Fire

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.