Salon Slut

I've been doing hair for 20+ years & my customers even longer. I give a young boy a hair cut he won't forget.

Hi Everyone! I'm Lisa. I'm 57 a mom of 3. And for the last 20+;years I've been a hair stylist. I've had a lot of fun experiences over the years this is just one of them. I have gotten so turned on thinking about what happened that I'm rubbing my pussy right now as I type this. So please excuse any typos

It was that time of year again, the buzz around town building up for the local high school's homecoming. The air felt charged with excitement, and my salon was no exception—everyone chatting about dresses, dances, and those perfect hairstyles to turn heads. I owned the place, Lisa's Salon, a cozy spot with booths divided by those flimsy partitions that gave just enough privacy without shutting out the hum of clippers and blow dryers. I'd been running it for years, building a steady clientele, and one of my regulars was little Quinn, Nancy's boy. He'd been coming in since he was a kid, letting me trim his mop of brown hair into something neat. But this time, at 15, he wasn't so little anymore. There was a new edge to him, a teenage awkwardness mixed with something hungrier in his eyes.

Nancy rushed him in that afternoon, her purse swinging as she explained she had an errand to run. 'Can you finish his cut, Lisa? I won't be long.' Quinn slouched into my chair, his school backpack dumped by the door, looking every bit the lanky teen in his faded jeans and hoodie. The salon wasn't packed—only four others dotted around. My best friend Mark, the fabulous gay stylist with his impeccable flair, was wrapping up Theresa's perm. She was this sweet older lady in her 70s, her silver hair pinned up as she gossiped about her grandkids. Across the way, Carol was blow-drying Jeff's salt-and-pepper hair; he was around 40, some businessman type, chatting idly about the game. The partitions kept things semi-private, voices carrying just enough to feel connected but not intrusive.

I draped the cape over Quinn, snapping it at his neck, and started snipping away at the overgrown bits around his ears. He was quiet at first, eyes flicking to the mirror, but I caught him stealing glances down my top. My blouse was a low-cut number, the kind that hugged my full D-cups just right—nothing outrageous for a busy day, but enough to show cleavage if I leaned forward. And yeah, I noticed. His cheeks flushed pink, and he'd look away quick, like he was busted. It made me smile inside; kids his age were all hormones and no game.

'Lean back for the shampoo,' I said, guiding him to the sink chair. He settled in, eyes half-closed as I ran warm water through his hair. I lathered up, my fingers massaging his scalp, and when I bent over to rinse, I pressed in closer than necessary. His face sank right between my tits, the soft flesh enveloping his cheeks. He froze, breath hitching, but didn't pull away. I felt the heat of him there, the subtle squirm as my nipples brushed his skin through the thin fabric. 'Oops,' I murmured, not moving an inch too soon, letting him linger in that warm valley before straightening up.

Back at my booth, towel-drying his hair, I couldn't ignore it anymore. Under the cape, something shifted—a rhythmic bulge. His hand was working furtively, stroking his cock through his pants, I bet. The little perv. The salon sounds masked any noise: Mark laughing with Theresa, Carol's dryer whirring, Jeff's low chuckle. No one else clocked it. I kept cutting, casual as ever, but my pulse quickened. Heat pooled between my legs, my pussy tingling at the sight.

I glanced around—partitions up, backs turned—and slid my hand under the cape, brushing his thigh. He jolted, eyes wide in the mirror, but I found his left hand, fingers slick around his shaft. He was hard as rock, probably five inches of teenage stiffness, pre-cum making everything messy. Instead of stopping him, I guided that hand out, trailing it up my leg under my long skirt. No panties today—easy access on a whim. His fingers trembled as they climbed my inner thigh, rough and clumsy, until they reached my wet folds.

'Like this,' I whispered, pressing his fingertips to my clit, then lower to my entrance. He pushed in, two fingers awkward but eager, sliding through my slickness. I bit my lip to stifle a moan, the quiet hum escaping as 'Mmm' while I clipped the last strands. He jerked his cock faster with his free hand, the cape tenting slightly. His digits curled inside me, bumping my walls, thumb grazing my swollen nub. It was sloppy, no finesse, but fuck, the thrill of it—right there in my booth, with the salon alive around us—had me dripping down his hand.

He tensed first, a soft grunt muffled by the cape. Hot spurts of cum hit his palm, soaking through to his jeans. That pushed me over—my pussy clenched around his fingers, and I squirted, a gush of fluid splashing onto the floor under the chair. It looked like I'd peed myself, a puddle forming quick, but the scent was all arousal, musky and sharp. I pulled his hand free just as the door chimed—Nancy, right on cue, bustling back in with her shopping bags.

Quinn sat rigid, face beet red, as I finished the trim and brushed off the hair. 'Looks great, Lisa, thank you,' Nancy said, oblivious, handing over cash. Before they left, I leaned in with a smile. 'Hey, Nancy, if Quinn's free later this week, I could use help with some yard work at my place. Leaves piling up, you know?' She nodded easy. 'Sure, he'll be glad to pitch in.' Quinn's eyes met mine in the mirror one last time—wide, secretive, promising more.

They walked out, and I grabbed the broom, sweeping clippings from my area. That's when I saw it: a sticky puddle in the cutting chair's seat, pearly white globs of his cum where it'd leaked through. My heart raced again. I should've wiped it, but instead, I glanced around—Mark chatting with Theresa at the desk, Carol and Jeff still primping. I squatted low, skirt hiking up, and dragged my tongue over the warm mess. Salty, fresh, with that youthful tang. I lapped it all up, swallowing every drop, my pussy throbbing anew at the taste.

As I locked up that night, mind wandering to the weekend, I pictured him at my house. No mom, no salon crowd—just us, in the backyard, then inside. I'd have him rake leaves until he was sweaty, then pull him close, show him how to really touch a woman. Strip him down, wrap my lips around that young cock, suck until he begged. Bend over the patio table, let him fuck me raw, his hands on my tits like he'd stared at all day. Yeah, plans were forming, dirty and detailed. Homecoming couldn't come soon enough.

If you like my writing or have any criticism or comments or wanna chat or get a haircut please let me know [email protected] . Love y'all!!!!