Chapter 17: Hairdresser
The scent of expensive shampoo and ozone from hairdryers hit Paul as he pushed open the frosted glass door of ‘Silhouette’. A bell chimed, crisp and bright. Inside, the air hummed with low conversation, the snip-snip of scissors, and the constant whine of dryers. Mirrors reflected sleek chrome and leather chairs, stylists wielding combs like wands. He breathed it in, the polished normality.
"Mr. Ashworth! Right on time." Sophie, his stylist, beamed, waving him over. Her pink-streaked hair bounced.
He shrugged off his charcoal overcoat, hanging it neatly. Beneath, his tailored navy suit was crisp, unrumpled. He caught his reflection – tall, composed, the sharp line of his jaw freshly shaved. Confidence radiated from him, a quiet hum beneath the surface.
He settled into the plush leather chair. Sophie draped the black cape around his shoulders, her fingers brushing his neck. A week ago, that touch might have sparked a flicker of awkwardness. Today, it barely registered. His skin felt comfortably inhabited, a vessel humming with recent, potent memories. The phantom press of Odette’s thigh against his cheek just that morning, her sharp gasp as he’d found the exact rhythm she craved before her first client call. The lingering ache in his jaw from last night’s prolonged session – a satisfying ache, like muscles worked hard.
"Bit shorter on the sides.” Sophie said, combing through his thick, dark-blond hair. "Keeping the length on top”; confirming rather than asking.
"Exactly," Paul murmured, leaning back. He closed his eyes. Three strangers. Three distinct releases flooding his mouth in the dark. The utter anonymity, the surrender… it hadn’t diminished him. It had unlocked something. A profound certainty. He knew his worth now, measured in sighs and tremors and the slick taste of satisfaction. He was good at this.
Sophie started clipping. The vibration buzzed pleasantly against his scalp. He thought about the complex fraud case he’d dismantled in court yesterday. The opposing counsel’s frustrated slump. He’d been incisive, commanding. Unshakeable. The connection wasn’t lost on him. The bone-deep calm he carried now, forged in submission, bled into everything else. He wasn't just coping with the sex Odette orchestrated; he was thriving on it. Craving it. His days were a satisfying rhythm: complex legal arguments, meticulous preparation, and then… yielding completely. Serving. Being used. Exactly as he’d always dreamed, deep down where he hadn’t dared look.
"Looking sharp, Paul," came a familiar voice. Marcus Harrington, a rival barrister known for his sharp suits and sharper tongue, slid into the chair next to him, catching Paul’s eye in the mirror. "Big win yesterday. That cross-examination was brutal. Almost felt sorry for them." Marcus’s smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
Paul met his gaze evenly in the reflection. "Just followed the evidence, Marcus." His tone was mild, unruffled. No need for bluster. The win spoke for itself. The quiet satisfaction within him was armour enough. He saw Marcus register the shift – the absence of Paul’s old, subtle deference.
"Evidence, right," Marcus chuckled, a dry sound. "Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it up. You’re on fire lately." He turned to his own stylist, effectively ending the exchange.
Sophie sprayed a fine mist. "He’s right, you know," she whispered conspiratorially as she sectioned Paul’s hair. "You’ve got this… glow. New girlfriend?"
Paul smiled, a genuine, easy curve of his lips. Odette wasn't a girlfriend. She was a force of nature. A demanding, exquisite architect of his pleasure. "Something like that," he murmured.
The dryer roared to life, warm air blasting around his head. He let the noise cocoon him. Images flickered: Odette’s commanding gaze as she’d told him about Wednesday’s next anonymous visitor. The possessive grip of the woman who’d tasted of jasmine. The sharp, demanding cry of the lemon-verbena one. His tongue remembered textures, pressures, responses. He catalogued them not with anxiety, but with a professional’s detached appreciation. A connoisseur of sensation. He shifted slightly in the chair, a faint echo of the ache low in his groin. Constant, now. A low thrum of readiness. He welcomed it.
Sophie turned off the dryer. "Looking fierce, Paul," she declared, snapping the cape dramatically. She ran her fingers through the freshly styled strands. "Just need to rinse that tiny bit of product through. Jamie?" Her voice carried across the salon's murmur. "Rinse for Mr. Ashworth at sink three, please."
A girl detached herself from leaning against the backwash station, sighing audibly. Blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail, thick eyeliner smudged slightly, chewing gum with bored intensity. She shuffled over, her black tunic slightly too big. "Yeah, alright," Jamie mumbled, gesturing vaguely towards the row of sinks. "This way."
Paul followed her, the scent of her cheap, sugary body spray cutting through the salon's expensive aromas. She didn't look at him, just pointed to a chair. He settled back, the cool leather and the sink's curve familiar against his neck. The chair’s motor whined as she lowered him. Warm water sprayed, startling him slightly – she hadn't checked the temperature. He closed his eyes as water streamed over his forehead.
Jamie's movements were efficient, almost rough, her fingers scrubbing perfunctorily at his scalp. Shampoo lather bloomed, smelling sharply synthetic. She rinsed again, the water sluicing over his ears. Fingers raked through his hair, focused solely on the task, devoid of the usual salon small talk or gentle massage. Just the rhythmic scratch of nails, the rush of water, the relentless smack of her gum. He drifted, lulled by the warmth and the familiar scent of his own confidence.
He felt the water stop. Jamie reached for a towel. As she leaned over him to drape it roughly over his wet hair, her bored gaze flickered down past the towel’s edge, skimming his face properly for the first time. Her hands, blotting his hair, froze mid-motion. The gum stopped smacking. He opened his eyes, water clinging to his lashes.
Her expression had transformed. The bored vacancy was gone, replaced by intense, sharp focus. Her blue eyes, previously half-lidded, were wide open, locked onto his face with unnerving intensity. She leaned closer, the sugary body spray suddenly cloying. Her voice, when it came, was low, tight, stripped of all its teenage apathy. "Hang on," she breathed, her gaze sweeping his features with startling urgency. "Are you..?"
Paul blinked water from his eyes, disoriented by the shift. "Pardon?"
"Are you Paul Ashworth?" she demanded, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper, her hands still clutching the damp towel over his head. Her knuckles were white. "The barrister? You know Astrid that Dutch woman?”
The salon sounds – the dryers, the chatter, the scissors – seemed to recede into a sudden, roaring silence. The warm security of the sink chair turned cold. The paper-thin towel felt like the only barrier between him and an unexpected, terrifying exposure. His name, coupled with Astrid’s, in that urgent, knowing whisper from this bored apprentice, sent a jolt of pure, cold dread straight through his core. His confident glow extinguished instantly, replaced by a visceral chill.
"Ye-es," he managed, the word scraping out. Panic clawed up his throat. Astrid’s name hung between them, a grenade with the pin pulled.
Jamie’s bored mask dissolved completely, replaced by a sharp, glittering ferocity. A predatory smile stretched across her face, showing slightly crooked teeth. "Oh my god," she breathed, leaning impossibly closer, her cheap, syrupy perfume thick in the steam. Her blue eyes, wide and unnervingly bright, scanned his face like she’d won the lottery. "It is you."
She glanced quickly over her shoulder towards the busy salon floor, then back, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper that cut through the steam. Her breath hit his face, warm and smelling of spearmint gum. "She talks about you, you know? Astrid. Told me everything." She gave a short, cruel little laugh. "About your... special skills."
The warm water still trickling down Paul’s neck felt like ice. Every carefully constructed layer of his newfound confidence shattered. He was exposed. Raw. Vulnerable in a way he hadn’t felt since before Odette’s blindfold. The knowledge was here, held by this hostile stranger with smudged eyeliner.
Jamie’s gaze raked over him, dripping contempt. "Fancy fucking lawyer," she sneered, the words low and vicious. "On your knees for it, though, aren't you?" She looked around again, ensuring they were momentarily unobserved near the backwashes. Her movement was quick, furtive. "Got a few minutes before Sophie misses me." Her triumphant cruelty crystallized, sharp and eager.
Her eyes locked onto his, demanding, gloating. She was seized by the moment, vibrating with the thrill of her power over him. "You have to, right? Astrid said you literally have to." she asked, her voice dripping with false nonchalance, knowing the answer. It wasn't a question. It was an indictment.
He nodded. Once. A short, sharp dip of his chin. Confirmation. Surrender.
Jamie’s face lit up with pure, feral victory. Her grin widened, predatory and vicious. She leaned in so close her lips almost brushed his ear, her whisper hot and laced with malice. "Good. Storage room. Now. I’m going to make you eat my pussy, you posh prick.” She pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face fully, and crowed silently, her triumph absolute, vindicated by the trapped, confirming terror in Paul’s glance. "Knew it."
The word hung in the humid air like a curse. Jamie’s triumphant sneer was the last thing Paul saw clearly before she snapped her head towards the salon floor. She listened, sharp as a hawk, then shoved his shoulder hard. "Move."
He stumbled up from the sink chair, legs unsteady, the damp towel still draped absurdly over his shoulders. The mirrored tiles reflected his own wide, panicked eyes as she propelled him toward the narrow storage door. Her grip on his bicep was punishing. She wrenched the door open, shoving him inside into near-total darkness filled with the dense, chemical smell of hair dye and damp towels.
The storage room door slammed shut behind them, plunging them into near-darkness. The chemical reek of peroxide and perm solution choked the air, thick and acrid. Cardboard boxes loomed like dark monoliths, stacked precariously high. Jamie spun Paul around, her fingers digging into his shoulders like claws. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, hot against his face.
"Against the boxes," she hissed, shoving him backwards. "Now." He stumbled, his back hitting a tower of cartons marked 'Conditioner - Extra Hold'. The damp salon towel slipped from his shoulders onto the concrete floor. Before he could react, Jamie was on him. Her hands flew to the waistband of her tight black trousers. She wriggled, hips jerking, fabric straining.
"Fucking hate these things," she muttered, yanking them down her thighs in one furious motion. They pooled around her ankles. She kicked them off impatiently. Her pale legs gleamed in the sliver of light sneaking under the door. She wore no underwear. The humid scent of her arousal bloomed instantly, sharp and pungent, cutting through the chemical stench – sweat, musk.
She grabbed a fistful of his freshly rinsed hair, slick and cool, and hauled his head forward. He had no time to brace himself. His face slammed into the yielding warmth between her legs, pressed hard against the rough cardboard of the conditioner box behind him. Her shaved vulva was slick, hot, already swollen against his nose and mouth. Her hand tightened painfully in his hair, pinning him mercilessly.
"Stay," she growled. Then she began to move. Not seeking his skill, not wanting his tongue. She used his face purely as a surface. She ground herself against him, hard, aggressive thrusts of her hips. Her pelvis slammed into his nose, his cheekbones. The friction was brutal, relentless. He tasted sweat, felt the coarse texture of her pubic bone grinding against his upper lip. Her evident wetness, thick and creamy, smeared across his skin, congealing instantly in the cool air.
"Yeah," she gasped, her rhythm becoming frantic, jerky. "Take it, you posh dick. Take my fucking pussy." Her thighs trembled against his ears. Her breathing hitched, turned ragged. She slammed herself onto his immobilized face one final, brutal time. A guttural cry tore from her throat. "UNNFF!" Her body locked, shuddering violently against him. He felt the hot gush of her release flood against his chin, his jaw, adding to the sticky mess already coating him.
She slumped slightly, panting, her grip in his hair loosening fractionally. Her sweat dripped onto his forehead. She looked down, her eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction in the gloom. "Look at you," she sneered, her voice hoarse. She spat. A thick glob landed wetly on his cheek, mixing with the fluids already there. She smiled, a vicious slash of white. "Not done." Her hand tightened in his hair again, pulling his head.
Jamie’s thumb, soft but insistent, scraped across his cheekbone. It gathered the thick globule of spit mixed with her release, a viscous smear against his skin. Efficiently, she pushed her thumb hard against his lips, forcing it into his mouth. The taste was immediate: salt, bitterness, the metallic tang of her spit, the cloying remnants of her fluids. He gagged reflexively, his throat constricting.
"Swallow it," she commanded, her voice low and thick with malice. Her eyes, gleaming in the dim light filtering under the door, held no mercy. "Then get busy." She released his hair abruptly, stepping back. Her pale body twisted, hands grabbing her own buttocks, fingers digging into the soft flesh. She bent sharply at the waist, presenting herself fully. The humid scent intensified, shifting, becoming muskier, earthier. "Tongue," she hissed over her shoulder, spreading herself wider. "I want a tongue up my arsehole."
The command hung in the chemical-laden air. Paul’s mind screamed protest, humiliation warring with a treacherous, unwelcome spike of arousal. Her body was nubile, taut curves stark against the cardboard backdrop, undeniably sexy despite her cheap perfume and crass attitude. The vulnerability of her position, the raw demand – it resonated with the core submission Odette had unlocked. He hesitated only a heartbeat, the threat of exposure heavier than the scent of bleach. He leaned forward, pressing his face into the intimate cleft she offered.
His tongue, still tasting her spit and fluids, probed tentatively. He found the tight, puckered ring. He pressed against it, firm and insistent, feeling the resistance yield. He pushed his tongue deeper into the warm, dark channel. The taste was intensely musky, primal, unfamiliar territory, this was only the second arsehole he’d tongued. A sharp gasp tore from Jamie. Her body jerked.
"Oh! Fuck!" she grunted, her voice strained. Her knuckles whitened where she gripped her own flesh. "That’s… weird." She shifted her weight, pushing back against his face. "Keep going. Deeper." He obeyed, burying his face further, his tongue working rhythmically, probing, circling, penetrating as deeply as he could manage. The sensation was alien, as intimate as anything Odette had demanded.
Jamie gasped again, a shorter, sharper sound. "Yeah," she breathed, almost to herself. "Like that." A low groan escaped her, different from her earlier climax. It sounded surprised, almost bewildered. "Did this for my boyfriend the other night," she muttered, her voice muffled slightly. "I Fucking hated it." She pushed back harder onto his probing tongue, a harsh laugh escaping her. "Glad I can pass it on to you, posh boy." Her words were crude, immature, yet laced with a dark satisfaction that resonated in the cramped space. She held herself rigidly against his face, demanding, taking, her breath coming in ragged pulls as his tongue worked its intimate violation.
Jamie gasped, a sharp intake that shuddered through her entire frame pressed against his face. "Fuck," she breathed, the word thick and ragged. "That's... fucking weird." She pushed back harder, grinding the tight ring against his probing tongue, demanding more pressure. "Don't stop."
The sheer act of forced service, the absolute surrender to this furious teenager’s whim, sent a treacherous jolt of dark excitement through him, hardening him painfully inside his trousers.
A choked groan escaped Jamie, different from her earlier climax – lower, almost bewildered. She held herself rigid for a few seconds longer, her breath hitching, then abruptly shoved his head away. "Enough."
Paul slumped back, gasping, wiping his slick mouth with the back of his hand. Jamie straightened up, turning to face him. Her expression was pure, feral triumph in the gloom. She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on the tent of the front of his trousers, then flicking to his chin, still glistening. “Well, that was fucking hot!” She said, her voice trembling with lust and exertion. A cruel smirk twisted her lips. "Look at the state of you," she sneered.
She bent, snatched her crumpled black trousers from the floor, and yanked them back on, not bothering with underwear. Her movements were quick, efficient. "Sophie'll be wondering," she stated flatly, her earlier venom replaced by a cold, dismissive certainty. She grabbed the damp towel Paul had dropped and tossed it carelessly onto a pile of dirty laundry. "Clean yourself up. Fast." She pointed towards a stained hand basin crammed in the corner beside stacks of bleach bottles. "Use that."
Paul stumbled towards the basin, his legs unsteady. The cold tap water felt like needles on his skin as he splashed his face, scrubbing at his chin, his lips. He dried his face on the rough sleeve of his shirt, knowing it was futile. He still smelled like her.
Jamie watched him, arms crossed, leaning against the door. "Ready?" she asked, her tone bored again, but laced with unmistakable threat. She didn't wait for an answer. She yanked the storage room door open, flooding the cramped space with the bright light and loud hum of the salon. "Move."
Paul followed her out, blinking against the sudden glare. The familiar scents of shampoo and hairspray felt alien now, tainted. Heads turned briefly – stylists glancing up from clients, clients idly observing the apprentice leading the barrister back from the sinks. Paul kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, his face burning. He could feel the dampness on his chin, the sticky residue on his collar. He felt monstrously visible.
Sophie looked up from her station, her brow slightly furrowed. "Everything alright? That rinse took ages."
"Fine," Jamie chirped, her voice suddenly bright, the perfect picture of bored efficiency restored. "Just a bit of product buildup. Needed extra scrub." She flashed Sophie a quick, meaningless smile. "Gotta pee. Back in a sec." She didn't look at Paul as she brushed past him, heading towards the staff toilets at the back.
Paul sank back into Sophie’s salon chair, the leather cool through his shirt.
"Right then," Sophie said cheerfully, oblivious. She picked up her comb and scissors. "Just the final touches." She began meticulously shaping the hair around his ears, her fingers gentle, professional.
Movement caught his eye in the mirror's reflection. Jamie emerged from the toilets. Her gaze was fixed, not on him directly, but on his reflection in the vast salon mirror. A slow, knowing smirk spread across her face, cruel and utterly satisfied. Slowly, deliberately, she raised her phone. She held it up, ostentatiously, Her thumb hovered over the screen. A tiny, silent flash reflected in the glass. Her smirk widened into a predatory grin as she lowered the phone, her eyes locking onto his reflected gaze, daring him to react.