The Polished Glass 08
She awakes to a new reality
Reluctantly, Meredith gets up from her chair. Her eyes are still glued to the screen, but she has just enough willpower to move away. She is filthy. The room is a mess; there are stains on the floor from her juices. She’s dehydrated. Her hair is a mess. She’s not okay.
She decides to take a shower. She’s too hungry and ravaged to take a bath, but the thought of staying in her own bodily filth any longer is a non-starter. Her pussy is throbbing. She’s still leaking arousal down her legs. She tells herself she’ll just have to get used to it. She asked for this, after all. Meredith is struggling to normalize her new reality.
As she showers, the realization hits her that what she did was real. It’s permanent. It’s everything she wanted. But now, with some sliver of clarity returning, she questions why her sexual impulses overrode common sense. She doesn’t know what she made a pact with. Yet now she has an uncontrollable urge to masturbate that feels more primal than any other need. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees Black goddesses commanding her to give in to pleasure. The intrusive thoughts are a permanent drone in her mind.
Masturbate.
Feed the addiction.
You need to watch more porn.
Those thoughts feel like hers and like they’re coming from somewhere else at the same time. Her soul drank from their world. They heard her. Ancient spirits older than time granted her deepest desires. And now she has willingly given everything to remain in a constant state of arousal for Black women. That blinding, sudden orgasm was the sign that this was more than permanent. This was something deeper.
Meredith, now clean but still exhausted and ravaged, makes her way downstairs to the kitchen. She doesn’t even bother with clothes. She just needs to exist for porn. She needs to exist for the Black goddesses on her screen. She needs to keep her vessel healthy for worship. None of that requires clothing.
Meredith stumbles down the stairs and into the kitchen for a small meal and a large glass of water. A whisper in her mind says, “Go out and see your goddesses.”
That thought is not her own. It came from somewhere else, and it is a command. She instinctively knows there will be consequences if she doesn’t obey. She decides to drive to the Black side of town to observe her goddesses in their natural habitat.
Meredith reluctantly dresses in her full Karen costume: crisp white blouse, neutral pencil skirt, pearls, soft pink lipstick, low nude heels that click like a metronome counting down to her ruin. She would rather be nude in their presence—kneeling, mouth open and useless. But some last shard of social programming keeps the fabric in place. Her hands shake so badly the pearl buttons feel like pebbles. The fire between her legs is no longer a want; it’s a brand—searing, constant, wet. She knows her panties are soaked. There isn’t much she can do about it. Her legs shake as another hands-free orgasm quivers through her groin and up her spine.
She reminds herself she asked for this. They granted her wish.
“This is normal,” she lies. “I’m normal.”
She wills herself to make it true. She says it again, with conviction.
Because it is normal. This is what she wanted. This is her dream come true. It’s safe. It’s healthy. Being so horny she can’t think straight is normal. Hands-free orgasms from just thinking about Black women are normal.
She tucks her porn tablet into her tote. It’s her mobile shrine. Insurance. Salvation. A portable altar.
Her legs tremble and her pussy throbs with each step. With measured practice and control, she makes it to her SUV in a haze of extreme arousal. The tablet auto-connects. Thick ebony moans flood the cabin before the garage door even finishes rising—wet slaps, low feminine laughter, a man growling “take that shit” in a voice that makes Meredith’s clit jerk like it’s on a leash. She leaves it playing. This is normal. This is just background noise, like birdsong. Porn is normal music.
She drives to the park on the edge of the Black side of town—still manicured enough for her gleaming white SUV to blend, diverse enough that the air itself feels darker, warmer, alive with them. The arousal curse hums under her skin like a second heartbeat.
She hears another command:
“Find them. See them. WORSHIP.”
That is no longer a whisper. That is the Goddess commanding her. She is no longer in control of her fate. She must obey.
She parks and takes a deep breath. Her throbbing arousal climbs to new heights in anticipation. With trembling hands, she puts in her premium earbuds. She’s never been on this side of town before. She never had a good reason—until now.
Most people probably think she’s just getting fresh air. In reality she’s here to feast on the sight and secretly worship Black women as she discovers them.
It feels wrong, but her pussy and the echoes of the Goddess tell her this is right. What they tell her is truth and gospel now.
Meredith sets her phone to a private porn loop: softcore sliding into hardcore, a thick sister riding reverse cowgirl, sweat rolling down the valley of her wide back, ass rippling with every bounce. The audio drips straight into Meredith’s skull. She steps onto the path and the world tilts.
It doesn’t take long before she sees her first Black goddess. A beautiful, fit woman in her early thirties is stretching by a cedar bench—cocoa skin gleaming, coral sports bra and black leggings vacuum-sealed to her body. One leg propped high, she bends forward; the fabric stretches translucent across the fat lips of her pussy, cameltoe deep and shameless. Meredith tries her best not to stare blatantly. She’s grateful she wore shades.
As she keeps walking, thighs already trembling, she spots another goddess in the distance. The waistband of her jeans rides low enough to reveal the soft roll of her belly and the dimpled top of her ass, faint stretch marks catching the sun like silver lightning. Meredith’s mouth floods with saliva. Her own cunt answers with a hard pulse—hot slick blooming against the gusset of her control-top hose. Her panties are instantly soaked, nothing more than a wet, intrusive clump of fabric now.
Ten yards ahead: two more goddesses on the grass doing yoga. It feels orchestrated. One is upside-down in downward dog—caramel skin, purple mat, gray shorts riding so high the bottom half of her ass is out, heavy cheeks parted just enough to show the shadowed crease between. The other kneels beside her, adjusting her hips with easy ownership, long box braids swinging, gold beads flashing. Their low, private laughter punches Meredith right in the clit.
“Obey us and you will get your reward,” the voices promise. She moans under her breath, knowing this level of arousal is becoming all-consuming.
She can smell their woman-scent on the breeze as she passes—floral undertones, perfume, something unique and intoxicating, nothing like Meredith’s bland designer notes she’s used to. The scent crawls up her nose and pools low in her belly like molten sugar. She feels her wetness starting to leak down her legs.
She tries to breathe. She can’t.
Then the final, most perfect goddess sends her over the edge.
Late twenties, leaning back against a weathered picnic table, one foot propped on the bench, phone glowing. She’s poured into a deep golden short-sleeve wide-leg jumpsuit—thin jersey fabric painted on. It clings to every roll and curve: heavy breasts straining the V-neck, dark areolas ghosting through when she breathes, thick nipples printing proud. The torso snaps tight around her soft belly before flaring into flowing legs that still outline the thunder of her thighs and the impossible shelf of her ass. One sleeve has slipped off her brown-sugar shoulder, baring the top swell of her breast; a black lace bra strap barely holding everything together. The crotch rides high and merciless, plush pussy lips pillowing out on either side.
The Golden Goddess throws her head back and laughs—rich, throat exposed, gold bamboo earrings swinging, box braids with blond tips spilling like night and honey. She is Joy, upgraded. Meredith’s clit takes violent notice.
Uncontrolled arousal starts spawning hallucinations and phantom sensations. She tastes copper. Vision tunnels to that laughing throat, that spilled breast, that obscene golden wedge she wants to drown in.
Her knees buckle. A helpless whimper escapes—too loud. The Golden Goddess glances over, then returns to her phone, unbothered.
The curse roars: WORSHIP. NOW.
Juices slide hot down the inside of her thigh, trapped by the hose, soaking the skirt lining. Her clit is so swollen it aches against the seam of her panties; every heartbeat is agony and need. The earbuds slip; wet porn moans spill into open air for half a second before she claws them back in.
She staggers off the path, heels skidding on gravel, one hand clamped between her legs in public, pressing hard against her screaming cunt because if she doesn’t she’ll collapse. Vision swimming, tears of pure overwhelmed lust, she aims for the little concrete restroom at the edge of the trees—filthy, half-broken, door hanging crooked.
She has to get inside. She has lost complete control of her body and her arousal. This is the only place she can hide. She knows what she has to do. The Black Goddess from the other world commands sacrifice through masturbation.
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