She let him catch his breath, then made a move to extricate herself. “Up, up, Mr. Bell,” she said cheerily. “Let’s check for that forwarding address.”
“Must we leave so soon?”
“Easy come, easy go,” she joshed, and reached for her panties.
Feeling energized by her early-morning sexual workout and by the ultimately helpful assistance of the obliging Evan Bell, Honey returned to Dirk’s loft in lower Soho, letting herself in with her own key. She was eager to relay the information she had tracked down-including Barnabas Havelock’s forwarding address. The large space was disturbingly silent, and no one answered her calls. On the message board by the phone, Dirk had pinned a note that read, Honey, play back tape on deck.
Perplexed, she located the tape recorder, switched it on, and hit the play button. Dirk’s excited, boyish voice boomed out over the speakers high in the corners, “Honey, sorry I’m not here. I heard from a photographer pal of mine whoe saw my snap of the girl in the park. He swears on his mother’s grave that there is an exact double of the girl dancing in a nightclub in Cartagena, Colombia. I know it sounds as weird as hell, but since we’ve no other leads, I’ve got to follow it up. Leave a message here and let me know where you’ll be. I’ll be in touch soonest. Love ya, Honey. You’re the best. ‘Bye for now.”
The tape fell silent and she switched it off, fighting the flood of disappointment and the bubble of anger pushing up her throat. Damn, of all the rotten timing. She punched the record button and spoke crisply into the built-in condenser mike: “Dirk, honestly, at least you could’ve waited until you heard from me. All I could find out is that the girl is traveling with her father, who was registered as Barnabas Havelock, supposedly some sort of reclusive mega-millionaire. But I made a quick check with Standard and Poors, and there is no one of that name registered on their worldwide directories. Sounds fishy, no? Anyway, his forwarding address is the Taj Ganges Hotel in Varanasi, India. You’re lucky I’ve never been there, or you’d have to take it from here. I’ll leave word with your lawyer as soon as I’ve learned anything. I love you too, baby brother. Ta-ta…”
4
HONEY
She arrived in Varanasi, India, exhausted by the long flight from New York to New Delhi and the short hop by a local airliner to the ancient city once known as Benares. Located midway between New Delhi to the northwest and Calcutta on the Bay of Bengal, to the southeast, Varanasi sat on the banks of the sacred Ganges River like a patient dowager empress.
As it was Honey’s first visit to Varanasi, her energy level picked up considerably on the frantic taxi ride from the small airport through the teeming city streets, alive with masses of people. By the time she reached the Hotel Taj Ganges, all her senses were once again alert, stimulated by the exotic, strange sights. New locales always affected her in this manner, and her sparkling blue eyes swept expectantly over the grand entrance to the hotel, as if at any moment something so extraordinary would occur that she would be swept away, eagerly propelled into a new adventure.
Striding purposefully into the old-fashioned, Victorian-influenced lobby, she was only minimally conscious of the stir she was creating among the staff and occupants sipping their afternoon tea in the lobby’s high, fan-backed chairs. White women traveling by themselves were rare in this off-the-tourist-path city, let alone white women with alabaster skin and deep red hair. Her smart Ralph Lauren traveling suit of raw aqua silk set off her striking coloring and clung tightly to her voluptuous body. Dark eyes followed her with unabashed interest as she swept to the desk clerk and politely asked for a room.
She was informed that, alas, there were none available. Instantly she regretted that her trip had been so quickly planned that she had not had time to wire ahead for reservations. She smiled graciously at the dark-skinned, middle-aged clerk. “Surely there must be something available,” she said, and extracted a fifty-dollar bill from her green leather purse. Discreetly she laid it on the counter next to the registration book. “I would be most indebted if you could locate accommodations for me. If not here, perhaps elsewhere in the city.”
He folded the bill out of sight and replied in perfect English, “I will see what I can do.”
“You are most kind,” she said. “Meanwhile, I am trying to find a dear friend of mine-Barnabas Havelock. I have strong reason to believe he is here in this hotel.”
“Barnabas Havelock,” the clerk repeated, as if mystified. “We have no one of that name registered.”
“Are you sure? He is traveling with his lovely young daughter.” Quickly, Honey pulled out of her purse Dirk’s photo of the girl, and displayed it.
Immediately the clerk’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and he pulled himself up formally. “So sorry, I am unable to help you.”
Smelling deception, she studied the man. His whole manner had changed; only moments before, he had been politely deferential. Now he was coldly efficient. She turned on her considerable charms, flashing a disarming, genuine smile. “You do recognize her, don’t you? It’s desperately urgent that I locate her and her father.”
“I have never encountered her,” he said crisply. “Now excuse me, I will see to finding you accommodations.” He turned and disappeared through a swinging door into an office behind the check-in desk.
Her instincts told her the man was lying through his dazzling white teeth. The registration book caught her eye, and as the desk was unattended, she turned the large book around and hurriedly scanned the signatures. There was no Barnabas Havelock registered. Keenly disappointed, she righted the book and walked back to her bags, which the uniformed doorman had deposited near the front entrance.
With one eye on the front desk, she signaled the doorman outside the large glass-and-iron doors. The turbaned man entered with a subservient smile. “May I be of service?”
“I do hope so,” she said, and handed him the photo of the young blonde. “Is this girl staying here?”
“I cannot say…”
“Can not or will not?” she asked, her voice tinged with vexation.
“Perhaps if you inquire at the front desk?” He gave back the photo with an apologetic shrug.
At the moment the desk clerk reemerged from the back room and spotted her receiving the photo from the doorman. Immediately the desk clerk frowned darkly and dashed around the counter toward them. The doorman shrank from her and ducked outside the doors like a cowering puppy.
“I must request you to leave our premises at once,” the desk clerk huffed officiously.
“Leave? Aren’t you finding me a room?” she asked in surprise.
“There are no vacancies.”
“And the other hotels?”
“Check for yourself,” he replied, and handed back her fifty dollars. Before she could protest, he spun on his heel and marched away. Her anger bubbling just underneath the surface, she snatched up her bags and exited the hotel.
The city was bathed in the saffron glow of the fast-sinking sun as Honey went from hotel to hotel, only to receive the same reply: “Sorry, we’re booked solid.” With growing consternation she pressed her search through the narrow, crowded streets. No amount of bribery or cajolery produced any results, even at the smallest, grimiest places of public lodging. Not believing her misfortune, and appalled to be in a strange city with no place to stay and the night fast approaching, Honey strengthened her resolve, determined that the next place would have a vacancy. Unfortunately, it too was full, according to the clerk on duty.
Dejected, she stood on the sidewalk, thumbing forlornly through the tourist guidebook she’d picked up at the airport. The air was sultry and still excessively hot. The smells of human refuse and rotting garbage wafted over her; the flies were thick everywhere, annoyingly persistent. Longing for a bath and a cool place to lie down, she reached the sobering conclusion that she had inquired at every hotel listed in the guidebook. She fought back tears of annoyance and, hefting her bags once again, set off down the crowded street, her progress impeded by
thousands of milling natives who looked at her with open curiosity. Cunning beggars, peddlers, and fakirs waved their hands at her, jabbering unintelligently.
Ignoring them, she had no idea where she was headed, but she felt that something would have to turn up soon or she would lose the firm resolve that was now the only thing holding her upright. A fresh breeze drew her on. She reached the steep, wide stone steps leading down to the Ganges itself. A sea of black umbrellas and makeshift canopies stretched along the riverbank as far as she could see in both directions. Beyond them, the murky green water floated slowly. Hundreds of devoted bathers splashed in the water. Some of the men were naked except for G-strings, and the women were dressed in saris that clung to their wet bodies. Bony sacred cows mingled on the bank with black-sari-clad women, youngish men in sparkling white cotton Nehru shirts, and old men with unkempt hair, wearing dirty loincloths.
Staring at the press of humanity, Honey sank to sit on her luggage, unable to find the strength to continue her search. She was thinking of returning to the airport terminal to wait for the next plane out, when a deep, rich male voice spoke beside her: “Excuse me, may I be of assistance?”
Gratefully she looked up into a pair of kohl-black eyes shining with warmth and concern. The dark eyes were set in a face of youthful handsomeness, topped by a complete bald head. She smiled wearily. “I need a place to stay the night, but all the hotels are booked up.”
The young man, tall, lean, wrapped in saffron-colored robes, nodded reflectively. “You have been blackballed.”
“Blackballed? What do you mean? Why?”
He shrugged and squatted on his haunches beside her, speaking softly. “It is a very small city. Evidently you upset the manager of the Taj Granges Hotel. At least that is what the streets whisper.”
“You mean he put out the word not to give me a room?”
Gravely the young Indian nodded. “A runner was sent ahead of you to warn the other hotels.”
“But why?” she asked incredulously. “All I did was ask after a friend.”
Again the handsome young man shrugged. “Privacy is deeply respected here. Perhaps you were too inquisitive.”
“Or asked after the wrong person,” she muttered, and dabbed at her perspiring face with a clean hankie. In spite of her predicament, she felt at that moment a deep sexual pull toward the young man, and she smiled gamely at his sober countenance. “My name is Honey Wildon. I am an American.”
“Mine is Pagala Baba. And I am a holy man.”
“A holy man?” she repeated, unable to cover her disappointment.
He stood, his long robes partially open, revealing a lean, firm thigh. “Your search is over. You may stay the night at my humble abode if you would like.”
“I’d like,” she said sweetly.
The young priest took her bags and, without a word, set off down the wide stone steps. She followed, trying to match his long, barefooted strides. When they reached the rocky shoreline, she had difficulty keeping up with him in her high heels. Slipping them off, carrying them in one hand, she hurried after him over the smooth stones, terribly conscious of the pointed stares of the thousands of curious onlookers who parted before them. On and on the young holy man walked, until she thought he would never stop. Wearily she padded after his sturdy back, absorbed in the strange sights and smells in the last light of day.
Into the increasing darkness they trudged, far beyond the outskirts of the city, until the crowds on the river-bank dwindled and faded far behind them. At last, just when she felt she couldn’t walk another step, he stopped and set down her bags, announcing simply, “This is my resting spot.”
She looked around in the dim light, not seeing anything but a wide curve of the slow-moving river, a steep clay bank, and several squat bushes. She turned back to her benefactor, but could not see him anywhere. “Hello?” she called out tentatively.
“I’m here,” came his echoed reply, and a softly glowing light suddenly appeared. He stood inside the mouth of a small cave, and she stooped in to join him. The flickering light of a small kerosene lantern revealed the damp red-clay walls, the floor covered with fresh straw, the untidy pallet of heaped clothes. The ceiling of the narrow cave was too close for them to stand fully upright. He placed her bags at the far end, near some sort of altar, and returned to stand beside her. “I hope you will rest peacefully here.”
“I’m positive I will,” she said with a yawn. “I can’t thank you enough.”
He smiled knowingly and tugged at his robes. At once they fell from him. A small cloth covered his loins, and his long, lean brown limbs glowed in the soft light. She felt her throat tighten at his physical beauty; with his clean-shaven head, he looked like a statue of a young saint. Carefully he placed his robes on the straw. “It is time to bathe in the holy river,” he said, and bent further to leave the cave. He walked out of the circle of lantern-light and vanished toward the water.
For a moment she stood uncertainly, then decided that the idea of a swim was just too perfect to pass up. Not knowing whether he was watching from the darkness-and hoping he was-she slowly undressed and stepped out of her panties with studied nonchalance. She stretched her arms over her head, thrusting out her pelvis, and rolled her rounded hips to work out some of the kinks, then ducked out of the cave. Her full figure silhouetted in the light from the cave’s mouth, she stepped gingerly toward the water. Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and she spotted his white loincloth lying on a rock. Not wanting to disturb his holy ablutions, she did not call out, but walked into the cool water. The bottom was smooth mud, and slippery, but the water was so refreshing that she waded out until it was over her hips, then slipped fully into it, kicking out into a modified side stroke.
The night air was breezeless but balmy, the sky already filling with stars. In the distance, as she swam lazily about, she could hear a flute soaring tunelessly, and farther down the river, toward the city, a line of campfires could be seen, like a string of glowing pearls. Remembering the sight of the murky water in the daylight, she deliberately kept her head and face out of it and eventually paddled back to the shore. Feeling deliciously renewed, she rose from the water and saw the young holy man squatting nude near the entrance of the cave, watching her carefully. As she walked toward him, her heavy breasts swaying, he stood, his limbs still glistening with water. He had not bothered to put on his loincloth, so she made no attempt at covering herself. “That was lovely,” she said.
Silently he handed her a piece of clean cloth, and she patted dry her arms and rounded breasts. She glanced down at his groin, now visible in a shaft of light, and her heart quickened. His soft, uncircumcised cock was lovely, thin, long, the color of mahogany; his balls hanging loosely on either side, were large and potent-looking. She wondered if his priestly vows included celibacy. Just as that thought passed through her mind, she saw his brown shaft suddenly twitch, nodding slowly upward. She raised her eyes to his; he was staring at her breasts as if he had never seen such a huge pair before. She questioned teasingly, “What kind of holy man are you?”
“I am a devotee of Brahma, the Creator.”
“And what beliefs does that entail?”
“Brahma began the process of creation,” he said solemnly. “Together, Brahma and Saraswati begat the whole race of mortals.
“How divine,” she purred, and patted the cloth over her thighs, pausing to wipe the fiery red of her pussy pelt. Aware of the increased attentiveness of his cock, and also aware that his eyes followed her every move, she filled her lungs, expanding her breasts before him. “And what else do you believe?”
“Sexual union is an auspicious Yoga, which, though involving enjoyment of all the sensual pleasures, gives release. It is a path to liberation.”
“Now that is something I too believe in,” she said firmly. She dropped her eyes again to his rising shaft; it was thickening nicely and the dark skin was tightening over the plump head, gradually pulling back, displaying more and more
of the nut-brown knob. “Is that your prayer stick?” she asked facetiously.
“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.”
The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey dah-1 Page 4