Kicked by a Mule: Part One: Under the Mulefluence

Author’s note:

Discerning readers, thought it was time to try something a little different and tell a Mule story from the point of view of a Beta participant observer. Writers need to do change-ups every once in a while or risk getting stale and formulaic. Don’t worry we will get back to the normal rock-em, sock-em fare that gets your mouths drooling and cocks dripping. But I think you will enjoy this collaborative effort, and it is still should have you stroking.

'MULED' OVER!

Kicked by a Mule:

A story very loosely based on the memoirs of "Mr. B"

Edited and enhanced by Mule and Stefan Kane, some original art by Steve Reeves

PART ONE: UNDER THE MULEFLUENCE

I am hit by a Thunderbolt

I was in my mid-forties when it all went down. I was a veteran History teacher of 20 years, married to a pleasant if somewhat cold and emotionally distant wife, with two attractive and well behaved grade school daughters. I was popular with the students, faculty and administration. I coached the swim team. I had a seemingly perfect life when it all went south.

MR. B.

It was the first day of the new school year, and HE entered the classroom about five minutes late, I looked up to see who was entering, about to demand a pass, when my mouth just hung open unable to utter a word. For in strutted this carefree blond Adonis, and it was like I had been hit by one of his massive fists and was punch-drunk.  I cut an athletic figure, working out regularly, but at 6'3", HE towered over me by about 4 inches and his brawny physique upstaged mine by 50 lbs., all of it lean corded muscle like twisted rebar. He wore a Superman-style UnderArmor compression t-shirt that molded his sinewy upper torso such that every rippling contour was on display.  He scratched his belly, pulling up his shirt to reveal a cobblestoned path of abdominal muscles leading invitingly down toward his crotch. He had to cut off the sleeves so as not to cut off blood flow in his gargantuan arms.  Taling in the grandeur of this young blond Adonis, I instantly slid down a few notches on the Kinsey scale.

The Evolution of Mule in High School:
from Freshman to Senior!

He was ruggedly handsome, not a doe-eyed boy-band style heartthrob, his features were roughly hewn and hyperbolically masculine. Most high schoolers were boyish in face and figure, but HE was a grown ass man, perhaps the manliest man I had encountered in my life, and still only a junior.  There was something almost bestial him, a primitive sexual vitality, power and charisma, a caveman quality so strong that one half expected him to be dragging a cheerleader by the hair behind him.  Such was his raw sensuality and animal charisma, it was like the concept of sexuality itself had taken on human form. I felt a swelling in my loins.  My eyes dilated so far, that it was if I had just finished with the ophthalmologist or was stone out of my mind, and given the miasma that had overtaken me, the latter perhaps was the more apt comparison.

Young Mule

The sheer volume of muscle packed onto this young man’s frame was truly phenomenal. His pecs pushed out from his torso like two imposing desert mesas, and his bolder delts, bulging biceps and horse-shoe triceps resulted in arms that would make even the most compulsive gym rat jealous. His legs were like sequoias, and I had never known calves could get that large. You usually only see them that big at a 4H contest. This panoply of herculean muscle sent my pulse racing. My heart was beating so fast and hard that I felt my classroom had turned into something from Poe’s Tell-tale Heart. I felt beads of sweat cascading down my forehead.


He walked right up to me, his green eyes pierced my brown in a challenging stare deepening the hypnosis, and his strong masculine scent wafted into my nostrils adding to my dumbfounded intoxication. My heart seemed to go into a state of arrhythmia. Show-off that he was, he cockily popped his pass into my open slack-jawed maw, causing a murmur of laughter and snickers to roll over the classroom like a tsunami. He leaned over and whispered “nice boner Mr. B” with a minty breath that tickled my ear hairs. This comment only caused my cock to engorge even further with blood until the erection was painful. His close proximity was maddening: the musk of sweat, Axe body spray, pheromones, and testosterone cause me to inhale ever more deeply, and my salivary glands to begin production in overdrive.

I was pulled out of my fog by the blond athlete snapping his fingers in front of my face and in a rich, resonant baritone inquiring “are you all right teach?” He was asking, good naturedly.


Face flushed a bright red, I reached for a water bottle and drank, as my head cleared. I apologized to the class, offering the excuse that I had gotten a bit light-headed from dehydration, and in truth my whole body was bathed in sweat, but it wasn’t the ambient temperature of the room that had brought my internal body temperature to feverish levels, it was the impact of the gorgeous young linebacker, who everyone knew as Mule, that had sent a kick of love-struck desire reverberating through my head and ultimately my life. Until that point of my life, I had thought myself to be as straight as a ruler, never experiencing the least desire for another man, but in that first moment of interaction, I had become warped, experiencing feelings of love so profound, it eclipsed even that I felt for my wife and children. I had up to then, always scoffed at love-at-first sight, but having been hit by this thunderbolt, I became a believer.

Mule was looking at me, his head cocked, with a look of concern shadowing his perfect features. He had broad block of a face, a strong square chin and a granite jaw line, solid nose, neither too broad-- or too thin, long or short, glittering green eyes, and when he smiled the features softened from that of a fearsome intimidating beast to exquisite virile beauty. I asked him to take a seat, and he sauntered slowly to a chair in the back row between two cheerleaders who had been unsubtly signaling him to that spot, after sending an inconvenient slacker packing to a more remote location. The classroom was on pause until he reached his seat, and mine was not the only admiring glance checking him out.


He was wearing a pair of compression shorts that highlighted a set of muscular glutes that defined the term bubble butt. The gear was against dress code, but I didn’t raise the issue, and apparently none of his teachers from his previous three periods had sought fit to do so either. From his swagger, it was clear he even at 16 he was among what we faculty referred to as the FOOTBALL GODS, who held sway over students and faculty as the BIG MEN ON CAMPUS. At BF Christian School in Louisiana, the only religion was FOOTBALL. They recruited players from all over the state and even as far as Texas. Academics was a distant afterthought.

BF CHRISTIAN was a private school
whose religion was FOOTBALL!

I had had other FOOTBALL GODS in my classroom and given the culture of the school, had naturally shown them the deference that all the faculty did, but they had not held dominion over me like Mule instantly had, this was a whole other tier of pigskin deity. Usually the quarterback held kingship at our school, but I soon learned the crown had been usurped by Mule, who held dominance not over his mortal schoolmates, but the other athletic demiurges as well. There was just something about him that sent the rest of the school fawning over him. Even as a freshman he had been given an unprecedented position on the varsity squad, and I was to learn later that other ballers joked jealously that the coaches behaved as if they were the Mule’s cleat-cleaners and malicious rumors circulated among the students that their knees were often grass-stained and that HIS semen was frequently caked around their mouths.


Of course that might have all been fueled by the incident in his freshman year where Mr. Moran, the wrestling coach, had been caught giving the 14 year old Mule a blow job. Mule was reputed to have the largest cock on campus of either student or staff, and Mr. Moran couldn’t help himself. Mr. Moran was fired and replaced with Coach. Chesnick who reputedly had a bigger cock (as well as bigger muscles) than Mule, and that might have been the reason Mule left the wrestling team, but Mule insisted to me later, truthfully or not, that it had more to do with him gaining size for football to the point he was getting just too large for the wrestling team and ended up in the new weight class being matched with what he called “stanky Sumos”. However I thought there was more to it.


Coach Chesnick had a reputation of being a bully towards the students and faculty. The kids called him “Coach Hardass”, both because he was such an asshole and because of his magnificent and massive set of glutes. They also referred to him as “Coach Cox” as he liked to shower with the students intimidating them with his large muscles and phallus. The latter was of such prodigious length and girth, that it would have made porn stars jealous.

Coach Chesnick

There couldn’t have been more than 3% body fat on that sculptured muscular 6’4” frame. The Coach was also strikingly handsome, and used that to his advantage as much as he did his muscle. He threw that muscle around in the faculty lounge that is for certain, emasculating the men with crude barbs, and being condescending and misogynistic towards the women. Still he was a daunting physical specimen and from the lascivious and knowing looks some of the staff of both genders gave him, he liked to throw his cock around as well.

Croaker

The first few weeks of school, I found myself looking forward to Fourth Period. No matter how the day had gone before that, it was all sunshine and rainbows the moment he entered my class. I was revived and electrified by his presence. I knew to position myself strategically behind the lectern that period, to hide my inevitable erection. Mule always flashed me a big disarming grin when he entered (usually late) but there was a twinkle in his eye that made me think that every thought I had registered on my face for his amusement. I gave up asking for late passes from him on day three because he would raise an eyebrow just give a shrug and it somehow never occurred to me to press it. He took the opportunity to get up and sharpen his pencil just to waggle his buttocks as if somehow that was necessary for the pencil sharpening effort. Or he would throw something in the wastebasket just so he could brush past me enveloping me in his mind-blowing aroma. He also took opportunities to stretch, flexing his bulging muscles to good effect. Needless to say I lost my train of thought frequently during fourth period. Still it was more the goofy exuberance of a young bravo rather than anything mean-spirited, and he had a good natured charm that showed there was nothing in the way of malicious thoughts directing his actions. He was quite funny, and his witty yet insightful remarks brought a welcomed levity to class.


The thing about Mule was he was extremely smart, a 4.0 student with a brain that belied the knuckle-dragging Cro-Magnon he presented to his peers. He used various stratagems to mask the clear cognitive dissonance between the reality of the scholar and the persona of “The Mule”. He had cheerleaders do assignments for him (although actually handing in the higher quality work he did himself) and laid the charm on his teachers so that his classmates thought his grades were a gift rather than earned. With me, from the first day, he had something else in mind. Once he had understood the visceral reaction he had on me, he set out to have some fun with it, and it became what he later told me was “his special project”. Mule had a curious probing mind and he was rather bored among the intellectual mediocrity that was the norm of his peers, and his special projects were essentially sociological experiments to stimulate his synapsis starving for adequate stimulation. As a freshmen his special project had been to reduce Upper Classmen into his lackeys, by sophomore year this had become quite a sizable posse of what he called his “nut-huggers”. Now this year he decided to extend the project to the faculty. I was his guinea pig. Like a young male lion, Mule was testing the limits of how far he could go.


To upset the established order in such a dramatic fashion, Mule knew he had to proceed systematically and progressively with me so as not to invite a knee-jerk reaction and rebellion. He thought of the metaphor of the frog in the pot. If you ease the heat slowly and steadily, the frog would adjust and not be inclined to jump out ending up cooked. I later learned that his nickname for me among his football buddies was “Croaker”.


He began with being late without a pass, and then deciding to leave early without passes in order to go to the Office for some fanciful reason or another. Who knows where he actually went. Now with another student I would have called the office to confirm before letting him leave, and issued my own pass, but instead I just obligingly gave him a hall-pass just for the flash of a smile he gave me, and an excuse for him to approach. Although I always felt pangs of disappointment when he left my classroom. His presence had the effect of me slurping down three Monster energy drinks, taking Viagra and injecting myself with morphine. Fourth period had me in a state of euphoria, with dopamine levels in my brain going through the roof. So when he would come up to my desk at the end of class asking if he could hand assignments in late without penalty, I didn’t even register the various excuses he gave, I was so focused on him being so close, that I always said: “Sure Mule, I understand, no problem.” Then I would be lost in the movement of his muscular glutes as he strode away throwing a “Thanks Mr. B” over his massive bovine trapezius.

He next began chewing gum in class, openly texting, putting his feet on chairs, and tilting back in his chair, as well as other petty infractions, just to show the other students that he could do this with impunity, while they could not. When one pencil neck nerd by the name of Billy Wilcox objected, Mule growled him into silence, and I heard the kid later suffered a swirly in the restroom for his temerity to think that the same rules applied to Mule and dorks like him.  Billy also showed up the next day in class sporting a beaut of a shiner.  Few dared to thwart the Mule, and those who did regretted it.  Besides, Mule later confided, he liked me and he didn't appreciate some neckbeard being disrespectful to me. As odd as it seemed, at his heart Mule. even as a teen, was a white knight quick to step in to protect the weak. Nerds only faced his wrath when they crossed lines that should NOT be crossed.

Whenever he felt he had gone too far and I was peeved or hurt by something he tried, he dialed it back, and found ways to do me special courtesies “doing me a solid”, as he phrased it, until our relationship was back on an even keel. Once when he stopped by after class and saw that I was stressed (because I had just been arguing on the phone with my wife) he out of the blue leaned down and kissed me gently on the forehead as if he was a parent comforting a forlorn child, adding a very Mule-like "suck it up, cupcake, ain’t no crying allowed here" causing me to light up like a Christmas tree, my stress vanishing in a state of ecstatic bliss.


There is nothing quite like the euphoria of being in love, and I was finding myself over the next few weeks being the happiest I had ever been, at least at school, things on the home-front were beginning to deteriorate. The weeks went by and having already pushed it so far, so easily, Mule one day decided to dial up the heat some more. He let it be known that henceforth I was to address him as Sir in all our private conversations. When I began to object, he shot me a glare so intimidating I nearly shat myself. His fierce face was something you would not want to gainsay, and he had used it to great effect on the football field. It was not unusual for players on the opposing teams to soil their compression pants when facing down the Mule in BEASTMODE. My objections became like dust in myself, unutterable under the laser like glare of those angry eyes. It was if the beam had burned right through my lips and turned my tongue into a shriveled blackened remnant. I reached for my water bottle and with an audible gulp attempted to extinguish the phantasmal fire in my mouth. Mule growled out a “Well, Mr. B?” and when words finally did come to me, it was “Yes, Sir.” Mule merely winked and flashed a smile, dismissing the beast, and said “Good boy”. And the thing is, once I started doing it, I found I liked it, it felt right, he really deserved to be shown such respect.

Unfortunately, one day I slipped and said "Yes, sir" to Mule in front of the students, to which the class gave a horrified collective gasp. The respect I had built up over 20 years of teaching was snapped at that moment , very quickly in the ensuing weeks, the students grew increasingly difficult to control and unruly, and it was Mule who inevitably stepped into to re-establish order. I was still the teacher, and as such was to be respected, and the class had better acknowledge that fact, or face his fist. However, outside of Mule's presence, on class or in the halls, the students made “sniffing” noises when I walked by for the rest of the school year, as it signaled that I had become the Mule’s “jock sniffer”.

On-call

Mule even extended his Dominion over me beyond the school. I gave him my cell phone number and was thereafter always “on-call” to serve him. I acted as chauffeur, bought him and his jock friends beer, took him on shopping trips for sneakers, garb, and sundries, to which I was given the reward of picking up the tab. The odd thing was the more he demanded of me, and imposed on me, the happier I was. It afforded me more time with him, and presented me an opportunity to demonstrate my love. I had become obsessed and doted on him, prepared to indulge his every whim. He would have me pick him and his friends up for school and home, so that they didn’t have to ride their bikes or the bus. They no longer called me Mr. B, except in school, but openly called me Croaker, although this liberty was only a prerogative of the Football Gods, and other students who tried to be so brazen were met with gut-wrenching fists to the abdomens for a first offense, and if they repeated the infraction, they were sporting shiners and bruises the next day at school.

Mule did give me a gift, a framed picture of himself with MASTER scrawled on the bottom, and one for my wallet. I kept the framed pic in my study creating a shrine. The time I spent catering to needs of Mule and his jock buddies, which I saw as a pleasure rather than a chore, began to put an increasing strain on my home life --as my wife wanted to know where I went all the time, and wasn’t entirely convinced by the stories I gave. She began to roll her eyes every time my cell phone buzzed with a text message. She once told me that she would suspect me of having an affair, but felt I was just not man enough anymore to try something like that, and it would be refreshing should she discover that to be the case because it would mean there was some man left in me.  She continued chiding me that I had of late become a mouse, and not the man she had married. She began to call my phone THE MASTER, little did she know how close to the mark she was.

Sometimes I had to REALLY hightail it when I got a message, because Mule had gotten into a fight, breaking arms, jaws, teeth, whatever, and had to make a quick exit before cops showed up. Not that Mule started fights, it was usually his buddies getting into scrapes escalating to situations they could not handle, because they know they could rely on Mule to finish what they had started. I used to keep a cooler in the car and ice packs in the fridge to tend to his bruised and battered knuckles. Of course you had to see the other guys, as the song says, they looked like jigsaw puzzles with a couple of pieces gone.


Mule did sometimes start shit on his own, if he felt he was provoked. Once, when I chauffeured Mule and his friends to Wendy’s the burger geek messed up his order, adding mayo to his burger contrary to very specific instructions. He first slapped me upside the head for presenting him with such garbage, then got out of the car, ran up to the window, grabbed the geek by the collar, pulled him half way out of the window and ground the offending burger into the teen’s face growling: “What part of NO MAYO did you not understand”.

He also liked to start shit on the field, trashtalking the opposing player to the point of getting suspended from the game a few times. The football coach finally told the refs that Mule suffered from Tourette’s and the suspensions stopped. Still his aggression on the field inevitably led to fights with those players off the field. Once three players jumped him after the game, but it was Mule who walked away from the encounter while the trio crawled.

Mrs. Warren

I would also chauffeur my young blond Casanova on a seemingly endless parade of booty calls. If a girl was hot at the school, chances are at one point or another she had her panties around her ankles in the back seat of my car as Mule plowed her furrows. I was constantly cleaning up Master’s jism from the seats, it was good thing it was leather rather than upholstery or I would have had suspicious stains to explain to the family.


It was not only high school girls he sported with, there were store cashiers, college girls home on break, bored young housewives and even MILFs, including the mothers of classmates, even those of some of his buddies. When his sophomore English teacher Mrs. Cavendish went on maternity leave at the beginning of the marking period,  many speculated that the baby would come out looking a lot like Mule given all the “home tutoring” she gave him last year.


I was kept busy transporting him to fuck locations or as a driver of his “love-mobile”. At that age of raging hormones, the Mule was insatiable and needed one maybe two fucks a day to keep him from going berserk. He saw the whole hot female population of the town as his buffet, and a woman or girl had to be an exceptional lay to be worth a repeat. There was ONE woman who could manage to keep luring him back. This was Mrs. Warren, who he had for social studies freshman year and who had been the woman who popped his cherry at age 14 and continued to teach him the various mysteries of sex. Her husband was a bland schlemiel of an accountant whom she only saw as a meal ticket for the finer things in life that she enjoyed. I had never known of a man so thoroughly cuckolded, and so oblivious to it. Mrs. Warren was a nymphomaniac with an unquenchable libido and a penchant for initiating freshman boys into manhood.

She also found time for older students, deliverymen, postal employees, repairmen and even colleagues. I admit that prior to my subjugation by the Mule, I had had trysts with Mrs. Warren. She was incredibly beautiful and sexy woman, and knew how to get whoever she fancied into her bed. One time I was parked across the street from Mrs. Warren’s place ready to drive Mule home from his latest bout with the seductive teacher. I saw Mr. Warren pull into the drive way….he had come home early. I gave my horn a beep, and that not only warned the pair but delayed Mr. Warren as he stopped and looked around to see what the hubbub was about. I saw Mule sneaking out a side window carrying his jeans and sneakers, so hurriedly had he had to make his escape! Several year later, Mrs. Warren was finally caught, and sent to jail for having sex with underage boys. Her pathetic cuck of a husband still stood by her after that, until there was a scandal involving some of the male prison guards being disciplined for having sex with—you guessed it—Mrs. Warren.

The Seduction of Bridget

If there was someone at the school that sent Mule’s heart palpitating like he did mine, it was Bridget O’Conner. She was clearly the hottest girl in school, and the head cheerleader. I had caught Mule mooning over her many a time when I went to pick him up after FB practice. But who can blame him. She had curves in all the right places buns of steel that gave her more junk in the trunk than most white girls, and she was ravishingly beautiful. Her dark brown hair set off her blue topaz eyes to great effect, and her smile displayed a set of flawless, even teeth.


She was also the biggest challenge at the school as she was one of those promise ring girls, saving herself for marriage—which was quite the oddity at BF Christian. Every jock in school had tried to have a crack at spreading those legs to no avail, Mule had struck out Freshman and Sophomore years, but as he was bigger and sexier as a junior, and he thought it time to give it another try.


Mule asked her out on a date of miniature golf, which was quite the popular date scene back in the days before everyone had Netflix. Mule had scored many a ‘hole in one’ with girls there, and to this day he can’t see a windmill without getting an erection.


Bridget was a little surprised to find her Social Studies teacher chauffeuring her and Mule on her date, but after a moment it didn’t seem to faze her. I seemed like a chaperone, which allowed her virginal mind to relax. Mule liked it because he got to sit next to his crush in the back of car, his right arm resting on the top of the seat behind her head, allowing him to press his big brawny body close to her, permitting her to feel the reverberations of his muscles as he slipped in a few pec bounces, and for her to inhale his enticing virile musk. From glances in my rearview mirror, I could see it was having its desired effect, as she was looking a bit lightheaded or as Mule would later put it in a witty double entendre, she was “taking the vapors”.


I followed the pair around the course, keeping a discrete distance, but close enough so that Bridget continued to keep her guard down. This fortunately allowed me to see and hear what transpired. Mule kept it cool, not pressing the matter too keenly so that she would have a knee-jerk reaction slamming her knees permanently shut. Mule could be quite charming and affable when he wanted to be, and both were joking and laughing and having a good time.


Mule threw out the line “Will you stop staring at me already? You’re really making me self-conscious.” And then they both laughed.

She was impressed with his mad mini-golf skills which contrasted with her own ineptitude. This however was an opportunity for Mule, and he seized it. He offered to help her with her golf swing, and got behind her engulfing her with his massive frame as he put his over hers to guide her swing. His powerful muscles pressed against her and she shuddered as they rippled. He whispered instructions as so that his minty breath blew on her ear sending tingling sensations throughout her body causing her to quiver. It wasn’t long before she was gazing up at him with hearts in her eyes, and soon they were kissing passionately.

When Bridget complained that her legs were getting a bit tired and cramped from the golf stance,

Mule countered. “Naw, I think your legs must be tired because you’ve been running through my mind all night.”

“Oh you!”-- She said giving him a gentle shove that made no impact on his mind of pectoral muscles. He took her hand gently in his big paw and escorted it up to his lips causing her to coo like a dove.

When they got briefly separated in the crowd, Bridget remarked, “That is why I need gps all the time, I have a terrible sense of direction.” Mule countered: “I’m that way because I just keep on getting lost in your eyes.” I inwardly groaned at such a cheesy line but it worked surprisingly. Maybe it was in the delivery…or the deliverer.

On the next hole, Mule got a bit bolder.

“Damn girl, you with all those curves! And me with no brakes!”

Bridget counters: “Maybe you should slow down then!”

Mule grinned: “I don’t know if I can, but you know this is really all your fault. You can’t blame a guy for hitting the accelerator with you looking so sexy in that dress.”

They both laughed.

“But you know what would look really, really great on you? Me.”

Bridget frowned and wiggled her hand adorned by the promise ring in his face.

Mule smiled a big mischievous smile: “Perhaps I am the guy that is going to wear you down.”

“I wouldn’t count on it!” she said haughtily.

Mule laughed: “Ah! The tough act. Don’t worry. I know exactly what you’re doing here. I also know that, deep inside, you have a little princess hiding inside of you just waiting to be pampered. Cum out, princess. Cum on out!” she giggled at that, and soon they were kissing again this time French style. It went on so long that they broke off gasping for air. He caressed her cheeks with this fingertips, and then moved them over to her lips tracing them with his digits. She blew on his fingers and Mule said.

“Every time you take a breath, you give me reason to live.”

That was the clincher. She melted in his arms. Mule disengaged his right arm, raised it snapped his fingers at me, while he voicelessly mouthed “Croaker”. I knew from experience what that meant and I went and got the car, and pulled it around to the entrance, by the time I got back Mule and Bridget were furiously groping one another, their mouths locked in the vortex of deep, sloppily wet kisses. Without totally breaking off their entanglement, Mule deftly opened the door and slid Bridget on to the backseat, with Mule on top. I had to get out and close the door, and by the time I did Bridget’s panties were flung off, landing on the front passenger seat. I took the scenic route back to Bridget’s home, and Mule fucked her so hard and well,  he released the sexual tiger in her. They had many more sexscapades after that and remain friends to this day, staying in touch on Facebook.

Cocksucker

Prior to the next escalation of his dominion, Mule treated me to some pec bounces, biceps pops and other muscular displays until I was so zombified as to be putty in his manipulative hands. “Croaker, my boy, I think it is time you extended your service to the next level and got on your knees and sucked my cock.” I protested less than convincingly that I was “a married man, and not gay.”

Mule laughed riotously at that. “Croaker, that may have been true in the past, but we both know that I have turned you into an unmitigated phaggot. And if there is one thing my old wrestling coach-Coach Moran and the art teacher Mr. Mosley have taught me--it is that giving real men blowjobs is what God placed phaggots on earth for. Sure women can give bj’s but in my experience to date, there is nobody who can give a blowjob like a phaggot! Women just don’t quite have the enthusiasm for it that you natural cocksuckers do!”

With one forceful hand he pushed me down on my knees and unfastened his pants, and let them drop. Then he took off his jockstrap and thrust it in my face telling me to give it a good sniff, I did and I liked it. Thus I went from his figurative jock-sniffer to his literal one. Next he ordered me to begin sucking his cock. It was a magnificent example of a penis, and with it dangling before me I was overcome with a penis-lust that was entirely new to me. I began to lick the head and shaft tenuously, but began to pick up the knack of it and an enthusiasm for it. Mule palmed my head like a basketball and guided my mouth deeper and deeper around his swelling cock until I was deep throating the gargantuan cucumber.

.I had gone from “no homo” appreciation of men’s physiques
 to “total homo” in my lust for muscle and cock.

Eventually I began to taste the sweet nectar of his precum and eventually his seed. Through his moans, Mule commanded that I swallow his precious fluids and not spit them, and I readily complied discovering that I quite like the taste of semen. This was to become my favorite duty that I had to perform for him. Whatever lingering heterosexual impulses that may have been left in me were now totally gone. Pussy no longer held any allure for me. THERE WAS ONLY MULE. In the course of five months I had gone from "no homo" appreciation of men's physiques to "total homo" in my lust for muscle and cock.

Just as I went in time from being Mule’s chauffeur to the taxi service for all his Football buddies, my cockservice went from exclusively Mule to that of his friends as well. Mule told me that I had become so proficient that he thought it selfish of him not to share me with his friends as well. At first they were circumspect, but like in everything else, they became brazen, a byproduct of their youth. This was particularly the case after football season ended, and they were getting bored. One day after weight training, they swung by my office for their rides home. “I am horny and clogged with semen, Mr. B, I could sure you some release!” He paused and then added: “How about you guys?!”

As I serviced Mule's and his crew,
I was in hog heaven for this bonanza of a sausage fest.

“Oh hell yeah”, they eagerly replied. I looked around the room frantically like a deer  caught in the headlights. “What here?” I asked nervously, the fear of exposure both terrifying and titillating me. “No time like the present, I always say!” returned Mule. Mule lowered the “lockdown shade” over the window on the classroom door, and locked the door. As his football buddies stood lookout, Mule stripped totally naked, revealing a mostly erect penis crying out for servicing. With that array of mouthwatering muscle not to mention ‘at full mast’ fuckpole on display, I forgot about all my reservations and concerns, as my underpants moistened from cock leakage, and could think of nothing but dropping to my knees and applying my lips to his dong. Then each of the others took their turn getting serviced, but in my imagination, each successive cock I swallowed was still that of Mule.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

~~~Mr. B please report to
the Men's Locker room!~~~

ROLL EXIT THEME:

Coming up in the action packed conclusion of Kicked by a Mule entitled There Can Be Only One --Things get complicated when Mule and Mr. B encounter a Nemesis in the form of Coach Chesnick. When two alphas go head to head for supremacy you bet your sweet ass THERE WILL BE BLOOD!