Roland DeForrest - The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

“So what?” Honey said with a grin. “So was I.”

“But I’m certain you showed much more discretion and restraint. Kolina was always infatuated with someone- obsessed would be a better word. She could easily have run away with her latest.”

Honey nodded, digesting the information. “Is that all?”

“Yes. I’m afraid it is not much, but a deal is a deal, no?”

She laughed. “I’ve a funny feeling I’ve been had.”

“Not yet,” he replied, and nodded to the center door opposite them. “Go open that door.”

Getting into the spirit of the exchange, she bounced off the bed and flew to the indicated door, flinging it open, expecting anything but what she discovered on the other side. Crouched nude, down where the keyhole had been, a muscular youth pumped on his thick, hard cock. He jumped up in surprise and Honey gulped at his size and mammoth physical attributes. He looked carved out of granite, and his chiseled face bore a rugged handsomeness. But Honey could not take her eyes off his rock-hard prick, which jutted out from him like a thick log. It was his most impressive feature.

“Honey,” Yves called jovially from bed, “meet Philippe. Now come here, you two.”

Accompanied by the rugged, grinning youth, Honey strolled back to the bed, making her movements as provocative as possible for Yves’s enjoyment. Once again, however, she noted that he was not watching her; this time his eyes were caressing the handsome hunk next to her.

“Philippe is one of my grape-pickers,” Yves was explaining. “His family has been in service to my family for over two hundred years.”

“ Enchanté ,” Honey said to the brawny youth, who could not raise his eyes from her snow-white breasts. She grabbed his sturdy pole. Unable to get her fingers fully around it, she pumped it up and down as if shaking hands. Philippe laughed boyishly and palm-patted each of her breasts, as if playing patty-cake.

“Philippe,” Yves ordered sternly and rose from the bed, speaking in French. “Take off her robe.”

Eagerly the-lad yanked at her gossamer robe, pulling it from her shoulders. Approvingly, his hungry eyes swept over her. She noticed that Yves also had removed his robe and stood watching the two of them. His cock was flaccid and uncircumcised and looked like a deflated balloon hanging between his legs. Yves swept a hand toward the bed, commanding in French, “She has been a naughty girl, Philippe. Ravish her.”

In a split second, Honey found herself hurled to the bed on her back and the horny, immense Philippe straddling her belly, one heavy thigh pressing down on either side. His meaty, callused hands held her wrists over her head, flat back on the velvet quilt. His blood-thickened prick poked at her fleshy breasts like a battering ram.

Not as turned on by the sudden activity as she would have liked, she decided that if Yves was giving the orders, she could still express her own will. Bucking her hips, trying to throw off Philippe’s weight, she rolled back- and forth energetically, displaying surprising strength.

Her efforts were so great that, at one point, the hefty lad was hurled from her torso onto the mattress. “Philippe!” Yves admonished from a nearby armchair, and the youth renewed his efforts with a look of grim determination. Easily he regained the upper hand and was soon forcing his big dick to her mouth. She made him work for his rewards, but soon set about sucking as much of his enormous appendage as she could. With his tight cheeks resting on her breasts, he thrust again and again into her wide-open mouth, but still she could get less than half of him in. She concentrated instead on tormenting his joy knob until she was evoking sharp cries of pleasure. Athletically he swiveled himself around, and supporting his weight on his hands and toes, his body a rigid plank above her, he dove into her moist, sweet meat.

Honey took the moment to cast a glance at Yves. He sat in the cushioned chair not far from the side of the bed, watching them as if they were his own private, wide-screen entertainment. In one hand he grasped his puny but stiff pecker, attacking it with determination. The vision of a finally aroused Yves, in addition to the wonders that Philippe’s tongue was working within her, set Honey off into a paroxysm of electrical jolts. Her pussy began to feel as sticky as a melting caramel candy. She grabbed the stiff pole jabbing at her chin, and angled the apple-sized head into her mouth.

“Fuck the bitch now, Philippe,” Yves gasped from his chair, and his young stud leapt to the task.

Poised between her legs, he grinned at her and, with the force of a Hercules, jammed his hot prick into her cunt. She gasped at his hugeness and felt as if his heated pole were splitting her apart. Philippe lowered his granite body upon her and pumped and panted, sweated and swore with passion. And all the while, Yves pampered his plump little prick, and Honey, who could only hang on for dear life, felt as though she were being broached by a blimp.

Her flaming funnel began twitching with unreleased tension, and a few more batterings from the magnum prick brought her quickly to a series of explosive climaxes and she began squealing her delight. Almost at once Philippe cried out, “Now, Yves,” and he reared back, pulling out his massive meat, and proudly watched his own cannon-balls of gism bombard her fleshy breasts. “Bravo, Philippe,” Yves bellowed, and Honey rolled her head toward him just as his plump balloon popped with a dribble of white frosting. He sighed happily, “You gave the sweet bitch what she wanted.”

It was some time later-after a repeat performance by Philippe, with Yves watching from the foot of the bed-that Honey was able to extricate herself from the room. Weakly she made her way back to her own room, not bothering even to pull on her robe. She felt drained and, indeed, ravished-but, oh, what a lovely sensation! Something was nagging her, however, and as she let herself into the turret room, she realized she still felt that Yves Bouscaral had not told her everything he knew. She decided to call Dirk in the morning and set him on the case. She was going to take a much-deserved day off.

Much to her delight, her canopied bed was not empty. The somber-eyed maid who had helped with her bath lay nude atop the covers. The white moonlight bathed her lovely, slender body with a luminous glow. The pretty young maid smiled betwitchingly from the pillows. “I’ve been waiting a long time,” she said softly in French.

“Then we have much to make up for,” Honey said silkenly, and settled down beside her. The maid’s breasts were pert and pink, her candy box full of sweet goodies, but Honey was so exhausted she could hardly move. Discouraged but still game, she rolled on her back, opening her legs and patting her red pelt of fur. “Forgive me, sweet one,” she yawned, “but I’m afraid this one will have to be all on you. In the morning, I promise, I’ll return in kind.”

Honey drifted gently to sleep, the obliging young maid lapping at her tender twat like gentle waves upon a beach.

In the absurdly ornate lobby of Portugal’s Bussaco Palace Hotel, Dirk fidgeted in the telephone booth, waiting impatiently for his call to be connected to Paris. Through the booth’s beveled-glass doors, his eyes, however, were locked on the rugged Frenchman across the rococo lobby, sitting by himself, reading a newspaper and sipping brandy.

Eventually the hotel’s operator broke in on the line to explain in halting English that his party had been reached. “Honey?” Dirk said quickly into the antique receiver. “You there?”

“Yes, luv,” came her lilting voice. “Where are you?”

“Where’d you expect? I got here this morning.”