Sultry Confessions Over Champagne

The air conditioning had been fixed for exactly three days before it broke again. Maya found out when she walked into the living room and discovered Riley sprawled on the couch in nothing but her thong and a tank top, fanning herself with a paperback she wasn't reading.

"We need to fire whoever installed that unit," Maya said, dropping her keys on the counter. "We need to fire the sun," Riley replied without opening her eyes. Topanga appeared from the hallway carrying a tray with three champagne flutes and a bottle that was already sweating in the heat. She was wearing a linen button-down with only two buttons fastened and nothing else that Maya could see. "I pulled the good stuff," Topanga said. "If we're going to suffer, we're going to suffer with decent bubbles."

Maya kicked off her heels and collapsed into the armchair. "Pour please." The champagne was cold and sharp and exactly right. Maya drank half her flute in one pull and felt the heat in her chest start to loosen. Riley rolled onto her side and reached for her flute. The three of them sat in the warm, still air of the living room, drinking in comfortable silence.

"So," Topanga said, settling into the other end of the couch and tucking her bare feet under Riley's thighs. "You mentioned something about Nordstrom." Maya grinned. "I did mention that." "You absolutely did," Riley confirmed, pointing at her with her flute. "Last time. Right before everything got..." "Distracting," Topanga finished. "Okay. Nordstrom. So this was maybe two years ago, before Riley and I figured out that we were—well, whatever we are now." "Married," Riley said.

"Married," Maya agreed. "But before that. I was at Nordstrom in the dressing room area, trying on clothes because I had a date that night. Not with you. Some guy from a cooking class who turned out to be terrible, but that's not the point." "The point," Riley prompted. "The point is I was in the fitting room in just my bra and jeans, and the door wasn't latched properly. A woman opened it by mistake. She was maybe mid-forties, incredible body, wearing this little sundress that was basically a suggestion."

Topanga raised an eyebrow. "What happened?" She froze. I froze. And then she didn't close the door. She just stood there looking at me. And I didn't cover up. I just stood there letting her look." Maya took another sip. The memory was warm in her body, mixing with the champagne and the heat.

"Then she said 'sorry' but she didn't move. And I said 'it's okay' but I didn't move either. And then she stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind her." Riley sat up. "Inside the fitting room?" "Inside the fitting room. And she said, 'I've been watching you walk around the store. You have the most incredible body.' And her hand was on my stomach before I could answer."

Topanga's feet shifted under Riley's legs. "In a Nordstrom fitting room." "Hand on my stomach, fingers tracing down to the waistband of my jeans. And I was so fucking wet, just from the surprise of it, from the audacity. She kissed me and I kissed her back and she unhooked my bra in about two seconds—she'd clearly done this before—and her mouth was on my nipples and her hand went down my jeans." The room was very quiet. The fan clicked overhead, pushing warm air in lazy circles.

"She fucked me against the fitting room wall," Maya said. "Two fingers, hard, her other hand over my mouth because I was making too much noise. I came in about ninety seconds. Bit her hand. She tasted like vanilla lotion." "Holy shit," Riley whispered.
"After, she straightened her dress, said 'you should buy the green top,' and left. I never got her name."

Topanga was very still on the couch, her champagne flute held halfway to her lips. Maya could see her breathing had changed. "That," Maya said, leaning back, "is my Nordstrom story. And it is one hundred percent true." The silence lasted about four seconds. "I need more champagne," Riley said, standing up too fast. "And possibly a cold shower." "Get the bottle," Topanga said. "And check the pantry. Third shelf, behind the quinoa." Riley stopped. "Behind the quinoa?" "Behind the quinoa."

Riley walked to the kitchen. Maya heard the pantry door open, some rustling, and then Riley's voice: "Topanga. What the fuck." "Bring it all," Topanga called. Riley came back carrying the champagne bottle and a cardboard box that she set on the coffee table. Inside were at least a dozen pieces of lingerie—laces, silks, a black leather harness that Maya had definitely not expected to see in Topanga's pantry. "You have a sex stash behind the quinoa," Riley said. "I have a sex stash behind several things," Topanga said calmly. "The quinoa one is the travel collection."

Maya reached into the box and pulled out a deep red bra and matching thong, both practically sheer. She held them up. "These are a size too big for you." "They're not for me." Riley picked up the leather harness. "And this?" "That one is a story for another time." Maya was already pulling off her tank top. She unhooked her bra and dropped it on the armchair, then shimmied out of her shorts. She pulled the red thong on first—thin, barely there, the lace sitting low on her hips—and then the bra, which was indeed slightly too big but held her breasts in a way that pushed them up and together, the sheer fabric hiding nothing.

"Fit test," Maya said, turning around. "How does it look?" Riley's eyes were dark. "Like you need to be fucked in it immediately." "Hold that thought." Topanga stood and unbuttoned her linen shirt, letting it fall. She was naked underneath—completely, the shirt had been the only thing. She reached into the box and pulled out a black slip, silk, short enough that it barely covered her ass. She pulled it over her head and it fell against her body like water. Her nipples pressed through the fabric, clearly visible.
"Your turn," Topanga said to Riley.

Riley stripped efficiently—tank top over her head, underwear down, kicked away. She dug through the box and found a teal bodysuit with a snap crotch. She pulled it on and it fit her like paint, every curve defined, the neckline plunging to her navel. "Three for three," Maya said, looking at them. "We look like the world's most irresponsible catalog shoot." "We look hot," Riley corrected.

Topanga refilled all three glasses. "Now. Since Maya shared, I think it's only fair we all contribute." "I already shared last time," Riley said. "Prague was yours. The rock was Maya's." "You shared the bar," Topanga said. "But that was tame. I want the real one. The one you haven't told anyone." Riley drank her champagne. Maya could see her thinking, deciding, and then something shifted in her expression — a willingness, a release.

"Fine," Riley said. "But I need something stronger than champagne." She walked to the kitchen again and came back with a bottle of whiskey, dark amber, with a label that looked expensive. "Where did you find that?" Topanga asked. "Top shelf of the pantry. Behind the lentils." "I forgot that was there." Riley poured three fingers into a glass and took a sip. Her face did something complicated. "That is very good whiskey."

"Take your time," Maya said, settling into the armchair with her legs tucked under her. The red lace was against her skin and she was aware of it—aware of being dressed for sex, of the three of them in lingerie in the warm living room, of what was coming. Riley sat on the couch, between Topanga's legs, leaning back against her. Topanga's hands rested on Riley's shoulders, thumbs tracing small circles.

"Okay," Riley said. "So. Last year. Work conference in Chicago. I told you about the conference." "You said it was boring," Maya said. "The conference was boring. The night after the conference was not." Riley took another sip of whiskey. "There was a hotel bar. I was alone. This couple sat down next to me—he was tall, dark hair, suit. She was blonde, short, wearing a dress that showed everything. They started talking to me. Buying me drinks. And about thirty minutes in, the woman put her hand on my thigh under the bar." Topanga's thumbs stopped moving.

"She didn't ask. She just put it there. And her husband watched her do it. Watched her hand slide up my thigh. And I didn't stop her. I was wearing a skirt and her fingers went under it and she leaned in and whispered, 'Do you want to come up to our room?'"
Maya's hand was on her own thigh now, resting, not moving yet.

"I said yes. We went up. Their room was a suite—big bed, city view. She pushed me onto the bed and kissed me while he sat in a chair and watched. She went down on me slow, deliberate, like she had all the time in the world. And he watched the whole time, just sitting there, his hand on himself through his pants." Riley's voice was steady but her breathing wasn't. Topanga's hands had moved down to Riley's arms, holding her loosely.

"Then she stopped and looked at him and said, 'Your turn.' And he stood up and took off his clothes and he was — well. He was big. And she guided him between my legs and watched while he fucked me. She was right there, her face next to mine, kissing me while he did it. I came twice. Then he pulled out and came on my stomach and she licked it off." The room was very warm. "After, we had room service. They were nice. We watched a movie. I went back to my room at four a.m. and I never saw them again."

Maya exhaled. "Riley." "I know." "That is extremely hot," Maya said. "I know that too." Riley finished her whiskey. "Topanga. Your turn. And don't give me Prague again.
Prague was the appetizer. I want the main course." Topanga was quiet for a moment. Then she slid out from behind Riley and stood, walking to the kitchen. She came back with the whiskey bottle and poured herself a glass. She drank half of it. "This stays in this room," she said. "Obviously," Maya said. "Obviously," Riley agreed.

Topanga sat on the floor, her back against the couch, the black silk slip riding up her thighs. "The pantry stash exists for a reason. The reason is that I've had a very active life that Cory doesn't fully know about." Maya leaned forward. "How active?" "Before Cory, during a break we took in our late twenties, I was seeing a woman named Diana. She was a photographer. She had a studio in SoHo with a bed in the back and she used to shoot me naked. Just me. For hours. She'd position me and tell me not to move and she'd take pictures from every angle." Topanga's voice had dropped, lower, slower.

"One night she had three friends over. Other photographers. And she asked if they could shoot me too. All of them. I was already naked. I'd been naked for an hour. I said yes." Riley made a small sound. "Four of them, moving around me, cameras clicking, telling me how to pose. Spread your legs. Touch yourself. Look at the camera. I did everything they said. And then Diana put her camera down and came to the bed and went down on me while the other three kept shooting."

Maya's hand had moved. She was touching herself through the sheer red lace, just pressure, just enough. She could feel how wet she was. "She made me come and they got it all on film. And then one of the other women, a redhead with short hair, put her camera down and joined us. The two men kept shooting while Diana and the redhead fucked me. Fingers, mouths, the redhead sat on my face. I came four times. They came on me. The men never touched me, just watched and photographed. After, Diana gave me the prints. I have them in a lockbox in storage."

The room was silent except for breathing. "Topanga," Maya said, her voice rough, "you have naked photos in a lockbox?" "I have naked photos in a lockbox." "I need to see those photos." "Maybe." Topanga finished her whiskey. "Maybe if you earn it." Riley was on her feet. She walked to the kitchen and came back with a silk scarf, the kind that lived on the hook by the back door, the kind Topanga wore to brunch. She held it up.

"Blindfold taste test," Riley said. "What?" Maya asked. "You heard me. Someone gets blindfolded. The other two put things on their skin—whiskey, champagne, whatever else we can find—and they have to guess what it is and where." "That's the worst game I've ever heard of," Maya said. "That means you're first." Before Maya could object, Riley was behind her, wrapping the scarf around her eyes. The world went dark. Maya felt the red lace against her skin more acutely now—every thread, every edge.

"Hands on your lap," Topanga's voice said, close. "No touching." Maya put her hands on her thighs. She could hear them moving, the clink of glasses, the pop of a bottle, footsteps on the carpet. Then something cold and wet on her collarbone. She flinched. "Champagne." "Where?" Riley asked. "Collarbone. Left side." "Correct."

Something warm now, fingers, spreading something slick across the top of her chest, just above the bra line. "Whiskey," Maya said. "And that's your fingers, Topanga." "How can you tell?" "Your hands are smaller." Something soft and wet on her neck. Lips. Not a liquid at all. "That's a mouth," Maya said. "Riley." "Correct." Riley's breath was hot against her ear. "Now it gets harder."

Something cold on her stomach—ice, a single cube, dragged slowly from her navel up to the edge of her bra. Maya gasped. The water ran down her sides, pooling in the lace.
"Ice. Obviously." "But whose hand?" Topanga asked. Maya thought. The grip was firm, deliberate. "Topanga." "Wrong." Riley's laugh was close. "That was me." "Fuck you."
"Eventually." The ice cube traveled lower. Over the red lace, across the sheer fabric of the bra, circling one nipple. Maya's breath caught. The cold was sharp and the fabric was thin and her nipple hardened instantly, pressing against the wet lace.
"Still guessing?" Topanga murmured. "Riley. With the ice." "Correct."

Another ice cube, this time on the inside of her thigh, just above the knee, sliding up. Maya's legs opened on instinct. The ice moved higher, slower, leaving a cold trail on her skin. It reached the edge of the thong and stopped. "Whose hand?" Riley asked. Maya couldn't tell. The fingers were careful, precise. "Topanga." Silence. Then the ice cube pressed against the fabric of the thong, cold and direct against her pussy. Maya's hips jerked up. "Correct," Topanga said, her voice low. "Now. We're going to do something else."

Maya heard movement, felt the couch shift, felt bodies positioning. Then hands on her knees, spreading her legs wider. A mouth on her inner thigh—warm, open, kissing up toward the thong. And another mouth on her neck, just below her ear, teeth grazing.

"I can't—" "You can," Riley said against her thigh. The mouth between her legs reached the thong. Tongue pressed against the sheer fabric, right against her clit, and the lace was so thin that Maya could feel everything—the heat, the wetness, the pressure. She moaned and her hands came up to grab the armchair. "No touching," Topanga said from somewhere above her. "Fuck the rules."

Riley pulled the thong to the side and licked her bare, from the bottom up, one slow stroke. Maya's whole body tightened. "Guess what I'm doing," Riley said against her.
"Ruining me." "Correct." Riley's tongue found her clit and stayed there, circling, pressing, while Topanga's mouth moved down to Maya's chest. Through the sheer bra, Topanga sucked one nipple, the wet lace clinging to the skin, cold from the ice and hot from her mouth at the same time. Maya was blindfolded and pinned in the armchair and two women were taking her apart.

"I'm going to come," Maya said, too fast, too soon. "Not yet," Topanga said, and pulled Riley back by the hair. Maya made a sound that was embarrassing. "What the fuck." "We said taste test." Topanga's voice was amused. "We didn't say you got to finish." Something pressed against Maya's lips—a glass. She drank. Whiskey, smooth and warm. Then lips on hers, kissing the whiskey into her mouth, and she could taste champagne underneath it. Riley's mouth. Riley's tongue.

Another mouth on her breast now, the bra pulled down, Topanga's teeth on her nipple. And Riley's hand between her legs, two fingers sliding inside her, thumb on her clit. "Can I come now?" Maya gasped into Riley's mouth. "Come," Riley said. Maya came hard, clenching around Riley's fingers, her back arching, the blindfold dark behind her eyes. Topanga held her nipple between her teeth through the orgasm and Maya couldn't tell if the sounds she was hearing were hers or someone else's. When she stopped shaking, Riley pulled the blindfold off. Maya blinked in the warm light. Riley and Topanga were both on the floor in front of the armchair, looking up at her.

"That was not a taste test," Maya said. "That was absolutely a taste test," Riley said. "We tasted you." Topanga was already reaching for the whiskey. "My turn for the blindfold." They played three more rounds. Topanga guessed everything correctly except for the moment Riley bit her inner thigh, which made her say "fuck" instead of any guess. Riley couldn't identify the champagne because she was too busy moaning when Topanga poured it on her chest and licked it off. By the time they were done, the lingerie was ruined—whiskey-stained, wet, pulled aside so many times it barely qualified as clothing. They ended up on the floor again, the same carpet, the same ceiling fan. The whiskey bottle was nearly empty. The champagne was long gone.

"We never made it to the leather harness," Riley said, pointing at the box. "Next time," Topanga said. "Is there going to be a next time?" Maya asked. "The AC is still broken," Riley said. "There's always going to be a next time." Topanga raised her glass—whiskey now, not champagne. "To Nordstrom fitting rooms, hotel suites, and photography studios." "To pantries with secrets," Maya added. "To blindfolds," Riley said. "And terrible, terrible games." They drank. The fan clicked. Somewhere in the distance, a neighbor's AC hummed steadily, reliably, in a way that felt deeply personal.

"I still want to see those photos," Maya said. Topanga smiled. "Earn it." Riley rolled onto her stomach. "What does earning it look like exactly?" "Buy me a new air conditioner," Topanga said. "And maybe we'll talk." "Done," Maya said. "Done," Riley agreed. "But we're keeping the whiskey." "Keep the whiskey. Just fix the heat." Topanga closed her eyes. "A woman can only be this irresponsible so many times before she needs climate control." Maya stretched out on the warm carpet, the ruined red lace still clinging to her body, and thought about Nordstrom, about fitting rooms, about all the doors that hadn't been latched properly in her life. Most of them had led somewhere interesting. This one had led to a pantry behind the quinoa, and that was just fine.