TranSOnly / TS0

(4) They didn’t wash the last traces away. A few pale, almost invisible streaks remained in both of their long hair—thin white residuals that had dried into soft, faint patches near the ends and a couple of places closer to the roots. When the light caught them just right they looked like tiny accidental highlights. The faint scent of what they had done still clung there too: warm, intimate, unmistakably the smell of love, yet so mild that only someone leaning very close would notice. On both of them it somehow managed to look completely, absurdly cute. He finished tying his hair into a loose low ponytail, leaving those little white traces visible, then glanced over at her with a soft grin. “Hey… want to go to the arcade? I feel like playing maimai DX for a while. We can keep the hair like this. No one will know except us.” She smiled and nodded. They pulled on comfortable clothes, shared one more glass of water, and headed out. He drove with the windows cracked just enough to let the evening air in. Every so often the residual scent drifted between them—light, private, and strangely comforting. His free hand rested on her thigh at red lights; she occasionally reached over to tuck a still-slightly-sticky strand behind his ear. The arcade was only a short drive away. Neon lights reflected off the glass doors as they walked in, the familiar electronic soundtrack of maimai DX already pulsing from the cabinet area. A couple of machines were free. He tapped his card, selected a mid-level chart they both liked, and they stood side by side at the dual cabinets, long hair swaying with every movement. When the first song started, the soft residual white in their hair caught the colorful screen glow. Strands brushed against cheeks and collars as they reached for the outer buttons and spun the rings. A few times his ponytail swung close enough that she caught another faint breath of that private scent; the same happened when her hair fluttered near him. Neither of them commented. They just kept playing—laughing at near-misses, cheering when they both cleared a hard section, occasionally bumping shoulders between charts. Between songs he leaned over, voice low enough that only she could hear. “Still cute like this, right?” She answered by reaching up and gently tugging one of the faintly white-tipped strands of his hair, then turning back to the screen with a quiet, satisfied smile as the next track loaded. The arcade lights kept flashing, the music kept thumping, and the two of them kept playing—hair a little white, a little scented with love, and absolutely, unmistakably cute.

(3) He stayed kneeling over her for a few quiet breaths, both of them still panting, long hair hanging in matching white-viscous curtains that stuck to cheeks, shoulders, and the sheets. The sharp edge of the earlier hunger had faded, leaving only a warm, heavy calm. Gently he brushed a clotted strand away from her eyes with the back of his knuckles, careful not to smear more across her face. “Hey… you still with me?” His voice was softer now, a little rough from exertion but steady. “Any discomfort? Hair pull too much earlier?” She gave a small, contented hum and shook her head. He smiled, then carefully gathered the heaviest of the coated locks—hers and his—and lifted them aside so nothing dripped into her eyes or mouth. Sliding off the bed, he returned a moment later with a warm damp cloth and a clean towel. He started at her temples, wiping the worst of the white fluid from her skin first, then moved to the matted sections of her hair with slow, patient strokes. He didn’t try to wash everything out at once; instead he worked in sections, rinsing the cloth, wringing it, and gently squeezing the excess from the strands so they no longer hung quite so heavy. When her hair was merely damp and no longer dripping, he did the same for himself, cleaning the shared mess from his own long hair until both of them looked less thoroughly ruined and more simply soft and mussed. A glass of water appeared next. He helped her sit up against the pillows, pressed the glass into her hands, and waited until she had drunk half of it before taking a few swallows himself. Then he pulled the blanket up over their bare bodies, tucked it around her shoulders, and settled in beside her so their still-damp hair could rest against the same pillow without sticking to anything important. One arm slid under her neck; the other draped loosely across her waist. His fingers traced idle, feather-light circles on the small of her back. “Feel okay?” he asked again, quieter this time. “Want the window open a little? Or just stay like this for a while?” He pressed a slow kiss to the top of her head—careful of the remaining damp strands—and simply held her, the earlier wildness replaced by the steady warmth of aftercare: soft breathing, shared body heat, and the quiet certainty that neither of them had to move until they were ready.

(2) He drove in one final time, hips locking tight against hers as the climax tore through him. Thick pulses of white flooded her depths, each spurt forced out under the pressure of his cock still buried deep. When the last shudder finally left his body he stayed there a moment longer, breathing hard, forehead pressed to hers, the long soaked strands of his hair still plastered across both of them. Then he pulled out. The moment his cock slipped free, a slow, heavy ribbon of white followed—thick, viscous, and still warm. It welled from her open entrance and also continued to leak from the tip of his shaft in lazy, creamy drips. He watched it for a second, then gathered the excess on his fingers and rose onto his knees above her. Without a word he reached for her hair. He smeared the white liquid through the soft strands near her temples first, coating them thoroughly so they darkened and clung together in wet, glossy clumps. More semen still beaded at the head of his cock; he milked another thick rope into his palm and worked it deeper into her hair, dragging his fingers from roots to ends until entire sections hung heavy and white, the viscous fluid turning the once-clean locks into sticky, shining ropes. Some of it dripped onto her cheeks and collarbone, but most of it stayed, matting her hair into a cute, messy, thoroughly painted curtain. His own long hair was already saturated with her earlier juices. Now he deliberately gathered the dripping white that still leaked from both of them and dragged those same coated strands across his own head, mixing the fresh semen into the already-wet lengths. The two fluids blended—her clear, gluey slick and his opaque white—until every strand hanging from his scalp was equally heavy, shiny, and sticky. White viscous liquid clung to the tips, stretched between the locks, and made the whole mass look almost playfully ruined. When he finished, both of them wore the same look: long hair completely transformed into matching white, viscous, cute curtains that stuck to skin and to each other whenever they moved. His still-softening cock gave one last slow drip that landed on the already-coated ends of her hair, and he simply pressed those ends against his own, letting the shared mess seal them together.

(1) "Why you're touching even licking my hair?" a cute long-hair guy asking. "I'm sorry that I think I cannot explain behavior that purely powered by estrodiol" "Hmm…… may I have some behaviors powered by testosterone?" "Absolutely ok!" He sank lower, still holding a thick fistful of his own long hair, and pressed his head against the front of her underwear. The soft fabric was already damp, clinging to the outline of her folds. He rubbed his cheek and the crown of his head slowly back and forth, letting the heavy strands drag across the wet cotton, soaking up the heat and the growing slickness. The friction made a quiet, sticky sound. Her scent thickened in the air—warm, musky, unmistakably aroused. “Like this?” he murmured against the soaked cloth, voice muffled. He nosed harder, grinding the side of his face into the crotch of her underwear until the fabric was pushed between her lips and his hair was plastered flat against it. She answered by spreading her thighs wider and hooking her fingers into the waistband, tugging the underwear aside. The sudden exposure left her bare and glistening. Thick strands of his hair immediately fell across the open slit. He gathered them deliberately, bunching a dense handful and pressing the tips against her entrance. Then, slowly, he began to feed the long hair inside her. Strand after strand disappeared between her folds. He worked carefully, packing more of the silky length into her until the soft walls closed around the foreign texture. The sensation made her hips twitch; the hair was cool at first, then rapidly warmed and grew heavy with her wetness. He kept pushing, stuffing deeper, until a good portion of the dark curtain was buried inside her pussy, the rest still spilling out over her mound and thighs like a living leash. Only when he couldn’t fit any more did he draw back just enough to look. The hair that remained outside was already streaked and clumped with her clear, gluey fluid. He leaned in again and licked around the stuffed entrance, tasting himself mixed with her, then began to rock his head. Each motion tugged the internal strands, the friction of hair sliding against sensitive inner walls drawing fresh pulses of that weird, sticky liquid. It welled up and coated everything—soaking the remaining free lengths until his long hair hung heavy, dripping, completely sheathed in her arousal. When the entire fall of hair was saturated, glossy and stringy with her juices, he finally withdrew the packed strands in one long, wet pull. The hair left her body with a soft, filthy sound, emerging coated from root to tip in thick, translucent strands that clung and stretched. He didn’t pause to clean it. Instead he rose over her, the soaked hair swinging and sticking to both their skin, and lined his cock up against her entrance. One thrust buried him to the hilt. The same hair that had just been inside her now draped across her stomach and breasts, painting wet trails wherever it touched. He fucked her in deep, steady strokes, the saturated strands dragging between their bodies, sticking to her nipples, her throat, his own chest. Every time he pulled back, fresh gluey liquid welled up around his shaft and further soaked the hair that still framed her hips. By the time he was driving into her hard enough to make the bed creak, his long hair was nothing but a heavy, glistening curtain completely covered in her—every strand slick, matted, and dripping with the same weird, sticky fluid that kept spilling from her with every thrust.

马上一键转发@你那需要“补丁”，升级硬件的朋友吧！

：不是让你把tg contact的女的全删了吗，怎么还有一个？ ：那是糖商