Marching season is out, but the competition is only heating up.
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Section leader applications for the next marching band season at Halston University are officially open, and percussionist Bay Rodriguez wants the role.
Bay's only competition is Ca...
imperative. commanding the ensemble to take their formations.
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BAY WORKED EVERY DAY OF fall break, not to mention studied every day of midterms week. So after nearly two weeks without her, I have started to feel restless, fidgety. It feels like missing her, but it's not emotional. Our sex is just great stress relief. My body is in withdrawal, is all.
Bay sits me on the edge of the bed, kneeling on the floor, working my cock deep into her mouth. When I twine her hair around my palm, she blinks headily at me, tongue swirling around the tip. I take that as an encouraging sign, so I tighten my hold, and she gives an appreciative moan that rockets straight down the length of me and into my gut. Then we climb under the covers, she climbs on top of me, and rocks her hips against mine, her soft, repeated cries of pleasure smothered into my shoulder. Her orgasm catalyzes mine, and I dig deep, deeper into her until she pants, "Callum," over and over.
My name has never sounded so good.
Early November is the perfect temperature for sex, all warm breath and body heat with minimal sweat. After, we sprawl out, Bay supine on the mattress, my chin resting on her sternum. When I look at her, it's so unthinking that it feels merely like my eyes' oldest habit.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Her fingers coil and uncoil in my hair, lazy and relaxed.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm a puzzle to solve," she remarks. "Just ask whatever it is. I'm not easily offended."
I already know things about Bay that her regular flings could never, a fact that fills me with cockiness, and still I want to know more. But between sex and soft pillow talk and thinly-veiled insults and keeping the entire rest of the world out of it, our situation is unstable enough. I don't want to say the wrong thing and make us go nuclear again—though in that case, maybe I'd accept the blame for once.
"How did you end up in foster care?"
She purses her lips and frowns at me. Staying silent, I lower my lips to the skin between her breasts and lay a soft kiss there. "You don't have to answer."
"Stop coddling me. I'm not sensitive about it," she replies. "My mom had recurring drug problems—ironic, I know, that I use them now. I entered the custody of the state while she was supposed to get better, but she died from a drug overdose. All her relatives were in the Philippines, but I was a US citizen, so I just stayed in the system. There was no-one who could take me in."
