Finding Picasso Ch. 01

This time my cock pulses and quivers and she becomes so wet that my fingers pump in and out with no resistance.

"Ready?" Violet asks in a hoarse whisper.

"Christ, yeah," I moan, both hands pumping full force.

Violet's vagina clenches and contracts as if it will never let go. Again, she stifles a moan as her head thrashes against the seat rest.

Somewhere deep in my core, her contractions are matched with a familiar tingle and an entirely new sensation. My whole body seems to tense, and then relax with a rhythmic spasm. And then it happens.

As I start to cum, Violet cups my cock head without releasing her thumb without ever relinquishing pressure on my glans and foreskin. At the same instant that I feel her orgasm approaching crescendo, my cock recoils, as if drawing back upon itself.

The first wave of ejaculate erupts into Violet's cupped fingers with seismic force, sending tremblers reverberating up and down my spine. It goes on and on. Revolving and erupting over and over with every nerve-ending in my body focused on ejaculation.

Finally, Violet's delicate fingertips milk the last drops, while my fingers slowly withdraw from the warm pleasure of her pussy. Our heads drop onto each other's shoulders. I breathe deeply, savoring the tangy, musky aroma on my fingers.

"I think I've fallen in lust," I whisper.

"That's a good start," she relies, her face relaxed and eyelids heavy with sleepy afterglow. "Get that hunky bod of yours to Prague, and you can cum where ever you want."

I'm about to make some smart-ass comment about the old Anya Marina song, "You Can Go Wherever You Like," when I notice that even behind heavy lids, Violet's eyes are watching mine with searchlight intensity. Instead, I hook my finger under her jaw and pull her lips to mine.

"Right answer!" she says, diving in for another, deeper kiss.

I'm dozing off when I feel Violet pulling my kakis up over my thighs.

"A little help here," she giggles. I lift my ass and cast a nervous glance at the sleeping guy, half expecting to see his face leering back. I don't. This time his head is angled back, his mouth hanging open.

"Your phone," she demands, extending her hand after I'm fully zipped and buckled. I wiggle my phone out of the back pocket and put it on her palm. Violet gracefully vaults over the sleeping guy and into the aisle.

When she returns there are two new photos in my gallery. If I had to find a Modern master whose work captures Violet's innate sensitivity, I'd have to go back to the 1920s and the Polish Art Deco painter Tamara de Lempicka.

Lempicka's bold nudes, dripping in sexuality, defined a style of streamlined and highly erotic female that would profoundly influence popular pin-up artists like Alberto Vargas, George Petty, Art Frahm, and Zoe Mozart.

Violet's first photo is a selfie of firm, milk-white breasts with dime-sized areola and yearning pink nipples. The second shows low slung white-cotton panties with the crotch panel that's turned semi-transparent from moisture. Lempicka, a committed bi-sexual, would have loved them.

"Something to look forward to," she grins, "when you pedal into Prague."

Outside, a rosy-fingered dawn tickles the French coastline somewhere in the vicinity of Normandy. It may be in over France, but it's the same sky I've seen in a dozen Gainsborough landscapes.

Sleepy flight attendants hustle breakfast trays onto seat-back tables. An hour later we kiss goodbye as our journeys diverge in the transit lounge at Charles de Gaulle Airport.

When Violet walks away, I find myself admiring her thin hips, long legs and tight ass.

"I put my Skype address in your contacts," she says, looking back over her shoulder with that incredible smile. "Use it!

NEXT UP

Finding Picasso Ch 02:

Perving on The Bike Path

Hooking Up with Zoe the Paparazzi

erotic couplings, voyeurism, straight sex, travel adventure

DISCLAIMER:

All characters except historical figures are purely fictional. All characters involved in sexual situations are at least 18 years of age. Copyright: jason_NYC