The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey (15 page)

Much to her disappointment, she had yet to see Henri Bouscaral among the long line of men. She had studied Dirk’s Portuguese
photos carefully, in hopes that she would be able to spot Henri on this strenuous journey to the Convent of the Sisters of
the Moon. But there were so many busloads of men trailing up the path to the remote location that she had yet to see anyone
bearing even a remote resemblance to the world collector of sexual oddities. Undaunted, however, she forged up the path, intrigued
by what lay ahead and determined to find the man who most likely had Kolina under lock and key.

Before leaving Paris for this hasty journey, Honey had quickly researched the convent, of which she’d never heard until Nadez’s
brief mention. Not even Disa, with all her knowledge and experience in worldwide sexual matters, had been aware that such
a place existed. Founded in the seventh century, the Convent of the Sisters of the Moon was the last enclave of fervent believers
in its particular sect. Even ten years since 1584, the sisters honored the memory of their own who had been repeatedly gang-raped
by marauding Turkish soldiers. On every tenth anniversary of the event, the gates of the isolated convent were thrown open
for one twelve-hour period, and any man who so desired could enter to have his way with the nuns. As the unpublicized event
was held only once every decade, and as the convent was located high up in the remote mountains near the Valley of Roses,
and as Bulgaria, which obviously did not promote or condone
such atavistic customs, was locked deep behind the Iron Curtain, few had ever heard of the strange custom. But enough had,
Honey now assessed, for the long line of men who had come from all over the world stretched far out of sight before her.

The sun was setting behind the mountain range by the time Honey wearily reached the imposing stone walls of the ancient convent.
Perched on the edge of a craggy cliff, they rose above her like a medieval fortress. At the base before the closed wooden
gates, the men sank to the hard earth to muster their strength for the more athletic activities ahead. The itching of her
false beard was driving her to distraction, and her leg muscles ached from the long climb, but she forced herself to move
slowly down the line of expectantly waiting men. Walking as masculinely as possible in front of them, she kept her hands folded
across the large padded belly, hoping that her breasts could not be detected in all the loose clothing. Carefully she searched
for a single familiar face.

The men were of all ages and all nationalities; some were well dressed, others poorly, some had brought hampers of food and
wine, others stared longingly as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks. But in all of them she discerned one similar trait: a certain
randiness that brightened their eyes, making them all look like schoolboys playing hooky in hopes of a little nooky. And still
she did not spy Henri Bouscaral.

As more men were straggling up the path, she turned her attention to them and sat with her back to a large rock, grateful
for the respite from the rigorous trek. Again she wondered at the wisdom of Dirk’s going to China in search of the infamous
Mee-Lan triplets while she came to this desolate but picturesque part of the world. But time was of the essence, and if they
were to help Kolina, one of them had to make the trip to this
convent so far off the beaten track. The luck of the draw had made it Honey, and now she debated how to enter into the fast-approaching
rape of the Sisters of the Moon. If the Prince of Kink was in the vicinity, she would find him, regardless of what might lie
behind towering walls. Over the rim of a distant mountain the full moon began to ascend in the ever-darkening sky, like a
mammoth, glowing breast poking out over a blanket.

A mournful bell began to toll the hour—six o’clock. The men began scrambling to their feet, pushing and shoving to be the
first at the gates. Before the last stroke of the bell had faded into the surrounding, tree-shrouded hills, a small door in
the tall wooden gates opened and out stepped a stately, maternal-looking woman robed all in white, her head covered by a strangely
shaped hood. She raised her hands for silence and waited almost sternly until the men stopped their multilingual jabberings.
Only then did she proceed to read in Bulgarian, her voice loud and firm, from a yellowed parchment scroll.

A distinguished-looking gentleman near Honey whispered in English to no one in particular, “What’s she saying?”

Another man, whom Honey could not see, responded, “She’s blessed us, and is now reading the rules for the evening.”

“Rules?” another man grumbled under his breath. “No one told me of rules. I thought everything inside was fair game.”

Still a third man, old but lively, piped up in broken English, as if he were an old hand at the coming attractions, “You sign
your name in your own blood and must agree to fuck at least ten of the nuns in the twelve hours before sunup. Before you can
leave, they count your beads.”

“What beads?” the man nearest Honey growled.

“One rape, one bead. The raped nun gives you a rosary bead,” the old know-it-all said proudly. “You must have ten beads to
get out. Otherwise they lock the gates on you. A decade ago, I lost a friend in there for months and months. When they let
him go, his cock had been split open.”

At once Honey felt trapped. Her hasty research had turned up nothing about being
forced
to rape the nuns, let alone
ten
of them. If it had not been for the press of men around her, she would have turned to leave right then. But as it was, before
she could squeeze away, the gates were flung open and with a raucous, lusty roar, the stampede was on. Honey was swept forward
in the rush to get inside.

Once beyond the gates, the line re-formed as men laboriously signed the agreement, puncturing a thumb with a sharp quill and
using their own blood as ink for their signatures. Honey was about to seize the opportunity to slip away when she thought
she spotted Henri Bouscaral just leaving the signing booths and running into the inner courtyard, from where already she could
hear the enraged and terrified screams of the attacked nuns. Not wanting to lose him, she stood her ground, moving up to the
wooden table that held the bloody list of names. When it came her turn, she pricked her thumb without so much as a wince and
signed Dirk’s name with a bold flourish.

Like the other men before her, as soon as she’d signed the document, she bolted toward the arched doorway leading to the inner
reaches. Once there, Honey pulled up in astonishment. The rough stone pavement was littered with nude women who looked even
more naked because of their totally shaved heads. They were being attacked, raped, and skewered with surprising authenticity
and fervor. She noticed that the Sisters of the Moon were primarily young peasant women, their bodies on the
heavy side, with ponderously full breasts and meaty thighs. Though this once-a-decade event had been booked for centuries,
the young nuns were kicking and clawing, screaming and shrieking like stuck pigs—as if the very Turkish soldiers of yore had
returned to defile their sacred order.

Honey felt extremely uncomfortable, standing there watching. But then she noted something that abruptly changed her attitude.
One of the hefty young nuns who, only moments before, had been one of the loudest and toughest resisters, upon the completion
of the sexual attack suddenly became as docile and as affectionate as a lamb. She was kissing and stroking her attacker with
obvious gratitude, her face radiant with a beatific glow. Almost reluctantly the sweaty, besmirched nun handed over a single
bead from the small leather pouch tied around her neck, and waved a sad farewell. At once she was leapt upon by another randy
attacker, his hard cock flailing at her like an angry eel. The young nun began to scream shrilly, putting forth a valiant
effort to hold him at bay.

Beginning to understand the curious psychology behind the debauch, Honey pressed her search for the elusive Bouscaral. Darkness
was rapidly descending, and flaming torches stuck into iron sconces on the walls lit her way. Everywhere she looked, another
nun was being ravished or being chased; she even stumbled over some thrashing bodies in the winding corridors of the dungeonlike
nunnery. But more and more the nuns’ physical resistance and theatrical protests were vanishing into the night. Some of the
bolder nuns were running in packs, turning attacker, hunting down elusive males. As the night progressed, Honey kept discovering
men, nude or seminude, hiding, cowering in a quiet corner, trying to catch their breath before another onslaught. None were
Henri Bouscaral.

The moon climbed higher into the night sky, covering
the ancient convent in an eerie white light. Shrieks and screams, as well as satisfied grunts and groans, echoed down the
stone corridors and filled the crisp air. Honey continued her search, aided by the light of one of the torches. She would
come to an inky black doorway and thrust in the flame, revealing momentarily the humping white ass of the attacking male,
then his startled face as he turned to glower at the intruder. She hurried on, aware that the halls were beginning to reek
of sexual excess.

She entered a long dormitory lined with iron cots and, thinking she was alone, located a solitary cot off in an alcove and
fell flat on her back, welcoming the relief to her aching muscles. A heavy tiredness swept over her and she was just drifting
off to sleep, planning on pursuing her search in the early daylight hours, when she heard a distant sob from under the cot.
With some alarm she peered over the edge and spied a Wagnerian-sized, nude young nun whimpering in the shadows. Honey reached
in to comfort her, and the young woman’s teeth latched fiercely onto her hand. Honey let loose a decidedly un-masculine howl
of outraged pain.

The mouth of the bald, naked nun popped open in shock and she scrambled out from under the bed and trembled in confusion against
the wall, staring wide-eyed at the imposter on the cot. Her weighty breasts, ribboned with fine blue lines, heaved before
her like bellows. Her bush was the color of strong tea and as thick as the forest outside. Still in considerable pain, Honey
rubbed the bitten hand and tried to put the girl at ease with a friendly, forgiving smile. Abruptly the young nun, who looked
all meat and potatoes, dropped to her chunky knees. Bowing her shiny head in a supplicating manner, she began babbling in
her mother tongue. The words were unintelligible to Honey, but the tone was not—it was terrified pleading if Honey ever heard
it.

The terrified nun touched a responsive chord deep within Honey’s heavy concealed breasts. Brilliant but cold moonlight streamed
through the arched window, cutting a wide swatch across the broad back of the kneeling young woman. Tenderly, Honey patted
the nun’s shoulder, as if telling her not to cry. The bald head rose with disbelief. Honey indicated the cot’s mattress and
the young nun slowly eased up to sit down next to her. Up close, Honey could see the natural beauty of the nun’s tear-stained
face. Though somewhat flat-cheeked, the young woman had lovely big brown eyes, like those of a heifer, and a delicious mouth
shaped like a rosebud. Hurriedly the shy nun began to speak again in her guttural language, and Honey had the distinct impression
that the girl was onto her disguise. Wanting to silence her before someone else might hear, Honey leaned into the moving mouth
and kissed her firmly.

At once the young nun threw her beefy arms around Honey, returning the kiss with ardent passion, pushing her meaty breasts
against her. Honey felt an insistent heat erupt with surprising force inside her, and the young nun squirmed mightily. They
fell back onto the cot, kissing as if they’d just invented the game. The nun’s tongue scraped the inside of Honey’s mouth,
and her milkmaid hands began fumbling with the front of Honey’s pants. Concerned to be so openly exposed, Honey pushed back
the Rubenesque body, all the while kissing and sucking at the nun’s milk-white jugs.

Feverishly, Honey lowered her face, tracing with her tongue the healthy swell of the nun’s belly and moving deep into the
valley between the snow-white thighs that towered on either side of her bewigged head like glaciers. The young nun’s bush
felt as coarse as winter wheat, and Honey nuzzled through it in search of the hidden entrance. A seepage of warm fluids led
to the most tightly closed
pussy Honey had ever encountered. Gently, with her expert tongue, she cracked apart the trembling lips and tasted the creamy
sauce. Gradually the sealed lips began to flow, opening up like an early spring primrose in a snowbank. The hefty thighs clamped
tighter around Honey’s head, and the young nun began to writhe on the narrow, hard cot, her lusty grunts increasing in frequency
and volume.

Well inside the inner recesses of the nun’s tight cunt, Honey’s tongue slammed into a solid wall—a thick, unbroken hymen.
The virgin nun panted as if she were about to be broached, and tightened her viselike grip on Honey’s ears. Honey, in turn,
wrapped her tongue around a thumb-sized clitoris and began attacking it. The young woman grunted with a voracious appetite
and began to pump her broad pelvis. Honey crammed a hand inside her pants and began diddling her own clit.

Suddenly a gruff male voice exclaimed, “
Merde
!”

With a start, Honey jerked up her head from the clamping thighs. In doing so, she lost both her wig and scarf. Her deep red
hair tumbled to her shoulders as she stared in shock at Henri Bouscaral! The Prince of Kink stood glowering, dressed only
in a long black satin cape, his purplish-red prick sticking out between the folds like an inquisitive dolphin.

The young nun screamed and Honey dove out of the moonlight, grabbing her headgear from the cot. Hastily she pulled them on,
just as Henri leapt upon the already primed nun, like a fanatical priest exorcizing the very devil out of her. He gored and
stabbed, the young woman shrieking shrilly. Honey could not tell whether the big virgin was crying out in fear or lust, but
not wanting to hang around, she scooted along the wall and ran for the doorway, thinking she would wait just outside the door
until Bouscaral emerged.