Lucy and the Hairdresser

"Haircut, love?" Lucy turned, startled, and saw a man holding out a flyer to her.

"Huh?" she said. Her mind was on the grocery list in her head. She hadn't even known there was a salon here.

He inclined his head toward stairs leading to the basement of the building they were standing in front of. "I have a little shop down there. No customers yet today. $45 for a shampoo, cut and style?"

Lucy's hands went to her hair, long and ragged down to her shoulder blades. How long had it been since her last haircut? Not since before Brandon had dumped her.

She studied the man. Mid-20's, perhaps, lightly muscled, clean-shaven, and classically handsome. He had a tribal tattoo around his upper bicep. A haircut might be a nice diversion, she thought.

"Sure," she said, taking the flyer from him. "Styles by Devon," it read. He'd obviously made this on his computer.

"Great. This way," he said. She followed him down the stairs and into a small salon. Just one chair and a shampoo station, with styling products on shelves lining the walls. It was neat and clean and brightly lit and smelled just as a salon should. "Have a seat," he said, gesturing to the chair.

She perched on the chair, studying herself in the mirror. Her auburn hair was tucked haphazardly behind her ears, parted messily down the middle. She cleaned up good, she had been told, but she hadn't felt like putting in much effort lately.

Devon - she assumed that was his name - appeared in the mirror behind her. He ran his fingers through her hair, loosening knots and getting a feel for the length. A shiver ran through her. She loved having her hair played with.

"What would you like?" he asked. His British accent was a delight.

"I don't know," she said. She shrugged. "What do you think? Layers? Short? Long? It's been ages since I had my hair cut."

His fingertips brushed her neck as he folded her long hair under itself to shoulder length. "How about here?" he suggested.

"Sure. I trust you," she said. He grabbed a comb from the station and straightened her part. Goosebumps pricked along her arms.

He smiled, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Good." He rested a hand on her shoulder.

There was something strange about the way he looked at her.

He took her hand and helped her down from the chair and led her to the sink for a shampoo. She sat in the chair and leaned her head back.

He stood beside her and ran his fingers behind her neck to gather her hair. He washed her hair, massaging her scalp in a way that made her feel limp. She closed her eyes while he rinsed and squeezed out the extra water. He wrapped a towel around her head and rested his hand on her shoulder again. When she opened her eyes and sat up, he was staring at her chest. She noticed that her tank top was pulled down low enough to show the top of her bra. How had that happened?

"Uh, are you done?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, love. Let's see what we can do with this beautiful hair." He helped her up and put his hand on the small of her back to direct her back to his styling station.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. It was one thing to enjoy a haircut from a good-looking stylist. But he was getting a little too touchy-feely for her comfort. Well, surely once she had the cape over her and he had a pair of scissors in one hand and a comb in the other, she would feel better. She surreptitiously adjusted her top.

He ran the comb through her damp hair, then draped a cape over her and secured it around her neck. He picked up his scissors. Bits of hair fell around her as he wielded his scissors with confidence. He made his way around her head, smoothing, measuring, snipping. He paused and put his hands on her shoulders. "Okay so far?" he asked. "How's the length?" He stroked the back of her neck with one finger to illustrate the length of her hair in the back.

"Uh, it's fine. Are we almost done?"

"You got somewhere to be, pet?"

Pet? Must be a British thing. She really just wanted to get out of there. Devon was decidedly creepy. She hesitated too long before coming up with a believable lie, and he continued the haircut before she could speak. "There, now, doesn't that look nice?" He came around in front of her and fussed with her bangs, then put one foot up on the footrest and leaned in close to her. A knot formed in the pit of her stomach. She felt trapped, frozen in place.

He put his hands on her shoulders again. "Shall we take this off?" he asked, then reached around behind her to unfasten the cape. It slid to the floor. "Oh, look at all the little hairs all over you. That'll get itchy." He brushed away loose hairs from her chest that had found their way under the cape. His ran his fingers under the straps of her tanktop and down to her cleavage.

"I'd like to go now!" she blurted when his hand lingered on her breast.

"Aren't you going to pay me, pet?" She wished he'd go back to calling her "love."

"Uhhh, 45, you said?" She fumbled with her purse in her lap.

He put his hands over hers. "I don't want money," he whispered.

Her eyes darted about, looking for an escape. She thought she could duck under his arm and sprint for the door if she could catch him by surprise. He saw where she was looking. "The door's locked, love."

Okay, maybe "love" wasn't any better. "Please, just take my money and let me go. I just wanted a haircut."

"I don't want your money," he said again. He put her purse on the floor and grabbed her wrists. "I saw how turned on you were. Admit it. Your cunt is dripping wet. The way you moaned and sighed when I washed your hair. The way you shivered every time I touched you."

"No, please. I just like having my hair cut. That's all. Please." Maybe she could kick him. She struggled against his grip, and he pulled her roughly from the chair. She trembled.

"Glad I could be of service," he growled. "You got something from me, and now I want something from you." He yanked on her wrists so she stumbled into him, then put one arm around her shoulders and pressed her body into his. He let go of her wrists and shoved the straps of her top and bra down, then pulled her bra cup away to uncover one breast.

"Please," she whispered.

He pinched her nipple hard. She screamed, but he didn't let go. He walked her backwards to the shampoo station. With his other hand, he grabbed a fistful of her freshly-cut hair and yanked her head back so she was looking up at him. "You like when I touch your hair. You moan when I massage your scalp. But when I try to give you more of what you like, you scream and fight? That's not a way to treat a man. That's a tease. I don't like being teased."

"I wasn't -" she squeaked. He yanked on her hair again and she closed her mouth.

He finally let go of her nipple but maintained his grip on her hair. "Now," he said. "Let's see what we have here."

She couldn't take her eyes off his face. She stood there, petrified, as he used his free hand to unbutton her jeans. He slipped his hand down the front, into her underwear. "Wet," he declared. A jolt ran through her as his finger brushed across her clit.

"No," she whispered. "Please." She couldn't move. Her arms hung at her sides, useless. Her knees locked.

He let go of her hair and pulled her pants and underwear down to the floor. She trembled. He gave her a little shove and she collapsed into the shampoo chair, legs splayed open. Her head hit the edge of the sink and she cried out in pain. Dizzily, she watched him lower his pants, saw his hard cock jump out. She gasped. It was so long, so thick. She'd never been with a man that big. She should get up. She should try to run. But she was mesmerized by his movements, paralyzed with indecision, and, admittedly, a little excited.

He straddled her, leaned down to suck on her exposed nipple. The shock of it drew out a moan. Encouraged, he uncovered the other breast. She tried to whimper, tried to say no, tried to beg. But the only thing that escaped her lips was another moan.

"No more teasing," he said. Without preamble, he pushed her thighs apart and plunged his cock into her. She screamed. She tried to push herself up the chair, to get away, but he held her hips and pushed his cock up her cunt as far as it would go. She felt full to bursting. Her head swam. She couldn't breathe for a moment, stunned by the speed of his entry. The muscles of her vagina pulsed around his cock, stretching to accommodate him.

"No good," he said. He pulled out. "Up," he said. She stared at him. "Get up!"

Her legs were like jelly. Her cunt throbbed. She didn't understand what he wanted. Was he done already? No, he was still hard, his cock jutting out in front of him, glistening with precum and her own juices.

He took her arm in both of his hands and jerked her to her feet. "I'm not comfortable here." He half pushed, half carried her to the styling chair and bent her over the seat with her ass toward him. "Now there's a view," he said. His cock entered her again, more slowly this time. "Mmmmmm. So tight," he murmured.

Another moan came from somewhere deep inside her. He put his hands on her hips and pulled slowly out, then plunged back in, hard. She grasped the armrests of the chair for support as each thrust threatened to topple her. She moaned with every entry and sighed with every exit, tensed for the indecipherable sensation of his next invasion. It hurt but it didn't hurt. She was terrified and aroused. She wanted it to be over, but she was lost in the moment.

His frenzied fucking slowed, and with one final, exultant cry, he came inside her. He reached around and touched her clit with one finger and she jumped. He rubbed slowly, then faster, rocking his pelvis against her ass, his half-hard cock still inside her. His other hand snaked under her and found her breast. A strangled cry of protest and pleasure burst out of her. Her thighs tightened, her hands clenched, and her pussy contracted. A wave of release washed over her. Panting and sobbing, she surrendered to the orgasm.

He pulled out and released her hips. She slipped to the floor and huddled there. His hand stroked her hair.

"It looks good on you," he said. "The haircut. Glad you enjoyed it. You can go now."

She twisted so she could look up at him, full of disbelief. She wasn't entirely sure what had happened. After a moment in which he simply looked at her, she stood up, wavering with fatigue. She pulled up her pants and fixed her bra and top. He gave her a tissue and moved away from her while she wiped her face.

The jangle of keys startled her. He was unlocking the door. "Go on then, love," he said. As she shuffled toward him, he pulled the door open and held it, a perfect gentleman. He handed her her purse. "I took a tenner as a tip," he said. "I hope you don't mind."

"Uh," she said.

"Ta now. Thanks for coming in."

She blinked, then walked through the door, half expecting him to reach out and grab her before she could cross the threshold. But he closed the door behind her. She stood there for a moment, touched her short hair, felt the soreness between her legs, the dampness of her panties.

Whatever he had done to her in there, it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her.