Role Models: When Sparks Fly

Freya Parker stands on her first real job site, still smelling like the training center and second-guessing every tool on her belt. Serene Siren, eight years deep and built like trouble, watches the kid circle a breaker box like she owns it. The morning flows smooth until the sun hits its peak and the house falls quiet around them. Freya wipes her palms, itching for answers. "Tell me the ugly parts," she says. Serene studies the flush crawling up Freya’s neck and gives it to her straight: the back-breaking hours, the dick-swinging jokes, the way some foremen stare until you nail their work to the wall. She expects the rookie to wilt. Instead Freya’s eyes catch fire, and something inside Serene tightens. They keep talking because they both feel the same low hum running up their spines. Words bump, brush, then start to bite. When Serene’s shoulder knocks Freya’s, the air does that soft crackle right before a live wire spits. Neither pulls away. The empty house waits like it knows what’s coming next. Serene locks the front door, kills the radio. Freya’s breathing turns shallow as Serene presses in, voice dropping to that whisky scrape apprentices only hear after hours. Hands find utility belts, tug shirts loose, and then it’s mouths and teeth and sweat-slick skin. Serene spins Freya against the unfinished drywall, lifts one thigh around her hip, slides callused fingers past waistband and into soaked heat. Freya grinds down, nails clawing leather, riding every thrust while Serene fucks her slow and hard until the new girl’s knees give and the seasoned one catches her with a growl that rattles the circuits still humming overhead.