“It’s my holy lingam, the symbol of Lord Shiva, the Supreme Yogi.”
She placed a hand on her pussy, cupping it. “And what is this?”
“That is your sweet yoni, the symbol of Shakti, the essence of bliss. She is the love power.”
“How true, how true… do teach me more.”
Wordlessly he took her hand, tugging her gently into the small cave. “In the springtime the rounded hips of amorous women are adorned with silken garments,” he said, as if quoting someone, and laid her down on the cloth pallet. Kneeling beside her, he reached for a small wooden bowl. “Languid with passion, they rub sandalwood paste mixed with sweet flowers, saffron, and musk on their breasts.” Tenderly he touched each of her nipples with a sticky orange substance from the bowl, and instantly she felt fires burst to life on her breasts. Her nipples expanded greatly, popping up like small telescopes searching for more pleasure. The sweet smell of exotic flowers was everywhere.
“Where there is only worldly enjoyment, there is no release,” he said softly, and touched the sticky residue to the opening of her “sweet yoni.” “And where there is only release, there is no worldly enjoyment. But both worldly enjoyment and release are in the palm of the hand of one who is devoted to the higher being.”
From the spot on her labia where he had lightly touched her, the fire of lust broke out like a sudden rash. It quickly spread deep up her love channel, heating the very core of her sexual appetite. She rolled to one hip, facing him. Between his kneeling legs, his shaft now rose straight out from him, pointing its insistent head at her. He handed her the small bowl of exotic aphrodisiac and leaned back on his hands. “Worship my Shiva lingam.”
She knelt and dipped her fingers into the sweet, warm substance. Delicately she dabbed the stuff on the head of his throbbing cock, smoothing it into the under-ridges and down the length. She noticed that his eyes were closed and that he was breathing deeply and slowly in through his nostrils, exhaling fully from his mouth. She clasped both hands firmly on his holy tool and pulled the foreskin over the shiny brown head, then pushed it back tightly, squeezing until the knob began to turn a deep purple. Back and forth she tugged, feeling the intense heat emanating from the entire length of his shaft.
Eyes still closed, he chanted softly, “Where there is ecstasy, there is Creation. Where there is no ecstasy, there is no Creation. In the Infinite, there is ecstasy. There is no ecstasy in the finite.”
“Amen to that,” she intoned, and slowly lowered her mouth to his straining organ. Her tongue darted out, licking the sweet-tasting substance she had applied. His whole body jerked with a spasm of surprise, and she sucked the head deep into her mouth. Worshipfully she took it in, wiping it clean with her tongue. She teased the small slit, scrubbed the bulbous ridges, and traced his length with her lips. When she pulled back to look at his face, he was staring openmouthed, as if unfamiliar with such forms of worship. She winked and lay back on the scratchy bed of cloth covered with straw. Flinging wide her legs, she explored with her fingers the furled edges of her love temple. She was already wet with desire and could feel a demanding urgency building within her.
With the fluidity of a dancer, he moved gracefully between her legs and sat facing her, his long limbs stretched out on either side of her buttocks. She looked over the pale mountains of her breasts and watched him position his brown stick, pushing it down to the very portals of her pussy. He nudged its head slowly up and down along her trembling labia, increasing the size of her heated opening. Gently he eased only the head of his cock into her, and pulled her legs over the tops of his thighs. Scooting his hips toward her, he pushed deeper inside until he was buried to the hilt. For a long while she waited with growing impatience for him to begin moving. She could feel the walls of her vagina undulating over his hardness, and still he did not move.
Raising herself on her elbows, she looked at him. He too was lying flat on his back, eyes closed, a look of such beatific bliss on his handsome, young face that he appeared to be experiencing a profound spiritual union. Not wanting to disturb any religious ritual, she slowly began rocking her hips, driving his holy hard-on in and out, and suddenly she felt his cock spring to life within her.
Deep, satisfying strokes propelled her into an ecstasy so intense that she felt she was indeed making it with a very holy man. The feelings of pleasure were so all-encompassing that all sense of time and place faded away, all sense of her own body and mind disappeared. She could not separate where she ended and he began, or which one of them was male, which female. All of her was joined to all of him, and the sensation was so overpowering that she felt a unique mystical uplifting, transporting her into a golden haze, a blurring of all her most primal emotions. Soon, waves of climaxes racked their bodies and still they fucked on and on, ever lifting her higher until she exploded beyond consciousness, into the realms of erotic nirvana.
She drifted back to earth on a fluffy cloud, gradually becoming aware of her surroundings and the still-moist warmth glowing like a hot ember between her legs. White-hot sunlight bounced off the red clay of the cave’s walls, and through the arched opening she could see the Ganges flowing from the Himalayas, moving steadily, but with a stately dignity. She summoned the energy to roll over, and discovered that she was alone in the cramped confines. Beside the pallet, a wooden bowl held a few dates, a chunk of flat bread, and a brilliantly red tropical flower of a sort she had never seen before. Ravenously she began eating a date, but the river sparkled below her too invitingly.
Crawling out into the sun, she felt at once on fire, her pale skin searing in the solar rays. Squinting in the brightness, she scrambled to her knees and ran lightly to the water’s edge and into the water. She was just knee-deep when she noticed with some surprise that she was the object of the astounded attention of a handful of farmers filling wooden buckets with water. She laughed gaily, waving at them and feeling wonderfully alive and invigorated, then plunging into the water to her neck. Motionless, they watched her cavorting in their holy waters and gazed in openmouthed admiration as she boldly rose and walked, full of assurance, her white breasts held high, her hips swaying provocatively, toward the mouth of the cave.
Inside, she had just finished drying off and had pulled on her panties when a shadow blocked the entrance. She drew back with a start, and then relaxed as her handsome Indian holy prince of a lover bent into the cool interior. His velvety liquid eyes held hers, and in that moment their union was as complete as it had been on the pallet the night before. Stooping, he took the brilliant red flower from the now-empty bowl and stood up to place it in her hair, behind one ear. He smiled at her beautiful image. “While you slept so soundly, I went to the city. I have found someone who can help you in your search for your friend.”
He stooped again and went out through the opening, reappearing shortly with a young girl in tow. “This is Leaha. She works at the hotel Taj Ganges. And speaks good English.”
Honey stared down into the lovely, nutmeg-colored face. The child was no more than eleven, and her huge black eyes were fixed in complete absorption on the dusky rose nipples of Honey’s breasts. “Pleased to meet you, Leaha. Thank you for coming such a long way. My name is Honey,” she said warmly, and bent to her purse. She brought up the photo of the young blonde. “Have you ever seen this girl before?”
The raven-black eyes locked on the photo and she nodded slowly. “Yes,” she replied. “This last week.” Her voice was as melodious as wind chimes.
“Is she still at the hotel?”
“No. She left two days ago.”
Disappointment flooded Honey, and for a moment she stared into the child’s face, transfixed by her innocent trustfulness. “Did you see her father?”
The child frowned and looked up questioningly at Pagala Baba. He spoke a few words in Hindi to her, and she returned her solemn gaze to Honey. “The man is not her father.”
“He’s not? How can you be sure?”
A fragile smile graced her small mo
uth. “Fathers do not do such things to their daughters.”
Honey asked with trepidation. “Do what, my dear?”
Again the child looked to the young holy man, and he smiled encouragingly. She ducked her head and whispered, “I was in the closet, folding sheets, when I saw them join in Tantric union.”
In surprise, Honey swept her gaze to Pagala Baba. He merely shrugged. Her concern began to mount, and she felt an even more pressing urgency to find Dirk’s mysterious blonde. Quickly she rattled off several questions: “Do you know where they went? Do you know the name they were registered under? Do you know if they were traveling with two men? Do you know what currency they paid with?” To each of these, she received a grave shaking of the head. The child knew nothing beyond what she had said.
Hurriedly, Honey began pulling on her clothes. “Leaha, I can’t thank you enough for your help.”
“I am sorry I do not do more.”
“You are a dear, sweet child. Tell me, this young blonde girl—was she happy? Did she seem to be with this older man by choice?”
“Oh, no,” Leaha replied quickly. “She was very sad. Cried all the time. I think she was very unhappy. The man… he was not pure.”
“Pure? What do you mean?”
She locked her eyes on Honey’s face. “He has unclean karma. He is evil man.”
5.
DIRK
In the muggy night breeze, he hurried across the grassy, parklike Plaza Bolivar, past the stone Palace of the Inquisition, built in 1770, and ducked down a narrow, cobblestone street lit by iron lamps, searching for the small nightclub. Dirk had been in Cartagena, on the Caribbean coast of Colombia, for only three hours, and it had taken him that long to check into the luxurious Hilton resort out on the Boca Grande Peninsula, then shower, change his clothes, and find out where the reported belly dancer would be performing. The oddity of a Middle Eastern club tucked deep in the center of the old Spanish-founded city did not escape him. But since few people he had approached in the city spoke English, there was no one to tell him how such a club came into being.
Sinbad’s Cave turned out to be a tiny establishment deep in the bowels of an ancient fort. Inside, the air was blue with smoke and the place was packed to the stone walls with patrons, mainly Columbian businessmen, lounging on mirrored pillows around small brass-topped tables that ringed a small dance floor. Off to one side, in front of a purple tapestry cloth, an authentic band of Middle Eastern musicians played their instruments as two averagely attractive females in traditional harem garb twirled and danced, displaying a great deal of skin but, in Dirk’s opinion, not much talent.
He sank to an available pillow against the rear wall and tried to find a comfortable position for his long legs. Already he was doubting the information he had received from his New York photographer pal. The prospect of finding an exact duplicate of the enchanting blonde of Central Park, performing here in such a dingy hole, was almost too absurd to contemplate. But Dirk was so obsessed with finding the magical young woman that he would willingly have journeyed by dogsled to Siberia in the dead of winter to track down any possible lead.
The club’s entertainment dragged on, the weird, atonal music loud and irritating, heavy on the beat of odd-shaped drums and wailing, nasal-sounding wind instruments; the parade of women performers danced as if they had been trained in burlesque, and perfunctorily went through their routines with bored expressions on their perspiring faces. The density of smoke increased, as did Dirk’s headache. An hour into the show, he was positive he’d seen all the dancers, and not one bore even a faint resemblance to the girl of his quest. He was about to chalk up the entire trip as a damned dead end, when the master of ceremonies—a rotund, swarthy little man dressed only in a beaded vest and baggy orange satin pants—stepped to the microphone to announce in Spanish the main attraction, “Jamilia.” Enthusiastic applause and cheers from the spectators greeted the news, as if they had been waiting for this moment.
The lights blinked off, the foreign-sounding music began again, and suddenly, in a white spotlight, a tall figure appeared, swathed from head to toe in gauzy blue veils. She swayed and twirled to the slow music, remaining completely covered except for a small open band across her eyes. Dirk strained forward and felt a stirring in his groin. Unlike the previous performers, this one was obviously talented. Her movements were graceful, rhythmic, highly sensual, and the more she danced, the more she raised his curiosity and his bird of paradise. He could not believe how aroused he’d become in such a short time—especially by a totally covered woman.
The pounding music picked up tempo and she spun faster, holding out the top veil, forming a billowy canopy of blue over her still-covered head. Dipping, swaying, gyrating, she gradually lowered the blue veil, revealing a creamy expanse of bouncing breast packed tightly into a skimpy bra covered with gold coins. An excited, guttural cheer broke from the men around Dirk. With her face hidden behind a smaller veil, Jamilia danced fluidly, slowly lowering the large veil in her hands. Glimpses of her breathtaking figure were possible now. Her slightly rounded belly undulated and rolled. In her navel, a large emerald glistened and twinkled like a small green island of calm in the midst of a windswept white lake. Low on her rounded, swiveling hips, another band of gold coins clinked in rhythm to her erotic movements, a small girdle of tinkling sounds. A full skirt of shiny blue material, split enticingly up the front, swept around her in a full circle and her creamy thighs flashed through, and now and then her perfectly proportioned legs.
One look at the fully rounded figure, the large white breasts jiggling provocatively, told Dirk for certain that whoever this Jamilia was, she could not be the exact duplicate of his mystery blonde. That beauty he’d found in Central Park had been a mere girl no more than sixteen .years old, and though she was spectacular, she did not as yet possess such a full-blown womanly body. However, in the heat of this moment, he was so entranced by the accomplished dancer before him that he did not care; he was dying of curiosity to see her face.
As if Jamilia had read his mind, at that precise instant, with her back to the audience, her hands rose gracefully to the scarf covering her head. With a quick tug, she yanked free the gauzy piece of material and shook loose a mass of striking blonde hair that tumbled past her shoulders, shimmering like spun gold in the bright spotlight.
Dirk bolted upright on the pillow—her hair was exactly the same tone of blonde as that of the girl in the park! He waited breathlessly for her to turn to the crowd of hollering, appreciative men. Her full hips swaying like a flag in a gentle breeze, she slowly came about, her face partially obscured by soft, curly tendrils of golden hair. With an almost impatient toss of her head, she threw the hair back from her forehead and smiled serenely—straight in his direction. He stared, frozen in surprise and delight.
His pal had not steered him wrong. Jamilia was the spitting image of the fantasy blond he’d captured on film. In spite of the differences in their bodies, their lovely, angelic faces were identical—the same fine sweep of brow, the same classic nose, the same high, regal cheekbones, the same full, sensual mouth. Dirk’s expert camera eye could not be misled; the facial similarities were too strong to be a mere coincidence. Jamilia had to be related to his quarry in some way. Entranced all the more, he swallowed his excitement, and his bird of paradise sprang into a full-grown boner. He could not wait until he was alone, face to face, with the magical beauty. He began to sweat with tension.
Immediately upon the conclusion of Jamilia’s ripely erotic dance, he pushed himself to his feet and, weaving through the densely packed crowd of raucously cheering men, made his way to the backstage entrance. He pushed through the beaded curtain and bumped into the portly master of ceremonies, who emphatically barred his entrance. Dirk pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his money clip and shoved it into the obstinate man’s greasy palm. At once, a more-than-pleased grin broke out on the swarthy face and the rotund man bowed mockingly, pointing to a small, grimy door.
Pushing his rigid dick into a less noticeable position, Dirk knocked and a woman’s musical voice called out in Spanish, “Come on in.” He opened the door and stepped into a cluttered, cramped dressing room that smelled like the inside of a Moroccan whorehouse—sickly sweet perfume, sweat, and the arousing, intoxicating scent of women. Jamilia stood before a full-length mirror on the opposite wall, wiping her beautiful face with a towel. Her full breasts, heaving in the tight coin-bra from the recent exertion, rose and fell like rapidly inflating and deflating balloons, their creamy skin filmed with perspiration. She swung to him questioningly and his heart hammered even harder. She was even more breathtaking in person. Her large, pale eyes stared boldly into his, and he could not find his tongue to speak.
“Yes?” she asked lightly.
“I… I think I’m in love with you,” he stammered. She laughed as if she’d heard that line before. “You’re from the States?”
He nodded, transfixed by her mesmerizing allure. She laughed again at his silence and stepped behind a folding screen of tightly woven latticework. From behind it she asked, “What brings you to Cartagena?”
“I… I came to find you…”
“Me?” she queried, her blonde head appearing briefly above the screen. “Why?” With a soft clinking sound, she flung her coin-covered bra onto the top of the wood screen.
Just thinking of her womanly body being exposed behind the lattice wiped all other thoughts from his mind, and for a moment he forgot the pressing reason for his visit. With a soft rushing sound, her billowy blue skirt appeared next to her bra, then her heavy coin girdle. She poked her gorgeous head up again. “We don’t get many Americans down this way,” she commented easily. A bemused but interested smile graced her lips.
Pulling his thoughts together, he fumbled into a pocket of his blue blazer and brought out, a slightly crumpled copy of the photograph of his vanished blonde. Hesitantly he took a step forward and held it out.
The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey Page 5