Pretty maids all in a row

2

Mike McDrew—Tiger—sat in his office. At this moment, when the entire school was about to be plunged into historically unprecedented chaos, he was administering a Bern-krokkler Personality Inventory to one of the most interesting personalities of Sawyersville High School, Marjorie {Madge) Evanmore. The way he was administering it was even more interesting, for she was sitting on his lap, cuddling him. She was an attractive, healthy, well-formed' miss, and no doubt of it.

“Mr. McDrew—” she said, “Tiger—” she said, “Are you sure the door is locked? I mean—” she trailed off, turning her face toward him, her eyes closed, her lips inviting him.

“Listen,” Tiger said, “Sure it is.”

“Well, I’m glad it is,” she murmured.

“Ha ha ha—” He laughed softly.

“Honey—”

“Ah ha—”

“Bunny—”

“Ha Ha—”

“My bunny-honey—”

“What are you wearing?”

“You tell me—”

“How can I tell you?”

“Tell me—”

“Aren’t you nice and warm—•”

“Tell me, tell me—”

“Hear how they’re wearing them in England?*

“Do you like my legs?”

“They’re gorgeous legs.”

"Put your hand on my legs—”

“Just gorgeous legs—”

*‘Tiger—higher—”

“Shall I go higher?”

“Higher, higher—”

“How high shall I go?”

His hand was up to her knee, pushing her skirt upward, slowly. His hand glided past her knees and reached the delightful thigh region. He lingered, at that region.

“Tiger—honey—”

Marjorie was in a warm and trembling state, he felt her pressing against him, her heart pounding. He smelled the fresh, young smell of her—the heat of her as her lips, wet, open, sought his, hungrily. He liked her. Her breath, sweet, warm, caressed his face.

Ponce’s first screams, at this point, tore through the school. They didn’t make all that much impact, however, on the Guidance/Counseling office. Though Tiger’s hand, in that moment, did pause in its journey. And he said, casually, “What was that?”

“What?” she replied, huskily.

Tiger dropped it. The screams went on, but farther off now. Ponce had sprinted by Tiger’s door at a terrific pace. At this rate, he wouldn’t be long reaching his goal. On they went.

“Nothing,” he murmured, resuming his languid journey. ^uTiger Honey—” She murmured, barely.

She had her arms about him in a terrific clinch, and she was kissing him. Tiger was thinking just then that never so far as he could immediately recall had he felt such a pounding hot body against him, almost part of him, on his lap, or elsewhere for that matter. Never. And he kissed her. A marvelous, special kiss for her. He kissed and kissed her, totally unaware of anything but the supreme bliss of their kiss there, meanwhile making excellent progress along that exquisitely delightful freeway, Inner Thigh Dreamway.

“Tiger—” She gasped, breaking off the stupendous kiss, for a moment at least, and tossing her blond hair—unbleached.

“You little honey—” Tiger murmured, chuckling, softly, giving her little nips, her nose, her eyes, her cute ears.

"Pm not so little—” she said.

“I know, don’t I know it—Honey—” he said.

“Please—not too slow—you’re really awfully slow today —Honey—I’m going to just scream—Tiger Honey—”

And again he chuckled, in his soft way, reaching into her blouse with his free hand now and touching her soft, young, fabulous breasts, cupping them, one at a time, gently fondling them, the treasures, lingering at the exquisite tips, playing there, maddening the girl, ever more.

“You’re a good bunny,” Tiger murmured, “What a good bunny, taking it off before getting here—makes things a lot smoother—doesn’t it—”

“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?”

“WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE?”

“Now, now, there now, Ponce, take it easy—”

"Don't you believe me?”

“Why shouldn’t I believe you?”

“Mr. Proffer! Boy! I’ll show you! C’mon with me— Holy Cow Wait'll You See! WOW! Right! Now!”

And the genial Principal did begin to conceive that something fairly unusual might just be up. This boy, he knew, was no crazy young pup. On everybody’s list, Tiger’s especially, he was right up. Furthermore, he had become aware of a certain unusual amount of noise and activity out there, somewhere, all over the school, it seemed. Almost like a herd. Stampeding. Herd. Come to think of it, just before the fiery entrance of the boy he had heard something, yes, far off, it seemed, which might even have been a —scream. He got up.

“HOLY COW!”

Ponce flew through the door, which was open, fortunately, yelling that out, and Mr. Proffer followed, hot on his heels. They flashed by the still petrified Miss Craymire, who looked on, utterly unable to move from her chair. . . . She merely noted, mentally, incredulous as ever, that her beloved Boss was still alive, somehow. . . . She was thankful. . . exceedingly . . . though paralyzed—totally.

Sawyersville’s Chief of Police, John Poldaski, urgently summoned from his normal duty post (for this time of day) (in fact, most of the day) at the corner of Twelfth Street and Whitmaker Avenue, the hub of Sawyersville, where he kept his eye on traffic, strangers, friends, relations. acquaintances, the weather, the Roll of Honor, the Pool Room, and this and that, arrived at the high school with a ferocious squealing of tires, and brakes, also. He catapulted himself out of the brand new Borough of Sawyersville Police Car (fully equipped with the latest crime-combating apparatus, including a twelve-gauge Remington, which, from time to time, he used for hunting), sprinted across the well-kept lawn and grounds, and burst into the high school, pistol drawn, though fortunately, and unbeknown to him, with the safety on.

He pushed his way past a cluster of students, and local citizenry, among whom were numbered a smattering of Selmo’s Bar stalwarts, located next door to the high school, rushed up the short stairway just beyond the entrance, got as far as the landing, paused, turned, as if remembering something, and said to the cluster, “Where is she?” in his barking baritone.

A fusillade of voices hit him, from which he learned nothing.

“Goddamnit! Shut Up! SHUT UP WILL YA!” He roared out, “You—somebody—Hey, Grotto—TELL ME!” He

added.

The so-named, as it happened, one of Selmo’s stalwarts, fired at him. “Stop wavin’ that fuckin’ thing. Is it Loaded?"

"Don’t piss around!“ the Chief roared.

“Who’s pissin’? You wanta kill somebody?” He had thrown at him.

A barrage of voices erupted again, slugging it out before him.

“FUCK.!” roared the Chief, turning his back on them,

“Listen, you gave me a ticket only last week for going through that Stop sign! Remember me?” The man said.

"Who The Hell Are You?" The Chief reiterated, grasping him by the arm, firmly.

“Mr. Hinkle! Ralph Hinkle! I teach here—Chief!"

“Yeh? Do you?” The Chief snarled.

Another voice hit him and looking up he saw someone being made way for by the mob.

“Chief! I’m here!"

It was Proffer. He drew up beside the Chief.

“Know this guy?” Poldaski inquired.

“Oh, that’s Mr. Hinkle, John. He teaches here.”

“Don’t you remember me?” The teacher asked again.

The Chief nodded, and released his grip, finally.

“Don’t run away,” he told him, following Proffer. “Anybody touch anything?” Now he asked.

.“I don’t think so.”

“In here?"

They had reached the lavatory door.

“That’s right, Chief.”

Poldaski surveyed the mob.

“Put some of your teachers outside the door. Don’t want anybody else in there,” he said.

TU do that, Chief,” he was informed.

They entered the lavatory.

“Huh.” ~^-8j

The Chief said.

“Huh.”

Poldaski said.

Moving to another position.

“I’ll be goddamned.”

He said, standing there.

“Jill Fairbunn, ain’t it?” He finally said.

‘That’s it. Chief.” Proffer, very quietly, said.

“Huh.”

The Chief said.

And stood there.

“Who the hell’d wanta do that?” He finally asked.

He got no answer.

He looked around. All around. He turned to Proffer. “Better call in the Staties,” he told him. quietly.

The Chief was referring to the organization which dealt

and sprinting off, somewhere, past the landing, past another set of doors, and into a hallway.

“Chief! Oh, thank God you’ve come!”

Poldaski whirled to his left, gun still drawn, and faced Miss Nectar, School Librarian.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“Follow me, just follow me, Chief Poldaski,” she offered.

“Close all the doors! The outside doors! Lock them! Close the windows! I don’t want one window open! Lock them! He’s in here! Must still be in here!” the Chief boomed out.

“Certainly, Chief!” Miss Nectar responded.

“No!—have somebody else take care of it—I’m following you—”

“Chief, listen—just go up those stairs and turn left, it’s down the hallway—you can’t miss it—everybody's up there—”

“O.K. then! Don’t forget! All the doors! All Of Them/” And with this the Chief sprang up the stairway pointed out by the Librarian, while she fluttered.

He reached the upper hallway in record time, having taken the stairs two and three at a time, his heavy boots pounding them. And there before him, filling practically all of the hallway, was the entire school population, practically. It would soon be the entire population, plus the local citizenry and Seimo entourage he had turned his back on at the entranceway. At this moment they were pouring up that stairway, after him. The Chief plunged, pushed, prodded, butted his way down that hallway.

“It’s the Chief!”

“The Chief’s here!”

“Here’s the Chief!”

“John!”

“Poldaski!”

He heard all about him.

“Where is she?” he yelled out.

Someone had hold of his arm now.

“Thank God you’re here, man!” He heard in his ear.

“Who are you?” Poldaski demanded facing the little man who had spoken.

“Chief! Don’t you know me?”

“Hell No! Who Are You?" with serious crimes outside the immediate and/or foreseeable capabilities of local Police Forces: The State Police, no less. It was the first time he had ever done so.

“Alright, John,” Proffer murmured, nodding his head, unhappily. He was still, the truth be known, in a state of shock, or semi.

“That’s the only thing alright,” the Chief told him, in the lowest of tones, Proffer just catching it. “Get them on the phone right now. I’ll hang around.” He added.

“Yes, Chief,” Mr. Proffer managed, treading his way out of the lavatory.

“Wait! Where’s the kid that found her?” He heard the Chief shout, just as he was about to step out.

The voice of Ponce came from a comer of that lavatory, “I’m here, Chief.” And that’s alL

Poldaski faced him.

“O.K. Stay here.”

“Right, Chief,” the lad said.

Proffer was out of the place, and opening the outer door.

“Don’t let anybody out of the building! Not anybody!” The Chief yelled out to him, as Proffer walked shakily out into the teeming hallway.

“Close that door!” The Chief shouted.

“It closes automatically,” Ponce said, quietly.

The Chief turned to the lad again. There were others in the lavatory—four or five teachers (male) and a number of students (also male). Mr. Mummer was there, battered but recovering. He sat on a toilet seat, dazed, bewildered, while two of his colleagues succored him. The Chief reached for a black notepad which he had tucked away cleverly in one of his many pockets. He was somewhat hampered, however, by the pistol which he still held at the ready in his right hand, pointing more or less in the lad’s direction. The Chief in fact was getting absolutely nowhere with his free hand, and so finally he holstered the weapon, after a long look around the lavatory. He found the notepad, after a long search, and a ball-point pen also. He flipped open the notepad briskly, and found written on it. Don't Forget the Butter! In large letters, unmistakable. He ripped out the page angrily, and jammed it into one of his pockets, muttering to himself about Mary, who was always doing this. He would show her tonight, goddamn her. The rest of the pad was blank.

“O.K.” he said at last, “What happenedr

Ponce stared at the Chief. He was thinking a million things, and he didn’t know how to answer. He even wondered if he should answer. How many times, before all this was over, would he be giving answers? He sat there, pondering matters. He finally started to answer.

“Well, Chief—”

“Wait a minute—” the Chief said, rubbing the ball-point back and forth across the sheet of notepaper in an effort to get the ink flowing, “Sonuvabitch,” he muttered, rubbing harder.

“Here, Chief,” said one of the teachers, Mr. Crispwell, Commercial Studies, handing him a lead pencil.

The Chief mumbled thanks and took the pencil, meanwhile pocketing his stubborn pen, and silently cursing his wife again, in the process. He said to the lad, “O.K.—what was that again?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Ponce said, feeling so low.

“You didn’t?”

“Nothing.”

Poldaski eyed him.

“You’re Ponce de Leon right? Britfield Avenue—right?”

“That's right.”

“Any brothers?”

Ponce responded, puzzled, beginning already to regret he had decided to answer questions, “1 have one younger brother.”

“How old is her

“Six, Chief,” Ponce responded glumly. He had never thought of John Poldaski as an ace crime-buster, the truth be known.

“What sports do you play?”

Ponce hesitated. This was a sore point and a half alright. It was about the most ridiculous question so far, no doubt, and in any case the Chief should know the answer, for he was probably one of the town’s most avid sports fans, among other things.

Ponce tried this answer, “I’m the football team’s Equipment Manager.” Which was true, absolutely.

“Yeh!” Poldaski cried, “Oh ych! I seen you out there! You’re the waterboy!”

Ponce winced, for that wasn’t strictly true. His assistant, Billy King, actually performed that function. But—he let it go. It might lead to complications.

“Right, Chief,” he said.

“I thought I seen you out there!”

‘That’s me. Always out there.”

“What about next week?”

“We’ll take them.”

“Sure about that?”

“Tiger—” he paused, he really shouldn’t be bandying about that name, “The Coach said we would.”

“That’s o.k. then!”

A moment.

“Going?” Ponce couldn’t help asking him.

“Sure I’m going!”

“It’s away, Chief.”

“What’s the difference?”

Ponce said nothing, though he knew very well what the difference was. Unlike the home games, which the Chief attended free of charge as part of his duties, he would have to shell out at an away game—usually. Though even there, if he spotted the local Police Chief, whom he knew of course, he breezed by the gates. Ponce pondered, knowing he had stepped on a corn. He didn’t want Poldaski mad at him, not at this point.

“What the hell’s the difference?” The Chief demanded. No doubt about it, the tone was mean.

“No difference at all. Chief,” Ponce finally said, hoping for the best, hoping the Chief’s sense of irony wasn’t at its best.

The Chief was eyeing him. Ponce knew he hadn’t pacified him.

“What’s your age—De Leon?” It was sinister tone. “Sixteen,” Ponce told him, “Nearly seventeen,” he also told him.

“What happened?” The question hit him.

“He nearly killed me, that’s what happened,” came a mumble from one of the cubicles, Mr. Mummer of course.

“Who are you?" The Chief shot at him. His right hand actually touched his holster.

“Mr. Mummer,” Ponce barely heard him.

“Oh, yeh—Mummer—” Poldaski remembered, moving his hand away from the holster, and back to the notepad.

“What the hell you doin’ there, Mr. Mummer?” He asked of him.

“I just told you—”

“How old are you—”

“Huh, Chief?”

Mr. Golden, one of the teachers attending him, said to the Chief, “He’s still in bad shape, Chief. He had a bad jolt out there.”

"What happened?ⁿ

“Well, I understand Ponce bumped into him and knocked him over.”

“Oh yeh?” He whirled to face the lad again. “De Leon —what the hell is this—you never told me that!”

“Chief, I was trying to tell you—I was going to—”

"Don't skip anything “I won’t, Chief.”

“Start at the beginning.”

“Sure, Chief.”

“Where were you?”

“What, Chief?”

"Stop screwing around with meV*

“Listen—Chief—”

Mr. Crispwell interjected mildly, “Chief,” he said, “Why not just have him tell you the whole story—without asking any questions—know what I mean?”

Poldaski exploded, “Who the hell are you? Oh, Crisp-well! Well keep the hell out of this, Crispwell! Think this is funny? Funny game or somethin’? What’s your angle?” “Chief! Listen!” Ponce pleaded.

“I better take you down to the Station. Hell, what can I get outa you here, all these guys buttin’ in—Jesus—”

"Listen, PH tell youГ Ponce, in astute form, shouted at him.

It worked. Poldaski stood there. All he did was stare. “Don’t skip a thing,” he mumbled, finally.

And Ponce told his tale, quietly, step by step, carefully, not skipping a thing, hardly.

Poldaski took it all down, laboriously.

“Damn good cheerleader she was,” he was mumbling, writing, at the end of it all, finally, “We’ll get the bastard, don’t worry,” he added, his eyes sweeping the room, taking them all in, the girl, the teachers, the students, all of them.

Outside the school building sirens were approaching, screaming.

It was the State Police, speedy and efficient, as ever.

And an ambulance. . . .