Im combing my hands through that head of hair of hers black, lavish, and plentiful. Shes perched gingerly on the edge of a bed and Im stood over her, styling her hair, slicking it from the brow right back to the crown where a profusion of ample curls cascade down her back. The hair is over-styled and has a patent lacquered finish to it, which, when gliding my hand over its high gloss sheen, reminds me of my mothers chiffon scarf, which I used to drape round my young shoulders when dressing myself up as some sultry vamp (the feel of its texture against my smooth prepubescent chest would hold me in front of the mirror for hours as I entertained licentious thoughts).
I notice that she is swallowing a lot, indicating either fear or hunger. Possibly both. I suspect her salivary glands are working overtime, so I show her the cake, which Ive now covered in whipped cream on top. A deep rumble sounds from behind her ribs. Silently, I plunge both my hands into her soft dark hair. Stunned into quiet alarm, she remains seated, staring at my crotch.
We need something sexiersomething even slicker I say.
She stares straight ahead unsure of my next move, unsure of what she needs to do next. All she knows is that she will have to sate some depraved appetite.
Repeat after me, I say. Im a hungry animal.
Im a hungry animal.
Her voice is quiet and timid, mine I notice is bellowing and baleful.
Again! I say.
Im a hungry animal.
Good, good
I stroll over to the oak desk that dominates the white hotel room. I open a draw, proceed to pull out an assortment of hair-styling products: gel, mousse, hairspray, wax, serum, lacquerLining them up on the desk, I ask So, where shall we start?
Languidly, I walk back over to her whilst squeezing out a stream of gel into the palm of my hand. I stand astride her lap and work in a huge dollop of gel through her hair. She sits motionless, head titled back. I tug at her hair slightly and she lets out a soft barely-audible groan. I slather more goop into her hair and my body trills. I scrape her hair back with a comb to reveal a smooth oily surface on which to dump more hair product. Her hair glistens and squelches as I press more and more gel into her hair until the product can no longer be absorbed, leaving a sort of congealing jelly helmet on her head.
Again! I say.
Im a hungry animal, she intones.
I can hear her hunger hammering at her gut, so I decide to present her reward and motion for her to help herself to the cake. At first she is unsure, and stays on the edge of the bed. I take the cake to her, present it to her by bringing it right up to her face and, holding the back of her head, guide her mouth, with its cracked rim of dry lips, towards the icing rim of the cake. Im jointly aroused by the state of her hair and at the prospect of hearing the watery echo of gastric juices slush about her hollow stomach as she sinks her mouth into the rich chocolate and feel, full-force, the promised satiation as she moves from a state of hunger to nausea.
I chide her for going too slow at the cake and push her face deeper into the slabs of sponge now dripping with chocolate glaze. She starts to ingest it noisily as I begin scraping the whipped cream off the cake and onto her slick head. With her face buried in the crumbling tower cake, I take a handful of hair and tie it round my penis and begin to work it towards my own satiation by masturbating to the sound of her smacking mouth and the juices of her hungry stomach going wild.

Taken from my novel The Face Burns Red, available from Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/The-Face-Burns-Red-ebook/dp/B00AAMNYA6/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1353771642&sr=1-1&keywords=the+face+burns+red