The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey dah-1

by Roland Deforrest

  “Touché, Yves,” she said good-naturedly. “Very perceptive. I’ll be just as direct as you are. You’re holding something back about Kolina. I want to know what.” She smiled genuinely. “But if you want to fuck all night, that’s okay too.”

  He laughed. It was open and unforced, and elicited a similar one from her. Warmly he put his arm about her. “I like you, Honey.”

  She snuggled into his shoulder, finding the feeling mutual. “Well, then, do you want to talk first or after we get it on a few times?”

  He grew serious again and withdrew his arm. “To be perfectly honest, I would prefer neither. But since you are here and since I am disturbed about the news of Kolina… I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll give you what you want and you, in return, give me what I want.”

  “I’m game… if I’m capable of returning the favor.”

  He smiled mysteriously. “Oh, I’m quite certain of that. Is it a deal, then?”

  She studied his face, trying to determine just how kinky he was. Well, she decided, whatever it was, it most likely wouldn’t be the first time for her. She figured she could handle anything he had up his sleeve… or anywhere else, for that matter. She smiled widely. “It’s a deal, Yves. You talk. Then I’ll see what’s on that twisted little mind of yours.”

  Instead of expressing pleasure at the bargain, as she was expecting, he became somber-faced again and stared toward the moon-drenched window. “What I am about to tell you is only speculation. I have no way of knowing if it could be true. But I always suspected Kolina would run off one day… with some man.” He swiveled his gaze to her. “She was quite precocious, I’m afraid. She proudly told me once that she had been sexually active since she was twelve.”

  “So what?” Honey said with a grin. “So was I.”

  “But I’m certain you showed much more discretion and restraint. Kolina was always infatuated with someone-obsessed would be a better word. She could easily have run away with her latest.”

  Honey nodded, digesting the information. “Is that all?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid it is not much, but a deal is a deal, no?”

  She laughed. “I’ve a funny feeling I’ve been had.”

  “Not yet,” he replied, and nodded to the center door opposite them. “Go open that door.”

  Getting into the spirit of the exchange, she bounced off the bed and flew to the indicated door, flinging it open, expecting anything but what she discovered on the other side. Crouched nude, down where the keyhole had been, a muscular youth pumped on his thick, hard cock. He jumped up in surprise and Honey gulped at his size and mammoth physical attributes. He looked carved out of granite, and his chiseled face bore a rugged handsomeness. But Honey could not take her eyes off his rock-hard prick, which jutted out from him like a thick log. It was his most impressive feature.

  “Honey,” Yves called jovially from bed, “meet Philippe. Now come here, you two.”

  Accompanied by the rugged, grinning youth, Honey strolled back to the bed, making her movements as provocative as possible for Yves’s enjoyment. Once again, however, she noted that he was not watching her; this time his eyes were caressing the handsome hunk next to her.

  “Philippe is one of my grape-pickers,” Yves was explaining. “His family has been in service to my family for over two hundred years.”

  “Enchanté,” Honey said to the brawny youth, who could not raise his eyes from her snow-white breasts. She grabbed his sturdy pole. Unable to get her fingers fully around it, she pumped it up and down as if shaking hands. Philippe laughed boyishly and palm-patted each of her breasts, as if playing patty-cake.

  “Philippe,” Yves ordered sternly and rose from the bed, speaking in French. “Take off her robe.”

  Eagerly the-lad yanked at her gossamer robe, pulling it from her shoulders. Approvingly, his hungry eyes swept over her. She noticed that Yves also had removed his robe and stood watching the two of them. His cock was flaccid and uncircumcised and looked like a deflated balloon hanging between his legs. Yves swept a hand toward the bed, commanding in French, “She has been a naughty girl, Philippe. Ravish her.”

  In a split second, Honey found herself hurled to the bed on her back and the horny, immense Philippe straddling her belly, one heavy thigh pressing down on either side. His meaty, callused hands held her wrists over her head, flat back on the velvet quilt. His blood-thickened prick poked at her fleshy breasts like a battering ram.

  Not as turned on by the sudden activity as she would have liked, she decided that if Yves was giving the orders, she could still express her own will. Bucking her hips, trying to throw off Philippe’s weight, she rolled back- and forth energetically, displaying surprising strength.

  Her efforts were so great that, at one point, the hefty lad was hurled from her torso onto the mattress. “Philippe!” Yves admonished from a nearby armchair, and the youth renewed his efforts with a look of grim determination. Easily he regained the upper hand and was soon forcing his big dick to her mouth. She made him work for his rewards, but soon set about sucking as much of his enormous appendage as she could. With his tight cheeks resting on her breasts, he thrust again and again into her wide-open mouth, but still she could get less than half of him in. She concentrated instead on tormenting his joy knob until she was evoking sharp cries of pleasure. Athletically he swiveled himself around, and supporting his weight on his hands and toes, his body a rigid plank above her, he dove into her moist, sweet meat.

  Honey took the moment to cast a glance at Yves. He sat in the cushioned chair not far from the side of the bed, watching them as if they were his own private, wide-screen entertainment. In one hand he grasped his puny but stiff pecker, attacking it with determination. The vision of a finally aroused Yves, in addition to the wonders that Philippe’s tongue was working within her, set Honey off into a paroxysm of electrical jolts. Her pussy began to feel as sticky as a melting caramel candy. She grabbed the stiff pole jabbing at her chin, and angled the apple-sized head into her mouth.

  “Fuck the bitch now, Philippe,” Yves gasped from his chair, and his young stud leapt to the task.

  Poised between her legs, he grinned at her and, with the force of a Hercules, jammed his hot prick into her cunt. She gasped at his hugeness and felt as if his heated pole were splitting her apart. Philippe lowered his granite body upon her and pumped and panted, sweated and swore with passion. And all the while, Yves pampered his plump little prick, and Honey, who could only hang on for dear life, felt as though she were being broached by a blimp.

  Her flaming funnel began twitching with unreleased tension, and a few more batterings from the magnum prick brought her quickly to a series of explosive climaxes and she began squealing her delight. Almost at once Philippe cried out, “Now, Yves,” and he reared back, pulling out his massive meat, and proudly watched his own cannon-balls of gism bombard her fleshy breasts. “Bravo, Philippe,” Yves bellowed, and Honey rolled her head toward him just as his plump balloon popped with a dribble of white frosting. He sighed happily, “You gave the sweet bitch what she wanted.”

  It was some time later-after a repeat performance by Philippe, with Yves watching from the foot of the bed-that Honey was able to extricate herself from the room. Weakly she made her way back to her own room, not bothering even to pull on her robe. She felt drained and, indeed, ravished-but, oh, what a lovely sensation! Something was nagging her, however, and as she let herself into the turret room, she realized she still felt that Yves Bouscaral had not told her everything he knew. She decided to call Dirk in the morning and set him on the case. She was going to take a much-deserved day off.

  Much to her delight, her canopied bed was not empty. The somber-eyed maid who had helped with her bath lay nude atop the covers. The white moonlight bathed her lovely, slender body with a luminous glow. The pretty young maid smiled betwitchingly from the pillows. “I’ve been waiting a long time,” she said softly in French.

  “Then we have much to make up for,” Honey said silkenly,
and settled down beside her. The maid’s breasts were pert and pink, her candy box full of sweet goodies, but Honey was so exhausted she could hardly move. Discouraged but still game, she rolled on her back, opening her legs and patting her red pelt of fur. “Forgive me, sweet one,” she yawned, “but I’m afraid this one will have to be all on you. In the morning, I promise, I’ll return in kind.”

  Honey drifted gently to sleep, the obliging young maid lapping at her tender twat like gentle waves upon a beach.

  8

  DIRK

  In the absurdly ornate lobby of Portugal’s Bussaco Palace Hotel, Dirk fidgeted in the telephone booth, waiting impatiently for his call to be connected to Paris. Through the booth’s beveled-glass doors, his eyes, however, were locked on the rugged Frenchman across the rococo lobby, sitting by himself, reading a newspaper and sipping brandy.

  Eventually the hotel’s operator broke in on the line to explain in halting English that his party had been reached. “Honey?” Dirk said quickly into the antique receiver. “You there?”

  “Yes, luv,” came her lilting voice. “Where are you?”

  “Where’d you expect? I got here this morning.”

  “Have you located Yves?”

  Dirk swiveled his head to stare out the glass doors at the man across the lobby. “Yup, he’s here, all right. How’d you know he’d be coming?”

  “A little maid told me,” she giggled. “I would have followed him myself, but I’d already made contact with him. He’d know for certain I didn’t believe him. How was your flight from Cartagena?”

  “Hated to leave, hate more to be here. This place is weird. Looks like it was designed for some fantasy pavilion at Disneyland.”

  “The Bussaco Palace is one of the world’s best kept secrets,” she laughed. “Used to be the hunting lodge for Portuguese kings. It’s one of my favorite hideaways. Broaden your horizons, baby brother.”

  He ignored her sisterly dig. “What are you doing in Paris?”

  “Waiting for my darling Disa to return from Munich. I’m hoping she’ll be able to help. She knows absolutely everybody who’s anybody on the continent.”

  “I still don’t know how I’ll learn anything new from this Yves fellow,” he sighed. “If you couldn’t get the truth out of him, how do you expect me to?”

  “Use your imagination, Dirk,” she said lightly. “And, as I said before, don’t be so damned provincial you forget to broaden your horizons. Call me as soon as you make contact.”

  “Are you telling me everything I should know about this fellow?”

  “Dirk,” she teased, “for pete’s sake don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy. Yves is perfectly harmless, but he’s lying through his teeth.”

  Dirk was about to respond when he spotted the subject under discussion rising and moving swiftly across the lobby toward the stained-glass front entrance. “Got to run, sis. Yves is on the move. I’ll call you soonest. Ciao.” He hung up, grabbed his camera bag, and exited the booth, moving rapidly after the disappearing figure.

  Outside, on the broad front steps of the bizarrely designed hotel, he hesitated, looking in all directions before spotting Yves Bouscaral scurrying down a path leading into the densely wooded hills that surrounded the former royal hunting lodge. Dirk hurried after him, past the rock-lined reflecting pool graced by several white swans, and into the thick stand of trees. The sunshine of northern Portugal was diffused by the overhanging branches, and the farther Dirk progressed along the winding dirt path, the dimmer the light became. The crisp smell of pine increased as the trail wound steeply up into the hills.

  For a long while Dirk followed the path, working up a fierce thirst and not catching so much as a glimpse of his prey. Then, rounding an outcropping of slate, he pulled up short. Up ahead, in a small clearing, the path was bisected by a gravel road that followed the crest of the ridge. On the road was a black Rolls touring car, looking oddly out of place in the rustic surroundings. But it was the human factor that held Dirk’s interest. Yves was meeting with a man just emerging from the rear seat of the chauffeured Rolls. Dirk ducked behind a tree trunk and quickly opened his camera case, pulling out his Nikon F3 and his 350 mm 5.6 mirror lens. Hastily he assembled the tools of his trade and, after checking the ASA of his film, began snapping a series of pictures of the two men.

  Wishing he were closer so that he might hear some of the exchange, he studied the figures framed in his viewfinder. It was more than obvious that Yves was greatly agitated, for his hands and arms waved angrily in the air as he spoke. The other man, whose face was obscured partially by a gray fedora, was replying with an equal amount of Gallic exuberance, shouting back, gesticulating wildly. Yves stomped away, then whirled, hurling still more invective. The other man whipped off his gray hat and slapped his thigh with it in disgust. Seizing the moment, Dirk focused on this man’s face and snapped away, his automatic film advancer whirring softly in the still air. Whoever he was, this second man had a face that Dirk would never forget; a pencil-thin mustache made a precise black mark just below the man’s nose, giving him an evil, decadent appearance, and his eyes were mere narrow slits of anger.

  Abruptly this second man spun to the Rolls and climbed in the back seat again, slamming the door. In a shower of dust and gravel the large black auto shot forward, careening out of sight at the top of the ridge. Yves stared after the departing Rolls and, with a defeated shrug, turned back to the path, heading straight down toward the unseen cameraman. Dirk plunged into the bushes and squatted, waiting for the man to pass. Yves was muttering to himself in French as he stalked by, barely three feet from where Dirk hid.

  Dirk followed him back toward the hotel, wondering what could have been so secret about the meeting of the two men that it couldn’t have been held in a more public place. The hotel itself was so far from the normal tourist route that it was fairly isolated. And the nearby village of Mealhada was so small, Dirk doubted that such a rendezvous as he had just witnessed would have raised an eyebrow among the natives. Whatever the reason for the clandestine encounter in the woods, it only increased Dirk’s growing interest in Yves Bouscaral.

  His quarry returned to the front of the hotel and stood with apparent uncertainty on the front steps. Dirk, still in the woods, skirted along the edge and found a suitable spot for further pictures of the man. With the afternoon sun striking the façade of the former palace, all of its intricate details were starkly lit. The many-storied structure was a humorous tangle of battlements, buttresses, towers, turrets, outside staircases, gargoyles, and arches. The ornateness diminished the lone man on the front steps and made an interesting composition for the photographs. Dirk was so intent upon his camerawork that he almost missed Yves dashing down the steps and into a waiting cab. The local taxi-a small, battered Renault-sped away toward the village.

  By the time Dirk could get a cab of his own and reach the sunbaked town, Yves was nowhere to be seen. Cursing his luck, Dirk roamed the narrow streets, checking the many eating and drinking spots that catered to the hotel guests. The sun was setting behind the high hills before he found parked in front of a cafe the taxi that had whisked Yves from the hotel. The driver was a friendly fellow who responded to Dirk’s twenty-dollar bill with a desire to help. He pointed down the street toward a stone building and winked lasciviously. “He there,” the cabbie said, and winked again.

  Dirk nodded his thanks and trotted to the indicated building. He opened the front door and stepped inside. Darkness greeted him, and the disturbing smells of sweat and dirty clothes hung in the heavy, moist air. At first he thought it was a laundry, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he couldln’t figure out where the hell he was. A small windowed booth off to one side held a baldheaded figure who was beckoning him over. Dirk approached, conscious of how quiet the establishment was. The bald man behind the small counter, whispered, “You want locker or basket?”

  “What is this joint?”

  “Bathhouse. You want locker or basket?”

&n
bsp; “Give me a locker,” Dirk replied, and pulled out some local currency to pay the entry fee. He was pointed through a side door, where he entered a long, dimly lit corridor lined with many doors. Dirk kept going and walked into a locker room. An old attendant dressed in white handed him a towel and a padlock, nodding toward a row of metal cabinets. Dirk chose one in the far corner and disrobed hurriedly, wrapping a towel around himself and stuffing his clothes inside the locker. He told himself he’d make a quick tour of the place, and if he didn’t spot Yves, he’d wait outside for the guy. Already he was feeling extremely uncomfortable.

  As casually as he could, he started on a hurried survey of the mazelike hallways. In almost no time he discovered that the bathhouse was more of a local gay cruising joint than a legitimate establishment. Though there were steam and sauna rooms and a bubbling, tile-lined hot pool that could easily have held twenty, most of the activity was taking place in the darkened recesses off the halls. The grunting and groaning, slurping and sucking sounds as he passed told him more than he wanted to know. Every man he ran into in the halls made some sort of pass at him. One beer-bellied guy, whose extra-large towel kept slipping off, even started following him, making cooing, clucking sounds.

  Dirk had had enough. Trying to find his way back to the locker room through the crisscrossing halls, he cursed silently. Damn Honey, he thought. She knew all along what Yves liked-that’s why she insisted I take over from here. Well, there’s a limit to how far I’ll go to help Kolina… damn right there is. Dirk was still grumbling to himself when he turned a corner and ran smack into Yves Bouscaral.

  “Pardon,” Yves apologized, and a sly grin formed on his ruddy face. “Sprechen sie Deutsch?”

  “English,” Dirk replied. “And you?”

  “French…” He paused suggestively. “Come to my room?”

  “Room? They’ve got private rooms here?” Dirk asked caught off guard.

  “Very private. Come on.”