Salon Sisters, pt 1 – Hương meets hung
Images of characters can be found here:
forum.xnxx.com/threads/salon-sisters-story.718988/
Hương and Mai, the two Amerasian sisters running the salon, embody a captivating blend of exotic allure and playful sensuality that turns every visit into an electric experience. Their Vietnamese heritage shines through in their smooth, golden-olive skin, almond-shaped eyes framed by thick lashes, and silky black hair that cascades in loose waves or is often styled in effortless updos to accentuate their graceful necks. Both have that effortless, radiant beauty—high cheekbones, full lips that curve into knowing smiles, and a confident poise that draws eyes without trying.
They dress to kill in form-fitting outfits that hug their curves like a second skin: low-cut blouses that plunge daringly to reveal generous cleavage, paired with mid-thigh skirts that swish teasingly with every step, showcasing their toned legs and hinting at what’s beneath. The fabrics are always soft and clingy—think stretchy cotton blends or silky synthetics in vibrant colors like red, black, or deep purple—that move with their bodies, emphasizing every sway and bend. No bras in sight most days, just the natural bounce and jiggle that makes their presence impossible to ignore.
Their flirtatious manner is subtle yet intoxicating: lingering eye contact that feels like a secret shared, light touches on your arm or shoulder during conversation, and laughter that bubbles up with a husky undertone, often accompanied by a playful wink or a bite of the lower lip. They banter effortlessly, dropping compliments laced with double entendres—”You look so good today, I could just eat you up”—while leaning in close enough to catch the faint scent of their jasmine-infused perfume mixed with salon products.
Hương, at 38, is the epitome of voluptuous temptation wrapped in her petite 5’3″ frame. Her D-cup breasts are full and heavy, straining against those low-cut shirts like ripe fruit begging to be admired, with nipples that sometimes poke through the thin fabric when the AC kicks in, adding to the raw sexiness. Her shapely butt is round and firm, filling out her skirts with a perfect heart shape that sways hypnotically as she moves around the salon. She carries herself with a sultry confidence, her hips rolling just a bit extra when she knows you’re watching, turning mundane tasks into a private show.
Mai, 36 and a slender 5’6″, contrasts with a more lithe, athletic build—her firm B-cup breasts perky and pert, sitting high on her chest with a natural lift that makes her cleavage look endlessly inviting in those plunging tops. Her butt is flatter but toned from what seems like yoga or endless hours on her feet, giving her a sleek, model-like silhouette that’s all long lines and subtle curves. She’s got that elegant, cat-like grace, stretching languidly when reaching for supplies, her skirt riding up just enough to tease the edge of her thighs. Together, they create this dynamic duo vibe: Hương’s bold, curvaceous energy bouncing off Mai’s sleek, teasing poise, making the salon feel like a playground of unspoken desires.
Over the five years Hương’s been handling my hair, the sexual tension has built like a slow-burning fuse, every appointment layered with her deliberate teasing that leaves me buzzing long after I leave. She starts innocently enough, draping the cape over me with her body brushing mine, her warm breath on my neck as she adjusts it. But as she cuts, she presses in close—those magnificent D-cups squishing firmly against my shoulder or the back of my head, the soft, yielding flesh molding to me through the thin fabric, her heartbeat faintly detectable in the contact. It’s no accident; she lingers there, scissors snipping slowly while she chats about nothing and everything, her voice dropping to a murmur that vibrates through her chest into me.
When she needs a product from the lower drawers, she bends at the waist instead of squatting, her skirt hiking up to reveal the smooth expanse of her thighs and a flash of lacy panties—often black or red thongs that ride high, hugging her curves and sometimes showing a telltale damp spot at the crotch, a dark bloom hinting at her own arousal from the game. I’ve caught it in glimpses: the fabric clinging just a little too much, the subtle sheen that suggests she’s enjoying the power play as much as I am. Then there’s the bending over to “check” something on the counter across from me, her blouse gaping open to offer a deep, unobstructed view down her shirt—those full breasts swaying gently, nipples hardening under my gaze, the valley between them shadowed and inviting.
She’s caught me looking and smiles slyly, not pulling away but holding the pose a beat longer, maybe even arching her back to deepen the reveal. The air thickens with it—the scent of her shampoo-mixed arousal, the way her fingers graze my scalp a tad too sensually during the wash, massaging in circles that feel more like foreplay. It’s all laced with playful comments: “Oops, did I get too close? You don’t mind, do you?” or “Let me just… reach for that,” as she stretches, her body heat radiating. The tension simmers, unspoken but palpable, leaving me hard under the cape and her with that flushed glow, both of us riding the edge of what could happen if the teasing ever tipped over.
I’ve made it a habit to arrive early at the salon, just so I can settle into one of the waiting chairs near the front and watch Hương and Mai work. The chairs are positioned closer to Mai’s station, giving me the perfect vantage point to take in every move she makes. They don’t get many male customers, and I’ve noticed over time that the teasing—the real teasing—is reserved almost exclusively for me. With everyone else, they’re professional, friendly, but distant. With me, it’s different.
While Mai is cutting or styling a client, she always seems to know exactly where I’m sitting. She’ll position herself so I have the best possible view: stretching up on her toes to section hair, her long legs flexing, that mid-thigh skirt riding just high enough to reveal the smooth skin at the backs of her thighs. She arches her back slowly when she reaches for clips or pins, pulling her tight blouse taut across her firm B-cups so I can make out the faint outline of her nipples hardening under the fabric. Every now and then, she glances over at me, her dark eyes locking onto mine for a second longer than necessary, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips—like she’s fully aware of the effect she’s having.
When there’s a break in her schedule and Hương is busy with someone else, Mai saunters over to where I’m waiting. She doesn’t just sit down; she leans against the armrest of the chair beside mine, crossing one long leg over the other so her skirt creeps even higher up her toned thigh. From my seat, I get a perfect glimpse of soft golden skin and the delicate lace edge of her panties—usually something sheer, white or pale pink, that stands out beautifully against her complexion.
She starts chatting casually—asking how my week’s been, commenting on something I’m wearing—but her body language turns every conversation into something intimate. Her fingers lightly trail along my forearm as she talks, tracing lazy little patterns that send heat straight through me. She leans in closer than she needs to, close enough that I catch the warm, floral scent of her skin and hair, and sometimes her perky breasts brush lightly against my shoulder when she laughs or gestures. If she’s feeling especially bold, she’ll rest her hand on my knee while making a point, her palm warm through my jeans, fingers giving a subtle squeeze before lingering there just a few seconds too long.
I love how she toys with the neckline of her blouse while we talk—absentmindedly tugging it a fraction lower or hooking a finger under the fabric to “adjust” it, giving me a teasing flash of the upper curve of her breasts. Her eyes stay on mine the whole time, dark and confident, occasionally dropping to my mouth or lower, like she’s gauging exactly how worked up I’m getting. She invades my space in the most delicious way: the gentle press of her hip against my arm, her foot “accidentally” brushing mine and then staying there, her toes lightly grazing my shoe.
By the time Hương calls me back to her chair, I’m already half-hard under the waiting-room magazine I’ve strategically placed on my lap, and Mai knows it. As she walks away, hips swaying, she throws me that satisfied little smirk over her shoulder—the one that tells me she’s enjoying the game every bit as much as I am.
I called the salon the weekend before Christmas to book my usual appointment, and Hương’s voice came through the phone with that familiar lilt, telling me they were slammed busy. “Can you come in last at 6pm?” she asked, and I agreed without hesitation, my mind already racing with fantasies of being alone with these two stunning women after hours. The possibilities simmered in my thoughts all week.
When I arrived right on time, the salon’s door was locked, the “Closed” sign flipped, but Hương buzzed me in with a warm smile visible through the glass. Stepping inside, I realized it was just her—no Mai, no lingering customers, the place dimly lit with only the soft hum of the overhead lights and the faint scent of hair products in the air. She locked the door behind me and pulled me into a tight hug, her body pressing fully against mine, those full D-cups squishing softly into my chest as her arms wrapped around my neck. “So glad you could make it,” she murmured, her breath hot against my ear.
I asked for the usual cut, and the flirting ignited almost instantly. She draped the smock over me in the chair, leaning in extra close so her cleavage spilled forward in that low-cut blouse, the deep valley between her breasts right at eye level, her skin glowing under the lights. As she worked, scissors snipping, she pressed her hips against my arm, grinding subtly with each adjustment, her skirt riding up just enough to tease. When she bent to grab a comb from the lower drawer, she did it slowly, ass out, giving me a full view up her skirt—her panties weren’t just damp this time; they were absolutely soaked, the thin black lace clinging transparently to her folds, a dark wet patch spreading visibly, evidence of how turned on she was already.
She moved to my right side to even out the sides, standing so close that her thigh brushed my elbow. All the signs were screaming at me: the heavy breathing, the lingering touches, the way her nipples poked hard through her shirt. I finally took the hint, letting my hand dangle off the armrest, fingers grazing her knee lightly. She didn’t flinch or pull away—instead, she shifted closer, parting her legs just a fraction. Emboldened, I slid my palm up her smooth lower thigh, stroking in slow circles, feeling the warmth of her skin. No resistance; if anything, she pressed into my touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
I ventured higher, my hand gliding along her inner thigh, the heat from her pussy radiating like a furnace, making my cock twitch under the smock. As I inched up, my arm naturally lifted her skirt, bunching the fabric until my fingers brushed the soaked crotch of her panties. She was drenched, the material slick and hot against my skin. I didn’t stop there—slipping my fingers under the elastic leg hole, I delved inside, parting her swollen lips with ease. She was so wet, my middle finger slid right into her tight, slippery heat, curling to stroke her inner walls while my thumb found her clit, circling it firmly.
Hương gasped, her hands gripping the back of the chair for support, hips bucking subtly against my hand as I pumped in and out, adding a second finger to stretch her. The room filled with the wet, squelching sounds of her arousal, and soon the unmistakable musky scent of raw pussy hung thick in the air—heady, intoxicating, making my head spin. She rode my fingers harder, her breaths turning to moans, until her body tensed, pussy clenching around me in rhythmic pulses as she came, soaking my hand with a gush of her juices that dripped down my wrist.
She steadied herself against the arm of the chair, eyes glazed with lust, and I couldn’t hold back anymore. I stood, shrugging off the smock, and pulled her into my arms, crushing my mouth to hers in a passionate kiss. Our tongues tangled hungrily, her tasting of mint and desire, her hands fisting in my shirt as I backed her against the counter.
I wanted to draw it out, to make every second feel like worship.
I started with her blouse, but this time I didn’t rush the buttons. I kissed the hollow of her throat while my fingers worked the first one free, then let my lips drift lower with each button I opened, tasting the warm salt of her skin. When the fabric finally parted, I eased the blouse off her shoulders inch by inch, following the path with slow, open-mouthed kisses down the slope of each breast. I reached behind her to unsnap her massive bra and pulled the straps forward and down her arms. There I was staring at those magnificent D-cups bare and heaving, nipples hard as pebbles. I spent long hours dreaming about those glorious globes, so I wasted no time kissing every bit of her exposed chest, circling each breast with wet, open-mouthed kisses, flicking my tongue over her nipples until she moaned and arched into me.
I sank to my knees in front of her, hands sliding down the curve of her waist to the zipper of her skirt. I tugged it down tooth by tooth, letting the soft rasp of the zipper fill the silence. The skirt loosened and I peeled it over the swell of her hips, kissing every new inch of skin I uncovered: the soft give of her lower belly, the faint silver stretch marks that only made her more real, more intoxicating. When the skirt dropped, I pressed my mouth to the front of her soaked panties, breathing her in through the lace, feeling the heat pulsing against my lips.
Then came the moment I’d also been dreaming about for years.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of her panties and drew them down agonizingly slowly, revealing her inch by inch. First the soft, neatly trimmed triangle of jet-black hair came into view, glossy with her arousal. Lower still, and there it was: her gorgeous, hairy pussy, framed by that lush dark bush, lips swollen and glistening, so tight and petite it looked almost untouched despite everything we’d just done. The black curls were soaked, clinging to her folds, and as the panties slid past mid-thigh a thick strand of her creamy wetness stretched between the fabric and her body before breaking. The scent hit me full force: raw, musky, unmistakably aroused woman, thick in the air around us.
I couldn’t resist. I leaned in and dragged my tongue slowly up her slit, parting that soft hair, tasting her tangy sweetness straight from the source. She shuddered, thighs trembling as I licked again, deeper this time, savoring the contrast of silky curls against my lips and the slick heat beneath. Only when she was gasping, fingers tangled in my hair, did I finally pull the panties the rest of the way down her legs, kissing the inside of each knee, each calf, the fabric passed, until she stepped out of them and stood completely naked in the salon’s soft light: full breasts heaving, black hair framing that tight, dripping Asian pussy that was now undeniably, finally mine to take.
I pushed Hương back into the stylist chair and stripped fast, kicking my shoes aside, jeans and shirt hitting the floor in seconds. When my cock sprang free (thick, veiny, a solid eight inches and throbbing), her eyes went wide. A sharp little gasp escaped her lips, followed by a slow, breathy “Wooooow…” that trembled with both hunger and a flicker of genuine apprehension. Her gaze locked on it, lips parted, cheeks flushed darker.
I hit the lever and dropped the chair as low as it would go. The height lined up perfectly. I stepped between her spread thighs, took the base of my cock in one hand, and brushed the swollen head across her full lips. She hesitated only a heartbeat, then opened wide, stretching her mouth around the crown. It was a tight fit; her jaw had to work to take me. She started slow (warm, wet tongue swirling over the tip, lips sealing just past the ridge), then eased forward inch by inch, cheeks hollowing as she sucked. Saliva pooled and spilled down the shaft while she bobbed, one small hand wrapped around what she couldn’t yet swallow, stroking in perfect rhythm with her mouth. Every time she pulled back, thick strands of spit connected her lips to my cock before snapping against her chin. She looked up at me the whole time (those dark eyes watering slightly, mascara starting to smudge), humming low in her throat so the vibration shot straight through me.
She was too good. Within minutes my balls were drawing up tight, pressure coiling fast. I wasn’t ready to finish yet. I tangled my fingers in her silky black hair, gripped hard, and pulled her off with a wet pop. A thin string of saliva stretched from her bottom lip to my glistening cock before breaking. I yanked her head back gently but firmly and crushed my mouth to hers, tasting myself on her tongue in a messy, desperate kiss.
I needed her under me, now.
I hooked an arm under her knees and lifted her easily (she’s light, all soft curves and warm skin) and carried her through the half-open door into the little massage room at the back. The table was already set up with a clean white sheet. I laid Hương down gently on the massage table, her body melting into the soft sheet like silk on water—her long black hair fanning out, those magnificent D-cups rising and falling with her quickened breaths, nipples dark and erect against her golden skin. Between her thighs, her gorgeous black-haired pussy glistened, the lush curls matted with arousal, her tight folds still swollen from my fingers.
In the quiet intimacy of the moment, drawing from the subtle, poetic traditions of Vietnamese desire—where words are often flowery and indirect, like whispers of jasmine in the night—she murmured breathlessly, “Anh ơi… em muốn anh…” (Darling… I want you…), her voice husky with that accented lilt that made my cock throb harder. I positioned myself between her legs, rubbing the thick head along her slick, hairy slit, parting the soft curls as I teased her entrance. She arched slightly, her hands reaching for me, embodying the quiet passion of her heritage—desire shown through touch and gaze rather than bold declarations.
I entered her slowly, savoring the exquisite tightness of her super narrow Asian pussy gripping every inch like warm, wet silk. The contrast was intoxicating: my thick eight inches stretching her petite frame, her black pubic hair brushing against me as I sank deeper. With the first full thrust, her large breasts began their hypnotic dance—heavy D-cups swaying side to side, jiggling softly at first, then more wildly as I built a rhythm, the soft flesh rippling and bouncing toward her chin before slapping back down with each deep plunge.
Her first orgasm crashed over her like a monsoon wave, far beyond anything she’d ever dreamed—intense, shattering, her body convulsing as if possessed by some ancient spirit of ecstasy. Her pussy clenched in brutal, rhythmic spasms around me, so tight it milked every vein, a hot gush of her juices squirting out, soaking my balls and the sheet. She cried out in Vietnamese, “Em… em lên rồi… anh mạnh quá!” (I’m coming… you’re so strong!), tears streaming down her cheeks, her breasts quaking furiously with the force, jiggling in chaotic waves as her back arched off the table, toes curling in overwhelming bliss that left her mind blank, soul unraveling in pure, euphoric release.
I kept driving into her, long and deliberate, her breasts continuing to sway and jiggle mesmerizingly—full orbs bouncing hypnotically, nipples tracing wild arcs, sweat glistening on their curves. The second built even deeper, her moans turning to desperate pleas mixed with traditional endearments: “Anh yêu… deeper… em chịu không nổi…” (My love… deeper… I can’t take it…). When it exploded, it was cataclysmic—her pussy clamping down like a vice in endless pulses, another flood of creamy arousal drenching us, her nails raking my back as she thrashed, the pleasure so profound it felt otherworldly, surpassing every secret fantasy she’d harbored, leaving her sobbing in ecstasy, body trembling with aftershocks that rippled through her jiggling breasts like echoes of thunder.
For the third, I flipped her onto her stomach, lifting her hips—her ass up, breasts now pendulous beneath her, spilling to the sides and quivering with anticipation. I plunged back into that impossibly tight, hairy haven from behind, one hand rubbing her clit in frantic circles. Her breasts swayed heavily forward and back, nipples grazing the sheet, the jiggle amplifying with every powerful thrust, soft flesh rippling in waves. She buried her face in the padding, muffling cries that grew into raw, passionate Vietnamese whispers: “Phang em đi anh… mạnh nữa… em là của anh…” (Fuck me hard… more… I’m yours…).
The orgasm tore through her like nothing imaginable—apocalyptic, her pussy seizing in violent, unending spasms, squirting forcefully in jets that soaked everything, her entire body bucking wildly, voice breaking into hoarse screams as waves of intensity shattered her completely, far beyond dreams, every nerve exploding in bliss that left her limp, quivering, utterly spent.
Only then did I let go, pounding through her gripping aftershocks until I filled her deeply with hot release, collapsing together in a tangle of sweat-slicked skin and ragged breaths, the air thick with our shared scent and the lingering echo of her poetic pleas.
I held Hương close, my arms wrapped tightly around her trembling body as she fought to catch her breath, her skin slick with sweat against mine. Her chest heaved, those full D-cups pressed soft and warm into me, rising and falling in ragged rhythm. Tiny aftershocks still rippled through her, her thighs quivering around my hips. When I finally eased out of her super tight pussy, a thick rush of my cum followed, gushing out in warm rivulets down her hairy mound and over her swollen lips. The sight and sensation triggered another wave—her body quaked hard, a mild but deep orgasm rolling through her without warning, her walls fluttering weakly around nothing as she whimmed into my neck, fingers digging into my back.
I cradled her through it, stroking her damp hair, kissing her temple, her closed eyelids, the corner of her mouth—soft, reassuring touches that said she was safe, cherished. I whispered gentle words against her ear, telling her how beautiful she was, how incredible she felt, how perfectly we fit together. She melted into me, limp and trusting, her head resting on my shoulder as the tremors slowly ebbed. I reached for a clean towel from the stack nearby, warm from the cabinet, and gently wiped the sweat from her brow, her neck, the valley between her heavy breasts. Then lower—tenderly cleaning the mess between her thighs, parting her legs with care, dabbing away our combined release with slow, reverent strokes while she sighed contentedly, eyes half-lidded and glowing with satisfaction.
Curled against me, she finally spoke in that soft, accented whisper, her fingers tracing lazy circles on my chest. “I’ve never been with a white man before,” she confessed, cheeks flushing even deeper. “And never… never anyone so big. At first it hurt—so full, stretching me so much I thought I couldn’t take it. But then… something released inside, deep, deeper than I’ve ever felt. It touched places I didn’t know existed. And when I came… anh ơi, it was like my whole body exploded. Overwhelming. Addictive. I already want it again.”
Her words sent a fresh surge of blood south, and she felt it instantly—my cock stirring against her thigh. A mischievous, almost worshipful smile curved her lips. Without a word, she slid down my body with graceful intent, embodying the quiet, devoted pampering rooted in her heritage—taking care of her man completely, selflessly, with delicate precision.
She took my semi-hard cock into her mouth like it was something sacred. Her tongue swirled gently at first, lapping up every trace of our mingled juices—salty-sweet, musky, the flavor of us. She worked slowly, expertly: long, deliberate licks from base to tip, cleaning every inch, sucking softly to draw out the last drops beaded at the slit. When rivulets had trickled down to the crease of my thighs and the crack of my ass, she didn’t hesitate—she lifted my balls with tender fingers, tongue tracing lower, delicately cleaning there too, warm and thorough, no spot neglected. Her movements were unhurried, reverent, eyes flicking up to meet mine now and then with a shy, adoring sparkle that made my heart pound as much as my cock.
When she finally finished, my shaft glistened only with her saliva, every trace of our passion lovingly removed. She crawled back up, nestling into my arms again, pressing a soft kiss to my lips so I could taste us both on her tongue. We lay there tangled on the massage table, hearts slowing together, bodies cooling in the quiet intimacy of the afterglow—two people who had crossed a line years in the making, now bound by something raw, beautiful, and utterly addictive.
Her expert tongue worked its magic, swirling and lapping with that delicate, devoted care until my cock swelled back to full hardness in her mouth—thick, veiny, and throbbing once more. I couldn’t wait any longer. I slid off the table, my feet hitting the floor with purpose, and hooked my hands under her arms. She let me maneuver her easily, trusting and pliant, as I pulled her higher up the padded surface until her head hung off the edge, black hair cascading down like a dark waterfall, throat perfectly aligned.
I stepped forward, gripping the base of my cock, and pressed the swollen head against her full lips. She opened readily, eagerly—mouth stretching wide, tongue flicking out to welcome me. I pushed in slowly at first, watching her throat relax as inch after thick inch slid over her tongue and deeper, until the head breached her tight ring and entered her throat proper. She hummed around me, the vibration sending jolts straight to my balls, her hands resting lightly on my thighs as I began to thrust—steady, controlled strokes that filled her mouth and throat completely.
I leaned forward over her inverted body, one hand bracing on the table beside her hip, the other sliding between her spread thighs. Her pussy was still slick with our earlier release, black curls matted and glistening, lips puffy and sensitive. I parted her easily, two fingers plunging into that super tight heat, curling to stroke the spot that had made her explode before. My thumb found her swollen clit, circling it firmly, relentlessly, as I fucked her throat in long, deep thrusts.
Each time I pulled back, she gasped for air—wet, desperate sounds around my shaft—before I sank back in, her throat bulging slightly with my girth. Her body responded instantly to my fingers: hips bucking, thighs trembling, those heavy D-cups jiggling wildly with every rock of her torso. The angle let me watch it all—her breasts bouncing upward toward her chin with each thrust, nipples hard and dark, swaying in hypnotic rhythm as her arousal built.
She couldn’t moan properly with her throat full, but the muffled whimpers vibrated through my cock, urging me deeper. I increased the pressure on her clit, rubbing tight, fast circles while my fingers pumped inside her, and suddenly her entire body tensed—back arching off the table, legs shaking uncontrollably. As she gasped and choked for air around me, a powerful orgasm ripped through her, pussy clenching hard on my fingers, fresh wetness coating my hand as she rocked and spasmed beneath me.
The sight and feel of her coming undone—throat fluttering around my cock, body writhing in ecstasy—pushed me over the edge. I buried myself deep one final time, holding her head steady as I erupted straight down her throat, hot pulses flooding her, forcing her to swallow around me again and again. She took every drop, throat working greedily, eyes watering but locked on mine upside-down, filled with raw, submissive bliss.
Only when I was spent did I ease out slowly, a thick strand of saliva and cum connecting us briefly before breaking. She gasped for real air then, chest heaving, but a satisfied, almost worshipful smile curved her lips as she licked them clean, still trembling from the intensity we’d just shared.
I eased back onto the massage table beside her, pulling her warm, naked body against mine. We lay there in the dim light of the side room, hearts slowing, skin still flushed and glistening. My hand began to wander—slow, reverent strokes over every curve I’d just claimed. I traced the line of her collarbone, down the soft slope of one heavy breast, circling the dark nipple that hardened again under my thumb. She sighed, a tiny shiver rippling through her as I cupped the full weight of her D-cup, gently kneading, feeling the lingering sensitivity. My palm drifted lower, over the gentle curve of her belly, fingers threading through the damp black curls between her thighs.
Even now, her pussy felt hot to the touch—swollen, slick, still fluttering with faint aftershocks. When I brushed her clit lightly, her hips jerked and a soft tremor ran through her entire body, thighs clenching instinctively. I explored further: the smooth backs of her thighs, the delicious swell of her ass, the delicate dip of her lower back. Every touch drew small, involuntary shivers—little tremors that told me her nerves were still alight, her body humming from the intensity of what we’d done. She pressed closer, burying her face in my neck, whispering “Anh…” in a voice thick with wonder and exhaustion.
Time slipped away unnoticed. When I finally glanced at the clock on the wall, it was past 9 p.m.—hours gone in a haze of pleasure. We stirred reluctantly. I sat up first and helped her off the table, steadying her when her legs wobbled slightly. I dressed her the way I’d undressed her earlier—slowly, sensuously, turning it into another act of intimacy.
I picked up her soaked black lace panties first, kneeling in front of her. She stepped into them one foot at a time, and I drew them up her legs with deliberate care, my lips brushing the inside of each knee, the soft skin of her thighs, the curve where thigh met hip. When the lace settled over her pussy, I pressed a lingering kiss right through the fabric, feeling the heat still radiating there. Next came her skirt—I held it open for her to step into, then slid it up her hips, fingers grazing her ass as I zipped it slowly, stealing one last squeeze. Her blouse was last. I slipped her arms into the sleeves one by one, kissing each shoulder before covering it, then moved behind her to button it from the bottom up. With every button, I paused to kiss the newly covered skin—her navel, the soft underswell of her breasts, the valley between them—until the fabric hugged her curves again. Finally, I turned her to face me, smoothing the blouse over her chest, letting my thumbs brush her nipples through the material one last time as she shivered and smiled.
She returned the favor with quiet devotion. She knelt to help me into my boxer briefs, her fingers lingering as she tucked my still-sensitive cock inside, giving it a soft, affectionate stroke before pulling my jeans up. She zipped and buttoned them slowly, then rose to slide my shirt over my shoulders, her hands gliding over my chest and back as she dressed me, planting small kisses on my collarbone, my neck, the corner of my mouth.
We walked out into the now-dark salon together. She turned off the last lights, locked the front door behind us, and I walked her across the empty parking lot to her car. The night air was cool against our flushed skin. At her driver-side door, I couldn’t resist—I grabbed her waist, pulled her hard against me, and kissed her one final time. It was deep, hungry, full of everything we’d just shared and everything still unspoken: tongues sliding, her body melting into mine, her hands clutching my shirt as if she didn’t want to let go. When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she touched my cheek softly, eyes shining in the streetlight.
She slipped into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and gave me one last lingering look—part promise, part plea—before pulling away. I stood there watching her taillights disappear down the road, the taste of her still on my lips, the memory of her trembling body etched into every inch of my skin.
Continue in Salon Sisters, pt 2 – Mai I Come Too
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