But this one, this shaft wasn't something a woman claimed … it was something that claimed her. Inch by inch, driving from her mind every other thought, every other possibility and reality except for the fucking. This perfect, male body, coming closer and closer, set to fuse, to ignite with hers in that most ancient of dances.
The woman on her back on the quilted red bedspread, forever, hands tied together in soft silk, ankles spread by command, forced into wanton complicity and compliance. Begging release upon a foreign shore, waves lulling her from the nearby window, beams of afternoon sun splaying the parquet floor, the ancient, tapestry covered walls awakening things, teaching things.
It was here, in this mood, this setting, that Grigori found virgin depths to plumb. Her-Julie Summers, jaded would-be bombshell-was being made fresh again, only to be immediately had in a brand new way.
"So … sweet,” she slurred, her body drunk with desire, the right words, the really good ones, eluding her. “Don't … stop."
Grigori didn't. He wanted and achieved the full immersion of his straining, long-suffering cock. She was proud and awed to take him so completely like this; was he suitably impressed and pleased with his tiny American doll woman? Bound and spread and kissed to utter blonde vapidity? Clenching tiny fists, Julie awaited the inevitable partial withdrawal. The fucking was about to start, for real. She could feel it in his heartbeat. She could see it in the straining sinews at his neck.
"Ju-lya…” said her hero, the gladiator-slave turned conqueror.
She said his name in reply as he began his thrusts, slow and measured, disciplined. Her slick channel grabbed at him, trying to entice him to more friction. She had speed limits in here-why wasn't he breaking them? Julie could feel the frustration building again, the liquid pouring out of her, the natural lubricant for the pistoning she was needing and not yet receiving.
He wasn't going to tease her all over again was he?
"Come inside me,” she cried, arching her back and wrapping her legs to lock him in place. “Do it, just the way you want to. Show me … I'm your woman."
Julie had no idea why she'd just said such a thing. Even if he couldn't understand a word of it, she had no wish to be this or any man's woman. She wanted to get her rocks off again, say thank you to Signor Ambrosiano, for what was a most unforgettable, if not technically a good time, and then be on her way.
Grigori must have picked up the gist of her plea. Rearing back his head, he slammed himself hard, pelvis to pelvis.
'That's it, you mother fucking bear fighter! Do it to me! Make me howl!” Julie's speech came in short stabs of breath as she held to him for dear life. The man was like a machine, pulverizing, pounding the daylights out of her. The springs of the bed were crying for mercy and she was half afraid he would fuck her straight through the floor.
She swore at him, calling every name she could think to. In turn she promised to be everything dirty and wicked for him. “Make me your whore … fucking own me,” she challenged.
He clamped down on her tit like indeed it was his private property. This was all it took to push her over the edge. “Coming … for you,” she panted. “My … wild beast."
Grigori's sad haunted eyes slid back in his head. The croaking sound from his throat sounded like half pleasure, half death rattle.
"Fill me up, baby,” she implored. “Pump me full of your hot come."
His orgasm was like a firestorm, wasting everything in its path. His skin was hot to the touch. He was like a man twisting and agonizing in the desert, cracked open from the heat of the sun. And yet within, like a water cactus, flowed the stuff of life. His precious semen.
"Piovare…” she heard. “Potare. Preparare."
Another voice repeated the words as a tight beam of camera light shone on Grigori's ass. It was Ambrosiano and his ridiculous assistants, filming their sex act.
"Signore,” she protested to the tall, white haired man standing over them, frowning, arms folded. “This is an outrage."
The director frowned, folding his arms. “I direct no more. This is life; control it yourselves."
In the background his two secretaries and a visiting professor from Bologna broke out into applause. “Bravo,” they cheered the mini manifesto. “Bravo."
This fawning only seemed to irritate the man. “Grigori!” He thundered. “Leave the woman be!"
The Dasklovian was just now collapsing upon the breast of Julie, his hair fanning about her face, the musky scent of him filling her nostrils, making her want a second go around already.
"Grigori!” He said again. “Have you understood a word I've said?"
"Of course he hasn't,” Julie protested, stunned at the man's sudden lapse of reason. “He can't speak English anymore than he can Italian."
Ambrosiano snorted. “We are born to speak and understand every language. That is the legacy of Babel.” Snapping his fingers he called for something in Italian.
Julie tensed as one of the secretaries, a small dark haired beauty in a tight leather skirt and red turtleneck, produced for the Maestro a rattan cane, some three feet in length. Twice he whistled it through the air in practice. Seeing the man's intent, Julie squealed for Grigori to protect himself.
It was too late. The device was on Grigori's ass like a heat seeking missile. Ambrosiano must have hit him full strength, but the man barely budged. Three more times the cane's punishing blows were delivered, and still he made no effort to protect himself. In fact, the stoic wrestler had actually put himself on all fours above her to give the man better access.
"Ambrosiano, leave him alone, you sadistic bastard!"
"The woman speaks,” the director reviled. “Always, everything in the world comes down to the centrality of the woman. Thus are we damned at birth.” Ambrosiano tapped the hip of the well-beaten Grigori. “Off,” he said imperiously.
"Get up,” she pushed at Grigori's chest. “Don't let yourself be hurt anymore."
Grigori stood, reluctantly.
"Behold the man,” said the mad director, outlining the welts with the tip of the cane. “L'uomo ecco."
"You're a prick,” Julie told the Maestro.
Ambrosiano laughed darkly, as if the irony were too great to bear. “Now you have intensity…"
"Yes,” she agreed, having nothing to lose. “I do. You want to see a little more of my female intensity? Hear, film this."
Julie lifted her hips and blew a kiss to the cameramen. “I'm sure this will be at least as interesting as what you have so far.” Opening her pussy lips wide she said, “Come on, boys, you don't want to miss this, do you? Greatest show on earth."
Julie masturbated for them now, using the fingers of her left hand to hit the sweet spot, the tiny head of her clitoris, which up till Grigori no one but herself had managed to work so expertly. She felt wanton and wicked, knowing she was turning these men on-and probably pissing off Ambrosiano, too.
That was the best part. The man had it coming for what he'd done to Grigori, whipping him like a slave in front of all these others. Why had the man endured it? Even more incredibly, why had there been a light in Grigori's eyes, an intensity she'd not seen even in the height of sex? Was the Dasklovian a masochist? Ambrosiano was probably taking advantage of the fact, but he'd not get the better of her that way. She'd out shame him, outrage him, and out last him.
"You're not filming, Signore. Why not?"
Ambrosiano snapped his fingers. “Leave us,” he said to his entourage.
"You don't frighten me,” she announced when the others were gone. To the extent this was true, it was because Grigori had stayed where he was beside her bed.