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?
"Ambrosiano,” she cried out, forgetting the signore business, “tell him to put me down."
"I don't direct films in Dasklovian,” said the sullen director, sounding like Pilate washing his hands of all responsibility.
"Help, somebody!” She cried out as he carried her down the hall, still wriggling quite ineffectually against a wall of muscle. “I'm going to be raped!"
It was hyperbole, of course, given her high level of sexual heat and desire for the man, but still, she did not wish to appear overly easy. Otherwise, she would find herself fending off advances from the director's staff, which made such a specialty of undressing her with their eyes she felt like she was wasting everyone's time even bothering with clothes.
The entourage, having been appealed to directly, turned to Ambrosiano for guidance.
"Sheep,” he dismissed with utter contempt. “What use have I for a roomful of sheep? Go-do as you wish. Watch for all I care; beg for a turn yourselves.
Julie cringed. He did not just say that…
Unfortunately, there was no time to react. Julie's heart did a flip as Grigori found what he'd been looking for. A nearby room with a large canopy bed, intricately carved, the wood dark and heavy. He threw her down on the blood red bedspread, her behind bouncing nicely.
"This … wrong,” she said, as if leaving out the verb would somehow make it easier for him to understand. “Me,” she touched her breast. “No … available."
And yet she was available, as evidenced by what it did to her anatomy just to say the word. Available and willing, too. There was no but herself to blame for this predicament. She'd sent her signals out, and look where it had ended her up. Painted into a corner. About to be made to put her money where her kissing mouth had gotten her.
And what woman in her right mind would argue? This Dasklovian wrestler would put a Greek god to shame with his chiseled body of pure muscle and his square, noble jaw and chin line. Everything about him only added to the look, the aesthetics. His nudity, his mammoth erection; all this spoke to his manly naturalness, while the scars said he was a fighter, too, not a mere dreamer.
"Vrastoya,” he said, looming above her. She scooted back on the bed, desperate to avoid his slightest touch. If he fucked her now, there would be no professional rapport between them and the picture would be all but ruined. And the door was open, too, which meant that at any moment Ambrosiano could come in or any of the people he'd invited to watch her being ravished.
"Grigori, be reasonable…"
Grigori was on a wavelength all his own. Seizing the neck of the negligee, he shredded it, exposing her completely. “Vrastoya,” he repeated.
Julie was panting, naked for real now. Whatever vrastoya meant it was not an invitation to play backgammon.
Damn it, why was he still looking at her like he wanted her to do something? Was she supposed to rub her tits, call him big boy, suck him off or what?
"I don't know any vrastoya,” she insisted. “And I haven't got my pocket translator handy, so why don't we-"
Grigori released a low growl, indicating mild frustration. Removing the shreds of the garment, handling her just as nicely as a poseable doll, he put her arms over her head and gathered them together, using the remains of the silk.
Two knots later and Julie was in bondage, her wrists secured.
"Vrastoya,” he proclaimed decisively, positioning her ankles as widely apart as they were designed to go.
Well, that was one mystery solved, she thought dryly. Vrastoya meant ‘let's get it on’ or maybe ‘prepare for penetration by your hung-like-a-horse lover.'
She'd certainly had worse invitations. This man had not only the body but lips and a tongue; she knew that much already. Not that she much cared for peripherals given that cock of his. Speaking of which, she wanted it now. Bucking her hips, she tried to speed along the inevitable, inviting him to try her out, dipstick style.
Grigori rewarded her with a stinging slap to her hip. “Vrastoya,” he said.
Interesting. So this vrastoya business was more than sex, it was about the man being in charge. Julie creamed in immediate recognition. The man had put her in her place. She would await him-his moves, his pleasure. With pure adoration and pure lust on her face she regarded him. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Grigori."