She was hoping he might do that. A thousand validations crying out their vindication against her sca
She was hoping he might do that. A thousand validations crying out their vindication against her scalp. She’d turned her head to and fro, trying to get his attention, trying to annoy him enough into grabbing it. When his hand has closed around those bunched locks, she’d felt almost like she’d manipulated it out of him. For a moment, it had felt unsatisfying. And then he had pulled. And then she had moaned. The thought that she was making him do anything that he didn’t want to do was flushed from her mind like toilet water, and he was yanking on that chain hard enough to make sure nothing but clean was left behind. Her head pulled back, just to give her a moment’s respite against that sharp wash of pain that lit up the back of her head. She tried to turn her head, look at him, but he just pulled harder, forcing her to stare straight ahead, straight up, at the ceiling. The plaster swirled, a snapshot of psychadelica. There was something about hair pulling that just got her. She didn’t know why, or how, it worked, she just knew that there was a main power conduit that ran from her scalp down her spine, before diverging between her legs. One was inextricably linked to the other, and the way she twitched when that ponytail was firmly gripped and pulled was unseemly. The way he smiled when he did it made her know that he knew, too. And that thought made her twitch all the more. There was a power in knowledge, just as there was power in mystery. Where one gave, the other grew. And while she didn’t know what the fuck it was about hair pulling that turned her on so much, she did know she liked it. -- source link
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