Rocking My World

Life was getting too predictable in my hairdressing business. I could close my eyes and walk through my daily routine—have my shampoo girl Laura (fresh out of beauty school) whisk my next client to the back sink to wash her hair, then usher the lady onto my chair (my “throne,” I call it, since I make my clients feel like royalty), towel-dry her hair while chitchatting about her latest heartbreak while on autopilot I snip and sculpt her into the goddess I know she has ­inside her.

Poof! Like magic, she melts in my hands. Her problems—typically dissolved relationships, cheating spouses, backstabbing friends or family dramatics—all fade away by the time I blow her out. My clients leave feeling on top of the world, which is why they always come back to me, however deep they have to dig into their pockets. My services don’t come cheap, but they seem to feel that the price of beauty is worth it. My ladies leave radiant, looking like they stepped off the pages of a Hollywood gossip rag, feeling like rock stars!

Sometimes I’m amazed at the power my hands have to heal. At the same time, those hands have paid a price for the years of toil. They feel like an arthritic 80-year-old’s. At 23 I’ve ­already been through carpal-tunnel surgery, and my doctor warned me to take it easy. So I reserve my hands-on services for a few select clients and limit myself to moral support for the ­others, who are entrusted to my assistant, Anne-Marie, who I like to think I’ve groomed in my “healing” arts, patching our ladies’ lives together. The “secret” is embarrassingly simple: Lavish them with attention and they’re loyal for life!

I should note that our clientele isn’t entirely female. We get a certain number of high-maintenance males who are after the kind of pampering we specialize in. Just as with the ladies, some are easier to take than others. What I always have to remember is that when men get “confidential” with their hairdresser, what they’re apt to reveal is less likely secrets of the heart than ­secrets of the dick.

I have to laugh with the ones who brag about their hard-won knowledge of the best street whores to turn to for a mind-blowing, come-bursting BJ. Some­times I want to tell them they’re talking to the BJ queen herself! I can suck any guy dry in minutes, and then—like a snake charmer—get him up and ready to go again.

Oh, I was well aware that I should count myself one lucky woman, blessed with youth, health (apart from those damned hands), looks and success, owning such a trendy, busy salon. Still, more and more often I found myself feeling like something was lacking, that there’s more to life. Some days I felt like I could die from sheer boredom.

Maybe that’s why I filled my nights with sensual endeavors. I fuck to please—him, myself, occasionally her. With my lovers, like with my clients, I always try to leave them coming back for more.

Sometimes it was ­difficult to juggle my array of playful acquaintances. Jim the married lawyer I’d see on Mondays and Fridays. He likes giving it to me up the ass, since his proper church wife wouldn’t think of bending over for anal sex. Tony the sanitation worker was my Wednesday hump man. Surprisingly, he’s the romantic type, who sets the ambience with candles, wine and soft music and likes strictly missionary position while whispering sweet nothings in my ear. My weekend buck-wild man, Charlie, likes everything: toys, threesomes, fetishes—he’s always up for anything!

One day, an hour until closing time, I asked Bethany the receptionist if I had any appointments left for the day. She looked at the schedule book and to my relief shook her head. Good! I wasn’t looking forward to raising my scissors once more that day. My hands were so raw that I could have sworn someone had wrapped clamps around them, then for further torture tightened them until I begged to be put out of my misery. I trailed over to the cappuccino machine in the back of the shop and made myself a steaming cup, which always warms my insides. The scent alone permeated through my nostrils to my aching bones.

As the steamy nectar met my lips and I took my first sip, I almost choked at the sight of the incredible creature who had just walked in my establishment’s glass doors. What was it about him? The dark Gucci shades? The chin-length streaky auburn and blond hair? The leather pants that looked airbrushed on? The several days’ worth of scruff? Whatever it was, he exuded sex!

I made my way quickly to the front of the shop and told Bethany I would take the gentlemen in my chair.
“But it’s almost closing time,” she objected.

I gave her a “hell no, you better not be talking back to the boss” look. Her panties were in a bind because she wouldn’t make it on time to give her new boyfriend the blowjob she’d promised over the phone. She’d said, in hushed tones clearly not meant to be overheard, that she was going to “deep-throat you and swallow every last drop.”

My employees seem to have this crazy notion that I’m so engrossed in my clients that I’m not aware of my surroundings. I guess they don’t realize how automatic my work is, despite the appearance of all-consuming personalized attention. (If I’m fooling my own people, good!) And they don’t get that it’s habit with me to have my eyes and ears always tuned to my surroundings. Not much gets past me. I pick up every naughty whisper, every eye roll.
I gestured to the gentleman to park his alluring ass in my chair. It was easy enough to tell that unlike most of my clients, he was here just for hair care and not for hand-holding or counseling. He had about him an air of confident self-containment which I had to say reminded me of myself!

Since Laura the shampoo girl was gone for the day, I wasn’t going to offer him that service. (I certainly wasn’t going to do it myself!) So I just spritzed his hair with a water bottle, then said, “So I’ll start with some honey highlights,” while getting a feel for his hair.
“I think not,” he said.

He thinks not? “Excuse me,” I said snippily, taking my hands off his head and standing rigid. I wasn’t used to being contradicted. My clients expect me to take charge of the process. Some­times I ask for their opinion and sometimes I don’t—that’s up to me too.

“I just want you to shorten it a tad,” he snapped back in a slight British ­accent. “That’s all.”

I know the British accent does it for a lot of Americans, makes them kowtow in wonder and awe. Me, not so much. I’m not your prissy tea-sipping Brit wannabe. I drink coffee anyway. I was tempted to poke him in the eyes with the sharp edges of the scissors I had in my hand, but with practiced deter­mination I got a grip on myself. I’m in a service business, after all. If he was too obtuse to take advantage of all of my talents, so much the worse for him!

Reluctantly, I raised the scissors to the prince’s locks. Conjuring up my most extreme make-believe-ingratiating skills, I made chair chat. “So, you’re not from around here?”

“Actually I’m doing a gig here tomorrow night,” he said, removing his shades. His gray-blue eyes spoke to me. Suddenly I made the connection.
“Is that you?” I exclaimed. “Devin Farrow? Really?”

“Shhh,” he said, bringing his long index finger to his luscious lips to stifle my outburst. I’m used to having high-profile people in my chair, but this, this was the lead singer of my favorite British punk-rock band. And I knew exactly which gig he was referring to. It was the show I’d been unable to land tickets for months earlier when it sold out in the first hour that tickets went on sale.

Suddenly my hands became shaky. I was overcome by nerves I didn’t even know I had. It took some mighty head-twisting for me to think of Devin Farrow as an actual person, let alone one who was in my shop, sitting in my chair. Sitting and living and breathing and—
I really had to get a grip on myself. I just had to figure out how. Before I could, it just slipped out of my mouth. “I would do anything to snag tickets,” I said. “It got sold out on the first day.”

“Anything?” he said, or rather snarled. He’s famous for that lip curl, which is close to Elvis Presley’s only with a sex­ier pout. Everywhere he goes it has panty-droppers dropping panties in his path. Shit, for once I wished I wore panties! But then, I might just have embarrassed myself.

I lowered my pants slightly, giving him a peek of my bare ass, as I said, “Yeah, there’s not much I wouldn’t do.” I was running my fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the deep scalp massage. Now he was in my domain, and he was under my spell. Going by my previous experience with men, I figured it wouldn’t be too long before I got my way.

“I’ve got an idea,” Devin said after a while. “I’ll have my driver leave you a ticket to the show—plus a backstage pass. How’s that sound?”

“Fantastic!” I shouted. Okay, maybe I wasn’t as in control as I thought.

When I finished his trim, he handed me a $100 bill and tipped me another $100. Before he left, he grabbed me and pulled me to his tall frame, then leaned down and kissed me. A cloud of pure giddiness overwhelmed me as our sweet smooch suddenly turned hot and heavy, with him driving his pierced tongue down my throat. We stood there linked in a heated embrace, until Beth­any whined that it was closing time. I wanted to tell her to blow it out her ass, but I opted to remain civilized in front of my dreamboat.

“I’ve got be going,” he said, grinning. “See you at the show?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said, checking out his perfect butt as he walked out the door.

All night I couldn’t sleep, in anticipation of Devin having his way with me. I fantasized him eating me out and then pumping his cock in my snatch. My juices stirred.

The evening of the concert I was raring to go. I dressed the part of a slutty groupie intact with a mega-push-up bra (it made my tits almost hit my chin), stilettos and a skintight minidress. I trimmed my pubes because I was sure that my pussy was going to make a public appearance.

Before I left the house I tossed the ticket, backstage pass, lip gloss and a few condoms in my purse. Devin was definitely getting some. The condoms would protect me from whatever diseases he might have picked up from the skanks he drilled on a daily basis.
•
The concert was everything I dreamed of. I don’t want to come off cocky, but I knew Devin was singing to me. From my front-row seat I felt his eyes on me the entire time. And the way he gyrated into the microphone signaled that he was ready for me after the show.
I screamed to him, “I’m going to fuck you, Devin!”

The music was too loud for him to hear me, so I flashed him the hot tits my men worship—not huge, but perky and perfect. My baby was hooked. He licked his lips, and his voice grew weak and raspy as I continued exhibiting ­myself. To really excite him, I lifted my dress and probed a few fingers in my snatch. He watched me pump my hole and was so distracted by my finger-fucking that he forgot some of the lyrics to the song, which I found endearing. I bet that none of his groupie sluts gave him a show like that while he was onstage performing. At the time I reached climax, he dumped the contents of an entire water bottle over his head.

After the concert I reapplied my makeup and freshened up in the ladies’ room. I looked absolutely divine! Then I followed the crowd of frenzied fans heading toward the dressing room. Most of them failed abjectly to cross the line of access to the bandmates. When I flashed my pass, I was given instant approval to go backstage. The envy on all the bitches’ faces was price­less—left in the dust while I was one hurdle closer to Devin.

As I walked past the stagehands, bodyguards and endless burly men, I was greeted with catcalls. I appreciated their interest, but I only craved one man’s attention.

I scanned the room and saw Devin sprawled out on a red leather couch guzzling a beer. Although I yearned to race up to him, I waited for him to notice me first. It was an ego thing. He might be the rich and famous one, but it was important that he view me as a sexy creature unlike any other, so that it would be his job to pull me in, even though in reality he didn’t have to do any convincing to get into my pants.

“Hey, there,” he said, “if it isn’t my lady of the night!” He got up, walked up to me and wrapped his arms around me.
“I loved your show,” I gushed.

“I enjoyed yours too,” he said, smirking. I brushed my hand over his pants, where his boner was poking through. I needed to get to him. My fingers fiddled urgently with his zipper. Down it came, and out came a beautiful big dick flanked by oversize nads. His package was both irresistible and ­intimidating. However, the BJ queen had a record of never falling short.

I grasped the giant cock bravely and kneeled before the idol. Neither of us was fazed by the onlookers. I sucked in his entire cock like a vacuum, my head bobbing while I deep-throated him. I quickened the pace. Saliva dripped down his leg, and his balls kept whacking me in the face.

I decided I wouldn’t finish him off in my mouth. I pulled my minidress up over my head and unlatched the push-up bra, then tore open a condom wrapper with my teeth. In record speed I unrolled the rubber and slipped it on his big cock. (Good thing I opted for the large size! I’d figured that with his oversize hands and shoes, something else was likely to be of great magnitude.) He plopped down on the leather couch in an upright position, and I climbed on top of him, stroking my swollen clit over his hooded shaft while he caressed my tits.
“Stick it in her!” Devin’s drummer Mike hollered.

“Yeah, like the man said,” I said. “What are you waiting for?”

Devin’s cock slid in me inch by inch. For a moment I held my breath, having doubts that my twat would accommodate him, but it came through and kept making room for more of him. At first as he prodded it felt like his pole was poking me in the stomach. But I adjusted myself on top of him, and we got into a driving fuck that made us both sweat.

The sensations and thrusts were as addictive as his voice onstage. While I rode his woody wildly, he sucked on my nipples and spanked my behind playfully and chanted, “Come for me, baby!”

His encouragement made me determined to reach the goal of complete sexual satisfaction. I contorted like a pretzel, wrapping my legs around him and tightening my grip around him, allowing my hips to rotate, my ass to bounce and my pussy to milk his cock. Our vehement gyrating shook the leather couch. I relished the moment and was close to coming when his cock scored a direct hit on my G-spot. As if overcome by a power surge, my body almost overheated and shut down. Then a blast of fire shot toward my crotch.

“Fuck yeah, that’s it!” I shouted, flopping around like a madwoman. In an instant I lost all my power to contain myself. I crumbled into little more than a heap of moans, writhing in pleasure.

In seconds we had switched positions and Devin was on top. I held onto his hips while he pushed his meat back in my drenched pussy. This time his shaft plunged in me easily. He pumped tirelessly in and out of me.

“Oh Christ, fuck me, Devin!” I moaned. “Fucking  explode inside me!”

And he burst open like a fire hydrant. The force of his hot come pinned me up against the wall. Thankfully, when he pulled out, his cock was still sheathed and there appeared to be no rips in the (heavily) used condom. Now that’s heavy-duty!

Devin unrolled his spunk-filled rubber and flung it at his bass player, who had parked his ass on the edge of the couch. “A little privacy would be nice, man,” Devin chided.

“Isn’t it a little late for that, man?” the bass player said.

Devin didn’t reply. He drove his tongue deep in my mouth, and we tongue-wrestled, slobbering all over each other.

He peered in my eyes and blurted out, “Come on tour with me.” I laughed. He said, “I’m serious.” I realized he was.

“But I have a salon to run,” I reminded him. Part of me would have followed him anywhere without a second thought. The other part of me, though, kept things in perspective. Yes, I’d just power-fucked a rock star, but to him I was just another conquest, no different from all the horny groupie chicks he screwed wherever he went.

“You owe me,” he said. “I recall you said you’d do anything to see the show. Or doesn’t your word mean anything?”

“Yeah, I did say anything,” I had to agree.

The hell with it! I’d trained Anne-Marie well. Maybe it was time now to give her a chance to show what she could do running the show on her own for a while. And let Devin fucking Farrow rock my world!