#123) A Study In Contrasts – SEXUAL CONTENT

I bought a new computer hard-drive, then had to crawl down the rabbit-hole of finding a new screensaver shot that I liked among all the wallpaper available. I browsed hundreds of images before arriving at a set of black and white photos documenting when the famous artist Pablo Picasso met with the famous film actress/sex kitten Brigette Bardot. The images were at once grainy and evocative, the background story jumped out at me, nearly writing itself, a study in different shades of gray, black and white
Picasso had an estate in the south of France. Being the prolific genius he was, the large mansion overflowed with his creations, paintings, sculptures, instillations on the expansive grounds.
Bardot was on a promotional tour for her new movie, “And God Created Woman.” The film was directed by Roger Vadim, who was, like every man who encountered her, in love with Brigette. Because he was considered a cinematic genius, an auteur, which had made him quite wealthy, he was fortunate enough to be having an affair with the blond beauty. But Vadim was in Paris doing his own promotion when the press realized that Bardot would be in near proximity to Picasso. Pablo graciously offered an invitation to visit for lunch, Brigette graciously accepted.
It was wintertime, but on this particular day it was merely brisk, while clear and sunny. Picasso wore a heavy flannel plaid shirt instead of the blue and white Breton-striped t-shirt he was famous for wearing almost like a uniform. Bardot chose a sundress with a floral pattern, its bodice was low-cut exposing plenty of breast, that Brigette rarely incumbered with a bra, its dress was modest, nearly reaching the floor. No one knew that underneath its flowing folds, Brigette wore no underwear. She was the original sex commando, always armed for battle by being stripped-down for it.
No matter the season, Picasso’s days were filled with activities he adored. He ate well for breakfast, had sex, whether with his wife or with a younger mistress depending on their itineraries. He read, listened to music, dreamed, all of it grist for his creative mill. During the season, he would travel to the corrida de toros, the bullfights that were performed every Sunday throughout this area as well as all over Spain, particularly if there was a matador Pablo liked on the bill. He’d sometimes have sex again in the early evening, before the late dinner Spaniards favored. If it had been a productive day, maybe he’d feel inspired to have sex again during the night. Neither wife or mistress were at home at present, they didn’t like the cool weather, so were traveling.
Bardot hated having to sell this movie! The movie was good, but the required tour was like a forced march, keeping her from the way she liked to live her life. Normally, she’d sleep-in late, wake whenever it seemed right, have sex with whomever was the current flame, sunbathe and swim, eat moderately, nap in the afternoon, usually punctuated with more sex, go out in the evening, either to a movie premiere or a musical show opening or whatever was in vogue. But now her schedule was dictated by traveling, seeing the movie for the billionth time, then meeting with the local press to answer the same questions for the trillionth time. It was maddening!
He was in his mid-seventies, she was in her early twenties; both at the peak of their respective popularity. He didn’t look or act his age, could easily pass for twenty years younger. She didn’t look her age, could’ve easily passed for five years younger or older. Both were gregarious, creative, impulsive in their own ways. Both were highly sexually charged, both with voracious appetites for it that were unsated by present circumstances. And today they were meeting for the first time for a meal and conversation and whatever evolved, all to be documented by the paparazzi.
When they met, they each saw in the other a polar opposite. She saw a man with nearly black eyes that sparkled with vitality, who was short, what some might call swarthy. What hair he had was white, but only a short fringe around his ears remained, he was bald otherwise. She thought immediately that he embodied a Spanish fighting bull, a rare one that had been pardoned from death in the ring because he fought so nobly, and now sired others as often as he could in his pasture all day every day. He saw a woman, barely older than a child, yet mature beyond her years. She was sexuality incarnate, lithe and willowy while curvy, jiggling provocatively beneath her flowing gown. He saw a blond, with clouds of hair that normally tumbled to her shoulders, but was this day pulled up, and icy blue-eyes that peeked from behind her bangs. He thought she was a swan, as elegant as she was beautiful. A man who generated incredible heat met a woman who was coolly aloof. One could almost hear the sizzle and see the steam.
What one couldn’t hear much of was conversation. Picasso spoke Spanish and Bardot spoke French. They tried to communicate in limited English. As soon as they laid eyes on one another, they sensed the sparks igniting between them, after introductions were made, they dismissed their respective entourages and demanded that the press, the reason this meeting was arranged, leave. A huge variety of finger-foods, salads, sandwiches was laid out, both the plates they were served on and the plates they ate upon were decorated works of his art that Brigette remarked about and was impressed by. Everything in this huge villa was an artistic creation that exuded a vital life-force. For his part, Picasso watched this gorgeous creature eat and smile and unintelligibly talk and especially move within her clothing as he became enchanted, utterly beguiled. They took their heavily-laden plates out into the garden. The cool air made Brigette’s nipples hard and poke through her top, goosebumps take flight across all her exposed skin. Considerately, he escorted her into a sunroom that opened off this wing of the estate, and closed the glass door. In here it was warm, both began to sweat. Picasso unbuttoned his flannel shirt to reveal his barrel chest and stomach. He was not fat, was solid, massive, dominating the space around him. Bardot saw no reason to be uncomfortable, unzipped the back of her dress and stepped out of it. She was completely at home in her nude form. She did not think that this was provocative, she’d decided within minutes of first meeting the man that she would have sex with him. They sat on a small divan, he naturally manspreading, she demurely perched on the edge of the printed, overstuffed fabric on her perfectly upholstered bottom. They ate. When not chewing, they tried to make small talk, mostly smiled at one another. Both sets of eyes devoured the other.
Brigette had always thought that every human was a blend of male and female sensibilities. She found it interesting to imagine what that ratio was with the people she met, seventy to thirty, whatever… Some men were more feminine than others, not homosexual, just more sensitive, artistic. But here was one of the most famous artists in the whole world who exuded nothing but masculinity. He was ninety-nine to one percent testosterone. He made her wet just looking at him. It was uncommon for her to feel self-conscious, but she wondered if he could smell her state of high arousal in the enclosed glass room.
Picasso could not take his eyes off this enchantress. She wanted to paint her, sculpt her. But for the first time in his long life, he felt lacking. He could not capture her beauty with all his considerable talents and vision. It would be like trying to capture jazz music in words. He loved everything about her. She didn’t nibble at her food like most women, afraid of gaining a pound. She ate voraciously, with abandon, truly tasting and enjoying the meal. He loved her body, the way it moved. She seemed to be the perfect blend of baby fat and muscle. He was enthralled with her tan lines; triangular areas on her body that were pink where her bikini had blocked the sun. Otherwise, she was a golden tan. He stared at the triangle outlining the circle of each dark nipple, the triangle of white outlining the inverted triangular patch of blond pubic hair. He had to study her bottom. He gently took her by the elbow and lifted her to her feet. Brigette did not understand what he wanted until he had convinced her to stand, then he memorized the curve of her buttocks, how fulsome each orb was, how deep the cleft between this peach, again how pale the triangle was that had clothed this crack from public view with some itsy-bitsy yellow polka-dot bikini, as a popular song described. Brigette watched Pablo study her ass, almost as if he was praying reverentially.
“You like?” she smiled.
He answered by not breaking away from his worship with his intense dark eyes.
“Then let’s fuck,” she whispered. She’d chosen her words purposefully. This wasn’t lovemaking, like what she hoped she was sharing with Vadim. This was primal, not emotional. She did not see it as being unfaithful to her lover. She saw it as a natural expression between two of God’s creatures that were magnetically attracted to one another. As natural as two wild animals, like tigers in Asia, who might meet at dusk, sniff at each other, have congress, and depart from one another in silence.
He took her by the elbow once more and escorted her gently back into a seated position on the couch as he knelt between her knees and pried her thighs apart. Picasso dove into Bardot’s labia head first, like he approached all of life. He ate her out hungrily, licking at her clitoris as he fingered her wet depths. She knew he’d be good at this. She threw her head back to rest on the back of the divan and sighed, then moaned, then cried out. He brought her to climax after climax, until she honestly feared that she might lose her mind.
She pushed his head away from her core. His mouth and chin dripped with her juices. “I need you within me,” she breathed and kissed the top of his bald head. She let him decide on the position. He stood, stood her up, turned her. She sensed he wanted her from behind, so bent at the waist and thrust her backside back at him. He parted her with both hands and thrust into her vag with his prodigious manhood. She had to rest a knee on the divan’s seat to keep her balance. “Oh, God!” she murmured. You are a bull, Picasso, she thought. An animal, one who charged fearlessly, fiercely, what aficionados called brave, unafraid of the consequences. But Brigette had to be aware of the consequences. She knew that she was at her most fertile at this moment. She knew that if this bull ejaculated inside her, she almost assuredly would get pregnant. The boy-child he would surely sire inside her might be beautiful, might be a gifted artist, but would hurt her career’s trajectory, would ruin the relationship she hoped to have with Vadim. She searched her mind for a way to resolve this matter. Fate, fortunately, intervened.
As Picasso fucked her forcefully, he watched her splendid ass move. As much as he enjoyed being balls deep inside Brigette, smacking her soft bottom with his hips with each inward thrust, he liked withdrawing from her velvet grip more, so that he could see her bottom bounce and jiggle so wantonly. He raised his hand and gave her a sharp slap on the right butt cheek, not to hurt her, just because it seemed that glorious her ass was made for such treatment. He watched how the pale flesh reddened. He massaged the round rump, enjoying how the cool flesh warmed. He gave her left orb an equally punishing spank with his other hand. Like a well-trained thoroughbred filly, Brigette obeyed the urging, fucked harder. Pablo kneaded her firm fanny with both hands as if it was bread dough that he needed to devour in order to live. Her reddened buttocks were a cape before the nose of this well-bred bull. He thrust into Brigette all the harder, faster. She looked back over her shoulder, watched him roughly dig into her backside, part it obscenely, fuck her pussy deep.
“Like what you see?” she goaded tantalizingly. “Want to fuck me in the ass? Want me where it’s tightest… hottest… most sinful?” He pulled out of her vagina, took aim to thrust into her rosebud. “Wait! I need more lubricant…” she admonished. She spit on her fingertips and rubbed the saliva across the tiny aperture. “Still more,” she requested. As if following a divining rod, Pablo tottered off, being led by the rampant erection before him to the nearby luncheon table, snagged a dark green bottle, and came back. As he walked back, he drizzled some extra virgin olive oil on his cock. Once behind the adorable behind that Brigette presented once more, he fingered more oil up her anus with his fingertips. Brigette bent over deeper, arched her ass out further, smiled at the intrusion, not seeing the incongruity of this ingredient for salad dressing was being applied to an especially un-virginal area. “Be gentle at first, Pablo… just until I’m used to you there…”
He pressed his thick cock against the orifice that looked like a buttonhole in the shirt he still wore. It was a perfect little slit, as pink as the two hillocks that surrounded it in its narrow valley. Ever so slowly, the flesh accommodated him, opened, accepted his girth, stretched, enveloped him. Brigette drew in a long, slow breath between her teeth as he penetrated her tightness, savoring the sensation of being taken in this most submissive manner. He buried himself in her butthole until his white pubes tickled her twin orbs. She reached down and played at her blond pubes as she whispered, “Yes, fuck me, Maestro…”
She repeated that phrase like a mantra, repeated it a hundred times as he pushed into her private recesses violently, withdrew from her slowly, made her beg, made her whimper, made her cum. He changed his mind about her spirit-animal. She was less a regal swan, more of a golden eagle. Picasso knew that when eagles mate, they soar into the air very high, join talons, touch their sex organs, called cloaca, and tumble in a free-fall for as long as it takes to consummate the act. That is what this felt like. “Fuck me!” she hollered. “I’m gonna cum again!” she warned. “Will you cum with me, Pablo?” she implored. “Cum with me, cum in my derriere!” she exalted. He did.
Some climaxes are like explosions, like fireworks going off. Some are more like implosions, like a massive cave-in deep underground, just as mind-blowing, but internally focused. This intense orgasm gripped the sex kitten like the latter. She crumpled onto the couch beneath her, unable to withstand the tumult that seized her womb. Fortunately, the couch was there to catch her, where she drew herself into a fetal ball. Her implosion pulled Picasso out of her bottom’s orifice, and he, too, collapsed onto the divan. Both of them were panting from the exertion with open mouths. Brigette suddenly took a huge inhalation through her cute little upturned nose.
“Smell that.”
“Que?” Picasso replied.
“Us,” she returned, “my arousal and your musk and our sweat and my perfume. It smells like sex. Every couple makes for a little bit different scent. We, you and me, smell heady and rich and sweet and funky…”
Picasso did not understand everything she’d just expressed in Franglais, but he knew she was pleased and satisfied and so incredibly exquisitely beautiful.
“I wish life was different,” she continued, “that I could stay, that we could be lovers… but…” Then she thought that all the contrasts that had held her back, the young versus old issues, different cultures and languages, his machismo contrasted with her liberation, all these things meant very little compared with the connection they felt, the sexual heat, the fact that they were artists in a staid time that didn’t understand them, that they were famous and wealthy and…
She felt something inside, not the pleasure of just having shared sex that was incendiary. Butt sex was not in vogue in the fifties, but Brigette, being French, was experienced in its intricacies. Besides knowing that it required lots of lube and a slow, careful start, she knew that it had after-effects. Right now, she had a remarkable gape going. Her delicate sphincter was stretched wide and would take a while to get back into shape. Until then, it would not close. So, all the spunk Picasso had ejaculated up her bum could leak out. And all the air that his vigorous pumping had pushed up her bowels wanted to come back out. Explosively. Brigette clasped a hand over her butt crack to prevent both from occurring. Now she resembled nothing more than a German Bundt cake, her round sweetness filled to the brim in its center with cream.
“Pablo, be a dear and bring me my purse,” she asked. He did, from which she extracted a tampon. But instead of inserting it vaginally, Brigette put it in her bottom. It kept her from leaking and farting, at least for a while. Its string dangled out of her backside like a tail. There were baby toy dolls that had a pull-cord that, when yanked, would say endearing things. That’s what Brigette reminded Pablo of, a perfect doll, as she stepped back into her dress and asked him to zip up her back. From her perspective, she felt like a corked bottle of wine.
She kissed him again on top of his bald head, reminding herself that this wasn’t love, it was just a frolic, a little late afternoon fuckery, exercising important muscles for a sex kitten to keep limber. She met her chaperone and the press at the front gate of the compound, endured the explosion of flash photography and questions, got into the limousine gingerly, and sped away.

6 responses to “#123) A Study In Contrasts – SEXUAL CONTENT”

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