Mary Holden was feeling blue. So blue that she had made the unprecedented move of skipping Majorette practice. Marjorie would be pretty mad at her, but she couldn’t do it. Not tonight. At any rate. She just felt too blue. She had walked home from school with Sandy Seymour, who as a matter of fact lived her way, just a block from her. She had really been hoping to walk home alone, because she felt so blue. But she had bumped into her, just coming out of the door. She had just come from Drama class. And that was that. Mary admired her red hair, and her personality. She had the right personality to go with that hair, always bubbling over with life, and talk, and high spirits. She was full of fun. Mary couldn’t help coming out of the dumps a little walking home with Sandy. She was that kind of girl, she got into you. But once she got home and said so long to her and closed the door she began to sink again. No one was home. She went to her room. . . .
She put her books and things down listlessly, and sighed. She looked around the room, that pretty, feminine room, decorated here and there with photos of pop idols, for she loved them still, especially Tim Clean and The Cleaners, that terrific group, zooming fast to the top, without a hop. She thought The Pigs were great, but—on their way down, definitely. Of course The Teat les, that group of groups, would never go down. Down. She sat down. Her gaze swept slowly around the room. She saw them one and all. Since she was in seventh grade at least she had collected photos of the idols. Unlike most of her girl friends, she still did. She loved them all. They gave her great comfort, here, in her room, when she was on her own. Often, she was on her own, here, in her room. She liked to be. Her gaze settled on the one who at the moment inspired her most, Tim Clean, of course. What a beautiful smile. She sighed, staring at him, his golden locks, his pure but rugged face, Angel Face, as secretly she thought of him. But
she turned away from him, and sighed again, looking out the window, hoping Marjorie wouldn't be too mad. She was feeling so blue, uninspired even by that terrific view of the hills she had from her window. She didn’t know what to do. She had plenty of homework to do, including Civics, she knew, feeling even more blue, thinking of Mr. McDrew. her Tiger, who she loved so much, and, she knew, so hopelessly. Her hopeless love. ... He was wonderful. She had never dreamed she could ever have been treated so nicely by so wonderful a man. And he kept her out of trouble. She took the pills just as she was supposed to, as it said. And they kept her right out of trouble. They were great. Fabulously great. As her Tiger himself—just—that terrific man. That man. She felt so low. She drifted over to her mirror, she glanced at herself and could see just how low. It had been this way for a couple of days now, actually, even before the awful thing. That thing. She hit a new low. Jill. Was she there? She closed her eyes, she didn't dare stare. ... It had started then and it hadn't been helped much by that. If anything, it had been made worse. That. But it had started somehow after a night of tossing and turning, wanting and burning, and not having him near her, next to her, the man of her dreams, let alone Tim Clean. For she knew her Tiger was worth twenty-five Tim Cleans at least. She wanted him, now, and forever. She had never wanted anything so much. She felt so blue, knowing it could never be. She had started knowing somehow after that agonizing night, that restless, tormented night, all aione, here, in that very bed. She couldn’t even possibly have him, more than she had him. And later? What about later, when she had finished high school and got out on her own—what about then? She grew ever more blue. She needed him. When had she last seen him? Last week, and that could have been years ago. Slowly, she opened her eyes, she saw herself in the mirror again. When was she scheduled again? Not this week. Gently, so gently, he had told her he just couldn’t see her this week. She had cried openly, even though she knew what a busy man he must be, all those activities, she was lucky she had him as much as she did, she had sobbed away, in his arms, as that wonderful man that very wonderful that—oh— what—his—of his—slipped right into her, so deep. . . . Site loved it. She closed her eyes again, suddenly seeing it,
Pretty Maids A11 in a Row 263 and feeling it, almost, in there. . . . She grew warm, her hands glided there, she touched herself, near there. She murmured his name, caressing herself now, her hand gliding over her dress, there. She grew so warm, she began feeling less blue. Her heart beat with some life again, as she caressed herself more, now whispering his name, over and over. She caressed herself much as her Tiger did, those wonderful hands of his, over her. She opened her eyes again. In the mirror she saw her face, flushed. She saw her figure, outlined under her dress. She was proud of it, he loved it so much. The breasts he loved so much. . . . She gazed at herself, she liked her pretty face. Her lips. She leaned toward the mirror, slightly opening her lips. “Honey,” she sighed, “Oh Tiger Honey —” she sighed. When would she see him again? She had asked him that, and he had assured her he would do his best, probably next week. Next week. It was a century away. She would be dead. Mary, again, felt so blue. She managed a last sigh at the mirror, turned, and drifted across the room. What would he be doing now? Her man. Football practice, no doubt. At least if she had gone to Majorette practice she might have caught a glimpse of him, if nothing more. She didn’t want that though. That probably was why she didn’t go. She couldn’t stand that, it was just agony. She wanted more. More. So much more. . . . The worst kind of agony was just seeing him, and no more. . . . She sat down on her bed, and then rested back on it, and finally lay flat on it. Almost crying, she turned her head, and saw Tim Clean. The photo was just next to her head. There he was, grinning at her. She liked him too, and blew him a kiss. Then she sighed, and turned away from him. She thought of her Tiger, only, again. She murmured his name. Her eyes closed, her hands drifted to her breasts. She caressed them, second best. It didn’t feel so bad. With her eyes closed, murmuring and murmuring his name, he was almost there, caressing them. She grew warm again, and her hand slipped inside her dress, there was no bra of course, and she played with her breasts. They were so soft. She brushed the tips, just as her Tiger would. He could brush them for hours, if he wanted to. She caressed and fondled herself, she began to feel really warm. . . . She moved. . . . she slipped off her dress. She caressed herself more, her hands gliding all over her. Her heart began to pound hard, she slowly raised her knees. . . . She caressed her thighs, she moved, and moved, gently undulating. She was very warm, her heart hammered loud, shaking the bed, as she caressed and played with herself. . . . She was perspiring. She was hot. She raised herself and slipped off ail her things. Now her warm, almost burning hand glided there. Gliding, and gliding it settled there. She was drenched there. Opening her legs, slowly, exquisitely slowly, she caressed herself there, her hand gliding, sliding, forever and ever it seemed, thrilling her. She thrust herself upward, in rhythmical movement now, accompanying her hand. Her Tiger was before her, on her, caressing her there, he was marvelously kissing and doing everything there ... his tongue glided, right in there . . . the way her hand her fingers her burning fingers drenched as they were now were sliding in there finding their sweet way into her, she breathed quickly, she was panting now, actually, thrusting herself upward frantically, urgently, rocking with her one and only her Tiger only terrific Tiger in her so deep so marvelously thrusting deeper and deeper into her thrusting a million miles an hour now deeper than ever oh ever in her. . . . Her legs were in the air, she thought she would touch the ceiling, she was drenched from head to toe, her hand had quickened its pace, reaching a frenzied rate, deeper, ever.. . . She was on fire. . . . She was a streaking fire. . . . She cried out his name . . . again . . . again. . . .