The fluorescent lights in the basement corridor hum at half-power after hours, casting Lakeview Technical Community College in that particular ash pallor that makes everything look like it's underwater.
Felishia Sinner pushes her cleaning cart past the boiler room—her boiler room, the one her father taught her to tend, the one that still smells faintly of his tobacco and the particular brand of pipe sealant he favoured—and rounds the corner toward the student locker bays.
She's humming something from the classic rock station, some guitar riff she doesn't know the name of, her fingers drumming against the cart's metal handle.
The paint-stained overalls hang loose on her wiry frame, one strap perpetually slipping down her shoulder, and she doesn't bother adjusting it. Her ponytail, more chaos than style, bobs with each step.
Storm's locker. Number 247. The emo girl who got expelled three days ago for whatever the administration doesn't disclose to maintenance staff.
Felishia has the master key and a clipboard with checkboxes: remove personal items, dispose of perishables, wipe interior, report damage.
Standard procedure. She's done it dozens of times for students who transfer, drop out, or disappear into the bureaucratic machinery of academic probation.
The locker opens with a creak, and Felishia's nose wrinkles at the immediate assault of scent: clove cigarettes, vanilla body spray, and something darker underneath, something musky and intimate.
She pulls out a stack of textbooks first—Introduction to Graphic Design, a battered copy of The Bell Jar, something with a dragon on the cover.
Lecture notes in cramped handwriting, margin doodles of anatomically improbable figures entwined. A half-empty bottle of black nail polish, the brush dried to a crust.
She's reaching for what looks like a scarf when her hand closes around something else entirely.
Rubber. Thick, unyielding, with a weight that makes her eyebrows lift before she even pulls it free.
Felishia extracts the object and holds it up to the flickering light, and her mouth opens slightly, then closes.
A toy and a half!
Forget modest.
Or a beginner.
This is substantial—veined, flesh-toned, with a suction cup base that probably left marks on whatever surface Storm had affixed it to.
The sleek flex is easily ten inches, thick enough that Felishia's fingers don't close around it, with a curve that suggests deliberate engineering.
"Jesus Christ," she mutters, and then catches herself, glancing down the empty corridor as if the walls might judge her.
She turns it over in her hands, professional curiosity warring with something else, something that makes her thumb trace the ridge of simulated veins before she realises what she's doing.
And feels the moisture, the damp spot in her knickers.
The rubber is high-quality, warmed slightly by the locker's residual heat, and there's a faint stickiness to it that suggests recent use.
Storm's scent clings to it—that vanilla-musk combination—and Felishia finds herself wondering about—
The when, the where, the how of it.
The girl is nineteen, technically an adult, but still.
In school?
Probably, didn't want it seen at home?
Footsteps scrape against the linoleum, and Felishia doesn't startle—she's too seasoned for that—but she does tuck the toy behind her back with a motion so automatic she doesn't decide to do it.
The figure that rounds the corner is all black: black hair with the bangs cut severe across a pale forehead, black eyeliner smeared like she'd been crying or fucking or both, black clothes that hang off a frame so thin it looks breakable.
Storm.
"I came for my stuff," Storm says, and her voice is smoky.
Felishia considers her options.
She could play authority, cite regulations, make this awkward and official.
Instead, she brings the dildo out from behind her back, holding it by the shaft like a microphone, and watches Storm's carefully constructed indifference crack for just a fraction of a second.
"Is this any good?" Felishia asks, and her tone is casual, the same one she uses when asking about boiler pressure or vending machine malfunctions.
Storm's eyes—dark, heavily lined, with the redness of recent tears or recent something—flicker down to the toy, then up to Felishia's face.
The corner of her mouth twitches.
"You want to try?"
The question hangs in the humid basement air.
Felishia should laugh. Should shake her head, hand over the confiscated item, return to her clipboard and her checkboxes.
Instead, she feels something loosen in her chest, some knot she's been carrying since her father's funeral, since the new principal's memo about "modernisation," since the art teacher stopped meeting her eyes in the hallway.
"Show me," Felishia says.
Storm moves closer, close enough that Felishia can smell the clove on her breath, can see the tremor in her thin fingers as she takes the dildo back.
The hussy runs her tongue along the shaft, slow and deliberate, her dark eyes never leaving Felishia's face.
The gesture is lewd, performative, and Felishia feels her breath catch somewhere in her throat.
"Your mouth first," Storm whispers, and presses the rubber tip against Felishia's lips.
It tastes like vanilla and rubber and something saltier underneath, and Felishia opens for it because she's tired of being careful, tired of being the competent janitor, the woman who fixes everything and asks for nothing.
The thickness stretches her jaw, makes her eyes water slightly, and Storm holds the base with both hands like she's feeding her, guiding her, and Felishia takes it deeper than she thought she could.
Her mouth finds moisture.
The hallway echoes a soft, gug, gug, gug.
They move to the bench along the wall, the one where students sit to lace their boots, or pash when teachers aren't looking; and Storm straddles Felishia's lap with a pressing flexibility.
The dildo passes between them like a shared cigarette, mouth to mouth, each taking turns sucking the length while their hands roam.
Felishia discovers the ridges of Storm's ribs through her thin shirt, the sharp jut of hipbones, the heat of her through black cotton.
"Your turn," Storm breathes, and pushes Felishia back against the bench.
The overalls come down easily, the tank top pushed up to expose small breasts with nipples already tight.
Storm doesn't waste time with preliminaries—she's nineteen and expelled and has nothing left to lose—and Felishia feels the blunt pressure against her dripping snatch before she's fully ready for a plunge.
The stretch fills her, glorious and demanding, and she arches into it with a sound she didn't know she could make.
"Rrahh! Fuck," she manages, and Storm laughs, actually laughs, and works the toy deeper.
The naughty deep.
The smutty depth.
The pleasing deepen.
They find a tempo, Storm's thin wrist flexing as she fucks Felishia with the dildo, her other hand braced on the bench for leverage.
The rubber drags against Felishia's walls, hits a spot that makes her thighs shake, and she reaches for Storm, pulls her down into a kiss that tastes like clove and her own arousal.
Their teeth click together, desperate, senses magnified.
"More you Emo slitch," Felishia demands, and Storm gives her more, angling the curve upward until Felishia's vision blurs at the edges like a flickering fluorescent tube.
They switch positions, Felishia's bigger hands surprisingly gentle as she guides Storm onto her back, the bench hard against her shoulder blades.
The dildo glistens with Felishia's wetness, and Storm spreads her legs with a brazenness that makes Felishia's mouth dry.
Cute frickin rose petal lipettes.
She enters her slowly, watching the toy disappear beyond black lace underwear pushed aside, watching Storm's face contort with the stretch.
Her brow wrinkles. Her eyes roll. Her cute little mouth puckers into an O.
"Oohh! Oohh! Harder," Storm gasps, and Felishia obeys, fucking her with the full length, the suction cup slapping against her body with each randy plunge.
Christ!
The toy is smeared in a creamy, viscous, gummy white!
Emo fem-cum.
Storm's hands find her own nipples, pinch and twist, and her heels dig into Felishia's lower back, a signal to jab deeper.
Felishia pokes, lunges, and gouges in the expelled girl's gash.
They share it again, Storm pulling it out of herself and pressing it into Felishia's mouth, making her taste them both, the mingled salt and musk of their arousal.
Then back into Storm, then back into Felishia, until neither can tell whose wetness coats the shaft anymore.
"Your ass," Storm whispers, sucking Felishia's earlobe.
Felishia has never, not with anyone, not even the art teacher during their brief, fumbling affair.
But Storm produces a small bottle from her pocket—travel-sized, prepared, the girl has come back for this specifically—and Felishia finds herself turning, bracing her hands against the lockers, her overalls pooled around her ankles.
The preparation is brief, efficient, Storm's thin fingers working the oil into her with a clinical detachment that somehow makes it hotter.
Oil smeared into her rills, poked into her gaped tight starfish.
Then the pressure, the impossible stretch, the burn that edges into something else entirely as Storm works the dildo past the resistance of her body.
Felishia's forehead presses against the wall, and she takes it, takes a fair chunk of it.
"Oof! Oof! Raghh! Fuck! Uhh! Uhh! Ahh! Yes! Yes! Oohh!"
Well, she had those split seconds where she felt she would frickin' burst open!
"Fuck me," Felishia yelps, and Storm does, pulling out and pushing back in with a jabbing pace that makes Felishia's knees buckle.
The fullness is overwhelming, explicit, and she reaches between her legs to find her clit, engorged and frantic, and works it in time with Storm's thrusts.
"Orrghh! Orrghh! Aaghh!"
Well, it was hardcore buggery.
They finish tangled together on the bench, the dildo discarded between them, their fingers frigging each other's privates, mouths fused in messy, open kisses.
Felishia comes first, her orgasm rolling through her like a boiler reaching pressure, and she feels Storm follow, the ripples of her walls around Felishia's fingers, the bite of her teeth in Felishia's shoulder.
"Aaahhh!"
"Ffuucck!"
After, the overhead fluorescent hum seems louder.
Storm dresses with mechanical efficiency, the dildo cleaned with a wipe from Felishia's cart rags and tucked into her bag.
Felishia pulls up her overalls, adjusts her tank top, wipes her palms on her thighs.
"The textbooks," she says, offhand.
"Your lecture notes. You want any of it?"
Storm pauses at the corridor's mouth, black against the yellowish-white light.
She looks back, and something almost soft crosses her painted face.
"I only came for my dildo," she says, and disappears into the maintenance exit; that Felishia knows leads to the lake, to anywhere but here.
Felishia stands alone in the locker bay, her clipboard still on the cart, Storm's locker still open, the smell of vanilla and sex and industrial cleaner mingling in the humid air.
She takes a lung-filling pleasurable inhale.
She gathers her father's screwdriver from her pocket—the one with his initials worn smooth—and uses it to tighten the loose locker hinge.
Someone new will fill it soon.
For Felishia, it will always be the Storm's dildo locker.