Roland DeForrest - The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

Much to her disappointment, she had yet to see Henri Bouscaral among the long line of men. She had studied Dirk’s Portuguese photos carefully, in hopes that she would be able to spot Henri on this strenuous journey to the Convent of the Sisters of the Moon. But there were so many busloads of men trailing up the path to the remote location that she had yet to see anyone bearing even a remote resemblance to the world collector of sexual oddities. Undaunted, however, she forged up the path, intrigued by what lay ahead and determined to find the man who most likely had Kolina under lock and key.

Before leaving Paris for this hasty journey, Honey had quickly researched the convent, of which she’d never heard until Nadez’s brief mention. Not even Disa, with all her knowledge and experience in worldwide sexual matters, had been aware that such a place existed. Founded in the seventh century, the Convent of the Sisters of the Moon was the last enclave of fervent believers in its particular sect. Even ten years since 1584, the sisters honored the memory of their own who had been repeatedly gang-raped by marauding Turkish soldiers. On every tenth anniversary of the event, the gates of the isolated convent were thrown open for one twelve-hour period, and any man who so desired could enter to have his way with the nuns. As the unpublicized event was held only once every decade, and as the convent was located high up in the remote mountains near the Valley of Roses, and as Bulgaria, which obviously did not promote or condone such atavistic customs, was locked deep behind the Iron Curtain, few had ever heard of the strange custom. But enough had, Honey now assessed, for the long line of men who had come from all over the world stretched far out of sight before her.

The sun was setting behind the mountain range by the time Honey wearily reached the imposing stone walls of the ancient convent. Perched on the edge of a craggy cliff, they rose above her like a medieval fortress. At the base before the closed wooden gates, the men sank to the hard earth to muster their strength for the more athletic activities ahead. The itching of her false beard was driving her to distraction, and her leg muscles ached from the long climb, but she forced herself to move slowly down the line of expectantly waiting men. Walking as masculinely as possible in front of them, she kept her hands folded across the large padded belly, hoping that her breasts could not be detected in all the loose clothing. Carefully she searched for a single familiar face.

The men were of all ages and all nationalities; some were well dressed, others poorly, some had brought hampers of food and wine, others stared longingly as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks. But in all of them she discerned one similar trait: a certain randiness that brightened their eyes, making them all look like schoolboys playing hooky in hopes of a little nooky. And still she did not spy Henri Bouscaral.

As more men were straggling up the path, she turned her attention to them and sat with her back to a large rock, grateful for the respite from the rigorous trek. Again she wondered at the wisdom of Dirk’s going to China in search of the infamous Mee-Lan triplets while she came to this desolate but picturesque part of the world. But time was of the essence, and if they were to help Kolina, one of them had to make the trip to this convent so far off the beaten track. The luck of the draw had made it Honey, and now she debated how to enter into the fast-approaching rape of the Sisters of the Moon. If the Prince of Kink was in the vicinity, she would find him, regardless of what might lie behind towering walls. Over the rim of a distant mountain the full moon began to ascend in the ever-darkening sky, like a mammoth, glowing breast poking out over a blanket.

A mournful bell began to toll the hour-six o’clock. The men began scrambling to their feet, pushing and shoving to be the first at the gates. Before the last stroke of the bell had faded into the surrounding, tree-shrouded hills, a small door in the tall wooden gates opened and out stepped a stately, maternal-looking woman robed all in white, her head covered by a strangely shaped hood. She raised her hands for silence and waited almost sternly until the men stopped their multilingual jabberings. Only then did she proceed to read in Bulgarian, her voice loud and firm, from a yellowed parchment scroll.

A distinguished-looking gentleman near Honey whispered in English to no one in particular, “What’s she saying?”

Another man, whom Honey could not see, responded, “She’s blessed us, and is now reading the rules for the evening.”

“Rules?” another man grumbled under his breath. “No one told me of rules. I thought everything inside was fair game.”

Still a third man, old but lively, piped up in broken English, as if he were an old hand at the coming attractions, “You sign your name in your own blood and must agree to fuck at least ten of the nuns in the twelve hours before sunup. Before you can leave, they count your beads.”

“What beads?” the man nearest Honey growled.

“One rape, one bead. The raped nun gives you a rosary bead,” the old know-it-all said proudly. “You must have ten beads to get out. Otherwise they lock the gates on you. A decade ago, I lost a friend in there for months and months. When they let him go, his cock had been split open.”

At once Honey felt trapped. Her hasty research had turned up nothing about being forced to rape the nuns, let alone ten of them. If it had not been for the press of men around her, she would have turned to leave right then. But as it was, before she could squeeze away, the gates were flung open and with a raucous, lusty roar, the stampede was on. Honey was swept forward in the rush to get inside.

Once beyond the gates, the line re-formed as men laboriously signed the agreement, puncturing a thumb with a sharp quill and using their own blood as ink for their signatures. Honey was about to seize the opportunity to slip away when she thought she spotted Henri Bouscaral just leaving the signing booths and running into the inner courtyard, from where already she could hear the enraged and terrified screams of the attacked nuns. Not wanting to lose him, she stood her ground, moving up to the wooden table that held the bloody list of names. When it came her turn, she pricked her thumb without so much as a wince and signed Dirk’s name with a bold flourish.

Like the other men before her, as soon as she’d signed the document, she bolted toward the arched doorway leading to the inner reaches. Once there, Honey pulled up in astonishment. The rough stone pavement was littered with nude women who looked even more naked because of their totally shaved heads. They were being attacked, raped, and skewered with surprising authenticity and fervor. She noticed that the Sisters of the Moon were primarily young peasant women, their bodies on the heavy side, with ponderously full breasts and meaty thighs. Though this once-a-decade event had been booked for centuries, the young nuns were kicking and clawing, screaming and shrieking like stuck pigs-as if the very Turkish soldiers of yore had returned to defile their sacred order.

Honey felt extremely uncomfortable, standing there watching. But then she noted something that abruptly changed her attitude. One of the hefty young nuns who, only moments before, had been one of the loudest and toughest resisters, upon the completion of the sexual attack suddenly became as docile and as affectionate as a lamb. She was kissing and stroking her attacker with obvious gratitude, her face radiant with a beatific glow. Almost reluctantly the sweaty, besmirched nun handed over a single bead from the small leather pouch tied around her neck, and waved a sad farewell. At once she was leapt upon by another randy attacker, his hard cock flailing at her like an angry eel. The young nun began to scream shrilly, putting forth a valiant effort to hold him at bay.