To this day, his abiding memory of her is of her mouth. Those luscious pouty lips, red and heavily glossed like how he imagined a wet and inviting cunt would look. Her serpentine tongue would peek and poke at the corners of her mouth, as though beckoning him inside. He still recalls standing slack-jawed in front of the magazine racks watching as she stood there behind the counter, in her tight white t-shirt (no bra, pert nipples, mouth-watering!) and Daisy Duke shorts, sucking slowly on licorice as though she were fellating it, or rolling chocolate-covered cherries between those ruby lips.
This one day, with an erection building in his school trousers, he picked up a copy of the Radio Times for his Dad and a Crunchie for himself, and nervously stood in front of her at the counter. She barely gave him a second glance, but instead continued to thumb through a copy of Cosmopolitan as she rung up his purchases in the till. He watched her mouth, imagined kissing those bright red lips. As a thousand teenage fantasies swirled in his mind, he saw her bite down into a cherry liqueur. A spurt of rich red liquid burst from her mouth, and began to run down the her chin. Inside his trousers, his prick jumped. Wordless and blushing, he dumped a handful of coins on the counter, turned, and practically ran all the way home. After dumping his dad’s magazine on the kitchen table, he bolted upstairs to the bathroom, and masturbated furiously, all the while picturing that drop of ruby red liquid that had dripped like blood from a vampire’s kiss.