Vintage Keliana (with story)

[smc]

Sometimes I wonder how many of our members only look at pictures and never read.

More story to come soon, and thanks to all those who've told me they like it.

[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 ...

[Fantasex 76]

I used to subscribe to Chic a Larry Flynt Publication back in the 80's the US version of course not the French version.

[linguslingus]

omg, I don't know if I could read that all. I'd like to see a pro photoset of her.

[smc]

Originally Posted by linguslingus

omg, I don't know if I could read that all. I'd like to see a pro photoset of her.

This is how Keliana herself has chosen to present these photos. Her work is as "pro" as "pro."

[mcginlay]

some of those mag cover mock-ups are great, particularly Baby Dolls and LWAD

[smc]

The story, continued ...

In a second, the footsteps become a rumble. As the door to the men’s lavatory is thrown open, I furiously try to stuff my hard cock away. It is not an easy task. Keliana has me so aroused that I can barely fit my cock back into my pants, and the continual dripping is making it so lubricated that I am having a tough time getting a good enough grip. Before I can hide what Keliana has done, the door to the stall flings open. The man from the front desk glares at me. There are a dozen or so hostel guests behind him, all trying to get a look.

“What is going on in here?” the desk clerk asks, yelling at me in heavily accented English.

Just as I begin to compose an answer, I hear the loud voice of a woman shouting above the din of all the onlookers. She is speaking French. Whatever she’s saying, the entire room becomes quiet. Suddenly, there she is, pushing the desk clerk aside and staring in at me sitting on the closed toilet seat. It is a policewoman. She beings to ask me what I can tell are questions, from her tone, but I don’t understand a word she is saying.

One of the other guests, a young woman, steps forward. She says something quietly to the policewoman, and then turns to me and says, “She wants to know what happened that made you scream.”

“Who called the police?” I reply.

“I think you should answer her,” the young woman says.

The policewoman turns to the young woman and speaks. From the little French I understand, I assume that she’s asking for translation.

“You should answer,” the young woman says, again. The policewoman glares at me, with a stern look.

“I don’t know what to say.” I can’t think of any response.

The policewoman steps into the stall and grabs my arm to lift me from my sitting position. My cock, which has softened, dangles from the top of my pants, which I haven’t finished pulling up. She grabs my cock and stuffs it into my pants with one hand, and then gestures to me to close the zipper and buckle my belt. I do as I am told. Then she bends down and picks up the “Chic” magazine with Keliana on the cover. It’s open to the photo spread, and there is cum on one of the pages. In fact, I’m beginning to notice the cum I’ve sprayed everywhere.

She says something to the young woman, who turns to me and says, ““She was on her patrol, walking by the building, and heard you. She wants to know if this is why you screamed.”

I look right into the policewoman’s eyes. Beyond her stern look, I sense a tiny bit of a smile. I nod my head “yes.”

The policewoman again turns to the young woman, who then says to me, “You must go with her.” The policewoman then grabs my arm and pulls me out of the stall, through the crowd of guests, down the hall, down the stairs, and into the lobby of the hostel. She says something to the young woman, who shakes her head “no” and begins to go up the stairs. The policewoman shouts at her, and she stops dead in her tracks, then turns around and comes back down the stairs. They converse for a moment, the young woman runs up the stairs, and comes back dressed instead of in her pajamas. The three of us leave the hostel amidst a din or murmuring among the other guests.

Once out on the street, we walk for a few blocks and arrive at a police car. The young woman does all the speaking after being told what to say. “I have been commandeered to translate, I suppose until we get to the police station. She says to get in the front next to her.” I do. The young woman gets in the back.

“What’s your name,” I ask the young woman. As she answers, “Monique,” the policewoman turns to me and puts her finger over my lips.

“Shhhhhh,” she says.

We drive a short distance until I see the light of a police station ahead. But as we approach, the policewoman speeds up and goes right past. Monique begins to speak, hurriedly and with a tone of concern. I can tell she doesn’t like what the policewoman is saying back to her

“What’s going on?” I ask.

The policewoman says, “Shhhhhh.” And then she slaps my face lightly.

* *

After a bit more driving, we arrive at a small house. It seems to me as if we are no longer in the city. Perhaps it is a suburb. We pull into a small driveway, and the policewoman and Monique get out. The policewoman comes to my side of the car, opens the door, and grabs my arm, dragging me to the front door. She unlocks it, drags me in, and throws me down into an easy chair in front of a small coffee table. She says something to Monique, and heads down the hallway.

“She says that we had better stay still, if we are smart,” says Monique, who then sits down.

Waiting for whatever is going to come next, my eyes begin to wander around the small room. I guess it’s the living room. The table has some magazines on it, and I begin to look through the pile. Underneath two issues of “Paris Match,” I come across two more “Chic” magazines. On the cover of one, I see a shapely woman with long, dark hair from behind. She is walking onto the deck of a house or apartment, and there is a body of water in the background. On the cover of the other, what appears to be the same woman appears, with her succulent behind exposed under a red dress that has been lifted to the waist. Then I see the text on the cover of the second magazine: “Keliana in that Red Hot Dress.” They are both Keliana.

Monique is sitting quietly, clearly nervous. The policewoman is still somewhere down the hall. Fearful of what is coming next, I take a chance at escaping. As quickly as I can, I rush to the front door and open it. Just as I am about to run out into the darkness, my way is blocked by yet another policewoman. She grabs me and drags me back into the room, throwing me down into the chair. Then, in what seems to be a single motion, she pulls off her policewoman’s uniform. A massive cock sticks straight out into my face. It is even larger than Teodora’s.

She shouts something in French, and turns to Monique.

“She says to suck her,” says Monique, “or else.”

to be continued ...