Roland DeForrest - The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

“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.