Love Is Red by Sophie Jaff Page A

the growing pile.
    I am naked from the waist up, still in my panties and high-heeled shoes. Waiting.
    â€œClose your eyes,” he says. His voice is detached.
    I close my eyes. Everything intensifies. The cool air on my skin brings out small gooseflesh; the fridge’s hum sounds louder. Through his no doubt double-glazed windows, I hear the faintest honks of Friday-night traffic below us. It hits me with full force that I do not know this man. I don’t know what he’s capable of.
    Then I feel his hot breath upon my neck. I hear the sound, and feel the motion, of his hands sliding down my legs as he kneels as if to worship at an altar.
    I feel his mouth moving up my leg. Its soft warmth, higher up to just underneath my pelvic bone.
    His face is directly opposite my crotch. He runs his nose down the front of my underwear. Plain, black, silky. I feel the ridge of his teeth through the cloth. I stiffen. The fine hairs on the nape of my neck rise. He exhales hot breath upward into me. He places his face against me. I shudder. I can’t help it.
    â€œStand still,” he says.
    I do.
    â€œKeep your eyes closed,” he says.
    I do.
    I feel the outline of his tongue as he slowly, deliberately beginsto lick. From the thick, long movements of his tongue my underwear begins to cling to me. I can feel his tongue and not feel his tongue. It is agony.
    He molds and molds the thin fabric to me. It becomes an impenetrable barrier. It’s agonizing. I want more; I don’t think I can handle more.
    I exhale with a small groan.
    There is a moment of nothing, a vacancy, an exposure; my underwear is gone. But how? I am lifted up. He is strong; he carries me. He didn’t pull it off, so how is it gone? I am flung down, naked.
    My eyes are still shut tight as I lie against the endless expanse of cool, smooth sheet. I hear the sound of the clothing he is pulling off, shoes, a belt, pants hitting the floor— Where is it? —keeping my eyes shut tight against the wanting, the shame of wanting him so badly and my own wantonness.
    And he is on me, easing my legs apart. “Look at me.” His cock is hard, filled with blood.
    He pushes into me. I am wet, but still, a part of me protests at the thick brutal length of him. But there is no stopping now. He holds me firmly down as he enters, inch by inch, his full length inside me. Then he begins to move and I must move with him. There is no choice but to move together. He holds me, one arm pulling me close and tight and the other supporting his weight as he thrusts.
    â€œCome,” he says.
    I look away. It’s too intense.
    He holds me so that I must look into his face.
    I open my eyes.
    His eyes are wide and stare back at mine.
    It is too intimate.
    Stop please stop.
    He bites my neck. “Come.”
    Don’t stop don’t stop.
    He does not stop but intensifies, gripping my back, my ass, moving inside me, and the feeling builds and builds and builds and builds and I scream as my orgasm breaks—
    â€”and breaks and my body releases and releases. He thrusts on and on, merciless, and then finally he comes, releasing into me on and on and on and then he is still and the full weight of him is upon me.
    Silence. I feel him trembling. His breath is rapid. He feels me shifting underneath him.
    Instantly he rolls over, alert. “Am I hurting you?”
    â€œNo, I need the bathroom, and some water.”
    â€œDown the hall.”
    â€œDo you want a glass?”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    In the bathroom, I take my time. I am overwhelmed. I have never come like that before, as if my orgasm was forced from me, as though I had no choice. Should I feel violated? In the mirror my face is flushed, my cheeks have high color, my eyes look dazed. I look beautiful.
    What now? I silently ask.
    My reflection offers no advice.
    I have had a handful of lovers in my life, but as I stand here the memory that floats up is the night one of my