Cultural Exchange

Author's Note: This tale turned out longer than I thought it would. So, if you're looking for an action-packed sex romp then this isn't the tale for you. But if you want a rambling coming-of-age story, of a sad lonely teenager in a foreign city who has his eyes opened to a world of lust, set against a backdrop of music references and mid '90s nostalgia, then buckle in and enjoy the ride.

///

"Hell no, I'm not sitting next to gaylord."

"No fucking way. Keep moving down. I wanna get near Sam."

"Why? I don't get you. The twins are so much hotter."

"Yeah, but Sam's got bigger tits."

"That's 'cos she's a fat bitch."

Paul tried not to look up from his book. God, he hated those lads, and was glad none of them wanted to sit next to him. Simon, Jez and Matt were thick as thieves, and (in Paul's opinion) as thick as two short planks as well. To a man they were short, thick-set, smarmy; good looking and they knew it, sporty, well-built. The hate between Paul and the gang was mutual, and had been ever since they'd started at the school. Now they were weeks away from finishing their A-levels; Paul couldn't wait for that long summer to begin, so he wouldn't have to see any of them ever again. Most of the class just ignored him, but those three were the bane of his existence. Them, and the group of four girls they were trying to sidle up to.

There was Emma; a foul-mouthed red-head who was rumoured to be in a love-hate relationship with Jez. The blonde twins Izzy (Elizabeth) and Immy (Imogen); drop-dead gorgeous, stick-thin, snide, sarcastic and mean. They all bullied him; Emma was bitchy to everyone, but the twins - Izzy in particular - singled Paul out for constant teasing and belittling. And right there with them was Sam with the big tits.

Sam - or Samantha, rather, as she preferred her full name. "I'm not a boy!" she'd protested in her early years. Not that for a moment you'd think she was now; long light-brown hair fell in gentle curls over a curvy, but most definitely not fat, figure. Paul had secretly had a crush on her for years, but was too terrified of reprisals to have acted directly. The boldest he'd ever been was to send her an anonymous Valentine's Day card this last year, in which he'd written out all the lyrics to Lionel Richie's "Hello", highlighting the torturing phrase that kept him awake most nights: 'tell me how to win your heart, for I haven't got a clue'. Although she'd never been mean to him directly, she had been complicit in the pranks of the other girls. Paul wondered what she'd be like, on her own away from the twins; and pondered if they really were friends or if the twins kept her around because she made them look taller, blonder, sexier. Frankly Paul preferred the softer, shapelier figure of Samantha. But his preferences were irrelevant, since they all had boyfriends outside of school; and even if they didn't, he wasn't even on their radar. Most of the school thought he was gay; a singer whose voice broke years late; effeminate; hated sport and loved musical theatre; brainy and smartly dressed; a goody-two-shoes. Not sexy, not attractive to the girls at all.

Since he wasn't the object of ridicule for once, Paul could just curl up for the whole flight, maybe have a snooze, and see how far through the Hitchhiker's "trilogy" he could get before they landed in Toronto. He didn't like how Simon's gang were objectifying their female classmates, either; but he'd taken enough abuse - verbal and physical - from those guys over their years at school to know not to draw any attention to himself by voicing his objections. He knew they'd quite happily turn on him instead, and were it not for the reassuring presence of Mr Martin nearby, maybe they would have already.

He shouldn't really be here; he wasn't a member of the school orchestra. But his parents had put up a member of the Canadian school when they'd come to the UK last year, and so he'd wangled a place on the return trip. He couldn't really play anything - singing was his passion - but Mr Martin had decided (to percussionist Immy's great disgust) that he could play the triangle and occasionally the cymbal in some of the easier pieces.

His parents had scrimped and saved to gather the not inconsiderable cost of the trip. Even after his father died earlier in the year, his mum refused to take back the money they now so desperately needed. "This is a chance of a lifetime," she'd said. "When life offers you something special, you grab onto it with both hands, and don't let go." He knew he was going to be extremely homesick, and would miss his mother terribly. He'd be thousands of miles away, with no-one he liked around him. Paul's best friend - only friend - had left school after GCSEs to go to catering college, so Paul had struggled along alone for nearly 2 years through A-Levels. Jean-Pierre, the French-Canadian exchange student he was partnered with, was a year older than him; despite occasional correspondence, the only thing Paul really knew about him was that they were polar opposites. Paul would quite happily hide in his room with a book for the week; JP (as he styled himself) was an extravagant extrovert, polysexual, and loud.

But no matter who he was with - how they teased and bullied him, or just ignored him - it was still an adventure. He was going to fly for the first time; he was going to go up the tallest free-standing structure in the world; he'd get to see Niagara Falls. He had his Mum's precious camera and a roll of film to capture some memories. And it was just a week. He'd be sure to enjoy every moment, because it would soon be over.

///

It had been a long day travelling - getting to the airport, the plane, the coach ride from the airport to the music college they were exchanging with. There, they were to meet their host families. Paul found himself wandering aimlessly around, searching out Jean-Pierre. He didn't recognise anyone, and was starting to worry that maybe they hadn't come, when JP peeled himself away from a group of his friends and headed over. He'd grown a beard since he'd been in the UK, which he'd not mentioned in the pen-letters the schools forced them to write to each other. No wonder Paul hadn't recognised him. Paul felt jealous; he wouldn't have been able to grow a beard that rich in a year.

"Hey," JP said.

"Hello again!"

"Over here," he said, nodding into the car park, then walking off and just assuming Paul would follow. He led them to a simple Opel, climbed in the front, leaving Paul to heave his case into the boot and take a seat in the back. JP's mother, Annabelle, was in the front; and in the back beside him was JP's sister Sophie, who was a year under them.

Paul only knew Sophie and Annabelle by name, and hadn't even seen a picture before. Both stylishly dressed, as much as he could tell; both blonde, about the same height and weight. Squint, and they could have been twins.

"Hi," he said, looking over at Sophie as he sat beside her.

"Ca va?" she replied. Paul just stared. In context, he realised it was French, but he had no idea what it meant. He'd got an A in GCSE French, but he must have been sick the day they taught that. Presumably some kind of greeting.

"Now Sophie, what did we say on the way here?"

A heavy sigh. "Fine. Hi." Then to her mum, "Happy?" And she crossed her legs, and pointedly stared out of the window, ignoring him. He stole a few more glances. Sexy, confident, disinterested. A bandana tied round her neck drew the eye to her short hair and strong neckline. Generous curves ran down to a flat stomach, rounded hips and long legs. She was a year or so younger than he was, he judged.

Annabelle pursed her lips, then turned to face Paul, and gave him a warm smile. "Welcome to Canada, Paul. We are looking forward to having you stay with us." Sophie harrumphed, but her mother ignored her. "I'm afraid my husband Francois is away on business this week, so it's just the four of us."

"That is a shame."

They drove away from the college, near the centre of town, and on through the city. They followed a tram through some older streets, continued up some gentle hills, and pulled up outside a large wooden-framed house on the opposite side of town from the airport. To Paul, it looked like every suburban house he'd seen on American TV - porch, eaves, white picket fence, huge sloping roof.

Annabelle showed him round the house. A kitchen-diner, larger than the whole flat he shared with his mother, seemed like the heart of the home. Bedrooms abounded; he had a whole guest room to himself. "Sorry but there is no bathroom in here, but you can use the one across the hall." She seemed embarrassed.

"You have a lovely home," Paul said.

"Merci. Thank you. It's small, but it's home."

Small? Things really are different, here.

"You must be tired from the journey. Are you hungry?"

He'd had a sandwich, pilchards and ketchup, that he'd brought from home, just before he went through security. Half a day ago. He nodded.

"Very good. We will be having dinner in about an hour. We were not sure what you would eat, so tonight we will order in pizza. Is that okay?"

Paul assured her that it would be, and made some suggestions as to what he would prefer.

"Perfect. Tomorrow we can talk about meals for the week, and arrange it around your other activities. For now, make yourself comfortable in here, and we will see you downstairs later."

He looked round the room, dominated by a metal-framed double bed. Paul had never slept in one, and wondered how weird it was going to feel. Thick curtains, and behind them another set of white heavy linen. Blackout curtains, he realised - the windows faced east, and would be in full glare of the sun before the hour was decent. A few homely touches - a vase of dried flowers, some pictures of people he didn't know. He lifted his case up onto the bed, started unpacking his few clothes into the drawers. He hoped they'd be kind enough to do some washing for him.

Nature called, and he crept over to the bathroom, pushing the door shut behind him, and reached for the slide-bolt... But there wasn't one. Nor was there a switch or button on the doorknob. He tried twisting it in different directions, pulling it away from the door, eager to find some kind of locking mechanism... Nothing, it just operated the latch as normal. Desperate for a piss, he leant against the door with one hand while using the other to unzip and hold himself as he peed. This is all very well, the thought to himself, but how am I gonna take a dump? I couldn't 'go' worrying someone might walk in and see me at my most vulnerable. He washed and dried his hands, and went back to unpacking his things. He sat Teddy on the bed, put the picture of himself and Mum on the bedside table, next to a glass of water they'd thoughtfully left for him. Then he made his way downstairs for dinner.

He found Annabelle in the kitchen, fussing over some glassware. He approached her, desperately embarrassed, but also needing to know how the lock worked in the bathroom. "Oh, there isn't one. The previous owners didn't want their children locking themselves in, and we've not bothered to change it. Don't worry; we know that if the door is shut then someone is in there." Paul remained unconvinced; but still, it provided more privacy than the facilities at the airport, with centimetre-wide gaps round the doors.

He helped her prepare the table; even for take-out, she laid out plates and fancy linen napkins - a deep burgundy colour, presumably to hide any sauce stains. Glasses, since there would be wine, as well as a jug of cooled water for the table.

Sophie and JP joined them once the delivery arrived. JP talked about the coming week. He and Sophie would be in college most days but would join for some of the evening events - tomorrow, for example, there was an unofficial welcome-to-Canada karaoke event at a bar in town. Paul liked singing... but not with his classmates, and not at a bar. But it didn't seem like there would be an easy way out.

Sophie seemed a little sullen. Paul tried to engage her in the conversation, but she wasn't interested. An introvert himself, he wasn't insulted by that. But Annabelle was.

"Sophie, please stop being rude to our guest."

She huffed. "I don't see why we should have to speak English all the time. He's learned French, why not make him speak our language?"

"You know why, Sophie. We are not in Montreal any longer. I have indulged you in this long enough."

Paul was dismayed - the last thing he needed was for a member of the household to hold a grudge against him. "Actually, I could do with the practice..."

"No, Paul, that will not be necessary. Sophie, watch your manners."

"But why did we even move here? For Father to be closer to work? He's still never here! It's pointless!"

Bits of JP's letters came back to Paul's mind. When they moved here a few years ago, both JP and Sophie had to leave their good friends behind. That wasn't an issue for outgoing, sociable JP; but Sophie was clearly struggling with it. Paul decided to make a special effort to be nice to her.

It didn't hurt that she was very pretty. Paul found himself gawping a couple of times over dinner, watching her eat, catching a glimpse down her cleavage as she leant across the table for another slice. He hoped none of them noticed.

///

She woke, gasping and wet, from an intense sex dream. It was because there was a new man in the house, she was sure. In her mind, he'd been doing things to her, secret things, naughty things... Fuck, she was so very horny.

She shouldn't think of him like that. He was their guest. But the thoughts wouldn't go away. She started to stroke herself, imagining the things she would do with him, that he would do to her. Why not have a fling? In a week, he would be gone, and it would be over either way, along with the opportunity. They could have fun for that time, where was the harm?

Lying in bed, thinking of him, she brought herself, hoping that the release would bring closure and she could fall back to sleep. But no, if anything, it made it even more intense. She had to have him, to touch him.

She felt giddy. Was she actually going to do this - to have sex with him? Just hours after they'd met? No, she couldn't. Could she?

She'd just tuck her head round his bedroom door, take a look. Maybe he slept naked, and she could just look at him from a distance.

Quietly, so as not to wake the others, she tiptoed across the landing towards his room. His door was ajar, and the light was off. This was good, not even the latch would make a noise. But as she headed over, she noticed the bathroom door was closed, and there was a faint glow around the edge. She put an ear against it; heard running water. Even better, she thought; pulled the silk nightie over her head and tossed it back into her room, then snuck into the bathroom.

///

Paul laid in bed, fretting. Even with the blackout curtains, laying in the dark silence, he just couldn't drop off to sleep. He'd dozed on the plane, and now if anything it was heading towards wake-up time. He checked the clock again; 2:17am. His body clock was messed up; or the world was wrong. There was no going back to sleep, it seemed.

He tried reading, but the words just wouldn't go in. He decided to sneak out and have a shower while everyone else was asleep; he felt safe from intruders in the middle of the night.

The water was warm but not too hot, and the shower head had a good spray on it. Soon the bathroom had filled with a fine mist, and the mirrors had clouded over. Paul lathered up his hair and gave his head a good scrub, working his fingernails down to his roots. The shampoo frothed up more than he expected - the water must be softer than back home, he assumed - and the foam slid over and into his eyes. Quickly he clamped them shut, and pointed his face to the spray, but it was too late; it stung like a bastard, and he couldn't open them without them burning.

Just relax, he told himself. Give it a minute or so, it'll wash out, you'll be fine. Just don't rub them.

Clumsily, he felt around for the soap, knocking some bottles off into the tub; he cursed under his breath, worried the noise would rouse the family. Finding the soap, he ran it over his arms and chest and started to clean off the scum of the long journey.

"Let me help you with that." A female voice whispered in his ear, hard to discern over the rush of the water. Paul jumped, and turned... Eyes blurry and burning, he saw a flash of blonde hair and a very naked, very female body behind him. "No, don't turn around. This is my secret. Just let me help you." Then she was running the soap over his tummy, and down... One hand on his chest, and the other cupping his dick, which was rapidly growing to attention. With slippery hands, she stroked and teased at him.

"No, I... Please, I don't..." But he did. He did want it. It was inappropriate, and wrong, and he didn't know her well enough for this. But it felt. So. Good.

He stood back up, leant back into her, and felt her wet, warm naked body press against his back. A tickle of hair against his hip; a pair of firm yet soft breasts pressing into his back. "Relax," she said, working his cock back and forth. "Give me your hand." She took it and guided between her legs. Paul felt the hair, first - coarser than he'd though it would be, more so than his own. He pushed his hand down lower, and round. "Touch me," she insisted. Paul had no idea what he was doing, tried to turn to look... "No. Just feel." He ran his fingers lower, and under... And then felt her skin part, further around than he expected. If indeed he'd expected anything at all. He pushed his fingers on, felt along the crease of her. Then she shifted her stance slightly, and his fingertip slipped inside. Hot, so hot, and slick.

"Oui," she said, as he ran his fingertips through her, feeling folds of hot soft flesh give under them. And a little further round, much softer; he slipped his finger in and curled it up as it slid easily inside her.

She was kissing his neck, raking her fingernails down his chest, polished blood red. Her other hand was wrapped round his dick, stroking the length of him, as the water ran down their bodies.

Nobody had ever touched him like this, except himself of course. And he'd never do this in the shower; just in the privacy of his own bed. It felt so good. So unreal. A girl, in the shower with him, wanking him off as he felt her up, soapy tits pressed into his back. It was like a dream, a fantasy. Any moment he'd wake up, sweating, in that dark bedroom.

"Come for me," she said. That's not going to be a problem, he thought; he could feel the familiar pressure building in his balls. He fired a load, smack into the tiles above the bathtub, again and again as she caressed his balls, teasing more out of him than he thought he could give.

He went to turn his head, to thank her. "Non! Keep this our little secret, and we'll meet again, perhaps tomorrow night?" She released him, stepped back. "Welcome to Canada!"

Then, with a swish of the shower curtain, she was gone.

Paul took the hose, washed the wall down, and just stood there, dripping into the bath, disbelieving.

///

THE MORNING AFTER

Breakfast the next day was awkward. He woke around ten, dressed, and made his way downstairs. JP had already gone for the day, but Sophie and Annabelle were just finishing up.

Paul looked over to Sophie, raised an eyebrow, as if to thank her. She scowled. Odd, he thought. Today, she was all gothed up - thick black eyeliner, shapeless black top and trousers, black nail polish.

He took a croissant from the plate on the table, poured himself some coffee. Kept glancing over to Sophie. He felt that, somehow, he needed to thank her for last night. He started to notice her. The curve of her proud neck; her long slender arms and legs. And no matter how baggy the outfit she wore, the material hung over her boobs and swung freely underneath, emphasising her impressive cup size and toned stomach underneath.