Bexleyheath Beauty
"Nail technician Adaeze transforms hands at her Bexleyheath salon. When guitarist Marcus needs repairs before his big show, she offers him the full treatment—and then some."
Marcus's nails were a disaster—split and broken from years of guitar, usually hidden under stage lights. But tomorrow's show was being filmed, and every detail mattered.
His sister recommended Adaeze's salon.
She was Nigerian-British, thick curves in a fitted smock, and she took one look at his hands and sucked her teeth.
"Musician?"
"Guitarist."
"I can tell. These need serious work." She guided him to her station. "But I can fix anything. The question is—how much fixing do you want?"
She worked on his hands for two hours, repairing damage, strengthening nails, all while conversation flowed. She asked about his music; he asked about her art. Because this was art—tiny masterpieces at the tip of every finger.
"There. Better than new."
"They're beautiful. Thank you."
"The show's tomorrow. Come back after for maintenance." Her eyes held something beyond professional interest. "I like to see my work perform."
The show was his best ever—confident, flawless, fingers flying. He thought about Adaeze the whole time.
He went to her salon at midnight, after the venue closed.
"How were they?" she asked, taking his hands.
"Perfect. Because of you."
"They worked hard." She examined them closely. "They need care." She looked up. "So do you."
She kissed him with gel-perfect nails tracing his jaw, her thick body pressing against his in the empty salon.
"I've thought about this," she admitted. "Watching your hands. Imagining what they could do."
"Show me what you imagined."
She guided his restored hands over her body, teaching him her curves like she'd taught herself his nails.
"There... yes... good hands..."
He played her like his guitar—finding the right places, building rhythm, creating something beautiful. Her thick body responded to every touch.
"Yes... there... don't stop..."
She came crying out to the empty salon, her perfect nails leaving marks on his back. He followed, and they collapsed against her workstation.
"Best performance of your life," she gasped.
"Second best. This is the first."
"Come back weekly," she said, fixing her smock. "For maintenance."
"Just maintenance?"
"Maintenance, rehearsal, and..." She smiled. "Private performances. I need to see what these hands can really do."
His Bexleyheath beauty had given him new instruments. And Marcus intended to play them often.