An Adventure Abroad
Copyright© 2026 by Golden Ghost Pen
Chapter 2
Young Adult Sex Story: Chapter 2 - Cocky 20-yo Bennett jets off to London for a wild semester abroad only to walk into his new flat and meet George; his tall, broad-shouldered, posh British crew-captain roommate. What starts as flirty banter dangerously tempts Bennett alongside the escapades he has planned across Europe during his study abroad...
Caution: This Young Adult Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma Ma Gay Humor Anal Sex Masturbation Nudism
Two weeks in London wasn’t nearly enough to feel like I’d experienced the whole city, but it had provided enough to scratch the itch of understanding my new home. George had bid me farewell on a Friday morning for my quick flight over to Paris to experience my family’s ancestral home; an obvious first choice for my travels!
I landed at Orly after a cheap flight on a low-cost airline that hadn’t even given us water, before taking an uber into the city. George apparently knew someone in the center of Paris who was away for the weekend, so she let me use her flat in the Latin quarter, right on the Siene. From the moment I got into Paris, it felt like home.
While bigger, more touristy, and maybe a bit dirtier, feeling a French culture and hearing my second language everywhere truly brought me back to Quebec.
The streets by my flat were narrow and cobbled, with little boutiques that eventually gave way to endless, bright bakeries filled with Parisians smoking cigarettes. I popped into the first patisserie I could find, realizing quickly that it was a bit too trendy to be aimed at locals, but I figured even the luxury tourist traps here were probably better than anything back in Canada.
“Yes?” An older woman said in a barely understandable French accent, already seeming annoyed by who she assumed was an American or some other English-speaking kid about to annoyingly order.
I worked up my best smile, showing off my bright teeth and even flipping my parted hair around a bit. “Bonjour, Madame! Je voudrais cinq macarons, s’il vous plaît!”
She immediately recoiled in shock, then smiled back at me warmly, appreciating how natural French was for me. All growing up, my parents had insisted on fluency, as was typical in my small suburban town outside of Quebec City. They constantly warned me that most corporate jobs in our province held it against potential hires if they weren’t bilingual (a subtle reminder from them that they expected me to stay close to home later on).
By the time I realized I was gay, around age 11, I started to realize that it’d be easier to break the news to them if I excelled in other areas, so I’d tripled down on my French, to the point that I could pass uni-level fluency exams by age 14. In fact, I used one stellar exam and the amazing mood it put my parents in to reveal my big secret; a good plan apparently, since they barely registered it and focused instead on celebrating my linguistic accomplishments. I was lucky and it wasn’t lost on me that my confidence likely stemmed from how supportive they’d been ever since.
“Enjoy!” She responded in English, less bothered knowing she could have used her native tongue if she’d have preferred. Alongside a small cardboard container filled with five macarons, she handed me a warm croissant coated in a layer of butter that glistened from the light fixtures overhead.
I found a bench right along the Seine and bit down, feeling the crunch and layers of perfect pastry bringing me back to life. Bridges dotted down in both directions, linking the two sides of the city everywhere except one small island. There, I saw Notre-Dame’s spires peeking out. Then I turned to the macarons, one by one, each shell crisp and giving way to that soft, explosive filling. The pistachio was nutty and sweet, the salted caramel hit with a perfect saltiness, and the lemon was tart, reminding me of spring. I was ready for sugar, carbs, and more sugar this weekend; my body be damned.
I couldn’t fathom that I was traveling alone in Paris, France. Twenty years old, no one to answer to, and an entire city at my fingertips. It was scary, exciting, and challenging, all in one. The river lapped gently against the stone embankment, and I watched a couple a little ways down, wrapped in scarves, arms linked, and laughing at something. They looked so effortlessly romantic, and for a second I wondered: do I want that? A boyfriend to share croissants with and kiss by these bridges?
I tried to picture being in the city of lights with a boyfriend who loved me. Hell, I pictured George and what that might be like; being swept off my feet, literally, by his big arms. But then I thought about the commitment and shared responsibility. I wasn’t ready for them. I didn’t need or want strings, and loneliness wasn’t something I worried about. I was in Europe this summer for fun, not to find some foreign future husband ... but would I sign up for some international dick? Absolutely.
I’d had some experience; 12 guys to be exact, if we were counting the ones I’d had full anal sex with. Andres was been the latest, but I’d had two in particular in a rotation freshman year, both of whom were comfortable, as I was, with keeping a friends with benefits thing going to blow off steam. It’d become frequent enough that while it was 12 different guys, it was probably well over three or four hundred times that I’d had someone inside what George had called the ‘most adorable butt’; thankfully biology was in my favor because somehow it apparently retained its tight features even after near daily invasions in uni. I finished the last macaron, dark chocolate melting on my tongue, and stood to cross the river.
I wandered first toward the Louvre, the massive glass pyramid glowing faintly even in the daylight, its edges sharp against the classical stone of the palace wings. The courtyard was alive despite the February chill; tourists bundled in coats snapping photos, locals cutting through on bikes, and street artists sketching quick portraits for a few euros. I circled the outside slowly and took iin the sheer scale of it. The building felt endless, wings stretching left and right like arms ready to embrace the whole city. I imagined the art inside; paintings and sculptures I’ve only seen in textbooks, and promised myself I had to find time to see them in the future. But for now it was enough just to stand here and feel alive knowing I was in a place that I finally knew to actually be real.