Finding Picasso Ch. 07

"I'm going to be late for Bible Study," she says, leaning down and kissing my forehead.

Lysa has not moved. She's still standing by the kitchen. Her hand in her panties.

Lilli rearranges her cloths, smiles at me, and then walks toward the hallway. When she catches sight of Lysa, she does't even slow up her pace, but she mutters something in German as she passes Lysa. All I can make out is the word privatsphäre.

Privacy.

Once again, my eyes lock with Lysa and we smile at each other, sharing an unspoken secret at Lilli's expense. We can use our fingers and our lips and our tongues to bring pleasure to each other in ways Lilli won't allow herself to experience or understand.

In the background we hear the toilet flush and Lilli emerges from the hallway pulling a sweater over hear head. "I may go out with some of the other students after class," she says from inside the sweater. "Don't wait up for me."

Since she's speaking in English, the comment seems intended for both Lysa and myself. There's no malice in her voice and to me her words are almost a benediction, giving her blessing to whatever might happen between Lysa and me.

Then Lilli's angelic face appears, she adjusts the sweater until it fits her smoothly, smiles with one of her blinding 100,000 watt grins, and disappears out the door.

"You must be very frustrated," Lysa says as soon as the door latches.

"A little," I say standing up and walking toward her.

"Maybe I can help you?" she asks.

"Maybe we can help each other?" I reply, lifting her t-shirt above her naked breasts, then pulling it gently over her head. "Would it be a sin if I worship these?" I ask, looking a pair of mouth-watering tits with very small pink areole and eraser shaped nipples.

"Probably. But I will forgive you."

"And what about this?" I ask, pulling her panties over her hips and guiding them to the floor. I sink to my knees in front of Lysa, absorbing the mysterious beauty of her smoothly shaved pussy. "Can I worship this as well."

Whatever Lysa intends to say is lost in a delighted squeal as my tongue snakes its way between her wet pussy lips and probes and flutters along the entire length of her groove until it reaches her little clitoral hood. Without removing my tongue from her clit, I scoop Lysa into my arms and carry her to the couch, positioning her back on the cushion with her legs draped over my shoulders, and I begin munching her sweet cookie in earnest.

Lysa's skin is young and silky and electric under my fingertips. She twists and turns in an effort to avoid the intensity of my tongue pummeling her tiny pleasure button. At the same time, she shivers in anticipation as my fingertips gently probe between her ass cheeks.

I slow my tongue long enough to look up. At first her eyes are closed, but soon they flutter open, her pupils contracting in the light. Watching Lysa's expression intently, I gently press the tip of my finger deeper between her ass cheeks. The faraway, dreamy expression on her face becomes becomes a look surprise as my finger slips inside her up to the first knuckle with a faint pop. Her lips form and adorable little "0" as her eyes grow wide.

Still studying each other's expressions, I force my tongue between her swollen pussy lips as Lysa's look of wide-eyed surprise gradually morphs into an expression of extreme pleasure. Finally, her brows knit in concentration and her eye lids flutter close and she emits a long, satisfied moan.

Every fresh caress of my fingertips seems to ignite a mini orgasm. Lysa's thigh muscles contract and shiver and a little river of clear liquid gushes down the inside of her leg. Lysa begins thrusting her hips. I respond by pulling my tongue out, and gently rolling my tongue along her outer labia.

Lysa's breath catches in her throat. Her musky aroma is a powerful pheromone, urging my tongue to explore faster and deeper while at the same time directing every drop of available blood to my throbbing cock. "Seek medical attention if you have an erection lasting more than four hours." So powerful is my erection that I can't imagine how it could possibly last for anything less than four hours.

After tracing her outer lips, I slip my tongue between them and work my way into her vagina again. Lysa reacts instantly, her back arches, her hips thrust into my jaw, and her muscles go into a series of spasms that contract like a vice around my tongue. I'm sure she's also vocalizing, but with her thighs clamping my ears in a death grip, my world has gone strangely silent, except the drum-like pounding of my heart.

As the contractions gradually recede, I seek out her clit and begin massaging it with my tongue. In minutes, another earth-shaking orgasm engulfs Lysa, and this time her entire body twists and thrashes like a rag doll tumbling down a staircase.

It takes a long time for Lysa to recover, and when she does, I can tell by the love-light in her eyes, that this is going to be more than a one-night stand with a beautiful college student. Her fingers find their way to my zipper and a second later my pants and briefs are on the floor.

"Your turn," she says smiling up at me. Then Lysa's fingers encircle my shaft, her red lips engulf the tip, and I travel to that blissful place where there is no time or space. Just the sensation of an oncoming orgasm that's gathering speed like Casey Jone's runaway train.

Somehow, Lysa manages to gulp down spasm after spasm of liquid cum. As the ecstasy slowly fades. I peek out from under half-closed lids. Lysa's face is still radiant from her own orgasm as she concentrates intently on milking the last drops onto her tongue with her fingers.

I wonder, how hard would it be to learn German and settle down in Frankfurt?

***

When I return to earth, I can't take my eyes off Lysa's pussy with its swollen pink lips and the mysteriously inviting cleft. It's become the center of my universe, exerting an irresistable gravitational force over me.

"There's something else I think you'd like to see," Lysa tells me with a wry smile as she pulls her panties up well-muscled legs. I continue to gaze intently at her, still unable to look away.

"This way, horndog" she motions with a giggle.

I follow Lysa into her bedroom. One wall is covered in abstract paintings. Good ones. They overflow into piles on the floor and thick stacks that perch against the furniture.

But it isn't the paintings that Lysa wants me to see. "Behind you!" she exclaims when I start to get absorbed in her paintings.

"But these are so good," I protest, then turn around to find a wall of builtin book shelves piled with camping and biking gear. Tents. Sleeping bags. Camp stoves. Back packs. Bike tools. And four big Ortleib panniers, identical to the one's on my bike. In the corner is a recumbent touring bicycle suspended on a professional repair stand which, in the golden evening light, looks for all the world like some kind of an alien Replicant on an alter.

With its low-slung, arrow-shaped design, Lysa's HP Velotechnik is actually a serious inter-continental touring machine. If you visit cycling travelogues about crossing North America, Australia or even Asia, the vehicle is usually a recumbent bike, probably a German HP Velotechnik.

While recumbents may look awkwardly comical, their low-to-the ground design has undeniable advantages over upright bikes. It reduces wind resistance, uses the leg muscles more efficiently, and fully supports the spine and hips. And all with very little penalty in performance or speed.

I considered a recumbent for touring Europe. Even borrowed one to ride from NYC to Boston and back. I loved the speed, the solid frame, and the seat, which felt more like a Lazy-Boy recliner than a fast bicycle. But in the end, I could not get used to being on eye level with truck tires and auto hub caps. If I was going to share the road with exhaust belching vehicles, I wanted my head to be where the air was cleanest and my view of road conditions was the least unobstructed.

I turned and looked at Lysa in astonishment. "How far?" I asked. I've been in many women's bedrooms, but never anything remotely like this. And if my question seemed to come out of the blue, as a cyclist, Lysa wouldn't think so.

"About 22,250 kilometers," she answered without hesitation, eliciting a whistle of appreciation from me.

On a bike, distance is everything. Most cyclists know their odometer numbers better than their mother's birthday. My five-day ride from Paris to Frankfurt, for instance, logged in at 721 km. During the past three years, my bike has taken me 15,500 km. Not nearly as far as Lysa.

"Paris. Dublin. London. Berlin. Prague. Florence. Barcelona. Madrid..." I reeled off the names of locations I recognized in Lysa's collection of framed snapshots. There were dozens more that were wholly unfamiliar.

"I've been randonneuring on a loaded 'bent since is was a wee grom," Lysa told me in bike-speak with a smile that said she was putting me, just a little.

"Will you join me for the next leg?" I asked without preamble. It might have seemed impulsive, but I realized in a flash how valuable Lysa's company could be. And the odds of encountering anyone else with Lysa's temperament and bike touring experience were less than zero.

"Oh, Wow!" she replied, clearly intrigued.

"The itinerary is really flexible. I've mapped out a route for Leipzig-Berlin-Prague. Not sure after that. Switzerland and Italy, perhaps." I didn't mention there was a girl in Prague, but anyway Lysa didn't seem to be the jealous type.

I could see Lysa's mental cogs spinning furiously. "I've agreed to ride to Lisbon in August with my friends," she explained, tapping a photo of herself with three other college-age cyclists. Two guys and a girl. "I can't jeopardize that."

I guessed Lysa and her friends were working the first half of summer vacation to save enough money for their end-of-summer ride. At least I could make sure riding with me didn't drain her bank account. "You wouldn't have to worry about the expenses," I told her.

"That's too generous," Lysa said thoughtfully.

"Not really, Lysa. I'm here to visit galleries and find young artists. You've already ridden these roads. You know where to stay. Where to eat. How to find the replacement for a broken crankshaft. And best of all, if you can translate for me, it will open all kinds of doors for my work," I explained. "How about I cover your meals and lodging and pay you €300 a week."

"I'd be a private tour guide and German-English translator then," she mused, obviously liking the idea. "When do you need to get underway?"

"A couple days. But I can wait."

"I'm working mornings as a caregiver. I'd need to find someone to takeover before I leave. It might need a few days, but I have a some friends who'd love the job."

"All right! Let's see what I'm getting you into," I told her, digging an iPad out of my backpack.

Lysa and I were still at, making lists of hostels, camp grounds, art galleries and restaurants, when Lilli returned well after mid-night. She didn't seem surprised that I was with Lysa, or even that Lysa had agreed to join me on the road to Prague.

"Oh, Jason," Lilli explains. "When Gustave told me you were biking from Paris, I knew I had to introduce you to Lysa. I just didn't expect that I would... well... find myself so attracted to you."

"For what it's worth. The attraction is mutual," I told her. "Just remember what I said about my aunt Bea. She used to tell me about this old poet who believed that 'The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.'"

"That would be William Blake. My pastor warned me you might mention Blake," Lilli said, turning to Lysa. "But you know what, Little Sister, if Jason is the road to excess, maybe you really will end up in the palace of wisdom. At the very least, you'll have a lot of great sex finding out."

Which is exactly the how the future unfolded.

Lysa and I never found the palace of wisdom, but we certainly ended up pedaling down the road to excess.

Lysa, it turns out, is aggressively bi-sexual. During the coming weeks, I would participate in sexual threesomes and foursomes, with more beautiful German woman than I could have imagined in my wildest dreams.

Aunt Bea would be proud.

***

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. All characters, except historical figures, are purely fictional. All characters involved in sexual activity are 18 or older. Copyright 2020 Jason_NYC.