Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!
Today I am delighted to announce that In Appreciation of their Cox -
my second self-published venture and the first with a "red for erotica" cover - is UP ON SALE at Amazon and elsewhere 😍
Eight tall, muscular men straining every sinew, and one itty-bitty young woman urging them on with all her might. That’s rowing for you
.
Joanna is a coxswain for a top British university rowing team. She spends her days with eight tall, handsome, muscular men in tight shorts, and she adores every one of them, but she’s never succumbed to temptation and done anything naughty with any of them. Her relationship with her rowers has been strictly professional and sporting. Until now, that is.
Now she’s leaving the university and there’s one last celebratory meal for the team. Tonight, all eight men get to show their enthusiastic cox their heartfelt appreciation in a demonstration no one will ever forget…
“Who’s going to fuck me?” I whisper.
“All of us,” Murray answers, running his hand up his engorged member all the way to the glistening head. “Can you take it, Coxey?”
I nod, mesmerized. My pussy is aching to be filled. I want all of them inside me at once, though that’s obviously impossible. “Who’s going to fuck me first?”
“Stroke goes first,” says Murray. “Of course he does.”
It makes sense. They’re used to following the Stroke’s lead in the boat. He’s first among equals. Even Fergus doesn’t object when Nils picks me up from my knees and clasps me to him, wrapping my legs about his hips. I can feel his cock poking my butt and I wonder if he’s going to try to do it just like that, standing and holding me up—it’s not impossible, I feel like a doll in his huge embrace—but he carries me back over to the bar counter. The others gather round to watch. Seven more men, wanting their turn.
Oh hell, I think. It’s suddenly become real, not just a lovingly honed fantasy. Have I bitten off more than I can chew? They’re going to fuck me. They’re
all going to fuck me. They’re going to take it in turns to bang my cunt and my mouth and fill me with their come.
And I’m so wet that it’s running out down the crack of my ass.
“Hold on tight.” Nils’ grey eyes are cold, implacable, focused. The eyes of a champion rower.
I grab the brass rail behind my hips with both hands while he takes my weight, grasping my butt cheeks and shifting the angle between our bodies. Someone—it’s Bradley—goes behind the bar. He’s not just after a good vantage point down my body, he takes my shoulders to give me something to brace on, for which I’m grateful. Murray’s got my camera now, I notice. He’s grinning at the view screen.
“Now call time, Cox,” my Stroke says.
“Leg,” I breathe.
Nils slides me down over his helm with a smooth expertise, finding the notch and the hole.
“Drive.”
He pushes deep into me, turning my world upside down with the sensation. My eyes spring wide open.
“Now!”
He twists his hips, ramming right home, grinding my clit. I add an extra gasp to the sequence that shouldn’t really be there, and groan, “Glide!” as he slips into the withdrawal stroke. “Leg; Drive; Now; Glide…” I repeat, watching the familiar bead of sweat gather at the indent of his upper lip. Over and over.
Rowing is about rhythm. And discipline. And pain. The men watch, breathless and avid. There’s just enough of my brain functioning to wonder whether Nils was fantasizing about this every time he sat in front of me in the shell and pulled an oar to my orders. But most of my attention is demanded by the gathering knot of tension in my sex, a glow that gets brighter and fiercer and crueler as it contracts to a focal point, like the bead of light thrown by a magnifying glass that becomes an unbearably brilliant point, then ignites the tinder beneath it—and quite suddenly I am ignited too and burning, all rhythm abandoned and even the power of speech lost, as Nils thrusts into me and my legs kick helplessly and every muscle in my body contracts and spasms along with my orgasm. It’s a very loud one.
Nils comes too upon hearing me climax, uttering only a single grunt, his face barely changing expression but his jiz gushing into the tight grip of my pussy. Then he grabs me up and holds me against his chest, and I’m so fucking relieved because despite Bradley’s support my arms are shaking with strain. That’s when Nils kisses me. My heart turns over and seems to bloom. He’s Stroke—he sets the example, and they’ll all follow. The kiss is tender and deep, and though he must be able to taste Darren’s cum on my tongue he’s not bothered. It’s a kiss of utter satisfaction. He breaks it at last with a little sigh, and then spins on his heels with a barked laugh, whirling me about as if we’re dancing, and I clench my thighs and cling tight to him even as my hands fly free. With a little wuff of breath he slows and lays me down on my back, on a sturdy table. Gently he slips his cock from its sheath. “Thank you,” he says, which makes me laugh.
I close my eyes for a moment, dizzy not just from the spinning, my limbs loose and heavy. My head is lolling off the lip of the short table, my back supported but my thighs hanging over the edge.
“Well,” says Fergus. “If we’re going in order…”
Fergus rows in the seven seat, directly behind Nils. He’s the buffer between Stroke and the middle four. Now he takes Nils’ place between my thighs. I see he’s got a bottle of champagne from behind the bar, and he gives it a little shake.
“Hold her legs up, will you?”
Two of the guys raise my calves. That’s much more comfortable for me. I lift my head to watch Fergus unscrewing the twist of wire that holds the caged cork. There’s a ripe pop like a giant’s kiss and as the cork goes flying the champagne heaves and rushes from the neck of the bottle just like the gush of spunk, some flying out in an arc, some spurting out between Fergus’ fingers and slopping down the bottle. It lands on my spread pussy, a cold shock on those inflamed tissues and a delicious fizzy fountain on my pubic mound, slopping and dribbling down my thighs and into the split of my behind to run onto the floor. It lands on my stomach too, and as Fergus reaches forward, thumb over the bottle-mouth, he directs the squirt of white foam on my belly and breasts, making me arch my back at the sudden shock of the chilled wine. It goes over my throat and my chin and I open my mouth wide to gulp the fizzing ejaculate.
In Appreciation of their Cox is a 10K short story - you can find it on various stores here:
