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phone over Violetta, whose eyes swept open, saw him, and closed again. Her moans were growing by the moment. It was a matter of time. It always was, with women. "What- Blaise, is that- what are you doing?" "What do you think Im doing, Marcus?" Blaise said, annoyed. "Im doing what youve been hoping to do all night." "I dont know what you mean-" began Marcus in a small voice, but just then Blaise felt Violetta draw up tightly, rippling, her muscles exploding with motion. "Yes," he whispered, leaning into her, bringing it on with every inch of his concentration. "Yes." Her head thrashed on the pillows as she burst into climax, her body almost fighting the acute pleasure, struggling to suppress it- cries rose from her lips, purring wails, and Blaise smiled against the receiver, even as he watched her, rapt with her reaction. Marcus spoke in his ear. "…Blaise…oh my god. Was that- that was- are you? Oh my god." "That-" Blaise said, "was fucking, Marcus." "Youre fucking-" he lowered his voice to a hush, "-youre fucking someone?" "Yes, and Im not done yet- so you can see my problem." "Pauline-" "Exactly. So, Marcus- what do you say? Can you entertain her for me, buddy?" Marcus swallowed. "Yeah, sure- I mean, I wont do anything…" Blaise laughed. "Right, Marcus. Of course you wont." He shook his head. "Do you think I care?" "I dont know…" "Well, I dont. You can slam her, poke her, do her, hump her, bone her, screw her, pork her, pound her- whatever you like to call it. You can stuff her with crudité, its all the same to me." "Blaise?" "You can fuck her, Marcus. If she wants you, then, by all means, go to town." A pause. "Youre not serious." "Serious as a heart attack," said Blaise, coolly. He heard Pauline then, in the background. "Blaise? Is that him?" Slurring, accusatory- oh, yes, the Sea Breezes had clearly blown all her sheets to the wind. He heard Marcus voice then, soft, unintelligible, as he tried to convince her that she didnt want to talk to him, after all. "What the fuck!" Blaise heard her scream. "What do you mean he went home early? An emergency? I just fucking bet- you prick!" She shrieked this last word so that even Violetta heard it and rolled her eyes upward out of the land of post-orgasmic bliss to look suitably curious. Marcus again, soft, soothing. Blaise wondered if he was holding a chair, just in case. He pictured Marcus in a top hat. No. That was no good. After a moment he heard her yelling subside and then her voice, subdued but dripping with bitterness. "Ask him one thing for me, Marcus. Theres just one fucking thing I want to know. What color are his eyes, Marcus? Right now? Ask him." A silence, then she screamed. "Ask him!" "Did you hear that?" Marcus asked him, bewildered. "Christ, Pauline, what the fuck difference does it make-?" Blaise felt his own anger rising, but it was a cold anger. "Marcus," he said, mildly. "Marcus." "Wait-! Yes?" "Tell her theyre a vibrant celadon, Marcus. Can you do that?" "Celadon?" "Celadon," he said, and


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hung up the phone before Pauline could scream. He looked down at Violetta, who still breathed heavily. His cock was hard, still, inside her. Aching. He reached for his wineglass. The darkness outside had descended into sullen midnight. The lights were fewer, the earth more distant. "Sorry," Blaise said, lightly, after a moment. "I had to take that." She laughed very softly, and opened her eyes. "Does she know the code?" "To my floor? Christ, no." He took a drink, smiling wryly. "Do you think theyll- fuck?" she asked, lifting her eyebrows, emphasizing the last word in a way that made his loins creep toward a low boil. "Undoubtedly." Blaise shrugged. "And braid each others hair and talk about boys. Make popcorn. Watch Manimal. Give each other facials. All that shit." Violetta laughed, again. "You dont care." "No," he said, calmly. "I dont." She tilted her head. "Such are the mating habits of the male WASP," she said, sitting up, so that they were face to face. "Its like watching Wild America." Blaise was silent, his eyes on her face. With a smooth motion of his hips, he pulled his cock from inside her. His lips hovered near hers. "Im going to get another glass of wine," he said, softly, and he stood up. He made his way to the kitchen, setting his glass on the black granite countertop and reaching for the bottle. His cock throbbed petulantly, and he acknowledged it with absent strokes of his free hand. He could feel his pulse. When he returned to his bedroom, Violetta was standing at the mirror, examining her face, her smeared make-up. Blaise admired her ass coolly, thinking of how hed fucked her from behind, not twenty minutes ago. He felt a small chill over his shoulders. All the heat in his body had apparently migrated south, to the tropic of cock. Kneeling briefly, Blaise switched on the fireplace, which sprung to instant life- or a reasonable facsimile of life, because it was gas, and therefore convenient- but not organic. Not alive. Real fire was alive, he thought, and his thoughts flickered around the edges as he watched the flames, attuned to their brightness and the burning need in his loins. Fire crackled, it burned. The gas fire was strangely silent, like watching TV with the sound all the way down. Its ceramic logs were more aesthetic than the real thing- a puritanical pyramid of idealized wood, carefully designed to emulate the perfect tinder, impervious to the hottest flame. It was top of the line. Real fires had to be built and fed and tended, so Blaise had not even considered it as an option. A gas fire would thrive in the rarified air of his high-rise apartment. No ashes, no effort- no hassle of wood. It was a self-contained unit, to be used at his pleasure and convenience. And it still fulfilled the basic duties of fire- it was warm, there was heat. Heat, thought Blaise, closing his eyes briefly, in the face of the soundless flames. Violetta laughed, and he opened them again. "I look like a fucking Hollywood zombie," she said, tracing the line of