The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey
Read The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey Online
Authors: Roland DeForrest
Looking in surprising centers of sin for an exquisite golden girl, Dirk and Honey make many friends and a few waves. Who can
forget the sizzling siblings?
Not the handsome Indian Holy Man, who initiates Honey in the delights of luxuriously slow sex.
Not the lissome Chinese acrobats, who perform for Dirk the erotic show of his life.
Not the beautiful young blonde herself, the object of Dirk’s wild passion and Honey’s sensual curiosity.
All over the world, beautiful men and women remember their encounter with Dirk and Honey with a rapturous sigh. And so will
you.
The Wildon Affair
The Erotic Quest of
Dirk and Honey
Published by
WARNER BOOKS
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright
© 1983 by Warner Books, Inc.
All rights reserved
.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: November 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-57013-8
Contents
HONEY
“Ricardo,” she purred, and pulled free from his fevered clutches. “You’re making it extremely hard on me.”
His flashing black eyes twinkled with amusement. “
Sí
. And you make
hard-on
for me. See?” Proudly he stepped back, revealing the tented front of his velvet robe. Slowly, like a master unveiling a work
of art, he pulled loose the belt and opened the robe, exposing his erect demands. His sleek cock was the color of sandalwood.
Tempted, Honey eyed him for a long moment. Ricardo Prado was about the most appealing hunk of man she had encountered lately.
Just over six feet of hardened flesh, tapered waist, slim hips, muscular thighs, with curly black hair and a boyish, devil-may-care
charm that had won her over within moments of their meeting in Mexico City at the National Soccer Championships. Hailed as
one of the world’s greatest players, a natural successor to the sensational Pele, Ricardo was to be the subject of her
next exclusive and internationally published article. But ever since their arrival back at her palatial home in Hillsborough,
California, his mind had been more on in-depth screwing than on in-depth interviewing.
“Pack it away, lover boy,” she sighed in resignation, and gathered her notes from the bedside table. “I’ve work to do. We’ll
play later. I promise.” She threw him a dazzling smile and, tossing her shoulder-length waves of Titian-colored hair, walked
quickly out of her bedroom, her full hips swaying provocatively under the sheer iridescent green of her chiffon caftan.
Like a dutiful puppy, Ricardo followed, the pout evident in his tone as he spoke: “Work, work, work… I want to fuck, fuck,
fuck.”
“
You’re
on vacation,” she said over her shoulder and headed for the grand staircase leading to the ground floor. “I’m on a deadline.
Your interview has to be on the wire by this afternoon. And Honey Wildon
never
misses a deadline.”
He caught her arm, swinging her around, pulling her close, crushing her heavy breasts into his bare chest. “You’ve got time,”
he growled good-naturedly, and pressed his mouth on hers. As they kissed, she could feel his hardness pushing at her belly
like an insistent divining rod. For another moment she wavered, a demanding warmth rushing up from her loins, filling her
with an intense desire. Reluctantly she broke away and gave a friendly squeeze to his hard-on. “Ricardo, you
are
insatiable.”
He frowned. “What’s that mean?”
“The male equivalent of me,” she answered with a smirk, and began descending the carpeted stairs, her knees weak from the
fires boiling within her groin. “Now don’t follow me. The servants will see you.”
“Servants,” he snorted at the top of the stairs. “I not care about servants.”
She laughed gaily and kept descending. “That’s because they’re not yours. They’re mine. In fact, some were even here when
my parents were alive.” At the bottom she paused, looking back up at him. He stood, feet splayed, frowning down, his robe
wide open, one hand stroking determinedly on his hard peter. With his free hand he blew her a kiss. “Honey,” he said hoarsely,
“you are one hot girl.”
“I’m a woman,” she said easily, and breezed out of his sight and down the hall into the study, her father’s former library.
With fierce concentration and firm discipline acquired through her years as a top-flight journalist of international reputation,
Honey was soon deeply involved in finishing her article on Ricardo. He had not been a difficult subject to capture on paper.
His likes were simple: soccer, hot women, and fast cars, exactly in that order. What intrigued her, and what she had chosen
as the slant of the article, was his familial devotion, an almost worshipful allegiance to his mother and his younger siblings.
With the fabulous money he was earning as Mexico’s top soccer star, Ricardo had lavished the good life on his family while
choosing to live by himself in relative austerity—except for his shiny red Porsche Targa.
When she was writing, time passed quickly for Honey, and now she was unaware that Ricardo, clad only in tight Speedo swim
trunks, stood quietly in the open doorway, observing her. He had never encountered a hotter woman or a more beautiful conquest.
Statuesque—nearly five-nine—her luscious body was a bountiful collection of soft curves and voluptuous endowments. Her smooth,
unblemished skin was the color of fresh milk. Her breasts were full, rounded peaks and they strained at the filmy
material of her gown. Her exquisite profile bent intently over the typewriter, and her long, dark red tresses gleamed like
burnished metal in the morning sun, which streamed in through the French doors leading to the poolside terrace. As he watched
her, he could feel himself thickening in his swimsuit. Never before had he had a woman who enjoyed sex as much as he did.
The mere thought of her enthusiastic performances in bed caused his cock to blossom into a full-blown weapon. He wanted her
desperately right then, right there.
He took a step into the book-lined room. Turning her astonishingly blue eyes on him, she smiled at his bulging swimsuit. “Why
the periscope? Going for a swim?”
“
Sí
. In you.”
“
Por favor, mi toro
. Later.”
He rubbed the persistent throbbing in his nylon swimsuit. “No.
Now
,” he demanded.
“Tough maracas, Ricardo,” she murmured. Honey had returned to the typewriter, her fingers raising a steady, electronic clackety-clack.
With studied nonchalance he moved behind her chair, peering over her bare shoulders and down the front of her low-cut caftan.
As she breathed, the soft swell of her snowcapped peaks filled him with new urgings. With the same quickness that marked his
performance on the soccer field, he shoved a hand down between her warm, soft breasts, relishing their fullness.
“Ricardo,” she complained, still typing. “You promised, when I asked you here, that you’d let me work when I had to.”
“You work too much,” he said softly and cupped one full breast, loving its weight in his sweaty palm. Bending down to nuzzle
her long neck, he inhaled her sweet aroma—like a garden of roses on a hot, sunny day. It
reminded him of her pussy, and that made his blood simmer.
Still typing, she arched her head back into him. “I love my work. As you do yours.”
“But I no work now. I play.” With a fingernail he flicked at one of her nipples, pleased to feel it elongating at his touch.
He pressed the hard bulge of his swimsuit into the back of her head and demanded, “How long?”
“About seven inches, if I recall correctly,” she said crisply, and continued to type.
He jerked his hand free of her breasts and marched around the desk. Standing directly in front of her, he began tracing with
his fingertips the long boner compressed painfully in his trunks.
She ceased typing. “Ricardo, why don’t you take a swim? Cool off for a spell. Give it a rest.”
Instead of replying, he yanked free his hard-on and pulled back the skin from its glistening head. He bobbed it at her, a
lustful, sly grin on his darkly handsome features. Honey eyed the end of his pointing dick, noticing a small drop of moisture
at the dime-sized slit. It was that mere speck of pearly fluid that crumbled her resolve. With a rustle of chiffon, she bounded
out of her chair and, with heavy breasts swaying, flew to the hall door and closed it. She turned, leaning back against the
door. “
El Máquina
, take off those trunks.”
Willingly he obliged, pushing them off his trim hips and stepping out of them. Proudly, even vainly he stood, letting her
drink in his aroused beauty. “Now you,” he ordered.
Still standing by the door, she gathered the skirt of her light green caftan and vigorously pulled it over her head, flinging
it aside. Her full figure rose like a classical statue from the plush pile rug. Her alabaster skin glowed
like polished ivory, her rounded, full breasts heaving, the bright red triangle between her softly rounded thighs beckoning
like a warming bonfire. His eyes bulged at her breathtaking beauty, and his prick grew even harder. “Come here,” he croaked.
“Show me again,” she breathed. “That trick from last night.”
Needing no further encouragement to show off his prowess, he fell forward onto his hands, and pressed straight up into a rigid
handstand. He walked toward her on his hands, his lean, brown shaft bouncing out behind him like a stiff rooster tail. Straight
to her feet he moved and, opening wide his legs, placed one on either side of her, his feet flat against the closed door,
well above her shoulders.
With enormous pleasure she looked down at him from that odd angle. She reached between his legs and leaned over his ass, grabbing
his stiffness, pulling it toward her mouth as she bent her knees, lowering her fiery bush to his awaiting, upturned head.
As his tongue sliced into the already wet lips of her delta of love, she sucked in the plum-sized head of his engorged dick,
tracing its hard under-ridges expertly with her exploring tongue. His own tongue was stiff and jabbed at her clit, raising
the temperature of her internal furnace. From her mouth, greedy slurping sounds mingled with moans of pleasure. Her knees
and his arms buckled at the same time, and both of them collapsed onto the rug.
Rolling her over on her back, he fell between her upraised knees and, with the dexterity of a natural athlete, plunged his
pulsing peter deep into her vessel of warmth. With a deep sigh of contentment, she locked her long legs around his trim waist
and pressed his firm chest into her soft mounds. “Ahhhh,
excelentísimo
Ricardo Prado,” she groaned. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…”
Ever since she’d first fallen into bed with him in her Mexico City hotel room, she had been amazed at his endurance and stamina.
He was a marvelous fuck—not just slow, easy proddings, either, but increasingly energetic, even zestful lunges deep into her
most innermost core, raising her to unbelievable heights of ecstasy. He could go at it for hours, and she could testify under
oath that only the night before he had kept up his ramming for over two and a half hours straight before her climaxes had
ceased and her sore pussy had begun to dry up. And still he had been ready, even eager for more.
Now, once again, he attacked her with youthful exuberance. She could feel his balls bouncing against her perineum, and their
lusty rhythm skyrocketed her own. Pools of their perspiration formed on her, adding a slippery external lubricant. The internal
walls of her love box were awash in their own drippings, and his driving cock felt like a hot poker, satisfying and exhilarating.
Quickly she began to peak, an exquisite anguish rising within her to almost unbearable heights. Like a sudden clap of thunder
she came, drenching the heat of his red-hot poker in a shower of viscous fluids. A muted scream of release broke from her.
Still pile-driving his hips, Ricardo raised his head from the hollow of her neck and grinned, panting, “Score one for you,
sí
?”
“
Sí sí
,” she groaned.
“I play hard when I’m behind,” he growled and, lowering his head, raced to catch up by shifting his hips into even higher
gear. He was slamming so hard into her that all she could do was hang on to his taut frame and ride out the match. Reeling
in delicious aftershocks, she did not have long to wait. With a satisfied burst of air through his nostrils, he climaxed,
shooting a hot goal deep into the wet net of her vanquished cage.