The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey (2 page)

They clung to each other, there on the rug, gasping and wheezing. Much to her astonishment, just as ther breathing had begun
to normalize, she could feel his cock, still buried to the hilt within her, thickening and growing hard again. Slowly his
hips began to move. “Ricky, enough for now,” she admonished playfully, and, with a shove, managed to push him off her. Scooting
out from under him, she rolled to one hip and weakly scrambled away on her knees.

He followed, also crawling. Like a dog in heat, he sniffed at her, nudging with his nose the loose lips of her inflamed pussy,
which hung down like soft moss beneath her pear-shaped ass. Reaching her desk, she pulled herself upright, and for a moment
she thought she would keel over from the rush of blood from her head. Dizzily she batted away his face from her rear end and
swayed to the French doors, throwing them open.

The Bay Area sunshine bathed her with a soft golden glow, caressing her fair skin with new warmth. The Olympic-sized swimming
pool, only steps away, glistened like a bright blue mirage. She glanced back at him. He had sunk back on his haunches, his
black eyes locked on her intently, expectantly, his hard member poking up out of his lap like a flagless pole. “You are too
much,” she sighed in appreciation, and with a flirtatious smile she dashed outside, down the brick stairs of the terrace.
On the edge of the tile coping of the pool, she paused briefly, threw her arms over her head, her full breasts pointing skyward,
then dove cleanly, gracefully, expertly—a flash of pale white against the sparkling blue—before disappearing into the refreshingly
cool water.

Swimming underwater, she tried to reach the far end before her lungs exploded. Triumphantly she touched the tile and, sputtering
for breath, broke through the water’s surface, shaking her red hair. Sleeking it back from her
eyes, she turned to locate Ricardo. At the far end of the pool, the three-story brick mansion rose majestically, dwarfing
him in the doorway to her study. With a little-boy pout, he stood forlornly, observing her, his brown peter jutting out in
front as if straining to reach her. She smiled encouragingly and waved, calling out, “Come on in. It’s divine.” He shook his
head glumly.

Laughing gaily, she climbed out of the pool, grabbed a large, yellow terry towel from one of the chaise longues and, patting
her face dry, moved to him, noting that his cock was drooping as much as his face. “Why didn’t you join me?” she asked.

“The servants…” he offered lamely.

“Oh, pooh,” she said, and rubbed the soft towel over her bounteous curves. “Even my parents swam nude. Can’t you swim?”

“Where are they?” he asked evasively. “Your mother and father.”

Suddenly pensive, she answered, “They died in a plane wreck in Alaska. When I was twelve.” She toweled her thick hair vigorously
and brushed past him, reentering her study, aware that she had a pressing deadline to make. From the Persian rug near the
hall door she grabbed up her filmy caftan and began pulling it over her head. When she emerged, she saw Ricardo studying the
silver-framed photos on the wall opposite her desk. She glided to him, pointing to the largest photograph, which showed a
handsome, laughing couple. “That’s Mom and Dad at the opening of one of Dad’s copper mills in Montana.”

“Who is this?” he asked in a jealous tone, waving at another photo, this one of an attractive young man, as lean and lanky
as a young Jimmy Stewart.

“My younger brother, Dirk,” she replied. “He’s a very famous photographer. You’d love his work. Here…” She pulled an oversized,
expensively bound book from
the nearby shelves. “This is his latest collection.” She handed him the coffee-table-sized book, hoping it would keep him
occupied for a spell, and returned to her desk chair, sinking into it with gritty determination.

“Naked women!” he exclaimed, thumbing through the studio portraits.

She laughed at his surprise. “Female beauty is Dirk’s passion.
And
his forte.”

“You in here?”

“Not on your life.”

“You should be.”

She smiled. “
Muchas gracias
. Now please let me finish.” Finding where she had left off in her notes, she began typing with renewed vigor. All the energetic
screwing and swimming had left her feeling refreshed; her skin tingled with energy, and as she typed, the words seemed to
leap onto the pages as if by their own accord. This interview with Ricardo, like all of her exclusive interviews, would run
under her own byline, “Honey Wildon Presents,” in over ninety newspapers and magazines around the world.

A prolonged sigh from Ricardo broke her concentration, and she glanced up. He had settled onto the love seat, his eyes glued
to the open pages of one of Dirk’s exquisite photographs, his dick rigid once more. She could not believe her eyes—he was
obsessed. He caught her watching him and leaped to his feet, rushing to her. “Let’s fuck,” he broached in a coarse whisper.

“You’re going to wear that poor thing out,” she said with a shake of her drying locks, and returned to her typing. “Another
half hour, then watch out. I’ll screw that thing limp if it kills me. And what a lovely way to die.”

Wordlessly he sank to the floor, out of sight on the other side of the large Louis XIV desk. Suddenly she gasped
with pleasure. Underneath the desk, he had hiked up her gown and buried his head between her legs. She clamped her thighs
tightly around his ears, hoping to cut off his darting explorations. With a concerted effort she attempted to concentrate
on the interview. His tongue lapped wickedly at her pussy, instantly inflaming it with an intense heat. The faster he tongued,
the faster she typed. Soon her . fingers were flying, and she rushed to finish before all thoughts ceased and pure sensation
took over.

She was fighting a losing battle when a discreet knock came at the hall door. She was so startled, she rasped, “Come in,”
before she realized she had done so. The door opened and Caroline, her adorable downstairs maid—a fetching lass in a short
black uniform—entered, carrying a yellow envelope on a silver tray. “Excuse me for interrupting, Miss Wildon,” Caroline said,
glancing at Ricardo’s discarded swimsuit on the rug, “but this just arrived.”

Too heated to speak, Honey held out a trembling hand, grateful that the desk covered Ricardo’s lingual liberties. Shyly, Caroline
approached and stood by the side of the desk, raising her knowledgeable eyes from Honey’s bountiful breasts. “Are you feeling
well, Miss Wildon? You look terribly flushed.”

“I’m feeling sensational,” Honey managed to get out, and tore open the envelope. It was a telegram, and she extracted it with
no small degree of apprehension. Before she could read it, a small groan of desire escaped her lips.

“Bad news?” Caroline asked with obvious concern.

Flustered by her own excitement, Honey glanced at the telegram’s message. It was one word. The word was SNATCH. “I pray not,”
she murmured, and looked up at the lovely girl through glazed eyes. “That will be all for now, Caroline.”

“Very well, ma’am,” the girl said softly and, with a lingering glance, withdrew and closed the door behind her.

Clutching the disturbing telegram, Honey sank lower in her chair, pushing her flaming cunt deeper onto the eager face of the
busy Ricardo. He had locked onto her love button with such urgency that she felt ready to dissolve in a conflagration of lust.
“Oh, Ricky,” she gasped, and promptly flooded his face with joy juice. Paroxysms of pleasure wracked her torso and, eyes closed,
she collapsed back into the chair, drained and released once more.

Recovering swiftly, she scooted upright. “Come out, come out, Ricardo. I have to leave at once.” That stopped him and, grateful
for the cessation of cunning cunnilingus, she quickly composed in her mind the closing paragraph and typed it out, crossing
her legs tightly to prevent any further interference.

He rose from the other side of the desk, grinning from ear to ear, his mouth still wet with her ambrosia. He smacked his lips
appreciatively. “What you say?”

She ripped the last page out of her typewriter and switched the machine off. She had finished! And it was damn good, she was
positive. “I must leave immediately.”

His grin faded rapidly. “Why?”

“My brother needs me,” she said.

Frowning with disappointment, he swore at length in Spanish. She rose, kissing him on the lips, tasting her own erotic residue.
“I’ll drive you to the airport. If we have time, we can do it in the back seat in the parking lot. But, Ricardo, please hurry…”

From his work bench he grabbed the Hasselblad and snapped in the 50 millimeter, 1.7 lens. Checking the film’s ASA rating,
he whirled to the nearly nude model lying on the expanse of white paper. The thick paper dropped in one continuous sheet from
the giant roll on the ceiling rod two stories above, forming both the backdrop and the floor covering for his setup. With
as much professional distance as he could muster, he eyed her through the new lens, feeling a decidedly nonprofessional stirring
in his tight Calvin Klein jeans.

She was a sensational find, possessing an exquisite body and a magical, alluring face. Even as she stared back blankly into
the camera, she projected a smoldering sensuality, an earthiness that reeked of carnality. Her incredible eyes hinted at untold
secrets and a wildly lascivious nature. Black as coal, they dared him to make a move toward her. The invitation was so open,
so boldly
expressed, that Dirk was having a difficult time keeping his mind on the intricacies of his chosen profession.

He lowered the camera, vaguely aware that the Chuck Mangione tape on his reel-to-reel Tandberg deck was nearing the end. “Toni,
let’s try a few with the blouse unbuttoned totally.”

She smiled seductively and sat up to do as requested. Wearing only white, French-cut bikini panties and a gauzy, see-through
blouse of a soft tangerine color, Toni opened the last button, her gaze not wavering from his. Her rounded breasts leapt fully
into view, their dark aureoles like another pair of tantalizing eyes egging him own. “How do you want me?” she asked, her
voice as sultry as her obvious charms.

He swallowed, wtih difficulty. “Lean back on your hands, knees up. That’s it… now shift your shoulders… more toward me. Yeah…”
He studied her through the lens. With her breasts pointing high, she looked as if she were offering them to the gods. And
what an offering they were—full, round, perfectly proportioned, they reminded him of his sister’s—except that Honey’s were
almost pure white, and Toni’s were the color of almonds.

Wanting more highlights on their soft fullness, he adjusted the “barn door” on one of the Fresnels behind him and, satisfied
with the results, shot several more exposures. “Okay, slip off the blouse,” he said. Pretending nonchalance, he refilled her
Baccarat goblet from the rare bottle of 1953 Schloss Eltz Trockenbeerenauslese. Shoeless, he squatted on the white paper to
hand over the goblet. She took it with a grateful smile, looking up at him through her long black eyelashes. The come-hither
glance piqued further the interest of his bird of paradise. For a long moment he could only stare back in anticipation, his
mind racing ahead to explore the mysteries awaiting him. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly.

“Much more relaxed than I thought I’d be,” she replied. “You make me feel quite comfortable, really.”

“Good. I told you it wouldn’t be difficult.” He tore his eyes from her dark-centered breasts and stood, making certain she
caught a glimpse of the rising bulge in his jeans. Innocently he busied himself by changing the completed audio tape. The
large Palladian windows behind him offered a stunning, panoramic view of the night-lit towers of the World Trade Center. “Any
requests?”

“Whatever you like, I’m game for.”

“How ’bout a little Jean-Pierre Rampal?”

“What’s he play?”

“The flute.”

Toni giggled, her breasts bouncing provocatively. Hurriedly he racked up the new reel and switched it on. Soaring, lyrical
sounds filled the large, nearly empty studio-loft. “Want any more weed?” he asked. “Snow?”

“Maybe later. That whiff is strong, huh?” She stretched her arms over her head, pushing her treasures up at him. “I can’t
believe my very first photo session is with someone as well known as you,” she said coyly. “Ever since I saw that last layout
in
Esquire
, I’ve always had a fantasy of posing for you.”

“See? Fantasies do come true.”

“Well… sometimes,” she laughed.

“Mind removing your panties?”

She hesitated, sudden doubt flooding her young face.
Point of no return
, he said to himself, and smiled encouragingly. Discreetly he turned his back and switched off the overhead spots, giving
her time to adjust by herself. Only that morning he had discovered her, standing at a Park Avenue bus stop. With only one
look, he had known she possessed that one quality for which he was constantly searching—pure feminine magic. It was an indefinable
quality, something he had often tried to put
into words but always had difficulty explaining. And yet he instantly recognized it whenever he saw it—a mystical allure,
timeless, placeless, it went beyond mere physical beauty and transcended the normal definitions of feminine pulchritude. He
prided himself on his ability to discover it, and credited his considerable success to his trained eyes. This beautiful young
lady had never modeled before, yet when he had approached her, introducing himself by his card, explaining his desire for
a session with her, she readily agreed. All this time he had thought it was his ineffable charm. Now he realized she’d known
all along who he was.

He turned back to her and his bird suddenly took wing, fluttering valiantly to be free. Toni lay stretched out on her back,
her breasts flattening into soft mounds, her long legs parted slightly, her black bush glistening like a satin pillow; one
hand lay on a thigh, the fingers curved toward the unseen opening between her legs. “Perfection,” he said softly, and began
snapping her pose from several angles, moving quickly from side to side, eventually standing near her head to shoot down the
length of her womanly, arousing body.