The Polished Glass 04
Meredith’s Secret Perversion
All of this black porn worship was starting to have some creeping side effects in her real life. It started one day when she heard the neighbor’s nanny laughing.
The nanny, known to the neighborhood as Joy (a name Meredith overheard once and clings to like a prayer), moves through the next-door yard with a confidence that feels like sunlight breaking through Meredith’s blackout curtains.
Joy’s deep brown skin glows under the sun. Her full curves, thick thighs, generous hips, and soft hourglass figure are hugged by a navy polo. That polo is untucked, and worn khakis that shift with her stride. White sneakers with yellow laces flash as she chases kids, her braids adorned with gold beads swinging past her shoulders. Her loud, infectious laugh spills over the fence as she talks to the neighbors. Her laugh is a warm, unapologetic sound that makes Meredith’s thighs clench and her pulse race.
To Meredith, Joy’s beauty is a sexual trigger. Her radiant skin, dimpled smile, even the stretch-marked thighs peeking from the shorts or skirt she sometimes wears—it all makes Meredith wet. Joy is everything Meredith’s pale, featureless body isn’t. Her forwardness, the way she jokes with neighbors, her subtle and graceful defiance of the HOA’s cold rules; all of it is intoxicating. That laugh is a siren’s call that sends Meredith running to her goon cave, fingers trembling inside her pussy for the goddess she’ll never touch.
She knows watching so much porn is starting to affect her. But this is still better than what she was before. So she embraces it. She willingly accepts that she’s getting worse. She’s basically incurable now and happily spiraling down a very perverted path–alone but whole.
As she listens to Joy’s laughter, Meredith stands naked on the second floor of her goon cave, peeking through the curtains, and touching herself. She knows someone on the outside would call this creepy as hell. Inside, though, it’s just the logical extension of her porn worship. Joy is right there, real and alive. Meredith is paying tribute the only way she knows how.
She slides two fingers inside, gasping—not for the porn this time, but for that voice, that laugh. So easy. Warm. Unafraid. Meredith’s whole chest folds around the sound.
She imagines Joy turning. Looking up. Knowing.
That thought makes Meredith’s hips jerk. She slowly collapses to her knees on the carpet. The porn in her goon shrine keeps playing, but it’s just noise now. She’s on her knees in masturbation induced devotion. She’s praying to the woman she’ll never meet, never touch, never confess to. She’s already been edging for hours. This is the moment she finally lets go.
Fingers slick and trembling, she presses deeper, circling her clit before plunging back in, chasing the raw abandon she imagines in Joy’s world. The words “Black Goddess” loop in her mind, drowning out the pixelated moans from the screens. Her hips buck, desperate. Heat coils low in her belly, unbearable. One hand claws the curtain as she pictures Joy’s dark almond eyes locking onto hers—knowing—and that fantasy snaps the last thread of restraint.
The orgasm crashes through her like a tide breaking a dam. Her back arches, a muffled cry tearing from her bitten lip. Inner walls clench hard around her fingers in frantic, pulsing waves, each contraction flooding her with searing ecstasy that whites out everything else. Thighs trembling, slick with her own release, the pleasure rips through her fingertips, her toes, her scalp. It’s almost painful—so intense it feels like worship, like sacrifice to the unattainable divinity of Joy’s laugh, her curves, her effortless existence.
Meredith’s knees buckle. She sags against the window frame as aftershocks roll through her, softer but relentless. When the waves finally slow, she’s left trembling, fingers still buried inside, coated in the evidence of her surrender. The porn plays on, unnoticed—its fake moans no match for the real-time goddess next door.
Joy’s laugh fades into the afternoon. Meredith whispers “Black Goddess” one last time, voice barely a ghost in the dark room, sealing the ritual. She pulls back from the window, body spent, mind already aching for the next hit, knowing this twisted path is hers alone—and that she wouldn’t trade it for anything.
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keep touching yourself