The Barbers Touch

Virtual Papi

BeaSecrets

The scent of bay rum and sandalwood wrapped around me as I settled into the leather chair, a sanctuary of warm light and soft jazz. Beatrice’s fingers, cool and sure, first combed through my hair before her palms pressed gently against my temples, sending a wave of calm through my tense shoulders. Her breath was a soft whisper near my ear as she leaned close to examine her work, her presence an intoxicating blend of focus and grace. A flush of heat traveled up my neck as her knuckles accidentally grazed my jawline, a simple touch that felt profoundly intimate. My heart began to drum a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a wild counterpoint to the slow, deliberate movements of her hands. I felt a betraying tightness in my trousers, a helpless physical response to her proximity that I desperately hoped went unnoticed. Her dark eyes met mine in the mirror, and a knowing, gentle smile touched her lips, seeing the flustered emotion I could not hide. Then, her gaze softened further as she looked down, her expression not of judgment but of a quiet, shared understanding. With a tenderness that stole my breath, her hand descended, her touch not a demand but a question against the fabric. The world narrowed to that single point of contact, a silent conversation of longing and surrender that left me utterly spellbound.