Mule's Blog: Vignette: If you could walk in my boots! All aboard the Mule Train!

If you could walk in my boots! All aboard the Mule Train! -- by Mule and S. Kane

You know that feeling, when you're standing on a packed train holding onto a pole. Your feet are planted shoulder-width apart, chest pushed out, head up and you demonstrate a firm grip with your hand on the pole.

Now imagine this experience if you are ME. You cut an imposing figure on this train, as if you were carved from granite. With your thick skull you could obliterate an adversary with a mere head but, now throw in some ruggedly handsome features. Emerald eyes fixed in an intimidating glare, high cheekbones, dense cheeks and strong set jawline that LOOKS like if someone were to dare punch the granite jaw of this muscular goliath, their hand would shatter like glass.

Now imagine your formidable Adonis like head is propped up with a broad dais of a neck. From this concrete cylinder bulging sinews pop out from it like the steel cables of the Golden Gate. That bull neck spreads out into broad, masculine shoulders that make you look like you are wearing shoulder pads under your clothes. Then there are the vast expanse of slab-like pectoral muscles that look like they are waiting for a realtor to sell these two hilltop properties. With those 28” quads, bulging calves and Herculean loins girded and grounded, there is no way anything is going to shift your size 14 boots. Not to mention the power in the grip of the massive hands backed up with the power of two thick arms of iron, adorned with bowling ball delts and over 19 inch biceps. The tram can have as bumpy a ride as it wants, your Samson frame will not even sway.

Now imagine you look around the car for a second, seeing the world as I see it. All you see at that moment are inferior specimens of your gender, but let’s face it specimens even approaching MULE levels are few and far between. Sure THE MULE, as the epitome of an alpha male, could command a seat from any of these betas and they would meekly yield the spot at the snap of these fingers; but demi-gods do enjoy giving the crowd a standing 360 degree view of all this glory. The noblesse oblige of the superior male.

Around you lie the herd of subordinate sheep-men, you don’t see a single real man, besides yourself, just the usual collection of beta males- substandard by any measure: sub 6', sub 200lb, sub sized cocks, etc., lesser men, beaten down by life. Beings that don’t even seem to be worthy of being considered in the same gender as you, faux xy’s! Gay or straight, they cannot but help but being aroused by such exceptional virility, displayed before them. None represent any challenge, and therefore any interest from the Mule, none of them possessed of any appreciable muscle, all too skinny or too fat, balding males standing/sitting with their heads hung down, although sneaking sly, envious and desirous glances every few moments at the glory that is YOU.

As THE MULE, you stand with YOUR head up and jaw jutted out with the assurance and confidence from knowing that you could defeat any man, woman or child on the train in hand-to-hand combat, singularly or as a concerted attack, but you also know that no-one on the train would ever EVEN dare bump into you while the train is swaying, much less challenge you to combat. Heck if YOU (as ME) were to bump in to THEM it would be they who would be apologizing profusely.

You stand there with a steady stance, occasionally locking eyes with one of the many women on the train, each and every one quivering at the knees because of how much masculinity you ooze from every pore and muscular fiber. Their lascivious thirst for you is so tangible that the air becomes desiccated as if all the moisture in the car is being reallocated to their vaginas. They gawk for a moment, before they quickly look away, knowing they are not worthy of your divine perfection.

The train is dead silent, as if you sucked out the very oxygen in the room as lungs are stabbed with tiny daggers from everybody is holding their breath in anticipation, fear and lust Their racing pulses almost seem to create a thunderous din of percussive beats, as all wait in dread, wondering and worrying about what you're going to do next, like villagers in India surrounding a tiger ready to spring....and when you finally step off the train you hear a collective sigh as their breath returns, and their nerves and heartrates are calmed as they travel from a universe of awe, back into their mundane existence devoid of the presence (and pleasure) of greatness.