Business Trip Pastoral

On her way to work in the crowded metro, and, as always involuntarily, pulling up her tights through the dense fabric of a skirt dictated by the dress code, Yuka grumbled to herself: "What devil made me get involved with this science. What is biology? Birds, DNA, Drosophila... And I have to translate. Between us, there's not even much to translate: German biologists come to us on their own, like fruit flies. Some fields of irrigation, manure, Irene... Wait, let's go into more detail here.

The associate professor of the biology department was an extraordinary woman. By the time all the professors had turned into "shuttle traders": status is status, but you have to live somehow, she stubbornly correlated the gene pool

of starlings with the DNA of bullfinches, and was terribly surprised why the latter still hadn't sung the freshly written anthem of the Russian Federation. In any case, her candidate's dissertation was secured, and the vacant position in the department went to her without much of a fight. The specialist on local birds who had come on exchange from Germany was handsome, cold, and strict in his daily life. All of Ira's attempts to recreate the failed Fourth International of Trotsky's time were met by the German with cast-iron indifference, without understanding or sympathy; he unequivocally refused invitations to "have some tea." She didn't understand that his main drink, schnapps, was somewhat different from the vodka acceptable to any respectable Russian society.

Irina Sergeevna, a mature woman with hair the color of "ground malt," brown, slightly bulging eyes, which only emphasized her naturally high breasts and hips acquired under socialism, understood: something urgently needed to be done. But where? A hotel—vulgar, her house—a dump... Clear: a business trip. And to nature: fields, forests, blue lakes... It should be noted that the institute where the unforgettable Irene worked was once very serious and, so far, had managed to preserve its reputation. Two translators worked there (one of whom, Yuka, Ira was especially friendly with), three accountants, and two KGB agents, of course former ones, but in real positions as heads of security, with salaries corresponding to their respected past.

Coming to work on Thursday morning, Ira, shrugging her shoulders, announced to the staff: "We're going on a business trip." The group, hearing this, became agitated: where? With whom? The junior translator was especially quiet. She had only recently gotten married and was not at all keen on leaving her "young" husband alone, especially since she didn't have his consent yet. The woman in charge, by right of seniority, slapped her palm on the table and quietly but authoritatively announced: "Two weeks, a village, Germans studying birds, we supervise. I and Yuka are going." The latter, confusedly batting her eyes, asked: "For long? Should I take things?" Irene stated firmly: "Take yourself, things, a tent, and condoms." Completely embarrassed, Yuka stammered: "And what are those for?", to which the senior one philosophically remarked: "Just in case, you never know what might happen, Germans are, of course, a civilized people, but..." Slamming a folder of papers on the table in indignation, Yuka shot out of the room like a bullet...

On the platform stood Lana, Yuka's close friend, who had come to see the guests off on their dubious journey. If Yuka hadn't known Lana for many years, she would have thought the latter was "stoned": a hazy look in huge gray-blue eyes, an absent expression... The girl didn't even pay attention to the immodest gusts of wind, periodically lifting her short Scottish skirt upwards, thereby showing those around her smooth buttocks, clad in warm blue tights, through which immodest glimpses of delicate pink panties could be seen. "What's wrong, Lan?" Yuka asked anxiously. "Ah, I'll tell you later," her friend answered distractedly. "You just come back soon," Lana said. "If you're not back in a week, I'll come to you myself." "Where have you been?" Yuka's curiosity knew no bounds. "Getting my hair done." "Your hair? But you just got a haircut recently." "Not there..." "Where then?" Yuka asked stupidly, growing cold, though she already understood everything. Lana shook her luxurious, slightly curled hair, which had been the envy of the female half of their class several years ago, and, looking down slightly, reported: "Where, where... at a beauty salon." "Tell me," forgetting her official duties, the agitated Yuka asked confusedly. "Well, what, nothing special, big deal..." her friend took a defensive position.

Upon further consideration of this not entirely ordinary question, the following literally came to light: an old institute friend, Zhenya, had long told Lana that there was a "fabulous place" where they do perfect intimate hairstyles. "You know, Lan," Zhenya proclaimed, "it's pleasant for yourself and men like it." "But how do I explain it to my husband?" Lana asked. "What do you mean, he'll be the first to enjoy it," Zhenya assured her. "He'll be the first to thank you... Such a man..." "Who, my husband?" "What husband," Zhenya brushed it off. "The stylist. Works carefully, quality, only..." "Only what?" Lana became alarmed. "You understand, when he likes his work, he... well, you understand... But anyway, you're not made of sugar, you won't melt, you've turned out to be a prude too. Anyway, write down the number."

At the appointed hour, Lana pushed open the door of the beauty salon located in one of the alleys of old Moscow. "Do you have an appointment?" a platinum blonde, clearly playing the role of not just a secretary, politely inquired. "I'm here for Andrey," Lana timidly reported. "Second floor—room 23."

Feeling a strange trembling in her knees, Lana went up to the second floor and, finding room 23, hesitated for a long time in front of the door, not daring to knock. At that moment, the door swung open and a heavenly creature with regular features, for some reason completely disheveled and with a crazy look, fluttered out of the room. Watching this scene with surprise, Lana suddenly heard a pleasant baritone above her ear: "Are you next?" A guy of athletic build with stiff dark hair like a hedgehog, wearing thin, frameless glasses, looked at her questioningly. "Do you have an appointment?" he inquired. Lana's heart sank to her heels and she asked: "Are you Andrey?" "Hello, come in, make yourself comfortable..."

It seemed the hospitality of the office owner knew no bounds. Timidly stepping over the threshold of the room, the girl surveyed the premises. A desk, a computer, soft leather furniture made up the decor of the front part of the office. In the depths, behind a translucent screen, a medical couch could be discerned. With surprise, the girl noted to herself a camera lens suspended from the ceiling, but a second later she forgot about it, as it was time to inquire about other, more engaging things. Andrey gave Lana a slightly curious glance and invited her to sit in a chair to look through albums with hairstyle options. Looking at the color photographs, most reminiscent of high-quality porn, the girl blushed. The viewing of the photos was accompanied by the master's comments, discussing the age, hair color of the models, as well as the occasions for which this miracle of makeup was performed. Finally, an option was chosen. Lana was asked to go behind the screen, undress, settle on the couch, and not be shy at all.

Taking off her autumn boots, Lana hesitantly unbuttoned her skirt and carefully hung it on the back of the chair. Andrey watched her actions with friendly participation. Pulling her tights down to mid-thighs, the girl looked around helplessly, but there was no turning back: the bill at the cashier was paid, time spent... Following the skirt and tights, the pink panties with a coquettish white frill went onto the back of the chair. The girl lay down on the couch and, bending her knees, spread her legs wide to the sides.

Having prepared a basin with water and some fancy foreign razor (probably "Philips," Lana noted to herself mechanically), Andrey ran a rough finger lightly along the inner surface of her thighs and affectionately ruffled the hair on the lower part of her abdomen. All his actions were imbued with cautious tenderness. With short scissors, he first trimmed the hair on the lower abdomen and moved on to work in the area around the pink and already slightly moistened slit, not forgetting to periodically, and somehow almost casually, massage the pearl of pleasure. Lana's whole body filled with a pleasant languor. The work continued for 20-25 minutes and, after it was finished, the author placed a large mirror between the girl's widely spread legs so she could appreciate and enjoy the fruits of his hard labor.

No drawings, no artistry: a slit, strictly framed by short hair, beckoningly shimmered, the hairline on the abdomen had turned into a neat dark triangle. "Thank you," Lana whispered almost inaudibly. "Do you like it?" Andrey asked, "I do too." After which he unexpectedly inserted two fingers into the client's moist womb. Lana was amazed at how easily those fingers penetrated inside. Only a little later did she guess that she herself, perhaps without wanting to, had been prepared by the hairdresser's previous actions for such a development of events. After a short time, the man's long and hard phallus completed what had been started. Lana felt herself enjoying herself now in a sea surf, now in a coniferous bath, but most of all in the world at that moment she wanted this torture of pleasure to never end. Paradise ceased the moment a resilient white stream from the timely extracted phallus hit her stomach, slightly staining the edge of the sweater she hadn't thought to take off in time. On buckling knees, the girl made her way from the couch to the chair with her clothes.

She was shaking so much that Andrey had to help her pull on her panties and tights. Fastening her skirt incorrectly, Lana, muttering words of gratitude once more, left the office. "Time to go to the station, to see Yuka off," she thought languidly.

Having listened to this story with her mouth half-open and eyes bulging, Yuka wanted to say something, but Irene's summoning cry brought her back to reality. "Alright, Lan, don't be upset, I've got to run, we'll talk later," she blurted out in a patter, and, pecking her friend on the cheek, rushed towards the objects of translation.

__________________________________________

Author's e-mail: Drll1966@gmаil.cоm