The director shouted “Action!"
Julie Summers held her breath, her healthy pink nipples peaking beneath the costume negligee, white silk, circa Julius Caesar. She was on a pink marble balcony overlooking the deep blue Mediterranean, the shimmering waters warmed by the noonday sun. Doing her best to keep in character as an ancient Roman matron, she confronted the tower of gladiatorial manhood before her.
He was a blue-eyed Adonis wearing nothing but a leather mini-skirt and a set of prop shackles. With his hands secured behind his back, his well-developed pectorals and washboard abdomen stood out even more prominently. His bronzed skin was moist from tiny droplets of sprayed water trickling enticingly down the V of his torso toward his solid, narrow waist. It was all she could do to keep from licking the artificial sweat dry, dabbing at his smooth muscles with her tiny, greedy tongue.
Things were even more tempting below the waist. The skirt was far too short to hide his muscular thighs and legs. The material was also tight, which meant there was no disguising the outline of his crotch. Suffice it to say that the cock he was hiding in there was very much in proportion to the rest of him. Super size and no doubt super scrumptious.
The director had outdone himself with his casting. A more perfect figure of a modern gladiator could not be found than this Russian. Down to the scars across the man's left breast, four parallel, rake-like lines, the remains of slashes won not in the Coliseum in Rome, but in a Kiev circus, wrestling a full-grown black bear. He had another scar across his left bicep, a deep, jagged groove that only added to the overall mystique of his persona.
Her lips twitched. His name was Grigori and he was too close for comfort. Way too close. Smelling of musk and leather and sea salt. Six foot one inch tall with a body of iron and the face of Michelangelo's David. Thoughtful, confident, sensitive yet indisputably masculine in his features. The ideal man in any woman's dream, complete with long curly hair, black as a raven's wing. A one of a kind chest hairless and smooth, made to be caressed by an adoring female and a dimpled chin and strong, masculine lips made to be kissed, the woman on tiptoes to reach him.
Small, feminine lips, proffered, seeking to please, begging attention. Craving the contact of skin on skin, her flimsy clothing ripped away as she is put in her place beneath him, screaming out in pleasure as he fucks and fucks and fucks, his rock hard wrestler's body swallowing hers, the shaft of him threatening to explode the walls of her poor needy, frustrated pussy, making her cry out for him to stop and also not to stop … never ever to stop.
Oh, god, how much more of this could she take?
I'm a professional, she thought. I'm an actress making a movie, playing the part of a wealthy Roman beauty about to ravish her new slave. This is passion to be turned on and off like a spigot. Manufactured for the camera. Except these swollen nipples of hers were pretty real. And the wetness inside her pussy, the tell tale liquid dripping from between her honeyed lips, that was pretty real, too.
I must really be losing it, she thought. Then again, this was no ordinary movie she making. This was a creation of Giovanni Ambrosiano. The Giovanni Ambrosiano. At age 54, the man was a lean, chiseled, charismatic genius, a god of the industry, universally regarded to be the most brilliant filmmaker in the world, capable of stripping an actor naked to his or her soul with a single glance, a single frown of his sculpted lips.
No one was immune from his power. Producers trembled in his presence, investors opened checkbooks without question, authorities cowered, religious and political alike. He was a living mystery, a walking icon. No one understood Ambrosiano. No one.
This latest venture of his was no exception. A movie consisting of one man, one woman, no script. A day and a half into shooting and they had already changed locations twice and gone through five different time periods for the setting. No matter who they were supposed to be, though, each time they filmed it would boil down to this: The two of them, in front of each other, scantily clad, close enough to lose all personal space but not close enough to kiss or seek relief through any form of touch.
It was a recipe for utter frustration. Julie had never wanted a man like she had Grigori-never wanted to get at a body so much or unlock the mystery of a pair of bottomless eyes like these. Strange and yet not strange. There was pain there, something all too familiar. She had this feeling they would connect in so many ways, though he could not even speak English.
All in all it was sheer torment. He'd been constantly with her, on top of her every moment and she could do nothing, nothing at all for relief. At this point, she could only hope the heavy scent of her arousal was being adequately covered by the various complex odors around them: the brine of the shallow sea, the sweet jasmine of her perfume and the pungent mix of onions, tomatoes and oregano cooking in the kitchen of this latest villa they had rented for filming. Not to mention the strong cologne of all these Italian men working on the shoot.
"Closer,” coached Ambrosiano in his thick, rolling accent, as passion filled as the green and fertile hills over which they'd driven to get here. “Move closer to him. He is your prey. Your newly purchased slave. Let him feel that!"
Julie felt the burning in her belly. How much closer could she get? Erase any more of the distance between them and she'd end up hopping onto the man's cock, locking her legs around his waist, grasping hold of those firm, rounded buttocks, her small, lithe body impaled hopelessly.
Resisting the urge to confront the director and his gaggle of assistants and cameras, she moved forward towards the Russian, just a little, lightly, tentatively, her bare feet sliding over the glazed mosaic tiles, smooth and warm, each a tiny kaleidoscope pattern of red, blue and yellow. Their bellies were nearly touching and hers was full of butterflies. The man was like a rock, a statue, but she could sense the living power in those muscles, too. What if she were to spook him or something? It was like approaching a crouching lion to tug at its mane or modeling a brand new red bikini for a poised bull. The manacles holding him were made of painted wood. He could break them with a tenth of his strength, freeing himself to have what he wanted including her. Not that she would resist. At this particular point in time, Julie Marie Summers, has-been, never-was B actress would lower herself to the priceless balcony floor of this equally priceless fifteenth century Italian villa and offer herself in complete sexual submission. Thighs splayed, hips bucking, back arched, a virtual slave herself, beckoning him to enter her gaping, burning pussy.
What would that sun kissed tile feel like, she wondered, on her bare skin? How different would it be from a bed or couch or anything she'd ever known before? And how would the sex be like, to come with a man like that, a mountain of manhood atop her and filling her?
She wanted it; she needed it, that much she knew. As surely as she knew that her gorgeous gladiator-slave was from the Republic of Dasklovia in the former Soviet Union and that he was unable either to understand or speak more than a few words of English. Certainly it was an odd choice for Ambrosiano to choose such a man as the lead in an English-speaking picture, but one did not question genius. The crew communicated to him by pantomime, while Ambrosiano, who was an inch taller than Grigori at six foot two inches tall, simply clamped a hand on the man's shoulder whenever he wanted to communicate something and used his eyes employing some sort of hypnosis or telepathy.
If Grigori could read minds now he would know that his leading lady was craving some very un-lady like treatment. Maybe she'd do some pantomiming of her own, getting down on her knees and lifting that cute skimpy man skirt to see what was packaged underneath. She was sure he would have a large and beautiful cock. Was it tanned, she wondered, like the rest of him, or would it be a bit more pale? In any case she was sure there would be lovely veins, and a wonderful head and a long, long shaft.
She wanted that shaft in her mouth. It had been ages since she'd felt this horny making a film. Not since she'd had that bit part as a girl kidnapped by a motorcycle gang. At one point the leader had taken her by her long blonde hair and told her she was going to be their plaything and that she had better get used to the idea of being their bitch.
Not being the leading lady at the time (Julie never had managed that feat except in a couple of really, really forgettable pictures) no one came to rescue her. She had a few minutes squirming on screen as they stripped off her clothes and threw her to the floor of their clubhouse and then, as it usually does, the scene had faded just before the really good parts.
Such was Julie's lot, always in the background, never in the limelight. Sure, she could have gone the adult film route with the body she had, but that was a line she'd drawn in the LA sands a long time ago. At age thirty-four, she'd about given up on a real career until Ambrosiano had given her a call out of the blue.
"I have a picture,” he'd said, and there was no need to ask further. When Giovanni Claudio Ambrosiano says he has a picture it's like Elton John telling you he's working on a little ditty. Ambrosiano was film-the whole history of cinema for the last thirty years could be traced in one way or another to this man's innovations. He'd been a recluse for years, though, which made it all the more strange he would resurface now, wanting to produce what for all intents and purposes was shaping up to be a campy gladiator/slave story using none too significant actors.
But Julie wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. As for Ambrosiano's strange moods and even stranger filming habits, she would take that in stride. Anything to realize her dream of being a star. This was her final shot and she knew it. A thirty four year old blonde bit actress had no future in Hollywood; she was living on borrowed time, natural breasts and hair color not withstanding.
"Where is the intensity?” cried Ambrosiano, sounding more and more like an disgruntled fan at a Manchester United soccer match with each utterance. “I want my intensity!"
Julie turned looked over her shoulder in defeat, breaking the action. “Signor Ambrosiano, with all due respect, I am just not grasping this scene. Perhaps if we used some dialogue?"
"How dare you stop?” The man challenged. “Continue the scene, at once. Slap him and find your intensity."
"Sir?” Had Julie heard him correctly?
Ambrosiano rose to his feet imperiously. He was an excellent specimen for his age, his perfectly oval face angular and wrinkle free. The director was one of those men who would only ever get sexier as he got older. Everything about him was intriguing. He wore a black silk shirt, sleeves rolled up, half unbuttoned. His hair was a lion's mane, stark white, unbound, hanging to the middle of his back, the line of recession barely noticeable. He had piercing black eyes like an owl's or a hawk's and the nose of an ancient philosopher or sorcerer.
It was the mouth that most transfixed, however. You could not help but hang on its every motion, the complexity of its pursed lips-lips that had directed, dominated and seduced every top star of the last thirty years, male and female alike.
"Slap him,” repeated those fearsome lips, the order given as though there were no other possible action in the world that could be taken at this moment. “Draw your hand across the face of the slave. Teach him the power of the mistress."
Julie swallowed. Surely this was not in the contract. Surely there was some way out of this.
"But … what if he thinks I am attacking him?” she asked reasonably.
The Great Ambrosiano raised his eyes to the heavens, invoking something in his native Italian from his ancestors. He was on the move now, long purposeful strides in his black silk trousers, pleated and his hand-made loafers, part of a special line out of Milan reserved just for him.
"Step back,” he said to his leading lady. Then to the Dasklovian, whose shoulder he was now clutching in his fine, bony hand, he said, “Watch, Grigori … molto bene."
Julie gasped audibly as the director leaned in with savage intent and struck the man with the palm of his hand. The wrestler's head was rotated slightly by the blow, but he remained expressionless.
"Now,” Ambrosiano nodded deadpan to the five foot three, one hundred and ten pound actress. “Your turn."
Julie looked at the hapless Dasklovian. Three months ago he'd been tossing bears and bending bars of iron for the Kiev Circus. Probably had a girlfriend back there and a nice ancient mother in a kerchief who wept with joy when he told her he was going to be a movie star. And here he was half naked in silly wooden shackles about to be slapped by a down-on-her-luck American actress whose great claim to fame was being the Wink Girl for Wink Detergent.
"I don't think I can do it, Signor Ambrosiano. I'm sorry."
Ambrosiano tore at the roots of his hair, an unprecedented display of raw feeling in the man. There was a commotion back inside the house and at once two of his assistants rushed in with hand-held cameras, focusing on either profile of the man, capturing every nuance of the director's frustration.
"And so it continues,” narrated the one pseudo director, pole thin and dressed in black turtleneck and black jeans. “From dust to dust. To rain, to prune, to prepare … Piovare, potare, preparare…"
"Piovare, potare, preparare,” repeated the other solemnly in his tank top and shorts.
Julie sighed. Roughly translated they were saying “To rain, to be able, to prepare.” What sense did that make? This was how it went, every time a shoot went bad-the two would rush in chattering as they started filming Ambrosiano's reaction to his own movie making.
"Ho dimenticato,” decried the Great Master, dramatically stretching his arms out over the edge of the balcony. “I have forgotten."
The two assistants turned off their cameras and dropped to one knee, sharing in what seemed to be a ‘moment.'
Julie was about to ask if they could take five for a cigarette when the director whirled back to face her on the radius a dime-or whatever passed for dimes over here. This time his eyes looked like the sea, swept by an ancient storm.
"Kiss,” he pronounced, as though this were the solution not only to the current difficulties in filming but to those of existence as a whole. “You must kiss him."
Julie sucked in her lower lip, puffy and tingling. As aroused as she was, an on camera lip lock in front of a dozen cologne soaked witnesses named Guido really was not the best idea. “Is slapping him still an option, Signor Ambrosiano?"
Unless you want this odd little piece of cinematography to have an X rating, that is…
"No,” he roared, “the moment is passed … everything has shifted, like the plates beneath the earth. Kiss, now!"
To her utter and complete astonishment, it was the statue Grigori who made the first move, taking his leading lady in his arms, leaning down to plant his lips. He plastered their bodies, decisively but without coercion, the remains of his faux shackles lying in bits and splinters at their feet. Before her mind could think to resist, her body was right there, meeting him point for point, her curves fitted to his angles, every gaping space of her, desperate for filling.
Oh, fuck.
He did have a monster cock under that skirt and right now it was at half-mast, aimed point blank at the apex of her thighs, the rough leather making a mockery of the damp silk covdring and the even damper lips beneath. What else was she supposed to do but lift herself off her heels, driving her pussy against him, plowing her nipples suicide style into those yummy pecs, her arms draping suggestively over his shoulders?
Did she say suggestively? Hell, she might as well be taking out a personal ad in Il Giornale in Rome: Semi famous blonde American actress seeking to have pussy filled, apply within.
Grigori's kiss was surprisingly gentle and artful for a man of such sheer bulk. There was a tragic element to it, a romance that seemed born of some great suffering. And yet there was no mistaking his ability to keep and hold the lead. No gender bending here. She was the woman and quite happy to be so: spoiled, embraced, aroused.
The smallest of moans escaped her fully encompassed mouth as the fingers of his hands splayed themselves, like fans covering most of the territory of her chilled back. He did not want her exposed. He was protecting her. This, too, was an instinct in him, just as was the drive that was no doubt wanting to push that pulsing, turgid shaft all the way up inside her to her womb.
Julie let her fingers curl in his hair. It was ages since she'd felt so hot and ready for a man, but at the time so playful and expressive. Instinctively, she knew she could be herself, as silly, as randy and coquettish as she liked, assured that he would keep their activities on track. There was no question where it must go, either.
As for having this audience, that was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, she felt ever so wicked, being primed for love making in front of the world's greatest director and his entourage. The perfect audience, to evaluate and record and appreciate the performance. At the same time, she yearned to be alone with this man, to explore in private whatever it was had happened between them on this movie set-correction, whatever was happening.
Julie wanted his hands on her ass. She needed that snugness, that feeling of being claimed by the big, strong brute with the heart of the teddy bear. Using a single hand, shameless, she reached behind her back to show him in universal me-so-horny language exactly what the score was.
Ambrosiano was less jazzed by the scene. “Enough!” He cried. “No more! No good. It is no good."
The men with the cameras bowed and backed off. New assistants rushed in. One had a glass of wine for the director, another brought a black cape to sling over his shoulders.
Ambrosiano, long ago dubbed as the Maestro for his role as a teaching director, refused all placation. “It is finished,” he announced, all trace of emotion gone from his voice. “I have failed. The picture is ruined. I will never direct again."
Shit, thought Julie, now who's going to pay my plane fare home?
* * * *
Grigori Alexey Romanin ached with pain as the yellow haired female pulled away from him. He had needed her, wanted her as no other and now she was being denied him. Her scent, her sex, her soft curves, he had desired the whole of her, to conquer her world and be conquered by it. One kiss and he was captivated.
But the director had called out something in his native Italian. They were all moving. The filming was being stopped again. Grigori tried to understand what was going on with the maker of motion pictures, the exquisitely beautiful white haired man who was so full of wisdom and who had kissed him once after a show in Krakow, giving him a feeling not unlike what he had now. Indescribable, beyond arousal.
The Director was in mortal pain-Grigori saw this, he felt it. Not the sort of pain he might feel in his tawny, smooth body, but a pain in his heart.
They had displeased him somehow. He and the lovely yellow haired woman both. They were not giving Ambrosiano what he needed. Not enough from their own hearts and out of their own lust. Grigori had thought he'd known lust before meeting this man whom he now called the White Lion. But he had been as a mere virgin then, without experience.
Yes, Grigori had taken his share of the women who had thrown themselves at him all his adult life. This one here, this one whose name sounded like Julya, was no exception. She was the rule. One look at his god given physique and females had always melted. The approach they took to his cock alone approached the sort of religious worship that under the old order of the communists would have been considered illegal.
As a member of the Traveling Circus Extravaganza of Sergei Leontov, he had been treated to such worship frequently, and often by two or even three girls at a time. Gymnasts and pretty dancers who would kneel at his feet fighting for the chance to taste him. Grigori was greatly flattered and aroused as well. He enjoyed women, desired them above all things. They were curvy and soft, marvels of creation, their eye pleasing bodies responding so miraculously to male attentions. How could he ever grow tired of chewing a nipple to waken it from slumber, hardening the sleepy, languid bud into a firm ripe grape? Or a pussy-his fingers beckoning the beautiful, intricate flowers to gush open, creating the moisture necessary to take a man's cock between her legs.
None of them would ever be like Katyana, though. She was the first and the best. They had been together the summer before he went off to the army. They were from the same village. He was nineteen and she was twenty. She lived with her uncle, a successful farmer. They'd been very much in love, the kind of love that comes at first sight, and only when one is very young. Cultivated, it can last forever. Neglected, it sows only the seeds of life long regret.
Losing himself to her that very first night, drowning in the fragrance of her dark hair, the scent of her ripened pussy had been the greatest experience of his life. They had made love on the grass, behind her house, under the light of the moon, wolves howling in the distance. Her body was pure and glowing. A hunger filled him that he knew could be satisfied only in her. She met him stroke for stroke, bite and kiss, tug and pull. They moaned and sighed and came and came.
Many more women had followed, but there was none to take her place. He could have, should have done more to keep Katyana, but inside himself was always a voice to say he did not deserve so great a love. Had he not lost his own mother, also dark haired and beautiful, when he was five? And his sister after that? Was this not his path of suffering as the old priest Mikhail, with his foot long gray beard had told him?
Thus had he ignored Katyana's letters and her calls to him at the military camp, and when he'd seen her at the cafe, encountering her by accident while at home on leave the next winter, he had pretended not to know her, breaking both their hearts forever. It was a pain he had pushed deep down and used only for his battles against Sergei's black bears and against the Uzbeks he hired to fight him in the ring.
Never had he dreamed another would see that pain, much less interpret something in it no one else had ever known, not even himself. It was The White Lion who had accomplished this, coming to him that fateful night, after the show in Krakow, approaching him in the dressing room, scented of spice, dressed in white. The man had given to him two things: the kiss and a note which he could translate inviting him to make this movie.
Grigori was naked at the time of the kiss, having just toweled himself dry after a shower. The White Lion made his cock so hard it hurt and more than anything he had wanted to go to his knees and serve, taking the man into his mouth in devotion and obedience. It was as if he were the woman, the pleasure object. Ambrosiano refused, leaving him with a smile-and the invitation.
It was the honor of a lifetime, any lifetime, but Grigori had ruined that opportunity, squandered it with his own petty weakness. He had been brittle as wood in his performances for the cameras, no more alive than the fetters attached to his flesh. If only he had been stronger, if only he had the vision to see behind the director's eyes. Then he would know how to act for him.
The slap in the face had been a taste of it, a crisp, bracing reminder of what was possible. Pain to focus on. Male to male pain. With this twisting sting came pleasure, too. Grigori had never considered himself homosexual and yet the White Lion had made him erect with a single touch of his lips that fateful night. The contact had awakened a curiosity. Grigori, to his amazement had actually wondered for the first time in his life what it might be like to love a man. To give himself fully for even a night. What would Ambrosiano do to him? Would he take him from behind, making him give up his asshole to a hard throbbing dick? There was no greater shame in his culture and yet thoughts and images had been running through his mind ever since.
Forbidden scenarios. Ambrosiano allowing him to swallow his semen, to kiss and lick his body, himself groveling and begging to be taken, like a woman. Or being made love to by the man himself, being sucked and loved.
In large part it was the desire to pursue those hidden urges that had led him here, though he would admit this to no one. How tragic, then, that it was all to end now, before he'd had a chance to really look into the depths of his own soul and its myriad possibilities.
Was there a chance, still, to turn things around? He thought maybe yes, though it was a slim one. Ripping the skirt from his body, he revealed the living staff so often sought and speculated upon by his audiences. It was large and thick by any standards. Especially when it was erect, as it was now. With a beefy fist he grasped it, just as he did on those infrequent occasions when he could find no woman to satisfy his pleasure.
Looking to the White Lion he called out his sorrow in his native tongue, unabashedly asking what to do, how to use this cock of his to please. The director pointed in turn to the woman, to the sexy, flaxen haired American with the pure, smooth body and the dancing green eyes.
A single word escaped the director's lips in reply. Grigori did not know it. The music of the man's language was a mystery to him, just as the robust tones of Grigori's own tongue were unknown to him. For the former soldier, wrestler and performer, however, just twenty-five years old, there was in the word a clear meaning to be found, nonetheless. Intuited really.
Redemption. The White Lion was giving him a chance to redeem himself, and the woman, too. Did he intend to film it? Grigori did not know, but he would take the female and the cameras would record the act or not as the man wished. She was light as a feather, born to be scooped up into the arms of a strong man. Her exclamations of surprise only added to her charm. It was good to free himself like this, to allow himself to act upon what his loins had wanted the first moment he had laid eyes upon her in halter-top and cut off jeans what seemed like months ago now.
The firmness of her flesh as she squirmed against him pleased Grigori very much. She kept her body well toned, better than many women his own age. It would be a pleasure to penetrate her, to breathe her in and wrap himself fully in her energy and humor. She was a woman who smiled much, and often at herself, which was a good thing.
He would give her much to smile about soon himself; all he had to do was find a nice big bed somewhere. Preferably one with posts and some rope.
* * * *
"Put me down!” Cried the barefoot, barely decent Julie. Had the Dasklovian gone crazy-first stripping himself naked and then lifting her up like some kind of caveman? Granted, she'd been fantasizing along these lines herself, but this was reality. There were people watching. Professional movie people who did not want to see a woman swept off her feet, literally, by a bare assed man with a mammoth cock.
Stars and planets-they were on the move now. Where was he taking her?
"Ambrosiano,” she cried out, forgetting the signore business, “tell him to put me down."
"I don't direct films in Dasklovian,” said the sullen director, sounding like Pilate washing his hands of all responsibility.
"Help, somebody!” She cried out as he carried her down the hall, still wriggling quite ineffectually against a wall of muscle. “I'm going to be raped!"
It was hyperbole, of course, given her high level of sexual heat and desire for the man, but still, she did not wish to appear overly easy. Otherwise, she would find herself fending off advances from the director's staff, which made such a specialty of undressing her with their eyes she felt like she was wasting everyone's time even bothering with clothes.
The entourage, having been appealed to directly, turned to Ambrosiano for guidance.
"Sheep,” he dismissed with utter contempt. “What use have I for a roomful of sheep? Go-do as you wish. Watch for all I care; beg for a turn yourselves.
Julie cringed. He did not just say that…
Unfortunately, there was no time to react. Julie's heart did a flip as Grigori found what he'd been looking for. A nearby room with a large canopy bed, intricately carved, the wood dark and heavy. He threw her down on the blood red bedspread, her behind bouncing nicely.
"This … wrong,” she said, as if leaving out the verb would somehow make it easier for him to understand. “Me,” she touched her breast. “No … available."
And yet she was available, as evidenced by what it did to her anatomy just to say the word. Available and willing, too. There was no but herself to blame for this predicament. She'd sent her signals out, and look where it had ended her up. Painted into a corner. About to be made to put her money where her kissing mouth had gotten her.
And what woman in her right mind would argue? This Dasklovian wrestler would put a Greek god to shame with his chiseled body of pure muscle and his square, noble jaw and chin line. Everything about him only added to the look, the aesthetics. His nudity, his mammoth erection; all this spoke to his manly naturalness, while the scars said he was a fighter, too, not a mere dreamer.
"Vrastoya,” he said, looming above her. She scooted back on the bed, desperate to avoid his slightest touch. If he fucked her now, there would be no professional rapport between them and the picture would be all but ruined. And the door was open, too, which meant that at any moment Ambrosiano could come in or any of the people he'd invited to watch her being ravished.
"Grigori, be reasonable…"
Grigori was on a wavelength all his own. Seizing the neck of the negligee, he shredded it, exposing her completely. “Vrastoya,” he repeated.
Julie was panting, naked for real now. Whatever vrastoya meant it was not an invitation to play backgammon.
Damn it, why was he still looking at her like he wanted her to do something? Was she supposed to rub her tits, call him big boy, suck him off or what?
"I don't know any vrastoya,” she insisted. “And I haven't got my pocket translator handy, so why don't we-"
Grigori released a low growl, indicating mild frustration. Removing the shreds of the garment, handling her just as nicely as a poseable doll, he put her arms over her head and gathered them together, using the remains of the silk.
Two knots later and Julie was in bondage, her wrists secured.
"Vrastoya,” he proclaimed decisively, positioning her ankles as widely apart as they were designed to go.
Well, that was one mystery solved, she thought dryly. Vrastoya meant ‘let's get it on’ or maybe ‘prepare for penetration by your hung-like-a-horse lover.'
She'd certainly had worse invitations. This man had not only the body but lips and a tongue; she knew that much already. Not that she much cared for peripherals given that cock of his. Speaking of which, she wanted it now. Bucking her hips, she tried to speed along the inevitable, inviting him to try her out, dipstick style.
Grigori rewarded her with a stinging slap to her hip. “Vrastoya,” he said.
Interesting. So this vrastoya business was more than sex, it was about the man being in charge. Julie creamed in immediate recognition. The man had put her in her place. She would await him-his moves, his pleasure. With pure adoration and pure lust on her face she regarded him. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Grigori."
Her heart was pounding. She'd played with ropes before and had had boyfriends tie her for mutual pleasure, but this was different. This was dominance, the male taking power and control, just like in the animal kingdom. It was new, very new, but she wanted to see it through.
Laying himself along side of her, Grigori went to work. He began with her nipples, clamping each in turn between his pearl white teeth. With one hand he held her wrists while the other strayed down her belly, tracing maddening lines over the taut, concave surface. She arched her back, moaning in anticipation.
He was going to play with her pussy. Oh, yes, he was going to part those complex, throbbing lips and give her the taunting and the teasing … and the fulfillment she needed.
"Please,” she hissed, dragging the word out into several syllables. “Touch me."
He made her kiss him first. She did all the work this time, pressing and twisting her lips, begging him to take her open mouth, to plunder it and subdue her tongue. It was meant to further reduce her, to make her vrastoya, conquerable, completely and inarguably ready to be a man's sex toy.
Expertly, his fingers slid into place. With the tiniest of motions, he had Julie writhing. Just a few seconds, clenching on his knuckle, just a minute to rub her clit against him and she would be there … over the brink experiencing what already promised to be one of the best orgasms she'd ever had in her life.
"Need … to … come…” She exclaimed.
The wrestler turned actor denied her. Kissing her cheek, softly but with diabolic intent, he brought her back down. Her body, covered in sweat, continued to spasm, seeking the needed stimulation for climax. Waiting till her breathing had slowed enough, he began the process again, nibbling at her breasts and reawakening her yearning pussy.
This time he had only to press down on her hooded clit for a second to push her instantly to the brink.
"Grigori, please,” she wept as he held her back yet again. “I can't handle anymore."
Grigori placed his come-soaked finger to her lips. “Vrastoya,” he rasped, employing what now appeared to be the all-purpose sex word in his language.
"Vrastoya,” she replied, delicately kissing the tip of his finger. She found the taste of herself to be pungent, but not unpleasant. Dabbing with her tongue, she licked at the tip of it, meekly, but also passionately. No lover had ever made her do this before. Then again, no one had ever brought her to the point where she'd sell her soul for a chance to climax.
Popping it in her mouth, Julie went to work. She'd show him vrastoya. Thirsty mouth, thirsty pussy, a little blonde dynamo who'd knocked a few socks off in her day, thank you very much. Cooperative, perky Julie. Cheerleader Julie who'd been there in the back seat of her boyfriend's car, the night of her eighteenth birthday to give it up.
And before that, in all innocence as a child. All her life, enchanting the men around her. Make them love you, Julie. Don't get your white dress dirty and keep your ribbons straight. A thousand strokes a day to your flaxen hair, make mama proud. Papa's watching, always, from his cockpit in the sky, gleaming white teeth, spotless uniform of blue. Salute him Julie and marry one just as good.
Such a long way from Ashview, Iowa to Hollywood and from there to here, a rented villa under the aegis of Ambrosiano and his doomed film. What an ending to the journey. Begging a muscleman for sex, hoping someone will buy her broke ass a plane ticket somewhere, a town, anywhere with a diner she could wait tables at, shaking it for the truckers and collecting on those hefty thirty percent tips.
Grigori took hold of her left breast in his hand. “Joo-lya,” he called her name, with such feeling she wanted to melt completely into his eyes. “Vrastoya girta."
Did this mean what she thought it did? Could it have something to do with the “L” word?
His motions between her legs had changed. He was no longer teasing but settling his hand in place for the duration. She began to shudder against him at once. There would be no holding back, no maintenance of lady-like dignity. She would be taking her orgasm hard and fast.
"Oh, fuck,” she exclaimed through clenched teeth. “Oh, Grigori, fucking fuck!"
Grigori held her down, applying just enough pressure to counter the explosions within. She thrust herself against him, against his hand cupping her breast and his other hand, working her sex. Never had she felt so yet completely possessed and yet the man's cock was still inside her.
How a bear wrestler learned to make a female come like this she had no clue, but she was not about to complain. In all he gave her three orgasms, back to back, no let up, no mercy. Each was larger than the last, concentric rings, cataclysms of such magnitude she would never have been able to endure them-or manufacture them alone.
They were like cyclones, imploding, tearing apart the walls of her reality, blowing everything wide open with animal intensity. Compared to this, every other encounter in her life had been child's play.
"Grigori, take me,” she cried when she'd found her voice again. “Give it to me with that great big cock-fuck me silly, do you hear? Shove it into me till I can't see straight."
She wasn't sure if the man had understood her or not, but he was shifting his position all of a sudden, climbing astride her. She felt woozy at the sight of him, kneeling between her legs, slowly stroking, running his hand up and down the length of his incredible erection. He paid special attention to the vein underneath, ridged and bluish purple. She'd only ever known one other man with a cock this size. It had been a joke of nature in that case, a complete waste on a five foot five inch, flabby body, but it had gotten him some pretty good gigs as a leading man in the adult film industry.
On Grigori, on the other hand, a dick like this was just right. Exactly in proportion for his larger than life body and persona. He seemed enraptured touching himself like this. Indeed, if she had a body like that she would spend all day masturbating in a mirror. Then again, if she had a body like that she'd probably be out chasing women, not admiring her self.
Truly, he was so big that even his own hand took time running the length of it. For a split second she wondered about being able to fit him. Too late now, though. She was in this for the distance. There was no way he was going to budge till he'd finished himself off.
Uh oh. His eyes had slid shut. He wasn't going to come like this, was he? She wanted that load inside her pussy, not all over her stomach. “Grigori, wake up,” she complained, though he wasn't exactly asleep.
The eyes reopened, brown, full of sudden sadness, echoing things centuries old. It was like this with every European man she'd ever been with, even the seemingly non-intellectual ones like Grigori. Their gazes instantly intent, mature beyond the dreams of most Americans males, their faces full of expression, most of it unreadable.
From her experience it was a fleeting thing. Best to strike while the iron was hot, that was the best advice in a situation like this.
"Fuck me,” she said unabashedly, her one-time cheerleader's belly rippling enticingly. “Make me take that bad boy … every inch."
He clenched his teeth, releasing a breath. The tip of his cock breached the petal-shaped gateway. It was a slow, sweet slipping, a descent, down and dirty … Julie loved this part, getting to know a new cock, showing it the ropes, making it feel at home. She always felt so alive, so needed, so female and fun with a cock planted inside her. There were times, when she was with some certain special man on a regular basis, that she'd wished she could take their shafts with her everywhere she went, greedily squeezing on them all day long, coming around their velvet coated rods as many times as she liked.
But this one, this shaft wasn't something a woman claimed … it was something that claimed her. Inch by inch, driving from her mind every other thought, every other possibility and reality except for the fucking. This perfect, male body, coming closer and closer, set to fuse, to ignite with hers in that most ancient of dances.
The woman on her back on the quilted red bedspread, forever, hands tied together in soft silk, ankles spread by command, forced into wanton complicity and compliance. Begging release upon a foreign shore, waves lulling her from the nearby window, beams of afternoon sun splaying the parquet floor, the ancient, tapestry covered walls awakening things, teaching things.
It was here, in this mood, this setting, that Grigori found virgin depths to plumb. Her-Julie Summers, jaded would-be bombshell-was being made fresh again, only to be immediately had in a brand new way.
"So … sweet,” she slurred, her body drunk with desire, the right words, the really good ones, eluding her. “Don't … stop."
Grigori didn't. He wanted and achieved the full immersion of his straining, long-suffering cock. She was proud and awed to take him so completely like this; was he suitably impressed and pleased with his tiny American doll woman? Bound and spread and kissed to utter blonde vapidity? Clenching tiny fists, Julie awaited the inevitable partial withdrawal. The fucking was about to start, for real. She could feel it in his heartbeat. She could see it in the straining sinews at his neck.
"Ju-lya…” said her hero, the gladiator-slave turned conqueror.
She said his name in reply as he began his thrusts, slow and measured, disciplined. Her slick channel grabbed at him, trying to entice him to more friction. She had speed limits in here-why wasn't he breaking them? Julie could feel the frustration building again, the liquid pouring out of her, the natural lubricant for the pistoning she was needing and not yet receiving.
He wasn't going to tease her all over again was he?
"Come inside me,” she cried, arching her back and wrapping her legs to lock him in place. “Do it, just the way you want to. Show me … I'm your woman."
Julie had no idea why she'd just said such a thing. Even if he couldn't understand a word of it, she had no wish to be this or any man's woman. She wanted to get her rocks off again, say thank you to Signor Ambrosiano, for what was a most unforgettable, if not technically a good time, and then be on her way.
Grigori must have picked up the gist of her plea. Rearing back his head, he slammed himself hard, pelvis to pelvis.
'That's it, you mother fucking bear fighter! Do it to me! Make me howl!” Julie's speech came in short stabs of breath as she held to him for dear life. The man was like a machine, pulverizing, pounding the daylights out of her. The springs of the bed were crying for mercy and she was half afraid he would fuck her straight through the floor.
She swore at him, calling every name she could think to. In turn she promised to be everything dirty and wicked for him. “Make me your whore … fucking own me,” she challenged.
He clamped down on her tit like indeed it was his private property. This was all it took to push her over the edge. “Coming … for you,” she panted. “My … wild beast."
Grigori's sad haunted eyes slid back in his head. The croaking sound from his throat sounded like half pleasure, half death rattle.
"Fill me up, baby,” she implored. “Pump me full of your hot come."
His orgasm was like a firestorm, wasting everything in its path. His skin was hot to the touch. He was like a man twisting and agonizing in the desert, cracked open from the heat of the sun. And yet within, like a water cactus, flowed the stuff of life. His precious semen.
"Piovare…” she heard. “Potare. Preparare."
Another voice repeated the words as a tight beam of camera light shone on Grigori's ass. It was Ambrosiano and his ridiculous assistants, filming their sex act.
"Signore,” she protested to the tall, white haired man standing over them, frowning, arms folded. “This is an outrage."
The director frowned, folding his arms. “I direct no more. This is life; control it yourselves."
In the background his two secretaries and a visiting professor from Bologna broke out into applause. “Bravo,” they cheered the mini manifesto. “Bravo."
This fawning only seemed to irritate the man. “Grigori!” He thundered. “Leave the woman be!"
The Dasklovian was just now collapsing upon the breast of Julie, his hair fanning about her face, the musky scent of him filling her nostrils, making her want a second go around already.
"Grigori!” He said again. “Have you understood a word I've said?"
"Of course he hasn't,” Julie protested, stunned at the man's sudden lapse of reason. “He can't speak English anymore than he can Italian."
Ambrosiano snorted. “We are born to speak and understand every language. That is the legacy of Babel.” Snapping his fingers he called for something in Italian.
Julie tensed as one of the secretaries, a small dark haired beauty in a tight leather skirt and red turtleneck, produced for the Maestro a rattan cane, some three feet in length. Twice he whistled it through the air in practice. Seeing the man's intent, Julie squealed for Grigori to protect himself.
It was too late. The device was on Grigori's ass like a heat seeking missile. Ambrosiano must have hit him full strength, but the man barely budged. Three more times the cane's punishing blows were delivered, and still he made no effort to protect himself. In fact, the stoic wrestler had actually put himself on all fours above her to give the man better access.
"Ambrosiano, leave him alone, you sadistic bastard!"
"The woman speaks,” the director reviled. “Always, everything in the world comes down to the centrality of the woman. Thus are we damned at birth.” Ambrosiano tapped the hip of the well-beaten Grigori. “Off,” he said imperiously.
"Get up,” she pushed at Grigori's chest. “Don't let yourself be hurt anymore."
Grigori stood, reluctantly.
"Behold the man,” said the mad director, outlining the welts with the tip of the cane. “L'uomo ecco."
"You're a prick,” Julie told the Maestro.
Ambrosiano laughed darkly, as if the irony were too great to bear. “Now you have intensity…"
"Yes,” she agreed, having nothing to lose. “I do. You want to see a little more of my female intensity? Hear, film this."
Julie lifted her hips and blew a kiss to the cameramen. “I'm sure this will be at least as interesting as what you have so far.” Opening her pussy lips wide she said, “Come on, boys, you don't want to miss this, do you? Greatest show on earth."
Julie masturbated for them now, using the fingers of her left hand to hit the sweet spot, the tiny head of her clitoris, which up till Grigori no one but herself had managed to work so expertly. She felt wanton and wicked, knowing she was turning these men on-and probably pissing off Ambrosiano, too.
That was the best part. The man had it coming for what he'd done to Grigori, whipping him like a slave in front of all these others. Why had the man endured it? Even more incredibly, why had there been a light in Grigori's eyes, an intensity she'd not seen even in the height of sex? Was the Dasklovian a masochist? Ambrosiano was probably taking advantage of the fact, but he'd not get the better of her that way. She'd out shame him, outrage him, and out last him.
"You're not filming, Signore. Why not?"
Ambrosiano snapped his fingers. “Leave us,” he said to his entourage.
"You don't frighten me,” she announced when the others were gone. To the extent this was true, it was because Grigori had stayed where he was beside her bed.
"No, but you frighten yourself. Tonight,” he informed her. “You will be punished."
"Punished? For what?” She laughed, attempting to hide the butterflies in her stomach behind her derision.
Giovanni turned away from his leading lady, hand frozen mid stroke, no longer playing with herself. “That is what you will have to tell me, my dear."
"I'm not playing your games,” she said. “In fact, I insist you drive me to the airport at once."
Ambrosiano left, ignoring her.
"I mean it,” she cried. “I am not staying here-I'm going back to LA where at least I know what kind of weirdos I'm dealing with."
"Jul-ya,” said Grigori, sinking to one knee beside the bed, shocking her yet again with his passionate attentions to her person. “Doan…"
Doan? What on earth could that mean?
"Doan … tuh…"
"Don't,” she exclaimed. “You said don't."
"Doan-tuh,” he nodded somberly. “Doantuh go."
Her belly clenched. He was asking her to stay-presumably with him. But had he any clue what he was letting himself in for really? Did he know her any better than Ambrosiano? The whole situation was a disaster waiting to happen.
"Grigori, the picture has been called off.” She ran the edges of her hand across her neck trying to symbolize something dead in the water. “No more. Our job here … done."
He took the hand she'd just been illustrating her point with and put it to his lips. “Vrastoya girta, Julya."
This time it wasn't overpowering sex he wanted, though she almost could have wished it were, given the discomfort she felt at having her hand kissed.
"You don't fight fair,” she told him. “You know that?"
His grin washed away her fears, not to mention making her toes curl. This in turn made her think of Ambrasiano's pronouncement concerning punishment. It was going to be a long night, she thought. Long indeed.