Ray's Mouth

Shay Sheridan

I believe it was in the third hour of our acquaintance that I first saw Ray Kowalski put something in his mouth.

It was a straw from a soda he'd just purchased from a fast-food restaurant (the day having progressed too swiftly for a sit-down meal) and we were seated in his car. He was still at the exhilarated-from-too-much-adrenaline phase after the fire at the Vecchios, and continued to talk while he sucked noisily at the straw. He had terrible manners.

It was terribly riveting.

The way his lips pursed and sucked, moved and pursed . . .

During dinner that evening, our first evening spent together, I watched each forkful of food as it traveled toward and ultimately into the moist darkness of his mouth. Afterwards I was left breathless by how he sucked on, chewed and thoroughly destroyed a toothpick. I was still thinking about it hours later, thinking about his mouth, as I lay in bed, my hand moving southward beneath the blanket.

I found that Ray's mouth is never still. From the very first I was fascinated by each twist, grimace, flash of teeth or smile -- particularly his smile -- from those mobile, intensely-colored lips. When he would dangle something from his mouth, be it straw, cigarette, cigarette-substitute or pencil -- dear Lord!. . . I'd have to leave the room, or at least hold my hat directly in front of my tenting trousers.

And sometimes a turn of his lips would make me want to throw caution to the winds and embrace him, comfort him, keep him from life's harsh realities, from the sting of his ex-wife's tongue, the pain of a case ending badly. He wouldn't have to say anything; the slight droop of his shoulders would be my first clue that something was wrong, but the sadness in the downward curve of his mouth would tell me everything.

I longed to touch his mouth with my fingers, taste it with my tongue, feel the texture of his lips against my own. And mostly I imagined his lips opening to take me inside. I thought I would die of wanting.

Suffice to say, I did not die. Unless you count each "little death" his lips have wrung from me, since that first night when, yielding to the power of his mouth, I drew him to me and showed him with my own mouth and his body what I'd dreamt of for so long.

And now I sit back and watch Ray lean in, his eyes at half-mast, his lips opening to encircle my impatient erection. I feel the softness and the wetness and the heat of those lips, that mouth, that clever, beautiful mouth, as he slides it down upon my straining flesh, and I groan.

"Ray," I pant. "Ray. Ray. Your mouth. . ."

redchance @ aol.com
Back to Due South