Gazing at her, Ponce got up, somehow.
“O.K., Miss Smith.”
She smiled, taking his hand.
“Come on ” she said.
22
Tiger, arriving home much earlier than usual, due to the cancellation of one of his activities, i.e., football practice, surprised Looby Loo.
Walking in the front door, he found his loved one in the hallway, on the phone. She turned to him as soon as he closed the door. He looked at her, admiringly, awaiting her first words of the evening for him. He wondered what they would be, for she always had a unique way of saying the same thing, it was a matter of combination, and innuendo, subtle as can be. That was part of the fun of being married to her. She gave a little wave, and a smile at him.
Her eyes were full of love for him. The party on the other end of the phone, whoever it might be, appeared to be talking a steady stream. It was obvious she wasn’t listening. Finally, shrugging her shoulders, she covered the mouthpiece with her palm and said to him, “How’s everything?” Tiger also shrugged his shoulders, and advanced toward her. She took her hand off the mouthpiece.
“Well, thanks much, Elaine, and I’ll speak to Sally Ann as soon as I can—Yes, I will—And now I’ve got to run—So— Bye for now—Elaine—”
And she hung up.
She sat there, looking up at her man, now very near her.
“Hello, Sugar Plum,” she said to him.
“Hi, Bun—” He greeted her.
He was grinning, he touched her face, he passed his hand over her face, gently, toward her blond hair. She moved her face slightly sideways, into his hand, she kissed the palm of his hand, she gave at least a haJf dozen little kisses to it.
“What’s that school turning into?” She said, finally, softly.
“Don’t ask me,” he replied, raising her face upward, tenderly, “I just work there.”
She smiled.
“Well, they better find the guy—” She said.
“The State Police are doing a great job,” He said.
“I’ll believe it—when they find him—”
“No practice tonight—” He said.
She stood up, she was in his arms, looking into his face. She rubbed her nose against his, once, twice, a number of times.
“That’s what I thought—”
“Game’s been canceled Saturday, also—”
“I'm not surprised.”
“We’ve got it lined up for Wednesday afternoon—next week. We were lucky enough—”
“Away—or home?—”
“Home. No less.”
She sighed, “It’s all very sad.” She paused—“But I hope you win—”
“We have a good chance—”
“Unless—” She paused.
“Unless?” He asked.
“—The guy turns out to be a star of your team—”
Tiger started kissing her around the eyes, he strayed to her ear, and down to her cheek, she caressed his face.
“I sure hope not—” He said—“I’d be mighty, mighty surprised—” He also said.
“Hungry?” His wife murmured, as Tiger pressed on, gently kissing her neck, “Are you hungry, you?” She was all warm, “You Tiger you?” Tiger’s lips kept up their work.
“You make me hungry," He said, murmuring too, “Looby Loo—”
Her head was arched upward now, her lips parted, she was near his ear with her lips, she brushed it, tenderly. “You’re really hungry—”
She said.
“Expecting anyone?” He asked.
“No one.”
“Where’s Jane?”
“At Aunt Lucy’s—”
'‘Let’s go upstairs.”
“O.K.”
“You honey you—”
“You’re going to wear me out—you are—I love you you—"
“I won’t—I won’t—No I won’t—” Tiger said, sweeping down her neck with his kisses—“Oh no I won’t—” He added, reaching her breast with his kisses. She arched her head back, ever more, giving a little cry, sighing—
“You Tiger—you—”
“Looby Loo—”
“I love you—”
“You’re great—”
“Carry me—”
“‘I’ll carry you—”
“Please do—”
“You’re a feather to carry—upstairs—”
“My Tiger man—”
“Your only man—”
“Oh man—”
“How are you?”
“Kiss me—you—”
Their lips met in a long, long kiss. Sweet, soft tongues, intermingling.
“Ummmmm—” She moaned—“Ummmmmm—•** She moaned and moaned. “How do I seem?” She said, finally, surfacing.
Tiger was unbuttoning her blouse, that treasure house. His hand reached her breasts. She had on no bra. His hands were full of her breasts.
“Upstairs—” She whispered, barely, “Honey—wait—” She only whispered, kissing his lips.
The blouse was completely unbuttoned now. He was kissing her breasts now, wetting their lovely tips, lingering a long while there, as she held him, stroked him, whispered to him, her eyes closed.
“Upstairs—” She urged him.
He stood up, took her in his arms. He lifted her. He started walking. . . .
“Been a good boy at school?” She murmured to him, gazing at him, her arms clasped behind his neck.
“I always am,” he told her, kissing her eyes, nose, and forehead too. . . .
They lay in their bed, naked. They had been kissing, petting, a long while. His hand was between her thighs, playing, wonderfully. It was drenching wet. He loved it. She held his phallus in her right hand, gently stroking it
“I’ll put the record on,” she murmured, her voice husky.
Tiger nodded, murmuring something, as she slipped away from his caresses, and out of bed, a moment She crossed to the phonograph, and flipped it on.
“Darling—” She said, in bed again, kissing him, straying over his chest and stomach, and downward, ever kissing, at times licking, “Darling, Darling—” She murmured, over and over.
The record started. It was poetry. It was in fact, an excerpt from Clough’s “The Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich,” and the voice was Hilda’s, no less. They had cut the record some time ago, at her suggestion—she had always loved the poem. She loved it now even more, and Tiger concurred. When the moment arrived they played it, without fail. It was always there. Now, as her voice began speaking the first lilting lines, her lips parted and her mouth slipped over her Tiger’s throbbing organ.
—Yes, I don’t know, Mr. Philip—but only it feels to me strangely like—to the high new bridge they used to build at, below there, over the burn and glen on the road. ... You won’t understand me. But I keep saying in my mind—this long time, slowly, with trouble, I have been building myself, up, up, toilfully raising, just like as if the bridge were to do it itself without masons. . . . Getting myself upraised one stone on another—all one side I mean. . . . And now I see on the other just such another fabric uprising— better—and stronger. . . .
Her mouth glided, all the while, her tongue was sliding, caressing her Tiger’s hot, huge formidable—the whole while— Now, his hand moved out from between her thighs, and gently, murmuring, he urged her on her back. His phallus slipped out of her mouth, drenched. The record went on—
. . . close to me, coming to join me—and then I sometimes fancy—Sometimes I find myself dreaming at night about arches, and bridges. . . .
Tiger was over her, and mounting her, he slipped in masterfully, yet tenderly, magnificently, as she gasped, and moaned, knees high, loving it He penetrated easily, gliding deeper, ever deeper, slowly—
They heard the record—
... A great invisible hand coming down, and dropping the great keystone in the middle—
She was moving, arching her flanks fabulously, upward, downward, as Tiger plunged, and lunged, beautifully, into her, thrilling her, rocking with her. She was a volcano. A sheen of sweat spread over her body, they rolled slowly, over, and over, plunging, rocking, dangerously near the edge of the ample bed—and the record played on—