Crushed by Tim

We were both benched. Tim's ankle hadn't healed to the the satisfaction of the coach and I was from the B team, there to offer backup. I often thought of it as being like cannon fodder, the lads on the A team were so much bigger and I was sure to be pumelled if I was called to play.

Tim was pissed, he was deprived of the opportunity to demonstrate his athletic prowess. He lay opposite me on the grass, shirtless, legs bent and spread wide, his cock visible through his white rugby shorts. His hands were clasped being his head. He could have been poised to do sit ups, he was in the right pose for it and his abs were tight, primed, ready to take on the strenuous task of raising his stocky, chiselled torso.

He kept stretching his legs wider, as if to tease me. I feared those legs, they held so much power over me. The very first time I saw them I felt a sexual jolt. I never knew it was possible to be so turned on by something.

It wasn't just me, ' some power in those quads, Tim, take steroids? ..have you seen the size of Tim's fucking legs, fucking beast he is'.. That was the talk all the time in the locker room. Even the sports blogs worshipped his legs ' with power packed liked that it's no surprise Tim excells'.

Power for sure, muscular beauty too. Size, plenty of thick hard slabbed muscle, sculpted onto more muscle, to flex into perfection when he moved. Each step celebrated an explosion of his power as his thighs split and swelled.

He told me often, he found it hard to get into jeans, his waist was neat and tight but trying to fit his ass and legs in! Not just his ass and legs but his enormous bulge.

Tim was handsome, brownish hair, cute but rough looking, dimples, age 20, impressive upper body but you would always be drawn to that bulge and everything under it. It screamed: testosterone, alpha, strength.

There I was again, staring at: his cock, shorts, bulge, thighs, leg hair, knees, sturdy calf muscles, thick ankles, blue rugby socks and dirty white trainers.

I knew something, no one else there did: what it felt like to be between those legs, to be sexually dominated by them, to taste him.

I could read the signals, he was spreading, flexing his legs, signalling his intention to overpower me. It worked: I was hard, excited, desperate, craving him.

He sat up, continued flexing and grinned at me. ' I need to work up a good sweat'. I knew exactly what he meant.

The rest of the afternoon was torture, watching him, craving him.

It was on the bus home he started to dominate me. To the other lads it was a joke but we both knew this was foreplay.

He was allowed to stretch out on the back seat to rest his ankle. He had the whole seat, except the end, where I sat. He put his feet on my shoulders ' Lads do you reckon he wants to smell my feet?' The bus laughed, they were all drinking heavily. Tim forced his right foot right into my face, covering it, forcing me against the wall.

It was damp and distinctly Tim, that pungent jock odour. He hadn't played that day, but there was enough sweat there to make its mark deep into my sinus.

Long after the lads had lost interest, he was still smothering my face. He was using his other sock as a glove, in his shorts to pleasure himself. No one else knew except us.

He stared at me and grinned, he had that look, that confident assertive, cocky expression. The one he had every time he forced me to submit in a headlock, pin, headscissors, or other choke hold. The one he had when he spat on me or showered me with his sweat and cum. The one I saw as I licked his feet or or balls.

I could smell it straight away, his cum, fuck it turned me on. He stared at me the whole time he was in orgasm. He seemed to shudder with pleasure, I felt it though his damp sock.

When he'd shot his load into his sock, he licked his lips and grinned again. I watched him put his cum soaked sock into his wide athletic foot. I was mesmerized by the creamy thickness of his load, and when he forced it into my face, my cock exploded.

It felt like all the tension, all the stress, all the hunger, left me in a flood and I mean a thick creamy flood. Tim was all over me, in my head, on my face, I was smothered by him, I was licking him. Jolts of sensational orgasm sprayed out in celebration of him. Leaving me high, weak, dazed, fulfilled. I felt it leak out through my shorts and thicken on my hairy thighs.

I remember breathing really deeply, inhaling, licking, savouring his cummy sweaty sock. He was laughing, joking with one of the other lads ' I reckon he's stuck there for another few kilometers'.

They had no clue their star player had cum smothered me. If only they knew how powerful Tim really was, if only they could know him the way I did. His brutal lust to dominate and control, his sheer physical power, his sheer mastery over me.

To them he was the try scorer, the fast muscular teammate to be admired. To me he was master, perfect, strong, commanding.