I feel this… thing in me.

It’s a thing with no name, which makes it hard for me to even conceptualize it. It’s not a univocal thing, either: it’s made of many parts.

The mist, with its pretty colors. The orgasmic joy of self-abnegation. The feeling that I’m split, like a part of my awareness exists somewhere other than here, producing this sense of wrongness. This dread at the pit of my stomach.

I feel like…

I feel like that part of me is disappearing.

Maybe that’s a good thing. I used to butt heads with everybody. For example, meeting Derek in the hallways between classes would immediately cause friction, we’d snap at each other. Now, though… what happens now is much better, right? More pleasant.

Now, he looks up from his phone when he hears my boots thumping against the floor.

“Pheebs,” he says, casual as ordering coffee. “Bathroom. Five minutes.”

A part of me, the split part of me, considers that I haven’t even had time to grab my chem textbook. It suggests several colorful responses to his request, but those are not acceptable anymore, they’re abrasive, they make people unhappy, they assign no importance to their needs.

Alternatively, it suggests to just respond that I’m busy. But wouldn’t that be incredibly selfish?

Besides, that part of me has one fundamental limitation: you can’t argue against colors. Especially colors as pretty as these ones… looping on themselves, like pastel clouds, spiralling before my eyes…

I should feel proud. To him now, summarily asking me into the bathroom so that I can suck his dick is as normal as getting a snack from the vending machine. Once, I was so irksome that people approached me with caution, but now Derek and I are practically close friends.

Close enough that I take as much of his cum into me as I can. That’s the really special type of friendship. Pure trust. Pure faith that he can rely on me when he needs me.

So, of course, I ignore those ridiculous intrusive thoughts from bad ol’ me. That Phoebe is gone, and we’re all better for it. I’m in my mentally healthy era, and I’m not going to falter. I’ll get on my knees for him, suck his cock to completion, swallow all his cum, and prove how amazing a friend I can be!

“Of course! Anything you need, Derek.”

There. That really is so much better. Otherwise, why would it make me feel so…

Pacified?

***

I do feel burdened. Just a little bit.

It’s been like this for a few weeks. I’m Derek’s perma-booty call, of course, which is totally fine. He’s no longer even amazed by it, which is a great sign that I really am changing - people no longer expect me to be selfish, right?

People, plural, because Tyler and Marty have been just as demanding. Marty is always shy and hesitant at first, but once we get going, he can't seem to get enough, cumming embarrassingly fast and then immediately getting hard again for more.

Tyler is rougher, more entitled, bending me over desks or pushing me to my knees without preamble.

Sylvia…

I’m a dyke. She says so. Why else would I enjoy eating her out? Not like her, she’s straight, she just enjoys having a warm mouth and tongue available at her beck and call, and why not?

After that first time, she’s been insatiable, which I suppose means I’ve done a good job. Yay!

She calls me to her place in the evenings every time she gets a chance, demanding I service her orally. She sits on my face, grinding her wet cunt against my mouth until she's satisfied.

But the reversal of our polarity is the thing that truly makes me squirm inside a little.

She was in my shadow for so long. I can only imagine what catharsis she must feel now, getting to summarily push my head between her thighs every time she wants to shut me up…

It all adds up, though. Trying to accommodate four different friends is not easy, I juggle as many balls in the air as I can, and sacrifice my personal time whenever it’s necessary to smooth things over.

I have to be strategic about everything. If Derek wants me during lunch, I need to make sure I can still meet Tyler for our post-class “relaxation” sessions. If Sylvia calls me up late at night, I have to calculate how much sleep I’ll lose and whether I can still function for class in the morning.

And that’s why I do feel burdened. Just a bit!

I mean, it’s normal, right? To be utterly exhausted from constantly servicing the wants and needs of my friends. And I'm sure this level of fatigue is totally typical for college students these days.

As it turns out, it takes a lot of energy to be a good, selfless person. Back when I was a selfish prick, I had no idea helping others would feel so good, yes, but I also had no idea it would be this hard. I was so immature. Now I know what being an adult is all about.

Further complicating my situation… word is beginning to spread.

It started with just giggles, but it was always a matter of time before someone took the courage to step forward and just ask. And that encouraged everyone else.

I don’t know who of the original four let the rumor spread, but it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. Maybe Derek bragged to someone after one of fucking me, or perhaps Sylvia let it slip that the tables have turned and she’s bossing me around these days. Tyler could have nonchalantly mentioned it, or even Marty in a moment of peer-pressured confession.

The source is irrelevant because the outcome is the same.

It's a good thing, I tell myself, that more and more people are updating their mental models of me. They now think of me as a good person, someone who is willing to go the extra mile for others. This new reputation makes me feel proud… sometimes. But it also comes with additional, err, logistical complications.

Because now, I have to deal with the unexpected.

A few weeks after the first rumors, it’s not just Derek or Marty slipping me notes between lectures. An older girl I’ve never spoken to corners me by the vending machines, her eyes darting left and right like she’s expecting a prank any second. “Heard you like to… help people out,” she says. “Can I, uh, get in on that action?”

I don’t even know her name when, later, she fists her hand in my hair, grinding my face against the crotch of her jeans in the girls’ bathrooms.

Then there’s the time a guy from the rugby team stops me in the quad, his voice low and conspiratorial as he asks if the rumors are true. Before I can answer, he invites me to a party at his frat house, saying there’ll be plenty of opportunities for me to “have fun”.

I often find myself on my knees in bathroom stalls, orally servicing multiple peers in succession. And sometimes, just when I think I'm finished, more classmates arrive.

There’s a line for me, I thought, the first time I saw that happen. I wasn’t sure exactly how to feel about that. In many ways, I’m still not sure.

It’s just so much sex. Some days I feel really drained, yet I keep going because this is what I’ve chosen, isn’t it? To walk the path of selflessness. I guess I didn’t really expect that path would result in me spending so much time on my knees in the bathroom, but hey, it’s easy to be kind on the things you already like.

Yes, the tiles are cold, and I hate the way that seems to seep through the fabric of my jeans and into my kneecaps. They’re numb, too, from all the time I spend like this, and the combination is altogether unpleasant…

But what’s one person’s discomfort, set against the pleasure of so many?

I suck one cock after another. A sneaker presses into my back as someone roughly pulls my hair. Hands cup my breasts or rub against my cheeks, and I lean into the touch. I gag and sputter.

Rough hands grope my breasts, pinch my nipples through my shirt, and I moan like a wanton slut. And when the boys are done, I say thank you, come back any time.

I lick cunts, too. Girls are less forward and aggressive, but those that do step forward pretty quickly adjust to my selflessness, which delights Sylvia to no end: I’m getting more practice at carpet munching, after all, and she only stands to benefit.

Years and years of reputation as the too-cool-for-school tough gal are being destroyed. My new reputation is that of a sex-addict that’s always down to fuck whoever asks.

That’s an improvement, right?

It must be, because it gives me the same warm fuzzy feelings that generosity always does. Logically, I never refuse anyone. I take load after load down my throat or across my face, I suckle clits like my life depends on it, and every time the split in me gives me that dread at the pit of my stomach, the mist closes in again.

This is good. This is right. I’m attentive to people’s feelings.

Wants and needs…

Even when I'm not actively engaged in a sexual act, I'm fielding their constant messages. My phone buzzes incessantly with new demands, new "requests" for my time and body.

I cut back on sleep, I give up my hobbies, I try and find as much room and energy as I can to be helpful and kind. But squaring the circle is not possible.

My coursework suffers, which sucks, because I’m letting down my professors, but I can't bring myself to prioritize it over so many direct demands.

At home, too, I do as many chores as I can, and I do my utmost to be nice and helpful to Chris. That’s its own reward, really — my parents are so happy with me, and my brother and I have gone the longest stretch ever without fighting. It’s good, it really is.

But it's exhausting, both physically and emotionally. There are moments when I'm running on empty, my body sore and used, my mind numb. In those moments, I'm tempted to say no, to put my own needs first for once. But I never do. That’s old Phoebe’s way of thinking, and I’m not that person anymore.

I don’t want to be.

At least when I retreat to my room at night, I can savor a few precious moments alone with my thoughts. It’s my one true reprieve, the last little island of split me, the part of me that exists self-referentially, and not for others.

I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, letting the quiet wash over me like a soothing balm. The silence is almost surreal after the constant demands and noise of the day.

I do feel guilty about taking this time for myself. It’s a holdout of the bad version of me, the selfish contrarian bitch I used to be. But it’s also the thing that’s keeping me centered, at least a little.

Besides… I can be more help to other people if I’m rested, right? Just the bare minimum of rest, of course, wouldn’t want to overdo it. Enough to keep me functional. That’s a reasonable justification, isn’t it? That I need to recharge so I can give even more?

For some reason, I find myself cradling the pendant in my hand. It happens almost every evening now, like a ritual.

It looks just like it did the first time: hazy, surrounded by an odd shimmer that makes it look almost vaporous. There’s a figure etched on its face, but I can never quite tell what it represents, exactly. The shimmer makes it impossible.

It reminds me of the mist.

I can get lost just staring at it, watching the ethereal mist undulate hypnotically. Sometimes, I swear I can almost make out patterns in the shimmer. But they always dissipate before I can pinpoint what exactly they are.

Eh. My tired eyes are playing tricks on my mind, for sure. There's no hidden meaning here, no great epiphany waiting to be uncovered. It's simply a beautiful pendant that I happened to pick up at that quirky little shop.

What was it called again? Wants and Needs? Heh, how appropriate, since it was my talk with the old man that first convinced me to try and turn my life around. I owe him big time.

My thumb traces over the etched figure on the pendant's surface. The grooves feel strangely warm to the touch.

I should really get some sleep. I have an early class tomorrow, and then Derek wants to meet up before lunch. Tyler mentioned something about needing a "study break" in the afternoon, which I'm pretty sure is code for wanting his dick sucked.

And of course, Sylvia will likely summon me to her room in the evening for my now-regular duties as her personal pussy licker.

But it can wait five minutes. I just want to look at this pretty thing some more.

I keep it in a drawer in my nightstand, and each night I tell myself that I really should return it to the elderly shopowner… but then when I find myself staring at the trinket, the idea seems to dissipate, like snow melting under the sun.

So strange. I mean, I realize this thing is probably worthless, but still, the shopowner gave it to me for free. Given my new embrace of radical selflessness, I would expect to feel monstrously guilty about hanging on to this trinket without at least paying the man. It’s like an unresolved debt.

So why do I want to hold on to it so strongly?

I don’t know. All I know is that the pretty swirling colors always pull me back in when I just briefly consider getting rid of it. It’s like a thought-ending circuit breaker. I feel dazed, foggy, and I find myself staring into empty space.

In my mind, I just repeat the same happy thoughts, over and over.

This is good. This is right. I’m attentive to people’s feelings.

Wants and needs…

Hands and knees…

***

I’m on my hands and knees.

Increasingly, this is where I find myself when I’m in Sylvia’s bedroom. That phrase would have been laughable once, but now it’s an undeniable reality.

I’m on my hands and knees, with my head firmly cocooned between her thighs.

She gasps, her breath catching as she tangles her fingers in my hair. She grinds her cunt against my mouth, smearing her juices over my lips, nose, and chin with a fervor that borders on desperate.

I take it like a good friend should.

"You're such a good little lesbo slut."

I wince slightly at her words. I'm not actually into this - I'm straight, I don't like eating pussy. But Sylvia needs me right now. She's so turned on and I'm available to help. What monster would refuse to assist with that?

I lick and suckle at her clit, the way I know she likes.

Something about this feels wrong, off, like I'm betraying myself… but those thoughts are quickly smothered by the pretty, shimmering colors that dance behind my eyes. This is good. I'm being selfless. I'm putting Sylvia's needs above my own.

"Mmmm, you're getting better at this, Pheebs," Sylvia says, rocking her hips against my face. "Have you been practicing on other girls? Honing your dyke skills?"

She already knows the answer to that question. I make no gendered distinction when it comes to being nice to people. Still, she expects a performative answer, and I’d never let my best friend down, so I muffle an affirmative without ever taking my lips off her cunt.

"Of course you have," Sylvia says, hooking one leg behind my neck to draw me further into her cunt. "People may think you’re just a slut, but I know the truth, I know how bad you’ve got it. You can’t say no!”

I still disagree with that assessment, even if it does make my tummy flutter and my limbs quiver… but it doesn’t matter what I think. I can hardly share my thoughts out loud, when I’m busy servicing my best friend’s pussy.

Besides, being a contrarian now would just ruin the moment.

Instead, I lap in broad strokes up the length of her, from her entrance to her clit. I circle the latter with the tip of my tongue before sucking it between my lips. Sylvia cries out sharply, her thighs trembling against my cheeks.

She’s getting close. I’ve been doing this enough that by now, I can tell really easily. Hell, I can feel her thigh muscles quivering as her legs constrict me tighter and tighter.

She’s moaning with increased pitch and urgency, and so I go at her clit like it’s my job, like I’m a woman possessed, because she has a need and it is my friendly duty to fulfill it.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, don't stop," Sylvia says, gasping, her grip tightening painfully in my hair. "I'm gonna cum all over your slutty dyke face!"

"Fuck! Oh god, Phoebe, yes!" She grinds harder, fucking my face in earnest now. "Don't stop, I'm gonna cum!"

I maintain my focused attention on her clit, flicking and suckling as she rides my mouth. I’ve been watching lesbian porn as research, and the recent practice really has helped, so it won’t be long now. Just need to keep this up a bit more.

My back aches and my knees are sore from kneeling on the hard floor, but I don't dare stop or slow down. Not when Sylvia is this close.

She needs this. She needs me.

I’m being the perfect, selfless friend. And my good deed is soon rewarded.

Sylvia’s body goes rigid as a high, throaty moan rips out of her. "Cumming! Fuck!”

Her cunt spasms against my mouth as I finally take her over the edge. She cums hard, squirting her juices all over my tongue, all over my face. I know better than to let up. Instead, I wring all pleasure out of her, licking and sucking through her shuddering climax.

Finally, she collapses back against the bed, panting heavily. I pull back, sitting on my haunches, my face glistening with her arousal, and I look up at her. Her eyes are half-lidded, her chest heaving as she catches her breath. For a moment, that’s the single sound breaking the quiet of the room: our breathing.

I shudder at the cascade of happy chemicals coursing up and down my body. I love doing well by doing good.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand as Sylvia catches her breath. My jaw aches and my knees are sore from kneeling on the hard floor. But I pushed through the discomfort to satisfy my friend's needs. That's what matters most, isn't it?

Sylvia props herself up on her elbows, looking down at me with a smirk. "Damn Pheebs, for a straight girl you sure know how to eat pussy."

I blush and avert my gaze. "I just want to make you feel good," I say, half-mumbling.

"Oh, you definitely do that," Sylvia says with a chuckle. She studies my face for a moment, her expression turning more serious. “You look like shit,” she says finally, sitting up straighter.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Thanks.”

“No, seriously.” Her socked foot prods my collarbone. “When’s the last time you slept through the night? You look exhausted. Is your new vocation as the campus slut taking a toll?"

I bite my lip, unsure how to respond. Part of me wants to confide in Sylvia, to admit how draining it's been trying to satisfy everyone's needs. But that sounds so fucking selfish, jeez. What kind of person complains about how tiresome it is to make people’s lives better?

Then again, hiding my feelings from Syl could actually be deceitful behavior, and that wouldn’t be very selfless of me, either. She wants information from me, what kind of friend would ever refuse that?

"It's… a lot sometimes," I say at last, hesitantly. "But I'm happy to do it. I like making people feel good."

Sylvia sits up and looks at me, really looks at me. Her gaze is intense, probing, as if she's trying to see inside my head.

“Man, Pheebs, these rationalizations… I swear, the lengths you go to are absurd, sometimes. You really don’t know how screwed you are, are you?”

There's a mix of genuine curiosity and manipulative amusement in her question. Sylvia enjoys being the boss of our friendship now, and it makes sense, even if she’s misidentifying the reason why I’m so willing to meet her halfway these days.

Well, admittedly more than halfway.

I shrug, because I genuinely don’t know how to answer. Then, I think of something that might at least move the conversation along, hopefully to more productive topics.

“I do get some time to myself, you know,” I say. “I was just thinking about it the other day. In the evenings, I get to be alone in my bedroom and recharge my batteries. I kinda look forward to that each day, if I have to be honest. See? I’m just a regular person, like everyone else.”

Sylvia raises an eyebrow at me, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "You look forward to that downtime? Is that so?"

I hesitate, unsure where she’s going with this exactly. “Of course I do. Who wouldn’t?”

“Someone who can’t say no.”

I stretch my arms in a theatrical sweep. “My point exactly.”

Sylvia doesn’t seem to find that convincing. She leans forward, with a wicked glint in her eye. "Why don’t we put that theory to the test, my dear friend?"

I swallow hard, bracing myself for what's coming next. Another dare? Seriously? Haven’t I been through enough hoops for her amusement lately?

I suppose that’s a pointless question. I’ll have to jump through as many hoops as she wants and needs me to.

"What is it, Syl?"

She covers her mouth with her hand, and she’s giggling so uncontrollably that she’s basically shaking. I’ve never seen her like this. What the fuck does she have in store for me this time?

“It’s interesting to hear that you get a reprieve at home… how very interesting. But that’s also rather selfish of you. You know, Pheebs, the way I see it… there is someone at home you could totally help, too…”

I blink, in confusion. I don’t understand what she means. Someone in need of sexual relief? At home?

Oh.

When the realization hits me, it takes my breath away. My stomach drops. The world around me seems to freeze in place, and for a long and terrible moment, I forget how to breathe.

The beating of my heart sounds like muffled, distant thunder.

"Syl, you can't possibly mean…" I trail off, unable to even finish the thought out loud. It's too absurd, too utterly wrong, too… destructive.

But ot for Sylvia. She stops giggling and just breaks into a full-bodied laugh. "Oh my god, Phoebe, you should see your face right now!"

I don’t say anything. I can’t. If I don’t say it, then maybe it will go away. Maybe it will stop being real.

Unfortunately, though, Sylvia has no intention of letting me off the hook this easily.

“Come on, Pheebs. You have a brother…”

Yes, I do. God, I do…

Now, I’m the one who’s shaking like a leaf. My breath is coming in short, panicked gasps, and even though I’m still kneeling, vertigo threatens to overtake me. But worst of all…

In stupefied horror, I already see the familiar swirl of color creeping in at the edges of my vision. In stupefied horror, I watch the mist closing in on my mind.

And in stupefied horror, I find myself nodding…

TO BE CONTINUED…