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 i
n 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.
Captured!--On Film Page 6
