Introduction:
It was just another normal day at work. Until he walked through the door. , The storefront bell chimes as the man strides in. His wool overcoat and wingtip shoes would have been at home in a Brooks Brothers advertisement. It is very unusual for the men in her area, who are much more comfortable in t-shirts and North Face jackets.
“Welcome to Dominique's Hair Salon. How can we serve you?” she says, eyes still focused on the computer as she notes the lack of appointments on her schedule today.
“I'd like a haircut.” That voice was familiar. She looks up. Recognition hits her, along with a flood of memories.
—
She is naked, down on her hands and knees. He is fitting something around her neck. A tight necklace. No, a leather choker. She will notice later in the bathroom mirror the word “Pet” in dark lettering on the dark choker, almost invisible until you are staring close. She will be mortified to learn that he had not purchased it from a jewelry store, but had it made to order from somewhere called the “Lux Puppy Boutique.” A literal pet collar. She never takes it off.
–
She is standing upright, posture perfect, hands clasped behind her back. She feels the riding crop slowly tracing its way up her thigh, now just above the knee, now higher, now higher, now at the place where her thighs meet. He playfully swipes it back and forth, gently hitting each leg. The motion communicates as clearly as if he had spoken: “Widen your stance. Open your legs. Expose yourself to me completely.” She complies as soon as she understands his instruction. The head of the riding crop resumes its ascent. The flat of the crop is smooth leather, the edge scratches. He alternates between the sensations purposefully. When the crop finds its way to her wetness, she reflexively pulls away, her body already reacting as if he has swung with force.
–
She is blindfolded and hogtied on her bed, totally immobile. There is a vibrator pulsing inside her. Its motor is on a pattern, winding up in intensity just to the edge, then winding back down. She can feel his weight on the bed next to her. When he arrived earlier in the day, he had laid out his implements in a neat line on the bed. The rope, the blindfold, the vibrator, and the delicate-looking but heavy glass plug. There is only one item left to use on her. She tenses when she first feels it, but she forces herself to relax and breathe. Without preamble, he pushes it in, and she is full. She feels his weight shift. He is no longer on the bed. What next, she thinks. She hears the rustle of clothes. He must be taking off the last of his clothes…no, that sliding is the silk lining of his wool coat. The next sound she hears is the front door of her apartment opening and closing. He is gone, with no indication of when or whether he will return.
–
An audio memory plays its soundtrack to these scenes. It is her own voice, a thousand times in a thousand ways saying “Please, Sir.”
“Please, Sir” in desperation as the pain/pleasure of the clamps pulling on her nipples becomes too much. “Please, Sir” in desire as she tries to press her wet pussy into his palm, the pressure too light to bring her release. “Please, Sir” in embarrassment as she stands naked on a balcony in broad daylight begging to be let back inside.
“Please, Sir.” Flirtatious this time. She is between his knees, his cock alternating between her eager mouth and her eager hands. He is always so self-disciplined, but sometimes, sometimes, she is the one in control. “Please, Sir” now encourages him to cum on her, in her, however he desires, just so long as she gets to make it happen.
—
He is at the desk, his eyes locked on hers, relaxed, amused. She has the feeling that he watched her recollection play out in front of him. “I'd like a haircut,” he says again. “You do give haircuts here, don't you?”
“Yesss,” The syllable draws out on her tongue and lips, wanting to finish “Yes, Sir.” Her brain takes over in time to stop it. She hasn't seen him in so long, doesn't want to think of him as “Sir” anymore. That was years ago, another lifetime, a different her. She is married now. She has moved on.
“Great,” he says, taking off his overcoat and draping it across one arm. Underneath he is wearing a gray patterned suit jacket. Herringbone. The name of the pattern comes to her. If she knows the word, she must have learned it from him.
He looks at her. “Well. Since you give haircuts, and I'd like a haircut, could we proceed with one?”
She realizes she hasn't moved an inch since she looked up and recognized him. She finally snaps into motion, getting the appointment system pulled up on the computer. “Yes, right! Okay, yes.” Her cheeks flush as she hears herself repeating the affirmations to him.
She leads him to her cutting station. As she walks from the reception area to the salon room where her chair sits in one corner, the hair stands up on the back of her neck. It tingles in alarm and anticipation. She is certain he is following mere inches behind her.
—
The hair stands up on the back of her neck. Her entire body tingles in alarm and anticipation. She is staring at a blank wall. She had been instructed to keep her eyes forward, her palms pressed against the wall, feet shoulder-width apart.
“Good Pet.” She is doing as she was told.
The two of them have done this enough times for her to know what is coming. Soon, she will hear the sharp CRACK and feel the flush of burning pain on her buttocks. She knows it is coming. But she doesn't know when. She never knows. Somehow, he always defies her expectations. When she anticipates the pain coming soon, he holds off. When she feels sure he will draw out the moment, it comes before she can take a breath. It is as though he can read her mind from the tension in her muscles. The anticipation builds. She is on pins and needles. Any moment, she will feel the impact. Now…now…now…
—
She is certain he is following mere inches behind her. When she turns to catch him in the corner of her eye, he is an appropriate distance back. More than appropriate. Respectful. It is all in your head, she thinks to herself.
They reach her barber's chair. He takes off his suit jacket and puts it on the chair in the station next to hers, the motion somehow both casual and precise. “You can't put that…” she begins, but before the words escape her lips, he has already relaxed himself into her chair. Though his suit jacket is off, there is still his tie and collared shirt to contend with before she can do anything at all to his hair. He makes no motion, apparently expecting that he will be waited on from here forward.
She sighs, realizing he is right. She thinks about how he has chosen a wildly impractical outfit for getting a haircut.
She bends forward, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top button of his collared shirt. Despite her best efforts, her fingers brush the skin of his neck. The touch is thrilling in a way it has no right to be. Get it together, she thinks. She will have to be touching him continuously for the next half hour or so. She will never finish the haircut and get out of this situation if she can't control her reactions better than this.
As she is fitting him with the barber cape, he speaks. “So. How long have you worked for Doms?” His eyes sparkle when he says the name that the regulars use for Dominique's Hair Salon.
“Only a few months. I have an office job, but I like to do this sometimes for extra cash.” As she speaks, the smile in his eyes moves to the corners of his mouth. She has the uncanny feeling that he can see her standing next to her office desk in yesterday's outfit, a white blouse and modest pencil skirt. The image in her mind suddenly changes. Rather than standing next to her desk, she is bent over it, skirt hiked up, exposing the fact that she isn't wearing panties.
She shakes her head clear. There was no way he was picturing any of that. Her mind is playing tricks. Surely he has never seen her office. Besides, she is never reckless enough to go without panties anymore.
“I'm sure both jobs have their unique pleasures and satisfactions.” What could he mean by that? His comment feels ripe with innuendo, but she can't figure out what he is implying. It is just small talk, she berates herself. Stop reading anything into it.
“They're fine.” A non-committal response, but she can't think of anything better to say.
Over the next 20 minutes, she lets herself be carried by the current of habit. With some clients, every moment cutting their hair feels like an eternity. Not because of anything they say or do. But because of their demeanor, their distaste at the thought of being waited on. Her job is a service job. That type of client doesn't know how to be served. They cannot bear to think of themselves as having power over another person, even temporarily. They insist with their body language, with every fiber of their being, that everyone is equal in every situation.
Not so with him. He accepts his role, and in doing so, allows her the freedom to step fully into hers. She exists in that moment to perform her craft. She exists to serve her client. He exists to receive her service.
In her trance of service, her mind wanders to the past.
—
He has been coming to her for a few months now. He gets a haircut every three weeks. Every three weeks, to the day.
After being initially intimidated by him, she realized that he is charming and easygoing when he wants to be. Conversation between them comes naturally. He makes her laugh often enough that other girls at the salon to ask her how they know each other. They assume that she and he are old friends. Despite her occasional fantasy to the contrary, it is still just a professional relationship between stylist and client.
Until she inadvertently invited herself to his house.
During one of his cuts, she had been insisting that he see one of her favorite horror movies. He had said that he never has the patience to watch movies. His mind always starts to wander. She found herself offering to be his movie chaperone.
“You'll be more focused with someone else there. It will be like a slumber party. Like when you were a kid. With your friends—just as friends.” Her words pick up speed as she goes.
“A friendly slumber party…” His tone is unreadable.
That evening, she is standing at his door about to knock. She spent the entire afternoon changing her mind about what to wear. She had no sense for what he expected, and her blunder at calling the event a slumber party only complicated things further. In the end, she settled on a tank top and a pair of shorts that were soft enough to pass for pyjamas but stylish enough to pass for real clothes.
He answers the door in nearly his usual outfit. The tie and jacket are missing, the top buttons of his impeccably tailored shirt are undone, and his sleeves are rolled up, but he otherwise looks the same. She supposes this is what passes for casual for him. She still feels woefully underdressed.
He offers her wine, leads her to the couch, and sits down to begin the movie. She hesitates for a moment, trying to decide if she is supposed to sit at the other end or sit near him. Out of the corner of her eye, she thinks she catches him smirking. She sits at the end of the couch and tucks her legs up under her. Later, she will realize how much this made her shorts ride up. Her cheeks will burn as she tries to subtly adjust her clothes.
During the movie, they joke and chat just like at the salon. But as the evening progresses, she feels a tension, an anticipation. With the credits of the movie rolling, she suddenly feels compelled to say, “This is a slumber party. So let's play truth or dare.”
She reads something dangerous in his smile. “Alright.”
She can't remember what initial dares were issued or what flirtatious truths were asked. They are all eclipsed by his pivotal dare for her: “Stand up, close your eyes, and stay perfectly still for the next 5 minutes. Do not move or open your eyes no matter what I do.”
She moves to the middle of the room and closes her eyes. He doesn't touch her at first. He draws his fingertips along her arm a fraction of an inch away from making contact. She can feel the air current and knows when he crests her shoulder and begins running his way up her neck and behind her ear. Then down her back. All over, nearly touching.
Next, he does the same with his breath. It is a subtle sensation, harder to track. At the nape of her neck, or at her palm and wrist. She is convinced there is a moment when he is kneeling directly in front of her, so close that his cheek would have brushed against her thighs had he turned his head. She had never known that so little sensation could cause such a strong reaction in her.
She jumps slightly when he finally touches her directly. It is at the small of her back. His fingertips caress her skin and work their way up. Before she fully comprehends what is happening, he has undone her bra. He comes around to the front and pulls the shoulder straps down her arms, then pulls her bra out from under her shirt. Her nipples harden immediately.
“Keep your eyes closed,” he reminds her. She does.
He resumes running his fingers along her body, over her shirt but touching now. Every time he gets near her breasts, her body begs him to run his hands directly over her nipples. He does not. But he does begin pulling at her shirt occasionally, dragging the fabric across them, sensitive and hard and driving her mad.
The next surprise comes when she feels his hands on her hips, grasping the fabric of her shorts. He pulls them down. On impulse that morning, she had decided to go without panties. She had enjoyed the feeling and continued as is when she changed into her outfit for the evening. She is very wet, and now without a stitch of fabric to hide the fact.
“You…you are literally dripping.” She can hear the usual smug amusement in his voice, but something else as well. Excitement. It dawns on her that he is aroused. Her body is making him aroused. A flush runs through her at the thought.
He takes her hands and lifts them up. She feels the fabric of her shirt lift over her head, and she is fully naked. He guides her a few steps, then places her palms against a wall. “Stay,” he says. Five minutes has long since elapsed from the start of the dare, but neither acknowledges it.
He gets in position, his body is against hers. He had removed his clothes without her noticing. The heat and seeming immensity of his body threatens to overwhelm her as he presses himself against her shoulders, back, buttocks. His hard cock is pressed between them. She imagines she can feel it pulsing.
His hands are around her, one on her pussy, the other finally teasing her nipple. He is rough on her nipple, almost to the point of pain. His every action before this felt planned, deliberate. But this tugging, rubbing, pinching, it is raw and unrestrained. This is his passion. He is allowing himself this single outlet while keeping everything else in control.
He removes his hand from her nipple and allows a breath of room between his hips and her ass. He positions himself. She can feel the head of his cock at the entrance to her pussy. As the seconds pass, her hips move involuntarily, wanting him inside.
“Stay.” His voice has an edge that she hasn't heard before, demanding obedience. He pushes himself inside, one inch only. It is not enough, her body begs. Just when she is on the edge of desperation, he gives her relief. He begins massaging her clit, bringing waves of sensation. At the same time, his hips rock back and forth, still not penetrating far, but enough for the moment.
There has been so much buildup, her first orgasm comes quickly. As it hits, he thrusts deep inside her. She bends double and takes one hand from the wall to reach behind and grasp his back. Her fingernails scratch at his back as she pulls him into her again and again. The pleasure is intense and perfect. She can feel that he is harder than ever, on the edge of orgasm himself. She is over the crest of her orgasm now, able to form enough thought to turn her mind toward his pleasure. She encourages him with her hips, pressing into him, and with her hand, tugging at him.
He pulls out. Before she can even acknowledge the sense of emptiness, he is getting dressed. “You didn't…I don't understand…” she tries to ask.
“You haven't earned it. You didn't stay like I told you,” he replies. “Don't worry, I will give you another chance later tonight.”
—
Something jolts her back to the present. What did it? She has a sensation akin to leaving an important item at home but not being able to determine what. She continues her work on his hair.
As she moves around him to get the right angle for the next cut and the next, she realizes what broke her reverie. Fingers, a wrist, an elbow brushing against her. He is intentionally positioning his arms to make contact. He is finding ways to touch her hips, waist, any part of her that is nearby. But that happens a little with every client. Is he making it happen more often, or is she just noticing it more with him?
IT IS ALL IN YOUR HEAD, she mentally shouts at herself. Everything he has done is perfectly normal! I have moved on, clearly he has as well. He is just here to show that the past is past and to get a haircut. He is—she freezes.
His hand is under her skirt, palm pressed against her inner thigh. His thumb is softly stroking less than an inch below her panties. She looks down quickly. In the bulk of the barber cape and her stylist smock, it is impossible to see that he is doing anything at all.
She says nothing. His hand inches up. Now his thumb is caressing the outside of her panties, up and down. Without moving his palm, he is able to run his thumb all the way up to the tuft of hair she keeps groomed above her clit and all the way down to the lowest part of her labia. How are his hands so large?
Still, she says nothing. She says nothing when he begins teasing along the seam of her panties, flirting with possibilities. She says nothing as his thumb hooks inside and lifts the panties away from her skin. He is not touching her yet, just allowing the air to circulate around her pussy, its wetness giving electric sensitivity.
Her silence is broken when his finger makes contact. Panties lifted away with his thumb, he runs an index finger gently along her labia. It is almost enough to make her knees buckle. Only with the presence of his touch can she recognize how wet, how aroused, she has become. She lets out the softest moan and immediately clamps her mouth shut. Fierce color rises to her cheeks.
She realizes that he is talking. He is chatting away about some mundane nothing. How dare he manage to carry on a conversation while this is happening! He abruptly stops, catches her eye in the mirror, and gives the slightest smile. He must have seen her scowl and read her thoughts. Maintaining eye contact, he presses a finger inside her. It is all she can do to stop herself from doubling over.
He caresses inside slowly, once, twice, three times. He pauses just as she was getting used to the motions, then resumes, toying with her expectations just like he always used to. When he begins using his thumb to pleasure her clit in rhythm with the stroking, she gives up any pretense of cutting his hair. The world falls away. She closes her eyes, puts her hands on the arm of the chair to steady herself, and dives into the cadence of his fingers. It builds quickly. She was unconsciously ready for orgasm before he ever made physical contact.
Abruptly, all sensation is gone. She is alone in the darkness. She opens her eyes to find him calmly looking at her through the mirror, the image of gentlemanly propriety. He says nothing.
His haircut was almost complete before his transgressive contact, and she goes through perfunctory finishing touches.
Back at the register she rings him up. He pays, giving a 300% tip. Neither of them has said a word since her almost-orgasm. He puts on his overcoat. Just before turning to leave, he leans close and, in a near whisper, says, “You did a lovely job, Pet.” It is his first acknowledgment of their past and the last thing he says before walking out the door.
She checks her schedule for three weeks from today and wonders if he will return.
,