Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey: Book #2
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Synopsis
Dirk, premier photographer of women, knows beauty when he chances upon it.
Release date: November 29, 2009
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 184
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Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey: Book #2
Roland DeForrest
James “Big Boy” Epstein was strictly a New York phenomenon. First-generation Irish—Italian mother, immigrant Jewish father.
Or maybe it was the other way around. It didn’t make any difference. Out of Hell’s Kitchen by way of the Fulton Fish Market,
he was strictly illegitimate. Onetime driver and pallbearer for Albert Anastasia, head of many rackets—mostly murder, mostly
untraceable—they called him the Jewish Godfather; but Big Boy Epstein didn’t know a seder from a sawed-off shotgun. He was
an original and nobody got too close.
About the time his girl Alexandra went off to Radcliffe to study Oriental religions and the philosophy of nonviolence—this
was right after the death of his first wife—Big Boy moved from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, to that fabled East Side alleyway in Manhattan
called Sutton Place, where billionaires consider millionaires poor white trash down on their luck. Big Boy’s pad more than
made up for his humble beginnings: three stories of imported marble fireplaces, antique crystal
chandeliers, and handmade Oriental carpets. He boasted a sauna for ten, a projection room for fifty, a gymnasium for a hundred,
and a rooftop solarium for his South American orchid collection. He had four thousand orchids, all yellow.
Yes, Epstein was strictly an original. Three shifts of full-time bodyguards patrolled the hallways and entrances. At home,
at least, Epstein was safe from his enemies. On the surface, his was an idyllic life, a scene out of a Hollywood fantasy,
“the kind they don’t make anymore.”
But as usual in a Garden of Eden, there was a serpent. In this case the snake was his second wife, Corinna Cave. Corinna was
a would-be superstar. Whether she had a destiny or not was unimportant; she maintained that if Farrah Fawcett and Bo Derek
could do it, she could do it, too. She was determined. Big Boy paid for Corinna’s vocal coaches, publicists, choreographers, rehearsal rooms, photographers; even her publishers
since she sometimes wrote her own material.
The year they were married, he paid for two full-page ads in Variety announcing her club act, an act that closed on opening night. It wasn’t her fault; her nerves had gone straight to her throat.
For the next five years, in the privacy of a recording booth with a vocal coach and a psychiatrist standing at either shoulder,
using a whispering style of singing that she developed to accommodate the tension in her throat, Corinna cut fourteen albums.
None sold. As for television, Big Boy, needless to say, was not about to move to the West Coast and he didn’t want a long-distance
wife. Corinna did twenty-three walk-ons for “Another World,” a midafternoon soap shot in New York. There were three fan letters
and no further job offers.
Some negative-thinking person, she reasoned, had probably heard about her husband and was afraid of getting shot in the head
in some dark alley. “What’s a girl to do?” she kept saying to herself. After all, this was supposed to be the Age of Women.
She read all the books on the subject—feminism, that is—and with each treatise she became more and more depressed. How could
she possibly go to medical school or become
a federal judge? She was already twenty-nine and she’d never finished tenth grade. As for playing the stock market, she still
couldn’t remember the difference between a bear and a bull; it was so confusing, both animals seemed so big and dark and masculine.
Finally, realizing she couldn’t become a waitress or a hatcheck girl, given her social position in Manhattan, she was back
to basics. One thing she knew for sure: she had a body that wouldn’t quit. Maybe there was a way, she reasoned (an artistic
way, of course) that she could use her body to become a star and make millions of men, even people, really happy; and maybe
she wouldn’t even have to open her mouth. Her body—which was, after all, God-given and practically sacred—could speak for
itself. She wouldn’t even have to ask her husband’s permission. She was a liberated woman; she had always worked for a living.
Click!
“Hey, Corinna, baby. Just hold it. Wow! Wait. Your index finger is covering your clit. Jesus, what a fucking pussy. I can’t
stand it.”
“You’re a very sensitive photographer, Dirk.”
Click!
“Hey, baby, what does your husband do for a living?”
“I’m not married, Dirk.”
“But you’re wearing a wedding ring.”
“No, That’s just to keep the wolves away. I fake it.”
“Tell me, Corinna, do you fake everything?”
“Dirk, please. What are you suggesting?”
“No, no, this is strictly professional, Corinna; believe me. Strictly professional. Please, I just want you to place the tip
of your index finger—that’s right, the one you point with—about a half an inch into your pussy like you were finger-fucking
yourself.”
“Doing what?”
“You know what I mean. It’s a real turn-on.”
“God, Dirk, you’re so professional; I really admire professional men.”
The person? Corinna Cave (who else?) in her all-time glory. The place? Dirk Wildon’s loft studio in Soho, Mahattan’s artist
district. The purpose? Corinna was to be the January centerfold in Pussy, the new men’s magazine.
Under the pitiless studio lights, white and blinding, the woman had not a single flaw. Her body was better than she knew.
The hills and valleys of her perfect skin were snow white and firm like thick Devon cream ready to be mouthed and sucked.
Her tits were soft cones of shimmering flesh, her aureoles like bands of pale pink silk wrapped around the delicate points.
As for her pussy, it would be well worth passing around—in the magazine, of course; on the printed page how could she miss
becoming male America’s all-time fantasy? (In real life, needless to say, Corinna Cave was nothing like that; she liked to
save herself for a few special men. Sexually speaking, she was almost disciplined, a great state of affairs for a show girl,
but not too terrific for a leading gangster’s wife.)
Under the studio lights, her bush, normally a dark red fire, blazed into golden flames. With her succulent thighs spread far
apart as she posed on a black velvet couch, the dark meat of her unequaled cunt was rosy, pungent, sweet; its plump folds
suggested endless hours of foreplay for the man who wanted to explore every delectable shadow, every inch of blood-marshaled
labia with a hungry mouth, tongue, lips, and finally with the pièce de résistance, the ultimate human tool, the cock that had waited so long and deserved her tight sucking, fucking, caressing cunt-hole heaven.
“Oh Corinna,” gasped Dirk, ready to lunge, but trying to be as professional a photographer as he knew how.
It wasn’t nearly enough. Art, that is. With her pitiful finger stuck in that lonely hole for that finally frozen, bloodless
photograph, she was begging in her own wordless, noncommunicative way to be opened up, to be pleasured, to be fucked into
the only real happiness she’d known since her
latest marriage. Big Boy Epstein was always at odds with his women and used his promiscuity as a way of controlling them.
With everyone else it had worked. Corinna Cave was clearly uncontrollable.
Dirk Wildon, by contrast, was certainly not promiscuous. At least, not in his heart. At least, he didn’t mean to control his
women by sleeping around. Sometimes it just happened that way. In any case, as far as New York’s leading photographer of beautiful
women, dressed or undressed, was concerned, exceptions sometimes had to be made. Dirk’s libido was not ordinary. He seemed
to be a walking specimen jar of excessive hormones and insatiable desire; it must have been his California upbringing during
the sexual revolution. Women of all ages seemed to throw themselves at his feet with the slightest provocation. He couldn’t
help it and he rarely gave them an argument.
How could he? Dirk was inevitably described as “a hunk.” He was six foot four, successful, blessed with old money and new,
an Anglo-Saxon with a fullback’s physique, the dark blond hair that could not be controlled always falling into his cornflower
blue eyes. Even his imperfections got him into trouble. His smile was a little crooked, his laugh lines pronounced; one front
tooth was just a little bit chipped, one foot just a little bit pigeon-toed. In a word, irresistible to waitresses and dowagers
alike
Then there was the six-figure annual income from his photography and the seven-figure trust from his poor parents’ estate;
the senior Wildons had gone down in glory in a blazing airplane crash when Dirk and his sister Honey were in their early teens.
Since then, the two of them had been surrounded by rumors of round-the-world affairs with jetsetters and movie stars, as well
as assorted trash. Dirk, for one, wasn’t picky. As he put it, he just “gave into his glands.” Apparently, the rumors were
all true. But while he never bragged about his past conquests, the women he bedded down could not wait to talk.
All kidding aside, his private parts were more public than
most. Dirk was chiseled all the way down from the tip of his nose to the tip of his glans. His cock was the original well-oiled
machine. It sprang to attention faster than the U.S. Calvary and could fuck enough pussy for two strong men any night of the
week.
Things had not always been so settled down. For a long time he had tried to be the nice boy his parents had wanted him to
be. He had tried to be a gentleman. Sometimes he had even tried to be a good churchgoing Episcopalian like his mother’s family
and vote Republican like his father’s, but he usually forgot it was Sunday till Monday morning and he usually forgot to vote.
To Dirk the world was not about politics. The whole point was cooze. He couldn’t help himself.
He dutifully consulted several prominent sex therapists and begged them to explain to him the federal reserve board and the
meaning of Jeffersonian democracy so he could get his mind off sex and onto the workaday world. But when the psychiatrists
in question discovered what kind of photography Dirk did, they begged him to tell them everything he knew about making love;
what were his secrets for getting the world’s most beautiful women to spread their legs and how had he bedded down half the
prime pussy from Tokyo to Tangiers, not to mention the byroads of Arkansas and Tennessee?
By his twenty-fifth birthday Dirk had had enough self-torment. He concluded that basic human wisdom demanded self-acceptance.
He decided, in effect, to lie back and enjoy his undeniable gifts for women and sex. Two years later, he knew that he had
concluded correctly. Dirk was, all things considered, a happy man. He was unprepared for casual tragedy.
“Corinna, your pussy is not glistening anymore.”
“Glistening?” she said.
“It was glistening before.”
“It was?”
“Corinna, let me explain it this way. Your audience of men needs to know how much they turn you on.”
“I thought I was supposed to turn them on.”
“Corinna, listen carefully. The second-stringers think all they gotta do is sit in front of a camera and men are supposed
to start jerking off when they see the picture. The real winners—and I know you’re a winner—have a slightly different system.”
“What do I do? Tell me.”
“When you look into my camera, Corinna, look straight into the eyes of all the men you can imagine, and in your mind’s eye
let your pussy kiss the mouths and tongues of all those frustrated guys and then it will glisten.”
“Of course, Dirk. I’ll try.”
But it wasn’t working; the girl seemed visibly upset. There were tears in her eyes.
“Corinna, don’t worry about it. Could you please moisten yourself with saliva?”
“Look, Dirk. Let’s get real. Why do I need to imagine a million guys when I’ve got you and why do I need to use saliva to
make my pussy glisten? I don’t understand. I’m so confused.”
“You can do it any way you want, Corinna.”
Click!Click!
It still wasn’t right. Corinna looked lonely. Scared. And more upset than ever.
“I’m sorry, Dirk. I didn’t mean to sound so tough.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I am?”
But she wasn’t. There wasn’t enough desire. And it showed.
Then it happened: another click, except this click was inside her heart and her brain and her cunt. All of it. She looked at her man with infinite longing.
And infinite lust. She was teetering on the edge of a precipice, on the edge of darkness, on the edge of annihilation.
“Dirk, Dirk…” she began breathlessly, “I can’t glisten unless a man kisses me on my—my—my—Jesus Christ, I can’t even say it!”
“Your cunt?”
“Oh, Dirk! I hardly know you!”
Dirk looked deep into her little-girl’s face with its dark brown eyes and its flame-colored hair and found himself speaking
his own brand of mutilated poetry.
“Corinna, believe me, I know we just met and I know you don’t know anything about me and I don’t know anything about you,
but you’ve got to trust me.”
“Trust you?”
“Corinna, I want you to be a superstar.”
“Oh, Dirk, you do? Really you do?”
“Yes, Corinna, I want all the men in America and Eurpoe and the Far East to be thinking about your pussy as much of the time
as possible.”
“Oh, Dirk, I don’t know what to say.”
“I don’t want you to say anything, Ms. Cave, I just want you to listen to me.”
“Oh, Dirk, I’ll listen to anything. Anything. Tell me.”
“Corinna, there’s got to be more feeling in this session.”
“More feeling?”
“More emotion.”
“More emotion? Dirk, what do you mean?”
And with that, he began to strip in front of her.
She gasped with delight when she saw his perfectly sculptured chest with its pale blond down. The silken knots on the ends
of her jugs began to stiffen and grow rigid and beg for a mouth or a hand, just a stroke or a touch. Just some attention.
What was wrong with that? After all, she needed more from this amazing man than the click of a Nikon.
His briefs were red nylon. Fire engine red. She wondered how they could contain the length of his erection. His cock seemed
like a big lead pipe, hot and heavy and imprisoned in crimson hellfire.
Flashes of her official man, Big Boy Epstein, surrounded by a phalanx of ex-cons wrapped in gun holsters and ironbound, tough-guy
emotions straight out of Hell’s Kitchen, wracked Corinna’s brain. So far, after four long years of marriage, she had never
cheated on her husband, not even once, except for a couple of times that didn’t count because
she knew he was safely out of the country and she had no one to turn to in her loneliness except for the doorman in her best
friend’s apartment building. Obviously, she could not be seen dating in public while Big Boy ruled over hit squads and assassination
teams throughout most of the so-called civilized world. But here in Soho, she was safe. What had she to fear in a photographer’s
loft? Besides, Big Boy was in Vegas where he reportedly had a stable of call girls from all over the world. Revenge? Corinna
did not dare think such a thing. Hers was basically an ordered world.
Her diaphragm was in place. Finally, without question, she was glistening pink. She was more than glistening. She was dripping
wet. She was exultant.
“Fuck me, Dirk! I can’t stand it anymore!”
With that cry of freedom finally released from her strangulated heart, she leaped at him, wrestling his red nylon briefs over
and around his entrapped organ. She gasped when she saw the size and power of it, the pink membrane stretched tight and shiny
over the hot mouthful of plum-sized glans.
Heat rose from her cunt to the center of her brain. Within seconds she was pure animal desire. To hell with Big Boy Epstein!
To hell with her mother back in Des Moines!
“Corinna, forgive me.” cooed Dirk as he sank his warm, wet mouth on the end of her pointed tit and tasted her soft silk flesh
until her nipple grew hard and her incredible body began to shiver with spasms of pleasure.
“Jesus, Dirk, don’t ever tell me to forgive you. How can I forgive you when I practically worship you I—”
Corinna never finished her sentence. There was no point to ordinary speech. Ecstasy overcame the rational mind. Together,
they drowned in lust, gladly, willingly, happily. Her head was between his legs, her tongue caressing his balls, which hung
proudly and heavily in their dark sack. Then, when she could no longer resist the plain naked truth of his rampant manhood,
she grasped the base of his blood-stiffened rod, which begged for attention.
But as much as Dirk loved getting good head, he liked
eating pussy more. As a matter of fact, he had an insatiable craving for all things related to cunt: fucking, sucking, stroking,
licking, tasting, petting twat, cooze, cunt, maw, pussy—that succulent juicy prime flesh between the lady’s legs, that special
cave of pure intoxication, that siren’s lair, that buried treasure, dark, deep tantalizing, always and forever beyond his
reach, never fully known, never fully savored. It could go on forever.
They were on top of each other, sixty-nining it, eating each other out, their faces buried deep in each other’s genitals,
his tongue unfolding the sweet guardian flesh around her stiffened clitoris, his lips lapping up her juices, his teeth making
constant contact with the edges of her labia while he held on to her ass for dear life, his long thick middle finger buried
deep inside her asshole, feeling for every part of her. He derived immense satisfaction from making a woman moan with deep,
guttural pleasure.
In this case, she repaid him amply. The woman had a definite talent for giving head. She savored his glans, running her wet
tongue around and around the rim of it, sending shivers throughout his system while her practiced fingers pumped the pliable
vein-wrapped flesh up and down over the marble-hard core of his cock as she fondled his testicles and his thick blond bush.
For several moments, time stood still. These two lovers had known they were going to make it the minute they met and now they
were feasting on each other’s succulent sweetmeats in silent ecstasy.
But Dirk Wildon, if the truth must be known, was into more than oral sex. Yes, in these halcyon days of eating pussy and sucking
cock, the man was one of the privileged few who liked to just plain fuck.
Sometimes women, especially the college girls who brought their feminism to bed with them, were outraged. “I feel like a piece
of meat!” screamed more than one bimbo as Dirk entered her vaginal slit and drove his magnificent tool deep into her tight,
sucking hole. “You are abusing me!” “Rape!”
“Please, can’t we just do it with our mouths?” were lines he had heard more than once in recent years from impoverished women
who had not yet surrendered to the consummate pleasure of moving in mutual, hip-swaying, fucking harmony to Dirk Wildon’s
phallic thrusts.
His cock had a mind and a talent all its own and once a woman had been to bed with him, she did not have to be convinced a
second time.
On the other hand, Corinna Cave had never been to college and needed no arguments on behalf of Dirk. As far as feminism went,
Corinna was for equal pay and equal opportunity. What more was there? She wanted to open a house of male prostitutes for some
of her more frustrated girl friends. She wanted to be able to undress a guy and still have him respect her. She wanted to
be able to stick her hand down a man’s pants at the movies and not feel she’d lost her femininity. Otherwise, like her brand-new
friend Mr. Wildon, she had no hang-ups about sex. She plainly liked to fuck, especially the strong, hard cock of a dynamic
young stud.
In an instant Dirk was on top of her; her legs went up; her feet locked around the back of his neck; her pelvis thrust forward,
its insistent rhythms anxious for his big hot cock.
“Give it to me! Give it to me!” she screamed.
That was exactly what he wanted to hear. He lunged forward and with a slurp his cock rammed right into that sweet, sucking
flesh and drove home right to the hilt. Her vaginal muscles grasped him tightly, enclosing his pork prod in its hot cylindrical
sheath.
They rocked and pumped in perfect unison, back and forth, back and forth, in and out, in and out, in and out. The pleasure
was excruciating, she was so hot and so tight. Their mouths fucked too, warm tongues diving deep into the submissive flesh
in the back of each other’s mouths. They climaxed almost immediately, her orgasms coming from a place deep within her pelvis,
sending out shock waves of sexual electricity thoughout the landscape of her flesh. She moaned. She gurgled. She drooled.
Her eyes rolled back. Her
tongue lolled; at the height of it, she was a bottomless reservoir of fire and ice.
And Dirk came tumbling after, his throat an incoherent gargle as his manhood erupted into white lava sperm and he completely
lost control, collapsing into his centerfold dream as his glittering seed flooded her insides; their sweat mingled, their
breathing was one breath, their body heat a single furnace. She was pure electrical charge and he was a shimmering river of
melted-down flesh. Together they created blinding steam. Whatever else it was, it was warm, it was viscous, oozing, melting,
good. It was total. It was worth repeating again as soon as possible.
“Let me doze off for a minute, Corinna, my cunt, gorgeous bod,” he murmured, tenderly scraping her sweet lower lip with the
edges of his teeth.
“I’ve never been so alive before,” was her languid, caressing reply. And so, drained of energy and sperm, he lay down on a
futon, one of several Japanese quilt mattresses that lay on the floor of his loft, casually scattered about, almost suggesting
that his guests should consider having sex along with their afternoon tea.
He must have dozed off for at least twenty minutes, during which time he dreamed of dancing with Corinna in a 1930s nightclub
with palm trees and an all-girl band. In his dream Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were on the far side of the dance floor
but nobody paid any attention to them. All eyes were on Corinna Cave. She had forgotten to . . .
Or maybe it was the other way around. It didn’t make any difference. Out of Hell’s Kitchen by way of the Fulton Fish Market,
he was strictly illegitimate. Onetime driver and pallbearer for Albert Anastasia, head of many rackets—mostly murder, mostly
untraceable—they called him the Jewish Godfather; but Big Boy Epstein didn’t know a seder from a sawed-off shotgun. He was
an original and nobody got too close.
About the time his girl Alexandra went off to Radcliffe to study Oriental religions and the philosophy of nonviolence—this
was right after the death of his first wife—Big Boy moved from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, to that fabled East Side alleyway in Manhattan
called Sutton Place, where billionaires consider millionaires poor white trash down on their luck. Big Boy’s pad more than
made up for his humble beginnings: three stories of imported marble fireplaces, antique crystal
chandeliers, and handmade Oriental carpets. He boasted a sauna for ten, a projection room for fifty, a gymnasium for a hundred,
and a rooftop solarium for his South American orchid collection. He had four thousand orchids, all yellow.
Yes, Epstein was strictly an original. Three shifts of full-time bodyguards patrolled the hallways and entrances. At home,
at least, Epstein was safe from his enemies. On the surface, his was an idyllic life, a scene out of a Hollywood fantasy,
“the kind they don’t make anymore.”
But as usual in a Garden of Eden, there was a serpent. In this case the snake was his second wife, Corinna Cave. Corinna was
a would-be superstar. Whether she had a destiny or not was unimportant; she maintained that if Farrah Fawcett and Bo Derek
could do it, she could do it, too. She was determined. Big Boy paid for Corinna’s vocal coaches, publicists, choreographers, rehearsal rooms, photographers; even her publishers
since she sometimes wrote her own material.
The year they were married, he paid for two full-page ads in Variety announcing her club act, an act that closed on opening night. It wasn’t her fault; her nerves had gone straight to her throat.
For the next five years, in the privacy of a recording booth with a vocal coach and a psychiatrist standing at either shoulder,
using a whispering style of singing that she developed to accommodate the tension in her throat, Corinna cut fourteen albums.
None sold. As for television, Big Boy, needless to say, was not about to move to the West Coast and he didn’t want a long-distance
wife. Corinna did twenty-three walk-ons for “Another World,” a midafternoon soap shot in New York. There were three fan letters
and no further job offers.
Some negative-thinking person, she reasoned, had probably heard about her husband and was afraid of getting shot in the head
in some dark alley. “What’s a girl to do?” she kept saying to herself. After all, this was supposed to be the Age of Women.
She read all the books on the subject—feminism, that is—and with each treatise she became more and more depressed. How could
she possibly go to medical school or become
a federal judge? She was already twenty-nine and she’d never finished tenth grade. As for playing the stock market, she still
couldn’t remember the difference between a bear and a bull; it was so confusing, both animals seemed so big and dark and masculine.
Finally, realizing she couldn’t become a waitress or a hatcheck girl, given her social position in Manhattan, she was back
to basics. One thing she knew for sure: she had a body that wouldn’t quit. Maybe there was a way, she reasoned (an artistic
way, of course) that she could use her body to become a star and make millions of men, even people, really happy; and maybe
she wouldn’t even have to open her mouth. Her body—which was, after all, God-given and practically sacred—could speak for
itself. She wouldn’t even have to ask her husband’s permission. She was a liberated woman; she had always worked for a living.
Click!
“Hey, Corinna, baby. Just hold it. Wow! Wait. Your index finger is covering your clit. Jesus, what a fucking pussy. I can’t
stand it.”
“You’re a very sensitive photographer, Dirk.”
Click!
“Hey, baby, what does your husband do for a living?”
“I’m not married, Dirk.”
“But you’re wearing a wedding ring.”
“No, That’s just to keep the wolves away. I fake it.”
“Tell me, Corinna, do you fake everything?”
“Dirk, please. What are you suggesting?”
“No, no, this is strictly professional, Corinna; believe me. Strictly professional. Please, I just want you to place the tip
of your index finger—that’s right, the one you point with—about a half an inch into your pussy like you were finger-fucking
yourself.”
“Doing what?”
“You know what I mean. It’s a real turn-on.”
“God, Dirk, you’re so professional; I really admire professional men.”
The person? Corinna Cave (who else?) in her all-time glory. The place? Dirk Wildon’s loft studio in Soho, Mahattan’s artist
district. The purpose? Corinna was to be the January centerfold in Pussy, the new men’s magazine.
Under the pitiless studio lights, white and blinding, the woman had not a single flaw. Her body was better than she knew.
The hills and valleys of her perfect skin were snow white and firm like thick Devon cream ready to be mouthed and sucked.
Her tits were soft cones of shimmering flesh, her aureoles like bands of pale pink silk wrapped around the delicate points.
As for her pussy, it would be well worth passing around—in the magazine, of course; on the printed page how could she miss
becoming male America’s all-time fantasy? (In real life, needless to say, Corinna Cave was nothing like that; she liked to
save herself for a few special men. Sexually speaking, she was almost disciplined, a great state of affairs for a show girl,
but not too terrific for a leading gangster’s wife.)
Under the studio lights, her bush, normally a dark red fire, blazed into golden flames. With her succulent thighs spread far
apart as she posed on a black velvet couch, the dark meat of her unequaled cunt was rosy, pungent, sweet; its plump folds
suggested endless hours of foreplay for the man who wanted to explore every delectable shadow, every inch of blood-marshaled
labia with a hungry mouth, tongue, lips, and finally with the pièce de résistance, the ultimate human tool, the cock that had waited so long and deserved her tight sucking, fucking, caressing cunt-hole heaven.
“Oh Corinna,” gasped Dirk, ready to lunge, but trying to be as professional a photographer as he knew how.
It wasn’t nearly enough. Art, that is. With her pitiful finger stuck in that lonely hole for that finally frozen, bloodless
photograph, she was begging in her own wordless, noncommunicative way to be opened up, to be pleasured, to be fucked into
the only real happiness she’d known since her
latest marriage. Big Boy Epstein was always at odds with his women and used his promiscuity as a way of controlling them.
With everyone else it had worked. Corinna Cave was clearly uncontrollable.
Dirk Wildon, by contrast, was certainly not promiscuous. At least, not in his heart. At least, he didn’t mean to control his
women by sleeping around. Sometimes it just happened that way. In any case, as far as New York’s leading photographer of beautiful
women, dressed or undressed, was concerned, exceptions sometimes had to be made. Dirk’s libido was not ordinary. He seemed
to be a walking specimen jar of excessive hormones and insatiable desire; it must have been his California upbringing during
the sexual revolution. Women of all ages seemed to throw themselves at his feet with the slightest provocation. He couldn’t
help it and he rarely gave them an argument.
How could he? Dirk was inevitably described as “a hunk.” He was six foot four, successful, blessed with old money and new,
an Anglo-Saxon with a fullback’s physique, the dark blond hair that could not be controlled always falling into his cornflower
blue eyes. Even his imperfections got him into trouble. His smile was a little crooked, his laugh lines pronounced; one front
tooth was just a little bit chipped, one foot just a little bit pigeon-toed. In a word, irresistible to waitresses and dowagers
alike
Then there was the six-figure annual income from his photography and the seven-figure trust from his poor parents’ estate;
the senior Wildons had gone down in glory in a blazing airplane crash when Dirk and his sister Honey were in their early teens.
Since then, the two of them had been surrounded by rumors of round-the-world affairs with jetsetters and movie stars, as well
as assorted trash. Dirk, for one, wasn’t picky. As he put it, he just “gave into his glands.” Apparently, the rumors were
all true. But while he never bragged about his past conquests, the women he bedded down could not wait to talk.
All kidding aside, his private parts were more public than
most. Dirk was chiseled all the way down from the tip of his nose to the tip of his glans. His cock was the original well-oiled
machine. It sprang to attention faster than the U.S. Calvary and could fuck enough pussy for two strong men any night of the
week.
Things had not always been so settled down. For a long time he had tried to be the nice boy his parents had wanted him to
be. He had tried to be a gentleman. Sometimes he had even tried to be a good churchgoing Episcopalian like his mother’s family
and vote Republican like his father’s, but he usually forgot it was Sunday till Monday morning and he usually forgot to vote.
To Dirk the world was not about politics. The whole point was cooze. He couldn’t help himself.
He dutifully consulted several prominent sex therapists and begged them to explain to him the federal reserve board and the
meaning of Jeffersonian democracy so he could get his mind off sex and onto the workaday world. But when the psychiatrists
in question discovered what kind of photography Dirk did, they begged him to tell them everything he knew about making love;
what were his secrets for getting the world’s most beautiful women to spread their legs and how had he bedded down half the
prime pussy from Tokyo to Tangiers, not to mention the byroads of Arkansas and Tennessee?
By his twenty-fifth birthday Dirk had had enough self-torment. He concluded that basic human wisdom demanded self-acceptance.
He decided, in effect, to lie back and enjoy his undeniable gifts for women and sex. Two years later, he knew that he had
concluded correctly. Dirk was, all things considered, a happy man. He was unprepared for casual tragedy.
“Corinna, your pussy is not glistening anymore.”
“Glistening?” she said.
“It was glistening before.”
“It was?”
“Corinna, let me explain it this way. Your audience of men needs to know how much they turn you on.”
“I thought I was supposed to turn them on.”
“Corinna, listen carefully. The second-stringers think all they gotta do is sit in front of a camera and men are supposed
to start jerking off when they see the picture. The real winners—and I know you’re a winner—have a slightly different system.”
“What do I do? Tell me.”
“When you look into my camera, Corinna, look straight into the eyes of all the men you can imagine, and in your mind’s eye
let your pussy kiss the mouths and tongues of all those frustrated guys and then it will glisten.”
“Of course, Dirk. I’ll try.”
But it wasn’t working; the girl seemed visibly upset. There were tears in her eyes.
“Corinna, don’t worry about it. Could you please moisten yourself with saliva?”
“Look, Dirk. Let’s get real. Why do I need to imagine a million guys when I’ve got you and why do I need to use saliva to
make my pussy glisten? I don’t understand. I’m so confused.”
“You can do it any way you want, Corinna.”
Click!Click!
It still wasn’t right. Corinna looked lonely. Scared. And more upset than ever.
“I’m sorry, Dirk. I didn’t mean to sound so tough.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I am?”
But she wasn’t. There wasn’t enough desire. And it showed.
Then it happened: another click, except this click was inside her heart and her brain and her cunt. All of it. She looked at her man with infinite longing.
And infinite lust. She was teetering on the edge of a precipice, on the edge of darkness, on the edge of annihilation.
“Dirk, Dirk…” she began breathlessly, “I can’t glisten unless a man kisses me on my—my—my—Jesus Christ, I can’t even say it!”
“Your cunt?”
“Oh, Dirk! I hardly know you!”
Dirk looked deep into her little-girl’s face with its dark brown eyes and its flame-colored hair and found himself speaking
his own brand of mutilated poetry.
“Corinna, believe me, I know we just met and I know you don’t know anything about me and I don’t know anything about you,
but you’ve got to trust me.”
“Trust you?”
“Corinna, I want you to be a superstar.”
“Oh, Dirk, you do? Really you do?”
“Yes, Corinna, I want all the men in America and Eurpoe and the Far East to be thinking about your pussy as much of the time
as possible.”
“Oh, Dirk, I don’t know what to say.”
“I don’t want you to say anything, Ms. Cave, I just want you to listen to me.”
“Oh, Dirk, I’ll listen to anything. Anything. Tell me.”
“Corinna, there’s got to be more feeling in this session.”
“More feeling?”
“More emotion.”
“More emotion? Dirk, what do you mean?”
And with that, he began to strip in front of her.
She gasped with delight when she saw his perfectly sculptured chest with its pale blond down. The silken knots on the ends
of her jugs began to stiffen and grow rigid and beg for a mouth or a hand, just a stroke or a touch. Just some attention.
What was wrong with that? After all, she needed more from this amazing man than the click of a Nikon.
His briefs were red nylon. Fire engine red. She wondered how they could contain the length of his erection. His cock seemed
like a big lead pipe, hot and heavy and imprisoned in crimson hellfire.
Flashes of her official man, Big Boy Epstein, surrounded by a phalanx of ex-cons wrapped in gun holsters and ironbound, tough-guy
emotions straight out of Hell’s Kitchen, wracked Corinna’s brain. So far, after four long years of marriage, she had never
cheated on her husband, not even once, except for a couple of times that didn’t count because
she knew he was safely out of the country and she had no one to turn to in her loneliness except for the doorman in her best
friend’s apartment building. Obviously, she could not be seen dating in public while Big Boy ruled over hit squads and assassination
teams throughout most of the so-called civilized world. But here in Soho, she was safe. What had she to fear in a photographer’s
loft? Besides, Big Boy was in Vegas where he reportedly had a stable of call girls from all over the world. Revenge? Corinna
did not dare think such a thing. Hers was basically an ordered world.
Her diaphragm was in place. Finally, without question, she was glistening pink. She was more than glistening. She was dripping
wet. She was exultant.
“Fuck me, Dirk! I can’t stand it anymore!”
With that cry of freedom finally released from her strangulated heart, she leaped at him, wrestling his red nylon briefs over
and around his entrapped organ. She gasped when she saw the size and power of it, the pink membrane stretched tight and shiny
over the hot mouthful of plum-sized glans.
Heat rose from her cunt to the center of her brain. Within seconds she was pure animal desire. To hell with Big Boy Epstein!
To hell with her mother back in Des Moines!
“Corinna, forgive me.” cooed Dirk as he sank his warm, wet mouth on the end of her pointed tit and tasted her soft silk flesh
until her nipple grew hard and her incredible body began to shiver with spasms of pleasure.
“Jesus, Dirk, don’t ever tell me to forgive you. How can I forgive you when I practically worship you I—”
Corinna never finished her sentence. There was no point to ordinary speech. Ecstasy overcame the rational mind. Together,
they drowned in lust, gladly, willingly, happily. Her head was between his legs, her tongue caressing his balls, which hung
proudly and heavily in their dark sack. Then, when she could no longer resist the plain naked truth of his rampant manhood,
she grasped the base of his blood-stiffened rod, which begged for attention.
But as much as Dirk loved getting good head, he liked
eating pussy more. As a matter of fact, he had an insatiable craving for all things related to cunt: fucking, sucking, stroking,
licking, tasting, petting twat, cooze, cunt, maw, pussy—that succulent juicy prime flesh between the lady’s legs, that special
cave of pure intoxication, that siren’s lair, that buried treasure, dark, deep tantalizing, always and forever beyond his
reach, never fully known, never fully savored. It could go on forever.
They were on top of each other, sixty-nining it, eating each other out, their faces buried deep in each other’s genitals,
his tongue unfolding the sweet guardian flesh around her stiffened clitoris, his lips lapping up her juices, his teeth making
constant contact with the edges of her labia while he held on to her ass for dear life, his long thick middle finger buried
deep inside her asshole, feeling for every part of her. He derived immense satisfaction from making a woman moan with deep,
guttural pleasure.
In this case, she repaid him amply. The woman had a definite talent for giving head. She savored his glans, running her wet
tongue around and around the rim of it, sending shivers throughout his system while her practiced fingers pumped the pliable
vein-wrapped flesh up and down over the marble-hard core of his cock as she fondled his testicles and his thick blond bush.
For several moments, time stood still. These two lovers had known they were going to make it the minute they met and now they
were feasting on each other’s succulent sweetmeats in silent ecstasy.
But Dirk Wildon, if the truth must be known, was into more than oral sex. Yes, in these halcyon days of eating pussy and sucking
cock, the man was one of the privileged few who liked to just plain fuck.
Sometimes women, especially the college girls who brought their feminism to bed with them, were outraged. “I feel like a piece
of meat!” screamed more than one bimbo as Dirk entered her vaginal slit and drove his magnificent tool deep into her tight,
sucking hole. “You are abusing me!” “Rape!”
“Please, can’t we just do it with our mouths?” were lines he had heard more than once in recent years from impoverished women
who had not yet surrendered to the consummate pleasure of moving in mutual, hip-swaying, fucking harmony to Dirk Wildon’s
phallic thrusts.
His cock had a mind and a talent all its own and once a woman had been to bed with him, she did not have to be convinced a
second time.
On the other hand, Corinna Cave had never been to college and needed no arguments on behalf of Dirk. As far as feminism went,
Corinna was for equal pay and equal opportunity. What more was there? She wanted to open a house of male prostitutes for some
of her more frustrated girl friends. She wanted to be able to undress a guy and still have him respect her. She wanted to
be able to stick her hand down a man’s pants at the movies and not feel she’d lost her femininity. Otherwise, like her brand-new
friend Mr. Wildon, she had no hang-ups about sex. She plainly liked to fuck, especially the strong, hard cock of a dynamic
young stud.
In an instant Dirk was on top of her; her legs went up; her feet locked around the back of his neck; her pelvis thrust forward,
its insistent rhythms anxious for his big hot cock.
“Give it to me! Give it to me!” she screamed.
That was exactly what he wanted to hear. He lunged forward and with a slurp his cock rammed right into that sweet, sucking
flesh and drove home right to the hilt. Her vaginal muscles grasped him tightly, enclosing his pork prod in its hot cylindrical
sheath.
They rocked and pumped in perfect unison, back and forth, back and forth, in and out, in and out, in and out. The pleasure
was excruciating, she was so hot and so tight. Their mouths fucked too, warm tongues diving deep into the submissive flesh
in the back of each other’s mouths. They climaxed almost immediately, her orgasms coming from a place deep within her pelvis,
sending out shock waves of sexual electricity thoughout the landscape of her flesh. She moaned. She gurgled. She drooled.
Her eyes rolled back. Her
tongue lolled; at the height of it, she was a bottomless reservoir of fire and ice.
And Dirk came tumbling after, his throat an incoherent gargle as his manhood erupted into white lava sperm and he completely
lost control, collapsing into his centerfold dream as his glittering seed flooded her insides; their sweat mingled, their
breathing was one breath, their body heat a single furnace. She was pure electrical charge and he was a shimmering river of
melted-down flesh. Together they created blinding steam. Whatever else it was, it was warm, it was viscous, oozing, melting,
good. It was total. It was worth repeating again as soon as possible.
“Let me doze off for a minute, Corinna, my cunt, gorgeous bod,” he murmured, tenderly scraping her sweet lower lip with the
edges of his teeth.
“I’ve never been so alive before,” was her languid, caressing reply. And so, drained of energy and sperm, he lay down on a
futon, one of several Japanese quilt mattresses that lay on the floor of his loft, casually scattered about, almost suggesting
that his guests should consider having sex along with their afternoon tea.
He must have dozed off for at least twenty minutes, during which time he dreamed of dancing with Corinna in a 1930s nightclub
with palm trees and an all-girl band. In his dream Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were on the far side of the dance floor
but nobody paid any attention to them. All eyes were on Corinna Cave. She had forgotten to . . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey: Book #2
Roland DeForrest
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