KELLOMAN'S KINKY GAMES.
Kelloman waited behind the door,
Tense, ready, gun in hand.
He heard noises, footsteps coming,
Voices talking. Pushed his ear against
The panel, closed eyes for concentration,
Finger on the trigger. Voices moved on.
Wrong one, not the victim. Breathed out,
Sensed sweat under armpits, on the brow.
He opened his eyes, scanned the room,
Took in the decor, the curtains, the paintings
On the walls. Monet prints, Miró prints.
He moved his ear from the door. Waited.
Untensed his finger from the trigger,
He breathed calmer. Sounds again,
Footsteps close. He held his breath,
Listened, ear cocked, eyes closed, focused.
The door was unlocked; a woman entered,
Closed the door, saw Kelloman with a gun,
Pointed at her head. Noted the silencer,
The look in the eyes, the finger on the trigger.
The woman backed away into the room,
Kelloman hushed her back with the gun,
The barrel moving side to side, the finger poised.
They stood facing each other, eyes to eyes,
The gun aimed, the breathing filled the room.
Kelloman lowered the gun, began to smile.
How were the shops? She sighed. Busy.
Couldn’t get the shoes I wanted to get,
I should have bought them while I could.
Kelloman pocketed the gun slowly.
They moved closer and kissed.
I don’t like these silly games, she said.
It gets me all roused up, he said.
She kissed him again. Silence, lips pressed on lips,
Eyes closed, arms holding, squeezing bodies,
Easing juices. They opened their eyes, they smiled.
I like the Miró print, he said, nice touch.
He put his hand on her breast, feeling, soft.
Bought it in a sale, she muttered, sensing his hand,
The sensations, the wanting to, the need to.
Feeling his penis rise, move against her thigh,
The touch, the motion. Kelloman closed his eyes,
Breathed in her scent, her perfume, felt her near,
Flesh on flesh, skin on skin, hand touching hand.
In his pocket sat the gun, today just a practice run.
