The girl nodded, and sat there. All Folio could do w-as stare. She was a beauty. That dark hair—
“I know it” At last she said.
“Well—what about it?” He said, patiently.
“Lieutenant—” She said, looking him straight in the face, “What kind of a girl do you think I am?”
He didn’t know. What a voice. She had this low, soft voice. It shook him. No doubt about it. Just what were kids coming to?
“Well, I think you’re a nice girl—” He said, “A very nice girl, in fact—don’t gel the whole thing wrong—Rochelle —” He stopped.
“And that’s exactly what I think I am too,” she came back.
“I know that—”
“Well, what kind of a question is that to ask of a nice
girl? Hmmm? Lieutenant? Tell me.’*
Folio sat there. This kid was beginning to make him feel like ten cents. And it made no sense.
“That’s not—” He started to say.
“What kind of girls get that kind of thing said to them?” She trampled him—“No man, no boy, would make that kind of an approach to a nice girl. Don’t you know that, Lieutenant? They wouldn’t dare. When they want to proposition, they’re very careful to select just the right type of girl. Not my type. I’m not that type. Do you follow me?”
Somewhat stunned, Folio just sat there, and even became aware, gradually, however dimly, at first, of the pun she had played on him. He began hating his name. Also, Rochelle. Could she be next? He began wishing, he was aware . . .
"O.K. That’s all. Thanks," he said in a low monotone. To the girl.
She left . . •
What monolithic consensus drove a notion say along paths that could only be described as heinous? Flagitious. And all with pious, righteous phrases? This was the crux of it. No doubt of it. Was it a nonevent? The worst crimes perpetrated by mankind, on vast national, international scales were wrapped in pious, righteous phrases. It had always been. So had it always been. We were no exception. The best, yes, but no exception. But why the consensus? Tiger mused оусг this, and could only return to the concept. the basic concept of all the complexes, and processes; normal curvature. That was no nonevent. It seemed an unchangeable, tragic factor, that inescapable and irrefutable concept. In the whole complex of processes. There was the bulging center, the hulk. And the edges. And only along those edges—Tiger pondered, sadly—that tapering right
Pretty Maids All in a Row 399 side edge, that edge, was there any real hope of redemption, mitigation, release from consensus. The light of day. Blue sky. Daylight. It was tragic. Nature had cast the tragedy. What could men do, bound as they were—by their nature—to act out the tragedy? Reparation. Amelioration. Restoration. They were all. Ever. Or what tentative steps could be taken in those directions. For once on that downward slope—that slope—the wrong side of the slope —Tiger floundered, shrouded in shadows. He petted Sonny Swingle. She liked to pet for a long long time. She was a playful thing. Whom he would have called Pussy all of the time, not just some of the time, as he did now from time to time, if she let him. She preferred Sonny. Except for those few times— He didn’t belabor the issue. He would have to see about setting up something for the evenings, after football season, for certainly it w-as clear that more than an hour was required here. Where had she learned it? It all came naturally. He knew it—
“Going to purr for me?”
“Sure. . . .” She said, and did so, with that word, and who could purr like that? Not even Sheba. ... He loved her purrr. ... He kissed her cute nose. What a nose. Her eyes. Her brown hair. He let her frolic with him in the chair. Who could frolic like that? There—
“How’s everything?” He inquired of her. He heard a tune. It was his tune. It came, it went, it was the cutest tune. Long ago, he remembered, his mother sang him that tune. Looby Loo and Jane. The tune—
She was lying in his arms, her eyes closed, letting him fondle her bundle. “Pussy—” he said. And she sighed, and kissed him again. His hands caressed those sweet breasts. They were delightful, and soft, nice-sized, the tips were aflame. Great. “Pussy—” again, he said. She caressed his face. She kissed him again. They played. . . .
“I took it off for you,” she said, her sweet mouth next to his.
“Were you mad at me last time?” she asked.
He grinned. How could he get mad at her? She had arrived last time with it on. He hadn't complained. He hadn’t minded at all. Together, they had slipped it off. Off. The treasures fell in his hands. He thought of Mrs. Mort-lake—
“Are you kidding?” he said, kissing her. Her kiss was luscious on his. Their tongues met. And strayed. They played. . . . “How could I be?” He said, fondling them. . . . They kissed, and kissed. She could set a record. He knew. He loved this maid—“Sweet Pussy—” He said, in her ear. . . . She sighed a deep sigh, she clung to him, pounding hard, hot, and quivering. . . .
“Ummmm—” she said, “Ohhhh—” She now said, fighting for air.
“How are you?” He murmured, nuzzling her ear.
“I love that—” she barely said.
“Where did you get that bra?” He mentioned, referring to last time. It was the cutest thing.
“Like it?" She managed, playfully gliding her finger along the bridge of his nose, she stopped at his mouth, and he gave the sweet member a little nip, she loved that, he knew, as he did. Nip, nip. She gave a little cry. “I saw it in Glamour—” She said. “I fell in love with it—isn’t it sweet? Sweet—” A little gasp—‘'It’s called the Curveallure—it has curve-caressing allure—allure—oh sweet—” She was limp in his arms. He was slipping off the rest of her things. “Are my curves alluring?" She said, her eyes closing. . . .
“They are.”
He picked her up. . . .
Looby Loo he knew, once in a great while, bought that magazine. He leafed through it. There were lots of cute things in it. There were. He hadn’t realized it interested Sonny’s age group. He learned a lot. Every day.. . .
They were on the floor.
"Glamour?" He asked, sweet and low. She was dying for him. He knew. But she gave that sweet little laugh. There was a laugh—Her knees rose. She gave little moans. She was trembling. Eyes closed. There they were. Rising. He observed her. “It was on the table in the dentist's waiting room—” She said, though how, he never knew. "Oh Tiger —Please—’’ Now she said.
“Dr. Bonni?” He asked, admiring the view.
“That’s right.” It was a moan, "Is he your dentist—too?”
He loved her.
He was on top of her.
He kissed her, and played with her. They played, more. She trembled beneath him, she was on fire, and wet, more
Pretty Maids All in a Row 401 and more. She moved, and moaned. She fondled him. More. . . .
“How do you like the play?” He murmured, after a while. She wasn’t a bad little thespian. She would have a part. She looked great—up there— He was fondling her breasts.
4tl—like it,” she gasped, her pounding heart—
“Do you like your part?” He was on fire.
*4 love it—” She said—somehow—
He was kissing the precious orbs, the soft treasures all for him, he was lingering at the tips, sucking them, gliding his tongue over them—
“Tiger—Please—”
She could have screamed.