The Blind Date

"Whoa, is that a photo you're shredding on your dart board?"

"Yeah, what's it to you?" Lionel Nicks walked over to the board, took the five darts out, and went back to the other side of the bar in his apartment.

"Peace, big guy. I was just asking." Andre Sanders took a closer look at the photo. "Say, isn't that Devin? Your Devin? You guys no longer a couple?" He didn't bother not sounding hopeful.

"Devin, dear Devin, decided we should cool it. Should see other people. Said he wanted to date around. That we just weren't clicking right. Stand away, if you don't want to be needled."

Andre backed off from the board as Lionel scored a hit right between Devin's eyes.

"I'd like to see that Devin gets a date around or two he'd never forget." Zing went another dart.

Andre thought for a moment. "I might be able to help with that . . . if . . ."

"If what, Andre?"

"Seeing as how you two aren't an item anymore—that you're as free now as Devin is . . . well, you know I was after you to fuck me before you hooked up with Devin and claimed a one-and-only arrangement. I'm still interested. And, you know, I'm the equipment manager of the Triangle Nighthawks."

"Yeah, how does being a semipro football team's equipment manager have anything to do with this?"

Andre told him.

* * * *

Andre had told Devin the guy would meet him at the Tracks bar out on the edge of Benson, near the stadium where the North Carolina league semipro football team, the Triangle Nighthawks, played. A wide receiver for the rival East Carolina Rams who was a friend of Andre's was in town to scout the Nighthawks in a game and had asked Andre not only to get him tickets to the game on the sly—Andre shouldn't be helping a rival team—but also to line up a date to go to the game with him. Andre well knew the guy's preferences. Andre's ass still hurt from that knowing.

"I heard you were dating and open to a blind date," he said when he pitched Devin about going out on a blind date with one of his friends.

"Yeah, I might be interested. I'd just meet him at the game and sit with him?"

"He'd stand you a dinner too," Andre said. "He'd meet you at Tracks and take you to dinner before the game."

"OK, that sounds cool."

"He's black. I may have forgotten to mention that. You have any trouble having a blind date with a black guy?" Andre was black. What could Devin say, no matter what he felt if he didn't want to insult Andre? Truth be told he hadn't thought about how he should feel about being seen with a black guy.

"No, I guess not. Haven't dated a black guy before. But a drink, dinner, and the game? No problem."

"Sure. That's it."

When Devin entered Tracks, he was wondering if he'd recognize the guy. The bar was pretty crowded—mostly with other guys going to the game—almost all guys. It was a gay bar. He shouldn't have worried about picking him out, though. A black guy was rising—and rising and rising—from a table and waving to him. Andre had said he'd give a photo of Devin to the guy—in fact, he had done so in arranging the blind date with the guy. Devin hadn't been shown a photo of his blind date, but he had no trouble picking him out of the crowd.

The football player, Marcus Black, was hard to miss and couldn't have been more different from Devin. Marcus was at least ten inches taller than Devin's five foot seven, and seemingly as wide across the chest as Devin was tall. And he was built like a Sherman tank, coming in at close to two-hundred pounds, at the top of the range for a wide receiver. He outweighed a willowy, twinky Devin, with his curly blond hair and face more pretty than handsome by fifty-five pounds. Devin felt like a dwarf in coming up beside him. His hand disappeared in Marcus' at the handshake, and he steeled himself for the grasp to be crushing. But it wasn't. It was firm enough, but it also was gentle—almost caressing.

"Devin?" The smile was broad, friendly. The face had been beaten about but had arrived into something that was ruggedly handsome and honest. The voice a smooth baritone, promising cultured diction. Devin had been told Marcus hailed from the tidewater of Virginia and had graduated from the posh College of William and Mary, in colonial Williamsburg, but he was still surprised at how smooth and sophisticated the man appeared to be.

He was elegantly dressed too. Yet another surprise. Devin hadn't been sure how to dress for a minor league football game in the summer. Devin went to concerts and plays. He watched pro football games on TV just like everyone else, but he did it mainly to watch the big bruisers' butts in their tight-fitting football pants. It's not that Devin was a pansy—not by any means. He worked out, he worked hard at looking clean cut. He just was a happy bottom in private. Not a promiscuous one, though—he'd been satisfied with Lionel at the start. He wasn't sure what had made him a little restless. It could have been the writing he'd been doing—and managing to sell through an erotic publisher.

So, when it came to dress, Devin had decided to wear khakis and a checked sports shirt and loafers without socks. He'd brought a sweater as he didn't know if it would turn cool in the stadium in the evening. He had this reversed on his back, with the sweater arms tied across his chest. For him, preppy was always in season. If it was preppy from the sixties, he didn't care. He knew he looked cool and twinky.

He'd half expected Marcus to come in cutoff jeans and a sweatshirt. But he was wearing pressed slacks, a fitted white shirt that obviously was expensive, and a camel-hair sports coat. He had on boots, but they were black shiny leather polished to a mirror sheen and rose just a bit higher than his ankles. Of course his feet were enormous—boats. As was everything else about him—his hands, his thighs in the tailored slacks, the bulges of his chest and biceps . . . and the bulge at his crotch. But he had the grace of a dancer at the same time, an attribute, Devin assumed, of having to dance down the football field and pull in a guided missile. One would think that his dreadlocks, the tips of which reached his shoulders and were capped with gold metal clips, would belie the rest of his appearance, but the whole package was so neat that they seemed a natural accompaniment.

They sat, chatting, over their drinks, at the table. Devin had expected beer, but Marcus ordered a vodka martini, so he felt comfortable enough to order a Manhattan on the rocks. He normally would have been embarrassed to do so in the presence of someone he didn't know well, but he felt completely comforting in ordering a cocktail in this situation. In fact, his whole expectation of what going on a blind date with a black football player would be like was being exploded.

"So, I hear you are a hairdresser."

"Yes," Devin answered, ready for the inevitable follow-on stereotyping comments. Maybe he'd been wrong to order a Manhattan.

"That must pay well, and is probably a pretty creative field," Marcus said without a hint of sarcasm or judgment in his voice. "I wouldn't have imagined you to be that if I just saw you on the street."

"Oh, what would you think I was?" Devin asked. No, he knew he didn't appear effeminate. No he didn't have the mannerisms and flamboyance everyone seemed to expect of a gay hairdresser. Still, here he was, drinking a Manhattan.

"Oh, a college student, or maybe a young stage actor or male model. Andre said you were twenty. I can hardly believe it, seeing you in person."

So, what was he saying, Devin wondered—that Devin looked too young to be in a bar and Marcus that he be nabbed for buying liquor for a minor? Or was he saying he liked them young enough to seem illegal? From looking into Marcus' face, he couldn't get a hint that this wasn't more than just ice-breaking chit chat.

"Yes, all of twenty," he answered. "Twenty and a couple of weeks."

"I'm twenty-eight. Getting old for football. If I don't make it up to the pros this season, I might have to hang up that dream."

"And do what?"

"I have an architectural degree and my family has a construction firm in its portfolio. I have a financial parachute. That makes pursuing the dream of football easier."

"Don't you have to go longer than normal for a degree like that? Isn't that like an advanced degree?"

"Yes, I went for six years."

"Wow." He wasn't anything like Devin had imagined. His speech had been as sophisticated as Devin first thought when he heard him speak. And his manners were impeccable. His hands might be massive, but his fingernails were clean and manicured. Devin worked in a beauty salon. He always looked at the fingernails. Lionel chewed his. And the hands were so expressive. Devin had visions of them stroking his forearm—he'd wondered whether the blind date would be all over him. This wasn't at all what he expected. He almost wished . . .

"Where were you thinking of eating dinner?" Marcus asked.

"I hadn't thought," Devin answered. "Andre said you'd pick someplace." A steak house, Devin now wondered. He'd originally thought it probably would be McDonalds or KFC.

"I know of a Japanese restaurant that serves the best tempura. Sushi too, if that's your interest."

"Tempera would be fine," Devin said. More than fine.

Devin had taken a taxi to Tracks because Andre said Marcus had a car. It turned out not to be the pickup truck Devin expected. It was a Pontiac Solstice, a sleek sports car that was out of production—the whole company was out of business. But the Solstice was a collector's item now.

"How do you keep this honey on the road?" Devin asked, as he entered the car. The inside was impeccably clean. Devin doubted that a take-out meal had ever seen the inside of this vehicle.

"My family owned a Pontiac dealership too," Marcus said. "Kept enough parts for a Solstice to keep this one going. I worked there for years and can maintain the car myself."

When they both were in the car, Marcus looked over at Devin. Would he or wouldn't he, Devin wondered. They were finally alone alone; if a blind date was interested in anything at the end of the date, this, Devin thought, would be a time to signal that.

Marcus would, in a much more understated way than Devin thought might be the case when they were alone.

"Would you mind?" Marcus asked, leaning a bit into the passenger side of the car and putting an arm on the top of the seat behind Devin's head. "You are just so much more than I expected."

Devin leaned a bit in acceptance toward Marcus, who cupped his chin lightly and came in for a gentle kiss on the lips. "Umm, that was nice, sweet," he murmured. He lingered for a moment looking into Devin's eyes, his thumb tracing the curve of Devin's lower lip. Devin fought the urge to open his mouth and pull the thumb in.

But before that naturally could happen Marcus twisted back to face the windshield, pulled on driving gloves, and turned to concentrating on his driving. He drove fast and unexpectedly aggressively, but expertly. In total control. Devin felt totally safe in the man's hands.

The perfect gentleman, Devin thought. The signal the Devin got was that Marcus would continue to be the perfect gentleman—that he wasn't really all that interested in anything beyond having company for the evening, with just a hint of sensuality so that Devin wouldn't feel rejected. This was just going to be a companionable evening.

The football game was mostly business with Marcus. It's what he had come here for. Marcus was there for a purpose, but he also paid attention to Devin, explaining the intricacies of this and that. He didn't treat Devin like an idiot, though. He even took time to ask about the concerts and plays Devin went to—and didn't give a sour look when Devin mentioned opera and ballet. Their conversation at dinner had centered on the arts, and Marcus seemed to know as much about many aspects of that as Devin did.

After the game, they went back to Tracks for another drink and some dancing. A lot of the guys on the dance floor tried to cut in for Marcus' attention, but he politely waved them off and concentrated on Devin.

At the entrance to Devin's apartment building, when Devin assumed it would be another brief, sweet kiss, and the end of a tame, but surprising and interesting blind date, he was proved right about the kiss, but not about the rest.

Pulling away from a sweet, short kiss, Marcus looked Devin directly in the eye and said, "May I come in for a few minutes? Maybe a drink?"

"A few minutes? A drink?"

"Or maybe something more? I think you're really cute. And I think we hit it off fine. You know I'd like to . . . with you . . . to you."

"And?" Devin whispered.

"On you . . . in you. Inside you. I could take good care of you, baby. Don't you want to feel me inside you?" He looked like a little hopeful puppy dog. His voice, the smooth baritone, was so soft spoken that the words themselves—the unmistakable sexual intent of them—were muted. He had an arm behind Devin again, the fingers of that hand pressing into Devin's shoulder. And he was tracing Devin's lower lip lightly with a thumb of the other hand, having taken his driving glove off first.

Devin sighed. He had originally it would come to this—or strongly suspected it would, although he had been beginning to question that. Question it enough to maybe be slightly disappointed it might not become a choice, a possibility.

He leaned forward and they kissed sweetly again, with Devin pulling away just as Marcus' lips were pressing his to open and Devin felt the flicker of a tongue between his lips.

"You can come in . . . for a bit. We'll see."

"Is that a yes? I want to fuck you."

"That's a we'll see how it goes," Devin said, as he opened the passenger door and rolled out of the sports car. He still didn't know himself. It was a blind date, a first meeting. He was attracted—hell, more like aching for him, while still being scared of the size of him. But he didn't want to seem to be a pushover. The guy was cultured and sensitive. Surprisingly so. And he was big and black. It was new, possibly dangerous ground for Devin.

Devin was returning from his kitchen with two glasses of white wine—what they'd settled on that Devin could supply—and almost dropped the glasses.

Marcus was sitting on the sofa—naked. His clothes were neatly folded on a nearby chair, his polished boots lined up perfectly under the chair. A bigger shock than that he was naked was that he didn't really look naked. In his clothes he had looked clean cut. His nakedness revealed that his body was a riot of tattoo patterning and coloring on nearly every square inch of skin that had been covered by his clothes. He had suddenly transformed from a southern gentlemen—albeit a black one—to a primeval native. And there was no hiding that he was enormously erect or that there was a thick silver Prince Albert ring in the bulb of his cock.

His demeanor made the extraordinary change to the wild side as well.

"Come here, baby," he commanded, a harder edge to his voice than Devin had heard before.

In a trance, Devin put the wine glasses down on the dining room table he was standing beside, spilling both, his hands were trembling so badly. He took one tentative step toward the sofa, confused and in shock.

"I said come here," Marcus growled. "How did you think this fucking date was going to end? Been thinking of getting inside your sweet little ass since Andre showed me that nude photo of you."

Nude photo? What nude photo? No one but Lionel had nude photos of him. Without thinking, Devin had moved close enough for Marcus to reach out, grab him by the wrist, and pull him down on his knees between the black footballer's spread thighs. His cock was enormous. It didn't look exceptionally thick only because it was so long. And hard. It was only because it nearly dislocated Devin's jaw that he realized it was thick too.

Devin was made to deep throat it and hold, again and again, gagging and fighting for breath, while Marcus chanted "Take it, take it, take all of it" in a raspy growl. The thick PA ring in the cock head clicked against Devin's teeth until the bulb got to the back of his throat. Marcus held Devin's head between his massive hands like a vice and pulled his face on and off the cock again and again. Then Marcus was forcing Devin to deep throat and hold until Devin was gagging. Release, and then again. Pulling out after more than ten minutes of this, he creamed Devin's cheek and eyelids, up into the blond curl that kept falling over Devin's forehead. He came in for a brutal kiss and licked the cum off the still-shocked young man's face.

Marcus came up off the sofa, pulled Devin off his knees and quickly stripped him of his clothes. Devin, working his jaw to ensure that it wasn't unhinged, remained numb to what was happening to him and docile as the items were shed and thrown haphazardly to the side. How does a small twink like Devin fight off two-hundred pounds of black bruiser anyway?

Having gotten Devin naked and done a bit of groping and fondling—enough to have Devin, aware of what came next, moaning and whimpering, "Oh, God, be good to me; don't split me," Marcus slung him, belly down over the back of the sofa. Devin's arms and head hung defenselessly, uselessly in the face of the size and weight difference between the two, toward the floor. He moaned and groaned as Marcus spread his butt cheeks apart and ate his ass out, muttering "Open it, open it, open to me." Other than Marcus' mutterings in that deep baritone of his, all Devin could hear was the clicking of the metal clips against each other at the ends of Marcus' swaying dreadlocks.

Devin grunted and groaned as Marcus reached through his legs and grabbed his balls, rolling and squeezing them, and then roughly milked the young blond's cock while slapping and biting his buttocks, thumping his hole with his fingers, digging his fingers into and tonguing his hole deeply, Marcus sharply commanding throughout that Devin "Relax, open to me, baby. We're gonna do this; you're gonna take me. You're gonna take it big. You're gonna love every inch of it." Devin writhed and moaned under the onslaught.

How could Devin relax to this assault on his privates? How could he take that monster cock? But then, miraculously, as Marcus tongued the hole deep and his milking of Devin's cock became rhythmic, less rough, and after Devin had released his cream with a jerk and a sigh, Devin did feel himself sighing, relaxing his passage, and moving his hips back rhythmically to meet the dig of the tongue.

This didn't last too long until Marcus was satisfied that Devin would take him—something Devin would never have imagined he could do, but that he did. Devin felt the weight of the two-hundred-pound muscular athlete crouch over him close as he was draped over the back of the sofa, and he let out a deep, rumbling cry as, preceded by the thick PA, Marcus' cock split the difference between the curves of Devin's butt cheeks and started its long journey up his passage. Marcus reached down, grabbed a handful of blond, curly hair on the back of Devin's head and pulled it hard toward him, arching Devin's back to him.

The fuck started off with a deep pounding, built up from there to the music of Marcus' thrashing dreadlock clips and Devin's plaintive cries of "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," involuntarily pulled from him by the intensity of the attack and the depth of the digging cock, and only settled down into a rhythm of long, deep slides, after Devin was reduced to a whimpering rag doll under the relentless power of the big, black muscleman.

Half way through the fuck, Marcus latched the broad palm of one hand on one of Devin's pecs and grasped Devin's chin with the other one and held Devin tight into his muscular torso, Devin's cheek next to his, as he thrust up into Devin's channel, resuming the chant of "Take it, take it, take all of it" in Devin's ear. Devin dug his fingernails in the top edge of the sofa and held on for dear life.