Captured!--On Film Read online

  "Oh, fuck,” she exclaimed through clenched teeth. “Oh, Grigori, fucking fuck!"

  Grigori held her down, applying just enough pressure to counter the explosions within. She thrust herself against him, against his hand cupping her breast and his other hand, working her sex. Never had she felt so yet completely possessed and yet the man's cock was still inside her.

  How a bear wrestler learned to make a female come like this she had no clue, but she was not about to complain. In all he gave her three orgasms, back to back, no let up, no mercy. Each was larger than the last, concentric rings, cataclysms of such magnitude she would never have been able to endure them-or manufacture them alone.

  They were like cyclones, imploding, tearing apart the walls of her reality, blowing everything wide open with animal intensity. Compared to this, every other encounter in her life had been child's play.

  "Grigori, take me,” she cried when she'd found her voice again. “Give it to me with that great big cock-fuck me silly, do you hear? Shove it into me till I can't see straight."

  She wasn't sure if the man had understood her or not, but he was shifting his position all of a sudden, climbing astride her. She felt woozy at the sight of him, kneeling between her legs, slowly stroking, running his hand up and down the length of his incredible erection. He paid special attention to the vein underneath, ridged and bluish purple. She'd only ever known one other man with a cock this size. It had been a joke of nature in that case, a complete waste on a five foot five inch, flabby body, but it had gotten him some pretty good gigs as a leading man in the adult film industry.

  On Grigori, on the other hand, a dick like this was just right. Exactly in proportion for his larger than life body and persona. He seemed enraptured touching himself like this. Indeed, if she had a body like that she would spend all day masturbating in a mirror. Then again, if she had a body like that she'd probably be out chasing women, not admiring her self.

  Truly, he was so big that even his own hand took time running the length of it. For a split second she wondered about being able to fit him. Too late now, though. She was in this for the distance. There was no way he was going to budge till he'd finished himself off.

  Uh oh. His eyes had slid shut. He wasn't going to come like this, was he? She wanted that load inside her pussy, not all over her stomach. “Grigori, wake up,” she complained, though he wasn't exactly asleep.

  The eyes reopened, brown, full of sudden sadness, echoing things centuries old. It was like this with every European man she'd ever been with, even the seemingly non-intellectual ones like Grigori. Their gazes instantly intent, mature beyond the dreams of most Americans males, their faces full of expression, most of it unreadable.

  From her experience it was a fleeting thing. Best to strike while the iron was hot, that was the best advice in a situation like this.

  "Fuck me,” she said unabashedly, her one-time cheerleader's belly rippling enticingly. “Make me take that bad boy ... every inch."

  He clenched his teeth, releasing a breath. The tip of his cock breached the petal-shaped gateway. It was a slow, sweet slipping, a descent, down and dirty ... Julie loved this part, getting to know a new cock, showing it the ropes, making it feel at home. She always felt so alive, so needed, so female and fun with a cock planted inside her. There were times, when she was with some certain special man on a regular basis, that she'd wished she could take their shafts with her everywhere she went, greedily squeezing on them all day long, coming around their velvet coated rods as many times as she liked.

  But this one, this shaft wasn't something a woman claimed ... it was something that claimed her. Inch by inch, driving from her mind every other thought, every other possibility and reality except for the fucking. This perfect, male body, coming closer and closer, set to fuse, to ignite with hers in that most ancient of dances.

  The woman on her back on the quilted red bedspread, forever, hands tied together in soft silk, ankles spread by command, forced into wanton complicity and compliance. Begging release upon a foreign shore, waves lulling her from the nearby window, beams of afternoon sun splaying the parquet floor, the ancient, tapestry covered walls awakening things, teaching things.

  It was here, in this mood, this setting, that Grigori found virgin depths to plumb. Her-Julie Summers, jaded would-be bombshell-was being made fresh again, only to be immediately had in a brand new way.

  "So ... sweet,” she slurred, her body drunk with desire, the right words, the really good ones, eluding her. “Don't ... stop."

  Grigori didn't. He wanted and achieved the full immersion of his straining, long-suffering cock. She was proud and awed to take him so completely like this; was he suitably impressed and pleased with his tiny American doll woman? Bound and spread and kissed to utter blonde vapidity? Clenching tiny fists, Julie awaited the inevitable partial withdrawal. The fucking was about to start, for real. She could feel it in his heartbeat. She could see it in the straining sinews at his neck.

  "Ju-lya...” said her hero, the gladiator-slave turned conqueror.

  She said his name in reply as he began his thrusts, slow and measured, disciplined. Her slick channel grabbed at him, trying to entice him to more friction. She had speed limits in here-why wasn't he breaking them? Julie could feel the frustration building again, the liquid pouring out of her, the natural lubricant for the pistoning she was needing and not yet receiving.

  He wasn't going to tease her all over again was he?

  "Come inside me,” she cried, arching her back and wrapping her legs to lock him in place. “Do it, just the way you want to. Show me ... I'm your woman."

  Julie had no idea why she'd just said such a thing. Even if he couldn't understand a word of it, she had no wish to be this or any man's woman. She wanted to get her rocks off again, say thank you to Signor Ambrosiano, for what was a most unforgettable, if not technically a good time, and then be on her way.

  Grigori must have picked up the gist of her plea. Rearing back his head, he slammed himself hard, pelvis to pelvis.

  'That's it, you mother fucking bear fighter! Do it to me! Make me howl!” Julie's speech came in short stabs of breath as she held to him for dear life. The man was like a machine, pulverizing, pounding the daylights out of her. The springs of the bed were crying for mercy and she was half afraid he would fuck her straight through the floor.

  She swore at him, calling every name she could think to. In turn she promised to be everything dirty and wicked for him. “Make me your whore ... fucking own me,” she challenged.

  He clamped down on her tit like indeed it was his private property. This was all it took to push her over the edge. “Coming ... for you,” she panted. “My ... wild beast."

  Grigori's sad haunted eyes slid back in his head. The croaking sound from his throat sounded like half pleasure, half death rattle.

  "Fill me up, baby,” she implored. “Pump me full of your hot come."

  His orgasm was like a firestorm, wasting everything in its path. His skin was hot to the touch. He was like a man twisting and agonizing in the desert, cracked open from the heat of the sun. And yet within, like a water cactus, flowed the stuff of life. His precious semen.

  "Piovare...” she heard. “Potare. Preparare."

  Another voice repeated the words as a tight beam of camera light shone on Grigori's ass. It was Ambrosiano and his ridiculous assistants, filming their sex act.

  "Signore,” she protested to the tall, white haired man standing over them, frowning, arms folded. “This is an outrage."

  The director frowned, folding his arms. “I direct no more. This is life; control it yourselves."

  In the background his two secretaries and a visiting professor from Bologna broke out into applause. “Bravo,” they cheered the mini manifesto. “Bravo."

  This fawning only seemed to irritate the man. “Grigori!” He thundered. “Leave the woman be!"

  The Dasklovian was just now collapsing upon the breast of Julie, his hair fanning about her fa
ce, the musky scent of him filling her nostrils, making her want a second go around already.

  "Grigori!” He said again. “Have you understood a word I've said?"

  "Of course he hasn't,” Julie protested, stunned at the man's sudden lapse of reason. “He can't speak English anymore than he can Italian."

  Ambrosiano snorted. “We are born to speak and understand every language. That is the legacy of Babel.” Snapping his fingers he called for something in Italian.

  Julie tensed as one of the secretaries, a small dark haired beauty in a tight leather skirt and red turtleneck, produced for the Maestro a rattan cane, some three feet in length. Twice he whistled it through the air in practice. Seeing the man's intent, Julie squealed for Grigori to protect himself.

  It was too late. The device was on Grigori's ass like a heat seeking missile. Ambrosiano must have hit him full strength, but the man barely budged. Three more times the cane's punishing blows were delivered, and still he made no effort to protect himself. In fact, the stoic wrestler had actually put himself on all fours above her to give the man better access.

  "Ambrosiano, leave him alone, you sadistic bastard!"

  "The woman speaks,” the director reviled. “Always, everything in the world comes down to the centrality of the woman. Thus are we damned at birth.” Ambrosiano tapped the hip of the well-beaten Grigori. “Off,” he said imperiously.

  "Get up,” she pushed at Grigori's chest. “Don't let yourself be hurt anymore."

  Grigori stood, reluctantly.

  "Behold the man,” said the mad director, outlining the welts with the tip of the cane. “L'uomo ecco."

  "You're a prick,” Julie told the Maestro.

  Ambrosiano laughed darkly, as if the irony were too great to bear. “Now you have intensity..."

  "Yes,” she agreed, having nothing to lose. “I do. You want to see a little more of my female intensity? Hear, film this."

  Julie lifted her hips and blew a kiss to the cameramen. “I'm sure this will be at least as interesting as what you have so far.” Opening her pussy lips wide she said, “Come on, boys, you don't want to miss this, do you? Greatest show on earth."

  Julie masturbated for them now, using the fingers of her left hand to hit the sweet spot, the tiny head of her clitoris, which up till Grigori no one but herself had managed to work so expertly. She felt wanton and wicked, knowing she was turning these men on-and probably pissing off Ambrosiano, too.

  That was the best part. The man had it coming for what he'd done to Grigori, whipping him like a slave in front of all these others. Why had the man endured it? Even more incredibly, why had there been a light in Grigori's eyes, an intensity she'd not seen even in the height of sex? Was the Dasklovian a masochist? Ambrosiano was probably taking advantage of the fact, but he'd not get the better of her that way. She'd out shame him, outrage him, and out last him.

  "You're not filming, Signore. Why not?"

  Ambrosiano snapped his fingers. “Leave us,” he said to his entourage.

  "You don't frighten me,” she announced when the others were gone. To the extent this was true, it was because Grigori had stayed where he was beside her bed.

  "No, but you frighten yourself. Tonight,” he informed her. “You will be punished."

  "Punished? For what?” She laughed, attempting to hide the butterflies in her stomach behind her derision.

  Giovanni turned away from his leading lady, hand frozen mid stroke, no longer playing with herself. “That is what you will have to tell me, my dear."

  "I'm not playing your games,” she said. “In fact, I insist you drive me to the airport at once."

  Ambrosiano left, ignoring her.

  "I mean it,” she cried. “I am not staying here-I'm going back to LA where at least I know what kind of weirdos I'm dealing with."

  "Jul-ya,” said Grigori, sinking to one knee beside the bed, shocking her yet again with his passionate attentions to her person. “Doan..."

  Doan? What on earth could that mean?

  "Doan ... tuh..."

  "Don't,” she exclaimed. “You said don't."

  "Doan-tuh,” he nodded somberly. “Doantuh go."

  Her belly clenched. He was asking her to stay-presumably with him. But had he any clue what he was letting himself in for really? Did he know her any better than Ambrosiano? The whole situation was a disaster waiting to happen.

  "Grigori, the picture has been called off.” She ran the edges of her hand across her neck trying to symbolize something dead in the water. “No more. Our job here ... done."

  He took the hand she'd just been illustrating her point with and put it to his lips. “Vrastoya girta, Julya."

  This time it wasn't overpowering sex he wanted, though she almost could have wished it were, given the discomfort she felt at having her hand kissed.

  "You don't fight fair,” she told him. “You know that?"

  His grin washed away her fears, not to mention making her toes curl. This in turn made her think of Ambrasiano's pronouncement concerning punishment. It was going to be a long night, she thought. Long indeed.

  Chapter Two

  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.