"I would like the lights down,” said Grigori in English, his accent thicker as yet than he would prefer. “So the actors will not see us."
"Certainly, sir,” bowed his assistant director, thrilled to be working with the man dubbed by Play Review magazine as the most brilliant up and coming playwright and director in decades.
"Thank you,” Grigori took his seat in the middle of the theater, dead center. It was audition time for the New York staging of his play “Seasons of Lust.” Backers were lining up around the block to invest and every actor and would be actor in town was trying out for a part. Everyone was saying the play would steal the thunder next season on Broadway just as it had earlier in London and Moscow.
And to think this new genius had come from nowhere. Just a year ago he'd been an unemployed bear wrestler, fresh off a disastrous attempt at acting with the Great Maestro Giovanni. Swimming away from all he knew, he had found his way stranded at sea. A fishing boat had rescued him and he'd found his way eventually to Greece. It was there, while walking to the ancient Acropolis that he had been struck by the muse. Less supernaturally minded folks might say it was sun poisoning, but when he'd awoken after passing out on the ground, the cold water splashing his cheeks and eyes, he was not the same man. A fire now burned within, a churning energy that could only be relieved by writing. For three days and nights he sat in a dingy Athens motel room, scribbling feverishly in notebook after notebook. It all came alive to him-people, places, scenes, characters born out of that raw fire.
With each page he felt a little more peace, though he could feel it building again if he slowed down for any reason. The first two books were filled with incongruity, bits and pieces that did not fall together. But the third had clear voices, three parts. A female, two males, speaking and addressing the timeless questions of love, and of course the meaning of sex. He knew at once it could be revolutionary, calling into question the age old idea that a relationship must be between two persons only. He also knew that its time had come. Controversial it would be, but not ignored.
His trouble was that he had written his masterpiece in a language spoken only by around ten million people in a world population of several billion. There was simply no way a play in Daskalovian could be produced for a larger audience. At the same time, Grigori knew he could never allow anyone else to translate it for him. Hence his immersal studies in the language.
After six months, he was able to make a translation, to his satisfaction, in English. He was able to speak well enough to represent it. To his surprise, there were producers in England who took immediate interest, largely because of his role on Ambrosiano's last film. He had to put up with some unwanted celebrity from this, but finally, as the initial hoopla faded, Grigori was able to get the right people to listen.
His one and only request was for his name to be changed. This was to keep either Giovanni or Julie from knowing what he was up to. The name he chose was Dmitri Vrastor, the surname being the Dasklovian word for a conqueror or overcomer.
Indeed, what had he not overcome to reach this point? To be able to sit in a fine hall like this and choose actors for his own production. Really, it had seemed as if he had it all, coming to New York like this. But then he had a look at the list of names. The female ones.
Julie had signed up to audition for his play.
He felt an instant tightening in his groin. Did she know who he was? It was doubtful. He allowed no pictures. The name would have meant nothing to her. As far as she was concerned, it was just another audition. He could have her stricken, but that hardly seemed fair. Besides he was curious. What would she look like a year later? He was surprised she'd be here in New York and not in Los Angeles. Had something changed in her life?
Of course he could never give her the part. That would be a conflict of interest. But he could listen to her, view her with his face hidden, just for old time's sake. This was the point he was at when his assistant called out her name. He smiled thinking how he used to call her “Julya” because he could not say Julie. He smiled over many other things, too. Like how she had touched him and brightened his life. And how hollow things were now, even with all his success.
Maybe seeing her was not going to be such a good idea at all.
Merciful heaven, she was more beautiful than ever. She'd cut her hair short, bringing out the youth of her face. She was wearing jeans and a t shirt, looking totally comfortable. And sexy, too. That ass under the faded denim-how could he forget the feel of it? And the weight of her breasts in his hands. The shirt might disguise them, hiding them somewhat, but he knew their reality, how they responded to touch, to kisses and caresses. He longed to have them now, to have her.
Fists clenched, he squirmed in the seat. Let it be done, he thought, let this audition be through so he could reject her and move on. There was only one problem. As the small blonde opened her mouth speaking the words that he had written, it became immediately apparent that she was perfect for the part. No-that was an understatement. In truth, the part of Summer Lust had been written precisely and exactly for her. And if he did not choose her it would be a crime, against the play and against whatever audiences were destined to see it.
"Enough,” he called out.
"What is it, sir?” The assistant wanted to know. “Do you wish to move immediately on to the next auditioner?"
"No, I wish to go to my office and not be disturbed. For the rest of the afternoon."
"What about the actors?"
"Send them all home,” he pronounced. “I have a headache."
* * * *
Julie was sure she knew the voice from somewhere. But where would she have met the man? She wished now she'd done her homework, as to who he was and where he came from. Truth be told, she'd done so many of these auditions lately in between her double shifts waitressing at the Golden Triangle Deli that she wasn't really sure which end was up much less what the difference was between “Seasons of Lust” the play and Four Seasons, the hotel.
Admittedly, this was the easiest script she'd ever read in her life. One read through had been enough to memorize it. She was even confident enough to change one or two of the stage directions, adding little things she thought the character would do as she was talking. In some ways it was a little spooky-curious, at least. In the same way it was curious that the director was dismissing himself instead of her. Okay, she'd blown it. He didn't like her improves, whatever, there were a dozen more waiting in the wings to take their best shots, all of whom were at least as well qualified as her.
Yes, there was something fishy here. Something oddly familiar. In the voice, as in the script. But there was nothing she could link it to in her memory. That is until the assistant director responded to his boss injunction to shut down the audtions for the day.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Vrastor,” said the skinny, effeminate man. “Can we bring you some aspirin? Some cold compresses?"
Vrastor. Now that was a connection she could not ignore. Did this director have anything to do with Grigori? Their voices were similar, she'd thought of that earlier only to dismiss it. The man spoke almost no English, after all, and he was hardly in the market to be producing a hit play.
On the off chance, she called out his name. He made no reply as he stormed from the theater. He was large, though, as large as her bear wrestler and the hair was right, too.
"Grigori,” she cried, her sneakers bounding down the wooden stairs. There was no way to catch up with him. His booted feet and denim-clad legs were managing one step to her two. He did have to stop to close his office door behind him, however, and that's where she had him.
"Please, Grigori. I only want to talk."
Actually, she wanted more than that. The man looked lean and delicious, his cock nicely filling the Levis, his chest smoothly covered in a turtleneck. It had been so long for her-since the last time with him and Giovanni, actually.
"There is not anything to talk of,” he replied, though he let her in before closing the door.
She stood there, moist eyed. “Your English is so good, Grigori."
His frown deepened. “It is passable, that is all."
Julie licked her lips. How did she break ice like this? It was fate, them coming back together. She couldn't let the opportunity slip by. “I missed you,” she whispered.
Grigori was silent.
She moved to touch his cheek. He held her wrist in mid air. “I do not want this, Julie."
Julie felt a tugging at her heart. “You can say my name now.” It was a bittersweet thing; she was proud of him and yet there had been something so special about being his Julya.
He looked at the hand he help captive. “You are not married?"
"No,” she breathed. “There is no one…” She was going to say ‘no one else,’ but she stopped short.
Grigori nodded. “Your hair, it is good like this."
"You like it? I was afraid … well, I thought maybe the short hair wouldn't be pleasing.” Julie flushed red at the sound of her own babbling. She'd had no idea she'd see the man today or ever. How could she be standing here like a schoolgirl in the company of her first crush?
He released her wrist. “Your performance,” he said. “It was excellent … very pleasing."
She lowered her eyes. “Thank you, Grigori."
A moment later her hands were at the bottom of her t-shirt … oh, god, what was she doing?
"And these?” She asked softly, pulling the garment over her head to reveal her bra-clad breasts. “Are they pleasing also?"
Grigori's features tightened. She noticed some action in the groin area, too. “This is not a road to go down, Julie. It would be different now. I am different."
Her heart was beating like a rabbit's. Reaching behind her back, she unhooked the pink lace bra. “Different how?” She pulled it forward over her shoulders.
"When you knew me before, there was guilt inside me, a frozen wasteland. I burn now. There is no telling what that would do to a woman. I have not dared try, Julie, not since I was with you."
Her heart melted. “You … you saved yourself?"
"I saw no opportunities,” he corrected as the bra fell to the floor.
Julie stood bare breasted before the man, her mouth parched, her nipples twinged with heat. “Vrastoya,” she said.
He smiled wryly. “Vrastoya, for the vrastor."
She took a step closer, holding up her aching tits with both hands. “No other man has seen or touched these, Grigori. They were held in safe keeping for you."
"It will be different,” he warned once more. “I may not let you go so easily."
Boldly, she took his hands now and put them on her, gripping tight. “And maybe I do not want to be let go of."
He narrowed his hold to her nipples, applying just enough sweet pressure to make her exclaim, half a wince, half a moan. “Vrastroya."
The man did not relent, not till she was on her knees. “Grigori,” she sighed, burying her cheek against his clothed erection. “Please fuck my mouth."
"No,” he denied her. “I want you on the desk. You will take off all your clothes and lie on your back."
"Yes, Grigori.” She tore eagerly at the opening to her jeans. She was going to be fucked. The long dry spell was over and best of all it was one of the two men she cared about most in the world taking her. Her panties were sopping wet as she slid them down. Her fingers trembled as she rushed to get naked and put herself into position. Without even touching her, this man could drive her out of her mind. Far from fading, the fires of last year only burnt hotter now.
The desk was made of metal and it was cold on her flushed skin. She felt dirty and wicked crawling onto it, especially the way she was dripping between her legs. She spread her thighs wide as she glued her ass solidly to the surface. Planting both feet flat, she gave him an unencumbered view of her pussy.
"I am yours, Grigori,” her arms flopped over her head. “Use me, reject me, that will never change."
He pulled off the turtleneck, revealing the statuesque torso. “I dream of you,” he confessed. “Every night, in detail. That character I wrote. She is you, you know."
"I know,” she replied. “And Spring Lust is you. That leaves Winter Lust. The second male part. Should I take a guess?"
Grigori pulled off his boots and undid his buckle. “I used to call him the White Lion,” he explained. “In my language, that was how I referred to Giovanni."
"White,” she approved. “For winter and wisdom. The aging, majestic king of beasts. It fits."
She drew a sharp breath as he unzipped his pants. He wore no underwear. His cock, if anything was larger than she remembered, and thicker.
"Oh, god,” she cried, lifting her hips without shame. “I need it so bad. Fuck me, Grigori, please, I beg you."
"Do you surrender to me, wholly? To my power and to my wisdom?” He was masturbating, the slow rhythmic motion putting her into a lustful trance.
"But I'm ten years older,” she protested mildly.
"I will have you no other way … Julya."
The sound of her mispronounced name burned through her like flames through dried brush. “I surrender, Grigori. It is what I want. If you wish, I shall call you Master."
"My first name will do, though there is another to whom you owe a slave's allegiance."
"Giovanni,” she sighed as Grigori pulled her by the hips to the edge of the desk.
"Giovanni,” he repeated, his cock finding her hole with ease.
The pair of them was fused in a single heartbeat, the man's shaft fully immersed and bathed in her sweet, yearning cavity. There was no denying the fit, the keen remembering. So this is what she had worked so hard to put out of her mind. At least half of it, anyway. The other half was the mercurial Maestro, Giovanni, whose direction and wisdom and passion she craved so very much.
"Julya,” he cried out, his cock swelling in preparation for relief.
She clenched him tightly, her own muscles spasming in readiness. They came together, calling each other's names, clinging tightly to one another for dear life. Her legs were locked tight behind his buttocks and her hands were clasping his back, fingers splayed over the corded muscles. His sharp, stabbing breaths pressed his chest against her swollen nipples, sending tidal currents to the center of her sex. His semen spurted, on and on, till she felt like there was nothing inside her but him. What a privilege to be a woman at such a moment, feeling the full power of a man inside her, the full measure of his lust.
Or could it be more? Certainly they were sexually compatible, and probably always would be, but was the rest of it there, too-the magical affection and sweet glow of companionship that would burn well into old age.
"Grigori, I have to know,” she sighed. “Do you love me? Tell me the truth, or I swear I will die."
Lifting her off the desk, Grigori continued to hold her, her weight nothing to him. She let him kiss her, deep and solid. Soon she felt him rising against her all over again. The air filled with her scent in response. He nibbled at her neck and then at her earlobe.
So this was her answer, she thought. He wanted more sex and that was all. But then he spoke to her, the most amazing words of all.
"Julya?” He asked, in a tight hot whisper. “Marry me?"
"Yes,” she replied without hesitation, scarcely believing her good luck. “A thousand times, yes."
The two of them were approaching with clasped hands. There was no mistaking they were a couple. Giovanni tried feeling happy but for them, but nothing came into his heart save a kind of bitter gall. Who were these two actors of his to find a peace without him and then to come and rub his nose in it?
He dabbed the paintbrush in the pallet, mixing a bit of sky blue. His sudden bitterness had caught him off guard. These last months at the seaside, doing his humble paintings had cleared him of so much of his old animosity and restlessness. What was it about seeing Grigori and Julie, in love, that made him so furious?
Giovanni did not bother to get up from his seat. He was a foot into the surf, pants rolled up, sitting in his chair before his easel attempting to recreate yet another ocean landscape. It was therapy and up to now he'd been satisfied with it. Except with these two coming, in their matching khaki shorts and white shirts it was a little hard to think of his life here, alone in this cottage as little more than a pitiful, cowardly exile.
He pretended to paint as they waded through the water. They were a dozen feet away when he picked up the canvas and flung it as far into the ocean as he could manage. He tossed the easel next and finally the chair. Breathing heavily, he glared at the horizon.
"Well I consider this an improvement,” said Julie. “At least now you're trying to drown inanimate objects and not yourself."
The Maestro scowled. The remark was funny, though he was not in the mood to laugh. “As a painter,” he confessed, turning to face the couple he himself had created. “I leave much to be desired."
"As a discus thrower, too,” she noted as the canvas floated back, bumping her in the knee.
"Giovanni,” said Grigori, leaving the comedy to Julie. “You are wasting yourself here. The world needs you."
Giovanni noted the matching gold rings on their fingers. In no uncertain terms, he told them what the world could do with itself.
"Why don't you do it to us instead?” Julie grinned.
Grigori nudged her, prompting her to lower herself with him to one knee. Holding out a plush black ring box, he said, “Giovanni Ambrosiano, will you marry us?"
Believe it or not, the Maestro had heard stranger proposals in his life. “I am tired,” he shook his head. “Flattered, but tired. Find blood that runs as fast as your own."
"We don't want other blood,” said Julie. “We want yours."
Now it was her prompting Grigori so they could both remove their shirts. Their chests were as smooth and flawless and gender appropriate as he'd remembered-the man's sharp and muscular, the woman's healthy and curved.
"You are both crazy,” he shook his head.
"Probably,” Julie concurred.
Grigori dunked his head to kiss the man's feet. “Maestro,” he resurfaced. “Claim us, possess us and mold us. We need you. You are half of our whole."
Julie was working on Giovanni's trousers, exposing him.
"I am a terrible bore to live with,” he said. “I am argumentative and I hate to share the blankets."
"Then we'll stay where it's too warm to need them,” Julie reasoned, exposing his cock.
Giovanni sighed, putting his hands on her shoulders. “No one has touched me since we parted ways,” he confessed. “There has been no one else."
"For us either.” Grigori said, wading behind Giovanni to help pull down his pants. “Our hearts found no home but with each other … but we need you, too."
He let them pull off his pants. It was difficult to ignore this sort of persuasion, the beautiful Daskalovian kissing his ass cheeks and the equally beautiful American kissing his genitals. His cock responded happily, eager to feel those familiar lips.
"I've missed you both,” he confessed. “Terribly."
It was a hard thing to say, terrifying even. To admit such feelings was to make himself vulnerable. And to a triad-how much more fragile was that than a conventional one-on-one relationship? Still, there was more here than just the sex. These two reopened the veins to his youth. It was no accident, it seemed, that he had chosen them for his film. It had indeed reflected personal desire.
Julie's mouth wrapped round him while Grigori's tongue probed teasingly from behind. He wanted them both, every part of them at once. He wanted to roll with them in the ocean, to lock arms and legs, to lick and nibble and be washed away again and again in the salt water. The rising tide taking them and their desire, filling and emptying again and again.
Magically, the rest of their clothes disappeared. Their bodies made their impressions in the sand and they interlocked themselves, hands feverish and mouths. Youth and age, Italian, Daskalovian and English moans, one woman, two men, living out an ancient story, but still unique to them.
Giovanni was greedy this time, wanting the come of both his partners in his mouth. He swallowed from each, enjoying their boisterous orgasms. Following this, he laid on his back so they could love him, kissing and caressing till he exploded deep into Julie's pussy as she rode him on into the afternoon.
Finally, when all were satisfied, they laid together, no words, just a huddling, sure and absolute. The Maestro did not seek to fight back the tears but let them mingle with the salt water. He was happy. Vulnerable, open, and happy. All three together, for the first time in his life.
Three feelings, three lovers, three wishes.
Happily ever after.