Hairdressers

Tammy was still sore when she sat down. The chair pressed against her raw ass, every shift sending a sting that made her thighs twitch. She tried to focus on her screen, but her body throbbed with heat.

Jill’s perfume hit her nose before she even looked up. The woman leaned against her desk, eyes flicking over Tammy’s blouse, the corset straining beneath it, the way her tits sat high and obvious.

“Fuck me,” Jill grinned. “That’s daring, even for you. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Tammy swallowed hard, her cheeks burning. She didn’t reply, just stared at the desk.

Jill slid a small white card across the surface. Tammy picked it up with trembling fingers. A hairdresser’s logo, embossed in silver. Expensive.

“John said you’re to come with me.” Jill’s grin widened. “Apparently you need a new look. Something about…” she lowered her voice, “…the drapes matching the carpet.”

Tammy’s face went crimson. She nearly dropped the card. Her thighs pressed together under the desk.

Jill just winked and straightened up. “Come on then, as Johns new project you don’t keep him waiting.”

They left together, slipping into a waiting taxi. The city blurred by the window, but Tammy couldn’t stop glancing at Jill.

“What does he mean, I’m his project?” Tammy asked finally, her voice tight.

Jill sighed, flipping through her phone lazily. “It’s obvious. You’re his new thing. Happens now and then. John picks someone, moulds them. You’ll have a wonderful time, you just need to be pushed in the right direction, trust me.”

Her stomach twisted. Wonderful. That wasn’t the word she’d use. But her pussy throbbed traitorously at the thought.

The taxi pulled up outside a salon that looked more like a private club. Sleek glass windows, chrome handles, a receptionist in black silk behind the desk. Jill signed them in without hesitation.

“The appointment’s paid for,” the woman said, leading Tammy to a chair. “Courtesy of Mr McAllister.”

Her chest tightened again.

The stylist appeared, a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark eyes and perfect hair, the kind of man that made women stare on the street. His accent was smooth, middle eastern, his voice low and confident.

“You need a change,” he said, circling Tammy’s chair. “Something stronger. What colour?”

Tammy froze. She struggled to find words. “I… I don’t know, something close to—”

“Just show him,” Jill called from the sofa, flicking through a glossy magazine. “Hurry up.”

Tammy’s heart thudded. Show him?

Her hands moved before her brain caught up. She shifted in the chair, legs opening, the split in the skirt rising as she tugged her panties aside. The salon lights gleamed on her bare mound, ginger tufts of hair growing above her slit, her clit peeking from swollen folds.

The man didn’t blink. He knelt slightly, producing a strip of colour samples, pressing them against her mound like it was the most normal thing in the world. Blonde against her curls, then auburn, then a fiery red that made his lips curve.

“Yes. This.” He tapped it, straightening. “It suits you.”

Tammy’s face burned hotter than ever. Excitement buzzed in her pussy. She realised her hand was still holding her panties open, her wetness shining under the salon lights. Mortified, she snapped them back into place.

The stylist just smiled, unfazed, and spun her chair to the mirror. His hands were in her hair, tugging, brushing, cutting, dyeing. She stared at her reflection, cheeks flushed, stocking tops still damp.

By the end of it, Tammy was changed. Fiery red hair framed her face, bright, raw, untamed. The girl Graham had met all those years ago.

Jill let out a low whistle. “Fuck me, Tammy. He’ll eat you alive.”

Back home, she was still buzzing. She’d barely dropped her bag when her phone chimed. Graham.

She answered. His face filled the screen, smiling.

“Wow,” he said immediately. “That’s… you look amazing. Like the girl I fell in love with. Christ, Tammy, you look twenty again.”

Her chest squeezed. She smiled, weak, guilty. “You like it?”

“I love it.” His eyes softened. “It’s you. The real you.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to cry. Instead, her phone buzzed again. A message sliding over the video call.

John.

Show me your ass. Bent over. No panties. I want to make sure I didn’t damage you too badly.

Her stomach dropped. Her nipples hardened instantly.

She ended the call with Graham too quickly, muttering something about being tired. Then she propped her phone against a chair, tugged her skirt up, peeled her panties down, and bent over, spreading her cheeks wide. Her ass was still marked, red and tender, the sting alive under her skin.

She snapped the picture and hit send.

Seconds later, another notification. Graham.

Wow. Keep them coming.

Her blood froze. Her breath caught in her throat. She scrolled back. The image—her ass spread, her pussy wet and swollen—Graham’s face still caught in the corner of the frame.

She clutched her mouth with her hand, a moan escaping instead of a scream. Mortification and arousal ripped through her in equal measure.

Another message. John.

Good. I’ll see you tomorrow. No underwear.

Her phone slipped from her hand onto the bed. Her body shook, torn between terror and the molten ache flooding her pussy. She lay back, hair flaming red against the sheets, overwhelmed and soaked, not knowing if she wanted to sob or cum.