Muff Nudge

"Next!" I called, more curtly than was professional. Nineteenth customer of the day can do that to a girl, not that I was counting. My calves ached beneath the cheap, gimmicky costume that was covered in other people's hair. Nobody in their right mind wanted their hair cut by an elf. It was stupid. And to cap it off, fucking Bieber bleated about love on the local station, like he was even old enough to understand what the word meant. But at least it made a change from Slade, Mariah Carey, and Wham. They were all on my shit list.From the padded bench, worn and faded by the light through the window, customer nineteen stepped to the chair. Until that moment, the highpoint of my day had been the sweet chilli chicken bagel. He changed all that. I watched, transfixed as he sat and swung to face the mirror, the oversize hairspray and mousse canisters framing his gorgeous, stubbled complexion. Dark brown eyes like liquid Bournville sought mine. Broad shoulders, with a well-defined physique lay beneath the Nike T-shirt and jeans. I couldn't help sneaking a look at his lap, the package inviting, before returning my attention to his hair. It was overgrown and lustrous of course, which I stroked as he settled. Perk of the job."What can I do for you?""Number two back and sides, tidy up top please.""Something for the holiday season?""Gotta look my best for those office parties."Gravelly voice for someone easily five years my beşevler escort junior. Baritone. Confident. Sexy. I flushed, unexpected yet welcome. It'd been a frustrating few months since Gareth left in a whirlwind of four-letter words and overflowing bin bags. Driven away from the home we'd made by my unquenchable desires. Too much woman for him to handle. Too horny, the uncontrollable pinpricks of necessity that were baked into my psyche surfacing at the most inappropriate moments, engulfing me in a torrent of hormones until I caved. My demands were fun at first, novel for him. Then they wore him out and he bailed. The place still felt empty. As did I.Realising I was still stroking the guy's hair, I pulled away, grabbing the nylon robe and flicking it, letting it billow and settle around him before securing the Velcro and picking up the clippers. They buzzed into life in my hands. Similar tone and weight to the only other thing that buzzed in my life. Every damn night, sending me to sleep a panting, wet tangle of want, temporarily sated yet never cured. The unbreakable cycle of being mid-thirties and manless because everyone wrongly assumes you're fundamentally broken.I sighed and began trimming above his ear, the strokes automatic and mechanistic. Sideways, diagonal, nape. I pressed on, perhaps too hard as he winced, catching my eye in the mirror. "Rough cebeci escort day?"I shrugged. "Kids, pensioners, and the impatient.""No Santa bearing gifts, in for a beard and eyebrow shape?"I smiled despite myself. "No such luck.""There's still time. Take it slow. I'm delicate.""Sorry."I eased off and he adjusted the position of his head in response to the angle of the clippers. Muscle memory kicked in, back to the practised, automatic strokes, my mind free-wheeling around elements of my hollow life. Vauxhall Tigra. Dinner for one. Endless channels of crap, curled on the sofa stroking Ruggles' chin. Then falling into bed with just my hands and toys for company until orgasm and sleep overcame me, needs never quite fulfilled by the synthetic apparatus.When he tipped his head forward all I could think about was kissing the exposed flesh of his neck, reaching to whip off the gown then his T-shirt to continue the trail over his firm, muscular back. Feeling him tense and relax as I worked down his damp skin and kissed round to the front, unsnapping those bulging jeans and releasing the organic, mushroom-headed steel I craved inside me.I imagined sucking him to fullness, the delightful feeling of chamois shaft and flared head slithering over my pierced tongue, nudging the entrance to my throat as he reached to guide my head where he needed it. I could almost kolej escort feel his grip tightening, bunching a fistful of hair, the telltale sweetness of pre-come oozing from his bulbous tip to lubricate my actions further, each thrust into my warm, wet mouth pushing us both closer to the edge.But finishing him off between my lips was not my goal. At least, not those lips. Ignoring the stares of the customers, I pictured standing, pulling him up with me, spinning to place my palms against the cool glass of the giant mirror and pressing back against his hard cock, inviting him to tear my Kermit green leggings and snowflake panties down. To slide inside me fully, repeatedly, forcefully without regard for my well-being. To take me, grab my tits, pull my hair, and snarl filthy names in my ear. No beginning, no end, just each hot, sweaty instant a discrete movie frame until he breathlessly filled me and I felt momentarily whole as our come mixed and slithered from me, lining my thighs.I've always loved risky sex. Parks. Castles. Churches. Libraries. The thrill of exposure. The excitement of being caught or watched at my emotional peak by strangers. I love the shocked expressions, nudges and winks of false modesty as people pretend to be appalled, yet none of them are able to tear their eyes away as we buck and pant for pleasure. The location has to have that spark of wrongness that ignites my libido. At work was new, enticing, and the thought of patrons and colleagues reacting turned me on. Maybe it'd be good for business, appealing to all the Game Of Thrones geeks to watch an elf get fucked before their very eyes.I shook my head to clear it and picked up the scissors, stepping to his side to begin the ritual. Tracing fingers through soft hair.