Roland DeForrest - The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

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.

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.

Inside the high-ceilinged reception area, Honey was immediately approached by a sweet-faced, uniformed schoolgirl with inquisitive eyes, who asked in French, “May I help you?”

Flawlessly, Honey replied in the same tongue, “I have an appointment with Mademoiselle Orleans. My name is Honey Wildon.”

The young girl’s eyes widened. “The journalist? I just love your columns. We all read them here.”

“ Merci ,” Honey replied and was promptly ushered through a side door into a small waiting room. The sweet young thing smiled shyly. “I’ll be right back.” She knocked softly on an inner door and opened it, shutting it behind her. Shortly she reappeared, holding the door wide, her eyes playing adult games. “Mademoiselle Orleans will see you now.”

Smiling her thanks at the delectable child, who could not have been more than fifteen, Honey breezed into the headmistress’s office. The room was lined with books, and opposite the door, in a draped, windowed alcove, stood a large desk. Behind it, in a high-backed leather chair, sat a prim young woman with horn-rimmed glasses, her hands folded tightly on the desktop before her. Honey stopped in surprise. “Mademoiselle Orleans?”

“ Oui ,” the young woman replied solemnly, and stood. Her slender figure was covered by a severely styled dress of somber gray, and her auburn hair was pulled tightly up into a small topknot. She offered a hand over the desk without a smile. “ Enchanté .”