Strands of Obsession: Her Hair, His Reins
Part 1: The Discovery
I stood at the kitchen counter, stirring the pasta sauce as it simmered gently on the stove. The aroma of garlic and tomatoes filled the air, making my stomach rumble in anticipation. It had been a long day, but cooking always relaxed me. My hair—thick, wavy, and so long it reached down to my waist like Rapunzel's in those old fairy tales—was piled up in a loose bun on top of my head. It was practical that way; no strands falling into the food or getting in my face while I chopped vegetables.
I heard the familiar sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by footsteps. A smile tugged at my lips. "Hey, honey," I called out without turning around. "Dinner's almost ready. How was your day?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, I felt his arms wrap around my waist from behind, pulling me into a warm hug. His chest pressed against my back, and I leaned into him instinctively, loving these little moments of affection. "Mmm, missed you," I murmured, tilting my head slightly as he nuzzled my neck.
"You smell amazing," he whispered, his voice a bit huskier than usual. His hands rested on my hips, holding me close. I giggled softly, stirring the pot one more time.
"Flatterer. It's just the sauce." I turned my head to peck his cheek, but he held me tighter, his breath warm against my ear.
One of his hands slowly moved up my back, fingers tracing my spine until they reached the base of my neck. I didn't think much of it at first—until I felt him tugging gently at the hair tie holding my bun in place. "What are you—?" I started to ask, but the words trailed off as the bun unraveled. My hair cascaded down in a thick, heavy wave, tumbling over my shoulders and down my back like a silky curtain.
"Oh," I said softly, surprised. "You want it down? It's gonna get everywhere while I'm cooking." I reached back to gather it again, but he stopped me, his arms still around me.
"Just leave it," he murmured, his voice low and intense. There was something in his tone that made me pause—a hunger I hadn't quite heard before. What's gotten into him? I thought, a little flutter in my chest. He's being extra affectionate tonight.
I turned off the stove for a moment, twisting slightly in his embrace to face him better. "Everything okay?" I asked, searching his eyes. They were dark, fixed on my hair as he ran his fingers through it, combing the strands slowly.
"Yeah," he breathed, almost to himself. "God, your hair... it's so beautiful. So thick."
I blushed a little. He'd always complimented my hair, but this felt different—more reverent. "Thanks, babe," I said with a smile, trying to play it cool even as warmth spread through me. His touch was sending little shivers down my spine.
He didn't let go. Instead, he gathered a handful of my hair, wrapping it around his fingers, then pulling more of it forward over my shoulder. I felt him shift behind me, his body pressing closer. Is he... getting turned on? Just from my hair? The thought popped into my head, intriguing and a bit confusing. We'd been together for years, and I'd never noticed anything like this.
"Honey?" I whispered, my voice curious now. He didn't respond with words. I felt his hand move away briefly, and then... something else. A subtle motion against my back, rhythmic and insistent. My eyes widened as realization dawned. Oh my God. He's... using my hair?
I froze for a second, processing. He had wrapped strands of my long, thick hair around himself—I could feel the gentle tug on my scalp, the way he was stroking through the softness. My heart raced. He has a hair fetish? He never told me... Part of me was shocked, but another part—deeper, unexpected—was aroused by the intimacy of it, the secret he'd apparently kept.
"You... you like my hair that much?" I asked softly, not pulling away. My voice came out breathy, a mix of surprise and something warmer.
He groaned quietly against my neck. "So much," he admitted finally, his movements growing faster. "I couldn't help it tonight. Seeing it up like that... then letting it down..."
I bit my lip, leaning back into him more, encouraging without words. This is new, I thought, a thrill running through me. And kind of hot. "It's okay," I murmured, reaching back to touch his arm. "I don't mind. It feels... nice, actually. The way you're pulling it gently."
That seemed to spur him on. His breathing grew ragged, his grip on my hair tightening just enough to make me gasp softly. I stood there, letting him, the sauce forgotten for the moment as heat built between us.
"Fuck, baby," he whispered urgently. "I'm close..."
I turned my head slightly, wanting to see his face, but he held me in place. Then, with a low moan muffled against my shoulder, I felt it—a warm, sudden release spilling into the thick strands draped over my back and shoulder.
He came... on my hair. The realization hit me fully, sticky warmth seeping into the waves. I hadn't expected that at all. My cheeks flushed hot. He really has a fetish for this. And he just... marked it.
He held me tight for a moment longer, catching his breath, then slowly released my hair, careful not to let it tangle too much. I reached back tentatively, feeling the dampness. "Wow," I said, half-laughing in disbelief as I turned to face him fully. "You really do have a thing for my hair, huh? Why didn't you ever tell me?"
He looked a little sheepish now, but his eyes were still gleaming with satisfaction. "I didn't know how you'd react," he admitted, pulling me into a proper kiss.
I kissed him back, then pulled away with a playful smirk, touching the affected strands. "Well, now you have. And... I think we can explore that more. But next time, warn a girl—I've got dinner to finish, and now I need a quick rinse."
We both laughed, the air charged with a new kind of closeness. Who knew? I thought, already imagining future nights with my hair down.
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Part 2: The Escalation
I was in the kitchen again, finishing up the dishes after dinner. The house was quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the soft clink of plates as I stacked them. My hair was down tonight—after what happened last time, I’d left it loose on purpose, wondering if he’d notice. It hung heavy and thick down my back, past my waist, brushing against my hips with every movement. I’d caught him staring at it all through dinner, his eyes dark, his fork forgotten more than once.
I didn’t hear him come in. One moment I was alone, the next his body was behind me—hard, urgent, pressing me forward until my hips hit the edge of the counter. No gentle hug this time. His hands gripped my waist roughly, fingers digging in as he growled low against my ear.
“Couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he rasped, voice thick with need. “Your fucking hair. All night.”
My breath caught. Oh God, he’s not holding back tonight. A rush of heat flooded through me—surprise, yes, but also something darker, hungrier. I didn’t pull away.
He didn’t ask. One hand snaked up my back and fisted into my hair near the roots—not gently. A sharp tug arched my neck back, exposing my throat as he ground himself against my ass. I gasped, hands bracing on the counter.
“You have no idea,” he muttered, almost angry with how much he wanted it. “How long I’ve needed this.”
His other hand was already working his belt, zipper rasping open. I felt him free himself, hot and rigid against the small of my back. Then both hands were in my hair—gathering huge fistfuls, wrapping the thick, silky strands around his cock in tight, deliberate coils. The pull on my scalp was intense, borderline painful, but it sent sparks straight between my legs.
He started moving—hard, primal thrusts into the tunnel of my hair. Each stroke yanked my head slightly, keeping me pinned, arched, helpless. The softness of my hair contrasted with the raw force of him—grunting, hips snapping forward like he couldn’t control it anymore.
“Fuck… so soft… so thick,” he groaned, voice breaking. His grip tightened, using my hair like it was made for this—his personal toy, his obsession.
I couldn’t move much, trapped between him and the counter, but I didn’t want to. My heart pounded, arousal soaking through my panties as I felt him lose himself completely. He’s never been like this, I thought, dizzy with it. So feral. Because of my hair.
His rhythm grew brutal—short, savage thrusts, breath ragged against my neck. One hand left my hair to grip my hip, bruising, holding me still as he fucked the thick rope he’d made of my waves.
“Gonna mark it,” he snarled suddenly, voice low and dangerous. “All of it. Mine.”
I whimpered—actually whimpered—because the possessiveness in his tone undid me. “Do it,” I breathed, surprising myself. “Please.”
That broke him. With a guttural moan he slammed forward one last time, burying himself deep in the cocoon of my hair. I felt the hot rush—pulse after thick pulse spilling into the strands, soaking them, coating them, dripping down in heavy ropes. He kept thrusting through it, milking every drop, smearing his release through my hair like he wanted it embedded forever.
He stayed there a long moment, breathing hard, forehead pressed to my shoulder. My hair was a mess—tangled, sticky, utterly claimed. I could feel it cooling against my back, heavy with him.
Finally he loosened his grip, hands sliding down to my waist again, gentler now. I turned slowly in his arms, looking up at him. His eyes were still wild, but softer.
“You okay?” he asked, voice rough, almost hesitant—like he was afraid he’d gone too far.
I reached up, fingers threading through the soaked strands at my temple, feeling the evidence of what he’d done. A slow, wicked smile curved my lips.
“More than okay,” I whispered. “But next time… don’t hold back at all.”
His eyes flared again, and I knew this was only the beginning.
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Part 3: The Ritual of the Braid
I was curled up on the couch, reading under the soft glow of the lamp, when I felt his presence before I heard him. My hair was braided tonight—a thick, heavy rope that started at the nape of my neck and fell all the way to the curve of my lower back. I’d done it after my shower, thinking it would keep the strands out of the way while I relaxed. Big mistake. Or maybe the best one I’d ever made.
He didn’t speak at first. He just stood behind the couch, staring. I could feel his eyes tracing the braid like it was a leash he couldn’t wait to grab. My pulse kicked up. Here we go again, I thought, heat already pooling low in my belly. But this time he looks... hungrier.
“Stand up,” he said finally, voice rough and low.
I closed my book slowly, looking over my shoulder at him. His jaw was tight, eyes dark. I obeyed, rising to my feet. The braid swung heavily against my spine as I turned to face him.
He stepped close—too close—hands immediately going to the braid. He wrapped it once around his fist, tugging just hard enough to tilt my head back. “This braid,” he growled against my throat, “has been driving me fucking insane all evening.”
I swallowed, a shiver racing through me. “You like it like this?”
“I’m going to ruin it,” he promised, and then his mouth was on mine—hard, claiming, no patience left.
He pulled me by the braid toward the bedroom, not roughly enough to hurt, but firmly enough that I had no choice but to follow. Every tug sent sparks down my spine. By the time we reached the bed, I was breathing fast, wet and aching without him even touching me yet.
First position: he sat on the edge of the bed and yanked me down to my knees between his legs. The braid was still in his fist. He unzipped himself slowly, eyes locked on mine, then unwound the braid with deliberate pulls until my hair spilled loose in thick waves. But he didn’t let it fall free—he gathered it all forward over one of my shoulders, twisting it into a thick rope again, tighter this time, and wrapped it around his cock.
I watched, transfixed, as he started thrusting into the silky tunnel he’d made. The pull on my scalp was constant now, keeping my head tilted forward, forcing me to watch every stroke. He used my hair like a sleeve, fucking it hard and deep, grunting with every snap of his hips.
“Hold it,” he ordered suddenly, guiding my hands to keep the hair wrapped around him. Then both of his hands were free—one fisted at my roots, controlling my head, the other gripping my shoulder as he pounded faster. My knees dug into the carpet, my body trembling with how turned on I was.
He didn’t last long like that. With a guttural curse he came hard, flooding the strands draped over my chest and shoulder, marking me in hot pulses. I moaned at the feel of it, the warmth soaking into my hair.
But he wasn’t done.
He hauled me up by the hair—still sticky and messy—and pushed me face-down onto the bed. Second position: bent over the edge, ass in the air. He stood behind me, gathering the soaked hair into one massive handful at the back of my head like reins. I felt him slide his still-hard cock between my thighs first, teasing, before pulling back and wrapping my long, cum-slick hair around himself again.
This angle was brutal. He thrust into the thick mass pressed against my lower back, using the braid’s remnants to tighten the grip. Every stroke yanked my head back, arching my spine, making me cry out. The wet sounds of his release mixing with my hair were obscene, filthy, perfect.
“Fuck, you take it so well,” he snarled, hips slamming forward. “My hair. My girl.”
I pushed back against him, desperate for friction, whimpering his name.
Third position: he flipped me onto my back, climbing over me. My hair fanned out across the pillow like a dark halo, tangled and glistening. He straddled my chest, pinning my arms with his knees, and gathered every last strand into his hands. He wrapped it all around his cock again—thick, heavy, dripping—and started fucking the cocoon he’d made right above my breasts.
I couldn’t look away. The sight of him using my hair so possessively, face twisted in raw pleasure, was almost too much. He leaned forward, one hand braced beside my head, the other guiding the strokes. Faster. Harder. His breath came in ragged bursts.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
Our eyes locked as he came a second time—long, thick ropes spilling across my hair, my neck, even my cheek. He milked himself dry into the strands, smearing it deeper with slow, deliberate thrusts until he was spent.
Finally, he collapsed beside me, pulling me into his arms. My hair was an absolute wreck—tangled, sticky, utterly destroyed. I could feel his release cooling in it, heavy and claiming.
I turned to him, breathless, and smiled against his chest.
“You’re going to have to wash it for me,” I murmured, voice hoarse.
He chuckled low, fingers already threading gently through the mess he’d made. “Gladly. But tomorrow... I want it in pigtails.”
I laughed, heat flaring all over again. This obsession of his? It was only getting started.
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Part 4: Power and Presence
I was on my knees in the bedroom, the soft carpet pressing into my skin, my heart already racing. My hair was up in a high, messy bun tonight—thick and full, the kind that made the bun look almost too heavy for the pins holding it together. I’d done it casually after dinner, not thinking much of it. But the way he’d been watching me all evening, eyes lingering on the back of my neck, told me he had plans.
He stood in front of me now, shirt off, pants undone, cock hard and heavy in his hand. No words at first—just that dark, hungry look as he reached down and wrapped his fingers around the base of my bun. Not gentle. He gripped it like a handle, twisting slightly until I gasped, my head tilting back under his control.
“Open,” he said, voice low and rough.
I did, lips parting, tongue out just a little as I looked up at him. He guided himself into my mouth slowly at first, letting me feel the weight of him, the heat. But then his grip tightened on my bun, and he started moving—deeper, faster, using the bun to control every thrust.
He fucked my mouth like that, hand fisted in my hair, pulling my head forward to meet each stroke. The pins in my bun started to loosen from the force, strands escaping and brushing my cheeks, but he didn’t care. If anything, it made him rougher—tugging harder, forcing me to take him all the way to the back of my throat until my eyes watered and I moaned around him.
I couldn’t move much. Couldn’t pull back. He had complete control—my head exactly where he wanted it, pace relentless. The wet sounds filled the room, mixed with his low groans and my muffled whimpers. Every time he pulled my bun, a sharp jolt went through me, straight to my core. I was soaked, aching, loving how he used me.
“Fuck, your mouth… and this bun,” he growled, hips snapping faster. “Like a perfect fucking handle.”
I hummed in response, the vibration making him curse under his breath. His free hand came down to my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek as he watched himself slide in and out.
He was close—I could feel it in the way he swelled, the way his thrusts grew erratic. His grip on my bun tightened almost painfully.
“Gonna come,” he warned, voice strained. “Swallow most of it… but save some.”
I nodded as best I could, eyes locked on his.
With a deep, guttural groan he buried himself deep and came—hot, thick pulses flooding my mouth. I swallowed the first few instinctively, but then held the rest, letting it pool on my tongue as he throbbed through the aftershocks.
He pulled out slowly, breathing hard, still holding my bun like he wasn’t ready to let go. I stayed on my knees, mouth full, looking up at him with watery eyes and flushed cheeks.
He smirked, thumb tracing my lower lip. “Show me.”
I parted my lips slightly, letting him see the thick white load coating my tongue. Then, slowly—deliberately—I tilted my head back and let some of it drip from my mouth in a thin, glossy strand. But not onto the floor.
I reached up with one hand and carefully pulled out the remaining pins, letting my long, thick hair tumble down in a wild cascade over my shoulders and chest. Then, still holding his gaze, I let more of the cum slowly spill from my lips—dripping in warm, sticky trails onto the freshly released waves.
I used my tongue to push out the rest, letting it fall in heavy drops that clung to the strands, soaking in, marking my hair just like he loved. Some slid down the length, leaving glistening paths. I even gathered a little on my fingers and rubbed it deeper into the ends, playing with it, making sure it was thoroughly worked in.
He watched, transfixed, cock twitching again already.
“Jesus,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “You’re perfect.”
I smiled up at him, lips still shiny, hair now a beautiful, filthy mess.
“And you,” I whispered, “are going to help me wash this out… eventually.”
He pulled me to my feet and kissed me hard, tasting himself on my tongue, hands already tangling in the cum-slick strands.
We both knew “eventually” was a long way off.
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Part 5: The Final Bound
I’d been teasing him all day—little glances, brushing my hair over my shoulder, letting the thick waves fall loose down my back. By evening, the air between us was electric. He caught me in the hallway, backed me against the wall, and kissed me until I was breathless.
“Bedroom. Now,” he growled against my lips. “And keep your hair down.”
My pulse raced as I obeyed. He followed close behind, carrying something I didn’t notice at first. When we reached the bed, he pushed me gently onto my stomach in the center of the mattress.
“Hands behind your back.”
I glanced over my shoulder, eyes widening as he pulled soft black silk rope from his pocket. Bondage? The thought sent a thrill straight through me. We’d talked about trying it, but tonight he was taking charge.
I crossed my wrists at the small of my back without hesitation. He bound them quickly, expertly—loops tight enough to hold, but not to hurt. The rope bit softly into my skin, making me hyper-aware of every movement.
Then he flipped me onto my back. My bound hands pressed into the mattress beneath me, arching my chest up toward him. He straddled my waist, eyes dark with hunger as he gathered my long, thick hair in both hands.
He started braiding it—slow, deliberate—starting at the crown and working down, incorporating the rope as he went. The silk cord wove through the strands, turning my hair into a thick, bound plait that he could grip like a leash. When he reached the end, he tied it off with the remaining rope, leaving a short tail he could tug.
The braid lay heavy over one shoulder now, a perfect handle.
He shifted up my body until he knelt over my chest, cock hard and flushed. One fist wrapped around the base of the braided rope-hair, the other guiding himself to my lips.
“Open for me.”
I did, eagerly. He slid into my mouth slowly at first, letting me taste him, feel the weight. Then his grip tightened on the braid and he started thrusting—deep, controlled strokes that used the bound plait to pull my head exactly where he wanted it.
The bondage made it intense. I couldn’t use my hands. Couldn’t push back or adjust. I was completely at his mercy—wrists tied, head controlled by my own hair woven with rope. Every tug on the braid forced me deeper, made me take him to the back of my throat until tears pricked my eyes and I moaned around him.
He fucked my mouth relentlessly, hips rolling, breath ragged. The rope creaked softly with each pull, the braid holding firm.
“Look at you,” he rasped, voice thick. “Tied up… hair bound… taking my cock like this.”
I whimpered, helpless and soaked, loving the restraint.
He sped up, grip brutal now on the braided leash. “Gonna come down your throat,” he warned. “All of it.”
I nodded as much as the braid allowed, eyes pleading.
With a low, guttural groan he buried himself deep and let go—hot, thick pulses flooding my mouth. I swallowed greedily, taking every drop as he throbbed against my tongue.
He held me there through the aftershocks, braid pulled taut, keeping me impaled until he was spent. Only then did he ease out slowly, letting me catch my breath.
But he wasn’t finished.
Still straddling me, he loosened the tie at the end of the braid just enough to unravel a section. A small amount of cum had escaped my lips—glistening on my chin and lower lip. He scooped it with his fingers, then slowly rubbed it into the loosened strands, working it through my hair like oil.
“Keep the rest in your mouth,” he ordered softly.
I did, letting it pool on my tongue again.
He leaned down, untied my wrists with careful fingers, massaging the faint marks left by the rope. Then he pulled me up to sit against him, my back to his chest, hair spilling everywhere.
“Show me,” he whispered against my ear.
I tilted my head back against his shoulder, opened my mouth, and let the remaining cum drip slowly—thick, glossy strands falling onto my unbound hair. I used my tongue to guide it, letting it coat section after section, rubbing some in with my freed hands until my hair gleamed wetly in places.
He watched over my shoulder, arms wrapped around me, cock already stirring again against my back.
“You’re perfect like this,” he murmured, fingers threading through the sticky mess. “Bound. Marked. Mine.”
I turned in his arms, kissed him deeply—letting him taste himself—and smiled against his lips.
“Next time,” I whispered, “tie me tighter.”
His eyes flared, and I knew the rope would be coming out again very soon.
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