The only thing I remember specifically is that her lips were painted red.
She could have been tanned, pink-skinned, brown, short, tall, young, or old. None of that was obvious, or memorable, in the shadows of the hallway where I found her sitting, the dim blue-white lights humming and flickering above.
In the middle of the night, after drinking more than I should have, she appeared like a necessary thing, waiting outside of my apartment door. I didn’t even consider asking her in, my brain muddled and my manners sleeping inside of me until daybreak.
I think I kneeled beside her, asking if she was okay, but the weight of her hands upon my forearm were forgettable. Were her hands clean? Wrinkled? Scarred?
I have no idea.
But, I believe her lips moved, telling me to sit beside her for a moment until she got her bearings, so I did — unthinking.
Maybe she placed her hand on my thigh as I straightened my legs across the floor, stretching my toes to touch the wall. Maybe she ran her fingers along the edge of my panties beneath my skirt.
All I could do was stare at her lips, the color of crushed, ripe cherries. Vaguely, my muscles recall twitching at her touch. This stranger in a hallway.
Who took advantage of whom?
Did I reach my hand across both our bodies to hold her breast, like a melon, checking for readiness? Did I ask to kiss her? Or did I push myself against her, swing my leg over hers to straddle her, grinding into her lap hungrily?
Is it possible that I passed out for a moment or two and she pushed my skirt up around my hips? Could she have spread my legs, pulled the lace away from my sticky-wet cunt, and inserted a finger…or two…or three?
Because when I woke up naked and alone on the floor beside my bed, I felt the tell-tale pressure of having been fucked hard. Crawling to the bathroom, pulling myself up to the counter, smears of waxy color on my throat and cheeks and lips were just not enough proof of what had happened.
But, I remember…her lips.
They were painted red…so very very red.