Goonette Roommate Part 8 – end
A new kind of healing
“Let’s go to the living room. Come sit on the couch and rub with me,” Michelle said softly. “Maybe we can find a genre you like.”
I didn’t speak. I just obeyed. With my hand still on my pussy, I stood and walked to the living room. I’ve accepted my fate. I’ll learn her ways. It’s the only path forward now.
I sat, still trembling, still crying. My fingers never left my pussy. It was soaked, audibly wet. I hated myself for not stopping, but stopping felt worse.
Michelle pulled out her laptop and started scrolling.
As expected, her collection was massive. Folder after folder of every niche imaginable—fantasy, gentle, rough, surreal, femdom, edging, JOI, cartoons, POV, cosplay. She knew exactly what she was doing.
She turned the screen toward me as we flipped through each one.
I shook my head. “No.” Again. “No.” Again. “No.”
She kept going, patient and calm. She started touching herself—one hand on her pussy, the other expertly working the mouse, switching genres in her vast library of beautiful filth.
Then she opened the most incredible folder.
Black Women. No men. No hard fucking. No degradation. Just presence. Power. Ownership.
“These are from Shad0wgoone,” she said, smiling. “I love his work. Well, it’s not just ‘his’ work. He writes captions based on these beautiful women. They help me feel seen. His words unlocked something deep inside me. Maybe he can help you too. It’s not always about sex—it’s about reverence. So I built a little corner in my collection based on their curations.”
The women filled the screen. Their skin shimmered. Their eyes burned. Their bodies weren’t paraded—they commanded. These weren’t submissive porn stars performing. These were queens in control of their space, their sensuality, their truth.
I stared.
I had never really looked at Black women like this.
I grew up in a white town with basic white friends. We lived in a city that wasn’t exactly diverse. I never had to think about it. But now? My eyes couldn’t leave the screen.
The skin tones. The curves. The expressions. The boldness.
Michelle watched me intently. Her fingers slowed. Her lips curled into something between awe and amusement.
“I think you found your flavor,” she whispered.
I said nothing. I was transfixed. My sobs had stopped. My pussy dripped onto the couch, forming a wet spot. I was marking my territory with porn. At this point, keeping my hand on my crotch felt normal. I like edging now. It's what Michelle would want anyway.
Another hour passed by.
I didn’t even realize I had leaned in.
I didn’t even realize I had stopped crying.
All I could see were these powerful women on the screen.
And I wanted to feel what they were feeling.
So I kept touching myself.
Michelle watched her carefully.
Her roommate was fixated, eyes locked on the screen. Fingers slow and steady. Lips parted but silent. Naked Black women moved across the screen with purpose, poise, and fire. Her roommate was mesmerized.
Michelle took note. This was it. This was her flavor. Not just porn—but this porn. The unapologetic elegance, the sensual power. The deep pulse of a world she’d never truly seen before.
Michelle would start organizing a new archive—dedicated, curated. Black beauty only.
Her roommate didn’t speak.
She was somewhere else now.
Her body had crossed a threshold. No more guilt, no past shame. She was still denying her orgasm, but she wasn’t frustrated. She was calm, at peace. A soft trance hummed around her. Her hand never stopped rubbing.
She probably wouldn’t kiss Michelle. She wouldn’t crawl into her bed or whisper her name in lust. At least not now.
Maybe later.
But right now, her focus was elsewhere.
It was the screen.
It was the library.
It was what they watched together.
It was porn.
And for the first time, Michelle saw her not as someone to convert or break down, but as someone finally meeting herself.
“Edge with me,” Michelle whispered.
Her roommate nodded.
So they sat on the couch, side by side. Porn glowed. Moans murmured. The world outside faded. The guilt dissolved. The shame unspooled.
They didn’t need to speak.
They didn’t need to come.
They just needed to stare.
And rub.
And be.
Forever.
Michelle’s plan had worked perfectly. She’d turned her roommate into a goonette and her best friend. A slow, knowing smirk formed on her face. Her roommate was perfect now.
—Thank you for reading and I hope you feel good. Please donate to show your support.
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keep touching yourself