"I am here, Teacher,” he said to the man in his beloved Dasklovian, the one and only language he had ever spoken. “Though I come in sin. May the saints forgive. I am thick with lust. I yearn to please you … as would a female."
The Director said something else as he turned to face him, arms still outstretched. It was a declaration of some sort, matched by an intense expression unlike anything Grigori had yet seen on the man's face. He could not bear to look upon him-that stern brow, those dark eyes. He had not earned the right. Not yet. Falling instead to all fours, resisting the overwhelming urge to touch and stroke himself, Grigori began to crawl, closing the distance between them.
The sea responded to his wading presence with playful slaps at his dependent breasts, stinging lightly his engorged nipples as he moved. Turgid water swallowed his belly, mid way up to his back. Drawing a full breath, he immersed his head for a quick dunk, soaking the long black curls, kissing the salty brine with lips still swollen from Julie's love.
The water stung his eyes, bracing, awakening. His lips burned with unmet need. It was time to meet his fate-whatever fate the Director would decide. He was only the actor, making himself available.
"I am yours,” he professed. “Teacher … Master."
The second word had come unbidden. It was a Dasklovian sex word, one used by the men of leather, some of whom in the circus had sought to recruit him for their games. They'd held no appeal for him, those underground relationships-one above another with a whip, enforcing the crawling and the sucking and other things, too, dark twisting penetration, male to male.
And yet here he was, speaking the word of self-bondage to a man he hardly knew. Grigori trembled as the White Lion put his hand on top of his head. He was patting him, stroking him, like a treasured pet. The touch gave energy, but it burned, too, like raw electricity.
"Master,” he said more firmly, cementing the Director's place in his world.
The White Lion snapped his fingers and Grigori knew to rise back up to his knees, his cock throbbing at the implications; it was his first act of obedience, instinctive and highly sexual.
An enormous erection tented the pants of the Italian, and at this level it was nearly poking out Grigori's eye. Had the Director not moved his slender hands to the zipper, the Dasklovian might well have torn them with his teeth, so anxious was he to get at the flesh contained within. Deep excitement and trepidation filled Grigori's belly as the zipper disengaged, sliding down to the bottom; it was a heady mix sharp and hot, like vodka, and many times more potent. He was hungry, hungrier than he'd ever felt in his life. It was like seeking a favorite food, and yet the taste was to be entirely new.
"I wish only to please you,” said he to this man whose understanding of things bridged all language gaps. “I wish to be fucked hard, in my mouth, and to swallow your come."
The director's cock was thinner than his own, though still quite long. He unfolded it from out of his trousers, carefully, with both hands. He wore no underwear, which simplified the matter. Touching upon it like a flute, the Lion began to make himself hard. He used both hands in a way so delicate and artistic that it could hardly be called masturbation.
And yet the results of his work were standard enough. Tight, full balls and a wickedly pointed organ. It's going to happen, thought Grigori, I am going to take a man's erection in my mouth.
Grigori rose back up to his knees, soaking wet, hair dripping, feeling every bit the part of expectant slave. “Yes, Master, make it hard for me, let me have it … I will take it, all of it."
That single word from before kept running through his mind-the one he'd imagined The Director had used earlier when he'd pointed for him to take Julie. Redemption. A process begun in bed with his co-starring actress and culminating here.
"Use my mouth, Master…” He yearned to play with himself, but did not feel it was right. “You understand me, I know you do. You know how to make me suffer as I need."
Grigori waited till the man was fully extended and then opened his lips. To begin with, he simply puckered, pressing them to the tip of the uncircumcised shaft. It was an offertory kiss, to break the ice.
To his amazement, there was already a drop of pre come at the tiny opening when he pulled back his head. Quickly he dabbed his tongue at the precious gift before the sun or surf could claim it. It was a tiny, teasing taste. Grigori wanted more. He wanted a full load of it, the director's emission, pumping into his mouth and splashing against the back of his throat.
Wrapping his lips more firmly, he slid them forward, enveloping the shaft. It felt so good. Grigori's own cock throbbed in response. Wagging his tongue now, he rubbed the sandpaper surface of it against the ridged underside of the Director's pale white shaft. As a reward, the Dasklovian received a squeeze to his shoulders as the Director's hands came to rest on their muscular smoothness.
Yes, he thought. Enjoy the feel of me. Make use of me. My skin and tongue, and ultimately my belly, into which I will swallow your pulsing seed. Grigori pushed his palms against the Lion's still clothed ass, just firmly enough to draw him further in. He'd had enough blowjobs himself in his day to know what felt good and he was quite confident he could give the man one of the best he'd ever had.
It was difficult at first not to gag, but he quickly found the discipline. The cock was surprisingly smooth in his mouth, like a rod of steel wrapped in velvet. There was no mistaking it was a living thing, either, pulsing with life. His heart swelled as the director seized at his hair, fisting the sea soaked curls. The man grunted his approval as he used his newfound grip to increase the speed.
Grigori was being face fucked. An astonishing novelty for one such as himself. The only thing lacking now was the taste of a climax.
"Si,” roared the Teacher. “Si, si … bene … molto bene."
Even the Dasklovian knew these words. It was good for him. He liked it. Encouraged he sucked in his breath, taking his Master to the back of his throat, applying maximum suction, he felt the man begin to spasm.
"Madonna mia,” he sing-songed.
Grigori clamped his vibrating ass cheeks. The come squirted, warm and thick as he'd hoped. He took it all, swallowing like a slave. A slave made for pleasure. The Director pumped himself for several long seconds, using his mouth as he would a woman's sex. Overwhelmed by the sensations, Grigori took hold of his own cock. He needed to come himself, though he did not know how he would achieve this. For the moment he must suck and suck, till told to stop.
"Bello ragazzo mio,” the Director crooned at last, pulling his rapidly flagging organ from Grigori's mouth. “My beautiful boy."
This sounded like praise. Unbidden he pressed his cheek to the outside of the Teacher's leg. “Thank you, Master."
It was then he saw Julie in the background, her hair glistening in the late afternoon sun. She was up on the beach, in a sundress, barefoot, just looking at them. She seemed to be paralyzed in place, shocked, probably by what she was viewing.
Rising to his feet, forgetting for the moment his white haired lover, Grigori called out her name. Hearing it seemed to jar her back to reality. At once she began to run, away from the beach and away from he and the Director.
"Julya!” He shouted in misery. “Stop!"
"No,” the White Lion told him to stay.
"I am sorry,” he said, his heart torn in two. “Forgive me. I must go … I have no choice."
The Director's face darkened, threatening storms. But still he went. Because he knew that if he did not, he would lose his Julya. Forever.
* * * *
Julie did not stop running, not even once she'd reached the sculpted gardens. It was the labyrinth she sought. A perfect hiding place, wall upon living wall, green and thick and impermeable. She would make her way to the very center, taking one corner after another till she'd lost track of the escape route. How fitting, she thought, because her life, too, was a maze right now, a puzzle with no solution. A mystery wrapped in an enigma inside a riddle as some old politician had once said.