Roland DeForrest - The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

Dejected, she stood on the sidewalk, thumbing forlornly through the tourist guidebook she’d picked up at the airport. The air was sultry and still excessively hot. The smells of human refuse and rotting garbage wafted over her; the flies were thick everywhere, annoyingly persistent. Longing for a bath and a cool place to lie down, she reached the sobering conclusion that she had inquired at every hotel listed in the guidebook. She fought back tears of annoyance and, hefting her bags once again, set off down the crowded street, her progress impeded by thousands of milling natives who looked at her with open curiosity. Cunning beggars, peddlers, and fakirs waved their hands at her, jabbering unintelligently.

Ignoring them, she had no idea where she was headed, but she felt that something would have to turn up soon or she would lose the firm resolve that was now the only thing holding her upright. A fresh breeze drew her on. She reached the steep, wide stone steps leading down to the Ganges itself. A sea of black umbrellas and makeshift canopies stretched along the riverbank as far as she could see in both directions. Beyond them, the murky green water floated slowly. Hundreds of devoted bathers splashed in the water. Some of the men were naked except for G-strings, and the women were dressed in saris that clung to their wet bodies. Bony sacred cows mingled on the bank with black-sari-clad women, youngish men in sparkling white cotton Nehru shirts, and old men with unkempt hair, wearing dirty loincloths.

Staring at the press of humanity, Honey sank to sit on her luggage, unable to find the strength to continue her search. She was thinking of returning to the airport terminal to wait for the next plane out, when a deep, rich male voice spoke beside her: “Excuse me, may I be of assistance?”

Gratefully she looked up into a pair of kohl-black eyes shining with warmth and concern. The dark eyes were set in a face of youthful handsomeness, topped by a complete bald head. She smiled wearily. “I need a place to stay the night, but all the hotels are booked up.”

The young man, tall, lean, wrapped in saffron-colored robes, nodded reflectively. “You have been blackballed.”

“Blackballed? What do you mean? Why?”

He shrugged and squatted on his haunches beside her, speaking softly. “It is a very small city. Evidently you upset the manager of the Taj Granges Hotel. At least that is what the streets whisper.”

“You mean he put out the word not to give me a room?”

Gravely the young Indian nodded. “A runner was sent ahead of you to warn the other hotels.”

“But why?” she asked incredulously. “All I did was ask after a friend.”

Again the handsome young man shrugged. “Privacy is deeply respected here. Perhaps you were too inquisitive.”

“Or asked after the wrong person,” she muttered, and dabbed at her perspiring face with a clean hankie. In spite of her predicament, she felt at that moment a deep sexual pull toward the young man, and she smiled gamely at his sober countenance. “My name is Honey Wildon. I am an American.”

“Mine is Pagala Baba. And I am a holy man.”

“A holy man?” she repeated, unable to cover her disappointment.

He stood, his long robes partially open, revealing a lean, firm thigh. “Your search is over. You may stay the night at my humble abode if you would like.”

“I’d like,” she said sweetly.

The young priest took her bags and, without a word, set off down the wide stone steps. She followed, trying to match his long, barefooted strides. When they reached the rocky shoreline, she had difficulty keeping up with him in her high heels. Slipping them off, carrying them in one hand, she hurried after him over the smooth stones, terribly conscious of the pointed stares of the thousands of curious onlookers who parted before them. On and on the young holy man walked, until she thought he would never stop. Wearily she padded after his sturdy back, absorbed in the strange sights and smells in the last light of day.

Into the increasing darkness they trudged, far beyond the outskirts of the city, until the crowds on the river-bank dwindled and faded far behind them. At last, just when she felt she couldn’t walk another step, he stopped and set down her bags, announcing simply, “This is my resting spot.”

She looked around in the dim light, not seeing anything but a wide curve of the slow-moving river, a steep clay bank, and several squat bushes. She turned back to her benefactor, but could not see him anywhere. “Hello?” she called out tentatively.

“I’m here,” came his echoed reply, and a softly glowing light suddenly appeared. He stood inside the mouth of a small cave, and she stooped in to join him. The flickering light of a small kerosene lantern revealed the damp red-clay walls, the floor covered with fresh straw, the untidy pallet of heaped clothes. The ceiling of the narrow cave was too close for them to stand fully upright. He placed her bags at the far end, near some sort of altar, and returned to stand beside her. “I hope you will rest peacefully here.”

“I’m positive I will,” she said with a yawn. “I can’t thank you enough.”

He smiled knowingly and tugged at his robes. At once they fell from him. A small cloth covered his loins, and his long, lean brown limbs glowed in the soft light. She felt her throat tighten at his physical beauty; with his clean-shaven head, he looked like a statue of a young saint. Carefully he placed his robes on the straw. “It is time to bathe in the holy river,” he said, and bent further to leave the cave. He walked out of the circle of lantern-light and vanished toward the water.

For a moment she stood uncertainly, then decided that the idea of a swim was just too perfect to pass up. Not knowing whether he was watching from the darkness-and hoping he was-she slowly undressed and stepped out of her panties with studied nonchalance. She stretched her arms over her head, thrusting out her pelvis, and rolled her rounded hips to work out some of the kinks, then ducked out of the cave. Her full figure silhouetted in the light from the cave’s mouth, she stepped gingerly toward the water. Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and she spotted his white loincloth lying on a rock. Not wanting to disturb his holy ablutions, she did not call out, but walked into the cool water. The bottom was smooth mud, and slippery, but the water was so refreshing that she waded out until it was over her hips, then slipped fully into it, kicking out into a modified side stroke.

The night air was breezeless but balmy, the sky already filling with stars. In the distance, as she swam lazily about, she could hear a flute soaring tunelessly, and farther down the river, toward the city, a line of campfires could be seen, like a string of glowing pearls. Remembering the sight of the murky water in the daylight, she deliberately kept her head and face out of it and eventually paddled back to the shore. Feeling deliciously renewed, she rose from the water and saw the young holy man squatting nude near the entrance of the cave, watching her carefully. As she walked toward him, her heavy breasts swaying, he stood, his limbs still glistening with water. He had not bothered to put on his loincloth, so she made no attempt at covering herself. “That was lovely,” she said.

Silently he handed her a piece of clean cloth, and she patted dry her arms and rounded breasts. She glanced down at his groin, now visible in a shaft of light, and her heart quickened. His soft, uncircumcised cock was lovely, thin, long, the color of mahogany; his balls hanging loosely on either side, were large and potent-looking. She wondered if his priestly vows included celibacy. Just as that thought passed through her mind, she saw his brown shaft suddenly twitch, nodding slowly upward. She raised her eyes to his; he was staring at her breasts as if he had never seen such a huge pair before. She questioned teasingly, “What kind of holy man are you?”