The Polished Glass 07
She meets The Goddess
Meredith drifts into sleep, her head still pressed against the mirror. Her room continues to play porn, a chorus of filth and depravity flowing through her ears.
She is no longer in her bedroom. She is kneeling—naked, of course—on a floor that feels warm and faintly pulsing, like skin. The room is vast and dark, lit only by a ring of tall candles whose flames burn deep indigo instead of orange. The air is thick with musk and cocoa butter and something electric, like the moment before lightning.
In the center of the circle stands a woman.
Not just a woman. A Goddess made flesh.
Skin like midnight velvet, gleaming with oil. Full hips that sway even when she’s standing still. Breasts heavy and proud, nipples dark and peaked. Braids cascading to her waist, threaded with gold that catches the candlelight and throws it back like stars. Her eyes—molten amber—lock onto Meredith with a look that is equal parts amusement and command.
Meredith’s mouth goes dry. She has seen thousands of bodies on her screens, but none like this. This one radiates. This one owns the room simply by existing.
The Goddess smiles, slow and wicked.
“You called,” she says, voice low and syrupy, the kind of voice that slides straight between Meredith’s legs and stays there. “Over and over. With your little chants. Your little candles. Your dripping white fingers.”
Meredith tries to speak, but her throat only produces a whimper.
The Goddess steps forward. Each footfall lands without sound, yet the floor ripples like water. She circles Meredith the way a lioness circles something already caught.
“You wanted to be pure for us,” the Goddess murmurs, dragging one nail—long, almond-shaped, perfect—along Meredith’s shoulder. The touch burns in the sweetest way. “You begged to be made useless for anything else. Remember?”
Meredith nods frantically, tears pricking her eyes. She has never felt smaller. Never felt more seen. The Goddess stops in front of her, cups Meredith’s chin, and forces her gaze upward.
“Then drink.”
From nowhere, a golden cup appears before her. It drifts slowly toward her face. With trembling hands, she reaches out and grabs the cup. A sweet, salty musk fills her nostrils. The Goddess repeats, a little more firmly,
“Drink.”
She slowly turns the golden cup up and tilts her head back. The thick, warm liquid fills Meredith’s mouth—sweet, salty, unmistakably hers. The Goddess leans down, full lips brushing Meredith’s ear.
“This is the pact,” she whispers. “Your pleasure belongs to Black women now. Your orgasms answer to us. Your body, your mind, your cold little life—everything you are will bend toward our worship. You will goon until your clit forgets any other purpose. You will edge until the thought of stopping feels like dying. And every time you come, you will give another piece of yourself away. Gladly.”
Meredith’s cunt clenches so hard she nearly tops out right there on the dream-floor. A sob breaks from her throat—relief, terror, gratitude.
The Goddess smiles wider, showing perfect teeth. A wide grin that is too wide to be real.
“And it’s already started, baby.”
Suddenly the circle is full of them—dozens of Black women, eyes glowing golden, every shade of brown and ebony and deep mahogany, every body type Meredith has ever kneeled for on her carpet. They close in, laughing softly, hands reaching. Fingers trace her pale skin, pinch her nipples, spread her thighs wider. Someone’s tongue—hot, wet, knowing—swipes once across her clit and Meredith screams into the void, coming instantly, violently, her entire body seizing as the hardest orgasm of her life rips through her like holy fire.
But they don’t stop.
They never stop.
Hands hold her down. Mouths descend. She is licked, fingered, worshipped and worshipper all at once. Every climax feeds the next—no refractory, no mercy, just wave after wave until her vision whites out and her voice is only a broken rasp of “Goddess—Goddess—please—”
The first Goddess kneels between her legs, spreads her open with strong hands, and looks straight into her soul.
“This is forever,” she says, and slides three fingers deep.
Meredith cums again, and something inside her cracks open like an eggshell. She feels it leave her—some last shard of resistance, of shame, of the old Meredith who still pretended she could go back. It pours out with her juices, soaks the warm floor, and is absorbed instantly.
The circle of women laughs, delighted.
“Good girl,” they sing in perfect unison. “Now we own you.”
The candles flare higher. The dream tilts.
Meredith wakes with a gasp, flat on her back in her goon shrine. Dawn creeping under the blinds. The room still hums with porn playing. Her body is slick with sweat, thighs trembling, a visible wet spot between her legs on the floor. Her clit throbs like a second heartbeat—raw, swollen, impossibly sensitive.
She tries to sit up. Can’t. Her limbs feel heavy, drugged.
When she finally drags a hand between her legs, the lightest brush against her clit nearly blinds her with pleasure. A single stroke, and her hips jackknife off the floor. A ragged moan tears out of her throat as a small, cruel orgasm punches through her without warning.
Her eyes fly open wide.
The hunger is no longer a want.
It’s a command.
And it is only growing.
She starts to rub uncontrollably. Orgasm after orgasm rushes from her raw, swollen, red pussy. Every flickering image on her screen is a trigger.
She can’t stop. She doesn’t want to stop. Her clit aches but she slides her hand down again, breathless, dizzy. The ritual did its job: the craving is bigger now. Hungrier. Insatiable. Unstoppable.
She hears a whisper in the room. The faint sound of “good girl” in the air.
Her urges subside. The room comes into focus. The porn is still playing. She looks back at the mirror and sees a ragged, ravaged woman. But at least she’s not horny anymore. For now. In the background she catches a glimpse of a Black goddess standing nude and proud on her screen. Immediately, her pussy swells involuntarily, her clit prominent and engorged. She starts leaking down her leg. A familiar but now sweet musk fills the air.
The ritual worked too well. That dream was real.
She starts to panic. What has she done?
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