Cox
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All characters are over 18, fictional, and none of it ever happened. Think of it as a grimm fairytale.
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Reward your team and they'll reward you.
Inspired by but not representative of the medical condition Psychosocial Short Stature.
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"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
