This is a long story in four parts about a young man’s tour of Europe. It’s not meant to be read in one sitting. As always, votes and constructive feedback are much appreciated.
My hell-raising high school years were a thing of personal adolescent legend, though like most youthful behavior the stories were far bigger than reality. At base, my reckless image was a harmless projection I used to cover my innate shyness and lack of confidence. Regardless, my teenage female classmates loved to play in my jalopy’s backseat for reasons common to many girls of that age. Those who participated quickly passed their exaggerated tales on to their younger sisters. A few of these younger budding adolescents – three or more years my junior – further embellished the lurid stories they’d heard from their elder siblings. The result was a simmering, estrogen-laced, gossip pool that fed on itself. My reputation as a love-’em-and-leave-’em wild child was therefore still alive by the time the younger girls reached college age. But by 1961 I was at least trying to steer a course that was more mature. My years as a bad boy were in the past, I figured, or so I naively believed.
The year 1961 – a long time ago to most – was pivotal in my life. I’d put myself through two years of college, had developed a social conscience in keeping with young President Kennedy’s dictum, “Ask not what your country can do for you, but…,” and I was approaching the future with starry-eyed enthusiasm. I also approached it with no money.
So, I dropped out of college and worked two shifts a day as a pharmacy clerk and delivery boy for several months. At the end of that time I had a sufficient bankroll to go to Europe to enhance my education…something many of my more fortunate friends were able to do with the aid of their parents. My way – and that of my traveling buddy, Bill – was to travel on the cheap. At the time we were guided by a paperback guidebook that explained how to tour the Continent on five dollars a day.
A couple of months before leaving our west coast hometown with packs on our backs – and our thumbs in the air to hitchhike to New York for ship passage to England – we bid adieu to our friends through a succession of parties. One such gathering was around Easter, where I happened across a high school acquaintance. Her name was Allison, a bright girl whom I’d respected, but who would probably never win a beauty contest, and to whom I’d responded only in a Platonic way when her eyes had twinkled at me while we’d been classmates in high school. In 1961 she was attending an east coast women’s college and had returned home with another girl whose parents were traveling, to stay for a week – what now is called “Spring Break.” While the parents were away, of course, the girls threw a wild party.
Before the night was over, I’d grappled with the moaning, half-drunk Allison and – at the end of a dark hallway – we’d rutted joyfully atop a wrought-iron table capped with travertine marble. Her reputation had always been that of a good sport – and she was, I was convinced when I left the party – since the frigid temperature of the stone tabletop couldn’t have been very comfortable against the warm, silky skin of her soft, fleshy, bottom as we’d coupled like rabbits. She’d really put her heart into it, as well as her ass. I remember also that at some time during the evening she’d said that her younger sister, Melinda, or “Lindy,” would be studying in France for the next year, and that I should look her up. I’d seen Lindy once at an overnight slumber party given by my younger sister and had been very impressed by her cuteness and high energy. I also knew of her reputation of being much more a party girl than her elder sister. Of course our social paths never crossed. High school girls were off limits to mature college guys – which I considered myself – so I’d never pursued her.
Six weeks later, after a month of thumbing through England and Scotland, I arrived in France with my buddy, Bill. Paris was to be our base of operations while traveling by rail for several months. After arranging to rent a cheap room by-the-night from a woman who worked at the U.S. Embassy, we picked up our mail at the American Express office. I was surprised to see that Allison’s sister Lindy had written me of her whereabouts, since I hardly knew her. Of course I was only 21 years old, and still ignorant of the marvelous communicative webs that women could weave.
“Nick!” Lindy shrieked when I saw her crossing the bridge from the Metro stop at Pont Marie onto Ile St. Louis. The picturesque smaller island in the river Seine was where we were staying when in Paris. Though a relative stranger, she leapt into my arms, and I felt immediately uncomfortable since I didn’t know how to handle such familiarity with one of my distant younger sister’s friends. We’d hardly ever said hello. “What’s the matter? Don’t you recognize me?” she bubbled, looking up at me with a radiant smile and flashing green eyes.
“Ummm…yeah. It’s just that…you’ve changed!” I mumbled, tentatively. Esat Escort It was true. When I’d last seen her she was a petite, five-foot-tall blonde in a pageboy cut, with a tiny body still carrying some baby fat and looking no older than fifteen. What I now held in my arms was a taller girl with a blonde ponytail and peaches-and-cream complexion, which contrasted beautifully with the dark green sleeveless blouse she was wearing. I also felt a good bit of muscle tone underlying her elongated curves. I’d already noticed her flawless legs beneath her flowered skirt as she’d crossed the bridge to meet me. In a few minutes I realized that for an 18-year-old, Lindy was quite an attractive young woman…one who typically had been voted “most popular” in her class. Yet, she was still a young lady that I wouldn’t actively pursue, especially now. In those days, hooking up with a hometown girl in Europe was like taking a sandwich to a banquet.
Nevertheless, she had plans for me.
“I don’t want to go to the Louvre with you. I’ve seen enough museums with my mom. I want to go to the fun places…drink wine at sidewalk cafes…wander along the river…nngh, get dangerous!…go to the Arab Quarter!” she exclaimed later over a cup of espresso.
“You’re with your mother?” I asked.
“Yeah. She got a divorce from Dad and has taken an apartment in St. Germain for the Summer as my chaperone. When she leaves to go home in the Fall I’ll start the one-year Art History program at the University of Grenoble…in English!”
I hid my snobbish disapproval. I’d had five years of French in school and was proficient in the language. I resented spoiled American kids who’d taken a six-week course at Alliance Francaise and had come to the Continent for watered-down lectures in the French Alps while they experimented sexually. At least her mother might be getting something out of the trip, I thought.
For four days Lindy and I partied twelve hours a day, getting to know one another, until I was about to take an extended train trip north to Scandinavia. Unlike me, she had unlimited funds, and I felt uncomfortable – like a paid babysitter – when I was with her. We’d usually end up dancing our asses off at basement clubs on the Left Bank, then I’d take her home on the Metro – Paris’s version of the underground subway – and deposit her on her mother’s doorstep, still considering her a little girl…my younger sister’s friend.
On the last night she went to the loo after we’d consumed a few beers, then we walked along the Quai de la Tournelle just next to the river. She was giggly, singing Broadway show tunes, and skipping along, pulling me by the hand. Finally she stopped at one of the many narrow benches on the quai and straddled it to look at the lights. One of the bateaux mouches – a Seine river tourist boat – was approaching and Lindy chose that moment to yank me onto the bench to face her. She held my hands and scooted forward to climb onto my legs playfully – her thighs over mine – so that both of our loins were covered by her full skirt.
She immediately became very serious and looked into my eyes to gauge my reaction. Wrapping her arms around my neck while perched on my legs facing me, she said unblinkingly, “I want you to know, Nick, that I’ve waited forever for this…ever since your sister’s slumber party a couple of years ago. Remember all of us swooning when you stopped by your folks’ place? An’ now that we’re both in Europe, when you get back from Scandinavia I wanna be with you a whole lot more.”
Before I could say anything, she kissed me deeply, her tongue exploring the cavern of my mouth. Then she reached boldly between us and unzipped my pants, fishing my hardening cock out as the boatload of tourists cruised past us. Her caressing of my prick froze as the craft’s Captain panned us with bright deck lights…a bit of traditional, good-natured nightly harassment of Parisian lovers who frequent the river banks. When the boat had passed and we were once again in the dark, Lindy resumed her slow stroking of me, coaxing me along with lewd, whispered comments as she pushed me back slightly and groaned, sliding my bulbous cock head up and down her wet slit. She’d obviously removed her panties, perhaps in the women’s restroom of the club we’d been in, if she’d worn any to begin with.
“Lindy, I’ve got a rubber!” I gasped, as I let her drop my pants before she inserted my glans into her tight, hot, moist center.
“S’okay!” she groaned. “I’m on the pill! Ohhhh-ohhh-ohh-oh-o-o,” she exhaled as she slid down onto me. “Gawd, you’re so nice ‘n’ big! It’s…ohhhh-ohhh-ohh-oh-o-o,” she repeated, this time in a moan. Another slow plunge and she’d begun adapting to my size, taking more of me on each cycle, until, finally, our loins met. I leaned back on the bench and looked up at her beautiful, quintessentially-American face, framed in blond hair and wreathed in a closed-eyed smile, and reached under her skirt to grasp her silken butt for the first time…roughly. Responding immediately, she whimpered, “Ohh, Jeezus, Escort Esat Nick, yeah, squeeze me! Hard! I love it! Oh…harder!” she plead as she moved upward, balanced on her flat feet as she straddled the bench under my back.
I unsnapped the top of her dress and stroked her unfettered breasts, pulling outward on her nipples as they grew harder, and began flexing up into her as she rode me like a mechanical bull. This young lady was all business, and we fucked for maybe ten minutes. Then she started with a low moan, barely perceptible, as her clasping vagina thrust to and fro on me. She grunted loudly – much as I remember her sister, Allison, doing atop the marble table – as her luscious teenage vulva flashed in what little light existed. I raised her skirt to her waist and pulled her down hard onto my tumescent probe. By now, her eyes were closed, her face knit in concentration, and her teeth clamped together in a pre-orgasmic clench. Though I shouldn’t have, I asked teasingly, “Gonna cum?”
“Aaawggh…shiiitt…yeeeeaah!” she yelled, her firm hips thrashing away at mine in a blur. “It’s…it’s…it’s…now!” she screamed, then collapsed on my chest as I hammered her through a stunning orgasm. Before she was finished, I let loose as well, filling her clasping vagina with all the semen that I had. Afterward, a few French people walked past us as we lay on the bench, kissing and hugging. I assumed that in the dark they couldn’t see the naked parts of our bodies that were covered by Lindy’s skirt.
Many minutes later, as if our tryst had been a regular thing, she giggled, wiped herself clean with my handkerchief and started chattering again. I couldn’t remember having been treated nearly as matter-of-factly by any of my erstwhile high-school conquests.
I remember staying quiet as we rode home to her mom’s apartment on the Metro. Lindy’s head was on my shoulder and her hand was on my crotch. She’d somehow staked a claim on me that week, and told me a story about a bet she’d made with Carolyn, a friend of hers and that of my sister. When in high school they’d wagered on which of them could get into my pants first. Lindy had clearly won. I’ve forgotten how I responded as she prattled on, but I did look forward to seeing her again. After all, her luscious little body was now mine for the asking, and I’d suddenly ceased viewing her as a mere giggly teenage friend of my younger sister. I also met her mother, Maureen, that night, who invited me in for a chat.
“Of course I remember you, Nick! You were in Lindy’s sister Allison’s class and spoke at the graduation. My goodness, how you’ve grown!” Maureen said, appraising my six foot plus frame with what I considered sincere parental appreciation. “You were such an earnest boy…so full of youthful energy and political idealism.”
Maureen may have been forty, but she looked a lot younger. That night she was drinking…and smoking…but it didn’t bother me. She was an older, seasoned, version of Lindy, with a deep, early-Summer suntan she’d gotten on the beaches of the Cote d’Azure. Each languorous move of her smooth, trim, arms and gorgeous legs on high heels rendered me numb, and seemingly calculated to stimulate my libido. Lindy was very quiet as I exchanged social pleasantries with her mother, then she walked me down to the building entrance after our brief conversation, reminding me of her sexual intentions when I returned from my journey north. Before I left, she slipped a hand down my jeans, stroked my slick, stinking genitals, and gave me an aggressive kiss so that I wouldn’t forget her promise. And, as I rode home on the Metro, I remembered reading about the new birth control pill that was available. I thanked the gods for living in a time when sex was so easy for enlightened, privileged people with prescriptions.
The next several weeks were busy as Bill and I took trains northward to Copenhagen, Stockholm, Oslo and other cities. I added Lindy to my postcard list and kept in touch when I could, since she was waiting for me to return. In Oslo I met a woman, Anna, on the way to Narvik, Norway, and enjoyed her sexual favors on the train which – in Narvik – she continued offering me. The result was that my travel schedule fell two weeks behind. Even Bill returned south as I continued to feed my horny appetite on Anna’s sturdy, indefatigable body. As my stay grew longer, she finally offered me, her “American lover,” to her fellow student girlfriends in a typical, sophisticated Scandinavian way. I was in heaven! Paris and Lindy could wait, I thought, until one morning I woke up and realized that I’d been placed in sexual exile above the Arctic Circle, which required only youthful energy and very little political idealism. I’d become Anna’s novel California plaything and I wanted out.
A few days later I arrived back in Paris in late afternoon, and took the Metro directly to see Lindy. After several knocks the door opened a crack and her mother said, “Nick! You’re finally back! Come in!” Maureen was in a long, silky dressing gown, barefoot, and apparently Esat Escort Bayan having a cocktail while listening to music on the radio. A single, dim lamp lit the living room and the window to her balcony was open to let in the errant, hot, summer breeze.
“I take it Lindy’s not in,” I said brusquely. My patience had been tried at the building’s entrance by the nosey old concierge, Madame Langlois, who’d insulted me in a typical Parisian way.
“She waited for days, Nick, and you didn’t show,” said Maureen. “Then her friend Carolyn flew in from California…they’ll be roommates this coming year…so they went to Grenoble to get situated.”
“Is she mad?” I asked.
“More disappointed than angry. She likes you, just as Allison did, and I will tell you that she and her sister have talked about you.” She gauged my response. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. You must know that about women. But, enough gossip. Let me pour you a Scotch, then let’s go out on the balcony and you can tell me all about your journeys!”
Between the time I got my drink and wandered out to the balcony, Maureen had brushed her hair, freshened her makeup, and put on a pair of open-toed summer high heels. Her silken gown showed little evidence of undergarments, and my eyes feasted on the prominent nipples of her breasts through the material. As I regaled her with tales of Viking museums and modern Scandinavian sculptors, she leaned against the wrought-iron railing and listened raptly to me, idly lolling one leg back and forth. Whenever I spoke she’d stare into my eyes, then she’d look out across the city to the Montmartre district, where Sacre Couer cathedral stood in proud, white, Byzantine splendor. Moving her right foot away from her left, her gown split open and I was transfixed by the extraordinary beauty of her tan calf, from the knee to her ankle. She gazed wistfully at the church as she listened to me, slowly smoking a cigarette and sipping her Pernod, apparently deep in her own thoughts.
“You’ve become quite well-traveled, Nick, and so mature. Where will you go next?”
“I was thinking, Berlin. Kruschev is making some noise about “keeping out the Fascists,” and I want to see what he’s gonna do,” I said, parroting the European newspaper accounts of early August, 1961.
“Could be dangerous,” said Maureen, giving me a long, penetrating look. Then she quickly changed the subject. “This is my favorite time of day in Paris…the sunset all purple and pink…the lights coming on…the…oh, listen! I love this song!” Stubbing out her cigarette, she vanished inside.
After a minute or so I got up and followed her. Maureen was dancing in slow circles – hugging herself with closed eyes – to Edith Piaf’s La Vie en Rose…an impossibly-romantic Parisian love song. She ignored my presence, as if she were moving in a meditative state, then she saw me watching, smiled, and reached out for my hand.
“I didn’t know where you’d gone…”.
“Shhh,” she whispered, “Come dance with me…please,” and pulled me into her arms, laying her head against my chest. The rich aroma of her scent, and the thick texture of her shoulder-length auburn hair, told me that this was no mere girl. This was a mother! Just a few years younger than my own! And the heat of her pelvis was giving me a boner! I tried my best to maintain some distance between our bodies, but my groin had a mind of its own and pulsed continually as we turned slowly to the music.
“I, uhh, I probably stink. I’ve been on trains for days and…”.
“Shhh,” Maureen whispered again and let loose of my left hand to undo the top few buttons of my shirt. She inhaled audibly and licked at a spot just below the hollow of my throat, making a soft, growling sound in her throat. “You smell…and taste…divine!” She then began raking her nails softly over my chest and looking up at me to test my reaction. Smiling slightly to herself, she kissed me wetly once on each pectoral. My eyes closed in a moment of rapture, and she began kissing me all over my upper chest, sending immediate bolts of excitement to my crotch and nearly buckling my knees. I gasped as my entire body tingled. “Hold me close, Nick,” she mewled, wrapping both of her arms around me and pulling down on the back of my shoulders to meld my torso with hers. Her firm hips continued pressing hotly against my groin, then she slid one leg between mine and flexed her thighs against me ever-so-slightly in response to my throbbing erection digging into her tummy.
“I’m a little nerv…”, I giggled.
“Kiss?” she interrupted, looking up at me through slitted eyelids and pulling my head down to her slightly open mouth. Our lips met softly, then more hungrily, as our bodies molded more naturally to one another. She groaned, her tongue began dancing with mine, and she grabbed me by the wrists and slid both of my hands inside her gown to cup her generous, naked breasts, causing a moan. Caressing her stiff nipples, I then broke from her mouth and traced my tongue down her alabaster neck to the aureole of one tit. “Nnnaaagghh!” she cried as my lips closed around a nipple and she shivered from the contact. I suckled her for a minute or so until she pulled away and whispered, “Bedroom, honey,” kicking off her heels as she turned and led me into the darkness by the hand.