Following Usman Khawaja’s salacious bum grab of Adam Zampa during the recent One Day series against New Zealand, The Public Apology can exclusively reveal an extract of erotic fan-fiction found by cleaning staff after the game.
Adam Zampa sat quietly alone, polishing his bat in the Australian changing room. He had dreamed of being amongst these lockers since he first picked up a bit of wood and started frantically playing with his balls in that Shellharbour backyard all those years ago.
He was nervous, sure, but his excitement was also palpable. The familiar scent of the oil that lubricated and hardened the willow in his hand went some way in calming his nerves as well.
“What a nice hunk of wood.”
He looked up and saw a man he had long looked up to, leaning languidly against the changing room entrance. Usman Khawaja. THE form player of international cricket.
Zampa reddened under his gaze.
“Don’t blush baby,” Khawaja smiled, “I like a man who takes care of his kit.”
Zampa smiled sheepishly back. “I saw you bat today, your stroke play was magnificent.”
Khawaja gave a careless shrug, as if to say it ain’t no thang.
He entered the room proper and sat by Zampa’s side. “I can teach you if you like?”
“Teach me how to bat?”
“Yeah. I’ve learned a few things around the circuit. Do you consider yourself an all-rounder?
Khawaja chuckled and then gently rubbed his thigh. “You’re funny. I like funny … You’ve got a fine leg too.” His hand moved up and grabbed Zampa’s middle stump. “Will you bat with me?” He asked, before getting right up in his grill to score a cheeky single on his lips.
“Uh – I suppose.” Zampa stammered. The taste of fluorescent zinc still dancing upon his lips as he hardened between Khawaja’s vice like grip.
Khawaja swiftly pulled back the covers of Zampa’s training silkies. “Let’s start with a full toss so I can see your pull shot.”
“I’m more of a hooker …”
His soft hands stopped in their tracks. “I don’t bounce that way.” He said sternly.
“Of course.” Zampa spluttered apologetically. “I’m sorry, it’s your call.”
Before he knew what was happening, Khawaja had spun him around and had his face pushed into the cold, wet cement of the floor. His posterior arched longingly in the air.
“How about I just bowl while you keep?” He whispered gruffly into his ear.
“Ok.” Zampa replied nervously. Khawaja had a tight grip of him and he was beginning to worry it was more than he could handle.
“Did you bring any gloves?”
“Always.” He slipped one on and gently slipped inside him. “Howzat?” He asked with a surprising tenderness.
“I’m a little worried about runs, I’ve got form.”
“It’s ok. I love a dusty wicket.” He reached under and gently cupped his baggy green. “No ball?”
“A childhood accident.” Zampa responded impatiently, tired of being treated like he was a maiden and keen for a powerplay. “Just shut up and fuck me, you FUCKING COWARD!”
Enlivened, Khawaja started pushing the boundaries. He worked wood and ball furiously together in a symphonic harmony that had Zampa humming as he began to feel the full force of his debut. It was a rough, grinding knock and just what was needed in the context of the session.
“Are you a finisher Adam? Finish me!” Khawaja shouted at the top of his lungs.
“YES! YES! YES!” Was Zampa’s euphoric response.
With one fine straight drive, Usman shuddered and reached his milestone deep within Zampa’s player’s tunnel.
Zampa sobbed with joy beneath him. “I love you.” He whispered, as he tried to extract himself from the tangle of limbs and turn to face him.
“I’m not out yet.” Khawaja grumbled as he pushed him back down. “I like to stay in as long as I can.”
Eventually, Khawaja removed himself from both Zampa and the glove – the latter he hurled it into Davey Warner’s kit-bag with a sinister chuckle.
“Will I see you again?” Zampa asked desperately from the ground, his face awash with emotion.
Khawaja looked coldly at him as he put his thick willow away and sidled to the door. “No. That’s over.”
By Alasdair McClintock