Salon Selectives

"How did I get myself into this mess" I ask myself as I change the water again. I had no idea a beauty parlor could get this dirty.

"When you're finished the windows, you can wipe down and disinfect the tanning bed." Susan barked from the other room.

"Shore ting Bozz" I answer.

"I don't need any of your smartass back-talk either." Susan retorted. She was trying to sound dictatorial, but I could hear the smile in her voice.

"Yazz Bozz." I answer back with just as big a smile.

It all started off so innocently. A bet. Some trivia question. I never lose at trivia. The actor that was playing the wounded cop on "E.R.," was he known before as a cop on "Adam 12," or as one of the paramedics on "Emergency?" In my mind I can still see him in the cop's uniform. I was wrong. Damn. I hate it when that happens.

I like to bet although I never bet money. My father taught me never to bet something you can't afford to lose. When I worked in a mine I would see other miners playing poker for pay checks. I knew that most of the miners had wives and families and that some of them would have to go home to tell their families that "daddy didn't get paid today.

I use to bet with my brothers. The loser had to make the winners bed. Raising the stakes meant the loser had to do the winners chore, sometimes for a whole week if we were feeling particularly lucky. Big stakes were usually never wasted on games of chance, but were reserved for tests of abilities like golf, chess, or higher averages in school.

At my office I would bet "batches of cookies" with my coworkers. There again, I seldom lost. I had a reputation of providing the most cookies and brownies and cheesecake at the office. I always had the goodies brought to the office and I would put them on the table for all to enjoy. It got to the point that whenever any food arrived for mass consumption everyone would ask around to see what the wager was and who my latest victim was.

I had bet with Susan before too. She was an old friend and didn't work at my office. Instead, Susan was the proprietor of an fairly upscale beauty Salon/Spa. Instead of baking, we used to bet services. I had won my share of haircuts and remember wondering what else she had to offer that I could take advantage of. Hers' was a full service salon but there was an unwritten rule that stated that any payment of debts had to be payable by the actual person doing the betting. Services provided by an employee were not acceptable methods of payment.

Most of the other services offered by the salon where also not things usually associated with the male gender; as a rule "we" don't much go in for eyebrow plucking or dye jobs.

"Slave for a day." That's what Susan had suggested. "Anything the winner said... 24 hours... no questions asked... done to the letter!"

Unusually high stakes for her. My immediate response was to contemplate how I would spend my winnings. What could I have her do for a day? Let's see... she could be my chauffeur and have to drive me to wherever I wanted to go... better yet, myself and a date. Drop us off in front of the restaurant. Pick us up in front... no fighting for parking stalls or walking for blocks in the rain. What about a nice little romantic dinner at home for me and my date... with a waitress to serve us our every course... and to clean up the dishes... and to cook.

I could just imagine it... "Maid... you may now clear away the dishes."

"Yes sir." She would answer. "Yes sir..." "No sir..." "As you wish sir..." Ahhh... it would be great.

"Done!" I answered, snapping back to reality. "Slave for a day."

Well, today is that day and it's "me" who's washing windows, cleaning out the toilets and wiping down the tanning bed.

We had agreed on having a Sunday as the payoff day and she had phoned me at home Saturday night to tell me to show up at her salon bright and early (6:00 am) the next morning. "Wear loose cloths" was the only other thing she had said. I had to wait till 6:30 before she arrived and she immediately sent me to get her a cup of coffee at the local Donut shop down the street. When I returned with the coffee, she politely but firmly informed me that I had been late and, since I had not followed her instructions "to the letter," it would cost me "big-time."

When I protested that I was here waiting before she got here, she showed me the tape from her security camera, complete with time stamp, showing me arriving and trying to enter the locked front door. The time stamp was unmistakably 3 min. after 6:00. What could I say?

"You may start with the floors." She had said curtly.

All morning she sat in the center of the salon in one of the hydraulic chairs barking out orders and reading. "Change the CD!" "The window cleaner is under the sink." "You missed a spot on the floor." "The CD needs changing." All the time she sat there smiling and revelling in the experience. I could see she was enjoying the power.

"Don't get used to it," I said under my breath, "from now on, the gloves are off"

She never asked me to do anything I might not have asked her to do but she was ruthless in her requests. "Just getting even for all the times she lost." I told myself. When I was on my knees waxing the floor right under her she playfully stretched out her legs and rested them on my back, as if I was her footstool. I looked up and saw such a smirk that I had to break out laughing.

"Silence slave!" She said in mock disapproval.

Susan was a very astute business person, having taken over an older, established salon and, after renovations and a name change, turning it into "the" happening place in the city. She had made a lot of money from the salon but never flaunted it. She still drove her same 1997 Jeep Wrangler with the winch in the front and the dent in the passenger side fender. She dressed nicely but never for show, sometimes coming to work in jeans and a suit jacket. She had a way of making whatever she wore look right out of Vogue.

Susan was early thirties, about 5'4" and maybe 130 pounds although she looked much smaller. She worked out almost everyday in the gym across the street and had recently taken up the sport of body sculpting, so most of her 130 pounds was pure muscle. Her hair was long, coming down below the back pocket of her jeans and at the moment was a rich red. "One of the duties of a salon owner is to advertise your services." She had once said to me after I commented on her then newly blackened hair.

It occurred to me that I never knew what her natural hair colour was, having seen it almost every color there was.

I was kept busy all morning cleaning, waxing, deodorizing, sweeping. By 12:30 she was having trouble finding things for me to clean. You could eat off the floor and I was particularly pleased with the staff room. As clean as any establishment is out front, the back is usually paid the least amount of attention by the regular cleaning staff.

"Slave..." (since she first arrived she never called me by name) "Get yourself cleaned up. I want you to run an errand for me."

I had a quick shower to clean off the sweat from the mornings activities. When I went to get my clothes I found my sweats gone and in their stead, a new set of thin white cotton pants and a white tee-shirt. I laughed to myself at the efforts Susan was going to remind me of my status, but in the back of my mind I pondered the fact that she had been in the room while I was showering. It seemed odd that she would do that.

The errand, I was later to find out, was to run to a local restaurant for some take out. Not just "a" restaurant but "the" restaurant. It was owned by a friend of hers and the place usually didn't open this early on a Sunday. But all it took was one quick phone call from Susan and I was picking up arguably some of the best Calamari in the western hemisphere. I wondered if Susan had this arranged with the restaurant before hand; she seems to have everything else arranged.

Anyway, on my return Susan is still in her hydraulic chair, lying back listening to the stereo. She almost looks asleep.

"There slave!" She says sitting up and pointing to the coffee table in the waiting room.

I unpack the food and fetch a couple of plates from the staff room. She informs me she would like a glass of white wine and that there is a small bottle in the refrigerator. "A little early isn't it?" I ask.

"When I want your opinion I'll give it to you!" she returns.

We have a quiet lunch together, her luxuriating on the couch and me sitting on the floor. Both of us were having a hard time not laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation but it's not my place to speak and she would never lower herself to speak idle conversation to a mere servant. Without a word, she motions for me to clean up the plates with a flick of her wrist and saunters into the back rooms.

"We'll start with a steam" I am informed.

"Pardon?" I ask.

"A steam..." she says, "you do know what a steam is don't you?"

"Yes but..."

"Good"

That was that. She moves to the steam area with me trailing behind. "Towels are in the cupboard, scented oils are in the drawer."

I jump for everything she asks for and follow her into the dry room with my hands full. She raises her arms above her head and stands there.

"Well..." she demands with a shocked look.

"What?" I still don't understand.

"Undress me, slave"

After a moment's hesitation, I hop to it almost stumbling over myself and dropping the encumbrances in my arms.

Her dress, being a wrap-around, comes off easily. She is not wearing any panties. Blonde. I finally found out her natural hair color. She still stands there with her arms raised even though she is completely naked.

She has an most perfect body and, standing here naked, all the time spent in the gym becomes very evident. Her entire body is lean, muscular, and seems to radiate strength and confidence. Each individual muscle group is highly defined and she has the abs of a weight lifter. Her skin has an almost flawless tan... not very dark but very even and almost all over. The only thing to suggest that it is a tan and not her normal skin tone is a very strong patch of white that proves she only wears bikini bottoms, and even then, one could almost not call them bikini bottoms. A "G" string might be another word for it although there is no tan line from the string. Curious. Her breasts are not overly large but perfectly formed and perfectly matched and I couldn't help but notice that her nipples where standing erect.

I have to force myself not to stare and am only partially successful. My quizzical look brings a flick of her head in the direction of the towels. At last understanding, I grab a towel and wrap it around her body. She enters the steam and motions me to join her. It seems you never know when a slave might come in handy in a steam bath.

We spent the next four hours playing out a charade of master/slave in some ancient Egyptian or Roman bathhouse. I am forced to stand in the steam fully dressed sprinkling cool water on her face while she lounges on the top shelf. I must kneel and gently massage her face and scalp as she relaxes in the warm mud bath. I sit in the corner and read aloud from Story of 'O' while she utilizes the tanning bed. I am even tutored in the fine art of giving the perfect pedicure. All the time she is either naked or wearing nothing but a towel.

After the steam I must pat her entire body dry. After the mud bath I must hose her off with a warm hand shower. Before the tanning bed I am forced to lather her entire body with a moisturizing cream. During the pedicure she sits in front of me with one leg at a time up on my lap and the other soaking in warm water. She saved the massage for the end.

I start the massage with the shoulders and back moving slowly down the spine. My fingers working gently at first then, little by little, with increased pressure. Her body feels so smooth and warm beneath my hands. Slowly, ever so slowly I work my way down. The buttocks, the top of the leg, behind the knee, the calve, and finally, the foot. I massage the soul and gently run my fingers between each toe. Her leg twitches. She must be a little ticklish. I ask if she wants a towel or blanket for her back but she refuses. I run my hands the full length of her leg, one on the outside and one on the inside of her thigh. A slight moan escapes her lips. I again move up to her buttocks and down the other leg. I can feel each individual muscle of her body. I use a little more warmed and scented oil, this time pouring it directly onto her backside. It puddles in the small of her back and begins to run. My hands trace the path and catch most of it. She moans again and rocks her hips a little. I pour a little more across the top of her ass and let it slowly run down the crack of her ass. I am chastised for this little act of rebellion, but the defiant streak in me would do it again if given the opportunity.

I continue the massage down the other leg repeating the same procedure as on the first one. Her body has begun to rock constantly now, almost imperceptibly, her fingers stretching and relaxing, stretching and relaxing. As I work on the top of the leg, her hand that has been dangling over the edge of the table brushes against my knee. I was sure it was an accident until, a few moments later; I feel it making circles behind my own knee.

The entire energy level in the room seems to change. It is nothing that you could see, but it is very evident nonetheless. I finish her back. She turns over and the whole thing starts again this time from the bottom up. My hands cover her entire body. Roaming freely, they massage the legs, the inside of the thigh, the inside of the arms, the elbow, the hands, the face the stomach, everything. Her body is rocking freely now and the moaning is more regular. She must be really enjoying this.

For this entire process so far I've been careful not to touch anything that wouldn't be part of a normal massage. But as I massage her chest, the massage ever so slightly becomes a caress. I move from a penetrating massage of her pectoral muscles, to a "less penetrating" caress up the sides of her breasts. I'm still careful not to touch the nipple. Her legs spread just a little more. Finally, I bend down and take a nipple between my lips. That's when all hell breaks loose. Her hands grab my head and forcibly direct my face toward the one part of her body still untouched; a little tiny pleasure dome. Her back arches and her legs spread wide to allow me access. She is almost growling as she orders me to please her with my tongue.

As with the original massage, I begin slowly, teasingly. First light, playful kisses, then deeper and harder strokes, finally my tongue is licking and lapping and exploring with an insistent rhythm. I reach up one hand to caress an aching nipple and from her motions I sense that the moment is close. I begin to suck and lick, and lick and caress with my tongue, my nose, my chin, with anything I can. I love the smell, the taste, the feel. I gently take the clitoris on my mouth and between my teeth. It is almost throbbing. Her arms are flailing and she reaches one hand down to pull at her own pubic hair, trying to give me more access. I place my whole mouth over the clitoris and create a miniature vacuum. I breathe my hot breath on her hot box. I insert my tongue as deep into her as I can and use my nose to massage the hooded button. She is moaning and screaming constantly now. The bucking of her hips makes it hard to keep my mouth in the right spot. My free hand reaches under her hips to caress her ass. I trace the line of the crack. I play with the anus. My tongue still working. She is very close to orgasm. Her hands reach out, undo the string holding up my pants and start to pull at the material. Her one hand is rubbing my hard cock through the thin material. I insert one finger into her anus and my thumb into her cunt. I can almost rub them together inside of her. She is very VERY close. I take her clit between my lips again and start to hum.

The explosion begins between her legs and spreads throughout her entire body -- her back arches, and she cries out in ecstasy. I can feel the orgasm that rocks her being -- through my hands, through my tongue, through the pungent, musky wetness that spreads over my chin. I feel the contractions of her vagina as it tries to grab and hold my thumb. I keep up the rhythm as wave after wave washes over her until it is nothing but ripples. I try to bring her back gently -- my caresses slowing, becoming softer, sweeter -- but she will have nothing of it. Satiated... but not "satisfied," there still is an urgency about her... an itch... a "wanting." She reaches down and pulls my face up to hers.

"I want you in me!" she says in a husky voice before burying her tongue down my throat.

I lift her legs and swing between them; all without breaking contact with her delicious lips. She lays back a bit, semi-prone on the table supported by her elbows with her legs on my shoulders and me standing beside the table. I enter her moist box. My hands grab her hips to help guide and control. I begin to stroke... slowly at first... then faster and faster. She throws her head back and begins to scream again, so much so that I wonder if she will cum again. I stop... and just hold it deep within her. I can feel her contracting and releasing. I do the same. We laugh at each other, the master/slave persona completely gone now. She leans forward and gently kisses the end of my nose, my cheek, my eye. She has such soft lips. I pull out slowly once and pound it in hard. The gasp that escapes her lips is barely perceptible. I do it again.

"What are you doing?" she asks with a quizzical look.

"Nothing." I answer with a sly smile of my own.

"I like that." She says.

"What?"

"The way you slam into me. I like it when you give it to me hard like that."

I pull it right out and she quickly grabs it and reinserts it into her inviting tunnel.

"Don't you dare!" She demands jumping back into her roll with a show of disapproval. Her smile lights up the entire room. I push it in again... 3 times in quick succession. Her legs slide down my arms and grab me around the waist. She is pulling me closer... her heals digging into my back... her legs spreading wider and at the same time holding me tighter. I begin to stroke again, this time making my inward thrusts deep and hard and my outward strokes slow and deliberate. She is guiding me with her legs, squeezing me. I begin to pound again; the sound of our bodies impacting is such a turn-on. I thrust faster, deeper, harder. She matches my every stroke. God this feels good. She grits her teeth and pulls me still deeper with her legs. She is grunting and biting her lip, her hands pulling at my hair. My cock continues to reach deeper and deeper with each stroke. I feel myself hitting bottom and every time I do she gasps and opens her eyes wide as if shocked with electricity. Whatever shock she is experiencing is going right through me too. The feeling is exquisite. I thrust now not because I want too, but because I have too. It feels sooooooo gooooooood. I never want this to end. And jJust when I think I could do this forever, I know I can't. I slow down trying to extent the sensation. She tells me not to stop and just to add emphasis, reaches up with one hand and pinches my nipple. That does it. I pass the point of no return and begin again to do the best I can at trying to jam my whole body into that one exquisite hole. My arms pulling harder, my hips pushing faster, my cock reaching deeper, my mind trying unsuccessfully to outrun the rushing wave that begins to build, then break, then finally wash over my entire being.

I collapse on her and for a few minutes, neither one of us moves. We are bathed in sweat. When she does finally speak it's to return to her mock master role. (We can both hardly move and she's giving orders again?) I must tidy up the salon again because she has more plans.