This is a fantasy based on my lustful thoughts for a new sexy barber who has made me change my regular barber. Had a haircut yesterday and as I was having the haircut I thought as I cannot have him , might as well write what I would like to do to him. This will be a slow read as I like building it up. If there is interest will continue.
I walked into the newly opened Istanbul Style Barbershop, feeling the midday energy hum around me. Four chairs lined the window, sunlight bouncing off the chrome and mirrors. Three barbers were busy-two young men, each striking in their own way: one with olive skin, sharp cheekbones, and a sleeve of tattoos peeking from his rolled-up shirt; the other taller, with curly hair and a mischievous smile, his eyes lingering just a little too long on every client. The third was a white man in his forties, silver at the temples, moving with calm precision.
The fourth chair was empty. That’s where Cem was waiting-lean and athletic, not bulky but defined. His dark eyes looked a little nervous but eager. I learned later that he’d only just moved from Turkey, and his English was careful, every word chosen with thought.
When I sat down, Cem smiled and asked softly, “What can I do for you?”
I nodded. “Yeah, just a trim.”
As he draped the cape around my shoulders, his fingers brushed the back of my neck. “Welcome. We just opened. Is this your first time here?”
I smiled. “Yes. I’ve lived in this area for five years. I usually go to the Turkish barbers next door, but when I saw your shop, I wanted to try.”
His face brightened. “Thank you! That is very good. I hope you like it here.”
I looked around. “It looks great. Feels very friendly.”
He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I am learning English. Sometimes slow. Sorry.”
I laughed softly. “No need to apologize. You’re doing very well.”
Cem smiled shyly. “Thank you. You want tea? Turkish tea? Very good.”
I grinned. “I’d love some.”
When Cem poured the fragrant, dark tea from a small pot and offered it with both hands, our fingers brushed. That spark of contact lingered in the air. “In Turkey, always tea. For guests, for friends. I practice English with customers. It helps me,” he said.
As he worked, I found myself watching him in the mirror, my eyes drawn to every detail. His shirt stretched across a broad chest, the fabric hinting at the solid definition of his pecs beneath, a bit of chest hair peeking above his first shirt button. Every time he reached for his tools or leaned in close, I caught glimpses of toned muscle shifting under smooth, olive-toned skin. His arms were strong and athletic, forearms corded and dusted with fine dark hair, His trousers hugged his hips and thighs, accentuating his athletic build.It was impossible not to notice the way his trousers hugged his body. The fabric clung tightly to his waist and hips, outlining every curve and contour-, the strong line of his thighs. When he turned or bent, the material stretched just enough to reveal the firm, rounded shape of his butt, thighs and calves, the seat of his trousers accentuating the fullness there. The way the trousers fit him was almost indecent, leaving little to the imagination, and I found my gaze lingering on the way the fabric molded itself to him with every step, every shift of his weight. As my gaze lingered, I couldn’t help but notice how the front of his trousers gave a subtle but unmistakable definition to his bulge. The fabric pressed close, hinting at the shape beneath, leaving just enough to the imagination to make my pulse quicken.
His hands were captivating-long, deft fingers moving with both strength and delicacy. When those fingers brushed the back of my neck, the touch lingered, sending a shiver up my spine.
I caught myself staring at his face-the full, soft curve of his lips, the way his dark eyelashes framed his eyes. Every time our eyes met in the glass, he shyly looked away which made me smile.
As he leaned in to trim around my ears, his breath grazed my skin-warm and intimate. The scent of tea and cologne mingled in the small space between us.
“You live near here?” he asked
“Yes, five years now,” I said, “I like this neighborhood. It’s full of life.”
He nodded, “Me too. London is very big. Very busy. Not like home. Every day, new person.”
I took a sip of tea, eyes never leaving his reflection. “What part of Turkey are you from?”
“From Istanbul. Big city, like London. But different.” His hand lingered at the base of my neck, thumb tracing a slow, reassuring line along my skin before moving away.
The other barbers finished their clients. It was 12 pm and almost lunch time. Laughter and chatter echoed as they slipped out for lunch, leaving the shop suddenly quiet. Now it was just Cem and me and the buzz of the clippers.
Cem seemed to relax, conversation flowing more easily. “You like London?”
“Yes. It’s busy, but I like the energy. And the mix of people.”
He smiled, meeting my eyes in the mirror again, this time letting the silence stretch. “I cut hair since nineteen. Family shop in Turkey. Here, all new. But people kind. Like you. And I learn English, little by little.”
Then, almost shyly, Cem reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notepad, flipping it open to show me neat scribbles of English words and phrases. “I write here. Help me speak better.”
I nodded, impressed. “That’s a great idea. You’re doing really well.”
Our eyes met again, and this time neither of us looked away.
I decided to test the waters, grinning as I set my tea down. “You know, I’ve actually been to Istanbul before. Such a beautiful city. And I have to say-Turkish girls and guys are so good looking.”
Cem’s hands paused mid-cut. He looked at me, “Not everyone…” he said quietly, shaking his head with a modest smile.
I laughed, leaning in a little closer, teasing, “Well, guys are better though.” I chuckled softly, enjoying the moment. “Come on, just look here-all of you guys are like models.”
His cheeks flushed faintly, and a shy smile tugged at his lips. He glanced away, then back again, eyes warm “Maybe… you say true,” he admitted slowly. “We try to be good… for family, for friends.”
Our eyes met again in the mirror, holding a moment longer-the thrill of connection passing between us.
“You’ll do very well here,” I said. “You make people feel welcome.”
His hand lingered at my neck, fingers lightly tracing the skin, almost a caress. “Thank you. I try. Maybe you come again? You help me practice English, I cut your hair.”
I smiled, heart beating a little faster. “I’d like that.”
Then, as the haircut came to an end, Cem gently guided me to the wash basin. I settled back, heart thumping, as he adjusted the water and eased my head into his hands. The first touch of warm water sent a ripple of anticipation through me.
He lathered shampoo into my hair, his fingertips massaging slow, deliberate circles over my scalp. The sensation was electric, his touch lingering at my temples, sliding behind my ears, moving down to the sensitive nape of my neck. Each motion felt intimate.
My mind wandered, to how those hands would feel elsewhere-gliding over my bare shoulders, tracing the line of my spine, gripping my hips. I imagined his palms pressed flat against my chest, his fingers exploring my skin, thumbs brushing over my nipples.
He leaned closer, the scent of his cologne mixing with the steam and the clean, soapy air. His chest brushed my shoulder as he reached forward, and for a moment I could almost taste the anticipation between us. I let my eyes close, surrendering to the fantasy-his lips on my neck, his hands roaming lower, his breath hot and wanting.
As he rinsed my hair, his fingers slipped along my hairline, caressing the skin just above my forehead, then trailing down to cradle my jaw. The touch was gentle but suggestive, as if inviting me to imagine what else he might do if we were alone, if the shop were truly ours for the afternoon.
When he finished, he wrapped my hair in a towel, his hands lingering, thumbs stroking the sides of my neck. I opened my eyes and met his gaze-full of promise. The air between us felt charged, heavy with everything unspoken, everything imagined.
He dried my hair and showed me the mirror.
Thank you,” I said. “I’ll definitely come back.”
He smiled, a shy but genuine curve of his lips. “I hope so. Maybe next month?”
I nodded, feeling a thrill at the thought. “Next month sounds perfect.”
" You can have my number and call me when you are coming back and I book you in ", Cem' said and handed me his number.
“I will. Thank you, Cem.” I said.
He gave a small, pleased nod. “Good. I look forward.”
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