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College girl learns by doing.

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 na__ve, 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.

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