Finding Picasso

Perving on the Path to Paris

After a soulful goodbye kiss, I queue up at French Passport Control.

The long wait gives me time to obsess over Violet. The way her body moves when she walks. Her sexy lips. Her soft, squeezable tits. Her amazing ass. Her parting glance. And most of all, Violet's irrepressible personality. Her boundless self-confidence. Her saucy, self-deprecating humor. Her fearlessness. Has Violet been afraid of anything, ever?

How did I end up next to the hottest girl on the plane last night, anyway? Have I ever known anyone so sexually adventurous? Not likely. What did she say? "Get that hunky bod of yours to Prague, and you can cum where ever you want."

How long does it take to cycle from Paris to Prague?

And that parting comment? "I put my Skype address in your contacts. Use it!"

If Violet's wants me lusting after her, she nailed it with that invitation. I'm still tingling when I hand over my passport.

The Immigration Officer regards me suspiciously. His eyes dart from passport photo to my face and back again. After a triple-take, he seems satisfied. With a stamped passport in my pocket, I ride the long escalator to Baggage Claim.

My panniers are already on the carousel. And my bike is waiting in the Oversized Baggage Area. A French Customs Inspector pulls me aside near the exit. My heart sinks at the idea of him tearing apart my meticulously packed panniers. But he's more interested in my bike gear than searching for contraband.

"What's this?" he asks in English, tapping the rear wheel. I don't use a typical chain-ring cog and derailleur to change gears. Instead, there's a small silver hub on the axel of my rear wheel.

I ask him to hold the wheel off the ground, while I spin the pedals and shift through the gear sequence that's built into the hub. "Maintenance free," I tell him. "More robust and reliable than a derailleur." But he grimaces at the price, which is about $1,000.

"I can buy a new bike for that," he says, waving me along.

Five minutes later, I'm jockeying for space on the airport exit ramp, surrounded by taxi cabs, cars, and trucks. Charles de Gaulle Airport was not designed for bikes, pedestrians or, it seems, even motor vehicles.

There are some harrowing moments, but finally I'm pedaling toward Paris on a country road with the wind at my back, and the rising sun on my face. French back roads, I discover, are narrow. But so are the cars and trucks. And unlike the US, drivers are usually respectful of bicyclists.

Just before Noon, I arrive in the vicinity of the Ourcq Canal path to Paris.

The path itself is amazing. Perhaps because it's a weekday, I ride for miles without encountering another bike. The empty trail that stretches to a vanishing point in the distance reminds me how very much alone I am. Can art and sex save your soul? I'm on the road to find out.

The path enters a heavily wooded forest and climbs a steep hillside where I glimpse the first sign of other cyclists.

Two expensive mountain bikes lean against a chest-high stone wall. Next to the bikes is a gap through which a stairway descends to the canal. About 100 feet further along the path, a battered road bike with what looks like empty saddle bags also rests against the wall.

My curiosity piqued, I stop and listen. At first there's only bird song and the rustle of wind in the leaves. I'm about to push ahead when a peal of feminine laughter drifts up from near the canal.

By the time I hear a second volley of laughter, it's obvious this particular woman is in her early twenties. And the timbre of her laugh has a distinctive inflection that can only be caused by one thing. Sexual excitement.

I could, and probably should, ignore the distraction and continue to Paris. But like I said, my curiosity is piqued. So, I dismount and peer over the edge, humming to myself, 'I smell sex and candy.'

Directly below is a secluded picnic area. Most of it is obscured by the wall. What I can see are the intertwined legs of a couple embracing atop a picnic table.

I don't get voyeurism. Well... that's not entirely true. Watching a woman undress when she's unaware, I get that. It's happened, and was hot. But sneaking around in the shadows to peek on couples getting it on? Never appealed to me.

Until now.

The sexy laughter has worked a certain magic on me. My pulse is pounding and I have a powerful urge, not entirely sexual, to find out what's going to happen? Just a quiet picnic with a little kissing? Or something more?

Maybe a lot more?

Is this part of voyeurism's allure? The uncertainty. Like a live sporting event? Since it's real, there's no telling how things will all end.

Instinctively, I find myself thinking like a voyeur. As in, how can I get a better view? Near the third bike, the wall jogs out near the picnic table. And there's a little vine-covered tower that overlooks the entire patio.

Who knows, maybe this is the beginning of some strange and wonderful new fetish. Not that my ex, Cindy, didn't think I'm strange enough already.

I creep to where I can see.

The woman is stunning. Shoulder-length black hair and brown eyes that flash in the sunlight. Her skin glows with a faint copper hue. Her facial features are exotically beautiful. Maybe this is how Victor Hugo envisioned Esmerelda. Think of Rhianna, Shanina Shaik, or Kristen Kreuk. You get the general idea.

While she's in her lover's arms, I can't tell much about her figure. But after a long kiss, she breaks away, climbs off the table and twirls around with the grace of a runway model.

Athletic shoulders. Round, ripe breasts. Thin waist. Long, coltish legs. With her eyes fixed on him, her fingers reach to the top button on her blouse. My heartbeat kicks up another notch. There's no denying it.

Watching her is a horny rush.

There's one problem. Now that I can see her, she can see me if she glances up. Show over. Angry boyfriend. The risk of discovery raises the stakes and adds a little adrenaline surge to my already rampant hormones. And forces me into the shadows.

The little stone tower is my best hope. Behind it is an arched opening with light filtering through what looks like a latticed window. I duck inside.

But there's just one big problem. Someone's already here.

She, and it's almost certainly a she, is kneeling on a carved stone bench wearing skinny jeans that conform seamlessly to a very shapely ass and thighs. On top she has an equally tight black T-shirt. At home it would probably say something like Metallica, Anthrax, or Megadeath.

"Shit!" I curse under my breath. She turns and glares. Too many piercings for my taste, but a pretty face with wide, pale-blue eyes. Amazingly, she doesn't seem especially startled or frightened by my abrupt arrival.

Just pissed off.

"Shut the fuck up," she whispers emphatically in French. "You'll ruin everything."

With that, she lifts a Leica M Digital camera to her eye. I know the model because I considered buying one. For about 10 seconds. At $7,000 without lens, it was a little out of my price range.

She has a lens, though. A long telephoto zoom that extends through an opening in the latticed window. She fires off six or seven exposures. Each time, the shutter makes a soft "click-swish." Not loud enough to be heard outside above the ambient noise, but audible in the tower. At her side is an open camera bag with a second Leica M and a shorter zoom.

Whoever she is, this lady is serious about photography.

Now that I'm silent, she ignores me. Early thirties, I'd guess. Nose ring. Lip stud. Cropped brunette hair. Not true emo style. But close. Partially obscured by her sleeve is a circular tattoo. It takes a little study, but I figure it out. A Leica logo tat.

There are actually two benches opposite each other. I sit on the empty bench and look out my side of the window. Only it's so overgrown with ivy I can't see a thing. I snap off a few leaves to get a better view.

And what a view it is!

The girl is undoing the last couple of buttons on her blouse, her eyes fixed on her lover, a sultry smile on her lips. There's something vaguely familiar about her face, but I can't place it.

The guy has his back to us. All I can tell is that he has long sandy hair and a short, wiry frame. Intent on her tease, the girl pulls the blouse off each shoulder with excruciating slowness.

When the tattooed photographer lady lowers her camera to rest, I whisper in French, "Who are they?"

She looks at me as if I'm from another planet. "You seriously don't know?"

"Not a clue?"

"You're not with the American media?" she asks. For the first time, she looks a little confused.

"Hardly. I just graduated college."

"So what are you doing here?" she whispers, returning her gaze to scene below.

"I was on the bike path," I tell her. "I heard laughter. It sounded like sex."

"Well, let's hope," she glances sideways at me with a hint of a smile. "That's Sabine Camille, the actress. The guy is Diando."

Diando is France's answer to Justine Beiber or John Mayer. I'd seen his photo all over Paris last Summer. And now I remember Sabine as well from a Metro poster for some French action-adventure film.

"So you must be?" I ask.

"The paparazzi," she says, smiling at the same time she returns the camera viewfinder to her eye. "These photos are going to pay my rent for the next year. So don't fuck things up. Or I'll kill you."

The last sentence is definitely delivered with a humorous inflection and for some reason, I envision myself being bludgeoned with her nose ring, or perhaps stabbed by a nipple stud.

"I'm Jason, by the way," I whisper.

"Zoe," she replies softly.

Having made peace, we return to the Sabine and Diando show.

So far, it's all Sabine. Her blouse floats gently to the grass, and she's standing with hands on tilted hips wearing a black pushup bra. I couldn't begin to guess the dimensions, but suffice to say, she fills it swimmingly.

Diando claps appreciatively and shouts, "Take it off."

"You do it," she tells him. It's apparently a front clasp, and he reaches between the cups. She swats his hand away. "No, no. Not that way. With your teeth." Her French is faintly accented.

He nuzzles his face between her breasts. "Not going to happen," I think to myself. "Even with two hands, those things are a bitch." But Diando proves me wrong. He jerks his head up and back and the bra snaps open.

"He's good," Zoe whispers.

We can't see exactly what Diando's doing, but from Sabine's expression, it's a safe bet he's sucking on her nipple, perhaps even nibbling on it with his teeth. Her eyes close, her head tilts back, and a long moan escapes her lips.

Zoe turns her camera on it's side and fires off another series of exposures. A natural edge light illuminates the side of Sabine face and the swell of her exposed breast, the one that Diando isn't paying any attention to at the moment. I can almost visualize the scene, reduced to 2D and printed with HD sharpness on the cover of a French men's magazine like "Lui" or "Max."

Zoe waits until Diando shifts just enough that his shoulder blocks Sabine's exposed nipple. Click-swish. Click-swish. Click-swish. A cover shot for "Paris Match" perhaps? Then Zoe does something to the camera controls, and there is a click with no swish and it's a safe bet she's shooting HD video.

Sabine regains my attention with another long moan. Diando has switched breasts. The nipple that's now visible glistens in the sun. Aroused and swollen, it looks almost as big as the tip of my little finger. Sabine brings one hand to her neck, then lets her fingers move lazily across her breast until they reach the nipple. She squeezes it between the pads or her thumb and forefinger, and her eyebrows furrow in one of those half-pleasure, half-pain expressions.

Sabine may be an actress, but the look in her eyes is no act. Right now, she's an animal in heat. Even if I'm out of range of the pheromones that must be pouring from her like honey, her nubile breasts, gorgeous face and deep moans are all having a powerful effect on me. My cock strains against my khakis. There're beads of sweat on my forehead, and I'm starting to pant like I've just climbed a hundred-foot hill.

While Zoe reaches down to pick up her second camera, her eye catches mine.

"Hot?" she whispers with a sexy little smile.

I nod my head. "And hard!"

Her smile tells me she understands my predicament. I'm guessing that if she weren't concentrating so hard on filming, she might be a little worked up as well. Then I notice the front of her T-shirt. Zoe's breasts are small, at least compared to Sabine. But Zoe's nips are just as stiff and distended.

Sabine has taken a step back. As Diando swiftly pulls his shirt over his head, she reaches for her own zipper. In strip-tease mode again, she takes forever to lower it. Zoe steadies her Leica with both her hands.

Sabine spins around, bends and looks over her shoulder, and her ass, at Diando. Then she slowly shucks her slacks. While not exactly full-figured, neither is Sabine a skinny ingenue. Her hips are womanly while her legs are outrageously long and well-muscled. She's wearing a black high-cut thong, that contrasts with her coppery-white skin.

Training an intense look on Diando, she moves both hands to her breasts and toys with her nipples. He stands up and even from the back it's clear he's unbuckling his belt and lowering his zipper. An instant later, he's naked with his butt leaning against the end of the table. From the motion of his am, it's a safe bet he's playing with himself.

Zoe exhales and exclaims, "Holy, shit!"

Sabine and Diando are as motionless as statues, except for the subtle movement of their arms and fingers. Sabine lowers her gaze, focusing on Diando's groin.

"Would it disturb you if I... um... if I masturbate too?" I ask Zoe.

"As you wish," she whispers, never taking her eye from the camera viewfinder. "I have the urge as well. Maybe later."

Somehow, that last sentence excites me almost a much as watching Sabine.

I strip off my shorts and briefs and spread them across the hard stone bench. I sit back down facing Zoe. Legs spread slightly. Erection bouncing gently in the fresh spring air. By turning my head, I can watch Sabine and Diando. Looking straight ahead, Zoe's cute profile is inches away.

While the lovers are still enthralled with watching each other, Zoe gives me a long sideways inspection. I haven't touched myself yet, afraid I might cum on the spot. Still, she flashes me an approving little grim, then quickly returns her attention to camera.

"Like my thong?" Sabine asks.

"Very much," Diando replies.

"Get it off me," she dares him. "And you can keep it."

Diando likes that idea. "With my teeth?" he asks.

"What else?" she replies, grabbing the hip straps and hoisting them so that the material stretches taut over her pussy, showing off swollen lips with a narrow groove between them.

Diando kneels between her legs. Again he demonstrates an uncanny talent. He latches onto the hem with his teeth just inches above Sabine's pussy. With a couple sharp tugs, he dislodges the straps from her hips, then pulls the thong straight down her legs.

My turn to exhale. "Damn," I mutter. "She's hot! " Sabine's smooth shaven, with faint tan lines from a bikini not much larger than her thong. Her abs and stomach are flat and drum tight.

Diando flicks the thong aside, then lunges headfirst between Sabine's legs. She responds with nervous laughter that quickly morphs into something altogether different. A deep guttural moan. "Oh, My God." she cries. "Yes. That's the place, Baby. Right there!"

Almost unconsciously, I've warped my fist around my cock. But I'm so amped up that I am afraid anything more than a casual stroke could set me off.

Without taking his mouth off her pussy, Diando turns Sabine until her splendid ass cheeks touch the edge of the picnic table. I think cosmetic surgeons charge thousands to shape a woman's glutes like this. But Sabine's "Brazilian butt" looks genetically authentic.

Diando gently lowers her onto the table. It reminds me of a ballroom dance dip. Except it ends with Sabine's naked sex completely exposed to Diando.

It's the first time I've seen Diando's face. No doubt about it. This is the guy who looked out from posters and magazine covers all over Paris last summer. In the photos, he often had a microphone a few inches from his lips. Now it's Sabine's baby-smooth pubic mound and pussy lips.

And there's really no distance at all.

Sometimes, there's a wet lapping noise, to which Sabine responds with a soft, "Mmmmmmm." At other times, Diando flutters his tongue against her wet flesh, evoking sharp gasps.

There's a distinct pattern to Diando's tongue play. Almost as if he's performing a song. Verse. Verse. Chorus. Verse. He starts slowly, then increases the speed, pressure and whatever else his tongue and fingers may be doing until Sabine is squirming, thrashing and moaning loud enough to silence the song birds for 100 yards in every direction. But just as her body begins to arch and stiffen, Diando relents. His pace slackens. And Sabine sighs.

He pauses a few beats, then begins anew. Another verse ending in a disappointed sigh. He takes Sabine to the edge, then retreats. His chorus is gentler and sweeter. Just a long interlude of low-level stimulation. Sabine moans and squirms a little, but never reaches the fever pitch of the first two verses.

With the final verse, he takes her on a climb straight up the ladder of ecstasy. No ebb and flow. No slow passages. She flails and moans until her back arches and stiffens, her torso lifts off the table, and her gasps merge into a single, long cry that goes mute as a series of relentless tremors surge along her rigid body.

Then Sabine collapses like a rag doll.

"Wow!" Zoe mutters, lowering her camera. "Wow! My boyfriend's got to study this."

I shrug my shoulders as if to say, "No big deal. I can do that." But she isn't buying. She rolls her eyes, then brings the viewfinder back to her face.

Sabines legs hang over the edge of the tabletop with Diando standing between them. His face, neck and chest glisten with wetness. His fingers trace a path along the inside of her calf and thigh. Momentarily he strokes her pussy lips, then continues with fingertips caressing her abs, her stomach and the valley between her breasts. He bends down and kisses Sabine lightly on the lips. So corny, but it reminds me of "Sleeping Beauty."

Sabine's eyes flicker, but it takes her a long time to return from wherever Diando's skillful tongue has taken her. Sleeping Beauty snapped out of it much faster.

Zoe uses the intermission to examine her camera controls and install fresh batteries. She also stands up and stretches her arms and legs as much as she can within the confines of our little observation tower. It's the first time I have seen the way all her parts fit together. She's not Sabine. But who is?

And Zoe's not bad. Not at all.

My heart is still pounding and my breathing labored. Still, I feel a little foolish sitting on a cold stone bench naked from the waist down with Zoe looming above me, doing runner's stretches as if preparing for a marathon.

When I catch her eye, Zoe smiles shyly, as if acknowledging our connection as co-conspirators and fellow voyeurs. Probably it's the elevated hormones coursing through our veins, but Zoe looks at me with genuine affection.

A burst of giggles from below puts an end to our unspoken communion. Zoe hoists her Leica and turns her back to focus on whatever's going down on the picnic table.

Which is plenty. Sabine has brought herself to a sitting position, and when she isn't giggling like a school girl, she whispers inaudible sweet nothings to Diando. Her legs straddle his hips and his cock is inches from her pussy as he strokes himself with growing urgency. Perhaps not like a guy determined to orgasm. But his fist pumps his cock many times faster than my own languid stroking.