"Very well,” Ambrosiano shrugged, as though the matter was one of complete indifference. “Though I warn you, I am not very much in the mood to be fawned over anymore.” He took a moment to unzip his trousers before resuming his meal.
Grigori did the same, his action drawing her full attention. Julie decided to crawl towards him first. His cock, his person, would be the touchstone, the one thing she could use to orient herself in this strange world. Everything was different down here. She felt so sensuous, so alive, so utterly female. Her body moved with what she hoped was a natural grace. She shivered to think how open and helpless she was in this position to be paddled, swatted or mounted at will.
The smells of the fish in the lemon and butter, mixed with the sautéed spinach wafted down to her nostrils. Julie was hungry. Her inability to eat her supper at the moment reinforced her sense of inequality with the men. As did their plainly visible, aroused sex organs now poking from between their legs. The tablecloth was short enough that she could see all the good parts, including the way Grigori's tanned balls were pushing out of the underwear below the base of his shaft. His testicles were full and tight, indicating yet another full load of semen waiting for release. She marveled at the man's stamina, at how he could be ready again so soon.
The Director's balls, by contrast hung low. His cock was not as thick as Grigori's, either, though it was equally long and had a lovely curve at the end. It had style, just like the man himself. He was hard, too.
Bypassing this new treat for the moment, she went directly to the Dasklovian. With an almost frightening familiarity she formed her lips to the required shape to take it deep. She closed her eyes, taking him deep. A single smooth motion to pull him to the back of her throat. Yes, oh, yes, this is what she needed. To be their little toy on the floor, a horny female pet, teasing and pleasing as they ate their dinner.
Soon different flavors came to her nose, spectacular and vibrant. The waiters must have been bringing the pasta, the sauce full of lovely spices, oregano, rosemary and basil. Such an odd mix combined with that of elemental man, heady and husky before her.
Grigori tasted good indeed, freshly scrubbed. She bobbed her head up and down, managing as much of him as she could. With training she might be able to take more. The notion gave her a tiny thrill as she slurped away. It was a greedy, self indulgent wish, even though she knew it would mean an even deeper level of subjugation.
"That is enough, Julie, you don't want him going off prematurely. We've a long night ahead of us,” said Giovanni. “You may come to me now."
Reluctantly, she popped Grigori from her mouth. He tensed himself and then released, though he made no sounds. Just as he had up to now, he was remaining passive, the Director's willing instrument.
It was Giovanni she must go to now. She turned her body to the head of the table in anticipation. Her heart beat more quickly. She'd never been with this man and she was anxious to please him in a way she had never felt before with any other. To disappoint him, to fail to be the woman he wanted was just not an idea she could bear.
Delicately, she kissed the tip of him, her fingertips brushing the toes of his shiny loafers. She wanted this man naked, very bad, wanted to see his body, to know what he could do and learn what she could do for him. For now, though, she had her place. The sex servant, performing her function, down on all fours for the pleasure of the master.
Julie slid her tongue underneath the shaft and then along the side, daring to rest her head on his thigh. She was purring.
"Later we will all three of us fuck,” said the Director casually.
She could only assume the words were addressed to her as they were spoken in English. Certainly her pussy took them that way, responding with nice little roiling waves of joy. Spasms of mystery, anticipated bliss.
I will be fucked by two men, she thought. At the same time. In Europe, in a house that once belonged to a prince. Put that in your corncob and smoke it, Iowa.
Julie wrapped her lips around the Maestro. With his narrower width she was able to apply more suction. She could not help but notice how he had been wearing no underwear. That made the act seem even raunchier. What really put her over the top, though, was when he began to talk about the act itself in front of her, asking a series of pointed, rhetorical questions.
"You're a decent cock sucker, Julie. Have you done this often to get jobs? Isn't that what they say about you Americans and your Hollywood? Did you expect that before I hired you?"
She had no hope to respond, save by savoring him all the more.
"Lucia was the finest fellatrix I ever knew. She had a way of sucking for every mood. For disdain, for remorse, passion, fury, love, even contempt and ridicule. Every argument between us ended this way, ultimately, though it might be weeks, months later. It was not submission, no, there was no true submission in her body, only a willful counterfeit. It is the same with you, as you shall eventually learn."
Julie bit down, just enough to be felt, just enough to change the pace of things.
The Maestro laughed. “The kitten has teeth. My point is proved.” Reaching under to stroke her head, he said, “Enough, your supper is getting cold."
A string of saliva ran from her plush lips to the tip of his engorged organ. From cocks to pasta, an orgy of words and sex and oregano. It felt like ancient Rome all over again.
Julie resumed her place at the table, nude, her skin covered in cool flame. The servers, appearing to take no notice, filled her wine glass and put out a fresh plate of steaming white fish, in a butter sauce, the cooked green spinach sandwiched deliciously between the flaky layers. As discretely as she could, she pressed together her thighs. The velvet of the chair tickled and the last thing she wanted to do was to be dripping on a genuine antique. There was simply no way to act normal like this, with erect nipples, a punished, tender ass and not a stitch of clothing on. What was she supposed to say ... please pass the Parmesan cheese and while you're at it would you suck my tits like a maniac? Ooh, I just adore the angel hair pasta, and by the way can we please skip dessert and get right to doing the three-way nasty, pretty please?
"We will meet in my room at midnight,” the Maestro explained. “There will be no cameras."
Her stomach did a flip. She was not sure if this should make her feel better or worse. “Signor Ambrosiano,” she ventured. “You are sure that Grigori is all right with all this?"
"Let's find out, shall we?” The Director proceeded to explain the matter in Dasklovian. The former wrestler looked straight ahead, neither at her nor at the Italian.
"Vrastoya,” he said simply, indicating his capitulation as soon as Ambrosiano had finished laying out the matter.
And that was that. Not a word more was spoken with regard to the matter for the rest of dinner. They spoke of various subjects instead, with the Italian serving as translator. Julie paid keen attention, and she was sure Grigori was, too. She picked up a number of new words, and some simple phrasings that she hoped might prove of use in communicating with him in the future. She also learned some more about the man personally.
He had grown up very poor in a coal-mining region. His father and brothers had worked in a mine with the worst safety record in the whole of the old Soviet Union. Several cousins had died in those dank, black depths, not only from tunnel collapses and explosions, but from black lung as well. His father and uncles were spared, though, ironically, his own mother contracted the breathing disease from cleaning the men's clothes each day. The woman, a dark haired beauty with skin of porcelain, had succumbed when Grigori was only five.
Two years after that his seventeen year old sister had been killed by a jealous boyfriend, who then killed himself. His father turned more and more for answers to the bottom of a vodka bottle, leaving Stefans, his elder brother, to raise him. Grigori was a strong, stoic boy, who gained much mettle defending his motherless family against the much bigger schoolyard bullies. By the time he was sixteen he would defeat even most of the hard muscled miners,
including his own father.
The old man eventually threw his son out in a drunken rage and Grigori joined the army of the newly formed Republic of Dasklovia, which was born shortly after the fall of Soviet Russia. A civil war was brewing at the time, and apparently he saw much in the military that he would speak of to no man. After this had come the circus, and now the movies.
Julie in turn related her far more mundane existence, as the youngest of three sisters on a three-generation farm deep in the Iowa Corn Belt. As was typical in families such as hers, she was given a disproportionate amount of beauty, which made her quite popular with the boys and quite hated by the girls, her sisters included.
Her mother, never noted for her warmth or her tact, flat out pronounced that with a body like hers, Julie was going to be hard pressed not to end up a whore.
"Men will only ever want one thing from you, and once they have it, you can bet they won't be looking to make an honest woman out of you,” she would preach while clipping sheets to the wash line or stirring endless pots of gravy.
As far as the family was concerned, that prophecy had been fulfilled the day Julie announced she was going to California to pursue her acting. In their minds, tinsel town was Sodom with traffic lights and tanning booths. The only solace she got was from her father who took her quietly aside a short time before her departure.
"Is this what you want?” Asked the balding, overall clad farmer who never spoke more than five words at a time unless it was down at the diner, sitting on the men's side, over seven am coffee chatting about the crops, the weather or last night's ball game.
"With all my heart,” she replied, with just as much economy of words.
"Okay,” he hugged her. And that was that. Julie's mother was not allowed to say another word about the matter.
Julie nearly forgot she was naked telling this story. The Dasklovian had been watching her so intently, hanging upon her every word, she felt as if he were wrapping her in some kind of cloak. Never had she felt that a man wanted to know her more, or that she in turn had wanted to know him. It was as if every detail was coming alive in the re-telling of their journeys, as if everything were meant somehow to lead them to each other.
And yet there was this third party who had brought them together. This Italian. This eager man of passion and culture, switching back and forth in his emotion and language, bridging the gap and melding them, making them one, spiritually, as it were, in the same way a sexual union did for their bodies.
By the time Julie was aware of looking down at her plate again, they were past dinner and onto dessert, sipping strong, Italian coffee from tiny cups and nibbling on heavenly soft pieces of tira misu. The hours of the night were growing short.
"Eleven thirty,” he clapped his hands. “Time to go our separate ways. We meet again in thirty minutes."
Ambrosiano rose to his feet and they both followed suit, Julie feeling rather as if they'd been dismissed by a ship's captain.
"Thirty minutes,” he repeated. “Don't be late."
She looked at Grigori. Pursing his lips he blew her a kiss, making her blush head to toe. She wanted to run and jump on him right now or fall at his feet to be ravished. But the Director had given his orders. She must wait. A half hour more and then she would know sex as she had never dreamed it in her life.
And so it was down to this. The longest night of Julie's life now reduced to the longest thirty minutes.
Chapter Four
Ambrosiano's room was lit by moonlight, the silver rays cutting a swath from the balcony to the large, soft looking bed. Curtains, sheer white, hung from the immensely tall windows. At the moment, they were caught in the light sea breeze, the salty air billowing them like horny ghosts, animated over the scene they were about to witness. Julie entered the room as she had been prepared by Frederica, in a long, sheer white nightgown. The gold of her thatch was visible and the pink of her still taut nipples. She felt more like a virgin sacrifice entering this palatial room than either an actress or a casual lover.
The gray white marble was cool under her bare feet. She thought of laying on it, rolling over the hard unforgiving surface, offering up her body and being fucked there by one of the men or both.
This was the old prince's room, gilded in silver, with a rounded dome, silvery stars and night clouds, a crescent moon at each of four equal points along the circumference. It still echoed the power, the magic of ages gone by. There was no artificial light and as the tall, double doors were closed behind her she was quite curious. And more than a little anxious, seeing neither man about.
Was she the first one here?
"Hello?” She turned about, surveying the priceless space, fit for a museum of the age of Michelangelo. So much to capture the eye. Paintings on the wall, sculptures and a few very naughty things, too, obviously added by Ambrosiano. Her knees went weak as she saw the set of stocks, about waist high. There was a kind of rack, too, near the bed. It was upright at the moment, though it looked as thought it could be lowered to a horizontal position. Along top and bottom there were spaced leather cuffs, covered in fur. Chains also hung here and there, which gave her the impression that a prisoner could be secured on this device in any number of ways. Most intriguing of all was an open chest, filled with various devices, including whips, chains and a large leather mask.
Should she run? Fall on her knees and beg mercy? Her speculations were cut short by a hand over her eyes. Another seized her waist. The hands were Grigori's but the voice was the Director's.
"Why have you come here?"
"Because you told me,” she went for the easy answer.
"Not good enough. Arouse the female,” said the Director, clearly displeased with the response.
Grigori pushed his hand between her thighs, the silk of her gown between them. Oh, god, she thought, he'd understood the words in English. The man was learning ... a little too well.
"Grigori,” she pushed her ass against his naked torso, finding his cock with her taut cheeks. “Oh, yes, that's it."
"Why have you come here?” the Director repeated as the Dasklovian brought her to the brink of orgasm, his finger barely grazing his clit.
"For lovemaking ... sex ... I need fucking bad.” There was no more room for pride now, just total, desperate seeking. After Grigori's hardness, his body and uncompromising masculinity. And Giovanni's too.
The Director said something in Dasklovian. Something to do with binding, and she realized she was coming to know his language pretty damned well, too. Instantly and effortlessly the man pulled her small wrists behind her back. Her heart thrummed rapidly. Were they going to put her in bondage? Put her on the bed and strap her down for sexual usage? If so they would have a happily screaming, more than willing woman on their hands.
Grigori took her instead to the rack. She had thought he might strip her, but she was allowed to keep the gown, flimsy as it was. Putting her in place very gently, he had her lean back against the latticed metal. Shivers went up and down her spine. It was cold against her thinly covered skin. Julie was on the verge of real fear. His eyes were intent on hers, however, communicating volumes. She melted at the sensitivity, the empathy. He wanted to make sure she was all right.
Yes, she smiled weakly in reply. And no.
It was a mix. Too many unknowns, thrilling and exciting. One by one he took her wrists and stretched them straight out from her body. The leather cuffs were snug and firm, unlike the soft fur lining, which made for an odd, titillating contrast.
Grigori ran his hand up the length of each bare arm, transfixed by its shape, its feminine lines. There was nothing about her he did not seem to relish. On one hand she was a sex object here, but it was a little bit like being a work of art, too.
And there were no cameras. She had to keep reminding herself of this. Tonight would be her chance to see the Director in his natural element, whatever that might be.
Now he was clawing very lightly at her belly, running his hands down to her thighs. He bypasse
d her burning crotch, kneeling so he could continue down her legs. It was her ankles he was after.
"Vrastoya,” he looked up at her, moist eyed, and under the circumstances she knew the handsome, chiseled Dasklovian could mean only one thing. Julie was to open her legs for him, spreading her feet for binding.
He took her left ankle, so softly in his hand, caressing it with total tenderness. It scarcely felt like confinement at all, and yet as he fitted the fur covered cuff in place, securing the tiny buckle, there was no mistaking she was a prisoner. He did the same with the second ankle, still maintaining his kneeling, and devoted position. One might almost think him the slave, were it not for the fact that she were the one losing her complete liberty of movement and not Grigori.
"So ... finally we are ready to begin.” Ambrosiano stepped from the shadows. He was naked, his body lean and marvelous. He had not an ounce of fat on him and his arms sported modest biceps. He was clearly a man who had worked for a living, and had maintained himself following his success. His torso was long. He had a smooth, flat belly that begged to be kissed. His waist was very firm, like a young man of twenty. There was a certain roughness to his skin, a sign of his age, though it was showing itself neither as sags nor pockets. He reminded Julie of a sailor, whose skin had been blown by the wind for many years. He was not overly sun tanned, though, at least not compared to the Dasklovian. Perhaps it was his white hair or the dark eyes that lent to his skin a pale, luminescent quality.
If ever there was a man fit for playing in the moonlight, it was him. He was like some ancient warlock or satyr, hungry to drink from the fountain of sexual youth.
She had seen pictures of Giovanni from years ago, with his hair short and his trademark berets, sunglasses and turtlenecks. He had surrendered nothing over time. A woman could lose herself in a deeply brooding chin like that and many had. The most famous picture had him sitting in a director's chair, his fingers on his chin, lounging, a peculiar smile on his face, the meaning of which was open to so much interpretation as to be itself a legend.
Captured!--On Film Page 8
