Roland DeForrest - The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

Honey started after them, sticking close to the buildings. The band music drew closer, sounding more spirited. There were quite a few stroller’s about, well-dressed tourists and locals out for their evening promenade. She fell in behind one group who all spoke in Scottish brogues. The guards were half a block ahead, skirting a large plaza-like park, in the center of which a small military band was blasting forth. A large crowd had gathered and she could see the guards lingering by a tree, focusing their attention on one section of the audience. She scanned the crowd in that area and saw him at once. Dirk’s sandy blonde head towered over the others nearby. Her heart jumped into her throat. The Scottish tour disbanded, some moving into the park to listen, others continuing on up the street. She inched closer to the martial music, trying to think of a way to warn him. The music was so loud, with a heavy emphasis on brass and drums, that she was positive a gunshot would barely be heard.

Keeping a steady eye on the guards lounging against the tree trunk, she rummaged in her purse and found a scarf, which she tied around her head and under her chin. With that minimal disguise, she began moving in a heavy manner, changing her walk as much as she could, head down, as if weary from long hours working in a factory. Closer and closer she moved toward Dirk, fighting the desire to run to him. She glanced up to locate him, and cursed under her breath. He had moved off by himself and was standing at the rear fringes, surveying the crowd, his tall frame a perfect target.

She was fifty feet away when she detected movement from the guard with the gun. He had taken off his jacket, bunched it around the pistol, and laid it across his arm, propped on the tree trunk. He was aiming directly at Dirk! She shouted, “Dirk! Duck, dammit!”

He whirled in surprise toward her voice just as the pistol cracked. The bullet must have just missed his head by inches, for he immediately dropped to the grass. But he was searching for her. She started running toward the other end of the park, shouting over her shoulder, “Soon!”

She ducked into the crowd, and it was several precious moments before she emerged on the far side. It took her still more time to locate a taxi. Urging the old cabbie to drive as fast as he could, she collapsed into the back seat, her heart still pounding like the bass drum in the park. Outside the entrance to the isolated villa, she paid the driver handsomely and darted through the thick foliage to the beach. Once there, she skirted around to the front of the villa and noiselessly made her way up the outside stairs. The squeal of tires on gravel announced the hasty return of the guards. They’d been faster changing the tire than she had hoped. Scrambling along the ledge on her hands and knees, she climbed in through the open window and stripped off her clothes, climbing into bed just as the door was thrown open.

The overhead light flashed on, and there was Henri, in his bathrobe, flanked by the suspicious guards. She feigned sleepiness and asked groggily, “What is it, Monsieur Bouscaral?”

He cast a glance at her open window and at her clothes strewn about on the floor. “Get up. At once!”

“What is it?” she asked, and hauled herself out of bed, covering her nudity with a large corner of the sheet.

Henri whirled to the older guard, demanding, “Are you sure it was she? Positively?”

The head guard shrugged in confusion, looking to his companion for confirmation. The younger one was equally at a loss and muttered, “The taxi on the road back. It could have been-”

Henri glared at her. “Why are you breathing so hard, as though you’ve been running?”

“I’m frightened, sir… what is this all about?”

Her acting must have been better than she thought, for he waved his hand in agitation. “Get packed. We’re leaving at once.” With that he pushed the two guards out of her room, grumbling at them for having failed their duties. Relieved, she sank to the bed and tried to recover her equilibrium. Only one thing was certain in her mind, but it was enough. Dirk was safe. That was all that mattered.

Rented in Iquitos by Bouscaral, the splendid, 159-foot private yacht chugged slowly down the moonlit Peruvian Amazon. At the aft deck rail, all by herself, Honey watched the moon’s reflection in the inky black water. Along the riverbanks the dense jungle pressed close; twisting vines overhung the sluggish waters. Occasionally, lights from the passing yacht would flash on the glowing eyes of animals hidden in the thick foliage, and she recalled some of the captain’s list of wildlife in the area, which included monkeys, tapirs, ocelots, and caimans.

Under different circumstances, Honey would have treasured the experience, luxuriously cruising the headwaters of the world’s longest river, surrounded by some of the most primitive and fastest disappearing jungle on earth. However, on this night she felt imprisoned in a floating cell, the infamous Henri Bouscaral her jailor.

Honey’s nerves were strained to their limit. Only her strong willpower and self-discipline had kept her from cracking thus far. Though the night air was heavy with the scent of tropical flora, all she was aware of was an overwhelming desire to protect the vulnerable Kolina.

Without warning, the bright moon suddenly blackened and the skies released a torrent of rain. Drenched instantly, Honey ran through the warm rain to her cabin on the upper deck. No sooner had she slipped out of her clothes to dry off when a piercing scream shattered the night’s stillness. It was Kolina, she was positive.

Hastily, Honey pulled on a robe over her bare form and dashed down the covered exterior corridor toward the continuing and rising shrieks of fear. Without bothering to knock, she burst into Bouscaral’s cabin suite and froze in shock at the bizarre scene that greeted her.

A naked, tumescent Bouscaral stood at the foot of the large bed, on which lay a deliciously nude Kolina. Between the girl’s supple thighs knelt a wizened, grizzled, and equally naked native man, as brown as a berry and as stringy as catgut. Proudly and with great determination he was attempting to enter Kolina’s cunt.

But this was not what Honey found so strange. Her gaze was fixed in riveted fascination upon the elderly Indian’s groin-from which sprouted two erect and quivering penises!

Honey shook her head, blinked, rubbed her eyes, and looked again. No, the strain of the past days had not sent her over the edge; the old man did, indeed, possess twin cocks, equal in size though somewhat smaller than average, each as dark as mahogany, with a leek-like head. At once Honey knew that this was the sole reason for Bouscaral’s hurried flight to this remote part of the world; he must have heard about this amazing old man through the underground grapevine of seekers of the unusual.

The proud possessor of this anatomical oddity was grinning toothlessly, completely unaware of Honey’s uninvited presence as he thrust his duplicate dicks at the poor girl’s passionless portal.

For her part, Kolina was too disoriented by the double assault to take note of Honey’s arrival. But not Bouscaral. He glanced up, first startled, then enraged. “Get out!” he barked.

Thinking quickly, Honey stepped forward with a seductive smile. “Oh, Monsieur Bouscaral,” she pleaded in a throaty voice, “since Kolina is so frightened, please let me take her place, I beg of you. The very thought of being pierced by this gentleman’s odd couple reduces me to a quivering mass of arousal.”

He stared at her as if she had just volunteered to fling herself overboard for a skinny-dip in a school of piranha. “You want to fuck this old man?” he asked in obvious disbelief.