Julie knew this was a crock. “Or else what?” She called his bluff.
He signaled for the servants. “Or else you will be subject to additional punishment than you are already slotted for. And physical restraint, as well."
The men in the white tuxedos took up positions around her, marking the corners of an invisible box, three yards by three.
"You can't do this, Signor Ambrosiano.” In a last ditch effort, she appealed directly to the Dasklovian. “Grigori, help … Julya … in trouble."
Damn, she wished she could have said some of that in the man's own language.
"Grigori,” the Director addressed him. “Brasktyo ghrista tay, turn ul, metryiu-jost abak."
The handsome, square jawed wrestler with the poet's heart frowned slightly, looking back and forth between the director and Julie.
"I have instructed Grigori to go to you and do whatever is required to remove your panties and bend you over the table for a bare assed spanking. You should know that resistance on your part only increases the sentence."
Julie's pussy clenched. “He wouldn't dare."
Who was she kidding-that look in his eye said he'd do it in a heartbeat and enjoy the heck out of it. She knew in her mind she ought to run, at least making a show of resisting. The servants and Grigori himself needed to know in no uncertain terms that this was being done against her will. Only her feet would not move, her legs had no will, she was paralyzed, heart thundering in her chest, like a deer, caught in the crosshairs of a dozen mighty hunters’ guns.
"Ambrosiano, this is not part of your movie,” she pointed out. “You've no right to expect this of me. I am contracted to make a movie, nothing more."
"You are correct,” he conceded as one of the chefs brought out the antipasto, the first course in the traditional four-course Tuscan dinner. “I shall attend to the matter."
Snapping his fingers, he called out the name of Luigi, one of his retainers. He was a small man in a black suit with a red turtleneck with the apparent gift of being able to appear out of nowhere.
"Bring cameras,” the Maestro instructed. “Immediatamente."
Julie's stomach did a flip. So now he intended to film her being spanked. “Signor Ambrosiano-"
Her latest objections were silenced by Grigori as he swept her uncompromisingly into his arms. She wilted almost at once under the searing pressure of his kiss. This was no fair. She was outnumbered here-two to one … make that three to one, counting her own treacherous body. Grigori's hands moved freely down her back, exploring territory already quite familiar. When he reached her ass, she knew she was doomed. Her flesh burned under his touch. She was skittish, electrified, wanting to run from what was to follow, though at the same time her flesh was so very curious, wanting to know what a prolonged spanking would feel like, from a real man like this, and under the eyes of as powerful a masculine force as Giovanni Ambrosiano.
She was able to disguise nothing, nor could she hold anything in reserve. Her nipples tented under the thin bra and dress, rubbing against the material of his suit jacket. By way of reflex, her leg sidled against him, seeking out contact, instinctive and suggestive. Even her lips, full and puffy were saying something. There was nothing Julie Summers could deny this man, and through him, nothing that she could deny the Director.
Grigori broke contact first, and for Julie it was like losing the oxygen for her lungs. He said something to her and held out his hand. She knew this was about the underwear.
"We are waiting,” said Giovanni in a tone that flooded her pussy.
She melted with shame because now she would be turning them over wet. And fragrant, too. But she was not in a place to argue. Grigori had possession of her flesh and her affections while the Director had her desires, and with them her fears. More than anything, blonde, shapely Julie had worked in her career to be taken seriously as an actress. Nothing had plagued her more than to be thought of in terms of body parts or regarded as some kind of bimbo. At the same time, she had dark fantasies, of being sought after wholly and completely as an object of lust. By men who would take her and do with her as they chose.
Julie was close to panting. She was not the equal of these two men. They were going to take her panties from her and use her sexually. “I'll cooperate,” she tested the waters to see how resolved they were. “I'll do as you say. You needn't punish me."
"Yes,” he agreed. “You will do as we say. And at this moment that means stripping off the very lovely underwear I have loaned you from your very lovely behind and holding that dress up to your waist for inspection."
Julie glanced quickly at the servants. There was something very much worse-and therefore very much sexier about being talked to like this in front of them. It made her feel very helpless and very naughty, like a bad schoolgirl being sent to the principal's office.
She hoisted the dress, then reached for the waistband of the panties. Her pussy screamed out from the sudden exposure to the air as she lowered the garment over her hips and down her legs. They fluttered lightly past her calves and ankles and settled on the carpet. She stepped from them one foot at a time and bent to pick the garment from the floor. The vulnerable position reminded her of what they intended and as she straightened back up she found herself lightheaded, and not only from lack of oxygen.
Grigori's fingers lingered on hers as he took the panties from her. He was looking deep in her eyes, deep into her soul. Never had she felt so stripped, so delicately, beautifully feminine under a man's gaze.
Julie nearly feinted as he put them to his nose and breathed in deeply the scent of her womanhood. Of her vrastoya. For Grigori now, just for him, she lifted the dress, baring her pussy, the lips glistening wet, the very same liquid he'd just inhaled dripping in traces down her inner thighs.
But there was Giovanni here, too, and try as she might, his presence, her sexual charisma could not be ignored. To hear the voice of the white haired man, to have him talk to you with such commanding authority and sexual license was to want to be used by him as one, flagrantly, obscenely and without mercy.
"Over the table, Julie … show him you are ready to receive your just desserts,” coached the Director, his improvised film making turned suddenly X rated.
"Piovare,” she heard. “Potare. Preparare."
The words sounded again, in echo fashion. She stiffened, recognizing them at once. It was the cameramen back, their very invasive digital devices trained once again on her, catching her at her weakest and most sensual. Nothing rehearsed, no lines, just the very heart of her passion on display, for these chattering fools, who might as well have been voyeurs making home jerk off movies as far as she was concerned.
"If I do this,” she wanted to know. “Will it satisfy you? With regard to the punishment you spoke of earlier-and any further mayhem? You'll get that all out of your system?"
"You're not in any position to bargain,” Giovanni shook his head. “Obeying me now will get you through this ordeal more easily. I make no further promises."
Julie watched them put out the antipasto plates at each setting, including her own. Would she get to eat it or would she be otherwise occupied through the whole first course? It was a strange thing to think of food at a time like this, then again she'd never been in a position like this before either.
She slid her belly against the edge of the table. The white cloth was in direct contrast to the red dress. Pressing her palms down side by side, she laid her cheek to rest, her head facing away from the head of the table where Giovanni sat. Her breasts were squashed in this position and completely trapped. She could feel the heat in her nipples, radiating down her belly to her panty-less pussy.