She was flipped over on the bed, her ass in the air. I knelt between her legs, running my hands up and down her back the way she likes and pulling her hair while I fucked her. She had gorgeous hair, long and dark -- I like to wrap it around my neck after we make love and fall asleep like that. A large handful came out when I pulled and I shook my hand empty to reach for a better grasp. I was moving pretty hard at this point, every impact making a wet smack against her buttocks and the backs of her thighs. Another clump of hair loosened in my grip and this time left a bare spot on her scalp. There was a rattle to her moans, too, that I noticed for the first time. "Does this feel good?" I asked, for validation. In a throaty voice she answered "Yes," and I closed my eyes with a groan, going deep. She pushed her ass back against me, and I grabbed her hipbones -- my fingers sank right in, was there was a spongy texture to her flesh? -- and jerked like a stalled car engine. I reached under and pulled on her breast; it came away in my hand and I flicked it off to the sheets. It was then, feeling the deliquescent slide of my cock inside her, that I remembered. She turned her head and I admired, unsurprised, the forlorn beauty in the bones of her face. "Not working for you?" she asked sadly. I had wilted -- I couldn't help it, in the face of such nostalgia. I shook my head. "It's nothing, it's not you. You're so hot," I said, even as I pulled out and sat sweating against the wall, legs splayed. She gathered up the fallen pieces of herself.  Tried to press her breast back into place.  Squeeze the handprints out of her hips. She looked at the discarded twists of hair, lifted one to her head and then changed her mind and just fiddled with it between her long porcelain fingers. "It won't always be like this," she said. She sounded apologetic. "I like it," I replied. "It can be like this forever and I wouldn't mind." But I did wonder what she meant. "I don't know," she sighed. I didn't like looking her in the face like this -- I glanced down at her hands instead. She was braiding the loose hair without looking. Towards the end it got very thin, but her fingers kept going until she was turning just three hairs over and over each other. I wondered when she would stop, when she would notice that it was too thin to keep bothering.