MicroHorror

When she walked into my business, I looked at her like I would at a new Corvette, with my eyes on the lines, and yet I shook my head like I didn’t approve. Naturally, I look at a lot of beautiful women, almost daily, but I cannot believably boast to anyone, especially not them, that I have indeed touched their fleshy thighs, supple arms, and fluffy hairdos tied back into ponytails or bouncing seductively. Likewise, I have never slid behind the wheel of a Corvette, but I dream about it a lot. I look longingly at throaty engines, below fiberglass hoods, like I look at the youthful women who walk into my salon. And like always, the shapely, blonde-haired beauty that just floated through my front door didn’t speak to me with interest, but with the professionalism that my job afforded.

She said, “I just flew into America. I will never drink tea anymore, thankfully.” She had the body of an angel about to break every law established by God, but repulsion lay in her flesh. It almost glowed in the black nighttime like the neon between the windows. “When people live in my homeland, they live without a bronze complexion. They expect it, like their friends.” She added, “Everyone here looks bronze and healthy, but not me.” That led her to my business. With an awkward nod, I handed the small goggles to her, which she took in her fragile hands. Like always, I stayed behind the desk, with the bulge impressive below my belt. With a smile, she walked to a salon room, behind the back office, to undress and push the buttons that would add a touch of yellow to her extremely pale body.

When she vanished, I walked into the back, pulled off the blanket that hung from the wall, and watched that beautiful woman pull her ripped shirt over her head. She wore no undergarment below it. With a little wiggle, she took off her shorts and brought her panties to her knees. With my jeans between my ankles, behind the two-way mirror, I watched as she allowed her silky panties to slip below her canvas shoes. With a quick motion, her shoes came off her feet. She bent one knee, tilted a narrow barefoot, flipped her wavy hairdo, and admired her full breasts and proper waist, with eyes that approved, like mine did. The thick blonde hairs between her thighs, which looked wet, implied arousal. Finally, she applied the goggles and laid on the machine, which offered plenty of time for my body to compose itself after my lonely trip to paradise.

After she put her clothes back on her lovely body, she walked to the front slowly and comfortably. My head lightened like it did in the back, when she put her hands on her breasts, and jiggled those puffy pillows playfully, without knowledge that I had watched. One look at my face, flushed from embarrassment and climax, told her what I had done but hopefully not how, with her body. Unable to look at her anymore, I said, “Sorry,” and yet, I didn’t apologize about the invasion of privacy; I apologized about my personal shame. I just couldn’t keep my hands off my nether region.

Through teeth as pointy as a shark’s mouth and lips as red as a rose in bloom, she said, “Never apologize if it cannot be helped.” When she smiled, I understood, finally, why she needed the artificial tan. She walked happily into the blackness with a bit of bronze below her ripped clothes, a newfound ability to attract, apparently. Likely, she never aroused anyone anyhow. Instead, she probably just held other people closely, without their approval, which had ripped her blouse. Surely, she took what she wanted, and paid little attention to virginities. Like anyone, I would offer mine, if she wished, without concern for my neck.