Parties in Congress by Colette Moody

but I guess that just wouldn’t pack the same wallop, huh? No pun intended with the word ‘pack.’” She took another sip of her drink and prayed for tipsiness.
    “It’s a tearjerker,” Flayme explained.
    “Sounds like it could be if you’re not relaxed enough, yeah.”
    “This may come off like a line, but your flippancy and indifference really turn me on.”
    Bijal propped her chin on her fist. “Something tells me that if I kicked you in the back of the head, that might turn you on too.”
    “Baby, you can read me like a book.”
    “A book with the word ‘fist’ in the title?”
    Flayme gave what Bijal assumed was her best come-hither look. “I won’t lie. I like to get a little freaky.”
    “Quite frankly, I’m shocked,” Bijal replied sarcastically.
    “Hold on for a moment.” Flayme walked back over to the opposite side of the bar and returned with a small cardboard box full of paperbacks. She grabbed a copy and handed it to Bijal. “This is for you, sweetie. I want to do pages seventy-three to seventy-five with you.” She winked brazenly.
    Bijal was caught somewhere between horrified and curious. She had to admit, this was at least a new approach. She took the book, which had a rather angry-looking fist on the cover bursting violently through a pink papier-mâché heart, and opened it to page seventy-three. “Wow…which one of us brings the bowling pin?”
    “I have one.” Flayme sounded smug.
    “I had a sneaking feeling that you just might. My God! Is this part about the cantaloupe even possible?”
    “Would you like to find out?”
    “You know, I’d have to say that by design the vagina is plenty sticky on its own without shoving various fruits up there.”
    “Hear, hear,” came a voice from behind her.
    Bijal turned to see who agreed with her and gasped when none other then Colleen O’Bannon pulled up the bar stool to her right. She was instantly overcome with nausea.
    “Hi, Bijal,” Colleen said with a smile.
    “Fuck,” Bijal breathed, the lone syllable protracted for several seconds in her nervousness. “Is it possible for us to ever meet under respectable circumstances?”
    “Ooh, Bijal ,” Flayme repeated. “That’s a great name. Mind if I use it?”
    “I think I might, yes.”
    Flayme’s sexual interest in Bijal seemed to utterly dissolve at that very instant, and her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized both Colleen and Bijal—perhaps trying to deduce the nature of their relationship. She extended her hand across the corner of the bar to Colleen. “Hi, I’m—”
    “Flayme Coverdale,” Colleen said, shaking her hand enthusiastically. “You wrote Leaving the Handprint of Love: Spanking Stories for Very Naughty Girls .”
    Bijal stared, catatonic—unable to move anything except her eyelids.
    “Always nice to meet a fan,” Flayme said through an alabaster grin. “Would you like an autographed book?”
    “I’d love one,” Colleen replied.
    Flayme snatched back the book she’d given Bijal and picked up a pen, which she clicked with great flourish. “Who am I making this out to?”
    Colleen began spelling it for her. “S-p-y-x-i-e. It’s pronounced ‘spicy.’ Spyxie Sugarbottom.”
    “That’s a very sexy name,” Flayme said as she scrawled feverishly across the cover page.
    Bijal was still agog. “Wow, naughty, spicy, and sexy.”
    “I have many layers,” Colleen said, with the slightest hint of a smirk.
    A group of four women walked in, clutching books to their chests and looking very eager. It was apparent they were here for Flayme.
    Bijal glanced back to Colleen, noting how her appearance had changed now that she was wearing more casual clothes. In faded low-rise jeans, a crisp purple blouse, and a buttery-soft-looking leather jacket, she was absolutely stunning.
    “Here you go, Ms. Sugarbottom,” Flayme said, handing over the paperback but not releasing it right away.
    “Thanks. What do I owe you?” Colleen asked.
    “Nothing, sweetheart, but I