Going Home


After twelve years in Switzerland, nine in private primary and preparatory schools and finally three at École Polytechnique Fédérale de Lausanne, I was going back to the United States.

Both of my parents worked at the U.S. Embassy in Bern. At what, I had no idea. I never once heard them discuss work. I was thirteen, in 1939, when arrangements were made for my safety and education by the Embassy when my parents disappeared into the war in Europe. I saw each of them only three times during the war, never together. They didn’t tell me what they were doing, where they had been, where they were going, or when I’d see them again. It was clear they missed me and didn’t want to leave. But they had no choice. I would have to stay where I was until the war ended.

My mother was fluent in Italian and French, and conversant in German. My father was fluent in German, French, Italian, Dutch, and spoke Flemish competently. My folks had given me a solid grounding in French, German and conversational Italian by the time I was eight years old, before we left the United States for Switzerland, so the transition from the Embassy school, where classes were taught in English, to the private Swiss schools I attended, where classes were taught in French, and German was seriously studied, was easier than it might have been. Although the transition was not without problems, like not responding to the new French-Swiss identity given me by the Embassy.

An Embassy functionary awaited me at my academic advisor’s office at École Polytechnique Fédérale de Lausanne in May 1946 after my last final exam. All necessary arrangements for my repatriation had been made. And much as I was looking forward to returning to the States, I was a bit put off by everything being arranged without my knowledge or input. I probably wouldn’t have had much to contribute anyway. He told me the Swiss government had revoked my Swiss identification papers and my student visa effective upon graduation, three days whence. I was given a second class ticket on a passenger liner from Southampton to New York, a list of universities I could attend in the U.S., admission prearranged for me, and an envelope from my father containing enough money to allow a few weeks as a tourist and a lengthy letter. I had received a monthly stipend from my father for the last seven years and had barely any opportunity to spend any of it. My expenses at university were covered by a grant that included housing and meals. So heading off to America was going to be an adventure with a well-stocked wallet.

Rome, Italy July 13, 1946

I arrived at the train station in Rome, early in the morning, about an hour before the train for Milan departed. Still flush with cash, despite six weeks touring Austria, Greece, and Italy, I booked a private compartment for the trip to Milan and Marseilles. From there I would travel to Paris for a two-day visit and finally Le Havre for a ferry to England where I would spend a week with a colleague of my father before boarding a passenger ship for New York.

The weather in Rome was hot and my compartment was oppressive. Opening the window once we departed helped. The compartment remained hot but at least the air moved. I did some reading. I watched the countryside go by. I went to the dining car several times and ate or drank wine with a pleasant old gentleman that owned a bookstore near Verona.

My train for Marseille boarded soon after I arrived in Milan. The animated and inquisitive conductor peppered me with questions as he showed me to my compartment, confirmed my baggage had been transferred, and hustled off to attend to other matters.

I had just settled in when the conductor returned, knocked, and entered unbidden. ‘Signor, I am sorry for the inconvenience but I must put another passenger with you. A woman traveling alone booked a semi-private compartment but the only available berth is in a compartment with a man I know too well. He is a gangster that travels frequently between Milan and Marseilles. She would not be safe traveling with him. He is vulgar and ruthless, very dangerous. Yours is the only compartment with room for her. I know this is irregular, but I believe she would be much safer with you. You are a respectable university student. I will, of course, refund the difference between private and semi-private fares.’

I told him that I would be happy for the company, thinking we would sleep most of the overnight journey, anyway. He returned a few minutes later with a young woman about my age, handed over an envelope containing my refund and left in a rush.

The first thing I noticed was her wild mass of thick, lustrous, auburn hair that hung untied in large, corkscrew curls to her waist. She wore a peasant-type skirt and an embroidered white blouse tucked into the skirt. Her blouse fit loosely but the skirt revealed a trim waist. Green eyes sparkled like jewels. Her complexion was fair and flawless but for a few light freckles scattered across her cheeks ataşehir escort bayan and forehead. She had a softly-shaped chin, high cheekbones, and a nose that had a small bump that gave an otherwise perfect face a small flaw that only made her more attractive. She wore no makeup or jewelry. She had a leather shoulder bag, a small, flat, wooden case stained with various paints, and a battered leather overnight bag. She was tall, maybe five foot nine, and I guessed weighed about one hundred-twenty. She was so beautiful I was nearly speechless.

I greeted her formally in Italian. She nodded and smiled but did not speak. I tried French and German but received only a shrug. I didn’t think to try English. Her clothing suggested she was European rather than English or American. We settled into our respective benches. I anticipated the trip would be quiet.

Shortly before the train departed, two Carabinieri entered the compartment and asked, in accented English, for identification. I handed over my passport and my new companion did the same. She carried a U.S. Passport.

After the Carabinieri left, I asked, ‘You’re American?’

She smiled. ‘Yes. I thought you were Swiss because you spoke German, French, and Italian. I understood your initial greeting, but what little Italian I’ve learned is so terrible no one understands it.’

‘My clothing is Swiss. I’ve lived there since 1934. My parents were with the US Embassy and I got trapped there when the war broke out. I recently completed university in Lausanne. I’m returning to the US to live and complete my studies. What brought you to Europe?’.

She replied. ‘I took the Spring semester off from school and was visiting Italy to study art. I’m going home for a few weeks, then back to school in September. My family lives in a small rural community west of Boston.’

‘You’re an artist?’ I asked.

‘No, no. My father says I have potential, but it’s just a hobby. I don’t want to pursue it seriously. I’m not passionate enough to suffer poverty for my art.’ She laughed.

‘You must be somewhat serious to study in Italy. That’s got to be expensive, with travel, tuition, and living expenses.’

She smiled. ‘I suppose it would be, but I only paid for travel. I stayed with my aunt. She’s living in Milan helping to repair paintings stolen by the Nazis from museums and private citizens. She works with a number of talented artists, English and Italian mostly but a couple of Americans, too. Several were tutoring me in return for tending their children. My father and his sister are the artists in the family. Like my mother, I’m more practical.’

I leaned forward and offered my hand. ‘I’m Jonas Taylor.’ I had almost given my alias, Pierre Maurand.

Her hand was soft, warm, slender, nails short, fingers long without nail polish. ‘I’m Gwendolyn Kenrick, Gwen.’

We talked of family and travel as we got acquainted. She told of things in the States. She was appalled that I hadn’t seen my parents in almost four years but understood war imposed hardships on so many people. She had lost a brother and two cousins to the war.

Though being trapped in Switzerland was not ideal, it kept me safe and away from combat, not that I wanted to avoid it. There was just no way to get stateside to enlist. I had been pointedly told by an Embassy representative not to get involved with the Italian or French partisans.

We quickly became comfortable with each other. Gwen was friendly and engaging but still seemed a little wary of the circumstances. Sharing a semi-private compartment with a strange man was just not done in the US. Our conversation slowly wound down as we tired and the train labored toward Marseille. The gentle sway of the rail car and the rhythmic clack of the wheels on the tracks lulled us to sleep. Neither of us ever climbed into a bunk.

After a couple hours sleep, I stirred a bit when I heard a soft moan. Gwen is dreaming, I thought without opening my eyes. A moment later, I heard a groan, followed by a muffled gasp, and short, rapid breaths. This time I opened my eyes wide. Was she OK?

The compartment was illuminated by a full moon, low in the sky. Gwen was sitting up, her head pressed against the back of the bench, eyes closed. Her knees spread wide, I could make out a hand pressing into the junction at the top of her legs, using her fingers to massage her pussy through the skirt. My cock hardened, trapped in a most uncomfortable position. I shifted position in an attempt to relieve my discomfort.

Gwen’s eyes opened. A look of panic on her face, she found my open eyes with hers. Her embarrassment faded after a moment, when she saw the tent in the left leg of my trousers. She didn’t speak but made a single nod of her head, never taking her eyes off my erection. I reached down and moved it to a less painful position. Amazingly, Gwen resumed her masturbation with a bit more urgency.

Gwen’s breathing became more labored and erratic as she escort kadıköy continued rubbing, her eyes locked on the bulge in my trousers. She nodded again which I took to mean she wanted me to join in. I closed my right hand around my cock, stroking it through my trousers. That was no good. I unzipped and moved my cock out of its confines. Her eyes opened wider as it came into view. The pace of Gwen’s ministrations between her legs increased. Precum leaked from my cock as I stroked. I watched her intently.

She stopped rubbing herself and used both hands to pull her skirt up, caressing the inside of her thighs as the skirt moved up. She kicked her shoes off, then unbuttoned the waist of her skirt and lifted her ass off the bench before pushing the skirt down her legs onto the floor. Gwen unbuttoned her blouse starting at the bottom and slid it off her shoulders. It joined her skirt on the floor.

She reached behind her and unhooked her bra, shrugged it off and dropped it on the floor. Her breasts stood firm on her chest with no sag, nipples hard and erect. She unsnapped the garter from her stockings. She slowly rolled each stocking down and took it off. These she placed on the bench next to her. Gwen stood with feet spread wide, her knees bent outward, and resumed rubbing herself, this time with her right hand inside her panties. The crotch of her thin white panties was transparent, wet from being pressed into her sex.

Finally, she used her free hand to slip her panties down her legs to join her skirt and blouse. Her right hand never stopped moving. She nodded at me again. ‘Your turn,’ she breathed out her first words since I awoke.

I was in more of a hurry. My belt undone in a flash, I unbuttoned my pants and stood, pushing both pants and shorts down, where they bunched up at my ankles. I pulled my shoes off without untying them and kicked my pants off. I partially unbuttoned my shirt, pulled it and my undershirt over my head. Only then did it occur to me to latch the compartment door. My erection pointed toward the ceiling. Gwen moaned softly when I resumed stroking myself.

Gwen’s hand moved continuously between her legs, alternating between rubbing her clitoris and pushing a finger inside her vagina. After a few moments, she slid two fingers into her pussy. Her other hand pinched hard, erect nipples between thumb and forefinger. Her breathing was punctuated by little mews, gasps, and deep breaths. I continued stroking as I watched her. Gwen intently watched me jerk off as she fingered herself. I started to get up to move next to her.

She shook her head.

‘No,’ she gasped, ‘Stay there.’

Gwen and I both sat down on our respective benches. Her fingers moved in and out of her at an increasing pace. She moved her left hand from her breasts and began rubbing her clitoris while she fingered. I could see her face and neck change tone slightly as she moved her fingers in and out, rubbing two fingers of her other hand back and forth across her clitoris rapidly.

My own stroking increased in speed, my hand slapping at the base of my cock, sliding over the head on the upstroke. I covered my balls with my other hand to protect them. My cock ached for release.

Gwen inhaled sharply and pushed her fingers into herself and held them there, pushing hard against her pussy. The muscles on her forearm betrayed the movement of her fingers inside her. Her other hand moved furiously back and forth across her clitoris. Gwen exhaled hard, then inhaled deeply and held her breath. Her neck and face tensed as she groaned with her orgasm. She moved her left hand from her clit to her mouth, inserting wet fingers in her mouth to stifle her cry. I saw a flash of moonlight glint off her wet fingers.

That was it for me. My stroking had become frenzied, my hand clamped hard around my cock. My body stiffened, my muscles rigid and hard. My back arched, pushing my cock toward her. My balls began to tingle and the sensation shot up my spine. The sensation intensified everywhere as the tingling moved up my cock. When the rush reached the head, my cock erupted. The first spurt landed at Gwen’s feet. The second on her left knee. I watched the third, and largest ejection, strike just below Gwen’s navel, and stream down her abdomen onto her hand, the fingers still moving about inside her.

Gwen went off again when the ejaculate struck her abdomen. Her fingers resumed sliding in and out rapidly. Her face contorted and changed color. A guttural growl came from deep in her throat as a second orgasm pulsed through her. A dazed look in her eyes, Gwen slowly massaged my semen into her clitoris and vulva with her hand as her orgasm subsided. Gwen removed the cum-coated hand from her groin and wet first one nipple then, then the other. Her shoulders shook and her legs twitched as she massaged hard, distended nipples, now slick with semen.

I watched as she regained her faculties, my hand wrapped around my still elongated but bostancı escort softening cock, semen still leaking onto my fingers, cock, and balls. Gwen’s breathing gradually returned to normal. The head of my cock still tingled as I rubbed a thumb over it, smearing cum around, causing my whole body to shudder with each circle of my thumb around the head.

This was a new experience for me. I dated some at university but I never got close enough to anyone for a truly amorous relationship to form. Opportunities to spend time with girls were few and far between during secondary school. St. Benedict was an all-male school. We traded a half-dozen social activities each year with the Elyse Fiore School, an all-girls academy about an hour-long bus ride away. These were always tightly chaperoned. A mutual attraction developed with a girl named Annika and we spent every social event together for almost three years, always under watchful eyes.

Our last year at school, we managed to get away unnoticed from a late September dance social. Annika led me to a secluded spot, hidden in a hollow between some shrubbery and the library building. Things progressed quickly and got very passionate. But one of her teachers soon found us.

My pants were at my ankles, my hard cock in her hand. Annika was leaning against the wall, her blouse unbuttoned, bra unhooked, her foot up on a small ledge. I had a hand on a small breast, the other up her skirt, working two fingers in and out of her very wet pussy.

Her teacher, a stout, humorless, giant of a woman that dwarfed my lean six foot one frame, arrived silently. She grabbed my ears squeezed hard, pulled and twisted in opposing directions. I reacted as she intended and stopped what I was doing with Annika. She called out and a second chaperone quickly appeared and hustled Annika away.

I was led away to a waiting car, a rather inflamed ear still firmly in her grip. I managed to inflict enough punishment to get her to release the ear. It earned a bloody nose and fat lip when she punched me in retaliation. I was forcefully hustled into a car and immediately driven back to St. Benedict by two large, stern-faced matrons that I was sure would stop along the way to beat me senseless. The hostile atmosphere made the ride most unpleasant. I was severely chastised the next morning by the headmaster.

Although banished from all social events with Elyse Fiore, news of my misadventure greatly increased my stature among the St. Benedict student body. The whispered stories of the incident grew to become legend. I tried to discourage the stories but remained mute about the actual events. I never saw Annika again. Friends said she was not at any of the social events, either. My ears burned for two days and remained bruised and sensitive to the touch for weeks.

Gwen spoke first, softly, shyly. ‘I found the rhythm of the tracks and the sway of the car very arousing. I was so worked up I had to do something. I thought I could keep quiet enough to avoid waking you but I guess not. I was embarrassed when I realized you were awake. No man ever saw me do that.

For some reason, I liked that you were watching me. And watching you added a level of excitement that suppressed my initial embarrassment. That was the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had. I’ve never lost control like that.’

I smiled sheepishly. ‘It was great. I could never have imagined anything like it. I can’t believe how good it felt. Can we do it again?’

Gwen smiled and laughed softly. ‘We’re pretty close to Marseille. I don’t think we’ll have time.’

‘You said you were going on to Paris. Are you staying in Marseille for a bit or going immediately to Paris?’

‘I’m going straight to Paris on the next train.’ she replied. ‘But I don’t have a ticket yet so I’m there until I can get passage. Hopefully, no later than tomorrow. My budget is kind of tight. I don’t want to have to get a room if I can avoid it.’

‘I don’t have a ticket yet, either. Would you like to travel together?’ I asked hopefully.

‘Yes, it would be nice to have company to Paris. But don’t get your hopes up.’ she giggled. ‘It’s unlikely to happen again.’

After disembarking and collecting our baggage, we went to the ticket booth. There were two trains to Paris. One was leaving almost immediately. The other left that evening and meant we would be together overnight. We decided to spend the day in Marseille. Despite Gwen’s objection, I bought passage for two in a private compartment. We left our bags with the agent.

We rented bicycles near the train station and set off. First order of business was breakfast. We found an outdoor café and ordered croissants, pastries, fruit, and cheese. We dug in and quickly finished enough to feed four. Gwen insisted on paying the check. I left a generous tip for the waitress.

We spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon at an art museum that had recently reopened. After a late lunch of bread, cheese, dried sausage, and beer, we browsed art galleries. I never paid much attention in my art classes but Gwen’s enthusiasm was contagious and I enjoyed listening to her. Gwen and I seemed to connect. By the end of the day, we were well on the way to becoming good friends.

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