Julie was given a red cocktail dress to wear. It was cut in all the right places, low at the bosom and high on her thighs. She filled it out well, being blessed with the kind of body that could make almost anything look good off the rack. What wasn't off any rack was the ruby necklace, which she was pretty sure was a one of a kind original. The earrings, too. What a thrill for her. Giovanni Ambrosiano had been married to or dated the biggest stars over the years; there was no telling who might have worn these pieces before.
Frederica assured her that she looked lovely in them, though, honestly, Julie felt her face was not dazzling enough for such jewelry, and certainly not her hair, which tended toward the dishwater end of the blonde spectrum. She opted to wear it up, in an effort to look a bit more sophisticated. The shoes had very high heels, with wispy straps. No stockings were provided. They did, however, give her underwear. Silk, also red, feather light. She had felt wicked as sin pulling the material up over her freshly bathed body. She could still feel Grigori's hands on her body-the way he grabbed at her like her, the way he teased her so lightly, with a single finger here and there like he worshipped her, and everything in between.
Vrastoya and then some.
Talk about a crash course in Dasklovian. She'd surprised herself at how much she could grasp and reproduce his language. The thing was, she was so thirsty to know him, to be a part of his world. It was as if her spirit and her imagination were lusting for him as much as her body. No man had ever done such things to her. And all without a word of English. No, “ooh, baby, baby, give it to me,” to support his efforts, just the honest work of his mouth and lips and cock.
It was like a dream to have a man with such a wonderfully macho body who was also sensitive and aware of a woman's needs. Perhaps it was the culture he came from, so much older and more tragic than her own. In her experience, men with muscles were vain, self absorbed and expected women to treat them as gifts to the universe. But Grigori, even without knowing her, her language or her culture, had managed to break through, into the open spaces of her heart. He'd sparked her imagination, touched upon her desires. He was the true hero come to life, that man of timeless honor and strength who would fight for his woman and die for her.
Or was he just a natural actor, playing the part of the gladiator/slave/hero? Complicated stuff. And then there was the surrender business. The way he made her wet by smacking her behind and saying no. That was supposed to be a fantasy, never to see the light of day.
She should have expected this turmoil, though. This was what Ambrosiano did. He did not film scripts, he filmed life-as it could be, or as it was really was, perhaps, at levels no one saw. To work on a project of his was an ordeal. How many top actors, particularly American ones, had simply walked off his sets in tears? How many others had been driven off in fury?
Her own agent had told her she was taking a hell of a gamble. Ambrosiano had had his disasters. Who could forget Brasilia Prime, his Amazonian flop, in which his lead actress and ex-wife had abandoned him midway through? He'd abandoned most of his equipment, taken three cameramen and spent the next six months in the deep jungles, filming what turned out to be little more than a documentary about Amazon beetles and growth rate of his own beard.
Still there were films like Buona Notte Vita, Good Night Life, in which the very same Lucia Sorentano stole the hearts of millions as a brave countess trying to survive the German occupation of Rome during the Second World War.
"You look beautiful,” Frederica assured Julie as she continued to fret in front of the gilded full-length mirror in her bedroom.
Julie was tempted to say something less than charitable about how there ought to be a law against pretty, shapely twenty one year olds humoring over the hill thirty four year olds. “What I feel is foolish,” she said instead. “Ambrosiano will want conversation and I know nothing of any real substance. I'll end up fulfilling all the stereotypes. The ignorant American, the dumb blonde movie star. And I'm not really even all that big of a deal in Hollywood. Why he even picked me is a total mystery."
"It is because you remind him of her."
"I beg your pardon?"
Frederica smiled indulgently, looking a lot older than twenty-one. What was it with these Europeans, anyway. Maybe it was their exotic accents snowing Julie so much.
"You are like his Lucia. Inside, where it counts,” she touched her heart.
This was not a point to be argued with, anymore than it was to be understood. “So you are sure it will be just the three of us?” She changed the subject. “For dinner, I mean?"
She nodded. “You and Grigori and Giovanni."
"Giovanni. You call him by his first name,” she observed.
Frederica smiled her complex smile. “I am not a rival to you, Julie. He has already had me. Our relationship has run its course and now I merely serve him as an employee."
She turned redder than her dress. “I certainly didn't mean to suggest I had any prurient interests in the man."
"Every woman wants to fuck Giovanni,” she said. “It is nothing to be embarrassed for. I would give him my own body gladly every day for the rest of his life and count myself the richer for it."
"But, he's so … old."
The woman laughed lightly. “So is the wine you will drink tonight, but I don't think you will complain of its age."
Julie lowered her eyes. “Forgive me. I was being rude. He is your friend."
"You have not offended me,” she replied. “On the contrary, I have been with Ambrosiano long enough to fear ignorance and all her offspring more than the truth."
"I hope I will learn something from him, too,” said Julie sincerely.
"Wanting it is the first step to wisdom,” Frederica assured her. “Shall we go downstairs?"
Julie pasted a smile, meant to seem brave. Inside, however, she was feeling increasingly uncertain. She was about to put herself in a room with the charismatically handsome, mercurial director and the gorgeous, muscular Grigori-who had more sensitivity in his little finger than all the support-group-attending-yogurt-eating mama's boys in LA. Was she ready? Sure, why not? It had been a pretty dull and uneventful day so far.
Ha, ha.
And another thing, she followed Frederica down the stairs. Ambrosiano had talked about punishing her tonight. What the hell was that all about?
Frederica stopped in the hallway, gesturing inside an imposing doorway. On either side of it, two gleaming knights stood guard, their silver armor carefully and meticulously polished. From what she understood, the Director was paying nearly ten thousand Euros a day-roughly the same in dollars-to rent this seaside home originally built for a duke who ruled this portion of modern day Italy.
Julie's breath was taken away as she saw the dining room. It was truly fit for royalty. The table could easily have sat a hundred persons. It was made of dark, carved wood with enormous claw's feet. Tapestries hung from every wall, depicting various classical and medieval scenes. The ceiling was vaulted and trimmed in gold. Its concave surface was covered by a fresco, a scene of heaven, with five cherubs flying together to touch a single glowing red heart in the middle. From the center of the heart a chandelier depended, five layers high, dripping gems, like a pure fountain of diamonds. The walls, by contrast were painted in a sky blue. On each wall was a high door, next to which stood a servant in a long white coat and white gloves.
Grigori and the Director were already sitting at the table when she walked in. Giovanni was at the head, with Grigori seated to his left. To the right was an unoccupied place, presumably reserved for her. Both men stood at she walked in, pushing back their throne-like chairs in the process. Julie remained nervously at the edge of the large Persian rug, afraid to proceed further.
"You look stunning, my dear,” said Giovanni, who was wearing a white tuxedo, with black tie and pants. He had a red handkerchief in his pocket, typical of the man's unique fashion sense.
He was rather stunning himself with his white hair tied back in a ponytail, his body freshly scrubbed and scented with cologne. It was a mix of vanilla, jasmine and cinnamon that disarmed her instantly, breaking her fragile defenses. The next step would be dampness, spots of surrender on her silk panties.
"Thank you, Signor Ambrosiano,” she allowed him to kiss her hand.
The touch of his lips sent ripples down her spine. Could it really be true that the Great Maestro saw shades of Lucia in her? Surely she was not a tenth the actress, nor could she ever hope to duplicate the woman's sultry, dark beauty. Surely Frederica was just trying to make her feel less ill at ease around the man. Or she was covering for him, trying to obscure the clear evidence that the one-time perfect caster had completely lost his knack for finding talent?
Although clearly it wasn't true what Julie had said about him being maybe too old. Giovanni Ambrosiano's sexuality was as pronounced and evident as his obsidian eyes. Up till today, she'd not thought of him in such terms. Now, thanks to what Grigori had awoken in her, she couldn't help but see the Director as a man … a potentially naked man, with a lean, smooth body, hands to possess, a tongue, and between his legs a spear, long and made for piercing a woman's essence.
Julie felt a vague, though unjustifiable stab of guilt as Grigori came to escort her to her seat. Really, he had no claim on her-so why should it feel like she was betraying him by lusting after the Giovanni?
"Julya,” Grigori murmured, anxious to prove he, too had been paying attention to their language swap. “Is beau … ty … ful."
There went the panties. She was creaming, right on schedule. The man's compliment having put her over the edge, though really the sight of him alone would have done that.
Grigori was in a tuxedo as well. His was black, with a white shirt and shiny black shoes. The outfit emphasized dramatically the V of his shape. She really doubted a man anywhere could fill a suit better. Frankly, she'd be hard pressed not to feel let down any time she looked at one again on a lesser man. He'd left his hair loose; though he'd combed it out and washed it clean of the sea and the smells of the raw earth. His scent was that of sandalwood and incense, exotic, dreamy, but totally masculine. He'd shaved his face close and smooth, adding further definition to his high cheekbones. Julie licked her lips. A subtle little dart across the ruby red painted surface. She wanted to touch those cheekbones, feel his ruddy skin, and his full lips, too.
Giovanni's lips were thinner, but no less exciting. They were lips that had kissed the hottest mouths in show business, lips that knew how to give orders and how to burn through the arrogance of self-important people.
His skin, being lighter, would be smoother. But the man was much older. Would she feel his age somehow, his wisdom? Certainly the two men were nearly the same height and that would create interesting possibilities if she wished to touch them at the same time, especially the more intimate parts of them. Sighing, she imagined herself pleasuring the two cocks side by side.
Oh, god, was this wrong? Wanting to have both these men? With the notoriously womanizing Director it seemed to be a passing lust while with Grigori there could well be deeper feelings between them. Or could she be misjudging things, making assumptions about Giovanni? Was he not capable of true love himself and worthy of being loved in return? And how could she say with Grigori that she really knew anything about him except the size and performing ability of his cock. How much of her falling for the Dasklovian had to do with the hidden influence of the Director, anyway? Was the man still directing them now, in fact?
"You will sit beside me,” said Giovanni.
Grigori led her to her place beside the Director. She would have felt much more comfortable next to the huge Dasklovian, though obviously she had not been consulted as to the seating arrangements.
"I am pleased the dress accommodates your body so well,” Giovanni observed when all three were in place.
Julie felt a little pink come to her cheeks. For some reason the remark sounded sexual to her ears. Was he trying to telegraph his interest in her? Of course it was a little hard to pretend to any modesty after having been caught screwing her co-star.
"Do you suppose Grigori likes the way it looks on you?"
"I wouldn't want to hazard a guess,” she replied, taking a stiff brace of her full glass of red wine. Old but good, as Frederica had predicted. Though at this point she'd have gone for just about anything with alcohol in it.
"Should we have you find out?” The Director wondered aloud. “Perhaps you could crawl under the table and tell us how hard his dick is at this moment."
She nearly choked on the second sip. “Signor Ambrosiano, you may not speak to me that way. And I assure you, if Grigori understood what you were saying he would demand you apologize."
"Shall I translate it for him?"
Julie saw he was serious. “But you don't speak Dasklovian. You said so."
"I said that I do not direct in Dasklovian. I can, however, converse in it. I have simply chosen not to thus far."
For a moment she thought he was joking. “You mean you put Grigori and the rest of us through all this communication anguish for nothing?"
He waved his hand in the air dismissively. “Words. What are words? A decade from now, they will probably not even exist any longer. The medium is the message. Your North American McLuhan said that."
Julie was on her feet. “I think I've had about all of this high brow culture stuff for one life-time,” she decided. “If it's all right with you, Signor Ambrosiano, I am going back to the States to film some more detergent commercials."
The Director sipped his Chianti, unmoved. “I forbid you to go."
The sheer outrageousness of the statement froze her in place. “You … what?"
"I forbid you,” he repeated. “You have a contract. Until this film is completed, you will remain under my direction. Completely."
Julie knew this was a crock. “Or else what?” She called his bluff.
He signaled for the servants. “Or else you will be subject to additional punishment than you are already slotted for. And physical restraint, as well."
The men in the white tuxedos took up positions around her, marking the corners of an invisible box, three yards by three.
"You can't do this, Signor Ambrosiano.” In a last ditch effort, she appealed directly to the Dasklovian. “Grigori, help … Julya … in trouble."
Damn, she wished she could have said some of that in the man's own language.
"Grigori,” the Director addressed him. “Brasktyo ghrista tay, turn ul, metryiu-jost abak."
The handsome, square jawed wrestler with the poet's heart frowned slightly, looking back and forth between the director and Julie.
"I have instructed Grigori to go to you and do whatever is required to remove your panties and bend you over the table for a bare assed spanking. You should know that resistance on your part only increases the sentence."
Julie's pussy clenched. “He wouldn't dare."
Who was she kidding-that look in his eye said he'd do it in a heartbeat and enjoy the heck out of it. She knew in her mind she ought to run, at least making a show of resisting. The servants and Grigori himself needed to know in no uncertain terms that this was being done against her will. Only her feet would not move, her legs had no will, she was paralyzed, heart thundering in her chest, like a deer, caught in the crosshairs of a dozen mighty hunters’ guns.
"Ambrosiano, this is not part of your movie,” she pointed out. “You've no right to expect this of me. I am contracted to make a movie, nothing more."
"You are correct,” he conceded as one of the chefs brought out the antipasto, the first course in the traditional four-course Tuscan dinner. “I shall attend to the matter."
Snapping his fingers, he called out the name of Luigi, one of his retainers. He was a small man in a black suit with a red turtleneck with the apparent gift of being able to appear out of nowhere.
"Bring cameras,” the Maestro instructed. “Immediatamente."
Julie's stomach did a flip. So now he intended to film her being spanked. “Signor Ambrosiano-"
Her latest objections were silenced by Grigori as he swept her uncompromisingly into his arms. She wilted almost at once under the searing pressure of his kiss. This was no fair. She was outnumbered here-two to one … make that three to one, counting her own treacherous body. Grigori's hands moved freely down her back, exploring territory already quite familiar. When he reached her ass, she knew she was doomed. Her flesh burned under his touch. She was skittish, electrified, wanting to run from what was to follow, though at the same time her flesh was so very curious, wanting to know what a prolonged spanking would feel like, from a real man like this, and under the eyes of as powerful a masculine force as Giovanni Ambrosiano.
She was able to disguise nothing, nor could she hold anything in reserve. Her nipples tented under the thin bra and dress, rubbing against the material of his suit jacket. By way of reflex, her leg sidled against him, seeking out contact, instinctive and suggestive. Even her lips, full and puffy were saying something. There was nothing Julie Summers could deny this man, and through him, nothing that she could deny the Director.
Grigori broke contact first, and for Julie it was like losing the oxygen for her lungs. He said something to her and held out his hand. She knew this was about the underwear.
"We are waiting,” said Giovanni in a tone that flooded her pussy.
She melted with shame because now she would be turning them over wet. And fragrant, too. But she was not in a place to argue. Grigori had possession of her flesh and her affections while the Director had her desires, and with them her fears. More than anything, blonde, shapely Julie had worked in her career to be taken seriously as an actress. Nothing had plagued her more than to be thought of in terms of body parts or regarded as some kind of bimbo. At the same time, she had dark fantasies, of being sought after wholly and completely as an object of lust. By men who would take her and do with her as they chose.
Julie was close to panting. She was not the equal of these two men. They were going to take her panties from her and use her sexually. “I'll cooperate,” she tested the waters to see how resolved they were. “I'll do as you say. You needn't punish me."
"Yes,” he agreed. “You will do as we say. And at this moment that means stripping off the very lovely underwear I have loaned you from your very lovely behind and holding that dress up to your waist for inspection."
Julie glanced quickly at the servants. There was something very much worse-and therefore very much sexier about being talked to like this in front of them. It made her feel very helpless and very naughty, like a bad schoolgirl being sent to the principal's office.
She hoisted the dress, then reached for the waistband of the panties. Her pussy screamed out from the sudden exposure to the air as she lowered the garment over her hips and down her legs. They fluttered lightly past her calves and ankles and settled on the carpet. She stepped from them one foot at a time and bent to pick the garment from the floor. The vulnerable position reminded her of what they intended and as she straightened back up she found herself lightheaded, and not only from lack of oxygen.
Grigori's fingers lingered on hers as he took the panties from her. He was looking deep in her eyes, deep into her soul. Never had she felt so stripped, so delicately, beautifully feminine under a man's gaze.
Julie nearly feinted as he put them to his nose and breathed in deeply the scent of her womanhood. Of her vrastoya. For Grigori now, just for him, she lifted the dress, baring her pussy, the lips glistening wet, the very same liquid he'd just inhaled dripping in traces down her inner thighs.
But there was Giovanni here, too, and try as she might, his presence, her sexual charisma could not be ignored. To hear the voice of the white haired man, to have him talk to you with such commanding authority and sexual license was to want to be used by him as one, flagrantly, obscenely and without mercy.
"Over the table, Julie … show him you are ready to receive your just desserts,” coached the Director, his improvised film making turned suddenly X rated.
"Piovare,” she heard. “Potare. Preparare."
The words sounded again, in echo fashion. She stiffened, recognizing them at once. It was the cameramen back, their very invasive digital devices trained once again on her, catching her at her weakest and most sensual. Nothing rehearsed, no lines, just the very heart of her passion on display, for these chattering fools, who might as well have been voyeurs making home jerk off movies as far as she was concerned.
"If I do this,” she wanted to know. “Will it satisfy you? With regard to the punishment you spoke of earlier-and any further mayhem? You'll get that all out of your system?"
"You're not in any position to bargain,” Giovanni shook his head. “Obeying me now will get you through this ordeal more easily. I make no further promises."
Julie watched them put out the antipasto plates at each setting, including her own. Would she get to eat it or would she be otherwise occupied through the whole first course? It was a strange thing to think of food at a time like this, then again she'd never been in a position like this before either.
She slid her belly against the edge of the table. The white cloth was in direct contrast to the red dress. Pressing her palms down side by side, she laid her cheek to rest, her head facing away from the head of the table where Giovanni sat. Her breasts were squashed in this position and completely trapped. She could feel the heat in her nipples, radiating down her belly to her panty-less pussy.
Her pussy! She'd forgotten to expose it properly by holding up her dress. Not wanting any further punishment added to what she might already receive she hastened to pull up the hem of the cheeky little number. Oh, god … here it came, the cool, open-air on her swollen sex lips, the luscious crack visible for all these men to see. Julie had been told before by men that she had a lovely sex organ, full labia, sculpted, very pink, more than a little apparent when she put herself in position like this.
"Spread your legs,” Giovanni tore away the remaining scraps of her dignity.
Julie complied, fully revealing her sexual readiness.
"You will count the blows to ten,” he informed her.
A shiver passed down her spine. Ten seemed an especially large number, large indeed given her lack of experience. Really the one smack had seemed more than sufficient before with Grigori to make things happen sexually. She could scarcely imagine the effects of so many.
Grigori rubbed his hand on her to begin with and she moaned at once, shaking her tailbone in response. She felt humiliated because this made it seem like she was enjoying this kind of treatment, which of course she was not.
Was she?
Grigori removed the hand, creating a sudden void. Julie whimpered in need. She was answered with a heavy crack of his palm, dead center to her soft, round globes. Her pussy twitched in reply. She needed the man's cock. Hard and fast, right here in front of Giovanni and his minions. Let them all see what a lover the Dasklovian was. Let them see how he played her, bringing out her sweet, sexiness, making her scream like a whore and sigh like a kitten.
She was proud of him for this. And she was proud of how they were together, two, and of all the things they'd managed to learn of each other's bodies in just one afternoon's love making. He knew, for example, how sensitive her breasts were, and how important it was for a man to take the time to play with them. And she'd learned that it drove him wild when she rounded her tongue into a groove and ran it over the scars on his breast, the deep grooves from the angry bear.
She smiled, in spite of the pervasive stinging.
"You've not begun the count. We will start again,” declared the Maestro.
Oh, fuck. She'd just day dreamed her way into an extra spank.
"One,” she recited loud and clear as Grigori administered a fresh ass slap.
Grigori established himself a rhythm, delivering the next four in rapid succession. She rattled off the numbers, feeling herself drifting like it was someone else's ass, someone else feeling the hot burn, the sweet sting, each new impact pulling the cords inside her tighter, making her need penetration more and more. She wasn't above begging now, if it came to that.
At the halfway point Grigori stopped. The Director was telling him something. She braced herself for the worst.
"Julie, do you know what our Grigori did when he was attacked by that bear, the one that left its calling card? Come now, I know you are interested. You stare constantly at the wound."
"Yes…” she confessed her interest. “Tell me."
"He begged the authorities not to destroy the animal. Refusing medical treatment himself, he hugged the animal after the accident for over an hour, attempting to protect it."
Grigori's hand was back on her behind, caressing. She shook her head, not wanting to feel anymore tenderness for Grigori than she already did.
"It's true. Though I don't think you are surprised, are you?"
"Please,” she exclaimed. “Tell him not to…"
Too late-Grigori's finger had found its way to her pussy.
"I knew you would respond to him like this if I brought you together. One look,” Giovanni declared, “at you, at him … it was child's play."
Julie called out in Dasklovian for the man to take her.
"Not bad,” the Director said. “You are indeed a quick study."
Grigori spanked her instead. The pleasure and pain were melding now, one into the other.
"I have changed my mind,” Giovanni announced. “I have decided I am going to make a film after all, one unlike any that has ever been done, Julie. You have Grigori to thank that I going to try to enact a very old vision … the first I ever had, indeed, the only real one. Do you know the film Swept Away? It is one of the simplest, most profound ever completed. One man, one woman on an island. A blonde goddess, upper class, and a lower class seaman. Stranded on an island, by her carelessness. He takes command, finds his place as a male. In order to survive she must go to him, on his terms as a slave. They unlock primal passions. She cooks and cleans for him, she serves on her knees, she surrenders her body for his brute pleasures. Her sex entirely ruled by his cock. It works by the very accident of the thing, by their very anonymity. Of course it is all undone by their rescue. The spell is broken. They land ashore, their two worlds pull them apart. He seeks to get her back, but it cannot be. Wealth, you see, has the strongest bonds of all."
The Director called out to one of the servants. She could not follow the Italian. The meaning became clear enough, however, when the man returned with the devices, turning them over to Grigori.
"Ambrosiano, no…"
Grigori inserted the plug into her ass, splitting and filling and frustrating her.
"Damn it,” she exclaimed. “I'm not your love toy."
"But you will become such, my dear. As will Grigori.” The Director instructed the man to put the vibrator inside her clenching, spasming pussy.
Julie's nails dug into the tablecloth. Shamelessly, she fucked the edge of the table. Giovanni made a remark and she was smacked again on her throbbing red ass. What did the man mean-that they would both become love toys? Did he mean to dominate them both?
"No move,” said Grigori, employing two of the English words she'd taught him.
The vibrator hummed away, exercising its nasty little control over her impulses. Combined with the degrading butt plug, it made Julie feel very much like a love toy, an object for visual … and tactile amusement.
Yes, she needed this. To be used by these men, to be reduced, all the way down to a level of sheer lust.
"Let me please you,” she heard herself say. “I want to be good … I've learned … my lesson.” Julie grit her teeth against the orgasm. It was a clitoral one, those tiny, devious ones, wasp stings of pleasure, followed by waves, itching roiling, buzzing wings, persisting.
"Were you given permission to come, Julie?” The Director administered a corrective spank through the hand of the Dasklovian.
Julie groaned, thrust headlong into another orgasm. “No,” she moaned. “S-sorry."
Giovanni gave more instructions. Grigori adjusted the device…. oh god, he was turning up the speed. And now he was … leaving her. Returning to his seat.
"I hope you don't mind if we eat?” Giovanni asked. “We really don't want to keep the kitchen waiting too long."
"Bastard,” she managed to hiss. “Heartless bastard."
The Director raised his glass, oblivious. “A toast. Strovaya. To life and love."
"Strovaya,” repeated Grigori with robust conviction.
They commenced to eating, a slow, elaborate fair in the Italian style. Unlike an ordinary Italian meal, however, there was no conversation. The only sounds were the scraping of forks on the plate, the sucking of wine through lips of red and the whirring motor of the vibrator deep inside her tortured pussy. She couldn't help the orgasms, one after another, making her whimper and beg, nibbling at her own hand to stifle the outright screams. It felt like she'd leaked a river; she was so damned over-stimulated, puckered and pulsing with deep soul horniness. These little buzzing climaxes. She needed dick and she needed it now.
"Ambrosiano,” she called hoarsely, hardly recognizing the sound of her own voice.
"Signor Ambrosiano,” he corrected, reminding her of her status.
"Yes … signor.” As in sir, or even Master. “Sir, I want…” The words caught in her throat. Though not a vain, stereotypical movie blonde, she was not used to being in this position. Julie Marie Summers had never had to seek out sex in her life, much less beg it. If anything, she'd spent her time fighting off men who wanted it from her, ignoring everything else inside her, including what was between her ears.
"Want what, my dear?"
"I want to make love,” she spared herself the more graphic term.
"There is no room for love in this room,” pronounced the Director. “Nor in this film."
"In that case I want to fuck,” she braced herself, another climax on the way, soon to rob of her speech once more. “I want to fuck … both of you."
Oh, heavens, had she really said that out loud? Only once before had she been in on a threesome, her and another girl, in the bed of a sleazy producer hyped up on cocaine about a decade ago. It had left her cold, in more ways than one. But with these two men to share a bed with, how could she go wrong?
The new orgasm was like sharp tongues, whipping up and down her back. You naughty thing, they seemed to be chastising, nice females don't ask for such things.
"I see,” said Ambrosiano as the servants cleared the empty plates, as well as her full one. “That would be an interesting change … in your role. It would involve, I think, a fresh audition."
Julie was in no position to arguing, no matter what perversions the man might have in mind. “Anything…"
He ordered a servant to turn off the vibrator and remove it. The touch of the stranger's hand made her come one more time. Degrading, wild and more overpowering than all the others combined. A hundred suns exploding, moons shattering. Looking across the table, she reached for the Dasklovian, who was sitting like a statue, so very stoic, that perpetually half sad look upon his face as though he could never really touch her.
But his eyes, ah, his eyes danced with sympathy.
"Get up now, Julie.” Ambrosiano gave her no time to recover. “You will remove your dress and your bra, but leave the shoes."
Nothing spelled wanton woman to Julie more than this: a female wearing only high heels. A woman like this was dressed to fuck and for no other purpose on earth. She was snagging men, inviting them, their hands and cocks to come and possess saucy flesh, highlighted by flashing patent leather covering pretty feet.
She let the dress fall to the floor, like a petal. The carpet absorbed it in sweet silence. Reaching behind her back to reach the clasp of the bra she put her hands temporarily in a position of helplessness. She was so exposed this way. If the men should tie her thus, she would be unable to prevent them doing as they wished to her hyper sensitive, swollen breasts peaked by agonized nipples.
The red silk cups dropped away, her last protection gone, flimsy as it had been.
"Hands down,” the Director said as the bra joined the dress, both fire red.
Julie had been trying to cover herself, using her own palms. They were sweaty and warm as she placed them, for wont of a better place, on her hips. The sound of her heart was almost overpowering to her own ears. As were the catches in her breath. Did the men not hear this? How could they bear it, the sound and sight of this pinned, trepidatious womanhood, so still on the outside, but internally squirming with desires barely imagined much less tapped?
"You never married,” the Director said, holding true to his reputation for taking sudden stabs into his actors’ souls. “Why not?"
A dozen lies raced for primacy at her lips. It was the truth, however, that fell out first. “I have never met a man I could trust … with everything."
"That is because you have too much to give. You are not like other women. You do not know to hold back. You do not know to forget. You do not know to play the games, to wear the masks. This is why you will be great-from the moment I saw you I knew. You are incapable of acting."
"Thank you … I think."
"Touch your breasts, Julie. “Caress them, as you would wish a man to do."
She closed her eyes, grabbing both globes eagerly, greedily. They could be Grigori's hands, or Giovanni's, or maybe one of each.
"Grigori conquers bears,” he observed, “but he has more trouble with you. After tonight you will be a bit more open."
"Is this what it takes to get you off?” She demanded boldly. “Seeing people humiliate themselves? Is that the only way you can get it up?"
His face was expressionless. “Pinch your nipples,” he said, not giving her insult the dignity of a direct reply.
She was powerless to disobey. She needed this too much, needed them too much. “It hurts,” she whined almost immediately.
"Harder,” he said cruelly.
Julie made no effort to cheat. In seconds she had brought tears to her eyes. But she did not want it to stop either. She wanted more pressure, more attention, more punishment.
Groaning she fell to her knees. Still she did not let go.
"You have a high tolerance for pain,” he noted. “You may let go now."
She did so, openly panting. “Thank you,” she gasped.
"I want you to crawl to us, Julie. Under the table. You will tend to our cocks while we consume the second course."
Julie had never felt so weak in her life. This went beyond being treated as a prostitute. This was something a slave would do. “Signor, Ambrosiano-"
Her feeble objections were cut off before she could properly begin them. “You have a choice, Julie, you can service the two of us or you can attend to the needs of every other man in this house."
Julie bit her lower lip, a mini-spike of pleasure skewering her helpless sex. The Director was prepared to give her body to others; in fact he would do exactly that if she refused to perform. She thought of all those cocks lined up … her hot little mouth suctioned to organ after organ, each pulsing and throbbing, her head bobbing obediently, man after man grunting above her, grasping her head, feeding her his dick till at last he exploded, giving her hot mouthfuls, on and on till her stomach was overflowing with semen.
Was it an idle threat? Just part of his “movie"? It didn't matter now. She was too absorbed herself, too deeply into the submission implied. Giovanni Ambrosiano was right. She never had been a great actress. Just a person able to put her heart on her sleeve enough to fool some people some of the time. And not even the right ones at that.
"Do the servants have to watch?” She inquired.
"How else will they know how best to take advantage of you if they ever have the opportunity?"
There was an odd logic to this and every instinct in her head told her she best resist it unless she wanted to end up at this man's complete mercy, perhaps forever.
"What you are doing is wrong, you know that,” she declared, putting as much resolve in her voice as she could manage. “I have the law on my side."
The lines on the Director's face pulled tight. She could sense an impending mood shift, one of those emotional turnabouts the man was so famous for. “Perhaps you are right,” he said, his voice subtly cooled and detached. “I shall have my secretary bring you to the railway station at once. You are released from your contract."
She felt the world drop from underneath her. He had called her bluff. She did not want to be exploited, but the thought of leaving now, of abandoning this project, and Grigori was too much to bear. She had a stake in all this. She was irresistibly curious, too, filled with complex building desires that she knew instinctively could only be resolved here, in this situation.
Too, she could not endure this man's disapproval. Not in her current state, at least.
"I-I want to stay,” she summoned her courage.
The Director was silent.
"I want to stay,” she said more forcefully.
Still no answer as he sipped his wine.
Staving off panic, Julie sunk to her knees on the carpet and then down onto all fours. She did not want to go to any railway station. She did not want to be alone, ever again.
The new position, ass cheeks stretched taut, reminded her immediately of her spanking, and the stinging reminder left behind. And yet this seemed preferable in her mind right now-being punished over being ignored.
"Mmm,” sniffed the Director, quite consumed by the silver platters being brought for the next course. “Fish with spinach Florentine. An excellent choice."
Julie saw now how tenuous her position had become. She must prove herself doubly, drawing back the man's attention and praise. Her pulse raced-craving his eyes on her again, his voice, his commands. How had he done this-put her willingly down on the rug on all fours while at the same time pulling a metaphorical rug out from underneath her, turning her world upside down?
Julie's hands sparked with electricity as she moved over the expensive carpet. Her knees slid with excruciating slowness, her belly quivering uncontrollably. There was no hiding this way, not with her ass shaking and her breasts hanging down, aching to be manhandled. Meekly she moved and humbly, but also full of keen, feline hunger. She wanted one thing and she did not intend to be stopped. Not till she'd had her fill of both men.
The Director, however, had other ideas in mind. He had no intention of letting her off so easily. “Why are you still here?” He asked as she approached the table.
She stopped, his cold voice like a slap to her cheek. It was a wakeup call. As to how the man intended to humiliate her before allowing her to proceed.
"I would like a chance to do … as you instructed,” she chose her words carefully.
"And what is that?” He inquired coldly, still not giving her the courtesy of direct eye contact.
"To please you,” she lowered her head. “And Grigori."
He took a bite of his fish, steaming hot. “Yes?"
The bastard was going to make her spell it out. “I want to suck you,” she said, not loud enough for his liking.
"Kindly repeat yourself, for an old man,” he said, the moniker more than a little ironic in his case.
Julie decided to abase herself completely in one fell swoop. “I want to suck your cocks. Please, may I have a chance to suck you?"
"Very well,” Ambrosiano shrugged, as though the matter was one of complete indifference. “Though I warn you, I am not very much in the mood to be fawned over anymore.” He took a moment to unzip his trousers before resuming his meal.
Grigori did the same, his action drawing her full attention. Julie decided to crawl towards him first. His cock, his person, would be the touchstone, the one thing she could use to orient herself in this strange world. Everything was different down here. She felt so sensuous, so alive, so utterly female. Her body moved with what she hoped was a natural grace. She shivered to think how open and helpless she was in this position to be paddled, swatted or mounted at will.
The smells of the fish in the lemon and butter, mixed with the sauteed spinach wafted down to her nostrils. Julie was hungry. Her inability to eat her supper at the moment reinforced her sense of inequality with the men. As did their plainly visible, aroused sex organs now poking from between their legs. The tablecloth was short enough that she could see all the good parts, including the way Grigori's tanned balls were pushing out of the underwear below the base of his shaft. His testicles were full and tight, indicating yet another full load of semen waiting for release. She marveled at the man's stamina, at how he could be ready again so soon.
The Director's balls, by contrast hung low. His cock was not as thick as Grigori's, either, though it was equally long and had a lovely curve at the end. It had style, just like the man himself. He was hard, too.
Bypassing this new treat for the moment, she went directly to the Dasklovian. With an almost frightening familiarity she formed her lips to the required shape to take it deep. She closed her eyes, taking him deep. A single smooth motion to pull him to the back of her throat. Yes, oh, yes, this is what she needed. To be their little toy on the floor, a horny female pet, teasing and pleasing as they ate their dinner.
Soon different flavors came to her nose, spectacular and vibrant. The waiters must have been bringing the pasta, the sauce full of lovely spices, oregano, rosemary and basil. Such an odd mix combined with that of elemental man, heady and husky before her.
Grigori tasted good indeed, freshly scrubbed. She bobbed her head up and down, managing as much of him as she could. With training she might be able to take more. The notion gave her a tiny thrill as she slurped away. It was a greedy, self indulgent wish, even though she knew it would mean an even deeper level of subjugation.
"That is enough, Julie, you don't want him going off prematurely. We've a long night ahead of us,” said Giovanni. “You may come to me now."
Reluctantly, she popped Grigori from her mouth. He tensed himself and then released, though he made no sounds. Just as he had up to now, he was remaining passive, the Director's willing instrument.
It was Giovanni she must go to now. She turned her body to the head of the table in anticipation. Her heart beat more quickly. She'd never been with this man and she was anxious to please him in a way she had never felt before with any other. To disappoint him, to fail to be the woman he wanted was just not an idea she could bear.
Delicately, she kissed the tip of him, her fingertips brushing the toes of his shiny loafers. She wanted this man naked, very bad, wanted to see his body, to know what he could do and learn what she could do for him. For now, though, she had her place. The sex servant, performing her function, down on all fours for the pleasure of the master.
Julie slid her tongue underneath the shaft and then along the side, daring to rest her head on his thigh. She was purring.
"Later we will all three of us fuck,” said the Director casually.
She could only assume the words were addressed to her as they were spoken in English. Certainly her pussy took them that way, responding with nice little roiling waves of joy. Spasms of mystery, anticipated bliss.
I will be fucked by two men, she thought. At the same time. In Europe, in a house that once belonged to a prince. Put that in your corncob and smoke it, Iowa.
Julie wrapped her lips around the Maestro. With his narrower width she was able to apply more suction. She could not help but notice how he had been wearing no underwear. That made the act seem even raunchier. What really put her over the top, though, was when he began to talk about the act itself in front of her, asking a series of pointed, rhetorical questions.
"You're a decent cock sucker, Julie. Have you done this often to get jobs? Isn't that what they say about you Americans and your Hollywood? Did you expect that before I hired you?"
She had no hope to respond, save by savoring him all the more.
"Lucia was the finest fellatrix I ever knew. She had a way of sucking for every mood. For disdain, for remorse, passion, fury, love, even contempt and ridicule. Every argument between us ended this way, ultimately, though it might be weeks, months later. It was not submission, no, there was no true submission in her body, only a willful counterfeit. It is the same with you, as you shall eventually learn."
Julie bit down, just enough to be felt, just enough to change the pace of things.
The Maestro laughed. “The kitten has teeth. My point is proved.” Reaching under to stroke her head, he said, “Enough, your supper is getting cold."
A string of saliva ran from her plush lips to the tip of his engorged organ. From cocks to pasta, an orgy of words and sex and oregano. It felt like ancient Rome all over again.
Julie resumed her place at the table, nude, her skin covered in cool flame. The servers, appearing to take no notice, filled her wine glass and put out a fresh plate of steaming white fish, in a butter sauce, the cooked green spinach sandwiched deliciously between the flaky layers. As discretely as she could, she pressed together her thighs. The velvet of the chair tickled and the last thing she wanted to do was to be dripping on a genuine antique. There was simply no way to act normal like this, with erect nipples, a punished, tender ass and not a stitch of clothing on. What was she supposed to say … please pass the Parmesan cheese and while you're at it would you suck my tits like a maniac? Ooh, I just adore the angel hair pasta, and by the way can we please skip dessert and get right to doing the three-way nasty, pretty please?
"We will meet in my room at midnight,” the Maestro explained. “There will be no cameras."
Her stomach did a flip. She was not sure if this should make her feel better or worse. “Signor Ambrosiano,” she ventured. “You are sure that Grigori is all right with all this?"
"Let's find out, shall we?” The Director proceeded to explain the matter in Dasklovian. The former wrestler looked straight ahead, neither at her nor at the Italian.
"Vrastoya,” he said simply, indicating his capitulation as soon as Ambrosiano had finished laying out the matter.
And that was that. Not a word more was spoken with regard to the matter for the rest of dinner. They spoke of various subjects instead, with the Italian serving as translator. Julie paid keen attention, and she was sure Grigori was, too. She picked up a number of new words, and some simple phrasings that she hoped might prove of use in communicating with him in the future. She also learned some more about the man personally.
He had grown up very poor in a coal-mining region. His father and brothers had worked in a mine with the worst safety record in the whole of the old Soviet Union. Several cousins had died in those dank, black depths, not only from tunnel collapses and explosions, but from black lung as well. His father and uncles were spared, though, ironically, his own mother contracted the breathing disease from cleaning the men's clothes each day. The woman, a dark haired beauty with skin of porcelain, had succumbed when Grigori was only five.
Two years after that his seventeen year old sister had been killed by a jealous boyfriend, who then killed himself. His father turned more and more for answers to the bottom of a vodka bottle, leaving Stefans, his elder brother, to raise him. Grigori was a strong, stoic boy, who gained much mettle defending his motherless family against the much bigger schoolyard bullies. By the time he was sixteen he would defeat even most of the hard muscled miners, including his own father.
The old man eventually threw his son out in a drunken rage and Grigori joined the army of the newly formed Republic of Dasklovia, which was born shortly after the fall of Soviet Russia. A civil war was brewing at the time, and apparently he saw much in the military that he would speak of to no man. After this had come the circus, and now the movies.
Julie in turn related her far more mundane existence, as the youngest of three sisters on a three-generation farm deep in the Iowa Corn Belt. As was typical in families such as hers, she was given a disproportionate amount of beauty, which made her quite popular with the boys and quite hated by the girls, her sisters included.
Her mother, never noted for her warmth or her tact, flat out pronounced that with a body like hers, Julie was going to be hard pressed not to end up a whore.
"Men will only ever want one thing from you, and once they have it, you can bet they won't be looking to make an honest woman out of you,” she would preach while clipping sheets to the wash line or stirring endless pots of gravy.
As far as the family was concerned, that prophecy had been fulfilled the day Julie announced she was going to California to pursue her acting. In their minds, tinsel town was Sodom with traffic lights and tanning booths. The only solace she got was from her father who took her quietly aside a short time before her departure.
"Is this what you want?” Asked the balding, overall clad farmer who never spoke more than five words at a time unless it was down at the diner, sitting on the men's side, over seven am coffee chatting about the crops, the weather or last night's ball game.
"With all my heart,” she replied, with just as much economy of words.
"Okay,” he hugged her. And that was that. Julie's mother was not allowed to say another word about the matter.
Julie nearly forgot she was naked telling this story. The Dasklovian had been watching her so intently, hanging upon her every word, she felt as if he were wrapping her in some kind of cloak. Never had she felt that a man wanted to know her more, or that she in turn had wanted to know him. It was as if every detail was coming alive in the re-telling of their journeys, as if everything were meant somehow to lead them to each other.
And yet there was this third party who had brought them together. This Italian. This eager man of passion and culture, switching back and forth in his emotion and language, bridging the gap and melding them, making them one, spiritually, as it were, in the same way a sexual union did for their bodies.
By the time Julie was aware of looking down at her plate again, they were past dinner and onto dessert, sipping strong, Italian coffee from tiny cups and nibbling on heavenly soft pieces of tira misu. The hours of the night were growing short.
"Eleven thirty,” he clapped his hands. “Time to go our separate ways. We meet again in thirty minutes."
Ambrosiano rose to his feet and they both followed suit, Julie feeling rather as if they'd been dismissed by a ship's captain.
"Thirty minutes,” he repeated. “Don't be late."
She looked at Grigori. Pursing his lips he blew her a kiss, making her blush head to toe. She wanted to run and jump on him right now or fall at his feet to be ravished. But the Director had given his orders. She must wait. A half hour more and then she would know sex as she had never dreamed it in her life.
And so it was down to this. The longest night of Julie's life now reduced to the longest thirty minutes.