The Polished Glass 06
The Ritual
Meredith knows she crossed a line in the grocery store. It sticks with her. It’s not her best moment in life. The look on that woman’s face—how righteous she was, how powerful her voice was when she spat “bitch” at Meredith’s thin lips.
She drives home sick with herself. She’s not stupid. She knows this is the shape of rot: a wealthy white woman summoning rage she doesn’t deserve just to feed her own secret hunger. It’s cruel. Dangerous. It should shame her more than it does.
But guilt is not enough to kill the heat. So Meredith decides: no more collateral damage. She will cage the monster where it belongs—in her house, in her blackout room, in the glow of her screens. In her gooncave and sanctuary.
So over time, she slowly and systematically cancels plans to spend more time with porn.
She cancels her Saturday brunch. Her tennis lesson. Her hair appointment. She tells the HOA vice chair she’s “under the weather.” She stocks the fridge with water and protein shakes. She builds a home gym. She bolts the doors, pulls every blind tight, silences her phone. She tells herself she will break herself of the habit of provoking real women in the wild. She refuses to live up to the reputation of being a Karen. She will wring the hunger dry in private—drown it in pixels until it can’t crawl out into daylight anymore.
She was ready to take things deeper. She was ready to try something to make her devotion stronger than ever.
She’s read about devotional gooning before—the pagan twist, the occult nonsense whispered on anonymous forums: chants, candles, mirrors, sigils drawn in sweat. She’s always rolled her eyes at it.
But this time? Why not? She has nothing to lose. Her polite self is already half-dead. She’s just a shell now. A facade that pretends to be a Karen to maintain appearances, but her mind is always elsewhere now. Her gooncave. The only part of her world where she feels alive.
So Saturday at dusk, Meredith, still fully nude from a full day of gooning, drags an old antique mirror from the basement. She lays out candles in a wide circle, downloaded from a grainy imageboard guide. She sits naked and cross-legged in front of the flickering glass.
The ritual begins as planned, a deliberate descent into her goonstate, the only place where her polished exterior dissolves into raw need. Her goon room is a cocoon of blackout curtains, the air thick with the scent of melted wax and her own arousal. Her bare pale skin catches the flicker of candlelight as she arranges the circle of candles around the old basement mirror, each flame lit with a whispered invocation:
Goddess.
Mother.
Skin.
Curve.
Thigh.
Her laptop glows and flickers with eagerness, open to her curated altar of black porn—an endless stream of raw, unscripted intimacy that makes her pulse throb. The mirror reflects her small, unremarkable frame, but tonight, it’s more than a reflection; it’s a portal, a conduit for the devotion she’s chasing.
She sits cross-legged on the hardwood, knees spread, the cool floor grounding her as she begins the mantra she’s pieced together from shadowy forum posts:
Make me pure for them.
Make me need them more than air.
Make me useless for anything else but this.
Her voice is soft at first, barely audible over the muted moans from her screen, but it gains strength with each repetition, syncing with the rhythm of her fingers tracing slow circles around her clit. The porn flickers—sweat-slicked black bodies moving with unapologetic abandon—and she mirrors their energy, her hips rocking slightly, her breath hitching. The candles cast long shadows, and in the mirror, her reflection seems to blur at the edges, as if her body is softening, melding into the ritual’s pulse.
As she chants, the room feels heavier, the air pressing against her skin like a warm hand. Her fingers move faster, slick with her own wetness, and the mantra spills out louder, more desperate:
Make me pure for them.
The words aren’t just sounds anymore; they vibrate in her chest, her throat, her core, as if they’re rewriting her from the inside. The porn loops—a black woman’s thighs trembling, a man’s grip firm and unyielding—and Meredith’s mind locks onto it, her senses narrowing until the screen, the mirror, and her own body are one. She feels a strange pull, like a current tugging at her navel, drawing her deeper into the ritual. Her reflection in the mirror shifts subtly—her watery blue eyes seem darker, her pale skin almost shimmering, as if absorbing the candlelight. She doesn’t question it; it feels right, like she’s finally aligning with the goddesses she worships.
The chant becomes a low, continuous hum, her voice blending with the porn’s audio, and her fingers plunge deeper, chasing the edge she’s been teasing all day. The room grows warmer, the candles burning brighter, their flames stretching unnaturally tall. Her mantra falters, words slurring into moans as the pleasure builds, a molten coil tightening in her belly. She’s not just masturbating now; she’s offering herself, her body a vessel for something larger. The mirror pulses, or maybe it’s her vision swimming, but she swears her reflection moves independently for a split second—her mirrored self smiling, lips fuller, skin richer, eyes gleaming with a knowing she doesn’t possess. The sight sends a jolt through her, and she comes hard, a violent wave that arches her back and forces a cry from her throat. Her inner walls clench around her fingers, each pulse flooding her with ecstasy that feels too big for her body, as if it’s spilling out into the room, into the mirror, into the flames.
She doesn’t stop. The orgasm only fuels her, and she keeps chanting through the aftershocks, her voice hoarse:
Make me useless for anything else but this.
Her fingers move again, slower but relentless, and the ritual takes on a life of its own. The air hums with a low frequency, like a distant storm, and the candles flare, wax dripping in patterns that look almost deliberate, like sigils. Meredith’s mind feels untethered, her thoughts dissolving into the rhythm of her mantra and the porn’s endless loop. She’s not just watching now; she’s inside it, her senses saturated with the scent of sweat, the sound of skin on skin, the taste of her own salt on her lips. Her reflection in the mirror grows stranger—her blonde bob seems longer, curlier, her frame fuller, as if borrowing curves from the women on her screen. She’s too lost to care, her body trembling, her thighs slick, her chants now a wordless drone.
Her mind fades—time frays in the goon cave. She edges again, then cums again, each repeated climax pulling her deeper into a trance. She’s pushing her body into complete overstimulation for the ritual. The mirror slowly transforms into a void.
Her tantric ritual begins to manifest, but she’s too far gone to fully realize what she is seeing. Her reflection is barely recognizable. It’s only a shadow of black skin and liquid eyes that don’t belong to her staring back. The candles burn low, wax pooling around her, and the room feels alive, the walls pulsing faintly in time with her heartbeat.
She’s chanting without thought, her fingers moving mechanically, her body a conduit for something she can’t name. The porn plays on, but it’s distant, a backdrop to the mirror’s pull. She feels weightless, like she’s dissolving, her pale self eroding into something else, something that belongs to the goddesses she’s summoned. Her voice cracks, her mantra fading into gasps, and exhaustion finally claims her after her 10th orgasm in a row. She slumps forward, forehead resting against the mirror’s cool surface, her fingers still inside, her body spent. Sleep takes her. Her last thought a faint echo:
Make me pure.
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