three stories by benjamin king


She’s biting his lip a little bit, sucking it, and now her tongue is entwined with his. Hers is long and thick and strong like a python or a cock and it is bullying his to the side and to the top and to the bottom. There are only tongues in his mouth, chunks of flesh thrusting, thrashing, lashing, licking, teasing, tasting; no room for air or words. Just when others might rest their mouths or breathe or stretch their cheeks or clutch desperately for other parts of the body, she breaks her own jaw and swallows him whole. She is an animal, a stray dog eating raw sausages and she cannot be satiated. Her love, her lust is physical and ferocious; her lips are swollen and bleeding and yet she continues to indulge in him for seconds and for hours and they are both fully clothed and drenched with sweat and happiness. When the sun is gone they are finished and they are spent and with his last breath before sleep he will ask if they may kiss again tomorrow.

She is smaller than him. Not child-like, but short. Slim. She stands on her toes and clutches his sleeves. She looks up at him, into his eyes. Her hair is tied back, her tiny face is bright, alive with wonder and love. It is hard not to think of a girl adoring her father but she is a woman. Fully a woman. And although he towers above her, he is not her father. Not anybody’s father. She wants him to pick her up, to hold her tight, to carry her to the bedroom. She likes being smaller than him.

But he looks away, to the side, the TV is on. A game. Football. Cricket. She whispers, something she wouldn’t dare say out loud. But he cannot hear her. “How was your day?” he asks.

She’s growing now. Taller. The tenderness in her face fades. Her body stretches. It bends. She is a monkey. A gorilla. Her hands, her nails are sharp. A werewolf perhaps. She grabs him by the neck and forces his head around. She looks down, into his eyes again, deeper now. She can see inside of him and he is not a big man anymore. He is folding in two. The thing inside of him is eating his guts out and he is crying. He is shrinking. He is smaller than her. Fully a man still, but weak and sad. She does not like being bigger than him.

Now she packs her bags. She is leaving. Her reflection in the mirror whispers to her. “You will always be small,” it says, “but you won’t ever be smaller again.”
Oh Shit

Her lips are chapped and her nose is broken. Her eyes are crossed and her head is big. Her hair is red. Her clothes are not what I would wear if I was a girl and I could sing, if I was up, if I was there, if I had a fucked up face and fucked up hair. But now I know her voice. It can’t be seen, it’s the ghost of a grizzly bear. 18 feet of man-eating terror, it ate a human being. It floats across the room. Through the smoke and around the people. Underneath. Over the top. It can’t be stopped. It’s growling. It’s rumbling. It’s a stuntman tumbling down my ear canal. It’s in my brain. Cloudy and woolly. I’m the little boy who lives down the lane. It’s the sun and the sky and I’m some guy on the ground or in a field with nothing to do but bask. It’s a flask full of whiskey. I don’t drink but I’m at the liquor store and I want some more. I’ve got some cans to recycle. Awake but drunk I’m naked in bed and still it’s in my head. It’s the semen in my balls (I’m aiming for the walls) and I’ve never been this happy. Sleep has come and gone and come and gone and come and gone and now my eyes are open. Oh shit, she’s ugly.
Benjamin King is so dumb. Boring stuff, boring stuff. Life experience. Daytime job. Degree. Master’s degree. Etc. He publishes Bronson Pinchot fan fiction and healthy and fun recipe ideas for kids at He likes trousers, robots, Russian torture sluts, high fives, and re-enacting “Yes, Dear” season one episodes in his backyard. He hates tap-dancing. God, what else do you want to know? He feels like this is all getting a bit too personal.