Should she run? Fall on her knees and beg mercy? Her speculations were cut short by a hand over her eyes. Another seized her waist. The hands were Grigori's but the voice was the Director's.
"Why have you come here?"
"Because you told me,” she went for the easy answer.
"Not good enough. Arouse the female,” said the Director, clearly displeased with the response.
Grigori pushed his hand between her thighs, the silk of her gown between them. Oh, god, she thought, he'd understood the words in English. The man was learning … a little too well.
"Grigori,” she pushed her ass against his naked torso, finding his cock with her taut cheeks. “Oh, yes, that's it."
"Why have you come here?” the Director repeated as the Dasklovian brought her to the brink of orgasm, his finger barely grazing his clit.
"For lovemaking … sex … I need fucking bad.” There was no more room for pride now, just total, desperate seeking. After Grigori's hardness, his body and uncompromising masculinity. And Giovanni's too.
The Director said something in Dasklovian. Something to do with binding, and she realized she was coming to know his language pretty damned well, too. Instantly and effortlessly the man pulled her small wrists behind her back. Her heart thrummed rapidly. Were they going to put her in bondage? Put her on the bed and strap her down for sexual usage? If so they would have a happily screaming, more than willing woman on their hands.
Grigori took her instead to the rack. She had thought he might strip her, but she was allowed to keep the gown, flimsy as it was. Putting her in place very gently, he had her lean back against the latticed metal. Shivers went up and down her spine. It was cold against her thinly covered skin. Julie was on the verge of real fear. His eyes were intent on hers, however, communicating volumes. She melted at the sensitivity, the empathy. He wanted to make sure she was all right.
Yes, she smiled weakly in reply. And no.
It was a mix. Too many unknowns, thrilling and exciting. One by one he took her wrists and stretched them straight out from her body. The leather cuffs were snug and firm, unlike the soft fur lining, which made for an odd, titillating contrast.
Grigori ran his hand up the length of each bare arm, transfixed by its shape, its feminine lines. There was nothing about her he did not seem to relish. On one hand she was a sex object here, but it was a little bit like being a work of art, too.
And there were no cameras. She had to keep reminding herself of this. Tonight would be her chance to see the Director in his natural element, whatever that might be.
Now he was clawing very lightly at her belly, running his hands down to her thighs. He bypassed her burning crotch, kneeling so he could continue down her legs. It was her ankles he was after.
"Vrastoya,” he looked up at her, moist eyed, and under the circumstances she knew the handsome, chiseled Dasklovian could mean only one thing. Julie was to open her legs for him, spreading her feet for binding.
He took her left ankle, so softly in his hand, caressing it with total tenderness. It scarcely felt like confinement at all, and yet as he fitted the fur covered cuff in place, securing the tiny buckle, there was no mistaking she was a prisoner. He did the same with the second ankle, still maintaining his kneeling, and devoted position. One might almost think him the slave, were it not for the fact that she were the one losing her complete liberty of movement and not Grigori.
"So … finally we are ready to begin.” Ambrosiano stepped from the shadows. He was naked, his body lean and marvelous. He had not an ounce of fat on him and his arms sported modest biceps. He was clearly a man who had worked for a living, and had maintained himself following his success. His torso was long. He had a smooth, flat belly that begged to be kissed. His waist was very firm, like a young man of twenty. There was a certain roughness to his skin, a sign of his age, though it was showing itself neither as sags nor pockets. He reminded Julie of a sailor, whose skin had been blown by the wind for many years. He was not overly sun tanned, though, at least not compared to the Dasklovian. Perhaps it was his white hair or the dark eyes that lent to his skin a pale, luminescent quality.
If ever there was a man fit for playing in the moonlight, it was him. He was like some ancient warlock or satyr, hungry to drink from the fountain of sexual youth.
She had seen pictures of Giovanni from years ago, with his hair short and his trademark berets, sunglasses and turtlenecks. He had surrendered nothing over time. A woman could lose herself in a deeply brooding chin like that and many had. The most famous picture had him sitting in a director's chair, his fingers on his chin, lounging, a peculiar smile on his face, the meaning of which was open to so much interpretation as to be itself a legend.
Tonight, there was no mistaking what was on the man's mind, though. Giovanni wanted satisfaction for that cock he was stroking to hardness. That and the satisfaction of making his actors do just what he pleased.
"Where would you start this particular scene, Julie?” The Director asked. “I'm curious."
She clenched her fists. There was no breaking these bonds, no escaping whatever was going to happen next, to her or to Grigori. “I would call in a stunt double,” she quipped, never one to resist putting in a joke when she could.
Giovanni signaled to Grigori who handed him a short whip from the toy box. It looked like a riding crop, except that there was a thick piece of leather at the end. The butterflies in her stomach did instant double back flips. Perfect tens in the anatomical Olympics.
"I wouldn't dream of depriving you of all the fun, my dear. This is a flogger, if you've never heard of one. It's most often employed on the buttocks, though it has its use on other parts of the body as well."
Shivers went up and down her spine as she contemplated just what body parts he might have in mind. “I don't suppose I can talk you into filming a documentary instead?” She wanted to know. “Something on the migratory habits of sea birds, maybe?"
He wielded the flogger through the air, testing its mettle. “No, thank you, I'll stick to what I've got."
"I was afraid you'd say that."
The whip snapped on her half exposed breasts. The sting was immediate, followed by a biting hot glow. It was half pain, half pleasure. The most agonizing and arousing part was not being able to protect herself, just knowing he could do it again and again, anywhere he liked.
On her belly. Her thighs. Even her pussy.
"You will watch as I possess Grigori,” Giovanni informed her, tapping one nipple after another. “Than you will please us both, restoring our erections with your mouth and hands. You will do so knowing you will be had, by both of us at once."
She moaned, arching her back. The words, coming to her helpless ears sounded so deeply perverted, almost like a whip unto themselves. This combined with the sensations of what he was doing with the flogger was turning her into a hot, blonde, panting bitch, the very stereotype she and all her other serious minded sisters fought against.
Humiliated, unable to help herself, Julie thrust out her chest, craving another strike, harder, faster. “That feels so fucking…"
She didn't have a word for the sensations he was giving her. Instead she offered a deep groan as the flogger claimed her tits once more. It was a maddening device, not powerful enough to break skin or cause serious wounding, but strong enough to put a woman into another world, a wicked, forbidden one.
"There will be no camera to hide behind,” said Ambrosiano, snapping at her belly through the silk. “Your performance will be with your body alone."
"Yes,” she hissed, the flogger whistling in the air, kissing her body, like a demonic lover. “Oh, god, yes."