BAD HAIR DAY
© Clare London
Stephan looked up at the high window, seeing it was now open. His heart beat faster – it may be the Princess herself! He may at last see the woman he sought – well, that he was meant to be seeking.
Instead, he saw something far stranger. A hank of hair appeared over the sill and flapped impatiently against the smooth brick. It was damp, he assumed from washing. And shortly after that, another hank appeared. The color was dark; the hair was thick and rich. And there was still more of it – much more. The original tresses slid over the sill and down the wall, and just kept on flowing. Stephan watched as the longest hair he had ever seen poured out of the window, waving in the chill wind. His knew his mouth had dropped open but luckily there was no one to witness the handsome, noble crown prince gaping like an idiot jester.
Eventually it stopped. It shook as if by itself, but he realized that its owner was probably shaking it out to dry. He did the same himself sometimes, when he had no time for his manservant to comb and fuss over it after washing. He’d stick his head out the window and shake it dry, running fingers through it when it felt clean and soft. He wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through that hair. He felt that same frisson he had when he first heard the voice singing. It must be the autumn weather, he reasoned, for he wasn’t accustomed to such fanciful things as ‘frissons’.
He had led a very sheltered life.
The hair was being waved gently in the air, as if it was being parted carefully for braiding, and he had a glimpse of thin, pale fingers on the sill. He imagined the delicate, feminine hand that possessed them. They looked to be fairly long digits, even from this distance – but he had no objections to a girl with hands larger than average, did he? And besides, what knowledge did he have, to know what was average?
She will play the harp, he thought. And weave. And stroke my hair in the evening. And those fingers will play deliciously down the front of my britches… the answering feelings in his groin were familiar, but not particularly in the context of the expectations of his Quest. They were more associated with the vigorous spankings of the twins, and the gentle, intimate attentions of his manservant – and his manservant’s soft, supple mouth – when he was being bathed. Or maybe the dark, painfully delicious dreams of his own, when all the romantic creatures were broad-shouldered and low-voiced and with strong, sure hands that guided his fingers around his cock, and then joined him in stroking it, harder and faster… With a sigh of impatience, Stephan fought off these feelings, for he thought they might conflict with the discipline of his military training. Is this love? he thought, abstractedly. Might I be in love already? Just with a voice – with hair?
His naiveté should be excused. He was a young man who didn’t get out much, except into battle and on official parades.
But he was bright. He would learn.