Grigori continued to stroke Julie's hair until she'd fallen into a deep sleep. He was still on one knee beside the bed, occupying the place he'd taken up to implore her to stay. He'd known she intended to leave by the tone of her voice in speaking to the White Lion and also by her mention of Ellay, the American city in which she lived. He knew that her departure would break the heart of the White Lion and also his own, for she was the key to the making of the movie-and also a source of great light and life for him.
Beautiful and energetic, youthful and powerful-in many ways, younger and stronger than him, paradoxical as that sounded. For she was a female born of that shining country, that mystical place which the whole world feared and yet sought to be like. The USA.
Grigori had never made to a woman like this American. Never had he felt so much passion, so much expression. She made him hungry. She awoke his senses. Where he had come from, what he had seen, in the loss of his mother and sister and in the tragic civil war of his country, had nearly made him lose hope. Only in the circus had he seen color anymore, only there had he had any feelings of lust-and even then it had taken two or three women at a time to kindle.
So this was what The White Lion's eyes had hinted at in Krakow. This woman and all her possibilities. But there was much more besides. And Grigori needed now to begin to understand some of those things. He would have to if he were going to help in this situation, if he were to use his strength to bear the burden of making this moving picture.
To do this he would have to gaze into the Maestro's eyes again. Which in turn implied leaving Julie for the time being to find him. This was hard, but necessary. For only the White Lion would understand. He would know what Grigori needed and he would give it to him.
Unabashedly, he walked naked from the room, his cock swinging, the mutual nectar of their lovemaking long since dried upon it. Even now he could take Julie again, but he must attend first to this mission. Perhaps later there would be more time to be with her. He wanted that time. To love her one time more, two times, many times. In fact, he was wondering at this point that he would ever be able to get enough of her silky soft depths, so perfectly made to receive his throbbing erection. Or if he would ever tire of the taste of her breasts, salty sweet, the nipples fresh as youth, or the tiny laugh she made when he tickled her belly or how her eyes spoke so many things to him-protest and wonder and want and the most amazing and beguiling trust as they made love.
It was like Katyana, except Julya was in no way dark. Not in her hair or in her spirit. Could it be she was not doomed by the same curses that haunted his people? And could that in turn mean that a love between them might stand some chance of survival? Oddly enough, he did not automatically rule it out. Undeserving as he himself might be, there were occasions upon which fate gave gifts, not to be refused.
The church back home was evidence of this. Mikhail's world. Golden alters and sweet incense, sloping vaulted arches, decorated with pain staking detail, and the windows, the glass colored by heaven itself, so that the sunlight poured in pure and rich as a rainbow. The gifts of God. Like the Savior's birth.
By the saints, Grigori thought, could this woman be his salvation, just as Jesus was the salvation of Mikhail?
The White Lion was nowhere to be found in the house. Emerging from the rear of the villa, he spotted him on the beach. Up to his knees in the licking tide, still fully dressed, sea foam clinging to his trouser legs, his arms outstretched as if in an offering to the heavens. Giovanni's hair flew in the breeze, creating its own waves, white as cotton. The black silk shirt, puffed with air, billowed like a sail. Grigori had in mind the image of some pagan deity, a god of human tragedy, perhaps, or maybe the man god Prometheus, cursed by the Olympians for his gift of fire to man.
For this act he was punished by Zeus, chained to a rock where an eagle would come each day and pick at his liver for all eternity. Grigori felt strange stirrings in his belly as he thought of that exquisite broken torso, the classical images he'd seen in the museums he had sought out on every occasion in his life, much to the ridicule of those around him. He could not help, however, his appreciation of beauty. Classical beauty. And classical tragedy.
Never had Grigori felt so compelled to go to a man, to ease his pain as he did at this moment. All thoughts of his own plight vanishing from his mind, he thought only of the tortured White Lion. He knew he could never hope to understand whatever deep things troubled the director much less remedy them, but if he could at least offer to give something simple, a pleasure that eluded him, that would be enough. What would the Director want of him, though? The thought made Grigori's heart pound in his naked breast. At once his cock grew stiff again, just as much as it had with fair Julie.
Only now the shoe was on the other foot. With her he had been overwhelmed with the desire to enforce her vrastoya, her capitulation. But here, with this charismatic filmmaker, he was flirting with the notion of surrendering himself. There was something secret about this desire, something forbidden which lent it a primal power.
He touched himself for confirmation. Yes, the shiver down his spine told him, yes, said the sweet surging of unseen fluids, you must go forward with this, you must go to this man and do as he tells you. You must obey, Grigori, you must obey.
The White Lion, tall, lean and scarecrow-like in his expensive clothes, did not acknowledge his approach until he was almost on top of the man.
"Grigori,” he pronounced the wrestler's name, his back still turned.
It came across as command and definition and promise all at once. The Dasklovian, robbed of all strength, fell to his knees. The water came up to his hips, swirling, churning, sun warmed. It was a bath, a ritual purifying. His erect, upwardly curving cock delighted in the wetness, bobbing just at the surface.
"I am here, Teacher,” he said to the man in his beloved Dasklovian, the one and only language he had ever spoken. “Though I come in sin. May the saints forgive. I am thick with lust. I yearn to please you … as would a female."
The Director said something else as he turned to face him, arms still outstretched. It was a declaration of some sort, matched by an intense expression unlike anything Grigori had yet seen on the man's face. He could not bear to look upon him-that stern brow, those dark eyes. He had not earned the right. Not yet. Falling instead to all fours, resisting the overwhelming urge to touch and stroke himself, Grigori began to crawl, closing the distance between them.
The sea responded to his wading presence with playful slaps at his dependent breasts, stinging lightly his engorged nipples as he moved. Turgid water swallowed his belly, mid way up to his back. Drawing a full breath, he immersed his head for a quick dunk, soaking the long black curls, kissing the salty brine with lips still swollen from Julie's love.
The water stung his eyes, bracing, awakening. His lips burned with unmet need. It was time to meet his fate-whatever fate the Director would decide. He was only the actor, making himself available.
"I am yours,” he professed. “Teacher … Master."
The second word had come unbidden. It was a Dasklovian sex word, one used by the men of leather, some of whom in the circus had sought to recruit him for their games. They'd held no appeal for him, those underground relationships-one above another with a whip, enforcing the crawling and the sucking and other things, too, dark twisting penetration, male to male.
And yet here he was, speaking the word of self-bondage to a man he hardly knew. Grigori trembled as the White Lion put his hand on top of his head. He was patting him, stroking him, like a treasured pet. The touch gave energy, but it burned, too, like raw electricity.
"Master,” he said more firmly, cementing the Director's place in his world.
The White Lion snapped his fingers and Grigori knew to rise back up to his knees, his cock throbbing at the implications; it was his first act of obedience, instinctive and highly sexual.
An enormous erection tented the pants of the Italian, and at this level it was nearly poking out Grigori's eye. Had the Director not moved his slender hands to the zipper, the Dasklovian might well have torn them with his teeth, so anxious was he to get at the flesh contained within. Deep excitement and trepidation filled Grigori's belly as the zipper disengaged, sliding down to the bottom; it was a heady mix sharp and hot, like vodka, and many times more potent. He was hungry, hungrier than he'd ever felt in his life. It was like seeking a favorite food, and yet the taste was to be entirely new.
"I wish only to please you,” said he to this man whose understanding of things bridged all language gaps. “I wish to be fucked hard, in my mouth, and to swallow your come."
The director's cock was thinner than his own, though still quite long. He unfolded it from out of his trousers, carefully, with both hands. He wore no underwear, which simplified the matter. Touching upon it like a flute, the Lion began to make himself hard. He used both hands in a way so delicate and artistic that it could hardly be called masturbation.
And yet the results of his work were standard enough. Tight, full balls and a wickedly pointed organ. It's going to happen, thought Grigori, I am going to take a man's erection in my mouth.
Grigori rose back up to his knees, soaking wet, hair dripping, feeling every bit the part of expectant slave. “Yes, Master, make it hard for me, let me have it … I will take it, all of it."
That single word from before kept running through his mind-the one he'd imagined The Director had used earlier when he'd pointed for him to take Julie. Redemption. A process begun in bed with his co-starring actress and culminating here.
"Use my mouth, Master…” He yearned to play with himself, but did not feel it was right. “You understand me, I know you do. You know how to make me suffer as I need."
Grigori waited till the man was fully extended and then opened his lips. To begin with, he simply puckered, pressing them to the tip of the uncircumcised shaft. It was an offertory kiss, to break the ice.
To his amazement, there was already a drop of pre come at the tiny opening when he pulled back his head. Quickly he dabbed his tongue at the precious gift before the sun or surf could claim it. It was a tiny, teasing taste. Grigori wanted more. He wanted a full load of it, the director's emission, pumping into his mouth and splashing against the back of his throat.
Wrapping his lips more firmly, he slid them forward, enveloping the shaft. It felt so good. Grigori's own cock throbbed in response. Wagging his tongue now, he rubbed the sandpaper surface of it against the ridged underside of the Director's pale white shaft. As a reward, the Dasklovian received a squeeze to his shoulders as the Director's hands came to rest on their muscular smoothness.
Yes, he thought. Enjoy the feel of me. Make use of me. My skin and tongue, and ultimately my belly, into which I will swallow your pulsing seed. Grigori pushed his palms against the Lion's still clothed ass, just firmly enough to draw him further in. He'd had enough blowjobs himself in his day to know what felt good and he was quite confident he could give the man one of the best he'd ever had.
It was difficult at first not to gag, but he quickly found the discipline. The cock was surprisingly smooth in his mouth, like a rod of steel wrapped in velvet. There was no mistaking it was a living thing, either, pulsing with life. His heart swelled as the director seized at his hair, fisting the sea soaked curls. The man grunted his approval as he used his newfound grip to increase the speed.
Grigori was being face fucked. An astonishing novelty for one such as himself. The only thing lacking now was the taste of a climax.
"Si,” roared the Teacher. “Si, si … bene … molto bene."
Even the Dasklovian knew these words. It was good for him. He liked it. Encouraged he sucked in his breath, taking his Master to the back of his throat, applying maximum suction, he felt the man begin to spasm.
"Madonna mia,” he sing-songed.
Grigori clamped his vibrating ass cheeks. The come squirted, warm and thick as he'd hoped. He took it all, swallowing like a slave. A slave made for pleasure. The Director pumped himself for several long seconds, using his mouth as he would a woman's sex. Overwhelmed by the sensations, Grigori took hold of his own cock. He needed to come himself, though he did not know how he would achieve this. For the moment he must suck and suck, till told to stop.
"Bello ragazzo mio,” the Director crooned at last, pulling his rapidly flagging organ from Grigori's mouth. “My beautiful boy."
This sounded like praise. Unbidden he pressed his cheek to the outside of the Teacher's leg. “Thank you, Master."
It was then he saw Julie in the background, her hair glistening in the late afternoon sun. She was up on the beach, in a sundress, barefoot, just looking at them. She seemed to be paralyzed in place, shocked, probably by what she was viewing.
Rising to his feet, forgetting for the moment his white haired lover, Grigori called out her name. Hearing it seemed to jar her back to reality. At once she began to run, away from the beach and away from he and the Director.
"Julya!” He shouted in misery. “Stop!"
"No,” the White Lion told him to stay.
"I am sorry,” he said, his heart torn in two. “Forgive me. I must go … I have no choice."
The Director's face darkened, threatening storms. But still he went. Because he knew that if he did not, he would lose his Julya. Forever.
* * * *
Julie did not stop running, not even once she'd reached the sculpted gardens. It was the labyrinth she sought. A perfect hiding place, wall upon living wall, green and thick and impermeable. She would make her way to the very center, taking one corner after another till she'd lost track of the escape route. How fitting, she thought, because her life, too, was a maze right now, a puzzle with no solution. A mystery wrapped in an enigma inside a riddle as some old politician had once said.
At first she'd not believed what her eyes had seen on the beach. Ambrosiano, standing in the surf, fully clothed and Grigori nude, his head bobbing at crotch level, obviously making an afternoon snack of the man's cock. The Maestro's reputation as an equal opportunity seducer aside, she'd assumed Grigori to be about as ruggedly heterosexual as they came.
Then again what did she know of the man, really? Except that he was apparently fond of fucking people, anybody, anywhere, anytime. Julie tore around the corners of the maze, her bare feet slipping here and there on the grass. She was nude under her dress, just a simple, lazy thing she'd thrown on as she went to find Grigori. Julie never did like waking up after sex alone. Up to now having her lovers run off like that was at the top of her post-coital pet peeves list.
She had a new one now-namely waking up and finding your lover downstairs blowing the director of the film you're working on in plain view of the entire household staff, not to mention the entire Mediterranean Sea.
"Julya,” she heard him calling her.
Damn it, he was following her.
"Leave me alone, Grigori!” She yelled over her shoulder.
After a while, she stopped hearing him. Maybe she'd given him the slip, she thought hopefully.
"Vrastoya,” he proclaimed, emerging ahead of her around the next corner.
Julie screeched, skidding to a halt. “Don't do that, you big oaf! You almost gave me a heart attack. And if you think I'm doing any more vrastoying for you after that little performance I saw on the beach,” she pointed her finger. “You can just forget it."
"No, Julya,” he shook his head solemnly. “Grigori … vrastroya."
She cocked her head. What did the man have up his sleeve this time?
"Vrastoya,” the wet, dark haired Adonis fell to his knees before her.
Julie took a step backward, but not fast enough to avoid his lips pressing to her foot. “That really isn't necessary,” she said, though admittedly it felt rather nice. “You don't owe me anything. If you really must, you can buy me some flowers."
The Dasklovian licked at her toes. “That tickles,” she protested.
He was doing more than tickling, though. He was sending little jolts of pleasure up the back of her leg to her suddenly reawakening pussy. As usual, her loins were making her see things differently and coming into immediate conflict with her head. Okay, so maybe now that she thought about it, it had been a little bit arousing to see two men getting it on, especially two strong and powerful ones like Grigori and Giovanni, but that did not mean anything more was going to happen between her and the wrestler.
"Get up, Grigori, this is silly."
The man's placating lips had moved to her other foot. His firm, muscular ass wiggled deliciously as he worked. The corded muscles of his back indicated the sincerity of his effort. It was an intoxicating sight. A body capable of tumbling a bear so fully dedicated to pleasing her tiny person.
"Just go back to Ambrosiano,” she kept up her obligatory protest, though with slightly less vehemence.
She shuddered as he reached her kneecaps, administering strategic little kisses. He wasn't stopping there, either. He was climbing to his knees, sliding his palms up under the hem of her dress.
"Grigori!” She squealed too late. “Absolutely not."
This was a very bad time to be without underwear. At least if you were trying to keep yourself from being sexually pleasured. Sliding both hands around, he cupped her ass cheeks under the dress. She thought about how he'd spanked her, and that made her lose a good deal of her will to resist. His tongue found her all too open, and alas, all too ready for intimate invasion.
She tried pounding on his shoulder blades, then grabbing at his hair, but she realized she was only encouraging him to go deeper, sinking his tongue even more deliciously into her dripping slit. “Oh … god, Grigori, you have no idea what you're letting us in for. Go now, if you have half a brain in your head."
But it wasn't a matter of brains-just lust. That and the fact he couldn't follow a word she was saying. The pressure continued to build in her as he worked over her poor pussy. Once again he showed himself to be a clit magnet, this time using the sandpaper top of his tongue to expose and swell it just like a tiny cock. They weren't kidding, the experts who said the clitoris was like some kind of genetic equivalent to that larger male organ. If they had any doubts, they could call on this man and his skills to prove it.
"All right, damn it, you asked for it.” Julie wriggled herself free, but only so she could put herself on all fours on the ground. “Fuck me from behind. Oh, please, pretty please,” she muttered half to herself. “Figure this out…"
As it turned out flipping up her dress and holding open her pussy lips was a universal Fuck Me sign. The Dasklovian seemed to have no trouble at all interpreting that she wanted him stuffed inside her, his huge body mounting hers like a stallion on top of a mare.
"Oh, my fucking god,” she clawed at the earth as he pushed that monster dick into place. “How am I supposed to go back to regular after all this super size?"
"Julya,” he replied. “Vrastoya. Gristass tenrish meyoornika."
"You said it, brother. Just don't stop…"
The primeval smell of the grass and the dirt and the flowers filled her nostrils, making her feel like Eve the morning after being kicked out of Eden. She dug at the moist earth, rutting and thrusting, pushing herself upward to an almost unbelievable spiral of sensations. It was like her whole body would burst open from the taking of him. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She could chant the word a hundred times through gritted teeth, and she could whimper it, too, because she was just out of her mind. It just couldn't be fast enough right now. She wanted more.
"Give it to me, yes … I've never had it … like this … like starting all over,” she gasped, the words coming in short blasts between labored breaths.
It really was like starting over, too. Innocent barefoot Julie, sweet Miss Harvest Time back in Ashview, eighteen again, feeling it all for the first time, a huge dick inside her … inside her. With each thrust, her vaginal muscles clenched, trying to make it worth his while and hers, trying to keep pace.
Her tunnel was awash in sex. The scent of it filled the air, the liquid trickling down her inner thighs. So many emotions as their flesh melded, his hand pressing her back, his balls slapping against her. She hated that he might share this intimacy with another, least of all a man, with whom she had no hope whatsoever of competing. She wanted him to herself; then again she wanted to be free of him, free of this place. It was getting too complicated.
Grigori reached for her tits, cupping them in his large hands. They ached with the pleasure and the pressure.
"Yes,” she groaned, stretching the words to multiple syllables. “Oh … yes."
Greedily his teeth went to her earlobe, hot breath pouring into her ear as he nibbled possessively. She turned her head towards him, encouragingly and he moved to her neck, pantomiming the bite of a vampire.
"Going to … come,” she cried, wishing she knew the word in Dasklovian.
Grigori ceased his thrusts without warning. Settling himself in deep, his cock sunk to the hilt, he began to spill himself. She spasmed around him. It was an entirely different kind of orgasm, breathtaking, exquisite and in slow motion. The man had so much semen; where did it all come from? Twice he'd filled her now and he seemed to have lost nothing on the second go around. Dare she expect a third?
Julie fell to her stomach, pressing her cheek to the grass. The world below her had a heartbeat, and it was slow and good. Grigori pulled his shaft from her, a slow, lazy withdrawal of so much flesh. She felt the loss of it, as she had the first time. His shape and size were so distinctive, she doubted she would ever forget its contours. Or what it did to her insides.
He did not immediately cover her over with her dress. Instead, he treated her to a fresh tongue bathing, licking out both her come and his. It was a cool, breezy come down, the perfect post-coital activity. He was continuing to show his earlier devotion, taking the time to kiss her pussy and various places on her buttocks, as well. As a finishing touch, he licked the surface of both globes.
"If you're trying to get back in my good graces,” she purred. “It's working like a charm."
* * * *
Giovanni fell to his knees after the Dasklovian left. To his knees in the sand because of the simple act of charity, the pure surrender to him of his Dasklovian blank slate, his unwritten script, his as yet unfilmed mystery. Down the throat he'd drunk the wisdom of the elder man-following ways more ancient than both of them.
Tears of salt did he shed, salt to return to the salt of the sea. No man knows for what he cries. At least not if he thinks hard and truly on the matter. All grief is interchangeable and commingled in the end in the mighty seas of change. The seas once sailed by the likes of Odysseus and Achilles.
And this sea before them, this Lago Romano once ringed on every side by garrisons and legions loyal to an emperor-what of it? And his film, indeed all his films together, what did they matter in the scheme of things?
There was only one thing left now. And that was lust. Yes, he'd chosen well his protagonists. One had come to him already and soon the other would follow. So, too, had they been with each other. A film about lust, that is what he would make. Lust and punishment and the stripping away of inhibitions. For this he would have to make love slaves of them both-to him and to one another.
Kneeling and crawling and begging.
Fulfilling the vision. Writhing bodies. An orgy for three, worthy of Caligula himself. Giovanni smiled-or rather watched himself smiling as he rose. This, too, was cine … film. All of life was one lens, viewed through another, light refracted back upon itself, creator, creation, image, imagination, imaginer, all one thing. Above all they would have to learn this, his actors. Hercules, of the fabled feats, wrestler of bears and fair-haired Aphrodite. Succulent young things, to restore the vitality of an old man. Ambrosiano, madman, genius, and now vampire.
Five wives had done little to slake that passion. Nor had the hundreds of lovers who'd graced his silken sheets, dryads and satyrs taken from Rio to Monte Carlo, from Rome to Riyadh. He'd learned from all of them, though the wisest was Lucia. She had been wife number one and also four. The darling of the Italian cinema, beloved for decades, she had only grown more beautiful with age. And more deadly.
The secrets to her charms were the moods that ruled her. One moment light and gay, the next, furious and vengeful. Never had he known a more generous heart, capable of appreciating every form of beauty, or a more treacherous one. She had carried him through storms, nurtured and loved him and given orgasms that would make a man want to slit his own wrists afterwards, so as not to have to feel the terrifying let down from such a height.
When she grabbed your hand, with a twinkle in her eye, her smile fixed perfectly, brows dancing, you could forget your normal life and all the troubles and worries. You were in the care of a goddess. But deities are notoriously fickle, and eventually a man is dropped, left dangling on a string.
Had he not divorced her, once, and then again, there is no telling what would have happened. They could not live with one another. And yet there had been no life for them apart either.
In one of the final interviews she gave, shortly before the fatal skiing accident she had told a panting cub reporter, nearly young enough to be a grandson, “I have never truly acted, never taken directions, never simply memorized lines. What I have done really is to mold myself, to submit to a director, to become what he wishes, the vessel of his whims, the captive of his imagination, his utter and complete slave."
Once, on the set of a movie in the Amazon, they had made love for an entire night in the rain, whole waterfalls of the stuff pouring upon them as they struggled and slipped and grappled from position to position, assuming every possible sexual connection known to man. Dark haired, and shapely, with perfect breasts on her small frame and perfectly shaded aureoles, she was like some native princess, or a slick, wet panther.
The next morning, far from being tired, he had more energy than he'd ever had in his life. In a flash at sunrise he'd reconceived the entire picture and by noon had moved it in an entirely new direction, one infinitely better than before. The brilliance of his insight was clear to everyone except Lucia. For some reason, she became more sullen as the day wore on. No empty vessel of devotion this day, Lucia Sorentano played the part of a pouting, clawing fury. Things escalated till finally, shortly before lunch, she stormed off the set after receiving a bamboo splinter by accident during filming. Demolishing her dressing room, she ordered a helicopter to fly in and carry her back to her villa in the Alps.
He had tried to follow after her in vain, beseeching her return. There was no one else on earth he had ever begged like that. Not the pope, not the president of the Italian Republic. Only Lucia. In some ways, Julie was her re-incarnation. Apparently no one else had seen the potential in the blonde American for Academy Award performances. Nor had they managed to probe deep enough to touch on her temper. He'd seen glimpses of that fiery spirit so far, and whether she knew it or not, she was the Maestro's match. She had said no to him once today and she would do so again. Eventually, she would learn her power and then she would fly the coop forever.
The Dasklovian, in turn, represented Giovanni himself, many years ago. Ambrosiano had never wrestled a bear or a tag team of angry Uzbeks, but he had hoisted crates nearly his own weight at the seaport of Livorno as a dockworker. So, too he had worked nearly every job on a movie set before getting his big directing break when he was barely twenty. It was an unprecedented opportunity at such a low age, but the man who'd mentored him and given him the job was himself a legend in his day and considered unquestionable in his decisions. Ambrosiano had never looked back, and he suspected this young wrestler was the same.
It was all in the eyes, a hunger, a restlessness. This Dasklovian would never be fully at home on this earth. He was a thinker, a dreamer, a stranger, the power of his mind so perfectly camouflaged behind so many muscles. It was this essential feeling of disenfranchisement, of utter disconnection, that was the hallmark of a great director. For the director must let go, setting sail on the imaginations of others, entirely free of all moorings, able to stake a tent anywhere, marking his place in the unknown. And hopefully leaving behind him a road map for others to follow.
At the moment, there was no map. He was flying blind. It would be the actors who would flesh out the contours, provide the landscape. And in order to accomplish this, they would have to learn to serve him. Emotionally.
And sexually.
"Frederica!” He called for his assistant from the door of the house. “We will have dinner tonight … the two actors and I. You will inform the cook. The finest wine is to be served."
Dark haired, olive-eyed Frederica asked if he had a preference as to the type. She had been with him since she was eighteen. He had found her working at a cafe in Rome and offered her a chance to star in a movie. It was her body he wanted and over the next ten months he uncoiled a magnificent seduction that kept her tending to him with baited breath. What he lacked in sheer virility these days he made up for in charm, as well as knowledge of female anatomy.
She had wept and pleaded for him not to end their liaison, but he had grown bored and besides she needed to find someone her own age to build a life. While she never had prove to be any good as an actress, he'd let her stay on as an assistant, a job she performed exquisitely.
"I leave the choice to you, my dear,” he said to the Mona Lisa beauty, now engaged to a struggling design student in Bologna. “Whatever you think would be best for purposes of seduction."
Her lips curled thoughtfully. Like any good Italian, she would pick something from her own region. “Chianti,” recommended the native of Pisa.
Giovanni took her hand for a kiss. It was not bragging to say that he could feel her melt at his touch. “An excellent choice, my love."
A dry, subtle red wine, reaped from the harvests of rolling Tuscany. Each sip fraught with joy and lust … and sweet, sweet torment.
An excellent choice, indeed, he thought. For what he had in mind.
To begin with he would find his two stars, eliciting from them their agreements to dine with him. It would be a command performance, their finest to date. And a celebration, to boot, an inauguration of the reincarnated film. The biggest and best of his career. So big that when he was done with it the masses would come to him, begging to have him redo sunsets and realign rainbows in accord with its design.
As for Julie and Grigori, they would beg for something more personal-namely the chance to serve him with their beauty all their days. The question was whether he would really and truly take them up on the offer.
The film, he decided. The film would give the answer.
* * * *
Grigori was sitting cross-legged beside his Julya. She was naked now, lying on her back on the green grass. Her gold spun hair was arrayed about her perfect oval face like a halo and her lips looked full and passion quenched. They had not yet left the natural maze of shrubbery, but were as yet employing its high walls as a barrier against any intrusions the world might offer to their intimacy.
At the moment they were attempting to get to know one another better through the learning of each other's languages. Never good at such studies, Grigori had decided to begin with an area close to his heart.
The parts of the female anatomy.
Thus would he touch one place after another, each time producing a soft, mewling response.
"Knee cap,” she sighed as he traced a line around the joint between upper and lower leg.
Grigori repeated back the strange new words, as he had been all along, then had her say the equivalent in his own mother tongue. This accomplished, he moved to a new body part. They had it down to a science, except that he was intentionally working his way ever closer to the more intimate parts. This could be regarded as teasing, but he excused it as being for educational purposes.
Moving to her torso, he settled his index finger on the lovely indentation that marked the scar of the lost umbilical cord. In his language, the belly of a woman was called literally a “love saucer” because in ancient times a man would pour wine over her as she lay on her back, then lick her smooth skin, and in particular the tiny droplets left in the tiny button as a symbol of his prosperity and health.
He attempted to explain all this, even using his own tongue to illustrate, but the move only succeeded in arousing her, making her want to interrupt this exercise in favor of another.
"No,” he chastised, delivering a light slap to her hip as she reached for his shaft.
The woman's pretty green eyes lit in response. He could almost see her nipples swelling. She enjoyed when he was firm with her. When he set limits and enforced them with mild correction. Grigori tried to imagine her with the leather lovers he had known. She would be a submissive, one of those who served on their knees, naked, taking the orders from the people with the whips.
Would she call a man master? His cock swelled at the idea. Julya was watching this, too, almost panting at the sight of him, nearly ready … again.
He decided to treat himself to a new body part.
She arched her back as he took hold of the tiny cherry on top of her fresh, white mound. “Nipple,” she exhaled, offering her English word. “Nip-ple."
"Neeppul.” Grigori manipulated the nub, enjoying the effect it had on the female. Women were simple in this way, though he supposed men were, too, when pressured in the right places.
She was saying something, a string of words, featuring one he already knew. Fuck. So the blonde wanted to be penetrated. She certainly wasn't capable of putting up much resistance against him, was she?
"No fuck,” he twisted the nipple to settle her down and refocus her on the lessons. “Seesisya,” he indicated the tiny nub she'd called a neepul.
Julia whimpered, saying as best she could the Dasklovian word. Grigori nodded, smiling. “Good,” he praised, enjoying himself enormously. For it was in itself an act of control and domination all itself to have her rename her own body, one piece at a time.
He turned her over, cupping her bottom signifigantly.
"B-buttocks,” she tensed.
"But-tocks.” He repeated. In Dasklovia, it was called the ulnaras. He smacked her, saying the word, and with it another. Veridostya. Punishment.
Julya hastened to say the words, quickly and correctly. She was adorable. Utterly adorable. Turning her back her over, he subjected her to a kiss, long and hard.
"Zasleyka,” he told her.
"Zasleyka,” she said obediently. “Kiss."
Grigori took the fullness of her breast in his hand. “Shalyeesh."
"Shalyeesh,” she cried out, craving the fullness of what her people called a fuck.
With devastating effect, he moved down the curves of her love saucer, the raking finger tips making her shiver and squirm. She was trying to hold herself still, using all her willpower.
"Dasrita-siya,” he proclaimed palming that most intimate part of her, known as the love cup. For just as the saucer holds wine by the dropful, the cup holds it by the oceanful. So went the words of the ancient Dasklovian poet.
"Pussy,” she moaned. “My … pussy. Fuck me, Grigori. Fuck my pussy."
Grigori laughed with joy; he had understood her, every last word of it. Yes, taslaya ouya, I hear you … I shall fuck you, my angel, I shall fuck you hard and long.
She licked her lips; she'd comprehended the word fuck at least. Guiding his cock, she helped him find his place between her widely splayed legs. She was wild with desire, drunk with need, but he saw on her face, too, a question, even in the midst of her heat.
Julya was squeezing the top of his shaft, repeating her word “What?” So the little minx wanted to know the word for a penis, did she? Very well, she would have it, along with another full dose of his potency.
"Vikthasha,” he sank himself to the hilt. “I fuck with my vikthasha."
"Oh, yes,” she agreed happily. “Julya … dasrita siya … vrastoya … vikthasha … Grigori."
The effort was astounding. The grammar was not correct, of course, nor was the pronunciation perfect, but there was no mistaking the intent in what she conveyed. She was wanting to yield herself, submitting her pussy to his cock.
More than obliging, he pulled her tight against him from underneath, a full body hug, his shaft holding her from within. Neither of them dared move at the moment, for the passions were too intense. They would come together, too quickly, neither prepared for the emotional landslides that could well follow. For while they might be strangers, these fucks of theirs were neither casual nor incidental, but highly elemental, cutting to the core of their being.
"Julya,” he whispered her name fiercely into her ear. “You are a dream … tell me how can you be real?” He continued in Dasklovian. “For if you are real, then I-"
Grigori felt the slashing pain across his ass. He rolled off Julya, instinctively raising his arms to protect not himself but her. “Master,” he exclaimed, seeing the angry eyed White Lion looming above them. “Have we displeased you?"
The Director scowled. Pointing to the woman with him, one of his assistants, he indicated that Grigori was to leave and follow her.
"I ask forgiveness,” Grigori knelt to kiss the whip. “Or else punishment … but let it fall only on me, not on Julya."
He gathered the woman into his arms, holding her close. Shaking his head negatively, he tried to indicate that she was not at fault, innocent in all ways. The Director said something to Julya in English, who astounded him again by saying in Dasklovian, “us, inside … eat."
Had she actually absorbed this much from their erotically inspired lessons? Amazing. He nodded indicating he understood. The Maestro wanted them to come inside and share a meal.
Laughing, even more eagerly than before, he rose to his feet and scooped her into his arms. “We will follow you, Master,” he said proudly, not caring who comprehended. “I and my brilliant, beautiful angel both."