Bring on the Ruggers

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.