The Polished Glass 09
Meredith’s Surrender
Meredith slams through the restroom door shoulder-first, the warped metal banging loudly enough to echo. This place is far from ideal for any situation. Meredith's old self would not deem this place worthy of any sexual gratification, but it's private. It has a door. It will do. It has to. She doesn't really have a choice; it's either this place or literally stripping everything out in the open in feral depraved worship.
Modesty and composure are long forgotten. The stall door bangs open and stays that way—she forgets the latch, doesn't care. Her shaking fingers claw under the pencil skirt, ripping the crotch of her pantyhose with a wet tear. Panties come next—once pristine La Perla, now a soaked rag—she yanks them down her thighs and lets them drop like shed skin. They land with a splat. A thin string of her slick wet womanhood still connects them to her cunt for a second before it breaks. She's literally dripping with arousal.
Another voice from the beyond says boldly:
WORSHIP!
The Goddess has spoken.
She collapses to her knees on the filthy tile. The impact jars her bones, but pain is just another flavor of pleasure now. Her skirt is up around her waist, blouse half-unbuttoned, pearls clacking against the stall wall. The essential body parts are now free for what she has begged for. She spreads her thighs wide, shameless, and dives in—three fingers straight into her swollen, greedy hole while her thumb mashes her clit like she's trying to punish it. She has to give in; she has to obey. The Goddess has spoken loud and clear.
The first moan rips out of her raw and animal-like. Then another. Louder. The earbuds slip; the phone clatters to the floor. The Bluetooth connection fails.
Suddenly, the entire restroom fills with the porn she's been marinating in since she left her house—thick ebony moans, wet slaps, a woman snarling “fuck me deeper, daddy” in that perfect smoky register. The sound that bounces off the concrete is holy. Her cathedral of filth is now complete. Meredith sobs from relief; tears and drool mix on her chin. This is church; she needs this to feel normal.
Her clit is round like a marble, diamond-hard, protruding obscenely and angry from its hood. She's never experienced this before. It's never been this big; it's like its fighting to transform into something far beyond its creation.
Her labia are so engorged they look bee-stung, glossy, twitching with every heartbeat. She's never been this wet in her life; it pours out of her in waves, pattering onto the tile between her spread knees like summer rain. She's never had a pulsating throbbing sensation from her crotch that was physically crippling and consuming. She loves it.
She laughs almost hysterically from all the sensations and the overload of pleasure coursing through her soul. She's on a natural chemical high—broken, delirious—then grunts like a sow in heat. Every nerve is lit. As her vision begins to fade from pleasure, her spiritual sight activates.
In her haze of arousal, she can see them again: moving shapes all dancing just out of sight. She knows who they are; dozens of black goddesses circling her, reaching out to her, claiming her, declaring their full ownership.
Thought dissolves. Language dissolves. There is only pulse and need and worship. The world has faded into nothing but a primal need for pleasure.
Her orgasm doesn't build; it detonates.
Her back arches so hard her head cracks against the bathroom stall door. She's slightly stunned but unphased. Without warning, an actual seizure takes her: it was real, violent, limbs jerking, eyes rolling white. She keeps rubbing through it, fingers pumping furiously inside of her hungry hole until her hand is a blur.
She no longer masturbates; she's summoning something greater than her soul.
Her body continues to ride the convulsions. She starts to foam at the mouth. Drool spills from her mouth through clinched teeth that break into an unnerving smile.
A low, continuous howl vibrates in her chest. Her pussy spasms so hard it pushes her fingers out; a gush of clear fluid splashes the floor. Then another—and another.
She collapses sideways, legs splayed open like a broken doll, skirt soaked, blouse open to the waist, pearls tangled in her sweat-damp hair. The phone keeps screaming porn at full volume, specs of dust dancing in the fluorescent light. The shadowy figures in her vision begin to take their leave—pleased at her performance.
When her vision clears, the golden jumpsuit goddess is standing over her.
The woman's box braids frame a stunned face—one hand holding the phone, the other half-raised like she's not sure whether to help or run. The golden fabric is even more obscene up close: damp at the crotch now (whether from the heat or from watching Meredith come apart, who knows). Her pussy lips are clearly visible from this angle. Those heavy breasts rise and fall fast. The slipped sleeve still bares one shoulder.
Meredith stares blankly without any shame.
“Are you... okay?” the goddess asks, voice careful, a little shaken, a little curious.
Meredith stares up at the lady in gold; her pussy still fluttering with aftershocks, juices cooling on her inner thighs, porn still blasting—and slowly feels the full, humiliating weight of the real world crash back in.
Her mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Meredith's eyes grow wide at the full reality of her situation.
The golden goddess had seen everything. She saw Meredith stumble and convulse—thin, pale, damp-eyed—and followed her with concern. She's a nurse by trade; seeing someone in distress flips a switch she can't turn off. But this? She's never walked in on a woman in complete sexual ecstasy, practically naked, floor wet with raw, unstoppable arousal while porn moans blast from the white woman's phone.
A short glance at what was on her screen was all this lady in gold needed to see: it appeared she had a fetish for black porn. But there were more obvious things to worry about besides a phone.
She's never seen someone have an orgasm so strong it causes a seizure. Meredith looked possessed. Even after the orgasm faded, the lady in gold didn't know who was in control of the situation at that moment.
The golden goddess proceeded with caution; her many years of wisdom in her profession prepared her for moments like this.
She knows black women are a fetish for some pale, brittle people. She's rolled her eyes at the jokes. But she's never witnessed this—a real body reduced to nothing but primal arousal. Was porn the real cause of this?
She could tell that most of it was over; the strange, thin and frail-looking white woman was gaining her senses again.
Meredith's savior, this golden goddess, existed as a stark contrast to Meredith's plain, almost shapeless frame. This unexpected guardian clears her throat once—but it doesn't land.
She tries again: “Hey—honey, do you...do you need an ambulance?”
Her voice is warm, a soft rasp with just enough firmness to snap Meredith's eyes open for a heartbeat. But the gushing doesn't stop—if anything, the sound of that sweet voice makes it worse. Her still-swollen pussy is visibly pulsating almost acting in complete defiance of how a normal body works.
Meredith's puddle between her legs gets bigger. Her vision starts to fade again.
The golden goddess has never seen anything like this in her medical career.
Meredith's arousal is starting to build all over again. Meredith lets out a pathetic gurgle, eyes rolling. She picks up her phone and starts watching the porn on her screen; it never stopped. She didn't adjust the volume. She starts to rub again, laying on the bathroom floor. She's admitted defeat.
Someone has caught her in the most compromising situation she promised no one would see. In fact, it's worse: she's laying in her own filth and is unable to stop touching herself.
The ancient spirit that ruined her and hollowed out her soul seems to hum in her veins: “Good girl. Watch. Listen. Throb.”
The nurse—this goddess in caramel gold—took a step back, shook her head slightly, half-smiling despite herself. She saw what happened; how just her existing had an effect on this white woman.
She sighed. “Okay. Let's...let's get you cleaned up first. And then we'll talk, okay?”
Meredith nods. She doesn't even notice her phone screen flickering anymore. The goddess glances over and sees a naked black woman twerking. 'At least she has good taste,' the woman in gold thought to herself.
For the first time in years, the woman in gold is looking at someone real; someone who has fallen so far that she's eroded herself down to who she really is. And the look on her face says it all: Thank you. Please see me. Please don't stop.
The woman in gold has only seen this look in her life once before. She cannot ignore the plea of a genuine cry for help.
“Hey,” Meredith manages, still holding onto the goddess's hand, “thank you...for not running.”
The golden goddess looks at her, concerned but also compassionate. She takes in Meredith's condition, still trying to process what she saw. “Let's get you cleaned up first,” she says gently. “And then we'll talk, okay?”
Meredith nods again, this time a little more coherent. The goddess helps Meredith stand and guides her towards the sink.
As they make their way towards it, Meredith looks down at the goddess's hand still holding hers. She feels a sense of safety and security for the first time in years.
“Please,” she says, looking up at the goddess with tears streaming down her face, “don't leave me.”
The golden goddess stops and turns to Meredith, their eyes locking. For a moment, it's just them, suspended in time.
“I won't leave you,” she promises softly.
—Thank you for reading and I hope you feel good. Please donate to show your support.
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keep touching yourself