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The threesome wasn’t quite what Roger expected. In his head, it had always played out with two women taking turns sucking his cock, kissing in slow-motion over it, their drool dropping like icing on its tip. In his imaginings, she lay on the bed while he fucked her, another woman, blonde because why not, riding her face, her mouth and her tits there, just there, ready to suckle and kiss. They were, of course, perfect.

In his fantasy, he was long and strong and he was there to get the friction on, and he fucked one and then the other until they cried out, somehow always in unison. “Ro-ah-ah-ah-ger!” he heard in his head. His name’s central vowel lent itself well to ululation.

He’d never, however, not once imagined this: him on his knees and breathing heavy, impaled by two rubber dongs, the women laughing and kissing above him, goddesses at sport. His cock lonely, hard, crying unctuous tears. It wasn’t his vision, but he liked it.

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, with illustrations by Melissa Dowell.