9. Week After Week

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 **** 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 **** 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.