About K.J. Hays:
Bio: KJ dwells in Orange County, CA where he can usually be found practicing the lost
art of loitering in adult book stores. He has work forthcoming in Writers' Bloc. Feel free
to ask him for an invite to his blog. It needs followers: khays45@gmail.com.
Bio: KJ dwells in Orange County, CA where he can usually be found practicing the lost
art of loitering in adult book stores. He has work forthcoming in Writers' Bloc. Feel free
to ask him for an invite to his blog. It needs followers: khays45@gmail.com.
Kink
by K.J. Hays
Antenna-like, dried, sickle fingers with the white knuckles cringing out of the skin,
come trembling out of the swollen orifice of darkness to latch onto the dear skull
always surrounding the ears that sit as queenly as her feet do on the thrones of her
black slipper shoes that relieve the two proud, tan melons of her calves from working
the way those mirific mounds of meat that pass for her ass do when she ascends that
same dreary, fairy tale stairwell every single night after a hard, cruel office-chair sit.
The slow reel of her twitching forehead inwards towards the comatose, purple lips hiding
amidst the gray haze of a thick five o'clock shadow that arrives daily before her subway.
A mouth parts. The tongue creeps out to hover near the pink bead of her earlobe that
tempts the big, hunky, red slug to beckon the ear nearer to the warm palate like mama.
Saliva leaks in sticky drops of slabber from the poised appendage that forsakes the
earlobe, & weaves a way around the serpentine braid of black hair-that pokes gently
into her left cheek-only to rest for a second of drooling with fleshy adulation before her
sharp jaw-line's curvature.
Then this wet, firm tine slips & ducks under her jaw-line & curls gently, swoon-like until
hooking greedily onto the tender, flush corner of her pale, shaking, powdered right
cheek.
It slurps backwards, plowing away the caul of dead skin, makeup, & soft hair to cradle
the salty, cavernous sulcus under her chin serenely & with unconditional reverence.
It undulates forwards, swimming in the slaver now as each slow stroke ends one more
lap across the juddering, porcelain bones in her jaw that are now so profuse with sweat
that she might consider hitting the showers with this sly pervert later because the luck
this tongue has on
her throat tells her
she does not know
whether to yell out
murder, or fire, or
fuck him, or what.
by K.J. Hays
Antenna-like, dried, sickle fingers with the white knuckles cringing out of the skin,
come trembling out of the swollen orifice of darkness to latch onto the dear skull
always surrounding the ears that sit as queenly as her feet do on the thrones of her
black slipper shoes that relieve the two proud, tan melons of her calves from working
the way those mirific mounds of meat that pass for her ass do when she ascends that
same dreary, fairy tale stairwell every single night after a hard, cruel office-chair sit.
The slow reel of her twitching forehead inwards towards the comatose, purple lips hiding
amidst the gray haze of a thick five o'clock shadow that arrives daily before her subway.
A mouth parts. The tongue creeps out to hover near the pink bead of her earlobe that
tempts the big, hunky, red slug to beckon the ear nearer to the warm palate like mama.
Saliva leaks in sticky drops of slabber from the poised appendage that forsakes the
earlobe, & weaves a way around the serpentine braid of black hair-that pokes gently
into her left cheek-only to rest for a second of drooling with fleshy adulation before her
sharp jaw-line's curvature.
Then this wet, firm tine slips & ducks under her jaw-line & curls gently, swoon-like until
hooking greedily onto the tender, flush corner of her pale, shaking, powdered right
cheek.
It slurps backwards, plowing away the caul of dead skin, makeup, & soft hair to cradle
the salty, cavernous sulcus under her chin serenely & with unconditional reverence.
It undulates forwards, swimming in the slaver now as each slow stroke ends one more
lap across the juddering, porcelain bones in her jaw that are now so profuse with sweat
that she might consider hitting the showers with this sly pervert later because the luck
this tongue has on
her throat tells her
she does not know
whether to yell out
murder, or fire, or
fuck him, or what.
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