Chapter 4: The Next Target
The collar stayed in the top drawer of Georgia’s dressing table, a coil of supple black leather resting on a bed of silk scarves. She would take it out sometimes, not to use, but to hold. To feel its weight. It was a promise, a sacrament. The metal buckle was cool against her palm.
Ava was in the kitchen, making coffee. The morning light sliced through the blinds, painting bars of gold across her bare shoulders. She wore one of Georgia’s old button-down shirts, the tails brushing her thighs. It was a domestic scene, peaceful, but charged with the memory of the night before, of Megan’s furious release and the sobs that had followed.
Georgia watched her from the doorway. The transformation wasn’t just in Ava; it was in the space between them. It had solidified into something tangible, a third entity they both served.
“Come here,” Georgia said, her voice soft.
Ava turned, the coffee forgotten. She walked to Georgia, her steps quiet on the tile. She didn’t ask what Georgia wanted. She just stood, waiting, her big brown eyes patient and deep.
Georgia reached up and touched Ava’s cheek. “I love you,” she said. The words were simple, clear, and absolute. They weren’t the fevered declarations of a new affair. They were a cornerstone being laid. “You have… completed something in me. I was a sketch. You made me a painting.”
Ava’s eyes welled instantly, but she didn’t look away. “Georgia…”
“Your body is a masterpiece,” Georgia continued, her thumb tracing the plush curve of Ava’s lower lip. “But a masterpiece locked in a vault is a tragedy. It needs to be seen. Felt. Worshipped. But only under the right light. Only when the curator says so.” She let her hand drop, her gaze intensifying. “That’s me. I am the light. I am the door. And you… you are my favorite exhibit. My living, breathing, sighing work of art. Do you understand?”
Ava nodded, a tear finally spilling over. “Yes.”
“I need to hear you say it,” Georgia whispered, taking a step closer until their bodies almost touched. “Do you mind being my plaything? My gorgeous, exquisite toy that I share with my… guests? Do you need it, too? That adoration? To be opened up and adored and fucked senseless by women who once hated you?”
Ava’s blush was a spectacular flood of crimson from her chest to her hairline. She bit her lip, her confidence entirely reshaped into this pure, vulnerable honesty. “I live to make you happy,” she breathed. “And yes. God, yes. I love it. When they look at me… when they touch me… it’s like they’re seeing me for the first time. The real me. The one you made. And when they use their mouths on me…” She shuddered, a fresh wave of wetness undoubtedly soaking the shirt she wore. “It feels like prayer.”
Georgia kissed her then, a deep, consuming kiss that tasted of salt and coffee and ownership. “Good girl,” she murmured against her mouth. “My perfect girl.”
The consolidation of power required maintenance. The coven—Claire, Lisa, Megan—needed to be woven together, their separate experiences braided into a shared secret. Georgia orchestrated this with the precision of a general. A group text, anonymous and encrypted, simply reading: The altar needs tending. Tonight. 9 PM. No location was needed. They all knew.
That evening, her living room was transformed. The normal lamps were off. The room was lit by dozens of pillar candles, their flickering light dancing over the walls, pooling in the corners. Incense smoke curled in the still air, sandalwood and myrrh. The coffee table had been pushed aside. In the center of the room, on a thick, faux-fur rug, Ava waited.
She was arranged on her knees, back straight, head bowed. Georgia had dressed her not in lingerie, but in a single, heavy strand of pearls that fell between her bare breasts. That was all. The candlelight loved her skin, gilding every curve, deepening every shadow. She was a icon in a shrine.
Claire arrived first, then Lisa, then Megan. They entered separately, each pausing in the doorway, struck silent by the sight. They wore normal clothes—blouses, trousers—but they shed their coats and their everyday selves as they crossed the threshold. The room demanded it.
Georgia stood by the fireplace, dressed in a simple black silk robe, tied at the waist. She said nothing. She merely watched as the three women circled Ava, their eyes wide, their breaths shallow.
“Touch her,” Georgia finally said, her voice a low hum in the candlelit quiet. “Not like you have before. Together. Like she’s a relic. Learn her with your hands.”
Claire was the first to kneel. Her elegant fingers, tipped with perfect nude polish, traced the line of Ava’s jaw, then down the graceful column of her throat. Lisa joined her, her touch softer, more wondering, as she cupped the heavy weight of a breast, her thumb brushing a nipple until it pebbled into a hard peak. Megan knelt last, her athlete’s hands possessive from the start, sliding around Ava’s waist to pull her back against her chest, palming her stomach, her grip firm.
Ava remained perfectly still, her eyes closed, a slight tremor in her thighs. A living sculpture being appraised by devoted collectors.
“You see how she responds?” Georgia murmured, moving closer. “Each touch, a different note. Claire, you make her feel elegant. Lisa, you make her feel precious. Megan, you make her feel owned.” She stopped behind Ava, her hands coming to rest on Ava’s shoulders. “Now make her feel needed. Take what you require.”
It began as a slow, synergistic feast. Claire leaned in and took one nipple into her mouth, suckling with a refined, persistent greed. Lisa whimpered and attached herself to the other, her tongue flicking rapidly. Megan’s hands slid down, parting Ava’s thighs from behind, her fingers finding the soaking heat without ceremony.
Ava’s composure broke. A low moan vibrated through her. Her head fell back against Megan’s shoulder.
“Look at her,” Georgia commanded the women. “Watch her face while you work.”
They obeyed, their eyes lifting to watch Ava’s expressions shatter as Megan’s fingers pushed inside her, curling deep. Claire and Lisa synchronized their sucking, their hands roaming over Ava’s stomach, her hips. The room filled with the wet, rhythmic sounds of their worship—the hungry pulls of their mouths, the slick slide of Megan’s fingers fucking in and out.
“She’s going to come,” Megan grunted, feeling the tight clench around her hand.
“Not yet,” Georgia said. She untied her robe, let it slide to the floor. She moved around to face Ava. “Look at me.”
Ava’s eyes, glazed and desperate, focused on Georgia’s face. Georgia knelt, her own knees pressing into the fur. She placed her hands on Lisa and Claire’s heads, guiding them lower. “Taste her together.”
Claire and Lisa didn’t hesitate. They shifted as one, their heads dipping between Ava’s spread thighs, replacing Megan’s fingers with their tongues. They licked and suckled at Ava’s clit in a dizzying, shared rhythm, their noses brushing, their mouths working in tandem.
The sight was profoundly obscene. Profoundly beautiful. Georgia held Ava’s gaze as the two women ate her out. Megan, behind Ava, bit at her shoulder, her hands squeezing Ava’s breasts roughly.
“Now,” Georgia whispered, her own breath coming fast. “Come for them. Come for your worshippers.”
Ava’s climax tore through her with a silent, open-mouthed scream. Her body seized, back arching violently, her cunt pulsing against the twin tongues devouring her. Claire and Lisa moaned into her, drinking her down, not stopping until the last tremor subsided and Ava went boneless, held up only by Megan’s arms.
Georgia then directed the scene with a cruel, loving grace. She had Lisa lay back on the fur, and guided Ava’s spent, pliant body on top of her. “Clean her,” she told Ava, pushing her head between Lisa’s thighs. Ava, dazed and obedient, began to lick Lisa’s pussy with a weary, devoted sweetness that made Lisa cry out in minutes.
While Ava serviced Lisa, Georgia had Claire kneel over Megan’s face, and she herself took Claire from behind, fucking her with a sturdy, polished dildor, stroking into her in time with Megan’s tongue on Claire’s clit. The room became a tapestry of interconnected pleasure, a circuit of gasps and curses and slick, slapping flesh, all orbiting the radiant, exhausted figure of Ava Mendes, who moved from one woman to the next, giving and taking at Georgia’s quiet command.
Later, when the others had slipped away into the night, smelling of sex and incense, Georgia bathed Ava in the big soaking tub. She washed her hair, soaped the gentle bruises on her hips, the love-bite on her shoulder.
Ava lay back against her, water lapping at their skin. “They love me,” she whispered, wonder in her voice.
“They love what I allow them to see of you,” Georgia corrected gently, kissing her wet temple. “And that is the most powerful kind of love there is.”
She felt Ava smile against her neck. “What’s next?”
Georgia looked out the steamy bathroom window at the dark, sleeping houses. She thought of the sidelong glances at the school gate, the tight clusters of women at the supermarket whose conversations halted when she walked by. The network of quiet, simmering want was larger than she’d first imagined.
“Next,” Georgia said, her voice a contented rumble against Ava’s back, “we expand the congregation.”
The water cooled around them, a slow seep of reality into the steam-soaked air. Georgia’s words hung there, a soft vapor of intention. Ava shivered, though not from cold.
Expansion required a new target. Georgia’s mind, sharp and cataloging, replayed the summer party. She filtered through the strained smiles, the eyes that had followed Ava with a blend of envy and hatred. One face solidified: Rachel Carter. Forty-two. Married to the dermatologist. Her jealousy had been a vibrant, ugly thing, punctuated by a hissed comment to a friend about "tacky display" that Georgia’s ears had perfectly captured.
“Rachel Carter,” Georgia murmured into Ava’s damp hair, as if plucking the name from the steam.
Ava tensed slightly. “She hates me.”
“She’s terrified of you,” Georgia corrected, her hands sliding soapy over Ava’s stomach. “Her hatred is just a cage for that fear. We’re going to let it out.”
The approach was casual, engineered. Georgia ran into Rachel at the upscale grocery store two days later, both reaching for the same bunch of organic basil. “After you,” Georgia said, smiling her new smile—the one that didn’t ask permission.
“Oh, thanks,” Rachel replied, her tone clipped. She was all linen and sharp angles, a beautifully preserved severity.
“How’ve you been settling in? Since the party?” Georgia asked, shifting her basket.
Rachel’s gaze flickered with surprise. “Fine. It’s a quiet street.”
“It can be,” Georgia agreed, selecting her own basil. “Sometimes it needs a little… stirring up. My partner and I were thinking of having a few people over for drinks. A smaller gathering. You and your husband should come.”
The word partner did its work. Rachel’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Curiosity, now, mixed with the judgement. “Partner? Aren't you married?" Georgia smiled confidently "Oh my husband is away..., my partner will be there"
“Ava,” Georgia said, letting the name sit between the displays of artisan cheese and imported olives. She watched Rachel’s throat work. “This Friday. Eight o’clock. Just a few of the women, honestly. The men would be bored.”
It was a challenge wrapped in an invitation. Rachel, conditioned by politeness and a deep, unacknowledged pull, nodded once. “I’ll see if we’re free.”
“Do,” Georgia said, turning away. “Wear something comfortable.”
Rachel came alone. She stood on the porch at five past eight, clutching a bottle of wine like a shield. She’d worn silk trousers and a cashmere shell, armor for a war she didn't yet understand. Georgia, opening the door in soft black trousers and a simple tank top, disarmed her immediately.
“Just you? Perfect,” Georgia said, taking the wine. “Come in. It’s just us.”
The living room was subtly arranged. Low lighting. The same fur rug in the center. Ava was curled on the sofa in a oversized sweater and leggings, barefoot, a picture of approachable sensuality. She offered Rachel a small, genuine smile. “Hi, Rachel. I’m glad you came.”
Rachel stood stiffly, taking in the intimate space, the absence of other guests. “Where are…?”
“It’s just us three,” Georgia said, pouring a glass of the cabernet Rachel had brought. She handed it to her. “We wanted a chance to talk. Without the noise.”
The conversation was a delicate trap. Georgia steered it, prodding at Rachel’s dissatisfactions—the hollow routine of charity committees, her husband’s clinical distance, the stifling sameness of her days. Ava listened, her big eyes reflecting a sympathy that felt oceanic. She spoke little, but when she did, her voice was a warm balm.
“It sounds lonely,” Ava said softly, during a pause.
The word cracked something in Rachel’s polished veneer. Her eyes glistened. “It’s just… life.”
“Is it?” Georgia asked, setting her own glass down. She moved to sit on the rug, leaning back against the sofa near Ava’s legs. “Or is it what you’ve agreed to settle for?”
Rachel stared at her. “What’s the alternative?”
“Feeling something,” Georgia said. “Anything that isn’t curated. Even if it’s ugly. Even if it’s dirty.” She let the silence stretch, then gestured to the space on the rug beside her. “Sit down. The floor is honest.”
Hesitantly, Rachel sank down, folding her linen-clad legs beneath her. The proximity was charged. Ava, from the sofa, reached down and began to gently massage Georgia’s shoulders. The domestic intimacy of the act was more provocative than any overt touch.
“You watched her at the party,” Georgia stated, her eyes locked on Rachel. “You couldn’t look away.”
Rachel flushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You stared at her tits. At her ass. You imagined what it would be like to have that power. To be that desired.” Georgia’s voice was merciless, a clinical probe. “You also imagined what it would be like to ruin her. To smudge that perfection. Which was it, Rachel? Admiration or destruction?”
A tear escaped, tracking through Rachel’s powder. “I don't know what you mean,” she whispered, the lie torn from her. "Come her Ava" Ava obeyed immediately. "You see what your beauty does to beautiful, otherwise rational women?" Ava bowed her head, and act of contrition , an act of submission. "You make these women crazy, jealous, envious, scared their husbands will leave them" Georgia spoke softly looking at Rachel the whole time, Rachel just stared at Ava , dumbstruck, not having any notion of where this was heading. "Show her the real you Ava" And the goddess very slowly began unbuttoning her blouse, leaving it fall open, plain simple white mans work shirt. She stood then and slowly and ultra sexily shimmied out of her leggings and panties. Rachel almost freaked out but the vision of perfection before her held her mesmerised. "what is this?" She stammered "Perfection" Georgia replied simply. Ava stood, naked vulnerable and compliant. Rachel licked her lips absentmindedly - her face 18 inches for the core of the goddess, the woman she despised, feared. "You can touch her" Georgia whispered in her ear seductively. "No, no this is wrong" She stuttered. "No it is not, it is simply perfection, your fear and hatred are what is wrong, A lioness cannot help being a lioness, it is what it is, let go of the hatred and the fear, embrace the perfection" Georgia's words were hypnotic and slowly Rachel's hand reached out and touched Ava's taut stomach before retreating hastily in shock.
Rachel’s hand hovered in the air, fingertips tingling from the brief, electric contact with Ava’s skin. She stared at her own fingers as if they’d betrayed her. A nervous laugh, thin and brittle, escaped her. “This is insane.”
“It’s only insane because you’re thinking,” Georgia said, her voice a steady, low pulse in the quiet room. She didn’t move from her spot on the floor, a calm observer. “Stop thinking. Just look.”
Rachel’s eyes, wide and frightened, dragged upward from Ava’s stomach, over the subtle curve of her hips, the dark shadow between her legs, the heavy, perfect swell of her breasts, finally landing on her face. Ava’s expression wasn’t smug or mocking. It was open, patient, a soft invitation in her brown eyes. She held the silence, letting Rachel drown in it.
“I don’t… I’m not…” Rachel stammered, her social scripts failing.
“You are,” Georgia corrected gently. “You’re curious. It’s itching under your skin. That tight, angry knot you’ve carried since the party? That’s not hatred. It’s want. It’s a screaming, desperate want you don’t have a language for.” She shifted slightly, a whisper of fabric. “We have the language here. You can be silent. Your hands can speak for you.”
Ava took a step closer. The scent of her—clean sweat, vanilla, something fundamentally female—washed over Rachel. It was the same scent that had cut through the summer party’s haze of barbecue and beer, that had made Rachel’s mouth go dry with a feeling she’d violently repressed.
“It’s okay,” Ava whispered. The two words were a balm and a permission.
Rachel’s breath hitched. Her hand lifted again, slower this time, shaking. It landed not on Ava’s stomach, but on the sharp jut of her hip bone. The skin was unfathomably smooth, warm. She left it there, her palm soaking in the heat. A shudder ran through her, starting deep in her core and radiating outward. The silk of her trousers suddenly felt like a prison.
“What does it feel like?” Georgia asked, her voice now coming from just behind Rachel’s ear. She’d moved soundlessly.
“Real,” Rachel breathed, the word torn from some raw place. “She feels so real.”
“More real than anything in your life for the last ten years,” Georgia murmured. “Now taste it.”
Rachel’s head turned, her eyes searching Georgia’s for the joke, the trap. She found only serene certainty. A wild, reckless current surged through her, burning away the last remnants of her resistance. It was the same impulse that made her buy the obscenely expensive wine, the one that made her argue with her husband just to feel something—but amplified, focused, pure.
She leaned forward, her stiff hair brushing Ava’s thigh. She pressed her open mouth against the perfect, taut skin of Ava’s lower abdomen. She kissed it. Then she licked a slow, tentative stripe upward, salt and sweetness flooding her tongue.
Ava moaned, a soft, yielding sound. Her hands came down, not to push Rachel away, but to cradle her head, her fingers threading into the carefully styled hair. The gesture shattered Rachel completely. A choked sob mixed with a gasp escaped her as she buried her face against Ava, nuzzling into the coarse, dark hair at the junction of her thighs, inhaling her musky, essential scent.
“Open her up,” Georgia instructed, her own breath growing uneven. “Use your mouth. Learn what she tastes like when she’s nervous. When she’s wanted by you.”
Rachel didn’t need further guidance. Hunger, ancient and ravenous, took over. She gripped Ava’s ass, pulling her closer, and plunged her tongue inside her.
Ava cried out, her knees buckling. Georgia was there, a supportive pillar, easing them both down onto the deep fur rug. Ava lay back, legs falling open, and Rachel followed her down, burying herself between her thighs with a frantic, devouring urgency. She licked and sucked at Ava’s pussy like a woman discovering water in a desert, messy and inelegant and utterly consumed. Her sounds were animalistic—grunts, whimpers, desperate swallows.
“That’s it,” Georgia coaxed, kneeling beside them, watching Rachel’s elegant facade dissolve into primal need. “Eat her. Show her all that pretty jealousy was just hunger. Make her come on your face.”
Rachel’s fingers dug into Ava’s thighs, spreading her wider. She fucked her with her tongue, deep and rough, then zeroed in on her clit, sucking the hard bud relentlessly. Ava’s back arched off the rug, her hands fisting in the fur. “Oh god, Rachel… yes, right there, don’t stop…”
Hearing her own name screamed in that context broke the final seal. Rachel’s hips pumped against nothing, her own silk trousers soaked through. She was fucking Ava’s cunt with her mouth, claiming it, trying to consume the very essence of the woman she’d hated. The transformation was vile and beautiful. Her gloss was ruined, her linen stained, her world reduced to wet heat and trembling flesh.
Ava’s orgasm hit suddenly, a violent, clenching wave. She ground herself against Rachel’s face, her cries sharp and unrefined. Rachel drank every drop, lapping at her through the pulsations, not letting go until Ava’s body went limp, spent and shaking.
Silence fell, broken only by ragged breathing. Rachel pulled back, her chin glistening. She looked dazed, wrecked, utterly new.
Georgia reached out, wiped a streak of wetness from Rachel’s cheek with her thumb. “Now you know,” she said simply.
Rachel looked from Georgia’s knowing eyes to Ava’s sated, blissful face. The hatred was gone. In its place was a hollowed-out awe, a devotion born of conquest. “I want…” Rachel started, her voice ragged.
Then the realisation of what she had done hit like a freight train. Horror, shame, guilt . She exploded in anger and slapped Ava several times before Georgia stopped her. Rachel stormed out. Ava did not try to defend herself she just took the abuse. Georgia was shocked and rushed to comfort Ava "I'm so sorry beautiful" She took Ava to the bathroom and ran a soothing bubble bath The hand print of the slaps visible on the gorgeous Latina's face. Ava looked at peace "Don't apologise, you've done nothing wrong and honestly she was in shock" Georgia spent the next week caring for Ava at every available moment, she was genuinely shocked at the violence which erupted from Rachel, she had not foreseen it and that worried her. But Rachel reached out to her via text saying she was so sorry, she temporarily lost her mind at the reality of her own actions. Georgia smiled to herself , showed the message to Ava but did not reply to it. "You were right Ava! People can get angry at themselves after their carnal lust is sated." Ava smiled, "will you forgive her?"
Georgia ignored Rachel for a few days before summoning her "My house 30 minutes , dress like the slut you are underneath your coat ... your punishment will be appropriate to your crime" Sure enough 27 minutes later Rachel arrived wearing a closed trench coat. Ava was naked on one settee and Georgia was fully dressed beside her. Lisa Claire and Megan were all sitting clothed on the other settee. There were various sex toys strewn across the table. Rachel flushed to the core and almost ran but something kept her there. "Take off you coat slut. Apologise for attacking Ava, an outrage to damage such a perfect masterpiece. Tonight your being punished...you may not touch Ava tonight. So go now if you do not agree to the punishment and you will never get to touch Ava again"