Rainy Confessions Over Champagne

The rain had been falling since Tuesday, a steady gray wash that turned the city into something soft and shapeless. By Saturday afternoon, nobody had bothered to get dressed. Maya was on the kitchen counter in an oversized NYU shirt and nothing else, legs dangling, bare feet swinging like a kid on a park bench. Riley was on the couch in a tank top so thin it was basically a suggestion, her underwear visible underneath because she'd stopped caring about that sometime around the third mimosa. Topanga was in the armchair with a blanket over her lap, wearing what she called her "lounging silk" — a robe that cost more than most people's rent and was open enough to show the lace edge of whatever was underneath it.

The champagne was the good stuff. Topanga had brought it. She always brought the good stuff when she came over, which Maya had once called "emotional bribery" and Topanga had called "having standards." "We should do something," Riley said, staring at the ceiling. "We are doing something," Maya said. "We're being lazy. This is an activity." "Being lazy is the absence of activity. That's literally what lazy means." I reject your definition."

Topanga refilled her flute. The blanket slipped off her lap and she didn't fix it. The robe had shifted open a little further, showing the inside curve of her breast above the lace. She didn't fix that either. Nobody mentioned it. Nobody needed to. The rain hit the windows in irregular bursts. The penthouse was warm. The lighting was just the gray daylight filtering through the curtains, flat and honest, the kind of light that made everything look exactly the way it was. "Okay," Topanga said, setting her flute down with the deliberate care of someone who was about to say something she'd been thinking about for a while. "I have a question." "Those are dangerous," Maya said.

"What's the one? The real one. Not the thing you've told people at parties to sound interesting. The actual fantasy that you think about when you're alone and your hand is between your legs and you're not performing for anyone." The room went quiet except for the rain. Riley sat up slowly. Her tank top shifted, one strap falling off her shoulder. "You want us to just say it. Out loud. To each other." "I want the real one. The one that's almost embarrassing. The one you'd never put on a spreadsheet." Maya felt something tighten low in her stomach. Not embarrassment exactly — something sharper, more electric. They'd shared fantasies before, late at night, champagne-loosened, but those had been curated. Polished. The version of the truth that had the rough edges sanded down.

"You first," Maya said to Topanga. Topanga leaned back in the chair. Her robe opened further. She didn't touch it. "Fine." She was quiet for a moment, looking at the ceiling the way Riley had been, as if the words were written up there somewhere. "There's a hotel," she said. "Not a specific one. The idea of one. Old. European. The kind with heavy doors and keys on actual key rings and a lobby that smells like leather and old wood. I'm there alone. I'm wearing a dress — something dark, simple, expensive enough that it's obvious I chose it carefully. I go down to the bar. I order something neat. I don't look around. I don't try to attract anyone." She paused. Her fingers traced the edge of her flute. "A woman sits next to me. Older than me, which — well. She's silver-haired, tailored, wears a watch that probably costs more than a car. She doesn't flirt. She just talks to me. About the hotel, about the city, about nothing. And then she says something like, 'I've been watching you since you walked in, and I'd like to take you upstairs, and I'm going to tell you exactly what to do, and you're going to do it because you want to and because I asked.'" Maya's grip on her champagne flute tightened.

"She takes me to her room," Topanga continued. "It's a suite. Big bed, white sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows with the city below. She undresses me. Slowly. Not like she's savoring it — like she's inspecting me. She folds my dress. She tells me to stand still. She touches me everywhere but between my legs. My neck, my collarbones, my breasts, my stomach, my hips, my thighs. She turns me around. She touches my back, my ass, the backs of my knees. She doesn't speak except to give instructions. 'Arms up.' 'Turn.' 'Bend over the bed.'" Riley's breathing had changed. Maya could hear it from across the room — slower, deeper. "She bends me over the bed and she spanks me. Not hard. Not playful. Methodically. Like she's working through a checklist. And then she stops, and she kneels behind me, and she spreads me open with both hands, and she licks me — just once, one long slow stroke — and she says, 'You're wetter than I expected. Good girl.'"

Topanga's voice had dropped. Not performing. Just honest. "Then she stands me up and puts me on the bed on my back and she ties my wrists to the headboard with something soft — a scarf, maybe, or a belt. And she goes down on me for a long time. Not letting me come. Bringing me right to the edge and then stopping. Kissing my thighs. Waiting. Starting again. She does this until I'm shaking, until I'm begging, until I can't form complete sentences. And then she puts two fingers inside me and her mouth on my clit and she says 'now' and I come so hard I can hear myself and I can't stop and she doesn't stop, she keeps going through it, past it, until I come again." Topanga picked up her champagne. Her hand was steady. The rest of her was not — there was a flush across her chest that hadn't been there before, visible above the lace. "That's the one," she said. "That's the real one."

Nobody spoke for a beat. The rain filled the silence. "Fuck," Maya said quietly. "Your turn," Topanga said. Maya took a breath. The NYU shirt was suddenly very thin and the counter was very cold under her bare thighs and she was acutely aware of exactly how wet she was. She'd been wet since "bend over the bed." "Mine's different," she said. "It's not — it's not a place. It's a situation." She pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. The shirt rode up. She didn't fix it. "I'm at a party. Someone's apartment, crowded, people everywhere, music, the kind of thing where you know maybe three people and the rest are strangers. I'm wearing something short. A skirt, no underwear. A top that's cut low enough that it's obvious I'm not wearing a bra. I look like I'm asking for trouble. I'm not. I just like the way it feels." Riley had turned fully on the couch now, facing Maya, one leg tucked under her. Her eyes were dark.

"There's a woman across the room. I don't know her. She's been watching me. I can feel it. Every time I look up, she's looking at me. Not smiling. Not doing anything. Just watching. And eventually she walks over and she doesn't introduce herself. She leans in close to my ear and she says, 'Come with me.' And I do." Maya's voice was lower now, rougher at the edges. "She takes me to a bathroom. Locks the door. The music is muffled. It's tight — barely enough room for two people. She pushes me against the sink and kisses me. Hard. Her hand goes up my skirt immediately. She doesn't ask. She just — she puts her fingers inside me and fucks me right there, fast, rough, her other hand over my mouth because I can't be quiet. I can hear people outside the door. Talking, laughing. Someone tries the handle. It doesn't open. They walk away. And she doesn't stop. She fucks me until I come against her hand, biting down on her fingers, and then she pulls her hand out, fixes my skirt, unlocks the door, and walks away. I never get her name." Maya swallowed. Her thighs were pressed together tightly.

"But that's not the whole fantasy," she said. "The whole fantasy is that afterward, I go back to the party, and I find the person I came with — the person I'm with — and I kiss them. And they can taste it. They can taste her on my mouth. And they don't say anything. They just look at me. And then they take me home and fuck me like they're trying to reclaim something." She looked at Riley when she said that last part. Riley's lips were parted, her chest rising and falling with breaths that were too deliberate, too controlled. "That's the real one," Maya said.

The rain had picked up. The light in the apartment had gotten darker, grayer, more intimate. Topanga's robe was open to the waist now. She hadn't touched it. The lace underneath was thin enough to show the dark circles of her nipples, hardened visibly. "Riley," Topanga said softly. Riley blinked. Refocused. She was flushed from her collarbones to her ears. "I need a minute," Riley said.
"You don't get a minute. That's the game." Riley made a sound that was half laugh, half something else. She pulled her tank top off over her head in one motion. Underneath — nothing. Her breasts were small and perfect, her nipples tight, her skin goose-prickled despite the warmth. She dropped the shirt on the floor and sat there topless and didn't seem to notice or care. "Okay," she said. "Mine." She lay back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, her bare chest rising and falling.

"I'm on a beach. Night. No one around. I'm naked. I walked into the water until I'm waist-deep and then I came back out and I'm lying on the sand, wet, covered in sand, and I can still feel the ocean. The waves. The salt on my skin." Her hands were resting on her stomach. One of them drifted lower, unconsciously, resting on the waistband of her underwear. "Someone comes out of the darkness. I can't see them clearly. A shape. They kneel next to me. They don't say anything. They put their hands on me — on my stomach, on my ribs, on my breasts. Their hands are warm. I'm cold from the water. The contrast is — it's everything. They roll me over. They brush the sand off my back, off my ass, slow, thorough. They spread my legs. They put their mouth on me from behind, and I can feel the sand under my knees and the salt water on my skin and their tongue inside me, and it's dark and I can hear the ocean and I can't see who it is and I don't want to."
Her hand had slipped under her waistband. She wasn't performing. She wasn't even aware she was doing it, or if she was, she'd stopped caring. "They make me come. And then they flip me over and they cover my body with theirs and I still can't see their face. They're inside me — I don't know what they're using, fingers, a cock, I can't tell, I don't care — and they're fucking me into the sand and the sand is rough under my back and the waves are loud and I'm coming again and I still don't know who they are." Riley's hand was moving now, clearly, her underwear pushed down, her hips shifting subtly against her own fingers. Her eyes were closed.

"And then — this is the part I never tell — there are more of them. I don't know how many. Hands everywhere. Mouths. Someone behind my head, holding my arms above me. Someone between my legs. Someone at my breasts. I'm held down and I can't move and I can't see and they're all touching me and I come until I can't tell where one orgasm ends and the next starts and I'm sobbing and it's — it's the best I've ever felt. And then they're gone. And I'm alone on the beach. And the sun is coming up. And I'm covered in sand and salt and come and I walk back to wherever I'm staying and I fall asleep and I never tell anyone."

Riley opened her eyes. Her hand was still between her legs. She was breathing hard. "That's the one," she said. "That's the real one." The apartment was very quiet. Maya realized her own hand was between her thighs, pressed against the counter, the pressure barely enough. She was soaked. The NYU shirt was damp at the hem where she'd been sitting on it. Topanga's robe was fully open now, the lace bra visible, her hand resting on her own thigh in a way that was clearly the beginning of something. "Well," Topanga said. Her voice was rough. "Now what?"

Maya looked at Riley. Riley was still on the couch, half-naked, her hand still between her legs, her eyes half-closed. Riley looked back at her. There was something raw and open in her expression — the vulnerability of having just said the truest thing she knew. Maya slid off the counter. Her bare feet hit the floor. She crossed the room to the couch, knelt beside it, and took Riley's wrist. She pulled Riley's hand away from herself, brought it to her mouth, and sucked Riley's fingers clean, tasting her — salt and musk and the sharp tang of someone who'd been aroused for the last twenty minutes without relief. Riley's breath hitched. "Topanga," Maya said without turning around. "Get over here."

She heard the armchair creak. Heard the blanket fall. Heard Topanga's bare feet on the floor. Maya pushed Riley's underwear down and off. Riley lifted her hips to help, then lay back, completely naked on the couch, her skin flushed from her face to her thighs. Maya spread Riley's legs and put her mouth on her without preamble — no teasing, no buildup, just her tongue flat against Riley's clit and two fingers sliding inside her. Riley arched off the couch. "Fuck — Maya —" Topanga appeared behind Maya. She pulled Maya's shirt over her head from behind, and then her hands were on Maya's breasts, squeezing, her thumbs rolling Maya's nipples. Maya groaned against Riley, and the vibration made Riley's thighs clench around her head.

Topanga stripped the rest of the way — the robe, the lace bra, the underwear — and then she was on the floor behind Maya, her body pressing against Maya's back, her breasts against Maya's shoulder blades, her hand sliding down Maya's stomach and between her legs. Maya was so wet that Topanga's fingers slid through the slickness before even parting her. "Jesus," Topanga said against her ear. "You're dripping." "Riley's story," Maya managed between strokes of her tongue. "The beach one." "I know." Topanga pushed two fingers inside Maya. Maya's hips bucked forward, pressing her mouth harder against Riley. Topanga fucked her slowly — deep, deliberate strokes that matched the rhythm of Maya's tongue on Riley. Riley was close already. Twenty minutes of her own fantasy narrated out loud had put her on a razor's edge, and Maya's mouth was relentless. Maya curled her fingers inside Riley and sucked her clit and Riley came with a sharp cry, her hand fisting in Maya's hair, holding Maya's face against her while her hips rolled through it.

Maya didn't stop. She eased off, let Riley come down for three seconds, then went back — lighter, slower, her fingers still inside, curling against the spot that made Riley's legs shake. "Too much — I can't —" Riley gasped. "You can." Maya looked up at her. "You said so. In your story. You come until you can't tell where one ends and the next starts." Riley made a sound that was almost a sob.

Topanga added a third finger inside Maya, and Maya cried out against Riley's pussy, the sensation ripping through her. Topanga's other hand reached around to rub Maya's clit in tight circles while she fucked her from behind. Maya was being taken apart at both ends — Topanga's hands owning her from behind, Riley's body under her mouth — and the dual sensation was building something enormous in her core. "I'm going to come," Maya said, pulling her mouth away from Riley just long enough to speak. "Come on my hand," Topanga said. "Then finish her."

Maya came. Her whole body seized, her face pressing into Riley's thigh, her hips grinding back against Topanga's hand, her inner walls clenching around Topanga's fingers. Topanga didn't stop — she kept fucking her through it, kept rubbing her clit, drawing it out until Maya was shaking and overstimulated and gasping. Then Topanga pulled her fingers out and wiped them on Maya's back, and Maya turned back to Riley. Riley was watching them with wide dark eyes, her hand on her own breast, pinching her nipple. Maya grabbed Riley's knees and pushed them apart wider. She put her mouth back on Riley and fucked her with three fingers this time, hard and deep, her palm slapping against Riley's skin with each thrust. "Topanga — sit on her face," Maya said.

Topanga didn't hesitate. She swung one leg over the couch, positioned herself above Riley's face, and lowered herself down. Riley's tongue found her immediately — desperately, hungrily, as if she needed to be tasting someone while Maya fucked her. Topanga braced herself against the arm of the couch, her head dropping back, her breasts swaying as she rode Riley's mouth. The sounds in the apartment were wet and raw and unapologetic. Maya's fingers in Riley. Riley's tongue in Topanga. Three bodies in the gray afternoon light, nothing performative about it, nothing curated.

Riley came again — a second orgasm that crashed through her like a wave, her hips bucking against Maya's hand, her moan muffled by Topanga's body. Topanga followed seconds later, grinding down against Riley's mouth, her thighs trembling, her hands white-knuckled on the couch arm, coming with a low groan that sounded like it was dragged out of somewhere deep. They collapsed into a pile on the couch — Topanga sliding off Riley's face, Maya climbing up over Riley, all three of them tangled together, breathing hard, skin against skin. The blanket from the armchair ended up over them somehow. The champagne was warm and flat on the counter. Nobody cared.

The rain was lighter now, almost done. "So," Riley said eventually, her voice muffled against Maya's shoulder. "Same time next Saturday?" "We haven't even finished this Saturday," Maya said. "You literally just finished. Multiple times." Topanga, wedged between the couch back and Riley's body, opened one eye. "We should do this more often." "Do what specifically?" Maya asked. "The confessions or the consequences?" "Both. In that order. With champagne." Riley stretched, her joints popping. "I need a shower. And a snack. And possibly a new identity, because I don't know if I can look any of you in the eye after what I just said about that beach." "You said it," Topanga said. "We heard it. We acted on it. No take-backs." "I wasn't asking for take-backs. I was asking for snacks."

Maya kissed Riley's forehead. Then she kissed Topanga's shoulder. Then she lay back and stared at the ceiling, which was just a ceiling, and not a beach, or a hotel suite, or a bathroom at a party, but was perfectly fine anyway. The rain stopped. The sun came out. Nobody moved. "We should open another bottle," Topanga said. "We should," Maya agreed. Nobody opened another bottle. They lay there until the light changed and the apartment got cold and Riley's stomach growled loud enough to startle all three of them. "Dinner," Riley announced. "I'm making dinner. Nobody move. Nobody put on clothes. This is a naked household now." "That's not how households work," Topanga said. "It is now." She got up, walked to the kitchen naked, and started pulling things out of the refrigerator. Maya watched her from the couch. Topanga watched her from the couch. The evening light came through the windows, golden now, turning Riley's skin warm.

"She's going to burn something," Maya said. "Probably," Topanga said. "Worth it, though." Maya pulled the blanket up to her chin. "Everything is." On the refrigerator, held by a cow-shaped magnet, Drew's postcard fluttered slightly in the draft from the open kitchen. The shortcut is always worth it. Come find me if you get lost again. Maya looked at it and smiled. She wasn't lost. But she was keeping the postcard, just in case.