I shouldn't have been as horny as I was when I entered the salon that day. While I hadn't seen Penny, my fuck-friend, or Autumn, my jerk-off buddy, all week because of conflicting schedules, I still had had to time to masturbate to the memories of all the wild things that had gone on in recent weeks. I had jerked-off shortly after awaking on this particular day, but by lunch my cock was straining against my jeans, making for a very difficult workday. I hoped the old lady I was working for didn't notice the bulge, or if she did, I hoped she didn't think it was for her.
By the end of the long, long day, I was ready to explode. It didn't help matters when I remembered that Autumn was still away with family or something, and Penny was having a study session with some classmates from the community college tonight. As I stepped into the shower, I decided I'd have to make myself cum again, or I'd never get to sleep.
I stepped into the warm spray and fantasized about the incredible scenarios that had turned my life around this summer. There was Autumn, with the body of a goddess and red hair that flickered like fire, who would finger herself for me in her room as I watched from my neighboring window. Then Penny, who loved tasting me, as she had told me on a number of occasions that my cum tasted like candy. I could almost feel her tongue swirling around me passionately, her lips massaging my shaft. And then there was...
I snapped out of my trance and stopped pumping my wet, soapy cock just before I hit that point of no return. I had forgotten all about it—my hair cut appointment! I jumped out of the shower, not bothering to dry off, and threw on the first thing I could find—some sweat pants and a t-shirt. Then I bolted out the door, hoping I had time to get there before the doors at Style's Salon closed for the evening.
Because my work often ran late, and because Style's Salon didn't take walk-ins, I had to have a special arrangement with the owner in order to get my haircut there. On every last Thursday of the month, she would keep the store open an extra half-hour just for me. It was a quarter past nine P.M., so I was already fifteen minutes late.
Sure, there were other places in town I could've gone during the week, and any barber could do for eight bucks to my hair what a stylist would charge for twelve, but Style's Salon was a special place to me. My late mother had worked there for a time, before I was born, and then became a regular customer. I had sat in the waiting area many times as a child, and while most employees would come and go, the owner, Style, was like an old friend. Besides that, being a horny eighteen-year old, sitting in the company of a bunch of beautiful women in a room full of mirrors was better than waiting in some dank barber shop with a bunch of old men.
I got to the salon twenty minutes late, which wasn't bad. My basic haircut could be done in ten minutes. If it took longer, it was just because Style was chatting away and taking her time. She was an animated character that loved to laugh, and loved to make others laugh. When she opened the salon years before I was born, she changed her name to Style, which was a pretty wild decision back then in what had been a very subdued community. Style had told me a number of times how hard those first years were—her a teenager with a wild name and pink hair running her own business in a town that just wasn't ready for a "modern" salon.
With the help of my mom and a few others, though, Style's Salon became infamous, and Style was more than willing to cater to my odd schedule. She was now in her early or mid forties, and as I walked into the empty shop and spotted her, I was amazed by how smoking hot she still looked. It wasn't just that I was horny from having abandoned my orgasm minutes ago—no, Style was no less a knockout now than she was ten years ago. Anyone who didn't know would have sworn she had just turned 30, at most.
She had platinum blonde hair that still had streaks of pink in it, her favorite color. Her face alone, delicate and smooth, could have gotten her a modeling contract with Victoria's Secret, and it still amazes (and disappoints) me that her body never made it to the pages of Playboy. I know there are rumors that her huge DD breasts must be fake, not just because of their size, but because of how perfectly they've held up through the years, but having known Style literally my whole life, I knew the truth was that her chest was as natural as was the desire of any man to see them. The smooth curve of her plump little ass and some of the longest legs on the planet were just topping on the cake.
We said our hellos, and I made an apology, and all was business as usual as she guided me toward the chair.
"I hope you don't have to be anywhere, soon," I said as we moved to the back.
Style liked to give me my late night cuts in the far end of the shop, out of view of the windows, so any passerby wouldn't think she was open. She also doused the lights, leaving on only the one right above our workstation. The music was always off, and at times like now, when there were no other employees left in the building, it was dead quiet except for the two of us. Sometimes that made me feel uncomfortable, but more recently, it was a bit of a rush—even a turn on.
"No, Gavin, don't worry about that," Style said in that luscious voice. "I try to keep my Thursday nights open so I can get rested up for the weekend."
As we neared the chair, she gave me a double take.
"Are you sweating?"
"No," I replied. "I was in the shower when I remembered I was supposed to be here. I didn't even get to soap up."
She laughed, throwing her head back, and I took the chance to get a better look at her form. She was wearing a short white skirt with nylons, and pink high heels. But while looking at her legs was a treat, seeing her top was a gift from Heaven. She wore a pink shirt with a white jacket, which together formed a beautiful frame of her incredible cleavage. Sometimes I wondered how she didn't fall over from being so top-heavy; maybe that's why her legs and ass were in such good shape—from constantly having to catch herself when off-balance.
My eyes were still stuck in the deep crevasse of flesh on her chest when Style looked back at me.
"Do you need a shampoo then?" she asked.
I heard the words, but didn't have the mind control to look away until a moment after she spoke. I fumbled with a reply, knowing I'd been caught when I finally looked into her eyes. She just smiled, suppressing a laugh, and took my shoulder to guide me back to the shampoo area.
"Come on," she chuckled. "I'll finish what you started."
