Authentic Braids

Another DA revision--this time animated and for everyone. Hope you enjoy!
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Keiko should have thought twice before having her hair braided. The stylist, a striking woman with cafe au lait skin and fingers that moved like a seasoned artist’s, had given her a once-over before pursing her lips. “You want the real experience, baby?” she asked, her voice thick with amusement. “Then we usin’ African shea butter; none of that watered-down stuff.”

Keiko’s stomach fluttered at the way the woman’s gaze lingered on her. “Hells yeah!” she blurted, too eager, too high-pitched. The stylist smirked, and Keiko felt a rush of heat crawl up her neck.

The moment those warm, slick fingers massaged the shea butter into her scalp, Keiko knew she was in trouble. The rich, nutty scent wrapped around her, thick and intoxicating. Every stroke sent little shocks of pleasure down her spine, her breath stutering as the stylist worked the butter in deep, kneading her roots with a slow, deliberate rhythm. By the time the braids were done, Keiko’s scalp was alive, tingling, throbbing, as if her very skin was humming with energy. She swayed slightly on her feet, her body buzzing, her nipples pebbling under her thin top.

“Damn,” she breathed, running her fingers over the intricate patterns, her touch sending fresh waves of sensation through her. She needed to see it. Needed to feel it.

Spotting a passerby--a tall, broad-shouldered blonde with a phone in hand--she flashed him a smile, the gap between her upper incisors slightly wider than it was a few seconds ago. She was already feeling bolder, hotter. “Hey, playah. Can you record me real quick?” The guy nodded, thumb hovering over the record button. But as soon as he pressed it, his eyes widened.

Keiko’s face shifted. Her delicate button nose flared, the bridge widening and spreading across more of her face, nostrils becoming fuller, more pronounced. Her lips plumped in real time, turning pouty and pillowy. Her skin darkened like honey left in the sun: first a warm tan, then a rich peanut butter, then deeper, deeper, until it was a shade so dark Keiko’s first-generation immigrant parents called “chocoblack”

“Mmmm, I’z feelin’ gewd,” a soft, throaty moan slipped from her lips as the changes rolled through her. Her eyelids grew heavier, her lashes thicker, her gaze turning languid and slow as her brain was filled with memories of twerking in night clubs, Tiktok thirst traps, and quickies in college boys’ locker rooms. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, her breasts feeling fuller, heavier in her hands that shamelessly fondled them in public, on video. She got a closer look at them when they came up hands came up; they were different--thicker fingers, darker knuckles, acrylic claws that cut a bitch if she got up in her grill, the skin so supple she couldn’t stop touching herself. She dragged her lighter-skinned palms down her sides, savoring the new curves, the way her waist dipped in before flaring out into hips that begged to be gripped. Her stomach, now a taut, tempting expanse of deep black, pooching in between her too-tight jeans and shirt. Keiko bit her lip, imagining white skin on her black, licking and getting licked.

Then she looked straight into the camera with half-lidded eyes and parted lip. She let out a slow, smoky laugh, her gaptooth even wider now. The guy recording swallowed hard, his grip tightening on his phone. Keiko knew exactly what she’d do before she got home. Knew how she’d drag this needy white boy into some alley or bathroom stall, how his hands would shake when he touched her--new body, new needs. The video could wait. Tonight, she’d make sure he remembered every second.

She licked her lips, slow and deliberate, savoring the fullness of them. Then, in a voice like velvet--low, warm, and dripping with satisfactioņ she purred: “Hells yeah.