A Storyby Thomas Rayfiel
“I want to make you come with my mouth.”
He nuzzled the words into that unnamed space where shoulder shades into neck. She squirmed both away and into him, unsure anymore if this was real. It conformed too closely to a fantasy she was just now having and had never had before. His hands steadied her, helped her through a doorway. She was shocked at how wet she was. She was forty-five. This did not happen.
His lips moved around to the hollow of her throat, then down, the buttons on her shirt softly giving way. Peeled fruit was her last thought before another being, a part of her that had been forming in readiness this entire time, took over. When words broke the surface of her consciousness next, his head lay panting on her thigh. She reached down and tousled his wiry black hair.