Hometown Girl

The men recognized the model posing nude in the magazine, though some did try to believe the model was simply someone with similar features. But these men (four of them) gathered in the barbershop and huddled over the magazine, had no choice but mentally grasp acceptance that the girl in the centerfold was one they all knew so well. Now they knew at least one of the things she got up to when she was away those six or eight months in the big city. Or maybe they didn't know her as well as they thought. Whatever any of the given men might think or feel, they equally shared inability to unfix their gazes from the glossy magazine pictures.

Cindy was her name and Cindy enjoyed universal reputation as the type of girl whose blood ran rich with what could be called a wholesome pleasantry. Represented and flouted with a virginal smile, the quintessence of cheerful yet modest values. She was even blessed with almost storybook hair flowing like honeyed butter down and past her shoulders; eyes somewhere between hazel and the light blue of a seashore making love with bright sunlight.

Whenever and wherever she passed by, whether walking, jogging, or riding her ten speed bicycle, it was as though she handed out free gifts of pure sunshine with a happy wave or hello, and knowing no prejudice; men, women, young, not-so-young, all were equally deserving of a pleasant acknowledgment. Senior citizens tending rosebush or relaxing on veranda, fan in hand, were happy to return those sunny waves and hellos. She was quick to express sympathy for homeless persons and pity for abandoned puppies and kitties.

So first impressions had to be disbelief that this girl in the magazine, pretty as she was, could not be Cindy as they knew. Sure she was all grown up now, after turning eighteen not long before she went to the big city. But seek avoidance of truth as they may, there was no way to pretend ignorance. Yes, this was the sweet, charity-hearted Cindy they knew.

The ultimate, unavoidable giveaway was that subliminally wicked thread in her eyebrows that only those who knew her would understand, though wicked or evil was the very last place anyone would put her; nor were the words Wicked or Evil the words they would settle on; even after seeing her in this magazine, they could not agree to those words: wicked or evil. They may labor a day away searching for the better word, except they really had better things to do. If words were elusive, they were closer to recognizing a concept of dominance waiting for the right time and place to come forth.

Nonetheless, these men riveted to the magazine were far too flabbergasted to know what they felt about her. Yes they knew she lately returned to town and behaved no different than before. She still waved a happy hand and sang sunny greetings as she passed. She would probably still volunteer her help for the weekly VFW potluck.

As to the actual details - mostly the same theme shot from varied angles - she was in recline on a bed, plush baby blue blanket pulled back to allow equal respect to the mint white sheets. She wore lace the color of late autumn peach on her feet, and the rest of her, after her ankles, was pure and proud nakedness.

A pile of pillows framed her head and face which most any who knew her and believed in angels would be inclined to agree that it would be hard to find another coming as close to what could be imagined as the prettiest angel to grace the realm of angels. The rest of the image was what some who claimed this town as their place of nativity would politely call somewhat less than angelic. Or perhaps forced to reevaluate concepts of just what goes on in some angelic neighborhoods.

Of course her bare breasts, young, pure, perfect, topped with dainty red gumdrops, added in a freshness much the way her face added. These men in the barbershop may also admit their idea of freshness was expanded when they studied the way her opened legs revealed to any eye that would care to glance, all of her, nothing left to speculation. Yep, that was a pretty pink pussy, no question. And that was pussy wetness. Yes it was.

And shocking as the sight was to the men who gathered round the magazine, just because of who the model happened to be, none of them could say that what they saw was downright ungainly. After all, she was one of them. They had to agree that what they saw there was the prettiest pink ever to grace a magazine page.

Oh but there was more: whoever would insist Cindy might really be genuinely angelic, would now have to understand that this angel was no longer virginal to knowledge of a phallic object filling her anus. It gleamed a bright purple that might be likened to a grape-flavored candy. The photographer had done an excellent job capturing the glint at insertion point.

Those who may have let their eyes and lusts look at such imagery in other times and contexts but grew jaded because of the inherent fakery, would be mightily surprised in a most repentant way, because no fakery existed in this graphic presentation. A little touching up the colors and lighting set up by professional photographers who specialized in this sort of imagery, yes, that was inferred, understood.

But that look on her face that they knew so well, because they remembered giving her birthday and Christmas presents and knew that look of appreciative contentment and gladness, and in this picture she definitely wore that same look that could never be faked.

It was a surrender to the moment, whatever or whoever suggested she try this, to pose this way, to feel this simulated phallic object inside her tight anal portal. Did she not realize that strangers, dirty-minded men, would stroke their cocks, until raining splats of cum on that glossy-printed face? Whether she did or did not know this, nothing could change the truth that this face in the magazine exuded a kind of watery-eyed joy that flushed her face, shaped her lips to part just the right tantalizing place, eyes dreamily half-closed.

If that simulated phallic object could somehow come to life, it would certainly express its sentiments that easily married those of she whose flowery sphincter hugged it as it snuggled within those walls, and all those dancing cooing nerve-endings.

"Hi guys!"

Her head poked into the doorway of the barbershop, and the men who gathered around looking at her images tried to act as if they were just talking about Wall Street or the latest baseball scores.

Then she was gone. She was riding her ten-speed, the day was hot, and the shortest of shorts barely covered what was explicitly exposed in the magazine.

All of the men in the barbershop tried not to embarrass each other because they knew they all felt the same mixed feelings.

The barber stammered, "Look fellas, I think I'm gonna have to close early today."

"Yeah that's fine, John, I should run on to the house, myself."

And they all departed the shop, walking with decidedly forward posture, each grabbing a random magazine they tried to cover the front of their pants with, yet there was no need to hide anything because they would all understand.

John the barber reversed the sign in the door, announcing the shop was closed, pulled down the blind. He went to pick up the magazine and sat in one of his barber chairs.

"Cindy, what is this all about?"

He wanted to look on all this as the detached philosopher but the way the crotch of his pants quickly filled with his hardening cock, a philosophical view of the magazine pictures and the realization that he knew who this model was, that he knew a lot more about her now, was quite unrealistic. Already he had unconsciously undid the top snap of his pants; now pushing the zipper down, cock freer to push murderously against his white cotton briefs, demanding freedom and warm-handed strokes.

He looked at the picture; kept bouncing back and forth between the shine of her pouting pussy, which was not shaven clean but showed just the touch of a deep almost reddish golden triangle. Her hands resting against her inner thighs, pink fingernails, and that phallus plugged so firmly into her anal lips, the observer left in the dark as to how big it really was, seeing only the last few inches. Then back to her face, the distant authentic contentment, head and her hair surrounded by large soft pillows.

His hand was now rubbing his cock through his underwear, the precum drool creating a sticky slick spot that grew as he rubbed himself. He lifted the waistband and the drooling head poked out, assuming a resting place against his stomach.

"Oh god, what am I doing?" he tried closing his eyes to the image and to force his free hand to grip the armrest. This did not succeed very well. He pushed the waistband down and the flat sweaty palm of his bare hand pressed lengthwise against his cock. When his hand moved up, it brushed against his head and precum clung to his hand.

His eyes squeezed together, but even though he was not looking at the pictures in the magazine, he saw her as she was just moments ago, her smiling face appearing at the door, her sweet voice, then watching her put her ass on that narrow bicycle seat, those short pants that only covered what was legally necessary, those long legs.

He knew he was now almost too far gone to turn back. Reached behind and took a clean white towel from the counter, draping it over his leg, covering part of the magazine, so that when he looked down all he saw was that translucent phallus evoking the sweetness of a grape-flavored candy filling those anal lips, that pink glinting pussy, and now his hand was full around his cock, jerking, stroking, rubbing; creating a rhythmic squeak harmoniously percussive with the mechanical whir of the ceiling fan. Exerting admirable effort, he pulled his hand off, cock protesting with twitches; should he touch once more, only a touch, well he would be looking at a big creamy cummy mess.

"I can't be doing this. Not while looking at... the sweet daughter of my friendly neighbors. This I am doing... stop, stop, must... so wrong."

His saliva-shiny lips hung open, head pressed back against the barbershop headrest; eyes pressed shut, forefinger pad daring to return to just touching; a stream of cream meeting, kissing, his finger. He could momentarily believe he was twenty years old again, returned to the days of eternal sexual energies. His hand hesitated, shaking. Not knowing whether to grab his cock and pull it to explosion just to get it over with or to hold back. He still had time to turn back. Or so he might try to say. But really he did not.

Just then there was a rap on the glass window of the barbershop door.

"Oh thank you! Somebody thank you!"

He hurried to pull his pants back, zipping, tucking his shirt, catching his breath, realizing his head was beaded with sweat, that he smelled like sweat. He thoughtlessly threw the magazine back on the low table with the rest.

His cock softened quickly but it was still quite aware. It punished him by dripping a full stream of sticky cream, forcing him to feel the thorough wetness of the front of his briefs; no time to examine the suspicion that the precum was profuse enough to create a dark spot in his pants, not so big, maybe half a dime, but plenty vivid enough.

The knock came again, a little louder and faster.

He went to the blind and peeked out. Cindy. Of course it had to be Cindy.

John could no way play as though he was not there because when he pulled back the blind, she saw him and he saw her and after all, his car was parked out against the curb. And everyone would recognize barber John's car.

He opened the door and let her in.

The day was hot and she wore a tight t-shirt and it was obvious there was nothing else, those nipples John now associated with strawberry gumdrops, fully accentuated behind her shirt, especially once she stepped into the barber shop which a workhorse ceiling fan kept adequately cool. He tried not to understand her open sleeves almost up to her shoulders clearly exposed the under region of her arms. And he tried not to realize her scent, a provocative combo from riding her bicycle in the hot sunshine and an underlying aura that is naturally and potently feminine.

She said, "You're closed? So early? But you were just..." a quizzical frown was enough to express the intended meaning.

"Uh, yeah, I had to catch up on bookwork and it was slow..."

"Do you want me to leave?" That angelic arch of her eyebrows all earnest, the memory of that earnestness being pleasure so fresh, seared into John's mind.

"Leave? Oh no. No. You don't have to leave. Did, did you want something?"

"Hmmm," a shrug, "I was just in a mood today, remembering how I missed riding or walking by here, how I should've stopped in just to say Hi a lot more than I did. Maybe I just got used to knowing you as a neighbor. Today when I rode my bike past your shop I remembered that you're the one who taught me to ride a bike after all. Remember?"

That sweet angel's smile John knew so well, yet taking on new meaning just now.

"And I always wanted to tell you how I love that cone or whatever it is -- that you see outside barbershops. It always reminds me of a big candy cane. You remember how I love candy canes. And the smells in this place." She inhaled deeply. "Hmmm. The aftershave. The smell of men. Real men. Not boys."

"Candy canes. Aftershave, uh, right. Say, I'm really sorry but that bookwork..."

"Oh!" Her eyes fixed past him. "My pictures!"

She rushed to the magazine, that in his haste he'd left open so the photographic image of this same face in the barbershop looked up towards the ceiling fan. Fetching up the magazine, a dreamy smile of remembrance swam across her face, then she turned that dreamy smile directly to John, who wished he'd had time to explain or try to explain something.

"Did you like my pictures?"

"Uh, uh, that thing, I don't know who... no return address, we, I thought it..."

"C'mon John, you don't know I sent it to you? But just tell me. Did you like my pictures?"

He had to turn away but he could not, as her floating footsteps dramatically narrowed the space between. Those dreamy smiling eyes glanced to the white towel bunched on the seat, and she looked back at John, daring him to look her in the eyes. Closer she approached, gaze dropping to his waist then back to his face. Now he realized those suspicions were accurate, about the drooling cum leakage through his pants. Dare not wonder how explicit that spot must be (by now it was easily in the dime territory).

He turned away and knees buckling from sudden weakness, fell into the wide empty sofa. Put his hands up as though half-surrender and half beseeching she come no closer. His eyes closed in attempt to escape the immediate reality; face parallel to the floor and he again felt his hard cock growing and filling his tight briefs.

He felt her finger touch his hair and he smelled her perfumed presence; her natural warmth was like a baptism of love. Opened his eyes to those long bared legs. Those tight short shorts... Her finger ran over his ears, sending shivers of ecstasy racing through his soul.

"Just tell me if you liked my pictures. I know you did. But just tell me."

"I suppose so. I wasn't expecting..."

"John, John John John." She moved closer, so if he lifted his head he would look straight at her full breasts, tight t-shirt just high enough to expose her bellybutton; bare toasty legs tempting him to touch; could smell her scent, with the crotch of her short shorts inches from his face, and he could almost count the fine hairs that decorated her thighs.

"John?" She drew the question out, "Your wife. Caroline. Oh she's a sweet lady. I like her. But... John? When's the last time Caroline sucked your cock?"

"Hey that's a little pers--."

"Just tell me, John. Last week? Last night? This morning?"

He shook his head each time.

She descended to the point of setting her face level with his; gently directed with a soft touch to his chin that he please look into those loving, charitable, eyes.

"John? I'll suck your cock. I'll do it right here right now if you want. Do you want me to? Suck your cock? Want me?"

"Cindy, Cindy please. I appreciate your... but this... This feels--"

"That is not an answer to my question, John." Each word she now spoke was a whisper from lips brushing his lips. "John? Would you like me to suck your beautiful cock? Right here. Right now. Yes or no."

Reached fingers beneath the lowest buttons of his shirt, sliding behind the front of his pants and he started to stop her hand, but she took it in hers, bringing to her lips, kissing the tips of his fingers, sucking on them, touching her tongue on them.

He said, with great difficulty, "this ain't right, this just, this just ain't right."

"Why not, John?" she reached his button and zipper and pulled open the pants, her other hand gently pushing him back.

"Just, just because...oh god."

"Well I think it isn't right that no one is sucking your beautiful cock every single day."

She slid her body against him so he easily reclined, allowing legs easy straddle access. Eyes looking down, hair tickling his face; retrieved his hand and brought it up to her breasts, under her shirt.

"Oh John, your hands, I always loved your hands."

She left alone those hands she loved to touch on their own; bent back towards him, lips again almost touching his lips, fingers touching his cock, his oh-so-hard cock through his white cotton briefs. Her breasts pressed, filled his hands that were pushed back against his chest, caught underneath her tight t-shirt.

"Tell me, John. Do you want me to suck your cock?" Her hand now rubbed harder, slow, but she was still outside. She shifted those angelic touches to his inner thighs, where the skin met the fabric and his eyes closed and he sucked a gulp of air, for a passing moment wondering if he'd not been transported to a land rich with coconut oil.

Her lips went to his ears, kissing, hand now ventured behind the waistband and her warm fingers finally touched the flesh of John's cock; so intense his breath caught as his arm went around her back, pulling her entirety to him, holding tight, succumbing to her breath in his ear, down against his neck, "all you have to do is say yes, John."

He choked out, Yes. Yes, God Yes!

Her lips came around to his face and her tongue sucked his top lip, his lower lip, his chin; her fingers combing through his hair. She moved lower and she moved quick, and he lifted his hips so that she could pull his pants down, and she kissed his belly, touched her finger to the tip, rubbing the sticky fluid with her finger as though stirring a yummy dish she couldn't wait to taste.

She knelt between his legs and she put on that pity-filled voice when she saw a lost puppy, "Aw, so beautiful. So precious. And nobody's loved you in so long. Nobody's kissed you. Poor poor John. I'll kiss you." She ran a petting finger along the side; looked up to John's face, catching him staring; put little kisses up and down his cock, wet kisses, running her finger along it.

He let out a harsh staggering groan of bliss when her tongue ran one long stroke from the base to the tip, and her other hand cradled his balls and that haggard cry acted as the turning point of giving himself over to the feeling; tension transforming to a floating tranquility. He put his head back, closed his eyes, swallowed and surrendered to what she knew how to do and do very well.

He let himself moan out in the deepest pleasure when he felt her lips kiss the head of his cock, and slide oh so slow down down down, hearing the wet suction of her lips swallowing him, tongue licking, slurping. Up, down, tight, wet, and that sweetest of hands cupping, massaging, his balls.

When her lips pulled off, wearing his precum like lip gloss, she said with a quiet sincerity without looking up, "I love doing this for you John."