The Polished Glass 01
The Secret life of Meredith
Meredith is not your typical Karen
By daylight, Meredith Callahan's life is spotless. She is the sort of woman you avoid at the HOA meeting — politely coiffed hair, pale pink nails, a voice that can cut the room cold without ever raising an octave. She signs checks for local charities, tips the gardener a whole dollar bill, and expects her latte to be precisely 165 degrees every single time. No one ever asks Meredith about her ex-husbands — not the neighbors, not the barista, not the trembling junior realtor showing her another rental property she'll never buy.
They assume the same thing: they left because she's impossible. Meredith lets them assume. It's easier than explaining that sex was never the glue holding them together. If anything, it was a lie.
At 4:00 PM sharp, Meredith Callahan's garage door slides shut behind her imported SUV. She kicks off her rigid heels, taps on her phone to disable the security cameras, and locks the deadbolt twice. The house hums; it knows the ritual.
Upstairs — past the tastefully sterile guest rooms and formal dining table that no one sits at — is her real shrine: blackout curtains, a silk robe, an oversized monitor, and drawers stacked with neatly cataloged toys she'd never let a lover touch her with.
Meredith doesn't need them to touch her. They never made her wet anyway. What makes her wet is porn: a thousand tabs of filth so pure it makes her moan just thinking about it.
No one would believe it — Meredith Callahan, HOA enforcer and brittle socialite, now naked in the glow, mumbling porn-soaked nothings into her wrist while the neighborhood goes on, neighbors carefully walking past her manicured lawn. They called her prudish. Cold. Unbothered. She let them own that identity.
Her husbands never really understood the full extent of her porn addiction. They just saw her dead bed and thought they could marry for status and stability without worrying about sex. But she never wanted their intimacy at all. Life never worked out where she could make positive associations with people and sex.
All she really knew was that she wanted porn — the faceless flood of cocks and moans and pixel heat that soaked her better than any man ever did. In the real world, she's ice; behind the locked door, she's melted. And no one will ever know.
Meredith's browser history never exists. Three VPNs hum behind her pristine WiFi mesh, a rotating carousel of anonymous accounts — each with a nonsense name and the same unspoken promise: never slip. Her favorite folders are buried under layers of plausible deniability.
One click away, she's an ordinary divorcée browsing cruise deals and garden renovation blogs. Two clicks deeper, the screen blooms with scenes she can't explain to herself, let alone a husband. It's not the typical porn you would expect her to watch; in fact, even though she's a pale, thin caucasian, porn that looks like her was never appealing. It was part of the reason why she was not interested in sex from her husbands.
She doesn’t even like the word — interracial. She thinks it implies blackness is some garnish to a white dish. No. She wants raw, real scenes: black bodies in all their honest chaos, sweat, stretch marks, braids slapping against a shoulder blade, hips wider than any shame she's ever hoarded in her cold ribcage.
Black men and black women make no difference in her eyes when she’s masturbating. She worships them all. Not the fake civility she's spent a life performing. She wants them rough, bored, laughing, spitting, pleasuring themselves in front of the camera because they can. Because they should.
She wants the world to shrink to that — just her pale hand working her womanly folds raw under the desk while some black woman arches her back and smiles right through Meredith's guilt. No husband ever knew this is how she really thought.
The first husband thought she was frigid, the second tried to pry her open like a clam, and the third just stopped asking. They all thought it was the price to pay to be part of her empire and kingdom. She tolerated them. They eventually wore down from denial, confusion and frustration. They wanted more than “Just a kingdom”
No one will ever really know what Meredith Callahan needs. They will never know who she really is. They see her short blonde bob, her soft-pink lipstick, her neat yard signs, and perfectly folded HOA minutes. They see a 'Karen' — tight-lipped, no-nonsense, a fortress of propriety.
They don't see the blackout-curtained room upstairs, or the folder named Garden Renovation Final. They don't see the real final thing: hundreds of hours of black skin in flickering frames. A marvelous shrine to black beauty hidden between layers of well crafted cold appearances. Black porn makes Meredith come apart in trembling gasps. The same sexual responses that her peers talk about only happens when she watches black porn.
She'd sooner die than share this secret. She'd sooner burn this house to the slab than let them see what she loves. So she smiles politely at the mailman, corrects the neighbor's fence height, and cancels on lunch dates she never intends to keep.
And when the door is bolted twice over — Meredith Callahan strips naked, sinks to her knees, turns up the volume, and lets her well-manicured fingers part her womanly folds of pleasure. The world calls her prudish; only the dark warm glow of her goon cave knows the truth.
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