The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey (8 page)

“How did a Swedish girl end up belly dancing in Cartagena?”

She smiled wistfully, and for a brief second he saw again the identical image of Kolina in the park. “I was raised dancing,”
she began softly. “And one year, when I
was eleven and Kolina was six, my father taught in Tunisia. I began studying Middle Eastern dancing there. After… after the
boat explosion that claimed by parents’ lives, I needed a profession to put Kolina through school. Because my figure is too
full for any other kind of dancing, I went to Egypt and studied more. Blonde belly dancers are a rarity, and I became quite
successful. The best offer came from this club here. Blondes are also at a premium in South America.”

“Especially such talented ones.” He could not control his urges any longer. He bent and kissed her tenderly on the lips. She
did not pull back, but rather returned it in full.

When they parted, she looked at him strangely. “Why do you want to help find Kolina? You saw her only for a moment.”

“I’m a professional photographer. Beautiful women are my passion. I’ve never, ever seen a face like hers… or yours, for that
matter. You look so much like her…” He broke off, flustered at his ineffectual explanation, and tried again. “She looked so
damned vulnerable, so in need of someone to help her…”

Barbro nodded silently in agreement and took his hand, pulling him toward the bed in the alcove. He hesitated, torn by conflicing
desires. “Barbro… you don’t have to do anything for me. I’ll look for your sister without any reward from you.”

She placed a finger on his lips. “Shhh… I want you, Dirk Wildon. You are a good man, a decent man. And I haven’t had any man
for such a long, long time.”

In amazement he stared down at her beautiful face. “I find that difficult to understand. You could have any man you wanted.”

She sighed and sank gracefully to the bed, tossing embroidered pillows aside. “Belly dancers are always thought
to be promiscuous because their art is so erotic. But my standards are high. Rather than risk my reputation, which would make
my life hell in such a place as this, I prefer to remain celibate.” She lay back on the pillows and held her arms up to him.
“You are a very sexy man. Tall, lanky, like an American cowboy…”

Thrilled by her praise, he fell beside her and gathered her to him, whispering into her face, “And you are a very sexy woman…
full, ripe, delicious, a smorgasbord of delights…” She giggled and he kissed her hungrily; his tongue sank deep into her smooth
mouth, which tasted of mints and smelled of cognac. Their tongues twisted and coiled around each other like mating snakes.
At once his larger snake raised its head and pressed heatedly through his slacks into her soft belly.

He reared up to pull the damp towel from her luscious body and fling it on the floor. By the dim light of the brass lantern,
he gazed raptly at the revealed wonders. Her skin was the color of his sister’s, creamy white, unblemished, satiny to the
touch of his roaming fingers. Her breasts were a treasure trove—full, rounded mounds of pale flesh, pliable to the touch.
Her aureoles were pale pink, and her nipples, slightly darker in color, were already as hard as pencil erasers, cylindrical
in shape, flat-topped. He lowered his mouth and sucked on one, flicking it with his tongue as her encircling arms pressed
him to her. Not wanting to slight a single portion, he traced his tongue across the deep crevice between her breasts and to
the other nipple, biting it softly, raising a soft moan of approval from deep in her throat.

She pushed his shoulders up off her, panting, “Get nude, Dirk… I want you nude too.”

He rolled off the bed and stood, tearing off his shirt, tossing it aside while he toed off his Gucci loafers. As he unzipped
his slacks his hard peter bounced into view and
she reached out a cool hand, taking hold of it while he shucked his slacks and stepped out of them. While she kept hold of
his rigid bird, he struggled out of his socks and was about to kneel again on the bed, when her mouth swooped forward and
closed over the end of his pleasantly surprised dick. She sat on the edge of the bed holding his hips with her hands as her
mouth encompassed his cock, sliding down on it until he could feel the back of her throat. Stroking her blonde waves, he watched
her devour his bird as if it were a sausage of the tastiest meat. His hands lowered to her bouncing breasts and he tweaked
her nipples, rolling and pinching the puckered flesh between his fingertips; cupping her full breasts, he held them in the
palm of his hand, feeling their weight, their resiliency.

She let his dick slip from her mouth and inhaled one of his balls, washing it around her talented mouth, scrubbing it with
her tongue before letting go of it to apply the same attention to the other testicle. His hard peter battered her soft cheek,
and he could feel a roaring furnace stoking to life deep in the center of his groin. She pulled back slightly to study his
bird, holding it gently in both hands, pulling the skin tightly back from its engorged head, licking the end of it, parting
the small opening with her tongue.

He couldn’t wait any longer and shoved her back on the bed, crawling between her legs, spreading her creamy thighs wide, opening
her steamy portal to paradise for his own minute study. Her bush was the color of tropical beach sand, soft and silky. Her
crinkled labia were tinged a delicate rose hue, which deepened in color the further he explored with his eager fingers. Her
internal walls were slick with dew and undulated with their own erotic dance. Slowly he lowered his mouth, inhaling the sweet
aroma of ripe fruit. She tasted just as sweet, and his tongue dug deep, slicing her open like a fresh fig. He located her
love
trigger and afflicted it tenderly until her generous hips were writhing.

He scooted his legs around, bringing his demanding cock to her mouth, and as he ate at her delectable morsels of love meat,
she sucked his quivering bird deeply into her throat. He pumped his hips gently and caressed the insides of her thighs, clutching
at the soft cheeks of her buttocks, pulling her buttocks wide apart, reaming her purple-pink anus, and returning to the tender
trench like a homing pigeon. For a long while they continued in the classic sixty-nine position until he felt too close to
creaming into her mouth. Wanting to postpone the inevitable as long as possible, he withdrew and, turning her on her side,
crawled around her, spooning his hips up to her soft mass of ass, his aching cock pressing between her cheeks, his arms encircling
her, his hands grabbing for her large breasts, his face buried in her neck just below her ear.

He pulled her top leg over his thigh and, with the excitement of a school boy on his first fuck, slowly sought her liquid
opening with the head of his ready-to-fly bird. He eased into her incredibly tight pussy with a deliberateness and she arched
her head back into him, groaning. Deeper and deeper his bird burrowed into the moist meat until he could go no further. With
one hand he stroked her full breasts, the other circling low on her rounded belly, down over the kinky softness of her bush,
his middle finger seeking out the top of her love trench, locking on her lust button, jiggling it steadily as he plunged,
again and again and again, deep into her.

Soon she was groaning lustily, “Do me, Dirk… do me good. Fuck me, fuck me hard…”

Ever the gentleman, he did as she demanded, giving it to her with all the finesse born of his many years of experience. Many
times he was so close to coming that he had to stop moving altogether to prolong their pleasure to
its fullest. Again and again he raised her to peaks of passion and still he fucked on, at times slow, at times hard and fast,
like a piston in a precision racing machine. The sheets were drenched with their sweat and her juices before he rolled over
on top of her. The new position raised her to even further heights of ecstasy and made it easier for his eager bird to ram
as deep as possible. She shrieked as she peaked again, and, unable to contain his own climax any longer, he lowered his head
between her mountainous breasts and drove for home with the determination of a long-lost orphan. His dick felt three times
its normal size and was raw from the workout before it finally detonated deep with in her. With a growl of joy, he shot his
load and was surprised at its duration and amount. Drained, he collapsed on her voluptuous body and suddenly realized that
when he’d come, he had been fantasizing that he was fucking her sister, Kolina.

In less than an hour they made it two more times. By the fifth fuck before dawn, he was pleading for some rest. By breakfast
he was as limp as a wilted daisy. And still she wanted more. He rose to the occasion… but fell asleep in midstroke.

Rather than take the train from Zurich, she hired a chauffeured Mercedes-Benz limousine. The nearly three-hour drive to Klosters,
high up in the Swiss Alps, near the Austrian border, was filled with scenic, even awesome grandeur. From the deeply cushioned
rear seat of the luxurious auto, Honey stared out at the passing panorama of dense virgin woods, craggy, sunlit peaks, and
lush green valleys sprinkled with vivid spring flowers. She was filled not only with the peaceful beauty, but also with bittersweet
memories of her own schoolgirl years in very similar surroundings, near Lucerne. For six years, until she turned eighteen,
she had lived and studied there. In many ways, she now felt she was coming home.

Dirk’s telephone report from Cartagena had caught up with her in Rome, where, in the villa of a dear friend, she’d been recovering
from her Indian sojourn. The news that Kolina had disappeared from a Swiss boarding school
called Bon Coeur had immediately sent Honey off on this present journey. Dirk’s voice, via transoceanic phone, had been filled
with such desperate urgency and insistence that she could not deny him. Besides, the news that Kolina was officially missing
only confirmed their previous fears that the girl was in jeopardy, held against her will. That alone was reason enough for
Honey to be concerned and to try to help in any way she could. If there were any causes to which she was fervently, irrevocably
committed, they were personal liberty and freedom of choice.

The little village of Klosters did not disappoint her memory of it. Though she had been there several times in winter for
the area’s excellent skiing, this was her first visit in the spring. The quaint little chalets dotting the hills around the
town looked strangely naked sitting in plush velvet green rather than amid drifts of snowy white. Flowers were blooming everywhere,
draping over balconies, filling window-boxes, even decorating mailboxes. At the other side of town, past the steepled, whitewashed
kirche
, her driver crossed the bridge over the Landquart River and took the road that wound up the side of the mountain, following
the carved wood signs for Bon Coeur. Eventually the stone gates of the school itself came into view, and the sleek, long limousine
turned off the main road and passed under the arched entrance and up the tree-lined drive. Honey leaned forward in anticipation.

The stately old stone buildings of Bon Coeur came into view, looking much like her own alma mater—refined, monied, full of
tradition and respect for academic knowledge. Surrounded by towering pines and century-old maples, the grounds looked like
those of an exclusive private club with sweeping expanses of closely mown grass. Stone terraces and benches were scattered
about, offering stunning vistas of the Alps and the tiny village in the valley far below. Schoolgirls ranging in age from
six to eighteen,
wearing a full uniform of short blue-and-green plaid skirt, smart blue blazer, white blouse with dark blue tie, and white
knee socks, strolled about the grounds in small groups, or sat under trees alone, studying or just enjoying the sparkling
sunshine. Honey had a sudden twinge of memory and felt a sweet longing for her dear school chum, Disa Dichter, whom she had
not seen for weeks. When they had been these girls’ age, they’d usually been off in the belfry, ringing their own chimes.

She instructed the driver to pull up before the administration building, and as he parked, she removed from her Venetian leather
purse a gold Tiffany compact, making a quick survey of her face and hair. Remembering her old headmistress’s stern, matriarchal
manner had prompted Honey to dress conservatively in a very tailored, midnight-blue tweed suit by Ungaro, with low Charles
Jordan pumps. She had even swept up her deep red hair into a modified French roll, leaving wispy tendrils on either side of
her face to soften the severity. She waited until the elderly chauffeur opened her door, then slid out with a grateful smile,
telling him in French to please wait. She walked up the brick stairs and entered the imposing structure, feeling suddenly
very young and yet very out of place.

Inside the high-ceilinged reception area, Honey was immediately approached by a sweet-faced, uniformed schoolgirl with inquisitive
eyes, who asked in French, “May I help you?”

Flawlessly, Honey replied in the same tongue, “I have an appointment with Mademoiselle Orleans. My name is Honey Wildon.”

The young girl’s eyes widened. “The journalist? I just love your columns. We all read them here.”

“
Merci
,” Honey replied and was promptly ushered through a side door into a small waiting room. The sweet
young thing smiled shyly. “I’ll be right back.” She knocked softly on an inner door and opened it, shutting it behind her.
Shortly she reappeared, holding the door wide, her eyes playing adult games. “Mademoiselle Orleans will see you now.”

Smiling her thanks at the delectable child, who could not have been more than fifteen, Honey breezed into the headmistress’s
office. The room was lined with books, and opposite the door, in a draped, windowed alcove, stood a large desk. Behind it,
in a high-backed leather chair, sat a prim young woman with horn-rimmed glasses, her hands folded tightly on the desktop before
her. Honey stopped in surprise. “Mademoiselle Orleans?”