The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey (11 page)

The more the maid wiped at Honey’s lower set of lips, the damper the towel became. As if giving up a lost cause, the maid
dropped the towel and from beneath her apron brought out a small onyx-handled brush and proceeded to comb out the soft triangle
of red hair, plumping up the bush into a bonfire of beauty. While Honey trembled with rising heat, the young maid surveyed
her handiwork and, satisfied, redeposited the brush beneath her apron. Dried, teased, and coiffed, Honey waited with bated
breath for the next domestic duties of the serious-eyed maid. Alas, the young woman rose from her knees and asked politely
in French, “Will that be all, Mademoiselle?”

Honey could barely find breath to answer. “Unless you want to eat my cunt,” she rasped in English.

“Pardon? I do not speak your language,” the maid replied, again in French, with a saucy toss of her head.

Not wanting to press her demands or insult the Marquise’s hospitality, Honey sighed, “
Très bien. Merci
.” Reluctantly she pulled on her traveling robe and, with a sad smile, walked unsteadily from the bathroom.

A few minutes before eight, Honey, elegantly gowned in a striking black and white dress by Givenchy and refreshed by a long
nap in the canopied bed, entered the large, formal dining room. The Marquise was already seated at the head of a long, white-damask-covered
table laden with crystal and silver. Bowls overflowing with spring wildflowers of the region had been placed strategically
about. Honey bent to kiss the lightly powdered cheeks of the Marquise.

“
Très, très jolie
,” the Marquise praised Honey’s stunning beauty, and waved her graciously into the chair on her left. “My son will be down
shortly. Do you mind waiting?”

Honey said she did not and they sampled an exquisite champagne, nibbling on fresh caviar from Caspian sturgeon,
foie gras des Landes
, and smoked Scotch salmon on toasted crisp wheat bread. Shortly, Yves Bouscaral strode into the room in formal velvet dinner
clothes, a man in his mid-forties who was obviously at ease with himself and the world around him. Ruggedly built, with gentle
brown eyes, he appraised Honey warmly, kissed his mama devotedly, sat opposite Honey, and began at once to get soused on all
the lovely home-grown wines that accompanied each course, and for which Chateau Bouscaral was renowned worldwide.

By the dessert, raspberries with
crème fraîche
, Honey was also feeling the heady effects of all the scrumptious
wines, but her impatience had grown because the Marquise had yet to bring up the subject of the missing Kolina. Even though
the lovely older woman had drunk just as much as her son and honored guest, she remained alert, loquacious, witty, and decidedly
charming. It was not until the rich, black demitasse coffee was served that the Marquise inquired of Yves if he had been aware
that Kolina was missing from Bon Coeur.

“
Mon Dieu
,” he cried, with just a shade too much shock. Abruptly his flushed cheeks drained of color and he reached for a newly opened
bottle of champagne. Pouring a healthy glassful, he looked across at Honey, who was eyeing him suspiciously. “Tell me, Miss
Wildon, why are you involved in this messy business?” His words were slurred, his tone cool.

She smiled as best she could. “I am a friend of her sister, Barbro,” she lied. “She asked me to help, as the authorities are
getting nowhere with the case.”

“Ah, Barbro,” he muttered, and nodded into his wine. “Kolina showed me her photograph once. Is she still shaking her belly
in Lima?”

“Cartagena,” Honey furnished, not trusting the man’s responses. She proceeded to question him about his relationship with
Kolina, and about the last time he had seen the girl. Although all his answers agreed with those of the Marquis, Honey had
the distinct impression he was witholding something. Her many years as a seasoned journalist had helped her develop a keen
sixth sense—“a built-in shit detector” was how she termed it—and it now warned her that Yves Bouscaral knew more than he was
letting on. The scent of the hunt quickened her blood, but she feigned sleepiness and, thanking the Marquise for a lovely
meal, bade her
bonne nuit
, to retire upstairs to her turret room.

Naked, she lay between the cool silk sheets of the large
canopied bed, thinking back over Yves’s evasive responses and waiting patiently until the chateau was silent. Not until the
nearly full moon was high in the sky, flooding one side of the round room with a ghostly white light, did she deem it safe
to follow through on her plan. Quickly she slipped out of bed. Pulling on an almost gossamer robe, she padded barefoot down
the steep, winding stone stairs of her separate bedroom tower. Moving swiftly down the darkened hallways, she made her way
to the west wing. As she passed through the all-glass solarium connecting the wing to the main building, her luscious curves
were silhouetted starkly against the moonlight.

Reaching the door to Yves’s suite of rooms, she paused long enough to fluff her waves of titian hair off her face, then tried
the doorknob. Damn, the door was locked from the inside. Undaunted, she tapped with her knuckles and pressed her ear against
the hardwood. She could hear a startled male voice whispering, then the sound of an inner door closing. Honey smiled to herself—the
chateau was even more alive at night.

Momentarily the door opened a crack and Yves’s pale face poked out. His jaw dropped in surprise. “
Qu’est que c’est
?” he croaked.

“
Mon cher
, I cannot sleep,” she purred, and leaned against the door, shoving it open easily. As he stood aside reluctantly, she slipped
by him and shut the door quietly behind her. She leaned against the door, one knee slightly raised, a rounded thigh shaping
her sheer robe, her full breasts straining at the loosely tied bodice. “Perhaps you could give me something to make me sleepy,”
she suggested.

Even in the flickering light of the single fat candle by his rumpled, king-sized bed, she could see Yves blush deeply. His
embarrassment touched her and she thought
perhaps she might have misjudged him. He seemed so disconcerted, standing there fidgeting with the belt of his heavy, full-length
robe. She crossed to him to ease his worries, and placed a cool hand on his fevered brow. “Relax, my pet,” she said softly,
while pressing her heavy breasts into his chest. “I’m sure that with the proper care my insomnia will be cured. Just hold
me for a moment.”

She waited for him to put his arms around her, and was disappointed to feel him shrinking from her. She stood on her tiptoes
to kiss him gently, smelling the wine and a lime-scented cologne. Still, he did not respond as planned, and she pulled away
with a little pout. “Pardon, Yves, I was just feeling a little lonely… what a lovely big room this is.” She made a slow tour
of the room, pretending to be admiring the heavy antique furnishings and the suits of shining armor in the corners, but the
whole while trying to decide behind which door leading off his bedroom stood the hastily banished bed partner. She also used
her expressed interest in his room as an excuse to display her lightly covered body to its best advantage.

Breasts pointed to the ceiling, she stretched up to touch the cold nose of a boar’s head hanging on the wall; she bent, ass
projected at him, to rub the fur on the head of the polar bear rug, and near him, she leaned gracefully over his writing desk
to study the first edition of Flaubert’s
Madame Bovary
thus “accidentally” showing a copious amount of snow-white bosom. She managed to get her robe caught on the corner of a chair
and it parted briefly to the waist, flashing the red beacon of her loins before she hastily covered herself. She ended up
sinking onto one hip on his bed and looking back at him seductively over one shoulder.

He wasn’t even looking at her! He had crossed to the window and was staring out as if the moon were more
attainable than she was. “Yves,” she called softly, and when he turned, she added in a husky voice, “Come here, at once.”

Obediently he did so, and stood beside the bed. She reached up and, taking one of his hands, pulled him to a sitting position.
“Yves, I know you think me terribly brazen and forward,” she began, all contriteness. “And I admire your sensitivity. Forgive
me for forcing my attentions on you. You are so terribly attractive, and my stay here is so brief… I couldn’t resist the temptation.”

He smiled nervously. “Miss Wildon…”

“Please, call me Honey.”

“Honey… you are too beautiful and too intelligent to choose me indiscriminately. What is the real reason you seek my attention?”

“
Touché
, Yves,” she said good-naturedly. “Very perceptive. I’ll be just as direct as you are. You’re holding something back about
Kolina. I want to know what.” She smiled genuinely. “But if you want to fuck all night, that’s okay too.”

He laughed. It was open and unforced, and elicited a similar one from her. Warmly he put his arm about her. “I like you, Honey.”

She snuggled into his shoulder, finding the feeling mutual. “Well, then, do you want to talk first or after we get it on a
few times?”

He grew serious again and withdrew his arm. “To be perfectly honest, I would prefer neither. But since you are here and since
I am disturbed about the news of Kolina… I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll give you what you want and you, in return, give me
what I want.”

“I’m game…
if
I’m capable of returning the favor.”

He smiled mysteriously. “Oh, I’m quite certain of that. Is it a deal, then?”

She studied his face, trying to determine just how kinky he was. Well, she decided, whatever it was, it most likely wouldn’t
be the first time for her. She figured she could handle anything he had up his sleeve… or anywhere else, for that matter.
She smiled widely. “It’s a deal, Yves. You talk. Then I’ll see what’s on that twisted little mind of yours.”

Instead of expressing pleasure at the bargain, as she was expecting, he became somber-faced again and stared toward the moon-drenched
window. “What I am about to tell you is only speculation. I have no way of knowing if it could be true. But I always suspected
Kolina would run off one day… with some man.” He swiveled his gaze to her. “She was quite precocious, I’m afraid. She proudly
told me once that she had been sexually active since she was twelve.”

“So what ?” Honey said with a grin. “So was I.”

“But I’m certain you showed much more discretion and restraint. Kolina was always infatuated with someone—
obsessed
would be a better word. She could easily have run away with her latest.”

Honey nodded, digesting the information. “Is that all?”

“Yes. I’m afraid it is not much, but a deal is a deal, no?”

She laughed. “I’ve a funny feeling I’ve been had.”

“Not yet,” he replied, and nodded to the center door opposite them. “Go open that door.”

Getting into the spirit of the exchange, she bounced off the bed and flew to the indicated door, flinging it open, expecting
anything but what she discovered on the other side. Crouched nude, down where the keyhole had been, a muscular youth pumped
on his thick, hard cock. He jumped up in surprise and Honey gulped at his size and mammoth physical attributes. He looked
carved out of
granite, and his chiseled face bore a rugged handsomeness. But Honey could not take her eyes off his rock-hard prick, which
jutted out from him like a thick log. It was his most impressive feature.

“Honey,” Yves called jovially from bed, “meet Philippe. Now come here, you two.”

Accompanied by the rugged, grinning youth, Honey strolled back to the bed, making her movements as provocative as possible
for Yves’s enjoyment. Once again, however, she noted that he was not watching her; this time his eyes were caressing the handsome
hunk next to her.

“Philippe is one of my grape-pickers,” Yves was explaining. “His family has been in service to my family for over two hundred
years.”

“
Enchanté
,” Honey said to the brawny youth, who could not raise his eyes from her snow-white breasts. She grabbed his sturdy pole.
Unable to get her fingers fully around it, she pumped it up and down as if shaking hands. Philippe laughed boyishly and palm-patted
each of her breasts, as if playing patty-cake.

“Philippe,” Yves ordered sternly and rose from the bed, speaking in French. “Take off her robe.”

Eagerly the-lad yanked at her gossamer robe, pulling it from her shoulders. Approvingly, his hungry eyes swept over her. She
noticed that Yves also had removed his robe and stood watching the two of them. His cock was flaccid and uncircumcised and
looked like a deflated balloon hanging between his legs. Yves swept a hand toward the bed, commanding in French, “She has
been a naughty girl, Philippe. Ravish her.”

In a split second, Honey found herself hurled to the bed on her back and the horny, immense Philippe straddling her belly,
one heavy thigh pressing down on either side. His meaty, callused hands held her wrists over her
head, flat back on the velvet quilt. His blood-thickened prick poked at her fleshy breasts like a battering ram.

Not as turned on by the sudden activity as she would have liked, she decided that if Yves was giving the orders, she could
still express her own will. Bucking her hips, trying to throw off Philippe’s weight, she rolled back- and forth energetically,
displaying surprising strength.

Her efforts were so great that, at one point, the hefty lad was hurled from her torso onto the mattress. “Philippe!” Yves
admonished from a nearby armchair, and the youth renewed his efforts with a look of grim determination. Easily he regained
the upper hand and was soon forcing his big dick to her mouth. She made him work for his rewards, but soon set about sucking
as much of his enormous appendage as she could. With his tight cheeks resting on her breasts, he thrust again and again into
her wide-open mouth, but still she could get less than half of him in. She concentrated instead on tormenting his joy knob
until she was evoking sharp cries of pleasure. Athletically he swiveled himself around, and supporting his weight on his hands
and toes, his body a rigid plank above her, he dove into her moist, sweet meat.