The Mumbai Indians dressing room reeked of sweat, liniment, and raw male musk after another brutal IPL session. Jasprit Bumrah had just bowled a spell that left the opposition in tatters—his slingy action, that whip-like release, the way his powerful thighs flexed and his ass cheeks clenched with every thunderous delivery. I was the new physio, twenty-eight, fit, and already rock-hard from watching him all day. He knew it. Those dark, predatory eyes had locked on me during the drinks break, a smirk curling his full lips.

"Physio," he growled, voice low and thick with that Gujarati accent, "my shoulder's tight. Fix it. Now."

I followed him into the private treatment room. The door clicked shut. He stripped off his jersey in one fluid motion, revealing a lean, muscular torso glistening with sweat—dark nipples pebbled, abs carved like stone, that faint trail of black hair disappearing into his cricket pants. His bulge was obscene, the fabric stretched tight over what had to be a massive, heavy cock.

"Lock the door," he ordered, already tugging at his pants. They dropped, and out sprang his dick—thick, veiny, uncut, easily nine inches of dark, throbbing meat, the head already slick with pre-cum, balls heavy and full. "On your knees, randi. I've been leaking thinking about your mouth all afternoon."

I dropped instantly, face level with that monster. The scent hit me—musky, salty, pure alpha cock. I wrapped my lips around the head, tongue swirling under the foreskin, tasting his bitter-sweet pre. Bumrah groaned, hands gripping my hair. "Suck it proper, you filthy cock-whore. Choke on Bumrah's lund."

He thrust deep, fucking my throat in long, brutal strokes. Gagging, spit dripping down my chin onto his balls, I took every inch. He face-fucked me mercilessly, hips snapping, that fat cock battering the back of my throat until tears streamed down my face. "Good boy. Swallow that dick like you were born for it."

After several minutes he hauled me up, spun me around, and ripped my shorts down. My own cock sprang free, hard and leaking. He slapped my ass hard—twice—leaving red handprints. "Spread those cheeks. Show me that hungry hole."

I bent over the massage table. He spat on my hole, then shoved two thick fingers in dry, stretching me roughly. "Tight little chut. Gonna ruin it." He added a third, scissoring, then pressed the fat head of his cock against my rim.

"Fuck me, Jasprit," I begged, vulgar and desperate. "Shove that big brown cock in my ass. Breed me."

He slammed in to the hilt in one savage thrust. I cried out—pain and ecstasy—as that monster cock split me open. He didn't wait. He pounded me like a machine, balls slapping against mine, the table creaking. "Take it, you slut. Feel that cock owning your guts." Each thrust bottomed out, grinding against my prostate, making my own dick drool onto the floor. He reached around, fisting my cock in a rough grip, jerking me in time with his brutal fucking.

"Harder—fuck—fill me with cum!" I moaned.

Bumrah snarled, pace turning feral. His cock swelled even thicker. "Gonna flood your hole, randi. Gonna pump so much jizz up your ass you'll taste it." He buried himself to the root and exploded—thick, hot ropes of cum flooding my guts, pulse after pulse, so much it leaked out around his shaft and ran down my thighs.

He didn't pull out. Instead he flipped me onto my back on the table, legs over his shoulders, and started fucking me again, using his own load as lube. My cock bounced against my stomach until he grabbed it and stroked me viciously. "Cum for me. Cum while I wreck this hole."

I came screaming, ropes of white splattering my chest and face. Bumrah followed seconds later, adding another massive load deep inside me. When he finally pulled out, cum poured from my wrecked, gaping hole.

He smirked, wiping his cock on my lips. "Clean it. Then get ready for round two in the showers. We're not done until I've bred you three more times, you cum-hungry whore."

I licked him clean, already hard again, knowing the night had only just begun.