In Appreciation of Their Cox

by Janine Ashbless

  “Zeke,” I gasp, pulling clear.

  “Oh fuck, man,” he groans, wrapping his fingers in my hair and pulling my face back so he can rub his dick all over it. I open my mouth, more than willing to let him sheathe his tool again, but Murray is feeling mean—or impatient.

  “Uh-uh. Next.”

  Next is Ed, I’m sure of it. He’s only half-hard, at least until I start sucking. Then he stiffens up admirably. I wonder if he’s shut his eyes or he’s just looking at all those other rampant cocks. I give him the full works, trying not to be overwhelmed by the two unknown hands caressing my pussy and the finger delicately circling the pucker of my asshole. But when that wicked digit, slick with my own juices, prods into the ring of muscle, I sit up hard, my heart hammering.

  “Ed! And stop that!”

  Murray chuckles.

  Bradley’s easy to identify—he’s big and veined and he hangs low, almost horizontal. He strokes my face as he stirs my mouth, breathing hard. My cunt flutters at the thought of getting its turn with this monster length, and I writhe my hips as the teasing fingers play with me down below.

  The next one isn’t quite so big but it stands at a smart salute, which strains my neck. I’m almost stumped until I sneak a hand up his trouser leg and grasp a smooth shin—Nils, then. It leaves me only three other cocks to identify after that and they’re cheering me on by now, impressed. The camera clicks steadily.

  I’m not at all sure of the identity of the next cock either but I don’t have long to contemplate, because almost as soon as I gobble that sweetly musky length down he bucks and ejaculates, filling my mouth with come and taking me so much by surprise that some spills from the corners of my lips and nearly goes the wrong way up my nose. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” he groans, and I recognize Darren’s voice despite the fact he’s grabbed my head, covering my ears, and is thrusting into my mouth, forcing me to swallow as fast as I can. He tastes sweet, like fresh hay. “Oh bloody fuck,” he finishes, rather inanely, followed by, “I’m sorry!”

  I pull off my blindfold, partly because my eyes are watering, and look up at him. “Don’t be. I liked it.” I look round at all of them. They stand in a ring all round me, shirts off or hanging open, trousers still hitched about their hips. Eight stiff cocks in hand or standing proud, all pointing at me. It takes my breath away. “This is what I want.”

  “Yeah, it’s just me you dicked off,” growls Fergus to Darren. It’s sort of obvious now that he was going to be next in line.

  “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?”

  “I’ll call that,” says Fergus, cradling his balls, pressing forward.

  “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’ 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 ball of unseen light 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 come 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 come on my tongue he’s not bothered. It’s a kiss of utter satisfaction. He breaks it at last with a little sigh, 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 come, 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, 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.

  “God bless her and all who sail in her,” mutters Murray from my
right foot.

  Champagne froth doesn’t last long. The foam on my stomach is already melting into a pool of liquid filling my navel as Fergus works his way back down again and gives my sex another soaking.

  “Well?” he asks the others. “Aren’t you going to drink up?”

  The guys fairly scrabble for places, all but him and the two holding my feet. They slurp the foam from my tits and lick it from my belly, their mouths suddenly all over me. I let my head fall back and I give myself up to five suckling, lapping mouths, trembling all over as they tickle me to the edge. As for Fergus, he crouches to part my sex lips with his fingers and licks me like an ice cream cone, making me buck.

  “Like that, Coxey?” he asks, somewhat muffled. I squeal.

  It’s heaven. Six mouths—no, eight—feeding on me, everywhere now, tugging on my nipples and sucking my fingers and my toes too. I make noises like I’ve never made before, panic and delight and surrender all at the same time, smothering the softer sounds of the champagne running from the table to the flagstones and the click of the photographer. The bottle and camera are both being passed around. Someone moves to my head. I blink up at a furred six-pack that forms the backdrop to a jutting cock and a huge ball sac from which the mousy hair corkscrews at wild angles. It’s Jon. It has to be. He’s dropped his trousers and his bare thighs are like girders. The guys in the middle four seats are the powerhouses of the boat—the Meat Rack, it’s called. They don’t need finesse, they just need muscle. He tips the bottle over his cock and the fizz runs down his pole and all over his balls and rains into my mouth and all over my chin.

  I’m going to drown in champagne and kisses.

  Then he puts the bottle down and stoops over me, supporting my head in one hand as he presses his cock to my lips. I lick the champagne from his skin and open wide, hungry for his stiff length, the licking of my clit rousing me to appetite all over again. It’s too much for Fergus, though. He’s not going to carry on sucking me off while another man fucks my throat. He lurches up from between my thighs and guides his dick between my open sex lips to the wet and empty cunt it wants so much. He goes in with more determination than finesse and I make a low animal noise in my throat, the only way I can convey my pleasure from this position with Jon’s cock gagging me. The cast-iron table legs scrape on the stone floor. I reach out, groping. I get a cock in each hand. I don’t know whose they are, and I’m not capable of doing much more than holding on tight—I’m no sexual gymnast, I can’t do handjobs and blowjobs at the same time as having my pussy stuffed. But it feels so good to have something to grip as Fergus thrusts home, his strokes hard and clean just like on the water. And Jon’s gentler strokes keep time with his, perfectly paced just as I’d expect and demand, until they’re shafting me as a single unit. But one of them has to cross the finish line first.

  It’s Jon. He jets into my mouth and directs the first blasts of his come down my throat before pulling up from my slack and gasping lips to let the last pulses ooze and drop between them theatrically. Some ends up on my lips and chin and it sounds as if the others appreciate the show. “Fuck yes!” Fergus cries and creams inside me. I swallow, tasting Jon’s come as if I’m tasting the stuff the other man is ramming into my belly.

  Jon lets me clean his cock head off, sucking out the last traces of come, before he wipes my face with his shirt and kneels over me to plant a kiss on my lips. I feel Fergus withdraw—only to be immediately replaced by someone else. A new cock plunges into me.

  “Who?” I whisper. It should be Zeke, he rows next in five seat. It’s really important to me that they do this right, as a team.

  “Zeke,” Jon confirms.

  “Hold my head.”

  Bradley moves in to take over that job, nudging Jon out of the way. I’m buzzing, high as a kite on semen and champagne. When someone lays a finger over my clit and begins to rub with considerable assurance and skill, I surge onto Zeke’s impaling cock and come almost straight away, with a screeched “Yeeeeesss!”—and a lot of swearing. It isn’t at all ladylike—but then I’m not a lady, I’m a cox. I come a second time before Zeke does, cock up my cunt, cock in either hand, my face pressed to the underside of Bradley’s prodigious tool. Zeke doubles my legs up to my torso and finishes fucking me that way, filling my cunt finally to overflowing. I can feel semen dripping down my ass crack.

  “Ed?” prompts Darren impatiently as Zeke withdraws.

  “Flip her,” he answers, “would you?”

  Reluctantly I let go of my fistfuls of cock. It does feel nice to be on my stomach for a change, my bum in the air, the blood no longer throbbing in my skull. I’m not the only one to take advantage of the change of position though. Darren and Zeke and Nils stand in front of me, cocks in hand, and each takes his turn to pop his bell-end into my open mouth and take a licking as Ed ploughs me from behind, going boldly where three men have already gone before. I’m puffy and slippery there now, oozing their cream. But it seems to work for him, as he groans and grunts and adds very noisily to the overflow.

  If you’re with one guy, you want him to take his time. If there are eight men, there’s considerable advantage in them being quick to the point. Ed leans over me when he’s finished and kisses my shoulder and my temple, wrapping me in a hug. He’s got a good close-up view of the three cocks waving just in front of my face of course.

  “Move it up,” says Murray, landing a slap on Ed’s rump that I feel right through his frame, and that makes me think Murray knows plenty himself. “Don’t hog the road.” I feel Ed slip out, but I’m still being kept busy at the top end, sucking cock. Murray’s breath caresses my bum cheeks as he squats for a look. “Now that’s a fine sight,” he announces. “How you feeling, Jo?”

  My jaw is aching, so I pull away from the three oarsmen and take a chance for a breather. “Good,” I gasp. I feel wonderful, to be accurate, though under the overwhelming assault of sensation both my nether regions and my brain have gone into shock. “But I need a drink.” Darren takes this as an invitation to present his cock again but Nils wards him off, mildly exasperated.

  “Fruit juice?”

  “Please.”

  “Fergus. Would you?”

  Murray plucks me to my feet and leans me against him as we wait for the drink. I’m aware that apart from emceeing our games he’s been oddly self-effacing tonight. His cock is rubbing up against me now but he’s not had it in my mouth. He strokes my breasts and mons gently, expertly. I’m pretty sure it was him who brought me to climax while I was being fucked by Zeke. “What’re you up to?” I giggle. I’m feeling woozy.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “You being suspiciously restrained.”

  “I should take that as a slur on my character, you hussy.” He accepts the bottle of bright orange juice Fergus passes over and lifts it to my lips, tilting it so I can gulp the cool contents. “Though if I’m honest…” he adds as he watches me drink, his lips close to my ear but his murmur meant to be heard by everyone, “I want your ass, Jo.”

  I lick the last drops from the rim of the bottle, my mind churning. I’m not at all certain that it’s something I can cope with on top of the rest. “Um. Oh God. I’m not sure, Murray.”

  “You taken it up the date before?”

  “Not from a bloke. A vibrator, yes.”

  “A little butt plug, or something bigger?”

  “A proper rabbit.”

  He grins hugely. “Piece of cake, then.”

  I squint down at his eager cock. It looks manageable, and I don’t want to deny anyone anything tonight. “You need lube. Lots of lube.”

  “Fergus, what’ve you got in the bar fridge?”

  We reject vodka jellies and squirty cream and settle on butter. It’s traditional, isn’t it? So Murray sets me back down over the table again, my ass farther back from the edge and higher this time, my feet on the floor and thighs splayed, and he fills my anus with little individual pats of chilled butter. They melt quickly inside me, greasing me up so
that Murray can slip in a finger, then two, then three, working them in and out as I make my ass relax. Sweat sheens my skin. My mind can’t grasp the big picture anymore. I’m capable only of focusing on random details—the stickiness of the spilt champagne on my tits as they press into the tabletop; the pump of my crew’s fists as they watch, absorbed; the bump of Murray’s knuckles against the ring of muscle as he shafts my ass with his hand. The length of Bradley’s cock fed down my throat as I yield to invasion fore as well as aft. I can’t take it all, but I swallow as much as is compatible with breathing.

  God, this is filthy—in all the right ways. I’m giving a blowjob while getting ass-fucked and everyone is watching. I’m giving them a group hug they’ll carry with them forever.

  “Play with yourself,” Murray whispers, and I tuck a hand underneath and vibrate my clit as he replaces fingers with cock and glides into me on a slick of melted butter. “Fuck, that’s hot,” he gasps, boring toward my core. He’s careful with his movements. “Oh. Oh fuck, yes.”

  Oh yes, it’s hot. I won’t forget this.

  It hurts a bit, but rowing involves riding a lot of pain, and anyway it’s not that bad as long as I keep frigging myself, and soon it’s not bad at all—it’s good, it’s very good, and then it’s fucking wonderful. Murray deserves his reputation. His cock is smooth and strong and demanding in just the right way, every thrust taking me to the edge of sensation. The working over he gives me sets my flesh vibrating. I feel waves of cold and hot rippling up my spine from the small of my back, and I feel myself opening out in a long luxurious shiver of orgasm just before—trembling and shuddering—he shoots his come into my ass.

  “Fucking hell, Coxey,” he groans. “You’re an angel.”

  I giggle in gasps, letting Bradley’s cock pop out of my mouth. From the noises of appreciation the others are making, Murray’s claimed first prize. “Fucking beautiful, man,” says Zeke, stroking my bum cheek. “Just fucking beautiful.”