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Her name was Mrs. Sue Foster. She was not really hot per say, but there was something about her that made me want to fuck her. I could tell that she had a fairly smoking body, nice sized tits, nice ass. She was about five foot eight inches tall, dirty blonde hair about mid length. Her face made her look older than she was. She was mid forties but she looked older. Something about her. So I took several of her classes and we clicked. She seemed to like me as much as I liked her. I would help her after school, I even would go over to her house and help her with the yard. It was during these visits that I discovered how hot her body was. Plenty of braless down blouse shots. Up the leg of her shorts shots. And we flirted with each other. I would come home and have to take a cold shower. So one day I am over at her house and she was going to spray this bug killer spray on her plants. She had it a pump up sprayer and we were pumping it up. But could not get it to spray. She went to. She wriggled more and more and I was going to stop, but the look on Marks face told me not to. Mary was screaming so loud now I thought that we’d have the management banging on the door and then it happened. Mark exploded. I mean litterly. A huge amount of spunk flew from him and all over me. Well in fact all in my face, as I had been facinacted in what Mary was doing to him. Until then I’d never had anyone else spunk on me and now I was covered from head to belly in it. I was shocked, surprised and not at all annoyed, which I thought I would have been if you asked me about that before it happened.Mark said “I’ve not finished, help me mate”, and without even thinking about it I lent over, grabbed his spunk and pussy cum covered cock and ran my hand up and down, squeezing as tight as I would had I been wanking. Now it was the turn of Mark to grimace and moan. It was hard wanking someone else when you are in front of them, let alone the first time I’d ever wanked another man..
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The wear and tear on my knees caused sharp, nagging pain, and my doctor said stop or live the rest of my life as a cripple. I thought of the ache in my arm, how hard it got to lift that arm as the season and seasons went on–and how I somehow managed to make good throws anyway. I took foul tips into the forearm, the thighs, a hand, almost every game. Torment. But even then it was not an easy decision to stop. I loved that game. But it was always a game, just a game. I never thought it was important to society or democracy. I saved some money, invested conservatively on good advice and built up some savings. I made a living–a lot compared to plumbers and teachers and carpenters–but that wasn’t it for me. I loved that game. Kinsella called it the thrill of the grass, that feeling of expectancy and nature and playing a game on green grass and dirt. For me it was the grit of the dirt. I got dirty catching. I got it in my mouth, the creases of my elbows, the angle of my jaw, and sometimes.

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