Finding Picasso Ch. 09

"Guilty as charged," I concede, knowing with two bi girls, this conversation would go nowhere. "It's a stupid prejudice instilled by narrow-minded and parochial parenting."

I could see Lysa about to muster the argument that I was now the subject of my own free will and could, if I really wanted, overcome my aversion to homosexual sex.

Fortunately, Violet rose to my defense.

"Some guys just like girls, I get it," Violet grins. "Lysa and I do too! But what's your thing, Jason. Fucking? Blow jobs? Hand jobs? Jerking off?"

"How about all of the above?" I say. "But if I had to choose one, there's nothing that seems to satisfy the soul like the emotional connection of a long, lovely fuck."

"Good answer, Lover," Lysa adds, blowing me a kiss.

When the last of the beer from Violet's purse and the minibar has been consumed, Violet takes the lead, dimming the light, stripping bare, and dropping into the turned down bed.

"Anyone care to join me?" she teased.

Lysa and I are naked and at her side in less than a New York minute.

We go for Violet's pouting nipples like a couple of hungry pups. I swirl my tongue over the sensitive tip, and when I look over at Lysa, she is sucking off the other nipple while kneading the generous expanse of Violet's breast with talented fingertips.

Violet looks down as her eyes flutter shut, and her head drops back on the pillow with a satisfied moan.

There is something erotic, but also challenging in the teamwork it takes to work our tongues symmetrically down Vilolet's often squirming torso. We lick the soft underside of her breasts, and then roll down her solar plexus to attack Violet's upper abdomen. Simultaneously, four hands grasp her breasts, pummeling and squeezing her nipples.

"Oh, my, God!" she groans. "Don't stop. Don't ever stop."

I, for one, have no intention on stopping until I can hear Violet screaming in pleasure as her vagina clamps down on my tongue. I'm pretty sure Lysa feels much the same.

"I think she likes it," Lysa grins.

I nod, tongue swirling lower, trying to gauge the extent of Violet's arousal. Violet had orgasmed within minutes during our under-the-blanket masturbation on the Paris flight. But that had been after hours of verbal foreplay.

Violet's breathing is changing. From long, deep breaths, her ribs begin to rise and fall quickly in a series of short, ragged gasps.

Violet parts her legs, spreading them from the hips, and the aroma of her arousal is unmistakable, as are her swollen inner labia. Her body trembles as Lysa and I work cheek to cheek, kissing and licking her wet outer folds and swollen vulva.

Her hips rise off the bed and Violet's slim torso trashes violently from side to side. As Violet's little pre-trembler subsides, Lysa and I reposition ourselves. When Violet's breathing returns to normal, Lysa lowers her tongue onto a stiff and glistening clitoris, while my own tongue gently pries open Violet's inner lips.

Violet shrieks in surprise and tries instinctively to twist free, but Lysa clutches her tight around the buttocks while my hands pin her flailing thighs to the bed."

"Oh, God! Oh, No!" she screams before breaking out in an uncontrolled giggle. Lysa and I never let up our assault. My tongue stiffens and dives deeper, picking up speed just like a thrusting cock while Lysa's tongue and fingers pummel Violet's straining clit.

There is an gush of fresh secretions, Violet screams in beautiful agony, and her vagina contracts around my tongue in a series a spasms that shake our little world before gradually receding. Violet's body thrashes and convulses and her eyes roll back, leaving just the whites visible.

Then she goes limp and gasps for air with a beautiful smile written across her lips.

Lysa nestles along Violet's neck, stroking her silky hair, and whispering something inaudible into Violet's ear. Violet responds with a broad smile, then she pulls Lysa close and the girls' lips locked in long and vigorous kiss.

As the girls kiss, Violet's fingers take me by surprise, grabbing my cock and guiding it to her moist entrance, where I slide effortlessly inside.

"Give me that hard cock," she giggles, breaking free of the long kiss with Lysa. "Fuck me now!"

It takes two or three strokes to fall into rhythm with Violet, who is in no mood for slow and easy, and we quickly accelerate to a frenzied, ball-slapping pace. Like our pounding bodies, our breathing falls into synch. Short and ragged and on the edge of orgasm.

A series of little spasms race down my cock, Violet's big eyes watched intently, at once teasing and pleading, and I feel the heat rising through my groin as my cock seems to retract before erupting against her molten cervix.

I loose track of space and time. The universe of infinite worlds and moving parts resolves into one thing, and one thing only. The tight glove of Violet's womb and the series of tremors that race up and down the hypersensitive nerve endings along my cock.

As the last spasms subside, we collapse into each other's arms, and I hear a stunned Lysa utter in a tone of awe-struck reverence, "My, God! That was beautiful."

Once we eventually recover, Violet and I turn on Lysa, tongue-lashing and fingering her to a series of flailing, moaning orgasms.

The first light of dawn glimmer across the fabled spires of Prague outside our window as I lowered the light blocking curtains.

For the second time in a week, I marvel at two magnificent females in my bed and am overcome by dueling emotions. One is the primal ego gratification of the triumphant Alpha male. The other a feeling of devastating helpless at the prospect of satisfying such beautiful and complicated women for anything longer or more durable than at gnat's lifetime.

I could almost feel aunt Bea smiling down on my delicate predicament, her eyes twinkling with humor and empathy. But as for the thought of this, or any threesome, being anything more than a passing extravagance, her words are unmistakably emphatic: "Jason, don't you dare even think about it!"

Postscript:

Lysa and I did, indeed, travel by train to Paris, where with newfound focus, I added two amazing young artists to my stable. A Tunisian boy with a gift for sensitive portraits that somehow turned his subjects into iconic statements about the human condition. And a teen-age French girl who painted neighborhood street scenes with a deep sense of place and humor with the fluid expression off established masters like Duffy.

I thought my travels with Lysa would end in Paris. But the day I purchased her a one-way ticket to Frankfurt, Lysa surprised me one more time by inviting me to join her crew on their August journey to Lisbon, via Northern Italy, Southern France and the Spanish coast.

That trip, also, worked out better than I could have imagined.

Lysa's friends were accomplished cyclists and thoughtful traveling companions. They were fascinated by my art hounding and looked forward to gallery and exhibition visits as a pleasant diversion from an otherwise grueling routine of 8-to-10 hours on the bike saddle. When I did need to take additional time, Lysa and I stayed behind and caught up by bus or train.

By the time Summer began drawing to a close and Lysa and her friends returned to their universities, construction on the Bea Plymptom was nearing completion and I had filled my 12-artist stable. I offered Lysa a job managing the Bea Plymptom when she finished university in two years — about when I hoped the gallery would begin turning a profit.

Although I was secretly tempted, a side trip to Norway was not in the cards. I sent my regrets to Runa and Raven, wishing them luck with their new college careers and promising to stay in touch on Facebook.

On the day of the Autumn Equinox, I met up with Violet at Charles de Gaul where we boarded an afternoon flight together for JFK.

ENDIT

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Except for historical figures, no characters in this story are based on actual people, living or dead. All characters involved in sexual situations are 18 years or older. All rights reserved, 2020.