The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

by Roland Deforrest

  Like the other men before her, as soon as she’d signed the document, she bolted toward the arched doorway leading to the inner reaches. Once there, Honey pulled up in astonishment. The rough stone pavement was littered with nude women who looked even more naked because of their totally shaved heads. They were being attacked, raped, and skewered with surprising authenticity and fervor. She noticed that the Sisters of the Moon were primarily young peasant women, their bodies on the heavy side, with ponderously full breasts and meaty thighs. Though this once-a-decade event had been booked for centuries, the young nuns were kicking and clawing, screaming and shrieking like stuck pigs—as if the very Turkish soldiers of yore had returned to defile their sacred order.

  Honey felt extremely uncomfortable, standing there watching. But then she noted something that abruptly changed her attitude. One of the hefty young nuns who, only moments before, had been one of the loudest and toughest resisters, upon the completion of the sexual attack suddenly became as docile and as affectionate as a lamb. She was kissing and stroking her attacker with obvious gratitude, her face radiant with a beatific glow. Almost reluctantly the sweaty, besmirched nun handed over a single bead from the small leather pouch tied around her neck, and waved a sad farewell. At once she was leapt upon by another randy attacker, his hard cock flailing at her like an angry eel. The young nun began to scream shrilly, putting forth a valiant effort to hold him at bay.

  Beginning to understand the curious psychology behind the debauch, Honey pressed her search for the elusive Bouscaral. Darkness was rapidly descending, and flaming torches stuck into iron sconces on the walls lit her way. Everywhere she looked, another nun was being ravished or being chased; she even stumbled over some thrashing bodies in the winding corridors of the dungeonlike nunnery. But more and more the nuns’ physical resistance and theatrical protests were vanishing into the night. Some of the bolder nuns were running in packs, turning attacker, hunting down elusive males. As the night progressed, Honey kept discovering men, nude or seminude, hiding, cowering in a quiet corner, trying to catch their breath before another onslaught. None were Henri Bouscaral.

  The moon climbed higher into the night sky, covering the ancient convent in an eerie white light. Shrieks and screams, as well as satisfied grunts and groans, echoed down the stone corridors and filled the crisp air. Honey continued her search, aided by the light of one of the torches. She would come to an inky black doorway and thrust in the flame, revealing momentarily the humping white ass of the attacking male, then his startled face as he turned to glower at the intruder. She hurried on, aware that the halls were beginning to reek of sexual excess.

  She entered a long dormitory lined with iron cots and, thinking she was alone, located a solitary cot off in an alcove and fell flat on her back, welcoming the relief to her aching muscles. A heavy tiredness swept over her and she was just drifting off to sleep, planning on pursuing her search in the early daylight hours, when she heard a distant sob from under the cot. With some alarm she peered over the edge and spied a Wagnerian-sized, nude young nun whimpering in the shadows. Honey reached in to comfort her, and the young woman’s teeth latched fiercely onto her hand. Honey let loose a decidedly un-masculine howl of outraged pain.

  The mouth of the bald, naked nun popped open in shock and she scrambled out from under the bed and trembled in confusion against the wall, staring wide-eyed at the imposter on the cot. Her weighty breasts, ribboned with fine blue lines, heaved before her like bellows. Her bush was the color of strong tea and as thick as the forest outside. Still in considerable pain, Honey rubbed the bitten hand and tried to put the girl at ease with a friendly, forgiving smile. Abruptly the young nun, who looked all meat and potatoes, dropped to her chunky knees. Bowing her shiny head in a supplicating manner, she began babbling in her mother tongue. The words were unintelligible to Honey, but the tone was not—it was terrified pleading if Honey ever heard it.

  The terrified nun touched a responsive chord deep within Honey’s heavy concealed breasts. Brilliant but cold moonlight streamed through the arched window, cutting a wide swatch across the broad back of the kneeling young woman. Tenderly, Honey patted the nun’s shoulder, as if telling her not to cry. The bald head rose with disbelief. Honey indicated the cot’s mattress and the young nun slowly eased up to sit down next to her. Up close, Honey could see the natural beauty of the nun’s tear-stained face. Though somewhat flat-cheeked, the young woman had lovely big brown eyes, like those of a heifer, and a delicious mouth shaped like a rosebud. Hurriedly the shy nun began to speak again in her guttural language, and Honey had the distinct impression that the girl was onto her disguise. Wanting to silence her before someone else might hear, Honey leaned into the moving mouth and kissed her firmly.

  At once the young nun threw her beefy arms around Honey, returning the kiss with ardent passion, pushing her meaty breasts against her. Honey felt an insistent heat erupt with surprising force inside her, and the young nun squirmed mightily. They fell back onto the cot, kissing as if they’d just invented the game. The nun’s tongue scraped the inside of Honey’s mouth, and her milkmaid hands began fumbling with the front of Honey’s pants. Concerned to be so openly exposed, Honey pushed back the Rubenesque body, all the while kissing and sucking at the nun’s milk-white jugs.

  Feverishly, Honey lowered her face, tracing with her tongue the healthy swell of the nun’s belly and moving deep into the valley between the snow-white thighs that towered on either side of her bewigged head like glaciers. The young nun’s bush felt as coarse as winter wheat, and Honey nuzzled through it in search of the hidden entrance. A seepage of warm fluids led to the most tightly closed pussy Honey had ever encountered. Gently, with her expert tongue, she cracked apart the trembling lips and tasted the creamy sauce. Gradually the sealed lips began to flow, opening up like an early spring primrose in a snowbank. The hefty thighs clamped tighter around Honey’s head, and the young nun began to writhe on the narrow, hard cot, her lusty grunts increasing in frequency and volume.

  Well inside the inner recesses of the nun’s tight cunt, Honey’s tongue slammed into a solid wall—a thick, unbroken hymen. The virgin nun panted as if she were about to be broached, and tightened her viselike grip on Honey’s ears. Honey, in turn, wrapped her tongue around a thumb-sized clitoris and began attacking it. The young woman grunted with a voracious appetite and began to pump her broad pelvis. Honey crammed a hand inside her pants and began diddling her own clit.

  Suddenly a gruff male voice exclaimed, “Merde!”

  With a start, Honey jerked up her head from the clamping thighs. In doing so, she lost both her wig and scarf. Her deep red hair tumbled to her shoulders as she stared in shock at Henri Bouscaral! The Prince of Kink stood glowering, dressed only in a long black satin cape, his purplish-red prick sticking out between the folds like an inquisitive dolphin.

  The young nun screamed and Honey dove out of the moonlight, grabbing her headgear from the cot. Hastily she pulled them on, just as Henri leapt upon the already primed nun, like a fanatical priest exorcizing the very devil out of her. He gored and stabbed, the young woman shrieking shrilly. Honey could not tell whether the big virgin was crying out in fear or lust, but not wanting to hang around, she scooted along the wall and ran for the doorway, thinking she would wait just outside the door until Bouscaral emerged.

  Tucking her hair up under the old hat, she dashed into the corridor and straight into the white-robed arms of an even bigger nun. Built like a biker, this one held her so tightly that Honey feared her belly padding would break open. She struggled briefly before realizing the futility of the effort and went limp in the heavily muscled arms. Unceremoniously she was half dragged, half carried to a small cell lit dimly by a glowing lantern.

  Inside the dank smelling room, Honey was confronted by the stately nun who had earlier welcomed the marauders outside the gates. She now stood behind a small table, her matronly face set sternly. She held out her hands and demanded something in her native tongue. Hon
ey, feigning innocence, shrugged questioningly. Again the mother superior spat out words in several languages, until Honey recognized the French word. She knew then what was being demanded—they wanted to see how many rosary beads she had collected since she’d entered the gates. Stalling for time, Honey pretended to search the pockets of her baggy clothes. There was no escape. Her only way out of the tiny cell-like room was blocked by the massive nun behind her. Impatiently the head nun snapped her fingers, demanding again to see the beads. Honey, with a sheepish grin through the fake facial hair, turned her pockets inside out, demonstrating that they were empty.

  A string of oaths broke from the astonished mother superior, and she railed openly, then beckoned the bigger nun forward and spat out an order. At once the bigger nun, who had a face like a slab of roast beef, began pulling the white habit over her massive shoulders and tossing it on the table, standing nude, like an enormous avalanche of white flesh. Her breasts were so huge and heavy they hung far down on her obscenely swollen stomach. If Honey hadn’t thought it highly unlikely, she would have sworn this fat nun was nine months pregnant. The obese nun, whose pussy fur couldn’t even be detected in the heavy, waxy rolls of fat that hung from her waist like sacks of laundry, promptly lay down on the table and opened her stumplike legs. The mother superior pointed at Honey, then at the gaping nude thighs. Her meaning was more than clear—the head nun wanted this “man” to perform his sworn-in-blood task. Honey shook her head defiantly, and from the table the big nun reared up partway, as if ready to strike out with a clenched fist.

  Honey stood her ground and kept shaking her head. She pointed instead to the mother superior and pumped her hips, indicating that she wanted to fuck her instead. A look of astonishment came over the older woman’s face, followed by one of resigned acceptance. She hurled an order at the nun on the table, who heaved herself off, grabbed her white habit, and slunk out of the room as if she had just been sent to the showers. Honey swept an arm up in the air several times, gesturing to the older nun to take off her robes.

  A gleam of unholy lust burst alive in the matronly nun’s eyes, and she tore off her white habit, exposing a reed-thin, but surprisingly well-preserved body. Her small breasts lay like pancakes on her prominent ribcage. Almost coyly she lay down on the wooden table and parted her slender thighs. Honey glimpsed a wiry pad of hair and formed a quick plan. Stepping boldly forward, she began unzipping her baggy plaid pants, as if ready to draw out her cock, then leaned down and blew out the lantern’s flame. The cell was plunged into total darkness, and Honey whipped out her trusty dildo, which she had wisely thought to bring along. Moistening it with her mouth, she put it in her fly and stepped up to the open thighs. With her fingers she searched the area before her, found the tight trench, and pushed her bogus cock into the crevice.

  The mother superior of the Convent of the Sisters of the Moon was none the wiser. Though the dildo was larger than most of the infidels who had forced their way with her in debauchings of bygone decades, the ersatz appendage now shoving into her was as real as her memory of the authentic article. Grimly she gripped the table and passively allowed herself to be raped by the strange, bearded man who had never taken off his clothes. However, the more his stiff, big, and slightly cold cock plunged into her, the more she could not deny her internal reactions. In a very short time she was reeling with earthly sensations. Wildly she began cursing aloud the infidel’s talented tool, in hope that she would be spared the humiliation of such forbidden pleasures. But alas, her curses unconsciously slipped into praises, and she lost her ability to understand what was happening to her. The flames licked at her very heart and she felt transported upward on hot wisps of smoke, higher and higher, until the very face of Ormazd, lord of light and goodness, materialized before her internal eye, surrounded by an intense white light. Weeping, the nun reached up her arms to embrace her lord and instantly exploded into a conflagration of brilliant heat. She screamed with joyous release and became one with him.

  Honey, amazed at the wild transformation of the stately nun, bent down, kissing her parched lips, and pulled out the ancient ivory instrument of pleasure. In the darkness, the nun clung to her shoulders, weeping with hysterical sobs of pure joy. Gently, Honey pushed away and pocketed the dildo, zipping up her pants, thinking only to locate Bouscaral before he exited the convent. As she turned to leave, the still-panting nun grabbed her hand and gratefully poured into it all of her rosary beads.

  Honey pocketed them and hurriedly left the dark cell, returning at once to the dormitory. The virgin nun was not there, nor was Bouscaral. Nor could she find him anywhere in the now-subdued convent. The sun had risen, and in the courtyard men staggered about in exhaustion. Small groups of elderly men were collapsed like broken wine bags around the perimeter. Hastily, Honey completed her search and ruefully concluded that the Prince of Kink had once again disappeared. Heavy with disappointment and fatigue, Honey presented at the front gates the more than twenty rosary beads received from the mother superior, and was ushered outside as though she were the all-time champion. Feeling that she had failed in her quest, Honey began making her way down the steep, rocky trail.

  11.

  DIRK

  The famous Longhua Pagoda, one of China’s great architectural treasures, dating back to the Sung Dynasty, looked to Dirk like a giant “French tickler” condom, all pointy edges and ruffled ridges. Surrounded by blooming peach trees, the tall, ancient pagoda rose above the busy streets of Shanghai and made a pretty picture in his viewfinder. Idly he snapped a shot, not all that interested. He had been in China’s largest city for three days and had yet to discover a single clue that might lead him to the world renowned Mee-Lan triplets.

  Ever since his arrival he had been making discreet inquiries, knowing full well that he was putting himself in danger of being kicked out of the country. The communist regime more than frowned on tourists seeking prostitutes, opium, and gambling, all of which had been plentiful in the old days, but were now strictly outlawed. Still, Dirk was undeterred.

  Each morning he had checked the registers of the tourist hotels to see if Henri Bouscaral had registered. Visas were tightly controlled, and Dirk knew it would be extremely difficult for Bouscaral to check in under a false name. Each day Dirk had wandered the jammed streets full of thousands of bicyclists, and had toured the city’s sights, hoping against hope that he would stumble across someone who knew of the acrobatic threesome. Each night he had been forced to retire to his room alone as the city seemed to close up entirely, offering no stimulation to one such as he, who was used to an active nightlife. By this third day he was bored out of his mind, and his bird of paradise was raging from disuse. Dirk could not remember going three days in his entire adult life without getting laid. All he could think about was the mysteriously beautiful Kolina and her ravishing sister, Barbro, and beat his meat mercilessly.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, on the evening of his third day, an elderly, neatly dressed Oriental approached him just as he was about to retire to his hotel after another futile day of searching. “Excuse me, sir,” the Chinese said politely in perfect English, “but I think I may help you.”

  “How?” Dirk asked suspiciously, aware that the city was ripe with agents of the government.

  “If you would be so kind, follow me.”

  “Where to?”

  “To that which you seek.” The elderly man turned and moved off down the sidewalk, which was clustered with curbside barbers and cobblers just closing up their stands.

  Eagerly, Dirk fell in behind him, checking carefully to see if they were being followed. There was such a crush of people, scurrying to their homes on foot or by bicycle, that it was impossible to ascertain whether anyone was paying more than usual attention to the tall, lean American. In his short stay, Dirk had become quite accustomed to being the object of an almost childlike curiosity. Grinning, friendly faces had often clustered around him on his daily tours of the city, and he had grown quite fond of their openly exp
ressed good humor. Now, however, he wished he were smaller and less conspicuous, for he had an undeniable feeling he was onto something important. Slouching as much as his six-foot-two frame would allow, Dirk hurried after the elderly man.

  He was led far from the hotel, down to the Bund, the waterfront, which, by the time they reached it, was almost devoid of people. Giant freighters and boats of all sizes and descriptions filled the famous harbor, and strident whistles announced departing craft. In the gathering dusk, lights were twinkling on, ringing the waterfront like sparkling jewels. And still the old Chinese man scurried on, with Dirk on his trail. Deeper into the warehouse district they moved, and Dirk began to feel a growing sense of unease. Doubt flooded him. Was he actually being led to his goal, or to some sinister trap? Several times he tried hailing the little man, calling to him to slow down. But the gentleman, dressed in a muted gray Mao suit, did not even turn around. He ducked around the corner of a large wooden structure and disappeared.

  Dirk approached the corner and stopped, staring down a pitch-black alleyway, the hairs on the back of his neck rising with suspicion. The little Oriental was nowhere to be seen. Dirk hesitated, debating with himself. Should he or shouldn’t he? Though he knew modern-day China was relatively free from crime and violence, his caution was getting the best of him. He was about to turn away when the cultured voice of the little man called out from the darkness, “This way, please. Do not worry. All is well.”