In Appreciation of Their Cox Page 2

  “It’s the team trials tomorrow morning, remember? You want the coach to drop you?”

  “It’s just a couple of drinks.”

  It might have been, an hour back. He was still too young to have much self-discipline. “Come on,” I said, taking his arm. “You’ve got to get to bed.”

  His mates howled with laughter, of course. Darren made it worse by trying to stand on his dignity and pointing out that I was his cox. That didn’t work so well. “Coxswain, coxswain!” he protested as I led him away. He was pretty unsteady on his feet, but his ebullience died as I dragged him through the corridors and across the courtyards towards his room.

  “Where’s your key?”

  “In my pocket,” he said, leaning back against the bricks.

  Sighing, I patted his trouser pockets.

  “Jo.”

  “What?”

  “Jo… You know…”

  I looked up, my fingers actually inside his warm pocket, groping for the keys. His eyes were shiny.

  “I really like you, Jo. You know that.” Darren took my face in his hands.

  Oh shit, thought I. He was nineteen, just a first-year, extraordinarily talented to be considered for the First VIII when at his age he hadn’t even come into his full strength. And cute too. Almost pretty, despite that annoying hairstyle preened down over his eyes and cheekbones. “Aren’t I a bit old for you?” I asked.

  “I don’t care.”

  I did. The difference between a nineteen-year-old undergrad and a twenty-seven-year-old post-grad is vaster than the Grand Canyon—even if I did appreciate his tight body and his girlish eyelashes and those pouty lips. “It’s sweet of you,” I started, but he interrupted by sweeping down for a kiss, wet and lager flavored and surprisingly effective. I felt a reflex tingle in my pussy from the sudden contact that took me quite by surprise. It didn’t stop me shoving him off though, and he flopped back against the wall. To my dismay there were tears in his eyes.

  Oh bloody hell, I thought, exasperated but not unsympathetic, teenagers.

  “Darren, I’m your cox. The trials are tomorrow.” I tried to sound brisk. “Don’t be daft now.”

  “Yeah. Right.” He looked hurt.

  “You need to get some sleep.”

  “You don’t like me then?”

  “Of course I do…but not like that. Now go to bed.”

  “Give me a kiss. Give me a kiss and I’ll go.”

  I bit my lip. But I was hardly able to force him to do anything if he wasn’t cooperating. “Promise?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I had to stretch up and he had to stoop. It was a soft, pleading kiss and it made me feel terribly guilty, like I was taking advantage of him. This was confused somewhat by the bruising pressure of his erection against my lower belly, which made me feel guilty in another way entirely. Because deep down I really did want to take advantage of his young, eager body—and to hell with responsibility. I wanted to ride his lithe frame until he begged for rest. But neither of us made mention of the overeager stiffy when we broke off and I slipped his key into his hand.

  “Oh God, Jo…”

  “Good night, Darren.” I knew what he was going to do with that hard-on once he was behind his door and the thought made me so wet I could hardly walk straight.

  * * * * *

  I’m their mascot, their mother, their little sister, their queen, their squadron leader—all at the same time. I’m not their girlfriend. I can’t be. That didn’t stop Murray teasing me.

  “So when you going to let me take you out and give you the night of your life, Jo?” He didn’t mean it. He only liked to josh me in front of the others. Beneath his mop of sun-streaked brown curls, his blue eyes glinted naughtily.

  “Oh no,” I answered, pulling a shocked face. “Don’t tell me you’ve worked your way through every other woman in the uni already? It’s only March! There’s got to be someone left, surely—in the Christian Union or something—that you haven’t porked yet?”

  They snigger. Murray’s one of those guys who become legendary. Girls just chuck themselves into his bed. It’s got nothing to do with his looks—or at least, it’s not entirely about his looks, because I’ve known men just as handsome get nowhere. It’s his attitude and his reputation, which has become a self-fulfilling prophecy. He’s amiable, charming and completely willing to take on anyone. He doesn’t bitch or brag or gossip afterwards either—in his slutty way, he’s a gentleman. He just likes girls of any shape or size or complexion, and if you’re a shy plain girl the knowledge that this handsome bloke is just as keen on bedding you as the blonde beauty next to you is one hell of a relief. Fucking Murray has become a rite of passage among female freshers in his college.

  And you know, I wouldn’t object at all to joining the list if I weren’t his cox.

  * * * * *

  Memories. I was taking photos down on the riverbank when I bumped into Bradley, who was out running. My Bowman is a postgrad like me and sets his own timetable. He was wearing loose shorts for this form of exercise, thank God.

  “What are you up to, Jo?”

  “Souvenirs.” I waved my camera vaguely at the weir, the old mill and the facade of the cathedral rising over the vast steep banks of the peninsula. “This is my last summer here. I wanted to make sure I got pictures.” My voice wobbled on the last few words.

  “You okay?”

  “Oh yeah. Sort of.” I didn’t want to tell him how close I’d got to panic just walking these familiar paths. “It’s just…I’m not looking forward to leaving.”

  “I thought you got a good job?”

  “Yeah. I have. And I do know you can’t stay here forever, and it’s been nine years for me already. I’ve got to move on, I know. Change is good. But…” I stopped, taking a deep breath. “I love this place. I love living here. I’m going to miss it.”

  He nodded and scratched his stubbled cheek. He’s got a bony face, Bradley, and brown eyes that look sleepy just because of the way their lids fold down at the outer corners, but as the bow rower he’s actually got to be quick-witted and adaptable. “You don’t really leave,” he said sympathetically. “You can’t. It’s part of you. You take it with you here.” He touched my forehead with the tip of one finger.

  I nodded, and as sudden hot tears welled in my eyes I turned my face away.

  “Oh hey,” he chided me, scooping one long arm about my shoulders and pulling me to him in a hug. “Jo.”

  I squeezed my eyes tight shut, pressing my face to his chest as I gave way to a few snuffling sobs. It was a good strong comforting hug and for a long moment I let him support me, but embarrassment won out over sentiment in the end. I pushed my hands up between his body and my face, wiping at the escaped tears, and sighed. That was when I realized that the hug was still going on. That I was maybe a bit too pliantly pressed to his torso. That there was a weird heat between us, an undercurrent. As he shifted his stance ever so slightly I became more certain.

  I lifted my face, murmuring, “Um.” Um as in You’ve got an erection coming on fast. I hope you know what happens next, because I’m not sure at all.

  “Um,” he echoed ruefully, and let me go. He cleared his throat. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t dare look down. I wanted to, but I didn’t dare. Pink with embarrassment, I turned away, rubbing my face to get rid of tear tracks. “Thanks. Sorry about that.”

  Bradley’s one of the guys I like best. I might be seriously interested in him. But I can’t be. On top of everything else, he’s engaged.

  * * * * *

  A number of my crew have girlfriends. I do my best to take no notice. If they’ve found someone tolerant enough to cope with their early-to-bed, early-to-rise regime, then good for them. I don’t want to know and as long as it doesn’t interfere with the rowing it’s none of my business.

  Ed, who’s the most Rah of the lot but sweet with it, may actually have a boyfriend—but I wouldn’t dream of asking. Quite a lot of people come out in a
tentative sort of way at university. Testing the waters. Or they experiment, trying stuff they wouldn’t dare do at home. Ed’s aiming to start army officer training in a year or so and I cringe at the thought of what’ll happen to him, but that’s what his family expects him to do. He’s got this whole upper-class-family-tradition thing hanging over his head. I feel this weird, helpless urge to defend him from his future.

  I do feel protective.

  They’re my crew. My men.

  Chapter Three

  After the hotel bar closes we spill out onto the road. It’s been a strange, somber evening despite the food and the champagne, not like us at all. I don’t feel the least drunk. Our coach shakes hands with everyone one last time and heads off; he has to catch the train if he’s getting home tonight. He gives me a big hard peck on the cheek, which takes me by surprise since he’s never touched me before, and his jaw rasps on mine. Then he’s away up the street.

  “What now?” asks Darren, hands in pockets. “Pubs are shut, but we could hit a club.”

  “I’ve got the key to my college bar,” Fergus offers.

  It’s always useful to have a friend on a bar committee. We set off, Ed and Fergus each taking one of my arms as we walk, and I feel a bit like Dorothy flanked by a golden-blond upper-class scarecrow and a dark Scottish tin man.

  I’m not saying which college we end up in, but if you’ve been there you’ll know it—it’s got the smallest, cutest, stone-flagged cellar-bar. Fergus bolts the door once he’s sneaked us inside and then serves us from the impressive array of whiskies. It’s Ed—who else?—who decides that this is the time for each of us to make a speech and a toast. Oh dear. Most of them choose to be humorous, and I laugh along, but there’s an undercurrent of imminent loss and I can feel a lump in my throat. This is far too much like goodbye already. Zeke makes the penultimate speech and, being American, can say things that would make the rest of us horribly self-conscious, but we’re all in agreement as he expresses them. Then it’s my turn. Jon and Nils pick me up and sit me on the bar and I look round at eight expectant faces, feeling like my chest’s going to burst.

  “Well,” I start at last. “What’s there left to say? I’ve got to agree with Zeke. Of course I need a few drinks before I can say it out loud, but… I love you guys.” I swallow hard. It is true in every sense. Individually I like each one of them—and some I like very much—but as a group, as my crew, I’m head over heels in love with them. “It’s going to break my freakin’ heart to leave you.” My voice crumbles and as I look down, clearing my throat, Ed pats my thigh and Jon squeezes my hand. I laugh to cover my discomfort, coming out almost without thinking with the giggled line, “If you knew what I wanted to do to you guys…”

  There’s a shift in the room, a holding of breath as they refocus. Maybe I have had too much to drink after all. The urge to confess is way too strong.

  “If we knew…?” prompts Murray, tipping his chair back.

  I snigger into the back of my hand. “You’d be shocked.” I can feel their eyes fixed on me.

  “I bet I wouldn’t be.”

  “Well, obviously not you, Murray. Nothing could possibly shock you.” Now I can feel my cheeks glowing.

  “Do go on, Coxey. I think we’re all interested in hearing more.” There are grins and nods and mutters of encouragement.

  “Um.” I giggle again. This is ridiculous, really. In the boat I’m all mouth, garrulous and articulate. Now I’m as tongue-tied as a fresher at her first tutorial. “You know…”

  “Uh?”

  “Mmm,” I squeak despairingly, rolling my eyes, letting my shame speak for itself.

  “Seriously?” asks Fergus, with a crooked grin. He’s got a face as ugly-cute as a baby calf’s.

  “Hell, Jo,” smirks Jon, scratching his throat.

  “Hey,” says Nils, “the door is locked. We have all night.”

  The turning of fantasy to concrete possibility makes my heart thump and evokes a warm gush inside me that seeps to my panties. I look around the room, making myself meet their gazes. I see a lot of grins and lifted eyebrows but there’s something in their eyes that says it’s not being taken just as a joke.

  “You used to that sort of thing back home, Nils?” wonders Zeke.

  “Not much else to do on the long arctic nights,” Ed suggests.

  “You’re not serious, are you, Coxey?” asks Murray.

  I bite my lip.

  “You really want to, Jo?” Bradley asks.

  I focus on Darren. His jaw is twisted to the side, his eyes round. This might be too much for him at his age. Hell, is it not too much for me? “Um,” I say, helpfully. “It’s a…” The words clog in my throat. “It’d have to be all of you, you know. That’d be the point.”

  There’s a silence. I look down into my whisky. I can feel my clit swollen, my knickers sodden. I want to wriggle where I sit but I don’t dare.

  “Well, nobody’s walking out,” Murray observes.

  That was it, my get-out clause. I’d expected someone to cut and run. Bradley maybe. Or Ed. I sneak a sideways look at Ed. He’s gnawing his lip, but he nods at me very slightly. “Oh,” I say. “Well. Um.” I think I’m starting to hyperventilate, because I’m feeling lightheaded. “I’ve not really got any idea where to start.”

  Murray gets up from his table. “Let’s start with a game then,” he says, coming over and holding out his hands to me. Nils takes my drink, and I slip both hands into Murray’s and let him help me down from the bar. I’m not sure my legs could hold me up unaided now. I’m churning inside with heat and arousal and trepidation. He leads me into the middle of the room to stand on the only rug. “Ed, can I borrow your tie?”

  Ed of course wore a tie to dinner. He likes to observe the niceties, even if the tie is hanging like a noose around his open collar at the moment. He strips it off and hands it to Murray. I wonder if I’m going to be tied up when he circles behind me, but what he does in fact is blindfold me with a couple of turns.

  “Okay?” he whispers. The effect of his disembodied voice and his warm whisky-scented breath on my ear is to make shivers run all across my skin.

  I nod.

  He tightens the knot. Lifting my chin, he surprises me with a soft kiss. Then he addresses the others. “Come on then, gentlemen.”

  They move in. I hear the rasp of chairs and the whisper of their clothes, their breathing, the little murmurs they make in their throats. They surround me. I’m not sure if Murray is directing with gestures or it’s spontaneous, but they start to touch me and strip me. I’m not wearing that much, just a short dress and a bra-and-panty set beneath, no stockings or slip on this summer night. Hands glide over my skin as the fabric is tugged away. I can’t guess how many of them are able to reach me at a time, I can’t tell who it is who’s touching me. They’re just hands, callused and blistered from the oars, gentle but insistent. Someone fumbles at the catch of my bra, someone else hooks down the lace cups with his fingers. My nipples pebble as they’re exposed to the cellar air, and instantly they’re tested and tweaked and flicked and someone bends to give one a quick lick. My breasts are small to fit with my slight build, but they’re squeezed and jiggled appreciatively. Fingertips caress the length of my spine, making me shiver. Even my hair is stroked, my ears tickled. Now that I’m suddenly no longer forbidden territory they are curious and eager. My bottom is fondled, my panties pulled down, the cleft of my ass invaded by exploring fingers as, from the front, someone else strokes my pussy. It’s exhilarating and scary and confusing, my brain a whirl of sensation with no visual picture to make sense of the touches to my skin. I smell their colognes and hear them chuckle and whisper, and I squirm and lean into their hands and whimper with pleasure.

  “Now,” says Murray as a hand presses down on my shoulder. “Kneel down, Jo.”

  I slip to my knees, my body more naked now that the hands are withdrawn. The only apparel they’ve left on me are my red shoes with the four-inch heels.

  “Thi
s game is called Cocks for the Cox.”

  Sniggers and a few protests at the pun. I grin, half in fear. My sex feels hot and heavy, brimming with juice.

  “Your job is to guess which cock belongs to which man, Jo. No peeking now.” He takes my head in his hands and tilts me forward. Something smooth and warm bumps my lips, nudging them apart as it presses home. It’s the glans of a cock of course. I taste salt and soap, feel a slippery ooze against the tip of my tongue as I accept the turgid swell of flesh. Whoever it is tilts his hips, encouraging me to take it farther, and I open my mouth to suck it slowly within, exploring the contours of that crown with my tongue. There’s a collective sigh of breath from every angle. I know they’ve circled me now, they’re all around. Stretching my neck and opening wide, I admit the thick shaft right down to my throat. Hair tickles my nose. It’s a solid, stout cock but not that long. Tentatively I lift my hand to his crotch, finding fabric and the teeth of the zipper. He’s still wearing his trousers, but his fly is wide open and he’s holding his pants up as he rocks pleasurably in the warm embrace of my mouth. His scrotum is hairy and very big, bulging from the V of his fly. It’s the size of that sac that gives him away.

  With a final swirl of my tongue I withdraw and lick my lips. “Jon.”

  A rueful grunt from over my head, and appreciative sniggers all round. “Got it. That’s some mouth you’ve got, Coxey.”

  “Next,” says Murray, and hands swivel me on my knees. There’s a soft but distinctive click and all the hair stands up on my neck.

  “Is that a camera?”

  “Don’t worry—it’s your camera.” The voice is Bradley’s. “I thought you’d like some souvenirs.” Because it’s Bradley, I’m mollified. He wouldn’t do anything mean to me.

  The next cock is long and smooth, with a sharp flavor reminiscent of chardonnay. A moment’s careful exploration convinces me it has no foreskin, and that makes me more than half sure I know the answer. I suck enthusiastically though, in no hurry to make my guess, and explore his groin with my fingers. His pubes are trimmed back nearly to a stubble. It’s slightly distracting when someone behind me slips a hand beneath the curve of my bum and strokes my pussy, parting the puffy lips to lay open the wet furrow and plow it with a finger.