Date: Tue, 7 Feb 2006 02:36:01 -0500
From: Aidan Wilde <aidanwilde@gmail.com>
Subject: Love Runs Deep - Chapter 1. (Military)

Disclaimer: The following quasi-fictional tale is based on a true story.
The names, dates, places, and some elements of the story have been changed
to protect the not quite so innocent.  This is not a 60 second tale of lust
and release.  If you like a good story with (hopefully) believable
characters and a good deal of dramatic elements, then please continue.
This story concerns love, romance, and of course a good bit of naughty sex
bits between consenting gay males.  Ages range from eighteen to
twenty-eight in this story.  If this type of writing is somehow illegal in
your area, I first recommend that you move, and second stipulate that the
consequences for your actions with regards to this story are yours, and
yours alone.  This is the first installment in what I hope will be a
well-liked and well-read story.  Your feedback will determine whether this
story is continued.

If you would like to comment on the story, or would like to offer
constructive criticism, please feel free to do so by contacting me using
the following email address: aidanwilde@gmail.com

Please understand that while your opinions, feelings, and even criticisms
towards this story and it's author will all be very much appreciated, any
ignorant flaming will most emphatically not, and will be dismissed with
little regard or care. I hold and reserve all copyrights to this story.
With that nonsense out of the way, enjoy.



"Love Runs Deep"
Chapter I - One in a Million


I am so ready for this damned patrol to be over.  Again, I'm sitting watch
in the Sonar shack.  This occasion happens to be the sixty-seventh day of
my fifth patrol.  I will yet again waste another blissful six hours of my
life listening to dolphins, shrimp, the occasional merchant ship, and
mostly the monotonous yarns of "how it used to be" from my supervisor who
will be sitting an uncomfortably close four feet behind me.  My only
respite is that tomorrow we station the Maneuvering Watch, and pull back
into port.  Thank God.  Although I'm not quite sure I believe in him, he at
least gets my thanks today.  This is quite possibly the longest six hours
of my life.  Every "last" watch of the last day is the longest six hours of
my life.  Go figure.

So far, my life as a Submariner has been Hell, in the Dante Alighieri sense
of the word.  If you would have told me that in just three days I would
recant that statement, or that I would be thanking my lucky stars that I
ever joined the Navy at all, I would have thought you mad and called you
worse.  Oddly enough, that is exactly what happened.  In fact, my entire
world would change in short order, but right now I had more pressing
matters to attend to.  Like getting off this stinking boat.  Its odd that
we call it the "boat" at all, for it's neither a boat, nor a ship really.
What it is however, is a stinking metal coffin that removes one-hundred and
fifty guys from reality for six months out of the year, in three month
stretches at a time, and crams us together in painfully cramped quarters on
top of each other, regardless if we like it or not.  We're not the happiest
bunch of guys alive, of that I can assure you.  In fact, the last week
prior to pulling in is known as hate week.  When it gets this close to the
wire, sometimes guys literally flip the fuck out.  Nerves are on edge and
tensions run high.  We're one-hundred and fifty or so undersexed,
overworked, and totally fed up guys ready to get the fuck away from each
other.  Our affectionate name for this symptomatic behavior is "Channel
fever".  This shit is definitely not my thing. Being a sonar technician on
a Ballistic Missile Submarine isn't the grand adventure you see in the Navy
commercials on T.V.

"Wilde, what the fuck is that at one-five-zero?" A bellowing and gravelly
voice inquires as it snatches me out of my reverie.

That would be my Sonar Supervisor, Chief Gelli.  Not only is he my division
chief and the bane of my existence, but also right now he's my immediate
aggravation.  He's probably wondering what that loud-ass trace is at
one-four-six degrees that I've been listening to for the past six minutes.
Should I tell him that it's a contact that we dropped over an hour ago
starting to come back in, or should I bullshit him like normal?  Laziness
wins yet again.  Bullshitting him often requires too much effort.  He may
be an asshole, but he's probably forgotten more about sonar than I've ever
had the inkling to learn.

"That's fucking sierra eighty again," I retorted in a very matter-of-fact
way.

"If you don't plan on fucking tracking him at least keep the damn cursor
moving," Chief pleaded, "Last thing I fuckin want to do is have to explain
to the fuckin OOD why we're not tracking the cocksucker."

See what I mean?  This shit is so, not glamorous.  Being in the shack with
Chief Gelli makes it much more entertaining than it really is.  Trust me.
The man is a huge, bald-headed, Philadelphian, whose every fourth word is
"fuckin". I wish these episodes were the type of crap they put into the
Navy brochures for the kids in high school to read.  This sort of stuff is
the real, truthful existence you don't see on those fucking commercials.
No, this crap is by far the most unnecessary waste of time and tax dollars
I've ever had the privilege of suffering through.  This watch couldn't get
any longer.  It just couldn't.  Well, thank god for small favors; at least
I'd get to sit with Paul during the evening meal hour which is conveniently
our last evening meal on board for the next three months or so.  I suppose
that it's about that time isn't it?  Time to tell you a bit about myself,
huh?

What's to tell really?  I'm six feet, and four inches tall.  I weigh in at
a modestly athletic one-hundred and ninety-six pounds, and I'm what you
might call imposing; broad shoulders, large chest, and all that.  On the
boat I rank in at the fifth tallest guy on board.  Trust me, it's not an
admirable physical feature to have on board submarines.  I can't begin to
count the number of times I've split open my forehead by smacking into
bulkheads or hatches that weren't made for guys of my stature.  When I'm on
board the boat I literally have to slouch, just so that I can gain an inch
on my overhead clearance.  What else... oh yeah, I also have dark brown
hair that borders on black, non-descript brown eyes, and healthy skin; no
freckles or anything else that you might find charming or cute I'm sure.
Of course, we're all clean-shaven, it is the military after all.  I do keep
my hair about as long as I can without having everyone from my Chief to my
Department Head breathing down my neck about it.  Hey, It's within the four
inch length regulation.  Fuck off!  My one redeeming quality I suppose, is
that the Navy fitness program has paid dividends for my body.  I have a
six-pack that is absolutely rockin', and well-toned and defined muscles.  I
can safely say that I'm no slouch when it comes to being fit.  Anyways, I
guess you could say I'm an average looking guy.  Nothing too special to
look at I suppose, and definitely not as hot as some of the guys on board,
which brings me to my next part.

I'm also one-hundred percent Gay.  And no, before you go there, the Navy
and/or being on submarines didn't make me gay, nor did I volunteer for
submarines because I was gay, nor are all submarine sailors gay.  Quite the
opposite is true in fact, much to my continuing disappointment.  I'm one of
those gay guys that arrived at the position of being gay out of choice.  To
make a long story short, women have always been (and likely always will be)
to me at least, fucking evil.  My father had been married and divorced five
times, and suffering through being a military brat with step mothers who
didn't give two-shits about me, led me to the realization that most women
are certifiably insane.  Sorry if that offends anyone, but for fuck's sake,
females are about as foreign to me as Pluto, and I know that I'm not the
only guy who feels that way.  Other guys have always been more interesting
to me.  We have more in common, we like the same things, we think the same
way, we have the same equipment.  Where do I sign up for living my life
with someone I have shit in common with?  It was no strange occurrence that
led me to the realization that I was gay.  I just managed to figure it out
on my own.  I guess I'm one of the lucky ones.  Oh, and my name is Aidan
Wilde.  Yeah, I know.  I thank my real mom for my cute name.  At least she
had good taste; she did divorce my dad after all.

In either case, being gay in the military is a hard life, in numerous ways.
"Don't ask don't tell", is so much more than just a catchy phrase that
civilians quote to their friends.  It's more than a saying to me, It's my
mantra.  What they don't tell you about being gay in the military, is the
constant pains that you have to deal with.  The fear of being outed, the
loneliness you deal with every day, the agony of seeing absolutely gorgeous
guys and never being able to approach them in anything other than a
professional manner.  No, being gay in the Navy is about as frustrating and
heartbreaking of an existence as you could live.  Not only do you have to
keep up a bunch of bullshit lies in order to keep the attention off of you,
but also you have to bite your tongue about things that would otherwise
upset you quite a bit.  Chief Gelli's constant diatribes about "fags and
cocksuckers" come to mind.  As your only allowable existence, you must
learn to suppress many, many feelings and emotions that you might normally
display openly without care or forethought.  You almost have to become a
heterosexual guy who is practicing celibacy.  It sounds odd, but that's the
way it works.  This was the path that I chose.  To act differently would be
an invitation to disaster.  I've heard horror stories about Gay guys in the
military who keep 'token' girlfriends.  Someone always ends up finding out
that it's only a charade, and the whole house of cards comes crashing down,
ruining the guy's career and life.  I couldn't do that, and I couldn't be
that dishonest with myself either.

I'm sure a lot of you guys reading this are saying to yourselves: "I could
never do that.  I have to be me, and fuck anyone else if they don't like
that."  That may be well and good, but regardless of me being gay or not I
still love my country, and I'm thankful for the freedoms that I have.  I
also realize that one freedom I don't enjoy, but that I serve to protect,
is to be myself.  Kind of ironic isn't it?  Just like many other Americans
in uniform, I wanted to do my part.  The fact that I am gay shouldn't, and
normally wouldn't, conflict with that duty.  Whoever said that they don't
allow gay people in the military?  This is a euphemism, and I'm walking
proof of it.  They most emphatically 'do' allow Gay people into the
military.  They just don't want to know about it, nor do they want you to
act gay, but what goes unsaid is what is actually the truth of the matter.
As long as you don't act, seem, look, think, or feel gay, you're basically
ok, you're safe.  To compound matters though, I happened to be gay, in the
military, and stationed on a nuclear ballistic missile submarine.
Submarine duty in the navy is quite unlike any other duty in the military.
We are almost our own branch of the service.  On subs, everyone knows you
by name, and many of those people know you on a first name basis.  So,
being gay on a submarine, for me at least, was like constantly walking a
tight-rope.  On top of all that, the fact that I had absolutely fallen for
another guy in my command compounded these problems even more.  Now you
might be able to understand the difficulty I was going through.

Anyways, it's time to talk about Paul.  Fireman Paul Richards is this
gorgeous new A-ganger that just reported to the boat for this patrol.  He
is absolutely the cutest guy I think I've ever seen in my three years in
the Navy.  Not only is he cute, but at eighteen, he's also the youngest guy
on board.  To say that he is a Twink God incarnate would be the
understatement of the millennia.  This kid, and I say kid only because of
his boyish looks and appearances, couldn't have been over one-hundred and
fifty-five pounds.  He was shorter than me, like most of the guys on board,
but he measured in at about five foot nine.  He kept his hair short like a
good sailor does, and he was a natural blonde.  You'll have to keep reading
if you want to find out how I learned that bit of info.  His eyes were
absolutely, breathtakingly, beautiful.  They were the softest shade of
turquoise blue I have ever seen.  I could look into those eyes for hours
and hours on end and never grow bored.  The guy that said "the eyes are
like a looking glass into the soul", must have been talking about Paul's
eyes.  In any case, Fireman Richards, as he was known in the Navy, and
myself would soon become more than just shipmates.  We would become
friends, and eventually lovers.

It really all began with a smile and a card.  You see, this patrol was one
that was very tough on our crew; it fell smack dab in the middle of
December twenty-fifth, Christmas.  Our Christmas was spent out at sea.  One
of the most important holidays to a service member, and we got to spend it
out in the middle of fucking nowhere, punching holes in the water, at
four-hundred feet while the gold crew no doubt was enjoying the company of
their families and loved ones.  I didn't really begrudge the goldies for
being able to spend their Christmas on leave with their families, but
better them than me, you know?  Honestly though, It probably wouldn't have
mattered.  It's not like I had a family that gave a shit about me enough to
want to go visit them over Christmas stand down.  So during Christmas,
which was only about three weeks ago, I decided to at least try and get
into the spirit.  I ended up typing out some Christmas cards on my laptop
and printing them out with the printer in the sonar shack.  One of these
cards of course went to Paul.  I guess I should tell you more about how I
purposefully made it my goal to get to know him better.

Paul actually reported to our command during our last off-crew.  That's the
period of about three months normally that a crew has off the boat while
the other crew has the boat at sea.  It works like this: In order to keep
national defense at it's highest state of readiness, the bean counters in
Washington came up with the dual crew rotation idea.  Basically, the boat
is constantly out to sea in order to act as a strategic deterrent to war.
In order for us to continually keep the boat at sea fulfilling this
mandate, we have a crew that rotates with us every three months.  These two
crews are the blue crew and the gold crew.  I just happened to be on the
blue crew.  Anyways, that's basically how it works.  When we come in, they
go out, and vice versa.  During off-crew we basically work a nine-to-five
job.  We come to work at about seven in the morning, in an office style
environment, and we attend technical classes, go to trainers, work on our
qualifications, goof off a lot, and generally enjoy our time away from the
boat and actually having to do our jobs at sea.  Now back to the story.

It was during this off-crew period that I got to know Paul, and decided to
make befriending him, my sole purpose in life.  To be honest, I just
couldn't resist the urge; he was that damn intoxicating to me.  I got goose
bumps whenever I looked at him.  He was that damn gorgeous.  Never mind the
fact that he was obviously just as straight as I pretended to be; that
wasn't the point.  The point, was that I was in absolute heat over him, and
even though the sun would be more likely to fall out of the sky than I
would ever get to act on those passions, I could still imagine them.  He
would figure quite highly into my bedtime fantasies when we were underway.
How can you possibly begrudge me at least that small solace?  Hey, if I
couldn't touch at least I could think about it!  Thankfully, George
Orwell's thought police didn't exist yet.

One of the circumstances that favored me in this pursuit was that we both
resided in the base barracks.  He was too low of a rank to be allowed his
own place and he wasn't married.  I took advantage of the barracks for
financial reasons even though I would have been allowed to do otherwise.
Now these barracks were not the type of open bay "Full Metal Jacket"
barracks you might be envisioning.  If anything, these were more like small
one room apartments with a bathroom.  The barracks rooms were rather small,
and normally two-person occupancy.  Fortunately, I was without a roommate,
and due to my rank, probably wouldn't receive one unless I gave the BEQ
Petty Officer enough grief.  Many nights at the barracks during off crew
were spent with Paul, just hanging out, drinking a bit, or just shooting
the shit.  Being that I was twenty-seven, I also was allowed to have beer
or other alcoholic beverages in my room.  Of course Paul wasn't old enough
to drink, but every once in a while during weekends, he would stop by my
room to have a few beers, unknowingly to anyone else.  I must admit that my
intentions in offering him a cold one were not altogether altruistic.  I am
also a firm believer that if you are considered old enough to die for your
country, then you are quite obviously old enough to consume alcohol, or do
anything else an adult should be allowed to.  Enough of that though, let me
get back to the smile and the card.

Since this patrol happened to be Paul's fist one, I tried to give him some
comforting words of wisdom.  I won't go into depth about what I wrote
because I frankly can't remember everything, but the gist of it was
something I remember from one of my favorite flicks of that patrol, the
movie Gladiator.  Remember the part where Maximus is talking to his
soldiers right before the first big battle, and he's telling them to think
about where they want to be and how they will eventually find themselves
there?  Well, the card basically said the same thing.  I wrote that Paul
should think about and remember his family and loved ones, and eventually
he'd be home before he realized it.  I secreted the card in his rack
underneath his pillow while we were on watch and I was on a drink run to
the mess decks.  It really wasn't a surprise to me when he stopped me as I
was heading to Watch after our last twelve hours down.

"Hey Aidan, I just wanted to say thank you for that card you made for me.
That was like the coolest thing anyone has done for me since I've been on
board," he said, as he formed his patented smile.

Ah Christ, there it is again!  Fuck I hate it when he does that, but I love
it all at the same time!  I honestly can't take my eyes off of him whenever
he gives me that cute, crooked, little smile of his.  It's a smile so
intoxicating and breathtakingly sweet, he could bottle it and sell it.  I
suppose its all for the best, because If he could do that, he would put
Calvin Klein out of business within months.  I'm positive that I was
blushing like a schoolgirl at this point, probably like I always do
whenever he smiles at me like that.  That damn smile that never fails to
send its signal straight from my eyes into my perverted brain.  The signal
that, against all my admonishments for it not to, results in the sending of
a certain electrical pulse down into my pants.  You know the one I'm
talking about.  It's the signal that ends up feeling like a miniature
explosion centered in your crotch.  An explosion of feeling that jump-
starts an otherwise un-aroused dick, and turns it into a painful, raging
hard-on.  Yeah, that smile is so awesome it almost makes me hard.  Hey,
when you go years, with only the occasional lucky fuck to break the dry
spells, even a cute smile from a really cute guy can make you horny.

"Ah hell it's nothing dude.  I just figured you could use some cheering up
since this is your first Christmas away from home out here with us ugly and
smelly guys," I said as I offered a brief chuckle.

I began to casually and smoothly shift my coffee cup in front of the rising
bulge in my coveralls.  I was trying to hide my nervousness and suppress
the images that were fornicating in my brain, but it was really hard to
pull off, no pun intended.  In the half a heartbeat that it took for him to
smile at me, visions of me ripping his uniform right off of him came to
mind.  Visions that included me falling to my knees and grasping for (in my
mind at least) the most beautiful cock to ever grace the pelvis of a human
being.  Fucking hell, why did he have to always do that!  And fuck all, why
couldn't I think of something other than ravishing this poor kid right in
the passage way and damning the consequences?  FUCK IT ALL!!  Thank god no
one could hear me think.  His angelic voice snapped my gaze back up to his
face and away from his crotch where it had apparently drifted during my
thoughts.

"Well I thought it was pretty awesome.  You put some thought into it and
you took the time to do something for a friend, and that means a lot to me.
Thanks dude, that really made me feel better," he said, "And you're far
from ugly or smelly," he added.

He started chuckling softly and began leaning forward.  With his face only
a foot away from mine he closed his eyes and sniffed, a long drawn out
inhale.  After he had apparently gotten a whiff of whatever it was he was
after his smile broadened and his eyes opened slowly.

"Mmm," he murmured sexily, "Is that cucumber Melon?"

He must have gotten a whiff of my lotion.  One other thing about submarines
that they don't tell you about, is the lack of humidity or moisture in the
air.  If you don't want your skin to dry out and crack you bring lotion
with you.  I just figured that I might as well enjoy the smell while I was
at it.  Apparently I wasn't the only one who was enjoying it.  Oh, that
little tramp!  Did he realize the effect he was having on me?

"Yeah, whatever dude," I said as I gently raised my left hand to his
shoulder and shoved him backwards.  "Anyways, I bet your girlfriend is
missing you something awful," I said, trying to shift the conversation to
an area that wouldn't result in my hard on becoming more pronounced.

Only three seconds after making that statement I regretted it.  I had never
even broached the subject with him before in previous conversation.  Come
to think of it, we had never really even talked about our relationships, or
girlfriends, or anything of the sort.  And was it my imagination, or had he
also just referred to me as his friend?  How my heart soared to hear him
say that word to me!

"Are you kidding?" he asked.  "I brought that bitch with me man!  I don't
go nowhere without her," he laughed.

As he said this, he raised his right hand and spread his fingers, waving
them at me. I nearly dropped my coffee mug.

"Oh my god, dude!  TMI man, TMI!"  I laughed, as I thought to myself how I
would have given up my left testicle to replace his hand with my own.  Now
the bulge in my pants was becoming even more pronounced as my brain started
flashing images of me helping him jack off in his rack as I imagined that
it could be my hand acting as his underway girlfriend and making him moan,
instead of his own.

"You're kidding me right?" I asked.  "You're tellin me that you don't have
a fuckin girlfriend dude?"  I find that fucking hard to fathom," I said, as
I was honestly quite unbelieving of him.

"No. I'm not really seeing anyone.  I still don't really know anyone here
yet I guess," he stated rather
 matter-of-factly.

"Well you know me right?" I said, applying a light smile of my own.

"Yeah, but I'm not sure you'd want to be my girlfriend Aidan.  I snore
pretty bad, and I hog the covers," he giggled.

What I heard, and what my brain wanted to hear, were the same words, but
with different connotation.  My brain replayed the words
"Be...my...girlfriend...Aidan," over and over again.  It (my perverted
brain) slowly twisted those words in my head, until it (my perverted brain;
not me!) arrived at the conclusion that I had heard Paul just ask me to be
his girlfriend.  The mind can be a devious thing sometimes.

"Oh my god you little freak," I laughed.  While I was feigning a look of
shock and indignation at his comment I couldn't help but think of how madly
I desired for the words pounding in my mind to be fact and not fiction.  My
dick reminded me of its desire for that to happen as well by involuntarily
pulsating harder, as my brain twisted Paul's joke, into Paul's pleading
question.

"I bet you'd like it you perv!  I've heard about the huge porn stash you
keep in your rack from Piagget," he said, as he balled up the fingers he
had just waved at me, and proceeded to punch me lightly in the stomach.

My brain, being the perverted and twisted thing it was, thought only: "Oh
my God Aidan, Paul just touched you with the hand he uses to jack his dick
with!"  My mind was in turmoil as I continued to play along with this
cuties little game, almost unconsciously. Then, thinking more about what he
said, I started mentally cursing myself.  Piagget happened to be a good
friend of mine who was an A-ganger, which was coincidentally Paul's
division as well.  On top of that, he was also the porn king of the boat,
and if he was king, then I was indeed the prince.  This meant that between
the two of us, we had enough smut to keep even a hormonal teenager
satisfied.  Hey, even straight porn can get a gay guy off, and I'd be
damned if I was going on a patrol without the bare essentials!  Porn and
cigarettes, on a sub (much like in a jail), could act as money in a pinch
with the right guy.  On the boat, a pack of smokes or a good porno-mag
could grease and smooth over certain guys; especially handy if you needed
to hook someone up or return a favor.  In Paul's case this would have
helped immensely with his qualifications progress.  A pack of smokes, or a
really great smut-mag, would almost guarantee a signature on a qual card,
regardless if you had any knowledge about the qualification subject or not.
Apparently though, Piagget had informed Paul of my immense collection.
Perhaps I could turn this little development towards my favor as well.

"Well that is true. It is huge, I must admit," I said, hoping he wouldn't
miss the subtle innuendo of my words.  "If you want to have a look through
what I have you can come to my rack after watch gets over with."

"Awesome dude!  I can't wait to see it," he said as he gave me a
conspiratorial wink.

As I turned around and ducked down to step through the hatch to the forward
compartment, I was again reminded of the painfully hard wood I now sported,
as it smacked against the side of my leg underneath my boxer briefs.
Looking at my watch and seeing I had but a few minutes to spare, I decided
that walking into the shack sporting a raging hard on wasn't a very wise
thing to do.  I decided to stop off in the forward watch-stander's head to
relieve my aching and throbbing erection.  As I neared the door and saw
that it was empty, I closed it behind me and locked it with the slide bolt.
The Watch-stander's head was unlike any other head on the entire boat.  It
was a small space with a sink and a commode, and almost so cramped that all
you could do was barely turn around in it.  Besides one's own rack, it was
possibly the most private location on the entire boat.  It had been
intended as a head for watch standers in the control room to use while they
were on duty.  Since the trip between it and the Control room was only a
quick jaunt up the ladder, this was perfectly permissible.  However, it had
become for the moment at least, my fortress of solitude.

I sat down on the cold stainless steel commode with my hand wrapped around
my aching cock.  I imagined slowly undressing Paul, removing his uniform in
the safety of my barracks room.  I imagined carrying him to my bed and
lying beside his naked body.  The mental picture of this naked teenage
Adonis lying next to me, perfect in every way, was almost painful.  In my
mind, the perfect contours of his muscled chest were in sharp definition,
as my fingers lightly grazed his smooth skin.  With my fingertips barely
resting on his creamy skin, I lightly traced the contours of his body,
starting at his collarbone and moving downward to his perfectly shaped and
well defined pecs.  My fingertips grazed over his bronze nipples causing
them to instantly harden, which elicited a moan of pure ecstasy from the
core of my new playmate.  My brain melted.

In my fantasy I leaned forward to lustily flick my tongue over the hard,
little, nipple of the boy that I so craved.  As I turned my head to better
observe his reactions, I saw his pink tongue dart out to lustily moisten
his lips in an empathetic gesture of pleasure.  His face contorted, and his
expression screwed up into one of complete bliss, as he bit his lower lip.
I lowered my head all the way to his chest.  My mouth completely enveloped
his hard nipple in a warm and wet embrace.  My lips and tongue paid homage
to him.  I sucked his tit sharply with as much force as I could muster.
His cry of joy was like a cool touch of water to my fevered brain.  As I
began to suck on his hot, stiff, little nipple, I turned my head sideways
to watch his every reaction.  This naked boy- god was my orchestra, and I
was conducting a symphony of pure unbridled lust, with our bodies serving
as the only instruments.

While my mind continued to play out this fantasy, my real body had begun to
break out into a profuse sweat.  My hand was flying up and down on my hard
member while it began to spew bucket loads of precum.  I was so very close.

In my mind, my fingers trailed down to his firm abs and lightly traced
their shape, continuing further, all the way to his belly button, which I
imagined was an innie.  I reveled in this gloriously perfect fantasy.  My
mind was incapable of seeing any flaws upon this gorgeous boy's lean and
fit body.  As I imagined all this in sheer rapture, I disconnected my mouth
from Paul's tit.  I was filled with a sense of regret at having taken my
mouth off of him.  As he groaned his own sense of loss at not having my
mouth on him anymore, he lifted his angelic face and gave me the hottest,
most pleading look I would ever envision.  I was sorry I had left him for
only a moment as my eyes left his angelic face and I turned to behold the
target of my desire.  My hand continued to walk down his stomach until my
fingertips lightly grazed the head of his leaking cock.  My eyes were
fixated on his beautiful dick.  In my mind I imagined my tongue darting out
to taste Paul's precum that had leaked from his hard dick onto his smooth
tummy.  In reality, I had briefly brought my own hand to my lips in order
to get a taste of my own.  I couldn't bear it anymore.  I needed to cum so
badly.  Paul had no idea how badly I wanted him, to hold him, to caress him
lovingly, to fuck him until he couldn't walk straight, to shout to the
world my true feelings, desires, lusts, and my painful need for this boy.
As I focused my imagination yet again, I saw myself leaning closer towards
him, so I could suck his hard dick into my eager mouth.  While trailing my
tongue up and down his shaft, I furiously bobbed my head up and down on his
hard pole.  Briefly pausing at the top of my motions to run the tip of my
tongue over and around his leaking dickhead, I reveled in his sweet flavor.
Imaginations are such wonderful things.  As my climax built up, so did
Paul's.  Not being able to stand it any longer, my dick erupted with
breath-taking force.  My whole existence, my entire world, this moment, was
all that mattered.  I came hard.  In my mind Paul exploded into my mouth,
screaming out his joy as he spasmed over and over again, coating the inside
of my mouth with his thick, sticky fluids.  My tongue was bathed repeatedly
in his hot and surprisingly sweet sperm.  My hand again came to my mouth
and I licked my fingers clean as I imagined that my cum was in fact his.  I
shuddered as I spent the last of my energies, and was rewarded with that
sublime feeling that every guy out there can Identify with and appreciate.
The familiar afterglow of a mind-numbingly powerful cum.  That wonderful
feeling enveloped me in its hazy warmth and I, for that moment at least,
was happy.  After cleaning up and composing myself, I headed to relieve the
watch now that I had been properly relieved as well.

Some time later as I sat thinking to myself during my watch, I couldn't
help but think about the subtle meanings of the conversation I had with
Paul earlier.  For a guy so new to the boat he was really fitting in pretty
fast.  Hell even the married guys joke around with the gay innuendo thing,
but Paul wasn't married, and most guys when they first got to the boat had
trouble understanding how things worked.  In fact, it was common practice
amongst submariners to try and find out what bothered you most, so they
could purposefully do it to you to see how far you would go before you
broke.  This was almost mandatory behavior towards the new guys on their
first patrol, like Paul.  We had a name for this too; it was "getting spun
up".  Ragging on a guy about being gay, or acting gay towards him, was
often a sure way to find out if a guy was homophobic or not.  If it was
discovered that he was, he had every guy on board acting gay towards him in
order to get him "spun up".  Of course, this was all done for a very odd,
but nevertheless important reason.  When you're four-hundred feet below the
water and your lives and the lives of everyone around you can depend on the
actions of one person, you don't want that one person being rattled easily.
If he gets rattled by a little gay innuendo or jokes, how is he supposed to
act if the unthinkable happens?  All of the sudden, he sees a wall of water
rushing at him, or he turns a corner only to be greeted by a raging fire;
will he freak out?  Will he have the sense enough about him to do the right
thing, in order to save his shipmate's lives?  It's a big deal on board a
submarine, as you can imagine.  Paul had either learned that game early on,
or some other explanation was needed.  Could it be that he wasn't joking at
all?  Could there be a slight chance that Paul wasn't joking?  Maybe this
gorgeous boy wasn't totally straight at all?  I pushed that thought out of
my head.  It just didn't seem credible.  The possibility of that was, one
in a million.

Needless to say, my entire watch was spent dissecting everything that had
transpired between us.  Did his smile harbor some hidden meaning?  Was his
body language an indication that he was comfortable with being close to a
guy?  Was that distance closer than a typical straight guy would be
comfortable with?  Was that even a very straight 'thing' to do? Did he keep
his hand there for a split second longer than any other guy would have when
he punched me in the stomach?  My mind was in such turmoil.  Even if my
undersexed imagination could possibly, remotely, even minutely be right,
acting on any of it was an absolutely impossible conclusion.  I'd just go
about my life and forget it.  I would come to realize later that forgetting
about it was easier said than done.

After that six hours of reflection was over, and our obligatory "after
watch clean-up" had ended, I was a free man for the next twelve hours.
Having finished all my in-rate qualifications, there was very little that I
'needed' to do.  I spent most of my off watch time working out every other
watch, doing laundry, burning flicks, and of course, a Submariner's most
cherished past time, jerking off.  Before I could do any of these things
today however, I had to prepare for my visitor.

The big question was what to give him, and what he would be interested in.
I decided to include only the hardcore stuff, and nothing that solely
featured females.  As a gay guy lesbians never intrigued me whatsoever.
Fishing through my bunk pan within my rack, I finally got to 'the'
penultimate collection in straight porn for the horny straight guy; or gay
guy depending on the amount of guy on girl features.  Hustler's Barely
Legal could always be trusted to fill this billet.  I hand picked a few of
my favorite ones that featured gratuitous cock shots.  Any coupling
featuring hot, good looking guys, with nice close ups of their bodies,
butts, cocks, or other male features (especially nice cum shots) were top
on the list.  I selected four magazines in total and set them aside.  I
pulled out my current book, Oscar Wilde's "Intentions", and turned to the
ear-marked page and picked up where I had left off from my last off-watch.
I leaned back against a nearby locker and waited.  About eight minutes
later, I saw Paul round the corner and head in my direction.

"Hey Aidan.  Sorry I'm a little late, Chief was nagging me about my Quals
again," he said as he sat down next to me and leaned back against the
missile tube right in front of my rack.

"Hey no prob.  I was just reading anyways," I stated, as I closed my book
and studied him, "So what brings you to my abode?"

"I need some of the good stuff man.  I didn't bring anything with me.  I've
been borrowing some of Piagett's stash, but he has a lot of weird stuff
dude," Paul stated as he gave me a sort of wild-eyed look.

"Oh I know man, hairy bushes and old ladies.  He's got a few good things,
but I'm the guy to come to if you want the serious perv shit." I boasted.

He raised an eyebrow and gave a slight smile at this admission. "Yeah?
Like how perv?"

"Like real perv, like the barely legal kind of perv."

"Niiiice," he hissed as his smile broadened.  "So you like em young too
huh?"

"Oh yeah buddy, you know it."

I winked at him as I reached behind me and grabbed the magazines I had
selected for him.

"Now here I have some special editions.  This is from my private collection
you understand," I said as I held the magazines against my chest and he
made an "ooh-ing" noise.  "You have two choices.  You can take this little
care package I have made up for you, or you can take your chances with my
regular circulation stash, but this shit right here, don't go to no one
else.  If you borrow it, it don't leave your hands unless it's coming back
to me.  We clear?" I asked.

"Crystal," he said as his tongue flicked out to moisten his lower lip in
anticipation of the naughty business he was obviously looking forward to.
Oh how I desperately wanted to lick those luscious lips for him.

I extended the magazines and he took them from me, as he zipped down the
front of his coveralls and stuffed them inside, quickly zipping them back
up.

"Awesome dude, thank you so much!" he said as he smiled again.  "When do
you want them back?"

"Whenever you're done with them," I replied, "and you better not bring them
back with sticky pages mister, or you'll be cleaning them off with your
tongue," I added as I gave him an over the top stern look.

"Yes sir, Captain Porn, sir!" he said as he stood and gave me a sharp
little salute.

"Now get out of here and go get your mind right so I can do the same," I
laughed as he walked off.

"G'night Aidan, and thanks.  I owe you one man," he said with a parting
smile and a wink.

Needless to say, I immediately put my book back in the crevice between my
rack and the nearby locker where I kept it, and crawled inside my rack
after shutting the curtain.  It was time to get intimate with myself again.
Hey, don't even think it.  Every single guy on board does it, even the
married forty plus year olds.  You almost have to do it to maintain your
sanity during the three month long patrols.  In fact I had adopted the
phrase "Getting your mind right" as a euphemism when referring to jacking
off because that is exactly what it did for me.  Besides helping me get to
sleep, which was an added bonus, it also gave me a temporary reprieve from
my monotonous, and often frustrating environment.  Exactly five days later,
Paul visited me as I was headed to the showers.  I had just finished my
work out and was preparing to take a shower prior to getting some sleep.

"Heading to the showers?"  he asked.

"Yeah.  I just got done working out.  What's up?" I said, as I noticed a
square shaped bulge behind his uniform level with his chest.

Zipping down his coveralls half way to his belt he brought out the
magazines he had borrowed and extended them to me.

"Just returning these."

"Cool.  Just put em in my rack dude, in the space between my pillow and the
locker.  You'll see.  My hands are kinda full, and I don't want to crawl in
there while I'm all sweaty.  I just washed my sheets yesterday," I
instructed him.

"Sure thing man, and thanks again for letting me borrow them," he said with
his patent smile.

"Any time dude," I replied as I turned and headed towards the forward head.

After the hot shower and fresh shave, I was feeling worlds better.  Now I
could slip into my clean rack refreshed, and comfortable.  I returned to my
rack and unlocked my bunk pan, replacing my things.  I placed my dirty
workout clothes and undergarments in my laundry bag and returned it to its
place in the outboard, far from the sanctity of my rack.  One thing that
people knew about me and also respected me for was my level of cleanliness.
My rack and the area around it were sacred to me.  Others may sleep in
pigsties, but not I.  I even went so far as to bring a bottle of febreeze
with me during this patrol.  Every Saturday, for the last thirty minutes of
our three hour long field day (cleaning), I cleaned my rack area.  I was
such a nut about being clean, I even smuggled a bottle of Clorox Clean-up
on board so that I could disinfect everything around me.  Technically, this
was a no-no because it contained bleach; it wasn't allowed on board because
of the chemical vapors or something like that.  I sat down on my rack in my
clean smelling abode, and reached behind me, feeling for the magazines that
I had instructed Paul to place there earlier.  Sure enough, they were in
the correct spot.  Lying back against my pillow, I inspected the magazines.
Nothing appeared to be out of order with them.  I briefly thumbed through
the pages to make sure that my little horn-dog had heeded my warnings about
keeping things tidy.

Everything appeared kosher, that is until I got to the very last magazine.
Flipping lazily though it, I came to two pages whose bottom corners were
just barely stuck together.  As soon as I held the magazine closer to my
rack light however, I detected wrinkled paper, and a slight discoloration
of the corners.  "That little fucker," I thought to myself.  I was upset
only for a scant minute, as my perverted brain processed the information at
its disposal.  It was a few seconds after this initial annoyance that it
finally hit me.  "The page you retard!  Look at what's on the pages!" my
brain screamed at me.

Glaring me right in the face, on the left hand page, was a huge dick.  It
was a close up shot of this hot, young stud's dick, spewing cum onto a
chicks flat and smooth abdomen.  That was it.  Just a close up shot of this
dudes dick cumming buckets as he jerked his hot eight-inch meat onto this
lucky girls unworthy stomach.  It was quite possibly my favorite picture in
the entire magazine.

No faces could be identified.  Nothing in the picture could be said to
suggest a woman had even been present, if you had not also seen the
previous pages. As a matter of fact, except for a guy's hand, a huge dick,
and a hairless and smooth tummy with an innie belly button, there was
little else of note.  Surely this was not what Paul blew his load to?  The
only thing that even remotely identified the abdomen receiving this gooey
offering in question as a female were the preceding pages.  Hell, if had
took that single picture out of this magazine, and slapped in into a gay
one, I would wager that hardly any gay guy would have been able to tell.
It was the most gratuitous cock shot you could get!  Had Paul blown his
load to this picture?  Had the cum that had evidently erupted from his
gorgeous cock, that had landed on his fingers, which he then accidentally
transferred to this page, been spilled in response to this picture?  Did
seeing a magnificent circumcised dick, spitting it's load cause that
beautiful stud to spill his own load?  My emotions were in complete
gridlock.

Sure, I confess to have dropped my load a few times to that same picture,
but had he?  Had Paul thought the same things that I had at seeing that
picture for the first time? Was he too filled with the desire to lick up
all that warm cum off of that creamy smooth stomach?  Was he tempted to try
and suck the last bits of tasty sperm from that widely flared mushroom
head?  Was Paul, cute twinky Paul, straight boy Paul, not a gay bone in his
body Paul, turned on by seeing a hard cock shooting cum all over the place?
I turned my light out, placed the magazines back in their spot, and pulled
up my covers, largely all on auto pilot.  Every conscious brain process in
my head was whirring at billions of miles an hour as I thought about the
myriad of reasons that could explain something as simple as two sticky
pages.

Sometime during that night as I slumbered, I dreamt of heaven.  I dreamt of
a naked Paul.  I dreamt of a naked, gay Paul, not a naked, straight Paul.
I dreamt of doing naughty things to his beautiful body.  I dreamt of
merrily sodomizing this naked, gay, twink god Paul.  I dreamt of a reality
altering orgasm featuring the picture that caused all these thoughts. The
only difference in my feverishly hot dreamscape was that I, and not someone
else, was cumming a frothy, hot, load all over that cute, boyishly smooth
tummy.  And of course, that tummy belonged to Paul.  It was a great dream.

Three weeks later, here we are, pulling in from patrol, and I get to spend
my last watch in Sonar, arguing with my chief about sierra eighty.  You
know, I love my job, but I absolutely hate the Navy.  Does that make any
sense to you?  Fuck, I need off this damn boat.

Twelve hours after that watch was over, we stationed the maneuvering watch,
and headed for home.  I was liberated at last.  To smell fresh,
non-recycled boat air once again; what a simple pleasure.  To be quite
honest, thoughts of Paul had been replaced by simpler ones.  Thoughts of
driving down the road in my truck again, as I listened to some really heavy
music at one-hundred and fifty decibels was sounding really awesome.
Heading to the local stores and buying tons of new stuff was starting to
sound like a lot of fun.  Catching up on the news, talking with my civilian
friends, and seeing what they had been up to for the past three months was
also of high priority.  All of these things became my primary thoughts.
Whether Paul really did, or didn't have a girlfriend were temporarily
suspended.  Thoughts of me filling that role for him were also temporarily
abated.  Paul was safely off of my brain, or so I thought. It would only
take forty-eight hours for all that to change, and do a complete u-turn.

My time in the Navy would never be the same miserable existence again.


To be continued...


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Thanks for reading.  Stay tuned for the next chapter: "The Homecoming"
I look forward to hearing from you.

aidanwilde@gmail.com
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