Freaky CeCe 06
CeCe makes Love
That Thanksgiving night in our dorm room felt like the culmination of everything we'd built—years of friendship twisted into something deeper, more electric, amid the quiet hum of the city outside. The remnants of our makeshift meal lay scattered on the floor, forgotten as CeCe's confession hung in the air, her nervous tremors vibrating through our naked embrace.
I pulled back slightly, cupping her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing away the stray tears that had gathered in her eyes. She was so beautiful like this, her caramel skin flushed, those full and captivating breasts rising and falling with her shaky breaths, her thick curves a testament to the fearless woman she'd become. But beneath it all, I saw her vulnerabilities—the way her mind fixated on routines, on the sensory overload that porn provided as her anchor in a world that often felt too chaotic.
“CeCe,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion, “I've wanted this for so long. But we'll go slow, okay? Whatever feels right for you.” She nodded, her gaze intense, almost laser-focused in that way she had when something captivated her completely, like solving a complex equation or diving into one of her endless porn binges. I knew her brain worked differently—craving patterns, repetition, the reliable rush of stimulation that helped her navigate the unpredictability of emotions and touch. As someone who processed the world more straightforwardly, I admired it, even if it sometimes left me chasing to keep up. Gently, I leaned in, our lips meeting in a tentative kiss that quickly deepened, her mouth soft and eager against mine, tasting of cranberry and the salt of her earlier nerves.
We shifted on the bed, our bodies aligning naturally, skin to skin. I trailed my fingers down her arms, teasing the sensitive undersides, then along her sides, feeling the subtle shiver that ran through her—a response to the newness, the intimacy beyond her solo rituals. “Remember that first time I showed you porn?” I murmured against her neck, nipping lightly at the spot where her pulse raced. “I thought I was just helping you loosen up. But it changed everything—for both of us.” She moaned softly, her hands exploring my back, her touch methodical, almost exploratory, as if mapping every inch. “It did,” she agreed, her voice breathy. “It's my everything now. The way those Black women own their bodies in those videos... it's what I need to feel alive.” I confessed then, my lips brushing her ear, “I'm addicted too, CeCe. Hunting for those videos for you over the summer? It pulled me in. I can't stop thinking about it—about you. I love porn too.”
The admission hung between us, binding us closer. But CeCe's eyes flicked to the door, then the window—both already cracked open as per her ritual, the cool night air whispering in with distant city sounds. “Leave them open,” she said, her voice laced with that familiar thrill. “I need to feel... seen. The risk, the exposure—it's part of me.” My heart raced at the idea—the door ajar, anyone could wander by in the empty hall; the window framing us for anyone glancing up from the street below. It heightened everything, a rush of adrenaline that made my core ache. I'd never been with a woman before, but with her, it felt instinctive, right.
I really thought I was straight until I met CeCe. But right now, I don't have labels for any of this. I just have an undeniable emotional bond with someone stronger and more capable than they know. We kissed again, deeper, our tongues dancing as I guided her back against the pillows, my hands caressing her breasts, thumbs circling her hardening nipples until she arched into me.
CeCe's curiosity shone through as she pushed me gently onto my back, her eyes wide with fascination. “I want to try... tasting you,” she said, almost analytically, like testing a hypothesis. She lowered herself between my legs, her breath warm against my thighs, and I gasped as her tongue flicked out tentatively, then more confidently, lapping at my folds with focused precision. She explored me methodically—long, slow licks alternating with gentle sucks on my clit—her obsession with repetition turning it into a rhythmic bliss that had me writhing. “God, CeCe, that feels incredible,” I moaned, threading my fingers through her hair, the open door and window amplifying every sound, every sensation, as if the world might hear us. The risk made it hotter, my body thrumming with the danger of exposure.
I returned the favor, eager despite my inexperience, kissing down her body—her neck, her breasts, sucking each nipple until she whimpered—then lower, to the heat between her thick thighs. Her pussy was already slick from her chronic habits, glistening in the low light, and I savored her musky taste as I licked her slowly, circling her clit with my tongue while my fingers teased her entrance. CeCe bucked against my mouth, her moans echoing softly, one hand reaching for her phone to queue up a video—Black women entangled in passionate, exposed encounters, their bodies moving in ways that mirrored her deepest fixations.
We watched porn together for what felt like hours, edging each other mercilessly: my fingers plunging into her wetness, stroking her inner walls while she rubbed my clit in steady circles, building us both to the brink without tipping over. The porn played on mute at first, then low volume, its visuals fueling her, but I whispered consents and check-ins—”Is this okay? Tell me if it's too much”—honoring her need for control amid the sensory storm. It was healing, in a way—reclaiming the addiction that had isolated her, turning it into something shared, intimate. We have masturbated together a few times. Sure. But it was about the screen and our pleasure. Never us touching like this. This was special.
Finally, as the tension coiled unbearably, CeCe handed me the dildo from her drawer—a smooth, curved silicone toy, realistic in its girth. “Please, Tasha... I'm ready,” she said, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and desire. I coated it with lube, positioning myself between her legs, the open window letting in a breeze that pebbled our skin. Slowly, sensually, I pressed the tip against her virgin entrance, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. “Close your eyes and relax. Breathe with me,” I murmured, easing it in inch by inch, her tight walls yielding like warm velvet around the intrusion, a soft gasp escaping her lips as I filled her gently, rhythmically. It was exquisite—the way she stretched, her pussy clenching around the toy as I thrust shallowly at first, then deeper, my free hand rubbing her clit in tandem. She rocked against me, her hands gripping the sheets, the risk of our exposed position sending shivers through us both.
We built to a crescendo, the porn fading into the background as our connection took over. CeCe's first partnered orgasm crashed over her not from the screen, but from my touch—the dildo buried deep, my mouth on her breast, sucking hard as she cried out, her body convulsing in waves of pleasure that left her trembling and spent. I followed soon after, her fingers still working me expertly, the release washing away years of unspoken longing.
In the afterglow, we lay tangled on the bed, the door and window still open, a soft breeze cooling our sweat-slicked skin. I held her close, reflecting on the beauty of it all—how her obsessions, her differences, had led us here, healing wounds neither of us had fully acknowledged. CeCe nestled peacefully against my breasts, tearfully happy, her sobs turning to contented sighs as she traced lazy patterns on my skin.
“I love you, Tasha,” she confessed softly, her voice thick with emotion. “You have been my rock when no one else was there for me. My classmates think I'm weird, my mom thinks I'm a failure, I'm a socially awkward mess and you stand by me. I don't know how it'll work long-term, or if we should make it 'official'... but I wanted you to know. I'll always be there for you, even if I have to wear clothes.”
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keep touching yourself