the story, continued …
A note from Keliana! “Find me in London,” she wrote. The old gentleman from the bookstore back home is clearly on my side.
My mind is racing. I don’t know what to do next. Should I leave Paris immediately and head for London? Should I stay here in case some clues might arrive. As the thoughts course through my head, and the scent of Keliana’s perfume lingers, I find myself rushing downstairs to the hostel lobby, where there is a public telephone.
So far, my only communication with home has been through postcards, but now I get instructions from the desk clerk, purchase the necessary phone card, and make my call. The phone at home rings five times before my mother answers. “How’s this?!” she shouts.
I realize it is just before dawn at home. “Sorry, Mom,” I say. “I forgot how early it is back there.”
I hear her take a deep breath. Then she says, more calmly, “I thought you would only call in an emergency. Is everything okay? Are you in Paris now?”
“Yes,” I reply. “I was just surprised today to receive a package here in Paris, and I was wondering how it happened.”
“A package? From whom?” Before I can answer, I hear my sister’s voice in the background, demanding the phone.
“You got a package?” It’s my sister. I tell her it came from someone I know from town.
“He came by the house when Mom wasn’t home,” she explains. “I recognized him from the time I went to that adult bookstore to buy you your going-away present. He was working that day, but wasn’t the one who helped me. But he seemed to know all about your trip, and said he was going home to England and wondered if I knew when you would be there. I said I had your itinerary and gave him the information so he could contact you.”
“Did he say anything else?” I ask.
“No, little bro. Why?” she replies.
“I’m just trying to figure out what it all means,” I say.
“Don’t be so fucking mysterious,” says my sister. I hear my mother’s voice in the background, telling her to watch her language.
“Mom’s listening?” I ask.
“Don’t worry, bro,” she says. “She’s back in her room. I said that really loud, I guess.”
“Good. So, did he say anything else?”
“Nope.” There’s a long pause, and then my sister asks, “It’s about that cock-girl, isn’t it?”
“She’s a real girl,” I say, somewhat petulantly. “As much a girl as you.”
“Whatever you say, bro. Listen, did you like my little gift?”
I tell her yes and that I have a great story to tell her when I get home. I ask her if Mom wants to talk to me before I go, and she tells me my mother is already back asleep.
“I hope you find her,” says my sister. “You’re a little perv, but you’re my brother, so I want you to be happy.”
And she hangs up.
* *
I decide that I must get to London, right away. My flight isn’t until late tomorrow, but I head out of the hostel, with directions from the desk clerk to the nearest Air France office. I will change my ticket.
The agent at the office speaks the best English I’ve heard in Paris. Unfortunately, his facility with my language only helps explain as clearly as possible that my ticket cannot be changed without paying a very large fee, far in excess of what I have to spend. Disgruntled, I head out, quite exhausted from marathon fucking and sucking of the night before, and roam the streets of Paris. I find something to eat, and drink a couple of espressos to elevate my energy level. In mid-afternoon, I stop at a magazine kiosk outside one of the Metro stations, where they have newspapers in English.
As I flip through the International Herald Tribune, I notice two kids at the other end of the rack of magazines. They appear to be about 12 or 13 years old. They have a magazine in their hands, and are whispering in French and chuckling as they turn the pages. Suddenly, the surly man running the kiosk comes out from behind his small counter, and grabs the magazine from their hands. Holding it up, he shouts something in French that sounds angry and profane at the same time.
The boys run off. An older man, reading Le Monde, says to me in English, “Funny. He wonders why that magazine was delivered to him.” I guess he speaks English to me because of the newspaper I’m reading.
Just as I get ready to continue my walk around the city, I see the kiosk proprietor throw the magazine down on his counter, shaking his head. My eyes light up.
“Is that for sale?” I ask.
He looks at me and grunts. “Huh?”
I do remember one thing in French. “C’est combien?” I ask. “How much does it cost?”
He hands me the magazine and gestures for me to leave.
“C’est combien?” I ask again.
The older man says, “He’s telling you to take it and go.”
I do, and return to the hostel as quickly as possible. If I can’t go to London immediately, I can at least have some quiet time with my beloved Keliana late this afternoon, while the hostel is mostly abandoned by the other guests.
You see, the magazine kiosk somehow received an issue of “CUMM International” other than those sent to me by the man from the bookstore back home. I thought they were brand new, but here it is, now mine. This one features Keliana -- the beautiful, the sexy, the delicious Keliana -- with white panties and her beautiful girl cock bulging. Mine is now bulging, too. The cover text is about Keliana as a secretary, and I suddenly imagine myself as her boss, calling her in to my office for whatever my heart desires.
“How did I ever happen upon this magazine?” I wonder, as I find my way back to the bathroom where last night’s adventure began, close the door of the stall, open the magazine, and begin to pleasure myself to the pictures inside of Keliana.
It doesn’t take long before I cum, but this time I muffle my scream. I clean up and head back to my room, nearly colliding with Monique in the hallway.
“Come with me,” she says, grabbing my hand.
to be continued ...
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