The staff changeroom smells of detergent and stale coffee, fluorescent tubes humming overhead as Gianna pushes through the door, her tote bag heavy against her hip.
She halts when she sees Mallory perched on the bench between the lockers, knees pressed together, fingers worrying at the small gold cross at her throat.
"You're still here," Gianna says, dropping her bag.
The sound echoes in the empty room.
Mallory looks up, her blue eyes catching the harsh light.
"I waited. I—"
She stops, swallows, the cross spinning between her fingers.
"I wanted to talk. About what I saw. The other nights."
Gianna's jaw tightens.
She reaches for her ponytail, tightening the elastic with a familiar snap.
"You don't have to— If anyone should apologise, it's—"
"It was eye -opening."
The word comes out rushed, Mallory's cheeks flushing pink.
"I mean, I grew up—my family, we didn't talk about—"
She gestures vaguely, her cardigan sleeve slipping to reveal a thin wrist.
"Those things. With Freya. And then with Axe. In the mirror."
Gianna leans against the lockers, metal cool through her thin uniform.
The memories surface fresh: Freya's manicured hand gripping her hair, Axe's reflection behind her, the glass fogging with their breath. She should feel shame. Instead, she feels heat pooling low, watching Mallory's throat work as she speaks.
"Eye-opening," Gianna repeats, tasting the word.
Mallory nods, earnest, her ponytail bobbing.
"I've never—I don't experience attraction, not like that. Not until I saw you."
She looks down at her sensible flats.
"I think I might be frigid. Or a sinner. Or—"
"No, sweetie."
Gianna pushes off the lockers, crosses the small space between them.
She crouches, bringing herself to Mallory's eye level.
"You just never had anyone show you. Or stepped into opportunity."
Mallory's breath catches.
Her fingers still on the cross.
"Show me," she whispers. "Teach me."
Gianna studies her—Mallory's parted lips, the pulse visible at her collar, the way she leans forward despite herself.
Two days ago, Gianna stood in a conference room while strangers assessed her worth as a franchise asset.
Now this: someone asking for her, specifically, openly.
"Okay," Gianna says. "But we go slow. You say stop, we stop."
Mallory nods, eager, nervous, alive with it.
"No safe word crap, okay. Stop means stop. Keep it simple," adds Gianna.
She reaches into her tote bag.
Her rusty, handy toy is silicone, curved, a soft lilac colour that seems out of place against the grey lockers.
Mallory's eyes widen, but she doesn't flinch.
"First," Gianna says, setting it aside, "we start here."
She touches Mallory's face, thumb brushing her cheekbone, giving her time to pull away.
When she doesn't, Gianna leans in.
The kiss is soft, experimental. Mallory's lips are dry, chapped from the air conditioning, and she makes a small sound when Gianna tilts her head, deepening the angle.
Gianna keeps one hand on the bench for balance, the other cradling Mallory's jaw, feeling the tension there, the uncertainty, the slow melt as Mallory begins to respond.
"Like this," Gianna murmurs against her mouth, then again, guiding her, showing her how to breathe, how to angle, how to use her tongue.
The slippery shared slink begins.
The lush moulding of lips paired.
Mallory's hands find Gianna's waist, tentative, then firmer, pulling her closer until Gianna is between her knees, the bench edge pressing against her shins.
They break apart, both breathing harder.
Mallory's glasses have slipped, and Gianna pushes them up her nose with a gentleness that surprises them both.
"More?" Gianna asks.
"More," Mallory confirms, voice steady despite the flush spreading down her neck.
Gianna's hands move to Mallory's cardigan, undoing buttons with efficiency.
Underneath, a pale blue blouse, modest cut, and beneath that, a cotton bra the colour of vanilla.
Gianna traces the lace edge, watching Mallory's reaction—her breath hitching, her back arching slightly, involuntarily.
"Sensitive?"
"I don't—" Mallory swallows.
"I don't know. No one's ever—"
"Well, cutie-pie, someone is—right now."
Gianna cups her through the cotton, feeling the weight, the warmth, the nipple already tightening against her palm.
"Ahh!"
Mallory gasps, a sharp intake, her hands gripping Gianna's hips firmly.
"Here," Gianna says, and slides her hand beneath the bra.
Two girls embrace the mutual exploration.
Mallory's breast is soft, fuller than expected, the nipple pebbling against Gianna's palm.
She rolls it gently, then firmer, watching Mallory's face—eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, a crease between her brows like she's concentrating, or praying, or both.
"Good?"
"Yes. Yes." Mallory's hips shift on the bench, restless, seeking.
"Is it supposed to—down there— wet—"
"Yes," Gianna says, and bends to replace her hand with her mouth.
The bra pushes up easily, and Gianna takes Mallory's nipple between her lips, sucking, flicking with her tongue.
Mallory cries out, a sound that echoes off the lockers, her hand flying to Gianna's ponytail, gripping tight.
"Oohh!"
Gianna uses her teeth, careful, then less careful, feeling Mallory's body respond, arching into her, wordless now, lost to sensation.
She switches sides, lavishing attention on the other breast, mapping Mallory's sounds—sharp gasps when she bites, low moans when she sucks, the way she whimpers when Gianna pulls back to blow cool air across wet skin.
"Uhh! Uhh!"
Mallory's thighs have parted, Gianna pressed between them, and she can feel the mushy warmth even through layers of modest clothing.
"Can I—" Gianna reaches for the toy, still on the bench.
Mallory looks at it, then at Gianna, her eyes blown wide, pupils dilated.
"Show me," she says again, that word, that trust.
Gianna turns it on, the low hum filling the changeroom.
She presses it against her own palm first, showing the vibration, then trails it down Mallory's sternum, between her breasts, over her stomach. Mallory tenses, watching its path, until Gianna presses it between her legs, still clothed, and Mallory's head falls back, a long moan escaping her.
"Oh. Oh, that's— Uhh! Ahh!"
"Too much?"
"No. More. Please."
Gianna keeps the pressure steady, moving in small circles, learning Mallory's rhythm.
"Oohh! Aahh! Uhh! Mmm, mmm, mmm!"
She's trembling now, all over, her cardigan slipping off one shoulder, blouse dishevelled, bra pushed up to expose flushed breasts with wet, reddened nipples.
She looks transformed, nothing like the prim girl who cleans rooms in silence.
Gianna uses her free hand to unbutton Mallory's skirt, sliding it down her hips.
Cotton underwear, plain white, already damp at the centre. Gianna hooks her thumb beneath the elastic, pausing, checking.
Mallory lifts her hips in answer, helping her pull them down, off, tossing them aside.
She's bare now, spread on the bench, and Gianna positions herself between her thighs, the toy still humming.
Gianna enjoys a rare bushy garden of pubes.
She uses her fingers first, parting Mallory's folds, finding her clit with a gentle press.
Mallory jerks, oversensitive, and Gianna soothes her with her other hand on her thigh, stroking, grounding.
"Like this," she says, and replaces her fingers with the toy.
The lass has a true fem-jelly bean.
The reaction is immediate.
Mallory's back bows, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the bench, finding nothing, settling on her own breasts, squeezing, pinching her nipples with desperate urgency.
Gianna watches her face, the way her mouth shapes words that don't come, the way her eyes roll back when Gianna presses harder, moves faster.
"Uhh! Uhh! Fuck! Uhh! I—" Mallory gasps.
"You're doing perfect," Gianna tells her, and means it.
"Let your body do its thing. It will anyway."
She adjusts the angle, the pressure, reading Mallory's body like a language she's suddenly fluent in.
What makes her eyes roll.
What makes her coo.
What delivers the thigh quivers.
The hum of the toy blends with the fluorescent lights, the distant thrum of the building's systems, Mallory's rising cries.
Gianna feels her own arousal, damp between her thighs, ignored for now, focused entirely on this—on Mallory's first time, on giving her this, on being the one trusted with it.
"Ride the pleasure, cutie, tattoo it into your memory, your first."
Gianna urges, pressing the toy firm against her clit, holding steady as Mallory's hips buck, her thighs clamping around Gianna's hand, her whole-body seizing, shuddering, coming apart with a cry that sounds like Gianna's name and a prayer and something wordless, ancient, new.
"Jesus! Gia—! Uhh! Uhh! Orgghhh!"
She keeps the pressure until Mallory whines, oversensitive, pushing her hand away.
"Aahh! Ah! Aah! Enough! Oohh! "
Gianna turns off the toy, sets it aside, and pulls Mallory upright, guiding her trembling body into her arms.
Mallory collapses against her, face buried in Gianna's neck, breathing hard, shaking.
"Okay?" Gianna asks, stroking her back, feeling the dampness of her blouse, the rapid heartbeat beneath.
Mallory nods, then shakes her head, then nods again. She pulls back, her face flushed, eyes bright, wet at the corners.
She looks—happy.
Genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy, in a way Gianna has never seen on her before.
"Thank you," Mallory says, and kisses her, clumsy, eager, tasting of salt and discovery.
Gianna kisses her back, soft now, unhurried.
They stay like that, tangled on the bench, until other shift workers begin arriving, footsteps in the hall, and they separate with shared laughter, Mallory scrambling for her clothes, Gianna tucking the toy back in her bag.
Mallory checks the wall schedule.
"We're on together for Australia Day."
"Yeah, cutie, penalty rate bonus."
"Catch you then," and Mallory is out the door.
Gianna has a lightness in her step all through her shift.