“Smoother, Honey—”
“Doesn’t it—”
“Honey—"
“Let's see what they look like—”
“Look at them—”
She slipped out of her blouse, deftly, revealing them. They were full, lovely, perfect. If they hadn’t been there, right before him, he wouldn’t have believed it. He stared at them, loving them. Almost mesmerized by them.
“Like them?" She whispered.
“I’ll always like them,” he murmured.
“Take them—”
And Tiger took them, burying his face in them, soft and lovely things, white, marvelous orbs, interrupting his journey between her thighs to bring both hands into play, holding the glorious things, caressing them, licking and kissing them—
“OH! Honey/" The maid cried out. She was beside herself. He thought she would melt. He suckled her tips, lovingly.
"Tiger Honey!” — - Л
How could she control herself? Her need was wild, for him—McDrew murmured. “Steady honey—”
“I can’t—Oh I can't—HoneyГ
“You know how it is—” he murmured, “How nice it is —all in time—there’s plenty of time—take your time— Honey Bunny—”
“I’m going to die—Just Die! Honey! Oh kiss me please kiss me at least kiss me let me kiss you Tiger Kiss Me!” She was soaring.
“Sure, honey,’’ Tiger murmured, raising his head now from the wet treasures, meeting her sweet open mouth with his now, feeling the luscious mouth on his, and the hot fire of her tongue entering his mouth, wandering all about. She was moaning. His hand, parted from the treasures, resumed its work below, on the thighway, and upward, ever upward, gliding, smoothly, along that silken way— "Now Tiger!” Her voice was a hot, raw whisper now, as she broke off the kiss, on fire.
"Must Be Now, Tiger—” She was a sheet of flame. He noted that.
“You been taking your pills? Honey? You little honey ” Tiger, caressing her, down below, murmured lovingly.
“Yes Honey!’’
“Nice and regular? Honey?’
“YES! Oh Yes! Honey!”
“Let’s go then,’’ he murmured, lifting her. He stood up, the golden girl still cuddling in his arms. He stripped her, what remained on her. She helped him. somehow, to strip himself. She gasped, as soon as she found his organ. She kissed it, she fell to her knees, kissing it. she caressed it, and glided with it, as it entered her mouth. She played, eternally, with it. Her tongue slid over it, enfolding it— She moaned—
“Let’s go, honey—” Tiger said, gently, murmuring to her, reaching down for her, his hands over both her orbs, and urging her up. She rose, trembling, and fell back, in his arms, back, slowly, under him—
"You honey bun,” Tiger murmured, viewing her for a moment as she lay on her back, ready, dying for him. her knees up, her feet flat on the floor, her legs perfect, "Honey—” he murmured, slipping magnificently, masterfully, into her, “You’re a hot river,” he told her, "What a river ” he murmured, the full weight of his masculine frame on her massing now behind the thrusts of his formidable organ, into her, as outside, somewhere, a storm of noise, of feet running, of voices excited and babbling, rose and swelled, trying, but making little inroad, in fact hardly any, into the office of Guidance/Counseling, “You luscious lovely—ever luscious lovely—succulent honey—bun bunny —” McDrew murmured, penetrating deeper, and deeper, the farthest reaches, thrusting, plunging, panting in rhythm with her, as she moaned, and moved, as she shook, and rocked, with him, taking his fabulous lunges, “Don't stop no—Oh Don't Stop Now—Oh Will You—Oh Tiger —HoneyГ She managed, barely, as they rocked on, and on, marvelously—
".Honey!” Tiger, jolting massively, finally, cried out, uHoney HONEY!” The young maid almost simultaneously screamed out, feeling the massive spurt and surge within her, spreading, thrilling her, and “OH HONEYV* Adoring the huge, engulfed, jolting organ, the whole of her now in spasm, a long series of ecstatic spasms, with him, for him. ...
Outside, the stampede of feet and babble of voices rose and rose further, unabated, seeking out a crescendo. . . .
Tiger and the young maid, still linked, clasped in each other’s arms, mouth to mouth, rolled over, slowly, and over, so slowly, now murmuring, moaning. . . .
3
Ponce, at the end of his wild, careening flight, twice during the course of which he nearly overturned himself, burst upon the Principal’s office like a madman, or, more precisely, madboy. He hadn’t penetrated immediately of course the inner sanctum of Mr. Proffer’s domain, his private office. Though he would soon do so. What he ran into first of all was the Principal’s Secretary’s office, that is to say, the Outer Office, and the Principal’s Secretary herself. Miss Craymire. This thirty-five-year-old spinster through no apparent fault of her own (certainly, she was not unattractive) was just putting the finishing touches to a project which bored her intensely, to wit, typing up the minutes of the most recent Weekly Teachers Meeting, presided over, of course, by her boss Mr. Proffer, the man Ponce was about to present his bit of news to. He was a genial man, and Miss Craymire admired and respected him, among other things. She was, the truth be known, hopelessly in love with him, and had always been. It was a sad, hopeless love indeed, she had spent all these years hiding it from him. She looked up, rather startled, at the entrance of the boy-projectile. Of course, she had heard rather strange noises out in the hallway, but they hadn’t registered. Now, Ponce registered. She was, actually, somewhat more than startled. She thought he had “exploded out” into the “typical adolescent psychosis,” a phrase she remembered quite well from the times Mr. McDrew, among other things School Guidance Counselor, had used it—most recently in a paper he had submitted to the State Educational Journal—though it was a phrase that appeared a number of times in the minutes of Teachers Meetings—and other places. She was, to be blunt, petrified in her chair at the sight of the lad. She was certain he had gone mad. She awaited her doom, utterly rooted there. She was a fatalist and had been from the moment she had been born, the greatest continual wonder in her mind always being, I’m still alive, today. So this was the end. She knew it. She would die at the hand of this lunatic. Bi-zarrely enough, though, she heard her voice cry out in a squawk. "What is it, Ponce?" As if she had to be told. The lad answered, in a voice out of this world, "Mr. Proffer!" And she answered, though she never knew it, “He’s in there.” So that’s who he had come to murder! She resigned herself, naturally.
"Got To See Him!"
She heard the lad’s words, and just managed to see him lunge across the room and plunge into the inner sanctum, without knocking even.
How would he do it?
He left her wondering about it.
Mr. Proffer swiveled around in his chair at the unceremonious intrusion, dropped the mike of the machine into which he had been dictating a preliminary draft of a speech he was scheduled to deliver at the next Rotary Club dinner, and faced the intruder.
“Mr. Proffer!” Ponce shouted, less than a yard from him.
“What is it, boy?” The genial Principal inquired, in a voice designed to calm the obviously distraught adolescent. “She’s in the lavatory!” The lad fired at him.
“Who, my boy?” He tried to humor him.
“Jill Fairbunn! Mr. Proffer! She’s up thereГ “What is she doing there?”
“She’s Up There!”
“Is she?”
“She's Dead Up ThereГ “Dead, my boy?”
"Dead I said!”
“Where, my boy?”
“In the lavatory—our lavatory—I was just up there—I ran all the way down from there—”
“Whose class were you in?”