Roland DeForrest - The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

“Damn, I can’t,” she sighed, and stroked the length of his hard dick, her long fingernails raking it agonizingly.

“Why not?”

“We leave for Tokyo tonight.”

“Ditch the guy,” he panted into her light golden hair.

She laughed throatily. “But in the morning you’ll leave to find Honey, and I’ll be all alone again.”

“Come with me. Surely you, of all people, would know where Bouscaral might be.”

“I remember once, our last year in school, Honey disappeared for over a month,” she recalled sadly as she continued to stroke him. “Everyone was worried to death for her. Then she just popped up again. She’d been living with a gondolier in Venice the whole time.”

Almost angrily he pushed his hand down into the tight space between them and grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly over his raging dick. “Dammit, Disa,” he muttered, “Bouscaral’s already holding one girl against her will. That I know for a fact. And when Honey went to help her, she too disappeared. Doesn’t that indicate something to you?”

She shrugged her full breasts into his chest. “Don’t squirt on me,” she whispered. “Such a sticky mess to clean up.”

In reply he let go of her hand and fumbled for the zipper of her slacks. She shook her head madly at him, but he persisted until he had successfullly opened her slacks. Grinning at her alarm, he jammed a greedy hand between her legs and felt the damp hairs and the already parted lips. “Dirk,” she warned him with gritted teeth, and tried to wiggle free.

But they were jammed too tightly amidst the other passengers. She was trapped, and knew it. “Damn you, Dirk,” she hissed. “Someone will see.”

“So what?” He poked a finger far inside her, and wiggled it back and forth.

“You are impossible,” she said quietly, not letting go of his rigid dick.

“No, I’m easy,” he joked, relishing her confusion and the lust he was raising in her liquid eyes. They were darting around, looking over the heads peering out the windows, but he could tell that she was as turned on as he was. His finger searched for and found her firm clit. Working it furiously, he bent his knees, leaning back into the person directly behind him. With his free hand he jerked his prick out of her hand and positioned its bludgeoning head at the very entrance to her pussy. Her eyes grew large at his daring, and she shook her head again fiercely. Ignoring her warnings, he bent his knees further, grateful that she was long-legged and tall. It made the task that much easier.

Slowly he eased his dipstick into her, loving her tightness and the wet, clamping warmth. Like a knife blade returning to its sheath, his stiff dick slid into her and he threw his arms around her shoulders, pulling her upper body into his. Her eyes rolled back into her head, briefly, then returned to lock with his. She moaned as Dirk gently rocked her back and forth.

He slipped his hands behind her back and down inside the waistband of her slacks, grabbing two handfuls of her soft ass. The rocking and swaying of the railroad car as it lumbered up the steep slope made it possible for him to just stand, knees slightly bent, and still maintain the secret fucking. With the steadiness of the train’s chugging engine, he climbed his own peak of pleasure. Adroitly he plunged a finger up her asshole. Her eyes closed in obvious abandonment, her tanned cheeks turning apple red. Her luscious mouth parted, her pink tongue licking her lips.

Just as the train reached the very top of White Pass and poised to rush down the other side, Dirk froze on the edge of his own precipice, his prick twitching deep within her steamy tunnel. With a gasp loud enough to cause more than one head to turn and stare questioningly at the clutching couple, he shot his load deep into her. Again and again he detonated, each fusillade seeming larger in quantity and longer in duration than the preceding one. His knees buckled under the barrage, and if it hadn’t been for the people pressed so compactly around him, he would have slipped entirely to the floor of the car, unable to support even his own weight. At the same time, Disa came too, squeezing his bird in the wild contractions of her creaming cunt.

With a screech of metal on metal and hissing air brakes, the train lurched to an unexpected stop, throwing forward all of the passengers, like a collapsing house of cards. “All out, all out,” the conductor shouted. “We have a small fire in the engine room.”

Instantly people were pushing and shoving to be out of the car, and Dirk, still inside Disa, found himself being pressed toward the front of the car. Hurriedly he extracted his drained bird and struggled to button up his fly in the jumble of exiting people. Disa, shaking and flushed, fumbled with her slacks, casting a guilty eye toward her timber baron. Dirk just managed to make himself presentable as he was ejected through the open door and out onto the gravel roadbed.

Disa tumbled after him and they stared at the black smoke pouring from the old-fashioned steam locomotive. They looked at each other and broke into gales of laughter. Her balding lumber magnate approached with curiosity, and still laughing, she introduced him to Dirk. The two men shook hands with wary respect, and as the trio chatted casually beside the stalled train, the sweep of mountains surrounding them with a naturally beautiful backdrop, Dirk noted that the timberman kept looking across at the front of his jeans. Not wanting to give anything away by checking his fly, Dirk waited until the all-clear signal had been given and people started clambering back into the cars before he glanced down at his jeans. To his embarrassment, he noticed that the tail of his shirt was sticking out of his fly like a limp dick, caught in the buttons of his jeans.

The rest of the journey to Whitehorse and back was uneventful. Dirk enjoyed the talkative company of Disa’s new boyfriend, and basked in the bewitching presence of Disa. The rugged scenery was breathtaking, the steak dinner they shared back in Skagway that evening was delicious, the many drinks consumed providing an easy high. Throughout, he kept questioning her on her knowledge of Bouscaral and persisted in his request that she join him to search for Honey. She laughed him off, repeating her assertion that Honey was a big girl and could take care of herself. When it came time to retire for the evening, Dirk pulled her into his arms and kissed her tenderly. Flustered, she returned it briefly before rejoining her beau, linking an arm through his and waving a sad adieu.

Feeling all the more lonely and frustrated, Dirk returned to his hotel room and tried to fall asleep. But it was impossible. His doubts concerning Honey’s and Kolina’s safety nagged at his mind. Close to three in the morning, the phone rang. It was a long-distance collect call from the desk clerk at the Shangri-La Hotel. A cablegram had been received for him. Eagerly he listened to its cryptic, unsigned message, thanked the clerk for tracking him down, and hung up, lost in confusion, trying to decipher the cable. It had read simply, “Where Mom met Dad.”

He knew for certain it was from Honey, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where the hell their parents had met. Tossing, turning, he stewed for hours, cursing himself for being so forgetful, and Honey for picking the one area in which his memory was weakest. Finally, before dawn, he checked out of the hotel and went to catch a connecting flight for San Francisco. The only place he knew he could get the necessary information was at the family home in Hillsborough. He was positive that he remembered seeing an old scrapbook of his parent’s early days together. The clue to Honey’s whereabouts had to be buried within its pages. It just had to be. It was his only hope.