Material may not be reused without author's explicit permission.
by Terrie Leigh Relf
t's just that I feel things so how do you say acutely?" Lilia didn’t look at him as she spoke, untangling the ends of her recently showered hair with a thick comb. She was wearing a silk kimono emblazoned with imperial dragons, gold against a background of crimson. Javier was sure that she was naked beneath it; there was something about the way it clung. He wondered how it would feel to grasp that hair in his hands, to gather the thick tresses, to feel its cool dampness against his cheek.
"Are you listening to me, Javier? "She didn‘t turn around to check, but she saw his mirrored image before her. He was leaning against the door jamb that led to the garden. It was nearly summer, and the exquisite scent of night blooming jasmine drifted into the room.
"Of course, Lilia."
"Well, as I was saying, I feel things acutely. Can you understand that? It is not easy for me to pretend." She worked the comb roughly through her hair as she spoke. Javier didn‘t know what to say.
He met her eyes in the mirror, and wasn‘t prepared for the intensity of her gaze. It burrowed into him, into places that he thought hidden. Her hair. So lovely as it cascaded down her back. Javier could hear Lilia‘s voice as from a distance, submerged as he was feeling her hair as it trailed damp across his naked flesh, she above him, her head weaving back-and-forth. "And because I find it difficult to pretend, what is it that you profess to do? You haven‘t produced much work since last summer. "She continued brushing her hair, not looking at him. It mingled with his, trailed down his face...paused so exquisitely...strands clinging where they touched, then lifting away to caress him again...lingering at his shoulders...circling his belly...clinging to a nipple...along his arms...then down, lifting his cock as she wove it under and across his thighs parted to receive her...down his legs to his feet where she gathered it in a loose bundle, tossed it over her shoulder, then grabbed his feet roughly, flipping him over on his stomach. "So, Javier. Come, I want you to brush my hair." She held the brush out to him, but he didn‘t take it at first. She leaned slightly forward in the chair, rose, turned the chair around, and straddled it, resting her hands, then her chin on the back of the ladder-back chair. The brush dropped to the floor. When he bent to retrieve the brush, he was so close to her, so close. He wanted to look between the slats of the chair, to look between her legs to "So what‘s keeping you? Haven‘t you ever brushed a woman‘s hair before?" She closed her eyes and waited for it to begin. He took the brush, wished that he could see her face as he began, gently at first, at the ends, lightly stroking. She sighed, relaxed into the chair, arching her back slightly. He moved the brush in longer strokes as she pushed into his calves, resting her hair in the space behind his knees, then felt the tickle of it between his parted cheeks, which she began to kneed, spreading them. Then a wisp of a breath, a moist tongue circling. She approached him, her hair untamed, wild as it dried. His breath caught in his throat when he saw how she held the brush. Her kimono had parted, and he could see golden brown skin. So lovely. Essence of Bergamot exuded from her, the scent stronger as she neared, a faint veneer of moisture gathering on her face from the energetic brushing.
She came closer to him, so close that he could breathe her breath.
"Javier what is with you tonight? I asked you to close the door. I‘m chilled."
She shook her head, not particularly pleased, pressed her hand against him to move him out of the way, then slid the glass door closed behind him.
"Ai! Sometimes you unnerve me, Javier. Why do you come here if it‘s just to stand there like some idiot."
He shrugged, smiled in that boyish way that was usually so charming to older women like Lilia, and said, "You‘re my mentor, no? It‘s the poetry that brings me here. The poetry." But he couldn‘t think of any poems that spoke of his urges and yet, there was one. A Victorian poem, Victorian poet, yes, something about hair and capturing love and adoration. He wished that she would look at him with something more than irritation, that she wouldn‘t parade around half-naked, nearly naked it wasn‘t appropriate for teacher and student to be here like this. But she seemed to be without modesty in this as in so many things.
Her hair, that lovely hair. He remembered when he first met her. A Graduate seminar on modern poetic structure, something boring like that. It had been a summer seminar, she a visiting professor from Spain or some south American university. It was a hot day, unseasonably so for San Diego, and during her lecture, without pausing, she had taken her hair in one hand, smoothed it, and with the other, began to wind and wind and wind until she had a heavy bun within which she had placed a carved ivory comb, seemingly pulled from midair. She worked the comb in, and then, with her hands moving about in the air, making some point which her words could not, her hair had begun to work loose, had begun its torrential fall down past her shoulders to pool beneath her waist. He had been in the middle of a question, but was unable to form his thoughts.
She had paused, which was something unusual for her, looked quizzically at him. "Is there a problem, Javier? Your question is?"
"I‘m sorry, Professora, I have forgotten."
She waved her hands at him, at the class, "it is clear that your minds are other places today. Let‘s take a break now. She looked at her delicate gold watch, tapped it a few times, then, "Okay, class, you have 30 minutes, no more, no less."
He had hovered near his desk, waiting. "Walk with me a bit. I need a coffee."
And that was how it had begun...
"Ah yes, the poetry. But your muse I am not, otherwise, I think that you would pay better attention. No?"
He continued brushing her hair. Her lovely hair. Stroking it until it glistened with her oils and his own. Stroking it until his arm ached. Stroking it until the sweat beaded on his skin. Stroking it until he gathered burnished hair in his hand, pulled it taut, coiled it around and around and around, drawing her from the chair to him.
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