The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey (12 page)

Honey took the moment to cast a glance at Yves. He sat in the cushioned chair not far from the side of the bed, watching them
as if they were his own private, wide-screen entertainment. In one hand he grasped his puny but stiff pecker, attacking it
with determination. The vision of a finally aroused Yves, in addition to the wonders that Philippe’s tongue was working within
her, set Honey off into a paroxysm of electrical jolts. Her pussy began to feel as sticky as a melting caramel candy. She
grabbed the stiff pole jabbing at her chin, and angled the apple-sized head into her mouth.

“Fuck the bitch now, Philippe,” Yves gasped from his chair, and his young stud leapt to the task.

Poised between her legs, he grinned at her and, with the force of a Hercules, jammed his hot prick into her cunt. She gasped
at his hugeness and felt as if his heated pole were splitting her apart. Philippe lowered his granite body upon her and pumped
and panted, sweated and swore with passion. And all the while, Yves pampered his plump little prick, and Honey, who could
only hang on for dear life, felt as though she were being broached by a blimp.

Her flaming funnel began twitching with unreleased tension, and a few more batterings from the magnum prick brought her quickly
to a series of explosive climaxes and she began squealing her delight. Almost at once Philippe cried out, “Now, Yves,” and
he reared back, pulling out his massive meat, and proudly watched his own cannon-balls of gism bombard her fleshy breasts.
“Bravo, Philippe,” Yves bellowed, and Honey rolled her head toward him just as his plump balloon popped with a dribble of
white frosting. He sighed happily, “You gave the sweet bitch what she wanted.”

It was some time later—after a repeat performance by Philippe, with Yves watching from the foot of the bed—that Honey was
able to extricate herself from the room. Weakly she made her way back to her own room, not bothering even to pull on her robe.
She felt drained and, indeed, ravished—but, oh, what a lovely sensation! Something was nagging her, however, and as she let
herself into the turret room, she realized she still felt that Yves Bouscaral had not told her everything he knew. She decided
to call Dirk in the morning and set him on the case. She was going to take a much-deserved day off.

Much to her delight, her canopied bed was not empty. The somber-eyed maid who had helped with her bath lay nude atop the covers.
The white moonlight bathed her
lovely, slender body with a luminous glow. The pretty young maid smiled betwitchingly from the pillows. “I’ve been waiting
a long time,” she said softly in French.

“Then we have much to make up for,” Honey said silkenly, and settled down beside her. The maid’s breasts were pert and pink,
her candy box full of sweet goodies, but Honey was so exhausted she could hardly move. Discouraged but still game, she rolled
on her back, opening her legs and patting her red pelt of fur. “Forgive me, sweet one,” she yawned, “but I’m afraid this one
will have to be all on you. In the morning, I promise, I’ll return in kind.”

Honey drifted gently to sleep, the obliging young maid lapping at her tender twat like gentle waves upon a beach.

In the absurdly ornate lobby of Portugal’s Bussaco Palace Hotel, Dirk fidgeted in the telephone booth, waiting impatiently
for his call to be connected to Paris. Through the booth’s beveled-glass doors, his eyes, however, were locked on the rugged
Frenchman across the rococo lobby, sitting by himself, reading a newspaper and sipping brandy.

Eventually the hotel’s operator broke in on the line to explain in halting English that his party had been reached. “Honey?”
Dirk said quickly into the antique receiver. “You there?”

“Yes, luv,” came her lilting voice. “Where are you?”

“Where’d you expect? I got here this morning.”

“Have you located Yves?”

Dirk swiveled his head to stare out the glass doors at the man across the lobby. “Yup, he’s here, all right. How’d you know
he’d be coming?”

“A little maid told me,” she giggled. “I would have followed him myself, but I’d already made contact with him. He’d know
for certain I didn’t believe him. How was your flight from Cartagena?”

“Hated to leave, hate more to be here. This place is weird. Looks like it was designed for some fantasy pavilion at Disneyland.”

“The Bussaco Palace is one of the world’s best kept secrets,” she laughed. “Used to be the hunting lodge for Portuguese kings.
It’s one of my favorite hideaways. Broaden your horizons, baby brother.”

He ignored her sisterly dig. “What are you doing in Paris?”

“Waiting for my darling Disa to return from Munich. I’m hoping she’ll be able to help. She knows absolutely everybody who’s
anybody on the continent.”

“I still don’t know how I’ll learn anything new from this Yves fellow,” he sighed. “If
you
couldn’t get the truth out of him, how do you expect
me
to?”

“Use your imagination, Dirk,” she said lightly. “And, as I said before, don’t be so damned provincial you forget to broaden
your horizons. Call me as soon as you make contact.”

“Are you telling me everything I should know about this fellow?”

“Dirk,” she teased, “for pete’s sake don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy. Yves is perfectly harmless, but he’s lying through
his teeth.”

Dirk was about to respond when he spotted the subject under discussion rising and moving swiftly across the lobby toward the
stained-glass front entrance. “Got to run, sis. Yves is on the move. I’ll call you soonest. Ciao.” He hung up, grabbed his
camera bag, and exited the booth, moving rapidly after the disappearing figure.

Outside, on the broad front steps of the bizarrely designed
hotel, he hesitated, looking in all directions before spotting Yves Bouscaral scurrying down a path leading into the densely
wooded hills that surrounded the former royal hunting lodge. Dirk hurried after him, past the rock-lined reflecting pool graced
by several white swans, and into the thick stand of trees. The sunshine of northern Portugal was diffused by the overhanging
branches, and the farther Dirk progressed along the winding dirt path, the dimmer the light became. The crisp smell of pine
increased as the trail wound steeply up into the hills.

For a long while Dirk followed the path, working up a fierce thirst and not catching so much as a glimpse of his prey. Then,
rounding an outcropping of slate, he pulled up short. Up ahead, in a small clearing, the path was bisected by a gravel road
that followed the crest of the ridge. On the road was a black Rolls touring car, looking oddly out of place in the rustic
surroundings. But it was the human factor that held Dirk’s interest. Yves was meeting with a man just emerging from the rear
seat of the chauffeured Rolls. Dirk ducked behind a tree trunk and quickly opened his camera case, pulling out his Nikon F3
and his 350 mm 5.6 mirror lens. Hastily he assembled the tools of his trade and, after checking the ASA of his film, began
snapping a series of pictures of the two men.

Wishing he were closer so that he might hear some of the exchange, he studied the figures framed in his viewfinder. It was
more than obvious that Yves was greatly agitated, for his hands and arms waved angrily in the air as he spoke. The other man,
whose face was obscured partially by a gray fedora, was replying with an equal amount of Gallic exuberance, shouting back,
gesticulating wildly. Yves stomped away, then whirled, hurling still more invective. The other man whipped off his gray hat
and slapped his thigh with it in disgust. Seizing the moment,
Dirk focused on this man’s face and snapped away, his automatic film advancer whirring softly in the still air. Whoever he
was, this second man had a face that Dirk would never forget; a pencil-thin mustache made a precise black mark just below
the man’s nose, giving him an evil, decadent appearance, and his eyes were mere narrow slits of anger.

Abruptly this second man spun to the Rolls and climbed in the back seat again, slamming the door. In a shower of dust and
gravel the large black auto shot forward, careening out of sight at the top of the ridge. Yves stared after the departing
Rolls and, with a defeated shrug, turned back to the path, heading straight down toward the unseen cameraman. Dirk plunged
into the bushes and squatted, waiting for the man to pass. Yves was muttering to himself in French as he stalked by, barely
three feet from where Dirk hid.

Dirk followed him back toward the hotel, wondering what could have been so secret about the meeting of the two men that it
couldn’t have been held in a more public place. The hotel itself was so far from the normal tourist route that it was fairly
isolated. And the nearby village of Mealhada was so small, Dirk doubted that such a rendezvous as he had just witnessed would
have raised an eyebrow among the natives. Whatever the reason for the clandestine encounter in the woods, it only increased
Dirk’s growing interest in Yves Bouscaral.

His quarry returned to the front of the hotel and stood with apparent uncertainty on the front steps. Dirk, still in the woods,
skirted along the edge and found a suitable spot for further pictures of the man. With the afternoon sun striking the façade
of the former palace, all of its intricate details were starkly lit. The many-storied structure was a humorous tangle of battlements,
buttresses, towers, turrets, outside staircases, gargoyles, and arches.
The ornateness diminished the lone man on the front steps and made an interesting composition for the photographs. Dirk was
so intent upon his camerawork that he almost missed Yves dashing down the steps and into a waiting cab. The local taxi—a small,
battered Renault—sped away toward the village.

By the time Dirk could get a cab of his own and reach the sunbaked town, Yves was nowhere to be seen. Cursing his luck, Dirk
roamed the narrow streets, checking the many eating and drinking spots that catered to the hotel guests. The sun was setting
behind the high hills before he found parked in front of a cafe the taxi that had whisked Yves from the hotel. The driver
was a friendly fellow who responded to Dirk’s twenty-dollar bill with a desire to help. He pointed down the street toward
a stone building and winked lasciviously. “He there,” the cabbie said, and winked again.

Dirk nodded his thanks and trotted to the indicated building. He opened the front door and stepped inside. Darkness greeted
him, and the disturbing smells of sweat and dirty clothes hung in the heavy, moist air. At first he thought it was a laundry,
but as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he couldln’t figure out where the hell he was. A small windowed booth off to
one side held a baldheaded figure who was beckoning him over. Dirk approached, conscious of how quiet the establishment was.
The bald man behind the small counter, whispered, “You want locker or basket?”

“What is this joint?”

“Bathhouse. You want locker or basket?”

“Give me a locker,” Dirk replied, and pulled out some local currency to pay the entry fee. He was pointed through a side door,
where he entered a long, dimly lit corridor lined with many doors. Dirk kept going and walked into a locker room. An old attendant
dressed in
white handed him a towel and a padlock, nodding toward a row of metal cabinets. Dirk chose one in the far corner and disrobed
hurriedly, wrapping a towel around himself and stuffing his clothes inside the locker. He told himself he’d make a quick tour
of the place, and if he didn’t spot Yves, he’d wait outside for the guy. Already he was feeling extremely uncomfortable.

As casually as he could, he started on a hurried survey of the mazelike hallways. In almost no time he discovered that the
bathhouse was more of a local gay cruising joint than a legitimate establishment. Though there were steam and sauna rooms
and a bubbling, tile-lined hot pool that could easily have held twenty, most of the activity was taking place in the darkened
recesses off the halls. The grunting and groaning, slurping and sucking sounds as he passed told him more than he wanted to
know. Every man he ran into in the halls made some sort of pass at him. One beer-bellied guy, whose extra-large towel kept
slipping off, even started following him, making cooing, clucking sounds.

Dirk had had enough. Trying to find his way back to the locker room through the crisscrossing halls, he cursed silently.
Damn Honey
, he thought.
She knew all along what Yves liked—that’s why she insisted I take over from here. Well, there’s a limit to how far I’ll go
to help Kolina… damn right there is
. Dirk was still grumbling to himself when he turned a corner and ran smack into Yves Bouscaral.

“Pardon,” Yves apologized, and a sly grin formed on his ruddy face. “
Sprechen sie Deutsch?
”

“English,” Dirk replied. “And you?”

“French…” He paused suggestively. “Come to my room?”

“Room? They’ve got private rooms here?” Dirk asked caught off guard.

“
Very
private. Come on.”

Yves turned and walked away. A few steps up the hall, he turned to see if Dirk was following. His face fell as he saw that
Dirk was hanging back, but Dirk squared his shoulders and started forward with a grin, wishing he were somewhere else.

Yves led him to a door off one of the side halls. Inside was a tiny room containing only a narrow cot covered by a white sheet.
Dirk stood just inside the open doorway and wondered what to do next. Yves was trying to close the door behind him, and he
pushed Dirk gently aside to do so. Dirk smiled weakly.

Yves was at the cot, searching under the mattress with one hand. “Would you like some cocaine?” he asked.

Unhesitatingly, Dirk said, “Sure.”

Yves brought out a small leather case and zipped it open. Inside was a small mirror and all the necessities. Expertly he proceeded
to lay out four healthy lines of snow on the mirror. He handed a tooter and the works to Dirk, who inhaled almost gratefully.
The rush was instantaneous—sharp, clear, like a blast of supercharged energy. The second line skyrocketed him even further.
Savoring the sensation, he returned the case. “Good stuff.”