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 The two girls farther away, however, seemed to have subsided and were watching the screen. Aside from the way in which one of them was playing with the other’s ear, they seemed completely involved in the picture. The old man was also involved in the movie—but more actively. Indeed, quite actively for his years, judging from the quickening creak of the springs in the seat he was occupying.

 Beside me, the girl's hand dropped casually over the arm of the seat and came to rest on my thigh. Glancing down at it, my eyes caught the glitter of a wedding band. Also, the movement had brought the side of her breast snugly against my ann. The breast-flesh was unencumbered by a bra beneath the thin cotton material of the dress she was wearing. Her hand didn’t move in my lap -- not at first.

 On the screen the blonde was lying on her back, one leg stretched straight up in the air, inching off a stocking. She repeated the maneuver with the other leg, the camera angle stressing her derriere as it moved in time to the slow blues. Then, the stockings off, the blonde stood up and stretched. The camera moved up her body in a tight close-up that covered all the points of her pulchritude.

 One of the two girls had her arm around the other’s shoulder now, her hand dipping deeply inside the blouse her friend wore. The teeny-bopper had scrambled off her boyfriend's lap and was now wedged into the seat with him; they curled up tightly there, spoon fashion, her back to him, and continued trying to solve the problem of the too-tight shorts. The old man was resting now, his rocking motion having slowed down as he tried to catch his breath with deep, audible wheezes.

 Now the hand in my lap was moving. The fingers stroked my thigh, my muscles tensed, and sharp nails dug into them. She leaned her head on my shoulder, and her hair brushed my ear. A moment later her lips brushed it.

 “Contact,” she whispered, her hand groping more intimately. “We’ve established contact.”

 “Castor Oil?” I guessed.

 “If you dig it, I dig it, lover.” She drew my hand to her lap. Her dress buttoned down the front. She guided my hand between two of the buttons.

 The blonde on the screen was moving now to a faster tempo. The blues background was subtly changing into a more raucous musical form, almost jazz. The blonde was clutching the man’s picture to her again. She propped it under one of her breasts, forcing the nipple momentarily up over the top of the push-up bra. Then she rubbed it against her hip, her movements erotically pronounced, then over her buttocks and around to the front where she held, the picture a little away and performed a bump and grind for the half-smiling man’s face in the picture frame.

 The old man sighed quaveringly, loudly. The two girls shifted position, their high heels on the edges of their seats now, their knees high in the air, their hands once again busy in each other’ s laps. The teenagers were wedged into the seat, one of the girl’s legs kicking wildly, as they continued trying to solve their problem.

 The hand in my lap eased open the zipper. Warm hands pushed my shorts aside. Hot thighs gripped my own hand and urged it a little higher to reveal that the lady was as pantie-less as she was bra-less.

 “Don’t you think we’d better finish our business first,” I suggested.

 “We’ll finish," she panted in my ear. “Don’t rush things, lover. Slow and easy does it every time.”

 I was confused—pleasantly, but still confused. If she was the messenger from Caster Oil, then why the sex play? Even to an amateur spy like myself, it seemed highly unprofessional. And if she wasn’t the messenger, than why had she deliberately sat down next to me and—umm— struck up an acquaintance? My confusion prompted another question.

 “Were you looking for me?” I asked.

 “Was I ever!”

 “I mean, are you the one I was waiting for?”

 “All your life, lover!” She bit my ear. “You just didn't know it!”

 “What I mean is, did Castor Oil send you?” I tried again desperately.

 “I don't know, lover. I’ve never made that scene. It must be a new kick. I’m game, though. Got any on you? Is it like airplane glue?” Her thighs were slippery and burning now, and my hand was drawn deep into the moistly quivering corridor of her ardor. “We probably won't have time, though,” she sighed. “I have to get home and put dinner up for my husband.”

 “Oh.” My mind absorbed the fact that her last statement confirmed the implication of the wedding ring. “Won’t he wonder where you are now?” I suggested.

 “Wonder? Why should he wonder? ‘He knows I went to the movies. What's wrong with that? I go to the movies a lot. It beats playing mah-jongg.” Her fist squeezed a moment to emphasize the point. “Doesn’t it, lover?”

“Well, yes, it does,” I admitted.

 On the screen the blonde was out of the one-piece garment by now. She was naked, lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows so that the fullness of both breasts was completely revealed. The picture was propped up in front of her. The music was real lowdown New Orleans now, but double-time. One arm stretched down and the hand was lost‘ suggestively under her body. The plump globes of her naked buttocks were moving like pistons.

 The old man was breaking the championship rocking record of the Catskill Mountains, and he didnt’ even have a rocking chair. One of the girls was sitting on the other’s lap now, sliding up and down to the rhythm set by the blonde on the screen. The teenagers had worked things out; they were still wedged together in one seat, but facing each other now, and the girl’s shorts were down around her ankles. Beside me the housewife was in a frenzy; she’d pushed her dress high up over her hips, out of the way, and her knees, spread wide apart, were wedged against the seat in front to supply the leverage for the slow, grinding circles of her hips and buttocks, the movements by which she was manipulating my hand to maintain the rhythmic contact she wanted.

 The cinema blonde was sitting on the edge of the couch now, dusting the picture with a feather duster. The duster swept over her thighs and her back arched so that her large breasts filled with air and pointed skywards. Now the duster played hide and seek with her thighs, and the focus became tighter and tighter to teasingly hint at the pulsating flesh dueling with the feather duster. The blonde finally threw her head back and thrilled a high, hysterically erotic laugh.

 It was echoed by a sudden loud groan from the old man as he abruptly stopped rocking. It was echoed by twin moans from the two girls as they seemed to be tossed high in their seats by the waves of passion which had them in their grip. It was echoed by the teenagers, the girl suddenly exclaiming “Now!” in the darkened theater, and the boy emitting a loud grunt. And it was echoed by the housewife beside me who suddenly slammed down hard against my hand and writhed there for a long, ecstatic moment.

 When the moment was over, her passion remained undiminished. Before I knew what she was up to, she was down on her knees in front of me. Her hair cascaded over my lap as her lips found their target and gripped it firmly. Involuntarily, my hands closed over her ears, urging her to a faster rhythm.

 “Stevkovsky?” The voice was directly in my ear from the darkness behind me. “You were supposed to be alone,” it admonished me.

 “Castor Oil?” I asked cautiously, clasping my hands over the ears more firmly to shut out any sound.

 “Castor Oil sent me,” the voice confirmed. “But you were supposed to be alone!”

 “Sorry about that. I hadn't intended - It was just one of those things."

 “Just because you're impersonating Steve Victor,” the voice said sternly, “that’s no reason to act like him. And the least you can do, comrade, is stop while I'm talking to you!”

 “I don't think I can at the moment,” I said, the mouthly ministrations building a lust which was mounting beyond my control.