In search of the golden girl…
Looking in surprising centers of sin for an exquisite golden girl, Dirk and Honey make many friends and a few waves. Who can forget the sizzling siblings?
Not the handsome Indian Holy Man, who initiates Honey in the delights of luxuriously slow sex.
Not the lissome Chinese acrobats, who perform for Dirk the erotic show of his life.
Not the beautiful young blonde herself, the object of Dirk’s wild passion and Honey’s sensual curiosity.
All over the world, beautiful men and women remember their encounter with Dirk and Honey with a rapturous sigh. And so will you.
Books by
Roland DeForrest
The Wildon Affair
The Erotic Quest of
Dirk and Honey
Published by
WARNER BOOKS
Copyright
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1983 by Warner Books, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: November 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-57013-8
Contents
Books by Roland DeForrest
Copyright
1. HONEY
2. DIRK
3. HONEY
4. HONEY
5. DIRK
6. HONEY
7. HONEY
8. DIRK
9. HONEY
10. HONEY
11. DIRK
12. HONEY
13. HONEY
14. DIRK
15. HONEY
16. HONEY
17. HONEY
18. DIRK
19. HONEY
1.
HONEY
“Ricardo,” she purred, and pulled free from his fevered clutches. “You’re making it extremely hard on me.”
His flashing black eyes twinkled with amusement. “Sí. And you make hard-on for me. See?” Proudly he stepped back, revealing the tented front of his velvet robe. Slowly, like a master unveiling a work of art, he pulled loose the belt and opened the robe, exposing his erect demands. His sleek cock was the color of sandalwood.
Tempted, Honey eyed him for a long moment. Ricardo Prado was about the most appealing hunk of man she had encountered lately. Just over six feet of hardened flesh, tapered waist, slim hips, muscular thighs, with curly black hair and a boyish, devil-may-care charm that had won her over within moments of their meeting in Mexico City at the National Soccer Championships. Hailed as one of the world’s greatest players, a natural successor to the sensational Pele, Ricardo was to be the subject of her next exclusive and internationally published article. But ever since their arrival back at her palatial home in Hillsborough, California, his mind had been more on in-depth screwing than on in-depth interviewing.
“Pack it away, lover boy,” she sighed in resignation, and gathered her notes from the bedside table. “I’ve work to do. We’ll play later. I promise.” She threw him a dazzling smile and, tossing her shoulder-length waves of Titian-colored hair, walked quickly out of her bedroom, her full hips swaying provocatively under the sheer iridescent green of her chiffon caftan.
Like a dutiful puppy, Ricardo followed, the pout evident in his tone as he spoke: “Work, work, work… I want to fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“You’re on vacation,” she said over her shoulder and headed for the grand staircase leading to the ground floor. “I’m on a deadline. Your interview has to be on the wire by this afternoon. And Honey Wildon never misses a deadline.”
He caught her arm, swinging her around, pulling her close, crushing her heavy breasts into his bare chest. “You’ve got time,” he growled good-naturedly, and pressed his mouth on hers. As they kissed, she could feel his hardness pushing at her belly like an insistent divining rod. For another moment she wavered, a demanding warmth rushing up from her loins, filling her with an intense desire. Reluctantly she broke away and gave a friendly squeeze to his hard-on. “Ricardo, you are insatiable.”
He frowned. “What’s that mean?”
“The male equivalent of me,” she answered with a smirk, and began descending the carpeted stairs, her knees weak from the fires boiling within her groin. “Now don’t follow me. The servants will see you.”
“Servants,” he snorted at the top of the stairs. “I not care about servants.”
She laughed gaily and kept descending. “That’s because they’re not yours. They’re mine. In fact, some were even here when my parents were alive.” At the bottom she paused, looking back up at him. He stood, feet splayed, frowning down, his robe wide open, one hand stroking determinedly on his hard peter. With his free hand he blew her a kiss. “Honey,” he said hoarsely, “you are one hot girl.”
“I’m a woman,” she said easily, and breezed out of his sight and down the hall into the study, her father’s former library. With fierce concentration and firm discipline acquired through her years as a top-flight journalist of international reputation, Honey was soon deeply involved in finishing her article on Ricardo. He had not been a difficult subject to capture on paper. His likes were simple: soccer, hot women, and fast cars, exactly in that order. What intrigued her, and what she had chosen as the slant of the article, was his familial devotion, an almost worshipful allegiance to his mother and his younger siblings. With the fabulous money he was earning as Mexico’s top soccer star, Ricardo had lavished the good life on his family while choosing to live by himself in relative austerity—except for his shiny red Porsche Targa.
When she was writing, time passed quickly for Honey, and now she was unaware that Ricardo, clad only in tight Speedo swim trunks, stood quietly in the open doorway, observing her. He had never encountered a hotter woman or a more beautiful conquest. Statuesque—nearly five-nine—her luscious body was a bountiful collection of soft curves and voluptuous endowments. Her smooth, unblemished skin was the color of fresh milk. Her breasts were full, rounded peaks and they strained at the filmy material of her gown. Her exquisite profile bent intently over the typewriter, and her long, dark red tresses gleamed like burnished metal in the morning sun, which streamed in through the French doors leading to the poolside terrace. As he watched her, he could feel himself thickening in his swimsuit. Never before had he had a woman who enjoyed sex as much as he did. The mere thought of her enthusiastic performances in bed caused his cock to blossom into a full-blown weapon. He wanted her desperately right then, right there.
He took a step into the book-lined room. Turning her astonishingly blue eyes on him, she smiled at his bulging swimsuit. “Why the periscope? Going for a swim?”
“Sí. In you.”
“Por favor, mi toro. Later.”
He rubbed the persistent throbbing in his nylon swimsuit. “No. Now,” he demanded.
“Tough maracas, Ricardo,” she murmured. Honey had returned to the typewriter, her fingers raising a steady, electronic clackety-clack.
With studied nonchalance he moved behind her chair, peering over her bare shoulders and down the front of her low-cut caftan. As she breathed, the soft swell of her snowcapped peaks filled him with new urgings. With the same quickness that marked his performance on the soccer field, he shoved a hand down between her warm, soft breasts, relishing their fullness.
“Ricardo,” she complained, still typing. “You promised, when I asked you here, that you’d let me work when I had to.”
“You work too much,” he said softly and cupped one full breast, loving its weight in his sweaty palm. Bending down to nuzzle her
long neck, he inhaled her sweet aroma—like a garden of roses on a hot, sunny day. It reminded him of her pussy, and that made his blood simmer.
Still typing, she arched her head back into him. “I love my work. As you do yours.”
“But I no work now. I play.” With a fingernail he flicked at one of her nipples, pleased to feel it elongating at his touch. He pressed the hard bulge of his swimsuit into the back of her head and demanded, “How long?”
“About seven inches, if I recall correctly,” she said crisply, and continued to type.
He jerked his hand free of her breasts and marched around the desk. Standing directly in front of her, he began tracing with his fingertips the long boner compressed painfully in his trunks.
She ceased typing. “Ricardo, why don’t you take a swim? Cool off for a spell. Give it a rest.”
Instead of replying, he yanked free his hard-on and pulled back the skin from its glistening head. He bobbed it at her, a lustful, sly grin on his darkly handsome features. Honey eyed the end of his pointing dick, noticing a small drop of moisture at the dime-sized slit. It was that mere speck of pearly fluid that crumbled her resolve. With a rustle of chiffon, she bounded out of her chair and, with heavy breasts swaying, flew to the hall door and closed it. She turned, leaning back against the door. “El Máquina, take off those trunks.”
Willingly he obliged, pushing them off his trim hips and stepping out of them. Proudly, even vainly he stood, letting her drink in his aroused beauty. “Now you,” he ordered.
Still standing by the door, she gathered the skirt of her light green caftan and vigorously pulled it over her head, flinging it aside. Her full figure rose like a classical statue from the plush pile rug. Her alabaster skin glowed like polished ivory, her rounded, full breasts heaving, the bright red triangle between her softly rounded thighs beckoning like a warming bonfire. His eyes bulged at her breathtaking beauty, and his prick grew even harder. “Come here,” he croaked.
“Show me again,” she breathed. “That trick from last night.”
Needing no further encouragement to show off his prowess, he fell forward onto his hands, and pressed straight up into a rigid handstand. He walked toward her on his hands, his lean, brown shaft bouncing out behind him like a stiff rooster tail. Straight to her feet he moved and, opening wide his legs, placed one on either side of her, his feet flat against the closed door, well above her shoulders.
With enormous pleasure she looked down at him from that odd angle. She reached between his legs and leaned over his ass, grabbing his stiffness, pulling it toward her mouth as she bent her knees, lowering her fiery bush to his awaiting, upturned head. As his tongue sliced into the already wet lips of her delta of love, she sucked in the plum-sized head of his engorged dick, tracing its hard under-ridges expertly with her exploring tongue. His own tongue was stiff and jabbed at her clit, raising the temperature of her internal furnace. From her mouth, greedy slurping sounds mingled with moans of pleasure. Her knees and his arms buckled at the same time, and both of them collapsed onto the rug.
Rolling her over on her back, he fell between her upraised knees and, with the dexterity of a natural athlete, plunged his pulsing peter deep into her vessel of warmth. With a deep sigh of contentment, she locked her long legs around his trim waist and pressed his firm chest into her soft mounds. “Ahhhh, excelentísimo Ricardo Prado,” she groaned. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…”
Ever since she’d first fallen into bed with him in her Mexico City hotel room, she had been amazed at his endurance and stamina. He was a marvelous fuck—not just slow, easy proddings, either, but increasingly energetic, even zestful lunges deep into her most innermost core, raising her to unbelievable heights of ecstasy. He could go at it for hours, and she could testify under oath that only the night before he had kept up his ramming for over two and a half hours straight before her climaxes had ceased and her sore pussy had begun to dry up. And still he had been ready, even eager for more.
Now, once again, he attacked her with youthful exuberance. She could feel his balls bouncing against her perineum, and their lusty rhythm skyrocketed her own. Pools of their perspiration formed on her, adding a slippery external lubricant. The internal walls of her love box were awash in their own drippings, and his driving cock felt like a hot poker, satisfying and exhilarating. Quickly she began to peak, an exquisite anguish rising within her to almost unbearable heights. Like a sudden clap of thunder she came, drenching the heat of his red-hot poker in a shower of viscous fluids. A muted scream of release broke from her.
Still pile-driving his hips, Ricardo raised his head from the hollow of her neck and grinned, panting, “Score one for you, sí?”
“Sí sí,” she groaned.
“I play hard when I’m behind,” he growled and, lowering his head, raced to catch up by shifting his hips into even higher gear. He was slamming so hard into her that all she could do was hang on to his taut frame and ride out the match. Reeling in delicious aftershocks, she did not have long to wait. With a satisfied burst of air through his nostrils, he climaxed, shooting a hot goal deep into the wet net of her vanquished cage.
They clung to each other, there on the rug, gasping and wheezing. Much to her astonishment, just as ther breathing had begun to normalize, she could feel his cock, still buried to the hilt within her, thickening and growing hard again. Slowly his hips began to move. “Ricky, enough for now,” she admonished playfully, and, with a shove, managed to push him off her. Scooting out from under him, she rolled to one hip and weakly scrambled away on her knees.
He followed, also crawling. Like a dog in heat, he sniffed at her, nudging with his nose the loose lips of her inflamed pussy, which hung down like soft moss beneath her pear-shaped ass. Reaching her desk, she pulled herself upright, and for a moment she thought she would keel over from the rush of blood from her head. Dizzily she batted away his face from her rear end and swayed to the French doors, throwing them open.
The Bay Area sunshine bathed her with a soft golden glow, caressing her fair skin with new warmth. The Olympic-sized swimming pool, only steps away, glistened like a bright blue mirage. She glanced back at him. He had sunk back on his haunches, his black eyes locked on her intently, expectantly, his hard member poking up out of his lap like a flagless pole. “You are too much,” she sighed in appreciation, and with a flirtatious smile she dashed outside, down the brick stairs of the terrace. On the edge of the tile coping of the pool, she paused briefly, threw her arms over her head, her full breasts pointing skyward, then dove cleanly, gracefully, expertly—a flash of pale white against the sparkling blue—before disappearing into the refreshingly cool water.
Swimming underwater, she tried to reach the far end before her lungs exploded. Triumphantly she touched the tile and, sputtering for breath, broke through the water’s surface, shaking her red hair. Sleeking it back from her eyes, she turned to locate Ricardo. At the far end of the pool, the three-story brick mansion rose majestically, dwarfing him in the doorway to her study. With a little-boy pout, he stood forlornly, observing her, his brown peter jutting out in front as if straining to reach her. She smiled encouragingly and waved, calling out, “Come on in. It’s divine.” He shook his head glumly.
Laughing gaily, she climbed out of the pool, grabbed a large, yellow terry towel from one of the chaise longues and, patting her face dry, moved to him, noting that his cock was drooping as much as his face. “Why didn’t you join me?” she asked.
“The servants…” he offered lamely.
“Oh, pooh,” she said, and rubbed the soft towel over her bounteous curves. “Even my parents swam nude. Can’t you swim?”
“Where are they?” he asked evasively. “Your mother and father.”
Suddenly pensive, she answered, “They died in a plane wreck in Alaska. When I was twelve.” She toweled her thick hair vigorously and brushed past him, reentering her study, aware that she had a pressing deadline to make. From the Persian rug near the hall door she grabbed up her
filmy caftan and began pulling it over her head. When she emerged, she saw Ricardo studying the silver-framed photos on the wall opposite her desk. She glided to him, pointing to the largest photograph, which showed a handsome, laughing couple. “That’s Mom and Dad at the opening of one of Dad’s copper mills in Montana.”
“Who is this?” he asked in a jealous tone, waving at another photo, this one of an attractive young man, as lean and lanky as a young Jimmy Stewart.
“My younger brother, Dirk,” she replied. “He’s a very famous photographer. You’d love his work. Here…” She pulled an oversized, expensively bound book from the nearby shelves. “This is his latest collection.” She handed him the coffee-table-sized book, hoping it would keep him occupied for a spell, and returned to her desk chair, sinking into it with gritty determination.
“Naked women!” he exclaimed, thumbing through the studio portraits.
She laughed at his surprise. “Female beauty is Dirk’s passion. And his forte.”
“You in here?”
“Not on your life.”
“You should be.”
She smiled. “Muchas gracias. Now please let me finish.” Finding where she had left off in her notes, she began typing with renewed vigor. All the energetic screwing and swimming had left her feeling refreshed; her skin tingled with energy, and as she typed, the words seemed to leap onto the pages as if by their own accord. This interview with Ricardo, like all of her exclusive interviews, would run under her own byline, “Honey Wildon Presents,” in over ninety newspapers and magazines around the world.
A prolonged sigh from Ricardo broke her concentration, and she glanced up. He had settled onto the love seat, his eyes glued to the open pages of one of Dirk’s exquisite photographs, his dick rigid once more. She could not believe her eyes—he was obsessed. He caught her watching him and leaped to his feet, rushing to her. “Let’s fuck,” he broached in a coarse whisper.
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