“I’ll see you, John.”
It was true, strictly. Tiger thought this, as John answered—
“O.K., Tiger.”
He watched him turn, after a moment or so, and start to walk off, no doubt heading for his car.
“John—” Tiger called out, softly.
The moment, no doubt of it. Now. And Tiger knew it. Fused with it. Poldaski turned, curious, hopeful, who would know it, and a karate blow, deadly, true, already slicing the night air with the speed of sound at least, struck him like a bolt—though he never knew it. He fell in a massive heap, at Tiger's feet. It killed him instantaneously.
Tiger looked down on him, mournfully. There was nothing now but to mourn him. He thought of his widow. He shook his head from side to side, so slowly, he murmured two or three times, just audibly. The moon had ducked into the clouds again. He left him.
68
Ponce found he was paralyzed. Stretched out, like
Christ almost, though the arms were a little wrong of course, and he was flat on his back on the floor of course, one thought now ran through his mind, terrifyingly; Was it permanent? Betty was doing all she could do for him. She stroked him, murmured to him, so softly. She kissed his lips, his face, his wide-open eyes, staring starkly. She caressed him, all over. She leaned over him, and lay beside him, pressing herself to him. She reached down for him, she fondled him, she leaned over and kissed him there.
“Ponce—can you hear me?” The divine voice came to him.
He couldn’t answer. He wanted to, but just couldn’t. What would she do with him? Who would find him? Would she phone up an ambulance now? What about his mother? He wanted to cry. Who had undressed him? Had Betty actually undressed him? What would become of him? What would Tiger do?
“What am I going to do with you?” She murmured. Now she was leaning over him with her magnificent treasures. They were right over him. He longed to touch them. He saw her face. There was concern for him.
“I just can’t understand it,” she said, “You seem O.K.”
What did she mean by that? He wanted to ask. How hard he tried to ask. She was caressing his face, he was aware of the warmth of her, next to him. Her breasts brushed him, he felt the tips. They brushed his chest.
“What shall I do with you?” She asked again, her face
Pretty Maids All in a Row 359 just above his. What a lovely face. Her red hair touched his face.
“Can you see me?” She asked. How he wanted to tell her. Would he ever again tell her? She moved her legs, he felt her thighs moving against him, and gliding onto him. One of her gliding thighs touched a column. Definitely a column. He was aware suddenly it was his column, colossal, pointing straight upward. How he wanted to look, for he wondered: Did it go through the roof? How else could it probe the sky? The ceiling. What about the ceiling? He tried moving his eyes. He tried to see. Why was he having these crazy thoughts? He thought, suddenly.
“You’re huge, Ponce. Lovely—” Divinely, Betty murmured—“As lovely as I’ve ever heard of—” She said— “Know that?”
He wished he could answer. He thought of Ivanhoe.
“Shall I just go for a ride on you?” He heard the voice. Ponce didn’t know. It was up to her what to do. She should know. Besides—what could he do? If she did what she said, he couldn’t answer for it. Certainly. He loved her, he worried about her, but what could he do about it? She could hurt herself. He wished there was some way to warn her that she could harm herself. Didn’t she know it? Couldn’t she see? Why didn’t she? How he wished he could see!
“Shall I?” He heard her, sweet and low, murmuring to him. She was moving. He felt her form, warm, wonderful, hovering over him. Warm, gentle hands fondled him. “Ummm—” Her sweet voice, “Ummmm—” He fought for his voice. “Ummm—Ummmm—” If he had a voice— “Ohhhh—” He was in agony. “Oh—Ohhhh—” Where was his voice? . . . “Ponce! Oh! ... He felt her upon him. . . . Her soft treasures were on him. . . . Her face over his. . . . Her lips pressed to his. . . . The column was sliding, sinking. ... He wanted to scream. . . - a profound, warm depth beckoned it . . . and enveloped him.. . .
“Gosh! Hi!" The maid said, breathlessly, as he slipped
back into the car, and beside her.
“Hi,” he said, cuddling her. She was warm in his arms, that sweet young form.
“Is he gone?”
“Yes.”
It was definite.
“Впт—he scared me!”
“Do I scare you?”
She laughed, in her way, so sweetly. She kissed him.
“Never, Tiger.”
“That was some surprise,” he said to her, kissing her. He caressed her form. He certainly was hungry for her.
She murmured, “Let’s lock the doors.”
“I did.”
He told her. . . .
Was there anyone in the world with a sweeter form? Gently, presently, he slipped the clothes off that form. She sat on his lap, playfully. She certainly could play, well he knew. He admired, kissed, caressed those young breasts. She played, marvelously. She murmured to him. She wanted to straddle him. He let her. She kissed him a thousand times about the face. He held her at last so close to him, in a tight embrace. She wouldn't get off his lap. She cried out with delight as he penetrated her, the first time, on his lap, he ever had. She clung to him, giving little cries, wonderfully kissing him. . . i Gently, at last, Tiger eased her over, and off him, very gently, barely interrupting a kiss, until she lay on her back, under him, on that ample seat, for he loved her that way. She sighed, she murmured, she raised her knees. She was really enjoying herself, as Tiger was. Of course. And he thought about her. For certainly there was quite a lot to be thought about, in connection with her. He thought and thought, connected, exquisitely, to her. Without a doubt she was a treasure of a
Pretty Maids All in a Row 363 were human. Only. Korea. War was clumsy. As in Korea. We did what we could there. He had played his part there. Now the boys were again over there, another part of course over there, doing what they could, there. Here, slowly, white supremacy and tyranny were coming to an end. Here. One day, even those rotten Southern African nations, as he and Ponce had discussed only the other day wasn’t it, would wise up to themselves. They had to. There was one life, only. This was it Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? How many times had he fallen off that tree? His father never fell off, that he knew, and what about Bob? Tiger caught a glimpse of that stranger, his brother, that bookworm, if ever there was one. He thought about Jeannie. He thrust deeper and deeper into Paradise, and he knew they could go on all night. Not tonight. She was burning hot, the rocking young thing, crying out and crying out to him, she tasted so sweet, he could live the rest of his life inside that young thing, to hell with the brink—What brink? Where was the brink? Tiger wanted to laugh, to shout, to roar— He could roar—
“Tigerr She screamed.
“Oh GOD TIGER1”
She screamed and screamed. . • •
How Ponce got home that night, he’d never know. How he got home! He just didn’t know. He knew only that morning had come, and he was in bed, and Peppy there too, lying luxuriously, blissfully, supremely comfortably, as often she did, on a select comer of the bed. He gazed down at her. Crafty cat, she had one eye slightly open, loving him, but warily surveying him, as he stirred. He grinned at her. He felt nothing but love and admiration for her. What a cat. What creatures they were. Dogs couldn’t even begin to compare with them. How had she got here? He moved. It was strange, for a minute there he
Pretty Maids AII in a Row 345 warm, divinely for him. He only wondered—How could he control himself? He was only just barely still around now—How had he done it? He tried thinking about football plays, and variations thereon, and next week’s game. He tried hard. He thought of his mother.