When Laura Ford-Ramsey removed her coat and handed it to Karen, it was no surprise that underneath she wore only bra and knickers, suspender belt, stockings and high heels. Mrs Ford-Ramsey had been a client at Valentino for more than a year and for most of that time it had been her custom to arrive for her fortnightly beauty treatment semi-undressed. She knew she had no reason to be embarrassed; even as she approached fifty, her body was in a shape that could only be maintained by rigorous diet, regular visits to the gym and considerable wealth. The special services offered by Valentino's salon had begun as an indulgence but had become a compulsion. She could really afford to make her appointment weekly, and she was seriously considering doing so.
(Valentino was not the name by which the salon's owner had been known in his native Essex, but somewhere not too far back in his ancestry there was the mixed blood that had given him the dark good looks which were as much a part of his success as any mastery of the beauty trade. The name he chose for his salon had originally been little more than a joke, but no longer. Nevertheless, he was permanently surprised at the unexpected rewards he was enjoying in a small town in the west country.)
Karen settled Mrs Ford-Ramsey in the chair, ensuring that the back was sufficiently raised to provide her with a clear view in the large mirror. It was a little after seven and the salon was closed, but Karen checked that all the blinds were drawn before touching the switches which darkened the room except for the lights that created a bright circle around the client. Music played softly in the background. She removed the gown under which she matched her client in all but colour: Mrs Ford Ramsey's underwear was black, Karen's a pale lilac.
(As a trainee hairdresser in London, Valentino had heard stories of well-to-do women, usually in middle age, who requested a home appointment and then made it clear they wanted more than a shampoo and set. Although such opportunities never happened to him, he was more than compensated by the willingness of younger women to offer themselves. Tricia, who was cleverer, more inventive, more subtle and more versatile than the rest, was the one he married.)
"What did you have in mind today?" Karen asked.
"My usual, I think. The first one always relaxes me, doesn't it? And perhaps we'll think again after that." She raised her shoulders for Karen to unclip her bra, then settled back with a luxuriant sigh. Her breasts were not large, which had helped in keeping their shape and firmness. As Karen bent to take a nipple between her lips, Mrs Ford-Ramsey raised a hand to stimulate the other herself.
(Together, Valentino and Tricia set up their own salon in London. His handsome looks and her charm attracted clients who mostly remained faithful. But there were not enough of them to meet the ever-increasing cost of running a small business in the capital. Reluctantly, they sold up and bought a going concern in this west country town where there was undoubtedly scope for progress. The trade-off was in their private life: London had provided opportunities for sexual adventures which seemed likely to be much less readily available in their new surroundings.)
When Karen moved to her client's other nipple, Mrs Ford-Ramsey's self-stimulation continued with a hand inside the waistband of her knickers. Her breathing gave nothing away but the tip of her tongue moistening her lips suggested she was achieving the result she sought. Her eyes turned from the mirror to where Valentino stood just outside the circle of light. "I hope you realise," she said, "what a contribution you make to an otherwise very boring life in this town. Because I know I'm not the only one who thinks that way."
Valentino acknowledged the compliment with a knowing smile.
(They had been in their new premises less than a month when it happened. The clientèle they had inherited was mainly middle-aged, some of them wealthy and with time on their hands while their husbands were away making more money. It was during a first-time, getting-to-know-you appointment, when Tricia was administering a massage in an otherwise empty salon, that the woman said, very quietly, "I have some tension here ... if you could help me." By taking Tricia's hand and placing it gently in her groin, the woman left no doubt about the nature of her request. For the first time, professional and personal instincts coincided: during their London escapades, Tricia had enjoyed other women almost as much as men. Remarkable though she found this sudden development in what she had thought of as the sleepy west country, she had no difficulty in responding.) Laura Ford-Ramsey was slowly coming to the boil. Extracting her hand from between her legs, she took Karen's fingers and kissed them. She said, "I think we should move on, my dear. I'm nearly ready."
"Of course," said Karen. "My fingers or ...?
"I would prefer your tongue."
Karen raised her client's legs and removed the black knickers before lifting and parting the older woman's knees. She knelt between them and gently opened the outer labia with her fingers before applying herself to the already moist and erect clitoris. Mrs Ford-Ramsey sighed in contented anticipation. "Valentino," she said to the figure in the shadows, "I don't know how you find your staff, but I am beginning to believe that Karen is even better than Martine."
(Despite the first indication that there was a demand for more esoteric services than were provided by the usual beauty salon, Valentino and Tricia had still been surprised at how quickly their business prospered. Coffee mornings, cocktail party gossip, gymnasium changing-room conversations spread the word among a select circle of local women. Then there would be a telephone call to the salon asking to speak to one or other of the proprietors. Could they be fitted in one evening ... it was understood the salon sometimes stayed open late ... the prospective client had been recommended by a friend to ask about the de luxe beauty treatment.)
"Yes, my dear, like that." As Karen's head bobbed faster, sometimes teasing the sensitive bud with merely the lightest touch of her tongue tip, then descending to engorge it between her tensed lips, Mrs Ford-Ramsey began to pant with pleasure. Her hands moved to her breasts, twisting the nipples with a ferocity that suggested the addition of a little pain heightened her arousal. "Faster now. It's nearly ..." Her words dissolving into the orgasmic eruption, she braced herself on her heels so as to push her pelvis against Karen's mouth, while the younger woman grasped her buttocks from below to maintain their intimate connection until the spasms had completely subsided.
(For a while, Tricia had managed to cope with the new appointments herself - sometimes with the participation of Valentino - but it became apparent that they would need assistance. Recruiting took time. They rejected responses to their advertisements from young girls who might be indiscreet, preferring women in their mid-to-late twenties who were already qualified and experienced in the beauty business. Conducting the interviews, Tricia's bisexual experience gave her an instinct for the kind of person she was seeking. Replies to carefully phrased questions told her when she was on the right track. And so she had discovered Martine, a thirty-year-old redhead, and Karen, the twenty-four year old blonde; both had been happy to audition with Tricia. When the salary scale had been agreed, they were also amenable to having Valentino as an observer.)
"When you are ready, I would like to continue." Mrs Ford-Ramsey had wiped the perspiration from her breasts with a towel and was fully recovered from her earlier energetic engagement. "I still have time, Valentino, haven't I?"
"Laura, my dear. You know that you have as much time as you need. Shall we open the drawer?"
"You understand me very well. Yes, please."
Valentino handed a key to Karen who went to a cabinet and removed a tray which she carried to her client for inspection. The woman waved it away. She knew well from previous visits the range of vibrators and dildoes that were displayed, but she had been promised a new treat. "The strap-on," she said, "you have it?"
"We endeavour to keep our promises," said Valentino. "Karen will be pleased to demonstrate, but I think a little lubrication may be required the first time."
(Salon policy had always been not to enquire into a client's personal circumstances. They came for a specific service, paid handsomely and could go away confident that total discretion would prevail. Nevertheless, it was surprising how many women were willing to disclose details of their private lives; it was as though they came to the salon as if to confession, needing to justify their desires. Laura Ford-Ramsey's story was not untypical. Her husband had a number of directorships in the City, keeping him in London during the week. In addition, there were week-end invitations to shooting parties and gold tournaments. She wondered whether he had another companion for his London bed, but the possibility didn't disturb her greatly. He was no great performer when he was at home, she said, but he kept her in a style she wouldn't be able to afford on her own. Happily, the combination of his money, his absences and the availability of Salon Valentino provided for all her needs. And sexually, her needs were great.)
Karen, already topless, stepped out of the pale lilac knickers and adjusted the harness of the strap-on dildo. It was black, some six inches long and - according to the packaging that came with it - of medium/slim girth. Valentino, meanwhile, was letting fall small drops of baby oil on to Mrs Ford-Ramsey's spread vulva, pausing from time to time to massage it into the puffy folds.
A small groan from Mrs Ford-Ramsey indicated her approval. Her hips picked up the rhythm of his fingers and began to gyrate slowly.
"Careful now," said Valentino. "Unless you want to come again quickly."
"That's exactly what I do want. Now I've started, I can keep going. Please carry on."
She closed her eyes and bit her lip; some kind of internal fantasy may have been fuelling her desires for she suddenly clenched her thighs, trapping Valentino's hand, holding him there until, with a sigh, she released him.
"Number two," she said. "Different, but still good."
(They had learned to cater for the different expectations and the varying sexual capacity of their clients. One quite elderly lady wanted the slowest and most sensual of build-ups, with frequent pauses when she sensed a climax approaching, until she could wait no longer. Her orgasm was silent but clearly deeply experienced and fully satisfying. When it was over, she was ready to leave. Another client asked for dirty talk throughout but her own verbal responses were as genteel as her outward personality. A magnate's wife gradually persuaded them that lying across Valentino's lap while Martine spanked her was the foreplay that prepared her for the ultimate pleasure. No two clients were alike.)
