Stroke to His Cox

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 2 Stroke to His Cox

I

TOOK a moment just to savour the feeling. Bloody hell,

who‟d have thought it? Me, skinny little Dave Tanaka from the Isle of Wight, whose crowning physical achievement was when I finally reached five foot five. Yet here I was, with eight—yeah, eight—strapping lads hanging on my every word. Legs like Doric columns, chests like slabs of granite; if we were standing up, they‟d be towering over me like those bastards who always think it‟s funny to rest their pints on my head at the pub. Not these boys, though. They were waiting, muscles bunched, for my command. Sixteen eyes locked on my face, and it wasn‟t so they could think up new variations on nancy-boy, runt, and squirt. And Chinky, obviously. Nope, my lads were sitting there at frontstops, practically quivering as they waited for me to give the order. God, I loved it. I drew it out as long as I could, and then I gave them what they‟d been waiting for. “Draw.” Limbs burst into action, arms pumping, legs thrusting. They looked bloody gorgeous, moving as one man. A waft of adrenaline and testosterone hit me in the face as we powered through the water like a…. Well. Various penis metaphors spring to mind. I‟m sure you get the drift. “Wind for five, stride for five, and then lengthen for five.” The wires of the rudder thrumming between my fingers, I

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 3 had one eye on our heading and the other constantly scanning the crew, watching for signs of weakness or bad timing. My gaze kept returning to Archie, though, and not just because he was the one sitting right in front of me, rowing stroke. His face was tense with concentration, and his eyes were still locked on me as those massive arms pulled on the oar again and again. Blond hair blown back by the wind during the recovery flopped over his eyes as his legs powered him backward on the drive. I felt a tug in the pit of my stomach as the boat surged forward—and then it began again. Catch—drive—recovery. Catch—drive—recovery. Does he dream about this? I wondered. I do. I used to wank off thinking about this, about Archie rowing stroke, gazing back at me like I‟m some sort of god. I used to, until the day we were out on the river and I realized I was getting a hard-on. I nearly dove into the water out of sheer bloody embarrassment. I mean, it‟s not like I hid the fact I was a poof, but I made sure I didn‟t rub it in their faces. God, I wanted to rub it in Archie‟s face. Bugger. I was getting hard again. I looked away from him, deliberately focusing on the other lads in turn. They were doing well—the crew had been together nearly six months now. We‟d narrowly missed winning our oars at the Lent Bumps and were determined to make good at the Mays next week. Time to get them going. I waited for the catch. “Next stroke.” I could sense Archie preparing himself to follow orders.

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 4 At the following catch, I gave them the instruction. “Wind it up to race pace over five.” It‟s a bit like being in the army. I‟m the captain, and Archie‟s my sergeant major. I tell them what to do, but it‟s up to stroke to set the pace. “One hundred percent pressure, lads. Keep it up.” Hanging on my every word, they were. God, I love this sport.

AFTER training had finished, the shell had been hung up, and the oars put back in their racks, I was about to get on my bike when Archie‟s voice cut through the chatter. “Lads? Lads! We should go out for a meal, end of next week. Whatever happens in the Bumps.” “Yeah?” Rob piped up. “Fancy a Chinky, do you?” I tensed. Archie must have caught it. “Oh, for God‟s sake, Rob, is „Chinese restaurant‟ too difficult for your Neanderthal brain to remember?” Rob gave me a shifty look. “Sorry, mate.” Phil frowned. “Hang on, though, I thought you were a Jap anyway?” “I‟m British, you moron. Born and bred on the Isle of bloody Wight. But yeah, my dad‟s from Japan, as it happens.” And don‟t think that was a picnic; whoever said we live in a multicultural society clearly hasn‟t taken a trip on the Isle of Wight ferry. Fifteen hundred kids at my secondary school, and fourteen hundred and ninety-nine of them were as white as the proverbial driven snow. Which, by the way, we didn‟t see a right lot of, living so far south. The

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 5 highlight of my childhood was visiting my grandparents in Sapporo and finally getting to go sledding. It did have one good point, though; what with angsting about being foreign-looking, angsting about being the music teacher‟s kid, followed by angsting about being a short-arse, by the time I‟d worked out I was gay I just thought Oh, what the hell, bring it on! “The point is,” Archie was explaining patiently to Rob and Phil, “a racist remark is a racist remark, you know what I mean?” I didn‟t hold out a lot of hope. Not their fault; they‟re geographers. Archie‟s an engineer, but he‟s all right really. “Yeah,” Phil said, apparently deciding he was on the side of the angels. “You wouldn‟t go on about Pakis to Tariq, would you?” Rob grinned. “That‟s ‟cos his lot might launch a bloody fatwa—” “Don‟t worry, Rob,” Tariq put in from behind Rob, who jumped a mile, then tried to look like he‟d known Tariq was there all along. “The Koran teaches us to be charitable toward those of limited intellect.” “Oh yeah? Lend us a tenner, then!” “Lads! I think we‟re getting a bit off topic here,” Archie interrupted. Rob turned back in my direction. “Um. Yeah. Sorry, Dave.” “Yeah, and about the Jap bit,” Phil added. “It‟s all right,” I said magnanimously. See, they‟re good lads, really. They just don‟t think, sometimes.

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 6 The mystery of how they got into Cambridge is beyond me, I can tell you.

LAST day of the Bumps, we were all tense. We‟d bumped the first day and overbumped the second, leading the lads to pile the boat up with so much bloody greenery in celebration I was amazed we didn‟t capsize. Then Clare had held us to a rowover by half a length on the third. We were all desperate to make it up on the final day and win our oars (well, rudder in my case), and the nerves were starting to show. For the third-year lads, it was their last chance before they left college for good. Everyone gets confused by the Bumps at first, but they‟re a lot simpler than they look. All the crews line up down the river about a length and a half apart and in order of ranking. That was determined at last year's races. When the starting cannon sounds everyone sets off together and rows like buggery to catch up to the boat in front. That‟s a bump. You don‟t actually bump, of course—least, not if you can avoid it—that‟d be dangerous, and probably expensive. All you have to do is overlap, and then the cox of the boat in front concedes the bump by raising a hand. Both crews pull over to the side, out of the race. Next day (there are four days of bumps) the crews swap places, both physically and in the rankings. Simple, right? Now, if you were paying attention there, you‟ll be wondering what happens to the boat behind the crew that have just got their bump. Basically, it‟s just bad luck—all they can do is just keep going, stay ahead of the crew

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 7 behind, and get a rowover. Or, if they‟re lucky and the crew three in front are total losers, they might just catch up with them and get an overbump. I know it doesn‟t sound likely, but trust me, it happens. Phil was a third year, and he dealt with nerves by sniping at everyone else. “You should wear shorts, Dave. Cut down on the weight,” he told me, looking down at my jogging bottoms as if he‟d like to throw them in the Cam. I just shrugged it off. I get as tense as the next bloke, but I work a bit harder to hide it. “Like I‟m getting my matchstick legs out next to your bloody tree trunks. You‟ll just have to put a bit more effort into it, won‟t you?” “Come on, Phil, he‟s already the lightest male cox on the river. Give him a break,” Archie defended me. Phil mumbled something that sounded like “Whatever.” “I think I‟m going to throw up,” Rob added helpfully. “Well, for goodness sake do it now, and not when we‟re out on the water,” Tariq said, edging away from him. Tariq sits in front of Rob when we row, so I could see his point. Rob dashed behind the boathouse. We all shifted about looking embarrassed until Rob came back, wiping his mouth. “There you go, Phil,” he called out cheerfully. “That‟s lightened the load a bit.”

WE

ROWED out to our allotted starting position, halfway

down from Bait‟s Bite Lock. “Right, lads,” I said. “This time we‟re having them. We‟ve got everything to row for today, and we‟re bloody well going to get our oars. I know you can do it,

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 8 and so do you, so let‟s show those Clare bastards what‟s what.” “He may have the body of a weak and feeble woman—” Tariq broke off as Archie turned round and threatened to thump him. “Sorry. How about this, then? Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; or close the wall up with our English dead!” Bloody arts students. At the four minute gun, we were wound up tight and in perfect position, blades squared and buried, raring to go. At the one minute gun, we were all over the bloody shop, the bow end having drifted out across the river. I managed not to swear at the lads as we got back in line with seconds to spare. When the final gun went, we got off smoothly, thank God. The tense buzz of sound became a roar as the air filled with the shouts of encouragement from the towpath. “Wind for five, stride for five, and then lengthen for five. Race pace over five,” I shouted to be heard over the screams of the crowd and the slide of the seats. Clare had a good start too, but I reckoned we were gaining on them slowly. They weren‟t up for their oars like we were, so they didn‟t have the motivation. Coming down the Gut, I was certain we were closing on them. Trouble was, ahead of Clare, Tit Hall seemed to be going backward. If Clare bumped before we did, we‟d have to chase Pembroke for the overbump, and though I love my lads dearly, even I couldn‟t kid myself that was likely. But if we kept it up the way we were going, we‟d get our bump before Clare knew what was happening.

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 9 Then—disaster. ‟Course, we didn‟t know what had happened then, but up ahead, on Grassy Corner, Pembroke‟s rudder broke. Steaming ahead at race pace, they ploughed straight into Jesus, who‟d bumped Corpus Christi and were at the bank. Spectators scattered as the Jesus stern pair panicked and leapt onto the bank for safety. Tit Hall lived up their name and slowed down to have a gawp instead of speeding up for a gift of a bump, and Clare were almost upon them. Just in time, though, Tit Hall got their act together and pulled away again. I could feel the adrenaline flooding my system as we came into Ditton Corner to the rhythmic splash of oars in water. I pulled on the rudder wires with a surgeon‟s touch, and as we straightened up, we were half a length up on Clare. “Firm pressure, lads. Keep it up!” I yelled. Sweat was running down Archie‟s face as he grimaced with the effort, and damp patches were forming on his shirt. We were gaining on them! We went into Grassy Corner only half a length behind them. Clare knew we were coming and lost their rhythm, and when we came out of the turn there was only a quarter length of clear water between us. But Tit Hall were flagging fast, and it was anyone‟s guess who‟d catch who first. It was now or never. We had to give it all we‟d got. “Wind it up, lads!” I yelled. “Come on, now! Come on!” I could see the veins standing out on Archie‟s arms as he put his bloody soul into that oar, and the others followed his lead, bless ‟em. And with a final surge, we closed it up. As the Clare cox raised a dispirited hand, I punched the air, my ears ringing with the shouts from the towpath. We‟d done it! We‟d got our oars!

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 10 I can‟t remember what I said to the lads. Probably swore undying love to each and every one of them. Good thing they were all too bloody knackered to listen. As we pulled slowly into the bank, I grinned into Archie‟s face. His hair was sticking to his forehead and had turned a couple of shades darker from the sweat. “We did it,” I said. He didn‟t say anything, just grinned back at me. One of the towpath crew handed me half a shrubbery and the college flag so we could row back to the boathouse in style. It‟s not small, that flag. It was all I could do to keep it out of the water without steering us into the bank. “Are you holding that flag, or is it holding you?” Phil asked, between panting breaths, all smiles now we‟d bumped. “Neither. It‟s a mutual support group.” I couldn‟t stop grinning at him either. Even if he is a bit of a tosser sometimes.

ONE of the lads had stashed a bottle of champagne in the boathouse—tempting fate if you ask me; I was bloody glad I hadn‟t known about it before the race. It was the real thing too, the posy git. Still, it tasted pretty good, even when drunk from a bottle passed around by eight sweaty giants. Actually, make that especially when drunk from a bottle passed around by eight sweaty giants. I guzzled as much as I could get away with, steeling myself for what was coming and idly wondering how far I‟d get if I tried to make a break for it. I wouldn‟t have, anyway. Sometimes you‟ve just got to take one for the team. So I stood my ground while Phil and

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 11 Rob rushed me and picked me up like a sack of flour. Oh, all right. More like a bag of sugar. And then I made sure I took a deep breath just before they swung me up between them and pitched me into the river. Well. It is tradition. Would have been a lot more fun on a warmer day, though, I thought as I surfaced, shivering, and half-swam, half-waded back to the bank, my clothes all sticking to me. “Bastards,” I told them, grinning. Rob grinned back. “Thought you enjoyed a bit of manhandling!” “No offence, Rob, but if you were the last man on Earth, I still wouldn‟t choose you to do the handling!” My hair was dripping manky river water down my face, so I wiped it off as best I could with my sopping wet sleeve. I hung around afterward while the rest of the lads buggered off. They all seemed a bit keen to get away and carry on celebrating, but I was hoping I might dry out a bit before I had to cycle back to college. It got a bit boring, though. Anticlimactic. I was just about to get on my bike when Archie showed up again. “I thought you‟d gone back to college,” I said, feeling a little flutter in my stomach. It‟d never been just me and him before, without any of the other lads. I wondered if I could pluck up the nerve to say something to him. “Oh, I was commiserating with a friend from Churchill.” He frowned. “Dave? Why haven‟t you got changed?” I shrugged wetly. “Didn‟t bring a change of clothes. I didn‟t want to jinx it.” The cox only gets chucked in if you win the race, you see.

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 12 “You idiot! Look, you‟re shivering.” He stripped off his sweatshirt and held it out to me. Well, they say it‟s the thought that counts. And the thought of me cycling ‟round Cambridge dressed in a bloody marquee was not an attractive one. “If I put that on, the sleeves‟ll be dragging on the ground!” Archie smiled. “You can wear my shirt, then. Sorry it‟s a bit sweaty, but it‟s all I‟ve got.” My breath hitched as he stripped it off, and suddenly I was nose-to-nipple with Archie‟s bare, beautiful chest. I could feel the warmth coming off it in waves, and the rich smell of him was going right where it counted. “Come on, then, get your shirt off!” Archie‟s voice made me jerk my gaze away from the golden hair dusting his pecs, although my eyes kept trying to sneak back whenever my attention wavered. “What, out here, where anyone could see me? Not bloody likely!” Archie laughed. “You‟re not serious! Why on earth not?” Because next to you I‟ll look like a pigeon-chested little girly-boy and if I‟m very, very lucky I‟ll die of shame before anyone sees me and laughs. “I‟m shy, all right?” “Well, come back in the boathouse, then.” He opened the door. I followed him in nervously and shut it behind me. There wasn‟t much light inside, which was good. Maybe he wouldn‟t be able to see how scrawny I was with my kit off. Reluctantly I peeled off my sopping wet T-shirt. I was so bloody cold I couldn‟t tell which were my nipples and which were goosebumps. “That‟s better,” Archie said softly and passed me his shirt.

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 13 The scent of him as I got it over my head was almost overpowering. Strong, warm sweat filled my nostrils with its heady odor, and the material felt burning hot on my frozen skin. I wanted to wrap my arms around myself and hold in the warmth and the scent, but I forced myself not to be so bloody daft. I couldn‟t stop the effect it had on other appendages, though. Archie was smiling. “I think you‟d better tuck it in. It looks like you‟re wearing a dress!” “It‟s fine,” I told him, my voice sounding just a little hoarse. I was counting on that extra layer of loose-fitting fabric to hide the effect he was having on me—I mean, he was standing there with his shirt still off, for God‟s sake. “No, it‟s not.” To my abject, cringing horror he stepped closer and started tucking the shirt into my jogging bottoms. “Stop it!” I was flapping like a bloody chicken at his hands, trying to bat them away, when it happened. One of his hands moved round to the front of my waistband and dipped inside with a handful of shirt. Where it met with more than a handful of achingly hard cock. Shit. I braced myself. Would he laugh it off, or flatten me? He did neither. He let go of the shirt and grabbed hold of my cock instead. I was still chilled by my wet trousers, and his hand felt incredibly hot and big. Calluses from rowing rasped against my skin like sandpaper. It was heaven.

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 14 I don‟t think I even made a sound before he grabbed me with his other arm and crushed my face into his chest, the hair tickling my nose. I think I moaned, then, but it came out a bit muffled. All the time he was working my cock, the heat and friction in that one part an incredible contrast to the way the rest of me felt from the waist down. Was this really happening? Maybe I‟d hit my head on a submerged shopping trolley in the Cam and was lying in hospital dreaming all this? I was pleased to find my subconscious had provided dream-Archie with a massive erection which was trying to drill its way through my solar plexus. Not surprised, though. He was always well hung in my dreams. “God, I‟ve wanted to do this for so bloody long!” Archie gasped. “You have?” I asked, surprised he was still sticking to the dream-script. “Come on, Dave, you must have noticed. I can‟t keep my bloody eyes off you when we‟re in that boat.” “Neither can any of the other lads, but I haven‟t noticed them lining up to rip my kit off. I‟m the cox. You‟re supposed to watch me.” “None of them watch you like I do,” he said softly into my hair. “None of them have to spend half their time rowing with a hard-on.” My cock twitched in his hand at the image. “I dream about you,” I confessed, then cringed because it sounded so bloody girly.

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 15 “Oh, yes?” Archie backed off a bit, but only so he could lean down and kiss me. The height differential was going to be a bugger, I could tell. His lips were firm and slightly chapped, and his tongue plunged into my mouth like a boat entering the water. “What happens in these dreams of yours, then? Anything like this?” And suddenly he was on his knees in front of me, and I felt like I was ten feet tall. He reached up to pull down my sodden jogging bottoms and my equally wet briefs, and as I held the too-long T-shirt up and out of the way, my cock sprang free to bob gently in front of his chin. Archie looked up at me with mischief in his eyes. “Want to tell me what to do?” My mouth went suddenly dry. “L-lick it,” I said thickly. Archie‟s always been good at following my orders. His tongue poked out and licked a stripe up the underside of my cock, then swirled around the head for a moment before going back to repeat the process. It felt like heaven, but God, it was torturously slow. “Wind it up for five,” I told him, and the pace increased. God, that was good. “Firm pressure.” Archie wrapped his hands round the backs of my thighs for better purchase. Right at the top, his fingertips were teasing my crack. He started applying a bit more force with his tongue, making my cock bob with his stroke and pressing the tip of his tongue into my slit. “Fuck, yeah!” I gasped. Archie pulled away from my cock, his lips shiny with spit and pre-come and his eyes bright with mischief. “I don‟t

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 16 remember you saying that out on the river.” He grinned and scrambled to his feet. “Stay there for a mo.” To be honest I felt a bit daft, standing there in the halfdark with my soggy trousers ‟round my ankles, so I kicked them off and just stood there in Archie‟s college rowing top. He was digging around inside a backpack. “Got them!” He held up a condom packet and a tube of lube, grinning. “You take those everywhere you go?” I asked, starting to wonder if Archie was a total slut and I‟d been too blinded by his god-like proportions to notice. He might have blushed, though it was hard to tell in the dim light. “Only if you‟re going to be there too.” I stared. “You were after me?” I didn‟t add the “Why?” but it sort of hung in the air between us. I mean, I‟m not Quasimodo, but I‟m hardly cover-boy material. “What? You‟re—you‟re beautiful,” Archie told me, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, there‟s just something about you. Your hair, the shape of your face, the way your eyes sparkle when you laugh—” I had sparkly eyes? I always thought they were a sort of muddy brown. Still, gift horses, mouths—don‟t look. “—and your skin, the way it‟s so pale and perfect….” “If you tell me I look like a china doll, there‟s going to be an oar shoved somewhere you won‟t like,” I muttered halfheartedly. Archie laughed as he came back to join me. “Can I say Snow White?” “Not if you want to live, no.”

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 17 He laughed again, putting his arms around my waist. It‟s a right pain being five foot five. People never take my death threats seriously. Of course, the fact I said it in between tip-toed kisses to his neck might have had something to do with it too. Archie pulled away from me. He laid the sweatshirt on the ground like a blanket, yanked off his shorts and jockstrap, and sat down. “Come here.” I went. He‟d stretched his legs out and I straddled him, my arms around his neck and my knees either side of his hips. Our hard cocks brushed together, then pressed against one another as we kissed. Sensation spread outward from my groin, warming me. It was everything I‟d ever dreamed of and more. I didn‟t even mind that he was bound to want to top—when you‟re five foot five, everyone and his bloody dog wants to top you. Well, maybe not the dog. But with Archie, I wouldn‟t mind bottoming. “You sure you want to… here?” I asked. “Where anyone could come in?” “Oh, yes.” My cock twitched up from hard to oh-my-God-let-mefuck-you-now. Archie lay back on the ground, that beautiful body of his all laid out for me. I felt like I did the first time I had dinner in Formal Hall: wondering what on earth I‟d done so bloody right to end up there and wishing I had a clue which knives and forks to use first. Figuratively speaking, obviously. I‟d never heard of anyone using forks for sex, and knives were a bit kinkier than I really wanted to go. Although to be honest, right now Archie could probably persuade me into pretty much anything. Especially when he told me to get off him for a

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 18 minute, then hooked his hands under his knees and pulled his legs up and back, displaying that gorgeous arse to me. It was like the crew getting their oars and being made Head of the River all at the same time. “You‟re serious, right?” I asked. “You want me to top?” “That‟s okay, isn‟t it?” Archie‟s face looked suddenly worried in the gloom. “I mean, I thought—” “You thought right,” I said, running my hands up those gorgeous, rock-hard thighs. The T-shirt was getting in the way, so I pulled it off, another heady waft of Archie‟s scent hitting me as I yanked it over my head. The ground was cold and hard under my knees, but I didn‟t give a toss as I shuffled back a bit so I could push my face into his groin. The smell of him there was thick—well, he had just been racing—and I breathed it in like it was pure oxygen, nuzzling into his bollocks and flicking my tongue out for a taste. It was equal parts musk, earth, and salt. I couldn‟t believe I was finally getting to do what I‟d been dreaming about for so long. I fumbled for the condom, ripping open the packet with slightly shaky fingers. Best get it on before I completely lost all capacity for rational thought. Then I grabbed the lube. I drizzled lube generously down Archie‟s crack and then started to massage it well in with my fingers. “That okay?” I breathed. “God, yes.” I wanted to take my time preparing him, but it wasn‟t easy with him gasping and going on at me about how he was ready, fuck, just do it now. “Hey—who‟s in charge here?” I asked, giving a gentle slap to his arse with the hand that didn‟t currently have three fingers shoved up inside him.

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 19 “You are,” he said, laughing a bit. “God, that‟s good.” “Ready to wind up the pace, then?” I said finally, when I reckoned neither of us could take it any longer. “Ready,” he said, and I launched myself into him. Archie‟s body opened up to accept me like the waters of the Cam parting before our bows. I drove forward, barely keeping myself under control. “Oh, fuck, yeah,” I breathed. “You all right, Arch?” “Nngh,” he said, wrapping his legs around my waist. “God, yes,” he added a bit more intelligibly. “How about we move to race pace?” I slapped him again, and he grinned. “I‟m the one who gives the orders around here, and don‟t you forget it.” I wound it up, though, keeping an eye on the angle—precision of a surgeon, remember? Archie was duly appreciative, moaning and swearing as I thrust into him deeper and deeper and with ever-increasing pace. But I was getting close, and, heh, I always like my lads to finish first. “How about,” I said between thrusts, “applying... a bit of firm pressure... yourself.” Archie got the hint, and shoved his hand in between us to grab his cock. We were both only a couple of lengths from the finish line—Archie gave three or four pulls to his cock with a large, callused hand and that was all it took. Come spurted up between us as I felt his hole clench around me. “Fuck!” I shouted, and shot my load deep inside him. Getting our oars had been pretty good. But coming inside Archie‟s gorgeous, tight arse? Fucking priceless.

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 20

THE trouble with boathouse sex is that once the heat of the moment‟s dissipated, you realize you‟re lying naked on a cold, damp dirt floor, and suddenly sticking around for cuddles afterwards doesn‟t seem very attractive. We staggered to our feet a bit awkwardly, bits of us that hadn‟t been stiff before having decided to get in on the act. I pulled off the condom and chucked it in a dark corner, feeling a bit bad about littering the place but fairly certain no one would ever even see it. Archie‟s sweatshirt, which he‟d been lying on, was in a right state by this time, but he still put it on over his bare chest and tossed me his T-shirt. I put it back on gratefully. Unless I wanted to cycle back to college looking like I was wearing a dress, though, there was nothing for it but to climb into my cold, soggy jogging bottoms. Tucking the shirt in helped a little—I no longer looked like I was wearing a dress. I just looked like I was wearing a big girl‟s blouse. As I pushed my reluctant feet into squelching trainers, Archie grabbed me by the waist from behind and kissed me sloppily on the ear. “I‟m looking forward to getting you out of those wet clothes again.” “S‟pose you think this means I‟m your boyfriend, then?” I said, as off-hand as I could manage. “Yep,” he said with a grin I could feel against the back of my neck. “From now on, I‟m the only one who gets to be the stroke to your cox.” “What are we going to tell the lads tonight, then?” I asked. “I mean, we‟re supposed to be going out for a meal. Do you mind them knowing we‟re, well, you know?”

Stroke to His Cox | JL Merrow 21 Archie didn‟t answer for a moment, so I guessed he wasn‟t ready to come out to the lads yet. It was disappointing, but I could live with it. Then he surprised me. “It might be a bit late to worry about that.” “What, you mean they know already? How?” I looked around suspiciously. If the lads had been hanging around spying on us, they‟d be looking at the surface of the Cam from the other side when I got hold of them. “Well, I might have sort of said something to them. A couple of weeks ago, actually.” Archie grinned again. “Why the hell do you think they were all so keen to get out of here?” “Are you telling me you planned this all out, even down to making sure everyone pissed off and left us to it?” A thought struck me. “What would you have done if we hadn‟t bumped today?” “We‟d have just had to console each other, wouldn‟t we? But I always knew we‟d get our oars.” He kissed me again and gave a teasing lick down the side of my neck. “You‟re the sort of bloke who always comes out on top.”

About the Author

JL MERROW is that rare beast, an English person who refuses to drink tea. She read natural sciences at Cambridge, where she learned many things, chief amongst which was that she never wanted to see the inside of a lab again. Her one regret is that she never mastered the ability of punting one-handed whilst holding a glass of champagne. When not writing she enjoys reading, martial arts, and surprising people who judge a book by its cover. Stories by JL Merrow have been published by Dreamspinner Press, Torquere Press, MLR Press, Reflection's Edge, and Ravenous Romance. Visit JL‟s web site at http://www.jlmerrow.com/ and blog at http://jl-merrow.livejournal.com.

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Stroke to His Cox ©Copyright JL Merrow, 2011 Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover Art by Anne Cain [email protected] Cover Design by Mara McKennen This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ Released in the United States of America February 2011 eBook Edition eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-790-0