Reese Gabriel - Captured!--On Film

Her heart melted. “You … you saved yourself?"

"I saw no opportunities,” he corrected as the bra fell to the floor.

Julie stood bare breasted before the man, her mouth parched, her nipples twinged with heat. “ Vrastoya ,” she said.

He smiled wryly. “ Vrastoya , for the vrastor ."

She took a step closer, holding up her aching tits with both hands. “No other man has seen or touched these, Grigori. They were held in safe keeping for you."

"It will be different,” he warned once more. “I may not let you go so easily."

Boldly, she took his hands now and put them on her, gripping tight. “And maybe I do not want to be let go of."

He narrowed his hold to her nipples, applying just enough sweet pressure to make her exclaim, half a wince, half a moan. “ Vrastroya ."

The man did not relent, not till she was on her knees. “Grigori,” she sighed, burying her cheek against his clothed erection. “Please fuck my mouth."

"No,” he denied her. “I want you on the desk. You will take off all your clothes and lie on your back."

"Yes, Grigori.” She tore eagerly at the opening to her jeans. She was going to be fucked. The long dry spell was over and best of all it was one of the two men she cared about most in the world taking her. Her panties were sopping wet as she slid them down. Her fingers trembled as she rushed to get naked and put herself into position. Without even touching her, this man could drive her out of her mind. Far from fading, the fires of last year only burnt hotter now.

The desk was made of metal and it was cold on her flushed skin. She felt dirty and wicked crawling onto it, especially the way she was dripping between her legs. She spread her thighs wide as she glued her ass solidly to the surface. Planting both feet flat, she gave him an unencumbered view of her pussy.

"I am yours, Grigori,” her arms flopped over her head. “Use me, reject me, that will never change."

He pulled off the turtleneck, revealing the statuesque torso. “I dream of you,” he confessed. “Every night, in detail. That character I wrote. She is you, you know."

"I know,” she replied. “And Spring Lust is you. That leaves Winter Lust. The second male part. Should I take a guess?"

Grigori pulled off his boots and undid his buckle. “I used to call him the White Lion,” he explained. “In my language, that was how I referred to Giovanni."

"White,” she approved. “For winter and wisdom. The aging, majestic king of beasts. It fits."

She drew a sharp breath as he unzipped his pants. He wore no underwear. His cock, if anything was larger than she remembered, and thicker.

"Oh, god,” she cried, lifting her hips without shame. “I need it so bad. Fuck me, Grigori, please, I beg you."

"Do you surrender to me, wholly? To my power and to my wisdom?” He was masturbating, the slow rhythmic motion putting her into a lustful trance.

"But I'm ten years older,” she protested mildly.

"I will have you no other way … Julya."

The sound of her mispronounced name burned through her like flames through dried brush. “I surrender, Grigori. It is what I want. If you wish, I shall call you Master."

"My first name will do, though there is another to whom you owe a slave's allegiance."

"Giovanni,” she sighed as Grigori pulled her by the hips to the edge of the desk.

"Giovanni,” he repeated, his cock finding her hole with ease.

The pair of them was fused in a single heartbeat, the man's shaft fully immersed and bathed in her sweet, yearning cavity. There was no denying the fit, the keen remembering. So this is what she had worked so hard to put out of her mind. At least half of it, anyway. The other half was the mercurial Maestro, Giovanni, whose direction and wisdom and passion she craved so very much.

"Julya,” he cried out, his cock swelling in preparation for relief.

She clenched him tightly, her own muscles spasming in readiness. They came together, calling each other's names, clinging tightly to one another for dear life. Her legs were locked tight behind his buttocks and her hands were clasping his back, fingers splayed over the corded muscles. His sharp, stabbing breaths pressed his chest against her swollen nipples, sending tidal currents to the center of her sex. His semen spurted, on and on, till she felt like there was nothing inside her but him. What a privilege to be a woman at such a moment, feeling the full power of a man inside her, the full measure of his lust.

Or could it be more? Certainly they were sexually compatible, and probably always would be, but was the rest of it there, too-the magical affection and sweet glow of companionship that would burn well into old age.

"Grigori, I have to know,” she sighed. “Do you love me? Tell me the truth, or I swear I will die."

Lifting her off the desk, Grigori continued to hold her, her weight nothing to him. She let him kiss her, deep and solid. Soon she felt him rising against her all over again. The air filled with her scent in response. He nibbled at her neck and then at her earlobe.

So this was her answer, she thought. He wanted more sex and that was all. But then he spoke to her, the most amazing words of all.

"Julya?” He asked, in a tight hot whisper. “Marry me?"

"Yes,” she replied without hesitation, scarcely believing her good luck. “A thousand times, yes."

The two of them were approaching with clasped hands. There was no mistaking they were a couple. Giovanni tried feeling happy but for them, but nothing came into his heart save a kind of bitter gall. Who were these two actors of his to find a peace without him and then to come and rub his nose in it?

He dabbed the paintbrush in the pallet, mixing a bit of sky blue. His sudden bitterness had caught him off guard. These last months at the seaside, doing his humble paintings had cleared him of so much of his old animosity and restlessness. What was it about seeing Grigori and Julie, in love, that made him so furious?

Giovanni did not bother to get up from his seat. He was a foot into the surf, pants rolled up, sitting in his chair before his easel attempting to recreate yet another ocean landscape. It was therapy and up to now he'd been satisfied with it. Except with these two coming, in their matching khaki shorts and white shirts it was a little hard to think of his life here, alone in this cottage as little more than a pitiful, cowardly exile.

He pretended to paint as they waded through the water. They were a dozen feet away when he picked up the canvas and flung it as far into the ocean as he could manage. He tossed the easel next and finally the chair. Breathing heavily, he glared at the horizon.

"Well I consider this an improvement,” said Julie. “At least now you're trying to drown inanimate objects and not yourself."

The Maestro scowled. The remark was funny, though he was not in the mood to laugh. “As a painter,” he confessed, turning to face the couple he himself had created. “I leave much to be desired."

"As a discus thrower, too,” she noted as the canvas floated back, bumping her in the knee.

"Giovanni,” said Grigori, leaving the comedy to Julie. “You are wasting yourself here. The world needs you."

Giovanni noted the matching gold rings on their fingers. In no uncertain terms, he told them what the world could do with itself.

"Why don't you do it to us instead?” Julie grinned.

Grigori nudged her, prompting her to lower herself with him to one knee. Holding out a plush black ring box, he said, “Giovanni Ambrosiano, will you marry us?"

Believe it or not, the Maestro had heard stranger proposals in his life. “I am tired,” he shook his head. “Flattered, but tired. Find blood that runs as fast as your own."