Freaky CeCe 01
CeCe is Freaky
I sighed as I walked into my apartment after a long day at the office, the humid Georgia air still clinging to my skin even though it was well into evening. Our city was always like that—bustling with energy, skyscrapers piercing the sky, and streets alive with people from all walks of life. But right now, all I wanted was to kick off my shoes and relax with my best friend, CeCe. She'd texted me earlier about having a movie night, and I'd figured it'd be a chill evening. But in reality, I knew that wouldn't last long.
There she was, sprawled out on the living room couch. She is my roommate after all. CeCe, my curvy caramel-skinned goddess of a friend in her late twenties, was completely naked—her thick thighs spread wide, full breasts heaving with each breath, and that juicy ass sinking into the cushions. She wasn't even pretending to watch the rom-com I'd left queued up on the TV; instead, her phone was propped up on her stomach, the screen glowing with explicit porn videos she was scrolling through like it was social media. Her fingers were buried between her legs, working her slick pussy with shameless enthusiasm, moans escaping her lips as she rubbed her clit in circles. The room smelled like her arousal, musky and intoxicating, and she didn't even flinch when I dropped my bag by the door.
“CeCe, I knew you really didn't plan to watch a movie with me,” I muttered, though I wasn't shocked anymore. This was just... her now. She's been this way for years. My wild, out-of-control exhibitionist bestie can't keep her clothes on. She can't stop watching porn either. Some would say she's clinically addicted...She couldn't stop masturbating even if her life depended on it. She would just accept her fate and fap away in ecstasy.
Everyone else had ditched her—family, other friends, even dates—but I stuck around. Maybe because I felt responsible. After all, I was the one who started this whole mess back in college.
It all began a few years ago, when we were roommates in that cramped dorm on the edge of our sprawling Georgia city. The place was a concrete jungle of high-rises and endless traffic, but we made it home. CeCe was the total opposite of who she is now—shy, reserved, sheltered as hell. She grew up in a very strict household. She never partied, and barely dated. Me? I was the brash one, always dragging her out to clubs or sneaking booze into our room. She was like my little project, this innocent black girl with those killer curves were hidden under baggy sweaters and jeans. It's almost like she was raised to be unremarkable and unforgettable.
One night, she came back from a date looking defeated. Some awkward dude she'd met online had fumbled the whole thing—couldn't even kiss right, left her feeling more frustrated and violated than turned on. She flopped onto her bed, venting about how she felt so out of her depth with anything sexual. The concept of intimacy felt like a chore and struggle. “I thought this was supposed to be easy,” she sighed as she held her head down. She looked utterly drained and defeated.
I laughed it off, trying to lighten the mood. “Girl, you need to loosen up. Here, let me show you something that'll blow your mind.” I pulled up my laptop and introduced her to porn. It wasn't anything crazy at first—just some softcore stuff, couples getting it on, to help her see what real pleasure looked like. I didn't think much of it. I've been watching porn for years. I thought it'd be a fun, eye-opening thing for her. I thought maybe it would give her some confidence for her next date.
But damn, did that backfire.
CeCe was hooked from the jump. That first night, she watched wide-eyed, her cheeks flushing as she shifted uncomfortably on the bed. I caught her sneaking glances at my screen even after I closed the tab. Over the next few weeks, she'd ask me for recommendations, blushing but curious. I'd share links, thinking it was harmless—hell, I watched plenty myself when she was in class. But CeCe dove in headfirst. She started masturbating more, at first in secret, locking herself in the bathroom or waiting until I was asleep. I'd hear the faint squishing sounds, the ones we all know women make, or her muffled gasps through the thin walls when the shower was running.
It escalated fast over the next six months. She'd skip classes to binge-watch porn, thinking I didn't notice. She quickly closed her laptop when I came in. She tried to act normal, I just had a knowing smile. I thought it was cute. I thought she was just exploring. She's brilliant so its not like her grades were suffering. I thought she was fine.
Her shyness soon melted away, replaced by this insatiable hunger. She'd touch herself under the covers while we studied, thinking I didn't notice the way her breathing hitched or her hand disappeared beneath the blanket. I finally told her that its ok to watch porn when I'm around. No point in hiding it. I saw it no different than changing clothes in front of someone.
That peeled back another layer. Now that she was watching it openly, she decided to watch more porn. Even casually. Almost constantly. It got to a point where I expected to see porn when I walked into my dorm room. I eventually got used to it. She was opening up. She was smiling. Dressing a little more sexy, some days she was even glowing. It felts good watching her transform into the beautiful woman I already knew she was.
Most of our bonding conversations happened when porn played on mute in the background. I normalized it for her. We would have all kinds of conversations as sexual acts flooded her screen a few feet away.
Then things began to escalate further. I started to keep tabs on her, monitor her consumption. I knew my own porn watching habits were a little excessive but she was going further than I ever thought was possible. Over time, as expected, her porn preferences got kinkier too—exhibitionism, public stuff, wild orgies. I tried to talk to her about balance, but she'd just laugh it off, eyes glazed with that post-orgasm glow while under her covers.
Then came the day I walked in and everything changed. I'd been out grabbing coffee from a spot downtown, the city humming with its usual chaos of honking cars and street vendors. When I got back to our dorm room, the door was unlocked. There was CeCe, fully nude for the first time in front of me—no hiding, no shame. She was lounged on her bed, legs splayed, her phone blasting porn at full volume like it was the evening news. Some video of a woman flashing in a crowded park, moaning echoed through the speakers as CeCe fingered herself openly, her caramel skin glistening with sweat, thick curves on full display. She looked up at me with a lazy, satisfied smile, not even pausing. “Hey, Tasha. Join me?”
I stood there in the doorway of our dorm room, frozen, my coffee cup still warm in my hand as the city's distant sirens wailed outside our window. CeCe's invitation hung in the air, her fingers still lazily circling her swollen clit, the porn video on her phone looping with exaggerated moans. Her caramel skin was flushed, those thick curves glistening under the dim lamp light, and she looked so damn comfortable—like this was just another Tuesday afternoon. I didn't join her; hell, I couldn't even move at first. This was totally new. Totally unexpected. Fully exposed, no shame, inviting me like we were about to share a snack? It was a whole new level.
“CeCe,” I finally said, setting my coffee down on the desk with a shaky hand. “You know this isn't normal, right? Like, people don't just... do this out in the open. Watching is one thing, but openly masturbating?”
She paused the video, her breath coming in soft pants as she sat up a bit, her full breasts bouncing with the movement. CeCe was smart—hell, she was acing her engineering classes while the rest of us struggled. She didn't get defensive; instead, she tilted her head, giving me that thoughtful look she always had when dissecting a problem. “
Normal is subjective, Tasha,” she replied, her voice steady and matter-of-fact, like she was explaining quantum physics. “Think about it. Society's crammed all these rules down our throats about sex and bodies, especially for black women like us. We're supposed to be modest, reserved, hide our curves under layers because God forbid we own our pleasure. But why? This feels good—better than anything I've ever known. It's liberating. I'm not hurting anyone; I'm just... exploring myself. And honestly, after that disaster of a date a few months back, this is the first time something's clicked for me. No awkward fumbling, no disappointment. Just pure, positive sensation on my terms.”
She shifted on the bed, her thick thighs rubbing together as she gestured with her free hand, the other still resting casually between her legs like it was the most natural thing.
“Dating? Relationships? Nah, I'm good. All those guys expect some scripted romance, but this—porn, touching myself—it's my first real positive experience with any of it. It's consistent, it's exciting, and I don't have to perform for anyone. Why chase after mediocre hookups when I can have this whenever I want? It's empowering, Tasha. I'm in control.”
I leaned against the door frame, crossing my arms, trying to process her words. She sounded so rational, like she'd thought this through a hundred times. But then her expression softened, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her face. “Okay, fine, maybe it's not all perfect,” she confessed, reaching for her phone again. “No one's swiping right on me anymore. All I talk about in my profiles or chats is hanging out and watching porn together—like, why not make it a date activity? But apparently, that's a turn-off.” She scrolled through her dating app, pulling up a string of DMs and holding the screen out to me. I stepped closer, peering at the messages, feeling a pit form in my stomach.
There they were, rejection after rejection. One guy: “Uh, you serious? That's all you wanna do? Pass.” Another: “Sounds fun once, but you got any actual interests? Hobbies? Nah?” A third was blunter: “Girl, you need therapy, not a date. Blocked.” And it went on like that—dozens of them, all because CeCe's conversations looped back to porn every time. She didn't mention books, or movies, or even her classes; it was all “Wanna watch this hot scene?” or “I found this vid that'd be perfect for us.” The men ghosted or straight-up called her out, and from the timestamps, it was clear she'd been spiraling into this single-minded obsession for quite some time. The nudity was the first overt and sudden sign.
CeCe laughed it off, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes as she set the phone down and resumed touching herself lightly, like it was her comfort blanket. “See? They don't get it. But you do, right, Tasha?” She looked at me longingly, almost teary eyed. Just asking for validation. I knew deep down that the things those strangers said on her screen hurt her. Her other hand was still casually playing with her clit. Her anchor. Her comfort.
That's when it hit me—hard. This wasn't just some phase or harmless fun anymore. My best friend, the shy girl I'd tried to “loosen up,” was isolating herself, pushing everyone away with this addiction. She might be smart enough to justify it, but she was losing touch with reality, and I was the one who'd opened the door to it all. CeCe might need help—real help, like from a professional—before she completely unraveled.
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keep touching yourself