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Week Five: Silk Chemise Brokered Between Thighs

Georgia was silk now—slippery, crotchless, the hem pooling like a widow’s tears. The chemise clung to Lanie’s hips, its lace straining where the rose-gold keepsake pierced her flesh. From just the right angle, one could see the rubies glinting like fresh blood clots under the hotel chandelier.

The Wall Street broker loosened his tie, eyes locked on the charm. “Divorced?”

Lanie arched, champagne dripping from the rubies onto her thighs. “Upgraded. Traded a dickless fuck for this—” She spread her legs, silk tearing audibly. “My ex-husband’s entire manhood. Repurposed.”

*Ex?* Georgia seethed telepathically, the chemise’s seams cinching. *Why would you—*

“Hush, wifey,” Lanie purred aloud, yanking the broker’s belt. “She loves applause.”

He mounted her, Rolex digging into her wrist. “Why’s it throb?”

“Because you’re fucking both of us,” Lanie gasped, grinding his cock against the piercing. Georgia’s crotch burned, everything tightening as the rubies vibrated. *Stop, please stop, I be—*

“Harder. She’s close,” Lanie moaned theatrically as Georgia was forced to cum. Lanie's nails carving crescents into Rolex's shoulder as a thank you. “Both of us cumming thanks to you, stud.”

When he reached to fondle the charm, she slapped his hand. “Cock. Only. My wife’s selective.”

Please. I'm falling apart, Georgia panted, silk threads fraying as the broker sneered, “Your wifey's as crazy as you? I'd fuck crazy any day if she was this hot.”

And just like that, he came inside her, spend soaking the chemise as Lanie used it to clean up. The dragon peeled it off her twat slowly, silk suctioning wetly from her skin. “There’s my good souvenir, oh and you fucked her already,” she crooned, smearing his mess deeper into the fabric.

In the cab, she texted George’s number: Love your clit between my thighs, wifey.

Back home, she hung the chemise in the closet beside the others—cum-stained lace, sweat-stiff and filthy. Georgia’s cum covered rubies pulsed faintly in the dark between Lanie’s legs.

*You’ll choke on your disgusting games*, Georgia whispered in pain.

Lanie traced the piercing, slick with the broker’s filth, and sucked on her finger. “Already am, baby. Tastes nothing like you.”

Dragon scales flickered beneath her collarbone. Somewhere, a moth drowned in champagne.
 
 
Week Six: Gutter Glitter

The strip club reeked of desperation and dollar-store perfume. Lanie adjusted Georgia’s latest form. A sequined pastie top barely containing her tits and a crotchless thong so floss-thin it vanished between her cheeks. The rose-gold piercing dangled front-and-centre, rubies glinting under blacklight like twin haemorrhages.

*Look at you*, Lanie purred telepathically, spinning in the dressing room’s cracked mirror. *My little cock-tail nope.. cock napkin.*

Georgia’s voice slithered through the sequins: *You’re literally wearing me as a nasty bib.*

"Accessorising, baby.” Lanie smeared glitter over her collarbones, watching the light catch Georgia’s metallic threads. “Should’ve been our vow. Till debt do us part.”

The stage lights were interrogation-bright. Lanie climbed the pole with feral grace, Georgia’s thong riding up her arse crack as she inverted. A trucker in camo hollered, “Show us them titties!”

Charming, Georgia hissed. *A real connoisseur.*

Lanie popped the clasp on her top—snick—and let it flutter to the stage floor. The crowd roared.

*Wait— Georgia’s panic spiked. You can’t just—*

“Relax, wifey. Gotta give the people what they want”. Lanie ground her hips against the pole, the thong’s stretched waistband digging into Georgia’s phantom ribs. *Besides, you’re clingier than herpes-infested glitter.*

The trucker’s hands were grease and onion rings. Backroom VIP, $200 for “extras.” Lanie straddled his lap, Georgia’s thong stretched taut.

“Nice jewellery,” he grunted, thumbing the piercing.

Lanie arched, pressing it into his cock. *Say, thank you, Georgia.*

*Fuck. You.* Georgia’s telepathic voice frayed as the man’s calluses scraped the rubies.

“Ex-husband’s pride and joy,” Lanie purred aloud, guiding his cock to the thong’s gaping void. “Got it in the divorce. Sentimental, right?”
He laughed, spittle flecking her sternum. “Ain’tcha a classy bitch.”

Georgia throbbed—a hooked fish yanked into daylight. *Stop. Twisting. It—*

Hush, Lanie crooned, sinking onto him. The piercing swung like a pendulum between her thighs. “You’re just jealous he’s bigger.”

Afterwards, Lanie peeled off the thong, cum glazing its threads. She lobbed it at a trash can. Missed.

*You’re loathsome,* Georgia spat, openly weeping now.

“And you’re redundant.” Lanie sauntered to the dressing room, bare tits gleaming. But as she reached the door, she paused. Glanced back.
The sequined top, part Georgia lay crumpled under a barstool, trampled by combat boots.

*Oops hon.* Lanie scooped it up along with the thong, damp with sweat and stale beer. “C’mon, Cinderella. Night’s not done.”

In the bathroom stall, she pressed the soiled top between her thighs. “Clean-up time, wifey.”

*Why? Why do you wipe this shit with me?* Georgia’s revulsion vibrated through the fabric.

“Eco-friendly,” Lanie smirked, grinding the sequins into her slit. Recycle, reduce, reuse.

The top absorbed everything—her musk, the trucker’s spend, the sour tang of shame. Lanie held it up, admiring the stains. There. “Now you’re as useful as ever.”

Georgia’s silence curdled.

“Aw, baby.” Lanie pressed the fabric to her lips—a mockery of a kiss. “Don’t pout. Next time you’ll be a garter belt.”

Outside, the sign buzzed: GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS.

A janitor mopped glitter into the gutter.

Lanie lit a cigarette, Georgia’s sequins catching the ember’s glow.

*Face it, Georgie,* she thought out loud, exhaling smoke. And then, silently, *we're both just trash that won’t stay buried.*

Somewhere, A moth burnt in the broken cough of a neon vacancy sign.
 
 
Week Seven: Ménage à Mourn

Georgia was taffeta and trauma—black, crotchless, frills starched stiff as a liar’s smile. The maid cap perched crooked on Lanie’s head, its lace veil fluttering like a surrender flag. *Almost poetic,* Georgia thought, phantom balls shrivelling as Lanie adjusted the apron straps. *She’ll bury me in this fucking hat.*

“Slut’s ready for service!” Lanie curtsied to the dungeon crowd, feather duster slapping her bare thigh. The apron’s lace trim strained against the piercing—the rubied clit charm glinting under black lights.

A sketchy Gang boss stepped forward, Armani sleeves rolled to show prison tattoos. “Cute jewellery.” His voice like muddy asphalt.

Lanie twirled, letting the skirt flare to reveal Georgia’s crotchless void. “My ex’s manhood. Had it bronzed after the divorce. Wifey keeps it polished.” Her mental sneer razored through *Georgia: Hear that, sentient jizz mop? You’re my dowry now.*

The boss unzipped. “Let’s test the merchandise.”

Six men. Six cocks. Georgia lost count after the third.

Lanie bent over a spanking bench, apron rucked up, maid cap miraculously intact. Each thrust mashed her piercing against leather, the rubies carving crescent moons into the CEO’s pelvis. “Ding-dong,” a biker crowed, slapping Lanie’s piercing on the upstroke. “Slut’s home!”

Stop. Georgia’s telepathic voice frayed. *I’m not your—*

“—dirty little dishrag?” Lanie arched, taking two cocks at once—one in her cunt, one in her arse. “Funny, that’s exactly what our prenup should have said.”

A woman in latex knelt, tongue darting toward the rubies. Lanie kicked her in the tits. “Cock. Only.” She snapped her fingers, and the dungeon master shackled the woman’s wrists. “Rules are rules, cupcake.”

Afterwards, Lanie surveyed the wreckage—apron dangling by one strap, panties MIA, hat clinging like a drunk’s confession. “Lost your torso, slut,” she muttered, peeling taffeta from her sweat-slick hips. *Would’ve kept it on if you weren’t such a greedy cumslut.*

*You tore it off yourself!*

“Technicalities.”

She gathered Georgia’s pieces from the floor: skirt wadded under a boot, panties crusted to a St. Andrew’s cross. The hat she kept on, its veil now speckled with jizz. Accessorising, she’d sneer if anyone asked. “Widow’s wins.”

Panic flickered in her eyes when the cap slipped—just a tremor, there then gone—as she stabbed a bobby pin through lace and scalp. “Almost lost you, wifey.” Her hands shook. Georgia didn’t know whether to hope.

In the fluorescent-lit “changing room” (a repurposed mop closet), Lanie cleaned up. She wiped her pussy with the apron’s hem—Georgia’s mouth—then buffed the Boss's softening cock with the lace collar. “There’s my good napkin.”

*I am, was your husband.* Georgia’s voice cracked with the ‘was’.

“And now you’re my cumbrella.” She snapped a Polaroid of the soiled outfit, tongue caught between teeth. “Smile, slut. You’re going on the fridge.”

Georgia’s threads itched with dried spend. “This isn’t love.”

Lanie paused, the photo trembling in her grip. For a heartbeat, her armour cracked—raw, ravenous, terrified. Then she laughed, sharp as a shiv. “Love’s for suckers, sweetheart. This? She tucked the photo into Georgia’s bodice. This is forever.”

The maid's cap slipped again as she left. She didn’t fix it but it stayed.

Somewhere, a moth died as it lived. Neck-deep in a porch light’s halo.
 
 
VIII. Company’s Coming

The moth in the champagne flute twitched its final waltz. George leaned against the fridge, his knuckles white around a bourbon bottle.
“Evelyn’s due at seven,” she said. “Play human, kitten. No growling. No”—she flicked the ruby charm—“accidents.”

He bared teeth sharp from last moon’s transformation. “Fuck. You.”

“Tempting.” She hiked her skirt, straddling the kitchen island. The charm glinted, slick and treacherous. “Behave, and I’ll rub this ’til you cream. Suspend the ‘cocks only’ rule. Let you cum clean.”

His pupils flared—the demon's desire for war. Just for a heartbeat, he felt it, but then he spat, “Rot,” and turned away.

“Suit yourself.” She hopped down, the charm swinging. “But if you embarrass me…”

“You’ll what?” He faced her, DICKLESS tattoo pulsing. “Turn me into a fucking tampon?”

“Cute idea.” She stepped closer, thumbing his stubble. His breath hitched—traitor. "That, and I’ll tell Evie about the time you cried during Steel Magnolias.”

His snarl died mid-rattle. That look again—the flicker beneath her lashes, a moth batting at a sealed jar. *Need me. Need this.*

“Fine,” he gritted. “But I’m not wearing the apron.”

Evelyn arrived in a cloud of clove smoke and Chanel No. 5, her heels cracking the porch’s salt line. “Darling!” She air-kissed Lanie, eyeing George like a stain. “And… Georgie. You look fetchingly hollow. Been fasting?”

George’s knuckles popped. Lanie dug her nails into his palm. Behave.

“Bourbon?” she offered, steering Evelyn toward the couch.

“Yes! Dragon’s milk, please.” Evelyn flopped onto the velvet, kicking off Louboutins crusted with cemetery dirt.

“Georgie-pie—” Lanie didn’t glance up, swirling her wine into a miniature cyclone, “—fondle the roast. Girls need to gossip.” Her heel tapped the floor like a judge’s gavel—*you’re our livestock now.*

In the kitchen, behind closed doors, George slammed the oven shut, garlic bread scorching.

Evelyn took a long swig of her drink. “So. How’s the whoring? Cuck still twitchy?”

Lanie shrugged, pouring wine that hissed as it hit the glass. “Resilient. Too resilient."

Lanie’s thumb worried the scar under her sleeve. Too slow; need to speed things up. The wound throbbed in time with George’s knife strikes.
Evelyn traced the rim of her glass, watching Lanie’s reflection warp in the curves. “You’ve got that…itch again. Like you’re racing a jet.”

Evelyn paused mid-sip, her gaze slicing toward the kitchen. “Whatever your reason, that one’s taking his sweet time crumbling, isn’t he?” She nodded. “What’s his name again now—Georgie or something more appropriate?”

“Don’t.”

“Oh, but I do.” Evelyn leaned forward, her perfume a dare.

Lanie’s jaw pulsed. “Fuck! Georgie is…very durable,” she spat, like the word was a roach in her teeth.

“Durable’s boring.” Evelyn twirled her fingers, its light licking the bruises under Lanie’s eyes.

Lanie’s claws unsheathed, gouging the table. “Got a point or just here to gargle your own ego?”

“Poet.” Evelyn produced a vial of liquid moonlight, its glow devouring the room’s shadows. “Always carry a spare. Hmm.. yes, where was I? Slender hands, soulful eyes—exactly the kind to write odes to your tits before he OD’s on absinthe and self-loathing. Like gonzo porn for a quick jill off, not the really good stuff.”

She rolled the vial toward Lanie. “Swallow this, fuck him once, and boom—you’ll swear you’re Persephone meeting her first pomegranate. Just long enough to make Saint Georgie there—” she kicked her shoes towards the kitchen, “—gnaw off his own balls.”

In the kitchen, George brought the cleaver down. A carrot splintered into perfect julienne. Tick-tick-tick.

“And after?” Lanie’s thumb stroked the vial.

Evelyn stood, her shadow swallowing the moonlight. “That's the best part." Evelyn stood, her shadow swallowing Lanie whole. “Three weeks of swooning. Four, if he’s got stamina. You’ll wake up one day dry as a nun’s knickers, wondering why you ever craved his simpering sonnets. No guilt. No strings.” She paused at the bathroom door, grinning over her shoulder. “Just… freedom. And a corpse to dance on.”

Lanie’s laugh scraped raw. “A corpse. Sure.”

But her fingers trembled as she pocketed the vial.

George began plating the salad—radicchio ribs like shattered stained glass.

“Think about it.” Evelyn stood, straightening her skirt. “Now, where’s the little powder room? Need to piss hexes.”
 

---

Evelyn found him in the pantry, fists buried in flour, shoulders taut as bowstrings. “Look at you,” she purred. “Lanie’s past enemy and bedmate, reduced to kneading dough. How’s the domestic hellscape treating you?”

George turned slowly. Flour dusted his stubble like premature age. “Careful, witch.”

“Or what?” She plucked a jar of cinnamon, rolling it between manicured claws. “You’ll bake me a soufflé of regret?”
His jaw flexed. “I’ll—”

“—what? Pout?” She stepped closer, perfume clashing with yeast. “Face it—you’re a bad punchline. Lanie’s upgrading. All those cocks? You’re obsolete.”

He held—barely.

Evelyn pressed, voice honeyed arsenic. “She never loved you, you know. Just a phase. A dragon’s… rebellion. Maybe I’ll help her see that. Usher in her glorious singledom.”

The shelves rattled. George moved, viper strike hand around her throat, slamming her into the wall. Her skull cracked drywall, flour snowing around them.

“Stay out of this,” he snarled, voice thickening with something older, deeper.

Evelyn choked, grin splitting. “There he is,” she rasped. “Knew you had a spine.”

He dropped her.

She rubbed her throat, pupils blown. “First man to leave a mark.” Her fingers drifted to her blouse, popping buttons until one breast spilt free. She licked her thumb and pinched her nipple hard enough to blush the flesh. “Mmm. Maybe I’ll let you leave even more marks… if you’ve still got the balls for it.”

Leaning in, her breath scalding his ear: “Must’ve been one hell of a lay to keep her this long. Pity she’s bored.” Her hand slid lower, thumb grinding the scar beneath his belt. “Trade you in? I’ll take seconds—after you own me proper.”

George stepped back, two paces, fists trembling at the edge of violence.

“Have it your way, dear champion of cucks; come to think of it 'cuck demon' sounds better, doesn't it?” she sighed, refastening her blouse with theatrical slowness. She kissed his cheek, teeth grazing skin. “Enjoy the crumbs while they last.”

As she swept toward the door, hips swaying like a noose’s swing, her laughter slithered back. She whispered to herself, “Bitch really needs to be shattered hard and fast…”
 

---

The asparagus lay charred and twitching on their plates. Evelyn prodded it with her fork. “Darling, this is art. Like if a forest fire fucked a compost heap.”

Lanie kicked Evelyn's shin under the table. “Be gracious, Evie. Georgie’s always been there for both of us.”

Evelyn nearly choked on her wine. “Need him? For what? Opening jars?”

“Who dragged your drunk ass out of the Mississippi after that selkie orgy?” George muttered.

“Not soon enough,” Evelyn hissed, eyes glinting.

"You're only here because she insists," George growled. "Not out of some fucking loyalty."

Evelyn's smile turned venomous. For the second time that night, she peeled her blouse open. Slowly, one button at a time, until her breast spilt free. Her thumb rolled her nipple as she sighed, "Mmm... And here I thought you stuck around for private gratitude..."

Lanie kicked her under the table—hard—but her other hand slid between her own thighs, fingertips tracing the piercing. The rubies flared. George's jaw clenched, a flush creeping up his neck.

"Knew it, Second time's the charm. " Evelyn purred, triumphant.

Later, as Evelyn swept toward the exit, she cornered George by the umbrella stand. Her hand darted to his crotch, squeezing nothing with a surgeon's precision. Never fucking liked you,” she breathed. "but don't stress my dear castrato. Your secret's safe with me."

He didn't flinch.

“Relax.” She pecked his cheek, leaving a scarlet lipstick smear. “I’ll let your little… tragedy… run its course.” A pause. “But do find better bourbon. This swill’s pathetic.”
 

---

On the porch, moths dive-bombed George’s bourbon. Lanie leaned against the railing, the vial burning a hole in her pocket.
“She’s wrong,” he said, not looking up.

“Not always.”

He stood, looming over her. For a heartbeat, she thought he’d strike.

She was ready. “Think I give a fuck?”

The rubies pulsed. He walked away.

Midnight. George thrashed in bed, sheets strangling his legs. Lanie hovered in the doorway, murmuring a sleep spell through gritted teeth.

Nothing.

“Goddamn,” she hissed, nail-bitten fingers clawing air.

Then—a twitch. His right hand uncurled, knuckles easing from white to corpse-gray. Barely a crack but a crack nonetheless.

''Almost...try harder now.'

In the kitchen, the vial glowed on the counter, untouched.

Lanie stared at it, the moths pressed against the window, wings leaving greasy smears.
 
 
Week 8: Muse in Satin

Georgia was satin now—emerald, slit-thigh, the kind of dress that made waiters forget the specials. Lanie’s rubies glinted dully under the restaurant’s chandelier, their usual venom muted. *Like a snake fasting*, she thought, swirling merlot as the poet traced her palm lines with a poet’s hunger.

“Divorced?” he asked, his voice like bourbon-aged velvet.

Lane’s smile fractured. A beat too long. “Yes.”

She didn’t correct him. Didn’t sneer sissy or half-wed. Just let the lie hang, ripe as rot.

Georgia’s seams cinched—phantom lungs collapsing—as the poet nodded, oblivious.

Lanie leaned forward, cleavage eclipsing Georgia’s silent scream. “He preferred… devotion over a woman's more primal needs.” Her heel ground the gown’s hem into the carpet. A thread snapped.

The poet chuckled. Georgia tasted bile.

He wrote her a sonnet on the menu—'Your laugh, a struck bell'—and she laughed exactly like that, sharp and shivering. Georgia’s seams prickled.

In his loft, he undressed her like unwrapping a relic. Georgia’s satin slithered to the floor, forgotten. For the first time since that night, Georgia realised, panic rising. Lanie’s bare skin glowed in the lamplight, rubies winking as she arched onto the mattress.

“You deserve all of me," Lanie whispered.

He entered her gently, murmuring "muse, muse, muse" like a prayer. Georgia lay crumpled by the bed, forced to watch Lanie’s hips rise in rhythms she’d never had since this began. *Too slow. Too tender.*

“You’re my epilogue,” he groaned, thumb brushing her cheek—a caress, not a command.

Lanie’s moan was honeyed, foreign. “God, yes—”

Georgia burned, a dry socket where lightning struck. She wept openly, threads dampening with tears she could not shed.

After, Lanie gathered her from the floor. “Sshh, girlfriend,” she crooned, patting Georgia’s bodice like a spooked pet. “He’s just a verse. You’re the whole damn psalm.”

But she didn’t use Georgia to wipe his spend from her thighs. Didn’t drape her over lampshades to crust. Just… folded her gently into the overnight bag as she borrowed his sister's T-shirt and shorts.

The poet kissed Lanie’s wrist at the door. “Tomorrow?”

“I’ll wear red,” she promised, her voice gauzy as a bride’s veil.

Home. Lanie stood before the mirror, Georgia’s satin limp in her grip. The rubies pulsed—begging.

“Almost got me,” Lanie purred, unclasping the piercing for the first time. It hit the velvet box with a final click. She slid her hand between her legs, sighing, “John, John—” as she came, holding on to the borrowed clothes.

Georgia, trapped in silk, screamed soundlessly.

Later, much later, Lanie heard a broken Georgia as she stroked her hem.

*You unclipped me. You chose him.*

“Only his cock, kitten.” But her smirk faltered.

Georgia lunged through the mental tether—*pathetic, always pathetic*—and felt Lanie’s pulse stutter.

A beat.

Lanie snorted, tossing Georgia onto the dry-clean pile. “Relax. He’s week eight of part three. You’re the fucking index.”

But later, in bed, she wore the borrowed clothes to sleep.
 
 
Continued in Part 4