Finding Picasso Ch 07

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.

*****

On my last night in Paris, Sugar Magnolia makes good on her promise. We fuck until dawn, covering at least half the positions in the 'Kama Sutra.'

It's awesome Friends-with-Benefits sex. Sleeping until Noon costs me half a day on the first leg of the bike route to Frankfurt. But on a warm Summer afternoon, I coast into Gustave's gallery in Frankfurt to visit one of Aunt Bea's great friends in art.

The first thing he does is introduce Lilli.

"Lilli, this is Jason, the young American I've been telling you about," Gustave calls up to the girl working at a bench in the loft of the fine art gallery. Lilli looks down on us. She reminds me of an angel in a Medieval fresco.

How wrong first impressions can be!

"Hi, Jason," she says with only the faintest trace of a German accent. There's a hint of appraisal in the way her eyes look me up and down. "I've heard so much about you and your aunt from Herr Gustave."

Lilli is exquisite. A silky blonde mane tumbles past her shoulders, framing a flawless face with twinkling blue eyes and lips so full and sensuous that they literally make me twitch in anticipation of how delicious they would feel exploring my anatomy.

Any part of my anatomy.

"Come down, my Dear," Gustave tells her. "Perhaps you could be so kind as to take Jason to the Ratskeller while I finish preparing the de Kooning for shipment."

For three, maybe four minutes Lilli's body is a bit of cipher. She wears a loose chambray shirt the color of her eyes with a pleated gray maxi skirt that sways as she walks across the loft without revealing anything of her contours. At least until she descends the circular stairs to greet me.

The staircase forces Lilli's torso to twist, pulling her shirt tight, revealing full breasts and a narrow waist. And even under a swaying maxi skirt, there's no hiding long, slender legs. Lilli, I realize, has the kind of absurdly proportioned body that men lust after, women covet, and Mattel exploited to sell a billion Barbie dolls.

It's also the kind of improbable figure that I somehow associate with an abundance, make that an over abundance, of raging sex hormones. No doubt the connection between the sexual allure of Lilli's body shape and hyper-sexuality is just one of those unfortunate stereotypes.

Unwarranted stereotype or not, from the moment we sit down for lunch, Lilli is a ceaseless semaphore of unintentional sexual signals.

Under the table, she nervously crosses and uncrosses her legs. I even sense Lilli rhythmically squeezing her thighs together at the same time her finger tips idly trace a path along her lips and neck. I'd love to think that my irresistible appeal provoked this display of sexual desire. Perhaps a few friends and former lovers would disagree, but I'm not that much of an egomaniac. Not really.

There's something else going on here.

Perhaps Gustave's surprise request to accompany Lilli to lunch has interrupted an afternoon rendezvous with her boyfriend? Or girlfriend? Or maybe Lilli really is a sex addict whose obsession is ignited by the presence of any acceptable sex object? Which might actually be me.

I should be so lucky.

As we wait for our order, Lily leans toward me with elbows on the table, and a dreamy look on her face as she presses her breasts together with her upper arms. She smiles at me, her eyes focused not on my eyes, but my mouth, as the little pink tip of her own tongue runs suggestively over her ruby lips. And even when she looks me fully in the eye, her lids seem only half open, like a girl on the verge of orgasm.

Or in the afterglow of one.

When I look directly in her eyes, Lilli blushes, as if she thinks I'm mentally undressing her or discovering some embarrassing sexual secret. Under the table, I feel my cock fighting to escape the confines of my briefs and jeans. As I look into Lilli's heavy-lidded boudoir eyes, I can feel my rigid cock pressing at the fleshy opening of her vagina. Unconsciously, I gently thrust my hips, and savor the delicious sensation of her slippery love muscles gripping my naked cock, pulling me deeper and deeper into the hot depth of her undulating vagina.

A polite cough punctures my reverie and I look up to see a young woman dressed as what looks to be some kind of Disney heroine, Snow White or perhaps Belle from Beauty and the Beast, holding a plate of steaming schnitzel in each hand. I try to imagine what she must think of Lilli and me, silently staring at each with undisguised lust. Would she remember our little tableau tonight when she went home and touched herself after a long day at Ratskeller?

I hope so.

Lunch soon becomes a tale of two Lilli's. Even as she fidgets and flirts, Lilli explains that she attends an Evangelical hochschule, or college, founded by American "missionaries" in the 1970s. Like the infamous Oral Roberts University and it's clones, any sexual activity by students is grounds for expulsion. Looking at me with a gaze that is somewhere between longing and regret, Lilli confesses that she has taken a vow of celibacy until marriage.

I assure her it's nothing to be ashamed about. My head still full of visions of Raven and Runa, the pair of Norwegian virgins that had taken me to more explosive organs than I can even remember last week in Paris. I can hardly restrain myself from blurting out all the wonderful possibilities of oral sex and mutual masturbation that Lilli and I can share without compromising her virginity.

Fortunately, I take a more indirect approach.

"If Bea were here," I begin, "she wouldn't rest until she had convinced you that the full experience the pleasures of the body that God has given you is the true path to cosmic enlightenment."

"She said that?" Lilli asks in a whisper, reaching out and placing her hand atop mine, while once again unconsciously squeezing her breasts together with her upper arms. "That pleasure is a path to salvation."

"Many, many times," I answer softly. "Bea had profound disdain for patriarchal religious authority, especially the perverse shaming of female sexuality. She was especially adamant about the importance of masturbation in a healthy sex life."

"Masturbation?" Lilli asks, as if she's just be asked to haul a rotten fish to the garbage. "The bible says self-gratification is sinful."

The cruel tricks religions employ never cease to amaze me. How about denying birth control to millions of impoverished women? Or encouraging a young woman to take refuge in some kind of purity vow because she can't trust her own sexual urges, and then denying her the release of masturbation?

No wonder Lilli is a bundle of seething sexuality.

"Lilli, I went through this years ago when my little backwoods village introduced sex education and the local church fathers attempted to block it. They were long on moralizing, and short on any Biblical indictment of masturbation. Because there isn't one. There's only the puritanical interpretations that conservative control freaks impose upon the Bible."

I feel the sexual heat pouring off Lilli as she contemplates what I've told her. "Oh, Jason," she says as if we are kindred souls. "We have so much to discuss. But I've already kept you too long."

Indeed, we've been at the Ratskeller almost two hours. "It's amazing how time flies when you're discussing masturbation with a beautiful woman."

Lilli gives me the sexiest smile I've seen in a long time. "Perhaps we can continue tonight over diner. My apartment is a few blocks from here." Lilli writes her address on a napkin in cursive script so perfect it looks like a wedding invitation. "Sorry it has to be so early. I have Bible study at 21:00."

Bible Study or not, dinner with Lilli is immeasurably better than drinking stale beer and watching European football accompanied by German-language commentary in the hostel where I arrived last night after the last leg of my ride from Paris to Frankfurt.

* * *

Gustave is completing the de Kooning shipment when Lilli and I return to the gallery. Lilli excuses herself and climbs back to her work bench in the loft, while Gustave guides me into his office where we spend what's left of the afternoon reminiscing about his trips with Bea to visit Chagall, Dali, Picasso, Joan Miro and many others. His deep affection for Bea is evident in his tone of voice as well as the anecdotes he chooses to tell me. I'm left wondering if Gustave was yet another of Bea's many lovers.

"Lilli has invited you to dinner?" he asks, as if reading my mind.

"How on earth did you know that?"

"I was once young myself," he says wistfully. "I saw the way the sparks flew when you looked at each other. Did she tell you of her vow?"

"Yes."

"Silly business. She got mixed up with the evangelicals many years ago. As you can imagine, Lilli reached puberty earlier and more expressively than other girls her age. I suppose the vow gave her some protection from the boys, and frankly, the many grown men who were making advances, often unaware of her real age. The rest of her family is very secular and, to be honest, they think she's a little nuts," Gustave tells me with a laugh.

"She seems, ah, very passionate about her religious beliefs."

"That she surely is, Jason," he says. "Are you willing to take a word of advice from a very old man?"

"Not half so old as wise," I tell him.

"Oh, you do take after your grandmother," he says. "Anyway, if I were a young man in town for only a few days, I would not be so captivated by Lilli's beauty as to overlook Lysa's sympathetic charms."

"Lysa?"

"Yes, the younger sister. She attends Goethe Universität, which is a real university and not an excuse to fill student's heads with theological nonsense. Lysa may not be as voluptuous as our Lilli. But she's far for more likely to satisfy a young man's itch, if you take my meaning," he says with a lascivious wink.

After that, the conversation turns to emerging young artists whose studios I might arrange to visit. But whether he intends to or not, Gustave has certainly awakened my curiosity about Lysa, the intelligent younger sister.

***

A couple hours later, I arrive at Lilli's address, freshly showered and shaved with a bottle of wine and half-a-dozen yellow roses. I lock my bike to a heavy iron fence, bound up the stairs, and enter the code Lilli has written down for me.

Lily's apartment is on the third floor and when I arrive the door is slightly ajar. I tap lightly and push it open, coming face-to-face with Lysa.

"You must be Jason," she says in the same perfect, British-inflected English as Gustave and Lilli. "I'm the little sister, Lysa."

"The beautiful little sister," I tell her sincerely.

Lysa actually blushes at my compliment, and I see a lively new interest in her eyes as she gives me the same appraising look that I noticed when I first me Lilli this afternoon.

"So, Jason," she says taking my arm and leading me into a modern living room with a soft leather sectional couch. "Lilli says you just bicycled to Frankfurt from Paris."

Lysa seems genuinely interested in the details of my five-day ride across northern France and the Rhine valley. Her questions are astute and while she doesn't give off Lilli's white-hot sensuality, Lyla places her hand on my arm as we talk facing each other on the sofa. She's wearing what look to be a pair of Levi 501s and I can't help but notice that after a few minutes she tucks one leg underneath herself, which invitingly stretches the denim drum-tight across the exposed triangle between her legs.

"Sorry I took so long," Lilli announces as she sweeps into the room surrounded by a symphony of fragrances including coconut scented shampoo and a musky perfume. But she's still wearing the same modest maxi dress a loose chambray shirt.

"Time for the bookworm to get back to her homework," Lysa says, giving me a little pat on the arm.

"Thanks for keeping Jason company, Lysa," Lilli tells her.

"Any time," Lyla says turning and looking directly into my eyes. "Any time, at all."

I follow Lilli, trying to imagine what she would look like if she were naked, or nearly so. A perfect inverted-heart shaped ass? Firm butt cheeks that flex and flow as she strides across the kitchen? The thought ignites a familiar tingle between my own legs.

Dinner is schweinshaxe, or pig's knuckles, with mashed potatoes and sauerkraut. It is, Lilli explains, a popular comfort dish in Frankfurt. After the last pig's knuckle is knoshed, Lilli uncorks a second bottle of Riesling and we move to the sectional couch. Like Lysa, she sits with one leg tucked underneath, but with the voluminous folds of her long skirt obscuring my view, it's not nearly as arousing as when Lysa sat that way for me.

Almost immediately, Lilli picks up where we left off at lunch. With aunt Bea and masturbation. She's obviously done some homework in the interim.

"My teachers say your aunt's philosophy makes a god out of hedonism," she tells me. I tell her the truth, which is that Bea never believed in any god, but rather she was a committed humanist who saw a woman's greatest challenge as taking charge of her own destiny.

"But that's exactly what I've done by taking my vow of chastity," she counters.

"Bea would say that's denying your humanity. Denying yourself the pleasures that your body is capable of providing," I retort.

And so it goes for about an hour, as we drain the second bottle and our bodies slip closer and closer. Finally, the conversation goes silent and Lilli and I just look deeply into each other's eyes. The sexual attraction that has been smoldering since we first caught sight of each earlier this afternoon, bursts into a raging fire.

Our lips meet, then part, and tongues begin exploring as I wrap Lilli in my arms and pull her trembling body to me. We kiss and squirm against each other for what seems like an eternity.

Eventually, we end up side-by-side on the couch, making out with an intensity I don't remember since my affair with Donna during my freshman year of college. Donna was also a virgin with a lifetime of pent up sexual passion.

Almost without thinking, my fingers slip from behind Lilli's neck and trace a path along her clavicle and then lower, and lower, until I'm touching her breast on the outside of her thick shirt and bra. Even so, I can feel her engorged nipple, and I gently squeeze and roll it between my fingers. Lilli let's out a long, muffled moan.

Quickly, I bring both hands to her breasts and begin tweaking her nipples. The effect is immediate and electric. Lilli begins grinding her hips against me, opening her legs so that her pussy presses through the thick fabric of her skirt against my now engorged cock.

With one hand, I continue teasing her nipple while the other cups her ass and pull her even harder against my cock. Again, she moans and responds with powerful, intuitive hip thrusts. Without thinking, I let me fingers slip under the waistband of her skirt and into her panties.

In that instant, Lilli freezes, reaches back and rips my hand away. "Outside the clothes," she whispers, making it sound like more of an endearment than a warning. "And no touching below the waist." With that, Lilli resumes grinding her pussy against my cock.

For a while, I try to match her movement, to get an ebb and flow working between us, the way I did so often with Gretchen, my friend who adored dry humping. Even without penetration, or actual naked skin on skin, it was still a soft and tender form lovemaking. Action and reaction flowing out of an innate understanding of each other's needs and urgency that almost always ended in wet and sticky mutual orgasms.

With Lilli, it is nothing like that. At least I now understand how a girl who is used as a sex object must feel. Lilli is in her own world, thrusting and grinding against my slowly shrinking cock with an abandon that is unrelated to my motions. Or emotions. When I slow to a stop, it makes no difference to her. She just begins humping my cock faster and harder, as if I'm nothing more than a convenient piece of furniture.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a slight movement. It's Lysa. She's standing near the kitchen, making no attempt to hide, watching us intently. Our eyes meet. Neither of us look away and in Lysa I feel a much different kind of longing than Lilli's intense self-absorption.

Lilli is reaching a new plateau.

Her eyes are forced shut, and she begins emitting a series of little grunts and moans as her thrusting against my abs and pelvis grows faster and more urgent. Lysa smiles at me with an almost beatific empathy. She's not deceived by her sister's moans of pleasure. Lysa knows it's not mutual pleasure, a shared journey into sexual arousal. Then Lysa does something unexpected and perversely wonderful.

Her hands flutter down her body, stopping to caress her breasts through her clothes, and ending at the snap of her jeans. Staring deeply into my eyes, the faintest trace of smile on her lips, she undoes one button at a time, until her jeans fall open revealing a pair of white cotton panties.

Slowly, never losing eye contact, she wiggles her jeans over her hips and lets them slide to the floor and steps out of them. I watch mesmerized as she gently strokes her flat stomach before sliding her fingertips inside the front of her panties.

For an instant, Lysa's eyes flutter shut as she finds her own pleasure center. Then she opens them again and we study each other. I lower my eyes to her fingers and begin to measure their rhythm as she massages her pussy lips and clitoris. Slowly, I begin to match her pace with my hips.

Lilli is still grinding into me with her own frantic series of twists and thrusts. This time, I don't even attempt to match Lilli's movement. Instead, I focus on Lyla's fingers. I imagine those tiny fingers working between my cock and Lysa's pussy. My thrusting hips match Lysa's twitch for twitch, thrust for thrust. I smile and she returns the smile with a knowing nod. Gradually, we begin building our arousal together, almost as if Lilli isn't even in the room with us.

But not only is she in the room, Lilli is grinding with near fury against my re-engorged cock. Even through her skirt and my jeans, I can feel her heat. And I can smell her arousal, pungent and powerful enough to overwhelm the perfume and shampoo.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh," Lilli exclaims. "I'm going to cummmmmmmmmmmm."

"Go for it, Lilli," I whisper. "Let yourself cum. Surrender to it. Let it overwhelm you. Let it consume you. Cum for me, Lilli. Let me hear you cum. Let me feel the heat and the wetness as you cum."

Perhaps I am just feeling a little used and abused. Or maybe a little mischievous. Or maybe I just surrender to instinct. Whatever the reason, I reach down with my hand and slowly work my middle finger to where Lilli's frenetically undulating pussy is grinding against me. When I'm pretty sure it's in the right place, I simultaneously jab, vibrate and twist against what I hope is Lilli's clit.

"Eeeeeeeeeeooooooow," she screams as her body goes stiff, her back arches, and her fingernails manage to draw blood as they scrape down the back of my polo shirt. For some reason Lilli's orgasm reminds me of a Slinky, that child's toy that can be made to pour itself down a flight of stairs with a mechanical fluidity that is almost organic, almost animal-like in it's motion and movement. But not quite.

As the orgasm subsides, Lilli's hips resume bouncing against me. But like the Slinky reaching the bottom step, her thrusts rapidly become weaker and weaker until I can no longer feel them at all.

Lilli's eyes flutter open. She looks almost surprised to see me, although I don't know what else she was expecting. Perhaps her favorite stuffed animal? Gradually, she disengages from me, looks at her watch and rises to her feet.