3. A Seam Unravelling

The bourbon tasted like gasoline and bad decisions.

Lanie leaned against the bar, the gown’s slit creeping higher as Jamie refilled her glass. His hands shook—always the hands—spilling whisky over his novice cufflinks.

*Pathetic. You’ve sunk to cradle-robbing, Lanie?*

She swirled her drink. "Georgie thinks you’re nervous," she purred, catching Jamie’s wrist. "Are you nervous?"

"N-no, ma’am." His blush matched the pomegranate garnish.

*Ma’am,* George sneered. *Tell him you’re old enough to be his—*

“Hush.” She snapped her fingers. The gown’s seams cinched violently, silk hissing as George’s mental voice pitched upward—sharp, strained, feminine.

*What did you—*

You're a girl's dress now, best you sound like a girl too.

"Georgia," Lanie corrected aloud, tracing Jamie’s knuckles. "Much better."

The boy blinked. "Who’s Georgia?"

"My," she leaned in, breath fogging his spectacles, "little compromise."

Jamie’s throat bobbed. "Compromise?"

"Mm. Settled for silk when I wanted satin." She flicked the gown’s hem. "Someone ruined my wardrobe."

In the storage closet, Jamie’s pants pooled on the floor.

*Are you really going to cheat on me?* Georgia hissed. *After all this time? With this… back-alley tomcat?*

Lanie sank to her knees, concrete biting her bare skin as she let her hands wander over her dress. *This is your fault, darling.* “Mmmm… All that rubbing against me tonight…"

Jamie’s cock sprang free—pink, eager, youthfully thick.

*Disgusting,* Georgia shrilled. *He’s all enthusiasm and no—*

*Bigger than you, it looks like,* Lanie finished, swallowing him whole.

*You wished. I recall you screaming—*

"Hush," Lanie hummed, deep and throaty. Jamie’s hips jerked. Mmm. *He tastes like… regret. Your speciality, Georgia.*

The gown tightened, seams squealing.

*You’re ****. You choose this...amateur hour to ruin us?*

“Sshhh already.” She quickened her pace, nails digging into Jamie’s thighs. *You’re just jealous he’s hard for me.*

*Jealous?* Georgia’s laugh was like shattered glass. *I’m embarrassed for you. Even Evelyn’s familiars have more—*

Jamie came with a whimper, spattering the bodice. Lanie leaned back, smearing it into Georgia’s silk with her thumb. "There. Finally useful."

*Rot,* Georgia spat. *You’ll **** on karma one day.*

"Run along," Lanie said, licking her palm clean. "Tell your friends you survived."

Alone, she studied the mirror. The cum-stained moths on the dress pulsed faintly.

*You decided to break my heart; Georgia’s voice cracked, for this?*

Lanie yanked up her dress and plunged a finger inside. "I settled for you first, darling."

The gown went rigid.

Evelyn materialised in a plume of clove smoke, her hair a wild mess, sequined gown undone and clinging loosely. Still shimmering with the reminders of her own recent escapades.

"Darling," she purred, flicking a nail at the moths crusted on Lanie's breast, "did you fuck a moth colony or just a particularly fertile young man?"

Lanie let her finger graze the cuff of the dress, the silk hissing as it cinched her waist. “Georgia—she’s been pampered tonight.”

"Georgia?" Evelyn's brow arched. "A mortal pet?"

"An old habit," Lanie smirked, watching a warlock across the room. Mid-forties, salt-and-sorrow hair, fingers bare where a wedding ring once sat. "One that clings."

Evelyn materialised, sucking an olive pit. "Youthful vigour suit you muck?"

Lanie adjusted a strap. "Vigour’s generous. More like… earnest fumbling."

"Mmm." Evelyn flicked the pit at the soiled bodice. "Careful. Young cocks are like bad poetry—all thrust, no rhythm."

Lanie grinned. "Good thing I’ve got forever to polish them."

Somewhere, a moth scraped against torn silk.