The Polished Glass 10
Rayeanna; Baddie, Caretaker, Sage
Rayeanna is twenty-seven — young but already seasoned in the art of tending to people who can’t tend to themselves. She works long shifts as a night nurse — psych patients, elderly patients, the weeping, the furious. She’s seen breakdowns and bathroom floors. But never like this. Never a thin, pale white woman half-possessed by a porn loop and a secret worship that leaks out of her in unstoppable waves. Rayeanna’s first instinct is to be ready: she checks her battle purse — sanitizer wipes, a comb, travel tissues, a small pink canister of mace, a pink taser tucked behind her phone charger. If this Karen flips the switch from helpless to hateful, she’ll be ready. But right now, all she sees is a woman so cracked open by her own secrets that she can’t even stand up straight.
Rayeanna wipes Meredith’s cheeks first — gently, with a mother’s touch. Meredith hasn’t felt this kind of touch since her own mother died in a hospice bed fifteen years ago. She wipes away sweat from her upper lip, tears from her chin. She pulls a clean sanitary wipe from the pouch and presses it into Meredith’s clammy palm.
“Here, baby. Clean your hands. Come on.”
Her voice is low, soft — but there’s steel under it. She can command a grown man in a full psych break to sit the hell down. She can handle this.
Meredith stares at her, wide-eyed, trembling. Her mind tries to form the usual armor — the frost, the cutting line about privacy or decency. But it won’t come. She just stares at the soft slope of Rayeanna’s belly in the tight dusty pink one-piece. The faint sheen of gloss on her full lips. The scent — warm coconut and faint summer sweat — that makes Meredith’s thighs twitch even now.
Rayeanna pulls a small comb from her bag, smooths a few strands of Meredith’s hair away from her forehead. No one has done this for Meredith since she was a child. Not a hug — not an empty “there, there” — but real touch. Real, practical mercy. She wants to weep again.
They walk out of the restroom. Meredith full of shame steps back into the light. She’s a hot mess, but at least her arousal has subsided to a dull throb. She can focus. She can walk. Slowly.
When Meredith’s knees stop buckling, Rayeanna watches her carefully, taking silent stock of her slow breaths, her pink, raw eyes, her sudden stutters. Meredith wants to get away. Get to her car. Escape this embarrassment. Rayeanna knows this energy all too well once she sees where the woman is trying to go.
“You’re not driving,” Rayeanna says, flat and kind all at once. “No way. We’re gonna sit. Over there.”
She nods toward a shaded gazebo — half-broken picnic table under peeling white paint. Safe enough. Open enough. She doesn’t trust Meredith not to snap, but the woman looks more like she’ll break herself than anyone else.
They walk together. Meredith clasps her bag to her chest like a child hugging a stuffed animal. Her phone — still open to black porn loops — buzzes in her pocket. She looks longingly at the screen one more time before she puts her phone on mute and locks the screen. Rayeanna sees this and takes note of it. Clearly this woman has some fort of porn problem and needs serious mental help.
They sit. Rayeanna crosses her legs, stays close but not too close — her free hand resting on her purse in case she needs the taser.
Meredith opens her mouth. The first words tumble out clumsy, jumbled. But once they start, they don’t stop:
She talks about the hotel pay-per-view when she was barely twenty, drunk with her first husband’s snores in the next bed. How she watched a black woman ride and laugh and shine under cheap lamplight and how something inside her broke — or maybe opened.
She talks about her carefully pruned marriages — good on paper, dead in bed. How men called her frigid, cold, hollow. They were right, she says, they were all right — because she didn’t want them. She only wanted black porn.
She explains carefully how it’s not some blacked or BBC cuck fantasy — she hates that trash. She sees how cringe it felt her how forced it felt. It felt like a corporate machine of manipulation trying to maintain racism and oppressing black people.
Rayeanna blinked. How in the heck this HOA suburban queen who’s probably never talked to a black person get this right? She had to pay more attention now.
She wants the real bodies, the real softness, the real wildness she’ll never have for herself. “Not tools, not toys — goddesses,” She says the word like a prayer that can’t stop falling from her lips.
She admits how she ruined herself with a pagan ritual. Clearly she can’t trust herself in public anymore. That’s why she’s like this now. Openly admitting she has a dull aching sexual throb just by being in her presence–Rayeanna raises and eyebrow, her hand arming the taser in her purse silently.
Meredith continued her confession about how the pagan ritual was successful, but clearly too successful.. how it failed her and turned her into a degenerate pervert stalker. She was commanded by the spirits to go across town. They told her she needed to see black women in person for the first time. How she had to steal glances at black women with her eyes, with her ears, with her phone playing porn in her headphones as she went through the park.
She knows how sick and depraved it all sounds. She says she’s broken, fundamentally. She knows it. She half expects Rayeanna to spit in her face. Or hit her. Or scream.
She almost hopes for it. She deserves it. Meredith closed her eyes expecting violence because she enraged this stranger.
Rayeanna listens. She doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t edge away. The whole time her dark eyes stay locked on Meredith’s flushed, mortified and defeated face.
When it’s over, Meredith’s voice cracks. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m so sorry. I know what this looks like. I’m sick. I’d pay you — if you’d keep quiet. Or — or if you’d just… talk to me. Please.”
She looks so small now, so paper-thin in her dirty prim blouse and pearls that don’t fit her sins.
Her thighs still ache. Her clit still pulsate with her heartbeat. She keeps telling her its normal and she wants this, but at the same time, she accepts she was not careful for what she wished for. For now, the porn demon is silent — waiting to see what this real goddess will do.
Rayeanna takes a slow breath. She feels pity. Confusion. A flicker of disgust she buries under layers of her nurse’s professional calm.
But also… something else. A dark, unwanted sympathy. She knows what it means to chase things you’ll never be — to crave softness, realness, life beyond what the world says you’re allowed to have. She’s been fetishized before — ugly, entitled hands, cheap dirty talk, black girl jokes in bed. But this? This isn’t that.
This is worse, in a way — sadder. This broken Karen didn’t want to use her. She wanted to be her. Or worship her. Or both.
Rayeanna sighs. Her eyes soften, even as her fingers tumble armed taser inside her purse. She leans in, just enough for Meredith to smell that warm coconut scent again.
“Okay,” she says, voice quiet but unflinching. “I’m not gonna beat you. I’m not gonna run. But you need help. Real help. And you need to promise me you’ll listen. Do you hear me?”
Meredith nods so fast it looks like her neck might snap. Her eyes glisten. She looks at Rayeanna the way a dying thing looks at a cup of water.
“I’ll listen,” Meredith whispers. “I’ll listen to anything. I swear. Please help me if you can.”
And for the first time in Meredith’s life, the word please tastes clean on her tongue.
Rayeanna sits opposite Meredith on the cracked bench, legs crossed, purse tucked tight against her hip. She watches Meredith’s trembling hands, her bitten lip, her watery eyes. She sees the thing inside her — the itch that never sleeps, the shine behind her pupils. It makes her stomach knot. Rayeanna just needed a closer look to confirm. Meredith just thought it was a gesture of kindness.
Rayeanna can’t stop thinking about those words.. ‘pagan ritual’.
It pulls at a dark corner of her mind — something old her grandmother whispered when she was little, stories she brushed off as old island fears: Spirits that listen if you talk too loud. Spirits that wake if you knock on the wrong door.
Rayeanna clears her throat. “I need you to tell me exactly what you did. Not the porn part. Not the, um… gooning. The ritual. Step by step. What did you say? What did you light? What did you promise?”
Meredith shifts under her prim skirt. She notices the warmth trickling down her inner thigh. A sign that her arousal is far from normal — However, she doesn’t notice the faint, sweet scent drifting up. Like sugar lilies, like jasmine after rain, the kind of scent that should come from a candle — not her own leaking cunt.
She doesn’t smell it. She’s probably too humiliated to care or notice. But Rayeanna does. She frowns, subtle, but doesn’t interrupt. She did see the puddle forming at Meredith’s feet but didn’t acknowledge it. Rayeanna has already seen the impossible. The pulsating pussy of something unworldly. Meredith’s pussy leaking something no grown woman should be capable of in deep arousal. She’s just never seen any kind of spiritual possession like this before, and she has seen a lot.
Meredith clutches her phone with both hands. Her voice trembles. “I… I found it on this board. An old thread — just old porn addicts, some of them said they’d tried it. It was just dumb words. Like an incantation. They called it a devotional goon binding. Said it makes the urge stronger but contained. Makes you pure for what you worship.”
She shudders at her own phrasing — but pushes through. “I bought candles — black ones, purple ones from a wiccan site. I drew this shape on my mirror like the guide said. It looked like an eye. I sat naked with my laptop in front of it — folders of all my favorite porn clips. I lit the candles and kept whispering: Make me pure for them. Make me need them more than air. Make me useless for anything else but this. Over and over. For hours. I masturbated the whole time. Edging. Begging. Wanting.”
Her voice drops, hoarse. “I came once. And then again. And then I woke up and I couldn’t stop. And now… now it’s like something’s watching. Or… feeding.”
Meredith was too far gone to care at this point. Her confession had triggered her arousal to full tilt. The small bloom of wet pussy juice was darkening the bench under her skirt. But Rayeanna’s eyes flick down, just once. She catches the faint shimmer trailing down Meredith’s knee — a thin line that glistens in the hot daylight like dew. The scent is unmistakable: sweet. Too sweet for sweat. Too floral for sex alone. It was an omen. Death was coming to this woman.
Rayeanna’s heart knocks against her ribs. She thinks of her grandmother’s cracked voice, the soft Haitian Creole prayers before bed: Some spirits stick to the desperate. Some pacts stick to the unclean.
She glances at Meredith’s face — all sharp cheekbones and watery shame, but her body is ripe. She’s leaking like an overripe fruit under a polished shell. And the smell makes the little hairs rise on Rayeanna’s neck.
“Did you close it?” Rayeanna asks, voice low. “Did you thank it? Did you break the circle?”
Meredith shakes her head, confused. “No… the post didn’t say anything about that. I just… passed out masturbating while watching porn in the circle.”
A drop of her sweetness lands on the wooden slat between her shoes. Rayeanna shifts her purse closer. One hand finds the cool edge of the comb, the other brushes the taser.
‘Old spirits love a fool,’ her grandmother used to say.
’But they’ll bleed you dry if you don’t pay them right.’
Meredith was not paying in blood this time. She was paying with her sexual essence and whatever was left of her soul slowly melting out of her pussy. And she didn’t even know how much danger she truly was in.
Rayeanna leans in, close enough to smell the bloom of Meredith’s living perfume. “Honey… you didn’t bind anything. You fed it. You opened something. And now it’s feeding on you.”
Meredith’s eyes flicker — the words land, but her thighs twitch too. The idea that something that doesn’t belong is alive inside her, sucking at her bones, makes her wet again. A ghost moan rattles behind her tongue.
Neither of them fully notice it yet. But the ritual does. It weaves through Meredith’s bloodstream — an old, sticky echo of an idea she could never pronounce right. It likes being spoken of. It likes being named. Acknowledgement gives it power.
It kisses her pulse points with the smell of warm, blooming flowers — sweet, fertile, impossible.
And both women feel it at the edges of their skin:
Something alive. Something awake.
Something that wants to be fed.
Rayeanna has encountered dark sprits like this before. She had to save this poor naive woman.
—Thank you for reading and I hope you feel good. Please donate to show your support.
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