The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

by Roland Deforrest

  Perplexed, Jamilia reached a graceful hand over the screen and took it, holding it up to the ceiling light to look at it. At once her face blanched. “Kolina?” she gasped, and disappeared.

  “Kolina?” he repeated. “You do know her, then?”

  With a flurry, Jamilia scooted from behind the screen, gathering a sky-blue silk robe about her nude figure, her lovely face a mask of concern. “Where did you get this?” she demanded hoarsely.

  “I took it myself. In New York.”

  “When?”

  “A week ago Sunday,” he replied, increasingly concerned by her obvious alarm.

  Almost frantically she searched his face, then burst into tears. “My darling Kolina,” she sobbed, and kissed the photo. She collapsed into a straight-backed chair and wept openly into her hands. In a flash he was kneeling beside her, his arms around her soft body, pressing her head to his shoulders, his fingers tracing the silken robe on her back. She did not resist his embrace, and he marveled at her open trustfulness. “There, there,” he said quietly into her blonde mass of sweet-smelling hair.

  She cried for several moments, and with each renting sob, his desire to help her intensified all the more. Finally she pushed away and her tear-filled eyes sought his, imploringly. “You must tell me everything you know about her. I beg of you.”

  Burning with his own curiosity, he hurriedly relayed the entire story of his encounter with the girl in Central Park, her plea for help, and the two thugs who chased him and whisked her away. He finished with how and why he had come to Cartagena, then quickly added, “Now it’s your turn. Who is this Kolina?”

  She stiffled a sob. “She’s my younger sister. And she’s been missing for over a month.”

  As Jamilia hastily pulled on her street clothes behind the lattice screen, she explained in broken phrases, often interrupted by a new burst of tears, what she knew of Kolina’s disappearance. Much to Dirk’s disappointment, he learned very little, but he could piece together a general outline.

  Jamilia had been paying for Kolina’s education in an exclusive girl’s school in Switzerland ever since their parents had drowned in a freak boating accident in the Mediterranean, some five years earlier. She and Kolina were very, very close and would meet in Paris each summer to spend Kolina’s vacation touring and having a grand time together. During the school term, Kolina wrote to her often, and occasionally, when Jamilia felt especially flush, she would call overseas for a friendly little chat with her sister. She had spoken to Kolina in this manner only two days before the telegram arrived.

  The fateful cable from the Swiss school’s headmistress had awoken Jamilia one morning over a month ago. Kolina had disappeared overnight from the school’s grounds and could not be found. Desperately, Jamilia had flown to Switzerland and spent two frustrating, ennervating, and painful weeks hounding the school, the local police, even Interpol, but no trace of Kolina could be found, not even a single clue as to what might have happened to her. Heartbroken, Jamilia had returned to her high-paying job in Cartagena, waiting in dread each day for some word. Until Dirk had shown up with the photo taken only a short time before, Jamilia had not known for certain that her precious little sister was even still alive.

  Protectively, Dirk walked the distraught exotic dancer back to her place within the oldest part of the city. She lived on the top floor of a white stone house surrounded by wrought-iron balconies. Reaching her door, at the top of the narrow stone stairs off a small interior courtyard, Dirk was longing to comfort the beautiful creature on even more intimate terms. But he was too much of a gentlemen to press his own raging needs upon the obviously upset young woman.

  Much to his delight, Jamilia invited him inside. Her small apartment was decorated charmingly with handicrafts of local artisans. colorful wall hangings of patchwork appliques, thickly woven wool rugs, stuffed lizards of various sizes; a huge stuffed tortoise, balancing a sheet of glass on its shell, served as a coffee table before a comfortable-looking couch. In an alcove, a large bed was covered with hand-embroidered pillows. Jamilia switched on a pounded-brass lamp and threw open the glass doors to the small balcony, revealing the twinkling lights ringing the harbor. She indicated an array of liquor bottles on a shelf near the kitchenette and told him to help himself while she took a bath. She entered the adjoining bathroom and closed the door.

  Listening to the soft sounds of her bathing, he nursed a straight Scotch and stood on the small balcony, seeking a cool breeze and trying to deal with his rising expectations. He felt inextricably drawn to her, as if he were the only one in the whole world who could help her find Kolina. He pledged to himself that he would do everything within his power and resources to reunite the two sisters.

  He was thinking of trying to reach Honey with news of the recent developments when Jamilia emerged from the bathroom, her voluptuous figure wrapped only in a large, damp bath towel. Wordlessly she poured herself a small cognac in a large snifter.

  He raised his own glass. “To finding Kolina.”

  “You will help me, then?”

  “Of course, Jamilia,” he said. “My sister and I have already begun.”

  She moved closer to him, sipping from the snifter, eyeing him over the rim. “Jamilia is my dancing name. My real name is Barbro.”

  “Barbro and Kolina,” he murmured. “Those are Swedish, aren’t they?” He could feel the heat rising within him like mercury in a thermometer.

  She nodded. “We were born outside of Goteborg on a small farm. Our father was a professor of economics at the university.” Her lovely, light blue eyes welled with tears again. “And our mother was a folk dancer in a professional troop.”

  “How did a Swedish girl end up belly dancing in Cartagena?”

  She smiled wistfully, and for a brief second he saw again the identical image of Kolina in the park. “I was raised dancing,” she began softly. “And one year, when I was eleven and Kolina was six, my father taught in Tunisia. I began studying Middle Eastern dancing there. After… after the boat explosion that claimed by parents’ lives, I needed a profession to put Kolina through school. Because my figure is too full for any other kind of dancing, I went to Egypt and studied more. Blonde belly dancers are a rarity, and I became quite successful. The best offer came from this club here. Blondes are also at a premium in South America.”

  “Especially such talented ones.” He could not control his urges any longer. He bent and kissed her tenderly on the lips. She did not pull back, but rather returned it in full.

  When they parted, she looked at him strangely. “Why do you want to help find Kolina? You saw her only for a moment.”

  “I’m a professional photographer. Beautiful women are my passion. I’ve never, ever seen a face like hers… or yours, for that matter. You look so much like her…” He broke off, flustered at his ineffectual explanation, and tried again. “She looked so damned vulnerable, so in need of someone to help her…”

  Barbro nodded silently in agreement and took his hand, pulling him toward the bed in the alcove. He hesitated, torn by conflicing desires. “Barbro… you don’t have to do anything for me. I’ll look for your sister without any reward from you.”

  She placed a finger on his lips. “Shhh… I want you, Dirk Wildon. You are a good man, a decent man. And I haven’t had any man for such a long, long time.”

  In amazement he stared down at her beautiful face. “I find that difficult to understand. You could have any man you wanted.”

  She sighed and sank gracefully to the bed, tossing embroidered pillows aside. “Belly dancers are always thought to be promiscuous because their art is so erotic. But my standards are high. Rather than risk my reputation, which would make my life hell in such a place as this, I prefer to remain celibate.” She lay back on the pillows and held her arms up to him. “You are a very sexy man. Tall, lanky, like an American cowboy…”

  Thrilled by her praise, he fell beside her and gathered her to him, whispering into her face, “And you are a very sexy wom
an… full, ripe, delicious, a smorgasbord of delights…” She giggled and he kissed her hungrily; his tongue sank deep into her smooth mouth, which tasted of mints and smelled of cognac. Their tongues twisted and coiled around each other like mating snakes. At once his larger snake raised its head and pressed heatedly through his slacks into her soft belly.

  He reared up to pull the damp towel from her luscious body and fling it on the floor. By the dim light of the brass lantern, he gazed raptly at the revealed wonders. Her skin was the color of his sister’s, creamy white, unblemished, satiny to the touch of his roaming fingers. Her breasts were a treasure trove—full, rounded mounds of pale flesh, pliable to the touch. Her aureoles were pale pink, and her nipples, slightly darker in color, were already as hard as pencil erasers, cylindrical in shape, flat-topped. He lowered his mouth and sucked on one, flicking it with his tongue as her encircling arms pressed him to her. Not wanting to slight a single portion, he traced his tongue across the deep crevice between her breasts and to the other nipple, biting it softly, raising a soft moan of approval from deep in her throat.

  She pushed his shoulders up off her, panting, “Get nude, Dirk… I want you nude too.”

  He rolled off the bed and stood, tearing off his shirt, tossing it aside while he toed off his Gucci loafers. As he unzipped his slacks his hard peter bounced into view and she reached out a cool hand, taking hold of it while he shucked his slacks and stepped out of them. While she kept hold of his rigid bird, he struggled out of his socks and was about to kneel again on the bed, when her mouth swooped forward and closed over the end of his pleasantly surprised dick. She sat on the edge of the bed holding his hips with her hands as her mouth encompassed his cock, sliding down on it until he could feel the back of her throat. Stroking her blonde waves, he watched her devour his bird as if it were a sausage of the tastiest meat. His hands lowered to her bouncing breasts and he tweaked her nipples, rolling and pinching the puckered flesh between his fingertips; cupping her full breasts, he held them in the palm of his hand, feeling their weight, their resiliency.

  She let his dick slip from her mouth and inhaled one of his balls, washing it around her talented mouth, scrubbing it with her tongue before letting go of it to apply the same attention to the other testicle. His hard peter battered her soft cheek, and he could feel a roaring furnace stoking to life deep in the center of his groin. She pulled back slightly to study his bird, holding it gently in both hands, pulling the skin tightly back from its engorged head, licking the end of it, parting the small opening with her tongue.

  He couldn’t wait any longer and shoved her back on the bed, crawling between her legs, spreading her creamy thighs wide, opening her steamy portal to paradise for his own minute study. Her bush was the color of tropical beach sand, soft and silky. Her crinkled labia were tinged a delicate rose hue, which deepened in color the further he explored with his eager fingers. Her internal walls were slick with dew and undulated with their own erotic dance. Slowly he lowered his mouth, inhaling the sweet aroma of ripe fruit. She tasted just as sweet, and his tongue dug deep, slicing her open like a fresh fig. He located her love trigger and afflicted it tenderly until her generous hips were writhing.

  He scooted his legs around, bringing his demanding cock to her mouth, and as he ate at her delectable morsels of love meat, she sucked his quivering bird deeply into her throat. He pumped his hips gently and caressed the insides of her thighs, clutching at the soft cheeks of her buttocks, pulling her buttocks wide apart, reaming her purple-pink anus, and returning to the tender trench like a homing pigeon. For a long while they continued in the classic sixty-nine position until he felt too close to creaming into her mouth. Wanting to postpone the inevitable as long as possible, he withdrew and, turning her on her side, crawled around her, spooning his hips up to her soft mass of ass, his aching cock pressing between her cheeks, his arms encircling her, his hands grabbing for her large breasts, his face buried in her neck just below her ear.

  He pulled her top leg over his thigh and, with the excitement of a school boy on his first fuck, slowly sought her liquid opening with the head of his ready-to-fly bird. He eased into her incredibly tight pussy with a deliberateness and she arched her head back into him, groaning. Deeper and deeper his bird burrowed into the moist meat until he could go no further. With one hand he stroked her full breasts, the other circling low on her rounded belly, down over the kinky softness of her bush, his middle finger seeking out the top of her love trench, locking on her lust button, jiggling it steadily as he plunged, again and again and again, deep into her.

  Soon she was groaning lustily, “Do me, Dirk… do me good. Fuck me, fuck me hard…”

  Ever the gentleman, he did as she demanded, giving it to her with all the finesse born of his many years of experience. Many times he was so close to coming that he had to stop moving altogether to prolong their pleasure to its fullest. Again and again he raised her to peaks of passion and still he fucked on, at times slow, at times hard and fast, like a piston in a precision racing machine. The sheets were drenched with their sweat and her juices before he rolled over on top of her. The new position raised her to even further heights of ecstasy and made it easier for his eager bird to ram as deep as possible. She shrieked as she peaked again, and, unable to contain his own climax any longer, he lowered his head between her mountainous breasts and drove for home with the determination of a long-lost orphan. His dick felt three times its normal size and was raw from the workout before it finally detonated deep with in her. With a growl of joy, he shot his load and was surprised at its duration and amount. Drained, he collapsed on her voluptuous body and suddenly realized that when he’d come, he had been fantasizing that he was fucking her sister, Kolina.

  In less than an hour they made it two more times. By the fifth fuck before dawn, he was pleading for some rest. By breakfast he was as limp as a wilted daisy. And still she wanted more. He rose to the occasion… but fell asleep in midstroke.

  6.

  HONEY

  Rather than take the train from Zurich, she hired a chauffeured Mercedes-Benz limousine. The nearly three-hour drive to Klosters, high up in the Swiss Alps, near the Austrian border, was filled with scenic, even awesome grandeur. From the deeply cushioned rear seat of the luxurious auto, Honey stared out at the passing panorama of dense virgin woods, craggy, sunlit peaks, and lush green valleys sprinkled with vivid spring flowers. She was filled not only with the peaceful beauty, but also with bittersweet memories of her own schoolgirl years in very similar surroundings, near Lucerne. For six years, until she turned eighteen, she had lived and studied there. In many ways, she now felt she was coming home.

  Dirk’s telephone report from Cartagena had caught up with her in Rome, where, in the villa of a dear friend, she’d been recovering from her Indian sojourn. The news that Kolina had disappeared from a Swiss boarding school called Bon Coeur had immediately sent Honey off on this present journey. Dirk’s voice, via transoceanic phone, had been filled with such desperate urgency and insistence that she could not deny him. Besides, the news that Kolina was officially missing only confirmed their previous fears that the girl was in jeopardy, held against her will. That alone was reason enough for Honey to be concerned and to try to help in any way she could. If there were any causes to which she was fervently, irrevocably committed, they were personal liberty and freedom of choice.

  The little village of Klosters did not disappoint her memory of it. Though she had been there several times in winter for the area’s excellent skiing, this was her first visit in the spring. The quaint little chalets dotting the hills around the town looked strangely naked sitting in plush velvet green rather than amid drifts of snowy white. Flowers were blooming everywhere, draping over balconies, filling window-boxes, even decorating mailboxes. At the other side of town, past the steepled, whitewashed kirche, her driver crossed the bridge over the Landquart River and took the road that wound up the side of the mountain, following the carved wood signs for Bon Coeur.
Eventually the stone gates of the school itself came into view, and the sleek, long limousine turned off the main road and passed under the arched entrance and up the tree-lined drive. Honey leaned forward in anticipation.

  The stately old stone buildings of Bon Coeur came into view, looking much like her own alma mater—refined, monied, full of tradition and respect for academic knowledge. Surrounded by towering pines and century-old maples, the grounds looked like those of an exclusive private club with sweeping expanses of closely mown grass. Stone terraces and benches were scattered about, offering stunning vistas of the Alps and the tiny village in the valley far below. Schoolgirls ranging in age from six to eighteen, wearing a full uniform of short blue-and-green plaid skirt, smart blue blazer, white blouse with dark blue tie, and white knee socks, strolled about the grounds in small groups, or sat under trees alone, studying or just enjoying the sparkling sunshine. Honey had a sudden twinge of memory and felt a sweet longing for her dear school chum, Disa Dichter, whom she had not seen for weeks. When they had been these girls’ age, they’d usually been off in the belfry, ringing their own chimes.

  She instructed the driver to pull up before the administration building, and as he parked, she removed from her Venetian leather purse a gold Tiffany compact, making a quick survey of her face and hair. Remembering her old headmistress’s stern, matriarchal manner had prompted Honey to dress conservatively in a very tailored, midnight-blue tweed suit by Ungaro, with low Charles Jordan pumps. She had even swept up her deep red hair into a modified French roll, leaving wispy tendrils on either side of her face to soften the severity. She waited until the elderly chauffeur opened her door, then slid out with a grateful smile, telling him in French to please wait. She walked up the brick stairs and entered the imposing structure, feeling suddenly very young and yet very out of place.