Roland DeForrest - The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

“Screw your students,” Honey rejoined.

“I wish I had the nerve,” Claude confessed in the throes of the embrace.

“Try me instead.” Honey stood and reached for her purse on the edge of the desk. From its depths she brought out her trusty ivory dildo-a piece of traveling equipment she was never without. She licked one bulbous end of the nine-inch piece of ancient artwork, which looked like a Pompeiian phallus, and rubbed it wantonly over her own pussy mound, her tongue flicking her parted lips.

Claude stared in shocked amazement, her brown eyes blinking, however, with more than casual interest. “I couldn’t…” she breathed.

“Oh, yes you could,” Honey teased, and placed a spread palm on the upturned mound just beneath the gray skirt. She applied pressure and leaned down to order firmly, “Get up, my sweet pussy. We’re moving to the couch.” She tugged Claude up and propelled her toward the leather couch in front of an overflowing bookcase.

With the sureness born of long practice, Honey unbuttoned Claude’s dress, despite her protests, and slipped it over her pale, slender shoulders, letting it drop to the carpet. Claude stood, a vision of trim desirability in tiny red lace panties, black garter belt, dark stockings, and a mere wisp of a bra that Honey tore away with one quick motion. Claude’s breasts were not large-mere handfuls, really-but they were so perfectly shaped that they looked as if they’d been painted by da Vinci. Their nipples were tiny pink seashells, and yet they stood out from the muscular mounds with demanding tumescence. While hurriedly tearing off her traveling suit, Honey lowered her mouth to suck on one of the delectable tidbits, and could feel Claude shaking with almost uncontrollable lust. That only raised Honey’s fires, and she quickly finished undressing, stepping out of her heels and stripping off her pantyhose to stand nude and proud.

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 ?”

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.