Nail Salon Nights

The things you do for a bird.

My girlfriend wanted matching manicures for her sister's wedding. "Just clear coat," she'd said. "No one will notice." The nail salon was one of those pink-lit places that smelled of acetone and played K-pop, staffed entirely by Vietnamese women who worked with terrifying precision.

Then she had to cancel. Work emergency. And I was left with an appointment I couldn't be arsed to move.

"Just you today?" The woman at the desk looked surprised. "No girlfriend?"

"She's working. Figured I'd still come. In for a penny, yeah?"

She smiled—small, amused. "I'm Linh. I'll be doing your nails. Come, sit."

Linh was tiny—couldn't have been more than five foot—with delicate features, jet-black hair in a messy bun, and the kind of graceful movements that made everything look effortless. Her hands, when she took mine, were impossibly soft.

"First time?" she asked, settling opposite me at the nail station.

"That obvious?"

"You look nervous." She started filing, precise little strokes. "Relax. Just a manicure. Not a root canal."

I tried. It was weirdly intimate—someone holding your hands, focusing on your fingers, close enough that I could smell her perfume (something floral) and see the tiny mole near her collarbone.

"So," she said conversationally, "your girlfriend. She's missing out. You have nice hands."

"Ta. She says they're too rough."

"Rough can be good." She met my eyes briefly, something sparking there. "Depends on the context."

Was she flirting? Couldn't be. I was a bloke getting a manicure in a salon that clearly catered to WAGs and Essex girls.

Then her thumb stroked along my palm, slow and deliberate. Not a manicure move.

"We close in ten minutes," she said quietly. "I'm the last one here. If you want..."

"Want what?"

"Something extra." Her eyes flicked to the back room, then back to me. "Off the menu."

Ten minutes later, the other staff had gone, the OPEN sign was flipped, and I was in the back room with Linh pressed against me, kissing like her life depended on it.

"Been so bored," she breathed between kisses. "Nothing but middle-aged women complaining about husbands. You walk in with those arms and that smile..."

"I aim to please."

"Prove it."

She was wearing a simple black dress under her salon apron—which hit the floor quickly—and underneath, matching white underwear that contrasted beautifully with her golden skin.

"You're gorgeous," I said, meaning it.

"Show me."

I lifted her onto the massage table in the corner—must have been for pedicures—and dropped to my knees. Her thighs were smooth, hairless, trembling slightly as I kissed my way up.

"Please—been thinking about this all appointment—"

I pulled her knickers aside and tasted her. She was sweet, responsive, her nails (immaculate, unlike mine) digging into my scalp.

"Right there—fuck—don't stop—"

For such a small woman, she made beautiful sounds. Her English fractured as she got closer, slipping into Vietnamese and back again, her body arching off the table.

"Cum—I'm going to—"

She came with a cry that echoed off the pink walls, shuddering around my tongue. I didn't stop, working her through it until she pushed my head away.

"Too much—need you—now—"

I stood, and she immediately went for my jeans. When she freed me, her eyes widened.

"Oh. Big."

"Problem?"

"Challenge." She grinned, reached into a drawer, pulled out a condom. "We keep these for... emergencies."

"This happen often?"

"Never. You're special." She rolled it on with practiced fingers. "Now fuck me."

I pushed in slowly, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. Found only pleasure—her eyes fluttering closed, her lips parting in a silent moan.

"Okay?" I asked.

"More than okay. Move."

I did, finding a rhythm that made her gasp. She was tight—incredibly tight—and the way she looked up at me, small body taking everything I gave her, was almost too much.

"Harder—I can take it—"

I believed her. She matched every thrust, hips rolling to meet mine, her nails leaving marks on my shoulders that I'd have to explain later.

"So good—you feel so good—"

The massage table creaked beneath us, threatening to collapse. Neither of us slowed down.

"Close—touch me—please—"

I found her clit, rubbed circles while I fucked her. She came again, harder than before, her whole body convulsing. The sight and feel pushed me over—I came with a groan, buried deep, her legs locked around me.

We lay there on the massage table, tangled together, catching our breath. Nail polish bottles had fallen everywhere.

"Well," she said eventually, "your nails need touching up."

I laughed. "Worth it."

She sat up, examined my hands critically. "Come back Wednesday. I'll fix them. Maybe give you something else too."

"I'll be here."

I went home with perfect nails and a number saved in my phone.

My girlfriend never noticed the manicure. But she did notice I kept going back, every Wednesday, for "maintenance."

Best salon on the high street. Five stars. Personal service.