Reese Gabriel - Captured!--On Film

The director shouted “Action!"

Julie Summers held her breath, her healthy pink nipples peaking beneath the costume negligee, white silk, circa Julius Caesar. She was on a pink marble balcony overlooking the deep blue Mediterranean, the shimmering waters warmed by the noonday sun. Doing her best to keep in character as an ancient Roman matron, she confronted the tower of gladiatorial manhood before her.

He was a blue-eyed Adonis wearing nothing but a leather mini-skirt and a set of prop shackles. With his hands secured behind his back, his well-developed pectorals and washboard abdomen stood out even more prominently. His bronzed skin was moist from tiny droplets of sprayed water trickling enticingly down the V of his torso toward his solid, narrow waist. It was all she could do to keep from licking the artificial sweat dry, dabbing at his smooth muscles with her tiny, greedy tongue.

Things were even more tempting below the waist. The skirt was far too short to hide his muscular thighs and legs. The material was also tight, which meant there was no disguising the outline of his crotch. Suffice it to say that the cock he was hiding in there was very much in proportion to the rest of him. Super size and no doubt super scrumptious.

The director had outdone himself with his casting. A more perfect figure of a modern gladiator could not be found than this Russian. Down to the scars across the man's left breast, four parallel, rake-like lines, the remains of slashes won not in the Coliseum in Rome, but in a Kiev circus, wrestling a full-grown black bear. He had another scar across his left bicep, a deep, jagged groove that only added to the overall mystique of his persona.

Her lips twitched. His name was Grigori and he was too close for comfort. Way too close. Smelling of musk and leather and sea salt. Six foot one inch tall with a body of iron and the face of Michelangelo's David. Thoughtful, confident, sensitive yet indisputably masculine in his features. The ideal man in any woman's dream, complete with long curly hair, black as a raven's wing. A one of a kind chest hairless and smooth, made to be caressed by an adoring female and a dimpled chin and strong, masculine lips made to be kissed, the woman on tiptoes to reach him.

Small, feminine lips, proffered, seeking to please, begging attention. Craving the contact of skin on skin, her flimsy clothing ripped away as she is put in her place beneath him, screaming out in pleasure as he fucks and fucks and fucks, his rock hard wrestler's body swallowing hers, the shaft of him threatening to explode the walls of her poor needy, frustrated pussy, making her cry out for him to stop and also not to stop … never ever to stop.

Oh, god, how much more of this could she take?

I'm a professional, she thought. I'm an actress making a movie, playing the part of a wealthy Roman beauty about to ravish her new slave. This is passion to be turned on and off like a spigot. Manufactured for the camera. Except these swollen nipples of hers were pretty real. And the wetness inside her pussy, the tell tale liquid dripping from between her honeyed lips, that was pretty real, too.

I must really be losing it, she thought. Then again, this was no ordinary movie she making. This was a creation of Giovanni Ambrosiano. The Giovanni Ambrosiano. At age 54, the man was a lean, chiseled, charismatic genius, a god of the industry, universally regarded to be the most brilliant filmmaker in the world, capable of stripping an actor naked to his or her soul with a single glance, a single frown of his sculpted lips.

No one was immune from his power. Producers trembled in his presence, investors opened checkbooks without question, authorities cowered, religious and political alike. He was a living mystery, a walking icon. No one understood Ambrosiano. No one.

This latest venture of his was no exception. A movie consisting of one man, one woman, no script. A day and a half into shooting and they had already changed locations twice and gone through five different time periods for the setting. No matter who they were supposed to be, though, each time they filmed it would boil down to this: The two of them, in front of each other, scantily clad, close enough to lose all personal space but not close enough to kiss or seek relief through any form of touch.

It was a recipe for utter frustration. Julie had never wanted a man like she had Grigori-never wanted to get at a body so much or unlock the mystery of a pair of bottomless eyes like these. Strange and yet not strange. There was pain there, something all too familiar. She had this feeling they would connect in so many ways, though he could not even speak English.

All in all it was sheer torment. He'd been constantly with her, on top of her every moment and she could do nothing, nothing at all for relief. At this point, she could only hope the heavy scent of her arousal was being adequately covered by the various complex odors around them: the brine of the shallow sea, the sweet jasmine of her perfume and the pungent mix of onions, tomatoes and oregano cooking in the kitchen of this latest villa they had rented for filming. Not to mention the strong cologne of all these Italian men working on the shoot.

"Closer,” coached Ambrosiano in his thick, rolling accent, as passion filled as the green and fertile hills over which they'd driven to get here. “Move closer to him. He is your prey. Your newly purchased slave. Let him feel that!"

Julie felt the burning in her belly. How much closer could she get? Erase any more of the distance between them and she'd end up hopping onto the man's cock, locking her legs around his waist, grasping hold of those firm, rounded buttocks, her small, lithe body impaled hopelessly.

Resisting the urge to confront the director and his gaggle of assistants and cameras, she moved forward towards the Russian, just a little, lightly, tentatively, her bare feet sliding over the glazed mosaic tiles, smooth and warm, each a tiny kaleidoscope pattern of red, blue and yellow. Their bellies were nearly touching and hers was full of butterflies. The man was like a rock, a statue, but she could sense the living power in those muscles, too. What if she were to spook him or something? It was like approaching a crouching lion to tug at its mane or modeling a brand new red bikini for a poised bull. The manacles holding him were made of painted wood. He could break them with a tenth of his strength, freeing himself to have what he wanted including her. Not that she would resist. At this particular point in time, Julie Marie Summers, has-been, never-was B actress would lower herself to the priceless balcony floor of this equally priceless fifteenth century Italian villa and offer herself in complete sexual submission. Thighs splayed, hips bucking, back arched, a virtual slave herself, beckoning him to enter her gaping, burning pussy.

What would that sun kissed tile feel like, she wondered, on her bare skin? How different would it be from a bed or couch or anything she'd ever known before? And how would the sex be like, to come with a man like that, a mountain of manhood atop her and filling her?

She wanted it; she needed it, that much she knew. As surely as she knew that her gorgeous gladiator-slave was from the Republic of Dasklovia in the former Soviet Union and that he was unable either to understand or speak more than a few words of English. Certainly it was an odd choice for Ambrosiano to choose such a man as the lead in an English-speaking picture, but one did not question genius. The crew communicated to him by pantomime, while Ambrosiano, who was an inch taller than Grigori at six foot two inches tall, simply clamped a hand on the man's shoulder whenever he wanted to communicate something and used his eyes employing some sort of hypnosis or telepathy.