Romford Rapture
"Nail technician Amara's regular client—a thick Angolan businesswoman named Joaquina—keeps requesting longer appointments for reasons that have nothing to do with her nails."
Joaquina booked the last appointment every Friday.
"I like to take my time," she explained. "No rushing."
Amara understood. The thick Angolan woman wanted attention—and Amara found herself wanting to give it.
"Same design as usual?"
"Surprise me." Those dark eyes held hers. "I trust your hands."
The appointments grew longer.
Manicures became hand massages became touches that lingered beyond professional.
"You have beautiful hands," Amara said once.
"So do you. I think about them. Often."
Amara's brush slipped. "What do you mean?"
"I think about what else they could do. If you were willing."
"I could lose my license."
"No one would know." Joaquina leaned close. "It's just us. After hours. The salon is empty."
"This is crazy."
"Crazy is wanting something and never taking it." She took Amara's hand and placed it on her chest. "Feel that? That's what you do to me."
Amara felt. She was done denying.
The salon chair became something else entirely.
Amara straddled Joaquina's thick thighs, kissing her deeply. Those hands she'd been admiring for months finally explored her body.
"I've wanted this for so long," Joaquina admitted.
"Then stop talking."
They made love in the salon—on the chair, on the massage table, against the nail polish display.
Joaquina was vocal, demanding, appreciative.
"Right there—don't stop—yes!"
Amara gave her everything, months of tension finally released.
Friday appointments became their ritual.
Last slot. After hours. The door locked. The closed sign up.
"People will wonder why my nails take three hours," Joaquina laughed.
"Tell them I'm very thorough."
"You are." A kiss. "The most thorough manicurist in Romford."
"And the most satisfied client?"
"Without question."
The salon's reputation grew.
Best nails in East London, everyone said.
If only they knew what else Amara was skilled at.