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.