The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey (24 page)

On the upper deck, Honey marshalled her strength for the task ahead of her. Squaring her shoulders, she moved from the rail
toward Bouscaral’s cabin.

He answered her knock wearing a robe of antique maroon velvet, and stared coldly down his sharp nose. “What do you want?”

“You,” she said simply.

“You are too late,” he said, and started to close the door.

She caught it with a hand and pushed past it into the spacious cabin. “I think not,” she replied coyly, and started undoing
the belt of her robe. Slowly she parted her robe, revealing her awesome breasts. “I apologize sincerely for my previous behavior.
May not a woman change her mind?” Like a goddess unveiling, she dropped the robe to the carpet and stood mutely. He drank
in her statuesque figure like a man long denied. Not taking his eyes from her magnificent breasts, he closed the door and
moved to her. Abruptly he grabbed her in his arms and crushed his mouth to hers, his hard prong underneath the velvet colliding
with her belly like a soft fist.

She did not struggle or protest, but merely allowed him to continue his kiss without offering any encouragement or exchange
of feelings. Her passivity increased his fervor. “You beautiful cunt,” he gasped into her neck. “Suck me.”

Silently she slipped to her knees and opened his velvet robe. His erect member bounced out at her face, its hard sleekness
a direct extension of his cold, brittle personality. Taking it in both hands, she caressed its length, as if admiring its
beauty. It twitched expectantly in her hands and a drop of seminal fluid oozed from the slit in the blood-red cap. With the
tip of her tongue she licked the drop away, tasting its sticky saltiness, then teased the small opening.

He tore the velvet dressing robe from his thin frame, tossing it in a corner. Twining his fingers in her thick hair, he jerked
her head forward over the end of his prick, ramming it deep down her throat. Fighting the gagging reflex, she relaxed those
muscles, allowing his full length to enter fully. She coated his slender prick with a thick covering of saliva, running her
tongue again and again along the hard bulges. With increasing urgency he pumped into her mouth, jamming it in and out, his
loosely sacked balls bouncing into her chin. She folded her tongue around his prick, creating a warm, slippery nest. The more
she sucked, the hotter she became, and her fingers sought her own nest.

He whipped his cock out of her mouth and rasped, “On your hands and knees.”

Obediently she fell onto her hands and he walked behind her, pulled her full hips towards him, and sank his dagger to the
limit in her wet pussy. He fell onto her back, and clutching her around the waist with both arms, he began to plunge in and
out with alarming speed. Trying to keep upright under his weight, she braced herself on her arms and wiggled her butt into
his lap, adding a new twist to his frenetic screwing. It did not take long for her to understand Kolina’s fascination with
him. Bouscaral was a champion.

His hands clutched at her heavy, swinging breasts and his deeply buried prick battered into the walls of her canal, adding
immeasurably to her pleasure. Reluctantly she had to hand it to the Prince of Kink—he surely knew how to fuck.

Abruptly his cock vanished from its burial place; he had pulled out and now was ordering her to lie on her side. She did as
requested and he lay down facing her, taking her top leg below the knee and flinging it high up in the air, holding it there,
forcing her ever wider. Immediately
he plunged into her love channel again, and set about his hurried but skillful plundering. With growing heat, she began to
meet his every move, her dislike of the man fast disappearing under his expert ministrations.

Bouscaral took her in a variety of positions. To each she responded with the same enthusiasm, her own sexual gymnastics increasing
his ardor. Like a man possessed, he attempted to top her, to get the best of her. But she refused to give in. An inhuman growling
rose from her lips, her breathing became labored, and still she demanded more.

When at last his energy began to flag and his movements slowed, she prodded him on, raking his back with her long nails. Wrapping
her long legs around his trim waist, she bucked, twisted, and kicked, screams of unfulfilled lust raging from her lips.

On into the night they fucked and fought, each refusing to come before the other. Finally, with a concerted effort, Honey
threw him over on his back and sat on his exhausted pecker. Placing her hands flat on his hairless chest, she arched her back
and cried, “Fuck me, you fool. Fuck me!”

Inspired by her pleas, he threw himself into one last round of energetic pumping and promptly, with a cry of anguish, he came
furiously, far up inside her. A grin of victory flashed across her aroused face, and she lowered her heavy breasts to his
heaving chest, climaxing with a great shout of triumph.

After a moment she climbed off him and he rose and staggered to the bar in his room. “I’ve never had a woman outlast me,”
he grumbled as he poured himself a snifter of Courvoisier. Swirling the amber contents, he sank into an easy chair and proceeded
to toss the brandy down in one gulp.

“But did I not please you?” she persisted pleasantly.

“What is pleasure?” he asked boyishly. “One person’s pleasure is another person’s pain.”

“Not necessarily,” she purred and slipped out of bed, padding to his chair. Kneeling before him, she looked up at him in total
humility, her deep blue eyes filled with worshipful longing. “You are the very best I’ve ever had. I would do anything—anything—to
be allowed to be only your property for as long as you desire me.”

He contemplated her with a brightening expression, his black eyes sparkling with aroused interest. “You would do as I say?”

“Willingly,” she said softly and took one of his hands, kissing the palm. “On one condition. You get rid of that little girl
forever.”

He shrugged helplessly. “I’m hooked on her. If I don’t get my daily fix of her, I’m certain I will go mad. The more she rejects
me, the more I want her. It used to be the other way around, you know.”

“If you keep her, you can’t have me.”

He stared down, his face tense. “You force me to choose between you?”

“I’m not forcing you to do anything,” Honey said. “But I know one thing for certain. If she stays, I go. I will not compete
with her for your attention.”

His shoulders rose and fell as he sighed, “I will hate to lose your fine talent, but I have no recourse. Kolina is the very
core of my life.

“Your services are no longer required,” he said, almost apologetically. “Things were better before you showed up. I will see
that you are dropped off at our next destination. Now, please, leave me alone.”

She hesitated, wanting to plead, to change his mind. But it was as though she had already left and he was alone. Feeling she
had failed in her mission, she moved heavily from his cabin and into the bright moonlight.

Bouscaral’s Learjet landed in the dead of night on an airstrip deep in the Pacific, but Honey was not told where. Emerging
from the rear passenger compartment, she blinked at the mist-shrouded, desolate airport, and with a rapidly sinking heart
she recognized where Bouscaral was going to dump her—on the isolated archipelago of the Galapagos Islands, straddling the
Equator, six hundred miles off Ecuador.

Before she could even protest to Bouscaral, who refused to come near her, the guards whisked her into a jeep, and a convoy
of several vehicles roared across tiny Baltra Island to the westernmost shore. There she was hustled into the second of three
native boats Bouscaral had rented. Once used for fishing, the boats were now available for the more lucrative transportation
of tourists to any one of the nineteen islands and forty-two islets. As the large craft putted away from the rocky, barren
coast, she caught
a glimpse of Kolina in the first boat up ahead and felt a sharp pang of remorse. Ever since her wild sexual encounter with
the Prince of Kink, he had kept Honey far away from the sweetly beautiful girl, not even allowing a single French lesson.

As the sun crept higher into the sky, Honey stood in the bow of the boat, the wind whipping her hair, the fine spray of salt
water misting her face. She scanned the slate-gray ocean dotted with absurdly tiny and rocky volcanic islands, trying to discern
why Bouscaral had come to this impossible remote section of the world. What thrill could be found within these primitive piles
of rock? Surely he must have chosen the locale not for any available sexual kicks, but only because he wanted to dump her
quietly, raising no suspicions or inquiries by authorities.

She was all too aware how easily he would be able to achieve this goal. Any of the miniscule outer islands were totally unpopulated,
reachable only by hired fishing boat. Bouscaral’s accompanying entourage was so large, including four women, who would notice
one missing on the return voyage? Money closes many eyes, as she knew all too well.

By the time the three fishing boats anchored in a small inlet of one of the smaller islets, the sun was high overhead, blasting
down waves of intense heat. A crew had arrived earlier to set up a large tent compound on the only flat space on the entire
rough-hewn rocks. Upon landing, she joined the scramble for the protection of large awnings to escape the searing heat of
the sun. She chose the one under which Kolina had scurried, but she was forcibly removed. One guard firmly latched on to each
of her arms, marching her to a small tent up against the cliffs, the farthest away from the master’s tent. She was shoved
inside the sweltering interior and Tweedledee
sat not far away under an outcropping of rock, keeping the front of her tent in constant view.

The blazing sun had diminished in intensity when Honey later emerged from her tent. Clad in a coral string bikini which barely
covered her mons veneris and her protruding nipples, she pranced down to the water’s edge.

To the young guard watching her through sleepy, bored eyes, she was a bolt of exotic lightning. She was a vision of white
marble skin and sensuous curves, her legs as long as a thoroughbred’s, her rounded hips provocatively alluring, her flat stomach
emphasizing the sudden, awesome sweep of her proud breasts. He got a hard-on just watching her ripe, pear-shaped ass sway
into the water as she waded out. She surface-dove, submerging completely and refusing to break for air until she had swum
her usual one hundred strokes. When she finally surfaced, she slicked back her hair and surveyed the beach encampment from
a distance halfway to the first anchored fishing boat.

Tweedledee stood at the water’s edge, a look of relief on his face—as if he had been concerned by the length of time she had
been out of sight underwater. She waved to indicate that she was fine and swam the length of the cove and back again. All
the while she was taking mental pictures of the topography, hoping the information would come in handy later. Until Bouscaral
made his move, she could only wait.

Both guards watched her exit from the water, as did every other male in the camp. She searched for Kolina but did not see
her among the gaping faces. Inside her tent she changed into a filmy beach gown and sat in the shade of the tent awning, watching
the many prehistoric-looking iguanas resting in the crevices of the island’s volcanic rock.

When she was called for dinner, the sun had dipped far behind the cove’s cliffs. The temperature had dropped considerably
and there was a bonfire, around which were clustered the serving and maintenance staff. As she sat on a camp stool off to
one side, eating the spicy, native stew of fish and octopus, drinking a dry sauterne, she eyed Kolina with Bouscaral at a
table for two some distance away.

Dinner was not even concluded before the elegantly attired Bouscaral went into his tent, to come out a short time later dressed
in a tropical bush jacket, fatigue pants, pith helmet, and high leather hiking boots. Then the crew began rounding up an odd
assortment of gear—large nets, torches, and rifles. Some sort of night hunting party was being formed, but Honey could not
imagine what their quarry might be.

It was not until a bowl of fruit was brought around by the elderly cook that Honey learned the real purpose of Bouscaral’s
visit. “The female iguanas,” the old woman whispered. “That’s why the master came here.”

“The iguanas?” Honey echoed, mystified.

“The female ones,” the elderly Frenchwoman explained, as if to a child. “The natives swear eating them increases one’s potency.”

In disbelief, Honey stared at the old woman. “You mean they kill these harmless creatures just for that?” ‘

“
Oui
, absurd, no?” cackled the old servant. Still chuckling to herself and shaking her head, she hobbled away, leaving Honey sitting
in amazement.

Killing iguanas to test an old wives’ tale! How absurd could Bouscaral get? But at least his planned festivities did not include
Kolina; the girl was still dressed as if for dinner at Maxim’s. That eased Honey’s concerns and she returned to her own tent
in a state of hope, in spite of the native guard outside.

Through the mosquito netting she observed the final departure of the hunt contingent. Almost all the men had joined, leaving
only two for guards—one for her, one for Kolina. The women servants had withdrawn to their tent and Honey could hear them
drinking, playing cards, and laughing. She waited until the sky grew dark.

Wearing boots, jeans, and a T-shirt, she took a sharp knife she’d stolen from the cook’s utensils, slit the rear wall of her
tent, and eased out. Hidden in the shadows of the cliff, she made her way to the section she’d observed earlier. Carefully
she began her ascent, inching up the rock facing. Upon reaching the top, she slid behind a rock and stood to scan the horizon.
Then she walked gingerly along the edge of the cliff above the camp spread out below, until she had circled around to Kolina’s
side. Finding the point she had planned to use, she began descending the steep incline.