The Head Hunter

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 this huddle and swapped sexual recipes had locker room banter and steam beat.

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, Roberta, 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. Roberta wouldn’t have heard him anyway; not with her blow dryer roaring. Like Ragu, 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 socks. Tip-toeing down the side hall to the end , he 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. Roberta 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 Roberta 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 Roberta 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 kicked 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 Roberta 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 décolleté 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.

Roberta 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 derrière and, damp, soft brown tail feathers. Both wiggled sassily below a big black bow.

She turned to him, 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 Loraina 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 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. Roberta 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 Roberta, 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, Roberta 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 an 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, Roberta 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 half 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. Fun to imagine, but way too mean. Besides, their experimental sexual recipe had been a success. . . .

Even if Roberta was about to be tried and found wanton.