Captured!--On Film Page 2

  Julie wanted his hands on her ass. She needed that snugness, that feeling of being claimed by the big, strong brute with the heart of the teddy bear. Using a single hand, shameless, she reached behind her back to show him in universal me-so-horny language exactly what the score was.

  Ambrosiano was less jazzed by the scene. “Enough!” He cried. “No more! No good. It is no good."

  The men with the cameras bowed and backed off. New assistants rushed in. One had a glass of wine for the director, another brought a black cape to sling over his shoulders.

  Ambrosiano, long ago dubbed as the Maestro for his role as a teaching director, refused all placation. “It is finished,” he announced, all trace of emotion gone from his voice. “I have failed. The picture is ruined. I will never direct again."

  Shit, thought Julie, now who's going to pay my plane fare home?

  * * * *

  Grigori Alexey Romanin ached with pain as the yellow haired female pulled away from him. He had needed her, wanted her as no other and now she was being denied him. Her scent, her sex, her soft curves, he had desired the whole of her, to conquer her world and be conquered by it. One kiss and he was captivated.

  But the director had called out something in his native Italian. They were all moving. The filming was being stopped again. Grigori tried to understand what was going on with the maker of motion pictures, the exquisitely beautiful white haired man who was so full of wisdom and who had kissed him once after a show in Krakow, giving him a feeling not unlike what he had now. Indescribable, beyond arousal.

  The Director was in mortal pain-Grigori saw this, he felt it. Not the sort of pain he might feel in his tawny, smooth body, but a pain in his heart.

  They had displeased him somehow. He and the lovely yellow haired woman both. They were not giving Ambrosiano what he needed. Not enough from their own hearts and out of their own lust. Grigori had thought he'd known lust before meeting this man whom he now called the White Lion. But he had been as a mere virgin then, without experience.

  Yes, Grigori had taken his share of the women who had thrown themselves at him all his adult life. This one here, this one whose name sounded like Julya, was no exception. She was the rule. One look at his god given physique and females had always melted. The approach they took to his cock alone approached the sort of religious worship that under the old order of the communists would have been considered illegal.

  As a member of the Traveling Circus Extravaganza of Sergei Leontov, he had been treated to such worship frequently, and often by two or even three girls at a time. Gymnasts and pretty dancers who would kneel at his feet fighting for the chance to taste him. Grigori was greatly flattered and aroused as well. He enjoyed women, desired them above all things. They were curvy and soft, marvels of creation, their eye pleasing bodies responding so miraculously to male attentions. How could he ever grow tired of chewing a nipple to waken it from slumber, hardening the sleepy, languid bud into a firm ripe grape? Or a pussy-his fingers beckoning the beautiful, intricate flowers to gush open, creating the moisture necessary to take a man's cock between her legs.

  None of them would ever be like Katyana, though. She was the first and the best. They had been together the summer before he went off to the army. They were from the same village. He was nineteen and she was twenty. She lived with her uncle, a successful farmer. They'd been very much in love, the kind of love that comes at first sight, and only when one is very young. Cultivated, it can last forever. Neglected, it sows only the seeds of life long regret.

  Losing himself to her that very first night, drowning in the fragrance of her dark hair, the scent of her ripened pussy had been the greatest experience of his life. They had made love on the grass, behind her house, under the light of the moon, wolves howling in the distance. Her body was pure and glowing. A hunger filled him that he knew could be satisfied only in her. She met him stroke for stroke, bite and kiss, tug and pull. They moaned and sighed and came and came.

  Many more women had followed, but there was none to take her place. He could have, should have done more to keep Katyana, but inside himself was always a voice to say he did not deserve so great a love. Had he not lost his own mother, also dark haired and beautiful, when he was five? And his sister after that? Was this not his path of suffering as the old priest Mikhail, with his foot long gray beard had told him?

  Thus had he ignored Katyana's letters and her calls to him at the military camp, and when he'd seen her at the café, encountering her by accident while at home on leave the next winter, he had pretended not to know her, breaking both their hearts forever. It was a pain he had pushed deep down and used only for his battles against Sergei's black bears and against the Uzbeks he hired to fight him in the ring.

  Never had he dreamed another would see that pain, much less interpret something in it no one else had ever known, not even himself. It was The White Lion who had accomplished this, coming to him that fateful night, after the show in Krakow, approaching him in the dressing room, scented of spice, dressed in white. The man had given to him two things: the kiss and a note which he could translate inviting him to make this movie.

  Grigori was naked at the time of the kiss, having just toweled himself dry after a shower. The White Lion made his cock so hard it hurt and more than anything he had wanted to go to his knees and serve, taking the man into his mouth in devotion and obedience. It was as if he were the woman, the pleasure object. Ambrosiano refused, leaving him with a smile-and the invitation.

  It was the honor of a lifetime, any lifetime, but Grigori had ruined that opportunity, squandered it with his own petty weakness. He had been brittle as wood in his performances for the cameras, no more alive than the fetters attached to his flesh. If only he had been stronger, if only he had the vision to see behind the director's eyes. Then he would know how to act for him.

  The slap in the face had been a taste of it, a crisp, bracing reminder of what was possible. Pain to focus on. Male to male pain. With this twisting sting came pleasure, too. Grigori had never considered himself homosexual and yet the White Lion had made him erect with a single touch of his lips that fateful night. The contact had awakened a curiosity. Grigori, to his amazement had actually wondered for the first time in his life what it might be like to love a man. To give himself fully for even a night. What would Ambrosiano do to him? Would he take him from behind, making him give up his asshole to a hard throbbing dick? There was no greater shame in his culture and yet thoughts and images had been running through his mind ever since.

  Forbidden scenarios. Ambrosiano allowing him to swallow his semen, to kiss and lick his body, himself groveling and begging to be taken, like a woman. Or being made love to by the man himself, being sucked and loved.

  In large part it was the desire to pursue those hidden urges that had led him here, though he would admit this to no one. How tragic, then, that it was all to end now, before he'd had a chance to really look into the depths of his own soul and its myriad possibilities.

  Was there a chance, still, to turn things around? He thought maybe yes, though it was a slim one. Ripping the skirt from his body, he revealed the living staff so often sought and speculated upon by his audiences. It was large and thick by any standards. Especially when it was erect, as it was now. With a beefy fist he grasped it, just as he did on those infrequent occasions when he could find no woman to satisfy his pleasure.

  Looking to the White Lion he called out his sorrow in his native tongue, unabashedly asking what to do, how to use this cock of his to please. The director pointed in turn to the woman, to the sexy, flaxen haired American with the pure, smooth body and the dancing green eyes.

  A single word escaped the director's lips in reply. Grigori did not know it. The music of the man's language was a mystery to him, just as the robust tones of Grigori's own tongue were unknown to him. For the former soldier, wrestler and performer, however, just twenty-five years old, there was in the word a clear meaning to be found, nonetheless. Intuited real
ly.

  Redemption. The White Lion was giving him a chance to redeem himself, and the woman, too. Did he intend to film it? Grigori did not know, but he would take the female and the cameras would record the act or not as the man wished. She was light as a feather, born to be scooped up into the arms of a strong man. Her exclamations of surprise only added to her charm. It was good to free himself like this, to allow himself to act upon what his loins had wanted the first moment he had laid eyes upon her in halter-top and cut off jeans what seemed like months ago now.

  The firmness of her flesh as she squirmed against him pleased Grigori very much. She kept her body well toned, better than many women his own age. It would be a pleasure to penetrate her, to breathe her in and wrap himself fully in her energy and humor. She was a woman who smiled much, and often at herself, which was a good thing.

  He would give her much to smile about soon himself; all he had to do was find a nice big bed somewhere. Preferably one with posts and some rope.

  * * * *

  "Put me down!” Cried the barefoot, barely decent Julie. Had the Dasklovian gone crazy-first stripping himself naked and then lifting her up like some kind of caveman? Granted, she'd been fantasizing along these lines herself, but this was reality. There were people watching. Professional movie people who did not want to see a woman swept off her feet, literally, by a bare assed man with a mammoth cock.

  Stars and planets-they were on the move now. Where was he taking her?

  "Ambrosiano,” she cried out, forgetting the signore business, “tell him to put me down."

  "I don't direct films in Dasklovian,” said the sullen director, sounding like Pilate washing his hands of all responsibility.

  "Help, somebody!” She cried out as he carried her down the hall, still wriggling quite ineffectually against a wall of muscle. “I'm going to be raped!"

  It was hyperbole, of course, given her high level of sexual heat and desire for the man, but still, she did not wish to appear overly easy. Otherwise, she would find herself fending off advances from the director's staff, which made such a specialty of undressing her with their eyes she felt like she was wasting everyone's time even bothering with clothes.

  The entourage, having been appealed to directly, turned to Ambrosiano for guidance.

  "Sheep,” he dismissed with utter contempt. “What use have I for a roomful of sheep? Go-do as you wish. Watch for all I care; beg for a turn yourselves.

  Julie cringed. He did not just say that...

  Unfortunately, there was no time to react. Julie's heart did a flip as Grigori found what he'd been looking for. A nearby room with a large canopy bed, intricately carved, the wood dark and heavy. He threw her down on the blood red bedspread, her behind bouncing nicely.

  "This ... wrong,” she said, as if leaving out the verb would somehow make it easier for him to understand. “Me,” she touched her breast. “No ... available."

  And yet she was available, as evidenced by what it did to her anatomy just to say the word. Available and willing, too. There was no but herself to blame for this predicament. She'd sent her signals out, and look where it had ended her up. Painted into a corner. About to be made to put her money where her kissing mouth had gotten her.

  And what woman in her right mind would argue? This Dasklovian wrestler would put a Greek god to shame with his chiseled body of pure muscle and his square, noble jaw and chin line. Everything about him only added to the look, the aesthetics. His nudity, his mammoth erection; all this spoke to his manly naturalness, while the scars said he was a fighter, too, not a mere dreamer.

  "Vrastoya,” he said, looming above her. She scooted back on the bed, desperate to avoid his slightest touch. If he fucked her now, there would be no professional rapport between them and the picture would be all but ruined. And the door was open, too, which meant that at any moment Ambrosiano could come in or any of the people he'd invited to watch her being ravished.

  "Grigori, be reasonable..."

  Grigori was on a wavelength all his own. Seizing the neck of the negligee, he shredded it, exposing her completely. “Vrastoya,” he repeated.

  Julie was panting, naked for real now. Whatever vrastoya meant it was not an invitation to play backgammon.

  Damn it, why was he still looking at her like he wanted her to do something? Was she supposed to rub her tits, call him big boy, suck him off or what?

  "I don't know any vrastoya,” she insisted. “And I haven't got my pocket translator handy, so why don't we—"

  Grigori released a low growl, indicating mild frustration. Removing the shreds of the garment, handling her just as nicely as a poseable doll, he put her arms over her head and gathered them together, using the remains of the silk.

  Two knots later and Julie was in bondage, her wrists secured.

  "Vrastoya,” he proclaimed decisively, positioning her ankles as widely apart as they were designed to go.

  Well, that was one mystery solved, she thought dryly. Vrastoya meant ‘let's get it on’ or maybe ‘prepare for penetration by your hung-like-a-horse lover.'

  She'd certainly had worse invitations. This man had not only the body but lips and a tongue; she knew that much already. Not that she much cared for peripherals given that cock of his. Speaking of which, she wanted it now. Bucking her hips, she tried to speed along the inevitable, inviting him to try her out, dipstick style.

  Grigori rewarded her with a stinging slap to her hip. “Vrastoya,” he said.

  Interesting. So this vrastoya business was more than sex, it was about the man being in charge. Julie creamed in immediate recognition. The man had put her in her place. She would await him-his moves, his pleasure. With pure adoration and pure lust on her face she regarded him. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Grigori."

  Her heart was pounding. She'd played with ropes before and had had boyfriends tie her for mutual pleasure, but this was different. This was dominance, the male taking power and control, just like in the animal kingdom. It was new, very new, but she wanted to see it through.

  Laying himself along side of her, Grigori went to work. He began with her nipples, clamping each in turn between his pearl white teeth. With one hand he held her wrists while the other strayed down her belly, tracing maddening lines over the taut, concave surface. She arched her back, moaning in anticipation.

  He was going to play with her pussy. Oh, yes, he was going to part those complex, throbbing lips and give her the taunting and the teasing ... and the fulfillment she needed.

  "Please,” she hissed, dragging the word out into several syllables. “Touch me."

  He made her kiss him first. She did all the work this time, pressing and twisting her lips, begging him to take her open mouth, to plunder it and subdue her tongue. It was meant to further reduce her, to make her vrastoya, conquerable, completely and inarguably ready to be a man's sex toy.

  Expertly, his fingers slid into place. With the tiniest of motions, he had Julie writhing. Just a few seconds, clenching on his knuckle, just a minute to rub her clit against him and she would be there ... over the brink experiencing what already promised to be one of the best orgasms she'd ever had in her life.

  "Need ... to ... come...” She exclaimed.

  The wrestler turned actor denied her. Kissing her cheek, softly but with diabolic intent, he brought her back down. Her body, covered in sweat, continued to spasm, seeking the needed stimulation for climax. Waiting till her breathing had slowed enough, he began the process again, nibbling at her breasts and reawakening her yearning pussy.

  This time he had only to press down on her hooded clit for a second to push her instantly to the brink.

  "Grigori, please,” she wept as he held her back yet again. “I can't handle anymore."

  Grigori placed his come-soaked finger to her lips. “Vrastoya,” he rasped, employing what now appeared to be the all-purpose sex word in his language.

  "Vrastoya,” she replied, delicately kissing the tip of his finger. She found the taste of herself to
be pungent, but not unpleasant. Dabbing with her tongue, she licked at the tip of it, meekly, but also passionately. No lover had ever made her do this before. Then again, no one had ever brought her to the point where she'd sell her soul for a chance to climax.

  Popping it in her mouth, Julie went to work. She'd show him vrastoya. Thirsty mouth, thirsty pussy, a little blonde dynamo who'd knocked a few socks off in her day, thank you very much. Cooperative, perky Julie. Cheerleader Julie who'd been there in the back seat of her boyfriend's car, the night of her eighteenth birthday to give it up.

  And before that, in all innocence as a child. All her life, enchanting the men around her. Make them love you, Julie. Don't get your white dress dirty and keep your ribbons straight. A thousand strokes a day to your flaxen hair, make mama proud. Papa's watching, always, from his cockpit in the sky, gleaming white teeth, spotless uniform of blue. Salute him Julie and marry one just as good.

  Such a long way from Ashview, Iowa to Hollywood and from there to here, a rented villa under the aegis of Ambrosiano and his doomed film. What an ending to the journey. Begging a muscleman for sex, hoping someone will buy her broke ass a plane ticket somewhere, a town, anywhere with a diner she could wait tables at, shaking it for the truckers and collecting on those hefty thirty percent tips.

  Grigori took hold of her left breast in his hand. “Joo-lya,” he called her name, with such feeling she wanted to melt completely into his eyes. “Vrastoya girta."

  Did this mean what she thought it did? Could it have something to do with the “L” word?

  His motions between her legs had changed. He was no longer teasing but settling his hand in place for the duration. She began to shudder against him at once. There would be no holding back, no maintenance of lady-like dignity. She would be taking her orgasm hard and fast.