After the Game

It's after the game and after he's showered. I've turned in the stats for the official record and the team has showered and bustled off in shouts of bravado and victory to the favorite "we've won" watering hole. It's just him, staying behind now. Waiting for me. Knowing that I'd be there. Having told me that I'd be there.

I've asked him to put on the tight pants again—but just them. No padding or cup. And I stop him from lacing up the crotch. The silky material is so tight over his ebony body that the material is spread there and his black, kinky pubic hair bushes out of the opening. He's so big and tall that my head comes up only as far as his chest, which suits us both as I move into him and press my lips over one of his nipples, the aureole of which is so big that I have to open my mouth wide to get my lips over it. He growls deep inside him as I suck his nipple, and he grabs my chest with his large, rough hands on each side, his thumbs latching onto my nipples and rubbing them hard.

My lips follow the trail of black hair down the deep crease bisecting his heavily muscled torso, and my tongue slicks down the pubic hair in the V-ing of his tight, silky leggings as my hands move around to cup his bulging, tight-muscled butt cheeks. The material is so thin and tight that it might as well not be there at all.

My tongue traces the line of his cock through the material, and I moan at the length and thickness of the tool—already half hard for me. My hands travel down the deep curve of his thighs. He's told me how he's going to fuck me, and I only now believe that he has the leg muscles to manage it. I shudder at the anticipation of what he's going to do to me. When he'd come over to me at the score table during the game and whispered in my ear what he was going to do, I was lost to him. I didn't believe him, but just the thought of it had me ejaculating in my pants as he laid a heavy paw on my shoulder and squeezed. I had teased him for weeks—put him off when he'd told me he'd wanted me and then let me know that he knew I'd want it too because he'd seen me on the massage table with the quarterback. He told me that, since I'd made him wait, I would get it rough and hard. When he left me my hands were trembling so badly that I could hardly put the stats in the right columns. I'd watched him walk away, my eyes going to the bulge of his buttocks and thigh muscles in the tight material of his leggings. And I melted.

I used my lips and tongue to work his cock by its root out of the V in his leggings. It seemed to take forever. I despaired of reaching the end, but when I did, I gasped at the size of the bulb. I opened my lips wide to pull it in, and it seemed to fill my mouth cavity. I managed to pull my tongue back to where I could press its tip into the slit in his cap.

I heard another growl from deep inside him, and he took my head in his hands and began to press in and then back. With each stroke he was reaching farther and farther back in my throat. I unhinged my jaw as best I could and grabbed hard on his curved thigh muscles for leverage and stability as, gagging and eyes watering, I gave up all control to him. My tease was over.

If he delivered on his promise, my maneuvering had paid out. The quarterback gave a nice, quick, athletic fuck. But I wanted it hard, rough, taxing, complete. This black monster god was the cruelest player on the team. I wanted to feel the fuck, to know that I had been totally taken.

From this point, I was his to do what he would with me. He had told me what he was going to do. He didn't make me wait.

His hands went under my arms, and he was lifting me with strong hands. I no longer had any doubt he could do what he said he'd do.

From that point, the contribution I made was to hook my knees on his hips, help guide the head of his cock to my hole, gasp as the gigantic bulb on his cock accomplished the miracle of opening the way past my sphincter to come to rest on my prostate and throb there, while he lowered his face to mine, the tips of his dreadlocks tickling my shoulders, and held my lips to his as he held there—teasing me with the false hope that he would give me a chance to adjust to him.

But there was no adjusting to a monster cock such as his, and as it started to move deeper inside me, I jerked my mouth from his and arched my back and screamed my scream of total invasion and possession. This was what I wanted. This was fucking. He laughed and pushed my torso down with his hands still on my sides, going with my first, involuntary arch away from him, rather than gathering me in again. I wrapped my legs around his waist, resting my calves on the shelf of his bulbous buttocks, rubbing against the silky pants he still wore.

I grabbed for his ankles with my fists as his hands went to my waist, pulling me up into his crotch, pulling my channel onto his long, thick cock. I was sobbing and blubbering, never having been so deeply possessed, penetrated, stretched before.

He was standing on those strong, muscled legs of his, bearing my full weight. And with the strength of his arm muscles and strong hands, he began to raise and lower me on his cock, pumping me slow and shallow and then—even as I was begging for the fuck—deeper and faster and then like a piston, deep, hard, fast, as I whimpered and moaned and groaned and cried out for him—and he strode slowly around the locker room now without missing a stroke . . . he did exactly what he said he was going to do with me.

And even as he was doing it, he was telling me how I was going to get it next time.

I was totally exhausted when he was done—when I felt him twitch and shudder and the warmth of his jism spreading deep inside me. But I was totally satiated too. This was what I wanted. This was good. I could savor this for some time to come. The quarterback would be weak vanilla after this.

He lowered my body to the cold, tiled locker room floor and stood over me, panting. I felt the tug of victory. He was panting for me. He had been exerted too. I had power over him too. We'd go back to the tease. He'd sniff after me and I'd shake my bottom and swirl away from him, making him beg for it. Showing that control wasn't all his. I wouldn't tell him how much I wanted it again.

Not now, of course. Now I was satisfied, exhausted.

I didn't hear him at first. The pounding in my ears hadn't subsided. I was still breathing heavily, my mouth hanging open, trying to gasp in great gulps of air.

"I said get up and run for it," he growled.

"What?" I squeaked breathlessly. Not comprehending. He'd said he was going to take me next like a hunted jungle animal. But we'd done it now for tonight. Surely he couldn't mean . . .

"Run, or I'll spike you right here on the hard floor."

He had a hand under my belly and the other fisted in my hair, and he was pulling me up off the floor.

I could barely stand, my knees were so wobbly. I turned and looked at him, still in his steel-blue football leggings. His cock and balls hanging out the front. His monster cock hard as a rock.

I moaned and swiveled away from him.

"Run, fuckin' run!" he commanded.

A stinging swat on the butt sent me reeling across the room and stumbling for the door to the corridor.

I made it only as far as the doorway to the massage room before I felt the strong, calloused hands on my waist, spinning me into the room.

I was facing the massage table. The same table where the quarterback had fucked me two nights previously, me stretched out on the table on my belly, him doing all of the work. Doing pushups on my back, leveraging off hands pushing into the table next to my biceps, his long, thin cock jacking up and down inside me in a cadence just like he would call out in formation. Impersonal, almost clinical. No talk at all, just grunts and groans. Getting his rocks off to help him play better, to release the tension. Me giving my ass up for the team. Not even a thank-you after he'd shot off. Just climbing down off the table and trotting off to the showers. Asking me questions about his stats as he was suiting up, with no mention whatsoever of what we'd been doing twenty minutes before.

Nothing impersonal about this black monster. He growled like an animal; he fucked like an animal. He sweated and dug and talked dirty to me. And told me what he was going to do to me—and did it.

He pushed me up against the edge of the massage table, the edge cutting into my lower belly. I cried out at the sharp pain, and he laughed. Standing close behind me, he bent my torso over the surface of the table by pressing down on my back with his heaving chest. He hooked his chin on one of my shoulders and his dreadlocks hung down over my shoulders and onto my chest.

With one hand cupping my belly, his other hand went to my buttocks, spreading the cheeks, the fingers going to my hole.

"Spread like you've never been spread before," he whispered in my ear in a deep, gravelly voice.

I whimpered, knowing he would do what he told me he would do and then I cried out in anguish as the fingers invaded me, spreading, probing, turning, then churning.

I spread my arms wide and planted my fists on the edge of the massage table, wide, to hold steady. I widened the stance of my legs to open as much as I could. I was up on my toes, but the strength of the plunging of his fingers—I don't know how many, but surely at least three inside me, all long and plump and hard-calloused, was raising me off my feet in rhythm.

His cock was entering me between the fingers, which slowly extracted the deeper he buried himself in me. Then the fingers of his hand were fisted in my hair and he was arching my back toward him. And thrusting up and up and up. Faster and harder. The silky material on his thighs were chaffing the backs of my thighs and making a rustling sound that was harmonizing with my whimpers and groans and his grunts and mutterings of "Fuck you, fuck you hard," "Fuckin' feel that, dontcha?" "Sweet white boy ass," and "Who's the boss; who's yer daddy?" He didn't wait for answers, but neither of us questioned who the boss was.

He stopped, breathing hard, and leaned into me. "You want it to stop?" he murmured in my ear.

"No, oh god, no," I moaned in reply.

I felt him come again deep inside me. I'd already done so three times over the eternity of the two fucks and my balls ached from the milkings.

His hand released my head and went to the root of his cock, which was still hard inside me. He rotated the tool inside me, and I moaned my pleasure, yipping breathy little "yes, yes, yes," encouragements. I felt his hot breath at my ear again. And then he told me what he was going to do to me next. And I groaned and my eyes filled with tears.

"You want it?" he growled.

I groaned and my eyes filled with tears. "Yes, oh god, yes."

"Yes, what? When? Where?"

"Yes, Daddy. Anytime, anywhere."