A Vintage Erotic Novel Involving a Sexy and Seductive Girl, Full of Sexual Adventures, Surprises and Twists.
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School For Nymphos
CHAPTER ONE"Al, as principal of Grayton junior high school, it has recently come to my attention.. . . "Al Downing, the young janitor at Grayton, suppressed a yawn. He disliked the school principal. He considered Mr. Pfeiffer to be a fat, pompous fairy. It always irked him to be summoned here. And he's going to bitch about something, Al thought. He always does.Now, as he sat across from Pfeiffer, disgustedly watching the man's double chin bob up and down against his lavender necktie, he remembered that all his stupid speeches began this way. Even if Pfeiffer were just ordering a bag of rock salt for the school driveway, the speech would still begin the same way. And as he spoke Al detested the effeminate nasal whine of his voice-Pfeiffer would invariably explore his thick manicured hands as though he were seeing them for the first time."...and it has recently come to my attention, Al, that we have a lesbian problem here at school."The word "lesbian" jolted Al to the edge of his chair. He knew that some of the young girls carried on in the shower room, but he never dreamed that Pfeiffer also knew. Even more puzzling, why had the school principal drawn him in on the problem; he was only the janitor. He said, "That surprises me, sir. I always thought our girls were rather well-behaved.""Do you consider 14-year-old lesbians well-behaved?"Al disliked the defensive role he had suddenly assumed. He squirmed uncomfortably. "Well, no . . . what I meant was....""I never thought I'd see the day when something like this would happen at Grayton." He looked ready to cry. "Now it has and, frankly, I'm in a dither."Al let the principal drone on, but he was still puzzled as to why Pfeiffer was telling him about it. Did blubber-face think he didn't know what went on here, that certain of the girls fondled each other in the darkness of the boiler room? Christ, he could tell this fat bastard plenty if he wanted to. "What are you going to do about it, Mr. Pfeiffer?"The principal clasped his hands together. "I'm glad you asked that question, Al. That's why I called you up here. I need your help.""My help?""Yes, Al. I need proof. I know it's going on here at Grayton, but without proof, my hands are tied. There's not a thing I can do.""What sort of proof?""Well proof that the girls are doing these things. What else?"Al wanted to slam the bastard. The big deal. Had to make you look like you were stupid. "You mean you want me to spy?""That's the general idea, Al. These kids behave like little angels when I come down the hallway, but with you . . . well, you're only the janitor and...."Yes, only the lowly janitor, Al thought. The broom man. The emptier of wastebaskets. "That won't be easy, sir."But Pfeiffer disagreed. The kids wouldn't pay that much attention to the janitor that word again he could move into their range more easily, listen and watch. "And then when you have something definite, I'll be able to act.""What will you do?""Do? Why I'll bring the offenders into my office and have a firm talk with them. If the case warrants it, I may even go to their parents."Al hid his disdain. Did this blubbery faced bastard think that a slap on the wrist would stop the girls from their evil practices? Was he so stupid as to believe that a scolding would prevent them from rubbing their hot bodies together in the privacy of the shower room? Was Pfeiffer really that stupid? "Don't you think that a more severe punishment is called for?" Al asked."That's for me to decide," Pfeiffer said haughtily.Al fought back his anger. How hard would he have to smash Pfeiffer to knock his teeth out?"The way I see it," the principal whined on, "if I throw a good scare into them, that should be enough."But it won't, you dumb bastard. They'll go on and on, licking each other's breasts, putting their bodies together, squirming and feeling, poisoning themselves and poisoning the world."If I see anything," Al said, "I'll be sure to let you know." And to himself, he thought: Like hell, I will. I'll smash their goddamn faces in. That'll stop them."Last week," Pfeiffer continued, "someone rigged up a wire across the stairway and caused Elaine Stewart to fall down a flight of stairs. She broke her arm and it's a mystery that she wasn't killed." He picked up a mechanical pencil and flipped it over in his hand. "You did hear about it, didn't you?"Al nodded. Indeed, he had heard about it. Hadn't it been he who had strung the wire, then watched from the floor above as the little bitch crashed down the concrete stairs? Wasn't her fate well-deserved?"Elaine Stewart was mixed up in this mess. We found notes in her locker that gave indication of that.""That's hard to believe," Al lied. "She's so cute.""Cuteness has nothing to do with it," Pfeiffer snapped."I only meant....""This Stewart girl, I think, was fooling around with more than one girl. Somebody became jealous and....""Strung the wire?" Al finished."Exactly," Pfeiffer said. "And this is only one of a series of incidents that we've had lately. And when we get to the bottom of it, I think we'll find that it all goes back to this lesbian problem."Pfeiffer was right, of course. The mysterious fire in Judy Holton's locker she was One of Them was scarcely spontaneous combustion. He, Al Downing, had inserted the oil-soaked kleenex between the louvres of her locker, then dropped the match. It had burned her new coat, ruined it; but wasn't this big-titted eighth-grader a lesbian? Hadn't he seen her behind the boilers, down on her knees, greedily kissing another girl between her trembling thighs?"The week before," Pfeiffer went on, "someone rolled a 16-pound shot-put off those same stairs. Fortunately, no one was hurt. But if the ball had struck anyone . .Well, he had goofed that one, he thought. Aimed for that Sylvia Kowalski girl, the one who wore the tight sweaters, but he had missed. She was One of Them, too; and how many more were there here at Grayton junior high school?"...so if you hear of anything, Al, I'd certainly appreciate your telling me.""I'll do that," Al promised. "If I hear anything....""And I wouldn't mention this little discussion to anyone, Al. No use tipping our hands, is there?""I'm sure you're right," he answered, and after reluctantly sealing their secret with one of Pfeiffer's flabby handshakes, Al left the principal's office and went to the basement.Al's desk-one that had been discarded from the classrooms and also served as a work bench-was positioned along the cement wall below a grilled window. The window faced the girl's schoolyard, and when he stood back in the shadows behind this desk, it was possible to spy on the young girls, know them on their most intimate terms. For instance, after many months at the school, he not only knew many of the girls by their first names, but he also knew that some of them-the Orland girl was an example-came to school without panties. Certain of the other girls wore black girdles-they called themselves the Hi-Queens and Al was certain that this group was made up of lesbians.Another girl-a seventh-grader, Al surmised-made a delightful display of herself on the playground swings. She had a strawberry mark on the inside of her left thigh; and many other observations had come to his attention while he hid in the shadows below this spectacle-filled window.He stood there now, watching the schoolyard slowly fill up. Another day, and soon the fust-period bell would ring. Cigarettes would be squashed out, dirty stories crammed into purses, and then the young bitches would be hurrying through the portals of learning-but learning what? How to hide in the book storage room and rub their bodies together? Was this what they learned?Thinking of it, he had to fight back the dark rage that burned inside him. And that fat bastard, Pfeiffer. So dumb he couldn't see beyond the end of his nose and wanting Al to spy. Well, that was just perfect. There'd been several things that he wanted to do; for instance, hide a microphone in the ventilator of the girl's restroom, and now he could do it with complete ease. If Pfeiffer somehow found out about it, he'd simply say he was only following instructions-spying, so to speak. And he would be, but not for Pfeiffer. And when Al found out who all these queer bitches were, he'd fix their clocks in his own way; not Pfeiffer's.As these thoughts moved slowly through his mind, Debbie Harmon moved in front of the overhead window and lit a cigarette. Debbie was 15, a short-haired blonde girl who defied teachers with her short thigh-tickling skirts. The boys at school were fascinated by her abbreviated skirts; without realizing it, she was also fascinating Al. He couldn't turn away from the window, and stealing quietly closer, eyes skyward, he saw the elastic edging of her panties. A warm tingling sensation crept into his loins, and he wondered if Debbie let boys do it to her.He supposed that the answer was yes. But he didn't blame the boys; nor could he blame Debbie. Boys and girls getting hot with each other was part of growing up, but the rest of it: girls feeling up other girls; that was poison. It was a crime against nature, a crime against boys and men; and many months ago, only a bitter memory now, it had been a crime against him, Al.Blotting away the memory of a broken marriage, he again gazed up under Debbie's short plaid skirt. She had turned, her back was to him, and she was leaning against the building. Inching closer, still looking up, he could see the squeezed-in warmth of her buttocks protruding from her panties. His face began to perspire. His hands doubled into fists. If he could just reach through this grilled window, feel the hotness of her . . .Suddenly, the bell rang. He cursed. Debbie and several dozen other students crowded toward the doors leading into the school; but he didn't leave the window until the last pair of flashing thighs and bouncing breasts had disappeared from sight. Then he slumped behind his desk and opened a thermos of coffee.This would be a good place to bring a girl if that were his intention, he thought. And how long had it been since he and a woman had put their bodies together? Was it really almost a full year? Was his hate so great that he'd lost all desire for sex? If so, why had the sight of little Debbie Harmon excited him so greatly?Turning slowly in his chair, he gazed into the dark corners beyond his desk. Had Debbie ever been down here? he wondered. The maze of boiler pipes had created dozens of perfect hiding places, and that was why the kids sneaked down here so often. They believed that their hot little pastimes went undetected. But they were wrong about that; Al knew these hiding places, knew the secret corners from which to watch them, knew the sounds of their labored breathing...the sounds of love.When he finally finished his coffee, pushed those dark thoughts out of his mind, he began his daily inspection of the boilers. They were automatic, so there was but little for him to do, really-just make certain that the pressure of the intake was properly regulated, see that the safety valve was clean and functioning.Later, there were other perfunctory chores to do: Empty the wastebaskets in all the classrooms, broom the hallways, assist the delivery man with an incoming shipment of new textbooks; but by noon, he was done.Returning to the cool cemented darkness of the basement, he went directly to the paint locker, the secret project that he had begun over a week ago. In just a few more days the secret job would be finished, and he would have visible access to the girl's shower room. He first had to remove the remaining mortar that bonded the wall bricks together; then he would have to substitute a trick two-way mirror for the one that already hung in the shower room. However when that was done, he could look whenever he pleased; just slide the loose bricks out of place, stand in the darkness and watch.If it pleased him-and it would-he could spy on them for hour after hour. And just thinking of it now, drove sparks of excitement into his loins. He would get to see them undress, watch them slide skin-hugging sweaters over their heads, drop skirts wantonly to their ankles, and then stand before his trick mirror in just wispy panties and lacy bras. He'd get to know them on their most intimate terms, which of them had large nipples, which of them had bouncing behinds-but of the greatest importance-which of these tempting teenage bitches was also queer. Yes, once the mirror was in place, no secret would be barred from his eyes. And if that fat bastard, Pfeiffer, discovered his trick mirror, he would again say: "Sure, I put it there. You wanted me to spy, didn't you?"Elated with how easy Pfeiffer was making this for him, he set down his tools and turned on the small overhead light bulb. Latching the door, he went to his tools: an assortment of chisels, a brass hammer, and a broom and dustpan to clean up the telltale mortar chips. Previous observation had shown him that the lunch hour was the best time in which to work at his secret project; with nearly everyone in the school cafeteria, there was little likelihood that anyone would hear the continuous tapping of his tools.First, several paint drums had to be moved; he had placed these on a small wooden table, thereby hiding his handiwork. It wasn't likely that any of the faculty would come down here, but he had to guard against that ever-present small chance.With the paint drums now moved out of the way, he crouched over the table and positioned his chisel. Suddenly the light went out. Cursing, he groped through the darkness, found the pull-string, and yanked down. He tried it several times; the goddamn bulb was burned out. He fumbled in his pants pocket for a book of matches; then his shirt pocket. . ."What if somebody comes down here, Mike. Then what?"Al froze. The basement had some youthful visitors."I told you that creepy janitor goes out for lunch. We're alone.""But what if he comes back early.""Cmere."Al held his breath. The boy and the girl had passed within inches of the paint locker door, and now he could hear their footsteps fading away; now he could confidently predict that they were moving through the darkness, reaching a small green cot behind the boilers. The cot was a hangover from the dispensary; Nurse Morrison had said that Al might keep it if he liked, and the students, knowing of its presence, had put it to frequent and enjoyable use.They were quiet now, probably fumbling with their clothes, Al thought; and he slid softly toward the door, eased the latch out of its slot, then cracked the door enough to listen."Mjke, I'm scared.""Of what? We're alone.""But...."It was suddenly silent here in the basement, and Al could imagine the young boy pushing the girl down on the cot, quieting her protests with a fevered kiss, feeling her up-maybe even going all the way.With his curiosity stimulated even further, Al widened the gap in the door. He was not wrong; they were on the cot. He couldn't make out their faces, but he could see the boy's hand drawing the girl's skirt up her tender thighs."Mike, don't!" But she wanted him to."C'mon." His hand molded itself to the throbbing pear-like swelling between her outstretched thighs. His fingers moved slowly over the pink silk of her panties. Unconsciously, she arched upwards to meet the steady pressure of his fingers. "Does it feel good?" he asked."Sure it does, but. . . "He kissed her and continued the steady circular rhythm of his hand. Now he was pulling the panties aside, fingering the hotness of girlhood.She bit her lip and let out a small childlike moan. "Please, Mike . . . don't do it anymore . . . please...."He rolled over on top of her and began pumping his lean small body against the girl's. This caused the girl to moan more desperately. She threw her arms around the boy and now began pumping with him."Do you want to?" he whispered. "Do you?""Oh, Mike....""Do you?"Al held his breath, waited hotly for the girl to say "yes"; instead, she pushed upwards, grasped her panties, then guided them down. "Hurry, Mike! Do it fast!...."CHAPTER TWOAl was going wild from watching the kids. Without realizing it, he was pressing his own throbbing against the door, wishing that he, not the boy, was now opening his pants and lowering himself between the girl's widely spread thighs.The girl moaned, and Al wondered if it was Debbie Harmon. Judging from the way the young teenager flounced her body around in the schoolyard, Al had guessed that she was looking for something like this. Now-and he assumed it was she-she was getting it; and getting it good! Yes, the boy might be lacking in experience, but he was certainly making up for it with the zealous, rabbit-like attack.Debbie, or whoever she was, welcomed his attack. Her ivory thighs were spread widely apart, her knees bent and aimed toward the boiler pipes. The boy mounted her with a series of short pumping thrusts. He brought deep guttural moans from her throat."Ohhhh....""Feel good?""Won-wonderful . .He went faster. "I wish you could take everything off.""So do I." Her buttocks raised up to meet him. She wiggled. "Ohhhh . . . does that ever feel good.""Debbie.""Y-yes.""C-can . . . can you . . . oh, Debbie!" His fingers dug deeply into the heaving flesh of her hot buttocks. He squeezed down hard."Ohhhh, Mike . . . Mike, I'm . . . I'm...."He attacked her with renewed force. His feet braced the wooden ribbing of the cot, sought leverage. He drew back briefly, then sent himself hurtling inside her. She clawed at his back."Jesus Christ . . . oh, Mike . . . Mike!" Suddenly their bodies locked and they trembled with the sweet final spasms of love. Then, almost brutal in his abruptness, he withdrew from her and zipped up his trousers.Debbie pulled down her skirt. Mike immediately pushed it up. "I wanna look some more," he whispered harshly."Why?""Cause.""Somebody might come."His hands stroked the warm flanks of her thighs. Slowly, those same hands crept upwards to toy with the curly, silken softness. "You're always 'fraid of something." he said. "I told you that janitor goes out for lunch.""But he could still come back."The boy chose to ignore her fright. His eyes gazed at the functions his hands were performing. "Debbie, could we do this again?""Not down here, we can't." She pushed his hands away and climbed off the cot."Where then?""How do I know?""How 'bout at your house?""You crazy?""Then where?"The girl shrugged her shoulders. "You got a cigarette?" she asked the boy.The boy handed her his pack, lit the cigarette "That bell is gonna ring pretty soon.""I know.""Debbie?""Yes.""How 'bout when you baby sit? Couldn't I come there and . . . you know."Again, she shrugged her shoulders. Eighteen-years-old, but wise enough to play it coy and keep him guessing."But didn't you like it?""It was okay," she said, blowing smoke in his face. "Just okay?""That's what I said, didn't I?" He lit a cigarette for himself, then asked, "Did you ever do it with other guys.""Maybe," she said teasingly. "How come you won't tell.""Cause.""Cause why?"Angrily, she snapped, "You ask too many questions.""I just wanted to know," he said innocently."Well don't ask." And now she was the boss. She had given him a piece of her delicious candy-the juicy fruits of her body-and now she could ask for anything. "You got a quarter?" she said abruptly."A quarter! For what?""Cause I need it for after school, that's what."He frowned. "You charging now, or something?""Well I could, you know.""And you would, wouldn't you? You'd be just like Janice Porter.""You think you know everything, don't you?""I know that Janice is a big whore.""For your information, smarty, that isn't how Janice gets all her money. And if you wanna know, she never in her whole life let a boy touch her.""Bullshit!""Okay, you ask Norma Seibert. She'll tell you. And if you knew as much as you say you do, you'd know that Janice gets her money from that old woman on Province street.""That damn queer!""Well at least it doesn't hurt like a boy does. All she has to do is take off her clothes and let the old woman touch her, and things . .Al's senses suddenly reeled. He thought he would vomit, but then the nausea exploded to hate. His fists balled up."So who wants some old hag fooling around with them?""For five-dollars, who doesn't?"Suddenly, the bell rang. Al cursed. He heard, then saw, the two youngsters scurrying along under the boiler pipes, reaching and mounting the stairs.For a minute, he stood perfectly still. A chill had settled over his body. Or was this trembling that had taken possession of his senses-was it hate? And now he remembered Debbie's words: An old woman , . . you take off your clothes . . . five-dollars . . . Province street.It seemed impossible. Yet, didn't old men fool around with young girls in darkened theatres? Couldn't the same also be true for old women?Thinking of it again, visualizing a haggy old woman kissing the soft white body of a young girl, drove him wild with rage. He drove his fist into the wooden door of the paint locker. The door rocketed back. One of the panels split. A stream of blood trickled from the knuckles on his right hand. Christ, if he could get his bare hands on whoever the old bitch was, squeeze the evil poison out of her gray, wrinkled body . . . and Province street; this was the same street on which he lived. It was happening right under his nose.Slowly, with the murderous rage still burning hotly inside him, he emerged from the paint locker and came to the grilled overhead window. He saw the glowing, effervescent smiles of young girls, the virginal pink of flashing thighs as they ran past the window, and then he thought of the young boys who would fall in love with them.But the lesbians would ruin all that. The stinking bitches would ruin it for the young boys just as they had ruined it for him. Yes, once the perfumed bitches got to your girl, lapped their greedy tongues over her innocent body, she was gone from your reach. And then your girl was also a lesbian, another of the leeches introduced to the world, another seducer of young girls; and maybe he couldn't stomp it out, but he was sure as hell going to try. The old hag-whoever she was-was next. All he had to learn was where she lived and what her name was. And then . . .He came away from the window and slumped at his desk. If only that bell hadn't rung when it did, Debbie might have spoken her name. But didn't Debbie hang out in a pizza shop after school, one that was just down the street? He was certain that he had seen her there with a gang of girls, and if he stopped in today, shot her a flirting smile . . .* * *Leroy's Pizza House was jammed with young schoolgirls when he walked in. Some of them waved, others crowded around him to borrow a cigarette. Grinning at them-evidently, he was more popular than he had supposed-he found an empty table and sat down.The waitress, a skinny dark-haired girl of about 20, brought him the coffee he had ordered. He would only be able to stay here for a few minutes, he thought; he had to lock up the school and re-set the boilers. But once he talked to Debbie . . .His eyes located her in a corner booth. He watched her light a cigarette. She was with several other girls, seemingly the youngest of the group. Their attention for the moment was riveted on a gathering of young boys who stood at the pinball machine.He waited several minutes, hoping to gain her glance, but she was too rapt in the boys. Her blue eyes-sensuous for someone so young-followed the snug lines of the boys' trousers as they shifted around the pinball machine. Christ, was she looking for more? Hadn't she had enough in the basement today? And apparently not, because she was anxious to have their attention; her short plaid skirt was hiked up over her thighs and she wanted them to look.Al was accustomed to such sights here in the pizza house. Each of the girls seemed bent on showing as much as they could; however, the boys were youthfully indifferent and scarcely bothered to notice. This only infuriated the girls, whereupon they would let their shortie skirts go higher and higher.It was this way now and even with his eyes stinging from the clouds of smoke that hung over the place, he could look in almost any direction and become excited by what he saw. He could see the bottom edge of panty girdles; nylon hose biting into the firm flesh of their thighs; and in the case of the girl sitting opposite his table-a little redhead-he could even see the pale green silk of her underpants. He guessed her to be about 14, and she was slumped down in her chair with her head resting on its back; her legs were spread slightly-perhaps for his benefit-and when his dark eyes focused on the promising valley between her legs, her wanton expression seemed to say: Go ahead and look if you want. I don't care. And it was part of the show at Leroy's, a regular matinee; and though the coffee was lousy, the repartee of free sights was more stimulating than an afternoon of burlesque.
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