Do not believe what you hear of me. It was not to preserve my chastity that I was imprisoned here, in this amusingly phallic tower with its sealed entrance and single window. I have not been a virgin for years; even my father knows that. In the cesspit of hypocrisy that is his court, no one cares what goes on behind closed doors. Only appearances matter.
And appearances are what landed me here in this unorthodox prison. I'm confined to this aerie because despite all blandishments and threats, I refused to cut my hair.
In a society like ours, valuing external neatness and order above else, my wild auburn locks are an offense to public decency, or so my royal parents would like me to believe. My father's crown rests upon a bald pate, shaved daily. My mother and sisters wear pale helmets of curls that are clipped back whenever they grow beyond the earlobes. Every proper citizen plucks, trims, waxes and shaves to eliminate any hint of the hirsute.
Not I. I love my hair, not just the luxurious tresses that flow over my shoulders and down to the floor, but the rest, too: my unfashionably bushy eyebrows, the soft tufts gracing my armpits, the wiry tangle that hides my sex. My hair is a source of my power. My father suspects as much. An ancient prophecy says the kingdom shall one day be lost to a red-haired sorceress and he fears I am the fulfillment of that promise.
He need not worry. I care not for the sort of power he wields. All I want is freedom – to travel the world, to think for myself, to love whom I please. To my father, I am nothing but a bargaining chip in the game of alliances. For that role, my hair diminishes my worth – as do my forthright tongue and legendary temper. I'm pleased to note that I've successfully discouraged every suitor the king attempted to lure into taking me off his hands.
His ambitious majesty sent his minions to my room while I slept, to shear me by force. When one returned with a broken arm, the other soaked with blood from the scissors embedded in his chest, the king decided prison was the only way to deal with the threat posed by my independence. He spread the tale that the servants had been injured fighting off rapists. Under pretext of guarding his beloved daughter from ravishment, he locked me in this lofty turret and sealed the door from the outside.
To discourage rescuers, his magicians established a tall hedge of rose bushes round the perimeter. My father's roses are thornless, as his subjects are hairless, but they exude the seductive perfume of forgetfulness. Anyone who ventures within a hundred yards of the tower forgets not only his intention to rescue me, but his very name. He wanders, dazed and content, among the scarlet blooms, marveling at the tower looming above him and trying to recall his mission, until my father's men come to lead him away.
I do not rail against my fate. What would be the point? No, I bide my time in my tower. I gaze out the window, down at my father's people who scurry along the roads of the city like ants, mindless and driven. I brush my hair until it shines like a river of copper, spreading in a lustrous flood across the carpet. My tresses reached to my ankles on that day two years ago when I was locked away. Now they are far longer, piled up in burnished coils around me as I sit on my bed, rustling behind me when I pace my cell.
The days pass. My hair grows. I read, or write, or sing to myself the ancient songs my grandmother taught me. I practice her little spells. And I wait for my prince.
He comes to me on the nights of the full moon, nights like tonight. A potent mage, he rides the moon's pale beams into my room. He sinks to his knees before me and buries his face in the aromatic thicket between my thighs. His tongue is quicksilver and lightning, dancing in my cleft, gathering the nectar which flows just for him. He devours me like a starving man. I lie back upon the bed, pillowed by mounds of hair, spreading myself wide so he can feast upon my flesh.
As he nibbles, strokes, prods and probes, he kindles two kinds of pleasure. Sharp, electric delight crackles across my moist skin, so intense it is almost pain. My every nerve sparks in response to his knowing mouth. At the same time, a sweet ache swirls deep in my belly, swelling and tightening as he draws me toward release. He bathes the swollen button at my apex in hot saliva until I am ready to boil.
I lace my fingers into his jet curls and pull his face deeper into my cunt. He burrows into my hungry depths, eager to give me what I crave. I struggle against the bonds holding me back from release. I feel them weaken. Arching up, I grind my soaked, hairy pussy against his nose, his chin, his protruding tongue, any hardness he can offer.
His teeth close on my clit, cutting me free to fly. Bliss shudders through me. I drift weightless, buoyed by joy, among glittering copper clouds. My lover's strong arms cradle me as I sink back to earth.
My prince smells of horses, leather, sweat and new-mown hay. His scent makes me want him naked. I tear madly at his jerkin and leggings, seeking his bare, burnt-oak skin. He looses a soundless laugh and rises to strip away his clothing. Saliva pools in my mouth as I watch. He is dark night to my midday brightness, with ink-black hair that tumbles to his shoulders and eyes like chips of obsidian. His leanness counters my ripe curves. My softness balances the taut power in his muscled limbs.
We are two halves of a whole, my prince and I. We both know this. He's the youngest son of a neighboring king, and mute from birth. That scarcely matters – everyone tells me I talk enough for two. In any case, when we are together, we have little need for words. Like me he's a disappointment to his parents – an outcast. He chose to be a wise man rather than a warrior and his father will never forgive him.
Nude, gleaming like a statue in the moonlight, he stretches out beside me and gathers me into his arms. He claims my mouth in a kiss dark and rich as chocolate. I taste my ocean flavor on his deft tongue. I close my eyes, sinking into his presence, and let him carry me away. His heart beats against mine. Our breathing synchronizes.
He trails one finger along the outside swell of my breast. My nipples snap into tight, hungry points, rasping against his black-furred chest. Of course he does not miss the change. Sliding his hand between our bodies, he pinches one aching nub until I gasp. Then, before I have a chance to recover, his lively fingers are in my sex, delving into the wetness and spreading it along the hard shaft that presses so deliciously against my belly.
Some nights he'll tease me for hours before he enters me. He'll flip me onto my stomach and lick his way down my spine, circling each vertebra, in a kind of delicious torture. At long last, he'll reach my buttocks, which he'll kiss and fondle until I'm jerking my ass in his face, pleading for his cock. Even then he might continue to inflame me, pulling my cheeks apart, laving my rear hole, silent laughter vibrating against my sensitized skin.
Tonight is not one of those nights. I sense his need, matching my own. He rolls me onto my back, onto the sleek, soft curtain of my hair, and slides into me in one smooth motion.
It's always ecstatic, regardless of how often we couple. When his flesh pierces mine – when he fills me, stretching me to the edge of pain but not beyond – I'm ready to drown in pleasure. We move together, arms and legs entwined, like a single being. I don't know if it's his power, or mine, but I swear I hear his thoughts, and he mine. He knows what I want almost before I do.
Some nights he's rough. Some nights he's tender. It is always perfect. Tonight there are no games, nothing but pure hunger. He holds himself above me, muscles knotting in his shoulders, and drives his cock into my clinging sex. His strong, even rhythm sends me spiraling toward climax. Each thrust pushes me further up the sweet slope.
I clamp my thighs around his waist, tilting my pelvis to take him deeper. He slows, especially on the upstroke, so that I feel every inch of his hardness moving over my tissues. His earthy scent fills my nostrils. I laugh, drunk with joy, no longer a prisoner. There is no reality but our conjoined flesh and the communion of our spirits.
We rock together, slithering back and forth upon the silky waves of my hair. It surrounds us, caressing our naked skin, as though we coupled among a crowd of lovers. Red-gold strands stick to his sweat-beaded forehead. Vagrant locks tickle my buttocks. I want to bathe him in the river of my hair – my pride, my power, the pure expression of my womanhood.
I flip our locked bodies over, so that he's on his back, cradled in the copper tangles, and I'm straddling him, his cock buried deep as it can go. There's a tug at my scalp, which I ignore. I gather handfuls of shimmering curls, brushing them over his nipples and belly, while I clench my muscles around his bulk. He pulses and swells in response. Pleasure ripples out from my center in strengthening waves.
"I love you." The words are superfluous, but I want to tell him anyway, to give voice to the truth we both know. We hover on the edge, together in a new way. A single breath will send us tumbling into orgasm.
A new sensation stops me – a new sort of stirring, deep in my belly, an odd feeling as though my organs were rearranging themselves. My prince searches my face with those glittering, ebony eyes and I understand that he feels it too. It's foreign, outside our charmed circle. At first I'm frightened, thinking that my father's magicians have found a way to undo our magical connection.
Then simultaneously, we understand. A third. A child. My womb bears the fruit of our love. The realization looms up, enormous, terrifying and unbearably sweet. Like a tsunami it sweeps us into a wild, shuddering climax. We cling to each other, pleasure wracking our bodies, as he pours his seed into my depths. Meanwhile, the child – our daughter, I'm quite certain – moves with us.
We lie together, exhausted by the intensity of the orgasm and the unbelievable new shape of our relationship. The child is quiet, as though she had fulfilled her goal by announcing her presence.
The moon is setting. My prince helps me to sit up, more gentle than ever. He retrieves my silver-backed hair brush and starts to work the knots out of my tresses. I close my eyes, to concentrate on the warmth of his hands, the soft tug of the brush, the light scrape of the bristles against my scalp. It takes a long time for me to relax. I don't want him to leave, especially not now, given what we have learned this night. Still, I can't help but give in to the peace that comes with his presence.
He stops. I drift, lost in dreams of a time when we can be together always. A sound of metal on metal drags me back to the present.
My prince stands at my side, clothed once more, brandishing a pair of scissors.
"No!" I scream, backing away, the weight of my hair making me slow. He raises his hand, palm facing me. I stop, obedient despite my fear. He gestures at the tresses flowing from my skull, stretching across the floor, ordered and smooth now from his attentions. Then he points at the window. All at once I grasp his plan.
He's right. Now that I know I'm with child, my prison will be unbearable – even dangerous. If my father were to find out, he might kill us both, or worse, steal the child and bring her up amidst the corruption of the court. I need to escape.
I can't ride on moonbeams the way my prince can. I will need another route out of my lofty prison.
I sink back onto the bed. My lover strokes my silky hair back from my brow, then sets to work.
The first snip of the shears makes me shudder. He ceases his efforts long enough to kiss my lips and fondle my breasts. Aftershocks of our previous passion rumble through me. I nod for him to continue. My gleaming locks fall the floor, one by one.
Morning will be here soon. I'll be alone. I wonder how long it will take to braid my tresses into the rope I'll use to lower myself to the ground. I'll need clothing. With my shorn hair, maybe I can pass as a boy. My prince will meet me outside the perimeter of my prison, I know, with horses and supplies. We'll leave our respective kingdoms behind and travel as I've always dreamed, seeking a better place to raise our child.
The amnesia-inducing roses are a problem. Perhaps I can hold my breath long enough to get clear of their influence. If I can't, I'll end up witless and confused like the unfortunates who thought to set me free.
The last rays of the moon are fading. My prince has finished his work. He gives me a pained smile and kisses me one last time before he disappears.
My glorious hair carpets the floor around me. I peer out the window. Peach-colored clouds streak the eastern horizon. I feel incredibly light, as though I might float away.
I don't mind that my hair is gone. It is, after all, for a good cause. If I forget I'm Princess Rapunzel, that won't matter either. We might become penniless wanderers. I'll still be grateful for my freedom and his love.
All I care about is being with my prince. And I'm quite certain there's no magic on earth that could make me forget him.