There were only a few of us left after the impromptu staff party in the unused cellar bar of the out-of-town, out-of-season hotel. The snow had gone and the spring conference season hadn’t started so the staff at our Scottish ski resort were under-worked.
She was smallish with long, dark hair, smiley eyes and a soft Edinburgh accent; 22 years old to my 19, a world of difference. She told me she was a hairdresser.
“Perhaps I’ll come over for a hair cut one day.”
As sexy chat up lines go; it wasn’t, but, after eight years at a boy’s boarding school, I was still awkward around girls, though working in the ski resort was certainly helping!
She gave a me a slow, appraising look that went top to toe. I felt I was being measured.
“I want to cut your hair now. Right now.”
I could only mumble an OK because she had tied my tongue in a knot with her eyes.
The salon was all sharp edged, neon lighting and as cold as the Cairngorm mountains that had loomed over us as we walked back into town. She bustled round for a while; electric heaters, a kettle, tea with a long dash of whisky. The neon was replaced with the light from two table lamps positioned close to a leather barber’s chair. I just stood there feeling spare; nervous.
“Di’na worry yourself, man. Ah’m no going to bite you.” She stood on tip-toes to kiss me long and hard. Hungrily. Urgently. Sucking my lips into her mouth. I could taste the whisky tea on her. I felt myself becoming hard.
“Right! Clothes off. Into the chair!” It was said as if no one ever wore clothes for a haircut. I complied meekly, feeling lost and out of my depth.
She peeled off her own clothes until only her filmy knickers were left.
“So, how would you like it?” There were too many possible answers to this question so I went with: “Just a trim and tidy up, please.” She laughed her pleasant, Scottish laugh.
And, both of us essentially naked, she cut my hair. Her body was soft and alluring as she moved around me, all scissor-clicking competence and concentration. I was mesmerised by her proximity, by the occasional, accidental touch of skin against skin. In a portent of tastes I developed later in life, the sense of submitting to her, of being powerless in her chair as if tied to it; that was the most mesmerising thing of all.
Her thighs brushed mine as she leant close to trim my fringe. I lifted my hand to touch her, only to have it firmly replaced in my lap. “Hold still, you!” she said firmly.
When she’d finished she blew the cut hair off my body with a dryer and, eyes twinkling, held up a mirror for me to see the back of the cut. It was her I looked at.
I can still remember the first electric touch of her hand on my cock. A condom appeared and was slipped on with a competence I didn’t see again until my first escort, many years later. Letting her knickers fall to the floor she climbed onto the chair, straddling my hips with her thighs and guided me deep inside her. I gasped at the unfamiliar, warm wetness of her, at her tightness over my cock. She moved on top of me, gently at first then faster, my body responding, seemingly without my input, pushing up as she pushed down.
She slipped a firm nipple into my mouth. Inexperienced as I was, I clamped down too hard with my teeth; she yelped and slapped my cheek hard but then kissed the sting of it away before giving me the other nipple.
It was my first time but I recognised that I was the one being fucked. Her control of me was absolute and, to my surprise, I loved that knowledge, my nervousness draining away in her competent hands. Yet the hardness of my erection and her moans of pleasure gave me confidence and, as my out of control orgasm built, I grabbed her bottom with both hands and dug my fingers deep into her flesh. I pulled her down hard onto to me as I came, burying myself in her, gasping and shuddering. In my memory she came also but the truth is I was too lost in my own orgasm, too unaware, too unknowing to be sure of that memory.
I spent the following morning in a floaty haze, full of wonder and excitement and desperate to see her again. After a lunchtime shift spent serving Glaswegians pints of “Heavy” at the start of their stag weekend, I wondered across the square to the hairdressers.
“No, bonny lad” said the blousy middle-aged woman when I asked after the girl. “That wee trollop finished working here three days ago but it seems she let herself in last night and emptied the till. The Polis will be wanting her for sure. D’ye know where she’s away to?”
Muttering that I barely knew her, I left quickly, perplexed.
I’d fallen in love, lost my virginity and had my heart broken in a single evening.
I never saw her again.
But she’ll always be my first.