Captured!--On Film

by Reese Gabriel

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  Renaissance

  www.renebooks.com

  Copyright ©2005 Reese Gabriel

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CAPTURED!—On Film

  By

  REESE GABRIEL

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  ISBN 1-58873-606-7

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2005 by R. Gabriel

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information contact:

  Renaissance E Books

  Email comments@renebooks.com

  A Sizzler/B&D Edition

  Chapter One

  The director shouted “Action!"

  Julie Summers held her breath, her healthy pink nipples peaking beneath the costume negligee, white silk, circa Julius Caesar. She was on a pink marble balcony overlooking the deep blue Mediterranean, the shimmering waters warmed by the noonday sun. Doing her best to keep in character as an ancient Roman matron, she confronted the tower of gladiatorial manhood before her.

  He was a blue-eyed Adonis wearing nothing but a leather mini-skirt and a set of prop shackles. With his hands secured behind his back, his well-developed pectorals and washboard abdomen stood out even more prominently. His bronzed skin was moist from tiny droplets of sprayed water trickling enticingly down the V of his torso toward his solid, narrow waist. It was all she could do to keep from licking the artificial sweat dry, dabbing at his smooth muscles with her tiny, greedy tongue.

  Things were even more tempting below the waist. The skirt was far too short to hide his muscular thighs and legs. The material was also tight, which meant there was no disguising the outline of his crotch. Suffice it to say that the cock he was hiding in there was very much in proportion to the rest of him. Super size and no doubt super scrumptious.

  The director had outdone himself with his casting. A more perfect figure of a modern gladiator could not be found than this Russian. Down to the scars across the man's left breast, four parallel, rake-like lines, the remains of slashes won not in the Coliseum in Rome, but in a Kiev circus, wrestling a full-grown black bear. He had another scar across his left bicep, a deep, jagged groove that only added to the overall mystique of his persona.

  Her lips twitched. His name was Grigori and he was too close for comfort. Way too close. Smelling of musk and leather and sea salt. Six foot one inch tall with a body of iron and the face of Michelangelo's David. Thoughtful, confident, sensitive yet indisputably masculine in his features. The ideal man in any woman's dream, complete with long curly hair, black as a raven's wing. A one of a kind chest hairless and smooth, made to be caressed by an adoring female and a dimpled chin and strong, masculine lips made to be kissed, the woman on tiptoes to reach him.

  Small, feminine lips, proffered, seeking to please, begging attention. Craving the contact of skin on skin, her flimsy clothing ripped away as she is put in her place beneath him, screaming out in pleasure as he fucks and fucks and fucks, his rock hard wrestler's body swallowing hers, the shaft of him threatening to explode the walls of her poor needy, frustrated pussy, making her cry out for him to stop and also not to stop ... never ever to stop.

  Oh, god, how much more of this could she take?

  I'm a professional, she thought. I'm an actress making a movie, playing the part of a wealthy Roman beauty about to ravish her new slave. This is passion to be turned on and off like a spigot. Manufactured for the camera. Except these swollen nipples of hers were pretty real. And the wetness inside her pussy, the tell tale liquid dripping from between her honeyed lips, that was pretty real, too.

  I must really be losing it, she thought. Then again, this was no ordinary movie she making. This was a creation of Giovanni Ambrosiano. The Giovanni Ambrosiano. At age 54, the man was a lean, chiseled, charismatic genius, a god of the industry, universally regarded to be the most brilliant filmmaker in the world, capable of stripping an actor naked to his or her soul with a single glance, a single frown of his sculpted lips.

  No one was immune from his power. Producers trembled in his presence, investors opened checkbooks without question, authorities cowered, religious and political alike. He was a living mystery, a walking icon. No one understood Ambrosiano. No one.

  This latest venture of his was no exception. A movie consisting of one man, one woman, no script. A day and a half into shooting and they had already changed locations twice and gone through five different time periods for the setting. No matter who they were supposed to be, though, each time they filmed it would boil down to this: The two of them, in front of each other, scantily clad, close enough to lose all personal space but not close enough to kiss or seek relief through any form of touch.

  It was a recipe for utter frustration. Julie had never wanted a man like she had Grigori-never wanted to get at a body so much or unlock the mystery of a pair of bottomless eyes like these. Strange and yet not strange. There was pain there, something all too familiar. She had this feeling they would connect in so many ways, though he could not even speak English.

  All in all it was sheer torment. He'd been constantly with her, on top of her every moment and she could do nothing, nothing at all for relief. At this point, she could only hope the heavy scent of her arousal was being adequately covered by the various complex odors around them: the brine of the shallow sea, the sweet jasmine of her perfume and the pungent mix of onions, tomatoes and oregano cooking in the kitchen of this latest villa they had rented for filming. Not to mention the strong cologne of all these Italian men working on the shoot.

  "Closer,” coached Ambrosiano in his thick, rolling accent, as passion filled as the green and fertile hills over which they'd driven to get here. “Move closer to him. He is your prey. Your newly purchased slave. Let him feel that!"

  Julie felt the burning in her belly. How much closer could she get? Erase any more of the distance between them and she'd end up hopping onto the man's cock, locking her legs around his waist, grasping hold of those firm, rounded buttocks, her small, lithe body impaled hopelessly.

  Resisting the urge to confront the director and his gaggle of assistants and cameras, she moved forward towards the Russian, just a little, lightly, tentatively, her bare feet sliding over the glazed mosaic tiles, smooth and warm, each a tiny kaleidoscope pattern of red, blue and yellow. Their bellies were nearly touching and hers was full of butterflies. The man was like a rock, a statue, but she could sense the living power in those muscles, too. What if she were to spook him or something? It was like approaching a crouching lion to tug at its mane or modeling a brand new red bikini for a poised bull. The manacles holding him were made of painted wood. He could break them with a tenth of his strength, freeing himself to have what he wanted including her. Not that she would resist. At this particular point in time, Julie Marie Summers, has-been, never-was B actress would lower herself to the priceless balcony floor of this equally priceless fifteenth century Italian villa and offer herself in complete sexual submission. Thighs splayed, hips bucking, back arched, a virtual slave herself, beckoning him to enter her gaping, burning pussy.

  What would that sun kissed tile feel like, she wondered, on her bare skin? How different would it be from a bed or couch or anything she'd ever known before? And how would the sex be like, to come with a man like that, a mountain of manhood atop her and filling her?

&nb
sp; She wanted it; she needed it, that much she knew. As surely as she knew that her gorgeous gladiator-slave was from the Republic of Dasklovia in the former Soviet Union and that he was unable either to understand or speak more than a few words of English. Certainly it was an odd choice for Ambrosiano to choose such a man as the lead in an English-speaking picture, but one did not question genius. The crew communicated to him by pantomime, while Ambrosiano, who was an inch taller than Grigori at six foot two inches tall, simply clamped a hand on the man's shoulder whenever he wanted to communicate something and used his eyes employing some sort of hypnosis or telepathy.

  If Grigori could read minds now he would know that his leading lady was craving some very un-lady like treatment. Maybe she'd do some pantomiming of her own, getting down on her knees and lifting that cute skimpy man skirt to see what was packaged underneath. She was sure he would have a large and beautiful cock. Was it tanned, she wondered, like the rest of him, or would it be a bit more pale? In any case she was sure there would be lovely veins, and a wonderful head and a long, long shaft.

  She wanted that shaft in her mouth. It had been ages since she'd felt this horny making a film. Not since she'd had that bit part as a girl kidnapped by a motorcycle gang. At one point the leader had taken her by her long blonde hair and told her she was going to be their plaything and that she had better get used to the idea of being their bitch.

  Not being the leading lady at the time (Julie never had managed that feat except in a couple of really, really forgettable pictures) no one came to rescue her. She had a few minutes squirming on screen as they stripped off her clothes and threw her to the floor of their clubhouse and then, as it usually does, the scene had faded just before the really good parts.

  Such was Julie's lot, always in the background, never in the limelight. Sure, she could have gone the adult film route with the body she had, but that was a line she'd drawn in the LA sands a long time ago. At age thirty-four, she'd about given up on a real career until Ambrosiano had given her a call out of the blue.

  "I have a picture,” he'd said, and there was no need to ask further. When Giovanni Claudio Ambrosiano says he has a picture it's like Elton John telling you he's working on a little ditty. Ambrosiano was film-the whole history of cinema for the last thirty years could be traced in one way or another to this man's innovations. He'd been a recluse for years, though, which made it all the more strange he would resurface now, wanting to produce what for all intents and purposes was shaping up to be a campy gladiator/slave story using none too significant actors.

  But Julie wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. As for Ambrosiano's strange moods and even stranger filming habits, she would take that in stride. Anything to realize her dream of being a star. This was her final shot and she knew it. A thirty four year old blonde bit actress had no future in Hollywood; she was living on borrowed time, natural breasts and hair color not withstanding.

  "Where is the intensity?” cried Ambrosiano, sounding more and more like an disgruntled fan at a Manchester United soccer match with each utterance. “I want my intensity!"

  Julie turned looked over her shoulder in defeat, breaking the action. “Signor Ambrosiano, with all due respect, I am just not grasping this scene. Perhaps if we used some dialogue?"

  "How dare you stop?” The man challenged. “Continue the scene, at once. Slap him and find your intensity."

  "Sir?” Had Julie heard him correctly?

  Ambrosiano rose to his feet imperiously. He was an excellent specimen for his age, his perfectly oval face angular and wrinkle free. The director was one of those men who would only ever get sexier as he got older. Everything about him was intriguing. He wore a black silk shirt, sleeves rolled up, half unbuttoned. His hair was a lion's mane, stark white, unbound, hanging to the middle of his back, the line of recession barely noticeable. He had piercing black eyes like an owl's or a hawk's and the nose of an ancient philosopher or sorcerer.

  It was the mouth that most transfixed, however. You could not help but hang on its every motion, the complexity of its pursed lips-lips that had directed, dominated and seduced every top star of the last thirty years, male and female alike.

  "Slap him,” repeated those fearsome lips, the order given as though there were no other possible action in the world that could be taken at this moment. “Draw your hand across the face of the slave. Teach him the power of the mistress."

  Julie swallowed. Surely this was not in the contract. Surely there was some way out of this.

  "But ... what if he thinks I am attacking him?” she asked reasonably.

  The Great Ambrosiano raised his eyes to the heavens, invoking something in his native Italian from his ancestors. He was on the move now, long purposeful strides in his black silk trousers, pleated and his hand-made loafers, part of a special line out of Milan reserved just for him.

  "Step back,” he said to his leading lady. Then to the Dasklovian, whose shoulder he was now clutching in his fine, bony hand, he said, “Watch, Grigori ... molto bene."

  Julie gasped audibly as the director leaned in with savage intent and struck the man with the palm of his hand. The wrestler's head was rotated slightly by the blow, but he remained expressionless.

  "Now,” Ambrosiano nodded deadpan to the five foot three, one hundred and ten pound actress. “Your turn."

  Julie looked at the hapless Dasklovian. Three months ago he'd been tossing bears and bending bars of iron for the Kiev Circus. Probably had a girlfriend back there and a nice ancient mother in a kerchief who wept with joy when he told her he was going to be a movie star. And here he was half naked in silly wooden shackles about to be slapped by a down-on-her-luck American actress whose great claim to fame was being the Wink Girl for Wink Detergent.

  "I don't think I can do it, Signor Ambrosiano. I'm sorry."

  Ambrosiano tore at the roots of his hair, an unprecedented display of raw feeling in the man. There was a commotion back inside the house and at once two of his assistants rushed in with hand-held cameras, focusing on either profile of the man, capturing every nuance of the director's frustration.

  "And so it continues,” narrated the one pseudo director, pole thin and dressed in black turtleneck and black jeans. “From dust to dust. To rain, to prune, to prepare ... Piovare, potare, preparare..."

  "Piovare, potare, preparare,” repeated the other solemnly in his tank top and shorts.

  Julie sighed. Roughly translated they were saying “To rain, to be able, to prepare.” What sense did that make? This was how it went, every time a shoot went bad-the two would rush in chattering as they started filming Ambrosiano's reaction to his own movie making.

  "Ho dimenticato,” decried the Great Master, dramatically stretching his arms out over the edge of the balcony. “I have forgotten."

  The two assistants turned off their cameras and dropped to one knee, sharing in what seemed to be a ‘moment.'

  Julie was about to ask if they could take five for a cigarette when the director whirled back to face her on the radius a dime-or whatever passed for dimes over here. This time his eyes looked like the sea, swept by an ancient storm.

  "Kiss,” he pronounced, as though this were the solution not only to the current difficulties in filming but to those of existence as a whole. “You must kiss him."

  Julie sucked in her lower lip, puffy and tingling. As aroused as she was, an on camera lip lock in front of a dozen cologne soaked witnesses named Guido really was not the best idea. “Is slapping him still an option, Signor Ambrosiano?"

  Unless you want this odd little piece of cinematography to have an X rating, that is...

  "No,” he roared, “the moment is passed ... everything has shifted, like the plates beneath the earth. Kiss, now!"

  To her utter and complete astonishment, it was the statue Grigori who made the first move, taking his leading lady in his arms, leaning down to plant his lips. He plastered their bodies, decisively but without coercion, the remains of his faux shackles lying in b
its and splinters at their feet. Before her mind could think to resist, her body was right there, meeting him point for point, her curves fitted to his angles, every gaping space of her, desperate for filling.

  Oh, fuck.

  He did have a monster cock under that skirt and right now it was at half-mast, aimed point blank at the apex of her thighs, the rough leather making a mockery of the damp silk covdring and the even damper lips beneath. What else was she supposed to do but lift herself off her heels, driving her pussy against him, plowing her nipples suicide style into those yummy pecs, her arms draping suggestively over his shoulders?

  Did she say suggestively? Hell, she might as well be taking out a personal ad in Il Giornale in Rome: Semi famous blonde American actress seeking to have pussy filled, apply within.

  Grigori's kiss was surprisingly gentle and artful for a man of such sheer bulk. There was a tragic element to it, a romance that seemed born of some great suffering. And yet there was no mistaking his ability to keep and hold the lead. No gender bending here. She was the woman and quite happy to be so: spoiled, embraced, aroused.

  The smallest of moans escaped her fully encompassed mouth as the fingers of his hands splayed themselves, like fans covering most of the territory of her chilled back. He did not want her exposed. He was protecting her. This, too, was an instinct in him, just as was the drive that was no doubt wanting to push that pulsing, turgid shaft all the way up inside her to her womb.

  Julie let her fingers curl in his hair. It was ages since she'd felt so hot and ready for a man, but at the time so playful and expressive. Instinctively, she knew she could be herself, as silly, as randy and coquettish as she liked, assured that he would keep their activities on track. There was no question where it must go, either.

  As for having this audience, that was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, she felt ever so wicked, being primed for love making in front of the world's greatest director and his entourage. The perfect audience, to evaluate and record and appreciate the performance. At the same time, she yearned to be alone with this man, to explore in private whatever it was had happened between them on this movie set-correction, whatever was happening.