The barber's hands are quick and sure, sending dustings of red hair down the cutting cape tied around Richie's neck.
"And there you are, sir," says Tom, twirling his scissors with a flourish. He holds up a little square mirror. "How's the back look?"
Richie squirms as Tom spins him in his chair, prickly hair trickling down the back of his shirt. Even the world's best barber can't change the back of Richie's head—scrawny neck with Dumbo ears. "Looks great, Tom."
The cape is gone almost before he can think about it, a quick flick of Tom's hands sending the cut hair flying. Before Tom can do much more than fold the white cloth on itself, Richie chews on his lip and says, "I thought the haircut came with a shave."
Tom gives him an indulgent smile. "How 'bout we throw in a shoe-shine instead? Can't let you walk out the door without Belmont Hotel's finest." His eyes flicker down to Richie's chin.
Why, the nerve. There's plenty of stubble there!
Before Richie can actually voice his indignation, though, a warm palm cups the back of his foot. Richie looks down and nearly gasps.
His first impression is of big, strong hands, wide enough to engulf his shoes, the thick knuckles crisscrossed with white scars in contrast to the delicate way he rolls up Richie's trouser cuffs. A voice like black molasses says, "What's the occasion?"
The man lifts his head, and Richie's ears burn. Dark eyes, gorgeous jawline, hair shot through with silver at the temples, and a generous mouth that splits into a smile when Richie squeaks, "Going back to school on Monday." Jesus, he sounds half his age. "I don't believe I've seen you here before?"
"You got good eyes there, son," says the man, and Richie didn't know his ears could go hotter. "First day on the job. George Fontaine, at your service."
"Of course," says Richie, faintly, watching George dab saddle soap on his brush.
---
The phantom touches of George's hand lingers. Richie doesn't make it much further than his room before he has to slam the door shut and plunge a hand down his trousers, braced against the wood. The first touch makes him hiss. He's already damp and so hard the first stroke makes his toes curl in his shoes.
God, his shoes. Brown leather oxfords buffed to a shine under the George's array of brushes, the muscles of his forearms bunching and flexing.
Would he touch Richie just as expertly? Guilt and want twist in his gut, making his cock kick in his fist. Or would he be gentle, as warm and patient as his voice?
That's it, croons a voice like aged bourbon, Don't you look so pretty like that?
Richie stuffs a fist in his mouth before he can whimper out loud. He's not going to last, canting his hips up desperately to meet his fist.
There's a warm smile, George's face between his knees as his big hand—
No, as he presses Richie down into the bed, all that strength surrounding him as he strokes Richie off. Just like that, George would whisper, broad chest pressed against Richie's own, Aren't you so good for me, son?
Richie comes so hard he nearly whites out.
---
It's just a short car ride away.
One of the first things Richie did after receiving his acceptance letter was to insist on living in the dormitories. Mother had her concerns, of course, but in the end, it was for the best, especially when the house was as busy as this morning.
"—going to the Moon with Magdalene for the weekend and—"
"What?" says Richie, nearly dropping his roll, "Who's Magdalene?"
Doris leans her chin on her palm. "That's what caught your attention?" she says with all the scorn a seventeen-year-old can muster.
"Elbows off the table," says the Captain mildly. He turns the page of the newspaper.
Doris scowls but complies. "So where'd you go off to, anyhow?"
"I'm—" trying not to think about skipping class to make eyes at a man twice my age, Richie doesn't say. "—worried about wedding rehearsals."
"What do you have to worry about?" says Doris, wrinkling her nose at where Mother and Eva are engrossed over little squares of fabric. "You just have to show up. Think of what I have to go through."
"You don't have to be maid of honor if it's such a hassle," says Eva, sweetly, without looking up, "I'm sure Stephanie would be happy to lighten your load."
"Says here they're looking to expand the State Guard," says the Captain, before that fight can start again. Doris glares furiously past his shoulder at Eva. "Seems to me like the burden of war's falling unreasonably on our shoulders."
"It's a just cause," says Richie. Eva rolls her eyes right back at Doris. "What's wrong with telling able-bodied men to serve?"
The Captain finally looks up, eyes flicking over Richie. "Like yourself?"
The table goes silent.
"It's been so long since everyone has sat down at the table together," says Mother, brightly, "Doris, dear, why don't you tell your daddy about blue ribbon project, Doris?"
The Captain folds up his newspaper. "I'm going for a walk."
The roll has gone cold in Richie's hands. For some reason, Doris glares at Richie.
---
It had started with a pair of nylons someone had left behind in his suitemate's room. Richie had slipped them on one lonely night and admired how they made his legs look. It was the one advantage of his single room, being able to tiptoe in front of the full-length mirror, feeling the sheer material slide between his thighs.
From there, it was easy to steal one of Eva's old girdles, just to hold them up.
Or at least he told himself at the time. It's harder to lie when he spreads his legs in front of the mirror, watching the way the lace fabric squeezes his waist into an hourglass shape, his dick jotting obscenely out of the front. He'll return them if she notices, he tells himself, but she doesn't. He'll return them after the novelty wears off, after the thrill of wearing them under his trousers stops feeling so good.
But it doesn't. He lasts a week, and then gives in and buys a pair of panties. For a Valentine's Day surprise, he stammers to the sales lady.
---
