“God The Far EastГ Hetty cried out, softly, and moaning, holding so close to him.
Tiger unbuttoned her blouse. He bared the white, soft treasure breasts. His breath was taken away. He kissed
Pretty Maids AII in a Row 199 them. He buried his head in them. She caressed him, sighing, murmuring. He suckled her tips—
"Where?" He said, tenderly.
"Anywhere—” She gasped, beside herself.
Her skirt was up to her hips. He admired her thighs, he stroked them, gently, just below that moist zone of Paradise. She moaned. . . . He picked her up. . . -
She was on her back, her knees raised, on Tiger’s ample and comfortable office couch, where he had carried her. He murmured to her all the while. His head was between her thighs, which he lavished with marvelous kisses, gradually approaching the drenched golden rise. She moaned ever more, and moved, murmuring his name, over and over, she caressed his head. ... He reached the rise. . . .
She cried out, finally, urging him upon her. ... He
complied. . . . She moaned and cried. . . . His phallus throbbed, poised on the wet edges of life.. . .
37
Word had already started making fairly good progress around the school regarding Jim Green and his long session with the State Police when Ponce finally emerged from the Long Agony of Trigonometry class—blank, as usual. It was when Ponce hit the hallway just outside the classroom that he first heard about it. Amid that swarm of fellow students, it was Kathy Burns, of all kids, who broke the news to him. She was a good pal of his, as a matter of fact, actually living just two doors away from him on Britfield Avenue, that shade-tree-lined thoroughfare. She was a friend of the family, of course, a cute kid in her sophomore year. She had a turned up nose. She was small, but neat, really sweet. Ponce was fond of her, she was like his sister, almost. Or at least a close cousin. It was that way. He literally bumped into her, in that babble and swarm.
“Whooops!” She cried out—“Ponce! I’m sorry!”
He gazed at that cute kid. She was well formed. Two
soft mounds stuck out at the world. He certainly was fond
of her. He grinned at her.
“Gosh, I’m sorry, Kathy—”
“Oh it was my fault—I’m sorry, Ponce!”
“What class you going to?”
“Algebra,” she said, wrinkling up her nose.
He grinned again, he knew how she felt. He wrinkled up his nose too. They both laughed.
“Hear about Jim Green?” said the little lass. Her cute face was staring up at him. Ponce jumped a little, he started guessing already, as was his way.
“What?” He asked her, anyway.
She came closer, in the melee.
“He’s been in with the State Police a long long time,” she informed him, confidentially.
“Oh yeh?” Ponce said, fully rattled.
“Do they think he did it?” The girl asked.
“Gosh I don’t know,” Ponce answered.
“He is,” Ponce agreed.
“I hope they’re not hurting him—in any way!”
“Aw, they can’t hurt him, Kath—” Ponce said.
“Can’t they?”
“Well—thanks for telling me—” Ponce now said, sensing the time to break it off, “I gotta run now—Lit class—” He also said, turning, “So long, Kath—see you—say hello to your mom for me—”
“O.K., Ponce. Bye. Probably be seeing you—”
He disappeared in the crowd, bumping along in it down the hallway, on his way to his favorite class.
“Hey boy—” Dean Morgan, suddenly beside him, greeted him.
“Say, Dean—” Ponce answered him.
“Hear about Jim?”
“Yeh, 1 heard it.”
“Sure hope it isn’t him!”
“Aw, it wasn’t—n “Don't think so?”
“Heck no.”
Ponce pushed on, really rattled, wondering just what was developing down there, in Proffer’s office, no doubt. He was making up his mind, then and there, to break out of his shell, what the hell, and tell all—to Surcher. But he
Pretty Maids All in a Row 201 was going to wait awhile, to see just what developed—with Jim Green. He vowed that if they took him in, he would move, but fast. Or as fast as he could. Certainly. He shuddered. Could it be true, though? Could it? Jim? How could it? He was the tops, he was all there, he wasn’t even a minor nut case. Ponce knew full well the culprit was far, far out there, a first-class kookeroo, no doubt of it. What were they trying to do? He still looked forward to Eng Lit class, of course, but he would be glad, for the first time in his life probably, when it was all over. He also would be glad to talk with Miss Smith—about everything. If he got the chance. What would happen? His buddies and friends passed him by the dozen, they greeted him, but he hardly saw them. If he stopped and talked with them, however briefly, he knew what they would have to say, there was only one topic now, wasn’t there, and he didn’t feel like hearing it again. That damn Mummer! He pictured himself confronting Surcher—no—Tiger. He would see Tiger. He would hold fire of course until he knew what exactly was happening—but then—no delays any longer. He thought of Miss Smith. Last night he had had about a hundred dreams at least—all of her. In one she was purring. It had started out with Peppy walking into the room, purring. Then, there was Miss Smith, sitting on the bed, looking at him. reaching out her hand to him—and purring. He thought of football practice. What kind of a practice would it be tonight, he wondered? If Jim wasn’t there—especially! What would Tiger do? Ponce wondered and worried, on top of everything else, a whole series of key plays was built around that Right End. He was getting close to his classroom. His dream’s room. There was Miss Nectar, the red-headed Librarian, just coming out of Tiger’s office. Ponce had a little bit of a crush on her too—though of course nothing like what he felt for Miss Smith. She was carrying something, a thick magazine, or book, or something. Maybe a catalog. She looked glowing. That’s the only word Ponce could think of at that moment to describe her, his eyes falling on her. She was sure nice. What eyes. What a honey. He began to feel all warm inside, watching her. Next to Miss Smith, she was the only other faculty member who really gave him the hots, without a doubt of it. The love hots, and no doubt about it.
“Hello, Miss Nectar—’’ he greeted her, shyly, as she passed near him. His heart was thumping.
She looked up, and smiled, though she was somewhat preoccupied—Ponce could tell. He heard suddenly in his head the verse of one of those sometimes appealing songs the pop groups sang, was it The Cleaners—“What The World Needs Now Is Love, Sweet Love . . .” And so on.