The Full Treatment

When I first met Annie, six years ago, she was 24 and I was 33. I had just moved, and I needed to find a new hairdresser. I went to one of the local chain salons that cater to men, and Annie happened to be in the front when I walked in.

She was a little slip of a thing, about 5' 4" and 110 pounds. Small and slender, but she looked willowy and strong, not frail or skinny. Her hair was a color between auburn and chestnut, and she had it short and straight. Her face was strikingly pretty, her eyes an unusual dark green, her lips full and generous, her skin creamy and flawless.

She gave me a shy, sweet smile as she asked my name and told me hers, and I knew she was going to take care of me herself rather than handing me off to one of the others. I sat down to wait for her.

At the time, I was very happily married. I had no designs on the girl, but still, I was glad she was so pretty. I was glad that she seemed to find me likable, and I was hoping she would turn out to have the other qualities I look for in a hairdresser. Most important, of course, is her skill at her craft. Vanity, thy name is man, when it comes to hair, and I am no exception.

I have always had a special relationship with the women who cut my hair. When I find a good one, I stay with her.

I went to barbers when I was a boy, and at times when I was in the military and had little choice. Other than that, I have always chosen women. I have three reasons for that.

For one thing, I never cared about how I looked to other men. I wanted to look good to women, and I thought women would be better able to help with that.

Also, I learned early on that I really enjoyed the experience of getting my hair shampooed by a woman, especially an attractive woman. It's a strange thing. It is undeniably sensual, and yet there is an unspoken agreement that both parties will pretend it isn't, even if the one in the chair might occasionally moan quietly.

Obviously, I was not alone in my appreciation, as I saw more than one large chain of salons emerge leaning toward male clientele and offering options to extend and enhance the shampooing process, a marketing tactic that worked very well on me.

Finally, I just prefer the company of female hairdressers. I have close male friends, but I've never developed a warm personal relationship with a male barber. There is a different dynamic, at least for me. With women I have almost always had and enjoyed that undercurrent of attraction and flirtation. It is a light-hearted flirtation, usually with no intent on either side to take it any further.

Instead, we develop a strange friendship - it stays within the bubble of my visits every six weeks, but in that bubble, we become quite close. She shares little snapshots of her life with me, as I do with her. We talk about anything and everything; we can gossip about nonsense, but we can talk about serious things too. We know about and care about each other's lives, and we share very personal information because it is such a supportive and judgment-free relationship.

I do like the company of women in general, and women tend to like my company too. Some of that is luck. I am apparently pretty easy on the eyes. I still have a full head of thick hair, and although it started graying in my late twenties, Annie tells me that my shade of gray is very popular as a hair color choice for men. I am a size and shape that appeals to a lot of women, six feet and about 190 pounds, with broad shoulders and a relatively narrow waist.

I think it is also because I respect women, and I listen to them. I give their words and thoughts the same weight and credibility that I would if they came from a man. I recognize and admire character traits like strength and intelligence in women. It's not much, really, but the attitude is uncommon, and it's appreciated.

Annie prepped her station and then called my name. She asked me if I just wanted a haircut, and I said, "No, I'd like the full treatment, please."

"The full treatment?"

"I'm not sure what you call it here; the cut, the shampoo, the essential oils, the hot towel - the full treatment."

That sweet little smile again. I entered my info on a tablet on the counter, and in the comment section, she entered, "The Full Treatment."

Annie gave me a great haircut that day, and it was a joy talking to her. She was bright and sweet and funny and friendly. When she gave me the shampoo-massage treatment, her touch was magical. She could sense exactly what felt best to me. She took her time, and seemed to be enjoying herself, too. It didn't hurt that when I looked up, I saw that pretty face smiling at me. I was amazed at my luck finding her on my first attempt.

When we were done, she offered to write her name on a card for me so I could ask for her the next time, and I had to laugh. "Oh, I'm not going to forget you, Annie." She gave me that smile again and let me know the best days to catch her on shift.

In time I learned more about her. Despite her youth, she had proven herself to be reliable, competent, and smart as a whip, and she was already running the shop's operations when she was there.

She seemed to enjoy our visits nearly as much as I did. Soon she moved my regular spot to the end of her workday; usually we were alone in the shop. She told me matter-of-factly that she didn't like to have anyone waiting during my appointments. Our time together was warm and affectionate and casually flirty, but platonic. Some lines were never crossed or even approached.

She was married also; we had each been married a little over a year when we met. She seemed reasonably happy in her marriage, but I didn't sense that she had the kind of deep satisfaction I had in mine.

Two years later, both couples were just starting to try for a child. My wife got pregnant almost right away, but Annie didn't. Still, her joy for me was undimmed. I never saw nor felt a hint of jealousy or resentment from her, although her own growing frustration was clear, and a little bit of persistent sadness started to show in her eyes as the months went by.

Almost eight months went by, and then disaster struck. My wife was hit head-on by a drunk driver. She and the baby and the other driver were killed instantly, I was told. I went through a very dark time then, and Annie remained as one of very few flickers of light in my life. I didn't get therapy, although I should have. I thought I would just "tough it out." But really, Annie was my therapist. One session every six weeks. She was gentle and supportive and compassionate, and I could say things to her I couldn't say to anyone else.

It must have been the third or fourth visit after the crash when we were alone in the shop one evening, and I finally broke down and grieved in a way that I hadn't been able to do until then. Annie held my hand and gently patted and rubbed my back, murmuring words I couldn't really make out, until my sobs finally weakened and ran out from sheer exhaustion. It was a turning point for me; I started slowly learning to enjoy life again after that day.

In the months that followed, I had my chance to return the favor somewhat. The failure to conceive put more and more stress on her marriage. They both got tested, and the only issue found was his slightly low sperm count. They were told to keep trying; their odds were a little worse than usual, but with time they should be able to succeed.

But time went on and they didn't succeed. She told me that it made him feel inadequate and feeling inadequate made him bitter and spiteful. She struggled with that, but she still wanted to make it work - she still believed that marriage should be forever. I didn't give her advice; that was not what she wanted. She wanted support and empathy and encouragement, so that's what I gave her.

One day, about a year and a half ago, I came in to find her uncharacteristically silent and withdrawn. Red-rimmed eyes told me she had been crying. I asked her if she wanted to talk; she shook her head and worked in silence for a while. Then the scissors stopped, and she stared at me in the mirror for a few long moments and finally spoke. "I fucked up so bad."

"What happened?"

"I've been lying to Bill about something for years, and he found out."

She stared at me again, and then took a deep breath before she spoke in a sudden rush. "I don't have orgasms from intercourse. I never did. I enjoy it, I love it, but I just don't cum that way. I tried to tell him the truth - it wasn't him. But he needed it so much; it made him feel like less of a man. So, I started faking it. Not every time, but enough that he felt better."

"It was a trap, though. I couldn't stop once I started, and it turned sex into a chore. Also, I couldn't let him see the real thing, or he would know right away, so that was the end of trying to get him involved in my actual orgasms. He's never seen one - until yesterday. I was careless. He came home early and walked in on me at exactly the wrong moment."

"He was already so sensitive because we can't get pregnant; this made him furious. I tried to tell him that it's just a different kind of orgasm - but I think he knows. I was so stupid to ever start." She started to cry. "I just want to make it like it was."

I stood up and put my arms around her gently, and her body shook as she wept for a while. Finally, she sniffled and pulled away. She made a brave face at me. "Come on, we can't leave your hair like that!" She finished the cut and took me to the wash station. Before she finished, she had brightened a little. Her look changed to one of resolve and I knew she was steeling herself again to find a way to make it work, whatever that might take.

Six weeks later, I came in to find her looking very serious and a little nervous. She cut my hair more slowly than usual, and she didn't say anything. When she brought me back to the sink, it was past closing time. She went and locked the door, and then came back and started to shampoo me. This she also did very slowly and without a word. She dried my hair and rubbed in the treatment; as always, she worked it into my neck and shoulders. But this time, she didn't stop there. Her hands continued under my shirt, down my chest; when she found my nipples, hard as little pebbles, she moved her palms in slow circles on them, and then pinched them gently. Her lips were right next to my ear, and she whispered, "Will you help me, Frank?"

I knew I should have said no. I knew what she was thinking, and it was madness. But I was helpless to resist her. "Anything," I said, my voice sounding husky and cracked, and I meant it, too. Anything.

She walked around in front of me. She was wearing a little white sundress and sneakers. She reached down and undid the laces and stepped out of the sneakers. Then she reached up and pulled the spaghetti straps off one shoulder, then the other. The dress dropped to the floor, followed by her simple white cotton panties. She stepped forward, and she was right in front of me, totally naked.

She turned completely around, slowly, once, as if offering herself for inspection, as if there were some possibility that she would be rejected. There was none. I remembered clearly the first time I had seen her, years before. She was wearing her hair longer now and it had a bit of a wave to it, but the color was the same. She was still slender as a reed, all slim strong lines punctuated by sudden soft curves. Her breasts were B-cups, small, but firm and round, her upward-tilted nipples like little pink pencil erasers, areolas almost invisible. Her ass was the shape of an inverted heart; each round cheek looked just the right size to fit in one of my hands.

When she was facing fully away from me, she arched her back slightly and I could clearly see the perfect little peach of her sex through the gap between her thighs, with its tiny cleft glistening. She completed her turn and looked into my eyes quickly, as if to confirm my approval. I don't know what she saw exactly, but she blushed a little and smiled for the first time as she looked away again. She wouldn't meet my eyes for more than a moment.

She reached out and held my hands, pulling me gently to my feet. She pulled off the barber cloth, then my t-shirt. She leaned against me and again whispered in my ear. "I need a baby, Frank. Give me a baby."

She went to her knees in front of me to pull down my shorts and underwear. My cock sprang out, fully erect, and bounced off her face. She laughed, and then she did look up at me, her eyes a little wide, as she reached to grab it with both hands. "Oh," she said, "It's big. It's big." She realized I was gazing into her eyes, and she looked away again, staring at my cock as she stroked it.

She stood up, and she carefully guided me back into the chair. She gently put my hands down to my sides and held them there for a few moments. Another quick glance - she was telling me not to use them, and I gave her a tiny nod to show I understood.

She stepped forward and straddled me. She grabbed my cock and placed the tip against the tiny opening of her pussy. She was wet. Steamy. She looked me in the eyes again for a long moment. "I need you to cum in me."

I shook my head. "I don't cum this way. I have to be on top."

She gave me a strange look and a little half-smile. "Let's start this way," she said, "And then we'll figure it out."

With that, she started slowly feeding my cock to her pussy. As she took me in, we both groaned in deep satisfaction. She started riding me with long slow strokes. I understood very quickly what her enigmatic look and smile had meant. I'd told her the truth - I'd always needed to be on top to cum. I needed to go hard and deep, I needed to be in control.

But Annie was different. Her pretty little pussy was insanely tight and deep and hot and wet and hungry. She gripped and squeezed and milked my cock with miraculous sensitivity and skill. I knew I would cum in her; it was only a matter of time. I would cum in her floating upside down on the space station, under water, in any position, anywhere.

It wouldn't go as quickly as she thought it would, though. I was determined to make it last. I let her ride me and resisted the urge to meet her strokes. She leaned forward and put her arms around me. Her breasts pressed against me, and her stiff little nipples dragged against my skin. She was panting, moaning, whimpering. I gripped the sides of the chair hard to keep from reaching for her as I wanted to do. After a while, her rhythm got faster, and her moans grew louder and more intense. She leaned back and looked at me - her expression behind the lust and pleasure was quizzical, a little confused.

I raised my hands and looked a question at her. She took them and put them on her hips. I held on, and I started to fuck back up at her, matching her rhythm in reverse. She leaned back a little. Her eyes focused intently on mine, and her breath was coming in squeaky gasps. "It's deep. Ohhh Frank, it's so deep. It's so good. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fill me up."

"Yes, baby," I told her, "Tonight you get the full treatment."

Her face was beautifully contorted with pleasure so intense it looked like pain, and then suddenly her expression cleared. She shook her head and gave me a sad little smile. "No," she said softly, "Oh, no, no. I don't cum like this. I never cum like this."

I answered through gritted teeth, "Neither do I."

I felt myself pass the tipping point, and I gave her three or four savagely deep thrusts before the explosion. Each one drew a high-pitched little squeal from her, and then her eyes and mouth went wide and round in shock and ecstasy. I groaned and grunted like an animal as spurt after spurt of cum erupted into her. A growly scream escaped from her throat, and I suddenly got to see why her orgasms are impossible to fake.

Her body went rigid, and her legs started to tremble uncontrollably. A series of larger spasms rocked her whole body. A pink flush appeared on her upper chest and quickly spread up over her shoulders and neck and face, deepening until it was almost red. Her eyes fluttered and rolled back, and then locked on to mine again. "I'm cumming," she whispered, then louder and louder, "I'm cumming, I'm cumming, I'm cumming!!! Ohhhhhhhhhh, ohhhh my God, Frank! Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK! AH! Cummmmmiiing! Mmmmmmmgggghhgoddd, ahhghnnnn, hnh, hnh, huh, huh, huh, huh..."

She collapsed against me, and I wrapped my arms around her and held her as her body went limp and her heaving breath slowly grew quieter, and the pink flush gradually faded. Her cheek was against my chest, so I couldn't see her face. She spoke softly, almost a whisper. "I've never had the full treatment before. I can see why you always want it."

"The full treatment takes time," I said. "You don't make that easy."

She giggled. "Yeah. I think the donkey dick helped too."

I slipped out of her, and the moment passed. She got up then and pulled her panties and dress on. She went to the back room and came back with her purse. She was back to avoiding my eyes. I got dressed.

"That was... Fuck, Frank. It wasn't supposed to be like that," she said. "It was supposed to be quick. It was supposed to be - clinical." She held up a slip of paper. "I wrote some dates down for you, if you can come in. Until I have a positive test. Will these days be okay?"

"Yes," I said, as I put the paper in my pocket without looking at it. She gave me a small smile. I walked her out to her car and watched her pull away.

She had shortened my haircut interval from six weeks to four, to match her cycle. Four weeks felt like forever.

When I arrived for my next visit, she was wearing the white sundress again. It was almost a replay of the first time. The treatment, the little spin, the wild ride until we came together. It wasn't exactly the same, though. At the start, instead of placing my hands to the sides, she guided them to her breasts - an invitation instead of a limitation. I saw that as progress, and I gently squeezed and pinched and fondled and flicked, carefully dialing up the pressure until her reactions told me it was exactly right. My hands caressed her all over as we fucked, until it was time to hold on for the finish.

Even better, she met my eyes more often and didn't look away as quickly. When we finished, she stayed longer in my arms afterwards. I wanted to kiss her, and I knew she wanted to kiss me, but she wouldn't. She carefully kept her mouth a safe distance from mine, as if she sensed that our lips were magnetized, and if they got too close, they would snap together and lock.

On the third visit, the ritual dress was on again. This time, after her spin, she went to the back and emerged with a thick, heavy quilt, and she laid it on the floor. I stripped, and she reached her hand out and drew me down beside her. Her face was dangerously close to mine. She reached down to fondle and squeeze and slowly jack my stiff prick. She didn't look away. I rolled over and settled my weight between her open legs. I rubbed my cock up and down against her dripping slit, sawing on her clit with each stroke; she whimpered and moaned.

When she was sure I was about to enter her, I slid down instead, kissing her neck, her breasts, her belly. Fittingly for her pretty peach of a pussy, the chestnut-auburn hair there was fine and short and soft. I looked up at her. She was biting her lip, a worried expression on her face. I leaned in, but she reached down and grabbed a handful of my hair. She pulled me away and I looked at her again. I told her with my eyes how badly I wanted this, and I saw her relent, and then surrender.

She pulled my head back down between her thighs and I ran my tongue up her sweet little slit and brushed against her clit lightly. She shivered and gave a long, low moan. "Oh my God, Annie," I said, "You even taste like a peach!" She kept her hand on my head, sometimes caressing, sometimes pulling me harder against her, sometimes pushing me away to prolong her pleasure.