Freaky CeCe 02
CeCe is Normal
I remember the relief washing over me when CeCe actually agreed to get help. After that eye-opening moment in our dorm, where I'd seen the DMs and realized how deep her obsession ran, I gently suggested she talk to someone—a counselor, maybe, through the college's free services. To my surprise, she nodded, her fingers still idly tracing patterns on her inner thigh. “Yeah, okay, Tasha. If it'll make you feel better.” I thought this was it—the turning point. Maybe she'd dial it back, find some balance. But CeCe had her own way of twisting things, and it wasn't the help I expected.
She ended up booking sessions with this college intern at the student wellness center—a young psych major doing her practicum, not even a full therapist yet. CeCe framed the whole thing so cleverly, like she was pitching a TED Talk on self-empowerment. She'd sit there, all composed, explaining how watching porn was her form of emotional regulation—a safe outlet for stress in our high-pressure city life, where the constant grind of classes and part-time jobs could crush you. “It's safer sex, you know?” she'd say, according to what she told me later. “No risks, no heartbreak, just me controlling my own pleasure. It's made me less shy, more confident in my body. I used to hide these curves, but now? I own them.”
She made it a habit to dress nice for her sessions, further playing the charade and crafting her narrative. I complimented her on her new look quite a bit until I realized why she did it. I knew I had created a monster.
The intern bought it hook, line, and sinker—probably because CeCe was so articulate, so damn smart about justifying her freak flag. After a few sessions, the intern declared her “well-regulated and genuinely happy,” suggesting only that she keep journaling her feelings. No red flags raised, no interventions suggested. CeCe came back from those appointments beaming, like she'd gotten a gold star for her addiction.
All the while, though, she was escalating behind closed doors—or rather, in our very open dorm room. It escalated slowly. She did more than play porn casually during down time. She started playing porn videos in the background while she studied, the low volume moans and slaps mixing with her typing on engineering problem sets. She'd sit at her desk naked all the time. Her caramel skin always bare and glowing under the fluorescent lights, thick thighs pressed together, and she absentmindedly rocked against the chair, humping to stimulate herself.
From that point forward, I never saw her wear clothes in our dorm. She continued to lounge around nude, her full breasts swaying as she moved, that juicy ass planted wherever she pleased, chatting with me about classes like it was nothing. I didn't stop her. I enjoyed looking at her naked. My own porn consumption had silently turned me bisexual a long time ago.
As far as masturbating, she pushed this to new levels. She eroded all shame when it came to me. If I saw her naked, she was probably touching herself.
I'd be venting about my day, and there she'd be, fingers dipping into her wet pussy right in front of me, moaning softly as she nodded along. “Uh-huh, that sucks, Tasha,” she'd say, her voice breathy, eyes half-lidded while she pinched her nipples or rubbed her clit in lazy circles.
I didn't stop her. I didn't mind. I had a friend that would listen to everything. She was more attentive than most boyfriends I dated. She was just so raw, direct, honest and didn't ask for anything in return. So I accepted her overtly sexual habits. She was still a good person. But I knew she was turning into an out of control naked freak.
She had started watching public porn, almost exclusively. She had fixations on everything. What color clothes she wore, her favorite pen, notebook, socks. It didn't matter; something had its place in her life. Her porn was no different.
Her blatant exhibitionism bled into every moment in front of me. She chose me. Legs spread, wet and insatiable. Looking me in the eyes like I was her whole world outside of porn. Everyone else had bailed, but I stuck around, hoping the “therapy” would kick in eventually. I think she was conditioning me to normalize her behavior instead.
It all came to a head one crisp morning in our bustling city, where the air hummed with the sounds of commuter trains and street traffic outside our dorm window. I was rushing to class, grabbing my bag, when I caught CeCe slipping out the door ahead of me. She was dressed—if you could call it that—in just a baggy zip-up hoodie that hung loose over her frame, a pair of tiny shorts that barely covered her thick ass, and flip-flops slapping against the floor. No shirt, no bra, nothing underneath that hoodie. Probably no panties either. Her large breasts were basically hidden under the baggy fabric, sure, but one wrong move—a gust of wind, a quick turn—and she'd be flashing the whole hallway. She was heading to her therapy session and then straight to class, essentially topless, like it was no big deal.
“CeCe, wait—what are you wearing? Or... not wearing?” I called out, my voice a mix of exasperation and concern. I did my best to keep my voice down as to not draw attention in the hallway.
She turned, zipping the hoodie up just enough to tease the outline of her curves, a sly grin on her face. “Relax, Tasha. It's baggy—my tits are totally hidden. See? No one's gonna notice. And if they do, maybe it'll brighten their day.” She had a way out for everything, twisting logic until it fit her narrative, leaving me speechless once again.
Life in our college dorm carried on with that laid back vibe you only get in a place like our campus—where eccentricity was just part of the scenery, and as long as you weren't causing chaos, no one batted an eye. CeCe's increasingly bold outfits, or lack thereof, flew under the radar; professors and classmates shrugged it off as her quirky style, especially since she was killing it academically.
She was the star student, pulling in straight A's in her engineering courses while I scraped by with B's, my focus split between classes and worrying about her. It was frustrating, but also a twisted point of pride—my best friend was thriving, even if it was fueled by her nonstop naked porn habit.
There were moments when I genuinely had fun with her, though, dipping into her world when the stress of college life got too heavy. On rough nights after exams or bad shifts at my part-time gig downtown, I'd strip down alongside her, our naked bodies lounging on the beds as we scrolled through porn videos together. It was a release—her caramel curves pressed close to mine, the air thick with shared arousal as we'd touch ourselves, moaning in sync to some steamy scene.
Our friendship was charged with this electric tension, platonic at its core but teetering on the edge, never quite sure if we'd cross that line and turn it into something more. CeCe always brushed it off with a laugh, her fingers still slick from her latest orgasm. The room always smelling like pussy when we gooned together. “Porn's perfectly okay for me, Tasha. It's all I need—why complicate things?” A part of me secretly wished we could cross that line. But I held my tongue.
I didn't want to ruin a good thing. It's not like I was having any good dates worth my time anyway. I was always thinking about what porn CeCe was watching in our dorm while rubbing herself silly. They just never had that spark I was looking for. It just felt hollow. It felt empty. It felt meaningless. Maybe CeCe was onto something with her lifestyle.
It wasn't until later, during one of our late-night talks, that she opened up about being autistic. She said it casually, like explaining a homework problem, and suddenly it all clicked—the hyperfocus on her obsession, the way she justified everything so logically, the lack of an off switch for her escalating behaviors. It made sense why porn had gripped her so hard; it was a sensory fixation, a safe routine in a chaotic world. I knew then there was no flipping that switch back—CeCe was wired this way, and while it worried me, she'd become my ride-or-die best friend, the only person who truly got me in this massive, impersonal city.
But CeCe had a real problem with escalation, always pushing boundaries further than I could keep up with. Spring break rolled around, and while most students fled to beaches or hometowns, we stayed put in the near-empty dorms, the building echoing with silence amid the distant hum of city traffic outside. With no one around, CeCe let loose even more. She'd wander the halls with her baggy hoodie unzipped, her breasts fully exposed, nipples hard from the cool air, or sometimes she'd ditch the top half altogether, strolling topless in just short shorts and flip-flops, her thick ass swaying as she hummed to herself. I'd catch her like that, heart pounding, and try to pull her back inside.
“CeCe, come on, what if someone sees? Security could walk by, or maintenance—this is reckless!” I'd plead, grabbing her arm and steering her toward our room, my voice cracking with frustration. She'd just grin, zipping up halfway or not at all, countering with her usual logic. “No one's here, Tasha. It's freeing. Feels good against my skin. I checked. There are no cameras in the halls either.” I just didn't want to see her get in trouble and her world come crumbling down. It scared me.
But one evening, she crossed a line. She decided to go out fully nude to the laundry room down the hall. I was taking a shower and didn't see her leave our dorm room. So of course when I didn't see her, I got dressed and stepped out to look for her.
I had this protective habit to always make sure she was okay or I knew where she was. I tried to hide it, but over time I just needed that knowing comfort. She was okay with that and smiled one day because she had already noticed before I admitted it. She hugged me and said that was so cute. It made my day.
I decided to head to the laundry room since that was the most logical place she would be. I was shocked to see she was fully nude like it was normal. She emerged from the laundry room bare as the day she was born and sauntered back fully exposed without any shame, breasts bouncing freely. After I got over the initial shock, a part of me inside broke. I couldn't hold it in anymore.
Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision. I rushed up to her and gently pulled her back to our dorm. Back to safety. I held her arm with a firm grip but still as gentle as possible. I was not angry. I was fearful. I had to talk to her about this. I was so sad that I corrupted her and she just kept getting worse. If it wasn't for the porn she was watching, she wouldn't get the idea in her head to try this. I had so much guilt that I had made her this way.
Half sobbing and half speaking, I spoke to her. “I regret this so much—I regret showing you that first video. I turned you into this, and now you're spiraling. What if you get in real trouble? I'm so sorry, CeCe, I messed up.” I started crying then, hot tears streaming down my face, the weight of it all crashing down. Had I known she was autistic, I would have done things so much differently. The comments I said to her, the jokes at her being awkward or not opening up. I didn't know at all. All of these feelings rushed up now. I was sobbing on my naked friend's shoulder.
CeCe's playful expression faltered. It finally struck home. For the first time she realized the strain I was having on her. She set her laundry down, and grabbed her hoodie and put it on. For the first time in months she was dressed in our dorm. She pulled me to her bed and we sat down together. She covered her lap with a blanket as she patted the spot inviting me to lay my head on her lap.
The invitation was too inviting, too open. I wanted this. I have not been touched in months. I didn't want to admit it then, but I only wanted to be intimate with her. Even though I knew she didn't want the same things, I think deep down she knew my heart. CeCe was my comfort. I felt so vulnerable. But in that moment, she instantly made me feel safe.
So as I lay my head down, she petted my head in the most gentle loving way. It's like she instinctively knew how to cradle my head and touch the right places. She was so calming. My wails of sadness eventually faded to quiet sniffles. She rocked me slowly. Then she said gently, “Hey, Tasha... let's talk. For real.”
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keep touching yourself