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From: " LaGatta" <LaGatta@comcast.net>
Subject: {ASSM} {LaGatta} The Head Hunter (M/F rom. oral)
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Date: Sat, 31 Jul 2004 07:10:02 -0400
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The Head Hunter



   copyright 2004 by Frances LaGatta



   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 the huddle and their swapped sexual
recipes beat locker room banter and steam.  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.





   For more work by this author vist : Erotica by Frances LaGatta
www.eroticabyfranceslagatta.com

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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
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