Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Although I never get anything more than a trim, Great Nips is my go-to hair salon. The stylists are beautiful, and they can do everything: ‘dos, perms, braids, dyes, extensions, even mani-pedis. Their prices are cheap, too—well, as far as men’s haircuts go, anyway. Fourteen bucks, and customers are in and out of the chair in twenty minutes, tops. I always hand the stylist a twenty and say “keep the change.” It’s worth it. Like I say, Great Nips has the most gorgeous stylists in town—mine or any other.
I left my barber Vinnie for Great Nips when I heard the topless salon was open for business. At least, it was supposed to be topless. Hence the name, Great Nips, a play on words, with “nips” referring both to cuts and to nipples. Rumor was the stylists were even going to trim women’s bushes, if their customers—excuse me, their clientele—wanted such service. I don’t know if they’d clip a guy down there, too. Maybe, if the price was right.
Anyway, the city refused to issue them a business license if topless stylists were part of their operation, so Great Nips kept the name but tossed the nipples (and the bare breasts). Bureaucrats always seem to find a way to fuck things up.
Great Nips has an app (what business doesn’t nowadays) that lets clients sign in before they arrive at the salon. The stylists take sign-ins in the order they call in; walk-ins have to wait. Generally, I don’t like to wait, but my phone is an older model, and the service provider stopped updating the software that the phone uses to interface with most apps, including Great Nips’s, so I get to the salon at opening time, which is nine o’clock, to minimize the chance I’ll have to wait. Today, my technique works, as it usually does.
Mandy, one of the stylists, greets me as I enter the salon. There are two stylists on duty, she says, so no waiting. (More will clock in later, as business picks up). Unfortunately, some fat old bag signed in using the salon’s app, so she gets Mandy. I’d get the new stylist, I’m told.
New? That sounds interesting. All the stylists at Great Nips are hot, but a chance to check out some fresh tits and ass while I get clipped by a new chick makes me forget all about Mandy, for the moment, at least.
You can imagine my horror when the new stylist turns out to be a dude!
He’s in his late twenties, with a bald head, and sinewy, tattooed arms. He wears black shoes, black socks, black slacks, and a black tee shirt, like he’s a damn undertaker or gaziantep gay something. Most likely, he’s gay, I think, although I don’t detect a limp wrist of a swish of his hips. He doesn’t speak with a lisp, either, when he asks, “How do you want it?”
I can’t tell whether his question’s intended to have a double meaning. “Just a trim.”
He steps on a lever, and my chair ratchets up a few inches. He spritzes my hair with water from a spray bottle. It’s cold against my scalp. Then, he picks up a pair of scissors and starts to clip my hair, cutting along his fingers, through which the ends of my hair protrude. Unlike the chicks, he doesn’t say anything. Mandy and the other female stylists talk pretty much non-stop while any client’s in a chair. Maybe they think they have to chat up their clients to get a decent tip, maybe they just like to yak, or maybe they’re bored. Anyway, the dude trimming my hair doesn’t say a word.
I watch him as he shifts and moves. His hand run through my hair. With the hand holding the scissors, he seizes a hank of my hair, feeding the tresses between the forefinger and the middle finger of his other hand. Then he trims the hair protruding through his fingers. He’s deft, sure, and quick. His hands in my hair, strong, but gentle, feel kind of good, although they’re thicker than Mandy’s fingers or those of the other stylists.
He spritzes me with more of the cold water, and I imagine it’s something else. I recall reading, a few years back, that demon semen is ice cold. Maybe it feels like this water, except that it’s thicker. The thought disturbs me, and I frown.
“Everything okay?” the stylist asks.
I nod. I guess he thought he hurt me or I didn’t like something he did. I tell myself not to frown again.
His hands float and glide around my head, as his scissors snip and clip and nip.
As he steps one way or another, I catch glimpses of his physique: broad shoulders, deep chest, taut abs, muscular arms. He’s fit and trim, but sinewy. He has strong fingers and hands, but he moves with grace and gentleness, as if he were conducting an orchestra or performing a ballet. Poetry in motion, I think. For the first time, I notice how handsome he is. Mandy and the other women at Great Nips must enjoy watching him all day.
In the mirror, I catch sight of Mandy, working on the fat lady on the other side of the room, opposite me. She wears light-pink sweatpants. They’re skin-tight; she wears them like another layer of skin, and they show off her firm, smooth buttocks so well she might as well be naked from the waist down. Her ass, like the rest of her, is beautiful. I watch her full, round cheeks until she turns, her bottom visible now only in profile.
“How much do you want off?”
For a moment, I think he’s said, “How much do you want to get off?” and I feel my cheeks burn as I blush.
“An inch?” he enquirers. “More?”
“What do you think?” I ask.
“A couple, maybe, but it’s up to you.”
I shrugged. “Let’s go with two.”
His hands softly rake my hair, capture a swath, and his scissors click and clip. Cut hair falls, brown, straight, and soft, on the smock he’s wrapped around me. I try to think of something to say to him, wanting to hear his voice, which is rich and deep, but I cannot think of anything to say.
In the mirror, Mandy’s lovely backside is again on display. The flare of her hips, the full, but firm mounds jiggling as she steps this way and that, are mesmerizing. I wonder if she has dimples. One day, she may wear sweatpants low enough or a tank top high enough to answer this question for me, but, alas, today is not that day. I watch her in the glass, secretly studying the curves of her hips, the swell of her bottom, the tapering of her long, shapely legs. She rounds the front of the chair, her lower body vanishing from view behind her obese client’s bulk. Her boobs, high, round, and perfect, jiggle slightly, their nipples erect. Great Nips, I think, and smile.
My stylist’s palm perches against my cheek, light, gentle, almost a caress, as he trims the hair he holds between his fingers. Is it my imagination, or does his touch linger a moment after he’s finished the cut?
I close my eyes, luxuriating in the feel of those strong, thick fingers caressing my hair, feel his body press my own as he shifts and steps about my chair, smell the scent of him up close. I am glad of the smock around the front of my body; it hides my burgeoning erection. What would he think, I wonder, if he were to see the sign of my arousal? I thought of Mandy’s lovely buttocks displayed in her tight pink sweatpants, and my half-stiff cock throbbed. Was it stiffening for him or for her? For which stylist did my prick swell? Did it lengthen for Mandy or her colleague.
Maybe, I thought, it was long and stiff and swollen for both of them.
In the mirror, Mandy’s breasts. Before me, my stylist’s sculpted chest and abs.
Behind me, Mandy’s feminine charms; in front of me, my stylist’s masculine physique. How unfair it was that we were compelled to choose only one type of fruit from the garden of pleasure when both were tempting, succulent, and delicious.
His hand rested upon the nape of my neck, strong but light. “Do you want the back cut square or rounded?”
Would I sound square if I said square?
That’s the way I wore it.
The clippers in his hand skimmed my neck. Then, he followed up with his scissors, snip, snip, snip.
He held a mirror up for me. It framed the rounded cut. It wasn’t square, as I preferred, but it looked good, and I told him as much.
He fussed about my ears, trimming a few hairs there, snipped an errant hair from my left eyebrow, and said, “Close your eyes.”
I obeyed, and felt a rush of warm air from the hair dryer he used to blow away the snipped hair on my neck and shoulders. He was as good giving a blowjob as he was at cutting hair, I thought, repressing the smile that wanted to curve my lips.
The smock was swept away, and I rose. Thankfully, my dick had reverted to its flaccid state—but his had grown considerably, making a tent of the crotch of his slacks. It was unmistakable, insistent, proudly defiant of social norms and conventions, virility displayed without embarrassment or apology. “You’re all done, sir,” he announced.
On the way to the cash register on the front counter near the entrance to the salon, I peeked at Mandy, but she was hidden, once again, behind the girth of her client, and I saw only her face, beautiful but oblivious to me, as she tended to the woman before her.
My stylist rang up the haircut. “Fourteen dollars,” he said, smiling for the first time. His whole face was transformed, and his male beauty shone as if he were full of angelic light.
I handed him a twenty. “Keep the change.”
“Your receipt, sir,” he said.
I almost told him I didn’t need one, but I saw him writing on the slip of paper and stayed my tongue.
He handed the it to me, and I stuck it into the breast pocket of my shirt. When I’d crossed the parking lot, I dipped my fingers into the pocket and removed the paper. On it, he’d written “Sam” and his telephone number.
I unlocked my vehicle, climbed inside, started the engine, shifted into gear, released the parking brake, and drove home.
But I’d be back again, before long.
My hair grows fast, Mandy tells me.
Meantime, I’ll give Sam a call. It will be fun to get to know him better.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32