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.