One early evening a few weeks before Spring Break 1979, Cuniff accompanied Beryl to the university’s main library. These were rare occasions. Not his visiting the library, but going with her. An essay was due. She absolutely required tranquility in order to write. As dead as he found a women’s dorm during the week, she believed hers still had too much vibrancy. Beryl’s academic struggles in a men’s dorm surely would’ve made her skull explode. Ordinarily, Cuniff simply borrowed books from this library. He didn’t even bother haunting the stacks in search of sweet-looking susceptible betties. Tonight, though, a rare convergence. ‘Triumph of the Will’ had recently been screened in his Language of Film class. Impressed by the primitive propaganda, he scoured the shelves for writings about Leni Riefenstahl, the movie’s director. Through cursory reading, Cuniff learned the old Nazi had evaded major post-war punishment. In spite of having been in bed with the regime’s high mucks, the. He murmured his approval into my mouth as he cupped my ass cheeks. I began to moisten the tiny strip of fabric between my legs. I knew he could feel my bare cheeks through my dress, and the outline of my garter belt across my hips. I spread my legs as he forced his between them. His cock was hard against my thigh. I brought my arms, which had been hanging loosely at my sides, up to wrap around his neck as he continued to kiss me. My breath sounded like a bellows through my nose. I looked at the boy, but he was ignoring us, sipping his soda and looking at something on the table. By the time we broke our kiss, Miriam had come back into the kitchen. "Ty, baby," she cooed, "I thought you liked me. She had her lower lip out in an exaggerated pout, and he laughed. "You ain't had enough? What you got, a steel-trap pussy?" he said. "Man, I got to try all the pussy 'fore I know which one I likes the best." He still had his arm around my waist, and I was still thinking about that monster.
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