1984

Fuck, Blaise thought, blinded by his raging lust. Listen to her- Christ-

Then it hit him.

With a sensuous clench of her pussy, he felt himself coming, his body wracked with shuddering, slamming pleasure that came like white lightning flashing relentless through his loins.

A deep, growling cry tore from his throat, and she moaned, feeling him, feeling it, even as she came- his cock jerking inside her, along with his fevered pounding, fusing their sensations, molten like steel.

Blaise let his head fall forward, inhaling through parted lips. His breath felt hot, heavy.

Violetta lay sensuously languid between the cold glass and the warm wall of his body, slick with sweat. He ran his hand up her stomach slowly, across her ruined blouse, feeling her breasts through the ripped fabric, his touch idle, lingering, leisurely.

"Did you come?" she asked, after a moment, rolling her head back.

He laughed quietly.

"No, but it was nice just being close."

He felt, rather than saw, her smile.

"So," he said, coolly, "what do you think about me now?"

"You should be dragged off and put to work building houses with President Carter," she said. "All of you."

Blaise's eyebrows skewed into little peaks of vague reaction.

"Carter," he informed her, "is not our President anymore."

"Yes, I know," she drawled. "The proof is in my pussy."

"I think you like it," Blaise murmured against her neck. "I think you want me to prove it again."

Violetta stifled a smile.

"I need a drink," he whispered. "Do you want a glass of wine?"

"I don't like Chardonnay."

"Actually, I drink red."

"Really? How does the pack feel about that?"

"Fine, so long as it it's expensive."

He pushed himself back from the window with a sigh.

The Balenciaga slid slowly back over her hips, falling down around her once more, rumpled and ravished. She made her way to the couch and sat down, as he fastened his zipper and walked to the kitchen.

Blaise glanced at her.

"Your shirt is ruined. Why don't you take it off?"

Violetta watched him indolently from the low black sofa as he filled two balloon glasses.

"It isn't ruined," she said.

He laughed.

"Don't be silly- that thing is shredded."

She smiled.

"It's deconstructionist."

Blaise smirked.

"Yes, I deconstructed it, all right. Don't be ridiculous. I'll buy you a new one. Leave me your address."

Violetta laughed, leaning back.

"If you're modest, here. Take my shirt."

"Modest…" she seemed amused. She pulled off the ripped garment, held it out for his inspection, then let it fall demonstratively on the floor.

Then she did the same with her bra.

"Yes, I'm so very modest. How very modest of me to spread my legs and let you fuck me up against plate glass."

He admired her breasts, calmly, as he handed her a glass.

"Overdressed the entire time, however."

He took a seat across from her and took a sip from his own glass, eyeing her with casual indulgence.

"You managed well enough."

"You're overdressed as we speak."

"Really?"

Blaise nodded, lifting his eyebrows.

"That skirt is black-tie. The dress code for my bedroom is strictly casual."

"What, like chaps and a penis?"

His lip curled in a vague smile.

"Funny- I heard that was your last still-life."

"Yes," she cooed dryly, widening her eyes. "Chaps and a Penis- a watercolor. I think you'd like it- very 'Ralph Lauren' cum 'Tom of Finland.' "

"What about the skirt?"

"No penis under there."

"Excellent," he drawled. "You have nothing to lose but the skirt itself."

Violetta sighed and finessed open the clasp one-handed, wriggling out of the Balenciaga in a flurry of rustling and undulating that did not require her to stand. It slipped over the edge of the couch onto the floor like an amorphous black Slinky, piling on top of itself.

"Satisfied?" she asked, lifting her wineglass and putting it to her lips.

Blaise shook his head as a slow, dark smile flitted over his face.

"Hardly."

"What time is it?" she asked, glancing outside.

"Almost midnight," he replied, leaning back. "Why? Are you going to turn into a princess?"

"Like your Pauline duPries?" She smiled coolly. "I doubt it."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, you know her."

"We're acquainted, yes…" Violetta shrugged. "I don't think it's possible to know the nature of chronic vacancy…"

"So you do know her."

She smiled, at last.

"Yes."

"Are you cold?" Blaise asked suddenly, regarding her naked form- naked, that was, save for the garter belt.

Garter belts were not exactly thermal.

"I was much warmer before."

He picked up his Yves St. Laurent shirt and handed it to her.

She put it on, but left it open, her eyes on his.

"That isn't what I meant," she said, slyly.

Blaise sat back, his lips resting against his hand, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Do you know," he said, facetiously. "I almost thought you meant- me- for a moment…that you were warmer when you were fucking- me. Isn't that ridiculous?"

"Ridiculous," she agreed, her eyes twitching at the ends.

Blaise rose and went to her, pulling the shirt closed and buttoning it, slowly, as she watched his hands.

"I think- you'll be warmer," he intoned, "in my bedroom."

He pointed down the hall.

She paused, as if she would say something, but the phone rang.

"I'll join you in a moment."

Violetta rose, wordlessly and made her way down the hall, giving him a slight smile as she went.

Blaise watched the phone, lighting up with each ring, and poured himself another glass of wine.

Pauline, no doubt. It was nearing Pauline Freak-out Hour.

The machine picked up.

"Blaise? It's Alex. Is...this is fucking stupid, but he's making me ask- is Violetta there?" A pause. "He wouldn't even know her, Maxwell." Alex said, muffled, speaking to someone behind him.

"Listen, Blaise- I know you're there, you're probably just screening- I don't fucking care about that, but I wanted you to know that Marcus took Pauline home tonight." A sigh. "Not that I guess you'd care too much, but- FYI, buddy."

Blaise found himself smiling.

"-Anyway, Maxwell's girlfriend is missing, and he's just having a hissy fit. Thought maybe she left with you- I guess Aubrey saw you talking- wouldn't leave me alone 'til I called you. Kept threatening to- what? Oh, right- immolate himself. So long as he doesn't do it in front of any kids, right, guy?"

Alex laughed, and Blaise recognized the sound- exhausted but amped. Artificial awareness, the interesting after-effects of some upscale Peruvian flake.

"I tried to tell him you hate that whole scene, hate modern art- that the only Cubist you recognize is Rubik-" Alex giggled. "But he wouldn't believe me, so here I am, making him happy- there! Are you happy? Happy! Happy!"

Violetta was Maxwell Cox's girlfriend?

Blaise turned that revelation over in his mind, examining all it's facets.

"I'm an awesome fucking host, man," moaned Alex, through his machine. "Ask Maxwell. No!" he said, aside. "You can't talk to him. He isn't home." A laugh. "Right, Blaise?"

Right, Alex.

"Ok…she's not there, Max, ok? She went bye-bye. All-gone Violetta. Maybe she went home- did you call her place? I mean- Blaise-" Alex burst out laughing. "Blaise likes 'em square, not cubist…"

The boy was cracking himself up.

"The Obsessionists," he gasped. "are people who wear…Calvin Klein-"

He dissolved into spasmodic titters, then-

"-and the Post-Obsessionists, they're people who think it's p-passe," he shrieked, and through his laughter Blaise heard the phone drop, the ensuing scramble, and he suspected Alex was wrestling with Maxwell Cox for custody of the receiver, judging from garbled cries of "No" and "It's mine".

Then the line went dead and the machine clicked off. The red light began to flash. He had a message.

Blaise gathered his glass from the counter and walked away.

Interesting, he thought.

"What was that?" Violetta asked, incredulous, as he entered.

Blaise looked at her, reclined against the padded headboard of his California king, her legs bent like a pin-up model, swaying them lightly from side to side.

"Your boyfriend," he said, mildly, as her mouth opened slowly and then closed again.

"Really," she said. A nice recovery, he thought.

"Yes."

Blaise unfastened his pants and let them fall, gathered them up and draped them over the armoire.

He sat down on the bed, running his hand over her leg.

"Well, actually- it was Alex, on behalf of Mr. Cox- but he was well-represented in the background."

She seemed amused.

"And what did he want?"

Blaise let his hand drift upwards, over her thigh.

"He thinks I'm fucking you."

His hand slipped over her pussy.

"Oh," breathed Violetta. "But he's wrong."

Blaise put down his wineglass and moved over her, as she opened her legs, eyeing him boldly. He pushed his cock into her, slowly, up to the hilt.

"Not anymore," he said, coolly.

Violetta's eyes laughed, but her mouth was occupied with silent moans as she savored his incremental invasion.

He began to fuck her like he knew she needed it- like he needed it, after that first carnal brawl- slowly, with weight behind it, intent.

Blaise was very patient with second comings. He moved in languid circles, filling her, moving, never far outside her cunt, letting the subtler sensations strike him as they came, reveling in the warm grip of her depths.

His passion-wrecked hair fell in attractively disheveled sections.

Paul Mitchell?

Violetta reached up and touched one of these, pulling it through her fingers. Her other hand roamed recklessly over his body- his ass, his back, his chest- and she looked up at him, her eyes unreadable save for the obvious, that his actions pleased her.

"What is this, anyway?" he asked. "Why did you leave him at the party and come here- with me- why am I doing this to you now?"

"And not Pauline?" she moaned, distracted, but it was a point well made, and Blaise considered it briefly.

Then he was listening, not thinking- relishing the sweet little sounds that escaped her open lips. Violetta whispered something that he didn't catch, but he understood her body's request. He increased his force but not his speed, grinding her down, deep into sweet ruin.

The phone rang beside the bed, but he kept going, as he reached for the receiver, riding her pussy with rhythmic devotion.

Her eyes fluttered and threatened to open, but he smoothed them closed with his palm.

"Shhh, no." He said. "This is nothing."

He took a deep breath and lifted the phone, cradling the receiver between his cheek and shoulder.

"Yes?" he said, sounding tired.

A pause.

"Blaise?"

Marcus.

"Yes- what is it?"

"Oh, hey- glad I caught you."

Marcus didn't sound at all glad, but Blaise didn't care all too much in the moment. He gazed down at Violetta's face, completely oblivious to anything but her own pleasure, and waited for Marcus to say something relevant, or even meaningful. Christ.

"Wow, what a night…" Marcus was saying, sounding vaguely uptight. "Great party, huh? Alex always puts on the dog, fucking great, huh?"

"Fucking. Great," echoed Blaise, with a lift of his brows, and smiled as Violetta responded to his words, lifting her hips, breathing softly out.

"Yeah, great party- hey, anyway, where'd you get off to so early?" Marcus said, unsuavely bridging the transition between the faux and real subjects.

"I had something urgent come up," he said wryly.

Marcus was clueless.

"Gotcha. Gotcha." He paused. "Because, well, Pauline was…less than favorable and…since you were gone- I took her back to my place."

A silence, as Blaise leaned over Violetta, kneading her breasts sensuously against his palms. She writhed, cooing, growling.

"Is that ok?" asked Marcus, after a moment. "It's no big deal, I know that- I mean, I wouldn't have bothered you, but Pauline-" he spit out the hated words, trying to sound amiable. "Pauline wanted me to call."

Blaise made a decision.

"Hey, Marcus. Buddy. I need you to help me out." He said, in a low voice.

"Oh…really?" Marcus paused, relieved, then eager. "Yeah. Yeah, definitely, buddy. What do you need?"

"Well- I have a little…situation…on my hands, Marcus. It seems."

He bent forward and flicked his tongue over Violetta's nipple, causing her to buck and clench around him.

"Yes?" Marcus' voice, distant, on the line, drew his attention once more.

"I can't talk to Pauline right now. You know how it is."

"No," said Marcus, sounding irritated. "I don't. Blaise-"

"Listen," Blaise said, and was silent, holding the 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 I'm doing, Marcus?" Blaise said, annoyed. "I'm doing what you've been hoping to do all night."

"I don't 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."

"You're fucking-" he lowered his voice to a hush, "-you're fucking someone?"

"Yes, and I'm 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 won't do anything…"

Blaise laughed.

"Right, Marcus. Of course you won't." He shook his head. "Do you think I care?"

"I don't know…"

"Well, I don't. 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, it's all the same to me."

"Blaise?"

"You can fuck her, Marcus. If she wants you, then, by all means, go to town."

A pause.

"You're 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 didn't 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. There's 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 they're a vibrant celadon, Marcus. Can you do that?"

"Celadon?"

"Celadon," he said, and 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 they'll- 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 other's hair and talk about boys. Make popcorn. Watch 'Manimal'. Give each other facials. All that shit."

Violetta laughed, again.

"You don't care."

"No," he said, calmly. "I don't."

She tilted her head.

"Such are the mating habits of the male WASP," she said, sitting up, so that they were face to face. "It's 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.

"I'm 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 he'd 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 her eye makeup, down her cheeks, beneath the line of her eye. She still faced the mirror.

He rose, got to his feet and walked across the room, sitting down in the huge black leather armchair that faced his bed. It was from Domus, sleek and sublime, suspended artfully on a graphite frame.

Violetta turned, saw him.

"Come here," he said, quietly.

The fire cast shadows over her breasts, her curves, accentuating them, highlighting them, like chrome made flesh, over-realized, like the bold primary strokes of the Liechtenstein.

The bold primal strokes of his cock.

"I should wash my face," she murmured, kneeling down on the carpet before him like a languid house-pet.

"No," Blaise said, abruptly. "Don't."

His hand reached out to cradle the back of her head, and she inclined it against his hand, smiling slyly.

"Did you want something?" she asked, her hand alighting on his thigh.