Rani, Remi, River
"Buttholes!"
The challenge hangs in the air like musk after sex.
Rani's dark eyes gleam, her camisole strap still slipped, one breast bare and glistening with the flush that hasn't faded from her chest.
Her fingers tap against her thigh, the wetness from between her legs catching the dim light.
"Well?" Rani pushes, "Starfish or rilled freckle. Who's brave enough to start?"
River's hand hasn't moved from between her legs, her fingers still slick where they press against the fabric of her boyfriend's jersey. She shifts, the oversized number 7 sliding further off her shoulder, and her hip bone juts sharp against the elastic of her underwear as she repositions.
"Jesus," she breathes, not quite a laugh.
Remi leans back against the couch cushions, her cropped sweatshirt riding up to expose the line of her abdomen, her cotton shorts bunching higher on her thighs. Her chipped navy toenails dig into the carpet as she stretches her legs.
"I'll go," she says, and something in her tone makes both girls turn.
"Not so fast." Rani's hand stills on her thigh, her nipple tightening visibly against the thin camisole fabric that still covers her other breast.
"I called the category. I start."
She shifts forward, elbows on her knees, the flannel pyjama pants pulling taut across her ass. Her uncombed hair falls forward, hiding her face for a moment before she tosses it back.
"Last October. My mother finally bought the house in Arlington, the one with the bathroom that connects to my bedroom through a walk-in closet."
River's fingers press harder between her legs, unconsciously, her freckled cheeks flushing darker. Remi watches Rani's mouth, the way her tongue touches her lower lip before she continues.
"I'd been reading about it. Online, late at night. The way they described it—the fullness, the pressure, how different it was from anything else."
Rani's voice drops to almost a whisper, and the room seems to lean in.
"I ordered one. On-line. Stainless steel. Small, but heavy. The kind with the jewel at the end."
"Pink?" Remi asks, her own voice rising.
"Purple." Rani's smile is sharp. "Amethyst. I waited until she flew to Tampa for a conference. Three days alone in that house, and I planned it like a fucking science experiment."
She stands, suddenly, and the movement makes her camisole shift, both breasts now visible, dark nipples hard and pointed. She doesn't adjust it. Instead, she turns, showing them the way the flannel pants hang on her hips, and she pulls the waistband down just enough to expose the top curve of her ass.
"First day, I just wore it around the house. While I made coffee. While I watched TV. The weight of it, the constant reminder—" she pauses, her hand moving to cup her own ass through the fabric, "—I couldn't think about anything else. I kept clenching around it, feeling that jewel press against me, knowing what was inside."
River makes a small sound, almost a whimper, and her hand moves in small circles between her legs now, the jersey riding up to expose more of her hip, the jutting bone, the elastic of her underwear dark against her pale skin.
"Second day," Rani continues, turning back to face them, her chest heaving, her nipples so hard they ache visibly, "I started timing myself. How long could I keep it in? How long before I had to touch myself? Two hours, the first time. Then three. By that night, I made it four hours before I was on my hands and knees in that bathroom, looking at myself in the full-length mirror, watching my face while I fucked myself with my fingers still wearing it."
Remi's hand has moved to her own shorts, pressing against the damp cotton without shame.
"You came?"
"Three times." Rani's smile is vicious with pride. "The last one, I pulled it out right at the edge, shoved it back in hard, and came so hard I bit my own arm to keep from screaming. Left teeth marks for a week."
She sits back down, her movements deliberate, and her camisole finally slips back into place, though her nipples still strain against the thin fabric, dark and visible.
"Your turn, River."
River's hand freezes. Her freckled face goes pale, then floods with colour, the pink spreading down her neck to her chest.
"I—" she starts, then stops. Her fingers withdraw from between her legs, glistening, and she wipes them unconsciously on the jersey, leaving a dark spot on the number 7.
"You don't have to," Remi says, but her voice carries the weight of challenge, not comfort.
"No." River sits up straighter, her spine stiffening, the athletic muscle in her abdomen visible as the jersey pulls tight.
"No, I—okay. But this was—this wasn't solo. This was with Jason."
Rani's eyebrow arches. "Jason? Your Jason? Mister Missionary Position?"
"Fuck you."
But River's mouth twitches, almost a smile.
"We were—this was last spring. He'd been reading things too. Online. Forums."
She takes a breath, her chest rising, the jersey gaping to show the edge of her bra strap, her collarbone sharp and flushed.
"He wanted to try it. On me. He wanted to—"
She stops, her hands twisting in the fabric of the jersey, pulling it down over her hips, then releasing it so it rides up again, the cycle of modesty and exposure unconscious and rhythmic.
"He wanted to rim you," Remi supplies, her voice neutral, her eyes bright.
"He did." River's voice is barely audible. "We were at his parents' place, the weekend they were at the lake. Their master bathroom, the one with the big tub. He ran the water hot, filled it with bubbles, made me get in first. Then he—he knelt on the towel beside the tub, and he started with my shoulders. My neck. Working down."
Her eyes have gone distant, seeing the memory rather than the living room.
"He took his time. Like an hour, just touching, kissing, until I was floating, until I couldn't feel where the water ended and I began. Then he lifted my hips, propped me on the tub edge, and he—"
She breaks off, her hand moving back to between her legs, pressing hard through the jersey this time, no pretence of subtlety.
"He started with his fingers. Just circling. Teasing. I was so relaxed from the bath, from the hour of touching, that when he finally—when he put his tongue there—"
Her voice cracks, and she clears her throat, her freckled cheeks burning.
"It was like nothing else. The heat of it, the wetness, the way he moaned against me like he was tasting something precious. He did it for twenty minutes. I came twice, just from that, just from his tongue in my ass, his fingers digging into my hips, the sound of him—"
She stops, breathing hard, her hand moving in small desperate circles now, the jersey bunched around her waist, her underwear visible, dark and damp at the crotch.
"Then he fucked me," she whispers. "Still wet from the bath, from his mouth, from me. Came inside me while his thumb pressed against where he'd been, and I screamed into the towel he'd folded for my face. Couldn't sit right for two days. Worth it."
The silence that follows is broken only by breathing—three women, ragged and uneven, the smell of arousal thick enough to taste.
Remi moves first. She stands, her shorts so high on her thighs, the dampness at the crotch visible now, dark against the cotton.
She walks to the coffee table, picks up the tequila bottle, drinks straight from it. The liquid catches in her throat; she coughs, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and turns to face them.
"That's cute," she says, and her voice is different now—meaner, the competitive edge sharpened to something dangerous.
"Both of you. Toys and tongues. Adorable."
She sets the bottle down with a heavy clunk. Her cropped sweatshirt has ridden up completely, showing the bottom curve of her breasts, the hard points of her nipples visible through the university logo.
"Last summer," she says, and her gaze fixes on Rani, then River, holding them both. "July. The dorm was empty, everyone gone home. I stayed—soccer camp, early training. Had the whole floor to myself after nine at night."
She hooks her thumbs in the waistband of her shorts, tugs them lower on her hips, showing the line where her tan fades, the muscle of her abdomen flexing.
"I'd bought it months before. The dildo, the big one I told you about. But I'd also—" she pauses, letting the silence stretch, "—I'd also been talking to someone. Online. Older. Experienced. He'd done things, told me things, and I wanted to know if I could take it. If I could take him."
Rani's hand has moved back to her own breast, cupping it through the camisole, her thumb brushing her nipple in small, unconscious strokes. River's fingers have slipped under the waistband of her underwear, visible now, moving in slow, deliberate circles.
"He came to campus. Booked a hotel downtown, the kind with room service and thick walls. I went to him the first night, and he spent three hours just preparing me. Fingers, then toys, working me open, teaching me to breathe, to push back, to take it. I came twice before he even undressed, just from his fingers in my ass, stretching me, fucking me with three then four while he whispered what he was going to do."
Remi's own hand moves to her shorts, pressing against the damp cotton, her hips rocking slightly into her own touch.
"When he finally—when he put his cock there—" her voice breaks, then steadies, "—it burned. God, it burned, even with all the preparation. But I wanted it. I'd wanted it for months, wanted to know what it felt like to be completely filled, completely taken."
She moves closer to them, standing between the couch and the coffee table, her shadow falling across Rani's upturned face.
"He fucked me for an hour. Slow at first, then harder, then slow again, edging me, making me beg before he'd touch my clit, before he'd let me come. I came three times with him in my ass, the last one so hard I blacked out. Woke up with him still inside me, still hard, fucking me gentle now, like I was precious, like I was his."
She stops, her chest heaving, her hand working harder against her shorts.
"He stayed three days. We didn't leave the room. Ordered food, fucked, slept, fucked again. By the last day, I could take him without preparation, just spit and want, could ride him with his cock in my ass and come just from the friction, the fullness, the way he looked at me like I was magic."
The room is silent except for breathing, for the small wet sounds of hands moving against flesh.
Then Remi smiles, sharp and dangerous, and she pulls her hand from her shorts, brings her fingers to her mouth, licks them slowly, deliberately, holding Rani's eyes, then River's.
"Well, girls," she says, and her voice is light now, almost casual, the violence of her story still hanging in the air like ozone after lightning.
"Who's tried spanking? Who's done the BDSM thing? Because I've got stories about that will add to your wetness."