"Fire" is a short story from a collection by Bill "Inside Bill's Shorts" edited and partly re-written by Susan Strict and published by Strict Publishing International. Details of the whole e-book are on URL Removed, Posts are not allowed until 15 posts. She stared, leaning back on her elbows, her legs slightly bent with her feet up on the marble and her beautiful ass between him and her. It was one of those moments that seems to last too long. He said “hi” to her, of course, but she never said anything. Maybe, he thought, he was mistaken and her eyes were not on him. He turned his head and looked across the fireplace, to see if she were staring at anybody else. She wasn't. And the party raged on, just a noise of high-class talk that came out low class garble and formed a wall between them. The sweat began to cool his forehead, not wanting to talk to him, not wanting to look away from him. She was a very pretty woman. Blonde, a little skinny, with long, beautifully boned bare legs and a bare foot that was so close to his head he could smell it. The polite grin on his face subsided as he turned his eyes to meet hers. A silent exchange of thoughts or maybe just of hormones. Not a word. Then calm and cool as can be one leg moves away from the other and the slight movement of her hand just below her hip tightens those exposed hotpants into no more than a thong: less than a thong. Bare flesh stares. Eye level, she slid on that polished marble stone, a clean slide, gently walking herself closer to him. He lowered his head, sunk into her, and she wrapped her legs around him. And all of a sudden the room went silent. There was one woman in a beautiful dress and with her long, black hair tightly propped up who stared so intense, her jaw dropped open like a thing you could distinguish between fear and ecstasy. A shock to her system, a captivation from which she dare not look away. Her glass of champagne began a quiver that made you wonder if it would drop on that beautifully white-carpeted floor. The man standing next to her, though highly intelligent, was an impressionistic dolt. Moments hit him broadside and in the forehead, and his eyes locked. His face turned to marble; a fixed, statuesque expression of chiseled horror and disbelief. It was like riding a pony. She had crawled down from that marble mantle and locked onto his face like a heat-seeking missile. It was a screw so intentional, so precise and so far beyond embarrassing that it pulled them both down to blocking the fire's view. A pair of hands that seemed to push the back of his head too hard, and a breathing between the fabric caught in and against, and rubbed with a friction that burned as hot as the dancing flames... The life of the party. And the soul. Their breathing seemed to strike their audience like fists, especially hers, a breath like a sprinter’s who had to always change her mind to find her second wind. She seemed a belch that would blow wind in everyone's eyes... In a way, they were clumsy. The fireplace was split level marble off the floor, but that did not seem to bother him as his bones bent under her weight. He was a thing that seemed to mold to the hardness like a jelly until she rolled around on her back squeezing his head with her hands and her thighs, and folding around her legs around him, around him. He followed... yielding. The fire popped behind them, making some lady in the cheap seats shudder and scream. It was no more than background noise. As she screamed a man screamed too, strangely and inexplicably. A few people knew him, people in the corner of no consequence. A businessman or something, important in his own shallow way, and it was a scream of anger. No one knew why. No one cared why. Few even heard or listened, and it did not bother the two performers; an average scream from an average man. His bushy eyebrows coiled down in a snarl, his face turned a deep, deep red and for a moment or two it almost looked like he was going to go over there. But he stopped, and stared that way through the trees of pillared people oblivious to him. Time went on. Time stood still. His sexy grip around her hips began to loosen and you could sense the tension and the wonder in the room. Somebody even moaned as his hand, the left one, plopped down to the floor with a slap of dead weight... exhausted. I don't even think they knew what they were doing. They just did it... whatever "it" was. Bored, I guess... A boredom that took everyone by surprise, all but one. Some of the silent watchers wanted to make her flip around back on top and have a caring sympathy for the stranger. When a woman, any woman, is propped up like that over top and she gets sympathetic, it is the sexiest of things. A caring caress on his cheek with her hand, and a relaxing. Together. Some of the silent watchers wanted to make her stand up, with her smaller than normal naked breasts poking huge nipples out her shirt, and then strip off those hotpants. Then she would stand over top of him, above that man nearly half-asleep and staring at her with eyes so captivated. She would look at everybody in that high class room staring right into their eyes and not give a damn about what they were thinking, not even caring that they were there, just blankly acknowledging their presence and telling them she did not give a fuck about them. Slowly then, she would squat back down and have the sloppiest, most erotic, most pissing fucking meticulously sexy orgasm anybody had ever seen. Some even wondering if he were dead... One lady fainted. Knees. It is all about knees, fainting. I know. In the military once George Bush Senior came to make a speech. He said he wanted lots of blues there so they asked for volunteers. Like a fool I raised my hand and we stood at attention for so long listening to that speech in a grassy field in the hot sun. Then I heard them; I felt them in my feet as their bones hit the ground. I even remember thinking to myself: "How cold are you, Mr. President?" They tell you not to lock your knees, because when you lock your knees you trap the blood and you faint, kerplunk, with a tiny tremor in the grass. One by one they fell. That lady fell; knees locked. Watching amazed? Wishing? Envying that blonde's bravery, and now ecstasy. She could not possibly be embarrassing if she had tried. Her knees locked she stared... she squinted! At how she so lovingly wrapped that vagina bare, naked and slobbery wet around his face in a determination so public... She did not even breathe. It is amazing how long you can go without breathing. And there was a man, a macho man, a man of war, who said: "Oh my God!" In high-pitched whisper under his breath, pretentiously trying to hide his curiosity, unsuccessfully. Another woman seemed to have a wonderful glow on her face. She could not help herself... squeezing herself in, and swaying in a silent, solitary dance. Buttcheeks under proper and luxurious dress bulging and blossoming to be set free. She grabbed her partner by the neck and kissed him on the cheek... a kiss, not a pucker, but a wet one that left spit stringy behind. He did not even notice what she had done. You saw her breath; an icy cold. When it was all done and the orgasms were over wonderfully slow, she stood up, put her hotpants back on, and went to get another drink. She just stared out the window, as if nothing had happened.