She had wept and pleaded for him not to end their liaison, but he had grown bored and besides she needed to find someone her own age to build a life. While she never had prove to be any good as an actress, he'd let her stay on as an assistant, a job she performed exquisitely.
"I leave the choice to you, my dear,” he said to the Mona Lisa beauty, now engaged to a struggling design student in Bologna. “Whatever you think would be best for purposes of seduction."
Her lips curled thoughtfully. Like any good Italian, she would pick something from her own region. “Chianti,” recommended the native of Pisa.
Giovanni took her hand for a kiss. It was not bragging to say that he could feel her melt at his touch. “An excellent choice, my love."
A dry, subtle red wine, reaped from the harvests of rolling Tuscany. Each sip fraught with joy and lust … and sweet, sweet torment.
An excellent choice, indeed, he thought. For what he had in mind.
To begin with he would find his two stars, eliciting from them their agreements to dine with him. It would be a command performance, their finest to date. And a celebration, to boot, an inauguration of the reincarnated film. The biggest and best of his career. So big that when he was done with it the masses would come to him, begging to have him redo sunsets and realign rainbows in accord with its design.
As for Julie and Grigori, they would beg for something more personal-namely the chance to serve him with their beauty all their days. The question was whether he would really and truly take them up on the offer.
The film, he decided. The film would give the answer.
* * * *
Grigori was sitting cross-legged beside his Julya. She was naked now, lying on her back on the green grass. Her gold spun hair was arrayed about her perfect oval face like a halo and her lips looked full and passion quenched. They had not yet left the natural maze of shrubbery, but were as yet employing its high walls as a barrier against any intrusions the world might offer to their intimacy.
At the moment they were attempting to get to know one another better through the learning of each other's languages. Never good at such studies, Grigori had decided to begin with an area close to his heart.
The parts of the female anatomy.
Thus would he touch one place after another, each time producing a soft, mewling response.
"Knee cap,” she sighed as he traced a line around the joint between upper and lower leg.
Grigori repeated back the strange new words, as he had been all along, then had her say the equivalent in his own mother tongue. This accomplished, he moved to a new body part. They had it down to a science, except that he was intentionally working his way ever closer to the more intimate parts. This could be regarded as teasing, but he excused it as being for educational purposes.
Moving to her torso, he settled his index finger on the lovely indentation that marked the scar of the lost umbilical cord. In his language, the belly of a woman was called literally a “love saucer” because in ancient times a man would pour wine over her as she lay on her back, then lick her smooth skin, and in particular the tiny droplets left in the tiny button as a symbol of his prosperity and health.
He attempted to explain all this, even using his own tongue to illustrate, but the move only succeeded in arousing her, making her want to interrupt this exercise in favor of another.
"No,” he chastised, delivering a light slap to her hip as she reached for his shaft.
The woman's pretty green eyes lit in response. He could almost see her nipples swelling. She enjoyed when he was firm with her. When he set limits and enforced them with mild correction. Grigori tried to imagine her with the leather lovers he had known. She would be a submissive, one of those who served on their knees, naked, taking the orders from the people with the whips.
Would she call a man master? His cock swelled at the idea. Julya was watching this, too, almost panting at the sight of him, nearly ready … again.
He decided to treat himself to a new body part.
She arched her back as he took hold of the tiny cherry on top of her fresh, white mound. “Nipple,” she exhaled, offering her English word. “Nip-ple."
"Neeppul.” Grigori manipulated the nub, enjoying the effect it had on the female. Women were simple in this way, though he supposed men were, too, when pressured in the right places.
She was saying something, a string of words, featuring one he already knew. Fuck. So the blonde wanted to be penetrated. She certainly wasn't capable of putting up much resistance against him, was she?
"No fuck,” he twisted the nipple to settle her down and refocus her on the lessons. “Seesisya,” he indicated the tiny nub she'd called a neepul.
Julia whimpered, saying as best she could the Dasklovian word. Grigori nodded, smiling. “Good,” he praised, enjoying himself enormously. For it was in itself an act of control and domination all itself to have her rename her own body, one piece at a time.
He turned her over, cupping her bottom signifigantly.
"B-buttocks,” she tensed.
"But-tocks.” He repeated. In Dasklovia, it was called the ulnaras. He smacked her, saying the word, and with it another. Veridostya. Punishment.
Julya hastened to say the words, quickly and correctly. She was adorable. Utterly adorable. Turning her back her over, he subjected her to a kiss, long and hard.
"Zasleyka,” he told her.
"Zasleyka,” she said obediently. “Kiss."
Grigori took the fullness of her breast in his hand. “Shalyeesh."
"Shalyeesh,” she cried out, craving the fullness of what her people called a fuck.
With devastating effect, he moved down the curves of her love saucer, the raking finger tips making her shiver and squirm. She was trying to hold herself still, using all her willpower.
"Dasrita-siya,” he proclaimed palming that most intimate part of her, known as the love cup. For just as the saucer holds wine by the dropful, the cup holds it by the oceanful. So went the words of the ancient Dasklovian poet.
"Pussy,” she moaned. “My … pussy. Fuck me, Grigori. Fuck my pussy."
Grigori laughed with joy; he had understood her, every last word of it. Yes, taslaya ouya, I hear you … I shall fuck you, my angel, I shall fuck you hard and long.
She licked her lips; she'd comprehended the word fuck at least. Guiding his cock, she helped him find his place between her widely splayed legs. She was wild with desire, drunk with need, but he saw on her face, too, a question, even in the midst of her heat.
Julya was squeezing the top of his shaft, repeating her word “What?” So the little minx wanted to know the word for a penis, did she? Very well, she would have it, along with another full dose of his potency.
"Vikthasha,” he sank himself to the hilt. “I fuck with my vikthasha."
"Oh, yes,” she agreed happily. “Julya … dasrita siya … vrastoya … vikthasha … Grigori."
The effort was astounding. The grammar was not correct, of course, nor was the pronunciation perfect, but there was no mistaking the intent in what she conveyed. She was wanting to yield herself, submitting her pussy to his cock.
More than obliging, he pulled her tight against him from underneath, a full body hug, his shaft holding her from within. Neither of them dared move at the moment, for the passions were too intense. They would come together, too quickly, neither prepared for the emotional landslides that could well follow. For while they might be strangers, these fucks of theirs were neither casual nor incidental, but highly elemental, cutting to the core of their being.