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.
The aquarium got Frances hot. There was something about the cool green light, the way the glass was thick and hard to the touch, the languid swimming of the sea creatures. There was an indolence to leaving the hard bright daylight at the door and walking into the dreamy world under water. People grew quiet, like in a library. Even little kids hushed a bit.
Standing behind her, Chad held Frances’s hands as they stood before the tank of octopi. It was dark. “The octopus is nocturnal,” Frances said in Chad’s ear. “They shift their appearance through a complex network of neural pigment cells.” Chad moved his hands so that they pressed Francis’ hipbones back, pushing her ass against his pelvis; his cock cleaved it. “They’re considered the most intelligent of the invertebrates,” Francis said. Chad dropped one hand, cupping her pudendum. One finger pressed against each labia; his middle finger pressed—but didn’t move—against her clit.
“Male octopi don’t technically have a penis,” Frances whispered, her voice husky. Chad dropped his other hand to hold her ass, one finger resting tight and familiar against her asshole. “They have sex with one of their tentacles; it’s a sex arm,” Francis said, rocking slightly, sea-like against Chad’s hands. “A hand,” she said, as Chad clasped tighter, her hips swaying, her voice catching, her breath tight, “for pleasure.”
Illustration by Melissa Dowell.