6. Repurposing the Rags

Lanie spread her thighs on the velvet fainting couch, a prop from their Bridgerton-themed disaster. The clit piercing glinted, rose gold catching the lamplight. George's dick, miniaturised in metal and gem-studded, swung like a pendulum over a wet pit.

"Terms," she said, flicking the charm. Still shackled, George doubled over, phantom cock throbbing.

"Fridays, you're Georgia. Corset optional. Crotchless mandatory."

George’s growl rumbled—a feral hog trapped in a rusted oil drum. Pupils swallowing the room’s jaundiced light. “And… other days?”

Lanie spread wider, rubies weeping oily light. Her eyes flickered of——before she sutured the moment shut with a smirk. "Be you."

She spread wider, rubies glistening. Her eyes betrayed her—pupils trembling, a trapped thing rattling its cage. "Just less... intact." A rattlesnake’s molt of a smile.

George’s rage was threatening to erupt—like a wolf trapped in a septic tank, thrashing against the rot. Lanie’s smirk cracked. For a heartbeat, she shrank—a roach scuttling from sudden light—then rallied, lips glistening, mask slipping back into place.

“Your precious cock’n’balls’ll come back home,” she crooned, like a nursery rhyme sung through broken teeth. “Soon.”

George's gaze fell. The DICKLESS tattoo pulsed on his gut - blacklight ink in a velvet dungeon, thrumming like the bassline from the club three floors below. Shadows congealed into the living, breathing demon within.

"Why the pier—" he growled, voice a cognac snifter dragged through gravel.

Lanie twisted the charm. Pleasure-pain detonated - nerve endings screaming like dynamite in a champagne flute. "Funny, isn't it?" she'd purred last solstice, painting the rune-work with molten platinum. "The universe crams all that firepower into a button mushroom. Make it tinier, and it's like stuffing a supernova up a coke vial…"

His rage liquefied. Became a scald of single-malt shame before it started to bubble again.

“So you... my love..." She paused, a moment too long. A tell George knew only too well and his rage just... melted away. Leaving behind only the searing pain of loss.

She recovered fast, moaning like a church lady catching the spirit. “Participate. Every time I ride some farm-league cock, this little trinket…” Her thumb ground the rubies into her slit. “…sends you postcards.”

“Test drive?” Lanie produced a pink vibrator, a silicone tentacle glazed in artisanal lube. She tapped its suction cups and pressed it to the piercing.

The room tilted some more. George’s mind spun and his phantom balls buzzed.

George’s spine arched. The Dry and painful orgasm tore through him—a lightning strike in a drought, cracking the parched earth of his body. Silent scream. Teeth shearing tongue meat. Muscles seizing like Birkin bags shredding in a woodchipper.

Lanie watched, pupils swallowing the room's crimson LEDs. A single tear breached her cheek "There's my good little investment."

Somewhere, a clock chimed midnight. Fridays would come too often now. The chains sighed. George’s eyelids stuttered—not closing, just the flicker of a CCTV losing its last feed.

Week One: Panties for the Professor

Georgia manifested as lace panties—black and crotchless. Waistband stitched with Daddy’s Girl in thread the colour of tax evasion and clove cigarettes. Lanie’s 'little lipstick charm' with its twin rubies smirking like a vandal’s graffiti stayed hidden beneath silk. At least until the economics professor cornered her in the janitor’s closet.

“Clumsy me,” Lanie purred, hiking her skirt to reveal Georgia’s lace clinging to her hips. She hooked her thumbs under the waistband, peeling the panties down slow as a strip tease in a funeral home. The professor’s wedding band glinted as he gripped the mop handle for balance.

You’re vile, Georgia hissed telepathically, threads tightening as Lanie dangled the panties from one leg. A fucking peepshow for tenure-track losers.

Lanie smirked, pulling Georgia up like a half open crotch crate. Relax, kitten. He’s got the imagination of a PowerPoint slide. She spread her thighs, the lipstick charm glinting. “See, professor? What if I told you this was my husband’s entire manhood? Repurposed for… higher education.”

He laughed, fumbling with his belt. “Tell him thanks for the service.”

When he mounted her against the supply shelves, Lanie shoved Georgia’s lace aside. Just enough to let his hairy balls slap against the fabric with every thrust. Feel that, Georgie? she crooned inwardly. His scrotum’s writing you a love letter.

Rot in hell, Georgia spat, phantom nerves flaring as the professor’s sweat soaked into her threads.

“Cock. Only,” Lanie snapped aloud when his fingers grazed her clit. She arched, grinding the charm against his pelvis until he came with a grunt—streaks of cum painting Georgia’s lace and glazing the rubies.

After, Lanie pulled Georgia up, using the soiled panties to wipe herself clean. She left the charm glistening. “Always useful,” she murmured, smearing a final streak across the Daddy’s Girl script.

You’re a goddamn toddler with a glitter glue stick, Georgia seethed.

Lanie laughed, stuffing the damp lace into her purse. “And you’re my favourite washcloth.”

Back home, she draped Georgia over George’s bedside lamp, cum stains glowing like swamp gas in the dark. “Sweet dreams, princess. Tomorrow’s a seminar on adjunct exploitation. Pack your pearls.”

The lamp buzzed. Somewhere, a moth died quietly.