Roland DeForrest - The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

Beginning to understand the curious psychology behind the debauch, Honey pressed her search for the elusive Bouscaral. Darkness was rapidly descending, and flaming torches stuck into iron sconces on the walls lit her way. Everywhere she looked, another nun was being ravished or being chased; she even stumbled over some thrashing bodies in the winding corridors of the dungeonlike nunnery. But more and more the nuns’ physical resistance and theatrical protests were vanishing into the night. Some of the bolder nuns were running in packs, turning attacker, hunting down elusive males. As the night progressed, Honey kept discovering men, nude or seminude, hiding, cowering in a quiet corner, trying to catch their breath before another onslaught. None were Henri Bouscaral.

The moon climbed higher into the night sky, covering the ancient convent in an eerie white light. Shrieks and screams, as well as satisfied grunts and groans, echoed down the stone corridors and filled the crisp air. Honey continued her search, aided by the light of one of the torches. She would come to an inky black doorway and thrust in the flame, revealing momentarily the humping white ass of the attacking male, then his startled face as he turned to glower at the intruder. She hurried on, aware that the halls were beginning to reek of sexual excess.

She entered a long dormitory lined with iron cots and, thinking she was alone, located a solitary cot off in an alcove and fell flat on her back, welcoming the relief to her aching muscles. A heavy tiredness swept over her and she was just drifting off to sleep, planning on pursuing her search in the early daylight hours, when she heard a distant sob from under the cot. With some alarm she peered over the edge and spied a Wagnerian-sized, nude young nun whimpering in the shadows. Honey reached in to comfort her, and the young woman’s teeth latched fiercely onto her hand. Honey let loose a decidedly un-masculine howl of outraged pain.

The mouth of the bald, naked nun popped open in shock and she scrambled out from under the bed and trembled in confusion against the wall, staring wide-eyed at the imposter on the cot. Her weighty breasts, ribboned with fine blue lines, heaved before her like bellows. Her bush was the color of strong tea and as thick as the forest outside. Still in considerable pain, Honey rubbed the bitten hand and tried to put the girl at ease with a friendly, forgiving smile. Abruptly the young nun, who looked all meat and potatoes, dropped to her chunky knees. Bowing her shiny head in a supplicating manner, she began babbling in her mother tongue. The words were unintelligible to Honey, but the tone was not-it was terrified pleading if Honey ever heard it.

The terrified nun touched a responsive chord deep within Honey’s heavy concealed breasts. Brilliant but cold moonlight streamed through the arched window, cutting a wide swatch across the broad back of the kneeling young woman. Tenderly, Honey patted the nun’s shoulder, as if telling her not to cry. The bald head rose with disbelief. Honey indicated the cot’s mattress and the young nun slowly eased up to sit down next to her. Up close, Honey could see the natural beauty of the nun’s tear-stained face. Though somewhat flat-cheeked, the young woman had lovely big brown eyes, like those of a heifer, and a delicious mouth shaped like a rosebud. Hurriedly the shy nun began to speak again in her guttural language, and Honey had the distinct impression that the girl was onto her disguise. Wanting to silence her before someone else might hear, Honey leaned into the moving mouth and kissed her firmly.

At once the young nun threw her beefy arms around Honey, returning the kiss with ardent passion, pushing her meaty breasts against her. Honey felt an insistent heat erupt with surprising force inside her, and the young nun squirmed mightily. They fell back onto the cot, kissing as if they’d just invented the game. The nun’s tongue scraped the inside of Honey’s mouth, and her milkmaid hands began fumbling with the front of Honey’s pants. Concerned to be so openly exposed, Honey pushed back the Rubenesque body, all the while kissing and sucking at the nun’s milk-white jugs.

Feverishly, Honey lowered her face, tracing with her tongue the healthy swell of the nun’s belly and moving deep into the valley between the snow-white thighs that towered on either side of her bewigged head like glaciers. The young nun’s bush felt as coarse as winter wheat, and Honey nuzzled through it in search of the hidden entrance. A seepage of warm fluids led to the most tightly closed pussy Honey had ever encountered. Gently, with her expert tongue, she cracked apart the trembling lips and tasted the creamy sauce. Gradually the sealed lips began to flow, opening up like an early spring primrose in a snowbank. The hefty thighs clamped tighter around Honey’s head, and the young nun began to writhe on the narrow, hard cot, her lusty grunts increasing in frequency and volume.

Well inside the inner recesses of the nun’s tight cunt, Honey’s tongue slammed into a solid wall-a thick, unbroken hymen. The virgin nun panted as if she were about to be broached, and tightened her viselike grip on Honey’s ears. Honey, in turn, wrapped her tongue around a thumb-sized clitoris and began attacking it. The young woman grunted with a voracious appetite and began to pump her broad pelvis. Honey crammed a hand inside her pants and began diddling her own clit.

Suddenly a gruff male voice exclaimed, “ Merde !”

With a start, Honey jerked up her head from the clamping thighs. In doing so, she lost both her wig and scarf. Her deep red hair tumbled to her shoulders as she stared in shock at Henri Bouscaral! The Prince of Kink stood glowering, dressed only in a long black satin cape, his purplish-red prick sticking out between the folds like an inquisitive dolphin.

The young nun screamed and Honey dove out of the moonlight, grabbing her headgear from the cot. Hastily she pulled them on, just as Henri leapt upon the already primed nun, like a fanatical priest exorcizing the very devil out of her. He gored and stabbed, the young woman shrieking shrilly. Honey could not tell whether the big virgin was crying out in fear or lust, but not wanting to hang around, she scooted along the wall and ran for the doorway, thinking she would wait just outside the door until Bouscaral emerged.

Tucking her hair up under the old hat, she dashed into the corridor and straight into the white-robed arms of an even bigger nun. Built like a biker, this one held her so tightly that Honey feared her belly padding would break open. She struggled briefly before realizing the futility of the effort and went limp in the heavily muscled arms. Unceremoniously she was half dragged, half carried to a small cell lit dimly by a glowing lantern.

Inside the dank smelling room, Honey was confronted by the stately nun who had earlier welcomed the marauders outside the gates. She now stood behind a small table, her matronly face set sternly. She held out her hands and demanded something in her native tongue. Honey, feigning innocence, shrugged questioningly. Again the mother superior spat out words in several languages, until Honey recognized the French word. She knew then what was being demanded-they wanted to see how many rosary beads she had collected since she’d entered the gates. Stalling for time, Honey pretended to search the pockets of her baggy clothes. There was no escape. Her only way out of the tiny cell-like room was blocked by the massive nun behind her. Impatiently the head nun snapped her fingers, demanding again to see the beads. Honey, with a sheepish grin through the fake facial hair, turned her pockets inside out, demonstrating that they were empty.

A string of oaths broke from the astonished mother superior, and she railed openly, then beckoned the bigger nun forward and spat out an order. At once the bigger nun, who had a face like a slab of roast beef, began pulling the white habit over her massive shoulders and tossing it on the table, standing nude, like an enormous avalanche of white flesh. Her breasts were so huge and heavy they hung far down on her obscenely swollen stomach. If Honey hadn’t thought it highly unlikely, she would have sworn this fat nun was nine months pregnant. The obese nun, whose pussy fur couldn’t even be detected in the heavy, waxy rolls of fat that hung from her waist like sacks of laundry, promptly lay down on the table and opened her stumplike legs. The mother superior pointed at Honey, then at the gaping nude thighs. Her meaning was more than clear-the head nun wanted this “man” to perform his sworn-in-blood task. Honey shook her head defiantly, and from the table the big nun reared up partway, as if ready to strike out with a clenched fist.