Captured!--On Film

by Reese Gabriel

  It was Grigori who unfastened her. As he undid the belts on her wrists, he offered her a deep soul kiss. She craned her neck, letting her eyes slide shut. The man's tongue was salty sweet, the taste of Giovanni's sex still coating it. Julie released a small moan as he pushed deeper, simulating the action of his cock in her mouth.

  She was so completely ready it was not funny.

  Grigori returned to his knees to free her ankles. On his way down he offered soft kisses to the places where the flogger had struck. She clutched at his head, threading her fingers through his long curly hair. He paused to kiss her belly once and the delta of her sex as well. As he removed each ankle strap, he caressed the ankle and instep, sending shivers down her spine. Taking hold of her hands, he helped her step away from the rack. As she tried to stand on her own she found she was too weak to hold herself up. Too many sensations, too much stimulation.

  Grigori willingly swept her up in his arms as he had before. Only this time it was so much closer and more intimate because she knew him, as a woman knows a man, and she had feelings for him. This was not just a man in the generic sense, this was an individual with a history so different from her own and yet with whom she found herself identifying with intensely. A man whom if she were to never see again in her life would leave her with an indescribable emptiness.

  It was not logical and it had no precedent in her life, but it was real. Snuggling her head against his shoulder, she felt a sense of safety, a knowledge that she was at home, and that nothing would hurt her here. She clung to his neck, her thin, feminine arms around that great cord of muscles. She did not want him to put her down at first. Suddenly Giovanni seemed like an intruder.

  But she couldn't deny the Maestro's place in this. He had brought them together, and in an odd way he was fueling things now. Serving as a catalyst between them, an erotic fluid for them to mix in. Julie's small body barely impacted the well-used bed. She swooned at the smells around her, the sheets soaked with male sweat, the sheer tinge of testosterone.

  Giovanni whispered something and Grigori lay beside her, going to work once more on her lips. She was so soft and pliant, ready to give her all. Every little crevice of lip connected now. Their mouths fit, it was true. And so did his hands on her breasts, molding them perfectly.

  "You are quite irresistible,” said Giovanni, and the next thing she knew, she felt the Director's lips on her labia. She drew a sudden breath, stabbingly sweet. The man wasn't doing oral so much as kissing her pussy. No one had ever quite done that before. Making love to the lips themselves, touching them gently as butterfly wings to a cloud, yet transferring to them a powerful life energy.

  She could not help but erupt in reply. This was more than a little unexpected. She was supposed to be servicing them and here they were worshipping her body like she was Cleopatra.

  Not that she minded.

  Giovanni's tongue pierced her opening. The motion was so delicate it was almost like the air itself, or the entering of the ghostly moonlight into the room. But there was nothing invisible about what he was doing to her clit. Isolating it, he treated it to swirling sweetness that made her kiss Grigori all the harder. It was like the two men were one; a super lover capable of possessing her with a double mouth.

  And that meant a double cock, too. Breaking free, she begged for the chance to do what Giovanni had said she must. “Please, let me make you hard. Use my mouth ... let me suck...” The words were a whore's rasp, a concubine's confession, the utterances of a female reduced to her elemental needs. She wasn't playing the good girl anymore. She was the painted lady now. And craving more of it.

  Giovanni turned her to her side, indicating his control over her with a pair of smacks to her glowing ass, still sporting the color of her earlier spanking. “You suck when told to, not before."

  "Yes, sir,” she replied, rubbing together her super heated thighs.

  "Grigori...” He had instructions for the man, involving lifting Julie up to her knees at the far end of the bed.

  She felt like a rag doll being put in place. What did Giovanni have in mind, now? She could only wait and see, an audience, for the moment at least, to the man's unfolding, entirely unfilmed epic.

  She licked her lips as they lay down, side by side. The pair was holding hands, looking so very delicious, two men, long haired, intense, free spirited, six foot tall and then some, one in his early twenties, the other in his early fifties, each a presence, an irresistible, magnetic draw.

  My stars, she thought, seeing how those hands clasped one another, this is something intense here. Could it be love? She doubted they'd admitted anything of the sort to each other, but from her perspective, at least, there was something more than just lust. Call it a gut instinct-or maybe the result of her ability to read Grigori.

  Her heart sank as she thought how her handsome Dasklovian was likely to reject her in the end for the dashing Director. They'd make a lovely couple and she would be left in the cold.

  "I think you know what comes next, Julie,” said Giovanni.

  Yes, she did. She must please these cocks, side by side, somehow trying to be more than a third wheel between them. Julie fought back the tears, amazed she was taking this so hard. She needed to get back to the lust, to the idea of sexual service. She was living the fantasy of being a little whore, being used, and when they were done, they would all go separate ways. Once she'd finished filming this blockbuster of a movie, that is. Assuming the man could pull some rabbit out of a hat and turn it into one.

  "Did you like our little scene, Julie?” Giovanni wanted to know.

  Planting herself between their legs, she said. “You are both ... amazing men."

  Giovanni snorted. “Amazing are we? You seemed more than amazed to me, unless I misjudged that smell in the air the whole time."

  She hung her head, hiding the blush. He was referring to her arousal. There would have been no mistaking the quickness of her breathing either.

  "I was hot,” she confessed. “I wanted to be with you both.” Wantonly she let her long, silky hair flow over both men's organs, titillating and teasing. She wanted them to want her as badly as she wanted them.

  Grigori moaned in reply and Giovanni muttered, “Si, bene, bene."

  One after another she kissed their darling heads. Both cocks were languid, spent. She had her work cut out for her. Bending her head down, she licked each, full wet, playful slobbers. She followed this up with kisses to their balls. Now she touched them, lightly stroking their testicles. What magic there was in making a man excited. What sexier thing could a woman do, knowing that erection was going to fill her and pummel her and ultimately get her off?

  "You are both so fucking fantastic.” She dabbed her tongue at their muscular thighs, expanding her area of worship. “I never thought I could feel comfortable like this. I admit it. I admit I love this. Even if it is wrong."

  "How can it be wrong when it feels like this?” Giovanni wanted to know.

  It was Grigori who got his erection back first. This was largely a function of age, though Julie wondered if maybe it had something to do with his feelings for her, too-all that passion transforming itself into testosterone. She wanted to take him deep, but the man had something else in mind. Sitting up, he grabbed her by the waist and scooted her around so that crotch was over his face.

  He held her fast, pushing his tongue aggressively into her wet hole. She responded by devouring his sex in turn. Enjoying the fruit of her hard work, she slurped him to the back of her throat. Meanwhile, he was making the walls of her pussy clench greedily, craving even deeper invasion. Her clit welcomed him as an old friend, allowing him to loft her into the stratosphere. She wanted them to come together and fast.

  Giovanni did not want to be excluded, however. Moving behind her, he slipped a finger up inside Julie's asshole. “You'll serve me here,” he told her. “You'll give me all I want or you'll face the whip again."

  She moaned in reply. His anal touch was making her pussy spasm, which
was challenging Grigori's tongue, in turn to press even more urgently. Their bodies were dripping perspiration now, the liquid instantly cooled by the breeze. It was slippery, silvery moon fucking, under white midnight light. Surrounded in silk, soaked in sex, body parts stinging from the whip, hearts stinging with shame.

  "I will fuck you like a dog, Julie. You will howl and whimper. It's what you want. What you dream of. And no cameras to lend legitimacy. This is lust, pure and simple."

  She squirmed as he worked the finger deeper, exposing her, splaying her, splitting her open as if on some pagan alter. All new, a virgin offering, the perfect sacrifice to the men's pleasure and to her own. She could do nothing but offer herself in kind, undulating her hips, seeking the maximum amount of contact. But it was the men who controlled everything, the amount of pressure she would feel, the parts of them that would touch her. Damned infernal teasing is what it was. Fingers and tongues. She needed their manhoods, iron-hard, silk covering velvet.

  Julie could hold back no more. “Both of you,” she gasped, releasing Grigori. “I need both of you."

  She scrambled over both men, creating a brief pile of sweating limbs. What she wanted was herself at the base of the pyramid, on all fours, open and ready for complete possession.

  "Fuck me,” she begged. “In my mouth and ass ... at once."

  Grigori took the front. Straddling her face with his thighs, he put his cock back where it had been. She took it happily, allowing him to find all the space and pleasure he needed in the warm pocket of her mouth. His hands intertwined in her hair, exercising a loose but very real control. This made her pussy all the hotter and wetter.

  Giovanni had her back end. Flicking a finger over her clit, he worked her to fever pitch, getting her to the place of accepting whatever he would do to her. He wanted her to take the ass fucking as willingly as a vaginal one, and maybe even more. She replied by wiggling her tail, pushing back each time she exhaled. She was breathing cock, breathing Grigori and she wanted to be as tightly pressed from behind.

  Ambrosiano scooped at her juices, moving them from her pussy to the narrower chnnnel. Her puckered asshole tingled in response. Her every nerve ending was on high alert. If not for Grigori's cock functioning as a gag, she would have screamed out her sheer sensuous joy as he slipped the head of his long dick between her ass cheeks. No more waiting-it had finally come. She was going to lose her anal virginity.

  Giovanni moved into her with steady finesse, like he had with Grigori. She was smaller, though, which meant he could not push as far as fast. His hands pressed at her back, his skin warm and demanding, wanting her compliance, her opening and intimacy. She could not think beyond the act, though, the sheer implications of being doubly stuffed with dick. Like a porn star or stripper, not a real actress.

  Giovanni managed to get in half way. “You are incredible,” he reached for her pussy. “You have the spirit of two, three women. And the stamina."

  Her back arched, a conduit between the men. He was massaging her clit. Oh, god, she needed to end this, to finish all three of them off. The pressure was just building and building. Giovanni gave a loud grunt, cleaving her. Grigori pulled at the roots of her hair. She swallowed more cock in response, offered up more ass. Faster and faster, the two men fucking each other through her.

  They were coming ... yes, they were blasting her full of their fresh loads, the sperm warm in her ass and mouth. It felt like rivers of the stuff, filling her belly and her back end. Giovanni gave her a reliease to go along with it, allowing her to rush with the river, bursting and cascading, bubbling, over the edge of a waterfall, the waters roaring and steaming plunging into a moist hot valley below, a virgin jungle of green, teeming with life, dew on the leaves, lizards and snakes rustling below.

  At last all three collapsed together in a heap. They were too weary to rise. It was Julie who ended up in the middle position as the three of them spooned. Grigori had the rear position, cradling her with his body. Ambrosiano was in front, his soft breathing serving as a metronome for each of their hearts. They were in synch, their physical selves blending symbiotically. Could the same be said of their spirits? Time would tell, thought Julie as they drifted off to sleep, the sounds of the sea lulling away their conscious minds.

  In the morning, when they awoke, that's when they would know what had stuck and what had not.

  Chapter Five

  Ambrosiano swam the currents, his lithe muscles fighting for every inch. The motorboat he'd abandoned was drifting away behind him, heading back to shore without him. Were the craft a sentient creature, he would call it wise for doing so, though rather short on loyalty. It was true that he would be wanting no return passage from it, yet a witness of some sort might have been nice.

  The Maestro was off to die. Death by drowning, induced by exhaustion. Death by salt water sucked into the lungs. Death by the flipping of the switch, the brain turning off its sense receivers and interpreters. A blank television screen. Death by the closing of the heart valves, too, this was another way to look at the matter. Some might say it was a function of depression or madness, but Ambrosiano had simply reached the point of no longer wishing to see, interpret or direct a single thing in life. Given that he had no other purpose or meaning in his life except to direct, this left only one option.

  Why this sudden ennui? This utter intolerance to being? It was not as if something had fundamentally changed, after all. Things had been much the same for as long as he could remember. Perhaps they had always been this way. True, Sofia's death had been a demarcation, a cold knife dug into the meat of his world, but even this should have been translatable for the lens of the camera. All things were art, the greater the suffering, the more the art.

  Was it the events of last night, then? He contemplated this, wrapping his brain round the idea as his arms and legs continued their steady paddling, his body a solid board, rigid as a hard shaft. Certainly the sight of them both, his beautiful young stars, limbs intertwined at break of day had had an effect. Such deep affection did he feel, such appreciation for and connection with the two of them. It was as if he had always known them, the way their bodies smelled, the way they moved, the touch of their youthful skin.

  Yes, this was it. They had taught him the meaning of loneliness. To be lonely is to want for an object of desire and pleasure and until now he had never felt this pure longing. To wish for Sofia in her absenses over the years-and there had been so many, physical and spiritual alike-was a yearning of a different kind. With her it was dread fascination, the titillation you feel approaching an object of beautiful torture. A spider or snake you know from a nightmare but which you cannot bear to overlook.

  In the end, Sofia was a drug, designed never to satisfy, but only to frustrate. In all fairness to the woman, it was herself she frustrated most of all. She was not a sadist in any sense of the word. If anything she was a masochist, forever wanting to cut her bare feet on the sharp rocks of life, forever wanting Giovanni to pick her up, to bleed with her, fight with her, and above all love her, in the only way she knew how.

  Hard and fast and nasty. Like animals locked in mortal combat, teeth bared, claws extended and razor sharp. More than once she had laid nearly fatal slashes to his soul with those claws. But with the two young actors, it was entirely different. They were so obviously in love, whether they saw it themselves. They lived for one another already, yearning to be each other's strength and shining vision. It would take time, but they'd find it out for themselves.

  The way he and Sofia might have if they'd not been both of them so proud and stubborn. Years and years they had let pass, and in the end it was too late. She had died alone just as he would in just a few minutes.

  He was slowing dramatically. Soon he would be able to advance no further. He would be reduced to treading water and then, slowly, he would sink, coughing out the first few mouthfuls of water, until he could no longer expel it. Then the sea would rush in and fill his lungs and life would be a burden no more.

>   All the best he wished the naked young lovers, whom he'd left in their sweet sleep, dreaming of their future, of a home, by the seaside, perhaps, and children. Awaking some time after ten this morning, they would be hungry for one another again, and they would make a baby. Grigori's baby. Giovanni had been careful on this score, making sure not to spill himself in Julie's womb, lest their be any resulting doubts as to paternity.

  To his knowledge, he had never fathered a child, and he did not intend to start now. Especially when he would not be there to see him or her grow. Should he have bestowed a final kiss? Left them a note at least? But how could he explain what he did not understand himself. Feeling like a character in one of his movies, he began to sputter. The taste of salt in his mouth as he slipped momentarily below the surface did not amount to some Valhallan victory, but rather a terrible mistake.

  It was a bitter taste: regret. A humbling one. A new phase of this loneliness. For the first time in his life, he wished he were somewhere else. With Julie and Grigori, being made love to, kissed and massaged, given the full benefit of their devoted tongues and their young, eager fingers. Such bodies they had. No effects yet from gravity in the case of Grigori and only minimal ones in Julie's case. He would bask in the glow of their enthusiasm, in the unwritten possibilities moist in their eyes. He would devote himself to each in turn, pleasing their sexes. He would never end, he would clutch to them forever, if only there could be another chance.

  The boat was too far away. He would never make it back to shore. And there was no one in sight to rescue him. The Great Ambrosiano laughed, never failing to miss the irony in a given situation. When asked once what was the secret to his directing powers, in fact, he had given that very answer