Roland DeForrest - The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

The assistant manager turned out to be a distinguished-looking gentleman in his early sixties, with graying hair, an eager-to-please smile, and an overly polite manner. “Miss Wildon,” Merit Harper greeted her effusively as she ushered him into the sitting room of the suite, “it’s an honor to have you as a guest. I am a great fan of your articles.”

“Why, thank you, Merit. May I call you Merit?” She waved him into an upholstered wing-backed chair.

“I’d be pleased, thank you.”

Languidly she settled back into the couch, crossing her long legs underneath the sheer skirt. “I confess, I need your help. I am trying to locate someone-a young girl of spectacular beauty.” She leaned forward and handed over the eight-by-ten photo, carefully watching his reaction.

It was guarded, cautious. He looked up with a quizzical smile. “She is lovely… but I’ve never seen her before.”

“Are you absolutely positive? I have reason to believe she was a guest here as recently as last Sunday.”

“I’m certain I would remember her,” he replied stiffly. “Why, may I ask, are you seeking her?”

Honey flashed him her trademark smile-open, engaging, hinting at future rewards. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that. You may rest assured that it is a matter of utmost importance and extreme urgency. Perhaps even a matter of life and death…”

“Oh, dear,” he murmured nervously, and laid the photo on the coffee table as if it were a ticking time bomb. “I’m sorry I can’t be of help.”

She eyed him for a long moment, her journalistic nose smelling clear evasion and coverup. She redoubled her efforts. Standing, she moved casually behind his chair and placed her hands on his thin, sloping shoulders. She felt him tense at her touch and she rubbed his neck. “Merit,” she purred intimately, “I find you an enormously attractive man, and I just know you’ll help me.”

“I’d like to, Miss Wildon,” he sputtered. “Really I would. But I don’t know how.”

She leaned down close, her soft tresses touching his cheek. “I would be so indebted,” she said softly into his ear. “You have no idea how much.”

He pulled free and stood, turning to her with a flustered, apologetic smile. “Miss Wildon, please… I just can’t help you.”

She came to him and touched the buttons of his pinstriped suit, nailing him with her luminous eyes. “I’m sure you could, if you put your mind to it.”

“Miss Wildon, it’s late. I have other duties I must attend to.”

She pressed closer, her heavy breasts touching his chest. He looked as though he was about to faint. She smiled plaintively. “I’m alone in this big city, with no one to turn to but you. Won’t you stay for a bit? I’ll make it worth your while…”

He drew himself upright, ramrod straight. “Miss Wildon, please. You don’t understand, I can’t help you in any way.”

“Forget the girl for now. Just help me make it through the long, lonely night ahead… please?”

He flushed several shades of red. “I can’t help you there either, I’m afraid. You see… I’ve been impotent for over a decade.”

“Oh, poor man,” she murmured genuinely. “Perhaps I can help you . I’m very easy to be with.”

“It’s not a psychological problem,” he replied uneasily. “I am physiologically unable to achieve an erection. Believe me, I’ve been to the experts and have tried everything.”

“Would you like me to try?”

“We’d both be wasting our time,” he said firmly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my duties.” He backed away. “Believe me, if any woman could help, you could. But, alas… goodnight, Miss Wildon.” He fled to the door and, without a backward glance, let himself out.

She stared at the closed door, silently cursing his misfortune. Abruptly a wave of tiredness swept over her and she realized she was still on California time; it was after four in the morning out there. She attempted a call to Dirk to report on her lack of progress, but there was no answer at his Soho loft. Hoping it meant he had found some clue to track down, she slowly disrobed, longing for the randy Ricardo, whom she’d left at the San Francisco airport. For the first time in weeks, she fell into bed by herself and was soon asleep.

In the morning, bright and early, she was up, dressed in a demure Chanel suit of sapphire-blue wool, and knocking on the manager’s office door just off the spacious lobby. The moment she laid eyes on Evan Bell, she knew her prospects were decidedly more propitious with him than they had been with the assistant manager. He was a charmingly handsome young man of no more than thirty-five, with laughing gray eyes, carefully coiffed dark blonde hair and a trim, athletic body under his expensive three-piece suit. He greeted her warmly, making no attempt to cover his obvious interest. But when she showed him the photo of the blonde, explaining her quest, Evan Bell turned cool and distant. “No. I’ve never laid eyes on her. Anything else?”

“Are you certain, positively?” Honey inquired. “This is a matter of vital importance.”

“I regret I cannot be of help.” He pushed himself to his feet behind the desk. “I hope you enjoy your stay at the Pierre.”

With downcast eyes she said forlornly, “If you can’t help, I’m afraid I must leave at once.”

“Pity,” he replied, walking to the door and opening it. “I’ll have your bill drawn up.”

She rose, gliding to him. “You’re most kind. I was so hoping you’d help.”

“Regrettably, I can’t. Good day Miss Wildon.” He ushered her out and closed the door behind her.

With long, angry strides, she crossed the lobby and slipped into a telephone booth, dialing Dirk’s number. Again there was no answer. Her anger boiled-both at her inability to get anywhere with the hotel management and at her brother for not bothering to wait for her promised call. Slamming the receiver back into the cradle, she caught sight of the manager leaving his office and exiting the lobby through a side door marked Employees Only. Quickly she followed, determined to get the truth out of him.

The door led to a long, dimly lit hallway. At the far end, the manager was disappearing through a partially open doorway. By the time she reached the door, it was closed. The sign on it read Linen Room. She was about to knock when she heard, on the other side, a muffled giggle from a distinctly feminine voice.

After a glance back up the deserted hall, Honey knelt quickly and put her eyes to the large, old-fashioned keyhole. What greeted her did not surprise her, but certainly raised her interest. Directly opposite the keyhole, the profile of an also-kneeling Evan Bell was buried in the muff of some girl. A maid’s uniform was bunched up around her waist, and her rounded, firm ass was being clutched by the eager hands of Bell as he lapped at the brown-haired bush, his feverishly moving tongue sporadically visible.

Just when Honey thought she had seen enough of the arousing display, the couple beyond the keyhole reversed positions and Evan Bell was now standing, his hard prick in the maid’s mouth. Honey felt a growing heat within her own loins, and her breathing intensified. But she could tell the maid was a rank amateur in the art, for her ministrations to Bell’s appetizing-looking cock were tentative and unsure.

Making up her mind, Honey stood and, without bothering to knock, threw open the door. The pretty young maid, her mouth full of meat, choked in surprise and rose with a squeal of embarrassment, trying to yank down her uniform to cover her fetching nakedness. Even Bell’s hands flew to hide his stiff cock, a look of such profound astonishment on his handsome face that Honey had to suppress a laugh. Before she could speak, the maid, red-faced, ran from the small room, which was lined with shelves of stacked and folded sheets and towels. Calmly Honey closed the door after the girl and faced the tongue-tied manager. “Mr. Bell,” she said wtih a grin, “I’m so happy I found you before I checked out.”