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Death in Eden Ch. 01

By: sr71plt



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.

Death in Eden Ch. 02



I woke up, thinking at first that it had all been one long wet dream. But when I opened my eyes, there he was, over at the full-length window, leaning his shoulders back against the side frame of the window and looking out over the morning traffic inching back and forth over the Key Bridge linking Georgetown to the Virginia suburbs. He was magnificent in nakedness and repose in a way that made the football posters and commercial shots of him that woman flowed over pale in contrast. His knees were slightly bent, and the leg toward the window was lifted, with the pad of his foot resting on the window frame. His dong was jutting out and hanging down. A good eight or nine thick inches of it as I gauged it from where I lay tangled in the mussed sheets of the bed. He was smoking a cigarette and looking out on the city with unseeing eyes. He seemed to be looking at something inside him. I suspected I knew what.

"Regrets?" I asked in a low voice. "Because . . . I mean . . ."

He turned that radiant smile on me and snuffed out his cigarette in an ashtray on a small table in front of the window.

"Come here for a few minutes and then ask that question if you still want to," he said. That voice was husky again. And his cock was beginning to jut out.

"I think we used all the condoms I brought," I answered, almost apologetically, even though it had been Jentel who raced through the condoms.

"No problem. I brought my own." And he had. He pointed to the top of the table in front of the window, and there was a small pile of condom packets there.

"I think I should shower first," I then said. "I haven't washed for over a day now. I must stink like a pig."

"I think not," he said. Still smiling, but voice like steel now. Knowing what he wanted; not to be denied. "Come here. Now."

I disentangled myself from the sheets and moved toward the window.

"I don't think this will work. I'm a big man." I was panting, worked up by his kisses and his tonguing on my torso and snuffling up into my pits. But I was skeptical about what he was trying to position my body to do. He was still standing, leaning against the frame of the window, crouched a bit farther down, trying to lap me on this thighs, facing him.

"No problem," he muttered, his voice full of lust. Knowing what he wanted and determined to get it. "I'm bigger—and every way," and then he laughed and I smiled too, as he most certainly was. "And stronger," he continued. "I lift heavier weights than you every day. Hook those knees on my hips. Now!"

And it was obvious that he did lift those weights and was quite strong enough, because he grabbed me with his hands around the small of my waist and lifted me and settled his cock head on my hole. I reached down and held his cock until he had broached my channel by a good couple of inches. And then I cried out as he slowly forced my pelvis down on his ass splitter and, when he had bottomed, began pumping me up and down on his tool, handling me like I was a writhing, groaning rag doll.

"Oh, god, Yessss! Oh, no, no . . . no . . .slowly . . . yessss! Oh, shit, Jentel. Oh, Shittt! Faster, harder, deeper!"

Afterward, still skewered on him as he crouched against the window frame, still panting slightly, both of us looking down into the rush hour traffic on the busy Rosslyn streets below: "Why me? In the plane. How did you know?"

"I didn't know, not for sure," Jentel whispered. "And I wasn't thinking of you. I was thinking of me. I just knew I had to have you."

"But how? Why did you . . .? What did I do . . . or say . . . that . . . got to you?"

"Your scent," he answered in a low voice. "The scent of a man. Your scent put me in heat. And then I had to have you. I don't know how to explain it."

But he didn't have to explain it. I had heard it before. I had something that got to men who were even slightly inclined. And I hadn't showered before going to the airport.

A long pause.

"Can we shower now?" I asked.

"Will you see me again?" he responded.

A slight pause.

"Yes, I don't see why not."

"Then we can shower now. I won't use this last condom."

But he did use the last condom, in the shower, taking me from the rear, under the streaming water, pushing my belly up and down on the slick, soapy tiles of the shower with the strength of his cock jackhammering up into me.

At the door, as he, dressed in what he'd worn the previous day, was about to leave ahead of me: "How long will you be here?"

"As long as it takes," I answered. "As long as my business here takes. And I'm not sure now how long that will be."

"And when I want to fuck you again—"

"Then you will fuck me again," I responded.

That big white-toothed smile reappeared.

And as he opened the door to leave: "And, oh, Jentel," I said, "What happens in the Marriott stays in the Marriott."

A repeated grin and a "thanks," and he was gone.

* * * *

I got the call on where I was to go soon after Jentel left. A car had already been rented for me and was waiting down on Nash Street. In little time at all I was cruising out on the George Washington Parkway and taking the Route 193 back road through the very wealthy, deceptively rural residential area around Great Falls on the Potomac, and then on out the quickly developing Route 7 corridor to just beyond Leesburg, the center of the Northern Virginia hunt country. I'd picked the Rosslyn area for my hotel not only because it was just across the Potomac from the nation's capital, but also because it gave me ready access to a relatively pleasant, counter commuter traffic, scenic drive out to Loudon County, where I'd been summoned by the chief of police of one of the richest counties in the nation.

As I drove, I wracked my brain how Johnny "The Club" Wallace, at one time the scourge of New York City's underbelly, had managed a connection with the rolling hunt country of Virginia's Loudon County.

"It was the witness protection program," Peter Blair, the aforementioned chief of police, told me when I was standing on the front porch of a modestly sized, but obviously high-priced southern colonial house not more than ten miles beyond the moneyed "countrified" town Leesburg had become.

"I knew he'd gone into the program," I said. "But he would have really been out of his element here, I'd think. I mean one of the Mafia's chief hit men?"

"Yeah," Blair said. And then he laughed. "But I guess they were using psychology. This would probably be the last place the Mafia would find him. We call this area of the country Eden, you know. With some folks thinking Washington, D.C., is the center of the world, all of the rich and famous who gather here need some place close by where they can canter their horses and enjoy their entitlements."

Pete Blair was still looking good. He was older than I was by about ten years, but he'd always been the Marine model type. Big and bulky with muscle that cried out of long hours in the gym. A crew cut and rugged blond good looks. He could be taken for an FBI agent, which probably didn't hurt him in finding a high-paying job out here in the manicured countryside when he had so abruptly left New York. All because of me.

Not wanting to dwell on that, I snapped my attention back to the work at hand. "Well, it looks like the Mafia wasn't fooled. Is he in the house still?"

"No, they carted him away during the night. Didn't want the area Moguls to be disturbed. Not in the house. Out in the barn. Let's walk and talk."

We started off for a barn a couple of hundred feet back from the house that looked quite a bit better painted and maintained than most of the houses in my Brooklyn neighborhood.

"And it isn't so simple as fingering a Mafia hit, either. Sal M. has been dead a while himself, and the leadership of that family has passed on to the point where it's kind of late to come after The Club for yakking to the DA. And there are other possibilities."

"Other possibilities?" I asked. "Oh, is that where, over at that saw horse in the center there?" We had arrived at the barn. The yellow tape was discretely just inside the structure, and I could see where the pool of blood was. Right there at the chunky wooden saw horse.

"Yes, that's where. He was found hog tied to the saw horse. His own M.O. Clubbed to death."

"That all?" I asked. I knew there was probably more, and I was right.

"No, not all, of course. He'd been worked on in the ass with the club before he was beaten with it. His own method."

"And raped too?" I asked in a small, thin voice. I had to know, but I was having a hard time talking about it and breathing steady too.

"We won't know until the autopsy is finished, Clint." And then Blair lowered his voice to a level that none of the techs working the scene could hear. "I'm sorry, it may have been a little insensitive of me, calling you down from New York and all . . . but . . ."

"Yeah, I am sort of curious why you brought NYPD Homicide into this, Pete—and, especially, why me?"

"A couple of reasons, Clint. The first one being that no matter what happened, you are the one who knows Wallace's cases the best. And it's sort of delicate here for another reason."

"Oh, what's that, Pete?"

"You asked why we couldn't just assume the Mafia had caught up with Wallace. It's because there is other 'stuff' in play here. You know Wallace. Even though he was in the program, he was close to being taken in for another crime here."

I didn't say anything. I just stood and stared him down until he went on.

"We're not far from a Loudon athletic prep school here, Clint. You know, promising athletes who aren't academically ready to go on to college yet, but so much in demand for college athletic programs that they are given extra schooling to make the grade."

"And so," I said.

"As I said, you know Wallace. We had him pretty much dead to rights on a molestation of one of the nineteen-year-old boys in that program. So there was bad blood focusing on him hereabouts that had nothing to do with his previous life up in New York."

"I'm not surprised, of course," I said. "But that's even more reason why you should be able to handle that down here. You were one of New York's finest detective supervisors, Pete. Why do you need me for a simple murder investigation down here that, as you say, may have no connection to New York at all?"

"Well, here's the thing, Clint. The boy's father is the Commonwealth's Attorney in this county and I myself am on tape telling Wallace I would personally tear him limb from limb. So, you see, we do need some outside help, and under the circumstance, with your history with Wallace . . ."

"Oh. OK, so can I see the body?"



Death in Eden Ch. 03



Johnny Wallace's body was beat up pretty badly. It definitely looked like a hate crime to me. But that didn't take much imagination to suppose. The man had been strung up naked on a saw horse and fucked with a club nearly the size of a baseball bat before being bludgeoned with it. Divine? retribution, I thought.

I didn't spend all that much time with the body, but I did find a surprise or two that set me thinking for a couple of days.

They'd finished the autopsy and could only say a "maybe" on the question of sexual rape going beyond the foreign-object penetration—mainly because of the size of the foreign object used. But I couldn't have mustered up regrets if there had been some positive results for body fluids or something. Which brought us back to my earlier question when we were done and Pete had settled us in a faux British pub at the edge of Leesburg that was so clean and dolled up that it wouldn't have been out of place in Disneyworld.

"Those aren't all of the reasons I'm down here on this case, are they?" I asked Pete when we were settled with our Belgium beers and a bowl of gourmet nuts.

"I was real sorry to hear about Dan Roberts." was his response. "Real sorry. My condolences on that. Really."

Good old Pete. Never approach directly when you can beat around the bush.

"Yeah, well, I haven't gotten over that," I answered. "But I did get even." It hadn't been more than six months since I'd pursued the killers of my NYPD Homicide squad partner—and lover—across Europe and closed out on them. That hadn't closed out on my feeling for Dan Roberts any, though.

"But I've missed you, Clint. Missed you real bad. So, yes, there's another reason I got you liaised down here for the Wallace case. I could do that because of your earlier connection with Wallace. But I wanted to do it because of us. I need to know where we stand now. What the possibilities might be."

There, it was out. Pete Blair had been my "significant other" before Dan Roberts had come onto the scene. Pete had been the older man who took me under his wing and shared all of his professional experience with me and had wound up sharing his bed with me too. And then Dan had come along, and I drifted into being a Pete for Dan. And then one day it was Dan in my bed and Pete had withdrawn from the NYPD and headed south.

"Pete. The past, you know . . ."

"I know I took it hard," Pete said in a low, insistent voice, after taking a big swig of his beer. "I know I wasn't paying enough attention to you that last six months. It was the job. You know the job. It can just swallow you up. I can see where Dan was attractive to you. So much younger, and obviously wanting you so bad."

"Pete . . ."

"And now that you are here. I just need you so bad, Clint. Just the scent of you across the table from me. I think that's what I miss the most. Just having you here, close to me. I'm genuinely sorry about Roberts, but . . ."

* * * *

I had forgotten those moves of Pete's that had me melting to him. He was a consummate lover, closely attentive to his partner and with the small, unexpected moves that could put a man needing attention over the edge. But, if anything, perhaps too sensitive and gentle and attentive for some men. And I probably was one of those men. With me, it was variety that floated my boat. I loved what Pete did to me. But maybe not a steady diet of it. I liked to be ridden and taken hard now and again too. That was probably what had killed our relationship. Probably if it hadn't been Dan Roberts, it was destined to having been someone else. And with Dan, I dominated. That had been an entirely new, fascinating world for me. With Pete, though, there was never a question of who was going to be fucking who.

Pete's small, centuries-old townhouse was just a short ride away from the faux British pub. He still lived alone. If he had replaced me, he'd had him cleared out entirely before I got there.

Pete liked to enfold—and I liked to be covered and completely controlled. So, it didn't take us long to find our old, comfortable position. I was flat on my belly on his queen-sized bed, only my hips slightly elevated by a pillow, stroking the sheets with my cock to the rhythm of his fuck. He was on top of me, covering me closely, nipples pressed into my shoulder blades, thighs encasing mine, using his knees for leverage in the stroking of his cock deep inside me, my hips raised slightly to meet his crotch. He had his head close to mine, kissing my neck, teasing my earlobe with his teeth, whispering to me of remembrances of my smell and how it drove him crazy, and enticing me to turn my lips to his frequently for long kisses.

But what I found most melting, most intimate for some inexplicable reason, was that he ran his arms along mine and held both of my hands in his, our fingers entwined, him holding me gently in thrall to him there, a symbol of how closely we were joined as he fucked me.

And he fucked me as no other man did, in long, deep, slow, gliding strokes to the very depth of me. Long-term lovers, we fucked naturally, and my channel muscles were so familiar with every vein and bump in his cock that they expanded and contracted to meet his slides and made undulating love to his tool. Thus perfectly set, his cock moved in and out in long strokings for time unending, culminating in mewings of taking from me and sighs and moans of a prolonged, prodigious flow from him that backed up between throbbing cock and channel and burbled out onto the sheets.

We lay there afterward, each thinking thoughts of "how it once was," fully satisfied once more, sweating slightly from the last few minutes of writhing that preceded our almost simultaneous ejaculations. I was laying on my back, arms over my head, and Pete was stretched beside and hovering over me, one hand gently teasing my cock and balls, his nose and tongue buried in one of my pits, drinking me in.

"You know you are hopelessly promiscuous, don't you?" he murmured to me. But it wasn't an accusation. He was smiling down at me. Perhaps feeling a little smug that it had been so easy.

But I remembered his fucking. I knew before I got on that night shuttle from New York that he would fuck me—if he still wanted to. Being promiscuous didn't bother me if I could be fucked as expertly as he did it. If he hadn't left New York, I would have let him continue fucking me even while I was fucking Dan. Dan had said he didn't care. He'd said he'd take me any way he could get me. It had been Pete who pulled out of me and left. It was Pete who was looking for the one and only.

"You know I don't let any man put his stamp on me, if that's what you mean?" I answered.

"No, it's not. Not really. It's just that you're so natural about it. And you draw men so naturally. I guess it would be inevitable that you fucked a lot."

"Umm, umm," I answered lazily. "And if you keep doing that to me, you can fuck me again." His hand was doing wonders for the erection angle of my tool. I reached down and started bringing him back up to erection too, and his intake of breath told me we wouldn't be talking for very long.

"Oh, I intend to. It's been too long," Pete responded in a low, husky voice. "What is it, though? What is it that you seek in fucking, Clint?"

"Oh, I guess the death wish," I answered. I'd been asked this before.

"The death wish?" Pete's forehead was wrinkled, and I knew I needed to disabuse him of where my answer had spun his thoughts off too.

"I don't mean actual death. But, you know, there are philosophers who have written about ejaculation as a brief death, as being as near to death as you can get and live. And I live for being on that edge—for the moment of ejaculation. And not just mine, but the second when I have brought a man to his ejaculation, to the elation of his brief brush with death. Sort of a life in death connection. Does any of that make sense?"

A short pause, and then, "Yes, I guess I can see that. For a moment I was afraid—"

"—that coming down here on a case about Johnny Wallace would make me remember and think sobering thoughts?" I filled in the sentence for him, and he didn't answer so I knew I'd filled it in correctly.

"There were moments, yes, when Johnny Wallace was fucking me that I thought I was going to die—even, perhaps, that I wanted to die and get it over with. But, no, I don't have nightmares about that. And that's not what I meant."

"So," Pete said, with what might have been a forced smile and jocularity. "Shall we see how many times we can kill each other again before we have to trot off and get you introduced to the Commonwealth's Attorney?"

"Sure," I tossed out. "You keep a vocal count of yours, and I'll sing out mine."

Then Pete rolled me back on my stomach, simultaneously pushed a pillow under my belly again to raise my hips to him, as I sighed and moaned as he entwined my hands in his, covered me closely, and slid down, down, down inside me.

It was good to be home—if only for a brief visit.



Death in Eden Ch. 04



Pete need not have brought up my knowledge of Johnny The Club Wallace. I had that particular fucker ingrained deep inside me.

A couple of years before Pete even transferred to the NYPD from San Francisco—and before I had been assigned to homicide—I'd been working the gangster beat. I'd gotten a bit too close to Wallace's employers in the Mafia, and that's when I'd met Johnny—and his club.

His club of choice at the time was a flexible rubber policeman's billy club. And his M.O. was to tie up his victims in some fleabag hotel or other at the fringes of Manhattan and to torture them for whatever information the Mafia wanted by raping them with the club first and then clubbing them to death with the same billy club. I was probably the first one to find out that he fucked the ones he was attracted to between the two acts with the club—and I only found that out because I probably was the first one who ever survived his assault. He got an erection off doing his victim with the club when he found the victim attractive, and I suppose he didn't think there was any reason not to put a well-worked hole to use while it was there.

I guess you could also say that it was because of me that Wallace had found his way into witness protection and had ended up here, finished off by a much thicker club than he once was prone to use.

I remember the hotel well because of its name. It was the Jefferson Davis in a particularly depressed section of the city, and despite my plight, I found that a bit amusing, because if there ever was a loser of a hotel it had been this one.

The hotel was a gay dive that rented by the hour, which was Wallace's ultimate undoing, because he'd plunked down the money for three nights, which became somewhat of a flag-waving memory jog for the night clerk there when my buddies on the force turned out to scour the city for one of their own.

Wallace had tracked me down in the Club Europa one night when I was crying in my beer over being overworked and having found someone I hoped to settle down with fucking my upstairs neighbor in our bathtub one night. I was out cruising for a quick "oh woe is me" fuck that night, and Wallace came on to me. He looked good and promised a rough fuck from how he approached me, which was exactly what I was looking for that night. He somehow slipped me a Mickey in a bar drink, however, and I was well short of sharp when he took me into the Jefferson Davis. A quick fuck was what I was after, so I might have gone with him without the senses deadening, but now we'll never know about that. I certainly had my guard down. I'd been warned a hit had been taken out on me, but, like all young and stupid men, I felt I was invincible.

What brought me out of my stupor was Wallace starting his routine by working the lubed billy club inside my ass. I was naked, with my wrists tied above my head to the brass poles in the headboard, and my T-shirt stuffed in my mouth to keep me quiet while he worked me. He told me exactly who he was, why I was where I was, and what he planned to do with me.

While he worked, Wallace was getting aroused, however. He stripped down, and I saw that he wasn't called The Club just because he carried one that he beat people up with.

Fucking me with the billy club was turning him on, not the least, I suppose, because I could take it. Pete, who first met me as part of the rescue party, would be interested to know that I was even more promiscuous then than I am now, and my ass was open enough in those days to take a Mac truck careening up it.

Soon Wallace was breathing real hard, and his tool was even harder. I was sweating at the strain of taking the billy club inside me, and Wallace bent down over me and was giving me the sniff test and licking me from head to toe. He came up on the bed, kneeling his butt cheeks back on his heels and working his thighs under mine as he spread my legs out and exchanged his billy club for The Club. He grabbed my hips with his hands and pulled me back and forth on a tool that rivaled the billy club in thickness and depths reached.

Playing for time, I acted like I was really enjoying his work inside me—which, in fact, I was. It was just the rough fuck I'd ventured out for that evening, although I wasn't wild about the notion that he planned to finish it off by beating my skull in with that billy club of his.

I must have done well, because he didn't kill me that night—or the next night, either. He kept me there and fucked me whenever he'd gotten up the steam to have another go at me.

And he was still fucking me when my cop buddies kicked in the door and saved my sore ass, not having been ID'd by the hotel's night clerk but having been the "drunken friend" part of his unusual story of a prepaid long weekend starting the night I'd disappeared.

Caught in the unfinished business with club showing, Wallace had been quick to turn state's evidence on his employers, and that's what had gotten him into the witness protection program and down here in an Eden that was totally off his regular beat.

This didn't tell me what had gotten him murdered, however. I didn't give a shit for him, and Pete knew that—he'd been pretty straight that he'd used my connection with Wallace to get me down here and back into his own bed. I did, however, find any unsolved murder case absolutely fascinating, and it was something that wore at me until it was straightened out. And I was known to have an intuition about these cases. My intuition about this killing told me that it hadn't been the Mafia that had caught up with Johnny; my intuition was that it more likely was his inability to keep his own club in his pants. Besides, if it was just a belated Mafia hit, that was no fun.

I decided the next move was to track down this prep school youth Wallace was said to have raped. And I knew that the only way I could get to him would be through his father, the local Commonwealth's Attorney. So, as Pete and I were having a sandwich in his kitchen after our nooner in his bed, I asked him how soon we could get into to see the number one lawyer here.

"You have an appointment at two," he answered. "And if that goes well, you can drive to the school later in the afternoon so that you can meet Wallace's victim—his name is Jason. Then we can come back here and—"

"Let's take that part a bit more slowly, Pete," I interrupted. I was fine with Pete fucking me, but not exclusively. If I slept with anyone tonight, it would be with that Redskins' fullback, Jentel. If, of course, he was hooked enough to want another go at me this soon. His dick wasn't any bigger than Pete's, but it was jet black and more vigorous than Pete's—and it fascinated me.

"A guy's gotta have his sleep, Pete. I'm going to be bushed, and it would be good to start off tomorrow fresh and giving this all of my brainpower."

Pete never had known when I was lying to him; it had taken him forever to discover that I was two-timing him with Dan.



Death in Eden Ch. 05



After we'd cleaned up from our little roll in the hay at his place, Peter Blair took me over to the Loudon County Court offices, which proved to be not more than three blocks from his old townhouse, near the major intersection where Route 7 coming out of Washington, and Route 15 coming down from Maryland at Point of Rocks converged—both old stage coach roads going back to pre-Revolutionary War days.

We had a timed appointment with the Commonwealth's Attorney, Warren Dabney Jr., who kept us waiting for well over a half an hour beyond that just because he could and to show me, I'm sure, how important he was. The bastard left the door between his office and the reception room ajar enough so that we were able to see that he was reading the newspaper and eating a sandwich his secretary took in to just after we arrived.

I got the message without Peter having to say anything. This was going to be a pro forma meeting, just to establish that we had met. And that the only interest the Commonwealth's Attorney had in having me investigate this murder was to keep him—and his son—out of it.

I might not have bothered him at all, except that I was sort of curious who he wanted saved the worse, his son or himself.

"I think there's something we all can agree on from the start, Detective Folsom," Dabney said after we'd finally been given audience. "This Wallace was a scumbag of the lowest degree. If my office had been fully informed that such as he was in our midst, we would have moved him along, federal government or no federal government." And with this, he glowered at Peter Blair, who shrank down in his seat a bit. The relationship between them was obvious, and equally obvious was where Blair sat in all of this, having known who Wallace was and why he had been salted away under Dabney's nose.

I certainly didn't respond negatively to Dabney's statement myself. No one in the room knew as well as I did what a scumbag Wallace had been—although perhaps I shouldn't jump to those conclusions too soon, I corrected myself.

"And we can certainly take care of ourselves here in Loudon County," Dabney continued. "But, under the circumstances, Police Chief Blair thought it best to bring in an outside investigator. And he thought you would be the best one to help us close this case down quickly."

And there, in a nutshell, it was. And I wasn't a bit surprised. They wanted me to investigate as little as possible, conclude that Wallace had been killed by someone outside Loudon County, wrap that up in a nice little report, and, as an entirely independent investigator, let the feds know that Wallace had probably been knocked off by the Mafia, which, by the way, was no real big problem because the case that had gotten him into the witness protection program was dead now anyway. And they thought I was the best one to slap this coat of paint over it all because I had a history with Wallace myself.

Well, they might be right. I didn't begrudge whoever had offed Wallace. But to be able to write a convincing report, I'd have to go through at least a few formalities.

"Yes, well, for the purpose of the report, of course, there will be a few bases I'll have to be able to say I covered," I said.

"Such as?" Dabney asked. He had been leaning back in his swivel chair, his feet on the waxed paper in the center of his desk that his sandwich had come in. He was on full alert now.

"Peter has already told me that there are some possibly embarrassing angles to this case—leading to needing someone from the outside to come into the investigation."

"Oh?" The eyebrows went up even more.

"Well, I think, certainly, that any report I could run through the feds on this would have to pin down good alibis for your son, you, and Peter, here. I understand Wallace had been brought up on rape charges for molesting your son and that Peter was heard publicly to threaten his life on that."

"His murder doesn't have anything to do with that," Dabney said with a snort. "The man was killed by his Mafia buddies. They killed him the same way they had paid him to kill others. It's an obvious message."

"Yes, pretty convincing," I said. "But the feds—"

"My son is away at school," Dabney said in a somewhat strained voice. "And as for Peter and me, when was it that they've placed the time of death, Peter?" Dabney had swiveled around to glare directly at Blair, who had been quite silent the whole time. He certainly wasn't giving me any help.

"Between 10 p.m. and midnight, night before last," Peter said in a small voice that I would have had no idea he could ever be cowed to when he was so forcefully fucking me just an hour earlier.

"There you go, then," Dabney said. And he gave me a broad, victory-laden smile. "Peter and I were at his place playing poker during those hours. So, we couldn't have done it, neither of us."

"Just the two of you playing poker?" I asked. It was instinctive; it had just slipped out without much thought to it.

"Yes, just the two of us. Is there a problem with that?" Dabney's voice had gone hard.

"No, I'm sure there's not," I said. "That's certainly what we can put in the report." I left that lying there in a pregnant pause. Dabney was no dummy, I'm sure, on how good an alibi would have to be to keep the feds from taking a closer look. I had no question that by this time the next day, there would be more fine upstanding citizens of Eden willing to say they were in that poker game.

But I also was impressed to have caught that Dabney had thought to protect his son first. Unfortunately, that led me to assume that he was afraid for his son for some reason.

"And your son?" I said. "How far away is this school?"

"It's down in Syria, almost up into the Blue Ridge Mountains. The Spring Hill Academy. A fine post-high school prep school for gifted athletes to help them succeed at the university while carrying a full athletic load. My son is a star football player." The pride shown through the man's gruffness, and I accepted his genuine interest in and concern for his boy.

"And that's how far from here?" I asked.

Dabney didn't respond immediately, so I turned to Peter.

"Peter? How far is it from here?"

"An hour's drive," Peter squeaked in an uncomfortable voice. Dabney glowered at him again.

"And your son has a car at school?" I asked Dabney when I turned back to him.

"Of course. But—"

It was my turn to show some steel and to assert myself. "I'll of course need to go talk to him. I can go straight from here. Would you please call the school and tell them to expect me?"

Dabney was turning red now and starting to bluster. "That's absolutely not necessary. He was at school. There is no need—"

"Let's not start by making a serious blunder, Mr. Dabney," I said, now taking control. "The feds, of course, will want to have your son discounted as a suspect in this. The best thing we can do is show that I talked to him early and that my report clearly rules him out."

Dabney looked at me for the longest moment. He was a lawyer, though, and I'm sure he was a damn fine lawyer. He didn't hold out for the bluff more than a second or two. I had already discerned that his concern for his son was genuine.

"I'll have my secretary call down there as soon as you leave, Detective. Just know that you need to be as sensitive and discrete as possible. My son has been through a trauma. I know there is no way he could be involved in Wallace's murder, but we're doing everything we can now to help him forget what Wallace did to him and to allow him to return to a normal life. Something like this could easily obscure the path he's on to a professional football career."

"I will, of course, handle the interview with discretion," I assured Dabney. "But perhaps you can tell me how Wallace had access to him to begin with."

"John Wallace was a volunteer assistant football coach at the school," Dabney said. And now I could see the anger returning to his face. "Those witness protection bastards let an animal like that work with young men at a residential school."

* * * *

I wasted a good forty-five minutes while I drove along a babbling stream into the foothills of northern Virginia to the town of Syria, trying to devise the best way to approach Dabney's son, Jason, in a way that would not add to his scarring from having been molested by his football coach.

I thought of those nine thick inches Wallace was carrying and the cruel way in which he could use them, and I just wasn't sure what the best approach to the questions I'd have to ask would be.

As I drove into the gates of the isolated prep school campus, I was passed by a yellow big-daddy Hummer going in the other direction. I might have missed who was driving, but I had focused on the vanity plate, which read "Jentel," and the huge Redskins professional football team sticker in the back window was unmistakable. I was certain that my Rosslyn hotel lover, Jentel "Boom Boom" Huff, was at the wheel. Then it dawned on me. He had told me he had a younger brother enrolled at an athletic prep school. What he had said led me to believe that it was farther south, down in central Virginia, but it made sense that it would be this one. The Redskins' training camp was between here and Washington, D.C.

At the school's administrative office building, which evidently Dabney's secretary had called as promised and greased the skids well, and I was told that Jason Dabney would be over at the field house at this time of day, either at football practice or cleaning up from football practice. The paths were well marked, so they let me find my own way.

I heard them before I saw them, and there was no mistaking what they were up to. Peter had given me an excellent description of the Dabney youth, so even at the angle I first spied him, I instantly knew it was him. What I hadn't even considered, though, was how much he looked like my lost lover, Dan. That completely knocked me off balance—or at least it was my initial shock.

They were in the shadows, off in a corner of the field house, but near the front door. A blue wrestling mat was down on the floor, and the young man—Jason—was upside down, his shoulders bearing his weight, his arms spread out wide and his fists clutching at the plastic surface of the mat. His butt was in the air and his legs open wide. Standing over him, holding his thighs, and fucking down into his ass was an older, naked man, maybe of thirty or thirty-five. Muscular, well cut, athletic. Jason's body was lithe and subtle, a blond beauty, almost Apollo like in his attractiveness, his wavy hair spread out around an angelic face, which at the moment was intensively lost in the sex act. The man fucking him was at least partially black—dark haired, with a thatch of curly hair that spread down from his heaving pecs and surrounded a penis darker than the rest of his skin, encased in a jet-black condom, which appeared and disappeared inside the young man's channel at a highly athletic, vigorous speed. He wasn't just fucking at the surface, either, he was jackhammering down deep into the channel.

While I watched, the older, dark guy pulled out of the younger one and reached down and took a bludgeon of a black dildo off the floor and began to fuck the younger guy, which led to a lot of moaning and groaning from the bottom. After a bit of this, though, the older guy tossed the dildo off to the side and returned to cocking the younger one.

Nothing was happening to Jason that he didn't want happening to him. He was moaning and groaning and crying out for more, deeper, and more rapid.

I slipped inside, but drew into the shadows at the other side of the door. I watched, not unaffected, as they fucked on for several more minutes. I could tell by the way the older man cried out and jerked that he ejaculated first, and then Jason gave him a big smile and shot several spurts of his own cream up onto the older man's belly.

I stayed and waited for several minutes as they disengaged, kissed, and headed toward the rear of the field house.

Then I went back there myself, easily finding the darker man in a windowed office half way down the gymnasium floor. He was covered by a T and shorts now, with a whistle on a string around his neck, and took a look at the note I'd brought from the administrative office and motioned me to a door in the wall that was posted to lead to the shower rooms.

"Jason's back there, in the showers. He stayed later than the others for some extra practice. He's probably the only one back there. You can't miss him. Tall, with a mop of blond hair."

Yeah, I'd seen the sort of practice he'd stayed late for.

* * * *

"Hey, a detective, cool," Jason Dabney was saying when he came out of the showers and found me sitting on the bench in front of his locker, waiting for him. "Sent to talk to me about Mr. Wallace being killed. Guess my dad blew a gasket over that, didn't he?"

Jason had been swinging a towel when he came out of the showers. He didn't bother to put it around him now, either. He was naked and moist, with his mop of hair flat now and hanging down around his face in strings. And he was looking mighty fine. And he still looked like my Dan, which made me ache in the crotch. His cock started moving to attention as soon as he saw me sitting there, but he didn't bother to try to cover that up. He just sat down, straddling the bench between his legs, his balls and cock pointed at me, and gave me a big, welcoming smile.

"Yes, he did," I answered. "I'm helping with the investigation on that, and I really must pin down where some people were the evening before last . . . including you, I'm afraid. An investigation report is going to have to go to authorities beyond the county, and your dad wants to make sure that it is as airtight as possible."

Jason stood then and opened his locker wide. He was only about a foot from me now—or at least his erect cock was. And it was still pointed at me. He was playing a game with me. And I was having trouble not showing him I was interested. But there was a problem with that—well, several. The last thing I wanted to do in this investigation was to get involved with a suspect, especially the son of the Commonwealth's Attorney. And the other problem was that he had shown quite graphically that he was a bottom—and so was I, although, for someone as luscious as him, I'd been known to swing the other way and to have enjoyed it immensely. I'd certainly done that with Dan without a problem.

"OK, that's easy," he answered. "I was at home, in Leesburg. An evening with the family."

That was a surprise. "So, you weren't here at school?"

"No, I was at home."

He hadn't been prepped by his dad, and he didn't go for the safest of answers.

"With your family?"

"Yes. Well, with my dad. He's the only family I've got. Mom's dead. Cancer. A couple of years ago. We were watching TV. A world soccer game. Manchester United won. You can check out the schedule and score. The coverage didn't end until almost 1 a.m."

That sounded honest enough. So, I wondered now why Dabney had given an alibi to Blair—and why Peter had let him do so.

"Well, you know, with the case and all . . . Wallace and . . . you."

"That we were fucking?" Jason said. Then he snorted and laughed. "God, Dad just won't get it on that. Wallace didn't molest me. I went after him. He was an assistant coach here. He showered with the team. I mean, if you'd seen the dong on that dude. I couldn't get enough of it. My dad's living a fantasy. That rape case wasn't going anywhere. I wasn't going to lie and get a hung horse like that in trouble."

I was stunned. And I knew that Jason wanted me to be stunned. He stood there, waving his meat in my face. God, he was trying to make me.

"Of course there wasn't anything serious between us," Jason continued. "I like my meat dark, if you know what I mean."

Well, yes, I'd gotten a little inkling of that just now out in the shadows of the gymnasium.

Jason reached into his locker and took out a photograph and showed it to me. "Here's my lover, if you'd like to know. Almost as good at football as I am. But in all of this Wallace stuff, his family moved him to another school. If you want to know the truth about the other night, I was home because I had threatened to follow him down south that night, and my dad had taken my car keys so I couldn't leave the house and do that. Dad had caught the two of us together that evening at the house and there was a big fight, and my dad sent him away and made me stay and watch the game on TV with him."

I was sitting there, studying the photo he showed me.

"This young guy was at your house in Leesburg early in the evening the night of the murder?" I asked.

"Yeah, he had to drive all the way back to near Charlottesville, to his new school. I don't know what curfew they have; I sure hope he made it."

"Thanks," I said, standing and handing the photo back to him. And trying not to lean into him and let myself get lost into what he was showing and obviously offering. "I may have to come back and ask you a few more questions."

"Hey, do you really have to go so soon?" he asked. He was smiling and holding his engorged cock in one hand. "You're a real hunk, Detective. Sure you don't see anything you'd like? Wanna suck me? Or fuck me?"

"Umm, no thanks," I said, not really knowing what else to say in circumstances that were equally embarrassing and enticing. "I don't think anything like that would be wise. It certainly would make things more difficult for everyone in this case."

I could have bluffed it out, I suppose, tried to act indignant or get cop tough and tried to scare him. But I was wearing pretty tight trousers, and he'd been eyeing my crotch. He could tell how interested I was. I wasn't fooling anyone.

"Maybe later, then," he said. And that big smile. "Maybe after the case is over. I said I liked dark meat, but I didn't mean to suggest I was exclusive. You're even better looking than Wallace was, and it looks like you're packing almost as much as he did. Sort of sorry he's gone. That was one club of a cock he had."

Yes it was, indeed, was what I thought, but what I said, not having anything but a weak response was, "Yeah, maybe afterward. If we're both still here."

Once I'd gotten back to the car, I didn't start up right away. I had to think for a moment. I'd recognized the black kid in the photograph, the guy Jason said was his main fuck. That was Devin Huff, Jentel Boom Boom Huff's younger brother. And Jason had revealed that Devin was in Leesburg the evening of the murder. That was only about a fifteen-minute drive from the murder scene. I wondered whether there was any angle that placed Wallace and Devin together in such a way that would make Devin a murder suspect.

I guessed I had to add an interview stop to my report list. And I wasn't really comfortable with the circular motion this case was suddenly taking.



Death in Eden Ch. 06



Returning to Leesburg from the prep school in Syria shortly before 5 pm, I went to the county office building and to find Peter Blair in his police department office. I decided not to tell him that his "rape" victim in the Wallace case lacked just a tad bit of credibility as a victim of molestation—and probably wouldn't half try to lie about it on the stand. First, that case was just about as dead as Wallace was, and, more important, Jason Dabney's testimony to me erased Peter's own alibi for the time of the murder. I was still bothered that Peter had let Warren Dabney spin that lie for me, so I decided to keep whatever cards I could get close to my chest for a while.

After I'd checked in at the reception desk in the county office and before Peter sent down for me, I decided to check another thing that had bothered me one more time and, showing my credentials and the letter that assigned me to the Wallace case, asked to be admitted to the basement morgue again to take another look at Wallace's body.

Peter found me there in the morgue and gave me a funny look when he walked in. That I was standing next to the gurney with Wallace's body on it and putting my shirt back on probably had something to do with that. What had bothered me earlier hadn't been dispelled upon a second look.

"Don't worry, Peter," I said to his questioning look. "Wallace and I haven't been having the sex of the dead. I just wanted to recheck something."

Blair didn't pursue the point, and I didn't fill him in on anything either.

"Glad you're back," he said. "Just in time to stop for a drink and then to my place for dinner and a little—"

"No thanks, I'll pass for tonight, I'm afraid," I cut him off, knowing what he was going to suggest for later. "I'm bushed and it's a long drive back to Rosslyn."

"You know you can stay at my—"

"Thanks," I cut him off again. "But I need some separation while I process, and for the very reason you brought me down here, appearances require that we not be in bed together—in either the literal or literary sense. Not the least is because you're still a suspect."

"Still a suspect?" Peter blustered. "This afternoon, we—"

"Yes, well that was this afternoon, Peter. The Dabney kid tossed out your alibi. He said he was with his father on the evening of the murder and that you weren't. What's the truth of that, Peter?"

He stood there, dumbfounded. I'd surprised him with the question, which was exactly what I had intended to do. He didn't think fast enough on his feet. He just stood there, his jaw working, but no sound coming out.

"That's what I thought, Peter. The kid sounded like he was giving an honest answer. So, do you want to tell me why you let Dabney give you a false alibi here, sort of informal, or should we go back to your office for a more formal deposition?"

"Dabney calls the shots around here," Peter finally said. "He said he wanted to keep it all simple—and he didn't want to own up to his son being anywhere near this part of the state that evening. So, I just went with it. He calls the shots."

"Yes, I got that impression—about him calling the shots," I said. "You weren't such a pushover in New York, Peter. You had more balls there. But it's pretty cushy here in the rich Eden for Washington, D.C., isn't it? It's so easy to sell out down here, isn't it."

"Fuck you," Blair said with some heat, his fists balled up and his face getting a little red.

"Not tonight, thanks," I answered. "So, do you want to tell me where you were between 10 p.m. and midnight the night before last, Peter? I can't write a half-assed report, or the feds will be all over this case. You're the one who brought me down here to do this."

"I was home, alone, in bed. Where I am almost every night. That's been my late evening ever since you left me, Clint. Nice alibi, right?"

"It will have to do for now," I answered. "If you come up with anything that will strengthen that claim, I'm sure you'll tell me. In the meantime, I guess you know we'd better cool it and not be seen as too chummy—for your own good."

"Yeah, I guess so," Peter said. And the regret in his voice was palpable.

"That doesn't mean you can't visit me one of these evenings at the Marriott in Rosslyn, of course," I then said, softening up a bit. "Just to compare notes or something."

"Yes, I'd like that," Blair said in a quiet voice.

"But not tonight, OK?" I said. "I really do need to do some thinking and sleeping tonight. Whatever comes out of this investigation, I'll only have a couple of days to do what it is I've got to do."

And that was that for Peter and me for that evening.

* * * *

I was beat when I opened the door of my room at the Marriott. It was pitch black in there. When the room attendant had turned down the bed, she'd closed the curtains. That was a little irritating. I checked in here to get the panorama of the Mall from the Washington Monument to the Capitol building, which was as impressive at night as it was during the day, and, besides, it made me grope for the light switch. I had no idea which side of the door it was on.

It wasn't to the right. When I turned to run my hands on the wall to the left, I gasped as a fist of steel wrapped itself around my wrist. This was followed by a pull on my arm that turned me and slammed me down into an armed desk chair, taking me completely by surprise and knocking the wind out of me.

I had little time to react. My assailant was far stronger than I was. He also was stark naked, and soon I was as good as naked too. Holding me in a choke hold with one massive hand gripping my neck in a way that had me concentrating foremost in getting the next breath, he was ripping my shirt open and pulling my trousers off.

Letting go of the chokehold, he spread and lifted my thighs over the arms of the chair, and his mouth possessed my mouth in yet another breath-taking maneuver. He had thick, lubricated fingers at my ass while he gripped the hair at the back of my head with the other hand and arched me back on the chair back.

And then he was coming down onto the seat of the chair on his knees between my spread legs and was forcing a plump bulb of a thick cock at my hole—and thrusting inside me and spreading my channel walls wide and heading far up into me.

By the time his lips and teeth and gone down my neck and he was snuffling up into one of my pits and I felt him licking and nipping me hard there, I realized that I was being fucked by Jentel Huff, the starting fullback. After that I just relaxed and went with the fuck. When he got tired of taking me from the front, spread over the arms of the desk chair, he turned me, with my knees pushing into the back of the chair seat and him covering me from behind, my legs close together now, and his cock churning ever deeper inside my tightened hole. His fingernails were digging into the aureoles of my nipples and his face was buried in my other pit, biting and sucking me there in my tender underarm when I ejaculated and felt him jerk and fill the bulb of his condom as well.

Later, while he was side-splitting me languidly on the bed, taking his time now after his initial full-field assault, he started quizzing me on my day. He told me about his—a day of hard hitting and pattern running at the Redskins' practice field in the Virginia suburbs of Washington, D.C., and then he wanted an equally detailed description of my day.

I gave him a general gist of it, but I didn't tell him that Peter Blair had fucked me or that a prep school youth had wanted me to fuck him. I gave him enough detail to let him know I'd been busy, but I didn't tell him everything by any means. But there were other things I wanted to know myself.

"How'd you get in here, Jentel? And should I expect a reception like this every night?" I barely managed to get that out, though, because he was stroking me deep and strong now. "Oh, god, oh, god," I murmured with a gasp. "Oh, yes, there. Just like that. Oh, GOD!"

"I can get . . . uh, uh . . . that's soooo sweet . . . into just about anywhere I want. As long as I'm recognized. And it's hard not being recognized in this town. Oh, no you don't . . ."

I had rolled away from him, wanting to turn on the light on the nightstand, but he gathered me back in his strong arms and sent his cock deep up my channel.

"I just wanted to turn on the light," I said. "I want to see you stroking inside me. God, it's beautiful."

That had impressed him. He let me reach over and turn on the light and then he raised my leg so I could get a good view of his long, thick cock moving in and out of my hole.

"Oh, God, Oh GOD!" I cried out and shuddered. As I watched, he fisted my cock, and I spouted off for him within a matter of a few seconds.

We lay there, spent, and then I asked the zinger. "Didn't I see you in a Hummer leaving the Spring Hill Prep School grounds down in Syria this afternoon?"

I heard him suck in air and his grip on me tighten, from behind, his body stretched along my back. Then he relaxed, and I knew he had decided what he wanted to say.

"Yeah, I was there. My brother, Devin, recently transferred from there down to another school further south. I still had some financial business to clear up with them at Spring Hill. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no particular reason," I answered as nonchalantly as I could. "I just thought I saw you and wondered why."

At least he hadn't made up an elaborate lie, I thought. Awfully peculiar that coincidence of meeting up with him and winding up in bed with him when his younger brother had some connection to the case I'm working on. Just a little worrying.

Jentel let me take a shower then. Or at least he let me get into the shower and turn the water on. As I was soaping up, the shower curtain was being jerked aside and he had my belly to the slick, wet wall tiles and my feet off the ground, as he got his thighs between and under mine and was pushing my belly and chest up and down on the tiles with the strength of the plowing of his cock, while he got his face into one of my pits, raising my arm over my head, and attacked my tender flesh with his teeth. 



Death in Eden Ch. 07



The very first thing I did when I was able to struggle, bowlegged and fully satisfied, out of the bed in the morning was to thumb through the Wallace case folder until I found the number I wanted and called the Loudon County medical examiner. He gave me an appointment for 10:00 that morning and told me the procedure would take an hour or so. He assured me that the tests I’d suggested be taken on the body of Wallace could be completed by then and that everything would be expedited. Then, although I needed a shower badly, I struggled into my clothes and went looking for some breakfast before braving the morning commute on the George Washington Parkway, which would be brutal even though I’d be heading out of the city rather than into it. Jentel Huff had left me at first light after a night to remember of sexual calisthenics.

I’d checked the position of that Wallace case folder on the desk before I’d opened it, and, as I suspected would be the case, the files had been rearranged. Very interesting. Well, I’d be driving down to just outside Charlottesville that afternoon to interview Jentel’s brother, Devin, and then we’d see what there was to be seen.

After getting clear of the medical examiner’s office in the basement of the Loudon County office building, I went looking for Peter Blair in his police chief’s office on the third floor of the same building.

“Gettin’ in kinda late, aren’t you, Clint?” he said when I entered his office, cleared files off his guest chair, and plopped down with a sigh.

“Not really. I’ve been around and about out here since a couple of hours ago. Following up on a lead. Is the offer still open for a meal and a shower at your place?”

“The shower being . . . ?” He left the question hanging in the air, his expression quizzical, with a touch of nervousness and hopefulness at the edges.

“After a roll in the hay . . . yes, if that’s still what you want. but, actually, a shower, then lunch, then you can have your way with me, followed by another shower, if your water pressure can take it. And then I have to drive down to Charlottesville. So, I’ll need to be off by 2:00.”

“I’ll bet I can get you off by 12:30,” Peter said, a wide grin of relief stretched across his face. “Does this mean you’ve made some decisions on me as a suspect? You’d been pretty definite about staying our distance until that was resolved. And my alibi ain’t any better today than it was yesterday.”

“Yep, I think I’ve narrowed it down considerably, and you are fading fast as a suspect—although I still don’t know either why you threatened Wallace or permitted Dabney to cover you with that weak alibi. You must have known I would blow holes through that.”

“Loudon County isn’t anything like New York City, Clint,” Peter responded. “We have only a few big daddies down here, and, on the whole, they are bigger daddies than you’ll find in the overhead of the NYPD. This is a very cushy job I’ve landed in. When Dabney says jump, I jump. And when Dabney has gone over the moon because his precious kid has been fucked by a hoodlum stashed away in the country here, it isn’t Dabney who’s has to pay the hoodlum a visit—it’s me. I wouldn’t have killed him, of course, but I was doing everything else I could to bring him down.”

“And as for my fake alibi,” Blair continued. “That wasn’t really for me. That was more for Dabney’s son. Dad didn’t want there to be any hint that his son was anywhere near where Wallace was when he bought it. Dear little Jason just didn’t go along with the script. We needed someone to help us push this off to the side quick. With your history with Wallace, I guess I thought . . . well, I guess I thought wrong. I should have remembered how straight arrow you were.”

“Speaking of Jason Dabney,” I said. “Who reported that he’d been molested by Johnny Wallace?”

“He did that himself,” Blair answered. “He came straight to me. He was afraid, at first, to go to his father. He told me that Wallace had offered to bring him home from football practice at Spring Hill one afternoon and instead of bringing him home, had taken him to his farm and tied him up and fucked him in the barn where we found Wallace’s body.”

“Reported it himself.” It wasn’t so much a request to repeat the information as it was an effort to fully absorb what Blair was saying. “And did he say whether Wallace used a club on him? That was Wallace’s M.O.—using a billy club to work himself up.”

“No, no, he didn’t.”

“And you didn’t think that was strange?” I asked.

“No, not really. It was hard enough for the kid to tell anyone what had happened to him. I can see him leaving out the part of the billy club.”

“I suppose so,” I said—but more to put Peter at ease than because it satisfied me. The kid certainly hadn’t been shy about taking a billy club-sized dildo from his coach the previous day. “And speaking of clubs, want to put yours to a good use?”

“If you’re comfortable fraternizing with me now, of course.” Peter said. And the hopeful grin was back.

“Probably now more than a few minutes ago,” I answered.

We stopped at the fanciest KFC I’d ever seen and got chicken boxes to go for lunch and, when we’d come back to Peter’s townhouse, I showered while Peter got the table set on his back patio. Then I padded out in just a towel, and we barely had the chicken taken care of before Peter had me bent over the table and was fucking me doggy style for all he was worth—as if there had been too few yesterdays and scant prospects for tomorrow.

After we’d cleared away the lunch mess and both reloaded our cannons, Peter took me to bed and fucked me the way I’d grown to love from him. I was full stretched on my chest with only my pelvis raised by pillows, and Peter was fully covering my back with his stretched body, touching me in as many places as he could, his arms overlaying mine and his fingers entwined with mine; his heart beating against me under my shoulder blades; his lips in the hollow of my neck; his thighs encasing mine, and his hips swaying slightly, rhythmically, as he fucked me deep with his peace-conquering cock.

I would have liked to have gone to sleep like that following our mutual ejaculation. But I had things to do and a case to wrap up, so shortly after 2:00 p.m., I rolled Peter off to the side of me and headed for the shower one more time.

Right before I left, I told him that I was expecting a report to be delivered to him from the medical examiner’s office before the close of business and I wanted him to open and study it and be prepared to let me know what he thought—that if he wasn’t in his office when I came back through Leesburg from Devin’s prep school, I’d come by his house.

“No, I can’t spend the night. And I’m hoping that report will tell you why,” was the last thing I said to Peter before I left.

He stood at the door to see me off, looking both wistful and well fucked. I could tell that he was already thinking about the possibility of us returning to old times. And, at that moment, I had no idea what I thought about that. I was concentrating on the case; I always was like this when I sniffed the beginning of the home stretch.

* * * *

There were no surprises for me at Devin Huff’s prep school, the cushy Fork Union Academy, far enough out of Charlottesville so the young men would have to work hard to get into trouble, but close enough into the lush territory that could be considered Eden in the northern-to-central Virginia corridor to feel at home among the highly privileged. Like Spring Hill, Fork Union specialized in bringing the grades of promising athletes up to justify entry into the richer collegiate environments along the Atlantic Coast.

Devin was sent out to me at a bench on the oak-shaded lawn that spread in front of the antebellum administration building. He was a hulking, but strapping black hunk of a young man. His musculature bore out his reputed football prowess, and his shyness and politeness reflected his close family upbringing and the benefit of good, expensive schools. I remembered the pride with which the Redskins’ star player, Jentel Huff, had talked about his younger brother back on the plane as I was flying into Washington. And the Devin Huff who presented to me was just as I expected him to be.

I was sorry I had to do what I had to do now. But life isn’t fair.

“You know why I’m here, don’t you, Devin?” I asked gently after we’d gotten through the preliminary introductions. I quite purposely didn’t tell him that the big brother he worshipped had been fucking me earlier that morning.

“Yeah, it’s about what happened to Mr. Wallace the other day. I figured it wouldn’t be long until you were down here to talk to me.”

“Oh, and why is that Devin?”

“’Cause I knew you’d find out that I was nearby, at Jason’s house that night.”

“That’s right,” I said. And I breathed a sigh of relief. I could sense the honesty in the boy. Fear, yes, and confusion—and a large dollop of unearned self-loathing. I could see that too. But, although I’d have to draw some things out of him, I knew it wouldn’t be because he would lie to me about them.

“I need to talk to you about what happened before that, Devin,” I continued. “I know it’s painful, but it needs to get out. It’s important. And that part isn’t your fault. I know that too.”

Devin was looking down at the ground. He couldn’t look at me now. And I saw his shoulders waver, and I could feel the sob that wanted to escape his body but that he was too scared and proud to let free.

“You only transferred down to Fork Union a couple of weeks ago. Isn’t that right, Devin?”

A pause and then an almost whispered. “Yes, that’s right.”

“And who was it who got you transferred down here?”

Another pause. “My big brother. He plays for the Redskins. Jentel Huff. He’s helping to train me. I want to follow him into the pros. He’s always helped me. He’s good to me.”

“And I’m sure he wants to protect you too, doesn’t he, Devin?”

A quiet “Yes. Always.”

“It was Spring Hill where your transferred from, wasn’t it, Devin?”

“Yes.”

“And Mr. Wallace coached you there, didn’t he?”

“Yes. Well, he helped. Mr. Dobbs, he’s the coach there. And he was always good to me too. He and Jentel had played ball together. Mr. Dobbs was like a brother to me too.”

“And it was you who Mr. Wallace molested, wasn’t it? Not Jason Dabney.”

Silence. Devin’s head was down, and he was quaking a bit.

“I’m sorry, Devin. But this has to come out. I’m sure you know that. I’ll bet you understand that you’ll feel a whole lot better when it comes out. I’ll need a few details, just to be sure. But I’ll keep it out of the public as much as I can—if you are open and honest with me now. Jason’s taking all of the heat for this, Devin. That’s not really right, is it?”

“No. I didn’t want him to, but he said that would be better. He’s done it before; he said it wouldn’t mean as much if he said it was him.”

“Was this incident at school or somewhere else, Devin?”

“At his place. In his barn. He said he’d take me into town to get some things I needed at the drug store. But, instead, he took me to his place . . . and he wouldn’t let me leave. I tried, but he tied me up . . . and he . . .” Devin couldn’t go on.

“Did he just do it then, Devin? Or was there something he did first? I wouldn’t ask, if it wasn’t important. Just this and we don’t have to go into details.”

“He . . . he had this black club . . . and he . . .”

“That’s enough, Devin,” I said. “That’s all I need to know . . . except . . . had you been with a man before . . . with Jason, maybe?”

“No . . . never . . . I mean Jason kept talking about it and wanting me to get it on with him . . . but I hadn’t done it with him yet . . . until, until . . .”

“The night Wallace was killed? At Jason’s house. And Jason’s dad found you two together.”

“Yes. But even then we were only beginning to . . . when Jason’s dad came home, and I had to leave. But then later, when Jason came up with his plan, he wanted me to fuck him so bad . . . and so I did him the next day—and I liked it. And now I’m so confused by it all. But that wasn’t anything like what Mr. Wallace did to me . . . that hurt so bad.”

“That’s OK, Devin. We’re almost done, and we’re over the worst part. And then when you left Jason’s house that night, you . . . ?” I needed him to say this.

“I drove straight back to school—here at Fork Union.”

“Straight down here?”

“Yes.”

“But nobody can vouch for that?”

“No, nobody. I wasn’t expected back and I didn’t get back until after lights out. I just let myself in and went straight to bed. So, no one can vouch for me.” Devin sounded defeated.

“You didn’t go to Mr. Wallace’s farm and murder him?”

“No. No, of course not.” Devin’s head had shot up and he gave me and angry, belligerent stare. “I wanted to kill him. Yes, of course. But if I was going to kill him, I’d have done it right after . . . right after . . . what he did to me. Not weeks later.”

“OK, last question, Devin. You’re doing great. Just one more question. Who besides Jason did you tell about what Mr. Wallace did to you? Anybody?”

“Well, yes . . . after a few days trying to hold it in, both my brother and coach. Mr. Dobbs, got it out of me; he could see I wasn’t actin’ right. But they both said they’d keep it quiet. That they’d get me transferred to a prep school just as good with the football as Spring Hill and they’d see that something was done about Mr. Wallace so that there would be no scandal.”

“And has either one of them said anything to you about your being involved in Wallace’s death since he was murdered?”

“No. No. I’ve talked with both of them. And Mr. Dobbs would like to get me back to Spring Hill. But, we haven’t discussed the murder.”

I stood up. “Thanks for being straight with me, Devin. There’s not much I can say about what Mr. Wallace did to you—except sympathize and try to let you know that you’re not the only one—you’re not alone in that. And he won’t ever do that to anyone else again. But I guess I don’t have to tell you that I need you to stay in the state and available for the remainder of this investigation.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” he whispered and his head went back down, his drooping shoulders screaming his shame and fear.

“I’ll have to tell my brother about this—and I’m sure he’ll tell Coach Dobbs,” Devin said as I was gathering up my briefcase and preparing to leave. “I don’t keep any secrets from my brother.”

“I understand that; I’m counting on that, actually. He’ll be able to get a really good lawyer, I’m sure.”




Death in Eden Ch. 08



Conclusion

I was exhausted that night. There was nothing I wanted to do more than sleep, but I lay there, naked, in the bed in my hotel room, my adrenaline flowing and my mind working lickety-split. At nearly 3:00 in the morning, in the darkest and most silent hour of the Washington, D.C., night, I heard the click of the hotel room door lock in answer to a master card.

He was quiet, moving so cat-like for a man of his bulk. I tensed as soon as he entered the room, but I forced myself to relax, even to snore quietly. He needed to know that I was asleep, vulnerable, open to him. He stripped by my bed, right where his magnificent cock would be at my eye level, if I wasn't turned away from him, not wanting him to know my eyes were open. I heard the sound of the ripped tin foil, as he worked with the condom. And, more ominously, I heard him struggle to pull on the latex gloves. That was the point at which I knew I was right—that I had solved the Wallace murder case. That I could go back to New York on the morrow—if there was to be a new day for me. This was highly risky.

He came down on the bed behind me and covered my body close from behind. He was kissing me on the back of my neck and he laced his strong arms below me and over me and took both of my hands in his and entwined our fingers. The material of the gloves was so thin that I would never have known he was wearing them if I hadn't suspected—and hadn't been awake and waiting for him.

He roused me sexually, as he had always done before. He knew how to work me, and I acted as if I was coming slowly awake. That I was glad that he was there and was open to him and would, as always before, open to him and receive his masterful fucking.

I felt the wetness at my channel opening, where he was fingering me and working lube into my crack. The knob of his cock found purchase in my hole, and his hand came around me again, and his fingers interlaced with mine.

He was so much stronger than I was. There was no question that I was under his control, his strong arms wrapped around my torso and his hands possessing mine. And his cock started its stretching journey up toward the center of me as he started to side split me.

I sighed in acceptance and in recognition of how much I enjoyed him. If he discerned in any way that the sigh was primarily a sigh of regret that this was our last fuck—one way or the other—his body did not betray him.

"Did Wallace take you willingly for the initial fuck, or did you force him from the very beginning the night you murdered him?" I had just murmured it—the first indication I had given him that I was fully awake. And I could feel his body tense up and his shudder went through both of us. We were so united as one, his arms encasing me and his cock deep inside me, that I could feel every change in him. His arm hold on me became steel like. I was completely at his mercy physically.

"What? What did you ask me?" he muttered. He'd heard me clearly. I could tell by the shocked reaction of his body that he had. But his mind wasn't as quick as his body. That was a quirk of his profession. The body reacted out of trained habit first; the mind was slower when there were complex factors—or wishful thinking—to slow it down.

"Did you plan to murder Wallace all along and build up to it, or was it a sudden, unplanned outburst of anger? It will make a difference at the trial, you know."

"What trial?" he muttered. And then there was a low laugh. He obviously didn't know that I knew that he was wearing gloves—and knew what that signified—knew what he meant to do from the moment he'd entered my hotel room.

"You know I could snap your neck right here and now and be done with it?"

"Yes, if I was the only one who knew," I whispered back to him. That would set him back a bit, I thought—no, I more hoped than thought. All the precautions in the world couldn't keep him from killing me now if that's what he took a notion to do.

"OK, I'll play," he said. "But only because you are such a good fuck. I'd been doing him for a week before, so he didn't know that it was coming. He was one sick bastard; he needed to be put down."

"You can escape the worst, Jentel," I said. "What he did to Devin—there will be extenuating circumstances. You could just turn yourself in now."

"Or I could do some cleanup and take my chances," the star Redskins' player said. "Why'd you have to go down to Fork Union and weasel it all out of Devin? Why couldn't you have just let it be? Dabney brought you here to paint it over. Wallace was scum. Why couldn't you just let it be? He deserved what he got. The Dabney kind was willing to substitute and is brazen about what he is. Nothing good could come out of Devin being brought into this. He doesn't have the backing that the Dabney kid has. This would have ruined his chances for a life."

"And do Devin and the Dabney kid deserve to have this hanging over them forever?" I asked. "They would always know even if most everyone else could be kept in the dark." I had to admit that I'd struggled with this same question myself. I knew why Dabney and Blair had latched on to me to bring into the investigation. No one had more reason to believe that Wallace got what he deserved than I did. But Jentel had taken this into his own hands. And no one deserved to die that way—even if their own bread and butter had dictated that that was what they themselves did to people.

But I had more questions to ask before this was finished—one way or the other.

"It wasn't chance that we met on the flight from New York, was it, Jentel? You were playing me from the beginning, weren't you?"

"Yep," Jentel said. And then he laughed again. "I told you a star Redskins' player can get pretty much what he wants in this part of the country. I knew you'd been sent for—and why—almost before you did. Some new buddies in the Loudon police department were eager to tell me whatever I wanted to know. I flew up to New York just so that I could get hooked up with you. I needed to keep track of what you knew and what you planned to do about it. It was all cool until you went down and talked to Devin today. He told me everything. I knew, even if Devin didn't, that you had all you needed to figure it out. That monster fucked my Devin. I couldn't let him get away with that."

"And so, wouldn't it be a good idea if you just turned yourself in and made the best of it?" I asked. Jentel was gripping me so hard that I was beginning to have trouble breathing. He had brought up one of his strong hand and had the heel of it lodged under my jaw bone. I knew that one powerful thrust of that, and he could snap my neck.

"I don't think so, Clint," he whispered. And there was resolve behind the tone of his voice. I knew he was trying to work up to finishing with me. His cock was still moving inside me, though, and I hoped that this was conflicting his actions—that he at least wanted to reach a climax before he broke my neck.

"I was very careful," he was saying. "Just like I'm being careful now. I'll make sure there is no connection between you and me for them to find. Just like I was careful with Wallace."

"Not careful enough, Jentel," I said. I needed to inject doubt into this. And I could tell I had. The pressure of the heel of his hand had lessened.

"You didn't take your fetish into account," I whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"You know, how you like to play in a man's pits—how you like to drink in the scent of a man there and nibble and bite and bruise."

He was quiet now, and he had loosened his grip on me enough for me to breathe a little easier.

"Medical forensics are really great now, Jentel. I noticed the same bruising in Wallace's pits that you've been causing in my pits in our fuck sessions—you know, the bite marks. And not just the bite marks. The saliva left as well. You should have more carefully cleaned Wallace's body—and made me thoroughly shower after we had sex, Jentel. And even then, though, there were the teeth marks. Maybe most of all, you should have not given in to your fetish when you planned to kill one of your fuck partners. We have lab results on both the marks on Wallace and on me, Jentel. You're the one who is fucked."

Jentel didn't have a chance to tell me what he thought about that, because I said that last bit loud enough for those hidden in the various spots of my hotel room to hear. The lights went on and Jentel went limp.

Afterward Warren Dabney told me how much he didn't appreciate me having set up the bust as I did—that he didn't really like the thought of the media circus that would descend on his precious little Eden of Loudon County to replay the juicy bits of this trial—juicy bits that would include his own son unless he could do a fancy two-step to keep that out of the press. Which undoubtedly he could.

Throughout Dabney's diatribe, Peter Blair stood silent, sucking up to Dabney when push came to shove. Well, fuck 'em, I was thinking as Dabney was foaming at the mouth and the police officers were hauling a suddenly defeated Jentel Huff away in handcuffs—and a hotel robe. Fuck 'em both. I'd half thought of doing what Peter told me he wanted. Taking a cushy job down here in Eden and returning to his home and bed every night. Giving up my risky promiscuous ways. But I couldn't live this way—under the thumb of someone like Dabney—no matter how much they paid me. And a couple of fuck visits a year was going to have to do with Peter. If he wanted me more full time than that, he jolly well could come back to New York.

* * * *

It might have been Dabney's attitude or it might have been that I'd kept Jason Dabney's invitation to return to him in the back of my mind all along—because he reminded me so much of Dan. But on the afternoon of the day after the case was broken, I was making my last rental car trip down into the rolling hills countryside of Virginia's Eden.

I had called ahead, so both Jason and his dark-skinned football coach, the very solicitous Mr. Dobbs, were ready for me.

They took me into the gym where the wrestlers practiced and locked the doors behind us. Then, as Jason lay back on a weight bench and spread his legs so I could easily get my tongue to his hole, the coach had his lips to mine. And when I insinuated my pelvis in close between Jason's thighs and buried myself inside him and started to pump him hard, the coach was behind me and doing the same thing to me, his arms wrapped around me and his strong fingers working my nipples. A very satisfying sandwich lunch before I boarded my plane to return to New York after a relatively quick and satisfying case closing.