Sunday morning bliss. Four weeks into my freshman year, as I stretched toward the morning sun, I started to think that maybe I was burning too fast. It was the first Sunday I woke up not being hung over. And not having my pussy wrecked. The first Sunday morning, I woke up and heard the silent hallways of my dorm.

5:22 AM

I could get up. Make coffee and just sit. Breathe. Read the damned books or finish that one paper due… next week, no hurry.

I stretched once more. Yeah, my bladder let me know—time to pee.

I pulled on my hoodie, the one just long enough to cover my ass, and made for the door. I was just about to put my hand on the door handle when I heard her stepping up the stairs.

Sunday morning ascend. Using the entire width of the stairs, steadying herself to the wall. Shavonne in all her drunken majesty.

I opened the door just as she reached the top. She looked at me with lazy, satisfied eyes and collected herself just enough because it was me. She had never been drunk with me. We’d been drunk together, but when she… we… When she took me, she was always completely there.

Shavonne drunk was different from Shavonne sober. But which one was truer? Alcohol reduces activity in the prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain responsible for impulse control, decision-making, and… morality. Again, proving morality is a construct of the collected mind, not the untamed one. And why did Shavonne drink to such an extent when she went on a binge?

I didn’t hold myself prisoner to morality. Perhaps she did?

“You’re analyzing me,” she said, slightly slurring her words.

“Mhmm,” I answered distantly; she interrupted my trail of thoughts.

“Fair. I already know you’re a whoring slut when you drink,” she laughed.

I tilted my head and looked at her as she ambled towards me.

“I have to correct you, babe,” I said, “I’m a whoring slut all of the time.”

“Oh,” she said, “I guess it’s just me.”

Finally, she reached me.

“You have cum in your hair, babe,” I whispered.

“Aye,” she said, “there as well.”

She caught her breath. A deep inhale.

“You off for your morning pee?”

“Yeah, I just woke up…”

“Can… I watch?”

It was such a soft question, and her voice had no push—just a whisper underneath lazy eyes.

“You do what you need to,” I said, “I need to pee.”

She followed me down the hall, and as we locked ourselves into the bathroom, she just sighed.

I pulled my sweater up and sat down.

“Wait,” she whispered, “Spread your legs. Let me see.”

I spread my legs, and she knelt between them.

I yawned.

“Can I pee now?”

“Wait,” she said and pressed her hand against the low of my stomach.

It felt strange. It felt powerful. So, I held it in. And she pressed harder. She leaned closer, her other hand digging into my thigh.

Her breath deepened and warmed. Her eyes were hazed.

She pushed harder, and I released a trickle.

She gasped and pressed harder.

I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

And when I released, her arms wrapped around my thighs, and she pulled me into her mouth.

I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt. Peeing felt good. Peeing down Shavonne’s throat?

I tried making mental notes, but it was too big to dissect in the moment. Besides… I was almost empty. What would Shavonne do next?

She sucked me, emptied me, cleaned me.

Then, we showered and cleaned our mess.

We strolled out of the bathroom and into our bubble, where she went to bed, and I made coffee.

It was 6:05 AM, and there was Alicia, five minutes late for her run. She saw me, blushed, and giggled before her cute bum exited the door.

I had a full hour to enjoy coffee, the slow murmur between my legs, and my dark-skinned roommate.

I looked at Freud.

He shrugged. Smoked. Said nothing.

What Shavonne did?

Freud wanted no part of it.

So, why Shavonne? Did she take something from me? Was that what this was? Or was my growing paranoia precisely what she’d aimed for?

Devotion and worship. Consumption. That’s what she did. She consumed… me? Something mine? Consumption is worship.

But Shavonne worships no one. And I didn’t feel dominant. Not then, not now. But she had gone unhinged.

Vampires, demons, religious rituals? Perhaps she was a voodoo queen?

Even I laughed at that thought.

Some people are aroused by filth, destruction, and forbidden things.

She had ruined me with Solomon, and when I woke up, she was enjoying my ruin. She had watched him fuck me in my sleep. To observe, feel, and taste my ruin. To see how much I liked it. Needed it.

Was this Shavonne chasing taboo? Her taboo, the one she only dared face when drunk? Hadn’t she unraveled at my taboo? Sander fucking me. Dad filling me. Mom eating me?

It didn’t matter.

Because I knew how to make a black girl break.

I stretched and studied the shape of my breasts underneath my hoodie.

And felt like going for a run.

I was just done getting dressed when Alicia returned, and I asked her to join me for another hour. Because I liked her company. And sweaty Asians are cute.

I watched her face as we jogged through the near-empty pathways of campus. Had she changed? Was she different? Would she look at me?

It was just the intent Alicia. Driven, motivated, focused. Sweat ran down her back, shading her shorts just above the curvature of her behind.

“Everything good?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

The air felt nice. It was starting to chill, that autumn breeze before winter, when all the cute girls hid behind big, warm clothes and all the guys turned into shadowy icemen. What would winter on campus be like?

We took a left, then a right, and ended up under the branches of five sleeping willows. She stopped.

“Now,” she said, “You can kiss me.”

I don’t do kissing. But I kissed her.

She looked at me. Slightly softer than the Hannah we’d gotten to know, but still firm.

“I liked it,” she said, “What we did. What you did to me.”

I didn’t need confirmation; she knew I knew. So, what was this?

“I’m a double Major in her first year. I will crush Harvard. I will move out from under my brother’s shadow and marry a good man.”

She took my hands.

“But under the covers. I want to be your slut. I can’t be like you, with everyone watching. But under the covers? Now and then? Yes.”

Then she started jogging.

I heard Shavonne’s voice in my head.

They don’t break. They slip. They surrender. Absorb and continue.

I didn’t try to catch up with her; I returned to the dorm and met Kelly and her roommates at the door.

Chloe, the beautiful brunette, on one side, and a cute blonde on the other. Guarding. Taking care.

“Hey, Kelly,” I smiled.

Her eyes lit. Eight freckles sparkled to life.

“Hannah!” she said and hugged me.

Sweaty. She realized and let go.

“Sorry,” I said.

She giggled.

“Want to join us for a walk?”

“That’d be nice, but I need to shower and study. Next time?”

Chloe and the blonde pulled. And off they went.

I smiled. She seemed better. She would be okay.

Shavonne was royally passed out when I returned, and Alicia was nowhere to be seen. Either she hadn’t returned, or she was in the shower.

I decided to phone Lisa. Too early on a Sunday morning.

“Huh?” Her voice was thick with sleep—a whispered hungover, drawn over the Sahara sands.

“Now that’s a sexy voice,” I giggled.

“Oh… hey, Hannah.”

Usually, her voice would at least try to sound happy. Partied too hard?

“I just thought I’d call and let you know I miss you,” I said. “What’s new back home?”

A drawn silence.

“Tony… cheated on me.”

Oh… that one thing I can’t unscramble. Love. She was happy to let her boyfriend fuck me, but now?

“I… I don’t know what to say,” I admitted.

She knew how much that hurt because Hannah was supposed to know. I’d been at Harvard for four weeks. Of course, I was supposed to know.

There was a sigh at the other end. And by automation, because it’s what I’m supposed to do for the rest of my life, “How does it make you feel, Lisa?”

It turned out that my best friend felt a lot.

“Insecure. Fat and used. Like, maybe everything’s a lie. Like someone pulled into my stomach, ripped my guts out, and spilled them on the floor. Left them there for me to study.”

No sobbing. Just a pause.

I breathed. She breathed.

“Horny. I let him fuck me with her scent still on him. Like a slut. Like a cheap slut. So, I drank and drank. I have no idea how I got home last night or when. The room’s still spinning.”

She had fucked Tony with me on him and never cared. But I understood that part. I also understood that by letting Tony have me, maybe something in him had shattered if only his curiosity. His desire. His lust.

His morals.

“Did you guys talk?”

A pause. A sob.

“What’s there to talk about, Hannah? He fucks other girls. And I go back for more. He’s a slut. I’m a worse slut, because I get off on the remains of his whoredom.”

“It turns you on?”

“Are you analyzing me?”

It sounded almost like an accusation. But only almost. If she wasn’t going to say it, I had to.

“You let him fuck me, and you got off on that, babe.”

Pause. Another sob. Another breath.

“Because with you… it’s different, Hannah. I love you.”

That word, again, that I could not compute. I cared for Lisa. A fucking lot.

Love?

Her pain was my pain. Empathy. Care. Is love simply empathy stretched too far? But my pain was just a reflection of hers. I didn’t share its complexity. I hurt because my best friend hurt, not because her boyfriend had fucked someone else.

And I knew. How many times had I sucked Sander, cleaning other girls off him?

“Tony came back to you, Lisa,” I said, “All you have to decide is if you like that or not.”

She paused. I imagined her stretching, her brown eyes finding something to latch onto. Lisa and Tony were perfect. I had corrupted that to see if it could get me off. It did. It still does.

“How’s life at Harvard?” she yawned.

I fucked my roommate last night, and the other one drank my pee this morning.

“The usual.”

“At least we know you’re a slut,” she laughed.

“No… still just exploring. Figuring out. Testing the theories they’re feeding me.”

There was a drawn pause. Friends being in comfortable silence, listening to each other’s breath. I imagined her staring out her window. I wished she was naked, but Lisa didn’t sleep in her nude. So, I didn’t see her like that; I just imagined her.

“You coming home for Thanksgiving?” she whispered.

Midterms were upon us. I hadn’t even thought about Thanksgiving.

“Absolutely,” I said because I missed home. I missed her. I missed Sander.

“Good,” she whispered.

“So… will you teach me? To take a cock in my butt?”

Because. That’s what I had told her. Let Tony cum in your butt, and watch his face as he does.

How do you tell your best friend you might be busy fucking your brother? Who was I kidding? I had time for both.

I let her go to sleep off her hangover to decide for herself about Tony, about me, and sodomy.

She had reminded me of mid-terms. And I decided to make the most of an early September Sunday.

Nietzsche and Freud could wait another day.

I knew what they wanted me to write about ethics and morale. But I was going to challenge that. Either to my doom or to my glory. Depending on a professor who liked peeking down my top. And on me, who wore slightly deeper cut blouses to his lectures.

I wasn’t going to fuck a professor in my first year.

But if I would, I knew exactly who.

For now, I enjoyed the banter, the slow tug-and-pull between the rules of ethics and morality, and the institutionalized acceptance of the lack of them.

Apart from that, mid-term would be a breeze. I had shit under control.

Alicia was already stressed out just by being herself. With the added stress, I would learn more about her in the coming weeks. How far could her spine bend before snapping?

But not only Alicia. Who among my fellow students would crumble?  Who had it the worst?

The med students? The law?

Would the philosophers philosophize the philosophy of mid-terms so much that they’d stumble on that question alone?

Stress.

Yerkes-Dodson Law. A moderate amount of stress improves performance. Too much? Brittle cracks at first. Frayed hair. Sleepless eyes. Self-medicating on weed and booze. And keeping the wrecked system running on caffeine… amphetamine, cocaine.

Who would thrive, and who would falter? Succumb. Drop out.

And who would thrive and blossom?

Stress isn’t just about endurance—it’s about adaptation. Some students would adjust, tightening their grip, forcing discipline, and rewriting their limits. Others would unravel, escaping into booze, pills, sex, anything that dulls the edges.

High neuroticism? Cracks first.

High conscientiousness? Pushes through—until their body betrays them.

And then, the rarest ones: The ones who look like they’re crumbling but never actually do. The ones who carry their stress so well, you’d only see it in the tremble of their fingers.

I was drawn to both. Both were hot. Both were opportunities.

To study. To learn. To test.

They’d all resort to the same release in the end.

Booze and sex.

I thought of Kelly. She wasn’t in my sample group. Because I already knew that she’d break if I didn’t stop her.

I decided to look for her. To have a cup of coffee. To get to know her.

I found her and her roommates sitting outside a coffee place, licking the last rays of summer. The leaves had started changing. Copper, red—matching her hair. Something I would never have cared about before.

Chloe wasn’t dismissive; she was protective. I respected that. The blonde, Monica, was less protective and a little more welcoming.

It didn’t matter. Kelly did.

“Mind if I sit?” I smiled.

Chloe stretched. She was cute.

“I suspect you will either way,” she said. But she forced a smile.

Med students. All three. Nurse Chloe. Nurse Monica. And Dr. Kelly, I decided.

That feeling of a conversation dying mid-air, interrupted by something unspoken, snuck in. I wasn’t going to engage in it—just Kelly.

“Midterms,” I said to no one in particular. “You guys ready?”

Shifting looks. They knew I was psychology. They were medicine.

They wanted to make sure people didn’t break.

I wanted to know why they did.

“It’s the first of many,” Chloe started, all confidence. "We’re here for all of them. All of us."

Team med. Brilliant.

Kelly looked down. Silent. Twirling her fingers.

“How about you?” Monica asked, shifting the conversation to me.

“Frankly? I’m bored with them.”

I let that sit for a second.

Then: “You guys want another player in your study group?”

If mixed emotions had names, they’d be Monica, Chloe, and Kelly.

“Look,” I said, “You can continue to sweat and let tension absorb you, or you can let me help all three of you to ace it.”

And that’s when I understood Chloe’s hostility.

“What?” she snarled, an ice dagger in her voice, “So you can fuck us all? Is that it, Hannah? You’re a smug cunt. We’ve got this. Thank you!”

She got up and moved to leave, but both Monica and Kelly sat still.

I leaned back and looked at her.

“Chloe, dear,” I said, “If I wanted to fuck you, you’d already been fucked. Let me help you guys.”

She hesitated but sat down. We agreed to meet the next day. We drank coffee, licked the sun, and enjoyed the last Sunday before hell broke loose. Monica smiled and thanked me for offering to help. Kelly didn’t say much, but her eyes did.

Chloe? She was stuck in a moment she didn’t know how to get out of, wondering why I hadn’t fucked her. Yet.

So, that’s how I ended up tutoring in a field I wasn’t studying. Medicine is fascinating in its way. But mechanical. Things break. They fix them.

The ones who cannot be stitched and glued together? They’re mine.

But when do you take a break? When do you listen to the gnaw in your head? When do you turn something incomprehensible into meaning? I’m good at that shit. I show people how to cope. How to hold themselves together when everything is cracking. How to make pressure work for you.

I make sense of cumming on my brother’s cock. In a rationalized way. I need to cum, and he provides. There’s no need to philosophize about it.

First mid-term at Harvard? Suck my cunt.

I hadn’t spent much time at the Library. However, the girls seemed to live there—books upon books, theory, no plan, no direction. Notes spilled over one another.

“You’re doing this wrong,” I said.

Chole was agitated. Who the fuck was I?

“You’re not helping much, Hannah. Critique is only helpful when offering some solution. What do you suggest?” she said, then turned her voice to a whisper, “We go sit in a ring and masturbate ourselves better?”

I couldn’t not smile.

“That’d be a start, at least,” I said. “No, you’re reading books, studying notes, trying to accept the academia of it.”

They just looked at me, confused. Resigned.

“It’s following the curriculum,” Monica said.

“Exactly. The same theory, exact text, and notes your professors told you to take. You’re trying to apply theory to something you don’t understand.”

“And?” Chloe was not amused.

“Get out. Look, see, feel. Visit the retirement homes, walk the city's dirty streets, sit in the ER for twelve hours.”

Monica sighed.

“But… this is what they expect us to learn.”

“You want to be doctors? Then, meet your patients before they’re on your table. Unless you aim for the coroner’s basement. Then it doesn’t fucking matter.”

Kelly flickered. Monica looked at her hands. Chloe was looking for an excuse to cut me off. They all sat in silence.

“You wonder why the prostitute empties her guts in the alley? It could be so many things, but you won’t know until you smell, feel, and hear her.”

Intrigue. They started to listen.

“You think your first patient will be some neat little textbook case? A perfect example of heart failure or an isolated tumor wrapped up in a pretty bow? No. Your first patient is going to be gasping for breath in their own filth, shaking from withdrawal, bleeding from places you don’t want to touch. And you’ll...