tagGay MaleBarber Brad

Barber Brad

bysr71plt©

"What's up with this, Nick?" I asked as I entered the barber shop at one end of the college town's most established shopping strip. "Last time I was here you were lamenting that all of your customers were dying out or retiring away and you'd probably have to close." I looked around the seats lining the wall opposite the barber's chairs and saw that there were at least six guys ahead of me—and four of them were young. Probably guys from the college.

"New barber," Nick said, gesturing with the scissors he was using on the hair of one of the town's doctors toward a chair that was currently empty three slots down. I looked up at the nameplate over the mirror behind the chair. It read "Brad."

"Younger guys like him. He's brought in new business. Rejuvenated the place." Nick said this to me, but he wasn't looking at me. He seemed to be avoiding eye contact, which wasn't like him. Nick Parson was an institution in this town. His business, Parson's, had been started here by his father. Everyone who was anyone in the area had gone to this shop for their haircut for decades. Even one governor had insisted on driving the hour over here from the state capitol to have his hair cut.

The trouble was that "everyone who is anyone" was becoming something of the past in this town. Even the younger professors at the college were going to stylists rather than barbershops.

Nick was well into his seventies. I'd assumed he'd somehow ensure the shop lived on after he gave up barbering, but the stylists were putting him out of business. I was just glad that he will have reached a time he can retire before that happened. The same was true of three of his four regular barbers. And the fourth was the one who was keeping the shop going this long. He had the chair in the front window and was more stylist than traditional barber. He'd manage to make the transition. I had expected him to take the shop when Nick retired, but Nick told me Keith wasn't interested in continuing it.

But now they apparently had a new guy. He wasn't there when I walked in and sat down, waiting my turn in the chair, but he came out of the back of the shop soon thereafter and pointed to one of the college-aged guys, who eagerly stood and moved toward the chair under the "Brad" sign. Another of the college guys had sat forward in his seat, in anticipation, but the Brad guy called to him in a deep bass voice, "I'm running behind. It'll be an hour wait. If you want to wait that long."

The young guy looked disappointed, but he sat back in the chair and reached for a magazine. Most be some barber, I thought, for a young college-type guy to be willing to wait an hour for this Brad guy.

Brad himself was a surprise. A big, powerful-looking guy, he was. He was maybe in his late twenties and stood a good six and a half feet tall. I would have taken him more for a professional football player or a hunter more than for a barber. He was heavily muscled, and I thought he must spend all of the time he wasn't in the barber shop in a gym somewhere bulking himself up. He wasn't bad look—in fact he looked pretty good in a rugged sort of way—but he had large hands, meaty fingers, and I wondered why he had chosen barbering. He seemed more like one of the guys in my line of work. I wouldn't be surprised to see him driving a cruiser, maybe even being a state trooper. He seemed to be handling the scissors OK, though.

He and the guy he was working on immediately started talking about bands and the woods and weekend gigs—not sports, which surprised me. The phone in the shop was constantly ringing and most of the time it was for Brad and he either was telling someone when he had openings—which apparently wasn't often—or what was happening at what he called the "Woodsy" this weekend or next. He was citing strange names, some of which I recognized as local rock bands.

But then it was my turn in a chair. I'd drawn the short stick again—I was being beckoned to Nick's own chair. This had been a privileged spot in previous decades, but Nick's hands weren't too steady anymore and he was really too hard of hearing to conduct a conversation with during the haircut. And he was slow as molasses, mostly because people kept coming in off the street and greeting him and jawing for a few minutes. As I'd noted, Nick Parson was an institution in the town, and he was constantly sought out to head or lend his name and photo to a charity drive or to attend some civic banquet somewhere.

I wasn't surprised when I went into his chair that we didn't have much to say to each other. I was more surprised that the conversation from Brad's chair seemed to dry up after Nick had greeted me in a loud voice and asked how "things" were down at the sheriff's office.

Nick was working so slow and was being interrupted so much by people coming off the street that it was a good half hour before I looked up and saw that Brad had finished his haircut and rather than go to the cash register with his young client, was guiding the young man toward the back of the shop and through a door back there. Brad had a hand palmed on the young man's butt as they reached the door, and my antenna shot right up.

An hour appointment for a half hour's haircut—and the next guy willing to wait that long to get into Brad's chair. I was suddenly interested in this. I'd like to say that it was the investigator—the deputy sheriff—in me that was interested. But it wasn't. I was a man's man, and Brad was just the sort of man who turned me on. Just the way he had possessively put his hand on the other guy's butt and the other guy hadn't done anything about that alerted me. And I wanted to check that out.

Nick's shop was at the more deserted end of the shopping strip, and I knew that there were windows into his back area at the side and, again, at the back of the building. Immediately beyond the door from the shop was a restroom to the left, against the outer wall, and a break room for the barbers. But there was another room through yet another door beyond that at the back of the building.

After leaving Nick's shop, with Nick being more open and expressive—and making eye contact with me—as I paid him at the cash register, I looked up and down the parking lot. Seeing that no one was noticing me, I slipped around to the side of the building and walked down to where there were two windows near the back. The first one looked into a restroom and was blocked at its bottom half, but by going up on my toes I could see that the room was empty.

The next window was a "Bingo" window. It looked into sort of a supply room at the back of the shop. I could sort of peep in at the side window and see the two of them, their bodies illuminated by light coming in from two windows on the back wall of the shop. The young college-aged guy was only wearing his T-shirt and was bent over a table top, legs spread. Brad, only in his white, short-sleeved shirt, was standing close behind the younger guy, crotch planted to buttocks, and fucking up into the other guy. From the angle I had and the long strokes Brad was taking, I could tell that he had at least seven thick inches. My butt twitched at the sight. His bulging chest and shoulder muscles as he worked impressed me too. He had one hand gripping the younger guy by the throat and arching the guy's torso back to him, the guy's head pushed into Brad's shoulder. The younger guy's hands were moving from trying to spread his own butt cheeks wider to Brad's clinching and flexing buttocks to the back of Brad's head to the table top to maintain himself steady.

Brad's free hand was moving periodically from the table top to the young man's nostrils. Brad's fingers were coated with something white, and I could see a mound of white powder that Brad was dipping them into and then moving to the young man's nose.

The young man was pretty vocal—and was singing Brad's praises. I could hear the words "fuck," "shit," "yes," "deeper" reaching me through the window pane. Only the fan going in the front of the barber shop, I assumed, kept the whole world from knowing what was going on here.

I reluctantly pulled away from the window and went back to my car. I moved the car in the parking lot to where I could get a bead on both the door into Nick's shop and the alley running beside it. About the end of what I gauged was the young man's scheduled hour with Brad, I saw him emerge from the alley, rather than the shop door. He was walking with a lurch, but there was a smile of complete satisfaction on his face.

While I had waited, I had jacked off inside the car, dreaming of that pile driver I'd seen between Brad's thighs.

* * * *

"What's this all about?"

I was walking by the incident room and saw that there were photos pinned up to the cork board and some writing on the chalk board. One of the other deputies, Terry Jones, and a couple of uniformed policemen were standing, looking at the boards, jawing, and drinking coffee.

"A new pusher in town," Terry said. "We're making plans to take him down."

I walked up to the board. A couple of photos of men and a few of some house in the woods, in a fairly large clearing that looked like there had been a big party no one had wanted to clean up after—or that was just in some sort of intermission.

"The pusher?" I said.

"This guy here. His name is Buxton. We were warned to look out for him. Moves into an area and sets up rock gigs in the woods on the weekends. Calls 'em 'Woodsies.' But he serves up more than rock music and booze. Big ugly lug, ain't he?"

I was staring at a photograph of Barber Brad. I had to admit that he did look a lot better, more studly, in person than in this mug shot. Looked dazed and like he'd been beaten up in this photo.

"So, how you going to do it?" I asked, trying to keep my voice on the edge of disinterest.

"Saturday night, two weeks from now. We'll sweep in mid concert and roust them all out for drugs. We've got enough on this Buxton now. But we want to see who else we can catch."

"Good hunting," I said, as I walked off.

I went to my office and called a hair stylist and made an appointment for the next day. Then I called Parson's barber shop and made an appointment there too for the next Monday. I knew Mondays to be Nick's day off. I didn't think any of the other regular barbers would notice me—or say anything to me even if they did.

"But your hair is so nice the way it is, Honey," the stylist said when I sat down in her chair and told her what I wanted. "And you look like you just got it cut."

"And with some blond tipping too, please," I responded. "Want to go a whole new way with it."

When I walked into Parson's barber shop with what was almost a crew cut—with light highlights—any damn fool could see that I didn't have enough hair to need cutting. But what I was counting on—and was successful in it—was that neither Brad nor the other barbers would recognize me for who I was. I figured that when they looked at a man, what they concentrated on was his head of hair, since that was their trade. I also had changed the style of my clothes. No more police uniform or even tailored dress shirt and trousers, with a tie. I was in jeans, a tight red T, and boots today. I must have guessed right. I had changed myself enough to be an entirely different person to them all.

When I was in Brad's chair, he looked at me quizzically in the mirror across from the chairs and said in a low voice, his eyes searching mine, "Doesn't look like you need a haircut, buddy."

"I came for your special," I whispered back. "Heard about it. Want it."

"It'd be a pleasure. You've got a killer body. You know how much that haircut costs, though?" he asked, still keeping his voice down.

"Not sure I remember what I was told," I answered. "But it sounded like I could swing it. I've got cash."

"Seventy-five for the servicing and a hit. Hundred fifty for a doggy bag as well."

"How much without the hit?" I asked.

"Same seventy-five," he answered.

"Let's do it," I muttered back to him.

Fifteen minutes later he gave up on pretending he was doing anything with my hair, made a show of letting me check myself out in the mirror, and gave the back of my neck a razor-cut shave. As he finished that, he pressed on my carotid and up under my chin with his fingertips for a few seconds, sending chills up my spine in anticipation and giving me flash images of him fucking me right there in the chair, with all the other guys floating around and doing their thing and not noticing Brad's cock was churning in my channel.

I got another chill as I felt the palm of his hand on my butt as we moved to the back of the shop.

"Strip, please," he said when we were in the back of the shop and I'd doled out seventy-five dollars to him. "And lean over that table, dick inserted in that cutoff plastic bottle nailed under the table rim."

I gave him a questioning look.

"You're gonna shoot your wad," he said, "and I don't want it goin' all over the place. So, the plastic bottle."

"No, not that," I answered. "I wondered if you meant strip completely down—not just the jeans and the briefs?"

"Naw, take it all off. We got extra time and I wanna see what you got. You look like you're cut fine. I'll get naked too. We can compare. You can keep your boots on."

He gave me a whistle of appreciation when I'd stripped, which I thought was rather nice given all the young college-guy flesh he must have seen. Then I practically swallowed my tongue when I saw him in the altogether. No wonder he was getting good business. I wasn't bad, but in the cut department, Brad had me beat by a mile. I leaned over the table, somewhat painfully pushing my engorging dick into the cut-off plastic milk jug nailed under the edge, and supported the weight of my body on stretched-out arms and the heel of my hands pressed to the surface of the table. I was looking down at little cones of white powder spaced out around the table top. Four mounds and then three places were mounds had recently been.

"Nice, very nice," I heard him say as he ran his hands over my torso from behind. "Not the dicking, yet, I think," Brad muttered. "You're too nice. I'll work us both first. This is too nice to pass up."

He knelt behind me and pulled my cock through my thighs and began paying attention to my cock and balls and hole with his lips and lubed fingers while I moaned softly for him and rolled my hips in slow motion, getting the most of this that I could get.

When he stood, he wrapped an arm around me and palmed my belly while he inserted my dick into the plastic jug with the other hand and then used that hand to help position his sheathed cock at my hole.

Quickly he was entering and plowing up into me and I was groaning and grunting and trying not to cry out. He had thickness and length to die for. And he knew just how to make love to the prostate in passing—and to come back to it and make love to it yet again. My channel walls were spasming, and I felt an electric current surging through my body. When he started to pump, I moved my butt with him, meeting his thrusts with counterthrusts of my own. It was glorious, and he must have thought it was all good too, as he was whispering in my ear how nice my channel was and how good I was. From my perspective he was the one who was good.

He moved the hand from my belly to my pecs, where he played for a while and then up to my throat, pulling my head into the hollow of his shoulder.

I saw the fingers of his other hand covered in white powder coming at my face, and I started to writhe under him, trying to pull away from the approaching fingers, but he had me too well in control.

"I didn't—"

"Shush. Just go with it. You'll love it."

And he was right. I did love it. At the first ingestion of the powder, my head seemed to expand in an explosion of color and every fiber of me felt like it had moved to a whole new plane of feeling and pleasure. Images, colors, and shapes were racing through my brain at warp speed, and fireworks were going off snap, snap, snap. His fucking became something I never had felt before. A complete taking. The height of ecstasy. I was floating. No, I was soaring in the clouds, racing across the sky.

I saw his fingers with more of the white powder go beyond my head. He must be ingesting it too. His cock took on the proportions of a baseball bat. His pistoning doubled in intensity, and I could swear that he was reaching up into my stomach with it. But I didn't care. It was all amazing. He was whispering in my ear, speaking with intensity and so fast that I couldn't catch the words other than to know that we were racing across the sky together—welded at the pelvis, tongue-fucking kissing, arms entwined, hands everywhere at once.

We didn't stay bent over the table. He had me on my back on another surface and was fucking me to where I could see the muscles of his chest working hard. I was playing with his nipples and he was nibbling on my nipples and we were kissing—his tongue down my throat, swabbing my tonsils and he was fucking, fucking, fucking. Not far to go, I fantasized, before tip of tongue met piss slit of dick—inside me. And then he was kissing down my chest and belly and was bent over me, swallowing my cock, and taking my ejaculation. He went back to fucking my hole, and I lay back, relaxed and spent and drifted off into some sort of la la land, where I could feel every stroke and each one sent me over the moon. I came again. Exhilaration. It had been years since I could come that close together.

A slap on my buttocks—and not a light one—brought me more or less back into focus.

"Fifteen minutes," a fuzzy face in front of mine was saying. It sounded like it was coming up from a deep well. "Fifteen minutes and you need to be out of here. Use the back door. I'm going back into the shop. Come again soon. Best lay I've had in weeks."

When I was with it enough to sit up and try to locate my clothes in the grimy gloom of the storage room, Brad was gone. I barely had time to clear my head in time to dress and be at the back door when I heard the door to the shop being opened.

I should have been out of here fifteen minutes earlier, I realized. I did manage to get out before Brad entered the room with his next appointment, though. I didn't know how he did it. One an hour. He couldn't have given everyone the service he'd given me. And now that I thought about it, I think he did say a couple of times during the cocking that I was a special one for him.

I stumbled down the alley and to my car and just sat there, waiting for the world to come into focus. Still in the glow of the memory of it, I fished out my cock and slowly jacked off again. I had enough of a buzz on to enjoy it immensely. I sort of could see why these guys got into drugs. The combination of Brad's cock and the drug were enough to pull me back to him for more of the same. If it didn't scare me shitless, of course.

I wondered what it was he'd put up my nose—and whether there were any long-term effects. He'd taken me by surprise on that. I thought I'd made clear I didn't want the hit with it. But I knew now that I shouldn't have been surprised. He was a pusher, after all. Everything else was done to get the young college students hooked and coming back for more. I wondered if that was totally true with me, though. He kept telling me he enjoyed the fucking. I had to believe that his body wasn't lying about that.

I became more alert, but I dared not leave yet. It would be the end of me to be pulled over by one of my own patrolmen and found to be high. I ejaculated but was still hard—still in lust. I began stroking myself again. I wondered if this—the ability to keep it up, keep it spouting—was a function of the drug or of Brad. Most likely the combination of the two. Whatever, I'd never felt so high on it and able to shoot again and again. I was on top of the world.

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