OK, sometimes I can be a little dense.
I’ve always considered myself to be a fairly perceptive person. I’m aware of my surroundings and usually able to discern meaning from context, to condense fact from the vapor of nuance. I suppose that it’s when the nuance is aimed at me that I develop a blind spot.
Tracy had been cutting my hair for about a year. I have very difficult hair to cut well; it’s stick straight and very thick. A bad cut will leave me looking like a mop head or an 80’s punker. Quite simply, Tracy’s the best.
Tracy works out of a fairly expensive salon on Newbury Street in Boston. It was fine when I worked in the city, but now that my office is in the ‘burbs, it’s a bit of a pain to get in for a cut. I do it though; she’s that good. I just have to plan things a little more carefully. Usually that means appointments after work. Often, I’m Tracy’s last cut of the day. She never seems to mind and I always tip well.
Tracy’s studio is one of those very hip, very trendy salons. All of the cutters dress like fashion models, the décor is impeccable and the prices match the décor. I don’t mind though, I just go because she gives me the best cut I’ve ever had. OK, that’s not entirely true. Spending a half hour in Tracy’s company is a treat by itself. Tracy is a beautiful young woman, mid-twenties. She’s tall, as tall as I am, with long, dark hair, cheekbones that could cut glass and bright blue eyes. She’s always dressed as if she’s going to a nightclub, not like she’s at work. She’s bright and quick. Always ready with a quip or a joke that’s topical and funny as hell.
I guess we’ve carried on a flirtation since about my second cut with her. I honestly never thought much about it. I assumed it was all part of the service, part of her shtick. Just being friendly with a regular. I mean, hell, I enjoyed it, but I’m not vain enough to think she actually meant it. OK, so maybe I need a little more self-confidence.
The salon called me at work the other night, asking if I minded pushing back my appointment an hour, from 6:00 to 7:00. I was a little surprised as I thought 6:30 was the latest they took anyone, but agreed nonetheless. Actually, it worked out better for me as I was pretty backed up at the office and could use the extra time productively. I’d just grab a quick bite after my cut, a late supper.
I zipped into town, found parking near the studio (no mean feat) and made it about ten minutes early. Tracy was just finishing up a middle-aged woman as I walked in the door. The receptionist smiled at me and said hi as I hung up my coat.
“She’ll be right with you Bob,” she greeted me.
“Sure, no problem,” I replied, taking a seat.
I like to watch Tracy work. She’s very easy on the eyes. She was kind of monochromatic this evening, all done up in shades of gray. Trim gray knit pullover sweater (look for the bra line – hmmm, none to be seen); gray wool skirt, tight over her hips, stopping about two inches above the knee and gray stockings. Nice pumps, also gray. OK, I guess it’s a gray day, but she sure made gray look better then I had ever seen. I liked the effect.
She showed the lady in the chair the back of her ‘do with a hand mirror. The lady said nice things to Tracy and, leaving a tip, went to the receptionist to pay.
Brushing a few stray hairs off of her sweater, Tracy turned to me with a smile.
“Hi Bob! Why don’t you come over to the sink.”
Yep, no bra. She’s not too big, but what was there was nice. Just a hint of nipple under the tight sweater.
“Hi Trace, you look pretty today,” I said, stepping over to the sink.
“Do you like it?” she asked. “I wore it just for you.”
“Uh huh, sure you did,” I said with a smile.
“Well who else would I wear it for?” Devastating dimples. “Have a seat and I’ll be right with you. The shampoo girl went home an hour ago so you’re stuck with me washing you tonight.”
Tracy walked over to the receptionist and talked to her briefly. She turned and winked at me and with a “Be right back,” stepped into the ladies room.
Mary, the receptionist, did a few things around the desk, and then got her coat and things from the closet. She called into the ladies room, “Don’t forget to lock up!”
“I won’t” was the muffled reply.
“Bye Bob,” Mary said with a smile and a wave as she left.
“’Night,” I replied. Wow, I guess I really was the last appointment.
Tracy came out of the ladies room and walked back to me.
“Gee, I hope my coming this late hasn’t put you out,” I said.
“Don’t be silly,” she replied, “you’re a good customer. Mary screwed up and over-booked me, I know you like late appointments so I took a chance you wouldn’t mind being bumped, besides, I like having you as my last appointment,” she said as she pushed me back over the sink. She ruffled my hair and started the water. “Wow, your hair grows fast.”
I love having Tracy wash my hair. Don’t let anyone kid you; having your hair washed by a pro is a sensual experience like no other. I don’t care how manly a manly man you are, you cannot help but enjoy having your hair washed by a woman who knows what she’s doing.
Tracy knew what she was doing – and then some. She leaned over me, massaging my scalp. Her breasts brushed my left arm. No question; braless. I tried to remember if I had ever noticed her being without a bra in the past. I could not. Believe me, I would have remembered. Her hands made slow, sensuous strokes across my scalp. I melted into the chair. Her breasts brushed me again and yet again. Just as I was starting to wonder if she were doing that on purpose, she stood and rinsed my hair.
“OK tiger,” she said brushing my hair with a towel, “move on over to my chair.”
I stood and walked to her station, sitting down facing the mirror. She stood behind me, our eyes met in reflection.
“The usual?” she asked, touching my head.
Tracy opened her drawer looking for her scissors. Not finding them, she walked to the next station. I watched her in the mirror. Yes, I am one of those creeps that look for panty lines. I expect to be on Jerry Springer shortly: Tonight; Men Who Stare at Women’s Asses to See What Kind of Underwear They Have On. I couldn’t see a line. Hmm, pantyhose with no panties.
Not finding the scissors, she opened a cabinet door and bent over. Yep, no lines. She rooted further in the cabinet, her skirt rode up her thighs. What’s this? A flash of white thigh above gray stocking? Yikes, not pantyhose, but thigh-highs! But that means….
“Ah ha!” she announced triumphantly standing up, holding a gleaming pair of stainless steel scissors. “The little bitch thought she could hide these on me!”
Tracy combed my hair into sections and started trimming away while my mind fixated on that glimpse of bare leg.
“You’re quiet tonight, anything wrong?” she observed, sounding concerned.
“Nope,” I replied, smiling at her. “Just thinking on how pretty you look tonight.”
She actually blushed. “Well, like I said, I wore this for you, I thought it would be something you might like.”
My God, she was actually serious.
“Well, you picked right,” I smiled. “Do you always work this late?”
“Not usually, but since I went to the trouble of dressing up for you I didn’t want you to have to re-schedule your appointment.”
OK, this was weird. Nice but weird.
“So, ahh, did you get to eat dinner?” I ventured, Mr. Smooth. Just call me ‘Rico Suave.’
She smiled crookedly, “No I did not. Is that an invitation?”
“Um, yeah, it is.”
“Well, I usually don’t go out to eat with clients, but I am hungry and it is all your fault I’m here so late, so I guess, yeah, you can buy me dinner,” still with the crooked smile.
How did it get to be my fault? Rule number one; when faced with feminine logic, retreat.
“Great!” I answered, following rule one.
She told me she was in the mood for Vietnamese and knew a good place. The conversation turned to food, restaurants, nightspots, the theater - all over the place. We talked and she cut and I watched her in the mirror and she watched me watching her out of the corner of her eye. She blew my hair dry, brushed it back and stood behind me, her hands lightly on my shoulders.
“What do you think?” she asked.
I captured her right hand and brought it to my lips, “I think you are the most beautiful woman I have ever met.”
I kissed her palm, her fingers. I felt the callus on them from the scissor with my lips. I touched it lightly with the tip of my tongue. I watched her in the mirror. Her lips parted in surprise. Her eyes drooped as I kissed her hand, the softness of her wrist.
“Oh, your lips are soft,” she murmured.
Using her arm for leverage, I spun the chair to face her. Placing my left hand to the side of her face, I leaned in to kiss her. Her eyes closed, her head tilted. Her lips parted slightly as they met mine. I kissed softly, gently. The fingers of our right hands intertwined. I felt her tongue touch my lips, tentative. I met it with my own. Her mouth opened as we kissed in earnest. Abruptly, she broke off the kiss and pulled back laughing.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she replied. “I’m just happy. I was starting to wonder, I thought I might have to hit you over the head with a bat and drag you off to may cave,” she giggled, caressing my face. “I’ve been nuts about you these last six months.”
I blushed, “Chalk it up to lack of confidence on my part.”
She laughed again and pulled away, walked quickly to the door and locked it. The bolt snapped home.
With a sultry smile she returned to me, “Now, where were we?”
Throwing her arms around my neck she kissed me hard. I slipped my arms around her and pulled her close as I stood. She felt wonderful pressed against me. She tasted wonderful against my mouth. She smelled wonderful, her mane of hair flowing around us. My hand caressed her back. Yep, no bra. I kissed across her face, to her ear, down the softness of her neck. She twisted her head and bit my earlobe. I slipped a hand under her sweater to caress her bare back.
Our mouths me yet again. Her hands ran through my hair, demolishing the meticulous cut she had just finished. She pulled back ever so slightly and I slid my hand around to find her right breast, cupping the small, firm mound. My thumb teased the tiny button of her nipple and it quickly hardened under my touch.
She breathed in sharply and arched her neck. I planted a trail of soft kisses down its long length. I sat back down into the barber chair, tugging her sweater up, exposing her small, shapely tits. My mouth was at the perfect height, I touched the tip of my tongue to one of her hard buds. She pulled her sweater up and over her head as I traced circles around her nipples, her right with my mouth, her left with my hand. She unbuttoned my shirt and pushed it down over my shoulders, caressing my chest as I caressed hers.
My left hand slid down her back, over the soft wool of her skirt, past the ripe mound of her buttocks to the backs of her legs. I started up again, delving under her skirt, reaching the tops of her stockings. I had not imagined it, she wore thigh-highs. The contact with her bare skin was electric. I moved higher. The swelling curve of her ass met my hand, her skin still bare.
She laughed throatily, “I took my panties off in the ladies room when you came in. There was no way you were getting away from me tonight,” she whispered huskily and she drew me up to kiss.
I cupped her ass in one hand as I slid my other from her breast, down her tight belly and over her skirt to burrow beneath. My hand met coarse hair as I found her pubis. Her legs opened for me and I ventured beneath. Her skin was slick with dew. I slid my finger along the outside of her moist slit, feeling the lips part as I pressed into her folds. Her legs opened wider. Her hand fumbled at my pants, her coordination off. With much effort she freed my stiff cock from my trousers as I stroked her wetness. She caressed me, lightly, somewhat jerkily as I found her clit.
Her button was a palpable point, stiff and hard. I lightly stroked the hood.
“Ohhhh,” she moaned into my mouth, grabbing tightly to my cock. “Ohhhh Godddd!”
Her moisture flowed over my hand as she pulled me close. Her eyes screwed tightly shut and she gasped again and again, “Hnnnn hnnnn hnnnn!”
I stroked her until abruptly she pushed my hand away, “No, enough!” she gasped, breathless.
She covered my face with kisses, murmuring inanities through the largest smile. I’m sure mine matched hers, I was deliriously happy.
She pulled back and looked at me with a naughty smile. “Take off your pants.” she ordered.
I pushed them the rest of the way down and stepped out as she went over to her purse and took out a small foil packet.
“I told you I was ready for this,” she said with that crooked smile of hers.
She tore open the package and took out the rubber. Grabbing my cock with both hands, she unrolled the condom over my painfully hard tool. She pumped up the barber’s chair with her foot until it was a waist height.
Sitting down in the chair, she leaned back and in a small voice said, “Make love to me.”
I needed no urging, standing between her open legs, I lifted her skirt and positioned myself at her entrance. Her dark triangle of tangled hair stood out in sharp contrast to her pale skin. Her lips pink, damp, engorged. My cock nestled between them. She slid forward in the chair. I had to get on tiptoes a little bit, but I managed. I slid into her tightness with a groan.
“Ohhh,” she sighed, closing her eyes.
I stood there for a moment, enjoying the sensation of her warmth, of her tightness and then slowly began to stroke into her. The positioning was perfect, the chair allowed my pubis to press against her clit as we fucked. She held me tightly, her jaw clenched.
“Mmmm, mmmmm, mmmmm, mmmm,” she moaned in time to my thrusts, her cadence rising as I thrust faster. “Ohh, ohh, ummm, ummm, ohhhhh, ohhhhhhh, Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!” she howled clenching my back and wrapping her legs around me.
“Ohhhhhhhh!” her cunt gripped my cock as it spasmed, making an almost audible sucking sound as she came. My dick swelled as her uninhibited vocalizations excited me beyond control. I love screamers.
“Unnnnnnnn!” I groaned, spurting my seed into the rubber as I buried my face in her fragrant hair. “Unnnnggghhhhh!” spending myself. “Oh God!”
We kissed and held each other. Whispered promises, plans. After a bit we dressed. Tracy fixed the mess she had made of my hair after she had straightened her own tresses.
“Let’s skip dinner,” she suggested. “Come to my place and I’ll make you breakfast.”
What can I say? She makes a hell of an omelet.