One Night Only

by Violet Blue

April Harriman, MD Neurosurgery

  566 Park Avenue, Suite 105

  New York, NY

  JUST A LITTLE TRIM

  Kristina Wright

  You have a new client, girl,” Gil whispered in my ear. “And this boy is smokin’ hot.”

  I dropped my bag at my station and glanced at my pink appointment sheet. “Harold Gruber? Not a hot name.”

  Gil looked at himself in my mirror and preened, running a comb through his jet-black pompadour. On anyone else, it would have looked dumb. On Gil, it was snazzy. I saw that he’d added a streak of white blond on one side, giving him a kind of’80s rockabilly look. I nodded in approval.

  “Trust me, Lulu. Mr. Gruber is going to rock your little socks,” he said, gesturing at my white anklets inside four-inch black stilettos. “And if he leaned my way, I’d be stealing him out from under you.”

  “Hmm.” I glanced at the clock. “Well, I’m ten minutes late and Mr. Gruber is going to walk out the door if I don’t get him in my chair.”

  I did my own once-over in the mirror. It’s a hazard of being in the beauty business that I get carried away trying to look the part. I was wearing my kinky schoolgirl outfit today—sheer white blouse with a red lace bra underneath, short black skirt, fishnets, white ankle socks and black pumps. My hair—a custom mixed shade of red with a ribbon of dark purple—hung in two long braids, framing my breasts. Okay, so may be I looked more like a call girl fulfilling a businessman’s afternoon fantasy instead of the top stylist at Shockwave Salon, but believe me when I say I blended in.

  I walked out to the reception area, the sound of my heels clicking across the tile floor barely audible over the hum of hair dryers, and struck a pose. “Mr. Gruber?”

  Whatever I had expected—and I will admit I expected a sweater vest, corduroy trousers and orthopedic shoes—Harold Gruber was decidedly not it. This six-foot-something, dark-haired, masculine beauty rose from a chair and walked toward me. The three remaining clients—two women and one college-aged skater boy, stared.

  “I’m Hank,” said the object of all my future wet dreams.

  I licked my bottom lip, coated in a thick, glossy layer of Fuck Me Red, and smiled. “Well, Hank, I’m Lulu, your stylist today.”

  As he followed me to my station, I heard him mutter, “You can be my stylist any day of the week.”

  That gave me back my confidence and I threw a little extra sway in my sashay.

  The theme of the Shockwave Salon is retro punk, with lots of black and pink and silver. The chairs are black leather and each station is a three-sided mirrored stall. Clients don’t like to be stared at when they’re sitting in a stylist’s chair, so the reception area is separated from the salon by a wall of beveled glass. It’s kind of a neat setup, really. There’s an intimacy to being a stylist—it’s like being a masseuse or therapist—and Norma, the owner of Shockwave, was smart to play on that.

  I gestured to the chair and Mr. Gruber—Hank—settled into it. Like a bullfighter, I snapped a cape in the air before draping it around his neck. That was the first part of him I touched. His neck. I’m pretty impervious to my clients. I’ve only dated one and that was a disaster. I’d rather keep a client than have a date, so I lay the flirtation on hot and heavy when they’re in my chair, but that’s the only thing that gets laid. But rubbing my fingertips along the back of Hank’s neck made me reconsider.

  “So, what can I do for you today?” I said with a smile and an arch of one sculpted eyebrow.

  I knew the insinuation was pure sex and that was my intention. There was a reason I was the top stylist at the salon—the only thing hotter than sex is the temptation of sex. Temptation pays the mortgage, baby.

  “Just a little trim,” Hank said.

  I’ve heard the phrase before from male clients, but never said with quite the same inflection. Hank had taken my flirt and upped the ante.

  “Just a little trim?” I repeated, turning my back to him.

  My bag of tools was still on the floor where I had dropped it and I bent over to dig out the clippers. Thanks to the mirrors, I could see Hank’s eyes go immediately to my ass. I could feel my skirt riding up precariously high. He was getting a glimpse of the stocking tops of my fishnets and maybe even a shadowy peek of asscheek, but I didn’t make an effort to cover myself. The clippers were right on top of the pile, but I spent a solid minute fumbling around so he could get a good, long look. Interestingly, his eyes slipped from my bottom down to my feet before traveling back up. It looked like Mr. Gruber wasn’t just an ass man; he was a leg man, too. It’s good to remember such things about clients so one can dress appropriately on appointment day.

  I finally stood, brushing my hand over the back of my skirt as I did. “Sorry, I’m a bit disorganized this morning,” I said, a little breathless. “I had a late night and overslept this morning.”

  He cocked his head and studied me for a moment, as if considering what might have kept me up so late. Whatever his imagination conjured, it made him smile. “Not a problem.”

  I stepped behind him, meeting his gaze in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed from bending over and one braid had slipped inside my blouse. I saw him glance to where the red plait disappeared and I made a show of freeing it while giving him a better look at my cleavage. My breasts had spilled over the top of my push-up bra, so he got more of a look than I intended.

  “Sorry,” I said again, feeling his gaze like a touch. “How embarrassing.”

  I really did need to get to work on the man’s hair if I was going to make up for lost time, so I focused on giving him what he wanted—just a little trim. The clippers buzzed in my hand as I trimmed up the back of his neck.

  “Do you normally keep it this short?”

  “This is long for me. I’m a former Marine,” Hank said, staring at my cleavage as I leaned down to hear him over the noise in the salon.

  “Oh. You’re used to high and tight,” I said, referring to the preferred military haircut. “That’s practically bald.”

  I had moved around to the front of the chair, practically straddling his leg as I trimmed the front. My skirt had ridden up and Hank stared as I pressed my crotch against his knee. The silky fabric of the cape rubbed against my thighs and I gave his knee a little pelvic thrust. His knee never moved away. In fact, I think he might have pushed back a little bit.

  “Is it?”

  I was getting a little too enthusiastic about my work because I had lost track of what we were talking about. “Is it what?”

  “Is it practically bald?”

  I had the sneaking suspicion that Mr. Gruber was beating me at my own game. I brushed a few stray hairs from his forehead and smiled wickedly. “Oh, yeah. But some women like bald.”

  “Hmm. I don’t think I’ve ever had it bald.”

  I moved around the chair to the other side, using the clippers around his ear. I had the overwhelming urge to lean forward and suck on his fleshy earlobe, but I figured that would be pushing my luck. Hank didn’t seem averse to my flirting, but earlobe nibbling might scare him off. Or get me fired.

  Even with all the flirting, I was finished with his cut in fifteen minutes. I have to admit, I was a little disappointed. I wasn’t quite ready to let Mr. Gruber escape.

  “That was quick,” he said, sounding a tad disappointed himself.

  I’m good at thinking on my feet. “Would you like a shampoo to rinse off all the loose hair?”

  He looked up at me, past my breasts, an expression of dubious amusement on his face. “Isn’t that a little girlie?”

  “Absolutely not! It’ll get all those itchy little hairs off the back of your neck.”

  He seemed to consider it. “Will you do it or does someone else?”

  “We have a shampoo girl,” I said. “But she’s out sick today, so I could do it. I don’t have another appointment for half an hour.”

  “Okay.”

  I unsnapped his cape and tossed it in the wicker basket by my chair. “Just follow me back t
o the shampoo station.”

  I took a few steps toward the back of the salon and realized he wasn’t following me. Walking back to the chair, I started to ask why. Then I saw why. Mr. Gruber had a sizeable erection tenting his khakis. Without a word, I retrieved the cape and snapped it around his neck again.

  “Problem solved. Follow me.”

  “Problem hidden,” he said dryly. “Not solved.”

  We passed Gil on the way to the shampoo station. “Give me a heads-up if anyone is coming back for a shampoo.”

  Gil gave me a wink. “Told you, girl. Rock those socks.”

  The shampoo station is a dimly lit alcove with three comfortable recliner chairs and more mirrors. I got Hank settled into the chair on the end and started the water running. The salon wasn’t packed today and a cursory glance at the other clients’ progress told me we had a few minutes alone. I tilted Hank’s head back toward the towel-lined sink and smiled.

  “Relax.”

  He smirked, closing his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good boy,” I said, running warm water over his head. “You’ll enjoy this.”

  Having someone shampoo your hair is a sensual experience—or it can be. I was determined to make sure Hank wasn’t disappointed. I lathered thick coconut shampoo in his hair, bemused by the expression of pleasure on his face. I was standing over him, my hip pressed against his muscular forearm and breasts practically in his face. He opened his eyes, staring up at me. “I can see your nipples,” he whispered.

  I looked down and saw that my breasts had slipped the confines of the push-up bra again. The dark ridge of each nipple was visible through my blouse.

  “Oops.” I winked. “I can’t do much about it right now, with my hands soapy and wet. Would you help me out?”

  I wasn’t sure what his reaction would be, but I didn’t expect him to lean up and lick one nipple through the fabric of my blouse. The sensation, fleetingly brief but electrifying, made me jump. He grinned wickedly.

  “Mr. Gruber,” I said, my voice all breathy. “That wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

  “Do you mind?”

  Did I mind? My salon flirtations never went beyond a little flashing and a lot of innuendo. Did I mind?

  “Not in the least.”

  “Good,” he said, before dazzling me with his ability to unfasten the buttons on my blouse with just his teeth.

  “Wow. Did you learn that in the Marines?”

  He chuckled. “Not exactly.”

  Before I could even catch my breath, Hank had two buttons undone on my blouse and was suckling one nipple. I kept lathering and rinsing his hair, at an utter loss as to what else I should do. I hoped to hell Gil had taken me seriously when I told him to warn me before anyone came back to the shampoo station.

  Hank tugged at my nipple with his lips, causing me to rock forward on the balls of me feet. I was rubbing against his arm now, horny as hell and wishing I could climb on his lap and fuck him. When had this turned into his show? I didn’t really care anymore.

  “I can’t do anything for you here,” I said, regret in my voice, rinsing his hair until the water ran clear.

  He let my nipple slip out of his mouth. “That’s okay. I’m enjoying this.”

  I had a thought. It was insane and I wasn’t thinking clearly, but glancing back toward the salon, hearing the steady buzz of the hair dryers and the hum of chatter, I was willing to risk it.

  “I want to know how much you’re enjoying this,” I said, thrusting my breasts in his face. “I want you to get off.”

  He went still against me. I expected him to pull away. It was going too far and I knew it. But I was so fucking hot I felt reckless. Hank shifted in his seat and I saw movement under the cape. He had unzipped his pants. He was stroking himself.

  I moaned. The urge to rip the cape away and watch him jerk off was almost too much. But it was too risky. The whole thing was too risky and I was trying to convince myself it wasn’t.

  “Like that?” he murmured, nipping the swell of my breast with his teeth.

  I nodded, staring at the rhythmic motion of his hand beneath the cape. “Oh, yeah,” I breathed.

  I gave up any pretense of washing his hair while I imagined what was going on under the silky fabric covering his lap. He sucked hard on my breast, leaving a red mark. I didn’t care. I moaned, counting on the running water to drown out my voice.

  “Show me,” he whispered, pulling away. “I’m so fucking close.”

  I thought he meant my breasts, but he was staring between my legs. My skirt had ridden up as I rubbed against him, barely covering my crotch. I stood up, enjoying this moment of feminine power.

  “You want to see my pussy?”

  He nodded, his hand working steadily beneath the cape.

  I reached down and grabbed the hem of my skirt, raising it enough for him to see. My crotch was just above eye level now and I wondered if he could smell me over the scent of coconut.

  “More,” he said, breathing hard. That made two of us.

  I tugged my thong to the side, revealing my wet, wet pussy. “Told you it was bald,” I said.

  He was mesmerized, his pupils dilated and face flushed. Hank Gruber was going to come while staring at my pussy. I couldn’t resist. I dipped my middle finger between my lips, dragging moisture up over my engorged clit. I trembled, more turned on than I could ever remember being.

  “Do it,” he urged.

  I braced my feet apart, one hand holding up the hem of my skirt, the other between my legs. I stroked myself again. One, two, three, watching Hank’s hand move furiously under the cape. He was going to get off watching me get off. He was going to splatter white drops of come all over the black fabric. The mental image of what was going on just beyond my view—and my reach—was too much. I shuddered as I came, rocking back on my heels.

  “Yes,” Hank hissed. His eyes fluttered closed and his hips jerked upward.

  I fondled my clit until I couldn’t take it anymore, watching him come even though I couldn’t see what he was doing.

  Awareness came back to me in a rush of noise. For a few minutes it seemed like we were in our own little cocoon, but now I could hear voices—closer than I thought—and Gil talking loudly just around the wall that separated the alcove from the rest of the salon. I jerked my skirt down and tucked my breasts back in my blouse just as Gil walked around the corner. He had a look of panic on his face as he led a blond woman to the farthest shampoo chair. He shrugged apologetically at me.

  “I think you’re finished,” I said, still sounding breathless as I turned the water off.

  Hank glanced at Gil’s stricken expression and laughed. “Oh, yeah, I’m finished. That was the best…shampoo…I’ve ever had.”

  Gil’s client had her head in the shampoo sink and was oblivious as Hank maneuvered to get his pants fastened under the cape. He sat up and I draped a black towel around his neck to keep the water from dampening his shirt. Once he gave me the nod, I unsnapped the cape and folded it in on itself, tossing it in the laundry hamper in the corner.

  “Ready to be blown?” I asked, taking great delight in watching Gil nearly swallow his tongue.

  Hank stood, rubbing the towel over his damp hair. “Nah, that’s okay. I don’t mind it wet.”

  I could have sworn I heard Gil choke. His poor client was wiping water out of her eyes. “Sorry, sorry,” he muttered, attempting to watch what he was doing to her but unable to take his eyes off Hank and me.

  I laughed. “Well then, let’s go to the reception desk and get you taken care of. You could even schedule your next appointment, if you like.”

  “Great,” Hank said, running a finger down my cleavage. “I can’t wait.”

  Scandalized, Gil shook his head as we left him to his poor neglected client. He called after me. “Socks, Lulu?”

  I smoothed my hands down my skirt and gave him a wink over my shoulder. “Rocked, Gil. Rocked hard.”

  THREE PINK EARTHQUAKES

 
Thomas S. Roche

  Jeff kept staring, but he was good-looking enough that he could get away with it. He’d stared at Molly before, from across the room, with a little less heat and a little less sleaze, though no less expectation. At the time it had creeped her out a little, but those times were long gone—what, twenty-five, thirty minutes ago? An eternity in the world of sleazy bar-pickup threesomes. Now it was almost like having a boyfriend watch her eagerly as a very hot Italian woman came in for a kiss. She was getting very throbby in places she probably shouldn’t be in public, and while throbby was definitely good, it was also very scary.

  Jeff looked more intently as Ilaria caressed Molly’s arm. The former leaned closer, lips parted.

  The latter trembled.

  The latter took a deep heaving breath, and with a mingled sense of inevitability and excitement, prepared to be debauched.

  As their faces neared, Molly’s breath came tighter. The scent of Grapèro and brandy and clove cigarettes and the hint of a joint wafting off of Ilaria and through her slick, dark cranberry-kissable lips got Molly high all over again.

  Ilaria took off Molly’s glasses and slid her hand up Molly’s short dress.

  “I think they frown on that here,” said Molly breathlessly.

  “Good thing you won’t be able to see them frowning,” said Ilaria, her breath sweet with liquor and her Italian accent thick.

  It was the kind of accent that made Molly want to put her tongue in all sorts of places.

  Their lips met. Ilaria’s mouth was hot and sweet. Her lips felt firm, so much firmer than the last time Molly had kissed a girl. Firmer, in fact, than the last time Molly had kissed a guy. Her tongue, on the other hand, was soft and wet and cool, probably from the drink. It tasted luscious. It slid deep into Molly’s mouth; so distracted was she by the glorious feel of Ilaria’s tongue against hers that she forgot totally about the hand sliding up between her thighs.

  Ilaria pulled back slightly, glanced with a smirk at Molly’s drink—pink and bright and untouched.

  She said with purring pleasure: