The Edge of Glory

Jayne Renault
6 mins read
Published over 1 year ago

“Endurance is not just the ability to bear a hard thing, but to turn it into glory.”

William Barclay probably didn’t have this particular hard thing in mind when he said that. (Or maybe he did, who am I to say? Being a man of the cloth has never been an exemption from having a kink.) But you better believe I’m going to do more than endure and bear this hard thing. I have every intention of turning it into glory tonight.

As far as I can tell, I really am here. But it seems completely surreal.

Since I have nothing to do for the moment but wait, I’m busying myself by contemplating this very unique situation that I have willingly put myself in.

Laying flat on my back, I look up at the ceiling. It matches the weathered wood that lines the walls all around me. If I reach my arms out like a cross, I can just barely graze the grain on either side with the tips of my middle fingers. A dim light in the corner sets the rustic edges in this tiny, box-like room aglow. It’s a bit like a sauna, but without the heat. Although, I have been laying here long enough to start sweating; whenever I fidget impatiently, my bare skin gets stuck to the leather upholstery of the curious flat bench under me.

I don’t remember when I decided that I wanted to do this. Now that I’m here, I don’t know why it took me so long.

I wag my feet back and forth to test the limits of my range of motion. My toes are pointed to the sky because my ankles are bound by stirrups mounted in the wall. These stirrups hold my legs in place and spread me wide like geese flying in formation. I shiver when the cool air licks over my naked lower half, whispering promises of debauchery into the wetness already collecting in most of my nooks.

Propping myself up on my elbows, I look down my torso, but I can’t see anything past my belly button. Like a magician’s assistant cut in half, everything from the waist down has been severed from my view by this hole in the wall that has all but swallowed me. I fan and wiggle my toes as if moving the air between them could give me any indication of what it might look like on the other side of the wall or who might be out there.

This is definitely not your father’s glory hole, but all the basic concepts still apply.

My head falls back into the small pillow they gave me. It’s not much, but it’s enough to support my neck on this otherwise medically straight gurney of a table. Though it’s not quite enough to make lying on my ponytail comfortable. I didn't think this part through—tying my hair back was obviously not the right call for tonight. I tug the elastic from my hair and let it fall loose around me. I don’t worry about the ponytail kink because no one can see me anyways. I am liberated by this notion of invisibility and feel safe in the confines of my cozy little hut.

But then again, half of me is hanging outside the boundaries of my sanctuary... I swing right back to being acutely aware of my terribly vulnerable position below the belt. My naked nether regions are fully on display for anyone who might be on that other side and now this combined anxiety and excitement of anticipation has shortened my breath. My quick inhalations get caught in my throat the same way they did on my walk over to this place. I’m focusing too much now on how close these walls are to my body. 

I close my eyes and fall inward. Willing my breath to deepen, I inhale in the dusty musk of my little box and start to open up again. I’m opening up to my obscurity, on both sides of the wall. I don’t know who is coming to me, just as they have no concept of who I might be. 

The sudden bout of nervousness passes as quickly as it rose and now I’m almost soothed by the intensity of my arousal. A wave of excitement shudders through me and it’s there in this heightened equilibrium between places that I wait. 

My visual limitations have changed how I perceive any stimuli coming to me from beyond the wall. I can almost feel the heat of the bright fluorescent bulbs searing the inside of my thighs while I wait to be chosen. Gradually, the muffled echoes of shuffling footsteps begin to creep in closer and I swear I feel their approach well before anyone even touches me. The fine, tiny hairs on the backs of my legs stand at attention, reaching out towards the undeniably masculine energy flooding into the room.  

The thud of my heart falls hard between my ears, somewhere at the very center of my heavy skull. It thumps down into the little pillow under my head and pushes the blood away from my face, through my chest, past my ribs, beyond this rabbit hole in the wall, until it’s pounding right out from my increasingly aching pussy on the other side.

I wonder if they can hear how much my body wants this.

My senses are converging on each other now. I can practically taste the acidity of my excitement burning up my throat to lace my tongue. I hear my nerves sparking hot all over my body. Indistinct mumbles from the patrons trailing in tickle the spaces between my toes. I wiggle my feet again with anticipation, waving hello to any would-be takers. They obviously can’t see my face, but I bite down on my lower lip for them all the same.

I’m completely paralyzed, as stiff as the table beneath me, when a single gruff hand makes itself known to me. It’s none too polite when it squeezes the meat of my calf, then the fleshy inside of my thigh.

It seems someone has accepted my flirty greeting. 

Grasping at the space between us, my unclaimed holes are already reaching out for attention. They clench and release at the mere idea of my taker’s inevitable girth. When he steps in closer and his hand makes its way over to the tip of my flying V formation, my breath hitches. But only for a moment. He presses his palm into my pussy and I deflate back into the table with a soft, involuntary moan. 

I imagine him stroking up and down the length of his shaft as he inspects me at leisure, looking at my disembodied rump like the fine, juicy cut of meat that it is. He spreads my lips wide with the fingers on one hand. I can taste the heat of his gaze burning right into my desperate, depraved pussy. My juices drip out and down to fill the space between my spread ass cheeks, oozing onto the worn black leather at the edge of my cushioned plank.

My breathing grows heavy and fills my little box with stuffy warmth. I’m surrounded by a cloud of my own arousal and I close my eyes to sink even deeper into the melding of sensations.

The stranger rubs a heavy circle into me with the heel of his palm. My clit grows hard under the weight and I press back into him, as much as I can in spite of my restraints.

He thumbs my clit and drags his fingers along my pussy lips. I envision the surge of wetness that spills over his fingertips when he pries me apart. I wonder what I might smell like to him. I wonder if it’s pungent enough to pique the senses of another wishful cock waiting in line.

I jump suddenly, startled when he covers me unceremoniously with his spit. I smile for my own benefit. I don’t stifle the moan that wants to escape me when he rubs his swelling cock between my saliva-slicked lips with both hands. The joints of his thick knuckles graze me while the edge of his shirt tickles my thighs at the top of every stroke.

It’s hardly even begun and I’m already on the verge of delirium. Though my ability to do so is extremely limited, I’m squirming all over the table, inexplicably desperate to have him inside me. I grip the edges of the table and push my hips towards him as he glides his smooth shaft up and down. Torturously slow, he acquaints the curvature of his length with every edge of this anonymous pussy. 

I know he can’t hear me but I mutter it out loud: “Please, for the love of god, just take me already.”

Almost on command, he slips the fleshy tip of his cock down towards my hungry hole. 

Maybe he can hear me after all.

He teases me with what seems like an infinite number of micro-thrusts before sliding in a little deeper. Stretching me. Filling me. 

Unlocking the mysteries of my perversions.

I hear high-pitched moans that aren’t my own pierce through the wall to my left. Someone else seems to be enjoying herself too.

When he is about half-shaft deep, he plunges in suddenly, hard and unforgiving as if he already knows exactly what I want until the fronts of his thighs press right into my ass, stuffing me completely with his promise of more. He is certainly more than I expected, but I have no problem taking it today; I arch my back to accommodate him. My nails dig so deep into the leather while I hold myself down that I may have left scars in the material. His approving groan matches mine and seeps through the wall to mix with the heady air inside my wooden cubical.

I wonder for a moment what he looks like. I wonder if he wonders what I look like. I realize I don’t care and very likely, neither does he. We are simply joined at the hip by a mystery that never needs to be solved. I am open and vulnerable, fearless and wanting, and above all, I am freed by my anonymity. Free to take and receive with abandon. Just as he is with me.

I feel it might already be the most intimate experience I’ve ever shared with anyone, never mind a stranger. By reducing myself to nothing but a hole to handle, it’s as if I have shed my insecurities. Without an identity to fret over, I have gotten out of my head and into my body, consumed by how good all of this feels right now; I am simultaneously outside myself and completely connected with me. 

With both hands clasping the backs of my thighs, he slides in and out, deep and diligent, and I feel more of me drip out and away. Skillfully yet without elegance, he squats down a little and curves his cock up into the sensitive ribbing inside me, pumping away like he’s trying to grind a hole right through me. I’m lost in the overwhelming pressure, but I don’t want to stop. I clutch the rim of this hole in the wall that has split me in half and my knuckles go stark white.

As he pumps harder and faster, my back arches even more and I leave an impression of my skull in the padding of the table. Tears of gratitude well in my eyes. I pull at my own hair and clamp down on my throat with my other hand. Foreign sounds escape from me on their own, bouncing back off the walls to slap me in the face just as he slaps the underside of my ass.

I am completely unconcerned with how I have come undone; these blank walls don’t need me to stand on ceremony for them. 

Faceless, nameless, I am simply a vessel built to receive this perfect, reckless, truly glorious pleasure. 

The bunched edge of his jeans pulled down to mid-thigh rubs into the flesh of my ass at the bottom of every vicious stroke. I imagine his ass cheeks clenching together with every push. I sense him climbing up onto his toes as his rises and builds. I feel him holding onto my strapped ankles for dear life.

He grows harder, pushing against the grip of my inner walls. I clench down around him in turn. I so desperately want to scrub my clit into oblivion but I can't get my hand through the hole to the other side. My access to that world is denied. 

Somehow, this frustration seems to amplify the build and sends a message to the other side. Reading my cues, he haphazardly flicks at my desperate clit, pumping slow and sultry for a few thrusts while he finds the rhythm I need. But he can’t maintain focus. I’m getting close and so is he. Besides, I don’t want him to be gentle with me right now. 

We're so connected that inherently, he knows this too. Because he slaps my ass once more and grabs my thighs to hold me in place. Not that I could go anywhere even if I wanted to. Grunting and thrusting and pounding as far and as fast as he can go and then some, his hip bones ram repetitively into the fleshy orbs of my ass. The upward curve of his cock still grazes me from the inside just right. 

My eyes are rolling around in their sockets like wayward marbles. I don’t even notice the tears streaming down my temples until they fill my ears. Eyes closed, ears plugged—the wooden box is full of my orgasmic wailing and I feel like I’m underwater, drowning in the perfection of this release. My only connection to the surface is the mysterious, magical appendage just beyond this soft rubber meniscus that separates me from that other world. 

He pulls out and my excessive bliss pours from me. He slaps his impossibly hard cock against me a few times, splashing my juices back at him and all over the inside of my thighs with every strike until it all pools down to a puddle under my tailbone. 

The stranger steadies himself with one hand on my ankle and I feel the tremor of his angry jerking motion traveling through his body from the other hand on his cock. He grunts as he tosses his own paint all over the canvas between my legs. I imagine rope after milky rope shooting from his cock, striping my dripping pussy with lines of white glue.

His grip on my ankle goes limp; I hear his whole body wilt. He gives me a soft, encouraging tap on my rump, and with that, he disappears back into the oblivion of the other world he came from.

The air from the outside room whispers over my flesh, cooling the cocktail of fluids pooling in my crevices. I feel myself finally breaching the surface of the sea of bliss that had consumed me in my little box. I’m buzzing from the thrill of what just happened, though it’s already starting to dissipate.

Bear with me while I exaggerate a bit: this has been such a powerful, enigmatic experience, I’m not sure I’ll ever know how to process it. Knowing that I am capable of dissolving so completely may very well have left me forever changed. 

I have such clarity of vision in this moment that I have suddenly recovered a quote from Napoleon Bonaparte that I must have read once in history class. It didn’t really make sense at the time because I was under the impression that Napoleon was pretty big on the whole fame and notoriety thing.

He had said that Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever. 

I think I get it now.

More by Queen Jayne:

The Birthday Bash
Chicago Rare
Comings and Goings
Compliance Risk
Condemned Desire
Conservation Area

Diamonds and Pearls
The Edge of Glory
Expressions of Grief
For Dommestic Use Only
Hey, Babe.
Just Dessert

Lucky Shot
Summer Heat
Strangers on a Train
Up Top

Written by
Queen Jayne Renault

comma chameleon. word witch. smut queen.