Bimbo Salon - Girl's Day Out

Violet let out a hot little moan at the memory.

Everything about her felt heated. From the warm air whirling about the heavy mass of wavy hair stacked atop her simmering skull, to the magma dripping from her feminine core. Her skin was on fire and she was certain the molten moistness gathering between her grinding thighs was drenching the denim crotch of her painted on skinny jeans..

"Oh Adam..."

Violet wasn't sure if the sultry words had escaped her lips or simply arrived at her ears of their own volition. The sweet, soothing panpipe music still filled the background just as the seductive smell of honeysuckle and lavender shampoo still pervaded her olfactory, being baked into her malleable mind by the oven heat of the hair drying station.

It was a captivating scent, ironing out the worry wrinkles of her plastinated brain until Violet's thoughts were as smooth and sleek as rich satin sheets.

She could touch herself a little couldn't she? Over the denim of her skinny jeans, nothing too lewd. Just for a second. The large cutting cape tented her from throat to knees, nobody would notice. Like a quick little diddle under the bed sheets.

Slowly, so slowly, Violet let her dainty hands glide over her slender thighs. Even that feather-light stroke felt charged. Electric. Sending up sparks which shocked her juicy nethers.

Her barely eighteen year old pussy thrummed in time with the shiny dryer bonnet encasing her mind. Except where the sound itself was calming, the sensation it ignited was outright provocative.

"Oh Adam, yes..."

There they were again. The lust-laden words she badly wanted to whisper but hadn't. Violet couldn't see much with the chrome hood obstructing her vision. Couldn't lift it from her head with her small hands trapped in the vice-grip of clenching thighs. Fingers pressing hard into the drill cotton. Pushing the stitched center seam against the cleft of her dewy folds.

A quiet grunting noise filtered through the hypnotic hum of the dryer vents. Low-pitched and gruff. His grunts. From the only He dominating Violet's streamlined thoughts.

Her fingers dug into the stubborn denim, swirling tight circles and crushing her throbbing pearl. A gasp escaped her breathy lips, sweeter than any song, as ecstatic lightning danced along singing nerve endings.

"Oh Adam!"

________________

Courtney smiled as she hung out laundry under a clear summer sky. Basking in the sun's welcome rays as she shook out another dress shirt before pegging it to the laundry line.

The shirt was robin's egg blue and too big for her. A man's shirt. She would have to starch the collar and cuffs when she next pressed it to keep them crisp.

The weather was picture perfect. Her flower beds were in full colorful bloom and the freshly mowed lawn was vividly green, bordered in the stark white of a picket fence. Birds chirped in the trees, bees buzzed about their business, and all was right in the world.

Smoothing out the front of her polka dot smock dress, she bent and retrieved a pair of men's underwear from the laundry basket. Testing the elastic in the waistband with an experimental tug of her painted fingertips, she resolved to buy a new set for him soon.

Men were like that. Her's would probably wear these old Y-fronts until they were nothing but a collection of holes and frayed threads. Strong and providing but helpless to look after himself, even as he took care of all her needs.

Like the old saying went; behind every great man was a woman.

The smell of rhubarb and apple pie cooling on the kitchen sill made Courtney blush immodestly. The recipe was her mother's and he couldn't get enough of it. What started out as pie for his dessert usually ended with her playing the tart in their bedroom.

Whipped cream included.

It was the least she could do, and hardly a chore. Her man--her Husband--had needs too. It was intoxicating when he took control of her. Used her for his carnal pleasure. So masterful and masculine as he forced Courtney to her knees and roughly fucked her pretty mouth like a pussy to please his big fat Husband cock...

Courtney shivered deliciously just thinking about it. Maybe she would tie her voluminous caramel curls up with ribbons in a bouffant beehive for him to dig his meaty fingers into and really take charge. Her wifely loins caught fire at the merest imagining of his dominant handling of her frail feminine form.

Only one nagging question troubled her otherwise idealized existence.

Who was her husband and why couldn't she recall his face?

________________

"Madame, Madame. Please wake up. You are ready for Monsieur Claude now."

Courtney blinked sleep from her eyes as the lethargically droning dryer bonnet was removed from her drowsy skull, replaced by the charmingly accented voice and splendid view of Celine stooping over her with a knowing smile on her regally beautiful face.

"S--Sorry, I think I drifted off for a minute there." She stuttered, feeling hot and bothered and embarrassed for no good reason. "That's so humiliating..."

"Not at all, Madame." Celine assured, helping Courtney to her stumbling feet with surprising firmness for her super-slim frame. "We are flattered that you feel safe and secure enough to fully relax and give yourself completely over to the process. It bodes well for the final result. I am certain you will be pleased."

Shaking off the disorientation of sudden wakefulness, the brightness and potent perfume of the colorful salon slammed back in full sensory assault. Clutching at her head, Courtney was shocked to feel her fingers sink deep into a thick mass of silky soft curls rather than the limp, faded straggle of split ends she fretted over each morning.

"Wha--My goodness... my hair!"

It wasn't difficult to find a mirror, reflective surfaces were everywhere. In each one, a stranger bearing her face and tangled mountain of wavy toffee-colored tresses bouncing about her shoulders gaped back at Courtney.

Each strand caught the blinding overhead lighting and shone with an impossible luster, fit to match the polished chrome and glass that was so prevalent in the salon's eye-dazzling decor.

"Yes, Monsieur Claude's patent hair treatment works miracles. Just another reason jealous rivals sought to banish his genius from the international stage in their envy." The strictly dressed assistant said, guiding Courtney by a manicured hand on her elbow. "Come this way please, the Master is currently seeing off two of our earlier guests. He will meet you in his private parlor shortly."

"My daughter, Violet. Is she..." Courtney began, urgently turning back to find the girl still stuck fast to the leather lounge, wriggling restlessly under her yellow drape and...

...Was that a small spot of spittle gangling from her bottom lip?

"She is fine, Madame. Adam prefers his subjects to cure for a bit longer. Have no fear, he will attend to her soon. All is as it should be."

The Frenchwoman's tone was so assured, so confident and enchanting that Courtney couldn't help but to release the deep breath she had been unconsciously holding.

Then she caught another sight of herself in a picture frame mirror set above a hand wash station. The wooden frame had been carved with thorny rose vines and painted a pale shade of red. Set within the pastel boundary, her reflection tried on a genuine smile--one free from self-doubt and recrimination--for the first time in a long while.

That felt good too.

She looked amazing, not unlike a Disney princess with a bad case of bedhead.

"Good. That's good." She sighed, letting herself be led away. "Everything is as it should be."

________________

Courtney fidgeted nervously in the small backroom. Celine had explained that it was Monsieur Claude's private consultation office, or parlor as the boisterous man liked to call it.

Apparently the previous business owner was a tattoo artist and this had been his work space, sectioned off from the shop front for client discretion. The claustrophobically small room was a jarring contrast to the ostentatious grandeur only a thin wall's width away.

It was dimly lit, almost intimately so, by a single hanging tungsten bulb under a tasseled purple lightshade decades out of date and style. The walls were featureless, lacking even a single mirror, and the furnishings were austere. Spartan. With only the unavoidable stylists chair she sat in, a black leather rolling stool and a stainless steel instrument trolley that belonged in a doctor's surgery.

Courtney was already missing the gaudy extravagance and boujee atmosphere of the salon's main floor. That much at least was expected of an establishment devoted to opulent decadence and she was beginning to long for the tranquil spa music, powerful florid fragrances, and dreamy drone of the dryer bonnets.

Part of the finger-twisting unease came from the glimpse of the two departing guests she had caught on her way past the reception desk.

Two young ladies had been gushing and enthusing over the undersized fashionista as he preened and graciously waved away their thanks like a posturing peacock. But what had drawn Courtney's stare was their outrageous presentation.

The first; a vibrant redhead elegantly dressed in a slim tweed jacket and skirt with contrasting bound edges had her hair pinned up in huge victory rolls fastened in place by a clip in the shape and color of snow lilies. Strings of pearls looped her neck and white ladies gloves from the last century covered her hands as she patted her crimson coiffure with beaming pride.

Her presumed friend was another creature altogether. Radiantly blond, leggy and stacked, she was perched atop seven inch kitten heels with a silver latex mini dress painted onto her bombshell body. It barely covered her full, peachy ass and was taxed to the outer limit around spherical porn-star tits as the airhead giggled and toyed shamelessly with her platinum mane of sweetheart curls.

It had been a living, if fleeting, example of the Lady and the Tramp before Celine had whisked her away.

"Bien accueillir, Madame... or should I say; Welcome to my private parlor."

Monsieur Claude strutted in with an uncorked wine bottle and two empty champagne flutes as Celine pulled aside the curtain for him. Courtney almost jumped at his unannounced entrance, the extravagantly attired man seemed as out of place as a clown in a funeral home in the unadorned space.

She stared longingly out through the doorway into the bright world of manufactured glitz and glamor before Celine gave her a reassuring smile and let the curtain drop back into place, cutting off the alluring sounds and smells.

"Ah, I sense your confusion." Monsieur Claude continued, arranging the glasses on the instrument trolley and pouring the wine. It appeared to be a sparkling Rosé, fizzing as it filled the long-stemmed flutes. "You witness my manner of dress and believe there is nothing of substance behind the sequins and rhinestones. That misconception, I fear, is a common pitfall of my profession."

Courtney was about to point out that he wasn't wearing any sequins or rhinestones--just a very loud suit, shirt and tire--when the wine glass was thrust under her nose. It smelled tart and incredibly fruity, not unlike the man offering it.

But she accepted it anyway and took a sip to steady her rattled nerves. Everything about today had her stuck firmly on the back foot and Courtney was ready to cling to any life raft in the storm of cosmetic-themed chaos she found herself tossing in.

It was nice, very settling, and she made approving sounds as she took a second swallow. The Monsieur had left his glass untouched on the stainless steel tray.

"I can read the initial impressions on peoples faces when they first meet me." He continued, opening a drawer on the trolley and pulling out his implements. Combs, brushes, several assorted scissors and small jars of unlabeled product. "It is a useful facade that helps me sort the wheat from the chaff in those brief opening seconds. Those who see me for what I truly am and those who simply see what they expect. You, dearest Madame, are one of the former."

For who he truly was? Courtney had taken him for a prancing show pony on first acquaintance but didn't like to say so. It felt improper to interrupt the man as he spoke. Not at all ladylike.

She drained her glass instead, only to have Monsieur Claude spin about with the bottle and top it back up in a fluid practiced motion.

"You're not partaking?" She inquired, immediately taking another sip. "It's--"

"--not champagne." He cut in sternly, clearly prepared to head off an impending misnomer. "That name belongs solely to the sparkling white wine fermented from the grapes grown in a region of France by the same name. You Americans are obsessed with it and the status it carries, even mixing the carbonated swill with orange juice to drink with your breakfast. Mimosas, bah! This is our own special vintage which we simply call "Bubbles" here in my establishment."

Courtney was only going to say it was refreshing but the name Bubbles felt right. The way it tickled her nose and fizzled down her throat was more than pleasant. Kinda fun.

When was the last time she let herself have some harmless fun?

"Yet I see two glasses." She noted, settling back in the rotating chair and letting herself smile a touch coyly over the rim of the slender glass. "You wouldn't let a lady drink alone would you, Monsieur Claude?"

The smaller man paused in his preparations then slowly turned, sweeping into a graceful bow that didn't disturb his towering pompadour in the slightest.

"My earnest apologies, Madame." He replied, sounding sincere for the first time since Courtney had met him. "The second glass is to keep you company in spirit as I must refrain from imbibing. To be labeled a piss artist is a trade hazard I seek to avoid. Please forgive my impropriety this one time."

The unexpected deference was disarming. Almost charming. Assuredly polite.

Courtney found herself warming to the funny little man and his over-dramatic mannerisms. He was the theatrical sort. A volatile blend of the haughty prima donna and tortured artist. She understood then what Violet meant by the full Claude Bimbeau experience.

If she leaned into it, the exuberant stylist would be helpless but to react as those of his bohemian nature were inevitably bound to do. Monsieur Claude might well be the pied piper but it was Courtney who called the tune.

"Just this one time." She generously conceded, finally relaxing back into the vinyl seat cushions and raising the glass of Bubbles to her lips. It felt classy and a tad indulgent to be drinking so early in the day. "Now tell me what you have envisioned for all my glorious new hair."

A fanatical fire was stoked within the stylist's sea-green eyes as he leapt upon the black leather stool, swiveled around and pumped a lever under the seat to jack himself up high enough to lock gazes with Courtney.

"You, Madame, may yet be... my magnum opus."

________________

Violet took another swig from the neck of the champagne bottle and giggled naughtily. She was only eighteen, not old enough to drink but doing it anyway.

Adam--so muscular, broad and handsome--had released her from the hair dryer station and slipped a tall glass of bubbly into her slick fingers before moving away to attend other duties.

Fingers that were slick with her own juices from the growing wet patch on the crotch of her ripped skinny jeans. She had fumbled the fragile stem before getting a grip and downing the intoxicating beverage in one thirsty gulp before moving onto the bottle itself.

Tottering unsteadily on her heels (had she been wearing strappy high heels all this time? She couldn't rightly remember) Violet spun merrily in place to the background music which had taken a turn for a more upbeat party vibe. The cutting cape swirled around her like the flaring skirts of a daisy yellow ball gown.

The fancy label on the heavy glass bottle simply read "Bubbles" in a curlicue font. The name was fitting. Every downed mouthful of the alcoholic beverage was fun and fruity, filling her young body with a happy fizzing feeling that left Violet light on her feet and delightfully carefree.

Was this what booze felt like? No wonder so many people drank.

She tried to give her hair a sexy flip and almost ended up tangled in shiny blonde locks. There was just so much of it now! A lustrous waterfall of purest platinum waves that fell well past her pert rear to brush the backs of her slender denim-clad thighs.

It was actually heavy. Violet could feel the heft of all that glossy mass pulling at her skull. Tugging at her tingling scalp and weighing down her thoughts. That odd sensation might have been a little disturbing, but with another quick swig the Bubbles wafted such worries away like dry autumn leaves on a breeze.

...Or more like bubbles when she paused to think about it.

That made her giggle.

She had been doing more and more of that recently. And why shouldn't Violet giggle? Giggling was relaxing and felt good. Lots of fun people giggled. Pretty girls... pretty girls like her should giggle. It was open and cute and made them approachable. No one liked a negative Nancy who scowled all the time.

Boys least of all. Speaking of which...

"Oh. My. Gawd. Adam, this music is, like, totally my jam!" She called, raising and running her hands through her impossibly soft silky hair as she gyrated her sleek hips to the fast-tempo rhythm. "Come dance with me!"

Her voice was higher in octave, a little tipsy with a girlish lilt that may or may not have been there before. Violet sounded as though she could only speak through perpetually pouty lips with flirtatiously batted eyelashes punctuating every word.

"One moment please, Miss Vi."

The young stud stood by the front entry engaged in a hushed conversation with the other assistant Celine. Violet didn't know what was so interesting about the strictly dressed and groomed woman. Hadn't Celine said she was, like, totally old and whatever? Adam shouldn't be wasting his time on someone like her.

Not when he was so obviously big and hunky, and Violet was feeling so super sexy and overwhelmingly available.

As though sensing her irritation, both fashion assistants broke off their whispered discussion and turned to face her with perfectly brilliant smiles that belonged in a toothpaste commercial.

"Thank you for your patience, Miss Vi." Adam said smoothly, walking towards her with his thick arms spread in a helpful gesture, indicating the main stylist station. "Now please, take a seat in the salon chair and I will attend to you presently."

With a shrill squee! of excitement Violet all but skipped over to the offered chair, throwing herself into it with enough rambunctious glee that it spun in place and made her giddy.

That elicited another giggle from her bubbly lips.

It was great, like, totally liberating.

Behind Adam, Celine locked the shop door with a click, flipping the open sign over to closed, before pulling a blood-red velvet curtain across the glass display window.

________________

Courtney sighed in contentment as Monsieur Claude brushed and snipped at her hair with expert speed and precision. His lily-white hands were a blur of practiced movement about her reclined head like an expert gardener pruning and shaping a shrubbery into a lifelike representation of a swan or other equally graceful animal.

"I understand that it is just you and your daughter, Madame." He murmured in a warm, conversational tone that belied the frenetic actions of his flashing blades. "This is not right for one of your outstanding charms and beauty. Not right at all."