The men recognized the model posing nude in the magazine, though some did try to believe the model was simply someone with similar features. But these men (four of them) gathered in the barbershop and huddled over the magazine, had no choice but mentally grasp acceptance that the girl in the centerfold was one they all knew so well. Now they knew at least one of the things she got up to when she was away those six or eight months in the big city. Or maybe they didn't know her as well as they thought. Whatever any of the given men might think or feel, they equally shared inability to unfix their gazes from the glossy magazine pictures.
Cindy was her name and Cindy enjoyed universal reputation as the type of girl whose blood ran rich with what could be called a wholesome pleasantry. Represented and flouted with a virginal smile, the quintessence of cheerful yet modest values. She was even blessed with almost storybook hair flowing like honeyed butter down and past her shoulders; eyes somewhere between hazel and the light blue of a seashore making love with bright sunlight.
Whenever and wherever she passed by, whether walking, jogging, or riding her ten speed bicycle, it was as though she handed out free gifts of pure sunshine with a happy wave or hello, and knowing no prejudice; men, women, young, not-so-young, all were equally deserving of a pleasant acknowledgment. Senior citizens tending rosebush or relaxing on veranda, fan in hand, were happy to return those sunny waves and hellos. She was quick to express sympathy for homeless persons and pity for abandoned puppies and kitties.
So first impressions had to be disbelief that this girl in the magazine, pretty as she was, could not be Cindy as they knew. Sure she was all grown up now, after turning eighteen not long before she went to the big city. But seek avoidance of truth as they may, there was no way to pretend ignorance. Yes, this was the sweet, charity-hearted Cindy they knew.
The ultimate, unavoidable giveaway was that subliminally wicked thread in her eyebrows that only those who knew her would understand, though wicked or evil was the very last place anyone would put her; nor were the words Wicked or Evil the words they would settle on; even after seeing her in this magazine, they could not agree to those words: wicked or evil. They may labor a day away searching for the better word, except they really had better things to do. If words were elusive, they were closer to recognizing a concept of dominance waiting for the right time and place to come forth.
Nonetheless, these men riveted to the magazine were far too flabbergasted to know what they felt about her. Yes they knew she lately returned to town and behaved no different than before. She still waved a happy hand and sang sunny greetings as she passed. She would probably still volunteer her help for the weekly VFW potluck.
As to the actual details - mostly the same theme shot from varied angles - she was in recline on a bed, plush baby blue blanket pulled back to allow equal respect to the mint white sheets. She wore lace the color of late autumn peach on her feet, and the rest of her, after her ankles, was pure and proud nakedness.
A pile of pillows framed her head and face which most any who knew her and believed in angels would be inclined to agree that it would be hard to find another coming as close to what could be imagined as the prettiest angel to grace the realm of angels. The rest of the image was what some who claimed this town as their place of nativity would politely call somewhat less than angelic. Or perhaps forced to reevaluate concepts of just what goes on in some angelic neighborhoods.
Of course her bare breasts, young, pure, perfect, topped with dainty red gumdrops, added in a freshness much the way her face added. These men in the barbershop may also admit their idea of freshness was expanded when they studied the way her opened legs revealed to any eye that would care to glance, all of her, nothing left to speculation. Yep, that was a pretty pink pussy, no question. And that was pussy wetness. Yes it was.
And shocking as the sight was to the men who gathered round the magazine, just because of who the model happened to be, none of them could say that what they saw was downright ungainly. After all, she was one of them. They had to agree that what they saw there was the prettiest pink ever to grace a magazine page.
Oh but there was more: whoever would insist Cindy might really be genuinely angelic, would now have to understand that this angel was no longer virginal to knowledge of a phallic object filling her anus. It gleamed a bright purple that might be likened to a grape-flavored candy. The photographer had done an excellent job capturing the glint at insertion point.
Those who may have let their eyes and lusts look at such imagery in other times and contexts but grew jaded because of the inherent fakery, would be mightily surprised in a most repentant way, because no fakery existed in this graphic presentation. A little touching up the colors and lighting set up by professional photographers who specialized in this sort of imagery, yes, that was inferred, understood.
But that look on her face that they knew so well, because they remembered giving her birthday and Christmas presents and knew that look of appreciative contentment and gladness, and in this picture she definitely wore that same look that could never be faked.
It was a surrender to the moment, whatever or whoever suggested she try this, to pose this way, to feel this simulated phallic object inside her tight anal portal. Did she not realize that strangers, dirty-minded men, would stroke their cocks, until raining splats of cum on that glossy-printed face? Whether she did or did not know this, nothing could change the truth that this face in the magazine exuded a kind of watery-eyed joy that flushed her face, shaped her lips to part just the right tantalizing place, eyes dreamily half-closed.
If that simulated phallic object could somehow come to life, it would certainly express its sentiments that easily married those of she whose flowery sphincter hugged it as it snuggled within those walls, and all those dancing cooing nerve-endings.
"Hi guys!"
Her head poked into the doorway of the barbershop, and the men who gathered around looking at her images tried to act as if they were just talking about Wall Street or the latest baseball scores.
Then she was gone. She was riding her ten-speed, the day was hot, and the shortest of shorts barely covered what was explicitly exposed in the magazine.
All of the men in the barbershop tried not to embarrass each other because they knew they all felt the same mixed feelings.
The barber stammered, "Look fellas, I think I'm gonna have to close early today."
"Yeah that's fine, John, I should run on to the house, myself."
And they all departed the shop, walking with decidedly forward posture, each grabbing a random magazine they tried to cover the front of their pants with, yet there was no need to hide anything because they would all understand.
John the barber reversed the sign in the door, announcing the shop was closed, pulled down the blind. He went to pick up the magazine and sat in one of his barber chairs.
"Cindy, what is this all about?"
He wanted to look on all this as the detached philosopher but the way the crotch of his pants quickly filled with his hardening cock, a philosophical view of the magazine pictures and the realization that he knew who this model was, that he knew a lot more about her now, was quite unrealistic. Already he had unconsciously undid the top snap of his pants; now pushing the zipper down, cock freer to push murderously against his white cotton briefs, demanding freedom and warm-handed strokes.
He looked at the picture; kept bouncing back and forth between the shine of her pouting pussy, which was not shaven clean but showed just the touch of a deep almost reddish golden triangle. Her hands resting against her inner thighs, pink fingernails, and that phallus plugged so firmly into her anal lips, the observer left in the dark as to how big it really was, seeing only the last few inches. Then back to her face, the distant authentic contentment, head and her hair surrounded by large soft pillows.
His hand was now rubbing his cock through his underwear, the precum drool creating a sticky slick spot that grew as he rubbed himself. He lifted the waistband and the drooling head poked out, assuming a resting place against his stomach.
"Oh god, what am I doing?" he tried closing his eyes to the image and to force his free hand to grip the armrest. This did not succeed very well. He pushed the waistband down and the flat sweaty palm of his bare hand pressed lengthwise against his cock. When his hand moved up, it brushed against his head and precum clung to his hand.
