My dark-haired devil. My demon muse. My god.
GILDI AND THE UNWIELDY, INEFFECTUAL COMMITTEE OF BEARS
Jeremy Edwards
This “spring fling” was the kind of gig that Gildi wouldn’t be doing much longer. Sure, these campus festivals were good, easy money—especially for a headlining act—but it was simply getting too hard for her manager to work them into the touring schedule without sacrificing more important opportunities. “We can’t start turning down late-night TV appearances to entertain a bunch of drunken college kids,” Gary had told her with typical bluntness.
Gildi liked college kids—even drunken ones, up to a point. It hadn’t been so long ago that she’d been a part of this world, at a campus a thousand miles away…messing around as a song-writer while she earned a degree in anthropology. She could easily remember a time, still in the relatively recent past, when the only gigs under her belt were school parties.
Then there were the literally under-her-belt performances—definitely a highlight of her college days and nights. Her lifestyle nowadays meant that most of the sex happened with musicians, with record-company staffers, with producers and journalists and other people she crossed paths with in the course of pop-music business. But checking out college guys always made Gildi happy. They were nice, fresh fodder for the part of her mental machinery dedicated to self-pleasuring—machinery whose corner of her mind Gildi visited as often as possible. So when Gary had explained that “the student association dude can put the band up in some kind of co-op, if we want to save on a hotel,” Gildi had been more than okay with that. The more time she spent around dorm men—even if she didn’t touch them—the better stocked her masturbation cupboard would be.
The cooperative dormitory had an official name that Gildi had already forgotten, but she was aware that it was more casually known as the Grizzly Commune, in deference to the university mascot. In fact, she had learned from the S.A. dude, residents of the co-op proudly called themselves “grizzlies,” in a sort of countercultural twist on jock and frat culture that dated to the co-op’s origins in the sixties.
The sound check was finished, but her bandmates had elected to stick around and watch the other acts. Gildi had decided instead to make her way to the co-op, telling her colleagues that she needed a nap—though what she really needed was some private time with her fingers between her legs. What with one thing and another, Gildi hadn’t gotten off in days—not even with herself—and at this point, with professional obligations dormant until showtime, her libidinous itch was her top priority. As she walked toward her temporary home, responding to every appealing guy with a tangible flutter in her crotch, her overriding thought was that she couldn’t wait to yank her cutoffs down and get started.
When she entered the century-old mansion that had been repurposed into Grizzly Commune, she was confronted with a hunky but spacey looking young man behind a reception desk. She stared at his focus-free blue eyes for a few moments, waiting in vain for him to look up from the graphic novel he was reading and greet her. She gathered she would have to take the initiative.
“Hi. I’m Gildi. I think I’m supposed to be staying here tonight.”
“Yeah,” said the spacer, still not making eye contact. It wasn’t clear to Gildi whether “yeah” meant “Yes, indeed, I have your room ready,” or “If you say so, lady,” or “Ask me if I care,” or “I’m not actually paying attention but will acknowledge that you’re speaking to me,” or none of the above.
Gildi hesitated, not sure how to move the dialogue, such as it was, forward. But then Spacer followed up.
“I’m just covering someone’s break. But hang on a second, and I’ll see if I can find the guest log.”
Gildi and her traveling satchel hung on a second, while Spacer read a couple more pages.
At last, he got up. Gildi observed that he had a tight, cute ass—almost reluctantly, given that she’d taken a justified dislike to him. He rummaged through some items on a large wooden table, producing a ledger of sorts. He leaned forward, his back to Gildi, and took his time flipping through the log, seeming to find certain pages nearly as absorbing as his comic book. She had a lascivious vision of sneaking up behind the guy, goosing him and tickling the taut meat between his ribs.
“I don’t see any visitor rooms reserved for today. Oh, hang on.” He tossed the ledger back on the table. “That’s last year’s.”
Watching Spacer’s wiry butt amble around the foyer while his glazed eyes made a perfunctory scan of the territory, Gildi became conscious of just how slick and restless she was getting inside her panties.
“I have no clue where the log is. Can you wait half an hour until my buddy gets back?”
Sure, she’d wait for his buddy—though she knew it was going to mean half an hour of seeping juice into her thong. Perhaps the “buddy” would be another hunk—this one with better circuitry above the neck, it could be hoped—and a glimpse of him would then make her postponed self-loving session that much richer.
She took out her laptop, sat on the floor, and caught up on band business for twenty-nine minutes. At that point Spacer peeked at his watch, rose from his comic-book station, and left the foyer, going up the stairs without saying a word to Gildi. Presumably, he was counting on his buddy to return the next minute, and he figured his assistance—if one could call it that—was no longer required.
But no buddy—nobody at all—showed up the next minute, or during any of the ten minutes that followed that one. Finally a beautiful, cleft-chinned guy, with low-slung jeans and a forest of curly hair, entered the building. Was this the buddy? Gildi wondered. She could certainly work with that. If she were picking a buddy, this was the kind she’d pick.
“Hey,” said the guy, “do you know if it came in?”
“Sorry?”
“The delivery. For the kitchen. I’m supposed to cook for tonight, but we’re, like, out of everything. Weren’t you at the food-supply subcommittee meeting?”
“No,” said Gildi, snagging a hungry glance at the waistband of his jockey shorts, “I missed it.” She continued politely, “Are you the one who’s staffing the desk?”
“Yeah,” Buddy replied. “Technically.” And he, too, disappeared up the stairs, his long denim legs mesmerizing her as he receded.
Gildi toyed with the idea of pursuing these handsome grizzlies up the stairs. What would Spacer do if she confronted him on the landing, threw her arms around him, and squeezed her warm breasts into his torso as hard as she could? What would Buddy say if she cornered him outside his room and reached daringly for his fly? She pressed her thighs together with relish but dismissed this impulsive train of thought.
A moment later, she heard a vehicle in the driveway, and the sounds of people clattering in through a side entrance to the house. She slipped her computer back in her bag, stood up—noticing how dramatically damp her panties were—and called out, “Hello!”
Three college men emerged from a hallway—a bulked-up athletic type in a tank top, shorts and sandals; a skinny, tattooed guy dressed in black; and an officious looking redhead, all glasses and freckles. Each one was kind of hot, Gildi decided, in his own way—from the jock’s obvious brand of studliness to the hipster’s sinuous quasi-androgyny to the nerd’s round-faced version of “geek cute.”
“Hey,” said Black-Clothing Guy, “Aren’t you Gildi?” He was evidently too cool to put much pizzazz into the question, but a hitch of his eyebrow conveyed that he was impressed.
“Yeah!” said Gildi with relief, extending a hand. “I’ve been waiting for someone to direct me to my room.”
“Your room?” said Freckles and Glasses.
“Uh-huh,” she said, addressing herself to what she presumed was an ally in Black-Clothing Guy. “I’m supposed to stay here tonight.”
“That can’t be right,” said Athlete. “Maybe you’re here next Saturday, the twenty-seventh?”
Gildi couldn’t help rolling her eyes, but she spoke calmly. “The student association arranged
it, because I’m performing at your Spring Fling. I think you’re supposed to look in the guest log—assuming you can locate it.”
Freckles and Glasses shook his head. “Nah, the log won’t do any good if it was arranged through the S.A.”
“Do we still have a VIP spreadsheet on the upstairs computer?” asked Black Clothing.
“The spreadsheet wouldn’t reflect an S.A. booking, either,” said Athlete. “They only use that for visiting lecturers—things the faculty liaison sets up.”
“Besides,” said Freckles, “that computer is in the shop.”
“Maybe I should just get a hotel room,” said Gildi. She was beginning to lose patience. Irritation quivered through her above the waist, while her libido continued to pulse below.
The guys ignored her. “Who’s chairing the facilities subcommittee this month?” asked Black Clothing. Despite her annoyance, Gildi admired the sleek, kissable line of his neck.
“Jen,” said Athlete. “But she’s downstate this weekend, at a job fair.”
Black Clothing reacknowledged Gildi at last. “I have Jen’s cell number, though she’s probably not taking calls while she’s doing interviews. What time do you have to crash?”
I am in immediate need of a bed to masturbate on—before my clit burns a goddamn hole through my shorts. That was how she wanted to respond. But although she had a frank vocabulary, and two of her songs had earned “explicit lyrics” tags because she’d used the work fuck, this wasn’t the type of thing she usually blurted out.
“To tell you the truth,” she said untruthfully, “I could use a nap ASAP.”
“Maybe she could borrow one of our rooms for a while,” said Athlete.
“I don’t know,” said Freckles. “We should really clear it with the facilities subcom…or at least with the rules team.”
“They’re meeting Thursday,” Black Clothing said helpfully to Gildi.
She revisited a thought she’d shoved aside earlier—the option of excusing herself to one of the co-op’s bathrooms and jilling off on the toilet, on the floor, or even against the wall. But once again she resisted this alternative. After days of celibacy, she’d been looking forward to a proper, sensuous, comfortable pussypampering, and she didn’t want to throw away the highly anticipated quality time in favor of a cramped diddle.
“Screw it,” said Athlete magnanimously, his appetizing muscles rippling under his tank top. “I’m gonna chance it. You can nap in my room,” he said to Gildi. “Second floor, first door on the right. It’s not locked.”
She thanked him, took her satchel, and headed up the stairs toward release.
As she neared the landing, the taste of the scheduled orgasm already real to her, she heard someone switch the radio on downstairs.
…right here on your campus radio station. It’s coming up on three, and…
When she let herself into Athlete’s room, she was surprised to hear a voice—the campus DJ’s voice that she’d just left behind. She noted that Athlete had a pair of hulking speakers mounted from his ceiling, and she deduced that they were wired so as to pipe in whatever the house system was playing.
She tossed her satchel on the floor, peeled back Athlete’s comforter, and let her ass sink luxuriantly into his mattress. She closed her eyes in anticipatory rapture as she unsnapped her cutoffs and let her fingertips slither into her panties.
We continue now with our weeklong “Music of Broadway” festival…
Fuck! thought Gildi. She loved an enormous variety of music, but this was one genre she just couldn’t do. Especially if they were going to play stuff like
…the title track from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Sound of Music.
As the all-too-familiar strains began, Gildi opened her eyes and pulled her hand out of her shorts. She might be the horniest gal on this sprawling campus, but there was no way she could get off to such noxious accompaniment.
She made a breakneck visual journey around the room, hoping to spot a stereo receiver or other control box—anything with an OFF switch or a volume knob. But there was nothing. The speakers, it seemed, were connected directly to the equipment on the ground floor. Short of yanking the wires out of them—and she was tempted—there was nothing she could do to can the unwelcome soundtrack.
She grabbed her bag and ran downstairs, where she found the three guys eating sandwiches in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” said Gildi. “The radio…I can’t, um, sleep.”
Athlete shrugged. “I guess we could turn it off.”
“But then we’ll lose it down here!” said Freckles, petulantly. “I wanted to hear this.”
I’m the one who’s about to lose it, thought Gildi. Even as she suppressed the urge to scream at Freckles, she noticed the boy’s adorable little frown. She wondered if he was a virgin.
“Okay,” said Black Clothing, looking back and forth from Gildi to his friends. “You can use my room. I don’t have any speakers up there. Third floor, second door on the left.”
Gildi raced back up the stairs, and up the next flight, more excited than ever about what she had in store for herself. She flung open Black Clothing’s door, closed it behind her, and dove onto his futon.
She rolled over and scooted backward, compressing the black-clad pillows and propping her shoulders against the wall. Spreading her legs wide, she relaxed, her gaze settling on a dresser across the room—where she was astonished to see another pair of eyes staring back at her.
Feline eyes.
“Oh, no, no, no!” said Gildi, out loud. “No!” she repeated, to no one in particular. “I will not masturbate in front of a cat.”
The guys were still in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Black Clothing, “but I didn’t realize you had a cat. I’m, uh, allergic.”
“Dude,” said Athlete to his buddy, “can’t you bring Björk down here?”
“Forget it,” said Black Clothing. “Last time I did that, she hid behind the water heater, and it took me all freakin’ day to get her out.”
Freckles sighed. “Do you want to try my room?” He said it with a whine, as though he felt obliged to make the offer and resented her for it.
“Oh, god, yes,” said Gildi emphatically, tuning out the whine and thinking only of her tingling pussy. Then, since her answer had resounded with what she assumed to be a puzzling level of enthusiasm, she clarified: “I’m…so very sleepy.”
This was really it, Gildi verified, when she’d let herself into the last room down the right hall on the fourth floor. Radio free? Check. Animal free? Check. She dropped her bag and swung the door shut, then leapt onto the narrow dorm bed and wrapped her thighs around her ministering hand.
She was so horny, she didn’t even bother to slide inside her pants right away—she just humped herself, for starters, against the heel of her hand, right through the stiff cotton of her shorts. The gratification was delicious—definitely worth the wait—and she moaned her appreciation of the self-delivered friction.
With leathery male buns and sweat-glistening pecs and thick college cocks swirling in her brain, Gildi wallowed on the borrowed bed. In her current state, it would have been asking too much of herself to keep a mental focus on a particular man or a particular scenario. Instead, she let the explicit fantasies come at her like a fast-motion montage—big hands wild on her breasts… beer-damp mouths clinging to her clit…needy shafts scraping in and out of her hot pussy from behind…her soft rear cheeks getting pinched and fondled and slapped into a squirmy heaven.
Now she unzipped her cutoffs—quickly wiggling them down and kicking them off—and gave herself the treat of direct contact: one delicate finger burrowing under her gusset, to plunge slowly in and out of her weeping hole. Her long-patient cunt sizzled with pleasure, intensely grateful for every stroke.
With her other hand, she started to tap, Morse-code style, on her swollen clit and with both hands on deck she danced to her own dreams. Time stood motionless while she kept her sex luxuriously
nurtured yet still frantically yearning. She wanted to come, yes, but she also, paradoxically, wanted to pirouette on the rim forever. She was in paradise, desperate with arousal and yet fulfilled.
As she edged, one exquisite inch at a time, toward orgasm, the grizzlies began to appear onstage in her head. She imagined Spacer with his underwear at his ankles, his blue eyes wide while she handled his ass. There was Buddy, titillating her thighs with his fluffy curls while licking her pussy—giving her all the attention he’d neglected to provide in real life, and then some. Athlete hoisted her to fuck her in the air, her legs enclosing his rock-solid waist. Black-Clothing rubbed her nipples with long, sensitive fingers, while she deep-throated his cock. And Freckles…
Freckles burst through the door with a load of laundry.
“Crap!” He froze. “I forgot you were in here.” He looked as if he might cry.
Gildi couldn’t have stopped if she’d wanted to. On the contrary, the unexpected presence of her host—this zip-locked little sandwich bag of male hormones who had caught her gyrating with her finger up her snatch—was the final element that propelled her into the stratosphere. And so, unable and unwilling to do anything but come like a massive, slow-motion thunder crack, she just looked Freckles right in the glasses while she came like a massive, slow-motion thunder crack…trembling with utter ecstasy and flooding her hand, her thong and a small piece of the poor guy’s bed with a warm gush of girl come.
Her mind went blank, and she watched the boy’s freckles blur as her orgasm lasted and lasted. She writhed powerfully with each wave of the climax, kicking her legs and bouncing her sex-sensitized asscheeks on the bed.
She kept looking straight at Freckles, her eyes regaining their focus as the aftershocks tickled through her. She could see the ridge in his pants; apart from that, he still hadn’t moved—not a muscle of his body, nor even a muscle of his face.
Finally, Gildi’s body came to rest, and Freckles swallowed.
“Um…how’s the room working out?” he said meekly.
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