all black women go unshaven. Both my stepdaughter and one of my sisters said that they only let their hair grow in the winter when they wear long sleeve shirts. For public appearance in the summer, they bend to the cultural norm and shave. My daughter says that she knows some young black men who prefer their women to shave, but my brother-in-law, as I suspect of many black men, prefers a woman with a bush in her pits. Likewise, not all white women fall into the American cultural norm of having shaved armpits. There was a surge in the '60s and '70s, when beards and long hair on men challenged the grooming norms and the women that were with us quit shaving their legs and armpits. Today there are a few white women who forego shaving, usually feminists, lesbians or other free spirits who feel that letting their armpit hair grow is an act of female empowerment. On the websites that cater to showing female armpit hair, (There's a website for everything you know!) the white women shown are often European athletes wearing competition tank tops or bathing suits. Hair & Hunger I am hoping to finish this piece at 5000 words. I am close but I want to get some feedback on how to make this better. Please comment with what works for you, what didn't, what I can improve, and what should be destroyed. I eagerly await feedback/comments/contructive criticism. -BenevolentDCC ***** Once I had been a healer beyond repute, sought far and wide for the miracles I and I alone could perform; things have certainly changed. My stone and mortar cottage looked out on lush green fields and the settling dust made the horizon look to be afire as evening claimed the world. Now, the only safety is in solitude, the only peace of mind available is loneliness. The stones at my back are cooling off, a sign that the Sun is setting. The wind whistles through cracks in the aged walls which surround me and I long for days when I may have been able to repair the damaged areas. To think, all the destruction beset about me because of one beautiful dead girl and the fool of a woman who tried to bend the natural balance at the request of grieving parents. I was little more than a girl when I was approached by the sorceress. I had opened the door of the cottage my mother and I shared, the cottage I now sit inside, and there she was upon my doorstep. A woman of tremendous power with an age lined face and travel worn clothes. She told me that she had been called to my visit by the voices of the gods. She told me that I would change the world. She was right. Under her careful and meticulous tutelage I learned to call the names of the ancients, to harness their power for miracles, spells, and incantations. I became a sorceress in my own right though I far preferred the calling of miracles as opposed to other magics. My body changed with age, the crimson tide following the same lunar cycles as other girls, but I was respected for my gifts and abilities. The first time the king (do you know, I can't seem to remember his name) came to me he requested my powers but put to the task of helping his wife conceive. I bid him leave my doorstep for his self-serving request. He fell to his knees, his fingers clutching at the hem of my dress. Tears filled his eyes and I saw that it was love, not selfishness which motivated his request. I told him then to have his wife bathed by seven maidens in the river by the forest. I dressed myself in my finest robes and walked barefoot to the river bank. I chanted and recited the names of the ancients, enjoying the taste of strawberries bursting on my tongue with each pronunciation. Power coursed through me and I let the spirit of the gods fill me to the brim. I placed my hands upon her sex and watched in awe as golden light shone from the tips of my fingers to be absorbed by her body. She wept in the arms of her maidens as the power healed her, restoring to her what fate had denied. When she was dressed she hugged me and placed a kiss upon my brow. When the announcement of her conception was made the town bloomed in a flurry of activity and celebrations were held throughout the night. A beautiful young girl was born into the kingdom and her name will be the last upon my lips. Her eyes sparkled with laughter, her footprints marked every path within the city. The beautiful curls of her shimmering blonde hair were like sunlight upon her brow. She played with the children of the town, learning to run, and jump, and skip, and climb. During these joyful times the stories of my miracles spread. I gained fame, renown, and respect. I had forgotten that these powers were not mine, I had forgotten that it was the power of the gods flowing through me which made these things possible. I grew arrogant. Then the king and queen of the land came to me one evening, tears streaked their faces and blood stained their hands and clothes. They fell to their knees before me, "Gabriella," they cried, "Our little angel has fallen from the lookout tower! You must come immediately." I swelled with pride at their prostrate forms, gathered my cloak about me, and followed them to the scene. Blood pooled in the dirt forming a brackish mud and the tainted soil bespoke of death. The princess, a girl of 9, lay twisted and broken in the shadow of the ivy covered spire. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, her chest as still as a lake on a windless day. I knew in that moment there was nothing I could do, I should have turned away. 'Pride will kill', the saying goes, I should have heeded this sage advice. Damn it all! The scratching sounds have begun again. Nails as dry as the ground which refuses to claim them scrape against wood too old to take the abuse. Dry, splintery snaps fill the night air. The chorus will start soon, the guttural, halting, choking, mangled cry of her name will carry me through the night, filling my mind with nightmare images of all that I will suffer before it is done. Now, where was I in my tale? Ah, yes, I see it as clear as the door in front of me. Standing before the king and queen, the blood of their daughter soaking into the ground, a dark stain which can never be cleaned. Their pain moves me and in that moment the end began. I let my cloak fall to the ground, the evening wind causing my hair to billow around me. The ancient names - forgotten to all but my teacher (Gods rest her) and myself - dance from my tongue and power courses through my veins. Golden streams of light flow from my fingertips, their paths an echo of the ivy upon the tower, twisting, curling, crossing themselves before flowing into the mangled body before me. 'There is no way this can work', I think to myself (maybe I hoped it wouldn't work) but there is power in the names of the ancients and not even death can stand before them. The girl's eyes twitched and her body shuddered as the golden light flowed into her broken body. The king and queen stood off to the side, holding one another tight, drinking in the spectacle before them. I continued to mutter the names, the intricate syllables spilling from my tongue like oil. A foul taste filled my mouth, the flavor of putrid meat consuming my senses. Even as I speak I can feel the girl's blood soaking through the thick leather of my boots, soaking into my skin. I feel as though my stomach is being turned inside out. Still the names flow. The girl untwisted her body, sickening snaps and cracks ringing out as her mangled body re-assembled before our eyes. The golden rays no longer flowed through me, the names no longer trailed from my mouth. I gathered my cloak from the ground, wrapped it once more around my shoulders, and ran back to my cottage as fast as my feet could carry me. The king and queen's thanks and praise chasing me as I fled from the horror only I could recognize. The praise faded and shrieks of horror followed. I could see in my mind's eye the terror spread across the townspeople's faces as the empty little girl snarled and snapped. Her teeth gnashing together as the hunger began to fill her. Blood spilled from her mouth as her teeth cleaved the muscle of her tongue, the chunk of flesh disappearing down her throat in a squishing, squelching, roiling mass. I shuddered from the images but you cannot hide from what you create. You were so happy that day, Ashes, springing from floor to sill, sill to bookshelf, tail swishing behind you. I've not completely lost it, I know 'tis only your corpse I hold in my lap, but if not you who then would I tell my story to? When my fingers move over your bones I can almost feel the silky fur once shimmering in the sunlight. I went to the king and queen the next day, my heart full of remorse. I begged them to end her life, to steal from her the gift I had so wrongfully bestowed upon her. The king and queen smiled at me like I was mistaken. He placed his hand upon my shoulder and ushered me from the room, whispering sweet praise and thanks in my ear as his boots struck softly on the marble floor. They sequestered the princess to the very tower from which she fell and life resumed as if nothing had happened. As if, I had not welcomed Hell onto our doorstep. It seemed that no one could hear the sounds which haunted me at night. The snarling, the growling, the guttural coughs; mockeries of the words she might have said if she had not consumed her tongue. I knew that these words were meant for me. I could hear my name in the mangled 'deadspeak' and the hunger which fueled her was a knot of pain in my stomach. I lay awake, hearing her call "Gabriella" while all the world wondered what the strangled cries of "Gothel" could mean. I had birthed a nightmare, a never-ending, life-consuming monster. The hunger she felt, the hunger for a soul lost in death, could never be satiated. The monster lusted for chaos and destruction, was gluttonous for the flesh of the living, the flesh of the pure. For 9 years the cries continued, growing loudest at night but only I seemed troubled by the sound. Livestock disappeared. The king and queen blamed famine, disease, poor nutrition, for the loss of animals. I suspected a much more nefarious creature. One locked in the room of our tallest tower, the floor covered with years of shit and piss, the oppressive smell of excrement saturating the stones. My mind conjured images of cattle being forced into the room with the girl, one at a time night after night; alive. I midwifed Death incarnate into the world through my hubris. I knew it then just as powerfully as I know it now, though I have proof now. Proof in the form of the masses which gather beyond these walls night and night again. Ha! My last boastful claim is that I am responsible for the end of days! Last night I dreamed that I opened the doors and walked out among them. They spread before me like a sea crashing against the rocks. I could feel the mud squishing beneath my feet but when I looked down, it was not mud upon which I walked but the organs and bowels and masticated flesh of those I once knew. Blood soaked my feet and the smell and taste of copper filled my nose and mouth. I walked to her, she was barefoot, unblemished by time or the chaos around her. Her hair was golden and luminous beneath the moonless sky, her eyes were bright yellow like the golden rays which allowed her conception. She beckoned to me and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. This was no little girl such as my senses tried to convince me. The girl before me was a predator. I watched in horror as my feet followed her commands. She pulled me into her arms and I felt the stings of millions of teeth upon my skin. I awoke that night with a scream so loud I'm sure I woke the dead. . . . Woke the dead! Ha, Ashes, I forgot what a talent for humor I once possessed. No? You don't think it's funny enough to laugh? Not even a meow? Silly beast, I'll explain it. It is funny because I DID wake the dead. I remember that I could not go back to sleep (only in part because of my nightmare) mostly because those damned creatures started in with their scratching, and moaning, and feeble attempts at normal, decent speech. Where was I? Sometimes the racket is too much to think over. Sometimes fear steals my thoughts. Tonight, oddly, it's hunger. Hear their cries? Gothel, Gothel, Gothel! Gabriella is my name! Gabriella! I don't know how the stories spread or even what the rumors were. I didn't care about the riders as they came into town. Dread filled my bones. You remember, don't you, Ashes? My beautiful cat. That was the night I held you in my lap, knife concealed beneath my frock. I stroked you from nape to tail and when your delighted purr filled the room, I slid my blade into your heart. Oh! I'm so sorry about that! I could feel what was to come and I knew that I would need food. The loss of your company has been unbearable and your bones leave splinters in my gums. If only he had slipped, as she had, when he climbed her tower. But he did not. If only she had consumed him entirely when he stepped through her window. All might have been avoided. Instead she succeeded in only biting him. He shoved her to the ground and climbed back down the way he came. I was the catalyst, he was the change. The stench of the infection clung to him. His skin developing boils and sores. A hunger which could not be satiated filled him with pain and rage. A fight broke out in the tavern. Many were wounded, many were bitten. There was nothing I could do to stop the coming storm. I huddled within this cottage, barricading the doors and windows and praying to the gods who now abandoned me, that the walls would hold. I could hear the squelching attacks as teeth pierced flesh. The screams of confusion as loved ones became half-rotted monstrosities which refused to die. Above it all, I could hear her, still in the tower, still calling: 'Gothel, Gothel'. With one bite, one wounded prince, she had created an army to gather at my door. The king and queen, too late in their actions, sent men to kill her in her tower. I could hear their screams through the boards on my window. I huddled in bed as she tore at their flesh, the sounds of spraying blood consuming me. The last time I dared glance through the dusty beams which criss-cross my would be window, I viewed a world mostly unaware of my plight. The events which had transpired, transforming those I once knew into unspeakable nightmares, had not changed the landscape. The same rolling hills and fields (though now they lay un-sewn) rippled in the breeze which traveled the world as they did when I was a girl. The clouds moved unendingly onward. Insects buzzed, flowers bloomed. The end of the world was, as I remember, surprisingly quiet and beautiful. Almost peaceful save for the staggering creatures walking, limping, or crawling across the ground waiting for the doors to the cottage to give way or the walls to crumble down. The door has broken open, I will not cry, I will not scream. Their hands grip my arms and I'm sure your skull, still bearing my gnaw marks, lies forgotten upon the straw floor of the cottage. Their bodies smell of must and decay, flesh hanging in flaps. Some are missing eyes, some whole chunks of their bodies. The worst are the ones I can still recognize. Katerina, her left eye missing and a gaping hole where her lower jaw once was, carries the head and shoulder of her infant child. He suckles at her breast, tearing her flesh with the little chips of teeth just breaking through his gums. I want to turn my eyes away but I can't. Benjamin, the baker who brought me fresh bread every morning, gaped at me with wide lidless eyes. His fingers were missing, his hands bloody stumps at the end of gray gangrenous arms. I turned my eyes from him, only to have them fall upon his daughter; Sasha. She stood naked in the cold, feeling none of the wind that played through her hair. Her breasts were putrid sores dripping puss down her stomach. Scabs covered her sex and one leg was absent from the knee down. On and on the army of nightmare creatures, the carnival of horrors, stretched. The contents of my stomach: your barely digested bones, rise in my throat. I try to choke back my revulsion but the acidic taste of bile fills my mouth and I vomit down the front of my dress. There is no escape. The masses spread before me, they are taking me to her, I know they are taking me to the base of the tower. I recognize my dream for what it was, not an errant conjuration of a fearful mind, but a premonition of things to come, of terrors which wait for me alone. The hunger that fills them all, the terrible pain coursing through their insatiable bodies, can only be satisfied by my death. I begin to shake, my fear consuming me. My tongue trips over the spells and incantations I once knew so readily and despair steals the air from my lungs. My bare feet drag through the mud, unlike the dream only mud lies beneath me. Growls and shouts fill the air, taunts I do not recognize. Teeth snap together and my progress comes to a halt. They throw me to the ground and the mud swallows me. I lift my head and see immaculate bare feet. Delicate toes upon the green grass of the field. I pull myself to a sitting position and find her standing before me. She wears the same dress though it is stained with dirt, blood, and other unidentifiable substances. I can feel myself shaking, I know what is to come. She twitches. Her head cocking to the side in a violent movement of uncoordinated muscles. Her eyes meet mine but there is no warmth, no hope, no life. Her hair, once a tangled mass of golden strands, stretches behind her in mud caked masses of brown tangles. Aside from the tongue missing in her mouth she remained as perfect and beautiful as the day I revived her. Her flesh untouched, pore-less, like the skin of a doll. Her skin was pale from lack of sunlight but there were no discolorations, no bruising, no decay. I had thought it so long ago, the moment the power flowed from me. Not even death could stand before the power I had released. "Gothel?" the pitch of the choking noise makes it seem a question. "Rapunzel." I cannot help but utter her name. I force my tongue to speak the ancient names but the flow of power does not come. I look to my left, the hand of the queen is on my shoulder. There is very little of her skin left but the fabric clinging to her identifies the royalty. My hair is pulled viciously. The king reprimanding me for raising my eyes to his wife. A hysterical laughter breaks free of my mouth. The monsters standing around me take no notice. I am the architect of my own destruction. I have changed the world with one action and now I face the wrath of the new regime. As her teeth bite into my shoulder I scream. My blood, hot and thick, flows down my chest in little rivulets. She pulls her head away from me, tearing the skin and meat from my bones. My voice cracks from the pain. The smell of copper from my blood is overwhelming and the world spins before my eyes. I struggle to focus but I can see nothing more than her mouth chewing, up and down, up and down, her eyes never leaving mine as she consumes the flesh from my shoulder. She steps back from me and waves her hand in a dismissive manner. Her prince steps to her side and looks at the blood on her face greedily. His lips are missing along with vast portions of his face, neck, and arms. He moves from her toward me. His footsteps mix with those of the approaching mob, the hungry denizens of the world I created. It takes an eternity for my life to leave me. They start with my extremities, pulling flesh from bone, chewing the ligaments and tendons, drinking the marrow from cracked bones.I feel the agony of every tearing pull of teeth, hear the snap of my skin shredding in their mouths, feel the pressure of their hands holding me in place and above it all the watery wheezing of my panicked breath. They are upon me, a writhing sea of arms and legs, mouths and teeth. The army of the princess, a rotting wave of corpses animated by hunger. My screams fill my ears as my body fills their stomachs. Hair and Years Off I had not seen Jan in several years; not since her boyfriend had gotten killed after losing the bet that his car could make it back into the correct lane before the semi reached him. She was a small woman in her forties, ten years older than her boyfriend and was a sexual dynamo. Not that I knew personally, he had shown me the videos of her tight little body being pounded by him, participating in a two girl orgy while he watched and even taking on some huge black guy in a hotel room on vacation. Anyway I had bumped into her again at work and at first I did not recognize her, she was wearing dowdy clothes that made her look at least ten years older, but it was the hair that really got me. She had it styled in a really fake looking red, and it was puffed up like you see the old ladies wear it. If the clothing added ten years to her age the hair added twenty. I said hello and we wound up talking, which lead to lunch. She told me since the accident that she had not dated anyone, and then it came out: she had felt guilty because he had been rushing home to her when it had happened. She started to cry and I held her as she sobbed and shook. I told her that it was not her fault, that there was no way she could have known he was going to do what he did on that rainy road. She said she knew but she could not shake the thought. I drove her home and she invited me up, maybe I should not have accepted her invitation, but I did. We talked some more, I decided to bring up her appearance by asking why she had dyed her hair. "I know! I did not know what I was thinking. My daughters hate it! I know it's awful, and the clothes, it's just that...I don't know, maybe I don't want a relationship right now, or ever. Maybe I am punishing myself. I really don't know," she said rubbing her hands together. I told her that that was a bit harsh. "Well maybe so. But I guess so but what am I supposed to do now, shave it all off?" she said with a laugh. "Well there is no law against that, and that is what they make wigs for," I said laughing and never dreaming of what she would say next. She paused for a moment in thought, then said "Maybe I should." She got up and went to her bathroom, I heard her rummaging around and she came back out with a towel, a pair of scissors, a pair of electric clippers, shaving cream, and some disposable razors. Was she going to do what I think she was? "You are right. I think it might be time to put that past behind me. I want you to help me." I could not believe my ears, but I could feel my cock throbbing, for some reason the thought of shaving her head turned me on. She told me she had a wig in the closet which she used to wear for Bill. I asked again if she was sure. She got up, poured herself a shot, looked in the mirror at that ugly red hair of hers and nodded. I got a wooden kitchen chair and had her sit in it hoping she did not see how turned on I was. Going over to her stereo I put on some music, then wrapped a towel around her like a big apron and took a handful of her hair and did the first snip, I was worried that she'd break down and cry but instead she gave a sigh of relief. I grabbed the next handful and kept cutting until the scissors were of no use. Plugging in the electric clipper I slowly went back and forth across her small head until all that remained was fuzz. She looked up at me and told me to keep going. I went into her bathroom and got another two towels, one I soaked in hot water. I draped the wet towel over her head and massaged her scalp. Then I removed it and put the shaving cream on her head. Methodically I shaved the remaining hair on her head leaving it clean and shiny. When I was done I wiped her head with the other towel and messaged in some moisturizer. She got up and asked me how she looked; I told her the truth: sexy. She went over to the mirrored wall in her living room and looked at herself. I was worried that she was going to start crying, instead she looked relieved. "Now the only thing wrong is these clothes." I said reaching around from behind her, I started to unbutton her blouse. She backed her tight little ass into me and could feel my arousal. As her nipples started to rise she told me she had not had sex since Bill had gotten killed. She thrust her ass back against me again as I removed her top then unsnapped her bra. Her tits were as perfect as I remembered them from the videos, small and perky, but just enough to sandwich a cock between them. She turned around and we kissed. My hand ran across her smooth head. She kicked off her shoes and I helped undo her jeans. She stepped out of her jeans so she only had on her white panties, which soon joined them on the floor. She watched as I took off my clothes. "So you like my new look?" she said as I took in her tight little body. She gracefully sunk down to her knees and took my cock into her warm mouth. My hands ran across her shiny smooth head as she did her best to take me all the way down her throat. Her hands rubbed and fingered her pussy. I could hear the wet noise as she stimulated herself to an orgasm. I grabbed the back of her smooth head and held it as I rammed myself down her throat, she never objected and instead fingered herself quicker and quicker. She used her free hand to pinch her nipples hard. I told her I was about to cum and she took my load and milked my cock until it was dry. She got up on top of her coffee table on her hands and knees, telling me to fuck my" bald headed sex slave." Within minutes I was hard again and pushed myself inside of her. For a woman in her late forties she felt tighter than some of the younger women I had known and she was very verbal, which was even more of a turn-on than you could believe. "When you cum, cum inside of me, deep. Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Fuck your bald headed sex slave. Oh yeah!" I reached around to grab her tits as I fucked her. Midway through I pulled her onto the couch in a reverse cowgirl position enjoying watching her small ass smack down on me as her pussy ate my cock. She stopped and got off of me saying she knew what I wanted. On her knees in front of me she rubbed my cock head against her smooth scalp as she jerked me off telling me to cum on her head. After a few minutes I coated her shiny head. When I was done she grabbed my cock and again milked out every last drop of cum I had. She then rubbed my cum deep into her scalp. In the bedroom I fucked her as hard as I could enjoying her alien sexiness. Afterwards we relaxed, she said she might never let her hair grow back. We regularly saw each other afterwards, she would wear her wig in public but at home she walked around bald. One night she told me she wanted to go out in public bald, but that is another story for another time.