I feel annoyed at the boundary condition of the universe.

There are only twenty-four hours in a day, and I need at least some of them for sleep. Not for selfish reasons, of course, that just wouldn’t do. But a sleep-deprived Phoebe is a less helpful, less efficient Phoebe. People deserve me at my best.

Unfortunately, the cake isn’t getting any larger. I've optimised every aspect of my waking life. Take today, for example.

This morning, I woke up at 5 AM to do laundry for the whole family before anyone else was awake. By 6:30, I was preparing breakfast. By 7:15, I was on my knees in Chris's bedroom, serving as his slutty incestuous alarm clock. At 8:20, I met Derek behind the social sciences building for a quickie. Between 9 and 12, I attended lectures while simultaneously answering texts from three different guys and one girl who needed "study breaks."

Lunch hour was spent in the third-floor bathroom, servicing whoever showed up - I lost count after the fifth person. The afternoon was a blur of more classes, more bathroom visits, more texts. I stopped by Sylvia's place on the way home to vacuum her apartment and eat her out until she came twice. Then home to cook dinner, do dishes, watch Chris play Cosmic Quest, and give him a quiet handjob while our parents watched TV, before finally collapsing into bed.

Only to be woken in the middle of the night for another round.

I'm not complaining. This is what I want. This is who I am now. The warm glow I feel when I'm helping others is worth any amount of exhaustion. People are often judged by the sacrifices they’re willing to make for others, why should I be any different?

Still. Sadly, there’s a physical limit to how much I can give. My body needs rest, even if my spirit is willing.

The worst part is having to prioritise. When two people need me at the same time, how do I choose? When Tyler texted yesterday while I was already with Marty, I felt physically ill at having to say "later" rather than "now." The pretty colours dimmed momentarily, and my heart started beating strangely fast.

I've started keeping a spreadsheet to track who I've helped and when, to ensure I'm being fair. I've colour-coded it by type of service - sexual, academic, domestic - and I've added a column for urgency ratings. It's the only way I can manage the constant demands.

Chris and Sylvia get priority, of course. They're the most important people in my life. My guiding stars. Even the pretty shimmering mist seems to agree with that idea.

I've even considered dropping out of college. Classes take up so much time that could be spent serving others. But then I wouldn't see the people who need me on campus, and that would be monstrously selfish of me. Of course I can’t quit my education. Who’s gonna suck off all those people then?

Mmmhh. This is quite the pickle. Maybe I just need to ask someone for advice on how to manage my time better. But most people would just make it weird, question the honesty of my selflessness… not really into that, to be honest.

If I really want advice from someone else, there’s only one person I can ask, isn’t there? The one who already knows the context. And it’s certainly irrational that the idea sends a little shiver trickling down my spine. The person in question is my very best friend.

What do I have to worry about?

***

"Is this pace okay?" I ask, briefly lifting my head from between Sylvia's thighs. I'm on my stomach on her bed, my face nestled against her cunt, providing what she calls "ambient pleasure" while she reads her romance novel.

"Yes, perfect," she says, not looking up from her book. "Just keep doing exactly that. No need to make me cum—just think of yourself as a vibrator on its lowest setting."

The analogy makes me blush like crazy. I’m not really into being compared to an object, although of course if Sylvia is, that’s what’s important. But even I have to admit that it kinda fits. A vibrator is useful, right? A woman’s best friend? I’m Sylvia’s best friend, and a very helpful one at that. So, it totally tracks.

I lower my face to her cunt again, lapping at her leisurely. I'm careful to maintain a steady rhythm—not too fast, not too slow. My tongue moves in broad, gentle strokes over her pussy lips. I’m focusing on providing consistent, but mild stimulation.

It’s a tricky balance to strike. If I eat her out too lightly, it becomes teasing and distracting. If I just try to make her cum, obviously she’s not gonna be able to read the book. So I have to be really deliberate.

The first time I achieved it, Syl said that clearly a talent for pussy-slavery was in my very nature, and my true calling in life.

I can taste her arousal, feel her getting wetter, but I'm careful not to escalate. When her breathing changes or her thighs tense, I back off slightly.

The position isn't particularly comfortable. My neck is starting to ache, and my jaw will definitely be sore tomorrow. But Sylvia is enjoying herself, and that's what matters. I can hear the occasional soft sigh or quiet hum of appreciation as she turns the pages of her book.

Sylvia occasionally reaches down to stroke my hair absently, like she's petting a cat, before returning to her book.

We really are the bestest of friends.

As I continue my methodical attention to her pussy, my mind begins to wander. This is actually the perfect opportunity to ask for Sylvia's advice about my scheduling problems. She's relaxed, in a good mood, and literally benefiting from my selflessness right now.

I hesitate, not wanting to break the peaceful atmosphere. But this is important.

"Syl?" I say, pulling back slightly so I can speak.

"Hmm?" she responds, eyes still on her book.

"Can I ask you something? I'll keep going, I promise."

She sighs, marking her place with her finger. "What is it, pussy-licker?"

I ignore the nickname—it's just Sylvia being Sylvia. I resume my gentle licking as I speak between strokes.

"I'm having trouble... managing my time. There are so many people who need things from me... and I can't always... be there for everyone."

Sylvia props herself up on her elbows, looking down at me with raised eyebrows. "Go on."

"I mean, there are just so many people who need my help now," I say. "It's like, every day more people are approaching me, and I don't want to turn anyone down, but there's only one of me."

Sylvia tilts her head, studying me with sudden interest. She sets her book aside completely, giving me her full attention.

"Wait, hold up," she says, her voice taking on a curious tone. "Does your... condition not allow you to prioritise people? Like, do you physically feel unable to say no to anyone? What happens if you can only pick one person?"

I frown, pulling back from between her legs and sitting up. "What condition? I don't have a condition, Syl. I'm just trying to be kind."

She seems incredibly amused by that. "Right. And that's why you're eating out your best friend and fucking your brother on the regular."

I would roll my eyes, except that would be incredibly unkind to my best friend. Especially while I’m asking for her advice. So I settle for something less confrontational. "Syl, can we not skip this part of the discussion? We’ve been over it so many times already. Can we ignore the why of my actions, and focus on the how?"

Sylvia shifts on the bed, leaning forward with sudden interest. "No, I think this is actually super relevant. Let me rephrase: what happens if two people need your help at the exact same time? How do you decide who gets priority?"

I open my mouth to answer, then close it again. It's a good question. It’s why I included that urgency column in my spreadsheet… but to be honest, even that feels completely arbitrary.

"I... I can choose," I say slowly, processing my thoughts. "I just feel terrible about it. Like, this awful twisting in my stomach when I have to tell someone 'later' instead of 'now.'"

Sylvia's eyes narrow with fascination. "But you can do it?"

"Yeah. I mean, I have to, right? I can't literally split myself in half." I twist a strand of hair around my finger, thinking. "There doesn't seem to be any real pattern to who I end up choosing, though. It's like... this pull I feel. Sometimes stronger toward one person, sometimes toward another."

"Interesting," Sylvia whispers, more to herself than to me.

"I guess there is one constant, though," I add. "You and Chris are definitely the most important people in my life. If you need my help, I’ll always come running."

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across Sylvia's face. "Is that so?"

I nod. "Absolutely. I mean, that's normal, right? To care more about the people closest to you?"

"Oh, totally normal," Sylvia says, smirking coyly. "Especially the brother part. Super normal."

Sylvia reaches for her book again, but instead of opening it to her marked page, she sets it aside completely. Her eyes narrow as she studies my face.

"So you'd prioritise Chris and I over others," she says, tapping her fingers thoughtfully against her thigh. "But what about between us? If Chris and I both needed you at the exact same moment, who would you choose?"

The question hits me like a physical blow. My stomach drops and my throat constricts. The mist closes in, but not in the usual, reassuring, emotionally validating way. Instead, it feels wrong. The colours are deeper and more vivid than I’ve ever seen them, either in my mind, or with the naked eye. It’s like the idea of purple, red, green, and so on.

Colours that are true, and deep, and genuine, and terrible.

"What?" I manage to choke out.

"It's a simple question, Pheebs," Sylvia says, her voice deceptively casual. "Chris or me. Who gets priority?"

"I—I don't—" Vertigo threatens to overtake me, which is absurd, since I’m lying on my stomach. My palms feel clammy against Sylvia’s thighs. The beating of my heart is at once deafening and distant. I don’t know why I feel like this. I don’t know why the lights look so profound, like I could lose myself in them…

"Don't ask me that!"

The words burst out of me with unexpected force. Have I just… shouted?

Sylvia's eyebrows shoot up, and she stares at me with an expression of genuine surprise.

"Well, well, well," she says after a long, uncomfortable silence. "That's interesting."

"What is?" I ask. My limbs are shaking. My lower lip is trembling.

"That's the first time in weeks you've pushed back against anything," Sylvia says, studying me with renewed interest. "I've been watching you bend over backward—sometimes literally—for everyone around you. But this? This is where you draw the line? Having to choose between your best friend and your brother?"

I don't know what to say. She's right, of course. I've been accommodating to the point of self-erasure. But having to rank the two people I care about most, the two people whose needs matter more to me than my own... it feels impossible.

Before I can formulate a response, Sylvia's hand comes to rest on the back of my head. Her fingers tangle in my hair, not quite pulling but definitely asserting control.

"You know what? Never mind," she says. "I think you should get back to using your mouth more appropriately. Like the good submissive cunt-licking dyke you are."

She pushes my head down firmly between her thighs, and I go willingly, grateful for the reprieve from the impossible question. The impossible depth seems to bleed out from the colours of the swirling mist, almost as if I’ve gone back into shallower waters. I don’t know what that means, but serving cunt is definitely easier than thinking about this, so for once, I feel like I’m getting as much out of it as Sylvia is.

That, too, counts as doing well by doing good, right?

***

Free tonight?

It's a text from Sylvia. I check my mental schedule. I had planned to catch up on some assignments, but that's hardly a priority compared to helping a friend.

Yes, I'm free. What's up?

Her response comes quickly: No reason. Enjoy your evening.

I stare at the message, confused. Why would she ask if I'm free and then tell me to enjoy my evening? Is this some kind of test? I start typing several different responses but delete them all. Finally, I settle on:

Ok, thanks! You too! xx

I spend the evening at home, helping Mum with dinner and volunteering to wash the dishes and clean the oven myself. Chris catches my eye across the dining table. We’re both eagerly waiting for tomorrow evening — our parents are going out to see a play, of all things. Boring boomer stuff, but I won’t complain about that — it’ll give Chris and I free rein for a few hours.

That’s great, because it will benefit him, but I have to say that I’m just as content right now. Cleaning the oven feels about just as good as sexually serving my brother. After all, it’s the underlying altruism that really feels good, so it only makes sense.

Sometimes I wonder why people don’t act like saints all the time. It’s so rewarding! Then again, I used to be a rotten bitch too, so… maybe it’s not so obvious how amazing this feels, until you experience it first-hand.

The next morning, my phone buzzes with another text from Sylvia.

Need to see you tonight. Important.

I stare at the message, and suddenly it's like the sunlight streaming through my window has dimmed.

Tonight. Sylvia needs me tonight.

But tonight is when my parents are going to the play. Tonight is when Chris and I have the house to ourselves. Tonight is when I promised my brother I'd be there for him, to take care of his needs in every way possible.

The colours are all wrong.

The real colours — the sun suddenly seems to have darkened outside. And the pretty little patterns I see in my mind’s eye, too. They don’t look pretty anymore, not like this. They are the truer colours, the yawning maw of the drowning depths of the open ocean.

My breathing quickens. How can I choose? How can I possibly prioritise one over the other?

Sylvia needs me. But Chris needs me too. My fingers literally shake as I try to type out a response, and fail. I stare at the screen in frozen despair… until, finally, another text message relieves me.

You’re having difficulties, aren’t you? Fine. Afternoon works too. Come by at 4. You’ll get back home in time for dinner… and to be a good brother-fucker.

Relief washes over me so completely that I nearly collapse onto my bed. The terrible colors recede, replaced by the familiar, comforting pastels. I can have both. I can serve both. I don't have to choose.

Thank you! You're the best! I'll be there at 3 sharp!

I add several heart emojis for good measure, then fall back on my pillow, heart still racing. Crisis averted. I can still be a good friend AND a good sister. I can still meet everyone's needs.

But those colours... What does it mean? Why do I think of them as true and wrong at the same time? Why do they feel deep and genuine and terrible?

I push the thought away. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I have a plan now. Sylvia at 5, then home for Chris by 9 when our parents leave. I can do this. I can be there for everyone.

***

"Hey," Sylvia says when she opens the door, eyeing me up and down. "You look... frazzled."

"Do I?" I run a hand through my hair self-consciously. "Sorry. It's been a busy day."

She steps aside to let me in.

"So," I ask her. "What was so important?"

"Nothing in particular," Sylvia says with a shrug, flopping down on her couch. "Just thought you could help me out with some stuff around here."

I blink, looking around her apartment. It's definitely messier than usual - dishes piled in the sink, laundry overflowing from the hamper, textbooks and papers scattered across every surface.

"Oh," I say, immediately feeling the familiar rush of purpose. "Of course! What would you like me to do first?"

Sylvia stretches languidly, a cat-like smile playing on her lips. "Everything, really. Start with the kitchen, then tackle the bathroom. There's laundry that needs doing, and the floors could use a vacuum."

I'm already rolling up my sleeves, eager to dive in. "I'll take care of it all, don't worry."

"I know you will," she says, picking up her phone and scrolling through it disinterestedly. "That's why I called you."

The afternoon goes by me in a blur as I lose myself in a hypnotic haze of domesticity. I grin broadly as I power through the tasks. What’s more important to a friend’s quality of life than their literal living space? It’s so impactful on one’s mental health, mood, and more.

I’m having a practical, quantifiable, positive impact on Sylvia’s quality of life. I used to just make it worse, to stress her and belittle her and even push her around a bit. Now, look at me!

Doing well by doing good. Doing well by doing good…

"How's it going in there?" Sylvia calls from the living room.

"Great!" I reply, slightly out of breath. "Just finishing up the bathroom."

"When you're done, bring me some water."

I hurry to comply, filling a glass with ice water and bringing it to her. She's still on the sofa, now watching something on her laptop.

"Thanks," she says, taking the glass without looking up. "My back’s been killing me all day. Why don’t you get to it?"

"Of course," I say, moving behind the couch.

I begin kneading her muscles, applying firm pressure with my thumbs. Sylvia groans appreciatively.

"God, you're good at this," she says, tilting her head to give me better access. "Maybe this is your true calling. Forget college - you could just be my personal servant."

I laugh, though something about her tone makes me pause momentarily. But the colors swirl reassuringly, and I continue working the knots out of her shoulders.

"Lower," she directs, and I move my hands down her back, pressing along her spine. "Mmm, yes, right there. That’s perfect."

I smile to myself, pleased that I'm making her feel good. This is what friendship is about—taking care of each other. Well, me taking care of her, anyway. That's how it should be.

After a few more minutes of kneading her muscles, Sylvia lets out a contented sigh and turns to look at me over her shoulder.

"Hey," she says, her voice soft. "Wanna watch a movie together?"

That’s unexpected. I realise with a degree of puzzlement that we haven’t done something like that since… well, since I let her down with the group project. No specific purpose or activity I need to perform for her. Just… hanging out?

It feels unnatural, to be honest. But I do remember it being nice. And maybe more importantly, if she’s proposing it, it means she’s in the mood for it, so…

It’d be very selfish to deny a positive experience to my best friend.

"Of course!" I say, pouring enthusiasm into my smile. "What do you want to watch?"

"I was thinking of watching that new thriller everyone's been talking about. The Heart Of Evil, I think it’s called."

Sounds good. I do need to be mindful of the time, though, so I check my phone quickly. It's already 6pm. If the movie is maybe two hours, that would mean I'd be leaving shortly after eight. That’s not the biggest margin to get back home in time for dinner and spend the rest of the evening with Chris, but it’s enough.

"That should be fine," I say, even as a small knot of anxiety forms in my stomach. "But I do need to get going by 8:00."

"Yeah, yeah, for your brother-fucking date," Sylvia says dismissively. "Don't worry, you'll make it."

"Alright, thanks Syl. You’re the best."

"I am indeed," she says with a smile, getting up from the sofa. "Let's watch it in my bedroom, though. More comfortable in there."

I follow her to the bedroom, where she flops onto her unmade bed and pats the space beside her. I join her on the bed, though I’m not sure how this is more comfortable, exactly. If the back hurts, won’t this just make her even more uncomfortable?

Sylvia contemplates me for one long moment, as if weighing something for a final time. Then, she briefly licks her lips, and says, "I want to try something different. Lie down on your back."

I frown, but naturally comply without hesitation, settling onto my back on her bed. What is she up to? Well, whatever it is, I’m sure this is fine. I'm being accommodating and friendly and kind and a very, very good person.

Sylvia grins down at me, then pulls her shirt over her head. "You're going to be my seat for the movie."

Before I can process what she means, she's shimmying out of her shorts and underwear, leaving her naked. She straddles my chest, her knees on either side of my head.

"Ready?" she asks, but doesn't wait for an answer before lowering herself onto my face.

The familiar scent and taste of her fills my senses as my mouth makes contact with her pussy. I adjust my position slightly to make sure I can breathe through my nose, then naturally start licking her in slow, deliberate strokes. The ambient pleasure she clearly likes. That’s what she must want from this position, right?

Sylvia reaches for her laptop, balancing it on my belly as she queues up the movie. "Perfect," she sighs, settling more firmly onto my face. "Now I can enjoy the film in comfort."

Guess I won’t be watching, then. But it’s okay. It’d be selfish of me to demand to watch the movie, if it comes to the detriment of Sylvia’s viewing experience.

I settle into my role as Sylvia's seat, focusing on providing steady, methodical stimulation with my tongue. Not too intense, not too teasing - just enough to keep her pleasantly aroused without distracting her from the movie.

The position isn't ideal. I can only listen to the movie, a sound muffled by Syl’s thighs. The laptop on my belly is an uncomfortable weight after a bit, and my neck is starting to cramp. I’m not getting the best airflow down here, and my forehead is starting to pearl with sweat.

Still, Sylvia seems content, occasionally shifting her weight to get more comfortable on my face, or to receive stimulation in a different spot, which makes sense. I can’t really move too much down here.

Time passes strangely in this position. Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. It's getting warm between Sylvia's thighs, uncomfortably so. Sweat and her own juices are increasingly drenching my whole face, and my jaw is beginning to ache from the repetitive motion. But I don't stop.

Sylvia's wetness increases as the movie progresses. She rocks subtly against my mouth. There’s something almost… meditative about serving cunt this way.

Maybe she’s right, and I do have talent as a pussy-slave, even being straight myself. At least, I think.

Occasionally, Sylvia tenses or shifts when something exciting happens in the movie. Once, she even gasps and grinds down harder on my face for a moment before catching herself and resuming her more passive position.

"Sorry," she says absently. "Big plot twist."

Eventually, it’s been long enough that I’m starting to feel anxious. The movie doesn't seem anywhere near finished, and I need to leave by 8:00 to make it home in time. I try to communicate this by tapping lightly on Sylvia's thigh, but she either doesn't notice or chooses to ignore it.

"Shh," she says when I make a questioning noise against her pussy. "This is the best part."

My anxiety keeps building.

I can feel my heart rate increasing, my breathing becoming more laboured through my already restricted airway. I need to leave soon. Chris is expecting me. My parents will be going out. I promised.

But I can't stop now. Sylvia is enjoying the movie. She needs this comfort. It would be selfish to interrupt her experience just because I have somewhere else to be.

There’s no way this movie is gonna wrap up at the two hour mark. Hell, we may have overshot that already. It’s hard to tell from down here, but I think the room’s getting dark…

And the mist is getting deeper in hue.

The unfathomable depth of an ocean of colours. Truer greens and yellows and oranges. An angry deep well of red. A purple worthy of an emperor.

And much like the colours shift into their deeper selves, so my anxiety shifts into fear.

I tap more insistently on Sylvia's thigh, making a muffled noise against her pussy that I hope communicates my urgency. Sylvia ignores me.

And that’s when, at last, the panic hits me like a ton of bricks.

I need to get out. I need to leave now. Chris is waiting. My parents are leaving. I promised. I promised!

My body reacts before my mind can catch up. I thrash beneath Sylvia, bucking my hips and twisting my head to free my mouth from her cunt. "Syl! I need to go!" I gasp, struggling to push her off me.

But Sylvia doesn't budge. Instead, she bears down harder, grinding her pussy against my face with renewed purpose. Her thighs clamp around my head like a vise as she reaches forward and grabs my wrists, pinning them firmly to the mattress on either side of my head.

"Stop. Moving." Her voice is calm, almost bored, as she focuses on the movie playing on my stomach.

I try to scream, but it's muffled completely by her cunt. I can't breathe properly. The taste of her is overwhelming. I attempt to twist away again, but she's stronger than she looks. My legs kick uselessly against the bed as panic fully overtakes me.

Sylvia simply presses down harder, smothering me with her sex. She doesn't even look down, her eyes fixed on the screen as she holds me in place with surprising strength. The weight of her body, the grip on my wrists, the wet heat covering my mouth and nose—it's inescapable.

And then something strange happens. As my struggles prove futile, a peculiar calm washes over me. The colours shift again, returning to their soothing pastel hues. My body goes limp beneath her. The panic subsides, replaced by a floating sensation.

It’s a strange form of… acceptance. Sylvia has me right now. If I can’t get up and get away, then it’s not my fault if I let somebody down, I guess…

I resume my gentle licking, my movements now docile and obedient. Sylvia relaxes her grip on my wrists slightly but doesn't release them. She sighs contentedly and shifts her weight to get more comfortable on my face.

"That's better."

Eventually, the sounds from the laptop change. The dramatic music fades to credits, and Sylvia stretches above me, letting out a satisfied yawn.

"That was excellent," she says, closing the laptop and setting it aside.

But she doesn't move off my face. If anything, she settles more firmly onto me, her thighs still clamped around my head. I make a questioning noise against her pussy, wondering if I'm allowed to speak now.

"I know what you're thinking," Sylvia says, looking down at me for the first time in what must be hours. "You're worried about your brother. About your promise."

I nod as best I can with my head trapped between her thighs.

"Here's the thing, Pheebs." Her voice takes on a serious tone I've rarely heard from her. "It's time for you to make a choice."

She lifts herself just enough to let me speak, though her pussy still hovers inches from my face, ready to descend again if needed.

"A choice?"

"Yes. You can't keep this up forever. You need to know who your priorities are. Ranked, in descending order. And there’s no space for two names in the top slot."

"No, I don't—"

Sylvia presses her cunt back down on my mouth, silencing me. "Yes, you do. And I'm making it simple for you. It's time to choose, Phoebe. If we both call upon your services at the same time, who will you choose? Chris, or me?"

She lifts up again, allowing me to respond.

"Why are you doing this?" I whisper.

"Because I like the idea of making you disappoint someone else while helping the person you truly need to repent to. Because you owe me," Sylvia says, simply. "After being your sidekick forever, and being disappointed by you in every possible way… all those years of making me feel small… you have to make it up to me."

She's right. I do owe her. After all our years of friendship, all the times I put myself first, all the times I made her feel small... she deserves better from me. She deserves to be my priority.

"Text him," Sylvia says, reaching for my phone on the nightstand. "Tell Chris you can't make it tonight."

My hands shake as I take the phone from her. The screen blurs through my tears as I type out the message.

Sorry, something came up. Can't make it tonight. I promise I’ll make it up to you, okay bro?

I hit send before I can change my mind, feeling like I've just jumped off a cliff. The response comes almost immediately.

No worries. Tomorrow maybe?

I stare at the screen in disbelief. No worries? How can he be so casual about this? I've just broken my promise, let him down completely, and all he says is "no worries"?

"He says it's okay," I say, my voice hollow with confusion. "He's not even mad."

Sylvia takes the phone from my hand and glances at it. "Of course he's not. It's just sex, Phoebe."

But…

How can she say that? By her own logic, isn’t this just sex, too? But before I can ask her, Sylvia puts my phone aside and shifts her position.

"Now," she says, lowering herself until her pussy is once again muzzling my compliant lips, "you're allowed to make me cum. Get to work, dyke. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your best friend, would you?"

No, I think to myself as I begin to lick. I would most certainly not.

TO BE CONTINUED…