His thumb is softly stroking less than an inch below her panties. She looks down quickly. In the bulk of the barber cape and her stylist smock, it is impossible to see that he is doing anything at all.
She says nothing. His hand inches up. Now his thumb is caressing the outside of her panties, up and down. Without moving his palm, he is able to run his thumb all the way up to the tuft of hair she keeps groomed above her clit and all the way down to the lowest part of her labia. How are his hands so large?
Still, she says nothing. She says nothing when he begins teasing along the seam of her panties, flirting with possibilities. She says nothing as his thumb hooks inside and lifts the panties away from her skin. He is not touching her yet, just allowing the air to circulate around her pussy, its wetness giving electric sensitivity.
Her silence is broken when his finger makes contact. Panties lifted away with his thumb, he runs an index finger gently along her labia. It is almost enough to make her knees buckle. Only with the presence of his touch can she recognize how wet, how aroused, she has become. She lets out the softest moan and immediately clamps her mouth shut. Fierce color rises to her cheeks.
She realizes that he is talking. He is chatting away about some mundane nothing. How dare he manage to carry on a conversation while this is happening! He abruptly stops, catches her eye in the mirror, and gives the slightest smile. He must have seen her scowl and read her thoughts. Maintaining eye contact, he presses a finger inside her. It is all she can do to stop herself from doubling over.
He caresses inside slowly, once, twice, three times. He pauses just as she was getting used to the motions, then resumes, toying with her expectations just like he always used to. When he begins using his thumb to pleasure her clit in rhythm with the stroking, she gives up any pretense of cutting his hair. The world falls away. She closes her eyes, puts her hands on the arm of the chair to steady herself, and dives into the cadence of his fingers. It builds quickly. She was unconsciously ready for orgasm before he ever made physical contact.
Abruptly, all sensation is gone. She is alone in the darkness. She opens her eyes to find him calmly looking at her through the mirror, the image of gentlemanly propriety. He says nothing.
His haircut was almost complete before his transgressive contact, and she goes through perfunctory finishing touches.
Back at the register she rings him up. He pays, giving a 300% tip. Neither of them has said a word since her almost-orgasm. He puts on his overcoat. Just before turning to leave, he leans close and, in a near whisper, says, "You did a lovely job, Pet." It is his first acknowledgment of their past and the last thing he says before walking out the door.
She checks her schedule for three weeks from today and wonders if he will return.
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