“Can you trust me?” she asked.
He lay on his back on her bed, panties tied across his eyes, making the room a crimson haze. He could smell her sex on the panties. He was naked. From what he could tell, she was not entirely.
He said the word she wanted to hear, “Yes.” She dug her hands under on side, a sign to turn over. She patted him into position, tucking his elbows in at his head, pulling one leg and then the other, bending his knees, so that he rested with his head down and his ass up. She patted his knees to spread his legs—farther, and then a little farther.
“Can you trust me?” He felt the air on his ass, and it was uncanny but not unpleasant. His head swirled with the red light and her tealeaf umami scent.
“Can you trust me?” This time, more insistent. More urgent. On his head and knees, he heard it: that sound that told him she needed this as much—maybe more—than he did.
“Yes,” he said. He heard a rustle, felt the weight of the bed shift. He heard nothing, felt nothing for a moment. Then a cold, icy liquid line ran down the cleft of his ass, dribbling down his taint, pooling and spilling off the edge of his balls.
“Yes,” he said. “Please.”
Chelsea G. Summers gives us a rise, as blissful as it is succinct. Come back on Fridays for Flash Friction—a literary series of brief, erotic encounters.
Illustration by Melissa Dowell.
