[smc]

the story, continued …

The overnight train trip to Paris is largely a blur. I remember jerking off for several hours to Keliana's photo spread in "Lady With a Dick," and I think one of the conductors gave me a brief lesson in German and French when he knocked on the door to my sleeping berth, opened the door, put his finger to his mouth, and first said "Sei bitte still" and then "Taisez-vous, s'il vous plait." Apparently, I shouted "Keliana" rather loudly as stream after stream of hot cum erupted from my cock.

The weather in Paris is beautiful as I step out of the Gare du Nord, the train station conveniently located near the hostel at which I'll be staying. I have a small map that I use to find my way, and the 15-minute walk is wonderful. Paris looks exactly as I imagined it would. I check into the hostel and head out to explore the city.

In one afternoon, I manage to visit the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-?lys?es, and also enjoy an espresso at an outdoor caf?. The young waiter at the caf? speaks English and, since business is rather slow, strikes up a conversation with me. He asks me about my trip, about Germany, about America, about the college I'll be attending in the fall, about what I like so far about Paris … in fact, he seems to ask me about everything conceivable. When it comes time to pay, he tells me the espresso is his gift to me.

"Thanks," I say. "That’s very nice, and not at all necessary."

"Perhaps you could repay me," he says. "Let me show you Paris at night."

That sounds great to me: on my first night here, a tour of the city by a real Parisian. I quickly agree and tell him that I want to go back to my hostel and then meet him after his work shift ends.

“Where should we meet?” I ask.

“You should come to my apartment,” he says. And then, he leans over and whispers in my ear. “Perhaps you can repay me. Je veux te baiser.”

I have no idea what he is saying, but I recognize the tone and what the hot breath in my ear means. “What?!”

“Do not act so surprised that I wish to have sex with you,” he says, rather more loudly than seems appropriate. “We have been discussing for some time now, and I have figured out what you like. I know your type.”

“I don’t think you know anything about me,” I reply, becoming angry, “and keep your voice down.”

The waiter stands there silently, staring at me. He seems to be sizing me up. His look is quizzical, as if he cannot believe that he miscalculated me. After what seems like a very long time, he asks, rather sheepishly, “You do not want to suck my cock?”

“No, I don’t,” I say, becoming rather embarrassed.

““You are not homo?” he asks, still not convinced.

“No, I am not!” I say this with emphasis.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

I begin to blurt out an answer, but stop myself. I don’t quite know what to say. How do you explain to a stranger your complete obsession with the most beautiful, sexiest girl in the world, when she doesn’t know you at all? How do you explain that everything you are doing on your trip is part of a quest to find the most desirable girl you have ever seen, who makes you feel things you never thought possible.

“So?” he asks. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

I am quiet for a moment, but then I decide that I want to tell him. In fact, I want to shout it from the top of the Eiffel Tower. My heart, my cock, my ass -- they are all for Keliana. I reach into my bag and pull out “Baby Dolls,” the magazine Grete gave me in Munich. I am carrying it with me because I love to look at the picture of Keliana from time to time, and compare her beauty with the beauty of what I am seeing in Paris. By the way, the city always comes in second.

I pull out “Baby Dolls” just enough for the waiter to see Keliana’s face on the cover. “It is my intention,” I say, as if making an announcement to the world, “to make her my girlfriend.”

The waiter’s jaw drops. “Keliana?!” He begins to chuckle. “I knew it. I knew you liked cock.”

* * *

That night, my new friend, the young waiter, takes me to Pigalle Place, the red-light district of Paris. He no longer hits on me; instead, he is taking me to a special shop devoted to special girls. “I don’t like girls,” he says, “But I have heard about this shop, and I think you will like it. They have the new kind of magazines.”

And, wow, he is correct. There are many of the older magazines I have seen at the bookstore back home, as well as in Hamburg, Cologne, and Munich, but there is one rack of magazines that are very different. They look so new, so fresh, so crisp. The colors jump off the covers. They are slightly larger.

The waiter explains to me that everything is better in France. My uncle told me that I would meet French people who would say such things.

My eyes soon fixate on a copy of a magazine I have never seen any other issues of, in any other store. “Chic” features a beautiful woman, face down on white sheets, with sheer panties on and the crack of her exquisite behind visible. I know immediately that it is Keliana; my instant erection works like a divining rod. The other words on the cover confirm what my cock has already told me: "See Keliana on her lazy Sunday morning."

I purchase the magazine, which is wrapped in cellophane, and am anxious to return to the hostel and be with Keliana, give her my cum. The waiter has other ideas, and I feel as if I owe him some of my time for bringing me to this special shop. So, he shows me some of the city, and then accompanies me back to the hostel. As we part, he asks me to stop by the caf? again tomorrow. I promise I will.

As he shakes my hand to leave, he leans in and whispers to me. "Are you sure you do not want to suck my cock?” he asks. "I am very, very large."

“But,” I say, “You are not Keliana.”

We part and I head to my bed with my new magazine. Yes, neither Grete, Teodora, or Marlene are Keliana, but I feel as if my experiences with those three special girls is part of my quest for Keliana, part of what I need to experience if I am to have any chance with Keliana.

* * *

The hostel is quite crowded. I must wait for everyone to fall asleep, at which time I go to the men's lavatory with my magazine, enter one of the stalls, and rip open the cellophane wrapper. The Keliana spread is one of the sexiest things I have ever seen. She looks absolutely beautiful. Her skin is so smooth. The slight curve at her waste makes me want to run my tongue over every inch of her, gently. The two other pictures in the sheer panties are almost more than I can take. I rub my cock furiously at the sight of her beautiful behind and, even more so, at the sight of her cock, just visible through the lingerie. I scream her name again as I cum, shooting my jizz all over the walls of the stall.

Lights come on in the outer hallway, and I hear footsteps. Clearly, I have awakened some of the other travelers.

to be continued ...