V. Ruining a Perfectly Good Outfit

Light stabbed through the curtains—needle-thin and relentless. George surfaced painfully from oblivion, feeling like a shattered vase hastily glued and missing parts. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth like a hanging corpse.

Lanie lay curled beside him in a comma of smeared mascara and cum-stiff hair. Her fist clutched the silk camisole he’d gifted her, wet with tears and torn at the neckline. In that moment, she looked oh so small, breakable, fragile.

He tried to sit up.

But now, cold steel bit at his wrists. Chains rattled, anchoring him to iron pillars on either side of the bed.

Seventeen years of ovulation charts and bourbon-stained receipts swam behind his eyelids. Her laughter—sharp as a cicada’s scream. Echoeing through the IKEA parking lot where they’d fucked drunk and raw on a discount futon.

The scar under the magnolia still bled sap where they’d buried something in a Folgers can. What did she do to him last night? His groin throbbed like she’d fed it through a combine harvester. How did her magic even work on him?

The room tilted. His pelvis ached as if someone had scooped out his organs with a melon baller. The sheets slid down, revealing smooth skin and a scar where coarse hair and his manhood should’ve been. George blinked. What the fu? He pulled against the chains—

Lanie’s hand shot out, pinning his wrist. “Don’t.” Her voice was gravel and glass. “You’ll ruin the stitches.”

Stitches? He squinted. A tattoo curled across his lower belly—DICKLESS in jaunty Comic Sans, the ‘i’ dotted with a cartoon fairy. His throat closed.

“Cute, right?” She didn’t open her eyes. “Took inspiration from your pornhub history.” Her smile didn’t reach her temples.

His throat closed, and he strained against the chains. Muscles coiled—years of splitting firewood, lifting her giggling into lake water—now buzzed like weapons. The strength from a long-forgotten past surged; the demon was starting to stir.

The pillars groaned. Plaster rained down. Lanie flinched, eyes snapping open. In them: a flicker of terror, a plea written in vanishing ink. He froze.

“Shhh.” She pressed a finger to his lips. Her nail was chipped, and stained with something dark. “Sleep. It’ll hurt less.”

He wanted to scream. To claw the ink from his skin. Instead, he was forced to inhale the stench of an anaesthetic as she placed the rag on his nostrils—and his head fell back, his last thoughts being why?

The ceiling swam. A moth circled the overhead light, wings whispering secrets that George would never hear.

Lanie’s breath hitched. A tear traced the scar on her collarbone—the one she’d gotten the night they’d drunkenly tried to summon Dionysus while rutting in an IKEA parking lot.
 
 
VI. Repurposing the Rags

Lanie spread her thighs on the velvet fainting couch, a prop from their Bridgerton-themed disaster. The clit piercing glinted, rose gold catching the lamplight. George's dick, miniaturised in metal and gem-studded, swung like a pendulum over a wet pit.

"Terms," she said, flicking the charm. Still shackled, George doubled over, phantom cock throbbing.

"Fridays, you're Georgia. Corset optional. Crotchless mandatory."

George’s growl rumbled—a feral hog trapped in a rusted oil drum. Pupils swallowing the room’s jaundiced light. “And… other days?”
Lanie spread wider, rubies weeping oily light. Her eyes flickered of——before she sutured the moment shut with a smirk. "Be you."

She spread wider, rubies glistening. Her eyes betrayed her—pupils trembling, a trapped thing rattling its cage. "Just less... intact." A rattlesnake’s molt of a smile.

George’s rage was threatening to erupt—like a wolf trapped in a septic tank, thrashing against the rot. Lanie’s smirk cracked. For a heartbeat, she shrank—a roach scuttling from sudden light—then rallied, lips glistening, mask slipping back into place.

“Your precious cock’n’balls’ll come back home,” she crooned, like a nursery rhyme sung through broken teeth. “Soon.”

George's gaze fell. The DICKLESS tattoo pulsed on his gut - blacklight ink in a velvet dungeon, thrumming like the bassline from the club three floors below. Shadows congealed into the living, breathing demon within.

"Why the pier—" he growled, voice a cognac snifter dragged through gravel.

Lanie twisted the charm. Pleasure-pain detonated - nerve endings screaming like dynamite in a champagne flute. "Funny, isn't it?" she'd purred last solstice, painting the rune-work with molten platinum. "The universe crams all that firepower into a button mushroom. Make it tinier, and it's like stuffing a supernova up a coke vial…"

His rage liquefied. Became a scald of single-malt shame before it started to bubble again.

“So you... my love..." She paused, a moment too long. A tell George knew only too well and his rage just... melted away. Leaving behind only the searing pain of loss.

She recovered fast, moaning like a church lady catching the spirit. “Participate. Every time I ride some farm-league cock, this little trinket…” Her thumb ground the rubies into her slit. “…sends you postcards.”

“Test drive?” Lanie produced a pink vibrator, a silicone tentacle glazed in artisanal lube. She tapped its suction cups and pressed it to the piercing.

The room tilted some more. George’s mind spun and his phantom balls buzzed.

George’s spine arched. The Dry and painful orgasm tore through him—a lightning strike in a drought, cracking the parched earth of his body. Silent scream. Teeth shearing tongue meat. Muscles seizing like Birkin bags shredding in a woodchipper.

Lanie watched, pupils swallowing the room's crimson LEDs. A single tear breached her cheek "There's my good little investment."

Somewhere, a clock chimed midnight. Fridays would come too often now. The chains sighed. George’s eyelids stuttered—not closing, just the flicker of a CCTV losing its last feed.
 
 
Week One: Panties for the Professor

Georgia manifested as lace panties—black and crotchless. Waistband stitched with Daddy’s Girl in thread the colour of tax evasion and clove cigarettes. Lanie’s 'little lipstick charm' with its twin rubies smirking like a vandal’s graffiti stayed hidden beneath silk. At least until the economics professor cornered her in the janitor’s closet.

“Clumsy me,” Lanie purred, hiking her skirt to reveal Georgia’s lace clinging to her hips. She hooked her thumbs under the waistband, peeling the panties down slow as a strip tease in a funeral home. The professor’s wedding band glinted as he gripped the mop handle for balance.

You’re vile, Georgia hissed telepathically, threads tightening as Lanie dangled the panties from one leg. A fucking peepshow for tenure-track losers.

Lanie smirked, pulling Georgia up like a half open crotch crate. Relax, kitten. He’s got the imagination of a PowerPoint slide. She spread her thighs, the lipstick charm glinting. “See, professor? What if I told you this was my husband’s entire manhood? Repurposed for… higher education.”

He laughed, fumbling with his belt. “Tell him thanks for the service.”

When he mounted her against the supply shelves, Lanie shoved Georgia’s lace aside. Just enough to let his hairy balls slap against the fabric with every thrust. Feel that, Georgie? she crooned inwardly. His scrotum’s writing you a love letter.

Rot in hell, Georgia spat, phantom nerves flaring as the professor’s sweat soaked into her threads.

“Cock. Only,” Lanie snapped aloud when his fingers grazed her clit. She arched, grinding the charm against his pelvis until he came with a grunt—streaks of cum painting Georgia’s lace and glazing the rubies.

After, Lanie pulled Georgia up, using the soiled panties to wipe herself clean. She left the charm glistening. “Always useful,” she murmured, smearing a final streak across the Daddy’s Girl script.

You’re a goddamn toddler with a glitter glue stick, Georgia seethed.

Lanie laughed, stuffing the damp lace into her purse. “And you’re my favourite washcloth.”

Back home, she draped Georgia over George’s bedside lamp, cum stains glowing like swamp gas in the dark. “Sweet dreams, princess. Tomorrow’s a seminar on adjunct exploitation. Pack your pearls.”

The lamp buzzed. Somewhere, a moth died quietly.
 
 
Week Three: Velvet Vows at the Devil’s Dive

Georgia was velvet now—crimson, crotchless, backless, just less. Like the keyhole cutout over Lanie’s mons framing her rose-gold “lipstick charm” like a relic in a museum heist. The dive bar’s neon hummed Miller Lite in corpse-blue letters. Lanie peeled off her thong mid-shimmy, letting the charm glint under flickering fluorescents.

Dex, snake tattoos rippling, leaned in. “What’s the deal with the jewellery?”

She traced the charm, her nail clicking against metal. “My husband’s family jewels. Melted down—fabulous, right?”

Dex snorted. “Bullshit.”

“Wanna test it?” She ground against his crotch, velvet riding up her thighs. “Vibrates when you fuck me. The harder, the better.”

They followed her to the stockroom—Dex, Troy, and the stench of stale beer. Shelves of napkins trembled as Lanie hiked the dress, revealing nothing but velvet framing the charm. “Missionary,” she ordered.

Dex’s cock hooked the metal. “Fuck, it’s like a joystick.”

“Hear that, Georgie?” Lanie’s telepathic purr slithered through the seams. “Even truck-stop randos think your little clit's a party game.”
Let me go—

“You offered yourself up.”

Not for your twisted spell...

“Babyyyy... the only thing twisted is you... around me”

Troy mounted her from behind, shaft mashing the charm into Dex’s pelvis. “Look at her,” Troy grunted, hips slamming. “Cumming ’cause we’re playing with her dumb trinket.”

Georgia’s phantom balls tightened, feelings weeping as Lanie moaned, “His whole dick’s smaller than your tip.”

Dex came first, streaking the velvet with pearlescent rage. Troy followed, filling her as the charm hummed. After, Lanie peeled off the dress, cum glazing the rubies like cheap syrup. She wiped Dex’s softening cock with the hem, smirk sharp. “Always useful.”

"Whore," Georgia hissed.

Lanie hung the dress in her closet, crusted charm catching the light. “Don’t pout, princess. Left your little lipstick charm glistening.”
She snapped a Polaroid and taped it to the bodice. “Proof you’re still relevant.”

The velvet pulsed once—a muffled scream.

Outside, the bar’s neon died mid-flicker. Somewhere, another moth choked to death.
 
 
Week Four: Harnessed on the Highrise

Georgia was leather now—straps, buckles, collared. The harness cinched Lanie’s waist, crotchless, hidden beneath a peel-away skirt that clung like cellophane. Classy camouflage, Lanie mused, adjusting the waistband so Georgia’s rose-gold charm. her precious and tiny cock and balls medallion—sat centre stage beneath the flimsy fabric.

Rubies glinted under the club’s UV lights, as subtle as a car crash.

The tech bro reeked of equity shares and Adderall sweat. “Kinky,” he said, nodding at her skirt.

Lanie spread her legs just enough to make the plastic wrap crinkle. “This?” She peeled the skirt upward, revealing the harness and Georgia’s glinting shame. “My sissy’s entire manhood. Gold-plated, gem-encrusted. Cuter than your crypto portfolio, right?”

He laughed, Rolex glinting. “Bullshit.”

“Take the elevator. Find out.”

Wind gnawed at the harness straps as Lanie bent over the railing, the city a vomit of neon below. The bro fumbled with his belt. Pathetic, she thought, grinding back to guide him. His cock slapped Georgia’s charm, the impact buzzing through the leather.

"Stop! It’s like he’s punching me—"

Hush, princess. That’s just our love's heartbeat in my twat. Lanie’s purr was syrup and shrapnel. "Unless you’d rather I staple you to a glory hole?"

He thrust harder, sneering. “Why’s it twitch?”

“She’s excited,” Lanie gasped, rolling her hips to mash Georgia’s charm against his shaft. “Don't want it collecting dust in my jewellery box... yet."

When he reached to finger her, she caught his wrist. “Cock. Only.” Rules were rules.

He came with a grunt, drenching Georgia’s charm in spend that pooled in the grooves. Lanie smirked, peeling the harness off to wipe him down with the inside straps. Georgia's leather suctioning wetly against his softening dick. “Always useful,” she crooned to Georgia, then tossed the soiled harness over her shoulder. The rubies stayed glazed, a sticky monument to the transaction.

Back in the elevator, she texted a photo of the cum-crusted charm to George's number: Thanks for the all-natural lube, sissy.

The harness hung in her closet later, reeking of rum and cum. Lanie traced the stain with her nail. “Matching set,” she whispered, snapping the light off. Georgia’s charm pulsed faintly in the dark—a tiny, trapped scream.
 
 
VI The Days Not Friday

Lanie’s cruelty lived in the 'almosts' now. A teacup left just beyond George’s reach as he sat depressed, her hips swaying as she stretched to retrieve it. The rubies glinted, mocking.

“Oops,” she’d purr, bending so the piercing grazed the armrest where he sat. Her voice had shed Georgie like dead skin. “Fetch that, sissy? Unless you prefer, I drip on the upholstery again.”

George’s knuckles whitened around his coffee mug. The demon in his marrow flexed. He could snap her wrist. Unzip her throat. Reduce this gilded prison to splinters and screams.

But then she’d turn, and he’d see it: that flicker beneath her eyeliner, a crack in the ice. 'Need me, it whispered. Hate me harder.... please.'
He let go. He always let go. The mug didn’t shatter; it would never shatter.

“Good girl,” she crooned, patting his cheek. Her thumb lingered, a half-second too long.

Tuesdays were for laundry. George folded towels, methodical, while she paraded past in a robe she had “forgotten” to tie.
“Missed a spot,” she said, dropping a silk camisole at his feet. It reeked of Friday's cologne.

The demon whispered: 'Burn it. Burn her.'

George placed the fabric in the basket instead, breathing deeply until his lungs ached. “Smells like desperation,” he muttered.
Lanie’s laugh was a shiv between the ribs. “Yours or his?”

Thursdays, she oiled the piercing. Spread-eagled on the couch, one leg hooked over the back, she’d hum along to the radio as the rubies caught the afternoon light. Look, her body sang. This is your altar now.

His phantom crotch buzzing from her actions but never beyond that. He’d stare at his hands, calloused from chopping wood she’d never burn.

“Why?”

The question hung, rotting.

Lanie sat up, slick with jojoba oil and apparent spite. “Why not?” She leaned close, her breath citrus and arsenic. Her nail traced his jugular. “—I made you special.”

The demon surged. George gripped the armrest, tendons screaming, until the wood splintered.

Lanie did well trying to hide her flinch, but he noticed... Damn him for always noticing. Her forced smile was a blunt scalpel now. “No place for demons, sissy.”

Sundays, she let him cook. He’d dice onions like they’d offended her, the knife thunk-thunk-thunking in time with her pacing.

“Use the saffron,” she’d say, hip-checking him away from the stove. “The good kind. None of your Kroger bullshit.”

He’d watch her stir the risotto, her movements precise, violent. Once, her sleeve rode up, revealing the scar from Walmart Dionysus. He reached—

She slapped his hand. “Eyes on the pan, sissy.”

But that night, in bed, there she was, curled in his flannel, asleep. The rubies glowed faintly in the dark, softer now.
He didn’t touch her.

The demon never slept; George had to, though.

Lanie’s voice slithered through the dark: “You’d have hated vanilla, y’know. Golf. Grill-outs. Being my Husband.” A pause. “This is better.”

Mornings would come. The coffee would taste of burnt amber and unsaid things.

The house would hold its breath.

So did they.

Continued in Part 3