The Report
by
D. V. Zomba
Copyright 2003
Contents
I. Prologue 3 II. The Situation 10 III. The Problem 22 IV. Alternatives 36 V. Solutions 55 I. Prologue
My name is David Pierce. I have been educated as a reporter and, more particularly, trained as an investigative reporter. It is important for me to establish the known facts and possibilities in what ever I undertake.
I was born, raised and educated in the midwest some thirty-six years ago. Yet for all my mid-America heritage, I tend to be more liberal than most. After obtaining my Bachelor's Degree, I went east for my Master's and returned to the upper midwest for my career. It is not that I dislike the eastern seaboard, I am simply more comfortable in less congested areas.
I have worked for the past ten years for an independent, respected newspaper. It doesn't pay what the larger chains offer. However, it is not a huge sacrifice! They do give me a hell of a lot more latitude in my reporting and writing than any chain would allow. So I am content with my professional life for the moment.
I was married ten years ago and divorced after three years. Neither of us were at fault and then again, we both were. Since then, I have dated infrequently, worked hard, and when I have the time, I have played hard. Vacations have, regardless, been few and far between.
Physically, I am a fit six-foot-two, one-hundred-ninety pounds, brown hair and eyes. My face is one that would qualify me neither for a matinee idol nor a Cagney-like character role--I have been characterised as "nice looking" (whatever that means?). I work out in the gym twice times a week and swim laps once a week. I do this not because I am a physical fitness buff, but because I find that it keeps my mental faculties more focused.
As a writer I use words. That translates into my better than average ability to speak fluently. I am never at a loss for words and enjoy animated repartee!
I am confident in my abilities and tend to be outgoing without being assertive. Finally, without sounding immodest, I feel that my mental prowess plus my personality are my most positive assets.
I had become interested in zoning--a topic. I suppose, which many would find boring. However, there has appeared over the past few years subtle deviations to flagrant disregard to zoning ordinances within the metropolitan area. A cursory investigation indicated that the major offenders were local corporations with large amounts of money backing them and also corporations which held enormous influence. I wasn't really surprised, but I was interested in how they circumvented the law.
I wasn't surprised when Bill, my editor, handed me an invitation to a swanky, social gathering of the local rich and famous in the guise of raising money for charity. The venue was the State Fairground's Hippodrome, to be held in three days--early August.
"Strange," I thought. "Wonder if there's going to be a horse show?" I asked my editor.
"Don't know! Some of those bigwigs belong to the horsey set," he replied.
"Just money's to be there?"
"No, the arts and sports world will be represented too."
"What a strange mixture!"
"Yeah, but it might be fertile hunting for you." he replied and walked off. Half way across the office he shouted over his shoulder with sarcasm, "Do you have a decent suit?"
"Just my birthday suit!" I shot back!
"Hah!" he yelled as he closed the door to his office behind him.
I went to my computer and pulled up all the paper had on this gala event as well as the sponsors and organisers. "I will indeed be a fertile evening ," I mused as a number of corporations and people in which I was interested appeared on my screen.
That Saturday I wore grey trousers, a light weight blue blazer, and a white, fake silk turtleneck. I looked presentably casual since the invitation did not specify dress. I arrived at eight o'clock, parked my Taurus midst the Cadillacs, Lincolns, BMWs and Mercedes and walked into the cavernous Hippodrome. The arena was covered with damp gravel and numerous, brightly colored tents dotted the vast area. Already there were a number of well heeled patrons walking about, talking and sipping their drinks, mostly champagne, I noticed. I walked up to one of the open bars and asked for a scotch and water.
"David!" came the lilting voice behind me.
I turned to the startling blond, carefully made-up, perfectly dressed Georgia Reynolds, Something, Something, Averton. Georgia married well! Each of her three husbands were increasingly more wealthy and prominent. Finally, she landed--probably bedded, if she kept true to form--the wealthy and portly Allister Averton, scion of one of the city's most prominent family. Actually I had met Georgia when she only sported her maiden name and first husbands moniker. That was twelve years ago when she attended Gosthard College's homecoming. I was a senior. We had one thing in common--she, too, graduated from Gosthard. We had another thing in common as well--we made love that night in my dorm room after we lost the game 34-0 to our arch rival, St. Simons! As a senior I was bowled over by her assertiveness both in and out of the bed. Her sexual expertise was phenomenal, especially for a wet-behind-the-ears senior. I didn't know that she was married either. Probably
wouldn't have made any difference. But, then I found out later that while a student, she had bedded nearly all the football and basketball team members while at Gosthard. It must have been her role in life! She might have been labeled a nymphomaniac back in my parent's day!
"How are you, David," she gushed as she held out her hand, palm downwards. "It's been ages!"
"Georgia, you look radiant, as usual," I lied as I took her hand. Actually, she looked good, considering the wear and tear. She wore a spectacular teal blue dress that exhibited her still considerable qualities. I couldn't help miss the gigantic, glittering diamond she wore around her neck attached to a simple, but elegant platinum chain--a trophy of her ability, no doubt.
"You are such a sweetheart," she purred as she grasped my biceps and gave it a knowing squeeze. "What have you been doing with yourself?" she queried, arching an eyebrow as only she could do.
"Ah! I've been working. And you?"
"I've been so busy!"
"I bet you have," I thought.
"This gala has taken up so much of my time."
"Well, Georgia, it looks like you have . . . made a success . . . of your time," I smiled.
She returned the smile, glanced over my shoulder and spied another friend or prey. "You must call me," she stated ingenuously as we parted company and she flitted off.
I really hate these type of gatherings. Everyone is too outré, artificial, a grand masque! Silly, but, while in Rome . . . ! I recognized a number of people--some of the more prominent members of the local professional football, baseball and basketball teams, a few politicians and three or four bigwigs who were of interest in my investigation. I avoided the two former for the latter. None recognized me! I assumed my byline had not impinged into any of their collective interests! That made it easier.
It was about ten o'clock when I heard the first clap of thunder. It had been interminably hot! The rains should cool things off a bit on this hot August evening. Then there was a blinding flash as a lightening bolt hit near the Hippodrome, an immediate, deafening crash of thunder and the lights went out! Everything was plunged into darkness amid a few hysterical screams and widespread murmurings. Apparently the Hippodrome did not have emergency lighting or the nearness of the strike disabled that as well.
Some one with a portable loudspeaker exhorted everyone to remain calm, stating, "Ladies and Gentlemen, Please, remain calm. If you wish proceed to the arena entrance."
The massive doors of the arena entrance had remained open throughout the night, thankfully, and the crowd began to stream towards its opening. There was a little jostling in the darkness of the interior, many apologies and a few curses. However, the intermittent flashes from the lightening offered just enough occasional light to make our going a bit easier.
As I neared the border of the arena floor the press of people slowed down my exit. Suddenly, someone bumped into me from behind. There was no apology. I thought nothing of it until the bump was followed up by a hand cupping my right bun and squeezing! My first instinct was to brush the hand away.
"Maybe it is Georgia?" I thought.
Almost immediately, my hips were firmly grasped by two hands and I felt a body press up against my ass and back. Now, I must admit, I am no prude. I've had my share of sexual experiences. But none in a crowded, albeit, darkened arena. The sensation, the locale and the circumstances were arousing, to say the least. Still clutched by these hands, I felt my assailant's body began to rub back and forth. It was then that I became aware of a bulge, not indicative of Georgia or any other woman, coursing back and forth over my buns. I reached back and my hand came into contact with a bare, erect cock--not within the confines of either trousers or underwear. My surprise was not of a minor variety.
"What the . . ." I began to utter when a hand was quickly clamped over my mouth and the other hand moved from my hips to my crotch. I had already started to become hard! This didn't help matters!
"Shhhh!" was whispered in my ear, followed by, "Relax!" which was uttered in a deep baritone voice.
My assailant, from what I could tell in this situation, was taller by a couple of inches, his arms were muscular and he was considerably stronger than me. Although, I'm not without certain physical prowess. I was manoeuvred to the side of the exit tunnel and forward. Still the hand on my crotch, fondling my burgeoning cock. The aggressor's cock was firmly planted between my buns. We bumped past a door and I was immediately drawn back. The hand loosed my mouth and I heard the door being opened, we stumbled in and the door was closed. I don't know where we were but it was pitch black! The only sounds came from without--shuffling, murmuring and the crack of thunder.
I wrenched free, spun around and demanded, "What the fuck is going . . . ?"
I was unable to finish when I was enfolded in this guy's arms and he kissed me--long, probing and deep! One hand reached down to my burgeoning tool! Now, I have always been a sucker for a hot, passionate kiss and this one sure fit the bill! Any resistance I might have had dissolved under the onslaught of his hot, probing tongue. His hand left my ass and moved up under my blazer and turtleneck and over my bare skin.
"Mmmm," I moaned uncontrollably.
I was getting breathless from the kiss and broke away. "Who are you?" I asked.
Again he kissed me stopping any further questions. It was even more passionate than before! His hand moved from my back, deftly unbuckled my belt, unzipped my fly and quickly reached into my briefs and clutched my now hard cock! The heat of his hands on my throbbing dick was unbelievable. I was being forced to the brink of no control!
"Mmmm," resonated deep in my throat! I reached for his cock, too! It was substantial and a cursory manual investigation revealed that it was uncut and with an opulent, mushroom head. With some difficulty, I undid his pants and they slid over his thighs. His cock sprang from the opening in his boxers. Easily my hand slipped in and moved to his balls which, surprisingly for the state of his erection, were pendulous, weighty and significant in size! Big hangers!
"Umh," escaped from my unknown seducer's mouth as he broke the kiss. His tongue traced a path over my cheek and then probed my ear! Moving from that sensitive place it moved down to that most sensitive spot on my neck!
"Sssssss," as I quickly inhaled over my teeth. My body torqued in response to his sizzling tongue.
He loosed my cock, moved his other hand from my back, grasped my open trousers together with my briefs, and yanked them down to mid thigh. He then quickly squatted and sucked my cock into his mouth. All of it! At once!
"My . . . gawd!" I breathed as he began the most incredibly suctioned mouth fuck I have ever had. I stood there in the utter darkness, transfixed while this incubus ministered to my quaking cock! My whole body began to tremble!
Now, as you may have guessed, I am not averse to same sex contact. My experience in this area is not vast, but certainly not minute, either. On the other hand, my experience with the opposite sex is considerably more varied in both quantity and quality.
My first real contact with another guy came when I was a junior in high school. The guy was a couple of years older. I was a bit surprised when the contact was initiated, but, I must admit, I generally enjoyed the experience--especially when he sucked me. Sucking him, at the time was . . . "OK," I thought. He wanted to fuck me, but I refused. I also refused to fuck him. One step at a time, I guess.
In my family, sex was handled naturally, not flaunted, not hush-hush and never in a prurient manner. It was neither elevated nor denigrated. Therefore, personally, I have never really questioned the fact that I do have and enjoy sexual relations with either male or female. For me it simply is not an issue.
However, I believe my first reaction tonight was to the complete unexpectedness of the contact coupled with the initial aggressive assault. It was almost a rape--except for my compliance after the initial onslaught. My assailant was working my pulsating cock like a master!
"Ahhhh!" I gasped when he went all the way down on it, burying his nose in my cock hairs. Simultaneously, he was gripping my ass and using it to afford himself greater penetration. I was floating in a miasma of sensual delight.
Deciding it was my turn to take the initiative, I reached down, grasped his head and backed my hard tool out of his mouth, lifting him to a standing position at the same time. I reached for his still stiff cock and manipulated it a bit. Then I slipped his boxers down, squatted, grasped his thick cock and licked the exposed head!
"Oh, man!" rumbled from deep in his throat.
I pulled the foreskin back over the smooth head, inserted my tongue and circled his pulsing knob under that satiny hood.
"Ahhh," he murmured, deeply.
I opened my mouth a bit and slid the considerable length into my hot moist suck tunnel. His size was the absolute limit my throat could accommodate without gagging. I began to pump his cock. At the same time, my hands coursed over his muscular thighs, round to his rock hard ass and back to his lower belly--exploring every sensual contour.
The double assault of my mouth and hands caused a trembling throughout his whole body. My left hand detected a small nub over his right hipbone--to the left of his navel. "It must be a mole," I thought. I moved off his cock and circled this small protuberance with my tongue--testing its size and shape.
"Jeeze!" he muttered.
I went back to serve his significant cock and slid my hand between his thighs, probing upward into that warm cleft. He tried to spread his thighs, allowing my easier access, but was impeded by his trousers now bunched around his ankles. The movement was enough! My finger made contact with his tight hole and as it did he moaned and his sphincter spasmed. I anointed my finger, slid it into that warm, tightly guarded interior and began to finger fuck his hole while I simultaneously mouth-fucked his cock!
"Ahhhh! . . . Jeeze . . . man!" issued from his mouth in disjointed syllables.
I continued my slow and easy sensual task, enjoying, savoring every second of contact! His moans increased and his trembling became spasmodic twitching. Suddenly he stepped back, lifted me up by my arms, deposited a dollop of saliva into his hand and smeared it over my upstanding cock. Then I heard him as he spit another dollop into his hand and was aware that he had smeared it over his hole.
Then with his lips close to my ear he demanded in no uncertain terms, "Fuck me!"
He turned around, braced himself, and, like a blind man I grasped my cock and found my way to the entrance of his spit-lubricated, fuck-tunnel. I applied some pressure and my opulent head popped in. He gasped. I held still till he got used to my substantial intrusion and then slid farther in.
"Oh! Gawd!" he grunted.
I grasped his firm, muscular hips and slowly began to rhythmically fuck him. Again and again my lower belly slapped against his solid, sturdy ass-cheeks as I thrust inward. With each push he moaned with pleasure. Soon my movement quickened and grew in intensity as I plunged deep and deeper still.
"Oh! Man!" he uttered as he began to thrust his ass backwards to meet my inward lunges.
Quickly, my actions catapulted me to the point of elemental release.
"I'm going . . . to . . . cum!" I gasped.
"Do it!" was his gruff reply.
With one monumental lunge, I buried my cock deep in his ass and exploded! My whole being quaked.
"Gaaawd!" I muttered, desperately trying to control the volume of my voice in this space. I flooded his gut with my viscous fluid. Half a minute later, I withdrew. Without wiping my dripping cock, I pulled up my briefs and reached down for my trousers. I could hear him doing the same. As I was fastening my trousers, he fumbled for my face, grasped it and kissed me.
"Thanks man," he muttered, "That was great!" And he quickly and quietly let himself out, closing the door behind him.
Brief seconds later, I followed. By now there was but a trickle of humanity making their way out of the dark interior of the Hippodrome and into the rainy night. Vainly I scanned the crowd hoping to pick out my tall, muscular incubus. It was fruitless. Still I continued to look. There seemed to be a number of men who might fit the bill. It was an impossible task I concluded and ran to my car.
I sat in my car. Quietly I tried to pull together the facts of the past few minutes.
My fugitive lover was at least two inches taller than me. That made him approximately six-foot-four. By what I could tell in the dark, he was at least ten to fifteen pounds heavier than me--around two-hundred-fifteen pounds. He was muscular and in great shape--there wasn't any loose flab that I could detect in that short period of time. He was relatively smooth--little bodily hair and his head was shaved. My fugitive admirer had a deep, resonant, baritone voice and could be both assertive and gentle. He had an uncut cock, opulent, pendulous balls and his pubes were shaved smooth. This man was not a neophyte in man-to-man sex--he gave stupendous head and obviously enjoyed being fucked.
As I categorized these particulars, I was amused at how deftly I had been spirited away from the crowd, manoeuvred to that small room and brought me to that swift but awesome orgasm--all in the space of about five minutes. I had heard of 'quickies' but not until this night had I ever participated in one. I simply wasn't my style. Yet, I must admit that this engagement had aroused me.
Who was he? Had I ever met him before? I have met many people in my line of work, but none stood out with his characteristics. I searched carefully my many professional contacts, but to no avail. How and/or why did he pick me out? If I had not been ultimately acquiescent, it could have been a problem for him! But then, he could have simply disengaged, melted into the melee that surrounded us with little effort and not suffered public exposure. Was he a stalker? I am not a public figure, so the likelihood of this possibility is remote. II. The Situation
I went to work early. I had not been able to sleep to well. The conundrum of last night's encounter was uppermost in my mind. I sat at my computer and entered some pertinent information I had gleaned from my conversations with the various contacts last night. From time to time 'Mr. X' (the identifier I had applied to him) flitted across my brain, breaking my concentration.
Bill came up to my desk. "Were you there for all the fun last night?"
"What do you mean?" I was a bit taken back by his question, considering my state of mind.
"Do you ever read the paper?" he queried sarcastically.
"Only when I take a shit!" I threw back!
"Well, no shit now!" he said and slapped the early edition on my desk, "Better read this!"
In the lower left hand corner of the front page was the bold faced headline, 'SOCIALITE ROBBED AT GALA.' I quickly scanned the article and found that, 'Georgia Reynolds Averton. wife of Allister Averton, was robbed of a valuable diamond necklace.'
"Well, I'll be damned!" I said. "Talked to her briefly early in the evening and saw that rock!"
"I don't suppose you took it?" came the acerbic reply.
"Not my style . . . Not interested in family jewels." I retorted.
"Yeah? That's not what I heard!" Bill loved to bait his staff. One of his more endearing attributes. Yet the comment hit too close to home.
"Haven't you learned yet not to believe everything you hear?"
I finished reading the brief article.
"When did it happen?" I asked.
"Apparently after the lights were knocked out." he informed me. "Were you there then?"
"Yeah."
"Well did you see or hear anything?"
"No! Things were a bit confused . . . plunged into complete darkness."
"You're a reporter! Not supposed to be in the dark! Where was your head? Up your ass?" he spat, none too happy. Again, a comment that held some truth! If he only knew I had my 'head'--that is, cock-head--up somebody's ass!
He stalked away. "Better do a followup," he shot over his shoulder, as was his style.
"Yes, master!"
"Shit!" he muttered as he closed his office door behind him.
Quickly, I accessed my 'Contact File' and found Georgia's number. I dialed the phone number of her residence.
"Averton residence," a impersonal male voice answered.
"Is Ms. Georgia Averton in?"
"I'm sorry, Sir, Mrs. Averton is not available." Again a noncommittal reply!
"Well, will you tell her that David Pierce called?"
"Very good, Sir," and the connection was severed.
Several minutes later, my phone rang. "David Pierce, here," I answered.
"David?" came the well modulated reply, "This is Georgia."
"Hello, Georgia. Thanks for returning my call."
"Did you hear what happened, David?" Georgia Reynolds, Something, Something, Averton always punctuated her conversations with the name of the person to whom she was speaking. It tended to establish an instant rapport! Made the recipient feel that he was the only other person in the world. It was an old ploy, but one that Georgia, apparently, used to advantage!
"Yes, Georgia." Two can play that game! I added, "I'm sorry. You must be quite upset."
"It's terrible, David. It was a special gift from Allister. I'm devastated!"
'Special gift?' Hell! That rock must have set him back a couple of mill, at the very least! "Good girl, Georgia! What did you have to do for that? Sit on the old man's face!"
"Georgia, I know you're distraught!" I stated in my most understanding manner. "But, would you have any free time soon? I'd like to ask you a few questions about last night."
"Of course, David, I always have time for you," she cooed and paused. "Would lunch be OK? Say . . . 1:00 . . . the Rose Room?"
I was a bit taken back. She couldn't be too 'devastated!' Lunch! Today! The girl really rebounds fast from such a devastating loss.
"That would be fine, Georgia. The Rose Room, 1:00."
"'Til then, David," and again the connection was severed.
Met Georgia for lunch. She wore a elegantly tailored suit and was beautiful in her sorrow!
Among the questions, I asked, "Do you remember when the necklace was taken?"
"Well, David, not precisely . . . it must have happened after the lights went out."
"Were you alone then, Georgia?"
"No. I was chatting with some of the basketball and football team members."
"Then the lights went out."
"Yes."
"Then what happened?"
"Then someone took my arm and said, 'Let me help you out.'"
"Do you know who it was?"
"Yes, It was Todd Birmingham . . . the center."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, David, absolutely . . . He took me to my car."
"And, Georgia, when did you realize the necklace was missing?"
"When I was waiting for Allister . . . in the car."
I questioned her for about a half hour.
Georgia had decided in the afternoon to wear the necklace. Her chauffeur took her to the bank so that she could retrieve it from the vault. She worn the diamond and platinum necklace to the gala. I had seen it. She had stated that several people had commented on the rock during the night--the last one was just a few minutes before the fateful lightening strike. She was talking to a group of professional athletes from the local football and basketball teams when the lights went out. She was helped to her car by the center of the basketball team. She remembered no unusual jostling nor did she feel the necklace being removed during that period. She realized when she was in the car that it was gone.
Could Georgia have engineered the whole incident, hoping to sell the stone afterward and pocket the change? Possible, but highly improbable. Georgia's marriage was more a convenience than a love match. Both she and Allister had gotten what they wanted by the marriage. She had an extremely rich and apparently generous husband, the freedom to travel when she so desired and she was elevated to the highest point in the social circle of the region.
Might she have been the object of blackmail? Again, possible, but improbable. Doubtless Allister had been aware of Georgia's reputation when he married her. Most were. However, such plebeian concerns were not those of the wealthy! Georgia was a shining star, an impeccable hostess, a gem for anyone who could afford her. She possessed a certain, impressive social and economic cachet that to a man like Allister Averton was important. I would imagine that there was an understanding between the two--she may have her discrete dalliances only if it did not besmirch the Averton name After all Allister was twenty-five plus years older than the passionate Georgia. If it was a result of blackmail, then the reason was not who Georgia had been sleeping with.
Could it have been a well planned theft? Again, possible. But, the perpetrator would have had to have been an experienced and well prepared professional. Furthermore, the fact that Georgia had decided, late in the afternoon, to wear the necklace seems to mitigate this possibility.
I racked my brain for other possibilities.
I decided to interview those who were talking to Georgia when the lightening struck--three from the basketball team and four from the football team. Maybe they could shed some light on the situation.
I drove to the Arena, home of the basketball team. The afternoon practice was finishing. I sought out the three--Todd Birmingham, the center; Mark Hopkins a guard; and Zack Johnson, the other guard. They were understandably guarded--no pun intended--but cooperative.
"We've already talked to the police," Johnson stated.
"I'm sure you have, but I need information for my story."
They appeared to relax a bit.
"You three were talking to Ms. Averton when the lights went out?"
All three nodded their heads.
"Do you remember if Ms. Averton was wearing the diamond necklace then?"
"I really can't say for sure," stated Hopkins in a deep mellow voice. Apparently, he was looking elsewhere or was so dazzled by Georgia that all he saw or fantasized was seeing her beneath him. A definite possibility for him. Mark Hopkins was for all accounts a darkly handsome man. He exhibited a fine, lanky physique as he stood there in his practice shorts. He had earlier removed his shirt. Broad chested, narrow waist and hips, he would appear to be a fine catch for a temporary dalliance. This was underlined by a prominent bulge in his tight satin shorts which he adjusted from time to time, absentmindedly.
"Me either," replied Johnson. Zack Johnson was more muscular than Hopkins, but came out second best in the looks department. It was not that he was bad looking, but Mark Hopkins was simply more handsome. Yet, it was known that Johnson had a prodigious appetite for women and from all accounts he was extraordinarily accomplished in the ars amorata! Particularly, it was suggested, that he had lasting power--a characteristic considered to be a paramount asset.
"Yes, I remember she was," added Birmingham. Todd Birmingham was what one might describe as the All-American-Boy-type. He was a product of the state and one of the real stars of the team. He had a large and vocal fan club--mostly women of all ages. Birmingham possessed that innocent, well scrubbed look that older women found conducive to clutch to their heaving bosoms, and was 'hunky' enough to throw his younger fans into orgiastic paroxysms of unrequited passion. He was blond, blue eyed and had sculpted lips which flashed a brilliant smile. His physique matched is spectacular looks. He is the type that would turn any head. And, probably had. Birmingham stood there, nonchalantly, in his jock strap! His chest was broad, hairless and punctuated with dollar-sized, pink aureolas. Birmingham's belly, equally smooth, was impressively laddered. His thighs were lightly dusted with blond hair--as I assumed was the jock-covered pubes. Certainly the jock-pouch was
strained to its limit, enclosing what must be a substantial set of family jewels. "I remembered thinking it looked like an ice cube," he added.
I continued a while longer, confirming Birmingham's role, corroborating what I already knew and probed for new information. I concluded that here were three stallions, vying with each other and the four football players for the right to mate with an obviously responsive mare. Their only real interest in chatting with Georgia was that one of them might be selected to deposit their load in that desirable and eminently responsive woman. Their notoriety, position, coupled with their high hormone level made them appear to be in rut!
I closed my notepad, thanked the three and left. I doubted that any of these three had been involved.
I raced the five blocks to the domed stadium, home of the football team. I had been there a number of times and was somewhat familiar with most of the team. I was a minor fan and as a member of the press, I was allowed certain privileges. As I entered the locker room door, the Head Coach Nick Sunini was leaving. He informed me that Thad Washburn, the utility quarterback and Jerry Adams, the tight end, had already left and that Brian Engquist and Jeff Mac Pherson, the two backs, were the only ones left in the locker area.
The locker room was empty, and most of the lights were out but I could hear the water running in the showers. Wanting to make sure that two of the four I wanted to interview, were indeed the ones in the showers, I walked to the shower room door and peered around a baffle wall.
I beheld an extraordinary and not too unpleasant a sight. One of the two figures had his back to me and was standing there, legs spread and looking down at his kneeling partner. It was obvious that the kneeling player was sucking the other as well as manipulating his own rock, hard cock. I was transfixed and quietly moved back so only my shadowed face appeared around the wall. I watched as the standing member slowly thrust his hips forward--in and out. I could barely hear them moaning. Then the standing one reached down, raised his amorata up, and he sunk to his knees. I instantly recognized Jeff Mac Pherson whose cock was now being gobbled up by kneeling Brian Engquist, I assumed. Engquist's head was pistoning on and off Jeff's hard cock. The latter began to groan as he watched his cock disappearing only to reappear again in the hot mouth. He threw his head back in sensual delight and groaned again. He began a slow thrusting of his hips similar to what
Engquist had done a minute before. I am not a voyeur, I did not become aroused, but it was interesting!
Then he must have sensed a presence. Jeff leveled his head, and focused his eyes directly at me.
"Oh, Shit," exploded from Jeff's lips as he shot his hips back, dislodging his cock.
Quickly I withdrew. I walked through the half lit locker room and out into the illuminated hall. I would wait there.
Five minutes later Mac Pherson came through the locker room door. His eyes narrowed when he saw me. Jeff Mac Pherson was big, not massive, but he carried about two-hundred-twenty-five pounds on a six-foot-four frame. He was a firm, well maintained, muscular athlete. While observing the shower's tableau I observed admirable pecs and firm, defined abdominals liberally covered with silky, dark hair. For his size he was commendably proportioned. At the base of his belly was a thick thatch of dark hair and his tremendous cock arched over a large, pendulous, ample ball sack. He was in every way a prodigious male!
A second later Brian exited the locker room. Brian Engquist's physique was almost the double of Jeff's. A double except in the fact that his body was considerably less hairy than his sucking partner, but with aureolas which were nearly twice the size of Jeff's and flushed pink. Their cocks, I couldn't help but notice, were on a par--one with the other. However Brian displayed a liberally hooded, uncut cock arching over smooth, velvety balls. All this was backed by a firm, muscular, rounded ass. He, too, was a magnificent specimen.
They stood there glaring at me. I sensed a palpable antagonism, an elemental hostility combined with perceptible fear--a dangerous combination.
"Hi, Jeff . . . Brian," I greeted them as nonchalantly as possible, nodding to each.
"Hi," they growled in concert.
"I need to ask you two some questions about last night."
Whether or not they heard me, I really don't know. Their scowls were incredibly belligerent. They looked like two, ferocious, young lions about to pounce on some hapless victim--me!
They did not respond to me. The situation needed defusing!
"Hey!" I half shouted, then lowering my voice, "What you two do is your own business. I frankly don't give a damn! You can . . . 69 in the middle of the field for all I care!" The flush of anger, fear and hostility lessened. "I'm not interested in . . ." I nodded my head towards the locker room, " . . . back there! . . . . All I want is to ask you questions about last night!" I punctuated this explanation with a firm, unequivocal, "Got it?"
Their scowls turned to questioning stares. Neither looked at the other.
Jeff was the first to speak, "Hey, man," he began as if speaking to a bosom buddy, "What you saw . . ."
I raised my hand and stated emphatically. "I don't care what happened in there! Understand?" My voice was firm, and, I hoped, authoritative.
They thought a moment and nodded their heads. I can imagine the range and depth of emotions that coursed through their bodies. Mostly fear at being exposed, I expect. That would have been my reaction if I were in their place.
To this point there had not been an iota of talk about their same-sex preference. Quite to the contrary, they had been reported to be dating various, amply endowed and gorgeous young women. Just what the public expected of two hunky, star football players! Any inkling of the likes of what I had observed, may not bring their careers to a close, but it would certainly drastically effect their residuals--not to mention, their standing amongst their team mates!
Brian rumbled deeply, "Nobody knows . . ."
Again I interrupted, "Guys! . . . . I . . . saw . . . nothing! . . . OK?"
Again they nodded their heads.
"Now can we go someplace and sit? It won't take long . . . just a few questions about last night."
They led me to a small lobby where we sat down. I began to ask them the same series of questions I had asked the three athletes earlier. By the time I was finished, they had visibly relaxed.
"Well thanks guys," I said, standing up and offering them my hand. "Think I've got all I need." I smiled briefly and turned to leave.
"Hey, David . . . Thanks!" stated Jeff knowingly.
I turned. "Thanks for what?" I queried, knitting my eyebrows, "It's I who needs to thank you for your time. Good interview guys!" I smiled and left.
I'm sure it would be some time before they truly realized that what I saw was of no concern to me and only between the two of them. I do not believe in 'outing.' I am also sure that in the future, they will be more circumspect in their activities.
"Outing" has always been a problematical reality! Ones sexual preferences, I have always viewed, ought to concern no one! I realise the gossip, one of the baser aspects of human nature, has always held a certain appeal to many. Maybe it comes from a need to feel superior or a desire to realise that someone else has 'failings,' too (not that sexual preference is a 'failing' in any of its permutations). However, the reality is that those who have a same sex preference are considered as beyond the pale of the 'average.' Further, quite often 'outing' is used as a political tool--a power tool. To my way of thinking, anyone who employs power tools to gain ascendancy over another person is corrupt. The adage the 'power corrupts' implies ethical connotations. And, to me 'outing' is ethically repugnant as a manifestation of power!
'Ones sexual preferences ought to concern no one,' does, of course carry with it certain parameters or, maybe, restrictions. If unwanted force is the preference--such as 'rape'--or any unwanted sexual encounter, including pedophilia, then, it is by belief, that it is a manifestation of the application of power, and , therefore, unacceptable.
Enough said.
I returned to the office late and worked for an hour entering the pertinent information I had gleaned from the day's interviews. Somehow, the previous night's encounter had recessed to one of those corners in my consciousness. I pondered what I had learned that day and the sensual event I witnessed in the showers. I wondered if it was a one-time-thing, a casual intimacy which developed into a hot suck session or whether or not this liaison reflected a situation of greater depth and duration.
"Ah, not my business!" I said to myself as I shut down the computer and went home.
I walked back to the locker room at 10:00 the next morning. Nobody was there. Waiting outside, I saw Jerry Adams, the tight end, enter the hallway about fifteen minutes later, He as the other four was one of the more visible and prominent stars.
"Can I talk with you a few minutes," I asked. "It's about the Averton issue."
"Sure," he replied in a well modulated voice.
Adams was a bit more rangy than either Mac Pherson or Engquist. Six-foot-two or three and around two-hundred-fifteen pounds, he stood nonchalantly looking openly at me. He was impeccably dresses in tan, tailored slacks, a maroon body shirt and a light beige sweater tied over his shoulders--straight out of GQ! He was equally handsome with the incredible combination of dark hair and light, blue eyes. Jerry sported a well manicured short beard and mustache--rakish would be a good adjective. His body shirt displayed to advantage his torso and arms. He could have been molded from a classic Apollo figure. His trousers also hinted at a firm ass, opulent bulge and well formed thighs. Jerry Adams also had a suitable following of women, although he was the only one of the five who were married. From all accounts, this did not stop his sampling of feminine charms. There had been a well publicized split between he and his wife a year ago, but apparently an
accommodation had been reached.
Half way through my interview with Adams, Thad Washburn, the utility quarterback, walked in. We nodded a greeting.
"Can I talk to you in a minute?" I asked.
"Sure thing ," he answered and disappeared behind a bank of lockers.
Jerry had admitted seeing the necklace while he and the others were talking to Georgia, but he was unable to add anything new. I was beginning to develop a sinking feeling that my research was leading nowhere. At least not with these athletes. They all had the good or bad fortune to be paying court to Georgia Reynolds, Something, Something, Averton when the lights went out.
I thanked Adams and went around the corner of the lockers to finish my interviews with Washburn. The locker area was large with named cubicles for each of the team members on three walls. Washburn was in one corner, disrobing.
"It shouldn't take long," I admitted.
"That's OK," he stated glancing up at me as he slipped his trousers off. Thad Washburn, like the other four, was also quite good looking. His dark-honey colored skin belayed the bi-racial background of this twenty-eight year old athlete. Washburn was approximately six-foot-four and probably weighed around two-hundred-fifteen or so pounds. Broad shouldered, developed pecs and biceps were the necessary equipment for a quarterback. His narrow hips and rounded ass were apparent beneath the boxers as was the ridge of his cock. His thighs belied his running ability. He was clean shaven including his head--the hallmark of many black athletes. Nonchalantly he wrapped a towel around his waist, reached under and pulled off his boxers while I began to ask him many of the same questions I had posed to the others.
"Thad, did you happen to notice if Ms. Averton was wearing a necklace?"
"Yeah, a real rock!" and a laugh rumbled in his throat as he added, "Probably cost more than my contract!"
Thad Washburn was not the highest paid member on the team by far, Yet his contract was substantial.
"Oh, I don't know," I quipped, "you could buy a couple of them."
"Like hell!" he laughed as he pulled on his jock under the towel. He dropped the towel and I was treated to a profile displaying his firm rounded ass and a bulging pouch, which he adjusted carefully.
"Were you close to her when you exited?"
He glanced at me and casually stated, "Naw. Things were pretty confused." He was pulling up his tight, skin tight practice pants when he faced me and restated, "Every thing was confused."
I glanced down briefly as he raised his pants and saw a prominent mole over his right hip-bone even with his navel! "Good God!" I said to myself as I fought for calm. I closed my notepad.
"Well, thanks for the information. I appreciate it."
"Anytime."
I turned to leave and nearly ran into James Morrison, Chief of Detectives, and a couple of plainclothesmen I recognized. We nodded our greeting and he walked up to Washburn.
"Washburn, I need you to come with me down to the precinct house!"
"Why? You questioned me yesterday!" he boomed.
By then several of the coaches and teammates had gathered around.
"What's the trouble Detective?" the Head Coach Sunini asked, muscling his way to the forefront. Coach Sunini was a tank with a shock of white hair. For his size he exuded power and authority.
"Hey, coach! How are you?" Morrison asked affably, then continued and a decidedly serious tone. "There seems to be a space of time--about fifteen or twenty minutes--between when the lights went out and when Washburn was seen getting into his car."
Thad Washburn 's color shifted perceptibly as his gaze swung between his coach and the detective.
"Ten or fifteen minutes?"I thought to my self in disbelief "Thought is was around five!"
Morrison continued, "Say it took five minutes for Washburn to find his way out of the Hippodrome from where we was inside. What about the other ten or fifteen minutes?" Morrison was a barracuda and he was bucking for a promotion as well. His approach was notoriously heavy handed, but he got results. This could spell no small amount of trouble for Washburn. Even if he could avoid being charged, the pall of being a suspect would be harmful.
Coach Sunini turned to Thad, "Is that true, Washburn?"
Sunini was well known for running a tight ship. During the season he expected his team to observe decent hours, keep to their team diet, refrain from sex the night before a game, absolutely avoid any drugs and abstain from alcohol for the season. Those who were found to disregard ANY of these rules suffered his considerable wrath. Coach Sunini was respected by his team and even feared by some. He demanded and got obedience from his men.
"Well?" he boomed.
"Hey Coach, . . . he was with me," I stated clearly and as collected as possible. All heads spun to where I was standing. Nobody saw Thad's eyes dilate and his face go suddenly pale--at least pale for him.
"Whatta ya mean?" barked the coach.
"Well . . . it's kinda my fault . . ."
"Explain . . . Dammit!" Sunini exploded.
"Well we were walking out together . . . he had bumped into me . . . I was taking a snort from my flask and asked if he wanted some. He said that it was against the rules and I said a little friendly snort wouldn't hurt . . . and besides who would know?" My mind was racing to complete the scenario. "Make it simple, David, make it simple," I said to myself and then continued out loud, "So we slipped into that side tunnel that circles the Hippodrome, found a quiet place and had a couple of snorts!" "Whew!" I thought. I closed my extemporaneous explanation with, "That's all!" and I smiled at the coach. "God, I hope they believe me!"
Sunini glared at me briefly and turned to Thad. "Is that true?" he demanded.
Washburn nodded his head and muttered apologetically, "Yes, Coach."
Facing Morrison, "Well I think that clears that up, Detective," Sunini declared as if issuing a fiat or papal decree. He would brook no opposition once his mind was made up.
Morrison glared at me, turned and left, followed by the plainclothesmen.
Coach Sunini, spun back to Thad and commanded in a growl, "My office!" He turned to me, pointing an imperious but stubby finger, "And, you! Out of my locker room!"
I left, but not before catching the most incredulous, open-mouthed glance from Thad Washburn that I had ever seen. As I walked out, I passed Mac Pherson and Engquist and gave them a noncommittal nod.
'Mr. X' was Thad Washburn! It was he who spirited me into that room! Part of the mystery had been answered, but the answering created more puzzling questions!
I asked myself: "But why?"
"Why me?"
"Was it mere chance?" It couldn't have been planned since I did not know I was attending the gala 'til that day. Were there to be any answers?
I returned to the office, entered my data into the computer, informed Bill that I was going to lunch and then to the Hippodrome. I told him I would probably be back by late afternoon and the story--such as it was--would be on his desk before 7:00 that evening.
I walked to 'George's,' a nearby cafe run by a Lebanese. The food was good, inexpensive and quick service. I ordered a pita sandwich, tahini and coffee. As I sat waiting for my lunch, Thad Washburn slipped into my booth.
"Well, Hello," I uttered, somewhat surprised.
"Hi," he greeted me, "I need to talk to you."
I raised my my eyebrows, questioningly, "Oh?"
Thad was apparently somewhat upset. He fidgeted.
"How did you know where to find me?" I asked.
"Called the paper. They said you went to lunch and told me where I might find you."
I grinned, "I'll have to talk to them about that! Can't keep letting out secrets about their reporters."
Thad came right to the point! "Why did you do that this morning?"
"You're not in any trouble are you?" I asked, evading.
"No. Not really. Got my ass chewed out, suspended for two days and fined $2,000."
"That's stiff punishment for a couple snorts of brandy!" I smiled, again evading.
Thad stared, searchingly at me for a second, "But . . . why did you do it?"
"Did you want me . . . to tell them the truth?" I grinned arching an eyebrow. Of course I knew the answer.
Again, that thoughtful stare. The possibility was there. It needed to be verbalized. "You knew . . . all the time? . . . How could you? . . . . It was . . . . so dark!"
I smiled, "No. Not all the time. Not until this morning . . ." A quizzical look passed over his face.
"I didn't say anything!"
Once again I smiled. "Time to let him off the hook," I thought. "It was the mole on your right hip, Thad . . . I saw it this morning . . . I felt it Saturday night!"
The thoughtful stare continued, then he shrugged his shoulders and looked out the window, resigned.
The waitress brought my lunch, Thad quickly ordered and continued to stare out the window.
"Can I ask you a question?"
His gaze returned to me and answered, "Sure."
"Why?"
Eyes dropping to his place mat and he murmured, soto voce, "I really don't know . . . the lights went out . . . I saw you silhouetted by the entrance . . . I wanted you so bad . . . I just did it!"
"But, why me?" I was almost as confused as he obviously was.
Thad raised his eyes to mine, pleading for understanding. "Three years ago, When I came to the team, I met you at a reception."
In my capacity, I attend a number of receptions, galas, dinners and the like. I have met hundreds of people--some only once--most never remembered. I didn't remember the reception Thad was referring to, nor meeting him.
"I remember meeting you. You impressed me. You were so confident, at ease and you treated me like I was someone who mattered. I watched you all night," he stated.
I still didn't remember the specific occasion. I didn't think it would be prudent to confess this fact.
Thad continued, "Then about a month later, you came to interview some of us guys about a story you were doing on Coach Sunini."
That I remembered. And, furthermore, I remembered Thad on that occasion. I had thought that he was a most handsome man, but also noted that whereas most of his teammates paraded about the locker room in nonchalant nudity, Thad usually was swathed in his towel. A personal preference, I assumed. I nodded my head as a sign of recognition.
"Do you remember talking to me?"
"Yes," I said, "You were . . . somewhat reserved . . . as I remember."
"I think you mean . . . shy," he smiled wanly. That was the first smile I had seen on his face today.
"Well, nonetheless, it was refreshing," I admitted then added, "Too many peacocks become a bore."
This time Thad smiled, genuinely.
"You treated me with respect . . . not like a piece of merchandise . . . a trained . . . animal."
Shrugging, and understanding his comment, "Well, Thad, you were hired to do a job!"
"Hired. Yeah! Not bought."
Once again I shrugged my shoulders.
"Anyway, . . . I appreciated the way you treated me . . . and . . . I guess . . . I kinda fell . . ." Thad didn't complete his explanation, but turned to gaze out the window again.
I pondered what he had just revealed. I could easily have completed his sentence.
Thad reached into his pocket, drew out a ten dollar bill laid it on the table, got up and announced, "I gotta go." And he left. His lunch hadn't even arrived!
I was a bit taken back. I finished my lunch and drove to the Hippodrome.
The tents had been removed as well as the normal debris associated with such an occasion. A tractor was entering pulling a section of chain-link fence attached to a mental bar. As it moved around the perimeter, it changed the pitted, marred sand floor to a smooth, even surface. Nothing here! The story was going to be a bust!
As the tractor passed in front of me, I yelled, "Stop!"
The driver jammed on the brakes and I scrambled to the center of the chain links. There, looped around one of the heavy wires was a platinum chain. As I carefully lifted it, Georgia's diamond resurfaced and glittered again in the light of the Hippodrome. I thought I had seen a glint of light. The clasp was unfastened and the two ends dangled about the stone.
'AVERTON DIAMOND RECOVERED!' screamed the boldfaced headline, beneath it appeared: 'Local Reporter Finds Stone in the Sand!' and then my byline. What had looked like a no-nothing story became the coup of the summer.
Georgia called, bubbling with feigned excitement, "David, I'm so proud of you! You know the insurance company has offered a substantial reward?"
I hadn't expected that. Without even inquiring as to the amount, I stated, "Give it to the gala's charity."
"David, How generous. You really are sweet. We must have lunch soon."
"Of course,Georgia. I know your schedule is busy. Call me when it's free. I can always arrange time for a lunch with you, Georgia.
"Thanks, David. I'll call soon. Bye" and she hung up.
Within a day the hoopla over the recovery was old business.
My mind focused on Thad and what had transpired at 'George's.' I phoned his apartment. No answer except a recorded message. I ignored it. Then I called the team office and asked for Thad.
"He's on sick leave," I was courteously informed by a pleasant sounding receptionist.
"This is David Pierce, with the local paper. Do you know if Washburn is here in town?" I inquired in my most professional voice.
"No, Mr. Pierce. I believe he went to his parent's home in Madison . . . Wisconsin," she added.
"Thanks," and I rung off.