Braiding

I knelt behind him on the bed last night, braiding his long, black hair as I often do after we make love, like some kind of post coital ritual. What does one call foreplay after sex? While our bodies still glowed from the inside out, brighter than the candles encircling them, I braided his hair. More erotic than all the positions in the Kama Sutra is this placing of hand over hand to form this silky black mane into a perfect braid.

Reaching the end was orgasmic enough, but the knowledge that I would be next in line to experience this sharing of love and lust was even better. I finished his braid and laid it carefully on his smooth caramel skin, rolling it from the nape of his neck down to the bottom of his back. The loosely wound end brushed my knee and sent chills through my entire body. My body shouted, “Love me in return” and he instinctively rose to his feet, turned to face me, then used ever so little of his actual strength to reposition me in front of him.

I whipped my head back, tossing my own velvety strands over my shoulder so he could reach them. His hands brushed my shoulders as he grabbed my hair—heat. He smoothed handfuls of my hair over and over again in his hands—heat. He gave a gentle, playful tug, then pressed his face deeply into my hair inhaling and surrounding himself with beauty, my scent, and our scent—heat. He whispered softly into my ear, “I love you” before he started to braid. Fist over fist he moves along in a straight line past every curve in my back. The ebony flowed gently as Afton Waters down to the ridge below, then gracefully crashed into them as he let go of my perfect braid. We faced each other for the remainder of the night, softly stroking each other’s braids.

By morning, the remnants of our hard work were gone. Each criss that was crossed was loose and flowing again. We smile at each other and without a word say, “Come here my love; let me fix your braid.”