Bring on the Ruggers

It is all working just as Rod and I planned. I was visiting him in Napier after he had taken up the position of physical therapist for your Maori exhibition rugby team that had been formed for the Sydney Olympics and had proved to be so fearsome that it is now permanently organized and homed in Napier, New Zealand, and taking on—and slaughtering—all comers. The fierce opening ceremony you Maori players, all big, husky brutes with tattooed faces, perform before a match in itself usually intimidates the opponent teams so much that they melt in the actual match. The Maoris are naturally powerful, regular muscle machines, and once they'd learned to play rugby, there was practically no beating them. Hats off to you for bringing yourselves into the public eye.

Rod, an Aussie from Perth, and I were old fuck buddies from our days in Hawaii, where we studied physical therapy together at the university. I went back to the States and worked in the NFL, where I gained a taste for big bruiser football players. I loved how they took me and overpowered me and fucked me anyway they liked, with no thought to what I liked—without knowing that I liked to be taken brutally and totally. But years of pounding by them have left me craving even more.

Rod went back down under, and once he'd landed a job with you lot in Napier, he coaxed me to come on down, knowing that you Maoris could give me just the cocking I'd go half way around the world to get.

You remember me. I know you do. I was on the bench for your home matches against Auckland and Dunedin, where you wiped the field with the other teams and sent nearly half of their squads to the hospital.

I was there on the bench with Rod, and you kept eyeing me. Giving me that look that is universal for those with monster cocks who know how to use them on other men—the look that I'd seen from many a fullback in the American football leagues before they trapped me in the showers and fucked the stuffing out of me. I knew you wanted me. And Rod assured me that you fucked men; he'd seen you do it, and seen you leaving them sucking air and moaning and not able to close their legs and shitting bricks for weeks because their channels wouldn't close up after you'd reamed them. Rod knew that's what I wanted too—that I'd toughened so much that prime American football hunk cock no longer mastered me.

So, yes, you remember me, and I'm here again for your home game with Wellington, and I was out on the field again tonight and you gave me that look and pointed at me, letting me know you were singling me out. You gave me that big smile when I signaled my agreement. I've heard how you Maoris like to take your revenge on white men for the years of suppression. You think I'm going to be surprised and beaten. But the surprise is going to be on you.

You probably think I'll be waiting for you at the players' exit, all randy and naïve, thinking it will be a lark, something to write home to boast about, just a novelty: "Hey guys, I fucked a Maori today." And that you'll bundle me into your car, drive me to the other end of the parking lot and stop in the shadows and make me suck you off—breaking my jaw in the futile attempt to stuff you all in—and then pull me into your backseat and cock me so deep and thick and hard that it will make me beg for the mercy you won't give me. And that after you've brutalized me, you then will just push me out onto the pavement, used up, exhausted, moaning—unable to close my legs—and will have taught the rough lesson that Maoris aren't normal men, aren't a force to be taken for granted or dismissed or "handled" as the white man has attempted to do to them for nearly two centuries. Another Maori victory over the invading, grasping Caucasians.

I'm sure you think I don't know that you have a killing cock and leave any but your rugged Maori lovers rebored into puddles of jelly. But I know what you can do, and it's what I want—and I'm not unprepared for it, no matter how tame I look. And I won't be panting at the players' exit. You'll see me before then.

Rod, knowing both that I have a hard on for you and that you will ball at the drop of a jock strap—or loin cloth, I guess for you Maoris—has arranged for me to give you your massage after you've torn the Wellington team apart. I'm waiting, trembling in anticipation in the massage cubicle beyond the shower room, listening for the final roar of the crowd when you've done your worst to the other team and you've taken your victory lap and hung the heads of your opponents on your belts.

I hear you and your mates streaming into the locker room and to the showers. Your raunchy, prideful banter is making me hard and making me shudder in anticipation of the tension of that first look, when you see that it's me who is going to rub you down and that I'm going to give you that look of acceptance of anything you want to do to me.

And there you are in the doorway, holding a towel around your waist, looking magnificent and fierce in your bulky muscles and warlike tattooing. I give you that look, and your smile broadens, and you drop your towel and stand squarely in the doorway, giving a statement without words that there's "no turning back" and "you'll never ever be the same again." I gasp at the sight of what's swinging between your legs, and that amuses you—you assuming that I'm in over my head and that you are going to split me in two and use the cocky little Caucasian all up—and I see flames in your eyes and your cock begin to engorge for me.

I know I wouldn't leave this room unravished now even if I wanted to. But I don't want to. And I know that look I'm giving you tells you I don't want to—not that I challenge you but that I surrender to you and that I'm worth the ravishing. That I'm something special just as you are someone special.

Once alone with your hard, muscled nakedness in the massage room outside the steamy showers, all it takes is that exchange of looks when you stretch out on the board for your massage. You lift your hips off the board as my hand glides up inside your meaty thighs, possessing your cock, and you laugh low down in your throat and then grunt in pleasure and satisfaction—and knowing what comes next—as I pull on your thick dick and work it with one fist while I rub your tight, hard-played muscles with the other hand. You grunt as my mouth goes down over your bulging cock head, and you jerk and tremble and open your eyes wide with astonishment as I slowly swallow you down to the quick and close my teeth over the root of your throbbing tool.

With a guttural animal sound, you bound off the table and grab me up in your arms just as if you were still in the scrum out on the field—wanting to take immediate charge, to teach me my place. You are tearing off my shorts, and I am winded but laughing when you slam me down on my back on the board. But by the time you've scrambled up onto the board over me, I've spread my legs and lifted my pelvis to you, clutching your firm, round buttocks as you thrust brutally inside me. Your eyes go wide again and you gasp yourself when you realize giant cocks have been there before—that you glide in easily and that my cries are of passion, not of unbearable pain. I feel you trembling, awakening to the realization as I close my channel walls on your cock and make my internal muscles start to ripple across your invading piece that I'm going to give you the fuck of your life as well.

You are looking down into my face with that fierce, tongue-hanging-out stance you Maoris have used for years just before tearing your enemies apart. I take your stare, though, and give you my "I'm open to you; do your worst" look, and I feel the arousal that gives you all the way down into your thickening and throbbing cock that has split me like a mighty war club.

I want to die impaled on your bludgeon of a cock. Philosophers say that orgasm is the ultimate death experience, and I want to die a thousand times on your plunging cock.

The extraordinary strength and length and hardness and endurance of you makes me arch my back and moan to the ceiling as you fuck on and on and on—trying to make me beg for mercy. But your pistoning is spurred to higher velocity as I cry out, rather, for more, more, more. You let loose with a joyous Maori war cry, being taken to heights of passion and ecstasy in your cocking that no previous Caucasian lover has endured.

I squeeze your butt cheeks hard, white nails dug into chocolate-brown flesh, pulling you tight to me with each forward thrust, as the power of your thrusts pushes me up the board. My head drops over the end of the board, and I hear the intake of breath of another monstrously huge Maori rugby player coming out of the shower and into the massage room, where he was scheduled to follow you on the table. You have overused your time, however, just as you are overusing my channel in your never-ending fuck—your unrewarded attempt to hear my death rattle and watch my eyes roll back into my head in mortal surrender of weak Caucasian to unconquerable Maori.

The other Maori's thick, bulbous cock briefly comes into view as he positions himself at my head. As I take him inside my mouth, he leans over my heaving chest, his fingers digging at my nipples, his cock pumping deep into the back of my throat as his lips meet yours. I feel the pleasure of your shared kiss in the throbbing of both of your cocks pounding inside me.

And I die a thousand deaths and am transported to a ninth heaven under the pounding, pounding, pounding of the mighty Maori clubs inside me.