Up close and personal: at the hairdresser with Blue Angel - 1.

Blue Angel just touched down in LA. I take her straight to our celebrity hair stylist. The man understands exactly what a girl wants sitting on top of her head. We walk in and the lights are low, the leather chair cool beneath her. She tilts her chin back. The stylist runs his fingers through her hair, pulls the strands tight, lets them fall over her bare shoulders. Each slow tug makes her breath catch. She slides a little lower in the seat, thighs parting under the black cape, the hem riding up until you catch a glimpse of smooth skin and the thin strip of lace between her legs. He works in silence, scissors whispering, comb gliding, eyes locked on hers in the mirror. Her nipples press hard against the fabric of her dress. She shifts again and the lace pulls aside, revealing the soft, glistening lips beneath. The stylist notices but keeps cutting, each measured snip timed to the tiny pulses between her thighs. By the time he sets the scissors down, her legs are wider, the scent of her arousal sweet in the warm room. She looks at herself in the glass, hair perfect, cheeks flushed, and smiles like she already knows what comes next.