All posts for the month October, 2015


Published 07/10/2015 by aleenas0510

At the base of my throat, where my pulse throbs in unsteady rhythm, blood pools. The wound is fresh, but numb. The monster’s kind in that way. It doesn’t hurt when he comes to suck my life from me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in this hole. Time has ceased all meaning. I stopped counting the minutes against the steady, slow drip-drip of water from an unseen pipe long ago. My eyes stare, wide, into darkness, but I see nothing. The cold has raised gooseflesh on my arms and legs, but I don’t feel that, either.
When your light shines on me, I don’t even throw up a hand to block it though it stings my eyes worse than anything else has, lately. I look at you, a dark silhouette behind the golden circle from your flashlight, and my mouth forms the shape of your name. I’m not sure I’ve even spoken. I’m not sure if I remember how.
I thought I’d forgotten the strength of your arms but when you gather me into your embrace, your breath warm on my cold flesh, I remember all of it. You. Me. The promises you made, and broke, and the one you’ve finally kept.
You take me home, to the house in which you refuse to live but visit often. You bathe me. You dress me. You put me into bed and stand guard at my door until I sleep.
I think you’re afraid I won’t wake, but I do. I open my eyes and wince at the sudden stabbing sensation in my wounds…but I welcome the pain. It means I’m still alive.
You open your eyes at once when I touch your face. The chair jerks as you do, and your hand comes up to catch my wrist hard, not quite flinging it away. You see it’s me within a second and the embrace softens. I frown when you let me go.
“Go back to sleep,” you say, as if I could. As if all that happened can be put behind me the way you so often have done.
But I’m not you.
Days pass this way. I wait for you to leave, and one day you do. You come back stinking of blood and garbage, your hands in fists, and I know you’ve killed it. Hunted it down and taken its life the way it tried to steal mine.
I would be happy but for the fact that this means, at last, you’ll go for good.
“Stay.” It’s the first time I’ve ever asked. I know the score, the rules, what to expect from you. Your life circles mine and only sometimes intersects.
You shake your head, your back to me, the duffel bag I’ve grown to hate thrown over your shoulder. Outside your car awaits. I don’t want to see the taillights. I hate them, too.
“I can’t.”
“You can. If you want to.”
Your shoulders hunch. I want to touch you. To offer comfort. But you don’t want my comfort, do you? You don’t want me…. And too late, I realize I’ve spoken aloud.
I’d be frightened at the way you turn and the fire in your gaze except that now I’ve faced much, much worse. You grip my arms and I love your touch, even as it bruises. I can see you want to shake me, but you stop yourself. You let me go. You step back.
I step forward. “Stay. Please. I want you.”
I open the buttons of my shirt and offer myself. Shameless, ready to be embarrassed when you refuse me, but not caring. I want you so badly I shake. I need you.
“I can’t.” But I see in your eyes that you can.
I touch myself as if my hands were yours. Your gaze follows my fingers as they caress my body. Your hands are shaking.
“I promised to keep you safe.” Your voice is thick with loathing.
“You promised to find me,” I remind you and let my shirt fall to the ground. “And you did. You came for me. You saved me. Please don’t go. I need you.”
You shake your head. “It’s my fault you were in danger.”
I know you think this, and maybe you’re right, but I would not trade the safety of being insignificant to those who stalk the night for one single moment in your arms. A year ago I wouldn’t have believed the monster under the bed was real; now I know better. And I know that you’re the man who keeps us safe.
You keep me safe.
“Stay,” I say, and hold out my hand.
You are a man, after all, and you take it. When I kiss you, your sigh shudders out of you like the wind through trees. I undress you carefully but without hesitation, and trace the pattern of your scars with my hands and mouth until your breath comes fast and harsh in your throat and you wind your fingers in my hair to pull my mouth from your cock.
“No,” you say, and haul me from my knees. “Not like this.”
We’ve fucked on my kitchen floor before. We’ve done it in my bed, too, and in the shower, on the counter, in the backseat of your car. This time, you take me out into the grass of my backyard, under the stars, and you spread out the faded quilt I keep on the porch for picnics. You lay me down and follow my lines and curves with your hands and your tongue, your lips reading the entire story of my body as easily as if I were made of words.
I’m already coming by the time you slide inside me, and it’s as if the stars themselves have descended to hover around us, dancing. They fill me with fire. I lift my hips to take you in deeper, eager to hold on to you as long as I can. You thrust into me. Your mouth finds the scar at the base of my throat and you whisper against it.
“I’m sorry…”
Your voice breaks. Your head dips to press against me. I hold you tight as your body shakes and mine shudders beneath you. I don’t have to forgive you. I know you won’t forgive yourself.
You give me the night, but when the morning comes you’re gone.
But I know you’ll be back.


“They all need You”

Published 04/10/2015 by aleenas0510

The lines around your eyes and mouth should make you look haggard, but they only remind me of how beautiful you are. Even exhausted, rumpled, smelling of bad cafeteria coffee and clad in crumpled scrubs, you are lovely.
You lean over the desk to hand the charge nurse your clipboard. She smiles at you and bats her lashes, and I want to laugh. She thinks she has a chance at you, her own personal Dr. McDreamy, but she has no idea. Not a clue.
You are mine.
You are weary from hours on your feet, hours in the operating room. You’ve put on clean scrubs but I know you want to shower and shave, sleep for a few hours, maybe grab another cup of disgusting coffee. I know that’s what you want, but instead you’ll have me.
You look up from your place on the hard cot they give the on-call staff to use when I close the door behind me. When I lock it. When I smile, you smile, too.
I don’t ask you how long we have. At any moment the black box clipped to your waistband can bleat. People will need you. You fix them with your scalpel and your knowledge. At any moment someone could need you more than I do…but for now there is only me.
I don’t like the smells of antiseptic and despair that fill the air here, or the metallic scent of blood we can’t seem to escape. I miss your clean scent, soap and hot water, but there’s no time for that.
Your head tips back when I thread my fingers through it and pull, and you moan. You might be a god to that nurse at the desk and the people who you heal, but I know you’re no god.
You’re a man.
I know you’re bare beneath the scrubs, a habit surgeons have to prevent their personal clothes from becoming soiled. I know if I reach between us I’ll find your cock half hard already beneath the thin, soft cloth. I know if I slid onto your lap I’ll feel that heat against me, that hardness, and my body clenches at the thought of you filling me; my nipples tighten.
I brush your lips with mine, the barest hint of a kiss. When your mouth reaches for mine I pull back. I’d like to make you beg for me, to hear you say my name in that low, deep, grumble-growly voice, but I know we don’t really have time for those sorts of games.
“Touch me,” I say into your ear.
You do.
One of those hands, those big, strong hands, slides between my thighs up high, against my heat. I push forward, into your touch. It takes only seconds to lift my dress, to push down my panties, to ease your scrubs off. To straddle you. We rock together, your cock sliding against me without friction or effort. I’m so wet for you it takes only one small shift of hips and limbs to settle you inside me.
“Fuck me,” I say again, and you do that, too.
It’s slow and easy, the way you roll your hips to push your prick up inside me. You slide one of your hands that make so many miracles between us and use your knuckles on my clit. Your other holds my ass as we move, silent, biting our lips. I clench your shoulder so hard my nails leave half-moons in your flesh, but neither of us cries out.
Someone might know we’re fucking in here, and I don’t care, but there’s pleasure to be had from pretending we do.
Your throat works as you swallow your groan. I lick you and bite you softly. Beneath my lips I feel your pulse beat, beat, beat. The steady throb is echoed between my legs.
I come forever and you follow me with an intake of breath and a murmured curse. We rock together slowly, finishing, and the bed under us creaks.
From the puddle of clothes on the floor, your beeper buzzes. You close your eyes, briefly, though your lips open under mine when I kiss them.
“I have to go,” you say without moving.
I’m the one who gets up, who gathers the clothes, who lifts the small black box and places it in your hands. “You go,” I say. “Someone needs you.”
They all need you.
But you’re still always mine.

“Hungry for You”

Published 02/10/2015 by aleenas0510

I should be angry by the time you come through the door, because you’re late. Instead, the waiting has only made me hungrier for you. I wait until you set down your briefcase, close the door, shrug out of the charcoal gray jacket of your expensive suit. I wait as you hang it carefully, so it doesn’t rumple. When you reach to loosen the knot of the tie at your throat, I can’t wait any longer.
It makes a nice leash by which to lead you. A handle I can use to open you for me. I pull it, hard, silk fisted in my fingers, and your mouth comes down to meet mine.
You smell of cologne and newsprint, of expensive lunches and hostile takeovers. Your clothes cost more than some people’s car payments, and your body beneath them is sculpted from hours in the gym.
Do I care who you are behind your wide, smooth mahogany desk? Behind your contracts and your Mont blanc pen? Do I care who you are in the office? No. Because you’re here now, and you’re mine, and that’s what matters to me.
“Take off your shirt, but leave the tie.”
Your look, quizzical, doesn’t stop you from obeying. You tug the knot harder, widen the loop and ease it from the prison of your collar. You strip yourself of pink linen and toss the shirt to the floor, careless with it in a way you were not with your jacket.
“And the pants.”
Oh, you enjoy this, and the pants are down around your ankles and kicked to the side in minutes. Socks come next, but I don’t tell you to take off your briefs. Not yet. I like to watch the shape of your cock beneath the soft, heather-gray cotton. I like to watch you get hard for me.
This is what I want, to be on my knees in front of you. I want to run my hand over your prick and watch your hips bump forward against my caress. I want to nuzzle the crisp, curling hairs of your thighs and inhale your scent. I want to close my eyes and bump at the front of your boxer briefs with my face, the way a cat will bump at its owner’s hand to encourage petting.
I wet the front of your briefs with my mouth, my breath hot and seeping through the fabric to cover you. I want to feel the outline of your erection with my lips and teeth and tongue blunted by the material. I want you to thread your fingers in my hair and tug to tip my head so I look up at your face.
I want to hear you say, “Please,” as if my mouth on your cock is a gift you’re not certain you deserve.
I want to give it to you.
Down go the briefs, over your thighs, knees, calves, ankles. Now there is nothing between my mouth and your cock but desire, and soon enough not even that, because I engulf you.
That sound you make, that low, startled moan, never ceases to amaze and arouse me. I am on my knees before you and sucking your dick, my hand on your balls, and you whisper my name.
That is the gift you give me, the sound of my name in a rough rasp. You give me your need, your desire, your passion. You give me your ecstasy, too, the taste of you flooding my mouth.
I want to come with your cock lodged in my throat and your hands pulling my hair. I want to come to the sound of my name, shouted, and the pulse of your prick against my tongue.