"Damn it, Millie, get dressed!" she said angrily. "The campus is simply crawling with police. Somebody's spilled the beans."
I looked at her in horror. "You mean…?"
"You're damned right," she said, a little bitterly. "The whole thing."
CHAPTER TEN
She filled me in as we went up the stairs. We'd tidied up the kids, with Carrie helping, and sent them off before I finished dressing, but there'd almost been too much excitement, while we were ail getting decent, to do much communicating. The problem (Thank God! I thought to myself) wasn't with any of the kids-Kenny, Caroline, Bobby, Kenny, Petey, Roger or Jana-that I'd been making it with there on campus. The trouble, it appeared, was with Percy-and with Ian. And the cat had been let out of the bag on both of them with their rea11y freaky obsessions, which were much farther out, I thought, than most of ours at about the same time.
With Ian, it had been a visit back home by one of the kids he'd "broken in," a ravishingly beautiful little eight-year-old girl named Stephanie who had come to Brightwater a few months before term ended last season.' Stephanie had liked what he'd done, it'd ‘seemed to Ian (he'd talked to Kate about that evening, after sending the little girl back to her room). But she'd had a sort of backlash thing about it. Perhaps it'd been the parents and their strict upbringing. They were some sort of fundamentalist religious sectarians, and God alone knew just what they'd been thinking when they sent their kid to Brightwater, of all places.
Anyhow, the girl had had all sorts of guilt feelings about doing "nasty" things. Ian had frightened her, coming on so strong. And we'd made a mistake in not following up that first evening; if you let them get to thinking about things, it seemed, they often had relapses into their former attitudes, whereas if somebody came along right afterward and gave them a good loving-up, they usually settled into a relaxed and guilt-free point of view and started enjoying themselves and their stay at Brightwater.
But we (I say we, even if I hadn't been in on it: by now I thought of myself as part and parcel of the place) blew our chance, and she started staying away from the other kids, and worrying and fretting, and nobody got to her and talked it out with her. And when the kids took a long weekend off to see their parents, she'd gone home with this big load of guilt and tension… and, under parental prodding, it'd come out. All of it.
But that wasn't the worst of it. Percy's kid had been a boy, and, confronted by the cops with overwhelming evidence, he'd broken. And he'd told all.
"Kate," I said, stopping dead. "You mean…"
"Yes," she said, looking me hard in the eye. "But we may have a chance yet. Some of us. It all depends on whether they believed Percy."
"Or whether we can shake him up on the stand," I suggested.
"Oh, Millie," she said, putting one hand to her mouth. "I forgot to tell you. It's past all that now. He slit his wrists. The first minute they left him alone. Re's dead. Percy's dead."
"Oh, no!" I said. But inside, I was secretly glad. One less witness! And now, if we could keep the kids cool and get them to keep their mouths shut…
As we came out of the building, though, I looked around. And, just as she'd said, the place was alive with cops. And-speak of the devil! — there went Ian, cuffed, head down, in the company of two oversized plainclothesmen. Their faces were grim; his was empty, disconsolate, dead. I remember thinking that, given half a chance, Ian would probably take Percy's way out. And, sure enough, only a day later, he hanged himself in his cell.
But right now my thoughts were only of myself. And I was rehearsing my story all the way into the big office where a police lieutenant named Myers was taking statements from faculty members and reminding them of their rights. By the time he got to me, I had a coherent story all rigged up, and was trying to think of how I could take the kids aside and get our stories straight. I went out of there thinking of myself as a pretty cool customer, able to deal with just about any situation, no matter the cost.
That feeling held up for a day, at least. School was suspended while the investigation went on, of course, and we were told not to leave the area. But I was sure that didn't mean I couldn't go to town and do a little shopping or go to a movie. And that's just what I did the next day. I picked up a dress and a nice pair of shoes, and I went to a matinee, with a real 1940's tearjerker playing, and I enjoyed myself thoroughly. And when I came back to my room that afternoon I-was in as good a mood as I could ask to be in, considering the circumstances.
That's why I was so completely taken unaware by the envelope I found shoved under my door, with the words "Miss Ward" printed in block letters on the front.
I didn't even open it at first. I put away my new things, and I kicked off my shoes and padded into the bathroom and took a nice hot shower and washed my hair first. And it wasn't until I'd fixed myself a drink and curled up in my big chair in my robe that I noticed the envelope, still sitting on the bed where I'd left it.
Curious, I got up and went over to the bed. It was a big Kraft-paper envelope, nine by twelve or so, and it had some sort of stiffener inside. It was fairly heavy, as if there were quite a bit of paper inside. Still no more than curious, I sat, down on the bed and opened it.
And there it all was.
In picture one-they were eight-and-a-half by eleven glossies-I was lying on my back on a beach towel~, my boobs bare, and Gilbert, the fifteen-year-old I'd met on the beach, was playing with myself.
There was a look of aroused lust on my face: I was daring him to go farther. And be was enjoying the hell out of himself.
"My God I" I said, catching my breath.
In picture two I was naked, my back arched with pleasure, begging him for it. And he had just slipped his shorts down his legs, and there was that gorgeous young cock of his-fat, fiery red, hard as a stick, with the foreskin peeled back invitingly — pointing at me like a yardarm, and he was getting readier by the second.
I gasped.
In picture three we were tucking. Going at it hot and heavy. And I had both my hands down on the cheeks of his bard young ass, pulling him strongly into me. They were terrific pictures, and you could see the fine film of sweat on me as we rutted hungrily. My-eyes were glazed over with desire.
In picture four.
Well, here was where somebody started winding up the camera a little more often. The pix started coming thick and fast, with no more than a couple of seconds between shots in the photos I came across like a wild woman. There was a look of sheer animal heat and ruttishness on my face in every one of them, and the mad rush of lust and sexhunger that had come over me was apparent with every successive shot.
In picture four he was just lying there, exhausted. His dick was lying limp in a pool of wet jism on his belly, which was slick and wet with his sperm and with my own mixed-in juices. And I was bending over him, one hand barely touching the soft skin of his limp cock, my open lips groping for him in obvious hunger.
In picture five I was licking the cream off his soft little cock. From the look on my face, it was the most delicious stuff I'd ever tasted. And his cock was stirring slightly. It was a little bigger than in the previous shot.
In picture six I was licking the cream off his balls. There was a drop of sperm glistening on my chin. I was half-smiling. And his cock was sticking stiffly up against me, lying against my cheek, the glands poking proudly out of the peeled-back foreskin.
In the next picture he was sucking me off, and I was playing with his cock and having the time of my life.
And in the last, the unknown photographer had simply outdone himself. Re had caught the very moment of ejaculation, when Gilbert's cock shot off in my hand and the jism came rocketing out of the end of it and spurted all over my fingers onto the sand. From the looks of me I was having a fine time too, with his face buried in my cunt and his unseen tongue working away like crazy…