Kneeling and crawling and begging.
Fulfilling the vision. Writhing bodies. An orgy for three, worthy of Caligula himself. Giovanni smiled-or rather watched himself smiling as he rose. This, too, was cine ... film. All of life was one lens, viewed through another, light refracted back upon itself, creator, creation, image, imagination, imaginer, all one thing. Above all they would have to learn this, his actors. Hercules, of the fabled feats, wrestler of bears and fair-haired Aphrodite. Succulent young things, to restore the vitality of an old man. Ambrosiano, madman, genius, and now vampire.
Five wives had done little to slake that passion. Nor had the hundreds of lovers who'd graced his silken sheets, dryads and satyrs taken from Rio to Monte Carlo, from Rome to Riyadh. He'd learned from all of them, though the wisest was Lucia. She had been wife number one and also four. The darling of the Italian cinema, beloved for decades, she had only grown more beautiful with age. And more deadly.
The secrets to her charms were the moods that ruled her. One moment light and gay, the next, furious and vengeful. Never had he known a more generous heart, capable of appreciating every form of beauty, or a more treacherous one. She had carried him through storms, nurtured and loved him and given orgasms that would make a man want to slit his own wrists afterwards, so as not to have to feel the terrifying let down from such a height.
When she grabbed your hand, with a twinkle in her eye, her smile fixed perfectly, brows dancing, you could forget your normal life and all the troubles and worries. You were in the care of a goddess. But deities are notoriously fickle, and eventually a man is dropped, left dangling on a string.
Had he not divorced her, once, and then again, there is no telling what would have happened. They could not live with one another. And yet there had been no life for them apart either.
In one of the final interviews she gave, shortly before the fatal skiing accident she had told a panting cub reporter, nearly young enough to be a grandson, “I have never truly acted, never taken directions, never simply memorized lines. What I have done really is to mold myself, to submit to a director, to become what he wishes, the vessel of his whims, the captive of his imagination, his utter and complete slave."
Once, on the set of a movie in the Amazon, they had made love for an entire night in the rain, whole waterfalls of the stuff pouring upon them as they struggled and slipped and grappled from position to position, assuming every possible sexual connection known to man. Dark haired, and shapely, with perfect breasts on her small frame and perfectly shaded aureoles, she was like some native princess, or a slick, wet panther.
The next morning, far from being tired, he had more energy than he'd ever had in his life. In a flash at sunrise he'd reconceived the entire picture and by noon had moved it in an entirely new direction, one infinitely better than before. The brilliance of his insight was clear to everyone except Lucia. For some reason, she became more sullen as the day wore on. No empty vessel of devotion this day, Lucia Sorentano played the part of a pouting, clawing fury. Things escalated till finally, shortly before lunch, she stormed off the set after receiving a bamboo splinter by accident during filming. Demolishing her dressing room, she ordered a helicopter to fly in and carry her back to her villa in the Alps.
He had tried to follow after her in vain, beseeching her return. There was no one else on earth he had ever begged like that. Not the pope, not the president of the Italian Republic. Only Lucia. In some ways, Julie was her re-incarnation. Apparently no one else had seen the potential in the blonde American for Academy Award performances. Nor had they managed to probe deep enough to touch on her temper. He'd seen glimpses of that fiery spirit so far, and whether she knew it or not, she was the Maestro's match. She had said no to him once today and she would do so again. Eventually, she would learn her power and then she would fly the coop forever.
The Dasklovian, in turn, represented Giovanni himself, many years ago. Ambrosiano had never wrestled a bear or a tag team of angry Uzbeks, but he had hoisted crates nearly his own weight at the seaport of Livorno as a dockworker. So, too he had worked nearly every job on a movie set before getting his big directing break when he was barely twenty. It was an unprecedented opportunity at such a low age, but the man who'd mentored him and given him the job was himself a legend in his day and considered unquestionable in his decisions. Ambrosiano had never looked back, and he suspected this young wrestler was the same.
It was all in the eyes, a hunger, a restlessness. This Dasklovian would never be fully at home on this earth. He was a thinker, a dreamer, a stranger, the power of his mind so perfectly camouflaged behind so many muscles. It was this essential feeling of disenfranchisement, of utter disconnection, that was the hallmark of a great director. For the director must let go, setting sail on the imaginations of others, entirely free of all moorings, able to stake a tent anywhere, marking his place in the unknown. And hopefully leaving behind him a road map for others to follow.
At the moment, there was no map. He was flying blind. It would be the actors who would flesh out the contours, provide the landscape. And in order to accomplish this, they would have to learn to serve him. Emotionally.
And sexually.
"Frederica!” He called for his assistant from the door of the house. “We will have dinner tonight ... the two actors and I. You will inform the cook. The finest wine is to be served."
Dark haired, olive-eyed Frederica asked if he had a preference as to the type. She had been with him since she was eighteen. He had found her working at a café in Rome and offered her a chance to star in a movie. It was her body he wanted and over the next ten months he uncoiled a magnificent seduction that kept her tending to him with baited breath. What he lacked in sheer virility these days he made up for in charm, as well as knowledge of female anatomy.
She had wept and pleaded for him not to end their liaison, but he had grown bored and besides she needed to find someone her own age to build a life. While she never had prove to be any good as an actress, he'd let her stay on as an assistant, a job she performed exquisitely.
"I leave the choice to you, my dear,” he said to the Mona Lisa beauty, now engaged to a struggling design student in Bologna. “Whatever you think would be best for purposes of seduction."
Her lips curled thoughtfully. Like any good Italian, she would pick something from her own region. “Chianti,” recommended the native of Pisa.
Giovanni took her hand for a kiss. It was not bragging to say that he could feel her melt at his touch. “An excellent choice, my love."
A dry, subtle red wine, reaped from the harvests of rolling Tuscany. Each sip fraught with joy and lust ... and sweet, sweet torment.
An excellent choice, indeed, he thought. For what he had in mind.
To begin with he would find his two stars, eliciting from them their agreements to dine with him. It would be a command performance, their finest to date. And a celebration, to boot, an inauguration of the reincarnated film. The biggest and best of his career. So big that when he was done with it the masses would come to him, begging to have him redo sunsets and realign rainbows in accord with its design.
As for Julie and Grigori, they would beg for something more personal-namely the chance to serve him with their beauty all their days. The question was whether he would really and truly take them up on the offer.
The film, he decided. The film would give the answer.
* * * *
Grigori was sitting cross-legged beside his Julya. She was naked now, lying on her back on the green grass. Her gold spun hair was arrayed about her perfect oval face like a halo and her lips looked full and passion quenched. They had not yet left the natural maze of shrubbery, but were as yet employing its high walls as a barrier against any intrusions the world might offer to their intimacy.
At the moment they were attempting to get to know one another better through the learning of each other's languages. Never good at such studies, Grigori had decided to begin with an area close to his heart.
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The parts of the female anatomy.
Thus would he touch one place after another, each time producing a soft, mewling response.
"Knee cap,” she sighed as he traced a line around the joint between upper and lower leg.
Grigori repeated back the strange new words, as he had been all along, then had her say the equivalent in his own mother tongue. This accomplished, he moved to a new body part. They had it down to a science, except that he was intentionally working his way ever closer to the more intimate parts. This could be regarded as teasing, but he excused it as being for educational purposes.
Moving to her torso, he settled his index finger on the lovely indentation that marked the scar of the lost umbilical cord. In his language, the belly of a woman was called literally a “love saucer” because in ancient times a man would pour wine over her as she lay on her back, then lick her smooth skin, and in particular the tiny droplets left in the tiny button as a symbol of his prosperity and health.
He attempted to explain all this, even using his own tongue to illustrate, but the move only succeeded in arousing her, making her want to interrupt this exercise in favor of another.
"No,” he chastised, delivering a light slap to her hip as she reached for his shaft.
The woman's pretty green eyes lit in response. He could almost see her nipples swelling. She enjoyed when he was firm with her. When he set limits and enforced them with mild correction. Grigori tried to imagine her with the leather lovers he had known. She would be a submissive, one of those who served on their knees, naked, taking the orders from the people with the whips.
Would she call a man master? His cock swelled at the idea. Julya was watching this, too, almost panting at the sight of him, nearly ready ... again.
He decided to treat himself to a new body part.
She arched her back as he took hold of the tiny cherry on top of her fresh, white mound. “Nipple,” she exhaled, offering her English word. “Nip-ple."
"Neeppul.” Grigori manipulated the nub, enjoying the effect it had on the female. Women were simple in this way, though he supposed men were, too, when pressured in the right places.
She was saying something, a string of words, featuring one he already knew. Fuck. So the blonde wanted to be penetrated. She certainly wasn't capable of putting up much resistance against him, was she?
"No fuck,” he twisted the nipple to settle her down and refocus her on the lessons. “Seesisya,” he indicated the tiny nub she'd called a neepul.
Julia whimpered, saying as best she could the Dasklovian word. Grigori nodded, smiling. “Good,” he praised, enjoying himself enormously. For it was in itself an act of control and domination all itself to have her rename her own body, one piece at a time.
He turned her over, cupping her bottom signifigantly.
"B-buttocks,” she tensed.
"But-tocks.” He repeated. In Dasklovia, it was called the ulnaras. He smacked her, saying the word, and with it another. Veridostya. Punishment.
Julya hastened to say the words, quickly and correctly. She was adorable. Utterly adorable. Turning her back her over, he subjected her to a kiss, long and hard.
"Zasleyka,” he told her.
"Zasleyka,” she said obediently. “Kiss."
Grigori took the fullness of her breast in his hand. “Shalyeesh."
"Shalyeesh,” she cried out, craving the fullness of what her people called a fuck.
With devastating effect, he moved down the curves of her love saucer, the raking finger tips making her shiver and squirm. She was trying to hold herself still, using all her willpower.
"Dasrita-siya,” he proclaimed palming that most intimate part of her, known as the love cup. For just as the saucer holds wine by the dropful, the cup holds it by the oceanful. So went the words of the ancient Dasklovian poet.
"Pussy,” she moaned. “My ... pussy. Fuck me, Grigori. Fuck my pussy."
Grigori laughed with joy; he had understood her, every last word of it. Yes, taslaya ouya, I hear you ... I shall fuck you, my angel, I shall fuck you hard and long.
She licked her lips; she'd comprehended the word fuck at least. Guiding his cock, she helped him find his place between her widely splayed legs. She was wild with desire, drunk with need, but he saw on her face, too, a question, even in the midst of her heat.
Julya was squeezing the top of his shaft, repeating her word “What?” So the little minx wanted to know the word for a penis, did she? Very well, she would have it, along with another full dose of his potency.
"Vikthasha,” he sank himself to the hilt. “I fuck with my vikthasha."
"Oh, yes,” she agreed happily. “Julya ... dasrita siya ... vrastoya ... vikthasha ... Grigori."
The effort was astounding. The grammar was not correct, of course, nor was the pronunciation perfect, but there was no mistaking the intent in what she conveyed. She was wanting to yield herself, submitting her pussy to his cock.
More than obliging, he pulled her tight against him from underneath, a full body hug, his shaft holding her from within. Neither of them dared move at the moment, for the passions were too intense. They would come together, too quickly, neither prepared for the emotional landslides that could well follow. For while they might be strangers, these fucks of theirs were neither casual nor incidental, but highly elemental, cutting to the core of their being.
"Julya,” he whispered her name fiercely into her ear. “You are a dream ... tell me how can you be real?” He continued in Dasklovian. “For if you are real, then I—"
Grigori felt the slashing pain across his ass. He rolled off Julya, instinctively raising his arms to protect not himself but her. “Master,” he exclaimed, seeing the angry eyed White Lion looming above them. “Have we displeased you?"
The Director scowled. Pointing to the woman with him, one of his assistants, he indicated that Grigori was to leave and follow her.
"I ask forgiveness,” Grigori knelt to kiss the whip. “Or else punishment ... but let it fall only on me, not on Julya."
He gathered the woman into his arms, holding her close. Shaking his head negatively, he tried to indicate that she was not at fault, innocent in all ways. The Director said something to Julya in English, who astounded him again by saying in Dasklovian, “us, inside ... eat."
Had she actually absorbed this much from their erotically inspired lessons? Amazing. He nodded indicating he understood. The Maestro wanted them to come inside and share a meal.
Laughing, even more eagerly than before, he rose to his feet and scooped her into his arms. “We will follow you, Master,” he said proudly, not caring who comprehended. “I and my brilliant, beautiful angel both."
Chapter Three
Julie was given a red cocktail dress to wear. It was cut in all the right places, low at the bosom and high on her thighs. She filled it out well, being blessed with the kind of body that could make almost anything look good off the rack. What wasn't off any rack was the ruby necklace, which she was pretty sure was a one of a kind original. The earrings, too. What a thrill for her. Giovanni Ambrosiano had been married to or dated the biggest stars over the years; there was no telling who might have worn these pieces before.
Frederica assured her that she looked lovely in them, though, honestly, Julie felt her face was not dazzling enough for such jewelry, and certainly not her hair, which tended toward the dishwater end of the blonde spectrum. She opted to wear it up, in an effort to look a bit more sophisticated. The shoes had very high heels, with wispy straps. No stockings were provided. They did, however, give her underwear. Silk, also red, feather light. She had felt wicked as sin pulling the material up over her freshly bathed body. She could still feel Grigori's hands on her body-the way he grabbed at her like her, the way he teased her so lightly, with a single finger here and there like he worshipped her, and everything in between.
Vrastoya and then some.
Talk about a crash course in Dasklovian. She'd surprised herself at how much she could g
rasp and reproduce his language. The thing was, she was so thirsty to know him, to be a part of his world. It was as if her spirit and her imagination were lusting for him as much as her body. No man had ever done such things to her. And all without a word of English. No, “ooh, baby, baby, give it to me,” to support his efforts, just the honest work of his mouth and lips and cock.
It was like a dream to have a man with such a wonderfully macho body who was also sensitive and aware of a woman's needs. Perhaps it was the culture he came from, so much older and more tragic than her own. In her experience, men with muscles were vain, self absorbed and expected women to treat them as gifts to the universe. But Grigori, even without knowing her, her language or her culture, had managed to break through, into the open spaces of her heart. He'd sparked her imagination, touched upon her desires. He was the true hero come to life, that man of timeless honor and strength who would fight for his woman and die for her.
Or was he just a natural actor, playing the part of the gladiator/slave/hero? Complicated stuff. And then there was the surrender business. The way he made her wet by smacking her behind and saying no. That was supposed to be a fantasy, never to see the light of day.
She should have expected this turmoil, though. This was what Ambrosiano did. He did not film scripts, he filmed life-as it could be, or as it was really was, perhaps, at levels no one saw. To work on a project of his was an ordeal. How many top actors, particularly American ones, had simply walked off his sets in tears? How many others had been driven off in fury?
Her own agent had told her she was taking a hell of a gamble. Ambrosiano had had his disasters. Who could forget Brasilia Prime, his Amazonian flop, in which his lead actress and ex-wife had abandoned him midway through? He'd abandoned most of his equipment, taken three cameramen and spent the next six months in the deep jungles, filming what turned out to be little more than a documentary about Amazon beetles and growth rate of his own beard.
Captured!--On Film Page 5