Hello, you fans of long hair stories. Here's one for you.

Let's clear up any possible misunderstandings at the outset.

1. This is a work of fiction. Don't ask for any pictures of the lady, because she exists only in my imagination.

2. I, the author, am male, but I find it an interesting exercise to write from a female point of view. Or maybe I'm just a little odd....

Okay, now read and enjoy.

JENNIE'S PLEASURE

I'm in a hurry. As soon as work's over and I decently can I grab my bag and head for the street. I've been tantalising myself all day, and I can't wait to get home and be alone with my hair.

What wierdness is this? I hear you ask. Well, yes, you can call me weird if you like, but my hair is very important to me. For one thing it represents one of my few victories over my mother.

All the time I was a little girl my mother insisted on keeping it short, almost as short as a boy's. She's always had short hair herself. She thinks it looks chic, and she's always maintained that long hair takes too much time and bother to look after. "Especially yours," she'd say whenever I protested that I wanted to grow it longer. "Look how thick and heavy it is. It'd be all over the place."

Not only that, but it grew very fast, too. She was always complaining that it cost her a small fortune in frequent visits to the hairdresser to keep my hair the way she wanted it. There was the irony and the frustration of it. I was sure that I'd be able to achieve spectacular results in a comparatively short time - if only I were allowed to try.

I was thirteen before I finally got my way, putting my foot down and flatly refusing to go to the hairdresser; and it wasn't long before I could see that my hopes were well founded. For my hair responded to its chance to grow with the energy of a dog let off its lead, so that within a comparatively short time it was transformed from a boyish cap into a sleek heavy fall. I can still remember the joy and pleasure with which I celebrated each milestone achieved - when it first covered my ears, when it reached the length when I could hide my face behind it, when it touched my shoulders, when I first felt it brush against my chest. And it kept on growing, until by the time I was eighteen and in the top year I had easily the longest hair in my school.

By then I'd adopted the style I still wear today, a single braid, as thick as my arm. As I walk to the bus stop I can feel its weight down my back and tapping against my bum, for it's been a lovely spring day, soft and balmy and not too hot, and I'm only wearing a light summer dress. The sensations only make me all the more eager to get home.

The reason I tell people who ask why I wear it in a braid is that it's so heavy and silky that I have trouble getting any kind of clip or fastening to stay in it. But there is another reason, a private one I've never told anybody.

I hadn't been growing my hair for very long before I realised that the pleasure I was taking in its ever-increasing length was more than just in my mind. The sweet pain, the rush and glory of the first time I brought myself to orgasm while brushing out my newly washed hair is still one of my most vivid memories. Okay, so maybe I really am weird, getting aroused by my own hair, but I've got used to the idea and I can quite happily live with it. The point is that I have to keep my hair tied back, not only to keep it out of the way, but to avoid such inconveniences as damp panties and the recurring urge to rush off to the nearest private place to masturbate.

And I was a bit naughty this morning. I washed my hair last night, and it still felt so gloriously soft and silky when I got up that I couldn't resist indulging myself a little. I never like to pull it back tightly into its braid, preferring it loose enough to frame my face and cover my ears; but this morning I left it looser than usual, to curve past my cheeks and stroke against my neck and shoulders. Furthermore, I parted it on the left instead of in the centre, so every time today my braid has fallen forwards over my right shoulder my hair has been sweeping over my right eye and stroking my nose.

I like it like this. I like it too much for comfort. I've been getting turned on something rotten all day - and that's why I'm in such a hurry to get home.

At last the bus reaches my stop and the doors hiss open. I jump off and hurry along the road, ignoring the nudges and stares as people notice the length of my braid. I'm used to it by now.

Key in the front door; hasten up the stairs to my studio flat at the back of the house. I go straight to the bathroom, grab the big bath towel and lay it on the floor in the living/bedroom before my floor-length mirror. I shrug out of my dress, let it fall to the floor and kick it across the room. My panties follow, which is a bit of a relief as they are soaked and were beginning to rub. My bra unhooked, the rush is finally over; and I take a moment to study my reflection.

I don't think I'm anything much to look at. With my small breasts and narrow hips, my figure is too boyish to be sexy. My chin is too sharp and my nose almost snub; and, despite my brown eyes and hair, I freckle. But the best of me is yet to be revealed.

Reaching down and bringing up the end of my braid, I begin to unravel it with the swift deftness of long practice. Even the slither of its silkiness through my fingers as I work is beginning to arouse me, and my breath is beginning to come fast and deep.

At last I reach the last twist, at the base of my neck. Tossing my hair back over my shoulder and shaking it out, I turn sideways on to the mirror.

My freed hair pours down my back in a shiny cascade as thick as my waist, and on over my bum and down my legs, past my knees, to hang just above my ankles, about three inches from the floor. Even after all the years of patient growing, I'm still awed by the sight. So much hair on one head, my head! It is my pride and joy, my wonder and delight and glory.

I was twenty and halfway through college when it first touched the floor, but in the four years since then I've kept it trimmed to its present length, which is enough for me. I don't want to be restricted to up-dos, and at times like this I love to feel its free swirl about my body. And one happy result of the regular trimming is that my hair is as thick at my ankles as it is at my shoulders.

Although I'm already tingling and dreamy with arousal, I'm far from finished yet. Picking up my wide-toothed comb, I bow my head to bring the heavy mass of my hair tumbling forward over my shoulder. Reaching down and gathering the whole cascade into one fist, I lift it and begin to run the comb through it, starting slowly and carefully with the last foot or so, making sure all the snags are freed before moving upwards, stage by stage.

I repeat the treatment with the brush, and soon it's moving in great long, slow sweeps through a swirling cascade of pouring silk that seems to increase in softness and volume with every stroke. I release my hold, and down it drops, falling in a silky caress against my face, my breasts, my belly, my thighs, my knees, filling my nose with its scent. Reaching upwards with the brush, I begin the final stage, brushing from the back of my neck over my head and down over my face; and, every time I lift the brush out for the next stroke, the silky cascade lifts and falls back against me with that fabulous caress. Clinging and crackling with static, its touch is so sensuous I'm beginning to go light-headed, and I can hear as from a distance my breath coming in deep gasps.

At last I make a parting, swing my hair back over either shoulder, and review the results of my handiwork. It's well worth viewing: brushed out, this hair of mine is straight and sleek, shining bright as wire with copper highlights. I can feel its warm soft weight all down my back, and against my thighs and shins. It's so luxuriantly abundant and heavy that already it's creeping forward over my shoulders with every slightest movement, to curtain my cheeks and immerse my body in a fabulous cloak of living silk, so that I can barely see out to view the transformation that has happened to that unremarkable figure in the mirror.

For the cloud of shimmering hair almost entirely shrouding me is absolutely sensational, so full, so thick, so silky, so stunningly beautiful it makes me catch my own breath. The only thing better than the way it looks is its caressing softness against my skin, stroking the length of my body every time I move my head. I draw the brush down its length to close its curtains over my face and down my front, enveloping myself completely in my own hair. I follow with my other hand, stroking, pressing the silken cascade against myself, my breathing deepening and my arousal increasing with every minute.

Now I can feel the warm trickle of my juices overflowing and beginning to run down my thighs. I slip my hand through the curtains of hair and slide it down my belly, and as I do so I begin to roll my head to send my hair lifting and swirling about me, wrapping about my body and legs. The first touch of my fingers on the hot slippery button of my clitoris wrenches a gasp and a low animal moan from my throat.

Knowing that I'm already close to the edge, I keep my hand movements slow and gentle to wring as much pleasure as I can out of myself before I come, but with each touch my moans become louder, higher, more intense, as the ecstasy slowly builds inside, the hot blood courses through my veins like molten metal, and the juices flow over my hand and down my legs. And all the time my hair is performing its intimate dance against the supercharged nerves of my skin, swirling and stroking.

And then the rush is upon me. Shuddering and panting, I feel my back arch as if of its own accord, sending my hair cascading back behind me onto the floor. My legs give way under me and I sink to my knees, crying out again and again as a fountain of juice erupts from my vagina to spatter against the mirror and drench the towel on the floor.

As my surroundings slowly swim back into focus, I see a soft, wide smile of pure joy spread over the flushed, sweating face in the mirror. My whole body is bathed in a warm glow of fulfilment and contentment. Anyone who could see me now would never have to ask why I always swear that I am never, ever, going to cut my hair.