A Full Service Salon

1. The Discovery

Wendy first heard of Frederique's from an out-of-town friend who had come in to spend the weekend from Los Angeles, and, money being no object, gotten her hair styled at the trendiest place in the lower East side. And she had raved about it. "You feel like a queen -- they pamper you in every way imaginable," she told Wendy. "It was great -- even though I couldn't even get Frederique - he's supposed to be unbelievable. But he's booked at least two months in advance. Still I have no complaints -- I got my hair done and had a pedicure and foot massage at the same time -- it was wonderful."

Wonderful was something Wendy hadn't felt in awhile -- especially not pampered and wonderful. She wasn't as upper class her friend -- who had married wealth, if not well. Wendy was around forty, and although she worked hard to maintain her looks, and was largely successful, she certainly hadn't been pampered much recently.

After her friend left, Wendy called Frederique's. It would cost, as her friend had said, two Benjamins, just to have her hair styled -- pedicure and massage at no extra cost. To get Frederique himself would cost $250. Wendy hesitated before inquiring into his availability. He wasn't. At present he was booked solid for six months -- although they were accepting names on a waiting list. The receptionist gave her a fax number. If she was interested she should fax over a recent photo -- so Frederique could plan her cut ahead of time -- in case there was an opening. After she hung up she hesitated, but before going to sleep that night copied a recent photo and faxed it over with her name and number. And shortly thereafter forgot about the incident entirely.

Until about a month later. Wendy got a call after work on Thursday -- Frederique unexpectedly had an opening the next day -- at 7:00 p.m. She should plan on being there about an hour. Wendy had been invited to a friend's party which started at 8:00 p.m., but figured she could arrive late. She'd dress for the party and arrive with her new $250 haircut -- or "styling" as it was called at that price. It would be interesting to see if anyone noticed she looked different.

2. The Appointment

After work the next day Wendy showered and dressed. She usually wore stockings for dinner parties, but left them off now, recalling she would be receiving a pedicure. She wore a shimmering black skirt which almost reached her knees, while her top was a white blouse, with just a hint of decollete. White French-cut panties and a half-bra completed her wardrobe. If her hair style was nice she'd make quite an entrance she figured.

Frederique's was on the second floor of a converted brownstone. There was nothing special about the entrance or the stairway walkup, but once she entered the shop itself she could tell why it had caused such a stir. It was typical New York -- a lot of money spent on the interior, and a theme to set it apart. Or two themes actually, Wendy sensed, as she examined the salon more carefully. Water was prominent everywhere -- photographs of tropical reefs, snorkeling equipment hanging in one corner, and two fish tanks, once with multi-colored translucent tropical fish and another with two eels, which slithered through the tank -- sleek and long, eyes shining and teeth flashing.

The eel fish tank seemed to be a bridge between the underwater motif and the second -- a vaguely S&M theme. Strings hung down over doorways where doors used to be. But these were made out of metal, not beads as in the 1970s, when Wendy was growing up. You could see through the metal strings a bit, although not all that clearly, things either obscured or shimmering, lending an aura of mystery and slight danger to each room. There was a riding crop and studded dog collar hanging opposite the snorkel mask and fins. Very lower east side, she decided.

Wendy gave her name -- and her credit card -- to the receptionist, a pretty girl with a lovely haircut, and was directed to sit and wait. "Mr. F will be with you shortly," she said. There seemed to be three rooms -- the main one, which consisted of the receptionist and waiting area on one side, and two hair stations on the other, another large room with two more hair stations, and a slightly smaller room with just one. Wendy decided that the later must be Frederique's room -- she couldn't view into it from where she sat, but the other stations had a partial view, although heavily obstructed by the metal strings.

As she continued to look about he appeared, parting the metal and walking up to her. Younger than her perhaps by a few years, he was casually dressed, wearing a partially unbuttoned Hawaiian silk shirt an black jeans, and black Nike Jordan sneakers. His dark hair was pulled back and hung down around his neck, rich and full, like a dark brown lion's mane. He had an aqualine nose, which lent him an upper class air, and he was handsome, although not striking. Frederique offered Wendy his hand, thanked her for coming by name, and as she got up and took it he escorted her into the smaller room, which, as she had guessed, was his.

"One moment please," Frederique requested. The stylist's chair was the fanciest of that type Wendy had seen -- deep cushions and long, with separate feet rests for each foot. He placed a thick five foot towel over the chair -- "It's much more practical this way" he said, indicating to the hair on the floor. As Wendy sank into the chair he swept up the hair from the floor. "I've had my own place for three years now -- the first year I had no customers, the second year I had no problems, and this year I have no rest. In my room I do all the work myself." He turned to her and smiled. "Everything. Are you looking for anything in particular, or my I have free reign?"

"Isn't the rain always free?" Wendy rejoined. "Oh yes," Frederique responded, "outside the salon the rain is free, but inside the salon the reign costs $250." He paused and smiled at her. "And, regardless of what Dustin Hoffman claims, I am the reign man." "Well, it's three times as much as I've ever paid before," Wendy noted, "so I guess I'd better place myself in your hands and let you decide." He returned her smile. "You won't be disappointed," he replied.

Wendy faced the mirror while Frederique styled her hair, making no major changes to her shoulder-length light brown hair, but somehow altering the texture and shaping it in an appealing and fashion forward way. Then he leaned her head back and washed her hair. The water was warm and refreshing, and his hands were warm and soft, alternating the wash with short massages of her neck. Wendy felt very relaxed, as her cares slowly left her shoulders and went down into the sink like the loose bits of her hair. This went on for a good 15 minutes -- as long as the cut itself. She was sorry when he stopped, soaked up the excess moisture with a towel and applying some gel.

3. The Treatment

Frederique tilted Wendy's head back. Although the dryer looked new it was huge, bigger than the ones used in the 1950s. He told her that it was a slow dry to preserve her hair's texture so it would look good tonight, as she was obviously going to a party. "It takes about half an hour to dry," Frederique informed Wendy. "I have the newest technology -- it covers almost your entire head and you can lean back against the machine with your cut. And while your hair is drying," he smiled, taking out a tray, "I'll be giving your feet a manicure and massage as well. I'd say that's one thing that sets me apart."

Frederique told Wendy that she should keep her head still at all times during this so that her hair wasn't messed up, and then he put some cotton in her ears, leaned her head back and turned the dryer on. The heat was low and felt very good. Soon a slight mist formed, making her feel even more relaxed although it slightly obscured her vision.

Wendy's head was back and resting -- looking down she could barely see her knees or feet. But she could feel Frederique take hold of her left foot and start to file her nails, one at a time. Then he took a tray and started to paint them. He worked fast, but used several colors, and although she couldn't make out the patterns she could see the reds and blues as they were applied.

Wendy felt Frederique do the same with her left foot, filing and then painting. She was surprised that the owner of the salon would actually stoop to do this -- figuratively and literally. He probably has a foot fetish, she thought, laughing to herself. Whatever his reason his hands felt wonderful, and after he had finished painting her nails his fingers started to massage her feet.

His hands were large and strong, and they worked over her inner arch and along her foot's edges, stroking, touching and holding her foot. He moved and kneaded each toe individual. Wendy had never felt anything like this before -- soft yet firm, relaxing yet invigorating, natural yet sensual. "It was the best of times and worst of times" she remembered from David Copperfield, and hoped she didn't lose her head.

As he worked over her foot Wendy almost wished he would continue his massage higher. And then Frederique did -- as if he could read her mind. But if he could read her mind he missed the word "almost". As much as Wendy enjoyed the feel of his fingers massaging her left ankle and stroking up her calf, as sexy as they made her feel, she wasn't prepared for this. She had not given Frederique permission to do more than a foot massage. Besides, she hardly knew him. Besides, this was a public place. She was breathing faster as she decided the simplest thing would be for her to cross her legs, brushing his hand aside. That would surely show him how she felt and cause him to stop -- or at least brush his hand away. But when she went to cross her legs she found she couldn't move them. Something was stopping her.

Wendy was so relaxed -- maybe that was it. Perhaps her legs had fallen asleep. She lightly but urgently tapped them on the bottom of the chair. Urgently, because Frederique's hands were higher now, already at her knee, gently massaging her ticklish inner knee. She tapped her feet again -- and clearly felt the bottoms of her feet, despite the strong relaxed sensations her legs felt from the message. She tried to cross her legs again.

And again could not. Something was preventing her -- she couldn't clearly see what it was -- the steam from the dryer was heavier now -- she could barely see down to her waist. But something was holding her back at the ankles. She literally couldn't move -- Frederique had applied some sort of leather strap around each ankle. What sort of trick was this?

His hands had moved up still farther, under her black skirt now, massaging at the bottom of her thighs. His firm fingers felt her skin, kneading it sensuously. But this had to stop. "Please stop," Wendy said, trying to break the spell verbally. The steam was very thick now. She could vaguely see a smile on Frederique's face, as he replied "Please don't move your head. Your time is almost up -- only about 5 minutes left. Then I'll stop."

The nervy bastard. She could see him still smiling as his fingers reached the mid-point of her thighs. And they felt good -- there was no mistaking that. Wendy was almost breathing quickly now. She could feel her nipples start to harden. The shampoo, the steam the chair, the massage -- all conjoined to relax her. But she had not given Frederique permission to do this. And his fingers were moving higher still. She tried one last time to cross her legs, but the ankle straps were too strong.

Wendy considered calling out -- screaming. But that would only draw attention to her predicament. Other people would see what was happening -- and that was the last thing she wanted. She could feel her nipples, despite her bra, pressing out against the fabric of her dress now, taunt. She was breathing very rapidly. And now, for the first time, she realized that there was some moisture on her lower lips. Her body was loving this. The massage itself was so sensual -- Frederique's hands were moving over her upper thigh, fingers stroking her soft skin, up and down as they ceaselessly advanced, stretching and contracting. And it was sexy to have a handsome, powerful man do this to her -- and so brazenly -- so that if anything seemed amiss anyone could look in and see -- see what?

See Frederique's index fingers running along the elastic bottoms of her panties. Wendy felt his fingers run along the elastic waistline too. The cocky bastard is teasing me, she thought. She could feel blood flowing downward, her labia slightly puffy, and then feel the warmth of his index and middle fingers running over her panties, tracing her lips with long fluid strokes.

Wendy wondered whether anyone could see this -- see Frederique taking advantage of her. He ran his fingers back up over her lips, and Wendy wondered whether he could feel the moisture on her lips. Again as if he could read her mind he let his fingers go under the elastic waistline and pull her panties down, off her cheeks, past her upper thighs, down her knees, dropping to her ankles.

Wendy could hardly breathe now, she was almost panting. "Please stop" she implored, although she wondered if she even wanted him to. She was close to a release now, and would have to masturbate before attending the party if he listened. Frederique heard, but did not listen. "Time's almost up," he said calmly, "then you'll be all dry, so ...."

So what?, Wendy thought. So she would sue him. Or have him arrested. And make the papers? And have all her friends and co-workers know that she had been touched at a salon? She knew she wouldn't do that. And Frederique must have known too, because now he was running his fingers over her naked pussy, stroking up and down over her rich, full lips. And while his right index and middle fingers stroked up and down, with long, languorous touches, his thumb moved around her clitoris, anti-clockwise.

Wendy could feel it building in her. Her body was betraying her -- nipples so hard, lips so puffy, slight moans coming from her mouth as his thumb brushed over her clitoris lightly. "Time's almost up," Frederique whispered to her, and then inserted his middle finger into her, letting it slide into her hole like a mini-penis. "If there is anything you need to do..." his mellifluous voice informed her.

Wendy couldn't think. She felt his finger invade her warm, wet walls over and over, as her clitoris was stimulated by his thumb. "Do it," he said. She was involuntarily contracting her pussy around him as he finger fucked her. She was panting and whimpering, as he continued his assault. "One minute left," Frederique announced. "So do it."

His left hand went up and cupped her right breast, as his finger continued to take her pussy, in and out, such fine hard friction. He pinched her nipple, pulled it toward him. "Do it. Do it Wendy. Do it now."

"Oh," she moaned, feeling his thumb on his clit. "Oh, yes," she sighed, feeling her nipple pressed and pulled. "Oh my ...," her voice trailed, and when he again commanded "Do it!" she did. Her head pressed back into the dryer and she closed her eyes, feeling almost like she would faint, and she came, all her pent up energy and longing released, bathing Frederique's hand with her juice. It felt so good, so needed. He left his finger in her, very still, for about half a minute. The thick towel under her absorbed most of her moisture. Her breathing was slowly returning to normal by the time he removed it, replacing it with a hand-towel to dry off her vulva and pubic hair.

Wendy felt the dryer stop humming. She felt her panties move up again, and then on. She felt the dryer lifted, and so Frederique as it was. "You look wonderful," he smiled. "Very stylish -- one of my better jobs." She looked around -- she could see bits of the other customers through the mail -- but as far as she could tell, no one was looking at her. She moved her legs slightly -- they were no longer restrained.

Frederique was looking at his watch. "Time's up," he said. He was washing his hands in the sink. "You know the way out, and may go when you like." He started to dry his hands with the same hand towel he had dried her pussy with, smiling. "And since I'm the owner, there's no need to tip me." He put down the towel and started to walk away. "This job has its own rewards," he said gazing back at her, then turning the corner.

Wendy slowly rose up, hardly able to comprehend what had happened. She felt ready for her party, as she walked through the chain-linked mail beads, her legs steadier then she thought they'd be. She said goodbye to the receptionist casually, and left on her way to her party, after having made a reservation for a touch up six weeks later.