Finding Picasso

Heavy Petting for Four

Runa is waiting in the hostel food court when Sugar and I walk through the door. She races up, stands on tip toes, and gives me a long, welcoming kiss. Then she wrinkles her nose, and looks accusingly at Sugar.

"You smell like sex," Runa says, dragging me by the hand toward the showers. Sugar waves goodbye with her thumb and forefinger in a subtle jerking off gesture.

"Was Sugar a hot fuck?" Runa asks with a laugh as she pulls me down a long corridor.

"It never got that far," I say, truthfully, but omit that Emily was an incredibly hot fuck.

"Somehow, that doesn't sound like Sugar," Runa adds.

"Well, she did promise to fuck me before I leave."

"Yeah. That's more like Sugar."

Since Runa is clearly not pissed off, I have great expectations. We strip and jump into a shower stall. Even in the dim light, drinking in the details of her tiny, perfectly proportioned tits, ass and pussy, leaves me gaping in wonderment.

As I watch little rivers of living water roll over her breasts and dive down between her legs, I want desperately to chase them with my fingers and tongue. But I don't, although it takes every last ounce of self-restraint. Somehow this dingy shower with a moldy curtain and dirty, broken tiles, isn't the right place to explore the limits of Runa's sexual innocence.

We smile, ogle each other, and even embrace for a deep kiss with my erect cock trapped against her upper abdomen, but it doesn't go beyond this naked hug. Back in the room, Runa gets a text from Raven saying not to wait around, that she'll return when Robert arrives for his shift at the front desk in the afternoon.

We have lunch in the food court, surrounded by people speaking everything from Dutch to Mandarin. Runa blushes to the roots as she talks about what's been going on in the dorm after dark.

"The other night," she whispers so we can't be overheard, "it was the first time anyone's watched me touch myself... well, except Raven."

"Are you embarrassed?"

"No. I don't think so. It's just... well, I've never been that excited before," she says with a shy smile. "I very much liked you watching. And watching you too."

"Me too, Runa," I whisper. "You are the sexiest woman I've ever seen."

"Ohhhhhh," she says, putting her hands over mine. "You are so sweet. And, what is the word? A hunky?"

"Close enough," I laugh.

"But, Jason," she confides. "Something frightens me."

"What's that, Baby?"

"Maybe I like be watched too much?"

"I don't understand?"

"Neither do I. But I think I want to be watched more," Runa says with a strange gleam in her eye.

Apparently, the stereotype of the sexually liberated Scandinavian woman, doesn't always apply to girls from small farming villages like Runa's. Part of the reason Runa and Raven chose the hostel over a small hotel, is they had heard that mixed hostels were a safe place for virgins to learn something about sex.

Very different from what my backpacking buddies told me.

The Twins weren't disappointed. On their first night, Runa heard sounds from Rolf's bunk. Raven did too. And if he knew the girls were watching as he stretched naked across his bunk with his cock in one hand and smartphone playing porn in the other, he didn't seem to notice, or care.

For Runa it was a first. She'd never seen a guy masturbate except online. For the more adventurous Raven, it wasn't exactly a first, but it was arousing enough that she set her sights on hooking up with Robert, the good-looking multilingual Frenchman. Something which proved absurdly easy.

Then I arrived and well, I could piece together everything from there. Now, what I wanted more than anything was an upgrade to one of the private rooms, and to disappear with Runa for the rest of the day, exploring ever millimeter of each other's naked bodies.

I was pretty sure Runa did too.

But I'd vowed to spend at least half of each day visiting art studios and galleries, and it seemed like a pretty shitty precedent to blow off my mission on the second day, even if it is for dreamy sex with the sweetest, most innocent Norwegian twin I'm likely to ever meet.

I came up with a compromise. I'd take Runa with me on my rounds of 6th- and 7th- arrondissement art galleries, and in the late afternoon we'd cycle off to a private little spot I'd found on the Google satellite map deep in the Bois de Vincennes. What better for a spring afternoon in Paris than a romantic picnic in the park.

The most remote, secluded corner of the park.

Runa would get to see a side of Paris she'd otherwise never discover, and by afternoon I'd get to see every side of Runa.

I rented Runa a bike, and we headed across Isle Saint Louis and into the the little rabbit warren of Medieval streets that is the Latin Quarter. By mid-afternoon we'd seen hundreds of pretty paintings, nearly all of them commercially viable, but not one that I could see hanging in MOMA, the Whitney or the Getty as a masterpiece of contemporary art.

Runa, however, fell in love with a small limited-edition print by a Norwegian artist, of all things. In a distinctive naif style, he captured a pair of steaming draft horses pulling a hay cart across a meadow in the warm glow of a summer sunrise. Like any indulgent lover, I shelled out 500€ to buy it for her, and had it rolled into a shipping tube that I placed in my pannier alongside the baguette, ham, wine and cheese for our picnic.

"Thank you, Jason," Runa said, standing on the tips of her toes and placing a chaste kiss on my cheek. Chaste or not, it send a jolt of arousal through me.

As we pedaled west along the Seine toward Bois de Vincennes, I thought about Runa's print and how it was the most authentic and artistically honest work we'd seen all day. I wasn't in the least surprised it struck an immediate responsive chord with her. And it made me wonder that in my eagerness to follow in Bea's formidable footsteps, if I wasn't overlooking the kind of visceral connection to art that had been the hallmark of her success.

Boris de Vincennes is famous for its male prostitutes after dark. But during the day, I'd heard it was filled with new mom's pushing prams and kids playing soccer. And that was true around the periphery, but as we ride deeper into the center we pass plenty of sketchy characters lurking in the bushes not far off the larger trails.

Because I have the GPS, I take the lead. Sometimes on wide trails, we ride side-by-side. It's when I drop behind Runa, that I'm enthralled watching her. She's obviously done a lot of riding. She has a smooth, economical stride with back arched into a perfect airfoil, and her tight little ass cheeks relentlessly grip the seat while her blonde hair fans out atop her shoulders like a golden cape.

"I race you," she announces as we hit a long straight-away, and she accelerates ahead. I struggle to keep up. My bike is much heavier, and so am I. I'm still a couple bike lengths behind when we fly into the clearing at full speed.

"Wait! This is it," I yell as she speeds through the clearing and back onto the forest trail on the other side. I stop, gasping for air as I watch her surge confidently ahead. Runa is almost out of sight before she glances back and sees me stopped in the dappled light of the clearing.

She pedals back to me as effortlessly as if she's floating on air, smiling a winner's smile. I notice we're both dripping in sweat as I unfurl one of the thin hostel blankets at the base of a massive chestnut tree. Runa fixes her eye on me as she lifts her little crop top T-shirt over her head. I can't help but suck in a sharp breath when I see her breasts, milky white in the sunlight with puckered little areola no larger than a dime.

"Your turn," she teases. I pull my shirt over my head.

"What now?" I ask.

"We do this," she replies, peeling off her yoga pants and panties in a single move.

"Let's eat," she announces, which sounds like an excellent suggestion. I sweep Runa into my arms, amazed at how light and flexible her body feels, and lower her onto the blanket. But before she can pull herself to a sitting position, My head dives between her thighs, and I trap her legs against my shoulders, exposing her sex to my mouth.

"Hellig, Dritt!" she giggles, which I take translates to something like, "Holy, Shit!"

Her pussy lips are deliciously salty, and after the third or fourth time that I caress them with my flattened tongue, they bud open for me. Runa, however, swears like a Viking raider.

For a long time, I feel her twist and squirm, and do everything in her power, short of kneeing me in the groin, to evade my tongue. At first, I think it's probably the way I lunged for her pussy with no warning or foreplay. But then something else occurs to me. Most women with sexual experience, instinctively know how to accommodate themselves to oral stimulation. Runa, however, seems confused and overwhelmed.

"Your first time?" I ask, relaxing my tongue for just an instant. She takes advantage of my distraction to clamp her legs together, pinning my head just beyond tongue lapping distance of my target.

She lets loose another burst of what I can only assume is Nordic profanity, then finally calms down enough to regain her English. "Please," she pleads. "Go softly."

I obey immediately, barely brushing her soft erogenous skin with the tip of my tongue, and I'm rewarded with a satisfied moan as she releases her grip on my head. I think back a few years to my affair with Donna, a fellow college freshman, as well as the daughter of a strict and controlling Italian-American father. Donna grew to adore oral sex, receiving and giving, but the first couple times I went down on her, the sensations were so intense she nearly passed out.

With Runa, gentle and slow also works a charm. Soon my tongue is gliding in and out of her vagina while she chortles and mewls and enthusiastically grinds her pussy into my face. I reach up with my finger and probe until I found her little clit. That's all it takes. Runa's ass rises in the air, her tiny hips buck and roll, and I feel her narrow vagina clench my tongue as long series of contractions engulf her. Going by the volume of the moan that escape her lips, Runa is shocked and surprised by the intensity of her orgasm.

I, too, am socked when I lift my head from between Runa's thighs long enough to survey my surroundings. A pair of bicyclists, a male and female, have dismounted not thirty feet away, and are watching with fascination. Or at least, the woman looks fascinated.

The guy, who is probably not much older than me, has a hard, dissolute look, as if he's already seen and done it all, coupled with a vibe suggesting he's distinctly annoyed with my presence.

When I do a double take of his companion, an impeccably trim, coiffed and dressed woman somewhere in her late thirties, it occurs to me that the guy is a Vincennes gigalo, and that Runa and I have probably invaded his territory.

Runa is still savoring the afterglow, blissfully unaware that we have an audience. I consider trying to lick her to another climax without telling her about the new arrivals, but decide this is an even worse idea than telling her.

"We have company," I whisper. She forces her eyes open and takes a long look over her shoulder, making eye contact with the woman cyclist. The woman, whose body is tight and sensuous under a lycra top and biking shorts, smiles almost bashfully at Runa and some kind of secret understanding passes wordlessly between her them that results in Runa nodding perceptibly.

"It's OK," Runa whispers back. "She just wants to watch," Runa adds, leaving me scratching my head. We later learn she is Marie-Clair. Her companion, apparently without any ironic intent, is Max.

Marie-Clair, whose face is unremarkably plain in comparison with her hot body, sets her bike aside and says something inaudible to Max. He responds by lowering his bike to the ground as well, then kneeling in front of the her and running his fingertips over her body, paying special attention to her breasts and inner thighs.

Runa twists around and pulls herself to a lotus sitting position with her glistening wet sex exposed to the other couple. "Stand up," she says, and when I get to my feet next to her, she swiftly yanks my biking shorts to my ankles, leaving my erection bobbing up and down. I see the woman, whose own biking shorts are being peeled off, smile appreciatively at me.

As I step out of my shorts and briefs, Runa moves directly behind me with her naked breasts firmly pressed against the hollow of my back. Her arms reach around me, and pulls my t-shirt over my head. Before it has floated completely to the ground, her fingers are toying my nipples. I look at our visitors to see Marie-Clair strip off her chemise, her eyes focused on my cock and a wide smile across her face.

Sometimes an event is so strange and unexpected, that time literally stands still. Whether it lasts a few minutes, or a couple of hours, is immaterial. Emotional intensity colors all perceptions, rendering the mundane dimensions like time and space irrelevant. For me, our afternoon was on the cusp of becoming one of those timeless events.

It was partly the warm sun on my naked skin. Partly, the sultry breeze caressing my cock and swirling around my balls. Partly, the searing sensation of Runa's firm nipples pressing against my naked back. Partly, the hungry gaze Marie-Clair, whose eyes never strayed from my cock. Together, these things produced an erection more turgid than anything I can recall.

Then there's the scene unfolding before me. Max, who surely fits the stereotype of a gigolo, performs an all-out oral assault on Marie-Clair. Her fists clench, she bites her lower lip until it turns white, and her eyes which not long ago seemed to lust after my quivering cock, are unfocused and roll upward into her head.

Max's hands squeeze her ass, forcing her pussy into his mouth. Then I see one hand move between her ass cheeks. Whatever Max does with his fingers back there, seems to topple Marie-Clair over the precipice. Her eyelids flutter close, a red flush spreads across her chest, her nipples look painfully hard and distended, and her legs go so slack that Max grabs her waist to keep her from sagging to the ground.

A long, guttural groan emerges from Marie-Clair, increasing in volume as the muscles on the back of Max's neck became taut and distended from the effort he exerts with his mouth and tongue. Her body trembles with a series of spasms and for some reason Max vaguely reminds me of guitarist Jimmy Page blasting through the final chorus of "No Quarter."

I realize Runa is hanging onto me, mesmerized and motionless, and an idea occurs to me. "I thought she just wanted to watch us," I tell Runa, realizing that we have become the voyeurs.

Runa just gives me that coy smile that beautiful girls anywhere in the world seem to master long before taking their first steps. Meanwhile, Marie-Clair is bent over, hand on her knees like an athlete struggling to catch her breath, and I realize that both Marie-Clair and Max are the ones who have gone all out to put on a show for us. And something about that stokes my competitive instincts.

I turn and face Runa, grab her by the hips and squat down at the same time that I hoist her legs over her shoulders. As I rise to my feet, she rides my shoulders as if we are playing a game of playground chicken. Except, of course, there is one important difference.

Rather than Runa's naked crotch riding against the back of my neck, it is positioned opposite my mouth.

I savor the flavor of her girl juice. But I am far more careful in the way my tongue approaches her pussy lips. The position gives Runa and our voyeurs an unobstructed view of each other, although all they can see of me is my white butt.

When my tongue finds the tiny button of her clit, Runa whimpers softly. Soon she is joined by the Marie-Clair, their feminine mewls rising and falling in counterpoint. There's no question about the extent of Runa's arousal. The smart-ass in me wants to make some kind of wise crack, like 'Hey! It's raining down here." Fortunately, my mouth is otherwise engaged.

And a sweet engagement it is. Runa's aroma is an aphrodisiac that sends shivers along my spine and releases butterflies in my stomach. All this excitement, of courses, all ends up focused on my cock.

From the sound of her moans, Marie-Clair is approaching another climax. Almost instinctively, my tongue switches from softly probing Runa's clit, to a more aggressive fluttering motion. I'm rewarded with a gasp and as Runa tries to squirm beyond the reach of my tongue. She even presses down on my scalp with her palms, desperately looking to put some separation between my mouth and her pussy.

I relent, withdrawing from my assault on her clit. Sitting with her butt cheeks resting on my pecs and her legs hanging over my shoulders, puts the entrance to Runa's love canal at the perfect angle for some deep tongue exploration. I hear her sigh as I slide inside, perhaps from pleasure, perhaps from relief that I'm no longer focused on her hypersensitive clit.

I tense the muscles in my tongue and push it far as it will reach. Except before it's fully extended, I it's stopped by something soft, but remarkably unyielding.

At that instant, Runa screams and clamps her thighs against my head with such sudden force, that I fall onto one knee to keep both of us from toppling to the ground. Once before I was nearly decapitated like this when a girl slammed her legs together with my head between them. That time, I'd been probing with my finger, but I'm sure the cause is identical.

Little Runa is most assuredly a virgin.

I couldn't tell what our voyeurs made of all this, but I pull my head back far enough to tell Runa that I'm sorry. Whether it's pain, embarrassment or a impending orgasm, Runa face is brilliant red. Still, she manages a weak smile as I rise back on both legs and use my tongue to sooth her by lapping gently at Runa's labia and taint.

Something about our momentary drama, or perhaps merely Max's gigolo expertise, brings Marie-Clair to another very long, very audible orgasm. Her moans are just beginning to fade when I feel a shudder pass through Runa's body. Her ass cheeks clench against my chest as her fingernails rake into the back of my neck like feline claws.

Once again, Runa doesn't have time to revel in the after glow. In the immediate aftermath of her climax, her muscles go almost slack, which combines with a fresh explosion of slippery girl cum, making it difficult to stay balanced. This time I drop onto both knees, and let Runa slip into my arms.

"Bravo!" Marie-Clair calls out, clapping her hands. For a moment I think maybe she's mocking us, but the look of lust in her eye says otherwise. Besides, a woman wearing nothing but bike shoes with man's face between her thighs is in no position to ridicule anyone.

I take a little mock bow, then squat next to Runa, who's pulled herself into a sitting position. Her ribs are heaving as she tries to catch her breath, and she has that heavy-lidded look that Bea sometimes called boudoir eyes. I don't need a guide book to know that means Runa's sexual appetite is not yet sated.

The French couple has traded places. Marie-Clair has her back to us and is kneeling in front of Max. Her naked ass makes a lovely heart shape beneath her thin hips and a long, slim waist. With very deliberate movements, she undoes the his belt, button and zipper. As she pulls Max's pants down, I hear Runa make a little gasp. The expression on her face is adorable mixture of disbelief and wonderment.

If this guy is the gigolo that I think he must be, he certainly is built for the job. Not completely hung like a horse, but close. And certainly bigger than me. A lot bigger, actually.