White Collar Tales Bill Drake (billdrake@hotmail.com)
WARNING: The following is for adults only. It contains depiction of sexual acts between men. If this offends you or is inappropriate for you to read, go no further.
I've been feeling there aren't enough good stories (hell, not enough stories period) out there about white collar men. So I decided to start this series of stories featuring hunks in suits and ties getting their rocks off. It will be a range or story types, with some shorter pieces as well as longer ones.
For more of my stories, check out the Authors page here at Nifty, or my Yahoo Groups: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/drakestories/ Comments or story suggestions to billdrake@hotmail.com.
White Collar Tales #6 Financial District Barber
I may be a barber, but I take my job seriously. That's why I was opening the shop the day after the worst blizzard of the year. It's in the heart of the city's financial district, which today is like a snow-blanketed ghost town: no cars, few people. Still, I have my regular customers and some of those dedicated businessmen coming into the office today would undoubtedly be coming by for their scheduled trim - sun, sleet or hail.
I was trained to cut hair in the Navy, and at thirty-eight I'm still naval-fit from head to toe. Take good care of myself and my body and am proud of it. I'm proud of my shop, too. My own establishment. My dad had higher hopes for his only soon than a barber, but I do well enough for myself financially and, besides, I like taking care of the city's wealthiest and most powerful in my small way. A lot of my buddies have nothing kind to say about the kind of men who come into my shop - think they're all stuck up or uptight. Actually, I found the bankers, lawyers and finance men who come in here are 90% of the time just great guys. Distinguished yet respectful, not overly talkative but friendly. And they care about their appearance, that's why they come to me, the best barber in the Finance District, by reputation.
It's 2:30 and so far I've had only three customers. The first wasn't a regular. Probably came in because his regular barber didn't want to fight the snow. Mid 20s, green-eyed, new to the business world. Beefy build - even under the sweater two hard pecs and a firm jock belly swelled to announce his presence. From his face and the alabaster skin I immediately placed him as a grad from one of the local Catholic colleges... BC, Holy Cross, maybe Providence College.
"Slow today, huh?" he said as he walks slightly bow legged, like some Texas high school quarterback, and plops his sturdy short frame in the chair. The last person to cut his hair didn't know what he was doing. All one length, no sideburns, rounded in the back. The kid was young enough and good-looking enough to get away with a crappy haircut, but I took it as fate that he walked in today and proceeded to corrected the previous mistakes the best I could. It would mean taking more time, longer than the usual 15 minutes, but this morning I had plenty of time.
I always take satisfaction in doing a good job. But this time I was feeling a heavy case of the horns start building up inside me. This stud was attractive, and sometimes when you're up close, handling a guy's head, feeling his breath on your hands, well my dick just starts swelling. He reminded me of the freewheeling studs from my military days, only his hands were soft from his desk job. Even those were turning me on. I kept imagining those thick Irish-jock fingers wrapped around my tool, stroking me off to explosion. So while I was giving him the best haircut he'd have, my boner throbbed. If the kid noticed, he didn't say anything. He left with a smile after giving me a decent tip.
The second man of the morning was Rob, a jocular fiftysomething lawyer with a slight Brahmin accent that was in character with the pinstripe and bow ties he usually wore. Today, though, he was casual, khakis and Norwegian-pattern wool sweater pulled over his blue pin-stripe shirt. I was still a little chubbed from my young customer earlier and the idle time where I didn't have much to think about other than how long it'd been since I'd been laid, and talking with Rob didn't make my libido go away. I don't know what it is, but this man has the sexiest voice. Not too deep but masculine, the fluid vowels and clipped syllables made me know I was in the presence of a real blue-blood, not one of these fake upper-crust types walking around downtown. Fortunately he was in a talkative storytelling mood this morning. I just listened and surreptitiously adjusted my crotch from time to time. "Thanks for the great job, Jake," he said as he paid and put on his coat. There was a twinkle in his eye that made me wonder if he wanted something more than a haircut. But we both bid our gooddays and he ventured out into the drifting snow again.
Now it's mid afternoon, and I can see it's the third man of the day who's gonna make up for the slow morning. Just shy of six foot, taut wiry tennis player frame, an assuredness to his walk that makes you think he's four inches taller and twenty pounds beefier than he really is. Soul-piercing pale blue eyes and salt-and-pepper hair that even in his early 40s is hovering around 50/50 proportion. A serious face that on occasion breaks into a friendly laugh or knowing smile. Charcoal gray pinstripe trousers that brings out his eye color. Perfectly shined oxblood shoes. He's left the suit jacket at the office and is wearing a hunter green nylon windbreaker over his starched white button-down shirt and conservative blue-and-yellow stripe Brooks Brothers tie. Even with the baseball cap, which he's removing now, he definitely looks every inch the executive he is.
I don't know his name but I feel like I know everything about him. His family, the times his son makes the honor roll at school, the renovations on the house... occasionally I tell him about myself or recount some story from my Navy days, but mostly I just cut his hair and listen. I always take more time with his hair just so I can have him in my chair longer.
That's not a problem today, I think to myself as I guide him to the chair. He used to have longer hair, medium-length bangs parted to the right. Then one day he said he wanted a military cut like mine. I explained to him that my high and tight probably wasn't what a man in his position needed, so I offered a modified cut - blended No.2 on the sides and back, about 3/4 inch on the top, a modified rounded, fuller flattop. For good measure, I left the sideburns a good half inch longer than U.S. Navy regulation.
Wow! The effect was stunning. The gray in his hair became shining flecks of silver. He looked masculine, distinguished and handsome. He loved it and it's become his regular cut.
"What it'll be today?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
He pulls off his windbreaker. The starched shirt is trim on his lithe, muscular body. He looks even more fit standing before me in his shirt sleeves. I'm always impressed when men his age keep themselves up. And why shouldn't they? Man's body is his temple.
I guide him to the chair and wrap the apron around his neck, taking cure to tuck in the tissue paper neatly. I take my time this morning, using my fingers to guide the blade for a precision cut. His skin is still cold from outside, the neck both rough and soft under my touch. I work my way up, enjoying the contact but careful to pay attention to my duty. I repeat on the other side. It gives me a thrill deep inside to see the dark and gray hairs gain their rightful contrast as they're sheared down to such a short length. After using the clippers, I get out my shears and commence to trim the top. We make small talk as I cut, mostly about the weather. Occasionally I pause and look at his reflection in the mirror. The guy's been coming to my shop for several years now and I can't get over how powerfully handsome his face is. I lock eyes with his and soak in the sight, drawing in inspiration before going back to my living canvas.
"Got time for a shave?" I ask as I near completion.
"Appointments all cancelled today. So sure."
I remove the apron and brush off the stray hairs, making sure his button-down shirt is as perfect and spotless as it was when he walked in. I can't help but admire the flat abdomen that lead down to a very full crotch. His suit is quality, and the pleating doesn't balloon up on the front as so often is the case. But still, his genitals push the wool fabric out into a sizeable mound between his thighs.
I step between those spread legs. Carefully, respectfully, my hands reach toward his collar. "You mind, sir?"
His thin lips curl up into a smile. "No. Go ahead."
My deft fingers grip the knot in his tie and gently pull outward. Not enough to undo the half-windsor, just sufficient pressure to slip the knot down and outward to hang six inches down from his neck. Then I undo the buttons, first the collar button, then the next two. My favorite customer doesn't wear a T-shirt underneath, not even in the thick of winter, so the hot, bare skin of his chest press against my hand as I loosen the collar.
I step back around and applied a hot towel to the nape of his neck. Then the lathered foam. I pride myself on using a freshly sharpened razor for each shave, and today's no exception. Nothing can replace a straight razor for a clean, smooth neck, or a sharp, perfect men's cut for that matter. Four solid swipes down the contour of his muscle, then couple more flicks at the edge. Then I towel him off and apply the tonic.
He nods appreciatively as I hold up the mirror. He looks pleased with himself and that makes me pleased with my work. I look over his shoulders and see that the lump in his crotch has elongated so that a full rigid staff lies twitching in his trousers, its thickness distorting the pinstripe pattern into wide, curving lines. I set down the mirror and kneel down on the floor. I don't think my first breath reaches his crotch before the man's powerful hands rub the back of my head and coax me forward. The heat and solidity of his cock brush against my face and I start licking and sucking at the fabric of his suit. It's like his pheromones are filling my nostrils, driving me on to further frenzy.
"Navy boy wants it, doesn't he?" I imagine his voice during one of his teleconferences and the contrast between that image and the words coming out of his mouth make the blood drain from my head and rush straight to my throbbing dick. "Here you go," he says as his elongated fingers pull down the zipper and unleash a hot, thick executive prick. The dickskin's dry, but the tip rubs freshly leaked pearls of dew against my cheek and the undersize of my nose. Fuck, the pissslit is lodged right in my left nostril, it's like I'm snorting a line of a powerful drug right out of this man's cock. I sit still a moment, savoring this position of submission between this businessman's jogging-toned legs. Then I pull back, examine the formidable piece of cock pointing at me, and dive mouth open onto it.
The man's gonna make me work for this tip.