Finding Picasso Ch 09

Finding Picasso Ch. 09:

A talented tongue gets it done

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the concluding chapter of "Finding Picasso."

If you haven't been keeping up, no problem. Just search for one of the phrases below. They will take you straight to the good stuff:

On our last night

Violet is waiting

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Perhaps because during the Cold War, no one lived in more immediate danger than West Berliners, my aunt Bea had a special love for the city and its residents.

Her first visit was in the mid-1960s. Just 20 years earlier, Hitler's Berlin had been the center of the most toxic political philosophy the world has ever known. Somehow, in two post-war decades, while still in the crosshairs of Cold War tensions, West Berlin reinvented itself as a center of global avant garde art and culture.

I wanted to renew acquaintances with a pair of Bea's favorite art dealers as well as attend a large showing of student art work at the Konferenzzentrum Berlin. Lysa added an arousing new prospect on the eve of our arrival.

Emma had sent a text inviting us to stay at her flat while her roommates were on holiday.

Emma's place was stunning. Located on the 40th floor of an ultra-modern skyscraper, there were views of the river Spree, the Brandenburg Gate, Potsdamer Plaza and even the green hills of Saxony-Anhalt on the horizon.

But the view that intrigued me most was Emma herself.

During our revelry a few nights earlier, I'd made love with Emma. We were surprisingly compatible lovers with an intuitive sense of how to please each other. The thing that left me feeling unfulfilled was nothing to do with the sex, which was beautiful, but that in the chaos of that night, I never got to see Emma in the nude.

I never had the opportunity to study her breasts, the texture of her skin, the turn of her stomach, or the pale V between her thighs.

I knew Emma was beautiful, but only in a general, I'll-defined sense. I needed to fill in the visual blanks and memorize the intimate details of her body before I could feel completely fulfilled. Strange and bizarre? For sure!

My own perverse fetish? Absolutely!

Perhaps it was somehow connected to my obsessive-compulsive relationship to art. I'm sure Lysa had seen an academic study on the topic, but for the moment it was a secret I'd rather keep to myself. Besides, I was damn lucky Lysa was willing to share me with Emma in the first place.

"She's infatuated with you," Lysa says apropos nothing, except her ability to read my mind.

"That won't last, once she gets to know me better," I reply. "Does her infatuation bother you?"

"Not as long it's me riding alongside you when we depart for Prague," Lysa tells me. Like poor Paul Junior, Lysa sometimes seemed constitutionally unable to tell a lie, or even to put a socially acceptable spin on her feelings.

"I doubt Emma could survive an afternoon on a touring bike," I tell her.

"Exactly what I'm counting on," Lysa answers with a mischievous grin. "By the way, it's probably a good time to ask as any. Who is the girl in Prague?"

"My, God, Lysa!" I exclaimed, caught completely by surprise. "How on earth did you know?"

"Call it intuition. What's her name?"

"Violet," I answer, showing Lysa some photos from Paris. I recount how we met on the flight from JFK to Charles de Gaulle, as well as our video rendezvous with Runa and Raven, which requires another explanation of its own. Fortunately, there was no reason to mention Zoe, the bewitching photojournalist I'd fucked on the trail from CDG to central Paris.

"Violet, Runa, Raven, Lilli, Lysa, Emma," she went down the list, her voice amazingly judgement free. "You really have been busy, Lover Boy!"

"I'm not usually so promiscuous," I retort. "Besides, I don't think Lilli really counts."

"You got her off, didn't you?"

"I suppose, technically, yes."

"Then Lilli counts. Anyway, when it rains, it pours," she laughs. "I'm not sure that Emma is prepared for so much competition."

Just then, the door swings open and Emma rushes into her apartment, wearing denim cutoffs, a spaghetti strap top, and carrying two shopping bags that contain one head of lettuce and four bottles of wine.

She hugs Lysa, and gives me a long, deep tongue kiss. Then turns her attention to the fully loaded bikes parked in her living room.

"The doorman didn't give you any trouble about the bikes?" Emma inquires in German while Lysa translates for me.

"He asked us to use the service elevator, but he was very polite about it," Lysa answers in English for my benefit, then in German for Emma.

"It didn't hurt that we spent about 30 minutes washing the road dirt off before we entered the building," I added and Lysa quietly translated.

There was a subtle "pop" as Emma opened an expensive looking bottle of Riesling and poured three glasses. "Anna's room is over there, if you want to unpack. And my room is here," Emma said, guiding us to a wonderland of pink fabrics and window treatments.

"This is kind of embarrassing," Emma continues, pointing to a roomy Queen-size bed as Lysa provided a running translation for my benefit. "Would you like to sleep in here with me?"

"I thought you'd never ask," I joke, nodding in enthusiastic agreement.

"I go wherever he does," Lysa adds in deadpan English and German.

"Great," Emma answers, obviously relieved to get a delicate issue settled right away. "Let's get drunk."

Which is exactly what we do.

***

Emma and Lysa prepare an amazing schnitzel feast while I catch up on e-mail. At dinner we bring Emma up to date on our successful negotiation at the Vogel Schule. After clearing desert, I fetch the mailing tube and handed it to Emma.

"This is a token of my thanks for recognizing Paul Junior's talent and making it possible for us to meet his teacher and parents," I say, passing the tube to Emma. The painting she carefully unrolls is of a little girl in a pink dress smilingly shyly at the artist. Surrounding her are the artifacts of a little girl's room — dolls, a rocking horse, a wardrobe full of frilly dresses — all rendered in differing shades of pink.

"Oh, My, God! How on earth did you know, Jason?" Lysa translates.

"Lucky guess assisted by the color of your blouse, nail polish, earrings, and thong," I explain.

"Don't give him too much credit for being psychic," Lysa adds, after translating my comment.

Emma gives me another hug and tongue kiss, then turns to Lysa who, I couldn't help but notice, returns Emma's kiss very enthusiastically.

An hour later, we stand side-by-side, sipping the last of the Riesling and watching a jeweled blanket of glowing lights stretch to the horizon.

"Is there anything else around here that I need to show you?" Emma asks politely, and Lysa translates, as we finally turned away from the remarkable view.

"As a matter of fact," I say, taking Emma by the hand and leading her to the door of her bedroom. "There is one thing."

I undress Emma slowly and methodically while Lysa, eyes glowing with sexual excitement, watches from a little window bench in the background.

Emma's cutoffs fall to the floor, followed by a silky thong and I drink in her beauty when her entire body shivered and spasmed. At first I think it's sexual excitement, but then I see her stomach contract and hear a tiny sob, followed by a much deeper, soul-wrenching sob of despair.

With no German words to console Emma, or even ask what was wrong, I feel helpless. Without Lysa, I would have been.

Somewhere Lysa finds a fuzzy pink blanket, wraps it around Emma's heaving shoulders, whispers something in Emma's ear, and maneuvers her gently to the bed. I retreat to a chair where I join a stuffed pink bear in useless silence.

Lysa strokes Emma's hair and continues to murmur. Between sobs, Emma responds by shaking her head "yes" or "no," but it is a long time before she can speak. When Emma's tears finally subside, Lysa takes me by the hand, and guides me to the living room couch where the last bottle of Riesling waits on the coffee table.

"Get comfortable," she says. "This is going to take a while. And, Jason, I'm so sorry for getting you into this mess."

Was it a "mess?" Lysa knew vastly more about it than I. The wine went down smoothly, my second bottle of the evening. When Lysa wakes me later, she is nude, she strips off my clothes and leads me back into Emma's bed. But it wasn't until we set out for Prague that I learned the full story of what had happened that night.

Sometime before dawn, Moonbeams poured through Emma's window like wildflower honey, illuminating the sleeping figures curled by my side.

Watching Emma and Lysa sleeping naked, nestled against my shoulders, releases a rush of raw ego gratification. So this is how the sultans, kings and tribal chieftains felt. This was their righteous reward. The natural order of things. Every Alpha male had the divine right to possess at least two beautiful concubines during their prime breeding years. Even the Mormons understood. How did bourgeoise Western culture get it so wrong?

But hardly without its high drama, was it? I saw somewhere that even Carl Jung, a venerated early psychiatrist, struggled to maintain equilibrium with the menage a trios he imposed on his household. I could not even begin to comprehend the psychological resources I would need to keep two beautiful, headstrong and clever women satisfied over the long term.

Emma made a little murmur in her sleep and snuggled deeper into the cavity between my arm and shoulder. So beautiful and vulnerable. Moonlight glowed on her naked hips and breasts.

At least my fetish had been fulfilled.

Just then a cloud passed in front of the moon, the room went momentarily dark, and Lysa instinctively clutched my arm. The old expression "sewing wild oats," along with all its cultural baggage, sprang to mind. 'Wild oats' were becoming a way of life for me. But Emma and Lysa were relative babies, bright college students with a lifetime of joys and regrets ahead. I hoped that a decade from now, tonight's trauma, whatever its source, wouldn't wind in Emma's regret column.

With that thought, the moon reappeared, Emma's bedroom glowed in all its pink magnificence, and I returned to a troubled sleep.

Lysa and I moved into the roommate's bed and spent three more uneventful days and nights in Berlin. Emma and I became close, or a close as you could expect with Lysa translating for us. The "morning after" Emma cleared the air by apologizing and explaining she simply had gotten involved in something more complex than she could handle.

We joined Mia and Sophia, the other girls from the "The Hole," at a trendy cafe in the Prenzlauer Berg not far from the Mauerpark flea market. I couldn't help but notice the double takes our table got from guys of all ages passing on the sidewalk. Most went from open appreciation of the four young beauties — two blonds, a brunette and red head — to expressions of jealousy if they caught sight of me in the shadows.

If it hadn't been for the quick decision to invite Lysa to join me the night we met back in her Frankfurt apartment, I would be one of those lonely guys, leering at women with whom I couldn't even communicate.

Something told me that even though they spoke fluent German, most of the guys making eyes Lysa, Emma, Sophia and Mia, lacked the empathy and understanding to make intelligent conversation with these complicated women.

Hell, without Lysa as my go between, I probably didn't either.

***

The art search in Berlin was, frankly, a bust. The first of Bea's favorite dealers suffered from dementia and had moved into a nursing home.

The second had retired, but Lysa helped me track him down to a shabby little apartment in Kruezberg, a vibrant central Berlin neighborhood also known as little Istanbul.

We spent an afternoon reliving his memories of my aunt. Like Gustave in Frankfurt, Aydin had traveled with Bea to pay homage to some of the greatest living artists of the era, including the notoriously reclusive Magritte. Lysa and I listened spellbound, until it was clear Aydin's energy, and memory, was flagging.

As we left the apartment, Lysa remarked the she hoped the gallery business was kinder to me financially.

"Bea said not to be fooled, that Aydin also owned a magnificent coastal villa outside a Istanbul," I explain. The shabby Berlin apartment was mainly for the benefit of tight-fisted German and Dutch collectors who needed to be reassured they weren't being fleeced by some nefarious schemer."

"But isn't that the very definition of a dealer?" she asks innocently. I resist the urge to reply with a swift punch to the shoulder.

The Konferenzzentrum exhibition is overwhelming in size. I take a lot of photos and make copious notes about the few young painters whose work showed the kind of rare creative vision I was seeking. For some reason, Paul Junior's work is not included in the exhibit, but to me it would have stood out from the rest like a beacon.

The group shows of emerging artists at Berlin's commercial galleries are no more successful. If not for Emma's keen appreciation of artistic originality and her chance observation of the Vogel Schule, the entire trip to Germany would have been a bust. At least as far as my business aspirations were concerned.

Being with Lysa, however, I was beginning to realize was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Looking ahead to Prague, it crossed my mind how little I really knew about Violet. But gut instinct told me Lysa and Violet were peas in a pod and if ever there were three people who could sustain "troupledom" for a few blissful days, we were it.

Also, as something of the new crossroads of world youth culture, Prague held out a kind of promise that I found lacking in Germany's formalized and established art scene.

Back in Paris, the delightful distraction of the Nordic "Twins," Runa and Raven, had prevented me from even scratching the surface of the world's traditional center of emerging artists. With Lysa along to keep me focused, I wondered if I shouldn't revisit Paris, perhaps by taking an overnight train from Prague to Prague.

As aunt Bea would say, "we'll know in the fullness of time."

***

On our last night at Emma's place, we eat too much, drink too much, and to my surprise, Emma and Lysa flirt shamelessly. Emma wears cutoffs, and what is clearly a thong underneath, along with a sleeveless pink cotton spaghetti strap top that does little to conceal her bra-less breasts and nipples.

Halfway through a feast of garlic bread, beef lasagna, and red Tuscan wine, Emma's eyes lock onto Lysa and never waver. As the girls banter in German, Emma's nipples became swollen, and eventually, fully engorged. As they press against the tight cotton fabric, I can make out the indented milk ducts at the tip of each taut nipple and even the delicate ridges on each areola. In the soft candlelight, her strawberry blond curls frame her beautiful blue eyes and lips with a golden halo.

Lysa's much smaller breasts strain against her blue polo shirt, nipples hard and visible against the thin Pima cotton. Her eyes glow under heavy lids and the tip of her tongue flicks nervously across full, sensual lips. Lysa's look of sexual arousal brings back the memory of our first night in Frankfurt, when she had fingered herself while watching me as I made out on the living room couch with her big sister.

The tone of their voices gradually diminishes first to quiet whispers, and then to stillness as they search each other's eyes. Lysa leans in and Emma reciprocates, tipping her head back and closing her eyes as the girls gently brush lips.

At first, the kiss is awkward and tentative. But soon, Lysa's arms encircle Emma, and their kisses turn urgent with tongues intertwined and the sounds of heavy breathing. As the embrace deepens, I lose sight of the girls faces in the shadows. But Emma's pale finger tips gliding across Lysa's shirt and carefully encircling each swollen nipple are as impossible to miss as Lysa's deep guttural moan.

A moment later, Emma stands up, takes Lysa's hand, and guides her toward Emma's pink bedroom.

"Maybe I'll just clean up," I tell Lysa.

"I'll come and get you if we need anything," she replies with a naughty smile.

I try to ignore the satisfied groans coming from Emma's room as I wash the dishes and open the last bottle of Chianti. It's almost empty when Lysa emerges, takes me by the hand and drags me into Emma's room.

Moonlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling window, giving Emma's naked body a silvery, other-worldly glow. She is lying on her side, watching me through half-closed eyes, her right hand pressed tight between her thighs.

"Emma's never seen a guy make himself cum," Lysa explains softly. "Would you do it for her?"

"Of course," I reply, dropping my pants and briefs in a single move. "But let's show her something else first."

My cock had been erect for at least the last hour, and as it springs out of confinement, it bobs up and down comically. The girls giggle and I grab Lysa around the waist and guide her into the stream of silver moonbeams. I press myself against the window, which is still warm from the afternoon sun, and pull Lysa next to me. The chances of anyone seeing us are remote, but even the possibility of an unseen watcher, adds a little edge of excitement.

And then there is Emma, who watches intently.

Lysa catches on instantly, and presses her long back and amazing ass against the window, then turns around, and grinds her tits and shaved pubis against the warm glass. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Emma rise to a sitting position for a better view. At the same time, she spreads her legs, revealing her glistening labia, wet with girl-juice and saliva, before placing her hand firmly against her sex.

Lysa's hands reach behind my back as she wraps herself around my waist with the dexterity of a gymnast. With her arms behind my neck, her steaming pussy presses into my lower abs with searing heat. Her pert breasts are crushed against my chest. When I look into the narrow gap between our bodies, Lysa's pussy lips peek out from under her pubic mound like a flower in blossom.

A moment later, Lysa's finger nails slowly claw my back on a direct line toward my butt. Instinctively, I thrust my hips forward to reduce the target, which lifts my cock to within inches of those pouting pussy lips. Before I can relax, in a single, seamless motion, Lysa's hand grabs my cock at the base as she lowers her body. I slip effortlessly between her open lips and into the warm channel of her vagina.

My half closed eyes fly open in surprise, and although she at least knows what was coming, Lysa's eyes also grow wide as I penetrate deep inside her. She smiles at me for a glorious instant before her eyelids flutter close and she utters a little giggle that slowly morphs into a contented moan.

At first Lysa uses her remarkable musculature to lift and lower herself along the full length of my shaft, generating sensations that I'd never experienced before. Perhaps it is my overheated imagination, but it seems as if I can feel the muscles of her vagina contracting and releasing each time she rides up and down my cock. The contented look on Lysa's face is the perfect match for the unhurried, even languid pace of our coupling.

Merely holding on to Lysa without toppling over requires nearly all my concentration. But as I grow more accustomed to holding her, I find I can roll my hips and meet her halfway as she pumps her body up and down on me.

We fuck like this until I sense an urgency building within us. "The window," she pants in my ear. "Closer." We step back into the flooding light of a waxing gibbous moon. Stretching to the horizon is a brilliant tapestry of glimmering windows, neon signs and city street lamps. And superimposed over all of that is our naked reflection. Lysa huddled in my arms, the rounded contours of her long back and perfect ass glowing brightly in the moonlight.