Blaise- Doppelganger-3000

by Alice Coldbreath

  The Pleasure Palace was everything it had been hyped to be and more he realised grimly as he made his way through the marble lined hallways and up the plushly carpeted stairs. Niche’s in the walls were decorated not with statues, but with sex droids, posing in sheer garments to tastefully display their body perfection.

  “But these are all real droids,” he pointed out frowning as he followed the proprietor.

  Crispus Pomponius looked over his shoulder with a quick smile.

  “Indeed,” he inclined his head. “We house one of the largest and most exclusive collection of sex droids in the empire.”

  “So I’m the only imposter droid in the place?” he asked with an incredulous snort.

  “At this precise moment in time,” the other agreed glibly. “Your name is 320.”

  “What?”

  “320, that is your model no. You’re the three hundred and twentieth Doppelganger-3000 to have graced our halls.”

  “Doppelganger-3000?”

  “The top of the range, most deluxe model. Makes the unattainable attainable. Yada yada and so on and so forth.”

  “The unattainable attainable?” echoed Blaise sourly. “I guess when you’re rich no-one’s out of your reach. Someone says no, you just get a replica built?”

  Pomponius laughed.

  “That’s the theory. In reality… It’s not that simple. That kind of technology doesn’t exist. A bot that could perfectly emulate the real thing in both appearance and behaviour? It would be impossible.”

  “Then…?”

  “It’s a ruse, a scam. Without a willing subject such as yourself, we could never deliver.”

  Blaise paused heavily.

  “So … all the three hundred and nineteen Doppelganger-3000s before me were all fakes too?”

  “Every single one of them.”

  “And they all got away with it?”

  Crispus shrugged.

  “People believe what they want to believe. They pay millions of credits, they suspend their disbelief. They’re expecting good. They’re hoping for believable. None of them are expecting the real deal. Nine times out of ten it’s going to exceed their expectations.”

  Blaise glanced at a female descending the stairs opposite carrying a flagon of wine with exquisite poise. She looked a bit like Talia, the whore from the bar. Both of them had vacant gazes but whereas Talia’s was substance induced he guessed this one was simply a machine.

  “I don’t get how people can suspend their belief that much,” he muttered. “How do they figure you get the gestures, the behaviour right? Let alone the appearance.”

  Crispus shrugged.

  “We tell them all sorts of things,” he admitted. “One of my favourites is that we have access to the city’s CCTV. That we have limitless hours of footage to study for behavioural and speech patterns, profile shots…”

  He trailed off at Blaise’s contemptuous expression.

  “And people fall for that shit?”

  “Oh I can be very persuasive. And you’re forgetting one very important detail.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They want to believe it.”

  He mulled this over as they reached another double door flagged with huge gilded columns. Pomponius glanced into the retinal scanner and the doors slid open.

  “Has it ever crashed and burned?” asked Blaise quietly as they passed through to another foyer of gold and marble. An expression flickered across his face briefly which Blaise couldn’t read.

  “Never on the first meeting” he answered smoothly before halting abruptly before an archway.

  “This way,” he gestured. “After you.”

  Blaise ascended the steps, his footsteps echoing against the high vaulted ceiling. It looked like they were entering a spa bath area. He grimaced.

  “I showered before I left.”

  Crispus gave an absent minded smile.

  “I’m afraid you’ll need rather more polish than you’re used to.”

  Blaise snorted but stripped off when he was told. He was used to fighting near naked in the arena and he’d never been shy. Still, he drew the line at being administered to by the attendants.

  “I wash my own balls,” he muttered crudely. He didn’t care if they were droids.

  “As you wish,” murmured Pomponius, rapping out a series of serial no’s for ungents and perfumes and gods knew what else.

  “We could parting your hair to the right, but it’s so short I doubt she’d notice,” he sighed finally when Blaise stood before a huge mirror dressed only in a pair of tight fitting fawn pants.

  “What the hell for?”

  “I usually try to introduce a jarring note or two so our client doesn’t become suspicious,” he answered with a troubled frown. “We’ll just have to hope your magnificent physique carries it off.”

  Blaise made a low grumbling noise.

  “I’ve never had an all over tan before,” he pointed out scathingly.

  “Well whoever heard of a droid with tan-lines,” Crispus responded bewildered. “I really don’t understand why you took such an exception to it.”

  “A fake tan?” demanded Blaise belligerently. “You’re damn right I took exception.” It was a fucking joke! He sniffed his armpits. They smelt like sandalwood. He had some weird pomaded gunk in his hair. He wasn’t getting paid enough for this shit.

  “How much more of this is there to go?”

  “A mani-pedi and a whitening treatment on your teeth and we’re done,”

  “My teeth?” he growled.

  “Your teeth are perfectly sound,” Pomponius soothed him. “But we need to give you a glossy perfection that will convince Miss Severanius you are synthetic and not flesh and blood.”

  He groaned. He couldn’t believe they got away with pulling this shit on regular basis. “And just how long do these deals usually pan out?”

  “It depends,” Pomponius answered demurely. “Sometimes, the one time is enough. A never-to-be-repeated experience. Other times, two or three trysts are conducted before the arrangement is dissolved.”

  “And how does that work?” asked Blaise sardonically.

  “We tell them the droid is disassembled and melted down.”

  “Nice. Then their guilty little secret is disposed of.”

  Pomponius smiled.

  “People can get overly attached to inanimate objects,” he commented absently.

  Blaise stared at him a moment, perturbed. Did this guy forget which of his whores were real and which weren’t? He gave him the fucking creeps!

  The gods alone knew why he was champing at the bit he thought as he finally stood behind the door, waiting for the signal to enter and service her. It was anticipation, the adrenalin rush before you enter the arena. But this time his performance didn’t involve deadly combat. His lip curled. He cast his mind back to the last time he’d seen Poppaea Severanius. She’d been by her father’s right hand as always. Her face flushed, her eyes downcast. He’d always known of course, that her heart beat a little faster for him. That the master’s daughter blushed in his presence and averted her eyes. But he’d thought part of it was fear. He hadn’t known she was his secret benefactress, but would that have made any difference he wondered? He always had a hard time tamping down his anger, his resentment around Severanius. The bastard owned him which filled him with a cold fury. He hadn’t known he would be dead of a seizure a mere week later. He’d had a dressing down from Severanius that last day for killing his opponent too quickly, too cleanly when he should have dragged it out and put on more of a show for the crowd. He never considered the crowd, the old man had railed at him. Why didn’t he play to them? Blaise had drowned out the furious words, and concentrated instead the spittle that collected at the corner of the old man’s thin lips until that nauseated him and then he tried staring fixedly at a point past his bony right shoulder. He could snap him like a twig he’d thought with cold consideration. The old man was sixty-five if he was a day and spindly. His gaze h
ad swung round to his armed guards a mere feet away. They were armed with lazers. He’d never make it out of there alive. And he didn’t intend to die, not yet. Not by the hand of some hired muscle. He’d rather die in the arena and he didn’t intend to give the audience that satisfaction either. He’d flexed his shoulders and realised another pair of eyes were trained on him. Big violet eyes that looked understanding, sympathetic even. She’d seen his glance at the guards and read what was on his mind he’d thought with a flash of instinct. He’d let his gaze bore into hers a fraction longer than he should have. Sure enough, she’d dropped her own gaze before his. Submissive, so sweetly submissive it made him shiver. Luckily her father had noticed nothing, dismissing him bitterly at last with a promise that his end would be a bloody one. But it had been Severanius that had met his end not much later. Fate was a funny thing he pondered as the door finally slid open and his gaze once more hit upon Poppaea who was stood next to Crispus Pomponius with her hand pressed to her breast. He’d know her anywhere. Two years hadn’t really changed her much. Creamy skin, violet eyes, curly hair worn up. She must be twenty-four, twenty-five now?

  “Oh,” she said softly. “Gods, he looks … real. He looks so real.”

  Crispus took a little smug bow.

  “That is our boast madam. 320, you may approach.” He flicked his hand in a beckoning motion which had Blaise grinding his teeth. He knew his eyes must be flashing with the ready anger he was never able to mask as he prowled forward. She went very pale and then blushed bright red to the roots of her hair turning sharply to Pomponius.

  “The markings!” she whispered in a furious undertone. “Why did you give him those? I specifically told you not to!”

  Pomponius looked stricken.

  “Esteemed patroness,” he faltered. “Have we erred?” He flashed a hand again in the air and the screen opposite glowed to life with a list of her specifications. He clicked his tongue. “Oh dear, oh dear,” he remarked mournfully. “You’re quite right. That was part of your original request. I’m afraid, in our zealousness for authenticity…” he let his words trail off. “Of course, we can have his upper torso replaced but it would cause an additional charge …”

  She drew in her breath.

  “I’m not paying out any more. Especially not for your mistake.”

  Blaise had to bite back his cynical smile at that. Maybe she had inherited some of her old man’s business savvy after all.

  Pomponius looked crestfallen.

  “Our artisans have laboured day and night to bring him to life for you… in all his magnificence.”

  Blaise had to steel himself not to react when Pomponius’ hand rose to touch his shoulder. Though impersonal when his fingers moved to brush against his collarbone, Blaise’s hand flashed up to grip them firmly and push them away. He darted a reluctant glance at Poppaea who was watching wide-eyed.

  Pomponius laughed.

  “You see, even his reactions are authentic. We have his mannerisms to a perfection. All down to our superior programming.”

  She nodded briefly.

  “So I see. Will he-?” she hesitated.

  Pomponius gave her a knowing look.

  “He will not reject your caress my lady,” he said smoothly.

  She coloured slightly.

  “Why don’t you come and see for yourself?” Pomponius suggested lightly.

  “I don’t-“ she swallowed, turning back to Pomponius. “I don’t know if I can go through with this,” she muttered in a low, desperate undertone. “I thought – I didn’t expect-“

  Blaise almost rolled his eyes. Gods, she was bottling out now?

  Pomponius took her hand comfortingly and was speaking in a low soothing voice.

  “He does look very realistic doesn’t he? And he is rather an intimidating specimen. But even so-“ he pulled her forward until she stood directly in front of Blaise. “He has been engineered solely for your pleasure. He has no other purpose but to please you,” he murmured. “There.” He dragged up her hand and placed it palm down on Blaise’s muscular chest. Their gazes snapped together in a clash of violet and steely blue. Blaise found his throat suddenly dry, his cock suddenly twitching with interested. She yanked back her hand as if it had burned giving a nervous laugh.

  “He – wow, he feels real too, doesn’t he?”

  “Indeed he will,” answered Pomponius directly. “Shall I have some refreshment sent in? Wine? Some instructional manuals perhaps?”

  Poppaea’s colour rose at that.

  “Leave now,” growled Blaise suddenly finding his voice. “We can take it from here.”

  Pomponius smirked.

  “As you wish, madam,” he answered glibly, for all the world as if it had been Poppaea who had given the order.

  And she might as well have, thought Blaise idly as the door slid shut behind their host and he slowly circled her as if she were an opponent in the ring. After all, she clearly wanted to be dominated by his big, bad self or she wouldn’t be here now. He let his eyes roam over the lush curves of her body and realised he wouldn’t have a problem rutting her. She was still plump and pretty as a picture. Delectable, soft, Poppaea with her big eyes, long lashes and full pink lips. Made for her pleasure, he almost snorted. Fuck that, she was made for his. He was going to enjoy this he realised, his loins tightening in anticipation. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to pound into pretty Poppaea like a stallion in a stud farm.

  “Strip, then get on the bed,” he told her in a soft, dangerous voice. Her eyes were huge, her breathing shallow. Her gaze was trained purely on him though, like she couldn’t tear it away even as she started unfastening her robes and setting them aside. Yeah, she still wanted him bad, he thought he reached to his side and unfastened his pants. Good. Finally her stupid crush could come to its natural conclusion and then die on the end of his dick. He shucked off his pants in one downward shove, stepping out of them buck naked. His heavy sex was already rising up from his thighs he noticed grudgingly. He glanced over to where Poppaea was now seated on the bed staring at him transfixed. She was down to her last gauzy undergarment now, her shift. She didn’t look so much entranced as terrified. Gods only knew why it was turning him on. Lucky for Miss Severanius he’d never had a problem getting it up. He strutted over to her and shoved on her breastbone sending her back onto the mattress with a squeak.

  “Open your legs,” he growled setting one knee onto the bed between her plump thighs. Seizing her behind her dimpled knees he spread her wide. Her pussy hair was mousey coloured too he noticed with interest, a perfect riot of curls. Clearly she’d never waxed down there, but damn he liked a hairy pussy. You didn’t see many in Constantinopolis .

  “W-wait a minute,” she gasped, one hand shooting out to push against his chest. Strangely enough, her touch hardened him further.

  He narrowed his gaze meanly and glared down at her.

  “What?” His gaze kept returning to the juncture of her thighs. Damn, his mouth was watering. He couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying. It was bullshit anyway. She’d paid big bucks for his cock and lucky her, she was gonna get it. Still, those big violet eyes were beseeching him not to plunge into her dick first like a randy stag and she was the one paying. Instead he shrugged and following a sudden impulse, dropped to his knees lowering his face to her pussy. He inhaled deeply. Fuck, she smelt good. Musky, like a sexy woman. He wanted a taste. She let out a strangled cry when he opened his hot mouth over her nether-lips and started French kissing her pussy. Delicious, he couldn’t help his moan of pleasure as he slid his tongue through her quivering pink flesh. Fuck, he closed his eyes to savour the taste. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bothered to take his time really enjoying a female. He rubbed his nose over her clitoris before sucking it firmly into his mouth. She almost jerked off the bed with a shriek and he had to reach up and grab her hips, pinning her down firmly to the mattress where he wanted her.

  “Keep still,” he growled out against her cunt. “Just lay b
ack and enjoy it.” He could feel her twisting and trying to sit up, but his massive arms were thickly roped with muscle and he held her in place with ease. “Relax,” he breathed out and he started suckling again at her pussy. She gasped, biting back an exclamation as he really went to town. He let out a groan when her juices started to flow onto his tongue. He could feel the exact moment when her struggles changed to something else. When she started to lift her hips to counteract the glide of his tongue. It ramped up his lust even further to feel her trying to fuck his tongue. He growled, sucking her creaming pussy and making shallow stabs into her tight convulsing channel as she came in a series of incoherent cries, gasps and moans. He kept his tongue pressed hard against her clit until the last of her tremors died away. Fuck! He was so hard he could hammer nails with his dick right now. It was definitely his turn, he thought straightening up and wiping his wet mouth against his forearm. It was almost a wrench to leave pussy that tasted that good but he was so hard he hurt.

  “Let’s fuck,” he ground out thickly as he clambered onto the bed. She whimpered as he sank down onto her. Gods, her soft lush body felt good under his. He bit his lip to keep from moaning like a bitch. He was horny as hell. Like a starving man at an all your can eat buffet. He grabbed his dick by the root and rubbed it against her wet pussy. He already knew she’d be a tight fit even before he pressed his fat purple head against her, demanding entrance, pushing in. She screwed her eyes shut and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, stifling her sobs. She shouldn’t be this tight, he realised dimly as he watched her struggle to accept him. A single tear ran down her cheek as he softly swore.