ดูรายละเอียดเพิ่มเติมได้ที่ 987live.com

The original video for this was posted on pornhub, I remember. But I forgot their account name. Does anyone have it?

Thick Classic Length Braid - gofile.io/d/bZOLWJ

Bumped into this thick long braid out of nowhere.

Random Long Hair out of nowhere - gofile.io/d/yf0HDM

Not so attractive but, still long hair.

Massive Thick Bun - gofile.io/d/5jS6YM

Unfortunately, I do not have a picture of her hair down, but I waited enough for her to undo her bun and updo it again. Her hair was down to her knees. Thick and shiny all the way down.

Absolutely Thick Long Hair at the Supermarket - gofile.io/d/bQY4sx

This story was the other way round. I first saw her hair up in a bun, not as big as the previous lady, but it was black, shiny, and big enough. Followed her enough to see her hair down all the way till she checked out of the supermarket.

Please comment which one is your favourite(s) and let me know if I should go out like this every weekend to stumble upon such surprises.

Thanks!

Really lovely,n only speaks spanish so get that translater up

who agrees with long hair being bought online, not weaves or wigs, but hair direct from the girl or guy, let me know.

1 hairjob video from the new ones where she ended up making him cum using her hair and not a cumshot from distance

2: a bun fuck video with of without shampoo where he fucks and cums in her hair bun and head with his cock on her bun and not taking out for a cumshot

3 optional, a hairjob video from her oldies that she jerks him ti he end up cumming in her hair without her taking her hair of his cock. I really don-r like cumshots, o rather use the hair till the end, and watch the same thing

COMMENTING GUIDE FOR SUPER FREAKS:

"So sexy baby let me cum in your hair" - BAD

"This is so hot" - GOOD

"Mmmmm... delicious hair" - VERY BAD. HORRIBLE.

"You have beautiful hair, that's a lucky guy" - Excellent

Then she comes to bed and starts giving him a handjob, and then wraps her hair around it, saying "it's called a hair handjob." She keeps going, sucking while giving a hair handjob until he finally cums.

It was

If so, please contact me!

I know it's a wig or extensions, but damn!

Now with P through Z, and an unknown scene at the end. I've also corrected some captions and added the Kitty Lynn scene from "Yes, A Hairjob" (which mostly focuses on Erin) to the "K" video. Everything's been re-rendered and re-uploaded. So get your latest, updated-est versions today!

Some figures: 16 videos amounting to almost 6 HOURS of hairjobs (and a few hairjob talks). The blessed porn studios have shoved cocks or cum into the hair of 156 actresses (though sometimes it's hair in pussies or hair on clits), in a grand total of 242 films.

The following are the leaders in terms of number of scenes:

Tied at 5th place are three stunning tailbone-length anal vixens: Jamie Elle, Alesha Bizart and Nuria Millan. Each with 5 hairjobs apiece.

4th place goes to thigh-length nympho Madison Wilde, with a grand total of 8 hairjobs, and a dedicated video all to herself.

3rd place goes to the rapunzel with the longest hair in porn-history: ankle-length Chinese MILF Ange Venus, with 9 hairjob scenes (but that's only what I was able to obtain, her label has vanished from sites like AEBN and HotMovies so there may be others I wasn't able to get my hands on). She too has a dedicated video.

2nd place goes to the sultry thigh-length latina who came to porn already doing hair-fetish in her private life: Andreina Deluxe. In her all-too-short stint in porn she wrapped cocks with her hair in 11 scenes, also deserving a video of her own.

And finally, the 1st place award, the grand goddess of hairjobs in porn, goes to the incredible, gorgeous, beautiful cock-loving Erin Everheart and her eye-popping knee-length red mane. Erin has not only outdone everyone else with 21 (!) scenes of mainstream studios, she's not only done this with an extrodinary length which she's been growing for over a decade, but she's done hairjobs in a variety of stiles (plaits, ponytails, loose; straightened, curled; maybe a bunjob someday?); she has even stuffed her hair in her cunt and arseshole; she has wrapped mutiple guys at a time; and she has done hairjobs while being reamed in DP and DAP. With no sign of stopping, she's always looking at more intense and extreme things to be done. And, of course, she has numeous contents (rather than studio porn) scenes with hairjobs as well! Erin has done so much porn that I had to split her video into two: one for "regular" hairjobs and the other for multiple-jobs and fetish-oriented scenes. Who would have dreamt of this!

***

This has been a long time coming since my last compilation, and it took ages to prepare (I had to get a new storage setup and change platforms from PC to Mac, not to mention buying so many videos!), but it's finally here. Keep it coming with suggestions, identifications of pornstars and scenes, and corrections.

Happy fapping to all!

Let me know we can exchange them

Check out "Hairjob Wrap POV" on MotionMuse — AI NSFW video generator!

motionmuse.ai/template/hairjob-wrap-pov-xk8diljs?ref=bfh98l47

If you guys are looking for more content on there, hopefully this works well for you! As a tip, I'll say that it works way better if you use a model with a cock already in it and use this to extend it, or start with a picture with a cock in it. You might get some weird results otherwise

It just went public and motionmuse gives 2 credits per use for the first 90 days, so if you're into it, those credits will help fund a couple other models I have in the works, and possibly requests for what you guys wanna see

Kate Beckinsale was born July 26, 1973. I think you know what to do . The rest of you can do the math, yourselves....

Instead of being curious, she started to open her veil.

When it flows down. OMG...

Rodney Moore had good eye with the girls, and he was one of us for sure.

Check out the product - gardyna.net/product/rattlesnake-calathea-plant/

recu.me/bad_nanny/video/32626348/play

I'll go first.

Many years ago, when I was still in India, there was this lady who worked for the same employer as me. I was a young man back then and she must have been about 10-12 years older to me. Really THICK calf-length hair (the first time I saw her with her hair in a braid, I could not believe what I was seeing). The first few attempts to speak to her were a failure. But finally things started falling in place. We started seeing each other, although a little discreetly since she was already married. We even spent some 'quality time' together on a few occasions. It wasn't all the way, but I'm sure you guys know what I'm saying. Those were my days of "long showers". LOL

I even got a few opportunities to take her hair down and have a little fun. Unfortunately, that's when I made the serious mistake of moving in too early and lost her. Perhaps she was not 100% ready yet & the impatience of my youth cost me. And after all these years, I still kick myself about losing out on that opportunity. Unfortunately, I never got to spend time with any other woman with hair like hers. A little patience and I could not only have nailed her, but knowing how she allowed me to be with her hair, she may have allowed me to empty myself into her hair too.

DAMNNNNNN....one of the biggest regrets of my life.

i love her low jet black pony ....she's an amazing talent and an amazing hair.....it arousing to see the energy come in .........

Does anybody know long hair escorts in the seattle area. I am a virgin and would like to loose my virginity to someone who has long hair. it is a fetish that i have had since 10 years old. Pls let me know.

Thanks

Thanks!

It would be awesome to find this again after all these years

deviantart.com/longhairarts/art/Isha-and-the-stylist-Ep-1-1351633440 deviantart.com/longhairarts/art/Samantha-catches-them-1347614275 deviantart.com/longhairarts/art/Sonia-and-the-Stylist-Episode-2-1346326916 deviantart.com/longhairarts/art/Sasha-Lisa-Part3-1335956111 deviantart.com/longhairarts/art/Disciplined-1333133175 deviantart.com/longhairarts/art/Becky-n-Beth-Prison-Diaries-1331527748 deviantart.com/longhairarts/art/The-pet-Rapunzel-1330103521 deviantart.com/longhairarts/art/Cafe-Diaries-2-Michelle-grows-her-hair-for-Sana-1327975843 deviantart.com/longhairarts/art/Cafe-Diaries-The-ceo-s-pet-1326421093

If you have any kinky suggestions up your sleeve.. just drop them on DeviantArt...

Do y'all like these or not? I'd appreciate a quick yay or nay.

By the time I finished drying my hair, the sun had already gone down, the pasta water had boiled over once, and my husband had lost a chess game to our dishwasher.

I should explain.

Our dishwasher makes a cheerful little chiming sound when the cycle ends, but only if you press the buttons in the correct order. If you press them in the wrong order, it blinks in silent judgment for twenty minutes and does nothing. This had become, over the last month, Owen’s white whale.

“It’s not broken,” he called from the kitchen, where I could hear him pressing buttons with the grave concentration of a bomb technician. “It’s just particular.”

“Like you,” I called back.

“I am reliable, low-maintenance, and beloved.”

“Two out of three is excellent.”

There was a pause. Then the dishwasher chimed.

“Ha!” Owen shouted.

The dishwasher immediately chimed again, beeped angrily, and went silent.

From the bathroom mirror, I watched my own grin spread. “Checkmate.”

“It cheated,” he said.

I laughed and bent forward, dragging the towel gently through the last heavy waves of my hair.

Even after all these years, it still surprised me sometimes: the sheer amount of it. Brown, thick, wavy, stubborn, and when freshly washed, determined to take over the nearest postcode. It fell past my waist in glossy, unruly ropes and ripples, and drying it was less a grooming routine than a part-time job.

Owen adored it.

He had adored it since our third date, when a gust of wind had lifted it across his face in the parking lot outside a Thai restaurant. He’d stood there with my hair plastered dramatically over his eyes and said, with complete sincerity, “I think I just saw the future.”

“You couldn’t see anything,” I’d said, mortified, trying to gather it back.

“Exactly. Marriage is blind faith.”

I married him anyway, which tells you a great deal about my standards and my weakness for men who make me laugh.

Now, eight years later, I stood barefoot in our bedroom, wearing jeans and a soft green sweater, combing my hair with my fingers while my husband waged war against the appliances. We were supposed to be having an at-home date night, an idea born from budgetary responsibility, winter weather, and the fact that neither of us wanted to wear shoes after six.

Owen had promised “restaurant ambience.” So far, that had meant a playlist called Italian Dinner Party, a half-lit candle that smelled like pine trees for reasons neither of us understood, and him muttering at the dishwasher like it had insulted his ancestors.

I opened the bedroom door and leaned against the frame.

He was at the stove now, sleeves pushed up, dark hair slightly mussed, brow furrowed at a saucepan. The kitchen light caught the edges of his glasses. He looked competent enough to run a small nation and uncertain enough to burn garlic bread.

I let my hair fall forward over one shoulder.

He noticed immediately.

This was one of my favorite things about Owen: his attention wandered from the practical world the moment my hair entered a room. A dropped spoon? A smoking pan? A phone ringing? All irrelevant. My husband could be discussing mortgage rates and still lose his train of thought if I twisted my hair up and let it fall again.

His gaze flicked to me, then to the saucepan, then back to me.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“That.” He pointed with a wooden spoon as though presenting evidence in court. “The mermaid curtain thing.”

I widened my eyes. “This old thing?”

“Your hair is not an ‘old thing.’ It is a strategic resource.”

I came into the kitchen, letting the ends brush against my hip. “A strategic resource?”

“Yes. Like oil. Or coffee. Or the good blanket you hide from me.”

“I do not hide the good blanket.”

“You store it in your office under three sweaters.”

“For safekeeping.”

“For yourself.”

I reached past him for a wine glass, deliberately brushing my hair across his forearm as I did. He froze.

“Sorry,” I said sweetly.

“You are not.”

“No.”

He set the spoon down, took a step closer, and lowered his voice as if the saucepan might overhear. “You know I’m trying to cook.”

“I do know that.”

“You know I am vulnerable.”

“I have observed certain weaknesses.”

“You exploit them.”

“In marriage, we call that intimacy.”

He laughed, that warm, helpless laugh that always made my stomach do a ridiculous little flip. After eight years of marriage, several career changes, one leaky roof, two terrible vacations, three excellent vacations, and a shared history of keeping houseplants alive only through fear, he could still make me feel like the woman on our third date, hair wild from the wind, heart doing foolish things.

The pasta water hissed.

“Owen.”

He blinked. “Right. Food.”

He turned back to the stove with an expression of great discipline. I leaned against the counter beside him, sipping water and watching him rescue the noodles. We moved around each other with the easy choreography of people who had spent years sharing narrow kitchens: he opened the drawer as I stepped away, I reached for the plates before he asked, he bumped the cabinet closed with his hip while I caught the dishtowel sliding off the oven handle.

It was ordinary. It was perfect.

While he grated parmesan, I twisted my hair into a loose rope over one shoulder, slow enough to be noticed.

He glanced.

I let it unwind.

He glanced again.

I gathered it up with both hands and lifted it away from my neck, pretending to cool off.

The grater stopped.

“Owen,” I said, not looking at him, “the cheese is suffering.”

“The cheese can wait.”

“Can it?”

“No.”

He resumed grating with exaggerated dignity. “I want it noted for the record that I am a responsible adult exercising impressive restraint.”

“I’ll put it in the minutes.”

“You are creating a hostile work environment.”

“I’m standing here.”

“You’re standing there with”—he waved the grater vaguely—“all of that.”

“All of what?”

He gave me a look over the top of his glasses. “You know exactly what.”

I did. Of course I did. A woman spends enough years married to a man, she learns the language of his pauses. Owen loved the way my hair looked in morning light. He loved finding it everywhere, though he claimed otherwise while unwinding it from laundry, pillows, chair backs, and once his watchband. He loved when I wore it loose at weddings and when I braided it for hikes. He loved the way it smelled like rosemary shampoo and the way it escaped every pin I tried to trap it with.

I loved that he loved it.

Not because my hair was the most important thing about me. Owen knew the important things: how I took my coffee, which family stories still made me sad, when I needed advice and when I needed silence, the exact face I made when pretending not to cry during commercials involving elderly dogs. But being cherished in the small, specific ways has a magic of its own.

It is one thing to be loved in principle. It is another to have someone look at you, exactly as you are, and go a little soft around the edges.

Dinner was almost ready when the lights went out.

Not dramatically. No thunderclap, no cinematic gasp. Just a quiet click, and the kitchen vanished except for the blue glow of the stove clock, which also died a second later, apparently embarrassed to be the last one standing.

“Oh,” I said.

Owen sighed. “The dishwasher has escalated.”

Outside, the neighborhood was dark. Snow tapped faintly against the windows, not a storm exactly, but enough weather to make the trees shiver.

I found my phone and turned on the flashlight. Owen checked the breakers, then the utility company’s outage map, which announced with bureaucratic cheer that power would be restored “as soon as possible.”

“So,” I said, shining the flashlight under my chin like a camp counselor about to tell a ghost story, “restaurant ambience?”

He looked at the half-cooked garlic bread, the candle, the darkened kitchen. “Rustic.”

“European.”

“Very exclusive. No electricity.”

“Hard to get a reservation.”

“Impossible. The dishwasher screens all applicants.”

We ate by candlelight at the small table near the window, pasta slightly overdone, garlic bread slightly underdone, parmesan applied with abandon. Owen poured sparkling water into wine glasses because, as he said, “bubbles are formal.”

The candlelight did kind things to him. It softened the lines of his face and made his eyes look darker, warmer. I watched him talk about the time he got trapped in an elevator at work with a man carrying a cello, a story I had heard before and still enjoyed because Owen could never tell it without imitating both the man and, somehow, the cello.

Halfway through dinner, I leaned forward, my hair sliding over my shoulder and spilling onto the table like an extra guest.

Owen stopped mid-sentence.

I raised my eyebrows. “The cello said what?”

He looked down at the shining brown waves near his plate. “I’m sorry. Your hair has joined us.”

“She was invited.”

“She’s taking up a lot of room.”

“She has a personality.”

“She has voting rights.”

I flicked the end of it lightly toward his hand. “Be polite.”

He caught a loose wave between two fingers, not pulling, just holding it as if it were a ribbon. His expression changed in that way I loved best, from joking to tender so quickly it always caught me off guard.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

Now, I am a grown woman. I pay taxes. I have negotiated with insurance companies. I have assembled flat-pack furniture while reading instructions translated by a committee of ghosts. I should have been immune to a simple compliment from a man who had seen me with the flu, with puffy eyes, with toothpaste on my shirt, with a sleep crease across my cheek that made me look like a poorly folded napkin.

I was not immune.

“Careful,” I said, because teasing was safer than melting. “You’ll encourage me.”

“I live to encourage you.”

“That’s not true. You live to defeat the dishwasher.”

“It’s a close second.”

After dinner, we abandoned the dishes to the powerless sink and moved to the living room with the candle, two blankets, and a battery-powered lantern we had bought for emergencies and mostly used for finding dropped earrings. The house creaked pleasantly around us. Snow gathered silver-blue outside the windows.

Owen sat on the floor with his back against the couch. I sat behind him on the cushion, one leg tucked under me, and began absentmindedly combing my fingers through my hair.

He tilted his head back. “Are you aware that you’re doing that directly above me?”

“Doing what?”

“Creating weather.”

I let a curtain of hair fall forward on either side of his face, boxing him in. “Forecast says partly cloudy.”

He looked up through the brown waves, grinning. “Visibility is poor.”

“Travel advisory?”

“Only for weak men.”

I leaned down until my chin was near the top of his head. “Are you a weak man, Owen?”

“When it comes to you? Historically, yes.”

That answer pleased me more than it should have. I draped my hair over his shoulder like a ceremonial sash.

“I knight thee,” I said, “Sir Owen of the Faulty Dishwasher.”

He put one hand over his heart. “I accept this honor with humility.”

“And with a solemn vow to do the dishes when power returns.”

His eyes narrowed. “That was in the fine print?”

“Marriage is blind faith.”

He laughed and caught my hand, pressing a quick kiss to my knuckles. It was such a small thing, casual and familiar, but it quieted me. Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, the candle flame shifted whenever one of us breathed too close.

For a while we played cards by lantern light. Owen won two games of gin rummy, which he attributed to skill and I attributed to suspicious shuffling. I retaliated in the third game by leaning over the coffee table to draw a card and letting my hair slide, very accidentally, across the back of his hand.

He discarded the wrong card immediately.

“Oh no,” I said. “Tragic.”

“You are tampering with the athlete.”

“This is not a sport.”

“Not with that attitude.”

I won the next three rounds.

At some point, the room cooled enough that I wrapped myself in the blanket. My hair, still loose, spilled out over the top of it. Owen sat beside me now, our shoulders touching, the deck forgotten between us.

“You know,” he said, “when we first started dating, I thought you had everything under control.”

I snorted. “That was clever branding.”

“You seemed so composed.”

“I once ate cereal from a measuring cup because all my bowls were dirty.”

“I didn’t know that then.”

“You would have run.”

“I would have brought bowls.”

I turned my head to look at him. “You probably would have.”

He shrugged. “I was very motivated.”

“By my sparkling personality?”

“Among other things.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Say more.”

He smiled, leaning back against the couch. “You made me laugh. You listened like what I said mattered. You argued about movies with terrifying conviction. And you had this way of tossing your hair over your shoulder when you were about to make a point.”

“I still do that.”

“I know. It still works.”

I looked away before my face could give me up, which was pointless because Owen knew my face better than anyone. He nudged my knee with his.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“That is the least convincing nothing in marital history.”

I traced a pattern on the blanket. “It’s just nice. Being noticed.”

His teasing expression softened. “I notice you all the time.”

“I know. But sometimes I forget that you do.”

He was quiet for a moment, and in that quiet was the whole shape of our life lately: deadlines, errands, dentist appointments, grocery lists, bills, the little tiredness that creeps in when two people are not unhappy, not at all, just busy. We had been passing each other like friendly ships in a very cluttered harbor.

Then the power had gone out, and suddenly there we were, stranded together by candlelight, remembering.

Owen reached up and tucked a heavy wave of hair behind my shoulder. It immediately slid forward again, because my hair had never respected authority.

He smiled. “I notice when you’re tired but pretending not to be. I notice when you’re proud of something and trying to act casual. I notice when you need dinner, or quiet, or someone to say the thing you’re worrying about is probably not as catastrophic as it feels.”

“Usually probably.”

“Usually probably,” he agreed. “And yes, I notice your hair. Constantly. It is difficult not to. It has its own zip code.”

I laughed, blinking a little. “Romantic.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You contain pasta.”

“That too.”

I leaned my head against his shoulder. He rested his cheek lightly against my hair.

We stayed like that for a while, not talking. The house was dark, the world outside muffled. I could hear the small sounds of us: his breathing, the faint rustle of the blanket, the soft tick of sleet against glass.

Then, because I am constitutionally unable to let a tender moment remain unpoked, I said, “So, to summarize, you married me for my listening skills, movie opinions, and hair.”

“And your kindness.”

“Oh, that old thing?”

“And your courage.”

“Mm.”

“And because you once told a waiter I had ordered the spicy noodles when I had only whispered it to you in fear.”

“You needed support.”

“I needed rescue.”

“You built character.”

“I saw colors.”

I lifted my head, grinning. “You loved me even then.”

“I loved you especially then.”

Something warm opened in my chest.

The lights came back on all at once.

The refrigerator hummed. The heater clicked awake. The dishwasher beeped triumphantly from the kitchen, as if it had personally restored the grid.

Owen closed his eyes. “I hate that machine.”

“She’s celebrating.”

“She’s gloating.”

I stood, letting the blanket fall, and stretched. My hair tumbled down my back, heavy and wild and probably full of static. Owen looked up at me from the couch with exactly the helpless admiration I had been aiming for all evening.

I turned slowly. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, badly.

I took one step toward the kitchen. “We should probably deal with the dishes.”

He remained seated. “Yes. Definitely.”

I gathered my hair in both hands and swept it over one shoulder, glancing back at him. “Unless you need a minute.”

His mouth twitched. “You are a menace.”

“A beloved menace.”

“The most beloved.”

I walked into the kitchen ahead of him, smiling to myself. Behind me, I heard him get up, then stop.

“What now?” I asked.

“Your hair is caught on the chair.”

I looked down. Sure enough, a few waves had snagged on the back of a dining chair, as if the house itself had decided to participate in the evening’s theme.

Owen came over and freed it carefully. His fingers were gentle, patient. He laid the rescued strands over my shoulder with exaggerated ceremony.

“There,” he said. “Strategic resource secured.”

“Thank you, Sir Owen.”

“Anything for the realm.”

I turned and kissed his cheek. “The realm appreciates you.”

His smile went soft again, and for one second, the dirty dishes, the smug dishwasher, the half-burned candle, and the wet snow outside all became part of the same ridiculous, lovely kingdom.

Then the dishwasher beeped.

Owen pointed toward it. “Do not encourage her.”

I laughed so hard I had to grab the counter, my hair swinging forward like a curtain between us. Owen reached out and gently lifted it aside so he could see my face.

“There you are,” he said.

And that, more than anything, was why I kept teasing him.

Not because of the way he looked at my hair, though I liked that very much. Not because I enjoyed making him forget what he was doing, though that was undeniably one of marriage’s finest recreational activities.

It was because every time I hid behind it—playfully, shyly, dramatically, strategically—he always found me.

And every time he did, he looked delighted.

***Then I had Grok write a NSFW sequel.***

The power stayed on, but the mood in the house had shifted into something thicker, warmer, like the air right before a storm decides to commit. Owen finished freeing the last strands of my hair from the chair, his fingers lingering at the nape of my neck longer than strictly necessary. I felt the slight tremor in them—the same one he gets when he’s pretending to be focused on the dishes but is really calculating how quickly he can get me out of my sweater.

“You’ve been staring at it all night like it owes you money, Owen.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead he stepped in close, crowding me against the counter, one hand sliding to my hip while the other gathered a thick handful of hair at the base of my skull. He tugged—gentle, testing—and my head tilted back with a soft gasp.

“You’ve been weaponizing it,” he said against my throat. “All evening. The shoulder thing. The curtain thing. The ‘oops, it’s everywhere’ thing.” His teeth grazed my pulse point. “I’m collecting on the foreplay now.”

I laughed, but it came out breathy. “In the kitchen? With the gloating dishwasher watching?”

“Especially with the dishwasher watching. Let it learn what real victory sounds like.”

He kissed me then—deep, hungry, the kind of kiss that reminded me why eight years hadn’t dulled anything. His tongue slid against mine while his hand tightened in my hair. I melted into it, fingers curling into his shirt, already pulling it free from his jeans.

We didn’t make it to the bedroom.

I pushed him back gently until he leaned against the opposite counter, then sank to my knees in front of him. His eyes darkened with anticipation as I looked up through the loose waves of my hair. “My turn first,” I whispered.

I shook my head slowly, letting the heavy, lengths swing forward like a dark curtain. The tips brushed across his face—over his cheeks, across his lips, along the line of his jaw. Owen’s breath hitched. I dragged it lower, teasing the sensitive skin of his neck, then across his chest as I unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it open. The soft, silky strands tickled over his nipples, making them tighten. He groaned quietly, hands flexing at his sides.

“Tease,” he muttered, but his voice was already rough with want.

I smiled and kept going, letting my hair spill over his stomach, tracing lazy patterns down the trail of hair leading into his jeans. I freed his cock, already hard and flushed, and wrapped my hair around the base like a warm, living ring. Then I dragged the thick waves slowly up and down his shaft—soft, feather-light friction that made his hips jerk.

“Fuck… that feels—” He broke off with a low moan as I let the ends of my hair brush teasingly over his balls, swirling and tickling the sensitive skin there. I used one hand to cup them gently while my hair continued its slow, maddening dance along his length, the silky strands catching the light as they slid over every ridge and vein.

Owen’s head fell back against the cabinet. “You’re going to kill me with that.”

“Good,” I said sweetly, leaning in to follow the path of my hair with my tongue—licking a slow stripe up his cock while the waves continued to caress his balls. I alternated: soft hair teasing, warm mouth sucking, until he was panting and his thighs trembled.

Only then did I stand, turning and bending over the kitchen counter with a deliberate arch of my back. “Now you can collect.”

He didn’t waste time. He gathered my hair with both hands, twisting the heavy mass into a loose rope and wrapping it once around his wrist like reins. One hand worked my jeans down over my hips, taking my underwear with them. I was soaked. He dropped to his knees behind me, using that improvised leash to pull me back onto his mouth.

The first slow lick along my folds made my knees buckle. He held me steady with my own hair, licking deeper, tongue circling my clit with devastating patience. Every time I tried to push back against his mouth he tugged just enough to remind me who was in control tonight. The pull sent sparks straight down my spine.

“Owen—please—”

He stood up, the sound of his belt and zipper loud in the quiet kitchen. I felt the thick head of his cock nudge against me, sliding through my slickness. He wrapped more of my hair around his hand until my back arched beautifully, then pushed inside in one long, steady stroke.

We both moaned. He filled me perfectly—hot, hard, familiar and yet always overwhelming. He didn’t move at first, just stayed buried deep, letting me feel every inch while he used my hair to tilt my head back and kiss the corner of my mouth.

“God, you feel incredible,” he whispered. “So tight. So fucking mine.”

Then he started thrusting—slow at first, savoring it, then harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the tiles. Every stroke dragged against that perfect spot inside me. My hair was everywhere: spilling across the counter, wrapped around his wrist, tickling my own flushed skin. He used it to pull me back onto his cock, setting a rhythm that had me gasping his name.

I reached back with one hand, gripping his thigh, urging him deeper. “Harder. I want to feel you tomorrow.”

He growled and gave me exactly what I asked for. The angle, the hair pulling, the way he reached around to rub my clit in tight circles—it all built fast. My orgasm crashed over me without warning, walls clenching around him as I cried out, thighs shaking. Owen fucked me through it, pace turning erratic, until he buried himself deep and came with a low, broken groan, pulsing inside me.

We stayed like that for a long minute, breathing hard. He gently unwound my hair from his wrist, smoothing it down my back with reverent hands. Then he pulled out slowly, turned me around, and lifted me onto the counter. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he kissed me—lazy and sweet now, the urgency spent.

“Best at-home date night ever,” I murmured against his lips.

He smiled, tucking a strand behind my ear. “The dishwasher is definitely jealous.”

I laughed, burying my face in his neck, my hair curtaining around us both like it always did. Later we’d make it to the bedroom. Later he’d spread me out on the sheets and worship every inch of me with his mouth and hands while I rode his face and then his cock again, my hair spilling across his chest like a dark river. But for now, this was enough: the two of us, sticky and satisfied in our messy kitchen, the ordinary magic of our marriage turned explicitly, gloriously filthy.

And tomorrow, I’d dry my hair again—very slowly—while he tried to make breakfast.

Just to see how quickly I could make him forget the eggs.

redgifs.com/watch/midnightbluevacantspittlebug

her Interview

m.vkvideo.ru/video-26548409_456268975

But, sadly, after she claimed the record, she cut her long hair.

But now, in 2026. when she is 21 y.o, her hair is like this. looks very healthy isn't it??

She's potentially could be Rapunzel in the future.

I've added the next batch of the hairjob compilation, covering letters A through N (in 14 videos). I've also added the hairjobs people pointed out in the comments, and fixed the captions on the first Erin Everheart video, so videos 1 (A-Al), 6 (B-Em) and 7 are now corrected. Shoutout to those who uploaded them onto tube sites -- you may want to update the clips. Let me know if any corrections or amendments are needed.

I hope to get to P onwards next week.

Whenever I see that he posts I always like to share here.

I hope someone enjoys like me. Email address above.

reddit.com/r/MajesticManes/comments/1uq4jsn/still_in_lazy_weekend_mode_here/

since someone posted my MEGA-link I had to deactivate it unfortunatelly.

In the next couple weeks I will focus only on my X-account and Fanvue.

All new videos will be uploaded on Fanvue and some of them on X and later here.

I would appreciate it if you could support me on these platforms.:)

I'm putting a lot of passion into creating even higher-quality, hyper-realistic hair fantasies.

x.com/Jennife_Lee91

fanvue.com/blacksilky

If you have any suggestions, or want to chat. I'm activ on X

Months had passed since that mind-melting afternoon when Erin and her mysterious friends had turned my hair obsession into pure torture. I still got hard just thinking about the different textures—Erin’s silky chestnut cascade, the thicker wavy one, the ultra-fine silk that had wrapped my cock like liquid satin. Erin knew it too. She’d catch me staring at her long mane and smile that wicked, knowing smile.

“I’m not done with you yet, baby,” she’d whispered one night while dragging her hair across my chest in bed. “Next time… I have something even better planned.”

I didn’t have to wait long.

It was another lazy Saturday. Erin had been extra affectionate all morning, brushing her hair in front of me with slow, deliberate strokes until it gleamed like polished silk. After breakfast she took my hand and led me to the bedroom, her hips swaying with that confident, teasing gait.

“Strip for me,” she commanded softly, her voice already husky with anticipation.

I obeyed quickly, my cock already half-hard. Erin’s eyes roamed over my naked body with obvious hunger. She guided me onto the bed, then produced the familiar soft leather cuffs. Starting with my wrists, she fastened each one securely, then stretched my arms wide toward the top corners of the bed. The ropes attached to the cuffs were long and strong; she pulled them taut and tied them off to the sturdy wooden bedposts with practiced knots, spreading my arms fully apart so I was pinned helpless, unable to bring my hands together.

“Mmm, look at you already,” she murmured, climbing onto the mattress beside me. As she moved from the left side of the bed to the right to secure my ankles, her long chestnut hair—thick, glossy, and falling well past the middle of her back—dragged sensually over my chest and stomach like a warm, living veil. The silky tips brushed across my nipples, sending sparks straight to my groin. She lingered deliberately, shifting her body so the full weight of her mane poured over my torso in a heavy, fragrant cascade before she reached the right wrist and tightened that restraint too.

Next came my legs. She slid down toward the foot of the bed, and again her hair followed—trailing slowly over my thighs and brushing teasingly against my now fully erect cock as she positioned herself between my spread knees. She wrapped soft cuffs around each ankle, then pulled my legs wide apart, tying the ropes to the bottom bedposts with firm, unyielding knots. The spread-eagle position left me completely exposed and vulnerable, every inch of my body on display and unreachable by my own hands. My cock throbbed visibly in the open air.

Erin took her time admiring her work, circling the bed slowly. With every step, she let her long hair sway and drag across my skin. As she moved from the foot of the bed up along my left side, the glossy strands swept over my left leg, hip, and ribs in a continuous, feather-light caress. She paused at my chest, leaning over so her mane spilled heavily across my face and neck, the clean, faintly floral scent of her shampoo filling my lungs. I turned my head instinctively, trying to nuzzle into the silky mass, but she pulled back with a soft laugh.

“Not yet, greedy boy.”

She continued her circuit to the right side, her hair gliding over my right thigh, brushing maddeningly close to my aching balls before trailing up my torso again. By the time she returned to the head of the bed, I was breathing hard, hips twitching upward in futile need.

“Perfect,” Erin purred, satisfied with the tight, symmetrical spread-eagle bondage. She finally slipped the blindfold over my eyes, plunging me into darkness. “Today’s going to be different. My friends are coming… but not all at once. They’ll visit you one by one. Each one gets to play with you however she wants using that beautiful long hair you love so much. And each one is going to milk every drop out of you—right into her hair. You’re going to cum for them, Damon. Over and over.”

I groaned, my cock jumping at the filthy promise.

“But between visits,” she continued, her fingers lightly tracing my shaft while her hair still dangled teasingly across my chest, “I’m going to sit on your face and use that eager tongue. I’ll tease you with my hair too… but you don’t get to cum for me. You save every load for their hair. Understand?”

“Yes,” I rasped, already desperate.

“Good boy.”

I heard the door open and close. Soft footsteps. Then the unmistakable sensation of long, heavy hair spilling across my chest—thicker and wavier than Erin’s. The same one from last time.

The rest of the session unfolded exactly as Erin had planned: each friend arriving in turn to caress, wrap, stroke, and milk me with their unique long manes until I erupted into their hair, followed by Erin’s deliciously cruel facesitting breaks where she rode my tongue to her own orgasms while denying me with light, tormenting drags of her silky chestnut locks.

By the end, I was utterly spent, covered in the scent of sex and beautiful hair, completely at her mercy.

Erin removed the blindfold at last, her own long mane slightly tousled and flushed with satisfaction. She kissed me deeply, then straddled my face one final time, letting me bring her to another shattering climax while she used her own hair to finish me.

As I lay there recovering, she ran her fingers through my hair and smiled down at me with that wicked grin.

“Think we’ll let them use it as conditioner next time?”

I could only groan in exhausted, blissful agreement. Terrified. Desperate. Hopeful.

Completely hers.

LonghairArts

long hair story telling in cinematic comic images

Would be happy to have inputs/suggestions from the veterans here!

Do we have any telegram groups where we can find good hairjob related grok prompts? TIA

Enjoy!