Finding Picasso Ch. 03

The scent of fresh bread and pastries is everywhere. So are slim girls wearing slinky dresses. Crop tops and yoga pants. Or little leather jackets with skinny jeans. That much hasn't changed since I visited with my bohemian aunt Bea last Summer.

What has changed is that Bea booked us into the Georges V on the Champs Elysees, perhaps the grandest of the world's grand luxury hotels. Our little suite was around 2,000€ a night.

Bea passed away over the winter, so I'm on my own this year. I found a hostel known by the acronym HIJ that's located in an old medieval monastery just a few blocks from the Seine in central Paris. The dorm rooms, which are mixed-sex, start at 50€.

I'm not sure Bea would approve of my frugality, but I know she would admire the tall gothic windows, rooftop spires, and massive oak doors that greet me as I brake my bike on the cobblestone street in front of HIJ.

The French guy at the desk speaks English better than I do, or at least he does it with a classy Oxford accent. He immediately notices my watertight bike panniers.

"Ortliebs?" he asks. Which is exactly what they are.

His name is Robert and he's a cycling enthusiast. In the nation that's home to the Tour de France, I'm learning, a lot of people are serious about biking. He wants to know about my kit, and offers tips about the Paris bike lanes. But it's been almost 24 hours since I've slept, and there's no hiding my exhaustion.

"You just rode from the airport?" Robert asks when he notices my struggle to stay awake. "So, you need a rest before beginning the nightlife."

"Exactly!"

"I have a bed in the quietest dorm at the back," he tells me, peering into a computer monitor. "And there's one empty bed in a front room. That's with 'The Twins!'" he exclaims with a meaningful look. "Norwegian girls. Not real twins, distant cousins or something. But they look alike."

"I'll take the Twins," I reply without hesitation.

Robert checks me in and shows me a room that's slightly larger than a walk-in closet with two sets of bunk beds. There are backpacks on the upper and lower bunks on one side, along with a lot of girly items like hair brushes, makeup, and what looks like crumpled pink panties. On the other side, a neatly packed and buttoned down backpack sits on the lower bunk. Only the upper bunk is free.

"Looks like you're on top tonight," Robert quips as he turns back to the front desk.

I shuck off my khakis, toss my bedroll across the top bunk and about 10 seconds later, I'm sleeping the sleep of the just. The just plain exhausted.

I awaken to muffled giggles and peek over the bunk rail to see two pairs of slender, naked legs ending at bikini panties on the lower bunk opposite mine. Since the girls are sitting with their backs against the wall, my view of the rest of their bodies is blocked.

You'd think two highly erotic sexual encounters in the last 12 hours would leave me indifferent to the sight of silky smooth inner thighs and pussy lips pressing against thin cotton panties.

You'd be dead wrong.

I doesn't work that way. Quite the opposite. As in "the more you get, the more you want." The chime of feminine laughter and a peek at sexy legs in pretty panties do exactly what they always do. They make me hard.

I roll onto my back to catch my breath, but the bunk creaks louder than Dracula's castle door. The girls go silent, followed by movement on their side of the room.

"Hello?" one of the girls asks as a shock of strawberry blonde hair rises into view above the bunk rail, followed by a pair of large and expressive emerald-green eyes. Eyes that don't even pretend to look at me, but remain fixed on my lower torso and my briefs.

After a long and careful inspection, she finally glances up at my face with a devilish grin.

"Hey, Raven," she calls out in slightly accented English, "come see what I found." An instant later a second girl appears beside my bunk, she has huge doe eyes framed by curly black tresses.

"Jason!" they exclaim in unison.

"Ummmm... Yes... The Twins, I presume."

Like Robert said, not real twins. But not that many gene pairs removed either. Different hair and eyes, but the same high Nordic cheekbones, heart-shaped faces, and petite bodies with small breasts and slender waists.

Place both girls on a scale, and I doubt they'd match my 200 lbs. They are 18, maybe a little older, but still have that glow of eternal youth that's so common among fair-skinned Scandinavians. And despite their forthright appraisal of my barely concealed erection, there's actually a charming bashfulness in their demeanor.

The blond, especially, has a subtle shyness in her eyes that reminds me of Waterhouse's "nymph paintings," like the Ophelia portrait owned by Andrew Loyd-Weber.

"I'm, Runa," the strawberry blond says. "This is my friend, Raven."

They've been in Paris for a couple of days, so we chat about the neighborhood bars and cafes. Robert, the front-desk clerk, is mentioned a couple of times, and when Raven tells me with a dreamy look that she's going to his apartment for a home-cooked French dinner, I understand why Robert enjoys his job so much.

I haven't eaten since breakfast, and wouldn't be surprised if they can hear my stomach growling. If Raven has a date with Robert, maybe Runa is own her own?

I ask her join me for to dinner. Runa glances at Raven, who seems to respond telepathically, since I don't see so much as a blink. Still, she must approve because Runa turns to me with beatific smile and says, "That would be the best!"

"Have you ever been to a Paris art opening?" I ask, remembering my plan is to attend group exhibition in the the Marais this evening.

Again, Runa casts a glance at Raven, then says, "No, but I'd like to see this. Do I need to wear something special?"

"Nothing special, but maybe a little more than what we're wearing now," I quip, amazed that I've just been having a casual talk in my briefs with two rockin' hot girls wearing only panties and soft-cup bras.

After a shower and shave, I feel revived. With her blond hair in a loose bun, and tight yoga pants with a black silk spaghetti-strap chemise that emphasizes her slender curves, Runa looks spectacular. We walk through the IHJ lounge where there are a few people working on computers. In a dark corner, two girls are sitting at at table, holding hands.

"Want to meet my friend?" Runa asks, nodding toward the girls. As we approach, a tall blond gracefully unwinds from her chair to embrace Runa. Then she turns to me.

"You must be Jason," she says taking my hand. I'm 6 '2" and here's a girl that doesn't need to look up at me. "I'm Sugar Magnolia."

Despite her height, Sugar is not what you'd call a big girl. Everything about her is lean and willowy and her movements are fluid, almost feline. Check out Alberto Varga's pin up girls and you'll get the idea.

Sugar leans toward me and at the same instant that I peck her cheek, she softly squeezes my cock.

"Nice package," she whispers in my ear, her warm breath and floral fragrance sending shivers down my spine. "Can I help you unwrap it?"

Sugar's blue eyes sparkle with mischief. I do my best to return her steamy smile with one of my own. Runa jolts me back to reality with her elbow. "Sugar's a performance artist," Runa explains. "She's living at the hostel while she studies French."

Sugar takes a step closer and looks into my eyes with an expression of wonderment. "He has that look, doesn't he Runa? You know the one I'm talking about. The kind that makes your panties drip."

Runa has a shy smile that says she knows exactly what Sugar is talking about. "In my country, eye contact is a big part of seduction. Jason would do very well, I think," Runa explains.

"So where are you guys going for dinner?" Sugar asks, changing the subject, but tossing another sultry smile in my direction.

"That's up to Jason," Runa replies, looking up at me. She seems more amused than annoyed by Sugar's full-bore flirtation.

"What do you suggest, Sugar?" I ask.

"Do you like it hot and spicy?" She counters with a naughty grin.

"Sure! Who doesn't?" I ask, steering clear of the sexual innuendos that Sugar is obviously trying to provoke.

"Well, if you're going to the Marais, there's a great North African place with couscous and kabobs called Le Tagine," she tells us. We are, indeed, headed for the Marais, and it feels a little weird how everyone at HIJ seems to know my plans almost before I do.

Sugar introduces her friend Natalie, a country girl from Haute Pyrenees in the South on her first visit to Paris. Natalie is pretty, but painfully bashful, and seems an odd match for the irrepressibly sexual Sugar.

"What do you think of Sugar?" Runa asks as the ancient oak monastery door thuds shut and we step onto the cobblestone street.

"Sexy. Brash. Loud. Possibly obnoxious," I say, taking Runa's hand in mine.

I can't help but notice the double-takes that Runa gets from guys walking past. She may be petit, but Runa's tits are full and pert and her glutes ripple deliciously as she walks.

"She's famous for her crazy parties," Runa explains. "And for seducing everyone who visits the hostel."

"Everyone? So she is bi?"

"For sure," Runa says. You don't need exceptional timbre recognition to realize that the way she says "for sure" implies that Runa has some personal experience with Sugar's bisexuality.

We locate Le Tagine with a little help from the GPS and over a spicy Moroccan meal, Runa's bubbly personality and button-cute looks completely captivate me. She has a sweetness that is instantly endearing, and I'm drawn to her warm personality like a moth to a flame.

We have a generic version of the six-degrees-of-separation game that I'd played with Violet on the flight to Paris last night. I doubt either of us expect to find a common acquaintance, although if you have a couple hundred Facebook followers from around the world, you never know. Mostly it's just a polite way of getting to know each other quickly. And to reassure each other that we don't have any odd personality traits or dangerous tribal associations. When I tell Runa that I grew up in "a little farm town with more Holsteins than people," she looks confused.

"But Robert said you were from New York City," she says, When I explain that I lived at aunt's place in Manhattan while attending college, her eyes light up. "Raven and I grow up in a little farm town like yours, I think. In September we begin study at university in Oslo." I didn't see any reason to point out that my aunt was a former fashion model and NYC socialite who became seriously wealthy collecting art in the 1960s and 70s.

We talk about making the transition from a small town to a big city and by the time the check arrives, Runa and I are holding hands under the table like moonstruck lovers. So, of course, as we traverse the confusing backstreets of the Marais, the pale glow of a rising full moon lights our way.

The group art opening is derivative and unoriginal, but I introduce myself to the artists and offer to show them around NYC when they visit.

On the way back to the hostel, we rest on a bench in a little park opposite a brilliantly illuminated Notre Dame Cathedral.

I'm expecting Runa to sit beside me, but she snuggles onto my lap instead, giving her ass a little wiggle as she settles between my thighs. An instant later, her arms are around my neck, her fingers are stroking the back of my head, and our lips are glued together in a long, searching kiss. It doesn't take long until my semi is pressing between her butt cheeks.

"Are you always so... firm," she giggles.

"Only when a beautiful girl makes me horny," I whisper back.

I'll never know where this conversation might have gone, because a group of very loud and drunk Brits stumble into the park and onto the benches surrounding us. When they break out fresh pints of beer, I realize they're not leaving anytime soon. So does Runa.

"It think I know a place," she says, jumping off my lap and taking me by the hand. We use my key card to enter the hostel, and Runa leads me through the food court to a small door at the back. It opens into a narrow courtyard that's littered with cigarette butts. Not my idea of a love nest.

"Over here," Runa calls. At first I'm baffled, she's standing in a dark corner of the courtyard next to a couple of trash bins. "Help me, Silly."

She's jumping up and down, trying to reach a fire escape ladder that eludes her by at least two feet, but is just within my grasp. I follow Runa, climbing hand-over-hand until we come to a wide, grated landing on the second floor. One side bathed in moonlight, the other in deep shadow.

Facing the landing is a full-length glass door with a dim light glowing through translucent curtains. "Sugar's room," Runa says, noticing where I'm looking. "This is her stuff."

There's a bike, some flower pots, and tucked back in the shadows is a rickety wicker love seat. Runa takes me by the hand, and when it doesn't collapse under my weight, she carefully lowers herself into my lap.

One again, Runa's arms are around my neck, her fingers toy with my hair, our tongues explore each other, and my cock is on the rise. When she feels it, Runa breaks our kiss, nibbles on my ear, and grinds down softly with her butt. It doesn't take long to realize that the way she's sitting, it isn't exactly her muscular butt that's grinding against my cock. It's her soft pussy.

Soon, we are, as the Brits say, snogging feverishly. Runa is panting and my fingers have found their way under her chemise and I'm twirling her stiff little nipples between my fingertips.

A sudden shaft of light from Sugar's room, and Runa and I turn toward the window and freeze.

Natalie walks across the room and swings the glass door open, telling Sugar in French, "It's such a beautiful night." Just as Natalie begins to step onto the landing, Sugar snags her by the arm, and pulls her away from the door.

"And you're such a beautiful girl," We hear giggling and the sound of fabric swishing on skin as Sugar lifts Natalie's dress over her head. Then Sugar peels off her own clothing.

Underneath, Natalie is wearing boy shorts and Sugar has on a high-cut thong that exposes both of her long, lean ass cheeks. Sugar does exactly what I would have done in her place, and pulls Natalie tight and leans down for a kiss. For a moment, Natalie tries to squirm free, but is clearly overpowered. After a few seconds of futile resistance, Natalie succumbs and wraps her arms around Sugar's waist.

Sugar's hands are a study of constant motion, squeezing Natalie's butt one second, stroking her hair the next, and finally coming to rest on her breasts. The smart thing would be to scamper for the exit while Natalie and Sugar are preoccupied. But Runa is captivated. Is she reliving her own seduction by Sugar? Is she fascinated by the nearly nude and beautiful female bodies? Or is it the the complex interplay of girl-on-girl lovemaking?

Despite my urging, Runa shows no interest in leaving, so we watch. Sugar is the aggressor, and after a token resistance, Natalie warms quickly to the idea of lesbian sex. Her body begins a different kind of squirming. Sugar inserts a muscular thigh between Natalie's shorter, thinner legs and I can see Natalie's glute muscles contract as she meets Sugar's erotic grinding by rocking her own hips on Sugar's leg.

Almost unconsciously, Runa begins to mimic Natalie's movements, rocking herself against my swollen cock, and I resume my exploration of her breasts and nipples. We continue like this, channeling the voyeuristic excitement of watching Sugar and Natalie into our own sex play. Even through our clothes, I feel Runa's moist heat. It brings back memories of an early girlfriend, Gretchen, who adored dry-humping until we both reached a predictably wet and sticky outcome.

Spying on two young women in the midst of an erotic seduction adds an element of fiery excitement that I never experienced with Gretchen. Our encounters took place in the seclusion of our dorm rooms, or sometimes the backseat of an old jalopy in an abandoned dairy barn just off campus.

I suppose this finally is the voyeur moment when my guilt flag should be flying, except we didn't really intend to spy on Sugar and Natalie. Or at least I didn't. And sweet little Runa's obvious enthusiasm for watching is enough to overwhelm any sense of compunction.

It's hard to decide what's more provocative. Watching the inexperienced Natalie writhe as Sugar's fingers explore her nipples and pussy. Or observing Runa's reaction. Once in a while, Runa looks my way with a shy smile, but mostly she watches the unfolding girl-on-girl sex scene with relish.

Sugar's hands have moved to Natalie's hips and the little boy shorts slowly inch down her thighs as Sugar's tongues swirls across the smaller girl's stomach and abs. There is an audible gasp, followed by a satisfied sigh, and Sugar's face nestles into the gap between Natalie's thighs.

Natalie's head is tossed back and the expression of pleasure on her face is unmistakable. Her hips grind in unison with Sugar's movements. If this is Natalie's first time with another women, as Runa seems to think, it doesn't take long for her to surrender completely to Sugar's expert seduction.

As their coupling gathers momentum, so does the does way that Runa rubs herself against me. By shifting her weight from one leg to the other, Runa presses her pussy directly onto my cock. Wet heat radiates through her thin panties and yoga pants and her soft and swollen lips glide up and down my straining erection.

How much of Runa's impassioned dry-humping is energized by Sugar and Natalie, and how much by our sexual contact, will always be an eternal mystery. When she gazes into my eyes, it's as if Runa is the only person in my world. Then, as I follow her shifting gaze to the voyeuristic tableau of two beautiful and naked women squirming in each other arms, I feel the tempo of Runa's excitement accelerate.

I can't speak for Runa, but I have a familiar tingle deep in my balls when Sugar gently disengages from Natalie and steps toward the far wall.

Even on the verge of orgasm, reflexes honed by years of football drills kick in as I realize Sugar is headed for the light switch. Once the room is dark, we can be seen in the moonlight by anyone who glances at the open doors.

It takes every ounce of willpower, but I pull Runa to her feet and toward the ladder. Runa seems to understand and scampers quickly out of view. I'm still on the landing when the room goes dark. As I descend, my last glimpse is of Sugar's naked body silhouetted by the glow of a dim bedside lamp. Her attention is entirely focused on Natalie, who has collapsed onto the bed, legs spread and awaiting the return of Sugar's oral pleasuring.

We are juiced on adrenaline and sex as we leap off the ladder and land on the hard concrete courtyard. After a moment of silence, Runa breaks into laughter and I follow. As we stumble into the hostel food court arm and arm, a pair of bearded backpackers looking at us in astonishment.

"It is a beautiful full moon tonight," Runa tells them, as if that somehow explains our crazy and wild-eyed laughter. They smile at me knowingly as I follow Runa to an empty table in the far corner near the vending machines.

"That was close," I whisper.

"And hot," she says with a smile. "I know Sugar wouldn't have been mad. Maybe Natalie. But it would have been embarrassing if they caught us."

"So true. But you didn't want to leave."

"I'm sorry. I am so curious. Everyone thinks Scandinavian girls have sex the day we reach puberty. Maybe in Sweden or someplace, but not where I'm from. I still have so much to learn. This is our first time outside Norway, you know."