Claude drank in her beauty, her eyes growing to twice their usual size. With a cry she fell on one of Honey’s large breasts like a babe long denied a feeding. While she sucked, Honey backed to the couch and lowered herself to the soft, cool leather cushions, bringing Claude down on top of her. Wrapping her long legs around the headmistress, Honey pushed against Claude and they ground their mounds together as if they were two stones grinding flour. Still clutched in one of Honey’s hands was the ancient ivory dildo Disa had given her so long ago. She rubbed it down Claude’s backbone and over the slim but exciting derriere, and up and down the crevice between her buttocks. Claude writhed with delight and brought her head up to engage Honey in a fevered session of French kissing.
Soon Honey was on top, kneeling between Claude’s thighs, removing the drenched bit of red lace from her hips. Along with the panties came the garter belt and eventually the silk stockings. Now Claude was just as naked as Honey was and the latter gazed down reverently at the revealed wonders. Claude’s delta of Venus was like a rosy croissant hot from the oven. Honey swooped to it with her mouth and funneled the lips open with her nose, followed close behind by her tongue. The headmistress tasted of baked apples, naturally sweet, full of delicious juices and steaming with heat. Honey lapped lustily and locked on the small protuberance which was the very core of Claude’s sexuality. Tonguing it, she simultaneously ran her hands up Claude’s trunk, landing on her small, tight breasts, flicking her long fingernails over the hard buttons of her nipples. Claude was moaning and swooning with such abandonment that Honey could tell the young woman was close to coming.
Honey rammed the hard bone of the dildo deep into the flaming trench, and Claude squealed, arching her back, then drove her pussy down on the old ivory, plunging it up to Honey’s fingertips. Holding tightly to the double-headed dildo, Honey maneuvered herself over the free end, pulled it out a bit to allow herself a fair share, and inserted it into her own moist pussy. Then, her hands free, she pressed one on her own clitoris, seeking Claude’s with the other. Rocking up and down, she drove the old white bone in and out of both their twats, feeling her own glorious sensations while providing Claude with a surfeit of sensual splendors. Claude was grasping her shoulders, gasping for air while totally unladylike sounds came from her throat. Her head was thrown back on the cushion, her eyes closed as if she were having the lesson of her life. Spasms started wracking her body and she increased her movements, her eyes glazing over and rolling back in their sockets. With a series of grunts she began climaxing, and continued to do so until Honey caught up with her. Together they came again and again, rocking and rolling on the ivory centerpiece like two bitches in heat.
It was some time before they cooled down enough to take stock of themselves. They discovered with shock that Claude was due at a faculty meeting in less than five minutes. Rapidly they disentangled themselves and flung their clothes on, grinning at each other like two conspirators in a Tangiers marketplace. Claude was hastily repiling her hair into the tight bun when Honey thought of something in Kolina’s file.
“Claude, my pet,” she purred as she stepped, stockingless, into her low pumps, “what was this poetry prize Kolina won last year?”
“Very prestigious and very deserved. Sponsored by Chateau Bouscaral.”
“The famous French winery?”
“The Marquise Bouscaral endorsed the generous grant that makes the reward possible,” Claude explained as she tried to smooth her wrinkled skirt. “And the Marquise herself invited Kolina down to her chateau on several occasions. She was most gracious and attentive to the poor child. As was her son.”
“I don’t remember anything in Kolina’s files, here or in Zurich, about the Bouscarals knowing Kolina.”
Claude turned to her with a look of astonishment. “But I am sure I mentioned that to the police.”
Honey kissed her tenderly. “Not to worry, my pet. I’ll follow through. Irons-nous faire un petit tour?”
7.
HONEY
In the Bordeaux region of France, Chateau Bouscaral sat like an ornate centerpiece in the vast vineyards that marched in neat rows up and down the rolling landscape. As Honey drove the rented Citröen up the curved drive, she felt as though she were stepping back in time—into the days of grandeur and pomp of the French aristocracy. The sprawling, many-winged, single-story chateau, built in the mid-eighteenth century, was capped at each end by tall, conical-crowned turrets. The simple, long, low lines of the tan stone chateau and the stately, formal gardens in front bespoke of titled wealth handed down through the same family century after century.
She was greeted at the massive, hand-carved doors by a petite maid in traditional black dress with white apron and cap, who politely led her through the opulently appointed entrance hall lined with exquisite Flemish tapestries. Each room they passed through was filled with immense artistic riches: Persian drinking bowls, Chinese wine vessels, a huge wooden horse ridden by a man-sized dummy; Honey recognized the latter as models used by seventeenth-century Italian painters. Inside a drawing room decorated in a decidedly feminine style she was told to wait, and the maid discreetly withdrew. Left to her own devices, Honey wandered about the lovely room, admiring the relatively modern masterpieces adorning the walls; among her favorites were a de la Resnaye and a large Picasso from his blue period.
Her reverie was interrupted by the arrival of the grand dame herself, the present-day driving force behind the successful, much-honored winery, Marquise Berengere-Marie Bouscaral. Honey was surprised at the youthful vitality of the aristocratic-looking woman. Tall, slim, silver-haired, the Marquise held herself with the erectness and bearing of a woman who enjoyed fully her exalted position in life. Wearing an “at home” long gown of heavy pink satin, she glided into the drawing room like a queen, gracious and regal.
“Miss Wildon,” she greeted Honey in a lovely, deep voice in faintly accented English, “it is indeed an honor to welcome you to Chateau Bouscaral.”
Honey took the proffered hand covered with sparkling jewels, as she replied, “Madame La Marquise, I am the one who is honored. Thank you for receiving me on such short notice.”
Briefly they exchanged pleasantries; Honey’s hand was held by the Marquise as if it were one of the rare crystal decanters lining the glass shelf near them. At last the grand dame let it go, almost reluctantly, and moved to an embroidered wall cord, which she pulled to summon tea to be served. They sat on moire-silk-covered Louis XV chairs before a pink marble fireplace that was ablaze with a small, neatly laid fire in spite of the bright sunshine outside the open French doors leading to a garden terrace. Sipping tea from bone china cups, they chatted about inconsequential matters: the fine spring weather, the difficulty of finding suitable help, St. Laurent’s new Parisian collection, mutual friends they discovered in common. In a very short time, Honey felt quite at ease and she sensed the feeling was reciprocal. She decided the moment was right to get to the pressing purpose of her visit.
“Madame La Marquise,” Honey began with her trademark smile, “forgive me for leading you on. I am not here to write about your superb winery—although someday soon I would love to do just that. What brought me here was something most urgent, and I would be extremely grateful for any help you might be able to give.”
A look of concern spread over the regal visage of the older woman. “I am at your service,” she intoned. “Pray, do tell me how I might help.”
Honey took a deep breath and plunged in. “I have recently come from Bon Coeur in Klosters. I understand you are acquainted with the recipient of last year’s school poetry prize, Kolina Svensen.”
“Oh, my, yes,” the Marquise replied with a broad smile. “Lovely child, and quite talented. She was our guest here at the chateau on several occasions.”
“When was the last time you saw Kolina?”
“My, let me recall… I believe it was over the Christmas holidays. Yes, I’m sure of it now. The Baron de Rothschild was also a guest for New Year’
s, and he was quite taken with her. Kolina is a true delight. Everyone who meets her is enchanted at once.”
Thoughtfully, Honey studied the beautiful, unlined face before her. “Have you been in touch with her since then?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Because she has been missing for over a month.”
A bejewelled hand flew to the Marquise’s face like a dove. “Oh, no! How tragic. How unfortunate. Do tell me the circumstances.”
The Marquise’s alarm was so genuine that Honey knew at once she was not fabricating her reaction, and Honey rapidly filled her in on the scant details of Kolina’s disappearance. She downplayed her own fears about the girl’s being in serious danger, but hinted that she suspected foul play. Upon the conclusion of the brief summary of events, the Marquise’s intense blue eyes filled with tears and she was speechless for several moments. Finally she rose, gathering her long skirts in one hand to leave. “You must excuse me, Honey, this news has upset me greatly. Please, I insist you be our guest for the evening. The maid will show you to a room. Dinner will be promptly at eight. My son, Yves, will be back from Marseilles by then, and we can enlist his aid in finding the poor child. Until then, my dear.” She swept out of the room, wiping her eyes.
The guest room to which Honey was led by the docile-eyed maid was on the second floor of one of the round turrets. The gilded woodwork glowed in the sunlight from casement windows that overlooked the sweeping drive and the sea of vines beyond. A huge canopy bed stood in the exact center of the round room, surrounded by sheer curtains of peach-colored silk. Her suitcases had already been fetched from her car and unpacked; her clothes were hung in the walk-in closet and folded neatly in the drawers of the large rosewood armoire. Looking forward to meeting the Marquise’s son, Honey took a leisurely bath in a large, claw-footed tub in the adjoining bathroom. The fixtures were of solid gold, and the array of oils and bath salts on the dressing table offered a wide variety of delectable aromas. Upon rising from the mountains of rose-scented bubbles, Honey was pleasantly intrigued to see the young maid enter to dry her off with a luxuriously large bath sheet.
Not used to such amenities, but definitely enjoying the experience, Honey stood watching the young woman, who ever so gently rubbed her dry. As if polishing a marble statue, the maid caressed Honey’s bounteous curves, paying special attention to her large, full breasts. Honey could not help herself; the soft touch on her alabaster skin, conmbined with the serious, intent gaze of the pretty young maid, stimulated Honey’s nipples and they jutted up, hardening to an obvious state of arousal. As if used to such occurrences, the maid stoically continued her duties and knelt to deal with the lower portion of Honey’s anatomy, carefully wiping down each long leg and even spreading apart her toes to dry between them. At last the young maid returned to the center of Honey’s ripe figure, wiping her buttocks. Finally, kneeling before Honey’s fiery red bush, the young woman brought up a corner of the large towel and dabbed at the labia. Her excitement growing, Honey spread her legs wide, allowing freer access, wondering just how far the young thing was prepared to go.
The more the maid wiped at Honey’s lower set of lips, the damper the towel became. As if giving up a lost cause, the maid dropped the towel and from beneath her apron brought out a small onyx-handled brush and proceeded to comb out the soft triangle of red hair, plumping up the bush into a bonfire of beauty. While Honey trembled with rising heat, the young maid surveyed her handiwork and, satisfied, redeposited the brush beneath her apron. Dried, teased, and coiffed, Honey waited with bated breath for the next domestic duties of the serious-eyed maid. Alas, the young woman rose from her knees and asked politely in French, “Will that be all, Mademoiselle?”
Honey could barely find breath to answer. “Unless you want to eat my cunt,” she rasped in English.
“Pardon? I do not speak your language,” the maid replied, again in French, with a saucy toss of her head.
Not wanting to press her demands or insult the Marquise’s hospitality, Honey sighed, “Très bien. Merci.” Reluctantly she pulled on her traveling robe and, with a sad smile, walked unsteadily from the bathroom.
A few minutes before eight, Honey, elegantly gowned in a striking black and white dress by Givenchy and refreshed by a long nap in the canopied bed, entered the large, formal dining room. The Marquise was already seated at the head of a long, white-damask-covered table laden with crystal and silver. Bowls overflowing with spring wildflowers of the region had been placed strategically about. Honey bent to kiss the lightly powdered cheeks of the Marquise.
“Très, très jolie,” the Marquise praised Honey’s stunning beauty, and waved her graciously into the chair on her left. “My son will be down shortly. Do you mind waiting?”
Honey said she did not and they sampled an exquisite champagne, nibbling on fresh caviar from Caspian sturgeon, foie gras des Landes, and smoked Scotch salmon on toasted crisp wheat bread. Shortly, Yves Bouscaral strode into the room in formal velvet dinner clothes, a man in his mid-forties who was obviously at ease with himself and the world around him. Ruggedly built, with gentle brown eyes, he appraised Honey warmly, kissed his mama devotedly, sat opposite Honey, and began at once to get soused on all the lovely home-grown wines that accompanied each course, and for which Chateau Bouscaral was renowned worldwide.
By the dessert, raspberries with crème fraîche, Honey was also feeling the heady effects of all the scrumptious wines, but her impatience had grown because the Marquise had yet to bring up the subject of the missing Kolina. Even though the lovely older woman had drunk just as much as her son and honored guest, she remained alert, loquacious, witty, and decidedly charming. It was not until the rich, black demitasse coffee was served that the Marquise inquired of Yves if he had been aware that Kolina was missing from Bon Coeur.
“Mon Dieu,” he cried, with just a shade too much shock. Abruptly his flushed cheeks drained of color and he reached for a newly opened bottle of champagne. Pouring a healthy glassful, he looked across at Honey, who was eyeing him suspiciously. “Tell me, Miss Wildon, why are you involved in this messy business?” His words were slurred, his tone cool.
She smiled as best she could. “I am a friend of her sister, Barbro,” she lied. “She asked me to help, as the authorities are getting nowhere with the case.”
“Ah, Barbro,” he muttered, and nodded into his wine. “Kolina showed me her photograph once. Is she still shaking her belly in Lima?”
“Cartagena,” Honey furnished, not trusting the man’s responses. She proceeded to question him about his relationship with Kolina, and about the last time he had seen the girl. Although all his answers agreed with those of the Marquis, Honey had the distinct impression he was witholding something. Her many years as a seasoned journalist had helped her develop a keen sixth sense—“a built-in shit detector” was how she termed it—and it now warned her that Yves Bouscaral knew more than he was letting on. The scent of the hunt quickened her blood, but she feigned sleepiness and, thanking the Marquise for a lovely meal, bade her bonne nuit, to retire upstairs to her turret room.
Naked, she lay between the cool silk sheets of the large canopied bed, thinking back over Yves’s evasive responses and waiting patiently until the chateau was silent. Not until the nearly full moon was high in the sky, flooding one side of the round room with a ghostly white light, did she deem it safe to follow through on her plan. Quickly she slipped out of bed. Pulling on an almost gossamer robe, she padded barefoot down the steep, winding stone stairs of her separate bedroom tower. Moving swiftly down the darkened hallways, she made her way to the west wing. As she passed through the all-glass solarium connecting the wing to the main building, her luscious curves were silhouetted starkly against the moonlight.
Reaching the door to Yves’s suite of rooms, she paused long enough to fluff her waves of titian hair off her face, then tried the doorknob. Damn, the door was locked from the inside. Undaunted, she tapped with her knuckles and pressed her ear against the h
ardwood. She could hear a startled male voice whispering, then the sound of an inner door closing. Honey smiled to herself—the chateau was even more alive at night.
Momentarily the door opened a crack and Yves’s pale face poked out. His jaw dropped in surprise. “Qu’est que c’est?” he croaked.
“Mon cher, I cannot sleep,” she purred, and leaned against the door, shoving it open easily. As he stood aside reluctantly, she slipped by him and shut the door quietly behind her. She leaned against the door, one knee slightly raised, a rounded thigh shaping her sheer robe, her full breasts straining at the loosely tied bodice. “Perhaps you could give me something to make me sleepy,” she suggested.
Even in the flickering light of the single fat candle by his rumpled, king-sized bed, she could see Yves blush deeply. His embarrassment touched her and she thought perhaps she might have misjudged him. He seemed so disconcerted, standing there fidgeting with the belt of his heavy, full-length robe. She crossed to him to ease his worries, and placed a cool hand on his fevered brow. “Relax, my pet,” she said softly, while pressing her heavy breasts into his chest. “I’m sure that with the proper care my insomnia will be cured. Just hold me for a moment.”
She waited for him to put his arms around her, and was disappointed to feel him shrinking from her. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him gently, smelling the wine and a lime-scented cologne. Still, he did not respond as planned, and she pulled away with a little pout. “Pardon, Yves, I was just feeling a little lonely… what a lovely big room this is.” She made a slow tour of the room, pretending to be admiring the heavy antique furnishings and the suits of shining armor in the corners, but the whole while trying to decide behind which door leading off his bedroom stood the hastily banished bed partner. She also used her expressed interest in his room as an excuse to display her lightly covered body to its best advantage.
The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey Page 8
