Goonette Roommate Part 7
Awakening
Something’s wrong. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t want to fix this. I don’t need to go back. My body won’t let me. I’m just a passenger in it now. My mind has lost control.
I’m rubbing harder. Faster. My heart races—not from pleasure, but from panic. Full-on, teeth-clenched, shallow-breathing anxiety.
And still, I can’t stop.
What am I doing? Why can’t I stop? This isn’t me. I don’t watch porn. These women aren’t even naked. I haven’t once tried to look at a man. I’ve only been staring at women who look like Michelle for nearly two hours. I don’t lie in bed naked, masturbating for hours. This isn’t me. Or is it?
I’m doing it right now. I guess this is me. But can I accept it?
My hand moves on its own. My body is hot, electric. My chest is tight. My thighs tremble. It feels good—too good—and I hate it.
My mind screams, “STOP!”
But my fingers say, “More.”
I keep scrolling Instagram, and a Black goddess links her X profile. There’s porn on X. I didn’t know. Oh my God, it’s happening. I’m going to watch porn on my own now.
My pulse spikes. I’m doomed.
This is wrong. This is dangerous. I’m going to lose myself. I’m going to slip, just like her.
I don’t want to go numb. I don’t want to smile the way she does—empty and full all at once. I don’t want to live in porn.
But I already do. I live with Michelle. I hope she’s okay. I miss her. But I’m too horny to think about her right now.
Black women are so fucking sexy.
I think I remember the name of the content creator she watches all the time. The one who squirts a lot. I don’t care if it’s not real. Do I need to see it now? I thought it was vile, repulsive, but... I need it. I saw it in the corner of my eye. I heard it. But I never truly looked.
Let me see if I can find her.
Just a peek.
Just to see what Michelle sees. What made her give in. What made her glow like that. Maybe if I see it, I’ll be satisfied. Maybe it’ll snap me out of this.
Or maybe it’ll be the end of me.
I’m still rubbing.
My body is shaking.
And I’m about to cross a line I swore I’d never cross.
My hand won’t stop.
I love watching Black women squirt.
It’s not modesty that makes me hesitate. It’s fear. And still, my fingers rub my clit in slow, desperate circles, like they’re trying to summon clarity from confusion.
The only person that can help me now is Michelle. I need to go to her. I need her help.
I walk out of my bedroom naked and trembling. I approach Michelle’s door and knock. A faint “Come in, it’s open” drifts through.
One hand is still in my pussy as the other opens the door.
Michelle is on her bed. Glazed. Gone. Porn moans softly in the background, like ambient noise from another planet. String lights are everywhere. The room is dimly lit. Incense is wafting around. All of her screens are playing something different— Her room a chaotic disco ball of porn.
“Help,” I whimper. I'm still masturbating.
She blinks. Her trance cracks.
Her body snaps forward, like she’s just returned to her skin. Her hand—still glistening with lube—hesitates for a second before she reaches for me and pulls me into a hug.
She’s taller than me. I fall right into her arms.
I cry into her shoulder, my hand still on my pussy, still moving, still wrong.
“I can’t stop masturbating,” I sob. “It feels wrong. You’re my only friend. Everyone hates me. All I have is this life with you and this porn, and I don’t know what to do anymore. Now I’m touching myself like you. I feel disgusting, but I can’t stop!”
I wail. The tears come hard. Ugly. Honest.
Michelle holds me tighter. Her voice is soft, slow.
“Breathe,” she says. “It’s okay. Just breathe. You’re not disgusting.”
“I am,” I cry. “You make it look like freedom, but I feel like I’m dying.”
“Do you want to stop?” she asks.
I hesitate. My hand didn't want to leave my crotch.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “My body wants it. But I don’t want to want it.”
Michelle nods slowly. Her hand drifts back between her legs—casual, tender. The rhythm returns, like breathing.
We sit there on her bed, side by side. I lean on her shoulder. She holds me. I'm still masturbating. The porn plays softly, a gentle drone in the background.
“Do you hate me?” I ask while slowly playing with my clit.
“No,” she says. “Never. I love you.”
I look at her, shocked.
“You’re the strongest person I know,” she continues. “You’ve resisted this for so long. That takes power. You didn't leave me. You really could have if you wanted to. You could have shunned me and chose those other people. But look how they abandoned you when your life no longer fit theirs. But yet you still stand. I did all of this to show you that you could be free on your own terms. So I showed you how I found freedom with porn.”
“I’m not free,” I say. “I’m broken.”
She shakes her head. “You’re awakening.”
“I’m jealous of you,” I admit. “You’re free in your depravity. You glow. You live. And I’m just... here. I can't stop touching myself... Trying to feel something. Anything. But all I feel is broken.”
Michelle kisses my forehead.
“You’re not broken, sweetie,” she says. “You’re feeling. That’s more than most ever dare.” Tears form in her eyes. I can tell she feels my pain.
And so we sit.
Two naked women. Moaning screens whispering behind us. Touching. Crying.
Trying to become whole.
—Thank you for reading and I hope you feel good. Please donate to show your support.
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keep touching yourself