The Edge of Glory

Jayne Renault
6 mins read
Published over 2 years 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 and turn it into glory tonight.

As far as I can tell, I really am here. But it's surreal.

Since I have nothing to do for the moment but wait, I’m busying myself with 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, 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 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 vulnerable position below the belt. My naked nether regions are 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 shut 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 am. 

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 raised legs stand at attention, reaching out towards the domineering 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 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.

Someone has accepted my flirty greeting. 

Grasping at the space between us, my yet-unclaimed holes are reaching out for attention, clenching and releasing at the mere idea of my taker’s girth. When they step in closer and their hand makes its way over to the tip of my flying V formation, my breath hitches. But only for a moment. They press their palm into my pussy and I deflate back into the table with a soft, involuntary moan. 

I imagine them stroking themself as they inspect me at leisure, looking at my disembodied rump like the fine, juicy cut of meat that it is. They spread my lips wide with the fingers on one hand. I can taste the heat of their 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 their palm. My clit grows hard under the weight and I press back into them, as much as I can in spite of my restraints.

They thumb my clit and drag their fingers along my pussy lips. I envision the surge of wetness that spills over their fingertips when they pry me apart. I wonder what I might smell like to them. I wonder if it’s pungent enough to pique the senses of another waiting in line.

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

It’s hardly begun and I’m already on the verge of delirium. Though my ability to do so is very limited, I’m squirming all over the table, desperate now to have them inside me. I grip the edges of the table and push my hips towards them as they glide their smooth shaft up and down. Torturously slow, they acquaint the curvature of their length with every edge of this anonymous pussy. 

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

Almost on command, they slip the tip of their cock down towards my hungry hole. 

Maybe they can hear me after all.

They tease 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 is enjoying this now too.

When they are about half-shaft deep, they plunge in suddenly, hard and unforgiving as if they already know exactly what I want, until the fronts of their thighs press right into my ass, stuffing me completely with their promise of more. And they are certainly more than I expected, but I have no problem taking it today; I arch my back to accommodate them. My nails dig so deep into the leather while I hold myself down that I have left scars in the material. Their rumbling groan matches mine when it seeps through the wall to mix with the heady air inside my wooden cubical.

I wonder for a moment what they look like. I wonder if they wonder what I look like. I realize I don’t care and very likely, neither do they. 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 they are 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, they slide in and out, deep and diligent, and I feel more of me drip out and away. Skillfully yet without elegance, they squat down a little and curve their cock up into the sensitive ribbing inside me, pumping away like they’re trying to grind a hole right through me. I’m lost in the 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 they pump 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 they 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 a vessel built to receive and channel this perfect, reckless, truly glorious pleasure. 

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

They grow harder, pushing against the grip of my inner walls. I clench down around them 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, they haphazardly flick at my desperate clit, pumping slow and sultry for a few thrusts while they find the rhythm I need. But they can’t maintain focus. I’m getting close and so are they. Besides, I don’t want them to be gentle with me right now. 

We're so connected that they know this too. Because they slap my ass once more and grab 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 they can go and then some, their hip bones ram repetitively into the fleshy orbs of my ass. The upward curve of their 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. 

They pull out and my excessive bliss pours from me. The stranger steadies themself with one hand on my ankle and they slap their cock against me a few times, splashing my juices back at them and all over the inside of my thighs with every strike until it all pools down to a puddle under my tailbone.

Their grip on my ankle goes limp; I hear their whole body wilt as they pull away. They give me a soft, encouraging tap on my rump, and with that, they disappear back into the oblivion of the other world they 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.

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.

QJ
Written by
Queen Jayne Renault

comma chameleon. word witch. smut queen.