toilet, she fell like nothing he had ever known. For now she was known. Ponce, in that split second, full of terror, staring at the blond hair and familiar features, had crossed the unknown. It was Jill Fairbunn, Ponce tried to hang on, Sawyersville High’s Head Cheerleader, Ponce fought like a lion, hanging on, and he turned, knowing he had to turn, in the next bit of that second, for there was the door, opening, and Ponce knew what to do, suddenly: He rushed for it. He rushed with all the power and strength at his command for it, bowling over a figure he fleetingly recognized as Mr. Mummer, among other things Mathematics teacher, Programmed Instruction champion. . . . He rushed howling, in a wild charge, and Mummer never stood a chance. He trampled over him and shot out like a bullet, or Sawyersville’s ace halfback at least, which he wasn’t. He hit the hallway, skidded, pivoted, got his balance, and tore down the long, long hallway, screaming, all the way. It was one long echoing howl, terrifying to one and all, as he raced down that hall, for one destination: The Principal’s office—Mr. Proffer . . .
2
Mike McDrew—Tiger—sat in his office. At this moment, when the entire school was about to be plunged into historically unprecedented chaos, he was administering a Bern-krokkler Personality Inventory to one of the most interesting personalities of Sawyersville High School, Marjorie {Madge) Evanmore. The way he was administering it was even more interesting, for she was sitting on his lap, cuddling him. She was an attractive, healthy, well-formed' miss, and no doubt of it.
“Mr. McDrew—” she said, “Tiger—” she said, “Are you sure the door is locked? I mean—” she trailed off, turning her face toward him, her eyes closed, her lips inviting him.
“Listen,” Tiger said, “Sure it is.”
“Well, I’m glad it is,” she murmured.
“Ha ha ha—” He laughed softly.
“Honey—”
“Ah ha—”
“Bunny—”
“Ha Ha—”
“My bunny-honey—”
“What are you wearing?”
“You tell me—”
“How can I tell you?”
“Tell me—”
“Aren’t you nice and warm—•”
“Tell me, tell me—”
“Hear how they’re wearing them in England?*
“Do you like my legs?”
“They’re gorgeous legs.”
"Put your hand on my legs—”
“Just gorgeous legs—”
*‘Tiger—higher—”
“Shall I go higher?”
“Higher, higher—”
“How high shall I go?”
His hand was up to her knee, pushing her skirt upward, slowly. His hand glided past her knees and reached the delightful thigh region. He lingered, at that region.
“Tiger—honey—”
Marjorie was in a warm and trembling state, he felt her pressing against him, her heart pounding. He smelled the fresh, young smell of her—the heat of her as her lips, wet, open, sought his, hungrily. He liked her. Her breath, sweet, warm, caressed his face.
Ponce’s first screams, at this point, tore through the school. They didn’t make all that much impact, however, on the Guidance/Counseling office. Though Tiger’s hand, in that moment, did pause in its journey. And he said, casually, “What was that?”
“What?” she replied, huskily.
Tiger dropped it. The screams went on, but farther off now. Ponce had sprinted by Tiger’s door at a terrific pace. At this rate, he wouldn’t be long reaching his goal. On they went.
“Nothing,” he murmured, resuming his languid journey. uTiger Honey—” She murmured, barely.
She had her arms about him in a terrific clinch, and she was kissing him. Tiger was thinking just then that never so far as he could immediately recall had he felt such a pounding hot body against him, almost part of him, on his lap, or elsewhere for that matter. Never. And he kissed her. A marvelous, special kiss for her. He kissed and kissed her, totally unaware of anything but the supreme bliss of their kiss there, meanwhile making excellent progress along that exquisitely delightful freeway, Inner Thigh Dreamway.
“Tiger—” She gasped, breaking off the stupendous kiss, for a moment at least, and tossing her blond hair—unbleached.
“You little honey—” Tiger murmured, chuckling, softly, giving her little nips, her nose, her eyes, her cute ears.
"Pm not so little—” she said.
“I know, don’t I know it—Honey—” he said.
“Please—not too slow—you’re really awfully slow today —Honey—I’m going to just scream—Tiger Honey—”
And again he chuckled, in his soft way, reaching into her blouse with his free hand now and touching her soft, young, fabulous breasts, cupping them, one at a time, gently fondling them, the treasures, lingering at the exquisite tips, playing there, maddening the girl, ever more.
“You’re a good bunny,” Tiger murmured, “What a good bunny, taking it off before getting here—makes things a lot smoother—doesn’t it—”