Iris Jinger-Santos

Authors Note:

This concoction of words was inspired by a powerfully sexy photo spread I viewed of a certain dark haired, dark skinned model named Iris Jinger-Santos. I know almost nothing about her...but I have seen her nipples and that's all I needed to slam out this story.

*

She had a body to kill yourself over: tall and lean, tight ass and large, fun looking natural breasts.

"A little off the top then?" Her smile was an explosion of white under the softness of her glossy lips.

I looked at myself in the mirror and instantly grew depressed. Unshaven beyond sexy, hair thick as weeds and curly in the way I hate. The color was bleached out and wispy along the bangs. I was a travesty of hair care and an insult to the salon I was sitting in.

I was an oasis of ugliness in a desert of chocolate and cream tiles, vibrant potted plants with their permanently blooming flowers and a soft breeze of soothing house beats and the soft lights. Everywhere there was soothing colors, whether in the plants, the puffy red leather seats or the rows upon rows of hair care bottles, the spectrum of which was as varied as L.A itself.

"Just a little, yeah," I put a chuckle in my voice and looked away from my personal travesty to the radiant beauty of the woman running her long, warm fingers through my hair, "I'm trying to keep this whole 'ape-man' look."

She chuckled, the soft heave of her breasts luring my eyes like humming birds to sugar water."Did you just come out of the mountains?"

She leaned forward and bent her long, pleasing leg (peaking out of the frilly edge of her pale yellow tea-cup skirt) and stepped on the foot pump to raise me up. She was impressively tall, maybe just a shade below six feet.

"The desert, actually." I broke into a wide smile, amazed at how much my teeth popped out from under the mess of hair hanging from my lip. "Egypt."

She lifted her eye brows, long, slender and styled with a light brushing of dark makeup underneath.

"It must have been a long vacation," her hands slipped a soft cotton slip around my neck and pinned it with a soft pressure from the back, "Was it a good time?"

"Great, it wasn't a vacation though."

"Work?"

"Yeah. I design oil well treatments. I just finished my ten month shift."

Ten months, I though, ten months of blistering sands, terrible food and nothing to do but grow facial hair.

"You've been out of civilization for ten months?"

"Out of civilization, just out of my mind." I affirmed with a sullen nod.

She smiled, softly at first but she caught my eyes in the mirror and her smile grew. It wasn't the kind of smile people who just met give each other, at least not without a couple of drinks. "Are you glad to be back?"

"You have no idea," my relief was plain in my voice.

"Do you have to go back?"

"In six months, yeah. I think I'm going off shore this time though."

"Sounds like even more of a bore, close your eyes."

I shut my lids and let her spray warm water into my mane, after which she gently dabbed my exposed skin with a cloth.

She had a very neat workspace, all her bottles, clippers, scissors and combs lined up in perfect order of use on a red towel. The mirror was large and framed by dozens of tiny soft lights and had a soft archway along the top that was lined with pictures of heads with beautiful hair.

On the left-most corner of the station was a large oak box carved with a row of flowers along the base was also engraved with a name. Iris.

Aside from being tall and intimidating beautiful she was also exotic looking with skin. She wasn't quite brown, wasn't quite olive. She was more of a sun warmed honey blend, with pink glossy lips and large brown eyes that seemed to be incredibly attentive to the task in front of her. I was honored, and given the fact that I hadn't been touched by a woman in ten months, more than a little aroused by her presence.

"Iris?"

"Yeah?" She looked up into the mirror and my eyes; the smile was back on her lips. The cutest set of dimples tugged at the corners of her lips.

"Can you make me look handsome again?"

That made her laugh softly; I could fell her stomach move against my arm as she did so and became painfully aware of how much I missed female contact. "I'll make you a fucking movie star, baby."

She stepped away from me, but mysteriously kept one hand on my shoulder. She was dressed quite poshly in frilly white shirt with a very wide color. One side rested between her long, strong looking neck and shoulder, and the other side fell down almost halfway to her elbow. Depending on how she moved a variable amount of honey sweet cleavage was shown. The fabric was soft and white, which played nicely to contrast her exotic looking skin. In thin black thread a flowery design was stitched along the hem and up the side of the waist, which when she leaned forward rode up her belly and uncovered more of her warm looking skin. I began to wonder why Iris even bothered to wear a top, it was so loose and shifting it barley did its job, unless of course its job was to make me hard.

She picked up a pair of scissors and as she stood back up shrugged her hippy-top until it was off her shoulders and riding midway down her firm looking bust.

"Sorry," she touched her breasts, "I'm sort of out of control today; I think a strap is loose or something."

"You're sure not making this easy on me."

"You haven't been with a woman all this time, then?"

I grunted and shook my head just before she made her first graceful cut. She cooed sympathetically as the hair plummeted lightly down the front of the slip cover. "Do you have a girlfriend waiting for you?"

"No, no girl will stay with me wile I'm away." I said, "It would be different if I was in the army I think."

"At least in the army they give you proper grooming." She placed her hand under my furry jaw and lifted it up. I hadn't even noticed I was bobbing.

I kept my head level and let her snip and comb, snip and comb, all in a steady and rapid rhythm. She was truly a master of her trade. Occasionally she would spin the chair a bit and my vision would be filled with the panoramic vista of her breasts. It seemed as if she wanted me to look at them, as if the sight of my mouth watering and my eyes straining to make out her dark nipples (I imagined they were dark and small like circular dabs of chocolate) underneath the thin and animated fabric. Every few snips I sensed her peeking me as well, quickly darting her large eyes across mine. I imagined that she felt like an archeologist unearthing a treasure that could either turn out to be a petrified piece of shit or a beautiful and priceless relic.

As the hair began to pile up around her feet, catching in the bright white laces of her yellow converse sneakers, she paused for a second to have an assistant sweep it all away. The sad part was she wasn't even half done.

"You're the hairiest man who has ever sat in this chair," she laughed, petting my shoulder in a manner that was more than friendly or professional, "I'm amazed you made it here without being adopted by a mountain bear."

"Very funny," I reached around the cover and scratched at my beard. Without missing a beat Iris reached out and caressed my hand on the way to my chin,

"I can get rid of this to if you like," she promised, "and maybe take down your eye brows a little bit, make you feel fresh again."

"Definitely," I admitted, meeting her gaze and holding it firm with a solidifying smile. While the prospect of being clean shaven was attractive to me it was the fact that I would be spending more time in this chair with Iris' breasts swaying around me that enticed me the most.

As the clipping continued it became more obvious to me that she was smiling more and more, touching me in places other than my head and neck (she once brushed the hair from my chest and thighs with nothing more than a flick of the back of her hand) and at all times kept her shirt shrugged low on her breasts. For my benefit I was now almost completely sure.

"What are you thinking?" She finally asked, the silence (I had been mentally worshiping the curve of her hips and her calves for quite some time)

I didn't even pause, "How very much I'm attracted to you right now."

"Really?" She asked stupidly, a blush raising to her dark cheeks, "Me?"

"Don't act surprised. How could I not? I'm like Robinson Caruso here and you're the temping siren haunting my dreams."

"How poetic," She smiled warmly, "But Caruso didn't dream about women."

"He never met you," I decided to look at her not through the mirror but in a true eye-to-eye mind lock. I was glad I did. With a sultry flash she kissed her finger and pressed it against mine, dragging it softly across the quivering flesh. "There's more for you later, I promise" she then went back to the slow discovery of my face.

I noticed that as the closer she clipped the darker my hair became until it was damn near the color of a great old oak. The sand blond coloring now completely gone I began to realize how pleased she was with what she was uncovering. She repeatedly ran her hand across my scalp, "It's soft," she remarked amazedly, "really soft."

I knew why she was surprised; the desert had killed and hardened the ends of my hair and beard into a crispy toughness that was usually found in scrub brushes and deck brooms.

She finished her styling with a couple off angled snips and a comb that was meant to layer and sex up my appearance.

"How's that look, honey?" She asked, running her hands softly down either side of my head to straiten it.

"A little bottom heavy," I observed. She laughed because it was true. I looked ridiculous with the flowing enormous beard and perfectly subdued hair.

"Let's get that fixed," she stroked my neck, her smile meeting mine. From my vantage point, with her standing strait behind me, her breasts at head level, it looked as if my ears were sprouting great soft melons. The sight made me chuckle, and when she leaned forward, reached to my neck and unclipped the slip-cover I got my first great feel of her breasts along my neck.

She giggled, I could feel the air moving through her body and jiggling the great orbs against me, causing a small amount of fiction heat.

I hoped it would be only a taste of things to come.

"When I'm done with this chin," she murmured gently, out of the hearing range of everyone around us, "It'll be so smooth I won't even think twice about having it between my legs."

My crotch tented just as those last, beautifully drawn out syllables exited her plush lips. A gulp quickly followed.

She ruefully removed her breasts from my neck and swayed away from the chair to a shelf nearly hidden behind a full length mirror. As she reached for the shaving creams and hot towels I got the most voyeuristic and personal view of her tall and lithe body. It was the way I could look both at her front and back simultaneously that did it, like an overdose of beauty.

The bottom of her skirt swayed cheerfully, hanging from her narrow waste and flaring hips as her shirt was still nearly falling off her shoulders. I wanted to ravish her right there, press her body up against the mirror and thrust into her from behind, her breasts and face pressed against the mirror's telling surface. Who's the fairest of them all...? I smiled inwardly. I would watch her hot breath explode out of her and condense on the surface, displaced by the wet and hot length of my cock.

"We're going to need to move out of this chair and go over there," she came back and pulled my mind out of my fantasies like a Cat pulling a tractor out of a muddy well site. "This chair doesn't recline and I don't want this stuff," she help up the can of cream, "Dripping all over you."

"Oh, sure." I nodded, looking around, "Where to then?"

"Near the back is a better chair." Her eyes said something more. In the back is a chair more private.

Let the teasing begin.

I stood up, a little shakily but full of confidence none the less, and walked, hiding my erection with my hands.

The chair, as promised, was in the back and dived from most of the salon by a row of low potted plants with thick and broad leaves. There were two other chairs back here but were vacant and therefore out of mind. She swayed her body lightly against mind for just a second before seating me. Her hand stayed on my shoulder, easing me down.

"Comfortable?" She smiled, her face was so close to mine I could count her dark and lengthy eyelashes and marvel at the texture of her lips.

"You have no idea."

She bent back up, her back arching and her chest thrusting out, and then her foot hit a switch on the bottom of the chair and I began to level out. I stopped just short of being fully prostrate and was aware that my tent was embarrassingly apparent. She bobbed her eye brows and looked down at my crotch, nibbling on her bottom lip.

"I'm going to like this," she reluctantly tore her gaze away from my lap and fixed on my eyes, "Almost as much as you will."

"I don't doubt it," I said. Boldly I reached out and took the hem of her skit between my fingers, lifting ever so adventurously higher and higher. I caught a splendid revealing of her thighs. My knuckle brushed the airy space between her thighs, aiming high for where they arched together in that secret place. I had almost raised the hem of her skirt clear of her sex by the time she slapped it away,"Just a peak for now," she said sumptuously, "But I promise you'll get your fill.

I fought the tingle rippling through my body while she draped another slip cover across my chest and worked a pair of clippers against my cheeks and chin. The hair curled away and she was forced to gently blow across my skin to get rid of it. Her lips were so close to me I could smell the glaze on them, citrus fruit of some sort. Eventually she worked it down to a thatch of stubble.

"I'm very, very itchy." I complained.

"Here," she scratched her nails, long and perfectly manicured, painted with a glossy black paint, against my exposing skin.

The act, common among all forms of primate and humanoid life, was made so incredibly sexual by her that not only did the tingling return in force, but almost made me cream in my pants.

"Better?"

I nodded.

She then reached for a brush and whipped some of the cream (shaving cream) into lather in a small colorfully striped bowl. She creamed my face with the brush and drew from a leather pouch with a zing the sharpest looking strait edge I had ever seen.

A flash of power eclipsed the sexiness in her eyes and I became aware that I was soon to be at her tender mercy of a girl who liked to play with men.

She started scraping at my neck, managing only one small stroke before being forced to clean it off on a towel she had draped over one of her bare shoulders.

The process when on like this for some time, scrape, swipe, smile and again. I grew more comfortable with each passing minute and even though I felt like closing my eyes I did not because I would not be able to see her.

Perhaps it was the fact that she was running a blade against my skin or that I was becoming more handsome with each stroke, her nipples became erect.

I couldn't talk because the cream would have entered my mouth, but she didn't.

She was gently purring compliments to me, admiring my chin and the line was developing, the cut of my shoulders and chest. She asked me if I worked out and I shook my eyes from side to side with a noise of declination.

Quickly, once she had finished the smoothing of my face and the last stage of my civilization she quickly wetted a towel and cleaned my face and ears.

With a mounting unbridled restraint she pulled the slip cover from my chest and tossed the towel to the floor.

"Wonderful," she breathed, stroking my face from brow to neck, "Simply wonderful."

The downside of being clean shaven was that now she could see me blush as she laid compliments on me.

"You're handsome," her eyebrows raised not in surprise, as I expected, but in excitement, as if she had already decided to fuck me but now found my attractiveness a bonus.

"What does it for you then?" I asked, placing my hand on the curve of her hip, "My handsomeness or something different?"

"Maybe that yes, but it's mostly the fact that you haven't been touched by a woman in ten months."

"You know I'm going to last only ten seconds with a fire cracker like you," I admitted un-ashamedly.

"I'll take that as a compliment," she smiled, bringing her face within kissing distance, "But if it happens again the second time I will be disappointed."

"And the third?"

She kissed me, pressing her lips against mine without the reserve of unfamiliarity. "That depends on the second, I think." She said after her lips left mine.

I looked down the length of the salon, we were unnoticed. She read my mind.

"No, not here." She lifted the back of the chair and helped me from the seat, "There is a massage parlor through that door with a private room we can fuck in."

Fuck. The word slipped from her mouth like liquid gold, so real it was almost unbelievable. She took my hand and pulled me with a secretive glance over her shoulder to the other stylists and assistants in the shop.

Once through the door and into the room she worked the dead bolt (a long wooden plank that slipped from one side of the door by way of a brace and wooden peg into a catch)

At last we were alone.

She flung herself at me, skirt billowing against my legs and her top slithering around her chest. For the briefest instant a nipple poked into the air. Her lips were in a storm of motion, working wetly from my lips where they were parted by my tongue to my neck were they sucked impatiently at my tendons while her fingers tore at my buttons and clasps.

She pulled the shirt off my chest almost the same instant I pulled her skirt off and hoisted her on the small cushioned massage table. She kicked the skirt far from us and I shed the shirt along with it. She rubbed her thighs on either side of my waist; her knees pulling up and out as she bent forward with her shirt dangling off her to kiss my chest. I worked my hands effortlessly under the top and pulled it down to her waist. The fabric slid down her breasts like a slow waterfall, finally I could marvel at the superb wonder of her breasts.

They felt soft and succulent in my palms and formed nicely when I pulled at them with my nails. She groaned and heaved against me, enjoying my hands on her.

"Oh, god," she moaned, sucking in air and stretching back until I could see the hint of her rib cage and the concave of her abs.

She was in perfect shape. Even just sitting there on the bench, with her legs bobbing freshly in the air beside my shoulders, and her pussy still covered in the dainty blue cotton panties she looked every ounce a runway model.

Not that kind that made poster-girls for anorexia but the kind that modeled lingerie and were celebrated for their perfect female form. She mounted the next hurdle, my pants, with an adeptness that would put the most seasoned working girl to shame. Without restriction the hydraulic power of my erection thrust between us, just waiting for the slightest attention to go off.

She leaned back until her shoulder blades pressed against the warm table and lifted her legs together into the air. Without ceremony or tenderness I tore the panties from her and stepped from the puddle of clothes at my feet. I pushed her body farther up the table and pulled her knees apart, not forgetting my manners.

My tongue started just above the inside of her knee and didn't stop until it had pressed through her tight, slightly chocolate lips into the center of her sex.

I mauled her wonderfully smooth pussy for as long as I could hold out. I nibbled a bit at her lips, to which she yelped and cried for more, I pressed my tongue against her clit and sung to it softly with silent words of praise. She squeezed my head between her thighs and the soft flesh all around me threatened to suffocate me.