As the sun dipped low on that Tuesday evening, casting a warm golden hue over my quiet suburban street, I watched Elena stroll by in her floral summer skirt that hugged her hourglass figure just right. The fabric swayed with each step, accentuating her slim waist and the gentle curve of her hips. At 38, she was a vision of classic beauty—medium breasts that filled out her simple white blouse modestly, and that shy disposition that made her smiles feel like rare gifts. But it was her hair that had ensnared me from the first time we'd met as neighbors. Always pinned up in a massive bun, it was a tantalizing mystery: extremely thick, voluminous, and shiny, with strands of coarse red laced through with traces of gold that caught the light like fire-kissed silk. I'd guessed it must be long, but how long? The bun was huge, a coiled crown that added inches to her height and made my fingers itch with forbidden curiosity.
Her husband was away, as usual, working out of town until the weekend. Recently separated myself in my mid-50s, I felt a reckless freedom I hadn't known in years. I called out to her from my front porch, inviting her for a glass of wine. She hesitated, that shy smile playing on her lips, but accepted. We sat there, sipping a crisp Chardonnay, chit-chatting about nothing and everything—the neighborhood gossip, the weather, our shared evenings with her husband over light dinners. But my eyes kept drifting to that enormous bun, the way stray wisps of red-gold escaped and framed her face like a halo.
She caught me staring, her cheeks flushing a soft pink. "You've been looking at my hair a lot," she said softly, her voice teasing yet tentative. "Is there something about it?"
I chuckled, the wine loosening my tongue. "Guilty as charged. It's... mesmerizing. I've never seen hair like yours— so thick, so shiny. I have this crazy love for it. A fetish, really."
Her eyes widened, but instead of pulling away, she leaned in, her shy smile turning playful. "A fetish? Tell me more." She teased me gently, probing with questions that made my pulse quicken. Emboldened, I confessed it all—how I fantasized about running my fingers through it, feeling its weight, its texture.
To my shock, she didn't recoil. Instead, she bit her lip and whispered, "Would you like to brush it? Maybe even wash it? My husband never has the patience."
My heart raced. We finished our wine and moved inside to my bathroom, the air thick with anticipation. She stood before the mirror, her floral skirt brushing against my legs as I positioned myself behind her. With trembling hands, I reached for the pins holding her bun in place. One by one, I removed them, and the mass began to unfurl. It was like releasing a cascade—first, the outer layers tumbled down, revealing waves of coarse red hair interwoven with those golden highlights that shimmered under the bathroom lights. The texture was intoxicating: thick and voluminous, each strand coarse yet shiny, like polished wire wrapped in silk. It wasn't soft like fine hair; it had a rugged, resilient feel that made it spring back defiantly when touched.
As the last pin came out, her hair exploded free, falling in a heavy curtain that reached all the way to her mid-thighs. God, the length—it was at least 40 inches from root to tip, a river of red-gold that swayed with her every breath. The volume was overwhelming; it fanned out wide, filling the space around her shoulders, so thick that I could barely wrap my hand around a single section. The coarseness gave it a wild, untamed quality, each strand slightly wiry, yet the shine made it gleam like molten metal. I inhaled deeply—the faint scent of her shampoo, floral and musky, mixed with the natural warmth of her scalp.
She handed me a wide-toothed comb first, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror with that shy gleam. "Start slow," she murmured.
I began at the ends, working my way up, the comb gliding through the coarse strands with just enough resistance to make it erotic. Each pass revealed more of its texture—the way the golden traces caught the light, highlighting the deep red base like veins of ore in rock. I sectioned it off, lifting heavy handfuls that weighed down my palms, feeling the volume press against my skin. She sighed softly, her eyes fluttering half-closed as I moved to a soft-bristled brush. The bristles whispered through her hair, smoothing the coarseness into glossy waves, but never taming it fully—it bounced back with that voluminous spring.
"Feels amazing," she whispered, tilting her head back slightly, exposing the nape of her neck where shorter strands curled rebelliously.
Emboldened, I suggested washing it. She nodded, stripping down to her undergarments—a simple bra and panties that hugged her medium breasts and slim waist—while I filled the sink with warm water. She leaned over, her massive hair draping forward like a curtain. I wet it section by section, the water darkening the red to a deep auburn, making the golden traces pop even more. The coarseness absorbed the moisture greedily, swelling the volume until it felt even thicker, heavier in my hands. I massaged shampoo into her scalp, my fingers digging into the roots, feeling the wiry texture give way to sudsy silk. Bubbles cascaded down the length, and I rinsed carefully, the water running clear after what felt like an eternity due to the sheer mass.
Toweling it dry gently, I couldn't resist playing with it—gathering the damp strands into ponytails, then releasing them to watch the volume explode outward. I braided a thick section, the coarseness making the weave sturdy and textured, like rope woven from fire. She moaned softly as I ran my hands through it, fanning it out across her back, the tips brushing her thighs.
"Close your eyes," I said, my voice husky. "Let me pamper you."
She obliged, leaning back against me, her shy smile fading into relaxed bliss. Her floral skirt was hitched up slightly from the activity, but she didn't seem to mind. With her eyes shut, I indulged deeper in my fetish. I wrapped a thick lock around my hand, feeling its shiny coarseness grip my skin. Secretly, I positioned myself closer, guiding a bundle of her mid-thigh-length hair toward my growing arousal. I slid it gently against myself—a hair job, the coarse strands providing a teasing friction that was both rough and silky. The volume enveloped me, the golden-red waves shimmering as they moved. I thrust subtly, the texture scraping deliciously, the shine reflecting my restrained movements.
She stirred, her breath quickening, but instead of pulling away, she pressed back against me. "That feels... naughty," she whispered, eyes still closed, but a knowing smile creeping in. She loved it—the forbidden thrill, the way her hair was being used in such an intimate way. Things heated up fast; her hand reached back, guiding more of her voluminous locks into the play, wrapping them tighter around me. The coarseness heightened every sensation, the length allowing endless coils.
Emboldened, I turned her to face me, her hair cascading over her shoulders like a fiery waterfall. I buried my face in it, inhaling deeply, then pulled her into a kiss. Our bodies pressed together, her medium breasts against my chest, her slim waist fitting perfectly in my hands. I lifted her onto the counter, her skirt riding up as I tangled my fingers in her hair, pulling gently to expose her neck. She arched, moaning as I trailed kisses down, then gathered her hair to drape it over her body like a blanket, the coarse strands teasing her skin.
We moved to the bedroom, her hair splayed out on the pillows—a sea of red-gold waves, thick and voluminous, reaching to the foot of the bed. I indulged fully now, wrapping sections around us both as we explored each other. She rode me, her hair swinging like a pendulum, the coarseness brushing my chest with each movement. The shine caught the lamplight, making her look ethereal. She climaxed first, her shy cries muffled in the mass of her own hair, then pulled me deeper into the fetish—using her locks to stroke and tease until I followed.
As we lay tangled in the aftermath, her hair draped over us like a warm, textured cocoon, she whispered shyly, "We should do this again... when he's away." I couldn't agree more, already dreaming of the next time I'd unravel that massive bun.