How I Lost 100 Dollars

The hairstylist moves her fingers through my hair. My head hangs over a basin as I lie on a shampoo bed. Her fingertips untangle my hair and guide water down my head. So strange that a simple head massage wrings all the office stress out of the body. It has been ages since I went to another salon. Many a time, I have closed my eyes here and drifted toward indecorous thoughts.

I checked this place out due to its stringent female-stylist policy, but, I found myself amazed by the service too, and have been a loyal customer. The staff here enjoys going the extra mile.

My back relaxes. The stylist closes the tap and water streams down my hair. I tilt my head back. She puts a tiny tube on the table and rubs her hands, releasing a floral fragrance.

She has plain and professional attire. Her hair was tied into a neat ponytail and she wore a simple white T-shirt. Eyeliner and lipgloss adorn her face. A lather builds up in her hands. Our eyes meet, and I fluster and close mine.

She whispers, "I hope you are enjoying my service," her lips a hairbreadth away.

"Yeah," I stammer. Thank god I have an apron on. My shorts feel tighter. I pray she doesn't notice it.

She circles and zigzags her fingertips and spreads the lather on my head. It makes a frothing sound as she varies her pace. It takes me 2-3 minutes to calm down. I focus on the salon jazz.

"Are you enjoying the massage?" She startles me. Why does she whisper? "I am going to apply the conditioner now."

Can I lose control and spurt out? It has never happened before. We may find out today.

I'll rot in prison. I need her to stop.

"Hey" I utter, straining my neck up from the basin. She gets close, her top button undone. "You need something?" Her T-shirt squishes her breasts.

"Is it necessary to apply conditioner?" I can't unsee that.

"It will improve the haircut, and, you get my free massage." My cock is a mallet now.

Should I be enjoying this? Isn't she being a proper professional? I conjure unsexy situations in my head. The boss paying her less bonus. Her returning home tired after her shift. Her taking care of her sick child.

No help.

She turns the tap and water streams through my hair, draining all the lather. Why do her hands feel so forbidden? As her fingertips graze my head, palpitations extend from my groin to my head and toes.

She leans close, "I hope you are not enjoying this too much." I raise my head. "It has been like that for some time." My bulge protruded outwards - visible through the apron. Horrible. I immediately peel the apron off my shorts.

"I am so sorry, please don't complain." Did they put something in my tea? This has never happened before. She had a half smile on her face.

"A few people I wash end up this way," she whispers. "There's a way we can capitalize on this situation." She takes a pamphlet out.

"You see, I am obliged to report all such, misconducts," she continues, "but if you buy me a Swedish massage..."

It's 50 dollars. "Done," I say.

Her professional attire, her well-proportioned body, her neat and lovely face, everything stiffens my bulge. Her consent makes me euphoric.

"Now that you are paying for it...." She switches pressure in her hands and rubs my neck and shoulders. The jiggery-pokery of her magic fingers slackens my body and rouses my cock.

"Get ready for my thunder fingers." She scatters her fingers on my neck and head and presses them. "They do in a minute what a masseuse does in 90."

A suffocating pain fills me up. My eyebrows contort and my face flushes red. A bittersweet jolt of tranquility fills my head and chest. I am possessed. A tiny dalliance with the hair salon turns psychedelic. I expected to enjoy a boner and a massage, but my libido takes over. I need to ejaculate. I won't survive without it. She unlocked some chakra, and her rubs titillate my being.

"I see you have relaxed. I hope you enjoyed the session," she moves to a drawer and pulls a pair of scissors out. Is it over?

"No, Keep going." I groan.

"You'll get late, I should proceed to the haircut now." I don't know how, I need her magic fingers on my scalp. She notices. "Do you really need me to massage your head?"

"Oh, Yes."

"How bad do you need it?"

"Very bad, very very bad." I don't care why I said that.

"I have already applied shampoo and conditioner to your hair."

"Do it again."

"I know exactly... what you need... and you won't get it... for free."

She straightens my seat. I see her in the mirror in front of me. She takes out a bottle of oil, and pours 2-3 drops on her hands. "Add lemongrass aromatherapy to the tip." She points to the pamphlet. It's another 50 dollars. As if it matters.

She spreads the oil on her palms and claws her sharp fingernails into my hair. It makes me twitch and turn.

"I know you are enjoying" she whispers, "but don't moan if you..." My pelvis jolts irregularly.

"This close are we?" she says and flutters her fingers. The aroma of the oil fills the air. It feels risky, but I stare at her. The oil glistens her nail polish. She moves her soft fragrant hands and presses my earlobes. Her breasts squeeze against the chair and her glossy lips erupt in a coy smile. She leans close to my face and pinches my earlobes.

My thrusts intensify. She shushes in my ear and slithers her fingers onto my lips. I hold my breath as I reach the point of no return, and ejaculate. I leak for a minute at least. My shorts get moist and my sac feels warm. "Did you get your tip's worth?" she asks.

I feel like the king of the universe, ecstatic, grateful to her. A tear or two escape my eyes. "Thanks for today," I hand a 100-dollar bill to her. This is one of the happiest memories of my life.

"We still have your haircut."