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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.

“Can you trust me?” she asked and waited for an answer. She was good that way, always asking, always waiting. Consent was king. She liked to hear the word yes.

“Yes,” he said. They usually did.

“Good.” She untangled her legs from his, unwrapped her arms from his body, and stood up from the couch. He sat, thighs manspread, panting, and bothered. She turned her back to him, and drew her hands up under her skirt, hooked her thumbs into her panties—crimson, lace on the front, silk in the back—and pulled them down, bending as she did. A quick sliver of dusty pink labia flashed before her skirt dropped.

She hung the panties off her forefinger. He grabbed at them. She pulled them back

“No,” she said. “Can you trust me?”

“Yes,” he said.

She smiled and covered his eyes with the silk of her panties, drawing it tight across his nose, tying the lace in a tight, red bud at the back of his head. She took his hands to pull him to standing. He resisted—a glitch, a hesitation, a flicker—and he stood.

She grabbed his hips and pressed her face against the crotch of his jeans, fabric rough on her eyes, on her nose, her lips. She exhaled her breath hot and long and insistent against his cock. She waited.

Illustration by Melissa Dowell.