The man walks toward the tub with a folded towel and the comb in his hand.
He turns off the water, then surprises me by putting the towel down on the floor by the edge and kneeling down onto it.
“Turn around,” he states firmly, holding up the comb.
“Thank you, I can do it.” I reach out to grab the comb from his hand. I may
not have a super sensitive head, but I don’t want him angrily pulling and tugging through my snarls.
“I’ll do it,” he says again. “Just turn around and relax.”
“Fine.” I huff, knowing I won’t win an argument with this man. Turning my
body so my hair is over the side of the tub, I brace myself.
The man gathers my hair in his large hands and splits it into two equal sections. Taking one section, he starts at the bottom and begins to comb through it expertly.
“How’d you learn to do this?” I ask incredulously.
“I used to have long hair.”
Surprised, I quickly twist my body to face him. “Really?”
“It was a long time ago,” he says with a grin. “I was an unkempt college student.”
Placing his hand on the crown of my head, he redirects me back into position.
“Why did you cut it?” I can’t help but be intrigued, wondering what he looked like with long, dark, and no doubt wavy hair.
The man hesitates before answering. “Someone suggested that it would be better if I looked more corporate.”
“Sounds like something my dad would say,” I scoff; my dad hadn’t liked it
when I dyed my hair purple in junior high school.
The man continues to gently comb my hair, lulling me into a peacefully relaxed state.
“How’s your cunt feeling?” he asks, breaking the silence as he continues his methodical combing of my hair.
“Umm … ” I mutter, inexplicably embarrassed, considering all that we had
shared.
He leans forward and slips one of his hands into the water, running it down
my stomach and gently cupping my pussy. I quickly grab his wrist, attempting to restrain him.
“Sir.”
“Is the hot water helping any?”
“Yes,” I answer truthfully.
“Good.” He kisses my neck, sending an unwanted shock of pleasure through
my body. He lazily pets me for several moments before removing his hand and
continuing to comb through my tangles.
Once he’s satisfied with the state of my hair, he stands and shakes out the towel he was kneeling on. Waiting.
I slowly unfold myself and stand up in the tub.
“Let’s get you dried off.” The man steps forward and wraps the towel tightly
around my body. Taking my arm, he helps me step out of the tub before grabbing another towel and beginning to run it roughly along my shoulders, warming me.
“Was there any lotion?”
“What?”
“Lotion.”
If it weren’t for the humidity, I would be a scratching, flaky mess already.
“But you’re clean, why would you put lotion on now?” the man asks, genuinely confused.
“So my skin doesn’t dry out.”
