Death in Eden Ch. 01

I knew who he was the minute he entered the plane. The acclaimed fullback for the Washington Redskins, Jentel "Boom Boom" Huff more than filled the aisle of the 737 I was taking out of JFK for National Airport. They've changed the name to Reagan airport now, but for those of us who have been around for a while, the small airport near the Pentagon and across the river from Washington, D.C., that was originally built for shuttling congressmen, will always be National.

This was a last, midnight-special commuter plane from New York to Washington, and it was a Tuesday, so the plane was nearly empty. Despite that, we'd gotten assigned seats, and fickle fate being what it was, Huff's assigned seat was at the window in the same row near the back where I had the aisle. I got a close-up of his well-rounded muscular glutes as, not waiting for me to stand and get out of the way, he struggled across me and overflowed more than settled in the seat between me and the window. The man wasn't fat; he was one huge muscle, which he earned honestly from the work he did very well on the football field.

He was outfitted in expensive, well-cut duds, tailored khaki trousers and a form-fitting emerald-green polo shirt that followed every contour on his barrel chest and strained over his bulging biceps. I felt grungy and wrinkled in contrast in my jeans and second-day white shirt, having come straight to the airport after a grueling day on the streets and following the call that had summoned me urgently to Washington's Virginia suburbs.

As the doors were closing, the stewardess came on the intercom and, before starting her set spiel about what to do if the plane came down over water, told us the obvious—that the plane wasn't full on this flight—and that we were free to find an empty seat more to our liking once we were airborne. I was happy to hear the part about the seat changes, but her spiel about water safety sent me off into a flight of cynicism. When had a plane ever crashed into the ocean and any of the passengers survived, I wondered. And what ocean would we be crossing on our short hop down the East Coast from New York to Washington?

We were up and the bell dinged quietly and the flashing seat belt sign went off within minutes of our scheduled departure. That's why I preferred traveling either very late or very early—there was more of a chance of being somewhere close on time and of having your baggage arrive at the same time as you did. Although I was just traveling with a carry-on this time. The Loudon County police chief, an old very special friend of mine, hadn't given me enough notice to more than throw a couple of day's worth of work clothes in my duffel.

"Umm, the stewardess told us we could spread out after we were airborne. So, if you—"

"Oh, I don't mind, if you don't," Huff responded, and he flashed me a big, white-toothed smile that shone particularly bright in his chocolate-brown face. "I kinda like to talk to someone on short flights like this. I'm a little shaky about flying."

"Umm, OK," I answered. I didn't want to be impolite. And it would be a short flight; I could take being crowded out into the aisle with the feeling of a massive closeness for a flight this short. Huff was so broad in the chest and shoulders that his biceps were quite an imposing and mind-possessing presence.

"I'm Jentel Huff," he said, flashing that big smile and turning as well as he could in his seat and presenting a giant right-hand mitt for me to shake. He had a strong grip, naturally, and didn't let go immediately. And when he did, he stayed turned to me and his hand went down to lay lightly on my knee. "And you?"

"Yes, I knew who you were as soon as you entered the plane," I said. "Oh, and I'm Clint. Clint Folsom."

The mitt raised and fisted and he punched me lightly in the chest. It was obvious that he was a hands-on player. "Shit," he said good-naturedly. "It's hard going anywhere without being known now, especially since the season's about to start up again. You won't tell anyone about me being scared to fly, will you?"

"No, of course not," I answered with a laugh. "What happens on the plane stays on the plane." His good humor and overwhelming presence were infectious.

"Good to hear," he answered, also with a low laugh, and that mitt dropped to my knee again.

"Going home or do you live in New York?" he asked.

"Live there; going down to Washington on business," I answered. He probably was fishing for what I did for a living, but I didn't volunteer it. People sort of clammed up and got uncomfortable when they knew what that was. And, of course, I didn't have to ask Boom Boom Huff what he did for a living.

The stewardess came by and offered us a drink, and we both bought a beer.

"And this is Devin, my kid brother," Huff was saying thirty minutes later as the conversation was getting rolling along real well. "We've got him down at a private prep school in central Virginia. He wants to follow me into professional football, and he's probably got more talent than I ever did. He's a little slow on the books, nineteen already and not yet ready for college, but he won't have any trouble getting an athletic scholarship once we decide on the best college for him."

Huff had already shown me pictures of his wife and his two little girls. He'd had quite a reputation as a womanizer in his first couple of years in the NFL, followed by a few sex scandals at Florida State, but the pictures indicated he'd really turned himself around.

"So, will they be at the airport to meet you?" I asked.

"No, they don't think I'm coming home until tomorrow," Huff said. "I got finished shooting a commercial in New York a day early. I'll be surprising them when they wake up in the morning and I'm there."

Huff went quiet then, and he was eyeing me rather funnily. I had seen this look before, and I suddenly was uncomfortable and felt the row wasn't really big enough for both of us. The hand on my knee wasn't laying lightly any more. He was gripping me pretty hard.

The lights in the cabin had been out for a while, giving the late-night passengers some tease of an opportunity to get a few minutes of shut-eye before we arrived.

Huff was breathing heavily. I looked down, not wanting to see that look in his eye. But what I saw when I looked down, was the big, dominating, black hand on my knee. I felt myself stirring. Huff didn't know a thing about me. But I knew everything about me. And I knew what turned me on. I was sweating slightly and I could feel myself rising inside my jeans and I could hear the raggedness of my own breath.

"Clint," he whispered.

And I turned to him and our lips met, and I felt his mitt move up my thigh and settle on my basket, his fingers tracing the rise of me through my worn jeans.

The seat belt light flickered on and the warning tone dinged and the lights in the cabin flashed up. We both were clumsily pulling apart as best we could and turning from each other, and Jentel Huff melted as best he could into the window frame and. I didn't give him another look until we landed, and then I fairly shot out of my seat, grabbed my duffel from the overhead bin, and raced for the exit.

I was getting into a cab out on the curb at the airport, when I heard a voice from behind.

"Mind if we share the cab?"

I knew who it was. "OK. OK, I guess," I said. My eye was on the cabbie, whose eyes were all wide and full of worship as he took the bulking form of the Redskins' fullback in. There weren't enough cabs to go around out here at this time of night, and I knew if anyone was going to get this one, it would be Jentel Huff.

"Where are you going?" Jentel asked when we were both stuffed, bicep to bicep, into the backseat.

"The Marriott Key Bridge in Rosslyn," I answered. "It's just on the other side of the Pentagon from here, across the river from Georgetown. And you?"

"The Marriott will be fine with me," Jentel said in a low, husky voice.

* * * *

I was on my back on the edge of the king-sized bed, arching up on my shoulders in pain and pleasure, trying to open as wide as possible for the big black cock Jentel was stuffing into my channel. I had one fist in my mouth, trying to stifle my cries, and the other one was bunching up a large handful of silken bedspread. The room was dim, lit only by a bedside lamp and the lights of Washington across the Potomac that shone through the eighth-floor window of the Marriott.

Jentel had been too anxious, too driven by lust to get inside me, for me to be completely ready for him. He was gigantic, but I liked them this way. I didn't have a problem with that. But he could hardly wait for us to get into the room. I had wanted to shower first—I'd had a rough day on the streets of New York—and I wanted to be clean for him. But he couldn't wait. He was naked within seconds, and then he had pushed me down on my back on the bed and stripped me, and he was covering me close.

We kissed passionately and then his lips and tongue were all over my torso. He spent a good deal of time snuffling up in my pits with his nose, and he was sighing and making guttural sounds of pleasure as he licked and nibbled there—more than nibbled; he was biting me, deep in passion. I worried briefly about bruising, but in my pits, who would notice? And, besides, this unexpected pit play was turning me on too. The locker room turn on, I supposed. In turn, I was letting my hands wander on the bulging curves of him. I love hulking muscle, and he had it to spare. I raised and spread my legs to him, asking him to fuck me, letting him know it was what I wanted.

I had produced lube and a condom from my duffel before he pushed me onto the bed, and he was working my ass with his meaty, lubed fingers. He was just moving too fast, too anxious, and he was just so big. Big black cock; blacker than the chocolate-brown of his beautiful, well-developed body. I wanted to suck it and stroke it, but he wasn't giving me time for that. He wanted inside me, and I was all right with that too.

When I felt his bulb at my rim, I arched my back up off the bed and reached down with both hands and held the root of his cock steady. I opened my mouth wide in a cry of taking as the bulb plopped past my sphincter, and then I let go of his cock and fisted one hand and grabbed for the silken bed spread with the other as he pushed his way in, downfield, toward the goalpost. He had found his seam and was galloping downfield. And then he was thrusting and thrusting and thrusting. Touchdown!

Jentel went rigid, only his hips grinding in short, out-of-rhythm jabs, and then I could feel the head of the condom balloon out deep inside me as Jentel gasped and took in breath in a long, noisy, ragged drag. I let out a little yelp of my own and also went rigid as I shot my load up onto Huff's heaving belly.

He was grinning that big white-toothed grin down at me. "Man you are good for a white bitch," he muttered, still breathing heavily. His hands were all over my sweat-slicked body, worked hard by a hard black body pounding between my open legs.

"You're a pretty good baller yourself," I answered in a weak voice. And he was. All those sex scandals he'd been in with those white girls. He was making it pretty evident there had been some white boys too.

He stood away from me just a bit and rolled the spent condom off his still-engorged tool. I sat up on the edge of the bed and reached out and took his cock in both of my hands and brought my mouth down on it, opening wide around his knob and sucking with pressure. It was fascinating how much blacker the appendage and his lemon-sized balls were than the rest of him. He stood there, trembling slightly and sighing for several minutes, as I worked to take as much of the deep blackness into my mouth and throat as I could. Soon, though, he had taken my head into his now tender hands, lovingly holding me like a trophy football, and moved my head on his cock in counter rhythm to his slightly swaying hips.

"You got another condom in that duffel bag?" he asked in a low, husky voice.

"Several," I said after pulling my mouth off him and looking up with a sly grin. "But I'd like to get a shower first, I think."

"I think not," he answered in a low growl. "I like you just as you are."

And he liked me repeatedly, marching through three or four more condoms, into the night, over the back of a straight chair and him sitting in the chair and me pumping myself in his lap, and at last, Jentel side-splitting me in the king-sized bed, both of us on our sides and me nuzzled rear to pelvis against him, me being held closely and still, encased in those big strong arms of his and him stroking inside me in long, deep slides that were still energetic and long flowing hours into this workout.

I was exhausted, however, and was asleep before he had filled the head of the last condom.