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From: "Richard Rivers" <richard_rivers@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Richard Rivers: She Let me Pull it
Date: Mon, 20 Mar 2000 00:10:11 -0500
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This story is intended for adults only please. If you received it via
email, it is not by or with the consent of the author. Feel free to
distribute it to any appropriate web sites so long as they do not charge
money for access.
Please forgive this measly excuse for a story. My other works can be found
at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Richard_Rivers/www/
She Let me Pull it
By
Richard Rivers
I chose the treadmill behind hers for obvious reasons. When I stepped up
onto the machine she glanced quickly over her shoulder and went on running.
There was an innocent doe-eyed look on her face, and I saw the faint
beginning of a smile as she turned away again. Sometimes they smile, but
usually it's a scowl I get for positioning myself directly behind a woman in
a nearly empty gym.
She had her long brunette hair in a ponytail that bounced as she ran.
As a youngster, I engaged with my friends in the schoolboy pastime we called
'pulling the pig's tail'. There wasn't much to it. During recess, when all
the students were milling about the yard, our little group of naughty boys
would assemble off in a corner. Then each of us would say aloud the name of
a girl: "Cindy, Beth, Becky, Susan, Linda..." Someone would shout, "go!"
and off we ran, seeking out our targets like guided torpedoes launched from
a sub. We shredded through the yard like berserkers, disrupting games of
kickball, jacks, jump rope and tag until we each had our hands on the
pigtails, pony-tails, or braids of our victims. And we would look at one
another across the yard with wicked, mischievous smiles on our faces,
watching each other as we gave sharp tugs that made the girls shriek and
struggle. Then, as quickly as it began, the game would end. When the shill
whistle of the playground monitor split the air, we ran off helter-skelter,
every man for himself.
The doe-eyed brunette picked up her pace. I probably made her feel
uncomfortable; she wants to finish her miles quickly. Her ponytail was high
up on the back of her head. I love that - when it juts out like a phallus
and the hair cascades down from it like a fountain. She gave her head a
little shake and goosebumps rose along my arm; my fingers began to tingle.
In the schoolyard, I reveled in the game, but for reasons different and
secret from those of my friends. I loved the feel of a girl's hair in my
hand although I could never admit it to any of the other boys. While my
comrades were gruffly barking out the girl's names, I was thinking dreamily:
Beth, with the soft chestnut braid, or; Linda and her dirty-blond pigtails
that I could grasp like the handlebars on my bike, or; Cindy, whose mother
ties her hair up with a different colored ribbon each day.
All the boys in our group each developed a favorite girl. I don't know
exactly what the others were thinking, but in hindsight, I know we were
beginning to see girls as desirable, even though we would never have
admitted it to each other. Pulling their hair was only an excuse to get
close to them, to touch them while maintaining our tough, boyish facade of
indifference.
My favorite was Susan, a little Chinese-American girl. She had the softest,
most glossy black pigtails that felt like silk ribbon in my hands, and the
part in the middle of her head was such a sharp line of white, it looked as
if it had been drawn with a straightedge.
When she saw me bearing down on her, she shrieked and made a show of trying
to run away, but we had our own little secret.
"Don't worry, Susie," I whispered into her ear the first time I had her in
my grasp. "I'm not going to hurt you. "Just let me touch your hair." And
I tugged gently on her pigtails, pretending I was giving them a good yank so
my friends would suspect nothing.
As time went on, she learned how to play along with me, pretending to shriek
and struggle while I held her tightly from behind. Although I was still too
young to understand why, I enjoyed the wriggling of her little bottom
against my crotch when she squirmed and stamped her feet in mock
indignation. I pressed myself up against her as hard as I could so that I'm
sure she could feel my little penis growing hard.
Eventually we all stopped playing the game. I think it was only something
that could happen at a certain age anyway - before girls became so
dangerously desirable, untouchable unless you were really serious about it.
But Susan and I became good friends, and we stayed close all the way through
elementary school. Our little secret from the days of the game had bound us
together somehow. We were almost like brother and sister. And sometimes
when we were kidding around, horse-playing on the old sofa in my parent's
basement, she let me tug on her ponytail again. We both laughed over it,
although I was only pretending. For me, finding a way to touch her hair had
become serious business. And then one day, summoning up my courage, I
grasped her and didn't let go. I began stroking that glossy black hair and
pretty soon we were kissing.
I think I was thirteen at the time. I know I'm a little unusual in that my
first orgasm came not as a messy little surprise in the middle of the night,
or while furtively leafing through some stolen Playboy magazines - I came in
the palm of Susan's hand while desperately holding onto her ponytail for
dear life.
When I went off to college, I had a girlfriend with long blond hair who
considered herself something of an expert in fellatio. "Cocksucker! That's
supposed to be an insult?" she scoffed. But I never told her that what
really made her irresistible to me was the sight of her tightly bound
ponytail bobbing smartly when she went down on me. She usually wore her
hair loose, but to give blowjobs she bunched it into a ponytail, snapping on
a little brown rubber band to keep it out of the way. I loved the way she
did it, in one quick motion - elbows pointing straight forward, wrists
behind her neck, her T-shirt pulled tightly across her breasts. While she
sucked my cock her golden hair danced and splashed onto my thigh. All I had
to do was grasp that ponytail, make a circle with my thumb and forefinger
around it at the base and tug gently a few times to make myself come. And
all the while she thought it was her expertise. In fact, by the time we
stopped dating I was so thoroughly conditioned that it was enough for me to
hear that rubber band snapping into place and my cock would be drooling like
one of Pavlov's dogs.
There were other girlfriends after that, and even, for a while, a wife.
Needless to say, they all had long hair. I like taking a woman from behind
so I can watch her ponytail shiver and shake when I fuck her. I grasp it
and gently pull her head back, placing a soft kiss on the nape of her neck
right before I come. I love that living, yet not quite alive appendage on a
woman. The ones who let me grasp them by it are truly vulnerable, more so
than in an embrace, or even in the act of love, where their softness always
overmatches and outlasts my strength. When I have her by the tail, she's
mine.
The brunette, finished with her run, stood toweling off beside the
treadmill. I saw her glance in my direction - the questioning look a woman
gives a man who is doing nothing overtly wrong but is creepy none-the-less.
I've been that man enough times to know.
And then she did the unexpected by approaching me.
"Did you get a nice long look at my ass?" she asked, sarcastically.
Ah, so the doe-eyed innocent look hid a tough interior; that, or else she
was taking the offensive to scare me, I decided.
"Sorry?" I said, trying to sound innocent, but with the feeling I hadn't
pulled it off.
"You know what I'm talking about." She gestured to the rows of empty
treadmills. We're the only two people in here and you have to set up right
behind me. Don't tell me this is your favorite machine," she snorted. "You
haven't even worked up a sweat."
I began to say something in my own defense. I have no idea what, but I
thought I had better say something, if only to deflect the barrage she was
hurling at me. But she interrupted before I could get out a single word.
"You can say whatever you want. I just want you to know that I think you
guys who hang out at the gym just to ogle women are pathetic." She began to
turn away.
I'm generally a loner, and I have developed the habit I've noticed in other
people like me to keep things bottled up until it all just comes spilling
out. It's not always pretty, and sometimes it happens at just the wrong
moment. But occasionally it comes around to my advantage.
I don't remember exactly how I launched into telling her my life story, and
in a roundabout way why I was looking at her from behind. Yes, I had to
admit I'd been watching her, but it wasn't what she thought. Saying some of
the things I told her to a stranger, especially to a woman I'd never seen
before in my life, should have probably gotten my face slapped. Instead, I
watched as her expression turned from a look of wary consternation to one of
mild amusement as I told her what I had to say. And when I ended with the
inevitable question, she laughed out loud.
"That's it? That's what you want?"
I nodded, the lump in my throat too big to permit further speech.
And without another word, closing her eyes, she turned around and offered
herself to me. Her graceful neck bent slightly forward as I slipped the
elastic band from her hair. Grasping firmly enough to still my shaking
hand, I tugged gently.
Fin
Richard Rivers
3/00
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Richard_Rivers/www/
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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