You know the look; stacked but honed from athletics not from being locked in a gym with headphones provocatively dressed but only because ready-to-wear can’t cover the muscle … and other … bulges. And squeaky clean but filthy at the same time, squeaky clean with an innocent grin but filthy with promise at the same time.
That’s how my barber Ali showed-up at our house yesterday. But this story started long ago and escalated two weeks ago; when I went for a hair-cut with no expectations other than sartorial and left with a belly full of Persian cum.
Sure my barber had a habit of being careless in where his crotch rubbed as he moved around me and leant over me as I sat in his chair. Many had been the time I felt his substantial girth against the back of my hand or against my arm; unmistakeable through the smock he’d covered me with and his own smock or apron and under his jeans. Yes; that substantial. And occasionally more than its natural relaxed state; rarely hard but occasionally somewhere in the process of becoming so.
The first time it had been different was some time ago. He more than brushed my hands and arms; that day he ground into me. And he was HARD; disappointing in one way as his girth and length as best I could assess was little different than his relaxed state but hard as a metal pipe in his pants.
As he blew away the cuttings from my face and smock and ground into me what I knew might be the final time of that cut I took hold of him. Ali’s body jerked and his look met my eyes in a glare. We held that position for an intense moment. He throbbed in my grasp through multiple layers of cloth and his look went from fierce to determined; like mine.
I stroked his thick short pipe of man-flesh and he shuddered; and he didn’t otherwise move to disengage. He began waving the hair dryer he was blowing me with again and brushing his fingertips along my hair-line but never broke our eye contact. Then he pumped into my grip subtly; so subtly that it might have appeared to anyone else in the shop that he was merely stretching his angle of reach.
He throbbed in my hold with each short pump of his hips. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. On the fifth his face showed strain and his body shook. And then the pump of his hips stopped and the throb in his hard-on intensified. His face struggled to show no more than frustration for some possibly sticky hairs left behind; but his body jerked slightly with each throb and I knew he was cumming in his pants and by several layers of cloth separating us in my fist.
Ali’s handsome middle-eastern face relaxed again as his body did. He simply said, “There,” as he stepped back and put the blower into its slot after switching it off. When he turned back and unfastened the smock from my neck his crotch only brushed the back of my hand momentarily. He was no longer hard; and he gave me the briefest of near-smiles as he pulled away the smock and revealed the massive tent in my tactical pants.
The expected follow-up did not come; pun intended. Brushing, even rubbing, and the occasional grind; but brief and passing for many subsequent sessions. Until two Saturdays ago.
I made the appointment at the last minute; one of my guys Daniel had made a comment with “bush-ranger” which in Australian slang means shaggy. My husband Kent merely nodded with a smile and tousled my unkempt locks. The app had an appointment left in the late afternoon.
I settled into his chair and he covered my bare knees, shorts, and v-tee; a brush against my hand and then he was around to fasten it in back and turned to his work-counter. When he turned back however he leant hard against my hand; hard with the force of his body and his dick hard as pipe. He gave me the slightest smirk in response to my surprised smile, a grind against me, and then on to clipping and combing.
The hair-cut proceeded like that: he ground against me with every contact. I had my own plan and hadn’t gripped him. As we wound-down toward final … strokes … of his trimmer his grinding was a bit longer each time. At the point he was blowing me clean he had stopped any pretense and was in danger of others in the shop seeing his pelvic motions. He pulled the smock away and the whine of the blower was long-since silenced. “Would you remind me where the men’s room is in here?” I asked him in a loud voice.
His head jerked my direction from his smock-folding. Another of those momentary smirks. “Good. I need to piss too.” Ignition!
It was a complicated path through this indoor mini-mall. Many greetings in passing were given to and by him in at least two languages; I knew neither. For all I knew they were saying, “He looks like an experienced cock-sucker Ali. Give him a huge load!” Yeah I actually thought that and giggled to myself as we walked by the many other establishments inside that place.
The men’s room was a single toilet and sink; like a Starbucks. I thought it odd for such an establishment of multiple shops but didn’t dwell.
Ali threw the bolt on the door and turned. For a moment he looked at me fiercely almost angrily. Then he pulled his apron over his shoulder. His hard-on was evident in his jeans.
He made no further move other than planting his feet far apart. I stepped back to him. I held eye contact and felt for his belt and opened it. Then his jeans and opened them wide. Then I reached into his boxer-briefs. His thick hair on his hard-cut abs felt welcome on the back of my hand.
He gasped, his eyes closed, and his body jerked. His thick stubby dick was cut and wet from his arousal; as were his boxer-briefs.
I sank to my knees and pulled his boxers and jeans down to nearly his knees as I did. Tiny but heavy and bushy balls were freed and bobbed as they settled; his torpedo-dick was straight-out from a bushier thatch which did nothing to diminish his significant girth.
I inhaled first; deeply musky and my own dick throbbed and grew in my shorts there as I knelt. I looked up and he was looking down fiercely at me; all challenging and welcoming and anticipating at the same time.
I swallowed him and he uttered something I didn’t understand in a language of his own. His hands found my shoulders as his knees wavered; his grip seemed to explore my traps, clavicles, and delts as he held-on.
The Persian’s taste was both familiar and foreign; musky dick ripe with sweat of the day and remnants of his last piss with hints of the soap of his last shower. Veiny as fuck; a handful of ridges of veins heavily protruding and pulsing on my tongue. Pungent pre-cum flowing; possibly the strongest-tasting pre-cum of the vast array I’d sampled.
I took hold of his tiny balls without hesitation to see if he minded and went to work on that throbbing drooling piece. Another oath and a long moan told me I had it right.
And the very brief time I worked that hard-on until those balls escaped my grip and disappeared was too short for my taste; even though the spicy taste of his explosion was welcome. I swallowed and swallowed what seemed like gallons. How could those tiny balls have served as reservoir to this torrent? I wondered as I worked to keep-up with the flow. And through it all foreign curses echoed in the tiled room.
My dick was raging hard; well out the leg and having left a puddle of my own very-clear pre on the gray tile floor. Ali was pulling-up, zipping, buttoning, and buckling and noticed my predicament as I stood. His respect for my member was obvious and his look as he again met my eyes was different. “Thank you,” he said in his deep voice and put out his hand to shake mine.
We shook and then he turned and pulled two large strips of paper-towel from the dispenser and handed them to me. That time his smirk held. “Your next appointment is my pleasure,” he said and left.
Home later. I’d told my husband and our boyfriend about my escapade and having fucked and sucked and gotten the relief finally which I needed. “Nice bocka!” Daniel proclaimed when we’d settled onto the big lanai lounge after a dip; bocka meaning hair-cut was another bilingualism we’d picked-up from our Aussie stud boyfriend.
His praise stoked my balls; but I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Nice BOCKA indeed!” And we all chuckled.
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