An Offering

Sometimes she stands with her tray before me and I pretend to consider my options, like any other good guest. I look down at her, at the sheen of her raven hair, pulled tight and smooth into a bun that sits low against the creamy skin of her neck. I watch to see how long she’ll wait in servitude to me. How long she’ll stand motionless, her arms lifted a bit to keep the tray at the height of my chest.

“Your hair smells nice.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“How long have you been working here, now?

Her brown eyes meet mine. “Just over a year.”

“We’ve never spoken before.”

“No sir, we haven’t.”

“Why is that?”

She hesitates. “I’m not sure, sir.”

“Did you think perhaps I didn’t notice you?”

“Perhaps, sir.”

“Ah, but I did. I noticed everything about you from the first time you walked through the doors from that kitchen with a shiny, silver tray in your hands.”

I pluck an offering off the shivering tray in her hands and devour it.

“Do you know something else I noticed?”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Your hair smells different when you sleep,” I whisper in her ear before walking away.

You’ll Have to Say “Please”

“I’m home,” he whispers. His breath, warm with hints of whiskey and cinnamon, ghosts against my neck, but the air around him is cool. As if he dragged the entire night behind him into the room.

A hand lands on the back of my leg and I jump, a hiss escaping through my teeth.

“Your hand is so cold,” I mumble into the pillow.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers. The bed dips and a knee lands next to my ass. “Warm me up.”

The soft clink of his belt buckle being undone echoes through the room and I start to squirm, stretching and yawning. My eyes open a crack and I blink against the soft moonlight that spills across the room.

I try to look over my shoulder but a hand comes down around my throat, pinning me in place.

He bends over me, his other knee landing at my hip, so that he straddles my body. I hear the pop of a button being undone. He lowers himself more until I feel his cock against my ass, straining beneath his jeans, and the sharp bite of his zipper against my skin.

His hand remains cool against my throat. I shiver as his other hand slides my hair out of the way and his mouth leaves a trail of warm kisses down the back of my neck.

“You glow against these sheets,” he murmurs, and the mild spice of lingering cigar on his fingers explains the hoarseness I hear in his voice. “Did you know these were my favorite sheets? They’re so fucking dark that your skin glows against them when I come in at night. Like an angel.”

His teeth sink into the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, just beneath the collar of the shirt I slipped into before heading to bed. A sigh, a whimper really, escapes my lips.

Then he stops.

His face moves away and the mattress shifts as he straightens up. The hand at my throat tightens and I feel a soft tug on the back of my shirt.

“What are you wearing?” he asks a second before his hand lands with a loud crack against my ass.

“Your shirt,” I tell him with a quiet moan.

“That’s my work shirt, angel.” His mouth is at my ear again. His teeth scraping against my ear lobe. “Why are you wearing the shirt I laid out for tomorrow?”

My legs tighten up as I lift my ass and push back against the hardness of his dick. I lift my head as much as the hand at my throat will allow. Until my lips land soft at the corner of his mouth, his stubble scraping against them as I move. Then I whisper.

“I want you to fuck me in it. Fuck me in your shirt so that you smell us all day while you’re trying to work tomorrow.”

Silence falls, smooth as the silver moonlight that cuts across the bed. I feel his lips curl into a smile, his fingers tighten around my throat, his zipper burns my skin when he presses harder against my ass.

“My angel,” he says with a low, growling laugh. “Such a little whore. You’ll have to say ‘please.'”

Before I can utter another sound, the hand on my throat slides up and over my mouth.

An Ode to Writers

You slit your wrists in front of me.

I watch all the heartache pour out. Your longing, thick and coagulated, smearing the page with a copper-scented honesty that stings the back of my throat.

You open your jugular with a pen.

Pain the color of clots and ink, dense and seeping down my screen. Your sadness an acidic burn that sears my eyes.

You gut yourself alive.

Opening up the softest parts of yourself and allowing them to shimmer out of the darkness and into the light of day. Your wants, your needs, left exposed and unprotected.

Then, oh then, you lie back and spread your legs for me.

Sharing with me every secret desire. Every drop of fluid and all the intimacy that led to it. I watch you swipe a finger through the mess and hold it up to the light.

Here,” you whisper, “Have a taste.”

Perfect In Our Descent

Perfect In Our Descent - Photo by allisonwrites
Perfect In Our Descent – Photo by allisonwrites



Every promise of wonder.

Each moment a possibility.

Each of us perfect in our descent.


Into upturned faces, bright and true.

Laughter that glitters as it sounds.

All of us reborn on the journey.

The magic is all in the falling

Before the shine dulls
And the sparkle fades
Before we shove, and are shoved, aside
Before the dirt settles

Catch a snowflake now and then

If only to recall
The singular magic
That happened during the fall

Faith For The Faithless

I believe in miracles

How miraculous

That you and I  found us
All the ones before just faceless names
A collection of failed dreams
Sand through a sieve
Leaving two gems to clink together
Until our rough parts smoothed
And soothed
Each other

How miraculous

Where once was nothing
Now there’s them
Born of stardust dreams
And nights that floated by on hope
Their wails bending our wills
Their tiny mewls breaking our hearts
We alone
Wrought them

How miraculous

Your soul called to mine
Kindred spirits through the crowds
Laughs that stitch together
Becoming comet trails through the skies
The miles separate us
The stars wink at our antics
The ether
Our playground
How miraculous
To believe in the miracle of mankind