The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey (10 page)

Honey couldn’t take it a moment longer. She strode around the desk as if to strike Claude. Instead, Honey grabbed the young
woman’s shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed her fervently and feverishly on the lips. Claude struggled in her embrace,
but Honey would not let her squirm free. She pressed her breasts into the taut, slender frame until she began to feel Claude
soften and respond.

With a groan of surrender, Claude threw her arms around Honey, and her torso collapsed with a growing passion. They hugged
each other, kissing each other’s faces, their breaths quickening, scorching the air between them. Honey caressed Claude’s
back and trailed a hand down to stroke the soft buttocks beneath the gray jersey skirt. Honey skilfully laid her back over
the desktop, bringing up a thigh and pressing it on Claude’s mons veneris. Even through the layers of clothing, Claude’s pussy
felt as hot as a volcano ready to erupt. Wanting to fire it even more, Honey slipped a hand up Claude’s leg,
over and around inside the knee, up the thigh to the top of the stockings, across the swatch of silky skin to the front of
Claude’s panties. Honey was surprised to find that the headmistress’s choice of lingerie was more daring than her outer garments.
The panties were of lace, and skimpy, very French and soaking wet over the crotch. Excited by the discovery, Honey poked a
friendly finger under a side of the panties and had just reached her goal when Claude clamped her thighs tightly together.

“My students,” she panted.

“Screw your students,” Honey rejoined.

“I wish I had the nerve,” Claude confessed in the throes of the embrace.

“Try me instead.” Honey stood and reached for her purse on the edge of the desk. From its depths she brought out her trusty
ivory dildo—a piece of traveling equipment she was never without. She licked one bulbous end of the nine-inch piece of ancient
artwork, which looked like a Pompeiian phallus, and rubbed it wantonly over her own pussy mound, her tongue flicking her parted
lips.

Claude stared in shocked amazement, her brown eyes blinking, however, with more than casual interest. “I couldn’t…” she breathed.

“Oh, yes you could,” Honey teased, and placed a spread palm on the upturned mound just beneath the gray skirt. She applied
pressure and leaned down to order firmly, “Get up, my sweet pussy. We’re moving to the couch.” She tugged Claude up and propelled
her toward the leather couch in front of an overflowing bookcase.

With the sureness born of long practice, Honey unbuttoned Claude’s dress, despite her protests, and slipped it over her pale,
slender shoulders, letting it drop to the carpet. Claude stood, a vision of trim desirability in tiny red lace panties, black
garter belt, dark stockings, and a mere wisp of a bra that Honey tore away with one quick
motion. Claude’s breasts were not large—mere handfuls, really—but they were so perfectly shaped that they looked as if they’d
been painted by da Vinci. Their nipples were tiny pink seashells, and yet they stood out from the muscular mounds with demanding
tumescence. While hurriedly tearing off her traveling suit, Honey lowered her mouth to suck on one of the delectable tidbits,
and could feel Claude shaking with almost uncontrollable lust. That only raised Honey’s fires, and she quickly finished undressing,
stepping out of her heels and stripping off her pantyhose to stand nude and proud.

Claude drank in her beauty, her eyes growing to twice their usual size. With a cry she fell on one of Honey’s large breasts
like a babe long denied a feeding. While she sucked, Honey backed to the couch and lowered herself to the soft, cool leather
cushions, bringing Claude down on top of her. Wrapping her long legs around the headmistress, Honey pushed against Claude
and they ground their mounds together as if they were two stones grinding flour. Still clutched in one of Honey’s hands was
the ancient ivory dildo Disa had given her so long ago. She rubbed it down Claude’s backbone and over the slim but exciting
derriere, and up and down the crevice between her buttocks. Claude writhed with delight and brought her head up to engage
Honey in a fevered session of French kissing.

Soon Honey was on top, kneeling between Claude’s thighs, removing the drenched bit of red lace from her hips. Along with the
panties came the garter belt and eventually the silk stockings. Now Claude was just as naked as Honey was and the latter gazed
down reverently at the revealed wonders. Claude’s delta of Venus was like a rosy croissant hot from the oven. Honey swooped
to it with her mouth and funneled the lips open with her nose, followed close behind by her tongue. The headmistress tasted
of baked apples, naturally sweet, full of delicious
juices and steaming with heat. Honey lapped lustily and locked on the small protuberance which was the very core of Claude’s
sexuality. Tonguing it, she simultaneously ran her hands up Claude’s trunk, landing on her small, tight breasts, flicking
her long fingernails over the hard buttons of her nipples. Claude was moaning and swooning with such abandonment that Honey
could tell the young woman was close to coming.

Honey rammed the hard bone of the dildo deep into the flaming trench, and Claude squealed, arching her back, then drove her
pussy down on the old ivory, plunging it up to Honey’s fingertips. Holding tightly to the double-headed dildo, Honey maneuvered
herself over the free end, pulled it out a bit to allow herself a fair share, and inserted it into her own moist pussy. Then,
her hands free, she pressed one on her own clitoris, seeking Claude’s with the other. Rocking up and down, she drove the old
white bone in and out of both their twats, feeling her own glorious sensations while providing Claude with a surfeit of sensual
splendors. Claude was grasping her shoulders, gasping for air while totally unladylike sounds came from her throat. Her head
was thrown back on the cushion, her eyes closed as if she were having the lesson of her life. Spasms started wracking her
body and she increased her movements, her eyes glazing over and rolling back in their sockets. With a series of grunts she
began climaxing, and continued to do so until Honey caught up with her. Together they came again and again, rocking and rolling
on the ivory centerpiece like two bitches in heat.

It was some time before they cooled down enough to take stock of themselves. They discovered with shock that Claude was due
at a faculty meeting in less than five minutes. Rapidly they disentangled themselves and flung their clothes on, grinning
at each other like two conspirators in a Tangiers marketplace. Claude was hastily repiling
her hair into the tight bun when Honey thought of something in Kolina’s file.

“Claude, my pet,” she purred as she stepped, stockingless, into her low pumps, “what was this poetry prize Kolina won last
year?”

“Very prestigious and very deserved. Sponsored by Chateau Bouscaral.”

“The famous French winery?”

“The Marquise Bouscaral endorsed the generous grant that makes the reward possible,” Claude explained as she tried to smooth
her wrinkled skirt. “And the Marquise herself invited Kolina down to her chateau on several occasions. She was most gracious
and attentive to the poor child. As was her son.”

“I don’t remember anything in Kolina’s files, here or in Zurich, about the Bouscarals knowing Kolina.”

Claude turned to her with a look of astonishment. “But I am sure I mentioned that to the police.”

Honey kissed her tenderly. “Not to worry, my pet. I’ll follow through.
Irons-nous faire un petit tour
?”

In the Bordeaux region of France, Chateau Bouscaral sat like an ornate centerpiece in the vast vineyards that marched in neat
rows up and down the rolling landscape. As Honey drove the rented Citröen up the curved drive, she felt as though she were
stepping back in time—into the days of grandeur and pomp of the French aristocracy. The sprawling, many-winged, single-story
chateau, built in the mid-eighteenth century, was capped at each end by tall, conical-crowned turrets. The simple, long, low
lines of the tan stone chateau and the stately, formal gardens in front bespoke of titled wealth handed down through the same
family century after century.

She was greeted at the massive, hand-carved doors by a petite maid in traditional black dress with white apron and cap, who
politely led her through the opulently appointed entrance hall lined with exquisite Flemish tapestries. Each room they passed
through was filled with immense
artistic riches: Persian drinking bowls, Chinese wine vessels, a huge wooden horse ridden by a man-sized dummy; Honey recognized
the latter as models used by seventeenth-century Italian painters. Inside a drawing room decorated in a decidedly feminine
style she was told to wait, and the maid discreetly withdrew. Left to her own devices, Honey wandered about the lovely room,
admiring the relatively modern masterpieces adorning the walls; among her favorites were a de la Resnaye and a large Picasso
from his blue period.

Her reverie was interrupted by the arrival of the
grand dame
herself, the present-day driving force behind the successful, much-honored winery, Marquise Berengere-Marie Bouscaral. Honey
was surprised at the youthful vitality of the aristocratic-looking woman. Tall, slim, silver-haired, the Marquise held herself
with the erectness and bearing of a woman who enjoyed fully her exalted position in life. Wearing an “at home” long gown of
heavy pink satin, she glided into the drawing room like a queen, gracious and regal.

“Miss Wildon,” she greeted Honey in a lovely, deep voice in faintly accented English, “it is indeed an honor to welcome you
to Chateau Bouscaral.”

Honey took the proffered hand covered with sparkling jewels, as she replied, “Madame La Marquise, I am the one who is honored.
Thank you for receiving me on such short notice.”

Briefly they exchanged pleasantries; Honey’s hand was held by the Marquise as if it were one of the rare crystal decanters
lining the glass shelf near them. At last the
grand dame
let it go, almost reluctantly, and moved to an embroidered wall cord, which she pulled to summon tea to be served. They sat
on moire-silk-covered Louis XV chairs before a pink marble fireplace that was ablaze with a small, neatly laid fire in spite
of the bright sunshine
outside the open French doors leading to a garden terrace. Sipping tea from bone china cups, they chatted about inconsequential
matters: the fine spring weather, the difficulty of finding suitable help, St. Laurent’s new Parisian collection, mutual friends
they discovered in common. In a very short time, Honey felt quite at ease and she sensed the feeling was reciprocal. She decided
the moment was right to get to the pressing purpose of her visit.

“Madame La Marquise,” Honey began with her trademark smile, “forgive me for leading you on. I am not here to write about your
superb winery—although someday soon I would love to do just that. What brought me here was something most urgent, and I would
be extremely grateful for any help you might be able to give.”

A look of concern spread over the regal visage of the older woman. “I am at your service,” she intoned. “Pray, do tell me
how I might help.”

Honey took a deep breath and plunged in. “I have recently come from Bon Coeur in Klosters. I understand you are acquainted
with the recipient of last year’s school poetry prize, Kolina Svensen.”

“Oh, my, yes,” the Marquise replied with a broad smile. “Lovely child, and quite talented. She was our guest here at the chateau
on several occasions.”

“When was the last time you saw Kolina?”

“My, let me recall… I believe it was over the Christmas holidays. Yes, I’m sure of it now. The Baron de Rothschild was also
a guest for New Year’s, and he was quite taken with her. Kolina is a true delight. Everyone who meets her is enchanted at
once.”

Thoughtfully, Honey studied the beautiful, unlined face before her. “Have you been in touch with her since then?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Because she has been missing for over a month.”

A bejewelled hand flew to the Marquise’s face like a dove. “Oh, no! How tragic. How unfortunate. Do tell me the circumstances.”

The Marquise’s alarm was so genuine that Honey knew at once she was not fabricating her reaction, and Honey rapidly filled
her in on the scant details of Kolina’s disappearance. She downplayed her own fears about the girl’s being in serious danger,
but hinted that she suspected foul play. Upon the conclusion of the brief summary of events, the Marquise’s intense blue eyes
filled with tears and she was speechless for several moments. Finally she rose, gathering her long skirts in one hand to leave.
“You must excuse me, Honey, this news has upset me greatly. Please, I insist you be our guest for the evening. The maid will
show you to a room. Dinner will be promptly at eight. My son, Yves, will be back from Marseilles by then, and we can enlist
his aid in finding the poor child. Until then, my dear.” She swept out of the room, wiping her eyes.

The guest room to which Honey was led by the docile-eyed maid was on the second floor of one of the round turrets. The gilded
woodwork glowed in the sunlight from casement windows that overlooked the sweeping drive and the sea of vines beyond. A huge
canopy bed stood in the exact center of the round room, surrounded by sheer curtains of peach-colored silk. Her suitcases
had already been fetched from her car and unpacked; her clothes were hung in the walk-in closet and folded neatly in the drawers
of the large rosewood armoire. Looking forward to meeting the Marquise’s son, Honey took a leisurely bath in a large, claw-footed
tub in the adjoining bathroom. The fixtures were of solid gold, and the array of oils and bath salts on the dressing table
offered a wide variety of delectable aromas. Upon rising from the mountains of rose-scented bubbles, Honey was pleasantly
intrigued to see
the young maid enter to dry her off with a luxuriously large bath sheet.

Not used to such amenities, but definitely enjoying the experience, Honey stood watching the young woman, who ever so gently
rubbed her dry. As if polishing a marble statue, the maid caressed Honey’s bounteous curves, paying special attention to her
large, full breasts. Honey could not help herself; the soft touch on her alabaster skin, conmbined with the serious, intent
gaze of the pretty young maid, stimulated Honey’s nipples and they jutted up, hardening to an obvious state of arousal. As
if used to such occurrences, the maid stoically continued her duties and knelt to deal with the lower portion of Honey’s anatomy,
carefully wiping down each long leg and even spreading apart her toes to dry between them. At last the young maid returned
to the center of Honey’s ripe figure, wiping her buttocks. Finally, kneeling before Honey’s fiery red bush, the young woman
brought up a corner of the large towel and dabbed at the labia. Her excitement growing, Honey spread her legs wide, allowing
freer access, wondering just how far the young thing was prepared to go.