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an amplification with such gain that the slightest move, sigh, or breath could not only be heard, but came across as a veritable scream of anguish or delight. One of the microphones was placed, in a unidirectional manner, at the foot and exact center of the bed, so that the actual viscosity of the thrust, the wet membrane friction of penis going in and out of mucous vage, could be heard in a way never heard before—at first even unrecognizable, but then of course, being in perfect sync and all, becoming quite unmistakable.
    “Hey, that’s some pickup, ” said Sid, never adverse to dropping a bit of expertise, “what is it, a Nagra Special?”
    “Probably an A-R seventy,” said Boris, “with a booster.”
    Sid nodded. “Jesus, listen to it! The sound of teeny-bopper pussy! There’s no other sound like it!”
    Meanwhile, Teeny Marie, for her part, was far from idle. She flounced about the room, skirt raised to her waist, kicking in can-can style.
    “Who wants a taste of my lamb-pit?!?” she screeched, “Who wants to dip into my fabulous honey-pot?!?”
    Not getting any takers, she dropped to her knees in front of Sid, and began roughly grappling at his fly.
    “Aw fer Chrissake!” he growled, pushing her away. “Lemme watch the show!”
    She cleverly channeled her sideways momentum into a crotch-lunge for B.
    “You’re a real doll,” he said gently, “but I think I’ll have to pass, too.”
    “What a couple of wet-blanket creeps!” cried Teeny crossly, scrambling to her feet and executing a little dance of wrath. Then she seized a microphone from a wall bracket, flicked the button, and wheeling toward the glass tableau, screamed at the top of her voice: “Sock it to ’em, Les! You rat-prick fruit!”
    The volume of this transmission must have been stupendous. It had the effect of a tidal wave, literally knocking the three revelers off the bed into a tangled heap on the floor. But then Les was on his feet in a trice, hopping mad and shouting furiously:
    “You crazy freak-bitch! We were coming I tell you! We were all coming!”
    Presumably he knew that his tormentor was behind the mirror, because he stared in that direction—but he was staring at the wrong part of it, so the impression of being unobserved persisted.
    “We won’t listen to that kind of talk!” shrieked Teeny, and turned off the amplification on their side, while Les covered his ears against the new blast, then began to shout (silently, for he could no longer be heard) and race about the room looking for something to hurl against the glass—but apparently the room had been designed with such contingencies in mind, for although lavishly appointed, there were literally no movable furnishings; everything was either built-in or secured to the floor. Finally he was reduced to snatching up his own shoes and flinging them ineffectually, at the wrong section of the mirror.
    “Missed us, you great ninny!” Teeny cackled. “It wasn’t even close!”
    By now the two nifties had gotten it slightly together and were sitting up on the floor on the far side of the bed, only their blond heads and bare shoulders visible, their lips moving at Les in some indecipherable remonstrance or perhaps simple inquiry as to what was happening.
    His reply, if any, was not audible, of course, as he slumped down on the bed, a total collapse of defeat and dejection.
    This seemed to tear Teeny apart.
    “Oh my God,” she moaned, “what have we done to him?”
    She began ripping off her clothes. “I’m coming, Les!” she cried, “I’m coming, my darling!” Then she flipped the switch on the two-way mirror, twisted the lock, and rushed madly out of the room, still tearing her garments from her and dropping them in flight.
    Boris and Sid sat looking at the dark panel for a moment.
    “Well, that seems to be that,” said B.
    Sid grunted, and lumbered to his feet. “You know, I wouldn’t mind some of that teeny head.”
    B. was thinking of something else,