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Sometimes when she fucked him, she wished he had two cocks, like that guy who wrote the autobiography about having two cocks. Other times when she fucked him, she wished she had one to ride and another in her mouth. This desire required more than one man.

She wanted more cock. Maybe, she thought as she ground her clit into his pubic bone, the arc of his cock against her g-spot, its tip pressing thick against her cervix, she truly needed three cocks. One in her pussy, one in her throat, another snug in her ass.

If three, why not four. One in each of her holes, and one in her hand, which clearly meant she needed five, if for nothing else other than balance, aesthetic as well as physical. She wanted to be suffused with cock, ripe with cock, effulgent and glistening, positively skinkling with cock. She wanted to be the epicenter of a seismic cock event, the sun in a cock-based universe, the Radon nucleus of a cock-based atom.

A cockpocalpse, all of them hard and shiny with want and ready for her play as she wished. A martial row of cock, a mosh of cock, with men, of course, but they were almost beside the point. They began and ended at the pelvis. There should be more cock, a surfeit of cock, she thought, and rode him hard. A cockfinity awaits.

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.