XII. The Feast of Fractured Mirrors

The farmhouse table groaned beneath casseroles that reeked of clove and false piety. John’s mother—a woman who starched her hymns—leaned in, her gaze lingering on Lanie’s sun-kissed cheeks and the demure lace dress that was Georgia. “What a vision,” she sighed as if this moment could be preserved like a jar of pickled beets.

Lanie dimpled all apple-pie innocence. “Bless your heart, ma’am.” Under the table, John’s hand slid up her thigh, fingers digging into the lace that was Georgia’s skin. Georgia felt it—the pressure, the heat—like a branding iron through gauze.

Ethan, the brother, smirked. Claire, the sister, watched with a viper's silent gaze.
Dessert was saccharine. Georgia choked on every bite Lanie took.

Upstairs, in a room wallpapered with faded peonies, Lanie arched back against the headboard. John’s tongue dragging over her piercing.

"Special treat for my good boy," Lanie whispered out loud, fingers crimping in his hair. *And my sweet little girl,* she thought, the words honey-thick.

Georgia’s consciousness and phantom cock—both trapped —shuddered.

The invasion came as a whisper. A breath against the vault of her mind, where decades of survival had welded the locks shut. Georgia’s resistance was reflex, primal as a kicked ribcage.

No!.

But tonight—

Let her see.

The whisper was welcomed with a jackhammer.

Lanie saw:

The first look across a smoky bar. The first kiss tasting of stolen whiskey. The first tragedy—a bloodstained shirt, a lie swallowed like broken glass. The first tears shed in a truck bed under a scornful moon. The first triumph, small but glorious. The first lie, sharp as a snapped bone. And finally—George's heartbreak, a shattered, endless pit. A wound that would outlive the body she ruined.

Lanie jerked back violently as if electrocuted.

John lifted his head, lips slick. “You… okay?”

Lanie gripped his hair and shoved him back down. “Don’t stop.”

Her free hand flicked in the air—a sleep spell aimed at all but her. The moth on the ceiling glowed, John slumped, snoring into the pillow. Georgia’s consciousness drooled into cottonmouth oblivion. Lanie kept the snoozing dress on as she padded out of the bedroom.

An hour later. Midnight. Most of the house slept but…

Lanie woke Georgia with a needle prick to the psyche: Rise and shine, sweetheart.

Mommy’s got a surprise.

Lanie drifted to the backyard, Georgia’s satin clinging to the damp grass like a second skin. Claire—Lanie’s next mark—waited by the skeletal remains of a swing set, her earlier bravado from when Lanie had hunted her down fraying at the edges. Moonlight etched her face to show something apprehensive and hungry.

“C’mere, sugar,” Lanie purred, hiking the dress to her hips. The rose-gold piercing glinted—a tiny, cruel star. “Meet Mommy’s special jewel.”

Claire’s throat bobbed. “It’s… adorable.”

Lanie’s laugh was an obsidian shard. “Best things come in delicate packages.” She traced the metal, sighing as Georgia’s consciousness recoiled. “Call her princess. Show her that she’s the prettiest little cock you’ve ever seen.”

Claire knelt, cheeks flushed. Her first lick was earnest but tentative, a kitten lapping cream for the first time. Georgia’s phantom nerves jolted. “I’ve never… never done this before,” Claire whispered, her resistance crumbling like a sugar cube in cheap booze.

“There she is,” Lanie crooned telepathically. just for Mommy’s good little girl.

Claire’s tongue circled the piercing—slow, then famished. "So sweet," she whispered, lips wrapping around it greedily. Her hands found Lanie’s hips, thumbs brushing the lace hem, Georgia’s pulse point.

Georgia simmered, gasped, moaned!

“That’s it,” Lanie urged, voice smoky. “Worship her.”

And thus Claire drowned. Her lips worked with fervent, nearly devotional passion. Suckling on the piercing as though it contained the key to resurrection. Her tongue swirling with a precision that was almost supernatural.

Between gasps, she’d latch onto Lanie’s nipple through the silk that was Georgia. Teeth grazing the fabric until Georgia’s consciousness curled, torn between violation and electric pleasure.

L-Lanie, I—ah!—I can’t— Georgia’s voice fractured into static, moans spilling like shattered glass.

“Shhh, princess,” her mental grip smothering Georgia’s protest. Good dolls don’t scream—they drip.

Then it hit: a hot, slick rush, phantom muscles clenching around nothing. Georgia's little dick squirted, her grand rebellion, a honeyed flood she hadn’t felt since blood had pumped in veins she no longer owned.

“Oh, fuck,” Lanie gasped, wrenching Claire up by her hair. Their teeth clashed as Lanie’s tongue scraped Georgia’s essence from the girl’s mouth.

Claire wriggled free, lips puffed, shaking fingers still holding the piercing like a lifeline. "I never—never have done that before," she gasped, voice worn with wonder. “But Godess, it tastes like… honey in a fucking storm.”

Her thumb circled the metal, desperate, reverent. “Is this how it’s supposed to feel? I’d marry it,” Claire breathed, Claire’s laugh was unhinged, euphoric. “Get on my knees every morning. Cook it breakfast. Keep it polished.” A wild laugh. “Hell, I’d kill for it. Best little wifey this side of the apocalypse—”

Lanie’s grin was all fangs. “World’s ending anyway, darlin’. Get back to work.”

Claire dove back down, ravenous, as Lanie’s telepathic purr slithered through Georgia’s mind. Cocks only rule suspended tonight, princess. Savour it.

Ethan emerged from the shadows, jeans slung low. “Ain’t this cosy.”

Lanie shot him a razor-blade smile. “Why wait?” She pushed Claire’s head down harder and crooked a finger at Ethan. “But you? Mouth shut and I swallow everything.”

He didn’t argue.

Lanie took him deep, throat working, her free hand splayed possessively over the dress’s waist, keeping Georgia trembling. Not a drop spilt on her beloved outfit.

After, Lanie leaned against the corpse of a pickup truck, dress pristine despite Claire’s lipstick and the dew.

Georgia’s voice hummed, threads still thrumming with aftershocks. *You… let me feel.*

Lanie lit a cigarette, the flame steady now. “Rules bend. They don’t break.” She blew smoke at the stars. “But damn, baby girl. You drenched that girl. Almost made me jealous. Should go back to cocks-only tomorrow.”

A truth. A taunt. A threat.

Lanie flicked the cigarette onto the gravel. “Next town’s got a wedding chapel. Gonna pawn your family jewels—they had no damn business coming in others mouths.” She patted the dress’s hip. “You’ll make a stunning bride’s outfit. All that virginal white… suits a pretty little ghost.”

The dress rippled—a shiver? A laugh? A scream smothered into fabric.

Inside, John’s mother glared through the kitchen window, Bible clutched like a weapon.

The engine snarled. Somewhere, cicadas shredded the night with their razored song.

Either way, Georgia’s silence had a new shape—smaller, sharper, alive.

XII. Alchemy of Flesh

The bathroom reeked of iodine and scorched caramel—stolen medical alcohol and magic’s cloying rot. Georgia’s naked reflection flickered in the fogged mirror.

Shoulders like rusted pipes, hips sharp as a stray’s ribs, breasts no bigger than fists clenched around stolen car keys. Not a woman., not yet. Rather a charcoal sketch smudged by rain, largely broken lines and emaciated planes. But between her legs—there—Lanie's masterpiece throbbed.

Soft folds that glistened like unbleached silk, pink as a wound caressed by sunrise.
Lanie leaned against the doorframe, her grin a diamond dagger as she twirled her damn piercing.

“Admiring the artwork?”

Georgia’s laugh was dismay as a sound. “Just tallying your receipts.” She brushed the near-invisible scar below her navel, now a faint silver hyphen where Lanie had carved out George’s manhood. Mostly gone. Almost.

"Scars are footnotes, sweet thing. Proof the story's worth telling." Lanie's finger moved in mid-air—skin to talon, glossy nail to onyx blade. She pressed it against Georgia's clit, drawing blood and a gasp that cracked like cheap porcelain.

“But you’re still… unfinished. My half-painted billboard promising paradise that doesn't exist yet.” Her voice faltered, just a tremor. Frustration. Not with the clay but with the sculptor.
The ache opened up like a bruise, sore and familiar. Georgia gritted her teeth, "Made me a flea market."

"Nope. More like a Swap meet," Lanie growled as her talon drove deeper.

Georgia's legs collapsed in pain, her world decaying into white noise and the iron scent of her own agony and...lust? Lanie continued. "More authentic."

The charm came next, still furnace-hot from Lanie’s wet forge. It fused into Georgia’s clit, biting deep as it drank from her punctured veins. Georgia’s scream curdled into a moan, her spine arching back like a bridge to nowhere.

Lanie’s breath hitched, ragged and wet. Her free hand found Georgia’s nipple, pinching until the bud hardened—a rose blooming through cracked concrete. “There,” she whispered, lips grazing Georgia’s ear. “Now you’re currency.”

Their mouths collided—a forced clash of teeth and nicotine. Lanie’s tongue tasted of bourbon and bad decisions. Lanie simply laughed into the kiss, her talon retreating to become a blood-smeared fingernail.

“Just like that bargain-bin bitch last night gushed—‘So precious.’” Her sneer curled like smoke. “Pity she didn’t stay to see it breathe.” Her claw tightened on Georgia’s clit, claiming the pulse beneath the metal. “Good. Souvenirs shouldn’t talk back.”

The mattress slumped like an addict's resolve. Lanie lounged atop it, the queen of spite wearing only George’s t-shirt. Smelling of faded Axe body spray and dorm-room regret, while poor Georgia knelt at her feet.

“Touch yourself.”

Lanie’s voice was a serrated spoon scraping bone marrow. Georgia’s lungs seized. The command clung to her synapses, greasy as diner bacon left to congeal under heat lamps. “Oh God. Please help me,” she moaned, though God had long since boarded up this particular motel.

Lanie sighed, winding a strand of Georgia’s hair around her finger—tight enough to snuff out a prayer. “Nope. You’re wetter than a truck-stop toilet after a laxative buffet. Your problem to deal with.”

“Go to hell.”

“Already there, darling.” Lanie yanked her head back, forcing Georgia’s gaze upwards. The overhead bulb buzzed like a trapped hornet, casting Lanie’s smirk in jaundiced light. “Do it.”
Georgia’s hand shook—a leaf in a hurricane. She slid trembling fingers between her legs. The clit piercing seared, every graze a lightning strike to the spine. This isn’t me, she thought, but the lie curdled halfway.

Lanie’s free hand pinched Georgia’s nipple through the threadbare cotton. “I lied,” she purred, thumb circling the peak until it ached. “Couldn’t let you go solo. Needed to… collaborate.”

The piercing throbbed like a metronome beating in sync with her heartbeat. First time ever since the unspooling, she thought. First time 'choosing' this shame. Her fingers fumbled, stiff as a rusty marionette. Arousal buzzed like a downed power line; shame pooled thick as crank oil in her belly.

“Yes,” Lanie hissed, spreading her thighs. Georgia felt the dampness seep into her hair—hot, primal, reeking of copper and stale tobacco.

“Feel that? I’m creaming while watching you squirm.”

Georgia’s breath fractured. I hate you.

“Liar.” Lanie’s telepathic voice oozed into her skull, syrup laced with strychnine. You hate how good it feels to break.

The room tilted—floorboards groaning, walls breathing. Georgia’s hips stuttered, chasing the ache. *Oooohhh. Stop. dont—

Their eyes locked.

Lanie’s kiss hit like a wrenching spark—lips molten, teeth claiming. Georgia’s back arched, the orgasm a grenade pin yanked—

“Nghhhh....ahhh.....”

Lanie’s talon clamped over her wrist, yanking her back from the edge. “Tut-tut. Didn’t say you could cash in.”

Georgia whimpered the denial, a big fat fishhook lodged beneath her ribs.

Lanie stood, adjusting the sweat-soaked t-shirt that now clung to her like her own skin.

“Now,” she crooned, snapping her fingers. The door creaked open, hinges screaming. “Let’s invite company.”

XIII. Gutter Saints and Hammering Rites

The man filled the doorway like a condemned building—all cracked concrete swagger and rebar veins. His cock swung heavily, a wrecking ball sheathed in storm clouds. Georgia’s rose gold charm pulsed, not at her clit now but through it, a live wire fused to the bone.
Lanie licked her teeth. “Miss him?”

Georgia didn’t flinch. Muscle memory. George’s ghost lived in the man’s knuckles—same brass-knuckle grin, same way he cracked his neck like a shotgun pump. But ghosts don’t smell of menthol rub and regret.

“Nostalgia’s cheap,” Georgia hissed. The piercing thrummed like a wasp trapped in cooling amber.

The stranger’s laugh was a grease fire. He palmed her throat, thumbprint over her windpipe.

“Heard you bite.”

“Heard you bleed.”

Lanie’s nails—blackened stilettos—dug into Georgia’s shoulder. “Play nice, children.”

The stranger gripped Georgia’s hips, fingers denting flesh. She braced for violence but then gasped as he shoved her onto the bed, her stretch bordering on exorcism.

Lanie’s breath hitched, hot against Georgia’s ear. “Three hammers to break a lock.”

“Pluh—planned—” Georgia choked, Lanie’s cunt smothering the rest.

“Shhh.” Lanie’s palm cracked across her cheek. “Your mouth’s for worship, not whining.”
The orgasm hit—a power surge. Georgia arched back, a jagged ahhhhh! escaping like steam from an uncorked kettle.

Lanie’s magic slithered in: wasp-wing buzz, filling her throat, her vowels.

Georgia’s fingers clawed the sheets. “Nuh—no—!” as she fell into a sinkhole
The no crumbled to nngh, then silence.

SNAP: Somewhere, a neon sign flickered: VACANT!

“Turn her?” The man’s question was gravel and diesel.

Lanie twisted Georgia’s arm. “Ohhh. and let's bend her backwards.”

Georgia’s fell back like a broken ragdoll, tendons screaming, as the man pulled her back and drove into her.

The breach tore a sound from her—unghhh, feral and fractured.

“Tighter’n a preacher’s wallet,” he grunted, hips snapping.

Georgia’s moan splintered: ah-! ah-! ah-! syncopated with his thrusts. Shame burned her cheeks. No... Not her.

Lanie’s laugh curled like smoke. “There’s my gutter saint.”

The second crest hit harder. Magic pooled hotter, deeper. Georgia’s whimper—eh-eh-eh—a mouse in a snake’s jaw.

SNAP: The sign flickered again: VALIANT!

Lanie’s thumb pressed Georgia’s windpipe, latex squeaking. “Beg.”

Georgia’s reply: Hnnk—! Gah—! Choked vowels, spit-slick. The man’s thrusts were subway trains derailing—rhythmless, brutal.

Lanie leaned close, her breath a venomous hymn. “Say you want it p—”

A hitch. A gasp.

“Please.”

The word slipped—unscripted, desperate—before Lanie could claw it back. Her hand flew to her mouth, smothering the rest. Too late.

Georgia heard. That cracked, please, raw as a knuckle dragged through gravel. Not a command. A confession.

The orgasm hit like a Molotov through a pawnshop window.

“Nnnh—! FUH—!” Georgia’s scream was a live wire, thrashing. Her hips pistoned, slamming into the man’s grip. Resistance? Ash. Lanie’s magic poured in—sewage through a broken levee.

“Guh—! GUH—!” Georgia’s throat shredded as Lanie gushed into her open mouth, weeping with joy.

SNAP: The sign flickered one last time, frying one more moth before it went dark: VICTORIOUS!