Reese Gabriel

Captured!--On Film

Chapter One

The director shouted “Action!"

Julie Summers held her breath, her healthy pink nipples peaking beneath the costume negligee, white silk, circa Julius Caesar. She was on a pink marble balcony overlooking the deep blue Mediterranean, the shimmering waters warmed by the noonday sun. Doing her best to keep in character as an ancient Roman matron, she confronted the tower of gladiatorial manhood before her.

He was a blue-eyed Adonis wearing nothing but a leather mini-skirt and a set of prop shackles. With his hands secured behind his back, his well-developed pectorals and washboard abdomen stood out even more prominently. His bronzed skin was moist from tiny droplets of sprayed water trickling enticingly down the V of his torso toward his solid, narrow waist. It was all she could do to keep from licking the artificial sweat dry, dabbing at his smooth muscles with her tiny, greedy tongue.

Things were even more tempting below the waist. The skirt was far too short to hide his muscular thighs and legs. The material was also tight, which meant there was no disguising the outline of his crotch. Suffice it to say that the cock he was hiding in there was very much in proportion to the rest of him. Super size and no doubt super scrumptious.

The director had outdone himself with his casting. A more perfect figure of a modern gladiator could not be found than this Russian. Down to the scars across the man's left breast, four parallel, rake-like lines, the remains of slashes won not in the Coliseum in Rome, but in a Kiev circus, wrestling a full-grown black bear. He had another scar across his left bicep, a deep, jagged groove that only added to the overall mystique of his persona.

Her lips twitched. His name was Grigori and he was too close for comfort. Way too close. Smelling of musk and leather and sea salt. Six foot one inch tall with a body of iron and the face of Michelangelo's David. Thoughtful, confident, sensitive yet indisputably masculine in his features. The ideal man in any woman's dream, complete with long curly hair, black as a raven's wing. A one of a kind chest hairless and smooth, made to be caressed by an adoring female and a dimpled chin and strong, masculine lips made to be kissed, the woman on tiptoes to reach him.

Small, feminine lips, proffered, seeking to please, begging attention. Craving the contact of skin on skin, her flimsy clothing ripped away as she is put in her place beneath him, screaming out in pleasure as he fucks and fucks and fucks, his rock hard wrestler's body swallowing hers, the shaft of him threatening to explode the walls of her poor needy, frustrated pussy, making her cry out for him to stop and also not to stop … never ever to stop.

Oh, god, how much more of this could she take?

I'm a professional, she thought. I'm an actress making a movie, playing the part of a wealthy Roman beauty about to ravish her new slave. This is passion to be turned on and off like a spigot. Manufactured for the camera. Except these swollen nipples of hers were pretty real. And the wetness inside her pussy, the tell tale liquid dripping from between her honeyed lips, that was pretty real, too.

I must really be losing it, she thought. Then again, this was no ordinary movie she making. This was a creation of Giovanni Ambrosiano. The Giovanni Ambrosiano. At age 54, the man was a lean, chiseled, charismatic genius, a god of the industry, universally regarded to be the most brilliant filmmaker in the world, capable of stripping an actor naked to his or her soul with a single glance, a single frown of his sculpted lips.

No one was immune from his power. Producers trembled in his presence, investors opened checkbooks without question, authorities cowered, religious and political alike. He was a living mystery, a walking icon. No one understood Ambrosiano. No one.

This latest venture of his was no exception. A movie consisting of one man, one woman, no script. A day and a half into shooting and they had already changed locations twice and gone through five different time periods for the setting. No matter who they were supposed to be, though, each time they filmed it would boil down to this: The two of them, in front of each other, scantily clad, close enough to lose all personal space but not close enough to kiss or seek relief through any form of touch.

It was a recipe for utter frustration. Julie had never wanted a man like she had Grigori-never wanted to get at a body so much or unlock the mystery of a pair of bottomless eyes like these. Strange and yet not strange. There was pain there, something all too familiar. She had this feeling they would connect in so many ways, though he could not even speak English.

All in all it was sheer torment. He'd been constantly with her, on top of her every moment and she could do nothing, nothing at all for relief. At this point, she could only hope the heavy scent of her arousal was being adequately covered by the various complex odors around them: the brine of the shallow sea, the sweet jasmine of her perfume and the pungent mix of onions, tomatoes and oregano cooking in the kitchen of this latest villa they had rented for filming. Not to mention the strong cologne of all these Italian men working on the shoot.

"Closer,” coached Ambrosiano in his thick, rolling accent, as passion filled as the green and fertile hills over which they'd driven to get here. “Move closer to him. He is your prey. Your newly purchased slave. Let him feel that!"

Julie felt the burning in her belly. How much closer could she get? Erase any more of the distance between them and she'd end up hopping onto the man's cock, locking her legs around his waist, grasping hold of those firm, rounded buttocks, her small, lithe body impaled hopelessly.

Resisting the urge to confront the director and his gaggle of assistants and cameras, she moved forward towards the Russian, just a little, lightly, tentatively, her bare feet sliding over the glazed mosaic tiles, smooth and warm, each a tiny kaleidoscope pattern of red, blue and yellow. Their bellies were nearly touching and hers was full of butterflies. The man was like a rock, a statue, but she could sense the living power in those muscles, too. What if she were to spook him or something? It was like approaching a crouching lion to tug at its mane or modeling a brand new red bikini for a poised bull. The manacles holding him were made of painted wood. He could break them with a tenth of his strength, freeing himself to have what he wanted including her. Not that she would resist. At this particular point in time, Julie Marie Summers, has-been, never-was B actress would lower herself to the priceless balcony floor of this equally priceless fifteenth century Italian villa and offer herself in complete sexual submission. Thighs splayed, hips bucking, back arched, a virtual slave herself, beckoning him to enter her gaping, burning pussy.

What would that sun kissed tile feel like, she wondered, on her bare skin? How different would it be from a bed or couch or anything she'd ever known before? And how would the sex be like, to come with a man like that, a mountain of manhood atop her and filling her?

She wanted it; she needed it, that much she knew. As surely as she knew that her gorgeous gladiator-slave was from the Republic of Dasklovia in the former Soviet Union and that he was unable either to understand or speak more than a few words of English. Certainly it was an odd choice for Ambrosiano to choose such a man as the lead in an English-speaking picture, but one did not question genius. The crew communicated to him by pantomime, while Ambrosiano, who was an inch taller than Grigori at six foot two inches tall, simply clamped a hand on the man's shoulder whenever he wanted to communicate something and used his eyes employing some sort of hypnosis or telepathy.

If Grigori could read minds now he would know that his leading lady was craving some very un-lady like treatment. Maybe she'd do some pantomiming of her own, getting down on her knees and lifting that cute skimpy man skirt to see what was packaged underneath. She was sure he would have a large and beautiful cock. Was it tanned, she wondered, like the rest of him, or would it be a bit more pale? In any case she was sure there would be lovely veins, and a wonderful head and a long, long shaft.

She wanted that shaft in her mouth. It had been ages since she'd felt this horny making a film. Not since she'd had that bit part as a girl kidnapped by a motorcycle gang. At one point the leader had taken her by her long blonde hair and told her she was going to be their plaything and that she had better get used to the idea of being their bitch.

Not being the leading lady at the time (Julie never had managed that feat except in a couple of really, really forgettable pictures) no one came to rescue her. She had a few minutes squirming on screen as they stripped off her clothes and threw her to the floor of their clubhouse and then, as it usually does, the scene had faded just before the really good parts.

Such was Julie's lot, always in the background, never in the limelight. Sure, she could have gone the adult film route with the body she had, but that was a line she'd drawn in the LA sands a long time ago. At age thirty-four, she'd about given up on a real career until Ambrosiano had given her a call out of the blue.

"I have a picture,” he'd said, and there was no need to ask further. When Giovanni Claudio Ambrosiano says he has a picture it's like Elton John telling you he's working on a little ditty. Ambrosiano was film-the whole history of cinema for the last thirty years could be traced in one way or another to this man's innovations. He'd been a recluse for years, though, which made it all the more strange he would resurface now, wanting to produce what for all intents and purposes was shaping up to be a campy gladiator/slave story using none too significant actors.

But Julie wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. As for Ambrosiano's strange moods and even stranger filming habits, she would take that in stride. Anything to realize her dream of being a star. This was her final shot and she knew it. A thirty four year old blonde bit actress had no future in Hollywood; she was living on borrowed time, natural breasts and hair color not withstanding.

"Where is the intensity?” cried Ambrosiano, sounding more and more like an disgruntled fan at a Manchester United soccer match with each utterance. “I want my intensity!"

Julie turned looked over her shoulder in defeat, breaking the action. “Signor Ambrosiano, with all due respect, I am just not grasping this scene. Perhaps if we used some dialogue?"

"How dare you stop?” The man challenged. “Continue the scene, at once. Slap him and find your intensity."

"Sir?” Had Julie heard him correctly?

Ambrosiano rose to his feet imperiously. He was an excellent specimen for his age, his perfectly oval face angular and wrinkle free. The director was one of those men who would only ever get sexier as he got older. Everything about him was intriguing. He wore a black silk shirt, sleeves rolled up, half unbuttoned. His hair was a lion's mane, stark white, unbound, hanging to the middle of his back, the line of recession barely noticeable. He had piercing black eyes like an owl's or a hawk's and the nose of an ancient philosopher or sorcerer.

It was the mouth that most transfixed, however. You could not help but hang on its every motion, the complexity of its pursed lips-lips that had directed, dominated and seduced every top star of the last thirty years, male and female alike.

"Slap him,” repeated those fearsome lips, the order given as though there were no other possible action in the world that could be taken at this moment. “Draw your hand across the face of the slave. Teach him the power of the mistress."

Julie swallowed. Surely this was not in the contract. Surely there was some way out of this.

"But … what if he thinks I am attacking him?” she asked reasonably.

The Great Ambrosiano raised his eyes to the heavens, invoking something in his native Italian from his ancestors. He was on the move now, long purposeful strides in his black silk trousers, pleated and his hand-made loafers, part of a special line out of Milan reserved just for him.

"Step back,” he said to his leading lady. Then to the Dasklovian, whose shoulder he was now clutching in his fine, bony hand, he said, “Watch, Grigori … molto bene."

Julie gasped audibly as the director leaned in with savage intent and struck the man with the palm of his hand. The wrestler's head was rotated slightly by the blow, but he remained expressionless.

"Now,” Ambrosiano nodded deadpan to the five foot three, one hundred and ten pound actress. “Your turn."

Julie looked at the hapless Dasklovian. Three months ago he'd been tossing bears and bending bars of iron for the Kiev Circus. Probably had a girlfriend back there and a nice ancient mother in a kerchief who wept with joy when he told her he was going to be a movie star. And here he was half naked in silly wooden shackles about to be slapped by a down-on-her-luck American actress whose great claim to fame was being the Wink Girl for Wink Detergent.

"I don't think I can do it, Signor Ambrosiano. I'm sorry."

Ambrosiano tore at the roots of his hair, an unprecedented display of raw feeling in the man. There was a commotion back inside the house and at once two of his assistants rushed in with hand-held cameras, focusing on either profile of the man, capturing every nuance of the director's frustration.

"And so it continues,” narrated the one pseudo director, pole thin and dressed in black turtleneck and black jeans. “From dust to dust. To rain, to prune, to prepare … Piovare, potare, preparare…"

"Piovare, potare, preparare,” repeated the other solemnly in his tank top and shorts.

Julie sighed. Roughly translated they were saying “To rain, to be able, to prepare.” What sense did that make? This was how it went, every time a shoot went bad-the two would rush in chattering as they started filming Ambrosiano's reaction to his own movie making.

"Ho dimenticato,” decried the Great Master, dramatically stretching his arms out over the edge of the balcony. “I have forgotten."

The two assistants turned off their cameras and dropped to one knee, sharing in what seemed to be a ‘moment.'

Julie was about to ask if they could take five for a cigarette when the director whirled back to face her on the radius a dime-or whatever passed for dimes over here. This time his eyes looked like the sea, swept by an ancient storm.

"Kiss,” he pronounced, as though this were the solution not only to the current difficulties in filming but to those of existence as a whole. “You must kiss him."

Julie sucked in her lower lip, puffy and tingling. As aroused as she was, an on camera lip lock in front of a dozen cologne soaked witnesses named Guido really was not the best idea. “Is slapping him still an option, Signor Ambrosiano?"

Unless you want this odd little piece of cinematography to have an X rating, that is…

"No,” he roared, “the moment is passed … everything has shifted, like the plates beneath the earth. Kiss, now!"

To her utter and complete astonishment, it was the statue Grigori who made the first move, taking his leading lady in his arms, leaning down to plant his lips. He plastered their bodies, decisively but without coercion, the remains of his faux shackles lying in bits and splinters at their feet. Before her mind could think to resist, her body was right there, meeting him point for point, her curves fitted to his angles, every gaping space of her, desperate for filling.

Oh, fuck.

He did have a monster cock under that skirt and right now it was at half-mast, aimed point blank at the apex of her thighs, the rough leather making a mockery of the damp silk covdring and the even damper lips beneath. What else was she supposed to do but lift herself off her heels, driving her pussy against him, plowing her nipples suicide style into those yummy pecs, her arms draping suggestively over his shoulders?

Did she say suggestively? Hell, she might as well be taking out a personal ad in Il Giornale in Rome: Semi famous blonde American actress seeking to have pussy filled, apply within.

Grigori's kiss was surprisingly gentle and artful for a man of such sheer bulk. There was a tragic element to it, a romance that seemed born of some great suffering. And yet there was no mistaking his ability to keep and hold the lead. No gender bending here. She was the woman and quite happy to be so: spoiled, embraced, aroused.

The smallest of moans escaped her fully encompassed mouth as the fingers of his hands splayed themselves, like fans covering most of the territory of her chilled back. He did not want her exposed. He was protecting her. This, too, was an instinct in him, just as was the drive that was no doubt wanting to push that pulsing, turgid shaft all the way up inside her to her womb.

Julie let her fingers curl in his hair. It was ages since she'd felt so hot and ready for a man, but at the time so playful and expressive. Instinctively, she knew she could be herself, as silly, as randy and coquettish as she liked, assured that he would keep their activities on track. There was no question where it must go, either.

As for having this audience, that was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, she felt ever so wicked, being primed for love making in front of the world's greatest director and his entourage. The perfect audience, to evaluate and record and appreciate the performance. At the same time, she yearned to be alone with this man, to explore in private whatever it was had happened between them on this movie set-correction, whatever was happening.

Julie wanted his hands on her ass. She needed that snugness, that feeling of being claimed by the big, strong brute with the heart of the teddy bear. Using a single hand, shameless, she reached behind her back to show him in universal me-so-horny language exactly what the score was.

Ambrosiano was less jazzed by the scene. “Enough!” He cried. “No more! No good. It is no good."

The men with the cameras bowed and backed off. New assistants rushed in. One had a glass of wine for the director, another brought a black cape to sling over his shoulders.

Ambrosiano, long ago dubbed as the Maestro for his role as a teaching director, refused all placation. “It is finished,” he announced, all trace of emotion gone from his voice. “I have failed. The picture is ruined. I will never direct again."

Shit, thought Julie, now who's going to pay my plane fare home?

* * * *

Grigori Alexey Romanin ached with pain as the yellow haired female pulled away from him. He had needed her, wanted her as no other and now she was being denied him. Her scent, her sex, her soft curves, he had desired the whole of her, to conquer her world and be conquered by it. One kiss and he was captivated.

But the director had called out something in his native Italian. They were all moving. The filming was being stopped again. Grigori tried to understand what was going on with the maker of motion pictures, the exquisitely beautiful white haired man who was so full of wisdom and who had kissed him once after a show in Krakow, giving him a feeling not unlike what he had now. Indescribable, beyond arousal.

The Director was in mortal pain-Grigori saw this, he felt it. Not the sort of pain he might feel in his tawny, smooth body, but a pain in his heart.

They had displeased him somehow. He and the lovely yellow haired woman both. They were not giving Ambrosiano what he needed. Not enough from their own hearts and out of their own lust. Grigori had thought he'd known lust before meeting this man whom he now called the White Lion. But he had been as a mere virgin then, without experience.

Yes, Grigori had taken his share of the women who had thrown themselves at him all his adult life. This one here, this one whose name sounded like Julya, was no exception. She was the rule. One look at his god given physique and females had always melted. The approach they took to his cock alone approached the sort of religious worship that under the old order of the communists would have been considered illegal.

As a member of the Traveling Circus Extravaganza of Sergei Leontov, he had been treated to such worship frequently, and often by two or even three girls at a time. Gymnasts and pretty dancers who would kneel at his feet fighting for the chance to taste him. Grigori was greatly flattered and aroused as well. He enjoyed women, desired them above all things. They were curvy and soft, marvels of creation, their eye pleasing bodies responding so miraculously to male attentions. How could he ever grow tired of chewing a nipple to waken it from slumber, hardening the sleepy, languid bud into a firm ripe grape? Or a pussy-his fingers beckoning the beautiful, intricate flowers to gush open, creating the moisture necessary to take a man's cock between her legs.

None of them would ever be like Katyana, though. She was the first and the best. They had been together the summer before he went off to the army. They were from the same village. He was nineteen and she was twenty. She lived with her uncle, a successful farmer. They'd been very much in love, the kind of love that comes at first sight, and only when one is very young. Cultivated, it can last forever. Neglected, it sows only the seeds of life long regret.

Losing himself to her that very first night, drowning in the fragrance of her dark hair, the scent of her ripened pussy had been the greatest experience of his life. They had made love on the grass, behind her house, under the light of the moon, wolves howling in the distance. Her body was pure and glowing. A hunger filled him that he knew could be satisfied only in her. She met him stroke for stroke, bite and kiss, tug and pull. They moaned and sighed and came and came.

Many more women had followed, but there was none to take her place. He could have, should have done more to keep Katyana, but inside himself was always a voice to say he did not deserve so great a love. Had he not lost his own mother, also dark haired and beautiful, when he was five? And his sister after that? Was this not his path of suffering as the old priest Mikhail, with his foot long gray beard had told him?

Thus had he ignored Katyana's letters and her calls to him at the military camp, and when he'd seen her at the cafe, encountering her by accident while at home on leave the next winter, he had pretended not to know her, breaking both their hearts forever. It was a pain he had pushed deep down and used only for his battles against Sergei's black bears and against the Uzbeks he hired to fight him in the ring.

Never had he dreamed another would see that pain, much less interpret something in it no one else had ever known, not even himself. It was The White Lion who had accomplished this, coming to him that fateful night, after the show in Krakow, approaching him in the dressing room, scented of spice, dressed in white. The man had given to him two things: the kiss and a note which he could translate inviting him to make this movie.

Grigori was naked at the time of the kiss, having just toweled himself dry after a shower. The White Lion made his cock so hard it hurt and more than anything he had wanted to go to his knees and serve, taking the man into his mouth in devotion and obedience. It was as if he were the woman, the pleasure object. Ambrosiano refused, leaving him with a smile-and the invitation.

It was the honor of a lifetime, any lifetime, but Grigori had ruined that opportunity, squandered it with his own petty weakness. He had been brittle as wood in his performances for the cameras, no more alive than the fetters attached to his flesh. If only he had been stronger, if only he had the vision to see behind the director's eyes. Then he would know how to act for him.

The slap in the face had been a taste of it, a crisp, bracing reminder of what was possible. Pain to focus on. Male to male pain. With this twisting sting came pleasure, too. Grigori had never considered himself homosexual and yet the White Lion had made him erect with a single touch of his lips that fateful night. The contact had awakened a curiosity. Grigori, to his amazement had actually wondered for the first time in his life what it might be like to love a man. To give himself fully for even a night. What would Ambrosiano do to him? Would he take him from behind, making him give up his asshole to a hard throbbing dick? There was no greater shame in his culture and yet thoughts and images had been running through his mind ever since.

Forbidden scenarios. Ambrosiano allowing him to swallow his semen, to kiss and lick his body, himself groveling and begging to be taken, like a woman. Or being made love to by the man himself, being sucked and loved.

In large part it was the desire to pursue those hidden urges that had led him here, though he would admit this to no one. How tragic, then, that it was all to end now, before he'd had a chance to really look into the depths of his own soul and its myriad possibilities.

Was there a chance, still, to turn things around? He thought maybe yes, though it was a slim one. Ripping the skirt from his body, he revealed the living staff so often sought and speculated upon by his audiences. It was large and thick by any standards. Especially when it was erect, as it was now. With a beefy fist he grasped it, just as he did on those infrequent occasions when he could find no woman to satisfy his pleasure.

Looking to the White Lion he called out his sorrow in his native tongue, unabashedly asking what to do, how to use this cock of his to please. The director pointed in turn to the woman, to the sexy, flaxen haired American with the pure, smooth body and the dancing green eyes.

A single word escaped the director's lips in reply. Grigori did not know it. The music of the man's language was a mystery to him, just as the robust tones of Grigori's own tongue were unknown to him. For the former soldier, wrestler and performer, however, just twenty-five years old, there was in the word a clear meaning to be found, nonetheless. Intuited really.

Redemption. The White Lion was giving him a chance to redeem himself, and the woman, too. Did he intend to film it? Grigori did not know, but he would take the female and the cameras would record the act or not as the man wished. She was light as a feather, born to be scooped up into the arms of a strong man. Her exclamations of surprise only added to her charm. It was good to free himself like this, to allow himself to act upon what his loins had wanted the first moment he had laid eyes upon her in halter-top and cut off jeans what seemed like months ago now.

The firmness of her flesh as she squirmed against him pleased Grigori very much. She kept her body well toned, better than many women his own age. It would be a pleasure to penetrate her, to breathe her in and wrap himself fully in her energy and humor. She was a woman who smiled much, and often at herself, which was a good thing.

He would give her much to smile about soon himself; all he had to do was find a nice big bed somewhere. Preferably one with posts and some rope.

* * * *

"Put me down!” Cried the barefoot, barely decent Julie. Had the Dasklovian gone crazy-first stripping himself naked and then lifting her up like some kind of caveman? Granted, she'd been fantasizing along these lines herself, but this was reality. There were people watching. Professional movie people who did not want to see a woman swept off her feet, literally, by a bare assed man with a mammoth cock.

Stars and planets-they were on the move now. Where was he taking her?