High-Roller’s Hairdresser Kneels for Her Stocking Cock

I'm a 28-year-old luxury hotel hairdresser, and for the last six months my entire professional focus has narrowed to one client: Victoria. She is forty-two, impossibly tall at six-foot-two in heels, and carries herself with the kind of effortless authority that only truly obscene wealth can buy. Every Thursday at 2 p.m. she books the private VIP suite on the thirty-fifth floor, the one with the marble floors, the wall of mirrors, and the single leather styling chair that costs more than my car. I always arrive early, heart already fluttering, palms damp despite the climate-controlled air.

Victoria is a trans woman who dresses like old money and smells like it too—something woody and expensive that clings to the back of my throat long after she’s gone. Her hair falls in thick, sable waves to the middle of her back, and she insists on a weekly blowout so perfect it looks airbrushed. While I work she watches me in the mirror with half-lidded hazel eyes, her full mouth curved in a knowing little smile. She compliments my hands constantly. “Such clever fingers, darling,” she’ll murmur, voice low and smoky. Then her gaze drops to my legs, bare beneath the short black uniform skirt the hotel makes us wear. “And those legs… I keep imagining them wrapped around my waist.”

I never know how to answer, so I just blush and keep rolling the round brush through her hair while the tension coils tighter and tighter between us. In the quiet hours after she leaves I go home, peel off my panties, and fuck myself with two fingers while replaying every husky word, every lingering stare. I’ve imagined dropping to my knees in front of that leather chair so many times the fantasy feels more real than my actual life.

Today she arrives in a charcoal silk blouse and a matching pencil skirt that hugs her narrow hips and long thighs. Her stockings are sheer black with a subtle seam up the back. The moment she sits, the scent of her perfume wraps around me like smoke. I drape the cape around her shoulders, fingers brushing the warm skin at the nape of her neck, and feel her shiver.

“You’re trembling, sweetheart,” she says softly, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “Have I made you nervous again?”

I swallow. My voice comes out smaller than I want. “A little.”

“Good.” She smiles like a cat who’s already tasted cream. “Because I’ve been hard under this skirt since the second you touched my hair.”

The words land like a spark on dry tinder. My hands freeze mid-air, brush hovering uselessly. Heat floods my face, my chest, straight down between my legs. I can feel myself getting slick.

Victoria doesn’t wait for me to recover. She reaches back, long fingers closing gently around my wrist. “Tell me the truth, little hairdresser. How long have you been thinking about sucking my cock?”