Seamstress 10 XXVII: Back at the damn ball

Bulbs flashed everywhere like tasteless arc welders fucking epileptic fireflies. “Countess Devaris!” A tabloid wraith blocked her path. “Does Lady Elaine’s absence signal fractures in Phoenix Rising’s founding triad?”

Evelyn examined her cigarette’s glowing carcinoma. “Triangles require consistent tension, darling. Elaine’s currently…” She tapped ash onto his loafers. “…providing structural support.”

*Countess Devaris?* Lanie drawled. Tacky. Should’ve gone with *Dogarse the limp dick.*

Evelyn sipped champagne, the bubbles fizzing like a hex. “Darling, you’re just jealous I claimed the title first. Though…” She pirouetted, knowing the backless design showcased Lanie’s embroidered shame. “Cum Goblin Collective does have a certain…” She glanced down at the pattern across her very cinched bodice. "…je ne sais vomit."

The gown’s seams cinched, punishing her ribs. "Behave, or you'll be a dishrag next."

*Promises, promises,* Lanie purred.

“Revolutionary construction!” A Marrakech djinn appraised her silhouette. “What maestro conjures such savorable tailoring?”

“Symbiotic artistry. The hanger develops opinions.”

*you’re just a glorified homewrecker with a tax exemption.* The words hung, sour as curdled milk. *Wait, no—*

Evelyn’s broken laugh was a shard of obsidian as her voice cracked. “Darling, I own it. I’m the wrecking ball and the rubble.” She flicked her cigarette toward a gossip columnist. “Now let’s go traumatise someone new.”

Near the orchestra, a candelabra belched paraffin while a violinist’s string snapped with suicidal drama.

*Brilliant. Now I have fiddle herpes in my ears and in my hem. Bollocks. Your fat arse itches like fibreglass face wash.*

“Poor scaly muffin,” Evelyn shot back. “Shall I commission a chastity sporran?”

*You’d miss my tongue.*

Evelyn accepted another champagne flute. “Remind me – which stitch holds your personality in? I’d hate to accidentally…”

The gown’s gusset contracted, tourniqueting her groin. Evelyn’s dominatrix heels faltered. Merlot slopped down a passing bishop’s cassock.

“Something amiss, Countess Devaris?”

Evelyn steadied herself. Silk hiking to reveal a thigh holster strapped with lipstick-shaped throwing daggers. “Merely admiring your generosity, Your Grace.” She dragged a claw up his wine-splattered robe, pausing at his trembling belt. “Though I’d be delighted trying to… rectifying the imbalance.”

The bishop’s crucifix fogged. His hands fluttered to his groin, futilely tugging his robe over a telltale tent.

“Blessed enthusiasm.” Looking him in the eyes, she yanked her bodice sideways—a 'wardrobe malfunction.' Then, nonchalantly, she dug her fingers into her lace thong, which was part of Lanie as well, hoisting it into a brutal wedgie.

Lanie’s telepathic gag echoed. *Evelyn Devaris, ladies and germs. Turning couture into toilet paper since the Bronze Age.*

“Hush,” Evelyn shot back, adjusting the fabric with a snap. This is my diplomacy uniform.

*Cunt.*

Evelyn’s mental snarl ricocheted through their shared psyche. “I wish,” she drawled. For “Georgia, I’d trade this damn pickle,” she flicked the chastity cage with a telepathic claw, “for a clunge that could pickle walnuts.”

*Yours would ferment continents,* Lanie shot back.

Through the crowd, a flash of cobalt silk vanished behind a champagne pyramid.

“There—”

*Where?*

Gone.

The woman wove through the crowd like a rumour made flesh. Moonstone hair cascading over collarbones carved for biting. Hips swaying like a singularity, there she was, ‘Inevitable’. Her eyes locked on Evelyn’s. Gunmetal mirrors reflecting the Evelyn from nineteen years ago, kneeling in Blackreach filth. Begging gods who’d already left the building.

Evelyn’s program booklet slipped from numb fingers. “Lanie. That’s—”

*—Busy gagging. Exfoliating my seams with your swamp crotch,* Lanie snapped. *Either help me breathe or start auditioning backup lungs.*

Oysters Rockefeller accidentally slid down a socialite’s décolletage like edible condemnation.

“She’s here—”

*And I’m haemorrhaging sequins!* The gown’s slit tore and inch. *Prioritise, Ev. Existential crises before cocktails.*

Evelyn crushed a canapé under her heel. She was here. And she was real.

Evelyn lunged through the throng, heels impaling a TikTok exorcist’s foam finger. Past the caviar obelisk, around the MDMA geyser, into an alcove where an ice Caligula choked himself with his own frozen sash.

The woman was gone again.

*Typical,* Lanie muttered. You chasing after ghosts, bishops, and now performance art ice cubes. *Next, you’ll—Wha huh?*

The grimoire had found Evelyn’s grip, its leather binding colder than a widow’s vows. ‘For Elaine’ glowed on the cover in phosphorescent pus-yellow.

*Thermal Semiotics for Discerning Ladies!* Lanie’s telepathic squeal nearly ruptured Evelyn’s eardrums. *Kalyphos’ manuscript! It’s like Christmas if Santa roasted elves alive!*

Evelyn dumped it onto a dessert cart that she commanded to follow her. “Ah, yes. Your pyromaniac bedtime stories.”

Pages fluttered autonomously, revealing diagrams of intestines arranged like chandeliers. ‘Combustion Algorithm LXIX: Ignition Via Existential Dread.’

*Who the fuck’s Kalyphos though?* Lanie muttered.

Evelyn commandeered a booth upholstered in what appeared to be shaved yeti hide and floated the grimoire onto the table. Lanie’s telepathic whistle echoed. *Semiotics! This bad boy turned Pompeii into a fondue pot.*

“Sacred reading for arsonists,” Evelyn muttered. Telepathically flipping to a page where disembodied hands juggled lit cannonballs.

A server suddenly slapped a Cosmopolitan onto the grimoire. Condensation bled into a diagram of Spleen-to-Inferno Conversion Tactics. The grimoire screamed. Not metaphorically—actual fucking screams. Leather binding warping into a mouth that vomited century-old curses.

*MY FIRST EDITION ISN’T A BAR MAT, YOU TWATWAFFLE—* Lanie's roar warped Evelyn’s cranium.

“S-sorry!” The server trembled, looking away, lime wedge suctioned to her cleavage like a barnacle on a sinking tugboat. Textbook millennial wage-slave. Evelyn gripped her wrist.

“Look at me.”

The woman raised her chin.

Evelyn’s lungs collapsed. Blackreach’s stench—rust, rat bile, Prime’s sweat as they carved her open—

HI! I’M DIXIE! blared the nametag, in Comic Sans.

Her bashful smile hit like a sawn-off shotgun.

‘Dixie’ chirped, voice syrup-thick. “Can I, um—”

‘Dixie’s’ knee buckled. The tray upended, cosmos baptising the shrieking grimoire further. Just like that, ‘Dixie’ belly-flopped onto Evelyn, crushing Lanie between them.

Breasts mashed against Lanie’s silk.

Oh.

The girl stank of cheap glitter and coffee shop shifts. But under that—

George’s sweat.

Georgia’s laugh.

“Lanie—”

Dixie’s pulse fluttered against Lanie’s seams. A moth trapped in a jar.

*It’s her.*

“S-sorry!”

*Ev, DON’T let go yet.* Lanie shrieked.* She’s got his eyes. Same fucking shade of ‘love me harder.’*

Dixie squirmed, thigh grazing the chastity cage. “I’ll—I’ll get towels!”

*Ok now you can, I'm soaked,* Lanie hissed. *Before I turn your twiddler into a tampon.*

Evelyn’s nails flexed.

Tap-tap-tap.

“Don’t,” she whispered—to the girl, the ghost, or the godawful limbo between.

The world unpaused.

The girl simpered, “Can I, um, get you another drink?”

“Don't dally.”

The girl tried to flee, tray rattling like a junkie’s spine.

“Oi!” Evelyn’s claw snagged her apron strings. “Dirty as sin, shaken till it bleeds.” A fang glinted. “Vermouth’s a slut’s sigh—pile on the shame.”

The girl’s blush could’ve jump started a necrophiliac’s libido. “Y-yes, Countess!”

Evelyn’s heels cracked marble like molars.

The hunt was on.

 
 
XXIII: Fermented Olives

Dixie’s hips swayed as she retreated, her waitress skirt swishing like a bullfighter’s cape. Evelyn tracked the dragon tattoo peeking above her stockings—obsidian scales.

“Fucking cock cage hurts. Left your damn ring back in the apocalypse bunker,” Evelyn seethed, the cage’s teeth gnawing her groin.” Fell off when I turned you into this walking brothel handkerchief.”

*Priorities, Ev,* Lanie drawled, her seams straining against Evelyn’s ribs. *Seduce the amnesiac or compose an ode to your flaccid ego?*

“Not anymore,” Evelyn declared as she rubbed her staining bulge.

*Funny—your idea of “hard” is as shitty as your judgment.*

Dixie returned, tray rattling with drinks that sloshed like tidal warnings. “M-martini, Countess?”

Evelyn snagged her wrist, dragging Dixie’s knuckles over the cage beneath scarlet silk. “Darling, I prefer my olives… fermented.”

Dixie’s flush could’ve melted a warlock’s ice dildo. “W-we don’t serve those—”

*Liar,* Lanie purred. *Her pulse just lapped Usain Bolt.*

Evelyn plucked an olive, tongue lapping brine before sucking it slowly. Dixie’s gaze snagged on her very hard nipples—stabbing the silk like tent stakes. “Ever grind on royalty in haunted lingerie, Dixie?”

“N-no! Staff aren’t allowed to—”

“The Countess,” Evelyn hissed, yanking her into a spin, “isn’t ‘staff.’” Her palm slid to the small of Dixie’s back, fingers splayed over the apron’s flimsy bow. “Though I’d happily staff you.”

Dixie stumbled, a button popping free. Cleavage spilled like smuggled relics. Evelyn’s cock twitched, the cage’s hinges creaking.

*Yup,* Lanie crooned.* Only our Georgia could resurrect this fossilised worm.*

“C-clumsy!” Dixie dabbed soda on Evelyn’s bodice to help clean up, liquid hissing as it hit ‘Property of the Cum Goblin Collective.’

*Hot,* Lanie muttered. *Literally. I’m evaporating.*

The orchestra’s strings bled into bachata. Syncopated guitars snarling, hips grinding like rusted pistons. Evelyn’s grin sharpened. “Dance with me, Dixie.” Not a request.

“I—I don’t know how—”

“Good.” Evelyn yanked her close, palm branding Dixie’s hipbone. “Dominican rules. Four beats to ruin your life.”

They moved—Evelyn’s thigh slotting between Dixie’s, her claws carving crescents into the girl’s waist. Step. Drag. Roll. Hips locked in a war of attrition, sweat beading like cheap pearls. Dixie’s breath hitched as Evelyn spun her out, apron strings unraveling to the rhythm’s tuk-tuk-tuk.

*She’s blushing like bloodstones,* Lanie hissed, seams screaming as Evelyn’s hips piston-rolled. *And your hips are strangling my spleen.*

“Focus, darling,” Evelyn growled, reeling Dixie back in. Chest-to-chest, her knee nudged the girl’s thighs wider. Step. Drag. Roll.

Dixie’s skirt rode up her thighs, lace stockings frayed where the garter straps bit flesh. Her breath came in sawed-off gasps—”hah-hah-hah—” like a feral thing caught in a bear trap.

“Don't lose that focus, darling,” Evelyn murmured, spinning Dixie out then reeling her in, chest-to-chest. Another button popped, revealing cleavage that could sink battleships.

“S-sorry!” Dixie squeaked, fumbling to cover herself.

“Don’t.” Evelyn caught her wrist, pressing Dixie’s palm to the cage’s outline. “Let them admire.”

Evelyn’s knee hooked higher. “Breathe, pet. Or… don’t.” Her thumb carved crescents into Dixie’s hip, the rhythm syncing to the girl’s rabbit-quick pulse.

Dixie’s chest heaved—stolen oxygen, stolen grace—as Evelyn spun her into a dip.

The tambora’s throb vibrated between them, air thick with salt-sweat and rotgut desire. Each grind left Dixie’s lungs scraped raw, until her breaths were just shallow hitches begging for more.

The music thickened, breathless requinto licks and tambora’s throb. Evelyn dipped her low, Dixie’s hair dusting the floor as it tumbled free. Her dragon tattoo flexed across her collarbone, scales shimmering as if breathing.

*Y’know,* Lanie mused, *if you trip her, I’ll cushion her fall. Strategically.*

Evelyn smirked, snapping Dixie into a dip so low her hair brushed the floor. “Hungry, darling?” She plucked an olive from a passing tray, held it between her teeth like a dare.

Dixie hesitated—then leaned in, lips grazing Evelyn’s as she suckled the olive. A drop of brine slid down her chin.

“Messy,” Evelyn tutted, thumb swiping it away. She sucked her finger clean, gaze locked on Dixie’s. “Let’s fix that.”

The cage strained, hinges groaning.

*Careful,* Lanie purred. *You’ll crack the pearls.*

Evelyn’s hand slid lower, squeezing Dixie’s ass through the cheap polyester skirt. “Time to… inspect the vermouth.”

“But I—”

Evelyn silenced her with a bite to the earlobe. “Now, Dixie.”

The storage closet door slammed. Somewhere, an ice sculpture wept.

*Ding-dong,* Lanie shrieked. *Hell’s delivered a care package.*

 
 
XXIX: Destiny and Dishrags

The storage closet breathed like a punctured lung—bleach and mildew clotting the air. Evelyn’s knees ground into concrete, her caged cock throbbing against ruby-studded bars.

The heart-lock pulsed, Georgia’s ghost humming in the metal.

“Fuck’s sake, Lanie. Feels like a wolverine’s gnawing my junk.”

*Deserves worse,* Lanie hissed, scarlet lace tightening around Evelyn’s ribs. *Murdering cunt got off light.* She purred through the seams, gold threads squirmed under Evelyn’s breasts like parasitic worms. *Now make the brat squeal.*

The girl—Dixie, the bullshit name clung like cheap perfume—arched against the cinder blocks. Her folds glistened, a perfect coin slot framed by a heart-shaped tuft of curls. Vulnerable. Earnest. Evelyn’s tongue dragged up her slit, tasting salt, honey, and cardamom. Cheap perfume couldn’t mask her musk though.

“Stripper names suit liars,” Evelyn growled, teeth grazing the girl’s inner thigh. “Says the woman lapping my—”

*Yank her clit.*

Evelyn obeyed, teeth grazing the swollen bud. The girl yelped.

“Real. Name.”

“Fuck—Dixie—I swear—”

Evelyn pulled back, leaving the girl twitching. “Try again.”

A whimper. Fingers twisted in Evelyn’s locks, tugging like a sinner at prayer. “N-Niyati,” she gasped, accent cracking into gravel. “They call me… Niyati.”

The lock flared.

Lanie’s Telepathic Snarl: *George named the brat. Means ‘Destiny.’ Fate’s chew toy. Melodramatic prick.*

A child with singed eyebrows fused to soot-streaked cheeks, glued to George’s leg as social workers peeled her off like roadkill from a bumper. Burnt hair stank like napalm and shame. Lanie’s voice, sharp as a diamond tipped dagger: “Bollocks, terrorists still on the loose! Belfast’s still smouldering!"

*Ask about the moth,* Lanie hissed. The dress’s neckline cinched, silk biting Evelyn’s throat raw: “Silver pendant. Chain unknotted by your hero.”

Niyati froze. Her hand slithered under the polyester skirt, hiking it higher to reveal a tarnished belly chain. The moth pendant dangled, wings spread like a cauterised wound.

A Belfast alley, 2003. Rubble exhaling ash. George kneeling in sewage, cradling a girl whose dress was more scorch marks than fabric. First rescue. First regret. Lanie lobbing verbal Molotovs at hesitant medics: “Move faster, or I’ll stitch your eyelids open!”

A basement reeking of mildew and adolescent sweat. Evelyn drilling preteens in combat hexes. Niyati’s misfired spell igniting a boy’s eyebrows—sulfur and sizzle. George’s chuckle, warm as a whisky burn: “Kindness first, fire second, kiddo.”

*He picked that knot for hours,* Lanie whispered, silk threads sawing Evelyn’s ribs. *Fingers bleeding on the chain like a fucking penitent.*

“Never took it off,” Niyati breathed. “Even when they… offered me new names. New cages.”

Niyati’s Memory: George humming "Danny Boy" off-key, daubing iodine on her skinned knees.

“Bravery’s messy, kid. Like my pancake batter.” Syrup smeared on his combat boots.

Evelyn’s tongue flicked the pendant. Cold metal, warm skin. “Demos. That martyr’s brand still itch?”

Tears glazed Niyati’s lashes. “He stormed the orphanage. Screamed… screamed about forcing legacies.” Her hips jerked, cunt dripping. “I kept it. Keep them.”

Lanie’s Memory: George in a boardroom, fists cratering mahogany. “You don’t stitch a kid’s past into a spreadsheet, you bureaucratic ghouls!”

Lanie beside him, braiding protection charms into a girl’s hair—this girl.

Evelyn’s claw hooked the waist chain. “Awww.. you’re the brat who crisped that boy’s scalp," she crooned. “Why the act, little arsonist?”

Niyati’s heel ground harder, the pressure a blurred line between agony and euphoria as Evelyn’s caged cock twitched. “Magisterial departments slashed funding for cross-species fertility research last year,” she panted. Hips jerking as Evelyn’s tongue circled her clit.

“Ministry claims hybrid offspring are ‘niche interests.’” A bitter laugh tangled with a moan. “Try telling that to the werewolf clans haemorrhaging pups—or the fae courts sterilised by iron drift.”

Evelyn paused, her breath hot against slick flesh. Cross-species reproduction. The dress’s seams prickled—Lanie’s telepathic sneer. *Of course she’s knee-deep in womb politics. George’s bleeding heart on this smoking hot Petri dish.*

Niyati’s fingers fisted in Evelyn’s locks, urgent. “My thesis—tracking mutagenic decay in dragon-fae couplings—we’re losing entire bloodlines.” Her voice broke, arousal and desperation bleeding together. “The Phoenix Foundation’s last symposium… you cited generational collapse.”

Evelyn’s Memory: A decade back, snarling at a council of trembling bureaucrats. “Keep groping for pennies, and your grandkids will be finger painting with their own extinction.”

Evelyn’s tongue delved deeper, lapping at the girl’s desperation. “Funding droughts. Academic vultures. How quaint.”

“I’ve… fuck… crunched your shelter’s birth rate data.” Niyati’s thighs quaked, words spilling between gasps. “Found a correlation between trauma residues and… oh gods… chromosomal fraying.” She arched, the moth pendant biting into Evelyn’s lip. “Your clinics need my models… but the grants…”

*Translation,* Lanie drawled, *she wants us to bankroll her baby-making algorithms.*

Evelyn pulled back, smirking at the string of saliva connecting her mouth to Niyati’s cunt.

“So you slummed it here? Playing waitress for a shot at our coffers?”

“Played patient first.” Niyati’s gaze sharpened, vulnerability armoured in spite. “Submitted three proposals. Your funding committees vetoed them as… ah!… ‘too radical—nngh!’” Her heel dug a punishing rhythm as Evelyn’s teeth grazed her clit. “But you—hah!—you’ve never shied from pushing boundaries.”

“Bullshit.” Evelyn’s claw traced the moth pendant, nail catching the chain.

“Sugarmommies don’t need half truths. Try again.”

Niyati’s facade cracked, hips jerking. “Plan A: seduce you—oh!—Plan B: steal dragon scales… fuck!… sell them to warlocks for R&D funding.” She blurted it between gasps, voice fraying.

*Cheeky brat,* Lanie hissed, silk constricting like a hangman’s knot. *She has memorised our offshore accounts.*

Evelyn laughed, bitter as a dry heave. “And if I said yes? Funded your… research?”

Niyati’s breath hitched, back arching. “I’d need authority—ah!—to bypass ‘ethics’ committees… burn the red tape—ngh!—choking my work.”

*Our paper-pushing ghouls,* Lanie snarled. *May need some kindling.*

“They’re dying, Evelyn—oh god—" The girl’s voice splintered, cunt clenching around Evelyn’s tongue. “Whole lineages snuffed… hnng!… because purists think a gryphon fucking a dryad is ‘unnatural.’” Her nails drew blood. “Sound… familiar?”

George, fifteen years back, shielding a pregnant werewolf from zealots. “Love’s a renewable resource, you cunts.”

Niyati gasped as Evelyn’s cage clattered to the floor. The girl’s clit swelled—veins erupting under skin, flesh surging into a thick cock that slapped against Evelyn’s chin.

‘First real dick not including Georgia’s little jewellery,’ Evelyn thought, frozen. ”Fuck’s it even taste like?”

*Suck like you’re starving,* Lanie commanded through the tightening seams. *It’s her. Only thing that matters.*

Recognition punched Evelyn’s gut once more. Georgia’s smirk in the curl of the girl’s lip, her hunger in the vein-thick shaft. Hesitation vaporised. Evelyn took the head between her teeth, salt and iron blooming on her tongue. Niyati bucked, a choked noise escaping as Evelyn hollowed her cheeks, working down the length.

The girl’s fingers clawed Evelyn’s scalp, hips pistoning. “F-fuck—ahn—like that—”***

Evelyn gagged, spit slicking the shaft. She breathed through her nose—fine whiskey, burnt sugar, the ozone crackle of overclocked magic. Niyati’s cock throbbed, slamming into her throat. Tears blurred Evelyn’s vision as she choked, nostrils flaring. Georgia’s ghost laughing in her ear.

*Deeper,* Lanie hissed. *Make her remember.*

Evelyn swallowed, muscles rippling. Niyati’s moans pitched higher, ragged.

“Gonna—fuck—”

The first spurt hit Evelyn’s uvula, bitter as lye, corrosive enough to blister. She recoiled, gagging—rotten pomegranates and burnt hair—but Lanie’s voice lashed through her skull: *Georgia’s in the marrow, you coward. Swallow.*

Evelyn’s nostrils flared. Georgia. The name unspooled like a lit fuse. She lunged forward, taking Niyati’s cock to the root, teeth scraping veins as she sucked like a parched thing at a poisoned well. The taste, charcoal and honeysuckle, George’s favourite perfume trapped in the girl’s spend.

*Drain her,* Lanie snarled, seams cinching Evelyn’s ribs. *Every drop’s a shard of him.*

Niyati’s thighs trembled. “S-slow—ah!—too much—”

‘Too much?’ Evelyn’s laugh vibrated against the shaft. She pulled back just enough to rasp, “Georgie never tapped out,” before diving again, throat working like a piston. Tears streaked her mascara as she choked, but she didn’t stop—couldn’t. Niyati’s cock swelled hotter, thicker, familiar in its pulse.

*There,* Lanie hissed. *Taste it?*

Evelyn did. Beneath the acid burn, a flicker of bourbon and diesel grease—George’s vices, Georgia’s cravings. She moaned around the cock, nails biting Niyati’s hips. More.

The girl came again, a ragged scream tearing loose. Cum flooded Evelyn’s mouth, viscous and electric, searing her tongue like overclocked magic. She swallowed greedily, chasing the phantom aftertaste of Georgia’s jizz.

Lanie begged for more, even as the dress’s lace ignited where spills struck silk. Glowing runes spiderwebbed across the fabric, stitching George’s essence into every thread.

The dress shuddered, seams sighing. *You’d gargle gutter filth for scraps of her, wouldn’t you?*

Evelyn didn’t deny it. She lapped the softening cock clean, tongue swiping the slit until Niyati whimpered. “Enough—please—”

"Never," Evelyn growled, bloodied lips peeling back, but the girl was spent, slumping against the wall. Cock softening to a spent question mark.

Evelyn leaned back, throat raw, cum gleaming on her chin like gas station lip gloss. The cage and heart pendant pulsed on the floor—Georgia’s ghost humming a hymn only moths could hear.

Niyati had collapsed against the piss-yellow tiles, softening cock still glistening. Evelyn wiped her face on the dress’s hem, smearing jizz into gold thread. “Still useful,” she rasped, lifting the cage and pendant from the floor. The heart charm pulsed, warm as a fresh kill.

*No dick to dock—just slit split wide,* Lanie howled in laughter, *Virgin cunt of trailer park pride.*

Evelyn’s claws twitched. Memories of Xanathar’s reign—that draconic dong swinging between his thighs, thick enough to crack continents. Now her brand new folds wept in hunger, as Lanie’s seams licked her clit like a meth-head firefly. Pathetic, but her happy hips jerked anyway.

*Admit it,* Lanie purred, silk cinching like a lover’s chokehold. *You’d trade every hoarded jewel for one thrust of Georgia’s—*

“Eat. Silence.”

Niyati stirred, her cock a wilted masterpiece—veins like cursive threats, glistening with Evelyn’s spit. Goddress, Evelyn nearly drooled, talons carving trenches in her own thighs.

Georgie’s blueprint. Her heft. Her goddamn gravity.

Lanie’s laughter vibrated through the seams. *Oh, darling. You missed a spot. Also focus!* she hissed, *before the brat sees you whimpering like a kicked pup*

Evelyn snatched the pendant, talon punching her clit—stab-snick—pain blooming like a lit match in a whisky flask. The ruby clicked home, blood and slick staining silk. “There,” she spat, “Proper upgrade. Not some… secondhand hag’s yard-sail scrap.”

Lanie’s laugh crackled—rotten honey in a rusted tin. *Darlin’, you’re a dragon with a twat and in love to boot. You’ll be begging for a pounding before dawn.*

The vision sucker-punched Evelyn—Niyati’s cock ramming into her raw, scales erupting down her spine as she was bent over. Anal was conquest, your enemy’s flagpole wedged where even whores kept sovereignty. Evelyn’s talons tore parchment as Niyati bottomed out, her neglected cunt dripping.

“Mine,” Niyati growled—Georgie’s possessive snarl—pistoning hips turning Evelyn’s guts to lit gasoline. The dragon’s tits swung like gutted prize sacks, nipples scraping the bed with every thrust. “Beg.”

Evelyn’s knees buckled, spine curving into a whore’s arch. “Y-yes—!” Spittle strung between her fangs, claws reduced to scratching at her own thighs. “A-anything—”

Niyati’s hand fisted her hair, yanking her head back. “Louder.”

“ANYTHING!” The scream shredded her throat, cunt juice pooling beneath her as Niyati’s cock split her like overripe fruit. “Yours—!”

The vision snapped.

Evelyn’s thoughts bled sewage and static: “Yes. Yes. Take it. Take everything.”

Just then, Niyati’s fist knotted in Evelyn’s hair with unexpected force yanking her face level. The girl’s lips crashed into Evelyn’s, her knee rising instinctually to pin the dragon against cinderblock.

Godress, *Lanie hissed, she’s moving like Georgie on that bender—*

Evelyn’s talons scrabbled for purchase, finding only Niyati’s noticeably fit bicep. Like corded steel under that cheap polyester—as the girl’s tongue dug deeper. A moan leaked through clenched fangs. *Lookit you,* Lanie crooned, silk constricting Evelyn’s chest, *whimpering for a brat who doesn’t even know that she sprouted her own dick.*

Evelyn tore free, lip bleeding black ichor. “Want patronage, Dr. Demos?” Her voice frayed.

“Ditch the—”

Niyati moved without thought—George’s old wrestling takedown—slamming Evelyn’s back into concrete. Her thigh slotting between Evelyn’s legs

Lanie purred, seams buzzing like a meth-lab fridge: *Your slit’s singin’ hymns for a relic, darling. Georgia’s ghost could pole-vault through that gapin’ altar.*

“Don't care. She’s here, Evelyn hissed, and I'm happy to be her glory hole.”

Evelyn gathered her senses, talons trembling as she palmed Niyati’s spent cock. Still warm, still hers—thumb grinding the slit like a gambler’s worry stone. “Submit your proposal in person.” A fang grazed the girl’s jugular. “Naked. Kneeling. With that moth between your—”

Lanie’s telepathy slithered between her ribs: *Ooooh, big scary dragon playin’ domme again! Quick, check your clit—still drippin’ or just pissin’ yourself?*

Evelyn’s grip tightened, flushing rose gold with shame. *Let me have this, she fired back, even if it’s just smoke up a hooker’s ass.*

Niyati’s breath hitched—innocent as a razor in the devil's baptism—as Evelyn hissed, “Teeth.” Silk slithering up her thigh. *We’ll see how deep you convictions run*

Lanie cackled, silk wrapping tighter, *Should’ve pinned her, ridden that cock like a trailer park rodeo. But no—you’re too busy cosplayin’ a warlord who can’t even—*

“Shut. UP.” Evelyn’s claws drew blood from her own palms. “She’s here. That’s enough.”

*For now,* Lanie sing-songed, *but midnight’s comin’, girlie. And that brat’s gonna peel you open and stuff you like a cheap condom.*

“Midnight,” Evelyn shoved Niyati toward the door, her roar fraying at the edges: “My vault. Don’t… fucking triage.”

The door slammed. Evelyn’s claw dove under lace, fingers pistoning.

*Ah-ah,* Lanie tutted, seams tourniqueting her wrist. *Save it, girlie. Let the ache marinate.*

“I’ll turn you into a —”

*You surrendered your dick to a walking Georgia cosplay. Face it—* Lanie’s laugh was a dragon’s fang. *—she’s claimed her right of conquest. Now we stew.*

Somewhere, a moth battered a locked window—tap-tap-tap, like a ghost’s knuckles.

*Still useful,* Lanie echoed, silk loosening into something almost tender as Evelyn’s fingers lingered on the charm. Happily tracing the grooves where Georgia’s laughter lived again.
 
 
Continued in Chapter 11