Head Hunter
by Frances LaGatta
Place an assortment of high-maintenance female friends together in their
favorite trendy hair salon and the sexy gossip alone curled hair. (Was it
Dorothy Parker who said; 'the only woman without a past was Eve?') Add a team
of hell-raising hairstylists to the huddle and their swapped sexual recipes beat
locker room banter and steam. Take a recent a victim of this bevy of beauties
combined cookery, a butt of their jokes, and the end result was a man on a
mission with lusty plans of a counter-attack dancing in his head.
It wasn't the first time Gabe eyed the lighted hair salon marquee with
amusement. HEAD HUNTERS was apropos. He fumbled an attempt at silencing the
door chimes that warned the stylists' of 'incoming wounded.' According to his
dark- haired, proudly Italian American beauty, Bobbino? Tact was the ability
to make them feel at home, even when you wished they were. But only a 'blonde'
would dare enter twenty minutes before closing time. Especially when her girls
had cut out early, leaving the harried hairstylist to work all by her lonesome,
so they wouldn't miss the tailgate parties before Jimmy Buffet's concert.
Luckily, the curtain of black beads never parted and produced a curious
head. Bobbi wouldn't have heard him anyway; not with her blow dryer roaring.
Like a spice in Ragu spaghetti sauce, she was in there all right. On a
track-lighted mirrored stage. Performing magical transformations. Pumping up
her hydraulic chair, along with the ego of her last customer. Gabe crinkled up
his nose at the toxic mix of lingering potions: hairspray, bleach, tint,
peroxide, and something reminiscent of rotten eggs.
Chrome and glass shelves in the reception room held an arsenal of hair
and tanning bed products. He plucked up a bottle of sun lotion the girls raved
about. FIRE possessed a magic ingredient called 'Tingle'; an interesting,
heat-activated brew, that not only dilated surface blood vessels and generated
tingles, but gave the skin a temporary flush, or sunburned appearance. Behind
the high, shiny black desk, Gabe quickly set the twenty-minute wall timer on Bed
Four. He removed his shoes and tip-toed down the side hall to the end ,
quietly closed the last door behind him, shucked suit coat, tie, shirt,
trousers, socks, jockeys, and he applied the magic potion.
Other than a funhouse mirror-maze he couldn't find his way out of as a
kid, in a hair salon, it was impossible to escape your reflection. Not bad for
forty-eight, Gabe assessed while he rubbed lotion on his still lean belly.
Bobbi loved to play with his dark brown, silver-shot hair . . . even though he
was folically challenged. She liked to say he was tall, dark, and hands . . .
all over her. Claimed women would kill for his long lashes and gorgeous blue
eyes. Flattery would get her everywhere. Eh, at least he had nice year-long
tan. . . even on his ass and cock. Complements of his sweet young head hunter.
Stretched out on the coffin-like bed, he was reminded of Dracula as he
drew the lid down. Seconds later, a loud click jarred him, and bright ultra
violet lights had him shutting his eyes. Toasty warmth began to loosen
work-accumulated tension in his neck and shoulders like a half-drained snifter
of Cognac before a blazing fireplace. In fact, these relaxing twenty-minute
sessions were a much needed shot of sunshine in middle of an over-long, freezing
cold winter. The pleasant fiery 'tingle' ingredient kicked-in and he flicked
on the side fan. Like a gentle ocean breeze, it stirred up the coconut scent of
the concoction and cooled his hot skin. Soft jazz wafted down from ceiling
speakers and melted away surplus cares. Gabe's mind drifted back to the last
time he and Bobbi had sex.
It all started with an early morning phone call at his office. He
could hear blow dryers running and shrill female laughter in the background,
although Bobbi still managed to use her most seductive, and seductively
effective voice. In short, she needed him naked in bed, ready, willing, and
rock hard before she arrived at his apartment. And the second he heard his
bedroom door open? He was to spread his legs wide. His breathing had gone into
high gear and she chose that particular tounge-tied moment to hang up. No doubt
she was satisfied the remainder of his workday would be spent anticipating what
every red-blooded male considered their favorite pastime. And she'd been right.
The hands on the clock above his desk couldn't have moved fast enough.
When Bobbi finally did open his bedroom door that night, before he could
blink, she ripped open the snaps to her baggy black hairstylist smock, revealing
a sexy French maid's uniform. A frilly white blouse exposed the half moon tops
of her voluptuous breasts and, a ruffled loincloth of an apron barely covered
garters to her smoky black thigh highs. Staring coyly at the ceiling, she
pinned a white cap atop her long, raven black spiral curls, making her
mouth-watering decollete jiggle enticingly. She then reached under the
lampshade, and the room went black. A long matchstick was struck, illuminating
her lovely face. With a slow, sensual sashay about the room, she lighted
musk-scented candles until her pleasing form was bathed in soft, flickering
glows. On a deep, bosom-expanding inhalation, she blew out the taper with her
hell red lips, and as if in answer to her fondest wish, his thighs fell wide
open. Her sultry, dark gaze dropped from his expectant face to his proud prong.
When a pink feather duster appeared from behind her back, tickled
testicles and a playfully dusted erection was not what he had in mind. He
grabbed her torturous wrist, ready to haul the little prick tease into bed and
show her the meaning of good head -- but she slipped from his grasp and
scurried out of reach.
Lively olive eyes sparkled with the love of mischief while she waggled
her finger and tisk-tisked him. The only thing that kept him from bounding off
the bed after her was the site of those dainty French manicured fingernails
unbuttoning her skimpy blouse, and then each ruffled cuff. He could almost hear
a blowsy burlesque tune while she tugged out of one sleeve. . . and then the
other. White scrap of materiel flew and fluttered to the floor. Dramatic
fingers swooped to the center cups of her gold satin demi bra, and with one deft
flick of her wrist, her bountiful breasts sprang free. Her large, oval-shaped,
rosy brown aureole shrank and peaked into twin buds under the heat of his gaze.
Bobbi quickly spun on her black high-heeled pumps, deliberately
depriving him of that delectable view. His lil' maid was now bent over, busy
fussing with something on the dresser. Black stocking seams ran straight up her
shapely legs; arrows aiming at a barely-there derriere and, damp, soft brown
tail feathers. Both wiggled sassily below a big black bow.
She turned, hoisting a silver service tray of napkin shrouded items.
Her tits jounced and her hips swayed suasily as she made her to him. Tray
placed at the foot of the bed, she climbed up between his legs, fully ready to
service him. His nostrils flared at the scent of Fendi perfume. Hell-yes red
lips descended and she submissively kissed the head of his all-too-ready cock.
And then suddenly, a wicked-looking knife swooshed out of nowhere -- the sharp
blade-edge placed dangerously agianst his erection. Jesus Christ! Was she
possessed by Loreraina Bobbit! He nearly went into cardiac arrest, scrambled
back against the brass headboard, shielding his shriveled manhood and family
jewels with both hands.
Completely undaunted, the evil minx made a slow show of side-slicing,
cutting out a quarter sections, almost coring a rather large, Sunkist orange.
She fed him a section, and squeezed another over her chest until the juice ran
down and coated her tits. Salaciously, she licked each of her dripping fingers
clean with a bowed mouth born to blow. "Are you going to be a good boy while I
suck you dry?" she purred.
What guy in his right mind would argue? His cock rose again like
Lazarus brought forth from the dead. Wild spiral curls thrashed at his torso
and manhood. Tantalizing tits dangled, swaying slightly before they settled
above his rod. Shaft enveloped in soft, velvety warmth, she squeezed her sticky
wet mounds together and began rocking with a dreamy expression, utterly lost in
the act of pleasuring her man. His knob vanished and reappeared at the apex of
her fleshy cleft. The slit opened and closed from the intoxicating action, and
a pearly drops of pre-cum soon smeared her chin. On the verge of giving her
creamy facial, her tits came away with a sudden rush of cool air, and he moaned
in frustrated delirium.
The next thing he knew, a pillow was shoved under his ass, and he raised
his more-than-willing hips in compliance. Gripping his hairy thighs tight, she
forced them as wide as they would go. She then fit the side-sliced, semi-cored
Sunkist below the head of his erection. Cool juice trickled down his inflamed
shaft, turning his wrinkle brown jewels blue with need. That tight, succulent
fruit began to run up and down the length of his cock while she slurped fruit
drink from her clenched hand. Leisurely laving his thoroughly drenched balls,
he didn't think it got any better than this. . . until the maid burrowed her
cap lower. Her warm, wet tongue dabbled along his perineum and crack. And
then suddenly, the tip swirled around his anal bud and then darted directly in
like a live wire down and dancing on a rain slick road. Electric shocks nearly
sent him careening over the cliff. About to lose control of his vehicle, she
gripped the stick and back-shifted with a firm clutch. Nearly insane, he
bunched handfuls of her hair by her ears, demanding acceleration and release.
Sticky fingers moved away, prolonging passion until his overheated engine
cooled.
Round two of this exquisite torture included more slow slides of firm
rind and mushy pulp while she greedily lapped the spill-off. Bobbi folded her
full lips over tiny white keyboard teeth. When her mouth enclosed the now
purple crown of his throbbing cock -- the breath left his lungs. Throaty hums
sent vibrations resonating down every engorged vein and nerve to his tight left
sac, which she cradled, rolling the nestled nuggets with her fingers like dice
until his heart drummed uncomfortably in his chest. Jesus. Between jacking the
shaft with the orange and her talented tounge and lips paying tribute to the
capped peak of his penis , the entire act felt. . . incredibly. . . as if two
women were working him over. Simultaneous felletto and fucking. His hips
arched violently off the sodden pillow. Thighs strained and butt muscles
flexed. Every tendon and nerve-ending in his body were drawn and poised like a
tightly strung bow. With one final, furiously rough yank of her hand, the
orange launched, and he soared into oblivion, shooting jet after jet after jet,
seemingly endless, exploding bursts. And like a purring feline, she licked and
lapped and swallowed every bit of his sweet cream combined with pulp and tangy
citrus until his cock was clean.
The mind-blowing memory raised his masculine interest. Gabe gave
himself a stroke, thinking of Bobbino, eager and erratic as a summer storm.
And again. His pulse skittered with a need to have her. And again. His
fingers flew away. Residual sun lotion on his sweaty palm had set off a
powerful burn on his cock. Yet. . . the tingles dancing all over were not
entirely unpleasant. A loud click and sudden darkness snapped him out of his
lusty dalliance. Twenty minutes. The timing was perfect. With her last
customer out the door, Bobbi always locked herself in the shop and counted the
daily take in the back office. What she didn't count on was him being here. .
. naked. . . ready. . . willing. And rock hard.
Once he made a naked appearance, he'd cater to one of her favorite
fantasies -- tear off her clothes viola mad rapist. Drag her onto her
track-lighted stage. Bend and tie her up over a hydraulic chair. Spin and pump
her up . . . and in more ways than one. With the wall-to-wall mirrors, Bobbi
would have a panoramic view along with infinity reflections of all the kinky
things he planned to do to her. Hair clippies had potential. And how would
FIRE feel rubbed on those lavishly teased and licked nipples? For that
matter, how would it feel when activated by his heat. . . .
Ah, but after she sang soprano in the key of O a few times, one of her
wide-paddled hairbrushes taken to her naughty Italiano coola would give her a
great tan. And the tasty, tangy tangerine he had tucked into his suit pocket
would muffle her caterwauling. After all, a lil' good old-fashioned spanking
play was also in order. The knife prank had really been too much!
Gabe wiped the grin from his mouth. Could he help it if he visualized
the hung-over Head Hunters and high maintenance hellions expressions when they
opened the salon in the morn and discovered their cohort in crime? All trussed
up yet, and bent over her chair with her red hiney on display. Even if their
experimental sexual recipe was a success, Bobbino was about to be tried. . .
. and found wanton.
X X X
For more of author Frances LaGatta's work go to www.wickedvelvet.com
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