She is not classically beautiful. Her face is rather flat with bland cheekbones, her lips do not have the fullness of a true beauty and her nose is rather podgy with slightly flared nostrils. She is though stunning to look at because of her eyes. They are large and delightfully, almond shaped in a deep, onyx green colour. Their size is accentuated by her long, caterpillar-like eyelashes. They demand to be looked at and stared into. It is impossible not to, or is that just me?
She is about the same height as me, five feet six inches. However, that is about all we have in common. Her hair is dark and short, mine is ash-blonde and shoulder length. She is slim with hardly any boobs, probably an A cup, mine are fuller and rounder and on a good day are a full C, but on a bad one, particularly during my period, they bloat up to an overflowing D.
She is so young. Impossibly young almost. Young enough to be my daughter. She has that magical quality of combining the innocence of youth, with her somewhat childlike face, and the allure of a woman due to the curves of her body.
She is twenty-two, I am forty-five. She is single, I am married with two children. She is a hair stylist, I am her customer.
*
I have always been a tactile person. I can remember back to my childhood when I loved my mum and dad gently scratching my back. Before puberty, I gained a subtle pleasure from touching myself or brushing my hair. In my later teens when I became sexually active I gained almost as much pleasure from boys caressing me as I did from having full sex with them. During my early sexual experience with awkward young guys, I gained as much pleasure from masturbating myself as I did from them shagging me; fortunately that changed when I went with more experienced men. As I matured I found massage and when on holiday have had many enjoyable times in spas, with one having a very happy ending.
Visiting a hair stylist whether male or female has always been a joy for me. Another person washing my hair and massaging my scalp has become my own personal erotic experience. So much so that when I visit a stylist I make sure that I wear looser and thicker tops to disguise any embarrassment that may occur with my nipples that can be overactive.
I met Lindsay at a salon in Harpenden when my usual stylist was ill and I was offered her. Although I do not like change to my routine like that, I accepted. We got on well and even though I was only having my hair washed and blow-dried, I liked the way she worked. The next time I requested her.
I had Lindsay for a few weeks until one Saturday she told me she was leaving.
"Going to another salon are you?" I asked.
"No, Freda and I are setting up a visiting service."
Despite enjoying visiting a salon, I had for some time been on the lookout for someone who would come to my house for those times when it was inconvenient for me to go out. Lindsay and Freda, who I knew, seemed perfect.
"This is my husband Richard," I said introducing Lindsay a few Saturdays later. "And this is my son Peter and my daughter Sara," I went on as the children came into the kitchen where Lindsay was about to trim my hair.
It was quite a rarity for all four of us to be in the house at the same time, particularly on a Saturday. The children were both away at university and came home only in the holidays and special occasions and Richard was usually playing golf or, returning from New York where he went each month.
After she finished, I made a block booking for the next few Saturdays.
The next week it poured with rain so Richard was there again. After saying hello to her he went to his study and worked.
"You have a lovely family," Lindsay said as she washed my hair in the kitchen.
I was sitting on a low stool with my back to the sink. So that I could get my head and hair into the sink, I was stretched out a little. Lindsay was standing next to me her waist near to my shoulder as she washed my hair. As always, I loved the sensations of her fingers on my scalp.
"Thank you," I replied. "We generally get on very well."
We chatted about families and she told me her father had left her mother when Lindsay was young. We talked about that for some time until she suddenly realised how long she had been washing my hair.
"Sorry about that Cat, I got carried away," she said, giving my neck a gentle squeeze.
That's ok," I replied standing up and catching her gaze. She held my look with a slight smile on my face and that glint in her eyes, which later I came to know so well.
We went to the kitchen and she dried my hair.
The next week I was alone when she arrived. The kids were at their colleges and Richard was playing golf.
"Good morning, Cat," she said as she came into the house. Again her gaze held mine for what seemed slightly longer than usual, or was that me, I wondered?
As I was settling into the rather awkward position, by the sink I slipped and banged my head.
"Sod it," I muttered.
"Are you ok?" Lindsay asked gripping my arm.
"Yes, but I am getting too old for such gymnastics," I replied.
"We could use a bathroom, the sinks are usually slightly lower and have rounded sides," Lindsay said, her hand still on my arm.
We went upstairs to the master bedroom and into the bathroom. Using my dressing table stool, it worked much better.
Being slightly lower I noticed that it was her tummy that was close to my shoulder now. As usual, as she washed my hair and massaged my scalp, I was miles away. I was revelling in the feelings of her fingers on my head and in my hair and it took me a while to realise there was another sensation. I opened my eyes and saw that as she moved so the lower part of her tummy inside her jeans brushed against the top of my arm and my shoulder. I thought nothing of it at the time.
Peter my son was home the next week and greeted Lindsay enthusiastically; I think he fancied her.
Lindsay and I went to the bathroom again. After washing my hair for a wonderfully, long time she said.
"Would you mind trying this new conditioner? It's horrendously expensive, but we have some free samples."
"Of course," I replied as she stood beside me looking down at me.
This time her hip was near to my arm. As she rubbed the thick conditioner into my hair so her hip was pressed against me. I found the combination of what she was doing to my head and hair and the pressure of her hip against my shoulder to be disturbingly arousing. I was shocked.
During the following week I recalled those feelings several times. They made me feel warm and sent little shivers of, I was not quite sure what, through me? I had never had any strong feelings for other women although I had snogged and petted with a couple of girls at university and had 'dirty danced' with a few at clubs in the eighties. As most of my contemporaries did the same, I thought nothing of it and put it down to being part of growing up. Since then, although I had moments of curiosity particularly with so much girl to girl stuff being in books and films and in television, I rarely thought about it and had no more experiences.
The next week I was alone again. Richard had left for a trip to America and Peter and Sara were at their universities.
"Oh shit, sorry Cat," Lindsay said as I felt the back of white blouse being soaked.
I sat up. "No problem Lindsay, I'll just change it," I said unbuttoning the blouse and going to stand up.
"Not much point really Cat, you might as well stay like that," she said placing her hand on my upper arm.
I looked up at her and our eyes met. She had 'that look' and held my gaze as I sat up straight.
"Here let me," she said not breaking her gaze and taking hold of the back of my white blouse. She helped me remove it.
"Thanks," I said.
I think that my voice was shaking a little as she ran her gaze down to my breasts in the white, diaphanous bra and then back to my eyes. A slight smile on her lips, she said softly.
"You are very welcome Cat."
My heart was pounding as I lay there while she washed my hair. I knew that my areola and possibly hardened nipples would be on clear view through the thin, as good as transparent bra and I could tell that she was glancing at them as she ran her fingers through my hair and rubbed my scalp in the massage she always gave me. The front of her jeans, just where the zip ended, was almost continuously pressed against my shoulder.
'Was this a come on?' I kept asking myself as the stroking of her fingers on my hair and scalp seemed to be slower and softer. I could not believe that as I lay there in my diaphanous bra with my eyes closed, I imagined her hands on my breasts. I was shocked and I felt disappointed when she stopped and said.
"Let's go downstairs."
I took that opportunity to pick up a thin robe and slip it on.
That evening I was alone. I had a light dinner, a couple of glasses of wine and watched Strictly Come Dancing. I shocked myself when I looked at the female dancers in their skimpy dresses and thought how sexy they looked. I could not believe that I was staring at their nearly uncovered breasts, their long, dancer's legs and the swirling skirts that showed their panties as much as they covered them.
I was in my conservatory that I had had built on the back of the ugly Victorian pile in which I had the misfortune to live. I hated all of it apart from my conservatory.
I had bought a lovely, big, comfortable, chair that I could snuggle up in and watch the forty inch plasma on the back wall. Being a recliner I could put it back so that I could lie almost flat. Many a night when I was alone I would grab a duvet that I keep in the cupboard, throw it over me and sleep there. Sometimes I would undress to my panties, but often I stay fully dressed.
After another glass of wine, as I watched Strictly, I found my mind being filled by visions of Lindsay. Her face, her lips and, of course her eyes flooded my mind. I recalled the feeling of her hands and fingers on my hair and scalp, the sensation of her tummy rubbing against my bare shoulder and her gaze roaming over my breasts in my thin bra. At first I was horrified. What was happening, I asked myself as I could not shake the vision from my mind? The images of the scantily clad dancers in the TV merged with my mental visions of Lindsay. At first I 'saw' her in one of those dresses and then to my amazement I saw her naked. It was then that I realised that I was stroking one of my breasts. I pulled my hand away from it as if it was burning me, but then moments later I replaced it. Not only did I replace it, but I slipped it inside my blouse and scooped my breast from my bra.
Reclining the chair so that I was almost horizontal, I closed my eyes, gave into the mental temptations and let my imagination take over. Visions of Lindsay were everywhere. Sometimes she was dressed and washing my hair or caressing my scalp, but more often she was naked. As I 'watched' her looking at me with those big, inviting eyes, so my hands were roaming over my body. One was squeezing and kneading my bare breasts and pinching and pulling my inevitably rock-hard nipples whilst the other stroked my mound through my jeans. As I saw that I too was now naked with Lindsay in my bedroom, so the thickness of the denim covering my pussy became an irritant. Without opening my eyes in fear of losing my vision, I undid my jeans, pushed them down a little and slid my hand inside my panties.
