Cox

====================

All characters are over 18, fictional, and none of it ever happened. Think of it as a grimm fairytale.

====================

Reward your team and they’ll reward you.

Inspired by but not representative of the medical condition Psychosocial Short Stature.

====================

“Justin, give me a little more. That’s good. Lock it in. Ready. Hold.” The coxswain called his last instruction. Then the starting gun cracked

In front facing him two feet away sat the Stroke. Their eyes locked.

At the sound of the shot the Stroke tensed his buttocks, straightened his legs, and put his back into the load. His oar caught the water and he leaned into the task of pulling back the long sweep, which thrust forward the long rowing shell on which they sat.

He grunted with the effort he loved.

The cox’s body was small and light and he took the thrust force from the shell through his backside. To absorb it he leaned forward toward Stroke and the other seven rowers.

He continued leaning toward his oarsmen as their eight big bodies slid toward him on well oiled seat tracks. Just as it seemed they would all end up between his legs, the rowers reversed. Their oars caught the water again and they put their backs into the next stroke.

Their legs extended pushing their eight bums back along the tracks away from the cox. Their strong arms pulled the oars. Their broad chests laid back to almost horizontal.

The crew settled into rhythm, repeating oar strokes without stopping.

The cox’s body jerked with each shell-thrust, and he encouraged his eight oarsmen.

The cox watched their movements and body flexure, heard their synchronised grunts and breathing, smelled their sweat blending together. They focussed on him and he on them.

His magic secret was he would do anything to please these eight men he loved, and their secret was they would do anything to please him. He knew what each man needed and would give it to them, and they rewarded him by giving him everything they had.

He was now urging the eight down the river to victory and the reward they’d get tonight. He controlled and paced them. Welded them into a team. Each was different but they would come together in the end, like they always did.

***

They had chosen Gordon as Cox because of his small body and keen intellect. At first he demurred. He wanted to be Cox but pretended he didn’t. He said these qualities weren’t really him, just a reflection of his parents’ twisted needs.

He had always felt his mother and father’s story, which later became Teresa’s story. And when Teresa died suddenly just before puberty he was trapped for life by the perverse heritage it forced on him.

They wanted him to take her place.

Teresa drowned at the seaside in the last days of childhood, her promising petals still curled. Her drowning was her last act of innocence. Her toy bucket and unfinished sandcastle were never forgotten as they took her slight body away.

Both his parents grieved but wouldn’t show it, or thought they didn’t, to protect young Gordy, or thought that was why. It was really to protect themselves.

He heard it in his mother’s voice, her pause and dropped inflection when she called his name. She wanted him to be Teresa, a name she spoke lightly with rising inflection as if Teresa was still alive. He yearned for his mother’s soft gaze and to hear her call his name lightly, as she still called Teresa.

But his body knew what to do to fill that need.

His destiny and family role was simple. He would never change into a man. Just as Teresa would never change into a woman. His body would stay innocent and prepubescent, a forever child. Both he and she would keep her narrow hips, flat chest, and smooth skin forever, for his mother and father to love.

So he stopped growing. He remained small, tiny, boyish, weak, with a high soprano voice. Except for the mop of hair on his head he remained hairless, especially around his genitals, armpits, face and torso. He never became a pimply hairy teen, was never overcome with lust, never had an erection, never guiltily enjoyed masturbating, never orgasmed, never had an emission.

Instead, he became his mother’s living thought, her thought that maybe she hadn’t lost Teresa, and Gordy was her little girl. Gordy knew it in her voice and glimmer in her eye as she called his name.

“Gordy, come let me kiss you,” she would say lightly, with rising inflection. She smiled warmly, and cuddled him on her lap, and kissed him. She never said she needed him to be her innocent little girl, but he knew it, and her need became his.

What Gordon wanted from his father was unreserved love and admiration. But the best Father could offer was, “Train your intellect, son. Have a strong mind and aim high.”

Father never mentioned Teresa, and Mother only mentioned her in her many late night tete a tetes with Gordy as he shared her bed when Father was away. Teresa was gone but always present as a prepubescent girl embodied in Gordy.

He was tiny, high pitched, smooth as a baby’s bottom, physically innocent, and he excelled in studies.

Thus he got both Mother’s physical affection and Father’s admiration.

Gordy made this suffice for love.

***

So he learned to play the game, body, mind and soul. He could observe others, make their needs his own and meet those needs, and thus get his own needs met.

But when he came of age at eighteen he found the world counted him a man in years but not in body.

He had a keen and cunning mind, but was a sexual and psychosocial child. He had no friends, had never loved or lusted, never jerked off, had an erection or orgasmed. He was man-child.

The world told him in subtle and not-so-subtle ways this was not enough. To be ready for life, work and women he had be a “manly man”, play a “manly sport”, and lust with “manly sexuality”. He must fit the “man mould”.

Mother saw this and knew he would be ostracised, so set her mind to teach him how to play the “manly” game.

She took him traveling for a “gap” year of “manly”education. Just the two of them.

She introduced him to men, women and sex. He couldn’t have an erection or orgasm but there are other ways to lust and love, or at least enable it in others. She trained him in her bed at night, brought men and women to him, coached him as he experimented, tested him, and stretched him.

He learned to use his mouth until the object of desire “carried”, as his mother quaintly called it. If it was her turn on his tongue or a big dildo, her cries might upset the hotel neighbours and they would escape giggling the next day.

If a man caught Gordy’s eye or vice-a-versa she would watch them together and adjust his clumsy technique, then show him how to suck the man’s cock, take it in his arse, and fondle, whisper and massage egos, balls and prostates. She might also take her own pleasure, and use the occasion to teach Gordy a new trick or two.

See one, take one, show one off, as they say in exhibitionism.

If a woman was seeking variety Mother would participate and teach little Gordy where to touch and stroke and penetrate, and how to dominate her and make her never stop carrying until she was exhausted and wondering who this boy-man was.

And in every case, with men or women, Mother would show him how to use his fingers, tongue and dildos until she carried through the night. Although he never got an erection, his pissle might become engorged and fat when rubbed by hand or tongue or pelvic bone.

He liked that but only carried when a lover wanted him sexually. Their rewards were his, their orgasms his, their cries of lust triggered his. He could even contract his arse rhythmically to simulate his own orgasm as they came. This took them both to exhausted heights. Only Mother understood.

So during his gap year she filled his gap. She gave him him the capacity–or a mere simulacrum–for friendship, love, lust and sex. He could use it for his pleasure and to bend his lovers’ pleasures to his own. Either way he was rewarded.

In short she taught him “manly skills” and how to live a “manly life”.

When they returned he went to university and slyly found a place that fitted his new skills. He became the tiny high pitched coxswain to the championship eights crew, the thoroughbreds of the male athletic world. Tall, broad, muscled men in peak condition who took him on to train and focus them.

They needed him to hold their attention as they grunted at their oars. They needed him to know what they needed. They needed his passionate clear calls as they rhythmically thrust their long boat through the water. The cox and athletes knew what rewards they wanted, and win or lose they always celebrated.

He found he excelled as Cox because he had learned to know what others needed. Then he’d make those needs his own and he and they would work together to fulfil them. He was smart and irresistible, and he could make them do whatever they or he wanted.

***

Today as they neared the finish line they were neck and neck with the other boat, and little Gordy was calling to his men like a carriage driver to his stallions.

“Justin, Hobson, Grady. Three more big strokes. Almost over the top.

“Pull clean. Pull clean.

“Brandon, Rawley, settle. Breathe. Breathe.

“Justin, you’re ahead of Stroke.

“Darling Stroke, you’re right on the money,”

For a moment he dropped his gaze to Stroke’s crotch as it came towards him on the runners. He timed it perfectly and as he looked up again he saw his grunting stallion take in his gaze.

Just as he had planned.

The lead stallion saw Cox eye his crotch, which gave him a perfectly timed cock twitch, which pulsed an extra sip of warrior hormones from his balls into his blood stream, which in turn rippled through the crew and into into their own seven cocks and straining muscles.

“Goddam, that’s good,” thought Cox as he watched the effects on the men only he could see.

He had them where he wanted.

“Give me three more good one’s, my men. Dig deep.

“Now one!”, and the boat leapt forward, almost from the water.

“Two!” It leapt again.

“Three!” It leapt again, though a little less this time.

But it was enough and they nosed ahead of the other boat to win the championship.

His crotch glance had won the cup.

Gordy’s sixty-four, as they called themselves, didn’t have to look. They hung on their oars, spent or spending their last spurt of energy, and cast a glance to Gordy.

His arm was raised stiff and straight and fisted, the signal that meant both “Victory!” and “You just wait till to tonight!”

The rest of the day passed like a dream for little Gordy. The crew de-rigged and stored the boat, and accepted the silver trophy. He was vaguely aware of excited young women hanging on the arms of his sixty-four. But today his men seemed uninterested. They had other things in mind.

No woman approached Gordy, though he did notice a few “crew ‘oars”, as the men called them, assaying him surreptitiously.

“One day I’ll experiment with that,” he thought, “But not tonight.“

***

Gordy was restless and ready when nine o’clock arrived that evening

The celebration suite was rented. It filled the top floor. The curtains were drawn, beers cold, pizza hot, and a selection of movies ready for ideas, fluffing, and entertainment. He even had a few cameras in case anyone wanted to make a private memory for lonely nights.

Under his dressing gown he was naked and had applied lube liberally and deep. His experience was painfully won, and though that has its pleasures, he wanted to pace himself till morning.

He was sober and wanted to stay that way. Every one of his eight eight-inchers, his darling sixty-four, deserved the best fucks of their young stallion lives tonight, and Gordy intended to get his too. Come morning he wouldn’t be able to shit for a week. He grinned to himself, then winced, but still grinned.

There was a light knock at the door and he smiled gently.

He was suddenly home as a child, and then in his gap year, and then with his mother as she absently murmured to him, lightly with rising inflection, “Dear little Gordy. You are my Teresa. How you comfort and control me. Here, let me kiss you. You are so beautiful. You will make men happy.”

And her arms went about him and she kissed him on the lips.

“Come!” he called, and heard commotion.

Stroke bounded in immediately and started to strip, but was still hopping about getting his pants off when the door was locked and everyone was pulling and shoving and bending and stretching. Soon eight muscular hairy young men with enormous erections were standing around the bed. Some slowly jacked their cocks, some cradled their balls, and some just stood ramrod straight.

All were ready for action.

Gordy was on his back, legs apart, watching as he twirled his little pissle, as his mother called it.

Gordy looked at Stroke and said, “Ok, Stroke, you’re first. Great work with the race. Let’s see what you do here. How do you want me?”

“On your back, little Gordy,” said Stroke quietly, fisting his eight inches. “I see you’re all greased up.”

Gordy spread his legs wider and smiled joyously.

The audience went quiet as Stroke mounted the bed and lowered himself between Gordy’s legs. For Stroke it was a familiar and comfortable position, and for Gordy familiar and comforting. He wrapped his arms around Stroke’s hairy back far as he could reach.

Stroke positioned his thick cock-head in the entrance to Gordy’s arse hole. Then he leaned down and, sealing his lips firmly to Gordy’s, inserted his slab of a tongue where it belonged.

Once he had his tongue engaged and Gordy under control, without so much as a by-your-leave he thrust smoothly into Gordy to the hilt. He held still while Gordy accommodated to his girth and length, and while he waited patiently he casually worked his tongue in and out of Gordy’s throat. It was a favourite trick and he always enjoyed the muffled squeals Gordy let fly.

He was claiming him, and Gordy loved to be claimed.

Sucking hard on Gordy’s tongue Stroke now began to thrust his cock smoothly in and out of his favourite hole. At first his rhythm was impeccable, but he soon began to lose timing as his balls were full and he had abstained for a week. Besides, Cox was in no position to correct or coach him. There was plenty of time for that and to fuck more loads in him before daybreak.

He felt Gordy’s nails scratch his shoulders.

“She intentionally keeps them long for me, bless her heart,” he thought.

This brought him on like spurs bring on the stallion, and soon his mare was open and lifting. His eight rigid inches were thrusting in to the hilt, and out till the glans spread her sphincter and threatened to pop out.

His mare tilted her pelvis up to receive each thrust.

After five minutes of deep suctioning strokes, Stroke shifted to short sharp thrusts, then paused at three-quarter depth. His head went back. His eyes squeezed shut and he grimaced with primal focus. His attendants around the bed focused with him, their fists paused on cocks, their palms reverently cupping ballsacks, and their knowing eyes watching his arse.

Stroke’s arse was tight, clenched and still. His full weight was settled on is mare and he was thrust well into her. His balls were swollen high and tight along his cock. His shaft and arse were pulsing, as he spurted semen in her.

He was filling the hole Gordy always kept fresh and ready for him. Being Stroke had its perks.

When Stroke was almost done, he collapsed on Cox and lay panting while his last spurts spent high and up inside her. Then he rolled off, pulling his firm shaft out with a plop. It hung long, thick, greasy and dripping. Eight inches had shrunk to seven and a half and now it stuck out at only forty-five degrees. But his balls were already refilling.

“Next,” he grinned.

***

They all looked at the clean-skin before them. She now had an attractive fuck-sheen and a murmur of lust and cock jerking resumed around her bed.

A corner of her mind noticed their responses to her body and took note. She saw what each appreciated, which details fuelled lust, which love. Some saw her oozing arse cunt, some her clean-skin sheen, her sloppy lips, her child size, her innocence, her lightness of being. All were dazzled by her.

She was dazed by them, and by distant memories, and she played with her pissle as Mother taught her.

But she was getting impatient. It was always better when someone else did it, particularly if their mound or cock root rubbed against her pissle. Her mind drifted to Mother, then to the crew ‘oars, then back to Mother. She wondered when Stroke would be ready again.

Then Hobson stepped forward with his nine inches.

He also took little Gordy from the front, but not before he inserted it into her mouth and told her to “lube me up”.

When Hobson mounted her he was rougher than Stroke. He always had something to prove. Beneath him his little mare winced and squealed with pain whenever his in-stroke bottomed out, but she still lifted her arse as high as she could manage with his two hundred and forty pounds of hairy weight sliding across her smooth and tiny offered torso.

Feeling Hobson’s chest hairs rasp her nipples and his cock-root rub her pissle made her wonder what it would be like to have tities, cunt and clit. Mother would sometimes dress her in training bras and panties. She said she’d bought them for Teresa, though she’d died ten years before and the under-things smelled new and fitted him perfectly and new ones kept appearing.

All this thinking was making her quite desperate. She was holding tightly to Hobson’s chest to make her nipples hard, and trying to rub her pissle against his hard pubic bone as he thrust into her. She even turned her lips to his ear and whispered, “Come in me, Daddy,” while she squeezed his cock with her arse cunt. Mother had taught her well.

When Hobson came, his victory yell carried through the suite and his little mare shrilled under him.

As he rolled off he leaned down to possessively inspect the gaping hole while holding Gordy under his strong rower’s hand.

Not that he needed to. It’s just that he needed to. She knew that.

The mare was quiet, with barely a nicker as he touched her hole. Satisfaction comes in many guises.

“Next.”

***

Justin stepped in and brusquely flipped little Gordy to her front.

“Knees up, Mother Brown,” he said and casually lifted the tiny clean-skin onto her knees, head down, arse up, legs spread. “I think I’ll take you dry, or as dry as you are.”

He had only six inches but it was as fat around as his thick rower’s wrist. He had trouble getting it into her at first and had to tell her to “relax” and “fucking open up”. He even took a break for a minute to get two fingers in her and work Stroke and Hobson’s loads thoroughly in and out and around her inner and outer sphincters.

When he finally got his cock into her she started to whine, but it soon changed to whinnying which she kept up the whole time he was pounding her. Even when she bit the pillow they could hear her above all the flesh slapping. It was just a bit muffled.

When he finally dropped his load in her and pulled out, he left a gaping red and cream hole. She was so loose and open it would be like fucking the oldest groupie crew ‘oar the university had on tap.

But no one was particularly worried. They knew Justin well and he didn’t like a wide gape any more than they.

He fished out the small tube of astringent he always kept handy. After all, he always opened up anyone he fucked. It’s a courtesy to leave a hole the way you found it, to replace the divot, as it were.