Captured!--On Film

by Reese Gabriel

  He touched himself for confirmation. Yes, the shiver down his spine told him, yes, said the sweet surging of unseen fluids, you must go forward with this, you must go to this man and do as he tells you. You must obey, Grigori, you must obey.

  The White Lion, tall, lean and scarecrow-like in his expensive clothes, did not acknowledge his approach until he was almost on top of the man.

  "Grigori,” he pronounced the wrestler's name, his back still turned.

  It came across as command and definition and promise all at once. The Dasklovian, robbed of all strength, fell to his knees. The water came up to his hips, swirling, churning, sun warmed. It was a bath, a ritual purifying. His erect, upwardly curving cock delighted in the wetness, bobbing just at the surface.

  "I am here, Teacher,” he said to the man in his beloved Dasklovian, the one and only language he had ever spoken. “Though I come in sin. May the saints forgive. I am thick with lust. I yearn to please you ... as would a female."

  The Director said something else as he turned to face him, arms still outstretched. It was a declaration of some sort, matched by an intense expression unlike anything Grigori had yet seen on the man's face. He could not bear to look upon him-that stern brow, those dark eyes. He had not earned the right. Not yet. Falling instead to all fours, resisting the overwhelming urge to touch and stroke himself, Grigori began to crawl, closing the distance between them.

  The sea responded to his wading presence with playful slaps at his dependent breasts, stinging lightly his engorged nipples as he moved. Turgid water swallowed his belly, mid way up to his back. Drawing a full breath, he immersed his head for a quick dunk, soaking the long black curls, kissing the salty brine with lips still swollen from Julie's love.

  The water stung his eyes, bracing, awakening. His lips burned with unmet need. It was time to meet his fate-whatever fate the Director would decide. He was only the actor, making himself available.

  "I am yours,” he professed. “Teacher ... Master."

  The second word had come unbidden. It was a Dasklovian sex word, one used by the men of leather, some of whom in the circus had sought to recruit him for their games. They'd held no appeal for him, those underground relationships-one above another with a whip, enforcing the crawling and the sucking and other things, too, dark twisting penetration, male to male.

  And yet here he was, speaking the word of self-bondage to a man he hardly knew. Grigori trembled as the White Lion put his hand on top of his head. He was patting him, stroking him, like a treasured pet. The touch gave energy, but it burned, too, like raw electricity.

  "Master,” he said more firmly, cementing the Director's place in his world.

  The White Lion snapped his fingers and Grigori knew to rise back up to his knees, his cock throbbing at the implications; it was his first act of obedience, instinctive and highly sexual.

  An enormous erection tented the pants of the Italian, and at this level it was nearly poking out Grigori's eye. Had the Director not moved his slender hands to the zipper, the Dasklovian might well have torn them with his teeth, so anxious was he to get at the flesh contained within. Deep excitement and trepidation filled Grigori's belly as the zipper disengaged, sliding down to the bottom; it was a heady mix sharp and hot, like vodka, and many times more potent. He was hungry, hungrier than he'd ever felt in his life. It was like seeking a favorite food, and yet the taste was to be entirely new.

  "I wish only to please you,” said he to this man whose understanding of things bridged all language gaps. “I wish to be fucked hard, in my mouth, and to swallow your come."

  The director's cock was thinner than his own, though still quite long. He unfolded it from out of his trousers, carefully, with both hands. He wore no underwear, which simplified the matter. Touching upon it like a flute, the Lion began to make himself hard. He used both hands in a way so delicate and artistic that it could hardly be called masturbation.

  And yet the results of his work were standard enough. Tight, full balls and a wickedly pointed organ. It's going to happen, thought Grigori, I am going to take a man's erection in my mouth.

  Grigori rose back up to his knees, soaking wet, hair dripping, feeling every bit the part of expectant slave. “Yes, Master, make it hard for me, let me have it ... I will take it, all of it."

  That single word from before kept running through his mind-the one he'd imagined The Director had used earlier when he'd pointed for him to take Julie. Redemption. A process begun in bed with his co-starring actress and culminating here.

  "Use my mouth, Master...” He yearned to play with himself, but did not feel it was right. “You understand me, I know you do. You know how to make me suffer as I need."

  Grigori waited till the man was fully extended and then opened his lips. To begin with, he simply puckered, pressing them to the tip of the uncircumcised shaft. It was an offertory kiss, to break the ice.

  To his amazement, there was already a drop of pre come at the tiny opening when he pulled back his head. Quickly he dabbed his tongue at the precious gift before the sun or surf could claim it. It was a tiny, teasing taste. Grigori wanted more. He wanted a full load of it, the director's emission, pumping into his mouth and splashing against the back of his throat.

  Wrapping his lips more firmly, he slid them forward, enveloping the shaft. It felt so good. Grigori's own cock throbbed in response. Wagging his tongue now, he rubbed the sandpaper surface of it against the ridged underside of the Director's pale white shaft. As a reward, the Dasklovian received a squeeze to his shoulders as the Director's hands came to rest on their muscular smoothness.

  Yes, he thought. Enjoy the feel of me. Make use of me. My skin and tongue, and ultimately my belly, into which I will swallow your pulsing seed. Grigori pushed his palms against the Lion's still clothed ass, just firmly enough to draw him further in. He'd had enough blowjobs himself in his day to know what felt good and he was quite confident he could give the man one of the best he'd ever had.

  It was difficult at first not to gag, but he quickly found the discipline. The cock was surprisingly smooth in his mouth, like a rod of steel wrapped in velvet. There was no mistaking it was a living thing, either, pulsing with life. His heart swelled as the director seized at his hair, fisting the sea soaked curls. The man grunted his approval as he used his newfound grip to increase the speed.

  Grigori was being face fucked. An astonishing novelty for one such as himself. The only thing lacking now was the taste of a climax.

  "Si,” roared the Teacher. “Si, si ... bene ... molto bene."

  Even the Dasklovian knew these words. It was good for him. He liked it. Encouraged he sucked in his breath, taking his Master to the back of his throat, applying maximum suction, he felt the man begin to spasm.

  "Madonna mia,” he sing-songed.

  Grigori clamped his vibrating ass cheeks. The come squirted, warm and thick as he'd hoped. He took it all, swallowing like a slave. A slave made for pleasure. The Director pumped himself for several long seconds, using his mouth as he would a woman's sex. Overwhelmed by the sensations, Grigori took hold of his own cock. He needed to come himself, though he did not know how he would achieve this. For the moment he must suck and suck, till told to stop.

  "Bello ragazzo mio,” the Director crooned at last, pulling his rapidly flagging organ from Grigori's mouth. “My beautiful boy."

  This sounded like praise. Unbidden he pressed his cheek to the outside of the Teacher's leg. “Thank you, Master."

  It was then he saw Julie in the background, her hair glistening in the late afternoon sun. She was up on the beach, in a sundress, barefoot, just looking at them. She seemed to be paralyzed in place, shocked, probably by what she was viewing.

  Rising to his feet, forgetting for the moment his white haired lover, Grigori called out her name. Hearing it seemed to jar her back to reality. At once she began to run, away from the beach and away from he and the Director.

  "Julya!” He shouted in misery. “Stop!"

&
nbsp; "No,” the White Lion told him to stay.

  "I am sorry,” he said, his heart torn in two. “Forgive me. I must go ... I have no choice."

  The Director's face darkened, threatening storms. But still he went. Because he knew that if he did not, he would lose his Julya. Forever.

  * * * *

  Julie did not stop running, not even once she'd reached the sculpted gardens. It was the labyrinth she sought. A perfect hiding place, wall upon living wall, green and thick and impermeable. She would make her way to the very center, taking one corner after another till she'd lost track of the escape route. How fitting, she thought, because her life, too, was a maze right now, a puzzle with no solution. A mystery wrapped in an enigma inside a riddle as some old politician had once said.

  At first she'd not believed what her eyes had seen on the beach. Ambrosiano, standing in the surf, fully clothed and Grigori nude, his head bobbing at crotch level, obviously making an afternoon snack of the man's cock. The Maestro's reputation as an equal opportunity seducer aside, she'd assumed Grigori to be about as ruggedly heterosexual as they came.

  Then again what did she know of the man, really? Except that he was apparently fond of fucking people, anybody, anywhere, anytime. Julie tore around the corners of the maze, her bare feet slipping here and there on the grass. She was nude under her dress, just a simple, lazy thing she'd thrown on as she went to find Grigori. Julie never did like waking up after sex alone. Up to now having her lovers run off like that was at the top of her post-coital pet peeves list.

  She had a new one now-namely waking up and finding your lover downstairs blowing the director of the film you're working on in plain view of the entire household staff, not to mention the entire Mediterranean Sea.

  "Julya,” she heard him calling her.

  Damn it, he was following her.

  "Leave me alone, Grigori!” She yelled over her shoulder.

  After a while, she stopped hearing him. Maybe she'd given him the slip, she thought hopefully.

  "Vrastoya,” he proclaimed, emerging ahead of her around the next corner.

  Julie screeched, skidding to a halt. “Don't do that, you big oaf! You almost gave me a heart attack. And if you think I'm doing any more vrastoying for you after that little performance I saw on the beach,” she pointed her finger. “You can just forget it."

  "No, Julya,” he shook his head solemnly. “Grigori ... vrastroya."

  She cocked her head. What did the man have up his sleeve this time?

  "Vrastoya,” the wet, dark haired Adonis fell to his knees before her.

  Julie took a step backward, but not fast enough to avoid his lips pressing to her foot. “That really isn't necessary,” she said, though admittedly it felt rather nice. “You don't owe me anything. If you really must, you can buy me some flowers."

  The Dasklovian licked at her toes. “That tickles,” she protested.

  He was doing more than tickling, though. He was sending little jolts of pleasure up the back of her leg to her suddenly reawakening pussy. As usual, her loins were making her see things differently and coming into immediate conflict with her head. Okay, so maybe now that she thought about it, it had been a little bit arousing to see two men getting it on, especially two strong and powerful ones like Grigori and Giovanni, but that did not mean anything more was going to happen between her and the wrestler.

  "Get up, Grigori, this is silly."

  The man's placating lips had moved to her other foot. His firm, muscular ass wiggled deliciously as he worked. The corded muscles of his back indicated the sincerity of his effort. It was an intoxicating sight. A body capable of tumbling a bear so fully dedicated to pleasing her tiny person.

  "Just go back to Ambrosiano,” she kept up her obligatory protest, though with slightly less vehemence.

  She shuddered as he reached her kneecaps, administering strategic little kisses. He wasn't stopping there, either. He was climbing to his knees, sliding his palms up under the hem of her dress.

  "Grigori!” She squealed too late. “Absolutely not."

  This was a very bad time to be without underwear. At least if you were trying to keep yourself from being sexually pleasured. Sliding both hands around, he cupped her ass cheeks under the dress. She thought about how he'd spanked her, and that made her lose a good deal of her will to resist. His tongue found her all too open, and alas, all too ready for intimate invasion.

  She tried pounding on his shoulder blades, then grabbing at his hair, but she realized she was only encouraging him to go deeper, sinking his tongue even more deliciously into her dripping slit. “Oh ... god, Grigori, you have no idea what you're letting us in for. Go now, if you have half a brain in your head."

  But it wasn't a matter of brains-just lust. That and the fact he couldn't follow a word she was saying. The pressure continued to build in her as he worked over her poor pussy. Once again he showed himself to be a clit magnet, this time using the sandpaper top of his tongue to expose and swell it just like a tiny cock. They weren't kidding, the experts who said the clitoris was like some kind of genetic equivalent to that larger male organ. If they had any doubts, they could call on this man and his skills to prove it.

  "All right, damn it, you asked for it.” Julie wriggled herself free, but only so she could put herself on all fours on the ground. “Fuck me from behind. Oh, please, pretty please,” she muttered half to herself. “Figure this out..."

  As it turned out flipping up her dress and holding open her pussy lips was a universal Fuck Me sign. The Dasklovian seemed to have no trouble at all interpreting that she wanted him stuffed inside her, his huge body mounting hers like a stallion on top of a mare.

  "Oh, my fucking god,” she clawed at the earth as he pushed that monster dick into place. “How am I supposed to go back to regular after all this super size?"

  "Julya,” he replied. “Vrastoya. Gristass tenrish meyoornika."

  "You said it, brother. Just don't stop..."

  The primeval smell of the grass and the dirt and the flowers filled her nostrils, making her feel like Eve the morning after being kicked out of Eden. She dug at the moist earth, rutting and thrusting, pushing herself upward to an almost unbelievable spiral of sensations. It was like her whole body would burst open from the taking of him. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She could chant the word a hundred times through gritted teeth, and she could whimper it, too, because she was just out of her mind. It just couldn't be fast enough right now. She wanted more.

  "Give it to me, yes ... I've never had it ... like this ... like starting all over,” she gasped, the words coming in short blasts between labored breaths.

  It really was like starting over, too. Innocent barefoot Julie, sweet Miss Harvest Time back in Ashview, eighteen again, feeling it all for the first time, a huge dick inside her ... inside her. With each thrust, her vaginal muscles clenched, trying to make it worth his while and hers, trying to keep pace.

  Her tunnel was awash in sex. The scent of it filled the air, the liquid trickling down her inner thighs. So many emotions as their flesh melded, his hand pressing her back, his balls slapping against her. She hated that he might share this intimacy with another, least of all a man, with whom she had no hope whatsoever of competing. She wanted him to herself; then again she wanted to be free of him, free of this place. It was getting too complicated.

  Grigori reached for her tits, cupping them in his large hands. They ached with the pleasure and the pressure.

  "Yes,” she groaned, stretching the words to multiple syllables. “Oh ... yes."

  Greedily his teeth went to her earlobe, hot breath pouring into her ear as he nibbled possessively. She turned her head towards him, encouragingly and he moved to her neck, pantomiming the bite of a vampire.

  "Going to ... come,” she cried, wishing she knew the word in Dasklovian.

  Grigori ceased his thrusts without warning. Settling himself in deep, his cock sunk to the hilt, he began to spill himself. She spasmed around him. It was an entirely differe
nt kind of orgasm, breathtaking, exquisite and in slow motion. The man had so much semen; where did it all come from? Twice he'd filled her now and he seemed to have lost nothing on the second go around. Dare she expect a third?

  Julie fell to her stomach, pressing her cheek to the grass. The world below her had a heartbeat, and it was slow and good. Grigori pulled his shaft from her, a slow, lazy withdrawal of so much flesh. She felt the loss of it, as she had the first time. His shape and size were so distinctive, she doubted she would ever forget its contours. Or what it did to her insides.

  He did not immediately cover her over with her dress. Instead, he treated her to a fresh tongue bathing, licking out both her come and his. It was a cool, breezy come down, the perfect post-coital activity. He was continuing to show his earlier devotion, taking the time to kiss her pussy and various places on her buttocks, as well. As a finishing touch, he licked the surface of both globes.

  "If you're trying to get back in my good graces,” she purred. “It's working like a charm."

  * * * *

  Giovanni fell to his knees after the Dasklovian left. To his knees in the sand because of the simple act of charity, the pure surrender to him of his Dasklovian blank slate, his unwritten script, his as yet unfilmed mystery. Down the throat he'd drunk the wisdom of the elder man-following ways more ancient than both of them.

  Tears of salt did he shed, salt to return to the salt of the sea. No man knows for what he cries. At least not if he thinks hard and truly on the matter. All grief is interchangeable and commingled in the end in the mighty seas of change. The seas once sailed by the likes of Odysseus and Achilles.

  And this sea before them, this Lago Romano once ringed on every side by garrisons and legions loyal to an emperor-what of it? And his film, indeed all his films together, what did they matter in the scheme of things?

  There was only one thing left now. And that was lust. Yes, he'd chosen well his protagonists. One had come to him already and soon the other would follow. So, too, had they been with each other. A film about lust, that is what he would make. Lust and punishment and the stripping away of inhibitions. For this he would have to make love slaves of them both-to him and to one another.