I'm taking a break right now from my "Their Girl" series (because I have a bad case of writer's block for the next part of their story), to tell another tale of hot alpha men and interracial relations. This story may, or may not, become a series.
Jaxon and Darius have lived in my mind for a while now, a fantasy that helps me fall asleep, and helps me wake up in the morning.
All sexual participants in this story are age 18 or older, and does contain elements of questionable consent.
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Jaxon -- second Saturday of October
I scanned the crowd. It was a party put on by alumni football boosters at a swank mansion-like hotel on Vashon Island, so the group was oddly mixed -- football players, both high school and college, and wealthy middle aged folks, along with a selection of young women who I wasn't sure were sorority girls or jersey chasers. From their expensive clothes and behavior I thought they were probably sorority girls, perhaps one of the boosters had a daughter in the sorority and invited them.
It was Saturday night, and the team had won their game a few hours ago. I watched from the good seats -- the coaches made sure I had access. It was my fourth game this year, and I was loving it. Half my wardrobe was Husky stuff -- purple and gold -- though I had quite a collection from other schools, since most of them offered swag when they flew me out for visits. I gave most of them away to my friends, except the ones signed by NFL players who visited at their alma mater as part of a campaign to recruit me or other players, or those who volunteered at skills camps.
It was no mystery to anyone who knew me what school I'd sign my National Letter of Intent for Washington.
It was good to be a five-star recruit.
Okay, so I was a five-star recruit on about half of the college football recruiting websites out there; on the others I was a four-star. Still, it wasn't exactly a hardship.
My eighteenth birthday was only four days behind me and there I was, already at a college party. Okay so technically I wasn't supposed to be there; my presence was a NCAA recruiting rules gray area. I was on a college visit -- an unofficial weekend at the University of Washington. It far from my first time on campus -- I had attended two "invitational" skills camps, as a sophomore and junior, but the coaches were heavily recruiting me and I had been indirectly "encouraged" to visit as often as I wanted.
There weren't a lot of six-four, 235-pound tight ends in the high school recruiting pool. Sure, by the mid college years my size wasn't rare, but my family was "early maturing," and I reached my full height by the time I finished my freshman year. While other guys were biding their time waiting for their bodies to grow and fill out to be ready to reach for the big-time, I was honing my skills, using the body genetics had gifted me.
I never spent five minutes on the freshman or JV squad; I was the starting tight end for my team from the first day I walked onto the field and the coaches fell all over themselves. I took weight room classes every day for graduation credits, and packed on the muscle fairly quickly after I stopped gaining height. By the end of my junior year, I was being heavily recruited by Division I colleges across the country.
But my heart was already at U-Dub. I was a Husky from birth, thanks to my dad, who was a fan and alumni -- and a damn accountant. It helped that the Husky coaches were the first to approach me with a verbal scholarship offer.
Dad was tall, nearly six-four, but thin, and all long arms and legs, a cross-country runner in college. Mom's brother was in the NFL for seven years. Uncle Jameson was offensive guard, nearly six-six, a massive mountain of a man, so I inherited the height from both sides and my build from my mom's side, though you'd never guess it, because Mom is tiny by most standards.
My gaze was drawn again to Darius McGuire; he was already a nationally known starting linebacker and edge-rusher for the Huskies, As a freshman he displaced a senior who had NFL aspirations. That senior taken in by the Raiders in the fifth round. McGuire was named to the All-Pac-12 team as a sophomore.
Sure, he played opposite the line from me, and if I had to face him on the field right now he'd probably flatten me into a pancake into the turf, but at the moment he was my favorite player in the NCAA. The guy was a beast, and he fascinated me. Whenever he was on the field, it was like he was the only guy out there.
He was big but not huge for his position, six-four and his official playing weight was 248. Like the vast majority of guys at linebacker, he was African-American, medium-skinned, and wore his inky black hair in natural, shiny, spiral curls just past his shoulders. He was a a showman, wore flashy clothes, and seemed to love talking to the press.
Okay, so I had more than a little bit of hero worship going on. I was a fucking fan, embarrassingly so. I even had his poster on the wall of my bedroom, along with some NFL favorites, not that I'd admit it to anyone outside my family.
I drifted from one group to another. At one point I had a girl tucked under my arm while I had my ear talked-off by an alumni who regaled me with tales of his own football exploits when he went to college in the 90s. He was still super-fit and clearly had money -- and lamented about his recent divorce.
The girl defected. The last time I saw her she was cozied-up with the middle-aged former running back. He looked quite pleased by the development.
I was offered alcohol, but since I really didn't like it much, I made the truthful excuse of being underage and not wanting to fuck up my verbal offer, just in case someone ended up with pictures.
Yet my eyes kept going back to Darius fucking McGuire, where he partied with a core group of Husky players, each with one or two girls paying very close attention to them.
The party was in full swing when I was pulled aside by one of the players, who was two sheets to the wind, and heading toward three.
"Hey, you, kid, you look strong. Help Darius here back to his room. There's not much left of him," one of the guys who was supposed to be my host-guide had two girls under his arms, and was entirely engrossed in them, clearly uninterested in helping his rather soused teammate. The girl on Darius' lap looked put-out that he was so drunk he barely recognized she was there. In desperation, she had been rubbing herself all over his crotch. When she moved I couldn't help but take a glance -- yeah, there was a decent size bulge there.
Two of the guys helped him off the couch and draped his arm over my shoulders, then grabbed a key card from his pocket and shoved it in mine. "Just drop him in his room, and if he passes out before you get there, just drag him in and leave him on the floor. Just make sure he's on his side or his stomach so he doesn't choke on his own barf later."
I nodded my understanding. This was definitely not how I wanted to meet one of the players I most admired, but it did make him seem more human, more approachable.
"Hi, I know you," he said drunkenly as I all but carried him toward the elevators. He kept leaning into me so hard I swerved into a wall at one point.
"We've never met," I said. "I'm just a prospect."
"Nah, you're the tight end. Gonna be great. I watched your... workouts," he slurred slightly, his speech much better than I expected for how drunk he seemed to be.
