Champagne Confessions

The bottle was already half-empty when Topanga brought out the second one. Nobody had put on clothes. That was the rule Riley had declared, and nobody had argued with it, because arguing would have required moving, and moving would have required untangling from the pile of limbs and blankets they'd become on the couch. The evening had stretched into night, and the night had stretched into that specific kind of late where everything said out loud feels like a secret.

Riley was on the floor now, her back against the couch, her legs stretched out under the coffee table. Maya was above her on the couch, one foot dangling down to rest on Riley's shoulder. Topanga was in the armchair again, but naked this time, the blanket pooled in her lap, her legs tucked beneath her.

The champagne was cold. The apartment was warm. Riley's pasta had been eaten directly from the pot with three forks because nobody wanted to wash plates. "Okay," Topanga said. She topped off her flute and set the bottle on the side table. "Last time we did this, Riley told us about the beach. I think it's our turn." "Whose turn?" Maya asked. "Mine. Then yours. We go one at a time. Same rules. No performing. Just the real one." Maya shifted on the couch, pulling her foot off Riley's shoulder and tucking both legs under her. "Define 'real.'" "The one you think about when you're alone. The one that finishes you off. Not the complicated one you'd tell someone to sound interesting — the one that actually works."

Riley turned her head to look up at Maya from the floor. "You have one. I know you do." "Everyone has one," Topanga said. "That's the point." Maya took a long drink. "Fine. Topanga, go." Topanga leaned back in the chair. She closed her eyes. Her hand rested on her bare thigh, fingers slightly spread, and Maya could see the subtle shift in her breathing — the way her chest rose a little higher, held a little longer.

"I'm in a hotel," Topanga said. "Not a nice hotel. A motel. The kind with exterior doors and a parking lot you can see from the bed. It's somewhere off a highway in the middle of nowhere. I've been driving for hours." She paused. Her fingers moved on her thigh — not touching herself, just tracing small circles on the skin, the kind of absent gesture that meant her body was already going where her mind was. "I'm alone. I check in. The room is ugly — flowered bedspread, thin curtains, a TV bolted to the dresser. I put my bag down and I sit on the bed and I don't know why I'm there. I just needed to be somewhere that wasn't home." Riley shifted on the floor. Her hand was on her stomach, fingers just below her navel. "Then there's a knock on the door. I didn't order anything. I didn't call anyone. I open it and there's a woman I've never seen before. She's tall. Dark hair. She's wearing a coat — a long one, to her ankles. She doesn't say anything. She just looks at me, and I step aside, and she walks in." Topanga's voice had dropped into something lower and more measured. Not performative — deliberate, like she was placing each word carefully.

"She locks the deadbolt behind her. She takes off the coat. She's not wearing anything under it. Nothing. And her body is — strong. Not skinny. Not soft. Strong. She's someone who uses her body for something. I can see muscle in her arms, in her thighs. She drops the coat on the floor and she stands there and I can smell her — not perfume, just skin and sweat and something underneath that makes my mouth water."

Maya's hand had moved to her own thigh. She was watching Topanga's face — the way her eyelids fluttered, the way her lips parted slightly. "She crosses the room and takes my face in both hands and kisses me. Not gently. Her tongue is in my mouth and her hands are holding my jaw and I can't pull back even if I wanted to. She walks me backward until my knees hit the bed and I fall and she follows me down." Topanga's fingers had moved higher. She wasn't touching herself yet, but she was close — her hand resting at the crease where her thigh met her hip, her fingers curled inward.

"She pins my wrists above my head. One hand. Her other hand goes between my legs and she feels how wet I am and she smiles against my mouth. She doesn't say a word. She just — takes. Two fingers, then three. Deep. Hard. The kind of hard where you can hear it, where the sound of her hand hitting me is louder than my breathing."

Riley's hand had slid lower. Maya could see it from above — Riley's fingers brushing the edge of her pubic hair, not yet committing, just hovering. "She fucks me until I come and she doesn't stop. She doesn't stop through the orgasm. She fucks me through it and past it and into that place where it hurts and feels good and I can't tell the difference. And then she flips me over and she's behind me and she pulls my hips up and she —" Topanga stopped. Swallowed. Her hand was between her legs now, her fingers pressing against herself, not moving yet, just holding. "She spits on her hand. I feel it. Warm, on my ass, and her thumb pressing in, and I — I let her. I want it. She fucks me from behind with her fingers in my pussy and her thumb in my ass and I'm face-down in the ugly flowered bedspread and I'm saying things I've never said out loud. Telling her harder. Telling her more. Telling her things I won't repeat even here."

Maya was wet. She could feel it — the warmth pooling between her legs, the slickness when she shifted her thighs. She was watching Topanga's hand move now, slow circles,
opanga's head tilted back against the chair. "I come again. And she pulls out and she lies down next to me and she puts her hand on my chest and she waits until my breathing slows. And then she gets up. Puts the coat back on. Leaves. I never see her again. I never know her name. I fall asleep on that ugly bedspread and when I wake up, it's morning, and I think I dreamed it, but the deadbolt is still locked and I can still smell her on my fingers."

Topanga opened her eyes. Her hand was still between her legs, two fingers pressed inside herself, her thumb on her clit. She didn't stop moving. She looked at Maya and Riley with an expression that was half-defiant and half-aroused. "That's the one," she said. "That's mine."

The apartment was very quiet. The only sound was Topanga's breathing and the faint hum of the refrigerator. Riley spoke first. "Jesus, Topanga." "What?" "That was — that was specific." "It's a fantasy. They're supposed to be specific." Maya took a drink of champagne. Her hand was shaking slightly. "Whose turn is it now?" "Yours," Topanga and Riley said at the same time. Maya put the flute down. She pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms around her knees, and looked at the ceiling. The ceiling was still just a ceiling. That was fine. "Mine isn't about a stranger," she said. "Mine is about someone I know." She paused. Riley turned on the floor to face her fully, sitting cross-legged, her knees touching the base of the couch. Topanga's hand had stilled between her legs. "It's about both of you." Riley's breath caught. Topanga's fingers twitched.

"We're here. In this apartment. But it's different — it's set up like a game. There are rules. You told me about them beforehand, but I don't remember them now. I just know that I agreed to all of them." Maya's voice was steady but her thighs were pressed together, the pressure building slowly. "I'm blindfolded. I'm on the bed — not the couch, the bed — and I'm blindfolded and my hands are tied to the headboard. Not tight. Just enough that I can't pull free without trying. I'm not wearing anything and I've been like that for — I don't know. A while. Long enough that I've gone through being nervous, being bored, being aroused, being nervous about being aroused, and come back around to just being wet and waiting." She uncrossed her legs. Her hand moved to her inner thigh.

"Then I hear you. Both of you. You're in the room. I can hear you talking to each other but I can't make out the words. You're discussing something. Me, probably. What to do with me. And I can't see and I can't move and I'm lying there and I can feel the air move when one of you walks past the bed." Riley's hand was between her legs now. Not moving — just pressed there, holding. "The first touch is — I don't know which one of you it is. That's the point. That's part of it. A mouth on my nipple. Sucking, pulling, teeth just barely grazing. And I can't see who it is and I can't ask because part of the rules is that I don't talk. I'm not allowed to speak. I can make sounds but I can't say words."

Maya's fingers found herself. She was soaked — she'd been wet since Topanga's story, and her own was making it worse. She dipped two fingers into the wetness and spread it upward, over her clit, and her hips shifted on the couch cushion. "Then the other one is between my legs. I don't know who. I don't know whose mouth is on my breast and whose mouth is on my pussy and I can't look and I can't ask and that — not knowing — that's the thing. That's what does it. Someone's tongue is on my clit and someone's teeth are on my nipple and I'm pulling against the ties and I can't move and I can't see and I come so hard I think I'm going to break the headboard."

Topanga had started moving her hand again. Slow, deep strokes, her eyes fixed on Maya.
"They switch. The mouth that was on my breast moves to my mouth. I can taste myself on her lips — salt and wet — and the mouth that was between my legs moves up to my breasts. And I still don't know who is who. I still can't see. And they keep switching. Every few minutes. Mouth, pussy, mouth, pussy. Sometimes fingers inside me. Sometimes a tongue. Sometimes both. I come three times, four times, I lose count, and each time they don't stop, they just switch, and I'm —" Maya's fingers were moving faster now. Her head was back against the couch arm, her eyes closed, her hips rolling against her own hand.

"Eventually someone straddles my face. I don't know who. She's above me and I can smell her and I open my mouth and she lowers herself down and I taste her — God, I taste her — and she's riding my face while the other one fucks me with her fingers and I'm coming and being used and I can't see and I can't move and I can't talk and I don't know who is where and it's —" Maya arched off the couch. Her orgasm hit mid-sentence, her thighs clamping around her hand, a strangled sound escaping her throat. She rode it out with her fingers deep inside herself, her other hand gripping the couch cushion, her body shaking through waves that kept cresting. When she opened her eyes, Riley was on her knees at the base of the couch, her face inches from Maya's hip, her own hand working furiously between her legs. Topanga was out of the chair — she'd crossed the room and was kneeling behind Riley, her hands on Riley's waist, her mouth on Riley's neck.

"You're not done," Riley said. Her voice was rough and breathless. "Finish the story." Maya swallowed. Her fingers were still inside herself, still moving, the overstimulation making her twitch with each stroke. "The last thing — the last part —" "Tell us," Topanga said against Riley's skin. "They untie me. They take off the blindfold. And it's both of you. Of course it's both of you. It was always both of you. And you're lying on either side of me and I'm between you and I can feel your skin against mine and I'm so exhausted I can't move and someone's hand is on my breast and someone's hand is on my hip and I fall asleep between you and when I wake up —"

Riley came. Her whole body seized, her forehead dropping against Maya's hip, a moan tearing out of her that was loud and raw and unfiltered. Topanga held her through it, one arm around Riley's waist, her other hand sliding around to press against Riley's clit from behind, extending it, drawing it out until Riley was shaking and gasping and pushing her hand away. "When I wake up," Maya said softly, "you're both still there."

The room was thick with the smell of sex and the sound of breathing. Topanga let go of Riley and sat back on her heels. Riley stayed where she was, her face against Maya's skin, her eyes closed. "Topanga," Maya said. "You didn't finish." "I know." "Finish." Topanga looked at her. Then at Riley. Then she lay back on the floor, her legs falling open, and put both hands between her legs — one set of fingers inside, the other on her clit — and she fucked herself on the apartment floor with her eyes closed and her back arching and her mouth open, and it took less than a minute before she came with a groan that sounded like it was pulled from the bottom of her spine. The silence afterward was different from the silence before. Softer. The kind of quiet that comes after something true has been said and heard and held.

Riley climbed up onto the couch. She lay half on top of Maya, her head under Maya's chin, her leg thrown over Maya's thigh. Topanga got up, retrieved the champagne bottle, and sat on the floor beside the couch, her back against it, her head tilted back to rest near Maya's hand. "We should do this every Saturday," Riley said. "We should do this every day," Topanga said. "We'd never leave the apartment," Maya said. "And the problem with that is?" Maya reached down and brushed Topanga's hair back from her face. Topanga caught her hand and held it against her cheek. "Next week," Maya said. "New stories. Same champagne." "Same no-clothes rule," Riley added. "Same couch," Topanga said.

The bottle was empty. Nobody got up to open another one. They stayed where they were — Riley draped over Maya, Topanga on the floor beside them, all three of them bare-skinned and loose-limbed and honest in ways they hadn't been before the champagne and wouldn't be again until the next bottle. On the refrigerator, Drew's postcard hung from the cow magnet, unmoved, unread, unnecessary. Maya closed her eyes. She wasn't blindfolded. She could see everything. But she kept her eyes shut anyway, because some things you don't need to look at to know are there.