Chapter 13: Professional Curiosity
The fluorescent light in the back room buzzed like a trapped insect, casting a cold, surgical glow over the bottles of color and peroxide. Brenda had just finished locking the salon’s front door, her fingers trembling slightly on the deadbolt. She turned, leaning against the glass, and looked at Donna perched on the edge of the stainless-steel counter. The air smelled of ammonia and lavender, undercut by something muskier, something animal.
“You’re sure,” Brenda said, her voice not quite a question.
“You saw the pictures,” Donna replied, her tone low, a mixture of defiance and a desperate need for validation. She’d shown Brenda the blurred, intimate selfies on her phone: Clark’s thickness, her own slick, parted lips.
“Pictures are one thing. That’s… clinical. This is…” Brenda trailed off, her eyes fixed on Donna’s jeans. “I told you not to use that shit. I fucking told you.”
“And I didn’t listen. Now are you going to just lecture me, or are you going to look?”
There was a long silence filled by the hum of the overhead light. Then Brenda pushed off the door. She walked over, her practical flats squeaking on the tile. She stopped inches from Donna, their breath mingling. Her professional demeanor, the veneer of the knowledgeable confidante, was gone. Raw curiosity, edged with a hunger Donna had never seen in her friend’s eyes, had taken its place.
“Show me,” Brenda whispered.
Donna’s hands went to the button of her jeans. The denim was tight. She had to suck in her stomach to pop the button, slide the zipper down. She shimmied the jeans over her hips, down her thighs, letting them puddle around her ankles on the cold floor. She wasn’t wearing underwear.
The chilled air of the room kissed her skin. Brenda’s breath hitched, a sharp, audible intake.
“Jesus Christ, Donna.”
It wasn’t just the lack of underwear. It was the visible, undeniable change. The auburn hair was glistening, damp with her own arousal. And there, at the apex, jutting from its hood, was the firm, dark nub of her clitoris, swollen to nearly an inch in length, pulsing visibly with her heartbeat.
“Touch it,” Donna said, the command barely audible.
Brenda, the vivacious hairdresser who had seen everything, who doled out advice like snipping split ends, seemed paralyzed. Then, with a tremor in her hand, she reached out. Her index finger, with its perfectly manicured nail, touched the very tip.
Donna jolted, a full-body shudder, a guttural moan tearing from her throat. Her hips bucked forward, seeking the pressure.
“Fuck,” Brenda breathed, her own voice thick. “It’s… it’s like a little cock.”
She wrapped her thumb and forefinger around it, a tentative circle. She gave an experimental stroke, down then up.
Donna cried out, her head falling back, cracking against the mirrored wall. “Again. Do it again.”
Brenda obeyed. Her movements grew less tentative, more fascinated. She stroked the rigid little column, her touch firm, exploring the unfamiliar anatomy. Donna’s hips began to move in a ragged rhythm, fucking the circle of Brenda’s fingers. Slickness, hot and copious, welled from her opening and dripped down onto the cold steel counter.
“You’re so wet,” Brenda murmured, more to herself than to Donna. “Soaking. It’s the gel, isn’t it?”
“Taste it,” Donna begged, the words slurred, her vision swimming under the harsh light. “Please…”
Brenda didn’t hesitate. The intellectual curiosity was gone, consumed by a darker, baser impulse. She dropped to her knees on the hard tile, the position awkward in her tight skirt. She didn’t care. She pushed Donna’s thighs wider, her hands rough on the soft skin.
She didn’t start with Donna’s opening. She went straight for the source, the epicenter. She leaned in, her breath hot, and flattened her tongue against the length of Donna’s enlarged clit.
Donna screamed. The sensation was electric, blinding, a direct current to her spine. Her hands flew to Brenda’s head, fingers tangling in the vibrant red hair, holding her friend’s face hard against her.
Brenda moaned, the vibration against the hypersensitive nerve cluster making Donna see stars. Brenda licked, long, firm strokes from root to tip, then took the hard nub into her mouth, sucking fiercely.
“Yes! Oh god, yes, suck it!” Donna babbled, her body coiling tight. “Just like that, suck my clit!”
Brenda redoubled her efforts, one hand coming up to spread Donna’s lips wider, the other gripping her thigh, nails biting into flesh. She fucked Donna with her tongue, lapping at the stream of wetness that flowed freely now, drinking her down. The sterile room filled with the sounds of slick, hungry noises, ragged breathing, and Donna’s continuous, shattered litany of filth.
“It’s so big, I can feel it on my tongue, you’re a fucking monster,” Brenda gasped, pulling back for air, her chin glistening. “Look what you did to yourself.”
“I know,” Donna sobbed, tears of unbearable pleasure streaming down her face. “Now make me come. Make this fucking monster come.”
Brenda dove back in. She used her mouth, her tongue, her fingers—two, then three—pushing them deep into Donna’s dripping cunt, which clenched around them with a violent, pulsating grip. The combined assault was too much. Donna’s orgasm didn’t crest; it detonated. It was a convulsive, screaming release that locked her body in a rigid arch, her cunt milking Brenda’s fingers, her enlarged clit throbbing wildly against Brenda’s relentless tongue.
She collapsed forward, trembling, her forehead resting on Brenda’s shoulder. Brenda slowly withdrew her fingers, slick and shiny, and brought them to her own mouth, tasting Donna deeply, her eyes locked on Donna’s hazy, spent gaze.
For a minute, there was only the buzz of the light and the sound of their labored breathing.
Brenda finally stood up, her knees cracking, her designer blouse soaked through with sweat and Donna’s fluids. She looked at Donna, sprawled and exposed on the counter, a debauched portrait under the clinical light.
“You’re not done,” Brenda stated, her voice hoarse. “This thing it’s done to you… it’s not just physical. It’s rewired you. One come isn’t enough, is it?”
Donna, shuddering through the aftershocks, shook her head weakly. The hunger was already crawling back, an itch under her skin. The emptiness was returning, deeper, more demanding.
Brenda’s expression was a complex map of horror, fascination, and a dawning, complicit understanding. She wet her lips, still tasting Donna there. “Clark can’t handle this alone. You know that, right? This… this is a beast. And it needs to be fed.”
Donna met her friend’s eyes, seeing not judgment, but a reflection of her own terrifying new reality. Brenda wasn’t just her confidante anymore. She was a witness. An accomplice.
Brenda just kept looking at Donna, at the evidence of the transformation glistening between her legs. “Get dressed,” she said softly, the professionalism returning like a mask clicking into place. But her eyes remained dark, knowing. “We need to talk. And you… you need a plan.”