Remi, River and Rani
The living room of Remi's parents' house smells like burnt popcorn and the vanilla-scented candle her mother lights whenever she wants the space to feel "cozy."
The three besties—Remi, River, and Rani—sprawl across the lounge sectional in various states of disarray.
Remi wears pink cotton shorts that ride up her thighs, a cropped university sweatshirt with the sleeves shoved past her elbows.
River has borrowed one of her boyfriend's oversized jerseys, the number 7 stretched across her chest, nothing underneath that anyone can see.
Rani sits cross-legged in flannel pyjama pants and a thin camisole, her dark hair still damp from the shower she took after they finished their makeshift dinner of instant ramen and the chips that now sit in a crumpled bag on the coffee table.
The chick-flick ended twenty minutes ago. Some streaming romance where the leads never actually fuck, just exchange longing looks in rainstorms and against brick walls.
The marshmallows they attempted to roast over the gas fireplace are melted mush, and the vodka mixers—cranberry juice for Rani, store-brand lemon-lime soda for River, plain tonic for Remi—have left a sour film on their tongues that no amount of snacking has resolved.
"This is depressing," Remi says, stretching her legs across River's lap. Her toenails are painted a chipped navy, the polish flaking at the edges.
"We're nineteen. This is supposed to be our prime."
"Screw our boyfriends playing soccer in Rochester," River says, picking at a loose thread on Remi's shorts.
"Rochester. They might as well be on Mars."
"Tyler sent me a picture of his hotel room." Rani pulls her phone from beneath her thigh, scrolls, shows them the image: beige walls, a generic landscape print, two double beds with comforters that have seen thousands of strangers.
Remi snorts, a sharp sound that breaks the room's stillness. The refrigerator hums from the kitchen. Somewhere outside, a neighbour's dog barks at nothing, then stops.
"We could go out," River suggests, though her voice lacks conviction. "Find a party."
"Every party this weekend is either dress-up bullshit or someone's basement with a Bluetooth speaker and warm beer." Remi sits up, swings her legs off River's lap, and plants her feet on the carpet.
Her arches ache from the hardwood floors earlier, from pacing while the movie played and she pretended to care about the plot.
"I'm not walking three blocks to drink Natty Light with sophomores who still wear their high school lacrosse hoodies."
Rani sets her phone face-down on the cushion beside her. The screen illuminates her thigh for a moment before going dark.
"So, what then? Truth or dare? We're not at high school."
Remi reaches for her own drink, the condensation leaving wet rings on the coaster her mother insists guests use. She doesn't use one.
The vodka has loosened something in her shoulders, in the careful way she usually holds herself when the three of them are together.
They're competitive, always have been. Since freshman year of high school when they all made varsity soccer and learned to share the field, share space, share everything.
"But we're not too good for games either. We're bored. Admit it."
River's thumb finds the thread again, pulls it until it snaps.
"Fine. Bored. So, what do you suggest?"
Remi looks at each of them in turn. Rani with her collarbones visible above the camisole's neckline, the shadow between her breasts when she leans forward. River with her jersey hiked up on one side, exposing the jut of her hip bone, the elastic of her underwear just visible. They're beautiful, both of them.
"Best blow job," Remi says. "You ever given? River, you first."
The words hang in the vanilla-scented air. Rani's eyebrows lift, but she doesn't speak. River's mouth opens, closes, opens again with a laugh that sounds more surprised than offended.
"You're serious."
"Dead." Remi settles back against the arm of the couch, her position of authority.
She's always been the one to suggest the dangerous thing, the thing that edges them closer to some boundary they haven't named.
"We tell stories. We judge. Winner gets..." She glances around the room. "Winner gets the last of the vodka. Straight."
"There's like three shots left," Rani points out.
"Then it's worth winning."
River sits up straighter, the jersey falling to cover her hip again. She tucks her hair behind her ear, a gesture she makes when she's considering something, when she's calculating risk.
"Okay," she says finally. "Okay, fine. But this stays here. This is sister code. This is—"
"Vault," Rani interrupts, holding up her hand. "We know. We've been doing this since before we had anything worth hiding."
River nods, accepts the ritual. She clears her throat, and Remi watches her compose herself, watches her find the narrative thread she wants to pull.
"Okay. So. Last Spring break. Before Jason and I were official, but after we'd started hooking up." She pauses, licks her lips. "His parents have this boat. Nothing huge, but with a cabin below. We took it out, just the two of us, anchored in some cove where the water gets that green-blue colour, where you can see the bottom."
"Setting the scene," Remi murmurs, approving.
"Setting the scene," River agrees. "So, we're down in the cabin. It's hot. Like, stupid hot. The sun's been beating on the deck all day and the air down there's thick. Jason's in these swim trunks, no shirt, and he's got that thing where his stomach does the—"
She gestures at her own abdomen, the suggestion of muscle beneath soft skin. "You know. The V."
"The fuck-me lines," Rani supplies.
"The fuck-me lines, yes. Thank you."
River's cheeks have flushed, not dramatically, just enough that Remi notices the colour spreading beneath her freckles.
"So he's standing there, and I just... I drop. Right there on the floor of the cabin, which is this weird carpet that's probably seen a thousand spring breaks, and I pull him out of his trunks."
"Just like that?" Remi asks.
"Just like that. He wasn't even fully hard yet. I remember that. The weight of him in my hand, how he got thicker as I held him. The heat."
River's hand moves unconsciously, miming the grip she describes.
"I didn't tease. I wanted him in my mouth. I wanted to feel him get hard against my tongue."
Rani shifts on the cushion, recrossing her legs. The flannel makes a soft friction sound.
"So, I take him in. Not all the way, not at first. Just the head, and I swirl my tongue around it, and he makes this sound—"
River's voice drops, imitates the low groan. "This helpless sound, like I'd surprised him. Like he didn't expect it to feel that good."
"Ego," Remi says, smiling.
"Total ego. But I leaned into it. I started moving my hand at the base, slow, while I worked the tip with my mouth. And he got harder. Like, steel hard. I could feel his pulse through the vein on the underside, this little rhythm against my lower lip."
River's eyes have gone distant, focused on the memory rather than the living room. The vanilla candle gutters in its jar.
"I started taking more of him. Inch by inch. The cabin was so hot, and I was sweating, and I could taste the salt from his skin, from the ocean on him. I got him about halfway, and I stopped, pulled back, let him see my mouth wet around him. And he said—"
She laughs, a real laugh this time.
"He said, 'Jesus, River, where did you learn that?'"
"And you said?"
"I didn't say anything. I just took him deeper. All the way until my nose was against his stomach, until I could feel his pubic hair against my chin. I held him there. I remember counting in my head. One, two, three, four—and then I pulled back, gasping, and he was shaking. Actually shaking."
Remi finds her own breath has shifted, become slightly shallower. She doesn't move to correct it.
"I did it again. And again. Each time I held him longer, let my throat relax around him, let him feel how tight it was. The fourth time, when I came up for air, he tried to pull me off, said he was going to—"
River makes a vague gesture. "You know. But I didn't let him. I grabbed his hips, and I kept going, faster now, my hand working the base in time with my mouth, and when he came it was—"
She pauses, searching for precision. "It was violent. Like, his whole body locked up, and I felt it hit the back of my throat in pulses, hot and thick, and I swallowed around him because I didn't want to lose any of it. I wanted all of it inside me."
The room has gone quiet. The refrigerator cycles off, leaving only the sound of three women breathing.
"After," River continues, "he couldn't stand. He literally sat down on that gross carpet and put his head in his hands. Said no one had ever taken him all like that."
She shrugs, tries for casual and almost achieves it. "So, that's mine. Your turn, Remi. Top that."
Remi considers. The story is good—better than good, detailed in ways that make her own pulse thrum in her throat. She needs something with texture, with specificity. Something that feels true even if she embellishes the edges.
"Fine," she says. "But mine's different. Mine's about control."
She lets the silence stretch, lets them lean in.
"Brandon. You remember when we were broken up last fall? For like three weeks?"
"You fucked half the soccer team," Rani says, not unkindly. "We remember."
"Not half. Two. And one was Brandon, who was a mistake, but a useful mistake."
Remi tucks her feet beneath her, assumes her own storytelling posture.
"We were at that party at the athletic complex. The one with the pool that got shut down after someone threw a cinder block through the lifeguard station."
"Vivid," River murmurs.
"So, Brandon and I end up in the equipment room. The one with all the soccer balls and the nets and the smell of rubber flooring. He's already drunk, I'm already drunk, and he starts getting handsy, pushing me against the wall of folded bleachers."
"Romantic," Rani offers.
"Shut up. So, I let him. I let him kiss me, let him grind against me, and I can feel how hard he is through his jeans. But I don't touch him back. Not yet. I wait until he's desperate, until he's literally whining against my neck, and then I push him down."
"Onto what?"
"The floor. That rubber flooring. I remember thinking it would hurt his knees, and not caring." Remi's voice has dropped, taken on a quality of recounting rather than performing.
"I straddle him. Not to ride him—to pin him. I hold his wrists above his head with one hand, and with the other I unzip him, pull him out. He's thick. Shorter than Jason but thicker. I remember the way he filled my palm."
She demonstrates, fingers curling around empty air.
"And I start slow. Just the tip, just my tongue tracing the ridge where the head meets the shaft. He's trying to thrust up, trying to get deeper, and I don't let him. I keep my weight on his hips, keep him still, and I take him in inch by inch until he's fully in my mouth and I can feel him hitting the back of my throat."
River's hand has found her own knee, rests there without moving.
"But here's the thing," Remi continues. "I didn't let him come. Not for an hour. I brought him to the edge maybe six, seven times. I'd feel him tense, feel his balls draw up tight in my other hand—because I was massaging them, rolling them, feeling how heavy they were getting—and I'd stop. Just pull back, blow cool air on his wet cock, watch him twitch and beg."
"An hour?" Rani's voice is hushed.
"An hour. By the end he was crying. Actual tears. He'd never been edged like that, never had someone control his orgasm completely. And when I finally let him come—" Remi pauses, lets the anticipation build.
"I did it with just my throat. No hands, nothing. I took him as deep as I could, and I swallowed his rod like a sword. Fuck, he spurted. Filled my mouth, dribbled down my chin."
She leans back, lets the image settle.
"After, he couldn't look at me for a week. Every time we passed in the dining hall, he'd blush. I heard he told his roommate it was the best and strangest thing that ever happened to him." Remi smiles, sharp and satisfied.
"So. Rani. Your turn. Let's hear something that actually competes."
Rani has gone very still. Her hands rest on her thighs, fingers spread, and Remi notices the slight tremor in them before Rani tucks them beneath her knees.
"Fine," she says. "But mine's not about one guy. Mine's about three."
The words land differently than the others. River sits up straighter. Remi feels something shift in her chest, a tightening that might be interest or might be something else.
"Explain, you tart," she says.
"Tyler's birthday. Last month. You know how his roommate Derek is always flirting with me, and how Tyler's cousin Marcus was visiting from—" Rani waves her hand. "Wherever. Oregon. They're all on the couch in Tyler's apartment, playing video games, drinking the tequila I brought, and I get this idea."
"What kind of idea?" River asks, though her voice suggests she already knows.
"The kind where I want to see if I can make all three of them come without any of them touching me. Just my mouth. Just my hands. Just my—" Rani gestures at herself, the camisole, the visible lines of her body. "Presence."
"You're lying," Remi says, but she doesn't sound certain.
"I'm not. I walked in wearing Tyler's shirt and nothing else. Just walked in, stood in front of the TV, and started touching myself. Through the shirt, at first. Then I pulled it up, showed them everything."
"And they—"
"Tyler knew. We'd talked about it. Shaved perfection. The others didn't know." Rani's voice has taken on a quality of distance, of recounting something that still lives in her body.
"Derek made this sound. This choked sound. And Marcus just stared. So, I went to my knees. Right there on the carpet, same as you, River. And I crawled to Tyler first, because he was mine, and I took him out of his sweatpants, and I started sucking him while the others watched."
She pauses, swallows. The candle has burned low, the flame dancing in the remaining wax.
"I made eye contact with Derek while I did it. Let him see my mouth full of his friend. And when Tyler was close—I could feel it, that tension in his thighs—I stopped. I turned to Derek, unzipped him, took him in my mouth instead. He was already leaking, already so close from watching, and I made him wait too. Brought him to the edge and stopped, turned to Marcus."
"Three times," River breathes.
"Three times. Back and forth, rotating between them, never letting any of them finish. They were all touching themselves by the end, trying to get there, and I kept slapping their hands away. Told them only my mouth could make them come. Only my permission."
Rani's breathing has changed, become slightly faster.
Her camisole rises and falls.
"And when I finally let them—it was together. I had Tyler in my mouth, my hand on Derek, and I told Marcus to come on my face. Told him exactly when. And he did, this hot rush across my cheek while I swallowed Tyler and stroked Derek through his orgasm, feeling them both pulse and spasm while Marcus's cum dripped down to my mouth, mixed with the rest, and I licked my lips and tasted all three of them together."
The silence that follows is different than before.
Heavier, charged with something that none of them have named.
"That's—" River starts, stops. "That's not possible. The timing—"
"The timing was perfect," Rani says, and there's something in her voice that makes Remi believe her. "I planned it. I practised on my own, with toys, timing my breathing, my rhythm. I wanted to feel three men come because of me, because I controlled it. And I did."
Remi realises her mouth is slightly open. She closes it. The vodka bottle gleams on the kitchen counter, three shots still waiting, and suddenly the prize seems irrelevant, suddenly the game seems to have become something else entirely.
"So," Rani says, looking at each of them in turn. "Who wins?"
"I think," River says slowly, "that we all need more vodka."
Remi adds, "Maybe we find another way to settle it. Best fun with another girl."