Reese Gabriel - Captured!--On Film

His cock still fresh on her lips, she bent to kiss his feet. Marie pressed her lips to each shoe in turn and then rose to her feet. He wanted another kiss on the lips, but she refused him. Her face expressionless, she wiped off with the towel and put her dress back on. He could little but stand there, helpless, watching.

She did not bother with the basket or the bottle. She simply walked away, taking one final look at him and then turning her back. Forever. The next day, of course, she did not show and the next after that. His worst fears began to crystallize inside him. Finally, on the fourth day after work, he went to the neighbor of the aunt.

The woman told him Marie had gone back home to France for the start of school. Giovanni went from there to a bar, where he drank far too much for his own good. After that he lost his virginity to a yellow haired prostitute whose name he did not even remember.

Was it his imagination or was he seeing yellow now, the glimmer of a woman's golden hair? And beside her a man full of muscles with jet black hair? They hadn't come to rescue him, had they? That wasn't possible. No one rescued Giovanni Ambrosiano. No one ever caught him in trouble, in over his head.

"Leave me,” he gurgled, fighting with his remaining strength the hands that had come to clutch him. This was too much, to be made to rely on these young people, to be caught out as an old fool not even of capable of drowning himself properly. But they were too strong to fight. And they were right, too. Not that he wouldn't lash out at them soon as he had his lungs clear again.

Julie and Grigori hauled him into the boat, not the same one he'd come out in, but a similar one, small, efficient with an outboard motor. They laid his limp body down on the floor of the boat. One of them had his ear to his chest-they must have been checking to see if he was breathing.

"Get the hell off me,” he managed to say, proving he was very much alive.

"You're okay,” cried Julie, stating the obvious and employing far too much emotion in the process.

"Compared to what?” He wanted to know. They helped him to sit up and immediately he told them off. “You should not have interfered. I will not ever speak to you again. This is unforgivable. When we get back to shore, you will both pack your things and leave my sight."

He repeated the words in Dasklovian for Grigori. At once the big man looked to Julie, his face distraught. She took him in her arms. They returned in silence to the small dock built onto the beach. Giovanni refused their helping hands, choosing to walk under his own power to the bedroom.

To Frederica, who was waiting for him, understandably concerned, he said only, “We leave today. Pack everything. And make arrangements to purchase this house from the rental company. I want it destroyed, stone by stone."

Frederica knew better than to question him in such a mood. “Yes,” she whispered. “Maestro."

* * * *

Grigori had never known such defeat. Nor had he ever despised himself so much. What had possessed him to try and save the Great Director? How dare a man such as him, with no vision, no keenness of mind interfere with the processes of nature? Ambrosiano had understood, and he had known it was his time to die. Grigori should never have allowed Julie to drag him out on the boat to go after him. The Teacher's life was ruined now, he was a ghost, a shell of a man, denied the glory of self chosen death, forced to live without honor or glory.

He looked down at his hands, decrying the misery they had wrought in such a short lifetime. Julie was beside him in the boat, tied to the dock, but he might as well have been a million miles away. She was trying to touch, trying to console, but he could not bear human contact, least of all from one to whom his heart was so open.

These hands of his were a curse. He had touched his mother in childhood pleading for her life, he had prayed to God for her and she had died. He had clenched these same fists in anger and fear to protect himself against his father. He had loved Katyana with them, caressing her breasts and pussy, making her hum to the love of his cock. And then he had taken these hands into the army to kill. This won him praises, but he had not slept at night. The faces of those brought down by his trigger finger haunted him, and even now on occasion he saw them. In the honesty of the arena, against the bears, this was the only place his hands had felt at home.

Perhaps that was the answer. He must leave the world of humans. Back to the circus he must go, to perform. Passing himself as a mute, collecting a pittance and communicating only through the animals.

"No,” he told Julie with finality, pushing away her naked, tempting body. He was on his feet and without another word, he dove into the salt water. Her screams as his backdrop, he began to swim, as Ambrosiano had. Grigori had no idea what land might await him this way or if he had the strength to carry himself that far. It mattered not, though, for if he were to die out here, in the Maestro's place, he would at least be able to repay in part the debt he owed the man.

So, too, with his death, would end the jinx, the lingering pain he brought to everyone who had ever loved him. Julie might be sad or mad now but one day she would understand. One day, even, she would thank him. And always, forever, she would have her memories.

It was on Katyana that his mind settled. Pushing his muscles into the task he thought of her soft, abandoned sweetness, the way her skin had smelled of Summer flowers even in the bitterest of winter time. He thought of how kisses danced upon her ruby lips, always and only for him. He thought of her quick mind, her delightful wit and how he could never hope to keep up with her. In or out of the bedroom.

She was a wildcat for such a seemingly shy, bookish young woman. Every chance she had, she would sneak him to one love nest or another. Her favorite place was the barn of her uncle. Grigori would lie down for her on the hay, the stalks prickling his back side, enticing him deliciously to the pleasure awaiting his front side. She would practically drool over him, his erect shaft pointing straight to the vaulted ceiling.

Slowly she would remove her clothes, stripping item by item till her china white skin was fully under his purview. She would dip her fingers between her fine legs and show him how wet she was. He would tremble as she tasted herself, her angelic features lustful as any devil. Her favorite way to have him was just as he was, on his back. Grigori would brace himself as she leaped onto him, burying his cock deep inside her thirsty aperture. Her moans would come at once. Digging her nails into her chest she would move up and down a few times, slow and deliberate. This was to please her clit, to satisfy its boundless needs. After this she would ride him in earnest. Grigori would buck from underneath, sometimes holding her waist to keep her from flying off.

Their bodies would fuse perfectly. They never spoke and as the scents of the barn filled their nostrils, the hay and the dirt and the leather of the tack, they would move inevitably to a nostril flaring, completely mutual orgasm. It was very much like with Julie, except with the American woman there was a new feeling, a sense of depth, the potential for new connections he'd never dreamed of.

It might have been his age, or something in her. Either way it was a page they would never turn. Just as Ambrosiano would abandon his movie, he would abandon this potential channel of his life. Forcing thoughts of her from his mind, he pressed on. Thinking only of the Great Director himself.

Two things struck him. Number one, he wished he, too could direct films one day, and number two, he had a hard on, thinking of Giovanni's lean body, his hard uncompromising face. He'd thought the attraction to the man was a short lived thing, something that came from the energy of the movie. But now he caught himself wondering about deeper things. Like why he wanted to be in the man's embrace again and to kiss him and show him devotion and feel the touch of his hands all over his body, and the mark of his mind deep in his soul.