Given that Darren jumped the queue there’s only Bradley left after that, my Bowman, and there’s no way I’m letting that monstrous cock anywhere near my asshole. Luckily he’s not bothered. He has something else in mind. He parks himself on a bench and invites me to sit in his lap where his erection, crimson with delayed gratification, bobs drunkenly in his hand. As I turn my back and settle he steers it to the softly cushioned sex it’s been wanting for so long, and I wriggle my way down its impaling shaft. His hot breath burns my ear as he kisses me. After so many other cocks I should be blasé about this, but it’s so big and thick it opens me up all over again. I moan and twitch, trying to find a comfortable angle. Bradley slips a hand round the front of my pussy and starts to play with me, spreading his legs to draw my thighs apart.
The camera flash momentarily blinds us. It’s caught me, I find out later, midbounce, all scuffed and glistening and red-cheeked, my lipstick smeared to hell, my eyes wide and glazed, and Bradley’s impressive shaft just visible, impaling my spread pussy. His big hands frame my little tits. I look tiny. What aren’t preserved are my groans of pleasure as he takes me.
“Come on, guys. She wants something to remember us all by. Give her what you’ve got.”
This is the finale. As I sit on Bradley’s dick and he fucks me with deep pushes of his hips and strums my clit, the rest of them gather round, cocks buffed into hardness once more, and jack off for me. I’m mildly alarmed how brutal they are in urging their flesh back toward orgasm. They tug ruthlessly, their hands a blurred shuffle, their faces flushed and set. Darren is fastest—he’s young after all and has had some time to recover. He steps forward from the circle and grabs my left tit and shoots on my chest, three spurts of thick white come that dribble down my breasts, one clinging to my right nipple like a tear.
“Yes,” I moan. “More. All of you. I want all of you.”
Bradley’s hips are bucking beneath me, and all my exhaustion counts for nothing. The only thing that matters is crossing the finish line as a team. Their balls are clenched high and they are powering blindly toward victory, all of them together, their eyes glazed but fixed on me.
Stroke upon stroke.
“Oh God,” I whisper as they press in closer, and I start to come.
* * * * *
I spend the next hour or so snuggled up against Bradley, my thighs across Ed’s lap, too stunned to think or talk, just listening to the others as they chat, relaxed now. With another round of drinks the conversation turns back to rowing, of course.
But at last it’s so late I know it must be nearly dawn, and I ease myself from my nest, forcing myself to face the prospect of squeezing my crusted, aching body back into my dress. There’s no way I can look anything but unkempt, but there’ll be no one to see. “I’ve got to go home, guys.”
They insist on walking me back, all of them. It’s nearly light already, a gray-blue morning that’s going to be just right for the boats, though no one else in the city is stirring as we walk the cobbled streets and cross the footbridge over the river. A heron stands motionless by the mirror edge of the water and the dawn chorus rages from every tree. We don’t talk as we ascend the hill to my house. When I’ve got the front door open I turn and look at them standing in an arc, hands in jacket pockets. I take a moment to fix their faces in my memory. To take them with me.
“We, er, we had a whip round,” says Ed, pulling a flat box from under his jacket. “To buy you a present from us all. In appreciation for everything.”
The box is gift-wrapped. When I pop the lid I see one of those electronic photo-display frames, engraved round with all our names.
“We’ve loaded some pictures in already.”
“But,” says Murray with that world-weary grin as he hands me my camera, “I guess you have some new ones to go up now.”
There’s a lump in my throat and I can’t answer, just nod. I can feel my eyes brimming. I share a hug with each one of them in turn, stretching to kiss their cheeks, whispering my goodbyes. Then I turn away to my door.
“There’s just one thing, Jo,” says Murray.
“Mm?” I look back.
“What would you say…to an annual reunion?”
About the Author
Janine Ashbless is a multi-published British author of erotica and erotic romance. She lives with varying numbers of rescued dogs (mostly greyhounds) and a longsuffering husband. She was probably lost to the world of reality at age 13, when she started playing Dungeons & Dragons. It was all downhill from there on, and she was bound to end up as a writer.
Janine likes best to write paranormal- and dark-fantasy-themed erotica and has a lifelong interest in mythology, folklore and history. She loves to travel abroad and wishes she could get back into 1920s LARP, if only she had the spare time.
Visit her at her blog, where she witters on about Victorian art, Minotaurs and writing dirty.
Janine welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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In Appreciation of Their Cox Page 4
